I, Tom Horn

by Will Henry

  "Tom," he said, "you had your boots on when you run across there to cut the kid off, didn't you?"

  It spooked me for a minute, then I caught his drift. I had forgotten his little game. He wasn't really meaning me. He was still just testing me for his Montana people.

  "No," I answered him. "Had it been me, I would still have been barefoot, the same as I described to you the first time. It is how I work, Joe. How I go about a job of that nature. If you want, though, marshal, I will put my boots back on for you."

  I thought a little joke wouldn't harm either him or his Montana people, but Joe didn't catch the remark as humorous. No, he said, he didn't want me to say the boots were on if they weren't. But the idea of them had him going all the same. "Tom," he insisted, "you didn't run across there barefoot."

  "The hell I didn't!" I grinned, or tried to. "Or anyways surely would have did so, had it been me. I told you, marshal; it's my style. You ain't asking me to lie are you?"

  But Joe LeFors wasn't buying any grins along in that part of it. "Hmmm," he frowned, "well how did you get your boots back on after cutting your feet so. Those rocks up there are like glass."

  "Easy," I said, giving up on the grin a little. "If you have to go on a barefoot job, you always allow ten days extra to cover for healing and such tilings." I hit the grin one more lick. "But you can tell your Montana people that it all comes in the one price."

  Joe just frowned, and that was the end of all the little smiles, either way. He was scowling and stubborn, and I was feeling queasier by the minute. He shook his head, trying to make it sound easy again, but it wasn't. "I still can't believe you did it that way," he said, "but you must have." Again, he shook his burr head, came again full track to where he had started it all. "I could never find your trail up there."

  He was doing it again. Saying those things in a way to make them sound as though I had said them. At once, I jumped him about it, the same as the other times. And again he came back to his warm quick smiles and his pats on the arm or touchings on the knee, vowing I mistook his meanings, assuring that he might be thinking of poor Willie Nickell but that was only betwixt him and me, as fellow professionals of the range detecting business, and I was to remember it was just that the Nickell case exampled any other of its kind so perfect.

  "By God, Joe," I said, when he had done, "I wisht all the same that you would quit slipping back into saying these here things to make them come out like it was me we was talking about. Where you do that, it don't sound like a game to me anymore. Hell, happen somebody was listening in the next room, they would sure figure you was taking down Tom Horn's confession."

  I reckoned for a minute that Joe LeFors was going into a chest seizure. But his color come back after a bit when he seen I was still just setting there.

  "It's my spleen," he said. "Doc Gaffney says it won't kill me, but there are times when it surely scares me half to death." He nodded, crispy twinkle once more lighting friendly blue eyes. "I like your humor, Tom," he said. "You've a grand sense of it." He bobbed the round bristle of his sandy hair. "Go slow on it, though. It could fool some."

  Scratching back of his ear, he came around in his chair. "Let's see," he said. "We were talking about you going barefoot on the Nickell job."

  There was a beat or three of my temples pounding wild with the whiskey. I knew by then that I really didn't dare to go on playing this roundabout game of Who Killed Willie Nickell with Deputy U.S. Marshal Joe LeFors—whether barefoot or with boots on. My doubts of him began to pulse stronger, making me think of that realer friend than him, who had tried so dire to warn me to keep clear of Joe LeFors. That little fearless woman I had shut off and shamed for a blowzy hog of a blonde not fit to share the same air with Glendolene Kimmell.

  "Joe," I blurted out, "you are quartering on my tracks again, and I been warned you would try it."

  "Oh," he said, very quiet, "who was it warned you?"

  "You likely know," I answered. "You remember the little schoolmarm?"

  "Yes, Miss Kimmell."

  "She was sure smooth people, wasn't she, Joe?"

  "What about her, Tom?"

  "She told me to look out for you, marshal. Said you were not all right. That you was trying to find out something bad about me. Like maybe hanging the Nickell kid killing on somebody the people would want to see swing. You want to answer that, Joe?"

  LeFors lay back in his chair. He was not tensed up or seemingly shook by what I'd said. He only shrugged it aside.

  "Well, Tom, you decide it," he said. "You've heard her carry on before. There was her two stories at the inquest, I recall."

  There was. I had to admit it. I nodded, getting my mind back to the Montana job and my need to secure its bid of employment outside Wyoming. Whiskeyed as I was, I had not forgotten the stockmen's association and its bobtail advice: get out of town and stay there. I framed my words careful to Joe LeFors.

  "Yeah, well, likely you're right, Joe. She is a good sort but don't really know nothing of this business."

  "Sure, she's a woman, Tom."

  "Yeah."

  "What nationality is she, Tom? Some kind of chinky?"

  "Sort of, Joe. She's one-quarter Jap, one-half Korean, and the other German. She talks six languages fluent."

  Another little spell of quiet fell between us. Then, me not breaking it, LeFors waggled his roach-cut head.

  "Tom, you must get frightful hungry laying out in the rocks like up to Nickell's place. How do you manage it?"

  I slewed about in my chair. My eyes was cast down but not blind. He had said it again. He was moving in once more. From the rear. Trying to get me defending in front while he came in to cut my hocks from behind. And careful, slow, but deliberate, I accused him of it to his friendly face. It is the last of it, Joe, I told him. Don't say Nickell to me again. Or try to come behind me like that. But he was cute, oh but he was cute. He just spread his hands and said he had only said like the Nickell place, meaning similar to it. The last thing he would do to a man on whiskey, like I was, would be to muddle his words or mix him up. I had his oath on it.

  "Go on, Tom," he said. "How do you manage living out like that? When you're on a kill?"

  "Hard, Joe. Perilous hard. Sometimes I get so starved for grub I could kill my mother for one bite. But I never quit a job until I get my man. Tell that to Montana."

  "All right, I will; what is your best gun, Tom?"

  "You know that; my .30-30 Winchester."

  "Do you think it carries as good as a .30-40?"

  "Maybe not, but I like to get close. Closer the better. You know, Joe, if I have to shoot. Like say a man comes for me. Or fires first. Or traps me."

  Joe LeFors studied me a moment, then he said it calm and ordinary as the time of day.

  "How far was Willie Nickell killed?"

  My nerves jumped naturally. But I wasn't going to let it pass or muddy it with more objection or let him see he had raddled me. I still wanted that ticket to Montana; I still meant to have it.

  "Oh!" I laughed. "I thought I told you. About three hundred yards. Of course, you already know what I said about it. Remember? Your barkeep friend told you. It was the best shot I ever made and the dirtiest trick I ever done. Wasn't that it, Joe? I don't rightly remember saying it myself."

  He didn't answer to my sarcasm of it.

  "Anything else, Tom?" he said. "Did he stay anchored when you hit him from the ridge?"

  "Oh, mercy me no," I said, making broad fun of his stubborn mule's pace and slow southerner's mind. "He got up and run all around like a chicken. I run out of shells and finally had to go down and bean him with a rock. Why, I thought at first he would get away, even fired at thirteen times!"

  Joe LeFors just stared at me. Of a sudden I saw the blue eyes had froze over. It was like scum ice had set up between us. I was cut off and saw it too late.

  "Joe, listen," I said, starting up, "this ain't right. You ain't took it straight. Back up on it. I was funning."

  LeFors carrie
d a railroad watch in his vest. I heard it ticking across the stillness. I could even hear the little pinging sounds such ticks make in dead total quiet. I had my head down, listening to the ticks. When I raised it to look at Joe LeFors and see what he was doing, he wasn't doing anything, just waiting for me. His face was friendly again, the blue eyes crinkled at the corners, warm as spring sunlight.

  "Tom," he said, "you have the Montana job. Will you require any money for the trip?"

  "No, Joe," I said, "I will ride the U.P. as they will give me a pass on that line. But I will have to wait until tomorrow for that. This here is Sunday, ain't it?"

  "Yes, the U.P. office will be shut. Tomorrow will do fine. Let's go downstairs and get a drink."

  LeFors was out from behind his desk now. He first opened the door to the hall for me, then blocked me off from it. It was like he had forgot something. And for some reason he was talking louder than his usual way. "I could always see your work clear, Tom," he said. "But I want you to tell me why you killed the kid. I mean, why you think anyone would have done it. Was it a mistake? Really?"

  I wasn't going to answer that nor take him out on it. I started around him to the hallway door, talking on the way, saying anything that stumbled into my mind.

  "Well, Joe," it came out, "I will tell you all about it when I come back from Montana. It is too new yet."

  LeFors gripped my arm. "Wait," he said. "Have you got your money yet for the Nickell killing?"

  "If I did the work, I would of got that before I did the job. I can't answer for the feller that did the shooting."

  "Yes, well, the Montana people wanted to know your terms. It's business with them."

  "The same here, Joe," I answered, then added one of those idiot whiskey brags of mine, out of the same bad bottle as the terrible boast to the Denver barkeep.

  "Killing is my specialty, marshal. I look at it as a business proposition, and I think I have a corner on the market."

  "All right," was all that Joe LeFors said. "I will tell them that."

  We went down the hallway joshing and yarning on other trails, the marshal appearing happier than I could figure any good reason for him being. But I didn't auger it with him. I had my job in Montana and would tomorrow be safe away on it. That is what I had come for.

  Like Joe LeFors said: it was business.

  Sheriff Smalley

  Next morning, Monday, January 13, 1902, I went down into the lobby of the Inter-Ocean Hotel from my room. I had not et breakfast yet when I spotted Agent Wheeler of the Union Pacific. He was over where the writing tables and leather settees was, and I went to speak to him about my pass up to Helena, Montana. I had on my good dark suit that I travel in. As was my custom, I had coat and vest unbuttoned. I kept a good Colt's revolver in my waistband, right about my stomach pit, quick to either hand.

  "Morning, Mr. Wheeler, sir," I said to the U.P. man. "Mind if I share your settee?"

  "Oh, hello, Horn," he said. "I hear you will want a free ride to Helena today, the noon train."

  I went to answer him but never got to.

  Somebody had come up behind us and now said to me, "Hello, Tom." I turned about, and it was the young sheriff Ed Smalley. He was smiling and had his hand out to shake. I took ahold of it and answered, "Hello, Eddie. How are things?"

  As I said it, I went to take back my hand. He heldt it a second, and his left hand went in quick and lifted the Colt out of my waistband, slick as spit. I just couldn't believe it. Was he horsing me? I shook my head mild as buttermilk and said, "What the hell, Ed?"

  "Tom," he answered me, "I have a warrant for your arrest." Now, by God, I could talk. And did.

  "The hell you have!" I smoked at him. "What for?"

  "Suspicion of murder in the killing of Willie Nickell."

  I took that the best way that I could.

  "Read it," I demanded.

  He done so, and there wasn't now any question but that this was serious business. I looked about the lobby.

  Sheriff Smalley was a little fellow but nervy. He saw my glance and held up one hand a little.

  "No," he said. "Now, Tom you will have to come along to the jail with me. You know I don't like this."

  My lobby search had shown me undersheriff Dick Proctor and Cheyenne police chief Sandy McKneal standing with their coats unbuttoned over by the street door. One was to the left, the other to my right. I was in a cross fire from them, and they would have cut me in two. Proctor, a good man, caught my eye and read its meaning. He nodded to me, as if to say, "Yes, Tom, we will do it," and I knew right then it was all over.

  "All right, Eddie," I said to Smalley. "But, say, leave my gun at the desk for me, will you? They'll care for it."

  "No, it must go into the safe at the jail," said the little sheriff. "It will be plenty safe there, Tom."

  "Well, I am set," I said. "Let's ramble."

  "I won't cuff you, Tom. Just your word will do."

  "You got it."

  We walked out of the Inter-Ocean together. Outside, I seen I had made the right decision about busting through them. On the walk below was a man with a Winchester short rifle. On the landing, us just passing him, was another man with an L. C. Smith 10-gauge sawed off to about fourteen inches of barrel. It was Frank Canton, a mean one.

  "Morning, Frank," I nodded to him. "I will be damned if I believe you will get any geese this morning; you didn't put out your decoys right."

  "You seem to have flown into them," he grated. "Keep flying."

  I had slowed a bit, but I laughed and said I'd given my word to Ed Smalley and things would be quiet. I did not fail to note, however, that none of the lawmen let down. They were maybe not scairt, but sure as hell being mighty watchful. Ed Smalley read my face.

  "You're dangerous game, Tom," he said. "Ease along." We got to the jail without drawing any crowd.

  Inside, Smalley had me locked up, said again that he detested doing it, and asked me if there was anything I wanted that he could do for me.

  "Yes," I said, "read me that warrant again."

  He done so and I asked, "Who signed it? I note you ain't said who, neither now nor over to the hotel."

  "You mean the court?"

  "You know who I mean. Who swore it out?"

  "You will learn that from your lawyer, Tom."

  I must have got pale at that stall, for Ed Smalley said, "Are you all right, Tom?" and I told him I was but that I always got a little peaked when I smelt a rat.

  He looked at me, saying nothing. But he nodded in a manner to let me knew he knew the rat but couldn't say.

  "You want to see anybody?" he asked me.

  "Just John Coble. Ought there to be somebody else?"

  "I mean the marshal, Tom."

  "Yes, by God, I do want to see him. But I doubt like hell he wants to see me. Not now. I've muddied his water, sure."

  "Could be," said the sheriff, "but I'll phone him."

  He did so, true to his word, telling me that LeFors hadn't wanted to come over but he would "for a minute."

  And that was just about the size of it, too.

  LeFors walked into my cellblock and stopped out in the aisle of it, away from my cell. He just looked at me. I thought he was going to turn square about and leave.

  Instead, he stood there in his rumpled tweed suit, blinking at me and rubbing his short stubble of hair.

  "What's the matter?" he finally asked.

  "Joel" I blurted. "They got me in here for killing the kid!"

  He acted like he didn't hear me.

  "It's a shame," he said. 'That Montana job was all set. I just talked to them by wire. Well, damn."

  "Joe," I gripped the bars, pushing my face into them, "ain't you heard what I said? They've jailt me for killing Willie Nickell."

  U.S. Deputy Marshal Joe LeFors stared right at me.

  "The hell they have!" he said.

  And turned around and walked out of the block, and the bars clanged behind him and I was all alone.

  Lawyer Row
ells

  Any part, every tiniest parcel, of the trial of Tom Horn was in the papers at the time or now lays in the archives of the state of Wyoming. I will not burden anyone with repeating it. Yet I must tell of the preliminary hearing to it, whicht took place on January 24, eleven days after my arrest at the Inter-Ocean Hotel. It was there the entire black heart of the people and state of Wyoming against Tom Horn was laid bare.

  Though none knowed it then, the trial was already over.

  Treachery and cowardice struck in the dark of a U. S. marshal's room and stalked justice down into the courtroom of hearing officer Judge Becker. To this day I cannot see how such foulness lives in this wonderful land.

  It was witness number eleven knifed me down.

  First witness, at court's opening, ten a.m., was Kels P. Nickell. Kels didn't lie any that would hurt me. He was followed by Apperson, the surveyor, backing Kels. Next was the three coroner's inquest doctors, giving the same postmortem report as before. That made five so far. Witness number six was Tom Murray, the fool coroner, who told his ninny story about finding the "butt print" of my rifle "in the rocks of the ridge." Jack Ryan and his wife next traipsed to the stand and put me on the home ranch Saturday, July 20, whicht was correct. Old Mr. John Clay, owning Swan Land & Cattle Company, then witnessed for me long and earnest. When he'd done; Judge Becker recessed for noon dinner.

  First to the chair that afternoon was Vic Miller. He was number ten and told a total decent story of my visit and target shooting at the Miller place. He didn't harm me none, nor try to that I caught. In fact, the kid acted like he wanted to help me. I looked about the court, seen many of my friends there, and commenced to feeling that Mr. Coble and my famous attorneys he had hired for me (Lacey and Burke) was right; Tom Horn would get off at the hearing, never going to trial.

  Then a stillness fell, and I seen witness number eleven making his way to the chair: It was Marshal Joe LeFors. Prosecutor Walter Stoll spoke for the witness:

  "Marshal LeFors shall present for the clerk to read," Stoll said, "a true copy of a conversation between himself and the defendant, Tom Horn, said exchange taking place January 12, past. Copy made by court recorder Charles Ohnhaus. Witness to same, Deputy Sheriff Leslie Snow. Both Ohnhaus and Snow are officers of this court, operating in the matter with express knowledge and permission of the prosecutor, at the direct behest of Marshal Joe LeFors."