Twelve Dead Men

by William W. Johnstone

  Men hurriedly got out of his way as he stomped over to Buchanan. “I’ll serve on that jury. I’ve got as much right as anybody. Who else is with me?”

  Silence hung over the saloon in the wake of Muller’s shouted question.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “I’ll do it,” a voice said from the saloon’s entrance. “I’ll serve.”

  Ace looked around to see Lee Emory standing there, holding the batwings open. The newspaperman came on into the Melodian.

  “That gives you two members of your jury, Mr. Buchanan,” Emory said. “Surely there are ten more men here who aren’t afraid.”

  “You don’t know what McLaren’s bunch is capable of, Lee,” a man called from the bar.

  “I know what good Americans are capable of,” Emory said. “I know they’re capable of standing up to evil and tyranny wherever they find it, like the men who stood in the road at Lexington and Concord with muskets in their hands and watched the British troops marching toward them. Or the men who rallied behind Andrew Jackson at New Orleans and pushed the redcoats back into the sea, or those who crossed the line Colonel Travis drew in the sand with his sword at the Alamo. I know there are some Texans here. Some of you probably have relatives old enough to remember that revolution.”

  “That was war,” a man objected. “The whole country was at stake.”

  Emory hooked his thumbs in his vest, and Ace thought how much newspapermen were like politicians, even though they probably would never admit that. They all liked the sound of their own voices, although usually those words were in print, not spoken from some platform.

  “You think nothing’s at stake here?” Emory asked. “I’d say the whole country is very much at stake! If you start letting lawbreakers go simply because you’re afraid to see justice done, how long will it be before the entire nation is overrun with criminals? If a dog comes at you, snarling and snapping, do you throw it a chunk of meat and hope it’ll go away? No! You stand up to it and let it know you’re not afraid of it! It’s the same way with two-bit bullies and bravos like King George and Santa Anna and, yes, like Pete McLaren! You can stand up to him and do the right thing now . . . or you can live the rest of your lives in fear.” Emory drew in a deep breath and blew it back out. “It’s as simple as that.”

  Silence reigned again following the impassioned speech.

  Finally, with a scrape of chair legs on the floor, Colonel Charles Howden stood up from the table where he’d been sitting. “Lee is right. If we let McLaren get away with what he’s done, it’s only a matter of time until Lone Pine isn’t a fit place to live. I’ll serve.”

  Sitting at a table as far across the room as he could get from Colonel Howden was Crackerjack Sawyer. The words were barely out of Howden’s mouth, before he was on his feet, too. “If a damn Yankee can do the right thing, then by God, a good Confederate can go him one better. Mr. Buchanan, a jury needs a foreman, don’t it?”

  “That’s accepted procedure, yes,” Buchanan agreed.

  “Then I’ll volunteer for the job!”

  “Wait just a minute,” Howden said. “We don’t want to let a Rebel be in charge—”

  “You two old pelicans hush your squawking,” Muller said. “We’re not gonna fight the whole blasted war over again.”

  “Hank’s right,” Emory said. “Besides, the foreman is usually elected by the members of the jury. So we need to find eight more men.” He looked around the room. “Surely there are eight men here with the courage to see that justice is done.”

  Slowly, one by one, more men rose to their feet. Ace counted them as they stood up.

  Six. That made ten, but a jury had to have twelve members.

  Emory said, “Someone else? Anyone?”

  Most of the men who hadn’t volunteered looked down at the floor, or at the drinks on the table in front of them. Most looked ashamed, too, but that wasn’t enough to prod them to action.

  Without stopping to think it over too much, Ace said, “My brother and I can do it.”

  Buchanan turned to look at him. “You’re deputies. You wouldn’t be eligible—”

  “You don’t see a badge pinned to my shirt, do you?” Ace asked. “We haven’t taken any wages. Chance and I are just volunteers. We can quit being volunteers any time we like.”

  Emory said, “But you don’t live here in Lone Pine.”

  A frown had appeared on Buchanan’s face as he thought about Ace’s suggestion. “Wait a minute. Do you have a permanent residence, Mr. Jensen?”

  “Not to speak of,” Ace said. “When we were little, we lived in Denver, but as soon as we were old enough, Doc Monday started drifting around again. We traveled with him, and for the past few years, we’ve still been drifting, just on our own.”

  “So you’re citizens of the world, you might say.”

  Ace couldn’t help but smile. “I sort of like that.”

  “Which means you’re citizens of Lone Pine as much as anywhere else.” Buchanan nodded. “I think I can persuade Judge Ordway of the legality of this move. And that would give us twelve jurors.”

  Emory said, “But shouldn’t we allow the other Mr. Jensen to speak for himself?”

  * * *

  “Hell, yes,” Chance said. “Sign me up.” He was standing in the marshal’s office along with Ace, Miguel, Buchanan, and Lee Emory.

  “You’re aware that it might be dangerous,” Buchanan said.

  “So’s getting up in the morning. So is being born!” Chance put the shotgun he was holding back on the wall rack. “Let’s go get that trial started again.”

  “I can’t guarantee that Judge Ordway will go along with seating the two of you as jurors, but I think he will. You’ll have to be impartial and decide the case strictly on the evidence. Can you do that?”

  “As much as anyone else in Lone Pine can,” Ace said. “Maybe even more so, since we haven’t had to put up with McLaren for as long as everybody else.”

  “That’s a good point. I’ll use it in trying to convince the judge, if I have to.”

  Ace turned to Miguel. “Sorry to leave you without any volunteers.”

  “I’ll do without sleep until the trial’s over if I have to,” Miguel said. “As long as McLaren winds up getting what’s coming to him.”

  “That’ll be up to the jury to decide,” Buchanan said. “I’ll go let Judge Ordway know we’re ready for court to reconvene.”

  A few minutes later, he returned to the marshal’s office and told them to take the prisoner back to the town hall.

  Ace said, “I reckon that’ll be our last act as unofficial deputies.”

  “All the other men who have agreed to serve as jurors will be there,” Buchanan said. “This shouldn’t take long. I hope the trial will be over by the end of the day.”

  They entered the courtroom and delivered McLaren to the defense table. Solomon Horton glared at them, but Ace saw worry lurking in the lawyer’s eyes, too. More than likely, Horton had been hoping for a mistrial when it looked like the court wouldn’t be able to seat a jury. He couldn’t be sure what was going to happen, but odds were it wouldn’t be good for his client.

  Judge Ordway came in, everyone stood up, and then sat down again. The judge rapped his gavel on the table and said, “Court is in session. We’ll resume with the selection of a jury, if there’s no objection from either counsel.”

  Horton was on his feet right away. “I object, Your Honor. My client has a right to a speedy trial by a jury of his peers—”

  “Then let us get to it, Counselor.” Ordway nodded at the prosecutor. “Proceed, Mr. Buchanan.”

  Buchanan stood up. “I’ll read off the names of the first twelve men on my list, and they’ll come forward. Hank Muller—”

  “Objection!” Horton yelled as he shot up again. “That man was the employer of one of the victims in the case. How can we expect him to be impartial?”

  “So you’d like to challenge this juror for cause?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, I
would.”

  “Duly noted,” Ordway said. “Challenge is denied.”

  “But Your Honor—”

  “I’ve known Hank Muller for a good long time. If he swears to deliver an honest, impartial verdict, I’m going to believe him. Would you like to peremptorily challenge the juror, Counselor?”

  Horton hesitated. He didn’t know who the other jurors were going to be, and he had only a limited number of challenges. The prosecution could be trying some sort of trick to tie his hands. After a moment he said, “Not at this time, Your Honor.”

  Ordway nodded to Buchanan. “Go on.”

  “Lee Emory,” the prosecutor said.

  Ace could tell that Horton didn’t like that, either, but the lawyer didn’t say anything.

  Chance leaned over and whispered into his brother’s ear, however. “If we were on the other side in this case, we’d say the defendant was getting railroaded.”

  “You’re right,” Ace whispered back. “But we all know McLaren really is guilty.”

  Judge Ordway frowned in their direction, so both brothers fell silent.

  Emory joined Muller in front of the chairs where the jury would sit.

  Buchanan said, “Clarence Sawyer.”

  Crackerjack went to take his place.

  Colonel Howden was next, followed by the other men from Lone Pine who had volunteered in the Melodian. Solomon Horton didn’t object to any of them.

  But when Buchanan called Ace, the defense attorney shot to his feet again. “Your Honor, does the prosecution intend to seat the other Jensen brother on the jury as well?”

  “Chance Jensen’s name is the last on the list,” Buchanan said.

  Horton shook his head. “I most strenuously object. These two young men aren’t even citizens of Lone Pine.”

  “How are they not?” Buchanan responded. “They’ve been here for several days and display no signs of leaving anytime soon. Ever since they rode in, they’ve done nothing but help our people and lend assistance to our duly appointed lawmen.”

  “They’re deputies!” Horton insisted. “They’re not eligible jurors.”

  “They merely helped Acting Marshal Soriano as friends and volunteers. All citizens are expected to lend assistance to the law when necessary.”

  Seething inside, Horton’s face turned even darker. He turned to the judge. “I challenge Ace and Chance Jensen for cause.”

  “Those challenges are denied,” Ordway said. “I find Mr. Buchanan’s argument that they can indeed be considered citizens compelling.”

  Buchanan motioned to the Jensen brothers, who went forward and positioned themselves at the end of the line of jurors.

  “Do you wish to make any peremptory challenges, Mr. Horton?” Ordway asked.

  Horton was mulling it over. He glanced at Buchanan, who merely smiled confidently and looked down at the sheet of paper in his hand, trying to make Horton think that if any jurors were removed, he would just call replacements for them and not worry about it. It was a masterful stroke.

  After a few moments Horton muttered, “I have no further challenges, Your Honor.”

  “Very well,” Ordway said. “Marshal Soriano, if you would, swear in the members of the jury, and let’s get these proceedings started.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Ace had attended a few trials before but had never served as a member of a jury. Despite being convinced of Pete McLaren’s guilt, he reminded himself that he had to keep an open mind, listen to all the evidence, and then vote according to whether or not the prosecution had proven its case. It was a weighty responsibility.

  The smile Chance wore as the trial got under way told Ace that his brother wasn’t taking things quite as seriously as he was . . . but nothing unusual about that. Chance didn’t take much seriously except poker games and pretty girls.

  Timothy Buchanan laid out the prosecution’s case in an opening statement that took quite a while. Solomon Horton followed with a passionate opening statement of his own that didn’t really say much but he said it at great length. Ace figured lawyers could be added to the list of those fellows in love with whatever they had to say, along with politicians and journalists.

  Both opening statements went on so long that, coupled with the earlier delay, it was the middle of the day before the court was ready to begin hearing testimony.

  Judge Ordway picked up his gavel and said, “We’ll reconvene at one o’clock. Court is adjourned.” The bang of the gavel signaled the beginning of the break for the midday meal.

  Miguel had found a couple men willing to help him escort McLaren to and from the jail. Ace, Chance, and Lee Emory watched as the little group headed for the sturdy stone building. Most of the people on the street—and there were quite a few of them—were equally interested.

  After a moment, Meredith came up to join them. She had a worried frown on her face as she took hold of her brother’s arm. “Lee, I’m not sure this is wise. You should be reporting the news, not . . . not taking part in it. And it’s dangerous besides. You’ll be making enemies by doing this.”

  “A newspaperman can’t worry too much about the enemies he makes,” Emory said. “If he does, he can’t do his job properly.”

  “Like I just said, your job isn’t to be in the middle of things.”

  “Let’s go get something to eat, and we can talk about it. I can’t very well back out now, though.”

  “I just wish you’d talked to me before you volunteered.”

  Emory didn’t respond to that, but turned to Ace and Chance. “Why don’t you join us?”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Ace said.

  They went over to the café and got the last empty table. Lars Hilfstrom and his wife and daughters were doing a booming business because of the trial.

  “You’re not going to be too angry with me, are you?” Emory asked his sister while they were waiting for their food.

  Meredith managed to smile. “I don’t suppose it would do any good if I was. The trial has started, so it’s too late now to do anything about it.”

  “That’s right. Don’t worry. It won’t last long, and then this will all be over.”

  “I hope so,” Meredith said.

  So did Ace, but an uneasy feeling had started to creep in on him. Solomon Horton had a reputation as a slick, smart lawyer, even though he hadn’t yet displayed much evidence of it. He might still have some tricks up his sleeve, however. Besides that, Ace just had a hunch things weren’t going to go as smoothly as everyone on the prosecution’s side hoped.

  Mrs. Hilfstrom was working hard in the kitchen to make sure everyone got fed before the trial started again, but it was a near thing. The hour was almost one o’clock by the time Ace, Chance, and the Emorys returned to the town hall, joining the rest of the crowd gathering there. The three men took their seats on the jury while Meredith snagged a chair in the second row of the spectators’ section.

  It was a few minutes after one o’clock by the time Judge Ordway gaveled the court into session. “Call your first witness, Mr. Buchanan.”

  The prosecutor got to his feet “I call Acting Marshal Miguel Soriano.”

  Miguel went forward, was sworn in, and took the witness chair. At Buchanan’s request, he restated his name and position for the record.

  Then Buchanan said, “In your own words, Marshal Soriano, tell us what you witnessed in front of the marshal’s office and jail two nights ago.”

  “Well, I’d been making my evening rounds, the way I usually did before I took over at the jail. I was the night deputy under Marshal Hoyt Dixon. I was on the boardwalk on the same side of the street, heading toward the jail, when I saw some people—a man and a woman—run out of the building. Marshal Dixon was in the street, approaching the jail with a dinner tray in his hands for the prisoner we had locked up in there. I recognized the man who had just come out of the jail as that prisoner, Pete McLaren.”

  “And is that man in court today?” Buchanan asked.

  “Yes, sir, h
e is.” Miguel nodded toward the defense table. “That’s him right there, the defendant.”

  Buchanan said, “Go on. What happened then?”

  Miguel said, “McLaren shot the marshal, and then he shot the woman with him . . . Dolly Redding, one of the saloon girls who worked at the Melodian. I was running toward McLaren by then, and he tried to shoot me. His bullet hit one of my boot heels and knocked it off, causing me to fall down. McLaren grabbed a horse at the hitch rack and tried to get away, but a couple citizens stopped him and I took him into custody and returned him to the jail.”

  Ace watch Solomon Horton while Miguel was testifying. The lawyer fidgeted a little, wanting his shot at the witness. He would get it soon enough.

  Buchanan said, “Marshal Dixon and Miss Redding suffered fatal injuries at the defendant’s hands?”

  Miguel nodded. “Yes, McLaren shot and killed both of them.”

  “Can you tell us why the defendant was being held in jail prior to this incident?”

  Horton stood up. “Objection. Irrelevant.”

  “The defendant is also on trial for those charges, Your Honor,” Buchanan argued.

  “I’ll allow it,” Ordway ruled. “Answer the question.”

  Miguel said, “The defendant was being held on charges of attempted murder and disturbing the peace.”

  “So the marshal and Miss Redding weren’t the first people the defendant tried to gun down.” Buchanan pointed out.

  Horton was up again. “Objection! That’s not a question, Your Honor.”

  “No, it’s not,” Ordway said. “I’ll sustain that objection, Counselor. Mr. Buchanan, you’ve already made your opening statement.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” Buchanan murmured.

  “Do you have anything more for this witness?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Cross-examination?”