The Adventures of Gopher Piddington

by David Michaelson

  “I’m that little boy, that’s what!”

  “Well, ain’t that somethin’? Tell me, when you got back in your mama’s arms, was her milk all dried up?”

  Gopher didn’t answer. He was fuming at the insult to his mother.

  Lartano didn’t quit with one insult. He looked around at his friends and added, “Maybe his momma’s teats went dry and shriveled up to nothin’.”

  The Indians laughed, slapped their knees and laughed some more.

  Gopher had heard enough. He pulled out his Colt .44, cocked the hammer back and pulled the trigger.

  Lartano sat there for a moment, looking at the hole in the middle of his chest. In sheer disbelief, he stuck his index finger into the bloody hole and examined it while he slumped to the floor.

  Immediately, the other Indians stood and confronted Gopher, his gun barrel still smoking from the single shot.

  The barkeep grabbed his double barrel shotgun, threw up his hinged counter and bellowed, “There be no more gunplay in this establishment.

  “Now you Pueblo boys go on home now. This young fella’s going to answer to the law for what he just done.”

  The remaining Indians saw the barkeep meant business and once they were assured he wasn’t going to let a white murderer go free, they exited the saloon.

  The barkeep, with both barrels cocked, now had his shotgun firmly wedged against the middle of Gopher’s back. He ordered him to hand over his pistol. When Gopher did so, the barkeep marched him at gunpoint across the street to the marshal’s office.

  “You’re gonna want to lock this one up, marshal. He’s done gone and kilt one of the Pueblo’s ballplayers. That Indian’s got a hole in ‘im as big as a hen’s egg.

  “An Indian, you say? Is he dead?”

  “Why hell yes, he’s dead. I just told you he’s got a big hole right in the middle of his chest.”

  By the time the town’s doctor showed up at the saloon and officially pronounced Lartano as deceased, Gopher was already securely locked behind bars.

  There was nothing more to do after the undertaker removed the body, except to clean up the floor and wipe down Lartano’s bloody chair. The undertaker wanted to put in his claim right away for expenses—the fees, he told the marshal, should come out of the killer’s pockets. “It ain’t right I should foot the bill for buryin’ another loser with a bullet in him.”

  “That’ll be up to the Circuit Judge. In the meantime, get him buried before the rest of his kind starts trouble. We don’t want another Indian uprising, not here in Leadville.”

  Gopher Piddington was alone in a dark, cold, stone cell with no windows and nothing but a hard bunk and a bucket for company. His ears were still ringing from the point-blank gunshot. But at least Lartano the kidnapper would never steal another kid or insult anyone’s mother.

  Little did the inexperienced fourteen year-old realize that he had just committed the heinous act of murdering another human in cold blood. To Gopher, the foul-mouthed Apache Indian was nothing, even if he was unarmed. He was just another wild Indian with bent on doing bad. And to Gopher, there was justification in pulling the trigger. At least in Gopher’s mind, he had just done a service to civilized society and should be exonerated from any hint of injustice. At the moment he believed the only truly good Indian was a dead Indian.

  LOCKUP

  Marshal Clayton Krew wasted no time gathering eyewitness accounts of the killing. When he located where the Pueblo players were spending the night, he soon discovered none of the Indians involved could read or write. It was extremely frustrating, as each one told a slightly different story, all ending in the tragic and uncalled for shooting of an unarmed teammate.

  Writing in his own hand, Marshal Krew made brief notes of the incident and asked all the Indian witnesses to make their mark at the bottom of the paper. The rest the Pueblo team, made up of white players, declined to comment, as they had been busy playing poker in another section of the saloon and had seen nothing.

  The only truly credible witness turned out to be Rolfe, the barkeep. The entire group of Indian ball players was, as Krew noted on his witness sheet, clearly under the influence of strong drink.

  Of course, Gopher was asked for his rendition of the events leading up to the shooting. He readily agreed to the questioning and told the entire story from when he was taken ten years earlier. As to why he went back and got his gun: Gopher said he expected trouble and knew if he got into trouble, it wouldn’t be a fair fight. When asked why he drew and fired, Gopher told him Lartano had issued highly offensive slurs to his mother and that was unacceptable.

  Marshal Krew spent very little time recording the earlier details and concerned himself mostly with the things that happened on the day of the shooting, especially the part about Gopher leaving the saloon to fetch his gun. That part was carefully documented. Krew was convinced it would prove to be a pivotal part of the prosecution’s case for pre-planned murder in the first degree—a hanging offense in Colorado.

  But for the time being, only the charges could be filed and the accused jailed, as the Circuit Judge would not arrive to hear the case for another three to four weeks. In the meantime, Gilbert Gopher Piddington was slated to remain in jail until his trial date.

  During the following two days, Gopher had three different visitors. The first one, mister Liddy, came early Monday morning to inform him that he was no longer employed at the Leadville Fish Hatchery. “Sorry son, but we simply cannot have anyone on staff that is accused of wrong-doing,”

  The second visitor was the editor of the local newspaper. He asked for, and was granted, an exclusive interview with the accused. What he printed persuaded the town of Leadville into believing the act was nothing but cold-blooded murder and hanging wasn’t good enough for anyone killing with no mercy, not even the killing of a good-for-nothing Apache that may or may not have been the perpetrator of a kidnapping over ten years in the past.

  The article meant Gopher would never be able to receive a fair trial, not in Leadville anyway.

  The editor went on to compare this most recent shooting to the tragic death of an innocent former policeman at the hands of none other than the murderous Doc Holliday, back in ’83. The article claimed an up and coming town like Leadville simply could not allow another clear case of heartless murder to go unpunished.

  The third visitor was the manager of the Blues. He claimed he had heard conflicting stories, so couldn’t make a case in his mind either way. “Son, I think your best bet is to put yourself at the mercy of the Circuit Judge. You sure as Hell ain’t gonna find a fair and impartial jury around here. Is there anything I can do for you while you’re locked up?”

  Gopher asked his manager to send a telegram to his father, the Mayor of Santa Fe, asking him to hire a good lawyer. “Send it to the Honorable Mayor Able Piddington. He’ll get it for sure.”

  The manager looked very uncomfortable with the situation but agreed. “Consider it done. I’ll send it off right away.

  “By the way, that was a pretty piece of hurling you did on Saturday. If you, I mean, when you get out of here, I sure would like to see you throw a few more. That’s one helluva an arm you’ve got; too bad if it went to waste.”

  Later, the Marshal brought what he called supper for a prisoner. He informed Gopher that the Circuit Judge would be in Leadville to hear his case a week from Thursday, nearly two weeks hence. Gopher was worried what might happen if his father didn’t get the message or couldn’t find a good lawyer. It was frightening and frustrating to be locked up. There was no way to communicate other than through the Blue’s manager. Marshal Krew refused to pass along any messages, claiming he didn’t bargain with killers.

  Gopher begged Krew to summon the ball team manager. “Tell him I have another favor to ask. And by the way, I don’t even know my manager’s name. Would you happen to know what it is?”

  The day progressed without a word from the manager. Gopher was concerned Marshal Krew would hold true to his word and
refuse to make contact. But later that evening, “Lefty” Clarkston arrived and asked to visit the prisoner. Krew let him in.

  “I understand you have another favor to ask. What can I do for you?”

  “I would appreciate it if you would send another telegram to my Father informing him of my trial date, which is set for a week from this coming Thursday.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty quick. Judge Bartell must’ve cancelled some of his other hearings and moved yours up. Normally, he only comes around once a month. Anyway, consider it done.”

  Within days, every newspaper in the territory carried the story of how young Gilbert Piddington killed the rogue Apache who had kidnapped him ten years earlier. Some accounts painted Gopher in a justified manner, while others slanted the storyline in a most incriminating way.

  When the trial date came closer, several pieces of good news came his way. His mother and father were in town, staying at the prestigious Clarendon hotel. Much to his surprise, he found out Grenda had also made the trip all the way from their homestead near Chimayo. The lawyer Able hired suggested there might be a very real need for additional character witnesses. Able rode out to the Freiberg place and convinced the girl’s father to allow her to travel to Leadville along with the Piddingtons—at Able’s expense, of course.

  On the Wednesday before his trial, another visitor arrived and asked to speak with the prisoner. It was Ellen Nielsen, come to vouch for his character, all the way from Denver. She had read of the deed in the Denver paper. Gopher was very glad to see her but apologized for putting them all in such a bad situation.

  “Gopher Piddington, you have made an impression on me, as well as your family and others that have known you. Your character is sound and we all hope to convince the judge that you acted in an acceptable manner.”

  Besides, Ellen, Grenda, manager Lefty, and his mother, the only other visitor was the lawyer his father had engaged to defend his only son.

  Clemson Ridpath came highly recommended. This was not his first high-profile murder case but it was the first time he defended the actions of someone of Gopher’s tender age. “Son, in these parts, a man is considered a man when he acts in a manly fashion. What that means is, you chose to get a gun and shoot another man with the clear intention of killing him. That will not bode well for you. We must rely upon a host of character witnesses willing to vouch for your integrity.

  “A similar case was decided some years ago right here in Leadville when a preponderance of witnesses claimed outright murder, yet the killer was found innocent.”

  Gopher told the lawyer about the bad press he had received at the hand of the local paper.

  “Yes, I’ve seen that article. And although it is quite damning, that one-sided report may actually work in your favor.”

  “How do you mean? That newspaper fellow accused me outright of pre-planned murder.”

  “Son, with that kind of notoriety, I doubt the judge will try you by a jury of your peers. In your case, Judge Bartell will be your best bet.

  “It is my understanding that your family and several others have made the trip on your behalf.”

  Gopher said it was true and somewhat humbling.

  “Are there any other witnesses you think might be of help in convincing the judge of that your act was justified?

  “Only my team manager, Lefty Clarkston; he might be able to help.”

  “I’ll arrange to have a chat with him to see if what he might say will be of benefit.”

  Gopher asked point-blank, what his chances were of avoiding the gallows.

  “I’ll do what I can, but you surely didn’t help your cause when you went back to get your gun. That paints a pre-meditated picture; pretty hard to change that.”

  JUDGEMENT DAY

  Gilbert Gopher Piddington, accused murderer, was led into the courtroom bound hand and foot with ball and chain. He carried the heavy ball in his two hands so it wouldn’t scrape across the wooden floor.

  At the sight of her son, Kirsten wept.

  Gopher looked every bit the part of a guilty man. His clothing was matted and rumpled. His chin sported the beginnings of beard stubble and his hair was mussed, giving him an unkempt appearance. His color was ashen and sallow. He hadn’t seen sunlight in almost two weeks.

  On one side of the courtroom sat a few of the Indian witnesses from the Pueblo Pastimes base ball club. Gopher was aware they had been subpoenaed to testify against him but was surprised only three of them were in attendance. He leaned over to Ridpath and inquired as to why only three had showed up to accuse him.

  “It’s my understanding that the others are unable to attend due to circumstances beyond their control. In essence, they’re too drunk to take the witness stand and are probably sleeping it off elsewhere.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “It won’t hurt, and may actually damage the testimony of the others. We’ll just have to wait and see how the Judge handles the discrepancy.”

  “Do you know this Judge?”

  “He’s considered a fair man but with limited patience. I know he has postponed other hearings to take this one. Wouldn’t surprise me if he wasn’t aspiring to a higher judicial position and figured this case might be his steppingstone. Circuit Judges put in a lot of hours and a lot of miles serving the territory. It’s much easier to be a State Supreme Court Justice—and much better pay, as well. Whether any of this will play out to our benefit, only time will tell.”

  “What you’re telling me is that I might actually be hanged for shooting a bad Indian?”

  “Son, I’ll do my best—we’ll all do our best to make sure justice is served.”

  That last statement failed to reassure Gopher that he would walk away a free man. He began to be truly concerned for his fate. All kinds of thoughts raced through his mind as he looked out over the other side of the courtroom, where his family and friendly witnesses had gathered.

  Ellen, Grenda and his dear mother all had tears streaking down their cheeks. Each carried a handkerchief and daubed at the moisture frequently.

  His father sat straight up, stern in his appearance, looking every bit the well-respected Mayor of an important city.

  Marshal Krew cried out, “All rise. The Honorable Judge A. J. Bartell’s court is now in session.”

  Gopher had to be helped to his feet. In rushing to do so, he accidentally dropped the heavy ball. It fell to the floor in a resounding and exceedingly loud thud.

  Judge Bartell looked at Gopher over the top of his glasses and stared at him through the dense growth of two bushy eyebrows. He slammed his gavel down and announced his court in session.

  Everyone sat back down.

  “This here is a trial to decide the outcome of an alleged murder. A man is dead and it is my job to ascertain the truth behind the deed.

  “I have read the arguments from both sides and will have questions for both sides as this trial progresses.

  “Murder in this territory is punishable by hanging until dead.

  “Normally a crime of this magnitude is decided by a impartial jury of the accused’s peers. However, after perusing the pre-trial editorials printed in the local paper, I do not think an impartial jury can be found.

  “Therefore, it is my decision to decide this case as charged to me by law. In arriving at a final decision, I intend to take in all manner of evidence and testimony.

  “I have taken into account the youthful age of the accused but that is not to say that being young is ever an excuse for taking another’s life.

  “In hearing testimony I will insist each and every witness be absolutely truthful. Any embellishment on either side may well negate those statements.”

  The judge looked down on Gopher.

  “Gilbert Gopher Piddington, do you understand the charges that have been laid against you?”

  Gopher nodded in the affirmative.

  “How then, do you plead?”

  Ridpath stood and spoke for his client. “My client pleads not guilty
.”

  It was easy to read the disappointment on the judge’s face. Apparently, he had assumed the accused would admit to killing another human being, but alas, his face told another story; the story of a judge hoping for a quick decision leading up the ladder to a better position within the judicial system.

  “Is the prosecution ready?”

  Marshal Krew said he was.

  “State then, your case against the accused.”

  “Your Honor this young man came into my care through a horrific act of violence against an unarmed man. With one shot to the chest, young Piddington here dispatched a mister Lartano.

  “It is clear there existed pre-meditation, as the defendant left the saloon and walked some distance to retrieve his side arm, a Colt .44. Upon returning to the saloon, he promptly and without provocation, shot mister Lartano dead.

  “If it had not been for the barkeep’s swift intervention and rapid escort to my jail, those remaining friends of the victim may well have resorted to revenge.”

  The judge asked if any of the men involved knew each other prior to the incident and if so, how did they come to meet?

  “It is my understanding that Piddington and Lartano played on opposing minor league base ball teams on the day of the altercation.”

  “Seems an unlikely reason for murder. Go on.”

  “That’s about it your honor. That’s the way it happened.”

  “Is the defense prepared to challenge that story?”

  “Indeed we are,” Ridpath said. “There is much more to the act than a mere ball game. This meeting between the deceased and the accused is about ten years old.”

  “Continue.”

  “My client was taken hostage; kidnapped against his will by the deceased when my client was but four years old. He was bound hand and foot and hobbled like an errant pony.

  “The authorities were aware of the crime but the U.S. Army was overextended with Indian uprisings elsewhere and could not spare a detail to track the kidnapper.

  “It was two friendly fellow Apache that assisted the defendant’s parents in an extended hunt that lasted weeks.