“I want the whole story from him, though state law won’t let him testify,” nodded Colquitt. “As it stands, things must have fallen out like this: Enderby bought the land while the grave was there. Later, he let them carry off the chief’s body. Finally he sold the property to Westall. Now that he sees a chance to profit, he claims that the body’s still where it was first buried. Simple, isn’t it? Doubly simple, now that we know what Enderby doesn’t want us to know. When will Cut Nose return?”
“He didn’t tell me,” said Jason.
“As soon as you hear from him, bring him to me.”
But days passed, and more days, with no word from Cut Nose. Jason chafed and wondered and despaired. Sunday, August 25, dawned bright and hot, and Colquitt began to pack his saddlebags. Betsy brought the green satchel that held her uncle’s papers and law books.
“Cut Nose just isn’t here,” mourned Jason.
“But circuit court time is,” Colquitt informed him. “The first session will open tomorrow in Birch Springs, yonder in Moultrie County, and I must be there. You’ll ride with me.”
“I’d better wait and find Cut Nose for us,” suggested Jason, but Squire Colquitt shook his head, waving the protest aside.
“No, my boy. You need this court experience, listening and learning. I’ll need you, too, because you’re acquainted with the documents in most of these cases I’m trying. You’ll be a great help to me.”
“Very well, sir,” Jason yielded. “I couldn’t find Cut Nose, anyway. Nobody can find him. He’ll show up when he’s ready, I suppose.”
“Can you leave word for him to follow us ?” asked Colquitt.
Jason looked at Betsy, strapping the satchel tight shut over the books.
“Betsy, I’ll have to trust you to do that for us,” he said. “Send
Cut Nose to follow us, I mean. If I’m not here, I think hell come and speak to you.”
“I’ll do it,” promised Betsy. “And here’s a pair of saddlebags you can use.”
Riding the circuit with Squire Colquitt was an experience beyond any of Jason’s dreams or imaginings.
After he and the Squire had eaten noon dinner, they bade Betsy good-by. She kissed her uncle, took Jason’s hand in both of hers and pressed it warmly. Then, as they mounted their horses and rode away, she waved from the doorway as long as they were in sight.
The Moshawnee road joined a larger highway a few miles beyond town. Here were travelers, afoot, horseback, and in carriages or wagons. Friendly greetings were shouted back and forth, and news.
Everyone, it seemed, was heading for Birch Springs and the court week there, but relatively few of them had actual legal matters to transact. Some sought the county seat on business, to buy or sell land, to barter for meat or meal or cloth. More than one wanted to trade horses, but the melancholy brutes they were riding or leading looked to Jason to be virtually untradable. Still others were going with no specific purpose in mind— court week twice a year meant diversion, excitement, or perhaps some unexpected profit.
Among the travelers were, of course, lawyers. Most of these rode good horses and wore handsome coats and boots. Jason recognized several he had met last spring at Moshawnee, among them Lassiter, Benton, and Frye. And Milo Kinstrey trotted past on a fine bay mare, doffing his hat with a flourish. Jason returned the salute, and rode alongside Colquitt and Lassiter, glad to ask questions and listen to discussions of coming cases.
It was sundown when Squire Colquitt and Jason rode into Birch Springs. This was a settlement some five years older than Moshawnee, and somewhat larger. In its center rose a sturdy oblong courthouse, half of field stone and half of massive squared timbers, with a blunt-topped tower above it and a squat log jail behind it. The streets were full of noisy people, and at the tavern where the two tied up their horses the dining room was jammed with customers.
“Gentlemen, were full up,” said the aproned proprietor. “Every room is engaged, Squire Colquitt.”
“Come, landlord, that’s an old story during court week,” replied Colquitt, seemingly unworried. “You knew I would come. Surely you can find a corner where we can sleep.”
The proprietor pursed his lips and thought. “I have to put extra mattresses on the floor in some rooms. If—”
“Hello, Colquitt,” called out Solicitor Parks, entering the lobby. “Where are you lodged ?”
“Here, I hope,” replied Squire Colquitt, “if this tavern’s not too crowded.”
“Every tavern and boarding-house is crowded,” the solicitor told him. “If you will, why not share my room? There’s a big double bed.”
“But I have Jason with me,” said Colquitt.
“Landlord, find some blankets and make up a pallet for Mr. Morgan on my floor,” ordered Parks. “You will not object to that sort of rough accommodation, young sir?”
“I’ll be vastly obliged, Mr. Solicitor,” Jason said thankfully. They found places at a table and ate dinner with some other lawyers. That night Jason slept well, despite his hard couch and the voices of card players in the next room. He was up at dawn to help Colquitt get his papers ready for the opening of court.
In the largest room of the courthouse, Judge Hemphill took the bench and the crier declared court in session.
The cases tried at Birch Springs were great matters and small, civil and criminal. Completely fascinated, Jason listened to the examination of witnesses, the citing of legal precedent, and arguments to judge and jury. Several of the lawyers he knew were active. Squire Lassiter and Squire Abershaw were arrayed against each other in a suit to maintain a right of way through private property, and this was the chief drama of the first day’s session. On the second day, Kinstrey appeared for the defendant in a suit for twenty thousand dollars’ damage against a timber company.
Two young lawyers represented the farmer who was suing, and they summoned witnesses to say that the defendant company had cut trees on the plaintiff’s land without permission. Kinstrey was glib but penetrating in his cross-examinations, constantly assailing the plaintiff’s claim to clear title in the land where the timber was cut, and finally, when the attorneys for the plaintiff rested their case, Kinstrey almost languidly moved that the case be dismissed for lack of proper evidence. Judge Hemphill sustained the motion and threw the case out of court.
“But didn’t the land belong to the man who brought suit?” whispered Jason to Colquitt.
“If so, title wasn’t properly shown,” was the reply. “Judge Hemphill felt obliged to dismiss the suit. Remember to prove all your contentions in court, Jason.”
As the week drew to a close, there was an emigration of lawyers, court officials, and clients to the next county seat, and another succession of lively legal disputes.
Solicitor Parks proved to be worth Jason’s attention. He brought actions for theft, assault and battery, destruction of property, and one on a charge of murder. This last resulted in conviction, and Jason watched and listened while Judge Hemphill coldly sentenced the prisoner to death by hanging.
During the second week, a letter came from Betsy. There still was no word of Cut Nose’s whereabouts, and Asper Enderby and Major Westall had quarreled on the main street of Moshawnee, almost coming to blows.
“I wish the Major would stay out of Enderby’s way,” groaned Colquitt. “He’d like to settle the whole business with pistols for two in some forest clearing. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t resolve the question of the courthouse’s location—it would only finish off Enderby or the Major, or both. They’re splendid shots, and I don’t want them blazing away at each other.”
“You’re ready to go to trial in the courthouse matter, sir?” asked Jason for the twentieth time.
“As ready as I can be, without talking to your friend Cut Nose. Once I have the story as clearly as I can get it, I’m ready to unmask Enderby for the swindler and liar he is.”
Colquitt’s courtroom behavior, in one case after another, delighted Jason. Calm, unassuming, deceptively quiet, the old l
awyer generally practiced the utmost courtesy toward both witnesses and opposing counsel. Frequently, it seemed to Jason, he was being outwitted by some clever adversary. But that was part of Colquitt’s method. At the most unexpected moment, he would pounce on questionable evidence or cite a point of law to the opposition’s complete discomfort. And, without being loud or melodramatic, he made profound impressions on jurymen, swayed them strongly, and won his cases time after time: “You’re mighty lucky in the man who’s teaching you the law,” Solicitor Parks told Jason as they made the journey to yet another county seat. “I myself hate to find that he’s arrayed against me in any action. Will you be such another attorney?”
“I can’t hope to be such another,” confessed Jason. “I hope, in my own way, to avoid disappointing him.”
“Modestly said. And when do you ask for your license ?”
“That depends on Squire Colquitt’s advice,” Jason said. “I’ll apply when he gives the word.”
“If I can help you in any way, please say so.”
“I’m getting plenty of help from you, sir,” Jason replied. “I listen to you during these cases, and learn day by day.”
September was nearly over, and court sat in Rayfield, the county seat next to Moshawnee. On the following Monday, September 30, Moshawnee would begin its court week and hear the case involving Sun Chief’s grave.
In Rayfield, Colquitt and Jason secured a room together on the first floor of a great clapboard hotel called the Union House. As usual, other lawyers and officers of the court secured every possible accommodation. The courthouse was a block away, and every morning there was an impressive parade of legal talent, each man carrying his green bag of papers and books, tramping along the main street.
On the final day, Saturday, September 28, Colquitt was retained in a minor case involving ownership of a dugout canoe. He told Jason to pack the two sets of saddlebags for a prompt start home when court adjourned at noon.
“We may manage a late supper at the Andrew Jackson House, where you used to work,” said Colquitt. “Captain Lunsford will be glad to hear of your progress toward a lawyer’s career. Then we’ll ride on from there, and reach home before too late at night.”
Jason sought their room, folded clothing, and gathered books to stow in the bags. As he went about his packing, he reviewed in his mind the experience of riding the circuit.
Some cases, he knew, had been of high importance and others of no more than trifling consequence, even to the plaintiffs and the defendants. But not one matter that had come before Judge Hemphill had failed to interest Jason. He had seen cases won and lost in a variety of ways—by tricks, by inexorable piling up of evidence, by adroit appeals to the emotions and sentiments of the jurors, by the citing of ancient precedents at law to uphold unexpected arguments. Could he remember all these things, employ them for his own career, or guard against their being used against him? Time would tell. He’d have to become a lawyer first, and get clients of his own.
He told himself that he hoped for a first case that would be one of the trifles; something without too much bad feeling on either side, and without too much that was dependent on whether he won it or not. After such an experience to begin with, he would be better able to face the next one, maybe something more important.
It was nearly noon when he strapped up both sets of saddlebags, hung them on the foot of the bed, and started out into the main tap room. The landlord was passing, and Jason hailed him.
“Will you have our horses ready at twelve o’clock sharp?” asked Jason. “Squire Colquitt’s and mine?”
“Just so, Mr. Morgan. I was coming to find you. Somebody wants to talk to you, out in the back yard.”
“The back yard?” repeated Jason, and then he fell silent, forgetting what was being said to him.
Two roughly-dressed men stood at the bar, drinking. He had seen them before, in more stylish costume, but he knew'them at once. One was short, heavily built, with a coarse fat face. The other, slender and sprightly, showed a swarthy skin and a pointed tag of beard.
“Those men!” Jason snapped out.
They were the pair who had attacked Squire Colquitt on the way to Moshawnee from the Andrew Jackson House. They were leaving now, in close conversation. Jason took a step to follow.
The landlord raised his voice.
“Didn’t you hear what I said, Mr. Morgan? It’s an Indian wants to see you—big fellow, with a scar across his face. Says it’s mighty important, or I wouldn’t have bothered you for just an Indian.”
The two men had gone. Jason faced the landlord excitedly.
“Do you know those fellows who left just now ?”
“Them? No, they’re strangers. Look, they’re riding off. This Indian now, if you want to see him—”
“Certainly I want to see him,” said Jason, and hurried off through the kitchen.
12 Bullets
It was cut nose, of course, who waited FOR JASON behind the string of stables and storage sheds at the rear of the hotel. A thicket of willow grew there, and Cut Nose, carrying his rifle and wearing a pack behind his shoulders, beckoned Jason into it.
“You want me here,” said Cut Nose in an undertone. “I come.”
“Betsy told you?”
“Yes. White girl.” Cut Nose glanced right and left. “Talk soft, Jason. I see two bad white men back there in your town.” He turned his head in the direction of Moshawnee. “They come here, too.”
“I saw them myself, just now, but they rode away. Did they follow you here?”
Cut Nose grinned wryly. “They try to follow. I lose them on trail. Nobody follow me when I don’t want.”
“Cut Nose,” said Jason, “I want you to help me as you promised. I want you to tell the story of Sun Chief’s grave to Squire Colquitt.” .
Cut Nose looked at him silently, without expression.
“I know you don’t ever speak Sun Chief’s name,” said Jason earnestly, “but it’s right for you to tell my friend what you know. Other white men are telling lies. They’re trying to steal and cheat by saying Sun Chief is still there in his grave in Moshawnee. You will help with the truth.”
“You want me to talk,” said Cut Nose. “Then I talk. We are friends.”
“Come to the hotel.”
“No.” Cut Nose shook his head. “Better bring your friend here. Bad men look for me, I think. Don’t want me to tell.”
“That’s so,” agreed Jason. “Wait, I’ll be back.”
He hurried out of the thicket, past the stables, and into the Union House.
The landlord was in the tap room.
“Your horses are ready,” he told Jason, “and Squire Colquitt is looking for you. I think he’s yonder in your room.”
“Thank you.” Jason sought the room and opened the door. Colquitt was stowing papers in his green satchel.
“Good news, Squire,” Jason said quickly. “Cut Nose is here, and he’s ready to tell you all about that business of the grave.” “Splendid, Jason, where is he?”
“In the willows behind the stable. And here’s another piece of news. Remember the two who tried to kill and rob you ?”
“I’ll never forget them.”
“They’re here in Rayfield, too, or they were,” Jason said. “I saw them out there in the tap room. Perhaps they saw me, too. They rode off somewhere.”
“I wish I could get my hands on those gentry,” said the Squire grimly. “I’d put them where they’d be hard to see and hear. But let’s go talk to Cut Nose.”
Out they went together, through the rear yard, and to the willow clump. Cut Nose stood where Jason had left him.
“This is Squire Colquitt, Cut Nose,” Jason made introductions. “He’s my friend, the way you’re my friend. You said you’d tell him the truth about Sun Chief’s grave.”
Colquitt and Cut Nose shook hands.
“Say what you want to hear,” said Cut Nose.
“I’ll do that, in as few words as possible,” replied the Sq
uire. “You’ve told Jason that Sun Chief was buried where the town square of Moshawnee is now.”
“Yes.” A nod of the shaggy head. “Long time back. Many years. I was there—was young man then.”
“Later on, just a few years ago,” prompted Colquitt, “when your people moved West—did they dig up Sun Chief’s body and take it along?”
“My people say they go, off there to that other place.” Cut Nose lifted his palm to the westward. “Many moons away. Long walk. New country, no white men. But they want to take with them—take the bones of—”
He fell silent.
“You mean Sun Chief,” said Jason. “Go on, Cut Nose, you don’t have to speak his name.”
“He was great man, good man,” said Cut Nose. “Lead us. Help us. My people don’t want to go, leave him in ground. So they talk together. Chiefs—warriors—hold council. Say, take his bones along. They talk to white man who buy land. Don’t know his name—”
“Enderby?” suggested Colquitt.
“Yes. That white man, he listen to talk. He want money. My people pay more. Then he dig up the place, the grave.”
“What’s that, Cut Nose?” asked Colquitt swiftly. “Enderby dug up the grave, not you Indians?”
“Yes. We feel bad about dig up ground where he—our leader —is buried. Nobody want to dig, not a good thing. You know what I mean?”
“Yes, I know,” Colquitt assured him, “and I understand. I’d feel the same way about the grave of someone I loved. What then?”
“The white man—you say his name—take our money. He get two other white men to help. The two bad men. Jason, you know.”
“The two bad men,” repeated Jason. “You mean the same two who followed you here.”
“Yes. One short, fat. One thin, with whisker.” Again Cut Nose touched his own broad brown chin.
“He means the same two who waylaid you last spring,” said Jason to Colquitt.
“One more reason why I’d like a few words with them.” Colquitt nodded. “All right, Cut Nose. Those men opened the grave, at Enderby’s orders ?”
“Yes. Take out bones. Put in buckskin robe for my people. We take away.”
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1956 Page 9