Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1956

by Young Squire Morgan (v1. 1)

  “I’d make them talk, all right,” said Jason grimly.

  “Then I go,” Cut Nose said to him. “Bring back those bad men.”

  “But you said they’d run away—” began Jason.

  “I bring back.” Cut Nose grinned with fierce confidence. “I follow track. Can find deer, bear, fox. I catch bad men.”

  “If they went into the woods when they saw you, they may be waiting to catch you!”

  The grin grew broader, fiercer. “Yes. I know. They wait for me, but not know which way I come.”

  “They have guns,” argued Jason.

  “I got gun, too,” Cut Nose reminded him, and twitched the old rifle significantly.

  “All right,” said Jason. “Bring them back if you can.”

  “Into white men’s council?”

  “Yes, bring them right into the courtroom.”

  Cut Nose moved swiftly, noiselessly away across the town square.

  Jason walked back to Colquitt’s house for noon dinner. Betsy was there, putting on her bonnet. She had packed a satchel and a basket, and she came and talked while Jason ate corn dodger and greens and drank black coffee.

  “How is the case going?” Betsy asked.

  “Well,” he replied slowly, “it’s hard to answer that.”

  “Which means, not so well for us,” Betsy suggested.

  “Not so well,” Jason agreed. “I’ve done my best, and I’m afraid it isn’t good enough. Yet—”

  He fell silent.

  “Yet what?” Betsy prompted him.

  “Don’t forget that it isn’t over. It hasn’t gone to the jury. Maybe it won’t ever get to the jury.”

  “But—”

  “There’s still a possible big surprise for Milo Kinstrey and Asper Enderby,” Jason said harshly.

  “What sort of surprise?” demanded Betsy, then flung out her hand as though to keep him from answering. “No, I won’t ask that. I’ll get ready to leave. The stage goes at half-past one, and I’ll be on it, to go to Uncle Henry at Rayfield.”

  “Tell him not to worry, Betsy.”

  Her face brightened at last. “That surprise of yours will win the case, is that what you mean ?”

  “I don’t know.” Jason wiped his mouth and rose from the table, facing her. “Just tell him not to worry, I say. Tell him to get well and leave things here to me meanwhile.”

  “Uncle Henry and I can trust you to do your best,” Betsy said softly. “Good-by.”

  She put out her hand and took his; then, impulsively, she stepped close to him, caught him by his broad shoulders and kissed him. Without another word she turned away, took her satchel and basket, and left the house.

  Jason stood thinking for long moments. Then he took his hat and walked back to the tavern where court was being held.

  When he arrived, the big room was already filling again. Kinstrey stood with several friends, laughing and confident. Solicitor Parks, sitting on the front bench among a group of other lawyers, flashed Jason a sympathetic glance. At two o’clock sharp, Judge Hemphill entered and the crier declared court in session again.

  The judge looked around the crowded chamber. “I directed Major Westall to be present,” he said.

  Major Westall emerged from the mass of onlookers and approached the judge’s table. He walked heavily, and his face was a set mask of glowering embarrassment.

  “Major,” said Judge Hemphill, “this court finds you guilty of gross contempt, and assesses against you a fine of twenty dollars.”

  “Very well,” agreed the Major quietly. He dug a purse from the tail pocket of his coat, opened it, and laid two gold pieces on the table. The judge pushed them toward the clerk, who gathered them in.

  “You may remain in court,” went on Judge Hemphill, “on condition that you apologize for your behavior, and give me your promise not to repeat it.”

  Major Westall stood up straight, as though on dress parade. “Your Honor,” he said, slowly and glumly, “I deeply and honestly regret having transgressed against the proper usage at a legal hearing.”

  “You will also apologize to Mr. Enderby for the language you employed toward him.”

  “Your Honor!” cried Westall in furious protest. “I meant that language, every word of it.”

  “You will apologize to him,” repeated the judge inexorably, “or I must order you to leave this room.”

  Major Westall turned, and looked across the floor to where Enderby sat.

  “Sir,” he said grimly, “I am directed to say to you that I am sorry for addressing you as I did.”

  He stopped and breathed deeply and painfully, as though between swallows of some extremely bitter medicine.

  “I recognize,” he went on, “that I was at fault in speaking in that manner, before this court of law. I should have waited, sir, until we were both somewhere else.”

  Enderby smiled, and the Major’s eyes brightened dangerously.

  “That is sufficient, Major Westall,” decreed Judge Hemphill.

  Westall walked to the chair beside Jason, and sat down. Kinstrey rose again.

  “Please take the stand again, Mr. Enderby/’ Kinstrey invited, and the planter rose, crossed the floor, and seated himself beside the judge’s table.

  “I have wanted to clarify a point or two of your testimony,” elaborated Kinstrey easily. “I remind you of the circumstances to which you referred in your earlier testimony—the fact that your deed of sale to Major Westall did not include a description of the grave’s location and the agreement with the Indians, Black Rabbit and High Head, concerning that grave’s being kept undisturbed. Why did you not insist on such instruction?” “Because I respected Major Westall’s honor in all things, and accepted his spoken word,” replied Enderby. “He had already drawn up the instrument, and he did not care to change it. Nor did I press him to do so.”

  “You expected him to spare the grave, then ?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you still respect Major Westall’s sense of honor?”

  “I do,” was Enderby’s cheerful reply. “The Major’s reputation is that of a resolutely honorable man.”

  “Now, about that other matter the attorney for the plaintiff saw fit to drag in.” Kinstrey glanced derisively toward Jason. “This tale about two men who were supposed to have tried to kill Squire Colquitt. Did you have anything to do with such a plot?”

  “I have already said that I did not,” said Enderby.

  “I bring it up simply to emphasize the fact of your denial. Did you ever hear the story before ?”

  “I heard of an attempt against Squire Colquitt’s life last spring, and again I heard of his being wounded recently, in Rayfield. Nothing else of the circumstances.”

  “And you don’t know who attacked him?”

  “No”

  “That’s all, Mr. Enderby,” said Kinstrey.

  “Does the attorney for the plaintiff wish to cross-examine further?” asked the judge.

  Jason got to his feet. “Mr. Enderby, you sold this land to Major Westall under an incompletely stated agreement of sale. Was that, or was it not, properly and wisely done?”

  “The present situation shows that it was not properly and wisely done,” replied Enderby, with a touch of weariness in his smile.

  “In other words,” Jason elaborated, “you should have insisted on the inclusion of this matter about the grave, as it was included in the earlier instrument conveying the property to you.”

  “I agree now that I should have,” said Enderby, and behind Jason resounded the furious gasp of Major Westall.

  “And you say such things, while you claim to respect Major Wes tail’s sense of personal honor?”

  “I do, I do,” insisted the planter. “I respect his sense of honor toward any word he remembers giving. But plainly, certainly, he does not remember our spoken agreement about the grave.” “And you refuse to admit that you ordered criminals to try to kill Squire Henry Colquitt?”

  “Don’t answer that, Mr.
Enderby!” shouted Kinstrey, rushing forward. “Your Honor, Mr. Enderby has denied that business, with the utter scorn the charge deserves. Now Squire Morgan brings it up again. He speaks of matters not pertinent to the case—he accuses Mr. Enderby of conspiracy to commit murder, and, by implication, he accuses me of suborning this witness to commit perjury!”

  “I accuse you both of just that!” Jason flung at him.

  “And I accuse you of bad faith and bad practice, sir!” Kinstrey flashed back. “I say that no such things should be uttered without proof!”

  “Proof may be forthcoming, before you expect it!” was Jason’s instant rejoinder.

  A blow of the gavel quieted them both.

  “There will be no injection of personal insult into this trial,” Judge Hemphill warned them.

  “Your Honor, I object to what the attorney for the plaintiff just said to me,” said Kinstrey, more calmly, “and I ask that it be stricken from the record.”

  “Objection sustained,” granted Judge Hemphill. “Mr. Clerk, you will strike the attorney’s remarks. The jury is directed to disregard them. Squire Morgan, any further cross-examination?”

  “No,” said Jason. “That’s all.”

  Enderby rose and walked back to his own chair.

  “And that concludes the evidence for the defense,” said Kinstrey.

  Judge Hemphill beckoned Jason and Kinstrey to his table.

  “How long will you take for your arguments to the jury ?” he asked them.

  “Fifteen minutes will amply suffice me, your Honor,” said Kinstrey.

  “And no more than that for the plaintiff,” added Jason.

  “Very well, Squire Morgan. The plaintiff will open with argument.”

  Jason felt a chill pass through him, from his tongue down to his very heels. He had not had time to think of the terms in which he would address the jury.

  “If Your Honor please,” he said, “the plaintiff will yield the right of the first argument to the defendant.”

  “Well?” Judge Hemphill asked Kinstrey.

  “I’ll be glad to open, Your Honor.” Kinstrey eyed Jason calculatingly, with all his maddening air of mockery. “Squire Morgan, you may have some profit in hearing me speak.”

  “I promise myself every profit in so hearing you, sir,” said Jason.

  He returned and sat down by Major Westall. Kinstrey strolled over in front of the two rows of jurymen, bowed gracefully, and clasped his hands behind his coat tails.

  “Gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “pray allow me to begin by thanking you for your attention. You are, as the law specifies, the proper and final arbiters of justice in this present case. You represent justice for the community, the county of Foresby, the State of Alabama, and the United States of America. You did well to sit together and hear the evidence carefully. What has been said here concerns a matter of human decency and legal propriety, the proper respect and treatment for the grave of a fellow man, who rests yonder in the public square of the town of Moshawnee.”

  He turned to look out of the window, and the eyes of several jurymen shifted that way, too. Kinstrey was a capable pleader, decided Jason. Already Kinstrey had the jury hanging on his words.

  “The evidence, gentlemen, has treated of the grave of an Indian called Sun Chief,” went on Kinstrey. “You did not know Sun Chief, nor did I. He seems to have died, full of years, before white men settled in this part of Alabama. He has gone to whatever reward waits for savage chieftains in the next world. But his children and his friends most certainly loved him and wanted his body to rest where it had been laid.”

  He paused to let that much sink in.

  “For that reason,” he continued, “they made an appeal to a white man they knew they could trust. He was my client, the defendant in this present action, Mr. Enderby. He, as you yourselves have heard him say, nor has the plaintiff properly or successfully denied it, agreed at once to respect the wishes of these Indians. He, to fulfil his promise, is here today before you, insisting on the rights at law and of common decency, of these poor simple Indians who placed their faith in him.”

  “Stab me, if Squire Kinstrey couldn’t talk the bark off a sycamore tree,” muttered Major Westall in Jason’s ear.

  Kinstrey heard the soft sound of the Major’s whisper. He glanced around at Jason and the Major, then returned his gaze to the jury.

  “Possibly I can save some trouble for my young friend here who argues the case for the plaintiff,” said Kinstrey, “by discussing the position of Indians, and how it must be treated by the courts of this state. I dare say that he makes ready, does young Squire Morgan, with high eloquence, to remind you of how I argued against taking an Indian’s word as opposed to that of Mr. Enderby. He will urge this as evidence that I am not in character when I speak of sympathy for Indians.” Again Kinstrey glanced around. “Am I right, Squire?”

  Jason stared at him in cold, silent anger.

  “Well, let me dispose of that beforehand.” Kinstrey once again addressed himself to the jury. “You, gentlemen, may not need to be lectured on the obvious, but I dare say I can clear the point for Squire Morgan. We must remember that the state statutes of Alabama will not allow Indians to give evidence before a court of law, because it is felt that Indians do not fully understand such matters. Therefore, gentlemen, we feel that Mr. Enderby is better able, and more apt, to speak truly and directly of the matter than would an Indian. However, we can —we must—sympathize with the feelings of Indians for the graves of their dead. They feel as you do, gentlemen, when you mourn for your fathers departed, when you lay them in their last sleep beneath the earth from which their bodies came, when you pray that the bones of your loved ones may rest undisturbed for all eternity.”

  One juryman nodded to another. Jason saw this, and so did Kinstrey, who permitted himself an agreeable smile of triumph.

  “The testimony here given has not been prolonged or complex,” he said, “and I need not weary you by needless reviewing of most of it. The important point, as I am confident you will agree, is what Major Westall says now in court, and what he said earlier in buying the land from Mr. Enderby. Gentlemen, Mr. Enderby speaks in praise and confidence of the Major’s high sense of honor. Nor do I question that honor, nor would any of you who had ever known him. It is only that this gallant old soldier is infirm and confused in what he remembers. He forgot what he agreed to do, and perhaps he remembers now and will carry out his promises, as has always been his custom.”

  Again Kinstrey glanced at the Major. “Impudent!” whispered the veteran to Jason.

  “But if the Major is venerable and counts many years,” resumed Kinstrey to the jury, “we cannot so excuse his attorney here in court, nor so sympathize with him. Gentlemen, you have heard, with obvious amusement, Squire Jason Morgan as he has pleaded—or failed to plead—his very first case at law. As an attorney, my friends, Squire Morgan is but one day old. Not even that, for this very morning he received his license. And physically—”

  He broke off, faced about, and smiled at Jason.

  “Under leave from the court, Mr. Morgan, how old are you ?”

  “Sir, I am nineteen years of age,” Jason replied, in a voice that shook with the worried wrath he could not disguise.

  “Nineteen,” repeated Kinstrey to the jury. “Yet he comes before us with his notions of evidence. You heard the tale of how the grave was opened—midnight, spades, bones. It was something with which to frighten children, was it not ? The bones were pig bones, it would seem. But does that prove that Sun Chief was not buried there? Without knowing the exact customs of Sun Chief’s tribe, gentlemen, is it not logical that Sun Chief’s people carried out the custom of burying with their loved one a supply of meat for his journey to the Happy Hunting Grounds?”

  Maybe that was so, mused Jason dolefully. Maybe Sun Chief had been buried there, too, just beneath the hog—but Cut Nose had said otherwise, and Cut Nose was telling the truth.

  “Nineteen,” said Kinstrey onc
e again. “Gentlemen, Squire Morgan speaks with assurance, perhaps with pride, at such an age. Doubtless it seems a considerable tale of years to him—the snows of nineteen winters upon his head—sufficient, at least, to appear in a case of such importance as this one.”

  Kinstrey unclasped his hands from behind his back and lifted a long, elegant forefinger.

  “But,” his voice suddenly rang out, “all things are comparative. Most of you, gentlemen, were grown and at your trades before Mr. Morgan first saw the light of day. I myself, though not stricken in years, am of age enough to recollect—should I have charged my memory with so inconsiderable an event—the day of Mr. Morgan’s birth. And I have been at the law for ten very busy years.”

  He smiled at the jury. Several men smiled back at him, so infectious was his wit.

  “I confess, however,” he told them, “that I am quite old enough to remember a time when a boy’s first professional appearance at the bar of justice was not to be signalized by stupid impertinence to his seniors.” Kinstrey’s voice rose as if in sudden angry protest. “I myself came very humbly to the trial of my first case. I was aware that the upstart sauciness of a raw popinjay would not and could not move a jury of sensible and honest men, such as yourselves.”

  Spinning, he stabbed his forefinger at Jason.

  “You have heard how he launched, by spiteful questions, certain grave and insulting charges against Mr. Enderby, a man old enough to be his father; how he suggested that Mr. Enderby was a liar, a thief, and a party to attempted murder; and how he was unable to back up any of these charges with any evidence whatever before the court. Mr. Enderby, with restraint that well became him, calmly denied such things, promptly and definitely. This, Mr. Enderby feels—and so, I make no doubt, do you—should be sufficient to dispose of all those ridiculous charges.”

  Kinstrey had spoken to the jury, but he kept his eyes fixed on Jason. They shone brightly, those eyes. Now he turned his handsomely tailored back on Jason.

  “But I, as attorney for Mr. Enderby, owe him a duty not to forbear so generously,” he said. “This new-made lawyer has misconducted himself greatly and foolishly, and that he shall know right well before we have done with him in this case. Except for his insults and impudences, he has done nothing but amuse us with his clumsy conduct of this legal matter. I recommend, for his own sake, that he go back to school. Manners should be flogged into him by a competent professor with a bundle of hickory switches.”