Chapter 3
During the days leading up to his trial, Ben Cutler came to know a few citizens of Crooked Fork better than he would ever have imagined. His treatment by Jubal and Bob Rice was fair, and they both did all they could to make his stay in their jail as tolerable as possible. Grover came by periodically to play a game of checkers, and Rosie MacDonald continued to bring his food every day. He was aware of the efforts of these people—folks he had never really known before he walked into the dining room and shot Eli Gentry—to make his incarceration comfortable. He appreciated their concern, but there was little they could do to ease his mind of the terrible sense of loss that would not release its hold on him. In addition, he was reluctant to enter casual conversation with Rosie at first. He felt self-conscious, knowing the menacing facade created by his scar. In time, however, he began to think that the young lady had become accustomed to it, and paid it no further mind.
It was Rosie who told him what had become of the buckskin horse he had ridden into town. His mind had been so laden with grief that he had not bothered to even ask about the horse and saddle he had just bought three days before the shooting. One day at mealtime, she told him that her husband managed the livery stable for the owner. “William said to tell you that he’s taking good care of your horse,” she said, “and he’ll be in good shape when they let you out of here after the trial.”
“Tell him I’m much obliged,” Ben said. “And I also appreciate the trouble you go to, bringin’ my food over for me. I’ve never been in jail before. I didn’t know they treated a prisoner so good in this town.”
Rosie smiled. “They don’t usually,” she said, “but you’re a special prisoner. I think everybody in town thinks you shouldn’t even be in jail, and the jury won’t waste much time in deliberating your innocence.”
Her assurance that the whole town was on his side caused a change in his fatal attitude and his indifference to whether he lived or died. Maybe Mary Ellen would not have wanted him to give up on life. He began to think more and more about moving out across the high plains to see what lay beyond the mountains, far away from civilization. Maybe that would heal his empty heart and give his tortured mind some peace. She would probably want him to do that. They never talked about it, but he was sure she knew the sacrifice he had made, to leave the open prairie and the trail herds and try to become a farmer. In his mind, however, no sacrifice had been too much just to be with her and Danny. Now, without her in his life, there was nothing to heal his sorrow, and he felt he might eventually kill himself if he did not find peace somewhere away from this place.
The day finally arrived when Judge Lon Blake rode into town on a mule, with another trailing along behind him on a lead rope. His accommodations having been arranged in the hotel by Jubal, His Honor wasted little time in setting the wheels of justice in motion and scheduled Ben’s trial for first thing the following morning. After setting everything up with Jubal that evening, Judge Blake paid a short visit to the cells to get his first look at the accused. Lying on his bunk, Ben suddenly sensed that he was being watched and turned to face the cell room door. There were no words exchanged between the prisoner and the somber-looking judge, as Blake continued to stare at Ben, a fixed frown in place. After a long moment, the judge turned to Jubal. “He give you any trouble?”
“No, sir,” Jubal answered with no hesitation, “no trouble at all.”
“All right, then,” he said brusquely, “we’ll try him in the morning. I’ve got other places to cover before I head back to Topeka.”
Everyone in town crowded into the River House Saloon the following morning to attend the trial of Ben Cutler. In fact, it rendered the rest of the town so deserted that Jubal instructed Bob Rice to patrol the main street in case some opportunistic robber decided to take advantage of the lack of vigilance. There were more than a few willing men to volunteer for jury duty, all in support of the man who had come back from the dead to avenge his family and rid the town of its bullying deputy sheriff. There was a general show of disappointment, however, when Judge Blake called the meeting to order and announced that this was not to be a jury trial. Owing to the attitude he had witnessed in the short time he was in town, he decided that a jury could not render a fair verdict. Consequently, he decreed that he would judge the evidence as presented and rule according to the laws of the state of Kansas. “The prosecutor will now open with the charges,” he ordered.
There followed a long silence while everyone looked around them to see who stepped forward. Finally Jubal stood up and said, “There ain’t no prosecutor, Your Honor.”
Judge Blake tilted his head down and peered over the top of his spectacles in order to fix his gaze on the sheriff. “Are you telling this court that no one is prosecuting this case?”
“I’m tellin’ you that we ain’t got no prosecutor,” Jubal replied. “We ain’t never needed one before.”
“Is there no lawyer in this town?” Blake asked.
“No, sir. There was one, but he moved his family back to Kansas City.”
This disturbing bit of information was obviously disconcerting to the judge, and it was obvious to everyone in the saloon that his patience was near exhaustion. “Sheriff, what is the reason I was dispatched all the way down here from Topeka?”
“Well, sir,” Jubal replied, “the prisoner here, Ben Cutler, shot my deputy. That was the reason we wired Topeka, but after thinkin’ it over some, we ain’t so sure he wasn’t justified in doin’ it.”
Blake was amazed. He continued staring at Jubal for a long moment before issuing his orders. “Let me tell you how this is going to work,” he said. “You are the prosecutor in this case, representing the town of Crooked Fork.” Now that that was taken care of, he looked around the room at the people crowding up to the front. “Who is defending the accused?” he asked. When his question was met with yet another silence, he threw up his hands in frustration. Tiny beads of perspiration appeared at his temples and traced their way down to disappear in his heavy gray beard, while he continued to shift his gaze across the assembly. “All right,” he finally decreed, “we’re going to dispense with formality. Sheriff, suppose you tell me what happened?”
“Like I said,” Jubal replied, “Ben, here, walked into the hotel dinin’ room and shot Eli Gentry six times in the chest while he was settin’ at the table.”
“Why?”
“Because Eli murdered Ben’s wife and son and left Ben for dead, and burned his house and barn down,” Jubal said.
“Were there witnesses who saw Gentry do this?”
“Well, no. There weren’t no witnesses except for Ben, but there ain’t no doubt that Eli did it.”
A look of amazement spread rapidly across Judge Blake’s face as he observed the nods of agreement from those in the crowd. “So what I’m asked to try is a crime of murder, witnessed by at least a half dozen people in the hotel dining room, by a man who said the victim killed his family. No witnesses, just the accused said that Gentry committed the murders. Without any evidence that Gentry actually did it, except for his murderer’s word on it, I have no choice but to rule that the defendant is guilty of the murder of Eli Gentry, according to the laws of the state of Kansas.” His verdict triggered a wave of growls of disappointment, but he went on to further decree that, because of the lack of evidence concerning Ben’s family’s deaths, he was not going to recommend the death sentence. “But, by God, the laws of this state demand to be respected,” he stated while wagging a finger at the crowd. “We can’t have folks taking the law into their own hands.” Turning to Ben then, he said, “I sentence you to serve ten years in the Kansas State Penitentiary in Lansing for the crime of murder. You are to remain in jail until federal marshals are sent to pick you up and transport you to Lansing.”
He might as well have issued the death sentence as far as Ben was concerned. He did not think he could survive ten years locked away in a prison cell. He had worked outdoors all his life, on a horse, with nothing fencing him
in but the horizon. His initial reaction was to escape, or die trying, but when he looked into the apologetic faces of Jubal and Bob Rice, he knew he could not bring himself to do violence against the two lawmen. They were plainly dismayed by the judge’s decision, so he made no attempt to resist when Jubal took him by the arm and led him out of the saloon.
Back in his cell, he sat down on his bunk to think about the future that awaited him. He still had every intention of escaping, but he decided to wait until the marshals picked him up, so there would be no involvement with Jubal or Bob. He glanced up to find Jubal still standing there, looking as if he wanted to say something, but was having trouble choosing the proper words. “It’s all right, Jubal,” Ben said. “You and Bob did the best you could for me, and I’m much obliged. How long do you figure it’ll take ’em to come after me?”
“I don’t know,” Jubal answered. “I don’t know where they’ll be comin’ from, Topeka or Lansin’, but it’ll most likely not be for a week or more. We’ll try to make your time here as comfortable as we can.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
The next few days saw several of the town’s residents drop by the jail to wish Ben luck and offer their opinions that he had done the town a favor when he put a stop to Eli Gentry’s bullying. Rosie was still a regular visitor, and even Thelma stopped by. Jubal joked that it was like having the governor in his jail. One of the visitors was Jim White Feather. He stayed to talk for two hours before heading back home. Ben told him the approximate number of cattle he had left, and that most of them could be found across the river from his wheat fields. “Take ’em, Jim, and sell ’em for whatever you can get. They’re yours. I’ll see if I can have the sheriff give you that buckskin gelding I just bought, too. I’ll have to wait till those marshals get here, though, or I’d see if you could take him with you now. I might have to ride him to prison if they don’t send one of those jail wagons.” When Jim got up to leave, Ben shook his hand. “I’ll be sayin’ good-bye, friend, ’cause I don’t plan to go to that prison.” Jim nodded, understanding; then he wished him luck and left for Indian Territory.
Jesse had finished cleaning up the kitchen at the Crooked Fork Hotel and gone home. The tables were all set up for breakfast in the morning, except for one, where four people sat, finishing off the last of the coffee. “Hell, this is crazy talk,” Bob Rice commented. “You ought not even be telling me stuff like that. If Jubal knew what you’re talkin’ about doin’, you’d all be in jail and I’d lose my job, or worse.”
“I’m not suggesting that you do anything but take a walk down the street,” Rosie said. “You were the one who said it was wrong to send Ben Cutler to prison. Jubal feels the same way. He’s just not in a position to do anything about it. You talk to anybody in town, and they’ll all say Ben did the right thing.”
“Oughta give him a medal,” Grover said.
“I did say it was wrong,” Bob confessed, “and I meant it, but, damn, I don’t know . . .”
Rosie looked at her husband for support. He nodded his reassurance. “You’re right, Bob,” Rosie went on. “You don’t know.” She looked around the table. “I don’t know, William doesn’t know, and Grover doesn’t know. All you have to do is to check the stores like you’re hired to do. You don’t need to know anything else.”
Bob exhaled forcefully before relenting. “All right, but damn it, you folks better be careful.”
Rosie smiled. “Why? We’re not gonna do anything.”
The following day was a long one for Ben. It seemed that his incarceration was harder to take since Judge Blake had sentenced him to prison. He knew that his intention to flee the town and the territory was further from his reach, and would call for a generous portion of luck if he was to effect his escape. He gained some small relief from his melancholy when Rosie came in with his supper.
“I swear, look at that plate,” Jubal exclaimed when she walked by his desk. “I wish Doris fed me that well.” He delayed Rosie for a minute while he looked it over. “Big piece of cake, too. What is it, Ben’s birthday or somethin’?”
Rosie laughed. “I brought you and Bob a piece, too.” She took a cloth from her apron pocket and unfolded it to reveal two slices of cake. “Don’t tell Doris I spoiled your supper.”
“She’ll never know about it,” Jubal said, then took one of the pieces and handed the cloth to Bob Rice while Rosie went into the cell room to deliver Ben’s supper.
Having heard the conversation from his cell, Ben was on his feet awaiting Rosie when she walked through the door. “I see what Jubal was talkin’ about,” he commented when he saw the plate piled high with food. “Is today a holiday or somethin’?”
“No, it’s no holiday,” Rosie replied. “We’re just celebrating today because it seems like a good day to.” She studied his face as he sat down to eat. Once a pleasant, almost handsome face, it was now grotesque after his encounter with Eli Gentry’s saber. The poor man’s paid enough for what he did, she thought. She sat beside the bars and made light conversation with him while he ate, making sure he took time to finish his meal. When he had eaten the last of it, she took the empty plate he passed back through the bars and said, “I wish you luck, Ben Cutler.”
“Thank you, Rosie,” he replied, somewhat puzzled by what seemed to him a more solemn attitude than her usual high spirits.
“Jubal already gone home?” Rosie asked when she walked back into the office. When Bob said that he had, she said, “I wanted to make sure you got a piece of cake before you started making your rounds. I expect you’re about ready to do that now, aren’t you?”
A cold shiver of uncertainty ran the length of Bob’s spine, for he realized that something was about to happen that shouldn’t, something he didn’t want to know about. He hesitated. “I don’t know,” he stammered. “It’s a little bit early yet. And Jubal don’t like to leave the jail unguarded when there’s somebody in the cells.”
While he stood undecided, Grover walked in the door and announced, “I didn’t get a chance to clean the place up this afternoon, so I’m gonna do it now. I’ll be here to watch things if you’re wantin’ to do your rounds. Sounded like some rowdy noise when I came by French’s Saloon. You might wanna take a look.”
“Evening, Grover,” Rosie offered cheerfully as she made for the front door. “See you tomorrow, Bob.”
Then she was gone, leaving a nervous deputy to stand fumbling before the withering stare of the old man. Reluctantly, he forced himself to don his hat and move toward the door. Purely in an effort to appease his conscience, he said as he went out, “You be careful around the prisoner.”
“Yeah, I will,” Grover replied drily. He stood at the window watching Bob until he was sure the deputy wasn’t going to change his mind and return to the office. Then he grabbed the ring of keys from the desk drawer and went into the cell room.
“Evenin’, Grover,” Ben greeted the old man. “What are you doin’ here so late? You lookin’ for a game of checkers?”
“Ben.” Grover returned the greeting. “Nah, I ain’t in the mood for checkers right now.” He went directly to the corner where he kept his cleaning supplies and grabbed a broom.
Just noticing the key ring in Grover’s hand then, Ben asked, “What are you fixin’ to do? You ain’t supposed to clean up my cell when Jubal or Bob ain’t here.” Sometimes the old man seemed to suffer a little absentmindedness.
Without answering, Grover proceeded to insert a key in the lock and open the cell door. Astonished, Ben could only stand and watch, until Grover admonished, “I swear, you’re as bad as Bob.” He walked into the cell and handed the keys to Ben. “If I ain’t mistaken, that one right there is the one to the gun rack. You’re gonna need that fancy new rifle you bought yourself. Best you go down the back alley to the stable. William MacDonald won’t be there, but your horse will be saddled and waitin’.”
Staggered by the realization of what was happening, Ben could not find sufficient words to acknowledge the ri
sks being taken to free him. “I don’t know what to say,” he finally blurted, aware that Rosie, her husband, Grover, maybe even Bob were all in this plot together. For a moment, he was almost overcome with emotion.
“This ain’t the time to talk,” Grover retorted. “This is the time to get goin’.” He went over and sat himself down on Ben’s bunk.
In control of his senses at last, Ben wasted no more time. “I’m obliged,” he said, “to you and everybody else in this with you. You’re takin’ a helluva chance, and I’ll never forget any of you for this.”
He started to leave then, but Grover stopped him. “Hey, lock the cell door and hand me my broom there.” Then his perpetual frown reversed itself into the first smile Ben had ever remembered seeing on the grizzled old face. “Good luck, son.”
“Thanks, Grover.”
Moving as quickly as he could, he unlocked the gun rack and withdrew the new Winchester and his handgun and holster. He then locked the rack again and returned the keys to the desk drawer. Taking only a moment to make sure no one was outside, he then ran beside the jail to the alley behind and headed for the stables, where he found the buckskin, saddled and waiting with all his possessions in the saddlebags. Still finding it hard to believe that he was free to ride out, he led the buckskin out to the stable door and paused there for a few moments to look back up the street toward the sheriff’s office. He halfway expected to see Jubal and Bob suddenly appear to block his escape, but the street was deserted. He climbed up in the saddle and nudged the buckskin to a brisk walk, unaware of the man watching him from the shadows behind the blacksmith shop next to the barn. It was good-bye to Crooked Fork and the friends he didn’t even know he had until his trial. When he had disappeared around the bend in the road, Rosie’s husband emerged from the shadows and stood there for a moment looking after him before turning to go to the hotel dining room.
Left Hand of the Law Page 4