“Shut up, Hennessey,” Boone said. “You was plenty ready to spend the money.”
“All of you shut up,” Matt said. “I’m not in any mood to listen to you talk.”
“You can go on if you want to, but I ain’t goin’ no farther,” Boone said. “Whoa, horse.”
When Boone stopped his horse, Matt jerked hard on the rope. As the rope was looped around Boone’s neck, it had the effect of choking him.
“Watch it!” Boone said. “You could jerk me off here an’ break my neck!”
“That’s right, I could,” Matt said. “So my advice to you is to shut up and keep moving.”
Chapter Five
Matt pushed his prisoners throughout the rest of the day, arriving in Cuchara around eight o’clock that night, well after dark. The five horses plodded down the dirt street, the hollow-clopping echoing back from the darkened false-fronted stores and houses. The jail, like many other buildings in town, was dimly lit by a single lantern.
Matt tied his horse off at the hitch rail, then stepped up onto the wooden porch in front of the jail, then pushed the door open. “You in here, Sheriff?” he called.
“Yeah, I’m here. That you, Matt?”
“Yes, it’s me. I’ve got some prisoners for you.”
Sheriff Craig stepped up to the door, then looked outside at the four men who were bound together by ropes around their necks. He chuckled. “Damn if you didn’t say you’d have ’em back by tonight and here you’ve gone and done it,” he said.
“You men climb down,” Matt ordered.
Craig reached up beside the door. When he pulled his hand back, it was clutched around a Greener ten-gauge shotgun. He pointed the double-barrel weapon at the four men.
“Okay, you boys, just come on in real easy now,” he said. “I’ve got a nice room all ready for you.”
Sullenly, the four men, still connected by the rope around their necks, filed in through the jailhouse door. Sheriff Craig jabbed Boone in the ribs with the barrel of his shotgun.
“Hey, watch it. That hurts,” Boone complained.
“Does it, now?” Craig replied, jabbing him again. “Well, now, that’s too bad.”
Matt returned to his horse and took the bag that had been tied to the saddle horn. “Here’s the money they took,” he said.
Craig held up his hand. “Don’t give it to me,” he said. “Give it to Mr. Matthews. That goes back to the bank.”
“All right,” Matt said, keeping the bag. “Tell Mr. Matthews if he wants his money to come see me in the Dog Bar Saloon. I’m going to get supper and a beer.”
“I’ll have a beer, Paul,” Matt said when the bartender moved down to stand in front of him.
The bartender, who was sucking on a toothpick, nodded without speaking, then turned to draw a glass, then slid it in front of Matt.
“I heard you brought them four in a while ago,” Paul said. “Is that right?”
Matt nodded, then took a drink of the beer. After the long, hard ride, it tasted very good.
“After what they done to Mrs. Foley and Frank Meade, I hope all four of the sons of bitches hang,” Paul said.
“I expect they will, but that’s not for me to decide,” Matt said. “That’ll be up to a jury.”
“Ain’t much question about it, far as I’m concerned,” Paul said. “The jury will find ’em guilty for sure, and that’s one hangin’ I don’t aim to miss.”
A tall, gray-haired man came into the saloon then, accompanied by Sheriff Craig.
“I’ll be damn,” Paul said. “That’s the banker. In all the time I’ve worked here, I don’t believe Mr. Matthews has ever come in before. I wonder what brings him in now.”
“He probably wants the money,” Matt said calmly.
“What money?”
Matt picked up the bag that was on the floor by his feet. “This money,” he said.
“Damn! You’ve had a bag full of money with you all the time you’ve been in here?”
“Yeah,” Matt said. He handed the bag to Matthews.
“Thanks,” Matthews said. “I’m glad to get the money back. I just wish it hadn’t of cost Frank and poor Mrs. Foley their lives.”
“Yeah,” Matt said. He nodded toward an empty table. “Paul, bring me something to eat. I haven’t had anything but jerky this whole day.”
“Bring him anything he wants, Paul,” Matthews said. “The bank will pay for it.”
“Yes, sir,” Paul said. “And Matt, the beer is on the house too.”
Matt nodded, but said nothing as he took his beer over to the empty table.
Santa Clara, Colorado
Seeing a newspaper blowing down the street, Strayhorn picked it up and took it into the City Pig Café with him. Teech was already at the café, sitting at a table near the stove.
“I ordered you bacon and eggs and coffee,” Teech said as Strayhorn sat down.
“You goin’ to pay for it?” Strayhorn asked.
“What? Hell, no, I ain’t goin’ to pay for it.”
“Then don’t be orderin’ nothin’ for me.”
“I was just tryin’ to save some time is all.”
“Save time for what?” Strayhorn asked. “What have we got to do?”
“Well, nothin’, I don’t reckon.”
“Then don’t worry ’bout savin’ time.”
“I’ll tell ’em to cancel the order.”
“Never mind, I’ll eat it,” Strayhorn said.
“And pay for it?”
“And pay for it,” Strayhorn agreed.
“Did you buy a paper?” Teech asked.
Strayhorn looked up and frowned. “You ever know me to pay for a paper?” he asked.
“No, I just seen you with that one and I was wonderin’, that’s all.”
“I picked it up when it was a’blowin’ down the street,” Strayhorn said. Looking at the paper, he suddenly chuckled. “I’ll be damn,” he said.
“What is it?”
“They should’a listened to me.”
“Who should’a listened to you?”
“Boone and the others,” Strayhorn said. “The dumb sons of bitches have done been caught.”
Strayhorn read the article in silence.
BANK ROBBERS CAUGHT !
Trial to Be Held Quickly.
Rarely in the annals of human history has there been a crime so foul, a deed so dastardly, as that perpetrated in this fair community last Wednesday. On that day four dregs of humanity visited their evil upon this place by robbing the local bank, and murdering Mrs. Emma Foley and Mr. Frank Meade, two much beloved Christian citizens.
It is, however, with great pleasure that this newspaper can report that the cowardly desperadoes who perpetrated this foul deed are now in custody. Despite a summer storm which threatened to eliminate any sign, Mr. Matt Jensen, a well-known man of the mountains, tracked the villains to a cabin where, singlehandedly, he made the arrest.
Now, these scurrilous vermin, Boone Parker, Al Hennessey, Billy Taylor, and Ed Coleman, wait in the local jail for the appearance of Judge Amon Heckemeyer to conduct the trial which will send them to the gallows, and to an even harsher judgment when He, who created us all, will consign their miserable souls to eternal damnation.
In the same newspaper, Strayhorn also found an article about the gunfight between Matt Jensen and Rufus Clay. As he read this article, he began laughing out loud.
“What are you readin’ that’s so funny?” Hennessey asked. “Do they have jokes in that paper?”
“Jokes?” Strayhorn asked, still laughing. He shook his head. “This ain’t no joke,” he said. “But it’s funny. Fact is, it’s funnier than any joke. What was it Clay liked to call himself?”
“You mean Ruthless?” Teech asked.
“Yeah, Ruthless,” Strayhorn said. “Well now, he can call hisself dead.” He passed the paper across the table to Teech. “Here. Read all about it.”
Shootist Hurled into Eternity.
FIGHT OVER IN BLINK
OF AN EYE.
A young man with misplaced confidence in his proficiency with a six-gun met his fate when he engaged Matt Jensen, a man whose skill has been proven many times over. The young pistoleer was named Rufus Clay, and it was reported by all witnesses to the event that it was he who demanded that their relative proficiencies be put to the test.
With the challenged issued, both men went for their guns, and while young Clay was very fast, he wasn’t fast enough and came in second. In such a deadly contest as dueling, coming in second is not the desired outcome. Caps and powder exploded and pistol balls were sent on their flight. The ball from Matt Jensen’s pistol found its mark while Clay’s missile did no damage, save to a beer mug.
Though Clay had no family nor friends to mourn him, his funeral and burial in Boot Hill on the day subsequent was well attended by the citizens of the town, who collected money to erect a tombstone for him which reads:
To all who pass this way
My name is Rufus Clay
In a gunfight quicker than the blink
of an eye
The other man lived—and I did die.
Cuchara
It was two more weeks before the trial was held, which was the time it took for Circuit Judge Amon Heckemeyer to come to Cuchara to hold court.
The first order of business was to empanel a jury of twelve men, good and true. Felix Gilmore, a young and eager lawyer from Wallenburg, was appointed as the defense attorney. He began his defense, by conducting a very aggressive voir dire.
“You are Mr. Anthony Tate?” he asked a prospective juror.
“I am.”
“Did you know Emma Foley or Frank Meade?”
“I knew both of them.”
“How well did you know them?”
“Cuchara is a small town,” Tate replied. “Everybody knows everybody very well.”
“Uh-huh,” Gilmore said. “And is it true, Mr. Tate, that you did business with Mrs. Foley?”
“I own a butcher shop,” Tate replied. “I have done business with everyone in town.”
“What was your opinion of Mrs. Foley?”
“She was a fine, upstanding woman.”
“And did you do business with Mr. Meade?”
“Yes, of course, every time I went into the bank.”
“What was your opinion of Mr. Meade?”
“He was a fine, upstanding gentleman.”
“Your Honor,” Gilmore said, turning to the judge. “I would like to strike this juror for cause. I believe he was too close to the victims to be able to render a fair verdict.”
“Counselor, I doubt you can find anyone in this town who did not know Mrs. Foley and Mr. Meade, who did not do business with them, and who did not have a high opinion of them,” Judge Heckemeyer said. “That is not cause for striking.”
“Then, Your Honor, I request a change of venue on the grounds that we cannot have a fair trial here.”
“Request denied. Continue with your voir dire, Mr. Gilmore.”
With the jury empaneled, the trial began. After his opening statement, Doug Jeter, the prosecutor, called his first witness. Dan Dunnigan testified that he had heard gunfire, then saw three masked men run from the bank, mount horses that were being held by a fourth man, unmasked, then gallop out of town.
He further testified that he then ran into the bank, where he saw Mrs. Foley sitting against the front of the teller’s cage, bleeding from a wound to her chest.
“Did she say anything?” Jeeter asked.
“Yes, sir. She said it was Boone Parker and Al Hennessey what done it.”
“Thank you. Your witness, Counselor.”
“You said the three men who ran from the bank were wearing masks, did you not?” Gilmore asked.
“Yes, sir, they was.”
“Did you recognize any of them?” Gilmore asked.
“No, sir.”
“So then you can’t be certain that any of my clients are the ones you saw.”
“Oh, yes, sir, they was the ones,” he said, pointing to the men sitting at the defense table.
“How can you be certain of that?”
“They’s more ways to recognize a person than just their faces.”
“Oh?” Gilmore said. “And pray tell us, Mr. Dunnigan, what those ways are.”
“Well, sir, one of ’em was tall, with big floppy ears and a nose that you could tell was big, even behind the kerchief he was wearin’. Like that first feller there.”
“Let the record show that Mr. Dunnigan has pointed out Boone Parker,” Jeter said from his table.
“Another’n had a scar come down over his left eye, like that second feller there.”
“Let the record show that Mr. Dunnigan has identified Al Hennessey,” Jeter said, again without getting up from his chair.
“Then they was the short bandy-legged feller there.” Dunnigan pointed to the third man.
“That would be Edward Coleman,” Jeter said.
“And that there one there was just sittin’ on his horse holdin’ the other three. He didn’t even have no mask on, first time I seen him.”
“Let the record show that Mr. Dunnigan has identified Billy Taylor.”
“But it could be anyone with big ears, bandy legs, or tall and thin—not necessarily these men,” Gilmore said. “Because the truth is, you didn’t see their faces.”
“It was these—” Dunnigan began, but he was interrupted by Gilmore.
“You did not see their faces, did you?”
“No, sir, I didn’t see them three men’s faces,” Dunnigan admitted. “But I seen his.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
The prosecutor brought three more witnesses who testified that they heard Mrs. Foley identify her killers before she died. Then Matt Jensen was brought to the stand. He testified as to the conversation he heard through the door of the cabin when he found the men.
“Objection, Your Honor, that’s hearsay evidence,” Gilmore said.
“Your Honor, Mr. Jensen is reporting what he heard directly from the mouths of the defendants, not what someone told him they heard. That makes his testimony directly relevant, not hearsay,” Jeter said.
“Objection overruled,” the judge said.
When Jeter was finished with his examination, Gilmore stood for the cross-examination.
“Mr. Jensen, were you involved in a shooting incident last week?”
Matt nodded.
“Please, for the record, you must give a verbal answer.”
“Yes, I was involved in a shooting last week.”
“Tuesday night, I believe?” Gilmore asked.
“It was Tuesday.”
“Who did you kill?”
“The man’s name was Rufus Clay.”
“Did you know Mr. Clay?”
“Your Honor, I object,” Jeter said. “Where is Counselor going with this?”
“I will show relevancy, Your Honor,” Gilmore said quickly.
“Please do,” Judge Heckemeyer said.
“Did you know Mr. Clay?” Gilmore repeated.
“No, I’d never seen him before that night.”
“Did you know that when Mr. Clay came to town that day, he was with Boone Parker?”
“I’ve been told that.”
“Is it not possible, Mr. Jensen, that your testimony against Mr. Parker might be self-serving?”
“Self-serving? In what way?”
“You did kill Rufus Clay, did you not? And he was with Boone Parker. I suggest, Mr. Jensen, that you have some personal animus against Boone Parker because he was with Rufus Clay on the night Clay tried to kill you. Is it not possible that you fear some possible future retaliation from Parker as a result of you having killed his friend? So, you have taken it upon yourself to blame him for the bank robbery and murder, just to get him out of the way?”
“Your Honor, I object,” Jeter shouted. “There is not one bit of evidence to support this ridiculous suggestion, and my esteemed colleague knows it.”<
br />
“I withdraw the comment and I have no further questions,” Gilmore said. He was smiling as he returned to the defendants’ table.
“What are you smilin’ about?” Boone asked. “You withdrew the statement.”
“I withdrew my statement, but you can’t un-ring a bell. I made my point before the jury,” Gilmore said.
Following Matt’s testimony, the banker Matthews testified that the amount of money in the sack Matt brought back with him was exactly equal to the amount of money that had been taken on the morning of the robbery. After that, the state rested its case.
“The state’s entire case is built upon hearsay evidence,” Gilmore pleaded in his summation. “Prosecution could not produce one eyewitness. Oh, they had witnesses who said they heard Mrs. Foley identify Boone Parker and Al Hennessey. But how much weight can we actually give their testimony?
“There is a reason for not accepting hearsay evidence, and that is because you cannot cross-examine them to check on their story. Think about it. The robbers were masked. She was an old, frightened woman. She may have just thought she recognized them and, without her here to question, we’ll never know, will we?
“Mr. Jensen testified as to what he heard when he was standing outside the door of the cabin. But at best, that is self-serving testimony. After all, he may have his own reasons for wanting Boone Parker out of the way.”
“Counselor,” Judge Heckemeyer interrupted. “You withdrew that statement. I’ll not allow it to be revisited.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Honor, you are quite right,” Gilmore said. Smiling at the jury, he said, “Forget that comment. But, gentlemen of the jury, even forgetting the suggestion that Jensen might have his own reasons for wanting Boone Parker to go away, and considering that there were no eyewitnesses to the bank robbery and murder, we have only hearsay as to the guilt of my clients. That, my friends, constitutes doubt, and if there is any doubt, you cannot, and must not, find these men guilty.”
Jeter got up for his closing comments, and he applauded Gilmore quietly.
Deadly Trail Page 5