The Jeweled Spur

by Gilbert, Morris

  Hope stared at Dayton Prince, then shook her head. “I don’t believe Dayton would let that influence him. He’s a good man, Dan.”

  “Yes, he is—and the others are good men.” Dan struggled, not knowing whether to speak his mind to Hope. Finally he said, “But their lives are at stake—not like Cody’s—but all the same, Tippitt can crush any of them like he would a fly.”

  “I can’t believe it, Dan!” said Hope in frustration.

  “I don’t want to—but it’s not only George Tippitt. It’s the evidence.”

  “But it’s all circumstantial, Dan.” Hope stared at him. “They can’t convict a man on that kind of evidence.”

  Dan nodded, saying, “That’s right. We’ll just have to hang on and hope that the prosecution doesn’t come up with anything new.” He saw her lips tremble, and with more confidence than he felt, said, “Don’t worry, Hope. It’s like you say, all the evidence is circumstantial—” He broke off abruptly and put his hand on Hope’s arm, for Cody had just been brought into the courtroom. Two guards flanked him, and he took his seat beside Dave Lyons, the lawyer that Dan had hired to defend him. Lyons bent over and began to speak to Cody, who seemed listless. I wish Cody would show some fight, Dan thought. He looks like a beaten man to the jury.

  At that moment the door behind the raised table opened and one of the jailers said, “All rise,” as the judge entered. He was a small man wearing a black suit, and he took his seat at once. Judge Olan Phelps was known as a hard man—some even called him a “hanging judge”—but his conduct of the trial had been, Dan admitted, fair and impartial. He had snow white hair and a pair of level gray eyes, and now he spoke up, “Does the prosecution have any more to present to the court?”

  The prosecuting attorney named Cole Lattimore, a tall man with red hair and blue eyes, rose, saying, “Your Honor, the prosecution has a few more testimonies—but with the court’s permission, I would like to briefly sum up the case we have built against Cody Rogers.”

  “Go ahead, but be brief, Mr. Lattimore. You will have opportunity to do most of that in your summation.”

  “I will be very brief, Your Honor.” Lattimore was a good courtroom lawyer. He would have made a fine actor, for he not only knew how to use words, but he also had a dramatic flourish in his actions to match his presentation. He was too clever to go after defendants ferociously, having learned that in most cases this was likely to gain sympathy for the accused. Instead, he methodically brought forth the evidence, lingering over each item, so that he made them seem more important than they actually were. He moved over to stand in front of the jury, nodding at them in a friendly manner as he began to speak.

  “I ask the jury to remember three things. One, Cody Rogers has had a grievance against the victim for some time. It’s common knowledge that he beat him severely in a fight only a few weeks ago. This is not a new thing, but it has gone on for months. Second, I ask you to remember that on the night Harve Tippitt was shot in the back, Cody Rogers threatened to shoot him. You have heard the testimony of several witnesses who were present at the Palace Saloon, so there can be no mistake about that.”

  Cody watched the proceedings, thinking of what a fool he had been. Ever since his arrest he had been in some sort of emotional coma, so that at times he wondered if he was losing his mind. Day after day he had half expected to be released for lack of evidence—but when that had not happened, he had grown bitter. Instead of opening himself to his parents and his lawyer, he had clamped his lips shut and answered only in clipped monosyllables. Now as Lattimore spoke on, putting down line upon line of evidence, Cody thought, I should have been more of a fighter. Turning his head, he glanced toward his mother and saw the pain in her eyes. Fine thing for her to remember—she’ll never be able to get this out of her mind.

  Lattimore went on, stressing the enmity that Cody had shown toward Tippitt, never mentioning that the deceased had been just as virulent. He spoke of the third element, the fact that Cody’s gun had been fired twice, and that the two slugs taken from the victim were of the same caliber.

  “And the accused tells us that he shot at a coyote! And he asks you to believe that he slept on the ground all night instead of going home!” Lattimore spread his hands wide, rolled his eyes, and said dramatically, “Why would a young man sleep on a rock when all he had to do was ride home and sleep on a good bed?”

  Finally Judge Phelps interrupted, “Mr. Lattimore, you have been over this ground once already. If you have any new evidence, I suggest you present it—or else I will recognize the defense.”

  Lattimore never showed the slightest irritation toward the judge and now said quickly, “I apologize, Your Honor.”

  Dan whispered, “If that’s all he’s got, we’re all right, Hope!”

  But then Lattimore said, “The state does have an important witness. I call Pike Simmons to the stand.”

  A mutter ran around the courtroom, for Pike Simmons was a well-known man in the county. “What’s Simmons got to do with this?” Cody whispered to his attorney.

  “Don’t know,” Lyons murmured. He sat up straighter in his chair, his eyes narrow with attention on the man who came from the back of the room to take the single chair that faced the jury. “I don’t like it,” he muttered.

  Simmons, a burly man with a shock of black hair and a pair of muddy brown eyes, put his hand gingerly on the Bible, and when the oath was read, he said, “I do.” Simmons owned a small ranch over in the bottoms, but he was better known for his barroom brawls and uncontrolled drinking. Simmons was a fairly sensible man when sober, but when drunk, he lost all reason. He was a wicked fighter and had served a year in the state penitentiary for killing a man in a fight—he had gotten the man down and kicked him to death.

  “Mr. Simmons, would you tell the jury your occupation and how long you’ve been in that position?” said Lattimore.

  “Own a ranch over by Cripple Creek. Been there for nine years.” He hesitated, then added, “Was gone one year. Got sent to the pen.”

  “On what charge?” asked the attorney.

  “Manslaughter,” Simmons shrugged.

  “That was four years ago, I believe? And when you were released, you went back to your ranch?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No other trouble since then?”

  “Naw, nothing to get sent up for. ’Course, I drink sometimes and get too rough in fights.”

  Lattimore let the witness go on in this manner, and Dave Lyons groaned, “Lattimore’s smart! He’s taken away the advantage I’d have of showing what a no-good Simmons is!”

  Lattimore asked easily, “Mr. Simmons, will you tell the court what you did on the evening of September 4?”

  “Went to town for a little fun.”

  “How is it that you can remember that date?”

  “My birthday’s on the third,” Simmons grinned. “Every year I give myself a birthday party, and I went to town the day before to get all my business done.”

  “What was your business on that day?”

  “Took ten head of stock to Mel Pounders.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Got the bill of sale—and I reckon Mel will say as how I was there.”

  “Yes, we will hear his testimony, too,” Lattimore nodded. “Now, tell us, if you will, what your movements were on that evening.”

  “I drove the critters into the stockyard, and me and Mel settled up.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Oh, ’bout five o’clock, I guess,” shrugged Simmons.

  “And then what?”

  “I went down to the cafe and had supper. And while I was there, Bart Prince came in. He asked me to go play poker, and that’s what I done. We went to the Oxbow Bar and played until late.”

  “Prince will testify that you were there?”

  “Him and about ten more,” Simmons nodded. “I lost all my money to him, so he ain’t likely to forget it.”

  “Your Honor, these men can be call
ed as witnesses to verify Mr. Simmons’ statement.” Lattimore grew serious, coming to stand in front of the witness. “And after your game, what did you do?”

  “Went home.”

  “And did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

  Simmons looked directly at Cody and nodded. “I seen Cody Rogers on the Old Military Road.”

  “That’s a lie!” Cody leaped to his feet, his face contorted with rage. “I wasn’t anywhere near that road that night.”

  Lyons pulled Cody down, saying, “Be quiet!” Then he addressed the judge. “I apologize, Your Honor. It won’t happen again.”

  The judge nodded. “You may continue, Mr. Simmons.”

  Simmons was enjoying his moment in court. He grinned loosely at Cody, then continued, “I was on my way home, and when I was ’bout half a mile from the bridge, I seen a rider coming down the road. It was night, ’o course, and I heard the hoofbeats first. Horse was running like the devil! And then this rider came down the road, and I don’t reckon he saw me until we was close. The moon was full that night, or I couldn’t have saw him. But when he passed me, I saw it was him.”

  “Can you identify the man you saw?” asked Lattimore.

  “There he sets—Cody Rogers,” pointed Simmons.

  Instant commotion broke out all around the room. The talking was so loud that Judge Phelps pounded his gavel sharply on the table. “Order! Be quiet or I’ll clear the court!” He waited until the room was still, then nodded, “You may continue, Mr. Lattimore.”

  Cody listened as Lattimore led the witness through all the traps that Dave Lyons might lay for him. He was feeling like the time when he’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse. Up until this moment he’d been concerned only with the disgrace of the thing and the unfairness of it all. Never once had he thought he might actually be convicted! Now, however, looking at the faces of the men on the jury, he felt cold and sick, for every face was fixed on Simmons, and they all believed what he was saying!

  Finally Lattimore said, “And this spot where you saw the accused, you say it was perhaps half a mile from the bridge over Seven Point River?”

  “Yes, not more’n that.”

  At that point, Lattimore turned to face the jury. “And as you may know, the murdered man was found exactly half a mile from that bridge! So we offer you eyewitness proof that Cody Rogers was not asleep on the road to his own ranch, for that is ten miles to the west of the Old Military Road. No, gentlemen, he was not, for the witness’s testimony put him running away from the scene of the crime at the approximate time the victim was killed!” He then turned and faced Dave Lyons, and said defiantly, “Your witness, Mr. Lyons.”

  Dave Lyons was a good lawyer, but he knew as he rose and faced the jury that unless he could shake Simmons’ testimony, Cody had little chance. He spent the next forty-five minutes peppering the burly man with question after question—all to no avail. Simmons never grew flustered, and when Lyons finally was ordered by the judge to stop repeating himself, he became frustrated and angry. He pointed out that all the evidence was circumstantial, and that it would be unjust and unfair to convict a man on such a basis.

  When Lyons had finished his cross-examination, Judge Phelps nodded toward the prosecuting attorney. “Mr. Lattimore, we’ll have your summation.” Lattimore was crafty enough not to say too much, for by the looks on the faces of the jury he knew they were already convinced. He spoke briefly, ending by saying, “I ask that you bring a verdict of first-degree murder against Cody Rogers.”

  Lyons rose and did his best in his concluding remarks to the jury, but when he sat down, wringing wet with sweat, Cody stared at him. “It’s not good, is it, Mr. Lyons?”

  “Never try to second-guess a jury, Cody,” Lyons said. He sat there as the jury filed out, and when Phelps left for his quarters, Dan and Hope Winslow rushed over to Cody.

  “It’ll be all right, son,” Hope said. “You’ll see.”

  But Dan was staring at Lyons’ troubled face and saw that the lawyer was not happy. “What do you think, Dave?” he asked quietly.

  Lyons moved his shoulders restlessly, then he ran his hand nervously over his hair. “I don’t like it. That fellow Simmons may be lying, but there’s no way to shake him.”

  Cody asked abruptly, “What if the verdict is guilty? What will that mean?”

  “We’re hoping for better than that,” Lyons said quickly. Then when Cody kept his eyes fixed on him, he shook his head. “It won’t be hanging, Cody. Not on this kind of evidence.”

  “How long—in prison?”

  “Depends on the judge. He’ll set the sentence.”

  Time crawled on, but to the surprise of the spectators, the jury filed back in less than forty-five minutes. “Is that good or bad?” Dan asked Lyons.

  “You never know.” Lyons watched the faces of the jury and shook his head. They’re not looking at Cody—a bad sign.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” Judge Phelps asked as soon as he returned and faced them.

  “We have, Your Honor.”

  “Read it to the court. Prisoner will rise and face the jury.”

  The voice of Judge Phelps seemed to echo hollowly inside Cody’s head. He felt Lyons pulling at his arm, and on legs gone suddenly feeble, he rose to his feet. He fixed his gaze on the face of Milo Fenderman, owner of the blacksmith shop. He’s shod many a horse for me, Cody thought numbly. We used to joke about things—and now he won’t even look at me.

  The foreman’s hands were unsteady as he held a single sheet of paper close to his eyes. “We—we find the defendant guilty of murder—in the second degree.”

  “So say you all?”

  “Yes, Judge.”

  Judge Phelps sat looking down at the youthful face of the prisoner. He allowed no emotion to show on his face as he pronounced sentence. “You have been found guilty of murder in the second degree. For that offense, Cody Rogers, I sentence you to fifteen years in the state penitentiary.”

  Hope gasped and whispered, “Oh, God! No!”

  Dan put his arm around her. “We’ll appeal, Hope. It’s not over yet. We’ve got to keep on believing God.”

  They both rose and walked to where Cody stood beside Dave Lyons, who was saying, “It won’t stand up, Cody.”

  At that moment Hope rushed to Cody and threw her arms around him, trying to keep back the tears. His body was stiff and unyielding, but she looked up into his face, whispering, “Cody, God will help us!”

  Cody stared at her blankly, then his face seemed to freeze. His voice was sharp and bitter as he answered her. “God? Don’t ever talk to me about God, because He’s not up there!”

  The deputy, who had been standing by silently, spoke up, “Sorry, Miz Winslow”—he stepped up and took Cody’s arm—”You can visit him any time, ma’am.”

  As Cody walked out of the courtroom, he kept his back stiffly erect. He was aware that many were watching him, waiting for him to break—but he did not. He refused to show any emotion.

  After returning to the jail, the deputy locked him in his cell, then paused, saying, “Bad break, Cody. But I’ve seen sentences reversed. Just trust the Lord like your ma says.”

  But Cody only gave him a bleak look, then he turned and walked over to the bunk. He lay down and stared up at the ceiling, and when the deputy looked at his face, he shook his head. “Hate to see you take it this way, Cody.” But there was no answer, and the young man did not move as the footsteps of the deputy faded.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Behind the Wall

  Shorty Cavanaugh took going back to prison philosophically enough, but then he’d been there twice before. He was one of those unfortunate beings who found life on the inside of walls less confining than life outside. For him a cell was less threatening than the walls of his own mind, and his years in prison had taken all the fear out of the experience. He knew the worst of it—and to Shorty, that was preferable to the horrors he would face on the outside.

  But
there was a strange sense of compassion in Shorty Cavanaugh, buried deeply enough beneath the toughness of the professional criminal. He understood himself well enough, and had come to accept the world of prison as normal. Still, he had faint memories of his first imprisonment and how terrified he had been.

  And now as he looked at the young prisoner who sat across the stage from him, he had a sudden streak of pity. He’s young to be going to the Rock, and that’s a fact—no more than twenty-one or twenty-two. Leaning forward, he ignored the chain that linked his hands and feet, saying, “First time up, I guess.” When he got a mere nod, he said cheerfully, “Well, my name’s Cavanaugh, but call me Shorty.”

  “Cody Rogers.”

  Cavanaugh noted the long pause and knew that fear was gripping the young man. Shorty looked at the hard-faced guard who kept his gun on his right side, where it could not be grabbed by the prisoner, and said, “Got a cigarette, Mr.Danton?” Shorty had discovered the man’s name and addressed him very respectfully. As a result the two had been treated more gently than some. Danton stared at the small convict, then reached in his pocket and pulled out a small pouch with the makings. “Hey, thanks a lot,” Cavanaugh said. “You’re all right, you are.”

  Danton shrugged, saying only, “Guess you’ll be scarce on smokes at the Rock, Shorty.”

  “Not a bit of it! Plenty of tobacco for a man who knows his way around.”

  “Well, you should know your way. Third trip, ain’t it?”

  “And the last,” Cavanaugh said. “How about a smoke for the lad here?” Getting an approving nod, he handed the makings toward his fellow prisoner, who shook his head. “Don’t smoke? That’s good. I like to see a young fellow who don’t have no bad habits.”

  “He’s got one bad habit,” Danton grinned suddenly. “He’s got a habit of shooting men in the back.”

  Cody turned his head, and there was such violence in his expression that Danton fumbled for his gun.