POWDERSMOKE CHRISTMAS
Two Holiday Stories
by
James Reasoner
Powdersmoke Christmas by James Reasoner
Smashwords Edition
Copyright© 2015 James Reasoner
“’Tis The Season For Justice” originally published in 2012 in The Christmas Campfire Companion
“Presents for One and All” originally published 2012 in Six-Guns and Slay Bells
Cover Design Livia Reasoner
Sundown Press
www.sundownpress.com
All rights reserved.
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’TIS THE SEASON FOR JUSTICE
A Judge Earl Stark Story
A few snowflakes spiraled down from the gunmetal-gray sky as the bearded man rode into town on a fine-looking Appaloosa. The weather seemed appropriate, he thought, seeing as it was the morning of Christmas Eve.
Too bad it was a matter of life and death that had brought him here.
He reined to a stop in front of the local marshal’s office and swung down from the saddle. He was of medium height, stockily built, with a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard that showed he was no longer a young man. He wore a brown Stetson and a long, tan duster. When the coat swung back a little, it revealed a pistol holstered on his hip. He didn’t seem to be the sort of man who would go looking for trouble, but he gave the impression of being able to handle it if it came knocking.
“Jed Brundage?” he asked the man behind the desk as he entered the office.
The lawman, older, with a drooping white mustache, nodded and got to his feet. With the sort of caution that came natural to any man who wore a star for very long, he rested his hand on the butt of his gun and said, “That’s right. Who might you be, stranger?”
“Earl Stark.”
Marshal Brundage frowned. Stark could tell the name meant something to him, but Brundage wasn’t sure exactly what that something was.
Then understanding dawned on the weathered face. “Stark!” he repeated. “Not the judge?”
Stark nodded. “That’s right. I know I don’t look the part, but I have identification if you’d like to see it.”
Brundage’s eyes narrowed as he said, “I reckon that’d be a good idea.”
Stark reached under his duster and into his vest pocket to bring out the papers that identified him as a circuit court judge. Brundage’s bushy eyebrows rose a little as he looked at them, then handed them back.
“I reckon you’re who you say you are, all right,” the marshal said. “You’re here for the trial?”
“That’s right.”
“Good. I’d like to get this over with before Christmas, and so would everybody else involved.” Brundage shook his head. “It’s a bad business.”
“Murder usually is,” Stark said.
The marshal jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You want to see the prisoner? I got him locked up back in the cell block.”
Stark shook his head. “No, the only business I have with him is in the courtroom. Speaking of which, I suppose we can use the town hall I noticed across the street?”
“That’s right. That’s where the local justice of the peace holds court.”
“That’ll do for me, then.” Stark took a gold pocket watch from his vest pocket and opened it to check the time. “One o’clock be all right?”
“Whatever you say, Your Honor. You’re in charge. It’ll give me time to spread the word. Lots of people in town because of the holiday. It shouldn’t be a problem gettin’ enough men for a jury.”
Stark nodded and said, “I’ll go have a look at the hall and start getting ready.” He turned toward the door, then paused. “You’ll alert the prosecutor and the defendant’s attorney, as well?”
“Sure thing. Mack Hairston’s the county attorney. He’s champin’ at the bit to get this done. Figures it’ll be a real feather in his cap, convictin’ the man who murdered the son of the richest man in the territory.”
“Allegedly,” Stark reminded him.
Brundage shrugged to indicate there wasn’t any real doubt in his mind as to the defendant’s guilt. Stark left the marshal’s office, a frown on his bearded face.
****
The town hall was big enough and already had rows of chairs in place. Some tables were pushed against the back wall. Stark pulled three of them forward and arranged them, one for the prosecution, one for the defense, and one to serve as his bench. He moved one of the chairs, turning it so the witnesses could sit in it to testify, and put twelve more off to the side for a jury box.
Some judges would insist on having somebody else do that work for them, but Stark was accustomed to handling everything from setting up to sweeping out as he delivered justice to the best of his ability in these rough frontier towns. He had never been one to rely on anybody else. Years spent as a shotgun guard on various stagecoach lines before he started studying law had taught him to stomp his own snakes. And few were better at snake-stompin’ than the man once known as Big Earl.
Once he had the tables and chairs set up like he wanted them, he carried in some wood from the stack in the alley next to the town hall and started a fire in the big pot-bellied stove in a corner of the room. That would take the chill off before the trial started. He had brought in his warbag when he tied up his horse outside, so now he carried it into the back room to change into garb more suitable for conducting legal procedures.
When he came back into the main room, he wore the same hat and boots, but a brown tweed suit, white shirt, and string tie had replaced the duster and range clothes. He had buckled his gunbelt back on, too. In the holster rode a .42 caliber LeMat revolver, an odd weapon that had been a favorite of some Confederate officers during the war. Its cylinder held nine rounds instead of the usual six, and the oversized barrel built under the regular barrel could be used to fire buckshot, giving the weapon its nickname of the Grape-Shot Revolver. Stark had adopted its use while riding shotgun on the stagecoaches. More than once, the LeMat had surprised a would-be holdup man with its devastating firepower. Since taking up the practice of jurisprudence, Stark had found that it came in handy on numerous other occasions and still carried it.
He set his gavel on the table that would serve as his bench. A check of his watch told him it was twelve-thirty. Time enough for a cup of coffee and maybe a bite to eat at the hash house across the street, next to the marshal’s office.
The snow was spitting down a little harder now.
By the time Stark finished his meal and returned to the town hall and impromptu courthouse, a crowd was beginning to gather. Naturally, people were curious. Boone McCafferty was a rich man, but that hadn’t stopped tragedy from calling on him. People were always interested when the rich and powerful had to suffer like everyday folks. Stark didn’t try to push through the growing mob. He went around back and entered through that door, instead. He waited in the back room until Marshal Brundage rapped on the door and called, “You in there, Your Honor? I reckon we’re ready.”
Stark set his hat aside and opened the door. “You’re acting as bailiff, Marshal?”
“Yep. Just like I do for the JP, right?”
Stark nodded.
Brundage turned and called loudly, cutting through the hubbub in the room, “Court is now in s
ession, the Honorable Earl Stark presiding! All rise!”
Stark walked into the courtroom as the members of the crowd got to their feet. The place was packed. Every chair had been claimed, and more spectators stood two and three deep around the walls. Stark took his place at the bench, rapped the gavel on the table, and said, “Be seated.”
He hadn’t told Brundage where to seat the prosecution and the defense. He had never really cared much about that. It was easy to tell them apart. The county attorney, a thirty-ish man with a broad, flushed face and tightly curled hair, was the only person at the prosecution table.
Two men sat at the defense table: an earnest-looking young gent in his twenties in a cheap suit, with a thatch of hair that didn’t take to the comb very well and a bandage wrapped around his forehead, and an older man, mostly bald, shaped like a pear, in a better suit. The defendant and his attorney, respectively.
“Is the prosecution ready?” Stark asked.
The county attorney stood up. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“How about the defense?”
The pear-shaped man got to his feet. “We’re ready to proceed, Your Honor.”
“I didn’t catch your name, counselor,” Stark said.
“Andrew Bell, Your Honor.”
Stark looked at the prosecution table again. “And you’d be Mack Hairston.”
“That’s right, Your Honor,” Hairston said.
Stark fixed his keen gaze on the shaggy-haired young man. “That makes you the defendant, Tyler Ketchum.”
The young man looked at his attorney, clearly unsure whether he was supposed to stand up, respond, or what. Bell motioned for him to stay where he was and said, “That is correct, Your Honor.”
Stark’s eyes flicked toward the craggy-faced man in the front row of spectators, who wore an angry, grief-stricken expression as he sat there surrounded by tough-looking cowboys. That would be Boone McCafferty, the father of the victim.
Stark’s interest was also drawn by a pale-faced woman who sat on the other side of the courtroom, a kid on either side of her. She plucked at the handkerchief tucked in her lap, and her teeth caught and worried her bottom lip. Stark would have been willing to bet the brown Stetson he had left in the other room that the woman was Ketchum’s wife and those two young’uns were their children.
He didn’t like the fact that the kids were here. Kids didn’t belong in courtrooms to start with, in his opinion, and these two, a boy and girl, were liable to hear some things about their pa that they wouldn’t want to hear. But that was up to their ma, he supposed, so he wasn’t going to run them out. The poor woman had enough on her plate already, what with her husband being accused of murder.
“Read the charge, Marshal,” Stark said.
“Yes, sir. The charge is murder against Tyler Ketchum, for killing Jefferson McCafferty. Simple as that.”
“No need for comments, Marshal,” Stark said. He addressed the spectators. “There are a lot of people crowded in here. I expect all of you to remain quiet and orderly at all times. I know it’s Christmas Eve and that most of you want to be home with your families enjoying the holiday. Justice comes first, though.” Stark paused. “But we’ll move along as quickly as we can. Let’s get a jury seated.” He started calling up men at random from the spectators, questioning them, and then asking the two attorneys in the case if they had any objections.
It took about half an hour to pick the twelve men for the jury. The process ran so smoothly that Stark hoped the rest of the trial would, too. “Opening statements,” he said. “Mr. Hairston?”
The county attorney stood up again. “Thank you, Your Honor. As Marshal Brundage mentioned, this is a very simple case. The state will prove that Tyler Ketchum shot and killed Jefferson McCafferty when Mr. McCafferty discovered Ketchum changing the brands on cattle belonging to Mr. McCafferty’s father.”
Hairston let it go at that and sat down. Stark looked at Andrew Bell, who got to his feet and said, “Your Honor, this trial, indeed, my client’s very arrest, are terrible miscarriages of justice. Tyler Ketchum is a hard-working rancher whose only interest in life is providing for his family.” Bell used a pudgy hand to gesture at the pale-faced woman and the two kids Stark had already pegged as the defendant’s wife and children. “He is innocent of rustling, innocent of murder, innocent, in fact, of everything except being in the way of a greedy tyrant who thinks he rules the entire territory!”
Boone McCafferty surged to his feet and boomed, “That’s a blasted lie!”
Stark smacked the gavel down hard on the table, twice. “Sit down, Mr. McCafferty, and keep your seat! I know you’re grieving, mister, and that’s the only reason I don’t have you removed from this courtroom right now.”
McCafferty glared at Stark as if he’d like to see him try.
“And as for you, counselor,” Stark said to Bell, “I asked for opening statements, not speeches. You have anything else to say that pertains to the case at hand?”
“With all due respect, Your Honor, my comments were indeed germane to the case. But...” Bell shrugged. “I’ve completed my statement.”
Stark grunted. “Good. Let’s get on with it. Call your first witness, Mr. Hairston.”
“I call Boone McCafferty to the stand,” Hairston said.
The testimony went fairly quickly. With the occasional unfriendly glance at Stark and the near-constant hostile glower at Ketchum, McCaffery responded to Hairston’s questions and explained how he’d been having trouble with the young rancher for months, ever since Ketchum had bought a small spread that bordered McCafferty’s vast Arrow ranch.
“I started losin’ stock as soon as the boy took up that old, abandoned greasy-sack outfit,” McCafferty declared. “It was plain as the nose on your face he was rustlin’ from me.”
“Objection,” Andrew Bell said as he got quickly to his feet. “Assumes facts not in evidence.”
“Sustained,” Stark ruled.
“Well, how about I say it looked to me like Ketchum was a dang wide-looper?” McCafferty demanded.
“I’ll allow it...but watch your tone, Mr. McCafferty, or I’ll find you in comtempt of court and have you locked up.”
McCafferty gave him that arrogant just try it look again but didn’t say anything else until Hairston asked him another question.
“No, we never caught him at it. That is, until the day my boy Jeff found Ketchum with a runnin’ iron in his hand and Ketchum killed him for it.”
Bell jumped to his feet again. Stark held up a hand to stop him before the lawyer even got his objection out.
“Sustained,” Stark said. He looked at the jury. “Disregard the second part of the witness’s answer.”
It was easy to say that, Stark thought, but not so easy to unhear something already heard. The members of the jury were just human, after all. Not only that, but they also knew how important and powerful Boone McCafferty was in these parts. It would take a lot of evidence to convince them to go against something McCafferty obviously believed. Tyler Ketchum was in a bad spot.
Of course, he was probably guilty. The same scenario that seemed to be the case here had played out countless times across the West, the little rancher preying on the bigger spread. The reverse was true, too, the cattle barons bulling right over the owners of the smaller ranches. Most of the trouble in cattle country stemmed from a combination of those things, Stark knew.
So he wasn’t surprised when it was the defense’s turn and Bell said, “You’ve tried to force my client to abandon his ranch, haven’t you, Mr. McCafferty?”
“I told him he was a fool to try to make a go of it on that hardscrabble place. Dang it, you know that, Andy. You were there when I said it.”
“Hold on just a minute,” Stark said sharply. “You called counsel for the defense ‘Andy’.”
“Well, why wouldn’t I?” McCafferty asked. “I’ve known him for fifteen years, and he’s been my lawyer for almost that long.”
Stark restrained the impulse to w
allop the table with his gavel. “The witness is temporarily excused,” he said. “Step down, Mr. McCafferty. Bell, Hairston, I want both of you up here right now.”
The attorneys stepped up to the table, and Bell began, “Your Honor, I realize this is somewhat unorthodox–”
“Unorthodox my hind foot!” Stark said, and he managed to give the impression that he was yelling, even though his voice was low and controlled. “It’s unethical, that’s what it is.”
“Not really, Your Honor,” Hairston said. “Andy here has handled legal matters for just about everybody in the county at one time or another, including Boone McCafferty and Tylar Ketchum. He’s also the only attorney in these parts who’s had experience representing the defendant in a murder trial.”
“I’ve recused myself from Mr. McCafferty’s affairs for the duration of the trial, Your Honor,” Bell went on. “It seemed to be the only way we could get this matter taken care of in a timely manner. It’s almost Christmas, you know.”
“I know,” Stark said. “But that’s no excuse to railroad that boy.”
“He’s not being railroaded. I’m giving him the best defense of which I’m capable.”
Stark frowned dubiously and ran his fingers over his beard. Finally, he said, “All right. I’ll allow things to continue. But if I see the slightest sign of collusion between you two, I’ll shut things down and declare a mistrial. Not only that, but I’ll move the case right out of this county if I have to.” He jerked his head. “Get back to it.”
The lawyers went back to their tables. Bell resumed his cross-examination once McCafferty had taken the witness chair again.
“It’s true, isn’t it, Mr. McCafferty, that you didn’t see my client shoot your son?”
“No, I didn’t see it happen,” McCafferty said grudgingly.
“And it’s also true that no one witnessed your son’s murder, isn’t it?”
“Nobody but the son of a–” McCafferty stopped and took a deep breath. “Nobody but the man who killed him.”
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