Judge Oliver tugged gently on the reins, slowing the buggy, turning left onto the lane to the Miner farm. His men took up positions in a semi-circle about the buggy, faces appropriately grim. Oliver knew the Miner family was capable of putting up serious opposition, but felt ready for anything. Each of his men was armed with a new Winchester rifle. He secreted a small pearl handled derringer in his vest pocket, a comfort somehow, though less than practical in a serious fight.
* * *
A look of alarm spread across Wiley’s Miner’s face, his mouth moving silently as he stared. “By God, Mobley, I believe that’s John Oliver. Whatever he’s up to, it’s no good, you can bet on it. We’d best be prepared.”
“Oliver? Is that the Judge Oliver who became a peach orchard squirrel a few years ago?”
Wiley turned, a smirk on his face. “You know about that? Well, I’ll be dipped. Word surely does spread. Yes, it is. I was the reserve constable who arrested him. The county judge secretly swore me to full service when I went to visit. I waited until I caught Oliver alone; diddlin’ a whore at the Empire Buffalo Saloon, then pounced. He’ll never forgive me for dragging him out in the street, buck-assed naked, and throwing him in the calaboose. If that’s him, and it surely does look it from here, we’re in for serious trouble.
Last year he tried to get even by issuing a court order reassessing my property. Our county court overruled the assessment on grounds the state had no jurisdiction over local property taxes. He didn’t like it one little bit, but with two conflicting orders, he couldn’t do much about it.”
Mobley nodded. His sense of justice aroused. He turned and yelled. “Jack, we’ve got trouble coming. You and the boys head for the barn and position yourselves. Remember how we handled Marsten? Warning shots only, unless things fall apart. We’ll start out seeing what they’re up to. If it’s to no good, I’ll take off my hat as a signal. You try to slip up as close behind as you can.”
Jack sprang to his feet, head turning until he saw the approaching men. A quarter mile away, they were following the road. That meant they must pass out of sight behind the barn for a few moments before emerging at the front of the house. Mobley could see Jack and the boys would have just enough time to enter the barn unseen. They grabbed their rifles and lined up behind the oak, out of sight. When it was clear, they bolted for the barn, Jack in the lead.
It seemed an eternity before the approaching buggy with its accompanying riders turned into the farm compound between the house and the barn. Judge Oliver stopped his snorting sorrel directly in front of the white picket fence, his men spread on either side, rifles at the ready. Oliver secured the reins and placed his long whip back in its holster.
“Wiley Miner?”
“That’ll be me, Judge.” Miner drawled. “I see you finally found your clothes. Pity—you looked real nice in the buff.”
Neither Wiley nor Mobley had moved. Wiley stood beside the table, a smirk on his face and a cup of coffee in his left hand. His right hand remained in his overall pocket. Mobley sat down at the table; coffee pushed forward, hands free and laying on top of his journal.
“I’ve no time for your insulting niceties, Mr. Miner. I am Judge John W. Oliver, as you well know. I am also Director of the Texas State Land Reappraisal Commission. I’ve a paper here signed by Governor Davis that requires me to confiscate your land and properties on account of failure to pay taxes under the reappraisal decrees of 1873.”
Wiley Miner’s face remained passive. It obviously irritated Oliver. Mobley had to admire Wiley’s grit in the face of such a statement.
Miner spat a large dollop of tobacco juice, coffee, or a combination of both browns into a spittoon alongside the table. “Is that so?”
“Yes, sir, it is so. This time you’ll not escape like you did last time. Your county court has no jurisdiction over a decree issued by the State of Texas and signed by the governor himself. You are to vacate the premises immediately, or my men will vacate you by force.”
Wiley Miner put down his cup and stepped to the edge of the porch. Mobley pushed his chair back and followed to stand alongside. With a casual motion, Mobley raised his left hand and removed his hat, swatting it on his leg and returning it to his head.
“Well, I suppose you might as well get on with it,” Miner said. “But, before you do, it might be wise to look around. I think you’re a little short in the manpower department.”
Clank-kachunkaclank.
Oliver snapped his head to the left and peered around the canvas side of the buggy. The sorrel jumped forward a few feet, shifted its haunches nervously and tossed its head. No one could have mistaken the ominous sound of metal operating levers loading shells into several repeating rifles. Oliver’s men moved to swing around, then stopped as Jack’s harsh command voice rang out.
“Easy boys,’ lighten up on the triggers or die where you sit. I am United States Deputy Marshal Jack Anthony Lopes, and you are all under arrest for disrupting the peace and tranquility of this courtroom.”
“Marshal? Courtroom? What is all this?” Oliver turned back to the porch, then to his men. No one moved.
“Do as I say! Drop those rifles on the ground. If you’re carrying a side arm or belly gun, ease it down with the rifle. When you’re finished, step off the horses and put your hands on your heads. Now, do it!”
One of the black riders nudged his horse around to face the threat. A brave man. The others began to follow suit. At once a barrage of fire erupted, smoke filling the air. Hats began to fly. Oliver shrank back into his buggy.
“I said, don’t move, damn you all, or the next shots will be aimed at your bellies.”
Mobley and Wiley drew their pistols. Lovey and Cinda Sue stepped out the kitchen door, holding rifles. Now, Mobley could see that Oliver recognized his disadvantage. He was evenly matched, but in a crossfire. Only one of the riders had a hat left on his head.
“Drop your weapons. There will be no further warning.”
Two of the riders dropped their rifles. The others looked nervously at each other, then to Oliver. The black man who had made the initial move spoke up. “What do you want us to do, Judge? This don’t look so good.”
Oliver turned around slowly, assessing the situation. Another of his men dropped his rifle.
“Do as they say, men. We’ll handle this some other way. No sense in anyone getting killed.”
Each of the riders complied with the orders. Jack waved his rifle toward the oak tree. “Now, if you would be so kind, move on over to the yard and plant yourselves under that big old tree. That goes for you too, Judge Oliver.”
Oliver sneered at Jack, and then turned to the porch, ignoring the order. “Mr. Miner, I think I will take you up on that offer of a sip.”
Mobley glanced at Jack, nodding slightly to allow Oliver’s defiance.
Wiley slipped his pistol back into his overalls. Mobley turned and sat down at the end of the table, placing his pistol before him within easy reach. Wiley waved to Judge Oliver. “Come on in then, Judge, and meet one of your colleagues, United States Circuit Court Judge Mobley F. Meadows. The man with the long rifle at your back is indeed Deputy Marshal Jack Anthony Lopes. I’m told he never misses.”
“Nice to meet you, Judge Oliver.” Mobley leaned forward and extended his hand to the approaching Oliver. Oliver ignored the hand as if contaminated, smirked and hooked his thumbs on his belt. Mobley felt his anger start to rise, and then settle as he leaned back. He’d dealt with swine before, men who purposely insulted others to gain some momentary advantage in a debate.
Oliver’s lip curled, contempt on his face. His voice dripped sarcasm. “Would you be the judge—Moldly Meadows is it—reputed to have executed fifteen men without a trial on the prairie west of here?”
Mobley’s anger was instantaneous. He felt his lips pull back over his teeth. No one accused him of malfeasance in office, murder, and insulted his name without violent response. He stood, picked up his .45 in a smooth, effortless motion, and BOOM!
A small piece of Oliver’s right earlobe disappeared. He grasped at it—screaming—as blood gushed down the side of his face onto his frilly, high-necked shirt.
“Oh, oh, damn you—damn you all.”
He jumped up and down, one foot then the other, head moving back and forth, hand cupped on his bleeding ear. “What did you do that for? Damn you to—“
“Your ears are too big,” Mobley drawled. “One thing I can’t abide, big ears and a big mouth on the same face. Reminds me of a bully I once knew. My name is Mobley F. Meadows. My friends call me Mobley. You ain’t my friend and nobody makes sport of my name and walks away unscratched. Figured you knew that.”
Oliver groaned. “How could I know that?” He twisted his head back and forth and turned completely around several more times, like a dog chasing its tail.
“Well, you seem to know everything else, me out executing people without a trial and such. You being a judge, why I just naturally figured you wouldn’t be spreading nasty rumors unless you meant it as a direct insult to me and my court. I don’t handle insults well.”
Mobley stared at Oliver, for an instant remorseful of his action. He’d been terrorized as a boy by bullies who’d razzed him about his name unmercifully. He’d trounced one big lad for calling him Moby, another for Moody, and one for Doodly Deadows. He had vowed never to permit it again. Ever. Still, he shouldn’t have shot Oliver. Mobley knew that as a lawyer trained in the fine art of wordsmanship, his weapon should be his wit, not his gun. Sometimes though, he found it much easier to just let himself go and do what came natural.
Mobley took a slow breath, calmed himself. What was done was done. Now, how could he deal with this seizure order? He could not allow Oliver to take Wiley Miner’s land. It was pure theft, the law invalid on its face. To interfere, however, would place him in direct conflict with state authorities.
Even as the cautionary thought occurred, he knew he could not heed it. He would not be doing right by the people he’d sworn to serve if he allowed such an outrage to stand.
Mobley allowed a light smile to crinkle his cheeks. The answer was simple. All he’d had to do was ask himself the right question. The answer popped right in, just like old Wild Eye Sagen had said it would. That was the point of all the study, wasn’t it?
Without turning away from Oliver, he addressed Wiley. “Mr. Miner, do you wish to appeal this reappraisal decree to a higher court?”
Wiley looked at Mobley, puzzlement on his face. “I …guess I do, mmm … don’t I?”
Mobley nodded. He looked over the attentive faces of the men sitting before him, and waved Jack to his side. “Deputy Marshal Jack Anthony Lopes, would you be so kind as to put on your bailiff hat once more and do the necessary O’yeas. It’s time to call this court into session.”
“Yes, sir; with pleasure.” Jack turned and spoke sharply to the clearly hostile, temporarily humbled captives. “Get up and listen you lazy roustabouts. I’m about to call this court into session. If any of you speak out of turn or make a foolish move while the judge is performing his duty, it will be the last move you ever make. Any questions?”
The policemen looked at each other, shook their heads and stood up. Several dusted clinging Oak leaves from their pants. All looked mad enough to chew nails.
“O’YEZ, O’YEZ, O’YEZ!” Jack yelled, and then proceeded through the litany with gusto. The policemen stiffened, eyes wide. The Miner boys stood with their mouths agape, rifles cradled in their arms. All obeyed promptly when directed to sit back down on the grass and come to order. Judge Oliver looked around for a chair, took the one earlier offered by Wiley and sat down hard, handkerchief cupped to his oozing ear.
CHAPTER 17
Mobley banged on the supper table with the butt of his pistol. “We’ll now call the case of Wiley Miner and family vs. the great State of Texas and the reappraisal decrees of 1873. Judge Oliver, you will represent the State of Texas. Do you feel up to that?”
“Of course I do, but what’s the purpose of this? You can’t hold court out here in the middle of nowhere. It’s an outrage. Proper court can be held only in a designated seat. Court on the front porch of a run-down old farmhouse? Preposterous.”
Mobley contained his rage, knowing exactly how to humble this silly, vain man. “Judge Oliver, are you that self-same Judge Oliver who became a certified lunatic over to the county court in Waco a few years ago?”
Several of the Miner boys laughed out loud. Most of the policemen dropped their heads to hide smiles from Judge Oliver. Two of the white officers guffawed loudly. Two others elbowed each other and whispered until Jack turned his rifle on them.
“That was uncalled for, Judge Meadows. I was only doing my sworn duty.”
“Never you mind. For the purpose of this hearing, I will accept the fact you’re not still suffering from such a vile malady. Now, are you a lawyer, Judge, or some hack the governor decided to honor with a title?”
Oliver coughed and looked down at his feet. “I have—uh, studied the law only so far as it has been necessary to carry out my various duties. I was appointed judge in 1870 specifically to carry out the governor’s reconstruction policies, which were necessary because these verminous rebels—.”
“That’ll be enough, Oliver. I’m not interested in your prejudices. I’m interested in the facts. What did you do before you became a judge?”
Oliver looked down, then up. He set his jaw. “What do you want to know that for?”
“I need to know. Answer the question.”
Oliver looked back at his feet, voice a whisper. “I was a—uh, shoe salesman.” He paused, and then looked up, face returning to defiant. “But I had a good record in the war.”
Mobley leaned back slightly. A low murmur could be heard from the yard. The policemen were poking each other. Jack stared at them. They stopped.
“So, you’re not a lawyer, don’t know the law and were appointed because the governor liked your war record. Now you’re running around the country stealing property and saying nobody can do anything about it. Is that about it?”
“Well, I—.”
“Shut up, Oliver. The facts speak for themselves. Res Ipsa Loquitor, as they say in Latin. Now, where was I? Oh yes, I was about to educate you.” He turned to scan the eyes of Oliver’s men. “I want all of you, not just Oliver, to remember this day.”
The ten policemen were clearly confused, no longer certain they were in the right. Mobley knew most policemen, even ruffians like these, took pride in being on side of the law. Respect for Oliver had been eroded by his admissions of ignorance, but not completely destroyed. Loyalties die hard. Mobley would have to give them good reason to abandon Oliver completely. He smiled at them and nodded his head, implying they were now on the same side. Several smiled back.
“If ol’ Judge Oliver here knew any law, he’d know a federal circuit judge’s court is wherever he says it is at any given time. Right now, I have decided it is here at the Wiley Miner farm. He’d also know, in matters concerning federal or constitutional law, the decisions of a circuit court are superior to those of any state court, state law, or state commission. But, as you all can plainly see, ol’ Oliver, now, by his own admission, don’t know much law.”
Oliver’s face turned bright red. His humiliation before his own men turned to fury about to reach the point of apoplexy. His ear burst forth with another spurt of heavy bleeding. He opened his mouth.
“Shut up, Oliver.”
“But I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to, weren’t you?”
Oliver groaned, dropping his head in embarrassment.
The policemen could not help themselves. Mumbles of discontent interspersed with a few sarcastic hoots told Mobley the men had changed sides. Jack stopped the commotion by pulling the hammer of his rifle to full cock.
Mobley picked up the document provided by Oliver and waved it about as if it had feces on it. “This decree now, you say the Governor issued it in Austin a
nd it demands the confiscation of Mr. and Mrs. Miner’s property? Is that about it?”
“It is,” Oliver spat.
“It was issued in accordance with the reappraisal law?”
“Yes.”
“Were these reappraisal laws enacted by the Texas legislature or simply decreed by the governor?”
Oliver lifted his head, a look of disgust on his face. Mobley took it to mean the man thought very little of the Texas legislature, even though the majority of it was composed of Governor Davis’s own supporters.
“The governor doesn’t need approval to deal with traitors. He can do what he wants. In this instance he appointed a special commission to review appraisals and seize properties belonging to rebels who had not paid proper taxes. The commission is authorized to take whatever steps are necessary to enforce compliance with its orders, including the use of force.”
“Then the reappraisals are solely the result of the commission’s action, not legislative enactment.”
“It is all perfectly legal. We’ve been enforcing these new appraisals all over the state.”
Mobley felt his cheeks start to pull back, the beginning of a Sagen growl. He looked down his nose, willing a glare to burn Oliver to ash. “Judge Oliver, it’s my job to decide what is legal here, not yours.” Mobley turned to Wiley, who sat silently watching the exchange. “Wiley Miner, have you ever been notified of the Commission’s decision regarding the seizure of your farm?”
“No. The first I heard of it was when Judge Oliver rode into my yard waivin’ that there paper. You seen it. That was the first time.”
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