Interest in the trial was so high that all the seats were soon taken up. Because Duff was going to be a witness, he was accorded a reserved seat. The bailiff escorted him to a chair next to Lydia, the girl from the saloon in Millersburgh¸ from whom Duff had taken the brooch. She, too, would be a witness.
“Hello,” she said with a shy smile.
“Hello,” Duff replied. “Lydia, isn’t it?”
“Yes!” Lydia’s s smile broadened because he had remembered her. “I’ve never done anything like this before.” She laughed. “I’ve been in a saloon, of course. I mean I’ve never testified in a trial.”
“There’s nae a thing to it,” Duff said reassuringly. “The solicitor will ask you some questions, and you’ve but to answer them truthfully.”
“Solicitor?”
“The lawyer.”
“Oh. Well, if all I have to do is answer some questions, I can do that.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Wally Jacobs returned to Rawhide Buttes, leading two saddled horses. He stopped at the livery stable, but had to shout several times before someone finally came out.
“Where is everyone?” he asked, irritated by the delay.
“They’re all down at the trial.”
“I need to board these horses for a while.”
“How long?”
“Just keep ’em ‘till I come for ’em.”
“Reason I asked, you want to leave the saddles on?”
“No, it’ll be at least one day, maybe a couple more.” Jacobs signed in, paid one night in advance, then walked on down the street.
He saw a gallows under construction, nearly completed. It was sitting in an open space just beside the jail, visible from the street and from the cell window. “What’s that for?” he asked one of the carpenters.
“It’s to hang a couple murderin’ rapists, that’s what it’s for,” the carpenter replied.
“You mean you’ve already had the trial?”
“No, they ain’t been tried yet. But they’re about to be.”
“Where is the trial to take place?”
“Down to the Lucky Star Saloon, but it won’t do you no good to go there. You won’t be able to get a seat. Ever’body in the whole county is wantin’ to see them two get what’s comin’ to ’em.”
Jacobs nodded, then continued on down to the Lucky Star. The carpenters were right about the place being crowded. By the time he entered the saloon there were no seats left. That didn’t really bother him. He would much rather remain unobtrusively at the back of the saloon, anyway. He could watch everything that was going on without being noticed.
He stepped up the bar. “Gimme a beer.”
“No beer.”
“You’re out of beer? This is a saloon, ain’t it? What kind of saloon would run out of beer?”
“We’re not out of beer, and this isn’t a saloon. Right now, it’s a courtroom. The bar is closed till after trial.”
At that moment, the deputy sheriff came through a door in the back of the room. “Oyez, oyez, oyez, this here court is about to convene, the honorable Judge Daniel Kirkpatrick presiding. I’ll be acting as bailiff. Everybody get up. Bartender, don’t you be servin’ no liquor of any kind till after the trial is over, these two have been found guilty, and the judge has sentenced ’em to be hung.”
“You don’t have to be worryin’ none about that, Deputy. I closed the bar more ’n an hour ago ’n I ain’t served a drop since.”
Judge Kirkpatrick was wearing a black robe when he came out of the back room of the saloon and took a seat at his bench, which was the best table in the saloon. It had been placed upon a raised platform that had been built just for this purpose.
He took his glasses off, cleaned the lenses, then put them back on, very deliberately. For a moment, he stared out at the packed room. Finally, he picked up his gavel and pounded it on the table. “Are counselors present for both prosecution and defense?”
“David Tadlock for prosecution, Your Honor,” a rather short, gray-headed man said, standing as he responded.
“Robert Rodale for defense, Your Honor.” Rodale was a heavyset bald man, with thick glasses.
“Very well, trial may begin. Mr. Prosecutor, opening comments,” the judge instructed.
Tadlock walked over to the roped-off area, behind which sat twelve jurors. There had been no voir dire of the jurors beyond ascertaining if all were sober.
He began by reminding the jurors of what outstanding citizens John and Nora Guthrie were. “John was president of the Rawhide Buttes Cattlemen’s Association, and Mrs. Guthrie was superintendent of the children’s Sunday school. These two men, possessed of souls so evil that it defies description, killed not only Mr. and Mrs. Guthrie, but their two wonderful children. Because there are ladies present in the gallery, I won’t be so graphic as to tell you what perfidious acts they visited upon Nora Guthrie, and her sweet, innocent, fourteen-year-old daughter, Suzie. Needless to say, the evilness of it defies description.” He paused for effect, and got the gasps of horror that he wanted from the ladies who were present.
“Prosecution will present irrefutable evidence that the defendants, Jesse and T. Bob Cave, are the guilty parties.” Tadlock took his seat.
The court waited an embarrassingly long time for Rodale to give his opening statement.
Judge Kirkpatrick looked over at him. “Mr. Rodale, I will not have this case thrown out on appeal because of inept defense. You will make an opening comment.”
Rodale stood, but he didn’t approach the jurors. He remained behind the table and looked toward them, with almost a pathetic expression on his face. He started to speak in a halting voice so low only those at the very front of the room heard him.
“Speak up, Rodale, we can’t hear you back here!” a man shouted.
Judge Kirkpatrick slammed his gavel against the table. “The next person who shouts out will be removed from my courtroom,” he said angrily. “You, Mr. Rodale. Please speak loudly enough that all can hear.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Rodale cleared his throat. “I would remind the gentlemen of the jury, that there are no eyewitnesses to the murder, no one we can question as to the validity of their testimony. Without eyewitnesses, it will be impossible for you to find my clients guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt.” Rodale sat down.
The first witness for the prosecution was sworn in.
“Tell the court your full name,” Tadlock said.
“Jim Merrick.”
“Is it true that you are the one who found the bodies?”
“Yes.”
“And you found them inside the Guthrie home?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing there?” the prosecutor asked.
“I am vice president of the Rawhide Buttes Cattlemen’s Association. I went out to John’s ranch to talk about the Christmas dinner the Association was going to have. I saw the back door standing open, which I thought was odd for such a cold day. So I went inside, and that’s when I found Mrs. Guthrie and the two children. It was . . . awful.”
“Did you see John Guthrie?”
“No, not at that time.”
“When did you find Mr. Guthrie?”
“I started searching through the house and found him slumped over his desk. There was blood all over his legs, the chair he was sitting in, and the floor.”
“What did you do then?”
“I, uh, covered the bodies of Mrs. Guthrie and the young girl, then I rode back into town as fast as I could and got Marshal Worley.”
“Thank you. No further questions. Your witness, Mr. Rodale.”
“No questions.”
“Witness may step down,” Judge Kirkpatrick instructed.
Marshal Worley was the next witness. After a few questions, Tadlock walked over to the evidentiary table and picked up a bloodstained sheet of paper. He showed it to Worley. “Have you ever seen this before?”
“Yes. It’s a note, written by John Guthrie.”
�
��Objection,” Rodale called. “It is only supposition that Guthrie wrote that note.”
“Sustained,” the judge ruled.
“Why do you say it was written by John Guthrie?” Tadlock asked the marshal. “Is that what Mr. Merrick told you when he gave it to you?”
“He didn’t give me the note. He left it where it was. The first time I saw it, it was on the table under John’s hand. Rigor mortis had set in, and he was still clutching the pen.”
“And does the note say who attacked him and his family?”
“It does.” Worley pointed to the defendant’s table. “It says they did it.”
Tadlock looked over toward the jury. “In his opening remarks, Mr. Rodale suggested that we have no eyewitness to this murder.” He held up the piece of paper. “But this note provides that eyewitness for us, and it is no less than John Guthrie himself.” Turning away from Marshal Worley, Tadlock walked back to his seat.
“You may cross, Mr. Rodale,” the judge said.
Rodale approached the witness and, for a long moment just stared at him, whether trying to gather his thoughts, or make a point, nobody knew. Finally he spoke. “Marshal Worley, how long have been a city marshal?”
“Three years, here in Rawhide Buttes. I was a deputy sheriff over in Carbon County for a year before that, and, before that, a policeman in St. Louis.”
“Then you have certainly been around long enough to understand the term circumstantial evidence, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but this—”
“Just answer yes or no, please,” Rodale said, interrupting Worley’s response. “The truth is, you didn’t actually see Mr. Guthrie write that note, did you? It could have been written by Mr. Merrick, couldn’t it?”
“What? No, I doubt that.”
“You doubt it, but you don’t know for a fact, do you? Since nobody saw the note as it was being written, no one can state for a fact that Mr. Merrick didn’t write it. He was the first one on the scene, was he not? So, it is not impossible to suppose that Merrick, for some reason of his own, could have written that note. The point is, we have no eyewitness, which means we have no one we can question. We have only this note, which prosecution wants us to assume was written by Mr. Guthrie. But in order to do so, we must depend upon circumstantial evidence only.”
“I suppose you could say that,” Worley said hesitantly.
“No further questions.”
Kirkpatrick looked at the prosecutor. “Redirect, Mr. Tadlock.”
“Not needed, Your Honor. Mr. Rodale’s attempt to portray this note as evidence not in fact is nothing but a defensive ploy, and a weak one at that. Prosecution calls Duff MacCallister.”
Duff walked to the front of the room, placed his left hand on a Bible held by the bailiff, and raised his right.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the bailiff intoned.
“I do.”
“Witness may be seated,” the judge said.
The prosecutor approached. “You are the one who brought in the two defendants. Is that correct?”
“Aye.”
“Objection,” Rodale called.
“What is the objection?” Judge Kirkpatrick asked.
“He didn’t bring in two men, he brought in three men, one of whom was dead. And MacCallister is the one who killed him.”
“Sustained. Counselor will rephrase the question as to the number of men Mr. MacCallister brought in.”
“Did you, in fact, bring in three men?” Tadlock asked.
“Aye, three men it was.”
“And one, a man name Sunset Moss, was dead when you brought him in?”
“Aye.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Aye.”
“Why did you kill him?”
“When I attempted to arrest them, Mr. Moss took issue and fired at me. I returned fire. Moss missed. I didn’t.”
Tadlock returned to the evidence table and picked up the brooch. “Would you tell the court about this, please?”
Duff nodded. “’Tis called a Scottish Lion brooch.”
“Do you have some personal connection to the brooch?”
“Aye. I gave it to young Suzie Guthrie for her birthday, last September.”
“Did you ever see her wear it?”
“She was wearing it the last time I saw her.”
“And is that the last time you saw the brooch?”
“Nae, I saw it being worn by a young lady in Millersburgh.”
“And did she tell you where she got it?”
“Objection, that is hearsay.”
“I withdraw the question,” Tadlock said. “The lady in question will be a witness, and we can get her direct testimony as to how she came by the brooch. Your witness, counselor.”
“Mr. MacCallister, did you pursue my clients from a sense of personal outrage?”
“I was outraged by what happened, aye, and who wouldn’t be?”
“But nobody else acted on their personal outrage, did they? Only you felt sufficiently driven by revenge to chase them down.”
“I can speak for nobody else. But I did chase them down,” Duff said.
“And when you found them, your rage over what you think they might have done was enough to cause you to kill Sunset Moss. That is true, isn’t it?”
“Nae, ’tisn’t true.”
“Oh? Didn’t you just confess before this court that you shot and killed the gentlemen in question?”
“He was nae gentlemen, and it was nae rage that caused me to shoot him. It was self-defense. He shot at me first.”
“But you did feel some satisfaction that he was dead.”
It wasn’t a question, and Duff felt no need to answer. The two men stared at each other for a moment, then Rodale sat down.
“Mr. MacCallister, is it true that you were deputized by Sheriff Martin so that you had the authority to go after these men?” Tadlock asked from his seated position behind the prosecutor’s table.
“Aye, ’tis true.”
“Your Honor, permission to approach?” Tadlock asked.
“Both counselors may approach.”
As they approached, Tadlock presented a telegram. “I would like to enter this telegram as evidence. In it, you see that Sheriff Martin did deputize Mr. MacCallister.”
“You care to examine, Mr. Rodale?” the judge asked.
Rodale looked at the telegram, then nodded.
“It may be entered as evidence,” the judge said.
Tadlock turned and faced the gallery. “And I would like to call my next witness, Mayor R.W. Guthrie.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Everyone looked toward the short, stout man with the rather oversized nose as he approached the witness chair. An expression of intense sorrow showed on his face as he was sworn in.
“Mr. Guthrie, I know this is difficult for you, but I show you this brooch, and ask if you have ever seen it before,” Tadlock asked.
“Yes, it was given to my granddaughter by Duff MacCallister.”
“And did you ever see her wear it?”
“She wore it all the time.”
“Thank you, I won’t trouble you with any further questions.” Tadlock sat down.
“Defense?” Judge Kirkpatrick asked.
“No questions of this witness, Your Honor.”
Tadlock stood back up. “Prosecution calls Lydia Smith to the stand.”
Lydia, modestly dressed and without makeup, approached nervously. The bailiff swore her in.
“Is Lydia Smith your real name?” Tadlock asked.
“No, sir,” she answered.
“What is your real name?”
“Agnes Wood.”
“Why are you called Lydia Smith?”
“Girls in my . . . uh . . . profession often use different names.”
Tadlock showed her the brooch. “Have you ever seen this brooch before?”
“Yes. Someone gave it to me.”
“Is the person who gave it to you present in this room?”
“Yes.”
“Would you point him out, please?”
“Him.” Lydia pointed to the man sitting at the right end of the table.
“Let it be known that the witness has pointed to T. Bob Cave as the man who gave her the brooch that was taken from young Suzie Guthrie.”
“How can we believe this . . . woman . . . when we didn’t even know her real name?” Rodale called out.
Angrily, Judge Kirkpatrick banged his gavel on the table. “One more outburst like that, Counselor, and you will be held in contempt!”
“Prosecution rests, Your Honor,” Tadlock said.
“Defense, you may make your case now,” the judge said.
Rodale stood. “If it please the court, defense calls Jesse Cave.”
Jesse was sworn in, then he took the witness chair.
“Did you know John Guthrie?” Rodale asked.
“Yeah, I know’d ’im.”
“How so?”
“Me ’n my brother ’n Sunset all worked for Mr. Guthrie.”
“When you say Sunset, you are talking about the man MacCallister killed?”
“Yeah.”
“How was Mr. Guthrie to work for?”
“He was a good man. He was good to his hands, ’n he paid fair wages.”
“Did you, and or your brother, and or Sunset Moss kill John Guthrie and his family?”
“No, we didn’t do it,” Jesse said.
“Did you know he was dead?”
“Yeah, the three of us was out doin’ some work, ’n when we come back to the house, we found Guthrie and his whole family dead.”
“Did you see a note that Mr. Guthrie is alleged to have written?”
“No, we didn’t see no note.”
“Did you notify anyone?”
“No, we didn’t tell nobody nothin’ ’cause we figured we’d more ’n likely get blamed for it, so we took off runnin’. And, it turns out, we was blamed for it.”
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