“Just don’t push him too far. A recess while he cools his heels in jail could hurt us.”
“You’re the one who taught me how to bring someone to the brink and leave him teetering.”
“I also taught you to make sure you know which way the wind is blowing first.”
The comment irritated Scout. “What are you most worried about, my losing this case or ruining your chances to put me in office?”
Bartholomew’s head jerked backward as if recoiling from a physical blow. Ashamed of his outburst, the prosecutor was about to apologize when his partner lashed out in a vicious whisper: “Who told you that, your rich lady friend?” His face was distorted.
“Leave her out of this, Tessie.”
The warning, delivered in a low murmur, made the older attorney back off. “It’s a shaky point,” he said, returning to the original subject. “I’m surprised Crandall didn’t call for a declaration of mistrial on the grounds of bench prejudice.”
It took Scout a moment to adjust to the swift change. Then he shook his head. “Blair would just deny it, and then where would he be? A prejudiced magistrate is better than a hostile one. Anyway, he knows Blair isn’t prejudiced, just in a hurry to finish. We’ve got Crandall backed into a corner.”
“Which is when he’s most dangerous.”
It was Scout’s turn to change the subject. The flare-up, their first while a trial was in progress, had unsettled him. He hadn’t realized that the animosity between his partner and his future intended went so deep. “Did you get our witness settled in?”
“When I left him he was in the middle of a flurry of clerks and bellhops. They made less fuss in St. Paul when President Grant visited.”
“We’re pinning a lot on him. What kind of impression do you think he’ll make?”
“He’ll make an impression; count on it.”
General Crandall came puffing into the courtroom just as Blair was reaching for his gavel; he was lugging a stack of dusty documents as thick as Bartholomew’s own under one arm. Asked by the judge if he was ready to proceed, he replied that he was, upon which the gavel descended and Scout rose with the copy of Harper’s open to the first page of the article about Wild Bill.
“‘Several months after the ending of the Civil War,’” he read, “‘I visited the city of Springfield in southwest Missouri. Springfield is not a burgh of extensive dimensions, yet it is the largest in that part of the state, and all roads lead to it—which is one reason why it was the point d’appui, as well as the base of operations for all military movements during the war … .’”
Quoting from the journal, the prosecutor described the writer’s introduction to Wild Bill during his stay in Springfield, repeating what Hickok had told him of his adventures. He related Bill’s experiences as an espionage agent and sharpshooter for the Union, his victory single-handed over nine armed members of the McCanles gang in defense of Nebraska’s Rock Creek Station in 1861, his 1865 winning fast-draw battle against Dave Tutt in Springfield, ending in the latter’s death. For support he called upon information contained in other publications, which were also tagged as evidence over Crandall’s objections, and used them to bring other incidents to light, among them Hickok’s famous duel with Phil Coe serving as city marshal of Abilene, Kansas, five years ago:
“‘Trouble between Wild Bill and Coe had been brewing for some time over the unwholesome activities going on beneath the roof of Thompson and Coe’s Bull’s Head Saloon,’” he said, reading from a yellowed and brittle newspaper clipping. “‘Wild Bill had directed Coe on several occasions to “clean up” his business “or answer to me,” and had collected only abuse in return, which he accepted with his customary equanimity. On the night of October 5 a drunken row broke out at First Street and Cedar, in the course of which a shot was fired. Wild Bill came charging out of the Alamo Hotel, demanding to know who had discharged a firearm within the city limits.
“‘Coe, his pistol still in hand, informed him sneeringly that he had just shot a dog “and am fixing to shoot another.” But before he could fire, Bill drew his own weapon and a volley ensued. One ball passed between the marshal’s limbs, another dislodged his hat from his head. One man in the crowd was killed and two others were wounded, probably by Coe’s hand. Bill struck Coe in the groin with his last ball, injuring him fatally.’”
Finishing, Scout cast a sidelong glance at the jury and was pleased to see that they had been hanging on every word. Hickok’s bravery and sense of duty were firmly established.
“Instructions, Your Honor,” said Crandall, shattering the mood. “Since one cannot cross-examine a document, may I question counsel for the prosecution?”
Blair pursed his lips. With his bluish complexion the expression made him look like a fish. “It’s highly irregular,” he responded finally, “but then so is this entire chain of evidence. Unless Mr. Scout has objections I’ll direct the bailiff to administer the oath.”
“That won’t be necessary, Your Honor.” The General gestured expansively. “My colleague seems an honorable man.”
“Your faith is heartening, counselor,” said the judge, “but procedure will be followed. Mr. Scout?”
“No objections, Your Honor.”
“Very well. Bailiff.”
Once the prosecutor was sworn in, Crandall left him sitting in the box while he strolled over to the broad rail before the jury where the documents had been deposited, and studied them page by page. The idea, Scout knew, was to make him nervous. The gallery was becoming restless and Blair was fingering his gavel when Crandall finally spoke. He was leaning with his not inconsiderable backside supported against the rail and held the newspaper clipping in one hand.
“It appears, Mr. Scout, that you did not read the entire account of the duel in Abilene.”
“Newspaper accounts are often wordy,” Scout said calmly. “I read what I thought was applicable.”
Crandall approached him. “We’ll have what is and is not applicable to the bench, if you don’t mind. Your Honor?” He handed the clipping up to Blair, who put on his spectacles and pored over the item for the second time, frowning. At length he returned it.
“Proceed, counselor.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” The General extended the clipping to the man in the box. “Would you mind reading from where you left off, Mr. Scout?”
Scout studied his opponent’s face for a moment before replying. Teeth showed at the corners of his benevolent smile. “Not at all,” said the prosecutor, accepting the scrap.
“‘ … Bill struck Coe in the groin with his last ball, injuring him fatally. But one of his earlier shots had killed Wild Bill’s own friend Mike Williams, who had come to his aid, and whom Bill had mistaken for an enemy. The marshal had been so quick on the trigger that he had not had time to distinguish friend from foe.’”
The spectators buzzed. Crandall fired his next question before Blair could wield his gavel. “Mr. Scout, have you any reason to doubt this newspaper’s veracity?”
Scout smiled at him ruefully. “I’d be a fool to do so after entering it as evidence, now wouldn’t I, counselor?”
“The witness is instructed to answer the question,” said the judge.
“I have no reason for doubt.”
“Don’t you find it odd that a man ‘so quick on the trigger’ as to shoot down a friend by mistake would not lift a finger to defend himself when his life was really at stake, as in Saloon No. 10?”
“Objection,” said Scout. “Leading the witness.”
“Sustained. Rephrase the question, General.”
“I withdraw it, Your Honor.” Crandall stepped away. “I’m through with this witness. For now.”
“Strike the question from the record. The jury will disregard it. Would you care to, er, redirect, Mr. Scout?” Blair seemed uncertain.
“No, Your Honor.”
“Then you may step down and summon your next … witness.”
Bartholomew had the next volume ready whe
n his partner returned to their table. His expression told Scout that everything was under control. Scout replied with a grimace that said he hoped he was right.
Chapter 9
“The book’s title is My Life on the Plains. Its author is George Armstrong Custer.” Relishing the visible effect of the exalted name upon the jury, the prosecutor reclaimed the slim volume from the judge and strode over to the defense table to show it to Crandall, who fluttered the pages perfunctorily and handed it back.
“I have no objections other than those already raised,” he said casually.
The judge glared at him. “Is that an objection, counselor?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Don’t keep me guessing. The clerk will label it as evidence.”
“In case there is one in this room who is not familiar with the author’s name,” said Scout, when the book was returned, “he is that same Lieutenant Colonel Custer who lost his life heroically at the Little Big Horn massacre in June of this year, along with every member of his command. This autobiographical account of his experiences as an Indian fighter appeared in a series of articles for Galaxy magazine in 1872 and was published in book form two years ago. This is what he wrote about James Butler Hickok, who served him as chief of scouts during the punitive expedition of 1867:
“‘Of his courage there could be no question; it had been brought to the test on too many occasions to admit of a doubt. His skill in the use of the rifle and pistol was unerring; while his deportment was exactly the opposite of what might be expected from a man of his surroundings. It was entirely free from all bluster or bravado. He seldom spoke of himself unless requested to do so. His conversation, strange to say, never bordered either on the vulgar or the blasphemous.’”
He inserted a marker and closed the book, milking the silence that greeted the brief reading; then, with elaborate courtesy, he stepped over to the defense table and presented it to Crandall. The General accepted it in kind, with a smile and a short bow of his head. Rising, he retained the smile.
“Let us hope that the author was a better judge of character than he was of Indians,” he commented quietly.
There was a loud guffaw from the rear of the room. Blair jerked upright behind the bench. “Bailiff, remove that man!” A blue vein Scout had not noticed previously throbbed on the judge’s right temple. “As for you, General, I warned you what to expect the next time you indulged in these confounded asides. You’re in contempt. You will remain where you are until the bailiff has disposed of your unmannerly counterpart in the back row, after which he will escort you to a cell where you will spend the night. Perhaps by morning you will have learned the importance of decorum in a court of law.”
The ruling was delivered over miscellaneous grunts and scuffles as the gallery offender, a bearded frontiersman in frayed buckskins, was hoisted to his feet by an arm twisted behind his back and marched out the double doors, all with a minimum of movement on the part of the older and smaller officer. He returned a few moments later for Crandall.
“Damn!” whispered Scout, as the General, looking properly cowed but with a glitter of triumph in his eyes, allowed the bailiff to take his arm.
“I will accept my punishment, Your Honor,” he said. “In the meantime I request a recess.”
“Granted. Court is adjourned until tomorrow morning at nine.”
“The bastard planned it!” His pipe unlighted and forgotten between his teeth, the prosecutor watched a ferry unloading below the office window without seeing it. “For once we caught him off guard, but he bought time as if he had it set aside just for him. What do you want to bet Gannon’s with him in his cell right now, planning their next move?”
“No bet,” said Bartholomew, ensconced in the leather armchair with My Life on the Plains open in his hands. He seemed more interested in the book than in their predicament.
“He plays Blair like a piano.”
“Don’t sell the judge short. He couldn’t very well go on warning Crandall without backing it up. Once the bench relinquishes its control, justice becomes bedlam.”
“Put it in Latin and carve it on a portal at Harvard. I’ve had enough of your wise old sayings for one triaL” Scout’s tone was bitter.
“Sorry.”
He turned from the window. “Don’t go hurt on me, Tessie. You know how I am when things aren’t going perfectly. But, damn it, we had him on the run! Blair could have fined him or postponed his sentence until the trial was over.”
“He lost his temper. Judges have been known to do that on occasion, as have prosecuting attorneys.”
“I deserved that. I’m sorry for what I said in the courtroom. I was under pressure.”
“But you meant it when you said it.” Bartholomew closed the book and looked up at him. “Julian, if you think I’m pushing you too hard, I wish you’d tell me. It’s just that staying where you are would be a criminal waste of talent.”
“That’s where we differ. Grace likes me where I am.”
“I thought you didn’t want to bring her into it.”
“I don’t.” It came out more abruptly than Scout had intended. Rather than apologize again he decided to drop the topic. “What now?”
“Now, we eat lunch.” Bartholomew, who had been consulting his watch, laid aside Custer’s book and stood.
“Lunch? Now?”
“It is precisely noon, the usual hour. Let it go, Julian. Our case is set; the burden’s on their shoulders, not ours.”
“I can’t help wondering what they’re up to.”
“That’s healthy.” The older attorney took down his coat and tossed the other to his partner. “On our way out, ask your bodyguard where he wants to eat.”
After their meal, they repaired to Cody’s hotel, where they found the great scout in his room sitting down to an opulent spread surrounded by dazzling silver, a pale-faced waiter lifting the covers off the various dishes for the diner’s approval. As he rose to greet his visitors, Bartholomew noted with satisfaction that Cody had exchanged his outlandish frontier garb for a ruffled white shirt and black suit with frock coat. But the famous physique was well in evidence.
“Would you gentlemen care to join me?” he asked, after introductions had been made and hands shaken. “As usual I’ve ordered considerably more than I require, a habit I fear will ruin me.” He patted his stomach and the faint beginnings of a paunch.
The attorneys declined, but accepted seats in a pair of red plush armchairs of a design Buffalo Bill referred to, with unexpected candor, as “whorehouse modern” while he loaded his plate with roast duck and swordfish and mashed potatoes with dark gravy and half a dozen vegetables Scout swore were out of season, and allowed the waiter to fill his glass with white wine. As the hotel employee was leaving, Cody glimpsed the deputy marshal stationed outside the door and asked about him.
“A formality,” Scout lied. “The government insists upon overprotecting the prosecution team whenever a celebrated case is being tried. It’s a waste of taxpayers’ money, but we have nothing to say about it.”
“Must be a new policy.” Cody chewed thoughtfully. “I’ll have to ask General Grant about it the next time I dine at the White House.”
Bartholomew changed the subject by explaining that they wished to go over Cody’s testimony, which they had decided would take place tomorrow morning in spite of the delay engineered by Crandall. The three spent the next half hour discussing Buffalo Bill’s relationship with Hickok while the host demolished the huge meal.
“Wild Bill wasn’t cut out for the stage,” he announced, refilling his glass for the third time. “I only saw him once more after he left the company in Rochester, when I was camped with the 5th Cavalry on Sage Creek in eastern Wyoming and he got off his train at a ranch nearby. We had a hand or two of poker, but he was on his way to the Black Hills and couldn’t tarry. That was in July. After he left we got word of Custer’s massacre and were ordered north to join General Crook. It wasn’t until I got back East that
someone told me Wild Bill had been killed a month after we parted.”
“What is your opinion of Hickok’s character?” asked Scout. Throughout the narrative he had been making notes in a pad drawn from his breast pocket.
Cody replaced the glass stopper atop the decanter of wine. His hand was steady. Bartholomew caught himself wondering how many glassfuls he could ingest before it wasn’t. The frontiersman looked grim.
“I would have trusted him with my life,” he said. “Did, in fact, upon more than one occasion.”
Smiling, the prosecutor flipped the pad shut. “That’s all we need, Colonel. Thank you.”
After they had sat politely through the story of the Rawhide Creek battle, which had by then assumed the proportions of a major action, the attorneys thanked their host again and left.
“We’ve got Crandall by the short hairs now,” Scout told Bartholomew, as the lanky deputy fell into step behind them.
“The trial’s not over yet,” cautioned his partner.
A matinee was playing at the theater that afternoon. Scout obtained tickets and sent a messenger to Grace’s home, armed with flowers and an apology for last night, to find out if she cared to accompany him. She did, and at two o’clock he came to collect her. Mrs. Hope was nowhere in sight, for which he was thankful. He asked about her.
“She’s locked in her room with her precious newspapers,” said Grace, with a gaiety that seemed forced. She had on a bright yellow dress and was tucking her hair beneath a matching bonnet, to the prosecutor’s mind a welcome contrast to the bleakness outside. “Have you seen today’s?” She handed him the Daily Press and Dakotaian. The lead column carried a fairly straightforward account of the trial’s first day, but Scout’s eyes were drawn to an item near the bottom of the second column.
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