“Your Honor,” said Crandall, his voice stiff with indignation, “if a man is innocent until proven guilty, why is my client chained like an animal? How can the jury be expected to render a fair verdict in the presence of what must appear tangible evidence of guilt?”
Blair was terse. “It is understood that the defendant’s shackles have no bearing upon his guilt or innocence. The fact that he has once attempted escape makes them necessary.”
“Your Honor, I object to the bench’s reference to an incident not at issue in this court.”
“Overruled. Do not attempt to delay these proceedings any further, counselor.”
“Why is he testifying?” Scout asked his partner. “I shouldn’t even have to cross-examine. One look at him is worth a guilty verdict.”
Bartholomew said, “McCall must have insisted.”
“They should build a statue to his arrogance. It’d be sixty feet high and made of brass.”
The defendant sat with his manacled hands gripping his knees and the same sullen look on his face he had worn throughout the trial. His sandy hair, freshly pomaded that morning, had come loose and tumbled over his neanderthal forehead. The crossed eye was prominent and red from rubbing. He had a cold.
Crandall wasted no time asking his first question. He wanted to get it over with. “Mr. McCall, you’ve sat through these proceedings and have heard the evidence presented by both sides. Have you anything to say about what’s come to light?”
The defendant responded in a harsh voice accustomed to bellowing, his misaligned eyes roving the courtroom. “Yes, you’re damned right, I got plenty to say. Years ago at Rock Creek that killer Hickok murdered my younger brother Andy with a hoe. I swore then and there I’d kill Wild Bill for it, and I have. I been following him around for years just waiting for the right chance.”
In the moment following McCall’s opening statement, the decorum Judge Blair had struggled so hard to maintain throughout three days of testimony fell apart. The judge’s busy gavel was drowned beneath scores of excited conversations, shouts, and bounding feet as journalists sitting on deadline hastened down the aisle toward the nearest telegraph office. “You tell the bastards, Buffalo Curly!” bawled a masculine voice from the back of the room. Rows away, Lorenzo Hickok boiled to his feet with fists clenched. Coloring, Blair pointed with his gavel and the voice’s owner was hustled out by the capable bailiff. Hickok sat back down. The judge spent five more minutes restoring order.
“I have no doubt that had the framers of the Constitution been present in this courtroom during that display, the words ‘speedy and public trial’ would never have appeared in that document,” he informed the gallery huffily. “I will not require more than another to clear the premises.”
“Would you care to elaborate on the circumstances of your brother’s death, Mr. McCall?” asked Crandall, in the subdued atmosphere which followed Blair’s admonition.
“I heard it said here that Wild Bill had it out with the McCanles gang at Rock Creek when they raided the stagecoach stop,” McCall began. “Well, the truth is that there never was no McCanles gang and no raid. Dave McCanles, who run the station, was bushwhacked by Wild Bill along with his cousin and young son and a hired hand named Jim Gordon. They was unarmed.”
“Objection!” said Scout. “Aside from being irrelevant, this reeks of hearsay.”
“The accused is offering testimony in his own defense, counselor.” Blair was still somewhat agitated. “You will have the opportunity to challenge his statements in cross-examination. Objection overruled.”
The prosecution sat down, his face twitching.
“Please continue,” Crandall urged his client.
“The main reason Wild Bill hated McCanles was McCanles, who was his boss, was always calling him Duck Bill on account of his upper lip that stuck out. My brother Andy and me—we was just kids—we lived near the station and we thought it was pretty funny, him being called Duck Bill. One day we was passing the station on our way to the fishing hole when we seen Hickok, and Andy said, ‘Howdy, Mr. Duck Bill.’ Joking like, you know kids.
“I never seen anyone get so mad as Hickok done when Andy called him that. He grabbed a hoe from in front of the building and took out after him. His legs was twice as long as Andy’s—it didn’t take him no time at all to run him to ground and hit him over the head with that hoe. Andy never come to.”
Anticipating the spectators’ reaction, Blair banged his gavel before it could get started. A wave of barely suppressed excitement swept through the gallery.
Scout rose, recognizing the uselessness of his motion even as he made it. “Your Honor, if this story is true, why has the defense brought forth no witnesses to substantiate it?”
Crandall raised his animated eyebrows. “I would remind counsel for the prosecution that the burden of proof in a criminal case is on the accuser, not the accused.”
“I suppose counsel for the defense has suggestions on how to go about proving a negative?”
“Any assistance I could offer would be construed as collusion.” The General spoke silkily.
“Enough!” The judge’s gavel punctuated the exclamation. “You’re overruled, counselor. Please sit down.”
“Why didn’t you go to the authorities after your brother was killed?” Crandall asked McCall.
“What authorities? I told you, Rock Creek was a stagecoach stop. There was nary a sheriff or a justice of the peace within a hundred miles.”
“And shortly thereafter Hickok became involved in his so-called showdown with McCanles and left Nebraska. You grew up and drifted into Deadwood, where you ran into Hickok once again. What happened then?”
The big man in shackles shrugged. On him the gesture looked sinister. “Nothing much. I seen him once or twice around town and in No. 10, and played poker with him once. He didn’t recognize me. He cleaned me out and had the gall to offer me six bits. I told him what he could do with it and left.”
“Did you at any time prior to the afternoon of August second draw a firearm to kill Hickok?”
“No, I did not.”
“What happened on the afternoon of August second?”
Benches creaked. Every person in the room was leaning forward to hear what Jack McCall had to say. The defendant was hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees, dry-washing his big scarred hands in the gulf between. The rasping sound his calluses made reached into every corner. His close-cropped head was cocked to one side as if he were listening to an inner voice.
“I knowed Hickok would be in No. 10 because he always was at that time, playing poker at the center table. But I didn’t have no idea of killing him, on account of he always sat facing the door and if he seen me come in after I got so mad at him the night before, he’d be ready for me. I didn’t have no money, he’d cleaned me out like I said. I figured I’d watch the game for a while and see if I could get a drink or two by promising to swamp out after the place closed.
“Even when I seen that Hickok wasn’t facing the door, I didn’t plan to kill him. He was just too damned fast to fool with. He didn’t notice me when I come in, on account of he was losing and in a bad mood about it. He started an argument with Cap’n Massey, who was sitting across from him. Something about the deadwood—I wasn’t paying too much attention. Anyway, I got nervous on account of how mad he was and he might see me and figure I was there to beef with him over our card game. I started out the back door. Then something come over me.”
He swept a nervous hand across his mouth, callus scraping against the beginnings of coarse stubble. His gaze was directed at the same section of floor he had been watching for days.
“I can’t explain it,” he continued. “Maybe it was because the argument was still going and no one seemed to have noticed me. Whatever. I turned around and come back to stand behind Wild Bill.
“I think he must of seen my reflection in his whiskey glass and got suspicious. He went for one of his pistols, but he was sitting down and I had the advanta
ge on him. I pulled my pistol out of my pocket and let him have it in the head before he could kill me. Then I got out in a hurry, because the place was starting to fill up with his friends.”
“Once again, Mr. McCall,” said the General, amid the hubbub erupting in the courtroom. “James Butler Hickok realized you were behind him and attempted to produce his weapon first.”
“That’s right.”
“Then it was self-defense.”
“Yes.”
“The penalties for perjury must look pretty soft when you’re sitting on a charge of first-degree murder,” Scout remarked to Bartholomew, leaning close and raising his voice to be heard over the pandemonium. Blair’s gavel was working like a Gatling gun.
“What’s your attack?” shouted his partner.
“This.” Scout pulled a manila folder from the stack of documents and opened it in front of Bartholomew. The older attorney studied it for a moment, then turned to regard his partner with something approaching awe.
“I received the letter from Cheyenne a week ago,” said Scout. “A lot of crank material came in that day, so I didn’t bother saying anything about it. I checked it out anyway. The affidavits arrived in this morning’s packet. Surprise.” He smiled faintly. His mind was elsewhere.
Bartholomew said nothing. The prosecutor glanced at him curiously. His partner’s eyes were directed beyond his shoulder. He turned to see the court-assigned deputy marshal approaching with a broad grin on his youthful face.
Chapter 19
“Where is Eloise?”
Grace was standing in the entrance hall trying to do up the cord of her maroon wrap and getting it hopelessly tangled. Marshal Burdick, having helped load a wagon with a handcuffed and sullen John Varnes and what was left of Tim Brady, was just reentering the mansion with his shotgun dangling at his side. He realized suddenly that he was still wearing the cook’s cloak, took it off hurriedly and draped it over the arm of the settee.
“I stashed her with a matron at the jail. Where are you going?” He stepped forward to help her with the cord. His thick fingers were no better suited to the task.
“I have to get to court and tell Julian I’m all right. Damn the thing! Oh, I’m sorry, Marshal.” Her hand flew to her mouth.
His astonished grin cracked the flesh at the corners of his eyes. “No need,” he said. “Damn, but I admire a woman who knows how to cuss. Scout’s lucky he saw you first. Don’t worry about him. I sent someone to give him the word.” He became solemn. “You want me to fetch a nurse for your mother?”
She shook her head. “She’s upstairs, resting. One of the maids is with her if she needs anything. The other one quit just now. I can’t say I blame her.” She got the cord undone and began to tie it correctly. “You wouldn’t understand, Marshal, but what happened here today may have been the best thing for Mother, Lord knows why. I haven’t seen her let go like that in two years. It’s a healthy sign.”
“You’re right, I don’t understand.” Then he grinned again. “But with your permission, I’ll come by someday soon and ask her.”
Grace smiled at him, surprised. “Marshal, are you planning to court my mother?”
“With your permission, ma’am,” he said. “She reminds me of my late wife. Not that she looks anything like her, but one time when I got back from town I saw the old lady shooing a six-hundred-pound black bear out of the kitchen with a broom. I can picture Mrs. Hope doing that. Damned if I can’t.”
“I warn you, she doesn’t hold with tobacco in any form.”
He was silent for a moment, thinking about it. Then, “How does she feel about hard liquor?”
“She’s been known to sip brandy on occasion. For medicinal purposes only.”
“Well,” he said, “it’s a start.”
A shrill scream brought their heads swinging in the direction of the kitchen. “That’s the housekeeper,” Grace whispered. Burdick was already moving toward the sound, shotgun leveled. At the door he paused and backed away.
Walter Donaldson and the deputy Burdick had untied after subduing Varnes came in carrying a corpse in a heavy canvas coat. A star glittered on its breast. There was something else on the breast that no longer glittered. Grace turned her head away quickly.
“You dumb bastards!” rasped the marshal. “Don’t you know better than to carry a thing like that through the house? Why didn’t you take it around outside like the other one?”
The young deputy with the beard was pale and grave. “Beg pardon, Marshal, but the hell with you. He was my pal and he was welcome enough anywhere when he was alive. Being dead don’t change nothing.”
“Where’d you find him?”
“In a pile of snow out back. Son of a bitch didn’t even have the decency to bury him proper.”
“What’d you expect, flowers? Get him the hell out of here.” He watched grimly as they bore their stiffening burden out the door. “I had myself buffaloed into thinking they’d leave my boys alone.” His voice was scarcely audible. “Funny, dead like that he don’t look much more than twenty. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe none of them are. Maybe I ought to retire sooner than I figured.”
The Greek handyman came in from the veranda. “They said to tell you they’re ready, Marshal.”
Burdick nodded. “Can I get you a cab, Mrs. Sargent? I’m sorry I can’t offer you a ride.”
“No, thank you.’ She tugged loose the cord securing her wrap. “As long as someone’s going to tell Julian, I think I’ll stay home with Mother. I don’t want to distract him.”
He looked at her. “That ain’t as easy as it sounds.”
“I know,” she said. The garment slid slowly from her shoulders.
“He’s a good man. You’re lucky, too. You’re both lucky.” He paused. “I hate to leave you with that mess in the kitchen. I can send someone back to take care of it.”
“I’m afraid one more strange face would send the rest of the staff packing. We can manage, Marshal. This isn’t the first violent death we’ve had in this house.”
“You ought to sell it. Well, good-bye.” He went out years older than he had been coming in. Grace stood listening as the horses leaned into the traces and bore away their grisly cargo. She didn’t go out to meet the crowd that had gathered on the street. After a moment she turned and took the curving staircase to Dora Hope’s bedroom on the second floor.
As the deputy returned to his post at the courtroom doors, Judge Blair gave Scout a questioning look that drew no answer from the prosecutor’s carefully controlled features. Crandall, back in his place at the defense table, peered at him suspiciously for a moment, then sat back, confident that nothing had happened that would affect his defense. Gannon continued writing as if nothing existed for him beyond the trial.
“McCall,” greeted the prosecutor, approaching the defendant. “Mister” caught in his throat. “This is not the first time you have claimed that Wild Bill Hickok killed your brother, is it? Nor is it the first time you have failed to produce witnesses to support that assertion.”
“Is that a question?” It was a snarl. McCall was gripping his knees again, looking like a poorly wrought statue of an Egyptian pharaoh.
“Why is it that no one has come forward to back you up?”
“My crowd moves around a lot. I reckon they’re hard to locate.”
“Non-existent people always are.” Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Crandall start to rise and said, “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I withdraw the comment.” When the judge nodded: “You said that Hickok ‘went for one of his pistols’ when he saw you approaching from behind in the saloon on August second. Did you mean one of the derringers in his side pockets? One of the Colts in his sash? Perhaps even his shotgun lying nearby?”
“I don’t know which he was after. He moved and I let him have it.”
“Why is it that you alone witnessed this maneuver?”
“Maybe it’s because I wasn’t Wild Bill’s friend, like them others,” he sneered. “Maybe they seen what
they wanted to.”
“Why didn’t you go around in front of Wild Bill and shoot him in the face like a man?”
“I didn’t want to commit suicide.”
The spectators broke into raucous laughter. Blair banged for order. Scout half-smiled and waited patiently for the mirth to subside, knowing that the exchange would be repeated far and wide and become part of the legend. It was a strange moment. He had the feeling that every move he made was part of some prearranged pattern he couldn’t break out of if he tried. What sort of man had Hickok been that he could exercise such influence over the lives of others months after his own was finished?
“Do you still maintain that revenge was your only motive in wanting to kill Hickok?” The question lashed out in the gulf of silence that followed the gallery’s merriment.
“I do. He killed my brother Andy, like I said, with a hoe.”
Scout shook his head. He had one hand in his trousers pocket and was leaning on the other atop the rail before the witness box. “That won’t do.”
McCall’s one normal eye focused on him, and for the first time since the trial had begun he smiled. His remaining teeth were the color of tobacco and speckled black. “Prove otherwise.”
“I intend to.” The prosecutor turned his back on him. “What do you do for a living?”
He didn’t see the defendant shrug, but he knew he had. “Odd jobs, mostly. Some prospecting. Whatever I can get.”
“Is it lucrative?” Getting no answer, he rephrased it. “Do you make much money?”
McCall snorted. “Hell, no, I’m damned lucky if I eat.”
“Where did you get the money to play poker with Hickok on August first?”
There was a pause, then, “I don’t rightly remember.”
“You don’t?” Scout turned around. “You just said you were lucky when you made enough to eat, yet you don’t remember where you obtained enough to sit in on a game with a professional gambler. It seems to me that would be a high-water mark in any drifter’s life.”
Aces & Eights Page 15