Max Brand (7 page)

"How long is this going to be dragged out?" asked the judge in disgust.
"The worst lynching I ever see, that's what I call it! They ain't no
justice in it—it's just plain torture." "Partner," declared Riley
Sinclair, "I'm sure glad to see that you got a good appetite for a
killing. But it's just come home to me that in spite of everything,
this here gent might be innocent. And if he is, heaven help our souls.
We're done for!"

"Bless you for that!" exclaimed Gaspar.

"Shut up!" said Sinclair. "No matter what you done, you deserve hangin'
for being yaller. But concerning this here matter, gents, it looks to
me like it'd be a pretty good idea to have a fair and square trial for
Gaspar."

"Trial?" asked Buck Mason. "Don't we all know what trials end up with?
Law ain't no good, except to give lawyers a living."

"Never was a truer thing said," declared Sinclair. "All I mean is, that
you and me and the rest of us run a trial for ourselves. Let's get in
the evidence and hear the witness and make out the case. If we decide
they ain't enough agin' Gaspar to hang him, then let him go. If we
decide to stretch him up, we'll feel a pile better about it and nearer
to the truth."

He went on steadily in spite of the groans of disapproval on every
side. "Why, this is all laid out nacheral for a courtroom. That there
stump is for the judge, and the black rock yonder is where the prisoner
sits. That there nacheral bench of grass is where the jury sits. Gents,
could anything be handier for a trial than this layout?"

To the theory of the thing they had been entirely unresponsive, but to
the chance to play a game, and a new game, they responded instantly.

"Besides," said Judge Lodge, "I'll act as the judge. I know something
about the law."

"No, you won't," declared Riley. "I thought up this little party, and
I'm going to run it." Then he stepped to the stump and sat down on it.

Denver Jim was already heartily in the spirit of the thing.

"Sit down on that black rock, Jig," he said, taking Gaspar to the
designated stone as he spoke, and removing the noose from the latter's
neck. "Black is a sign you're going to swing in the end. Jest a
triflin' postponement, that's all."

Riley placated the judge with his first appointment. "Judge Lodge," he
said, "you know a pile about these here things. I appoint you clerk.
It's your duty to take out that little notebook you got in your vest
pocket and write down a note for the important things that's said.
Savvy?"

"Right," replied Lodge, entirely won over, and he settled himself on
the grass, with the notebook on his knee and a stub of a pencil poised
over it.

"Larsen, you're sergeant-at-arms."

"How d'you mean that, Sinclair?"

"That's what they call them that keeps order; I disremember where I
heard it. Larsen, if anybody starts raising a rumpus, it's up to you to
shut 'em up."

"I'll sure do it," declared Larsen. "You can sure leave that to me,
judge." He hoisted his gun belt around so that the gun butt hung more
forward and readier to his hand.

"Denver, you're the jailer. You see the prisoner don't get away. Keep
an eye on him, you see?"

"Easy, judge," replied Denver. "I can do it with one hand."

"Montana, you keep the door."

"What d'you mean—door, judge?"

"Ain't you got no imagination whatever?" demanded Sinclair. "You keep
the door. When I holler for a witness you go and get 'em. And
Sandersen, you're the hangman. Take charge of that rope!"

"That ain't such an agreeable job, your honor."

"Neither is mine. Go ahead."

Sandersen, glowering, gathered up the rope and draped it over his arm.

"Buck Mason, you're the jury. Sit down over there on your bench, will
you? This here court being kind of shorthanded, you got to do twelve
men's work. If it's too much for you, the rest of us will help out."

"Your honor," declared Buck, much impressed, "I'll sure do my best."

"The jury's job," explained Sandersen, "is to listen to everything and
not say nothing, but think all the time. You'll do your talking in one
little bunch when you say guilty or not guilty. Now we're ready to
start. Gaspar, stand up!"

Denver Jim officiously dragged the schoolteacher to his feet.

"What's your name?"

"Name?" asked the bewildered Gaspar. "Why, everybody knows my name!"

"Don't make any difference," announced Sinclair. "This is going to be a
strictly regular hanging with no frills left marabout's your name?"

"John Irving Gaspar."

"Called Jig for short, and sometimes Cold Feet," put in the clerk.

Sinclair cleared his throat. "John Irving Gaspar, alias Jig, alias Cold
Feet, d'you know what we got agin' you? Know what you're charged with?"

"With—with an absurd thing, sir."

"Murder!" said Sinclair solemnly. "Murder, Jig! What d'you say, guilty
or not guilty! Most generally, you'd say not guilty."

"Not guilty—absolutely not guilty. As a matter of fact, Mr.
Sinclair—"

"Denver, shut him up and make him sit down."

One hard, brown hand was clapped over Jig's mouth. The other thrust him
back on the black rock.

"Gentlemen of the jury," said his honor, "you've heard the prisoner say
he didn't do it. Now we'll get down to the truth of it. What's the
witnesses for the prosecution got to say?"

There was a pause of consideration.

"Speak up pronto," said Sinclair. "Anybody know anything agin' the
prisoner?"

Larsen stepped forward. "Your honor, it's pretty generally known—"

"I don't give a doggone for what's generally known. What d'you know?"

The Swede's smile did not alter in the slightest, but his voice became
blunter, more acrid. From that moment he made up his mind firmly that
he wanted to see John Irving Gaspar, otherwise Jig, hanged from the
cottonwood tree above them.

"I was over to Shorty Lander's store the other day—"

His honor raised his hand in weary protest, as he smiled apologetically
at the court. "Darned if I didn't plumb forget one thing," he said. "We
got to swear in these witnesses before they can chatter. Is there
anybody got a Bible around 'em? Nope? Montana, I wished you'd lope over
to that house and see what they got in the line of Bibles."

Montana strode away in the direction of the house, and quiet fell over
the unique courtroom. Larsen, so pleasant of face and so unbending of
heart, was the first to speak.

"Looks to me, gents, like we're wasting a lot of time on a rat!"

The blond head of Cold Feet turned, and his large, dark eyes rested
without expression upon the face of the Swede. He seemed almost
literally to fold his hands and await the result of his trial. The
illusion was so complete that even Riley Sinclair began to feel that
the prisoner might be guilty—of an act which he himself had done! The
opportunity was indeed too perfect to be dismissed without
consideration. It was in his power definitely to put the blame on
another man; then he could remain in this community as long as he
wished, to work his will upon Sandersen.

Sandersen himself was a great problem. If Bill had spoken up in good
faith to save Sinclair from the posse that morning, the Riley felt that
he was disarmed. But a profound suspicion remained with him that
Sandersen guessed his mission, and was purposely trying to brush away
the wrath of the avenger. It would take time to discover the truth, but
to secure that time it was necessary to settle the blame for the
killing. Cold Feet was a futile, weak-handed little coward. In the
stern scheme of Sinclair's life, the death of such a man was almost
less than nothing.

"Wasting a lot of time on a rat!"

The voice of Larsen fell agreeably upon the ear of his honor. Behind
that voice came a faraway murmur, the scream of a hawk. He bent his
head back and looked up through the limbs of the cottonwood into the
pale blue-white haze of the morning sky.

A speck drifted across it, the hawk sailing in search of prey. Under
the noble arch of heaven floated that fierce, malignant creature!

Riley Sinclair lowered his head with a sigh. Was not he himself playing
the part of the hawk? He looked straight into the eyes of the prisoner,
and Jig met the gaze without flinching. He merely smiled in an
apologetic manner, and he made a little gesture with his right hand, as
if to admit that he was helpless, and that he cast himself upon the
good will of Riley Sinclair. Riley jerked his head to one side and
scowled. He hated that appeal. He wanted this hanging to be the work of
seven men, not of one.

Montana returned, bringing with him a yellow-covered, red-backed book.
"They wasn't a sign of a Bible in the house," he stated, "but I found
this here history of the United States, with the Declaration of
Independence pasted into the back of it. I figured that ought to do
about as well as a Bible."

"You got a good head, Montana," said his honor. "Open up to that there
Declaration. Here, Larsen, put your hand on this and swear you're
telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. They
ain't going to be any bum testimony taken in this court. We ain't going
to railroad this lynching through."

He caught a glistening light of gratitude in the eyes of the
schoolteacher. Riley's own breast swelled with a sense of virtue. He
had never before taken the life of a helpless man; and now that it was
necessary, he would do it almost legally.

Larsen willingly took the oath. "I'm going to tell the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth, damn me if I don't! I was over to
Shorty Lander's store the other day—"

"What day?"

"Hmm! Last Tuesday, I reckon."

"Go on, Larsen, but gimme nothin' but the facts."

"I seen Jig come into the store. 'I want to look at a revolver,'" he
said.

"'The deuce you do! What might you want to do with a revolver, Jig?'
says Shorty. 'You mean you want a toy gun?'

"I remember them words particular clear, because I didn't see how even
a spineless gent like Jig could stand for such a pile of insult. But he
just sort of smiled with his lips and got steady with his eyes, like he
was sort of grieved.

"'I want a gun that'll kill a man,' he says to Shorty.

"Shorty and me both laughed, but, when Shorty brung out a forty-five,
doggone me if Jig didn't buy the gun.

"'Look here,' says he, 'is this the way it works?'

"And he raises it up in his skinny hand. I had to laugh.

"'Hold it in both hands,' says I.

"'Oh,' says he, and darned if he didn't take it in both hands.

"'It seems much easier to handle in this way,' says he.

"But that's what I seen. I seen him buy a gun to kill a man. Them was
his words, and I figure they're a mouthful."

Larsen retired.

"Damagin' evidence, they ain't no question," said Mr. Clerk severely.
"But I can lay over it, your honor."

"Blaze away, judge."

Larsen took the oath. "I'm going to show you they was bad feelings
between the prisoner and the dead man, your honor. I was over to the
dance at the Woodville schoolhouse a couple of weeks ago. Jig was
there, not dancing or nothing, but sitting in a corner, with all the
girls, mostly, hanging around him. They kept hanging around looking
real foolish at him, and Jig looks back at 'em as if they wasn't there.
Well, it riles the boys around these parts. Quade comes up to him and
takes him aside.

"'Look here,' he says, 'why don't you dance with one girl instead of
hogging them all?'

"'I don't dance,' says Jig.

"'Why do you stay if you won't dance?' asks Quade.

"'It is my privilege,' says Jig, smiling in that ornery way of his,
like his thoughts was too big for an ordinary gent to understand 'em.

"'You stay an' dance an' welcome,' says Quade, 'but if you won't dance,
get out of here and go home where you belong. You're spoiling the party
for us, keeping all the girls over here.'

"'Is that a threat?' says Jig, smiling in that way of his.

"'It sure is. And most particular I want you to keep away from Sally
Bent. You hear?'

"'You take advantage of your size,' says Jig.

"'Guns even up sizes,' says Quade.

"'Thank you,' says Jig. 'I'll remember.'

"Right after that he went home because he was afraid that Quade would
give him a dressing. But they was bad feelings between him and Quade.
They was a devil in them eyes of Jig's when he looked at big Quade. I
seen it, and I knowed they'd be trouble!" Lodge then retired.

"Gents," said his honor, "it looks kind of black for the prisoner. We
know that Gaspar had a grudge agin' Quade, and that he bought a gun big
enough to kill a man. It sure looks black for you, Gaspar."

The prisoner looked steadily at Sinclair. There was something
unsettling in that gaze.

"All we got to make sure of," said the judge, "is that that quarrel
between Gaspar and Quade was strong enough to make Gaspar want to kill
him, and—"

"Your honor," broke in Gaspar, "don't you see that I could never kill a
man?" The prisoner stretched out his hands in a gesture of appeal to
Sinclair.

Riley gritted his teeth. Suddenly a chill had passed through him at the
thought of the hanging noose biting into that frail, soft throat. "You
shut up till you're asked to talk," he said, frowning savagely. "I
think we got a witness here that'll prove that you
did
have
sufficient cause to make you want to get rid of Quade. And, if we have
that proof, heaven help you. Montana, go get Sally Bent!"

Gaspar started up with a ring in his voice. "No, no!"

In response to a gesture from Sinclair, Denver Jim jerked the prisoner
back onto the black rock. With blazing blue eyes, Gaspar glared at the
judge, his delicate lips trembling with unspoken words.

Sinclair knew, with another strange falling of the heart, that the
prisoner was perfectly aware that his judge had not the slightest
suspicion of his guilt. An entente was established between them, an
entente which distressed Sinclair, and which he strove to destroy. But,
despite himself, he could not get rid of the knowledge that the great
blue eyes were fixed steadily upon him, as if begging him to see that
justice was done. Consequently, the judge made himself as impersonal as
possible.