Sanctuary (18 page)

“They were my cattle.”

“And what did you do then?”

“Tried to track them.”

“Did you have any success?”

“Rustler drove them up or down the Milk. The tracks were all washed out.”

“Did you find anything else?”

“Found an Indian camp just across the Milk.”

“How do you know it was an Indian camp?”

Newcombe cocked his head and glowered at Driscoll. When he spoke it was through clenched teeth. “I saw my first Indian camp before you were born. I know an Indian camp when I see it.”

Driscoll stepped back from the force of Newcombe's eyes.

“And what did you do then?” Driscoll asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Sent one of the boys in to tell Sheriff Timothy, not that I expected that lard-gut to do anything about it.”

Timothy was sitting just in front of Judd, his chair leaning back on two legs against the wall. As Newcombe spoke, the chair eased forward to rest on all four legs. Color spread across the sheriff's face, and Judd could see the sheen of sweat on Timothy's forehead and the knots in the muscles of his jaw.

The sheriff rose then and opened the window beside Judd, and the boy drank deeply of the cool air that swept through.

“That's all the questions I have, Your Honor,” Driscoll said, slumping into his chair.

Mordecai rose.

“How many cattle do you have in that pasture, Mr. Newcombe?”

Newcombe glared at Mordecai, the silence filling the room to the detonation point. But when he spoke his voice was flat as two-day-old beer.

“Three hundred fifty, maybe four hundred head.”

“How many cattle do you think moved across that fence, judging by the tracks?”

“Figure ten, maybe fifteen head.”

“How many horses do you have?”

Newcombe's eyes disappeared into slits. In Montana, strangers do not ask a man how many acres he owns or how much stock he runs on it.

But Newcombe answered. “About a hundred twenty head.”

“Are there any horses in that pasture?”

Newcombe hesitated. “Might be.”

“Why was Mr. Ranking riding fence?”

“Because I told him to.”

“Why did you tell him to?”

Exasperation cracked through Newcombe's voice. “To check the fence.”

“Because fence staples rust and posts rot and sometimes cattle rub against the posts and break them?”

Newcombe nodded.

“And why do you have fences, Mr. Newcombe?”

Newcombe cranked a glaring eye on Mordecai and reached for the railing around the witness box to pull himself to his feet. “Why the hell should I answer these stupid damn questions?”

Harding leaned down from the bench and fixed Newcombe with an equally glaring eye. “Because if you don't, I'll toss you in jail.”

“I have fences to keep my cattle on my land,” Newcombe spat.

“And to keep other ranchers' cattle off your land?”

“Hell, yes!”

“And sometimes the fences go down, and your cattle wander off and other cattle wander onto Bar Nothing grass?”

Newcombe's voice rumbled like a coffeepot on a hot stove. “Those sons of bitches would all run their cattle on the Bar Nothing if I didn't keep the fences up.”

“So if I can summarize your testimony, Mr. Newcombe, cattle that may or may not have been your own were either driven or wandered off your ranch, and you have been unable to find them. Is that right, Mr. Newcombe?”

“No, that is not right! You rustled my beef, and I'll see you pay for it if it's the last thing I do!”

Mordecai's voice came like a bucket of water on a wildfire.

“And how do you know that was an Indian camp across the river?”

Newcombe was on his feet. “By the smell,” he roared. “By the stink of 'em. Just like the stink of that one!”

Newcombe's finger settled on Judd's forehead.

Judd, eyes wide with terror, tried to sink down in his seat, to make himself invisible. He felt as though he were shriveling, becoming a husk. He wanted to say that he had washed this morning as he always did. He wanted to say that he was wearing new clothing that smelled more of the store than him. But he was speechless, terror-stricken. His eyes moved pleading to Mordecai.

When Mordecai spoke, the jury had to strain to hear him. “That's all the questions I have, Your Honor.”

Harding turned to Driscoll. “Does the prosecution have any more questions?”

Driscoll shook his head.

“You are excused, Mr. Newcombe.”

Newcombe scowled at the judge, but he held his tongue. Two weeks in jail and those thieving cowmen who ringed his place like vultures would steal him blind. Had to watch them all the time. He picked the scuffed, dirty hat from his lap, jammed it over his ears, and stood.

Then in a voice coarse as gravel on a Milk River bar, he growled, “Come on, boys. The drinks are on me. I want to wash the stink of this place off me.”

Newcombe glared once more at the judge, retribution promised in every inch of his body, then strode out of the courtroom, too proud to yield to the pain that each step drove into his brain.

The door creaked shut on the last Bar Nothing cowhand, and the courtroom was awash in silence. When Driscoll released the air trapped in his lungs, the sound could be heard three rows back.

“I would like to call Sheriff Timothy,” he croaked.

Timothy took the oath and squeezed into a witness chair too confining for his bulk.

Yes, he had been in his office when the Bar Nothing cowboy reported the rustling. Yes, he had investigated. No, he had not been able to develop a case until a witness had stepped forward.

“Is that witness in the courtroom?”

Timothy nodded and pointed to Judd.

“Since you arrested the preacher Mordecai, have you done any further investigation?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you hope to discover?”

“To check the validity of the witness's story, and to further determine the preacher Mordecai's identity.”

“And what did that investigation reveal?”

“The witness's story could be corroborated, but I could not verify the preacher's identity. He wouldn't give me his last name, and I could find records of only two people named Mordecai graduating from seminaries representing the major denominations. One died of natural causes some years ago in—Timothy checked his notes—Paris, Missouri. The other died in Enid, Oklahoma.”

“He was hanged,” Timothy said. “He was hanged by the neck until dead.”

Fifteen

“The prosecution calls Judd Medicine Elk.”

Judd sat terrified, knuckles white on the railing before him.

County Attorney Thomas Driscoll turned to look at the boy. “Your Honor, the prosecution calls Judd Medicine Elk.”

Judd pulled himself to his feet and sidled along the bench, steadying himself with the rail, steadying himself with the forgiveness in the preacher's eyes.

The courtroom was walled in a palpable silence broken only by the rustle of new clothing and the beat of Judd's heart.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
It echoed in the boy's ears loud as the drums that day of the village feast.

Judd would gladly have stopped that pounding, exhaled his last breath, if he could. Everyone in the courtroom was looking at him, and he wilted under their glare, as a cut flower wilts in the sun.

Drops of sweat trickled down his neck. The boy was afraid that the jurors would wrinkle their noses at the stink of him.

Judd had tried to imagine foulness strong enough to twist Dirk Newcombe's face into such revulsion he had seen earlier. Perhaps the stench was as bad as that of the horse.…

The horse lay in a cloud of flies on the bank of the Milk, empty eye sockets staring reproachfully as Judd neared. He peered at the animal for a moment, wondering at the spark of life that had once made this rotting flesh dance across the prairie, wondering where that spark had gone when the horse closed its empty eyes. On a whim, he had tried to lift one of the horse's legs, but it had fallen off, revealing a body full of writhing maggots. The stench had been unbearable.…

But even that had not twisted his face as Newcombe's had twisted this day on the witness stand when he spoke of the foulness of Judd and the people.

Judd knew from that fierce look that the stink was bone deep; that he would never rid himself of it. He knew, too, that the stink came from the acrid redolence of the dump, that he was steeped in it, as a ham is steeped in the smoke of a curing fire.

The clerk's voice rumbled but Judd couldn't pull meaning from the sound. He knew that he should say “I do,” so he did, his voice little more than a squeak. He sat in the witness chair, pulling his body into itself, confining his rankness to as small a space as possible.

“Would you please state your full name for the court?”

“Judd Medicine Elk,” Judd whispered.

“You will have to speak louder so the jury can hear you,” Thomas Driscoll said softly. He nodded, and Judd repeated his name a little louder.

“And where do you live?”

Tears welled in the boy's eyes, but he turned his face to stone and dammed the flow. “I live at the dump.”

“Who do you live with?”

“Grandmother.”

“Where are your mother and father?”

“Dead.”

“Does anyone else live at the dump?”

“Yes.”

“And who are they?”

“The people.”

“The people?”

“Yes.”

“And who are the people?”

Judd looked at Driscoll, bewilderment plain in his eyes.

“Are they Indians, too?” Driscoll asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you know the defendant?”

Again, the baffled look.

Driscoll rephrased his question. “Do you know the preacher Mordecai?”

“Yes.”

“And did you tell the sheriff that you thought the preacher had stolen Mr. Newcombe's cattle?”

“Yes,” Judd whispered, and the dam broke and a tear trickled down his cheek and dripped off his chin. “I did that.”

“What led you to believe that?”

And Judd haltingly told the jury about the night Jasper and the others had driven Bar Nothing cattle across the garden and that the preacher had promised them meat to cure for the winter if they would replant the garden and build a fence around it.

And when the garden was replanted and the fence built, the preacher had led them down the Milk to the killing place, and the people had found ten steers hanging from the cottonwoods. Judd, eyes fixed on Driscoll, told him about seeing tracks across the river and wading over to find where the fence had been let down and the cattle driven across.

A murmur ran through the courtroom, and Driscoll said, “That's all the questions I have of this witness, Your Honor.”

Mordecai rose and walked to the witness box.

“Could you tell how old those tracks were, Judd?”

Judd shook his head.

“Did you see any tracks on the other side of the river where the cattle had been driven out of the water?”

Reflection crossed Judd's face. He shook his head again.

“Were there any entrails or hides or heads in the camp?”

Judd said, “No.”

“I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

Judge Harding nodded to Driscoll. “Any more questions before I excuse this witness?”

Driscoll stood.

“Did you scout the banks to find out where these ‘wandering' cattle”—he turned to the jury and rolled his eyes heavenward—“might have crossed the river?”

Judd shook his head, but then as Driscoll turned to take his seat, Judd remembered something that seemed odd at the time, but that he had not thought about until this moment. He was torn between his need to escape the witness box and his need to purge himself, to tell everything he knew.

“I saw wagon tracks,” Judd said, “around the camp.”

Driscoll jerked, before turning to Judge Harding. “The prosecution rests its case, Your Honor.”

Harding nodded, and said, “The defense may call its first witness.”

Mordecai stood. “Your honor, I am the only witness I intend to call. If Mr. Driscoll has no objections, I would like to dispense with the question-and-answer format and simply state my case in a narrative fashion.”

“I have no objection, Your Honor.”

Mordecai was sworn in and began. “I don't dispute any of the facts presented by earlier witnesses. I did, in fact, take the cattle from the Bar Nothing ranch.”

Again a murmur rumbled through the crowd, and Judge Harding raised his gavel.

“I do, however, take issue with the opinions given here as evidence. I did not ‘rustle' those cattle. I bought them.”

The murmur broke into a roar, and the judge's gavel cracked through the courtroom. “Order! There will be order in this court.”

“Mr. Medicine Elk's testimony,” Mordecai said with a nod in Judd's direction, “is true. I did offer the people meat in return for replanting the garden and for building a sturdy fence around it.

“And I did, in fact, inquire at the slaughterhouse as to the possibility of acquiring that meat. I was told that while they were expecting a delivery from the Bar Nothing, they had no beef for butchering at that time. Mr. Hennessey, who works at the slaughterhouse, can corroborate that statement if the court and Mr. Driscoll consider it necessary. Mr. Hennessey happens to be working today and would be available at only a few minutes' notice.”

“My experience with Mr. Newcombe is that he does most of his ‘business' at night. In keeping with his own practice, I went out that night and took delivery of the cattle myself. I herded them up the Milk and across the river bottom, leaving them corralled at the slaughterhouse until the following morning when they were butchered.”

“Then I hauled the carcasses by wagon to the killing place and called upon the people of the village to take delivery of the meat.”