The Jeweled Spur (16 page)

“I’m gonna have to take you in, Cody. You’ll have a chance to defend yourself. Come along.”

“Let us have a few words with him, Sheriff, before you go,” Hope pleaded.

“Of course, Mrs. Winslow. We’ll just be out by the horses.” When they had mounted and pulled up a few feet away, Hope said at once, “Did you do it, Cody?” Her voice was quiet, but her eyes belied the fear that was gripping her.

“No!” he said instantly. “I got drunk. We had some words in the bar, I got some whiskey, and I got drunk and fell asleep on the trail on the way home, but I didn’t shoot him!”

“Go on with the Sheriff. I’m glad to hear you didn’t do it,” Dan said quietly.

“You believe me?”

“Yes, I do. Whoever shot Tippitt shot him in the back,” Dan said. “You might have shot him all right, but it would have been from the front, and you’d have given him a fair chance. I know that much about you.”

Cody stared at Dan, then whispered, “What’s gonna happen?”

“We’ll get the best lawyer there is, and they’ll have to prove you did it. It’s not enough just to prove you could’ve done it; can’t be circumstantial evidence. Don’t worry, we’ll fight this thing out.”

Hope moved forward, put her arms around Cody’s neck, and drew his face down. She kissed him, then when she moved her head back, she said confidently, “God will be with us. We’ll beat this thing.”

At that moment, Sheriff Rider called out, “I guess we’d better be going, Cody.”

Cody moved back, stepped into the saddle, and joined the two men. “I won’t put the cuffs on you,” said Rider. “You’re not dumb enough to run away.”

“No, I’m not running away. If I did, I’d be running the rest of my life, wouldn’t I?”

Sheriff Rider liked Cody, and he had been shocked when Harve Tippitt had been found ambushed. It had gone against his grain to have to come out and arrest this fine young man. However, he was a man who had seen much death, and he had seen many young men go wrong. Some of them apparently as good-hearted as Cody Rogers. So he said now, “Just keep yourself steady, boy. Your folks will do all they can for you. You’ll get a fair trial.”

Somehow the words seemed to bring a gloom to Cody. He was still half-stunned and almost unable to believe what the man had said. But as he rode beside the two men going back toward town, he realized that it was not a dream, and that he was faced with the most dreadful moment of his life.

CHAPTER TEN

Cody’s Day in Court

The courtroom was packed—as it had been since the first day of the trial of Cody Rogers. The room was not large so extra chairs had been brought in, but the walls were still lined with curious spectators standing and watching the proceedings.

Dan Winslow stared around the room, his eyes hot with anger. “Like a bunch of buzzards!” he muttered. Looking down at Hope he asked, “You all right?”

“Yes.” Hope looked up at Dan and tried to smile, but it was not a success. She thought of Cody in the small jail, of the visits she’d made there while waiting for the judge to arrive for the trial. It had been two weeks already, and every day—it seemed to her—Cody grew more morose and bitter. Both she and Dan had visited him often, but nothing they could say seemed to bring any hope to Cody. He had lost weight and there was a sense of fatalism about him that was a shocking contrast to the happy-go-lucky young man they knew.

“Do you think it’ll be over today?” she asked Dan.

“I guess so.” Dan struggled to find something encouraging to say, but he was troubled. The trial had become a power struggle, for Harve Tippitt was the son of a big rancher—the most powerful man in the county. In addition to his thousands of acres, he owned several businesses in War Paint. He was a man who could not brook interference, and his temper was a fearful thing when stirred—and the death of his son had stirred it. Dan looked across the courtroom where Tippitt sat and thought,
If I ever saw hatred on a man’s face, it’s right
there.
Tippitt was a large man with a paunch, but he was very powerful. His face was florid by nature, and the anger that had built up in him since the death of his son seemed to glow like a furnace.

Dan said quietly, “I tried to talk to Tippitt, to tell him Cody’s not a killer.”

Hope glanced up at him expectantly, but he shook his head, his lips drawn into a thin line. “No use. He just cussed me out. Nothing’s going to make him give up on getting his revenge. He’s convinced Cody is guilty, and he’s done all he can to see that’s the way it comes out.”

The jury filed in at that moment, and Hope waited until they were seated before whispering, “But this is a court, Dan. How can Tippitt influence a trial?”

“Look at the jury.” Dan swept the jury with his eyes, then added, “They’re all town people or big ranchers. Everybody on it owes Tippitt—them or their people.”

“But—they won’t let that influence their vote!”

“Look at Dayton Prince, Hope. He owns the general store. Since Tippitt owns the bank, he’s probably got a note on Prince’s business. Or even if he doesn’t, anytime he chooses, Tippitt could open another general store and lower the prices until he drove Prince out of business.”

Hope stared at Dayton Prince, then shook her head. “I don’t believe Dayton would let that influence him. He’s a good man, Dan.”

“Yes, he is—and the others are good men.” Dan struggled, not knowing whether to speak his mind to Hope. Finally he said, “But their lives are at stake—not like Cody’s—but all the same, Tippitt can crush any of them like he would a fly.”

“I can’t believe it, Dan!” said Hope in frustration.

“I don’t want to—but it’s not only George Tippitt. It’s the evidence.”

“But it’s all circumstantial, Dan.” Hope stared at him. “They can’t convict a man on that kind of evidence.”

Dan nodded, saying, “That’s right. We’ll just have to hang
on and hope that the prosecution doesn’t come up with anything new.” He saw her lips tremble, and with more confidence than he felt, said, “Don’t worry, Hope. It’s like you say, all the evidence is circumstantial—” He broke off abruptly and put his hand on Hope’s arm, for Cody had just been brought into the courtroom. Two guards flanked him, and he took his seat beside Dave Lyons, the lawyer that Dan had hired to defend him. Lyons bent over and began to speak to Cody, who seemed listless.
I wish Cody would show some fight,
Dan thought.
He looks like a beaten man to the jury.

At that moment the door behind the raised table opened and one of the jailers said, “All rise,” as the judge entered. He was a small man wearing a black suit, and he took his seat at once. Judge Olan Phelps was known as a hard man—some even called him a “hanging judge”—but his conduct of the trial had been, Dan admitted, fair and impartial. He had snow white hair and a pair of level gray eyes, and now he spoke up, “Does the prosecution have any more to present to the court?”

The prosecuting attorney named Cole Lattimore, a tall man with red hair and blue eyes, rose, saying, “Your Honor, the prosecution has a few more testimonies—but with the court’s permission, I would like to briefly sum up the case we have built against Cody Rogers.”

“Go ahead, but be brief, Mr. Lattimore. You will have opportunity to do most of that in your summation.”

“I will be very brief, Your Honor.” Lattimore was a good courtroom lawyer. He would have made a fine actor, for he not only knew how to use words, but he also had a dramatic flourish in his actions to match his presentation. He was too clever to go after defendants ferociously, having learned that in most cases this was likely to gain sympathy for the accused. Instead, he methodically brought forth the evidence, lingering over each item, so that he made them seem more important than they actually were. He moved over to stand
in front of the jury, nodding at them in a friendly manner as he began to speak.

“I ask the jury to remember three things. One, Cody Rogers has had a grievance against the victim for some time. It’s common knowledge that he beat him severely in a fight only a few weeks ago. This is not a new thing, but it has gone on for months. Second, I ask you to remember that on the night Harve Tippitt was shot in the back, Cody Rogers threatened to shoot him. You have heard the testimony of several witnesses who were present at the Palace Saloon, so there can be no mistake about that.”

Cody watched the proceedings, thinking of what a fool he had been. Ever since his arrest he had been in some sort of emotional coma, so that at times he wondered if he was losing his mind. Day after day he had half expected to be released for lack of evidence—but when that had not happened, he had grown bitter. Instead of opening himself to his parents and his lawyer, he had clamped his lips shut and answered only in clipped monosyllables. Now as Lattimore spoke on, putting down line upon line of evidence, Cody thought,
I should have been more of a fighter.
Turning his head, he glanced toward his mother and saw the pain in her eyes.
Fine thing for her to remember—she’ll never be able to get this out of her mind.

Lattimore went on, stressing the enmity that Cody had shown toward Tippitt, never mentioning that the deceased had been just as virulent. He spoke of the third element, the fact that Cody’s gun had been fired twice, and that the two slugs taken from the victim were of the same caliber.

“And the accused tells us that he shot at a coyote! And he asks you to believe that he slept on the ground all night instead of going home!” Lattimore spread his hands wide, rolled his eyes, and said dramatically, “Why would a young man sleep on a rock when all he had to do was ride home and sleep on a good bed?”

Finally Judge Phelps interrupted, “Mr. Lattimore, you have
been over this ground once already. If you have any new evidence, I suggest you present it—or else I will recognize the defense.”

Lattimore never showed the slightest irritation toward the judge and now said quickly, “I apologize, Your Honor.”

Dan whispered, “If that’s all he’s got, we’re all right, Hope!”

But then Lattimore said, “The state does have an important witness. I call Pike Simmons to the stand.”

A mutter ran around the courtroom, for Pike Simmons was a well-known man in the county. “What’s Simmons got to do with this?” Cody whispered to his attorney.

“Don’t know,” Lyons murmured. He sat up straighter in his chair, his eyes narrow with attention on the man who came from the back of the room to take the single chair that faced the jury. “I don’t like it,” he muttered.

Simmons, a burly man with a shock of black hair and a pair of muddy brown eyes, put his hand gingerly on the Bible, and when the oath was read, he said, “I do.” Simmons owned a small ranch over in the bottoms, but he was better known for his barroom brawls and uncontrolled drinking. Simmons was a fairly sensible man when sober, but when drunk, he lost all reason. He was a wicked fighter and had served a year in the state penitentiary for killing a man in a fight—he had gotten the man down and kicked him to death.

“Mr. Simmons, would you tell the jury your occupation and how long you’ve been in that position?” said Lattimore.

“Own a ranch over by Cripple Creek. Been there for nine years.” He hesitated, then added, “Was gone one year. Got sent to the pen.”

“On what charge?” asked the attorney.

“Manslaughter,” Simmons shrugged.

“That was four years ago, I believe? And when you were released, you went back to your ranch?”

“That’s right.”

“No other trouble since then?”

“Naw, nothing to get sent up for. ’Course, I drink sometimes and get too rough in fights.”

Lattimore let the witness go on in this manner, and Dave Lyons groaned, “Lattimore’s smart! He’s taken away the advantage I’d have of showing what a no-good Simmons is!”

Lattimore asked easily, “Mr. Simmons, will you tell the court what you did on the evening of September 4?”

“Went to town for a little fun.”

“How is it that you can remember that date?”

“My birthday’s on the third,” Simmons grinned. “Every year I give myself a birthday party, and I went to town the day before to get all my business done.”

“What was your business on that day?”

“Took ten head of stock to Mel Pounders.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Got the bill of sale—and I reckon Mel will say as how I was there.”

“Yes, we will hear his testimony, too,” Lattimore nodded. “Now, tell us, if you will, what your movements were on that evening.”

“I drove the critters into the stockyard, and me and Mel settled up.”

“What time was that?”

“Oh, ’bout five o’clock, I guess,” shrugged Simmons.

“And then what?”

“I went down to the cafe and had supper. And while I was there, Bart Prince came in. He asked me to go play poker, and that’s what I done. We went to the Oxbow Bar and played until late.”

“Prince will testify that you were there?”

“Him and about ten more,” Simmons nodded. “I lost all my money to him, so he ain’t likely to forget it.”

“Your Honor, these men can be called as witnesses to verify Mr. Simmons’ statement.” Lattimore grew serious, coming to stand in front of the witness. “And after your game, what did you do?”

“Went home.”

“And did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

Simmons looked directly at Cody and nodded. “I seen Cody Rogers on the Old Military Road.”

“That’s a lie!” Cody leaped to his feet, his face contorted with rage. “I wasn’t anywhere near that road that night.”

Lyons pulled Cody down, saying, “Be quiet!” Then he addressed the judge. “I apologize, Your Honor. It won’t happen again.”

The judge nodded. “You may continue, Mr. Simmons.”

Simmons was enjoying his moment in court. He grinned loosely at Cody, then continued, “I was on my way home, and when I was ’bout half a mile from the bridge, I seen a rider coming down the road. It was night, ’o course, and I heard the hoofbeats first. Horse was running like the devil! And then this rider came down the road, and I don’t reckon he saw me until we was close. The moon was full that night, or I couldn’t have saw him. But when he passed me, I saw it was him.”