The Jeweled Spur (17 page)

“Can you identify the man you saw?” asked Lattimore.

“There he sets—Cody Rogers,” pointed Simmons.

Instant commotion broke out all around the room. The talking was so loud that Judge Phelps pounded his gavel sharply on the table. “Order! Be quiet or I’ll clear the court!” He waited until the room was still, then nodded, “You may continue, Mr. Lattimore.”

Cody listened as Lattimore led the witness through all the traps that Dave Lyons might lay for him. He was feeling like the time when he’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse. Up until this moment he’d been concerned only with the disgrace of the thing and the unfairness of it all. Never once had he thought he might actually be convicted! Now, however, looking at the faces of the men on the jury, he felt cold and sick, for every face was fixed on Simmons, and they all believed what he was saying!

Finally Lattimore said, “And this spot where you saw the
accused, you say it was perhaps half a mile from the bridge over Seven Point River?”

“Yes, not more’n that.”

At that point, Lattimore turned to face the jury. “And as you may know, the murdered man was found exactly half a mile from that bridge! So we offer you eyewitness proof that Cody Rogers was not asleep on the road to his own ranch, for that is ten miles to the west of the Old Military Road. No, gentlemen, he was not, for the witness’s testimony put him running away from the scene of the crime at the approximate time the victim was killed!” He then turned and faced Dave Lyons, and said defiantly, “Your witness, Mr. Lyons.”

Dave Lyons was a good lawyer, but he knew as he rose and faced the jury that unless he could shake Simmons’ testimony, Cody had little chance. He spent the next forty-five minutes peppering the burly man with question after question—all to no avail. Simmons never grew flustered, and when Lyons finally was ordered by the judge to stop repeating himself, he became frustrated and angry. He pointed out that all the evidence was circumstantial, and that it would be unjust and unfair to convict a man on such a basis.

When Lyons had finished his cross-examination, Judge Phelps nodded toward the prosecuting attorney. “Mr. Lattimore, we’ll have your summation.” Lattimore was crafty enough not to say too much, for by the looks on the faces of the jury he knew they were already convinced. He spoke briefly, ending by saying, “I ask that you bring a verdict of first-degree murder against Cody Rogers.”

Lyons rose and did his best in his concluding remarks to the jury, but when he sat down, wringing wet with sweat, Cody stared at him. “It’s not good, is it, Mr. Lyons?”

“Never try to second-guess a jury, Cody,” Lyons said. He sat there as the jury filed out, and when Phelps left for his quarters, Dan and Hope Winslow rushed over to Cody.

“It’ll be all right, son,” Hope said. “You’ll see.”

But Dan was staring at Lyons’ troubled face and saw that
the lawyer was not happy. “What do you think, Dave?” he asked quietly.

Lyons moved his shoulders restlessly, then he ran his hand nervously over his hair. “I don’t like it. That fellow Simmons may be lying, but there’s no way to shake him.”

Cody asked abruptly, “What if the verdict is guilty? What will that mean?”

“We’re hoping for better than that,” Lyons said quickly. Then when Cody kept his eyes fixed on him, he shook his head. “It won’t be hanging, Cody. Not on this kind of evidence.”

“How long—in prison?”

“Depends on the judge. He’ll set the sentence.”

Time crawled on, but to the surprise of the spectators, the jury filed back in less than forty-five minutes. “Is that good or bad?” Dan asked Lyons.

“You never know.” Lyons watched the faces of the jury and shook his head.
They’re not looking at Cody—a bad sign.

“Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” Judge Phelps asked as soon as he returned and faced them.

“We have, Your Honor.”

“Read it to the court. Prisoner will rise and face the jury.”

The voice of Judge Phelps seemed to echo hollowly inside Cody’s head. He felt Lyons pulling at his arm, and on legs gone suddenly feeble, he rose to his feet. He fixed his gaze on the face of Milo Fenderman, owner of the blacksmith shop.
He’s shod many a horse for me,
Cody thought numbly.
We used to joke about things—and now he won’t even look at me.

The foreman’s hands were unsteady as he held a single sheet of paper close to his eyes. “We—we find the defendant guilty of murder—in the second degree.”

“So say you all?”

“Yes, Judge.”

Judge Phelps sat looking down at the youthful face of the prisoner. He allowed no emotion to show on his face as he pronounced sentence. “You have been found guilty of murder
in the second degree. For that offense, Cody Rogers, I sentence you to fifteen years in the state penitentiary.”

Hope gasped and whispered, “Oh, God! No!”

Dan put his arm around her. “We’ll appeal, Hope. It’s not over yet. We’ve got to keep on believing God.”

They both rose and walked to where Cody stood beside Dave Lyons, who was saying, “It won’t stand up, Cody.”

At that moment Hope rushed to Cody and threw her arms around him, trying to keep back the tears. His body was stiff and unyielding, but she looked up into his face, whispering, “Cody, God will help us!”

Cody stared at her blankly, then his face seemed to freeze. His voice was sharp and bitter as he answered her. “God? Don’t ever talk to me about God, because He’s not up there!”

The deputy, who had been standing by silently, spoke up, “Sorry, Miz Winslow”—he stepped up and took Cody’s arm—”You can visit him any time, ma’am.”

As Cody walked out of the courtroom, he kept his back stiffly erect. He was aware that many were watching him, waiting for him to break—but he did not. He refused to show any emotion.

After returning to the jail, the deputy locked him in his cell, then paused, saying, “Bad break, Cody. But I’ve seen sentences reversed. Just trust the Lord like your ma says.”

But Cody only gave him a bleak look, then he turned and walked over to the bunk. He lay down and stared up at the ceiling, and when the deputy looked at his face, he shook his head. “Hate to see you take it this way, Cody.” But there was no answer, and the young man did not move as the footsteps of the deputy faded.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Behind the Wall

Shorty Cavanaugh took going back to prison philosophically enough, but then he’d been there twice before. He was one of those unfortunate beings who found life on the inside of walls less confining than life outside. For him a cell was less threatening than the walls of his own mind, and his years in prison had taken all the fear out of the experience. He knew the worst of it—and to Shorty, that was preferable to the horrors he would face on the outside.

But there was a strange sense of compassion in Shorty Cavanaugh, buried deeply enough beneath the toughness of the professional criminal. He understood himself well enough, and had come to accept the world of prison as normal. Still, he had faint memories of his first imprisonment and how terrified he had been.

And now as he looked at the young prisoner who sat across the stage from him, he had a sudden streak of pity.
He’s young to be going to the Rock, and that’s a fact—no more than twenty-one or twenty-two.
Leaning forward, he ignored the chain that linked his hands and feet, saying, “First time up, I guess.” When he got a mere nod, he said cheerfully, “Well, my name’s Cavanaugh, but call me Shorty.”

“Cody Rogers.”

Cavanaugh noted the long pause and knew that fear was gripping the young man. Shorty looked at the hard-faced guard who kept his gun on his right side, where it could not be grabbed by the prisoner, and said, “Got a cigarette, Mr.
Danton?” Shorty had discovered the man’s name and addressed him very respectfully. As a result the two had been treated more gently than some. Danton stared at the small convict, then reached in his pocket and pulled out a small pouch with the makings. “Hey, thanks a lot,” Cavanaugh said. “You’re all right, you are.”

Danton shrugged, saying only, “Guess you’ll be scarce on smokes at the Rock, Shorty.”

“Not a bit of it! Plenty of tobacco for a man who knows his way around.”

“Well, you should know your way. Third trip, ain’t it?”

“And the last,” Cavanaugh said. “How about a smoke for the lad here?” Getting an approving nod, he handed the makings toward his fellow prisoner, who shook his head. “Don’t smoke? That’s good. I like to see a young fellow who don’t have no bad habits.”

“He’s got one bad habit,” Danton grinned suddenly. “He’s got a habit of shooting men in the back.”

Cody turned his head, and there was such violence in his expression that Danton fumbled for his gun.

“Here, now, lad—none of that!” Shorty broke in. “You got to be respectful to Mr. Danton. He’s a square one—and you’ll be meetin’ some who ain’t such gentlemen as he is.” Then turning to the guard he said, “Don’t mind him, sir. He’s going for his first jolt, and that grates on a fellow’s nerve, you see.” Shorty kept the conversation going, and after a time Danton took his watchful gaze off Cody.

The stage rumbled on, and after a stage stop, Danton stared at the pair, saying, “I’m riding on top. Drop out any time you want to, and I’ll be glad to save the state the trouble of feeding you.” He had a sawed-off shotgun in his hands, and there was no doubt that he’d use it.

“Nothing like that, Mr. Danton,” Shorty chirped. Holding up the manacle that was joined to Cody’s wrist, he grinned. “Where would we be going all chained up like this? We’ll be fine, no trouble, sir.”

As soon as Danton climbed to the seat, the driver called out, “Hup—Babe—Job!” and the stage rocked forward as the horses trotted down the dusty road.

“Now that the fat devil is out of the way, we can spread out a little,” Shorty said with evident pleasure. “Real swine, ain’t he, now?”

Despite himself Cody was amused. “Mr. Danton? I thought he was a real gentleman.”

Shorty winked at him, and a crooked smile revealed yellow teeth. “Kept us from gettin’ half-starved and in out of the weather. Part of the game, Cody,” he assured his companion. Then he studied him and asked, “How long you got at the Rock?”

“Fifteen years.”

Shorty caught the look of despair in the young man’s eyes, and said quickly, “Aw, now that ain’t so bad. You’ll come out a young man—maybe with time off, it’ll be only ten years.”

“I won’t stay there that long.”

Instantly Shorty leaned forward, hissing, “None of that, boy! It’s the shortest way to the lime pit. That’s where they put the bodies of them that try to escape.”

“I’ll get out,” Cody gritted his teeth. “Man wants something bad enough, he’ll find a way.”

“Maybe most things, but not escape from the Rock,” said Shorty flatly.

“It’s been done, hasn’t it?”

“Not that I ever heard.” Shorty drew smoke into his lungs, expelled it, and then said, “Lemme tell you the way of it, Cody, then when you get there, you’ll see there ain’t no sense in hopin’.” He spoke quickly, his eyes darting like a bird’s. “The prison itself, why it ain’t much. Got bars and steel doors, but a man might get out of those. It’s what he finds
outside
that’s rough.”

“What’s outside?”

“See, the chief guard’s name is Jocko Valentine. He don’t like much, but he does like huntin’ down prisoners. It’s his
hobby, like, and he’s had quite a few years to sharpen his skill. It’s like a game to him, I’d say.” He puffed on the cigarette with enjoyment, then added, “Like some men enjoy hunting deer, well, Jocko likes hunting men.”

“I’ll take my chances when I’m outside.”

“That’s it, Cody, you won’t
have
no chance! If it was just Jocko, I’d say maybe, but he keeps three Apaches, and blamed if they ain’t like huntin’ dogs! I swear they can
smell
a man farther off than most of us can
see
’im!”

Cody sat there, rocking with the motion of the stage. His skin was slick with sweat, which the fine dust that boiled into the coach coated with a gray film. He hadn’t had a bath for three days, not since Danton had come to pick him up at War Paint. He had slept in fits and snatches and had eaten little. Only one thing was on his mind—even before he got to prison—and that was getting out.

Shorty tried to reason with the young man, but soon saw there was no use. “All right,” he sighed finally. “You’ll see when you get there. But listen to your old Uncle Shorty, ’cause I been there. Don’t give the guards no sass—none of ’em. They don’t care no more about us than if we was dogs. One word—even a look like you give Danton—and it’d be the Oven for you.”

“The Oven?” asked Cody curiously.

“Yeah, a pit two feet wide, two feet deep, and six feet long. You get in it, and they put a heavy piece of sheet steel over you. You get one canteen of water.” A tremor ran through the small prisoner, and his eyes filled with fear. “Temperature gets up to 115, and you lay there cookin’ in that pit. Can’t roll over—have to face that steel, which gets hot enough to burn your hand.”

“You were in it, Shorty?”

“Once—and just for one day.” Shorty looked at his hands, which were trembling. He held them clenched tightly together and whispered, “Some men go crazy in there. They kept one feller in it for a week, and he come out raving mad.” He
pulled himself together and took a deep breath. Expelling it, he shook his head and said earnestly, “Don’t get out of line, Cody. You might be a tough young fellow, but they got ways of breaking tough men. They like it when a man tries them out. Kind of breaks the boredom for them, one of them told me once.”

“I’ll watch it—and, thanks, Shorty.”

“Aw, we got to stick together. Wish we was gonna be cell mates, but they never put two new men together. But we’ll be seein’ lots of each other. I can put you wise to the way things is—make life a lot easier.”

By the time the stage reached the prison, it was dusk. Shorty had talked constantly, sharing his wisdom gained by long stays at the Rock, until Danton had climbed back down into the stage. But when Danton had returned, Shorty stopped talking at once.