Savagery of The Mountain Man

Chapter Twenty

Elmer Brandon’s morning routine never varied. As always, he was Kathleen York’s first customer of the day. His breakfast this morning was the same as it was every morning, one hardboiled egg, one strip of bacon, one biscuit with butter and jam, and coffee.

“Mr. Brandon, I read the editorial in your extra edition,” Mary Lou said as she waited on his table. “I thought it was very good.”

“Why, thank you, Mary Lou, it is nice of you to say so.”

Two other early diners spoke up as well, and their comments were as complimentary as Mary Lou’s.

Kathleen came over to Brandon’s table and poured a second cup of coffee for him.

“What are you having for lunch?” Brandon asked.

“I’ve got a good vegetable soup on,” she said. “But lunch is going to be an hour earlier today. I intend to close the restaurant so I can watch the trial.”

“Oh, good idea,” Brandon said. “And since I’m going to be one of Mr. Murchison’s witnesses, I need to eat an early lunch anyway.”

Just as Brandon finished his second cup of coffee, he saw Smoke, Sally, Cal, and Murchison coming in for breakfast. He stopped by their table on his way out.

“Mr. Brandon,” Smoke said. “I read your article. It was a great piece. No doubt it will be the talk of the town today.”

Brandon chuckled. “Oh, I’ve no doubt it will be the talk of the town,” he said. “But there are a lot of people who aren’t going to be all that pleased with it.”

“Anyone with a sense of justice and fair play will like it,” Murchison said. “The truth is, Mr. Brandon, I believe your article may just guarantee us an impartial jury and a fair trial.”

“I hope so,” Brandon replied. “And I know that I’m looking forward to being a witness for you. Do we need to talk about it before I testify?”

Murchison shook his head. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “As I understand it, your testimony is going to tell how the trouble began, but you have no knowledge of the actual shooting. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“That will be a big help. Court convenes at one o’clock this afternoon. Just make certain you are there in time.”

“I’ll be there bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” Brandon teased.

Saying good-bye to the others in the restaurant, Brandon stepped outside. He was feeling particularly good about himself today. He had gotten into the newspaper business to do good, but somewhere along the line it had become much easier just to go along without making any waves.

“Emma,” he said. “I hope you are looking down on me now. And I hope I have made you proud.”

Emma, his wife of nineteen years, had died two years earlier.

“Hello there, Elmer,” Donovan called, as Brandon walked by Donovan’s Leather Goods Shop. “That was a great article you wrote. It’s about time someone said something like that.”

“I was just doing my duty,” Brandon replied.

Poindexter, who managed Quentin’s General Store, was less than complimentary. He was out sweeping the front porch when Brandon walked by, and he made an effort to sweep the dirt onto the editor.

“Here! What are you doing?” Brandon asked, stepping lively to get out of the way.

“You had no right to say the things you said about Mr. Quentin,” Poindexter said. “He’s done a lot of good for this town.”

“You mean he’s done a lot of good for you,” Brandon replied. “Most of us remember when Mr. Collins owned this store. This used to be a very nice store. But that was before Quentin ran him out of business, then hired you to run it for him. I don’t know how you could have done that, Poindexter. You used to work for Collins. So much for loyalty.”

“A man has to make a living,” Poindexter said.

“Yes, but not everyone has to betray their friends,” Brandon replied, walking away without engaging the Quentin man in any further conversation.

As was his daily custom, Brandon stopped in the vet’s office for a moment or two before going back to the print shop, where he not only published the newspaper, but did custom printing.

Doc Patterson was looking at a small dog.

“What’s wrong with the puppy?” Brandon asked.

“Nothing really,” Doc said. “Mrs. Peabody thought maybe it had the mange, but he just had a flea bite and the dog scraped away some its fur getting to it.”

“Did you read my extra?” Brandon asked.

“Yeah, I read it. Is that the only reason you stopped by this morning, to get my comment on your article?”

Brandon chuckled. “Yeah, it is,” he said. “Every other morning, I just stop by to make a pest of myself. But this morning I stopped by because I wanted to see what you thought of my editorial.”

Doc smiled, then nodded. “Well, you do make a pest of yourself most of the time,” he said. “But to answer your question, I thought your editorial was brilliant. But—”

He let the word “but” hang.

“But what?” Brandon asked.

“Aren’t you taking a big risk? We both know what kind of a person Quentin is.”

“Sir, I will have you know that I am a member of the most noble, honest, and trustworthy profession in America. I am a newspaperman, and I will not let someone like Pogue Quentin frighten me away from doing my duty.”

“You are to be praised, sir,” Doc said. Walking over to the coffeepot, he poured a cup, then held it out toward Brandon.

Brandon declined. “No, thanks, I had a second cup down at Kathleen’s this morning.”

“No doubt milking as many accolades as you could from the other diners who read your article,” Doc suggested.

“Alas, Doctor, you know me too well,” Brandon replied with a little chuckle.

“It was a good article, Elmer, perhaps the best I have ever seen you write. But I am afraid it is all for nothing,” Doc said as he took the first swallow of his coffee.

“All for nothing? Why do you say that?”

“Because you are not going to get enough men with the courage and honor who will serve fairly on the jury.”

“What about you, Doc?”

“What about me?”

“You are one of the most likely to be selected for jury duty. Will you serve honorably?”

“I very much hope that I am not selected for jury duty,” Doc said.

“That’s not an answer, Doc. The question is, if you are selected, will you serve honorably?”

“Like I said,” he repeated. “I very much hope that I am not selected for jury duty.”

“Doc, I am disappointed in you. I can understand your reluctance to be a witness, but not your reluctance to be a juror. If not for the fact that I am going to be a witness, I would very much want to serve on the jury.”

“For crying out loud, Elmer, why would anyone actually want to serve on a jury?” Doc asked.

“Civic duty perhaps?” Brandon replied. “And just to see that for once, in this town, justice is done.”

“I guess that’s reason enough.”

“Also, I very much would like to irritate the hell out of Pogue Quentin,” Brandon added.

Doc laughed out loud. “Now that,” he said, “I can believe.”

Brandon started toward the door. “I would love to stay long enough for you to continue to heap praise on me for my brilliant article, but, alas, I must get to work. I have some posters to print for Milo’s Emporium,” he said. “I need to get them out of the way so I can go to the trial this afternoon to give testimony. Are you going to be there?”

“We’ve already been through all this, Elmer,” Doc said. “I’m not going to be a witness.”

“I’m not talking about you being a witness. I’m just talking about you being there to give me some moral support.”

Doc chuckled, quietly. “Moral support?” he said. He nodded. “Yes, moral support I can do. I’ll be there.”

“I’ll see you then.”

With a final wave to his friend, Brandon walked on down to the street another block and a half until he reached the newspaper office. Unlocking the doors, he stepped inside, shut the door, and walked over to open the curtains.

“Leave them closed,” a voice said. The voice was low and had a snakelike hissing quality to it.

Brandon felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, a hollowness in the pit of his stomach, and a weakness in his knees. Turning, he searched the shadows of his office for the origin of the voice. But because the curtains blocked the morning sunlight, the office was so dimly lit that he saw no one.

“Who is there?” he asked. “Who are you? What do you want?”

He saw something move deep within the shadows. Whoever it was, he was very short, so short that Brandon thought it might be a young boy. The quick fear he had felt was now replaced by a sense of irritation.

“What are you doing in my office, boy?” he asked angrily. “Does your mama know you are here? Get out—get on home with you.”

The figure stepped out of the shadows. He was small, but he was no boy. He was dressed all in black and was wearing a pistol belt that bristled with filled bullet loops. He wore a mustache, and even though his eyes were as dark as coal, they somehow seemed to catch the ambient light so that they were shining in the darkness. Brandon had seen this person only once before in his life, but he recognized him immediately.

“Cates!” Brandon gasped. “You are the one they call Snake Cates.” The fear returned. This time it was much more than a hollow stomach, weak knees, and raised hair on the back of his neck. This time it was a numbing paralysis that made it difficult for Brandon to stand, and even harder to breathe. He could feel his heart pounding

The small figure took a deep, hissing breath. Then his tongue darted out just before he spoke, adding to his snakelike demeanor.

“Mr. Quentin is very upset with you,” the small man said. “He has sent me to let you know just how upset he is. He wants you to put out another edition.”

“Another edition?”

“He wants you to tell the people of Santa Clara that you have been thinking about what you wrote earlier, and now you have changed your mind. He wants you to apologize in print.”

“I—I couldn’t do anything like that,” he said. “Why, I would be discredited for the rest of my life. I may as well not be a newspaperman anymore.”

“That’s the other thing,” Cates said. “After you apologize, he wants you to leave town. Forever.”

“No, I can’t do that. My Emma is buried in this cemetery. I intend to lie alongside her.”

“If you don’t agree to Mr. Quentin’s terms, you will be lying alongside her sooner than you thought.”

At that moment, Brandon knew that, no matter what he did, he was about to die. And from somewhere, deep inside him, he found a courage he didn’t know he possessed.

“You tell Quentin I said to go to hell.”

Doc Patterson was making an entry in his ledger about the puppy he had just examined when he heard the gunshot. Gunshots were not all that unusual in Santa Clara. Sometimes someone would get a little drunk, then shoot his gun out in the street. But it was too early in the day for that kind of gunshot.

Suddenly, Doc had an overwhelming sense of foreboding, and he stepped out onto the porch in front of his office. He saw Donovan standing just outside his leather goods store.

“Donovan, what was that?” Doc asked.

“Sounded like a gunshot.”

“Yes, but from where? And who was it?”

“Help!” a young boy shouted, running up the street in full stride.

“Johnny, what is it?” Doc called to the boy.

The boy stopped running. “It’s Mr. Brandon, Dr. Patterson.”

“What about Mr. Brandon?”

“He has been shot!”

“Show me!”

Johnny started running back toward the newspaper office, and despite his age and relative girth, Doc ran alongside, his boots making loud clumps on the boardwalk as kept pace with the boy.

“Where is he?” Doc asked the boy when they reached the newspaper office.

“He’s inside,” the boy replied. “I was comin’ to collect my pay for the newspapers I delivered last night and I heard the gunshot. When I ran inside, I seen Mr. Brandon lyin’ on the floor over by the press. I was too scared to go over any closer.”

Doc went inside and looked around, but because the drapes were pulled shut, it was too dark to see. By now a few others had come in as well.

“Open the curtains!” Doc ordered.

When the curtains were drawn, the morning sun spilled in through the windows, lighting up the room. That was when Doc saw Brandon lying facedown on the floor.

“Elmer!” Doc shouted. Kneeling beside him, he put his hand on Brandon’s neck to check for a pulse.

There was none.

“Johnny, when you came down here, did you see anyone else?” Doc asked.

“No sir, I didn’t see no one else,” Johnny replied. “Is—is Mr. Brandon dead?”

Doc nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“I don’t reckon I’ve ever been this close to a dead man before,” Johnny said. “Well, I’ve seen ’em laid out in funerals and all, but I ain’t never seen one what has just been kilt.” Johnny came closer to look down in young but macabre curiosity.

Looking toward the back of the shop, Doc saw that the back door was standing wide open. Moving quickly toward it, he looked outside, glancing up and down the alley. He saw no one.

“What is it? What’s going on here?” a voice asked.

Stepping back inside the newspaper office, Doc saw Marshal Dawson just coming in off the street.

“Mr. Brandon’s been shot,” the newspaper boy said.

“Is he dead?”

Doc nodded. “Yeah,” he said in a choked voice. “He’s dead.”

“Did you do this, Patterson? Did you kill Brandon?” Dawson asked, snapping his words out in accusation.

“For crying out loud, Dawson, you know better than that,” Doc said. “Elmer Brandon was my best friend.”

“Friends has been known to get into arguments before,” Marshal Dawson said.

“Doc Patterson couldn’t of done it, Marshal,” Johnny said.

“How do you know he couldn’t have done it?”

“’Cause when I heard the gunshot, I run into the shop just long enough to see Mr. Brandon lyin’ there. Then I run back down the street where I seen Doc Patterson standin’ in front of his office. He couldn’t of got there that fast.”

“I suppose you are right,” Dawson replied. He walked over to look down at Brandon’s body. “Maybe it was a suicide, or an accident or something,” he suggested.

“Do you see a pistol anywhere, Marshal?”

Dawson looked around the room. “No.”

“Then that should prove that it was no suicide or accident,” Doc said. “He was murdered.”

“Well, if he was, it was his own fault.”

“What? His own fault? How can you say something like that?”

“Come on, Doc, you read his article, I’m sure,” Dawson said.

“I’ll be damned,” Doc said. “You’re right, I think Quentin killed him, but I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“What? Who said anything about Quentin killin’ him?”

“You did. You said it was because of his article.”

Marshal Dawson shook his head. “I didn’t say nothin’ about Quentin doin’ the killin’. There’s no doubt in my mind but that the article made a lot of people in this town very mad. More than likely it was one of them, I just don’t know who.”

“I don’t see how it could make anyone but Quentin mad,” Doc said.

“Are you accusing Quentin?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are a fool. I was out at the Tumbling Q this morning, and Quentin was there. He probably has twenty witnesses who will say he was there all morning. Quentin didn’t do it.”

“If Quentin didn’t do it, then who did?”

“I told you. I don’t know who did it. I just know who didn’t do it. But don’t worry, I’ll find out.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” Doc said dryly.

By now there were at least twenty or more people who had gathered in and in front of the newspaper office, crowding in closer, trying to find out what was going on.

At the far end of the street, in Quentin’s General Store, Hoyt Poindexter saw someone looking at the display of bandannas he had just put out on a table this morning. The customer was so short that only his head and shoulders reached above the table.

“Yes, sir, can I help you?” Poindexter asked.

The little man’s tongue darted out a couple of times before he spoke. “I want the red one,” he said, his voice little more than a hiss.

“I’ll get it for you,” Poindexter said, reaching for the red bandanna. As he moved closer to the table, he could see out the window, and noticed that, down at the other end of the street, a crowd was beginning to gather around the newspaper office. He paused for a moment as he looked toward the gathering.

“That one,” the little man said again.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Poindexter said, getting the bandanna and handing it to the little man. “That will be ten cents.”

The short man reached into his pocket.

“I wonder if he is putting out another extra,” Poindexter asked.

“Who?”

“Mr. Brandon, the newspaper editor. He put out an extra edition about the trial last night, first time he’s ever done anything like that. And now there seems to be something going on down there.”

“I wouldn’t know,” the little man said as he handed a dime to Poindexter.

“Thank you for your business, sir,” Poindexter said.

With the transaction completed, and no more customers in the store, Poindexter walked out onto his front porch and looked down toward the newspaper office, wondering just what was going on.

The little man with the new red bandanna rode out of town.

When Doc stepped into Kathleen’s Kitchen a few minutes later, he saw Pearlie’s friends having breakfast and talking animatedly about the special edition of the newspaper.

“It is an exceptionally well-written piece,” Murchison said. “I just hope the good people of Santa Clara realize what a talented journalist they have in Mr. Brandon.”

“Hello, Doc,” Smoke said, seeing the veterinarian standing just inside the door. “Come join us. We are talking about the newspaper article your friend wrote.”

“Elmer is dead,” Doc said in a flat, somber voice.

“Who is dead?” Cal asked.

“Elmer Brandon.”

Sally gasped. “You mean the newspaper editor?”

Doc nodded.

“He just left here no more than half an hour ago,” Murchison said.

I know,” Doc said. “He left here, then he stopped my office for a few minutes, the way he does every morning, then he walked on down to his office. Someone must have been waiting for him there, because no more than two minutes after he left me, he was dead.”

Smoke picked up the newspaper and looked at the article again. “I guess he was more courageous than we thought.”

“Mr. Murchison, Elmer was going to testify for you, wasn’t he?” Doc Patterson said.

“Yes, sir, he was.”

“Well, now, I’m going to.”

“I appreciate that, Dr. Patterson, I truly do,” Murchison said.