Savagery of The Mountain Man

Chapter Twenty-one

Because the New York Saloon was the only building large enough to hold the number of people expected to attend the trial, the hearing was held there. Gibson had been told that no liquor could be sold during the time of the trial, but the trial generated enough early business to compensate him for it, so he willingly closed the bar at twelve thirty.

More than half the population of the town made plans to attend the trial. This included several women and the parson of the local church, none of whom who had never seen the inside of the saloon before. Earlier today, out of deference to the ladies who would be attending the trial, Gibson hung a white silk cloth over the nude painting, Note From Cupid.

It was obvious that many of the women had heard of the painting, because several of them looked for it as soon as they came in, and a few even expressed their disappointment over the fact that the painting had been covered.

Smoke, Sally, Cal, Lenny, Mary Lou, and Kathleen were sitting in the front row, immediately behind the defense table. They had arrived early so that they were there when Pearlie was brought into the improvised courtroom, his hands shackled behind him. Deputy Wilson was the escorting officer, and he strutted importantly alongside Pearlie, guiding him by way of his hand gripping Pearlie’s elbow.

“Hello, Smoke, Miz Sally, Cal,” Pearlie said, smiling at his friends as he walked by them. “Hi, Lenny, Miz York, Miss Culpepper.”

They all responded.

“Don’t you worry none, Pearlie,” Cal added encouragingly. “Everything is going to be just fine. Mr. Murchison is the smartest lawyer I know.”

Pearlie laughed. “Cal, that would give me a lot of comfort if I thought you knew a lot of lawyers.”

Murchison chuckled.

“Now you sit there, and you don’t give me any trouble,” Wilson said authoritatively as he unlocked the shackles. “’Cause I’m goin’ to be sittin’ right over there and I’ll be keepin’ my eyes on you for the whole time.”

Pearlie rubbed his wrists as he sat down.

The saloon was buzzing with the conversation of well over one hundred spectators, but suddenly the conversation grew quiet. Curious as to why the conversation had suddenly stilled, Smoke turned in his chair and looked back toward the front door. There, standing just inside the batwings, he saw Pogue Quentin, accompanied by a small, evil-looking man.

“Smoke, that fella with Quentin. That’s—” Cal started to say, but Smoke interrupted him.

“Borgardus Cates,” he said.

“Yes, they call him Snake Cates. He’s one of the deadliest killers in the country,” Cal went on, anxious to show that he knew something about Cates.

“I wonder what he’s doing here,” Sally said.

“I’m sure Quentin hired him,” Smoke said.

“Smoke, do you think he is the one who killed Mr. Brandon?”

“I would bet on it,” Smoke replied.

“You have to know that Marshal Dawson would suspect that, yet here he is, just as bold as life.”

“The mistake you are making, Sally, is in thinking that Dawson is a real law officer,” Smoke said. “He isn’t. He is Quentin’s man.”

Quentin and Cates walked to the front of the room. There were no empty seats in the front row, but when Quentin glared at two men who were sitting there, they got up quickly and went to the back of the room, thus enabling Quentin and Cates to sit behind the prosecutor’s table.

Murchison had already met the prosecutor, having talked with him for a few minutes about half an hour ago. Santa Clara did not have a full-time prosecuting attorney, nor did Huereano County. It was normally the responsibility of the presiding judge to appoint one, but in this case, he didn’t have to. When Marshall Dawson and Percy Gilmore met the judge at the depot last night with the request that Gilmore be assigned the position of prosecutor, it had surprised Judge McCabe.

Appointing someone who actually wanted to be the prosecutor was a rare break from the routine. Most of the time, Judge McCabe would encounter resistance from those he appointed as prosecutor, so he welcomed this turn of events and appointed Gilmore to the position, even before he left the depot.

As Quentin and Cates took their seats behind the prosecutor’s table, Gilmore turned to engage them in conversation. They spoke so quietly that nobody near them could hear what was being said.

“You did what?” Gilmore gasped aloud.

“You don’t have to worry about it none,” Quentin said. “You didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. It was—”

Gilmore held up his hand and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Don’t say another word. I can’t know anything about it, do you understand? Say nothing more to me about this.” Gilmore turned his back to them.

Lenny chuckled. “Mr. Gilmore seemed upset with Quentin. I wonder what that was all about,” he said.

Before anyone could respond to Lenny’s question, Marshal Dawson stepped up to the front of the room and cleared his throat a few time until he had everyone’s attention.

“Oyez, oyez, oyez, this here Court of Huereano County, Santa Clara, Colorado, is now in session. Everyone will come to order, the Honorable Judge Cleetus McCabe presiding. All rise.”

Smoke, Sally, Cal, Lenny, Mary Lou, and Kathleen stood with the others. Conversations were cut off in mid-sentence, and there was a scrape of chairs and rustle of clothing as those in the gallery stood. A spittoon rang, then rocked on the floor as someone made an accurate expectoration of his tobacco quid.

Judge McCabe was a rather large man, with cheeky jowls, piercing blue eyes, and a bald head. He ambled to the bench, then sat down.

“Be seated,” he said.

There was another scrape of chairs as those present took their seats. McCabe picked up the piece of paper that was lying on the table that served as his desk.

“Comes now before this court, in the case of The People versus—” He paused for a moment, then looked up. “Pearlie? Pearlie what?”

“Just Pearlie, Your Honor,” Pearlie replied.

Judge McCabe shook his head. “No,” he said. “That won’t do. I’m going to need your entire name.”

“Please the court, Your Honor,” Murchison said. “As the person named in the indictment is identified only as Pearlie, and as my defendant readily agrees that he is the Pearlie so named, there is no legal requirement that any other name be used. I’m sure Your Honor is aware there have been cases tried and adjudicated for persons known only as John Doe.”

Judge McCabe stroked his chin for a moment as he studied the document before him. Clearing his throat, he looked up at Pearlie.

“Do you hereby state before this court that you are the person identified in this indictment as Pearlie?”

“I do, Your Honor,” Pearlie replied.

“Then Pearlie it shall be,” McCabe said. He turned back to the document and continued to read. “In the case of The People verses Pearlie, the charge is murder, and murder in the first degree.”

This time, McCabe looked over at the prosecutor’s table. “Murder in the first degree? Are you sure you wouldn’t like to amend this charge? I was under the impression that it was a spur-of-the-moment killing. Murder in the first degree requires premeditation. That’s going to be a hard case to make, don’t you think?”

“First degree, Judge,” Quentin called out. “I want this son of a bitch to hang.”

Angrily, McCabe picked up his gavel and brought it down sharply on the table. “Order in the court!” he said. “Any more outbursts like that, Mr. Quentin, and I will have you escorted from this court. Do you understand?”

Quentin glared at the judge, but said nothing.

“Do you understand, sir?” McCabe asked, the tone of his voice even sharper than before.

“Yeah, I understand,” Quentin replied.

Gilmore turned toward Quentin. “This is going to be hard enough as it is,” he said quietly. “Please don’t make it any harder.”

“Mr. Prosecutor, do you wish to amend the charge?” McCabe asked again.

“No, Your Honor. There is no set time limit for pre-medication. It can be as little as a second.”

“Very well, the charge shall be prosecuted as entered. With lawyer for the defense present, and with the prosecutor present, we shall now proceed with voir dire of the impaneled jury.”

The first juror questioned by Murchison was James Colby. “Mr. Colby, what is your occupation?”

“I’m a rancher—sort of,” Colby replied.

“Sort of?”

“I’m still running longhorns when everyone else is switching to Herefords. It’s getting harder to hang on.”

“Did you know Billy Ray Quentin?”

“Yeah, I knew him,” Colby replied.

“How well did you know him?”

“In a town this size, and with someone like Billy Ray, almost every one knew him.”

“What do you mean, someone like Billy Ray?”

“He was the son of the wealthiest man in the county. And he could be quite unpleasant. Like I said, everyone knew him.”

“Do you have any financial obligation or business relationship with Pogue Quentin?”

“No,” Colby answered resolutely.

“Do you think you could render an honest verdict, based entirely upon the evidence presented in this case?”

“I do.”

“The defense accepts the juror, Your Honor,” Murchison said, returning to his seat.

“Voir dire, Mr. Prosecutor?” McCabe said.

Gilmore stood up, but did not walk away from the prosecutor’s table. “Mr. Colby, you said that Billy Ray could be unpleasant. What did you mean by that?”

“You knew him as well as I did, Percy,” Colby answered. “Why would you even have to ask such a thing?”

“Did you like Billy Ray?”

“I don’t know if anyone liked him,” Colby replied. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t be fair.”

“I see. Let’s change directions, Mr. Colby. Were you present at a meeting in Pogue Quentin’s home several months ago, when several ranchers from the area made the decision to pool their livestock and property into one larger cooperative ranch?”

“You know I was. You were there, too.”

“Yes, I was. And I know the answer to this question as well, but I want you to answer it for sake of the court. Did you join with the others?”

“No. I did not.”

“Why didn’t you join, Mr. Colby?”

Colby looked over toward Quentin with a disapproving expression on his face.

“Because I thought he was just settin’ everything up so as to cheat us out of our land,” Colby said. “And it turns out that I was right. Gillespie, Peters, Baker, and the others—they are all gone now. Gone without so much as one cow or one acre to their name. Quentin owns it all.”

“Do you find fault with Mr. Quentin for that?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Do you blame Mr. Quentin for the fact that these other gentlemen you mentioned lost their property?”

“You damn right I do,” Colby said resolutely. “He stole that land from them as sure as if he had done it with a gun.”

Gilmore turned toward the judge. “Your Honor, dismiss for cause. It is clear that there is some animosity between this juror and the father of the victim.”

“You may step down, Mr. Colby,” McCabe said. “You are dismissed from this jury.”

Gilmore dismissed two more of the potential jurors, both of whom had had run-ins with Billy Ray, and Murchison dismissed two of the jurors who were currently cowboys working for the Tumbling Q. They finally ended up with a panel of twelve.

“Those jurors who have been dismissed may stay as spectators, but you are to have no contact with the remaining jurors,” McCabe said. He looked over toward Gilmore. “Mr. Prosecutor, you may give your opening statement now. Make your case.”

Gilmore walked over to the jury. “Hello, Greg,” he said to the first juror. “Is your wife going to enter her plum jam in the county fair this year?”

The juror smiled. “Yes, sir, she sure is. You know Alice. Her plum jam has won a blue ribbon for the last three years running.”

“As it should have. I know it’s certainly the best I’ve ever eaten.” Gilmore smiled. “In fact, I had it on a biscuit for breakfast this morning. I’m sure she’ll do well again this year.”

Gilmore turned to the next man. “Good afternoon, Adam, how is little Sterling doing? I know he broke his arm. Is it healing up all right?”

“His arm is coming along just fine,” Adam replied. “He complains that the cast makes it itch all the time.”

Gilmore chuckled. “Oh, indeed, it will certainly do that. I remember that I broke my arm when I was about the same age as young Sterling is now. I fell off the roof of the barn. But you just remind him how good it will feel when he can finally get the cast off and scratch.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do that,” Adam said.

Gilmore went on down the line, speaking to every other member of the jury in the same way, calling each of them by name and making some personal comment, either about them, or about someone in their family.

“Now, fellas,” he said, after he had spoken to each one of them individually, “in a few minutes, that man sitting behind the table over there”—Gilmore pointed to Murchison—“the counsel for the defense, is going to give you his opening statement. No doubt, he is going to begin by addressing you as ‘gentlemen of the jury.’

“He has to do that, you understand, because he doesn’t know you. He is a stranger to our town, and it will be a stranger who addresses you.”

Gilmore pointed to Pearlie.

“A few days ago, the defendant was also a stranger to our town. None of us had ever heard of him. But he is certainly not a stranger any more. By now, everyone in town knows him, and knows the evil deed he did. You see, nine days ago the defendant, this—spawn of Cain—came into town, had a few drinks, got into a card game, and became so enraged over what was happening in that game that he killed—no—he murdered Billy Ray Quentin.

“I knew Billy Ray. All of you knew Billy Ray. In fact, I would go so far as to say that everyone in town either knew him or knew of him. We knew him because he was the son of Mr. Pogue Quentin, who is, arguably, the wealthiest man and the leading citizen of our fair city.”

Gilmore paused in his presentation and looked pointedly toward Quentin, inviting everyone else to look as well.

“More importantly, my fellow citizens of Santa Clara, we knew him because Billy Ray was one of us. He was full of life, and I dare say that at one time or another his antics gave all of you something to laugh about, either with him—or at him. Oh, don’t misunderstand; I know Billy Ray wasn’t always a ‘hail fellow well met’ type person. I would be the first to admit that Billy Ray could be a bit of a rascal on occasion. He liked to drink, and when he was drunk, he could sometimes be somewhat overly rambunctious. And just as all of us laughed at and with him from time to time, I’m sure that all of us became angry with him just as often.

“But none of us ever got so angry at Billy Ray that we killed him.”

Gilmore pointed to Pearlie.

“No, sir. That bit of malevolence was left to be perpetrated by a stranger.”

Gilmore was quiet for a moment. Then he shouted the next sentence so loudly that it made some of the people in the jury jump. “This man!” he shouted. “This man, who will admit only to the name of Pearlie, came into our town and took one of our own from us!”

Again, he was quiet for a long moment. When he resumed speaking, his voice was much quieter and well modulated.

“Today, each one of you has been called upon to perform a solemn task. You are being asked to decide the fate of another human being. The decision you make here could mean that this man will be required to forfeit his life, and no decision you will ever make in your life will be graver or more awesome than this.

“But when you render your decision, I want you to consider something. You are not doing it alone. This murderer will have a lawyer to plead for him. This murder will have a jury to hear and weigh all the facts. And this murderer will have his sentence imposed by a judge, duly recognized by the state of Colorado. Compare this to the rash decision Pearlie made in the blink of an eye, which was all the time left to Billy Ray Quentin, after the defendant decided to kill him.

“After you hear this case, I am sure that you will bring in a verdict of guilty, and we will have justice when the town gathers around the gallows on Front Street to watch this murderer be hanged by the neck until he is dead.”

Gilmore stood silently before the jury for a long moment, letting the word “dead” hang in the air. Then, with a final nod toward the gentlemen of the jury, he returned to his table.

“Damn, he is good,” someone said from behind Smoke. “I had no idea Gilmore was that good.”

Murchison sat at his table for a long moment until, finally, the judge called upon him.

“Counselor for the defense, do you waive your opening remarks?”

“No, Your Honor, I will speak to the jury,” Murchison said.

Standing, he looked toward the jury.

“Mr. Gilmore was correct in saying that I would begin my remarks by addressing you as ‘gentlemen of the jury.’ I do so, with the highest respect for those of you who have been called upon to—as the prosecutor was also correct in saying—make the most awesome and the gravest decision of your lives.

“He was wrong, however, in saying that you would be addressed by a stranger. On the contrary, you are going to be addressed by someone you all knew, respected, and, I think I am safe in saying, someone you could call your friend. I will be mouthing the words, but the words will not be mine. The words will be those of Elmer Brandon, as he wrote them in his extra edition of the Santa Clara Chronicle, which he published last night.

“Ironically, they are the last words he ever wrote because as I’m sure most, if not all of you, know, this talented and courageous newspaper editor was murdered this morning.”

There were some in the gallery who did not yet know that Brandon had been murdered, and upon Murchison’s announcement, there were a few shocked responses.

Judge McCabe picked up his gavel, but rather than bring it down sharply, he gave the gallery a moment to let the shock sink in.

“I have no doubt but that he was murdered because he had the courage, and the sense of obligation, to write these very words I’m about to read to you.”

Murchison picked up the extra broadsheet, and began to read.

“For the first time in this newspaper’s history, the Chronicle has issued an extra edition to inform the citizens of Santa Clara of a true and unique opportunity. Tomorrow, the 17th of September, a young man, a visitor to our community who we know only as Pearlie, will be put on trial for his life.

“The opportunity that trial offers the citizens of Santa Clara is the prospect of resurrecting something that beats deep within the breast of all Americans, something which sets our nation apart from all the nations of Europe and the rest of the world, something that many in this town abandoned long ago, upon the altar of economic security. That something is Democracy.

“Though no one has yet spoken the words aloud, it is no secret to anyone that this town has, for many years now, been in the clutches of a true despot. That despot is Pogue Quentin, who, by skillful and perfidious, if not illegal manipulation, has managed to gain control of nearly all the ranch land surrounding our fair city. He has used that same means to acquire many of the businesses in town so that, by now a majority of our citizens are dependent upon him for their very existence. We may owe Pogue Quentin our livelihoods, but we do not owe him our souls, and by the words here written, your humble scribe is calling upon all to reclaim those souls, so nearly lost.

“How can you do that?

“By making certain that the inalienable rights of trial by jury and innocent until proven guilty are accorded the young man who now stands in peril of his life, due to the trial upcoming.

“Recently, Pogue Quentin’s son, Billy Ray, was killed in a shooting that occurred at the New York Saloon. Though some off-the-record testimony says that the shooting was justifiable, we, the citizens of Santa Clara, have, for the last week, had to suffer the unpleasant sight of a terrible instrument of death, a gallows, constructed in the middle of Front Street. This gallows was constructed, not by the city, or the county, or the state. It was a private construction, paid for by Pogue Quentin. It was constructed to facilitate the execution, by hanging, of a young man who has not yet had his day in court.

“I can also reliably report, having attended the cemetery interment of Billy Ray Quentin and been a witness to the outrageous actions of Pogue Quentin, that he interrupted the sacred burial rites to demand, under penalty of economic pressure, that any citizen who may be called upon for jury duty find Pearlie guilty. He makes this demand before the first piece of evidence is presented, before the first witness is heard, before the opening arguments are made.

“I say no, a thousand times no, to this demand. I say to all our citizens, and especially to whoever may be selected to serve upon this jury, that you remember your obligation to uphold the principles upon which our nation was founded, the rights for which, in the recent Civil War, so many brave young men, in the words of Abraham Lincoln, ‘gave their last full measure of devotion.’

“Whether this young visitor to our town is found guilty or innocent, let it be by a fair trial, decided upon by men of honor and character. It is time for us to reclaim our rights, to lay possession to the civil liberties that are granted to all men by the grace of a just and merciful God, and preserved by the noble efforts of men. Let us walk the streets of Santa Clara with our heads held high and proclaim to one and all that we are Americans!”

When Murchison finished the article, someone in the galley started clapping. Soon another joined, and another still, until the entire gallery was applauding.

Judge McCabe was so taken aback by this sudden and unexpected event that for a moment he sat there in shocked silence. Then he picked up the gavel and banged it, calling for order in the court until the applause subsided.

“I—I will not allow another demonstration like this,” he said.

Murchison noticed as he sat down, however, that the judge’s words, though chastising, were not harsh. It was as if he understood the natural outpouring of emotion the citizens of the town had at hearing the last words ever written by the editor of their newspaper.