Kill Crazy (22 page)

“You are the one that shot him, Miss Parker?” Marshal Ferrell asked, surprised at the revelation.

“I am,” she said.

“Why did you shoot him in the leg?”

“Because I couldn't get the gun high enough to shoot him in the head.”

Duff, Marshal Ferrell, and Deputy Pierce, who had also come outside, laughed.

“Come on, Calhoun, inside with you.”

“I can't hardly walk on this leg,” Calhoun said. “It's hurtin' somethin' fierce.”

“Well, I can fix you right up,” Deputy Pierce said. “I've got a crutch inside that I'm hardly using anymore. I'll lend it to you just so's you can walk far enough for us to throw you in jail.”

 

 

“Clay! What the hell?” Emile said. “What are you doing here? Where's my brother?”

“Where's your brother? I'll tell you where he is. He ran out on us, that's where he is. You, me, and him, we are the only three left alive. And he is the only one who is still free.”

“Don't worry about it. Johnny will get us out. I know he will.”

“You are a fool, Emile. We all were to trust him.”

“He'll get us out. He told me he would, and I believe him. And if he can't get us out one way, he'll get us out another. He said if it came to it, he would hire the best lawyer he could find.”

“How is he goin' to pay for that lawyer?”

Emile smiled. “What do you mean? I didn't get to see any of the money, but I've done heard that we got over forty thousand dollars from the bank holdup. There ain't a lawyer in the country you couldn't hire for two hundred dollars.”

“Yeah? Well, we ain't got the money no more,” Calhoun said.

“What do you mean we ain't got the money no more? What happened to it?”

“We hid the money out, but it got found,” Calhoun said without further elaboration.

“So you mean we done all this for nothin'?”

Schumacher chuckled. “Looks like you boys have been left suckin' hind tit.”

“What's he doin' in jail?” Calhoun asked.

“They thought he had somethin' to do with you boys takin' the dress-makin' woman.”

“What the hell made them think that? He didn't have nothin' to do with it.”

Marshal Ferrell returned then and, going straight to Schumacher's cell, opened the door to let him out.

“Sorry, Francis,” he said.

“You were listening?”

“Yes.”

“Marshal, you are short a man without Frankie Mullins. I'd like to come work for you again, if you'll have me.”

“No more roughing up the prisoners?”

“No more, I promise.”

“All right, stop in the office. I'll swear you in again, and pin the badge back on.”

“Thanks.”

When the two returned to the office, Marshal Ferrell opened the middle drawer of his desk, pulled out a badge, and pinned in onto Schumacher's shirt.

“Welcome back, Francis,” Deputy Pierce said.

“Thanks, Willie. It's good to be back.”

 

 

Within half an hour after Johnny left the canyon, he heard the gunshots. Thinking perhaps a posse had located his men, and not wanting to get caught up in the gun battle, he waited until he saw the buckboard heading back to town. The woman was driving the buckboard, and he recognized the two flank riders as MacCallister and Gleason.

Where were the others?

He waited until the buckboard was out of sight before he went back. Even before he got there, though, he knew what he was going to find. The buzzards circling overhead told him that.

As he got farther down into the canyon, the number of circling buzzards increased. Now, many of the big, black birds were diving toward something on the ground, and as he approached Needle Rock, Johnny saw what it was. There, drawn together so that they were lying side by side, were the bodies of Blunt, Thomas, and Harper. He didn't see Calhoun.

 

 

For a moment, Johnny was angry. His entire gang was gone!

Then, as he thought about it, he realized that if everyone was gone, the money they had taken from the bank was his, all his. He was rich!

With no more than a cursory glance toward the macabre scene of the three bodies, Johnny moved quickly to the base of the Needle to dig up the money.

As soon as he got there, though, he could see that there had been digging. A lot of purposeful digging.

“What the hell?” he said aloud. “What is this? Who has been digging here?”

With a feeling of anxiousness, Johnny dropped to his knees and began digging. He threw the rocks aside, and dug like a man possessed. His hands became bloodied and bruised, but that didn't slow him down as he slashed through the soil, tossing the dirt aside.

He knew within the first few minutes of digging that he wasn't going to find anything. He knew, and even as he could feel the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, he refused to tell himself the truth.

The money was there, it had to be! All he had to do was dig a little faster.

Then, when he was much deeper than he knew they had gone, he stopped digging. It was now obvious, even beyond his own irrational hope. The money was not there.

“No!” he shouted, the angst-ridden word echoing and reechoing through the canyon.

Chapter Thirty-one

The night creatures called to each other as Johnny stood looking out toward Chugwater. A cloud passed over the moon, then moved away, bathing in silver the little town that rose up like a ghost before him. Several dozen buildings, half of which were lit up, fronted First Street, the main street of the town. The biggest and most brightly lit building was Fiddler's Green.

Someone was playing a guitar in one of the houses, and Johnny could hear the music all the way out in the hills. Johnny hobbled his horse, then walked into town. He didn't want to be seen and he decided his arrival would be less noticeable if he arrived on foot. He checked his pistol. It was loaded and slipped easily from its sheath.

As he started into town, he caught the smell of beans and spicy beef from one of the houses, and realized that it had been a couple of days since he had eaten well. His stomach growled in protest.

A dog barked, a high-pitched yap that was quickly silenced. A baby began to cry and a housewife raised her voice in one of the houses, launching into some private tirade about something, sharing her anger with all who were within earshot.

The sights, smells, and sounds reminded Johnny that there was another world, a world different from his own. There was a world of wives and kids, dogs and home-cooked meals—the world of his youth. His father had been a meat cutter in a meat-processing plant in Chicago, and had come home at night exhausted and reeking of the smell of blood and offal.

Johnny had turned his back on that world long ago, and though he had no intention of ever returning to it, there were times, such as this, when he had reflective moments. Pushing the contemplations aside, he continued on through the town, keeping as close to the fronts of the buildings as he could in order to stay in the shadows.

Reaching the block in which the jail was located, Johnny went between two buildings, then came out in the alley behind. He knew where he was because he had been here before, the last time he had come to see his brother.

Moving down the alley Johnny stopped behind the jail, then threw a rock in through the window into Emile's cell. A moment later, Emile's face appeared in the window.

“Johnny! I know'd it was you soon as you throw'd that rock in.”

“Shhh,” Johnny said. “Don't give me away.”

“When are you goin' to get me out of here?”

“I'm comin' up with a plan.”

“Yeah? Well, there ain't none of the plans worked yet, have they?”

Calhoun's face appeared in the window of the cell next to Emile's. “You comin' to get us out?” Calhoun asked.

“Clay, what happened after I left? Who kilt the others?”

“You won't hardly believe it, Johnny. They was all kilt by MacCallister. And he was shootin' from near a mile away.”

“There can't nobody shoot someone from a mile away.”

“He was damn near a mile, I tell you. Half a mile, anyway. He was so far away that you couldn't hear the gun he was shootin'. I mean one minute Harper was standin' there, and the next minute he was kilt, without even a sound. Same was for Blunt and Thomas.”

“You wasn't kilt.”

“No, I was lucky. I was shot in the leg, though.”

“Where is the money?”

“What money?”

“What money?” Johnny repeated, almost yelling the word out before catching himself. “The money from the bank job. We left it buried there, remember? Where is it?”

“They got it,” Calhoun said.

“They who? Where is it?”

“MacCallister and Gleason. They got it, only they give it to the marshal so more 'n likely it's been put back in the bank by now.”

“How did they get it? It was hid, wasn't it?”

“Well, yeah, but . . .”

“How did they get it, Calhoun? How did they know where it was?”

Calhoun was quiet for a moment. Then, with a deep breath, he began to explain.

“They tricked me, Johnny. They told me you had took all the money and was goin' to run off with it. They said you already had the money. So I . . .”

“You dumb shit. You dug it up, didn't you?” Johnny said.

“You don't understand, they tricked me.”

Johnny pulled his pistol and shot Calhoun in the forehead. Then, as every dog in the neighborhood erupted into a chorus of barking, Johnny turned and ran away, disappearing into the dark.

 

 

“What happened?” Deputy Schumacher shouted as he ran into the back of the jail. He saw Calhoun lying on the floor with one leg still up on his bunk. There was black hole in his forehead.

“It was someone from town,” Emile said. “You remember how they was goin' to lynch me. They just come here and shot through the back winder. You got to protect me, Schumacher. I might be next.”

 

 

From the
Chugwater Defender:

Chapter Thirty-two

Emile Taylor was in shackles, and handcuffs as Deputy Schumacher escorted him from the jail to the city courthouse, where the trial was to be held. They walked by the gallows, which was under construction.

“What is that?” Emile asked.

“It's a gallows. What does it look like?” Schumacher said.

“What are you buildin' a gallows for? Ain't I supposed to be tried before you start thinkin' about hangin' me?”

“It's just a matter of convenience,” Deputy Schumacher said. “If you are found guilty and Judge Pendarrow sentences you to hang, there's no sense in waitin' around for a gallows to be built. We'll already have it done, so we won't have to wait.”

“What if I ain't found guilty? Ain't I supposed to be innocent until found guilty?”

Deputy Schumacher laughed. “In that case, it won't be any trouble to tear it down. It's always easier to tear somethin' down than it is to build it up.”

“Francis, how much money would it take to bribe you to let me go?” Emile asked.

“You don't have enough money,” Schumacher replied.

“Don't be fooled by the fact that the money we stole has been took back to the bank. Me 'n' my brother can get more money. Lots more money. How much will it take for you to let me go?”

“You don't understand,” Schumacher said. “When I say you don't have enough money—I mean no matter how much money you might have, it isn't enough. The marshal took me on and give me back my pride. I don't intend to do anything to betray him.”

“I thought we was friends,” Emile said.

“You thought wrong.”

The courthouse was packed with people. So many had come for the trial that the courtroom spilled over and there were dozens waiting outside.

“This many people comin' to the trial?” Emile asked in surprise.

“Oh, yes. Danny Welch was a very popular man. He was a husband, father, a Sunday school teacher. You couldn't have made a bigger mistake than to kill one of our finest citizens.”

Schumacher smiled. “On the other hand, look at it this way. These folks are all going to have to stand outside during the trial, but you will have the best seat in the house.”

Schumacher opened the door, then pushed Emile in, in front of him. “Go on down to the front,” he said. “There is a table and chair, just waiting for you.”

As Emile started toward the front of the packed gallery, he could hear some of the comments from the spectators.

“I don't know why we're wastin' time holdin' a trial for the son of a bitch. We should go ahead and just hang him now.”

“Why? He won't be no more dead than he'll be when we hang him after the trial.”

“I reckon that's right.”

Robert Dempster was setting at the defendant's table, and he stood up as Emile approached.

“I've got you again?” Emile said.

“I've studied your case.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I ain't got no choice, seein' as I don't have the money to hire me a real lawyer.”

“I assure you, Mr. Taylor, I am a real lawyer,” Dempster said.

“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! This here trial is about to commence, the Honorable Thurman Pendarrow, presidin',” Marshal Ferrell, who was acting as the bailiff, shouted. “Everybody stand.”

The Honorable Thurman Pendarrow came out of a back room. After taking his seat at the bench, he adjusted the glasses on the end of his nose, then cleared his throat.

“Would the bailiff please bring the accused before the bench?”

Marshal Ferrell walked over to the table where Emile was sitting next to Dempster.

“Your Honor, permission to remove the restraints on my client?” Dempster asked.

Pendarrow thought for a moment, then nodded. “Granted,” he said.

Schumacher removed the shackles and the handcuffs. Emile rubbed his wrists for a moment, then looked over at Dempster. “Thanks,” he said.

“All right, all the restraints are removed,” Marshal Ferrell said with a growl. “Present yourself before the judge.”

Emile walked up to stand in front of the judge, and Dempster went with him.

“You are accused of shooting to death Mr. Dan Welch, during the commission of a felony bank robbery. How do you plead?”

“We plead not guilty, Your Honor,” Dempster said.

“Very well, take your seat. Mr. Crader, you are the prosecutor?”

“I am, Your Honor.”

“Make your case, Mr. Crader.”

 

 

Half an hour earlier, Duff had approached the courthouse with Meagan Parker, Elmer Gleason and Vi Winslow. Elmer, Meagan, and Vi were here as spectators to this very exciting event, but Duff's role was considerably more involved. He, along with Cindy Boyce and Bernie Caldwell, were witnesses.

As soon as Duff and Elmer started into the courtroom, Deputy Pierce met them.

“Gentlemen, I will need you to turn over your guns,” Pierce said.

“What for?” Elmer asked.

“It's the judge's orders. No guns in the courtroom.”

Both Elmer and Duff complied, and then they, along with Meagan and Vi, went into the courtroom to find seats that would accommodate all four of them.

They were there when Schumacher brought the prisoner in, and they sat through the preliminaries until the actual trial began. It started with the two attorneys making their opening statements to the jury. Then the prosecutor called Duff to the stand.

“Mr. MacCallister, were you in the bank during the robbery?” Crader asked.

“Aye.”

Judge Pendarrow leaned over the desk and looked down at Duff. “The witness is instructed to answer questions requiring an affirmative or negative comment with yes and no. Does the witness understand?”

“Aye, Your Honor, I understand,” Duff said. The gallery laughed and, quickly, Duff corrected himself. “I mean, yes, Your Honor.”

“You may proceed, counselor,” Pendarrow said.

“Please tell us what you saw.”

Duff said that five masked men had come into the bank, announcing their intention to rob it. During the course of the robbery, one of the robbers shot and killed Danny Welch.

“Do you know which one of the robbers shot Mr. Welch?”

“I believe it was Emile Taylor.”

“Would you point to Emile Taylor, please?”

Duff pointed to the defendant.

“Thank you, no further questions.”

Dempster stood up, but he didn't approach the witness stand. “Mr. MacCallister, you said you believe it was my client?”

“Aye. I mean, yes.”

“How could you tell? Did you not say they were all wearing masks?”

“Yes 'tis true they were all wearing masks, but one man was much shorter than the others. And it was the wee one who fired the shot.”

“The wee one?”

“The shortest one,” Duff clarified.

“Without the others herein present, how do you know that Mr. Taylor was the shortest?”

“I've seen them all, with and without masks. Emile Taylor is the shortest.”

“No further questions.”

Caldwell was the next witness, and his story concurred with Duff's story. Then Cindy was sworn in.

“Now, Miss Boyce you were in the bank, along with Mr. MacCallister and Mr. Caldwell, when the bank was robbed.”

“I was.”

“And would you tell the court who fired the shot that killed Mr. Welch?”

As soon as he asked the question, Crader turned away from Cindy to look at the jury, so that he might gauge their response to Cindy's answer.

“I don't know who fired the shot,” Cindy said.

Cindy's response surprised Crader, but he showed no particular reaction to it.

“I know that all of the bank robbers were masked, so it is quite understandable if you can't be for certain as to which of them fired the shot. And, because this is a capital murder case, I can see why you might be hesitant to point your finger at someone if you aren't one hundred percent sure. However, maybe this will help. This whole trial is nothing but house cleaning anyway, because it doesn't really make any difference whether Mr. Taylor is the one who pulled the trigger or not. He was, by his own admission, one of those who came to rob the bank. Mr. Welch was killed during the commission of that felony. Therefore, under the law, all of the bank robbers are equally guilty of felony murder. Would that make it a little easier for you to suggest that Emile Taylor is the one who fired the shot?”

Again, Crader turned toward the jury.

“What if none of the robbers fired the shot?” Cindy asked.

This time Crader did react to the unexpected answer, and he spun around in total surprise.

“What? What do you mean, what if none of them fired the shot? Mr. Welch is dead, and he is dead by bullet wound. Of course one of them fired the shot.”

“It could have been Mr. MacCallister who fired,” Cindy said.

“What?” someone shouted from the gallery.

“Woman, have you lost your mind?” another shouted.

The gallery burst into angry shouts and calls, and Cindy, dropping her head, began to cry.

“Order! Order in this court!” Judge Pendarrow called, pounding his gavel on the bench before him.

Crader said nothing as gradually the court was called back to order. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to Cindy. She used it to wipe the tears from her eyes.

“Miss Boyce, would you tell the court why you think it was Mr. MacCallister's bullet?”

“I didn't say I thought it was—I said I thought it could have been. I mean with all the shooting that was going on. Remember, Mr. MacCallister killed one of the robbers, and he also shot Emile, uh, Taylor. I was so frightened, I'll be honest with you, I had no idea what was going on. I just know that I'm probably not a very good witness.”

“No further questions.”

“Cross, Mr. Dempster?”

Dempster stood up and this time he did approach the witness. He looked at her sympathetically.

“Miss Boyce, do you need another moment to compose yourself?”

“No, I'm all right.”

“I know this has been very upsetting for you, so I will keep this as brief as I can,” he said quietly. “A simple yes or no is all I need in response. I believe you are telling the court that you cannot, with absolute certainty, testify that the bullet that killed Mr. Welch came from Mr. Taylor's gun, or indeed, the gun of any of the other bank robbers. Is that what you are saying?”

“Yes.”

“And I believe you are also saying that it is possible that the bullet that killed Mr. Welch could have even come from Mr. MacCallister's gun.”

“I'm not saying that it did.”

“I understand. You are merely saying that it could have. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

“Redirect, Mr. Crader.”

“No, Your Honor, but I would like to recall Duff MacCallister to the stand.”

Once again, Duff took the stand.

“I remind you, Mr. MacCallister, that you are already sworn in.”

Duff nodded.

“You have heard the testimony of Miss Boyce, as to how the bullet that killed Mr. Welch might have come from your gun. Is that possible?”

“Nae. No, it is impossible.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I did no shooting inside the bank. My gun was in the bottom of a pot of expectorated tobacco juice at the time. I had to”—Duff grimaced, then demonstrated with his hand—“withdraw it from the fetid liquid, before I could shoot it. And they had already withdrawn from the bank before I did that.”

“So, you are stating without equivocation, that you did not fire so much as one shot inside the bank?”

“Yes, that is what I'm saying.”

 

 

The closing arguments were brief. Dempster pointed out that the jury had the duty to convict only if they were convinced beyond reasonable doubt that Emile Taylor had fired the fatal shot. He also reminded them that one of the witnesses couldn't even testify that the bullet had come from any of the bank robbers.

Crader looked down at the tablet he was carrying, then read, “I was so frightened, I'll be honest with you, I had no idea what was going on. I just know that I'm probably not a very good witness.” Crader looked up from the tablet. “Those are the exact words of Miss Boyce. And because of that, I am going to ask the jury to disregard her testimony in its entirety. But, even beyond that, I ask you to consider this.

“Mr. Welch was killed during the course of that bank robbery. A wrongful death, during the commission of a felony, is felony murder, and that guilt is spread equally among all those who are committing the felony. And here is the most important thing. It doesn't even matter whether one of the bank robbers energized the ball that ended Mr. Welch's life or not. It could have been Mr. MacCallister, though you heard both Mr. MacCallister and Mr. Caldwell testify that his gun was in the bottom of the spittoon. It could have been Mr. Caldwell who shot him, though he was unarmed and there has been no testimony to that effect. It could even have been Miss Boyce.

“The truth is, it simply does not matter who shot Mr. Welch. He was killed during the commission of a felony. Mr. Taylor has already confessed to being one of the bank robbers, therefore your decision is a simple one.

“Find Emile Taylor guilty, so that justice may be served.”

His closing statement completed, Crader sat down, and Judge Pendarrow instructed the jury, then released them to find a verdict.