On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (26 page)

“I know all but one,” Wicasha said. “They’re pretty fair men. The guy on the far right is Walter Grishin. He’s the town’s butcher. You can count on him to vote in Franklin’s favor. At least we can expect a hung jury if the others don’t follow.”

“What about the marshal?” Tory scrutinized him sitting at the table. He reflected on how yesterday Marshal Reinhardt had yanked Franklin into the jailhouse with little concern for his rights.

“He’s a glorified gunman, that’s all,” Wicasha said. “Most likely not as much on Bilodeaux’s side as the Canadian might like to think. He just don’t like Frank much. They always butted heads. I suspect in the end, he’ll do what the judge and jury tells him.”

Wicasha pointed out a man wearing a dark pinstripe suit and rose cravat. Wicasha explained he was Spiketrout’s Mayor Winters, the first man elected to hold that post. To Tory, he seemed delighted, even overjoyed, as if he were about to watch a play staged for his benefit.

The atmosphere was charged like an Edison bulb. Pulsing heat and energy traveled from one gawker to the next. Everyone—including the madame’s girls—wanted to see a grand spectacle. Franklin was their lead performer, or sacrificial offering, depending on how one might look at it. Implacable lust for excitement seized the crowd and kindled their souls.

Tory’s worries escalated when Henri Bilodeaux strolled onto the floor from upstairs, a lancero cigar clenched between his teeth. He elbowed his way among the pressing crowd. The men, most far taller than him, allowed him passage. He stood undetected just askew behind Franklin in his typical cavalier fashion, arms crossed, head held high, and an obnoxious leer cut into his dark face.

Looking at Bilodeaux and the giddy crowd behind him, Tory fretted that few people, if any, would be able to aid Franklin, despite Wicasha’s assurances.

A short, plump middle-aged man parted the crowd from the street, demanding in a strained falsetto for the crowd to allow him entrance. The marshal hurried over to the man’s aid. They spoke into each other’s ears, their freshly shaved faces screwed up with gravity. Wicasha told Tory he recognized the man as Adam J. Gevelinger, a judge from Deadwood. He reassured Tory that he was known for his reasonableness.

Whispers flared around them as the onlookers took notice of the official-looking man in the dark suit and black top hat. Annoyed and weary-looking, the judge approached the bar, which apparently would make due as his bench. He sat on a stool on the bartender’s side and laid aside is hat.

“I need a gavel,” he said, spinning around on the stool as if looking for one.

A man to his left, most likely the bartender, who had maintained his post, brandished from under the counter a quarter-empty whiskey bottle. The judge rolled his eyes, then snatched the yellowing bottle from the bartender. Thrusting out his chin, he banged on the counter with the bottle, the amber liquid sloshing inside. “Court’s in session. Court’s in session. Quiet. Let’s have quiet.”

Voices muffled and quieted. All eyes were riveted on the judge.

“All right,” the judge began, his voice squeaky yet powerful. “Let’s figure out who’s who. Will the defendant rise.”

Franklin and Doc Albrecht stood.

Judge Gevelinger asked Franklin to state his full name. Franklin obliged him, and the judge said, “Mr. Ausmus, are you fully aware of the reason why you’ve been brought before this court?”

Franklin looked ready to spit out a string of laments, but Doc Albrecht grabbed his stump and whispered into his ear. Pursing his lips, Franklin said, “Yes, Your Honor, I am.”

“Please sit, then. Whoever brought the charges against this man, please rise.”

Marshal Reinhardt obeyed the judge’s request, his eyes wide and nose upturned. He kept scratching his head as if wanting to conceal his receding hairline with his hand. “That would be me, Your Honor. Marshal Peter S. Reinhardt.”

“And why have you brought charges against the defendant, Franklin T. Ausmus?”

“The shooting death of longtime Spiketrout resident, Clayton R. Johnson.” The mention of the deceased’s name and Franklin’s alleged deed brought a wave of chatter from the crowd. Judge Gevelinger banged the counter with the whiskey bottle.

“Quiet,” he shouted. “No more outbursts.” He set the bottle aside and turned back to Franklin. “How do you plead?”

This time, Doc Albrecht spoke on his behalf. “Not guilty, Your Honor,” he said without hesitation.

Again, the judge had to bang the bar with the bottle to settle the gapers. “Any more outbursts and I’ll clear this saloon… I mean, courtroom.” Turning to Franklin, he asked, “Do you stand by your attorney?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Franklin murmured.

“All right. Now let’s get the proceedings underway.”

Marshal Reinhardt presented his arguments first, explaining, with little exaggeration, how Franklin had hauled in Johnson’s body after “allegedly” discovering it at Moonlight Gulch. There were a few grunts of displeasure during the lawman’s speech. Franklin chewed on his lips. Doc Albrecht kept a steady gaze on the bar, his smile one of confidence.

“It is my belief that the defendant misled us into thinking that he found the body on his property already dead,” the marshal said, anchoring his speech, “in hopes of exculpating himself as the gunman.”

Franklin stood with a fury. “Bilodeaux shot Johnson, wanting to pin it on me. He wants me in prison or hanged so he’d get to sweep in on my land and scoop up the gold. Everybody knows it’s what he’s after.”

Doc Albrecht pulled him down. After the doc whispered in his ear, Franklin calmed.

“He speaks nonsense,” Bilodeaux said. Puffs of blue cigar smoke shot from his toothy grin. “I have plenty of gold. Why would I arrange such an elaborate prank for more?”

“’Cause you, like so many others in this town, are addicted to gold,” Franklin said, peering at Bilodeaux with fiery eyes. “You’re addicted to it like opium, and now you’re craving more since it’s all drying up. You can’t get enough. And when you can’t get your grubby hands on it, you act like lunatics.”

“Order,” the judge said in his squeaky voice to calm the uproar that accompanied Franklin’s outburst. “Let’s have order.” Judge Gevelinger let the silence seep in before proceeding. “Is there any hard evidence to support your claims against the defendant, Marshal?”

Marshal Reinhardt leaned into the table. “My deputy went to the scene and found a rifle belonging to the defendant that matched the shell casing the defendant said he found at the scene of the murder.”

“That doesn’t prove a thing,” Franklin shouted above the hubbub that trailed the marshal’s proclamation. “Half the men in Spiketrout have rifles with the same caliber as mine. You could find any one of them that matches that casing.”

The judge silenced Franklin with the whiskey bottle. Doc Albrecht calmly pulled Franklin to his seat. He whispered something in his ear, and Franklin, squaring his shoulders with a grimace, slumped in his chair, his lips tighter than piano wire.

“Do you have this rifle?” the judge asked.

“I do, Your Honor.” Marshal Reinhardt took the rifle from his deputy and handed it to the judge, who studied it a good minute.

While the judge examined the rifle, Tory whispered to Wicasha, “How do you think he got that gun? I’m sure you or I would’ve heard anyone sneaking around the homestead. Especially you, since you were sleeping outside. Unless they came while I was out hunting for you.”

Wicasha said, “He probably got it from their own collection. Like Franklin said, every man in this room has a rifle that could match that shell. They’re just using it as a ruse.”

The judge placed the rifle next to him on the bar.

Doc Albrecht stood. “Deputy, did you obtain a search warrant before you looted through Frank Ausmus’s private property?”

The deputy looked flabbergasted. “Well… I….”

Marshal Reinhardt spoke for him, his eyes downcast. The gas-lit chandelier hanging above the room reflected off his shiny forehead. “No, he did not.”

“Your Honor,” Doc Albrecht said, turning to the judge, “the deputy disregarded one of the fundamental rights found in the fourth amendment of our constitution, and that’s the right against undue searches and seizures. Deputy Ostrem trespassed on Frank Ausmus’s land without even his presence and withdrew private property.”

“That’s not true,” the deputy stated. “There were people present. An Indian and that blond boy over there.” He pointed to them. All eyes followed. Tory flushed. He sensed Wicasha’s muscles tense.

“Were they aware of your presence on the property, deputy?” the judge asked.

“Well… I… umm. I suppose they were.”

“We were not,” Tory shouted. The sound of his voice resonating in the saloon surprised even him. His cheeks heated, and he shrank back behind Wicasha. But then he realized the importance of his outburst, and he stepped more fully into view and thrust out his chest. “Neither one of us were ever aware of the deputy’s presence at the homestead,” he reiterated with conviction.

“May I look at the weapon in question, Your Honor?” Doc Albrecht asked.

“If you feel the need.” The judge handed the rifle, butt-side first, to Doc Albrecht. He walked the gun over to Franklin.

“Is this your rifle?” he asked.

Franklin scanned the length of the weapon. “No, I’m certain it’s not. I’d know my own Winchester. This one looks too clean. I’ve had mine since 1880, and this one doesn’t have the newer lock barrel. I’d guess this one is at least fifteen years old.”

Doc Albrecht turned to the judge. “Your Honor, not only have the prosecution, in this case the marshal and his deputy, insinuated that they stole property without a proper search warrant, but they have committed a far worse grievance.” He turned to face the marshal directly. “They have planted evidence.”

A thunderous uproar erupted from the crowd. Judge Gevelinger wasted no time quieting them. He stopped banging against the counter only when, from the way he peered at the bottle, he worried it might shatter. “Keep quiet, or I’ll clear out this courtroom.”

“It’s his word against ours,” the marshal said.

“That’s right,” Doc Albrecht rejoined. “And you, Marshal, carry the burden of proof to show this man’s guilt. His words are weightier than yours, according to law.”

“That’s absurd,” someone shouted from the gallery near Tory and Wicasha. Tory turned to spy the accuser but saw only the same red faces, twisted with the thrill of the spectacle. About the only disinterested party in the entire proceeding was a yellow cat preening itself under the bar.

“What does any of this legal mumbo jumbo mean anyway?” another observer shouted from closer to the street windows. “Did Ausmus shoot Johnson fair and square one way or the other?”

The crowd exploded with agreement.

“Mr. Ausmus,” Doc Albrecht said, smirking off the crowd’s impatience, “given that you are one armed, how often do you rely on a rifle for your shooting?”

“Not often at all,” Franklin said, sitting up fuller in his chair while the crowd around him settled with expectancy. “I can shoot one, I’d readily admit, but I most often use my Smith & Wesson revolver when game hunting, which gives me a better shot.”

“Would you say that you find it difficult to fire a rifle at a long distance target?”

Franklin nodded. “Yes, I’d admit so. I can shoot maybe forty yards without worrying about losing aim.”

“Could you demonstrate for the court how you might use a rifle, if Your Honor permits?”

Judge Gevelinger sighed. “Go ahead.”

Franklin stood with the rifle in his left hand. Doc Albrecht encouraged him on with a nod. Franklin moved hesitantly at first, but then, as if understanding the value of the demonstration, he proceeded as if he were preparing to shoot one of his hogs. He held the stock between his knees, cocked the rifle with his left hand, and, using his stump, steadied the barrel while taking aim at the large mirror behind the bar. To maintain a steady posture, he had to pivot his waist left, away from the target, and crane his neck to look down the barrel, an awkward position for anyone.

“And I’m a natural right hander, too,” Franklin said, bringing the rifle to his side.

“Thank you, Mr. Ausmus.” Doc Albrecht took the rifle from Franklin and rested it on the table. “Your Honor, the victim was found with the bullet still wedged in his brain, directly between the eyes. That would mean that he had to have been shot by a man with the skill of hitting his targets from a range much farther than forty yards, a man with two arms. You can see from the demonstration that the defendant could not have committed this murder.”

The crowd unleashed more howls. “I want order,” the judge squealed as the crowd’s eruptions intensified, “or I’ll hold everyone in this courtroom in contempt. Now keep your mouths shut.”

Tory observed Bilodeaux, who had folded his arms and clenched a smoldering cigar between his puckered lips. His expression never changed. A confident arrogance creased the dark lines on his forehead and around his grin. Under the thick contour of his brow, his eyes, blue like sapphires, barely blinked. He snatched the cigar with his stubby fingers and stepped forward. Tory braced Wicasha’s arm.

“Despite what the defense alleges,” Bilodeaux said to the judge, “I attest that I heard the accused threaten the deceased, and the Indian and the blond boy heard it too.”

“And who are you?”

“My name is Henri Thibault Bilodeaux, Your Honor. I own the ranch north of town. I was present on the defendant’s property about two weeks ago, where I witnessed him lodge murderous threats at the deceased, and the Indian and blond boy were present.”

“Where are this Indian and blond boy everyone keeps referencing?” The judge glanced around, planting his eyes on Wicasha, the sole Indian in the room. “I say it’s about time we hear their side, since they seem so relevant to this story.”

Tory flinched. He could feel the blood pumping in Wicasha’s arm quicken. The silence that surrounded them grew as stagnant as swamp gas.

“Step to the bar… I mean, the bench,” the judge ordered.

Shakily, Tory followed behind Wicasha, hat tight in his hands. A reassuring gesture from Madame Lafourchette failed to ameliorate Tory’s nerves. Standing by the judge, he was able to see Franklin clearer. A sudden rush of warmth settled his trembling limbs. Franklin’s eyes glistened like jade under the chandelier. Tory couldn’t help but smile at him. Frank nodded lightly in his direction, but his mouth remained firm.