THE trial of Kurt Dodd and Pete Grubb was set for a week later, justice in the cow-town of that day moving swiftly. Bail had been set at one thousand dollars, but for some reason was not furnished, and the two went to jail.
“Shore I could raise the money,” Dodd told Bob. “But what’s the use? By thunder, you arrested me, now you can feed me; and when the jury turns me loose, I’m gonna make you hard to find in this part of the country.”
“You shore have my permission to try. I laid in that leanto and heard you plan my murder. I aim to show you up as the low-down rustler and killer you are.”
Kurt’s eyes gleamed malevolently. “I’ll do my crowin’ after the trial.”
Bob placed the two men in different cells and dropped into prosecuting attorney Poole’s office. “Hello, Thad. Reckon we’d better shape up the case against Dodd and Grubb.”
“Sheriff, if you have no more evidence than you produced at the preliminary hearing, the men will go free.”
“They won’t if you put it before the jury in the right way. These men were caught with a bunch of stolen cattle. Both of them were runnin’ from my posse. Pete Grubb was with the gang that caught and disarmed me, and Dodd was the one who told them to do away with me.”
“That’s what you say.”
Bob stiffened. “Meanin’ what?”
“Don’t misunderstand me. Personally I do not doubt that these men are guilty, but you must remember that in a court of law your unsubstantiated word is no better than that of Dodd or Grubb. The burden of proof, sheriff, is on us. They are innocent until we have proven them guilty.”
“The stolen cows were driven across the Kady, and a holdin’ corral and brandin’ fire were found on Dodd’s property.”
“You mean somebody drove cattle across Dodd’s spread and, presumably, did some branding. Can you prove the tracks were made by stolen cattle? or that the fire you found had been used for branding? Can you prove that the corral held stolen stock at any time? I say that you can not. The park in which you found the stolen stock is not on Dodd’s spread, and you can be sure that whoever defends him will make this clear.”
“But dang it, man I Kurt was ridin’ with those rustlers.”
“Where is your proof? You jumped a bunch of rustlers driving cattle toward what you call the Bottle Neck. In the fight which followed—a fight in so much dust that it was impossible to recognize any of your opponents—the rustlers escaped and scattered. In the pursuit you shot Dodd’s horse and arrested him, while one of your deputies caught and disarmed Pete Grubb. What does that signify? I can tell you right now what their defense will be. They, too, were on the trail of the rustlers. They, too, had followed the drive hoping to discover where the cattle were being taken. When the rustlers broke through the Neck, they followed. Instead of fighting against you, they were fighting with you.”
Bob eyed him grimly. “I see I cain’t count on any help from you in cleanin’ up this county. All right; I’ll do it alone.” He stamped angrily from the room.
Afterwards, as he sat in his little office thinking things over, he decided that he should be grateful to Thaddeus Poole for thus clearly demonstrating the difficulty of proving his case. He realized that he had been taking things too much for granted. Knowing Kurt Dodd to be guilty, he had assumed that his straightforward story would convince any jury that the charge against Dodd and Grubb was based on actual facts and not on theory. It seemed now that he was assuming too much; that somebody else must support his story in order to make it stick.
He got up and went out to the jail. “Get Pete Grubb for me,” he instructed the jailer.
Pete came shuffling from his cell, weak chin sagging in wonder. “Whadda you want, Lee?”
Bob took him by the arm and marched him into the office, then closed the door and bolted it. “Sit down,” he said.
“Now,” he went on, “me and you are goin’ to have a little talk. I just came from the prosecutin’ attorney’s office, and he outlined yore defense for me. It seems that you ain’t a rustler, Pete, but a God-fearin’ man who was helpin’ his employer recover stolen stock. Yes, sir. When Deuce caught you, you were chasin’ those rustlers with murder in yore heart. You was just foggin’ yore horse to beat the band in an effort to catch up with one of them and wipe out his miserable life. And Thad tells me that the jury is goin’ to believe you. They’re goin’ to set there and weep because you’ve been misunderstood by a pore dumb sheriff like me.”
“Why—why—I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!”
“That’s all right, so long as you understand this: Me, I know that you socked me over the head with a sixgun while I was fightin’ six real men. I know you were with the bunch that roped me and condemned me to be tromped all out of shape by a bunch of frightened steers. I know you’re a lyin’, thievin’, cowardly little runt. The jury might let you off, but I never will. After what you did it’s a personal issue between us. I’m servin’ notice on you that if you’re acquitted, I’ll hand you a gun right there in the courtroom, slap yore face, and dare you to try to use it! And if that don’t make you fight I’ll kick yore pants out of the room and camp on yore trail and pester you until you do fight. And when you finally go for that gun, I’ll kill you deader than Julius Caesar!”
Grubb’s face was a pasty white. “Now, Lee, you ain’t got no call to talk thataway!” he protested shakingly. “You ain’t allowed—”
“Don’t tell me what I’m allowed to do! I’ll do as I please, you lousy little thief! I’m out to get yore whole dirty crowd, and the sooner you realize it the better off you’ll be.”
“I don’t know why—”
“You don’t know anything; but get this in yore head. If you go free you might as well make yore will; unless—” He broke off, watching the furtive little eyes brighten with hope.
“Yeah?”
“You come clean at the trial, Pete, and I’ll go just as far in the other direction to protect you. Nobody will hurt you. Just give us the whole story, tellin’ where Shab and Kurt are hooked up, and where Kurt and Haslam are connected—”
“Haslam!”
“Haslam. Duke Haslam. He owns the Paris, Pete. I know as well as you do that he’s behind the whole thing. So, as I said, you just speak right up and I’ll guarantee that nobody will hurt you, for the simple reason that I’ll put everybody that would want to hurt you where they won’t have a chance even to cuss you to yore face. And if you don’t help me—well, you’ll be sleepin’ peacefully with a couple cubic yards of dirt for a blanket. What do you think?”
Pete sat there staring at him, stark terror in his eyes. Gradually the fear disappeared; perhaps he was thinking of the powerful friends behind him. At last he got up angrily. “Whadda you mean by talkin’ thataway to me?” he blustered. “Tryin’ to corrupt me—”
“Shut up! What do you want to do—sit, stand, or lie down?”
“W-whadda you mean?”
“I mean you’re not goin’ back to the cell where you can tell all our secrets to yore honest, persecuted boss. Much as I dislike lowerin’ myself, you’re goin’ to live with me until the trial. When I’m here in the office, you’ll be with me, chained to a chair or a cot; and when I go out, you go along. It’s goin’ to be tough, but it’s got to be done. And the whole time I’ll be remindin’ you of my offer.”
“I’ll set,” said Grubb gloomily. “But this ain’t reg’lar at all. I never treated a prisoner of mine like this.”
“You never took enough prisoners to learn how to treat ’em,” said Bob, and proceeded to handcuff him to a chair.
In the days which followed Bob was as good as his word. Everywhere he went he took Pete Grubb. They walked together, ate together, slept in the same room. And at least once each day Bob quizzed him. Who hired the man to kill Rutherford? Who bought the stolen cattle? What part did Haslam have in the scheme of things? And when Pete refused to answer, he would take down his sixgun and oil it while Grubb looked on with sagging jaw and staring eyes.
It was the day before the trial that Pete finally broke.
“Why don’t they do somethin’?” he suddenly wailed. “Why don’t they git me a lawyer? I’m entitled to one, ain’t I?”
“Who do you mean by ‘they’?” asked Bob quickly.
“The gang! Shab, Bradshaw, Dick.”
“And Haslam?” prompted Bob.
“Yes, by Godfrey! Him too! I’ve done his dirty work without kickin’, and now he leaves me in the lurch! I’ll tell everything! I will, so help me Hanner!”
“Pete, I’ll call a witness and we’ll put it in writin’.”
“No! No, I cain’t do that! If they knowed they’d kill me before I got a chance to talk. I tell you they’d shoot me right down while we was walkin’ along the street together! I’ll tell it on the witness stand. But you got to protect me, Lee; you gotta!”
“I’ll have the bracelets on ’em before you get their names out of yore mouth. Now you rest easy. Better let me write it out for you.”
“No.” Pete shook his head stubbornly, face ashen. “No. I’ll tell it from the stand. You got to wait.”
With this Bob was forced to be content. Pete was adamant in his refusal. He feared Bob because he knew Lee would carry out his threat to the full; but he feared Duke Haslam even more.
Night brought almost as big a crowd to Lariat as had election eve. Cattlemen streamed in from outlying districts, anxious to be present when the first aggressive step of the Cleanup Party was taken. Cole Bradshaw rode in with Dick and the whole Kady crew. Bob, watching from the office window, pointed them out to Pete Grubb.
“There they go, Pete, probably most of them members of the gang that escaped through the Bottle Neck. They’re safe because we have no legal proof against them. Me and you, Pete, will see to it that they don’t ride out of town so gaily as they rode in.”
Ace, Deuce, and the Mexican arrived that evening. They had been carrying on the range and stage-line patrols, and Bob had seen them only occasionally during the week. They made a brief report and departed to maintain order in town. The lights blazed in saloon and gambling hall later than was usual, and men were still discussing the coming trial when Bob and his prisoner turned in.
They arose early in order to avoid the crowd at the breakfast table. Pete was tight-faced and gloomy; he barely touched his food, and seemed relieved to get back in the office. Bob unshackled him and allowed him the freedom of the room.
“Take it easy, Pete. Nothin’s goin’ to happen to you.”
Pete mopped his damp forehead. “I ain’t got the chance of a hydrophoby dawg. If I don’t talk, you’re gonna kill me; if I do, Duke Haslam will see to it if he gits half a chance.”
A knock sounded, and Bob opened the door to find the prosecuting attorney and a stranger standing in the corridor.
“This is Sylvester Fish,” introduced Poole. “Honorable ’torney for the defense.” Poole was steady enough on his feet, but his face was a deeper shade of purple than was usual and his nose shone like a beacon.
“Come in,” Bob invited shortly.
Fish was a small skinny man with the sharp features of a buzzard. The way his outthrust head bobbed at the end of his thin neck emphasized the likeness. He nodded jerkily.
“This my client? Like to speak with him. Mind stepping outside?”
Bob moved into the corridor and, leaving the door open, leaned against the opposite wall. Poole stalked along the hall toward his office with the exaggerated dignity of the drunken man.
Fish conversed briefly and in whispers with his client, and Bob was disturbed to see the sudden light which flamed in Grubb’s little eyes. He swore softly to himself. Fish was probably undoing all the good work he had accomplished. Presently the lawyer arose, slapped Pete encouragingly on the back, and left the room.
Bob went inside and closed the door. He did not say a word; simply sat down at the desk and with oil and rag went about carefully cleaning an already spotless sixgun. When he had finished his task, he noticed that the hunted look had returned to Pete Grubb’s face.
The beginning of the trial was set for ten o’clock; at a few minutes before that hour his three deputies reported.
“They’re fixin’ to select the jury,” said Deuce. “We figgered you might want to be in there. We can watch Mouldy for you.”
Bob manacled Pete to the cot and locked the office door. “Watch from the corridor and you can keep yore eyes on the jail too. Don’t let anybody upstairs. I’ll be back in time to take Kurt Dodd and Pete into court.”
He went downstairs and entered the court room, which was on the right side of the building. The place was packed, with men jammed about the doorways and along the walls. Judge Bleek was seated at the bench reading a newspaper; Poole and Fish were standing behind the railing facing several dozen men from among whom a jury was to be selected. Bob called the two lawyers to one side.
“I reckon there is no need to go very far with this,” he said. “Pete Grubb is willin’ to turn state’s evidence. He’ll go on the stand and tell the truth about the whole thing.”
Poole exclaimed his astonishment; Fish simply nodded.
“The selection of the jury must go on just the same. Grubb’s testimony must be heard and a verdict rendered. Where is he?”
“Locked in my office, with three deputies in the hall.”
“Well, we can get along without your assistance, Sheriff. Your deputies may need you to help guard such a dangerous character.”
The sneer decided Bob, as he afterward learned it was intended to do. He leaned against the railing. “I’ll stick around and watch.”
Absently he glanced out over the audience. Pop Purvis occupied a front seat, having gone without breakfast to secure it. Enright was there, as was Dutch Trumbauer and practically every cattleman within a radius of fifty miles. He saw Cole Bradshaw and the Kady crew. Dick was not with them, although Bob had seen him enter town in their company.
A group near the middle of the room caught his attention. It consisted of Tomlinson and his crutches, June, and Duke Haslam. Duke was carefully groomed and appeared serenely indifferent to the trial and its consequences. Occasionally he leaned over and spoke to June in an undertone. Bob could not judge whether or not his presence beside her was welcome. Tomlinson waved a huge hand at him, June smiled and nodded, and Haslam ignored him altogether.
The jury box was finally filled, the court called to order, and Thaddeus Poole, dignified, pompous, and considerably inebriated, turned to the bench.
“May it please the Court, since the indictment was returned an unexpected development has occurred in this case. The sheriff has informed me that one of the defendants, Peter Grubb, has expressed a desire to make a statement before this court. It is presumed that this statement will be in the nature of a confession. I am free to admit that without such a confession the County has no case. All the evidence which we are prepared to submit is circumstantial in its nature or based on the unsupported word of one man.”
“I don’t have to instruct you how to proceed,” snapped Judge Bleek, who was suffering one of his “spells.” “Have the sheriff bring in the defendants, read the charge against them, and put Grubb on the stand.”
Poole turned to Bob. “Bring in your prisoners, Sheriff.”
Outside the courthouse a volley of shots thundered and echoed, followed by the sound of voices raised in altercation. Bob, instantly apprehensive, ran through the doorway and down the corridor to the front entrance. Men swarmed about him, impeding his progress, shouting questions.
He reached the portico of the courthouse in time to see a body of horsemen riding down the street. Two of them appeared to be arguing violently, while some half-dozen others attempted to placate them. Bob recognized Shab Cannon and several others who had been in the park the day he was captured. The group appeared to be without evil intent; they rode slowly, and away from the jail. His fear of an attempted rescue vanished. Breathing a sigh of relief, he walked to the stairs which led to the second floor. Ace and Deuce were standing at the top, drawn sixguns in hand.
“What’s goin’ on down there?” asked the former.
“Some sort of argument. Don’t know what about. Where’s Joe?”
“We sent him back to reinforce the jailer in case anybody got the idea they were goin’ to turn Kurt and Pete loose.”
“Tell him to get Dodd and bring him to the courtroom.”
He found the key to his office, unlocked the door and flung it open. Then he stood on the threshold staring. A neat hole had been sawn in the board floor, and the prisoner was gone!
Bob swore and turned swiftly to Deuce. “Get Ace and come downstairs. Leave Dodd in the cell. Quick!”
The room immediately below his office was a store room. The door was locked, but they broke it down. Leading from it was a door opening into the Recorder’s office, which, because of the trial, was deserted. From this another door opened on the alley behind the building. This door stood wide.
Bob reached it, stared out at the line of trees which fringed the creek, then turned to the crowd of men who had followed at his heels. “Get yore horses,” he told them tersely, and ran toward the stable.
Despite his precautions they had bested him. For the past week men must have been working on the storeroom ceiling, removing the lath and plaster at times when he and his prisoner were out of the office. The diversion before the courthouse had been staged to draw the guards to the head of the stairs at the far end of the corridor in order that the sound of a saw would not reach them. It had been very easy. One man could have liberated Grubb.
Bob swore softly. Haslam had been in the court room. So had Bradshaw. Shab was among the men in the street. The only absentee of any importance was Dick Markley. As Bob rode to the front of the building he saw Dick lounging against the door frame. He might have been among the spectators who could not get inside the building, or he might have gone from the store-room into the alley and circled the courthouse during the excitement.
Bob swiftly gathered his posse and divided it into several bands, dispatching them in different directions. The task was hopeless from the start. He returned to town that night weary and dejected. The other parties had already come in, equally unsuccessful. Frank Enright met him and clapped him on the back.
“It’s just too bad,” he said soberly. “None of us are blamin’ you, Bob. Kurt is free. With most of the ones interested in convictin’ him out lookin’ for Pete, Thad Poole told the court the County was willin’ to drop the case. They just turned Dodd loose.”
Bob nodded and turned away to care for his tired horse. As he was riding to the stable, Duke Haslam and June came from the hotel. Duke was smiling, and blandly tipped his hat to Bob as they passed.
Bob dismounted at the stable and was loosening his latigo when Kurt Dodd came from the barn leading his horse. He stopped at sight of the sheriff, and Bob straightened in the savage hope that Dodd would go for his gun. Kurt’s malevolence, however, manifested itself only in the flaming eyes and the words which rumbled from his heavy black beard.
“I told you I’d make you hard to find in this neck of the woods if I was turned loose, and by Godfrey! I meant it. Look to yoreself from now on, Bob Lee. There won’t be no delay next time.”
“Suits me,” snapped Bob. “You’re a liar and a thief and a killer. So are the rest of yore gang includin’ Duke Haslam. I aim to put every one of you where you’ll be quiet a long time.”
At mention of Haslam’s name, Dodd’s eyes went wide, then narrowed again. He spoke through tight lips. “Now I know yore goose is cooked!”
He stared at Bob for several seconds, then nodded jerkily, stepped into his saddle, and rode away.