“I wish I could remember everything that happened that night, but I can’t,” said Bennett. “I don’t know if I talked to somebody other than Bobby Winslow just before the fire or not. I was drunk. It was only later, because of the fire and the sound of Jenna screaming, that I sobered up. Most everything that happened before the fire is just a blur to me.”
“And that’s your honest and complete answer?” questioned Bennett’s attorney.
“Gentlemen,” said Braxton turning to face the jury, “This young man, even though he, himself, doesn’t remember the event was, indeed, engaged in deep—if drunken—conversation with a reputable witness during the time the fire in the Feed and Grain first broke out. And I am prepared to put that witness on the stand as soon as my esteemed colleague finishes his cross-examination.”
The courtroom erupted into a loud rumble of voices. Nearly everyone was shocked to think that Dave Bennett might actually be innocent. The judge finally managed to gavel the crowd to silence as Hunter, sitting in a back row of the courtroom, nodded his head in appreciation of Braxton’s clever tactic. Bennett’s lawyer could’ve sprung the existence of the witness later, but by doing it at just that moment, he had made it all but impossible for the prosecutor to focus the concentration of the jury on Dave Bennett during his cross-examination. They would pay little attention now, for they would be preoccupied with thoughts of a mysterious, surprise witness who would establish, once and for all, the innocence or guilt of young Dave Bennett.
Ree was in a much better mood during lunch after she heard Hunter’s up-to-the-minute account of the trial. Bennett’s testimony held up under cross-examination and then the judge called a recess ’til one p.m. This afternoon they would hear Carl Webster, the cattle-buyer’s story, the two attorneys would make their closing arguments, and then the jury would return to a back room and make up its mind.
“I guess you’re going back to watch the end of the trial,” said Ella quietly, giving Hunter a sidelong glance.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said carelessly, not catching the subtle look in her eyes.
“Well, then, you better come back in time to at least grab some hot food before you and Del leave for Hacketsville tonight,” she said with a mild touch of sarcasm.
Hunter looked at her oddly, wondering what was on her mind. Then, suddenly, he understood. William Sloan always went out at four o’clock for a solitary drink at the King’s High Saloon. And that’s when Ree took her nap. It would be the only really private time they’d have before he left on another two-day trip.
Hunter smiled across the table at her. “I think I could maybe tear myself away from the trial,” he said. And then teasingly added, “At least for a little while.”
Ree knew exactly what was going on. She turned to Ella and, with a chuckle, said, “He’s pretty coy, this feller a’ yours. It’s a wonder you can ever get him to bed!”
With that the three of them roared with laughter ... and even William Sloan managed a smile.
“Mr. Webster,” intoned Jeffery Braxton, “I want you to look all around this courtroom and then tell me—and tell the jury—if you recognize the man you were talking to at the very time the fire broke out in the Feed and Grain.”
The cattle-buyer shook his head. “I don’t have to look all over the courtroom. The young feller that chewed my ear off that night,” he said, pointing at Dave Bennett, “is sitting right there, up front.”
“Would you stand up, David?” requested the attorney.
Bennett stood up.
“That’s the man? You’re absolutely sure of it?”
“Absolutely.”
Braxton looked at the prosecutor and with just the hint of a grin, and said, “Your witness.”
The prosecutor had one thing going for him when he tried to discredit the cattle-buyer’s testimony ...
“Doesn’t it strain credibility,” he asked, “to expect us to believe that you could so easily remember a man you had only talked to just once, more than two months ago?”
“I travel a lot,” replied, Webster. “And in my business, it helps to remember names and faces. I just happen to be good at it. For instance, I only talked to Mr. Lindstrom over there,” he said, gesturing at the rancher, “for about fifteen minutes before we made our cattle deal. But I remember him now, and I’ll likely remember him when I come through here next year, too.”
Lindstrom jumped to his feet. Being used as a courtroom prop to help free the man whom he was sure had killed his daughter was the ultimate outrage. He turned his back on the court and stormed out.
Webster didn’t know that it was the rancher’s daughter that had died in the fire. Using Lindstrom as an example of his memory of faces was not a lucky choice. The members of the jury, like everyone else in the courtroom, felt a certain sympathy with Lindstrom and shared, in some way, the humiliation that he had just suffered. It was anybody’s guess if the jury might yet make Dave Bennett pay for that humiliation with his life.
William Sloan limped up the street in his slow, awkward gait. Once a man of action, he was now merely a man of habits. This time of the day, it was his practice to hobble over to the King’s High Saloon and have a single shot of rye with a beer chaser.
Frank Pobe and Harry Stowe watched him make his way up the street.
“It’s just the two women now,” said Stowe.
Pobe nodded. “Let’s get this done. I’ll take the Phillips girl ... you kill the old lady.”
The two men checked their pistols and then, making sure no one saw them, they cautiously approached the house.
Hunter marveled at how quickly and easily the mood in the courtroom could shift. In the morning the attitude of the jury was clearly against Dave Bennett. By lunch time, however, it was swinging rapidly toward the young man’s acquittal. And then, just as suddenly, the momentum stopped when S. J. Lindstrom stormed out of the courtroom.
Anything could still happen.
It was that sense of drama—the slow but steady unfolding of events—that kept Hunter wrapped up in the proceedings of the trial. He had long since lost track of time. In fact, he’d have likely stayed right through to the final verdict if he hadn’t happened to look out a window and catch a glimpse of William Sloan limping in the direction of the King’s High Saloon.
“Damn,” he thought to himself, “it’s past four o’clock!” Making as little commotion as possible, he got up and eased himself through the crowd of people standing in the courtroom doorway.
“You go in through the front door,” said Pobe to his partner. “I’ll circle around to the back.”
“You want me to wait ’til you’ve had a chance to get inside before I bust in?” asked Stowe.
“Yeah, I want you to wait, but I sure as hell don’t want you bustin’ in there like a freight train comin’ down off a mountain!”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“Folks that live in rundown places like that don’t have no locks on their doors ’cause they ain’t got nothin’ worth stealin’, so just open the door nice and slow. Don’t make any noise. Killin’ women can be a messy business—they’re likely to scream and such—so it’s best to sneak up on ’em and kill ’em quick.”
“Don’t worry,” said Stowe. “I’ll do my part.”
“Just see that you do it right,” warned Pobe. “I don’t want to end up at the end of a rope because of you.”
“Hang in this town? Lost Creek? Are you kiddin’?” Stowe said with a confident laugh.
“Just shut up and kill that old lady,” muttered Pobe. And with that, he broke away from his partner, making his way to the rear of the house.
The back door, like the front, had neither lock nor latch, just as Pobe had figured. After looking through the kitchen window, Pobe gently pushed the back door open and entered the house. He heard nothing. Stowe was still waiting outside, giving Pobe plenty of time to get inside.
The kitchen was cast in a murky half-light. No lamps were lit and the one window in the room faced to the east. But Pobe was familiar with shadows and dark corners. Most of his life had been spent in the dimly lit alleys of Philadelphia’s slums. In a way he felt more at ease on the prowl in this dark, closed-in house than he had during the few long weeks he and Stowe had spent in the open, unfamiliar landscape of the west.
Pobe was out of the kitchen, inching ahead slowly, noiselessly, into the hallway. He brought his gun up preparing to fire as soon as he turned the corner into the parlor.
If both Ella Phillips and the woman were in there together, Pobe figured he’d kill them both at once. But what if only one of them was in the parlor? Once he fired his pistol, the other woman, hearing the shot, might get away. And what if it happened to be Ella that got away? After all, she was the one that they had been sent to kill.
“Where the hell is Harry?” Pobe thought with increasing irritation. “He should’ve come in by now.”
Pobe, reluctantly, stood still and waited. But as he waited, it struck him that despite the fact that he could see light flickering in the hallway from the fireplace in the parlor, he didn’t hear anyone talking—nor had he heard any movement.
His curiosity got the better of him. Pobe gingerly took a few more steps and then risked being spotted by leaning ever so slightly into the parlor entrance.
The parlor was empty.
Pobe felt like an ass. He swore under his breath and then, not wanting to waste any more time, took quick silent strides down the dark hallway toward the bedrooms.
At the first room Pobe came to, he stopped, put his ear to the door, and heard the sound of heavy snoring. That would be the old lady, he decided. She was Stowe’s victim, but if his partner didn’t get in the house soon, Pobe figured it’d be easy enough to stick a knife in the old woman’s chest himself, without her ever making a peep. Then he could go on and kill Ella without having to worry about Stowe’s end of the job.
Pobe was reaching for the door knob when he heard the soft but unmistakable sound of footfalls coming from the front of the house. His hand went back to his side. He’d leave the old woman for Stowe. In the long run, he thought, if there’s killing to be done, it’s always best to share the work. Not because it’s easier, but because it’s safer—safer, because nobody will turn you over to the law for murder if he also has blood on his hands.
Pobe looked down the hall. At the far end there was a door that was partly open. As he moved slowly closer, he could see even more: a bare leg, long and slender, jutting out from underneath a heavy quilt.
It would be over soon ... very soon.