Chapter Thirty-Six

Ma must have known about my haunted thoughts the next morning. Not only had she served biscuits and sausage gravy, but a whole grapefruit sat beside my plate when I slumped into the dining room at a quarter past seven. Pa sat across the table, absorbed in the morning paper. The headline on the front said it all: “Federal Judge Arrives for Murder Hearing.”

“You know one of my favorites of the Old Testament Scriptures?”

Pa’s voice invaded my thoughts. I shook my head. Pa laid the paper on the table beside his plate and looked at me. “It’s from the book of Amos chapter five, verse twenty-four. ‘Let justice run down as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream.’”

I could feel my blood begin to stir. “Justice? You want to talk about justice? How is any of this justice?”

Pa raised his left hand to the height of his coffee mug. “Son, there’s man’s justice”—he held his right hand to his eye—“and there’s the Lord’s justice way up here. Often, what man calls justice ought to go by another name, maybe vengeance, or at least a grab for more power. But what the Lord calls justice comes from another verse, in the New Testament. I know you know this one, from the book of James. ‘Pure and undefiled religion before our God and Father is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress.’”

I shook my head, still trying to clear out the haze in my mind. “And that means?…”

“Put the two together, and you’ve got the Lord’s kind of justice—looking around for the people who are weak and vulnerable, offering them whatever they need to get a fair shake in this world.”

I sat silent for a moment. That sure did sound like a different kind of justice than I had seen around town lately. “I know that, Pa. But look how much power the Marshall has. And his justice is wrong.”

“I know. Darned if I’ve ever run across a more hard-headed, single-minded individual in all the years we’ve been in this town, Eugene. But I sent a wire last night to the hotel in Denver where the mayor and sheriff are staying. They’re leaving on the morning train.”

“They are?”

He nodded. “I have faith that somehow this will all be made right, and Wendell will be set free. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“I hope so,” I said. We sat in silence for another long moment, then I rose and, after depositing my plate in the kitchen sink, slipped out the front door.

There was no place else to go but the one place I knew I had to go. The courthouse drew me like a magnet. Though there was still an hour before the nine o’clock hearing, a substantial cluster of men, women, and children loitered outside the front doors. Judge Crawford was allowing as many Junctionites as would fit in the courthouse inside for the hearing, which Pa said was not typical. He said Marshall Boggs wanted to make an example of Wendell. The fearsome reputation of Silas Hayes had grown overnight, thanks to the feature story in the morning paper: “Blood and Gold: The Tragic Tale of Frontier Outlaw Wendell Jenkins.”

Something about the expectancy of the crowd, a cross-section of hard-working Junctionites, reminded me of the first time I had laid eyes on Tumbleweed, on the back of that wagon where his father peddled quack healing potion. We had been good together; he had even said that. Now, I wondered if I’d ever lay eyes on Tumbleweed again.

I edged backward, hunting for an unoccupied bench on which to plop myself and wait out the remaining minutes until the hearing commenced.

A small figure in a green bonnet appeared on the steps of the general store. She wore a checked dress and carried a wicker basket. As she walked toward the town green, our eyes met.

“Mrs. Springfield!” I dashed across the street toward her.

“Morning, Eugene.”

“I…I need to talk to you. It’s about Wendell Jenkins.”

Her face softened. “Wendell?” she whispered.

“Can we…can we talk about him? It’s important.”

She nodded, and we returned to the bench. I stared at my hands, trying to figure out how to start.

“He told you about the money, didn’t he?” she said.

I glanced up at her. “The money? He said yesterday that you were important to him. What money?”

“Isn’t it plain, Eugene? It’s the other way around: Wendell is the one who’s important to me.” She paused. “Wendell’s my benefactor.”

I jerked backward. Ma and Pa had always spoken of how blessed Widow Springfield had been to keep her house after the death of her husband. Then, when we solved the mystery of Rubicon’s disappearance, Wendell had wanted to help deliver the news, and her savings. Now it made sense. Wendell must have been using his barbershop wages to support Widow Springfield. Plus, all those anonymous and not-so-coincidental gifts.

“So you mean if Wendell is convicted—” My voice trailed off.

“The bank’s got a lien against my house. I owe them a pile of back money I’ve borrowed. I’ll lose the house.”

“What about Rubicon’s savings?”

“That’s gone. I used it to settle some of my debts. But there will be plenty more with Wendell gone.”

“Not if I can help it.”

She lifted her hand to my arm. “Eugene, I can’t thank you enough for what you and your friends did for me. But to try to help Wendell, it’s just too much.” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes began to water.

I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t think of what to say.

She squeezed my hand. “Tell your Ma I said hello, and I got her note. Unfortunately I don’t think I’ll be making it to her sewing circle Sunday.” Her voice quivered, and I knew I had to get out of there before I started getting all misty-eyed. All this sadness in one day was too much for a red-blooded twelve-year-old boy to bear.

The sky overhead was cloudy again, and I could feel my fingers and legs itching with a burning desire for purpose, for action. But where? What? The crowd at the courthouse was queueing up. I glanced away, my eyes sweeping across the town green.

Just then, I froze.

Three figures gathered in a clump on the front porch of the Silver Dollar Saloon. They were freshly-shaven, no hats or bandannas, and no gun belts in sight. To those in the mob outside the courthouse, they were just another group of inquisitive townsfolk. But I would know their faces anywhere. The one in front had been haunting my dreams every night since I had first seen him on that keelboat in the San Pedro River.

Trent Berger.