Advancing through a pool of silence, Crandall pulled up a few feet short of the witness box. Cody’s strength of will had been demonstrated and he evidently saw no advantage in violating the witness’ personal space. Scout reflected that his opponent seemed no more humble for having incurred the judge’s displeasure overnight. If anything, there was more bounce in his step than usual.
“First off, Colonel,” he said blandly, “allow me to express my appreciation on behalf of the rest of the country for your heroic efforts to render the West a safe place to raise a family. We are all aware—”
“Your Honor,” interrupted the prosecutor, “if this is a testimonial dinner, where is my serving?”
Blair fought back the laughter with his gavel. His expression was severe. “Objection sustained. In the future, Mr. Scout, the state will refrain from these childish attempts at whimsy.”
Crandall appeared unmoved by the digression.
“Colonel, I take it from your mention of the horse-racing episode in St. Louis that the deceased was a gambling man. How did he react to his loss on this occasion?”
“He was philosophical about it. I would not go so far as to say he was not disappointed, but he had won and lost enough times to accept the caprices of fate.”
“Did you gamble with him on any other occasion?”
“It is one of the few diversions which life in the open spaces allows.”
“Answer the question, please.”
“I thought I had. Yes, I gambled with him many times.”
“What sort of winner would you say he was?”
“Objection,” said Scout. “This entire line of questioning is irrelevant.”
Crandall turned to the bench. “I refer Your Honor to Carl Mann’s comments upon Hickok’s winning attitude at the poker table in Saloon No. 10.”
“Objection overruled,” said Blair. “Proceed, General.”
“Colonel Cody?”
“I never knew Wild Bill to be anything but humble about his gains,” the witness replied.
“I see.” The lawyer fiddled with his elk’s tooth. “Are you aware of what saloon owner Mann had to say upon the same subject in this court the day before yesterday?”
“I read what the local newspaper reported,” said Cody, meeting his gaze. “Not knowing Mr. Mann, I will not call him a liar behind his back.”
The gallery hummed. The judge allowed the noise to die out on its own.
Crandall pushed on. “Colonel Cody, you told this court that you joined the Union Army shortly after your return from St. Louis, is that correct?”
“I said that I joined the army. I don’t remember
saying that it was shortly after my return.”
“Oh, but you did. Would you like the recorder to read it?” He raised his eyebrows to the judge, who nodded to the man at the small desk. The recorder went back through his notes.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Cody. “I concede that I said it. But it was just an expression. It was three years before I joined the regular army.”
“Why so long, Colonel?”
“I was underage. My mother would not give her consent, as I was the sole support of my family. I consoled myself by acting as guide for various military and volunteer units.”
Crandall strode over to the defense table and returned bearing a scrap of paper. “This article appeared in an eastern newspaper two years ago.” He handed it to the judge, who donned his glasses, skimmed the fine print, and gave it back. The General extended the clipping to Cody. “Do you remember making these statements?”
The witness glanced at the item and smiled sheepishly. “I fear I do.”
“Shall I read them?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Cody closed his eyes. “Asked how I spent my time when I was not guiding troops, I replied that for the most part I led a dissolute and reckless life. When I did join the army a few days before my eighteenth birthday, I had no idea of doing anything of the kind, but one day, after having been under the influence of bad whiskey, I awoke to find myself a soldier in the 7th Kansas. I did not remember how or when I had enlisted, but I saw I was in for it, and that it would not do for me to endeavor to back out.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” said Crandall, when the gallery had calmed down. “Now, which of your statements are we to assume is the truth? The one you made to the journalist who penned this article, or the
one you made under oath a few moments ago?”
Cody’s face was stony. “Are you calling me a liar, sir?”
Scout closed his eyes and said, “Shit.”
“The witness is instructed to answer the question,” said Blair.
“Both are true. My mother would not allow me to join, and when I did I was not in full possession of my faculties.”
“Very well,” said Crandall. “I ask you again: What sort of winner was Hickok?”
Scout shot to his feet. “Objection! The witness has already answered that question. Counsel for the defense is badgering him!”
“Sustained. The question will be stricken and the jury will disregard it.”
The General looked serene. He had made his point. “We move on, Colonel. I confess that your account of the valiant rescue of General Penrose’s command during the winter of 1868 stirred me. I was disappointed, however, when you failed to finish it. Did you, once you had reached Penrose’s camp, accompany, with Hickok, an expedition to join Colonel A. W. Evans’ column coming east from New Mexico Territory?”
Cody seemed to know what was coming. Cautiously, he replied in the affirmative.
“And did you, when you were camped on the south fork of the Canadian River, learn that a Mexican wagon train was on its way to Evans’ supply depot with a cargo of beer?”
“We did,” said the witness, and added hastily, “Before you continue—”
“A simple yes or no will suffice, Colonel. Did you bribe the Mexicans into giving you the beer meant for the men of Evans’ command, then return to your own camp with the cargo and sell it by the cup at a profit?”
Cody, his eyes smoldering, said nothing. A buzzing swept through the audience.
“The witness is instructed to answer the question,” Blair pointed out.
Crandall didn’t wait. Producing the newspaper dipping: “Did you, Colonel Cody, tell the journalist who penned this article, quote, ‘The result was one of the biggest beer jollifications I ever had the misfortune to attend’?”
“It was war,” blurted the scout. “The winter was hard and spirits were low. The men needed something—”
“—that you and Hickok were more than willing to supply for your own gain,” finished Crandall. “We all understand your motives, Colonel.”
“Objection!” roared Scout. “Now counsel for the defense is drawing conclusions.”
“Sustained. Have you learned nothing from your incarceration, General?”
“I object to the bench upbraiding defense counsel with the jury present.”
All eyes swung to the gaunt man who had risen from the defense table. These were the first words Orville Gannon had spoken in the courtroom since the trial had begun. He stood in the center of a shocked silence, as stiff and bland-looking as a welldressed scarecrow.
“Overruled.” It had taken Judge Blair a moment to react.
“Exception,” said Gannon.
“Noted. Mr. Gannon, are you and General Crandall taking turns, like relay runners?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Then please sit down. I won’t have two attorneys pleading the same case simultaneously.”
Gannon sat.
“They’re going at him from two sides,” whispered Bartholomew. “Keeping him off balance.”
Scout, staring at the bench, acted as if he hadn’t heard. He was still seething over what the General was doing to his witness, or maybe it was Cody he was mad at. Bartholomew felt sorry for the frontiersman. An amusing anecdote of a wartime prank related for a reporter’s edification became something quite different in a court of law. Crandall’s instinct for material beneficial to his case was uncanny.
“One more thing, Colonel, and then I’ll let you go.” The General sounded fatherly. “Tell us about your friend Wild Bill’s experiences while a member of your theatrical troupe.”
Cody fidgeted, obviously wishing he had stayed in New York. “I spoke of that. He did not take to the profession and returned West before the tour was over.”
“It’s been written about, Colonel. Shall I read some of the notices?” Crandall took a step toward the defense table, stacked high with papers.
“No,” said the witness quickly. Then, inexplicably, he smiled. “No, General, I’d rather these good people heard it from me directly.”
He sat back, in control of himself once again. There was a whisper of pages as the journalists in the front row turned to fresh sheets in their pocket pads. “I regretted having made the offer the moment Will Bill arrived at the Breevort Hotel in New York City and knocked down his driver for charging too much,” Cody began. “That was not the end of it by any means. The first time a spotlight was shone upon him he hurled his pistol at it and shattered the glass. On stage during a performance, he spat out the cold tea which served for whiskey and demanded the real thing or he would ‘tell no stories,’ as he put it. While laying over in Titusville, Pennsylvania, he got into an altercation with a gang of oil-field roughnecks in a saloon and bludgeoned them with a chair. Finally, in Rochester, New York, he commanded a grip to ‘tell
that long-haired son of a bitch’—meaning myself—‘that I have no more use for him or his damned show business,’ and deserted. No one was very sorry to find him gone.”
The decorum of the courtroom dissolved in mirth. Blair, who had found himself smiling at the account, tried furiously for a few moments to regain control with his gavel and gave up. Scout let go an obscenity, making Bartholomew glad of the noise that drowned it out. When at length the din showed signs of subsiding, the judge employed his gavel again to maintain the illusion that he was on top of things, and asked the prosecutor in a loud voice if he cared to redirect. Scout rose, then seemed to think better of it and sank back down, shaking his head.
“Your Honor, the state rests.”