There was a gasp of reproach from most of the gallery, and Judge Blanton banged his gavel.
“Would the court reporter please strike the word whore?” Judge Blanton said. He pointed at Doyle. “Any further comments like that, Mr. Doyle, and I will find you in contempt of court. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“You may continue with your testimony.”
“Well, sir, Frank was sittin’ at the table with some of us riders from the Back Trail Ranch, when we seen what we thought was a fight between the boy there,” he pointed to Dalton, “and the—uh—woman named Becca. And Frank, thinkin’ the woman might be in danger, went over to help her. I mean that’s all it was. Frank was just lookin’ out for the girl. Next thing you know, why they was two men a’drawin’ on him. Frank managed to kill one of them, but the other one, that one,” he pointed to Matt, “kilt Frank.”
“Let the record show that the witness pointed to Matt Jensen,” the prosecutor said. “Please continue.”
“Yes, sir, well, I ain’t really got nothin’ more to say,” Doyle said. “Like I said, both of ’em drawed on Frank, but he was able to fight off only one of ’em.”
The next two testimonies were so close, not only to Doyle’s but to each other, that it was quickly obvious they had been rehearsed. In addition, they were all employees of Seth Lovejoy.
The last witness for the prosecution was a man named Emerson Morrell. “I don’t care what kind of tricks this fella showed you, there wasn’t nobody faster than Frank Lovejoy, and ever’ one knew that. When this here Matt Jensen fella come up on Frank, he already had his gun in his hand. And there wasn’t no waitin’ for Frank to draw, like he was showin’ us while ago. What he done was just commence shooting without so much as a fare-thee-well.”
“Your Honor,” Tom called out after the witness named Morrell had been excused. “May I speak?”
“You have already testified, Mr. Whitman,” Judge Blanton said. “Cadit Quaestio.”
“May I take extraordinary exception to the ruling of no further argument, Your Honor?” Tom said. “This man has just perjured himself.”
“The fact that his testimony is in direct opposition to the testimony of others is a part of this trial,” Judge Blanton said. “It may well be that Mr. Morrell saw things differently. That does not necessarily constitute perjury.”
“Emerson Morrell has just testified that the gun was already in Mr. Jensen’s hand when he approached Frank Lovejoy, and that Mr. Jensen opened fire without any warning. Mr. Morrell cannot testify to that fact, Your Honor, because he wasn’t even in the saloon at the time of the incident.”
“How many people were in the saloon at the time of the incident?” the prosecutor asked.
“Twenty-three, counting the bartender.”
The prosecutor smiled sarcastically. “Twenty-three? Are you sure? Could it be twenty-two? Twenty-four?”
“Twenty-three,” Tom insisted.
“All right, let’s assume that there were twenty-three. With that many people there, could it not be possible that Mr. Morrell was there, but you just didn’t see him?” the prosecutor asked.
“No. Morrell was not there.”
“Mr. Whitman, are you saying that you know everyone who was there?”
“I don’t know any of them by name,” Tom replied. “But I know who was there and wasn’t there.”
The prosecutor stepped up to the judge and whispered something to him. The judge nodded affirmatively, then spoke.
“I would like for the entire gallery to leave the courtroom, please,” he said.
With protests and grumbling, the gallery, assisted by Sheriff Bell and some of his deputies, left the courtroom. The only ones who remained were those who were directly involved with the proceedings. A moment later, the gallery returned.
“Now, Mr. Whitman, earlier you conducted an experiment for the court, and if you will allow me, I would like to conduct one myself,” the prosecutor said. “As you just observed, the judge emptied the courtroom. It is full once more. I wonder if you could look out over the gallery and tell us if there is any difference in their composition.”
A murmur of interest and anticipation spread through the gallery as Tom looked out over the men and women who were seated in the courtroom.
“That lady, second from the left in the second row was not here before,” Tom said. “The man sitting next to her was here, but he was sitting on the extreme right of the third row.” He continued to point. “That man was not here. Neither was he. She was, but was sitting in a different place. There are four people missing, who were here before but are not here now.”
The prosecutor stared at Tom with his eyes and mouth open in shock. Then, when Tom was finished, the prosecutor shook his head in wonder, and looked up at the judge.
“Your Honor, Mr. Whitman is correct on every account,” he said. “I have no further questions.”
The judge did not even have to leave the bench to make his decision. “This court finds no cause to bring charges against Mr. Matt Jensen, and finds him innocent of any wrongdoing in the death of Frank Lovejoy. This hearing is adjourned.”
The judge finished his announcement with the slap of his gavel.
Later that afternoon, Rebecca found herself standing in Boot Hill Cemetery for the second time within the last two weeks. When Rebecca first saw Dalton and the others, she thought they had come to Dodge City just to find her. She had since learned that they came to Dodge to receive a herd of Black Angus cattle to be driven back to Live Oaks. She learned that from Dalton, who asked her to come to the burial. He was also the one who asked her to come back home.
Rebecca had no reason not to return home now. Her mother was dead, and it was obvious that whatever feelings Tom Whitman might have had for her were gone. He now believed that she had been working as a prostitute in the Lucky Chance, and she had not said anything to him that would disabuse him of that idea. At first, she was hurt that he would even believe such a thing. But as she thought about it, she decided it might be for the best. Her father was determined to prevent any relationship from developing between them, and this would just make it easier to follow her father’s wishes.
As the funeral began, Dalton led Mo’s favorite horse, fully saddled, to the side of the grave. There was then, total silence, as the saddle was removed from the off-side, signifying that this horse would never again be ridden by the man whose saddle this was. The horse, almost as if it understood, lowered its head and nodded a few times. Then Dalton led the horse away, and Dusty stepped up beside the open grave. Dusty’s father had been a preacher, and Dusty still carried his father’s Bible. He opened the Bible to read a few words at Mo’s interment.
“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.
“We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”
Rebecca listened to Dusty read, and thought how much more comforting these verses were than those hateful words spoken by the Reverend T.J. Boyd at her mother’s funeral.
Clay gave the eulogy.
“Mo was raised in an orphanage,” Clay said. “He often told me that we were the only family he ever had. And we know that he believed that, from the bottom of his heart, because in defending Dalton, he gave his life for his brother. And now we, his brothers and sisters, are here to commit him to his final resting place.” Clay opened his hand to show some dirt. “This is dirt that came from an extra saddlebag that has been lying in a corner of the hoodlum wagon. It is Texas dirt, and that means that even up here in Kansas, our brother Mo, will be buried in Texas soil.” He opened his hand and let the dirt stream down onto Mo’s coffin. “Be with God, brother.”