Dempster held up a finger. “One, there could be a real question as to Andrew Cummins’ authority to try this case, seeing as he acted as the arresting officer. There is no precedence for the arresting officer to also act as judge.
“Two, the Constitution of the United States guarantees every man a competent lawyer to act as his defense. All of you know me. I am a trained lawyer, that is true, but I am also a drunk and I was only given fifteen minutes to prepare for this case.
“And finally, I was given no opportunity for voir dire. I believe this jury to be incapable of rendering a fair decision, based upon the fact that you were all present at the time of the incident.
“I ask that you find Mr. Jensen not guilty.”
“Ha!” one of the jurors said. “There ain’t a chance in hell we’re goin’ to do that.”
Everyone in the saloon laughed.
Cummins banged his revolver on the table. “Order,” he called. He looked over at Hayes. “Mr. Hayes, your summation.”
“What?”
“It’s your turn to talk to the jury, to wrap up your case.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” Hayes said. He cleared his throat and looked over toward the jury. For a long moment, he said nothing, then he pointed to Matt.
“This son of a bitch is guilty,” he said. “You know it and I know it, and I say, let’s hang the bastard.” He sat down, again to the laughter and cheers of those assembled.
“It’s time now to poll the jury,” Cummins said. He looked at the twelve men who had been selected by the bartender.
“Jury, how do you find the defendant?” Marshal Cummins asked the jury.
“Guilty!” they all yelled as one.
“So say you one, so say you all?” Cummins asked.
“Yeah, that’s what we all say,” one of the jurors said. He looked at the others. “Anyone say anything different?”
There were no dissensions.
“Mr. Matt Jensen, you have been found guilty of murder, and are sentenced to hang.”
“I’ll get a rope,” Hayes shouted.
“Yeah, let’s string the son of a bitch up right here, in front of the saloon for the whole town to see!” Another added.
“No!” Cummins replied. “I told you, we are going to do this legal.” The marshal looked at Matt. “You’ll be put on tonight’s train and taken to the territorial prison in Yuma, where the execution will be carried out.”
“Who are you going to send with him?” Hayes asked.
“Why? Are you volunteerin’?” Cummins replied.
“Yeah, I’ll see to it that the son of a bitch gets to Yuma.”
“Hayes, you was the one wantin’ to string him up now. I don’t know if I can trust you to get him there safe.”
“I’ll get him there,” Hayes said. “You got my word.”
Chapter Five
“I’m not going to let you put a convicted murderer in the same car as paying passengers,” the station agent said.
“Come on, Randall, he’s been tried, all legal, and we got to get him to Yuma to hang,” Hayes said. “I ain’t goin’ to trust him on a horse, and we can’t walk all the way.”
Randall drummed his fingers on the counter for a moment, then sighed. “I suppose you two can ride in the express car,” he said.
“The express car? Yeah, all right, that’ll be fine. We’ll ride in the express car.” Hayes looked over at Matt, who had said nothing from the moment the marshal had put him in shackles.
“All right, Mr. Killer Man,” Hayes said. “Take a seat out there in the waiting room. And don’t give me no trouble if you know what’s good for you.”
Matt’s ankles were shackled with just enough chain length to allow him to walk at a slow shuffle. He was also shackled by the wrists.
There were four other people waiting for the train, the assembly consisting of a mother and her two children and a salesman. One of the children, a young girl of about five, smiled at Matt as Hayes led him out into the waiting room.
“We’re going back home,” the little girl said to Matt. “We came here to see my Aunt Suzie. I’m named after my Aunt Suzie.”
“Suzie!” her mother called. “Get back over here and leave that man alone.”
“Mama, why is he wearing chains like that?” a boy of about seven asked.
“Jerry, get back over here and sit down,” the mother said, without answering his question.
Even before the train arrived, Emma Dawkins and her young son, Timmy, were just down the street from the depot, standing in front of small, brick building, looking at a sign.
ROBERT DEMPSTER.
Attorney-at-Law.
“What are we doing here, Mama?” Timmy asked.
“This man is a lawyer,” Emma said. “I want you to tell him what you saw.”
Pushing open the door, Emma stepped inside. At first, she thought the office was empty, so she called out.
“Hello? Anybody here?”
Dempster came in from the back room.
“I’m here,” he said. He looked at the woman. “You are Mrs. Dawkins, aren’t you? The dentist’s wife?”
“Yes,” Emma said.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Dawkins?”
“My son and I were in Millie’s dress shop,” Emma said. “A few minutes ago, we saw Deputy Hayes come out of the saloon, with a man in shackles.”
“Yes, the man in shackles would be Matt Jensen.”
“Why is he in shackles?”
“Why? Because he has just been found guilty of murder,” Dempster said. “He is being sent by train to Yuma prison to be hanged.”
“For shooting Deputy Gillis?”
“Yes,” Dempster said. He squinted at Emma. “Excuse me, Mrs. Dawkins, but how do you know this? This just happened.”
“I seen the whole thing,” Timmy said.
“Saw,” Emma corrected.
“I saw it,” Timmy said.
“What did you see?” Dempster asked.
“I seen—uh, I saw—Deputy Gillis draw his gun first. Then the other man drew his gun faster, and he shot the deputy. I didn’t know he killed the deputy ’cause all I saw was Deputy Gillis turn around and walk back into the saloon.”
“You say you saw the deputy draw his gun first?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“That’s not possible,” Dempster said. “When Gillis came back into the saloon, his pistol was still in his holster.”
“He pulled his gun about halfway out. Then, when he got shot, it fell back in the holster, but he drew first,” Timmy said.
“Timmy, have you seen very many gunfights?”
“No, sir, I ain’t—uh, I haven’t ever seen any except this one.”
“Neither have I actually. But I’ve tried cases that had to do with gunfights, and the one thing all of them have in common is confusion. Two people can see the same thing but tell completely different stories, without either one of them lying.”
“How can they tell something different without one of them lying?” Timmy asked.
“Because it isn’t a lie if you believe what you are saying is the truth. Take your story, for example. I don’t believe you are lying. I think you really believe that you saw Deputy Gillis draw first. But a gunfight can be over in the wink of an eye. It could be that when Gillis saw this fella Jensen starting to draw, that he went for his own gun, but it was too late, the other fella had the drop on him. You might have seen Gillis starting his draw, but didn’t notice that the other man had already drawn his own gun.”
Timmy didn’t answer.
“Don’t you think it might have been that way?” he asked.
“No, sir, it wasn’t that way,” Timmy said. “I know what I saw. I saw the stranger, Mr. Jensen, come riding into town on a sorrel. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and a wet hat.”
“A wet hat?”
“Yes, sir. He must’ve given his horse some water from a hat, because the hat was wet, and he took it off and hung it on his saddle. Then, Deputy Gillis came outside and they talked for a moment—but I don’t know what they were talking about. Then, Deputy Gillis started to draw his gun, but Mr. Jensen drew his gun, too, and he drew it faster than Deputy Gillis. When he shot Deputy Gillis, the deputy’s gun fell back into the holster, and he turned around and went back inside the saloon. That’s what I saw.”