The little man with the new red bandanna rode out of town.
When Doc stepped into Kathleen’s Kitchen a few minutes later, he saw Pearlie’s friends having breakfast and talking animatedly about the special edition of the newspaper.
“It is an exceptionally well-written piece,” Murchison said. “I just hope the good people of Santa Clara realize what a talented journalist they have in Mr. Brandon.”
“Hello, Doc,” Smoke said, seeing the veterinarian standing just inside the door. “Come join us. We are talking about the newspaper article your friend wrote.”
“Elmer is dead,” Doc said in a flat, somber voice.
“Who is dead?” Cal asked.
“Elmer Brandon.”
Sally gasped. “You mean the newspaper editor?”
Doc nodded.
“He just left here no more than half an hour ago,” Murchison said.
I know,” Doc said. “He left here, then he stopped my office for a few minutes, the way he does every morning, then he walked on down to his office. Someone must have been waiting for him there, because no more than two minutes after he left me, he was dead.”
Smoke picked up the newspaper and looked at the article again. “I guess he was more courageous than we thought.”
“Mr. Murchison, Elmer was going to testify for you, wasn’t he?” Doc Patterson said.
“Yes, sir, he was.”
“Well, now, I’m going to.”
“I appreciate that, Dr. Patterson, I truly do,” Murchison said.
Chapter Twenty-one
Because the New York Saloon was the only building large enough to hold the number of people expected to attend the trial, the hearing was held there. Gibson had been told that no liquor could be sold during the time of the trial, but the trial generated enough early business to compensate him for it, so he willingly closed the bar at twelve thirty.
More than half the population of the town made plans to attend the trial. This included several women and the parson of the local church, none of whom who had never seen the inside of the saloon before. Earlier today, out of deference to the ladies who would be attending the trial, Gibson hung a white silk cloth over the nude painting, Note From Cupid.
It was obvious that many of the women had heard of the painting, because several of them looked for it as soon as they came in, and a few even expressed their disappointment over the fact that the painting had been covered.
Smoke, Sally, Cal, Lenny, Mary Lou, and Kathleen were sitting in the front row, immediately behind the defense table. They had arrived early so that they were there when Pearlie was brought into the improvised courtroom, his hands shackled behind him. Deputy Wilson was the escorting officer, and he strutted importantly alongside Pearlie, guiding him by way of his hand gripping Pearlie’s elbow.
“Hello, Smoke, Miz Sally, Cal,” Pearlie said, smiling at his friends as he walked by them. “Hi, Lenny, Miz York, Miss Culpepper.”
They all responded.
“Don’t you worry none, Pearlie,” Cal added encouragingly. “Everything is going to be just fine. Mr. Murchison is the smartest lawyer I know.”
Pearlie laughed. “Cal, that would give me a lot of comfort if I thought you knew a lot of lawyers.”
Murchison chuckled.
“Now you sit there, and you don’t give me any trouble,” Wilson said authoritatively as he unlocked the shackles. “’Cause I’m goin’ to be sittin’ right over there and I’ll be keepin’ my eyes on you for the whole time.”
Pearlie rubbed his wrists as he sat down.
The saloon was buzzing with the conversation of well over one hundred spectators, but suddenly the conversation grew quiet. Curious as to why the conversation had suddenly stilled, Smoke turned in his chair and looked back toward the front door. There, standing just inside the batwings, he saw Pogue Quentin, accompanied by a small, evil-looking man.
“Smoke, that fella with Quentin. That’s—” Cal started to say, but Smoke interrupted him.
“Borgardus Cates,” he said.
“Yes, they call him Snake Cates. He’s one of the deadliest killers in the country,” Cal went on, anxious to show that he knew something about Cates.
“I wonder what he’s doing here,” Sally said.
“I’m sure Quentin hired him,” Smoke said.
“Smoke, do you think he is the one who killed Mr. Brandon?”
“I would bet on it,” Smoke replied.
“You have to know that Marshal Dawson would suspect that, yet here he is, just as bold as life.”
“The mistake you are making, Sally, is in thinking that Dawson is a real law officer,” Smoke said. “He isn’t. He is Quentin’s man.”
Quentin and Cates walked to the front of the room. There were no empty seats in the front row, but when Quentin glared at two men who were sitting there, they got up quickly and went to the back of the room, thus enabling Quentin and Cates to sit behind the prosecutor’s table.
Murchison had already met the prosecutor, having talked with him for a few minutes about half an hour ago. Santa Clara did not have a full-time prosecuting attorney, nor did Huereano County. It was normally the responsibility of the presiding judge to appoint one, but in this case, he didn’t have to. When Marshall Dawson and Percy Gilmore met the judge at the depot last night with the request that Gilmore be assigned the position of prosecutor, it had surprised Judge McCabe.
Appointing someone who actually wanted to be the prosecutor was a rare break from the routine. Most of the time, Judge McCabe would encounter resistance from those he appointed as prosecutor, so he welcomed this turn of events and appointed Gilmore to the position, even before he left the depot.
As Quentin and Cates took their seats behind the prosecutor’s table, Gilmore turned to engage them in conversation. They spoke so quietly that nobody near them could hear what was being said.
“You did what?” Gilmore gasped aloud.
“You don’t have to worry about it none,” Quentin said. “You didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. It was—”
Gilmore held up his hand and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Don’t say another word. I can’t know anything about it, do you understand? Say nothing more to me about this.” Gilmore turned his back to them.
Lenny chuckled. “Mr. Gilmore seemed upset with Quentin. I wonder what that was all about,” he said.
Before anyone could respond to Lenny’s question, Marshal Dawson stepped up to the front of the room and cleared his throat a few time until he had everyone’s attention.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez, this here Court of Huereano County, Santa Clara, Colorado, is now in session. Everyone will come to order, the Honorable Judge Cleetus McCabe presiding. All rise.”
Smoke, Sally, Cal, Lenny, Mary Lou, and Kathleen stood with the others. Conversations were cut off in mid-sentence, and there was a scrape of chairs and rustle of clothing as those in the gallery stood. A spittoon rang, then rocked on the floor as someone made an accurate expectoration of his tobacco quid.
Judge McCabe was a rather large man, with cheeky jowls, piercing blue eyes, and a bald head. He ambled to the bench, then sat down.
“Be seated,” he said.
There was another scrape of chairs as those present took their seats. McCabe picked up the piece of paper that was lying on the table that served as his desk.
“Comes now before this court, in the case of The People versus—” He paused for a moment, then looked up. “Pearlie? Pearlie what?”
“Just Pearlie, Your Honor,” Pearlie replied.
Judge McCabe shook his head. “No,” he said. “That won’t do. I’m going to need your entire name.”
“Please the court, Your Honor,” Murchison said. “As the person named in the indictment is identified only as Pearlie, and as my defendant readily agrees that he is the Pearlie so named, there is no legal requirement that any other name be used. I’m sure Your Honor is aware there have been cases tried and adjudicated for persons known only as John Doe.”