“Uh, yes,” the prosecutor said, clearing his throat again. “For the record, is Mason Hawke your real name?”
“Yes.”
“And, you are a piano player?”
“No.”
The prosecutor was actually just getting some house-cleaning questions out of the way, and he looked up in sharp surprise when Hawke denied being a piano player.
“Wait a minute. Were you, or were you not, hired to play the piano in the Lucky Dog saloon?”
“I was.”
“Well then, what would you call yourself, if not a piano player?”
“I call myself a pianist.”
Several in the gallery laughed.
“Please don’t play games with me, Mr. Hawke,” he said. “What’s the difference between a piano player and a pianist?”
“What’s the difference between ‘Turkey in the Straw’ and Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor?”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” the prosecutor said.
“Then you are an idiot, Mr. Prosecutor,” the judge said, interrupting the dialogue. “Get on with your questioning.”
Again the gallery laughed.
“Yes, Your Honor.” Turning his attention back to Hawke, the prosecutor continued, “Mr. Hawke, you have heard the testimony of all the witnesses here today. Do you wish to dispute anything any of them said?”
“No.”
“Just so the record is straight, did you kill Ebenezer Priest?”
“Yes.”
“And how did you kill him? Was it a fair fight? Did you test your skill and courage against him in what one might reasonably call an affair of honor?”
“No. I just killed him.”
“I see. And were you elated? Relieved? Did you feel a personal sense of power over having just taken a man’s life?”
“No.”
“Well, then, were you remorseful?”
“No.”
“You felt none of those emotions?”
“No.”
“Then what did you feel?”
“Killing Ebenezer Priest was like stepping on a cockroach. I felt nothing at all.”
The prosecutor shook his head, then made a big show of walking away from Hawke. Standing several feet from the witness chair and looking out toward the audience, the prosecutor asked his next question in loud, well-articulated tones.
“By your own admission, your altercation with Priest was not a test of skill and courage. It was simply a killing. How can you be so cavalier about that, Mr. Hawke?”
“Have you ever killed anyone?” Hawke replied.
The prosecutor turned back. “I’m not on trial here, sir, you are,” he said loudly.
“I thought this was an inquest, rather than a trial.”
“All right, an inquest.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?” Hawke asked again. “I’m just curious.”
“All right, I’ll answer your question. No, sir, I am proud to say that I have never killed anyone.”
“Do you think gunfighters like Ebenezer Priest, Clay Allison, Bill Hickock, Temple Houston, and Ethan Dancer are successful killers because of their skill and courage? The answer is no. Killing is not a matter of skill and courage, it is merely a willingness to do it. The average man, the man with a soul, does not have that willingness. Even if he is faster and more skilled with a gun, he will hesitate, just for a moment, before killing someone. But men like those I just named have no soul. That’s what gives them the edge.”
“Like stepping on a cockroach, Mr. Hawke?” the prosecutor asked triumphantly.
“Yes,” Hawke said without flinching.
“I see.”
“Were you in the war, Mr. Prosecutor?”
“No, I was not.”
“I was,” Hawke said. “I killed many men during the war. No doubt some of them were evil, but the majority of them were decent, morally upstanding men. Each one was somebody’s husband, father, son, or brother who just happened to be wearing the uniform of the other side. Do you think that if I killed good men like that, I would hesitate for one second before killing someone like Ebenezer Priest?”
“I thought you said that those who could kill without hesitation had no soul.”
“Yes,” Hawke said. “That is exactly what I said.”
“So you are…”
“A man without a soul,” Hawke answered.
After hearing all the evidence, the judge retired to his chambers for a short while, then returned to deliver his finding.
“On September tenth, last year, Ebenezer Priest killed William Grant. Mr. Grant was a man who, by mistake, took a drink from Priest’s beer mug. Although Mr. Grant apologized, many times, Priest finally goaded him into drawing his gun, thus making it, officially, an act of self-defense. One of the ways he did this was by shooting the beer glass.
“In May of this year he goaded James Herrington into drawing his gun, by shooting his hat off his head. When Mr. Herrington went for his gun, Priest killed him. Both cases were officially ruled as justifiable homicide.
“Well, this time it did not work for him. If Mr. Hawke believed that Ebenezer Priest actually planned to kill him, then he was entirely justified in acting to save his own life. And, given Mr. Priest’s history, I have no doubt that was the state of Mason Hawke’s mind.
“Accordingly, I find this to be a case of justifiable homicide, and will allow no charges to be filed.” Judge Norton struck the desk with his hammer. “This case is dismissed.”
With the judge’s ruling, those in the gallery applauded, then hurried forward to congratulate Hawke. Even the prosecutor congratulated him. “I was just doing my job,” he said.
Dwayne Kirby, who was not only the bartender at the Lucky Dog, but half owner, saw this as a tremendous opportunity. He painted a sign and put it up behind the bar:
COME, MEET
MASON HAWKE.
THE MAN WHO SHOT
EBENEZER PRIEST.
He had just finished posting it when he turned around and saw Mason Hawke carrying his saddlebags over his shoulder.
“Are you going somewhere?” Kirby asked.
Hawke nodded. “It’s time for me to move on.”
“But why would you do that? The judge said there wouldn’t be any charges against you. And think of how much money you will make in tips over the next several weeks because of this. Everybody is going to want to meet the man who shot Ebenezer Priest.”
“Yes, that’s exactly why I’m leaving,” Hawke said. “I’ve no wish to meet anyone who wants to meet the man who killed Ebenezer Priest.”
“But…” Kirby said, clearly distressed by this news. “Look, I’ll tell you what. I’ll cut you in for a percentage of everything we take in for the next two months.”
“Thank you,” Hawke said. “That’s a generous offer. But I think I’d better be moving on.”
Kirby nodded, then sighed, and looked up toward his sign. “All right,” he said. “I can’t keep you here. But you sure are passing up the opportunity to make a lot of money.” He took the sign down.
Hawke stuck his hand across the bar. “You’ve been a fine man to work for, Mr. Kirby,” he said. “I wish you the best.”
“Same to you, Mr. Hawke,” Kirby said as he morosely tore up the sign. He bent down to put the torn pieces in the trash can, and when he straightened up again, he saw Hawke stepping through the bat-wing doors.
Chapter 2
THE TOWN OF BITTER CREEK, WYOMING TERRITORY, was little more than a fly-blown speck on the Union Pacific Railroad. It had reached its peak when it was End of Track, a “hell on wheels,” with enough cafés, saloons, and bawdy houses to take care of the men who were building the railroad. But as the railroad continued on its westward trek, Bitter Creek lost all of its importance and most of its population. It was gradually beginning to recover, though, and its hearty citizens hung on, waiting for the eventual bounty the railroad was sure to bring.