Before he could answer his ma’s question, a young woman stepped through the door. She smiled when she saw Lenny and she started toward him, then stopped when she saw Lenny’s mother with him. The smile left her face, to be replaced by a look of concern.
“Mary Lou, I’m glad you could come,” Lenny called to her. “Come on, I want you to meet my ma.”
“Lenny, I don’t think…” Kathleen began, but Lenny cut her comment off with a stare.
“Ma, watch what you say,” he said quietly. “I don’t think you want to insult the girl I’m going to marry, now, do you?”
“Lenny, you can’t be serious.”
“I am, Ma. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
Lenny walked over to take Mary Lou by the arm and lead her back to his mother.
It was obvious that Mary Lou was nervous, but to Lenny’s relief, his mother smiled graciously, then extended her hand.
“Mary Lou,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m glad you are here to help see Lenny off.”
The tense expression left Mary Lou’s face, and she relaxed visibly. “It is nice to meet you, Mrs. York,” she said, taking Kathleen’s proffered hand.
“Oh, hey, Ma, I’ve got an idea,” Lenny said. “On those times when you can’t get off long enough to take a meal over to Pearlie, you can let Mary Lou do it for you.”
“Oh, Lenny, I couldn’t ask her to do that,” Kathleen said.
“I don’t mind,” Mary Lou said. “I’d be glad to do that for you.”
Kathleen paused for a moment, as if considering all the consequences. Then, smiling, she nodded. “Thank you, that will be wonderful,” she said.
By mid-morning of the next day, a polished black coffin, liberally trimmed with silver, was on display behind the big window in front of Quentin’s Hardware Store. Throughout the morning, nearly the entire town had stopped by at one time or another to have a look. The top half of the coffin was open so the body could be seen lying on a bed of white silk. Billy Ray was wearing a black suit, a ruffled white shirt, and a black bow tie.
A sign posted alongside the coffin read:
A Noble Young Life
Brought to an untimely end
by a murdering Stranger
The article in the Santa Clara Chronicle was more neutraclass="underline"
Shooting in The New York Saloon.
A quiet evening of pleasant conversation, moderate imbibing, and recreational cardplaying erupted into gunplay Thursday last. Billy Ray Quentin, the son of Huereano County’s most affluent citizen, was hurled into eternity by the accurate placement of a .44-caliber ball, said ball the result of a pistol discharged by a visitor to Santa Clara, a man who has identified himself only as Pearlie.
Shortly after the dramatic confrontation, Marshal Clem Dawson and Deputy Deke Wilson arrived on the scene, whereupon Pearlie was immediately placed under arrest. Pearlie is now awaiting trial for murder, though the prosecutor may have a difficult time in establishing his case. There are some who were eyewitnesses to the shooting who have made the statement that the stranger had no choice but to return fire. These witnesses report that Billy Ray started the fight by firing a twelve-gauge shotgun at Pearlie, with the obvious intent of killing him. It will be up to a jury to make the final decision as to whether Pearlie’s arrival in our fair town, surely with no aforethought to killing another human being, shall now result in his being hanged.
Billy Ray Quentin will be buried tomorrow in the Santa Clara Cemetery.
The funeral parade to the cemetery was led by members of the volunteer fire department, proudly showing off their pumper, its highly polished brass boiler shining brightly in the afternoon sun. Following the fire pumper was the town’s marching band, its members elegantly attired in their red and gold uniforms, the bright color offset somewhat by the black armbands they were wearing. The band was playing Chopin’s stately Funeral March, and they proceeded along the route in slow, measured steps, keeping pace with the somber music.
Next came the highly polished white, glass-sided hearse, bearing Billy Ray’s black and silver coffin. The head of the coffin was somewhat elevated so that the spectators who lined the street on both sides could see the body. The hearse was driven by Josiah Welch, the undertaker, who, like Billy, was dressed in a black suit, with a ruffled white shirt and black bow tie. The only difference was that Welch was wearing a high-crown silk hat.
Pogue Quentin, who was also wearing a black suit, rode in an elegant open carriage behind the hearse. The carriage, as were the horses pulling it, was draped in black bunting. As the cortege passed by, the people began following it to the cemetery.
Because there had been no rites in the church, the body was taken directly from its place of display in the show window of the hardware store to the cemetery. Once the cortege reached its destination, the coffin was removed from the hearse and placed on the ground alongside the open grave. Not until then was the top part of the coffin closed, after which the Reverend Charles Landers stepped up to the head of the grave.
“Dear friends,” he began. “We are gathered here in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection and eternal life of our brother, Billy Ray Quentin, and I ask you to now—”
“Hold on there, Preacher,” Pogue Quentin called, interrupting the funeral rite. “I want to say a few words.”
“I—uh—very well,” Landers said, surprised by Quentin’s unexpected outburst. He stepped aside, assuming that Quentin would take his place, but Quentin didn’t move from where he had been standing.
“Folks,” Quentin began. “The man who murdered my boy, in cold blood, is down there in the jailhouse.” He pointed in the general direction of the jail. “We’ll be havin’ his trial soon as Judge McCabe gets here, and that means there will be a jury selected. That jury will come from this town, most of which is here now. If you are selected to be on that jury, I want you to understand that I expect the murderer to be found guilty and to hang.”
He held up a copy of the Santa Clara Chronicle and pointed to the front-page story.
“Brandon, there will be no more stories like this one. Why, if someone didn’t know any better, they could read this story and think maybe that the man who killed my son was justified.”
“Mr. Quentin, you must know that there are some who witnessed the event who say that it was justifiable homicide,” Brandon replied.
“I want you to know, Brandon, that I will be keeping my eye on you and on any more stories you write like this one. And I’m givin’ you fair warning now not to do it.”
“Are you threatening the right of a free press, sir?” Brandon asked.
“I’m just tellin’ you, that’s all,” Quentin said. “And for rest of you, any of you who might be on the jury,” he continued, looking out over those who had gathered in the cemetery for the purpose of interment, “hear me good. I won’t take too kindly to anyone who doesn’t do their duty and find that son of a bitch guilty. I aim to see to it that my son’s killer is hung by the neck until he is dead.”
“Mr. Quentin, we are having a funeral,” Landers said. “Such language is unseemly.”
“Yeah? Well, you got your language and I got mine, Preacher,” Quentin said. “But I’ve got my piece said now, so you can get on back to the buryin’.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sugarloaf Ranch
Although Prince Henry had his own stall, he had been brought outside and was now tied to a post in the middle of the corral. This was, in fact, the same post to which horses were tied before being broken.
Cal approached the animal carrying a brush in one hand and a bucket of soapy water in the other. Setting the bucket down beside Prince Henry, he patted him on the head.