“Oh? Does Pogue Quentin not believe in the right of the accused to have counsel?” Murchison asked.
“Oh, I reckon he is all right with it in principle,” Doc Patterson said. “He’s just not that happy with it in fact, when the lawyer is defending the man who killed his son. Especially if the lawyer is from out of town, and not controlled by Quentin.”
“Are all the lawyers in town controlled by Quentin?”
“The lawyers and the law.”
“Why does the town put up with it?” Cal asked.
“I reckon because he owns everything in town,” Deckert said.
“He doesn’t own my saloon,” Gibson said.
“And he damn sure doesn’t own my newspaper,” Brandon said.
Doc Patterson chuckled. “He doesn’t like that either. Sometimes your articles get him pretty upset.”
“Freedom of the press, gentlemen,” Brandon said, holding up his finger to make a point. “It is the most precious of all our rights and as long as I own this newspaper, and that will be as long as there is breath in my body, I will be a voice crying out in the wilderness against the evil oppressor.”
Doc laughed, and applauded quietly. “Spoken like a noble patriot,” he said.
“There he is!” a loud voice called then, and looking toward the swinging bat wing doors, they saw Marshal Dawson and Deputy Wilson. Wilson was pointing at Smoke. “That’s the one who said he was going to kill me.”
“What’s your name, mister?” Dawson asked, his face scowling in anger and intimidation.
“Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”
The hard set of Dawson’s face drained away, his pupils narrowed, and he took a quick, short breath.
“The Smoke Jensen?”
“That’s an interesting question,” Smoke replied. “I’m the only Smoke Jensen I know, so I suppose you could say that I am ‘the’ Smoke Jensen, but I don’t know for sure.”
“What difference does it make who he is?” Wilson asked angrily. “I told you, he said he would kill me if we hung Pearlie.”
Dawson said nothing.
“Well, there he is, just standing there,” Wilson said. “You ain’t goin’ to let him get away with that, are you? I’m an officer of the law. He can’t talk to me like that.”
Dawson still said nothing.
“Ask him,” Wilson said. “Ask him if he said he was goin’ to kill me if Pearlie got hung.”
When Dawson remained quiet, Wilson spoke again.
“Ask him,” he demanded again.
“Do you really want to ask that question?” Smoke asked, not answering directly.
“No,” Dawson said, speaking for the first time. “I don’t intend to ask the question. Let’s go, Wilson.”
“What?” Wilson asked, growing even angrier now. “We’re just goin’ to leave and do nothing?”
“Yeah,” Dawson replied. “We are just going to leave and do nothing.”
“I’ll be damned,” Gibson said. “I never thought I would see anything like what just happened. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure what just happened. Mr. Jensen, step up to the bar. You and your friends can have a drink on the house.”
“Hell, Rodney, does that include us?” Brandon asked. “We just made friends with Mr. Jensen.”
Gibson laughed. “Yes,” he said. “That includes everyone.”
As the men stood along the bar waiting for the drinks to be served, Lenny spoke up.
“Doc Patterson, Mr. Brandon, and Mr. Deckert were playing cards with Pearlie and Billy Ray when everything started,” Lenny said.
“Good, good, maybe I can convince you to be a witness for the defense,” Murchison said.
Brandon shook his head. “It won’t do you any good,” he said. “Doc and I left before the shooting. We didn’t see a thing.”
“What about you, Mr. Deckert?” Murchison asked.
“I wasn’t actually playing cards then,” Deckert replied.
“No, but you were sitting at the table, watching us play,” Brandon said.
“You saw it, didn’t you?” Murchison said. “You saw everything.”
“I ain’t goin’ to testify,” Deckert said.
“Why not?”
“You don’t understand,” Deckert said. “You don’t live here. None of you do. You think this is just a trial like any trial in any other town, but it ain’t. This trial has already been held, and Pearlie has already been found guilty. Don’t you understand that? He has already been found guilty. The jury, the judge, even the court, they don’t mean a thing. The only thing that means anything in this town is Pogue Quentin.”
“Mr. Deckert, I know you have seen the gallows in the middle of the street down there,” Smoke said.
“How can I not see it?” Deckert replied. “The whole town has seen it.”
“Are you willing to watch an innocent man hang, just because you are afraid to testify?”
“I’m not afraid to testify.”
“Oh?”
Deckert stroked his chin. “All right, maybe I am afraid. But if I thought it would do any good, I would testify anyway. It just won’t do any good, that’s all.”
“I’ll be a witness for you, Mr. Murchison,” Lloyd Evans said.
“You saw it?”
“I didn’t see what started it all,” the bartender said. “But I did see the end of it. I saw Billy Ray come in here, blazing away with his shotgun.”
Murchison smiled, and lifted his beer to the bartender. “That’s a start,” he said.
“Wait a minute, maybe my testimony would do you some good after all,” Brandon suggested. “I mean, Evans saw how it all ended, Doc and I saw how it started. I guess we could testify about that.”
“Hold it, Elmer, don’t count me in on that,” Doc said.
“Doc, you saw how it all began, same as I did. You could be a witness.”
“If I don’t know any more than you do about it, what good would my testimony be?”
“You afraid to testify, Doc?” Cal asked.
Doc shook his head. “It’s not that I’m afraid,” he said. “But I’m a veterinarian. I see maybe ten or twelve dogs and a couple of cats that are pets in this town. And I see thirty thousand head of cattle that belong to Quentin. I can’t make a livin’ just by tendin’ to people’s pets.”
“I see your point,” Brandon said. Brandon looked back at the lawyer. “He’s right, Mr. Murchison. Even if he does testify, he won’t be able to add to anything I might say. And testifying could cost him his livelihood.”
“All right,” Murchison said. “I guess we can get along without your testimony.”
“Thanks,” Doc said, the relief on his face obvious.
“Damn, I wish the trial was a couple of days from now,” Brandon said.
“Why is that?”
“I could write an article about it,” Brandon said. “I could write an article and remind people of their civic duty.”
Half an hour later, Brandon stood in his newspaper office, looking at the Washington Hand Press that loomed in the shadows. Walking over to it, he ran his hand across the top arc of the press, the metal feeling cool to his touch. He looked over at his type trays, then smiled.
“Why the hell not?” he asked, saying the words aloud, even though he was alone in the room. “What do you think, Emma?” he asked, looking up as if speaking to his late wife. “I’ll put out an extra. I’ve never done it before, but I can’t think of a time when there’s ever been more of a reason for one than now. Yes, sir, an extra edition.”
Holding a lit match to the wick of a nearby kerosene lantern, Brandon turned up the light, then started setting the type.
Half an hour later, he took the first sheet off the press, then held it up for a closer examination.
“Here it is, Emma,” he said. “Yes, sir, this will shake them up.”
Tumbling Q
The sun was not even up the next morning when Marshal Dawson showed up on Quentin’s front porch. He banged on the door until, finally, he saw the moving gleam of a candle as someone inside came down the stairs to answer the door. It was Quentin, wearing a sleeping gown and carrying a candle.