“Dawson,” Quentin said grumpily. “What are you doing here? What time is it?” Quentin looked around toward the big grandfather clock that stood in the foyer, just at the foot of the stairs. “It’s not even five o’clock yet.”
“I thought you might want to see this,” Dawson suggested, holding out a copy of the newspaper.
“A newspaper? Why the hell would I want to read a newspaper at this time of morning?”
“Just read it,” Dawson said. “You’ll see why.”
Quentin gave Dawson the candle to hold, then using the small bubble of golden light cast by the candle, he read the paper. Not until he was finished did he talk again.
“Where did this come from?” he asked.
“It was pushed under the door at the jail,” Marshal Dawson said. “It must’ve been around midnight last night. I never saw it until this mornin’. What I don’t understand is how it got there. This isn’t the day the paper comes out.”
“This isn’t a regular issue,” Quentin said. He pointed to the banner across the top. “It says here that this is an ‘extra.’ That means a special paper printed at a time that isn’t normal. I wonder how many copies he printed.”
“Looks to me like he might have printed enough so that ever’ man, woman, and child could have his own copy,” Dawson said. “As I was ridin’ out here this mornin’, I seen ’em lyin’ all over the place, on porches, in wagons. They was a pile of ’em down at the train station and another bunch at the stage depot.”
“And you didn’t think to go gather them up, did you?”
“Uh, no, I didn’t think about doin’ nothin’ like that. I reckon I could do that when I go back.”
“It’s too late. By the time you get back, the people in town will be waking up’,” Dawson said. “Within an hour, I expect just about everyone in town will have read it.”
“I expect so,” Dawson agreed.
“Why did you let him do it?”
“Well, in the first place, Mr. Quentin, I didn’t know he was goin’ to print the thing. And in the second place, how was I goin’ to stop it anyway? I mean, it ain’t against the law to print a newspaper.”
“In Santa Clara, the law is what I say it is.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“There are no buts,” Quentin said. “I own the law and I own you, bought and paid for. And I intend to get my money’s worth.”
“All right, what do you want me to do about the paper?” Dawson asked.
“Nothing. It’s too late, the paper is out already. What I intend you to do is make certain the man that killed my son gets what’s comin’ to him.”
“You don’t have to worry none about that. That’s goin’ to happen,” the marshal said.
“Did you get Gilmore appointed prosecuting attorney?”
“Yes, sir, we done that all right,” Dawson said. “Judge McCabe got in on the evenin’ train last night, and me ’n Gilmore met him.”
“Well, it’s good to see that you aren’t totally incompetent. What time does the trial start?”
“The judge said he’ll start the trial at one o’clock this afternoon.” Dawson chuckled. “I figure he’ll have the trial over by three, and we’ll have that fella hung by four.”
“I want you to go back into town now and make certain nothin’ happens to get in the way.”
“What could possibly get in the way?”
“That’s what you said the other day. I didn’t have anything to worry about, you told me,” Quentin said. He held up the broadsheet. “Then Brandon published his extra.”
“Well, what is that goin’ to do? It’s just a paper.”
“Have you ever heard the expression the pen is mightier than the sword?” Quentin asked.
“No. I don’t know what that means.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to know,” Quentin said.
“Look, I know you’re mad, Mr. Quentin, but I didn’t know Brandon was goin’ to put out a paper like this. I mean, I never heard of an extra. I didn’t think you could put out a paper except on the day they’re supposed to come out.”
“That’s just it, Dawson. You didn’t think.”
“You want me to put Brandon in jail or something?”
“No,” Quentin said. “I don’t want you to do anything about him. I’ll take care of the situation.”
“All right,” Dawson said.
Quentin stood on his front porch until Dawson mounted his horse, then started the five-mile ride back to town. After that, Quentin walked across the yard to the bunkhouse. Cole Mathers, his foreman, had a small, private room at the end of the bunkhouse. Quentin, still carrying the candle, opened the door.
“Cole,” he said.
Cole snorted and sniffed, then rolled over in his bunk.
“Cole,” Quentin said again.
Cole opened his eyes and seeing Quentin standing over him, holding a candle, sat up in his bunk. “Yes, sir?”
“You were in town last night, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time did you get back to the ranch?”
“About eleven or so.”
“Did you know about this?” Quentin asked. He held out the newspaper and Cole looked at it. He read a few lines, then shook his head.
“First time I’ve seen it,” he said.
“It was published last night. I thought maybe you saw it.”
Cole shook his head.
“Where is Cates?”
“He’s staying over at Gillespie’s house.”
“You mean my house,” Quentin said.
“Yes, sir, well, it’s your house now. What I meant was, he’s over at the house that used to be Mr. Gillespie’s house before he left.”
“Go get him, tell him I want to see him.”
“All right,” Cole said. He got out of bed and started getting dressed. “Mr. Quentin, you sure you want Cates workin’ for you?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Why do you ask?”
“Because I don’t mind tellin’ you, that creepy little son of a bitch makes me nervous.”
Quentin laughed. “Good. That’s why I hired him. I want him to make people nervous.”
“Even his friends?”
This time, Quentin’s laugh was louder than before. “People like Cates don’t have friends, Cole, you ought to know that,” he said. “They just have a few people whose name they might happen to know.”
Chapter Twenty
Elmer Brandon’s morning routine never varied. As always, he was Kathleen York’s first customer of the day. His breakfast this morning was the same as it was every morning, one hardboiled egg, one strip of bacon, one biscuit with butter and jam, and coffee.
“Mr. Brandon, I read the editorial in your extra edition,” Mary Lou said as she waited on his table. “I thought it was very good.”
“Why, thank you, Mary Lou, it is nice of you to say so.”
Two other early diners spoke up as well, and their comments were as complimentary as Mary Lou’s.
Kathleen came over to Brandon’s table and poured a second cup of coffee for him.
“What are you having for lunch?” Brandon asked.
“I’ve got a good vegetable soup on,” she said. “But lunch is going to be an hour earlier today. I intend to close the restaurant so I can watch the trial.”
“Oh, good idea,” Brandon said. “And since I’m going to be one of Mr. Murchison’s witnesses, I need to eat an early lunch anyway.”
Just as Brandon finished his second cup of coffee, he saw Smoke, Sally, Cal, and Murchison coming in for breakfast. He stopped by their table on his way out.
“Mr. Brandon,” Smoke said. “I read your article. It was a great piece. No doubt it will be the talk of the town today.”
Brandon chuckled. “Oh, I’ve no doubt it will be the talk of the town,” he said. “But there are a lot of people who aren’t going to be all that pleased with it.”
“Anyone with a sense of justice and fair play will like it,” Murchison said. “The truth is, Mr. Brandon, I believe your article may just guarantee us an impartial jury and a fair trial.”