“Yeah, I did,” Hawke said easily.
Priest collapsed. One of the men nearest him hurried over, then knelt beside him and put his hand on the fallen man’s neck. He looked up at the others.
“He’s dead,” he said.
“I’ll be damned! Who would’ve thought someone like Ebenezer Priest would ever get hisself kilt by a piano player?”
“I’m glad the son of a bitch is dead,” one of the others said. “He’s been ridin’ roughshod over this town for nigh on to two years now.”
Hawke put his gun back in the piano bench, then walked over to the bar and ordered a whiskey.
“It’s on the house, Mr. Hawke,” Kirby said as he poured the drink and set it in front of Hawke.
A deputy sheriff came running in then, drawn by the sound of the two gunshots. His own gun was drawn, and after a quick glance around the room, he saw Priest lying on the floor.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, putting his pistol away. “When I heard the gunshots, I knew damn well Priest would be in the middle of it, but I figured I’d find him standin’. I never expected to see him be the one that’s spread out on the floor. How bad is it?”
“He’s dead,” one of the patrons replied.
The deputy walked over to Priest’s body and stared down at it for a moment. He kicked the body lightly, then a little bit harder. Priest did not respond. Then he kicked him so hard that it moved Priest’s body slightly.
“You’re right,” the deputy said. “The son of a bitch is dead.” There was a spattering of nervous laughter.
The deputy looked around the saloon, returning everyone’s curious gaze with his own. “Who did it?” he asked.
“I did,” Hawke said.
The deputy looked at the piano player and laughed. “No, I’m serious. Who killed the son of a bitch?”
“He’s tellin’ you the truth, Deputy,” Kirby said. “He did it.”
“Yeah,” another saloon patron said. “Priest braced the piano player and the piano player shot ’im.”
The deputy looked over at Hawke. At six feet, Hawke was a little taller than average. He was slender of build, with gunmetal-gray eyes, and his hair was light brown, almost blond. Unlike most of the other patrons, Hawke was clean-shaven, and wore a white ruffled shirt poked down into fawn-colored trousers. A blue jacket and crimson cravat completed his ensemble.
“Why, you aren’t even wearing a gun,” the deputy said.
Hawke nodded toward the piano. “It’s over there, in the piano bench.”
“And you’re telling that Priest braced you, then waited for you to get your gun out of the bench?”
“Something like that,” Hawke said.
The deputy walked over to the piano and looked down at the bench. He saw the bullet hole in the bench lid.
“I’ll be damn,” he said.
Judge Andrew Norton held the inquest two days later. The prosecuting attorney, pointing out that Hawke was an itinerant who posed a flight risk, had asked the judge to confine him to jail until the inquest. But the judge denied the motion, and Hawke upheld the judge’s trust by showing up on the day of the inquest.
It was an open inquiry, with not only the witnesses to the event present, but many of the town’s citizens in attendance as well.
One by one the witnesses were interviewed. The last witness was the bartender, Dwayne Kirby, and his testimony was typical.
“Ebenezer Priest was holding a cocked gun at Mr. Hawke’s head,” Kirby said when asked to give his version of what happened. “He shot it once, and I closed my eyes, thinkin’ that when I opened ’em I’d see the piano player dead.”
“But you didn’t see him dead, did you?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“You didn’t see him dead, because all Priest did was shoot the beer glass.”
“Yes, sir, that’s what he done.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, sir, Priest started in a’countin’, and he told Hawke that when he got to five he was goin’ to kill him.”
“Hadn’t he previously said that he would kill Mr. Hawke if he did not play ‘Marching Through Georgia’?”
“Yes, sir, that’s what he said.”
“And did Mr. Hawke play ‘Marching Through Georgia’?”
“No, sir, he did not. He played ‘The Bonnie Blue Flag,’” Kirby said, laughing.
“I see. So, what you are telling me is, even though Priest told Hawke he would kill him if he didn’t play ‘Marching Through Georgia,’ he didn’t do it. He shot the beer glass instead.”
“That’s right.”
“What happened next?”
“It’s just like all the others have told you.” Kirby pointed toward Hawke. “Hawke turned around like as if he was goin’ to get some music, and Priest commenced to countin’.”
“Did Hawke say anything? Give him any warning?”
“I suppose you could say that. What Hawke said was, ‘It seems to me like you could have picked a better reason to get yourself killed than this.’”
“So, in other words, Hawke threatened to kill Priest?”
“Well, I reckon they threatened each other.”
“Yes, but Priest had already shown, by his earlier action, that he had no intention of killing Hawke, hadn’t he?”
Kirby shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t see it like that. I think Priest was plannin’ on killin’ him soon as he got to five. I mean, hell, he’d already killed a bunch of folks.”
“We aren’t talking about the people he did kill, we are talking about one that he didn’t kill. We are talking about his confrontation with Mason Hawke. You said he started to count to five, but he didn’t finish his count, did he?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t he finish his count?”
“’Cause Hawke shot him before he got there.”
“And, I believe it has been testified to that Hawke shot him from behind the cover of a piano bench lid. Is that right?”
“Well, yeah, but it don’t seem to me like as if he had any other—”
“Thank you, Mr. Kirby. That will be all.”
“I’ll tell you this—if there was ever anyone that needed killin’,” Kirby said, though he’d been dismissed by the lawyer, “it was Ebenezer Priest. He was one of the sorriest bastards to ever draw a breath. He killed lots of good men for no reason at all, and he got away with it ’cause he goaded ’em into drawin’ on him. Well, it didn’t work with Hawke.”
The gallery applauded and there were several utterances of, “Hear! Hear!”
“Thank you, Mr. Kirby,” the prosecutor said again, more forcibly this time. “That will be all.”
As Kirby was the final witness, the judge turned to Hawke.
“Mr. Hawke, this is an inquest, not a trial. Nevertheless, the provisions of the Fifth Amendment are just as applicable. Therefore, you cannot be forced to testify if you don’t want to. On the other hand, if you wish to take the stand, now is the time to do so.”
“I’ll take the stand,” Hawke said.
“Very well. Bailiff, would you administer the oath, please?”
The prosecutor waited until Hawke was sworn in, then stepped up to the witness chair and, hooking his thumbs in his suspenders, stared through narrowed eyes at Hawke. It was his most intimidating stare, but Hawke held the prosecutor’s eyes with an unblinking stare of his own.
It was the prosecutor who broke eye contact first. Looking away, he cleared his throat before beginning his questioning.
“You understand, do you not, Mr. Hawke, that this is sworn testimony?” he asked. “If you lie during this testimony, it’s the same as lying during an actual court trial. You will be subject to a charge of perjury.”
Hawke, who continued his unblinking stare at the prosecutor, said nothing.