“Shut up!” Carl yelled. “You don’t know what assault and battery is yet, and by God I want witness to what I am saying! Because that’s the word with the bark on it — if you have got him turned against us here with your law’s-the-law bellywash, I swear to God people will walk ten miles out of their way around what happened to you, so as not to see the mess!”
Carl stepped back from the table. The judge snatched up his whisky bottle and tilted it to his mouth; whisky trickled over his chin.
Carl leaned back against the wall, chewing furiously on a mustache end. “By God, Johnny, it is a shameful thing,” he said, in a shaky voice. “Here I am making a damned yelling fool of myself, and you with your brother killed. I am sorry.”
“That Blaisedell killed,” the judge whispered.
“It wasn’t Blaisedell killed him,” Gannon said, and Carl gave him a confused look.
Bootheels racketed on the planks outside and Pike Skinner came in. “Where the hell’s Blaisedell gone to?”
“Bright’s, it looks like,” Carl said.
The judge said, in a loud, trumpeting voice, “He knew he had to go, because no man can set himself above the law!” He turned toward Gannon suddenly. Red marks showed on his pale, stubbled cheeks. “That’s why, isn’t it, Deputy?”
“I guess so,” Gannon said.
“You two have been drinking out of the same bottle,” Carl said, disgustedly.
“It is the only bottle there is,” the judge said.
Pike stared at Gannon with wide eyes in his red face. Pike came forward around the table. “I don’t know,” he said, with difficulty. “I don’t know what’s happened or what’s going to happen. But Johnny Gannon, I know if you throw Blaisedell down some way because of Billy I will—”
Carl caught Pike by the shoulder and jerked him around. “Shut your face!” Carl drew and jammed his Colt into Pike’s side. His face was contorted with fury. “You have shot your mouth one too many times!”
Pike backed up a step and Carl moved after him. “Johnny, I will hold on him and you can beat the holy piss out of him for that if you want.”
“Never mind it, Carl,” Gannon said.
“Take it back then!” Carl said, through his teeth. “I say back down, you bat-eared ignoramus! You don’t know what you are talking about even!”
“I’ll not!” Pike said stiffly.
“It doesn’t matter, Carl,” Gannon said, and Carl cursed and holstered his Colt.
“Pus and corruption,” the judge said, in the smug voice. “Small men bickering and quarreling and killing at each other, a whole world full and not one worth the trouble it is to law them. But there is one did a right thing one time in his life.”
“Shut up!” Carl cried. He hit his fist back against the wall. “Just shut that up. I’m warning you! Just shut up about it!”
24. JOURNALS OF HENRY HOLMES GOODPASTURE
February 10, 1881
THE pipers play “The World Turned Upside Down.” Clay Blaisedell is in Bright’s City awaiting trial. He took himself there upon his own warrant, evidently preferring not to present himself to the deputies here for arrest, as is fitting his Dignity & Station.
The rumors fly. His action has astounded everyone. We cry that there is no need for him to seek justification in court, and further that he puts himself in grave danger by thus surrendering himself to the mercies of a judge and jury too often proved weak creatures of McQuown’s will. Yet perhaps I do see a need. Blaisedell must have come to suspect immediately after the fight what is being more and more widely bruited about here — that Billy Gannon was not one of the road agents. And he must have felt that the fact that Billy Gannon had killed a posseman and had joined with those who were actually and clearly the road agents in order to ambush him (Blaisedell), does not alter this original case. If this is true, I must feel that he has acted correctly and honorably.
I wonder if Blaisedell realizes that he will stand trial for us of the Citizens’ Committee as well as for himself.
February 15, 1881
It is too bad that Blaisedell left so soon for Bright’s City and was not here to enjoy the luster of his feat in the Acme Corral while that luster remained intact. For within a week his triumph has become somewhat tarnished. Ah, the pure shine of a few moments of heroism, high courage, and derring-do! In its light we genuflect before the Hero, we bask in the warmth of his Deeds, we tout him, shout his praises, deify him, and, in short, make of him what no mortal man could ever be. We are a race of tradition-lovers in a new land, of king-reverers in a Republic, of hero-worshipers in a society of mundane get-and-spend. It is a Country and a Time where any bank clerk or common laborer can become a famous outlaw, where an outlaw can in a very short time be sainted in song and story into a Robin Hood, where a Frontier Model Excalibur can be drawn from the block at any gunshop for twenty dollars.
Yet it is only one side of us, and we are cynical and envious too. As one half of our nature seeks to create heroes to worship, the other must ceaselessly attempt to cast them down and discover evidence of feet of clay, in order to label them as mere lucky fellows, or as villains-were-the-facts-but-known, and the eminent and great are ground between the millstones of envy, and reduced again to common size.
So, quickly, as I have said, Blaisedell’s luster has been dimmed. As if ashamed of our original exuberance, we begin to qualify our praises, and smile a little at the extravagant recountings of the affair. For would we not look fools, were facts to arise that showed Blaisedell’s part in the Acme Corral shooting to have been despicable? What cowards we are!
Still, it is a reaction against his having at first been made too much over. The pendulum inevitably swings, and, I hope, may come to rest dead center. But at the moment some scoffing has replaced the adulation, as I will now recount:
Blaisedell had, after all, Morgan with him — a gunman of no small accomplishments.
Blaisedell’s antagonists are reconsidered. We realize that there were only four of them, and one did not even participate in the shooting. Pity is felt for their ineffectuality.
I feel some pity for them myself, but I am infuriated when I hear attitudes expounded that go beyond mere pity. For instance, I have heard Pony Benner remembered as a kindly albeit rough-cut spirit, who had unfortunately incurred general displeasure when he killed our poor barber in self-defense! Now it seems that the barber insulted a nice woman in Pony’s presence, Pony called him down for it, whereupon the barber flew at him brandishing a razor! Who this nice woman could possibly have been, I have no idea.
Even Calhoun’s good lives after him, while the evil has been interred with his bones. The fact that he was indisputably trying to shoot down Blaisedell from ambush is glossed over by the claim that he was trying to protect his friend Billy Gannon.
Poor Billy, too, becomes no longer “Billy-the-kid,” who shot down Deputy Brown in the San Pablo saloon for trying to force a glass of whisky upon him, but has changed into a lad forced into a fight he did not want. He has grown younger after death, and I have heard him spoken of as a mere sixteen, instead of eighteen or nineteen as formerly.
How the tide of sentiment can swing, and how it has changed in many since the night when a good portion of this town attempted to lynch these same three “innocents,” and only the presence of Blaisedell saved them. Men are wild, not wicked, said Rousseau, who knew not Warlock.
There is one wicked rumor that sets me in a rage. It has obviously sprung from another that was current here before the Acme Corral fight. This was that it was not the “innocents” who robbed the stage at all, but Morgan in company with unnamed accomplices. Now the accomplices have been named. They were Morgan’s lookout, Murch, and Blaisedell! It seems that the Cowboys became, somehow, advised of this, had definite proof, and came into Warlock to establish their innocence by broadcasting it. Consequently they had to be shot down immediately by Blaisedell and Morgan, so that the truth would not be known.