CLANG!
Heath Thomson could not suppress the shudder that ran through him as the cell door closed behind him. The young man had a horror of confined spaces. He’d been but a boy, fourteen years old to be exact, when he’d been captured and imprisoned in a Confederate prisoner-of-war camp not long after joining the Union Army. He never got to send his Army pay home to his mother as had been his plan and reason for joining.
CLANG!
Johnny Madrid did not shudder at the sound of his cell door closing. He’d been in jail before. He was certain he’d be in one again someday. ‘At least this one’s clean,’ he thought as he looked around. “Didn’t think we’d get private rooms in this fine establishment.”
Heath's mouth quirked up in a grin as he allowed himself to be distracted from the thoughts of the past.
“The food’s okay, too. Service right to your cell. You can eat in bed if you want.”
Johnny sat down on the low cot and tugged his boots from his feet. Lying down, he pulled his hat over his face. “Wake me if anything happens.”
It was almost 10 PM when the door separating the cell area from the sheriff’s office opened admitting Clay Culhane and Laredo Sheriff Pete Hernandez.
Heath was sitting on his cot, his back against the wall, one knee drawn up, his only acknowledgemen
t of the pair’s entrance: a raised head.
Johnny was asleep; he lay on his side facing the wall. He didn’t stir until Clay sharply called the gunfighter’s name. He rolled slightly onto his back and looked blearily at his lawyer. Rubbing his face, he rolled fully onto his other side and sat up. “I’m awake,” he said testily.“Not at all cheery when he wakes up is he?” added Heath
Culhane smiled tightly at his clients; raising his arm he braced it against the bars against the cell door. “I’ve been talking with Sheriff Hernandez about your problem.”
“Which problem would that be? The one where we caught the bank robbers and ended up in jail or the one with Papa McLeod tried to shoot Heath in the back?”
“He IS testy,” Sheriff Hernandez observed dryly. "Mr. Culhane and I have been discussing your adventures this afternoon. I agree with him. You boys are in a heap of trouble.” He shook his head. “McLeod’s just crazy enough to try and break you out and lynch you both. I don’t want to see that happen to either of you.”
Pete Hernandez was a middle-aged Texan; he’d been sheriff of
“The circuit judge is due here in two days. If we can keep you alive that long, we’ll ask for a quick trial,” Culhane said.
“What’s so funny?” asked Hernandez.
“The trial is the least of our worries, you really think McLeod will give up on revenge?” Heath asked of Hernandez. He stood and walked over to the cell door and spoke directly to Clay Culhane. “McLeod will wait ‘til we’re released; grab us, and hang us.”
He straightened and ran his hand through his dark brown hair. “That is a weak spot in my plan,” Clay admitted.
“At least he’s honest,”
The gunfighter-turned-lawyer spent each day trying to talk Frank McLeod. He hoped that he could make McLeod understand that his wayward son had been killed in a fair fight. He gained no ground. Their friendship had ended.
Clay was upset with the man. Frank was also good friends with Senator MacQueen. The Culhane brothers had worked for the senator and had spent time with McLeod. Culhane remembered Charles McLeod as a wild young man spending his life in one scrap or another, whose father had always found a way to bully or pay his son’s way out of difficulties.
Clay could understand McLeod thirst for revenge because Frank mourned his only son. The need for revenge was something the hazel-eyed young man could understand, but could not condone. A year and a half ago, he’d had a family but during a raid on the MacQueen ranch, his brothers were killed and he himself seriously wounded.
Luck had been on his side; he was able to get away and fell into the care of Judge Mercer McKinney. The stern former judge tended to the gunfighter’s wounds, treating him as he would a son, and in return, Clay had worked at restoring the judge’s small ranch.
While recovering, the young man found the judge’s law books. To pass time while unable to do much physical work, he began reading them. The judge took notice and offered to train Culhane for the bar examination. Judge McKinney’s estranged son returned home and killed his father in revenge for the judge’s sentencing and hanging of his twin brother. Although the son had been convicted in a fair trial, and was truly guilty, his brother never forgave the judge, his father.
Culhane mourned the judge, swallowed his need for revenge, and swore to dedicate the rest of his life to the practice of law. It was what Judge McKinney had taught him and expected of him, Now he was going to prove to his late mentor that he’d learned well.
When Frank McLeod had contacted him, Culhane thought the rancher wanted to hire him for his legal skills, but soon after his arrival in
Clay Culhane’s clients spent the two days playing checkers, chess, poker, and pinochle. And talking.
Talking about the girls they knew, and wanted to know. Talking about places they’d been, and wanted to see. Talking about their lives.
Heath told his cell neighbor about his mother. “She lives in a town called Strawberry up in
“Sounds pretty.”
“Its not.” Heath sighed as he began re-setting the checkerboard. So far he and Johnny had played to three draws in a row. “It used to be a good-sized mining town, but the mines ran out, all that’s left now is folks too old or lazy to move on.”
“And your mama.”
“And my mama. She’s too stubborn.”
“Wondered where you got it from.”
“What about you? You got family around?”
Johnny Madrid took a deep breath and considered his reply. Finally, he figured if these were to be his last days on Earth he wanted someone to know his story. “My mother’s dead. Been gone, oh, ‘bout six years now. My pa, well, last I checked, he was still alive.”
“At least you know who your father is. Have you ever spoken to him?”
“No,” Johnny shook his dark head as he studied the board in between them before reaching through the bars to move a red disc. “He, uh, he threw my mother and me out years ago. I figure if he wanted me, he’d have kept me.”
“My mama used to talk about my father. Made him seem like the greatest man there ever was. But, as I got older and he didn’t return, she quit talking about him. Don’t suppose I’ll ever know who he is.” Thomson was silent, lost in his thoughts. “Don’t suppose I really care.”
Judge Nethers rapped his gavel on the saloon’s bar. “Okay, court’s in session. No more liquor is going to be sold until we get this business taken care of.” He picked up the piece of paper from the wooden surface in front of him, “First and only case, People versus Heath Thomson and John Madrid.” The judge shook his head as he read the words written on the paper, “Is this right?” He looked at the
The prosecutor reluctantly stood, “In a sense, Your Honor.”
“Alright,” the judge said skeptically. “Let’s get started.”
With a look at Frank McLeod, Dornin stood and addressed the judge. There was no jury.
Thomson and
Clay Culhane met the previous evening with the judge; he’d petitioned him to allow the
“The People maintain that Laredo Deputy Sheriff Heath Thomson and gunfighter John Madrid shot and killed Charles McLeod during an ambush at a line shack on the property of Frank McLeod. We call Frank McLeod to the stand.”
As Frank McLeod walked to the chair set next to the end of the bar and swore to tell the truth, Thomson and
“Mr. McLeod,” began the prosecutor, “Please tell the court how you learned of the death of your only son, Charles.”
“One of my men said he’d heard gunshots; we rode to the line shack to see what was going on. We found Thomson standing over my son’s body.”
“Did you ask Deputy Thomson how your son died?”
“He said that Charlie had been killed in a shootout while he was arresting the bank robbers. I thought he meant that Charlie had been caught in a cross-fire.”
“Did Deputy Thomson say why he or Mr.
“He tried to tell me that Charlie was one of the bank robbers. That’s a lie. My son was no bank robber.”
“Why do you think Charles was at the shack?”
“I think he was there because he saw someone at the shack and went to see who they were.”
“No more questions.”
Clay Culhane stood and walked towards the witness chair. “Mr. McLeod, you said that Deputy Thomson told you that your son had been killed in a shootout. Did he not also tell you that it was very apparent to him that Charlie was friendly with the bank robbers?”
Frank McLeod glared at the lawyer, “No. He did not.”
“Mr. McLeod, if you’ll recall I was there.” Culhane looked at the man he’d once called a friend. He understood why McLeod was lying, why he wanted to slant the truth, but he was disgusted that McLeod would do it to his face.
“Well, you heard what you wanted to hear. I heard the truth.”
“Mr. McLeod, did Deputy Thomson tell you that your son fired his gun at him and Mr.
“No.”
“Mr. McLeod, are you going to tell the Court the truth or are you going to continue to lie?”
“Objection,” said Dornin.
Judge Nethers waved the prosecutor back into his seat. “Now, Mr. Culhane, you know better than that.”
“I apologize to the Court.” Culhane studied Frank McLeod for a moment. “No further questions at this time, Your Honor. I reserve the right to recall this witness at a later time.”
The prosecutor called the two gunfighters who had been at the line shack with Frank McLeod and Clay Culhane. Their testimony mimicked McLeod’s. In fact, they kept their gaze on their employer the entire time while on the witness stand.
Once their testimony was complete, the People rested.
“Will you be ready to present your defense after lunch, Mr. Culhane?” asked Judge Nethers.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
