LEADEN-FOOTED JUSTICE
I had spent a number of weary days awaiting trial, when a visitor was
announced, and a young, smooth-shaven man shown into my quarters. He
nodded to me pleasantly, seated himself on the edge of the table, and
commenced: "Your friends sent me along. I hope to see you through this
trouble, Rancher, and want you to tell me exactly how your difficulties
began. Think of all the little things that didn't strike you as quite
usual."
"I should like to hear in the first place who you are. I know your name
is Dixon, but that does not convey very much," I said.
The stranger laughed good-humoredly. "And such is fame! Now I had
fancied everybody who read the papers knew my name, and that I had won
some small reputation down at Winnipeg. Anyway, I'm generally sent for
in cases with a financial origin."
Then I remembered, and looked hard at the speaker. The last sentence was
justified, but he differed greatly from one's idea of the typical
lawyer. He was not even neatly dressed, and his manner singularly lacked
the preciseness of the legal practitioner.
"I must apologize, for I certainly have read about you," I said. "It was
perhaps natural that as I did not send for you I should be surprised at
your taking an interest in my case. I am, however, afraid I cannot
retain you, for the simple reason that I don't know where to raise
sufficient money to recompense any capable man's services."
"Aren't you a little premature? My clients don't usually plead poverty
until I send in my bill," was the answer. "You own a tolerably extensive
holding in Crane Valley, don't you?"
"I do; but nobody, except one man with whom I would not deal, would buy
a foot of it just now," I answered. Then, acceding to the other's
request, I supported the statement by a brief account of my
circumstances. "All this is quite beside the question," I concluded.
"No!" said Dixon. "As a matter of fact, I find it interesting. Won't you
go on and bring the story down to the present?"
I did so, and the man's face had changed, growing intent and keen before
I concluded.
"I should rather like to manage this affair for you," he said. "My
fees!--well, from what one or two people said about you, I can, if
necessary, wait for them."
"You will probably never be paid. Who was it sent for you?"
"Charles Steel, who was, however, not quite so frank about finances as
you seem to be," was the answer. "It was also curious, or otherwise,
that I was requested to see what could be done by two other gentlemen
who offered to guarantee expenses. That is about as much as I may tell
you. You are not the only person with an interest in the future of the
Crane Valley district."
"I seem to be used as a stalking-horse by friends and enemies alike, and
get the benefit of the charges each time they miss their aim. The part
grows irksome," I said dryly. "However, if you are willing to take the
risks, I need capable assistance badly enough."
Dixon seemed quite willing, and asked further questions. "You seem a
little bitter against the sergeant. What kind of man is he?" he said. "I
mean, has he a tolerably level head, or is he one of the discipline-made
machines who can comprehend nothing not included in their code of
rules?"
"I used to think him singularly shrewd, but recent events have changed
my opinion, and you had better place him in the latter category," I
said; and Dixon chuckled over something.
"Very natural! I must see him. From what you said already, he doesn't
strike me as a fool. Well, I don't think you need worry too much, Mr.
Ormesby."
Dixon had resumed his careless manner before he left me, and, for no
particular reason, I felt comforted. We had several more interviews
before the trial began, and I can vividly remember the morning I was
summoned into court. It was packed to suffocation, and the brilliant
sunshine that beat in through the long windows fell upon faces that I
knew. Their owners were mostly poor men, and I surmised had covered the
long distance on horseback, sleeping on the prairie, to encourage me.
There was, indeed, when I took my stand a suppressed demonstration that
brought a quicker throb to my pulses and a glow into my face. It was
comforting to know that I had their approbation and sympathy. If the
life I had caught brief glimpses of at Bonaventure was not for me, these
hard-handed, tireless men were my equals and friends--and I was proud of
them.
So it was in a clear, defiant voice I pleaded "Not guilty!" and
presently composed myself to listen while Sergeant Mackay detailed my
arrest. Bronzed faces were turned anxiously upon him when he was asked:
"Did the prisoner volunteer any statement, or offer resistance?"
Mackay looked down at the men before him, and there was a significant
silence in the body of the court. Then, with a faint twinkle in his
eyes, he answered: "There was a bit demonstration at the station in the
prisoner's favor, but he assisted us in maintaining order. The charge,
he said, was ridiculous."
This I considered a liberal view to take of what had passed and my own
comments, and, though I knew that Mackay was never addicted to unfairly
making the most of an advantage, I remembered Dixon's opinion. If he
were actuated by any ulterior motive, I had, however, no inkling of what
it might be.
Nothing of much further importance passed until the man who had
preferred the charge against me took his stand; when, watching him
intently, I was puzzled by his attitude. He appeared irresolute, though
I felt tolerably certain that his indecision was quite untinged with
compunction on my account. He had also a sullen look, which suggested
one driven against his will, and, twice before he spoke, made a slight
swift movement, as though under the impulse of a changed resolution.
"I am the owner of the lands and remains of the homestead known as
Gaspard's Trail," he said. "I bought them at public auction when sold by
the gentleman who held the prisoner's mortgage. Twice that day the
latter threatened both of us, and his friends raised a hostile
demonstration. He told me to take care of myself and the property, for
he would live to see me sorry; but I didn't count much on that. Thought
he was only talking when naturally a little mad. Have had cause to
change my opinions since. I turned in early on the night of the fire and
slept well, I and my hired man, Wilkins, being the only people in the
house. Wilkins wakened me about two in the morning. 'Get up at once!
Somebody has fired the place!' he said.
"I got up--in a mighty hurry--and got out my valuables. One end of the
house was 'most red-hot. There wasn't much furniture in it. The prisoner
had cleared out 'most everything, whether it was in the mortgage
schedule or whether it was not; but there was enough to keep me busy
while Wilkins lit out to save the horses. Wind blew the sparks right on
to the stable. I went out when I'd saved what I could, and as Wilkins
had been gone a long time, concluded he'd made sure of the horses. Met
the prisoner when I was carrying tools out of a threatened shed. Asked
him to help me. 'I'll see you burned before I stir a hand,' he said.
Noticed he was skulking round the corner of a shed, and seemed kind of
startled at the sight of me, but was too rattled to think of much just
then. Didn't ask him anything more, but seeing the fire had taken hold
good, sat down and watched it. Yes, sir, I told somebody it wasn't
insured.
"By-and-by the prisoner came back with a dozen ranchers. Didn't seem
friendly, or even civil, most of them, and there was nothing I could
do. Then I got worried about Wilkins, for he'd been gone a long time,
and the stable was burning bad. One of the ranchers said he'd make sure
there were no beasts inside it, and the prisoner and the rest went
along. They found Wilkins with some bones broken, and got him and the
horses out between them. Then, when the place was burnt out, Sergeant
Mackay rode up. I was homeless; but none of the ranchers would take me
in. Somebody said he wasn't sorry, and I'd got my deserts. Believe it
was the prisoner; but can't be certain. That's all I know except that
before I turned in I saw all the lamps out and fixed up the stove. Am
certain the fire didn't start from them.
"I was hunting among the ruins with Wilkins a little while ago when I
found a flattened coal-oil-tin under some fallen beams in the kitchen. I
never used that oil, but heard at the railroad store that the prisoner
did. Mightn't have taken the trouble to inquire, but that I found close
beside it a silver match-box. It was pretty well worn, but anyone who
will look at it close can read that it was given to H. Ormesby.
Considering the prisoner must have dropped it there, I handed both to
the police."
When Niven mentioned the match-box I started as though struck by a
bullet. It was mine, undoubtedly, and most of my neighbors had seen it.
That it was damning evidence in conjunction with the oil-tin, and had
been deliberately placed there for my undoing, I felt certain. There was
a half-audible murmur in the court while the judge examined the
articles, and I read traces of bewilderment and doubt in the faces
turned towards me. That these men should grow suspicious roused me to a
sense of unbearable injury, and I sent my voice ringing through the
court. "It is an infamous lie! I lost the match-box, or it was stolen
from me with a purpose, a month after the fire."
The judge dropped his note-book, the prosecutor smiled significantly;
but I saw that the men from the prairie believed me, and that was very
comforting. Something resembling a subdued cheer arose from various
parts of the building.
"Silence!" said the judge sternly. "An interruption is neither
admissible nor seemly, prisoner. You will be called on in turn."
"We need not trouble about the prisoner's denial, which was perhaps
natural, if useless, because the witness' statement will be fully borne
out by the man who was present when he found the match-box," said the
lawyer for the Crown. "I will now call Sergeant Mackay again."
Mackay's terse testimony was damaging, and aroused my further
indignation. I had not expected that he would either conceal or enlarge
upon anything that would tell against me; but had anticipated some trace
of reluctance, or that he would wait longer for questions between his
admissions. Instead, he stood rigidly erect, and reeled off his
injurious testimony more like a speaking automaton than a human being.
"A trooper warned me that he had seen a reflected blaze in the sky," he
said. "We mounted and rode over to Gaspard's Trail. Arriving there I
found a number of men, including the owner, Niven, and the prisoner.
Niven said the place was not insured. They were unable to do anything. I
see no need to describe the fire. The house was past saving; but the
ranchers, with the prisoner among them, broke into the burning stable to
bring out the horses, which had been overlooked, and found the hired
man, Wilkins, partly suffocated in a stall. He was badly injured, but
bore out the owner's statement that lamps and stove were safe when they
retired.
"I proceeded to question the spectators. Knew them all as men of good
character, and as they had newly ridden in, saw no reason to suspect
more than one in case the fire was not accidental. Asked Niven whom he
first met, and he said it was the prisoner, shortly after the fire broke
out. Stated he met him slipping through the shadow of a shed, and the
prisoner refused to assist him. Was not surprised at this, knowing the
prisoner bore Niven little goodwill since the latter bought his
property. Had heard him threaten him and another man supposed to be
connected with him in the purchase of Gaspard's Trail."
"What reason have you to infer that any other man was concerned in the
purchase of Gaspard's Trail?" asked the prosecutor; and Mackay answered
indifferently:
"It was just popular opinion that he was finding Niven the money."
"We need not trouble about popular opinion," said the lawyer somewhat
hurriedly. "We will now proceed to the testimony of the hired man,
Thomas Wilkins."
Thomas Wilkins was called for several times, but failed to present
himself, and a trooper who hurried out of court came back with the
tidings that he had borrowed a horse at the hotel and ridden out on the
prairie an hour ago. Since then nobody had seen him.
The Crown prosecutor fidgeted, the judge frowned, and there was a
whispering in the court, until the former rose up: "As Wilkins is one of
my principal witnesses, I must suggest an adjournment."
It cost me an effort to repress an exclamation. I had already been kept
long enough in suspense, and suspecting that Wilkins did not mean to
return, knew that a lengthened adjournment would be almost equally as
disastrous as a sentence.
"Have you no information whatever as to why he has absented himself?"
asked the judge. Receiving a negative answer, he turned towards the
trooper: "Exactly what did you hear at the hotel?"
"Very little, sir," was the answer. "He didn't tell anybody where he was
going, but just rode out. The hotelkeeper said he guessed Wilkins had
something on his mind by the way he kicked things about last night."
"It will be the business of the police to find him as speedily as
possible. In the meantime, I can only adjourn the case until they do,
unless the prisoner's representative proceeds with the examination of
witnesses," said the judge.
Dixon was on his feet in a moment. "With the exception of Sergeant
Mackay and the witness Niven, who will be further required by my legal
friend, I do not purpose to trouble the witnesses," he said. "While I
can urge no reasonable objection to the adjournment, it is necessary to
point out that it will inflict a grievous injury on one whom I have
every hope of showing is a wholly innocent man. It is well known that
this is the one time of the year when the prairie rancher's energies are
taxed to the utmost, and the loss of even a few days now may entail the
loss of the harvest or the ruin of the stock. My client has also
suffered considerably from being brought here to answer what I cannot
help describing as an unwarranted charge, and it is only reasonable that
bail should be allowed."
"Is anyone willing to offer security?" asked the judge.
There was a few moments' silence, and then a hum of subdued voices as a
man rose up; while I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw it was
Boone. In spite of the slight change in his appearance, he must have
been aware that he was running a serious risk, for his former holding
lay almost within a day's journey. I could also see that some of the
spectators started as they recognized him.
"I shall be glad to offer security for the prisoner's reappearance, so
far as my means will serve," he said.
"You are a citizen of this place, or have some local standing?" asked
the judge.
Boone answered carelessly: "I can hardly claim so much; but a good many
people know me further west, and I am prepared to submit my bank-book as
a guarantee."
He had scarcely finished, when another man I had not noticed earlier
stood up in turn. "I am authorized by Carson Haldane, of Bonaventure, to
offer bail to any extent desired."
The judge beckoned both of them to sit down again, and called up a
commissioned police officer and Sergeant Mackay. Then I felt slightly
hopeful, guessing that a good deal depended on Mackay's opinion. The
others drew aside, and my heart throbbed fast with the suspense until
the judge announced his decision.
"As the charge is a serious one, and the police hope to find the missing
witness very shortly, I must, in the meantime, refuse to allow bail."
I had grown used to the crushing disappointment which follows
short-lived hope; but the shock was hard to meet. It seemed only too
probable that Lane or his emissaries had spirited Wilkins away, and
would not produce him until it was too late to save my crop. Still,
there was no help for it, and I followed the officer who led me back to
my quarters with the best air of stolidity I could assume.
"What did you think of it?" asked Dixon, who came in presently with a
smile on his face; and I answered ruefully: "The less said the better.
It strikes me as the beginning of the final catastrophe, and if Wilkins
substantiates the finding of the match-box, conviction must follow. What
is the usual term of detention for such offenses?"
"You needn't worry about that," was the cheerful answer. "Things are
going just about as well as they could. There'll be a second
adjournment, and then perhaps another."
"And I must lie here indefinitely while my crops and cattle go to ruin!
That is hardly my idea of things going well; and if you are jesting, it
is precious poor humor," I broke in.
Dixon laughed. "I am not jesting in the least. You seem to be one of
those people, Ormesby, who believe everything will go to ruin unless
they hold control themselves. Now, it would not surprise me, if, on your
return, you found your crops and cattle flourishing. Further, the
prosecution hold a poor case, and I expect, when my turn comes, to see
it collapse. There isn't so much as you might fancy in the match-box
incident. The men who burn down places don't generally leave such things
about. I have had a talk with the sergeant, and, though he's closer
than an oyster, I begin to catch a glimmering of his intentions."
"Why can't you explain them then? I'm growing tired of hints, and feel
tempted to tell my mysterious well-wishers to go to the devil together,
and leave me in peace," I said.
"A little ill-humor is perhaps excusable," was the tranquil answer. "It
is wisest not to prophesy until one is sure, you know. Now, I'm open, as
I said, to do my best for you; but in that case you have just got to let
me set about it independently. Usual or otherwise, it is my way."
"Then I suppose I'll have to let you. Your reputation should be a
guarantee," I answered moodily, and Dixon lifted his hat from the table.
"Thanks!" he said dryly. "It is, in fact, the only sensible thing you
can do."