TEN YEARS
All the way back to Denver, while the train ran down through the narrow,
crooked cañon, Dave's mind dwelt in a penumbra of horror. It was
impossible he could have killed Doble, he kept telling himself. He had
fired back into the night without aim. He had not even tried to hit the
men who were shooting at him. It must be some ghastly joke.
None the less he knew by the dull ache in his heart that this awful thing
had fastened on him and that he would have to pay the penalty. He had
killed a man, snuffed out his life wantonly as a result of taking the
law into his own hands. The knowledge of what he had done shook him to
the soul.
It remained with him, in the background of his mind, up to and through
his trial. What shook his nerve was the fact that he had taken a life,
not the certainty of the punishment that must follow.
West called to see him at the jail, and to the cattleman Dave told the
story exactly as it had happened. The owner of the Fifty-Four Quarter
Circle walked up and down the cell rumpling his hair.
"Boy, why didn't you let on to me what you was figurin' on pullin' off?
I knew you was some bull-haided, but I thought you had a lick o' sense
left."
"Wisht I had," said Dave miserably.
"Well, what's done's done. No use cryin' over the bust-up. We'd better
fix up whatever's left from the smash. First off, we'll get a lawyer, I
reckon."
"I gotta li'l' money left--twenty-six dollars," spoke up Dave timidly.
"Maybe that's all he'll want."
West smiled at this babe in the woods. "It'll last as long as a snowball
in you-know-where if he's like some lawyers I've met up with."
It did not take the lawyer whom West engaged long to decide on the line
the defense must take. "We'll show that Miller and Doble were crooks and
that they had wronged Sanders. That will count a lot with a jury," he
told West. "We'll admit the killing and claim self-defense."
The day before the trial Dave was sitting in his cell cheerlessly reading
a newspaper when visitors were announced. At sight of Emerson Crawford
and Bob Hart he choked in his throat. Tears brimmed in his eyes. Nobody
could have been kinder to him than West had been, but these were home
folks. He had known them many years. Their kindness in coming melted his
heart.
He gripped their hands, but found himself unable to say anything in
answer to their greetings. He was afraid to trust his voice, and he
was ashamed of his emotion.
"The boys are for you strong, Dave. We all figure you done right. Steve
he says he wouldn't worry none if you'd got Miller too," Bob breezed on.
"Tha's no way to talk, son," reproved Crawford. "It's bad enough right
as it is without you boys wantin' it any worse. But don't you get
downhearted, Dave. We're allowin' to stand by you to a finish. It ain't
as if you'd got a good man. Doble was a mean-hearted scoundrel if ever
I met up with one. He's no loss to society. We're goin' to show the jury
that too."
They did. By the time Crawford, Hart, and a pair of victims who had been
trapped by the sharpers had testified about Miller and Doble, these
worthies had no shred of reputation left with the jury. It was shown
that they had robbed the defendant of the horse he had trained and that
he had gone to a lawyer and found no legal redress within his means.
But Dave was unable to prove self-defense. Miller stuck doggedly to his
story. The cowpuncher had fired the first shot. He had continued to fire,
though he must have seen Doble sink to the ground immediately. Moreover,
the testimony of the doctor showed that the fatal shot had taken effect
at close range.
Just prior to this time there had been an unusual number of killings in
Denver. The newspapers had stirred up a public sentiment for stricter
enforcement of law. They had claimed that both judges and juries were too
easy on the gunmen who committed these crimes. Now they asked if this
cowboy killer was going to be allowed to escape. Dave was tried when this
wave of feeling was at its height and he was a victim of it.
The jury found him guilty of murder in the second degree. The judge
sentenced him to ten years in the penitentiary.
When Bob Hart came to say good-bye before Dave was removed to Cañon City,
the young range-rider almost broke down. He was greatly distressed at the
misfortune that had befallen his friend.
"We're gonna stay with this, Dave. You know Crawford. He goes through
when he starts. Soon as there's a chance we'll hit the Governor for a
pardon. It's a damn shame, old pal. Tha's what it is."
Dave nodded. A lump in his throat interfered with speech.
"The ol' man lent me money to buy Chiquito, and I'm gonna keep the pinto
till you get out. That'll help pay yore lawyer," continued Bob. "One
thing more. You're not the only one that's liable to be sent up.
Miller's on the way back to Malapi. If he don't get a term for
hawss-stealin', I'm a liar. We got a dead open-and-shut case against
him."
The guard who was to take Dave to the penitentiary bustled in cheerfully.
"All right, boys. If you're ready we'll be movin' down to the depot."
The friends shook hands again.