"The Court is prepared, the Lawyers are met,
The Judges all ranged, a terrible show!"
As Captain Macheath says,--and when one's arraigned,
The sight's as unpleasant a one as I know.
THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS.
"Orrrdher in Coort!" rang out Sergeant Slavin's abrupt command. It was
about ten o'clock the following morning. The hotel parlour had been
hastily transformed into a temporary court-room. A large square table
had been drawn to one end of the room and two easy chairs placed
conveniently behind it. Fronting it was a long bench, designed for the
prisoner and escort. In the immediate rear were arranged a few rows of
chairs, to accommodate the witnesses and spectators.
The sergeant's order, prompted by the entrance of the two Justices of the
Peace, was the occasion of all present rising to attention, in customary
deference to police-court rules. One of the newcomers, dressed in the
neat blue-serge uniform of an inspector of the Force, was familiar to
Redmond as Inspector Kilbride, who had been recently transferred to L
Division from a northern district. He had close-cropped gray hair and a
clipped, grizzled moustache. Though apparently nearing middle-age he
still possessed the slim, wiry, active figure of a man long inured to the
saddle.
The appearance of his judicial confrere fairly startled George. He was a
huge fellow, fully as tall and as heavy a man as Slavin, though not so
compactly-built or erect as the latter. Still, his wide, loosely-hung,
slightly bowed shoulders suggested vast strength, and his leisurely
though active movements indicated absolute muscular control. But it was
the strangely sombre, mask-like face which excited Redmond's interest
most. Beneath the broad, prominent brow of a thinker a pair of deep-set,
shadowy dark eyes peered forth, with the lifeless, unwinking stare of an
owl. Between them jutted a large, bony beak of a nose, with finely-cut
nostrils. The pitiless set of the powerful jaw was only partially
concealed by an enormous drooping moustache, the latter reddish in colour
and streaked with gray, like his thinning, carefully brushed hair. His
age was hard to determine. Somewhere around forty-five, George decided,
as he regarded with covert interest Ruthven Gully, Esq.,
gentleman-rancher and Justice of the Peace for the district.
The two Justices took their places with magisterial decorum, the
witnesses seated themselves again, and, all being ready, the sergeant
opened the court with its time-honoured formula.
The inspector glanced over the various "informations" and handed them
over to his confrere for perusal. A brief whispered colloquy ensued
between them, and then the local justice settled himself back in his
chair, chin in hand. Inspector Kilbride addressed the prisoner who had
remained standing between Yorke and Redmond, and in a clear, passionless
voice proceeded to read out the several charges.
"Do you wish to ask for a remand, Moran?" he enquired, "to enable you to
procure counsel?"
"No, sir!" Moran's sullen, insolent eyes suddenly encountering a
dangerous, steely glare from Kilbride's gray orbs he wilted and
immediately dropped his belligerent attitude. "No use me hirin' a
mouthpiece," he added, "as I'm a-goin' t' plead guilty t' all them
charges."
"Ah!" The inspector thoughtfully conned over the "informations" once
more. "Sergeant Slavin," said he presently, "what are the particulars of
this man's disorderly conduct?"
He listened awhile to the sergeant's evidence, occasionally asking a
question or two, but Mr. Gully remained in the same silent, brooding,
inscrutable attitude which he had adopted at the commencement of the
proceedings. Though apparently listening keenly, his shadowy eyes
betrayed no interest whatever in the case.
Of that face Yorke had once remarked to Slavin: "That beggar's mug fairly
haunts me sometimes. . . . He's a good fellow, Gully,--but, you
know--when he gets that brooding look on his face . . . he's the living
personification of a western Eugene Aram."
And Slavin, engaged in shredding a pipeful of tobacco had mumbled
absently "So?--Ujin Airum!--I du not mind th' ould shtiff--fwhat was his
reg'minthal number?"
The sergeant finished his evidence; Kilbride swung round to his
fellow-justice once more and they held a whispered consultation, the
latter making emphatic gestures throughout the colloquy. This ending the
inspector turned to the prisoner.
"You have pleaded guilty to each of these charges. Have you anything to
say?--any explanation to offer for your reckless, disorderly conduct?"
The prisoner swallowed nervously and shuffled with his feet. "Guess I
was drunk," he said finally, "didn't know what I was doin'."
The inspector's grey eyes glittered coldly. "So?" he drawled ironically,
"the sergeant's evidence is to the contrary. It would appear that you
were not so very drunk. You were neither staggering nor incapable at the
time. It was merely a rehearsal of a cheap bit of dime novel sort of
bar-room, rough-house black-guardism that no doubt in various other
places you have got away with and emerged the swaggering hero. Where do
you come from? Whom are you working for now?"
"Havre, Montana. I'm ridin' fur th' North-West Cattle Company."
"Ah! well, let me tell you that sort of stuff doesn't go over on this
side, my man." He considered a moment and picked up a Criminal Code.
"In view of your pleading guilty to these charges, and therefore not
wasting the time of this court unnecessarily, I propose dealing with you
in more lenient fashion than you deserve. For being unlawfully in
possession of firearms you are fined twenty dollars and costs. For
'pointing fire-arms,' fifty dollars and costs. On the charge of
'resisting the police in the execution of their duty' you are sentenced
to six months imprisonment with hard labour in the Mounted Police
Guard-room at Calgary. You are also required to make restitution for all
damage caused as the result of your fracas."
Moran squirmed and mumbled: "If I've got t' do time on the one charge I
might as well do it on th' rest, an' save th' money fur t' pay fur th'
damage."
"Very good!" agreed the inspector coldly. He bent again to his confrere
and they conferred awhile. Then he turned to the prisoner. "Thirty days
hard labour then--on each of the first two charges--sentences to run
concurrently." He paused a space, resuming sternly: "And let me tell you
this, Moran: in view of certain wild threats uttered by you in public you
have narrowly escaped being charged with the greatest of all crimes. It
is indeed a fortunate thing for you that you have been able to produce a
reliable alibi. All right, Sergeant! you can close the court. Make out
that warrant of commitment and I and Mr. Gully will sign it later. We're
going over to see the coroner."
The two Justices arose and passed out, the few witnesses and onlookers
drifting aimlessly in their wake. Slavin lowered himself ponderously
into the chair just vacated by the inspector, lit his pipe, and,
whistling softly, commenced to fill out a legal form. Yorke and Redmond
also took the opportunity to indulge in a quiet smoke as they chatted
together in low tones. The former good-naturedly tossed a cigarette over
to the prisoner, with the remark: "Have a smoke, Windy--it's the last
you'll get for some time."
Moran, slumped in a tipped-back chair, blew a whiff of smoke from a
lop-sided mouth. "Six months!" chanted he lugubriously, "an' they call
this a free country!--free hell!--
"_Oh, bury me out on th' lone prair-ee,
Where th' wild ki-oot'll howl over me,--_
"--might as well an' ha' done with it!"
They all laughed unsympathetically. "'Tis mighty lucky for yuh thim
sintences run concurrently instid av consecutively," was the sergeant's
rejoinder, "or ut'd be eight months yez ud be doin' stid av six."
The front legs of Moran's chair suddenly hit the floor with a crash.
"Lookit here, boys," he said earnestly, "that ther big mag'strate--him as
you call Gully--is that his real name? Wher does he come from? What
countryman is he?"
"English!" answered Yorke shortly. "Why? D'ye think an Englishman has
to run around with a blooming alias?"
"Well, now, yu' needn't go t' git huffy with a man!" expostulated Moran,
with an injured air. "Th' reason I'm askin' yu' is this": He paused
impressively, with puckered, thoughtful eyes. "That same man--if it
ain't him--is th' dead spit of a man as once hit ---- County, in Montana
'bout ten years back. Dep'ty Sheriff--I can't mind his name now. It was
a hell of a tough county that--then. Th' devil himself 'ud ha' bin
scairt t' start up in bizness ther." He shook his head slowly. "But I
tell yu'--when Mr. Man let up with his fancy shootin' it was th'
peaceablest place in th' Union. Th' rough stuff'd drifted--what was left
above ground. He dragged it too, later. I never heered wher he went."
"Ah!" remarked Slavin pityingly, knocking out his pipe. "Th' few shots
av hootch ye had tu throw inta yu' last night tu get ye're Dutch up must
be makin' ye see double, me man. If th' rough stuff he run inta there
was on'y th' loikes av yersilf he must have shtruck a soft snap." He
arose. "Put th' stringers on him agin, Ridmond, an' take um upstairs an'
lock um up! Yu'll be escort wid um tu Calgary whin th' East-bound comes
in--an' see here, look! . . . I want ye tu be back here agin as soon as
iver ye can make ut back. Tchkk!" he clucked fretfully, "I wish this
autopsy an' inquest was thru', so's we cud git down tu bizness. Phew!
this dive's stuffy--let's beat ut out a bit!"
Standing on the sidewalk they gazed casually at the slowly approaching
figures of Inspector Kilbride and Mr. Gully. The two latter appeared to
be engaged in a vehement, though guarded conversation--stopping every now
and again, as if to debate a point.
"Here cometh Moran's 'dep'ty sheriff,'" was Yorke's facetious comment.
"By gum, though!" Redmond ejaculated, "the beggar would make a good stage
marshal, wouldn't he? . . . with that Bret Harte, forty-niner's moustache
and undertaker's mug, and top-boots and all, what?"
"And a glittering star badge," supplemented Yorke dramatically, "don't
forget that! and two murderous-looking guns slanted across his hips and--"
"Arrah, thin! shut up, Yorkey!" hissed the sergeant in a warning aside,
"they'll hear yez. Here they come."
Presently the five were grouped together. Inspector Kilbride's stern
features were set in a thoughtful, lowering scowl. Mr. Gully's tanned,
leathery countenance looked curiously mottled.
"Sergeant!" The inspector clicked off his words sharply. "This is a bad
case. We've just been viewing the body--Mr. Gully and I." With
mechanical caution he glanced swiftly round. "Let's get inside and go
over things again," he added.
Seated in the privacy of the hotel parlour the crime was discussed from
every angle with callous, professional interest. Kilbride and Slavin did
most of the talking, though occasionally Gully interpolated with question
and comment. He possessed a deep, booming bass voice well-suited to his
vast frame. His speech, despite a slightly languid drawl, was
unquestionably that of an educated Englishman. Yorke and Redmond
maintained a respectful silence in the presence of their officer, except
to answer promptly and quietly any questions put directly to them.
Personal revenge they decided eventually could be the only motive.
Robbery was out of the question, as the personal belongings of the dead
man had been found to be intact, including a valuable diamond ring, about
a hundred and fifty dollars in bills, and his watch, papers, etc. A
jovial, light-hearted young rancher, hailing originally from the Old
Country, a bachelor of more or less convivial habits, he had enjoyed the
hearty good-will of the country-side, incurring the enmity of no one,
with the exception of Moran, as far as they knew. The latter's alibi
having established his innocence beyond doubt, no definite clues were
forthcoming as yet, beyond the foot-prints, the horse, and the "Luger"
shell. Moran, too, they ascertained had ridden in alone, and was not in
the habit of chumming with anyone in particular. Slavin had prepared a
list of all known out-going and incoming individuals on and about the
date of the crime. This was carefully conned over. All were, without
exception, well-known respectable ranchers, and citizens of Cow Run, to
whom no suspicion could be attached.
"No!" commented the inspector wearily, at length. "In my opinion this
has been done by someone living right here in this burg--a man whom we
could go and put our hands on this very minute--if we only had something
to work on. You'll see . . . it'll turn out to be that later. Just
about the last man you'd suspect, either. Cases like this--where the
individual has nerve enough to stay right on the job and go about his
business as usual--are often the hardest nuts to crack. You remember
that Huggard case, Sergeant?"
Many years previous he and Slavin had been non-coms together in the
Yukon, and other divisions of the Force, and now, delving back into their
memories of crime and criminals, they cited many old and grim cases, more
or less similar to the one in hand. Yorke and Redmond listened eagerly
to their narration, but Gully betrayed only a sort of taciturn interest.
If he had any experiences of his own, he apparently did not consider it
worth while to contribute them just then; though to Slavin and Yorke he
was known to be a man who had travelled far and wide.
"Ah!" remarked the inspector, a trifle bitterly. "If only some of these
smart individuals who write fool detective stories, with their utterly
impracticable methods, theories, and deductions, were to climb out of
their arm-chairs and tackle the real thing--had to do it for their
living--they'd make a pretty ghastly mess of things I'm thinking. It all
looks so mighty easy--in a book. You can see exactly how the thing
happened, put your hand on the man who did it, and all that, right from
the start. And you begin to wonder, pityingly, why the police were such
fools as Dot to have seen through everything right away."
He paused a moment, continuing: "This is a law-abiding country. Crimes
like this are exceptional. We're bound to get to the bottom of this
sooner or later. When we do--there'll be quite a lot of things crop up
in our minds that we'll be wondering we never thought of before. Let me
have another look at that paper imprint of that over-shoe, Sergeant!"
Silently, Slavin handed it over. Kilbride scrutinized it carefully, and
again went over all notes and figures connected with the crime. "Must
have been a tall man--possibly six feet, or over, from the length of the
stride," he muttered, "and heavy, from the depth of the imprint." He
noted the distance from the big boulder to where the body had first
fallen. "Gad! what shooting! . . . The man must have been a holy
fright with a revolver--to have confidence in himself to be able to kill
at that range. I've never known anything like it. Well! . . . One sure
thing"--he laughed grimly--"you can't go searching every decent citizen
here for a Luger gun, or demanding to measure his feet--without
reasonable suspicion. Why! It might be you, Sergeant--or Mr. Gully,
here . . . you're both big men. . . ."
Long afterwards, well they remembered the inspector's random jest--how
Gully, with one hand slid into his breast, and the other dragging at his
great drooping moustache (mannerisms of his) had joined in the general
laugh with his hollow, guttural "Ha! ha!"
The inspector's levity suddenly vanished. "That old fool of a
livery-stable keeper, Lee, or whatever his name is . . . if only he, or
someone had been around when the horse was brought back that night!
D----n it! there must have been somebody around, surely. That's what
this case hinges on."
He looked at his watch. "Well! Work on that--to your utmost, Sergeant.
Stay right with it until you get that evidence. You'll drop onto your
man sooner or later, I know. That train should be in soon, now. I'll
have to get back. The Commissioner's due from Regina, sometime today,
and I've got to be on hand. Wire the finding of the inquest as soon as
it's over, and send in a full crime-report of everything!"
He glanced casually at the bruised faces of Yorke and Redmond. "You men
must have had quite a tussle with that fellow, Moran!" he remarked
whimsically. "You seem to have come off the best, Sergeant. You're not
marked at all."
"Some tussle all right, Sorr!" agreed that worthy evenly, his tongue in
his cheek. "Yu' go git yu're prisoner, Ridmond, an' be ready whin that
thrain comes in. Come back on the next way-freight west, if there's wan
behfure th' passenger. We'll need yez."
Gully murmured some hospitable suggestion to Kilbride, and the two
gentlemen strolled into the wrecked bar. The train presently arrived and
departed eastwards, bearing on it the inspector, Redmond, and his
prisoner.
"Strange thing," the officer had remarked musingly to Slavin, just prior
to his departure, "I seem to know that man Gully's face, but somehow I
can't place him. He introduced himself to me on the train coming up. Of
course I'm familiar with his name, as the J.P. here, but I can't recall
ever meeting him before."
Sometime later, Slavin and Yorke, who had just returned from the gruesome
autopsy and were busily making arrangements for the afternoon's inquest,
heard a loud, cackling commotion out in the main street. They
immediately stepped outside the hotel to see what was the matter.
Advancing towards them, and puffing with exertion and importance, they
beheld Nick Lee, haling along at arm's length an unkempt individual whom
they judged to be the hobo who had disturbed his peace of mind. A small
retinue of dirty urchins, jeering loafers, and barking dogs brought up
the rear. The village "Dogberry" drew nigh with his victim and halted,
as empurpled as probably the elder Weller was, after ducking Mr. Stiggins
in the horse-trough.
"Sarjint!" he panted triumphantly "I did clim up that ther ladder! I did
git thru' th' trap-door! . . . an'--I did ketch that feller!" Suddenly
his jaw dropped, and he wilted like a pricked bladder. "Why! what's
up?" he queried with a crestfallen air, as he beheld Slavin's angry,
worried countenance.
"Damnation!" muttered the latter softly and savagely to Yorke. "This
means another thrip tu Calgary--wid this 'bo'--an' me not able tu shpare
ye just now. Fwhat wid all this other bizness I'd forgotten all 'bout
him. An' we'd vagged him sooner Ridmond might have taken th' tu av thim
down tugither. Da----." The oath died on his lips and he remained
staring at the hobo as a sudden thought struck him. His gaze flickered
to Yorke's face, and his subordinate nodded comprehensively.
Slavin beckoned to Lee. "Take um inside the hotel parlour, Nick," he
ordered, "fwhere we hild coort this mornin.' Yorkey, yu' go an' hunt up
Mr. Gully. I don't think he's pulled out yet, has he, Nick?" He spoke
now with a certain grim eagerness.
The livery-man made a gesture in the negative, and Yorke departed upon
his quest. Slavin ushered Lee and the hobo into the room. To the
sergeant's surprise he beheld the justice sitting at the table writing.
He concluded that that gentleman must have just stepped in from the rear
entrance of the hotel, or the bar, during his own and Yorke's temporary
absence.
At the entrance of the trio Gully raised his head and, with the pen
poised in his fingers, sat perfectly motionless, staring at them
strangely out of his shadowy eyes. His face seemed transformed into a
blank, expressionless mask. The sergeant leaned over the table and spoke
to him in a rapid aside.
"Ah!" murmured Mr. Gully, and he remained for a space in deep thought.
"Sergeant," he began presently, "I'll have to be pulling out soon.
Before we start in with this man . . . will you kindly step down to
Doctor Cox's with these papers and ask him to sign them?"
It seemed an ordinary request. Slavin complied.
Returning some ten or fifteen minutes later he noticed Lee was absent.
The magistrate answered his query. "Sent him round to throw the harness
on my team," he drawled, as he pored over a Criminal Code, "he'll be back
in a moment--ah! here he is." And just then the latter entered, along
with Yorke. The hobo was sitting slumped in a chair, as Slavin had left
him. With one accord they all centred their gaze upon the unkempt
delinquent. Ragged and unwashed, he presented a decidedly unlovely
appearance, which was heightened by his stubble-coated visage showing
signs as of recent ill-usage. His age might have been anything between
thirty and forty.
The sergeant, a huge, menacing figure of a man, stepped forward and
motioned to him to stand. "Now, see here; look, me man!" he said slowly
and distinctly, a sort of tense eagerness underlying his soft tones,
"behfure I shtart in charrgin' ye wid anythin' I'm goin' tu put a few
questions tu ye in front av this ginthleman"--he indicated the
justice--"He's a mag'strate, so ye'd best tell th' trute. Now--th' night
behfure last--betune say, nine an' twelve o'clock . . . fwhere was
ye?"--he paused--"Think harrd, an' come across wid th' straight goods."
A tense silence succeeded. The hobo, the cynosure of a ring of watchful
expectant faces, mumbled indistinctly, "I was sleepin'--up in th' loft o'
th' livery-stable."
"Did yeh--" Slavin eyed the man keenly--"did yeh see--or hear--any fella
take a harse out av th' shtable durin' that time?"
Gully moved slightly. With the mannerism he affected, his left hand
dragging at his moustache and his right slid between the lapels of his
coat, he leaned forward and fixed his eyes full upon the hobo's battered
visage.
Meeting that strange, compelling gaze the latter: stared back at him, his
face an ugly, expressionless mask. He shuffled with his feet. "Why,
yes!" he said finally, "I did heer a bunch o' fellers come in. They was
a-talkin' all excited-like 'bout a fight, or sumphin'. They was
a-hollerin', 'Beat it, Larry! beat it!' t' somewun, an' I heered some
feller say: 'All right! give us my ---- saddle!' an' then it sounded like
as if a horse was bein' taken out. I didn't heer no more after
that--went t' sleep. I 'member comin' down 'bout th' middle o' th' night
t' git a drink at th' trough. This feller come in then,"--he indicated
Lee. "He hollered sumphin' an' started in t' chase me . . . so I beat it
up inta th' loft agin'." He shivered. "'T'was cold up ther--I well-nigh
froze," he whined.
The sergeant exhausted his no mean powers of exhortation. It was all in
vain. The hobo protested that he had neither seen nor heard anyone else
taking out, or bringing in, a horse during the night.
Slavin finally ceased his efforts and glowered at the man in silent
impotence. "How come yez tu get th' face av yez bashed up so?" he
demanded.
"Fell thru' one o' th' feed-holes up in th' loft," was the sulky response.
"Fwhat name du ye thravel undher?"
"Dick Drinkwater."
"Eh?" the sergeant glanced critically at the red, bulbous nose. "Fwhat's
in a name?" he murmured. "Eyah! fwhat's in a name?"
Glibly the tramp commenced an impassioned harangue, dwelling upon the
hardness of life in general, snuffling and whining after the manner of
his kind. How could a crippled-up man like him obtain work? He thrust
out a grimy right hand--minus two fingers. He had been a sawyer, he
averred.
Slavin sniffed suspiciously. "Ye shtink av whiskey, fella!" he said
sharply. "That nose, yeh name, an' a hard-luck spiel du not go well
together. Fwhere did yu' get yu're dhrink?"
The hobo was silent. "Come across," said Slavin sternly, "fwhere did ye
get ut?"
"I had a bottle with me when I come off th' train," said the other, "ther
was a drop left in an' I had it just now."
In the light of after events, well did Slavin and Yorke recall the
furtive appealing glance the hobo threw at Gully; well did they also
remember certain of Kilbride's words: "There'll be quite a lot of things
crop up in our minds that we'll be wondering we never thought of before."
The justice cleared his throat. "Sergeant" came his guttural, booming
bass, "suppose!--suppose!" he reiterated suavely "on this occasion
we--er--temper justice with mercy--ha! ha!" His deep hollow laugh jarred
on their nerves most unpleasantly. "I need a man at my place just now,"
he went on, "to buck wood and do a little odd choring around. Times are
rather hard just now, as this poor fellow says. If you insist--er--why,
of course I've no other option but to send him down . . . you understand?
I would not presume to dictate to you your duty. On the other hand . . .
if you are not specially anxious to press a charge of vagrancy against
this man I--er--am willing to give him a chance to obtain this work--that
he insists he is so anxious to find."
Slavin's face cleared and he emitted a weary sigh of relief. "As you
will, yeh're Worship," he said. "T'will be helpin' me out, tu . . . yeh
undhershtand?" His meaning stare drew a comprehensive nod from Gully.
"I have not a man tu shpare for escort just now."
He turned to the hobo. "Fwhat say yu', me man?" was his curt ultimatum,
"Fwhat say yu'--tu th' kindniss av his Worship? Will yeh go wurrk for
him? . . . Or be charged wid vagrancy?"
The offer was accepted with alacrity. In the hobo's one uninjured optic
shone a momentary gleam of intelligence, as he continued to stare at
Gully, like a dog at its master. The gleam was reflected in a pair of
shadowy, deep-set eyes, unblinking as an owl's.
Gully arose and looked at Lee. "All right then! you can hitch up my
team, Nick!" he said, and that rotund worthy waddled away on his mission.
"Come on, my man" he continued to the hobo, "we'll go round to the
stable." He turned to Slavin and Yorke, shedding his magisterial
deportment. "Well, good-bye, you fellows!" he said, with careless
bonhomie. He lowered his voice in an aside to Slavin. "Sergeant, I
trust I shall see, or hear from you again shortly. I would like to hear
the result of the inquest and--er--how you are progressing with the case."
A few minutes later they heard the silvery jingle of his cutter's bells
gradually dying away in the distance. Slavin aroused himself from a
scowling, brooding reverie. "G----d d----n!" he spat out to Yorke, from
between clenched teeth, "ther' goes another forlorn hope. 'Tis no manner
av use worryin' tho'--let's go get that jury empannelled!" He uttered a
snorting chuckle as a thought seemed to strike him. "H-mm! Gully must
be getthin' tindher-hearthed! Th' last vag we had up behfure him he sint
um down for sixty days."