Within fifteen minutes after the opening of court that morning the case had gone to the jury. Ryker had made no plea to the jury, and the judge’s instructions were summed up in very few words. The twelve men had filed out, preceded by Wind River Jim, who acted as bailiff.The judge did not retire. He slumped forward on his desk, resting his chin on one hand and watching the crowded room. Ryker sat at his table, slouched back in his chair, confident that the jury would bring a verdict for him.At the opposite table sat Dawn and Peter with Roaring Rigby. Peter was not handcuffed. All the cattle ranches in the country were represented. The Black Horse Saloon was closed, so that every one could attend, and there was a sprinkling of the girls from the redlight row.English Ed had a front seat, as did Cutter and Frank Moran. The room buzzed with conversation. English Ed leaned past Cutter and spoke to Moran— “I wonder where Hartley is, Moran?”“I don’t know.”“He pulled out almost at daylight. One of my swampers saw him ride out of town.”Moran smiled thinly.“I can’t quite figure things out, Ed. I wonder who shot Stevens.”“That’s a puzzle. Looks funny. Roaring thinks that bullet that hit Wind River Jim was intended for Hartley. In fact it burned Hartley’s neck before it hit Wind River.”“Somebody is scared of ’em,” declared Moran.“Why would anybody be scared of ’em?” queried Cutter.“I don’t know—but they are.”“Who—Hartley and Stevens?” asked Cutter.“No, the men who shot ’em.”Ryker got up and came over to them, a smile on his thin lips.“What do you think of it?” he asked.“It looks like a poor piece of justice to me,” growled Moran. “That kid needed legal advice.”“He could have had it, Moran. I’ve played easy with him. There’s not a juror from this end of the county, and I made no plea. What more could I do?”“He was as good as hung before the trial started,” said Cutter.“That’s the worst of it,” said English Ed. “I’m sorry for my part in it. Mallette was no good. No, I don’t mean that I uphold murdering a man because he’s no good. But I’m of the opinion that Mallette stole that pot, and if Pete had killed him on the spot, I’d have hired a lawyer to free him.”Moran looked queerly at English Ed.“I didn’t expect that from you, Ed.” The gambler flushed.“I’ve been accused of a lot of things I never did, Moran.”“I suppose.”“The judge keeps an eye on me,” said the gambler softly. “He thinks I tried to run him out. I didn’t.”“He’s getting old,” said Ryker. “We need a younger man on the bench.”“You, for instance,” suggested Moran.“Why not? I belong here and I can qualify.”Ryker laughed, and walked over to the table beside Dawn. He spoke to her and she got quickly to her feet.“Go and sit down where you belong,” she said coldly.Ryker laughed angrily, but did not move. The judge struck the top of his desk with a clenched hand.“Ryker, go and sit down!” he snapped. “That girl and her brother are under the protection of this court.”“Oh, is that so?” demanded Ryker. “Since when did the court have jurisdiction over a prosecutor during a recess?”Before the judge had a chance to reply, Pete Conley sprang from his chair, caught Ryker by the collar with his left hand and smashed him in the face with his right fist. He had only time to hit Ryker once before Roaring had grasped him in both arms and dragged him away.Ryker went to his haunches, but staggered back to his feet, gore running from his nose, his big collar half-torn from his skinny neck. The room was in an uproar. Roaring forced Pete back into his chair and held him down.Ryker was dazed, blinded. He clawed under his coat trying to draw a big Colt gun before Cutter sprang across the railing and grasped him. He swung Ryker around, talking swiftly. He handed Ryker a handkerchief to mop off the blood; and the prosecutor of Black Horse County leaned against his own table.The judge hammered wildly on his table, while the cowboys in the audience whooped with joy. This was the first bit of action they had seen. Roaring talked earnestly with Pete, who nodded in agreement. Roaring smiled with evident satisfaction, and there was a ghost of a smile on the face of the old judge.“By golly!” roared the voice of Lovely Lucas from the back of the room. “That’s the first time I ever saw a half-breed git the best of anythin’ in a courtroom!”“Turn ’em loose, and I’ll take the breed for forty dollars, even money!” boomed Mark Clayton, of the Big 4.The old judge rapped for order.“Cease this disturbance, or I’ll have the sheriff clear the court!”“You better let well enough alone,” said Hank Pitts. “If Roarin’ Rigby lets loose of Pete, Ryker loses his scalp.”Hank’s sally brought a laugh that the judge was unable to check. Dawn was leaning forward on the table, crying. Ryker was angry. He tried to arrange his collar, but found that Pete had torn out the button-hole. He finally took it off, exposing about eight inches of thin neck.Wind River Jim came from the juryroom, closing the door behind him. The judge rapped again for silence.“They’ve made up their minds, Judge,” said Wind River.“Bring them in,” said the judge wearily.The room became silent, as the twelve men filed in and sat down. They looked curiously at Ryker, who was holding the handkerchief to his nose and lips, but none of them looked at Pete.“Gentlemen,” said the old judge, “have you reached a decision?”The foreman of the jury, a tall, bearded cattleman from south of Turquoise City, arose and handed Wind River a sheet of paper.“We have, Judge,” he said, and sat down heavily.Wind River gave the paper to the judge, who read it slowly.For a space of possibly ten seconds the judge stared at the back of the room, not a muscle of his face moving. An impatient cowboy scraped a boot-heel on the floor, and it sounded very loud and harsh in that silent room.“This is your verdict?” asked the judge, without looking at the jury.“That’s it,” said the foreman.The old judge shifted his eyes and looked at Peter Conley.“Peter Conley, stand up,” he said. It was little more than a whisper.Roaring nudged Pete; he got awkwardly to his feet. Dawn got to her feet, as if to assist Pete, and the judge shifted his gaze to her. He looked back at the verdict.“Peter Conley,” he said, “the jury has found you guilty of murder in the first degree.”The judge stopped, but did not look up. Dawn reached over and put her hand on Pete’s arm. He turned his head and looked at her, his face twisted painfully.
Within fifteen minutes after the opening of court that morning the case had gone to the jury. Ryker had made no plea to the jury, and the judge’s instructions were summed up in very few words. The twelve men had filed out, preceded by Wind River Jim, who acted as bailiff.
The judge did not retire. He slumped forward on his desk, resting his chin on one hand and watching the crowded room. Ryker sat at his table, slouched back in his chair, confident that the jury would bring a verdict for him.
At the opposite table sat Dawn and Peter with Roaring Rigby. Peter was not handcuffed. All the cattle ranches in the country were represented. The Black Horse Saloon was closed, so that every one could attend, and there was a sprinkling of the girls from the redlight row.
English Ed had a front seat, as did Cutter and Frank Moran. The room buzzed with conversation. English Ed leaned past Cutter and spoke to Moran— “I wonder where Hartley is, Moran?”
“I don’t know.”
“He pulled out almost at daylight. One of my swampers saw him ride out of town.”
Moran smiled thinly.
“I can’t quite figure things out, Ed. I wonder who shot Stevens.”
“That’s a puzzle. Looks funny. Roaring thinks that bullet that hit Wind River Jim was intended for Hartley. In fact it burned Hartley’s neck before it hit Wind River.”
“Somebody is scared of ’em,” declared Moran.
“Why would anybody be scared of ’em?” queried Cutter.
“I don’t know—but they are.”
“Who—Hartley and Stevens?” asked Cutter.
“No, the men who shot ’em.”
Ryker got up and came over to them, a smile on his thin lips.
“What do you think of it?” he asked.
“It looks like a poor piece of justice to me,” growled Moran. “That kid needed legal advice.”
“He could have had it, Moran. I’ve played easy with him. There’s not a juror from this end of the county, and I made no plea. What more could I do?”
“He was as good as hung before the trial started,” said Cutter.
“That’s the worst of it,” said English Ed. “I’m sorry for my part in it. Mallette was no good. No, I don’t mean that I uphold murdering a man because he’s no good. But I’m of the opinion that Mallette stole that pot, and if Pete had killed him on the spot, I’d have hired a lawyer to free him.”
Moran looked queerly at English Ed.
“I didn’t expect that from you, Ed.” The gambler flushed.
“I’ve been accused of a lot of things I never did, Moran.”
“I suppose.”
“The judge keeps an eye on me,” said the gambler softly. “He thinks I tried to run him out. I didn’t.”
“He’s getting old,” said Ryker. “We need a younger man on the bench.”
“You, for instance,” suggested Moran.
“Why not? I belong here and I can qualify.”
Ryker laughed, and walked over to the table beside Dawn. He spoke to her and she got quickly to her feet.
“Go and sit down where you belong,” she said coldly.
Ryker laughed angrily, but did not move. The judge struck the top of his desk with a clenched hand.
“Ryker, go and sit down!” he snapped. “That girl and her brother are under the protection of this court.”
“Oh, is that so?” demanded Ryker. “Since when did the court have jurisdiction over a prosecutor during a recess?”
Before the judge had a chance to reply, Pete Conley sprang from his chair, caught Ryker by the collar with his left hand and smashed him in the face with his right fist. He had only time to hit Ryker once before Roaring had grasped him in both arms and dragged him away.
Ryker went to his haunches, but staggered back to his feet, gore running from his nose, his big collar half-torn from his skinny neck. The room was in an uproar. Roaring forced Pete back into his chair and held him down.
Ryker was dazed, blinded. He clawed under his coat trying to draw a big Colt gun before Cutter sprang across the railing and grasped him. He swung Ryker around, talking swiftly. He handed Ryker a handkerchief to mop off the blood; and the prosecutor of Black Horse County leaned against his own table.
The judge hammered wildly on his table, while the cowboys in the audience whooped with joy. This was the first bit of action they had seen. Roaring talked earnestly with Pete, who nodded in agreement. Roaring smiled with evident satisfaction, and there was a ghost of a smile on the face of the old judge.
“By golly!” roared the voice of Lovely Lucas from the back of the room. “That’s the first time I ever saw a half-breed git the best of anythin’ in a courtroom!”
“Turn ’em loose, and I’ll take the breed for forty dollars, even money!” boomed Mark Clayton, of the Big 4.
The old judge rapped for order.
“Cease this disturbance, or I’ll have the sheriff clear the court!”
“You better let well enough alone,” said Hank Pitts. “If Roarin’ Rigby lets loose of Pete, Ryker loses his scalp.”
Hank’s sally brought a laugh that the judge was unable to check. Dawn was leaning forward on the table, crying. Ryker was angry. He tried to arrange his collar, but found that Pete had torn out the button-hole. He finally took it off, exposing about eight inches of thin neck.
Wind River Jim came from the juryroom, closing the door behind him. The judge rapped again for silence.
“They’ve made up their minds, Judge,” said Wind River.
“Bring them in,” said the judge wearily.
The room became silent, as the twelve men filed in and sat down. They looked curiously at Ryker, who was holding the handkerchief to his nose and lips, but none of them looked at Pete.
“Gentlemen,” said the old judge, “have you reached a decision?”
The foreman of the jury, a tall, bearded cattleman from south of Turquoise City, arose and handed Wind River a sheet of paper.
“We have, Judge,” he said, and sat down heavily.
Wind River gave the paper to the judge, who read it slowly.
For a space of possibly ten seconds the judge stared at the back of the room, not a muscle of his face moving. An impatient cowboy scraped a boot-heel on the floor, and it sounded very loud and harsh in that silent room.
“This is your verdict?” asked the judge, without looking at the jury.
“That’s it,” said the foreman.
The old judge shifted his eyes and looked at Peter Conley.
“Peter Conley, stand up,” he said. It was little more than a whisper.
Roaring nudged Pete; he got awkwardly to his feet. Dawn got to her feet, as if to assist Pete, and the judge shifted his gaze to her. He looked back at the verdict.
“Peter Conley,” he said, “the jury has found you guilty of murder in the first degree.”
The judge stopped, but did not look up. Dawn reached over and put her hand on Pete’s arm. He turned his head and looked at her, his face twisted painfully.