“Thank you, Mr. Kirby,” the prosecutor said again, more forcibly this time. “That will be all.”
As Kirby was the final witness, the judge turned to Hawke.
“Mr. Hawke, this is an inquest, not a trial. Nevertheless, the provisions of the Fifth Amendment are just as applicable. Therefore, you cannot be forced to testify if you don’t want to. On the other hand, if you wish to take the stand, now is the time to do so.”
“I’ll take the stand,” Hawke said.
“Very well. Bailiff, would you administer the oath, please?”
The prosecutor waited until Hawke was sworn in, then stepped up to the witness chair and, hooking his thumbs in his suspenders, stared through narrowed eyes at Hawke. It was his most intimidating stare, but Hawke held the prosecutor’s eyes with an unblinking stare of his own.
It was the prosecutor who broke eye contact first. Looking away, he cleared his throat before beginning his questioning.
“You understand, do you not, Mr. Hawke, that this is sworn testimony?” he asked. “If you lie during this testimony, it’s the same as lying during an actual court trial. You will be subject to a charge of perjury.”
Hawke, who continued his unblinking stare at the prosecutor, said nothing.
“Uh, yes,” the prosecutor said, clearing his throat again. “For the record, is Mason Hawke your real name?”
“Yes.”
“And, you are a piano player?”
“No.”
The prosecutor was actually just getting some house-cleaning questions out of the way, and he looked up in sharp surprise when Hawke denied being a piano player.
“Wait a minute. Were you, or were you not, hired to play the piano in the Lucky Dog saloon?”
“I was.”
“Well then, what would you call yourself, if not a piano player?”
“I call myself a pianist.”
Several in the gallery laughed.
“Please don’t play games with me, Mr. Hawke,” he said. “What’s the difference between a piano player and a pianist?”
“What’s the difference between ‘Turkey in the Straw’ and Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor?”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” the prosecutor said.
“Then you are an idiot, Mr. Prosecutor,” the judge said, interrupting the dialogue. “Get on with your questioning.”
Again the gallery laughed.
“Yes, Your Honor.” Turning his attention back to Hawke, the prosecutor continued, “Mr. Hawke, you have heard the testimony of all the witnesses here today. Do you wish to dispute anything any of them said?”
“No.”
“Just so the record is straight, did you kill Ebenezer Priest?”
“Yes.”
“And how did you kill him? Was it a fair fight? Did you test your skill and courage against him in what one might reasonably call an affair of honor?”
“No. I just killed him.”
“I see. And were you elated? Relieved? Did you feel a personal sense of power over having just taken a man’s life?”
“No.”
“Well, then, were you remorseful?”
“No.”
“You felt none of those emotions?”
“No.”
“Then what did you feel?”
“Killing Ebenezer Priest was like stepping on a cockroach. I felt nothing at all.”
The prosecutor shook his head, then made a big show of walking away from Hawke. Standing several feet from the witness chair and looking out toward the audience, the prosecutor asked his next question in loud, well- articulated tones.
“By your own admission, your altercation with Priest was not a test of skill and courage. It was simply a killing. How can you be so cavalier about that, Mr. Hawke?”
“Have you ever killed anyone?” Hawke replied.
The prosecutor turned back. “I’m not on trial here, sir, you are,” he said loudly.
“I thought this was an inquest, rather than a trial.”
“All right, an inquest.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?” Hawke asked again. “I’m just curious.”
“All right, I’ll answer your question. No, sir, I am proud to say that I have never killed anyone.”
“Do you think gunfighters like Ebenezer Priest, Clay Allison, Bill Hickock, Temple Houston, and Ethan Dancer are successful killers because of their skill and courage? The answer is no. Killing is not a matter of skill and courage, it is merely a willingness to do it. The average man, the man with a soul, does not have that willingness. Even if he is faster and more skilled with a gun, he will hesitate, just for a moment, before killing someone. But men like those I just named have no soul. That’s what gives them the edge.”
“Like stepping on a cockroach, Mr. Hawke?” the prosecutor asked triumphantly.
“Yes,” Hawke said without flinching.
“I see.”
“Were you in the war, Mr. Prosecutor?”
“No, I was not.”
“I was,” Hawke said. “I killed many men during the war. No doubt some of them were evil, but the majority of them were decent, morally upstanding men. Each one was somebody’s husband, father, son, or brother who just happened to be wearing the uniform of the other side. Do you think that if I killed good men like that, I would hesitate for one second before killing someone like Ebenezer Priest?”
“I thought you said that those who could kill without hesitation had no soul.”
“Yes,” Hawke said. “That is exactly what I said.”
“So you are…”
“A man without a soul,” Hawke answered.
After hearing all the evidence, the judge retired to his chambers for a short while, then returned to deliver his finding.
“On September tenth, last year, Ebenezer Priest killed William Grant. Mr. Grant was a man who, by mistake, took a drink from Priest’s beer mug. Although Mr. Grant apologized, many times, Priest finally goaded him into drawing his gun, thus making it, officially, an act of self-defense. One of the ways he did this was by shooting the beer glass.
“In May of this year he goaded James Herrington into drawing his gun, by shooting his hat off his head. When Mr. Herrington went for his gun, Priest killed him. Both cases were officially ruled as justifiable homicide.
“Well, this time it did not work for him. If Mr. Hawke believed that Ebenezer Priest actually planned to kill him, then he was entirely justified in acting to save his own life. And, given Mr. Priest’s history, I have no doubt that was the state of Mason Hawke’s mind.
“Accordingly, I find this to be a case of justifiable homicide, and will allow no charges to be filed.” Judge Norton struck the desk with his hammer. “This case is dismissed.”
With the judge’s ruling, those in the gallery applauded, then hurried forward to congratulate Hawke. Even the prosecutor congratulated him. “I was just doing my job,” he said.
Dwayne Kirby, who was not only the bartender at the Lucky Dog, but half owner, saw this as a tremendous opportunity. He painted a sign and put it up behind the bar:
COME, MEET
