Smoke, Sally, Cal, Lenny, Mary Lou, and Kathleen were sitting in the front row, immediately behind the defense table. They had arrived early so that they were there when Pearlie was brought into the improvised courtroom, his hands shackled behind him. Deputy Wilson was the escorting officer, and he strutted importantly alongside Pearlie, guiding him by way of his hand gripping Pearlie’s elbow.
“Hello, Smoke, Miz Sally, Cal,” Pearlie said, smiling at his friends as he walked by them. “Hi, Lenny, Miz York, Miss Culpepper.”
They all responded.
“Don’t you worry none, Pearlie,” Cal added encouragingly. “Everything is going to be just fine. Mr. Murchison is the smartest lawyer I know.”
Pearlie laughed. “Cal, that would give me a lot of comfort if I thought you knew a lot of lawyers.”
Murchison chuckled.
“Now you sit there, and you don’t give me any trouble,” Wilson said authoritatively as he unlocked the shackles. “’Cause I’m goin’ to be sittin’ right over there and I’ll be keepin’ my eyes on you for the whole time.”
Pearlie rubbed his wrists as he sat down.
The saloon was buzzing with the conversation of well over one hundred spectators, but suddenly the conversation grew quiet. Curious as to why the conversation had suddenly stilled, Smoke turned in his chair and looked back toward the front door. There, standing just inside the batwings, he saw Pogue Quentin, accompanied by a small, evil-looking man.
“Smoke, that fella with Quentin. That’s—” Cal started to say, but Smoke interrupted him.
“Borgardus Cates,” he said.
“Yes, they call him Snake Cates. He’s one of the deadliest killers in the country,” Cal went on, anxious to show that he knew something about Cates.
“I wonder what he’s doing here,” Sally said.
“I’m sure Quentin hired him,” Smoke said.
“Smoke, do you think he is the one who killed Mr. Brandon?”
“I would bet on it,” Smoke replied.
“You have to know that Marshal Dawson would suspect that, yet here he is, just as bold as life.”
“The mistake you are making, Sally, is in thinking that Dawson is a real law officer,” Smoke said. “He isn’t. He is Quentin’s man.”
Quentin and Cates walked to the front of the room. There were no empty seats in the front row, but when Quentin glared at two men who were sitting there, they got up quickly and went to the back of the room, thus enabling Quentin and Cates to sit behind the prosecutor’s table.
Murchison had already met the prosecutor, having talked with him for a few minutes about half an hour ago. Santa Clara did not have a full-time prosecuting attorney, nor did Huereano County. It was normally the responsibility of the presiding judge to appoint one, but in this case, he didn’t have to. When Marshall Dawson and Percy Gilmore met the judge at the depot last night with the request that Gilmore be assigned the position of prosecutor, it had surprised Judge McCabe.
Appointing someone who actually wanted to be the prosecutor was a rare break from the routine. Most of the time, Judge McCabe would encounter resistance from those he appointed as prosecutor, so he welcomed this turn of events and appointed Gilmore to the position, even before he left the depot.
As Quentin and Cates took their seats behind the prosecutor’s table, Gilmore turned to engage them in conversation. They spoke so quietly that nobody near them could hear what was being said.
“You did what?” Gilmore gasped aloud.
“You don’t have to worry about it none,” Quentin said. “You didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. It was—”
Gilmore held up his hand and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Don’t say another word. I can’t know anything about it, do you understand? Say nothing more to me about this.” Gilmore turned his back to them.
Lenny chuckled. “Mr. Gilmore seemed upset with Quentin. I wonder what that was all about,” he said.
Before anyone could respond to Lenny’s question, Marshal Dawson stepped up to the front of the room and cleared his throat a few time until he had everyone’s attention.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez, this here Court of Huereano County, Santa Clara, Colorado, is now in session. Everyone will come to order, the Honorable Judge Cleetus McCabe presiding. All rise.”
Smoke, Sally, Cal, Lenny, Mary Lou, and Kathleen stood with the others. Conversations were cut off in mid- sentence, and there was a scrape of chairs and rustle of clothing as those in the gallery stood. A spittoon rang, then rocked on the floor as someone made an accurate expectoration of his tobacco quid.
Judge McCabe was a rather large man, with cheeky jowls, piercing blue eyes, and a bald head. He ambled to the bench, then sat down.
“Be seated,” he said.
There was another scrape of chairs as those present took their seats. McCabe picked up the piece of paper that was lying on the table that served as his desk.
“Comes now before this court, in the case of The People versus—” He paused for a moment, then looked up. “Pearlie? Pearlie what?”
“Just Pearlie, Your Honor,” Pearlie replied.
Judge McCabe shook his head. “No,” he said. “That won’t do. I’m going to need your entire name.”
