Chapter Twelve
Feeling much refreshed from his bath, Smoke went to the Depot Hotel.
“Yes, sir, we have the finest rooms in the city,” the desk clerk said. “A gentleman of your stature will find nothing better.”
“I would like a room overlooking the street,” Smoke said as he signed the register.
“I can do that. I do have a drummer who is a regular and who will come in on tonight’s train. He normally gets the room overlooking the street, but I’ll be glad to let you have it.”
“I wouldn’t want to put one of your regulars out.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, sir. As I said, he is nothing but a traveling salesman. I will accommodate a gentleman over a common drummer any day.”
The hotel clerk was a small, unctuous man whose obsequiousness was beginning to get on Smoke’s nerves.
“Will you be staying through Friday, sir?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You should make it a point to stay through Friday.”
“Why? What is so important about Friday?”
“Oh, sir, did you not see the gallows down at the end of the street? We are going to have a hanging here on Friday. It’s grisly business to be sure, but it should be a very exciting spectacle nevertheless, and something you will be able to tell your grandchildren about.”
“Have you ever seen a hanging?” Smoke asked.
“No, sir. I’ve never been present when an execution was conducted.”
“Conducted?”
“Yes, you know, as the legal extension of a court mandate.”
“I see,” Smoke said. “Well, I have seen hangings, and it isn’t the kind of story you want to tell your grandchildren about.” Smoke stopped short of telling the desk clerk that he had not only seen hangings, he had conducted more than one in his mostly violent life.
“Yes, sir, I suppose it could be gruesome, all right. But the man being hanged is a killer after all. And it isn’t as if they are lynching him. He was given a fair trial and found guilty by a jury of his peers. We had a judge and lawyers and everything. Besides, the man he killed was a husband and father. ”
“I heard the man who actually did the killing was Frank Dodd.”
“Yes, so they say. But Bobby Lee Cabot was present during the train robbery, and according to the law that makes him as guilty as if he had actually pulled the trigger.”
“You have read for the law, have you?”
“No, sir. But I have followed this case with some degree of interest, and I know that the judge instructed the jury to base their decision, not as to whether Cabot actually did the killing, but on the fact that he was there at the time of the killing. That makes him …” The desk clerk paused for a moment, looking for the word, then smiled when he thought of it. “That makes him
“I’m sure,” Smoke said. He gave the clerk a dollar. “This will cover my stay for tonight. If I decide to stay longer, I’ll give you more money.”
“Very good, sir,” the clerk said. Reaching up beside him, he pulled down a key and gave it to Smoke. “Your room is two-oh-one. It is at the top of the stairs, the first door on the left. I’m sure you will find it quite satisfactory, but should you have any problems, please don’t hesitate to let me know. ”
Nodding, Smoke picked up his saddlebags and, throwing them over his shoulder, climbed the steps.
The room was typical of many hotel rooms that Smoke had occupied in his life. The bed was high, with a curving iron head and footboards. Sitting beside the bed was a table with a kerosene lantern. On the wall at the foot of the bed was a brown chifforobe upon which set an empty basin and pitcher of water. There was no carpeting on the wide plank floor, and the boards, which had once been painted a deep brown, were now faded in spots. The wallpaper was cream colored, and emblazoned with baskets of purple irises.
Smoke walked over to the window and raised the green shade so he could look out onto Fremont Street. The window afforded him an excellent view of the gallows that stood in front of the jail, and as he stood at the window, he saw that an arriving stagecoach had to maneuver around the gallows because it took up so much of the street. Once clear of the gallows, the driver snapped his reins against the team, and they broke into a trot so that the coach was moving rather quickly as it passed beneath Smoke.
Hooking his saddlebags over a rung in the chifforobe, Smoke left his room and ambled down the stairs. It was time for him to find the Gold Strike Saloon and talk to Miss Minnie Smith.
Between the hotel and the saloon, he passed the Homestead Hardware Store, and he saw a little knot of people standing on the street just in front of the store, staring in through the window. Curious as to what could be drawing their attention, he made a point to walk close enough by the store to look in the window.
There, lying on a table that was pitched up at about a thirty-degree angle, just high enough to elevate the head, was the body of Andy Emerson. Both of Emerson’s eyes were open, though on one, the eyelid was half shut. He had been shot in the back, so there were no visible wounds on the front of his body. His boots had been removed and his toes stuck through one of his socks. There was a hole in the bottom of the other sock. A hastily hand-lettered sign stood up alongside the body.
Andy Emerson
Shot by Sheriff Wallace
In the Line of Duty
The saloon was easy to find. The sign advertising it was a life-sized cut-out and painted figure of a smiling miner. The miner had a pickax slung over his right shoulder, while in his left hand was the reason for the smile. Holding the hand out in front of him, palm up, he was exhibiting a sparkling gold nugget. There was a somewhat
