“What do you mean, don’t go in there? What the hell is going on here?” another voice yelled gruffly.
A gunshot followed.
As Dinkins, Harley, and Frank Slater started toward the front door, distracted by the gunshot outside, Thaddeus Walker pulled his gun. He fired, but missed. Harley spun around, and in three quick shots, killed all three of the bank customers.
“Let’s go,” Dinkins called.
Outside, the man Parnell had frightened off by a gunshot was running down the street, away from the bank. The citizens of Crystal, who but a moment earlier had been going about their daily commerce, watched as five horseman galloped out of town, firing their pistols indiscriminately. Most dived to the ground as the bullets flew, but a man stepped out of the gun store, and raising a rifle to his shoulder, fired.
One of the galloping horses went down, leaving an outlaw without a horse. He yelled at those galloping away, but they didn’t come back for him. Turning, he saw at least a dozen men running toward him, all of them armed. He threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” he shouted. “I give up!”
“Get a rope!” one of the men shouted. “We’ll string the son of a bitch up right here, and right now!”
“No!” called a man wearing a badge. “We ain’t goin’ to have no lynchin’s in this town. We’re goin’ to try this man legal!”
There were several groans, and the outlaw nodded. “Thanks, Sheriff.”
“Then we’ll hang you,” the sheriff concluded.
The groans changed to cheers.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“
Sheriff John Dennis was acting as bailiff of the court, and because court was being held in the saloon, he pointed toward the bartender. “Dooley, you make dead certain you don’t serve no liquor durin’ this trial, ’cause if you do, I’ll put whoever bought the drink, and you, in jail.”
“I ain’t plannin’ on servin’ no liquor, Sheriff.” The bartender pointed to a sign that was on the mirror behind the bar. “As you can see, I got the place posted CLOSED, and I ain’t served a drop for the last half hour.”
During the discussion between the sheriff and Dooley, the honorable Thurman Norton came out of the back room of the saloon and took a seat at his “bench,” which was the best table in the saloon. The table sat upon a raised platform which had been built just for that purpose. The saloon was the largest, most substantial building in Crystal, and the easiest place to empanel a jury, for it was always crowded. It was easy for the judge to round up twelve sober men, good and true. If it was sometimes difficult to find twelve sober men, the judge could stretch the definition of sobriety thin enough to meet the needs of the court. The “good and true,” however, had to be taken upon faith.
“You may be seated,” Judge Norton said.
There was a rustle of clothing and a scrape of chairs as the gallery, which consisted of nearly half the town, took their seats. Though respectable women rarely saw the inside of the saloon, many were present, for by court decree, at the moment, it was not a saloon, it was a courtroom. Out of deference to the ladies, the more objectionable artwork—meaning the nude paintings of women—had been covered.
“Is the prisoner present?”
“I’ve got the guilty son of a bitch right here, Judge,” the deputy sheriff said. His remarks generated laughter, and Judge Norton let it be known by the glare in his eyes that he did not appreciate it.
The saloon grew quiet.
“Is the accused represented by counsel?”
“I’m his lawyer, Your Honor,” a man sitting to the right of Cole Parnell said. The lawyer, who was short and chubby, was wearing a suit and cravat. “Daniel Gilman.”
“Is counsel for the state present?”
“I am, Your Honor. Michael Thomas.” The prosecutor was tall and thin, with a prominent Adam’s apple. Like Gilman, he was wearing a suit.
“Voir dire having been completed, are both counselors satisfied with the jury as it now sits?”
“I am, Your Honor,” Gilman said.
“As am I,” Thomas added.
“Very well, Mr. Prosecutor, you may make your case,” the judge said.
Thomas was so tall that as he stood, it looked like he was unfolding. He walked over to the side of the saloon where the twelve jurors sat. “Gentlemen of the jury, it is a simple case to present. There will be no need for flowery language or lengthy discourse. The simple truth will be all that is necessary to convict. This outlaw”—he pointed to Parnell—“and four of his cohorts robbed the bank. The money they took belonged to you, and to everyone else in this town who had their money on deposit, with the reasonable expectation that it would be safe.
“And, in robbing the bank, they committed murder, not once, but three times, cutting short the lives of Thaddeus Walker, Raleigh Jones, and Emerson Teasdale. Husbands and fathers, they were all good and upstanding citizens of our community. These three men committed no wrongdoing. They were merely in the bank, conducting business, when Cole Parnell and his partners in crime entered the bank and, in but the wink of an eye, dispatched the souls of all three to eternity.”
Thomas called as his witness the bank teller, whose name was Clyde Bailey. After the teller was sworn in, Thomas began to question him. “Tell the court, in your own words, what happened yesterday.”
