Judge Leroy Potter was a withered and taciturn old man who preferred to wear a silk bathrobe and slippers, even when his court was in session. His face was gaunt, his eyes dull, dark spots in deep sockets, his lips thin, bloodless, and perpetually disapproving.
“So,” he said in a weak, raspy voice as he leaned forward, surrounded by walls of his library’s books, “did you really think, Mr. Long, that you could kill a man in Reno and then just walk away without an investigation or interrogation?”
“There was a witness,” Longarm said pointedly. “Miss-“
“I know, I know,” the judge snapped impatiently. “Miss Riley. But she hated Fergus MacDonald because the man gave her father so much grief during his later, declining years as our city’s marshal.”
Longarm decided to keep his opinions private. It was clear that this judge was irritable and mean-spirited. What was not clear was his intention, which, Longarm suspected, would not be good.
“Tell me, in great detail,” the judge ordered, “exactly what happened.”
“I was walking down the boardwalk and Fergus jumped out. He shouted my name and opened fire. I jumped into the millinery store and warned the customers to stay low and not to panic. Then I eased out the door and shot the man as he came rushing at me firing his pistol and spraying bullets everywhere.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He hated lawmen,” Longarm said. “MacDonald confessed that to me after we had a minor disagreement in his saloon.”
The judge’s eyes tightened around the corners. Potter looked as old as an oak, but crafty as an alley cat. “I understand,” he said, eyes darting to Rouse, “that you whipped Mr. MacDonald quite viciously.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth,” Longarm retorted hotly. “In fact, I only hit him three times, once in the gut and twice more in the kidneys. After that, Fergus said he’d had enough and I walked away.”
“There are witnesses that said Mr. MacDonald was spitting up blood as he ran down the boardwalk after you. That he looked as if he was dying.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Longarm took a deep, steadying breath. “I’ll grant you, Judge, that I hit the man hard. There was no choice because he was big and strong. And maybe a couple of hard shots to the kidneys will cause a man to spit up a little blood, but I assure you that Fergus MacDonald was not dying on account of my blows.”
“That remains to be seen,” the judge snapped.
“What are you driving at?” Longarm demanded.
“Simply that I have ordered an autopsy,” the judge said. “One that will allow us to complete a full report on this matter.”
“Are you saying that you think I was somehow at fault? That I shouldn’t have killed Fergus MacDonald even though he’d already shot a horse and was wild enough to have shot innocent bystanders?”
The judge’s eyes grew frosty. “I don’t like your attitude, Marshal Long. You seem to be a little too quick to kill a man. You should have left that saloon and lodged a written complaint with Marshal Rouse.”
“A written complaint?” Longarm asked, hardly believing he’d heard correctly. “Judge, surely you jest!”
The judge, however, wasn’t jesting. His face paled and his thin, heavily veined hands palsied with agitation. “I am just about to have you jailed for contempt of my court!”
“This isn’t a court!”
Judge Potter snapped. He jumped up and pointed a bony finger at Longarm, then screeched, “Marshal Rouse, arrest this man!”
Longarm took a backward step. “Now wait a minute,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m a federal officer of the law, and I will not be arrested on the order of some senile old judge who should have been forcibly retired from the bench years ago.”
“Arrest him!” Potter shrieked, spittle flying from his mouth. “Arrest this man and lock him up in jail!”
Longarm didn’t want to defy the local authorities, but enough was enough. He turned toward Marshal Rouse and there was a hard warning in his voice when he said, “Don’t even try. I’m sick and tired of this farce and I’m not about to go to jail.”
“You’re breaking the law,” Rouse said, his voice reedy with nervousness. “If you submit, I’m sure that His Honor will soon turn you loose.”
“To hell with His Honor!”
“Arrest him!” Potter screamed again.
“Try it,” Longarm warned, “and you’ll be sorry.”
Potter jumped to his feet, almost losing his balance and spilling to the floor. He began screaming obscenities. Marshal Rouse looked terrified, probably even more so of the judge than of Longarm.
“I’ll have you thrown in prison!” Potter sputtered, finally collapsing back into his chair.
“No, you won’t,” Longarm said. “You’re just a sick, twisted old man and I’m going to pull whatever strings I can to see that you are removed from the bench. Frankly, I think you are mentally unstable.”
Potter went insane. He jumped to his feet, took two steps toward Longarm with outstretched hands, and then pitched forward with a gasp and then a cry of pain.
“Oh, God!” Rouse cried. “He’s having another stroke!”
“Another …”
Longarm dropped to his knees and rolled the old man over. Potter was turning blue, and then his frail little body stiffened and his head shook violently back and forth a moment before he went completely limp as his final breath
