“After the trial, Bragg goes to prison, and Everett and me escort you to a faraway place of your choosing,” Cole said.
“And before the trial.”
“You stay right here with us,” Cole said.
“And him,” Whitfield said, and nodded at Bragg.
“He ain’t pleasant,” Cole said. “But he can’t do you no harm.”
“What if his men come back?”
“They won’t come back,” Cole said.
People believed Cole when he talked. He was always clear on what he knew. He never claimed anything he didn’t know, and he always meant what he said.
“Could I maybe stay in the hotel?”
Cole shook his head.
“That splits us up,” he said. “Means one of us got to go with you and the other one got to stay here with Bragg.”
“But if they won’t come back?”
“Maybe somebody else,” Cole said.
“You think they’ll send somebody?”
“Don’t matter what I think. You ever hear of this fella Clausewitz?”
“Who?”
“Clausewitz, German fella, wrote a book about war. This Clausewitz says you got to prepare for what your enemy
“Clausewitz?”
“What I’m saying is splitting our forces ain’t to our advantage.”
“You been reading Clausewitz on war?” I said.
“Certainly. You ever read it?”
“I read it at West Point,” I said.
“Good book,” Cole said.
I nodded. Whitfield looked lost.
“Virgil,” I said, “you are a surprising man.”
Judge Elias Callison came to town on an early-evening train with his law clerk and four sheriff’s deputies. And after they got settled into the Boston House, the law clerk, whose name was Eaton, and the lead deputy, fella named Stringer, came down to the marshal’s office to talk with Cole. Stringer had a deputy’s star on his shirt and wore a long-barreled Colt butt-forward on the left.
“That him?” Stringer said.
“That’s Bragg,” Cole said.
Stringer went to the cell and looked in.
“Tall,” Stringer said.
“Fella in the other cell is Whitfield, the witness.”
“How come he’s in jail?”
“Fears for his life,” Cole said. “So me ’n Everett here are lookin’ after him until we finish with Bragg.”
Stringer nodded slowly. He was a tall, thin man with a big moustache and the sort of leatherish look of a man who had spent a lot of time in the saddle. Whitfield’s cell door was ajar, and Whitfield was sitting on his bunk, reading his Bible, his lips moving slowly as he puzzled it out. Stringer left Bragg and looked in at him.
“You gonna testify?” Stringer asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“If he don’t die a’ fright first,” Bragg said from his cell.
“I’ll testify,” Whitfield said.
Stringer nodded.
“I know you will,” he said.
“Bragg got a lawyer?” Eaton asked.
“Nope.”
“He needs a lawyer,” Eaton said.
He was short and plump with a round face. He didn’t look like he rode horses much.
“Surely does,” Cole said.
“No, I mean we ain’t going to just ride over here and convict him,” Eaton said. “Judge Callison’s a real bear on the law. Got to be a fair trial. He’s got to have a lawyer, and there’s got to be evidence.”
Cole stared at him as if he’d never heard such a thing in his life, which wasn’t true. He probably knew more about trials than Eaton did.
“Hear that, Bragg,” Cole said. “You gotta get you a lawyer.”
“I don’t know no lawyers,” Bragg said.
“There’s a justice of the peace,” I said. “Name of Mueller. Over in Little Springs. I can ride over there, see if he’ll do it.”
“I ain’t paying no damn lawyer to help you hang me,” Bragg said.
“What do we do about that?” I said to Eaton.
“County’ll pay for it,” Eaton said.
“I ain’t talking to no fucking lawyer,” Bragg said.
“Doesn’t matter, Mr. Bragg,” Eaton said. “County’ll give you one. Up to you if you talk or listen.”
“Whyn’t you ride on over there,” Cole said to me.
“We’ll help with Bragg and Whitfield,” Stringer said. “Sooner that JP gets here, the sooner we have the trial. And the sooner I take him down to Yaqui Prison and watch him hanged.”
“You know what he done,” Cole said.
Stringer nodded.
“I know what he done.”
I brought Mueller back from Little Springs, and Judge Callison set a trial date in one week, so counsel could prepare a defense. The judge also ordered the deputies to take charge of the prisoner until then. Since there wasn’t no place to take charge of him except where he was, the deputies sort of moved into the marshal’s office, so Cole and me spent more of our time sitting around in the Boston House in the saloon, or watching them doing the finish work on Cole’s house.
We were drinking coffee in the saloon one morning when I saw Cole sit up a little straighter and drop one hand lightly into his lap near his gun’s butt. I looked where he was looking and saw two men who looked like each other leaning on the bar. One of them nodded at Cole. He nodded back. The other one grinned.
“You know them?” I said.
“Shelton brothers,” Cole said.
“Can’t say I know them.”
“ ’Fore you was doing this work,” Cole said.
“They troublesome?” I said.
“Yes.”
“They ain’t packing,” I said. “That I can see.”
“You’ll know when they’re packing,” Cole said.
