Chapter
Three
M
ATTERS
might have remained in
that state without further trouble if Susan had not needed a few groceries for
Sam Price's supper. But she did and her future was changed by two cans of corn,
a steak and a pound of coffee.
She stopped before the
San Carlos General Store and swung down, throwing her reins over the hitch
rack. There was considerable talk going on both inside and outside the store.
Old Bus Hansey, who had been with
Major Reno
, was whittling with great
agitation and using up
plug tobacco
at an alarming rate.
And just as Susan
mounted the steps, Old Bus creaked, “I tell
ye
, Lon, there ain't no sense
wastin' the taxpayers' money on no trial. Why, I recollect the day when the
sheriff was expected to do his own killin'. We're gittin' soft! They hain't
been but one murder for a month andâ”
Lon brought his chair
down on all four legs. “Con says there ain't goin' to be no mistake this time.
And Doyle reckons there won't be no lynchin'! What's the difference? They'll
hang him on say-so and that's enough fer me.”
Susan had stopped at
the top of the steps and they both saw her. Old Bus touched a gnarled finger to
his battered hat, about to speak a greeting to her.
But Susan was suddenly
angry again. She had a streak in her which made her champion any underdogâthe
same streak which had made her father a great criminal lawyer.
“You ought to be
ashamed of yourselves!” she said hotly. “How do you know he's guilty?”
Everybody on the store
porch looked startled. Old Bus shifted his
chaw
. “Why, miss, you won't find a
Mex or a white man in the Rio Carlos basin but what kin think up somethin' mean
about Spick Murphy. He's the killin'est, lowest, ornery, mostâ”
“Say-so!” said Susan.
“Public opinion! Rumor! And you call yourselves thinking men! You'll see that
he hangs just because you believe he's guilty.”
Amazement stopped all
activity of knives and sticks. These elder and somewhat shiftless citizens had
only known Susan for a few years, but in that time she had once taken her quirt
to a hard case for beating a horse; she had, single-handed, stopped a
sheep-cattle war by the very weight of her fury and scorn; she had done a
number of surprising things. But to hear her champion a man she knew nothing
about, and that man Spick Murphy . . . ! Well!
She favored them all
with a glare and forgot about her groceries. She turned and went swiftly along
the boardwalk to the nearby weather-beaten jail.
Sheriff Doyle, big and
hearty and red of face, was sitting with his feet on his desk, content after
his long morning ride. He saw Susan and quickly lowered his feet and took off
his hat.
“Howdy, miss.”
She wanted no
preliminaries. “They're talking about lynching your prisoner, Spick Murphy.”
“Shore now, miss,
they'll always talk. Gives them somethin' to do. I will say, though, that it
wouldn't be much loss if they did.”
“What? You'd let them
have him?”
Doyle sensed a
cyclone. “See here, miss, I never thought a good, sweet girl like you would
stand up for a killer like Spick.”
“I'd stand up for
anybody who hasn't a chance of justice. Trial! You won't give him a trial.
Regardless of evidence, you'll hang him if he isn't lynched first.”
“Shore, miss, I
appreciate your interest in justice, seein' as how your pappy is who he is. But
this country is different, miss. We got a pack of outlaws in Rio Carlos and we
got to trim 'em down. If we make an example out of Spickâ”
“Example! Then you
haven't even the honesty of knowing his guilt. There's been rustling, there's
been killing, certainly. But the state has no rightâ”
“Now, miss, you better
go talk to your pappy before you start blowin' up about this.”
“May I see the
prisoner?”
“Why . . . Gosh, Iâ”
“Is there any reason
why I can't?”
“No, but . . .” He
gave up and got his keys and she followed him back to the cells. He unlocked
the outer door and let her pass and then locked it after her and sat down in
the backless chair.
Spick Murphy was not
feeling so well. He had a headache from the bullet crease over his ear and he
knew that a noose would soon put a stop to that. He felt very greatly wronged,
as no bad man ever really believes himself bad.
He came to the bars
and saw Susan and the hunted look went out of his eyes to be replaced by the
most saintly expression imaginable.
“I saw them bringing
you in,” said Susan.
“Yes'm. They caught up
with me in the
Cordilleras
and I never would have been caught if I hadn't
stopped to help a sick Mexican.”
“A sick Mexican?”
“Yes'm. The poor
fellow had hurt his ankle in a fall from the horse he was riding and when I passed
him in the trail, I couldn't leave him there for the wolves, could I?”
“You knew they were
after you?”
“Yes'm. I could see
their dust, but the Mexicanâ”
“Why were you running
away?”
“Oh, I know there's
been a lot of talk. And when a friend of mine told me that they were after me,
I knew I wouldn't have a chance, no matter how innocent I was. So I tried to
get away.”
“You've been in jail
before?”
“No,
ma'am
!”
“Why did they single
you out as their game?”
“Well, ma'am, there's
been quite a bit of rustling going on what with Con Mathews tryin' to keep from
going broke and they had to pick on
somebody.
And since I stopped Con
Mathews from shooting a Mexican woman in cold bloodâ”
“When did that
happen?”
“Didn't you hear about
it, ma'am? But then, of course, Con Mathews wouldn't ever tell about it, what
with all the things he and Big Bill Bailey have done to rid the range of sheep.
Not that they're bad, ma'am, and Big Bill is a nice fellow, but sheep and
cattle just don't mix, and neither do Indians and whites. You really want to
know why they got me, ma'am?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you knew I was
half-Apache and half-Irish, didn't you?”
“No.”
“Well, I am. And
nobody around here ever had any use for me. The Indians wouldn't have anything
to do with me because I was half-white and the whites won't have anything to do
with me because I'm half-Indian and nobody ever let me hold a job very long.
After I got an education in the mission school, I had just nothing but trouble
every place I went because the big cattlemen wouldn't let the Mexicans alone
and the sheepmen keep driving out the small ranchers, and honest, ma'am, I
can't stand around and see things like that happen all the time.”
“Of course not!”
“But there's no use
wasting any sympathy upon me, ma'am. I'm done for. A lynch mob or the law will
hang me. But God is the only one who can judge me. And when I stand before His
Great Judgment Seat, I shall not be afraid.”
He almost broke down
at this point and his handsome face was sad but brave. “To help those who need
help is no crime in His eyes, ma'am, and I have done only that which I
considered right. Waste no sympathy. The will of the crowd will be done.”
Susan was touched. Her
face hardened into determination. “Don't give up hope. I'll find a way to help
you.”
Chapter Four
W
HEN
Susan Price got back to the
ranch she found Big Bill sitting on the top step with her eight-year-old
brother, Buster. Big Bill was demonstrating the
border shift
to an apt pupil
when he heard Susan. He thrust his
.45
into its holster and took off his hat as
he stood up.
Buster looked
reproachfully around Big Bill's right leg. “Hell,” said Buster. “I was just
gettin' the hang of it and
you
had to come along.”
“Buster!” said Susan.
“Awright. Heck, then.”
“Ma'am,”
said Big Bill, “I'm glad to see you got home all right. I was wondering . . .”
“Thank you,” said
Susan.
“Ma'am, I was
wondering if you still felt sorry for that
polecat
, Spick Murphy. I got to
thinking about it and remembering the way he's got with the women andâ”
“Sir?”
“Well, you got mixed
up in a sheep war and I thought if you was goin' to get mixed up in this, I
better try to ride you off. Spick's goin' to be lynched and that's all there is
to it. Iâ”
“You are convinced of
that, are you?” said Susan icily.
“Shore. Everybody
knowsâ”
“You're willing to
condemn a man before he's even tried! You despise him because he's half-Indian
and half-white! You're just like the rest of these barbarous men! The poor
fellow hasn't a chance of a fair trial! Get out of my sight!”
Big Bill didn't move.
He was too stunned. He stood revolving his hat round and round while Susan
entered the house. Finally, very puzzled, he went out and climbed his horse and
rode disconsolately away.
Sam Price heard the
hoofbeats and glanced out of his study window. He sat up straight and laid John
Marshall aside. Susan came in.
“What's the matter
with Big Bill?” said Sam Price. “He looked pretty sad. Have a fight?”
“He's a fool!” said
Susan.
Sam Price leaned back
in the
Morris chair
. “So you did have a fight. What about?”
Susan sat down on the
arm of his chair and ran her fingers thoughtfully through his sparse gray
locks. “Dad, you've got to do me a favor.”
Sam Price suspected
something was coming and he knew there wasn't much use trying to fight it. The
very futility of the effort caused his jaw to set in a hostile manner.
“If it's more Mexicans
and sheep, I am telling you positively that I am not interested. These matters
are in the hands of the men they concern and my jurisdiction ends with the
front door.”
“Now, Dad,” said Susan.
“Don't you âNow, Dad'
me, Susan Price. My mind is made up. I don't care what has happened, I won't be
a party to it and that's final.”
Gruffly he sat back
again and pulled
John Marshall
into his lap and began to open the pages. There
was a long silence and then in a high-pitched, angry voice he demanded, “Well,
dammit, what is it?”
“They caught a man
named Spick Murphy and they're determined to hang him as a rustler and murderer
as an example to the outlaws in Rio Carlos. He's a fine-looking young fellow,
half-Apache, half-Irish. . . .”
“Too many outlaws
around here anyway,” said Sam. “Anything that isn't nailed down turns up
missing. See here, young woman, I have definitely retired and nothing short of
an earthquake could get me in front of a jury box again. I refuse to have
anything to do with it!”
Again he turned to
John Marshall and turned a few more pages.
“Well,” he demanded,
explosively. “What chance has he got?”
“None,” replied Susan.
“Without real evidence, they are determined that he is going to die.”
“Without real
evidence? Why, that's . . . But no! No, dammit, you're not going to get me into
a courtroom over a half-breed. You've been reading out of my library. I
know
you have. You haven't been the same since you read
Elizabeth Fry
on prison reform
and crime! To hell with Elizabeth Fry!”
He got up, almost
knocking her off the arm of his chair. He advanced across the room and poured a
drink.
“Well? What's public
opinion got against him?”
“They're going to make
him suffer for every crime which has been committed in San Carlos and Rio
Carlos.”
“Huh,”
said Sam. “He couldn't have done all of them. Not fair to make one man pay the
whole cost. . . . No! I won't defend him! I won't have anything to do with him!
I tell you I have retired!”
A
nd so it was that Sam Price
stood in the San Carlos courtroom the following month, defending Spick Murphy
on the charge of rustling and murder.
And Sam Price
was
Sam
Price, and though Con Mathews had been most diligent in capturing Spick Murphy
in the Cordilleras and though Sheriff Doyle had long been on the trail of the
defendant, it soon became clear to all that both men had been most lamentably
careless about collecting concrete evidence.
And because Sam Price
was
Sam Price, even the prejudiced jury could not bring in a conviction and
Spick Murphy, meek and mild, was again released upon the world.