Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel (7 page)

“Good. Now, let’s get on over to the bench and get on with this trial.” Mobley turned abruptly and walked back toward Jack, who kept his rifle trained on the riders.

The tall wrangler began to look around. “Bench? What bench?”

“Shut up, Edson,” the captain barked. “We’re in enough trouble as it is without you stirring things up.
Damnation!
OOPS, sorry, judge.”

Mobley ignored the captain’s apology. He’d made his point. No use overdoing it.

CHAPTER 8

“
O’yez, O’yez, O’yez
.” Jack sang the rest of the court opening litany at the top of his lungs, his deep, powerful voice catching the wranglers off guard. They jumped back, alarmed at the strange sounding words and the force with which Jack pronounced them. He could see they were certain now. Something very important was happening. Until he’d instructed them to sit down and come to order, Jack knew most of them had no idea what had been said.

“You want us to sit here on the ground?” The uniformed captain looked around, obviously puzzled. The only thing different about this particular place from the rest of the prairie was the large freshly dug mound of dirt flattened on top.

“Well,” Jack snarled. “If you want to ride back to your ranch and get your grand mum’s favorite potty chair for your tired old bum, I suppose we could wait for you,
mister
. But I think you talk too much when you ought to be listening. In the meantime, you boys can stack all of your firearms over there by the other end of
the bench.
There will be no one armed in this courtroom except the legally constituted bailiff, which is me.”

Mobley glanced at Jack, nodding almost imperceptibly in approval of his actions. He was impressed with the power in his new bailiff’s voice and the speed with which he’d picked up on his proper role. The pronounced English twang gave it an unreal quality. As scrawny and rundown as he was, it was clear Jack had led men before and knew how to get their attention. A command voice like that came from years of leadership and self confidence. The look in his eye and the steel in his backbone said Jack Anthony Lopes was a man best obeyed.

The wranglers did not wait for their leader to move, but deposited their weapons on the pile of dirt, which they took to be
the bench
. The captain finally did likewise. Mobley remained standing, satisfied he now had everything under control.

“Please state your name and occupation, sir, for the record.”

The captain lifted his head. Mobley could see he was a proud man and decided to allow him time to say whatever he wished. “I am Mitchell Marsten, sir.
Captain
Mitchell Marsten, and these are my wranglers. I have a horse ranch over to Dallas, or at least I did until a few days ago when a band of thievin’ renegades stole my breeding stock and killed two of my boys. Neither of them was over sixteen.”

All eyes focused on Mobley as he slowly folded himself down on the west side of the mass
Comanchero
grave, sharp knees angling wide, ankles crossed. He began writing in a large book. No one made a sound until he looked up to stare at the men facing him across the dirt pile. A slight odor of death escaped from the mound, and a few flies began to gather. The tall wrangler was the only one who seemed to notice. His nose flared repeatedly, but he did not move about. Captain Marsten cleared his throat lightly as if preparing for an oration.

“The court will now come to order.”

The wranglers, themselves sitting cross legged and uncomfortable out of their saddles, shifted about as if coming to order meant they should do something besides being still and quiet. Several straightened themselves to attention, but the effort while seated soon became ludicrous, and they silently sagged back to their previous postures.

“Now,” Mobley announced solemnly. “I have written the claims in my docket book as I understand them. I will now read them to you. If you have any changes to make, wait until I’m finished, then you can make your objections. If I feel the objections are valid, I will make the appropriate changes. If not, I won’t. Any questions?”

“No, sir,” chorused the men seated before him.

“Captain Marsten’s, ‘
no sir
,’ will be sufficient, thank you.”

Embarrassed, several of the wranglers looked to their boots. Others elbowed each other as if to place blame for the transgression. Mobley could see the tall one known as Edson holding himself aloof, watching and observing closely. He was probably the foreman. At any rate, his eyes sparkled with a deep intelligence. He was also uncommonly handsome for a prairie wrangler, his features chiseled like those of a Roman statue. There was something about him, the way he held himself, the eyes, something that said,
Cherokee?

Mobley thought of his grandmother,
Featherheart
. She’d had that same classical look, the same light skin with jet black hair, and subtle way of looking a man over. It was like she was staring at his soul. She’d taught him much of the old Cherokee way, their history and tradition before the coming of the white man. But it had been years since he’d thought of it. Law school, the war. Much had intervened. It seemed everything he’d once held dear had been swallowed in the march of time.

Mobley looked down at his book. He rubbed his tongue around his teeth. The metallic taste of battle and fear had long gone, but he felt now as if he should stop and brush his teeth. He cleared his throat instead and began to read.

“Captain Mitchell Marsten, well known and respected rancher in northern Texas, raiser of fine horses and other such-like critters, claims possession rights to fifteen fine Arabian horses previously declared forfeit by this court and now in the possession of United States Deputy Marshal Jack Anthony Lopes. Claimant asserts that while in the custody of two of his wranglers, the horses were illegally appropriated by thieves and, because of their status as stolen beasts, should not have been forfeit and should now be returned to their rightful owner, namely him.”

“Is that about right, Mr. Marsten?”

“Yes, it is.” Marsten squared his shoulders and pulled down on his jacket, which had a tendency to ride up on his belly. Clearly the thought of being mentioned in official records as,
well known and respected,
sat well with the captain.

“Now, let’s ask a few questions about this claim.” Mobley looked into the eyes of the expectant men, satisfied they were all paying attention. He noted several were being pestered by flies that were crawling about their faces, but they made no move to shoo them away. Men of the prairie would know it was useless to worry about such things, and only reacted when one actually threatened to penetrate a sensitive spot. Mobley had not achieved that level of acceptance. He picked up his quirt and waved a few of the critters away from his ear. They would be back, of that he was sure.

“Mr. Bailiff, swear Captain Marsten in, so he can properly testify before the court.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack said as he looked menacingly at the uniformed man seated before him. Now that the real threat was over, he was apparently feeling a little testy toward the men who had so worried him.

“Stand up, Mr. Marsten.”

Marsten stared at Jack for a moment before slowly getting to his feet.

“Now, raise your right hand and swear after me.”

Marsten raised his right hand, but abruptly put it down when Jack snapped, “No, your
right hand
.”

Marsten began to raise his left hand, and then stopped, realizing he’d been snookered. Several of the wranglers guffawed. Jack beamed at the red flush rising on Marsten’s face. The flush darkened into anger, and he involuntarily reached for the pistol in his empty holster. No one moved or spoke until Marsten managed to regain control. He slowly raised his right hand, eyes narrow. Mobley dipped his head to hide his own grin, knowing it best not to allow the situation to deteriorate further.

Jack’s face returned to its coldly serious demeanor as he spoke, unfazed by the look in Marsten’s eye. “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

Marsten growled his answer. “Yes, I do. I always tell the truth. I’ve also never taken advantage of any official position conferred upon me for the sake of humiliating my fellow man.”

Jack glared at Marsten.

WHACK!
Mobley hammered the butt end of his quirt on the hard leather cover of his docket book. “We’ve had enough fun for the day, boys. Let’s get on with this trial. Captain Marsten, you can sit back down.”

Marsten glared back at Jack for a moment, then sat down on his side of the dirt pile.

“Would you admit, Mr. Marsten, that your supervision of the horses in question was somewhat negligent?”

Marsten crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you think it was wise to have entrusted the care of these fine, no doubt valuable animals to only two, young, inexperienced, poorly-armed wranglers, when it was well known that thieves and ne’er-do-wells abound in this uncivilized land?”

Marsten shrugged his shoulders, and then twisted them slightly back and forth. “Well, put that way, I suppose I could have been a sight more careful. But the rest of the wranglers needed time off to go to town, and it was the young’uns turn to stay back at the ranch. What does that have to do with me getting my horses back?”

“Maybe everything, maybe nothing. But we’ve got to look at all of the facts before we apply the law, don’t you think?”

Marsten stared. The wranglers cast glances back and forth. Most of them nodded.

“Very well, we’ve heard Captain Marsten’s claim, and it’s clear he has sound reason to believe his right to the horses is valid. I believe the law supports his position.”

The seated wranglers broke out into a cheer at this statement, banging each other on the back and swinging their elbows wide. Mobley found himself becoming self conscious. Jack stared hard at the wranglers. They quickly contained their enthusiasm.

“But, before I explain the law and make my ruling, we have to hear the claim of Deputy Marshal Jack Anthony Lopes.”

A noticeable groan could be heard from the man Mobley took to be the foreman. The other wranglers shifted about, looking everywhere but at Marsten, who sat like a stone.

“Deputy Marshal Jack Anthony Lopes claims that while defending himself and Circuit Judge Mobley F. Meadows from an attack by fifteen crazed and heavily armed
Comancheros
, aided and abetted by the fine horses negligently allowed to come into said
Comancheros’
possession by Mr. Mitchell Marsten, his horse, a fine animal of impeccable breeding in a foreign land known for its spirited animals, was caused to and did die in the service of his master. Deputy Lopes prays that because of the negligence of Mr. Marsten, title to one of the forfeited animals be granted in his name as a replacement and compensation for the loss caused by the said Marsten’s negligence.”

“Is that about the gist of your counterclaim, Deputy?”

Jack shifted his attention slightly away from the wranglers, toward Mobley. “You have an undeniably clear way with words,
Your Honor
.”

“Fine. Now, my rulin’.”

The wranglers leaned forward, mouths open. Marsten looked hurt. The idea he might actually be responsible for the loss of Deputy Lopes’s horse had clearly come as a shock to him.

Mobley straightened himself up and stared off into space as if giving serious thought to the words he was about to speak. In order to emphasize the importance of the moment, he placed both hands on the pistols at his waist, tilting them forward in a resting position. The motion and its meaning were not lost on Mitchell Marsten. He leaned back and looked up expectantly. Most of the wranglers did likewise.

“The law in this matter is fairly clear. As to Mr. Marsten’s claim, he is correct. He is entitled to the return of his horses. According to accepted law in the State of Texas and in all other states to the best of my knowledge, title to stolen property cannot be legally passed to another. Therefore, since the
Comanchero
swine were not in proper possession of the horses, those horses could not legally be forfeited for the foul crimes committed. The order of forfeiture must therefore be, and is hereby, set aside. The seized property is ordered returned to claimant Mitchell Marsten, forthwith.” The wranglers jumped up and cheered, clapping and dancing around. Marsten sat and stared. He obviously knew there was more, and Mobley could see why. Jack Anthony Lopes would never accept the ruling as it now stood. The man had blood in his eye and was looking around carefully as he fingered the long rifle cradled in his arms. Marsten turned to look at his own weapons, just out of reach at the far end of the
bench
.

Mobley waited for the enthusiasm to wane. “Control your men, Mr. Marsten, or I will be forced to clear this courtroom of spectators.”

“Shut up, boys. Can’t you see the judge ain’t finished yet,
damn it all
.”

Marsten’s face paled. The silence became ominous and the wranglers promptly sat back down. Marsten’s foreman looked stricken.

Mobley stared hard at Marsten, his
Wild Eye
face coming on without conscious thought, from years of practice in courtrooms all over Tennessee. “I believe I warned you about profanity in my courtroom, Captain Marsten. That little outburst is going to cost you one hundred dollars.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, your Honor.” Marsten hung his head.

“Very well, but keep in mind, the next fine will be
five
hundred dollars. After that, we start looking for a tree.”

Mobley paused for several seconds as he allowed this warning to sink in. He then realized everyone in his outdoor courtroom was holding their breath. He slowly allowed his face to unscrew and return to normal. Several of the men released their breath in a whoosh, others a simple sigh.