Blood at Sunset (A Sam Spur Western Read online

  Both girls noted that Spur looked in a poor state. The fire that they had felt in him when he had first been brought in a prisoner, seemed to have gone out of him. He sat in his chair, a hunched up and dejected figure, head down and eyes to the ground. This was taken universally as a sign of guilt and fear. Within minutes of seeing him, folks were sure that he had murdered poor old Rube Daley whom everybody had liked so much. Cantankerous old Rube, who in his lifetime had inspired not one spark of love, who had generally been considered a mean and anti-social creature, now in memory blossomed into a hail-fellow-well-met benevolent and generous old man even to people who had never set eyes on him. There was not a man or woman there who did not look upon Spur as the scapegoat for their own sins and inadequacies. At that moment, Sheriff Gaylor was a noble upholder of the law and Judge Maiden a saintly administer of justice.

  The saintly administer of justice now walked in from the street and Jim Tabor forced a way through the throng for him. The judge looked like a man who had gotten reluctantly from his bed and eaten a breakfast he didn’t fancy too fast. In short, he appeared to be suffering from lack of sleep and dyspepsia. He slumped into his chair, glared around at the eager faces about him, picked up his gavel and vented his spleen by banging it several times loudly on the table, roaring: ‘Silence in court.’ Slowly the hubbub died away.

  The judge looked briefly at the prisoner, who hadn’t lifted his eyes at the judge’s entrance, and demanded: ‘Sheriff ... where’s the sheriff?’

  Gaylor said: ‘Here, your honor.’

  ‘Right. This court in the Territory of Arizona is now convened. State the prisoner’s name.’

  ‘Samuel P. Spur, your honor.’

  The judge grunted.

  ‘Charge?’

  ‘That Samuel P. Spur did on the night of 14th May do to death with a firearm at close range one Reuben Daley of this town.’

  ‘Call it murder and have done, sir.’

  ‘Right, it’s murder.’

  ‘How does the prisoner plead? Guilty or not guilty?’

  Stace Golite leaned over and pushed the defendant. Spur raised his head and looked about him with lack-luster eyes.

  ‘Guilty or not guilty,’ Stace said.

  Spur murmured something in a low voice.

  ‘What’s he say?’ the judge demanded.

  ‘Not guilty.’

  ‘Your honor,’ said the judge.

  ‘Your honor,’ said Stace.

  ‘God knows what he hopes to attain with such a plea,’ commented the judge. ‘Is there a jury?’

  ‘There is, your honor,’ the sheriff informed him and the ten good men and true shuffled their feet.

  ‘Are they duly sworn?’

  ‘Yes, your honor.’

  Hansard Morley, sweating in the closeness of the packed room and because this was his first murder trial rose to his feet to object. He hadn’t had a chance to approve the jury.

  ‘I—’ he began.

  The judge interrupted him.

  ‘Sit down and shut up until you’re spoken to by the court.’

  Morley cried: ‘Your honor, I feel compelled—’

  The judge shouted: ‘If that man opens his mouth again without the court’s permission, arrest him.’

  Morley sat down, crimson.

  ‘Who’s the prosecutor?’ Maiden demanded.

  Wilton Cantrell leapt to his feet, face shining, fat jowls wobbling.

  ‘I am, your honor.’

  ‘Who’re you?’ The judge knew perfectly well for he found himself in the same court with Cantrell at least a dozen times in the year.

  ‘Wilton Cantrell, your honor. Public prosecutor for the county of Papago.’

  ‘Very well, Cantrell. I hope you’re going to be brief and not waste the time of the court. No histrionics. Just stick to the facts. Who’s defending?’

  Hansard Morley bounded to his feet.

  ‘I am, your honor. Hansard Morley.’

  The judge took a long cool look at the young man. He appeared not to like what he saw. He sneered a little.

  He said: ‘I don’t want any lies from you, boy. No tricks. Stick to the truth. Be brief. You green ones suffer from flights of fancy. I’ll have no such stuff in my court. Sit down.’

  Morley sat.

  The judge looked at Cantrell and said: ‘Go ahead, prosecutor. State your case.’

  Wilton Cantrell rose to his feet slowly this time, Maiden or no Maiden he had his technique and he was going to give the jury the full benefit of it. His case, he stated in his large fruity voice, was a simple one and impossible to disprove. His honor need have no fear about this trial being a lengthy one. One hour was all the spectators would have to wait before they could slake their thirst.

  Laughter. The judge banged his gavel and roared for silence.

  The prosecution continued, smiling benignly. Then abruptly the smile was switched off. The Cantrell magic was being per formed.

  He had in his possession irrefutable proof that the man Spur had foully murdered Reuben Daley his friend. In all his years as an attorney he had never come across a crime more treacherous. Every man and woman in this court knew the reputation of the prisoner. Morley rose to object and was told to sit down, shut up and not waste the time of the court. Cantrell went on – he would parade before the jury a half-dozen witnesses whose statements would leave the jury in no doubt whatsoever that Spur had committed the crime. He had never in his long career as an officer of the court come across such an open and shut case. It was almost ludicrous that a man with Spur’s experience of crimes of violence should have committed so clumsy a crime. Again Morley tried to object. Again he was told to sit down and hold his tongue.

  Spur came to life a little. With a smile, he leaned over and spoke to Morley.

  ‘Save your breath, boy,’ he said, ‘they’re goin’ to hang me.’

  Morley went to reply, but the judge interrupted.

  ‘The prisoner will stay silent,’ he shouted.

  ‘But surely, your honor,’ Morley protested, ‘I have the right to consult my client.’

  The judge roared: ‘Impertinent as well as foolhardy, huh? You’ll learn not to answer the court back before this day’s done, young man. Get on, Cantrell.’

  Cantrell got on.

  He described the details of the killing, how Spur had crept up behind his trusting friend, placed a revolver to the back of his head and blown his brains out. A moment later, the sheriff and his deputies had entered Daley’s shack and found Spur with a smoking revolver in his hand. One shell had been fired. On being questioned, Spur had exclaimed in desperation: ‘Yes, I did it, may God forgive me. I killed my friend.’ Cantrell went on about treachery till there was scarcely a single dry eye in the court. The judge, however, managed to stay dry-eyed (he had heard this kind of thing too many times before from Cantrell) and demanded that the prosecutor stop his nonsense and allow them to get on. Cantrell bowed to his honor, remarked to the jury that he knew from their faces that they were fearless and upright men and would not hesitate to see that just punishment should be meted out to the killer of their old friend Rube Daley.

  Hansard Morley rose. He was nervous and was still sweating profusely. He started to talk and as he continued, he warmed to his subject and some of the nervousness left him. He said that he didn’t doubt that the prosecuting attorney believed what he said was the truth, but he firmly maintained that he had been misled. He, Morley, would prove beyond all possible doubt that his client was innocent. Let the jury bear in mind Sam Spur’s untarnished record as a Federal Marshal, do not let them forget the number of dangerous men he had brought to justice at great risk often to his own life. As for his past, that had been pardoned by the governor himself. The accused man was before them because of a terrible misunderstanding and, as he hoped to prove, a series of false witnesses. This raised shouts from the court and the judge had to yell for silence again. Morley closed his short speech by saying that he was far from satisfied on several points, no
t only about the evidence that was to be brought before them, but the way the sheriff’s office had conducted itself since the arrest of Spur.

  Uproar again. The sheriff looked mad. The judge howled for silence and said if he had any more of that kind of thing, he’d clear the court. He ordered the first witness to be brought in.

  This was one of the men who had been drinking in the saloon on the day that Spur had first ridden into Sunset and asked his way to Rube Daley’s cabin. He agreed with Cantrell that Spur had asked where Rube lived and he had directed him. A short questioning followed.

  Cantrell: How did Spur appear to you?

  Witness: How’d you mean?

  Cantrell: What was his mood? Did he appear agitated? Angry? Did he say anything in any way to indicate that he was about to commit a violent crime?

  Morley: Objection.

  Judge: Objection overruled.

  Witness: Well, after he asked me where ole Rube lived an’ I told him, Spur looked kinda ugly and said somethin’ about this was goin’ to surprise old Rube. It was goin’ to surprise him to death.

  Cantrell: He used the word ‘death’?

  Witness: I reckon.

  Cantrell: Thank you. That will be all. Mr. Morley.

  Morley: When my client said that did he not say it in a jocular manner?

  Witness: Come again.

  Morley: Wasn’t he joking?

  Witness: No, sir. He said it like a killer says it. He meant it all right.

  Morley: I put it to you that you have no way of knowing whether he meant it or not.

  Judge: Don’t badger the witness. Sit down, Morley. This witness has given evidence and its pretty plain that Spur had a few drinks in the saloon and ran off at the mouth. Next witness.

  Two more witnesses were brought in who had been drinking at the saloon that day. They merely gave evidence that Spur had asked the way to Rube’s cabin and had left the saloon. Morley did not question them. Next came two perfectly respectable citizens who had seen Spur ride off in the direction of the hills. The prosecutor tried to persuade them that they had noticed that Spur was in a dangerous frame of mind. But they were not to be so persuaded. Morley did not cross-examine them, for which the judge was duly thankful.

  Next to take the stand was a stranger. He seemed to appear from nowhere when the name Hank Shultz was called. There was a buzz of conjecture from the crowd. Nobody had ever seen him before, nobody had heard the name. Even Spur looked puzzled. Hansard Morley looked worried. He might well have done, for the sheriff could not now prevent a look of triumph from crossing his face. Spur knew at once that this was the man who was going to put the rope around his neck, figuratively speaking.

  He was a nondescript-looking man in his middle thirties with the eyes of a guileless child. This man, you felt wouldn’t know how to tell a lie if he wanted to. Dressed in the clothes of a cowhand, but minus the usual gun at his hip, he strode bow-legged and shy to take his place on the improvised stand. He shuffled his feet and played around with the brim of his hat as if it was mortal agony to be under the gaze of so many people. He proceeded to tie Spur’s neck into the noose.

  Cantrell: You are Hank Shultz?

  Shultz: Yessir, that’s me.

  Cantrell: And you reside in the hills at about a distance of one mile from the cabin of Reuben Daley, the deceased.

  Shultz: That’s correct, sir.

  Cantrell: You were a friend of the deceased?

  Shultz: Yesirree, sir. Best friend he ever did have.

  They all believed him. They sat there, stood there, leaned there, believing that this man had befriended the lone prospector. Spur looked at him and he knew him. Not as an individual, but as a kind. He had mixed with it for too long for him to be mistaken. He belonged to the same tribe as the three outlaws Gaylor had sworn in as deputies. For all his innocent appearance this man lived by the gun, on other men’s beef and rode other men’s horses.

  Cantrell: Did you ever hear the murdered man speak of this Samuel Spur?

  Shultz: Yessir, many a time.

  Cantrell: And what did the deceased tell you about him?

  Shultz: A heap. He done never stopped talking about this here feller. He lived in mortal fear of him, sir, take my word on it. Many a time ole Rube he axed me to stay the night ‘cause he feared Spur would come a-lookin’ for him.

  Cantrell: And why did Rube fear this man?

  Shultz: Why? ’Cause he was a killer.

  Morley: Objection.

  Judge: Objection overruled. Get on.

  Cantrell: Why did Rube fear that Spur would kill him?

  Shultz: It’s an old story. Why, this Spur got old Rube’s daughter into trouble ‘way back an’ ole Rube he was kinda heart-broke over this here gal. He loved her dearly. Why, thet gal she was ole Rube’s hull life. Yessiree, his hull life. He tried to git his daughter back but afore he could do that thing, the gal she up and died on account of the way Spur treated her.

  Morley: I really must object, your honor.

  Judge: Siddown and shut up.

  Morley: This is the purest hearsay and it is not admissible as—

  Judge: You tellin’ me how to run this court, sir. Sheriff, if that young fool opens his mouth again, throw him out.

  Cantrell: Go ahead, Mr. Shultz.

  Shultz: Wa-al, sir, poor ole Rube he was foolish enough to say he’d make Spur pay for what he done an’ Spur said he wasn’t goin’ to take no talk of that kind from no man and that he was comin’ for ole Rube loaded for bear.

  Cantrell: Thank you, Mr. Shultz. The court is grateful to you for your clear and concise evidence. Now maybe you’d be good enough to tell us what happened on the fatal night of i4tn May. Shultz gave every sign of being delighted to do so.

  He launched into a story that would have done credit to a novelist.

  He had, it appeared, been giving a hand to Rube Daley at the diggings when he sighted a horseman approaching up the valley.; Was it full daylight? Cantrell demanded. No, sir, said the witness, it was getting pretty close to dusk. Just the same, Rube had gone into his cabin, fetched his glass and taken a good look at the oncoming rider. When he took a look at him, he declared in a voice that shook with terror that it was none other than Sam Spur. Here, Shultz reached heights of the histrionic art that would have done credit to a professional. Now, he declared, he came to the part of which he would be heartily ashamed for the rest of his life. Poor old Rube called out for the good Lord to preserve him. Shultz asked what he should do and Rube had been confused in his terror. He demanded that Shultz stay and defend him and at the same time told him to go and fetch the sheriff.

  The witness said that he knew in his heart that he should have stayed and guarded his friend against the terror that rode toward him into the hills. His better judgment told him that he would stand little chance against so renowned a gunman as Sam Spur. He knew that this judgment should not have prevailed, but the flesh was weak even if the spirit was willing. He had fled for the sheriff, mounting his horse and riding back to town by a circuitous route to avoid the killer. He had fetched the sheriff who had come with his deputies, but, alas, they had arrived too late. Even as the lawmen approached the cabin a shot had rung out and, upon entering, they had found poor old Rube dead with Spur standing over him with a smoking gun in his hand.

  The crowd swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. They loved it.; Their eyes were bright as they viewed the man who would shortly hang by the neck until he was dead. The jury looked at each other. Guilty as hell, their eyes said.

  Cantrell asked no more questions, just waved his hand grandly to Morley. The defense counsel rose and made a brave show of it. Cantrell objected six times and his objections were all allowed. Spur saw Morley’s resolution slipping away from him fast. He sat quiet, seemingly taking no interest in the proceedings, a man doomed and already surrendered to his fate.

  Lydia Carson and Juanita Morales looked as if they were on the verge of tears. Maybe they were the only two people there who had a scr
ap of faith in Spur’s innocence. Even Miguel Morales leaned across to his daughter and said: ‘Perhaps you are mistaken, my little flower, and this Spur killed the old man.’ She looked at him with scorn and anger, but, if he was not mistaken, there was a mite of doubt even in her eyes.

  Finally, Morley collapsed and said in a low and dejected voice that he had no more questions. All he had done was to convince the jury that Shultz was telling the truth,

  The sheriff and the deputies were called in turn and offered firm and fearless corroboration of the last witness’s story. Morley tried attacking them, tried to shake them, but had as much effect as a kitten on a lion. They were all confident now. The judge actually laughed when he finally told Morley to sit down and stop wasting the time of the court. Speaking for itself, the court was getting tarnation thirsty and the sooner the saloon was open for business the better. Morley made a brave but ineffectual final objection to the way the whole case had been heard, but was shouted down by the crowd. Maiden didn’t hammer for order till Morley was seated. The judge then asked the jury if they wanted to retire to consider their verdict. The foreman looked around at the others, there was some whispering and the foreman declared that they had reached a unanimous decision already.

  ‘Good,’ declared the judge, cis the prisoner guilty?’

  ‘Yes, your honor.’

  ‘Excellent. You’ve done a fine job, boys.’ He fixed his red-rimmed eyes on Spur. ‘The prisoner will rise and hear the sentence.’ Tabor and Golite hauled Spur to his feet. He stood pale-faced and drooping. The chains of his wrists rattled. The court went still. The judge cleared his throat noisily. ‘Spur,’ he declared, ‘you have been found guilty of one of the most brutal murders it has ever been my misfortune to sit in judgment on. You foully did to death a perfectly defenseless man, driven to this act by a guilty conscience brought about by the foul deed related to us by Mr. Shultz. I must confess that as a God-fearing Christian it gives me the greatest of pleasure to sentence you to be hung by the neck until you are dead. The sheriff of this county will take you from your place of confinement to the place of execution and you shall die precisely at noon tomorrow. And may God have mercy on your soul. Take the prisoner away. Saloon’s open. Who’s going to have the privilege of buying his honor a drink?’