The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (42 page)

“But I’d recognize his forearm and his laugh anywhere.”

“Then if I were you, I’d keep quiet about it, if you know what’s good for you,” Tucker replied. “That boy is Willard Jensen. His daddy owns half this town. His daddy hires the sheriff.”

Holmes thought he saw the young man stare for a second as he passed, but he hurried on to join a group of men standing outside the jail. A loud buzz of conversation was coming from the group and then a voice boomed loudly, “I say we string him up right now. Ain’t no sense in waiting around. He’s as guilty as sin.”

“Come on, now boys.” This speaker was an older man, portly and well dressed in Western manner. A heavy gold chain was strung across his chest and he wore a large white hat. “Everything has to be done properly, according to the law. You know that. We got us a representative of the Federal government in town at the moment and you wouldn’t want him to go home and report that folks on the frontier act like savages, would you?”

“Whatever you say, Mr Jensen. Okay, first we try him, then we string him up,” someone said and got a general laugh.

“What’s going on, Hank?” Mr Tucker asked a storekeeper who had come out of his general store to observe.

“Why they brought in an Injun who killed Ronald Fletcher. You know, that Englishman whose been working for Mr Jensen. Educated type of fellah.”

“How do they know the Indian killed him?” Holmes asked.

Hank appraised the newcomer. “You a relative?” he asked. “He sounded like you.”

Holmes shook his head.

“Anyway, they caught this Injun actually bending over the body. We got us a guy from Washington in town so it looks like there will have to be a trial.”

At that moment there was a commotion further down the street, the crowd parted and a procession emerged from the jail. Gun-toting deputies walked ahead, clearing the throng of onlookers who had come out of nearby businesses. And in the middle, handcuffed and shoved roughly between two burly guards, was Holmes’s Indian companion, Shadow Wolf.

“String him up, the no-good rat. We don’t need no trial. Kill him.” The words echoed through the crowd.

Shadow Wolf raised his eyes for a second and Holmes saw the flash of recognition before he lowered them again.

“I know that man,” Holmes whispered excitedly to Mr Tucker. “He saved my life. I should do something.”

“I’d stay well out of it if I were you, son,” Tucker said. “This isn’t justice like you’re used to and folks around here have little love for Indians. Not much you can do.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t stand by and do nothing. It may be futile but I have to try.” Holmes stepped into the tide of people, allowed himself to be swept along into the court house, and took his place in one of the back benches. The room buzzed with excited anticipation. Mr Jensen and a tall man in black took their places at the front.

The presiding judge was announced, a wiry little man with spiky white hair. He brought his hammer crashing down. “Court’s now in session,” he said. “We have before us the Injun who killed Robert Fletcher—fine upstanding man who managed the ranch for Mr Jensen. Don’t think this should take too long. We’ve got witnesses who caught him in the act.”

Holmes took a deep breath and stepped forward. “May I ask who is representing the defendant?” he asked.

“Don’t need no attorney. Open and shut case,” the judge said. “The Injun has pretty much pleaded guilty.”

“According to the law of this land, I believe that every person is entitled to a fair trial with representation, is that not correct?” Holmes asked.

The man in black rose to his feet. “I am Carter Cleveland, and I have been sent to observe our newest territory. Since Arizona is now officially part of the United States, then the law of the United States must be observed. Every man is entitled to representation.”

“Then I should like to volunteer to represent this man.” Holmes said.

“You a bona fide attorney, son?” the judge asked.

“In England where I come from I am considered an educated man,” Holmes said stiffly. “And I suspect you have no other volunteers to represent the Indian in the courthouse.”

The judge looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Go ahead. Can’t do no harm. Won’t do no good.”

“Then I should like to confer with my client,” Holmes said.

A titter of laughter, mixed with cat-calls, echoed through the courthouse.

“Ten minutes, then,” the judge agreed.

Holmes went up to the Indian. “Don’t waste your breath, my friend,” Shadow Wolf said. “They have already prepared the gallows for me.”

“But you didn’t do it.”

“No. I did not kill that man.”

“Then tell me what happened, for God’s sake,” Holmes implored.

Shadow Wolf stared out beyond him. “I was walking alone in the darkness last night. I did not go near the bright lights of the streets because I did not wish to pass the saloons. Men full of liquor have been known to become violent when they see one of my people. I heard a noise—raised voices, men shouting, in the alleyway ahead of me. I heard a voice say, ‘No more. This has gone on long enough.’ Then a few more words. Then departing feet, and silence. I continued on my way until I saw something lying in shadow. It was a man. I bent over him to see if he was still alive. Suddenly hands grab me and they drag me away. They are shouting that I am the killer. I tell them I am innocent, but they don’t listen to me.”

“Do you have any idea who the men were you heard quarrelling? Or what they were quarrelling about?”

The Indian shook his head. “As to their words, I only heard the words I have told you. One has deep voice, rumbles like mountain thunder.”

Another of the men who robbed me, Holmes thought. Clearly the whole gang is in town, and this could have been a falling out among thieves. The man with the refined English voice wanted no more of it, so they killed him. But how to prove this?

“Where did this happen?” Holmes asked.

“Behind the tavern there are stables. Behind those stables there is a way through to the road out of town. I have been sleeping in safely away from the houses of the white men.”

“But why are you still here?” Holmes asked. “Surely your business must have been concluded long ago?”

The Indian shook his head. “The man who would buy my stones has been away. They told me he would return yesterday. So I waited. But he did not return.”

“And your stones?”

“Safely hidden.”

“Okay, you’ve had your conflab,” came the judge’s voice. “Let’s get on with it.”

“One more thing,” Holmes said. “I should like to see the scene of the crime for myself.”

“Ain’t necessary. Nothing to see there.”

“All the same, it is only right that I view the site for myself,” Holmes said.

“Shut him up. Let’s get on with it. Let’s get on with the hanging.” The voice echoed from the dark stuffiness of the courtroom.

The tall man in black rose to his feet. “As an outsider I can only advise, but this does not seem an unreasonable request. The defending attorney needs to see the scene of the crime.”

“Oh very well. Have it your way,” the judge snapped. “Court adjourned for fifteen minutes. Maybe if we hurry we’ll have time for a quick visit to the tavern to fortify ourselves.”

Holmes waited not a moment longer. He ran out of the court room, found the stables and then the little-used walk way between the back of the stables and the fence of a private dwelling. He stared at the ground. Think, he told himself. Remember what he taught you. The land tells a story. He looked down at the sandy soil. The first thing he noticed were some flies on a black tarry area that Holmes deduced was dried blood. He dropped to his knees and examined the ground for prints. Several sets of boot prints, and then he picked out one set of the soft soled shoes that the Indian wore. He studied the ground carefully. The Indian had come that way, as he said. The prints did not proceed beyond the spot with the blood. He also noted that one pair of boots had an interesting almost heart shaped metal tip to the toe and the heel. It came down the alleyway before the Indian, as the latter’s print was over it, and then continued on. Could have been coincidence, or he could be looking at the boot print of one of the killers. From the width of the stride and the depth of the print, Holmes could deduce that the man was running.

Reluctantly he returned to the courtroom. He noticed from the raised volume of noise that many of the occupants had indeed fortified themselves at the tavern while he had been gone. Their rowdiness was now bordering on belligerence.

The trial began. The first witness was called. He gave his name as Chuck Hawkins. He told how he had heard a ruckus the night before, gone into the alleyway and seen the Indian bending over a body. The body was still warm. He and some other men had grabbed the Indian and dragged him to the jail.

“Don’t seem no need to go any further,” the judge said. “Open and shut case, like I said.”

“One moment, please.” Holmes got to his feet amid groans and cat calls. “First I would like to speak to the character of the defendant. He is no killer. Only last week he saved my life when I had been robbed and left for dead in the desert.” He let his gaze move deliberately around the courtroom. “It may surprise honest men among you to know that a gang of stage robbers actually resides in this town and are here among you today.”

Murmurs rumbled through the crowd.

“But this is not the business at hand. We are speaking of the life of a man, a human being, no matter what the colour of his skin. Like any other man here, he is innocent until proven guilty. I should first like to call the doctor who examined the body. I presume a doctor did examine the body.”

“Most certainly did,” the judge said. “It was me, son. He died instantly, stabbed through the heart.”

“Interesting,” Holmes said. “Stabbed from the front, you mean? Now I have just examined that alleyway and note that the Indian’s footprints go no further than where the man fell. So I can only deduce that he came upon the body, as he said and bent to examine it, from behind. Now, if he had just stabbed the man, he would have been standing in front of him, wouldn’t he? But there is no sign of his footprints beyond where the man fell. On the contrary, I could see two pairs of rather distinctive boots, running away, by the size of their strides. White man’s boots, mark you, not Indian moccasins.”

“Footprints don’t prove nothin,” someone near the front shouted. “Those prints could have been there for days. And the Injun could have snuck up from behind, spun the poor fellah around and then stabbed him.”

There was growled agreement to this.

Holmes took a deep breath. He could see they’d have an answer to almost any kind of evidence he produced. They wanted the Indian to be guilty and they were going to make sure he was.

“Doctor,” he said. “You examined the body. What size would you say the wound was?”

The judge thought for a moment. “About two inches, I’d say. Nasty vicious wound. Went straight into the heart.”

“And who took the Indian’s weapons from him when he was arrested?”

“I did,” a voice called from the back. “They’re locked up now, in the jail.”

“Can you please produce them as evidence?” Holmes demanded.

They waited. A few seconds later an out-of-breath deputy placed the hatchet and the knife in front of the judge.

“This is correct,” Holmes said. “During the time I was with this man he was carrying only these two weapons. The hatchet could not have been used for stabbing. It wouldn’t make a cut deep enough to kill. Now, let us examine the knife. It is a throwing knife, you will note. Light, designed with a tear drop shape for flying swiftly and easily through the air. But at its widest the blade is only—what would you say, doctor—one inch wide?”

The judge leaned forward to examine the blade. “Yep. About that.”

“So it could not have been the blade that killed Mr Fletcher, could it?”

Another rumble went through the crowd. “And what’s more,” Holmes went on, emboldened, “I believe I can prove which knife in this room did kill him. If you’ll follow me outside…” They complied, jostling for position.

Holmes walked behind them, checking their footprints in the soft sand of the street. “Would you step forward, sir?” He went around touching shoulders apparently randomly. “And would you place your knives on the bed of this buckboard?”

He had summoned ten men. He recognized two of them.

The knives were placed. Holmes waited.

“What you goin’ to do, a magic trick? Goin’ to make the dead man appear and point to his killer?” Mr Jensen demanded and got a general laugh, although not from the men standing in that line.

“While we wait,” Holmes said, “Let me fill you in on a little background so that you understand better. Last week I was in a stage coach that was robbed in the desert. I tried to protect a young woman and was knocked unconscious. I was left for dead. I should surely have died if this Indian had not found me and brought me to safety. Imagine my surprise when I came into town and saw the men who robbed me. It is true that they were masked but they each had something about them that gave them away—a peculiarly deep, rumbling voice, for example, or bright orange freckles on a forearm and a high pitched laugh. One of them had a smooth, English sounding accent. I surmise that he is Mr Robert Fletcher who now lies in your morgue. I also surmise there was a falling out among thieves. Mr Fletcher was overheard to say, ‘No more. This has gone on long enough.’ I suspect his conscience was getting the better of him and he wanted out. But he could not be allowed to leave the gang, in case he betrayed his fellow bandits. So they killed him. It was purely fortuitous that the person who happened to stumble upon the body was an Indian. An obvious scapegoat, wouldn’t you say?”

“Utter rubbish,” one of the men standing in that line said. “Come on, judge. This has gone on long enough. What’s the fellah think he can prove? He’s just making things up to protect his Indian pal. I say we string ’em up, both of ’em.”

Holmes held up his hand. “Only one more minute of your time, I promise you. The proof has arrived. While I was staying with Mr Tucker, he taught me a good deal of things, including that flies will always home in on blood. The killer thought that he wiped his knife clean, but not clean enough. The flies still smelled the traces of blood on it. If you will turn your attention to the knives, you will now see which knife killed Robert Fletcher.”