Widowmaker Jones (10 page)

“First order of business, we're going to have an inquest over the body you boys brought in.” The judge looked to the Rangers scattered around him. “Where did you find him?”

“We didn't find him,” a short, scrawny Ranger in a pair of suspenders and a floppy-brimmed hat said. “That boy of yours told us where he was at, and we went and fetched him.”

“Sam? How did he happen across him?”

The Ranger looked at his fellow officers before answering. “We were talking to Sam when somebody rode up and said they had found a Chinaman dead right outside of town. Our horses were worn out, and we asked Sam if he would go look and see if there was really someone dead.”

“Sam's a good boy like that.”

The Ranger cleared his throat. “Funny thing was, Sam didn't even wait to ask where the body was. He rode out lickety-split and come right back with the body.”

The judge leaned back in his chair and turned his clay cup up. He knocked down the tequila in one swallow and smacked his lips and set the cup upside down on the table, all the while staring hard at the Ranger.

“What are you implying?”

“Everyone knows that your Sam don't like a Chinaman. Takes after you in that regard,” the sergeant with the shotgun threw in. He looked away as soon as he said it, his eyes finding something down the street of more interest and less uncomfortable than the return look the judge gave him.

“Sam is a good boy,” the judge repeated.

“That he is,” the first Ranger to give his account said. “But he's wild, too. If he was drunk and that Chinaman said something that he took wrong, he might have taken a shot at him.”

“Sam never shot anybody in the back. Bring that body up on the porch, and one of you go get Sam.”

“Too late, Judge,” the sergeant said. “We already looked for Sam after it dawned on us that he knew where the body was without us telling him. He's already run off, and that looks even worse on him.”

“I sent Sam to check on my hog farm. That Italian I partnered with has been claiming small litters, and I think he's cheating me.”

A red rooster walked across the porch boards cockily, almost strutting, and the bold bird leapt onto the judge's table. It was a scrawny, long-legged rooster, with curled spurs on its legs, the comb on its head pecked and scarred and fallen over from many fights, but with an impressive plume of glossy red tail feathers arched out behind it. Newt watched the bird and surmised it was the tail that gave the bird such a vain and bold posture.

The judge shooed the rooster back away from his law book, but otherwise ignored it and let it remain on the table. Two of the Rangers went and untied the body and carried it to the porch.

“Well, let me see it,” the judge said. “Your dawdling is holding up the course of justice.”

They unwound the body with a couple of sharp tugs like it was a roll of carpet. The Chinese man was tiny, even bloated and swollen like he was. The body stopped rolling, faceup at the judge's feet. There was blood and bits of bone and gut all over the chest of the dead man's white shirt where the bullet had come out.

“Like we said. Somebody shot him in the back,” the Ranger sergeant said.

“What was this Chinaman doing in Langtry?” the judge asked.

“Maybe he worked on one of the railroad crews and decided to hang around when the work was finished, or maybe he was passing through.”

“What would a Chinaman want here? There aren't any other Chinamen around for him to talk to.” The judge scanned the street as if he expected more Chinese to show up any second.

“Who knows?” the sergeant said. “There was that Chinaman that fell off the high trestle over at the Roost and died year before last.”

“I doubt even a Chinaman would come here to fall off a trestle. Hurry up and make some sense. You're dawdling again.”

“We asked around some, but nobody knows a thing about him except that Jesús Torrez said he had seen him around a time or two. Maybe he has been working on that new bridge over the river.”

“What would that crooked Mexican know? But it doesn't shock me that he knew this Chinaman. Leads me to believe this fellow was up to no good. Vagrant. Probably sneaking around town looking for something to steal. You ever notice how shifty those slant eyes of theirs look?”

“The man ain't even wearing a gun or a knife,” the Ranger said, working a chew of tobacco in one cheek. He leaned over to spit, his lips puckered.

“You spit on my porch, Sergeant, and I'll have to fine you for contempt of court. What kind of lawman spits on the courtroom floor while court's in session? Don't you have any respect for the law?”

“Pardon me,” the Ranger said with his head tilted back and sounding like he was gargling or about to choke on his tobacco juice. He twisted his head and let his spit fly onto the dusty ground off the edge of the porch.

“Did you search his body?” the judge asked.

The sergeant looked at the rest of his men, but none of them had anything to say. “It was hot and the flies were getting bad on him, so we decided to wait and examine him in the shade.”

“Well, do it now.”

The sergeant leaned over and went through the dead man's pockets. He laid his findings on the judge's table. Among them were a little money and a small, over-and-under, two-shot Remington pocket derringer.

The judge picked the derringer up and held it before the sergeant in his open palm. “What did I tell you? A sneak gun.”

“Many a man carries a pistol hid out for insurance in a tight situation. That don't mean they're a sneak.”

“Look in his shoe tops. I bet he had a knife stashed,” the judge said. “Chinamen are like Mexicans and prefer a knife.”

“There were a whole passel of them west of here when the railroad was being laid. I never knew one of them to knife anyone.”

“How many Chinamen did you ever know?” the judge asked.

“Just those I saw working on the railroad. Didn't really know any of them. They come out from California laying track this way.”

The judge nodded. “I once lived in California. Did you ever?”

“No, I never.”

“Well then, I guess I'm the expert here if that's where Chinamen congregate in the greatest measure. And you don't have to live in California to know they can't be trusted. A child has that much sense. Always jabbering in Chinese so you can't understand what they're complaining about. I once left my clothes in a Chinese laundry and forgot I left money in my pocket. You think my money was there when I got my laundry back? Why do you think the Texas Pacific didn't work those yellow-skinned bastards on their leg of the line? Only that damned Southern Pacific bunch did, because they could get them on the cheap.”

“Be that as it may, it still stands that somebody shot this man in the back. We'd best round up Sam and take him and the body up to Fort Stockton for trial.”

“You don't have any evidence that points to Sam shooting him.”

“We all know that Sam doesn't like Chinamen.”

“That's the second time you've said that. I don't like them, either, but I sure didn't kill him. Want to make me a suspect?” The judge pulled his pistol out of his waist and turned it butt forward and whacked the table. “Wake up, Slim! No more drinks for you if you can't stay awake in court.”

The Ranger in a chair who had been caught napping straightened his back and his hat and tried to look attentive.

“Any of you ever heard of Sam shooting anyone, much less in the back?” the judge asked.

“No, but he shot at Little Frank Mendez last year.”

“He missed. What makes you think such a poor shot could have downed this Chinaman?”

“Maybe he got lucky or maybe he was up close. Poor marksmanship shouldn't rule him out.”

“His marksmanship is what is called circumstantial evidence. You wouldn't know that because you ain't trained in the law,” the judge said. “We all know, my son or not, Sam can't shoot worth a shit.”

“That's a fact, Judge, but . . .”

“Damned right it's a fact,” the judge said. “Won't be a trial unless this inquest says the case merits one, and so far I don't see anything suspicious or duly warranting further trouble on our part.”

“Judge, a man's been killed. I'd say that was highly suspicious.”

“No, it was a Chinaman. You stand corrected, Sergeant. Nothing suspicious about someone shooting one pilfering around where he doesn't belong.”

“Judge . . .”

“You hold on while I consult the law.”

The judge opened the big book on the table before him, and Newt saw that it was the
Revised Statutes of Texas
, 1879 edition, five years out of date. The judge wet a finger and flipped through page after page, grunting occasionally when it seemed he found something of interest. The rooster jumped off the table and began to peck at one of the corpse's eyes.

After making a show of serious study, the judge slammed the book closed. “It's what I thought. I can't find anything that specifically says it's against the law to kill a Chinaman.”

“Sam's our best suspect,” the Ranger sergeant said.

The judge kicked at the rooster halfheartedly, but the fowl dodged easily, as if it were an old game between the two of them.

“Get away from that body, Shanghai,” the judge said to the rooster. He flipped his cigarette butt off the porch and the bird's keen eye caught the motion. It immediately ran off the porch and began to peck at the cigarette butt as if it were a bug or something worth eating.

The judge cleared his throat and levered his attention away from the rooster to the Ranger sergeant. “Do you have any witnesses?”

“No.”

“Then your whole case is circumstantial.”

“The circumstances make me believe Sam might have done it.”

“The circumstances are that Sam can't shoot for shit, nobody saw him do it, and nothing in this law book says it's against the law to shoot a Chinaman.”

“This ain't right, Judge.”

“If Sam shot this Chinaman, as you suppose, what crime did the Chinaman do to provoke Sam?”

“He might not have done anything.”

“No, Sam's hot tempered, but he wouldn't shoot a Chinaman without cause. You can't tell me what no good this Chinaman was up to, so I say you don't have any motive. Motive is important when you accuse a man of premeditated murder.”

“Maybe it wasn't premeditated.”

“No, Sam's a slow aim and would have to think on it some to make sure he didn't miss.”

“I still say this isn't right.”

“Well, haul that body up to Fort Stockton if you think you can get a different verdict. Waste your time if you want to instead of doing your duly appointed duty to look out for the well-being of real Texans and Americans instead of foreigners.”

“That's a long ride up to Stockton,” the sergeant said. “And the body's already smelling some.”

“Well then, I've given my ruling here in Langtry. If it ain't good enough for you, have a five-day trip and try and get another one in Stockton.” The judge whacked the table with his pistol butt again. “I see no grounds for the state of Texas pursuing this matter further.”

The sergeant saw the judge shoving the deceased's money and derringer in his pocket, and the judge squinted back at him.

The judge whacked the table again with his pistol, harder and louder this time. “I dismiss this case due to a lack of evidence and sufficient motive, plus there ain't nothing in the books that says it's against the law to shoot a Chinaman. Furthermore, I fine this Chinaman”—the judge paused and pulled the coins back out of his pocket and counted them—“six dollars and forty-three cents for carrying a concealed firearm. Get that body off my porch.”

“The governor and the state attorney are still complaining about you not turning in all your fines,” the sergeant said.

“Let the governor run things up in Austin, and I'll run things here. I'm the law in Langtry.”

Two of the Rangers rolled the body back up, with one at each end, and disappeared around the corner.

The judge shifted in his chair and turned to Newt. “And now to you.”

“W
hat's your legal name?” the judge asked.

“Newt Jones.”

The judge took up a stub of a pencil and squinted over a notebook before him, making slow work of entering Newt's name. “Any aliases?”

“No.”

The judge looked up from the notebook and gave Newt's face a closer look. “You've got a rough look about you. My experience is that most men with your kind of scarred-up mug are likely to have more than one name, and it wouldn't surprise me if these Rangers had paper on you. You on the scout?”

“I'm not wanted anywhere.”

“Where you from?”

“Rode down here from New Mexico Territory.”

“I mean, where were you born? I hear some mountain in that accent of yours. You one of those hill boys?”

“East Tennessee.”

The judge let out an indignant huff of air. “Tennessee? Never had much use for the state. I'm a Kentucky man myself.”

“Davy Crockett was a Tennessean,” one of the Rangers said.

“And Kentucky had Daniel Boone. He was a heap better fighter than that Crockett and had better sense than to let himself get cornered by a Mexican army and killed. Old Daniel would have laid low in the woods and picked them off one or two at a time. Kentuckians have sense that way.”

“Judge, you ought not go disparaging Tennesseans,” the same Ranger said.

“Oh, I know. I think half of Texas is made up of you Tennessee boys. You all ought to wear coonskin caps to save me the trouble of having to pick you out in a crowd,” the judge said, and pointed a finger at Newt.” How plead you? Did you kill Amos Redding or not?”

“Innocent,” Newt said.

“How come you're wearing his gun?”

“His widow gave it to me for burying him.”

“Big, fat woman with red hair? Don't talk much?”

“Skinny woman with yellow hair.” Newt couldn't help but chuckle. “And she says plenty.”

The judge looked at the Rangers for a moment, and then back to Newt. “Sounds like you know Matilda. Talkin'est woman on God's green earth. But that don't mean you didn't kill Amos.”

“I was chasing after a Mexican and his gang and found her in a bind with her man dead. Helped her bury him and then took her on to Fort Stockton.”

The judge's expression changed, and he leaned back in his chair, as if to see Newt better. “Chasing a Mexican?”

“Man named Cortina. He shot me and stole my stock and a peck of gold I was carrying. Then he killed Amos Redding a few days later.”

“You don't look prosperous enough to be carrying gold.”

“I've been less prosperous since I met Cortina.”

“That's Cortina's trade—making people less prosperous. He's a pocket lightener, for sure,” the judge said. “How do I know you aren't making all this up?”

Newt untucked his shirt and pulled it up until all of them could see the scabbed-over bullet wound on his chest. “That's where he shot me.”

“For God's sake, dress yourself. There might be womenfolk walking about.” The judge scanned the street again and then poured himself another tequila. “What are you doing in my town if all this is true?”

“I come through here riding after Cortina. Sheepherder up the tracks in Sanderson said Cortina sold him my old horse and was headed this way.”

The judge slammed his cup down, sloshing tequila over its side. “Damn right he came through here! First thing you've said with a ring of truth to it.”

“I've told you the truth. Every bit of it.”

The judge shooed a fly away from his face with a wave of his hand while he thought for a bit. “You know anything about spotted cats?”

“Bobcats? I've seen a few of them. Trapped a couple when I was a boy.”

“Big cats. Big enough to down a man or a horse.”

“Might steal a chicken or two, but a bobcat won't bother anyone.”

“I'm not talking about bobcats,” the judge hissed. “For once I'd like to have a defendant come through here that was smart enough to make me feel sorry for his predicament. Obviously you aren't that man. I'm talking about a jaguar. Big, spotted, Mexican devils. Size of a mountain lion or so.”

“I thought they were supposed to live way down in Mexico. Jungle sorts. Never heard of such in Texas.”

“No, they're here, too. People see them from time to time, although it's a rare occasion. I had me a tanned hide from one of those cats nailed up behind the bar for a conversation piece. Eight foot long from its nose to the tip of its tail.”

“No offense, but what's that got to do with my case?”

“Nothing, but you're the one got me to thinking about Cortina again. People saw him come through here two nights ago, and then my cat hide turns up missing the next morning. I gave fifty dollars for that hide, and I was partial to it.”

“Sounds like you had almost the same kind of trouble I had with him.”

“No, our kinds of trouble are far different. I ain't under arrest. You've got worse troubles by far.”

Newt took a few deep, slow breaths, trying to keep his calm. “You've heard my story now. No reason for you to keep me. I'd appreciate it if you'll let me have my gun and my horse back, and I'll be riding on.”

The judge whacked the table again. “Court's in recess. Sergeant, confine this man while I ponder on his judgment. It's grown too hot, and even justice needs a nap now and again.”

The sergeant motioned Newt off the porch with a jerk of his shotgun barrel. “You heard the judge.”

Newt glared at the judge one last time before he went down the porch steps. When he reached the ground he turned and looked back at the big sign above the porch roof:
JUDGE ROY BEAN, LAW WEST OF THE PECOS
.

There was no jail in Langtry, as Newt soon came to find out. The judge's orders to confine him resulted in Newt being handcuffed and fasted to a short length of chain secured to one end of the porch.

“That's a joke for a court if I ever saw one,” Newt said. “And if that JP is a real judge I'll kiss your backside.”

The Ranger sergeant put one boot up on the porch and leaned on that knee. “Don't take Judge Roy lightly. I admit he's not usual in any sense, but he gets it done.”

“No, nothing about him is usual. How does a man like that get a seat on the bench?”

The Ranger laughed. “He came down from San Antonio to these parts when the railroad was being built. Started a tent saloon at Strobridge, or what they're calling Sanderson now. Got in a little scrape with the competition there and moved his outfit to Vinegarroon over by the river. Can't tell you how he got to be a JP, but Vinegarroon was wild then and eating a man a day. Every tough, cardsharp, and would-be badman knew there wasn't any law closer than Fort Stockton over a hundred miles away. Judge Roy set up court and claimed he was brave enough to try them if we were brave enough to bring them in. And by God, we done it. Held court every day and cleaned up that end-of-the-tracks hell town.”

“I don't think he knows a lick of law.”

The Ranger shook his head. “Judge Roy tends to make it up as he goes sometimes, but out here regular laws don't always fit. Common sense goes a long way.”

“You call fining a dead man so that you can rifle his pockets common sense?”

“I admit Judge Roy is a little crooked, but his antics like that are usually harmless, and they provide a little entertainment for folks. Keeps us laughing on days when there might not be a lot to laugh about.”

“I don't know how the Rangers aren't ashamed to bring their prisoners to him.”

“If you had to haul prisoners all the way to Fort Stockton, you might think different. Judge Roy is handy, if nothing else, and most of those we drag in here don't deserve any better, and not many of them are important cases. Mostly it's pretty cut-and-dry and we just need someone with an official stamp.”

Newt held up his shackled wrists. “I didn't shoot Amos Redding, but he's got me chained up like a dog.”

“Don't worry, the judge ain't ruled a hanging more than once or twice that I can remember.”

“You're not a comforting man.”

The Ranger headed for the inside of the saloon. “The judge will get to you in time.”

Newt listened to the sergeant's boots thumping on the porch boards, and when he was gone he dug one heel into the dirt and watched the little dust cloud it caused at the end of his outstretched legs.

The bear was chained only ten feet or so from the end of the porch, and it ambled to the end of its chain with its ears pinned like a mad horse. The chain stopped it barely short of Newt, but it reached out with one paw and made a swipe at him.

Newt crawled up on the end of the porch, giving him a little more distance from the bear, and kicked another cloud of dust at it. “Get out of here.”

“Don't go accosting my bear,” the judge's voice said from behind him. “I can't stand an animal beater.”

Newt twisted and saw the judge standing behind him, holding two beers by the bottle necks.

“I told you I wasn't buying any more beer.”

“They ain't for you.” The judge stepped past him and off the end of the porch. “You don't pay your bills, nohow.”

The bear gave the judge the same mad look and ducked its head and threatened to paw at him. The judge ignored the threat and held out a beer to his unruly pet. The bruin immediately swiped at the bottle, but the judge jerked it away and produced a foot-long scrap of one-by-four plank from his back pocket. He struck the bear a resounding blow on the top of its head with the piece of board, and the bear whimpered like a little kid and cowed down before the judge.

“That's better,” the judge said.

“Thought you didn't like cruelty to animals,” Newt said.

“We've all got to learn our lessons. Spare the rod and spoil the bear.” The judge held the beer out again, and this time the bear squatted on its rump and reached gingerly for the bottle with both paws. It jammed the bottle in its mouth, holding it like a sucking baby. “Ever see the likes of that?”

“I didn't come down here to watch bears drink beer,” Newt said.

“You're a surly sort.”

“You ain't seen surly yet.”

The judge handed the bear another beer and watched it go to work. “Are you really after Cortina?”

“I was till I run into you.”

“Cortina won't be easy to catch, and not a man most would like to corner if they did.”

“You turn me loose, and I'll handle him.”

“Think you're tough, don't you? I've seen plenty of others who thought the same.” The judge rubbed his beard in thought. “Think those scars of yours give you an edge?”

“I've got it to do. That man took from me.”

“How much gold did he take from you?”

“Better than four thousand, give or take an ounce or two.”

The judge let out a low whistle. “That's a pretty good stake, but you must put a pretty cheap price on your skin to go traipsing after more trouble with Cortina.”

“He tried once and didn't get it done. We'll see how it goes the next time.”

“Talk's cheap.”

“You let me loose and I'll quit talking.”

The judge stood. “No, I'm going to have to think on you some. I'm still not sure you didn't kill Amos Redding. Might be I should send one of those Rangers back up the trail and make sure you're telling the truth.”

“You don't think I killed him, but I'm not sure what your game is.”

“When a man gets to be my age, he gets to really disliking surprises. I let you ride off free, what's it going to look like on me when some posse comes riding up the next day looking for you because you really did shoot Amos? I've got my good name to look out for.”

“Your good name?” Newt scoffed and wanted to spit.

The judge looked down at him and his face turned hard with the red coming to his cheeks. He pointed to the roof. “Yes, my good name. You read that sign up there. I'm the law here, and the only law in these parts. You'd do well to remember that.”