Incident at Coyote Wells Page 8

  ‘I can’t be seen, I tell you.’

  ‘Have you ever even been into that bank? Who would know you there? The sheriff and his men are out of town, are they not? Besides where can you hide out without taking the same risk. No, John, you must come along with me and see this through to its conclusion.’

  We entered the bank as soon as the door was unlocked. A small man wearing pince-nez glasses watched us suspiciously. There was no one else around. The small man was just now hanging his coat up on a hook. Adjusting his spectacles he eased his way behind the counter, the brass cage of his station casting prison bands on the wall behind him. I held back, glancing out the window unhappily, as Beth approached him.

  ‘I need to get into my safety-deposit box, if you please,’ she said clearly.

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ the man said, seeming to relax a little. ‘Number?’

  ‘Thirty-three,’ Beth replied confidently. The banker frowned just a little as if he should have known something about that particular box that he couldn’t quite recall. He only nodded and led the way, Beth drawing the key up from her shirt neck. No one had told me not to, so I followed along to a cramped little room with a wooden table in its center. About a hundred boxes were set into two of the flanking walls.

  The banker eyed me warily again, watched as Beth found the box and inserted her key as if she had done it a hundred times before. I held my breath for a moment. What if, after all, we had been chasing ghosts? But the box slid smoothly from its compartment and Beth toted it to the table.

  ‘We shall require privacy,’ she told the banker who nodded, avoided eye contact with me and went out to assist a farmer who had begun impatiently pacing the room, looking for a teller.

  The strong-box was two feet long, six or eight inches in height, twice that in width. Now that the time had come, Beth’s hands trembled slightly before she opened the lid. This was it – all or nothing. Freedom for Ben Tolliver, exoneration for me. Or nothing at all but the ramblings of a dying man.

  ‘Open it,’ she told me breathlessly. I turned the box and flipped the lid open, pretending that it didn’t mean as much to me as it did to her. At first sight my breath caught. I thought Beth was going to faint.

  I couldn’t tell how much at first glance, but there seemed to be ten, twenty thousand dollars inside, all held together with rubber bands. All denominations, old and new style. Beth and I just stared at each other, frozen by the shock of discovery.

  ‘I think the Jefferson Pulver gang was doing very well,’ I said quietly.

  ‘The confession!’ Beth urged, breaking the stunned moment.

  That, too, was in the strongbox, in a legal-size envelope of heavy manila. Her hands still trembling, Beth removed the envelope, glanced inside at the carefully-written confession, all four pages of it and then whispered. ‘We have to go. Now!’

  I couldn’t have agreed with her more. There was no telling who would enter the bank next. We had gotten what we had come for. We needed to examine it somewhere in private and see if we had indeed found our Grail.

  ‘What about the money?’ I asked.

  ‘Leave it for now, don’t you think, John?’

  I did. We hadn’t even an idea where it had come from, and didn’t need to be caught walking around with thousands of dollars in stolen money. We waited at the door to the safety-deposit vault while the teller finished his business with the farmer. Beth had been able to regain her equanimity, and as the banker came our way, she managed a smile and told him, ‘We are through. Thank you, this will set Mother’s mind at ease.’

  Still looking vaguely troubled, the small man seemed relieved as he replaced the safety-deposit box. Beth turned the key and still desert-dusty, the two of us left, the banker not unhappy to see us go.

  ‘Where’s the confession,’ I asked as we went out into the sun-bright day. She patted the bodice of her shirt. ‘Let’s find a place to look it over. You glanced at it, Beth; what’s in it?’

  ‘Dynamite,’ she said, looking up at me from beneath the brim of her hat. ‘Pure dynamite.’

  NINE

  We withdrew a little way from the town to have a look at the recovered papers we had taken from Jefferson Pulver’s safety-deposit box. In a grove of pines and scattered oaks we came upon a small pond, glinting silver in the sunlight. Three kids on the opposite bank, equipped with cane poles, waited for nibbles. We could hear an occasional giggle across the water. Buck was staked out in a copse where the grass grew low, but deep green. Beth and I found a flat boulder about the size of small kitchen table and we perched on it.

  Beth held the envelope in her hands without opening it for a long time. I watched the tips of the tall trees sway in the breeze, heard the squirrels in the high branches; occasionally a pine cone would fall.

  ‘Don’t put it off, Beth,’ I said. ‘We haven’t come all this way for nothing.’ She nodded resolutely and slipped the long rambling confession from the envelope. We took turns reading portions of it to each other, skipping the places where Pulver willed such and such a horse to someone, left his furniture to his sister, Kay, and such.

  Beth had removed her hat and the sunlight through the pines danced prettily in her hair, highlighting it. ‘Here we go,’ she announced. ‘I, Jefferson Pulver, have come to the decision to make a full confession of my years of crime. Not because I have gotten religion and fear passing into the void, but because the skunks I had trusted have one and all abused my faith in them.

  ‘One of them, Art Corson, is the skunk who shot me and put me on my death bed He wanted to obtain some ill-gotten gains which I have secreted away and when I laughed at him, he shot me like a dog, not like the man who had taken care of him all these years.…’ A lot of the page was then filled up with calling the other members of his gang skunks, yellow-livered cowards and worse.

  I took over from Beth, scanning the letter for the pertinent entries. I read: ‘I don’t mind dying so much, but I don’t want the rest of them going scot free, not after what they have done to me. Here is the way our racket was worked. We would take what we wanted even if it meant killing. Then we would set up some patsy to accuse of the crime we had done. It didn’t even have to be someone we knew. It was better if it was a drifter or someone unknown in these parts.

  ‘Sheriff Tom Driscoll and Deputy Larson and others, members of the gang would swear that they had seen the fall guy commit the crime. The sheriff would lock them up and his record ended up looking polished, like he was the smartest, toughest lawman in these parts. Of course I paid him real well, too. We had the law on our side and could get away with just about anything we wished.…’

  ‘Ben?’ Beth said, taking the letter back and after running through a few more paragraphs about how many skunks there were in the gang, she found, beginning on the third page, a listing of some of the murders and robberies the gang had framed other people for. Her eyes were almost feverish as she scanned the confession. Her lips moved as if in silent prayer. Then her expression changed. To delight. Elation. ‘Listen, John!

  ‘I think it was August seven or eight when we robbed the Overland Stage out of Phoenix and relieved them of their strongbox. We were riding horses carrying the brand of a small horse trader named Ben Tolliver. We made sure the stage driver saw them close up. He even became a witness against Tolliver when Sheriff Driscoll hauled him into court. That was almost too easy.’

  Beth put the letter down on her lap. Her eyes were smiling, her mouth frowning. I pushed back a lock of hair from her forehead and said, ‘You did it, Beth.’ I took the letter again. For despite my attempt at calmness, I had to know. Had Pulver mentioned me in his confession? Had he even remembered my name?

  I read on slowly, carefully, not wanting to miss a word now. And suddenly I stumbled across what I had been hoping to find, hoping more than I had let on to Beth. ‘My name,’ I said, pointing at a few lines in the confession, and Beth took the letter away from me excitedly.

  ‘… So that is how we got Tom Gantry strung up all nice
and legal,’ Beth read slowly as if hesitant to approach the next few sentences. ‘I also recall the murder of Bert Hacker at his gold camp. The man didn’t have anything worth stealing, but Art Corson and Jesse McQueen were pretty liquored up and they shot him just to see him die. That one we hung on a drifting man whose name I remember as Magadan.’

  The rest of the confession contained a lot of raving against the dirty dogs who had turned on him and a list of a dozen or so other men they had framed over the last few years, none of whom we knew. I was reading out loud, but I hardly heard my own words. There was a humming in my ears and my vision was blurred at the corners. There may have been a couple of tears in them, causing this. I don’t know.

  The letter was signed and dated, witnessed by two women who seemed to be Pulver’s nurse and whoever it was that had helped Pulver to write his confession down, for the hand certainly was not a man’s.

  We did not speak to each other for long minutes. Across the blue pond we could hear the kids whooping with delight as they pulled in a thrashing silver fish.

  ‘What do we do now?’ I asked Beth.

  ‘We find Judge Mitchell.’

  ‘We still don’t know if he was involved or not,’ I reminded her.

  ‘His name doesn’t appear anywhere in the confession,’ Beth said. ‘Besides, he is the only one who can pardon you, see that my brother is released from prison … unless you want to ride to Phoenix and talk to the governor.’

  ‘I could never make Phoenix,’ I said, rising wearily. ‘I suppose you’re right. We have to try to see the judge and hope he was not in with the gang.’

  The sun sprayed a golden fan through the dark pines as we rode back toward town, Beth up behind me on Buck, her arms wrapped around my waist. Beth had been right once again. As we approached the town we came upon a man standing at the border of his field, hat off, wiping his brow with a red kerchief.

  ‘Let’s talk to him,’ she said, and I slowed Buck. ‘Anyone will be able to tell us where the judge lives.’

  I was doubtful, but the farmer did know. He gave us explicit directions, his stubby finger pointing out each turn and landmark as he spoke. We thanked him kindly and started on our way again. He watched after us for a long time. ‘He thinks we want to find the judge to get married,’ she said. ‘I could tell by his look.’

  Whatever the farmer thought, we had soon left him behind. The trail was dry, tiny spurts of dust rising from beneath Buck’s hoofs. We found the road we were looking for, a short, humped lane lined on one side with elm trees. Beth squeezed me harder as she looked over my shoulder in eagerness. I, myself, was not so anxious to meet Judge Nathan Mitchell again, and we came upon his white, green-roofed house, I slowed Buck a little, wishing that I was far away. But I was not, and the girl riding behind me continued to prod me on.

  We swung down in front of the house where a lazy redbone hound slept in the shade of the awning and walked up on to the porch, me straggling behind Beth, carrying my Winchester loosely in one hand. She knocked on the door once, twice. It seemed forever that nothing happened. I could hear the insects humming in the garden.

  Finally the heavy green door opened a few inches. Beth spoke up brightly, her voice wearing a smile. ‘We’ve come to see Judge Mitchell,’ she said. The door opened a few inches farther and I saw a tiny woman with a lined face, her white hair in braids wrapped around her skull. She looked at Beth and then at me. I’ve no doubt that if I hadn’t been there with Beth the door would have been slammed in my face – me a lanky, sunburned, trail-dusty man carrying a rifle. But Beth’s smile, her manner, bought us entry.

  ‘He’s in his study,’ the old woman said, and she waved vaguely down the hallway, tottering away toward the kitchen where I could smell bacon frying.

  Beth started on eagerly, I gripped her arm and whispered, ‘Be careful. We don’t know who all might be in the house.’

  She continued to lead the way down a dark hallway toward the room at the end. A pair of sliding doors guarded the entrance to the judge’s office. One of these stood open, and I could see rows of leather-bound books on a ceiling-high case, the low glow of a lamp beyond.

  We entered the judge’s study unannounced and I slid the open door closed behind us.

  Mitchell looked up sharply, his expression passing from annoyance to concern in the blink of an eye. The man sitting behind the broad, leather-topped desk was not most people’s idea of a hanging judge. Thin, almost sloppily dressed in a blue flannel shirt, his dark hair was parted roughly down the middle and plastered back. His mouth was pursed, his brown eyes small, glittering with puzzlement just now. Then he recognized me.

  ‘Magadan!’ I only nodded and he asked me, ‘Come to get even, have you?’ He eyed the Winchester in my hand, but I saw no fear in his tiny eyes.

  ‘Not in the way you think.’

  ‘You must hear us out,’ Beth said, taking over. She neared his desk and withdrew the confession from her bodice. ‘This is of the utmost importance to numbers of people.’

  ‘And who are you?’ Mitchell asked. Beth told him, but the name meant nothing to him. I was watching the judge closely, wondering if he already knew what was coming, if he maybe had a pistol in one of his desk drawers, if other men would soon be arriving, perhaps notified by the housekeeper.

  ‘I beg you,’ Beth said imploringly. ‘Read this document. It is extremely important.’

  The confession lay on the judge’s desk, inches from his fingers as he continued to study me, no doubt speculating on what my plans for him were. Then he gave the slightest of shrugs, fixed on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and opened Jefferson Pulver’s confession.

  I couldn’t read his eyes, but his mouth seemed to show resignation which after one page of the document turned to frowning disapproval. There may also have been a hint of anger in his expression.

  He read very slowly, carefully. There was a brass-bound clock on the wall and its ticking seemed loud in the stillness of the high-ceilinged room. When the judge was through reading, he began again, this time scribbling a few notes on a sheet of paper beside him. Finally he removed his glasses and placed the confession aside.

  ‘If this is proven to be authentic.…’

  ‘You’ve got the signatures of two witnesses there,’ I said more sharply than I intended to. I was angry not so much with the judge but at the broken system that had allowed these outrages. ‘I assume you know the women?’

  ‘Yes, yes I do,’ Mitchell answered. ‘Honest souls with nothing to gain by deception.’ His eyes had shifted away. Now they returned to meet mine directly. ‘You can’t believe that I knew about this, Magadan. That I would have had anything to do with it.’

  ‘The thought did occur to me,’ I said in a chilly voice.

  The judge rested his elbows on his desk and lifted the palms of his hands to his eyes, rubbing them. ‘I assure you I have never knowingly allowed a miscarriage of justice. But this … it could mean the end of my career as well.’

  I tried to dredge up pity for the man, but came up short. Beth spoke up, ‘The question now is what can be done about it?’ Her words became urgent. ‘Magadan has been convicted of murder on false testimony. My brother, Ben, is languishing in Yuma Prison.’

  ‘Your brother? Oh, yes, the confession refreshed my memory. I should have caught your name when you introduced yourself. Ben Tolliver. I remember that case now.’

  ‘What can we do?’ Beth pleaded.

  ‘I can vacate the convictions,’ Mitchell said. ‘The evidence in these cases – and half a dozen others,’ he said fingering the confession, ‘was obviously contrived.’

  ‘The remnants of the Pulver gang are still running around,’ I pointed out. ‘If they should come across me, they’ll string me up on sight, believing they have a warrant to do so.’

  ‘Yes, that’s so,’ Judge Mitchell said, his dark eyes now showing sorrow and deep concern. ‘I’ll have to appoint a new sheriff immediately.’ He looked at me and I shook my head firmly.
r />   ‘Never.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. I’ll find someone, a trustworthy man and draw up warrants for the arrest of Tom Driscoll, Larson and the others.’

  ‘Don’t forget Art Corson!’ Beth said, her voice revealing for the first time the depth of the bitterness she harbored against the outlaw who had kidnapped her.

  ‘No,’ Mitchell said in a voice that had grown weary. ‘I should have known. I should have been able to see through Tom Driscoll’s masquerade. I blame myself but a judge has to give weight to the testimony of his law officers!’ He was silent then. The clock ticked on. ‘Is there anything else I need to know about matters?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Quite a bit, actually,’ I said, and I told him about the small fortune we had found hidden in box number thirty-three.

  The judge rose heavily from behind his desk as if he had been aged by the information we had given him. He took a narrow-brimmed hat from the rack and told us, ‘I have to be getting down to the courthouse. I have a lot of paperwork to do. After that we can consider what to do about the stolen money.’ He turned as if to pick up the confession from the desk top, but I intercepted him.

  ‘I’ll keep this if you don’t mind, Judge,’ I said, folding the envelope and its contents, stuffing them into the pocket of my jeans.

  ‘Very well,’ he said wearily. ‘I understand.’

  With Judge Mitchell and Beth riding in the judge’s surrey behind a high-stepping little roan pony, me trailing on Buck, we rode into Flagstaff, following the main street toward the cluster of government buildings, half-hidden behind a screen of adult elm trees. I caught up with the judge and signaled for him to rein in.

  ‘How long do you think this will take you?’ I asked.

  ‘If both of my clerks are in, not more than an hour, maybe an hour and a half. Why?’

  ‘Because, sir, Beth and I are going to do something we haven’t done well or often lately – eat!’

  ‘Try the Shadow Mountain Restaurant,’ Nathan Mitchell advised. ‘They burn a good steak there,’ he said as he watched me help Beth down, then snapped the reins and started on toward the courthouse.