Читать книгу Law of the Gun - Martin H. Greenberg - Страница 8

Circuit Judge Mortal D. Stanton blasted into the courtroom on a gust of frosted wind and blowing snow. The likelihood of his getting back to civilization for the holidays was being rapidly buried—along with the train tracks east of the Continental Divide. He brushed snow from his buffalo coat, and traded it to the bailiff for judicial robes.

Judge Stanton fished his pocket watch from his vest, read it, scowled, then sat. As he propped the timepiece before him, his gaze swept the jury of twelve men. He thought how they looked more or less like every other jury that had helped him exact justice during his long tenure on the frontier. He glanced at the packed courtroom—no surprise there—before slamming gavel against wood. “Opening remarks, Prosecutor.”

James Halsted scrambled to his feet. “Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury.” The prosecutor was a middle-aged man of pale complexion with a belly gone to flab for lack of properly scheduled meals and his once-coveted morning constitutions. He had worked eighty hours a week, poring over every scrap of evidence and hearsay, since the defendant had been arrested for gunning down one of the town’s most affluent citizens in his own home the morning of the Centennial celebration. Halsted hadn’t enjoyed a moment in the bright light of day since.

“We will prove in this court of law that the defendant is nothing more than a criminal, hardened further with each act of murder performed, of which there have been many. I admonish you: Keep that in the forefront of your minds as you hear the claim of innocence that will be brought forth by the defense. We are here to exact justice on a criminal. A gunslinger. An assassin.”

A murmur swept the crowd.

As the prosecutor painted broad strokes of the person he wanted jurors to believe they were up against, the young defense attorney reached over and patted the gloved hand of his client.

Lucinda Messenger sat unmoving, struggling against the emotions that threatened to pour forth in response to that simple gesture of compassion, that benevolent touch of the hand. How different her life might have been had she received such compassion in the beginning. She loosened the grip that she’d had on her left bicep—her only distinctive habit in a world anxious to learn her tells—and remembered what her attorney had promised: They would use the habit as part of her defense. It was perfect. From there, they had devised their strategy.

“Defense, your opening remarks,” the judge said.

Matthew Gerber rose, reminded himself to keep his enthusiasm in check. This was his first big case, and he intended for it to mark his place in history. Western expansion was on the cusp of greatness, and he planned to be no small part of that greatness. The young man could have been a poster boy for Harvard. Not only had he been a star pupil at the college, but also a star on its revered rowing team.

But, Gerber had felt stifled by Eastern politics, and yearned for a larger field of play. It was his wife who suggested the move West, and he could not have been more pleased with his choice of a mate than at that moment.

He made a couple of long-legged strides toward the juror’s box, and turned his clear blue gaze upon the crowd. “We have all read and heard the fantastical descriptions of the defendant.” Gerber smiled. He was confident, animated. “Why, many Eastern newspapers have printed such magnificent reports over the past dozen years that no less than fifteen dime novels have been written about that Dastardly Dame of the Wild West: Lucy Angel.” As he spoke, he strolled back to the table, reached into his satchel, and withdrew three of the small books. He fanned the stack, held it up for all the audience to view. They were here for a show, and he was prepared to give them one. “No doubt, you’ve seen these illustrations—a buckskin-clad woman of Amazon stature carrying four pearl-handled Colts, three derringers, and two Remington rifles.”

This solicited a chuckle from the audience.

Young Matthew Gerber felt at ease. He had mapped his journey to freedom for Lucinda Messenger down to every possible turn in the road, every detour that might be thrown in his path, every highwayman the prosecution might have hidden along the route.

“The prosecution will have you believe that the larger-than-life Lucy Angel is, indeed, this gentle, petite woman with the kind eyes seated before you.

“Mrs. Messenger wishes to address, here and for all, the sensational stories that have clung to her skirt hems for more than a decade. She will tell you the truth behind these tales”—he waggled the books before the jury—“so that no doubt about her just ways might cloud your judgment.

“She will tell you that she killed the man for whose death she is on trial.”

The crowd wasn’t sure it had heard correctly. Many turned questioning glances or outright statements to their pew mates.

“And, she will tell you that he was not the first.”

This last threw the room into turmoil. Some called out support, some shouted for justice, some even applauded. All were on their feet.

Judge Stanton pounded gavel to oak repeatedly, aware that he must act swiftly, or be tethered to this post presiding over the case till hell froze over. Even if the Devil slept straight through the harsh winter, the task would take weeks if not contained with an iron hand. And, everyone knows that the Devil doesn’t sleep.

Stanton bellowed orders, his baritone reverberating off marble and glass and paneled walls. “Sit and close your mouths now, or be found in contempt.”

Within seconds, the tick of the clock could be heard from the back wall. The judge exhaled, looked at the lawyers. “No character witnesses, no circus acts, no histrionics. Cut it to the bone. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” both said in unison.

The judge surveyed the crowd. “If you people want a show, you can hire Barnum.”

Matthew Gerber dodged the boulder in the road, and edited the final sentence of his opening statement before delivering it. “Gentlemen of the jury, your honorable Judge Stanton, Lucinda Messenger will tell you that she has killed. Our defense lies in the reasons why.”

The judge told prosecution to call its first witness.

Halsted rose, tossing a last, regretful glance at his numbered list of those who had said they would testify. “Your Honor, we call Mrs. Asa Calloway.”

Lucinda studied Kathleen Calloway as she approached the bench and placed her hand on the Holy Bible held forth by the court clerk. Once an abused wife who had walked in fear of her own shadow, The Widow Calloway now appeared to be a woman of confidence—even, one might say, a happy woman. Nothing like the woman Lucinda had met in the Calloway mansion July past.

“State your name for the court.”

“Kathleen Calloway, widow of Asa Calloway.”

“Mrs. Calloway,” the prosecutor said, “Please relate to us the events of July fourth.”

“My husband—may God rest his soul—was running for city mayor. Every citizen of the town knows that, of course. The evening of the third, he discovered that an error had been made on the flyers made up at Mr. Larkin’s print shop. Since Asa needed them for the opening ceremonies on the Fourth, he sent word to Larkin to print corrected ones and have them delivered first thing. As you know, my husband was a particular man.”

“The point, please,” said Judge Stanton.

Mrs. Calloway cleared her throat. “It was an intense morning. My husband was understandably anxious. By the time Mrs. Messenger arrived with the corrected flyers, he told her that she was almost late.

“I had sent the maid on errands. I was the one who showed Mrs. Messenger into Asa’s library. Of course, I had no idea she was a murderer.”

“Objection!” Gerber was on his feet.

“Sustained. Madam, stick to the known facts.”

The prosecutor said, “Mrs. Calloway, what do you want to tell the court about your relationship with your husband?”

“I loved him according to everything the Good Book teaches. True, Asa had a temper, but I knew how to cope with that.”

“Did you ever fear for your life?”

Kathleen Calloway studied a white handkerchief that she held firm in her grasp. After a moment, she looked up. “No. Fear and faith cannot coexist.”

The prosecutor nodded to the witness, then to Judge Stanton, before returning to his seat.

The judge said, “Mr. Gerber, your witness.”

Gerber approached. “Admirable statement, Mrs. Calloway.”

“A true statement, young man.”

“Mrs. Calloway, did your husband raise a hand to you in the presence of Mrs. Messenger?”

Mrs. Calloway’s mouth went slack. She fiddled with the handkerchief. “He did not strike me.”

“But he threatened to, did he not?”

“Idle threats.” She tossed her hand, and the kerchief flapped like an injured bird.

“The marshal’s report from that day documents that you had a black eye and a cut lip when he arrived on the scene.”

“That was six months ago, but I suppose it is possible.” She chuckled nervously. “I must admit that I have never been a graceful woman. Likely, I had walked into a door.”

“I see. Shall we call your doctor to the stand to report how many times you have walked into doors, or fallen down flights of stairs, or stepped off porches, or fallen from—”

“Get to your point, counsel.” The judge glanced toward the window. The snow had picked up. His pocket watch read 10:40.

“You were a long-time victim of abuse, were you not, Mrs. Calloway? Over the years, your husband had broken your nose twice, cracked several ribs, dislodged teeth, broken your arm. Can you deny these reports?”

She waved the handkerchief, its symbol of surrender lost on her. “That did not give her the right to kill him. With God’s grace I had things under control. I was a submissive wife, according to the teachings of the gospel. I prayed for my marriage every night, and I arose every morning and forgave my husband. I set breakfast in front of him and asked God for a good day. Most days, God gave me that. Mr. Calloway meant nothing by what he did, and he was quite sweet and genuine when he apologized. He always apologized. I felt loved then, and I knew my prayers were being answered.”

She dabbed at tears as she continued. “It is quite upsetting for all this—our private life, our way of working together—to be brought out publicly. And, it is her fault for meddling.”

“What did you say to her that day, when you returned to the room?”

“I-I don’t recall.”

“Was anyone else present?”

“I’m not sure. Our maid might have returned by then.”

“Thank you.” Gerber turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I call to the stand Esther Knowles.”

“Objection!” Halsted cried. “The maid is my witness.”

The judge said, “How many witnesses do you have?”

“Minus my character witnesses, two.”

“Gerber?”

“One, Your Honor.”

The judge nodded. “Overruled. I don’t care who talks to her first, just get it done.”

The women scrambled, and as Mrs. Calloway stepped down, Esther Knowles was sworn in and put on the stand.

Gerber said, “Tell me about Mrs. Calloway’s habit of cooking breakfast.”

“She only did that after they had fought the night before. I always knew when Missus had been beaten—even if Mister hadn’t left marks—because she would take over the breakfast duties in the kitchen.”

“Do you recall what she said after Mr. Calloway died?”

“Yes, sir.” The woman sneaked a sideways glance at her employer.

Gerber said, “Madam, you are under oath to tell the truth.”

“Yes, sir. Mind you, she was in a sort of daze. I had just returned from the mercantile and set my basket in the kitchen when I heard the gunshot. I was standing in the doorway of the library when she said, ‘I have often wondered whether my life would be better if he just died.’”

The gasp that escaped many a female lip—including Lucinda’s—left no doubt that several had entertained similar thoughts.

“Halsted, your witness.”

The prosecutor mentally sifted for something with which to dilute the maid’s story. “Mrs. Knowles, did you ever see the deceased physically abuse his wife?”

The maid studied a moment. “No, sir. But I—”

“Did you see the deceased physically assault the defendant?”

“No, sir.”

“Nothing further.”

Halsted returned to his station with clenched teeth.

“Gerber?”

“Your Honor, I call Lucinda Messenger to the stand.”

Lucinda took a deep breath and exhaled, then stood and walked for what seemed like miles toward the court clerk waiting with Bible in hand. She was glad she had chosen her gray wool suit with its lined cape. The extra warmth was comforting.

She looked up at the judge. “Do I need to remove my gloves? It’s awfully cold in here.”

He was touched by the tenderness of her voice. “No, ma’am,” he replied.

The clerk said, “Place your left hand on the Bible, raise your right hand, and repeat after me.”

Lucinda simultaneously raised her right hand and positioned her left hand over the words Holy Bible stamped in gold on the cover. Tentatively, she lowered her left hand, while her mind superimposed a picture from her past. The past and present jumbled together, and she saw a Bible slammed against a pulpit, heard her own voice instructing an old woman, heard the old woman repeating I solemnly swear, I solemnly swear…

“Mrs. Messenger? Mrs. Messenger?”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Lucinda stammered, remembering where she was. “Yes, I solemnly swear.”

She took the seat indicated by Mr. Gerber, and clamped her right palm around her left forearm as if she could hold back the venom that life tried to pump into her veins.

“Is there something wrong with your arm, Mrs. Messenger?” The attorney’s tone of concern seemed genuine.

She paused. “It is from the bite. Rattlesnake.”

The judge leaned forward. “Rattlesnake? When was this?”

“At our homestead. My husband threw it on me.”

The crowd gasped.

Gerber studied the reactions of judge and jury. “Your husband threw a rattlesnake on you? What led up to that terrifying act?”

Her eyes welled, and it was as if the courtroom floated in a mirage. Do not cry, she admonished. It wasn’t easy, being forced to go back to the origins of her altered path. She closed her eyes and willed her mind back there, back to that place….

Hiram Messenger dragged his feet, stirring dust as he approached the house. The wind in turn swept it away as it had swept away the dirt that had covered the seeds from his spring planting. After it had finished with that, it swept the seeds away, too.

He was almost past the blacksnake when he made out its form. It was coated with a fine silt, just as he was.

He didn’t bother brushing off his clothes before throwing open the door and entering the soddy. He sniffed, then cursed. “What the hell’s burning?”

Lucinda, standing in front of the cook stove with pistol in hand, swung around and shot him a look. She’d never thought the prairie would get to her. She’d never anticipated day upon dreary day of nature pounding at you, days when she couldn’t regulate the cook stove to bake a pan of biscuits, days when her unkempt hair would hang like wet rags from a clothesline on a windless day. She wondered whether windless days still existed. Somewhere, perhaps.

“Heard the pistol shots,” Hiram said. “Didn’t know but what you’d called yourself quits.”

“You call me that enough for both of us.”

He grunted. “Someone has to. You won’t face anything for yourself. I’m surprised you had the gumption to kill that snake. Where was he?”

“He fell out of the rafters, landed in your supper.” She used the gun as a pointer. “I tried to haul the pot out the door, but the snake was swirling and flailing so much, I couldn’t. I fished it out with a poker, but it wriggled off the poker and slithered toward the bedroom. When it—”

“Shut up, woman, and put down that gun. I’m not some damned female you can complain to.”

“Huh. Find me another woman foolish enough to stay out here and I’ll gladly complain to her. No doubt she would be looking for the same thing, having been dragged to these Godless plains.”

“I said shut it.” He bolted toward her, hand raised.

She flinched.

He dropped his arm, told her she was lucky he didn’t have the strength today to give her what she deserved. He glanced toward the bedroom, saw the snake’s severed head, the pool of blood. “How many cartridges did you waste killin’ it?”

She ignored the question. She’d heard it so many times before, how they couldn’t waste anything. He never acknowledged her gun skills—or didn’t realize them, so assured was he that she was worth no more than the threadbare calico she wore. If her husband had had any clue about her ability with firearms, he might have kept his haranguing to himself. Particularly while she had a pistol in her grip. “Would you close the door?”

Hiram took his seat at the table. “Not till the stench of burned supper is gone. And you’d better have salvaged somethin’ for me to eat.”

She gave him the stew, then dug the centers out of the charred biscuits and gave him most of those, too. For her own supper, she drizzled a ladle of broth over the rest of the salvaged centers.

The man who sat across from her acted more animal than human lately, and she wondered whether this prosperous life out West was affecting him as much as it was her.

Hiram Messenger wasn’t the man she’d married. At least, she thought he wasn’t. In truth, she hadn’t taken time to get to know him beforehand. She had wanted adventure, and Hiram had said all the right things to get her attention. They had climbed aboard his wagon and headed West immediately after the preacher had declared them joined.

She realized, too, that she wasn’t the woman Hiram had married. This savage land changed a person, she knew that now.

Of late, she had speculated over whether Western cities might offer more. She’d suggested that to Hiram, but he was bound and determined to be a farmer. A sod-buster. Lately, though, the changes she had seen in him had been more disturbing. Instead of mending straps or sharpening plow blades during the evenings, he sat and stared. He stared for hours at her while she cooked and scrubbed and mended and fought off rodents and snakes and peered out windows for Indians and checked latches on doors.

A rattlesnake slithered across the threshold and toward the small pine table where they sat.

Lucinda yelped, flew from her chair, and grabbed the gun. Hiram seized the snake, moving quicker than she’d ever seen him move. “Only one way to cure your fears, woman. Throw you into the pit.” He flung it toward her.

The snake sank its fangs into her left arm. Hot pain shot toward her shoulder. She beat at the reptile with the pistol. It let go, dropped to the floor and slithered toward the man.

“Shoot the damn thing,” he ordered.

“What kind of an animal are you?” she shrieked. “Who does that to a person?” She was dead anyway, she was sure of it. She aimed the pistol at the man and squeezed the trigger.

He dropped.

She turned the gun on the snake and fired. Its severed head slammed up against the wall, leaving its body twitching on the floor.

She jerked loose her apron strings, used them as a tourniquet, and grabbed a butcher knife….

A woman called out from the back of the crowded courtroom. “How did you survive that snake?”

“I shot him,” Lucinda said before she fully remembered where she was.

Every female in the gathering applauded.

Judge Stanton brought down the gavel. “Order!”

Gerber smiled. “I believe she means the bite, Mrs. Messenger. The venom?”

“Yes, of course. An old Indian couple found me unconscious, made a poultice—I do not know what was in it—and I eventually recovered.

“I remember thinking that I would use the third bullet on myself, if the poison became too much to bear. Working fast, I cut a cross, drew out the blood.”

“What happened then?” asked Gerber.

“I went south to start a new life.”

Judge Stanton peered at his pocket watch, then at the clock. “Now is as good a time as any for a recess. Court will reconvene at one o’clock. Sharp.” He emphasized the last word with the gavel.

When they returned, there wasn’t a woman left outside the courtroom for twenty miles. Spotting his wife among the spectators, one of the jurors sprang to his feet. “Mrs. Billings, who is minding the store?”

“Mr. Billings, you’re the one who insisted on having seven children to help with the work. It’s high time they gave their worn-out mother a break.”

Laughter swept the courtroom.

Mr. Billings bowed elaborately. “No one deserves a break more than you do, my dear.”

The second round of laughter was tamped down by the judge’s gavel. “Mrs. Messenger, please take the stand. I remind you that you are still under oath. Gerber, proceed.”

“Your Honor?” Halsted said.

“Prosecutor?”

“If it please the court, I would like to question the defendant regarding her statements prior to lunch.”

“Granted.”

Halsted grabbed his own set of the dime novels—many more than those exhibited earlier by Mr. Gerber—and eagerly approached the witness. He indicated the cover of the one on top. “Mrs. Messenger, do you recognize these weapons?”

Lucinda studied the image. “I know that the long-barreled ones are rifles, and—”

“Madam, are these images of your weapons?”

“No, they are not.”

“Do you carry a weapon?”

“Only the tiniest of derringers in my reticule. A lady alone cannot be too careful in the wilds of the West.”

“Mrs. Messenger, do you deny that you are indeed Lucy Angel?”

“I have used that name.”

“I mean to say, are you the Lucy Angel portrayed in these books?” He shook the stack in her face.

“Step back, Counselor,” the judge said.

When Halsted retreated, Lucinda said, “Since I have not read them, and since I have not to my knowledge been interviewed by”—she leaned forward to get a better look at the cover—“J. B. Pendleton, I would have to say that I am not.”

“How, then, do you account for the fact that Lucy Angel: Rattlesnake Slayer of the Lone Prairie is the same story you shared with us this morning?”

Lucinda’s lips parted in surprise. “I’m afraid I do not know. The only time I ever used the name was wh—” She interrupted herself, looked from Halsted to her own attorney.

Gerber nodded slightly.

Halsted seized the lifeline. “When, Mrs. Messenger? Who knew you as Lucy Angel?”

“I had traveled to San Francisco,” she said, “where the only acceptable work I could find was in a café too near the docks. I was walking home one night when a drunk accosted me. I wounded him with my derringer, and was taken to the jailhouse. There, I spent several hours answering questions for an officer who said he needed as many facts as possible for his report.

“I recall now, he commented more than once on the fascinating account of my life. I told him there was nothing fascinating about it, that I was only trying to survive.

“But,” she concluded, “surely the character in those books isn’t me.”

“Surely, it is.” To the judge, Halsted said, “Nothing further at this time.”

Another fork in the road, Gerber thought. His strategy included plans to reveal the story behind the Lucy Angel of novel lore, even though he had not let his client in on the particulars of that strategy. Halsted had beat him to the punch, but Gerber felt confident he could turn it to their advantage. “Mrs. Messenger, were you aware of your reputation as a female gunslinger before we began preparing your defense?”

“No, and frankly, I am still a bit stunned by it all.”

“Why, then, did you change your name when you moved?”

“At first, I was frightened, alone. After I left the homestead, I thought about the name Messenger. That led to Gabriel, the archangel who delivered a message. I had delivered the message that a barbarian posing as a man should not physically, mentally, verbally, and emotionally abuse the helpmeet God had blessed him with. And, I vowed to God that if I ever found another female being treated that way, I would help her.

“By the time I arrived in Texas, I was going by the name Lucy Gabriel.”

“When you were sworn in, I couldn’t help but notice your reaction to the Bible.”

“Not to the Bible. Rather, to its abuse.”

“So”—Gerber reached for the court’s Bible—“this particular book did not cause your distress?”

“No.” Lucinda watched her lawyer raise the Book. She stiffened. She knew how difficult it would be to tell the story, yet she must. If people weren’t made aware of sin, how could they possibly prevent it in the future?

“What did, then?”

She spoke, and as she did, she thought her words sounded distant, muffled, as if uttered through an oppressive haze of southern heat….

The boardinghouse was run by a retired school marm named Ruth Porterfield, who welcomed Lucinda with open arms. The two women bonded quickly, as is the way of women. Ruth helped Lucinda find work as a housekeeper at the town’s largest hotel, and it didn’t take long for the newcomer to settle into the pace of the bustling Texas community. After a few weeks, she had her new life nicely tacked down.

One afternoon, Lucinda returned to the house early from work and found Mrs. Porterfield seated at the kitchen table, crying. A newspaper was spread open before her.

“Ruth?” Lucinda touched the woman’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, dear.” She blotted her face with her apron. “I cry when I get angry. Always have. It’s an irritating trait.”

“I think it shows compassion. Now, tell me, what has you in such a state?”

Ruth stood, and jabbed her index finger into the paper, smudging the ink. “Them.”

Lucinda skimmed the article about an evangelist coming to town to lead a tent revival.

“The nerve of the townsfolk, allowing him to come back here.”

“You mean The Reverend Malachi Thompson? I don’t understand.”

Ruth told Lucinda about questionable events surrounding the reverend’s visit the year before. She had witnessed signs of a vile relationship between the man and his young granddaughter who traveled with him.

“Did you attend his services last year?”

“Two or three, before I reported him. No one believed me. They now think I’m a crazy old woman. Before he preaches, the little girl sings. Did I tell you? Prettiest voice I’ve ever heard. I would like to hear that again.” Ruth stared out the window, her expression wistful for a moment. “Damn him,” she shouted as she slammed her palm against the table. “Damn him to hell.”

Lucinda had never heard a woman curse before. She promised Ruth that she would be on the alert.

What Lucinda observed of the reverend and his granddaughter over the next few days could easily have been seen as benign affection—if she hadn’t had those depraved thoughts planted in her head by Ruth.

On the third day, Lucinda realized that she had not transferred the linens from the supply closet on the hotel’s fourth floor to the one on the second. The manager in turn had warned employees not to disturb the reverend in the afternoon when he was preparing his evening sermon. Lucinda decided to retrieve the linens while the reverend and his granddaughter were in the restaurant.

She was in the closet directly across from their room when she heard their voices. She decided to wait. Once they were in their room, she would descend the back staircase in plenty of time to finish her tasks.

The reverend said, “Claire, you were a good girl in the restaurant, very respectable to the others.”

“Thank you, Grandfather.”

Lucinda smiled, questioned whether Ruth’s imagination had run away with itself.

The reverend unlocked their door and stepped aside for the girl to enter.

Lucinda held her breath, listening for the door to close. Just before she heard the latch click, though, she heard the reverend say, “Claire, honey, I think it’s time you earned yourself a new bonnet.”

The man’s insinuating tone struck Lucinda and she sank to the floor. She thought she was going to be sick.

At length, she rose and smoothed her apron. She had not survived her own ordeal to turn her back on this child. She had found strength, and she must use that strength for those who were weak.

She was astounded at how quickly the answer came to her. She left the linens, silently descended the back staircase, and walked briskly to the boardinghouse.

“I knew it,” exclaimed Ruth when Lucinda confirmed her fears. “What should we do?”

Lucinda said, “I have a solution. In order to protect you, though, I will not share it. Swear you will tell no one.”

“I solemnly swear. You can trust me.”

“I must move fast. Is your rifle any good?”

“The best, why?”

“No questions. Where’s the tent set up?”

Ruth told her.

“I need your buggy.”

“Done. Joe over at the livery will fix you up, just like he did for our picnic last month.”

The tent’s canvas looked stark, almost ghostly, as it waited in the afternoon heat for the hope-filled attendees who would begin arriving at dusk. The sides were rolled up and tied in order to take advantage of the evening breeze.

Lucinda surveyed the area, studied angles, fine-tuned her approach. When she had everything in order, she returned to town to dress for the meeting.

“I am channeling The Almighty Himself!” he bellowed by way of introduction as he brought the Bible down with a mighty force against the oaken lectern.

The Reverend Malachi Thompson was all hellfire and brimstone that night, adding to the thick, hot air that hung in the tent like a pall when the breeze died. Slamming fist against pulpit, slamming the Bible, he stomped the plank platform upon which he stood.

After a while, he settled into his message and people—women, mostly—ducked out of the long meeting to go do their business or tend fussy infants. More time passed, and here or there a man would quietly leave, returning after a few minutes. Nearly two hours into the service, Lucinda slipped out of the tent and headed down the path toward the outhouse she had been told was for the womenfolk.

It was nearly pitch black out, and Lucinda’s widow’s weeds helped her blend into the darkness. She moved slowly till her eyes adjusted.

She surveyed the area around her and determined that no one else was on the path. Backbreaking work on the homestead had strengthened her, and she thought how it was all part of the armor God had provided her. For the second time that day, she climbed the tree.

Two dark leather straps held the Winchester to the top of a branch, one securing the barrel, the other holding the stock in place. With fluid movements, she unclasped the front strap, pivoted the barrel, drew a bead, held her breath, and squeezed the trigger.

The reverend slumped forward against the podium, then slid out of sight behind it. During those seconds, as a stunned congregation watched the scene play out before them, Lucinda refastened the strap, dropped to the ground, and ducked into the outhouse.

After a moment, she heard the sounds of someone approaching. When he was almost upon her, she stepped from the privy.

“Ma’am? Pardon, have you seen any men out here?” The man was out of breath.

“Men?” She brought her hand to her throat. “Did I come to the wrong—?”

“No.” He waved off the notion. “Nothing like that. The reverend’s been shot.”

“Shot? Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma’am. Any men spotted out here?”

“No, I haven’t seen any men out here.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be out here alone. I’m taking you back up to the tent.”

She nodded, felt an odd comfort as he gripped her arm just above the two scars.

Someone coughed.

Lucinda jumped, surveyed the courtroom. The silence echoed.

Her attorney was still standing there, and she tried to shake the feeling that she had been in a trance or a deep sleep.

“Are you prepared to move on?”

She nodded.

“Please relay the events of the morning of July fourth.”

“Mrs. Calloway answered the door, and I noticed immediately that she had been injured. She smiled slightly, though, and allowed me into the foyer. I explained that her husband wanted to see the flyer correction before the crates were unloaded.

“I waited while she announced me, and heard how unkind he was toward her.”

“Do you recall what he said?”

Lucinda nodded. “He told her that she knew not to enter his library and that he would handle the problem himself. Then, it sounded like he sprang from his chair, and Mrs. Calloway made a little…yelp, I suppose is how I would describe it. The door flew open, she rushed past me, and her husband bellowed for me to come in.”

Lucinda’s pulse pounded in her ears. She fought the urge to grip her arm.

“Take your time, Mrs. Messenger,” Gerber said as he sent a look to the judge that dared him to rush the woman at this stage of the trial.

She exhaled. “He was putting on his jacket as I entered the room, but I saw that he wore a shoulder holster over the left side of his chest.”

“Did you notice whether it contained a gun?”

“Yes, sir. It did.”

“Continue.”

“I was upset over what I had heard, and didn’t want to even be in the same room with him. I handed him the print proof, and said that Mr. Larkin would have the boxes sent to the park gazebo, as originally arranged. I excused myself, but he rudely told me that I had not been dismissed, and that he would be allowed the courtesy of my silence while he verified the correction.

“My heart was pounding hard enough, I suspected he could see it shaking my body.”

“Were you afraid of him?” asked Gerber.

“Not at first. I saw him as someone who wanted to be in control, to have the upper hand. I have seen many women like Mrs. Calloway, and I believe God has given me a voice for those women. Therefore, I confronted the man. Before I knew what had happened, he had grabbed my wrists and wrenched them, forcing me onto his lap. I tried to struggle, but he was more than twice my size. He laughed then, and said he wished he had a feisty woman instead of that—I’m sorry, Mrs. Calloway—that milquetoast he had been saddled with.

“He let go of my left wrist with his right hand, and clamped it around the nape of my neck. I put up a real struggle then, started to cry out.” Lucinda brought her hand to her throat and swallowed. “That’s when he grabbed my throat. I fumbled for the gun. I thought that if I could scare him with it, he would back off. As I pulled the gun loose from the clip, and pivoted the barrel toward him, it went off. I had no idea it was one of the new double-action pistols.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Messenger, nothing further.”

“Halsted?” said Judge Stanton.

Halsted approached, thinking how he had never seen the likes of this case. Remarkably, the woman seemed innocent of the crime for which she was on trial. Yet, she had admitted to other killings. Rather than cover up the rumors—the legend of Lucy Angel—who was most assuredly the woman seated before him in the witness box, the defense had looked it boldly in the face and attacked it. If the strategy works, Halsted thought, I must try it.

Today, though, he had a job to do. He said to the defendant, “Do you deny that you have blatantly taken the lives of three men?”

“Yes.”

“Yes? But—”

“None, sir, were blatant. All were in defense.”

“Were there more than three?”

“Objection! Irrelevant.”

“Sustained.”

“Three, then. Nothing further.”

Judge Stanton glanced at his watch. 2:45. He should have just enough time to make the 4:15 train. “Closing statements, gentlemen.”

Halsted drank water from the glass—more than anything, it was a means of collecting himself—and approached the juror’s box. “This woman has appeared before you today and admitted to killing three men. Murdering them. She even had the audacity to share her lawless ways with a writer. Gentlemen, I implore you. Do not allow her feminine wiles, her notions of some cosmic justice to sway you. She could have asked for help from the authorities. She could have walked away. She could have remembered her place as a lady and avoided confrontation. Lastly, she could have minded her own business, and not interfered in the privacy of marriage. Be mindful of our laws when you govern this case.”

Matthew Gerber waited for Halsted to sit before he addressed the jury. “Gentlemen, the real victim in the case set before you is our very own defendant, Lucinda Messenger. She did not kill Asa Calloway because of his repeated abuse to his wife. She shot him in self-defense when he, like an animal, physically attacked her. You have seen what hanging a man does to his throat. Imagine, if you will, the beefy hands of Asa Calloway around the slender throat of Lucinda Messenger. If she had not acted swiftly and with a cool head, she surely would not be here now to relate her story.

“Do not allow the prosecution to make you believe that this woman is anything less than a survivor, a champion of the weak, an angel of mercy.”

Gerber clasped his hands on the rail of the jury box. “God placed Lucinda Messenger in harm’s way to help those in need. Who was she to question that calling? Could any one of you have left a child to the devices of a barbarian hiding behind the Word of God? You could not. There is a greater justice in having saved that child.

“Does any among you condemn her for defending herself against a husband so cold-blooded that he would throw her into the viper’s pit?

“Those nightmarish events gave her the strength not to be a victim when she was brutally attacked by Asa Calloway.”

The jurors deliberated for only twenty minutes.

Judge Mortal D. Stanton brought down the gavel with vigor.

The foreman of the jury handed a folded slip of paper to the bailiff, who in turn handed it to the judge.

Stanton opened and read the slip. “Will the defendant rise?”

Lucinda Messenger and her attorney stood.

“Gentlemen of the jury, what say you?”

The foreman rose. “Your Honor, in the matter of the territory versus Mrs. Lucinda Messenger, we find the defendant not guilty.”

The crowd whooped. The women sprang to their feet and applauded (save Kathleen Calloway, who fought her way through the press of people and out of the courtroom).

Judge Stanton said, “Mrs. Messenger, you’re free to go. Court dismissed.” One more strike of the gavel, and he was gone. Many years later, long after he had forgotten about clocks and trains, the Lucinda Messenger trial would form the centerpiece of his memoirs.

The crowd scattered. Lucinda lowered herself back into the chair.

Matthew Gerber confirmed that she was all right before making his way toward the cluster of reporters waiting in the foyer. He had no way of knowing that among the cluster was one J. B. Pendleton, scribbling across the top of his pad a title for his next book: Lucy Angel and the Devil of Destination Point.

After another moment, Lucinda breathed a sigh, then stood and turned. Two women faced her, smiling tentatively. The younger one’s eyes glittered with hope as the older said, “Mrs. Messenger, would you care to join us for tea?”

Lucinda’s eyes welled. “That is so kind of you. Yes.”

They linked arms. The older woman said, “Your dear lawyer should keep those reporters busy enough that we can sweep you right out of here.”

“Is it true that you carry one of them derringers?” asked the young woman.

“Of course. As I said, a lady alone cannot be too careful.”

“I need to get me one.” The young woman’s brow wrinkled. “Men seem to have guns everywhere upon their person, have you noticed?”

Lucinda Messenger nodded, but it didn’t concern her. She wondered whether the men of the world would ever understand the power of women united.

As the three walked down the street, they were joined by one woman, then another, and another.

Two blocks behind them, a little girl watched. She pointed to the trail of women and exclaimed, “Mother, look! May I follow the Pied Piper, too?”