CHAPTER 8
Forsythe’s Justice
THERE is nothing more annoying than waiting. Even if you did not like where you were, at least you were there and knew where you stood. If you didn’t care for whatever was happening, you would know that too because you would be there and, thereby, amongst the first to know you didn’t like it. The second to know would be the one with your fist in his face. Of course, then he wouldn’t much care for the situation either but, when all was said and done, he was in the same predicament because he was there. Not being there meant not knowing and not knowing meant you were in the unenviable position known as ‘waiting’.
Gideon Fletcher was waiting. If one wanted to be mild, it could be said he was extremely annoyed. He had been relegated to standing in the narrow corridor whilst Rivers and Gandy, intruders at best, spoke with the judge about his affairs— which made no sense at all seeing as they were his affairs. Grammar had never been Gideon’s specialty, but possessives he had dead to rights. He was also more than passing familiar with the disaster city men referred to as a legal system and, as far as he was concerned, it had nothing whatsoever to recommend it. He made another about-face and retraced his steps, his tattered boots unnaturally loud against the plank floor.
Ya know what you got? A pure lack-a faith.
Ain’t much as never gived me cause for that trait.
Gideon was starting to wonder if he had pulled Nelson’s neck out of a noose only to put his own in one. What could total strangers possibly discuss about him for so long? Of course, if he were there, he would know, wouldn’t he?
“I should be in there,” he said, turning on his heel.
“The judge asked to speak with them alone, Gov.”
It was just possible the only thing more annoying than being forced to wait was being guarded by Aspen Rivers at the same time.
“How d’y’all have yourselves no judge nohow?” Gideon demanded peevishly. “This here ain’t no state-a no union.”
They weren’t even in a proper courthouse, though it was a tall step up from the dirty hole of a saloon Tarlston had called a court. This stone and timber building operated as a general catchall for official business ranging from trials, to meetings, to housing the town newspaper, and sheltering Caswell Crossing’s budding women’s association— which currently boasted more ambition than members.
“The town voted,” Aspen replied. “Some of us think a man should be tried before he’s hanged, statehood or no statehood.”
The judge’s chambers suddenly expelled a sour-faced man with an obvious grievance, possibly against all of creation. Given the glare he directed at Gideon— which bored through his chest, came out the other side and nailed him to a grave of his very own— the man’s current grievance probably had a more localized target.
“Who’s that?” Gideon asked, as the townsman stomped away.
“Reed. He owns the harness shop,” Aspen said, still slouched on his bench.
Gideon was far from convinced that having a judge made anything aboveboard, impartial or fair— especially if that Reed fellow had any say over it.
“I should be in there,” he repeated, agitation growing.
“Breaking down the door will not help. Patience will.”
Fine for him to say. Aspen Rivers could afford all the patience he liked, he couldn’t possibly understand. He wasn’t a Harris rider. He hadn’t been there. A curse burst from Gideon and he kicked the wall.
“Relax, Gov,” Aspen soothed. “Pa will sort this out.”
“It’s mine to do,” Gideon argued doggedly.
“You really have no idea how to accept help do you?”
“Dunno, ain’t never needed none. ‘Sides, how do I know whatall they’re a-sayin’? Mebbe it ain’t no help. They ain’t got ’em no cause.”
Gideon resumed his pacing. If he didn’t get his hands on Nelson and have a nice, private chat about a mutual acquaintance, the road ahead would be very long indeed. It would be long anyway; the promise Gideon had made was no casual matter. All the same, it taunted and jeered at him every moment it remained unfinished.
“Have you given any thought to what you’ll do when this is finished?” Aspen wondered idly.
Afterwards? Likely Gideon would drift. What else was there? Signing on with another outfit seemed. . . wrong. Maybe he would try his hand at trapping or join the express riders. Not that he would tell Aspen even if he had an answer to give.
“How long they been in there?” Gideon demanded.
The evasion answered Aspen’s question as clearly as if he had turned the pages of Gideon's mind and read the shattered morphological remnants standing ragged duty as sentences.
“Sit down, will you? You’ll wear the floor out.”
“How long?” Gideon insisted.
Aspen checked his pocket watch for the umpteenth time. “Five minutes more than the last time you asked, for a grand total of one hour and thirty-five minutes.”
The door to the judge’s office opened and Gideon froze mid-pace. Amos stepped into the hallway and thoughtfully closed the door behind himself. Gideon wanted to scream at him to forget the infernal door and talk for pity’s sake!
“Nelson has given his statement,” Amos announced.
“Where is he?” asked Gideon.
“Well on his way to Topherville.”
Gone. Nelson was gone. Gideon’s best chance to get the information he needed had slipped right through his fingers. Life’s tally really was getting rather long.
“Gideon?” said Amos.
“Huh?”
“I said the judge would like to see you,” Amos repeated patiently.
In a daze, Gideon followed Amos into the office. Tall bookshelves with glass fronts lined the walls, the floor rug was old yet still showed echoes of its expensive origins, and diffused sunlight shone through a wide, curtained window.
“Gideon Fletcher?” said the judge, from behind a wooden desk stained dark. He was a thin, white-haired man in a dark gray, old-fashioned suit. He would be quite tall when he stood, a snake on stilts. An air about him suggested that he belonged to the office and there was nothing new he could possibly hear within its walls. “Is that your name, son?”
“Huh?” said Gideon intelligently.
“Gideon Fletcher, is that your proper name? There seems to be some question.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Mr. Fletcher, are you well?”
Amos, standing to one side with his son and the sheriff, politely elbowed in, “I think, Judge Forsythe, he is rather focused on the business with Nelson.”
Gideon shook himself up, he needed to be here and now, not lamenting Nelson’s departure— especially since he was surrounded by people who all thought he should be pleased to stupidity to see the milk-sop safely on his way.
The judge examined a document. “I’m told you are from the Nebraska Territory, near the northern border?”
“It’ll do,” Gideon answered.
“Meaning?”
“Were the last place I done hanged a hat.”
“And prior to that?”
Judge Forsythe had the distinct impression whatever he heard next would not be a straight answer. His finely honed instincts were not proven inaccurate.
“Traveled some,” said Gideon vaguely.
“And where would this be, exactly?”
“Ya mean ever’where?”
“Could you perhaps sum it up to a particular territory?”
Forsythe noticed Gideon’s left hand slide down his hip, like a man accustomed to resting a hand on a tied-down gun. Having none, the young man hooked a thumb in his pocket instead. The shrug Forsythe saw coming was the essence of indifference– a nearly perfect affectation.
“West-a the Mis’sippi mostly. What’s it to do with nothin’?”
“Any possibility you could lay it out for me in slightly more specific terms than merely slicing out the States United?” Forsythe suggested.
“Thought ya wanted it short ways?”
Gideon balked.
“Son, do you have any kinfolk?”
That was no kind of question to ask, but that was the law for you, always asking things polite men left alone.
“Mr. Fletcher?” the judge prompted.
“I sure din’t come by post,” Gideon pointed out acerbically.
“Do you, or do you not, have any living relatives?”
“No.”
“A father perhaps?”
“Thankfully dead,” the truth popped out before Gideon’s brain could catch up and the aspersion he added earned him a dark scowl.
“Do not curse in this office,” Forsythe admonished, with a pause to let his directive be acknowledged. “Is there anyone who might post bail for you?”
“Bail?” Gideon heard someone ask, and realized it was him. “I do my own bailin’.”
“So there’s no one who might offer to pay your court fees and promise to keep you on your best behavior?”
“Nope. Ain’t got nobody like that.”
“Amazing,” said Forsythe, almost cheerfully. He was well aware of, and completely unconcerned by, Gideon’s suspicious displeasure. “From what I hear, you have been rather busy. Sheriff Gandy found you socializing with half a dozen rustlers, some of whom were additionally wanted for murder and grand theft. You then resisted arrest– I should say that in the plural– assaulted a duly appointed officer of the law– also in the plural– and attempted to flee. Now there’s an unexpected turn of events. We’ll put that down as ‘Attempted Jail Break’ since escaping once caught is not smiled upon.”
The judge adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles and consulted his stack of papers for more ammunition.
“Prior to that, you worked for a Mr. Nathan Harris and took part in a rather heated disagreement including— and quite probably not limited to– an exchange of gunfire with the hired men of one William Tarlston. You have been tracking one of these men, with intent to kill, and now actively seek the political and social demise of Tarlston himself. Busy indeed. Did I leave anything out?”
Gideon glared at Rivers and Gandy.
“No, do not fault them. You will notice I said ‘intent’, clearly you did not kill Mr. Nelson, since I have seen him alive and well with my own eyes. Now, is this account correct?”
Gideon regarded the judge squarely and stonewalled with willful obstruction.
“You ain’t got nothin’ to say ‘bout Nebraska. Ain’t your terr’tory.”
“Gideon—”
Forsythe lifted a finger to forestall Amos, but his stern gaze did not waver from Gideon. There was no blitheness about the court official now.
“Young man, this is my territory,” the statement indicated the geography beyond the paned window, “and you are standing in it, not Nebraska. This is my office. That rug you’re standing on? Mine. That fancy scrap of paper behind me? My credentials. This,” he touched a rectangular block of polished wood, “this is my name, on my desk. This is my bailiwick; I have everything to say. The less you say is quite possibly to your advantage. Now, let us try this again. Is the summation I gave accurate?”
“Sums?” Gideon said, brow scrunched in honest confusion. “What’s math to do with nothin’?”
“Is the evidence presented—” Forsythe backed himself up and took another run, “Is everything that has been said here the truth?”
“Can’t say as I heard no lie,” Gideon admitted. “Only I wouldn’t call it no crime neither.”
The judge leaned back in his chair, hands folded across his almost nonexistent middle.
“These men have been your compurgators,” he explained, and caught himself up again. “That is, they have spoken for you. They have no doubt you are not a thief— at least not of the livestock in question. And yes, I believe your story or I would not have bargained with Nelson. Now, call me an alarmist, however, from what I can tell, despite the glimmer of a rather promising character and a decided dearth of years, you possess an astonishing predilection for trouble. As I have no desire to see you take a long walk to a short end, today or any other day, I am placing you in the custody of the court. This means, Mr. Fletcher, within the bounds of my authority, I may do with you as I see fit. My decision is that you shall remain under the supervision of Mr. Rivers, unless he objects, for which no one could blame him, and in which case you shall be remanded into our good sheriff’s keeping.”
This last was directed at Amos, who looked briefly at his son, and then answered firmly that he had no objection.
“I object!” Gideon spoke up.
He didn’t know half of the dandied-up words that had been slung at him, but he sure understood he was being sentenced.
“Apparently you have an antipathy for authority,” said the judge. “I wish I could say that was unexpected. You, sir, are not permitted an objection.”
“Ya ain’t—”
“Mr. Fletcher, have you ever experienced stability?”
“I done mucked a few stalls. Slept in some too. So what?”
“That’s rather what I thought.” The judge’s flat hand smacked the desk as if a gavel. “Three years, if Mr. Rivers is exceedingly diligent, might be enough. Amos, keep in touch with Luke. As an officer of the law he will check in periodically to see how you’re getting along. I’ll draw up the papers for you to sign. In the meantime, keep this young man out of mischief. And teach him some manners whilst you’re at it. We are adjourned. Good day, gentlemen.”
Gideon stood there, the decree swirling in his ears, but finding any purchase. He couldn’t be hearing this.
“What?” he managed, as the judge stood up.
“Adjourned. It means we are finished.”
“Ya done said as I’m innocent. Ya can’t lock up an innocent man.”
“Would you care to state— for the public record— what you were doing to be caught with those rustlers?” The judge sat down and picked up a pen. “We can put it in print if you like, of course that would expose your plans regarding Mr. Nelson before your Mr. Tarlston has a chance to reap the educational benefits.”
So what? Ain’t like ya needed Nelson’s story nohow.
Nelson had his uses, but starting rumors wasn’t one of them. Gideon had started that herd moving months ago. All he really needed was a name. Still, if the judge talked, Tarlston might well take a notion to bury Nelson for real. Gideon could see no particular downside to this, except that he would then have to start his hunt for information over again from scratch.
This here judge goes an’ opens his trap ‘bout whatall we’re a-doin’, certain folks could get kind-a jumpy. Might make ‘em a sight harder to run down, ya know?
Great blue blazes!
“Three years?” Gideon protested. “You a-kiddin’?”
“Do I look like a humorous man, Mr. Fletcher? Three years, starting today.”
Forsythe dropped his stack of papers into a drawer and snapped it shut with finality. Hands were then shaken all around until Gideon felt a barter was being sealed— with him as the goods. Life had kicked him in the backside before, and occasionally in the teeth, but this had to be an all-time record for colossal foul-ups.
Get yourself clear-a this here paper wrangler, boyo. We’ll sort the rest out.
“I think you’ll find this an agreeable arrangement,” Amos opinioned, as they stepped out into the sunlight.
Gideon stopped dead in the middle of the boardwalk to confronted Rivers, both senior and junior.
“Y’all know I’m innocent. Now is I or is I ain’t?”
“What you are is in my custody,” replied Amos, electing, for the moment, to ignore the finger prodding his chest, “not a bad alternative to spending three years rotting in a jail cell. Wouldn’t you say?”
Gideon could not wait three years. He had obligations, commitments. He had a life– well, he didn’t really have one of those but he did have things to do and did not need anyone getting in the way.
“Not me, mister,” he averred, turning his back on the Rivers an
d aiming firmly for his own inevitable future. Father and son caught him by the arms, drawing him up short. Gideon looked from one to the other, his incredulity plain. “Ya can’t mean this?”
Aspen gave a single nod. His face was serious, but there was something in those hazel eyes that Gideon could not read. It suggested smugness, hinted at ‘don’t try me’, flirted with amusement, nudged towards understanding, and circled back around to smug.
It really, really made Gideon want to deck him.