Papa, but he sold them along with his own—not to Port Hubbard. He bought a ranch further west, in the Davis Mountains.
And Delia Larabee? She married Papa. I was one of their six sons.
The Devil Doesn’t Sleep
Deborah Morgan
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