The Ballad Of Emma O'toole

What had happened to his winnings? Probably snatched up and pocketed by some bystander when no one was looking. And that was a pity. If the verdict went against him, which seemed likely, he would have wanted the girl to have the cash and mining stock certificates. No matter how much her bullheaded refusal to listen to the truth irked him, it would be the least he could do for her and for the child his bullet had orphaned.

Was this the end fate had decreed for him? Logan did his best to scoff at notions of destiny, but as the son of a French Creole father and a half-breed Cherokee mother, superstition was bred into his very bones. On his twentieth birthday his grandmother had read his tarot and predicted a violent life. Three years later, he’d fled New Orleans with blood on his hands. Now it had happened again. Maybe he was fated to meet death at the end of a rope. If so, he would face the scaffold with his head held high. The only thing that shook his confidence was the thought of rotting away in a prison cell, instead… .

But never mind that, he wasn’t going down without a fight. His lawyer might be an unassuming little toad of a man, but Logan had detected a glint of intelligence in those pale blue eyes. The next time they met, Logan swore, he’d be ready with a plan and insist that the lawyer follow it. He would find a way out of this mess or die at the end of a rope. Prison was not an option.

The trial of Logan Devereaux was the nearest thing to a circus the small county seat of Coalville had ever seen. The ten days it had taken to arrange for the judge, appoint the lawyers and select the jury had given Hector Armitage time to wire his story to papers all over the country. As for the notorious ballad, it had taken on a life of its own, spreading like the germ of some vile plague.

The defendant had been spirited from Park City to Coalville under cover of darkness to avoid any chance of vigilante justice on the way. There, in the plain rock building that served as jail and meetinghouse, he was locked in a cell with a view of the gallows out back. His punishment, if merited, would be swift and sure.

Emma was now living in Billy John’s old mining shanty. She’d filed the papers for transfer of his claim, but lacked the strength to work it. And with no money to buy healthy food, she knew she would only get weaker. She needed a job, but given her condition and the scandal, who would hire her? The only thing that gave her any strength at all was the thought of the trial, and the justice that would soon be served.

She’d despaired of finding a ride to Coalville on the trial date. But she needn’t have worried. Abel Hansen, the prosecutor, had called her as a witness and offered her a seat in the back of his buggy.

Thus it was she found herself seated in the second row of the spectator section, waiting for the trial to begin. Dressed in her drab gray frock, with her hair pulled back in a knot, she was aware of how haggard she looked. She’d scarcely slept in days and had eaten little more than the dried pinto beans she’d found in an old Arbuckles’ coffee tin. Soaked and boiled over a tiny campfire, the beans were barely edible. Soon even those would be gone.

The courtroom overflowed with people. Those who couldn’t get in waited outside in a sea of buggies, where a carnival atmosphere had taken over. Clearly, the picnicking, drinking revelers hoped to cap off the day’s festivities with a hanging. Earlier, as the prosecutor led Emma through the clamoring crowd, a man with a guitar had struck up the infamous ballad. Raucous voices had joined in the song. By the time she entered the courthouse and reached her seat, Emma had been on the verge of fainting.

Now she sat clutching her shawl, just wanting the nightmare to end. Glancing over her shoulder she saw Hector Armitage sitting three rows back. He flashed her a grin and a cheery wave. Emma willed herself to ignore him as the twelve male jurors filed into place and the bailiff called for order. A hush settled over the courtroom as the defendant was escorted in through a side door.

Emma hadn’t seen Billy John’s killer since her visit to the Park City jail. She’d expected a jolt of satisfaction at the sight of him, facing the justice he deserved. But all she felt was a vague unease. Whatever the day’s outcome, there would be no winner. Billy John lay in a pauper’s grave on the edge of the Park City Cemetery; and no justice, however meted, could bring him back to life. All that remained of him was the child in Emma’s body and the promise she’d made as he died in her arms.

With the conclusion of the trial, she was certain that promise would be fulfilled. And without that to drive her, what would she have left?

For the moment, every eye was fixed on the prisoner. Flanked by armed deputies, Logan Devereaux walked like a captive warrior, his head erect and his face expressionless. He wore a fresh white shirt with the vest and trousers Emma remembered from the saloon. His hair was combed, but evidently no one had trusted him with a razor. The thick, black stubble that shadowed his jaw made him look all the more like the murdering desperado he was.

Finding his seat, he turned slightly. For an instant, his eyes met Emma’s. In their gaze she read pride, rage and stark despair—the same emotions she herself was feeling. A quiver passed through her body as she returned his look. Like two enemies meeting in a fight to the death, they were bound with ties as strong as blood.

“All rise.” A rustle of boots and petticoats followed the bailiff’s command. Two tall men in front of Emma blocked her view.

“Hear ye, hear ye,” the bailiff intoned. “The Summit County Court is now in session, the honorable Judge T. Zachariah Farnsworth presiding.”

At a rap of the gavel the assemblage settled back onto the hard wooden benches. Only then could Emma see the judge.

T. Zachariah Farnsworth was a hulk of a man, old enough for his shoulders to have sagged into a forward hunch. Graphite eyes peered from beneath jutting black brows. A patriarchal beard fringed his heavy jaw. His very presence exuded an air of solemn authority. While the bailiff read the charges and the opening statements were made, he glowered over the crowd of gentile sinners like Saint Peter at the gate of heaven.

“The prosecution may call its first witness,” he rumbled.

First to be called was the undertaker and acting coroner, who’d examined Billy John’s body. When questioned by Abel Hansen, he described how the small-caliber bullet had penetrated below the collarbone, nicking a vital artery and causing the victim to bleed to death.

Logan Devereaux’s public defender rose to cross-examine. An unassuming, bespectacled little man, he spoke with a slight lisp.

“Just a couple of questions, sir. In your opinion, if the bullet had missed the aforementioned artery, would the wound have otherwise been fatal?”

“With decent medical attention, probably not.”

“Again, in your opinion, would a man firing at close range with intent to kill have aimed for the spot where Mr. Devereaux’s bullet struck?”

“Objection!” Abel Hansen was on his feet.

“Sustained,” the judge growled. “Confine your questions to the witness’s realm of expertise, Mr. Snedeger.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.” Snedeger turned away, the ghost of a smile flickering across his homely face. Emma knew next to nothing about the legal process, but even she understood that the lawyer had planted a seed of doubt in the minds of the jurors. So far, this trial was not going the way she’d expected.

“The prosecution calls Miss Emma O’Toole to the stand.”

Abel Hansen’s voice startled Emma out of her musings. Scrambling to collect her thoughts, she rose and made her way to the aisle at the end of the bench. The prosecutor had rehearsed the questions with her on the way to Coalville, making sure she was well prepared. But Emma’s nerves were screaming. Her mouth was so parched that she felt as if her tongue might crack.

“Don’t be afraid to show some emotion,” Hansen had told her. “When it comes to winning over a jury, a woman’s tears can be a powerful weapon.”

Good advice. But as Emma took the stand and placed her hand on the Bible, she felt emotionally frozen. As for tears, they’d refused to come, even when she was alone. It was as if they were locked in the depths of her heart.

Everyone was staring at her, but it was Logan Devereaux’s eyes she felt, impaling her like a lance. Emma’s throat tightened. Tearing her gaze away, she focused on Abel Hansen’s bland, Nordic features and thinning hair.

“State your full name for the court.”

“Emma Eliza O’Toole.”

“And you were the fiancée of the deceased Billy John Carter?”

“Yes. We were planning to be married.”

“To your knowledge, had Mr. Carter ever been known to behave in a violent or threatening manner?”

“Oh, no. Billy John was the gentlest person I’ve ever known. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Ask anybody who knew him.”

Walking to the evidence table, Hansen picked up the rust-streaked Colt .45 that lay there. “Do you recognize this weapon, Miss O’Toole?” he asked.

“Yes. It was Billy John’s.”

“And how did he come by it?”

“He found it in the mud behind a saloon. He meant to clean the gun and get it working so he could sell it for a little extra money, but he…never found the time.”

“So you’re saying he couldn’t have fired the gun in this condition?” Hansen displayed the mud-clogged cylinder.

“No. I doubt he could have so much as loaded it. Not even if he’d wanted to.”

“In other words, Billy John Carter was unarmed when the defendant shot him.”

“Objection!” Snedeger shouted. “Calls for a conclusion!”

“Sustained,” the judge thundered.

There were a few more questions from the prosecutor, none of them surprising. Emma answered them calmly, with dry eyes. Abel Hansen scowled at her in dismay.

Snedeger’s cross-examination was blessedly brief. “My condolences for your loss, Miss O’Toole. I have just one question. Did you witness the actual shooting?”

“No, I arrived after it happened.”

With that, Emma was excused to take her seat. Her pulse was racing, her skin clammy with sweat beneath her clothes. Her testimony, she realized, had established very little. Yes, she’d made it clear that Billy John’s gun was unusable…but did that matter if the other people in the saloon on that dreadful night hadn’t known the truth?

Over the course of the next hour, the prosecution called three more witnesses, one a firearms expert. Emma had expected the trial to be a simple matter—brisk testimony from a handful of people, then a guilty verdict followed by a speedy hanging. But no one seemed to be in a hurry. Emma’s fingers twisted the fringe on her shawl. Her empty belly was growling, her bladder threatening mutiny. She could only hope Logan Devereaux was suffering the torments of hell as he waited for the trial’s outcome.

“The defense calls Doctor Michael Kostandis.” Snedeger’s words galvanized Emma’s attention. Heads swiveled as the elderly dentist hobbled to the stand, leaning on a cane to aid his arthritic knees. Dressed in a rumpled gray suit, he was freshly shaven, his unruly silver hair slicked back from his face. The witness chair creaked under his weight.

“Doctor Kostandis,” Snedeger began, “you were playing poker with the defendant before the shooting took place. Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“Please tell us everything you remember about what happened that night.”

The old man shifted in the chair. “There were four of us, playing five-card draw in the Crystal Queen—Devereaux, Tom Emery, Axel Thorson and myself. Devereaux had just won some cash and a pile of mining stock from Emery when this wild-eyed kid walked up to the table, threw down his poke and asked to play.”

“By ‘wild-eyed kid’ you mean the victim, Billy John Carter?”

“Yes, though victim is your word, not mine. Emery and Thorson were leaving, so Devereaux and I let him in the game.” The old man fished a clean handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “You could tell the kid wasn’t much of a player, but he got lucky and won a few hands. Had a nice little pile in front of him. I was hoping he’d be smart enough to take his winnings and go home but he stuck in there like a burr on a coyote.

“When I drew a fourth king, I decided to bet most of what I’d won that night, maybe teach the young whelp a lesson. The boy pushed everything he had to the middle of the table. I added enough to see his bet. Devereaux had folded, so I laid down my cards—four kings and a nine.

“By now, folks at the bar had turned to watch. The kid was as jittery as a June bug. You could tell something was up. He fumbled a little with his cards, then laid down four aces and a deuce.”

“And what did Mr. Devereaux do?”

“Didn’t say a word. Just turned over his hand—three sevens, a jack and the ace of clubs.”

A fifth ace! A murmur, like wind through winter wheat, swept through the courtroom. Emma felt sick. She hadn’t wanted to believe that Billy John had cheated, but she couldn’t doubt the old man’s story. And apparently, Billy John hadn’t just cheated, he’d cheated stupidly, slipping in an extra ace without bothering to account for whether one of the other players had the real card.

“The lad was scooping the pile into a sack when he saw his mistake,” the old man continued. “That was when he whipped that big old .45 out of his coat and held it to the side of my head. ‘My girl’s in a family way and I need this money,’ he said. ‘The old man’s coming outside with me. Don’t anybody try to stop us or I’ll shoot him.’

“I knew he wanted me to get up,” Kostandis said. “But with my bad knees, that takes some doing. The harder I tried, the crazier he got. He said he’d give me three seconds to get on my feet, and he started to count. One…two…” The old man was shaking, overcome by the memory.

“What happened on the count of three?” Snedeger asked gently.

“Devereaux drew his derringer and shot him.”

“Were you aware that Carter’s pistol wouldn’t fire?”

“Hell, no. I thought the young fool was going to blow my brains out. And I’m sure Logan Devereaux thought the same thing. When he pulled that trigger, we both believed he was saving my life.”

The jury deliberated less than two hours. Emma had passed the time in a quiet corner with a dry beef sandwich that some kind soul had thrust into her hands. The trial had drained her appetite, but her baby needed the nourishment. She took small bites, forcing herself to chew and swallow.

The judge had charged the jury to find on three counts—first degree murder, second degree murder and manslaughter. After hearing the old dentist’s testimony, Emma no longer felt confident of the “guilty” first degree murder verdict that would lead to a hanging. But at least she could hope the judge would send Logan Devereaux to prison for a very long time.

Now, as the jurors filed back into their seats, Emma’s chest tightened, almost choking off her breath. Her palms were clammy. Her pulse skittered.

“The defendant will please rise.”

Logan Devereaux rose to his feet. His head was high, his spine so rigid that it might have been braced with a ramrod. He stood in silence as the verdict was read.

“On the count of first degree murder, we the jury find the defendant not guilty.”

A quiver rippled across his taut shoulders. At the very least, he wasn’t going to hang.

“On the count of second degree murder, we the jury find the defendant not guilty.”

Emma sagged in her seat. Heaven save her, was Billy John’s killer about to go free?

“On the count of manslaughter in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant…guilty.”

An audible sigh swept through the courtroom. Logan Devereaux swayed slightly, then appeared to steady himself as he waited for the judge to pronounce sentence.

T. Zachariah Farnsworth leaned forward, his expression as stern as a great horned owl’s. “Mr. Devereaux, you’ve been tried and found guilty of manslaughter by a jury of your peers. For your crime I hereby sentence you to five years in the Utah Territorial Prison.”

A shudder passed through Devereaux’s body. Emma pressed her hands to her face to hide her emotion. Hector Armitage had sprung to his feet and was pushing his way toward the aisle.

“Order!” The gavel rapped sharply. The judge’s scowl deepened as silence settled over the courtroom. “Given the extenuating circumstances, this court is willing to consider an alternative form of sentencing. Miss Emma O’Toole, would you please rise?”

Trembling and bewildered, Emma stood. The judge cleared his throat.

“As I understand it, the death of Mr. Billy John Carter has left this young woman and her unborn child with no means of support. Mr. Devereaux, in lieu of prison, would you be willing to marry the girl and provide that support?”

Emma’s jaw dropped in shock, and she knew she wasn’t alone in her astonishment. The whole courtroom was silent enough to hear a pin drop. Even the gambler’s calm mask had given way to pure, wide-eyed surprise.

“Understand that if you fail in your duty as a husband, if you abandon your wife, or mistreat her or her child in any way, you’ll be thrown into prison to serve your sentence.” He paused, giving his words time to penetrate. “How say you, Mr. Devereaux? Are you willing?”

Without so much as a glance at Emma, Devereaux answered. “Yes, Your Honor, I’m willing.”

“And you, Miss O’Toole?”

How could this nightmare be happening? Emma struggled to find her voice. “Mr. Devereaux killed the father of my child. What if I refuse to marry him?”

“If you refuse to allow him to serve the terms of the sentence he has agreed to fulfill then, dear girl, I shall be compelled to suspend his sentence and set him free.”

Emma’s hands clenched beneath her shawl. She’d promised Billy John, promised him on her mother’s grave, that the gambler would pay for what he’d done. If Logan Devereaux went free, she had no doubt he’d leave town, and she lacked the means to follow him and keep that promise. Only as Logan’s wife could she ensure access to him to exact her vengeance. Hanging was no longer an option, but at least she could make living as much a misery for him as possible.

It seemed there was no other way to keep her vow.

“Miss O’Toole, do you plan to keep us here all day? What’s your decision?”

Emma braced her knees to keep them from giving way beneath her. “You leave me little choice,” she said. “I’ll take him.”

The judge glanced at the bailiff. “Escort the prisoner and Miss O’Toole to chambers for the ceremony. Doctor Kostandis, you may come along to serve as witness. As for the rest of you, go home. Leave these people to settle their differences in peace.”

At the final crack of the gavel, the courtroom erupted in pandemonium.

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