Lightnin'

"I am quite aware that it is the Davis case, your Honor," Thomas answered, not without a note of triumph in his voice and demeanor. "I am the attorney for Mrs. Davis."

Thomas's announcement shocked Townsend into dropping a document he held in his hand. It fell on the desk and was blown by the strong east wind that came in from the window clear across the room. "You are?" he asked, with a mouth fallen half open from surprise and annoyance, his spectacles tilting to the end of his nose.

Thomas did not answer at once, but flushed, turning, for the sake of a few moments in which to think, toward the clerk, who was scrambling after the paper. His glance on its way back to the judge met that of Blodgett, which had both a warning and an "I-told-you-so" quality in it.

"Well?" The judge's question was drawn into a length which further embarrassed Thomas. Being a young man of poise, however, he straightened the revers of his coat and settled them with a shake upon his shoulder, replying, graciously, "Mrs. Davis has appointed me in the place of Mr. Adams."

Townsend continued to stare most ungraciously at the young man in front of him, but Thomas, unabashed, went on: "Your Honor, I believe, is familiar with the complaint and has gone over the depositions submitted by the plaintiff. As the defendant has neither entered a denial, put in an appearance, nor been represented in court, I move that the plaintiff be granted an absolute separation from the defendant."

Swift shafts of indignation bolted from Townsend's eyes back and forth between Thomas and Margaret Davis. He saw that consternation was plainly written on the latter's baby face and that tears were gathering in her big blue eyes now pleadingly uplifted to his. His jaw relaxed and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. But Thomas' complacency at the softening in the judge's attitude was too much, and Townsend snapped out, "The motion is denied."

From her chair directly in front of the judge's desk Margaret Davis immediately jumped up, her eyes opening into large, round, moist orbs which threatened to grow moister as she asked, in a voice that fear had robbed of its ingenuousness, "Does that mean I can't get a divorce?"

Thomas was about to reassure her, when he was again interrupted by the judge, whose voice flattened as he looked away from her, afraid to trust the melting effect of her coy glances. "It means that the motion of your counsel is unusual and that I have good and sufficient reasons for denying it," he said, with emphasis.

Margaret put her handkerchief to her eyes to stem the threatening tide, while Thomas hastened to forestall the avalanche by informing her, as he placed a comforting hand on her arm, that he would be able, at least, to try the case.

Had Lem Townsend been able to prevent the latter, he would have done so, but he was too young as a jurist to allow criticism of his knowledge of points of law, and he reluctantly gave consent to the trial of the case.

It was with a beating heart and a jaw set against the impending quiver of a not too slender frame that she held up her hand for the oath and took her place upon the stand, looking about with a terror that was new born in eyes heretofore ungiven to everything but treacle. Her lips trembled an almost inaudible reply to the clerk's question.

She was still standing, and Thomas, noticing this, motioned her to be seated, beginning at the same time her examination.

"Mrs. Davis, where do you live?" he asked. His own tones were of no certain quality, for the firm pressure of Townsend's white lips and his obvious intention of steering clear of any attempt at honeyed coercion on Margaret Davis's part were not encouraging.

In vain she cast her eyes about in an effort to inveigle the sympathy of Lem Townsend. He stared straight ahead at the paper in front of him, although he saw not a word. Her answer to Thomas's question came with a gasp. "New York." Then realizing that her case was lost and her entire six months' sojourn at Calivada was as nothing unless she immediately corrected her mistake, she gasped a second time as she drew the folds of her blue-velvet cape about her. "Oh no! I don't mean that at all. I live here – I live here in Nevada and I've lived here long enough to get a divorce. The judge – " and here she stopped for breath, making another attempt to corral his stubborn favor – "his Honor – " she jerked, with a quick breath, "can tell – you that."

But the judge did not smile and his eyes remained rigid in their sockets as they glared at the paper in his hand.

"Just answer the questions, please, Mrs. Davis," Thomas cautioned her pleasantly, although as a witness she was disconcerting.

"Well," she drawled, fidgeting in her chair, "that's not easy when you're sworn to tell the truth."

A titter ran through the court-room and was brought to an abrupt end by the sheriff's gavel.

Thomas resumed his examination. "You are the wife of Gerald Davis, are you not?"

She nodded.

"And when and where were you married to him?"

"Seven years ago, October fifth – in Peoria." She glanced about at the sea of smiling faces, again seeking sympathy from the judge.

Again he was adamant.

"You were living in Peoria?"

The insinuation that anything less than a metropolis should be her abiding-place was more than she could bear and in turbulent leaps, broken by her gasps for breath, she blurted, her lips quivering and her eyes filling with tears: "I should – say – not! My husband and I were playing there. We were partners doing a dancing act – "

Thomas tried to interrupt her and succeeded with half a question. "When did your husband first show signs of not loving you and – "

He got no farther, for she went on, determined to get over the disagreeable business of being truthful. "He stopped loving me about a year before we were married."

This time a storm of laughter surged through the court-room and it took several taps of Blodgett's gavel to regain quiet. Undaunted, she finished her story. "It's really hard to explain why we were married. You see" – she hesitated and resumed jerkily – "we were in Peoria – and we were partners – and – and – it rained all week – Well, somehow it seemed a good idea at the time."

At this point it became necessary for Townsend, in order to maintain the dignity of the bench, to caution the spectators that if there were any more such outbursts of joy he would have the court-room cleared.

Thomas still maintained his control, although cold perspiration was wilting his highly polished collar. "But after you were married he was cruel to you, was he not?" he asked.

"I should say he was!" The answer was accompanied by an emphatic nod of the head and again she flew onward, over his head, determined that she should tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

"Why," she opened her left hand and enumerated the said Gerald Davis's shortcomings by pressing its fingers with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, "he put his name on the bill in larger type than mine. He tried to strike me once – but he was a poor judge of distance. And – and – " she stopped. This time her appeal was directed to Thomas.

"He deserted you, did he not?" Thomas eagerly took up the thread, hoping to unravel the snarl she had worked with it.

"Well, we parted – "

"After he deserted you?"

Before Mrs. Davis could answer the last question, Townsend straightened the spectacles on his nose and entered the case. Slowly welling within him was a jealousy now overwhelming. His political ambitions alone had stood in the way of his descending from the bench and throwing Thomas out of the court-room. It was only by remaining silent that he had curbed his temper. Now it broke away from him, and he turned, thundering, "So far, Mr. Thomas, the witness has not testified that her husband deserted her!"

"Oh – " Margaret Davis turned squarely in her chair, pursing her carmine lips into an irresistible moue. "Of course he deserted me! We were playing in Chicago, and I went West and he stayed there and – "

"That looks to me, madam, as if you deserted him. So far, your testimony has not brought out anything to substantiate your complaint."

Tears unrestrained burst forth at this moment. The thought that not only had she lost all chance of securing her freedom, but that Lemuel Townsend, whose attentions had helped to while away a six months which would otherwise have been dull to one accustomed to a barrage of suitors at the stage door, was more than she could bear. Pointing to Thomas, she sobbed into a purple silk handkerchief that smelled not faintly of patchouli. "That's because he told me to do nothing but answer his questions, and then he asked me all the wrong things – " Her emotion, out of bounds, spent itself in a cataract of tears. Unable to go on, she sat there, trying to stem the tears with a handkerchief inadequate for their volume.

Thomas tried to save his case. "Your Honor – I – "

He hesitated, Margaret Davis coming to his rescue. "Oh, I don't mean to blame you," she said to him, addressing the last of her remark to the judge. "He doesn't know anything about my case!"

What Lemuel Townsend would have liked to do at that moment was to have taken her in his arms and reassure her, as old fools are apt to do with naïve young creatures. But her apparent friendliness with Thomas and her deceitfulness in employing him for her attorney was more than he could condone. He would not relax his stern exterior, although his interior was softening. "Then, why," he asked, in measured tones, "is he appearing for you if he does not understand your case?"

Recognizing the opportunity for explanation, Margaret wiped her eyes, sniffed, and, went on: "My lawyer's sick, you see. And I wanted to tell you all about it, but Mr. Thomas explained that I couldn't see you. And he said he'd do everything for me, and you'd give me a divorce without any trouble at all."

Thomas whitened and turned to the table, where he fingered his brief-case nervously. He could not brave the glare which he knew Townsend was directing at him, nor the tirade he feared would follow.

"When did he tell you all that?" the judge asked, his nostrils quivering with rage, his voice strained to a tenor.

"Just now." Margaret grew happily voluble and she nodded her head back and forth like a child of six as she ogled the judge. "When I came into court he was here and I told him the trouble I was in. It's the only time I've seen him since you asked me not to."

Townsend was so relieved that he did not hear the last of her remark and the noisy delight of the spectators also escaped him. He was bent upon one purpose, that of chastising Thomas. "Why didn't you tell me this before?" he asked Margaret, in tender tones, forgetting, in his ardor, that there was such a thing as a court-room. He leaned far over the desk and beamed upon her. "There, there, don't let it upset you." He offered her a glass of water.

As she took it, Thomas stepped up to the bench again and tried to palliate the judge's wounded sensibilities. "If your Honor please, I was simply acting from a friendly standpoint and I thought – "

"No matter what your motives were, sir, you presumed when you told the plaintiff what the court's rulings would be." He turned abruptly from Thomas and leaned graciously toward the plaintiff. "Now, Mrs. Davis," he resumed, "let me question you. Why did you leave your husband in Chicago?"

Reassured, Margaret bridled coyly and answered, lifting her lids to the judge: "Because he didn't show up for a performance and I had to go on alone – and afterward the manager told him the act was better without him. And he sulked and stayed away from the theater all the rest of the week and on our next jump he refused to go with me." Her last words dwindled into a plaintive whine.

"And you were obliged to go without him?" Lem Townsend subtly gave a slight nod of his head which Margaret caught and interpreted into a vigorous acquiescence with her own curly blond head.

"Did you try to have him go with you?" Again the hint and again Margaret scored her point.

"Of course I did!" she responded. "I mean, yes – your Honor. But he said he'd show me how long I could go it on my own; but I showed him, for I've never seen him since. I only heard from him once and that was when I sent him money."

"Have you tried to see him?" Lem Townsend asked the last question grudgingly, but he felt that his own honor in the case was in danger of impeachment, and he was sure that his slight nod would be followed as it had before. He was right.

"Of course I did. Mr. Blackmore – he was our manager – gave me his sworn statement."

Townsend for the first time really saw the paper in front of him. He read it carefully, answering in tones of quick delight. "Yes, here it is and a deposition dated Chicago stating that Davis left you without warning and refused to dance with you again."

"Yes, your Honor," she cooed.

There was silence while Townsend scrutinized the papers in front of him. Margaret sat with her eyes anxiously fastened on him. With a nod of satisfaction he shoved the papers aside and, smiling down at her, announced in kindly tones, "Your decree is granted."

"Your Honor!" She arose from her chair and sat down in it again, a copious flow of tears making it impossible for her to leave the stand.

Townsend reached for the glass of water and held it toward her once again. "Please, please, Mrs. Davis," he endeavored to calm her, but his compassion only served to bring on another storm. "I'm so emotional," she sobbed, "I can't stop it!"

Townsend looked about helplessly. A sudden awakening to his own prerogative solved the dilemma. "Mr. Sheriff, announce a recess," he ordered. And leaving the bench, he went to Mrs. Davis and guided her into his chambers.

The crowd filed out of the court-room, while Thomas, weak with shame and disappointment, took his seat at the table again, impatiently toying with a paper-knife that had fallen from his pin-seal brief-case.

Blodgett went to him and leaned over with the intention of reassuring him, when there was a disturbance at the window which opened from a balcony a few feet above the street. Both of the men turned just in time to see John Marvin climb through the window and pull his suit-case in after him.

The sheriff stepped forward, hesitating as he realized his powers were negative in a court-room.

"Here, what you doing?" the clerk called out, getting up from his desk.

The sheriff glared and handled the manacles in his pocket with an intemperate disgust.

Marvin looked at him and laughed, answering the clerk. "I've got business in this court. I'm John Marvin and I'm appearing in the case the Pacific Railroad has brought against me." He did not deign to glance at Thomas, who had arisen, facing him, white from the blow to his hope of obtaining a judgment by default.

Marvin went calmly to the other end of the attorneys' table and opened up his shabby brown-canvas brief-case. He whistled to himself softly as he did so and glanced at Thomas, whose pallid mouth was drawn into a dogged sneer.

Blodgett went back to his seat just within the swinging gates that gave entrance behind the railing and sat glaring at Marvin. Quiet reigned in the court; then a faint shuffle of feet was heard beyond the door.

As Blodgett looked around, the door of the court-room opened gently and Bill Jones, clad in a Civil War veteran's uniform, faded from the sun, its brass buttons tarnished, and wearing his soldier's black soft hat with its gold cord cocked jauntily over one eye, sauntered down the aisle, holding out his hand to Marvin, who had jumped from his seat and bounded around the table to greet him.

"Hello, John!" Lightnin' drawled, grinning. "How's tricks? You look kinder legal this morning?"

CHAPTER XVI

As Bill made his way through the swinging gates, Blodgett put out a detaining arm, asking, with a scowl, "Here, what do you want?"

"Been arrestin' any one in California lately?" Bill slid past Blodgett, ignoring his attempt to stop him, the old twinkle in his eye as he touched what he knew to be the sheriff's sensitive spot.

"Well, Lightnin'," Marvin exclaimed, "how did you get here and what in the world have you come for?"

"Yer case ain't over yet, is it?"

Marvin shook his head, repeating his first question.

Bill did not reply at once. Not wanting Marvin to know that he and Zeb had been nearly two weeks getting there, and that they had come in much the same way they had gone, riding when they could get a lift on a train or a wagon, walking when they could not, he pretended to forget the young man's questions, asking one himself instead, "What time your case comin' up?"

"Two o'clock."

The sheriff sauntered up to them. Bill knew the purpose of his approach was to catch the drift of their conversation, so he turned abruptly, his hands in his back pockets, and grinned at Blodgett. Nodding toward Marvin, he drawled, "I'm a witness for him. I got to testify how you served a warrant on him."

The sheriff glared and slouched over to his chair, throwing himself into it as he pulled his black sombrero down over his eyes.

Marvin, his arm about Bill's shoulders, leaned over him, guiding him gently to the attorneys' table. "Well, Lightnin'," he questioned, in an indulgent voice, "how did you happen to show up here?"

"I promised you, didn't I?"

"But that was a long time ago. I supposed you'd forgotten all about it."

Bill glanced quickly at him and smiled. "I ain't never forgotten nothin' since I was four years old."

Marvin, happy to see the old Lightnin' behind the boast, smiled, asking him, "How did you know the trial was to-day?"

"That's easy," Bill replied, as he sat against the edge of the table, steadying himself with his hands. "I seen it in a Reno paper at the Home."

"But I told you the time I came to see you that you needn't bother about coming. I wouldn't have had you come all this long way for the world if I had known it." There was concern in Marvin's voice as he slowly dropped into a chair in front of Bill.

"That's why I didn't say nothin'."

"Where did the money come from?"

"I saved my pension." Bill glanced slyly at him. Catching his questioning eye, he stopped and looked through the window into the distance.

"You told me you sent your pension money to your wife!"

"I did – some of it. I sent mother six dollars, but I didn't get no answer." The laughter went from Bill and he leaned over, looking toward the far hills, strange, unreal purple against the clear, cold blue of the April sky.

Marvin watched him, asking, "Did you tell her you were in the Soldiers' Home?"

"No." Bill's voice was devoid of inflection.

"Then she probably didn't know where you were."

"Where else could I be?" His lips were puckered into a whistle, although they were quivering and no tune came. It was always this way when he thought of mother, so he straightened himself and stood by Marvin's chair, forcing a smile to his lips and jerking out, "And six dollars is six dollars."

The court-room was filling again, five minutes having elapsed since recess was declared. A side door opened and Townsend came into court. Blodgett stood up, pounded the desk with his gavel and announced the opening of the session. Bill and Marvin, rising to order, started and looked at each other as Thomas entered the room just behind the judge. Following him was Everett Hammond, who, when he saw Bill and Marvin together at the attorneys' table, began vigorous and anxious whispering in Thomas's ear as he took his place next to him on the other side of the table.

Margaret Davis entered from the judge's chambers. She was accompanied by Mrs. Jones and Millie.

Bill did not see them. His eyes were fastened on Hammond and Thomas in close conference.

But suddenly, as he turned to take in the rest of the people in the room, his eyes alighted on his wife. He arose and wandered toward her, exclaiming, as she came to meet him, "Why, mother, what are you doing here?" He stared at her and held out his hand.

Mrs. Jones was so surprised to see him that she could not speak and stood still, her hands in the air half-way between her waist and shoulder.

Millie was the first to answer him. "Oh, daddy – " She was going to put her arms around him, when Blodgett rapped upon the table for order.

Tears sprang to Mrs. Jones's eyes and Margaret Davis arose and led her to a chair next to hers and just at the foot of the platform, from which Townsend smiled happily upon them.

"Come along, Mr. Clerk!" There was cheer in Townsend's voice as he directed another saccharine shaft toward Margaret. "I've got an important engagement and I want to get through. Call the next case."

Bill, his eyes still on his wife, walked slowly to the table and sat down just behind Marvin.

"Jones versus Jones," read the clerk, standing at one side of the platform and unfolding the document he held in his hand.

Bill did not hear him. He was gazing at Mrs. Jones, an old tenderness in his eyes, a bitter longing in his heart. Drifting, living only for the hour, as was his nature, but one scar had remained unobliterated upon his memory, one hope alone flickered in the lonely sanctuary of a soul that had known no conflicts. His affection for his wife had been something deeper than emotion, something lighter than passion. It had been the lasting quantity in a life of fleeting concepts, and his six months at the Home had subdued it into a dull ache which found relief only when a faint optimism brought vague dreams of a remote reunion.

Her presence in court puzzled him. He felt that it must have something to do with the sale of the place, or, perhaps, with Marvin's case. And yet he was sure she knew nothing of the transaction between Mrs. Marvin and Thomas, or between Rodney Harper and Marvin. Whatever it was, it had brought a ray of expectancy to Bill, and he jumped as he was brought out of his reverie by Marvin's perplexed whisper: "Jones versus Jones. By Jove, Lightnin', I believe that's you!"

"Me?" Bill glanced around as if he were half awake and leaned far forward in his chair, putting his hand to his ear and straining to catch every word as the clerk read the complaint:

"To the people of the State of Nevada, Mary Jones, Plaintiff versus William Jones, Defendant. A civil action wherein the said plaintiff deposes and says she was lawfully married to the said defendant on the 14th day of June, eighteen hundred and ninety-six, in the state of Nevada. The said plaintiff prays this court for a permanent annulment of her marriage vows, the defendant, William Jones, having disregarded and broken all obligations of the marriage contract, thereby causing the plaintiff great suffering and mental agony and the said Mary Jones claims a final separation and divorce from the said William Jones on the grounds of failure to provide, habitual intoxication, and intolerable cruelty. Subscribed and sworn to me on the fifth day of April, nineteen hundred and seventeen. Alexander Bradshaw, Notary: Raymond Thomas, Attorney for the plaintiff."

When the clerk had finished Bill sent a beseeching glance toward his wife. Each word of the document had entered far into a mind little given to taking account. One by one he had tolled off the record against him, placing the accusations in two files – the true and the false. That his wife had cause for anger against him he now, for the first time, fully realized. But he was bewildered, and when Bill was bewildered it was his habit to seek enlightenment.

After a moment, in which Mrs. Jones darted swift glances from beneath a brow bowed with regret, he turned to Marvin, who had arisen and was standing back of his chair, bending over him, and asked, simply, "Is that all about me?"

Blodgett tapped his sheriff's gavel.

Townsend caught Bill's question and asked, "What did you say?"

Marvin, knowing that Bill was inadequate to the test placed upon him, came quickly to the rescue. Standing in front of the judge, he explained: "Your Honor, Mr. Jones is the unconscious defendant in this case. It just happened that he came to court to-day to be a witness in another case. He has had no previous knowledge of this action."

Before he could go farther Raymond Thomas, upon whom the entire situation was reacting in swift, powerful threats to his cause, arose, his face drawn with the agony of frustration, his voice high pitched from the effort to subdue the feelings fast getting beyond his control. "The defendant's whereabouts were unknown to us, your Honor, and the court allowed us to serve notice by publication."