It was Armando Duro, hung there by the neck, the rope reaching up and over the crossbar where the wires were attached and down to the base of the pole where the rope was lashed securely. Armando's head hung down, chin on his chest, his face so dark he looked like a Negro—which was why Maurice was not sure at first who it was. His hands were so much lighter in color, and his bare feet hanging there, toes pointing toward the ground. It looked as though someone had taken his boots.
Maurice heard Ruben Vega saying, “He told me, he said they'd bring him to the ranch,” the Mexican not protesting but speaking very quietly. “He said they'd hold him there and take a picture, see, to prove he was being held and was unharmed.”
C.S. Fly was busy setting up his camera in the road, tilting the box upward, then getting down behind it to look, then adjusting it a little more. C.S. Fly didn't say a word.
“That's what he told me,” Ruben Vega said. “They would hold him there and threaten to kill him, yes, if his people didn't move away somewhere else. But he never said he would do this. Never.”
Was he telling them something or talking to himself?, Maurice Dumas wondered.
Yes, it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.
Was it an act, though, for their benefit?
No—listening to the Mexican's tone more than the actual words, Maurice Dumas believed the man was honestly surprised and telling the truth.
9
1
The news reporters hanging around the Congress Hotel and the Gold Dollar woke up in a hurry.
A man had been lynched in the middle of the afternoon and that goddamn kid from the Chicago Times had scooped them again. (The squirt was even wearing his cap cocked over more on the side of his head.)
Things were happening. C.S. Fly developed three pictures of Armando hanging from the pole like a sack of dirty laundry, made a “showing” of them in his gallery window, marched off to the telegraph office and wired Sheriff John Slaughter in Tombstone; notice, bypassing Deputy R.J. Bruckner.
Why? Because Bruckner was a company stooge and John Slaughter and C.S. Fly were friends, the newsmen speculated. Also to show the mine company that if he, Fly, ran for sheriff of Cochise County next year he was not going to place himself in the company's pocket.
Good stuff was developing. A lot of angles.
Item: Sweetmary was a company town. Without LaSalle Mining there would be no Sweetmary. Therefore the people of Sweetmary and its law enforcement agency would never testify against the company or do anything to put the company in legal jeopardy.
Item: John Slaughter wanted to serve out his term and return to ranching. It was said he was more than willing to use his political weight to help Fly get the Republican nomination. John Slaughter was not a company ass kisser, but he had been in office long enough to have become a realist. Since he was getting out anyway, what did he care what happened here in Sweetmary?
The reporters weren't finished writing that one when John Slaughter arrived in town with a gripsack full of warrants and subpoenas and informed the press that a circuit court judge and county attorney were on their way.
Theory: He was going through the motions to show his friend C.S. Fly the facts of life, liberty and the pursuit of justice in a mine company town.
Well, at least they were making a pretty good show of it.
Item: A warrant was issued for the arrest of Phil Sundeen (not even in town a week) and a Mexican by the name of Ruben Vega (Who?). Sundeen was served, arrested and escorted to jail without incident.
Vandozen, the company vice president, was seen in town for a few hours, then was gone—off in a closed carriage to Benson and the Southern Pacific Railroad depot. But a lawyer who had arrived from Bisbee remained. That same day Sundeen posted a five-hundred-dollar bond and was released. The Mexican, Ruben Vega, could not be located.
Items:
C.S. Fly and the squirt from the Chicago Times, Maurice Dumas, were subpoenaed as witnesses.
Eladio Duro, Armando's son, appeared in town out of nowhere, riding a burro, and was taken into “protective custody” by John Slaughter.
Bruckner wandered around town and up to the mine works with sixteen John Doe warrants for the arrest of the members of Sundeen's security force. He returned with the same number of warrants saying they were nowhere to be found and that they had been discharged from the company payroll.
Bruckner did bring in four dead men, their Sunday suits tearing at the seams, their bodies were so swollen. Three had come from Armando's yard, another from not far away. But only two were identified from personal effects: a man named Wade Miller from Illinois and a man named Harry Shell from Kentucky. Holding his nose as he looked at the other two, Phil Sundeen said no, he did not know their names or was even sure now, because of their bloated condition, he had ever seen them before.
The reporters wanted to know: Well, why the hell didn't they ask Sundeen where the rest of his men were?
John Slaughter said he did, and Sundeen had answered: “Who, them? They did not like horseback riding and quit.”
Well, did he try to get the truth out of Sundeen?
“You mean by the use of physical force?” John Slaughter asked the reporters. “That is not allowed in the interrogation of suspects. At least not in this county.”
But had he used force or not?
Maurice Dumas wrapped a five-dollar bill around a bottle of Green River and put it on R.J. Bruckner's desk as he sat down in the deputy's office. Bruckner did not leave it there more than a moment, getting it into a drawer as Maurice was saying, “Civil servants, I've found, work hard and get little appreciation for their efforts.”
“What do you want?” asked Bruckner.
“Haven't you used force on Sundeen to make him talk?”
“Make him talk about what?”
“Where his men are.”
“What men? Who saw him with any men?”
“I did,” Maurice said.
“Who saw him or any men out where the Mex was found?”
“I saw them here in town.”
“So what did you see? Nothing. Get your smart-aleck ass out of here, sonny.”
“Who else have you got as a witness,” Maurice said, showing his tenacity, “besides Armando's son. Any of the other Mexicans?”
“What Mexicans?”
“Armando's people—the ones that live up there.”
“They're gone,” Bruckner said, “disappeared. It's you and Fly and the Mex's kid…and the Indin agent, Moon.”
This surprised Maurice. “You subpoenaed Moon? How come?”
“We believe he saw things.”
“Sundeen told you that?”
“We know, that's all.”
“Has he come to town?”
“He had better be here tomorrow for the hearing. He's not, I'll go and get him. I may be going for him later on anyway.”
“Why? For what?”
“Get your smart-aleck ass out of here,” Bruckner said. “Time's up.”
Item: The circuit court hearing—to determine if a murder had been committed and if there was sufficient reason to believe Sundeen did it—would be held on the second floor of the city jail. The cells up there had not been occupied in several years. Sections of iron bars had been removed and transported to the mine works to be used, it was said, in the construction of a storage facility for high explosives and blasting equipment. Chairs and benches from the Masonic hall and a funeral parlor were now being placed in the second-floor courtroom for the comfort of spectators and visiting newsmen.
Judge Miller Hough of Tombstone was occupying the LaSalle Suite at the Congress Hotel. Prosecutor Stuart “Stu” Ison, who had practiced law in Sweetmary until winning the county position three years ago, was staying with friends.
The services of a young attorney by the name of Goldwater—said to be a nephew of the owner of the well-known Goldwater & Cateñeda General Store in Bisbee—had been retained to act as counsel for Phil Sundeen.
/> Color item: The mine and crushing mill continued to work two shifts, business as usual, as the town of Sweetmary bustled with activity in preparation for the hearing. The miners who came down the hill in their coarse work clothes seemed from another world. Many of them were, until recently, from Old World countries. Strange accents and foreign languages were not uncommon on the streets of this mining community.
The news reporters knew what their editors were going to say. Dandy…but, goddamn it, where was the Early-Moon confrontation stuff? The stage was set, the suspense built. Now a cattle rustler and ex-con by the name of Sundeen comes along and steals the spotlight. Did he lynch the Mexican or not? What did company-man Bren Early think about it? More important, what were Early and Moon up to during all this, squaring off or just looking at each other?
That was the trouble, they weren't doing anything. But how did you tell an editor Bren Early was holed up at Mrs. Pierson's, wouldn't answer the door, and Moon hadn't showed up yet? If, in fact, he ever would. The newsmen sent wires to their editors that said, in essence, “Big story to break soon,” and had a few more drinks while they waited for something to happen.
2
The morning of the hearing the newsmen staying at the Congress came down to the dining room and there was Dana Moon and his wife having a breakfast of grits and ham. Moon did not understand what the newsmen were so excited about. Where had he been? Home. If they wanted to see him why didn't they come visit? They asked him why he had been subpoenaed and he said that's why they had come to town this morning, to find out.
Moon and his wife, news reporters trailing behind, stopped by the Fly Gallery to see the latest “showing” in the window: Armando hanging from the telegraph pole. Neither of them said anything as they continued down LaSalle Street to the jail and went upstairs to the hearing.
When the reporters who had been waiting outside Mrs. Pierson's house arrived, they said it didn't look like Bren Early was coming.
After all the excitement and suspense the hearing did not prove to be much of a show. (Which John Slaughter and others could have predicted from the beginning.) Though there was one surprise that stirred considerable interest.
Maurice Dumas, cap under his arm, took the witness stand and told the county attorney, yes, he had seen Mr. Sundeen ride out of Sweetmary with seventeen men. No, Mr. Sundeen would not let any of the reporters follow them. Five hours later he had joined Mr. C.S. Fly and a man in Mr. Sundeen's employ, one Ruben Vega, and accompanied them out to a place where they were to witness a meeting between Mr. Sundeen and Armando Duro. What they found instead was Armando hanging from a pole. Maurice Dumas began to tell about Ruben Vega being “genuinely astonished,” but the county attorney, Stuart Ison, said that was all and for him to step down.
C.S. Fly supported the young newsman's testimony as to the purpose of their journey and what they found out on the road. He did not however—if he had witnessed it—mention Ruben Vega's stunned surprise.
Next, Eladio Duro took the stand. Answering the county attorney's questions he admitted, yes, his people had fired on Mr. Sundeen's group when they crossed the property line. (There were several objections by Mr. Goldwater, Sundeen's counsel, during Eladio's testimony, most of which were sustained by Judge Hough.) Eladio described men coming to their house and a Mexican convincing them it was safe to come out and speak to Mr. Sundeen. But as soon as they were outside, Sundeen's men drew pistols and began to shoot at them. Three people fell dead and another was wounded. Before his father could get back in the house Sundeen's men grabbed him and carried him off. Eladio was asked where his family and friends were now. He said they were hiding because they were afraid for their lives. (Objection: judgmental. Sustained.)
Mr. Goldwater, the defense attorney, cross-examined, asking Eladio if the Mexican who spoke to them first carried something in his hands. Yes, Eladio said, a flag of truce. He was asked if his people had fired weapons at Mr. Sundeen and his men. No. But weren't shots fired at Mr. Sundeen's men? No. From others not standing in the yard? Oh, yes; from Sundeen's men who were up on the slope above the house. But weren't three of Sundeen's men struck down by gunfire and killed? Yes, Eladio said. Shot by mistake, he assumed, by their own companions. Eladio was asked to think very carefully before answering the next question. Did the first shots come from the men in the yard or the men on the slope above the house? Eladio was silent and then said, they seemed to both come at the same time.
Mr. Goldwater then called Dana Moon to the stand and asked him if he had been present at Armando Duro's the morning of May the 19th.
“Not actually present,” Moon said, already uncomfortable sitting here in this hot room full of people…picturing where the cells had been a few years before and where he had talked to Bren through the iron bars.
“But you observed what took place there?”
“Yes.”
“You observed a man holding a white flag?”
“Yes.”
“How far away were you?”
“About four hundred yards.”
“Did you see any others, or another group of men, up on the slope above the house?”
“No.”
“You observed the shooting?”
“Yes.”
“Did you take part in the shooting?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hit anyone?”
Moon hesitated. “I can't say for sure.”
“Did you shoot to kill?”
“I fired to prevent Armando and his people, all of them unarmed, from being shot down in cold blood.”
“Did you shoot to kill?”
“Yes.”
Goldwater walked back to the table where Sundeen sat patiently listening before asking Moon, “Did anyone shoot at you?”
“I can't say.”
“You mean you can't tell when someone is shooting at you?”
“If they did, they didn't come close.”
“You were firing at…whom?”
Moon looked at Sundeen three strides away, closer than he had been the last time, in Sonora. Sundeen stared back at him as if ready to smile.
“Him,” Moon said, “and his men. They were about…they were shooting at Armando's people.”
“They were what?”
“I said they were shooting at Armando's people.”
“But you fired at them first, didn't you?”
“They were drawing their weapons—at that distance…I would say they fired first or at the same time.”
“You heard gunfire before you aimed and fired?”
Jesus Christ, Moon thought, feeling the perspiration under his shirt. He said, “I anticipated their fire. Their weapons were out. In a moment they were firing.”
“You just said they were drawing their weapons.”
“They were drawing—seeing it from that distance, weapons were out. In a moment they were firing.”
“What does the distance have to do with it? You saw what you thought they intended to do and you reacted, didn't you? You began shooting.”
“I knew what they were gonna do. What they did. They killed three of the Mexicans, didn't they?”
“I don't know,” Mr. Goldwater said. “Did they? There was gunfire coming from two directions. Didn't you open fire first?…”
“No, they did.”
“And they returned your fire?”
“That wasn't what happened.”
“Well, from the facts we have, I would say there was either a grave misunderstanding—the two parties in the yard began to talk and you misinterpreted it, or…you deliberately fired at the yard, not caring who you hit, one group or the other. Or…and this is conjecture, though possibly worth investigating…you were purposely firing at the Mexican group—”
“Why would I do that?”
“You realize you admit you fired with intent to kill,” the defense lawyer said. “That action is subject to interpretation, for I would dare to say the yard itself was a small target at four hundred yards, wh
ere the variance of a fraction of an inch could mean the difference in the taking of one man's life or another man's.”
Moon looked at the county lawyer who was not objecting to any of these ideas the defense lawyer was planting. Moon said, “Sundeen was in the yard. Let's hear him tell what happened. It ought to be a pretty good story.”
He saw Kate smile and heard sounds of approval from the audience.
But then the defense lawyer stepped in front of him, close, and said quietly, “I could ask who else was up there with you. Do you want to implicate others? Did they also shoot to kill?” The defense lawyer stared at him before adding, “Do you see where I can take this?” Moon felt relief when the dark-haired, well-dressed man from Bisbee turned to Judge Hough and said something and the judge asked Ison, the county lawyer, to approach the bench—the table next to which Moon sat in a straight chair.
Moon heard Goldwater say, “So far there is not one bit of evidence to support a murder charge against my client. No one here can place him with Armando at the scene of the hanging. However, your honor, if you are not reasonably convinced I'll put my client on the stand. He'll testify that he did, in fact, rescue Armando, not carry him off, and left him out there when he said he wanted to return to his people.” The judge asked how could the court be certain that was what happened? The defense lawyer asked, who could dispute it?
Moon cleared his throat and almost said, “I can,” at this point. He could tell them how he had watched from the high ground as the Mexicans put their dead over horses and rode out of there—maybe to somebody else's place or to hide in the timber—and Armando had not returned as long as they watched. But he couldn't tell them if they didn't ask, and it didn't look like that was going to happen. He tugged at the county lawyer's coat a couple of times, but Ison would not pay attention to him. Ison had his head stuck in there with the other two legal minds as they talked lawyer talk to each other and decided the outcome of these proceedings.