The Cross-Cut Part 20

"At the inquest. Ain't that what you call it?"

"You'll tell nothing. Understand? You'll tell nothing, other than that you, with Robert Fairchild, found that skeleton. An inquest is n't a trial. And that can't come without knowledge and evidence that this man was murdered. So, remember--you tell the coroner's jury that you found this body and nothing more!"

"But--"

"It's a case for the grand jury after that, to study the findings of the coroner's jury and to sift out what evidence comes to it."

"You mean--" This time it was Fairchild cutting in--"that if the coroner's jury cannot find evidence that this man was murdered, or something more than mere supposition to base a charge on--there 'll be no trouble for Harry?"

"It's very improbable. So tell what happened on this day of this year of our Lord and nothing more! You people almost had me scared myself for a minute. Now, get out of here and let a legal light shine without any more clouds for a few minutes."

They departed then and traveled down the stairs with far more spring in their step than when they had entered. Late that night, as they were engaged at their usual occupation of relating the varied happenings of the day to Mother Howard, there came a knock at the door.

Instinctively, Fairchild bent toward her:

"Your name 's out of this--as long as possible."

She smiled in her mothering, knowing way. Then she opened the door, there to find a deputy from the sheriff's office.

"They 've impaneled a jury up at the courthouse," he announced. "The coroner wants Mr. Fairchild and Mr. Harkins to come up there and tell what they know about this here skeleton they found."

It was the expected. The two men went forth, to find the street about the courthouse thronged, for already the news of the finding of the skeleton had traveled far, even into the little mining camps which skirted the town. It was a mystery of years long agone, and as such it fascinated and lured, in far greater measure perhaps, than some murder of a present day. Everywhere were black crowds under the faint street lamps. The bas.e.m.e.nt of the courthouse was illuminated; and there were cl.u.s.ters of curious persons about the stairways. Through the throngs started Harry and Fairchild, only to be drawn aside by Farrell, the attorney.

"I 'm not going to take a part in this unless I have to," he told them.

"It will look better for you if it is n't necessary for me to make an appearance. Whatever you do," and he addressed Harry, "say nothing about what you were telling me this afternoon. In the first place, you yourself have no actual knowledge of what happened. How do you know but what Thornton Fairchild was attacked by this man and forced to kill in self-defense? It's a penitentiary offense for a man to strike another, without sufficient justification, beneath ground. And had Sissie La.r.s.en even so much as slapped Thornton Fairchild, that man would have been perfectly justified in killing him to protect himself.

I 'm simply telling you that so that you will have no qualms in keeping concealed facts which, at this time, have no bearing. Guide yourselves accordingly--and as I say, I will be there only as a spectator, unless events should necessitate something else."

They promised and went on, somewhat calmer in mind, to edge their way to the steps and to enter the bas.e.m.e.nt of the courthouse. The coroner and his jury, composed of six miners picked up haphazard along the street--according to the custom of coroners in general--were already present. So was every person who possibly could cram through the doors of the big room. To them all Fairchild paid little attention,--all but three.

They were on a back seat in the long courtroom,--Squint Rodaine and his son, chalkier, yet blacker than ever, while between them sat an old woman with white hair which straggled about her cheeks, a woman with deep-set eyes, whose hands wandered now and then vaguely before her; a wrinkled woman, fidgeting about on her seat, watching with craned neck those who stuffed their way within the already crammed room, her eyes never still, her lips moving constantly, as though mumbling some never-ending rote. Fairchild stared at her, then turned to Harry.

"Who 's that with the Rodaines?"

Harry looked furtively. "Crazy Laura--his wife."

"But--"

"And she ain't 'ere for anything good!"

Harry's voice bore a tone of nervousness. "Squint Rodaine don't even recognize 'er on the street--much less appear in company with 'er.

Something's 'appening!"

"But what could she testify to?"

"'Ow should I know?" Harry said it almost petulantly. "I did n't even know she--"

"Oyez, oyez, oyez!" It was the bailiff, using a regular district-court introduction of the fact that an inquest was about to be held. The crowded room sighed and settled. The windows became frames for human faces, staring from without. The coroner stepped forward.

"We are gathered here to-night to inquire into the death of a man supposed to be L. A. La.r.s.en, commonly called 'Sissie', whose skeleton was found to-day in the Blue Poppy mine. What this inquest will bring forth, I do not know, but as sworn and true members of the coroner's jury, I charge and command you in the great name of the sovereign State of Colorado, to do your full duty in arriving at your verdict."

The jury, half risen from its chair, some with their left hands held high above them, some with their right, swore in mumbling tones to do their duty, whatever that might be. The coroner surveyed the a.s.semblage.

"First witness," he called out; "Harry Harkins!"

Harry went forward, clumsily seeking the witness chair. A moment later he had been sworn, and in five minutes more, he was back beside Fairchild, staring in a relieved manner about him. He had been questioned regarding nothing more than the mere finding of the body, the identification by means of the watch, and the notification of the coroner. Fairchild was called, to suffer no more from the queries of the investigator than Harry. There was a pause. It seemed that the inquest was over. A few people began to move toward the door--only to halt. The coroner's voice had sounded again:

"Mrs. Laura Rodaine!"

Prodded to her feet by the squint-eyed man beside her, she rose, and laughing in silly fashion, stumbled to the aisle, her straying hair, her ragged clothing, her big shoes and shuffling gait all blending with the wild, eerie look of her eyes, the constant munching of the almost toothless mouth. Again she laughed, in a vacant, embarra.s.sed manner, as she reached the stand and held up her hand for the administration of the oath. Fairchild leaned close to his partner.

"At least she knows enough for that."

Harry nodded.

"She knows a lot, that ole girl. They say she writes down in a book everything she does every day. But what can she be 'ere to testify to?"

The answer seemed to come in the questioning voice of the coroner.

"Your name, please?"

"Laura Rodaine. Least, that's the name I go by. My real maiden name is Laura Masterson, and--"

"Rodaine will be sufficient. Your age?"

"I think it's sixty-four. If I had my book I could tell. I--"

"Your book?"

"Yes, I keep everything in a book. But it is n't here. I could n't bring it."

"The guess will be sufficient in this case. You 've lived here a good many years, Mrs. Rodaine?"

"Yes. Around thirty-five. Let's see--yes, I 'm sure it's thirty-five.

My boy was born here--he 's about thirty and we came here five years before that."

"I believe you told me to-night that you have a habit of wandering around the hills?"

"Yes, I 've done that--I do it right along--I 've done it ever since my husband and I split up--that was just a little while after the boy was born--"

"Sufficient. I merely wanted to establish that fact. In wandering about, did you ever see anything, twenty-three or four years ago or so, that would lead you to believe you know something about the death of this man whose demise we are inquiring?"

The big hand of Harry caught at Fairchild's arm. The old woman had raised her head, craning her neck and allowing her mouth to fall open, as she strove for words. At last:

"I know something. I know a lot. But I 've never figured it was anybody's business but my own. So I have n't told it. But I remember--"

"What, Mrs. Rodaine?"

"The day Sissie La.r.s.en was supposed to leave town--that was the day he got killed."

"Do you remember the date?"