Boon Ed Kurtz (the little red hen read aloud txt) 📖

there were two men upon her before she could so much as curl a finger around the grip. I didn’t even bother trying for my rifle.

“We done told you the facts,” she said.

“Criminals ain’t partial to facts,” said the judge. Then, to the town men holding us: “Search ’em over for what coin and paper they got on their persons. Court ain’t free.”

“This is what we get for your warm feelings about them God damned cowboys,” I said.

Boon said, “Shut up, Edward.”

Chapter Nine

Though I had not spent much time inside courtrooms, I knew well enough that there were a few aspects of this one that were notably unusual. Chief among these was the town’s—and the judge’s—nominal red foot, which was taken from behind the bar and propped up on the table from which the tiny jurist presided. It was a wonder the judge did not wear it on a chain around his neck, he was so proud of the grisly thing.

The inclusion of the Hereford heifer in the proceedings was equally peculiar. She’d been tied with rope to the foot rail underneath the bar and stood still and patient, if bug-eyed and bewildered by the sharp turns her formerly uneventful life had taken in the last several hours. I was half-convinced the judge aimed to use the cow for a material witness, but when I brought it up to Boon she just hushed me.

“You can’t sass your way out of this one,” she said. “Everything ain’t a joke.”

“If this court ain’t a joke, I don’t know what is,” I said.

The judge sat behind the table, which had been moved to the center of the room to suit the occasion, and continued to pick over his supper. The barman brought him a glass of beer that was mostly foam and the six men the judge had harangued into jury duty slumped in various spots around the saloon. He could not manage the full ten on such short notice and got to hollering when somebody suggested substituting some of the whores that it wasn’t lawful-like and would be an insult to the hoary old institution of the American court of law. Not due to their profession, mind you, but because they were women.

My friend with the drooping mustache brought me a fresh whiskey and a beer, something like a sympathetic smile hiding underneath all that red fur.

I said, “I never heard of any court that serves spirits.”

But then I’d never heard of any court that included livestock and pickled human remains, either. It was an all-around banner day for new experiences.

“All of you stand up on your feet,” the judge said. “This here court is in session.”

“Are we to stand through the whole thing?” I wanted to know.

“Keep them lips flapping and you will,” he said.

In lieu of response, I sipped my whiskey. The judge got to fumbling with some tobacco and paper, but his fingers were still too oily to manage it. One of the jurymen who’d subdued Boon and me tottered over to assist in the construction of the cigarette. The rest of us were still standing.

“All right, all right,” the judge said once he had his smoke together and got a match to it. “Sit yourselves down so we can get through this rigmarole, by God.”

Everyone except the barman sat back down. He was still serving a few thirsty customers who didn’t seem too interested in the trial. Probably they’d seen it a dozen times already.

Behind us, the batwings slammed open and the judge looked up with mild interest.

“Good of you to join us, Bob,” said the judge. “Them’s your clients.”

He gestured at us with a chubby pinky finger. Bob Laramie sauntered in, looking like he was nursing one hell of a skullbender, but most certainly not looking like any lawyer. He sidled up to the table in his shirtsleeves where Boon and me sat and gave us the once-over, one a time. Then he grunted.

“And don’t forget, Bob,” the judge continued, “you’re the prosecution here, too.”

“I ain’t forgot, Judge Dejasu,” said Bob Laramie.

I was still trying to work out the logic in having the same lawyer both defend and prosecute us when Boon jumped up to her feet.

“Did you just say Dejasu?”

“It’s a damn sight better than whatever hellish Prussian or Oriental monikers you two killers got saddled with,” the judge said.

“It’s French,” Bob said.

“I am a Texan and American, by God,” the judge countered. “In that order.”

“You got a given name, Judge Dejasu?” she said.

Her right hand trembled at her hip, hungering for a grip that wasn’t there. As a matter of fact, it lay on the judge’s table, not six feet away.

“Selwyn is my Christian name,” the judge said. “But if you call me by it I’ll have you in irons for contempt of my court.”

“Not Bartholomew,” Boon muttered, unsure.

“Barry’s my brother and he ain’t presiding,” said the judge. “And neither is my Aunt Eustace, so sit your ass down and let’s get to business.”

He punctuated this by slamming a closed fist on the table. Bob sat on one side of me, Boon on the other. The trial had begun.

“State your names so nobody else has to butcher his tongue on ’em,” said Judge Dejasu.

Once again, we spoke our names. The judge shook his head in disbelief.

“Christ in heaven,” he said. “You are herewith charged with double-murder of two boys, identities unknown, and also the rustling theft of one cow, Hereford, identity also unknown.”

“I named her Shitbrains,” I offered.

“In the usual circumstances I would expect blue words in this establishment,” the judge said. “But this here is my court and if you get to cussin’ again I will hang you without bothering myself to convict you.”

“I’m sure sorry, Judge,” I said.

“I don’t give a devil’s damn if you’re sorry or not,” he said. “Lawyer Laramie, did you review the evidence against these two jackanapes?”

Bob Laramie groaned, rubbed his temples, and took a long, deep breath.

“I saw the bodies outside,” he said at some length. “And I