The Ballad of Emma O'Toole. Elizabeth Lane
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lovely Miss Emma O’Toole when you walk up those steps to the hangman’s noose. I’ll be there to describe the terror in your eyes as the hood slides over your face, and the jerk of the rope as you drop. You’re mine, Devereaux, whether you cooperate or not. This is my story, and I won’t be finished with you until I’ve walked away from your grave!”
Logan willed his nerves to freeze as Armitage left the jail. But dread was a leaden weight in his stomach. Thanks to an obnoxious little man in a checkered suit, the trial, the verdict and the hanging had all become sickeningly real.
From down the street came the tinkle of a tinny piano and an off-key tenor voice singing the song that had become all the rage—a mawkishly written piece of doggerel that grated on Logan’s nerves every time he heard it.
Dying he lay in his sweetheart’s arms
As his blood spread out in a pool.
“Avenge my death,” he whispered low.
“Avenge me, Emma O’Toole, oh, yes…
Avenge me, Emma O’Toole.”
Logan cursed the treachery of circumstance. He’d been on a roll that night, winning big against two wealthy mine owners, enough to last him for months, maybe even get him to Europe or South America, when that wild-eyed young fool had walked in and ended it all.
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