Rudolph Wurlitzer - The Drop Edge of Yonder

"The story is simple, folks. Zebulon Shook rode into Calabasas Springs pretending to be an alcalde, a man of the law hired by the governor. His real intention was to aid in the escape of Count Ivan Baranofsky, a convicted murderer. The same night that he arrived, all hell broke loose. The next morning, the main street of Calabasas Springs was littered with the bodies of five men and two women. Gentlemen of the jury, I submit to you that if Zebulon Shook goes unpunished for this heinous crime, anarchy will have triumphed over law and order."

The district attorney was interrupted by a sparrow flying through a window Circling the courthouse, the sparrow flew over the crowd, including Delilah and Hatchet Jack sitting in the last row and Stebbins seated on a fold-out chair by the door.

After another hysterical circle, the sparrow finally settled on Zebulon's outstretched hand.

Looking first at Delilah, then at Hatchet Jack, his fingers closed slowly over the quivering bird.

"One minute a man is flyin' free," he said to the room at large, "then he's caught. Then he's free again."

He opened his fingers, releasing the sparrow The bird frantically flew back and forth, until finally, with the help of a few men waving jackets, it found its escape through an open window

Everyone in the room, except for Delilah, burst into footstomping applause until the judge banged down his gavel and yelled for silence.

Order restored, the district attorney continued: "Gentlemen of the jury, storm clouds gather on the horizon. Our country's great and noble adventure is at risk and I fear for our safety, if not our future. If we don't protect the purity of this country from outlaws, renegades, and runaway slaves, as well as the influx of foreigners raping and pillaging our sacred heritage, then we are all to blame. I say to you, from my heart — "

He was interrupted by a drunk in long johns and a gun-belt, stumbling into the courtroom and announcing that they'd hit a mother lode on the Feather River, the biggest in the history of California.

When most of the room, including the lawyer for the defense, rushed outside, the judge ordered the jury to arrive at a decision within the hour, or he would be forced to postpone the trial.

Five minutes later the jury came to a decision: Zebulon Shook was guilty of manslaughter. The judge imposed a sentence of twenty years at hard labor, and Zebulon was shackled and led out of the courtroom by two deputies. He paused in front of Hatchet Jack, who stood by the door, Delilah behind him.

"I'll take care of her," Hatchet Jack said, "one way or the other."

Before Zebulon could answer, a deputy pushed him through the door and down the steps of the courthouse.

T THE CITY JAIL, A CLERK ASSIGNED ZEBULON A PRISON number, then filled out a form with his name, nationality; occupation, and religion. Zebulon gave his real name but invented the rest of his answers: free-trapper for his occupation, Wakan Tanka for his religion, and The Big Sky Country for his native land. After the clerk methodically wrote down the information, Zebulon was led to a courtyard to be photographed.

A large crowd was waiting for him, most of them never having seen or even heard of a camera.

Zebulon was instructed to stand against a brick wall before the photographer, a short stocky man with sad drooping eyes, wearing a French beret. As the photographer disappeared beneath the camera's black hood, it occurred to Zebulon that he was about to be executed by some new-fangled weapon. Some of the old-timers had the same thought and made sure to stand several feet behind the strange contraption.

When the flash finally exploded, there was scattered applause and congratulations all around.

Wearing a convict's striped pants and shirt, he was driven in an enclosed wagon to La Grange, a French schooner anchored in the headwaters of the Sacramento River that had been transformed into a prison hulk after its captain and crew deserted her for the gold fields.

Zebulon was accompanied by the Warden's aide-de-camp, Master Sergeant Alva Bent, a peg-legged veteran of the Mexican War as well as several campaigns against the Comanche and Apache.

They rolled past a long line of schooners and paddle steamers tied up to an embarcadero, then along a wooden levee where dozens of Chinese workers hauled furniture and lumber through a chaotic congestion of newly arrived prospectors and overloaded wagons.

Bent lit two cigarettes, placing one in Zebulon's mouth. "A few years ago, this place had only a few saloons and a livery stable. Now it seems that every asshole in the world is paradin' around here, most of 'em with gold fever."

He pointed towards higher ground, where building lots had been staked out in parched fields strewn with offal, broken machinery, and dead cows. "Next year there'll be a hundred goddamn houses up there. Mark my words. But don't you worry, son. By the time you get out of the lockup or they decide to hang you, it'll be back to what used to be. That's the way life is."

He removed the last of Zebulon's cigarette from his mouth. "Tell me the truth. Were you bein' foolish with that reporter, or was that thievery and mayhem the straight tell?"

"Coming here by boat was true enough," Zebulon acknowledged. "That and bein' hired as a guide for the gold fields. Shootin' up the citizens of Calabasas Springs and startin' a jail break was a damn lie."

Bent took a flask out of his hip pocket and after a quick snort, offered it to Zebulon. "That's what I been sayin'. I can always smell a nosebag full of lies. It was all arranged: politicians puttin' the muzzle on all of the free-floaters, squeezin' the country, makin' it safe for business and greenhorns. `Come on out to Paradise, folks, and get rich beyond your wildest dreams. Scoop up a few bowls of gold dust. Buy yourself a big hotel and fill it with easy women, or go back where you came from richer than your biggest dreams.' Those boys in Washington have put a noose around our necks. I know I helped Fremont push the greasers back to old Mex. Fremont had his orders from back East: go for the gold and open up the sluice gates and watch the joint rip. Trains will run east to west and back. No sweat and no bufder and no red niggers and no good times. Them days is all gone. Hoe it down, boys. Plant your potatoes and tomatoes and to hell with what used to be."

Bent lit two more cigarettes and gave one to Zebulon, then both of them finished off his flask. "Your mistake was signing up with that Russian and his slave. That was wavin' a red flag at the bull. Now you're big time, son. There's a story on you. Guilty or not. I'll stake you to some advice: the Warden will twist your tail into a knot just for fun. When he starts bangin' on about god and the devil, let him talk. If you so much as bite your lip, he'll lower you into the drink slower than molasses and smile as you go under."

They traveled another two miles along the river, drinking and smoking, until they arrived at a newly built two-story shingled house with blue trim and an elaborate garden defined by a white picket fence. Directly in front of the house, Zebulon could see the prison hulk anchored in the middle of the river by rope cables attached to two sycamore trees.

"Here we are, son," Bent declared: "Your home away from home."

He led Zebulon past two guards stationed by the front door, then down a long hallway lined with presidential portraits of Washington, Jefferson, and Madison. Somewhere on the second floor a woman sang an Irish lullaby.

Bent knocked on a door and then knocked again. When there was still no answer, he opened the door and gestured Zebulon inside.

A thin middle-aged man wearing a white linen suit and wirerimmed glasses sat behind a desk bent over a game of solitaire. On the wall, Zebulon recognized a Hopi fertility mask hanging next to a Cheyenne war bonnet and two Crow tomahawks. A torn leather couch opposite the desk was piled with books, along with a scrimshawed whalebone, a fossilized walrus penis, a polished buffalo horn, and four Papago and Zuni baskets.