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  Marshal Ferrell walked over to the table where Emile was sitting next to Dempster.

  “Your Honor, permission to remove the restraints on my client?” Dempster asked.

  Pendarrow thought for a moment, then nodded. “Granted,” he said.

  Schumacher removed the shackles and the handcuffs. Emile rubbed his wrists for a moment, then looked over at Dempster. “Thanks,” he said.

  “All right, all the restraints are removed,” Marshal Ferrell said with a growl. “Present yourself before the judge.”

  Emile walked up to stand in front of the judge, and Dempster went with him.

  “You are accused of shooting to death Mr. Dan Welch, during the commission of a felony bank robbery. How do you plead?”

  “We plead not guilty, Your Honor,” Dempster said.

  “Very well, take your seat. Mr. Crader, you are the prosecutor?”

  “I am, Your Honor.”

  “Make your case, Mr. Crader.”

  Half an hour earlier, Duff had approached the courthouse with Meagan Parker, Elmer Gleason and Vi Winslow. Elmer, Meagan, and Vi were here as spectators to this very exciting event, but Duff’s role was considerably more involved. He, along with Cindy Boyce and Bernie Caldwell, were witnesses.

  As soon as Duff and Elmer started into the courtroom, Deputy Pierce met them.

  “Gentlemen, I will need you to turn over your guns,” Pierce said.

  “What for?” Elmer asked.

  “It’s the judge’s orders. No guns in the courtroom.”

  Both Elmer and Duff complied, and then they, along with Meagan and Vi, went into the courtroom to find seats that would accommodate all four of them.

  They were there when Schumacher brought the prisoner in, and they sat through the preliminaries until the actual trial began. It started with the two attorneys making their opening statements to the jury. Then the prosecutor called Duff to the stand.

  “Mr. MacCallister, were you in the bank during the robbery?” Crader asked.

  “Aye.”

  Judge Pendarrow leaned over the desk and looked down at Duff. “The witness is instructed to answer questions requiring an affirmative or negative comment with yes and no. Does the witness understand?”

  “Aye, Your Honor, I understand,” Duff said. The gallery laughed and, quickly, Duff corrected himself. “I mean, yes, Your Honor.”

  “You may proceed, counselor,” Pendarrow said.

  “Please tell us what you saw.”

  Duff said that five masked men had come into the bank, announcing their intention to rob it. During the course of the robbery, one of the robbers shot and killed Danny Welch.

  “Do you know which one of the robbers shot Mr. Welch?”

  “I believe it was Emile Taylor.”

  “Would you point to Emile Taylor, please?”

  Duff pointed to the defendant.

  “Thank you, no further questions.”

  Dempster stood up, but he didn’t approach the witness stand. “Mr. MacCallister, you said you believe it was my client?”

  “Aye. I mean, yes.”

  “How could you tell? Did you not say they were all wearing masks?”

  “Yes ’tis true they were all wearing masks, but one man was much shorter than the others. And it was the wee one who fired the shot.”

  “The wee one?”

  “The shortest one,” Duff clarified.

  “Without the others herein present, how do you know that Mr. Taylor was the shortest?”

  “I’ve seen them all, with and without masks. Emile Taylor is the shortest.”

  “No further questions.”

  Caldwell was the next witness, and his story concurred with Duff’s story. Then Cindy was sworn in.

  “Now, Miss Boyce you were in the bank, along with Mr. MacCallister and Mr. Caldwell, when the bank was robbed.”

  “I was.”

  “And would you tell the court who fired the shot that killed Mr. Welch?”

  As soon as he asked the question, Crader turned away from Cindy to look at the jury, so that he might gauge their response to Cindy’s answer.

  “I don’t know who fired the shot,” Cindy said.

  Cindy’s response surprised Crader, but he showed no particular reaction to it.

  “I know that all of the bank robbers were masked, so it is quite understandable if you can’t be for certain as to which of them fired the shot. And, because this is a capital murder case, I can see why you might be hesitant to point your finger at someone if you aren’t one hundred percent sure. However, maybe this will help. This whole trial is nothing but house cleaning anyway, because it doesn’t really make any difference whether Mr. Taylor is the one who pulled the trigger or not. He was, by his own admission, one of those who came to rob the bank. Mr. Welch was killed during the commission of that felony. Therefore, under the law, all of the bank robbers are equally guilty of felony murder. Would that make it a little easier for you to suggest that Emile Taylor is the one who fired the shot?”

  Again, Crader turned toward the jury.

  “What if none of the robbers fired the shot?” Cindy asked.

  This time Crader did react to the unexpected answer, and he spun around in total surprise.

  “What? What do you mean, what if none of them fired the shot? Mr. Welch is dead, and he is dead by bullet wound. Of course one of them fired the shot.”

  “It could have been Mr. MacCallister who fired,” Cindy said.

  “What?” someone shouted from the gallery.

  “Woman, have you lost your mind?” another shouted.

  The gallery burst into angry shouts and calls, and Cindy, dropping her head, began to cry.

  “Order! Order in this court!” Judge Pendarrow called, pounding his gavel on the bench before him.

  Crader said nothing as gradually the court was called back to order. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to Cindy. She used it to wipe the tears from her eyes.

  “Miss Boyce, would you tell the court why you think it was Mr. MacCallister’s bullet?”

  “I didn’t say I thought it was—I said I thought it could have been. I mean with all the shooting that was going on. Remember, Mr. MacCallister killed one of the robbers, and he also shot Emile, uh, Taylor. I was so frightened, I’ll be honest with you, I had no idea what was going on. I just know that I’m probably not a very good witness.”

  “No further questions.”

  “Cross, Mr. Dempster?”

  Dempster stood up and this time he did approach the witness. He looked at her sympathetically.

  “Miss Boyce, do you need another moment to compose yourself?”

  “No, I’m all right.”

  “I know this has been very upsetting for you, so I will keep this as brief as I can,” he said quietly. “A simple yes or no is all I need in response. I believe you are telling the court that you cannot, with absolute certainty, testify that the bullet that killed Mr. Welch came from Mr. Taylor’s gun, or indeed, the gun of any of the other bank robbers. Is that what you are saying?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I believe you are also saying that it is possible that the bullet that killed Mr. Welch could have even come from Mr. MacCallister’s gun.”

  “I’m not saying that it did.”

  “I understand. You are merely saying that it could have. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  “Redirect, Mr. Crader.”

  “No, Your Honor, but I would like to recall Duff MacCallister to the stand.”

  Once again, Duff took the stand.

  “I remind you, Mr. MacCallister, that you are already sworn in.”

  Duff nodded.

  “You have heard the testimony of Miss Boyce, as to how the bullet that killed Mr. Welch might have come from your gun. Is that possible?”

  “Nae. No, it is impossible.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Be
cause I did no shooting inside the bank. My gun was in the bottom of a pot of expectorated tobacco juice at the time. I had to”—Duff grimaced, then demonstrated with his hand—“withdraw it from the fetid liquid, before I could shoot it. And they had already withdrawn from the bank before I did that.”

  “So, you are stating without equivocation, that you did not fire so much as one shot inside the bank?”

  “Yes, that is what I’m saying.”

  The closing arguments were brief. Dempster pointed out that the jury had the duty to convict only if they were convinced beyond reasonable doubt that Emile Taylor had fired the fatal shot. He also reminded them that one of the witnesses couldn’t even testify that the bullet had come from any of the bank robbers.

  Crader looked down at the tablet he was carrying, then read, “I was so frightened, I’ll be honest with you, I had no idea what was going on. I just know that I’m probably not a very good witness.” Crader looked up from the tablet. “Those are the exact words of Miss Boyce. And because of that, I am going to ask the jury to disregard her testimony in its entirety. But, even beyond that, I ask you to consider this.

  “Mr. Welch was killed during the course of that bank robbery. A wrongful death, during the commission of a felony, is felony murder, and that guilt is spread equally among all those who are committing the felony. And here is the most important thing. It doesn’t even matter whether one of the bank robbers energized the ball that ended Mr. Welch’s life or not. It could have been Mr. MacCallister, though you heard both Mr. MacCallister and Mr. Caldwell testify that his gun was in the bottom of the spittoon. It could have been Mr. Caldwell who shot him, though he was unarmed and there has been no testimony to that effect. It could even have been Miss Boyce.

  “The truth is, it simply does not matter who shot Mr. Welch. He was killed during the commission of a felony. Mr. Taylor has already confessed to being one of the bank robbers, therefore your decision is a simple one.

  “Find Emile Taylor guilty, so that justice may be served.”

  His closing statement completed, Crader sat down, and Judge Pendarrow instructed the jury, then released them to find a verdict.

  “Why did the girl lie, so?” Duff asked Meagan.

  “Don’t be too harsh on her, Duff,” Meagan replied. “I’m sure she must have been terrified while the robbery was going on.”

  “It could nae have been more frightening than what you went through, lass, but you dinnae lose your wits.”

  “The jury is coming back!” someone shouted.

  “Already? They have nae been gone but for a minute,” Duff said.

  “What?” someone shouted. “What’s goin’ on?”

  It wasn’t the entire jury returning—it was only Curly Lathom, the jury foreman. But as Lathom stepped into the room, it could be seen by all that Johnny Taylor was with him, and Johnny was holding a gun to the jury foreman’s head.

  Emile was sitting at the defense table and when he saw his brother, he smiled and stood up. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down!” he said.

  “I couldn’t let them hang my brother now, could I?” Johnny asked.

  “Cindy,” Emile called. “Go get the marshal’s gun and bring it to me, would you?”

  Everyone in the court looked at the young bar girl. Did she have the courage to resist Emile’s demand?

  Cindy walked over to the marshal, but Ferrell made no move.

  “Give her the gun, Marshal, or I’ll blow this man’s brains out,” Johnny warned.

  “Just be calm, miss, and you’ll be all right,” Marshal Ferrell said reassuringly as he pulled his pistol and handed to her.

  Taking the marshal’s gun Cindy walked over to Emile. With a broad smile, she handed it to him. Then she leaned into him and kissed him. Emile put his arm around her.

  “Have you missed me, darlin’?” Emile asked.

  “More than you’ll ever know.”

  Emile looked over at the marshal. “Bet you didn’t know she was my girl, did you, Marshal? The whole reason she took a job in the saloon was so she could help set everything up for us.”

  “And keep me informed on what was going on,” Johnny answered. “Thanks for the letters, Cindy. They were very helpful.”

  Johnny, Emile, and Cindy started to leave. But just as they got even with Duff, Marshal Ferrell, who was on the opposite side of the room, suddenly threw a chair through the window. Distracted by it, both brothers looked toward the sound.

  Duff grabbed Johnny Taylor’s gun and shot him, then he turned the gun toward Emile.

  But Emile pulled Cindy in front of him and pointed his gun at her head.

  “Drop your gun,” Emile orders. “Or I’ll kill her.”

  “But you said yourself that she’s your woman,” Duff said.

  “I can get another woman. I can’t get another life.”

  “No, Emile, what are you doing?” Cindy shouted in alarm. She twisted away from him and started to run.

  “Damn you!” Emile shouted, shooting her at the same time Duff was shooting him.

  Emile was dead before he hit the floor, but Cindy, though badly hurt, was still alive. Duff hurried to her, and dropped to one knee beside her.

  How much like Skye she looked, and a searing memory came flashing back to him.

  Skye lifted her hand to his face and put her fingers against his jaw. She smiled. “’Twould have been such a lovely wedding,” she said. She drew another gasping breath, then her arm fell and her head turned to one side. Her eyes, though still open, were already clouded with death.

  “I’m sorry,” Cindy said, and when she spoke, the spell was broken. This wasn’t Skye. “Why couldn’t I have met you before I met Emile?”

  “Sure ’n’ it wouldn’t have done you any good,” Duff said. He looked over toward Meagan. “I’ve already found a woman.”

  “Just my luck,” Cindy said as she took her last breath.

  J. A. Johnstone on William W. Johnstone “When the Truth Becomes Legend”

  William W. Johnstone was born in southern Missouri, the youngest of four children. He was raised with strong moral and family values by his minister father, and tutored by his schoolteacher mother. Despite this, he quit school at age fifteen.

  “I have the highest respect for education,” he says, “but such is the folly of youth, and wanting to see the world beyond the four walls and the blackboard.”

  True to this vow, Bill attempted to enlist in the French Foreign Legion (“I saw Gary Cooper in Beau Geste when I was a kid and I thought the French Foreign Legion would be fun”) but was rejected, thankfully, for being underage. Instead, he joined a traveling carnival and did all kinds of odd jobs. It was listening to the veteran carny folk, some of whom had been on the circuit since the late 1800s, telling amazing tales about their experiences, which planted the storytelling seed in Bill’s imagination.

  “They were mostly honest people, despite the bad reputation traveling carny shows had back then,” Bill remembers. “Of course, there were exceptions. There was one guy named Picky, who got that name because he was a master pickpocket. He could steal a man’s socks right off his feet without him knowing. Believe me, Picky got us chased out of more than a few towns.”

  After a few months of this grueling existence, Bill returned home and finished high school. Next came stints as a deputy sheriff in the Tallulah, Louisiana, Sheriff’s Department, followed by a hitch in the U.S. Army. Then he began a career in radio broadcasting at KTLD in Tallulah, which would last sixteen years. It was there that he fine-tuned his storytelling skills. He turned to writing in 1970, but it wouldn’t be until 1979 that his first novel, The Devil’s Kiss, was published. Thus began the full-time writing career of William W. Johnstone. He wrote horror (The Uninvited), thrillers (The Last of the Dog Team), even a romance novel or two. Then, in February 1983, Out of the Ashes was published. Searching for his missing family in the aftermath of a post-apocalyptic America, rebel mercenary and patriot Ben Raines is united with the civilians
of the Resistance forces and moves to the forefront of a revolution for the nation’s future.

  Out of the Ashes was a smash. The series would continue for the next twenty years, winning Bill three generations of fans all over the world. The series was often imitated but never duplicated. “We all tried to copy the Ashes series,” said one publishing executive, “but Bill’s uncanny ability, both then and now, to predict in which direction the political winds were blowing brought a certain immediacy to the table no one else could capture.” The Ashes series would end its run with more than thirty-four books and twenty million copies in print, making it one of the most successful men’s action series in American book publishing. (The Ashes series also, Bill notes with a touch of pride, got him on the FBI’s Watch List for its less than flattering portrayal of spineless politicians and the growing power of big government over our lives, among other things. In that respect, I often find myself saying, “Bill was years ahead of his time.”)

  Always steps ahead of the political curve, Bill’s recent thrillers, written with myself, include Vengeance Is Mine, Invasion USA, Border War, Jackknife, Remember the Alamo, Home Invasion, Phoenix Rising, The Blood of Patriots, The Bleeding Edge, and the upcoming Suicide Mission.

  It is with the western, though, that Bill found his greatest success and propelled him onto both the USA Today and the New York Times bestseller lists.

  Bill’s western series include The Mountain Man, Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man, Preacher, The Family Jensen, Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter, Eagles, MacCallister (an Eagles spin-off ), Sidewinders, The Brothers O’Brien, Sixkiller, Blood Bond, The Last Gunfighter, and the upcoming new series Flintlock and The Trail West. May 2013 saw the hardcover western Butch Cassidy, The Lost Years.

  “The Western,” Bill says, “is one of the few true art forms that is one hundred percent American. I liken the Western as America’s version of England’s Arthurian legends, like the Knights of the Round Table, or Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Starting with the 1902 publication of The Virginian by Owen Wister, and followed by the greats like Zane Grey, Max Brand, Ernest Haycox, and of course Louis L’Amour, the Western has helped to shape the cultural landscape of America.