The Sporting House Killing by G. Powell (best non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

ended thus—this moment, this inward breathlessness, this outward calmness. This quiet crest of disquiet.

Judge Goodrich finally spoke. “It appears you’ve found the defendant, Cicero Sweet, guilty”—a mother’s gasp—“of manslaughter.”

A rippling murmur passed across the room.

“Is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Blessed are the peacemakers.

“And you’ve assessed punishment at the maximum?”

“Yes, sir, that’s our verdict.”

“Cicero Sweet, I pronounce you guilty of manslaughter and sentence you to five years confinement in the state prison.”

Chapter 43

It was a fine day to rock on his front porch, smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper. The colonel’s head popped up when a hack rolled up on the street.

“Afternoon, Mr. Calloway,” called a familiar voice. “Mind if I stop by?”

Catfish waved. “How do, Jasper. You’re always welcome. Come on up here.”

Jasper paid the driver and hopped down, pulling his bag after him. He sat in the other rocking chair and rubbed Colonel Terry’s ear. “Catching up on the news?”

“Story in the Dallas paper about the trial.” He laughed. “Comes out the same way, but it sure sounds different the way Brown tells it.”

Jasper nodded. “Cicero’s really going off to prison?”

“He is. He’s decided not to appeal.”

“I’m downright sorrowful for him, but I reckon that’s better than hanging.”

“Cicero thinks so.”

Jasper looked pensive. “So he really shot that girl, Mr. Calloway? Is that the truth?”

“That’s what the jury says. They said Cicero killed her but didn’t do it with malice in his heart.”

“Were they right?”

“Juries don’t often get one wrong. They’re generally better than that.”

“I ain’t never thought about that.”

He’d thought about juries a great deal. “See that live oak over yonder?” He pointed. “It’s been there for hundreds of years. A jury’s like an old oak tree. It’s a beautiful thing to watch, but its true value isn’t so obvious. It has deep roots extending way under the surface that keep the soil from washing away. It may be tossed and turned by a strong wind, but it’s too strong to blow over. It always rights itself. The only thing that’ll set over an old oak is a man who cuts it down for his own reasons.” He appreciatively inhaled the fresh air. “I’d lost faith in that old tree, Jasper. I’d always stood up to folks who tried to cut it down, but I lost faith in juries for a time. Not anymore. They did the right thing by your friend Cicero.”

“I’m sure sorry for that girl.”

“Me too.” He tossed the newspaper on the porch and crossed his arms. “What about you? Looks like you’re headed out of town with a packed bag. President Burleson didn’t expel you, did he?”

He couldn’t help but grin—he already knew Burleson hadn’t.

Jasper’s eyes widened. “Oh no, sir. He give me a strong talking-to, lectured me about this lesson and that lesson, and I reckon I’ve learned most all of ’em. He told me I’d be welcome back in school come fall, and as long as I walked a straight and narrow path, I’d graduate someday.”

“That’s mighty fine, Jasper. I know you will.” And when the boy got home soon, he’d find a letter from Baylor advising him that an anonymous gift had been made to pay his tuition. A sound investment.

“One thing’s for sure,” Jasper said. “I ain’t inclined to go near no whorehouse. So anyways, I’m fixing to head home for the rest of the summer. There’s cotton to pick. Got a train later for Flatonia. I figure I best tell my folks about all this before they hear about it from somebody else. I’d told ’em I was staying here to finish some schoolwork, which is the way I’ve thought of it.”

“If you need me to write them a letter for you, I’d be happy to.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s real nice of you, but I think I best do my own talking now.”

Catfish smiled. “Good for you, son.”

Colonel Terry rolled onto his back, extending his paws toward the ceiling. Time for a belly rub.

“I sure am gonna miss the colonel,” Jasper said, reaching down to fulfill the request.

“When you come back to college next fall, he’ll still be here. Hound dogs always are. That’s what makes ’em God’s perfect creation.”

The colonel moaned softly from the rubbing.

“How’s that?” Jasper asked.

“God made us men to be loyal to one another, but sometimes that causes us grief. Two-legged critters will let you down or cripple themselves trying not to. Sometimes friends betray you. Even family can disappoint you, or you them. But a good ol’ hound dog is always there for you, whether you deserve it or not. That’s the noblest impulse of the canine heart.”

Jasper bent over and let the colonel take a last lick. “Well, sir, I reckon I better go. I just wanted to say thanks for taking my side with Baylor.”

“You’re quite welcome. That’s why I’m here.”

***

It was a fine day to sit across a corner table from Tom Blair in the Bismark Saloon. After every trial in which they battled like mortal enemies, they met there over a drink to remind themselves they weren’t. Miss Peach said it was like Shakespeare wrote: Do as adversaries do in law. Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends. They smoked White Owls, and the loser bought the drinks.

This night, each of them treated the other. And for the first time, Catfish brought Harley.

“Catfish, I want you to know,” Blair began, “it wasn’t my idea to ask for death.”

“I know, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do. I want you to understand. Shaughnessy and DeGroote and others insisted on it. I thought it was just because that preacher was stirring everybody up. I didn’t know DeGroote had his own horse in the race.”

“I know you didn’t.” Catfish tapped ashes into the brass spittoon. “I didn’t, either.”

“I feel a little dirty now.”

“You shouldn’t, my friend. You were just doing your job.”

“Thanks.”

Catfish dipped his head. “It’s me who should apologize. I let it get personal, even with you, and I’m sorry for that.”

“I didn’t take it that way.” Blair blew smoke at the