Savage Range by Luke; Short

men, and while he gladly would have gone against them, he understood there was some reason for Jim Wade wanting him free. Without a word, he mounted his blue and rode off.
    The entry in town was quiet, by alleys, and on foot between houses until they entered the back door of the sheriff’s office which was located on the corner of the plaza across from the hotel and catty-corner from Cope’s Freighter’s Pleasure saloon.
    There was not a light in the sheriff’s office, but as soon as Jim Wade entered it, he knew there were men in here. It was thick with tobacco smoke, and he could make out the dim figures of men lounging against the wall.
    When everyone was inside, Haynes said, “Bard, you here?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œThen get the preliminary hearing over pronto.”
    Jim couldn’t see anyone, but he heard the solid tap of Cope’s crutch as the heavy man moved in restlessness. The hearing was swift, with only legal questions asked.
    Bard, apparently the justice of the peace, recited rapidly, “The prisoner, James Wade, is charged with the willful murder of thirteen persons, to wit—” and he droned out the names of the men killed by the Excelsior crew. “Does the prisoner plead guilty or not guilty to the charge?”
    â€œCan I talk?” Jim asked.
    â€œYou haven’t a lawyer. State your case.”
    Jim did. He had not planned the killings, he said with vehemence. He planned the raid on the Star 88. A man was shot, but not badly. As for the killings, they were planned by the crew, which got out of hand. He had no knowledge of the killings until Haynes told him, so help him God. His speech was met with silence.
    Bard droned on. “Not guilty is the plea. You will be held for trial in the circuit court which convenes two weeks from this day. You are remanded to the custody of the sheriff.”
    â€œWhat about bail?” a weary voice asked.
    â€œI will place the bail at two hundred thousand dollars,” Bard answered, and this was met by grunts of satisfaction.
    Someone approached him. It was Haynes, and he said, “Wade, I have deputized five men to guard this jail. They are five of the most honest men I know. My duty is to guard you until the date of your trial.” He paused. “My sincere hope is that you are taken from my custody and killed. You deserve it. Now get into the cell block.”
    Alone in the single large cell, the window of which opened onto an alley running behind the building, Jim sank down on the cot and put his head in his hands. In the tomblike quiet of the cell, his thoughts began to take some order. Soon he began to perceive a pattern which underlay these events. The man behind it was, obviously, Max Bonsell. Bonsell had a job to do in driving off the squatters, a job which might take years of feuding. He preferred the quick way, the killer’s way. But someone would have to pay for murder, even in this lawless country. He had gone to Dodge City in search of a man. That man had to have a reputation for handling men, a reputation as a gun fighter, and a reputation as an honest man. Jim Ward filled the bill and was hired. The rest was carefully planned, too. Jim Wade had had all the responsibility for the eviction of the squatters placed squarely on his shoulders. Moreover—and this was a stroke of blind fortune for Max Bonsell—Jim Wade had publicly and before the sheriff assumed that responsibility. All that remained was the raid. It had been planned nicely. While Jim, with a small crew, burned Cruver out, the others did the killing. In one swift stroke, most of the opposition to the Excelsior was wiped out. Instead of taking a year, it took a night.
    But somebody had to answer for those murders—and Jim Wade was the man!
    Bonsell could sanctimoniously claim that he knew nothing about it. Jim made a bet with himself that Bonsell had been in town the night before last, so his alibi would be perfect. As