The Turd Wagon

THE JUDGE SAT ON the upraised dais. He stared down at the three men on trial for attempted robbery. “Mr. Prosecutor, call your first witness.”

A spindly man rose to his feet. He removed his spectacles and glanced toward the witnesses. “I call Curly Burleson to the stand.”

A tall cowboy rose to his feet amd ran his hand through his sandy-colored hair as he approached the witness chair. He stood awkwardly before the judge.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, as God is your witness?”

“Yes, sir,” Curly gulped.

“Mr. Burleson, you’re in the employ of Gus Kerch of the Kerch Ranch?” The spindly man hooked his fingers in his fancy vest.

“Yes, sir, Bob, I’m one of the cowboys he keeps on the payroll.”

“Can you recount the events that occurred two weeks ago?” Bob asked.

“What’s recount mean?” He turned toward the judge.

“Can you remember what happen two weeks ago?” the judge mumbled.

“Yes, sir. Me and Pete and Jolly was out on the north range for Miss Hannah.” Curly’s face reddened. “She told us to take the turd wagon up there and get her a load of manure.”

A chorus of laughter rose from the crowd packed into the tiny courtroom.

“Objection, Your Honor, what kind of wagon did the witness take to the north range?” The defense attorney jumped to his feet.

“Objection overruled, Roscoe. It’s a turd wagon. I don’t think a detailed description is necessary.”

This led to another round of bawdy laughter.

“Curly, is this part of your normal routine?” Bob asked.

“No, sir.” Curly shook his head. “Miss Hannah sent us up there special. She needed some fresh manure for her spring garden, and she said the turds on the north range was the best she ever used.”

The entire gallery roared with laughter.

“Order, order in the court.” The judge banged his gavel on the podium. “Everybody needs to be quiet or I’ll clear this courtroom.”

The court room gradually grew silent.

Bob glanced at his witness. “Would you please tell the court what happened as you were returning to the ranch house.”

“We had a full wagon load of manure and was on our way back. I drove the wagon back. Pete and Jolly was riding about twenty feet on either side because the load stunk so bad.”

A few chuckles rose from the audience. They were quickly quelled by a stern look from the judge.

“What happened then?”

Three fellas came riding out of the brush. They was spurring the hell out of their animals and shooting at us. I slapped the reins over the teams back and pulled the double barreled from the seat.”

“How far did the riders chase you?”

“About a half mile or so. Them horses ain’t built for running, they can pull a wagon all day, but they can’t run for nothing. We had to stop by Rainey Creek and take cover.”

“What did the attackers do then?”

“They tied their horses to the bushes and told us they wanted the gold.” Curly released a long breath. “Jolly told them we only had five dollars, and they was welcome to it, if they’d quit shooting.”

“And did they take the money and stop shooting?”

“No, sir, them varmints started pouring lead in our direction.” Curly shook his head.

Roscoe jumped to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor, the word varmint gives the jury an unfavorable view of my clients.”

“Jolly and Pete called them a lot worse than that.” Curly added.

Despite the judge’s order the cowboy’s comment brought gales of laughter from the crowd.

“Order, order.” The judge banged his gavel. “I will have order in this courtroom. “ He turned to the lanky cowboy. “Mr. Burleson any more shenanigans from you, and I’ll hold you in contempt.”

“It’s the truth, Judge Proctor. Jolly and Pete was cussing a blue streak when them outlaws was shooting at us.” Curly’s face held a dumfounded look.

“Objection, Your Honor, it has not been established that my clients are outlaws.” Roscoe pounded the table.

“Both objections are overruled, Roscoe.” The old man’s spite-filled glare swept the audience. “If I hear even so much as a chuckle from anyone, I will clear this courtroom. Do I make myself clear?”

The packed room grew quiet. No one uttered so much as a whisper.

“Alright, Bob, continue.” Proctor nodded to the prosecutor.

“Curly what actions did you and your friends take when you were under fire?”

“We shot back, but all we had was some shotguns and our pistols. Them boys had rifles. We would have been cooked, if them fellas from the Sweet Molly hadn’t showed up.” “I take it you mean the guards from the Sweet Molly mine?”

Curly nodded. “Yes, sir, we would’ve been treed if not for them.”

“Were they on the way to town to deliver a shipment of ore to the train station?”

Roscoe’s face reddened. “Objection, Your Honor, the witness can’t possibly know what the outriders for the Sweet Molly were doing that day.” Spittle flew from the attorney’s mouth.

“Objection sustained.” The judge waved his gavel at the prosecutor. “Change your line of questioning, Bob.”

“No further questions Your Honor.” He turned to Roscoe. “Your witness.”

Red streaks mottled Roscoe’s cheeks, as he approached the witness. “Tell me, Mr. Burleson, why were you and your companions, carrying shotguns that day? Are double-barreled ten gauges standard issue at the Kerch ranch?”

“No, sir, they ain’t.” Curly’s eyes narrowed, he watched the attorney closely, Roscoe Pryor had a shady reputation in the small community. “Greasy asked us to bring back some fresh rabbits for supper. Said he had a stew recipe he wanted to try out. Greasy is a good fella, but he ain’t much of a cook, if you know what I mean.”

“Isn’t it more likely that the defendants saw you and your companions with the shotguns and believed that they were in danger and therefore attacked your group?”

“That don’t make no sense atoll.” Curley shook his head. “That’s the most fool thing I ever heard tell of.”

“Don’t bandy words with counsel.” the judge interrupted. “Just answer the question.”

“Judge Proctor, I can’t make heads or tails of that. Why would anyone think we was after them when we was riding the opposite way and not toward them fellas.” Curly jumped to his feet, wagging his finger at the defendants. “They thought we was the ore wagon. They was gonna waylay us and steal everything they could carry.”

“You tell ‘em, Curly,” An unidentified voice shouted from the rear of the court room. “They was aiming on killing the lot of us.”

“Order, order!” A crimson flush covered Judge Proctor’s face. “Sheriff, take Mr. Burleson into custody at once. He’ll serve two days in jail for disrupting my courtroom.”

The pot-gutted sheriff rose to his feet. He brushed his thick mustache away from his mouth. “Judge, I’ve only got one cell. I don’t think it’d be smart to stick Curly in there with those three.”

Pete jumped up, wagging his finger at the Judge. “That’d be like putting the fox in the henhouse.”

“Order in my court.” Judge Proctor glared at the cowhands. “You’re right, Sheriff. I can’t place these cowboys in the same cell as those brigands. If anyone laughs or makes any offhanded remarks for the duration of this trial, I’ll fine them ten dollars.” His eyes swept the courtroom. “Is that understood?”

“Objection, Your Honor. You just used the word brigand to describe my clients. How can they expect to receive a fair trial now?”

“Roscoe, this has been a trying day for me, your objection is overruled. Now do you have more questions for this witness?”

Roscoe bowed at the waist. “None at this time, Judge Proctor.”

The judge turned to Curly. “You’re excused.”

The cowboy hurried to the gallery.

Proctor’s gaze centered on the prosecutor. “Call your next witness.”

“Yes, Judge. I call Lee Garza to the stand.”

A tall dark haired man with swarthy skin rose from the audience. He walked purposely down the center aisle and stopped at the witness stand.

Proctor stared at the tall man. “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God.”

“I do.” Garza’s voice carried a trace of Spanish accent. He took a seat in the witness chair.

“Mr. Garza, you are one of the outriders hired to protect ore shipments from the Sweet Molly mine to the railway station?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“To the best of your recollection, please tell the court what happened on the day in question.”

“We heard gunshots, as we were coming down the road that flanks the Kerch ranch. Victor and I rode ahead to see what the trouble was. We saw those three men shooting at the cowboys. Scared one of them so bad he jumped in the back of the wagon with all the shi… Please excuse me, manure.”

The court room exploded in laughter.

“Sheriff, Sheriff.” Judge Proctor banged his gavel. “Everyone present is fined ten dollars. I trust you will collect the fines and add them to the city treasury.”

The laughter continued.

“Damn it, folks.” Sheriff McConnell rose to his feet. “I want all of you to quieten down, right now. Or else I’ll have all of you shoveling horse droppings from the street.”

The crowd grew silent.

One of the robbers banged his shackles on the table. “Damn it, I’ve had all this I can stand. Manure is how we got here in the first place.” Anger colored his face as he leaped to his feet, rattling the chains around his wrists and ankles. “Shore we wuz gonna rob the ore shipment.”

“Bull, you need to sit down and be quiet.” Roscoe grabbed his client’s arm and attempted to force him in his chair.

The big man shoved the attorney away. “I want this finished. Our bad luck these fellas went out that day for a wagon load of fertilizer. It’s bad enough to be charged with attempted robbery of a turd wagon, but to listen to this tottering old fool and these two educated idjits. It’s more than I can stand.”

“Roscoe, control your client, or I’ll hold him in contempt.” Proctor slammed the gavel on the wooden surface.

“I heard you was a good scrapper when you was younger.” Bull stared defiantly at Judge Proctor. “If I didn’t have this iron weighing me down, I’d whip the lot of you.”

“Is that so?” Proctor glared at the thick man. “You’d like to have a try at me?”

“I could whip a handful like you and watch the gate at the same time.” Bull thumped his chest, jingling the chains around his wrists.

“Then I have a proposition for you and your accomplices. I’ll give you a try at me. Should you win the charges will be dismissed.” Proctor stared at Bull’s smiling face. “But if I win, you and your cronies will each serve five years in the territorial penitentiary.”

“Damn right, I’ll do it.” Bull’s smile stretched from ear to ear.

“Judge, do you think this is a good idea? You’re pushing sixty and Bull has seventy pounds on you.” McConnell eyed the older man.

“I believe I can handle myself, Sheriff.”

“I don’t like this, Bull.” The smaller of his companions pulled the big man away, whispering in his ear.

Bull pushed the smaller man away. “I can take him. I know I can.”

“What about you two, do you agree with this arrangement?” Proctor demanded.

“Judge, I object. This is not proper courtroom behavior. You can’t leave the sentencing of men who haven’t been found guilty, balancing on the outcome of a common brawl.” Roscoe banged his fist on the table.

“Shut-up, Counselor. I find your clients guilty of the crime of attempted robbery. Now, Boys, do you accept my offer for sentencing?”

“Bull says he can take you, that’s good enough for me,” the third member of the group spoke for the first time.

Proctor nodded his approval. “Sheriff, we will adjourn to the street for sentencing.”

“Five to one on Bull,” a voice screamed from the rear. “Offering five to one.” The crowd immediately surged into the street, forming a crude circle.

McConnell grabbed the chain. “Come on, boys.” He jerked on the links. “If anyone of you jaspers tries anything, I’ll cut you down like a rabid dog.” He led the three men outside.

The judge rose from his padded chair and removed his robe, folding it neatly and laying it on the chair. He followed McConnell and his prisoners outside.

The sheriff pulled a key from his vest pocket and fitted it into Bull’s manacles. “Try to run and I’ll kill you. This is gonna be a fair fight. Cheat and I’ll kill you.” His flinty eyes centered on Bull’s face. “You got all that?”

Bull returned the stare. “I catch you with them guns off, I’ll whip you like a yellow dog.”

McConnell removed the hammer strap from his pistol, resting his palm on the smooth grip. “Have at it.”

Judge Proctor calmly rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows. He walked toward Bull, placed his right foot forward and curled his hands into fists, holding them before his face.

Bull grunted. “I seen a boxing match once, old has been, didn’t impress me much.” He rushed forward, swinging a tremendous roundhouse at Proctor’s head.

The wily judge ducked under the punch and loosed a solid blow to Bull’s heavy gut.

“Get him, Bull. I ain’t wanting to serve five years in prison.”

McConnell jerked the prisoner’s chain. “Shut-up.”

“Five to one on Bull. Offering five to one on Bull.”

Bull staggered back, his face reddened. He drew a deep breath into his lungs and charged the judge, swinging wildly.

A clubbing blow struck Proctor’s shoulder. The old judge staggered, a solid right to his jaw sent him tumbling to the ground.

“What about it old man, you had enough?” Bull waved his fists in the air, sucking air through his open mouth.

“Not hardly.” Proctor climbed to his feet. The big man charged in, swinging vicious haymakers. Proctor moved to the side and struck Bull’s rock solid jaw three times with his left.

“That ain’t gonna do you any good.” Bull wiped blood from his lips. “Sooner or later I’m gonna catch up with you.” He moved forward, more cautiously this time. He launched a wide left for Proctor’s jaw.

The judge stepped back, the blow missing by a fraction of an inch. He countered with a straight left. Aided by Bull’s weight and forward momentum, the solid punch sent the big man to his knees.

“Three-to-one on Bull! I’m offering three-to-one on Bull!”

“Get up. You can’t let that old fart whip you.”

A smile touched McConnell’s face. “I told you boys to be quiet.”

Bull shook his head, chasing the cobwebs from his brain. He licked his blooded lips and approached the old man. “Didn’t figure you had this much sand.” He copied the judge’s movements and jabbed at his opponent. Proctor sidestepped the futile attempt. His eyes held a determined glint, as he landed a savage blow on Bull’s ear.

“Oh, damn it. That ain’t right.” The big man stepped back, cupping his face.

Proctor stepped forward and landed a solid jab of his own. The wide nose flattened, gushing blood.

“Two-to-one on Proctor. Offering two-to-one on Proctor.”

“Come on. You’ve got to whip this old man.”

Bull jumped forward, his right foot coming down on Proctor’s instep. The old man ignored the pain. He lashed out with a left right combination. Bull fell back, waving his arms frantically to maintain his balance.

Proctor limped forward, and his right hand shot forward smashing the point of Bull’s jaw. The big man grunted and went down. A dust cloud puffed around his prone body. Bull rolled to his stomach. Pushed himself to his knees and slowly climbed to his feet.

He sleeved the blood from his face, glassy eyes attempting to focus on the old man. He plodded forward on unsteady legs. Hands clenched into fists, Bull swung at Proctor’s jaw. The old man slapped the blow away and stepped close, driving a hard right into the other man’s unprotected belly. Air burst from Bull’s mouth, he bent at the waist, gasping. The judge stepped back, measuring him for the telling blow. A savage left uppercut struck Bull’s unprotected face. He wilted like a flower in August and sank to the ground.

“Get these boys in jail.” Proctor drew a deep breath. “Schedule the prison wagon to pick them up.”

“You surprised me, Judge. I didn’t know you could fight like that.” McConnell slapped him on the back.

“Bare knuckle fighting put me through law school. I got the idea after I met Abraham Lincoln. He was one of the best wrestlers I’ve ever seen.” He ran a hand through his gray hair. “Now, get these turd wagon thieves in jail.”

Terry Alexander

Terry Alexander and his wife Phyllis live on a small farm near Porum, Oklahoma. They have three children, 13 grandchildren and one great granddaughter. Terry is a member of The Oklahoma Writers Federation, Ozark Creative Writers, Tahlequah Writers, Western Writers of America and the Western Fictioneers. He has been published in various anthologies from Airship 27, Pro Se Press, Pulp Modern, Big Pulp, and several others, and has won multiple awards for his work.

“The Turd Wagon” is Terry’s fifth short story to appear in Saddlebag Dispatches. He also serves as one of the magazine’s staff of feature writers, and writes a regular column entitled “Let’s Talk Westerns” in every issue, where he shares his voluminous and esoteric knowledge of classic Western pop culture, entertainment, and esoteric trivia nobody else could possibly know... and it’s likely he made up.