The Court of Impostors

By D.V. Burleson

In courts of the old west, truth was determined by juries of simple folks, based on testimony of biased witnesses and manipulated by opportunistic lawyers. This is to say nothing of bribes, corruption and intimidation. Into this world rode an untried circuit judge, Dan Logan, caught up in a complex land swindle in northern Colorado in 1885. But this judge was an impostor.
Sean Stewart was once an honest mounted policeman in 1883 New York City who turned vigilante when his family was butchered in retaliation for Sean’s defiance of a corrupt judge. Desperate to escape his demons, Sean headed west, where he chanced upon Dan Logan, a professor newly appointed as a circuit riding judge. On the train ride west, they quickly became friends over a spirited debate between lofty legal theory and harsh practice reality.
Nearly killed in an ambush, the tenderfoot judge confesses his role in the swindle to Sean, but claiming his daughter is held hostage. Judge Logan begs Sean to take his place and finish the scheme to save the judge’s daughter. For Sean, the temptation to foil the con from within and save the judge’s daughter was too great to resist.
The swindlers, led by the elusive scoundrel Artemis Fry, thought they murdered Miranda Ramirez and her husband for the land, but Miranda survived. She was accustomed to being underestimated, given her beauty, her operatic singing voice and being one of the rare women lawyers of her time. To catch the killers, she journeys west and encounters an eclectic mix of circuit riding lawyers: Jed Dunham, the charismatic local prosecutor; the pampered Dewey Cheatham; the brilliant and idealistic Cornelius Howe; and Jason ‘Broadwing’ McGuire, a Native American lawyer.
All are ensnared in the web spun by Artemis Fry, a confidence man of many games and many names, who poses as Artemis Sexton, an acquisition agent for a national railroad. The seductively armed Kitty Slaughter and the ferocious Zeke Steckman protect Artemis, but have plans of their own.
And so, the policeman from New York City, the lady lawyer from South Carolina, the judge from Washington, D.C., each strangers to the sweeping western lands of Colorado, seek justice. Unfortunately, the courtroom is last place they’ll find it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.V. Burleson
• Release date: Mar 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463538753

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Acknowledgements

For Grammy

At the very summit of my most profound thanks and blame is my live-in Angel, who from the beginning encouraged and inspired me. We should all be so lucky to have someone indulging us, but at the same time coaching us, or rather, dragging us through fertilizer toward a better blooming garden! I pray she never stops.

Thanks also to Mindy McGinnis, Marcia Wonnacott, Scott Hanf and Tina Owen for their generosity in reviewing my work, challenging me, advising me, and not smacking me.

To Brigitte Werner of Canim Lake, British Columbia and the folks at Pixabay for gritty cover art, I send my heartfelt appreciation. They can be found at https://pixabay.com. I can’t tell you how many cover concept sketches we scratched out before we found this. The train simply whistled at us and we whistled back!

Thank you to Tatiana Vila at Vila Design who worked wonders with the cover. Please visit her at www.viladesign.net. She is prompt, direct and, above all, talented.

Of course, humble gratitude toward my father (the rocket scientist who knows the real reason why the sky is blue) and my late mother (the arteeest, the luster of life, the dynamo of radio), for they would listen when no one else would.

FOREWORD

Facts are stubborn things; and whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passions, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence. - John Adams

The following is a portion of a speech to law students at The University of Colorado Law School in Boulder, Colorado, given on September 27, 1895, by Cornelius Howe, Esq., a circuit rider and contributing Editor of the Rocky Mountain Sun. These remarks were made in tribute to Sean Stewart.

I once knew a man who lived a very big lie.

His lie betrayed everything I studied.

His lie spit in the face of jurisprudence.

But strangely, his lie had hope.

For in his lie lived passion.

He used justice to justify his lie and would die for it.

And his lie almost cost me my life.

If you add ‘f’ to the word ‘lie’ in those phrases, you have life.

And the forgoing works pretty much the same.

Chapter 1

The Switch

A person’s true nature will reveal itself, despite disguise. - Aesop

1885, Jefferson County, Colorado.

SHAVING A DEAD JUDGE was something Sean Stewart never thought he would have to do. Certainly not switching places with a judge. It would require Sean to wear the very cloth of corruption he tore from officials back east. Yet, it was the judge’s idea.

The judge’s final words confused Sean. A crime to be aided and abetted, but foiled? Was the judge’s daughter a hostage? Could Sean dare to take on the persona of the judge and hope to sort this all out before he was found out? Nonetheless, it was the judge’s dying request.

Even as he lay against a tree at the edge of their campsite, everything about Judge Daniel Logan flaunted his pretentious tastes. The polished boots, the brocade vest, the fresh white collar, the pinned ascot, the coifed white beard. Sean weighed whether to bury the judge with the others or bring him along for a more ceremonious burial. His friend certainly deserved more than a wayside hole in the prairie for a grave and common thieves for crypt-mates.

To sell the switch, Sean thought it might help to present a body with Sean’s name to the local sheriff for burial. One option was the judge. The other two options barely shared a full set of teeth between them. Perhaps it was vanity, but Sean decided it would be easier to dress down the judge than dress up one of the thieves. For the judge to look like a policeman with an honest income and not a dandy dressed for a fox hunt, the pampered beard and garish attire would have to go.

The boots and vest would be easy. Sean found the judge’s straight razor in a kit that appeared like a cabinet in an apothecary. He certainly recognized all the tools - soap, lotion, balm, cologne, sharpening stone - but never had seen these arrayed in such an ostentatious fashion, each having its own pocket, pouch or strap. Even the nearby horses, Whiskey and Fanny, took note of the lavender scent from the shaving soap.

I suppose there’s no point in using this. Sean teased the soap toward Whiskey. Whiskey shook his head in revulsion. At least I won’t kill him.

As he touched the razor to the judge’s throat, images burst in Sean’s mind of his own murdered wife and son, their slashed throats and torn bodies. He was frozen by a holocaust of memories of the people he killed in response. Unable to elude the visions, he backed away from the judge toward the campfire, stopping by the two other dead bodies and a half-dug grave. Today’s carnage and the dilemma at hand brought him briefly back to the present.

Sean flipped the razor closed, yanked a slender knife from one dead man’s eye, then stepped on the chest of the other body for leverage to tug out his Bowie knife. After wiping the blades, Sean sharpened each blade on the stone he found in the shaving kit, then slid the slender knife in the arm sheath up his sleeve. He halved a few apples with the Bowie knife and arrayed them on a boulder next to the horses.

Whiskey sniffed at the apples and eyed the broad blade as Sean returned it to his belt at the swell of his back.

It’s clean enough. Sean bit one of the apple pieces and offered another to Whiskey. See? You can barely taste the blood.

The judge’s grey spotted Appaloosa, Fanny, inched forward to Sean who handed her an apple and rubbed her forehead. Too bad you didn’t get to know Dan better.

The judge’s plan to pass a policeman off as a judge demanded a depth of deception beyond Sean’s reach. It was fraught with risks and needed another good think.

I don’t suppose you two want to help bury them, Sean muttered to the horses as he set the shaving kit on the judge’s luggage. That might be the smarter thing to do. No one knows me out here anyway. Sean eyed the circling vultures overhead. You think they’ll turn me in?

Turning to his own gear, Sean moved his Colt revolvers to rummage for a currycomb and brush. Some men whittle to work out kinks in a problem. Some smoke or drink. For Sean, it was brushing down Whiskey.

Sean’s mind found refuge in the memories ingrained in Whiskey’s familiar scars, drawn from their years of police work together. Each scar trapped a memory of an arrest or fight. I wonder sometimes why you and your friends allow people to ride you when we engage in the silly act of shooting at other people who are likely to shoot back.

Whiskey gave a light neigh with a nod.

Sean continued as he recalled words of his former police partner. But, as Connor would say, ‘You’ve got to be thinking I’m in the middle of a fight I didn’t start. I can’t shoot back, but I can run, by Heaven, and leave the fight to the idiots who started it!’ Sean chuckled. And I wouldn’t blame you.

Whiskey snorted.

Remember Seamus Mallory and Devon Cunningham? Shooting their way out of that bank on Woodhaven three years ago. Devon did this. Sean traced his finger along a scar on Whiskey’s shoulder. Connor chased Devon and we went after Seamus. You sniffed him out hiding in trash while you dumped your breakfast. That’s what I call first rate detective work. A truly focused nose. And you still found that rat.

Whiskey snorted again. Sean rubbed the brushes together, angered by the memory.

A rat he was. Sean’s memory fixed on Seamus’ rat-like face, three years ago in an alley in Queens, New York. Frightened and frustrated, Seamus burst from the trash pile, trying to dodge past Sean and Whiskey, but with a flip of his rope Sean skipped his lasso off the cobblestone pavement, catching Seamus’ feet. He smacked the street so hard his gun bounced out of reach. As Seamus writhed on the ground, Whiskey moved in and pressed his forehead down at Seamus, so his white star was right in Seamus’ eyes.

Stop him! Get him off me! Seamus pled.

Sean’s mind returned to the present.

Get him off! Get him off! Sean mocked. I love the look in their eyes when they realize they’ve been beaten by a rope. And then you dragged him right through your manure! Sean laughed as Whiskey whinnied along. What a mess. Sergeant Brooks wasn’t happy with us. They had to hose him down before they put him in a cell.

I still can’t believe Connor let Devon and the money go after that gutter rat shot at both of us. Sean rubbed Whiskey’s shoulder scar, then touched a scar on Sean’s own cheek, before continuing the brushing.

Gwen was not happy with us. Sean thought back to the Woodhaven Boulevard police livery and that same day they caught Seamus Mallory, three years ago. In that livery, Whiskey occupied the first stall and Sean kept the doors wide open to maximize the flow of fresh air. This gave them both some fresh air and a view of the busy street and passersby.

Sean remembered clearly his wife’s lyrical voice.

You forgot something, his wife’s voice sang from the sidewalk of the hustling street. The voice belonged to a statuesque woman haloed from the sunshine as she stepped into the shadows of the livery. Gwen Stewart held forward a large basket covered with a red checkered napkin, as Whiskey snorted and nodded. And there are apples for you, Gwen said as she winked a green eye and patted Whiskey’s muzzle.

That wouldn’t be chicken would it, darlin’? asked Sean’s partner, Connor Byrne, in his thick Irish accent with a roll of his devilish eyes. Invigorated by the roasted aroma, he took a deep smell as he bounced down from his horse. Glorious!

I’m surprised you can smell it over the hay and horses, Gwen said with a gloved hand to her freckled nose.

That’s mine, Sean said, raising a questioning eyebrow at Gwen while trying to keep the bandaged side of his face away from her.

Of course, there’s enough, Gwen said to Connor. It’s just as easy to cook for five as three. Of course, when Connor settles down, his wife can pitch in looking after the three of you, Gwen added.

Who’m I gunna find that can cook as good as you, darlin’? Besides, the girls I like don’t do their cookin’ in the kitchen, Connor said with a wink.

I don’t want to know, Gwen held up a hand and turned to Sean who had turned the bandaged side of his face toward her. Oh! Gwen reached up for the bandage, but Sean took her hand and gave it a kiss.

He’s a hero, Connor interceded. Took on two bank robbers all by himself with that lasso. He thinks he’s a cowboy. Whiskey dragged them through his business too, Connor laughed.

Sean glared at Connor as Gwen smoldered. To distract her, Whiskey tugged and chewed on Gwen’s large purple bow she adapted as a bustle. Bustles went in and out of fashion and had just returned in style that year. The wife of an honest policeman had to be frugal if she had any hope to keep pace with fashion.

She swooped Whiskey’s nose away from her bow, up to her face and jabbed her finger at the white star between his eyes. You-need-to do-your-job, Gwen choked out the words at Whiskey. Whiskey’s ears flinched back as he glanced toward Sean. Sean shrugged in return before Gwen continued, I’ll be helping with Mr. McGinty tonight. His wife hasn’t slept in nearly a fortnight. I’ll bring Jamie-Connor with me.

Don’t worry, Sean whispered. I’ll use my gun more.

You better. The Peacemaker, Gwen said. The Navy’s a bit old.

Sean nodded with a shrug. See you tomorrow, Miss Nightingale.

Mrs. Nightingale to you, officer, she said as she lifted the veil on her bowler and drew near for a soft kiss.

Once Gwen left, Sean turned to Connor, Well?

Well, what?

Those guys were friends of yours, Sean scolded. They work for Flannery. You… Sean stopped short of accusing Connor of working for the largest crime boss in Queens.

Sean, Connor stammered.

You need to leave, Sean rasped.

Connor turned to his horse. I’m going.

No, Connor. I mean that you need to leave the force. Maybe me too. Sean watched the sidewalk where Gwen disappeared. Someone needs to put a stop to the corruption. But I can’t risk my family.

Calm down. We’ll talk later. Connor mounted his horse. You need to bury that temper. Bury it where Flannery don’t find it. Do ya hear me? Bury it where Flannery don’t find it.

Maybe someone should bury Flannery.

Connor was horrified. Sean. You can’t fight them…

STEWART. another officer barked from the opposite end of the livery, walking toward them holding out a piece of paper. You got court this afternoon.

#

#

Bury it where Flannery don’t find it, Sean repeated as the memory of his lost love, his former friend and the stalwart livery walls gave way to the present and to the boundless blue Colorado sky and gentle terrain overlooking the wandering dirt road near the campsite. No longer in the shadows of his mind, Sean squinted in the brilliant sun as if he had just stepped outside.

Glancing toward the aspen where Judge Logan reclined, Sean made his decision, tossed the brushes aside, took up the shovel and resumed digging the grave. Once he climbed out of the grave, he kicked the thieves in.

Give the Devil my regards. Tell him I said, ‘that’s two more from me’.

With a blanket he took from the fireside, Sean crouched down next to the judge, reminiscing their debates, surprised he’d be missing them. Unfurling the blanket over the judge, Sean began to wrap the body.

Don’t you DARE bury me with those brigands, the judge rasped his objection, knocking Sean back off his feet.

DAN! DAN! Ablaze in both shock and relief, Sean gasped. YOU’RE ALIVE!

For the moment. Judge Logan moaned as he stretched and blinked his eyes. I dare say, my good policeman, you caused quite a melee.

You started it.

And you finished it in the tradition of the Woodhaven Slasher, Judge Logan coughed.

I’m not the Slasher.

I have never seen anyone move that fast in my entire life.

You should get your nose out of those musty books of yours and get some fresh air. All kinds of stuff going on out here in the real world.

Stuff, the judge scoffed. Stuff like that I am blissful to miss, my friend.

I thought you were dead. Sean helped the judge adjust his seating.

I was.

You see Saint Peter? Sean barbed as he inspected the gash across the judge’s head.

It was a different doorman, I’m afraid. Warmer reception, you might say.

You tell him I said ‘hi’? Sean probed the wound. We should get that wrapped.

I’m afraid the bigger problem is my leg. Dan winced as he tried to move it. Sean felt down the judge’s leg. OOH! The judge barked. I think further down. And the foot. And where are my boots? Did those ruffians abscond with them?

They didn’t get far, Sean nodded toward the grave.

Dan surveyed the sparse camp site and the pile of dirt. How long was I out?

All night and half the morning. Sean continued probing down the leg, stopping with each yelp from the judge.

Cease and desist, Officer!

Sorry. I’m guessing you have more than one break. Nothing I can do. But we should get you to the nearest doctor fast. Sean took his knife and sliced open the judge’s pant leg to get a better look. No messages from Satan? Sean tried to distract the judge. Hope you told him I gotta bone to pick with him.

We didn’t get around to that. It was my soul before the bench, after all. Though he does send his regards. In fact, he cursed you.

That seems rather self-serving, Sean said as he whistled to Whiskey.

The judge snickered with a cough, then let out a full laugh.

Sean stood as Whiskey reached them and found a flask on the tack, then offered it to the judge. Toasting, the judge took a sip as Sean continued to cut the judge’s pant leg.

Is that really necessary? I was, am, still wearing these.

Is there a dress code in Hell?

You made me leave the rest of my wardrobe in Denver, Dan groused.

We need to fashion a splint. Then we need to figure out how to get you on a horse.

Impossible.

Necessary.

Now, Sean…you…you need to listen to me.

We’re going to get through this.

But in case we don’t, I need to prepare for the ultimate eventuality. Dan took Sean by the arm to sit him down as he glanced at the circling birds. I hate to disappoint the undertakers overhead.

You’re not going to die again, unless someone kills you again.

Then let me say my piece. Normally, I would want two witnesses. You and either Whiskey or Fanny, or both, will have to suffice.

Are we going to be here a while? Sean snatched back the flask and took a drink. We need to move as soon as possible.

Not too long. Dan coughed, then took another drink. Something I didn’t tell you about taking over my post.

You did leave me with a puzzle. Something about a crime and your daughter?

I don’t remember saying anything.

You made me promise to help, Sean reminded him. To take over for you as a judge.

Oh yes. And I’ll hold you to it. Orders of the court don’t die with the judge. Put that on your list of things to remember.

So just tell me what you were trying to tell me.

Let’s start with the Ramirezes. They own a few hundred acres of land to the north. I should say ‘owned.’ They were killed for it and now it’s going to be sold to several buyers at the same time.

A swindle?

On several levels. Shaking the flask, Judge Logan winked. I don’t wish to leave this Earth with my last act as a great crime. I’ve lived within the bounds of the law my whole life. Although, not without sin. My sins were avarice, gluttony, perhaps lust, but not theft and certainly not murder. In fact, the Ramirezes were already dead when I was pressed into service. Mrs. Ramirez, I understand, was a lawyer… if you can imagine such a thing. I’ve heard of women lawyers, but never met one.

Pressed into service?

I was promised a ransom even I couldn’t spend.

What was your price? Sean failed to hide his distain.

Don’t judge me, Sean, until you have all the facts. Make a note of that. You need to cling to that rule above most others when you take the bench. How can you judge fairly until you first know everything there is to know? Although none of us can ever know everything. We are human, after all. Sean nodded as Judge Logan continued. The price for my soul was the life of my daughter. And one hundred thousand dollars.

Sean’s jaw dropped. Talk about a carrot and a stick. Who offered it?

The gentleman presently known as Artemis Sexton for this swindle. He also goes by Artemis Fry. And as I understand it, a different name for each swindle. There is a letter in my things I’ll need to give you.

How many names does he have?

Chapter 2

The Dirty Deed

I’m never sincerer than when I’m lying. - Artemis Fry.

1885 South Carolina, approximately one month ago.

MIRANDA RAMIREZ’S ANGELIC VOICE floated through the opulent drawing room and conservatory at Gibson House, her family’s estate in South Carolina. Miranda was dressed in an emerald-green velvet gown this evening, offsetting her alabaster complexion and amber locks, which were fashioned in a pompadour, pinned with several large pearls.

She smiled at her charismatic husband, Count Maximiliano Ramirez, who sat with her mother, Eloise Gibson, near the back of the crowded rooms as their guests enjoyed strawberries with whipped cream and various aperitifs and coffee. The guests were mesmerized by Miranda’s precise yet playful vocal style. Perfect for Habanera from Carmen.

Didn’t you meet at that gala benefit for the Seville Ballet when we met Georges Bizet? Mrs. Gibson whispered to Maxim.

There were other people in the room? Maxim whispered back. I never thought I would fall in love with a lawyer.

If her partners had half a brain, Mrs. Gibson continued, they would realize Miranda represents the future and nurture her, rather than attempting to trivialize her. She shot a glance to a heavy-set man with bushy sideburns connected by a mop of a mustache, but a clean chin. That David Campbell cornered her into singing. Ha! That backfired. Though there are times I wished she would have joined the opera.

That would have taken her away from us.

Truly. Mrs. Gibson touched her fluted champagne glass to Maxim’s, releasing a distinct and delicate chime.

After desert the guests departed down the grand steps in front of the mansion’s rotunda fashioned after Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello. Situated at the top of a hill, from the front steps one could see rooftops in each direction. The spires of a nearby Queen Anne revival style home were silhouetted against the lightning of the approaching storm.

As the guests dashed to their carriages, Miranda noticed her husband ushering two gentlemen into the library. Miranda beckoned Maxim with an eyebrow.

You’re not going to discuss business at this tired hour. Is that the railroad delegate?

Mr. Sexton, Maxim admitted.

Miranda’s mother overheard the discussion, You should hold on to that property, young man.

Madame, Maxim started, obviously irritated.

Mother, Miranda interceded with a dismissive nod. Darling, Mother just wants to help. She meant no disrespect.

If I wished to avoid assertive women, I would have avoided the both of you, my love. Maxim tilted his head in respect to each of the women in turn. As you have told me repeatedly, I can only benefit by listening to opinions other than my own.

I could give you an advance on Miranda’s inheritance, or a loan, if you prefer. Mrs. Gibson took Maxim’s arm. I don’t want to offend you, Maxim. We help each other in this family. Strength in numbers, my boy.

You are most kind, Madame, Maxim warmly acknowledged in his mild Barcelonan accent, which he worked to hide altogether. "I truly appreciate your graciousness. But the Ramirez men stand on their own and I have the means to do so.