Blake paused for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "How do you explain that, sir?"

The man glanced around the courtroom. "I cannot."

"But you are certain it did not fit the caliber of either pistol found at the murder site?"

"That is correct."

"Thank you, Dr. Merrick," said Blake.

The physician stepped down and the prosecution called its next witness, John Bliss. He testified that he had found a horse, saddled but riderless, grazing in his pasture on the hill overlooking the turnpike road.

"It was an unfamiliar horse," the man explained. "I supposed it was a physician's from the saddlebags that were on him."

"What did you do with the horse?"

"I tied him by the road that people might see him as they passed."

"Did anyone lay claim to the animal?" asked the assistant prosecutor.

"No, sir. So I put him out to pasture. By Sunday morning I grew more uneasy. My brother came in and said--"

But Blake stood up then and objected. "Your honor, this man must not tell what his brother said."

"1 defer to my distinguished colleague," said Mr. Hooker. "Mr. Bliss, was the saddle on the horse partly turned when you found the animal? As if its rider had met with some violence?"

"It was, sir."

"Thank you. Your witness, Mr. Blake," said the assistant prosecutor.

Blake, who had been writing something, glanced up, looked about to rise, then seemed to think better of it and sat back down. "No questions."

Several other witnesses also testified to seeing the horse, and making inquiries about its possible owner. Another witness said he'd found the broken pistol guard and ramrod near where the road runs along the river, and how a search party was convened and an inspection of that part of the road was made but which proved fruitless. The next witness was a man named Pliny Bliss, the brother of the earlier witness. He was short and wore a smart-looking gray coat and pantaloons tucked into high riding boots--a simple farmer who was trying to look impressive for his day in court.

"Mr. Bliss, would you relate the events of the tenth of November last?" asked Mr. Hooker.

"I was at my brother's," the man said, pointing at his brother seated behind the prosecution table. "He told me about the horse."

"What did you do then?"

"We concluded to go down to the river and make an examination. We went along by the stream that runs into the river there but could discover nothing. It grew dark, and we soon gave up. As I was going to bed, someone came to our house and told me what had been found."

"You mean the pistol guard and ramrod?"

"Yes, sir. So we procured lanterns and torches and went again in search. Near the place where the pistol guard was found, Mr. Bartlett went down to the river before me, with a lantern, and I followed with a torch. Very near the river, I found a pistol with some hair sticking to it."

The man glanced around the room, obviously pleased with himself for his role in finding the murder weapon.

"Did you not think that strange, Mr. Bliss?"

"Indeed, sir. Very strange."

"Then what happened?"

"Mr. Bartlett and I walked along the river's edge. That's when we spied the body. I don't know which saw it first, but I think 1 might have noted it before Mr. Bartlett. I can see quite well in the dark," he added proudly. "I observed not far from shore a greatcoat which lay partly out of the water. Then I made out the form of a body beneath. The head was towards the shore with the large stone upon the chest."

"How large was the stone?"

"Very large. I would say it had to weigh sixty-five pounds or more."

"What did you then, sir?"

"We called some other neighbors and proceeded to carry the body to Mr. Calkins's house."

"What did you do with the pistol?"

"Why, we gave it to the sheriff."

Mr. Hooker walked back to the prosecution table and picked up a pistol. Returning to the witness stand, he asked, "Is this the selfsame pistol?"

"It is."

"Where was the hair?"

"In the head of the screw pin that holds on the lock," the man said, indicating with his finger where the hair was.

"Was the stock thusly broken when you found it?"

"It was."

"What was the appearance of the shore near where the body was found?"

"The shore, sir?"

"What did the area look like near where the body lay? Was it trampled?"

"It was, sir. It looked as if one had drawn a log through a thicket of bushes. The mud was impressed and the low alders were bent towards the river."

"So a person or persons had dragged the body there to conceal it?"

"It would seem so, yes."

"Thank you, Mr. Bliss," said the assistant prosecutor.

Blake got up and walked over to where the witness sat, his broad back hunched over slightly. He carried a piece of paper in his hand. He looked at the man and permitted himself a hint of a smile. The man shifted nervously in his seat.

"What was the weather on that particular day, Mr. Bliss?" Blake asked.

"It rained as I recall."

"Did it rain hard?"

"I suppose you could say that."

"As hard as it did a few nights ago, for instance?"

The man shrugged. "I would say so, yes."

"Saw you the tracks of men along the river where the body was drawn?"

The man considered this for a moment. "I do not recollect particularly."

"So you did not see tracks there?"

"I can't say one way or the other."

"And yet you recall seeing the area flattened," Blake said, and here he referred to the paper in his hand, "'as if,' and I quote you sir, 'one had drawn a log through a thicket of bushes.' Those were your exact words, were they not, sir?"

"I suppose. I still don't recall tracks."

"That is all, sir," said Blake, glancing at the jury as he returned to his seat.

The prosecution called a number of other witnesses to the stand. Some described the second gun that was found a few days later, or the horse, or how the saddlebags were eventually opened and it was then that the victim's name was learned to be a Marcus Lyon of Woodstock, Connecticut. Several others testified to having seen Marcus Lyon riding east at various points between Springfield and where he died. Another witness, John Powers, was asked if he'd met the prisoners on that Saturday along the turnpike.

"I did, sir. They were just east of the bridge. Not seventy rods from the place where Lyon was killed."

"What time was this?"

"Not far from one o'clock, I'd reckon," Powers replied.

"Are you sure these are the men you saw?" Mr. Hooker asked, turning to point at the two prisoners.

"I am," replied the man, staring at them. "We spoke. They asked how far to the next tavern." With this there were a few nervous titters in the courtroom. Judge Sedgwick cast a stern warning glance around the room and things quieted down. "1 recall they spoke with an Irish accent." "Knew you them by anything else?"

"Their countenance, too. I recall the smallpox marks upon that one's face," the man added, pointing at Daley.

Halligan looked over at the jury. They were listening intently to the witness. All except the blacksmith. He was looking directly at Halligan, his face a darkened scowl.

Blake leaned toward Daley and Halligan and whispered, "Is he telling the truth?"

"We might have spoken to him," Halligan replied. "I recall speaking to someone just before we reached the bridge."

Blake pursed his lips and wrote something down in his writing tablet. When Mr. Hooker had finished asking questions of the man, Blake stood up and approached the witness.

"Are you familiar with the area where Lyon was killed?" he asked the man.

"I am," replied Powers. "I have cause to travel that stretch of road often."

"How long would it have taken the defendants to walk from the place where you spoke to them to the place where Mr. Lyon's body was later found?"

"Not long. A minute or two." "No more than that?" "No, sir."

"So they were still quite close to you when they were alleged to have accosted Marcus Lyon?" "Yes. Most definitely."

"Tell me, sir, did you hear the discharge of a pistol?" The man looked over at Mr. Hooker, then at the jury, before turning to face Blake. "I did not." "Are you sure?" "I don't recall one."

"Yet you heard testimony that Mr. Lyon had been shot. Don't you think it peculiar that you did not hear the report of a gun from such a close distance?"

"I suppose."

"You suppose, sir?"

"I did not give it much thought."

"That is all, thank you."

Blake turned to the judges and pleaded, "May it please your honors?"

"Proceed," said Judge Sedgwick.

Blake approached the bench. "We can prove that within three or four miles from this very place, a number of other robberies had recently been committed. That stage coach drivers always feel apprehensive of danger when they are near this stretch of road. With submission to the court, we beg leave to introduce this testimony at this time."

Judge Sedgwick frowned. "Such evidence is not relevant," he said. "It cannot be admitted, for unless this murder be proved upon the prisoners they will be acquitted."

"But, may it please your honors, we wish to introduce presumptive testimony to counteract presumptive testimony. Such is the government's evidence."

"The testimony you offer has no direct bearing on the present case, sir. Furthermore, if it be proper for you to go into this evidence, it will be proper for the government to go into similar evidence to prove that the prisoners have been guilty of other crimes heretofore."

"But, your honor--"

"Sit down, Mr. Blake. The prosecution may continue."

The prosecution called witness after witness. One described the hats and greatcoats the defendants wore, while another said he saw two men fitting the defendants' general appearance hurrying along the turnpike just west of where Lyon was murdered. That their movements seemed to be made with "great haste," as he put it. Now and then Blake would interject something or cross-examine them, but mostly he sat quietly, pinching his lower lip and taking notes. Halligan could not have said whether things were going in their favor or not, though he thought the business about having been seen close to where the murder took place not especially good. And he didn't like the way the one juror, the blacksmith, kept looking at them. As if he'd already made up his mind.

Around noon, the court adjourned for lunch. The sheriff placed the manacles on them again and the guards escorted them toward the back of the meetinghouse. They had to pass before the woman in black. She stood at their approach, her eyes narrowed. Up close Halligan could see that she had fine blue eyes, delicate and soft as bone china.

"I curse you," she hissed at them, waving a small red fist in the air. Then suddenly, she spat at them, catching Halligan on the cheek. He'd never had a woman spit at him before. The guards interceded and her husband pulled her back. "May you burn in hell," she called after them. He wiped the spit off with the back of his hand.

They went outside and were escorted down to a grove of trees, where they were allowed to use the privy. Afterwards, they were brought back inside and led through a door and down some uneven stone steps into the cellar of the meetinghouse. The place was damp and dark, lit only by a pair of smoky lanterns. It smelled like a graveyard, of old moldering bones. They sat on the dirt floor, their backs against the foundation wall. They were given a piece of bread and some cheese and a tin cup filled with hard cider. The cider was strong and bitter, but it warmed the belly. The guards lounged about talking and joking, some of them taking the opportunity to doze.

"They oughtn't to let that crazy woman do that," Daley said to him, chewing his bread.

Halligan shrugged, rubbing the spot where the spit had landed. The skin there seemed hot, like an ash had scorched it.

"Still. It ain't right."

Halligan took a bite of the cheese and then sipped on his cider. He thought of that woman. He wanted to hate her for what she'd done but he couldn't. She was crazy with her grief. He wondered what it had been like for her, to have to sit there and listen to how their son had been killed. How his brains had been dashed out and his body tossed into the river, like he was nothing more than a litter of kittens. If it were his child that was killed, he'd probably have done the same thing as she did. He just wished he'd had the chance to explain he'd not had anything to do with it.

After a while Blake came down to see them. He had a hard time negotiating the steps, moving like an old man with rheumatism. And his eyes seemed to have difficulty adjusting to the dimness there.