Free These Honored Dead by Jonathan F. Putnam

you,” said Lincoln, “I’d start by finding out the basis for Prickett’s conjecture. The man’s a snake in the grass, but he has some relationship, however distant, with the facts. There must be something he’s learned that’s caused him to view the widow with heightened suspicion.”
    We reached the courthouse steps and I pulled open the heavy oak door for Lincoln. At that moment, the senior lawyer Logan, a lit corncob pipe clutched in his hand, hurried up from behind us. None other than Prickett was at his side.
    “That’s quite a hat,” Logan said to Lincoln with a laugh. And the two lawyers pushed past us into the courtroom.
    “Did I tell you? Logan’s my adversary today,” Lincoln said. “The old saw is right. A man who’s the only lawyer in town has got nothing to do, but once a second lawyer arrives, neither of them will ever want for work.” He chuckled and ducked inside.
    I hesitated for a moment then followed him in. Lincoln’s advice made sense; I would see what I could learn from Prickett.
    The courtroom was a dark, shabby affair, a long, narrow room with six crowded rows of wooden benches in the back for spectators and two counsel tables in the front of the room. At the far end rose a low platform that served as the judge’s bench. The entire room was obscured by a thick haze of smoke clinging menacingly to the low ceiling like storm clouds converging on the prairie.
    Peering through the smoke, I saw the audience this morning consisted of some two dozen persons, mostly lawyers waiting tobe heard on other matters, along with a smatter of village residents who habitually attended court sessions as a form of free entertainment. I spotted Prickett off to the far right of the gallery and headed in his direction.
    Lincoln was seated on the other side, conferring in whispered tones with Dr. Patterson. Patterson was a small, precise man with thinning hair and an elaborate moustache. As usual, he was wearing his double-breasted, knee-length surgical coat. Dark splotches on the navy blue coat served to advertise the many surgeries he had conducted. It had occurred to me to wonder whether Patterson chose to display these visual reminders of his craft because of the scarcity of living patients who could testify to his services. Next to Patterson was an attractive young woman with light brown hair: his daughter.
    In front of us, Judge Thomas was concluding a prior hearing. As I slid in next to Prickett, the judge dismissed the lawyers with an impatient wave of his hand and said to my friend Matheny, who was working as the clerk today, “Call the next matter.”
    “ Patterson against Richmond ,” shouted Matheny in a voice an octave deeper than his usual one. Logan and Lincoln stepped forward into the well of the courtroom.
    “What’s this one about, Logan?” the judge asked.
    “If I may be heard first—” began Lincoln.
    “You may not,” Judge Thomas said severely. Jesse B. Thomas Jr. looked like a pugilist, with a brawny body; a wide-set, florid face; and a permanent sneer. I had never seen him without a smoldering cigar clenched in his fist, and he now gestured angrily with it toward Lincoln.
    “I appreciate greatly you are on-time today, Mr. Lincoln,” the judge continued, “but in my courtroom, you will speak when spoken to, and not before. Now, Logan—”
    The judge looked over at the senior lawyer, who had been sucking happily on his pipe stem during the exchange between the judge and Lincoln. In front of me, the doctor and his daughter exchanged worried glances.
    “Thank you, Your Honor,” Logan began with a flourish of his arms. “Your Honor, this is a case of land fraud. My client, Major Sylvester Richmond, is an esteemed veteran of the Late War with Great Britain. The government granted him his bounty land, over in the Military Tract, and earlier this year he contracted to sell it to Dr. Patterson. But then, over the summer, as land prices began to collapse . . .”
    I