The trial lasted three weeks and defense lawyer Breckinridge arose from his chair in objection no more than a dozen times. He did not cross-examine Smith or the other detectives. He accepted Bob’s worn spurs as exhibits, also the plug horses said to have been used for the getaway, even the locomotive engineer’s identification that Grat must’ve been the robber because he was “similar in size.”

In July, Breckinridge came in from a lunch recess blowing off his mustache comb. “I just had the best chicken and dumplings I’ve ever tasted.”

“Good,” said Grat. “Appears to me you needed the energy.”

Breckinridge glared at him. “The way to handle this case is to simply ride it out. Let the prosecution make all the mistakes. We’ll get a mistrial on the rules of evidence alone.”

“Maybe I’m just the least little bit cranky because a lawyer named John Ahem told me I was being jobbed. He said the Southern Pacific Railroad made you a wealthy man.”

“That’s nonsense.”

My brother scratched the itch in his hands. His knuckles were big as steelies. “Them are my sentiments too, Mr. Breckinridge. You shoulda heard me defend your honorable self from them lies. I was danged vociferous.”

On July 7th, the jury found Grattan Dalton guilty as charged. Breckinridge stood at once to say he’d appeal the verdict to the Supreme Court of California. He packed his briefcase and Southern Pacific Detective Will Smith stepped over the oak fence toward Grat with a handkerchief at his cheek. “I told you I’d land you,” he said.

Sentencing was July 29th, then postponed until September 21st so the court reporters could type transcripts for the appeal.

So Grat was kept that summer in a sweltering jail cell with a slat bed and gray wool blanket and chamber pot and water pitcher. He’d read the Visalia Weekly Delta until his eyes hurt (not long), and then he’d just sleep on top of his bed and feel the sweat roll down his ribs; or he’d stand at the jail bars at night and spit chewing tobacco as some of the other prisoners made women of each other.