Wyoming Slaughter Read online

  I wasn’t concentrating on that. The steel pressed into me occupied all my thoughts. I eyed my own gun belt on the ladder-back chair, but Shorty lifted it away. Smart Will slid a hand under the pillow, looking for artillery that wasn’t there. I eased back and waited.

  There were thumps and voices elsewhere in the building. The revolution had begun.

  In a few minutes me and the three supervisors had been gathered in the kitchen, where a single kerosene lamp cast yellow light into the shadows. The glint of blue steel surrounded the officials of Puma County, steel that wagged and waved in the lamplight, steel in the hands of masked men.

  The count and countess wore robes and were looking huffy. Rusty Irons sat in his underdrawers, nothing else, his hairless chest bronze in the low light. I wore a union suit head to toe, once white but now a pastiche of gray shades.

  “Guess you’re treeing the town,” I said.

  “No, Sheriff. This is not about wild cowboys having some sport. Times have changed. The county is settled. This could be a revolution—depending on what happens,” Throckmorton said.

  “You mean it ain’t a dime novel,” I said.

  “It’s as far from western fiction as it gets,” the ringleader said.

  “Well, in a dime novel I’d whip out a hidden gun and blast you all to hell,” I said. “My ma, she always said—”

  “We’re tired of hearing about your ma, Cotton,” Rusty said.

  “What is the meaning of this? I wish to return to my bed,” Sally said.

  “It’s a tax revolution. You will repeal your new Puma County taxes—or be overthrown.”

  “Overthrown is it? You get out of here, all of you, starting with you, Throckmorton.”

  “I think you should know, madam, and gentlemen, that certain things have happened. There are three hundred men gathered here. Several of these groups guard the roads. No traffic arrives or leaves. One of those groups has cut the telegraph line connecting the town to Laramie. Other groups have occupied the sheriff’s office and jail, and every room of the courthouse. The weapons in the jail have been secured, along with keys. Still other groups patrol the business district, and still other groups are poised at the homes of all county officials, clerks, the treasurer, and so on, ready to capture them. There are others who are preparing a hanging tree. Too bad we have no guillotines, but nooses will do. You will find your necks in the nooses unless you do exactly as instructed. And I wish to remind you, as your sheriff is fond of saying, this is not a dime novel, and these are not cowboys treeing a town. This is a revolution, and it may overthrow the government of this county.”

  “I guess you got to tell me what a revolution is,” I said.

  Throckmorton ignored me.

  “It’ll last about two days,” Cernix declared. “About the time it takes for the militia or federal troops to arrive.”

  “Meanwhile, your body will be swinging from a noose, along with the bodies of the rest of you,” Throckmorton said.

  “What good will that do you? Legislation done under duress has no weight; it’d last a few days. Man up, fellow, and take your little boys home.”

  “Count, I’m afraid you don’t quite get what’s happening here. It’s not just duress; it’s much more. And I’m done with your whining. Here’s what you will do. You will dress and we will escort you to the courthouse, you, too, sheriff. You will call an emergency meeting of the supervisors, and you will repeal the tax law. Our men have the county seal; we will make it official. We will tear up the assessments and you will be set free.”

  “I absolutely refuse to abide by this coercion, and I will not vote for any law while night riders are a threat,” Cernix declared.

  I thought that was real brave.

  “I won’t vote; I absolutely refuse to take part in your charade,” Sally said.

  Rusty was keeping his mouth shut.

  “You may wish to save lives, then,” Throckmorton said. “The nooses are not just for you; they are for every official in the county: Stokes, all the rest. We’ve got ten nooses ready for your necks. It’s up to you whether the rest of the government hangs. You can save their lives. They’re not even responsible, just people fulfilling the laws you make. But they’re about to die, leave behind widows and orphans, thanks to you. Unless you stop it.”

  “What the hell are you doing this for?” Rusty asked. “It’s just taxes.”

  “It’s our life blood, and you will not bleed us. We settled this county. We fought hard to keep it. We beat off nesters and Indians. We fought for water. This is our land, and this is our livelihood, and no heavy-handed government on earth is going to bleed us. There are three hundred good men ready to defend our rights. We are the masters of our destiny, we embrace liberty, we will operate as we choose, and we will not pay one red cent.”

  “There’s hardly twenty of you actually have a ranch. The rest are just in it for fun.”

  “Enough. You’ll find out what they’re in it for. Take your choice. Get dressed and we will take you to the courthouse and you’ll legislate—or not. If not, we’ll take you to the hanging tree and we won’t be dithering, either. You will live for less than one hour from this moment.”

  Cernix stood, formidable in a blue robe. “Take me to the noose. I will not abide this.”

  Sally, trembling, stood also. “Wherever he goes, I go. Whatever he believes, I call my own.”

  Rusty, he just smiled.

  I sure didn’t know what to do. I felt about as helpless as a titmouse. This sure was no dime novel. So I just kept my mouth shut.

  There was a long pause, deep silence in that kitchen, and then Throckmorton himself broke it. “Take them, and if they resist, drag them. We’ll get on with it,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I sure wasn’t feeling much like a sheriff. Those fellows were serious, and they were going to do whatever they had to do, and they were organized to do it, and were prepared to face the consequences.

  “All right,” said Throckmorton, “you have one last chance: we can go to the courthouse or the hanging tree.”

  “What do you expect to gain from this?” Cernix asked.

  “A new county government. I’ve already been elected the provisional chairman. The other provos, as we call them, will remain secret.”

  “And the state militia will never show up,” Sally snapped.

  “No, they won’t. The state’s officers are bought and sold like apples.”

  “And the cavalry’s not riding in,” Cernix said, scorn in his tone.

  Throckmorton smiled. “The cavalry we might worry about.”

  That sure entertained me. A column of blue-clad cavalry was the only thing on earth these revolutionaries feared. It was true the cavalry had a little magic. Over in Silas Magee’s haberdashery the snappy cavalry officer’s uniform in the window had drawn customers for as long as I could remember. Magee always bragged that he’d been a cavalry officer, but no one could ever prove it.

  It sure was dark. There was a long pause, and then Throckmorton spoke quietly. “Let’s get on with it. The whole thing must be done before dawn.”

  The cowboy revolutionaries prodded the count and countess, Rusty, and me, outside and into the summer’s night. It was utterly silent in Doubtful, where citizens slumbered peacefully. A sliver of a moon did nothing to allay the deep dark. I wandered along barefoot, in my stained white union suit; Rusty in his white underdrawers; the von Strombergers in their robes. The destination became plain after a bit. Southeast of town, on the creek, rose a massive cottonwood with burly, sheltering limbs, as noble a tree as ever grew in Puma County. Twenty or thirty cowboys stood around the tree. There were ten nooses strung from a single splendid limb, lit only by a single lantern. The cowboys were all masked, but I figured I would know plenty of those faces if the masks came off. Rusty would know them, too.

  When we arrived, not much happened at first. We simply settled on the ground and fought mean and hungry mosquitoes. The revolutionaries were
waiting for something, and I finally figured it was the rest of the county officials. Throckmorton had said the whole batch would be strung up if the tax laws weren’t repealed. That meant waking all those people and dragging them to the hanging tree. The revolutionaries were sure well organized.

  “You still know how to play the bugle, Rusty?” I asked. “You could play ‘Taps.’”

  Rusty glared at me and hunkered down inside of himself.

  “I always liked them cavalry commands, Attack, Boots and Saddles, all that.”

  “No cavalry’s gonna show up, Cotton,” Rusty said.

  “Never know,” I said. “Cavalry shows up most any time.”

  Rusty stared at me.

  The count and countess sat quietly. They had a special burden on them. Their decisions were affecting the fate of several lives. But the count just glared proudly at his captors. The seconds and minutes clicked on, and finally some men showed up dragging Lawyer Stokes in a nightshirt. He looked pale, if not terrified, his hair disheveled and his gaze piteous. Collecting the rest was apparently proving to be difficult, but I didn’t doubt it was going to get done. It still was not far past midnight, and there was another four hours to dawn.

  I couldn’t sit still anymore. “You fellers mind if I head into the bushes? This here’s making me needful,” I said.

  Oddly, my captors laughed. Throckmorton jerked a thumb. “Keep an eye on him,” he said. I rose slowly and headed for the riverbank where willow brush grew thick, and as soon as the lamplight had dimmed, I stripped my union suit off and arranged it in the brush to look like I was sitting, my back to the lamp, the suit faintly visible to the crowd. Then I pulled up river mud and clapped it over me, especially my shoulders and neck, and my cheeks, too. I hoped the shine of dripping water wouldn’t catch lamplight.

  Then I simply stepped into the creek, hoping not to snag my feet on deadfall or sharp rocks, and headed upstream, toward Doubtful. I thought I might have only one minute, so I moved as fast as possible, feeling the uneven riverbed under me, but making progress, and then the blessed darkness covered me entirely. I was naked and it was after midnight, and I could enjoy the sliver moon.

  Behind me I heard shouts and knew the ruse had been discovered, but darkness is infinite, and it extends three hundred and sixty degrees and embraces both sides of a creek, and catches up everything in its murk.

  I knew Doubtful would be bristling with sentries and patrols because this coup had been well planned. I also knew, because Throckmorton had blabbed a little, that some of the cowboys were patrolling Wyoming Street’s business district, which is where Magee’s haberdashery was, and where I needed to go. I hoped Rusty would act but doubted that he would. But Rusty was no dummy; he’d eyed me sharply at the hanging tree.

  It sure felt strange wandering around buck naked, and I hoped Eve Grosbeak wasn’t nearby, but there wasn’t anyone to see me anyway. The town slumbered. I got into town and past the old sporting district and the tumble-down saloons, and kept a sharp eye out. I didn’t see any cowboys around, and suspected the revolutionaries had all gotten settled in Barney’s Beanery since there wasn’t anything to do.

  Still, I edged from shadow to shadow, never sure of anything, and when I got to the block with Magee’s store in it, I studied extra hard. I wasn’t sure how I’d get in, but I’d find a way. I hated to break glass, though; I was barefoot and the noise might stir up the sentries.

  I worked around to the alley. Something, probably a shard of glass, bit my foot. I couldn’t see the ground, and alleys were not the place to go barefoot, but I had no choice. At the rear of the haberdashery I felt around for a key on a nail. Half the merchants in town kept one stashed in such places. It sure was no easy task, and the clock was ticking and lives hung in balance, but I kept feeling around, aching for that key, but I didn’t find one. I fumbled around, found the door handle, turned it—and felt the unlocked door give away. I sure hoped Magee wouldn’t mind if I borrowed the stuff in the window. I remembered to close the creaking door behind me. Then I worked forward, past shelves of fragrant woolens and cottons and linens, past glassed counters full of cravats and bowler hats and suspenders and leg garters.

  And there it was in the window, the mannequin wearing the blue uniform of the United States cavalry. I only could hope the damned thing would fit.

  It did, well enough. I got the tunic and coat and trousers off the dummy and got myself into them, glad I was a medium and the cavalry outfit was a medium. I got into the blue pants with the stripes down the side, the shirt, the jacket. The boots, that was another matter. I pulled and yanked but I was out of luck there. Maybe I could ride barefoot. I got the kepi on my head and buckled the fancy sword in its sheath. There wasn’t anything else; no revolvers to wave. But the sword might do if there was a bit of moonlight. Then I saw the cavalry bugle at the foot of the dummy, and I was glad of that. I didn’t know how to blow it, but Rusty did, and maybe Rusty would find a way, if Rusty was still alive.

  I wished I could light a lamp and see how I looked in a mirror. My ma always told me to enlist, and I never did, but for an hour or two I’d get to be a cavalry officer and make holy hell around Doubtful.

  I sure wondered about stepping out into the alley. That sword sheath would shine and clank. The bugle would catch starlight. But there wasn’t any choice, and there wasn’t any moon to speak of, so I did.

  Sure enough, the revolutionaries had collected at Barney’s Beanery and were brewing up some java in there. I hastened across Wyoming Street and down the block, and reached Turk’s Livery Barn. I plunged inside, into a wall of utter blackness, and felt my way along to Critter’s stall. Critter nickered. That was unheard of, and I was extra wary as I opened the gate and stepped in. My bare feet immediately plunged into warm horse apples, which were a comfort, as any barefoot farm boy knew.

  “All right, I’m going to do this in the dark, and if you mess with me I’ll cut your ears off,”

  I said.

  “Don’t cut mine off,” Rusty said.

  “Rusty!”

  “Oh, that was fun, Cotton, except there’s people fixing to get hanged.”

  “Saddle up something, and tell me.”

  “What do I hear clanking?”

  “I am now a cavalry officer, thanks to Magee. Here’s a bugle for you.”

  “Ah, it all comes clear,” Rusty said. “When you slipped out, they sure were having a fit. It took a couple of minutes, maybe even five, because that old union suit was plain there in the lamplight, and it just didn’t occur to them you’d left the suit behind. About then, the next bunch of county officials showed up in their underwear, and that was a real good moment for me to get out, and I did. They haven’t got all the county officials yet, but we got no time at all.”

  “You’re good for some bugling?”

  “Like a rutting elk, Cotton.”

  “All right then, it’s the cavalry going at ’em.”

  We finished saddling in the livery barn aisle, mostly working in the dark, and Critter obliged, trying only twice to rip off my hands with his buck teeth.

  “Cut it out,” I snapped.

  “We got any guns around?” Rusty asked.

  “There’s a few lariats hanging around here. Take one if you can feel it out.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I’ve got one hell of a sword,” I said, “and you have one hell of a bugle. You know the calls?”

  “Most of ’em. I’ve got Boots and Saddles down, and I know Forward, Rally on the Chief, Gallop, Charge, and Commence Firing.”

  “All right, you’re the artillery, then,” I said.

  I led Critter into the night and then mounted, and waited patiently for Critter to quit his humping and complaining. Then we rode out, our horses clopping loudly in the street. There were still dozens of revolutionaries around, in the courthouse, the jail, the business district, and gangs of them were dragging county officials out of their homes. But the clop of horses evoked no challenge, and
it didn’t take long for us to pass the sporting district and turn off the roads toward the creek bottom half a mile distant.

  “You know how we’re gonna do this, Cotton?”

  “Sure, we’re going to ride right in.”

  “And I hit them over the head with the bugle?”

  “That’ll do,” I said.

  Up ahead there was turmoil, and now half a dozen lanterns lit the giant cottonwood and the crowd at its feet. There were shrieks and sobs, but the masked revolutionaries were slowly getting the Puma County officials ready, putting them all on horses, sliding nooses over the necks and tightening them, and getting the horses lined out. In a minute or two there’d be some sort of yell, a mess of cowboys would slap the rumps of the death-horses, which would plow forward and the nooses would pull the county people off the nags and leave them twisting in the night breezes. It sure wasn’t a very pretty sight, all the masked men getting things set up. But Throckmorton sat quietly in his saddle, his face alone unmasked, observing the show.

  It was too far ahead for me to see who was up and ready and who wasn’t. I couldn’t tell Count von Stromberger from Lawyer Stokes. I couldn’t see where Sally was. I only knew that in moments, an entire government would be massacred, and all for a few cents an acre of taxation.

  “You fixing to go?” Rusty asked.

  “You know the call for Charge? Let her rip,” I said.

  Rusty lifted the horn to his lips: Da-dah, da-dah, da-dah, da-dah, dee-dah, dee-dah, dee-dah, dee-dah; da-dah, da-dah, da-dah, da-dah, dee-dah, dee-dah, dee-dah, dee-dah . . .

  And he and me kicked our horses into a gallop.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  That bugle sure stirred up things at the hanging tree. After a little confusion, those lamps were snuffed, and all that remained was an eerie half-light, a foretaste of the dawn that was coming in a while. It had taken them a long time to collect the county officials.

  Rusty knew his bugle was the only real weapon he and I had, so he kept on blatting away, the notes keen in the night air. Gallop, Commence Firing, Rally on the Chief. That old bugle sang in the night, and every veteran among the cowboys knew those songs and knew what was coming, and pretty quick there was an uproar around there.