Wyoming Slaughter Read online

“Shortly, I will be installed as president of the new republic, and Mr. Bowler will be installed as vice president, by its executive council, who are sitting here. There’s going to be some inaugural addresses and some fine music. Take any hundred cowboys, and you’ll find plenty of musical talent. We have fiddlers, drummers, trumpet players, and more. We’re just delighted you showed up. We were hoping someone would; we want the world to celebrate the new republic.”

  “Ah . . .” I said.

  “Sure, what a hoot,” Rusty said.

  “More than a hoot, young fellow. The beginning of the first true tax-free American republic. There will be no taxes. The government will run on toll road revenues. There shall be liberty and fraternity and prosperity.”

  A gray woman emerged from the house bearing three frosty glasses, one with water and two with juleps. These were handed to me and Rusty, and we were invited to sit with the founders of the new republic, plainly a favored perch on that shaded porch.

  Out on the verdant lawn a small platform rested with a lectern on it, and a few benches.

  “We’ve appointed our friend Rocco, here, as chief justice, and he will administer the oath of office,” Throckmorton said.

  “Well, mostly I need to take you fellers into Doubtful and get you in front of the judge,” I said.

  “Oh, do relax, Pickens. You’re such an old ninny. Have a chair. The show begins when you’re about two sips into that julep.”

  “Maybe we ought to go, Cotton,” Rusty said.

  “No, you’ll both stay and witness this great event,” Bowler said.

  “I think they outnumber us, Rusty,” I said. The julep tasted real fine on a hot afternoon. And the water, too.

  We settled into the wicker just as the band emerged from the bunkhouse, toting fiddles and drums and horns. They sure looked spiffed up. I had rarely seen a washed cowboy. They didn’t come washed, except once in a while when they were courting. But there they were, hair fresh-dipped in the horse trough, pants scrubbed and dried, shirt pummeled with suds, and beards scraped a few layers closer to cheek. They sure were fancied up. Even their boots had some fresh axle grease shining them up.

  They plunged right in, first with “Skip to My Lou,” then “Across the Jordan River,” and then “Pick Up the Pieces of My Heart.” That was all fine with me; a mint julep and a live band and shade on a hot day were something to remember.

  Next came Rocco, wearing a black robe that might have been borrowed from a minister, but would do for a Supreme Court justice, and a moment later, Throckmorton and Consuelo Bowler appeared, Throckmorton in a swallowtail, and Bully Bowler in a tuxedo, but at least they were all in black.

  Rocco administered the oath, and both the president and vice president swore to faithfully administer the laws of the Shorthorn Republic, defend its borders, and see to the prosperity and peace of its citizens.

  “Amen,” said Throckmorton.

  He approached the lectern as the band swung into “Dixie,” and then “Carry Me Back to Old Virginny,” and then he cleared his throat, settled his notes, which kept blowing away until someone handed him a rock, and plunged in:

  “Gentlemen, ladies, and fellow citizens,” he began. “This is a momentous occasion, a signal event, a turning point of history, and a revered moment in the evolution of mankind from apes into cattlemen. We have arrived at the sacred moment of the birth of a new republic. We have pledged our fortunes and honor to this creation, and if we lay down our lives for the new republic, let no one say it was in vain.

  “For we stand firm and tall against tyranny, taxation, waste, regulation, fraud, dishonor, and oppression. In the creation of this new nation, we have thrown off the chains that oppress us all; we have torn ourselves free from the fiendish designs of those in Wyoming and Puma County who would oppress us with their shackles, their whips and scourges, their fees and imposts, their cruel and unusual punishments, and their contempt for our honor, our beliefs, our traditions, our rights!”

  I sipped and dozed. I couldn’t quite figure the meaning of half of it, and the other half got pretty boring. So I smiled and sipped, and confessed that whoever invented mint juleps had given the world a fine thing.

  It sure was a stem-winder, that talk, and it took Throckmorton a long time to pry it out of his head and get it delivered, but eventually he got the whole thing said, and everyone began cheering.

  Then Rocco Benefice offered a closing prayer that was quick and sweet, asking the good Lord to bless the new Shorthorn Republic and curse everything else. I sort of admired that prayer, which got right down to the bones of it, and in twenty seconds, too.

  After that, there was a reception, and all those dignitaries and a mess of cowboys wandered around.

  I was real curious about some things, so I corralled Throckmorton.

  “What are you gonna do about brands?” I asked.

  “About brands? What about them?”

  “Your brands ain’t any good in the county anymore. They got to be county brands. How are you gonna ship?”

  “Ship?”

  “Takes a brand inspector to load cattle onto the cars these days. If there’s no recognized brand in the books, them cattle can’t ship out. That’s true in Montana, too,” I said. “And it gets worse. If you got an outlaw brand, you get rustled. No way you can prove up the ownership of your herd, because the brand isn’t a Wyoming brand, not even a Puma County brand. Makes you fair game for anyone, seems like. But mostly, you can’t ship your beeves, so you ain’t gonna ever get yourself paid.”

  “We’ll force our way out.”

  “Railroads, they won’t take just any old cow, Throckmorton. They want papers these days. Seems to me, you want to get your cattle to market, you better get on down to Cheyenne and talk with all them fellows down there and do up a treaty.”

  “We’ve pledged our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor,” said Consuelo Bowler. “But there goes our fortunes.”

  “This sure is a tough turn of events,” Cockleburr said.

  “We’ll fight our way out!” Ream declared. “We’ll blow the railroads to smithereens.”

  “I think we better go into executive session,” Throckmorton said. “You’ll excuse us, Sheriff.”

  The bunch of them trooped off into the house, while the rest dug into the beans and beef. I liked the beans, even though I knew I’d stink up the boardinghouse for a week.

  Andrew Cockleburr was the first out of the secret session. “You have to understand,” he said, “it’s the principle of the thing. We’ve pledged our lives and sacred honor, but those are disposable. There are larger principles. What’s inviolate is our profit. What’s inviolate is our wealth. No one touches our herds. No one must interfere with profit. No one must prevent us from selling and shipping every single animal we possess, including dogs and cats. Let one cow be rustled, let one steer be refused its sacred right to travel to the slaughterhouse, and we’ve been violated. That’s the sacred principle. That’s the granddaddy of all ethical and moral and social principles.”

  The rest emerged from the executive session looking solemn. There was big medicine going on in that house. Rocco Benifice had tears in his eyes. King Glad stared into the clay and wouldn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

  Throckmorton corralled me and Rusty. “You mind taking me to the Puma County supervisors under safe conduct and diplomatic immunity? We’ve got some neighborly treating to do.”

  “Of course I mind. I’ve got arrest warrants for the mess of you.”

  “You think we can get our brands back and ship cattle?”

  “I’m the sheriff, not the governor.”

  “All right. We’re riding into Doubtful, but not with you and Rusty.”

  “Nope, you’re coming with us, and under arrest.”

  “All right, dammit, Pickens. We’ll ride with you,” the president of the republic said.

  “You got us, Pickens. We’re ready to pledge our lives and sacred honor, but not our fortunes,” Vice President Bowle
r said. “Hang us if you must, but don’t touch our herds.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  And that is how it came to pass that Sheriff Cotton Pickens and Deputy Rusty Irons rode into Doubtful along with the perpetrators of the revolution. The county seat was only then recovering from the shock of the previous week’s uproars, now being told on every street corner and at the Elks Club and the Moose bar. Tearful county officials, their lives spared at the last moment by the sheriff and his saber, were still recounting the awful events of that night to electrified audiences, and the town itself was brimming with alarm.

  Count Cernix had swiftly formed a militia, and businessmen with shotguns patrolled the streets, prepared to stamp out any further insurrections. Lawyer Stokes had addressed a crowd in Courthouse Square, eloquently describing the night of horror and what steps would be taken to hang, draw, and quarter the instigators of this offense against humanity and the commonwealth.

  The repaired telegraph hummed and the governor offered to send the militia, but the count replied that everything was now under control and legitimate government had been restored in much of the county and soon would be restored in the rest. Cernix wasn’t quite sure how, but he didn’t doubt that bravery, courage, excellence in the field, a knowledge of tactics and strategy, and a determined militia would restore order.

  The governor wired back that he would be available day and night and would send troops if needed.

  All of which was happening while me and Rusty rode out with arrest warrants in hand to bring the criminals into Doubtful and lock them up for life. Some favored the firing squad. This was an insurrection, after all, and the firing squad seemed the proper remedy. Citizens vied with one another to be elected to shoot the culprits, and Cernix eventually decided that the honor should be awarded by random cutting of a deck of cards, left over from the days when Doubtful was a gambling mecca.

  It was decided that aces would be low, not high, and by the time me and Rusty and our prisoners rode into Doubtful, Mayor George Waller, One-Eyed Harry First, and Hubert Sanders had won the honor and were polishing their rifles.

  Then Rusty and me and the prisoners started up Wyoming Street, while the whole town gawked. What’s more, I was not wearing my gun belt, and the deputy’s shotgun was in its saddle sheath. But there we were, along with the worst criminals in Wyoming’s history, quietly clopping toward Courthouse Square, the criminals looking solemn and resigned.

  No one was speaking. Men on the sidewalks bristled with arms, ready to assist if anything should be amiss. But in fact, apart from some nervous glances, the president, vice president, and executive council of the Shorthorn Republic seemed peaceable enough, and we were allowed to pass through and then to dismount and enter the jailhouse. A few moments later, after I locked the bunch up, I emerged and addressed the crowd.

  “We’ve got them fellers and don’t you interfere. They’ll likely plead guilty, and this is only gonna take half an hour. So you go along home and eat your mashed potatoes.”

  But the crowd didn’t budge. This was the most exciting thing ever to happen in Doubtful, and no one wanted to miss a trick.

  Lawyer Stokes showed up, strutting around like a rooster and making cock-a-doodle-do noises. “We’ve conquered the scum. We shall prevail!” he said.

  Judge Axel Nippers was persuaded to abandon his evening double or triple libation at the new Elks Club, and Jerry Dolce Vita, the clerk and recorder, was gotten out of the bosom of his family, where he was playing checkers with his sons, and court abruptly opened at the awkward hour of six p.m. The courtroom probably held more spectators than was safe, but no one seemed to mind.

  At six ten, that fierce August day, I escorted the insurrectionists into the chamber, where they lined up before Nippers.

  “Identify yourselves before this court,” he said.

  The executives of the Shorthorn Republic confessed their names.

  “I have it, Mr. Throckmorton, that you are the president, and you, Mr. Bowler, are the vice president of the Shorthorn Republic.”

  The arch criminals acknowledged this.

  “You are all charged with ten counts of attempted murder, ten counts of kidnapping, plus insurrection and disturbing the peace. How do you plead?”

  “Guilty, Your Honor,” they all said, one by one, and the pleas were duly noted by the recorder.

  “Since I was the only county official not dragged to the hanging tree, it behooves me to be fair and impartial beyond question. Do you understand? For the leniency you showed me, I must be especially severe with you, so it all balances out.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Throckmorton replied. “I speak for us all.”

  “Throw the book at them,” said Lawyer Stokes.

  “Shut your trap, Stokes. We will proceed in a just and equitable manner.”

  “String them up,” someone yelled.

  Nippers banged his gavel and glared.

  “I will proceed with the sentencing. Since you are all equally guilty, this applies to all of you. First, I will fine you two cattle each for attempted murder; if you bring in culls, make it three. Second, I fine you one additional steer each for insurrection and kidnapping, and I will dismiss disturbing the peace if you pay promptly, say within forty-eight hours. The sheriff shall pen these cattle and conduct an auction, the proceeds going to Puma County.”

  Throckmorton looked dazed. “That’s worse than a property tax, sir. That’s an invasion of our herds. That violates every guarantee in the United States and Wyoming constitutions. This is not a fair trial, sir.”

  “Oh, be still, Mr. President. You have led a conspiracy that committed heinous crimes against the body politic, and against innocent persons, and you shall suffer for it. Not only must you supply the cattle at once, but you must pay your property taxes at the same time. Every day you delay, you will owe the county one more steer, which the sheriff will auction off. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” whispered Bowler. “But surely this violates the cruel and unusual punishment clause.”

  “I am a hard man, Mr. Vice President. Now then, I wish to return to my evening libations. Sheriff, hold these prisoners. No bail. Release them when their minions show up with the cattle and cash.”

  It was a tad unusual, I thought, but old Nippers wasn’t going to put up with any more nonsense.

  I escorted the forlorn and depressed ranchers back to their iron-barred temporary homes, let them instruct their employees about bringing in the cattle, and offered them meals from Barney’s Beanery.

  “I’m too ill to eat,” moaned Throckmorton.

  “Just leave the pisspot. That’s all we need,” said Bowler.

  The iron doors clanged shut, and the county’s leading ranchers settled into their iron bunks and waited for the time when they might win release.

  “Be glad you’re in here,” I said. “There are some in town who’d just as soon haul you out to the hanging tree. Deputy Irons and I will be on guard. Not that I don’t sympathize with the mobs. I think you’d do very well, decorating the hanging tree. I’m returning the compliment. You thought me and Rusty, we’d look just fine swinging in the wind.”

  “Don’t let them use our rope. We paid good money for that rope,” Cockleburr said. “If we have to die, don’t do it on our dime.”

  “That’s one of our principles,” said Throckmorton. “A man has to live by principles. A man without principles isn’t worth crap.”

  The crowd slowly dispersed, and Rusty and me settled down on bedrolls for a long night. But it was oddly peaceful. The town had already resolved the entire case and had gone to bed content.

  Next day, drovers showed up with the cattle, so me and Rusty penned the bunch over at Turk’s and wrote out receipts, one copy for the court, and then unlocked the ranchers.

  “You fellers can go now. The county has the cattle.”

  “We gonna be able to ship cattle out of Puma County now?” Bowler asked. “Our brands are good now?”

  “T
hat depends on whether you quit trying to make a foreign country in the middle of my county,” I said. “You fold up your Shorthorn Republic, and I’ll call your brands good.”

  “Guess we better have an executive meeting,” Throckmorton said to his fellow ranchers. “All in favor of quitting the republic, say so.”

  They were all in favor, and in that moment the Shorthorn nation got voted out of existence. I said I’d tell the judge, and let the governor know, too.

  “The governor, he was fixing to send Gatling guns and some howitzers up here, but I told him me and Rusty could handle it.”

  “Gatling guns?”

  “Yeah, the state keeps a couple down there, ready to knock back trouble. I sure would have enjoyed seeing them knock a few holes in your parade.”

  “Gatling guns. I never thought of Gatling guns. We should have got some ourselves, half a dozen maybe, even before we voted ourselves the Shorthorn Republic. Damn! Why didn’t we think of that? If we’d had some Gatlings out there, Sheriff, you would’ve wet your britches even coming within half a mile of my place.”

  “Well, if you’re gonna make a new nation, you’d better have an army,” I said. “Bunch of cowboys with six-guns, that don’t persuade anyone of anything.”

  “Right as usual, Sheriff. Well, this is a sad day for us. Here we are, twenty-four good beeves shorter than what we possessed a few hours ago. Twenty-four beeves. We could have paid the county taxes with about one quarter of one beef. So we’ve learned a lesson: if you’re going to start a revolution, you’d better have the arsenal.”

  “Makes sense to me,” I said.

  I watched those ranchers and their drovers ride off into the August heat.

  I went over to the weekly and put an advertisement in, saying there’d be a sheriff’s sale of twenty-four cattle in good flesh, proceeds to the county, cash only.

  That went fine. A few days later the whole lot was bought by a Laramie packing plant man, and the cattle were on their way south. I gave the county treasurer a voucher for enough to keep Puma County afloat for a while. And the ranchers would soon pay up their property taxes, too.