Cattle Kate

by Jana Bommersbach

  “That Watson woman had the first barbed wire in this valley,” Bothwell declared, as if that were reason enough to run her off. “God, I hate that stuff. Tears the hell out of a cowhide. Breaks up perfectly good pastures. Barbed wire is going to ruin the West. Mark my words. Ruin it!”

  By the time the angry army left the Chief, more than one of the men stumbled to his horse. Sun followed along in his white-topped buggy with its tandem seats.

  Along the way, they met Sam Johnson, a foreman who knew Ella better than most. He’d had to repair some of her fences when his own cattle invaded her corral. He’d been a gentleman about it and she’d been understanding—“cows have a mind of their own,” she’d joked with him, as he weeded out his cattle from hers. Bothwell filled him in with a shorthand, “going to go show some rustlers they can’t get away with it anymore.” But when Sam discovered who the “rustler” was, he reigned his horse around and headed for home instead.

  Fetz and Speer took their field glasses and climbed to the roof of their office to watch the procession. From that vantage point, they saw almost everything.

  The men arrived at Ella’s cabin, but she apparently wasn’t there. Durbin wasted no time ripping apart her corral, and cows started running all over the place. A boy ran out of the cabin, waving his arms in protest.

  “Oh kid, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of there,” Fetz said, as Speer demanded a turn with the glasses.

  “Hey, that Watson woman just came running up,” Speer reported.

  They passed the glasses back and forth for the next fifteen minutes or so, as Ella fought with Bothwell about who was going where with whom.

  “She’s in the wagon!” Fetz had the glasses now. “Oh man, this is going to be bad.”

  “I already knew that,” Speer now admitted. “Those men mean business. Bothwell told me when they were leaving that they were going to hang those two. I’m betting he’ll get his way before the day is out.”

  Fetz nodded, having had the same conversation with the man somewhere between the second and third bottle of whiskey. “And they’re liquored up,” Fetz reminded, as though that absolved them of rational thought.

  The men watched the procession stop Jim in his wagon.

  “They’re makin’ him unhitch his horses!” Fetz yelled, and Speer grabbed the glasses.

  “Man, they’re making him leave his wagon out there. He just got in the buggy.”

  “Let me see, let me see,” Fetz said, then whistled real slow as he watched the parade leave the wagon and freed horses behind.

  The procession was getting too far away to see anything anymore, so the newspaper men climbed down from the roof and went back to work.

  Under normal circumstances, they would have penned an “Eyewitness Account!” of what they’d seen. But this wasn’t normal circumstances. They knew they wouldn’t be writing about this strange Saturday, revealing what they’d heard and seen. Or what they knew was about to happen.

  “Think they’ll get away with it?” Speer asked gingerly, and Fetz didn’t need any time to think it over: “Of course they’ll get away with it. Ever heard of rangeland justice?”

  But not writing about it and not talking about it were two different things. Maybe it was the real newspaper men in them coming out, or maybe they were just natural gossips. But that afternoon when a couple cowboys rode up, looking for a place to plant themselves for awhile—knowing there was always a supply of liquor to be had here—Fetz prematurely spilled the beans, “You boys know what happened this afternoon? Jim Averell and Ella Watson were hung!”

  “You don’t say,” one of the cowboys said in wonderment.

  ***

  “They looked so mad. So mean.”

  Gene Crowder had never been as scared as when the armed men took Ella away. John DeCorey had to second his observations. The boys huddled together inside Ella’s cabin, daring not disobey the last order to “Stay put!”

  “They let all the cows out,” Gene said in astonishment, and John started reciting all the reasons that rustling was a ridiculous indictment.

  The boys paced inside the cabin, frantic that they couldn’t help Ella. Disgusted that they couldn’t stop those terrible men.

  “I tried to help,” Gene wailed, remembering the first moments the men had arrived.

  “Me, too.” John knew nobody could blame them when men with guns stopped them.

  “Ella was worried about us,” John declared.

  “Do you think they’ll hurt her? Oh, please don’t let them hurt her.” Gene started to cry. John told him to cut it out, they had to help.

  They sneaked a look outside. When they saw the procession disappear around the mountain, they ran out and started to repair the damage. John discovered he could round up cows better than he’d imagined, and Gene wasn’t too bad at it, either. They got most of the cows back in the corral and rigged up the fence as best they could and then ran for the roadhouse.

  Ralph was behind the counter when Frank Buchanan rode up to the roadhouse that Saturday morning. Ralph had to smile because you always knew when Buchanan was coming—he wore a brightly colored bandanna that he knotted so it would stick out from his shirt. Ralph didn’t know anybody else in the entire valley that wore their neckerchief that way.

  “Your usual?” Ralph asked as he grabbed the coffeepot, and Frank grunted his thanks. He was the first customer since Jimmy left for Casper, and Ralph was ready.

  Ella had made extra pies, knowing cowboys would be coming in, now that branding was over. Ralph figured he’d sell all the pies and most of the stew she left to be heated up, and by the time his uncle got back Sunday night, he would have a nice profit to show off. He was feeling very adult to be in charge.

  The boys burst in, so out of breath they could barely speak, but finally blurted out what was happening. “Bothwell and a gang of men grabbed Miss Ella and Mr. Averell and said they were rustlers and they’re going to show them what for.”

  Then they remembered to add: “And they made Mr. Averell unhitch his horses and they’re running around out there.”

  Ralph ran to retrieve the most valuable possessions his uncle had—the boys helped. They found the horses hadn’t decided to go far, and it wasn’t hard to get them hitched up to the wagon again.

  Frank Buchanan didn’t spend one second worrying about the loose horses. He didn’t need any translation to know what was going on. Not on the range. Not for a charge of rustling.

  Frank was an all-around cowboy. He’d worked the round-up crews for many men in the Sweetwater Valley—Durbin, Sun, Conner, Galbraith—but he never would work for Bothwell. He thought the man was evil. “Pure evil,” he’d say in the most ominous tone. He knew cowboys who worked for the man, and none of them ever had a nice thing to say—worked them hard; paid them little; showed cruelty whenever possible; filthy mouth and even dirtier mind.

  Frank was having a bowl of beans at the roadhouse one day when Bothwell showed up, and the way he talked to Miss Ella, Frank bet the man was sweet on her. But she handled herself very well, polite but positive that she wanted none of it. Frank had smiled to himself that day, thinking that old Red Vest wasn’t used to not getting his way, but he certainly was not getting his way with Miss Ella.

  Now he had a bad churning in his gut at this news that Bothwell had Ella and Jimmy.

  Frank Buchanan ran to his horse and headed out after the procession.

  ***

  Buchanan heard the caravan before he actually saw it. They were down in the Sweetwater River, men on horseback and the buggy with his friends, all sitting there in the water, like this was a swimming party or something. He hid behind a rock and watched the noisy scene.

  He couldn’t make out everything they were saying, but there was no mistaking that this was a heated argument. The ranchers were all yelling at each other, obviously in discord. The
angry tone gave Frank his first ray of hope. He guessed the argument was over what to do next. He prayed that “next” was to take Ella and Jim home and let that be the end of it. At one point, Bothwell pointed his horse downstream and took a few steps before he realized nobody but Durbin and McLean were following. He went back to the group and yelled some more. Someone, Frank wasn’t sure exactly who, was bellowing that they’d made their point and the law should take over now. Somebody else was barking they should “string ’em up.”

  And then he saw that Jim and Ella weren’t being mute during all this, but offered their own two cents. Jim was talking with his hands, gesturing like this was the biggest mistake ever made in W.T. “Shut up,” Bothwell screamed, “or we’ll drown you right here in the river.”

  Then the most remarkable thing happened. Frank heard Ella Watson laugh. It wasn’t a giggle, like something was funny, but a full-throated laugh like somebody was stupid. “There’s not enough water in this river to give a land hog a decent bath,” she spat at them, and then Jim laughed, too.

  Frank immediately had mixed emotions. If they were laughing, maybe things weren’t as serious as they seemed. Maybe everybody knew this was a game, and it was almost over and they’d laugh about it over supper. But if the laughter was a taunt, that was another kettle of worms altogether. Frank had seen too many men maimed or killed because they laughed at an armed man.

  His fears were ratified when the group started moving, traveling up the streambed that would leave no tracks. He jumped back on his horse and followed along best he could, keeping undercover. He skulked after them all afternoon, watching their slow progress.

  Frank shook his head at the futility of this. So much time had passed, he now clearly believed this was all a stall, and nobody was really going to hurt anybody. He figured Jimmy and Ella were thinking the same thing and he hoped with all his might that it would cool their attitude so they didn’t provoke anything. “Shut up for once,” he thought out loud.

  About four o’clock, everything changed. Frank saw the group abruptly shift direction, leaving the river and heading for a rocky canyon. He was far enough off that he couldn’t hear much, but he could see Ella trying to stand up in the wagon and gesturing wildly, and he heard enough to know she was a mad hen.

  “Oh shit,” he sadly said out loud. Frank Buchanan went to his grave wondering if things turned so bad because Ella had gotten too mouthy and pushed the men over the edge.

  He jumped on his horse and followed almost in their exact path. When he reached the canyon, he slid off his horse and climbed a rock, dropping to his belly when he saw the group below.

  He prayed his eyes were deceiving him because Jim and Ella were standing next to a flat rock under a tree whose limb was decorated with two lariats. One noose was already around Jim’s neck. Bothwell was tying the loose end to a tree.

  “We never rustled any cattle,” Jim was screaming in a voice that already was hoarse. But nobody was listening.

  McLean was trying to get his noose around Ella’s head, but she was bobbing and weaving so much, he kept missing his mark. Her bonnet was in the way and she was like a wild woman trying to get free.

  Bothwell was the man in charge. Only McLean was helping him. The rest of the men were standing back, some already turned away from the scene, others studying the ground.

  Frank took aim with his six-shooter and started shooting, hitting Durbin in the hip. The men grabbed their Winchesters and shot back. Frank emptied his gun, quickly reloaded, and kept shooting. He was well aware he was outgunned. He didn’t expect his shots to rule the day. He did hope that discovering an eyewitness would be the shot of reality these folks needed.

  Instead, he heard Ella scream. He instantly poked his head up and saw Bothwell and McLean force his friends onto a boulder. Bothwell rushed forward and pushed Jim off. Frank watched in horror as Jim kicked wildly, trying to pull himself up on the rope.

  Ella screamed again as McLean pushed her off the rock and her writhing and jerking began. She tried to get a toehold, but kept slipping off. Frank could see his friends were being strangled, and in their dance of death, they banged up against each other, spinning and grabbing and flailing unmercifully, trying everything they could to free themselves. Ella was kicking so frantically, she kicked off one moccasin, then another. Frank wondered why she was wearing moccasins in the first place, but it was a fleeting thought. Bothwell was laughing over something Buchanan couldn’t make out.

  Frank saw that his friends were both suspended from the same limb, and he yelled out loud, “God, please make it break!”

  But God wasn’t listening.

  It seemed like it took forever for them to stop kicking. They were stronger than Frank ever dreamed, and for a second, he thought Jimmy might just make it. He saw that Ella was losing strength quickly, but Jimmy kept grabbing the rope above his head, trying to hoist himself up enough to give him another breath. Ella wasn’t strong enough for that, and Frank started crying when he heard her gurgling sounds.

  Frank kept ducking down behind the rock, not afraid of bullets now, since they’d stopped when he finally ran out of ammunition, but because he couldn’t bear to watch what was happening. But even when he wasn’t watching, he could hear the awful sounds of his friends in their last seconds and it made him vomit.

  The last time he dared look, blood was coming from Ella’s nose and mouth and her eyes were bulging out. Jim looked like he was trying to reach for her, but his arms were now too heavy. They were no longer kicking. Just twitching, their arms limp at their sides. Frank would forever be sorry he took that last look.

  And then everything went silent.

  No sound of thrashing as they lost the fight. No death rattle as the air in their lungs was spent. No creaking as the limb no longer held two struggling people. No scratching as the rope wasn’t snapped by the twisting couple. They just hung there in empty silence.

  Frank’s efforts to save his friends had failed. They had left this Earth for, he hoped, a better place. He rushed down the hill and jammed his spurs into his horse to head back to the roadhouse with the gruesome news. He knew he would stop only a moment before he galloped to Casper to get the sheriff.

  The men in the canyon made no move to follow him, but they weren’t languishing. They had more important places to go—to homes and ranches and wives and children and, frankly, anywhere but here. Without a word, they mounted their horses while Tom Sun turned around his wagon. Nobody looked back at the two bodies hanging from the limb, their tongues swelling and dangling from their mouths.

  The only sound in the canyon was horse hooves and wagon wheels on rock. The sound of leaving.

  Nobody noticed, but not even the birds were singing.

  ***

  Frank Buchanan never made it all the way to Casper to alert the sheriff.

  He collapsed from exhaustion by the time he reached “Tex” Healy’s log cabin about three o’clock Sunday morning. He was still twenty-five miles from Casper, but it was clear he was in no shape to continue. Healy quickly dressed and saddled his own horse to carry the horrifying news to Deputy Sheriff Philip Watson.

  “We’ve had a lynchin’ out in the Sweetwater, and I’m lookin’ for able-bodied men to form a posse,” Sheriff Watson announced in the saloon, which was the only business open. “Have to have your own gear. Town will buy you dinner. Payin’ $10 for any takers.” There were several takers.

  Sherriff Watson told the barkeep to get them some grub and put it on the town’s tab, and went looking for the coroner. But Dr. A.P. Haynes wasn’t to be found. It took several hours to get everybody gathered up, and still the coroner wasn’t around. Sheriff Watson deputized Casper attorney B.F. Emery as the acting coroner.

  “Can’t wait all day,” he said, as he led the posse out of town. It was almost three o’clock on Sunday afternoon. They rode all night and arrived in the dark, first hours of Monday.
They were greeted by a dark roadhouse and two newly made caskets on the front porch. Sheriff Watson yelled out his identity as he knocked on the door. A sleepy Ralph Cole answered it, but not far behind, their eyes wild in fear, were the boys, John DeCovey and Gene Crowder.

  It took only a second for Frank Buchanan to come out from the room off the kitchen.

  “So glad to see you, Sheriff.” He held out his hand. “Thanks Tex,” he said to his friend, who’d carried on for him.

  Buchanan had gotten back to Averell’s place about four o’clock, in time to help the boys with the final preparations on the caskets.

  “I’ll take you out to the hanging at first light,” Buchanan told the sheriff. “Hey, take the bed back there,” he offered, and the sheriff didn’t argue. Most of the posse had already stretched out their bedrolls wherever they found a space and it didn’t take long before sleep visited. You sleep fast and good after more than a half-day in the saddle.

  Buchanan led the caravan the next morning to the hanging site. It was a gut-wrenching scene.

  Death, decomposition, and the sun had taken its toll. After two-and-a-half days of hanging there, neither one was recognizable. The only way you could tell a man from a woman was that the woman was wearing a dress. Their faces were so swollen, there was no evidence of a nose. Their exposed skin was black. Their tongues hung from their mouths, as hard as beef jerky. Their eyes bulged, smothered with flies. One of the posse threw up. Everyone else pulled their handkerchief over their mouth and nose, trying to keep out the stench.

  Men in the posse cut the couple down, wrapped them in saddle blankets and took them back to the roadhouse. Over their bodies, acting coroner Emery conducted an official inquest, taking testimony from all the eyewitnesses: Frank Buchanan, Gene Crowder, John DeCorey, and Ralph Cole.

  He charged that the couple had been hanged by Albert Bothwell, Robert Conner, Tom Sun, Earnest McLean, Robert Galbraith, and John Durbin.

  Jimmy and Ella were each placed in a newly made casket and buried in a single grave.

  “You boys need somethin’ to eat,” Buchanan told the posse, and those were very welcome words. Inside they found Frank, Gene, and Ralph trying to copy one of Ella’s dinners, but everyone could tell right off that they didn’t know what they were doing. A couple of the posse men took over and fried up bacon and ham and scrambled some eggs.