Bloodshed of the Mountain Man

by William W. ; Johnsto Johnstone

  The jury retired to consider the verdict, but given the barbarity of the act, nobody believed the jury would be out for any extended length of time, and that supposition turned out to be correct. The jury returned within less than half an hour and the gallery nodded and congratulated each other, because the evil sons of bitches who killed two of the finest people anyone is likely to find anywhere are going to pay for their crime.

  There was a scrape of chairs and a rustle of pants, petticoats, and skirts as the spectators in the courtroom stood for the return of the jury.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” Judge Dixon asked.

  One of the jurors stood. “We have, Your Honor. My name is Douglas Wheeler, and I am the foreman of the jury.”

  “Would you publish the verdict please, Mr. Wheeler?”

  “Your Honor, we find the defendants, Toon Taylor and Carl Moss, guilty of murder in the first degree. And it is the recommendation of the jury that they pay the extreme penalty for their act.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wheeler and gentlemen of the jury.”

  “Bailiff, would you position the prisoners before the bench for sentencing, please?” Judge Dixon asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The two men were brought before the bench. Though Moss stood with his head bowed contritely, Taylor stared defiantly at the judge.

  “How long do we have to stand here and stare at your ugly face?” Taylor asked.

  “Not long, sir. Not long at all,” Judge Dixon said. “In fact, sir, you have very little time remaining to stare at anyone, because I hereby order that a gallows or some similar contrivance for hanging be built as quickly as is practicable, and once done, that the sheriff of this community lead you to that place of your execution. There, a noose will be placed around each of your necks, the trapdoor lever will be pulled, you will fall to the end of that rope, and your necks will be broken. You will be nothing but dead meat then, and your miserable remains will become food for the worms.

  “Now, Sheriff, take these worthless sons of bitches out of my courtroom. Court is adjourned,” he said with a loud rap of the gavel.

  The gallery broke into a spontaneous cheer.

  Sheriff Brown approached Smoke and Cal at the back of the courtroom. “Smoke, I do hope that you and Cal will be present for the hanging.”

  “Oh, we intend to be,” Smoke said. “How long do you think it will be before the gallows is constructed?”

  “Joe Warner assures me that he will have it done within less than a week. So I don’t expect it to be very long.”

  “We’ll be here.”

  Ten Strike

  The story of the upcoming hanging had appeared in newspapers all over the state, including the Sorento Sun Times.

  “I thought you said that Taylor and Moss wouldn’t hang,” Rexwell said, showing the paper to Hannibal.

  Hannibal read the paper, then smiled. “They won’t, thanks to this article.”

  Rexwell got a confused look on his face. “What do you mean, thanks to that article?”

  “A great warrior named Sun Tzu once said that the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.”

  “I don’t understand,” Rexwell said.

  “No, I didn’t expect that you would. But the newspaper has provided us with all the information we need to make certain that Taylor and Moss do not hang.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Brown Spur

  Carl Moss paced back and forth in the eight feet of cellblock that he was sharing with Taylor. Taylor was lying on his bunk. Outside the cell, the sound of the pulley straining with the sand-weight floated across the town square and in through the tiny barred window. As the weight slammed down against the trapdoor, Moss jumped and let out a little cry of alarm. Taylor laughed.

  “What do you think, Moss? You think when we drop through that trapdoor that we’ll sound like those sandbags? ’Course, sandbags don’t scream or nothin’, ’n I’m thinkin’ you’ll pro’bly squeal like a stuck pig.”

  “Why you talkin’ like that, Taylor? I ain’t the only one that’s gettin’ hung you know. You’re gettin’ hung too.”

  “Yeah, but the difference is, you’ll land in hell screamin’ ’n cryin’, but me, I’m goin’ to walk right up to the devil and kick him square in his ass.” Taylor finished his comment with a high pitched, insane sounding laugh.

  “That’s where we’re both a goin’, ain’t it? We’re both goin’ to hell.”

  “I expect so.”

  “Ain’t you some scared by that?”

  “I’d rather visit the whores in hell, than listen to angels singin’ in heaven,” Taylor said.

  “You are insane,” Moss said.

  Letter to the editor of the Brown Spur Herald:

  Dear Editor:

  I take this means of a letter to the editor to communicate, not only with you, but to the lawmen of Brown Spur and to the citizens of your town. You have recently tried and condemned to death by hanging, two of my men. I tell you now to disabuse yourselves of any idea that Toon Taylor and Carl Moss will hang. I adhere strictly to the principle of one for all, and all for one, and I will not let this hanging happen.

  I am, sir, Hannibal,

  Commandant of the Ghost Riders.

  Because of the impending hanging of the two outlaws, Taylor and Moss, Bagby’s Saloon had no more than a couple of customers, and Bagby had even contemplated closing the saloon.

  “Why are you talking about closing it?” one of the two customers asked.

  “Because of the hanging,” Bagby replied.

  “Hell, didn’t you read Hannibal’s letter in the paper today? He says there ain’t goin’ to be no hangin’.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s wrong. All you have to do is look right outside ’n you can see for yourself.”

  All the way across the room from the bar, Elegant Sue, Lilly, Candy, Sweet Sal, and Maggie were sitting around a table. There had been a few customers in this morning, and everyone expected that business would be even more brisk after the hanging, so all five of the girls were wearing the revealing clothing that was the uniform of their profession.

  “Do any of you plan to watch the hanging?” Maggie asked the other girls.

  “Not me,” Sweet Sal replied with a shudder. “That’s not somethin’ I care to see.”

  “Me neither,” Lilly said.

  “Surely, you don’t plan to watch, do you, Maggie?” Elegant Sue asked.

  “No, it’s not something I want to see. I think when somebody murders someone, especially someone as nice as folks say Mr. and Mrs. Condon were, why, they should have to pay for their crime. I just don’t want to watch it, is all.”

  “We’ll know when it happens, though,” Candy said.

  “How will we know?” Lilly asked.

  “I expect we’ll hear it. They’ve been testing out the thing all morning, and you can hear when the trapdoor opens, even from here.”

  “That’s true,” Elegant Sue said. “And we’ll probably hear the crowd reaction as well.”

  “As long as all we do is hear it and don’t have to watch it,” Maggie said.

  Candy got up and walked over to the door to stare across the batwings.

  “What do you see, Candy?” Lilly asked. “Can you see the gallows?”

  “Yes. There is a big crowd around it.”

  It was to be a public hanging, and a crowd was already beginning to gather in the middle of town. And because Ned and Molly Condon actually lived outside of town, other ranchers and farmers, feeling that the Condons were part of their own, had come to town as well.

  As a result, Smoke and Cal, who had just arrived, saw that the town was not only crowded with people, but also with buggies, surreys, buckboards, coaches, and wagons. The two found a hitchrail with room for their horses, tied them off, then walked back down the street to the gallows. That’s where they saw the sign.

  TO BE HANGED ON THESE GALLOWS

  TOON TAYLOR
and CARL MOSS

  Found guilty of the murder of

  Ned Condon and his wife Molly

  Justice Will Be Done

  The sign was nailed to the front of the recently constructed gallows. The platform of the gallows stood thirteen feet high, the underpart hidden from view by canvas sheeting. It stood in the center of town, its grisly shadow stretching under the morning sun. From this moment it was less than fifteen minutes from the appointed time, and the crowd, already thick, grew even larger as many of the spectators began jostling for position.

  Several hundred people were gathered around the gallows, men in suits, shirtsleeves, and overalls and women in long dresses and bonnets. Children, who weren’t fully aware of what was about to happen, threaded in and out of the groups as they chased one another around the square. At the window of the cell a face would sometimes appear, look nervously through the bars at the crowd, then withdraw to the gloomy shadows within. A couple of young boys approached the cell and tried to peer in through the window, but a woman called out to them and they returned to the crowd.

  A few enterprising vendors were selling lemonade, beer, and sweet rolls.

  “Did any of you see that letter to the editor this mornin’?” Smoke heard someone ask.

  “What letter to the editor?”

  “It was from that fella that calls hisself Hannibal.”

  “Who?”

  “Hannibal. You know, he’s the one that’s the head of the Ghost Riders. Or, the Commandant, he likes to call hisself. Anyway, he said he wasn’t goin’ to let this hangin’ happen.”

  “Did he now?” the other man replied with a laugh. “Well, it’s all bluster. As you can see,” he pointed to the gallows. “It’s about to happen. And there ain’t no way in hell that he’s goin’ to be able to stop it now.”

  A black-frocked preacher climbed the thirteen steps up to the platform of the gallows, then stood there, awaiting the opportunity to give the condemned men one last chance at soul salvation.

  “Hey, Padre!” someone from the crowd called. “We got a few a minutes left, why don’t you give us a fire-eating sermon?”

  “I am not here for that,” the parson replied. “I am here only to succor the souls of the sinners.”

  “Well, hell, Padre, we’re all sinners, ain’t we?” one of the others shouted. “Leastwise, that’s what you preachers is always a sayin’.”

  That comment got a nervous laugh.

  “This is no place for levity,” the preacher said, wagging his finger back and forth. “In a few moments two men are going to be sent to meet their Maker with blood on their hands and sin in their hearts. And if they do not repent of their sins, they will be cast into the fiery furnaces of hell, doomed to writhe in agony forever!”

  Some of those in the crowd shivered involuntarily at his powerful imagery and looked toward the gallows. One or two of them touched their necks fearfully, and a few souls, perhaps weak on willpower, sneaked a drink from a bottle.

  But the preacher, seeing that he had a captive and willing audience, decided to take advantage of the situation. He stepped to the front of the platform to preach his message.

  “It’s too late for them, but it’s not too late for you! Repent! Repent now, I say, for the wages of sin are death and eternal perdition!”

  “That’s enough, Preacher,” Sheriff Brown said. The sheriff looked up at the hangman. “It’s about time, Mr. Cahill. Are you ready?”

  “I’m ready,” the hangman answered.

  The sheriff turned toward the jail cell and waved his arm. A moment later the two prisoners, flanked on either side by deputies, were brought from the jail to the gallows.

  “Burn in hell for what you did to Ned and Molly!” someone in the crowd shouted.

  The sheriff met the two men at the foot of the steps.

  “Come along you two,” he said. “The show is about to start, and you two have top billing.”

  “You go to hell,” Taylor said in a growling voice.

  “Funny you would say that, Taylor, since I imagine you’ll be there in just about three minutes.”

  The sheriff walked up onto the gallows platform with the two men; then he stepped out to the front, pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, and began to read.

  “Toon Taylor and Carl Moss, having been tried by a jury of their peers and found guilty of murder, are on this day, at this time, and in this place, to be hanged by the neck until dead, by order of Judge Andrew Dixon.”

  The sheriff stepped back to the two men and positioned them over the trapdoor. The hangman started to put the noose around Taylor’s neck, when both trapdoors unexpectedly opened, and Taylor and Moss fell through. As the rope had not yet been put around either one of their necks, there was nothing to impede their falls.

  “What happened?” the sheriff shouted.

  “I don’t know,” the hangman answered.

  “Well, get ’em back up here.”

  At that moment shots rang out, and all three of the men who were still standing on the platform—the sheriff, the hangman, and the preacher—went down under a hail of bullets.

  The shooting continued and the spectators, who were waiting to witness the hanging, panicked and began to run. The center of town echoed with women’s screams, men’s yells, the crying of children, and the sound of gunfire, with so many guns shooting at the same time that it sounded almost like the rattle of musketry on a battlefield.

  As many as two dozen mounted gunmen rode into the crowd, their horses trampling some and their indiscriminate shooting striking others. In the crowd, only Smoke and Cal had the presence of mind to engage the mounted gunmen, and they began shooting back. Smoke’s first shot was at almost point-blank range, and because he was on the ground and his target was mounted, the bullet entered under the rider’s chin and exited through the top of his head.

  Cal also brought one of the riders down; then Smoke shot another one, and yet another.

  Smoke saw one of the riders, a big, bald-headed man with a scar, shoot toward them.

  “Uhnn!”

  The grunt came from Cal.

  “Cal!” Smoke shouted.

  “I’ve been hit in the shoulder!” Cal said.

  Then, even as Smoke was looking at him, Cal was hit two more times, once in the thigh and a third bullet hit him in the stomach, just above his belt buckle. Cal’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell.

  “Cal!” Smoke shouted again. Turning, he looked for the bald-headed man, but he was gone. He did see the smiling face of the man who had been the second to shoot Cal. Smoke squeezed off a round and had the satisfaction of seeing a black hole appear in that man’s forehead. He saw another one of the riders who was staring right at him. The rider fired at Smoke. The bullet missed Smoke, but he heard it strike someone behind him.

  Smoke turned to see if he could be of any help, but the man was already dead.

  By now the center of town was total pandemonium.

  “Ghost Riders!” someone shouted. “Let’s go!”

  The mounted gunmen stopped shooting, then galloped away, leaving five of their own lying dead in the street behind them.

  “Son of a bitch!” someone shouted. “Taylor and Moss! They’re in the back of that wagon!”

  Looking in the direction the man was pointing, Smoke saw the remaining riders converging on a fast-moving wagon. He realized then what had happened. The Ghost Riders had managed to get a harnessed wagon in position under the gallows, hidden by the canvas sheeting. Then just before the ropes were looped around the necks of the two prisoners, the man underneath the gallows opened the trapdoors and let the two condemned men fall into the wagon. The rest of it, the killing of the sheriff, hangman, and preacher, as well as shooting into the crowd, was just to cover the escape.

  And Cal was one of those in the crowd who had been shot.

  “Cal!” Smoke said, grabbing Cal’s hand. “Cal!”

  Cal opened his eyes. “Get me home, Smoke. I don’t want to die here. Get
me home, please?”

  “I’m not going to let you die here, and I’m not going to let you die at home either,” Smoke said.

  Now some of the people were slowly beginning to work their way back into the center of town. Looking around, Smoke saw several bodies scattered around, including at least three women and one of the children. The wailing began. Smoke noticed that all five of the men he and Cal had shot, had a piece of red cloth tied around their arms, and he realized now, that it was probably for events like what happened here, today, that they wore the red bands. Such a thing would help them identify each other quickly in a melee such as just occurred.

  Smoke saw someone that he assumed was a doctor looking at some of the people.

  “Doctor, I have a wounded man here, I’d like for you to take a look at him if you would, please.”

  “Mister I have at least five more to look at, two of them women. You’ll have to wait your turn,” the harried doctor told him.

  “Yes, I understand,” Smoke said.

  Smoke walked back over to Cal, scooped him up in his arms, then carried him into Bagby’s Saloon.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “What are you bringing that man in here for?” one of the customers asked as Smoke stepped in through the batwing doors, carrying Cal in his arms as a mother would carry her baby. “This ain’t no hospital.”

  “Let him in,” Bagby said. “I know who this man is. He’s the one who kilt the son of a bitch who kilt Annie.”

  “Bring him over here,” one of the bar girls said.

  “Thanks,” Smoke replied. He recognized the girl who had spoken.

  “I remember you,” Smoke said. “You’re Elegant Sue.”

  “Yes,” Elegant Sue said. “Maggie, Lilly, Candy, help me get these two tables together,” she said, and two of the tables were quickly put together. “Bagby, bring me a bottle of whiskey and some clean towels. All the clean towels you have.”

  Bagby brought the whiskey and the towels, and the girl poured the whiskey over Cal’s three wounds; then she made compression bandages from towels.