Bloodshed of the Mountain Man

by William W. ; Johnsto Johnstone

  “But, you think this is related to the Ghost Riders, don’t you?” Hardegree said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Which means they aren’t through with us yet.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Smoke answered. “It’s like I said, from the letters he wrote I think this Hannibal character looks at this as a challenge now. I don’t think there is any way he is going to pass you by.”

  Sorento

  Rexwell was having breakfast at the Coffee Cup Café in Sorento.

  “How is the mine doing?” the owner asked as he refilled Rexwell’s cup.

  “We haven’t produced anything yet,” Rexwell said. “But the owners are convinced there is still an untapped vein of silver there.”

  “They must be, because it seems to me they’re spending an awful lot of money. How many men are working out there, anyway?”

  “Oh, we’ve got about two dozen, I guess,” Rexwell replied. “Why so many questions, Don?”

  “I’m a worrier. Sorento was about to dry up and blow away until the mine reopened. I guess we just want to keep you men out there and keep the good times going.”

  “Yeah,” Rexwell said. “So do we.”

  “Some of us were thinking about taking a trip out there, you know, sort of a courtesy trip, just to have a look around.”

  “No, don’t do that.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “You’re liable to get shot if you do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The owners are very particular, and they’ve given us word,” Rexwell said. “If any of you was to show up, you’d either be run off or shot.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Well, we certainly don’t want that.”

  “Everyone in town is making money from the mine being open, aren’t they?” Rexwell asked.

  “Yes, we are. You and all the other workers have been most generous with your spending.”

  “Then why would you want to spoil a good thing?”

  “Why indeed?” Don replied.

  The café owner walked away, leaving Rexwell with his breakfast and reading the newspaper. One article in particular caught his attention.

  SHOOTOUT IN BRIMSTONE

  On the 12th instant, Smoke Jensen and one of his employees were crossing the street in front of the Devil’s Den Saloon, when they were set upon by four mounted gunmen.

  According to those who witnessed the event, two armed riders approached from the north end of the street, while two others approached from the south end. The riders were at a gallop with pistols in hand. Jensen and Pearlie stood back-to-back, awaiting the charge. Shots were exchanged, and when the smoke had cleared the four mounted assailants lay dead in the street. Smoke Jensen and his friend were unscathed. Safe, too, were all the residents of the town

  It is not known why the attack took place, nor is the identity known of two of the mounted gunmen. However, two have been identified, they being Amos and Amon Scraggs. Twins, the Scraggs brothers were awaiting execution in Suttle, Colorado, when, by a means unknown, they managed to escape jail, killing the jailer in the process. There have been some previous shooting incidents in town, which upon further investigation, proved to involve members of the infamous Ghost Rider gang.

  As no red armbands were found on their persons, it is believed that these men were not affiliated with that band of outlaws.

  Ten Strike

  “I know what happened to the men we sent after Jensen,” Rexwell said, handing the newspaper to Hannibal.

  Hannibal read the newspaper story, then with an angry shout, threw the paper against the wall.

  “That’s fifteen!” he said. He pointed to the paper. “That son of a bitch has been responsible for killing fifteen of my men!”

  “It says here that there were two of them,” Rexwell said.

  “Yes, but Jensen was obviously in command,” Rexwell said. “That makes him responsible.”

  “But look at the good side,” Rexwell said. “If Jensen is still in Brimstone, that means they still expect us to attack there. We can go somewhere else and they won’t be expecting us.”

  “No,” Hannibal said. “By now they are expecting us to go somewhere else. That’s exactly why we will attack Brimstone.”

  “Hannibal, I told you what their plans are. They will put men on the roofs of every building. They could have as many as one hundred men waiting for us.”

  “Euripides once said that ten men, wisely led, are worth one hundred, without a head,” Hannibal said.

  “You rip a what? I don’t think I ever heard of the fella. Where’d you meet him?”

  “He was a Greek tragedian who lived well over two thousand years ago. The point is, I am in command of the Ghost Riders. You aren’t only wisely led, you are brilliantly led.

  “Not so with the town. The town will be nothing but a gathering of armed men with no direction, and they won’t even have time to get into position. The essence of my battle plan is the shock effect of our attack. We will be on them before they have time to react.”

  “How will we be able to do that? They’re going to have a lookout up in the bell tower of the church. From there, they can see for a long way off. And soon as they see us comin’, they’re goin’ to ring the church bell. When that happens they’re goin’ to clear the streets of all them that won’t be fightin’ and men with guns will be on ever’ roof. I don’t see anyway how we will be able to surprise ’em neither.”

  “Rexwell, one of the principles of warfare I learned at West Point was this—render your enemy blind, and you can work your way with him,” Hannibal said.

  “What are you talkin’ about? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You said yourself that the entire element of their defense depends upon their lookout seeing us before we get to town and then sounding the warning, right?”

  “Well, yeah, I reckon it does.”

  “If their lookout doesn’t see us, there will be no warning. That means we can still hit the town with shock and surprise.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “I will just have to figure out a way,” Hannibal said.

  “All right,” Rexwell said. “You’re the boss.”

  “No, I’m the commander,” Hannibal replied.

  “Yes, sir,” Rexwell said. Turning, he left the mine manager’s house. After he was gone, Hannibal lay down on the bunk with his hands laced behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling trying to decide what to do about his planned raid on the town of Brimstone. His mission had been compromised. And mission was exactly how he thought about it. Every operation he had conducted since having been cashiered from the army was a mission.

  Unbidden, the memory of his shame returned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Fort Laramie, Wyoming, two years earlier

  Colonel David Twiggs sat behind the desk in the commandant’s office in the Post Headquarters Building. He was examining a sheet of paper that Sheriff Dailey had given him.

  “And you say this man . . . what’s his name?”

  “Hall. Jesse Hall.”

  “You say he can identify one of my officers as the person he was dealing with?”

  “He says he can, and that’s the name he gave me. I brought him out here so your officer can confront him, face-to-face. This is a pretty serious charge to be makin’. I mean I know you’ve had some enlisted men go bad from time to time. Hell, half of ’em is runnin’ from somethin’ anyway, or they wouldn’t be in the army in the first place. But I always thought that officers were somethin’ different.”

  “And indeed, they should be,” Colonel Twiggs said. “If you will wait for a while, we can get this matter taken care of. And I thank you, Sheriff, for bringing this to my attention.”

  Captain Enid Prescott stood in front of the mirror, shaving. He hadn’t yet put on his tunic, and the hanging yellow galluses made a loop across the yellow stripe that ran down each side of the light blue trousers.

  He was the commanding officer o
f D Troop of the Second Dragoons. He felt he should be a major by now, and he blamed his lack of promotion on his wife. Clearly, she had no idea of all the social responsibilities of being an officer’s wife.

  When he finished shaving, he put on his tunic, then went into the dining room of the post quarters and sat down for breakfast. When his wife set a plate down in front of him, he looked at it critically. The yellow of one of the eggs had broken and was fried hard.

  “What is this?” he demanded. “You know I like my eggs over easy! Why are you serving me this garbage?”

  “I’m sorry, Enid, but the yellow broke as soon as I dropped it into the skillet.”

  “Then why didn’t you cook another one for me? You know I can’t eat this!”

  “I know that you prefer them over easy, but I was hoping you could make an exception this once. These were the last two eggs we had. I went to the Suttler’s Store yesterday, but they didn’t have any and they said they probably wouldn’t get any more until today. I gave you the two eggs we have, I’m just having a biscuit.”

  “And I’m supposed to think, what, that you are sacrificing for me?”

  “No, I don’t look at it as a sacrifice. I know that you are under a lot of stress now, and I wanted you to face the day with a full stomach. I’m sorry the egg broke, if we had another one I would have prepared it for you.”

  “How many times have I told you to plan ahead?” Prescott shouted. Standing up so quickly that the chair turned over, he picked up the plate of bacon and eggs and threw it at her.

  “Ahh!” she screamed, as the plate hit her in the face so hard that it cut her lip.

  “Scream, why don’t you?” Prescott said, angrily. “That way you can bring everyone in the officers’ quarters to look into our private business. Better yet, scream loudly enough and maybe even the NCOs and the cows they are married to can come over here to be entertained.”

  “Enid, you have no right to treat me like this.”

  “I have every right to treat you anyway I want. You are my wife. When we were married you took an oath to obey me. Or have you forgotten that?”

  “Oh, believe me, I can never forget that. You won’t let me forget it.”

  “Don’t get smart with me!”

  Prescott slapped her so hard across the face that a redness instantly appeared around her left eye.

  She cried out, put her hand over her eye, and took several steps away from him so that she was out of his reach.

  “That eye is probably going to get black,” Prescott said. “I don’t want you to go outside until it goes away.”

  “I need to go to the Suttler’s today.”

  “Oh, you would love that, wouldn’t you? You could display your black eye as a badge of honor.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Get this mess cleaned up. I’ll take breakfast in the Officers’ Open Mess. As a matter of fact, I’ll take all my meals in the officers’ mess until you can be seen in public again.” Prescott grabbed his hat and left his quarters.

  There were three officers in the mess, but they all got up to leave when Prescott arrived.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he asked.

  “Duty officer,” one of them called. Neither of the other two responded.

  When Prescott looked over at the table, he saw that none of them had finished their breakfast. He found that rather odd. It was almost as if they wanted to avoid him.

  Prescott ate his breakfast, then walked across the quadrangle to his company orderly room. When he stepped inside, his first sergeant saluted him.

  “Sir, Colonel Twiggs asked you to report to him as soon as you came in this morning.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I don’t know, sir. The colonel didn’t say.”

  “You are my first sergeant, Waters. How difficult would it have been for you to find out what this is all about?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “You’re sorry, all right. You are about the sorriest NCO I’ve ever been around. All I’m looking for now is an excuse to bust you down to private. And it doesn’t have to be all that much of an excuse. All right, tell Lieutenant Spalding to get all the training and work details started while I am gone.”

  “Yes sir,” First Sergeant Waters replied, snapping a sharp salute.

  Prescott, showing his disdain for his first sergeant, made a mere gesture as a return salute.

  As he walked toward the post headquarters he returned the salutes of a sergeant and a second lieutenant.

  When his first sergeant told him that he was to report to the post commandant he was, at first, a little concerned. But as he thought about it, he began to consider the possibility that he was being summoned to be told of his promotion. He had served enough time to be a major, and he knew that many of his classmates had already attained that rank.

  He smiled. As major he would move up to a command staff position.

  When Prescott stepped into the headquarters building, he saw Colonel Twiggs and Lieutenant Colonel Rector, who was Twiggs’ executive officer. Prescott’s smile grew wider. Of course both of them would be there to congratulate him on his promotion.

  But Major Royal, the provost marshal, was there as well, and so were two enlisted men, bearing arms, standing nearby at parade rest. This was most unusual, and the smile faded. There could only be one reason why they were there, and he felt a weakness in his knees and a sinking sensation in his stomach.

  He saluted. “Sir, Captain Prescott reporting to the post commandant as ordered.”

  Colonel Twiggs didn’t return the salute and that, too, troubled him. He held the salute for a moment, then let his arm drop.

  “Sheriff Dailey, bring the prisoner in, please,” Colonel Twiggs said.

  From another room the sheriff came in, responding to Colonel Twiggs’s call. When Prescott saw the civilian who was with him, he recognized him immediately. All the breath left his body, and he got very light-headed. He was afraid, for a moment, that he might pass out.

  “Mr. Hall, do you know this officer?” Colonel Twiggs asked, addressing the civilian who was with the sheriff.

  “Yeah, I know ’im,” Hall said.

  “What is your relationship with him?”

  “What is my what?” Hall asked.

  “How do you know him?”

  “All them army rifles I got caught with? I bought ’em off Captain Prescott here.”

  “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Prescott?” Colonel Twiggs asked.

  Prescott noticed that when Colonel Twiggs addressed him, he didn’t use his military rank. Colonel Twiggs was a very formal person, and he never addressed one of his soldiers, be it officer or enlisted man, by his last name only.

  “I have nothing to say, sir.”

  “Major Royal, escort this . . . person . . . to the stockade,” Colonel Twiggs said, purposely omitting use of the word officer.

  “Sir, is there any way I could be placed on arrest in quarters? As a brother officer, can’t you spare me the humiliation of being confined to the stockade with the enlisted men?”

  “At the moment, Prescott, there is not an enlisted man on this post that I don’t hold in higher regard than you, and I have a feeling that you won’t be an officer much longer. Colonel Rector, if you would, sir, please inform Lieutenant Spalding that he is now the commanding officer of D Troop.”

  “Yes, sir,” Colonel Rector said.

  “Guards,” Major Royal ordered. “Escort this prisoner to the stockade.”

  Although Major Royal was the provost marshal, the stockade was run by Provost Sergeant Schuler. Prescott had once dressed Sergeant Schuler down in front of several lower-ranking enlisted men because one button was open on his tunic.

  When Sergeant Schuler saw who his new prisoner was, a broad smile spread across his face.

  “Come along, Captain,” Sergeant Schuler said. “I’ve got a nice room all ready for you.”

  The court-martial was little
more than a pro forma proceeding. The prosecutor heard testimony from Sheriff Austin Dailey and Jesse Hall. Lieutenant Spalding acted as Prescott’s defense council. He made no effort to prove Prescott’s innocence, pleading only that Prescott be spared spending time in prison.

  Two weeks later, the men of the Second Dragoons were in dismounted formation on the parade grounds, with Colonel David E. Twiggs in command. Each troop had its commander standing out front, captains all but one. D Troop, formerly commanded by Captain Enid Prescott, was now commanded by First Lieutenant Charles Spalding.

  Captain Prescott, in full-dress uniform, stood in front of the assembled troops, flanked on either side by an armed private. His request to be guarded by officers had been refused.

  “Colonel Rector, if you would, sir, please read the findings of the general court-martial,” Colonel Twiggs ordered.

  In a loud and commanding voice, Lieutenant Colonel Wharton Rector began to read from a paper he held in his hand:

  “Having been found by a general court-martial, guilty of the crime of stealing and selling army equipment and supplies, Captain Enid Prescott is hereby sentenced to be reduced to the rank of private, stripped of all rank insignia and accoutrements, thereafter to be dishonorably discharged, and, under guard, to be marched through the front gate and barred henceforth from ever setting foot on any army post. By order of David E. Twiggs, Colonel, Second Dragoons, commanding.”

  After reading the order, Lieutenant Colonel Rector stepped up to Captain Prescott and, one at a time, ripped off his shoulder boards, each board bearing the twin bars denoting the rank of captain. After the shoulder boards were removed, he used a knife to cut each of the brass buttons from his tunic, dropping them on the ground where the shoulder boards lay. Then, using the same knife, he cut the stitching at the top of the gold stripes running down each pants leg and ripped them off. That done, he removed Prescott’s sword and broke it across his knee, the blade having earlier been prepared to allow him to do so.