Rampage of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “‘Let me try and find the bottom,’ the little duck said.

  “But the goose laughed at the duck. ‘You are much too little and too weak to find the bottom. I am a goose. I am big and strong. I will find the bottom.’

  “So the goose took a deep breath and dove very deep, but he couldn’t reach the bottom either. He came up, gasping for breath, and he said, ‘Great Spirit, I think you are playing tricks with us. I think there is no bottom.’

  “‘Please, let me try,’ the little duck said again.

  “Both the swan and the goose laughed. ‘Foolish little duck,’ they said. ‘If we could not find the bottom, what makes you think you can?’”

  “‘I believe I can do it,’ the little duck said again.

  “‘You may try,’ the Great Spirit said.

  “The little duck took a deep breath and plunged down through the water. He was underwater for a long time, and everyone thought that the little duck had drowned and they were very sad. ‘You should not have let him try,’ they said to the Great Spirit, but the Great Spirit told them to have patience.

  “Then, when it seemed that all was lost, the little duck came back up with a bit of mud in its bill.

  “‘How could he do that when we could not?’ the swan asked. ‘He is small and we are big.’

  “‘He is small, but his heart is big and his soul is good. That gives him very strong medicine, and that is why he succeeded where you failed,’ the Great Spirit said.

  “Then, taking the mud from the bill of the little duck, the Great Spirit worked it in his hands until it was dry, and with it, he made little piles of land on the water surface. That land grew and grew until it made solid land everywhere.” Red Eagle held his arm out and took in all the land around him. “And that is what we see today.”

  “And then did our people come to live on the land?” one of the children asked.

  “Yes,” Red Eagle said. “Two young men and two young women who were looking for food walked for eight days and eight nights without eating, or drinking, or sleeping. They saw a high peak and decided to go to it to die, for it would be a marker to show their burying place. But when they got there, they saw a yellow-haired woman who showed them the buffalo. The men hunted the buffalo and got food to eat, and the women bore many sons. The sons took many wives and bore more children. I am the child of one of those children, just as you are the children of my children. And thus we are all Cheyenne.”

  Once Red Eagle finished his story, others began to tell stories as well. If the story was to be a tale of bravery in battle, the one who spoke would walk over to the lodge pole and strike it with his coup stick. Then everyone would know that he was going to tell a story of an enemy killed in battle. In such stories the enemy warriors were always brave and skilled, because that made the warrior’s own exploits all the greater.

  Not all stories were of enemies killed in battle. Some of the stories were of hunting exploits, and some told of things that had happened in the time of their father’s father’s father that had been handed down through the generations to be preserved as part of their history.

  One of those who spoke little, but of whom many tales were told, was Walking Bear. A few days earlier, Walking Bear had led a war party against a small establishment that consisted of a military stockade, stagecoach station, and telegraph office. The stockade was manned by about fifty soldiers, and when Walking Bear tried a frontal attack against the soldiers, he was driven back by cannon fire and by the long-range fire of the soldier’s rifles. As the soldiers were protected by the heavy timbers of the stockade, Walking Bear was unable to dislodge them, even though he had superior numbers.

  Walking Bear tried a few ploys. He sent ten warriors down toward the soldiers to act as decoys, but they were unable to draw the soldiers out. The next morning he sent twenty, and this time the soldiers came out as far as the bridge, but would come no farther.

  Some suggested the warriors should slip down at night and set fire to the stockade, but Walking Bear insisted that only cowards fight in such a way. They finally decided that they would try another frontal assault the next day, massing all their numbers. Before they could launch their attack, though, they were surprised to see an entire platoon of cavalrymen ride out of the fort, cross the bridge, then head westward at a trot. The soldiers had come out of the fort to provide an escort for an approaching wagon train.

  Elated at their good fortune, Walking Bear mounted all his warriors and they swarmed down on the wagons and the escorting soldiers.

  The soldiers reached the wagons, then, in a classic formation, circled the wagons and dug in. The soldiers fought bravely, and Walking Bear’s own brother was killed in the first few minutes of fighting. Angered and grieving, Walking Bear led the Cheyenne into ever-decreasing circles around the wagons, lashing their ponies to make them go faster and faster. Walking Bear was wearing his medicine bonnet and carrying his sacred shield, so he knew that no bullets would strike him.

  As the circle tightened closer to the wagons, the soldiers continued their firing until, finally, all the soldiers were out of ammunition. When the soldiers stopped firing, the Cheyenne charged straight for the wagons and killed all the soldiers. They fell upon the wagons in eager anticipation, but were very disappointed by what they found. Though they had hoped for weapons and ammunition, there was nothing in the wagons but bedding and mess chests.

  When Walking Bear returned, he told the others in the council that the white men had been taught a lesson and would now obey the treaty they had signed.

  “No,” Red Eagle said. “I fear that all you have done is anger the white man so that we will get no beef.”

  “You want beef?” Walking Bear retorted, angry that Red Eagle did not respect his story of bravery in battle. “I will get beef for you. I will get all the beef you can eat.”

  “How will you do such a thing?” Red Eagle asked.

  “Are you an old man that you have forgotten the way of our people? I will get beef the way Cheyenne have always gotten food. I will find it, and I will bring it back. I will not wait for the white man to give it to us, as if we are children, pawing and mewing to suckle at the teat.”

  Walking Bear’s words were angry and disrespectful of an old man who had, long ago, earned the respect of all his people. As a result, many who heard the words gasped.

  Red Eagle stood up, and pulled his robe about him. He pointed. “Go,” he said. “Leave our village before you bring evil to us.”

  “And if I say I do not wish to go, what can you do?” Walking Bear asked. He laughed, a disrespectful, guttural laugh. “You can do nothing, old man,” he taunted. “You are old and weak, and you have no medicine.”

  Red Eagle said nothing, but he raised his hand into the air, then made a circular motion with his fingers. Then, there was the whirring sound of wind through feathers. A large eagle suddenly appeared swooping down out of the darkness. He made a pass at Walking Bear’s head, legs extended, claws bared. The eagle raked his claws across Walking Bear’s face, leaving three, parallel, bleeding gashes on his cheek. Then, with a graceful but powerful beat of his wings, the eagle soared back up to disappear in the darkness.

  Those who watched the incident gasped and called out in shock and fear, but no one was more shocked or more frightened by what had just happened than Walking Bear himself.

  Walking Bear put his hand to his cheek, ran the fingers across the cuts, then held them out to look at the blood, shining darkly in the firelight.

  “How…?” Walking Bear started to ask, but he never finished his question.

  “Leave,” Red Eagle said again, this time speaking very quietly, but with great authority.

  “I will go,” Walking Bear replied. “I am not going because you have ordered me to, but because I can no longer live with men who fear to walk the path of a warrior. Who will come with me?” he asked loudly.

  About two dozen young men stood up, standing silently in the night, their eyes shining red from the light
of the fire.

  Red Eagle looked at all of the young men, then nodded.

  “Do you see that the bravest of our people have joined me?” Walking Bear asked.

  “Go,” Red Eagle said. “Take your women and your children with you. You are no longer a part of this village.”

  “Eeeyahhhh!!!!” Walking Bear shouted, and those who had stood to go returned the shout.

  As Walking Bear and those who followed him left the village, their departure was greeted with silence, partly in stunned disbelief over what they were witnessing and partly in grief at losing members of their village.

  Red Eagle spoke to the village. “I will say for the last time the name of Walking Bear. I tell you now to speak the names of those who left us. Then, after this day, do not say their names again, for they are no more.”

  The villagers shouted the names of the warriors, and of the women and children of the warriors who left with them; then they began singing the lament of the dead for, as far as they were concerned, those who left the village that day were dead.

  As Walking Bear and his warriors and their families moved away from Red Eagle’s village, he could hear the sounds of the death songs. He could also hear the sound of weeping from the women and children of his band as they mourned those who were left behind.

  “Warriors!” he called. “Be of stout heart! We ride the path of the brave! Eeeyaaah!!!!”

  The other warriors with him joined in the yell, as much to buck up their own spirits as to shut out the mournful sounds from the village.

  Chapter Nine

  Puxico, Wyoming Territory

  “Oyez, oyez, oyez, this here court is about to convene, the Honorable Judge Spenser Clark presidin’,” the bailiff shouted.

  “Ha, this ain’t no court! This here’s a saloon,” someone shouted. His shout was met with laughter from others who were present.

  “Crawford, one more outburst like that, and you’ll spend thirty days in the jail,” the bailiff said, pointing to the offending customer/spectator. “This here saloon is a court whenever His Honor decides to make it a court, and that’s what he’s done. Now, everybody stand up’n make sure you ain’t wearin’ no hat or nothin’ like that while the judge comes in. And McCall, you better not let me catch you servin’ no liquor durin’ the trial.”

  “I know the rules, George. I ain’t served nary a drop since the judge ordered the saloon closed,” McCall replied.

  The Honorable Spenser Clark came out of the back room of the saloon and took a seat at his “bench,” which was the best table in the saloon. The table sat upon a raised platform that had been built just for this purpose.

  The saloon was used as a court because it was the largest building in town. An ancillary reason for holding court in the saloon was because it was always crowded, thus making it easy for the judge to empanel a jury by rounding up twelve sober men, good and true. If it was sometimes difficult to find twelve sober men, then the judge could stretch the definition of sobriety enough to meet the needs of the court. The “good and true,” however, had to be taken upon faith.

  Quince Pardeen was being charged with the murder of Sheriff John Logan. There was no question that he had killed Sheriff Logan, because he had done so on the main street of the town in front of no fewer than thirty witnesses.

  There was some question, however, as to whether or not it could actually be considered murder. That was because it was clear that Sheriff Logan drew his pistol first. Prosecution contended that the sheriff did so in the line of duty while attempting to arrest a man for whom there were wanted posters in obvious circulation.

  The city of Puxico had only two lawyers, David Varner and Bailey Gilmore, neither of whom was a prosecuting attorney. Because of that, Judge Clark brought the two men into his hotel room prior to the trial.

  “I don’t suppose Pardeen has hired either of you to represent him, has he?” he asked.

  “It is my understanding he is going to ask that a lawyer be appointed,” Varner replied.

  Judge Clark sighed. “Do either of you volunteer for defense?”

  Varner and Gilmore looked at each other, but neither spoke.

  “Very well, we’ll flip a coin,” the judge said, pulling a nickel from his pocket.

  Varner called heads, it came up heads, and he asked to prosecute. That made Gilmore Pardeen’s defense attorney.

  Gilmore was conscientious enough to believe in providing the best defense possible, regardless of the heinousness of the crime, and he sat out to do just that. He made a very strong argument that Pardeen saw only the draw, and perceiving that his life was in danger, reacted as anyone would.

  “Pardeen might be a wanted man,” Gilmore said in his closing argument. “But even wanted men do not surrender their right to self-preservation.

  “I lament the fact that Sheriff Logan was killed, and for that, his dear widow has our sincerest sympathy.” Gilmore glanced over at Mrs. Logan, who, still wearing widows weeds, lifted her black veil to dab at her eyes with a silk handkerchief.

  “Indeed,” Gilmore continued, “the entire town of Puxico has our sympathy, for Sheriff Logan was known far and wide as a good and decent man.”

  “What the hell are you doin’, lawyer?” Pardeen yelled angrily from the defense table. “Whose side are you on anyhow?”

  “Mr. Pardeen, one more outburst like that and I’ll have you bound and gagged,” Judge Clark warned. “You may continue with your argument, Counselor.”

  The defense attorney nodded, then brought his closing argument to its conclusion. “Gentlemen of the jury, any way you look at this fracas, no matter how good and decent a man Logan was, if you are fair and honest in your deliberation, you will agree that Mr. Pardeen acted in self-defense.”

  Varner waited until Gilmore had taken his seat before he rose to address the jury. Before he said a word he made a sarcastic show of applauding, clapping his hands together so quietly that they could not be heard.

  “I applaud the esteemed counselor for the defense,” he said. “He is a good man who believes that anyone—even a person as evil and as obviously guilty as Quince Pardeen—deserves a good defense. He chose, of course, the only option open to him. He chose to make his plea, one of self-defense. But despite my esteemed colleague’s most sincere attempt, the truth is”—Varner paused and looked directly at Pardeen—“Mr. Gilmore’s noble effort was an exercise in futility. Quince Pardeen is a cold-blooded murderer. Many a good man has fallen before his gun—none finer than our own sheriff. By his lifetime of evil, Pardeen has forfeited forever any claim to self-defense.”

  After Varner sat down, Judge Clark instructed the jury and they withdrew to a room at the back of the saloon to make their decision. After only five minutes of deliberation, the jury sent word that they had reached a verdict.

  After retaking his seat at the “bench,” Judge Clark put on his glasses, slipping the end pieces over one ear at a time. Then he blew his nose and cleared his throat.

  “Are counsel and defendant present?” He pronounced the word as “defend-ant.”

  “Counsel and defendant are both present at the table,” Gilmore replied.

  “Is the prosecutor present?”

  “Hell, Judge, you can see him right in front of your face,” one of the spectators shouted. “Get this over so we can get back to our drinkin’.”

  There was some nervous laughter, terminated by the rap of the judge’s gavel. “Mr. Matthews, that little outburst just cost you twenty dollars,” Clark said.

  “Wait a minute, I ain’t the only one who—” Matthews began, but he was interrupted by the judge.

  “Now it’s twenty-five dollars. Do you want to open your mouth again?”

  This time Matthews’s reply was a silent shaking of his head.

  “I thought you might come to your senses,” Judge Clark said. “Now, would the bailiff please summon the jury?”

  The bailiff, who was leaning against the bar with his arms folded across his chest, spit a qu
id of tobacco into the brass spittoon, then walked over to a door, opened it, and called inside.

  “The judge has called for the jury,” he said.

  At the bailiff’s call, the twelve men shuffled from the room where they had conducted their deliberations, and out onto the main floor of the saloon, to the chairs that had been set out for them in two lines of six. They took their seats, then waited for further instructions from the judge.

  “Mr. Foreman of the Jury, have you reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

  “We have, Judge.”

  “Your Honor,” the bailiff said.

  “Say what?”

  “When addressing His Honor the judge, you will say Your Honor,” the bailiff directed.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m sorry, I forgot about that. We have reached a verdict, Your Honor.”

  “Please publish the verdict.”

  “Do what?”

  Judge Clark sighed. “Tell the court what the jury has found.”

  “Oh. Well, sir, Your Honor, we have found this guilty son of bitch guilty,” the foreman said.

  “You goddamn well better have!” someone shouted from the court.

  The judge banged his gavel on the table.

  “Order!” he called. “I will have order in my court.” He looked over at the foreman. “So say you all?” he asked.

  “So say we all,” the foreman replied.

  The judge took off his glasses and began polishing them.

  “Bailiff, escort the defendant to the bench, please,” the judge said.

  Pardeen was handcuffed, and he had shackles on his ankles. He shuffled up to stand in front of the judge.

  Pardeen was not a very large man. In a normal world, any belligerency on the part of a man as small as Pardeen would have been regarded as unimportant, or at least manageable. But this was not an ordinary world because Pardeen’s small stature was offset by the fact that he possessed extraordinary skill with a handgun. But even more important than his skill with a pistol was the diabolical disregard of human life that would allow him to use that skill. It was said of Pardeen that he could kill a human being with no more thought than stepping on a bug.