Warpath of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  So, why weren’t they discussing the Battle of Purgatory? Unlike the Battle of Little Big Horn, where every soldier in Custer’s command had been killed, in the Battle of Purgatory Covington had lost not one man. By all that was right, Covington should be regarded as a hero throughout the state.

  Maybe he just wasn’t well enough known yet. Yes, he thought, that had to be it. So, what could he do about it? Maybe he could arrange a speaking tour, telling of the dangers everyone in the state was facing today by being so complacent about the Indians. Yes, that would do it. He would write to Denver and secure the governor’s sponsorship for a tour of the state. He knew that some photos had been taken out at Timber Notch Ranch. He could use those gruesome photos to arrange a magic lantern show to illustrate his talk.

  He would call his talk “The Cost of Neglect,” and he would use the graphic photographs to illustrate what could happen due to a lack of vigilance with regard to the Indians. At that moment, Covington’s musing was interrupted by Dingo.

  “Yes, First Sergeant,” Covington said, “what can I do for you?”

  “I was just wonderin’ if you had heard about what happened over in Stonewall?”

  “Something happened at Stonewall? No, what happened?”

  “The Injuns come into a bank with guns blazing. Then they robbed it.”

  Covington looked up. “You don’t say?” he asked, his interest stirred by the news. “The Indians, you say. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure.”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “Why, you can hear about it all over town,” Dingo replied. “And they’re especially talking about it over in Longmont’s Saloon.”

  “Has Sheriff Carson gotten word of it?”

  “I reckon he has,” Dingo said. “I figure that’s how ever’one else found out about it.”

  “He got word, and he didn’t tell me,” Covington replied, the tone of his voice showing his anger. “That’s not right. The sheriff is obligated to tell me of any incident involving Indians. I think perhaps it is time I paid a little visit to our noble sheriff,” Covington said, reaching for his hat.

  “Yes, sir, I thought you might be interested in doing that.”

  18

  “What do you mean, why weren’t you informed?” Monte Carson replied, answering Covington’s angry question. “It was a bank robbery. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Oh, but I’m afraid it does, Sheriff,” Covington replied. “You see, if the Indians robbed—”

  “It wasn’t Indians, it was one Indian. And the funny thing is, he didn’t really rob the bank.”

  “What do you mean, he didn’t rob the bank? You just told me that he did rob it.”

  “Technically, I suppose he did,” Sheriff Carson admitted. “In that he took the money without proper authority. However, the money he took, five thousand dollars, was from the Indians’ own account. He tried to write a draft for the money, but he couldn’t because the only two men authorized to sign for the money, Stone Eagle and Running Deer, are both dead. You killed them, Covington.”

  “Are you telling me the Indians had five thousand dollars in their account?” Covington asked.

  “Oh, yes. From what I understand, they have nearly fifteen thousand dollars in the account. Quinntanna merely tried to make a withdrawal, and when they wouldn’t give the money to him, he took it at gunpoint.” Monte chuckled. “And get this. He didn’t rob them. He just forced them to accept his draft.”

  “Yes, well, it doesn’t matter. If the person who took the money isn’t on the signature card, then the draft is not valid. And if the draft isn’t valid, then taking the money at gunpoint is bank robbery. He did take it by force, didn’t he?” Covington said, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

  “I’ll be damned, Covington, if you don’t look happy about it,” Monte said.

  “I’m happy only in that it will wake the people up. I think everyone needs to be aware of the dangers the Indians still present to the peaceful citizens of this great state.”

  “Bullshit,” Monte said. “You’re just wantin’ an excuse to mount another campaign against them. Only, I don’t think you will be able to steal anything from them this time.”

  “Steal from them?”

  “That’s what you did, isn’t it?”

  “It is not what I did. I made a legal confiscation of contraband,” Covington said.

  “Uh-huh. And if you had done that anywhere other than an Indian reservation, I’d have you in jail right now.”

  “Yes, well, that’s the point, isn’t it? I did do it on an Indian reservation.”

  “I don’t know what you plan to take from them now. I’m sure that the Indians don’t have anything left. I heard that, in addition to everything else, you also stole a thousand dollars in cash from them.”

  “As I informed you, Sheriff, the money wasn’t stolen. It was part of the legal spoils of war,” Covington said.

  “Spoils of war,” Monte said.

  “You say it was Quinntanna who took the money from the bank?”

  “Yes. But for the life of me, I can’t see why you are so interested. Even if it was a bank robbery, and there is some question as to whether it was, it is a civil affair and has nothing to do with you.”

  “It does if Quinntanna’s action is a direct result of the punitive raid we conducted against Purgatory. And such a reaction on the part of a principal member of the village means that the issue is still unsettled. I’m afraid this moves things to the next step.”

  “The next step? What do you mean, the next step?”

  Covington pulled himself to attention. “Sheriff Carson, it is my unpleasant but necessary duty to inform you that, as of now, Big Rock and all of Las Animas and Costilla Counties are, and will continue to be until further notice, under martial law. From now on, you, your deputies, the mayor, and the city council will be responsible to me. No city or law enforcement business can, or will, be conducted without my express permission.”

  “What? Have you gone crazy? You can’t declare martial law,” Monte said in an exasperated and disbelieving tone of voice.

  “Oh, but I can, and I have. My commission from the governor is very specific about that. If you have any questions, contact the governor.”

  “You are doing all this because of the act of one Indian?” Monte asked in disbelief.

  “Indians are like cockroaches, Sheriff. Where there is one, there are many.” Covington started to leave, but as he got to the door, he turned back to the sheriff. “Oh, please inform the mayor of my decision to declare martial law.”

  “I shall do so,” Monte said. “I shall definitely do so.”

  Covington left a frustrated and disgusted sheriff behind as he walked quickly down the street to the telegraph office. When he pushed inside, the little bell that was attached to the top of the door rang merrily.

  “Be right with you,” Fred called from a room at the rear of the office. A moment later he came into the office, wiping his hands on a napkin. “I was just having my lunch,” he said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Covington?”

  “It is Colonel Covington for the duration,” Covington replied.

  “Duration? Duration of what?”

  “The Indian uprising,” Covington said. “But as for what you can do for me, I have a few regulations I am putting into effect.”

  “Go ahead,” Fred invited.

  “Effective immediately, you will send no telegram unless the sender has my express, written permission.”

  “What? I can’t do that,” Fred said.

  “Also, no telegram will be delivered to anyone in town without my clearance. That means that all incoming telegrams must come to me first.”

  “Mr. Cov—”

  “I told you, it is Colonel,” Covington said resolutely.

  “Colonel Covington. I can’t do what you ask. The rules and regulations of Western Union are quite specific. Our customers have the absolute right of privacy of commun
ication. If we start running all incoming and outgoing messages through some official somewhere, people will no longer trust us.”

  “That’s Western Union’s problem, not mine,” Covington said. “You will do what I say, or I will close your office.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fred said contritely.

  Leaving the Western Union office, Covington made his next stop the Big Rock Sentinel. Joe Mayberry was sitting at the composing desk, setting type. Because his back was to the door, he didn’t see who came in.

  “If you have a news story, put it in the basket on the right. If it’s an ad, put it in the basket on the left,” Joe said without turning around.

  “It is neither,” Covington said.

  Recognizing Covington’s voice, Joe sighed and turned toward him. “What is it, Covington?” he asked.

  “I did not appreciate the editorial you wrote about our operation,” Covington said. “You impugned the action of many brave men.”

  “Brave?” Joe replied, scoffing. “What is so brave about going into a village in the middle of the night and killing sleeping women, children, and old men?”

  “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand. This was a military matter. What do you know of the military?”

  “Sonny, where were you in the first week of July 1863?” Joe asked.

  “July 1863? Why, I don’t know,” Covington replied. “Anyway, what is so significant about that date?”

  “I was at Gettysburg, with the First Missouri Brigade,” Joe said. “And unlike your midnight murder, Gettysburg was a real battle.”

  “All right, you were at Gettysburg. I admit that those who fought at Gettysburg may have faced more danger than we faced at the Battle of Purgatory. But unless you have had a command of your own, I still submit that you aren’t qualified to discuss things of a military nature.”

  “Oh, I had a command,” Joe said.

  “You had a command? What was your command?”

  “The First Missouri Brigade.”

  “Yes, yes, you told me that. What was your command within the brigade?”

  A wry smile spread across Joe’s face. “The brigade was my command,” he said.

  Covington gasped. “You?” he asked. “You are a brigadier general?”

  “I used to be a brigadier general,” Joe answered. “Now I’m a newspaperman. Now, are you here just to complain about my editorial? Or do you have something else in mind? What are you doing here?”

  For a moment it looked as if Covington was still trying to absorb the fact that this man who published a weekly newspaper in a small Colorado town was once a brigadier general in the greatest war in America’s history. “What?” Covington asked, almost distractedly.

  “I asked what are you doing here,” Joe repeated. “What do you want?”

  “Oh, yes,” Covington said, regaining his composure. “I want you to print an announcement for me. Effective immediately, all of Las Animas and Costilla Counties are under martial law.”

  “Martial law? Why?”

  “I should think the reason would be obvious to you, Mr. Mayberry. We are in the midst of an Indian uprising. Martial law is necessary to protect the lives of our citizens.”

  “What exactly are the terms of this martial law?”

  “Well, to begin with, I am establishing a ten P.M. curfew. No guns can be carried within the city limits. No guns can be sold without my permission. All legal matters, both criminal and civil, will come through my office. The text of all telegrams, sent and received, must be approved by me. Any gathering of ten or more people shall be construed as an unlawful assembly and those participating in such a gathering will be arrested.”

  “Are you going to arrest people for going to church?” Joe asked.

  “Churches are exempt.”

  “That’s big of you. Schools?”

  “Yes, of course, schools are also exempt.”

  “What about Longmont’s? On a good night, he’ll have as many as forty patrons. Are you going to close Longmonts?”

  “I will allow Longmont’s to stay open in order to conduct its normal business. But the patrons of Longmonts will be put on notice that they will not be permitted to conduct a meeting of any sort. And the establishment will be closed by ten P.M.”

  “You don’t really expect to make any of this stick, do you?” Joe asked.

  “I do indeed. And finally, Mr. Mayberry, I want it understood by you that any article you print from now on is subject to military censorship.”

  “What?” Joe exploded in anger. “You can’t do that! That is a direct violation of the First Amendment!”

  “Disabuse yourself of any idea that you are covered by the Constitution or the Bill of Rights. Those are elements of civil law and authority. Big Rock is now under military law and authority and those personal rights normally guaranteed are withdrawn for the duration of the Indian emergency. I have the authority to prevent assemblies, suspend habeas corpus, close church and school, ban firearms, and censor the press, and I intend to do just that. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Mayberry?”

  “Painfully clear,” Joe replied.

  “Good. See to it that this information is published at once. Don’t wait for your next issue. Get an extra edition out.”

  * * *

  Before nightfall that very day, an extra edition of the Sentinel was published and distributed. In addition, Covington had signs printed and posted all over town:

  To all seeing these greetings

  be it known that a state of

  EMERGENCY EXISTS BETWEEN OUR

  CITIZENS AND HOSTILE INDIANS

  Resulting in the Declaration of

  MARTIAL

  LAW

  To be administered by

  SAMUEL COVINGTON

  COLONEL, CMNDG

  One such poster was placed on the batwing doors leading into Longmont’s Saloon. Also prominently displayed was notice that a ten o’clock curfew was in effect, and would remain in effect for the duration of the emergency.

  As a result of the implementation of martial law, the mood inside Longmont’s was somber. Gone was the laughter that was normal when patrons gathered for drinks and friendly card games. Instead of conversation and congenial banter, there were mutterings and complaints about the new order.

  “What gets me is why Monte Carson don’t do nothin’ about it,” one of the patrons said.

  “What can he do?” another replied. “Since martial law, he ain’t actually the sheriff no more.”

  “Then why don’t he send a telegram to the governor and get this changed?”

  “Have you forgotten? Any telegram sent out of here has to be approved by Covington. It ain’t likely Covington would let that kind of telegram go through.”

  “I hear tell the militia’s getting ready to go after the Injuns again.”

  “They say they are.”

  “Well, I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but by God, when it comes to Covington and the Injuns, damned if I wouldn’t be on the side of the Injuns.”

  The comment brought laughter, a rare commodity on this night.

  19

  Quinntanna and Teykano watched as Blue Horses and Swift Bear rode toward them, leading two packhorses. Word spread quickly that the weapons had arrived, and by the time the two gunrunners were on the scene, nearly all the young men of Quinntanna’s group had gathered around, waiting anxiously for the opportunity to get their hands on a rifle again.

  As soon as Blue Horses and Swift Bear arrived, the Indians rushed toward the packhorses and began opening the parcels, disclosing the rifles tied together in bundles of five.

  “Ayieee!” one of the Indians shouted in excitement, grabbing a Winchester and holding it over his head in triumph. He pumped his arm and shouted again, his shout igniting excitement in the others.

  “You have kept your promise,” Quinntanna said.

  “You have the money?” Blue Horses asked.

  Quinntanna held out the sack of money he had taken
from the bank. “Two thousand five hundred dollars. That is what you asked for.”

  Blue Horses took the money as the Indians began unpacking everything. The excitement waned somewhat when they saw the ammunition.

  “Quinntanna, there are not many bullets,” Teykano said, looking at the pitifully few boxes. “There are not even enough bullets to fill all the guns.”

  “Why is this?” Quinntanna asked angrily. “We have given you much money, all that you asked for.”

  “This was all the bullets we could get this time,” Blue Horses said. “But for one thousand dollars more, we can get many bullets.”

  “You did not speak of one thousand dollars more,” Quinntanna said. “You spoke only of two thousand five-hundred dollars.”

  “Maybe we will kill you and take the money back,” Teykano said, pointing his rifle at the two.

  Blue Horses and Swift Bear reacted in fear, but Quinntanna held up his hand. “No,” he said. “If we are to make war, we will need bullets and they are the only ones who can bring bullets to us.” Then, to Blue Horses, he said, “Bring more bullets. But don’t bring them here. We are going to leave this place.”

  “You will have one thousand dollars more?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where do we bring them?”

  “Do you know the place of Howling Winds?”

  “Howling Winds is high in the mountains, near Raton Pass,” Blue Horses said.

  “Yes.”

  “It is not good to go high in the mountains now. There will be much snow there. Nobody goes high in the mountains when there is much snow.”

  “That is why we go. There, our people will be safe from the soldiers. If you want to sell more bullets, you must come there.”

  Blue Horses and Swift Bear looked at each other for a moment. Then Blue Horses nodded. He turned back to Quinntanna. “We will bring bullets to the place of Howling Winds.”

  * * *

  As Cal approached the edge of town, two men came out into the road, holding up their hands to stop him. They were wearing military uniforms. Curious, Cal hauled back on the reins, stopping the team.