On the third day after his incarceration, the soldiers brought Varner back to the jail. He looked in bad shape, but he claimed his wound was getting better. A lieutenant named Shufeldt was the post surgeon, but Varner said a civilian doctor was the one who treated him. The doctor told him that his collarbone was broken, and they bound him up with bandages that pinned his arm to his chest. “I ain’t gettin’ along too good as a one-armed man,” he told Carson. He looked so down that it was hard not to feel sorry for him. “He said I might not get full use of my arm again. I don’t reckon it matters much, since they’ll most likely hang me before long.”
“Did anybody say when they might have our trial?” Carson wondered aloud.
“They got a bunch of officers that meet once or twice a month to act like judges, and accordin’ to what Dr. Grimes told me, it’ll most likely be next Monday.” He gazed at Carson apologetically. “I’m hopin’ I can get away with a prison sentence, if I can convince ’em I never shot nobody. Hell, I did help steal them cows, but, Carson, I swear I’ll tell ’em you never had no idea we rustled that herd.”
“I ’preciate it, Varner.” He couldn’t help asking the big man about his change of heart. “I’m gonna tell you the truth, I never thought you’d speak up for me, I mean, after the little tussle we had. Hell, I was sleepin’ with my pistol cocked, expectin’ you to come after me.”
Varner chuckled. “I ain’t gonna lie. I thought about it. But I got my ass whipped fair and square, and it was me that started the whole thing, so I deserved what I got.”
When the day came to be taken to the provost marshal’s office, Carson and Varner were placed in chains and marched out of the cell room. It seemed to Carson a hell of a lot of caution considering that the provost marshal was awaiting them on the second floor of the same building. The officer, a captain named Goodridge, wasted little time interviewing the prisoners. “So, you two are all we’ve got left from your murderous run from Oklahoma Territory. You’ll go on trial day after tomorrow. We don’t house serious criminals here on the post, so you’ll most likely be shipped to the territorial prison in Laramie, where your sentences will be carried out, whether that’s imprisonment or hanging. Any questions?”
“Hold on a minute,” Carson protested. “Don’t you even wanna hear if we’re guilty or not?”
Goodridge shook his head indifferently. “That’s not my responsibility. We’ll find out at your trial if you’re guilty or not.”
“Hell, I know now that I’m not guilty of a damn thing,” Carson came back. “If somebody would just listen to my side of it. I never had any idea those cows were stolen. I only signed on at the North Platte. I wasn’t even with ’em in Oklahoma. I came up from Texas with another herd.”
Goodridge was not impressed. “Young fellow, you’re wasting your time with me. Why don’t you do like your friend here and just bide your time till the trial?”
“He’s tellin’ you the truth,” Varner said. They were the only words he spoke during the interview.
Goodridge didn’t bother to respond. Instead, he ordered the prisoners to be returned to the cell room. He did, however, comment to Carson as he was led out, “Son, you’ve made some bad choices in your life. You’ll do better if you just accept your punishment and don’t cause trouble.”
Back in the guardhouse, Carson was already thinking about escape. He had a sinking feeling now that there was no way a judge, or jury, or whatever they were going to have, would simply take his word as truth—or Varner’s, either, for that matter. He wasted a few minutes lamenting his misfortune, but finally decided that there was no use in crying over spilled milk. His thoughts now must be directed on how to get himself out of the situation.
As he had feared, the trial by a panel of officers was little more than a longer version of Captain Goodridge’s brief interview. Anxious to finish their responsibility on the panel and repair to the officers’ ball to be held that evening, they quickly sentenced both men to be transferred to the territorial correction facility in Laramie to await execution by hanging. When asked by the presiding judge if the prisoners wished to make a statement, Varner declined, but Carson stood up to face the indifferent faces of the panel. “First of all, this is a sorry piece of work you call a trial, and I’m gonna tell you one last time, you’re wrong as hell. I never stole a cow in my life, and I never shot anybody.” He gestured toward Varner. “And he ain’t never shot nobody, either.” He stood there glaring at the three officers who had so casually sentenced the two of them to death, at a loss as to what more he could say.
“Mr. Ryan,” the judge replied, “you’ve had your say, and we all understand your position, but there isn’t a scrap of evidence to substantiate your claim—just your word and Mr. Varner’s. And if the court took that into account, nobody would ever be guilty of anything.” He nodded to the guards standing behind the prisoners. “We’re done here. Take the prisoners back to their cells to await transportation.” It seemed plain to Carson that the panel was more interested in seeing that someone was made to pay for the killings than to make sure the innocent were not wrongfully punished.
As soon as the trial was completed, Captain Goodridge wired Cheyenne to send a marshal to take possession of the prisoners. He received a confirming wire informing him that a deputy U.S. marshal by the name of Luther Moody would depart Cheyenne two days hence. Considering that Cheyenne was a good two days’ ride from Fort Laramie, that meant Carson and Varner had four more days of the military’s hospitality. They were treated pretty well in the guardhouse, so well in fact that Varner hated to see the days go by so quickly. “Looks like they don’t wanna waste no time gettin’ a rope around our necks, doesn’t it?” he lamented.
“I reckon,” Carson replied, his mind already working on possible opportunities for escape, having decided that he preferred death from a guard’s bullet to that of a hangman’s rope. At this point, however, there was nothing he could think of that might give him that opportunity. He had no choice but to wait and hope he recognized his chance when it came. He assumed Varner was of like mind. It was a case of both men having nothing to lose by an escape attempt.
* * *
Deputy Marshal Luther Moody and two posse men left Cheyenne early on a Tuesday morning. Jim Summer and Bud Collins had ridden with Moody many times before, so they knew what to expect from the trip. The distance from Cheyenne to Fort Laramie was about the same as that between the fort and Laramie City, so they figured to be out for five or six nights. Moody considered taking the prison wagon to transport the prisoners, but the wagon fitted with an iron cage would take about twice as long. And he had been told that the two prisoners were brought in on their own horses and saddles. So he figured they might as well ride to Laramie on the same horses.
Wednesday evening found them at Fort Laramie too late to get a meal at the infantry mess hall, which was disappointing to Bud Collins. The army’s food wasn’t particularly good, but they were usually generous with it to visitors, especially when all the troops had been fed and the cooks were glad to get rid of the leftovers. Neither Moody nor Jim Summer was as concerned with missing mess call as Collins had been, content to buy a meal at one of the saloons off the post. At any rate, Moody was willing to delay his supper until after reporting in to the officer of the day and taking a look at his prisoners. After identifying himself to Lieutenant Calvin Thomas, who had the duty that day, he was accompanied by him to the guardhouse where Moody got a look at his charges through the bars of the cell room.
“Young feller and a one-armed man,” Moody mused aloud, eyeing them both in an effort to get a notion of how much trouble they might be. He turned to Sergeant Devers, who was on duty that night. “They been givin’ you any trouble?”
“Nope,” Devers said, “none a’tall.”
“The big one looks like he could be trouble if he had both his arms workin’.” Then he looked again at Carson and decided he was maybe a li
ttle more formidable than he had thought at first, but he had such a youthful appearance a man could make a mistake in underestimating him. Still, he felt the decision to leave the jail wagon was a good one. Calling the two over to the bars then, he told them that they were leaving in the morning as soon as they were fed. “My name’s Luther Moody. I’m a deputy marshal come to take you fellers to Laramie. If you don’t give me no trouble, we’ll have a good two-day ride. You give me trouble and I’ll make it hell for you the whole eighty miles. You understand?” He got nothing but a grunt from Varner for an answer. Carson said nothing, sizing up the deputy at the same time he was being evaluated. A man of average height, Moody had traces of gray hair in his sideburns and mustache. Carrying a little more weight than his frame called for, he wore a .44 Colt waist high with the butt facing the front. His expression was one of bored indifference, as if he had repeated the scene many times. Carson decided he was not a man to take lightly. Behind him, his two posse men stood, casually interested, one lean and hard, the other a rather pudgy man with a round face.
Carson’s intense concentration was broken when Moody turned away from the cell and asked Lieutenant Thomas a question. “You got any empty bunks me and my two posse men might have for the night?”
“Yeah,” Thomas replied. “There’s half a dozen empty cots in the cavalry barracks. You can sleep there tonight, and probably catch breakfast in the morning. I’ll go over with you and tell Sergeant Mahan.”
“That sounds mighty fine to me,” Moody said.
* * *
By the time Moody and his two men finished breakfast, loaded their packhorse, and saddled their mounts, the prisoners were waiting in the guardhouse, their horses tied out front. After signing a release form, Moody took responsibility for the prisoners and set out for Laramie City. It was a more leisurely start than the deputy desired, but he kept his little party at a steady pace, following the Laramie River southwest before stopping to rest the horses at the confluence of the river with Chugwater Creek.
As soon as the horses were watered and left to graze on what grass they could find, Bud Collins set about making a fire and preparing something to eat. While he sliced some bacon to fry, he talked to Moody. “How much farther you thinkin’ about ridin’ today, Luther?”
“I don’t know,” Moody replied. “I’ve been thinkin’ about that. It’s been an awful dry summer.” He was concerned by the dried-up streams they had passed. “Might be a good idea to follow the Chugwater for the rest of the day to be sure we find a place to camp with plenty of water and grass. We’ll make better time if we stay east of those mountains, anyway.” He pointed to the rugged range west of them. Collins nodded in agreement. There was some rough country on a direct line between where they stood and Laramie.
“You want me to cut ’em loose so they can pee?” Jim Summer asked.
Moody glanced over at the two prisoners seated on the ground, Carson with his hands tied behind his back, and Varner, his one good hand tied to the back of his belt. “One of ’em at a time,” he answered. Then he turned to take a closer look at the two. “Maybe the biggun first. He looks like he ain’t feelin’ too good.” Varner did, indeed, look a little the worse for wear. The wound in his shoulder appeared to have bled considerably more, a result of the morning’s hard ride. The cloth binding his left arm across his chest appeared to have loosened as well. “We might wanna put a new wrap on that shoulder, too. The doctor said it needs to be tight enough so’s he can’t move it. We got some fresh bandage cloth somewhere. Least I think he gave us some.”
“It’s in my saddlebag,” Collins said. “I’ll take care of him after we eat.”
Summer snorted indifferently. “Don’t make a whole lotta sense to be worryin’ about that bandage. They’ll be stretchin’ his neck soon as we get him to Laramie.”
Moody shrugged but did not reply at once. What Jim said was true enough, but it was the decent thing to do to ease the man’s discomfort if they could. After a moment, he said, “Bud can change his bandage after we eat.” He swung his rifle around to cover Summer when Jim untied Varner’s good arm.
When the wounded prisoner’s arm was free, Summer backed away, his .44 aimed at Varner’s belly. “Get up if you need to take a piss,” he said. “Walk over yonder a ways.” He pointed away from the creek with his pistol. Unable to respond with any degree of quickness, Varner struggled to roll over on his knees before being able to push himself unsteadily to his feet. Watching his efforts, Carson wondered if the big man had lost more blood than he thought. “Well,” Summer prodded, “are you goin’ or not? I ain’t gonna wait all day for you.”
Finally Varner responded, “I’m goin’, damn you.”
“Don’t you go cussin’ me,” Summer was quick to warn. “I’ll let you set there and pee in your pants next time.”
Varner responded with a deep scowl, the only weapon left to him, and Carson could imagine the frustration he felt, having been the bully of the gang he previously rode with. He also observed that Varner walked noticeably slower and a bit unsteadily. The thought crossed his mind that he might not make it to the hanging. It caused him to wonder if the prison physician would bother to spend much effort in treating him. He turned his thoughts toward the man they called Jim, and his obvious disdain for his prisoners, and he wondered if the deputy’s posse men were picked for their particular role. Luther Moody seemed a reasonable man, almost easygoing. Summer served as his aggressive strong arm, while Collins was brought along to do the cooking and take care of the camp. It might have been coincidence, but it sure looked to Carson as if it was intentional. Further thoughts along that line were interrupted by the return of Varner from answering nature’s call. Summer directed him to a large tree close by the fire and sat him down with his back against the trunk. “Watch him, Luther, while I take his partner.”
“I got him,” Moody said. “Go ahead.”
“All right, young feller,” Summer told Carson. “Lean over so I can untie your hands.” Carson did as he was told. “All right, get on your feet.”
His shoulders and arms stiff from having been tied back for so long, Carson shrugged several times and swung his arms back and forth. His efforts to rid himself of some of the stiffness caused Summer to take a step back and cock the hammer on his pistol. With no further sign that his prisoner might be thinking of making a move, he stepped back to face Carson. He stood there a moment, eyeballing the young man as if just realizing that Carson was a few inches taller than he.
Ever since he was taken into custody, Carson had been watchful for opportunities to make a move toward freedom. Judging by Summer’s quick reflexes, he decided this was no such opportunity, so he dutifully walked to the spot where Varner had relieved himself. When he had finished, he was led to the tree where Varner waited and told to sit down close to him. The idea, Carson supposed, was to have both prisoners with their backs against the tree and close enough together that one of the lawmen could easily watch them both.
“You gonna make it?” Carson asked Varner.
“I reckon,” the big man answered, “but there’s been times when I felt a helluva lot better.”
“No more talkin’,” Summer ordered immediately. “You keep talkin’ and you won’t get nothin’ to eat.” So they sat in silence and waited for Collins to finish cooking his pot of beans and bacon. When the food was ready, the three lawmen helped themselves and ate while keeping an eye on the two prisoners. At last finished, Moody and Summer sat down a few yards away facing them, to stand guard while they were fed. Continuing with the kitchen duty, Collins filled two plates with food and two cups with coffee. He placed the coffee before them first, then placed a plate in Varner’s waiting hand. He then reached across Varner to hand the other plate to Carson. It was only for a second while Collins crouched to pass the plate to Carson, but for that second Varner found himself staring at the handle of Collins’s pistol barely a foot from his face. The
re was no decision to be made. He dropped the plate he was holding and snatched the revolver from Bud’s holster. Collins jumped back, grasping at his empty holster, then dived for cover when the gun went off. The shot was not directed at him, however, for in Varner’s mind, Jim Summer deserved it. In the split second of Varner’s revenge, he must have known there would be little time for a second shot, and by the time he cocked the single-action revolver, he was ripped by two slugs in his gut—one from Moody’s rifle, the other from the wounded posse man. In his last act of defiance, Varner squeezed the trigger one more time, sending the fatal bullet into Summer’s chest. Two more slugs from Moody’s rifle slammed into the already dead Varner.
A brief moment followed the gunshots when not a sound was made by anyone. Then Moody sprang forward to pull the pistol from Varner’s hand before Carson had the opportunity to grab it. Collins recovered enough to come to his aid as Moody stood over him, daring him to make a move. Carson, fully as surprised as they, was still holding his plate, in no position to do anything but sit. “Watch him!” Moody ordered, and handed Collins’s pistol back to him. Then he went to Summer’s side, only to find his posse man dead. “Damn,” he murmured regretfully.
“I don’t know how it happened,” Collins pleaded. “I didn’t think I was anywhere that close enough for him to grab my gun. I mean, he was just settin’ there, one hand, and it holdin’ a plate of beans. Poor Jim, you know I’d do anythin’ to make it right.”
“You just watch him,” Moody told him, angry that Collins could have been so careless, but knowing there was nothing to do to change things. Turning his attention back to Summer, he shook his head sadly. “Jim Summer has been ridin’ with me, off and on, for over six years, and I never asked him if he had a family. And he never said one way or the other. He was a damn good man, and it’s a damn shame to lose him.” He got up then and walked back to stand over Carson. “That was a damn good man your friend just killed.” His tone indicated to Carson that he held him somehow accountable.
Way of the Gun (9781101597804) Page 4
