Savagery of The Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  The idea of a double hanging had drawn visitors from miles around, not only because of the morbid curiosity such a spectacle generated, but also because the McDonald family had been very well liked and the murders the two condemned had committed, including even the murder of Scott McDonald’s wife and children, were particularly shocking.

  The street was full of spectators, and the crowd was growing even larger as they all jostled for position. Matt glanced over toward the tower clock in front of the courthouse to check the time. It was five minutes after ten.

  The judge had said they would be hanged at ten o’clock, which meant that the prisoners should have been brought out by now. Some in the crowd were growing impatient, and more than one person wondered aloud what was holding up the proceedings.

  Matt began to have the strange feeling that something was wrong, so he slipped away from the crowd and walked around into the alley behind the jail. He was going to look in through the back window, but he didn’t have to. The moment he stepped into the alley, he saw the Baker brothers and the man who had given false testimony on their behalf, Jerome Kelly, coming through the back door.

  “Hold it!” Matt called out.

  “It’s Jensen!” Harry Baker shouted, firing his pistol at the same time.

  The bullet hit the wall beside Matt, sending little brick chips into his face. Matt returned fire and Harry went down. By now, both Arnold Baker and Kelly were shooting as well, and Matt dived to the ground, then rolled over and shot again. Arnold clutched his chest and went down.

  Kelly, now seeing that both Bakers were down, dropped his gun and threw up his hands. At that moment, Sheriff Foley came out of the jail, holding his pistol in one hand, while holding his other hand to a bleeding wound on his head.

  “Jensen, are you all right?” the sheriff called.

  “Yes, I’m not hit. How about you?”

  “They killed my deputy, and I’ve got a knot on my head where this son of a bitch hit me,” Foley said. The sheriff looked at Harry and Arnold Baker, then chuckled. “I wonder if you saved the county the cost of the execution, or if we will have to pay the hangman anyway. Or maybe we can just go ahead and have the hanging, only it’ll be Kelly instead of the Baker brothers.”

  From the Boise, Idaho, Statesman:

  Deadly Shootout in Wyoming!

  MURDERERS KILLED WHILE TRYING TO ESCAPE.

  Last month the brothers Harry and Arnold Baker committed one of the most heinous crimes in recent memory when they murdered Scott McDonald, his wife, Lucy, and their two young sons, Toby and Tyler. The crime, which happened in Sweetwater County, Wyoming, raised the ire of all decent citizens who knew Scott McDonald as a man of enterprise, magnanimity, and Christian faith.

  The murderers were tracked down and arrested by Matt Jensen, who had himself deputized just for that purpose. Jensen brought the brothers back to Green River City for a quick and fair trial, resulting in a guilty verdict for both parties. They were sentenced to be hanged, but moments before they were to be hanged, Deputy Sheriff Goodwin was killed, and Sheriff Fred Foley knocked unconscious, resulting in the prisoners being broken out of jail. All this was accomplished by Jerome Kelly, a cousin of the Baker brothers. Jerome Kelly was himself wanted for having provided false testimony at the trial of Harold and Arnold Baker.

  Had Matt Jensen not discovered the escape in progress, the two brothers would have made good their getaway. In the ensuing shootout, Matt Jensen dispatched both murderers with his deadly accurate shooting. The accomplice, seeing that further resistance was futile, threw down his gun and surrendered. A quick trial found him guilty and he is to be hanged for murdering Deputy Goodwin.

  Some readers may recognize the name Matt Jensen, as he has become a genuine hero of the West, a man about whom books and ballads have been written. Those who know him personally have naught but good things to say of him. Despite his many accomplishments, he is modest, a friend of all who are right, and a foe to those who would visit their evil deeds upon innocent people.

  The Boise Statesman, being published in the territorial capital, was the largest newspaper in Idaho. And though only five thousand copies were printed, it was circulated by railroad and stagecoach throughout the territory so that a significant number of the thirty-two thousand people who lived in Idaho were aware of, and often read, the newspaper.

  Sawtooth Mountains, Idaho Territory

  Colonel Clay Sherman was a tall man with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He had steel gray eyes, and he wore a neatly trimmed mustache, which now, like his hair, was dusted with gray. He was the commanding officer of the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse. The posse consisted of two officers and thirty-two men, all duly sworn as functioning, though unpaid, deputies to the Idaho Territorial Task Force. Clay Sherman had received his commission from the assistant deputy attorney general of the territory of Idaho, and as such, was duly authorized to deputize those who joined the posse. Sherman and his Auxiliary Peace Officers wore deputies’ badges, but because they were not paid by the territorial government, the posse supported itself, and supported itself very well, by acting as a private police force. Most of the posse’s income was generated when it was hired by the disgruntled to get justice where they felt justice had been denied.

  So far, the posse had managed to avoid any trouble with territorial or federal law agencies, because they managed to find loopholes to allow them to operate. But their operations always walked a very narrow line between legality and illegality, and had either the territorial or federal government taken the trouble to conduct a thorough investigation, it would have discovered that, in fact, the posse often did cross over that line.

  There were many citizens, and a few quite a few lawmakers, who felt that the posse was little more than a band of outlaws, hired assassins who hid behind the dubious authority of deputies’ badges. It was also pointed out by these detractors that very few of the wanted men they went after were ever brought back alive, including even some who were being pursued for the simple purpose of being served a subpoena to appear in civil court. The Statesman and other newspapers had written editorials critical of the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse, pointing out that, despite its name, it had nothing to do with “peace.” Some of those newspapers had paid for their critical observations by having their offices vandalized by “irate citizens who supported the posse,” or so it was claimed.

  At this moment, Sherman and a few members of the posse were engaged in one of the many private police force operations by which it managed to earn its keep. They were operating in the Sawtooth Mountains, and Colonel Sherman stepped up on a rock and looked down toward a little cabin that was nestled against base of the sheer side of Snowy Peak. The posse had trailed Louis Blackburn to this cabin, and now their quarry was trapped. The beauty of it was that Blackburn had no idea he was trapped. He thought he was quite secure in the cabin.

  Part of the reason for Louis Blackburn’s complacency was due to the fact that he didn’t even know he was being trailed. Two weeks earlier, Louis Blackburn had been tried for the murder of James Dixon. At least three witnesses testified that Dixon not only started the fight, he had also drawn first. The jury believed the witnesses, and found Blackburn not guilty by reason of self-defense. The judge released him from custody, and Blackburn went on his way, a free man.

  The problem with the court finding was that not everyone agreed with the verdict, and principal among those who disagreed was Augustus Dixon, James Dixon’s father. And because the senior Dixon had made a fortune in gold and was now one of wealthiest and most powerful men in Idaho, he was able to use both his money and influence to find an alternate path to justice, or at least the justice he sought.

  Dixon managed to convince a cooperative judge to hold a civil trial. It was Augustus Dixon’s intention to sue Louis Blackburn for depriving him of his son. No official law agency of the territory of Idaho would serve a subpoena for the civil trial, but then, Dixon didn’t want any official law officer inv
olved in the process. Dixon hired Clay Sherman and his Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse to run Blackburn down and bring him back for civil trial.

  Sherman had eight men with him and as he looked back at them, he saw that everyone had found a place with a good view and a clear line of fire toward the cabin.

  “Lieutenant,” Sherman said to Poke Terrell, his second in command.

  “Yes, Colonel?”

  “It is my belief, based upon our conversation with Mr. Dixon, that he doesn’t particularly want us to bring Blackburn back alive.”

  “Yes, sir, that is my belief as well,” Poke replied.

  “You know what that means then, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Poke said. “We have to get him to take a shot at us.”

  “You know what to do,” Sherman said.

  Poke nodded, then cupped his hand around his mouth. “Blackburn!” he called. “Louis Blackburn! Come out!”

  “What?” Blackburn called back, his voice thin and muffled from inside the cabin. “Who’s calling me?”

  “This is Lieutenant Poke Terrell of the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse. I am ordering you to come out of that cabin with your hands up!”

  “What do you mean, come out with my hands up? Why should I do that? What do you want?”

  “I have a summons to take you back for the murder of James Dixon!” Terrell shouted loudly.

  “You’re crazy! I’ve already been tried, and found innocent.”

  “You’re being tried again.”

  “My lawyer said I can’t be tried again.”

  “You’re lawyer lied. And if you don’t come out of your cabin now, I’m going to open fire,” Poke called.

  “Go away! You ain’t got no right to take me back.”

  “You are going back, whether it’s dead or alive,” Poke said.

  As Sherman and Poke expected, a pistol shot rang out from inside the cabin. The pistol shot wasn’t aimed, and was fired more as a warning than any act of hostile intent.

  “All right, boys, he shot at us!” Sherman called.

  “Beg your pardon, Colonel, but I think he wasn’t actual aimin’ at us. I think he was just tryin’ to scare us off,” one of the men said.

  “That’s where you are wrong, Scraggs,” Sherman said. “He clearly shot at us. I could feel the breeze of the bullet as it passed my ear.” Smiling, Sherman turned to the rest of his men. “That’s all we needed, boys. He shot at us, so now if we kill him, it is self-defense. Open fire,” he ordered.

  For the next several minutes, the sound of gunfire echoed back from the sheer wall of Snowy Peak as Sherman, Poke, and the other men with them fired shot after shot into the cabin. All the windows were shot out and splinters began flying from the walls of the little clapboard structure. Finally, Sherman ordered a cease-fire.

  “Lieutenant Terrell, you and Scraggs go down there to have a look,” Sherman ordered.

  With a nod of acceptance, Poke and Scraggs left the relative safety of the rocks, then climbed down the hill to approach the cabin. Not one shot was fired from the cabin. Finally, the two men disappeared around behind the cabin, and a moment later, the front door of the cabin opened and Poke stepped outside, then waved his hand.

  “He’s dead!” Poke called up.

  “Dead—dead—dead!” The words echoed back from the cliff wall.

  “Gentlemen, we’ve done a good day’s work here today,” Sherman said with a satisfied smile on his face.

  Boise City

  For a time during the gold rush, Boise had prospered and boomed. After the gold rush, Boise began declining in population, and had shrunk to less than one thousand people in 1870. But now, with both the territorial prison and the territorial capital in Boise (some wags suggested that there was very little difference in character between the prisoners and politicians), there had been a rather substantial rebirth and, once again, Boise was a booming community.

  Clay Sherman had an office in Boise, boldly placing it right next door to the Territorial Capitol Building. He had no reservations about advertising his location, and a sign, hanging from the front of the office, read:

  IDAHO AUXILIARY PEACE OFFICERS’ POSSE

  Colonel Clay Sherman, Commanding

  PRIVATE POLICE SERVICE

  At the moment, Sherman was meeting with Poke Terrell, his second in command. Poke had brought him a proposal for a job down on the Snake River in Owyhee County.

  “What do you think, Colonel? Should we take the job?” his first lieutenant asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sherman answered. “It’s not the kind of thing we normally do.”

  “No, but he’s offerin’ fifteen hunnert dollars, and the job don’t seem all that hard to do. I just don’t think we should walk away from it.”

  “Who is it that’s wantin’ to hire us?”

  “His name is Marcus Kincaid. He’s a rancher down in Owyhee County.”

  Sherman, who had once been an Arizona Ranger, stroked his jaw for a moment as he contemplated the suggestion his second in command had made.

  “If you ask me, I think we should do it,” Poke said. “I mean, we don’t need ever’one. I could prob’ly take care of it myself.”

  “All right, I’ll tell you what,” Sherman said. “How about you go down there and meet with this fella? If it looks like something you can handle, go ahead and do it.”

  “By myself?”

  “Why not? You just said you could probably handle it by yourself.”

  “Well, yeah, I think I can. But maybe I should take a few of the men with me?”

  “No. Because of the type operation it is, I want to keep as much separation as I can between that job and the posse,” Sherman said. “In fact, I think you should quit the organization.”

  “What? No, now wait, I didn’t have nothin’ like that in mind,” Poke said. “I was just suggestin’ that it might be a good way to make some money.”

  Sherman held up his hand to halt the protest. “Don’t worry, you won’t really be quitting,” he said. “We’ll just make everyone think you have quit. In fact, we can let it out that I fired you.”

  “Oh. All right, whatever you say. As long as you ain’t kickin’ me out, I mean.”

  “Now why would I want to kick you out, Poke?” Sherman asked. “You are one of the best I’ve ever ridden with. I told you, you leavin’ us would be just for show, just to keep anyone from tracing your operation back to us.”

  “What if I need help?”

  “If after you get down there, you decide that you need help, hire some locals. If the job is really worthwhile, you should be able to afford it.”

  “Oh, the job will be worthwhile, all right,” Poke said. “I don’t see how it can miss.”

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2009 William W. Johnstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-2316-5

  *From Violence of the Mountain Man

  * Betrayal of the Mountain Man

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