by Monty McCord
Joe started to protest.
“Tell me. Please.” He turned again and looked her in the eyes. “Please.”
Joe laid his head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. He felt something for her. It would be easier to tell her about Baxter Springs, but somewhere along the line, he’d decided that he wouldn’t lie to her, about anything. But this was something he hadn’t thought about for a long, long time. Since he was a kid.
He laid there wondering where to start, the memories of his father and mother came flooding back. So long ago. He caressed her back. She slid a leg across his. When he began, he told her everything that he could remember about the summer of 1852.
“I was five years old when my baby brother died and father sold the farm in Iowa and moved our family to Nebraska Territory. He claimed about a hundred acres outside of Brownville near the Missouri River. He struggled with the farm, but was more successful breeding and selling horses. Until the stealing started . . .”
Joseph woke up when he heard the riders stop in front of the log cabin his father had built. He peeked out of the window and saw men with long rifles. He could tell they weren’t soldiers, as they had different kinds of clothes on. He could hear a sharp conversation between his mother and father, so he walked out of his room to see what was wrong.
“Joseph, you get right back to bed!” his mother said. His father laid the muzzle-loading shotgun on the table that they ate at and sat down on one of the chairs.
“Did we wake you, little man?”
Joseph wasn’t afraid of his father. “Are you leaving again?”
Mr. Mundy patted his leg and let him sit on a knee. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Nothin’ for you to worry about.”
“But my birthday.Will you be home for my birthday?” Joseph said.
“Well, course I will.You’re going to be, let’s see, twenty years old?”
“Naw, Father. You know it’s eleven! I’ll be eleven. I’m almost growed,” Joseph said.
“You sure are. And I’m mighty proud of how you’re turning out. But you need to get your sleep, so off you go.”
Joseph didn’t move. “Why do you go out at night with your gun and them other men, Father?”
“Those other men, Joseph, we taught you better than that!” Joseph’s mother said. Jules looked at her and smiled.
“It’s just business, Joseph. Nothin’ to concern yourself about.”
“What’s this pin for? Mister Jacobson and Mister Belford have the same ones.” Joseph pointed at the horseshoe-shaped pin on his father’s lapel.
“Jules Mundy, your son needs his sleep!” Joseph’s mother crossed her arms to show that she meant business.
“Just a minute, Mother. I think Joseph is old enough now to know what’s happening.” Jules studied his son’s face for moment. “Joseph, there are men, bad men who come and steal from us, and our neighbors, including Mister Jacobson and Mister Belford that you mentioned, as well as others.The men I’m talking about steal horses. Today I found three of ours missing.This pin is for an organization of citizens who get together to right a wrong. To get our horses back. It’s called the Anti–Horse Thief Association. When a member of this group has a horse stolen, we band together and go after those that done it and hand them over to the law. Do you understand, little man?”
Joseph did, but he was scared something would happen to his father. He always waited anxiously for his return.
The next morning he awoke to another sharp conversation. The sun was starting to rise, and his father had returned home. Joseph listened through a crack in the door.
“Tell me what happened, Jules. Lord, tell me what happened!” Joseph could hear his father pacing back and forth beside the table.
“We found two of them.Willoughby says there’s a gang of five, but we found two and gave chase.We caught one on my gray. The other got away. Everyone was so worked up by that time . . . oh, Jesus!” Jules said.
“What happened?”
“Mother, I tried to stop them, I tried!”
Joseph was too scared to move. He had never heard his father this upset and it frightened him.
“Before I knew it, they had a rope around the man’s neck. My God, what was his name? I don’t even know his name! I tried to stop them. I reminded them what our purpose was, to turn them over to the law. They wouldn’t listen. That man is still hanging out there by the Nemaha.”
That day, Joseph’s eleventh birthday, was a solemn one.
A week later four riders came up to the cabin as the Mundys were sitting down for dinner. Jules went outside. Few words had been said when two of them jumped him and tied his hands and feet with rope. One of the two wore a dirty, crushed stovepipe hat with a long black coat, and the other, a dirty straw hat with a wide brim.They dragged Jules behind one of their horses to an elm tree nearby, where they put another rope around his neck and pulled him up. One of the mounted men tied off the rope to the branch so it couldn’t be reached. Jules kicked his legs back and forth, turning himself on the rope. Joseph’s mother screamed. She picked up the corn knife that Joseph pretended was a pirate’s sword and ran toward the riders. She swung it wildly at the closest one, causing his horse to shy and him to fall. One of the other riders ran his horse into her, knocking her down. The man on the ground grabbed the corn knife and tossed it aside. They tied another rope around her neck and pulled her up on the branch next to Jules. She tore at her neck and kicked her legs wildly. Tears ran down Joseph’s cheeks, ashamed, but he knew if he ran out there, they wouldn’t let him help his parents.They gazed at the grisly scene for a few short moments, then spurred their horses and rode away.
As soon as they were out of sight, Joseph ran to them. Jules had stopped kicking, but his mother’s legs still moved a little. Pushing up on the bottom of her feet was no use. He grabbed the corn knife and tried climbing the tree. He couldn’t do it with the knife in one hand, so he slid it inside his waistband and pushed it through the side of his pants. He scratched and tore at the tree until he got up to the branch. Joseph pulled the corn knife out, straddled the branch and worked himself down to where his father’s rope was tied off. The panicked, wild swings almost sent the knife flying to the ground. He concentrated harder and struck at the rope until it broke. Sliding farther out to where his mother was, Joseph hacked at the rope.When she fell, he dropped the knife, swung down from the branch and let go. He scrambled to his father and gradually worked the rope loose. Jules didn’t move. He did the same for his mother, but she was still as well. He dragged their bodies together close enough to hold and laid there until morning when he could no longer cry.
Joseph was to be sent to relatives in Council Bluffs after the double funeral. He had no intention of going, however, as he had a job to do. Joseph had overheard conversations between his father and some of the association members that the gang of five horse thieves, which now numbered four, used an old Indian cave by the Missouri River as a hideout. Jules had showed him the cave last year when they were hunting. He was only eleven years old, but he would avenge the deaths of his parents. He knew that his parents would not approve of his plan. But he had no family anymore, and the decisions of life were now his to make. Good or bad, they were his. If he died in the process, he didn’t care.
When Joseph got home, he went straight to the drawer where his father kept the gun. He liked this gun better than the shotgun. It was big and heavy, a Colt Dragoon .44 caliber revolver that Joseph called “the dragon.” His father had taught him to load and shoot it when they were hunting together. If his mother had known, she would never have allowed it. Because of the weight, he could only shoot it once or twice while gripping the big wooden handles with both hands before he had to wear gloves and hold it like a rifle. His father had used light loads, so the recoil wouldn’t scare him. Jules felt every man should know how to use a firearm for hunting and to protect himself.
Joseph stuffed some bread and dried meat into a cloth sack. It was midafternoon when he set out for th
e river, the Dragoon in one hand, the corn knife and sack in the other. By dark he was close to the cave. He hid in some heavy brush and went to sleep.
The next day, he waited and watched. That evening as the sun sank, he heard riders. There were four of them heading toward the cave. He recognized the crushed stovepipe hat and long black coat. Another of the riders he remembered wore the dirty, wide-brimmed straw hat. They were leading three horses. After a brief conversation, two of the riders left, turning south along the river with the extra horses. The other two rode on to the cave. Joseph slept a little more, and when the moon was high, he awoke, picked up the Colt and the corn knife, and crept toward the cave.
It took a long time, but he was careful and patient.Their campfire was just outside the mouth of the cave. He could hear bird noises that any other time would have frightened him. Being this far from home by himself, in the dark, would have frightened him as well. But he felt no fear. He hadn’t cried at the funeral or any time since that night he held his parents. He quietly wondered if he’d lost all feeling.
The men lay on the ground on each side of the fire, one on Joseph’s side, and one on the far side. Short rifles and knives lay next to each man. He waited until they were both snoring. Kneeling over the closest man, he raised the corn knife high. It struck the man’s neck with all the force Joseph could muster. The sound was like a chopping knife striking a roast. A red spray shot into the fire. The man grabbed at his throat, wild-eyed, gagging, not yet realizing that he was dying. The other man stirred and rolled over. Joseph left the knife in the dying man’s throat and shifted the heavy pistol to his right hand. He cocked the hammer with the palm of his left hand. By the time the other man was awake, Joseph had the .44 aimed at his chest.
“What the hell’s . . . ?” The gun roared, twisting up in Joseph’s hands, and he nearly dropped it. He hadn’t considered that his father would have it primed with a full load. The .44 ball struck the man on the right side of his chest, rolling him over. He pushed and struggled against himself and turned back around.The man stared at his attacker with disbelief. Joseph had the hammer cocked again and pulled the trigger. After the echo of the gunshot died away, he looked at the bodies and wondered why he didn’t feel bad for what he’d done.
Sarah was propped up on an elbow, exposing a breast, when Joe stopped talking. Although they had been lying there long enough for the sweat to dry up, his forehead was wet.
“My God . . . Joe . . . I’m so sorry.”
“You wanted to know, so I told you. Never told nobody else,” Joe said.
“And only . . . eleven years old,” Sarah said.
“Don’t need your sympathy. You wanted to know. It’s just between you and me.” She rested her head on his shoulder and hugged him. They didn’t talk anymore.
CHAPTER NINE
On the Thursday after Christmas, Joe, Adam, and some others helped Judge Worden move into his office across the street from the side door of the hotel. The judge had arrived with a large freight wagon full of his belongings. The men’s breath could easily be seen as they puffed under the weight of a wooden platform that came in two sections. When nailed together, the judge’s desk and chair would be positioned on top of it giving him an eight-inch elevation above others in the courtroom.
The snow allowed for plenty of slipping and sliding while unloading the wagon. Worden continuously issued stern words of caution against dropping this or banging into that. He was particularly protective of a fancy Baltimore lamp.
The office wasn’t large, but it had enough room to uncomfortably squeeze in a dozen people for court if the need arose. If a larger trial was held, they would use one of the saloons. Joe knew that about two seconds after the judge announced, “Court adjourned,” the saloonkeeper would announce to the crowd, “Bar’s open!”
Joe nailed up a short sign beside the front door that Worden brought with him from Broken Bow. It was painted dark green with faded gold letters that read HON. ELSWORTH T. WORDEN, ATTORNEY AT LAW, JUSTICE OF THE PEACE.
Judge Worden was old, but the way he toted a crateful of law books told anyone watching that he was far from used up. He was a good four inches shorter than Joe, with a white beard and soon-to-match hair. Tufts of hair protruded from both sides of his head and on top, which combined with the beard, covered all of the points of a compass. He wore a black vest and a worn Prince Albert coat with a small, low-crowned black hat. The clothes weren’t shabby, but neither were they new.
“Judge Worden, I’m holding a prisoner for nearly killin’ a lady at the Palace Saloon on Christmas Eve. Wondered when we could have a trial?” Joe asked. He wanted to get court set up for Carlson before heading back to the office.
“A nymphe du prairie, eh?” Worden said.
“Excuse me?” Joe said.
“A prairie nymph, Marshal,” Worden said with a sly grin. “Went to law school in Baltimore. The only two good things about Baltimore were the whores . . . and I can’t remember what the other thing was.”
“Lucy’s a nice girl, Judge. My prisoner and his partner almost beat her to death.”
“His partner escape the iron hand of justice, Marshal?” Worden asked. He stepped onto the platform and sat down at the desk, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.
“In a manner of speaking. He jerked a trigger without aimin’,” Joe said. “I helped him avoid all the court bother.”
“Ahh. Well, then, we’ll have a hearing on Monday at one o’clock. Should have everything here in order by then. We’ll need the prosecutor and another attorney to represent the accused, of course.”
“I’ll send word to Gracie Flats, the county seat,” Joe said.
On the way back to the office, Joe wondered what kind of judge Worden would be. He had many years of experience and seemed to have a strict personality, despite his quirky sense of humor. Joe walked by the hotel and was almost past Siegler’s store when a voice called his name.
“Joe! Joe, I was looking for you.” It was Doc Sullivan, who was just leaving the store. “I have some bad news, I’m afraid.”
“Is it Lucy? Is she okay?”
“Yes, she’ll be fine, except maybe for her vision,” Doc hesitated. “But—she’s not going to testify.”
“What are ya’ talkin’ about, Doc? Sure, she is.”
“Let’s go to your office and I’ll explain.”
“No privacy there with the prisoner. Let’s go to the hotel,” Joe said. Sullivan nodded.
There were only three other customers in the dining room, and they were able to pick a table away from them. Joe waved off the waitress when she approached.
“What’s this all about, Doc?” Joe said.
“That son-of-a-bitch Smiley came to see how Lucy was, asked to speak to her alone. After he left I went in to check on her, and she was crying. Well, she asked me to deliver a message to you. Said to tell you that she doesn’t want any trouble and it was a misunderstanding. She won’t testify against that cretin.”
Joe stared at Sullivan, trying to understand. “What the hell did he say to her, Doc? Did he threaten her? You can’t threaten a witness,” Joe said.
“I never heard any raised voices, but what else could he have done?”
“I’ll go talk to her. She’ll testify,” Joe said.
“No. Joe, I tried to persuade her, but it is set. She said to tell you she’s sorry, but she’s not about to change her mind. Said she’s goin’ back to work Monday. I told her about the new judge in town. She’s gonna tell him on Monday that she won’t testify. I think she’s scared of Smiley.”
“Goin back to the Palace? So next time some animal beats on her, Smiley can just stand there wiping down the bar? Bullshit!” Joe said. The other three customers turned to look.
“I agree with how you feel, Joe, but women, well out here, they have a different perspective on survival,” Sullivan said, in a low voice. “Men sometimes don’t know how good we have it.”
Adam was sitting behind the desk, book in hand,
studying intently, when Joe returned to the office. He jumped up, startled, when Joe entered. “Sit down, Adam. I don’t mind,” Joe said smiling to himself.
“Thanks, Marshal. Did you get your legal business done with Judge Worden?”
Joe tried not to show his sour mood. “Yep, sure did. Care for some coffee?”
“No, thanks, Marshal. Matter of fact I gotta go and get rid of some,” Adam said. He stepped out through the back door.
Joe looked at Carlson. “What do you boys do? You freighters?”
Adam had given the prisoner a fresh wet cloth, and he used it to wipe off some of the dried blood around his face. It appeared the bleeding had almost stopped. The swelling was still evident, though.
Carlson stared coldly for a few moments, and Joe wondered if he’d decided not to talk.
“Yeah, freighters,” Carlson said. He could speak only slightly better than he had been. “We haul minin’ supplies to them Black Hills.”
Joe nodded.
Adam came back, picked up his book from the desk, and sat down in the chair by the stove.
“What ya’ readin’ Adam?” Joe asked.
“Missus Siegler gave me this book as a Christmas present. It’s to practice up on my readin’ skills,” Adam said. He looked at the cover and read. “It’s ‘Howard’s Book of Con-an-drums, Rid-dels, and A-musing Sells.’ Marshal, what is a con-an-drum?”
“Conundrum. I don’t know, maybe sort of a puzzle.”
“Oh. Con-nun-drum,” Adam said and looked at Joe for approval.
“Believe you got it.”
“Con-nun-drum. I like the way it sounds. I think this book will be a con-nun-drum! Listen to this.” Adam opened the book and turned a couple of pages. “But twist the meaning out, by hook or crook. Of ev-ry plea-sant mystery in our book.”
“You’re doin’ pretty good,” Joe said.
Adam snapped the book shut and slid it into a coat pocket. “Well, gotta’ go finish up some work at Mister Siegler’s before dinnertime. See ya’ later.”
Joe sat behind the desk wishing there was some way to send Carlson to prison. He decided to walk the town and think about it. That snake could at least stay in jail until Lucy notified Judge Worden that she wouldn’t testify.
