Wyoming Slaughter (23 page)
Authors: William W. Johnstone
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-NINE
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-NINE
It sure was a hot day to ride, but me and Rusty hoped to make the best of it. With any kind of luck, the holdouts would surrender and peace would come to Puma County. I had a mess of warrants in my saddlebag. The perpetrators of the tax revolt had been charged with ten counts of attempted murder, insurrection, kidnapping, and a few more items. Lawyer Stokes had gotten busy and had the paperwork done in record time, which was to say, a week after the great midnight revolt.
And now Sheriff Pickens and Deputy Irons were en route to arrest the whole lot and haul them in. That was going to be entertaining. Word had filtered into Doubtful that the whole bunch was holed up on Throckmorton's ranch, and they had seceded from the United States and declared themselves the Shorthorn Republic. The boundaries of this new entity stretched across the north side of Puma County and extended to the Montana line, which made it a fancy piece of real estate.
I had my old Peacemaker with me, and Rusty a short-barreled scattergun in a sheath, but we didn't know what sort of army the new Shorthorn Republic had recruited to defend its borders. Word had drifted back to town about all this, especially their new motto:
“Give me liberty or give me death.”
The Shorthorn Republic had made a flag, too, with a prairie rattler on it and the legend,
DON'T TREAD ON ME. I
didn't quite know how the new republic embraced the ranches of all six of the perpetrators, but maybe some sort of land swap had been worked out. But word was that most of the whole midnight army was up there, around a hundred cowboys and their bosses, just itching for a chance to teach anyone a lesson.
“Give me liberty or give me death.”
The Shorthorn Republic had made a flag, too, with a prairie rattler on it and the legend,
DON'T TREAD ON ME. I
didn't quite know how the new republic embraced the ranches of all six of the perpetrators, but maybe some sort of land swap had been worked out. But word was that most of the whole midnight army was up there, around a hundred cowboys and their bosses, just itching for a chance to teach anyone a lesson.
“You think they're legal?” Rusty asked.
“Ask any Indian,” I said. “They tried it a few times.”
“I guess they ain't. You got any notion what's gonna happen when we get there?”
“We take our prisoners back; we get shot down; we get took hostage, or we join 'em.”
“You're a card, Pickens.”
“I wish my ma and pa had given me another name. Who wants to be Cotton Pickens?”
“I've heard that before,” Rusty said. “Man up. Face life. You're stuck with a bad name. Get over it. Let's go get ourselves killed.”
It sure was going to be a scorcher. Not even the magpies protested as we rode by. And the lizards hardly bothered to skitter off the trail. We paused halfway up the county, sucking warm water from our canteens and pissing on some prickly pear. Then we boarded our horses and continued. Critter was in a sullen mood, irate at having to haul a hundred fifty pounds on a blistering day, and he was looking for opportunities to bite me, but all he'd nailed so far was my boot toe.
“Sorry, you're stuck,” I said.
We arrived at Throckmorton's front gate early in the afternoon, and sure enough, all those warnings were true. There were breastworks thrown up on both sides. Two flags flew. One, a white bed sheet painted with axle grease, said
SHORTHORN REPUBLIC,
and the other was a red woman's skirt with that
DON'T TREAD ON ME
emblazoned, with the rattlesnake coiled at the crotch. There wasn't a breath of air, so the flags hung limp and impotent like a man at the end of a honeymoon.
SHORTHORN REPUBLIC,
and the other was a red woman's skirt with that
DON'T TREAD ON ME
emblazoned, with the rattlesnake coiled at the crotch. There wasn't a breath of air, so the flags hung limp and impotent like a man at the end of a honeymoon.
There were a few cowboys behind the breastworks, and they had rifles.
“Who goes there?” yelled one gent.
“Pickens and Irons,” I yelled.
“This is the Shorthorn Republic. You got a passport?”
“What's that?”
“It's a paper thing issued by your government. Full of seals and stamps. We need that, and maybe we'll issue a visa.”
“Sonny boy, I'm the sheriff, and I'm coming in, and I'm on a diplomatic mission.”
Rusty laughed. Diplomat, that tickled him.
“Stay there. I will be right back,” the cowboy yelled. The man hopped a nag, and a few minutes later he returned. “You got to leave your arms off, and I'll take you in.”
I unbuckled my gun belt and laid it over the pommel, anchored by the saddle horn. Rusty wasn't wearing anything, but he just got off his buckskin nag and let the sheath hang.
“Leave your nags here and walk,” the cowboy yelled.
Some fellers came out from the breastwork and collected the two horses, and me and Irons started up the gray road with two riders behind us. It was going to be a long walk on a hot summer afternoon, and I hoped there'd be some cider or something when we got up to the ranch house. I realized I didn't even have the arrest warrants; they were in my saddlebags. But I probably wouldn't need them.
Throckmorton's ranch wasn't imposing, except that he'd added a pillared portico on front, making it look like a southern plantation ranch. It reminded me of a false-front store, the high front concealing a humble one-story building snaking back from the street. But now some glistening white paint had cleaned the building up, and another Shorthorn Republic flag drooped from a pole.
In the shade of the lofty portico, some men lounged on wicker furnishings, enjoying the shade. And there was Throckmorton, awaiting us, and armed with shiny pearl-handled revolvers.
“Knew you'd be coming,” he said. “Welcome to the White House.”
“This is your government?”
“It is, and this is the future Throckmorton City. I am the father of my country, and it will be named for me.”
Me and Rusty stepped into the cool shade and found the rest of the perpetrators there, enjoying mint juleps. There was young King Glad, lounging in a squeaking chair; mustachioed Andrew Cockleburr, sipping on a frosty glass. Rocco Benifice, wearing a flat-crowned black hat and a bandolier. Consuelo “Bully” Bowler, smooth, distinguished, a pencil mustache under flint-gray eyes, and Alvin Ream, ratlike and plainly least of these insurgents.
“Guess I've got to take you in, fellows,” I said. “There's warrants in my saddlebag.”
“Your writ doesn't run here,” Bowler said.
“This is the Shorthorn Republic, and your law stops at our line,” Cockleburr said.
“There, you see? You're out of luck,” said Throckmorton. “But gents, do let us serve you a julep.”
I suggested some cool water.
Rusty, however, had other dreams. “Suits me,” he said.
Throckmorton acted crisply. “Two juleps and a glass of water, too,” he said. “Now, you arrived just in time for the inauguration.”
“The who?” I asked.
“Shortly, I will be installed as president of the new republic, and Mr. Bowler will be installed as vice president, by its executive council, who are sitting here. There's going to be some inaugural addresses and some fine music. Take any hundred cowboys, and you'll find plenty of musical talent. We have fiddlers, drummers, trumpet players, and more. We're just delighted you showed up. We were hoping someone would; we want the world to celebrate the new republic.”
“Ah . . .” I said.
“Sure, what a hoot,” Rusty said.
“More than a hoot, young fellow. The beginning of the first true tax-free American republic. There will be no taxes. The government will run on toll road revenues. There shall be liberty and fraternity and prosperity.”
A gray woman emerged from the house bearing three frosty glasses, one with water and two with juleps. These were handed to me and Rusty, and we were invited to sit with the founders of the new republic, plainly a favored perch on that shaded porch.
Out on the verdant lawn a small platform rested with a lectern on it, and a few benches.
“We've appointed our friend Rocco, here, as chief justice, and he will administer the oath of office,” Throckmorton said.
“Well, mostly I need to take you fellers into Doubtful and get you in front of the judge,” I said.
“Oh, do relax, Pickens. You're such an old ninny. Have a chair. The show begins when you're about two sips into that julep.”
“Maybe we ought to go, Cotton,” Rusty said.
“No, you'll both stay and witness this great event,” Bowler said.
“I think they outnumber us, Rusty,” I said. The julep tasted real fine on a hot afternoon. And the water, too.
We settled into the wicker just as the band emerged from the bunkhouse, toting fiddles and drums and horns. They sure looked spiffed up. I had rarely seen a washed cowboy. They didn't come washed, except once in a while when they were courting. But there they were, hair fresh-dipped in the horse trough, pants scrubbed and dried, shirt pummeled with suds, and beards scraped a few layers closer to cheek. They sure were fancied up. Even their boots had some fresh axle grease shining them up.
They plunged right in, first with “Skip to My Lou,” then “Across the Jordan River,” and then “Pick Up the Pieces of My Heart.” That was all fine with me; a mint julep and a live band and shade on a hot day were something to remember.
Next came Rocco, wearing a black robe that might have been borrowed from a minister, but would do for a Supreme Court justice, and a moment later, Throckmorton and Consuelo Bowler appeared, Throckmorton in a swallowtail, and Bully Bowler in a tuxedo, but at least they were all in black.
Rocco administered the oath, and both the president and vice president swore to faithfully administer the laws of the Shorthorn Republic, defend its borders, and see to the prosperity and peace of its citizens.
“Amen,” said Throckmorton.
He approached the lectern as the band swung into “Dixie,” and then “Carry Me Back to Old Virginny,” and then he cleared his throat, settled his notes, which kept blowing away until someone handed him a rock, and plunged in:
“Gentlemen, ladies, and fellow citizens,” he began. “This is a momentous occasion, a signal event, a turning point of history, and a revered moment in the evolution of mankind from apes into cattlemen. We have arrived at the sacred moment of the birth of a new republic. We have pledged our fortunes and honor to this creation, and if we lay down our lives for the new republic, let no one say it was in vain.
“For we stand firm and tall against tyranny, taxation, waste, regulation, fraud, dishonor, and oppression. In the creation of this new nation, we have thrown off the chains that oppress us all; we have torn ourselves free from the fiendish designs of those in Wyoming and Puma County who would oppress us with their shackles, their whips and scourges, their fees and imposts, their cruel and unusual punishments, and their contempt for our honor, our beliefs, our traditions, our rights!”
I sipped and dozed. I couldn't quite figure the meaning of half of it, and the other half got pretty boring. So I smiled and sipped, and confessed that whoever invented mint juleps had given the world a fine thing.
It sure was a stem-winder, that talk, and it took Throckmorton a long time to pry it out of his head and get it delivered, but eventually he got the whole thing said, and everyone began cheering.
Then Rocco Benefice offered a closing prayer that was quick and sweet, asking the good Lord to bless the new Shorthorn Republic and curse everything else. I sort of admired that prayer, which got right down to the bones of it, and in twenty seconds, too.
After that, there was a reception, and all those dignitaries and a mess of cowboys wandered around.
I was real curious about some things, so I corralled Throckmorton.
“What are you gonna do about brands?” I asked.
“About brands? What about them?”
“Your brands ain't any good in the county anymore. They got to be county brands. How are you gonna ship?”
“Ship?”
“Takes a brand inspector to load cattle onto the cars these days. If there's no recognized brand in the books, them cattle can't ship out. That's true in Montana, too,” I said. “And it gets worse. If you got an outlaw brand, you get rustled. No way you can prove up the ownership of your herd, because the brand isn't a Wyoming brand, not even a Puma County brand. Makes you fair game for anyone, seems like. But mostly, you can't ship your beeves, so you ain't gonna ever get yourself paid.”
“We'll force our way out.”
“Railroads, they won't take just any old cow, Throckmorton. They want papers these days. Seems to me, you want to get your cattle to market, you better get on down to Cheyenne and talk with all them fellows down there and do up a treaty.”
“We've pledged our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor,” said Consuelo Bowler. “But there goes our fortunes.”
“This sure is a tough turn of events,” Cockleburr said.
“We'll fight our way out!” Ream declared. “We'll blow the railroads to smithereens.”
“I think we better go into executive session,” Throckmorton said. “You'll excuse us, Sheriff.”
The bunch of them trooped off into the house, while the rest dug into the beans and beef. I liked the beans, even though I knew I'd stink up the boardinghouse for a week.
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