Warpath of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  After a pause to let his point sink in, Covington continued. “But those of us who are unimportant know something that people like Smoke Jensen will never understand. We know that, while money can be replaced, human life cannot.

  “It wasn’t lives Jensen thought to save that terrible Tuesday morning. It was money. After all, Jensen’s own money is kept in that bank, so he did have a vested interest in stopping the robbery. Incensed by the idea that his money might be stolen, Smoke Jensen began shooting, and now we all know the sad and tragic consequences of that action. Gentlemen of the jury, I do not have to prove that Jack Tatum and Billy Petrie are innocent beyond a shadow of a doubt.” He paused for a moment, and held up his finger. “But the prosecution must prove they are guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt. So, think about that. You heard Sheriff Monte Carson testify that Fuller and Howard were carrying .44-caliber pistols. In order to find Jack Tatum and Billy Petrie guilty beyond the shadow of a doubt, you must be absolutely certain that it was one of their bullets that killed Mr. Flowers—not a bullet fired by Fuller, nor a bullet fired by Howard, nor even a bullet fired by Smoke Jensen. Because it is entirely possible that Mr. Flowers was killed by one of those three. And if that is the case, then you have no choice but to find these defendants not guilty. Defense rests, Your Honor.”

  Abner Norton stood at his table, then looked toward the jury.

  “Mr. Covington has just made a brilliant closing argument for his case, and I applaud him for his attempt to spin straw into gold. My closing won’t take long. We have seven witnesses who testified about what they saw that day. Their stories varied somewhat, but no more than could be expected in relating accounts of such horrifying events. But all of them agreed on one thing. Smoke Jensen only fired three times, and all three of those bullets are accounted for. One killed Howard, one killed Fuller, and the third was taken from Billy Petrie’s leg.

  “Finally, it does not matter whether the bullet that killed Rich Flowers was fired by Howard or Fuller. Legally, the act by any one of the four men who attempted to rob that bank is shared equally by all four parties. And if anyone is killed resulting from mala in se, which is a legal term meaning an act of malice, then that killing—whether by intent or accident—is murder.

  “There is only one finding you can return, and that is the finding of guilty. Prosecution rests, Your Honor.”

  * * *

  When the jury retired for deliberation, Smoke, Sally, Cal, and Pearlie went back to the same restaurant where they had had their morning coffee.

  “Do you think Mr. Covington really believes everything he said?” Sally asked.

  “If he does believe it, then he is an even bigger fool than he looks,” Pearlie said, shoveling a large piece of pie into his mouth.

  “He is a lawyer. His job is to get his clients off by whatever means possible,” Smoke said, trying to placate Sally, who had been bristling with anger ever since Covington had started attacking her husband.

  “Well, he doesn’t have to lie about it, does he?”

  Smoke chuckled. “Well, I don’t think we have much to worry about. Abner did a pretty good job of taking Covington’s argument apart. And let’s not forget that Tom Burke is foreman of the jury. I can tell you for a fact that he won’t be buying any of Covington’s bluster.”

  * * *

  Just down the street from the restaurant, in the defendants’ room of the courthouse, Tatum and Petrie sat across a table from Covington.

  “So, what do you think?” Tatum asked. “Will the jury let us go free?”

  “Let you go free?” Covington replied. “Are you insane? You were caught red-handed robbing the bank. You even admitted as much from the stand. The best you can possibly hope for is that you don’t hang. Either way you’re going to prison.”

  “Prison?” Tatum said. “I thought you were supposed to be such a good lawyer.”

  “There’s not a lawyer alive who could get you declared not guilty,” Covington said. “As it is, I’ve alienated everyone in town by the way I’ve attacked Smoke Jensen. He is held in very high regard by folks in these parts.”

  “Yeah? Well, he’s not held in high regard by me,” Tatum said. “If it hadn’t been for him we’d be in New Mexico now, spending our money.”

  There was a quick knock on the door; then the bailiff stuck his head in.

  “Jury’s in,” he said.

  * * *

  After taking his seat at the bench, Judge Harry Tutwyler adjusted the glasses on the end of his nose, then cleared his throat.

  “Would the bailiff please bring the prisoners before the bench?”

  The bailiff, who was leaning against the railing with his arms folded across his chest, spat a quid of tobacco into the brass spittoon and looked over toward Tatum and Petrie.

  “Get up, you two,” he growled. “Present yourselves before the judge.”

  Tatum and Petrie were handcuffed together, and they had shackles on their ankles. They shuffled up to stand in front of the judge.

  “Mr. Foreman of the Jury, have you reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

  “We have, Your Honor,” Tom Burke replied.

  “What is the verdict?”

  “Your Honor, we have found these guilty sons of bitches guilty,” Tom Burke said.

  “You damn well better have!” someone shouted from the court.

  The judge banged his gavel on the table.

  “Order!” he called. “I will have order in my court.” He looked over at the foreman. “So say you all?” he asked.

  “So say we all,” Tom replied.

  The judge took off his glasses and began polishing them as he studied the two prisoners before him.

  “Jack Tatum and Billy Petrie, you have been tried by a jury of your peers and you have been found guilty of the crimes of robbery and murder. Before this court passes sentence, have you anything to say?”

  “What? You mean like beg for mercy or something like that?” Tatum asked. He laughed, an evil cackle without mirth. “Go on, you fat-assed son of a bitch. Sentence us and get it over with.”

  There were several shocked gasps from the gallery, followed by an outbreak of shouts and curses. Judge Tutwyler had to use the gavel to restore order. Finally, everyone was quiet for the sentencing.

  “Jack Tatum and Billy Petrie, it is the sentence of this court that you be taken from this place and put in jail just long enough to witness one more night pass from this mortal coil. At a time to be fixed by the sheriff, though no later than noon on the morrow, you are to be removed from jail and transported to a place where you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead.”

  “Your Honor, we can’t hang ’em in the mornin’. We don’t have a gallows yet,” Monte said.

  Judge Tutwyler held up his hand to silence Monte, indicating that he had already taken that into consideration. “This court authorizes the use of a tree, a lamppost, a hay-loading stanchion, or any other device, fixture, apparatus, contrivance, agent, or means as may be sufficient to suspend the prisoners’ carcasses above the ground bringing about the effect of breaking their necks, collapsing their windpipes, and in any and all ways, squeezing the last breath of life from their worthless, vile, and miserable bodies.”

  4

  Deputy Wallace had been napping at his desk in Monte’s office when something—a noise, or perhaps a dream—awakened him.

  “What?” he asked, startled awake. “What is it?” He opened his eyes and looked around the inside of Monte’s office. The room was dimly lit by a low-burning kerosene lantern. A plethora of wanted posters fluttered from the bulletin board. A pot of aromatic coffee sat on a small wood-burning stove. The Regulator clock on the wall swept its pendulum back and forth in a measured tick-tock, the hands on the face pointing to ten minutes after two in the morning. Wallace rubbed his eyes, then stood up and stretched. He went to the stove to pour himself a cup of coffee, then stepped over to the jail cell to look inside. Expecting to see the prisoners asleep, he was startled to
see that both Tatum and Petrie were wide awake, sitting on the edges of their bunks.

  “What’s the matter?” Wallace asked. He took a slurping drink of his coffee. “Can’t you fellas sleep any?”

  “No,” Tatum growled.

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Wallace said. He took another drink of coffee. “In just about four more hours or so, you won’t have no trouble at all goin’ to sleep. You’ll be sleepin’ forever!” He laughed at his joke, then took another swallow of his coffee.

  “Ahh,” he said. “Coffee is one of the sweetest pleasures of life, don’t you think? But then, life itself is sweet, ain’t it?” He laughed again, then turned away from the cell.

  Wallace gasped in surprise at seeing a Mexican standing between him and his desk. He had not heard the Mexican come in. The Mexican was wearing an oversized sombrero, and had a dark mustache, which curved down along each side of his mouth.

  “What the hell are you doin’ in here, Mex?” Wallace asked gruffly. “You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

  “I have come to work, señor,” the Mexican said. He made a motion as if he were sweeping the floor. “Sweep floor.”

  “Sweep the floor at two o’clock in the morning? Are you crazy? Get the hell out of here!”

  “Deputy?” Tatum called.

  “Now what do you want?” Wallace asked, turning back toward the jail cell. He was surprised to see both Tatum and Petrie smiling broadly.

  “I want you to be nice to our friend Senor Sanchez,” Tatum said.

  “Your friend?” Wallace asked, confused by the strange remark. Suddenly, he realized what he had done! He had just turned his back on the Mexican.

  Too late, Wallace felt the Mexican’s hand come around to clasp over his mouth. Wallace dropped his cup of coffee and started reaching for his gun. That was a mistake, for even as his fingers wrapped around the grip of his pistol, he felt something sharp at his throat. The Mexican’s hand flashed quickly across his neck. There was a stinging sensation, then a wetness at his collar. The Mexican let go of him and stepped back. Wallace felt his legs turn to rubber, and he fell to the floor. He put his hand up to his neck, then pulled it away and looked in horror at the blood on his fingers. He tried to call out, but could not because his windpipe had been cut. He could make no sound at all, save the silent scream in his head.

  As he was losing consciousness, he saw the Mexican opening the cell doors. Tatum and Petrie hurried out. Tatum came over to look down at him.

  “Deputy, when you get to hell, tell ole Fuller an’ Howard hello for us, will you?” he asked.

  “Horses in alley behind calaboose,” Sanchez said. “Come.”

  “Not yet. We got us a little job to take care of,” Tatum said.

  “What’s that?” Petrie asked.

  “The judge is stayin’ over in the hotel till after the hangin’. We need to give him our regrets, tell ’im we’re sorry but we can’t make it.”

  Petrie laughed.

  The three men left the jail, then slipped through the shadows down the street to the hotel. Moving in through the front door, they walked quietly over to the counter. As the desk clerk snored loudly, they checked the registration book.

  “He’s in two-oh-three,” Tatum whispered.

  Taking the spare key to the room, the three men left the desk clerk undisturbed, then moved quickly and quietly up to the second floor. They walked down the carpeted hallway until they found the door. Slowly, Tatum unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  The judge was snoring loudly.

  “The son of bitch ain’t losin’ no sleep over sentencin’ us to hang, is he?” Tatum whispered. He pulled his gun.

  “No, señor,” Sanchez said, shaking his head. He put his finger over his mouth to indicate the need for silence.

  “Sanchez is right,” Petrie whispered. “You use the gun it’s goin’ to make too much noise.”

  “I kill him for you,” Sanchez offered. Pulling his knife, Sanchez stepped over to the judge’s bed.

  “Wait!” Tatum said. “I want the son of a bitch to wake up long enough to know what happened to him.”

  Sanchez nodded.

  Tatum put his hand on the judge’s shoulder.

  “Judge. Judge, wake up,” he said.

  The judge snorted, then opened his eyes.

  “What is it? Who is there?”

  “It’s a couple of friends of yours, Judge. Jack Tatum and Billy Petrie. We just killed the deputy and broke jail. We’ve come to tell you good-bye.”

  “What?” the judge gasped. He started to sit up, but before he was halfway in the upright position, Sanchez’s knife flashed quickly across his neck. The judge’s eyes opened wide in shock and fear, and he put his hands up to his throat, then fell back down onto the pillow.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Petrie said.

  Tatum started looking around the room.

  “Come on!” Petrie said. “What the hell are you lookin’ for? You know this old fart doesn’t have any money. Let’s go, before someone hears us!”

  “This is what I was lookin’ for,” Tatum said a moment later, holding something up that gleamed softly in the dim light.

  “What is that?”

  “The judge’s gavel,” Tatum said triumphantly. “I want something to remember him by.”

  The three men went downstairs, walking quietly so as not to awaken any of the guests. When they passed through the lobby the clerk was still sleeping behind the desk. Slipping down through the alley, they mounted their horses and rode off into the night.

  * * *

  When Monte walked down to the jailhouse at just after seven o’clock the next morning, he passed the carpenters who were working on the gallows. Because of the time constraints, and the fact that the judge had authorized the hanging to be from any such contrivance as they might be able to find, Monte and a few others had come up with an ingenious solution. The stoutest of any of the pillars in town holding a porch roof were the pillars of the hardware store. Thus it was there that they decided to attach a crosspiece that would protrude out into the street.

  At the street end of the protruding crosspiece, a second post was placed to support it, resulting in an upside-down U. Underneath the U, there was a plank for Tatum and Petrie to stand on. When the support post for the plank was suddenly removed, the drop would be sufficient to break the necks of the condemned men.

  Several people were already gathered around the makeshift gallows, watching and talking.

  “What time is the hangin’ to be, Sheriff?” someone asked.

  “Eight-thirty,” Monte said. He took out his watch, opened it, and glanced at the time. “About another hour and a half. Has anyone seen the judge this morning?”

  “No, and we don’t think we will. A highfalutin fella like the judge don’t get out of bed this time o’ day. He said any time before noon. My thinkin’ is, he was hopin’ that’s about when you would do it so he wouldn’t lose any sleep.”

  The others laughed at the observation.

  “Well, if any of you see him, tell him I’m down at the jail,” Monte said. “I’m going down to relieve Wallace so he can get some breakfast.”

  “We’ll tell him, Monte,” someone said. Then, as Monte walked away, he heard the same voice saying, “You better put another brace right there if you don’t want this whole thing to come crashing down on you.”

  “Now, who’s building this contraption, Paul, you or me?” the carpenter replied.

  “Well, you are, I reckon. You just ain’t doin’ that good a job with it, that’s all.”

  “It’s just temporary. How good does it have to be?”

  “Good enough to get these fellas hung, and the way you’re doin’ it, might not get the job done.”

  “Would you like to test it out, Paul?”

  Monte grinned as he heard the others laugh at the carpenter’s retort. He reached the jailhouse door and tried to open it, but was surprised to find it locked. He tapped on it. />
  “Dewey? Dewey, you in there?” He tapped on the door again. “Why have you got the door locked?”

  When he got no answer, he fished in his pocket until he pulled out his own key. Then, opening the door, he stepped into the jail. “Dewey, I’m here,” he called. “If you want any breakfast you’d better . . .” That was as far as he got. Even from the door he could see blood on the floor, and when he stepped around the desk for a better look, he saw his deputy lying in a pool of blood, his throat cut and his eyes open, opaque now, but still reflecting the horror of his last moment on earth.

  “Jesus, Dewey,” Monte said quietly. He didn’t know if it was prayer or a curse.

  Monte hurried back down the walk toward the hotel. He passed the carpenters and their audience on his way.

  “You forget something, Monte?” one of the men asked.

  Monte stopped. They might as well know it now as later. He drew a deep breath, then sighed. “Deputy Wallace is dead,” he said. “The prisoners are gone.”

  “The hell you say. How did it happen?”

  Monte shook his head. “He’s lying on the floor with his throat cut,” he said. He shook his head. “The judge isn’t going to like this.”

  Monte hurried down to the City Pig, figuring to catch the judge at breakfast. When he came in, Kathy walked over to him. “You mean Mary’s going to let you have breakfast with us this morning?” Kathy teased. Kathy and the sheriff’s wife, Mary, were good friends.

  Monte shook his head. “No, I’m looking for the judge. Has he come in for breakfast yet?”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  “Hmm, I would’ve thought he would have been here by now. All right, I’ll check the hotel. If I miss him and you see him, would you tell him I’m looking for him?”

  “Sure thing, Monte,” Kathy promised.

  When Monte crossed through the lobby of the hotel, he saw the clerk sweeping the lobby floor.