The man let out a horrible scream and Joe felt his warm, spurting blood. The second thief jumped on them both because he was still determined to get Joe’s bankroll. Joe couldn’t get the first man off himself and was trapped by the weight. Suddenly, the bed slats broke under the three of them and in the confusion and blood, Joe rolled sideways and then was rolling on the floor.
The light was poor, but Joe recognized the second man to be Charley. A muzzle flash exploded between them and Joe felt a bullet graze his neck. He’d lost his bowie, which was slick with blood, but he still had the tomahawk, so he pulled it free and slashed at the dim outline of Charley’s face just as the man fired a second shot that went wide.
Joe’s tomahawk glanced off Charley’s head, shearing off an ear. Charley yelled and Joe rolled onto the man, slamming a fist into his face and then grabbing Charley by the hair and bashing his head up and down on the wooden floor. Charley tried to gouge out Joe’s eyes, but that stopped when Joe began hacking the man’s scalp from his skull.
“You sonsabitches drank my whiskey and then tried to rob and kill me!” Joe raged. “I’ll have both your scalps!”
Charley was hysterical as Joe chopped off his scalp and then buried the blade of his tomahawk in the man’s forehead, splitting it open like a ripe melon.
Joe crawled over to the first man. It was the bartender. “You bastard!” he shouted, pulling his knife from the man’s body and then scalping him while he quivered and his heels tattooed the floor. The bartender wouldn’t stop screaming until Joe cut his throat, and even after that he continued to make the most awful sucking sounds.
By now, everyone in the upstairs rooms of the Lucky Lady was pouring out into the hallway and then filling Joe’s doorway. Someone had a lantern and when they saw Joe waving two bloody scalps, one of the men began to puke out his guts even harder than Joe had done earlier.
“Jaysus Kee-rist!” a man whispered, his eyes wide with pure horror. “I’ve never seen anything the likes of him!”
“That’s Charley and Willard’s scalps that he’s waving!” another gasped, before choking and turning away to be sick.
“Get him!” someone growled.
Joe was still drunk and quite proud of himself for the fight he’d won when the mob in the doorway came down on him like a mountainside.
“Where the hell am I?” Joe groaned, feeling as if his head was about to explode.
“You’re in the Carson City Jail.”
Joe tried to focus, but his head was pounding and one of his eyes was swollen completely shut. When he tried to cradle his aching head, he realized that his wrists and arms were shackled. Suddenly enraged, he shouted, “What is going on here!”
“Moss, there are witnesses that will swear you slaughtered and then scalped two of our citizens and you’re asking the questions?”
Joe took several deep breaths, and then he managed to see a blocky man wearing a badge standing in front of him with other men crowded behind. He glanced down at his pants and saw at once that the roll of bills was missing. “I’ve been robbed!”
“You are being held for murder.”
Joe couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He struggled in vain against his shackles, then got control of his temper. “Sheriff,” he said, looking up at the hard-faced official, “as God is my witness, I was sleeping it off in my room when those two men started beating and trying to rob me. I just fought back and killed ’em, that’s all. And now my roll of money is gone! Take these shackles off and let me find out who took my money! When I find ’em, I’ll kill you a third thief, by cracky!”
“Mister,” the man said, “I’m the sheriff of this town and I’m the one that’s going to ask the questions.”
Joe had a foul taste in his mouth and asked for a drink of whiskey. But the sheriff shook his head. “Water, if you behave yourself. That’s all you’re getting until we decide what to do with you, Moss. We’ve seen what happens when you get drunk.”
Joe glared up at the man. “When I get drunk I stay drunk until I’m ready for sleep. And I was sleeping when those two men came in to rob and murder me. Hell, I was in my own room when it happened . . . wasn’t I?”
“Yeah, you were. And I’m not sayin’ that Charley and Willard weren’t there to rob and harm you. But the way Charley’s woman tells it, you invited them both up to Room Fourteen to play poker.”
“Poker!” Joe roared. “I was so drunk I couldn’t even have held my cards! Charley’s woman is lyin’!”
“I think that’s for our circuit judge to decide,” the sheriff said, folding his arms over his broad chest and glaring down at Joe as if he were a crazed killer. “Until he comes to town, you’re gonna stay chained and locked up, and you’d better behave yourself or you won’t get anything to eat or drink.”
Joe cussed a blue streak.
“Moss,” the sheriff warned, “I’m a Christian and I don’t much like to hear that kind of profanity. You keep it up and it’ll go hard for you. Judge Paxton is a Christian himself, and he sure won’t look favorably on your case if I tell him about your foul gutter mouth.”
Joe squinted up at the man and his voice was thick with fury. “Sheriff, in case you’re forgettin’ the facts, I was robbed and nearly killed in my own hotel room bed. I fought ’em off in self-defense. I deserve to be given a medal for permanently riddin’ this town of such thieves and murderers. Instead, you got me chained up and my money is gone. That means someone came in after I killed those two and stole my bankroll. So what the hell kind of justice do you folks serve around here?”
“You scalped them!” one of the men behind the sheriff cried in a voice choked with anger. “I was there and you scalped ’em when they were both still alive!”
“Well,” Joe said between gritted teeth, “if they were still alive when I lifted their hair, then they damned sure deserved it. If I’d have had a little more time, I’d also have cut off their balls!”
“He’s an animal! Worse than a heathen Indian!” someone standing behind the sheriff yelled. “We ought to just hang that inhuman sonofabitch right now! String him up and let him dance and choke his way into Hell!”
Some of the others behind the sheriff let him know they were all for that idea. Joe glared at the bunch of them wishing his hands were free and filled again with his knife and tomahawk. If that were the case, by gawd, he’d take some more scalps in one helluva hurry.
“Judge Paxton ought to be comin’ through in about four days and—”
“Four days!” Joe bellowed. “Do you mean I’m supposed to be chained up like an animal for four days?”
“You are an animal, Moss. And until the judge comes, you’ll be treated like one.”
Then the sheriff turned and had to shove an angry crowd out of the jail. He slammed the door and left Joe spitting and cursing. All in all, Joe knew he’d gotten himself in one bad, bad fix. The only thing he had in his favor was that he’d buried half of his money, at least three thousand dollars, in the same stall where his Palouse horse was being boarded.
But neither that money nor his fast horse was of any help to him now. And if his luck turned as sour as the taste in his mouth, he might even get hanged.
12
ELLEN JOHNSON WAS in Bergman’s Mercantile Store buying some yardage when she overheard three women talking excitedly about a gruesome murder the night before and how a lot of the men in town were working themselves up to a “necktie party.”
One of the women was saying that the jailed murderer was probably going to be hanged. He was described as being a tall stranger who wore a tomahawk on one hip and a bowie knife on the other.
At that moment, Ellen’s heart stopped and she nearly fainted.
“Is anything wrong, ma’am?” the clerk asked from behind his counter.
Ellen took a few deep breaths and squared her shoulders as the three women went outside still talking excitedly about the “necktie party.” They were giggling and carrying on as if there was a church revival or cir
cus in town.
“Is a necktie party a lynching?” Ellen managed to ask, knowing for sure that the tall stranger accused of the murders had to be her dear Joe Moss.
“Yes, ma’am,” the clerk said, eyes dancing. “And if ever there was someone who deserved to dance at the end of a rope, it’s this fella. Not only did he stab Charley Packer and Willard James to death, but he also scalped them!”
Had Ellen been made of lesser inner stuff, she would have either fainted or gotten sick right then and there. Instead, she turned away to try to hide her face and compose herself. “I . . . I think I’ll look at some more yardage,” she said vaguely as she moved back down an aisle.
“That’s fine, ma’am. I’ll just keep this yardage you picked up here at the counter so it will be ready. It’ll cost $2.15 total.”
“Thank you,” Ellen said over her shoulder as she managed to keep her feet moving. She made her way down to the rolls of yardage that she’d already spent time examining, and stood before them for several minutes trying to gather her wits about her.
“That green and blue floral would look real nice on you, Mrs. Johnson,” the clerk said from right behind her, nearly causing her to jump a foot high. “And that beige material is also a favorite. It’s on sale, too.”
Ellen swallowed hard and without turning around, she said, “I’m afraid I was a little upset by the talk of those murders and a lynching. Do you know anything about this man that is accused of the crimes?”
“He’s more’n accused. They caught him in the act. There is a bunch of witnesses that will swear that poor Willard and Charley were screaming something awful while he was scalping them alive.”
Ellen had to reach out and support herself on a shelf of canned goods.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
“I’m afraid not,” she admitted. “I need to sit down and if you could get me a glass of water . . . .”
“Yes, ma’am! I shouldn’t have said anything. But the whole town is buzzin’ about those murders and I just assumed that you’d already heard all about them. Terrible thing. What kind of a man would stab to death and then scalp two men even before they were dead!”
Ellen shook her head, unable to find words and wondering if she could breathe.
“Come right over here to this chair and I’ll get you a drink of water,” the clerk said solicitously. “This isn’t a subject that a lady ought to even hear being talked about.”
Ellen bent her head and fought back hot tears. Oh Joe, Joe, she anguished, what kind of demons do you have inside? Are you possessed by Satan? What did I do when I saved your life only to have you take the lives of two others so savagely? Dear God, did Satan use me?
“Ma’am!” the clerk said, almost running down the aisle with a glass of water that was spilling on the floor. “You’re crying! Oh, dear, I’m so sorry that I’ve upset you!”
The clerk was a man in his thirties, a good man, one of the Bergman family, and was genuinely sorry that he’d upset her so much. Ellen scrubbed her tears away with a handkerchief and forced a smile. “It’s not your fault. Really, it just sounds so shocking and horrible.”
“It was horrible. Worst murders this town has ever seen and the people are really upset. All morning I’ve had friends that I’ve known for years as being kind and gentle coming in here swearing that this man should receive rope justice. No one is willing to wait for Judge Paxton to come to town and hold a trial. People in Carson City want to deal out swift and righteous justice.”
“What brought about this terrible act?” she managed to ask.
“This tall fella named Joe Moss got roaring drunk in the Lucky Lady Saloon and bought four bottles of whiskey, drinking most of them all by himself.”
“Four bottles of whiskey?”
“Yes, ma’am. Nobody had ever seen drinking like that before. Then, drunker’n a skunk, he went up to his rented room . . . it was Room Fourteen and I hear it looks like a slaughterhouse . . . and invited Charley and Willard up to play poker.”
“Joe Moss doesn’t play poker,” she heard herself say. “He only plays three-card monte and faro.”
“What?”
Ellen drank half the glass. “I said Joe Moss believes that he’s unlucky at poker, so he just plays three-card monte and faro.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just do,” Ellen said, mind racing. “So you say that Moss invited those two men up to his room to play poker?”
“That’s right. He must have lost because he got crazy mad and stabbed, then scalped them both.”
“Was there a large amount of money found on anyone?”
“No, ma’am. I know that because the undertaker told us that there wasn’t more than ten dollars between the three of them.”
Ellen stood up, spilling more water. “Here,” she said, shoving the glass at the confused clerk. “I have to go visit Mr. Moss. Where is he being held?”
“At the jail.”
“And where is that?”
“Two blocks up the street on the right. You can’t miss it, but . . . but Mrs. Johnson, you can’t go see a crazed animal like Moss!”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong,” she said, pushing past him and nearly racing for the door.
“But what about your yardage!”
Ellen couldn’t begin to think about yardage. If Joe Moss was a double murderer, she would have to hear it from his own lips and she knew that he wouldn’t lie to her. She was probably the only person in the world other than his Fiona that he wouldn’t lie to.
All she knew was that Joe wouldn’t play poker. He’d told her that at the farm and he’d been quite sincere about it. And being a private man, he would not have invited two strangers up to his hotel room. No, if Joe was going to get drunk and gamble, then he’d have done it all down in a saloon among men.
“Mrs. Johnson! Ellen, wait!”
She turned and saw Eli Purvis hurrying after her. He was a half block behind and because he was a big man and too heavy, Ellen knew that he wasn’t about to overtake her on foot.
So she started running up the street with tears on her cheeks and a desperate need to see and hear the truth from Joe Moss before he was torn from jail by an enraged mob and hustled off to a “necktie party.”
13
ELLEN RAN TO where a crowd of angry men and women were standing in front of the jail. Heedless of their protests, she pushed her way through the mob until she was standing in the jail’s doorway and staring at the town’s sheriff and several other men. In the back, behind the bars, she could barely make out Joe’s battered face turned downward toward the floor.
“Hold up there!” the sheriff yelled, jumping forward to block Ellen’s forward progress. “I’m Sheriff Olsen. Who are you and what do you think you’re doing in here?”
Ellen wasn’t badly winded, but she took a moment to say, “There’s been a mistake. Joe Moss doesn’t play poker and he wouldn’t have invited those men up to his room. They must have gone up there to rob and kill him.”
The sheriff scowled, aware that he was being closely watched by half the town wanting Joe Moss’s head on a platter. The sheriff cleared his throat officiously. “Ma’am, you’re one of those Mormon women that live out in Genoa. Is that right?”
“Yes, but ....”
“Well, ma’am, I can see you are upset and it sounds like maybe you know that murderer in my jail. That said, however, I’d appreciate it if you’d just turn around and go back to Genoa. What happened last night is my business and the business of this town. So please turn around and leave. This is no place for a lady.”
Ellen desperately wanted to go speak to Joe. His head was hanging low and he was covered with blood. He looked even worse now than when she’d found him unconscious and all smashed up on the steep mountainside.
“Sheriff Olsen. This man is my very good friend. I was able to help him recover from a terrible wagon wreck near our little farming town, and I know that he would not do the things that he is being
accused of.”
“You’re wrong about that,” a smaller man interjected. “I’m B.J. Anderson and I’m the mayor of Carson City. Joe Moss was caught in the act of murdering two men last night and then scalping them alive. So, if he is your friend, you made a bad, bad choice. This man is going to be tried for two murders and he is sure to be hanged.”
“Can I please talk to him?”
“No,” the sheriff snapped.
“Just for a few moments. Please. He’s behind your bars and appears to be hurt.”
“Oh, he’s hurt all right. But he’s damned lucky he isn’t dead. He will be before long.”
“Sheriff, I have to talk to that man!”
“Why?”
Ellen swallowed hard. She was willing to say anything to get to the truth and hear what Joe Moss had to say. “Because . . . because I love him.”
Olsen’s mouth sagged and the mayor’s eyes dilated before he stammered, “You love that murderer?”
She hadn’t meant to blurt that out, but now that it was said, Ellen knew there was no retracting her shocking words.
“Yes, I love him. And I want to talk to him in private. If Joe did what you say, then he’ll tell me so. But if not . . . .”
“Ma’am,” the sheriff said, his voice angry and full of impatience, “it don’t matter what he says or doesn’t say. I’m tellin’ you that there were a bunch of witnesses standing in the door of Room Fourteen when Moss finished stabbing and scalping Willard and Charley!”
“Please,” Ellen whispered. “Just let me speak to him in private for a few minutes. It’s very, very personal and important to me.”
“Ellen! Ellen, for heaven sakes, have you lost your mind!”
She heard and recognized Eli Purvis, but ignored his angry yelling.
“Please, Sheriff.”
“Oh, hell, all right. But you’ve only got a few minutes and I’m going to stay inside and watch you both like a hawk. And there’s nothing that your friend Joe Moss can say that will change anything. He’s bound to be hanged just as certain as death and taxes.”
The Mother Lode Page 8