C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
And that is how it came to pass that Sheriff Cotton Pickens and Deputy Rusty Irons rode into Doubtful along with the perpetrators of the revolution. The county seat was only then recovering from the shock of the previous week's uproars, now being told on every street corner and at the Elks Club and the Moose bar. Tearful county officials, their lives spared at the last moment by the sheriff and his saber, were still recounting the awful events of that night to electrified audiences, and the town itself was brimming with alarm.
Count Cernix had swiftly formed a militia, and businessmen with shotguns patrolled the streets, prepared to stamp out any further insurrections. Lawyer Stokes had addressed a crowd in Courthouse Square, eloquently describing the night of horror and what steps would be taken to hang, draw, and quarter the instigators of this offense against humanity and the commonwealth.
The repaired telegraph hummed and the governor offered to send the militia, but the count replied that everything was now under control and legitimate government had been restored in much of the county and soon would be restored in the rest. Cernix wasn't quite sure how, but he didn't doubt that bravery, courage, excellence in the field, a knowledge of tactics and strategy, and a determined militia would restore order.
The governor wired back that he would be available day and night and would send troops if needed.
All of which was happening while me and Rusty rode out with arrest warrants in hand to bring the criminals into Doubtful and lock them up for life. Some favored the firing squad. This was an insurrection, after all, and the firing squad seemed the proper remedy. Citizens vied with one another to be elected to shoot the culprits, and Cernix eventually decided that the honor should be awarded by random cutting of a deck of cards, left over from the days when Doubtful was a gambling mecca.
It was decided that aces would be low, not high, and by the time me and Rusty and our prisoners rode into Doubtful, Mayor George Waller, One-Eyed Harry First, and Hubert Sanders had won the honor and were polishing their rifles.
Then Rusty and me and the prisoners started up Wyoming Street, while the whole town gawked. What's more, I was not wearing my gun belt, and the deputy's shotgun was in its saddle sheath. But there we were, along with the worst criminals in Wyoming's history, quietly clopping toward Courthouse Square, the criminals looking solemn and resigned.
No one was speaking. Men on the sidewalks bristled with arms, ready to assist if anything should be amiss. But in fact, apart from some nervous glances, the president, vice president, and executive council of the Shorthorn Republic seemed peaceable enough, and we were allowed to pass through and then to dismount and enter the jailhouse. A few moments later, after I locked the bunch up, I emerged and addressed the crowd.
“We've got them fellers and don't you interfere. They'll likely plead guilty, and this is only gonna take half an hour. So you go along home and eat your mashed potatoes.”
But the crowd didn't budge. This was the most exciting thing ever to happen in Doubtful, and no one wanted to miss a trick.
Lawyer Stokes showed up, strutting around like a rooster and making cock-a-doodle-do noises. “We've conquered the scum. We shall prevail!” he said.
Judge Axel Nippers was persuaded to abandon his evening double or triple libation at the new Elks Club, and Jerry Dolce Vita, the clerk and recorder, was gotten out of the bosom of his family, where he was playing checkers with his sons, and court abruptly opened at the awkward hour of six p.m. The courtroom probably held more spectators than was safe, but no one seemed to mind.
At six ten, that fierce August day, I escorted the insurrectionists into the chamber, where they lined up before Nippers.
“Identify yourselves before this court,” he said.
The executives of the Shorthorn Republic confessed their names.
“I have it, Mr. Throckmorton, that you are the president, and you, Mr. Bowler, are the vice president of the Shorthorn Republic.”
The arch criminals acknowledged this.
“You are all charged with ten counts of attempted murder, ten counts of kidnapping, plus insurrection and disturbing the peace. How do you plead?”
“Guilty, Your Honor,” they all said, one by one, and the pleas were duly noted by the recorder.
“Since I was the only county official not dragged to the hanging tree, it behooves me to be fair and impartial beyond question. Do you understand? For the leniency you showed me, I must be especially severe with you, so it all balances out.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Throckmorton replied. “I speak for us all.”
“Throw the book at them,” said Lawyer Stokes.
“Shut your trap, Stokes. We will proceed in a just and equitable manner.”
“String them up,” someone yelled.
Nippers banged his gavel and glared.
“I will proceed with the sentencing. Since you are all equally guilty, this applies to all of you. First, I will fine you two cattle each for attempted murder; if you bring in culls, make it three. Second, I fine you one additional steer each for insurrection and kidnapping, and I will dismiss disturbing the peace if you pay promptly, say within forty-eight hours. The sheriff shall pen these cattle and conduct an auction, the proceeds going to Puma County.”
Throckmorton looked dazed. “That's worse than a property tax, sir. That's an invasion of our herds. That violates every guarantee in the United States and Wyoming constitutions. This is not a fair trial, sir.”
“Oh, be still, Mr. President. You have led a conspiracy that committed heinous crimes against the body politic, and against innocent persons, and you shall suffer for it. Not only must you supply the cattle at once, but you must pay your property taxes at the same time. Every day you delay, you will owe the county one more steer, which the sheriff will auction off. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” whispered Bowler. “But surely this violates the cruel and unusual punishment clause.”
“I am a hard man, Mr. Vice President. Now then, I wish to return to my evening libations. Sheriff, hold these prisoners. No bail. Release them when their minions show up with the cattle and cash.”
It was a tad unusual, I thought, but old Nippers wasn't going to put up with any more nonsense.
I escorted the forlorn and depressed ranchers back to their iron-barred temporary homes, let them instruct their employees about bringing in the cattle, and offered them meals from Barney's Beanery.
“I'm too ill to eat,” moaned Throckmorton.
“Just leave the pisspot. That's all we need,” said Bowler.
The iron doors clanged shut, and the county's leading ranchers settled into their iron bunks and waited for the time when they might win release.
“Be glad you're in here,” I said. “There are some in town who'd just as soon haul you out to the hanging tree. Deputy Irons and I will be on guard. Not that I don't sympathize with the mobs. I think you'd do very well, decorating the hanging tree. I'm returning the compliment. You thought me and Rusty, we'd look just fine swinging in the wind.”
“Don't let them use our rope. We paid good money for that rope,” Cockleburr said. “If we have to die, don't do it on our dime.”
“That's one of our principles,” said Throckmorton. “A man has to live by principles. A man without principles isn't worth crap.”
The crowd slowly dispersed, and Rusty and me settled down on bedrolls for a long night. But it was oddly peaceful. The town had already resolved the entire case and had gone to bed content.
Next day, drovers showed up with the cattle, so me and Rusty penned the bunch over at Turk's and wrote out receipts, one copy for the court, and then unlocked the ranchers.
“You fellers can go now. The county has the cattle.”
“We gonna be able to ship cattle out of Puma County now?” Bowler asked. “Our brands are good now?”
“That depends on whether you quit trying to make a foreign country in the middle of my county,” I said. “You fold up your Shorthorn Republic, and I'll call your brands good.”
“Guess we better have an executive meeting,” Throckmorton said to his fellow ranchers. “All in favor of quitting the republic, say so.”
They were all in favor, and in that moment the Shorthorn nation got voted out of existence. I said I'd tell the judge, and let the governor know, too.
“The governor, he was fixing to send Gatling guns and some howitzers up here, but I told him me and Rusty could handle it.”
“Gatling guns?”
“Yeah, the state keeps a couple down there, ready to knock back trouble. I sure would have enjoyed seeing them knock a few holes in your parade.”
“Gatling guns. I never thought of Gatling guns. We should have got some ourselves, half a dozen maybe, even before we voted ourselves the Shorthorn Republic. Damn! Why didn't we think of that? If we'd had some Gatlings out there, Sheriff, you would've wet your britches even coming within half a mile of my place.”
“Well, if you're gonna make a new nation, you'd better have an army,” I said. “Bunch of cowboys with six-guns, that don't persuade anyone of anything.”
“Right as usual, Sheriff. Well, this is a sad day for us. Here we are, twenty-four good beeves shorter than what we possessed a few hours ago. Twenty-four beeves. We could have paid the county taxes with about one quarter of one beef. So we've learned a lesson: if you're going to start a revolution, you'd better have the arsenal.”
“Makes sense to me,” I said.
I watched those ranchers and their drovers ride off into the August heat.
I went over to the weekly and put an advertisement in, saying there'd be a sheriff's sale of twenty-four cattle in good flesh, proceeds to the county, cash only.
That went fine. A few days later the whole lot was bought by a Laramie packing plant man, and the cattle were on their way south. I gave the county treasurer a voucher for enough to keep Puma County afloat for a while. And the ranchers would soon pay up their property taxes, too.
At last, Doubtful slipped into peace and prosperity. Those cowboys who still wanted a nip could and did join the Elks or the Moose, and belly up to the bar as they did before, and sometimes they played penny-ante poker there. The drovers were full of pranks, some of them pretty mean, but they didn't wear sidearms into town. And now and then they could be seen bidding on some gal's box lunch at church socials, which made me mad because I was too cheap to bid on the best box lunches, being a penny-pincher from the get-go. I knew what gals had made the box lunch, but I was afraid I'd get a lousy sandwich for my dollar, or a decaying apple, so I always quit bidding so I wouldn't be rooked. So my old rivals out on the ranches were sparking all the girls. But at least I wasn't prowling town with two six-guns hanging from my hips, and mostly I did my rounds with nothing more than a billy club. I was very good with a billy club and could make a bratty boy quit pestering stray dogs just by waving that club.
The count and countess turned out to be fine supervisors, and there was money enough so that Puma County could fix the potholes in the roads and build some shipping pens outside of town where the brand inspectors could look over the brands and okay the herds for travel.
All this happiness in Doubtful did not go unnoticed in the great State of Wyoming, and one day Governor William Hale showed up for a little ceremony in the courthouse. I knew nothing of it until I was suddenly roped in. There, on a fine October day, a whole gaggle of officials had collected. I saw the supervisors and Judge Nippers, and a fellow I recognized as the governor. And then for some reason they invited me to step forward, and I couldn't figure out what all those people with their beaming faces were doing, but I was put there next to the governor, and the man began talking away. I didn't quite get it all, but it was all about acting beyond the call of duty, or rescuing a county from a foreign invasion, of preserving the peace, of courage and honor and integrity.
“And therefore, Cotton Pickens, I am making you a lieutenant colonel in the Wyoming militia,” said Governor Hale. “Congratulations, boy.”
I sure shook a lot of hands that day.
But it wasn't over. There was a box lunch social on the courthouse lawn that eve, and sure enough, every stray drover in the county was on hand ready to bid on those lunches. A fiddler played, and then the count announced that the bidding would begin. For some mysterious reason, the countess Sally had insisted that I bid on a box with a green ribbon on it, and to keep on bidding for whatever reason, to bid even if I spent my last dime on it. There sure were a lot of people in town, and the bidding went high, but I for once cut loose and laid out one bid after another on the box with the green ribbon, even when the price went to seven dollars and twelve cents. “Seven and a quarter,” I bid, and that settled it.