Preacher's Fire

Turn the page for an exciting preview of the next

book in the USA Today bestselling new series

MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN:

SNAKE RIVER SLAUGHTER

by William W. Johnstone

with J. A. Johnstone

On sale February 2010

Wherever Pinnacle books are sold

Chapter 1

Sweetwater County, Wyoming

The Baker brothers, Harry and Arnold, were outside by the barn when they saw Jules Pratt and his wife come out of the house. Scott and Lucy McDonald walked out onto the porch to tell the Pratts good-bye.

“You have been most generous,” Jules said as he climbed up into the surrey. “Speaking on behalf of the laity of the church, I can tell you that every time we hear the beautiful music of the new organ, we will be thinking of, and thanking you.”

“It was our pleasure,” Scott said. “The church means a great deal to us, more than we can say. And we are more than happy to do anything we can to help out.”

“We’ll see you Sunday,” Jules said, slapping the reins against the back of the team.

Lucy McDonald went back into the house but before Scott went back inside, he looked over toward the barn at the two brothers.

“How are you two boys comin’ on the wagon?” Scott called toward them.

“We’re workin’ on it,” Harry called back.

“I’m goin’ to be needin’ it pretty soon now, so you let me know if you run into any trouble with it,” McDonald replied, just as he went back inside.

Harry and Arnold Baker were not permanent employees of the MacDonalds. They had been hired the day before for the specific purpose of making repairs to the freight wagon.

“Did you see that money box?” Harry asked.

“You mean when he give that other fella a donation for the organ? Yeah, I seen it,” Arnold replied.

“There has to be two, maybe three hunnert dollars in that box,” Harry said.

“How long would it take us to make that kind of money?” Arnold asked.

“Hell, it would take the better part of a year for us to make that much money, even if we was to put our earnings together,” Harry said.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Arnold said. “Harry, you want to know what I’m thinkin’?”

“If you’re thinkin’ the same thing I’m thinkin’, I know what it is,” Harry replied.

“Let’s go in there and get that money.”

“He ain’t goin’ to give up and just give it to us,” Harry said.

“He will if we threaten to kill ’im.”

Harry shook his head. “Just threatenin’ him ain’t goin’ be enough,” he said. “We’re goin’ to have to do it. Otherwise, he’ll set the sheriff on us.”

“What about the others? His wife and kids?”

“You want the two boys to grow up and come after us?”

“No, I guess not.”

“If we are goin’ to do this thing, Arnold, there’s only one way to do it,” Harry insisted.

“All right. Let’s do it.”

Pulling their guns and checking their loads, the two brothers put their pistols back in their holsters, then crossed the distance between the barn and the house. They pushed the door open and went inside without so much as a warning knock.

“Oh!” Lucy said startled by the sudden appearance of the two men in the kitchen.

“Get your husband,” Arnold said, his voice little more than a growl.

Lucy left the kitchen, then returned a moment later with Scott. Scott wasn’t wearing his gun, which was going to make this even easier than they had planned.

“Lucy said you two boys just walked into the house without so much as a fare thee well,” Scott said, his voice reflecting his irritation. “You know better than to do that. What do you want?”

“The money,” Harry said.

“The money? You mean you have finished the wagon? Well, good, good. Let me take a look at it, and if I’m satisfied, I’ll give you your ten dollars,” Scott said.

Harry shook his head. “No, not ten dollars,” he said. “All of it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Harry drew his pistol, and when he did, Arnold drew his as well.

“The money box,” Harry said. “Get it down. We want all the money.”

“Scott!” Lucy said in a choked voice.

“It’s all right, Lucy, we are goin’ to give them what they ask for. Then they’ll go away and leave us alone. Get the box down and hand it to them.”

“You’re a smart man, McDonald,” Arnold said.

“You’ll never get away with stealing our money,” Lucy said as she retrieved the box from the top of the cupboard, then handed it over to Harry.

“Oh, yeah, we’re goin’ to get away with it,” Harry said as he took the money from the box. Folding the money over, he stuck it in his pocket. Then, without another word, he pulled the trigger. Lucy got a surprised look on her face as the bullet buried into her chest, but she went down, dead before she hit the floor.

“You son of a bitch!” Scott shouted as he leaped toward Harry.

Harry was surprised by the quickness and the furiousness of the attack. He was knocked down by Scott, but he managed to hold onto his gun and even as he was under Scott on the floor, he stuck the barrel of gun into Scott’s stomach and pulled the trigger.

“Get him off of me!” Harry shouted. “Get him off of me.”

“Mama, Papa, what is it?” a young voice called and the two children came running into the kitchen. Arnold shot both of them, then he rolled Scott off Harry and helped his brother back on his feet.

“Are you all right?” Arnold asked.

“Yeah,” Scott answered. “I’ve got the money. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

The next day

Matt Jensen dismounted in front of the Gold Strike Saloon. Brushing some of the trail dust away, he tied his horse off at the hitching rail, then began looking at the other horses that were there, lifting the left hind foot of each animal in turn.

His action seemed a little peculiar and some of pedestrians stopped to look over at him. What they saw was a man who was just a bit over six feet tall with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He was young in years, but his pale blue eyes bespoke of experiences that most would not see in three lifetimes. He was a lone wolf who had worn a deputy’s badge in Abilene, ridden shotgun for a stagecoach out of Lordsburg, scouted for the army in the McDowell Mountains of Arizona, and panned for gold in Idaho. A banker’s daughter in Cheyenne once thought she could make him settle down—a soiled dove in The Territories knew that she couldn’t, but took what he offered.

Matt was a wanderer, always wondering what was beyond the next line of hills, just over the horizon. He traveled light, with a Bowie knife, a .44 double-action Colt, a Winchester .44-40 rifle, a rain slicker, an overcoat, two blankets, and a spare shirt, socks, trousers, and underwear.

He called Colorado his home, though he had actually started life in Kansas. Colorado was home only because it was where he had reached his maturity, and Smoke Jensen, the closest thing he had to a family, lived there. In truth though, he spent no more time in Colorado than he did in Wyoming, Utah, New Mexico, or Arizona.

At the moment, Matt was on the trail of Harry and Arnold Baker for the murder of Scott McDonald, his wife, Lucy, and their two young sons, Toby and Tyler. Before he died, Scott McDonald managed to live long enough to scrawl the letters BAK on the floor, using his finger as a pen, and his own blood as the ink. McDonald had hired the Baker brothers, not because he needed the help, but because he thought they were down on their luck and needed the job.

Matt had known the McDonalds well. He had been a guest in their house many times, and had even attended the baptism of one of their children. When the McDonalds were killed, Matt took it very personally and had himself temporarily deputized so he could hunt down the Baker brothers and bring them to justice.

One of the Baker brothers was riding a horse that left a distinctive hoof print and that enabled Matt to track them to Burnt Fork. That brought him to the front of the Gold Strike Saloon where he was checking the shoes of the horses there were tied off at the hitching rail. On the fourth horse that he examined, he found what he was looking for. The shoe on the horse’s left rear foot had a “V” shaped niche on the inside of the right arm of the shoe.

Loosening his pistol in the holster, Matt went into the saloon.

A loud burst of laughter greeted him as he stepped inside, and sitting at a table in the middle of the saloon were two men. Each of the men had a girl sitting on his lap and the table had a nearly empty whisky bottle, indicating they had been drinking heavily.

Matt had never seen the Baker brothers, so he could not identify them by sight, but the two men resembled each other enough to be brothers, and they did match the description he had been given of them.

“Hey, Harry, let’s see which one of these girls has the best titties,” one of the men said. He grabbed the top of the dress of the girl who was sitting on his lap and jerked it down, exposing her breasts.

“Stop that!” the girl called out in anger and fright. She jumped up from his lap and began pulling the top of her dress back up.

“Ha! Arnold, you done got that girl all mad at you.”

They had called each other Harry and Arnold. That was all the verification Matt needed. Turning back toward the bar, he signaled the bartender.

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” he asked.

“I need you to get the women away from those two men,” Matt said, quietly.

“Mister, as long as those men are paying, the girls can stay.”

“I’m about to arrest those two men for murder,” Matt said. “If they resist arrest, then I intend to kill them. I wouldn’t want the women to be in the way.”

“Oh!” the bartender said. “Oh, uh, yes, I see what you mean. But, I don’t know how to get them away without tellin’ what’s about to happen.”

“Go down to the other end of the bar and take out a new bottle of whiskey. Tell the men it’s on the house, you’re giving it to them for being good customers. Then call the women over to get it.”

“Yeah,” the bartender said. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” Matt remained there with his back to the men while the bartender walked down to the other end of the bar. He put a bottle of whiskey up on the bar.

“Jane, Ellie Mae,” he called. “Come up here for a moment.”

“Hey, bartender, you leave these girls with us. They’re enjoyin’ our company,” one of the men said. This was Arnold.

“We are enjoying your company too, sir,” the bartender said. “You’ve spent a lot of money with us and you been such good customers and all, we’re pleased to offer you a bottle of whiskey, on the house. That is, if you’ll let the girls come up to get it.”

“Well, hell, you two girls go on up there and get the bottle,” Harry said. “And if you are good to us, why, we’ll let you have a few drinks. Right, Arnold?”

“Right, Harry,” Arnold answered.

From his position in the saloon, Matt watched in the mirror as the two girls left the table and started toward the bartender. Not until he was sure they were absolutely clear, did he turn around.

“Hello, Harry. Hello, Arnold,” he said.

“What?” Harry replied, surprised at being addressed by name. “Do you know us?”

“No, but I know who you are. I was a good friend of the McDonalds,” Matt said.

“We don’t know anyone named McDonald,” Harry said.

“Sure you do,” Matt said. “You murdered them.”

The two men leaped up then, jumping up so quickly that the chairs fell over behind them. Both of them started toward their guns, but when they saw how quickly Matt had his own pistol out, they stopped, then raised their hands.”

“We ain’t drawin’, Mister. We ain’t drawin’!” Arnold said.

When Matt returned to Green River, Harry and Arnold were riding in front of him. Each man had his hands in iron shackles, and there was a rope stretching from Harry’s neck to Arnold’s neck, then from Arnold’s neck to the saddle horn of Matt’s saddle. This was to discourage either, or both, from trying to bolt away during the return journey.

Chapter 2

Within a week of their capture, the two brothers were put on trial in the Sweetwater County Courthouse. Although seats were dear to come by, Sheriff Foley had held a place for Matt so he was able to move through the crowd of people who were searching for their own place to sit. Rather than being resentful of him, however, those in the crowd applauded when Matt came in. They were aware of the role Matt had played in bringing the Baker brothers to trial.

Matt had been in his seat for little more than a minute, when the bailiff came through a little door at the front of the courtroom. Clearing his voice, the bailiff addressed the gallery.

“Oyez, oyez, oyez, this court of Sweetwater county, Green River City, Wyoming, will now come to order, the Honorable Judge Daniel Norton presiding. All rise.”

As Judge Norton came into the courtroom and stepped up to the bench, Matt Jensen stood with the others.

“Be seated,” Judge Norton said. “Bailiff, call the first case.”

“There’s only one case, Your Honor. There comes now before this court Harry G. Baker and Arnold S. Baker, both men having been indicted for the crime of murder in the first degree.”

“Thank you, Bailiff. Are the defendants represented by council?”

The defense attorney stood. “I am Robert Dempster, Your Honor, duly certified before the bar and appointed by the court to defend the misters Baker.”

“Is prosecution present?”

The prosecutor stood. “I am Edmund Gleason, Your Honor, duly certified before the bar and appointed by the court to prosecute.”

“Let the record show that the people are represented by a duly certified prosecutor and the defendants are represented by a duly certified counsel,” Judge Norton said.

“Your Honor, if it please the court,” Dempster said, standing quickly.

“Yes, Mr. Dempster, what is it?”

“Your Honor, I object to the fact that we are trying both defendants at the same time, and I request separate trials.”

“Mr. Dempster, both men are being accused of the same crime, which was committed at the same time. It seems only practical to try them both at the same time. Request denied.”

Dempster sat down without further protest.

“Mr. Prosecutor, are you ready to proceed?”

“I am ready, Your Honor.”

“Very good. Then, please make your case,” Judge Norton said.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Gleason said as he stood to make his opening remarks.

Gleason pointed out that the letters BAK, written in the murder victim’s own blood were damning enough testimony alone to convict. But he also promised to call witnesses, which he did after the opening remarks. He called Mr. Jules Pratt.

“Mr. Pratt, were you present at the McDonald Ranch on the day of the murder?” Gleason asked.

“Yes,” Jules replied. “My wife and I were both there.”

“Why were you there?”

“We went to see the McDonalds to solicit a donation for the church organ.”

“Did they donate?”

“Yes, they did. Very generously.”

“By bank draft, or by cash?”

“By cash.”

“Where did they get the cash?”

“From a cash box they kept in the house.”

“Was there any money remaining in the cash box after the donation?”

“Yes, a considerable amount.”

“How much would you guess?”

“Two, maybe three hundred dollars.”

“Was anyone else present at the time?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Jules pointed. “Those two men were present. They were doing some work for Scott.”

“Let the record show that the witness pointed to Harry and Arnold Baker. Was it your observation, Mr. Pratt, that the two defendants saw the cash box and the amount of money remaining?”

“Yes, sir, I know they did.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that one,” he pointed.

“The witness has pointed to Arnold Baker,” Gleason said.

“That one said to Scott, ‘That’s a lot of money to keep in the house.’”

“Thank you, Mr. Pratt, no further questions.”

Gleason also called Pastor Martin who, with four of his parishioners, testified as to how they had discovered the bodies when they visited the ranch later the same day. Then, less than one half hour after court was called to order, the prosecution rested its case.

The defense had a witness as well, a man named Jerome Kelly, who claimed that he had come by the McDonald ranch just before noon, and that when he left, the Bakers left with him.

“And, when you left, what was the condition of the McDonald family?” the defense attorney asked.

“They was all still alive. Fac’ is, Miz McDonald was bakin’ a pie,” Kelly said.

“Thank you,” Dempster said. “Your witness, Counselor.”

“Mrs. McDonald was baking a pie, you say?” Gleason asked in his cross-examination.

“Yeah. An apple pie.”

“Had Mrs. McDonald actually started baking it?”

“Yeah, ’cause we could all smell it.”

“What time was that, Mr. Kelly?”

“Oh, I’d say it was about eleven o’clock. Maybe even a little closer on toward noon.”

“Thank you. I have no further questions of this witness.” The prosecutor turned toward the bench.

“Your Honor, prosecution would like to recall Pastor Martin to the stand.”

Pastor Martin, the resident pastor of the First Methodist Church of Green River City, Wyoming, who had, earlier, testified for the prosecution, retook the stand. He was a tall, thin man, dressed in black, with a black string tie.

“The court reminds the witness that he is still under oath,” the judge said. Then to Gleason he said, “You may begin the redirect.”

“Pastor Martin, you discovered the bodies, did you not?” Gleason asked.

“I did.”

“What time did you arrive?

“It was just after noon. We didn’t want to arrive right at noon, because Mrs. McDonald, kind hearted soul she was, would have thought she had to feed us.”

“You testified earlier that you and four other parishioners had gone to thank the McDonalds for their generous donation to the organ fund?”

“Yes.”

“And that all five of you saw the bodies?”

Pastor Martin pinched the bridge of his nose and was quiet for a moment before he responded. “May their souls rest with God,” he said. “Yes, all five of us saw the bodies.”

“You have already testified as to the condition of the bodies when you found them, so I won’t have you go through all that again. But I am going to ask you a simple question. You just heard the witness testify that Mrs. McDonald was baking a pie when they left, just before noon. Did you see any evidence of that pie?”

Pastor Martin shook his head. “There was no pie,” he said. “In fact, the oven had not been used that day. It was cold, and there were no coals.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

“Witness may step down,” the judge said.

In his closing argument to the jury, the defense attorney suggested that the letters BAK were not, in themselves, conclusive.

“They could have referred to Mrs. McDonald’s intention to bake an apple pie. After all, the letters BAK, are the first three letters of the word bake. Perhaps it was a warning that the oven needed to be checked, lest there be a fire,” he said. “Don’t forget, we have a witness who testified that the Bakers left the McDonald Ranch with him on the very day the McDonalds were killed. And, according to Mr. Kelly, the McDonalds were still alive at that time they left. The burden of proof is on the prosecution. That means that, according to the law, in order to find Harry and Arnold Baker guilty you are going to have to be convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they did it. Prosecution has offered no evidence or testimony that would take this case beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

During Gleason’s closing, he pointed out that Kelly was not a very reliable witness, whereas the two witnesses who had seen the Baker brothers at the ranch on the morning of the murder, were known citizens of good character. He also reminded the jury that the witness said that the donation had come directly from a cash box and that Arnold Baker had commented on the money.

“Mr. Pratt said he believed there was at least three hundred dollars left in the box, and maybe a little more. An affidavit from the bartender in Burnt Fork says that the two men spent lavishly while they were in the saloon, and Matt Jensen, acting as a duly sworn deputy, found two hundred sixty-eight dollars on them when he made the arrest.”

In addition, the prosecuting attorney pointed out that, according to Pastor Martin, whose testimony was also unimpeachable, that there was no evidence of any apple pie having been baked, which cast further doubt on Kelly’s story.

“With his own blood, as he lay dying, Scott McDonald scrawled the letters, BAK. BAK for Baker. He hardly had time to actually leave us a note, so he did what he could to see to it that those who murdered him, and his family, would pay for their act. We owe it to this good man to make certain that his heroic action is rewarded by returning a verdict of guilty of murder in the first degree for Harry and Arnold Baker.”

Less than one hour after the court had been called to order, the jury returned from their five-minute deliberation.

“Gentleman of the jury, have you selected a foreman and have you reached a verdict?” Judge Norton asked.

“We have, Your Honor. I am the foreman,” a tall, gray-haired man said.

“Would you publish the verdict, please?”

“We find the defendants, Harry and Arnold Baker, guilty of murder in the first degree.”

There was an outbreak of applause from those in the gallery, but Judge Norton used his gavel to restore order. “I will not have any demonstrations in my court,” he said sternly. The judge looked around the courtroom. “Bailiff, where is the witness, Jerome Kelly?”

“He’s not present, Your Honor.”

“Sheriff Foley?”

“Yes, Your Honor?” the sheriff said, standing.

“I’m putting out a bench warrant on Jerome Kelly for giving false testimony. Please find him, and take him into custody.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Now, Bailiff, if you would, bring the convicted before the bench.”

The two men were brought to stand before the judge.

“Harry Baker and Arnold Baker, I have presided over thousands of cases in my twenty six years on the bench. But never in my career, have I encountered anyone with less redemptive tissue than the two of you. Your crime in murdering an entire family, a family that had taken you into their bosom, is particularly heinous.

“You have been tried, and found guilty by a jury of your peers. Therefore, it is my sentence that, one week hence, the sheriff of Sweetwater County will lead the two of you to the gallows at ten of the clock in the morning. Once upon the gallows, ropes will be placed around your necks, all support will be withdrawn from under your feet, and you shall be dropped a distance sufficient to break your necks. And there, Harry Baker and Arnold Baker, you shall continue to hang until it is obvious that all life has left your miserable bodies. May God have mercy on your souls, for I have none.”

Chapter 3

One week later

The gallows stood in the middle of Center Street, well constructed but terrible in the gruesomeness of its function. A professionally painted sign was placed on an easel in front of the gallows.

The idea of a double hanging had drawn visitors from miles around, not only because of the morbid curiosity such a spectacle generated, but also because the McDonald family had been very well liked, and the murders the two condemned had committed, including even the murder of Scott McDonald’s wife and children, were particularly shocking

The street was full of spectators, and the crowd was growing even larger as they all jostled for position. Matt glanced over toward the tower clock in front of the courthouse to check the time. It was five minutes after ten.

The judge had said they would be hanged at ten o’clock, which meant that the prisoners should have been brought out by now. Some in the crowd were growing impatient, and more than one person wondered aloud what was holding up the proceedings.

Matt began to have the strange feeling that something was wrong, so he slipped away from the crowd and walked around into the alley behind the jail. He was going to look in through the back window but he didn’t have to. The moment he stepped into the alley he saw the Baker brothers and the man who had given false testimony on their behalf, Jerome Kelly, coming through the back door.

“Hold it!” Matt called out.

“It’s Jensen!” Harry Baker shouted, firing his pistol at the same time.

The bullet hit the wall beside Matt, sending little brick chips into his face. Matt returned fire and Harry went down. By now both Arnold Baker and Kelly were shooting as well, and Matt dived to the ground, then rolled over and shot again. Arnold clutched his chest and went down.

Kelly, now seeing that both Bakers were down, dropped his gun and threw up his hands. At that moment Sheriff Foley came out of the jail, holding his pistol and one hand, while holding his other hand to a bleeding wound on his head.

“Jensen, are you all right?” the sheriff called.

“Yes, I’m not hit. How about you?”

“They killed my deputy, and I’ve got a knot on my head where this son of a bitch hit me,” Foley said. The sheriff looked at Harry and Arnold Baker, then chuckled. “I wonder if you saved the county the cost of the execution, or if we will have to pay the hangman anyway? Or, maybe we can just go ahead and have the hanging, only it’ll be Kelly instead of the Baker brothers.”

From the Boise, Idaho, Statesman:

Deadly Shootout in Wyoming !

MURDERERS KILLED WHILE TRYING TO ESCAPE.

Last month the brothers Harry and Arnold Baker committed one of the most heinous crimes in recent memory when they murdered Scott McDonald, his wife, Lucy, and their two young sons, Toby and Tyler. The crime, which happened in Sweetwater County, Wyoming, raised the ire of all decent citizens who knew Scott McDonald as a man of enterprise, magnanimity, and Christian faith. The murderers were tracked down and arrested by Matt Jensen, who had himself deputized just for that purpose. Jensen brought the brothers back to Green River City for a quick and fair trial, resulting in a guilty verdict for both parties. They were sentenced to be hanged, but moments before they were to be hanged, Deputy Sheriff Goodwin was killed, and Sheriff Fred Foley knocked unconscious, resulting in the prisoners being broken out of jail. All this was accomplished by Jerome Kelly, a cousin of the Baker brothers. Jerome Kelly was himself wanted for having provided false testimony at the trial of Harold and Arnold Baker.

Had Matt Jensen not discovered the escape in progress the two brothers would have made good their getaway. In the ensuing shootout Matt Jensen dispatched both murderers with his deadly accurate shooting. The accomplice, seeing that further resistance was futile, threw down his gun and surrendered. A quick trial found him guilty and he is to be hanged for murdering Deputy Goodwin.

Some readers may recognize the name Matt Jensen, as he has become a genuine hero of the West, a man about whom books and ballads have been written. Those who know him personally have naught but good things to say of him. Despite his many accomplishments, he is modest, a friend of all who are right, and a foe to those who would visit their evil deeds upon innocent people.

The Boise Statesman, being published in the territorial capitol, was the largest newspaper in Idaho. And though only five thousand copies were printed, it was circulated by railroad and stage coach throughout the territory so that a significant number of the thirty two thousand people who lived in Idaho, were aware of, and often read, the newspaper.

Sawtooth Mountains, Idaho Territory

Colonel Clay Sherman was a tall man with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He had steel gray eyes, and he wore a neatly trimmed moustache which now, like his hair, was dusted with gray. He was the commanding officer of the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse. The posse consisted of two officers and thirty-two men, all duly sworn as functioning, though unpaid, deputies to the Idaho Territorial Task Force. Clay Sherman had received his commission from the assistant deputy attorney general of the territory of Idaho, and as such, was duly authorized to deputize those who joined the posse. Sherman and his Auxiliary Peace Officers wore deputies’ badges, but because they were not paid by the territorial government, the posse supported itself, and supported itself very well, by acting as a private police force. Most of the posse’s income was generated when it was hired by the disgruntled to get justice where they felt justice had been denied.

So far the posse had managed to avoid any trouble with territorial or federal law agencies, because they managed to find loopholes to allow them to operate. But their operations always walked a very narrow line between legality and illegality, and had either the territorial or federal government taken the trouble to conduct a thorough investigation, it would have discovered that, in fact, the posse often did cross over that line.

There were many citizens, and a few quite a few law-makers, who felt that the posse was little more than a band of outlaws, hired assassins who hid behind the dubious authority of deputies’ badges. It was also pointed out by these detractors that very few of the wanted men they went after were ever brought back alive, including even some who were being pursued for the simple purpose of being served a subpoena to appear in civil court. The Boise Statesman and other newspapers had written editorials critical of the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse, pointing out that, despite its name, it had nothing to do with “peace.” Some of those newspapers had paid for their critical observations by having their offices vandalized by “irate citizens who supported the posse,” or so it was claimed.

At this moment, Sherman and few members of the posse were engaged in one of the many private police force operations by which it managed to earn its keep. They were operating in the Sawtooth Mountains, and Colonel Sherman stepped up on a rock and looked down toward a little cabin that was nestled against the base of the sheer side of Snowy Peak. The posse had trailed Louis Blackburn to this cabin, and now their quarry was trapped. The beauty of it was that Blackburn had no idea he was trapped. He thought he was quite secure in the cabin.

Part of the reason for Louis Blackburn’s complacency was due to the fact that he didn’t even know he was being trailed. Two weeks earlier, Louis Blackburn had been tried for the murder of James Dixon. At least three witnesses testified that Dixon not only started the fight, he had also drawn first. The jury believed the witnesses, and found Blackburn not guilty, and not guilty by reason of self-defense. The judge released him from custody and Blackburn went on his way, a free man.

The problem with the court finding was that not everyone agreed with the verdict, and principal among those who disagreed was Augustus Dixon, James Dixon’s father. And because the senior Dixon had made a fortune in gold and was now one of wealthiest and most powerful men in Idaho, he was able to use both his money and influence to find an alternate path to justice, or at least the justice he sought.

Dixon managed to convince a cooperative judge to hold a civil trial. It was Augustus Dixon’s intention to sue Louis Blackburn for depriving him of his son. No official law agency of the territory of Idaho would serve a subpoena for the civil trial, but then, Dixon didn’t want any official law officer involved in the process. Dixon hired Clay Sherman and his Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse to run Blackburn down and bring him back for civil trial.

Sherman had eight men with him, and as he looked back at them he saw that everyone had found a place with a good view and a clear line of fire toward the cabin.

“Lieutenant,” Sherman said to Poke Terrell, his second in command.

“Yes, Colonel?”

“It is my belief, based upon our conversation with Mr. Dixon, that he doesn’t particularly want us to bring Blackburn back alive.”

“Yes, sir, that is my belief as well,” Poke replied.

“You know what that means then, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Poke said. “We have to get him to take a shot at us.”

“You know what to do,” Sherman said.

Poke nodded, then cupped his hand around his mouth. “Blackburn!” he called. “Louis Blackburn! Come out!”

“What?” Blackburn called back, his voice thin and muffled from inside the cabin. “Who’s calling me?”

“This is Lieutenant Poke Terrell of the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse. I am ordering you to come out of that cabin with your hands up!”

“What do you mean, come out with my hands up? Why should I do that? What do you want?”

“I have a summons to take you back for the murder of James Dixon!” Terrell shouted, loudly.

“You’re crazy! I’ve already been tried and found innocent.”

“You’re being tried again.”

“My lawyer said I can’t be tried again.”

“Your lawyer lied. And if you don’t come out of your cabin now, I’m going to open fire,” Poke called.

“Go away! You ain’t got no right to take me back.”

“You are going back, whether it’s dead or alive,” Poke said.

As Sherman and Poke expected, a pistol shot rang out from inside the cabin. The pistol shot wasn’t aimed, and was fired more as a warning than any act of hostile intent.

“All right, boys, he shot at us!” Sherman called.

“Beg your pardon, Colonel, but I don’t think he was actual aimin’ at us. I think he was just tryin’ to scare us off,” one of the men said.

“That’s where you are wrong, Scraggs,” Sherman said. “He clearly shot at us. I could feel the breeze of the bullet as it passed my ear.” Smiling, Sherman turned to the rest of his men. “That’s all we needed, boys. He shot at us, so now if we kill him, it is self-defense. Open fire,” he ordered.

For the next several minutes the sound of gunfire echoed back from the sheer wall of Snowy Peak as Sherman, Poke, and the other men with them fired shot after shot into the cabin. All the windows were shot out and splinters began flying from the walls of the little clapboard structure. Finally Sherman ordered a cease-fire.

“Lieutenant Terrell, you and Scraggs go down there to have a look,” Sherman ordered.

With a nod of acceptance, Poke and Scraggs left the relative safety of the rocks, then climbed down the hill to approach the cabin. Not one shot was fired from the cabin. Finally the two men disappeared around behind the cabin and, a moment later, the front door of the cabin opened and Poke stepped outside then waved his hand.

“He’s dead!” Poke called up.

“Dead—dead—dead!” the words echoed back from the cliff wall.

“Gentlemen, we’ve done a good day’s work here, today,” Sherman said with a satisfied smile on his face.