Rampage of the Mountain Man

Chapter Nine

Puxico, Wyoming Territory

“Oyez, oyez, oyez, this here court is about to convene, the Honorable Judge Spenser Clark presidin’,” the bailiff shouted.

“Ha, this ain’t no court! This here’s a saloon,” someone shouted. His shout was met with laughter from others who were present.

“Crawford, one more outburst like that, and you’ll spend thirty days in the jail,” the bailiff said, pointing to the offending customer/spectator. “This here saloon is a court whenever His Honor decides to make it a court, and that’s what he’s done. Now, everybody stand up’n make sure you ain’t wearin’ no hat or nothin’ like that while the judge comes in. And McCall, you better not let me catch you servin’ no liquor durin’ the trial.”

“I know the rules, George. I ain’t served nary a drop since the judge ordered the saloon closed,” McCall replied.

The Honorable Spenser Clark came out of the back room of the saloon and took a seat at his “bench,” which was the best table in the saloon. The table sat upon a raised platform that had been built just for this purpose.

The saloon was used as a court because it was the largest building in town. An ancillary reason for holding court in the saloon was because it was always crowded, thus making it easy for the judge to empanel a jury by rounding up twelve sober men, good and true. If it was sometimes difficult to find twelve sober men, then the judge could stretch the definition of sobriety enough to meet the needs of the court. The “good and true,” however, had to be taken upon faith.

Quince Pardeen was being charged with the murder of Sheriff John Logan. There was no question that he had killed Sheriff Logan, because he had done so on the main street of the town in front of no fewer than thirty witnesses.

There was some question, however, as to whether or not it could actually be considered murder. That was because it was clear that Sheriff Logan drew his pistol first. Prosecution contended that the sheriff did so in the line of duty while attempting to arrest a man for whom there were wanted posters in obvious circulation.

The city of Puxico had only two lawyers, David Varner and Bailey Gilmore, neither of whom was a prosecuting attorney. Because of that, Judge Clark brought the two men into his hotel room prior to the trial.

“I don’t suppose Pardeen has hired either of you to represent him, has he?” he asked.

“It is my understanding he is going to ask that a lawyer be appointed,” Varner replied.

Judge Clark sighed. “Do either of you volunteer for defense?”

Varner and Gilmore looked at each other, but neither spoke.

“Very well, we’ll flip a coin,” the judge said, pulling a nickel from his pocket.

Varner called heads, it came up heads, and he asked to prosecute. That made Gilmore Pardeen’s defense attorney.

Gilmore was conscientious enough to believe in providing the best defense possible, regardless of the heinousness of the crime, and he sat out to do just that. He made a very strong argument that Pardeen saw only the draw, and perceiving that his life was in danger, reacted as anyone would.

“Pardeen might be a wanted man,” Gilmore said in his closing argument. “But even wanted men do not surrender their right to self-preservation.

“I lament the fact that Sheriff Logan was killed, and for that, his dear widow has our sincerest sympathy.” Gilmore glanced over at Mrs. Logan, who, still wearing widows weeds, lifted her black veil to dab at her eyes with a silk handkerchief.

“Indeed,” Gilmore continued, “the entire town of Puxico has our sympathy, for Sheriff Logan was known far and wide as a good and decent man.”

“What the hell are you doin’, lawyer?” Pardeen yelled angrily from the defense table. “Whose side are you on anyhow?”

“Mr. Pardeen, one more outburst like that and I’ll have you bound and gagged,” Judge Clark warned. “You may continue with your argument, Counselor.”

The defense attorney nodded, then brought his closing argument to its conclusion. “Gentlemen of the jury, any way you look at this fracas, no matter how good and decent a man Logan was, if you are fair and honest in your deliberation, you will agree that Mr. Pardeen acted in self-defense.”

Varner waited until Gilmore had taken his seat before he rose to address the jury. Before he said a word he made a sarcastic show of applauding, clapping his hands together so quietly that they could not be heard.

“I applaud the esteemed counselor for the defense,” he said. “He is a good man who believes that anyone—even a person as evil and as obviously guilty as Quince Pardeen—deserves a good defense. He chose, of course, the only option open to him. He chose to make his plea, one of self-defense. But despite my esteemed colleague’s most sincere attempt, the truth is”—Varner paused and looked directly at Pardeen—“Mr. Gilmore’s noble effort was an exercise in futility. Quince Pardeen is a cold-blooded murderer. Many a good man has fallen before his gun—none finer than our own sheriff. By his lifetime of evil, Pardeen has forfeited forever any claim to self-defense.”

After Varner sat down, Judge Clark instructed the jury and they withdrew to a room at the back of the saloon to make their decision. After only five minutes of deliberation, the jury sent word that they had reached a verdict.

After retaking his seat at the “bench,” Judge Clark put on his glasses, slipping the end pieces over one ear at a time. Then he blew his nose and cleared his throat.

“Are counsel and defendant present?” He pronounced the word as “defend-ant.”

“Counsel and defendant are both present at the table,” Gilmore replied.

“Is the prosecutor present?”

“Hell, Judge, you can see him right in front of your face,” one of the spectators shouted. “Get this over so we can get back to our drinkin’.”

There was some nervous laughter, terminated by the rap of the judge’s gavel. “Mr. Matthews, that little outburst just cost you twenty dollars,” Clark said.

“Wait a minute, I ain’t the only one who—” Matthews began, but he was interrupted by the judge.

“Now it’s twenty-five dollars. Do you want to open your mouth again?”

This time Matthews’s reply was a silent shaking of his head.

“I thought you might come to your senses,” Judge Clark said. “Now, would the bailiff please summon the jury?”

The bailiff, who was leaning against the bar with his arms folded across his chest, spit a quid of tobacco into the brass spittoon, then walked over to a door, opened it, and called inside.

“The judge has called for the jury,” he said.

At the bailiff’s call, the twelve men shuffled from the room where they had conducted their deliberations, and out onto the main floor of the saloon, to the chairs that had been set out for them in two lines of six. They took their seats, then waited for further instructions from the judge.

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

“We have, Judge.”

“Your Honor,” the bailiff said.

“Say what?”

“When addressing His Honor the judge, you will say Your Honor,” the bailiff directed.

“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry, I forgot about that. We have reached a verdict, Your Honor.”

“Please publish the verdict.”

“Do what?”

Judge Clark sighed. “Tell the court what the jury has found.”

“Oh. Well, sir, Your Honor, we have found this guilty son of bitch guilty,” the foreman said.

“You goddamn 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,” the foreman replied.

The judge took off his glasses and began polishing them.

“Bailiff, escort the defendant to the bench, please,” the judge said.

Pardeen was handcuffed, and he had shackles on his ankles. He shuffled up to stand in front of the judge.

Pardeen was not a very large man. In a normal world, any belligerency on the part of a man as small as Pardeen would have been regarded as unimportant, or at least manageable. But this was not an ordinary world because Pardeen’s small stature was offset by the fact that he possessed extraordinary skill with a handgun. But even more important than his skill with a pistol was the diabolical disregard of human life that would allow him to use that skill. It was said of Pardeen that he could kill a human being with no more thought than stepping on a bug.

Pardeen’s hair was dark and his eyes were brown. One of his eyes was what people called “lazy,” and it had a tendency to give the illusion that he was looking at two things at once.

“Quince Pardeen, it is said that you have killed fifteen men, and that you may be one of the deadliest gunmen in the West. I could not try you for all those killings—I could only try you for killing Sheriff Logan, and that I have done. You have been tried by a jury of your peers and you have been found guilty of the crime of murder,” he said. “Before this court passes sentence, have you anything to say?”

“Nah, I ain’t got nothin’ to say,” Pardeen said.

“Then draw near for sentencing,” the judge said solemly. “It is the sentence of this court that you be taken from this place and put in jail long enough to witness one more night pass from this mortal coil. At dawn’s light on the morrow, you are to be taken from jail and transported to a place where you will be hanged.”

“Your Honor, we can’t hang ’im in the mornin’. We ain’t built no gallows yet,” the deputy who was now acting sheriff said.

Judge Clark held up his hand to silence the deputy, 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 Mr. Pardeen’s carcass above the ground, bringing about the effect of breaking his neck, collapsing his windpipe and, in any and all ways, squeezing the last breath of life from his worthless, vile, and miserable body.”

The gallery broke into loud applause and cheers and shouts.

“Hey, Pardeen, how does it feel? You’ll be in hell this time tomorrow!” someone shouted.

“Hell is too good for you!” another said.

Judge Clark banged his gavel a few times, then realizing the futility of it, looked at the deputy.

“Get his sorry carcass out of here,” he said.

Acting Sheriff Lewis Baker had been napping at his desk when something awakened him. Opening his eyes, he looked around the inside of the sheriff’s office. The room was dimly lit by a low-burning kerosene lantern. A breath of wind moved softly through the open window, causing the wanted posters to flutter on the bulletin board.

A pot of coffee sat on a small, wood-burning stove filling the room with its rich armoa. 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. The acting sheriff rubbed his eyes, then stood up and stretched. Stepping over to the stove, he used his hat as a heat pad and grabbed the metal handle to pour himself a cup of coffee. Taking a sip of his coffee, he glanced over toward the jail cell. He was surprised to see that Pardeen wasn’t asleep, but was sitting up on his bunk.

Baker chuckled. “What’s the matter, Pardeen?” he asked. He took another slurping drink of his coffee. “Can’t sleep?”

“No,” Pardeen growled.

“Well, I don’t know as I blame you none,” the acting sheriff said. “I mean, you’re goin’ to die in about four more hours, so you may as well stay awake and enjoy what little time you got left on this earth.” He took another swallow of his coffee.

“Ahhh,” 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.

He gasped in surprise when he saw someone standing between himself and his desk. He had not heard the man come in.

“Who the hell are you?” Baker asked gruffly. “And what the hell are you doing in here? You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

“My name is Corbett. I’ve come to visit Mr. Pardeen.”

“There ain’t no visitors authorized right now,” Baker said.

“I’ve got some sad news for him.”

“Sad news?”

“Yeah, his brother was killed.”

Unexpectedly, Baker chuckled. “Is that a fact? His brother was killed, was he? Well, now, I wouldn’t want to keep our prisoner from getting any sad news,” he said. He made a motion toward the cell. “You just go ahead and tell Pardeen about his brother. The son of a bitch is going to be dead in four more hours. I’d like to do everything in my power to make his last hours as unpleasant as I can.” Baker laughed again.

Corbett nodded, then walked over to the cell. “Pardeen, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your brother Emerson got hisself kilt last week.”

“Who killed him?”

“A fella by the name of Smoke Jensen. You ever hear of him?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him. How’d it happen?”

“Damn’dest thing you ever saw. Emerson had his gun drawed already, and he was comin’ back on the hammer when Smoke Jensen drawed his gun and shot him.”

“You seen this, did you?” Pardeen asked.

“Yeah, I seen it.”

“He must be pretty fast.”

“He is fast. He’s faster’n anyone I ever seen.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care how fast he is. I’m goin’ to kill him.”

Acting Sheriff Baker laughed so hard that he sprayed coffee. “You’re going to kill him? And how are you going to do that? Come sunrise, you’re goin’ to be hangin’ by your neck.” He put his fist by his neck, then make a rasping sound with his voice and tilted his head in a pantomime of hanging.

“Give me your gun,” Pardeen said quietly.

Nodding, Corbett drew his pistol and passed it through the bars to Pardeen.

“Sheriff, you want to step over here for a moment?” Pardeen called.

“What do you want?” the acting sheriff asked. Then, shocked at seeing a pistol in Pardeen’s hand, he threw up his arms. “No!” he shouted in fear.

Without so much as another word, Pardeen shot the deputy.

“When you get to hell, tell my brother hello for me,” Pardeen said.

“Where are the keys?” Corbett asked.

“They’re over there, hanging on a hook behind the desk,” Pardeen said, pointing.

Corbett stepped quickly over to the hook, took down the keys, then returned to unlock the cell door. “I’ve got a couple of horses in the alley,” he said.

“I appreciate you doin’ this for me.”

“Well, your brother was my friend. I’d like to see the son of a bitch who killed him pay for it. And I figure you’re the one who can make him do it.”

The two men stepped out into the alley, but instead of going toward the two horses that were tied off in back, Pardeen turned and started walking up the dark alley.

“Hey, the horses is over here,” Corbett called.

“I got somewhere else I’m goin’ to first,” Pardeen said with an impatient grunt.

“Where you got to go that’s so important we can’t ride outta here while we have the chance?” Corbett asked.

“The hotel.”

“Why we goin’ to the hotel?”

“You’ll see when I get there,” Pardeen replied. “That is, if you’re a’comin’ with me.”

“Yeah,” Corbett answered. “Yeah, I’m comin’ with you.”

The two men moved silently through the dark shadows of the alley until they reached the hotel. Slipping in through the front door, they could hear the snores of the night clerk who was on duty. Crossing the darkened lobby, Pardeen turned the registration book around so he could read the entries.

“What are you lookin’ for?” Corbett whispered.

“Ain’t lookin’. I found it,” Pardeen replied, also in a whisper. He reached over behind the sleeping clerk and took a key down from a board filled with keys. Re-crossing the lobby, Pardeen started up the stairs with Corbett, still unsure as to what they were doing, climbing the stairs behind him.

Reaching the second floor, the two men stopped for just a moment. A couple of candles that were set in wall sconces lit the hallway in a flickering orange light. The snoring of the various residents could be heard through the closed doors.

“He’s down this way,” Pardeen hissed.

“Who is?”

“The judge.”

“We’re lookin’ for a judge? Why?”

“He’s the son of a bitch that sentenced me to hang,” Pardeen said. “I want to send a message to all the other judges so that if I ever get in this position again, they’ll think twice before trying to hang me.”

They walked quietly down the carpeted hallway until they found the door Pardeen was looking for. Slowly, he unlocked the door, then pushed it open.

The judge was snoring peacefully.

Pardeen pulled his gun and pointed it toward the judge. Then, having second thoughts, he put the gun away.

“You got a knife?” he asked.

“Yeah, I got a knife,” Corbett answered.

“Let me borrow it.”

Corbett pulled his knife from its sheath and handed it to Pardeen. Pardeen raised the knife over the judge, paused for a moment, then pulled it back down.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Corbett hissed.

“I want the son of a bitch to wake up long enough to know what’s happening to him, and and to see who is doing it.”

Corbett nodded.

Pardeen reached down to cover the judge’s mouth with his hand.

“Wake up, you son of a bitch,” he said.

The judge snorted in mid-snore, then opened his eyes. For just a moment there was confusion in his eyes, but when he recognized Pardeen, the confusion turned to fear, then terror. He tried to speak, but couldn’t because Pardeen’s hand was clamped down over his mouth.

“Ha! Bet you never thought you’d see me again, did you?”

The judge tried to speak again, but it came out as a squeak.

“Oh, I guess you’re wonderin’ how I got here, huh? Well, I tell you, Judge. I just killed the deputy and broke jail, and now I’ve come to kill you. What was it you said in court? Something about finding a contrivance or means to suspend me from the ground long enough to break my neck?”

Pardeen laughed a guttural laugh that was without humor.

“Well, this here knife is all the contrivance I need, Judge.”

Pardeen pulled his hand away from the judge’s mouth. The judge tried to sit up, but before he could, Pardeen brought his knife across the judge’s neck. The judge put his hands up to his throat, then, with a gurgling sound, fell back down onto the pillow. He flopped once or twice like a fish out of water, then lay still in a growing pool of blood.

“Is he dead?” Corbett asked.

“Yeah, he’s dead.”

Corbett went over to the window and tried to raise it.

“What are you doin’?”

“Killin’ a judge like we done, maybe we ought to go out this way before somebody comes after us,” Corbett said.

Pardeen laughed. “Who’s goin’ to come after us, Corbett? I killed the sheriff last week, the deputy and the judge tonight. They ain’t nobody left to come after us.”

Corbett thought for a moment, then laughed out loud.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, there ain’t nobody left to come after us.”