Rampage of the Mountain Man

Chapter Sixteen

Salcedo

It was nine o’clock on a Tuesday morning and Trent Williams was in the barbershop getting his weekly shave.

“Have you seen Jason Adams yet?” Cook asked as he applied the razor to Williams’s face.

“No, not yet,” Williams said. “But I expect to be seeing him today.”

“Yes, sir, I expect you will,” Cook said. “Jason is one happy man.”

“Well, I’m glad he is taking it so well,” Williams said. “When I first offered him the deal, he seemed a little hesitant. But as I explained to him, it is the only way he can save his ranch.”

“Hesitant? Why would he be hesitant?” Cook asked.

“Well, let’s face it. In order to keep from having his ranch go into foreclosure, he is going to have to give up his entire herd. That’s quite a sacrifice to make, but at least it will save his ranch.”

“Oh, he isn’t going to have to give up his ranch,” Cook said. He made another stroke across Williams’s face. “He isn’t going to have to give up anything. He’s coming in to pay off the loan.”

“What?” Williams shouted, sitting up so fast that Cook cut his face. “Damn it, man, you have cut me!”

“I’m sorry, sir!” Cook said, chagrined at his mistake. He began wiping off the lather to examine the cut. “You rose up so quickly that…”

“Here, give me that!” Williams shouted, grabbing the towel. He wiped off his face and examined the cut. It was very small and was barely bleeding.

“Fortunately, it doesn’t look very bad,” Cook said, reaching up to touch it.

“Just leave it alone,” Williams said irritably. Williams treated his own cut for a moment; then, when it was obvious that it wasn’t going to bleed anymore, he looked over at Cook.

“What do you mean Adams is going to pay off the loan? How the hell is he going to pay off his loan?”

“Well, after old Mr. Devaney died, Jason said it seemed like the right thing for him to do.”

“Devaney? Abner Devaney?”

“Yes, sir, that’s the one.”

“What does Devaney dying have to do with whether or not Adams pays off his note?”

“Well, sir, as I’m sure you know, Mr. Devaney was Millie Adams’s father. When he died, he left all his money to her.”

“All his money?” Williams shook his head. “What are you talking about? That old fool didn’t have any money.”

Cook chuckled. “Oh, yes, sir, he did. Turns out he had quite a bit of money. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

“But how could he have money? He didn’t have as much as one dime in the bank.”

“No, sir, he didn’t, but that don’t mean he didn’t have no money. He said he didn’t believe in banks. He always kept his money in a jar, buried out back of his place.”

“How much money was it?”

“According to Jason, it was a little over three thousand dollars. I don’t know how much he owes, but he says that’s enough to pay off his note.”

“Yes,” Williams said in a low, growling type voice. “Yes, that is quite enough.”

Cook smiled broadly. “Well, there you go then. I know you told me that you bought the note. You must be happy, knowing that you aren’t going to be stuck with the note.”

“Yes, very happy,” Williams replied, though the expression on his face indicated that he was anything but happy. Where would he get his cows now?

With Walking Bear

Walking Bear stood on the rock and looked far down into the valley at the two wagons moving slowly along the road that paralleled Wind River. Four soldiers rode in front of the wagons and four soldiers rode behind. One who had stripes on his sleeves rode alongside. Walking Bear knew that a soldier who had stripes on his sleeves was a soldier chief, and that could only mean one thing. Something very valuable was being carried by the wagons.

Looking behind him, Walking Bear saw twenty mounted warriors awaiting his orders. He felt a swelling of pride because so many had left the camp of Red Eagle to follow him. Red Eagle was an old man whose time had passed. Walking Bear was young and strong and unafraid of the white man. Soon, all in Red Eagle’s camp would follow him, and perhaps other camps as well. He would lead not twenty, but many times twenty, a mighty nation of warriors, and they would drive the white man away from the ancient land of the Cheyenne once and for all.

He came back down from the rock.

“What did you see, Walking Bear?” one of the warriors asked.

“Two wagons,” Walking Bear reported. “They are heavy with things the white man values.”

“Are there soldiers?”

“Yes, soldiers in front and in the back. A soldier chief rides alongside.”

“Perhaps we should let the wagons pass,” one of the others suggested.

“If you are a woman, too frightened to do battle, you may stay,” Walking Bear said. He beat his fist against his chest. “I will attack the soldiers and take what is in the wagons. Brave hearts will go with me, cowards will stay behind.”

The Indian who suggested that they should let the wagons pass was shamed by Walking Bear’s words and, to redeem himself, he rode to the front, then turned to face the other warriors. He held his rifle over his head.

“I, Little Hawk, will ride by the side of Walking Bear when we attack the soldiers!” he shouted.

The others let out a shout of defiance and held their rifles aloft as well.

Walking Bear nodded in appreciation, then turned and started riding behind the ridgeline, approaching the wagons and soldiers in a way that kept the warriors out of sight.

When he reached the end of the valley, he led them up to the top of the ridgeline. As he had planned, the wagons were now beyond so that, as the warriors came down the hill, they would be approaching the wagons from the rear.

Lifting his rifle to his shoulder, Walking Bear aimed at the soldier riding at the end. He fired, and the soldier tumbled from the saddle.

“Eeeeeyaahhh!” Walking Bear yelled, and the shout was picked up by the other warriors.

“Indians!” one of the soldiers called, his voice cracking with fear.

The wagon drivers urged their teams into a gallop, but the wagons were too heavily laden and Walking Bear and his warriors overtook them easily. Walking Bear divided his men into two columns, sending one to one side of the wagons and the other to the other side. Recognizing the leader of the soldiers by the stripes on his sleeves, Walking Bear shot him.

With their leader down, the remaining soldiers seemed unsure of what to do. Half of them slowed their horses and attempted to give battle, but the others galloped away, abandoning their fellow soldiers and the wagons.

Little Hawk, perhaps in a attempt to make up for his earlier hesitancy, rode up close enough to leap from his horse into one of the wagons. He killed the driver with his war club, then, even as he was holding up his hands, whooping in victory, was shot. He tumbled from the wagon and was run over by the wheels.

The second wagon driver was killed. Then the two remaining soldiers, realizing that they were now alone, tried to flee, but they were both run down and killed.

The Indians overtook the lumbering wagons and brought them to a halt.

Walking Bear beamed with pride over the tremendous success of his adventure. Behind him in the road lay seven dead soldiers, including the soldier leader and the two drivers. Only four of the soldiers had gotten away, and they had not even attempted to give battle. As for the losses Walking Bear suffered, Little Hawk was the only warrior killed.

“Get the food from the wagons,” Walking Bear said. “We will take it to the village of Red Eagle. Let us see him tell the people they cannot take food from us.”

Several of his warriors leaped up onto the wagons and rolled back the tarpaulin cover. Both wagons were filled with boxes and the Indians proceeded to break into the boxes.

“Iron!” one of the Indians said in exasperation when he saw that the box contained nothing but large pieces of blued iron. “Why would they put iron in boxes?”

“No food, Walking Bear,” one of the others said in disgust. “You said there would be food, but there is no food.”

Walking Bear stared at the boxes, nearly all of which had been opened now. There was white man’s writing on the outside of the boxes, but he was unable to read it.

STOVE, HEATING

DISASSEMBLED

“Aaaarggghh!” Walking Bear shouted in anger and frustration as he watched his triumph slip away from him.

Sorento, Wyoming Territory

A train sat on the tracks at the depot, its relief valve venting steam. A small white sign nailed to the railroad depot identified the town as Sorento, Wyoming Territory. The town was small, with a posted population of two hundred fifteen, but it was busy beyond its size because it was a railhead to which surrounding ranchers brought their cattle.

The air of the town was perfumed with the strong odor of the several hundred cows that were now waiting in feeder lots awaiting shipment.

Trent Williams dismounted in front of a small building that had a sign out front identifying it as the Indian agency. A small bell was attached to the door, and it rang as he opened it to step inside. The inside of the building was bare of any type of decoration, and consisted only of a waist-high counter that separated the entrance from the rest of the building.

Shortly after Williams stepped inside, a large man with muttonchops and chin whiskers came into the room. He was wearing a three-piece suit with a vest that was stretched by his girth.

“Yes, can I help you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Mr. Abernathey. Colin Abernathy.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Abernathy isn’t here. His office is in Laramie. My name is Cephus Malone. May I help you?”

“I don’t understand. Isn’t Abernathy the purchasing agent for cattle to be used to supply the Indians?”

“Yes, he is, but he is in Washington right now and won’t be back until the fifth of next month,” the man answered. “In the meantime, I am authorized to accept delivery of the cattle, and to give you a receipt which will be redeemed by Mr. Abernathy for the appropriate amount. I’m Cephus Malone. Do you have cattle?”

“Yes,” Williams said.

Malone smiled. “Ahh, then you must be Mr. Kirby Jensen. Well, Mr. Jensen, I must confess that you got here much sooner than I thought you would. You have three thousand head for me, I believe?”

Williams didn’t know anything about Kirby Jensen or his cattle, but for the time being it he thought it might be a good idea to go along with Malone’s belief that he was Jensen.

“Yes, three thousand head.”

“Good, good. As soon as I make an inventory of the cattle, I can issue a government draft for the funds. Where are the cattle? Just outside of town?”

“Uh, no, the herd isn’t here yet.”

“Well, I can understand,” Malone said. “It’s a long way up here from Big Rock, Colorado. But the sooner you can get them here, the better.”

“Yes, well, I just wanted to check and see if you still wanted to purchase the cattle.”

“Mind you, in order to secure the purchase you must be the first one to deliver the cattle,” Malone said. “And I must warn you, you are not the only one in the picture. A man named Trent Williams has also contacted us for possible delivery.”

“Yes, I understand,” Williams replied. “I’ll rejoin the herd and bring them up as fast as I can.”

As Williams left Malone’s office, his mind was racing with possibilities. If he could deliver over three thousand head, that would be over one hundred thousand dollars. All he had to do was get control of the three thousand head of cattle that a man named Kirby Jensen was bringing up from Colorado.

The way Williams saw it, there were two problems to contend with.

Problem number one was to find the herd.

Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult. After all, given the mountains, passes, and rivers, how many ways up from Big Rock, Colorado, were there?

Problem number two would be to take the herd once he found it.

That shouldn’t be too difficult either. With three thousand head, he could afford to hire a band of men to do the job for him and still have more money than he would have had had he been able to take Jason Adams’s herd.

He could afford such a band of men, and he knew just where to find them.

Before going to bed that night, Trent Williams sent a telegram back to Salcedo. The recipient of the telegram was a man name Will Staley. Staley was the former sheriff, but had been defeated in the last election because of accusations that he had been in cahoots with a cattle rustler.

Staley denied the accusations, but was defeated anyway. Now he operated a private cattle protective agency going after rustlers. Although he was no longer a sheriff, and no longer had territorial authority to make arrests, he compensated for that by declaring himself a bounty hunter, and indeed, he did collect bounty on those who were wanted. But his primary income came from the cattlemen who hired him. There were those who said that Staley didn’t always let the law get in the way of getting the job done, especially if there was enough money involved.

Williams was sure that he could offer Staley enough money to get the job done. But he could pay only if Staley succeeded in getting a herd for him. And the herd Malone had mentioned, the one belonging to a man named Kirby Jensen, would be that herd.