Rampage of the Mountain Man

“Put the signs on ’em,” Staley said. “We’ll leave ’em here as a warnin’ to other cow thieves.”

One of Staley’s men rode up to the three dead rustlers, then pinned a sign onto each one of them.

COW RUSTLERS

CAUGHT AND HUNG BY THE

CATTLEMEN’S PROTECTIVE

ASSOCIATION

“That’s, good,” Staley said. “Now we’ll take the fifty cows back to Dawkins and collect our pay.”

“Fifty cows? You mean we ain’t goin’ to take ’em all back? They’s about a hunnert cows here,” one of Staley’s deputies said.

“No, you are mistaken. I only see fifty cows here,” Staley said pointedly.

The deputy realized then what Staley was saying. “Oh,” he replied, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, now that I recount them, fifty is all I get as well.”

Trent Williams was standing at the front window of the bank, looking out onto Salcedo’s main street when he saw Staley and his men riding back into town. They made a rather imposing sight, ten men, all wearing long trench coats and wide-brimmed hats pulled low over their eyes. Stopping in front of a building that bore a sign reading CATTLEMEN’S PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION, Staley dismounted, then gave the reins of his horse to one of the others. All the rest of the men rode on down to the livery, but Staley, after raking the bottoms of his boots in the edge of the board porch, went into his office.

Williams turned away from the window and saw Gilbert, his chief teller, dealing with a customer. The customer, a woman, received a deposit slip, then turned toward the door. She smiled and nodded her head at Williams.

“Mr. Williams,” she said.

“Mrs. Rittenhouse,” Williams replied.

Williams waited until Mrs. Rittenhouse left the bank. Then he called out to his teller.

“Mr. Gilbert?”

“Yes, Mr. Williams?” Gilbert replied.

“I’m going to be out of the bank for a short while. You handle anything that comes up.”

“Yes, Mr. Williams.”

Williams returned to his office, got his hat, then left the bank.

When Williams stepped into the building belonging to the Cattlemen’s Protective Association a few minutes later, he saw that Staley had the door of the little stove open and was throwing wood into the flames. Though the fire was going, it had not yet built up enough heat to push back the cold, and Staley was still wearing his coat.

“Sheriff Staley?” Williams said.

“I’m no longer the sheriff,” Staley said.

“I’m sorry. You were sheriff for so long that it seems natural to call you that.”

“What do you want, Williams?”

“I, uh…” Williams cleared his throat. “Did you get my telegram, Sheri—uh, Mr. Staley?”

Staley turned toward him. “Yeah, I got your telegram,” he said.

“Then you know that I have a proposition for you.”

“I believe what you said was that you had a profitable proposition for me,” Staley said, emphasizing the word “profitable.”

“Yes. Indeed, it could be very profitable,” Williams replied.

“How profitable?”

“Five thousand dollars profitable,” Williams said.

“Seventy-five hundred,” Staley replied.

“Seventy-five hundred?” Williams gasped. “What makes you think it should be seventy-five hundred dollars? You don’t even know what the proposition is. Five thousand dollars is a lot of money, Mr. Staley.”

“Yes, it is a lot of money,” Staley agreed. “And it doesn’t matter what the proposition is. If you are willing to pay me five thousand to do whatever it is you want done, that means you are making a lot more money than you are going to be paying me. I want seven thousand five hundred dollars from you or we don’t do business.”

Williams stroked his chin for a moment as he contemplated the demand. Finally, he nodded.

“All right, seventy-five hundred dollars,” he said. He pointed to Staley. “But I can only pay the money after the job is done.”

“What is the job?”

“There is a herd of cattle coming up from Colorado,” Williams said. “I need that herd.”

“I see,” Staley said. “You say you want the herd but…”

“I didn’t say I want the herd, I said I need the herd,” Williams replied. “Everything depends on it. Especially your”—he paused as if saying the amount of money was distasteful to him—“seventy-five hundred dollars.”

“Uh-huh,” Staley replied. The stove was beginning to put out a little warmth now and he took his coat off to hang on a hook on the wall. He was wearing a pistol belt and the holster was hanging low on the right side. The pistol was kicked out so that as his hand hung naturally, it was no more than an inch or so from the butt. Staley