Fictional Story - Recollections of a Western Deputy: The deaths of Sheriff Bond and Marshall Jackson and the semi-retirement that followed

Fictional Story - Recollections of a Western Deputy

A next and possibly closing installment (no promises...we'll see) of the fictional narrative of Recollections of a Western Deputy (1871 -1897). 

The deaths of Sheriff Bond and Marshall Jackson and the semi-retirement that followed

    March 14, 1884, was a nightmare.   Sheriff Bond was all set to retire, stepping aside for two new qualified men to be elected to fill his shoes in June.  He and his Mrs. would never see the day.   Marshall Jackson was dying of a stomach cancer, and he had only months left to live, but was keeping his illness on the quiet.  He would come in the office at all odd hours in the whole 24 hours of day and night, stay for anywhere from 45 minutes to 3 hours, and disappear for hours at a time.  He was going through more than 2 bottle of cocaine opiate kind of cough syrup, and sometimes when you walked up to the door of his house, you could hear him screamin’ through a closed mouth, sometimes grittin’ his teeth, doubling over or grabbin’ onto a chair or table or wall in intense pain. 

On March 12^th, two of the other deputy marshals brought in five visitin’ ex-cattle punchers who raped the wife of a passing denizen and beat the husband near to death.   The sixth who raped and killed the one female child died in a hail of gunfire at the scene of the crime  by his own confederates, and that led to there bein’ witnesses and evidence left at the scene to leave no doubt as to who these low downs was.  In less than two hours, near 80 armed townsfolk and the two deputy marshals on duty had these men rounded up and ready for a hemp neck-tie party, but Marshal Jackson rode out, and ordered the no-goods off to jail, to be shipped out to the Capitol for trial.  There would be no opportunity to blow up his office and jail again, as was done months previous.  It was called a change of venue.  Within 3 hours, both deputy marshals plus one more, levin’ me and the jailer behind, would be escortin’ the varmits to our State Capitol for trial thar’. 

Meanwhile, as that was a happenin’, 13 men from Canada rode in, led by a man called Jacque Chirac.  He was wanted by the Canadian Mounties in the worst way, but we didn’t know it yet.  They came and took up residence in LeRoy’s Saloon, where they used a long sheet of cast iron to sear up some of the best beef one ever ate, as well as had singers and 5 musicians and dance hall women, and 15 rooms for sleepin’ it off to boot.   On the mornin’ of the 14^th, I was called to settle a ruckus thar’ between some of Chirac’s men and about 20 of the townsfolk.  One of Chirac’s men cheated at cards and then used a knife to stick through the hand of the one accusin’ him, and pin it to the card table.  As Chirac’s man stood up, an Ace of Spades and an Ace of Diamonds fell from his sleeve to the floor.  When the cards were counted by an onlooker, there was 56 cards in a 52 card deck that Chirac’s man was shufflin’ in the game as he was called on his cheatin’.  I came in at a Mexican standoff.  3 of Chirac’s men had drew down on the town, and the town drew down on them.  I ordered everyone to holster their weapons.  The townsfolk complied, Chirac’s men didn’t.  The cheater then said the words, “Marshal, I’ze gonna kill you.”   As soon as he said it, I quick drew faster than they could realize to pull the triggers, and splatter the backs of their heads and brains across the room.  I then quick drew with my left and shot one of Chirac’s men who was then pulling up a sawed off shotgun to my left, and then pointed both barrels at a sittin’ Chirac who sat quietly with both hands stretched out on the table in front of him, starin’ blankly ahead, some weird gold lookin’ Indian smithy doo-dad around his neck .  I took him and 8 of his boys into custody with the help of the 20 townsfolk who earlier had their guns out, and locked these foreigners up.

As I went down to the telegraph and sent off several wires, lingerin’ over a bit as I was  inquirin’, I was gone well near an hour or more as I reckon.  In the meantime, Marshal Jackson got the word, came to the office, and moments afore I got back, released them all, orderin’ Chirac and his remainin’ 8 men out of town, and without their guns.  I was flabbergasted.  Me and the Marshal then went inside and had strong words so hot, that it was a wonder we didn’t set the roof on fire.  I was so angry, that if the Mrs. would have come in at that wrong moment, I would have forgot myself and washed her mouth out with soap…I was that mad.  Afterwards, I followed Chirac out about 8 miles, and then rode back, and went straight to the Telegraph Office.  


At the Telegraph office, I learned that Chirac was wanted serious in Canada.  An international warrant was issued for his arrest.  He and his men had killed 3 different Sheriffs and 4 railroad deputies on the way down here, and raped and killed half a dozen more folks who worked for the railroad, both men and women, and in the United States, there was issued a Dead or Alive on him, which means they prefer him dead.  For folks round these parts, Sodomy is still a Capital Offense that rarely is ever spoke about, or ever makes it to trial.  Usually before the Law gets them, the night riders or some outlaws do the favor and often disappear without a trace.  It is somethin’ that even if everyone sees it, it never happened, and unshakeable alibis spring up fast like fresh grass after a good rain to prove they was somewhere’s else than they was.  Chirac had a bounty of 8000 pound on himself alone, and with his men, another 5000 more in Canada.  Here in the United States and territories, he was worth an additional $15,000 offered by the railroad, and $3500 offered by the three towns whose Sheriffs he killed.  Marshall Jackson had cost me some serious money and serious time if I was to go after the skunk.  Two more of my old troop had moved here on invite from the other 4 who served under me durin’ the War, and I had the sense to put them on standby as my Minuteman Posse to help keep me from getting’ blowed up again as I explained in my last entry.

I sent my 3 eldest boys out to notify them to be ready at first light, and I sent my eldest daughter Hallie to notify my cousin Beth that we would need 10 days  of provisions for 7 of us, and  I would have my new pack horse, Nellie, carry most of that. 

 I went and notified two newly appointed reserve deputy marshals, Lars the Blacksmith, and his brother-in-law who I called Findon, (always forgettin’ how to say his Finnish first name), that they would be on duty beginnin’ 8 that night and keepin’ a low profile at the office, lettin’ Sheriff Bond and his two new deputies take care of the town when they was about to do so.    

After these things, I went home, spent time with the kids and the wife, and went to bed early after supper.  At 1:30 in the mornin’, I awoke suddenly and drew my revolver and sprung from bed, as I tried to perceive where the dream ended, and the reality of the darkened bedroom began.  The wife whispered out, “What is it?”  “Shhh”, I replied.  As I stood thar' tryin' to fully wake up,  I thought for a moment a shadowy figure was to my left, with a face looking much like Marshall Jackson was fallin’ in pain, and to my right, two unknown shadowy bodies layin' on the floor, but just for a moment thar’ and then they was gone. 

“Somethin’s wrong”, I told my Mrs.    Immediately I went and checked on the children, and then about the house on the inside and then out the kitchen door and about the house on the outside.  Nothin’.  Yet, there was a sense of urgency, an urgency to be somewhere’s else right quick.  As I came back to the kitchen door, knowin' I had just killed 4 men and the gang being set at liberty for no good reason,   the wife had her two gun pistol belt and a short barreled 12 gauge shotgun in her hands.  I explained briefly what I was feelin’ and barred the side door, and expressed some private feelings and then rushed off to finish gettin’ all the way dressed.  While I was doin’ that, the Mrs. woke Winchester up, gave him his .41 pistol belt and a .30-.30 Winchester and told him to get dressed quick and to follow me at a distance.  My pausin’ at the door to kiss the wife goodbye was enough to have Winchester make it to the kitchen before I was out the door.  The Mrs. explained to me briefly what was goin’ on, and I told Winchester to count slowly to 10 before trailin’ me.  He gave me a “Yes, Father.”  I hugged him briefly and kissed him on the forehead and turned and rushed out the door as the wife lightly touched my shoulder goodbye as I passed runnin' with my two gun holster belt, a saddle bag full of ammunition over the left shoulder held fast by my left hand and a .44-.40 rifle in the other hand kept straight down to help me keep my wind.   

I was so concerned that I found myself  doin' somethin' I almost never do anymore, I was runnin’ down the road toward Main Street, not even stoppin’ to saddle Good Ole Boy.  It was like I didn’t have the time.  After more than a quarter of a mile, I made it south into Main street, and for some unknown reason, I then ran East.  About 200 feet later, on the north side, was Sheriff Bond’s little house, and thar' at the little picket fence gate lay Marshall Jackson and one of Chirac’s men, both dead.  :ight was comin' down from the porch lantern of the house, and I could reckon Marshall Jackson had been stabbed.  I would later find out he had been stabbed some 19 times, the first 7 from behind, but he had somehow fought and then taken the knife away from his attacker, and stuck in in his murderer’s skull like he was bringin’ down an ice pick.  And there they was, blood so flooded out black, even in the flickering shadowy semi-darkness, you could both see it shine like black water and also smell it more than 40 feet away even if you didn’t see it right off.  Then I noticed the Sheriff’s home door had been forced open, like it had been kicked open, even though there were no locks on his doors.  Another lamp was burnin’ dimly sideways on the floor, and havin’ the oil so low, it had not exploded.  The Sheriff’s right fist was closed up, and his face was beat in so badly, that one would never had knowed it had ever been a human face.  His fat wife lay naked, raped, and strangled to death next to her husband’s body.  No one was about.  In the Sheriff’s hand was the Cree Indian Smithy doo-dad I saw around Chirac’s neck only yesterday.    I rushed outside, and scanned about.  Another 30 feet or more by the next horse trough, lay both of Sheriff Bond's new deputies, dead.  I saw my eldest boy Winchester behind me a ways at a short distance and asked by using Indian sign language if he had seen anything.  He responded with his hands that he saw lots of shadows running behind these buildings on the north side of the street in the direction towards our house.  I then spoke out loud and told him to hit take up the hammer at the town bell and give the alarm of an Indian attack, and to hop to it, and to send anyone in town toward our home and to yell the name Chirac.   

As Winchester ran towards the town alarm bell, just then, I could hear the sound of the Mrs. lettin’ loose with both barrels and immediately with both revolvers.  She had also had the good sense to also wake the next two oldest boys and sharp-shootin’ Hallie (as long as she could rest her rifle on a post or sill or somethin' because of her age), who herself from the kitchen window opposite the door from her mother, cleaned two quick almost 100 yard shots of Chirac’s crew before they ever knew there was a second and third and fourth gun and gun port now shootin’ back from the house.  I ran like I was 17 again, sprintin’ like I was a man racin’ a horse.  As I rounded the corner and up our street, I could hear the Indian Alarm bein’ sounded.  As I approached within a about 100 feet of where Chirac was, it was a hail of gunfire.  I dodged behind a shade tree just outside our corner fence, and let loose, reloaded, and let loose again.  After which, I could hear voices of folk rallyin’ already, and calls out by Lars and Findon, as they rode up a ways.  Findon’s horse was shot out from under him, and he broke his leg.  Lars got off, returned fire for 4 shots and pulled Findon to safety.    Chirac and his men then let out a final volley at me and then at my house as I fired at where I saw the pistol flashes comin’ from.  
About 7 of the townsfolk came up the street and opened fire on Chirac's gang, and I counted 14 or 15 flashes, which was more than what I was expectin'.  Chirac had picked up a group of 5 out of work cattle rustlers from somewheres who joined him for the chance at seein' the killin' Marshal Jackson, who they blamed for killin' someone of their outfit who tried to shoot me from behind by Saloon bushwhack, who Marshal Jackson promptly shot dead through the back and through the heart.  The Mrs. and the children, and me and 7 of the townsfolk laid in hot lead hard and fast, and suddenly there was so much smoke that we couldn't tell for a moment what was what.  

Then, we heard Chirac and some of his boys move East into the dark, and then heard the neighing of horses.  As the hoof-beats began ridin', I ran across the road toward Chirac as he and 3 of his boy on horseback let loose at me and at my house, as they made their way to the road emptyin' their 6 guns, and then rode north.  By this time another 8 or 9 townsfolk came runnin' with their guns, and a hail of fire was laid at the riders, droppin' the 3 riders and also shootin' the horses of those 3 who followed Chirac.  But Chirac was gettin' away.  


Suddenly,  I heard a cry from the wife comin’ from the house, and couldn’t quite make out what was said.  As I ran up on where Chirac’s men was, one of them fired, grazin’ my left rib flesh below the heart, and I finished him with all left 6 cold before reactin’ in a pain that should have sent my bullets off target, and used my right revolver to make sure of the others. 

As the smoke began to clear, another 20 more  of the town folks armed, ran up being led up the street by Winchester.  Suddenly, the heavy kitchen door slowly swung out as my second eldest boy yelled to me that Hallie was dead.  I ran up just far enough to see the lamp shinin' down on her lifeless lookin' body, and what looked like her brains comin' out of her forehead where they shot her.   I was almost beside myself.  I ran and saddled up Good Ole Boy in a rustler’s minute, and called out to Lars who also came a runnin' that he and Old man Jenkins (an ex-marshal himself) were to take charge, and that the Marshal, the Sheriff, and his Mrs., and both the Sheriff's deputies were all dead at and by Sheriff Bond's home.  They were all murdered by Chirac or at the behest of Chirac.  Notify my troop that I was trailin’ them north to Batlersville, and I need the telegraph to send word out to everyone what had happened and to take the necessary precautions and that I was trailin’ those murderers, so not to shoot at me. By the time I barked these order out speakin' very fast, I was saddled and mountin' my horse, who was anxious and rarin' to go in his nervous excitement.  

Then I rode off as the Mrs. tried to call out to me from the kitchen door, but I was ridin’ too hard and too reckless fast into the night tryin' to guide Good Ole Boy by memory on a road I couldn't see to quite hear her. 

What I didn’t know, and wouldn’t know until after I got back, was that Chirac or his men had shot the Winchester rifle that Hallie was shootin' with, and the bullet ricocheted above her head and exploded a can of tomatoes.   She had been standin’ on a stool, and the gun reared back and smacked her on the face and forehead, and she fell back and hit the back of her head on the floor and knocked herself out.  In just a little over 4 days she would be just about back again to normal.  But I didn’t know this at the time.  About a mile south of Batlersville I was within 50 yards makin’ curves this way and that in the road, with all these wagons from who knows where or what on the side of the road, some with people in them,  so as to keep me from getting’ a clear shot. 

Then, Chirac's horse loosed a front left shoe, lost his footing and stumbled, and he and Chirac went head over heels and down hard into the road by a small ranch house with a chicken coop about 25 feet back from the road and 60 feet away from the house, havin' a sign that I later read that said, "Chickens and Eggs For Sale."    I saw Chirac just well enough to see him make his way over to that chicken coop, but as I got off Good Ole Boy with my .44-.40 in hand, and circled around, I saw no sign of him.  I then measured off my through shots would go harmlessly into an open field and an empty road, and then I laid 14 rifle shots into the chicken coop and then emptied both revolvers, and reloaded.  The owner came out of the Ranch House with a single shot 10 gauge,  and I identified myself and told him that I was chasing a fugitive who just killed 4 officers of the Law, one of their wives and my daughter, and to get his sorry backside in the house and take cover; after which I laid into the chicken coop yet again.  I reloaded my .44-.40 and my revolvers and emptied the rifle and my left revolver, which was now driftin' all over that chicken coup, and reloaded my left revolver and holstered it.  I approached the chicken coop with my right revolver out, and found I had killed more than 50 chickens, not to mention a prize rooster,  and only hit Chirac once through the top of his head where I later found out that the bullet lodged in his teeth.    As he lay a dyin', in his own way, Chirac bit the bullet.  I think now, if I hadn't have had witnesses, I would have burned Chirac's slimy carcass by settin' the chicken coop on fire...but it was only a passin' thought.  When daylight came, it eventually cost me over $280 in a promissory note that I paid off later that same day, $280 in order to make good on that rancher's chicken coup, givin' him perhaps more than 7 times what it was worth.  

I cannot tell you how so overjoyed I was when I came back home later that mornin', well nigh to 10 in the mornin', and found Hallie was alive!  I was so happy that I bought a steer, and all the fixins, includin' beer for the adults, and cases and cases of Sarsaparilla for all the children that would come, and the next day threw an open pit barbeque celebration for Hallie.    But the celebration of livin' lasted for a day.  The State Capitol sent down a replacement U.S. Marshall, half a dozen deputy marshal, a Federal Judge, and a team of three prosecutin' attorneys to find cause as to why I was derelict in my duties, and failed to keep Jacque Chirac and his gang in custody.  They interviewed  more than 200 witnesses in the next several days, and then, after 5 days more, I found myself stripped of my badge, in my own jail, facing 20 years to life.  Word got back to Washington, D.C.  to the right people by telegraph, explainin' my predicament, and about 3 days later, the whole charade of prosecutin' me was shut down and packed out of town.  No explanations were at anytime, even to this day, ever given me.  Not a one.  I was given by United States reward money for Chirac in paper money, given my deputy marshal's badge back, and offered no apology or anything.  I accepted the deputy marshal badge on the condition that I was allowed to be a RESERVE Deputy until I didn't want it or wasn't needed anymore, and would be left alone until or unless something serious came up.  It was a kind of retirement, but not completely.  I worked an average of 3 to 5 days a month for the next 13 years, and except for puttin' up more with my mother-in-law (until she passed in 1891), enjoyed just about every extra minute of my new free time to be with my Mrs. and family without havin' to get hurt serious to do it as much as I like to spend time with them all (except you know who..."old battle axe"). 

On November 17, 1897, I retired for good from bein' a Deputy United States Marshal.  To my knowledge and best recollection, I killed no man in line of duty or in war that wasn't tryin' to kill me first.    All my children are full growed and happily havin' their own families, and the list of grandchildren grows every year.  Me and the Mrs. are very grateful for havin' survived those tumultuous years that didn't quiet down for us until after 1884, and are content to spend the rest of our days in peace, and lookin' forward to the rest of eternity in Heaven, knowin' the children and the grandchildren will be reassemblin' the family in Heaven as fellow believers in the hereafter.  Oh what a joyous time Heaven will be, if the Heaven and joy on earth is only but a foretaste of what the LORD provides for what is to come to those who believe into and trust on Jesus as their LORD and Savior to the glory of GOD the Father in Heaven.  Amen.

-- Deputy B.   June 26, 1898. 

Fictional Short Story: Recollections of a Western Deputy (1871 -1897) - The Burning Down Of South Town and The Arrest And Deaths of The Mayor, His Town Council and Three Bankers

Fictional Short Story:  Recollections of a Western Deputy (1871 -1897)


January 07, 1884   The Burning Down Of South Town and 
                               The Arrest And Deaths of The Mayor, 
                               His Town Council and Three Bankers

    The events that transpired near drove me to retire from Law Enforcin' for good.  And it took quite a few people quite a number of weeks to git me to come back, and after I explain, you won't be wonderin' why I wanted to git out altogether.  On or about December 6, 1883, a number of officials and 16 fellow marshals got off the train at about 8:40 in the mornin', and as was my habit of late (to chase away card sharps and anyone I didn't like, to tell them to git the hell back on board and vamoose), I met the train and was greeted on the platform by one of the Adjutant General fellas I met only a small bunch of weeks before.   He told me he had some warrants to serve, and I opted to hurry the group over to the new Marshal Buildin' where we had 3 pot bellied stoves to warm us up,  as it was about 20 degrees, and the wind was blowin' somethin' awful.  In the Office, I had two fellow deputy marshals.  One to watch over the jail, one to help me keep the peace.  
    Over a gallon pot of coffee, I was given notice that the Mayor, the Town Council, and 3 of the 5 bankers involved in the land schemin' of South Town up on Bishop's Knoll were indicted in absentia, after all havin' been served by Marshall Jackson 2 weeks afore.  Marshall Jackson kept it on the quiet, because this was the first I ever heard of it.  Marshall Jackson was gone on an 800 mile train trip to visit relatives,  and wouldn't be back until January, and he left me in charge while he was gone.  I was asked about events here abouts, and I told them that since the Sioux raid, most of the townsfolk who was up on Bishop's knoll had packed up and left on their own. Some was bought out at 10 cents on the dollar plus train fare for each person in their family or for themselves for what they had built, or gone in debt.   Some was not paid at all and forcibly evicted by Court Order, usually with one of the Town Council and at least one of the 3 bankers on the arrest warrant, all in rotation, being thar' to give secret signals to Judge Hollister, who also had gone in cahoots with these skunks.  An open arrest warrant was then produced, where I then wrote in the name Judge Henry Lee Hollister, and Judge Hollister was added to the list.  

     I told the Adjutant Attorney officials and the 16 marshals with thaem also how that I served 65 of the more than 170 forcible eviction notices myself.  Where I could, I made provisions for those who were old or for those with young uns to have at least a basket of groceries and blankets if the needed it, for when they left.  Some I even gave a dollar or two besides.  Beth sometimes would throw in an extra or two, dependin' on who I was buyin' it for, and the wife would admonish me about makin' sure I was NOT bein' too generous, as all these folks weren't kin, and most weren't original town folks from our side of town.  I almost got fully town shunned when I helped one out of place colored family of folks, and directed the man to a Ranch I knew that would hire him for a cook and the mother and older children as hands about the main house and stable.  They got the job, I hears, and folks burn with hate that I didn't take care of my own first.  I figured since he was a genuine Christian man, as was his wife, and they was raisin' their kids right and polite and respectful, they was more deservin' bein' hard workin' and truly honest than most white folks I know who was bein' dispossessed that I came across.  One of the 16 visitin' deputy marshals brought up that by my hat, he saw I was a Confederate, and how could a veteran of the Confederacy be friends with the negro?

I told him that sometimes other folks, not much different than him, would bring up the Confederacy, and I would lecture them how that a confederacy of States is what we was as a nation after the Declaration of Independence in 1776 until we got the Constitution and a republic form of Government to go with it.  And the whole Great War of 1861 was started by New York and Boston bankers and industrial runners who started a war for no other cotton pickin' reason than to want their banks and companies to run the South and dictate to the States what they could or could not do, and how it took near 10 months for them to make the cotton pickin'  fake issue of it all bein' about freein' slaves, when they themselves would NOT release all the North's white slaves who were bond servants from any of their slavery where they was.  What a bunch of Yankee manure that it was ALL about freein' slaves!  No, the fight for the Confederacy was foremost about States rights, even after the South was wrongly over-reactin' to an invadin'  Federal Army sent down to provoke the South.  Folks have a right to live with their own, and like States, they should all get along and work together as one people of one nation.  I never cared for Lincoln, and for near 4 years durin' the Great War hated his guts; but at the end, he had it right before he was murdered from behind, when all he was doin' was tryin' to bring everyone back together, unless I am mistaken.  If so, prove me wrong.  After his death, we had no one at the top to call on to stop the Carpetbaggin' thieves who plundered the South, and who murdered with impunity.  The sentiment was we was gettin' what we deserved, and Yankee whites treated us Southern whites worse than the vast majority of slaves, who was by that time mostly generational like the butlers and housekeeps in England was,  at least from what I saw in the State and lands where we was until I left for the war, hopin' to stop any armies from invadin' and rapin and killin' our homefolk like the British did when they was here back in the last century durin' the Revolution.  I still knew survivin' old timers who told us about those days over and over as I was bein' reared up, and a couple of them near and over 100 was still alive when I went away in 1861, and passed on not long after.   

Well, with the sermon ended, we got about to business.  Less than 1000 folks now lived in South Town, with just a few other stores such as a mining supply and a couple of general stores and 5 saloons, as well as the new Courthouse .  I pulled out a map that we had drawn up by the son of the new Pharmacy Drug Store owner's boy who was studyin' to be an illustrator artist.  It was 12 feet wide and 8 feet high, and so huge, it took 3 of us to tack it up to the wall on chairs as it stretched from floor to ceilin'.  There I used a pencil upside down and pointed out where each of the men on the warrants was, or should be, and plotted how we should serve them all about the same time.  That bein' agreed, the warrants was all served right at about 9:50 am.   One of the bankers ran back into his office, and pulled a gun and committed suicide, and another was shot dead resistin' arrest.  The town council member that was at the Courthouse, Councilman Hagan, escaped temporarily and went into Kip's Livery at the west end of town, near the railroad, and two of the visitin' deputy marshals swear he intentionally broke 4 lanterns and started the fire that soon was spread by the wind, and was burnin' all of South Town down.  By 4 o'clock, more than three-fourths of South Town was on fire, and all of it was evacuated.  More than 300 folks were holed up in my pastor's Church, and hundreds more sought refuge in all the saloons of north town, as well as some of the other businesses.  The wind made sure there was nothin' we could do to stop it.  Curiously, 8 cases of dynamite at the South Town Mining Store NEVER blew, and I couldn't help but wonder who had it and where it was. 


By 5 o'clock that afternoon, we not only had the entire town council, the lone survivin' banker, the Mayor, and Judge Hollister all locked up, but we had a row of 7 safes in the New Marshal's Office as well, all lined up in a row about 10 feet in, as if a line of defense against cannon shot comin' through the front door.  By 6 o'clock the wind died down, and all could see that South Town was a total loss.

By mornin' the next day, not a single buildin' was standin', and a few burnt beams and chimneys were the only things left standin', as the fires were finally burnin' themselves out.  At that point, the Adjutant General's officials and all but 4 of the visitn' deputy marshals were recalled, and left by train to the Capitol at 9:45 in the mornin'.  The day was warmin' up into the mid to high 50s, and this brought out all the crowds of those folk who was just dispossessed of all their worldly goods by a Town Council member who was bein' held in the new jail.   No amount of reasonin' could be had to disperse them, and some of them were on such an edge that they wanted to be shot.  I sent word to the Capitol about how I was goin' to be extraditin' them thar', and received orders lickety-split back that Federal Judge Moroni Pierce just issued a court order to leave them put, and to move them would violate that order, and put me under arrest with a stiff prison sentence (when, not if, convicted).  How I wanted to load up my shot gun with rock-salt filled shells and shoot these buggers in the backsides and hear them howl.  And had they been in the same vicinity, even the same town as I was, I probably would have as I was so angry.  I kept my head, wired Captain Jones (who I had dealin's with on several occasions before, and who was disposed to help me, I wired him) at the Army fort, and let him know I may soon need troops for help on the double quick if things went blewey.  And hopefully, the telegrapher spelled "blewey" right, just so Captain Jones would not think in terms of greeny, purply, and pinky, and start thinkin' it had to do with the DDT's and little imaginary circus elephants runnin' around.       

After that, I went over to Beth's store and then got back to the office.  All I could do is arrange for a week of groceries for twice as many people as we was to be delivered, and load up 16 barrels of water into the marshal's office, and buy up every bit of ammunition that what was left of the $131 dollars in the expense till would allow.  By 3:30 pm, my nephew delivered the last box of grocery and ammunition supplies, and I gave him instructions to tell my wife and then afterwards go back to the store and tell his mother.  He left only 5 minutes before near 500 folk started comin' and throwin' rocks at the front of the office. I barred the door, closed and barred the last two unshuttered windows with 4 inch thick maple oak with gun ports for indian fightin', and told the visitin' deputies to settle in.   I had sent Deputy Burns home earlier at 11 in the morning, and told him to rest up and come back at midnight; and if anything happened, to git over to the telegraph and wire the Army who I sent word to about the potential mob action of 1,000 displaced folks.  I took off my spurs, got me a cup of coffee, bread, and some of the chili we was keepin' warm in a pot, sat down at my desk, kicked up my heels, started passin' gas and ate.  And for some reason, while I was eatin' and passin', all the visitin' marshals open up the windows and seemed to be suckin' air, not carin' or not if they got shot.  After a while they all started lightin' up cigars for some reason or other, closed up the windows as rocks were starin' to bein' thrown through, and two of them and my jailer sat down for some rounds of poker and coffee with an Irish whiskey lift.       

But about 7pm, somethin' happened.  There was a thump to the left front wall, followed by a loud shakin' explosion which ran a large crack up the wall from the floor to the ceilin' from the explosion. Someone had just dynamited the front of the jail.   Several shots were fired at the jail, and we returned fire killin' 3 and woundin' 5.  We could hear activity goin' on, and I unbarred the door to get a look, and as I opended the door no more than 2 inches, a hail of about 80 bullets hit the front of the buildin' with about 30 or more hittin' the door frame and the door.  I closed the thick front door and barred it again.  I took to the front window west side and tried to peer as best I could through the gun port. I thought I heard a train whistle and a train stoppin' at the station, and a few minutes later, it sounded as if a bugle was a bein' blown down the street.  

       Just then, right after the first flourish of the bugle, I heard the yell. "Sgt. Major!  Hickory! Hickory!"  And what few shadowy figures I could see was a runnin' like hell away from us.  Durin' the war, when we heard the cry "Hickory!", it meant burnin' munitions, and to get back and away, or to take cover.  So I immediately knew what it meant, and that one of the boy from the war was lettin' me know we was in for it.  

  I screamed for all the marshals to get behind the safes to the middle, NOW, and smellin' the fuse burnin' I yelled "Shit!" and did a runnin' leap and gymnastic jump over the 5 foot high middle safes, my toes of my boots catchin' as I grabbed the far lip and pulled myself the rest of the way over, a twistin' down and my boots gettin' hung up on two of the fellow deputy marshals as I came boundin' over, and puttin' my hands out to lessen the blow as my face side smacked hard into the plank floor.  Just as my face hit, the entire front of the buildin' vaporized displacin' the entire front porch with an 8 foot wide and 6 foot deep or more trench across the front of what used to be the building, and sending debris up some 300 feet in the air or more by some witness accounts.  As the front of the buildin' vaporized to about 4 feet past where the safes was before they was blown back, and the ceilin' was vaporized at least 12 feet past where we marshals ended up bein' blown back and a  layin'.  As the dynamite blew,  I was cast up at least two feet off the floor, and driven back hard and fast, blackin' out from what I remember to be pressure so hard, it was like two tons of sand suddenly droppin' on me from a sideways gravity, and then on top of me, pinnin' me down.   The safes themselves, all over 1,200 lbs each was pushed back another 8 or 9 feet, and the other marshals with them, and I was told all of them were not only pushed up against the wall, but all was on top of me, with only my face and nose stickin' out under 'em, barely suckin' air.   The mob had used at least all 8 missin' cases of dynamite, with very reliable witnesses sayin' they actually used at least 10 case of dynamite in total, openin' them, and throwin' them in a loose lean-to pile across the whole front to the Marshal's Office.  All the prisoners, bein' in just open bar jails, and havin' no protection other than the building and a few water barrels, was all killed instantaneously and splattered in so many pieces, we couldn't rightly figure whose hand and foot belonged to which or what to bury them proper.   

The Army had sent 80 soldiers down under the command of two Lieutenants, and had just cleared the access road to the start of Main Street when the buildin' blew.  The entire buildin' across the road, a lunch room, was blown clear apart, and many windows were blown in or broke up to several blocks away.  The mob dispersed, and by mornin' not 50 of those who had lost their homes and places where they lived in South Town were anywheres to be found.  My jailer and two of the visitin' marshals had a punctured eardrum, and all of them had at least one or two broken bones apiece.  I just had ear ringin' for 4, almost 5 days, and near tunnel vision and bein' hard of hearin' for the first 18 hours I came to.   In the safes were over $200,000.  Anyone who had bank accounts were paid back what they deposited, and the remainin'  $57,819 was confiscated and sent back to the Capitol.   It was far more a recovery than what I expected, but everyone was gone, so it was not likely anyone would ever get fully reimbursed for what they had lost, because of charges of murder and riotin' might well go with it in counter-charges.  

I turned in my badge, had the Mrs. buy the back 80 acres to our property that nobody had used in 15 years, which we was often practice shootin' into anyways, and bought it for $1718
in taxes and leans, and resolved to settle down to a life of more leisure, more peace and lots of quiet.  The Town gathered and elected by a (show of hands) consensual vote a new town council and mayor until an election could be held formally for those offices next Spring.  

Marshall Jackson returned 2 days after Christmas, and over the next 9 days, was thar' every mornin' at my breakfast table havin' a two and three hour visit, talkin' about all sorts of things, and always wantin' me to come back.  I finally gave in, and took up the badge, and returned to work yesterday.  The wife makes it a point to bring me lunch and set with me a while, and the children are now meetin' me on the way home from school, and greetin' me in different languages they are practicin'.  I have to be careful not to accidentally say some of the phrases I hear in Saloons and have used in the Great War, as the Mrs. will do like she did the last time she heard me use a cuss word in front of the children...knock me up side the head with somethin' hard, drag me by the ear to the wash basin, and wash my mouth out with soap.  And let me tell you, that laundry soap was so nasty and gritty and foul tastin', I bought a special white mouth washin' soap bar called Ivory Soap that my cousin Beth, who owns the largest General Store in these parts, says came out in '79.  Even if the wife don't catch me again, at least I hope the children will be grateful for the better and safer soap to have a cussin' mouth washed out with.  

-- Deputy B.  

Fictional Short Story: Recollections of a Western Deputy (1871 -1897) Indian Attack!

Fictional Short Story:  Recollections of a Western Deputy (1871 -1897)
   

November 16, 1883       Indian Attack!

      After the death of his good friend, Horseshot Harry on October 17th, Marshall Jackson developed a new kind of mean streak in him.   I was pulled from being loaned out to the town, and would no longer get $2 an arrest with Marshall Jackson gettin' another $2 for the arrests I would make.  I didn't like the loss of earnin'.  No sirree.  I was back to a regular salary of $50 a month, with hazard day pay of $2 a day plus expenses, and could claim any bounty of those I capture for reward.  That was about it. 

     On October 29th I was contacted by some attorney folks who rode the train out from the Adjutant General's Office.  They asked me about this and that, and we spoke about that corruption engaged in by the Town Council that I could prove, and they had me sign an affidavit to that effect.  They also had with them another attorney who was empowered representative for some big Pennsylvania man back east.  After the legal bally-hoo and what nots, I was offered $8000 for my land up on Bishop's knoll, with a guaranteed income of $300 a month for the next 10 years, in exchange for some Pennsylvania or some such fella's people to come in and drill the oil sludge on my property (which property I bought from my sister-in-law), and to run a pipe over to the railway tracks and ship it out thataway.  I would continue to get paid the $300 a month, even if the oil ran out, which their expert fella said was vast and wouldn't likely run out for as long as the contract was.  I asked the Adjutant General people what they thought, and they recommended a proviso that if they continued to extract oil, that regardless of the amount, I should be paid at a rate of  $250 a month after the previous conditions were met, and continue thataways until the Pennsylvania fella's company stopped extractin' the oil.  That was agreed to, and I was thankful. 

[Little did I know that startin' in March 1884, they would be pullin' oil out of that well regular for 12 years and 4 months, after which the payments stopped.  The payments along with the up front monies amounted to $51,000.  -- Deputy B. June 20, 1898]

The Mrs. was so happy when I brought home the $8,000 in cash to show her, that we sent the kids over to her mother's.  After two days off with private celebratin', we brought the children back home, and they was glad to be back.    We then returned to focusin' on our regular doin's and I was takin' extra time again to show the Mrs. and the eldest four children the skill and proficiency of rifle, shotgun, and revolver shootin'.    Both the Mrs. and my eldest boy, Winchester, were gettin' to be better dead shots than I was, especially on the slow bead.   They picked up the basics of windage, elevation, and distance arcs better than I did, at times.  One of my favorites with these was using the imaginary midget.  When a fella is about a hundred yards away, and you are firin' a Colt revolver with the load I use, you want to imagine that a midget is standing square on his shoulders if the fella you is shootin' at is standing or kneeling straight at you.  Shoot that imaginary midget in the face, about 2 or 2 1/2 feet above his head, and you will as the bullet drops and arcs down, it will hit the one you is aimin' at somewhere from the bridge of the nose to the top of his chest.   The next eldest two boys were good at loadin' and the concept, but only decent shootin' at targets less than 30 feet.   My eldest girl took after her mother, and despite bein' almost 4 years younger than Winchester, she could almost outshoot him with a .30-.30 for accuracy at distances up to 200 yards.  It was almost as if we was gettin' in a men versus the women of the family for a while thar', but I stood up at the 500 yard line, and did a trick shot with a .50 caliber buffalo gun that never missed.  But I had to always start with the barrel straight up, let it slowly drop and level out, let out a little breath of what I was a holdin', and squeeze the trigger gently until she popped.   It was a preferred method of shootin' if you had great distances and didn't mind dead giveaway of wherever you was shootin' from.  I taught the Mrs. this trick, and when I wasn't home, and she was practicisin', she was a showin' off to some of the neighbors doin' the same sharp shootin' trick at the same 500 yard line.  Only a few days later, she and the children would be doin' it for real.

For the past bunch of years, there was alot of killin' of the buffalo and other game that fed the Indians.  Unknown to us, 100 miles away, the Sioux who pressed way too far south and into other lands they didn't have claim to, was a bein' provoked yet again.  The  U.S. Army fort, some 40 miles from where they was had verbal orders to leave them be, and to keep it hushed.   The Sioux was made up of 5 large tribes, and they was a goin' hungry.  They made medicine which told them to raid south before headin' back home some 400 miles north.  And as they made medicine, word came to their medicine man and chiefs that 16 white men, unemployed cattle hands, had crossed up with some of them at a stream somewheres, killed 11 of their braves, raped some of their women, killed some of their children and old folk, and even stole some horses from them and headed south.  3 war parties of near 80 braves  from 3 different camps, and another 2 war parties of about 60 braves each from the other 2 camps all lit out, and took to a blood trail on 16 culls, who while fleein' the Sioux,  stole horses, shot ranchers and travelers along the same way, and even burned 4 homes as well as 2 corrals and a barn.

The next day, word  came across the wire about the band of 16 whites, what they had done to the ranchers and folks along the rode, and indicated they was about a day's hard ride further away then they actually was.  There was NO mention at the latest wire as of 9 pm the night before we was to ride about the 360 Sioux  in 5 distinct war parties that was a trailin' them.  Marshall Jackson and 3 other deputy marshals along with myself were a gearin' up at just after first light at the new Marshall's Office that we and about 30 of the Townsfolk had just built (a 60' by 60' log building with 6 jail cells at 10' by 10' apiece), when one of the boys noticed what looked like big smoke over at Batlersville.  Moments later, at the edge of the disappearing night sky to the west was what looked to be a series of huge fires was a goin' up and roarin' high on the horizon  over toward Praire Flats.  Then what seemed seconds later, we heard several shots in the distance, comin' from the west of town, as 8 Indians all in war-paint came a swoopin' down Main Street with a war whoop and Henry repeatin' rifles, chasin' down 2 whites on white frothing wore out horses, and not 100 feet from us had shot them dead.  The Sioux, we found out later, had also had stabbed and scalped  the night telegrapher and the night porter at the train depot.  But seein' the whites go down, shot in the back and not knowin' who they was, we all threw them 8 Sioux down and their horses with them in a hail of bullets with clouds and clouds of acrid smoke, gunpowder, and hot lead.  One of the fellow deputy marshals rode off and rang the town alarm bell with a hammer, the signal for Indian Attack that hadn't been sounded since shortly after that girly haired Yank named General Custer was wiped out with more than 200 of his command years ago.

I never got the chance to ride home, even though it was just over a quarter mile away.  The Mrs., who was in the kitchen brewin' coffee and makin' breakfast for the 4 eldest children who was awake, and hearin' the alarm, saw several Sioux at the back of the woods of our place, and took charge.  She gave out orders as she pulled my .50 caliber buffalo rifle, and got off 3 single 500 yard shots before she barricaded the house.   The Mrs. put on her double pistol belt given her by Sheriff Bond a while back, as the 4 eldest children quickly storm shuttered and barred the windows and doors and otherwise fortified the house as we previously done where we had practiced drillin' as a game to keep imaginary skunks with the ability to jump 8 or 10 feet in the air, out.  I had left them 8 rifles  and 6,000 rounds of ammunition, and at least 1,000 rounds for the revolvers, not to mention 2  12 gauge shotguns and another 120 shells for those.  

I felt sick to my stomach as I wanted to protect them, and instead had to go in another direction, when the Indians could be flankin' us, and who knew if there was hundreds or thousands attackin', and we was about to be over run, or what.  It was all I could do in joinin' the Marshall and the remainin' two fellow deputy marshals and grab another saddle bag and stuff boxes and boxes for the Winchester and the revolvers, mount God Ole Boy (who noticed the extra 40 plus pounds in weight from the ammunition and saddle bag), sink spur, and head out toward where the Indians had come.   

No sooner than we had rode another 100 feet past where we shot the 8 Sioux down, than we was beset on both sides by more than twice that many more Sioux.  I was clubbed, stabbed at, slashed across my left shoulder blade, shot 3 times through my clothes as a fourth shot both took my hat off and rang my ears as I got jumped  as three hands got a hold of both gun hands and fingers obstructed the hammers to keep me from shootin' as a bony hard forearm choked me across the throat and pulled me back,  and pulled me off my horse almost head first into the ground.  Meanwhile, the other 2 Deputy Marshals and Marshall Jackson shot it out with the Sioux.  The Sioux killed both of the other two deputy marshals, and as the fall knock those who jumped me loose enough for me to twist and turn and break free from, I  came up a shootin' both revolvers.  I made quick work of the two who jumped me, and I think shot another 8, but dropped only 7.  As I pulled a shotgun off a fellow Deputy's horse,  I got the dizzies, fired and missed one, but got the other as the first one fled.  I then fell back into Good Ole Boy, and had to hang on to the horn of the saddle a bit, as I tried to shake the blurred vision where I could no longer tell who was who or what was what for another moment.  Then I sneezed, and my vision came back.  I instinctively reloaded as I looked around and tried to quickly regain command of my senses and course of action.  Marshall Jackson was unhurt, and a cussin' me for not regainin' my composure quicker.  Then, to my surprise, former Sgt. O'Malley and two of the boys rode up askin' if I needed a couple extra guns to string along with me and the Marshall.   I growled, "Let's give these sons of b*****s one for the Confederacy!!!", mounted Good Ole Boy, sunk spur, and led the boys out toward the railroad depot to find me some more Indians.  As I looked back over my right shoulder after about 15 seconds into the gallop, I could see Marshall Jackson way back, sittin' on his horse, not movin', as if in a state of shock himself, who then sunk spur and rode back into the heart of town. 

In the distance, as we rode off Main Street and continued West up the access road to the Train Depot, I could see a party of another 15 Sioux herdin' about 50 horses on the far side of the tracks, who saw us and hard galloped north with the herd.  After about 5 or 6 minutes, we caught up with them, and had a gallopin' gunfight over the course of almost several miles near all the way to Batlersville.  We downed 8 Sioux, and the remaining 7 led us into a band of near another 60.  Seein' that war party, me and the boys pulled up, and immediately maneuvered toward a gully with some trees for cover.  As we fired off some rounds, that party of Sioux took up their hundreds of cattle and horses, and herded them north, ignorin' us.  Then goose bumps.  We heard another war party flankin' us from the west, that war party bein' made up of more than 40 more Sioux were ridin' down on us.    I couldn't say or think of any prayers, and in my mind, as we looked like we was about to die, all I could do is kick myself for not plowin' the wife one more time like she wanted me to last night, and instead I  chose to just roll over and fall asleep, when O'Malley pulls out two taped up sets of dynamite, with 5 sticks each, and holds it up.  I did a double take, and yelled, "O'Malley, you gander brain!  One shot and you would have blowed yourself and us all up!"  To which he replied, "Sgt. Major, you always said you wanted to get to Heaven.  If these had a blowed sky high, just think of it as just giving you a little push to get there!"    And hurriedly Scott adds, "O'Malley, will you shut up and throw it?"   

So O'Malley threw the dynamite out about 60 and 63 feet out, about 30 feet apart;  as Scott cussed him for bein' a drunken flabby armed (unmentionable) and how that Scott's own wife could throw it near twice further than that.   The Sioux were fast riding down on us, and just as the first horse leadin' a cluster of 6 on the left reached the 5 stick charge on the left, I shot the first charge and got a face full of dirt and a flying one pound rock that hit me square in the forehead that sent my head flyin' back, knockin' me off my feet and drivin' the back of my head down to the ground bouncin' hard off a tree root. That one pound rock gave my forehead a  three inch extended out swelling more than 4 inches wide and 3 inches high.  While I struggled in reaction to what had happened, Scott shot the second charge, and I could hear O'Malley, Bauer and Scott lay down a volley of about 20 shots apiece, as I blurrily was able to see again, I quick drawed picked off 5 of 6 more before the dirt clouds dissipated and revealed the Sioux had fled.  The Sioux retreated, and returned north.  In all, we had killed more than 40 Sioux, wounded at least 10 or 15 more.  The Sioux made off with near 300 horses, more than 400 steer and some 40 milk cows from Batlersville and Prairie Flats, and was a headin' for home. 

Meanwhile, back at the house, the Mrs. shot 5 more Sioux dead as they broke through the kitchen door, and my boy children shot  3 or 4 more who were bein' carried off even as Marshall Jackson and a band of 40 of the town's militia ran up and killed most of the remaining 20 or more on or about the property, but not before the Sioux had killed most of all my livestock, exceptin' Clarissa our pet goose, knocked over and destroyed all 4 of my outhouses,  set fire to the hay and also set fire to my more than 46 cords of wood.  Fortunately the wind was blowin' away from the house.  More than 40 indian ponies were captured at the backside of the shallow woods  at the back of the property where this war party of Sioux had earlier jumped off their ponies and gone afoot.  My family was safe, and unhurt.    In all, over 60 white folk was dead in the Batlersville and Prairie Flat raids, with some 118 more wounded.  78 homes burned to the ground in Batlersville, and 93 homes and several businesses likewise burned to the ground in Prairie Flats, near their entire Community (and that after havin' rebuilt after that twister not that long ago).  9 whites were dead in our town, including 2 U.S. Deputy Marshals, and 23 wounded.  No homes here were burned down, but we did lose a couple of corrals and 9 of us had extensive property damage.

I checked on Beth and her family, and we spoke about my havin' a real thick door for the kitchen, along with a new door frame that I would have to make and install.    I decided to hire her eldest boy to help me fell a tree 200 year old Maple Oak I was savin' out back, after which I cut and made the frame and own door.  The door I made at 6" thick, and it weighed well over 500 lbs.  I installed the frame, but I still have to have Lars special make the iron hinges to support the weight of the door, and after goin' over it with him, he says it will take 2 days to make once he starts, and that he will get to makin' it on it on or about 18th.  

Meanwhile, the hammock Army finally made its way out with nothing more than a 7 man patrol of one sergeant and 6 troopers who arrived by rail, checked in with Marshall Jackson, got his autograph that they was here, and then left with the next train back 6 hours and 10 beers apiece later.  The Army and the Government and even the governor are all pretendin' that no raid ever happened.  As far as I know, the Sioux made it home entirely unchallenged (exceptin' us) and entirely otherwise unmolested.  The Adjutant General wire issued orders that we are to let the Army handle it, and the "it" is just that, no acknowledgement, no specificity. 

We was told by a conductor that was bringin' the Army patrol back that the Fort where they are assigned is to, instead,  pull down and bury a buffalo bone mountain collected from all the Buffalo the Buffalo hunters killed some years back.  The one over in Cheyenne is 30 feet high and 60 feet wide and goes on for about a mile, I heard tell, but have yet to confirm.  The one 250 miles northwest of here is 2 miles long and varies 15 to 18 feet high, and that one I've seen myself.  Winter is a comin' soon, and it's not likely the Army will do anything about the Indians,  the buffalo bones, or anything else for that matter.  

  Instead they drill and throw around their swords like they is puttin' on a show, and cut a few more ear tips off their heads like what is gettin' to be a habit among them of late.  They's gettin' to be nothin' more than a hammock army, like a bunch of beached sailors put near 1000 miles inland away from their element, with nothin' to do but lay around, all lost from what they was created to do because of politics.  That's what I think.

-- Deputy B.      

Fictional Story - Recollections Of A Western Deputy: Gold Fever, Land Scheming, and Personal Remembrances

A next installment of the fictional narrative of Recollections of a Western Deputy (1871 -1897).

 Gold Fever And Land Scheming Explodes The Town In Size And Population,  And Some Personal Remembrances From The Life Of Deputy B. 

September 22, 1883

The town council was unusually honery of late.  Here I was a Deputy Marshall on loan to their stinkin' town, doin' their drunken and often sick Sheriff's job, and all they could do is conspire on how to send me to prison for takin' them to task on their blackmailin' schemes and mis-usin' the Court to dispossess good folk out of their homes.   Me and the Marshall for years and years was a sharin' the town Sheriff's office and jail for so long, that one time when we was in Rustler's Pass, Marshall Jackson thought he had to deputize ME along with the Sheriff to chase down what Carnie raiders had escaped that massacre.  Here I was, empowered to go just about anywheres, and all I seemed to be a doin' is a local job havin' two bosses, the Sheriff AND the Marshall, just so the Marshall could live rent free with his wife and kids, get a regular supply of groceries put up by the town, and get $2 for every arrest I made, so that we both split $4 for every arrest I made doin' the local Sheriff's job.  But I stayed thar', doin' what I had to, because it gave my Mrs. and the kids a place where I could be checkin' on them regular, and be near enough that I could go home and do chores when things were especially quiet.  Considerin' the amount of territory we was supposed to have,  I was surprised Marshall Jackson wasn't gone more often.  He had 5 more U.S. Deputy Marshalls like me to do THAT dirty work.  And bein' gone for a month or more at a time was not my idea of earnin' a livin' after bein' gone 4 years durin' the war, I was ever mindful of seein' my parents farm turned into one of more than a dozen battlefield cemeteries I must have come across durin' that stinkin' war.  Even after all these years, the smell of thousands of rotting corpses still will strike me upside the head when I'm on the wrong side and downwind of some reek needin' a serious river crossin' bath with two days in a rain downpour besides.      

    I attended the town meetin' last week in which I really spoke my piece, and told the Town Council that they could all go blow their stinkin' corruption out their back-sides, and told the mayor and his cronies outright that if they ever break the Law in my presence, I will arrest them with all due force necessary, and make the arrest stick.  Most of the folks from town applauded my words, and wanted me to run to lead them in this or that effort.  I made it known, that whilst I appreciated their kind words, I would only take affidavits as to what corruption they seen and experienced at the hands and behest of the Town Council, but I was hesitant to lead others into makin' a decision they had to make themselves. 

Personally, while I can lead, I don’t like to.  Durin’ the Great War, almost at the end,  I once led over 90 men when all our officers died in Grant's advance on Atlanta, and I as the Sergeant Major was left in charge.  There we was, cut off in what had been our own lines which were suddenly deep in enemy taken territory.  Them dang fool officers passed up of 3 missed opportunities in which we coulda wiped out half or more of the enemy General Staff, and instead whisper bickered and a waited until we did a suicide 4th that was too late and guaranteed failure afore we was even within a quarter mile of the enemy General Staff on the move.   What we at first thought was 40 miles of enemy occupied territory (from our officers)  turned out to be near 110 miles behind enemy lines before the enemy armies stopped for a spell, and in less than 2 minutes 230 of us was cut down to 90 as hundreds of the enemy fired strikin' almsot as many of themselves as they were strikin' us, and thousands more came a runnin' from the distance, pourin' down on us from 3 directions, to where we had only one dang it all way to run:  north!

  So there we was,  surrounded now by over 114,000 of the enemy, and havin’ to make our way home and goin' away from home in order to do it.  I was never scared as much for so long a spell as I was for the 23 days it took to escape back to our lines, coverin' what I guess was well over a thousand miles at an average of near 50 miles a day, mostly on regular rustlin' of fresh Yankee horses to do it.  We killed and wounded hundreds and hundreds of the enemy as we cut and slashed and evaded, raided supply trains, continually stole fresh horses to replace our wore out ones, goin' in all sorts of directions, and wangled our way back to home averagin' perhaps 2 hours of sleep a day, if that.   For each action, we averaged a man lost for each scrape with the enemy, exceptin' those 23 who deserted the rest of us on the 9th day, and rode themselves right into an ambush.  When those 23 rode to their deaths in full insurrection to my authority as Sgt. Major, we was suddenly reduced to a total of 41.  And from a distance of more than a mile or so off, we saw them gunned down in an open field as they rode hard and fast right into ambush, and what looked to be a full massacre as we took it as our cue to ride hard and fast, evadin' and escapin'.   

When we was done, it was not only 23 days, but probably a loss of as many pounds of  muscle weight lost from each survivin' man later.  18 of us finally made it out to the safety of our own lines, if you could even call it that.   Even so,  3 of those died of their wounds (one of these from gangrene induced suicide).    

Months later, after I was mustered out of the Cavalry and all that, and 4 of the 17 others, those with ex-Sergeant O'Malley, followed me about the Country after the War and sometime made me feel as if they was a bunch of lost puppies adoptin’ someone, so that wherever we was, they was like kids always a horse playin’ or little prankin’ until they settled down more and more  to just cards, drinkin’, and women.  Back in '71 and '72,  they all got wives and obligations.  

But they wasn’t satisfied with havin’ ball and chain obligations.  No sirree.  They got me hitched to my own Mrs. on January 1st, 1873, by subterfuge.  That what it was, SUBTERFUGE... (if I only knew what it meant). 

  First they, whoever all they was, have  her come to stay over with the O'Malleys long about New Year's Eve Day, then send for me just after dark to take her back home.  And then when I git her home, ridin. a buckboard across 3 miles of open field with 6 torches burnin' for some heat to keep from fully freezin' and for some light to see the trail better, there's a preacher and dozens of armed family folk and the other three boys of my troop all insistin' her honor was violated because we wasn't chaperoned.  Hell, I saw their lights from the moment the O'Malley's place, so they dang well saw mine, and saw we never stopped.  And since Smth and Bauer both owned telescopes, and had them in their hands when we got thar', you KNOW they know'd nothin' happened on the trail.   Even so, the family (all in a ruckus) said  I had one of two choices: get shot and hung with a warnin' note to all who would dare approach this female I just took home totally unmolested wrapped in 3 layers of blankets who merely leaned into me a bit on the trail (and not even kissed), or we could git married, and I could be liberated $240 that Smyth, Bauer, and Scott told her family I had, which amount they insisted was what I had to pay the family to have her for my bride. And what's worse, the preacher even knew about the $3.03 I had in my boot, and took even my very last cent for a weddin' fee.  You would think he'd at least have left me the 3 cents, but since I was at gunpoint from all directions, and armed only with a kentucky long rifle musket for game huntin' at the time, I was stuck.  Soon after that, exceptin' goin' to bed or takin' a bath, I rarely move about without at least two .45 revolvers and 48 extra rounds on my gunbelt.   Most folks around here are partial to .41s and .44s for revolvers, but I prefer .45's with ammo that has a half the grains for a load, as it shoots faster and farther and if I hollow out the ammo nosetips and make a lake, they knock some men clean out of their boots and back 6 or 7 feet.  But the problem is, if them bullets go clean through, they make a real large mess out the other side, as if the caliber were almost an inch wide fragment from a cannon shot a tumblin' through.    

   When I married the Mrs., I was shivering cold, and shiverin' scared.  When the preacher asked if I take this woman, I couldn't speak, all I could do is bow my head and nod a bit.    But from the moment I married her, seein' how beautiful she was and still is, for many years I had no regrets except for some temporary receivin’ end wrath of her moon cycle rages and one or several jealous rages she went into.  Now that those moon cycle rages are gone, and her jealous rages have reduced down to an icy look and some gab about suffrage she don’t talk about as much anymore, I have NO regrets.  I married the prettiest and most wonderful gal inside and outside I could ever have asked for, who like wine, grows sweeter and more precious every year.  Considerin' I'm a homely cuss, I at first feared she was near blind or crazy.  I'm grateful she was neither, but for the life of me, I never could figure how she ever ended up with me of her own free will, which from the moment the preacher said "I now pronounce you..." clearly it was me she somehow wanted for a husband.   Maybe someday, she'll tell me.  But dang it all, more than 10 years after we was married and she still won't say.  I'm just glad none of the kids is homely like me, but all take after the good looks of their mother.  I think my worst fear when she's a carryin', is havin' an ugly mutt of a kid like me born into the family.  It's about as popular an idea as having a milking cow with the runs, goin' do-do in 3 foot high piles six feet wide, and havin' to make 8 trips with the wheel barrow and shovel to take it elsewhere to bury it, while bein' pestered with the flies.  But then I think back, and realize that I was a cute and good lookin' kid and only after gettin' through 1400 or more fist-a-cuffs and worse, and beat about the head 30,000 or 40,000 times or more, maybe its just that I never quite healed all the way right.  But then, what if I was born cute and grew up ugly?  The boys can grow beards, but the girls?  I guess I can always throw a veil over their heads and surprise the grooms as to what they married after the fact.  I'll charge up that hill when I get to it, if it ever comes.  

We had our first child, a boy who I named Winchester, in October '73.  And with this child we just had born on July 20th, we now have a total of 8 children.  But due to complications with the birth of Charles Henry B., the doc says we won't be able to have anymore, and it will be months before the Mrs. is fully recovered.  Perhaps as late as November or December.   So because of that, I've taken some more time at home, and hired two of Doc Phillips daughters to help the Mrs. and keep a watch over her.  It's runnin' into a drain of what I've been savin'.    

The town has now pushed its claim of lands south miles past Bishop's Knoll, seizin'  some of the free range grazin' lands under what I suspect, but cannot as yet prove,  is a paid ruling of eminent domain.  The town council figures maybe we would put in a quarter mile rail spur south of the new town boundary lines, and use that diminished grazin' land section for new corrals for the Texas Beef and Horses still bein' brought up.  That makes not only a town, but a small spread out empire-like city, and almost a county to ourselves, with almost 12 miles of land north to south, and over 5 miles from West to East.  That's 60 square miles at 38,400 acres.  Right atop Bishop's knoll, they are already buildin' a new Courthouse, and yet they still do the hangin's on the north side of Main Street over at the jail, where it gets so crowded folks can hardly move.  Most folks, in spite of the disaster last hangin', want us to hang more fat men with long ropes, so theys can see a repeat of the head a poppin' off and disappearin' into the crowd as if it was somethin' to brag about.       

Back to the boys from the war.   

For years, I used to check up on the boys from time to time, but now I just meet them once or twice a month for what is just two beers and some cards and shootin’ the breeze for a few hours.  Some folks call them lazy, as they work three or four hours in the mornin’ and spend all day down at the saloons.  But most of the time, to say they was lazy, it ain’t so.  When it comes to chores, they work harder than most regular shoulder to the wheel folks I ever seen!   Each and every one of them  get their chores done lickety-split like the Devil was a pokin’ at them with a pitch-fork, workin’ like 4 or 5 people all at once, then a kissin’ or pattin’ the head to their children, sayin’ bye in their own way to their Mrs.,  and off they go, like the Pony Express to make it down to the Saloon first, because the last one getting’ his chores done and bein’ last pays the first round.  And if one of them doesn’t git their chores done, the eldest child comes down and makes it known and even if he were thar’ first, he pays whoever was stuck the money back he lost on the first round of drinks that day, and the rest go home with him and make him finish while they a laugh and a whoop it up and make fun of him until the chores is done, sometimes a pitchin’ in and still horseplayin’ around like they was over-growed kids rather than men.  I guess it’s how they try to get their innocence back and deal with what they’s seen and been through in the war.  

 Me, I dealt with the memories of the War for States Rights To Not Be Took Over By New York And Boston Bankers and startin' a war because we didn't build railroads fast enough to export more cotton faster, and then blamed it on them wantin' to be freein' the slaves almost a year after firin' on Ft. Sumter, I got over the War by knockin' skunks out from behind and gettin' arrest money or shootin' those needin' to be shot in accordance to the Law and preservation of human life, usually mine.  In another 13 arrests, I will have had me 1900 that should have been the Sheriff's job, but the town council is concerned only about what they can rob of other folks.  They're were a gettin' so big for their britches, that  they was drunk to the point of passin' out last week on another night of whorin' and gettin' the drunks only hours  after they gave me the public hypocrite snoots at the Town Council Meetin'.     So whilst they were still fully drunk and near past out in their whore beds,  I busted in with three bottles of General Lee’s revenge, and poured a bottle of a mix of Castor Oil and Honey and Sulfur down each  throat of the mayor and his two fellow lead town council culls of the town council, and for 3 days put them out of commission with the physics.  I also rough packed the luggage of the Town Council and Mayor's whores, special expressed at town expense a middle of the night Wells and Fargo stage, and sent their sorry backsides packin' to the Train Depot, where we flagged down a train, and sent them whores at the expense of what the Mayor and Town Council members had on them, which was just enough to pay their fares to put them days away to Chicago with a warnin' to never come back, or else.  

  When their wives heard what I'd done, they all thanked me and told me they would take it from there and make sure their men-folk got what they deserved.  Each of the three women in unison, upon the 4th day after their men had all recovered, then beat each of the men.  First they attacked the mayor, then in unison attacked Council Member Stryker, and finally Council Member Hagan.  In their group of three,  one of the women was using a rollin' pin and then a meat tenderizer after the pin broke, another (followin' my wife's past example on me) used an iron skillet, and the last female used a rug beater, and they beat the livin’ hell out of their three husbands one at a time.  No charges was ever pressed, and Marshall Jackson and I advised Sheriff Bond to let it drop as a private domestic affair, and leave it be.   Judge Hollister looked right at the broken bones, bandages, black and blues and said,

“Injuries?  What injuries?  As far as I know, these men have the scurvy.  Somebody notify one of the general stores to have an order placed for the railroad to deliver an expedited order of a basket of limes to each of these men, the cost to be deducted from their self-appointed salaries (when they should have been working for free anyway).    In the meantime, confine these men to their homes under arrest for 30 days quarantine, affecting only them and not members of their own households, since a bad diet on THEIR  part doesn’t mean what they have is contagious. It is so ordered.”

While bein' bound up, the mayor never relented in his bein' a snake.  Feignin' semi-consciousness delirium when no one was in the room with him, and havin' himself opened his own window before layin' back down and first lookin' at those he was tryin' to get the attention of as they passed by outside,  he is alleged to have confessed within earshot of some looky-loos that he was forcin' people out of their land because of a rich vein strike down at Bishop's knoll, just south of town, and that it was because there was a long rich vein of gold that for this reason the town had filed claim of 4 more miles of land due south in what was free grazin' range because of the gold. 

The cry went out that gold was discovered at Bishop's knoll, and in minutes most of the whole town was a ridin' or a runnin' or a walkin' out that way. 

 Indeed, a small vein was found under a bedrock protrusion not far from the new Courthouse bein' built, and that this spot had been freshly dug at, and with the pluckin' of a gold nugget by half a dozen of the mayor's relatives conveniently already workin' this same spot, upon seein' that pure 3 oz. nugget, the towns folk went moon crazy.  

News traveled fast, and by next mornin’ hundreds of folk were comin' to get land, get rich quick, or be put to work.  People are still a pourin' in from all directions, and the land is being sold at prices I thought no one could afford in even a lifetime of savin', often with $100 down and debt promises which will dispossess most everyone in a year if they don't strike it rich.   And it is all suspicious, as I never seen 30 folks workin’ for the land office brokers and the banks afore, and it was all like it was prearranged.  I've never seen so many railroad cars bringin' in so much lumber as if it were a 3 month supply for 400 homes all comin' in at once on 40 railway cars.  I never afore seen a train with 60 cars afore today.  If it ever took a serious hill, which there ain't on the mostly north - south route between here and the Carnack and Carnack Saw Mill over by Potato Crick, it would never have made it.  Even the gold nuggets came out of the ground too pure, as if they was planted, and there only being a $13,000 pocket discovered, the same that amount that was supposed to be taken off some dead prospectors who were bushwhacked by a small party of whites wearin’ masks some 60 miles southwest of here back in May, and one of the horses matchin’ that ugly brown and white spotted Pinto the mayor rides,  if I’m not mistaken. 

     

Entry of October 16, 1883

After a few hard words with Marshall Jackson expressin’ my sentiments to this regard, on September 25, 1883,  I grabbed up 8 of the Most Wanted fliers with $500 and up bounties and lit out to Johnson Falls, 14 miles northwest of Prairie Flats on the New Mill Road.   There I found 2 of the Miller boys, and took them into custody, and in two days earned me $1200 with their arrest and depository.  On the 29th, I then lit out on the advice of a couple dance hall tramps down on their luck, and paid them a double gold eagle apiece for a lead that led me to Crabapple Jack Shea, who after 9 day's ride out to find him, I shot dead resistin' arrest, which I didn't want to do, and delivered his maggoty beetled body which I had sewed in three potato sacks, one over the other, which though it sealed the maggots and beetles, didn't keep away the stinks.  Marshall Jackson and Judge Hollister, as soon as they saw and heard the sack move because of the beetles after the holdin' of their noses, made sure I was paid the $780 bounty that was deposited as reward,  and demanded I pay for his burial, $4.89 plus $2.30 for the coffin. Since I didn't have any money on me, Judge Hollister deducted $10 from the reward, and called the overhead as "court expenses", took that extra cash, and went down to Maywood's and drank it.  

In just 2 weeks, more than 7,000 folks, despite there bein' no more gold, came and settled Bishops Knoll and from nothin’ suddenly there sprung up with a 2 mile gulf in between, as if it were a new and larger south of town city, and increased the entire population to just probably just under 9,000.   Once folks realized that there wasn’t any more gold, they stopped a comin’ to settle, and for the present they’re a stayin.’   But I can’t help hearin’ the new folk wantin’ to make the new south town  and call it New South City, and break the banks and the grip of the Mayor and The Town Council has on them as well. 

Thousands of acres of free grazin' land ruined, and no gold.  Hundreds and hundreds of one story buildings sprung up, and no gold.  Only a couple months to frost, maybe less, and thousands may starve and freeze the winter because of fraud.   And me, I get stuck with an eighth section of land I gave my jackass sister-in-law, Eunice,  $800 to cover her losses as she marries off some Eastern Lawyer, and they take the train to somewhere in Vermont  or New Hampshire or somethin’.  I don’t reckon I remember anything except her baggage bouncin’ off the far walls of the baggage car  and missin’ the train employee as I threw them on afore the train was fully pulled out as the stupid Station Master and his porter thar’ forgot to make sure they was loaded.   After which, I rode out to look at my eighth section which I had recorded, and found it to be grazin’ lands without a fresh water source.  Just some pockets of black oil that nobody round here knows what to do with.  So I spent me another 5 hours to take care to fence off  a 16 foot wide pool of black sludge to keep livestock and folks out.   Marshall Jackson wants me to return to supportin’ the local Sheriff again, and let me know that the lumber and nails for the new porch I was to build for the Jail had arrived…and to hop to it.  We had a team of Fat Boys that was to be hung tomorrow, one near 500 lbs, and his big fat circus act brother at 700 lbs., both convicted to be hung for killin' two card sharps by sittin' on their faces on a saloon floor and smotherin' them to death.

 -- Deputy B.

[Because I write these generally rough draft to first draft in form, and randomly without an outline, I thought it necessary to note that these latest pieces are meant to close the gap to an earlier version that thus far was of the latest date of the Deputy B. character entries.  The Horseshot Harry entry

http://brianroysinput.blogspot.com/2014/09/fictional-short-story-when-horseshot.html

will pick up on the next day after the above entry. I did have to make a minor adjustment and addition to the above Deputy B. entry since posting just hours ago for clarity.   Thank you kindly.  -- Brianroy]