Part 5 (1/2)
”I wonder how it will all end!” Allison used often to remark while lying idly staring into the camp-fire. ”Of course I know I can't keep up this sort o' thing; some one's sure to get me. An' I'd jes' give anything in the world to know _how_ I'm goin to die--by pistol or knife.”
It turned out that Fate had decreed other means for his removal.
One day Allison and his brother-in-law John McCullough had a serious quarrel. Allison left the ranch and rode into town to think it over.
In his later years killing had become such a mania with him that his best friend could never feel entirely safe against his deadly temper; the least difference might provoke a collision. McCullough was therefore not greatly surprised to get a letter from Allison a few days later, sent out by special messenger, telling him that Allison would reach the ranch late in the afternoon of the next day and would kill him on sight.
Early in the morning of the appointed day Allison left town in a covered hack. He had been drinking heavily and had whiskey with him.
About half-way between town and the ranch he overtook George Larramore, a freighter, seated out in the sun on top of his heavy load.
”h.e.l.lo, George!” called Allison; ”mighty hot up there, ain't it?”
”Howd'y, Mr. Allison. I don' mind the heat; I'm used to it,” answered Larramore.
”George,” called Allison, after driving on a short distance, ”'pears to me the good things o' this world ain't equally divided. I don't see why you should sit up there roasting in the sun an' me down here in the shade o' the hack. We'll jes' even things a little right here. You crawl down off that load an' jump into the hack an' I'll get up there an' drive your team.”
”Pow'ful good o' you, Mr. Allison, but----”
”Crawl down, I say, George, it's Clay tellin' you!”
And the change was made without further delay.
Five miles farther up the road John McCullough and two friends lay in ambush all that day and far into the night, with ready Winchesters, awaiting Allison. But he never came.
Shortly after taking his seat on top of the high load in the broiling sun, plodding slowly along in the dust and heat, Allison was nodding drowsily, when suddenly a protruding mesquite root gave the wagon a sharp jolt that plunged Clay headlong into the road, where, before he could rise, the great wheels crunched across his neck.
CHAPTER IV
TRIGGERFINGERITIS[1]
On the Plains thirty years ago there were two types of man-killers; and these two types were subdivided into cla.s.ses.
The first type numbered all who took life in contravention of law.
This type was divided into three cla.s.ses: A, Outlaws to whom blood-letting had become a mania; B, Outlaws who killed in defence of their spoils or liberty; C, Otherwise good men who had slain in the heat of private quarrel, and either ”gone on the scout” or ”jumped the country” rather than submit to arrest.
The second type included all who slew in support of law and order.
This type included six cla.s.ses: A, United States marshals; B, Sheriffs and their deputies; C, Stage or railway express guards, called ”messengers”; D, Private citizens organized as Vigilance Committees--these often none too discriminating, and not infrequently the blind or willing instruments of individual grudge or greed; E, Unorganized bands of ranchmen who took the trail of marauders on life or property and never quit it; F, ”Inspectors” (detectives) for Stock Growers' a.s.sociations.
Throughout the seventies and well into the eighties, in Wyoming, Dakota, western Kansas and Nebraska, New Mexico, and west Texas, courts were idle most of the time, and lawyers lived from hand to mouth. The then state of local society was so rudimentary that it had not acquired the habit of appeal to the law for settlement of its differences. And while it may sound an anachronism, it is nevertheless the simple truth that while life was far less secure through that period, average personal honesty then ranked higher and depredations against property were fewer than at any time since.
As soon as society had advanced to a point where the victim could be relied on to carry his wrongs to court, judges began working overtime and lawyers fattening. But of the actual pioneers who took their lives in their hands and recklessly staked them in their everyday goings and comings (as, for instance, did all who ventured into the Sioux country north of the Platte between 1875 and 1880) few long stayed--no matter what their occupation--who were slow on the trigger: it was back to Mother Earth or home for them.
Of the supporters of the law in that period Boone May was one of the finest examples any frontier community ever boasted. Early in 1876 he came to Cheyenne with an elder brother and engaged in freighting thence overland to the Black Hills. Quite half the length of the stage road was then infested by hostile Sioux. This meant heavy risks and high pay. The brothers prospered so handsomely that, toward the end of the year, Boone withdrew from freighting, bought a few cattle and horses, and built and occupied a ranch at the stage-road crossing of Lance Creek, midway between the Platte and Deadwood, in the very heart of the Sioux country. Boone was then well under thirty, graceful of figure, dark-haired, wore a slender downy moustache that served only to emphasize his youth, but possessed that reserve and repose of manner most typical of the utterly fearless.
The Sioux made his acquaintance early, to their grief. One night they descended on his ranch and carried off all the stage horses and most of Boone's. Although the ”sign” showed there were fifteen or twenty in the party, at daylight Boone took their trail, alone. The third day thereafter he returned to the ranch with all the stolen stock, besides a dozen split-eared Indian ponies, as compensation for his trouble, taken at what cost of strategy or blood Boone never told.
Learning of this exploit from his drivers, Al. Patrick, the superintendent of the stage line, took the next coach to Lance Creek and brought Boone back to Deadwood, enlisted in his corps of ”messengers”; he was too good timber to miss.