Rocky Mountain Justice (The Legend of Camel's Hump) (18 page)

The sheriff smiled and stared at him for a long time. “I told you not to lie, you stupid bastard.” The barrel of his pistol dropped slightly and he fired. Ray dropped like a stone, screaming as the pain burned through him. The sheriff’s bullet had broken his leg at the shin, knocking it out from under him.

Jerry’s inexperience doomed him at that moment. Forgetting that he was behind safe cover, he jumped to his feet, jerking his rifle to his shoulder and yelling at the sheriff. “Put that damned gun down! I’ve got you covered and I’ll shoot!” His voice was high and frightened, but he had the sheriff in his sights and his aim was steady.

Sheriff Montgomery seemed calm as he slowly lowered his right arm, letting the pistol come to his side. At the same time, he turned slightly, searching out Jerry’s location. When he saw him, he smiled disarmingly. “I’m sorry about that.” Staring unflinchingly at Jerry, he motioned toward where Ray was writhing on the ground and continued, “I knew that would bring you out and we have to talk. I’ve got to put you under arrest and bring you in. But you will get a fair trial, so no one needs to die here. Please put the rifle down and we can talk about this.”

Jerry hesitated. The words were calm and reassuring, but he didn’t trust this man. He took his time answering, looking at the scene below him. Ray was trying to stand, pulling himself up by the car door handle, one hand still holding his bleeding leg. At the first shot, Dawn had dived behind the coupe and disappeared. She was still out of sight. Jerry’s voice was firmer as he told the sheriff, “Put the pistol on the ground. Then we can talk.”

The sheriff half turned toward Jerry and held his hands wide, in a gesture of acceptance. “Sure, Kid.” He stooped as if to lay the revolver in the dirt. But instead of dropping the pistol, he dove forward, bringing the gun to the ready and firing as he twisted his body toward Jerry. It was a maneuver he and Ike had practiced often, a maneuver very similar to the one he had used to kill Bird a few days before. He fired twice. Jerry felt the first bullet pass by his face, then the second one hit. A searing pain engulfed him, starting somewhere in his chest. He felt himself jerk backward as the bullet burned through him. Then everything went black. From far, far, away he realized that he was going to die without getting a shot off.

The sheriff saw Jerry fall, but he didn’t stop. Twisting back in the other direction, he fired again and Ray went down, this time lying still in the road. Chuckling triumphantly, the man that Hilda had called “The Toad” stood up and surveyed the scene. Under his breath he muttered to himself, “Now for the bitch.” Raising his voice, he called out, “Woman, where are you. You’re a witness that I shot in self defense. I’ll need to take you back with me. Where are you?” He looked around expectantly, totally confident that the situation was under control. Then he heard her calm voice. “Here I am, Sheriff. Right here, behind you.” Startled, he spun around and saw her facing him.

The little.38 pistol spoke, its sharp voice echoing through the mountains. Simultaneously a tiny hole appeared above the sheriff’s right eye. With a look of absolute astonishment on his face, he stared at the tiny girl in front of him as he slowly collapsed. Sheriff Karl Montgomery was dead.

Dawn holstered her little “bear gun” and looked around. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to be calm. She had a lot of work to do.

Deputy Sheriff Ike Schumann sat back and belched contentedly, his stomach full from a breakfast of venison steak and eggs. “Damn,” he mused, “I thought I’d miss her cooking. But the food is better when I do it.” He was pleased with the way things were working out. The girl was keeping the gardens growing and the house picked up, although she still fought a lot when they brought her in to perform her other duties. That nuisance of a Flynn kid was on the run, the preacher was scared shitless, and the gutless wonders that lived in town hadn’t said a word to him since the Labor Day incident. He stretched out in his chair, belched again, and smiled at the ceiling. Life was looking pretty good.

Suddenly he sat up and looked toward the front window. An engine was roaring outside - sounding like someone was downshifting a large truck – and it was close. Hurriedly he walked to the door, swung it open and stepped onto the porch. His mouth dropped open as he stared at the sight in front of him. A tour bus was coming down the road toward the ranch house and it was moving fast!

Ike slowly forced his mouth closed and watched as the bus approached. It was probably just lost. Its destination sign said “War Pony”, but there was no place by that name around here. He walked forward to greet the bus, putting on his best welcoming smile. But today’s shocks weren’t over yet. The bus pulled up, the hydraulic door opened, and the driver stepped out into the road. Ike’s jaw dropped again. It was that damned Indian that forced him to leave the reservation and he was wearing war paint!

Ike grabbed for his revolver and stepped forward. But the apparition before him lazily raised a rifle it was carrying in the crook of its elbow. Ike froze.

He felt someone take his revolver from its holster. Looking down, he saw a bronze hand removing his pistol. Ike’s eyes followed the arm up to the face that had appeared beside him; a broad face with high cheekbones that were decorated with wide swaths of red, white and blue war paint. He frantically looked back toward the bus driver and saw other men coming out from behind the little stone prison building. Another emerged from behind Ike’s pickup. Still others were coming around the ranch house. They were all were converging on him.

The men surrounding Ike looked different from anyone Ike had seen before. They were all Indians, with long black hair and bronze, weathered, complexions that spoke of years in the sun. They were dressed in ranch clothing with Levi jeans held up by brightly beaded belts with silver buckles. Most were wearing flannel shirts and cowboy boots, but some wore buckskins and moccasins. They all had at least one big feather in their hair. But what was scaring Ike the most was the fact that every one of them sported a liberal application of war paint, they all carried rifles, and they were all impassively staring at him. He began shaking uncontrollably.

The bus driver approached. “Hello Ike. It’s been a long time.” His voice was congenial, but Ike wasn’t fooled. He tried to reply, but the attempt died in a mouth that was suddenly devoid of moisture. His shaking legs failed him and he dropped to his knees.

John spoke again, still very calm. “Where’s the key, Ike?” Finally Ike found his voice and was able to weakly reply. “What key?” John just looked at him and took a long hunting knife out of it scabbard. Almost casually, the knife flicked out and Ike felt a searing pain at the end of his nose. He screamed and his bladder released, staining the front of his filthy Levis. When he was silent, John quietly asked again, “Where’s the key, Ike?” This time there was no subterfuge. “Its in my right front pocket.” Ike had no resistance left in him.

Hostile hands jerked Ike to a standing position and someone reached into his pocket. The hands then searched him for additional weapons. When they finished, they released their hold on him and he sat heavily in the dirt, holding his bloody nose. His eyes darted around the scene in front of him in a frantic, futile, search for an escape route.

The man with the key walked over to the stone prison and opened the door. The girl came out, blinking in the sudden sunlight. Then she recognized the bus driver, who by this time was running toward her. “uncle John, Thank God!” That was all she got out before she was scooped into her uncle’s arms. Soon both of them were crying unashamedly, holding one another close.

Finally, John called one of the men to his side saying, “Tom, take care of Sara. Put her in the bus and make her comfortable. I have some unfinished business here.” He watched as Tom escorted Sara onto the bus, then he walked over to Ike.

Looking down on the terrified man, he asked, “OK Ike, now where are the rest of them?” Ike tried to bluff his way through this nightmare. “Where’s who?” We were just holding that girl until the sheriff could find out where she belongs. She’s a runaway the sheriff found on the highway here in Dublin. There ain’t no others.”

John just smiled. It was a smile that scared Ike more than anything that had happened so far today. He cowered back on his haunches as the tall Indian removed the hunting knife from its beaded scabbard again. John didn’t move. He held the knife in his right hand as he played his left fingers down the blade. His smile never changed. “One last time, Ike, where are the others? Where are Bird, Annette and the others?” He was bluffing, but Ike didn’t know that. When John mentioned the names, Ike turned even whiter than before and he sat back, so frozen with fear that he was unable to keep himself upright.

Ike waved his arm in a westerly direction, pointing roughly at the house. “Back that way.” John motioned to two men. “Pick that slime up. He’s going to lead us to the rest of our people.” Ike screamed and stumbled as the two roughly jerked him to his feet, but no one paid any attention. John turned to where the others were standing, “Look in the house and outbuildings. Get anything we can use to dig them up. We’ll also need some blankets and things to wrap the bodies decently and get them ready for the trip home.” He turned again to Ike, saying, “Can we drive back there?” “Yeah, but you might tear the bottom out of your car.” John was still smiling. “Don’t worry about us, Ike. We’re using your pickup. Now lead the way.”

Ike, with the two men holding his arms, turned and started walking around the north side of the house and through the field behind it. John and three men followed. Tom stayed with Sara, comforting her as best he could. Two men searched for tarps and blankets in the house and outbuildings, throwing them in front seat of Ike’s pickup. The remainder of the war party tossed picks, shovels, buckets, and the wheelbarrow in the pickup bed before driving it slowly after their friends.

The graveyard was at the base of Camel’s Hump Mountain in a large glen surrounded by pine trees. Ike and the sheriff had made no attempt to hide the site, apparently supremely confident that no one would ever look here. On one side of the glen was a large hole that looked like it had been bulldozed a long time ago. It was half filled with garbage from the ranch house. On the opposite side of the glen were six neatly aligned mounds of dirt. There were no markers, but they were obviously the last resting places of six human beings. The men walked slowly over to them, dreading the task ahead.

John took over again with, “Ike stop where you are.” Reaching in his pocket, he produced a stubby pencil and a small pad of paper. Walking over to Ike, he said, “Before we start digging, I want to know the names of each of them and anything you can tell us about them.” Ike looked stubborn and started to say something, but stopped when John again unsheathed the hunting knife. “OK, the far one is Bird. The sheriff killed her when she tried to slice him up. The next one was named Annette. She’s from somewhere in Arizona. She tried to bite me and Bird slit her throat. The next one, I forget her name, was from North Dakota. She got pregnant so we did away with her. The next one …”

It seemed like Ike droned on forever as John carefully took notes. This was horrible! Even his wartime encounters with the Japanese paled in comparison to this. There was no remorse in Ike’s tone. He recited the facts about these people as if he was reading a grocery list. It took all of John’s willpower not to just shoot him and leave him there to rot. But he had other plans.

Finally Ike finished. By the time he was done, Bird was above ground and the men wrapped her in blankets from Ike’s house. Then they moved on to the next grave. It took over two hours before the grisly task was finished and the six blanket-wrapped corpses were in the back of the pickup, each respectfully wrapped.

The war party left the graves open and headed back to the ranch house. Once they arrived at the house, they separated as if by a prearranged signal. They were being led by Army and Marine Corps veterans and they had made their plans before they arrived. They moved as if they were well-trained commandos on a mission as they transferred the carefully wrapped bodies from Ike’s vehicle to the pickup they had brought with them. Ike watched them do their work without emotion. It was as if he thought this was all just another day’s work. But when the pickup was loaded, the entire group turned to Ike and, without saying a word, began half-carried and half-dragging Ike into his house.

John walked over to the bus and looked for his niece. Sara was sitting quietly in one of the bus’s front seats watching every move. Her eyes were moist with unshed tears. John sat with her and awkwardly stroked her hair as he tried to find words to convey the anguish he felt for her. It was hard for him. He wasn’t used to showing his feelings, but he knew that this was one of those times that you had to do exactly that. Sara made it easy. When she realized that it was him, she turned and threw her arms around him, her sobs coming from somewhere deep inside her, becoming louder and louder. He held her close, unable to control the tears squeezing past his closed eyelids.