Hornswogglers, Fourflushers & Snake-Oil Salesmen (41 page)

Dutch Henry Born lived a long life, blessed with good fortune and more lucky breaks than any slippery swindler has a right to expect. It was not a lynch mob's noose, nor a posseman's bullet that laid Dutch Henry Born low. In the end it was pneumonia on a cold January 10, 1921, that did the final task, at age seventy-two. Born is buried at Pagosa Springs, Colorado. No word on whether any of his kids ever carried on the (first) family business and took to the owlhoot trail.

BLACK JACK NELSON

A. C. Simmonds had grown up in the Great Basin region of Utah hearing stories of his family's neighbor, Black Jack Nelson, and the man's reputation as a notorious outlaw. But Simmonds never would have guessed that one day he would buy Nelson's ranch from the old rustler himself. Years later, in 1906, when Black Jack was in his sixties, he sat down with Simmonds and told him the whole truth of his exploits—tales of a murder and a stagecoach robbery and numerous rustlings and crop thefts—tales he'd never told another person.

“Jack,” said the younger man, who himself had a touch of gray in his beard. He swigged again from the bottle they were sharing as if he'd been about to ask something but had lost his nerve.

Nelson smiled a little. “Go ahead and ask. I'd say you're eager to know something.”

Simmonds nodded. “Okay then, Jack. Did you ever shoot a man?”

Nelson sipped from the bottle, then said, “I did once, yes. It was an Injun. Felt badly about it ever since. But it was what had to happen. Elsewise he woulda kilt me.”

Then he leaned forward and lowered his voce. “That's the truth of it. But that ain't no way close to the most exciting thing that ever happened to me. Now,” he took another sip of the whiskey. “I always was different, I guess. When Pap and the family decided to move to Utah, I had me two brothers, Will and Joe. But they was older and we wasn't never close. I had a tendency early on that kept me from taking a liking of work. Oh, I don't mind spending my energy, but I didn't want some other man telling me what to do and how to do it. So I took to the owlhoot trail, as I've heard it's called. It's a romantic name for something that just means you're doing things most folks wouldn't never try. Took me a while to get the hang of it, you see.”

He smiled at the memory, closed his eyes, and for a moment his younger companion thought the older gent might have dozed off. Then Nelson spoke, and as he did so his face seemed to lose its gruff look, his ruddy cheeks appeared less wrinkled, his moustache twitched, bushier, more gray than reddish now. Then his eyes popped open. He was smiling.

“I expect I can tell you a few things that not another soul alive or dead ever knew . . . no one but me, that is.” He leaned in. “Oh, there were plenty of law dogs who thought they knew the truth, but them not quite knowing ain't the same thing as knowing, now, is it?”

“I guess not, Mr. Nelson.”

“Call me Jack. Or Black Jack. Heh, that's what they used to call me.”

“How'd you get that name anyway . . . Jack?”

“I gave it to myself! I figured if I was to rustle cattle and horses, by gum, I ought to have a name to strike fear into the hearts of them that would give chase. Really all I hoped was that it would make them think twice before taking off after me. All that double-thinking might give me a few more minutes to get on up the trail.”

“So you did . . . steal cattle?”

“Yes, yes, I did. And I should say that I repent and I regret it and all that palaver. But the truth is, I liked it. Oh, not every minute of it, but who likes everything they do in life?”

“Not many. I can't say I like everything I do in a day's time, that's for certain.”

“There, you see?” Black Jack slapped his knee and gave the bottle another tug. The warming liquid loosened his tongue and cleared his mind. He felt fine, felt like he hadn't felt in a number of years. “I have stolen just about anything there is worth to steal up in these here parts of the country. I made off at one time or another with cattle, horses, gold, wheat. And then there's a certain payroll from a certain stagecoach.”

“You mean to tell me that story was true?” Simmonds poked the sweat-stained hat back off his forehead. In the dim lantern light, it seemed to him that Nelson was smiling broader than ever.

The outlaw nodded. “You see, back in 1873 I was doing business over along the border of Idaho and Oregon. I'd already rustled cattle and horses and been tossed in jail for them too. I was looking around for greener pastures. So while I was over that-a-way, I discovered something I had not been aware of—a whole lot of money, and I mean a whole lot of money, was running through there. I'm talking about gold from Boise Basin and silver from all them mines in Owyhee. And payroll and money all them greedy merchants made off the miners.

“And you know where it was headed? South on the Central Pacific line on down to Nevada, to Winnemucca, and over to Kelton, Utah. So I says to myself, ‘Jack?' I never call myself Black Jack. ‘Jack,' I says. ‘You need to decide if you like being caught rustling cattle for pennies on the pound or would you rather risk more time in jail for something that will keep you in high style.' And I decided that someone was bound to liberate all that money before it reached those railroad goons anyway, so it might as well be Black Jack Nelson.

“It was a bright, fine morning with nary a cloud in the sky. I recall it was July 25, 1873. Don't ask me why I recall that, I just do. Come to think on it, maybe it's because it ain't every day that a man makes a fortune in one fell swoop.” Jack cackled again, slapped that knee, and continued. “It was me and Sam, that'd be my old pal, Sam Colyer, a nicer fella you'd be hard pressed to find, but numb as a hammer-struck thumb.

“He was willing to take direction from me and be glad with whatever scraps I tossed his way. Like a big dog he was. Anyways, me and Sam were holed up along the road, about three miles south of that ford in the Snake River. We were hunkered there with our shotguns and kerchiefs pulled high up on our faces, cinched tight just below our eyes, our hats pulled down too. While we still had time, long before I heard the stage a-comin', I told Sam, no matter what, not to use my name. . . . ‘Why not?' said Sam. ‘What am I supposed to call you?'

“I sighed. ‘Sam, you call me by my name, and I use yours, they're going to find out who we are. Might as well not wear these here face coverings if we're going to go around shouting each others names.'

“‘Oh, I see what you mean. Okay.' After a few minutes, Sam spoke again. ‘What'll I call you, then?'

“I only had time to sigh before I heard the screech and rattle of the stage, the shouts and whistles of the driver. Then the pounding of the horses' hooves. It was a four-horse team and I give some thought to taking the horses, too, but I wasn't so sure about leaving anyone afoot out there. It was a whole lot wilder in those days than it is today, I can tell you.

“Then there was no more time for thinking, let alone palavering with Sam. For that stage come on quick. We braced it, standing right in the road, no way they could get past without a blast from each of us, but positioned such that we wouldn't deal each other with a face full of buckshot, neither.

“‘Ho, there! Ho there, I tell you!' I shouted it as if I was king of the world. In truth, it's like when you're a child and your papa is coming back from a trip to town and he had hinted that there just might be some toothsome treat, like a licorice pipe, somewhere in his coat pocket if you were good and all and help your mama. And you'd wait and wait and then you finally see him riding back home, tall in the saddle and with a big black hat and you're thinking if only that hat was made of licorice.

“And he looks down at you with them sad eyes, sort of surprise, and you just know he forgot to buy any little licorice or any sweetie for you. Well waiting on that stage was just like that feeling. And once I got them to toss down them two sacks of mail, and the Wells Fargo strongbox, it was all I could do to find out if there was something a whole lot prettier and more useful than licorice in that box. I told them all to skedaddle. I didn't want them stopped any longer than they needed to be. Elsewise they might get comfortable with the situation and try something that would force me to use a gun on a man, and that's something I've always tried to avoid.”

“And was there?”

“Was there what?” Nelson asked. “Money in the strongbox? 'Course there was! Do I look like the sort of man who'd waste his time on a situation like that otherwise?” He nodded solemnly. “That box was filled with a whole passel of goodness, in fact.” He smiled broadly and sipped the whiskey once more. “I give ol' Sam two small bars of pure gold and told him to skedaddle and to keep his mouth shut. Should have known better, but then again, I was dumber in those days.”

“How much was in there, Jack? That is, if you don't mind me asking.” Simmonds leaned forward, gazing intently at the storytelling old man.

“Don't mind at all. I've gone down this trail far enough I might as well not shortchange you on the details, now, eh? Wouldn't be right. Let's see. . . .” he ran plump, stubby fingers across his whiskered chin. “Near as I recall there was $20,000 in that box.”

The man to whom he'd been telling the story, A. C. Simmonds, gasped, sat back in his chair. “Twenty thousand . . . my stars.”

Nelson's eyes widened. “That's about what my reaction was!” he slapped his leg once more. “After I sent Sam on his way—which was not without purpose, either, you know. I figured he might work to draw the danger off of me and toward him. It could have worked better, but then again I got away with it, for the most part, didn't I?”

“You did?”

“Sure I did. After that I made my way back to the City of Rocks, you know that place? I found me a cave. Some clever gent called it Big Cave, matter of fact. Up in Western Canyon, up yonder headed to Cache Valley. You get to it from the west, though, elsewise it's a fool's errand. My plan was to hole up there until the snows closed the passes, making it too difficult for me to be followed. What I didn't know at the time was that Wells Fargo was madder than a rattler poked with a sharp stick. They posted rewards for us, imagine that! $2,500 each. I was mighty flattered when I eventually found out about that, I tell you. Makes a man feel proud to be that highly thought of.” He winked, laid a finger alongside his nose knowingly.

“But it was that reward that started things a-tumbling. An old rock hound got the drop on Sam, dragged him to Boise, where that rascal, US Marshal Joe Pinkham, rousted him. They made Sam tell them everything. And I know Sam wasn't the sort to squawk without feeling something, maybe pain, you know? So ol' Sam up and admits to it all, spills the whole bean pot, tells them where he hid his two gold bars. They give him five years up to the Territorial Penitentiary in Boise.

“But all this I wasn't to know for some time to come. I was having my own troubles, but mine weren't with lawmen, they were with Indians. It was a hunting party of Shoshoni, all braves. I think they'd come down from Fort Hall. I could just see their fire on down the canyon, hear them laughing, whooping it up now and again. And I know they could see me. Smelled me, I dare say. My fire, my food—who knows?

“After a while they commenced to riding on up to visit me, sometimes one of them, other times two or three together. Not that it was a friendly sort of visiting, you understand. I reckon they thought since I was a white man that I'd have all manner of whiskey. I didn't really care what their thoughts were, I kept my revolver and my shotgun right handy and tethered my two animals, a pack horse and my mount, closer in to camp.

“There was one of those rascals, after a while he just wouldn't leave. Kept lurking. I give him some food, which if you do that with a cur dog, they'll likely stick around. But I felt like I couldn't eat in front of him and not offer the man a plate. But he was a curious sort and wouldn't keep his beady eyes off my gear and horses.

“That kept up for a few hours more, then as the daylight started to hide itself away for the night, the entire band rode on down through the canyon, headed to the mouth that led to the valley below. I saw them all ride on out, all but that one who wouldn't leave me be. I recall by the way he'd been eyeing my pack horse that he was planning on making a play for it. And long after the other braves had filed out of the canyon, I watched that rascal worm his way on over toward the animal. Then all of a sudden he jumped up on its back and began to drum his heels on that poor beast's sides. Well, my pack animal began to move, all right. And if I hadn't had my Colt close to hand, I reckon I might have lost that horse.”

Simmonds leaned in. “What did you do?”

“I shucked that Colt Navy and thumbed back on the hammer right quick. I aimed straight at the back of that thief's head and let 'er go. My word, but that noise echoed and rolled and thundered on down that long, narrow, rocky valley, and I knew the other braves would have heard all that crashing sound. I only delivered one lead pill to the brave's head, but it sounded like a full-bore cannon battle.

“I didn't have any time to waste, so I grabbed onto that Injun and flopped him over my shoulder. When I got to the top, I chucked him in a ditch not far from the cave. He flopped and tumbled on down there, and I covered him over with whatever I could find that looked natural, mostly scrub branches, that sort of thing. Good thing I did, too, for not long after, who comes riding on up but them others in his party.

“They seemed to know something had happened because they commenced to annoy me and give me the hard looks, but they couldn't find their chum. Kept on walking around in circles, looking for him. But they never did find him. And I never did get any sleep. They finally left in the morning. They knew I killed him, though. And I figured that if they found him, why they'd kill me right back!