Hornswogglers, Fourflushers & Snake-Oil Salesmen (31 page)

“Thought I heard something. You expecting anybody, Nate?” The man leaned back in his chair and reached to part the grimy oilcloth covering one of the cabin's two small windows.

The man to whom he spoke, Nate Champion, though on the small side, was wiry of frame and keen of mind. He looked up from his breakfast plate of bacon and beans, tin spoon dripping bean juice halfway to his mouth. His eyebrows arched and his keen dark eyes looked first from his friend, then to the door. He heard nothing and resumed eating. “I expect,” he said, chewing, “you're hearing the cattle.” He smiled. “Or maybe it's men sent by Bothwell and his boys. You know how much they like me.”

“Yeah, that's who it is, Nate!” His friend jumped to his feet, knocking his chair backward to the floor. “But it's no social call—they ain't slowing, Nate!” Even as he said it, he backed to the wall, and looked to Champion, unsure what to do.

Before Nate could push back from the table, the cabin door burst inward with a crack and shuddered on its pin hinges. Two men filled the little doorway, three more crowded close behind, all bristling with drawn firearms, their faces covered.

“Give it up, Champion!”

Still seated, Champion stared at the men a moment, then slowly raised his arms, yawning, stretching, and reached to his bunk, tight behind him in the close confines of the cabin. He grasped his revolver snugged under his pillow and in one swift motion ratcheted back on the hammer and brought it to bear on the uninvited guests.

The intruders opened fire and Nate Champion returned it. Neither side expected any outcome in such close quarters other than death; grievous wounds at best.

Smoke and thunderous claps of weapons in a small, enclosed space soon deafened and half-blinded those inside, their shouts and agonized groans drowned by the gun roar. There was no way the intruders could miss. No way at such close range—mere feet—and with their prey seated and caught unaware. And yet, miss they did.

Despite the number of shots they unleashed into the small space, Champion emerged with nothing more than powder burns on his face—proving how close they had stood to him—and a distinct ringing in his ears.

Champion's shots, however, found fleshy purchase in one man's arm, and in the gut of another. That shot would prove fatal. Even through the haze of the smoke-filled room, Champion was able to identify one of his attackers, Joe Elliott—stock detective in the employ of WSGA.

Tenacious bulldog that he was, Nate Champion went to the law, fully confident that he was once again in the right. And while the reluctant wheels of Wyoming justice ground painfully forward, the hubs of which were greased by the WSGA, Champion went to the press. He began with the
Buffalo Bulletin
, because it was one paper he felt reasonably sure had not yet sided with the cattle barons.

That he and his friend lived through the attack was little short of a miracle to Champion. That his goon squad failed was a source of boiling rage to Both-well, who bellowed at anyone within earshot when he heard of the outcome of the botched mission. The next time Champion was set upon, Bothwell demanded a more satisfying outcome.

But long before that happened, more surprising developments in the cattle war would arise. . . .

The attack had taken place on November 1, 1891, and in the month that followed, every resident of Johnson County howled in fury, pointing their fingers. In the ensuing investigations that took place in both public forums and in private sleuthing, a member of the group of men sent to silence Champion was coerced into giving up the names of the others in the ill-intentioned little group. Those names were spoken before two other ranchers from the Powder River region. One is believed to be Orley “Ranger” Jones and the second, John A. Tisdale.

Charges of attempted murder were brought against Joe Elliott while the public's outrage called for similar treatment of the employers of the killing squad. But in early December 1891, before any further action could take place, the two men, Jones and Tisdale, were themselves victims of the killing squad.

Orley was dry-gulched and shot three times, it is believed by Frank Canton. Three days later John A. Tisdale, though fearful for his life, nonetheless vowed not to be cowed by the cattlemen and their killers. He donned his best suit, loaded up his shotgun, and drove his buckboard to Buffalo for vital supplies, including Christmas gifts for his wife and children. On his way home, where he'd told friends he was fearful for his life, Tisdale was shot in the back and left to die, sprawled in his wagon and bleeding out in what is now known as Tisdale Gulch. It is believed he, too, was a Canton victim.

Public outcry reached a fever pitch and demands were renewed to charge those who had hired the killers. Sadly, most folks knew who they were—the wealthy cattlemen who, it seems, would stop at nothing to quash even the mildest opposition to their ever-expanding empires and wallets.

Johnson County authorities worked overtime to assemble a tight case against their one ace in the hole, WSGA stock detective Joe Elliott, fingered by Nate Champion. Johnson County attorneys suspected if they could convict him, and threaten him with a long jail term, he might come clean with the names of his employers. The case went to preliminary hearing on February 8, 1892, with Nate Champion as the plaintiff's key witness. His testimony was effective enough that a trial date was set on the charge of attempted murder. A conviction seemed imminent.

And then all hell broke loose: The ranchers decided to send their hired men north to Johnson County to deal with the problem before it grew worse.

And so, on that early April morning in 1892, fifty-two heavily armed men, an assassination squad, disembarked from a private train north of Cheyenne, then mounted up and rode at a steady pace toward Buffalo, the Johnson County seat, where they were to receive their orders. Their leader, Frank Canton, whose most recent position had been sheriff of Johnson County, had in his possession a list of seventy names, men designated to die by the squad's hand.

The mass of killers were met by a man in covert employ as a spy. He related welcome news: Rustlers, he said, were holed up at the KC Ranch, barely north of where the killing squad now stood, their horses blowing in the chill early April air. They kicked forward with haste and purpose, toward a cabin with a handful of men whose names were on their list, chief among them, Nate Champion.

The cattlemen and their hirelings knew that if Champion were to take the stand in the actual trial, Elliott would crack like a dry twig. As he was in their employ as range detective, the unthinkable would surely happen—the barons themselves would be implicated in murder. And jail time—or worse—simply could not be allowed. Champion must die.

When they received the news that he was holed up but a few miles distant, the killing crew of fifty-two, led by a smiling Canton, milled about for long minutes on their horses. Some of the men were unconvinced that killing Champion was the right course of action. Word would surely get back to the law and higher ups that some of them were behind it. How could it not?

“What in the hell is wrong with you, Wink?” The surly fat rancher sat his horse loosely, his jowls working a quid of tobacco as though it were a mouthful of fine steak. He loosed a long brown stream and fixed his oldest friend with a quizzical look. Many of the others did the same.

“Aw hell, we're probably in the right. But I will register my voice right now as stating that this thing could just as easily blow up in our faces. You all hear me?” Wink received a number of nods, and before anyone else could comment, Canton broke in. “Let's put it to a vote.”

Murmurs of approval hastened him onward. “Who's in agreement that Champion should be stopped, at all costs, right now at the KC Ranch?”

A majority of hands shot up. Canton began counting them, but the fat rancher spit again. “Oh for heaven's sake, that's the lot of them. Let's get going, Frank!”

The former lawman nodded and raised an arm. “Men, to the KC Ranch.” And they rode, these hired killers, ranchers, assorted ranch hands, and even two newspaper reporters, all purportedly on a mission to run aground cattle rustlers.

There were four men in the cabin that night of April 8, 1892. Two of them were old friends and had hunkered down there for the time being, using the cabin as a base for their forays to their traplines. A third man, Nick Ray, was also in temporary residence, and the fourth was Nate Champion.

Nate thought he'd heard clipped shouts of the two men—maybe it had been the two trappers—some while after they left the cabin. They'd only gone to the Powder to fetch water. . . .

His friend and fellow cowboy, Nick Ray, rolled a quirley, thumbed alight a lucifer, and set fire to the cigarette as he leaned against the open door's frame.

The first shot, sudden, clean, and cold, tightened Nate Champion's gut. It came quick, sliced through the morning air and delivered a ragged, smoking hole in Nick's chest and a larger, fist-size mess to the left of his spine in the back, where it exited. A second shot caught him once more before he spun, twisting in place, his feet seeming to have forgotten what to do next. His teeth had clamped down on the smoking quirley and his lips stretched hard against them; his eyes wide in surprise sought Champion's for the last brief moment they would ever have to focus on anything again. Then Nick Ray convulsed once, dropped toward the floor, slamming into a chair and the table, upending a tin cup of coffee and a half-empty corked bottle of whiskey on his way down.

Champion saw it all as if time had slowed. Already he was on his feet, thumbing one of his braces up over a shoulder of his longhandles, the other hand clawing at the Colt revolver that had been his truest and most constant companion these past long months since the nightmare with the big ranchers had begun.

He dashed to the open door, felt the sizzle of air as a bullet missed its mark and buried itself in the planking of the room's back wall.

One hard-rammed boot kicked the door closed. Champion waited a moment for the bullets to stop whanging into this last thing to move. He had no idea how many men there were, but they weren't far off for the bullets to do that much damage that close in.

Champion leaned against the table leg, one hand on Ray's chest. The man was alive, but in a bad way. From Nate's experiences with such wounds, Nick was going to slip free of life in a short while unless Nate could get him help. But even as he began speaking low, encouraging words to his friend, Nate knew it was hopeless. And from the look Nick gave him, behind his filming eyes, the shot man knew the score.

“Nick,” said Champion, leaning close and hearing the thready breathing of the wounded man. “We'll get you to a doc, no worries there.” He forced a smile, though his mouth, like the rest of him, shook with the sudden raw horror of the moment. He groaned in anger with the realization that they were likely pinned down six ways from Sunday. That's what he'd do if he wanted someone bad enough.

Champion bit back a harsh swallow of bile, gritted his teeth. He'd foolishly let his guard down, knowing full well the barons would be desperate to kill him to keep him from testifying. And now here it was, he was sure of it. Those two men who'd stayed the night in the cabin with him and Nick were just innocent trappers. Had they been killed too?

But he didn't have much more time to consider his situation because that's when the real shooting began. An unrelenting fusillade of bullets rained down onto the cabin, drove at its walls like angry bees, thudded from all angles, and filled the air with the raw, violent sounds of intended death. His. He would let them think he had been hit, then when they came to investigate—not all of them would, surely, but a few might—that's when he would let them have it. He checked his ammunition, noted he had less than he'd like. . . .

Champion had fleeting thoughts that someone over the vast open miles of range land might hear the unusual amount of gunfire. Little did he know that someone had indeed heard. Two someones, in fact. Jack Flagg and his stepson, Alonzo Taylor, who were passing by, took notice of the sounds and the layout of the siege. They rode hell-for-leather to Buffalo, straight to the law, Johnson County's sheriff, William “Red” Angus, who bellowed for posse men.

It didn't take long for him to raise a group two hundred strong—locals knew the score in that besieged town. Knew that it was most likely Champion who was pinned down. And if it wasn't him, it would soon be, or worse, one of them. These small holders, hardworking folks all, mounted up and headed to KC Ranch, raising dust and loading their revolvers as they galloped.

Hours passed since the siege began. Hours in which there had been long lulls of silence. Shouts from the attackers helped Champion get a bead on them, helped him figure out who among them he might know. Champion used the time to his best advantage, alternately low-crawling from one side of the cabin to another, peering through the shot-up wood for any sign indicating the attackers were moving in on him.