CHAPTER IV. THE RIDERS.
But less than a week later it had occasion to remember the incident!
The stage was held up and robbed in the deep woods just before it entered the town. Old Bailey, gallantly attempting resistance, was brought down with three bullets from the revolvers of the highwaymen. But the keen eye of the old Westerner somehow recognized the two assailants. Before he died, every one knew that the bandits were “Pete” Slocum and “Red” Ritter, two of the worst characters in the valley. Yet no effort was made to apprehend them. They quietly disappeared. No one assumed authority to trace them and administer punishment.
Nevertheless, two days afterward the bodies of both men were found on the post-office steps. The looped ends of the ropes with which justice had been done upon them had been left around their necks. And on the shirt-front of each there was a piece of black paper about four inches square, with a red J in the center!
This disquieting incident was quickly followed by others. “Big Bill” Bondy, slayer of “Gabby” Taylor—and others—was found sprawled out on the floor of his shack with a bullet-hole in his forehead. The room showed abundant evidences of a struggle—and the red J was pinned on his breast!
In the weeks that succeeded, other leaders of the worse element, men whose pistol-stocks bore many a notch, and whose sense of decency and morality bore more, met the same fate. After a particularly notorious example of his marksmanship, and disregard for such trifles as the conventions, one would be located swinging from a tree; another discovered, lifeless, in his cabin; still another picked up, now and then, from the dust of the road. In every case the same terrible red letter on the body showed whence the retribution had come.
Fear and excitement ran high in the valley. Men became cautious about venturing out after sunset. All went fully armed. But, withal, it did not escape the notice of many that the better inhabitants were not molested. Only those whose crimes were known and certain had suffered. There was a large element which found relief and satisfaction in that reflection.
Rumors began to spread of night-riders roaming the valley. On several occasions pale-faced men galloped up to the “Silver Star” and reported having seen small troops of horsemen flitting along the dark roads. Their tales were usually incoherent and contradictory; but all tallied in one particular—that the riders wore some kind of long, dark, flowing garment, and that nothing could be seen of their faces.
It was observed also that certain of the lesser desperadoes were mysteriously disappearing from time to time and failing to return. Their shacks betrayed signs of a hasty departure. Invariably hoof-prints around their deserted cabins indicated that a considerable number of horses had been present.
At last, at two different times, parties composed of the most determined and desperate of the troublesome element set out in search of information about the nocturnal raiders, and, if possible, revenge. “Wasp” Williams was not a member of either of these expeditions. For some reason he found it necessary to attend to important business each time they were being formed.
The first party returned late at night, unsuccessful and grumbling at their long, useless ride. The second one did not return at all!
Two hours after they had ridden away from the town, a solitary horseman galloped furiously through the Pass, launched himself from his foaming animal before the Silver Star, and staggered up to the bar. His face was ashen. He gulped down glass after glass of whiskey as though it were water. Then, somewhat calmer, he noticed the gathering around him, eyed them stolidly a moment, and spoke:
“Boys,” he remarked grimly, “I’m sayin’ ‘Adios!’ I got my fill o’ this here hell-hole, an’ I’m pullin’ my stakes soon’s I can git my dust together. I wish you all luck that stays here, but I reckon Ramapo ain’t in fer no happy times!”
It took a long time, and much coaxing and whisky, to get him to explain more fully. Finally he consented.
“We was trottin’ through that gulch they calls Rapheel’s Ravine—’count o’ the echo, I guess—an’ Bud Borresky was leadin’. We was all feelin’ pretty boisterous, when all of a sudden we hears a voice yell ‘Halt!’ We don’t see nobody at all, but we don’t waste no time comin’ to a stop.
“Well, we waits awhile without sayin’ nothin’; but I can see everybody’s kind o’ loosenin’ up his shootin’ iron, Then a figger rides out from behind a big rock about thirty yards ahead. It’s all rigged out in a kind o’ shapeless black cloth or somethin’, an’ has a sort o’ hood over its head. Couldn’t see no face at all! There was somethin’ on its chest that looked like a letter.
“I ain’t a goin’ to deny as how I gits to feelin’ kind o’ creepy! The moon was up, an’ the light, comin’ down from the openin’ at the top, was queer an’—an’ confusin’. The place is full o’ big boulders, an’ the shadows an’ bushes an’—oh, hell!” He took another gulp of the liquor, and stared gratefully into the empty glass for several minutes. Finally he drew a long breath and resumed.
“Well, this black thing eyes us a couple o’ minutes an’ then says, kind o’ quiet an’ convincin’, ‘Better turn round an’ go back. If you value your lives, don’t try any more o’ these excursions!’
“Boys, I knows right off I has heard that voice before. I couldn’t make out who it was, but it was somebody from this here town.
“But don’t say nothin’ for a second or two. Then he pushes his gun out. ‘You damn night-runnin’ coyotes!’ he yells, ‘I’ll git one o’ you anyhow!’ With that he lets fly. The black figger gives a little cry, rolls around in the saddle, an’ drops off.
“Then I hears a whistle blowin’ loud an’ shrill. Good Gawd! At that a reg’lar flock o’ them black birds dashes out everywhere, an’ the whole place busts into uproar! Guns begins crackin’ from behind every bush an’ rock, an’ the noise an’ echoes ’d wake the dead. Bud an’ about five o’ the other boys goes down with the first volley. We tries to git in a few shots ourselves, but we was wastin’ lead—didn’t seem to have no heart in the work, nohow! Some o’ the horses is hit, an’ they all begins kickin’ an’ tearin’ around. Fust thing you know, what’s left of us is gallopin’ back up the hollow hell-for-halleluiah, all mussed up an’ gittin’ in each other’s way! But we ain’t gone far when shots begins to from that end, too, an’ another flock o’ them hooded devils pops out! Some o’ the boys drops off. Gawd! I ain’t no good recollection o’ what happened after that, an’ I don’t know how I ever got out o’ that particular portion o’ Hades! A couple o’ them black figgers dashes out from behind rocks an’ comes after me on horseback. I ain’t denyin’ as how I give poor old Billy some rough persuasion—but there wasn’t no time for kindness an’ sympathy! I ain’t no clear idear when them two give it up—didn’t have no hankerin’ to look back! But I guess they must’ve followed nearly all the way to town!”
He resorted again to the bottle, then turned away. No amount of coaxing could induce him to delay and tell more. With drunken awkwardness, he mounted his horse, mumbled several times “I’m through, boys! I’m sayin’ ‘Adios,’” and vanished into the night.
The following morning a small party set out, very doubtfully and cautiously, for the scene of the encounter. They buried four of their former comrades, and brought home three whose wounds had received a rude first-aid from the night-riders. The other doughty members of that notable expedition, wounded and otherwise, were never seen again in Ramapo.