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!”