When their numbers had reached a hundred, a signal was given to the sheriff. He quickly summoned a posse of one hundred and fifty men, who had received intimation that their services would be needed. Fully armed, they marched slowly to a point on the west side of Moore’s Creek, where they confronted the Vigilantes. Nothing daunted at this unexpected demonstration, the latter quietly awaited the arrival of several hundred more, who had promised to join them. Hours passed, but they came not. Not another man was bold enough to join them. Robbins, who, after much persuasion, had consented to act as their leader, was greatly disgusted, and for three hours declined all propositions to disband. Every hill and housetop was crowded with spectators, citizens of Idaho and Buena Vista Bar, anticipating a collision. The newly elected delegate to Congress was on the ground, making eager exertions to precipitate a contest.
“Why don’t you fire upon them?” said he, with a vulgar oath to the sheriff. “You have ordered them to disperse, and still permit them to defy you.”
The sheriff, though a determined, was a kind-hearted man, and wished to avoid bloodshed. He knew if his men fired, the fire would be returned, and a bloody battle would follow. He was also aware that seven hundred or more had enrolled their names in the ranks of the Vigilantes, courageous men and good citizens, who would probably rally to the assistance of their comrades in case of an attack. The day wore on with nothing more serious to interrupt its harmony than the noisy exchange of profane epithets and vulgar threats between the two bands, until it was finally agreed that persons should be selected from both factions to work up the terms of a peace. The result was that the Vigilantes disbanded, upon the sheriff’s pledge that none of them should be arrested, and Patterson was conveyed to prison to await the decision of a trial at law. After an unsuccessful effort of his attorney to have him admitted to bail, the sheriff remanded him to custody.
The counsel on both sides prepared for trial with considerable energy. The evidence was all reduced to writing. The character of each juryman, the place of his nativity, and his political predilections were ascertained and reported to the defendant’s counsel. The judge and sheriff were required, by the Idaho law, to prepare the list of talesmen when the regular panel of jurors was exhausted. In the performance of this duty in Patterson’s case, the judge selected Republicans, and the sheriff Democrats. When the list was completed, and the venire issued, a copy of it was furnished to Patterson’s friends, who caused to be summoned as talesmen such persons named in it as were suspected of enmity to the accused, in order that they might be rejected as jurors. The preliminary challenges allowed by law to the defendant were double those allowed to the prosecution. With all these advantages, the defendant’s counsel could hardly fail in selecting a jury favorable to their client; and after the jury was sworn, such was its general composition, that both the friends and enemies of the prisoner predicted an acquittal. Nor were they disappointed. When his freedom was announced from the bench, his friends flocked around him to tender their congratulations. But Patterson was not deceived. He felt that he was surrounded by enemies. Sullen eyes were fixed upon him as he walked the streets. Little gatherings of the friends of Pinkham stood on every corner in anxious consultation. He very soon concluded that his only safety was in departure. At first he thought of returning to Texas, but the allurements around him were too strong: besides, he owed considerable sums of money to the friends who had aided him in making his defence. He had, moreover, many attached friends, who, by promises of assistance, sought to dissuade him from leaving the country. Finally, two weeks after his trial, he left Idaho City for Walla Walla.
One day the following Spring, Patterson entered a barber’s shop for the purpose of getting shaved. Removing his coat, he seated himself in the barber’s chair. A man by the name of Donahue arose from a chair opposite, and, advancing towards him, said:
“Ferd, you and I can’t both live in this community. You have threatened me.” As Patterson sprung to his feet, Donahue shot him. Staggering to the street, he started towards the saloon where he had left his pistol, and was followed by Donahue, who continued to fire at him, and he fell dead across the threshold of the saloon, thus verifying in his own case the fatalistic belief of his class, “He died with his boots on.”
The only incident of Patterson’s trial worthy of note was the following: One of the attorneys who had been employed for a purpose disconnected with the management of the trial, insisted upon making an argument to the jury. This annoyed his colleagues, and disgusted Patterson’s friends, but professional etiquette upon the part of the lawyers, and a certain indefinable delicacy from which even the worst of men are not wholly estranged, prevented all interference, and the advocate launched out into a speech of great length, filled with indiscreet assertions, slipshod arguments, and ridiculous appeals, at each of which, as they came up, one of the shrewder counsel for the defendant, seated beside his client, filled almost to bursting with indignation, would whisper in his ear the ominous words,
“There goes another nail into your coffin, Ferd.”
Wincing under these repeated admonitions, Patterson’s eyes assumed their blood-drinking expression, and at last the mental strain becoming too great for longer composure, he exclaimed with a profane curse,
“I wish it had been he, in the place of Old Pinkham.”