TABLE ROCK, CUTLER’S STRONGHOLD IN BEULAH COUNTY.
From a Photograph.
“Can’t do it, Lon,” Cutler shouted back. “If they give me ten days without interference I’ll give myself up—you know my word.”
“Jim,” responded Masters, “if you don’t drop your gun we shall have to fire.”
“Crack! crack! crack!” came the answer from Cutler’s gun, Masters and two others of the party being hit. The remainder now urged their horses forward, but, as first one and then another rider was “winged” by the desperate man in front of them, the remainder decided that they had urgent business elsewhere, and rode back for reinforcements.
At last, after a weary night’s climb, Cutler reached the place he had been making for. He had not slept more than an hour or two for days, and so, secure for a time at least—for no one could climb these hills quicker than he had done—the worn-out man dropped in a heap. Cutler’s hiding place was a barren ledge, some fifty yards in extent, the only approach thereto being the bridle-path by which he had come. Two, or at most three, at a time was the only formation in which his pursuers could get anywhere near him, and with Cutler’s knowledge of the use of firearms this was a ticklish undertaking, to say the least of it. Moreover, he could see anyone approaching along the valley for a great distance. There was plenty of water a little distance down the path, Cutler had sufficient food with him to last for a week, and he felt he could “make a get-away” during this time.
The erstwhile gambler awoke when the sun was high in the heavens; he felt lame and sore all over. Walking towards the edge of the ledge he saw, away in the distance, a large party of horsemen spread out over a great area. Cutler went down the path, bathed his face and arms in the cool spring water, and took a long drink; then, returning above, he sat down and leisurely ate from his store of dried beef, biscuits, and corn bread. At midday the approaching horsemen were in full view, and Cutler saw that they had come with prairie wagons, containing camp paraphernalia, evidently prepared for a siege, for they knew as well as he did himself of the hiding-place where he had taken refuge. Soon the riders came to a halt and Cutler laughed as he saw others coming from all directions, evidently anxious to be “in at the death.” It looked rather a big camp to the solitary figure high in the air, but numbers meant nothing, only—well, his ammunition would give out sooner or later. Then, of course, would come capture—but he wouldn’t look that far ahead.
During the afternoon several men approached, one of them displaying a white handkerchief, which he waved to and fro. When the men reached the bottom of the hill they dismounted and one made his way slowly up, shouting now and again, “It’s me, Jim—Joe Ludlow.” Cutler made his way down the path and, suddenly coming upon Ludlow, ordered him to throw up his hands. The man did so, saying, “Jim, you and I have been friends for fifteen years; believe me, I’m unarmed; I want to talk to you—trust me.” Thereupon Cutler lowered his rifle, and the two men shook hands. Then followed a long confab, during which Ludlow did his utmost to get Cutler to surrender. He said Sheriff Benson was prepared to starve Cutler out, or get him at all costs. It would only mean loss of life and must eventually result in the fugitive’s capture. Ludlow said that he, with half-a-dozen “pals,” would assure Cutler a safe return to Three Corners, sending Benson and all the rest on ahead. Then Cutler could stand his trial, and, with a good lawyer from Butte to defend him, would no doubt stand a chance of some sort.
Cutler listened patiently; then he shook his head.
“I know what’s coming to me, Joe,” he said; “they have been after me for years in a quiet way. Now they want my life, but they sha’n’t have it—at least not until I’ve paved the way with a few of them.”