With a rattle of wheels over stones and frozen ground the buckboard swung round the bend and down across the muddy creek flats. The driver, Ranger Jones, one of the pioneers of Northern Wyoming, drew off his leather glove and rubbed his chilled hands on the buffalo robe to restore circulation. The sun was low in the west, and, after placing his hand on the heavy Colt that lay reassuringly beside him on the seat, he drew on his glove and spoke sharply to his team. A moment later they struck the bridge, and after clattering across the shaky wooden structure began the ascent of the south bank.
Scarcely had the buckboard left the bridge than from underneath it was thrust the barrel of a rifle. A sharp report rang out, followed by two others in rapid succession, and with his fingers groping vainly for his pistol Ranger Jones, the best rider and one of the bravest men of the Big Horn country, fell forward off the seat. Shot three times through the back, he was dead before his head struck the dashboard.
Jones’s death was but one of the brutal murders that about 1890 horrified the settlers east of the Big Horns and north of the Powder River. This country, which had formerly belonged exclusively to the cattle kings, had of late years been invaded by homesteaders and other settlers, who had begun to stretch their hated wire fences along the creeks and around the water-holes on the alkali flats to the east. Early in the winter all the settlers in this district had received warnings that they had been tried by “a jury of their betters” and found guilty of cattle rustling, and warning them that if they did not leave the country within thirty days their lives would be forfeited. These warnings were signed by the “White Cap Protective League.” The letters, which were known to be the work of the Cattle Association, or of some of its members, were for the most part disregarded.
The death of Ranger Jones fanned to a white heat the flames of rage that had been aroused by the previous murders, and a meeting was called at which Frank Benton, an ex-sheriff of Johnson County, was by common assent adjudged the person guilty of Ranger Jones’s death, and he was sentenced to die by the hand of the first of the settlers who had a chance to pot him. It was further agreed to discover, if possible, the ringleaders of the “White Caps,” and either to lynch them or drive them from the country. But the searchers were unable to find Benton, who, having heard of the plans laid for his taking-off, held a hasty consultation with Dr. Hays and Ben Williams, two of the leading cattlemen, and then boarded a train at Cheyenne and fled to Texas. Once there, he began scouring the country for “bad men.” Any man who had some other man’s blood on his hands found favour with Benton, and at the little town of Utica, where he made his head-quarters, he soon gathered together as choice a collection of “toughs” and murderers as could be found in any one hundred square miles on earth. These men he hired to go with him to Wyoming and kill “Rustlers.” They signed a contract to stay with him for six months and were to receive fifty dollars apiece per month, and one hundred dollars were to be divided amongst the bunch for every man that they killed.
Late in April the band, consisting of sixty men, with Benton and a negro cook, boarded a train on the M. K. T. for the north. At Omaha, where they outfitted, they bought up practically all the ammunition in the town, as well as large quantities of provisions, bedding, tents, and other articles. They were joined here by Dr. Hays, who, after expressing himself as being well pleased with the appearance of the men selected, informed Benton that horses and supply wagons awaited him at Douglas, Wyoming. Before parting from Benton he gave him a revised list of some forty men of whom the cattle kings were desirous of ridding the country.
On Thursday, the 27th of April, the little town of Douglas was surprised and terrified by the appearance of sixty armed men who alighted from the Elkhorn train. The strangers paid but little attention to the townspeople, but hastened out to the E——Y ranch near the town, where their horses awaited them. Here they pitched camp for the night, and at daylight the next morning set off for the north-west, camping that night on the banks of Wild Horse Creek, some forty miles from Douglas. By Saturday night they were within sight of the Powder River, but were halted by Benton in the hills south of the river until it became dark, when they advanced, and, after fording the river, camped in a large cottonwood grove for the night. At two o’clock in the morning they were awakened, and followed their leader on foot for a couple of miles, when, just as day was breaking, they came to a little log-house near the banks of the Powder River. The building was on the claim of a small rancher named Ben Champion, and stopping with him at the time was another rancher named Billy Ray. Both men had received White Cap notices, and were living together for greater security.
Swiftly the men under Benton—who were known thereafter as White Caps—surrounded the ranch and lay concealed, awaiting the appearance of the hapless ranchers, who were to be their first victims. About five o’clock the door opened and Billy Ray stepped out.
“Get breakfast, Ben, and I will look after the horses,” he called out, cheerily, as he started for the log stable near the river bank.
Half-way there he paused and partly turned as if to retrace his steps. Thinking that they had been discovered in their hiding-place, Benton gave the order to fire, and poor Ray fell riddled with bullets.
“Now for the house, boys! Get the other one!” yelled Benton, and he headed a rush at the log building. The rush, however, ended in a wild stampede for shelter, for, regardless of the bullets smashing into the logs around him, Ben Champion appeared in the doorway with a six-shooter in either hand streaming fire and lead. One White Cap lay dead close beside the body of Billy Ray, and another one was painfully trying to drag himself into shelter with a broken leg trailing behind him.