High
Stakes on the Sweetwater River Mark Adcock
28/02/2018
High
Stakes on the Sweetwater River
...they
hung from the branch of a stunted pine at the head of a rock-strewn
canyon, their lifeless feet only inches from the ground. Ellen's feet
were bare, her moccasins lay on the ground nearby, a testament to her
death struggle. Her arm brushed against Jim's as they gently swayed
in the breeze, together in death as they were in life...
Bill
Harley shivered, remembering as he leaned back in his chair and
glanced once more at the stairs leading up to the guest rooms. He
scratched his beard and looked around the empty but clean saloon. The
early morning Wyoming sunlight cast the shadow of the swing doors
across the bare wood floor. A clink of glass brought his attention
back to the bar where the barkeep, in rolled-up sleeves, wiped the
counter and stowed away clean glasses.
This
was his fourth visit to Rawlins in the two years since they settled
on the Sweetwater, sixty miles north. He had made the long, horseback
journey the day before just to give the Sheriff his testimony of
events that led to the lynching of his friends, Jim Averill and Ella
Watson.
He
reached for his coffee and then looked around feeling like he was
being watched. His wife, Eileen, had twice seen a stranger on
horseback lurking near their property. She was frightened and hadn't
wanted him to go, but he needed to see this through.
Bill
glanced at the stairs when a clean-shaven, young man, bespectacled
and dressed in a suit, descended carrying a leather case. They had
spoken briefly last night. On hearing why Bill was in town he
introduced himself as a reporter and asked to meet in the morning.
He
ordered a coffee and then sat opposite Bill.
"Good
Morning, Mr. Harley," he said, shaking Bill's hand.
"Monin',
Jack. What paper you say you're with?"
"The
Bessemer Journal."
"I
take it you're new to these parts," Bill said. "The accent,
New England?"
His
face reddened. "That's right, about a month and I'm new to the
Journal." He bent down and removed a pad and pencil stub from
his case. "So you were acquainted with Cattle Kate, Mr. Harley."
"Who?"
"It's
what Ellen Watson is being called." Jack pulled out a newspaper
and slid it across to him: the Cheyenne Daily Leader, dated July 23,
1889. Bill felt a lump in his throat, it was two days old, printed on
the day he buried his friends. He scanned the title:
"A
Double Lynching Postmaster
Averill and his wife hung for Cattle Stealing. They were tireless
Maverickers who defied the law. The man weakened, but the woman
cursed to the last."*
He
looked up at Jack with incredulity. "What is this?"
"Just
read the story. I'd like your opinion."
Bill
stared a moment at Jack and then read the article. As he read he
could feel a vein in his neck pulsing. When finished, he balled his
hands into fists, stood up and leaned across the table glaring at
Jack.
"Mister,
I don't know what you're tryin' to do, but these are lies. Why it
makes it out that Jim was a crook and coward and Ella an outlaw and
prostitute. I'll bid you 'good day'." He straightened up to
leave, grabbing his hat and saddlebag.
The
colour drained from Jack's face. "Look, Mr. Harley, I'm just
showing you what the other papers are printing."
"That
article reads like a dime novel. You're not gonna twist my words."
"I
wouldn't do that." Jack stood up. "Look, my boss thinks
there's more to this than was printed."
Bill
paused, clenched his jaw and then spoke quietly. "What do you
mean?"
Jack
looked back at the entrance then glanced at the barkeep. He stepped
in close to Bill and lowered his voice. "Like I said, I'm new to
these parts but I was told the Cattleman's Association controls
most things around here," He nodded towards the paper, "including
some of the newspapers."
Bill
hesitated. He looked towards the swing doors then back at Jack. "Last
January our first child was born and then my wife caught a fever.
Ella stayed with us for two weeks until she got on her feet. Does
that sound like a cattle thieving, drunken whore to you?"
Jack
shook his head. "Please, Mr. Harley, sit down and tell me your
story, the real story."
Bill
sighed, set his saddlebag down and then put his hat back on the
table; he sat and leaned forward. "Alright, what do you want to
know?"
"Well,
start from when you first met them. You knew them. Tell me what they
were like."
Bill
leaned back in his chair, took out a leather pouch that held his
tobacco and pipe and began to pack the bowl. He lit it, puffing,
while Jack took up his pencil and waited.
"About
two years ago, my wife and I sold up in Kentucky and headed for
Oregon. It was a hard journey on both of us. When we arrived at
Sweetwater, we pulled in at Jim Averell's roadhouse. It was there we
met him and Ella. We spent the evening talkin' to them. They told us
about land nearby that was up for homesteading. We wound up doin'
just that."
Jack
looked up at Bill. "So Jim and Ellen Watson owned a roadhouse."
"No,
it was Jim's place. They weren't married. Ella just worked there. She
cooked the meals and Jim let her keep all the earnings from it."
Bill raised an eyebrow. "Truth is they were real close and
rumour had it they were engaged. Before we met them, they lived
together so I guess there would be some that would hold that against
them."
"So
where did Ellen live?"
"Jim
homesteaded 160 acres of land between Horse Creek and the Sweetwater.
A year before we arrived, Ellen homesteaded the 160-acre parcel next
to Jim's along Horse Creek. She built a two-room log cabin and lived
there. Between them, they controlled a mile of Horse Creek." Bill
removed his pipe and pointed the stem at Jack. "I reckoned that's
why they didn't get married."
Jack
looked up. "Why's that?"
"A
family is only allowed to do one homestead. She had a couple of years
left to prove her claim. I reckoned they planned to marry then."
"Makes
good business sense."
"Jim
and Ellen both had shrewd business heads. They knew what they were
doin'. It was legal; they just didn't let their personal niceties get
in the way. They sure worked hard and I know Ella saved what she
earned." He smiled feeling the stitching on his trouser leg.
"She had a sewing machine and regular customers needing clothes
mended."
Both
Bill and Jack looked up when two cowhands pushed through the swing
doors. They removed their hats and nodded as they walked up to the
bar where they each ordered a beverage and stood, talking in hushed
tones. Bill smiled as he relaxed in the lighter atmosphere.
Jack
took a sip of coffee and then rested his chin on his hand. "The
people you're describing don't sound like the scoundrels the papers
claim they were. Could they have been rustling cattle without you
knowing it?"
Bill
shook his head and drew on his pipe. "It's open country and I
could see Ellen's place from our cabin. Jim never owned any cattle.
He kept hogs and Ella only got a few head last year." He
chuckled. "Last fall, she came across an immigrant on the Oregon
trail, up near Independence Rock, driving twenty-eight head of
cattle. They were in bad shape, thin and footsore. She bought them
for a Dollar a head. I helped her herd them back to her place."
"Did
they survive? I heard last winter was the harshest on record."
Bill
nodded. "They survived alright. She took real good care of them.
By the time we branded them two weeks ago, there were forty-one."
"Wait,"
Jack said flipping back through his notes. "These are the cattle
she was accused of rustling, right?"
"That's
what I heard."
"Why
didn't she show them proof of sale?"
"The
way I heard it, when they confronted her, she said she could prove
it. The bill of sale was at Jim's place. They forced her into the
buggy, went around by Jim's place and seized him without even askin'
to see the paperwork. It was just an excuse Bothwell used to rile up
the other ranchers."
"Bothwell...
Al Bothwell? One of the ranchers arrested?"
"Yup."
"I
take it there was bad blood between them."
Bill
glanced at the saloon entrance when he heard footsteps on the
boardwalk, outside, accompanied by raucous laughter. His hands
trembled as he removed his pipe, remembering a chilling rumour of
what Bothwell had said to the sheriff while being escorted to Rawlins
after his arrest:
"...on
your way back from Rawlins, check every tree. You're liable to find
more cattle rustlers strung up by the neck..."
Bill
looked at Jack and swallowed. "You could say that. He's the
biggest rancher in our parts. His place is only a mile from mine. He
owns thousands of acres and a huge herd; his cattle graze on the open
range but the government started to parcel out some of it to
homesteaders. Jim, Ella and a few more of us live on land his cattle
grazed on. He was always pushin' them to sell but they wouldn't.
Heck, he made me an offer for my claim."
The
swing doors parted, and a tall man, wearing a dark poncho, strode up
to the bar, his spurs clicking. He ordered a whisky and stared at
Bill and Jack from under his black hat. Bill's eyes were drawn to
his pistol sitting low on his hip just visible in the split of the
poncho. A chill ran down Bill's spine, he recognized him. He had
seen him before with Bothwell and heard stories...
The
cowhands stopped talking and looked from the tall cowboy to Jack and
Bill. In an uneasy silence, they left the bar and settled at the
table in the furthest corner from them.
Reluctantly,
Bill returned his attention to Jack. He cleared his throat, leaned
forward and spoke in a quieter tone.
"He
started to get real threatening. Jim was the justice of the peace in
the area. He heard some of the ranchers were claiming land illegally
so he sent a letter to a paper naming Bothwell."
Jack
glanced up. "Do you know which paper that was?"
Bill
shook his head. "I can't recall. After that, they had a fight
and Jim threatened to cut off his access to Horse Creek. I guess
that's what finally killed Jim and Ella."
A
glass was slapped down on the counter. Startled, they both looked
towards the bar as a hush settled in the saloon. Bothwell's man
glared and then left, the doors swinging in his wake. Bill watched
the saloon entrance, his stomach tightening into a ball. He jumped
when Jack spoke.
"Where
were you when they were taken, Bill?"
"I
was ploughin' up a field when I seen them being hauled away along the
Sweetwater, surrounded by a half dozen men. I recognised Bothwell. I
started to walk over to Jim's place to find out what was goin' on
when I met my neighbour, Frank Buchanon. He told me Bothwell and a
few other ranchers had taken them and was afraid they were going to
lynch them. I ran back to my place, unhitched my horse and grabbed my
rifle. I was late following them and pulled up when I saw Frank
riding hard towards me. He told me to return home, he had been in a
gunfight and there was nothing I could do. Both Jim and Ella had
already been hung."
Bill
swallowed, the lump in his throat rising up again. He wiped his eyes
and shuddered at the memory.
...their
bodies hung from lariats fashioned into nooses. Their slow
strangulation evident from their swollen tongues protruding from
their mouths. Their bodies were blackened and bloated from swinging
in the heat for two days...
"Later,
I went along with the posse to retrieve their bodies. We buried them
on Jim's land."
For
a moment, silence settled between them.
Jack
replaced his notepad and pencil in this satchel and then glanced at
Bill.
"Last
night you said you came into town to give the Sheriff your story. You
going there now?"
Bill
nodded. "Yup. They were kind-hearted people. Last winter was
long and most of us ran out of food. Ella slaughtered two to her herd
to help feed us. Jim was the same, they wouldn't see anyone go
hungry." Bill shook his head. "What was done was murder and those
that did it need to hang for it."
He
packed up his pipe, stood, slung his saddlebag over his shoulder and
picked up his hat. They shook hands.
"Thanks,
Bill. I'll get the truth out there."
Out
on the boardwalk, Bill squinted into the sun as he looked down the
dusty street towards the corral where he had stabled his horse, the
Sheriff's office was on the way. He waited for the stagecoach to pass
before he crossed to the other side. Passing an alleyway, a voice
called him from the shadows.
He
turned to see Bothwell's man leaning against the wall smoking a
cheroot, his hand resting on his holstered pistol.
"Yea?"
Bill answered, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.
The
man smiled but it didn't touch his cold blue eyes. A shiver ran up
Bill's back.
"Mr.
Bothwell sends his regards. How's that pretty little wife of yours?
Eileen, isn't it? I bet she's sweet, and now you got a little one.
You sure wouldn't want anything to happen to them. These can be
dangerous parts, just like your neighbours found out."
He
straightened up, dipped his hat and turned down the alley. He stopped
and looked back.
"By
the way, Mr. Bothwell's offer still stands."
He
turned and disappeared into the gloom.
Bill's
legs felt like jelly. He leaned against the wall, breathed a couple
of times then urged himself on, driven by an overwhelming need to get
home. Outside the Sheriff's office door, he hesitated, his hand
hovering above the door handle.
Eileen,
their child in her arms, pleaded with him not to leave them. On the
horizon a dark rider loomed, watching...
Bill
straightened up, turned away from the sheriff's office and
continued to the stables. If they sold now, they could reach Oregon
before the mountain passes closed.
*Extract from: The Cheyenne Daily
Leader, dated July 23, 1889
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