Welcome To The Bullpen
Dead Mule Creek
George Steven Jones
Arizona Territory - 1869
It was a hot day in the Mule Mountains, made cool by a sudden wind that seemed to come from another dimension - a memorable wind, lingering and laden with trouble. Beneath orange, grey skies, the Arizona landscape seemed calm, peaceful even. But just over the mountain tops a fierce storm threatened to overtake the quiet afternoon.
Hut Robbins, a tall older man of Irish descent, sat on the porch of a miners shack wiping sweat from the inside of his hat. Taking note of the sudden wind he said out loud, and for no reason other than to hear himself say it, “A bad storm’s a brewin’!”
He stared out at the horizon for a moment before adding, “But… we need the rain I guess.” then he went back to wiping the sweat from his hat.
It had been a hard day in the mine with Hut scratching around since daybreak, coming out with nothing more to show for his troubles than an ounce of silver. Taking a small, leather pouch of silver dust from his pocket, he bounced it up and down, shook his head in disgust and said, “Tain’t much of a livin’… but it beat’s stealin’!”
Just then his Indian woman, Walking Bird, came out of the shack carrying a glass of water. She sat the water on the porch rail as Hut spoke up, “Woman…these days are surely some hard times!”
Walking Bird nodded and stared off at the tree line noting, “Somethin’ killed off your old cow last night…tore it’s throat out and left it to die. No buttermilk today Robbins… just water.”
Hut nodded, leaned forward and spit tobacco juice on a scorpion scampering across the porch. Leaning back he replied, “Huh!” then he went back to wiping down his hat.
Moments later something caught Walking Bird’s attention and she became aware of the sound of aggravated Ravens growing closer, louder. A gangly wolf, blacker than night suddenly appeared from the tree line, its teeth sparkling like diamonds against a dark line of trees.
A flash of light suddenly flickered and pointing in the direction of the flash Walking Bird yelled, “Robbins… look!”
Hut glanced up then bolted from the chair, running into the shack for his shotgun.
The glass of water on the porch rail began to vibrate, working its way closer to the edge of the rail. Walking Bird watched with a startled gaze as the glass seemed to float off the rail and fall with a crash to the ground, the dust soaking up the water like a dry sponge.
Suddenly the ground beneath her shook, rumbling like an earth quake gathering strength. The rumble soon became audible, growing louder and louder by the second before exploding into a spray of dirt and rock that nearly blocked out the sun. It was a thunderous racket - the kind of noise that causes old women to faint and young children to run off scared. Trees swayed back and forth and some fell with a ground shaking thud. In the midst of all the commotion, the wolf disappeared and Walking Bird strained her eyes, glaring at the tree line trying to locate it but… she could not find it. The rumble faded and the area fell quiet again. An eerie silence engulfed everything, it was a troubled kind of silence - a deadly silent.
The explosion had sealed off the mineshaft and Hut knew it. He ran from the shack with a purpose, hoping to catch the culprits who set off the explosion…maybe even kill one or two for doing such. But halfway across the yard there was another rumble, this one different but a rumble just the same.
It was the rumble of horses on the run, lots of horses, and their hooves shook the ground until a line of ruffians - white men, black men, Mexicans, and Indians, appeared from behind a plume of dust. The riders paused for a moment before spurring their mounts on, circling the miners shack like an Indian war party.
“Claim jumpers!” Hut yelled, “Run woman! Run!”
It happened so fast it seemed to Hut as if he was seeing it from outside of his own body. He saw himself leveling the rifle and drawing a bead on the first available man. But just when he was about to pull the trigger, a voice coming from behind him pulled him back into the moment, “I wouldn’t do that old man!”
Hut froze in his tracks and turned to face Juba Dalton, one of the rankest men in all the Mule Mountains… as mean as they come and as low down as they get.
Standing like a devilish statue, Juba held a pistol to Walking Birds head as aggravated Raven’s began an evil caw; spurring on something sinister, something unholy. The cawing grew louder and louder then quieted as Juba announced, “Don’t cause to me splatter Indian brains all over this place! You know I ain’t ashamed to do it! Now throw down that gun and I’ll let her loose!”
Hut bit his lower lip and sized up the situation. He knew he was out numbered and sure to be killed if he laid down his gun. But, knowing they could kill him either way, he ignored his gut instinct, bent over slow and lowered the shotgun to the ground.
It was never a good idea to give up your gun and Hut knew it. But just as he was having second thoughts, Juba cast an evil smile in his direction, pressed the pistol to Walking Bird’s head and pulled the trigger.
The Ravens caw grew louder again as Juba’s hand recoiled and sprang backward from the blast, the shot echoing Walking Birds death as surely as the Raven’s celebrated it.
Walking Birds knees went limp and the back of her head was sent flying in a spray of blood and brain matter. Her body shook slightly and Juba held on for a moment, then loosing her, he allowed her to fall like a sack of feed to the ground.
Hut was stunned, frozen with panic, and he stood there for a moment. His heart began to pound, beating so hard he could feel it in his throat. Filled with rage, anger, and fear all mixed together, it seemed as if he was seeing the events from outside his own body again. He could taste the fear, feel the evil, and hear the Ravens in the distance. But there was nothing left he could do so with fury in his voice he yelled, “I trusted you…you lyin’ devil!” and in a wild Irish rage he took off running flat out toward Juba.
Straightaway, Juba turned his gun toward Hut and waited until he was close enough to suit him.
Then, with an menacing grin on his face, he shot Hut in the left eye stating, “That’s what you get
fer trustin’ me… you Irish scum!”
Hut’s body fell lifeless to the ground, stirring up the dust as it toppled alongside of Walking Bird’s. Juba rummaged through Hut’s overalls and pulled out the small pouch of silver dust. Then, shoving the pouch into his own pocket, Juba kicked at the two dead bodies, cussing and yelling to his army of rogues, “Burn this place to the ground!”
Thirty miles to the southwest, Sheriff Kane Kyker, and a posse of three men were tracking Juba Dalton, silhouetted like saddled warriors as they rode. They knew Juba to be a hard track, for he knew every deer path and Jack rabbit trail in these parts. They also knew him to be ruthless, cunning, deadly… disrespectful even of the dead.
Juba was a stumpy looking fellow, a half breed Mexican and Indian with matted, stringy hair and dark, menacing eyes. The kind who wouldn’t think twice about stealing a horse, or back shooting a man in broad daylight. Shifty and yet calculating, every thought Juba ever had was to line his own pockets at the expense of some helpless soul. A proud man who took his time in telling big stories, mentioning how folks was certain to remember him as an unrepentant, first rate outlaw and killer. Juba Dalton was indeed a mean one, but folks would mostly remember him as a worthless scoundrel and petty thief.
A notorious braggart, bad man, horse thief, murderer, stage robber and whisky stealer, if Juba ever had a friend it was the gangly wolf that seemed to announce his arrival. But even so the wolf didn’t trust Juba either and kept it’s distance, watching the carnage Juba and his gang of eight inflicted on folks from the safety of a tree line or a bluff.
Dalton and his men had committed plenty of murders, more crimes than a man could count, and was know to leave a path of pain, destruction and death in their wake. Kane was dead set on capturing Juba and he vowed to hold him accountable for the crimes he had committed… see him hang for them too. He knew that by hanging Juba, a clear message would be sent to all of Dalton’s men, men who thought they were above the law, that justice was surely coming… with Kane as the courier.
He was a tall man with shoulder length hair, chiseled face, and emotionless eyes resting beneath a ten X Beaver hat, and rightly matched to his disposition. Big shouldered and on the square in all his doings, Kane was not a talker but a doer. An honest man from down in Georgia, who came to Arizona in search of a better life - a man running from the demons of war…he did not want to be a part of. Confident and fearless he’d seen plenty of killing in his day and had no fear of dying or death. Shootouts gave him no pause either and he found Dead Mule, Arizona, a place where shootouts were routine, to be a town he could settle down in.
It was a rough mining town and if you got there… you meant to get there, for Dead Mule ain’t on the way to anywhere. Kane settled in fairly quickly and soon, took the job as Sheriff. In a matter of a few months he had run off or killed all the tuffs in town, restoring law an order to a town known for its lawless ways.
The stud horse he rode never broke stride as it went, keeping the pace Kane had set, never once balking. The duster Kane wore rose slightly on the breeze, popping against the wind before falling silent on the hind quarters of the big stud horse. Kane was on a mission and it was visible.
His posse had spent many a day in pursuit of Dalton, but for various reasons, Juba managed to give them the slip with every encounter. As of yet, neither Juba nor any of his men had been captured or even detained. But now the posse was hot on Juba’s trail and this time, Kane swore to track him clear to hell if needs be. He was fed up with Juba Dalton and his blatant disregard for the law.
Kane and his posse picked up Juba’s trail earlier that afternoon, after the killing of Hut Robbins up at the mining camp. Now, they had caught up to him, camped near a small creek in the Mule Mountains called, Dead Mule Creek.
Dead Mule Creek really isn’t a creek at all. More like a small stream with a fairly long name. Given the name by an old prospector who sat and watched one of his mules fall dead, while drinking from the stream, the prospector gave it the name for he supposed the stream was poison. But it’s more likely that the old mule was too heavy laden with mining gear, and too worn out from the climb up. So he fell over dead right there, called it quits while getting a drink from the stream. Regardless, the stream would forever be called, Dead Mule Creek, and the nearest town nearly twenty five miles away, Dead Mule.
The time was finally right to make their move, and the posse planned on taking advantage of it.
Dismounting their horses, they waited in the bushes for Juba to unhitch his horse from the wagon he used for transporting stolen whiskey. Then, they moved quietly into position. At Kane’s signal, the lawmen stepped from the bushes, guns in hand, with Kane shouting, “Howdy there Dalton! Where ye goin’ with all that whiskey?”
Rising up with surprise Juba replied, “Don’t look like I’m goin’ no-where!”
As Juba stepped away from the wagon Kane noted, “Don’t make another move or I’ll shoot out your knees! You’ve dodged us long enough and I don’t know about these boys… but I’m tired of foolin’ with you! Now… pitch that side arm over yonder and get out here where I can see you … case you do anything stupid!”
“I ain’t gonna do anythin’ stupid! Ain’t done nothin’ fit fer trackin’ in over a month… ner worth throwin’ down on a man neither!”
“That ain’t what this feller here says!” Kane began, “He claims them cases of whiskey was stoled from the Spurrin’ Ace Saloon. Says you took ‘em with him lookin’ right at you… in broad daylight to boot!”
“I never done it!” Juba protested, “I bought that whiskey from two cowboys over in Benson! That feller there’s a liar…I ain’t broke any laws I know of - ner even been near the Spurrin’ Ace!”
Kane pointed towards Juba’s wagon and replied, “I’m more persuaded by them whiskey boxes that you have… and by them two bodies we buried up in them hills yonder!”
As the men talked, the gangly wolf looked on from a distance, it’s teeth sparkling like diamonds against the shadows of the mountains. It growled low, snapping at the air, ready to run at the drop of a hat.
Juba turned and gave a long stare at the whiskey boxes. Realizing he was caught red-handed by lawmen with guns, he began a confession, “I guess there ain’t no use denying it… I took the whiskey. What say I give you a case ‘er two - to ferget about all this!”
“What say I shoot you in the leg fer tryin’ to bribe your way out of this mess?” Kane replied.
“Heck Sheriff - ain’t no need fer gettin’ tetchy! I didn’t know drinkin’ whiskey was against the law!”
“Drinkin’ whiskey ain’t! Stealin’ it sure is!” Kane noted, “Now we’ve caught you and here’s a witness that saw you steal it! I’m arrestin’ you fer whiskey stealin’ Dalton! Ain’t gonna worry ‘bout them wanted posters on you for who knows what all or… for killing that miner and his wife. The charge of whiskey stealin’ will do just fine I reckon! It's easy to prove!”
“Whiskey stealin’… you’re gonna arrest a man as mean as me fer stealin’ whiskey!”
“I sure am. Got you pretty well covered so I reckon I can arrest you for just about anything and - I plan to hang you too!”
“Hang me? I doubt you got the nerve to hang me!” Juba replied, “I got eight men out yonder in them bushes waiting fer my signal to start shootin’! A hangin’ could get a mite deadly!”
“Talkin’ guff ain’t gonna do you any good!” Kane fired back, “We saw where them eight men scattered nearly ten miles back. Ain’t gonna be of any benefit to you now to call on ‘em!”
“Huh!” Juba threatened, “They’re sure to track you all down and kill you like dogs fer hangin’ me!”
“I ain’t afraid of threat’s either…save your breath! Now I got orders to arrest you and hang you right where I find you! I aim to see to it too! Ain’t got the time ner resources to fool with you till a Judge comes back around so… I’m just gonna hang you right here and be done with it!”
“You’re gonna stretch my neck fer stealin’ whiskey?”
“Sure am! It’s a hangin’ offense and you know it!”
“No I don’t know it neither! If I’da knowed it… I wouldn’t a stoled it!”
“That ain’t stopped you from stealin’ anything else Dalton! There’s enough wanted posters on you to hang you twice a day fer a week! Why’s it matter which one gets the job done?”
“I’ll jest tell you why…stealin’ whiskey’s a cowards way fer hangin’ a man! It ain’t fittin’ to hang a man like me fer that petty offense and you know it!” Juba complained.
“It’ll do just fine I expect!”
Just then the wolf sprang from the shadows. With one forceful leap it sailed through the air, straight toward Kane. Quick as lightening, Kane turned and fired his Colt revolver. His bullet was deadly accurate, striking the wolf between the eyes. The shot echoed through the hollows like an army in retreat, as the wolf fell dead to the ground. The Ravens began cawing an aggravated caw again that faded into silence, as a eerie still engulfed the afternoon.
Juba was in awe of Kane’s speed and accuracy and the way he handled the unexpected with a calm that caught Juba off guard. Tryin’ to maintain his tough guy image, Juba noted, “You kilt my best friend Sheriff… I ain’t likely to ferget that!”
“Take it to the grave with you Dalton!”
Juba, sensing his attempt to rattle Kane wasn’t working, picked up the argument where he had left off, “I’d prefer another charge fer hangin’ me Sheriff… somethin’ more befittin’ a man mean as me… a man whose liable to kill you before this day’s over!”
Kane said nothing as Juba continued, “I doubt you’d care about that… you’re a tuff ole bird I reckon!” Dalton hesitated for a moment then spoke up again, “Knowin’ you, if you caught me massacrin’ an army of Nuns - you’d put “whiskey stealer” on my grave marker as a put down!” He hesitated again then added, “I don’t want to be remembered as a common thief ner man who got hung fer whiskey stealin’!”
“The only folks likely to remember you Dalton,” Kane noted, “are the folks you’ve beaten to death or stole from. They already know you’re lower’n a snakes belly in an wagon rut… a stealer of whiskey and everything else that ain’t nailed down. Quiet down now and move over this way!”
But Juba continued to complain as he walked, “Well jest the same Sheriff…it’s embarrassin’! Sooner not be remembered that a way! You orrta pick out a good crime I’ve done and give me a fair trial with a real Judge and jury like a decent human being shoud do!”
“I ain’t a decent human being Dalton. But I’ll see to it you get a fair trial… fair as I’m able to give you seeing as how you’ve done already confessed to whiskey stealin’! Your trial will be held right here in a few minutes. Then we’ll see about givin’ you a proper hangin’!”
“There ain’t a tree in twenty miles of here fit to hang a man from!” Juba protested, “How you gonna hang me? Why don’t you haul me off to jail, let me have a trial, er just shoot me outright!” Dalton suggested, “Be a dang sight easier on all of us!”
“Wish I could do that but I can’t! Now… you’ve confessed to whiskey stealin’ so that’ll have to do.”
“I was talkin’ outta my head when I said that stuff…dumb from eatin’ tainted meat I reckon!”
“Be that as it may… it’s clear to me you’re a whiskey thief. You’re toting around a wagon load of whiskey and this feller says he saw you steal it! Now I know you stoled it and you know you stoled it.” Kane thought for a moment before adding, “Sides, that dead miner and a few more are probably waiting in the hereafter to see justice is served… I won’t disappoint them. It’s time to put an end to this kind of behavior!”
Ten minutes later a trial was held right there in Juba’s camp, with Kane acting as the judge and his three deputies the jury. After considering the evidence and, given the fact that Juba had confessed to stealing the whiskey, the deputies found Juba guilty. Kane sentenced him to death by hanging and so went the trial of Juba Dalton. The fact there were no trees around to hang Juba from was duly noted but, being the way Kane was, he intended to do his job anyway. He would make due with whatever was available and hang Juba right where he had caught him.
Two of the deputies tied Juba’s hand while one kept him covered. Then Juba stood by a rock watching in disbelief as Kane prepared Juba’s wagon for the hanging. As promised, Kane intended to make due with what he had.
Tying a rope to the wagon tongue Kane raised the tongue up, propped it straight, and wedged it with the singletree and a few rocks from underneath, to make it secure and sturdy. A bay mare was led to a spot just under the wagon tongue. Two deputies led Juba over and lifted him up onto the mare. The rope was slipped around Juba’s neck and the execution proceedings commenced.
“Yer gonna hang me from a wagon tongue ain’t ye!” Juba noted.
Kane nodded, “Sure am. Now - you got any last words?”
“Since yer gonna hang me fer stealin’ it…I’d like to have that last bit of whiskey yonder!”
Kane picked up the bottle and raised it to Juba’s lips. He drank it down, saving the last drop for spitting at the deputy holding the mare. In an angry tone Juba said, “Whisky stealin’! Well kiss my hind end! You’re all cowards… every last one of you! I’m a better man than all of you put together!”
He paused for a moment before adding, “I’ll be in hell in a few minutes… drunker’n a dog! You boys will soon be too I reckon… my boys will see to that! But it don’t matter no-how! Now go on Sheriff… get this lynchin' party started!”
Kane hesitated before giving the bay mare a hard lick on its hind quarters. The horse bolted, and Juba Dalton was officially hung from an upright wagon tongue, right there in his own camp.
After making sure Juba was dead, the lawmen took down his body and buried it in a shallow grave. They covered the grave with rocks, to keep animals from carrying of the bones, and made a note of the graves location in a small note pad Kane carried. Then, pulling a loose board from Juba’s wagon, Kane made a grave marker.
Using his knife he carefully carved into the wood, “Juba Dalton - whiskey stealer.” Those were the only words to mark the grave of a man who thought his reputation as a bad man was bigger than life, sure live forever. His reputation did in fact live forever but with no mention of being a bad man… Juba was immortalized simply, as a whiskey stealer.
Kane placed the marker on top of Juba’s grave and noted, “This ain’t to shame you none Dalton…it’s the plain truth!”
Without another word being said, the posse put out the campfire and rode off toward Dead Mule.
Back in Dead Mule, there was no celebration over the capture of Juba, no crowds asking questions, and no big to do about his hanging. In fact, other than the Mayor no one even mentioned Juba Dalton. It was as if he never existed… a fitting end for such a scoundrel.
In Kane’s mind, Juba Dalton was just another outlaw that had been brought to justice. He never bragged about Juba’s capture or about his hanging either… he wasn’t made that way. He was not a particularly religious man, or high-minded. He simply viewed the hanging of Dalton as a Sheriff doing his job and that was the end of it. He may have thought Juba’s trial lacked some legal correctness or maybe, was a bit one sided. But if he did… he never let on.
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