“GOT him?”
“You bet!”
The questioner looked pleased, yet not as if his pleasure engendered any mental excitement. The man who answered spoke in an ordinary, careless tone, and with unmoved countenance, as if he were merely signifying the employment of an additional workman, or the purchase of a desirable rooster.
Yet the subject of the brief conversation repeated above was no other than Bill Bowney, the most industrious and successful of the horse-thieves and “road-agents” that honored the southern portion of California with their presence.
Nor did Bowney restrict himself to the duty of redistributing the property of other people. Perhaps he belonged to that class of political economists which considers superfluous population an evil; perhaps he was a religious enthusiast, and ardently longed that all mankind should speedily see the pearly gates of the New Jerusalem.
Be his motives what they might, it is certain that when an unarmed man met Bowney, entered into a discussion with him, and lived verbally to report the same, he was looked upon with considerably more interest than a newly-made Congressman or a ten-thousand-acre farmer was able to inspire.
The two men whose conversation we have recorded studied the ears of their own horses for several minutes, after which the first speaker asked:
“How did you do it?”
“Well,” replied the other man, “ther’ wasn’t anything p’tickler ’bout it. Me an’ him wuzn’t acquainted, so he didn’t suspect me. But I know’d his face—he wuz p’inted out to me once, durin’ the gold-rush to Kern River, an’ I never forgot him. I wuz on a road I never traveled before—goin’ to see an old greaser, ownin’ a mighty pretty piece of ground I wanted—when all of a sudden I come on a cabin, an’ thar stood Bill in front of it, a-smokin’. I axed him fur a light, an’ when he came up to give it to me, I grabbed him by the shirt-collar an’ dug the spur into the mare. ’Twus kind of a mean trick, imposin’ on hospitality that-a-way; but ’twuz Bowney, you know. He hollered, an’ I let him walk in front, but I kep’ him covered with the revolver till I met some fellers, that tied him good an’ tight. ’Twuzn’t excitin’ wurth a durn—that is, ixcep’ when his wife—I s’pose ’twuz—hollered, then I a’most wished I’d let him go.”
“Sheriff got him?” inquired the first speaker.
“Well, no,” returned the captor. “Sheriff an’ judge mean well, I s’pose; but they’re slow—mighty slow. Besides, he’s got friends, an’ they might be too much fur the sheriff some night. We tuk him to the Broad Oak, an’ we thought we’d ax the neighbors over thar to-night, to talk it over. Be thar?”
“You bet!” replied the first speaker. “And I’ll bring my friends; nothing like having plenty of witnesses in important legal cases.”
“Jus’ so,” responded the other. “Well, here’s till then;” and the two men separated.
The Broad Oak was one of those magnificent trees which are found occasionally through Southern California, singly or dispersed in handsome natural parks.
The specimen which had so impressed people as to gain a special name for itself was not only noted for its size, but because it had occasionally been selected as the handiest place in which Judge Lynch could hold his court without fear of molestation by rival tribunals.
Bill Bowney, under favorable circumstances, appeared to be a very homely, lazy, sneaking sort of an individual; but Bill Bowney, covered with dust, his eyes bloodshot, his clothes torn, and his hands and feet tightly bound, had not a single attractive feature about him.
He stared earnestly up into the noble tree under whose shadow he lay; but his glances were not of admiration—they seemed, rather, to be resting on two or three fragments of rope which remained on one of the lower limbs, and to express sentiments of the most utter loathing and disgust.
The afternoon wore away, and the moon shone brilliantly down from the cloudless sky.
The tramp of a horse was heard at a distance, but rapidly growing more distinct, and soon Bowney’s captor galloped up to the tree.
Then another horse was heard, then others, and soon ten or a dozen men were gathered together.
Each man, after dismounting, walked up to where the captive lay, and gave him a searching look, and then they joined those who had already preceded them, and who were quietly chatting about wheat, cattle, trees—everything but the prisoner.
Suddenly one of the party separated himself from the others, and exclaimed:
“Gentlemen, there don’t seem to be anybody else a-comin’—we might as well ’tend to bizness. I move that Major Burkess takes the chair, if there’s no objections.”
No objections were made, and Major Burkess—a slight, peaceable, gentlemanly-looking man—stepped out of the crowd, and said:
“You all know the object of this meeting, gentlemen. The first thing in order is to prove the identity of the prisoner.”
“Needn’t trouble yourself ’bout that,” growled the prisoner. “I’m Bill Bowney; an’ yer too cowardly to untie me, though ther be a dozen uv yer.”
“The prisoner admits he is Bill Bowney,” continued the major, “but of course no gentleman will take offense at his remarks. Has any one any charge to make against him?”
“Charges?” cried an excitable farmer. “Didn’t I catch him untying my horse, an’ ridin’ off on him from Budley’s? Didn’t I tell him to drop that anamile, an’ didn’t he purty near drop me instead? Charges?—here’s the charge!” concluded the farmer, pointing significantly to a scar on his own temple.
“Pity I didn’t draw a better bead!” growled the prisoner. “The hoss only fetched two ounces.”
“Prisoner admits stealing Mr. Barke’s horse, and firing on Mr. Barke. Any further evidence?”
“Rather,” drawled an angular gentleman. “I was goin’ up the valley by the stage, an’ all of a sudden the driver stopped where there wasn’t no station. There was fellers had hold of the leaders, an’ there was pistols p’inted at the driver an’ folks in general. Then our money an’ watches was took, an’ the feller that took mine had a cross-cut scar on the back of his hand—right hand; maybe somebody’ll look at Bill’s.”
The prisoner was carried into the moonlight, and the back of his right hand was examined by the major. The prisoner was again placed under the tree.
“The cut’s there, as described,” said the major. “Anything else?”
“Ther’s this much,” said another. “I busted up flat, you all know, on account of the dry season, last year, an’ I hadn’t nothin’ left but my hoss. Bill Bowney knowed it as well’s anybody else, yet he come and stole that hoss. It pawed like thunder, an’ woke me up—fur ’twas night, an’ light as ’tis now—an’ I seed Bowney a-ridin’ him off. ’Twas a sneakin’, mean, cowardly trick.”
The prisoner hung his head; he would plead guilty to theft and attempt to kill, and defy his captors to do their worst; but when meanness and cowardice were proved against him, he seemed ashamed of himself.
“Prisoner virtually admits the charge,” said the major, looking critically at Bowney.
“Gentlemen,” said Caney, late of Texas, “what’s the use of wastin’ time this way? Everybody knows that Bowney’s been at the bottom of all the deviltry that’s been done in the county this three year. Highway robbery’s a hangin’ offense in Texas an’ every other well-regilated State; so’s hoss-stealin’, an’ so’s shootin’ a man in the back, an’ yit Bowney’s done ev’ry one of ’em over an’ over agin. Ev’rybody knows what we come here fur, else what’s the reason ev’ry man’s got a nice little coil o’ rope on his saddle fur? The longer the bizness is put off, the harder it’ll be to do. I move we string him up instanter.”
“Second the motion!” exclaimed some one.
“I move we give him a chance to save himself,” said a quiet farmer from New England. “When he’s in the road-agent business, he has a crowd to help him. Now, ’twould do us more good to clean them out than him alone, so let’s give him a chance to leave the State if he’ll tell who his confederates are. Somebody’ll have to take care of him, of course, till we can catch them, and make sure of it.”
“’Twon’t cost the somebody much, then,” said the prisoner, firmly; “an’ I’d give a cool thousand for a shot at any low-lived coyote that ’ud ax me to do sich an ungentlemanly thing.”
“Spoke like a man,” said Caney, of Texas. “I hope ye’ll die easy for that, Bill.”
“The original motion prevails,” said the major; “all in favor will say ay.”
A decided “ay” broke from the party.
“Whoever has the tallest horse will please lead him up and unsaddle him,” said the major, after a slight pause. “The witnesses will take the prisoner in charge.”
A horse was brought under the limb, with the fragments of rope upon it, and the witnesses, one of them bearing a piece of rope, approached the prisoner.
The silence was terrible, and the feelings of all present were greatly relieved when Bill Bowney—placed on the horse, and seeing the rope hauled taught and fastened to a bough by a man in the tree—broke into a frenzy of cursing, and displayed the defiant courage peculiar to an animal at bay.
“Has the prisoner anything to say?” asked the major, as Bowney stopped for breath.
“Better own up, and save yourself and reform, and help rid the world of those other scoundrels,” pleaded the New Englander.
“Don’t yer do it, Bill—don’t yer do it!” cried Caney, of Texas. “Stick to yer friends, an’ die like a man!”
“That’s me!” said the prisoner, directing a special volley of curses at the New Englander. “It’s ben said here that I wuz sneakin’ an’ cowardly; ther’s one way of givin’ that feller the lie—hurry up an’ do it!”
“When I raise my hand,” said the major, “lead the horse away; and may the Lord have mercy on your soul, Bowney!”
“Amen!” fervently exclaimed the New Englander.
Again there was a moment of terrible silence, and when a gentle wind swept over the wild oats and through the tree, there seemed to sound on the air a sigh and a shudder.
Suddenly all the horses started and pricked up their ears.
“Somebody’s comin’!” whispered one of the party. “Sheriff’s got wind of the arrangements, maybe!”
“Comes from the wrong direction,” cried Caney, of Texas, quickly. “It’s somebody on foot—an’ tired—an’ light-footed—ther’s two or three—dunno what kind o’ bein’s they ken be. Thunder an’ lightnin’!”
Caney’s concluding remark was inspired by the sudden appearance of a woman, who rushed into the shadow of the tree, stopped, looked wildly about for a moment, and then threw herself against the prisoner’s feet, and uttered a low, pitiful cry.
There was a low murmur from the crowd, and the major cried:
“Take him down; give him fifteen minutes with his wife, and see she doesn’t untie him.”
“TAKE HIM DOWN; GIVE HIM FIFTEEN MINUTES WITH HIS WIFE.”
The man in the tree loosened the rope, Bowney was lifted off and placed on the ground again, and the woman threw herself on the ground beside him, caressed his ugly face, and wailed pitifully. The judge and jury fidgeted about restlessly. Still the horses stood on the alert, and soon three came through the oats—three children, all crying.
As they saw the men they became dumb, and stood mute and frightened, staring at their parents.
They were not pretty—they were not even interesting. Mother and children were alike—unwashed, uncombed, shoeless, and clothed in dirty, faded calico. The children were all girls—the oldest not more than ten years old, and the youngest scarce five. None of them pleaded for the prisoner, but still the woman wailed and moaned, and the children stood staring in dumb piteousness.
The major stood quietly gazing at the face of his watch. There was not in Southern California a more honest man than Major Burkess; yet the minute-hand of his watch had not indicated more than one-half of fifteen minutes, when he exclaimed:
“Time’s up!”
The men approached the prisoner—the woman threw her arms around him, and cried:
“My husband! Oh, God!”
“Madam,” said the major, “your husband’s life is in his own hands. He can save himself by giving the names of his confederates and leaving the State.”
“I’ll tell you who they are?” cried the woman.
“God curse yer if yer do!” hissed Bowney from between his teeth.
“Better let him be, madam,” argued Caney, of Texas. “He’d better die like a man than go back on his friends. Might tell us which of ’em was man enough to fetch you and the young uns here? We’ll try to be easy on him when we ketch him.”
“None of ’em,” sobbed the woman. “We walked, an’ I took turns totin’ the young uns. My husband! Oh, God! my husband!”
“Beg yer pardon, ma’am,” said Bowney’s captor, “but nobody can’t b’leeve that; it’s nigh onto twenty mile.”
“I’d ha’ done it ef it had been fifty,” cried the woman, angrily, “when he wuz in trouble. Oh, God! Oh, God! Don’t yer b’leeve it? Then look here!” She picked up the smallest child as she spoke, and in the dim light the men saw that its little feet were torn and bleeding. “’Twas their blood or his’n,” cried the woman, rapidly, “an’ I didn’t know how to choose between ’em. God hev mercy on me! I’m nigh crazy!”
Caney, of Texas, took the child from its mother and carried it to where the moonlight was unobstructed. He looked carefully at its feet, and then shouted:
“Bring the prisoner out here.”
Two men carried Bowney to where Caney was standing, and the whole party, with the woman and remaining children, followed.
“Bill,” said Caney, “I ain’t a askin’ yer to go back on yer friends, but them is—look at ’em.”
And Caney held the child’s feet before the father’s eyes, while the woman threw her arms around his neck, and the two older children crept up to the prisoner, and laid their faces against his legs.
“They’re a-talkin’ to yer, Bill,” resumed Caney, of Texas, “an’ they’re the convincenist talkers I ever seed.”
The desperado turned his eyes away; but Caney moved the child so its bleeding feet were still before its father’s eyes.
The remaining men all retired beneath the shadow of the tree, for the tender little feet were talking to them, too, and they were ashamed of the results.
Suddenly Bowney uttered a deep groan.
“’Tain’t no use a-tryin’,” said he, in a resigned tone. “Everybody’ll be down on me, an’ after all I’ve done, too! But yer ken hev their names, curse yer!”
The woman went into hysterics; the children cried; Caney, of Texas, ejaculated, “Bully!” and then kissed the poor little bruised feet.
The New Englander fervently exclaimed, “Thank God!”
“I’ll answer fur him till we get ’em,” said Caney, after the major had written down the names Bowney gave him; “an’,” continued Caney, “somebody git the rest of these young uns an’ ther mother to my cabin powerful quick. Good Lord, don’t I jist wish they wuz boys! I’d adopt the hull family.”
The court informally adjourned sine die, but had so many meetings afterward at the same place to dispose of Bowney’s accomplices, that his freedom was considered fairly purchased, and he and his family were located a good way from the scenes of his most noted exploits.
