But less than a week later it had occasion to remember the incident!
The stage was held up and robbed in the deep woods just before it
entered the town. Old Bailey, gallantly attempting resistance, was
brought down with three bullets from the revolvers of the highwaymen.
But the keen eye of the old Westerner somehow recognized the two
assailants. Before he died, every one knew that the bandits were “Pete”
Slocum and “Red” Ritter, two of the worst characters in the valley. Yet
no effort was made to apprehend them. They quietly disappeared. No one
assumed authority to trace them and administer punishment.
Nevertheless, two days afterward the bodies of both men were found on
the post-office steps. The looped ends of the ropes with which justice
had been done upon them had been left around their necks. And on the
shirt-front of each there was a piece of black paper about four inches
square, with a red J in the center!
This disquieting incident was quickly followed by others. “Big Bill”
Bondy, slayer of “Gabby” Taylor—and others—was found sprawled out on the
floor of his shack with a bullet-hole in his forehead. The room showed
abundant evidences of a struggle—and the red J was pinned on his breast!
In the weeks that succeeded, other leaders of the worse element, men
whose pistol-stocks bore many a notch, and whose sense of decency and
morality bore more, met the same fate. After a particularly notorious
example of his marksmanship, and disregard for such trifles as the
conventions, one would be located swinging from a tree; another
discovered, lifeless, in his cabin; still another picked up, now and
then, from the dust of the road. In every case the same terrible red
letter on the body showed whence the retribution had come.
Fear and excitement ran high in the valley. Men became cautious about
venturing out after sunset. All went fully armed. But, withal, it did
not escape the notice of many that the better inhabitants were not
molested. Only those whose crimes were known and certain had suffered.
There was a large element which found relief and satisfaction in that
reflection.
Rumors began to spread of night-riders roaming the valley. On several
occasions pale-faced men galloped up to the “Silver Star” and reported
having seen small troops of horsemen flitting along the dark roads.
Their tales were usually incoherent and contradictory; but all tallied
in one particular—that the riders wore some kind of long, dark, flowing
garment, and that nothing could be seen of their faces.
It was observed also that certain of the lesser desperadoes were
mysteriously disappearing from time to time and failing to return. Their
shacks betrayed signs of a hasty departure. Invariably hoof-prints
around their deserted cabins indicated that a considerable number of
horses had been present.
At last, at two different times, parties composed of the most determined
and desperate of the troublesome element set out in search of
information about the nocturnal raiders, and, if possible, revenge.
“Wasp” Williams was not a member of either of these expeditions. For
some reason he found it necessary to attend to important business each
time they were being formed.
The first party returned late at night, unsuccessful and grumbling at
their long, useless ride. The second one did not return at all!
Two hours after they had ridden away from the town, a solitary horseman
galloped furiously through the Pass, launched himself from his foaming
animal before the Silver Star, and staggered up to the bar. His face was
ashen. He gulped down glass after glass of whiskey as though it were
water. Then, somewhat calmer, he noticed the gathering around him, eyed
them stolidly a moment, and spoke:
“Boys,” he remarked grimly, “I’m sayin’ ‘Adios!’ I got my fill o’ this
here hell-hole, an’ I’m pullin’ my stakes soon’s I can git my dust
together. I wish you all luck that stays here, but I reckon Ramapo ain’t
in fer no happy times!”
It took a long time, and much coaxing and whisky, to get him to explain
more fully. Finally he consented.
“We was trottin’ through that gulch they calls Rapheel’s Ravine—’count
o’ the echo, I guess—an’ Bud Borresky was leadin’. We was all feelin’
pretty boisterous, when all of a sudden we hears a voice yell ‘Halt!’ We
don’t see nobody at all, but we don’t waste no time comin’ to a stop.
“Well, we waits awhile without sayin’ nothin’; but I can see everybody’s
kind o’ loosenin’ up his shootin’ iron, Then a figger rides out from
behind a big rock about thirty yards ahead. It’s all rigged out in a
kind o’ shapeless black cloth or somethin’, an’ has a sort o’ hood over
its head. Couldn’t see no face at all! There was somethin’ on its chest
that looked like a letter.
“I ain’t a goin’ to deny as how I gits to feelin’ kind o’ creepy! The
moon was up, an’ the light, comin’ down from the openin’ at the top, was
queer an’—an’ confusin’. The place is full o’ big boulders, an’ the
shadows an’ bushes an’—oh, hell!” He took another gulp of the liquor,
and stared gratefully into the empty glass for several minutes. Finally
he drew a long breath and resumed.
“Well, this black thing eyes us a couple o’ minutes an’ then says, kind
o’ quiet an’ convincin’, ‘Better turn round an’ go back. If you value
your lives, don’t try any more o’ these excursions!’
“Boys, I knows right off I has heard that voice before. I couldn’t make
out who it was, but it was somebody from this here town.
“But don’t say nothin’ for a second or two. Then he pushes his gun out.
‘You damn night-runnin’ coyotes!’ he yells, ‘I’ll git one o’ you
anyhow!’ With that he lets fly. The black figger gives a little cry,
rolls around in the saddle, an’ drops off.
“Then I hears a whistle blowin’ loud an’ shrill. Good Gawd! At that a
reg’lar flock o’ them black birds dashes out everywhere, an’ the whole
place busts into uproar! Guns begins crackin’ from behind every bush an’
rock, an’ the noise an’ echoes ’d wake the dead. Bud an’ about five o’
the other boys goes down with the first volley. We tries to git in a few
shots ourselves, but we was wastin’ lead—didn’t seem to have no heart in
the work, nohow! Some o’ the horses is hit, an’ they all begins kickin’
an’ tearin’ around. Fust thing you know, what’s left of us is gallopin’
back up the hollow hell-for-halleluiah, all mussed up an’ gittin’ in
each other’s way! But we ain’t gone far when shots begins to from that
end, too, an’ another flock o’ them hooded devils pops out! Some o’ the
boys drops off. Gawd! I ain’t no good recollection o’ what happened
after that, an’ I don’t know how I ever got out o’ that particular
portion o’ Hades! A couple o’ them black figgers dashes out from behind
rocks an’ comes after me on horseback. I ain’t denyin’ as how I give
poor old Billy some rough persuasion—but there wasn’t no time for
kindness an’ sympathy! I ain’t no clear idear when them two give it
up—didn’t have no hankerin’ to look back! But I guess they must’ve
followed nearly all the way to town!”
He resorted again to the bottle, then turned away. No amount of coaxing
could induce him to delay and tell more. With drunken awkwardness, he
mounted his horse, mumbled several times “I’m through, boys! I’m sayin’
‘Adios,’” and vanished into the night.
The following morning a small party set out, very doubtfully and
cautiously, for the scene of the encounter. They buried four of their
former comrades, and brought home three whose wounds had received a rude
first-aid from the night-riders. The other doughty members of that
notable expedition, wounded and otherwise, were never seen again in
Ramapo.