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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Law Comes to Sentinel Butte
Kent Kamron
With the arrival of the railroad into Sentinel Butte, the locals knew this lazy town of hearty settlers lying near the border of the Dakotah and Montana Territories was about to blossom. Without a doubt, this midge on the prairie landscape would double in size every year, and within a decade, the people were sure this town would become the jumping off station to the West. After all, the railroad was a measure of prosperity. It brought wood, cement, steel, more settlers, and every product imaginable for the home and ranch house.
And what a grand location for a growing community. To the north lay the two protrusions on the prairie known as the Camel Hump, and to the south was Square Butte, a flat rise similar to Sentinel Butte. All were visible landmarks for miles around, which made this growing town a strategic place for commerce passing both ways.
The first few buildings had been built by early homesteaders, nothing more than sod and clapboard structures, but then came a few saloons, followed by a general store and a livery and other small businesses. Some said it was the saloons and the few girls who practiced their trade inside that was the first big attraction, and to a degree, that was true. They at least drew in the cowboys, who frequented the bars for their periodic beverage consumption and other certain pleasures.
Of course, Henry Enrud, the owner of the general store, wouldn’t agree to that assumption.
By 1883, and in spite of the fact that Sentinel Butte had a number of buildings and a layout of streets, the town had not yet acquired a post office, which would have made it an entity with the release of the next U.S. governmental map. But that made no difference. To make themselves function like a town, the town folk elected a mayor and sheriff to occupy the seats that provided law and orderthe essentials of a legitimate community.
It really wasn’t much of an election. Henry Enrud, the proprietor of the general store, came up with the idea of electing a mayor and sheriff. He ran for mayor and suggested his good friend, Clayton Barfield, run for sheriff. Henry maintained business daily in Sentinel Butte, and Clayton had a ranch a mile west of town, thus, in an emergency, he could easily be summoned.
These two men were the only two on the ballot, so when election time came around, those that decided to vote had the option of indicating either yes or no for each candidate. Since no one else wanted the jobs, the outcome of the election was evident, especially when it was pointed out that both were working for nothing.
They were a good pair. Henry had run a business in Bismarck and decided to set up a new store here further west. He was as non-descript as could be with his gray beard and mustache, and he wore a kindly face that was prone to carrying a smile at every turn.
“A smiling face gives a customer every incentive to buy,” he often told Clayton.
Clayton, a newly married man in his early thirties, knew more about raising cattle than anything else, but he always carried a six-gun on his side and a Winchester on his saddle, so he was a natural choice for sheriff, at least in appearance.
He was tall and spindly, but ever since he had acquired some official capacity, he began wearing a white shirt and string tie and a long black coat and wide-brimmed hat, a carryover from an article he had read about Wyatt Earp, the sheriff of Tombstone fame. He had purchased a sheriff’s badge through a catalogue company, but had to wait nearly two months before it arrived by train. Now, with the silver badge pinned to his chest, he definitely exuded authority. Since no out-of-pocket expenses were to be anticipated for the newly acclaimed offices, the two men and their titles were readily accepted by this pioneer community.
Clayton Barfield had no official place to conduct his business, what little there was, so Henry Enrud cleared an area for him at the rear of his store, a spot large enough to hold a desk.
Since Sentinel Butte had no jail, Clayton solved that problem. The bank had two cagessmall entities with bars around them and locks. If need be, Clayton could utilize one of them for hard criminalsafter the banker removed all moneys and securities. As of yet, the bank had not been called on for this service.
In the four months since Clayton began his duties, he had arrested two drunks, both cowboys from the Flying L ranch. They were encouraged to sleep off their stupor, which they did in the back of the general store, and pay a fine of fifty cents each. The new mayor said Clayton could keep the dollar, which might buy a box of shells, but so far, Clayton had not even fired his revolver.
In the beginning, when Clayton first assumed his new duty, he would ride into town on a regular basis and catch a breakfast or lunch meal. But after a few weeks of riding into and out of town, boredom set in. There was nothing to do. What information he received from other cities in the area was minimal, thus he was not well informed on area desperadoes and the like. And being this remote from civilization, he did not have much call or incentive to carry out the duties of a sheriff to any significant degree.
On this particular morning, Clayton decided to make a trip into town for some supplies, so he and his good friend, Henry, slipped over to Sally Gates’ Café at the Palomino. The café made up the left half of the saloon, the bar the right. Sally ran the café during the daytime and her upstairs enterprise during the night.
They ordered ham and eggs, which were good this morning, but the potatoes seemed a bit leatheryleft over from a few days ago, they were sure. They finished their meal and were savoring their coffee when they saw a dust-worn cowboy ride up in front of the saloon, trailing another horse behind him. He jumped out of his saddle and quickly wrapped the reins of both horses around a hitching post.
Henry and Clayton both recognized him as Lem, a Montana cowboy who blew in several months back and hired on with the Flying L. From what they knew, he seemed to be an easy-going fellow. They guessed him to be in his late teens, and although he was no more than five-two in height, he was regarded as a respectable cowhand. He sported a scrubby beard and often made an appearance in the saloons with the other cowboys, however, unlike most of the other hands, whenever he came to town, he was always packing a side-arm. Carrying a weapon wasn’t so unusual while out on the range, but in town, the cowboys rarely rode in carrying guns.
Young Lem clomped through the café like a chugging locomotive and disappeared through a back door. Even from this distance, Henry and Clayton could hear the cowboy’s boots bang on the stair steps leading to the second floor.
There were but a half dozen other patrons in the café, but they all seemed to focus their eyes on the door, and within a half minute or so, footsteps banged their way down the same staircase.
The door flew open and young Lem hurried through to the outside. A few seconds later, another cowboy plowed through. His hat was in place, but he was busy trying to stuff in his shirttail and buckle on his gun belt at the same time.
Outside, the two mounted their horses and rode off, leaving swirls of dust hovering in the hot sun.
“Who was that other fellow?” Henry questioned.
“Name’s Emmet or Elliot,” Clayton answered. “Don’t remember exactly. Them two hired on together at the Flying L.”
“Yeah,” Henry nodded. “Emmet’s his name, come to think of it.”
“Always together,” Clayton mused.
“Well, they must’a got hung over last night. I’m guessin’ they’re riding hell bent for the ranch. They’re gonna miss breakfast and be hungry as hell come dinner time.”
Clayton stood up, walked to the door and peered out. The two cowboys were pushing their mounts at a gallop, and when they turned a corner and were out of sight, Clayton came back to the table.
“They’re riding hell bent, for sure,” he said, “but they ain’t headed toward the ranch.”
“Well, kids is kids,” Henry said. “Who knows what the hell they’re up to.”
“More coffee, boys?” Sal was at their table carrying a pot and didn’t wait for an answer. She filled their cups and went back to the kitchen.
Clayton wasn’t in any particular hurry to get back to his ranch, so he drank up his coffee, and when Sal came back with the pot, he let her fill his cup again.
Two other men joined Clayton and Henry, and for the next half-hour, the four spent their time jawing about the price of cattle, which eventually led them to bring up the Frenchman who had invaded the western part of the territory.
“Some rich fancy Dan,” one of the men said. “He’s building his own town on the Little Missouri, gonna name it after his wife, Medora.”
“Heard they already got a post office,” said the second man.
“Damn,” the first man retorted. “Don’t that beat all. We been here all these years, but don’t yet gots a post office. Somebody ought to shoot the sum-bitch.”
“Well, at least we got law and order.”
That drew a slight smile from both Clayton and Henry.
At that moment, a raucous thunder of pounding hooves invaded their conversation, and when they looked outside, several men rode up on horses and stopped in the middle of the street. The dust they stirred up hung like a heavy fog in the sunlight
The big man in front wore a full red beard, a calling card of sorts, and he was riding a big buckskin. Suddenly, he pulled a pistol from his holster and fired it in the air.
Clayton jumped to his feet, not sure who these men were or what they wanted.
The big man with the beard spun his horse around. “Got a sheriff in this town?” he hollered out.
Clayton stepped onto the boardwalk, followed by Henry and the other two men from his table. A dozen or more people on the street had gathered, all curious with the arrival of this group of rough looking men.
Clayton counted them, seven in all, all with rifles and pistols, all covered with dust from hard riding. He planted his feet firmly on the boardwalk, brushed his coat back to show his badge and then cleared his throat.
“I’m sheriff here,” he said, his voice nearly tapering off into nothing.
‘I’m Griff Hoffman,” said the big man. “We been riding for the past four days. Got word the two we’re looking for are around here somewheres.”
“Who might that be?” Clayton asked as he looked over the riders. They were all staring back, and four of them were holding their Winchesters across their saddles.
The big man shot back, “They go by the names of Shorty McFarland and Knute Williams.”
“Ain’t got nobody around here with them names,” Clayton answered, feeling somewhat relieved.
“Shorty’s small and wiry, rides a dark bay, carries a .44 Remington. The other’s a bit taller, dark skinned, black hair, wears a revolver on his left hip, rides a gray with black spots.”
“Shee-it,” said a man in the crowd. “That sounds like Lem and Corky from the Flyin’ L.”
Clayton gulped. The big man known as Griff had just described the two that left Sally’s café, and he had described their horses perfectly.
“What’d they do?” Clayton dared to ask.
“You name it, they done it,” the big man shouted back. “Where are they?”
The man in the crowd who identified them pointed down the street. “They rode out a while ago, that way, toward Garner’s Creek.”
“Get your horse, sheriff,” the big man demanded. “These two are a coupl’a mean ones.”
“Hold on,” Clayton dared again. “What do you plan to do if you catch them?
“String ‘em up! We ain’t rode all this way to have a damn tea party.”
Clayton nearly faltered as he stepped forward. “You can’t just hang two men without a trial. We got law and order in this town.”
That roused the crowd, and they supported Clayton with their positive murmurs.
“That’s right, Clayton,” someone shouted.
“You tell ‘em,” shouted another. “You got the law on your side.”
“This is our law!” the leader screamed out, his voice stifling the crowd. He whipped out his pistol again and blasted another shot into the air. All of the men with him raised their weapons and fired off a few rounds, and when they did so, the crowd on the street scattered in every direction leaving the men and horses surrounded in a cloud of gray smoke.
When Clayton looked behind him, Henry was still near by, but the other two men had backed off.
“You comin’ or ain’t ya?” the big man shouted at Clayton.
Clayton felt a hard lump as he swallowed. “I know how you feel, sir, but the law says…”
He didn’t get a chance to finish. Big Griff Hoffman jammed his spurs into his horse and darted off, the rest of his men in quick pursuit. Seconds later, they were at the end of the street and headed south.
“Jesus, Clayton,” said one of the men behind him. “Whatcha gonna do?”
Clayton stared down the empty street. The men and horses were no longer visible, but he could still hear their pounding hooves, and then shortly, silence invaded the street like some invisible shroud.
“You’re the sheriff,” someone from the street shouted. “Can’t let them men hang a coupl’a boys. Hell, might not even be who they’re lookin’ fer!”
Now, more of the crowd regrouped and voiced their concerns.
“We elected you to give us law and order!”
On and on the questions came. What was he going to do?
Was he going to go after them?
What was the sense of having law and order in Sentinel Butte if it didn’t prevail?
“Alright! Alright!” Clayton finally shouted back. The crowd quieted, but Clayton was at a loss exactly what to say. He cleared his throat again.
“I’m going to need a posse. How many of you men are with me?”
Suddenly the angry voices in crowd lowered to nothing more than a mumbling among themselves. Clayton waited patiently, but nobody volunteered to ride along as a posse member.
Clayton turned around. The two he had been talking to in the café were nowhere to be seen. Henry stepped beside Clayton and eyed the mob before him.
“I’ll go along with Clayton,” he said. “Who else among you will do the same?”
Slowly, the crowd of men began moving off. But their voices could be heard, and it was evident that they expected the law to take care of it. It was not their duty. It was the duty of the new law and order of the town.
“Fer Chrissake,” Henry said as he watched his friends walk away.
“Those are my exact sentiments,” Clayton agreed. He watched the disappearing crowd and turned to his friend. “You don’t have to come with me, Henry. It’s my job.”
Henry shook his head as he walked off toward the livery. “I’ll get my horse.”
Henry borrowed a pistol and belt from Cliff, the livery hand, and fifteen minutes later, he and Clayton, the law and order of Sentinel Butte, set their horses into a trot and headed down the street. The few remaining men that stood off to the sides simply stared at them, neither waving nor offering any sense of encouragement.
At the end of the street, Clayton swung around in his saddle for a last look. No one was visible now. It was as if Sentinel Butte had suddenly become a ghost town.
* * * * *
The two had ridden for the better part of an hour and had covered eight or ten miles, their horses running at an easy lope. The land about them rose and dipped, the hillsides dotted with cedar trees, seemingly the only living thing besides cactus that would grow in this rugged outback. Along the ravines and crevices, where water ran during rain storms, a few scrub oak and prickly bushes had managed to take hold in the soil.
Today, their ride was hot, the sun beating menacingly down upon them, the air almost stifling. Sweat rimmed their faces as if it had been sprayed on them.
But their trail was fairly clear. With seven horsemen ahead of them, a blind man could follow the hoof prints left in the sand and clay. Clayton didn’t have the faintest idea how these men knew what direction to follow in order to apprehend the two cowboys, and Henry, for the most part, was along for support. He knew nothing about tracking, and he hadn’t fired a gun in ten years.
Clayton’s head was spinning as they rode, every moment filled with worry and fear. He was a lawman, but he wasn’t a lawman. He had no idea what a sheriff should do once a criminal was apprehended, and he had never killed a man or even shot at one. Somehow, he did not think his duties as a sheriff would come to this, but now, the nerves inside of him were crawling like a snake, and his gut wrenched with a sick feeling.
He could only imagine the worst. If the seven men ahead caught up to the cowboys, he was sure they would hang them. What could he do as sheriff, especially, when he had virtually no jurisdiction anywhere? Not in the Dakotah Territory, not in the county, not even legally in his own town. He was a paper sheriff with two drunks to his credit. That and a dollar fine.
They reached Square Butte, a flat, yellowish-gold formation of rock, and picked their way up the side to the top from where they could gain a panoramic view of the surrounding area. Once there, they crawled off their horses and let them blow.
In between heavy swigs from their canteens, they scoured the countryside looking for any signs of life. Jagged outcroppings of fallen rock rested along the hillside below, poking out of the soil as if they had been planted there. Wild brush cropped up here and there between the rocks, offering the only touch of green in this badland country.
Far below, the tracks of the seven horses were still visible, headed off toward a meandering string of trees. Clayton knew the trees were the lifeline of Garner Creek. Beyond the creek, another pair of buttes jutted upwards from the base of the land, their tops stretching for a mile or better against a vast, empty horizon. If the two cowboys and the pursuing men were anywhere around, they must be somewhere between the river and the buttes.
As the two headed down, Clayton’s mind was on his wife, Doria. She had no idea that he was on a mission, and he was certain no one in town would ride out and tell her. At least he hoped no one would. He didn’t need to have his young bride worrying about him. He could do enough of that by himself.
The fresh hoof prints led them to Garner Creek, where it was obvious the seven men had crossed. On the far side of the river, Clayton and Henry saw the dead horse at the same time.
They splashed their way over to where the animal laya bay, the one the shorter cowboy of the two was riding. Someone had put a bullet in his head, and now it was obvious why. The back leg of the beast had a piece of bone sticking out above the hoof, and the leg was swollen.
Somewhere along the way, this horse had taken a terrible tumble.
“I’m surprised we didn’t hear the shot,” Henry said as he stared down at the animal.
“I ain’t,” said Clayton. He knew the silence that the hills and buttes offered on a clear, still day. Shots sometimes became muffled, almost non-existent from even the shortest distance.
The saddle and bridle were still attached to the horse, and judging by the hodge-podge of hoof prints on the ground, the men in pursuit had stopped here for at least a moment or two. They might have even fired the shot that put the animal out of his misery.
“I would guess the cowboys are riding double,” Clayton said. “It won’t be long till they’re caught up. We better get moving.”
Paralleling the creek, the two pushed their horses now, sure they were only minutes behind the group ahead.
They rode no more than a half hour, and as they approached the confluence where Garner Creek emptied into the Little Missouri, they heard their first shot. The report was a resounding echo as it worked its way down river.
A half dozen more shots came in quick succession.
As Clayton and Henry raced along the river bank, they could see a stand of horses ahead, obviously those of the pursuing seven men.
Then the shots fell silent, and the quiet of the moment switched to heavy shouting. Someone swore.
More shouts came.
Another shot sounded, and then several men were hollering all at once.
At the edge of the river, Clayton and Henry sprang from their horses in time to see the two cowboys being dragged out of the water. The remaining horse that the two had been riding was floating ten feet from shore, obviously downed in the exchange of gunfire.
In no time, the two cowboys had their hands tied behind their backs and were being marched to the nearest tree with a hanging limb. Other men brought up their horses and shoved the two cowboys into the saddles. Their faces were scarred with fright, their clothes wet from the river, their holsters empty at their sides.
“Get some rope!” the big man known as Griff hollered.
Lariats were thrown up over the limb, nooses were quickly fashioned and stuck over the cowboys’ heads.
“You’re just in time, Sheriff,” big Griff said when he saw Clayton and Henry.
Clayton gawked at the two young boys, saw the fear in their faces. Shorty was crying, his face ridden with tears. The other, the dark skinned one, held a hollow smirk in place that defied the heroics of the vigilantes.
“Wait!” Clayton hollered. “You can’t hang these men! They deserve justice! They deserve a chance to proclaim their innocence!”
“They don’t deserve nothin’!” Griff Hoffman barked back. “They robbed and killed their way across Montana, and by God, they ain’t gonna rob and kill no more.”
“This ain’t the way of the law!” Clayton retorted. He was shaking hard now, hardly able to contain himself. Nervous energy helped him draw his pistol, and without even thinking, he fired it in the air.
Henry, himself a ball of nerves, stared at Clayton and slowly edged away.
One of the men scowled at Clayton. “In Billings, these two shot old Edgar Dalbol dead and robbed him of eight dollars! Killed him for eight dollars! And Edgar never hurt a fly.”
“What the hell kind of law you represent?” someone else shouted. “These two cowboys stole into my house, killed my wife and violated my daughter, and you want us to bring ‘em to a trial? You’re crazy in the head!”
The man known as Griff walked bravely up to Clayton, jerked the pistol out of his hand and threw it to the side.
Henry, fearing the worst, quickly unbuckled his gun belt and let it drop.
“Sir,” began Clayton, his whole being shaking. “I protest. . .”
Before Clayton could finish, Griff Hoffman wound up his fist and let fly with all the fury he could. The blow dropped Clayton like a bag of sand.
“Hang ‘em!” Clayton heard the big man say.
As Clayton lay there, he saw the horses bolt out from underneath the two cowboys, and heard their necks crack when they hit the end of the rope. For several seconds Clayton could only stare up at the swinging bodies, his mind a jumble of confusion and sorrow.
While everyone looked on, Clayton staggered to his feet and shoved a handkerchief up to his bloody nose. Off to the side, he heard sobbing coming from the same man who said his wife had been killed and his daughter violated. The man had dropped to his knees, his face buried in his hands.
Another member bent down to console him. “It’s all right, Bill,” he said softly. “It’s all over now.”
Griff, the man who had thrown the punch, picked up Clayton’s revolver and gave it back to him.
“These were some bad boys,” he said, “and there ain’t nobody sorrier than we are to have to do this.”
Griff gave a nod at Henry, then motioned to his riders. In short time, the men mounted their horses and were headed back toward Sentinel Butte.
For a few minutes, Clayton simply remained standing in place, until slowly, the uncontrollable shaking left him. Feeling a strange calmness overcome him, he walked over to his horse and heaved himself into the saddle.
Henry, still standing alongside his horse, looked up at the two dead men hanging at the end of their ropes. Their dead faces sent a shudder through him. “Are we going to just leave them there?”
Clayton cast a weary glance at the two, then reined his horse around and headed off. Henry gave a final look at the two cowboys, climbed on his horse and quickly caught up.
The two rode on silently, their horses nudged into an easy trot. For Clayton personally, the law had finally come to Sentinel Butte, but for now, his thoughts were on Doria, his wife. If he kept up this steady pace, he could still reach the ranch in time for supper.
_____________
Author’s note: This story of vigilante justice is fiction, but incidents like it were not at all uncommon in the early West. The town of Sentinel Butte and the surrounding landmarks lie on the western border of North Dakota. The railroad did pass through this area in 1880, and although the town boasted 800 people at one time, its desolate location was not in its favor. Today, the only remaining business is a lone gas station. The rest of the town is made up of artisans and craft people, about fifty in all.
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