Rocky Mountain Justice (The Legend of Camel's Hump)

  SUMMARY

  The tall mountains and deep valleys of Montana have produced many legends, but this one is younger than most. The events that gave birth to this legend took place in 1949 when four idealistic teenagers decided to fight back against a tyrannical, depraved, sheriff and his gang.

  The story began during World War Two, when a draft-dodging sheriff took over a remote mountain county through fear and intimidation. By the time the war-weary men of the county returned, the sheriff and his men were in total control.

  But then the sheriff crossed paths with four teen-agers who still believed in right, wrong, truth, and justice. The teenagers soon found themselves fighting for their lives as they tried to rescue women kidnapped and enslaved by the depraved sheriff.

  By the time the teens were done, the battle had expanded to include the sheriff and his deputies, a group of former Marines, the FBI, and two Indian Nations.

  Together the young people and their friends found justice and created The Legend of Camel’s Hump. This is their story.

  Other books by Jeff Noonan

  The Long Escape

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright 2013 by John J. Noonan

  ISBN: 148118265X

  EAN: 9781481182652

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63001-867-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012922343

  CreateSpace Self Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

  Disclosure: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my four children, Michelle, Suzanne, Phillip and Danielle as well as all of their descendents. My pride in them is both unsurpassed and unsurpassable.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One: The Boxing Coach

  Chapter Two: The Widow and The Preacher

  Chapter Three: The Sheriff

  Chapter Four: Evil Comes Calling

  Chapter Five: Dawn Parker

  Chapter Six: The Plan

  Chapter Seven: The Meeting

  Chapter Eight: Strange Behavior

  Chapter Nine: Otto’s Soda Fountain

  Chapter Ten: The Prisoner

  Chapter Eleven: Building the Home

  Chapter Twelve: The Vigil

  Chapter Thirteen: The Missing Woman

  Chapter Fourteen: Death Visits the Hump

  Chapter Fifteen: Another Prisoner

  Chapter Sixteen: Adult Intervention

  Chapter Seventeen: “You’re a Liar”

  Chapter Eighteen: The Marines Take Charge

  Chapter Nineteen: A Legend is Born

  Chapter Twenty: The Law Arrives

  EPILOGUE

  About The Author

  PROLOGUE

  Tall mountains drop to the shores of a spring-fed lake. Sheer grey cliffs frame two sides of the lake while a thick forest of fir and cedar blanket the more gentle opposing slopes.

  Set back from the lake, deep in the cedars, stands an impressive log home. A small floating pier is anchored to the lakeshore while, almost completely hidden by the forest, the tailings from an old mine can be seen behind the home.

  An older man sits on the pier, watching four children playing in the water around him. He is relaxed, letting the sounds of the frolicking children waft over him. He decides that he is a truly happy man.

  One by one, the children come out of the water to surround him. Soft drinks and chips are on the pier and the young ones attack them with vigor. “Careful, Guys,” the man says with a smile, “Grandma will have dinner ready soon. She’ll kill me if I ruin your appetites.” Jerry, the oldest of the four children, replies, “Don’t worry Grampa Ray. We can always eat Gramma’s cooking.” The grandfather chuckles at this. “Just the same, take it easy.”

  Young Jerry turns back to his grandfather, with a more serious look on his face. “Grampa, when we were on our way up here to visit you, we went through a ghost town. Dad said that you lived there when you were a little boy. Is that true?” Grampa Ray sits straighter in his chair. “Yeah. The old town is named Dublin. I lived in Dublin and went to school there. It was a nice place to live.” The boy persists, “If it was so nice, why is it a ghost town?” The old man smiles at this. “Jerry, that’s a good question. Dublin was a decent place with some very nice people. But no matter how much you love a town, you have to be able to earn a living and feed your family. In the old days, the people of Dublin worked for the railroad and cut logs for the lumber mills. But a few years after I grew up, the old Milwaukee Railroad shut down. Then the lumber mill fell on bad times and finally closed. With the railroad and the mill gone, there just wasn’t any work for the people that lived in Dublin, so they had to move away. Now there’s just the gas station and a little grocery store. A few small ranchers still live around there, but that’s about it.”

  Little Mike, the smallest of the children, nods with the wisdom of the ages in his face. “Yah. Gotta have work or you gotta move. Ever’body knows that.” At that his older sister tickles him, rolling him around on the blanket. “Ever’body don’t know nothing. You didn’t know that until Grampa told you!” Then, between screams of laughter, “Did too!” “Did not!” “Did too!”

  Jerry comes back to the conversation, “When we were coming through Dublin, Dad told us there’s a legend about that town. He said that it’s a story that he’d tell us when we get older. Do you know about it, Grampa?” A thoughtful look comes over the old man’s face. He thinks about the question for a long time. “I guess that you could call it a legend. But it’s a story for adults. I told it to your Dad when he was full-grown and I’m sure he’ll do the same for you when the time is right. Now, why don’t you kids get back in the water and work off some of that junk you’ve been putting in your bellies?”

  Grampa Ray settles back in his chair, watching the children with a lazy eye as his mind wanders back in time. “They call it a legend. The Legend of Camel’s Hump. It was almost fifty years ago, but is it really a legend already? I guess for them it is.” His mind drifts back over the years to that day it all started in the spring of 1949. “We were so young then - - - - - - -.”

  CHAPTER ONE:

  The Boxing Coach

  The clamor from the schoolboys echoed in the little building and seemed amplified by the shouted instructions from the boxing coach. The group was focused on two teen-agers struggling in a makeshift boxing ring shoved up against one wall of the building.

  “Keep your left up, Flynn!” “C’mon, jab! Jab and block, jab and block!” “Whatsa matter with you, Koski, you scared of this Irish punk?” The noise from the boxing coach was merciless to both boxers.

  Young Jerry Flynn was in a training match with his friend, Al Koski. Jerry was on his toes, jabbing from the outside, as Coach Schumann yelled advice at them. Jerry was over six feet tall, but he was so thin his ribs stood out like the rails on a cattle crossing. Although Al outweighed Jerry by a good twenty pounds, he was about six inches shorter with a stocky build and a bit of a belly. Neither of them was giving any quarter in the battle, but Jerry was faster and was successfully keeping Al away from him by dancing and jabbing, dancing and jabbing. Al was content to
just swing wildly, assuming that one of his big shots would eventually land.

  Jerry knew that knew that if he slacked off, Al would probably connect and the results could be devastating. “But that’s not happening today.” He circled left and faked a jab. Al took the bait and moved his guard to his right, leaving his left side open. Jerry pounced, landing his best shot, a straight right to the jaw that staggered Al. He followed the right with a hard left that caught his opponent in the exact center of his soft belly, just below his ribs. This was more than Al had counted on. He went to his knees, gasping for breath.

  Coach Schumann’s voice rose to a shout, “Go for the kill, Flynn, go for the kill! Hit him! Hit him!” But Jerry knew it wasn’t necessary to swing again. He backed off. “No, Coach, he’s done.” Slowly Al sat back on his bottom, dazed and holding his middle. He was obviously not getting up again for a while.

  Jerry backed up to let his friend fall and then he dropped his hands and started forward to help him. But the Coach was coming towards him from across the ring with his voice at a roar. “Goddamn you, Flynn, when I tell you to hit, I mean hit! When you’ve got them hurt, go for the kill!” With that, he threw an overhand right that caught Jerry on the mouth, smashing his lips and throwing him back into the ropes. Then the Coach turned and looked at the boys grouped around the ring. “This is how you do it. Watch, now!” With a big grin on his face, he spun on his heels and hit Jerry hard on his left eye and cheekbone. He wasn’t wearing boxing gloves and every blow drew blood. Only the ropes were holding Jerry up and even they couldn’t do the job when Schumann’s next punch caught him in the solar plexus. Jerry went to his knees and Schumann hit again, this time an uppercut to the point of his jaw. Jerry dropped heavily to the floor, unconscious. The Coach was still yelling at the onlookers. “Did everybody see that? That’s how you finish a fight! That’s how you do it.” Then he turned back to the supine Jerry and, in a lower voice, said, “Flynn, when I say to hit him, I mean hit him! Don’t ever forget this, you little shit!” But Jerry couldn’t hear him.

  He came awake slowly. Someone was wiping his face with a wet towel and he was having trouble breathing through it. He grabbed at the towel, flailing wildly, and it went away. He opened his eyes and saw his cousin, Ray Moore, kneeling over him. Al Koski was there too, looking worried. Jerry looked around and saw that Coach Schumann was back in the ring with two younger boxers. Only the Coach’s wife, an Indian woman that everyone called Bird, was paying any attention to the three boys in the corner. Jerry caught her eyes as he came awake. She was actually smiling; a cold sadistic grin that showed her blackened, broken, teeth. She was holding a tin can in her hand that she was using as a spittoon. But, as bad as she looked, her eyes were bright and intelligent. They were locked in a stare at his face as if they were trying to penetrate his soul. “My god,” he thought, “She’s really enjoying this.” With a shudder, he looked away.

  “C’mon Jerry; let’s get out of here before Schumann figures out that you’re awake,” Ray said. “Do you wanna take a shower before we leave?” Jerry nodded his head, wincing at the pain it caused. “Yeah, maybe it’ll make me feel better.” He slowly got to his feet. “Let’s go.” His voice was muffled as he tried to minimize the pain in his battered lips. Together the three boys stepped out into the sunlight.

  Ray was the first to speak. “Al, you coming with us?” Al shook his head. “Nope. I’ve had it. I’m going on home if you don’t need me.” Al was the only one of the boys with a shower at home, so he seldom went to the school’s little communal shower with them. Jerry slapped him weakly on the shoulder. “I don’t blame you. See you tomorrow.” With that, Al left, walking slowly across the field and down the gravel road towards his home on the other side of town.

  The cousins made their way to the front of the schoolhouse, where they entered through the school’s front door. Standing in the entranceway, they could see down the short hall past every door in the school. The men’s bathroom was on the right and the women’s on the left. All the other rooms opened off the short hallway past the bathrooms. The school was small, just a half-dozen classrooms and an assembly room used for both town meetings and school functions. When the townspeople built the school a few years before, they had put showers in both the boy’s and the girl’s bathrooms. The showers were intended to make up for the fact that only the richer people in town had any significant indoor plumbing.

  The little building on the back of the school was an afterthought that was normally used for storage. However, this summer the town had made it available to Ike Schumann so he could teach the local boys something about boxing. Ike was an ex-boxer who’d bought a hard-scrabble piece of land in a tiny valley west of town, at the base of the big mountain known as Camel’s Hump. With the help of his wife, Bird, he kept a milk cow and a few sheep in the little valley. Ike had also managed to get himself appointed as the deputy sheriff for this part of the county. He was now the law in their small town; a fact that no one really noticed, since there was seldom any need for law enforcement in the community of Dublin.

  The boys headed for the men’s bathroom, where they stripped and hit the showers. Jerry usually took his time here, reveling in the wonderful feel of hot water. This was a luxury he seldom experienced since he and his father had only cold running water at home. But tonight the water hitting the open wounds on his face was just too much and he cut the shower short. Looking in the bathroom mirror, he could see why the water hurt so badly. His face was a mess. His lips were smashed, his cheek was cut, and his left eye was fast closing. The eyebrow above it was split and bleeding. He and Ray dabbed at his face with toilet paper from the stalls, trying to slow the blood flow, but they weren’t particularly successful.

  Ray opened the conversation. “Why in hell did he do that? He’s a grown man and he’s at least fifty pounds heavier than you. Plus he was a professional boxer! This ain’t right!” Jerry just shrugged. “I think he just enjoys hurting people. I’ve heard that he likes to pick on smaller guys at the bar whenever he can. He’s just a whacko.”

  Ray was seriously upset. The two boys were not only cousins, but circumstances had brought them close and now they were also the best of friends.

  Fully dressed, with Jerry’s bleeding temporarily stopped, the boys left the school and headed across the dirt parking lot toward Jerry’s car, a ten-year-old Ford DeLuxe 60 Horsepower Coupe that he’d received as payment for working at a local ranch. It hadn’t been running when it was given to him, but with the help of his friends and some guidance from his father, it was in great shape now.

  Jerry tossed the keys to Ray as they neared the car. “You drive, please.” Ray grunted an “OK” and paused. Then he repeated, “Why in hell did Schumann do that”? Jerry didn’t have an answer for him. “I dunno.” He painfully climbed into the old Ford. “But I’m sure not going back to any of his classes. Dad might get mad, but I’m not going to ever have anything to do with that crazy asshole again.”

  He had no idea how wrong he was.

  CHAPTER TWO:

  The Widow and The Preacher

  Ray’s home was an older two-story farmhouse standing in the corner of a large field east of town. Tall cottonwood trees surrounded the house, while the driveway and the path to the front door were lined with lilacs. A root cellar, wood shed, and well house stood near the back of the home, with an outhouse a little further away. About fifty feet further there was another stand of cottonwoods that shielded the house from the noise and smell of the family’s chicken coop. A big vegetable garden was visible adjacent to the chicken pen.

  Jerry’ father, Wayne, and Ray’s mother, Hilda, were siblings who had both married high school sweethearts. But tragedy had stepped into their lives and both spouses were now dead. Ray’s father had been killed during the early years of World War Two on an island somewhere in the Pacific. Jerry’s mother had gone more recently in a tragic automobile accident.

  Hilda had been unable to keep up with the ranch after the d
eath of her husband, so she sold most of the property to a neighbor. She kept the old farmhouse they called home and a couple of acres of the surrounding land, which she used to raise chickens and plant a vegetable garden.

  Ray parked the car at the edge of the front yard and they went inside. Hilda was bustling about in the kitchen, with the pleasant odors of home cooking filling the room, when they entered. She stopped cold and stared, openmouthed, when she saw them. “My God, Jerry! What happened to you, Child?” She was moving even as she talked. She was a long-time ranch wife and had seen her share of cuts and bruises. She knew when action was needed and in short order she had the family’s bandage material, a big bottle of iodine, and some Vaseline on the table. “Sit here, Jerry. I’ll get that fixed up. We don’t want it getting infected now, do we?” Her next questions were rapid-fire and directed to Ray. “What happened? Did you guys get in a brawl somewhere? Are you in trouble? I want the truth and I want it now!”

  Ray hastened to explain, “No, Mom. It was just Ike Schumann trying to teach us to box. Jerry and Al were in the ring and when Jerry didn’t hit Al enough, Schumann hit Jerry. He said it would teach him to listen when he gave instructions.”

  Hilda didn’t say anything right away, but you could see the impact of this statement in her face. Her lips pursed and her face got redder and redder as she absorbed the news. “Why did he want Jerry to hit Al?” “I dunno, Mom. Al was on his knees, falling down, and Ike was screaming at Jerry to hit him again.” This was too much for the gentle Sunday-school teacher and she almost spat out the next words, “We’ll see about this. That man is out of control. We need to talk to the sheriff about him.” In unison, both boys started talking, objecting vehemently. She stopped them with a stern, “One at a time! One at a time! Jerry, you’re the loudest. Why shouldn’t we file a complaint with the sheriff about this?”