Chapter 13

Chapter 13: "When unobserved, HASTEN"

A local photographer saw the bodacious red photography wagon and came by to see what kind of competition he was being threatened by. He too had a multiplier, and after some discussion, Alvin realized the man needed several things he had just shipped to Chicago. He explained the items, gave him a good price, and trusting him more than he should, agreed to ship the whole crate to him if he would pay him his costs. The man agreed, and would pay half-down, and send the remainder due, to Pauline's address when the items arrived. Alvin celebrated, as these items were basically all of his profit in the photography supply venture, since he had not been in the business but six months.

“What if he don't send the money, Alvin- you would never find him.”

“Sim, sometimes you have to just trust people. He seems like a good fella. Where would this world be if nobody ever trusted anybody? Besides, I already got a big chunk of it from him. And think about it another way, he's giving me half and trusting me to send it.”

“I see what you mean.”

“It's called a good faith agreement.”

“Where I come from, there was never no such thing- you could not trust a man any farther than you could throw him.” Sim recalled.

“Yeah, and it was a living hell, where you came from. The rest of American society enjoys things like the 'Benefit of the doubt,' and 'A man's word is his bond'.” Alvin loved these chances to open new ideas to Sim, who had missed out on the kind of speeches fathers give their sons.

“So how do you know that man is one of your kind of folks?” Sim asked with youthful curiosity.

“I don't really. I'm making a gamble- the difference is, in your world, you gambled on your own wits, while in my world, I gamble on common decency. And what you learn is, over time, there is a lot more of one than there is of the other.”

“Sounds good lawman.” Sim teased, “But so far, I'm keepin' my wits handy. It looks to me like even the Pinkertons would agree with me. If there was so much of your so-called 'common decency'? You wouldn' have no job. ”

“Sometimes late at night,” Alvin preached, “I have wondered, why the Lord put you in my path Sim. And then at times like this I know. I suppose I'm either an optimist, or an escapist, but either way, He put you on this wagon seat next to me to be there to always reel me back to reality. But you still can't dampen my spirits.

Alvin popped the reins on the horses lightly, just to remind them he was in charge, giving himself time to formulate his next words of wisdom.

“It's a beautiful day, and it's good to be alive. And I'll tell you something else: I think you like my side of the isle, or you wouldn't be going this damn far with me. You're secretly hopin' I'm right.”

Sim smiled and watched the landscape go by. It was true. Sometimes it takes somebody like Alvin to change a person's whole attitude about life, and little by little, Alvin was changing his.

It was late April, but they were already in operation, and would spend a week in Abilene, then a few days in Junction City, and in May do Topeka, and take an extra loop through Lawrence, Ottawa and Garnet. Alvin sent his new schedule to the agency via letter, but sent a telegram immediately so they would not be looking for him at certain places on the wrong times. He left them instructions to respond quickly, if they had any questions, because they would be leaving Abilene in just a few days.

The Pinkerton response was swift. They were not very pleased that Alvin had moved out so quickly. Their plans had not been that hard-baked. When they found that he was already in Abilene, but headed east, they changed his itinerary again and told him to head south instead, and start with Emporia, then to head on west, forgetting at least eight towns completely.

It was imperative to be in Dodge by the summer, and the sooner the better, as the best picture-taking opportunities would be in the summer months when the hunters were waiting around, recreating, preparing for the fall hunt, and congregating in Dodge City saloons. The Pinkertons had no concern about Alvin's desire to pass through more profitable towns in eastern Kansas, or his need that matter to make money.

“What's it say?” Sim inquired, noticing Alvin's fallen shoulders. Alvin handed him the telegraph, the boy already knew all of his business anyway. “I don't see the problem...” Sim reasoned, “we just get to Dodge that much sooner, and can settle down, make us some money, before the bad months of winter set in.”

“I'm glad you all agree so much. We'll see how much you like it- living in a tent. So far we've been put up in hotels, and would have been for months. So they just saved themselves a bunch of money, that's all.”

“For a optimist, you sure can be contrary, and find the bad in everything.” Sim joked.

“No, now I'm being the realist!” Alvin argued. “Once we get to Dodge, we'll be camping out. And there won't be much chance for relief, cause they are keeping me from making any money between here and there. They just put us on a damn tight budget... which you will finally understand when all you've got to eat is buckwheat biscuits.

Alvin quietly fumed as he sloppily folded the tent and threw it into the wagon. He and Sim climbed up on the wagon seat, and there were no doors to slam, so Alvin violently popped the brake. Then he gruffly slapped the reins on his new team, and they bolted in instant obedience. Sim laughed, as they seemed to know not to give Alvin any trouble. A sweet little brown Morgan mare and a saucy black Morgan gelding, she was the picture of equine domesticity, but he acted like an unruly teenager, always nipping and teasing the mare. But when Alvin slapped the reins, he offered no nonsense, and they took off in earnest, displaying a good bit of wisdom and experience on their part.

“Wow!” Sim remarked, “I won't even need to teach 'em any manners!”

“He must be 'proud cut,'” complained Alvin, “But I still think I made a good purchase!” he bragged with pleasure. “Proud cut” meant that the gelding had been castrated in such a way so as to not impact his stallion mentality. “He's a pistol- no wonder that fella gave us such a good deal. Anyway, we'll go by the mercantile on our way out and get some pasteboard and a brush and some ink- gonna haf'ta make my own fliers. I hate doing that, worse than eatin' squash, But I can be cutting them into squares while you push our team to Junction. We can paint them tonight, put 'em out in the morning.”

“See, that's why the Pinkertons like you Alvin- you always find a way. Even when you get cheated or wronged, an' discouraged, most fellas would just head to the saloon. But you head to the store.”

“I guess so. And you take note...” Alvin pronounced, “there is no sense in having a cuss-fit, it will still be there after you said all of the cuss words you know. In a way, business is like a war. It takes planning and persistence, and patience, you win some battles, and you lose some.

“I'm pretty sure I heard you cuss when you found out about the change in our trip.” Sim giggled, loving the chance to show Alvin his imperfections. “Looked like your head was going to explode!” He laughed with great amusement, not ready to put the incident to rest.

“Probably... I was trying NOT to cuss. And then I did a little, then I just got madder. At myself.”

“Why not? Just let it OUT!” Sim now tried to argue for freedom of expression.

“It's stupid to feed your anger. 'Whom the gods would destroy... they first make angry.'” Alvin confidently pronounced with authority.

“Zat from the Bible?”

“I don' know. Maybe. It's sumpthin' my father always said whenever I was havin' a cuss fit, sayin' words like 'golly gee dang it'. Maybe it's from Shakespeare, I dunno, whoever said it, I think it is true.”

“Lawman, I guess you learned that bein' a po-lice, you know, sometimes you sound like a preacher. And sometimes like a philosopher, and what you say usually makes good sense. They are 'pretty words,' as old Mellie used to say, but somethin' tells me- we gonna test it all where we are headed now.”

Junction City seemed oblivious to the economic panic going on back east, as the town teemed with prosperous activity. Wagons criss-crossed through the streets like army ants with their burdens on their backs, scooting, stopping, circumventing, then recovering their directions. A fine veil of dust gave the whole scene the atmosphere of a vague dream as farmers, teamsters, hide merchants and various vendors scrambled for their daily bread. Alvin studied for a good spot to set up his wagon on the first day, as he headed down main street, and spied a perfect shaded area on a side street next to the largest mercantile. Sometimes stores welcomed his wagon as an added attraction to their business, and so he pulled up and asked for permission to set up along the exposed side of the building.

He got a maybe, a “come back when I'm not so busy" kind of response, and came back to the wagon to get his satchel. Sim had crawled down and was headed down the street, which he often did when he was hungry. “Sim!” Alvin hollered above the street noise.

Sim barely heard but turned back, unsure of what or who had called him.

“I'll get us something t'eat while I'm out, I need you to watch this wagon.” Sim stood, considering if he was going to comply, then returned begrudgingly.

“I smelled baking bread down the street- I was goin' ta git me some.”

“Sim, I know this will take all the brain power you have, but understand, somebody has to stay with the wagon at all times. When we are in town like this- somebody has to keep this new team calm. And Sim, there is maybe five hundred dollars worth of equipment in this wagon... and stuff I cannot replace. Something happens to it...”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I was just goin' for a loaf a bread. Smelled so good.”

“ALREADY SPENDING YOUR BOX MONEY. All right- go get it. Here's a dime, buy two, and ask while you're there about the Western Union office and some decent place to get a meal. And you can nibble on that while I run some errands. The man inside said for me to talk to him after the morning rush is over, and I think this location is worth the wait.”

Sim trotted away happily, clutching the dime, already drooling from the pungent aroma of fresh baked bread. People everywhere walked with their faces down, covering their eyes as wind blew walls of dust across the street and sand-blasted them. Sim disappeared into one of the mini-dust storms as he crossed the street, and Alvin stared up and down, looking for several things: A cafe, a bath house and the telegraph operator. He had learned months before, he needed to check at every town on his circuit, because the Pinkertons often left him missiles at the telegraph office, which sometimes could be very important. When Sim came back, a good third of the first loaf was already gone. “Three blocks down on the east end.” he giddily mumbled, his mouth packed full of warm bread.

“Which? The food or the wire?” Alvin demanded. It was hard to get Sim's attention when his jaws were in motion doing his favorite thing.

“Thu... waaar.” he gurgled, as Alvin broke off a chunk of the loaf and headed east.

“Damn, that's hot! How do you EAT that!” Sim laughed as he finished off the loaf, after a swig from his canteen. He grabbed the reins and showed Alvin that he was on point. Alvin's stride widened as he walked away, already regretting that his chunk of bread had not been twice it's size.

There was a message at Western Union from the Pinkertons as Alvin suspected. New operations were often marked by frequent changes and modifications. But this one was the strongest he had ever seen:

Date: Chicago- April 27, 1874

Received at: Junction City, Kansas

To: Alvin Payne, at large

Urgent: Hurry to Dodge. Storm brewing. Man there needs you now. Only stop to sleep, water stock, & eat on the fly. Avoid any complications. Slow down going through towns, settlements, to avoid curiosity. Otherwise, when unobserved, hasten at all costs to get there by mid-May. Will compensate for losses.

Will P.

Alvin took a deep breath and thanked the Western Union man, although he was not thankful, not even a little bit. By the time he got back to the wagon, Sim had unloaded the tripod and camera box and placed them in the shade of large sycamore tree on the side of the store. He was erecting the frame work which would hold up the backdrops, with one hand, while he nibbled on a chunk from the second loaf with the other.

“What are you doing? I haven't gotten square with the man inside!” Alvin scolded impatiently.

“I talked to him... he came out here and saw the wagon and said it would be all-right.”

“Well, put it all back up. We are leaving right now, as soon as we hit that cafe and...” Alvin saw the remnants of the second loaf of bread, as he planned out loud, now cold, and sitting in the sun. “as soon as you spend the rest of that dime on two more loaves. Better make it four.” Alvin handed Sim another dime.

Sim was confused and getting angry, which was any man's right when he got hungry enough. “What's wrong Alvin? The man said...”

“That's great Sim, but he's not the man that counts. THE MAN just sent us a telegram, we are to “hasten” to Dodge, and just stop to pee. Or maybe just pee while we fly down the road.”

“Yer kiddin'”

“Wants us there by mid-May. Says it's urgent.”

“Well, kiss my shiny rebel ass, You ain't gonna take that are ya?”

“Just pack it up bread lips. I think it's even more important than he could say on a not-so-private telegram. We are gonna fly like a bumble bee.”

It took them eleven days, probably a record if anyone had been keeping track of such things. Alvin packed the wagon with extra water, a large bag of oats and even a bale of hay, just in case they could not find sufficient grazing ground. But Sim was concerned that he was not worried enough about their own stomachs. Alvin just groused, “Your not pullin' the wagon, Comanches can go days without eating, but these horses can't.”

They flew through the middle of Kansas like an ambulance running to a battle, while Alvin imagined a hundred scenarios which awaited them. Something serious, like the Pinkerton agent having already found his suspects and needing to get them in front of a camera while they were still around. Or having blown his cover and needing a new set of eyes and ears. Perhaps he had heard news which made everything speed up by months, if that was possible. If he had, then it must have been pretty bad news.

“George” and “Martha” held up well. Sim named them because he claimed that people treated their horses better when they gave them names, especially respectful ones. Many times Alvin would repeat his first assessment with growing pride, that he had made a good purchase. They shot rabbits and prairie chickens when they could, and ate a meat diet almost the whole trip. They did stop whenever they saw a cafe, for a real meal, and to buy bread or coffee. Some people inquired about getting portraits, and all Alvin could say was, “I'll catch you when we come back through.” As they grew closer to Dodge City, he grew all the more determined. He would be tortured until he knew what was going on.

The Tintype wagon rolled into Dodge City on the afternoon of May 9. A late cold front had poured in during the night, and the weary travelers had dug out their new coats and were enjoying their warmth, but there was little else to smile about. They were in a very strange new environment, said to be the “Babylon of the West,” and thoroughly exhausted and dehydrated. If there had been trouble, they would have been easy pickin's. And now that they were there, totally disoriented, and had no idea who they were looking for. Not a name or a face, whomever the Pinkerton man was in town, it was now his move.

They checked into the Dodge House, a rustic but adequate hotel, founded by a man believed to have committed suicide after he had an argument with the cook. This legend did little to speak well of the management, and even less of their food, but it did little to hurt business in a town where shootings and killings were common fare. His partner had taken up the slack, and many weary travelers had rested their weathered heads since. They brought up all of the valuable camera equipment to their room for safekeeping, and the two crashed that afternoon and slept through the evening and until the next morning. Keeping a low profile, and hoping the agent in charge would contact them, they spent a day getting bathed and rested and caught up with their meals. After getting somewhat rejuvenated, Alvin began to walk around town and scout out his choices for setting up shop. Dodge had plenty of commercial Real Estate, but it was all occupied. The Pinkertons had been right about using a tent.

Alvin hated to get too far without the Pinkerton man's input- but where was he? When they sat down for lunch on the second day, the hotel clerk brought Alvin a note, from the town doctor. It just said for him to come to his office at his convenience. Alvin tried to eat his meal, but this note was the first semblance of a response since they had arrived, and so after taking a few bites, he gave his meal to Sim and headed to the doctor's office. It was easy to find, nestled within the Fringer's drug store on Bridge Street.

The doctor met him at his office door, and before Alvin could finish introducing himself, he opened up and signaled for him to enter. “I'm Dr. McCarty, please come on in, your partner is in the next room. He has been badly injured... I will let him explain everything. But I dared not talk to you in public.” He led Alvin to his small surgery room, where a tall, middle-aged man laid naked on his stomach, and wrapped in a sheet. There was a disgusting smell, and bloody rags were in a bucket next to the bed, and he was very still, and his head was turned towards the wall.

“Is that you Payne? He bellowed with hollow ambivalence.

“Yes Sir.”

“Mace... Ben Mace” He said in a forced, muffled voice, as he lifted up his colorless hand, as if to shake. Alvin could not see his face yet, but the offering of his hand was a welcome sign. He shook it gently, noticing dried blood on his fingers as he did.