Chapter 18
Chapter 18: Sowing to the Wind
Pauline staggered away from her scrap with Alice, almost in shock, hurting all over, hanging on to a stranger with both hands as he led her away. Desperate to exit the scene, she might easily have been led to the slaughter for all she knew, and at that moment she was too weak to fight it if she was. She could not see from the dirt in her eyes, and she could not hear from the ringing in her ears. All she knew was that she was getting away from there, blinking and coughing like someone escaping from a house fire, from perhaps the ugliest experience of her life. She had not paid much attention to who had led her away, but quickly understood that he was different from the rest, perhaps even a gentleman, or the closest to one that might be found in Dodge City.
“May I ask, madam, what in God's name was that about?” The man she gripped tightly finally inquired, when they were a safe distance away.
“Frankly Sir, I have no idea, except that she had some interest in my beau- of which I was unaware.”
“That's no surprise- this is the way Alice makes her claim. She takes what she wants, and dares anyone to object, including the man she has chosen.” Her chivalrous escort chuckled at the absurdity of it all.
“What on earth! What kind of person does that!” Pauline cried, as they stepped into the hotel lobby.
“That I can answer, Miss...” Masterson waited for the haggard lady to identify herself.
“Bacon, Pauline Bacon... and thank you again, I needed to get out of there before I killed someone.
“Bat Masterson, Madam. My pleasure, Miss Bacon, you just tangled with a strange bird known here as “Squirrel Tooth Alice”- and you held up far better than most. Nobody's ever taken her out before!”
“I couldn't believe those animals, CHEERING FOR HER! What kind of person does that?”
When Bat was not scouting for the army or buffalo hunting... he cleaned up nicely.
“I'm sorry, but I cannot satisfy that question.” Masterson cheerily claimed. “But I might can help explain Alice. She was a young Texas lass kidnapped and enslaved and abused by the Comanches, and then had the grit to escape. But then suffered rejection from her own family when she returned to them, they considered her tainted- beyond restoration. Some people claim that her father killed her fiance in cold blood- right on his front porch. And then she left Texas- and now she has made her place here as a whore at the edge of civilization.”
“My God. How awful. Is that true? And she wants my Alvin!” Pauline threw her dusty, frazzled head back and enjoyed a belly laugh. Her laughter made her feel a face scratch, which she quickly covered with her hand. “Mr. Masterton, you have been too kind. And I'm so glad we met. You have saved me from worrying- and hating that woman. And for that I will be ever grateful.” Then she turned away, humiliated by her situation, and ready to disappear.
Masterson nodded. “Glad to be of service, Miss Bacon, glad to be of service... and I will tell Mr. Payne, if I see him, that he should come check on you immediately!” Pauline heard him but did not look back. It would take some time for her to nurse her pride back to health, and to hear much more than the awful ringing in her head.
As she ascended the stairs, holding the handrail in one hand and the ripped ruffles of her dress in the other, it hit her. Squirrel Tooth Alice was only a messenger. The attack had been for something bigger than mere female rivalry. Pauline was in spiritual warfare, she had interfered with those girls who were slipping into the clutches of hell, and it had gotten down to hand to hand combat with the ultimate soul rustler. In her estimation, Dodge City seemed to belong to him who commanded the very forces of darkness, and the Evil One was not giving up his territory easily.
Wichita, over in the more populated, eastern side of Kansas, was mostly oblivious and unaffected by all the sensational news in the buffalo country. Like most larger towns, it made enough news by itself to keep itself in a dither. Almost every few days a new and unruly hoard rambled into town, often unleashed soldiers on leave. Several forts in the region contributed to the mix, which also included noxious groups of deprived buffalo hunters, wealthy, broad-Stetsoned cattle buyers, and wild packs of young Texas cowboys. The guns they carried were routinely checked in, and they were left mostly with only their fists with which to hurt one another, but many of them carried Bowie knives or “Arkansas toothpicks,” which still kept bar fights interesting and sometimes fatal. All of these travelers found their life's ambition in the many saloons and brothels which filled the town, where life was considered fairly cheap. In a month's time, Wichita's death toll could easily compete with that of an Indian uprising.
Marshal Meagher had taken the job he wanted as a Deputy U. S. Marshal and was now serving down south in the Nations. After a major reorganization of the Wichita Police after his absence, his deputy Bill Smith took the Marshal position, and was determined to overhaul Wichita, something Meagher had never thought possible. Overwhelmed with all of the mayhem, Marshal Smith had recruited the most intimidating gunman in town, Wyatt Earp, to assist him on the police force. And Wyatt was there the day Marshal Smith, a bit mystified, unwrapped the tintypes sent by Alvin from Dodge City.
The package was marked "OFFICIAL BUSINESS" and addressed to: The Marshal's Office, Wichita Kansas, Attn City Marshal. Alvin had been taught by the Pinkertons to never use names in any correspondence concerning an investigation. Therefore Marshal Smith did not hesitate to open the parcel.
"I'll be damned, that feisty photographer actually came through." The marshal said with disbelief. "And I'll be damned if he didn't send tintypes of most of the men on Meagher's shit list!" Wyatt reached in and picked up a tintype of a familiar face. "I think I know this one..." he said calmly. Each was labeled on the back of the tintype with a piece of paper attached with rubber cement. "Slip Gallagher..." He mused, "He's a bad one."
"He's got a bunch of them..." Smith boasted, "Here's Brooks, and Hollis, “Dutch Henry” Born, and “Bermuda” Carlyle, he's been a busy boy. Martin's gang seems to swing back and forth between here and Dodge- when they aren't victimizing the Indians."
“What's the note say? Earp inquired with restrained curiosity.
“Well, let's see...” Smith then read the note out loud.
"Marshal: I hope these pictures help you in your endeavors. You were right about these men- a bad bunch. I would not have been able to gather so many on your list, but for the assistance of a local who knew them and helped identify them. His name is Jim French, and he was also on your list. But you should not hear from him for a long time. If you do see him, please treat him fair, because he has been a godsend in many ways, which I hope some day to tell you about. The agency was supposed to send you word that might earn him leniency in the application of the law. Hopefully the enclosed will give you clues of Bill Martin's closest associates. Unfortunately, I still have not photographed him.
"Hold on to your money for now, because I will be leaving Dodge as soon as I can, and do not have a forwarding address.
"Yours truly,
"A.P."
“So Mike gave him a list-" Wyatt reviewed, "and he went out and found the rascals- and now we are standing here looking at them! I'm going to have to come back and study these things.” Earp said with genuine enthusiasm. “This changes everything, gives us a heads-up. We'll be able to point at the trouble before it happens.”
“Yes you will, Officer Earp, but for god's sake, Wyatt, don't jump the gun. Now you're going to have to restrain yourself. Since you will know who to watch. You'll be on top of your brother's customers before they even have time to pay their bar tab.” Smith warned. “So now you have to learn a new skill- acting like you don't know something that you know damn well is true.”
The Earp's establishments were quite popular, and considered safer than most, as they were already good about interfering with unnecessary violence, thus saving lives and limbs, and assuring the continued flow of entertainment and the profits in their businesses. And the customers reciprocated by good-naturedly shouldering through their crowds and spending or gambling away all of their earnings, which left more than a few young fellows totally broke and a long way from home. It was no secret that many of them turned to petty crime, and some to serious crime to recover a grubstake to get them out of Wichita. Wichita was also crawling with military deserters, pimps, sneak thieves, muggers and livestock rustlers, who were always looking for new recruits. Most Texas cowboys who found themselves in desperate straits found it easy enough to attach themselves to a gang of local cattle or horse rustlers, and use the skills they came with to hopefully fund their return home.
By far one of the most successful and notorious of the rustler kings was “Hurricane” Bill Martin. Once a month he would take his small army into Dodge or Wichita and treat them to a big time on the town. Wichita was the most preferred because, as the sign said, “Everything goes in Wichita.”
This time they came into the downtown already “well saturated,” having stopped on the way at the watering holes on the edge of town. A tribe of Apache warriors could not have made more noise or caused more of a stir. Two dozen riders filled the street, leaving a cloud of dust as they spun their horses, bellowed “rebel yells,” and drew attention to their general happiness. Bill was one of the first to dismount and tie his horse, and unable to squeeze in, some had to find a place a block away. Martin held his pistol up in the air, butt first, to signify his intention to submit to Wichita's handgun ban, and to instruct every one of his men to do the same. He and several of his men then strutted into the Golden Moon Saloon as if they intended to tear the place apart. Texas Bob Hollis stayed at the door and instructed each man to turn in his pistol at the bar.
Heavy steel pummeled the bar like cannon balls as heavy, loaded guns were tagged and dumped into temporary custody, and then wild barking and howls erupted to fill the room. They were free to be themselves, with no worries of gun play, and they began to search for members of the opposite sex, which were known to occupy the place in specific squads. There were the drink servers and bar maids, who were strictly working girls; the dance hall girls who tried to lure men into the adjacent dance hall, for three cents a dance, and perhaps more intimate company if the two hit it off; and the whores, who were generally kept out front, hustling on the boardwalk. This was a “respectable place.”
The drinks began to pour, and Bill grabbed a bottle and claimed his table at the far wall, and a girl he knew quickly claimed him, to avoid any doubts about who would spend the day in his lap- or his bed. The cards came out, and the sounds of clinking glass and cards shuffling and decks cracking on the table were echoed around the room. A few courageous gamblers sat down with the rustlers, careful to politely offer “honest games.” And the nervous bartenders busily kept the men happy, hoping to establish themselves on their guest's “good side,” just in case trouble erupted.
There weren't enough girls to go around for a group as large as this, so there were several friendly tugging matches going on with the female drink servers and barmaids, who had become adept at wriggling free. And several prostitutes drifted in, hoping to be noticed, and to lure a few customers to their cribs, before a bartender shooed them out. They knew that his main goal was to keep them happy and drinking, and would temporarily tolerate their encroachments. A few of the cleaner, better looking men had already escorted some pretty, sociable girls in a white summer dresses into the dance hall, while Texas Bob and Hurricane Bill watched activities out of the sides of their eyes.
Hopefully their outlaw band would stay within the law, and not ruin the outing. But it wasn't likely.
Word had already trickled down the street like water seeking a drain, going into every doorway, until it found the local constabulary. But Marshal Smith was out for the moment and the policeman on duty was the first to be notified that Martin and his gang were in town. Sam Botts dutifully checked his revolver for fully loaded chambers and headed towards the Golden Moon.
The Earps heard as well, and took no offense that Bill and his men had stopped down the street. They had not always enjoyed the gang's patronage anyway. It was fine for somebody else to take the risks for the minimum of rewards which came from that kind of clientele. But Wyatt had recently agreed to sign on as a salaried police officer which gave him a little bit of income and more authority to enforce the law. And unfortunately, it also gave him some added responsibility. When Botts walked by their doorway and nodded for Wyatt to follow, he knew that it meant that Botts was headed over to the Moon to make an appearance and try to keep things quiet by being visible. Wyatt went to go fetch his gun belt and that shiny new badge. Marshal Smith had made him acquire a smaller revolver however, and a shoulder holster, upon which he pinned his modest badge, where he could wear and show his gun and his badge discreetly, at the same time. Otherwise he was advised to keep them both out of sight.
The concerns about the dangerous crowd at the Golden Moon were quite valid. Martin and his men were notorious, but had not been caught yet for any of their alleged crimes. Their main victims were Native Americans down in the Nations, who did not speak English, and did not trust any White men, and who preferred to take care of perpetrators on the reservations themselves. Martin had found a sweet spot for banditry, where U. S. law was not applicable, Army law was not eligible, and Indian law was not capable. Everyone knew of their exploits, but no one had found a way to spoil his business plan, which eventually led the gang to a sporting town somewhere near the Nations to spend some of their ill-gotten gains. When they heard that Meagher was now a Deputy U. S. Marshal and hunting them and their ilk down in the Indian Territory, Martin thought it fitting to pay Wichita a visit in his absence. Left in charge, ambitious Officer Sam Botts would have loved nothing better than to find a reason to arrest any one of them, and even make a name for himself.
He sauntered in to the Golden Moon with every advantage. He was well armed, and alert, and knew who his prey was. The gang was unarmed, half drunk, and many had never seen him before. He came in casually but with a lordly air, and walked directly over to the bartenders to get a report. Nobody could see his badge, which was half-hidden behind his waistcoat, so he also had the element of surprise. And Botts had studied Alvin's tintypes. He suddenly learned that sometimes, too much information can be a scary thing. None of the lawmen had ever counted on seeing a dozen of those faces at one time.
The bartender was already beyond his previous benign expectations, since the men had roughed up some of his girls. Some were already bruised. So he was glad to see Botts, and assured him his shotgun was handy to back him up. But there had been no serious misbehavior... yet. Sam turned around, making sure that many of the saloon customers could see his chest, and the glint of his badge, hoping this posture alone would keep things peaceable. He drank a swig which the bartender had pushed his way, to appear to be “just passing through,” and then headed back to the front door. But as he threaded through the bustling poker tables, disaster awaited.
Preoccupied with his female company, Hurricane Bill missed the badge, and he missed the subtle signs and nods among his men, so he had no idea that Botts was walking into a vicious trap. As the lawman got into the middle of the tables, a large, hairy man with his back to him suddenly pushed his chair back instantly and hit Deputy Botts hard in the thigh, pressing his holster into his hip and making it impossible to retrieve his revolver before another man at the adjacent table took advantage of his imbalance and knocked him to the floor.
“SHIT!!” Exclaimed the head bartender, as he put his hand on his shotgun- but he did not pull it out yet, hoping this was the end of fit. Maybe they would let it ride, it was just a mean joke and the damage had been done.
“TOLDJA IT WOULD WORK!” Laughed “Slippery” Jack Gallagher. The two instigators looked at one another with satisfaction. And the hoary outlaw in the chair reached down and slipped Botts'es gun from his holster, as Botts rose from the floor to all fours.
When he showed signs of trying to stand, the hairy outlaw kicked Botts in the ribs and sent him down again. “THAT”S ENOUGH!” the bartender yelled and aimed his shotgun at the table.
“You gonna shoot that thing at everybody here? Sassed Gallagher. “I don't think so mister. You'd better put that damn thing away before it gets you killed... PUT IT WAY! NOW!” He motioned to his accomplice, who took the deputy's revolver and now cocked the hammer, and aimed the barrel at the bartender.
Hurricane Bill had finally seen enough, and stood up to take control of the situation. “Put away the gun,” he said nonchalantly, “You two are spoiling our party. An' everbody's gonna blame you if we have to leave.”
Gallagher's eyes were afire, and at that moment he would fight the devil. And Bill could see death in his eyes and was well familiar with it, so he waited for him to calm himself, something he could usually do if handled correctly. Jack never responded well to orders, but tolerated suggestions. Martin felt safe as long as he was not holding the Deputy's revolver.
Suddenly the light in the saloon changed slightly, as something blocked the outside light coming through the doorway. It appeared to be a customer, and a large one, but as he walked in he was recognized as the saloon bouncer from down the street. It was Virgil Earp. Virgil was unarmed, and just stood at the door, and looked through the crowd at the bartenders, and motioned as if he had a message. “Everything all right here Stoney?”
Stoney the bartender shrugged, afraid to suggest anything else. Afraid to move. Virgil could not see the fallen deputy laying on the floor between the tables, but he knew that Botts was supposed to be in there somewhere. He could not possibly have checked the place and left already... unless he was in a big hurry. “You fellas seen Botts anywhere?” He asked innocently.
As Virgil talked slowly and kept everyone watching him, brother Wyatt had come into the place through the back door, and quietly slipped in next to Stoney at the bar. He studied the crowd, and instantly identified a half-dozen or more faces from the stack of "Pinkerton tintypes" which he had perused on the marshal's desk. This was no ordinary crowd. He realized that he could take no chances, or might end up end up like poor Botts. As Virgil saw Wyatt enter he talked all the more boldly, and kept the crowd's attention. “We heard- there was some commotion. That's all, an' we got concerned, maybe you fellas... will keep an eye out. Supposed to be trouble afoot.”
Now emboldened, Stoney picked up his shotgun again, as Wyatt decided to make his play.
“EVERYBODY! HANDS... ON TOP... OF THE TABLES.” Wyatt hollered with all of the bluff he had in him. All eyes shifted to the bar, as they looked down the barrels of Wyatt's two Colts, his .36 caliber percussion Police Revolver from his shoulder holster, and his .45 from his coat pocket, brought along just in case, which swiftly came down and cold-cocked a drunk and insolent rustler standing at the corner of the bar. He had made a critical mistake, feeling for his gun, which he had forgotten he had handed over. Botts'es revolver suddenly appeared on the table looming over his motionless body. Earp cocked his pistols and coolly waved them back and forth, left and right, over the outlaws like a magic spell. Then he spotted Botts. “He's over here on the floor Virgil- get his revolver on the table. NOBODY MOVE or you are a dead man!”
Virgil got the gun, and stuck it in his belt. The rustlers watched helplessly, and could not have been more indignant and frustrated. Bill Martin sat and shook his head, somewhat amused, and certainly not surprised. “DO WHAT HE SAYS fellas...” Martin bellowed, resonating as if a voice from the underworld.
“Thank you sir..." Wyatt responded politely, "And since you are bossing them- please also tell every God damn one of them to disarm himself. right now: knives... knuckles... clubs, swords, whatever the hell they are carrying.”
“You heard him boys...” Martin chimed, “best you give it all up- this man means business.” Hurricane Bill understood that to provoke Earp was suicide, but the Law itself could not touch most of them. He smiled a knowing smile.
After a few seconds, various nasty weapons began to slam on to the tables: daggers, Bowies, boot knives, brass knuckles, Barlow knives, and even a Texas Ranger badge.
“You'll get 'em back before the day is over.” Bill arrogantly assured them. But Wyatt was not going to encourage their confidence.
“Don't be so sure- but if we find a weapon on anybody after this, our guns may just go off and kill a bunch of you sonzabitches.” Wyatt promised, as he glared at Martin, with an evil “I'll kill you first” nod and a smile.
A few more pocketknives and a derringer belatedly appeared. “STONEY!” Wyatt yelled, “Go gather them all up, and switch guns with me while you do- I can hurt more people with your shotgun.” Then Wyatt nodded and Virgil stepped outside. “EVERYBODY..." Wyatt yelled as he took hold of Stoney's crowd-buster, "Listen closely... your life may depend on it. I want you to slowly... put... your... hands on your heads... and follow that big man outside. You are going to jail. If you step out of line-” Wyatt had to decide what threat he could make, then decided it did not matter. “If you step out of line, we will start shooting, and we might kill every damn one of you. after all, everything goes in Wichita.
“Sam, you gonna make it back with us?” Wyatt asked, hoping the deputy, now stirring, would be of some use during this massive arrest.
Botts was still on the floor and somewhat detached, and his quick recovery was not likely. The bartenders shook their heads and waved Wyatt on, and rushed to put ice on his bleeding head. The Earp brothers took it all in stride, and after sorting out the saloon clientele in the street, and releasing half of their captives, they marched eleven men to the jail. This was the arrest which put Wyatt Earp on the fast track of law enforcement in the West. Just a rookie lawman, he would soon be a marshal, and eventually considered to be one of the best. But the Law was just as picayunish then as ever. Most of the rustlers had done nothing at the time to justify an arrest, and had no warrants against them, and the two who had assaulted Officer Botts were out in a few hours thanks to Hurricane Bill's deep pockets. Supposedly he put down $1000.00 Bond that day to free his crew, and he consequently avoided Wichita and the Earps, and prosecution for any of his crimes from that day on. The tintypes on the Marshal's desk were not warrants, not even official evidence. They were merely clues towards eventual capture, and even then would often be useless towards convictions. Then as in now, the burden of proof was high.
The men on both sides had learned valuable lessons that day. But Wyatt and Virgil Earp probably never knew that they had arrested the worst rustlers in the Midwest, wholesale; men who had largely caused the Indian uprising, and thus the Red River War which followed, and might could have saved the world a lot of misery if they could have found an avenue to hold and prosecute them. But as was the case many times in those days, and since, the bad guys got away.
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