Chapter 21
Chapter 21: Prizes for the Perseverant
At the end of the day, people were packing in the east-bound train and the portrait business had slowed considerably, and Alvin saw Lottie headed his way, as she held a large, well-dressed man's arm. As she got near the tent she broke out laughing and pushed her shoulder into the man and almost knocked him over, but he grabbed her arm and used her to catch his balance. They pushed and pulled for several seconds, until she could recover her balance and then, with a half-drunk voice, belted out “Aaluhvinn!”
Alvin stood jaded and incredulous, never knowing what to expect from her, but still tolerating her.
“Alvin... I jus' wanyou ta know- I know what yer upto.” She slobbered. Alvin chuckled, he was not sure what she meant, and was afraid to ask. “Squirrelly tol' me everythin'.”
“Well... great Lottie, you folks come here to get your pictures made?”
“He needs some. He waneth one of me, and I tol' 'im only if I could have one of HIM. ALVIN! This here is Willum... William Martin. And he wanths a BUNCH o' pitchers. You hear me? A BUNTHCH!” She laughed hysterically at herself. Martin stood stupidly, completely under Lottie's direction, as if hypnotized.
“I guess I need to thank Alice," Alvin carped, his words carefully extruded with heroic internal strength."for sharing our group rates, and telling everybody about it... and maybe I would have- had she not beaten my lady friend to a pulp.”
Lottie's new lover sat in the chair in front of the camera, “What group rates? She never told me nothin'bout no group rates!” She objected indignantly. Alvin could not know or appreciate just how much she had endured to get this man in front of him.
"Lottie, you want to sit down there with Mr. Marvin?”
“NOT Marvin, Alvin, MARTIN. M. A. R...
“Oooh... Mr. MaaaaarTIN." Alvin finally understood what Lottie had done, and suspected much of her drunkenness was an act. "Very well, why don't you two make a portrait together- you make a very handsome couple!” Lottie plopped down in Martin's lap and put her arm around his neck, and held him up, while Alvin feverishly opened up his multiplying lens. “Sim- why don't you mix up some more chemicals. We're gonna need 'em.” Alvin declared with sudden urgency. This man was Hurricane Bill Martin- THE kingpin of Midwest crime.
“Mr. Martin... what business are you in sir?” Alvin asked innocently.
“Been tradin' horses...” Martin slobbered. “But I may be changin' careeeers.”
“Is that so? Everybody hold... Don't move.” Alvin clicked the shutter. “Damn, I think you moved Lottie, let's do another to make sure...” Sim was standing by, ready to hand Alvin another plate. Alvin slammed it in and looked back up with his infectious smile. “Mr. Martin... sit up straight, please sir. We are going to try another one.”
“He's gonna take another one,” Lottie yelled, as if Martin was deaf, “The first one didn' come out!” She held him upright with her shoulder, while Alvin took another. “Bill's just gotten an offer- a new job, scoutin' for the army.” She bragged with empty pride.
Alvin stood in shock at the irony and travesty of her announcement, with Martin, allegedly headed off to scout for the army- after inciting the very hostilities they were brought here to suppress. Lottie pulled out her money roll from between her breasts, and came up to Alvin, now quite sober. “How much is it darlin'?”
“Ummm. Why don't you let me work up a bill- I'll get it to you later.” She knew this meant that he did not want to charge her. So now she knew that she had just made his whole trip worthwhile. That put her on top in her mind.
Lottie smiled a wild, knowing grin.“You won't be able to Sweetie, I'm leavin' right now on that there train. This trip was a damned bust for me. Specially after that damn monkey started talkin'... Lost several good prospects. But somethin' tells me it went better for you." She grinned and flashed her eyes back at him. Even in her jealusy of Pauline, she was happy for him, getting the female attention he deserved. It was better for him, and she wanted it to be, and she had made sure of it, herself.
The train began to make short whistles, and Lottie waved at the conductor, who was one of her customers. "He knows I'm leavin' with him..." She said calmly, as if she ran the railroad too, and unrolled her stack of bills which must have been close to several hundred dollars, a small fortune, and looked for one small enough to cover the tintypes.
“He'll wait for me." She handed Alvin a ten dollar bill, and as he took it, she grabbed his hand, and pulled him towards her, and she kissed him on the cheek. “Merry Christmas” she whispered. “And now I think we are just about even.”
“Yes we are- again. And I think we always have been.” Alvin purred. “You can stop by and see us in Emporia, that's where we will be in a week or so, If the Cheyennes don't get us. Maybe I can give you your change then.” Lottie winked and pulled up her drunk companion and put his arm over her shoulder, and walked him back to Front Street.
Sim thought he knew and understood Alvin, but what he had just seen left him breathless.
“Are you two... friends- or WHAT!” Sim blurted, confused and somewhat entertained by what had just transpired.
“You wanna know if we are lovers, come out and say it.” Sim's face was locked in on Alvin's, ready to wade into the subtleties of adult relationships.
“Well...?”
“Yes. But not like you wanna think. She loves me- and I love her. Neither one of us understands the other. It's kinda like your family Sim, you love 'em- but you don't approve of everything they say or do- but you would take a bullet for 'em.
“There are all kinds of relationships between men and women. Some people, most of 'em, relate on a physical level. Me and Lottie... we- our brains... they roll around in ecstasy. It's something deep. When two people find that kind of intimacy, it holds you stronger than any sex ever could.”
“That's crazy Alvin. Then why don't you marry her?”
“I'm still holdin' out for Pauline. I still believe that somehow were are goin' to be together in the end.
"As for Lottie? It would never happen; for one thing, she has a husband. And at least two other men in the wings that I know of. I'd have to get in line behind them. And it would be a long wait, and probably a violent one. Not to mention that she ain't the marryin' kind. Poor ol' Mr. Bowlegs just found that out.”
Leading a string of four unbroken fillies through rough country in double-quick time is a very trying thing, but this was what Jim had to do. He cut through north central Indian Territory on little-used buffalo trails until he got to the Chisholm Trail, and then took it up to the Kansas border. Jim sighed from exhaustion when he saw the smoke from chimneys in Caldwell rise on the horizon. Maybe he was going to beat the odds and make it. The fillies behaved nicely during the last leg, finally understanding group motion, and soon Wichita emerged from the prairie.
Jim pranced in with his frisky herd and went straight to the local livery stable, and penned his fillies and asked the young fellow cleaning stalls there for the owner. He did not pay attention when the stable boy trotted off towards downtown. In a few minutes, a wiry little man with abrupt half-steps came out squinting in the sun like a prairie dog after a rain. “Yes Sir, what kin I do fer ya?”
“Do you need to buy any horses?” Jim asked with a smile. “ I need to sell these beauties...”
“Hmmmm” The livery man scanned around at the fillies and began to calculate. “Looks like they all need breakin.'”
“They do, but they sure are gentle- led 'em with no trouble for quite a ways.”
“Where ya come from mister?”
“I've been a government contractor...” He stated convincingly, “bringing horses to the army at Ft. Sill. But all the hostilities made me shy to go down there, so I changed direction and came here instead.”
Jim waited patiently as the fellow looked them over. It was important that he not appear to be in a big hurry. Suddenly newly sworn-in United States Marshal Mike Meagher trotted up and dismounted. Jim's heart sank, it was always easy to identify a lawman, they had a certain walk, like they were important, or were doing something urgent. Of course the badge on his chest was proof enough.
“Howdy Marshal, me and this young feller was jus' talkin' about these here fillies... pretty ain't they?”
“What's your name mister?” Meagher stood big and bad and he was up front and come what may. Jim tried to think of a way out, and everything he could think of only meant bigger trouble. Outside of killing these two, his beans were spilled. Marshal Meagher saw that Jim was not going to answer his question, and pulled out his revolver.
“He's not selling these horses. I'm impounding them. And taking this man to jail. Mister, whoever you are, you're under arrest.”
Marshal Meagher herded Jim to the jail in Wichita, but he could not leave him there. As soon as he was able to secure him a horse, and telegraph his success and whereabouts, he and his prisoner were on their way south in the Nations to put Jim in a safe place. Jim rode along sullen and sensitive, resentful that he was not even allowed to try to explain himself. But Meagher seemed to be refreshed, having made an important apprehension, and they rode for twenty miles before the Deputy U. S. Marshal turned and stunned Jim with a simple question:
“French, tell me, and this is going to be quite entertaining I'm sure, but how the hell did you get hooked up with the Pinkertons?”
“Pinkertons!” Jim echoed flatly. He had no idea how the marshal knew his name already.
“Yeah, French, the Pinkertons- what are you, some kinda operative... some kinda spy?”
Jim rode along for awhile, with a blank expression. He had no idea what Meagher was alluding to, but whatever he was saying could well be his salvation. He had to say something, but he had only heard of the Pinkertons, he did not know anything about them. “Marshal, I hate to disappoint you, but if I lie I'll just get myself in bigger trouble. So why don't you tell me what you're gettin' at- and maybe something that makes sense will jump out at me.” French's game but innocent expression was almost believable.
Marshal Meagher reined up his mount and waited for Jim to stop as well. “French, I suppose you're gonna tell me that you don't even know what I'm talkin' about- aren'tcha? Actually if you were, you shouldn't admit it.”
Jim just looked at him with a poker face. “Marshal, it's like this, 'I'm not free at the moment to say.'" He slightly smirked, impishly. So far he had been totally honest... he wasn't free. He could not speak as a free man. He grinned casually at his own cleverness.
“Mmmhmmmm. French, let's start over. You're too hard to scare. Gimme your hands...” Meagher reached across, horse to horse and took off the handcuffs. “By the way, I don't know whether you know it or not, but there is a very active vigilante group back there on the border- hunting like mad panthers for horse thieves. I hear they've hung a half-dozen or so of your associates. They got Queen and Morgan last week, I'm sure you know them. If I had left you in jail, even overnight, they would have jerked you out so fast, you'da just seen a blur before they decorated a tree with your worthless carcass. And that's not my terminology, it's the newspaper's.”
Jim nodded and agreed with a humble grimace. “Thank you Marshal. You saved my skin and now you insult me. What can I say? ”
“TELL ME your connection to the Pinkerton Detective Agency!”
“Marshal... I'm bein' honest, I haven't got one- BUT please don't take me back there!” Jim chuckled nervously, still unsure where he stood with the lawman.
“Where did you get those horses?” Meagher now used a softer tone.
“Marshal, I swear ta'god, I was gettin' them off of the Agency for Agent Miles and Little Robe, before there was some kind'a calamity. He was afraid this brand detective was goin' ta turn 'em in for horse thievin'. If you marshals came and made arrests, it would have set off- well, it would have sped up hostilities considerably.”
“Just doing Agent Miles a big favor I suppose, and protecting all those innocent Cheyennes. And I'm Abraham Lincoln!”
“It wasn't like that, Marshal. These were just some horses that were caught up when the Cheyennes followed their stolen ponies and took 'em back. I was with 'em- so was George Bent.”
“Ol' George... Right. Never been able to tell which side he was on. What were you going to do with the money French?”
“I don't care what you think, that's the truth. We never even talked about the money. We were more worried about a war breakin' out...”
“Well, it's too late for that, the war already broke out.”
“I figured as much.”
“So French, you're this sly spy sneaking around the reservation, keeping the Indians out of trouble, just helping Agent Miles for the welfare of the poor Indians...” The marshal was enjoying his sarcasm, but the evidence pointed to another case of the truth being stranger than fiction.
“It could be put that way.” Jim smiled, knowing that there was nothing he could do to convince the marshal that he was actually trying to be a force for justice. But it was this connection to the Pinkertons, even if slim, which was mitigating his attitude, and sounding like a godsend.
“French, do you think I actually believe that?”
“Don't care whether you do, I can't change what happened.”
“Well... I don't, but you've got the damn Pinkertons believing it, and running interference for you- sending wires, begging for somebody to bring you in before Hurricane Bill's outlaws catch up with you. And you act like you don't even know about it. This is all very strange.”
“It's a crazy story. Sometimes I have trouble believin' it.”
French tried to smile.
“And that's not all.” Meagher continued, “Got this telegram a couple of days ago- you know anybody named Capt. J. Cary French? Some kinda sea captain or something?”
Jim suddenly froze in his saddle and clammed up, stunned as if in a trance. He stared at the saddle horn and wondered how he would answer.
“I ignored it,” Meagher decided to fill in the silence, “cause I had no idea of your whereabouts, French, but now that's all changed. He appears to be an important man, and he must've been in contact with the Pinkertons, anyway he asked them and me to find you and hold you until he could catch up with you. So do you know him? Is he your father?”
“I know him. He actually kinda helped to raise me. I guess we're cousins. He's almost like an older brother I guess. But that side of the family got all tied up in that Underground Railroad business in Leavenworth and Topeka... before the war... he got thrown into jaaaaail... they even killed a U. S. Marshal... and he escaaaaaped... an' we got split up then. It's been a long time. Lotta water gone under the bridge."
"Go ahead..." Meagher was pleased to finally find a crack in Jim's armor.
“It was too crazy for even me..." Jim began to open long unused doors in his memory. "He fought in the Union army and I came out here. And worked with my father for some government surveyors and eventually took up with the Bents... they are my family now. Then after the war I used my influence with the Bents to get him a job in New Mexico... a good assignment as Indian Agent for the Utes... but he was only hunting minerals... wanted to strike it rich... Didn' give a damn about the Indians...
“Then he went gold-diggin' in the Navajo reservatioooon... scouting gem stones, siiiilver, gooooold... anything of value that he could find for free. He's been mining in Colorado now for several years. Heard he struck it rich. I call 'im 'Gem' French. G-E-M.”
“The telegram was from New York. He sent the damn thing before he left Scotland. So French, what the hell is your name? You been goin' by Jim...”
“I don't know Marshal. My given name was Solomon James, but I've always gone by Jim. Never felt up to the name of a wise king in the Bible- and it seemed the name Jim opened up some doors. As far as Gem, or “Capt. J. Cary” as he likes to be called, I got no idea what he is up to, unless he was over there in England hustling investors for one of his mineral scams. I would'n be surprised, He's one helluva promoter. He more or less set up Del Norte.”
“Del Norte, the town with "drifts of gold dust", down in the San Juans of Colorado?”
“That would be it. As far as the Pinkertons, now that you mention it. I do have this friend, a photographer back in Dodge- he claimed he had friends who could get my tail out of this crack.”
“You can say that again.” Meagher said, now disgusted. “So, you know Alvin Payne?”
“That's him!”
“Yeah... The Photographer, I know him too. He's a good man. He's saved my bacon as of late. Don't know how he ever met up with the likes of you though.”
Jim was glad to explain. Now he was making progress against the headwind. “This monk in Dodge, an old friend of mine, was holdin' court at Dog Kelley's and he came and sat with us... that monk just about had all of us Catholics before it was over... even went to church one night...” Jim chuckled.
“What was his name? Wasn't Father Swineberg was it?”
“That's him! Marshal, he's quite a man. I was goin' with him to Mexico until I ran into Miles and got detoured, and I overheard the Cheyennes planning their little excursion to Texas. Decided I needed to go back and warn my friends in Dodge.”
“Mexico? Swineberg's goin' down there again? NOW?”
“As sure as Sioux hate the Blackfoot. Me and another fella were goin' to escort him and his assistant, but, like I said, I had to part with them at the Agency- clean up my mess... which now you have.”
“That was your good fortune French, because if they kept on walking through the Nations, they are dead by now.”
“I don't know, the Father says he knows the hostiles well- an' never had a problem with 'em. And he has a pretty tough Seminole going with him, He can get them to Mexico if anybody can.”
“Who's that?”
“A rounder out of Topeka- name is Bowlegs.”
“YOU have GOT to be joshin' me! BILLY BOWLEGS? It wad'n long ago I threw him outta my jail! The Earps nearly killed him. I thought he might be dead. But his body disappeared before I could get the undertaker to pick it up.”
“That's him!” Jim was batting a thousand. Now he knew Meagher had to believe him.
“That man French, he is liable to knock 'em in the head and steal their silver crosses. He's shifty... a pimp and a killer. And a dang dangerous character.”
“Well Marshal, maybe we're not talkin' 'bout the same man.”
Marshal Meagher escorted his prisoner to Ft. Sill, all the way across the Indian Territory. It was a long ride, but it was about the only place he dared to leave a possibly innocent man in those times of violent citizen's committees. He would be safely held there until there could be a hearing. And he put in a good word for Jim, and allowed the commander to read the telegrams he had gotten from the Capt. French and the Pinkertons. But the newspapers celebrated his arrest; the outrageous “White Man who led the Cheyennes on a horse raid.” The Judge would be the only one who could clear French of his allegations, so he finally realized it was best for him to stay there under house-arrest for safekeeping until his enemies, especially the ring of horse thieves, had been captured or run out of the state.
For several days, Jim was a model prisoner, until some of those very men who were after him began to show up in cells near him. He listened as one of the prisoners read a newspaper, and his voice echoed all over the cell block: “Detective Mike Meagher returned on Saturday afternoon from a trip to Cheyenne agency, where he had conducted the worthless carcass of S. French, or “Frenchy,” a noted thieving son of the border....”
Jim started talking loudly to the guard hoping that he was not listening, but the jailbird continued to sing: “... it is altogether probable that Mr. S. French will have an opportunity to test the truth of future existence.” They all laughed and hooted at these forboding words of the press. Luckily, most of the outlaws in the jail did not know his face, or his name, but it was just a matter of time until most of them did.
The next day the guards brought in Apache Sam Walker, one of Martin's henchmen, who knew Jim from the days when they were both still living on the right side of the law. He did not notice Jim at first, but eventually Jim felt his eyes locked onto him. He realized it would not be long until the Ft. Sill prison might be the most dangerous place he could be.
Word came that the commander had become intolerant of his brig being used for civilians, and intended to have them removed. Soon they might all be transported, and that could present any number of opportunities for the inmates to murder Jim.
Soon Jim took his guards to the side on his daily trip to the outhouse, and offered them twenty bucks apiece to give him a ten-minute head start. They took the cash and let him go, since they had heard that the U. S. Marshals had refused to relocate the rustlers, and the Commander was liable to just turn them all loose anyway. He was soon on his way out of the compound, underneath a load of hay. Unfortunately, so were the rest of the prisoners, but openly, with their horses and guns returned to them.
French laid low. Soon, if he had his way, he would never be seen in the Indian Territory again. It was a real loss to the Cheyennes and their allied tribes, but after a significant portion of them went to war, and stayed hostile for years, not even a passionate soul like Jim French could help them out of the destruction coming their way. His sympathy for them had only made him an outlaw, and now one being diligently sought by two large groups of men with murder in their hearts.
Isa Tai did not understand the language, but he understood the strong hands holding his head up, and pouring the life-saving water into him. Then the Indian spoke to him in Spanish, which he understood.
“Como te llamas? The Indian asked. Coyote Bowels told him slowly his full name and over the next few minutes that he was being punished for a great deception to his people. Fathers Swineberg and Wisnoski looked at one another, not following the discussion very well, because the man's voice was so faint. But they were grateful more than ever that Billy Bowlegs had come with them. “I have been called much worse,” Billy assured him. “Can you stand, Coyote Bowels?”
Coyote tried but could not. So Billy Bowlegs picked him up, and carried him towards an arroyo a hundred feet away where there was shade and security. They stopped once and Coyote asked for more water. Then the Comanche medicine man knew, he had decided to follow Paisano. Billy laid him in the shade and handed him the canteen, but told him to just make little tiny swallows. "Poquito, mi amigo, poquito..." The monks just followed and listened, enjoying the “Divine Appointment” they were witnessing.
The three men stared upon the Comanche man, now more dead than alive, concerned what they might do for him, either to comfort his last moments, or perhaps even save his life.
“We need to make him a soup Brother Wis.” Father Swineberg announced. “Go cut me some prickly pears." The monks knew a great deal of folk medicine, but it was Billy who immediately took charge of the Comanche's treatment.
“Billy, I believe you are enjoying yourself!” Father Swineberg observed.
“I have not thought about such things for many years Father. It has been good to renew my powers.” Billy explained as he began to strip the sage blossums from their stems. “We are lucky it has rained recently, so we have a few blossums. Otherwise we would cook the stems.”
“What will they do, might I ask?” The father inquired gently.
"Sage to bring down his fever, red willow roots to reduce his pain, the prairie parsley to protect and heal his cuts and sores."
“And Father Wisnoski's nettle, what in the world- LOOK at the poor man's hands and arms!”
“I warned him too.” Father Swinberg added.
“Some people have to learn the hard way.” Wisnoski explained, as he held up his reddened arms.
“Those are the arms of Jesus! Father, I think it was you who explained Jesus to me.” Billy offered with an impish smile, “It was what got my attention; He is the first God I ever heard of who gave completely of himself... everything. And he expects his followers to do the same. Even to suffering.”
“Yes- living sacrifices...” Swineberg agreed. “Now you know, there has always been the better path, if a person desires to find it.”
“Yes- you made that choice clear when I met you in the Wichita jail. And it took me awhile, but I have made it.” The three of them shared a knowing smile, as Billy removed his concoctions from the fire. “It's time to give Coyote Bowels his medicines- so he can get well and take our scalps...” he grinned.
Soon Coyote was sitting up and making conversation, expressing his grief and loss to total strangers- White Men that he had planned to kill just days before. He looked at Billy and they shook hands again. “Eagle had stolen my soul, and he led me astray. He was the true thief, a liar who promised me great things. Now I have nothing.” Coyote explained. Billy shrugged, the man was making no sense. “Eagle raided my heart, a ladron, just like I have raided many villages, to take from others. But now, everything has been taken from me instead."
Billy just listened, unable to understand who these men were whom he referred to, but it did not matter, he assumed the Indian was only delirious.
"Now I have made a friend for life.” He said weakly, but with great pride. Billy smiled, having no idea what he was talking about. “You are Paisano...” Coyote said. “You are Paisano...” he repeated. “You said you would save my life!”
Father Wisnoski nudged Swineberg, and pointed to the east, where several riders were scouring the brush, obviously looking for Coyote. “Perhaps you have some friends coming.” The Father said optimistically.
“No- it is the Dog Soldiers..." Coyote corrected with serene resignation. "They will be angry... do not stop them if they take me away.”
“Like hell...” Billy blurted as he stood to see who they were talking about. Soon the riders found their tracks and began to follow them and then saw the four men down in the arroyo and let off jubilant war cries.
“Billy, let me do the talking, I am familiar with these people...” Father Swineberg insisted as he stepped up to greet the menacing Indians headed their way.
“Father, I'll do whatever you say...” Billy conceded, “but you do not know these people. These are the worst terror of the plains, and they will kill you.”
“Have courage my son.” Father Swineberg said softly as he stepped stoically up out of the arroyo to be level with the warriors, and held up his crucifix in one hand and his open palm in the other. “Buenos Dias, Nosotros estamos amigos... AMIGOS!”
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