Chapter 3
Chapter 3: The Tintype man
Alvin was nestled in his usual corner at the Dixie Saloon, taking a few shots before heading home to another lonely night. He watched as people came in and left, and things were about as mundane as they could be, in a place where men came for a little action. Col. Head, the old veteran who spoke to Alvin kindly that morning at the hanging scene, came in and approached his direction, and tipped his hat, but Alvin was not interested in entertaining any conversation, and acted as if he did not recognize him. Col. Head reciprocated and just turned and sat at the table next to him, with his back towards Alvin, and sipped his beer. They had only met once, and under horrible circumstances. Neither could blame the other if one of them did not want to reminisce and revisit that moment.
Franklin came in a few moments later. He was gregarious and had cute mannerisms which effortlessly disarmed old ladies, children and pretty ladies. And he could usually win over the rest in time. He was no criminal, just a cousin doing a favor. And, if he thought about it, he was afraid not to do it. His cousins were some very dangerous men. Concerned that Pinkerton detectives might soon be amassing a new invasion of Jesse James country, cousin "Frankie" could put their minds to ease, or put them to more murderous work, whichever was the case. He strolled into the saloon fairly unknown in Plattsburg, scanned the room, and walked almost directly towards Alvin's table. As he passed the elderly gentleman sitting at the next table, he nodded with Southern flair, and then stopped at Alvin's table.
"Good Afternoon, officer! How about a game of Checkers?" He said as he awoke Alvin from a booze nap. "Name's Franklin- everybody calls me Frankie. You're the town dick, right?" Frankie did not wait to ask if he might join Alvin, but just covered every move with his irresistible smile, and he found Alvin to be just as pathetic as they had thought. He found no objections from his tipsy target.
"Sure, why not. Yeah, I'm Corporal Payne, but not for long. I'm sure you will beat me, had two shots already- not feelin' too sharp."
“Well, good, I could use the win to top off my day, Detective Payne. You don't mind if I do so at your expense?"
"Be my guest, Set 'em up, I'll take the red. Maybe they will bring me luck." Alvin said as he became almost cordial, after days of self-sequestration.
"You're a lawman- you know it's never about luck." Frankie pontificated as he set out the checkers loudly, snapping each of them on the game board, and sort of making an obnoxious ceremony out of it. Alvin watched passively, not appearing to care about the man or the game, not caring enough to even refuse either; not paying attention to all of the people who were casually paying attention to him.
"Not feelin' much like a lawman these days, Frankie. Only been doing it about eighteen months, and already I'm burned out. I'm lookin' to change to something else. What do you do my friend?"
"Oh... killin' time right now, I'm headed to law school in the spring. You get the first move."
"LAW SCHOOL! Don't meet many school boys here in Plattsburg." Alvin slid out a front checker to the "safe spot."
"I'm just passin' through, on my way to K.C. to take an entrance exam. They wanna make sure I can read and write." Frankie moved his front checker on the opposite side of the board. "Anyway I thought I would step in here and kill a little time before my train leaves- around 8:30." Alvin moved another one of his front men, one he knew would soon be sacrificed for bigger fish down the road. Frankie moved his corresponding checker almost automatically towards him. Alvin moved another front man, and Frankie moved his man to block him as well. Frankie was betraying his killer's instinct. He was a Checkers shark, but he was there to shark a much different game.
"You're pretty sure of yourself Frankie." Alvin chuckled as he moved a second tier man up to prevent a jump, and Frankie moved just as automatically towards them. "Alvin, you have to take the jump" he said with a smile. Alvin took the jump, and Frankie made two.
"I hate to disappoint you Frankie, I ain't no Checkers player. But I am a detective. I've never seen you before in my life, and allova sudden your in here kickin' my ass all over the saloon- you play Checkers like Jesse James plays banks." He moved blindly and Frankie took another two jumps. "So, Frankie, just tell me what you came to tell me. If you came to tell me to get out of Missouri, you're too late. I'm already leavin'."
"Payne, I didn' come to tell you nothin'. Just here playin' Checkers." Frankie denied any understanding of Alvin's accusations, yet made an impish grin.
"Friend, if you're just 'passin' through,' how did you know my name an' my rank... most people who live in this town don't know that much. You pick the most obscure man in the place, sitting over here in the dark- where you can barely see, to play a game. You came here for some reason... so spit it out."
Alvin had spent so much time being afraid, and was so miserable, and drunk enough that he no longer cared if Frankie blew his brains out. He could not go on any more like he had, and so he was now a tough-talking man who wanted to end it, and believed he was finally talking to his tormentor who could help him do it. Still, he eased his hand inside his vest, for convenient access to his revolver.
Frankie looked at Alvin for a moment and studied and thought. Then he took one more jump. "King me." he said. "All right Payne. I might get in trouble for this, but I'll be honest. You have been, so I... I'm going to go out on a limb. I'm no Jesse James- but he and Frank are close relatives. And yes, they sent me."
Alvin sat up in his chair at this point. Suddenly he cared about the game. "I've been expecting you." was all he could say.
Frankie turned into a cheap punk at this point, no longer putting on an act. "And don't worry, you can't arrest me. I've never stepped across that line, and you can't put me in jail for who my relatives are. You just told me what we need to know. If you are really leaving, the Law is not going to tell you anything about what is coming next. You're a has-been. But I appreciate your openness. And if it makes you feel any better, it will probably save your life. They don't wanna kill anybody they don't have to Alvin." Alvin looked at the messenger appreciatively, like a man just granted a stay of execution.
"And I'm sorry 'bout your partner." Frankie said with cold sympathy, "It's nothin' personal ya see... it's war, albeit a very strange variety, but just like those rebs and yanks that would meet at the battle lines at Christmas and sing Christmas Carols- then head back to their stations and start shootin' at each other again. It's a clash between good men over bad misunderstandings of one another. Until only one side is left standing. And... you are a bad Checkers player, but you are playing the hand that counts, damn well. I wish you good luck sir. And Good Evening."
Frankie stood and lit a cigar and swaggered towards the door, and casually tipped his hat to some men sitting across the room who had been watching the whole conversation. They tipped their hats back. Then they got up, threw some bills on the table, and sauntered out too. They had beards, and Alvin was not sure, but he thought they resembled the sketches he had seen of the James boys. He would never know, and he never wanted to know. But it became evident as he thought about it, that Frankie had been signaling to them all along; the snapping of the checkers, the lit cigar, the tipping of the hat.
Alvin was cold sober by now, and thought about his options. One was to send for back- up and go after them. But there was no telling how many of the James gang were on the streets, or which direction they went, or how many of the townspeople might be killed in a gunfight in the middle of town, if they were able to catch up to them. Then he noticed Col. Head sitting in front of him, who had to have heard the whole exchange. Alvin stood and went to his table, and faced him. "You're Cleetus Head, right? You been around these parts for ages. Did any of those men look familiar to you?"
"Who?" Old Col. Head responded drowsily, apparently sufficiently self-medicated.
Alvin had a choice, he could go tell the sheriff and help arrange a posse, and try to find the suspicious men, none of which had done anything to justify an arrest, and risk the embarrassment of being wrong, or worse, risk the possibility of being shot up for pulling the tiger's tail, or he could just believe Frankie and walk out in one piece and find a place to relieve himself before he wet his pants. And at that moment, that last option seemed to be the best plan.
Alvin ran to the Post office when he received a note from the postmaster; a box with his name on it had been sitting around for almost a week. He landed in the Post Office like a hawk out of the sky. “Bentley! How come you never told me I had a package?”
“I knew you'd be in here.” Bentley snickered. “You been comin' around pretty regular, besides, I can't send every man a notice. Here, it's from BOSTON!”
“Yep, it is.”
As he unpacked the camera and then fiddled with the materials, checking the condition and inclusion of everything ordered, he began to remember the good times with his father, when they made a circuit through eastern Kansas and Nebraska and then all through Missouri, every summer. They lived like nomads, hunted and fished, and enjoyed going through the frontier towns and making ambrotype and tintype portraits for lonely pioneers.
“It's all here, well, thanks for sending me word! There should be another one soon... let me know, Okay?”
“What is it?”
“This Bentley, is my future. It's a tintype camera, called a 'multiplying camera,' and it can take two, four or even nine images at a time. I didn't buy all of the lenses, but with these I can shoot up to six.”
“Damn- who needs that many pitchers of themselves!”
“You'd be surprised.” Alvin was out of the door as fast as he came in. He was going to set up his camera and practice taking pictures that day. The tripod had not come yet, but he knew how to set up without it. All he needed was a flour barrel and an old well bucket.
“Just like old times,” he nodded and smiled. He hadn't felt this good in a long, long time.
The life of an itinerant photographer was a good life, with miles of country fresh air, and friendly people, and the work was very different than most kinds of labor. It was satisfying work, where you made people happy. Creative work, where you were constantly learning about the photography, and doing a better job, and pleasing customers as you pleased yourself. And making money. It was fun, a word hardly ever mentioned during his later childhood. People were not supposed to have fun when they were working. But looking back on it as an adult, now he knew, from what he remembered, it was fun.
Alvin wondered why he had not done this in the first place. Then he remembered what he did on those long wagon rides between towns. He read. Last of the Mohicans. Pilgrim's Progress. Uncle Tom's Cabin. Reading had made him want to change the world. To see it, to understand it. Police work was a natural direction for a boy too young to fight in the war to save the Union, but old enough now to preserve it.
Perhaps he would preserve it in another way... by taking photographs of pioneer Americans from town to town. Now that the camera sat in front of him, he was more sure than ever. He wrote Pauline and told her. She would have to find out sooner or later. And he could have chosen much worse.
Alvin Payne, Photographer
A day later, Alvin tossed his long, well-written resignation letter in the waste basket, and wrote a short, cursory note to the City Marshal, explaining that he had some personal family concerns he had to work out, and he was hitting the road. He felt guilty about leaving so suddenly, but he doubted that he would ever need a letter of introduction from Marshal Thacker, because he knew nothing about photography. He had risked his life plenty of times for the people of Plattsburg, and without a single thank you, so he felt that he owed none of them anything. He pointed his new mules west and slapped the reins on their backs.
He had just bought the matching mules from the livery stable the day before, and did not have any expectations about them. Mules could not be that different from horses, he assumed. But they stood as if nothing had happened, so he slapped them again. Again nothing. A barefooted teenager walking by watched him and then offered him some advice.
“You gotta talk to 'em, mister.” The boy squinted as he looked up at Alvin, the sun in his eyes, half smiling, half grimacing. "And in their own language!"
“I grew up on a horse farm, I don't need any help...” Alvin explained defensively, and slapped again, and as hard as he could. The mules shivered for a second, but stood fast.
“Here, let me show you.” the teenager groused, as if he was a muleskinner, and leaped up on the wagon seat as Alvin shook his head in disgust. “Wwhoooa MULES!” he screamed, as he shook and popped the reins and created a minor tremor, and suddenly the mules began to step forward, ever so slowly. “Like that!” He said with an authoritative air.
“What's your name young 'un?” Alvin asked, quite impressed.
“Simeon. They call me Sim.” The boy offered as they rode slowly along.
“Are you from around here? I've never seen you before.”
“No sir, I'm from... Hays City, I'm on my way home- an' I ain't no vagrant.”
“How would you like to ride with me to Kansas City?”
“That's fine mister, if'n I do, I'm drivin' these mules.”
Alvin was smitten with the boy, and chuckling before he could think a negative thought.
“All right Sim- it's all yours. We need to go by the mercantile an' pick up some grain for these beasts, and then we are off to Kansas City.”
“What are you mister? You're not a hide buyer I hope. I hate stinkin' hide tradin'.”
“No, not a hide man, not a buffalo hunter- nothing exciting. Just an unemployed policeman...”
“POLICEMAN!” Sim instantly flew out of the wagon seat and skipped down the street, shaking his head in flat rejection. “Thanks anyway mister!”
Alvin watched a bit confused as Sim scooted out of sight, figuring the boy was a runaway, or just a street kid who lived by his wits, and no doubt distrusted lawmen, employed or unemployed. Maybe he was a pickpocket and Alvin's former job scared him away. It was just as well, but he checked his pockets just in case.
Too bad he thought, he would have enjoyed having him along for the trip. He got the grain for the mules and after Sim's brief lesson, soon took mastery over them after a few miles of experimentation and learning their “language.” It pleased him to pass by so many landmarks where he and Stew had surveyed, past homes where they sold seeds, and as he entered Clay County, he felt darkness invade his soul, seeing so many places which they had suspected as James-Younger-allied.
First there was Elm Grove, whose only crime was being in Clay County. But then came Kearney, a poverty town famous for its world-famous residents, the spawning ground of the James boys and the Miller brothers, their faithful followers. When there is such evil present, the imagination makes it all the worse. It seemed every little clapboard cabin stared at him with distrust and ill-will.
And then Robertson- smaller and meaner. Out of necessity. Settled by many freed slaves, they had celebrated their freedom, and paid dearly for that.
He and Stew had stood against the darkness, as they had conspired to eliminate the cancer among the population. It had seemed like the thing to do at the time. But it had all come to nothing. Never again he told himself.
He slapped his mules again, “Heeey MULES! We gotta long way to go.” Alvin began to pray as he passed the most legendary, deadly patch of Clay County. He did not go to church that much anymore, but right there on that wagon seat he had a real old-time prayer meeting.
Passing through Liberty, Alvin took note of the little bank where it all started. Where the James's and Youngers, led by little Archie Clement, Bloody Bill Anderson's devoted guerrilla officer, had declared war on the banks of America. “Charity starts at home.” he chuckled. That was before the gang declared war on the railroads. The state militia later surrounded and shot up little Archie, who remained game till the end, so crippled up that he had to cock his revolver with his teeth. And he died as he vowed, with blood in his eye. That was the fierce spirit typical of these folks in Clay County.
He passed under the tree where one of the gang had shot down poor George Wymore, a college student who just happened to be walking by as they made their escape with $60,000.00. The men murdered an innocent person while stealing away with enough cash to purchase sixty very nice homes. How does a town ever live down, much less forget such outrages?
“Hopeless!” he announced, as if anyone was listening. And feeling a thousand eyes on his back, he told himself not to stop or even slow down until he passed through Junction, near the southern Clay County line.
Deep down, Alvin knew it wasn't the people, it was the terror inspired by a few, who had made Clay County Hell's Chamber of Commerce. It was the war, which made heartless killers out of young men and then sent them home to raise a farm; Raise a farm when they had come home bruised and broke, and could not afford tools or seed. It was the South, which collectively got pleasure out of vicarious revenge, a common tendency among any people scarred by war. He knew he probably wasn't in physical danger. But maybe his soul was, because now he hated, with a killing kind of hatred, just as bad as the worst outlaw. It was good, he reflected, that he had resigned from law enforcement. There was a murderous fire in his heart now.
Alvin had actually only met a few people in Clay County. He had always been the messenger when Stew was tenting there, bringing food, seeds, ammo, whatever he needed. Sometimes he would have to buy seeds in Plattsburg at retail prices to keep him supplied. But Stew had done the talking, and Stew had made himself the target. Still, Alvin had been seen passing through Kearney many a time, in plain clothes, and they might have been connected if somebody was paying attention. And as it turned out, they probably were.
The ferry crossing was not in service when he got to the Missouri River, so Alvin took the mules to a shady spot and let them graze. There were twenty wagons in front of him, so it became evident that he was not going to make it out of Clay County that day. As the shadows grew long and people started campfires, Alvin shrugged and did the same. There was such a thing as safety in numbers.
There was an old fellow taking his horses down an obscure path to the river to drink, so he took the mules, now named Annie and Fannie, down the same trail while his fire burned down to cooking coals. They gratefully waded and cooled their hooves and drank until Alvin thought they might explode. After they got into the water, it became obvious that they were firmly opposed to any direction that took them from the river. Alvin learned that he was most successful with them when they were turned in a circle before he headed off, keeping them guessing, and preventing them from forming any opinions about a particular direction. So he finally tugged them reluctantly back to camp, but not without a great deal of clever maneuvering.
He heard the sweetness of fiddle music where a few wagons were circled, and could see a crowd gathering around the musicians, clapping and laughing, and a middle-aged couple began to dance with impressive grace. He couldn't wait to put up the mules and fry his bacon, so he could go join the gathering. Somehow the little outdoor party had all the charm of home.
When he finally got there, it was pitch dark, and all he could see was the campfire and silhouettes of animated figures standing around, having a good time. An old geezer took a sip of whiskey from a stoneware jug and then handed it to a big, young, "civilized" Seminole bootlegger about Alvin's age. There were only two young women, who were enjoying great attention as various dance partners floated back and forth between them. Then he saw a familiar face. There, prancing around the campfire and taking his turn with women twice his age, was Sim, barefooted, keeping time, and as full of himself as if he were a French general. Alvin laughed hard, the sight was so ridiculous, but seemingly only to him.
Sim clapped and kept perfect time, and smoothly changed partners and it became a group joke each time he did, as the people howled and egged him on. He was hands-down the best dancer in the crowd. The women seemed to love him, and almost competed for his attention. The men in the dance were becoming irritated, and then it happened, because there is always one in every crowd. The big Seminole with the jug had seen enough, and handed off the moonshine jug and stepped in front of Sim as he tried to switch again, and instead he pranced into a six foot slab of sweat and muscle. The Seminole was a human wall, legs spread, ready to field Sim no matter which way he dodged. The crowd objected, but before it could become a scene, Sim dived between his legs, did a cannonball somersault and shot up in front of his giddy dance partner, who took him by the hand and danced to the opposite side of the campfire.
William White Wolf, aka "Billy Bowlegs."
The majestic Seminole in coattails stood fuming, then sifted through the dancers, most of whom had no idea what was going on, and headed straight for the mismatched couple, but as he almost got around the fire to them, they had seen an opening and skipped back to the other side of the fire, giggling as they went. The woman laughed heartily, and Sim's eyes got bigger and bigger. He knew he would have to bow out soon, or get a drubbing. No doubt he could outrun the Indian.
The Indian had his own strategy, and pointed to his buddies nearby, who soon corralled Sim, and then blocked his escape until his angry rival could catch up with him. The fiddle music suddenly stopped, and somebody coughed, but otherwise it got as quiet as if they were attending a funeral. Sim suddenly imagined his.
“You've had enough fun, young feist! Now let some of us older boys dance with these ladies...” Reasoned the Seminole, whose single eagle feather flipped and flapped on the brim of his plainsmen hat, as his sweat glistened in the firelight. Everybody watched him in awe. Everybody except Sim.
“I ain't stoppin' nobody from dancin'.” Sim challenged, the very illustration of insolence.
I'm pretty sure it's yore bedtime son, now make yourself scarce, or I'll have ta give you a whoopin' you won't soon forget.” The Indian grinningly looked around and found a consensus in agreement among the young men with his point of view. But there were very few around who would openly disagree with the angry brute, who was known to settle his arguments with a large knife.
Sim looked around, and felt outnumbered, and with no support, he slumped and yanked his arms away from his captors, and turned to walk away. Then a voice came out of the dark.
“Let him dance.” Everyone looked around to see who dared to challenge the Seminole bully. He scanned through the crowd as well... but all he saw were blank faces.
“Who says?” The Indian challenged.
“I do” said Alvin, as he stepped out of the shadows. He crossed his arms and stood defiantly. The Indian chuckled mockingly. There was only one thing he would rather do than dance with a pretty girl. And that was to eat. But since there was no food at this shindig, he would settle for his third choice, which was fighting.
“Well, little man, it looks like you have a friend. He's no big dancer. Maybe he's a big fighter.”
“You'll be sorry!” Sim whined an authoritative protest.
The Indian was up to his gills with Sim by now. But now he had an adversary closer to his size, and that pleased him. “Son, what's your name?”
“Sim Sparks!”
“No, not you cricket, him-” The Indian stallion pointed a thick, nail-less finger at Alvin. While Alvin considered his options, Sim threaded through the quiet crowd like a titmouse in the cedars. He popped up in front of Alvin before he could get out his name. Alvin was slow about that, mulling over the danger of giving his name in a strange crowd, when he was convinced that it might ring a bell with the Younger gang, which headquartered just across the river. He could not take that chance.
“You don't know WHO this IS ?” Sim challenged with fearless condescension. He did not give the big boor a second to respond, but took complete control of the dialogue. “You must not be from around here. This here's Toady Clements, you know, Archie Clements youngest little brother. Archie taught him everything. An everybody knows he was the daddy of the James gang. Or they should know.”
Sim looked to see if The big Indian was buying it. He was standing and listening, and pondering, but not sure about anything. “If you know what's good for you, and your family, you'll make YOURSELF SCARCE!”
“Sim...” Alvin interrupted, I don...”
“He's a bad hombre mister,” Sim talked over Alvin's calm with believable concern, “I don't want to see anybody get hurt on account of me.”
Out of the side of his eye, Alvin saw the young women sneaking away, and a couple of dark, dangerous looking figures moving stealthily around the circle towards where he and Sim were making a stand. It was just a matter of seconds before they would be surrounded by angry, frustrated, dejected drunks. Then his police training suddenly kicked in. When you lack sufficient force, DIFFUSE, and live to fight another day.
“Well then Sim, that being the case,” Alvin pronounced calmly, “this would be a good time to bid your new friends adieu, and let's go back to the wagon and wash the dishes as you promised.” Sim looked back at Alvin in total confusion, unable to meld his lie with his. But Alvin took Sim by the neck and squeezed it as only a grown man can a juvenile, or in this case an ex-policeman to a little kid, and gained complete control of him. He steered him into the dark like a paralyzed frog with his arms and legs splayed, and immediately began to scold him for leaving their wagon without permission.
The music started back up, and Billy the Indian gentleman let out a big howl. “Let the party begin!” The people started clapping- but the two women had quietly disappeared.
There was a long talk back at Alvin's wagon, where he scolded and grilled the wild youth, and then fed him and made him a decent bed to sleep on. Sim was quiet, trying to size up the man who had just pulled his fat out of the fire. And whether to go along or steal one of his mules during the night and head out before sun-up. It was a tough decision.
He fell drowsy pondering his options, and then succumbed to the bread and coffee which had just warmed his empty belly. They came together and decided for him. The mule could wait another day.
TO CONTINUE: Just click on "Home" below, then select "Chapters 4-7" at the top of the page. And thanks for staying with us! It is blue and should be right............ down.......................there.................vvvvvvv
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