Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Follow the Woman, Really

On the way to cooling himself off, Alvin decided to take Detective Pinkerton's advice and check out the camera for sale at the jewelry shop. He realized that he was finally getting flush again, and after that last conversation with Pinkerton, where his proposal could put him on the road out West, he might need the camera. The jewelry store was one of those narrow nooks between saloons downtown, where people pawned their valuables when they needed fast cash, and where prostitutes picked up second-hand baubles to adorn themselves. Alvin felt out of place when he stepped in, trying to recall if he had ever actually been in a jewelry store before. He couldn't think of any instance when he had. “YES SIR!” He heard a voice greet him as he entered. A large man with a smug grin came from a work station in the back and pulled off his hat-shade as he put on a real smile. “How can I assist you Sir?”

“I heard you had a camera in here- I just wanted to look at it.”

“Yes... It's over here in our gift section. It's a little outside of our line, but I knew someone like you would appreciate it.” The patronizing jeweler said as he led the way. But as Alvin made his way through the shop, a glass showcase case attracted him. He thought he saw... yes, he had seen a watch fob glistening, shining just so in the showcase under the cash register. The Jeweler set the camera up on the counter but Alvin stared, hypnotized by the fob. “Can I see that fob- the gold one up here on top- with the stone”

“Absolutely.” The man reached in and slipped it out. “14 carat- and that's a real diamond. I checked.” He handed it to Alvin, proud to have such quality in his store.

Alvin knew he must play it cool, because he had just broken a lead in Stew Bacon's murder, but he could not say that. It was Stew's missing watch fob, with his initials on it, but it was important that he not give away that he knew anything about it. “It's a nice piece, I can't make out the initials, can you?”

“I've studied it... The second letter is definitely a B, or a P, the first one is anybody's guess. Maybe an I, maybe a J... others say it an S!

“That's what I think... Well, I have a friend with those initials- and they would love to have it. How much is it?”

“We haven't had it long- it's a fine piece, we are asking 25.”

“REALLY!” That much?” Alvin acted shocked at its value, but he knew already that he had to buy it regardless. “I was hoping it was closer to ten. Where did it come from? Do you have any idea who owned it?” He hoped that the man would tell him something, maybe even the truth, to cinch the sale.

“Well... I guess it's all right. It was brought in by an elderly gentleman. An old gambling buddy of mine; a businessman from Clinton County, I just know him as the 'Colonel,' I shouldn't say any more. But my understanding was he got it in a poker game, and had no need for it.”

Alvin looked at the camera to give himself something to do while he thought about the purchase, and his strategy to get the best deal. He took the camera apart, looked inside, blew out the dust and cleaned the lens with his bandanna. Although it was not as nice as the one he had, he thought it would be good as back-up camera. The tripod however was a really good one, more sturdy than the one he had, but he did not say anything about it. He would be using that for sure. Finally he was ready to deal. “Would you consider an offer- for the camera and tripod. And the fob?”

Alvin fell back on his father's old trick of getting a good deal by “making a pile” and thus increasing the overall income for the seller from the transaction. He might then have incentive to shave a little off of them both to sell it all.

“Make me an offer.” The jeweler said with a cat-like smile.

Alvin pondered for a few seconds, and then started the negotiations. “Forty for all of it.”

“Can't do it.” The jeweler did not even think about the offer, but dismissed it as fast as it was offered.

Alvin acted like he was in great turmoil, wanting the items but to spend more he might have to spend his food money for the rest of the month. He stalled for a purpose however, hoping to force the jeweler to make a counter-offer. In a stand-off like this one, the first one to speak is the loser. If he waited, the seller might actually offer to settle for less than he had been willing to offer, and save him some money. If he spoke too soon, he might offer more than the seller had to have, and thus “leave money on the table.” And his money was a little scarce these days. It was best to wait, and see if the jeweler might get impatient and try to finalize the deal so he could go back to his work bench. But the man had been to horse-trader's school for longer than Alvin. He could afford to sit on the item for awhile. And there was something peculiar, almost compelling, how the young man came in for one thing and got visibly distracted with something else, to try to immediately start making deals. And he had cleaned that camera like he already owned it. Alvin was a ten-pound bass and he was reeling him in. It was a real stand off, with each man sure that the other would give in. Alvin knew then what he had to do. His father always said, “Whenever you are dealing, you can never forget, that you have to be willing to walk away if it is not going your way.” Alvin turned the corner on the negotiations and thanked the man for his time. “Maybe next month.” he said as he walked away. As he almost made it to the door, the jeweler broke ranks and hollered, “FIFTY! Cash- Best I can do.”

Alvin stopped and looked back at him. “All I got on me is forty-seven dollars...” He lied.

“Bring it on.” the jeweler said with much less enthusiasm. “You beat me... forty-seven.”Alvin pulled out his money wad and peeled off the cash, making sure the man could not read what denomination he held back.

“This last dollar I owe my buddy.” he explained. Of course, that “last dollar” was really a twenty. He thanked the man again, stuck the fob in his pocket, scooped up the camera and tripod, and scooted out the door. As Alvin scurried down the street with his arms full of excellent photography equipment, all he could think about was the piece of jewelry in his pocket.

A "Colonel" from Clinton County had traveled this far to sell it. That could possibly suggest that this “Colonel” understood that it had a connection to a crime, and had to be liquidated some distance from Clinton County. This Colonel had to be a man who traveled around, knew people in different towns, and gambled with the wealthy class... And since that type of person would be unlikely to buy or trade for such a thing as a fob with someone else's initials on it, or to even gamble with men of limited means who would offer it to settle a debt, it seemed more likely that, given the short amount of time which had passed, this Colonel got Stew's diamond fob quite directly. And he should have just tossed it, because now it was going to cost him a great deal more. For now Alvin was forming an idea of who this “businessman” was.

There was really only one person it could be. Time would tell. But an influential, extremely cautious, even cunning, well-fixed, older gentleman known as “the Colonel” from Clinton County, Missouri had to be Cleetus Head. And suddenly, everything Alvin fled from in Plattsburg began to make sense.

Two days later, Alvin was on the noon stage to Topeka, headed to catch the 7:00 train to Wichita. Mellie promised to look after Sim until he could get established there. She had some house painting that would keep him busy for a month. Alvin watched the dry, brown countryside fly by in a kind of trance, as he ran the events of the past few days through his mind. The Pinkertons met his terms and sent him west before he could really consider all of the possible ramifications of the job. But he figured this was the best way to make some fast money while he waited for Pauline to mentally catch up with his plans. He would be paid a small salary serving as what they called an “operative,” while he plied his trade in the town. And they would then pay him for every tintype he provided of men on their wanted list, and about half as much for “suspicious characters.”

In other words, he had a guaranteed income while he started his own business. He could pass out cards, occupy a small studio, advertise in the paper, and do everything he had wanted to do... in trade for doing plenty that he did not necessarily want to do, such as seek out outlaws and their associates, lure them into making portraits, and make whatever deals he had to, to accomplish that end. But the extra income made the minor risks worth it. He would be on his own, working for himself, and this kind of work was a world away from police work. And Alvin's police experience had educated him that most criminals are just regular folks, especially before they are labeled criminals. And even after they are, they still have the same interests and wants as everybody else.

Alvin thought about- and smiled at the stupid questions he had asked Mr. Pinkerton. He had argued: he was “being asked to expose himself to a dangerous element in a town with little or no law. What if one of these desperadoes refused to pay him?”

Pinkerton snapped back without flinching, “What do you care Payne? WE are going to pay you no matter what. And if they won't pay, that means we may have a live one! And you get to keep your job! You better hope you have that problem all of the time!”

William Pinkerton was tough and indefatigable. He did not process certain words like “no” or “can't”. He rarely ever listened to others, but used their speech to take a breath before settling the conversation with a directive. Still Alvin liked him. He was a man with a purpose, and considered a hero to many folks back east. He had made the news in the beginning of his detective career as a fearless brawler and cunning spy. One of his first assignments as an agent was ascending in a hot air balloon to observe Confederate army movements, when he was just a teenager. There were labor union activists in the coal country who would shoot him on sight that day if he were to appear. Pinkerton would not ask any agent or operative to do anything that he would not do himself. That was the kind of man Alvin had always wanted to meet, and now he was working for one.

Dusty farms and paintless villages flew by the stage coach windows, and the other passengers finally began to converse. There were a couple of old ladies, and a man that appeared to be a drummer. Alvin had noticed that he loaded a huge trunk in the coach boot back in Kansas City. Probably salesman samples. An attractive young woman sat back in a corner and never said a word, and then there was a well dressed fellow with fuzzy sideburns and a curled “handlebar” mustache. After awhile one of the old ladies began to visit with him, since he was fairly clean and looked prosperous. He was a journalist from St. Louis, on an assignment. He was to write about the recent crimes in Kansas, especially the race murders.

“It seems that out here, it has become open season on Negroes, especially middle-aged black males.” He announced after introducing himself to the ladies and stating his business, while they smiled wide-eyed, fake smiles. “Wichita, Dodge, they all seem to be attracting Southern trash and they are getting quite brave- with the law so badly out-gunned all over the Territory.”

“Really” one of the old women said, even though she knew full well what was going on. One never stopped a newsman when he was pontificating, great things could be learned. But the young woman seemed agitated from his statements, looking nervously out of the window, like a caged animal.

“Absolutely! They shoot them down like stray dogs, for little or no reason. Still mad about the final result of the war.”

“I seeee...” The ladies sang simultaneously, almost like a refrain, after each pronouncement.

“These Texans will kill a Mexican or a Negro for breakfast... and never bother to put a notch in their gun. To them, they don't even count as human.”

“Horrible.” They chimed.

“The lawmen are given too much territory to police, and too many restrictions. The townspeople are scared to death, the newspapers out here won't print the truth for fear of being burned out.”

Alvin could not stand it any longer, he had to enter the bitch session. “So, you're gonna write about it and get the Governor to send in the troops.”

“I wish he would, but it's not that easy- towns have to ask for them. And when they finally do, invariably the marshals are already somewhere else, putting fires out on the other end of the Territory. No, the Senate MUST allocate a great deal of money to provide the manpower- and gun power needed. Right now the buffalo hunters, and Comancheros and Texas cowboys are running the western half of the Kansas Territory, with no opposition, while the politicians claim the problem is being exaggerated.”

What the man was saying was very relevant to him at the moment. In fact he was making the fledgling photographer suddenly have reservations about his enterprise.

The passengers rode in silence for the next fifteen miles. They could not turn around, and they were all stuck with their decisions, whatever their reasons had been. As it turned out the old women were headed to Wyoming, to speak about Women's Suffrage. They handed everyone a pamphlet as the passengers stepped off of the train. “What's good for the goose is good for the gander!”

They were stopping in Lawrence, where Quantrill and his men had committed outrageous murders in the name of the Southern Confederacy, slaughtering 150 prisoners, many old men and young boys, less than a decade before. There were still a few blackened, empty, burned out buildings in the main part of town. The massacre had made a stubborn stain on the Confederate flag which could never be removed.

A meal and fresh horses put the party back on the trail in less than an hour, and the stagecoach lunged and left all similarity of civilization behind. “Glad to get out of that place.” Huffed the journalist. “You can almost hear the poor women and babies crying and screaming for help.”

The young woman sitting in the back, who had been eavesdropping but had not said a word the whole trip, piped up: “Yes sir... almost as loud as Zerelda Samuels- when she was tryin' to cut her innocent husband down from the hangin' tree... her babies watchin' their daddy choke to death.” her voice barely audible above the rumbling stage coach and the six horses racing towards supper time.

“Who?" The journalist probed, "I may have heard of her. Did Quantrill kill her husband too?”

Nobody cared to inform the newsman, that Mrs. Samuels was the wife of Doc Samuels, a Southern sympathizer, and her sons became the most notorious outlaws in Missouri after the war. They had robbed and killed with impunity all over the Midwest. Alvin listened to the hostile exchange, but chose not to enter into it. Emotions still ran hot, as the two sides never quite got the justice they thought they deserved.

The policeman within him told him to stay quiet... he must not tip his hand- that he might give a damn one way or the other. That pretty young woman could be an associate of the James's or the Youngers, or any of a hundred outlaws the journalist was going to eradicate. The reporter's articles might help, but not half as much as accurate likenesses of the Territory outlaws- which he was about to capture. Suddenly he realized just how important his assignment was, or at least how important he could make it, if he did what the Pinkertons had planned. He decided to take a seat across from the pretty passenger, at his first opportunity.

Alvin saw seething rage in the young woman's eyes. They had the same expression as the Seminole bootlegger had when he had invited Alvin to step out of the dark and fight. That big fellow did not know who he was, or what kind of weapon he might be carrying, or how many friends he had with him. He did not know whether Alvin was a fighter or a yellow belly, a bull or a rabbit, but he was game enough to put it all down and find out. He had no other plan but to fix Alvin, whatever it took. And that was in the pretty gal's eyes as she stared at the outspoken reporter.

Alvin would not be surprised if the verbose man found a dagger in his gut before the stage got to Topeka, which would be late that night. With any luck, they would dump the outlaw lovin' woman there, before they headed south to Wichita. Two more miserable days Alvin had to dread his fate in the wide-open town of Wichita. But now he had an angry rebel hussy with blood in her eye, appearing ready to begin slashing throats.

There was no telling what he might hear or learn between here and there. But he was remembering something Stew had always said to him... because Alvin always worried too much. Stew had learned not to “sweat over details.” Things hardly ever went like you planned, so you had to focus on two things, all of the time... sure you tried to execute your plan, but above all you studied about your goal, whatever it was, and you constantly looked for the straightest path to get there. That was how successful people made it. So you focused on your goal, not whether your plan was going well, or not, and second of all, you looked for opportunities... unexpected opportunities, because that is what most of them are, and be willing to modify the plan, which might not even succeed anyway, and run like the devil with the opportunity at hand.

Stew taught Alvin to keep his mind open, especially when things were getting stale, or even when things were closing in on him. Of course, it had been Stew's constant opportunity seeking which caused him to risk his life, and to lose it. Every theory has its limitations. Stew probably said that too.

Right now the opportunity at hand was to get close to the young rebel woman, with the hunch that she had contacts he could use. Besides, it would be a great way to kill the time. He was glad he had not taken on her naive comments about Zerelda Samuels, the mother of Frank and Jesse James, and the unofficial matriarch of an underground network of terrorists. Zerelda was almost as famous in Missouri in her own right- even though her sons had become enemies of the state, the railroads and the banks, she still held her head high and never apologized for their behavior. The war was not over as far as she and her family was concerned- and never would be.

When the stage stopped at Topeka, The young woman got off, as if she was at the end of her journey. As the others went into the stately train station to get some food, take care of personal things, and perhaps steal a nap, she grabbed her carpet bag and took off towards the downtown. So much for befriending her. This was just the beginning of a long series of short-term acquaintances he mused. He made a vow to himself to step out of his skin and be more talkative.

Alvin had always been shy, and he did not know why, but he was sure it had to do with fear of rejection, or perhaps instinctive distrust of strangers. He remembered his father always saying, “Al speak to the people, don't let 'em think you're slow of mind.” But when it came to meeting people, he was slow, on purpose- slow to accept them before he was ready. Now he had to change that, there was not enough time in the Universe for how long he would like to take to ease around to talking to all of these strangers.

Then something came over Alvin, the kind of hunch he felt sometimes when he and Stew were hunting for the Jameses and Youngers. And the kind of knowing he had experienced when he and the posse-men were hunting for Stew after he went missing. He knew something bad had happened before they found his body swinging in the woods. Evil ground had a way of taunting, almost torturing his spirit. Evil ground or not, the detective in him kicked in, and he suddenly felt like he should follow the woman. He did not even know her name, but he felt like she might be walking into danger, as she disappeared into the quickly dimming town. There were no street lights, no lights on in the buildings. Most people had gone home. Only the noise of a distant saloon filled the air. Alvin started walking, and he had no idea why.

He just knew that he had to be careful, because he did not want the woman to know that he even cared, or had followed her. So as soon as he located her, he would hold back... and keep a distance, and hope his foreboding was just more worrying that he had often been plagued by. He spotted her almost jogging down the main street, at this point, she had to have known where she was going. But where could she be going this late in the evening? The hotels were in the other direction. There was a slim chance that she lived down this way, but it seemed very improbable, as the buildings were mostly warehouses and pool halls and non-domestic structures built along the railroad tracks. As Alvin started to trot to keep up, she stopped and studied a small store front at the end of the downtown. Maybe she had found her destination.

The rebel gal began to beat on the glass doors, which rattled as if they should break. She did it several times, and Alvin used the noise to get within a block of her, where he hid behind a hay wagon in front of the west-end livery stable. Determined, she beat on the doors one last time. Then she looked around, and sure that she was not being watched, she wrestled with the doors, as if she knew them, and knew their weakness. Suddenly they swung open and she went inside as if she owned the place. Alvin ran up to the double doors, and could hear her hard leather soles slap the stair-steps as she went to the second story, hollering a funny name.

It sounded like an Indian name... but he could not make it out. Alvin looked for some clue about what the building was used for. It had no signage, no advertising. It looked almost abandoned, which was unusual for a place like Topeka, where any building was better than a tent or an adobe hut. He stepped inside, if she came down, he could hide in the darkness of the downstairs. There were crates and baskets and rolls upon rolls of wire, and a long table which could have been used to process or package produce. It must have been a vegetable or grain brokerage. There were rats scurrying around in the dark, disturbed at the interlopers who upset their routine.

Alvin could hear her scolding someone upstairs, then it sounded like hitting, slapping, and then a bottle or something like it was smashed. Then she screamed and ran down the stairs, and flew out of the opened doors. Making sure she was not followed, Alvin drew his revolver and listened, and then stepped out and followed her, now headed right back to where they had come from. As he holstered his gun, suddenly Alvin heard feet stomping briskly behind him, and it was too coincidental to be anybody but whomever she had accosted. He walked a bit faster, so that by the time whomever it was caught up to him, he would be near the saloon, the only place active in the downtown at this time of day.

The faster he walked, the faster she did. Alvin stayed a couple of blocks behind her, so that even if she looked back at him, she would not recognize him. But he was closing in, and then she did look. She stood for a moment but Alvin kept walking, not wanting to alarm her, and he also wanted to stay ahead of the person behind. But the closer he got, the more agitated she became. She had decided that he must be the person she had just had the confrontation with, and now he was following her. She cut into an alley which ran between the mercantile and the saddle shop.

This lady knew the ins and outs of this town... she had spent time, maybe even grew up here. Alvin had to back off, because he feared this wildcat might ambush him. He decided to go straight back, and beat her to the stage line office. As he turned he saw a large man, the same one who had been behind him, staggering like a drunk but following her, and turn down the same alley.

“Damn!” Alvin said under his breath. He had to follow her now, if for no other reason than to satisfy his curiosity. He crossed the street, figuring there must be a path through, but when he got to the back of the mercantile he saw the man and her arguing, and trying to work a key in the side door of the saddle shop.

“It's the wrong key! You gave me the wrong damn key!” She yelled, furious, and threw the key at him. Her face suddenly took on the aura of an enraged bobcat. “You did it on purpose!” She screamed, slapping, hitting, kicking him any way she could. The man had finally had enough, and without even looking around, started to throttle her. Whatever it was between them, it was about to come to a head. Her head. More accurately, it appeared that he was trying to wrench off her head. He picked her up and suspended her in the air while he choked her, and he shook her as he did. It was obvious the big fellow had a grudge to settle, and was enjoying the moment. And as he began to garble a long list of grievances, Alvin grabbed the first thing he could find, a discarded oaken leg from a saddle maker's bench, and swiftly crept behind him and hit him squarely in the back of the neck with it.

It should have disabled him immediately, but it did not. He did let go of the woman, who ducked and ran like a squirrel having escaped the mouth of a fox, and given a second chance at life, vanished in seconds. And so the drunk throttler turned on Alvin. As Alvin began to follow his training- diffuse, distract.

“Mister, I don't want any trouble with you, but you were abusing that lady for no reason..." Alvin panted, "Big fella like you ought t'be ashamed.” As he spoke, he realized he had seen this menacing face before. Standing there panting like a wounded buffalo was the Seminole bully he had challenged at the river crossing. The big fellow was not ashamed or phased by Alvin's excuse for waylaying him, and pulled a large Bowie knife and began to march towards him. Alvin tossed the oak rod and once again, pulled his revolver.

“That's far enough- Mister, I got no beef with you... and you smell like a whiskey barrel... don't make me shoot you.” But the murderous oaf just kept coming.

Alvin took account of the fact that he was not a commissioned officer, and his Pinkerton credentials would not authorize him to shoot anybody. And if he did, shooting the man would only muck up his plans to start his business in Wichita, among other things. And then he looked at the man who was not walking very straight. Really just stumbling on adrenaline. “You know.. I think I can take you...” he challenged, “So we are gonna race big boy... catch me if you can!”

He picked the oak leg back up and swung it like a sword, hitting the man a few times, and then as the big Seminole ducked, the former lawman took off like another squirrel in trouble. His pursuer ran as far as the front corner of the saddle shop, and then fell against the wall, exhausted. His prey had judged him well.