The Soul Rustler: Chapter 11

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11: The Wanted Man: Ft. Scott

January, 1874

Alvin was transferred to Ft. Scott, Kansas, and was soon setting up a shop at another rail-head in Kansas. Much like Wichita, it was an army town, but it was also the gateway to the eastern half of the Indian Territory, the jumping-off place for immigrants, entrepreneurs, and not a few outlaws.

As soon as he saw the town, he realized the genius of the location. It could also be the getting place for anybody on the frontier needing supplies from civilization. Near the Missouri line, Ft. Scott was in many ways the beginning of the West. Many people congregated there for a time, either wanting to catch the train, or stepping off of one from the east. It was a perfect crossroad to meet travelers, politicians, merchants, beef and hide buyers, and many other interesting types who were devoted to siphoning off of this vigorous economy. And it was perceived as a safe-zone for outlaws.

Once travelers hit Ft. Scott, there was very little civilization to contend with, and miles of nameless landscape, for as far as a man could roam; few towns and even less stores; no law and no lawmen. So many a suspicious character went shopping there to outfit his disappearance into the “Great American Desert.” And some even had their pictures made, or convinced their favorite prostitute to sit for one as a keepsake. It was a perfect spot for the Pinkerton scheme.

Ft. Scott was becoming a tempting place for smugglers to gather goods to bring illegally into the Nations, especially whiskey. It was a ready market for stolen or black market horses... on the edge of civilization, and just across the border from Jackson County, Missouri, the impenetrable lair of the Youngers and their gang. In other words, it was crawling with criminals and outlaw types, and the first place the Youngers would go to avoid capture; thus a good place to take pictures of suspicious characters. And photographers like Alvin were spilling over into Nebraska, Kansas and the Indian Territory, capitalizing on a ready market. This would be an excellent place to set up a photography supply house. That way Alvin would never run out of supplies, and make good profits off of the other photographers passing through.

William Pinkerton loved the idea, but warned him that this meant hiring a sales clerk, to allow him to travel to various assignments for them. “Pauline” he thought to himself. He wrote her immediately and explained his scheme. But he carefully failed to mention the Pinkertons.

Pauline as it turned out, was primed and ready for Alvin's job proposal. Her mother was happy and recovering at her sister's, and encouraged her to go make a life for herself. Meanwhile, Sim had also greeted the reunion with Alvin with enthusiasm, and showed up in long pants and shoes, a young man wanting a job.

“Is this where a man gets his pitcher made?” he bellowed one afternoon, as he strolled like a drummer into Alvin's brick store. Alvin was busy inserting photographs into tidy paper mats, but threw down the tin snips and rushed to him and hugged him, as if he were the “Prodigal Son.” “Look at you! You must have grown six inches!” Alvin bragged.

“Just two, but I'm wearing heels.”

“I didn't know whether you even got my letter...”

“Mellie got it and read it, and bought me a train ticket before I even got it- and here I am.”

“Sounds like she was ready to get rid of you.”

“Not really. Said it was for the best, made me promise to come see her.”

“Ol' Mellie- I'll never understand prostitutes.”

“She knew I was tired of paintin'... been paintin' her place ever since you left. I'm never doin' THAT again.”

Alvin chuckled and shook his head, his face beaming. “It's great to see a familiar face.”

“So what is this place?” Sim blurted and looked around with wonder. “This is YOUR own store?”

“Yep, and you have a job if you want it- but don't think about too long, I need somebody yesterday.”

“I'm in!” Sim laughed, “Where's the broom?”

When Pauline arrived in Ft. Scott the next day, the two came together like two halves of a mold. They talked seriously of an immediate marriage, but Pauline balked as she became more familiar with the situation. She was unprepared for Alvin's new teen-aged dependant, and all that his presence implied, and totally unaware of Alvin's secret life as a Pinkerton operative. Sim was almost tolerable, but when she learned about Alvin's clandestine detective operation, she was frustrated and perturbed. She did not want to start their marriage with that over their heads. It was too close to the heartbreak she had already lived. They agreed to wait and see if it was perhaps not as bad as she feared. But she would get her own room at a boarding house, and maintain some semblance of propriety.

The two deadly adversaries, Golden and Bowlegs, had several months to get over their mad. Over the time they spent staring at each other in Marshal Meagher's jail, they had begun to compare notes, and sympathize with one another, and now played checkers through the cell bars, shared tobacco, and began to entertain the other inmates with their ribald stories about the infamous Lottie Deno.

Golden had finally been cleared and would soon be released. It had been an obvious case of “self defense.” His horse theft charges had been dropped, since the Osages had gotten their horses back, and he had left the Nations. Two monks had visited the jail several times, and one Sunday morning, they taught a lesson on forgiveness. God would not forgive those who were unforgiving. Meanwhile Golden had convinced Bowlegs that he had only killed his brother by accident, that his small size was proof alone that he would never have taken on the large halfbreed, who was even taller and heavier than Bowlegs. The hapless Seminole had no proof of anything as it turned out, and Marshal Meagher reasoned that prosecution of the cagey jockey would have been futile. Caught up in the moment, Bowlegs agreed to drop his charges against Golden.

Feisty Golden was quickly escorted to the stage stop and given a one-way passage North or South, his choice. Golden chose to go towards Ft. Worth, Texas, which Lottie had often spoken of. She had big ideas, and he knew she was probably hustling the big-spending cattlemen there. Lottie would have to journey to Siberia to escape him with his resilient brand of love-inspired hubris.

Billy Bowlegs was in bigger trouble, and had suffered worse injuries in their contest. But after Golden was released, he figured out that Marshal Meagher planned to keep him at least until Golden's trail had grown good and cold. One morning after a routine check-up, the doctor made a sly wink at Marshal Meagher and it wasn't two hours passed until the marshal unlocked the jail and handed him his belongings. His eyes shined as he saw his beloved Bowie knife in the pile.

The big brute walked out into the sunlight and stretched as if he was a bear coming out of hibernation. He had lost ten pounds, but he felt good. Billy headed straight to the Earp's Saloon, to celebrate his freedom, and to see if any of Golden's pals would slip up and give him a clue about where to find him. Memory of the monk's lessons had faded, and even if he had learned to like Golden, he planned to finish what he had started. There was a strong tradition of blood-feuds in the Seminole character. Even the Bible said, “...an eye for an eye.”

The Earp's had improved the place since he had seen it, but it was very much the same as before. The place was still run like a prison, discreetly watched by several armed men, including Virgil Earp or some stout looking sergeant-at-arms presiding at center-stage with a gun handy. Most troublemakers did not hang out there, but criminal cowboy kingpins did.

There waiting at a small table up against the west wall was an underworld legend among frontier “entrepreneurs,” a man who specialized in brokering contraband. Col. Cleetus Head had been waiting around for Hurricane Bill Martin for several days, and asking around for other men known to traffic in horses, mules, government land tracts, Indian captives, or bootleg whiskey. He was there with one of the Younger brothers, when Billy Bowlegs strolled in. The two immediately recognized one another, and Billy decided to face him. Head would be sour, since he had advanced Billy a considerable sum to track and kill the tintype man, and he had not finished the job.

Jim Younger

"Hello Colonel... I didn't expect …"

"I'm sure you didn't Bowlegs." The Colonel was not really mad, but he enjoyed seeing men squirm. Jim Younger perked up when he heard his name, and looked especially dangerous.

"I found your man.” Billy bragged, “But I got cut up and jailed and I just now walked out of Meagher's hotel. That tintype fella is right here in Wichita."

"Well, that makes it handy. When do you plan to do it?"

"Like I say, Colonel, I just now hit the streets, but it should not take a but a few days. I know where he lives, and it will be easy."

Col. Head

"Bowlegs, I'll give you two days, then I'm sending one of my men after you instead.” Jim Younger sat up straight, all six feet of him, with the hungry look of a polar bear. “We can take care of it ourselves. We saw his place when we came into town."

"I understand Colonel- But I'll take care of it." Billy assured them, "And I'm going to need another job when I finish this one."

Hurricane Bill and his border bandits finally arrived, and blew through the doors like a sudden blue norther.

"Get out of here, Bowlegs," Head sneered, "I have business to attend to."

Head and Martin had been doing business for over a year, and both had made enough money to seek one another out again and again. Not wanting to deal with the Army and their paperwork, Martin had traded off some white Kiowa captives he was “rescuing” to Col. Head. He had taken them on behalf of some cunning Indian kidnappers, and Martin was not nervous about trading for Missouri horses from Head with no bill of sale. It had been a rare win-win-win situation. Martin liked Head, as he found that the old man was equally nervy about laundering small Texas herds “found” wandering on the prairie in the Nations.

Col. Head sold the cattle to small-town Kansas butchers who asked no questions, and he shamelessly took ransom money from the families of white captives, claiming to be a middle-man for well-meaning tribesmen who “only wanted reimbursement.” Of course, that money never got to them. Head would get the fresh bills provided by the families of the captives, and disburse payments to the Indians via Martin with marked cash from bank robberies. The Indians would often gladly trade for his tattered horses as well. Cheyennes were soon riding Missouri-bred get-away horses, the marked robbery money was spread all over the Indian Territory, and rustled Texas cattle was butchered, eaten and gone without a trace. But Head had a bigger plan now.

If Martin was interested, Head could provide fifteen barrels of low-grade “firewater” every three months. It was enough cheap hooch to saturate the Chisholm Trail, and attract most of the hide trade from the Cheyennes and Comanches. The two immediately went into complex negotiations, as Martin's men “visited upstairs” or harassed Earp's bartenders.

Bowlegs watched with envy as the swaggering prairie pirates invaded the place. He walked up to the bar softly, and ordered two shots of whiskey from a bartender he had never seen before, no doubt another Earp. James Earp saw him across the room and waved. "Warren!" He yelled, "the first one is on us..." Soon Wyatt Earp came up and leaned against the bar, and looked at him expectantly. He was trying to find the words to tell Bowlegs that he wanted to set up a rematch between him and Golden. He waited patiently for the free whiskey to take effect.

Wyatt Earp

“So... you're finally out." Wyatt teased, "Are you all healed-up Bowlegs, or are you headed to a sanitarium? Golden almost broke it off in you my friend, and I had just placed my bets!”

“I'm fine Earp. Never better. Sorry if you lost any money. But I feel good, like going hunting.”

“You took quite a licking pal- I saw your blood. And strands of hair, all over the street. And pools of it down the street- all the way to the jail. I guess some of it had to have been Golden's. Anyway you two nearly painted the town red! We could make a bunch of money with a rematch, no knives of course.”

Billy ignored Earp's suggestion. “Yes, he stuck me good, but my belt buckle saved me. It deflected his knife, so he only got a piece.”

Earp's interest in seeing him in mortal combat again hit Billy wrong. The free whiskey was obviously meant to loosen him up. So he decided to rib Wyatt a little as well. “Hey Earp, I hear you going to take the deputy job- going to be a little Mike Meagher. I guess that puts you in a sweet spot don't it. You can sell your old lady now without no worries- I would love a deal like that."

At this straight-forward insult, Wyatt straightened up and his smile left the building. But Billy knew that what he had said was true, and he was not through. "I want to be a deputy too.”

Billy Bowlegs had made a career out of provoking people to extract information. And right now he did not care what it cost him to find out what he wanted to know.

“Bowlegs...” Earp whined, “that's what's wrong with uppity Injuns like you- you don't have any manners. Come in here and insult me. Finish your drink and get out of here- and don't come back. I got that badge just so I could whip you and get paid to do it.”

Bowlegs knew that Wyatt Earp rarely gave warnings. Maybe he was cutting him some slack since he was just getting over his injuries. But maybe he was scared. He wondered. “Earp- I'm not scared of you. Or any of your damn brothers. You hate me because I always have the prettiest whores. And even now I still got 'em!”

“Not anymore half breed. She's gone to Texas- and that's a pretty damn big place to try and find her. Take that last shot and waddle out of here before you have to crawl out on all fours.”

“I'm going Earp. I like the way you fixed up this place. Tell your brother James he has good taste- everything but that fat boar you got over there with the shotgun.”

Wyatt had had enough smart talk from Billy, and stepped right within his reach, watching for him to pull his knife, maybe even wanting him to, and swiftly backhanded him across the face. But Bowlegs was not so stupid as to get himself killed in the Earp saloon. He was looking for the door, now that he had gotten what he came for. The lovers had gone to Texas. But Billy was not going to walk out this time. While he was recoiling from Earp's blow, another one came, but it was Earp's pistol barrel across his head. Bowlegs dropped to the floor unconscious before anyone watching even realized what had happened.

“What did you do WYATT?” James demanded, stunned how fast their problem customer had become a limp mass on his floor. That was a bigger problem.

“Meagher taught me that one...” Wyatt offered proudly. “I've been wanting to try it. He says you use that end more often than the trigger.” He sneered a grim smile as he scanned the room to see who saw him perform his first attempt at “buffaloing.” Martin and Head were already engrossed again in their conversation. He kneeled down to feel Bowlegs's pulse. “Only one problem- I guess you can hit 'em too hard. I noticed my revolver did not go easily back into its holster... I think I bent my damn barrel.”

“Did you kill him?” Virgil said with real concern. This would be bad for publicity, especially since Wyatt was now going to be wearing a deputy badge.

“No, but he's going to have a headache...” Wyatt said confidently, “Virgil, help me drag him out the back door into the alley. This is bad for business...”

Patient and kind, Chief Whirlwind sat at the doorway of his Tee Pee in the Cheyenne village, on the wasteland which was the Cheyenne Reservation, and entertained his grandchildren. The smoke of many fires veiled the blue sky and made it gray, as his people went about their daily lives with tremendous endurance, considering the upsetting news of the past weeks. Oblivious to current events, his three grandchildren had crude dolls, one a warrior and one a fat buffalo. They let their grandfather be the warrior, as they teased him with the miniature buffalo made of real buffalo hide. The bison was passed around behind their backs, so Whirlwind would not know which child had the prey, which he was to hunt with great skill. Sometimes he would let the warrior go crazy and pummel the buffalo when it came too near, and the little girls would squeal and laugh with delight.

A sub-chief called Little Robe came up with a sour countenance, but smiled at the children and their enjoyment of their playtime with their grandfather. "Whirlwind, I am reluctant to interfere with your great hunt, but we must talk- war talk. And so I must demand your attention."

Whirlwind looked up, showing his irritation, as he and Little Robe were not on very friendly terms, but allowing his interruption was part of his responsibility to the tribe. He looked at his playmates with adult sternness, and they obliged, but not without some weak groans which they both could hear.

"What is it?" Whirlwind made a motion for Little Robe to share his blanket. "I know that it must be something great for you to come to me."

"Yes, Whirlwind, it is too great. For either of us. I am heartsick and furious, this outrage is beyond my own ability to avenge the wrongs done. We must leave behind our past differences and join other tribes to seek justice for the Indians of the prairie."

"What is it? Start at the beginning." Whirlwind asked with noble curiosity.

"Sun Flower returned today, he and his clan were hunting near Turkey Creek, and had many hides. They were headed to the agency when White men attacked and killed them, and took the hides and their horses and the wagon. He was the only survivor. Kills Beaver was badly wounded but Sun Flower believes he will be dead by the time we get there. Do we go to retrieve his body- and the others, or go punish the attackers?"

"This is the third such incident we have heard about in recent days- and I had been blaming the Osage." Whirlwind confessed.

"We can blame them no longer. It is the Whites."

"I have been a fool Little Robe. I will speak to George Bent. We will join forces and find these White devils and cut them in pieces. Never hesitate to come to me again."

"Do you understand Whirlwind,” challenged Little Robe, “that once we do, it will mean war. Perhaps our last war... perhaps the end of the Cheyenne?" Little Robe stood, knowing that Whirlwind understood, but demanding his verbal commitment. That word was as solid as a mountain.

"I understand. You understand, but they do not." Whirlwind waved across his village. "But tell me, Little Robe, is it not already the end of the Cheyenne, the end of all Indians, when they are planted on these dry prairies, and forbidden to leave, and slowly cheated and robbed and murdered and starved to death? Let us fight, and show our children that we did not shrink from our duty as men."

On the border between the Nations and Dodge City, Kansas were a smattering of trading posts lurking at the various watering holes, where every conceivable contraband was fenced or traded or purchased. These were the spots where Hurricane Bill and his associates tried first to unload their booty. And this was a tricky business. Hurricane Bill Martin specialized in these kinds of marketing tasks, cleverly luring average people into doing things they would never do in normal circumstances.

"We traded with Chief Whirlwind himself for these shields," he explained to a small audience at a Territory stagecoach stop. "His people give them to him as gifts- tributes you might say. He has a pile of them... Anyway, I thought they were colorful, and these knife sheaths are quite handsome, don't you think? The knives are not any good, but the Cheyenne are the expert bead-workers. They do the best work of any of the Plains Indians. Don't you think Apache Sam? Sam's half-Injun himself, he knows all of 'em." Sam nodded obligingly.

A young woman resting at the "Smallwood Ranch" stage stop had felt ill after many hours riding in the stagecoach and had just risen from a little nap on a crude cot. Primping her curls, she heard Bill making his pitch and listened with interest. The items were fascinating. It was the closest she had ever come to something owned by a real Indian. There was no question about the authenticity, and the man seemed so informative and friendly. "How much is the green one with the black feathers?" she said in a weak voice. "My husband would love one of them." Her husband was an army officer at Camp Supply.

"Ten bucks, take your pick, first come, first serve" Bill said with a cold, commercial bluff. The woman stood amazed, wondering if she should buy one. It was a lot of money. Someone else stepped in and studied them, then backed away.

"One of those is a particular style, and I know it." The man offered. "Very similar, in fact exactly like one belonging to Kills Beaver who trades at the agency. I know him too. I doubt he would have ever parted with it."

"Well Mister,” Martin argued, “maybe he had to trade it for tobacco or a rifle, I don't know, but there it is, just the same." Bill explained, unperturbed. "All the Cheyennes are tradin' up- gettin' Winchesters. The shields are useless when you are shootin' at fifty yards." He made a chuckle as if he were their most generous benefactor.

The man listened politely with raised eyebrows, but was not convinced. Martin talked on.

"Ya see, The Cheyennes are gettin' accustomed to civilization, and now they want cloth, and guns and ammo, and the women want mirrors and beads and dyes- they are very practical, and will give up this stuff when it becomes obsolete to them."

"Really, the Indians are sewing and dying cloth?" the young woman asked with renewed interest.

"Oh yes mam," Bill promised, "They are spinnin' an' weavin' and havin' quiltin' bees, you would be surprised. They are adapting quite well. Soon they will have banks and newspapers- and churches. And so when you buy these items, it helps them have the money to buy the things they want, so that some day, God willin', they can live just like you."

“REALLY!" The woman was now leading her own crusade. "I think I will buy one... maybe two of these shields. And send one to my brother! And how much did you say one of the knives costs?"

"I'll throw one in mam, since your husband is a military man. It's a smart buy." Bill grinned as she handed him the cash, and then two whores who had been listening came up immediately and each took an arm, and escorted him to a private room, as he gave each of them a ten dollar bill. Easy come, easy go. "Hey Earnest..." he hollered as he went, "bring us a bottle of that good whiskey, will ya? Put it on my tab."

Fort Worth was called the gateway to the West, but Lottie also sensed that it was a trap door to the South. And yet it felt like home. The accents, the food, the men and their good manners, all made her feel like she was back in old Kentucky. Texas was booming, and people were busy, and making money, and building a handsome city. She looked around for the right combination of opportunity and geography, but Ft. Worth's red-light district was packed and lacking in vacancies. Somebody would have to die before she could make her own niche in “Hell's Half-Acre.”

Lottie was considered quite a looker compared to the jaded women lurking around the town's “tenderloin” and she had no trouble getting hired on. But she did not come this far to settle for a “filthy crib in a cow town.” After she made some money, she toured northeast Texas looking for her own little El Dorado; Denton, Dennison, Sherman and Dallas, and it was always the same story. Girls from all over the Midwest and the South had flooded into to Texas, the poor man's California, by the trainloads, clamoring to make big money from the Texas cattlemen who had caught the imagination of the entire country. Every boy wanted to be a cowboy, and every girl wanted to be a cowboy's girl. And her ill-conceived plan and subsequent indecision had left her circulating until Johnny Golden ran into her, right where he expected to find her.

She had ended up back in Ft. Worth, discouraged and needing to make enough money for another exploratory tour, when Johnny trotted up behind her and tapped on her shoulder. After so many miles and failed schemes, she was even glad to see him. They had lunch, and Johnny explained that he had done well in Texas, and he had the money she needed. It was not long before they were investigating the towns on the frontier, west of Ft. Worth... They settled on a rough little Hill Country village named Jacksboro, and Johnny rented a building. They attended a few local poker games and performed their usual hustle, where he apologetically stepped out and she stepped in and sweetly raked in all of the money. They decided after several successful nights that Jacksboro was their kind of town: full of lusty suckers.

The idea was to put in for a liquor license, and eventually start a brothel after they learned the ropes, or fattened purses if necessary, to open it without being arrested. The liquor would be the easier part. But Lottie needed attractive girls. And she would not open one of those pig sties like she saw in Ft. Worth. No, she needed to find hungry, attractive northern girls who were tired of living with government extortion and police oppression.

After spending some time together, Lottie was convinced that Johnny was perfect as a business partner in Texas, because he was in love with her and would do whatever she asked. She already knew that he was willing to fight and even kill for her. She knew after knowing many men that she would never do better than that. “Better men” had more self-respect, and would not be willing to share her or assist her in her chosen profession. The two did not discuss marriage, and it did not matter anyway, as she was still married to Bowlegs, and he had no plans to get a divorce. And so she didn't either, because that might require putting them both in the same place again, and in a courtroom, and she feared he would give her a knife in the gut before he would give her the divorce.

Lottie headed off to recruit girls as soon as they were established in Jacksboro. She left Golden happily unpacking crates and polishing his bottles, and hosting back-room poker games on week-ends. He was riding in horse races whenever he could, and having a ball. She left Johnny with high hopes that she would return with a wagon load of beauties, and they would be rolling in greenbacks in this wide-open Texas town. To complete their plan however, it required some patience and trust, as Lottie headed to Chicago and Kansas City to recruit fresh prostitutes to stock their stable. Only after she was well on her way did she really think about what she had just done. A whore needs a way out sometimes- but she was not sure that she had one this time, or that she even wanted it.

Still, she did not look forward to a lifetime married to a ruthless pimp she loathed, or a gambling partner whom she habitually condescended, and that caused her to spend most of her time on the train ride to St. Louis conspiring her eventual escape from both of them.

The Soul Rustler

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