Chapter 14
Chapter 14: One Friend in the World
The young photographer and his assistant had one possible friend in the sinister hide town, but he was someone they did not know and had not met. Alvin sensed when Mace described his near fatal attack, that things might have gone much worse had it not been for an outlaw known to the Pinkertons as Jim French. French was a curious amalgamation of naturalist, trader and Indian rights activist, long since adopted into the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nations. As a teen-ager he had left civilization to live with the Indians, a common fantasy among young Americans, but had realized his ambition with more success than most. And now these Native proclivities were about to lead to his demise.
Working alongside his father, who was a government surveyor on the Arapaho reservation, Jim met and became very interested in the “Red men” and spent many days riding and hunting the prairies with young Arapaho warriors his age. His best friend was a young warrior named George Bent, a half-Arapaho and the son of Bill Bent the owner of an important Indian trading post in eastern Colorado. Jim's father had to return to their home unexpectedly, and left him with Bill Bent at his trading post in eastern Colorado, which became the turning point in the young man's life. Married to an Arapaho woman, Bill Bent was very active in Cheyenne and Arapaho affairs, and was soon sending his son George and Jim on various errands, delivering specially ordered goods, taking messages over long distances, until Jim began to grasp the Cheyenne language and became a trusted friend among the Plains Indians.
When Jim's father returned, Jim was adamant that he wanted to stay and help the Bents help the Indians. Bent was fond of the young man and glad to have a devotee, and Jim French began a very unusual personal mission to treat the Indians as if they were... human beings. This was a revolutionary concept. By the time he was twenty, he looked, talked and thought like a Plains Indian. But youth and his knowledge of English and White culture made him invaluable to the Cheyennes and other Plains tribes.
The Bents were constantly irritated and sometimes disgusted with government policies towards the Indians, and were quite vocal when they observed injustices done to them. The government, the army, the Indian agents, the contractors, the buffalo hunters, all seemed to be involved in various conspiracies designed to cheat the Indians, and Bill Bent began to write letters to his politician friends back east, and made stinging accusations, which made him unpopular on the Kansas and Texas plains. This racial friction inevitably made young Jim French an ally of “the Indian Lovers,” and a person of suspicion as well. By then Jim did not care, having invested his life in Plains Indian culture, and completely sympathetic with their perspectives.
Jim French
The Bent's trading policy was quite simple: Anything good and legal for White people was good and legal for Indians. But the Indians were struggling to survive since being forced on the reservations, and the government had routinely failed to keep its promises to them. Recently herded onto the lands provided to them in the Indian Territory, the Plains Tribes were chronically underfed and under-supplied by the Indian Agency and government-permitted traders. This gave the Bent's the moral high ground, and they enjoyed considerable support in Washington and anywhere where people loved integrity or justice. Meanwhile Jim French began to use his access to White society to purchase or trade for things the Indians wanted or needed. If they needed food, or guns, or ammunition, Bent and Jim French would find a way for them to have these things. If they wanted bolts of cloth, or sugar, or whiskey, they would find it and ship it to them. Over time, Jim became the most trusted White man, outside of the Bents, to the Indians- but not without a good deal of jealousy and derision from his White kinsmen.
Other traders had to apply for permits, which were difficult to obtain, or chose to operate illegal "whiskey ranches", which were popping up along the Chisholm Trail like mushrooms. But Bent and French had the Indian's trust, and enjoyed a good share of their business, until the various Native customers had purchased all of their ration of goods, or had worn out their credit. Not bound by government regulation, and supplied by free enterprise rather than insufficient budgets, the whiskey ranches could enjoy free trade, "supply and demand," and ultimately became the wilder Tribes' commissary. Thus they brought tens of thousands of buffalo hides into these illegal trading posts, to get the guns and whiskey not allowed by the government suppliers.
In the very beginning, Jim was equally admired and condemned as he began to look and even act like an Arapaho. He was indispensable to Plains Indian affairs, as he became Bill Bent's eyes and ears on the frontier. He could stand around in Camp Supply or in a Dodge City saloon and hear enough to know everything going on in the region; which hunters were headed where, which ones planned to cheat or even kill Indians, which ones might be fair with them. At first, nobody in Dodge ever suspected that Jim French was basically a spy for the Plains Tribes. He never let on one way or another, but began to secretly hate the treachery and greed of his own race. Working for Bill Bent, and in sympathy with Indian Agent Miles, he could go anywhere, afford anything he needed, and had excellent credit in any store. French passionately turned all of these advantages to help his Red friends. But as he made his choice to support them, he was drawn quickly into direct conflict with most of the Whites in western Kansas and Northern Texas, and they would eventually be glad to use any pretense to eliminate him.
As the snow melted and southern winds began to push back the winter, Jim French spent a great deal of his time in Plains Indian villages and listening to their grievances. He was about 22 years old, and making the spring rounds for the Bents to take orders from their Indian customers, when all hell broke loose. In early March, as he visited with Little Robe and his son, word came that a band of White horse thieves had just raided their herds and absconded with around forty horses and mules. When Chief Little Robe went after them, Jim went with him. Here was a chance to prove his loyalty. When Chief Little Robe gave up the chase, and Little Robe's son continued, Jim went on with him, even against the protests of the senior chief, who feared they would trigger a much larger calamity. And they did.
On their way, Jim's group ran into George Bent with ten more Indians, who had also been robbed, and they joined in the hunt. “Let's kill some White ass,” Bent said to Jim, and he nodded with no hesitation.
What happened next was a series of violent retributions which put the Cheyennes in serious trouble and made Jim French a traitor to his own race. The Indians tracked their horses, and got many of them back, and Jim was there to help them. People were hurt on both sides, but the young Cheyenne warriors considered their wounds to be badges of honor. The Whites, who considered themselves to be above the law where Indians were concerned, were incensed. Soon the army was being demanded by all citizens to put down an “Indian uprising.” And Jim French was suddenly considered an "outlaw"- to the outlaw crowd, and to be captured and hung.
Luckily for him, word traveled slow, so he had time to loiter around Dodge City and listen for what was being said on the street. Few people there even knew him, or knew his name, so he was safe for the time being. All he had to do was tie back his hair and put on a white shirt and he would no longer attract attention or be suspected of anything. He had tracked Hurricane Bill Martin's men to Dodge and even located some of the Cheyenne ponies, but had no way to prove they were stolen. Indians had no receipts for horses captured in the wild, no brands to identify their horses. Many of these stolen horses were tamed mustangs- beautiful, spotted paint horses, prized by both cultures. These were colorful and coveted Indian-trained mounts, with no government brands, and very desirable on the plains horse market. They were also quite popular on the western black market and would soon be gone. But now Jim was positive where the rustlers were bringing some of the stolen Indian horses.
Jim decided the best strategy was to keep this information “under his hat” for the time being, to lay low, and try to contact authorities in the Indian Territory who might believe him, and care about the problem, and who would agree to help him. He knew that if he could make it to Agent Miles that he would hear him out and treat him fairly. And then he would willingly turn himself over to Agent Mile's marshals at Camp Supply.
The problem was, Jim had been seen with the “marauding” Cheyenne band, and he might not live long enough to tell his side of the story. If there was a man without a country, or a friend, it was Jim French in Dodge. He had put on civilian clothes which he had not worn in three years, and was lounging around Dog Kelley's Alhambra saloon and restaurant- and listening.
Two robed monks came in around lunch time to get a solid meal after a long train ride from St. Louis. They walked in almost timidly, looking around, sizing up the room, their eyes adjusting to the dusky light, and spied Jim at his table.
“Jim!” One of the monks proclaimed with joy. Jim quickly put his finger to his mouth, to suggest he not say another word. But the two messengers approached him with relief, happy to see a familiar face.
“Pull up chair Father, but please, don't say my name again!”
“What is it my son?” The elder of the two inquired with authentic concern. He had known Jim since he came to the plains and gone to work at Bent's Trading Post.
“Father... it is no concern of yours, but I am sure glad to see a friend right about now. I am in some trouble, and I don't want people here to know who I am. But it is good to see you. What cause brings a Holy man to this God-forsaken place?”
Father Swineberg
“No place is God-forsaken Jim. You know that. God has brought us here on a great journey, on a mission for our Bishop. We are going to Monterrey- perhaps Mexico City if necessary. And you were just the man I was looking for.”
“I doubt that father, and this is no time for White men to be crossing the plains. What is so important to your Bishop that he would endanger your lives?”
The men ordered lunch, which was beef stew as usual. Members of the Benedictine Order, the monks tried to explain the sacrificial service of monks, who may ask questions of their superiors, but never refuse to go where they are sent. The mission to Mexico was vital, a diplomatic attempt to prevent a war between Mexico and the United States, after numerous attacks on Mexican soil by Texas State Police. There were no trains or stage coaches to take the shortest route, and looking at a great map, the bishop had drawn a line and told them to start at Dodge, and see whether God would deliver them straight to their destination- as God understood better than anyone how urgent their cause was. And meeting up with Jim French was to them a sign that He did, and that He would.
As the three talked, Alvin strolled into the Alhambra, hungry and on the lookout for a man named Jim French, perhaps the salvation to his mission in Dodge. He saw the table with the two priests, and with a sigh of relief sought their companionship. They would be a safe start. The priests in a town often know everybody. French was still arguing the insanity of the men's epic trip, and the naivete of their bishop. Why not go to Dallas, and go to Mexico from there? A boat from Galveston could have them there in a fraction of the time.
“He is a man of God, Jim. And he sees and hears and knows a great many things. We would still be required to walk across most of Texas, and in our robes, it would hardly be a secret mission anymore.” The elder monk whispered as he answered with a scold. “And besides, God's ways are not man's ways. Now tell me- how are Bill Bent and young George? Are you still in their employ?”
“Good afternoon gentlemen,” Alvin interrupted, “May I join you?”
“Certainly!” The congenial monk said without hesitation. He stood and held out his hand. “I am Father Swineberg, this is Father Wisnoski. and this is... Jim.” he whispered, “but don't say his name.” Father Swineberg teased.
“Alvin Payne." The Pinkerton operative stated with newfound authority. "I'm new in town, setting up a photography studio here for a few weeks.”
“Excellent!” Father Swineberg exclaimed, “We wanted to get our pictures made before we left for Mexico! But there was nothing doing in Emporia- This is Providential!” He glowed with satisfaction.
“Well, good! You fellows can be my first customers!”
“This conversation might be of interest to you, Mr. Payne, our friend here was just explaining the dangers on the plains.” Swineberg said as he began to weave a circle within the four men. “Apparently there is another 'Indian uprising,' maybe he will give us more details.”
“Excuse my interruption Father, but did you say your friend here's name is JIM?”
Jim French froze, not knowing what to say or do. Again he put his finger to his mouth and jerked his head down as if he had been slugged from behind. “PLEASE, don't say my name again!” He begged.
“Well... sorry mister.” Alvin apologized, “but if your last name is French,” he whispered, “I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Then Alvin quit whispering. “You saved my partner's life the other day.”
“Your that man's partner?” Jim flashed incredulously. “The gambler? You better find a wiser partner.”
“Brother Wis- it appears we arrived too late to catch some of Dodge's infamous misbehavior...” Swineberg teased.
“Well, thanks just the same.” Alvin continued. “We are indebted to you Sir, and I would like to visit with you a great deal more- privately. and explain a few things.”
“Father Wisnoski and I need to run along...” The canny monk sensed great forces coalescing like a hurricane. “We'll let you two visit. Mr. Payne, where can we find your establishment later? For pictures.”
“Um... right now it is a wagon. You can't miss us, parked temporarily at the drug store. We will set up as soon as I get permission- and hopefully right outside this saloon. Look for me tomorrow.”
They shook hands again, “We'll be looking for you then...” Swineberg assured, as they walked away, and Alvin turned immediately to his possible savior with large desperate eyes.
“So why the secrecy about your name?” Alvin wasted no time.
“I'm in trouble. Several ways. Probably the worst because I defended your friend. But before that I got caught up in a crazy hunt for horse thieves... and we gave 'em hell an got most of those horses back.”
Then you should be a hero to those folks as well.” Alvin reasoned.
“Maybe I am, a little. But the problem is, they were Cheyennes.”
“Oh- and the ones stealing? Comanches I hope.”
“Nope- a bunch of White trash- who do this all of the time, and get away with it.”
“And now they are looking for you. Where did all of this happen?”
“It all started down in Indian Territory, but we retrieved the horses in Kansas north of here, and it turns out they had been sold to a rancher who did not have anything to do with the stealing- he was just the man who had to face off with the Cheyenne anger. By the time I figured all of this out, they were all over the poor man- shot 'im up. I pulled them off, but I don't know if he survived- It's what can happen these days when you buy stolen stock.”
“You are in some deep buffalo ka-ka!” Alvin proclaimed under his breath.
“I tracked the prairie scum to here- found the remainder of the horses. But I have no friends here. Gonna hafta go back down to the Nations and turn myself in- Maybe Agent Miles will help me.”
“Well, Mr. wild man... maybe we can help each other. Besides, I owe you- we owe you. You can provide me some names and descriptions- I need to go right now and send a wire to my company. They have great influence. We can notify the U.S. Marshals- not to harm you. And to take you into protective custody if necessary, if you are willing.”
“Mister, WHO in the hell are you?”
Alvin explained as best he could without tipping his hand. But French was able to read between the lines. Alvin represented an elite arm of the law recruited by President Grant himself. Like angels of God, help had arrived at the ends of the earth. Soon they had a plan and Alvin sent the wire to the Pinkertons, explaining Agent Mace's condition and the essential help he was now getting from an “unexpected source.” He ended with the request for U.S. Marshal protection for this new ally, who was in trouble with the corrupt locals. This seemed to be the same story all over the country, east or west.
They agreed to a simple strategy: Alvin would take photographs for a few days, with French casually drinking water in the shadows and watching and telling him who might be related to the horse rustling ring. The Pinkertons would send out notifications in the Indian Territory and Kansas to protect French, wherever he might be found. Meanwhile he would leave in a few days, acting as a guide for the monks and head towards Camp Supply. Maybe Jim would make it to Mexico without being captured and hung. If not, maybe he could find refuge with a U. S. Marshal.
Soon the Pinkertons answered with a wire. It just said: “Received message. Working on it. Get Mace and yourselves out of Dodge ASAP.” But Mace was fixed at the time, under the doctor's supervision, and would not travel for weeks. Alvin committed to keeping himself busy until he could escort poor Mace back to civilization. Besides, he had two customers already on the way, and he needed the money badly.
Alvin was unable to find Mayor Kelley to get permission to set up near his saloon, so he and Sim positioned the wagon on a highly visible vacant lot across the tracks from downtown, on Maple Street, and right across from the Great Western Hotel. Their parked wagon and tent could be seen from many locations on Front Street, the main drag of Dodge. And Tom Sherman's saloon, the Lady Gay saloon and Opera House, a bakery, and a popular livery stable were on their side of the tracks and all easily accessible and would provide customers. The Great Western was a little cheaper as well, so they changed hotels and set up their tent and Sim put out their fliers along Front Street. They were in business!
Not expecting much business the first day, Alvin left Sim in charge and went to find French. They had a lot more to discuss, and he wanted to apprise him of the news he had. The Pinkertons, now referred to as “the Home Office,” had sent a telegram early that morning. They had notified Kansas and Indian Territory law enforcement about French, pleading for his protection. After learning more details about Agent Mace's condition, they agreed that Alvin had to stay and watch over him. Alvin and Sim could see the Doctor's office from their location, and Alvin promised to keep an eye out for him. They would make tintypes while using their new contact for the best inside information. Most importantly, if French saw the rustlers ride into town, he could let them know. Sim would go saunter in to wherever they were and hand out a few fliers. He would sell them on getting their pictures made, even if he had to offer ridiculous prices to entice them.
Excited about his new location, and the mission in Dodge, Alvin had to somehow share his optimism with Pauline. He wrote her a one-page letter, telling her where they were and that they had set up their wagon in a prime location. He dared not tell her the details of his adventure, but used vague language to convey his feelings of adventure and success. The important thing, he thought, was to let her know that even in these busy times on the frontier, he was still thinking about her, and missing her more than ever. He sent the letter on his way to the telegraph office, to see if the “Home Office” had answered some of his concerns. They had and he smiled as he walked over to the main strip in town, pleased that they were taking his correspondences seriously. And that was most obvious by the last line in the telegram: “...You are considered as of this date our active agent with due benefits and responsibilities: Insurance & Salary. KEEP THIS TELEGRAM on your person.”
Alvin found French at the Alhambra, once again sitting with the monks, and a new face, a man they called "Alphabet Lee." Lee was a bundle of contradictions, but after they were introduced, and he studied him awhile, Alvin deducted that he had the potential of being a great ally. His real name was William McDole Lee, and outside of William Pinkerton, he was probably the most influential man the young entrepreneur had ever met. Lee too was an entrepreneur, but in an entirely different class. Alphabet Lee was becoming to the plains and Dodge City what Andrew Carnegie was to New England. He was the main investor and pathfinder in the buffalo hide industry, and brought regular train car loads of provisions to the hunters and Indians of the Great Plains to trade for them. It was not unusual for Lee and his partner to start a town if need be, to establish a frontier trade center. Yet in appearance he just looked like a sun-tanned teamster, although a recently scrubbed and handsome one for sure. They were having a good time, and he was assisting the monks in convincing Jim to accompany them as far as Texas. Lee was offering one of his wagons if it would be useful. But the monks would have no part of it. It would just attract the wrong kind of attnetion, and become something to tempt robbers or war parties. Lee sat quietly, non-plussed, feeling a strange sensation, of being almost irrelevant to a scheme on the frontier.
W.M.D. Lee, Frontier Captain of the Buffalo Hide Industry
French was was already agreeing to take them through the Nations and on to Doan's Crossing on the Red River. This would get him farther south than anybody would be looking for him, and he could mosey into Wichita on his own volition. They would leave in a few days after the monks had finished their ministry concerns in Dodge. The Catholic church was the largest church in town, sitting up on hill overlooking the whole area. It showed great promise for their denomination, and they were staying awhile to pray and encourage the young priest assigned there.
“You fellas have a battle plan yet? Alvin asked. “What's for lunch today?”
“I dunno, it's different today. Yesterday was stew, today is... soupy stew.” French cracked. “Just as well. It's the first cow meat I have had in years.”
“I heard that buffalo is pretty good eating.” Alvin gently inquired.
“You certainly can get used to it.” Father Swineberg added. “I love it, Father Wisnoski has not eaten any yet. but I'm sure we will.”
“It's a long way to Mexico Father, you might end up trying all kinds of different meats.” Alvin kidded. “Horny toads, possums... So why don't you take horses- or mules?”
“You mean to eat?” Everybody laughed at his deliberate obtusity. Swineberg smiled, he loved to tease. “This is not my first trip down there Mr. Payne. I prefer that I walk. First of all, I dislike horses. Second of all, they can hurt you and ruin the whole trip. Third of all, they require a great deal of care, and you spend so much time trying to feeeeed and bruuuush, and water them, that it eats up time and resources, and thus takes you longer- and fourth and most importantly, when the natives see you coming, just walking, they immediately calm down. They do not see you as a threat, and are very likely to render aid- share food, or even give you a ride.”
“He's tellin' you right." Jim interjected, "Not to mention if you try to cross the Nations on a horse, they will steal it the first night anyway.” Everyone chuckled as French grinned and ate the last of his soupy stew, and poured the rest down.
Alvin was somewhat stunned at the detailed answer. “That's the first time I ever heard that angle, but I guess you know what your talkin' about.”
“Father Swineberg has crossed the plains several times," Jim stated with pride, "the Indians know him, and he walks unarmed- except for a skinning knife.” French added, as he watched for Alvin's expression.
“Not even a rifle or shotgun?”
“Not even a nigger shooter!” French exclaimed.
“Jim, I thought I taught you better than that my son. I remember when you first got angry when someone said “Injun.” You came from New York where everyone called everyone else all kinds of pejoratives- and I know you grew into a man who learned to respect all people. All races and colors of skin.”
“I know Father, I told you already, I'm in trouble right now for hunting White people! It's just a word- an' I wouldn't say nigger shooter in front of a... Negro.”
“I should hope not. Mr. Payne, what news do you bring today?”
“Father, good news. Our wagon is set up across the tracks and ready when you are. And the U. S. Marshals have been notified to protect our friend here. They will be operating under the impression that French is working for my employer, undercover... but that does not keep the wolves away. The rustlers still want to kill him, I am sure. We need to get him out of here soon. But Sim and I will be here for weeks until "Johnston" is recovered.”
“We have worked out a solution, I believe, but who is Johnston, again?” Father asked a bit confused.
“The gambler who was shot and stabbed and robbed- here in dangerous Dodge. You know, when French here saved him from having his throat cut.”
Lost in his newspaper, Alphabet Lee peered over the top of his periodical to read the expressions of the men, after hearing the suggestion of violence, then returned to his market reports.
“Oh yes- the Pinkerton man.” Father Swineberg said matter-of-factly.
“Pinkerton man?” Alvin echoed, as he nearly choked on his stew.
“Yes, isn't that what you said French? I'm sorry if I misunderstood...”
“French, don't you tell another soul!” Alvin said firmly under his breath, his teeth clinched.
“What's a matter, “mister picture man,” you don't trust us?” French teased as he laughingly waved at the waitress. “If you can't trust us... who can you trust?”
Again Lee scanned the group, realizing that he had missed something. But serious businessmen could not be bothered by ruffian small talk, and the presence of the monks made him doubt the seriousness of the intrigue.
“How did you know?” Alvin pried, trying to hide his frustration.
“C'mon cowboy..." French teased. "It was obvious... the telegrams... the President... a tinhorn gambler and a greenhorn tintypist... No intelligent photographer would come all the way out here... But don't worry, I'm covering your back...” The waitress came to French with a hurried look. “Mam... I need the bill... for me and my friends here...”
“Gentlemen... I would like to make a suggestion.” Father Swineberg interjected, as he took over the conversation. “I would like to invite you men up to the church... for a special service the Priest is holding for us... tonight. It is a celebration of our embarking on this great journey... and we would like to include you, and pray for you as well as ourselves. I believe that it could be the most important night of your lives.”
"Thank you Father, for the invitation, but I have a previous engagement..." Lee said as he stood and nodded with feigned appreciation... "IF I can find a clothier to replace these rags I am wearing!
“Thank you as well, Father for the invite..." Alvin agreed, "but me and Sim- we are not Catholic.” Alvin proclaimed as he squirmed out of his chair.
“That does not matter to us my son... please sit down and let me explain something.” Alvin did sit, out of respect, even though he was very uncomfortable. Meanwhile Alphabet Lee made his escape.
“Well, actually, I'm not Catholic, I don't think Sim has ever been in a church.” Alvin chuckled, he did not want to appear combative by overstating his reluctance.
“No matter. First of all, what harm could it do for people who love God and care about you, to pray for your safety?” Swineberg argued. “Second of all, If you do believe in God, and since you say you are not Catholic, you must be something. You did not say that you were an atheist...” Alvin cringed and looked over at French who was enjoying every second of his discomfort.
“Just agree, Payne- you're not going to win.” French advised. Father Swineberg continued.
Third, you will enjoy the time with us- and we will feed you and your employee, and we shall all give thanksgiving for the one true, reliable Friend we have in this world...”
“You are right about that..." Alvin said as he submitted, "I am very thankful already for meeting up with Mr. French here.”
“No son. Yes, he is a great friend, probably sent by God, who is your one true Friend in this world- whom you can always call upon.
“Fourth, you should welcome this event- to celebrate meeting three new friends in this very dangerous place. And to thank God for bringing you this far, even if it is in a Catholic Church. We would be so disappointed if you were not there.”
“Okay Father, I give up... we will be there.” Swineberg smiled from one ear to the other. “But whoever you're goin' ta convince down in Mexico- they haven't got a prayer.”
“Wonderful my son- six o'clock. But as far as the Mexicans, actually, I know they do.” Swineberg countered as they all stood. He placed his strong hand on Alvin's shoulder, as he pushed in his chair. “They are our Benedictine brothers across the border, and somehow, I believe they are already praying as well, for us right now. That is how our Faith, and our God works. And you Mr. Payne, you rushed all the way here from Ft Scott, just to be in the fat middle of it!”
Alvin was hopping around his wagon like an excited boy on an Easter egg hunt. Customers had been coming in all day, and he had not even had time to eat lunch. They came across the tracks like folks on the way to a sideshow, all dressed up in their best clothes, some all by themselves, but many in pairs and even a few groups. Mayor Kelley had been by with his fleshy, overdressed “lady friend,” and numerous representatives from the brothel industry had visited, which worked well with his “Pinkerton” technique as described by his boss, to get the women to pose and then they would get the men to do the same, so they could exchange images. As he hustled and made small talk, he kept thinking to himself, "IT'S WORKING!" And it was as if every thing he had ever done in his life had prepared him for this moment.
Jim French had graciously agreed to sit back and watch, and occasionally make sure that Alvin's identifications were correct. He napped or read the newspaper under the wagon, and let Sim and Alvin scurry about the tent with the customers, and called Sim over if he thought some important person who had posed might have used a fictitious name... which was proving to be more prevalent than expected.
About 2:00 in the afternoon, a whole flock of prostitutes came waddling across the tracks, their bustles bobbing, the breeze trying to remove their flamboyant hats, their make-up starting to cake and flake in the sun. It was obvious they had spent the whole morning getting themselves ready to be immortalized. Their leader, a fetching young pretty from Texas, immediately began to try to get a deal for the quantity in her delegation. She was called “Squirrel-tooth Alice,” but that moniker was the only thing unattractive about her. A quiet, six-foot plus Amazon known as “Timberline” towered above them all and provided shade as they negotiated.
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