Chapter 8

Chapter 8 : The Wichita Sting

1873

Lottie sat proudly, thrilled to have the strangers on the train to find her so amusing. She was after all, a professional entertainer. But immediately she began to suspect that they harbored some reservations. “It's true... I'm not lyin'. ” She added defensively.

“So your father taught you all of this?” Alvin added in amazement. His father had never taught him such controversial skills.

“He used to take me to the races before the war.” Lottie affirmed. “We would watch the ponies run, and after he gathered his winnings, he would always get into an all-night poker match somewhere afterwards. We always rode on those great big steamboats... He taught me lots of tricks, how to count cards, and how to cheat...” She laughed spontaneously. “But I don't cheat... some of those men in these poker games would cut their own mama's throat... I'm hungry, but I won't eat glass!”

“And now you are trying to hunt down this Johnny... your sweetheart.” Alvin reviewed sympathetically. He had learned how to encourage an informant during his short police career: you had to embrace their story, let them relax and talk; if they were telling the truth, it would have a backbone, if they were lying, it would soon fall apart.

“Right. All I have to do is find out where the horses are running... I'll find him.” Lottie had the hubris of youth and yet the hardened finesse of a decade of dangerous living on the Mississippi River.

“When are y'all gettin' married?” blurted tipsy sister, who was still holding the whiskey. She was trying to find an opportune time to hand Lottie the kerchief, now dipped in a little whiskey...

Lottie was not so quick to answer. Women always ask those leading questions which only divide the ladies from the not-so-ladylike. She looked at her questioner as if to say, Touche, and then parsed her words more carefully. “We can't set a date... my mother hates him... it will be better to just wait, so I don't break her heart; let her live her last days happy, not worried about me bein' married to Jewish jockey... it would probably kill her.”

Lottie suddenly realized her throat was dry from all of the conversation. “Say, do you mind?” Holding out her hand... She looked at Sister, her head cocked slightly, eyebrow raised, and then pointed her finger and focused on the flask in her hand. Sister nudged brother, who had dozed off, then shrugged and giggled.

“He don't care, Yankee brat!” Sister sneered as she reached across the isle and handed the flask as if it was her sword. Right behind it came the whiskey tipped cloth, formed into an applicator. Lottie saw it and winked her thanks, as she began to massage her ear lobe with it. And she raised the flask, now the icon of their adventure.

“To the South!” Lottie declared, daring any man present to say a word. None did, as she took a long, “unladylike” swig. She handed the near empty flask back, with equal decorum. “That's some good whiskey!” she admitted, using her fingers to wipe it from her chin... and then licking them. Lottie may have been good at poker, and time would tell, but Alvin was convinced that she had even greater powers- because these men, mostly northerners, were hypnotized.

A leviathan snaking through a wasteland, the trusty train pushed on, rocking and climbing and leaning with the undulations of the land, which was carpeted with infinite grass, void of landmarks, and maddeningly monotonous. Mile after mile, seemingly like clockwork, nearly identical crossroads came and went, about every ten miles. It all looked the same; no buildings, very few trees, and no people. The train was going in circles for all they knew. Villages were gone and eating their smoke by the time anyone noticed them. Occasionally a telegraph line snaked through the plains, a dynamic reminder that somewhere there was civilization.

This never ending ride was something of an endurance test- a trial that would push the weak-minded over the edge. Sister had long-since sipped her last half-drop of whiskey. “Brother” was understandably angry that she and Lottie drank almost all of it the first night. They were no longer speaking. The drummer had slept so much that now he sat up straight, wide eyed, whisper-singing parts of Irish songs from his childhood, humming the parts he could not remember. The journalist, now known as “Mr. Newspaper,” was stir-crazy, now furious that he had been sent on this mission. He asked the conductor sarcastically if the train could take a rest, so he could pen a short article, from the “middle of nowhere.” Of course he was ignored. And Alvin and Lottie were playing poker. He had never been very good, but she was teaching him some simple strategy, and things to watch for when he was suspicious of cheating. The two epitomized the resilience of youth, able to discover the fun latent in any experience, no matter how bleak.

Alvin hated himself, because he found Lottie attractive, and he was hoping that “Johnny” was not in Wichita. Not that “it” would go anywhere, but he hated the idea of this deadbeat Johnny killing their interlude, after making a new friend in this vast wasteland, and whisking away with her, never to be seen again. He wished they could play poker for longer... but he knew that Wichita was closing in.

Stew's words suddenly hit him between the eyes. He had lost focus of his goal... he was not watching for opportunities. Or he had invested more time than Stew had ever imagined just setting the groundwork for an opportunity. And one that could immediately evaporate when they arrived in Wichita, or worse, turn into a sexual distraction. But Alvin ignored those admonitions now as he watched Lottie's lovely face as she stared at her cards, sometimes peeking over them at him cutely, for over a hundred miles, and he never wanted their flirtation to stop. He was in love kind of trouble and he knew it. And it felt wonderful after so many months without so much as a conversation with Pauline.

The railroad track narrowed the space between it and the road into the city and a sign welcomed all comers. “I LOVE IT!” Lottie bellowed lustily as she caught a glimpse of the first road sign in one hundred miles. Alvin shot up to the window just in time to just catch what she was so excited about. It was a sign on the outskirts of Wichita... “Everything Goes In Wichita.” The young cow town was proud of its wild reputation. Lottie's eyes beamed as if she were a child sitting at a Christmas tree. Perhaps she was just a sweet kid having a good time... and the strange incident back in Topeka was an isolated incident... Either way, he would give her the benefit of the doubt. He knew none of those excuses were probably true, but there was plenty of time later for him to be disappointed.

Alvin had misjudged, of course. Lottie was friendly, but once they arrived in Wichita, she became distant, as everybody headed to the hotels and baths and decent meals. It would take a day for even a young person to recover from that kind of journey. When Alvin ran into Lottie again, she was at the hotel restaurant, in her beautiful white dress, and her hair was immaculately combed. And she was alone. His shyness now a thing of the past, at least with her, he approached with a show of concern. “I saw you sitting here alone...” he offered with “brotherly” interest... “Did you find Johnny?”

Lottie smiled a non-smile. It was a “You knew the answer to that question before you asked it” expression.

“May I sit down?”

She shrugged. It was not a yes or a no. It was an “I wish I was somewhere else” acknowledgment, but not a welcome.

“So no word, nothing...” He demanded.

Lottie was lost in thought. She did not have the time or the patience for flirting games. She stared around, but would not look at Alvin. Then when she did, she was scary. Something like a mad cow whose calf had been taken. Alvin got the message and stood up, “I'm sorry, I did not mean to intrude.” He turned to sneak away, as if she were asleep.

“Alvin!” Lottie was surprised how quickly Alvin got the message, and even more surprised at how quickly he gave up company with her. She was more used to men like the drunk in Topeka, who needed a plank in the gut to get the message. He stopped and looked back. He had plenty to do, if she was not in the talking mood.

“Maybe later... I'm still looking... Don't get yourself in a huff...” She mocked.

“I'm not... Just leave a note at the hotel desk... I'm looking around myself... for a studio... I'll be in and out.”

“Come here..” Suddenly Lottie melted, having admitted to herself how attached, and even strengthened she was by this clean-cut farm boy.

Alvin liked Lottie, a lot, but he wasn't ready to be ordered around... or treated like an afterthought, not yet anyway. He stood looking as if he did not know how to take her behavior. And that was because he didn't. But he inched closer, in spite of himself.

“Alvin... you need to understand. I'm glad to see you... but Johnny is sometimes jealous. He can be real mean. I don't want there to be any... trouble between the two of you. After I am sure that he has not left any messages... or is trying to send me any... When I know he is not looking for me... and I would not be surprised... I can relax...

“We can... play poker.” She smiled that sexy smile, her jaw ajar, unique to beautiful women who know how to use their looks.

Alvin felt something come to life between his front pant pockets. “I can take care of myself...” he claimed with manly hubris.

“No,” Lottie admonished, “you will never see it coming, love... he never fights fair. You will wake up dead in an alley...” Lottie began to get a little choked up, just thinking about it. She closed her eyes, tried to cover her fears with her hand, and shook her head slightly, as if it was about to explode. “But he is my gambling partner... do you understand? Without him, I can't get into the big money games... I'll go broke. So I have to find him...”

“Well, if he doesn't show... maybe I can fill in...”

“That would take some serious training...” She could not help but laugh mockingly. “I'm used to a jockey with considerable experience...”

“Fine, Miss Southern Superior, but I'll bet I can learn how to deal faster than Johnny can learn how to treat a woman... when she's not in bed...”

“Oooooo!” She smiled with sexy delight, as she detected the strong scent of jealousy. “You are probably right about that.” Lottie said, half emboldened, half-disgusted, looking inward at herself, hating her dependency on Johnny. Unknown to Alvin or most people, Johnny Golden was a chronic loser who was running from the law, who had killed someone in Topeka, who could not even stay out of trouble for a week without her; A coward who was probably going to run all the way to California before he thought about her. And he was not really her fiance, but her pimp.

“Alvin... I'm not anything like what you think... Don't worry too much about me... I have some business to take care of myself. And I'll leave you a note when, or if... it's time...”

Alvin nodded, he was a big boy, and he was starting to connect the dots. Girls like Lottie didn't have, or tolerate guys like Johnny for no reason. Lottie was fun, but she was probably a human logjam. She could not get out of her miserable life, and nobody could get close enough to reach her, to pull her out. And even if they did, she probably would not come willingly. He tipped his slouch hat and walked away. If he was real lucky, Johnny might sweep her away, or maybe she would find a rich man who liked to gamble and who would indulge her schemes. Either way, he was almost afraid now that she would leave a note at the hotel desk. “Pauline... he thought, “Pauline, where in the hell are you, Pauline?”

A week later, Alvin had resolved most of his needs, and started making tintypes. He found an abandoned barber shop with the windows knocked out, and traded the first month's rent for cleaning up the place and fixing the roof and the windows. He could have paid for something better, but the Pinkertons had warned him about appearing suspiciously flush. He needed to pretend that he was struggling, to make the underworld types feel at home with him- and to falsely perceive that he might even need them. Plus the location was excellent to observe all of the comings and goings into or out of Wichita.

There had been a run on his studio at first as townspeople came to see his operation, view his samples, and ask about prices. A few even had their portraits made. But there had been no “police characters” in Alvin's estimation.

Marshal Meagher

The new town photographer soon paid a visit to Marshal Mike Meagher, showed him his credentials and explained his mission. Meagher was skeptical, warning that Wichita was a wide-open cow town, and his job was to keep the lid on the worst offenses. But when Alvin asked about who the main players were, Meagher was glad to provide him names. The bunch that most concerned him was a network of buffalo hunters who also acted as hired guns during their off-seasons. Some voluntarily kept the Kansas plains free of vermin... especially the human kind. It was “open season” on the plains for undesirables.

“Charlie Jennison is a bad one. Goes for his gun way too fast for me... Understand that most of these gun-toughs are cowards at heart... back-shooters.” Marshal Mike stopped to roll a cigarette. This was going to be a long list, and Alvin started taking notes.

Rowdy Joe Lowe

“On the west-end we got Red Beard's dance hall, he's worse than any of his customers... especially when drunk. You'd never believe he was well-educated and raised in a good family... His neighbor “Rowdy Joe” Lowe they call him... another “dance hall” owner, some of these folks do their “dancin'” layin' down ya understand... He's trouble lookin' for a place to happen.

“Ike Walker... wild as a March hare, old wolf... thinks he's the wandering prairie lawman, known to hunt down and execute various outlaws... but you can't catch 'im at it. And Bill Anderson... a treacherous murderer- THAT's the one I hope you can help me with... Just keep an eye on the sonovabitch.” Marshal Meagher stopped to think a moment. “How many you want?”

“Keep going, I want all you got..” Alvin wrote furiously, writing every detail, understanding the importance of seemingly minor clues.

“Then we got the gunslingers... and we have some doozeys; kinda like open-range lawmen with no supervision... Saloons use 'em as 'special officers,' but they are just glorified bouncers. The ones who keep coming up in the middle of things are two brothers, Virgil and Wyatt Earp. These are bad hombres... best you stay on their good side..."

Alvin gave Meagher a quizzical look. “Did you say Urp?”

"That's E-A-R-P. This family in particular has worked its way to the top of the heap and is especially alarming. They have moved in and set up a gambling and prostitution operation, and are becoming very popular. And a little too powerful. Still, they come in handy whenever I find myself in a pinch... Pay attention to anybody with the name Earp.” He insisted. “And God, there must be a dozen of them...”

James Earp

Led by the oldest of several brothers, the Earps were quite busy around town. James was the mastermind, a professional gambler who ran a gambling parlor and saloon, and had his brothers oversee the adjacent brothel, where most of the trouble came from. The two middle brothers, Virgil and Wyatt were both as tough as nails. They had a wild streak, and crazy things happened at the brothel. It was rumored that Wyatt Earp was a convicted horse thief, and had escaped from a jail in Ohio, but had also once been a sheriff. He was the quiet, dangerous kind. But all three were considered dangerous, and were known to mop up the troublemakers whenever necessary.

The Earp women, not all wives, were actively involved in the brothel, in one way or another. And there were several more Earp boys, especially two younger scrappers named Morgan and Warren who were bound to grow into the family vice extravaganza.

Mattie "Earp"

Marshal Meagher proudly explained that the City ordinances forbade the carrying of sidearms in town. This had helped greatly to reduce shootings and deaths. But the problem was, with everyone unarmed, the Earps had created their own fiefdom, where they still had guns “for security,” and walked around town like lions among helpless sheep. Many of the cowboys resented them more than the "Law."

"Bat" Masterson

And then there were the Mastersons, a Canadian family who had a ranch outside of town, and they were also a family of tough men who never backed down from a confrontation. They too were buffalo hunters, but had not emerged in the gambling scene, or the prostitution trade. Ed and Jim seemed to be straight shooters, and were pretty deep in the hide trade. The middle son was a real card, a gambler they called “Bat,” for some strange reason. There were a couple more younger Mastersons who were going feral due to their older brother's influence. George Masterson seem to be headed to a lifetime of gambling and general shiftlessness. Meagher generally liked the Mastersons, but they were too friendly with the Earps, and so they would probably end up in the Pinkerton rogue's gallery sooner or later. Or just dead.

“Now Payne, I've put in for Deputy U. S. Marshal... and that's because we got some bad problems... not here, but out there, especially around Ft. Supply... where I have no jurisdiction. You need to look out for a whole tribe of horse thieves, old timers call 'em “Comancheros,” but I call 'em outhouse scum... “Apache Sam” Walker, “Slippery Jack” Gallagher, “Texas Bob” Hollis, Charles McBride... there are some two dozen of 'em... maybe more, all led by a character we know around here as “Hurricane Bill” Martin. These are really bad characters, and thank goodness we don't see them too often. They are avoiding me I suppose. But these men, and I hesitate to even call them that, are in the middle of every kind of dirty deal you could think of.”

“Sounds like that is exactly who I am after.” Alvin exclaimed with new interest.

“It all started way back... decades ago...” Meagher began to pontificate... “Ol' Bent out in Colorado started trading with the Cheyennes... and in the process, he married one and nearly become one of 'em... and he used his contacts with the military to get them fair treatment... and I don't fault him for that... but over time his campaign on their behalf has created a whole culture... some say opportunists... who take advantage of a giant hole in U. S. Government policies...

“In the past, these people have enjoyed some sympathy from some of our fort commanders, who have conveniently never noticed or exposed their shenanigans... and over time they have gotten greedy and downright ruthless. Now its a free-for-all; outlaw gangs running whiskey and guns to the Indians, stealing Indian horses off of the reservations... selling them to buyers in Dodge, or here, and some of them robbing Whites- especially teamsters with wagon loads of goods, to trade to the Indians or buffalo hunters... Sometimes we think they even kill teamsters and take scalps to put the blame on the Indians... It's a God damn mess....”

“I'll say...” Alvin sat in wonder at the evils men could conjure up in the wilderness. Even worse than in Plattsburg.

“So Payne, you could be a big help to us... We haven't got much law enforcement out here... no judges or courts in a vast area, and nobody but a few folks can, or I should say will identify these men. They will continue to operate with impunity until we are simpatico with the U. S. Marshals working with the Indian Agency... There's just two of them... poor bastards, to cover THOUSANDS of square miles... circulars with photographs would be invaluable.

“There's a character named James French, this snake is an old crony of Bent's I think, and far more devious; this man is all for the Indians... so if a White gang steals their horses, he accompanies them to get them back... by force... and sometimes these Cheyenne braves are satisfied to just go steal however many horses were stolen from them, from whomever. Sometimes they kill a rancher or a farmer in the process... French has his followers... mostly Comancheros, Hurricane Bill has his... and they are in a three-way shooting war out there. Well I guess four-way including the army... but like I say, they are staying clear of the whole mess.

“And THEN, we have another mysterious character... and a tough nut to crack he is... from your part of the country... a dapper old gambler 'n horse trader, who comes around every few months... we've traced some marked bills back to him... but he claims he won them playing poker. I know better, but so far I have been unable to find anybody willing to finger him.”

“Don't tell me, is his name Cleetus Head?”

“That's him. What do you know about him?”

“Well... not much, but I don't think you will ever find anybody who would dare finger him... I think he's BIG Marshal... and I had no clue about him when I was serving in Plattsburg... sometimes alongside him! But once I left there, it seemed like his name has come up surprisingly often, always associated with dark dealings... like you say, horse trading... and with re-branded stock... and other suspicious transactions... He is known as a sharp gambler in Kansas City; comes to town for a week or so... throws money around... but I believe it's money from James gang bank robberies, gets in to all the high-stakes poker games... and then quietly gets some high-roller deep in his debt... when he can't pay... he'll take his ranch or house or whatever... and pay the difference... This way the loser comes out with his gambling debt settled- and money in his pocket... Nobody complains... until their money gets confiscated...”

“How kind of him...” Meagher mocked. “And then those fellas spread that marked money all over town...until it would break some pretty important men if it were exposed...”

“Exactly... and I think my lady friend's father was one of them... You just answered why Head was so generous... It was money he needed to launder... and even put into the pockets of people he hates... But back there in Clinton County, we just knew him as this worn out old war veteran... always helpin' out the sheriff, servin' on posses and what-not... But right before I came here, I ran across some stolen property he fenced in Kansas City... which would tie him directly to some robberies and murders we were investigating in Missouri... and that would tie him squarely- to the James Gang.

“NOSHIT!”

“AND... I hate to say, they have nothing on him in Plattsburg. He is as smooth a character as I've ever seen... I'm pretty sure that I've figured all of this out because I moved out of Plattsburg and into his larger sphere of operations... and right now you and I are the only ones who even know that much... if we know it.”

“So what had he fenced?”

“It was just a watch fob...” Alvin said as he pulled the watch out of his vest pocket, now attached to that very fob. “But it belonged to my best friend... had his initials on it... You can't tell, but that's an SB around that diamond on the fob... for Stewart Bacon III, who was a Pinkerton agent... whom Col. Head or somebody close to him hanged down in Clay County... and I was his local police contact... His death was the reason I left the damn place...” Alvin handed the fob to the marshal, setting his watch on his desk, knowing the watch and fob were saying more than words could convey.

Meagher held the watch and studied the fob, as it dangled in his palm, and rubbed it with his thumb. Suddenly the story had incredible weight, and Alvin Payne was proving to be a man with a mission.

“That's good to know Payne. And I'm sure you would like to catch up with this fella... Looks like you're already helping me more than I can help you... but I'll make it up to you. Maybe we can watch him a little bit closer the next time he comes to Wichita. You never know... But I promise you... if I find even one stolen brand... I'll throw him in jail.” Marshal Meagher handed the watch and fob back to Alvin, with a bit more reverence than when he received them.

“Anyway, that's the most important ones... Oh- an' there's a half-breed they call Billy Bowlegs, but I think his real name is William White Wolf... White Turkey... some damn Indian name... like the Colonel he's in and out, and so is his Bowie knife... I have those two somehow matched up in my mind... they seem to show up about the same time... and play poker... Bowlegs mostly poses as a pimp, but I think his main business is contract killing. Seems like his visits here are often followed by somebody finding a body lying in an alley somewhere downtown. He must have family around somewhere, but I haven't seen him in months.”

“Bowlegs?”

“Yeah... you know 'im?”

“I'm not sure, but that sounds familiar for some reason...” Alvin already knew why, but he was not going to say. Suddenly Billy Bowlegs loomed large in his mind, and old fears came back to life.

“Say, put me on the list- Pinkerton man...” Meagher stated with urgency, but was interrupted.

“Don't say that Marshal,” Alvin shot back, “ever again... As far as you know I'm just a photographer... If somebody overhears you... I'm a dead man.”

“Right... you're kinda jumpy ain'tcha? Anyway, as I was sayin', put me on the list... when you ever make pitchers of any of these people... save me one... I'll pay.”

“I will Marshal, but hell yeah I'm jumpy... and you can help me by sitting for me occasionally... so that you have a reason to come by my place from time to time... maybe I will have information for you. And I'll only charge half-price.”

“Maybe I'll bring my lady over... the last thing the world needs is more pictures of me!”

Marshal Meagher was a good lawman, and he made his job look easier than it was. Alvin compared him to Davy Crockett at the Alamo. The smartest thing he could do would be to flee the dangers around him. But he was not that kind. He was the Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, Andy Jackson type who figured he'd rather be dead than be called a coward.

Alvin, considering his flight from Plattsburg and the drunk in Topeka, was not in any way akin to them. But at least now he knew the name of the big thug he had encountered; he was probably the “Bowlegs” Marshal Meagher had mentioned. That was the name Lottie had been yelling as she went up the stairs in that warehouse on the edge of Topeka. “Billy Bowlegs,” whoever he was, knew Lottie, and they had some kind of relationship, and she was running from him, and from the looks of things, some problem too big to tackle- even for her.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)

YOU FOUND IT!

I need readers , so thanks for responding! Here is my newest novel, and I would be so grateful for you to look it over, read it if you woul...