Chapter 16
Chapter 16: Six-gun Sunday School
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.
Squirrel Tooth Alice
“Howdy Mister, I'm from Texas and that's down next to Mexico, and everybody dickers down there. Do you dicker?” The girls giggled quickly but nervously at the double meaning of her question. They never knew when some jerk would not have a sense of humor.
Alvin was an old hand by now at dealing with “shady ladies.” He smiled good-naturedly and put his hands on his hips. As he tried to think of a clever answer, he glanced over and saw Sim enjoying their new clients a little too much, and instantly barked at him, “Sim- we are about through for the day, you can take the rest of the day off.” Sim shrugged and tossed down his tin snips and walked away as if he was being punished. But he was glad to get away from there for awhile. Then Alvin turned to Alice and continued their friendly banter. “Since you have walked all the way over here to tease and ask me trick questions- I will give you all a break. You girls make me an offer- but I don't trade. It's cash only.”
They all stood wilting and deflated, with pouty expressions and the sun in their eyes. “He ain't very much fun... but he is still cuuuute!” An older redhead reasoned, but she would not let go yet of Alice's joke. “She was hoping you would dick...”
“Never mind that Prissy," Alice blurted impatiently, "Well, there's SIX of us and we have a lot of friends in Dodge- we can pass out your cards.” She said as a statement and a suggestion, however Alvin would take it.
“That's very clever, and I appreciate the offer, but right now I'm not lacking in customers. I've already had plenty of advertising.”
“You're a hard one.” Alice said with an evil grin. “But when I get bucked off, I jus git back on again.” She was not giving up- as she was used to getting whatever she wanted. “And you won't trade? Not EVEN WITH ME?” Alvin shook his head with feigned regret. “Not even two of us- you can take your pick!” Alice knew the answer, but she was becoming curious just what the fellow's price in flesh would be.
“Ladies, I'm very busy. I will cut you a deal- if you will buy two each... that would be a dozen tintypes- 6th plate.”
“How big is that?” Alice demanded, pushing numbers around in her head. Alvin made a rectangle with his hands.
“About that big.” Alvin said impatiently, as he made a hole about as big as a playing card. “Well, maybe a tiny bit smaller.”
“Men always say it's bigger than it really is.” She cracked as all the girls began to laugh again. The fun was not so much her saucy humor as it was Alvin's discomfort. “SO, how much IS your big thingy... your tintype...?” Alice asked, her chin dropped, her lower lip dangling, putting on her most sultry affectation.
“A dollar for the dozen- and you can pass the word about us over here. And as far as your deal I'm givin' ya- never tell a soul!”
“They say,” Alice retorted, “the people we socialize with have lost their souls... but absolutely sweetie, we are used to keepin' much bigger seeecrets!” She laughingly assured, and again, with more giggles from her cheering section.
Alvin nodded, glad to have maintained control of everything on several levels. "There's a mirror over at the chuck box, some of you may want to take a look. Maybe freshen up before you pose. Let me get the first tin, and we'll get started.” Timberline walked over to the wagon to take his advice, knowing that her make-up was melting, and saw Jim napping under the wagon.
“Hello stranger!” She said barely audibly. Jim looked around to see who had spoken, and sat up on one elbow.
“Hey Timber.” Timber picked up the hand mirror and began to smudge and wipe and try to reconstruct her well-painted face. She worried that her make-up no longer concealed her scars and pock marks.
Rose Vastine, aka "Timberline"
“I didn' see you layin' around down there- then I thought you might be dead!” Timber smiled and showed a sad cluster of teeth with a few gaps. But her smile was as genuine as the scowl she usually wore. “Haven't seen you in a laaawng tiiihme.”
“I been out west, still working for Bent... chasin' rustlers.”
“Rustlers? You don't need to chase 'em darlin'... just hang around Dodge.” She joked. About that time, Alvin was coming to get another tin plate, and French stopped him. "Alvin, this is an old friend, we call her Timber. She says there are rustlers here in Dodge.” French knew that they both knew this, but wanted Alvin to meet a potentially important informant. If she was so quick to admit the presence of rustlers, she might actually let on who they were.
“Really!” Alvin challenged, playing along. “Here in Dodge- Right now?” But this kind of questioning made the big, timid girl nervous, and she clammed up. Alvin could tell he had come on too strong. “Well... Timber? I tell you what, I'll make a deal with you. I will take extra tintypes of you... we will make you... six, and you can have them before you leave- for the same price. If you will then offer to trade them with those fellas... the rustlers. And then, get them over here to take their pictures- to trade for yours.” Flirtatious and curious, Alice had followed Alvin over to the wagon, and heard the last sentence.
“I want the same deal! If she can get six I can get twenty!” She heckled Timber and immediately they slapped each other on the shoulder in the spirit of ancient Amazonic competition.
“Deal!” Alvin agreed, "but just the two of you... no more. Tell the rest that you bought extra.”
“Alvin, you may not need that deal.” French said under his breath, “Here comes Hollis and some other character, no doubt a person of interest...”
"Slip Gallagher"
"That's Slip Gallagher" Timber said under her breath, with revulsion. Alvin looked back, and for just a second it seemed as if she understood what was going on, and she was discreetly taking sides, in her own way.
“Ya'll the Law or sumpthin'”? Alice asked, grinning curiously.
“Yeah. I'm a Canadian Mountie and this here is my trusty Indian guide.” Alvin cracked, and he elbowed Jim. “We're tracking some men who stole a whole buffalo herd outta Canada...”
“You are not. There ain't no buffalo in Canada!” Teased Alice. “Are there?”
The sun was getting low and some shop owners were bringing in their merchandise which had been displayed on the boardwalk in front of their stores, as Sim crossed the railroad track and began to look for something to do. But he was too young to go into any saloon or billiard hall, and it wasn't time for supper, so he wandered down the street looking for anything interesting to a fourteen-year old. Soon he spied a crate full of canned peaches on the loading dock of a mercantile, and remembered how it would have been quietly snatched up and traded off by now, by him or one of his friends back in Missouri before the shadows got any longer. He stepped inside the store to see if anyone was aware that it was sitting out there. The store was dark but he could hear the clerk at the counter explaining a bill to a short, dark complected man who was accompanied by a pretty teen-aged girl.
“I do not care what you say Sir, she came in and gave you a list, and when I get to the wagon, it has been loaded. But instead of five boxes of tobacco, there is five POUNDS. You can see right here... I been to the White Man's school, I can read, BX stands for box, LBS stands for pounds. But you charged her for boxes, and you gave her pounds.”
The sales clerk was offended that anyone would suggest that he had tried to cheat the girl, who had found the mistake herself. She had tried to bring the mistake to his attention, but he was dismissive and told her that Indians were not even allowed in the store, and especially difficult ones, and for her to wait outside. Black Otter, her father, was very aware of racial discrimination, from one end of the country to the other, and he had no patience for it. “You thought we would not know the difference!” He barked sarcastically. “Just give us our tobacco, and I will tell you, I am going to report you to the Commander at Ft. Dodge- and you will hear more about this.”
“These things are for the Commander?” The clerk suddenly had a change of tone.
“These things are for my people, who report to Baldwin. Do you now Lt. Baldwin?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Yes, well, you will soon SIR. He is in charge of the Delaware Scouts- and I am here to set up their camp and get their supplies. We serve under Colonel MILES, maybe you have heard of him. They will be getting here any day, and this young lady, my daughter, is helping me. And she has been to the White Man's school also, and she can count too, and she knows the difference between a box and a pound!”
“All right Mr... Otter. But you two must wait outside.”
“I will wait right here! I serve the U. S. Army- I think they are a pretty damn good customer of yours here in Dodge.”
“Even so, I must ask you to wait on the dock outside...”
Sim and the man who came in behind him watched the Indians try to get decent treatment for several minutes until he could not stand it anymore. His street sense kicked in, and he tried to combine that with Alvin's favorite tactic: Diffuse before violence begins.
“Excuse me...” Sim interrupted, “but whoever owns that loaded buckboard outside? Needs to go see about it. It looks like some kids were tryin' to steal some of it, and somebody left a whole bunch o' peaches on the dock. ” Sim used his thumb to point behind him, showing his most trustworthy face. The man behind him, "Alphabet" Lee, put on his sternest countenance. The frustrated Delawares scooted out quickly, to go check on their purchased goods, which had lost importance once they thought they had been cheated in tobacco. Tobacco was a most precious commodity on the frontier. Sim turned to the clerk. “Mister, this day is gettin' long in the tooth- just hand me a case of tobacco, give 'em an extra box... and let's end this, what do ya say? I'll take it out to 'em.”
"Sounds fair to me." Lee offered, putting quiet, irresistible pressure on the man.
Outnumbered, the clerk nodded and stormed into his store room and came back with a wooden case containing six boxes of Bull Durham, and shoved it at Sim not so gently. The youthful mediator met the riled father and his lovely daughter as he stepped outside of the door, and walked past them and set the crate in the wagon. “Sorry about that man- he ought'ta have more respect for people who serve the army.” He said with flat sincerity.
Hummingbird was beaming, actually witnessing a White man, albeit a young one, treat her and her father like human beings. “I am Black Otter...” the grateful patriarch said with serious dignity, and held out his hand, something he rarely did to a White man.
“My name is Simeon...” For some reason Sim hesitated to give his nickname. And before he could finish, Hummingbird interjected:
“Simeon North!”
“No, Simeon Sparks, who is Simeon North?”
Blue Hummingbird
“He was perhaps the first American to mill steel and manufacture steel parts... he only started the Industrial Revolution! You must be his relative!”
“You musta been to school to know that. But no, not any kinfolks of mine!” Sim made a big smile, and as they looked at one another, he felt something happen. She was pretty, and smart, and her hair was so perfectly braided and- Sim was in love. “Ya'll are some kinda Indians, ain'tcha?”
“We are Lene Lenape, but you people call us Delaware. This is my daughter Blue Hummingbird...” Sim nodded and began to blush, and he did not know why. “You have a kind face...” Black Otter continued, “will you come with us to our camp at Ft. Dodge? She will prepare us a good meal. And we can talk there, And we can smoke some of this tobacco!” Hummingbird giggled. Her father liked the young man too, and that rarely happened for any color of male of the species.
Sim gladly agreed, having no idea what was in store, but thrilled to ride in the back of their wagon and just stare at Hummingbird's flowing, jet black hair, as much as he wanted to. He shifted the goods around to make himself a place, as Hummingbird watched and tried to contain her smile. They took off down Front Street as she began to converse with her father in her Native tongue, and they discussed the rude store clerk all the way back to their camp. He knew because every once in awhile Black Otter would reach behind and point at the crate of tobacco. Sim watched the curious faces in town as they whizzed by, watching him as he left them in the dust, and headed into the first love of his life.
That same evening the train from Topeka came chugging in around 5:30, with black smoke belching, and a deafening bell which rang through the town, leaving no one but those buried on Boot Hill unaware of their arrival. Pauline saw Alvin's wagon immediately and grabbed her bags and started across the tracks. This was the most humbling, adventurous, spontaneous thing she had ever done. She walked quickly as if she thought that seeing Alvin would make it all make sense, make it all worthwhile. When she got nearer, she could see him stomping about, obviously tired from the day, focused on his work, a true artist in his element. One look at him answered why he had come to Dodge.
Alvin was meant for this kind of work. She knew before she took another step that no matter what might be said between them, she would not suggest that he come back with her. And she knew, if she could find the courage, she would beg to stay with him. But she already had her doubts. Her gait slowed considerably... as she tried to time her epiphany at a good time. But Alvin looked up after seeing her movement out of the side of his eye, hoping that it was Sim finally bringing him some food- when he saw that it was just another woman, and he went back to work.
And then something began to work inside his brain. That woman made him think of Pauline. And any woman who could do that, deserved another look.
The whores, infatuated with Alvin and French, went to work on their behalf. Alice and Timberline began to dangle their tintypes in front of select customers, who some folks in town said were thought to be rustlers. Their information was better than anybody's since they knew and serviced all walks of society, and both sides of the law. Over the evening, several of these suspicious characters agreed to get pictures made in order to trade with them. William Pinkerton's scheme was devilishly clever. With so many prostitutes in Dodge, Alvin could have an army of informants if he wanted, and could create a pile of photographs of outlaws. But Alice and Timber were enough, as they were two of the more attractive and “higher end” prostitutes, and would attract the high-rolling, alpha males, and thus the right clients.
Father Swineberg was roving about Dodge, visiting with the sheriff and the mayor, and any others who might have information about the Indians. Concerned, he took a taxi out to Ft. Dodge and asked to see the commander, but he was out on a mission of some kind. He and Father Wisnoski arrived in town just in time to catch Alvin and Jim and Sim eating supper, and to get introduced to Alvin's beautiful lady friend... who had every one staring inside Kelley's restaurant. Soon a handful of Alvin's new admirers swaggered in and took two tables. Pauline noticed the smiling Dodge doves paying close attention to their table, and when one waved, she turned to Alvin unamused. “Alvin... you seem to have picked up quite a following, am I interfering with business by sitting here?” She kidded, but was faking her smile.
He laughed and looked up, and as they enthusiastically waved, he waved back. Soon others came in, and Timber walked in by herself and gave Jim a shy finger-wave.
“The girls are really friendly here. Where in the world have they all come from? And what in the world are they doing?” Pauline asked rhetorically, then stopped when she realized what it was all about. She closed her eyes in subtle, intellectual rage, and suddenly wondered if her trip was not a huge misjudgment. No, she knew that it was. Alvin had been thrilled to see her, and glad to get his money, but he seemed less than comfortable with her coming. She felt a dark invisible blanket enclose her, as she began to shut out everything.
Father Swineberg was telling the people at his table about his last trip to Mexico, with friendly interjections from Wisnoski. They had only gone to Monterrey that time, mostly on church business. Many Kickapoos had left the country, refusing the American style of Indian reservations, and found refuge in Mexico. And not a few of them were considered to be members, or at least associated with the Catholic Church. The church wanted to locate them, and see if the Mexican Catholics were aware of them. With so many leaving the States, they would need a church. It had been a long, dusty, hazardous trip. But when he got back, Father Swineberg said all he could think of was going back.
“I got to use my gift of languages- and to spread the Gospel for over a thousand miles. And see this grand country, its mountains, its nooks and crannies- and meet the people of New Mexico. There are amazing, old churches there, priests serving in forgotten villages established by the Spanish hundreds of years ago. El Paso! El Paso has its own Thanksgiving Tradition, older than the Pilgrims of Plymouth!
“He won't brag, but he speaks ten different languages” Father Wisnoski inserted.
“No! Wis, not that many.” Swineberg protested. Wisnoski shook his head, ready to prove it.
“All right- count them: French and German, Latin of course, English... Spanish... Kickapoo, Sac and Fox.”
“Those are the same.” Swineberg corrected.
“Fine, but I'm not through. Comanche, Cheyenne, and some Kiowa, Shoshone...
“Comanche and Shoshone are the same as well.”
“Still, that is... three, six, nine- and he is teaching both of us Mandarin as we travel.”
Father Swineberg shrugged sheepishly. “It is a gift. I don't keep track.” Then he chuckled in humility. “Other people collect paintings or medals, I collect languages.” Swineberg never wanted to dominate a conversation, for he loved to listen to others and hear about their experiences. “Alvin! Tell me about your lovely friend here, where did you two meet?”
Alvin was caught off guard, he had not yet adjusted to Pauline being there. All eyes looked at him and Pauline with anticipation. And by now even other tables were listening in. “Well... Pauline and I met through a mutual friend. He and I worked together, in Missouri... and he was tragically killed. And we have kept in touch over the years...”
“Were you making photographs then?” Swineberg asked innocently.
“No, no, we were just...”
“SEED SALESMEN!” Pauline interjected. She was afraid of what Alvin might come out with.
“Yes- we were selling seeds and bulbs east of K.C- anyway, they were engaged- and we were very close.” Pauline found the conversation very awkward, and wanted to change the subject, and Alvin quickly did. He asked Swineberg where he and his companion were headed on this trip. That answer had to be sufficient distraction for a few minutes.
“We have been sent to Monterrey again- perhaps further. But the recent hostility of the Plains Tribes has us a bit concerned. We have always been graciously received by them in the past. We have always gone unarmed and carrying very little but water, and been treated like honored guests, even among the Kiowas.”
“How do you live- what do you eat?” Pauline asked incredulously.
“We have learned to live off of the land. We carry a little flour with us, but we know how to make it out of roots. You would be surprised what foods are out there, if you open your mind to it. The plains are rich with prickly pear, rattlesnakes, prairie dogs, all edible; and you make your fires out of dried buffalo dung. I can snare a rabbit if I need to. We actually eat quite well.” Suddenly a gaunt, burly man at the next table stood up and faced Father Swineberg, making a fist, as if he objected to something.
“Mister- I know you're a religious man and all, but I would be remiss if I did not protest your travel plans.” Everyone at Swineberg's table looked at the big frontiersman with shock, unaware that he had been listening. “It ain't none of my business, but what you're sayin' is not possible, but it would be foolhardy even if it was. This summer heat has dried up the springs. There won't be enough water to fill your canteen once you get down to Texas. Probably before. You'll dry up and blow away before you ever make it down there. If the Injuns don't scalp you, they are on the warpath right now and won't have time to entertain you... Once you leave Dodge, you won't see another friendly face till you get to El Paso. You'll never make it. I'm tellin' ya.” The man stood like an orator, but with gentle authority. And the longer he did, the more familiar he looked.
“And I am speaking with...?” Father Swineberg asked politely, but he was sure he already knew.
“James. James Butler Hickok.”
Everyone in the place seemed to be listening by now.
“You probably heard of me... and my buddy here.” Cringing at the next table, and wishing Hickok had not been so rude, nodded a handsome man with long hair and a goatee. “That's William F. Cody- and I believe he would agree with what I just said, even if he hasn't got the guts to say it.”
“No shit!” Somebody said too loudly in the restaurant. Everyone was finally recognizing the two most famous men in the American West. Incredibly together, eating supper at Kelley's restaurant.
“Well, Mr. Hickok- Mr. Cody, it is a pleasure to meet both of you. And I do appreciate your interest and concern.” Swineberg said sincerely. “But I have to explain, to you, and now everyone is listening, that we are sent on a dangerous mission for our bishop. JUust like you Sirs, have been sent as government scouts.
“It is a matter of grave importance. And I think you both would agree, when faced with such important problems, our lives are considered to be of secondary importance to the mission. In this case a peace mission to Mexico.
“And where you two, whose careers by the way I am very aware of, have worked off and on for most of your adult lives for the United States Government, Father Wisnoski and I work for a Higher Authority- One whom I hope you understand we completely, as Monks of the Benedictine Order, gave our lives and souls over to Him, to do what He would, in His service, many years ago. And if we die... we die. 'To live is Christ... to die is gain.' ”
“THAT, mister, is the sorriest explanation I ever heard for two good men to throw their lives away.” Hickok responded. “But given the things that I have done, and the stupid reasons I gave at the time- I cannot fault you one damn bit.” Hickok then raised his glass up where all could see. “EVERYONE! A toast!” The people all over the restaurant grabbed their glasses, some with water, some with beer, some empty, and raised them. If Wild Bill Hickok said pick up your glass, you did it.
“To... this man here, I don't know his name.”
“Swine-berg. And Wis-nos-ki...” Alvin supplied. Hickok looked at Alvin, and suddenly recognized him as the traveling photographer and grinned and winked in appreciation.
“Swineburn and Wis... something. HEY!” Hickok spied men talking and not listening. He pulled out his pistol and shot- BOOOOoooom!!! into a corner where it was thought to be safe. Now everyone was giving him total attention.
“EVERYONE, LISTEN... A TOAST to brave men. Like these here... they are going the way of the buffalo, and the Red Man. Soon they will all be gone. Men like these who have faced death and danger and paved the way so we can all sit here at Kelley's and sip tea and tell lies. Raise your glass, you are perhaps seeing the last two, true heroes in the West!”
The crowd yelled a indiscernible mass of “Hear Hear,” and clapped for several minutes. They had no idea what Wild Bill was talking about, but they would have toasted to anything he said.
“You have a way with crowds Hickok...” Swineberg said almost seriously. “It is too bad you are not a priest, you could be quite effective.” Hickok raised his eyebrows, stunned at the thought, and ordered another bottle.
“James, I think I will turn in...” Bill Cody announced, hoping he would follow. He wanted to get out of the restaurant before the crowd started making a line for autographs. “We've got a long ride tomorrow to Colorado, providing the Duke shows up.” Hickok nodded, but he wanted to put a dent in the new bottle which just arrived. A pretty barmaid poured him his first glass, of the second bottle. “I'll be up after awhile...” Hickok purred as he looked into the sympathetic waitress's eyes. Cody walked out, or tried to, as a young woman approached him at the door.
“That's a good man...” Hickok announced. “And a damn good friend.”
“Mr. Hickok, I want to Thank You... for the toast, and for your comments.” Father Swineberg offered across the two tables. “But please tell us if you would, what happened to your famous long hair? And what brings you two out to Dodge?”
Hickok took a shot of straight whiskey and winced. “The good whiskey I guess! I don't think THAT is cut... funny, you get better whiskey when they know who you are... But we cut our damn hair as soon as we cancelled the shows- nobody recognizes us this way. Bill just trimmed his, but I had the barber give me a soldier cut. That hair can be a real nuisance out on the plains. Anyway, my hat goes off to you Father, I meant every word. I just hope your scalp does not come off too.”
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