by Bruce Graham
“Perhaps over Bourbon at a neutral tavern.”
The Yankee reached out an open hand. “You name it, Grif.”
The Reb was totally relaxed. He took his adversary’s hand. “The Lone Star. We can be there in a few minutes.”
I backed away while the two men strode off, the Yankee waves a hand. “Good-bye, son, and have a good evening.”
Another time I assisted a very frail man in totally civilian clothes to mount the portico steps. Several times he paused, with me supporting him, and stood wheezing. “I’m new here, son, I’ve been too ill to attend any session for weeks. What has been happening?”
“I can’t say, sir. My post is out here.”
“Your Yankee troops wrecked my plantation near the Red River and I can’t get any help to do the work. My sons and grandsons are doing their best. I’m hoping to have these people see the light.” He resumed his labored journey up the steps. At the top he half turned to me and took my hand in a grip of iron. “I wasn’t for secession, but was an enemy just the same. Was your unit there? I hope not.”
“No, sir, we were in Louisiana. When the War ended we were sent to look after Maximilian and now I’m a civilian.”
He nodded, coughed and turned away. “Go in peace.” He shuffled to the portico doors and into the building.
Spence made it a point to see me on the job. His comments were few and his questions focused on what I was learning about the place. I wasn’t able to provide any information other than to comment on the wide variety of people.
“Old secessionists, Westerners without sympathy for slavery, carpetbaggers trying to loot the place, newcomers looking to build cattle empires, poor whites and blacks without ways to even earn livings, let alone get ahead, landowners and bankers and merchants barely hanging on after the collapse of the Confederacy, they’re all struggling for what they can save, scratch out, steal or beg. Nate, you and I are the lucky ones, paid by the state to do work that nobody cares about and may lead to something better.” Spence shrugged and left me alone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After the first few days of becoming acquainted my work settled into a boring routine. My church and small town Vermont upbringing and teetotaling father combined to discourage me from wanting to drink alcohol. Even the locale of service of the 7th Vermont Regiment had provided very limited opportunities for falling under the influence of John Barleycorn. My few random dalliances in saloons had been so limited and without enjoyment that I simply viewed that sort of so-called amusement with indifference.
The main streets of Austin teemed with saloons and cheap rooming houses, which overflowed with newly arrived people, especially Negroes and Hispanics. Most of the recent arrivals labored to repair and replace the ramshackle buildings left over from the erratic growth during the generation from independence, through statehood and to the chaos of the War. The older residents, who I surmised had once been themselves new arrivals, jostled with the newcomers to keep their former dominant status. Fights were commonplace and the occasional echo of gunfire reminded me that I seemed to have arrived at the true “Wild West.”
I was interested to discover that the city maintained a public library, with a modest collection of a variety of works, classical and contemporary. I took to visiting the facility on the two evenings a week when it was open. I am certain that the middle aged man and woman working there were curious about my diligence in perusing the variety of works in which I became immersed: history, English and American literature, reference works on the state and region.
My weekdays away from the job and out of the library found me lounging around the hotel lobby and in front of the building. I took to closely examining the local and Dallas and Houston newspapers: agitation over how the state was to cope with the reconstruction program; how would the expected implementation of sharecropping program; the burgeoning cattle industry and the spread of drovers around the state; whether state and local governments would be controlled by unregenerate one-time secessionists and white supremacists, unionists who saw the opportunity to gain control, carpetbaggers and scalawags, or forward looking people ready to rebuild the state in light of a new reality.
After several weeks the flow of visitors to the Capitol slowed and the weather became chilly, and then cold. I heard that the work of the people in the Capitol was mostly over. But just as things seemed to settle down to boredom on the job, my latest crisis struck out of the blue.
The man had been a frequent but not regular visitor and was more often than not unsteady on his feet. He wore a full gray uniform, even to a sash of an officer and gun belt. His left arm he held in the way of someone who was at least partially crippled. Several times I had approached him and detected the smell of alcohol. I always saluted him. He always saluted in return and waved me away while he went up or down the portico steps. Since he never seemed on the verge of falling I let him be. One afternoon he appeared with two other men, all of them exuding the vapors. The man was, as always, rigged out as a Confederate officer, while the others were in varied civilian garb and with no weapons.
I snapped them a salute while I watched from a distance.
One of the other men coughed or belched. “Give us The Yellow Rose, soldier.”
“I’m sorry, I know only Dixie.”
The man in uniform finally saluted. He had a difficult time finding his forehead as if he had imbibed more than usual. “Everybody in Texas knows The Yellow Rose. Sing it soldier.”
The third man began “There’s a yellow gal in Texas.”
The man in gray suddenly went to his holster. “No, no, he’s going to sing it.”
I was startled. Within seconds I was being forced to face down an irrational man who seemed ready and able to use his pistol over some sort of imagined slight, when my entire past was directed toward dealing with things in a calm and orderly way. I took two steps back and held my hands up, palms toward the group.
The man in gray was undoing the cover on his CSA holster. “You’re a Yankee, a Yankee and you won’t sing the Texas song.”
“Don’t do that,” I said, hands out, facing him, palms open. “Go your way, please.”
The man in gray’s hand was on the butt of his pistol. “Sing it.”
“Will Dixie do?” I asked. I wondered how quickly I could get my pistol out of my holster. The thought of the confrontation with Johnny Rebs trying to surrender came to me, two men killed for little or no reason, because I was too hasty.
“Don’t do that, Caleb,” said one of the other men. “Let’s go into the meeting.”
The man in gray reached out his crippled left arm, shakily toward me. “I got this from you Yankees. Where’s your hurt? You gave me this at the Wilderness. I can’t even mount a horse without help.”
Another of the men called out, “Sing it, just sing it.”
“I don’t know it.” I backed away several steps. “Go your way, please.”
The man in gray had a pistol in his hand. He pointed it in the air. “There’s a yellow gal in Texas---.” He pointed the pistol in my general direction.
I reached into my holster. My pistol was in my hand. “Put it away.”
The man in gray cocked the pistol and his hand was abruptly steady, his aim directly at me.
I cocked my pistol and for the first time squeezed the trigger against a person.
The blast was loud and jolted my hand.
The man in gray staggered backwards. He dropped his pistol and flopped like a broken doll onto the portico steps. The pistol clattered onto the steps.
The two other men shrank back for a moment, then leaped toward the prostrate figure and knelt on each side.
I let my hand and pistol sag to my side. I looked around, for the first time noting the scattering of people spread widely around the portico steps.
“Get a doctor,” I called. “Fast, get a doctor.”
One of the men turned toward me. “Don’t bother. You killed him.”
I holstered my pistol
. “He was going to shoot me.”
Spence suddenly appeared at the portico. “I heard a shot.”
I went to the body and stared down. “He wouldn’t leave me alone. He had the chance.”
A crowd was gathering, muttering, grumbling.
Spence knelt next to the body and studied the man’s midsection. “A great shot, right in the heart.”
One of the men in gray’s companions pushed through the crowd forming. “His pistol.”
Spence took the pistol. “Army ’60.” He took the dead man’s right hand. “His hand is mangled. I’m surprised he could hold the gun. Who saw this?”
One of the men pointed to the other. “We were here. Caleb wanted the guard to sing The Yellow Rose but he wouldn’t do it. His gun wasn’t even loaded.”
Gasps went through the crowd, along with comments of “Murder.” The crowd was growing, along with several Union soldiers.
Spence manipulated the pistol. He looked at me, then the body. He grabbed me. “Get out of here. I’ll take over.”
I moved through the growing ring of people until I was at the edge. My third killing, and again a man who wasn’t armed. I began to shake. I strode away from the Capitol and reached the office, then headed for the hotel. Halfway there I swerved and walked the mile to Spence and Jennifer’s home. I pounded on the door.
Jennifer opened the door and frowned. “What are you doing here? Not looking for some of me now, I hope, Spence will be here soon.”
“I have to get away. I just shot a man at the Capitol.”
“What happened?”
I briefly described the events. “His gun was empty. His friends are the only ones who saw what happened. He’s a Confederate officer. I won’t have a chance with a judge and jury down here. I’ll hang for sure.”
“But if you run you’re admitting your guilt.”
I recalled the words of the Chester Church pastor: “The guilty man flies when no one persueth.”
“You need to stay.”
“He was a Confederate officer. I’m as good as convicted already. I’m a former Union soldier. If I wait for them to charge me, I’ll never be free. But things are unsettled down here and in time it may quiet down. I’ll write and you can find out what’s going on.”
She took my hands and leaned toward me and kissed me, more tenderly than ever before. “I can’t convince you. So go.”
I sprang up and paused for several seconds, then spun and went out the door and to the hotel. I changed clothes, retrieved my gear, threw my guard uniform into a trash container and by late afternoon was on the stage headed for Dallas. I had no appetite and simply drank water for the next two days. A newspaper reported that former CSA Texas Brigade Colonel Caleb Winters had been shot and killed during a fracas on the State Capitol steps by a security guard employed by Spence Security Service. Authorities were seeking the shooter, Nathan Gould, a former Union soldier, who had been staying at the Tibbetts Hotel but left in haste within hours of the shooting. Witnesses reported that the Colonel had been arguing with the guard, and was armed with an unloaded pistol. Sheriff’s deputies and volunteers were searching for Gould, checking livery stables and the stage stations for word of his whereabouts.
I couldn’t hide myself very well, and sought out a livery stable, where I bought a nondescript horse and tack and set off into the wasteland to the west. I paused at small towns where news from the Capitol would not have reached, until I reached Stephenville. The town appeared in decline, with most of its buildings, including homes, run down and vacant, the people appearing played out and old. I suspected that by that time the news would have moved on and I might recover my vigor. I signed in at the dilapidated Ox Yoke Saloon that doubled as a rooming house and rested for two days. A three day old newspaper contained no word of my crime. So for the time being I was safe in Stephenville. First was word that Spence and Jennifer had joined the hunt, and had been cleared of any involvement in Colonel Winters’ murder, as it was now called. The second item was that the killer of Colonel Winters had been identified as a freight driver who had single handedly broken up a Mexican bandit gang, killing one man, wounding the leader and bringing in a third.
I went into the saloon that evening and sidled up to the bar. I was wearing my pistol that I hadn’t yet reloaded, and was otherwise seemingly indistinguishable from the few drovers and hangers on. I sipped a drink for a few minutes and studied the place. A faro game was in progress in the corner. I finished my drink and wandered toward the game. A round was just finishing and the dealer was shuffling the cards. Three players had placed their bets.
I drew up a chair and sat on the end near the dealer’s assistant. I put two dollars on the trey picture and waited.
The dealer set the shuffled deck into the shoe and drew out one card that he turned face down without showing it and slipped under the shoe. “All ready?” he asked.
We all grunted agreement.
He flipped a card to his right: a nine. He flipped the next card to the left: a king.
Nobody said or did anything.
I noticed that the other bets were ace, jack and six.
The dealer turned over more cards until he flipped a deuce to the right, then a jack to the left. The dealer quickly reached out and took a bill from the jack picture.
The man next to me cursed and relaxed. “That’s three straight.”
The dealer flipped more cards until he put a trey on his right and a nine on his left. He reached out and put two bills into mine.
I drew the bills to me, stood up and turned away.
“Mr. Gould.” The man was three feet in front of me. He spoke with a distinct Southern dialect. “I didn’t want to interrupt the game.” He looked like an ordinary drover, face smooth and not weathered, slouch hat beaten, heavy shirt, chaps covering his pants and tall boots, and two white handled pistols hung low on the gun belt.
“Your name?”
“What’s important is I know yours. There’s a hefty reward out for you, a thousand dollars, dead or alive. How’ll you have it?”
“Would it help to say I’m not guilty?”
“I don’t care. I’ll be paid for bringing you in, dead or alive. Alive and acquitted or dead and untried I still get my money. Don’t try me, I’m fast, real fast. Walk out with me, give me your gun belt and we’ll check into the Sheriff’s Office.”
“I don’t like that.”
“Clay, Clay Allison,” came a call from behind the man.
The man half turned and looked over his shoulder. “I can’t talk, I got business.”
My gun was out and pressed into his guts. “Hands up, Mr. Allison.”
The man edged his hands up to shoulder height.
I reached with my free hand and unbuckled his gun belt and pulled it to me. “Now, you walk out the door ahead of me. And if anybody tries to stop me you get it first.” My frequent reading of stories in the Police Gazette had acquainted me with hard talk.
The man turned slowly, my pistol right up against him. We walked through the saloon that way and onto the darkened sod sidewalk.
“What are you going to do?”
“Mr. Allison, if I was a killer you’d be dead, but I’m not like that. I’m taking your horse and your guns.” I climbed into the saddle, wheeled the horse about and cantered in the direction of Dallas. My last view of the man was him heading into the saloon. I reached the east end of town, and turned off behind the nearby houses to circle back into the center of town behind the saloon. I kept going to the west. I didn’t want to provide the man and a posse the correct direction for my journey.
A few miles along the road to Dallas, I went off into the scrub for a few hundred yards. I hitched the horse, watered him, scrounged a small bundle of grass for his dinner and resigned myself to a chilly night without a fire. I packed my old Navy and its ammunition into my haversack and studied the weapons I’d taken from Allison. His gun belt held two pistols that were .36 like my original, but seemed cleaner. His belt held fully
stocked cartridge box and cap pouch. In the fading daylight, I put on the belt and fixed it to fit myself. I was pleased with my appearance, but decided that I wouldn’t wear it as low as Allison; I wasn’t as yet a quick draw gunfighter.
In the morning, sporting the Allison belt and guns, I set off toward Dallas.
Days in the saddle and curled up at night by fires made me wonder if I was really intended for this sort of thing. I couldn’t decide which was worse, this, Bartonsville or the Army or being on the run. At every community I hoped that I’d found a better place, but they turned out to be mirages. The scrub and brush were poor companions and I dared not stop in any town.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
One noontime I chanced upon Buffalo Gap. The town boasted three saloons and a couple of busy hotels and a few pleasant residences and shops difficult to label. I checked Allison’s horse into the livery stable and signed in at the Trader Hotel. Meandering around the community I inferred that they processed buffalo hides brought in by the hunters for shipment north and east. A couple of freighting firms were busy with the hides and meeting with hunters. The little community was the county seat, with a wooden court house and jail, big enough for a squad of soldiers, but, I was told, almost never nearly half full.
I moved among the saloons, never drinking very much and wondering if I could latch onto something in the buffalo trade. In the Buffalo Horn one afternoon I sidled up to the bar and brushed against a lean, weathered man with gun belt hung low. “Excuse me,” I said and edged away from the man.
“Okay,” the man said, “but don’t let it happen again. Bartender, when does Ben Thompson usually come in?”
The bartender was busy pouring for two men further down the bar. “I can’t say, I don’t keep a schedule on him.”
“Don’t sass me, just a straight answer. Does he have two hours, four hours or six hours left to live?”
The bartender wasn’t smiling. “Probably four, Billy. But please don’t do any of your shooting in here again. Can you do it out in the street?”