by Mark Baugher
The bank job was in a sleepy little town close to the New Mexico border. We blew in there, shooting everything in sight, while Jim and one more hit the bank. Really weren’t no big deal. We rode out of town with seven thousand dollars. They chased us for a while, so we gave them a little rifle music and they ran back to town. I was thinking this to be an even better deal than bounty hunting and was seriously considering a career change. Kurt talked me out of it, but I still wondered. I finally decided it was always a good back up plan.
We pulled a few more jobs with these boys and had some good money saved up. Kurt and I were getting bored with their company and decided it was time to finish the plan. It fell right in our lap. Jim was the only one with any real money on his head. The others had some, but not enough to risk taking them in so we waited. Kurt said the risk didn’t warrant the reward.
Jim came to us one day and wanted us to go to a small town and case the bank. This was really funny. As we rode past the sheriff’s office, Kurt pulled his pistol on Jim. I grabbed Jim’s gun.
Kurt was laughing so hard he could barely say, “Jim, you are under arrest!”
“Says who?” he said.
I always have to say something. “Says us, Jim. We are officers of the court and duly signed to find and arrest you.”
Wow, but he did turn the air blue with his yelling!
We dismounted, walked fifty feet to the sheriff’s office and turned him in. A real easy $3000.
Kurt looked at me and said, “Well, pard, we both have six thousand dollars. Where shall we go to spend it?”
I pondered for a short while. “Let’s sell our gear. Get new clothes, take a train to San Francisco and see what happens.”
Ol’ Kurt looked at me and smiled. “Damn, boy, I like how you think. Let’s go.”
We walked over to a clothing store, bought their best and finest duds, got a hot bath and haircuts. When we walked down the street, we were somebody. People look at us with respect. Of course, if they knew the truth, it wouldn’t happen; but Kurt and I didn’t care one bit. The whole world is built on bullshit, and we know how to play that game.
We walked to the train depot and bought tickets to San Fran. On the trip there, people asked about us, and we had this story all thought up. We were mining engineers. Educated in the east and looking for mining possibilities. People just loved our asses. Of course, we were figuring out ways to steal their money if given any chance at all. That really wasn’t our focus at the time—hell, we were rich and carefree.
The upper crust ladies were no different than the ones I was used to. Just a little bit cleaner and smelled better. Past that, the same tricks worked on them as any woman. Here is a golden tip for you. When it comes to women, just act like you care. Listen to them go on and nod your head as if you are listening. If you can stand that for a while, just give them a flower. They will be in your bed and in love. Problem then is how to get rid of them.
Now for the upper crust men. They are more polite and don’t rush to violence as quick, but suckers nonetheless. The easiest way to get their money is a poker game. Get them drinking and watch this thing called good judgment go right out the window.
Ol’ Kurt and I had a rule. When playing poker for fun, drink your ass off. When trying to fleece a fat cat, don’t drink. Not one drop. We both carried a flask and pretended to drink, but it was just water. It was almost too easy. One advantage Kurt and I both had was our ability to not drink. Most don’t seem to have the strength to shut it off when needed.
Kurt and I spent so many hours playing poker we developed a sign language that we use in a poker game. I knew him so well that I knew just what he had and he knew what I had. This was a huge advantage. If he had a good hand, I raised a lot. If he needed a card and I had it, he folded. Sweet little racket we had going. When it came to gambling, the slight edge always won in the long haul.
San Fran
Wow, what a city it was! You want high class, it’s there. Low class, no problem. We found that the high class was where the money was, so we played their game most of the time. They loved us. We were rich, good looking and available, you know. The men wanted to spend time with us, wanting to get in on a big mining deal. Of course, we always had a big deal, opportunity of a lifetime. Riches beyond belief. Greed is a blinding and powerful motivator. We found a fella with a trunk full of worthless stock certificates. We bought them all for a hundred dollars and resold them for a lot of money.
Here is the funny thing—people trusted us. We walked into a men’s club one afternoon. They said we had to be members to come in. Ten bucks to the doorman and we were in.
A fella walked up to us and said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. My name is Hiram Westhall. I’m a banker and always glad to meet people of means.”
So Kurt joined right in. “Hello, sir. My name is Matthew Winston, and this fine man is my company president, Alfred Goodyear. Nice to meet you.”
“If there is anything our bank can do for you, just let me know, and I will take care of you personally.”
Ol’ Kurt was on his game. “Well, sir, there is something we need. We are carrying several thousand dollars for small incidentals and need to put it someplace safe.”
Well, ol’ Hiram was ours at that point.
“It being Saturday, can we see to that on Monday morning, Mr. Goodyear?”
“That would be fine, Hiram. But in the meantime, are there any card games that we might pass the time with?”
“Well, of course, Matthew. Right this way.”
We were off and running from then on.
As for the ladies… They wanted a rich and powerful man to take the pressures of life off their shoulders. Somehow they came to the conclusion that we fit the bill. Maybe because we let them think that way.
We met a fine lady of culture at the opera one evening. Kurt took her aside, asking, “My dear lady, can I ask for a short, private conversation with you?”
“Well, of course. Let’s visit in the lobby.”
“My dear lady, my young friend is quite taken with you, but can I ask you to be tender with him?”
“In what way?”
“He is just coming off a heartbreaking unsuccessful romance. The boy is devastated really. He comes from a wealthy family back east. They asked me to take him away for a while and help him recover.”
That was all it took. I was rich and vulnerable. She made a run for me like I was just the one for her. I was in all the right circles now. I played so heartbroken that she was going to have me come hell or high water. Three days later, I was sleeping with a high society woman. They can’t teach you things like them low class girls can, but like I have always said, the worst sex I ever had was fabulous.
Living the big lie does require a lot of money. So we kept our noses to the ground looking for opportunity. Then we found it. The shanghai business. We found that ships’ captains are always looking for sailors to man their ships. It’s horrible work and no one wants to do it. So it was up to us to convince young, strong men to pursue that career path. Easiest money yet. Go to a bar, find a young, strong man drunk out of his mind and get him drunker. He passes out and wakes up a sailor. We felt like we were doing them a favor. We helped several dozen men see the world that they never knew was out there.
We split our time between the upper class and lower. Big shots throw money around, and we were good at that. It took a lot of money to be convincing. Ol’ Kurt and I had a monster deal brewing. We had investors lined up and were getting ready to pull the switch when I stepped on my dick. I got that high society young gal in the family way. She just knew I was going to marry her. She caught on to my less-than-honorable ways real quick and told her daddy. He had the Pinkerton’s check me out. and the fun was over. The police took our little plan apart at just the wrong moment. We ran like hell. That was okay with us; we were tired of city life anyway. Thought we would take a country vacation and find another city when we were rested up. So back to the southwest for us for some rest and
relaxation.
Tucson, Arizona Territory
I grew up in the Midwest. Had no idea just how much the weather affects life. When I look back, I remember the sticky air. Made summer hotter and winter colder. Cold and cloudy weather for months on end. I traveled throughout the west as far as San Fran. However, the most comfortable place is the southwest. Low humidity, no flying bugs and very few cloudy days. It can get hot, but just wait for evening, and you have the best place on this earth. Ol’ Kurt and I were visiting Tucson and enjoying ourselves. The Mexican ladies and tequila are outstanding. However, just like everywhere else, we needed to make a living. We was always up to our old tricks.
Everything Goes to Hell
Get this. Kurt fell in love! He was twenty years older than me, and I could see him slowing down. Maybe that’s what was wrong with him. We were staying at a boarding house owned by a widow woman. She did seem nice and all, but who cares? Well, it seems that Kurt did. It started with him not paying attention at the poker tables. We were losing money, and I was not happy. Then all of a sudden, he was the happiest man I have ever seen.
I cornered him at the bar. “Kurt, you are straining our relationship. What is going on, asshole?”
“Well, pard, I have something to tell you. I’m retiring from our business. I’m moving in with the wider woman and starting a new life.”
I was in shock. This possibility never occurred to me. I was at a loss for words.
“Don’t worry, son. You will always find a new partner. Go find a young feller and teach him everything I taught you.”
And that was it. Over in an instant. I was on my own again. I was sick about it. I always thought Kurt and I would grow old together and nothing would ever change. Oh, well… I would carry on. Then I got to wondering. It ain’t like Kurt to settle down with one woman, so I waited around for a few weeks. It seemed that Kurt was the boarding house keeper of the porch. He sat there all day talking to the tenants and what really disappointed me is that he seemed happy as hell. I figured it was time for a heart-to-heart.
“Kurt, can we talk?”
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“What the hell has come over you? You sit here day after day and seem like you are just fine with it. This ain’t the old Kurt I know.”
“You’re right. I’ll tell you what’s different. It’s the widow lady. She is truly the nicest person I ever knew. Never met anyone like her. Makes me wonder if I been hanging out in all the wrong places.”
“But, Kurt, we’ve known a lot of nice whores, and you didn’t fall in love.”
“Sorry, son, but I’ve fallen in love now, and I’m settling down. I’ve found something I never knew existed.”
After the shock wore off, I wandered down to the sheriff’s office looking for wanted posters. I found a local man wanted for murder. His name was Dockie Barnett. Killed a local youth who had rich parents. $1500 for him dead or alive. I did my research and found out he worked on a local ranch called the C-Bar. Seemed he and his pards came in on payday, got in a tiff with the locals and killed a town fella. On the way out to the C-Bar, I was wondering just how to approach this issue. I could pretend to be a cow puncher, but they would know real quick I wasn’t. So I decided to try a new approach. My experience with cowboys was that they are usually not a tough lot. So I was just going in there and tell them how bad a character I am and get the bluff working. I saw a group gathered at some corrals so I wandered over. They all turned and looked me over.
“Boys, my name is Cimarron Frost, and I’m a bounty man. I’m looking for an outlaw by the name of Dockie Barnett.”
I tried to look like a bad man not to be fooled with.
One of them said, “That no-class murdering pig left several days ago heading south. If you find him, shoot him a time or two for me and kill me a few savages while you are at it.”
Something told me my bluff was a bad idea. There were a lot of hands resting on their pistols. I figured it was time to re-think my plan. So I said, “Funny thing about outlaws, sometimes you think they are long gone and they might be hiding in plain sight.”
I heard pistols being cocked. “Probably not the case this time.”
I rode off, hoping they wouldn’t shoot me in the back. I knew one of them was Dockie Barnett. People kept glancing toward one of the group. It was time to re-think just what I was doing.
I decided to just watch and wait for an opportunity. My years in the woods growing up taught me some wily tricks, and I was going to use everything I had to get this Dockie character. I needed the money but waited like the hunter I am. Some days passed, and I noticed that Dockie wasn’t there. However, I found horse tracks circling the herd just like I was. This, my friends, was a cat and mouse game. I loved it. My senses were on high alert. He was just as good as I was. I knew he was out there, but I never saw anything giving him away. My mind was racing for some distraction to flush him out. Maybe killing one of his fellow cowboys would do it. Would he lose his calm just long enough to give me a chance? It was getting late in the day, but the next day, one of them corn cobs was going to die.
I always left the area to camp. I would go to great length to cover my tracks and might go out ten miles or so. I found a perfect spot down in a dry wash surrounded by large cliffs. That would let me build a small fire to heat some food. The following morning, I woke to the smell of bacon frying. I jumped up to run and went flat on my face. My feet were tied. When I rolled over, there was Dockie squatting by the fire.
“Good morning,” said Dockie. “Want some bacon for breakfast?”
“Not just yet,” I replied. I looked around. “Where are my horse, guns and boots?”
Dockie replied, “Down the wash about half a mile.”
“What are you going to do to me?” I asked.
Dockie responded, “Depends on you. You know I can be rid of you most anytime I want.”
“Looks to be the case,” I replied. “Any extra bacon for me?”
We visited for a while. Hell, I got to like the guy. He asked me about my life, and I got going on some of my more colorful adventures. I thought he was becoming a friend. I was even wondering if he might need me to teach him the trade. After a while, he stood up pulled his pistol, cocked it and aimed it at my forehead. Then in an instant, it dawned on me. He was just figuring me out. He was probably one of those trustworthy types. I knew it was all over, and for the slightest moment, I wondered if my father was right all along. The last thing I saw in this world was a blinding flash.
Prologue
Well, there he is. Dockie Barnett, bull of the woods on this ranch. I’m always in awe of the old boy, even though I want to shoot the old bastard with his own gun. Let me describe what I see, because I know that you are depending on me to tell you this story.
Dockie is leaning against one of the cedar poles that hold up the tin-roofed porch attached to his ranch house. His horse, Aw Shit, is standing next to him.
I asked Dockie why he named his horse Aw Shit, and he said, “Because every time I catch him for some work, I can tell what he’s thinking.”
When Dockie was born is a mystery. He doesn’t know exactly how old he is, but mid-fifties would be a good guess. He is close to six feet tall and probably weighs in at one hundred eighty pounds. He always wears a well-worn, wide-brimmed hat with a tie-down string, white cotton, long-sleeved shirt, with suspenders holding up his canvas pants, high-topped boots, and a gun on his hip. A very imposing figure! This is one of the old-style pioneers who it took to settle this country.
I have a great ambition to record his story, but I have some problems in getting him to talk to me about it. You see, I am an educated man, and Dockie believes that an educated man bears watching.
I once overheard him say, “Every politician I ever knew was an educated man.”
My response was that there is always an exception to the rule.
He replied, “Sometimes you have to look a long time for the exception.”
An
other obstacle is the Western code of politeness. It says that you never ask a man about his past. Doing so is an insult and not taken lightly, especially so with Dockie. There is a mystery about his past, and anyone who has known him for a long time goes quiet when the subject is broached. He and the hands know something that is not talked about.
I got drunk with an old boy who came here with Dockie by the name of No-name Smith. Even drunk out of our minds, all I could pry out of him was, “There ain’t no statute of limitation on murder.”
You are probably wondering how I have come to know his story. As luck would have it, Dockie’s wife is my Aunt Marsha. Without this family connection, I would be an outsider and never let in to the inner circle. I suspicion that Dockie really finds no interest in me, but he is bound by family connections and is always cordial. He will talk with me about weather, cattle, horses, and family, but that is about as far as it gets. In order to gather up his story, I visit my Aunt Marsha when Dockie is out.