by Bill Russo
“Most of the time they only stole money and valuables while slapping the citizens around a bit. But sometimes there were brutal beatings and even murders.”
Things got so bad in town, Bert told me, that the oil companies got together and brought in a “sheriff” from Texas.
One of the first things the new lawman did was to bring the Pistol Hill robberies to a quick end.
“He stopped that situation jack rabbit fast, by putting on a 24 hour watch. Him and a couple of deputies would catch the crooks and hang ‘em instantly right there on the spot. Then they’d leave the corpses dangling on their ropes to discourage any other ‘yeggs’ that might get the same thoughts.”
“Word was, that this hombre they appointed sheriff, named Jose Alvarado, had fought for Pancho Villa in the Mexican Revolution. He even saved Villa’s life after a pivotal battle in Agua Prieta in state of Sonora.
“After a devastating defeat, more than 4,000 of Villa’s men had been killed and another 6000 had been captured.
“Following that slaughter, only 200 fighters remained loyal to Villa. Alvarado rallied the two hundred and led a surprise bee sting attack directly in the face of the enemy. Killing more than 300 in the shocking foray ; they were able to punch open an escape route to the mountains of Chihuahua for Pancho Villa and the remaining soldiers.
“For his actions that day, Alvarado was given the honorary title of ‘Don’. From then on, even his enemies called him, ‘Don’ - Don Jose Alvarado. He was also a close associate of the martyred Mexican hero Salvador Alvarado and some say he fought with Alvarado when the great patriot was ambushed and killed during a war between two Mexican political groups.”
“The oil companies called a meeting of community leaders to announce the hiring of Don Jose Alvarado as the first Sheriff of Whiz Bang and the surrounding area.
“Driving a brand new 1921 center-door, Model T, the city’s first peace officer arrived soon after and made straight for the Whiz Bang House to have a chat with Red.”
“Some say that he did this in order to negotiate how much ‘protection’ money he would receive from the community’s largest sporting house. Others speculate that he merely wanted to sample the house specials before beginning his new job.”
1921 Model T
Old Bert told me that the truth was most likely that he landed at the Whiz Bang House for both reasons.
“It didn’t take Don Jose very long to demonstrate his skills with his Colt MRP,” the hermit told me. “He gunned down four men in his first month on the job. It was all legal. They drew first, although some of the softer hearted citizens said that Alvarado had forced his foes into filling their hands.”
“How could he force them to draw on him?”
“Why Sgt. Billy, I’m surprised you even ask that. You should know that in a land where everyone carries a filled holster it is very easy to goad an enemy into drawing on you – especially when there are other men watching. To fail to draw is an embarrassment of the highest order. A man who did not respond when challenged would soon find his life in shreds. Friends and loved ones would see him as a coward. He would be shunned. He would truly be better off dead.”
The hermit informed me that the men that Sheriff Alvarado shot were not especially liked by the community. Since all were suspected of being bandits or crooked card players, there was little fuss about adding four more graves to Boot Hill.
From the outset, the inhabitants of the town had split feelings about their new lawman. One group saw him as Robin Hood, another said he was ‘no-damn good’.
A third faction vowed “he’s not Robin Hood - he’s robbin’ everybody”!
Still another cluster of citizens thought that he was doing as well as anyone could.
By the end of his first year on the job, most folks lost count of how many rowdies Don Jose had outdrawn and killed. Though opinions on him were still divided, there was one time in the “Bird Cage” when everybody cheered as Alvarado forced a gambler’s hand and shot him four times through the heart.
Chapter Four: Gun Battle in The East Room
Lute Fowler came to town in March of 1922. He rapidly built a reputation as a bully and a hard man to beat at poker. Suspected of cheating by nearly all, nobody ever had been able to catch him at it.
A pretty fast hand with a Colt, Fowler had killed the half -dozen hombres who had openly accused him of card sharping. Finally he was shunned out of the gambling business when the oil field workers and the other townsmen simply refused to let him sit in on any games of chance.
Running short of cash, Fowler began taking odd jobs in the oil fields and with area farmers. During one such stretch he signed on to help out at Gawk Larkin’s ranch a few miles outside of town.
A bookish man, Gawk was a patient farmer who prodded more than three tons of hay from every one of his acres – about twice as much as anybody else was getting. His chickens were fed the finest feed and in return gave the best eggs in Osage County. They commanded the highest prices when sold to the town’s preeminent restaurants, like Ma Glockner’s place and a couple others.
An ample, raven haired beauty, Vickie Larkin worked alongside her husband and helped to make their spread the most profitable in the County. She fell victim to one of the last outbreaks of Smallpox in the West. Though there’s no sure cure, Gawk tended her day and night and brought her through the worst of it.
Needing a few weeks rest before she would be able to resume work, she advised Gawk to hire temporary help. As ill fate would have it, he engaged Lute Fowler.
Fowler stayed two months at the Larkin spread and his work was adequate but Gawk noted that he spent almost as much time looking at pretty Vickie as he did working. Tension between the two men mounted although Mrs. Larkin never once gave Fowler any encouragement or reason to believe she didn’t love Gawk.
Lute Fowler was a dandy, and his pride didn’t take kindly to a woman ignoring him.
When his employment at Gawk’s was done, he took his pay and went back to town. Flush with enough cash for a few weeks’ idleness, he strolled from bar to bar. The quarter mile of Main Street that was devoted to saloons and fun houses, was lined with more than two dozen establishments on both sides of the roadway – and Lute drifted in and out of them all.
In each watering hole he bragged that he had not only plowed Gawk’s fields but also had tended to Mrs. Larkin’s plowing needs. Word of this soon got back to Gawk.
“I’m going to town Vickie! I’m taking my gun and I’m gonna shut that lying Fowler’s trap once and for all.”
“No Gawk, don’t go,” Mrs. Larkin pleaded. “You’re a farmer not a gunman and Fowler’s a fast draw killer. You can’t go. We’ll just ignore his lies and they will go away.”
“No they won’t Vickie. Some people are going to believe it. You’ll never be able to go in town again without people whispering and staring at you. I’ve got to settle this.”
His Ford started on the first crank and Gawk drove as fast as he could towards the city - a rusty 60 year old Colt Civil War pistol stuffed into his pants.
Parking the Model T at the beginning of the dance hall district he sprinted from saloon to saloon in search of the slanderous Lute Fowler.
“He left here a few minutes ago Gawk. He said he was heading for The Whiz Bang House,” reported Oil Can Slim, the bartender at the Bird Cage. “Don’t go after him Gawk. He’s fast. You don’t have a chance!”
Larkin bolted from the bar more rapidly than a racehorse and was out of earshot before the barkeep was halfway through his warning.
Big Red’s place was the largest and most elegant of all the sporting houses. On the ground floor was an ornate great room with a grand stage and seating for 200 patrons who were treated to Vaudeville every night, Sunday included. The shows featured dancing ladies, comedians, jugglers, singers and a variety of other acts. Most of them were pretty good. The ones that weren’t would get a shower of rotten fruit if th
ey were lucky – if not, they might get a shower of lead. The patrons of The Whiz Bang Theater were fussy and not much given towards tolerance.
On either side of the Great Room were twin lounges and gaming areas. There were several small areas in the rear of each lounge where patrons could have a few confidential moments with their choice of Red’s painted ladies. Longer conversations, if desired, were available for a higher price on the second floor where there were a dozen private suites set aside for such tender fleeting intimacies.
Each downstairs lounge had its own Honky Tonk piano player banging out the hot tunes of the day like the million selling “Three O’clock in the Morning” or “Toot Toot Tootsie Goodbye.
One of the most popular ditties among Okies that year was “Ain’t it a Shame”; which was being rendered in the East Room by piano player Big Blake Ivory. His stomping arrangement was accompanied by a few dozen patrons singing along and tapping their feet.
“Brothers, it’s a shame to gamble on Sunday.
Ain’t it a shame to gamble on Sunday? Ain’t it a shame?
Ain’t it a shame to gamble on Sunday, When you got Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday too. Ain’t it a shame?
I say brothers, it’s a shame to flirt around on Sunday. Ain’t it a shame, when you get Monday, Tuesday, Wednes –
A thundering shot from Gawk’s ancient Union Army percussion pistol stopped the music and singing in mid syllable. Pushing through a cloud of gun smoke, the enraged man burst through the swinging doors and blasted off another slug.
With the smell of the black powder lingering in the air, Gawk growled, “Where’s that lying, no good Lute Fowler? Show yourself Fowler. I’m gonna kill you for what you been saying.”
Fowler’s hands which had been busy groping one of the bar maids, flew to his twin Colts.
He checked himself and chuckled when he saw the hapless figure which had fired the two rounds. Dressed in faded farmer dungarees with half a dozen motley patches sewn around the knees and even one on his behind, Gawk Larkin did indeed look like a man more suited to comic dancing on Red’s big stage than one bent on clearing leather against a proven killer.
“Larken, go home to your wife and my girlfriend before you get hurt,” sneered Lute, as he stood up and slowly swaggered to within 20 feet of his infuriated foe.
Shaking off the pleadings of his friends and other bystanders, Gawk defended his wife’s honor and denounced all of Larkin’s lies and insinuations.
Lute Fowler had slain at least a dozen hombres, but had never been held to account, because the other man had always drawn first. He chose his adversaries with the cunning of a viper – only baiting those he knew he could beat; even while letting the opponent clear leather first.
“This is your last chance Larkin. Turn around and go back to your farm or you’ll be spending the rest of the day, every day, in Boot Hill.”
Larkin didn’t turn tail. Drawing down his eyebrows, he screwed up his mouth into a grim scowl. His eyes seemed to become very strange. Even from a distance of 20 paces, Lute Fowler could see the change that eerily began to transform Gawk’s eyes from the round shape of a human to the vertical slits of a cunning rattlesnake or a lion on the hunt.
Farmer Gawk Larkin didn’t move. Frozen to the floor, he stood completely motionless but for his piercing, slitted eyes - eyes that seemed to be sending a message and an unseen force across the smoky room.
For the first time in a gunfight, Lute Fowler, the slick shooting card sharp, felt a twinge of fear. He knew he could beat Gawk. He should have been even more confident than usual. But the eyes. The slitted, penetrating eyes!
Lute thought that his hands were shaking. He looked at his right hand. His trigger finger was making slight involuntary movements. Now, Lute Fowler felt full blown terror.
Gawk Larkin had passed into a state beyond fear. Squinting to see better in the dim light of the saloon, he had only one thought – contentment.
He was standing up to Larkin and had called him out in front of the whole town. No matter which way things went, everybody would remember the courageous way he protected his wife’s honor. Gawk was proud of himself and completely at peace. He was fully prepared to kill or be killed.
Meanwhile, Fowler was in full panic mode. He tried to force Gawk to draw, but Larkin wouldn’t take the bait, leaving his pistol tucked into his waistband. Lute begged him to fire first – still he refused.
“C’mon Gawk. I’m giving you a chance. Fill your hand. I won’t even start my draw until you’ve got your weapon aimed at me. Shoot dammit shoot!”
Sweating from the strain, Lute could wait no longer. He drew first and killed Gawk instantly with a head shot.
“You drew first Fowler,” shouted Big Blake Ivory. “You drew first! The farmer never had a chance!”
Don Jose Alvarado, the sheriff, raced through the doors just after Larkin fell. Running over to Lute Fowler he grabbed both of the gunfighter’s pistols and threw them to the floor. With flying fists, he began tattooing the gambler’s face with a series of hard punches. When Fowler fell to the floor the sheriff commenced to kicking him furiously in the ribs, breaking several.
Big Blake Ivory and a few others finally pulled Don Jose off of the helpless Fowler. Shoving the Don into a chair they gave him a shot of Rye.
Big Red came down from her apartment and sat next to the enraged sheriff. Smoothing his hair with supple, manicured hands she spoke softly, “You’ve seen many men killed Don Jose. Why is it that this time it bothers you so much?”
“I’m sure in my mind Red that I always did my duty when I had to use violence. In the revolution and in this here town, I truly believe that everybody I tangled with had a fair chance and got what they deserved. All the people here in Whiz Bang liked Gawk Larkin and he never hurt anybody. He was a friend of mine. I’m gonna kill Fowler.”
“We’ll talk about that later,” said Red softly as she guided the sheriff up the stairs to her bedroom. She bade him to lay down on her scented queen sized canopy bed while she fixed him a Gin Rickey.
“You can’t kill Fowler even though he’s guilty of murder. He drew first but you have to give him a trial,” said Red, looking more like a moving picture star than a fun house Madam. Drink in hand, she glided towards the soft bed.
“I can kill him if he draws first.”
“Let’s not talk about that now. Tilt your head back and open your mouth.”
She held the glass to his lips and tipped it gently. Alvarado swallowed slowly, taking in both the liquor and the view of Big Red. As she leaned over, her ample charms were showcased by a low cut pink gown and framed by blazing crimson hair.
Even in the dim light of her boudoir she sparkled. Dazzling shiny orbs glowed on her fingers, her ears, and in her hair. She was wearing more glittering diamonds on her body than you could find in three decks of the house’s playing cards.
He let Red unbutton his shirt. As she began to take it off he said: “In a minute Red. First I want you to go find Big Blake. Tell him to patch up Fowler and then lock him up in the jail. I’ll tend to him later.”
The next morning shortly after dawn, Don Jose lightly kissed the still sleeping Red and tiptoed out to Main Street. He was on his way to the jailhouse to settle up with Fowler when the smell of ham and eggs drew him to Ma Glockner’s restaurant.
“Morning Sheriff, come on over and sit with me”.
“Hey Doc. What are you doing up so early?”
“I’m not up - because I haven’t been down yet. Get yourself some breakfast and I’ll tell you about it.”
Don Jose ordered a full pot of coffee, four eggs over easy, ham, fried potatoes, a side of beans and a full loaf of sop bread.
“What about grits?” asked the waiter.
“Right Sam, gimme a big pile of grits. And Sam…thanks for reminding me about the grits.”
“You hate grits, why’d you order some?” wondered his
friend Doc Galen.
“You know why Doc. Ma Glockner gets mad if people don’t eat her grits. She came here from Georgia where that stuff is the ‘State Food’ and the last time I talked bad about them, Ma retaliated by serving me a burned fried chicken dinner. She’s the best cook in the county, as long as you don’t make fun of her grits!”
Soaking up the last of his bean gravy with the sop bread, Don Jose finished his meal while Doc Galen told him what had kept him up all night.
“I got an urgent message to come straightaway to Vickie Larkin’s place. I figured she heard that Gawk was dead and she needed me. I drove out there and found her tending a young boy who was half dead.”
“Who is he Doc and what’s wrong with him?”
“His memory is a little fuzzy. At first he couldn’t remember his name or much of anything else. I gave him the name “Chalky” on account of the half inch of white dust that was covering him. He walked about 1500 miles to get here to see you! And that hike almost killed him. Think about it. He traipsed the alkali trail from Lone Pine California all the way here. To get across the Humbold region he had to scratch through hundreds of miles of dried up alkali lakes, scorching mountains, and burning deserts.”
“Why did he want to see me and why did he walk?”
“One thing at a time Sheriff. He can tell you more about it if he pulls through. After his memory cleared up a bit he said that his Pa was one of your soldiers in Mexico. His folks died, leaving him with no relatives and almost no money. He started off with just 40 dollars and when it played out he lived on poison water and buzzard leftovers. When his shoes gave out, he walked in his socks until they shredded off, and finally he walked barefoot until the skin tore off his feet clean down to the bones. If Mrs. Larkin hadn’t found him and tended to him, he’d be dead for sure.”
“I’ll go see the boy when he’s feeling good enough. I was kind of surprised that Vickie Larkin wasn’t in town to make funeral arrangements for Gawk. I guess this explains why.”
“She didn’t know for sure that he was dead until I told her. She expected it of course. She tried to tell him not to go up against Fowler but Gawk wasn’t about to let anyone get away with what that gambler was saying about his wife.”