by Bill Russo
“The Sheriff was badly wounded and he took cover behind a table in front of the mercantile,” Ma Glockner took up the account. “Miss Red saw what was happening and came running out to try to protect her fiancé. She had a pocket pistol and fired wildly at Bartlett. When she had emptied both barrels of the derringer, Bartlett murdered her in cold blood. He easily could have pushed her aside, but he fired point blank at her and put two slugs in her chest. It was murder, pure and simple.”
“Ma’s right.” affirmed Doc Galen, “It was a homicide and there’s not a jury in Osage County who’d say otherwise. I don’t know what you two boys are doing here, but I suggest you go back to OKC and tell the Governor, that there’s no problem with our law here. If they want to start sending the town money to pay for a Sheriff or a Marshall, that’s fine, as long as the man they choose is named Don Jose Alvarado!”
Judge Banter stepped closer to Doc’s desk. He was a tall, stringy man dressed in an expensive suit, who still retained the look of a farmer, which is what he was before he studied law. He pulled at his short white beard and then scratched his head.
“We know about the good work that Sheriff Alvarado has done Doc,” the Judge said. “While his methods are not always strictly legal, he’s done a remarkable job here. And this young man Chalky is one of the finest deputies in Oklahoma - but we’ve been ordered by the Governor to investigate this shootout and we’re going to do it. We’d like to talk to Don Jose now and then we’ll examine the body of Sheriff Bartlett.”
Alvarado closed his eyes when the door to the dispensary opened. He had never met Banter or Clayton, but Chalkie had done a bit of research and told him that both men seemed honest and reasonable. Still, he didn’t like the idea of Federal men butting in on Osage County business. They had offered no help when he had to deal with matters like train robberies, bank heists, and the Pistol Hill holdups. He decided to pretend to be asleep.
“It looks like the Sheriff is asleep, told the Federal men, as he peered into the treatment room. I’ll check on him and if he’s all right I’ll let you speak to him for a few minutes,” Doc said.
Doc and the Sheriff had a brief, hushed conference, after which the Doc said that they could have five minutes, but were not to get his patient excited.
“Good morning Sheriff Alvarado. I’m Judge Roger Banter and this is Sheriff Whit Clayton of Oklahoma City. First, let me say I’m very sorry for your injuries and I know that you were found innocent in that Carter Nine matter. Bartlett should have checked the facts of the case – number one because it involved a lawman, and number two because the warrant was several years old.”
“Thank you Judge. Am I under any suspicion in this matter?”
“I’ll answer that,” said Marshall Clayton, a stern look dominating a face that looked as if it were chiseled from granite. “In a case where two peace officers are involved in a gun duel watched by hundreds, maybe thousands of townspeople, both parties are suspect. The Governor is worried about this shootout because it is front page news all over the country.”
“The Governor has tasked us to find out something for him,” said the Judge. “He’s wants to know if the Whizbang Shootout is the kindling that could touch off a roaring blaze of lawlessness in this part of the State. He’s given us the power to declare martial law, if we think it’s needed. There are 500 National Guard troops on standby right now in the Capital. They’re ready to deploy here by train in an instant, if we give the word.”
“Well now that you’ve seen our town, do you think that any problems likely?” questioned Sheriff Alvarado.
“Frankly, no. It seems to me and I think that Sheriff Clayton will agree, that Bartlett was out to get you. He wanted you out of the way and he thought he could use the ruse of the warrant to get rid of you.”
“That’s exactly the way it was,” agreed the Don.
Everything was going well and it looked like the Federals were ready to drop the entire matter, until the Judge and the OKC Marshall saw Bartlett’s body. It was a gruesome sight. His purple face gave mute testimony that he had been choked by a pair of very strong hands.
A sunken red circle of blood occupied the space below his brow where his right eye once resided. Where the eye had gone was unknown. It was either shattered into pieces or perhaps gouged out, leaving nothing but a yawning fissure filled with thickening, darkening red blood.
Bartlett’s bare chest and arms had were covered with snaky blood trails where dozens, perhaps hundreds, of stitches had been pulled out or perhaps cut open, allowing his wounds to bleed anew.
“Doctor Galen! Deputy Hidalgo! This is outrageous, those wounds were not sustained in the gunfight!” fumed Judge Banter. “Someone, or perhaps more than one person must have sneaked in here during the night and killed Bartlett. We’re going to have to declare Martial Law. I’ll need to use your phone. I’m going to have the National Guard here on the very next train.”
“You’ll do no such thing Judge Banter!”
The voice came loud and strong from the bed of Sheriff Don Jose Alvarado who had propped himself up on his pillows, and injured as he was, still looked like he was ready for a battle.
“Sheriff Alvarado, what do you mean?”
“Unless there’s a law against self defense, you don’t need to call anybody. In the middle of the night Bartlett attacked me. He had one of Doc Galen’s scalpels and tried to kill me. Luckily I was awake and heard him coming. He was moving very slowly. I could see him through slitted eyes. When he lifted the scalpel I grabbed his wrist and turned it on him. I jabbed out his eye by accident and the scalpel dropped. We wrestled for a minute or so until I got him in a choke hold and killed him. I guess his stitches popped out during the fight.”
Judge Banter was satisfied by the explanation and declared the investigation closed.
The flint-faced Sheriff, Whit Clayton seemed to disagree, but he held his tongue.
Ma Glockner invited the Judge and the Sheriff to a special lunch of Fried Chicken and Grits at her restaurant, after which the two Federals declared the matter ended, and returned to Oklahoma City.
Meanwhie, back in his office Doc Galen was sitting in a chair next to Don Jose’s bed.
“What are you laughing at Doc?”
“I’m laughing at you, you Knothead. How could you tell those two fools from OKC that you strangled Bartlett, when you’ve got casts from your armpits to your wrists on both your arms?”
“Well they bought it didn’t they? Seriously Doc, I wasn’t going to let anybody face murder charges on my account. And speaking of lies and deception Doctor Galen, it wasn’t just a knitting needle, a choke hold, and a pair of scissors that killed Jed Bartlett. I kind of think that some fool ‘horse doctor’ might have given him an overdose of medicine which could have killed him before anybody had a chance to strangle him or jab him with needles and scissors.”
“You’re delirious Sheriff,” Doc replied. “I recommend you take a nap until suppertime, when I’ll join you right here for some of Ma Glockner’s famous chicken.”
“Okay Doc, it’s a date, but please tell Ma that just this once I want mashed potatoes and gravy instead of grits!”
“I’ll tell her, but there’s no guarantee she’ll listen.”
Chapter Nineteen: Who Was That Hermit?
Bert Bryant, the old hermit of the gloomy landscape that used to be Whiz Bang City, reached for his ‘churchkey’ and snapped holes into the tops of two fresh cans of beer.
He passed one to his attentive listener, which was me, Sgt. Bill James of Fort Sill, and lifted the second to his lips. Tipping it back, the oldtimer drained about a third of it before he set it down and wiped his beard. After an exaggerated burp, he sat back languidly in his chair and smiled.
“Well Sergeant Billy, that’s pretty much the whole story of Whiz Bang City. As long as the oil flowed, we had the horns of this old ‘bull world’ twisted right down the ground. Sometime after
the mid 1920s the oil wells started drying up. Businesses around the country commenced to seeing bad times that just got worse as the 1930s arrived, along with the great depression.
“The railroad pulled up its tracks and left town. Paved roads were built that led people to places where they would at least have a chance for a job and enough food to eat. Property values in Whiz Bang and all of Osage County tumbled down to nothing. The oil companies abandoned their rigs and two dozen towns, including ours, died almost overnight.
“By the 1940s there was nobody living in Whizbang except the Sheriff and his wife. Don Jose married Vicky Larkin and they stayed here right up until the end.
“Now, all that’s left is what you see. A few abandoned and rusty oil rigs, a couple of foundations, a graveyard, and a pile of rubble that includes the cell bars of the Whizbang City Jail.
“What about the Doc, Chalkie, and the rest of the Don’s friends?” I wondered.
“Well Sgt. Billy, Doc and Ma Glockner stayed in town till there was almost nothing left, then they headed for Boston. The Doc retired from the medical business and helped Ma open a fried chicken restaurant that was said to be the best in Massachusetts.
“As for Chalkie, you’ve probably seen him on TV. He stopped using the name Chalkie when he went into politics. He’s in Washington now, representing the State of Oklahoma. There’s even some talk about him running for President one day.
“Mr. Blake Ivory? He’s a man you’ve probably heard on the radio a thousand times. Blake left Whizbang along with thousands of other Okies and went to California.
“He settled into Bakersfield and became a session musician. His pounding, honky tonk piano helped to invent the ‘Bakersfield Sound’. If you’ve ever heard of Merle Haggard or Buck Owens, then you’ve heard Blake’s music. He works with all of the best West Coast Honky Tonkers.
“What about the Don? Where did he end up?” I asked.
“I already told you. His wife died. She’s buried up in the graveyard, along with Big Red. It’s getting dark now so you’d best be going back to where you’re going. Good luck in writing that book. You can use everything I told you - It’s all Gospel! Goodbye”
The hermit declined further conversation, saying he was tired and needed to take a nap. He got up from his lawn chair and went into his motor home, leaving me with several questions still unanswered.
I decided to go back to Shidler and spend a little more time with bartender Bert.
The rental car covered the short distance back to Shidler with no interruptions from weather or anything else and I soon pulled into the parking lot of the Osage Bottles and Booth.
I got out of the car and looked at Main Street. The bar, the Seed and Feed, the welding supply store, the Chamber of Commerce; that was about it. Those buildings and a few others; plus a few score of old houses comprised the entire town of Shidler, Oklahoma – the last survivor of the Osage Oil Fields.
Bert Shidler was still behind the bar which had about a dozen customers, a good sized crowd for early evening in the middle of the work week. All eight stools at the bar were occupied by middle aged and old men clad in dungarees – dungaree pants and dungaree shirts – with dusty cowboy boots and ten gallon hats. Four more men, dressed the same, were sitting in a booth.
“Howdy stranger. Welcome back. I told a few of the guys about you coming here today thinking that this was a ghost town. The boys decided to have a few beers and wait for you,” said Bert.
“Hello Sergeant,” said one of the oldest men, “I was at Fort Sill myself many years ago. I’m a 20 year man – retired at 80 per cent pay. Sgt. Norm Whalen is my name. When I heard that you were interested in Whiz Bang City, I told some of the others and we came here to tell you the story of the town.”
“Yes we’re here because we are sure that the old hermit wouldn’t tell you anything,” added another man, who was one of the youngest of the group. “The last time I was out there, the old buzzard warned me off with a couple of rounds blasted from that old long-pistol he always carries.”
“Hey Charlie,” Bert said, “Slide outta that stool and let the Sergeant sit so we can fill him in on some Whiz Bang stories.”
“Thanks men,” I said, as I slid into the stool at the end of the bar, “but the old guy actually told me the whole story of Whiz Bang. He even told me his name – Bert Bryant.”
That comment got the whole place laughing.
“What’s the joke guys? I don’t get it.”
“He told you he was Bert Bryant? We know that old boy pretty well, but nobody ever called him by that name,” said the retired army man who had introduced himself as Sergeant Whalen.
“Actually that is the hermit’s real name. But when he came to Osage County he was using the name of one of his old war buddies in Mexico. When he became the Sheriff of Whiz Bang city, he called himself, “Don Jose Alvarado!”
“You mean the old hermit is actually the gunslinger who became Sheriff?” I asked.
“That’s it,” said Bert. “He’s the real thing, The last gunfighter and the last Sheriff of the last Wild West Town. If he gave you his story, then you best write it up. There will never be anything like it again in these 48 United States.”
I stayed an hour or so with the men of Shidler and promised them I would send them copies of the book as soon as I finished it. I would have done it too, except that when I got back to Fort Sill, there were new orders waiting for me.
I was off for a far away place called Viet Nam. President John Kennedy had ordered my outfit to a province in South Viet Nam where 50 South Vietnamese soldiers a day were being slaughtered by the fierce invaders from the North.
Kennedy started ‘Operation Chopper’ which ferried a thousand American and Vietnamese troops a day into the area. My group was part of a new fighting element started by Defense Secretary Robert McNamara that consisted of 40,000 U.S. soldiers with M1 Carbines. McNamara said we were to “Clear and Hold” the province against the Viet Cong. We did our job and we were proud to do it….but that war was Hell in more ways that most.
After several long years, and a wound or two, I was sent to a VA hospital in Southern Massachusetts. I thought a lot about Whiz Bang City, but I didn’t want to think about “Ho Chi Mihn City” - the new name they gave to ‘Saigon’.
The VA hospital and all the doctors, nurses, and support people were wonderful to me.
When I was finally released, on a one hundred per cent disability check, I had both the time and the money to do whatever I wanted to do.
I wanted to go back to Shidler.
Shidler: the only surviving town of the Osage Oil fields. When I first went there in 1962, Bert Shidler had told me there were less than a thousand people in town. The census record for 1960 indicates that the population was 870.
By 1980 the town had almost shrunk in half, to 500. When I drove down Main Street in 2015 there were just 450 hardy citizens left. Main Street looked even older and more worn out than it did fifty years before – and it looked pretty ancient even then. Bert Shidler’s bar was long gone, but the welding supply store was still there, and the post office, and the barber shop.
After a few minutes looking over the town, I decided that I would write and finish the book as soon as possible. I also decided that I would not do it in Shidler or in the ruins of Whiz Bang City.
I got back in my Lincoln and drove straight for Tulsa where I took a room in the Ambassador Hotel. I decided to finish the book in the iconic 1929 hotel overlooking downtown Tulsa.
There are only seven rooms on each floor and each room is distinctive. When darkness came my first night in the hotel, I turned off all the lights and looked out my window. The Oklahoma sky seemed to pull me from my chair and transport me back to 1921.
I saw a noisy Model T car bumping along the roadway towards Whiz Bang City. A tall rangy man, with a goatee got out of the auto. He was wearing a cartridge belt fully loaded with 44 caliber
cartridges, built for the pearl handled six shooter that fit loosely into his holster.
I could see him and hear the sound of his boots as he walked along the boardwalk and into the Whiz Bang House.
It was Don Jose himself, and I was going to write his story. The story of the last quick draw gunman and the tale of the last Wild West Town – Whiz Bang City.
The end
Thanks for reading about Whiz Bang City. If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review on the site where you got the book.
About the Author:
Bill Russo is the author of The Creature from the Bridgewater Triangle and Other Odd Tales from New England; in which he recounts his meeting with a swamp creature called a Puckwudgie. His blog about that scary encounter led to an appearance in the award winning documentary, The Bridgewater Triangle. He also was also featured on national television in ‘Monsters and Mysteries in America’ and ‘America’s Bermuda Triangle’.
A number of his fictional works are centered in the Bridgewater Triangle, where he says “Fanatasy and reality are crowded together into a haunted 200 square mile area of Massachusetts - where they share an uneasy truce”.
‘Swamp Tales’ and its prequel, ‘Jimmy Catfish’ take readers deep into Southeastern Massachusetts and neighboring Cape Cod for various adventures involving ghosts, monsters, and a strange amphibious boy who swims with, and leads, a school of shark-like, killer catfish.
In ‘Ghosts of Cape Cod’, Russo does not write the typical tale of people waking up and seeing spectral beings at the foot of their bed; rather, he probes into the fascinating lives of the real people who became the legendary ‘haunts’ of one of the most popular tourist destinations in the United States.
Many of the ‘Ghosts’ are well known such as the real ‘Pirate of the Caribbean’, Sam Bellamy.
He was Captain of the Whidah - the richest prize ship in history. Others are lesser known but no less fascinating, like the Reverend Joseph Metcalf who owned the first of the once ubiquitous Cape Cod Flower Boats. The story of the Ghost of the 13 Churches is told in detail for the first time. It’s an odd yarn of a peculiar doctor who amassed one of the biggest fortunes in Colonial Massachusetts. He gave it away to the 13 churches of Cape Cod when he died; but then returned from the grave to take it all back!