by J. T. Edson
Fourteen – The Cochise County Fair
The Cochise County Fair had been a roaring success so far. It came up to all its organizers had hoped for. From the East, brought from the railheads in the best and most comfortable coaches Wells Fargo could supply, came the rich dudes, eager to see the wild, wide open town of Tombstone at play. They flocked in and with them came much money to be spent over bars, in the hotels, at the gambling tables.
The dudes came, stared with amazement and delight as steel thewed miners sank steel drill bits into the rock and hard soil. They cheered to delight as Chow Willicka of the Wedge drove his lathered chuck wagon team to victory in a thrilling race. They watched, trying to imitate the wild cowhand yells as bucking horses were rode and riders piled into the dirt. They stared at the men who would provide the main attraction, the Pistol Shoot. Tall Tom Horn, in buckskins and looking like a bold Apache war chief. Bat Masterson, in derby hat and eastern clothes, but with a brace of Colts in a fast man’s rig. Wyatt Earp, looking for all the world like a prosperous trail-end town undertaker. Burt Alvord, who the dudes whispered behind their hands, had been a lawman who never brought in a living prisoner. The dude ladies sighed and fanned their faces vigorously when that blond giant, that rangeland dandy from Texas, Mark Counter, strolled by or attended some function to which the ladies were invited. There was a man, what a man. The milk faced dudes paled into nothing in comparison with such a man.
Walking the crowded streets with Mark Counter was a small man, a nobody in the eyes of the dudes, and few, if any, asked his name. Those who did were surprised when told he was the Captain Dusty Fog of Civil War and later fame. The dudes who were told this laughed, suspected that they were being jobbed, as was known to be the Western custom. Few, if any, of the dudes bet their money on that small, soft talking and insignificant Texan. For this Buckskin Frank Leslie and other odds giving gentlemen were grateful.
The day of the rifle shoot dawned clear and fine, there was little wind and conditions were ideal for shooting. The Ysabel Kid had returned that morning early, paid a visit to Cindy Alban who, with arm in a sling, was able to walk around. Then he went to the line in a shooting match which would long be talked about in the West.
It is possible that no man ever was at such great disadvantage as was the Kid when he went out to the line with Mark Counter’s rifle under his arm and the remains of the ammunition he took from town with him. Where he’d been and what he’d done with the rest he never told anyone and there were few who would have dared to ask.
The match was arranged so that there was an emphasis on the fast handling and repeating quality of the Winchester and such rifles, and one rule was that the same rifle must be used all through. This rather put a block on Wyatt Earp’s plan to use his Winchester for the ordinary shooting but to bring in a Sharps Old Reliable when accuracy over a long distance was called for.
Details of the match were reported on by the Tombstone Epitaph and repeated in papers throughout the length and breadth of the United States. The editor of the paper began in grand terms to describe the scene, meaning to carry on with how his friend Wyatt Earp cleared all before him. By the time the first three parts of the shoot were over it was clear that, good though Earp was, that black dressed boy from Texas was much better.
For all of that, the Ysabel Kid did not get everything his own way. The rifle in his hands was still strange to him and he had to concentrate all the time to remember the traits he’d learned on his lonely ride for the past days. Let him but relax for one moment and he slipped back to handling the rifle in the manner of his broken old yellow boy. It cost him points and kept the crowd in a state of tension. So much so that on the last shoot it was still possible for any of the others to take the Kid’s precariously held lead from him.
The last test would be the one which would decide who owned that wonderful rifle and an engraver specially sent out by the Winchester company was seated poised and ready to carve the name of the winner on the silver plate. It was a test which would bring out the finest qualities of the men who now stood on the line. There were only eight men left and the crowd was tense as they waited.
At a distance of some twenty feet before each man lay a spread out handkerchief; beyond this were three foot high hurdles spaced some five feet apart. The idea was to fire bullets so close as to bounce the handkerchiefs into the air, over the hurdles, in the fewest shots and faster than the other contestants.
The Kid relaxed on the line, the tensions of competition not bothering him as he gave Cindy Alban a wave. The starter for the event raised his hand, his Colt pointing into the air.
“Are you ready, gentlemen?” he asked and received the nods in agreement. “Get set, then go!”
The word was echoed by the deep bark of his Colt and reechoed by the flat barks of eight rifles. The eight handkerchiefs were bounced into the air, sailing up by the force of the close landing bullets. On his third shot Burt Alvord pulled off slightly and his bullet ripped through the handkerchief, at which he aimed. He was out, the handkerchief, torn by the shattering impact of the bullet, resisted all his efforts to bounce it again.
The Kid’s eyes focused along the barrel of the rifle. The bouncing handkerchief was a gaudy hue which reminded him of his friend Red Blaze’s bandanna. The various colors caught the eye and were easy to pick out, but they had the disadvantage of blurring and becoming indistinct, making the exact place to aim at hard to locate. For all of that, the Kid’s third shot bounced the handkerchief over the first hurdle before any of the others made it. The Kid’s sighting eye never made any mistake and slowly the mumble of the crowd grew. He was over the second hurdle and there were only three men left in it now. Wyatt Earp was throwing his shots fast, trying to catch up on the Kid’s lead. His very haste caused him to miss a chance, his handkerchief hung over the second hurdle, caught on it, resisting three fast thrown bullets to tear it free.
The Kid’s eleventh shot sent the handkerchief into the air; it spread out and came down. There was a gasp of dismay from the onlookers, for the handkerchief had caught by its very tip on the face side of the hurdle. Tom Horn, last man in the contest, saw this and fired again; the handkerchief before him sailed into the air and fell short of the hurdle, just too close for him to hope to bounce it over, but he lined his rifle. The Kid was also sighting and the crowd held his concerted breath. The two shots sounded almost as one and the crowd let out a yell which rang out and threw back echoes.
Tom Horn’s handkerchief hung over the top of the hurdle. From the Kid’s hurdle had burst a shower of splinters and the handkerchief tore free to float down on the other side. With a wry grin Tom Horn lowered his smoking Winchester and spread his hand in the Indian sign talk way of saying finished.
A band started to blare out a stirring tune. The civic dignitaries of Tombstone crowded forward eagerly. In a tent the Winchester engraver was poised ready to work. The judge of the match emptied the Kid’s rifle magazine and counted the remaining bullets, then did the same for Tom Horn. The big buckskin man was grinning, knowing he had fired more shots than had the Kid.
Slowly the referee raised his right hand, the band gave a final roaring fanfare and silence that could almost be felt spread over the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced the judge in a booming shout which carried over the vast crowd. “The winner of the Cochise County Fair’s Rifle Shoot and winner of the One of a Thousand Winchester Model 1873 rifle I give you, Number Ten on your program, Loncey Dalton Ysabel.”
The crowd gave out their approval in traditional style, from the dudes came polite and well-bred applause, from the miners cheers of louder and more raucous style. It was from the cowhands that the most noise came. Those hardy sons of the saddle bellowed out their wild yells, fired their Colts into the air in their delight. The “yeeah!” battle yell of the Confederate Army rang out loud and clear, and for once the Ysabel Kid’s face showed its true feelings.
It was only with a considerable effort that the
Kid restrained his impatience to get hold of the magnificent Winchester which was brought from the tent where the Winchester engraver had done his work fast and with skill.
Holding the rifle, the Mayor of Tombstone began a speech, praising the Kid’s shooting skill and tossing in a few words of praise for his town, the Fair and for Cochise County in general. Then he held out the rifle and the Kid, trying to look normal and nonchalant, as if winning such a wonderful rifle was an every-day thing, took it. From the first moment of gripping it the rifle felt good in the Kid’s hands. He slipped bullets into the breech and at a word from the Mayor stepped forward on to the firing line. A man ran down the line of hurdles and placed three beer bottles on the farthest, just where the handkerchief had hung. He moved to one side and the Mayor nodded.
Up came the “One of a Thousand” Winchester, the Kid’s eyes lining along the barrel, his finger caressing the set trigger. The flat crack of the Winchester was followed by two more in quick succession, but with each shot one of the bottles was burst by the bullet.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Mayor,” drawled the Kid. “That’s a tolerable close shooting rifle.”
The crowd were wild in their cheers of delight, yelling their approval, and the Kid walked to where his two friends waited for him. He handed Mark back the rifle he’d used for the match and grinned. Dusty was also grinning.
“Lon,” he said. “I never saw you look like this since that day when Tom Alden gave you that yellow boy just after the War.”
“I never thought to own a rifle like this,” replied the Kid. “Let’s get out on the range and see how close she shoots.”
Dusty shook his head. “We’re all invited to a dinner by Vance Brownlow and his good lady. And I promised on my word as a Texan that you’d be there.”
“Which same means you’ll be there all right,” Mark went on. “Likewise, I gave Miz Birdie my solemn oath you’d be along.”
The Kid grinned and cursed the unguarded moment when he let Birdie Brownlow know his aversion to attending formal dinners. He also recollected that he had annoyed her and Chow both with his comments on their cooking, and this appeared to be a way of getting their revenge on him. The thought was confirmed soon after when the old cook came ambling up.
“Hear tell you coming to this fancy dinner tonight, Kid,” he said, then leered at the Indian dark face. “I always telled you evil got paid back in the end.”
Cackling hoarsely, Chow Willicka ambled on and the Kid made a mental note never to rile Chow again—unless he was sure there was a good avenue of escape left for him.
The dinner was far from being as formal as the Kid imagined, although there was a fair crowd along for it, the trail crew, Vance, his wife, all Madam Paula’s troupe, several town dignitaries and a few dudes who had managed to get themselves invited.
After the meal the men stood around talking while preparing for the show Madam Paula promised them. Dusty leaned by the bar at the corner of the room. He was looked over by the Dudes and passed off as some minor member of the trail drive drew, although the same dudes were puzzled at the deference the others showed to this small and insignificant Texan.
Sheriff John Behan, one of the guests, joined Dusty, a broad grin on his face. Jerking his thumb towards the editor of the Tombstone Epitaph, he said, “Clem looks real down in the mouth. The Kid spoiled a good story for him.”
“Likely, John, likely,” answered Dusty. “Wyatt Earp’s not here.”
“Nor likely to be,” Behan replied. “He got to boasting about winning just after you pulled out, so I made a bet with him. Things stand this way, if he loses both the shoots he doesn’t stand for sheriff against me.”
Dusty looked at the other man for a long moment, then grinned. “That was a mite tricky, John.”
“Like my pappy always told me, Cap’n Dusty, if you can’t lick ’em, trick ’em.”
At that moment the show started and for the first time the Ysabel Kid managed to hear Cindy Alban sing. Later that same evening the Kid’s pleasant untrained tenor voice was matched in duets with the girl, but she had eyes only for Miles Hamish and on the third finger of her left hand was a diamond ring.
The following morning found an air of expectation over the crowd as they moved out of Tombstone to the place where the shooting would be performed. There were only nine men left in now, the others had realized they stood no chance and so bowed out.
There was some talk among the crowd when the contestants lined up for the first shots. Wyatt Earp had his long barreled Peacemaker holstered at his left side and all there knew a fast draw was impossible with such a weapon but it would give him a good chance of scoring well in the long range work.
The first tests rolled by, shooting with sights and by rough alignment at targets, then at a can thrown into the air. Earp scored well, so did all the other men, but when the scores were added it was found that the small man who was marked down at number nine was the highest scorer of them all and next to him that blond giant called Mark Counter.
“That long range work will show a difference,” Vance Brownlow remarked to Stone Hart as they stood in the forefront of the crowd, watching a man who was setting up an empty whiskey bottle in the center of a patch of cleared earth some hundred yards from the firing point.
“Likely,” drawled Stone. “Likely. I’d still bet on Dusty for it.”
By the time Earp took his stand no man had managed to hit the bottle in less than five shots. There was a grin on Earp’s face as he lined the long barreled Colt and fired, watching the dust puff up where the bullet slapped into the earth near the bottle. There was a rumble of approval from the watching crowd, for no other man had come so close to the bottle with his first shot. Earp stood sideways, holding the Colt shoulder high as he sighted. His second shot dusted the bottle but did not break it. On the third shot there was a crash and a flying hail of splintered glass, and cheers rang out from Earp’s supporters. Here was one part of the ranch they were sure he would win.
Mark Counter took his place with the seven and a half inch barreled Cavalry Peacemaker in his right hand. His first shot was just as close in as Earp’s, but it took Mark four shots to hit the bottle. The third shot had been close, it should have been a hit by all fair means, but the four and a half inch difference in the gun barrels gave Earp a big advantage. Mark grinned and walked back to where Dusty stood. The big Texan was satisfied, although now Earp stood slightly over him in the scoring. There was the test for fast gun handling next and Earp’s long barreled gun would put him at a disadvantage.
There was a mutter from the crowd as they saw the type of Colt Dusty was using. It had taken Bat Masterson six shots to range in the four and three-quarter inch barrel of a Civilian Model Peacemaker and none of the crowd thought to see the small Texan do any better.
Dusty sighted carefully, watching how the breeze stirred the grass, then made his calculations and cocked back the hammer. Another pause to make sure of the aim, then Dusty fired. There was a roar from the crowd as dust erupted within a scant inch of the bottle. For a moment every one of the crowd thought a hit was scored and a yell rolled high then died away.
Unruffled by the noise, Dusty set his sights again, waiting for a moment when the breeze was at its steadiest. There was not a sound from the whole crowd as the people waited for the crack of the Peacemaker. Then Dusty fired! The bottle burst, shattering under the impact of the .45 bullet.
It took the crowd a long five seconds to realize what had happened. Then, as Wyatt Earp threw down his cigar in disgust, the cheers rolled out.
Earp’s temper did not improve on the test for fast gun-handling. For this the contestant walked down a valley and targets, man-sized and shaped, were pulled up from behind cover with the aid of ropes. He shot well, but knew that he might have scored even better. This was the event for which the long barreled Peacemaker was the prize, and he hoped to take it. However, Mark Counter scored higher, getting the highest points so far. Dusty followed and went the line of the valley,
shooting fast and equaling Mark’s score.
“Toss you for it,” Mark drawled as they walked towards the judges.
“Spin a coin and make a call,” Dusty answered.
Mark laughed, flipped a coin into the air and made a correct call, so he took the cased presentation Peacemaker.
It was now, as the men went to the line for the last event, that the interest of the crowd really worked up. The other shooting had been good, very good, but it was something they could have seen any time. Right now was the big moment, the star attraction which the organizers of the Fair planned. This was the test to see who was the fastest man with a gun.
The Colt company had been hard put to think of a way to test the speed of the draw and after much thought came up with an idea. To one side of where the shooting had taken place the special targets were set up. They were man-sized and cut in the shape of a man drawing a gun. The posts on which these targets were fixed rested on, but were not fastened to, a bar. Beyond this and placed so that the target support would hit it when moved by the force of a bullet, was a second bar with spring-loaded grips attached so as to catch and hold the target supports. The target line was made so that the first shot to hit a target moved it and the support back to hit the second bar. This in turn loosened the spring-loaded grips on to the other targets and prevented them from falling over backwards.
In tests conducted both at Hartford and on the ground at Tombstone the system showed it worked even when there were only split seconds between the impacts. It was possible to tell which bullet hit first, for that was the only target which could fall over.
The nine men took their places on the line. Each one was set, making sure his holstered Colts lay just right. They were probably the fastest men alive, those who toed that line, each one having proved his right to be there, with a smoking Colt in the heat of a gun battle. This would settle one argument, who was the fastest of them all.