The best suite in the Parsons House was theirs as soon as they were seen to enter the doors, the desk clerk delighted to give them a welcome.
"For eating, sir, Ma Haskell's is the best in town still. She has married again, which is why the name has changed, but the food ain't no different."
Dick was seen and greeted a dozen times as they sat to eat, Louise delighted by the sweet dishes, truly as fine as any she had ever tried, she said.
"The cook came from Austria some twenty years ago, I believe. I suspect he fled in the Year of Revolutions, in '48. Be that as it may, he had been apprenticed in one of the best restaurants, or so I am told."
The history taught to Louise had been carefully selective - she had never heard of the events of 1848. Dick promised to find her a book.
Dick took her to see the sights of the town next morning; these consisted mostly of the people in the streets, many of whom wore pistols at their waists or strapped down on their thighs.
"It seems almost normal for men to wear guns, Sir Richard."
"It is, my dear. Many of them have come into town only for a few hours. It is wise to be armed when travelling by horse or wagon - there are villains of various sorts roaming at large still. It is still not impossible to run across Confederate raiders of various sorts and there have been Indian uprisings not so far distant. There are simple bandits as well. Additionally, a quarrel with a neighbour over the use of water or the placing of a fence may easily become a shooting matter, men tending to be rather touchy out here. Was I not in your company, then I would strap on both of my forty-fours. No man would ever become quarrelsome in the presence of a lady, however."
Later that morning he pulled out his gunbelt, informing Louise that he must go out on business.
"I must talk to the lawyer, so I shall arrange a day and time with him - he must be a busy man. The bank as well demands a visit. I must also make myself visible in town so that Mr Jim Fisk's agent will become aware of my presence. Plaistow will accompany me."
Jim Fisk's man saw Dick and introduced himself. Another gentleman spotted him and did his best not to be noticed.
Book Three: The Making
of a Man Series
Chapter Five
The morning saw a long conference with the lawyer who acted as Dick's land agent in Kansas City. He had taken a commission on the purchases, had charged a fee for collecting rentals and now would be given a cut on the sale price; he was a happy man in his work.
"Banking is the problem, Sir Richard. There are just too few outlets for mortgage loans, sir - most of your farmers will be unable to find a lender, not because of anything wrong with them but simply because there is no bank in the trade. The town banks depend on the funds of local businesses, and they simply do not have the hundreds of thousands, millions quite probably, that would be required."
"There is a possibility that I will be able to put either the farmers or the local banks into contact with an Agricultural Lands Company which is in the sole business of lending to farmers. I am told that there are to be a number of such firms, many of them fronting for German banks, Prussian actually, in the Old North-West. They will have European money, and much of it, to hand. I am to meet with the representative of one such later today. I believe there will be a wish to appoint a local man to speak for them - might you be interested in discussing terms with the gentleman?"
The lawyer's beam of delight suggested that he would be.
"To recapitulate then, Sir Richard. I am to sell all of your holdings, ideally to the existing tenants, them to receive a favourable price and assistance to obtain the finance they require. Where the holder is a widow lady of the war, as will only too often be the case, I am to be especially tender of her interests until she is remarried or has an adult son to take responsibility. If the occasion arises then I shall be prepared to take losses before attempting any eviction of such a family."
"I may yet return to the West, sir. I do not want to come back to a blood feud! Nor do I want in twenty years from now for a son of mine to walk into a bullet all unwary."
"Very wise, Sir Richard."
Plaistow had in the event remained with Louise and Merrett, was to accompany them on an excursion to the stores of the town. Dick walked down the outside staircase from the lawyer's office, which occupied a room above a gun shop. He stood in the shade on the sidewalk while he glanced casually about.
There was the normal flow of people on the street, including a number of women and children about their ordinary business. He looked round as he saw a sudden fast movement out of the corner of his eye. A woman screamed to a child to run as he heard a shot and felt a bullet strike home just above his left hip, knocking him backwards into the wall. Just managing to stay on his feet, he grabbed at his right hand pistol, starting to swear as the first pain brought him out of the initial shock.
It had been only part of a second, there was a man levelling his revolver for a second shot. Dick triggered his pistol, concentrating on the figure twelve or so yards away, seeing nothing else. Squeeze, thumb back the hammer, squeeze again, holding the piece rock steady; his side hurt and he had no time for it now; he forced his left hand into action, pulled the second gun and fired it from the hip.
The figure in front of him was falling and he followed it down, hunching over, squeezing the triggers and thumbing the hammers back unthinking, acting instinctively. His right hand stopped working, he had fired all five rounds; the left emptied as well. He hauled himself upright, opened the cylinder and punched out the empties, fumbled at his reloads; his hands were growing shaky.
"Stop, man! It's over! He's gone!"
Someone was speaking to him.
"Stand still! You're bleeding like a stuck pig!"
A hand pushed a piece of cloth against the wound. It hurt. He heard other voices.
"Shot him without warning, sheriff! Put a bullet into his belly before we knew what was happening - and there was women and kids on the sidewalk close to! He just stood there bleeding and emptied both guns into the bastard!"
"It's the Sharps Kid, ain't it?"
"That's why he ambushed him - only way to put a bullet into that one! Never see the like of it, just standing there and pulling his guns after bein' shot in the belly! Shot the bastard to bits! I don't reckon he missed with one round!"
"Doctor's here!"
Dick became aware that they were trying to make him lie down; he forced himself up - he would not surrender to any man.
"Get the damned fool inside where I can work on him."
"The Parsons House. That's where my room is. My wife is. Take me there."
"It's easier than arguing with the bloody man. Carry him there."
"I walk!"
A female voice suddenly joined in.
"Sir Richard! Do as you are bid, sir. You are making a difficulty for the doctor, sir. Most ill-mannered!"
The voice penetrated the dull buzz in his head and Dick was immediately obedient; one did not argue with one's wife in a public place and must never show bad manners.
"What of the other one, doctor?"
"He don't need my help, sheriff! I can see four holes in his chest and his right arm's broken and that looks like three in his right leg. Empty guns, so he hit him with at least eight rounds out of ten, and that after taking one in the belly! Who did you say he was?"
"The Sharps Kid. He was here last year - outside the Parsons House, that was. I thought he had gone for good after that one. Does anybody know who the stranger is down in the dirt?"
One of the crowd that had built as soon as the shooting had stopped answered.
"I saw him talking with John McKay, the Democrat front man, the one who was speaking for Vallendigham earlier in the year."
"Was he now!"
The sheriff sent a deputy to request the immediate presence of Mr McKay.
Dick lay stretched out on the bed in the room in the Parsons House, the doctor working on the wound above his hip.
"Quite still
now, Kid! Do not move!"
Dick gripped the wrought iron head of the bed and braced himself as the doctor fished around inside with a pair of tweezers. The iron began to bend as he tightened his hands under the pain. He could see Louise, calmly watching the proceedings.
"Do not move, Sir Richard. The doctor has a hold on the bullet now."
"Got it."
There was a clang as he dropped the round into the dish at his side.
"Hold still, there's cloth from your shirt as well."
It took another five minutes before the doctor was satisfied there were no further foreign bodies to remove. Then he sloshed alcohol freely over the raw flesh.
"You, sir, whatever your name actually is, are a lucky man."
"He is Sir Richard Burke, a major in the Army of the Union and in the Royal Engineers of Queen Victoria's forces. He holds the Medal of Honour, doctor. My husband is also, one understands, known in less exalted circles as the Sharps Kid, though I believe that may have been an affectation of his bachelor days."
The doctor was unimpressed – it would take more than an English accent and fancy words to overawe him.
"That's an awful lot of names for one young man, ma'am. He is, as I say, a lucky man. The bullet did not penetrate the gut and with more luck he will be wholly well within two months. That is more than can be said for the one who tried to kill him!"
The sheriff was an angry man.
Shootings in the street occasionally happened; they were part of life and often were entirely justifiable. One man called another a liar or was caught perhaps in the commission of a crime or swindle and the guns came out and the matter was dealt with on the spot; that was how things went. But, always, the business was done openly and well away from the women and children, the two men facing each other and wide awake to what was happening.
Every witness to this affair agreed that the Kid had been shot without warning, not a word said, and from the side by a man he could not have seen. This was a murder attempt. Add to that it was in broad daylight on a street where women were walking with their children and could have been hit by random fire. If the would-be killer had survived he would have been tried on the following morning and hanged by noon - there was a judge in residence in town who had a sufficient jurisdiction for that.
The sheriff remembered from the previous year that Mr Burke - now it would seem 'Sir' Burke - was in with the Federal government and so it was very likely that the dead man was a Confederate agent, a Copperhead at least. He would see what Mr McKay had to say.
McKay was a man of some slight local importance; he owned a wheat farm outside of town and was involved as a partner with two or three other businesses, including a large and modern sawmill whose products were in great demand for house-building as the town expanded. He was a known opponent of Abolitionism and was suspected of Southern sympathies; he was an active Democrat. Much the same set of accusations could have been made against thousands of other men - it was not sufficient to name him a traitor. If, however, he was in cahoots with the dead man then he would have some explaining to do.
Mr McKay was a well-presented, handsome sort of fellow, fortyish and with chestnut locks that he wore long about his face - still a young man at heart. He was also a fool who panicked. He saw the body on the ground and immediately denied him - he was a stranger, he had never in his life seen him, knew nothing of him.
The sheriff smiled and placed McKay under arrest, informing him that he would be charged as an accessory to attempted murder; he pointed out that this was a hanging offence, or could be.
The undertaker, properly arrayed in black, appeared with his wagon and a coffin, no more than cheap pine boards roughly knocked together; the corpse could be transferred to something better if it could pay.
"Before you pick him up, Jedediah, we must empty his pockets."
Jedediah - who had been Jimmy before taking up his trade and needing a more respectable handle - was known for his honesty and would serve as a witness. Juries could sometimes wonder at the items sheriffs discovered, or never found, in the pockets of the accused and the late lamented, but the undertaker was wholly trusted. They commenced an inventory.
"One Colt revolver, Navy, cap and ball. One hundred and twenty dollars in ten-dollar bills; a few nickels and dimes. Five English sovereigns. Some silver and pennies bearing the Queen's head. A pocket knife. A letter, posted in Montreal, by the markings, and saying... nothing of any meaning: 'I shall meet you and the play-actor as arranged at ten in the morning of the fourteenth.' No names, no signatures, no addresses. Five cigars, cheap and blood-stained beyond any use. One watch on a gold chain, well smashed by a bullet, but once of some value, I would say. Otherwise, nothing."
Jedediah confirmed that there was no identification on the body.
"Do you need a cause of death, sheriff?"
"Lead poisoning, I reckon, Jedediah. Make a note of the details for the coroner."
The coroner was the judge, who doubled in the two functions.
"Well, Mr McKay; we must now discover where this gentleman was staying and look at his bags. As you have never seen him before, you will be unable to assist, I am sure."
McKay was becoming aware that he had made a mistake. Kansas City was a small town and it would be easy enough to find which of the few rooming houses had given a bed to the unknown, and then the proprietor would quickly mention that he had been visited twice by Mr McKay, the well-known political gentleman.
"Now that I have looked more closely at his face, Sheriff, I do think that I recognise the man after all."
"That will be very helpful, Mr McKay. I think perhaps you should call for the assistance of your attorney, sir."
McKay thought that to be an excellent idea; he wondered why the sheriff should be so helpful to him; perhaps he was a secret Southern supporter.
The sheriff smiled and sent his deputy trotting off again. Mr McKay was a spent force in Kansas City - he could not expect any man to do business with him after being associated with a killer who had put families at risk. McKay's lawyer would have a lifetime ahead of him in Kansas City and would not wish to be the man who had enabled McKay to escape justice; his professional services would be both expensive and unavailing, but would guarantee a 'fair' trial.
The lawyer sat in the cell with Mr McKay and found that he could only advise him to make a full confession and beg for mercy; if he turned evidence he would certainly save his neck and might possibly avoid a long jail term.
McKay sang, at length and in detail.
He had been involved with Copperheads and had taken part in the planning of an uprising in the cities of the North; that planning had been aborted after the fall of Atlanta and he had been informed that the Southern agents in Canada, the money-men, were all fled. Mr Lugard of Richmond, who had worked with the Catholic priests who had organised the great riot in New York and was well-known for his contacts with the Copperheads and the Knights, had appeared just a few days before and had sought his advice on the best way of returning to the South. He had warned Mr McKay to lie low, to stay unnoticed in town; Copperheads were no longer patriotic heroes. Lugard had mentioned that a few of the most dedicated were still in contact with each other and were planning an action against Mr Lincoln, but he did not think it would come to anything - the most active of them being no more than a play-actor, a master of make-believe. Lugard had spotted the Sharps Kid in the street on the previous day, and had said that he was an agent of the Union, had probably been sent to kill him. He was known to have assassinated other Southern sympathisers - it could not be a coincidence that he was present. Mr McKay had not been aware that Lugard intended violence, had believed that he was to take his urgent advice and flee; he certainly knew nothing of any murder attempt to take place in broad daylight.
The sheriff visited Dick in his bed of pain, found him feverish and unable to do business; importantly, he could give no advice for being unable to think straight.
The sheriff begged an audience
of the Governor and presented him with the evidence in the case. Following the instructions given he then transmitted all to Washington, where the information was received and effectively ignored. The sheriff had uncovered a conspiracy between Copperheads and other parties, including senior members of the Catholic Church in New York, and that, if made public, could possibly bring the Irish back onto the streets in another set of riots. Better far to hope that the conspirators would simply disappear again now that the election had been won and the menace of a rising was over. The authorities decided to kill the whole business; the war was almost finished and they should think more of reconciliation. They sent their thanks to the Governor and said that all was secretly in hand; he should say nothing.
McKay was hauled from his cell early one morning and was informed that he was to be rewarded for giving his information; he would not be prosecuted but he was to take the next train out in any direction and never to return. He was handed the one hundred and twenty dollars taken from the dead man and was instructed to sign blank bills of sale for his farm and business interests.
"They are worth twenty thousand!"
The sheriff was unimpressed; he had decided that he would soon retire from the peace-keeping business and take up farming.
"Twenty thousand, you say? Your choice, McKay. You will stand trial for treason before a military court this afternoon and be shot at dawn, or you will sign and get out of town now. Me? I had much rather you did not sign! We can bury a promissory note for twenty thousand with you, if you want."
McKay took the cars for New York. He was unmarried and left none behind in Kansas City who were in any way interested in his fate. He reached New York a bitter man and proceeded to look up his Copperhead contacts there; he met the play-actor within days.
Dick remained in his bed for a week, the wound-fever leaving him weak and very tired. Plaistow and Louise nursed him and kept him clean, which was all that could be done. In the second week he progressed to a chair and was taking short walks just a few days later, but it was well into February before it was decided that he was fit enough to travel.
An Uncertain Peace (The Making of a Man Series, Book 3) Page 11