by Lou Bradshaw
“Sure, I’ll give you two separate chits, and you tell the banker what you want done with it. But you be sure to get a receipt for it. We trust in God, but anyone else we keep an eye on.” Then he laughed at his own joke. I think I liked this Marshal Becker. He wasn’t as polished as Stewart, but he knew what he was doing. He seemed to have a grasp on his job to where he was comfortable with it. He wasn’t more than thirty years old and looked tough as a horseshoe. But he gave the impression, beneath that down home cover that he had some education to fall back on.
“Couldn’t we just take it all in cash?” Andy asked.
“We’d better not.” I told him, “Five hundred is more than we’ll need to carry us through the winter. Where we’re going we should be able to get jobs.” He looked at me funny, and I realized that I hadn’t told him much about what Frazier had said. “Let’s talk about it later.” He nodded.
“You boys will have to stick around for the trial, which should be in about four days…yeah, that’ll be Tuesday, I’d say. Then if you want to stick around for the hangin’ that would be another two days.”
“Can you recommend a cheap hotel?” I asked.
He roared with a great good-natured laugh, “You fellers are the richest people in town right now, and you want a cheap hotel.” He laughed again and said, “Well you’re in luck, we only got one, and it’s cheap.”
The marshal wrote out the documents we’d need for the bank and handed them over. We gave him Frazier’s hardware and belongings, and then told him we’d just leave his horse and his rig outside at the hitch rail. He said he’d have Buck take care of it.
We took our horses to the livery and got them taken care of, I told the hostler not to spare the grain. They had a long way to go and I figured they’d need an extra little bit. Then we got ourselves settled into the hotel and stowed our gear. Only then would I say that it was time to go to the bank – Andy was about to wet himself.
“Andy,” I said as we approached the door to the bank, “This money is as much or more yours as it is mine, but dammit, man you ain’t got no sense of handling money. You ain’t gonna like this, but I’m gonna dole out your money just like wages. Maybe seven dollars a week when we ain’t workin. That’s about what a cowhand gets. Once we get where we’re goin we’ll need to get jobs to make the money last. If you can’t live with that, then we’ll just have to go out behind this bank and punch each other senseless.”
He knew I was right and only put up enough of an argument to make himself feel better, so we went into the bank. When we came out I gave him a five-dollar piece and two green backs, his face broke into a grin. “I’ll buy the first round,” I told him, “besides, we got some talking to do.” We headed for the nearest saloon.
Inside the Double Devil saloon, we found an empty table, and I went to get some beers. When I got back to the table Andy was involved in some serious negotiations with one of the fattest women I’ve ever encountered. She must have weighed over three hundred pounds and being packed into one of those saloon girl little dresses that didn’t do her any justice. There was bulges and flab sticking out everywhere, it was all wrinkly and dimply and pasty white. I set the mugs down and said, “Thanks for watchin him for me miss. I just broke him out of the Kansas State Asylum in Wichita, and he needs to be watched all the time.” I took a good look at him and said, “You’d hardly think it would you?” She found something important to do in another part of the room.
He didn’t say a thing until she had gone, then he said, “Dammit, Ben, one of these days….”
“Aw, Andy, you didn’t want any of that did you? Why, that’s too much woman for one night, you’d have to mark your place and finish the next day. That’s too much woman for a troop of cavalry.”
“No,” he answered, “I didn’t want any of it, but I was tryin’ to make a deal for you.” We both laughed at that.
“Thanks, but I’ll make my own deals – when I’m ready.” I didn’t have to add that I was scared to death of the whole idea. He already knew.
I opened my pouch and pulled out the notes I had written during my talk with Frazier. I trusted the information to be reliable, if not completely accurate. I had never seen anyone as scared as Frazier at that point. I laid everything out for Andy starting with the fact that Clyde Gentry and Amos Poke were cousins, and wherever you found one, the other wouldn’t be far away. Gentry wasn’t very smart or brave, but he was sneaky mean and crafty. Gentry idolized Poke, and in return, Poke always watched out for Gentry.
Frazier had also said that not to underestimate Poke. He was more than just a dirty, mean, fat slob – he was highly intelligent. He had been well educated in the north by his southern family. When he was pressured into the war as a Confederate lieutenant, he and his aid Corporal Gentry, managed to get a four-year advance on their own salaries and headed west. Of course, no one else in the outfit got paid that month.
His descriptions of Poke and Gentry were detailed as far as size, coloring and marks, but each could fit ten thousand men in Texas alone. We had both seen Gentry, but that was two and a half years ago in a dooryard full of dust, gun smoke, flying bullets, and bucking horses. I thought I might recognize him, but I wasn’t sure. Neither of us had ever seen Poke, although, we did have a drawing of him on a wanted poster.
One bit of information may prove valuable. According to Frazier, Poke was always talking about a pal in San Antonio who was a wheeler and a dealer, a man named Brezlin. Brezlin had been after Poke to come to San Antone and together they would go to a place in New Mexico up north of Santa Fe and pull off a huge land grab. Brezlin had been working on the finances, and he was about ready for Poke to make it all work. But that was over two years ago. There was no telling what had happened since.
It seems that Brezlin was a lawyer and had worked out the scheme. He had the brains, but not the nerve and muscle to pull it off on his own; that’s where his old school chum Poke came in. Poke had told Coleman and Frazier that he didn’t mind getting run out of Kansas and Missouri because he was ready to go see Brezlin anyway, and get into a legitimate business.
After hearing all of that, Andy asked, “Well, Mr. Keeper of the Cash Box, why don’t you buy us another round, and come back and tell us what we plan to do in San Antone. And be quick about it.”
As I headed for the bar, I passed the fat dance hall gal working on another potential customer. I tapped her on the shoulder, and when she turned I said, “Would you mind keeping an eye on him,” motioning to Andy, “while I get more beer?” she only snorted at me and turned back to the lucky gentleman she had been attending.
The plan for San Antonio was the very simplest plan possible. Since we didn’t know what Poke would be calling himself, we would find the only fact we had – Brezlin. When we found him, we would watch for anyone who might be Poke or Gentry.
“What if he is already been there and moved on to where the nerve and muscle was needed?” Andy asked.
“If that’s the case then we will have to run a bluff on Brezlin. Tell him that Poke or Gentry had sent for us, but we got held up and missed them. If he don’t believe us then we’ll use a little muscle and nerve of our own. But… only as the last resort.” Andy was satisfied with a simple plan and settled back to enjoy a little idle time. I left him with a caution to make that money last and went out into the street.
The rails were past Wichita now and that was all that anyone cared to talk about. There was a scattering of new buildings going up, and I figured there’d be a lot more in the near future. The first place I went was to check on our livestock. Those were good horses, and I meant to keep them in good shape. They were going to see a lot of territory in the next few months. I checked them over pretty thoroughly from topknot to tail, or as Bob would say, “From snort to fart”. I liked working for Bob.
The horses were fine and seemed to like the fussing. Although, the packhorse was a wild born mustang and none too friendly he still liked the attention. He’d make a fair saddle horse if I
ever had the time to work with him.
My next stop was at the saddle maker, where I had a few alterations made on my shotgun holster so it would ride more comfortable. He had some money belts hanging that caught my eye. He showed me how you would fold them over and wrap the laces to make them almost unnoticeable under your shirt. I bought one.
Frazier’s trial started Monday morning at nine o’clock, and we were both summoned as witnesses. Neither one of us had actually seen him commit a crime, but I had a deathbed statement from John Mullin naming all the members of the gang. That was accepted by the Judge, but the information I got from Maria Magdalena was not – they called it hearsay. It really didn’t matter because Frazier was well known throughout Kansas and was wanted dead or alive by more than one town. Andy was called, but he couldn’t add anything. There were other witnesses who had seen him rob and kill. When the Judge read the verdict and said he was to be hanged in two days, Frazier crashed to the floor – out cold. I think the Judge could have said that they were to cut him up in little pieces feed him to the pigs and Frazier wouldn’t have flinched, but hanging scared the hell out of him.
We stayed around for the hanging, but I didn’t go. Andy went out of vengeance. It seemed right to me that Frazier be hung, but I didn’t care to see it happen. It just didn’t seem like any kind of way to spend a crisp fall morning so I went moseying around town stopping at one store or another.
At one store, I found a whole shelf full of books. Most of them were pretty beat up having been handled so much, but they were cheap, and we had a long trip ahead of us. I bought five books for their size without even looking at the titles. I needed to be able to pack them in a little space. As it turned out later, one of them was a lady’s book, which I didn’t understand at all, but I read it anyway – it only added to my confusion. Another one was on dry land farming and I found it somewhat interesting. Two of them were about the Wild West; with a whole bunch of shooting and killing, they were pure nonsense. The last one was a book on laws and government, and I read it several times.
We knew that San Antonio was in the southern part of Texas, but we weren’t exactly sure how far. Like most of the traveling we had done we planned to just go in the general direction and see what information we could pick up on the way. The day after the hanging we headed south.
Chapter 19
It took almost two months to get from Dodge City to San Antonio. Knowing that it was going to be a long grinding trip, we didn’t push it. There was no need. After two and a half years, Poke and Gentry would either be there or they wouldn’t. We were counting on the lawyer Brezlin to be our connection. If he had gone on with them, then we would go to Santa Fe and try to pick up his scent. Either way there was no hurry.
I’d heard that there were people who could tell you how to get from the Rio Grande to the North West coast naming every river and traveling time between them. They could tell you where the water holes were and where they were not. They knew every mountain pass and when it was likely to be closed. I’d heard of those people, but had never met any of them.
The people I had met, with a very few exceptions, didn’t know what was fifty miles away in at least two directions. If they had come from Louisiana, then they knew what was between them and Louisiana but not what was twenty miles beyond them. They knew where the nearest town with a supply store was, and where they went to sell their beef, but they didn’t have a lot of time for exploring. Many a half grown kid had never been more than ten miles from the shack, soddy, or adobe where he was born.
We knew from a large map in the courthouse that San Antonio was almost due south. It was more than four hundred miles to San Angelo, and then southeast for about a hundred and fifty more. We had nothing better to do but to get this thing done. So off we went.
There were very few towns, and it was a good stretch between ‘em, so we made it a rule to stop in each town and rest our animals as well as ourselves. Besides, it was nice to eat a meal that someone else cooked now and then. I wasn’t a bad cook…well, yeah, I guess I was, but I was a darned site better at it than Andy was. Anyway, Andy had to spend his weekly pay or he’d likely explode.
We cut across Crazy Jim’s trail in the Nations and he caught up to us a few days later. It was good to see the old rascal. He may have been crazy as a loon, but there was a lot a fella could learn from him if he paid attention. He didn’t travel with us, but gave us a good idea what to expect on the trail ahead. We shared a meal and a campsite, and he was gone the next morning. He said the girl was accepted by the Southern Cheyenne, and had some bucks already lining up. I could quit worrying on her account; from now on, she’d manage.
After crossing into Texas again, we found a few more settlements but not many. Most were not more than a trading post that sold liquor by the drink or by the jug. The liquor was made out in the shed and was pure poison. I’m not sure what all was in it, but there was at least soap and chaw tobacco, and of course there was a goodly amount of grain alcohol and water. It would take the paint off the wall and the curl out of your hair. One sip told me that I was neither old enough nor stupid enough to take a second sip. Those trading posts generally had some sort of flat skunky beer, which was also made in the shed out back. I drank the coffee, which had its own character.
Those trading posts generally had a supply of this and that for the ranchers and travelers. They would trade with wagons coming through for whatever they could make a deal on. There were seldom any overnight sleeping quarters, and when there were, it was just a cot. A smart man would get that ticking off, and just spread his blankets on the webbing to avoid whatever was living in the tick. We grew smarter after the first few encounters.
We seldom counted more than two or three shacks clustered around those posts, but there always seemed to be enough folks to make up a gathering. Almost all of them were men, and none of them looked like someone you’d pick out to be your best friend. They were usually drifters, down and outers, a ranch hand that got close enough to stop in for a quick one, and not a few that were on the run.
One such place had more than the usual number of characters in it and they all seemed to be having a good time. We needed a little diversion so we joined in. I was drinking a poor excuse for a beer, when a fella slapped me on the back and said, “Hey you, carrot top.”
He seemed to be having more fun than the rest of them put together, so I just turned around and smiled. He pointed to my shotgun rig and asked if I could get that thing out very fast. I said, “No, I don’t reckon I can, but it don’t matter cause once I get it out, it’ll blow a hole in a fella big enough to drive a buckboard through.”
“But what if you get shot before you can get it out?”
“Well sir.” I said, “If I weren’t hit dead center, then I could most likely still get off a shot.”
He was just sober enough to give that some thought, but he was just drunk enough to be stupid and said, “Why don’t we go out to the road and face off. Make it a sportin event.”
“No, I don’t think that’s much of an idea for a sportin contest.” I said, “Someone could get bad hurt or bad killed. I’ll tell you what though, we could rassel, or we could take turns punchin each other in the belly. Or we could even run a foot race for skunky beers, but I ain’t shootin’ with nobody for sport.” With that, I turned back to the bar.
Andy had a devil in his eye and saw the chance to needle that fella. “You know who you were talkin’ to?” he asked.
The drunk said, “Na, he’s just some yay-hoo, stubborn saddle bum.”
Real quiet and confidential like, Andy said, “What if I told you he was Bill Hickock?”
The fella craned his neck around to look at me and said, “Na, Wild Bill has big mustaches, and he’s older.”
“What about Clay Allison?”
“No, he’s big enough, but I seen Allison oncet, and that ain’t him.”
“Would you believe that’s Hickory Jack Moore?” Andy asked.
The man craned
his neck again for a look at me and said, “He’s about the right age, but I heerd that Hickory Jack was a smallish feller and ugly mean.”
Andy’s expression changed, but he regained his composure quickly and said, “I’ll level with you, friend, that’s Ben Blue.”
The drunk muddled that over for a few seconds then said, “Yeah, heerd of him. Big red headed feller. Some kinda bounty hunter. Rides with old Hickory Ja…” He looked at Andy’s grinning face and swallowed hard. He went from half drunk to sober on the spot, and he must have remembered something about the words, “ugly mean” because he found things more interesting outside.
Andy had a sense of humor, but it was rare that anyone but me ever saw it, and when they did it usually had a bit of malice in it.
Reaching San Angelo, we stopped for about four days rest. We had been on the trail for over five weeks and we were as spent as our horses. It was a nice town with the old Mexican adobes and the quiet streets. There were plenty of people… both Mexican and Americans. The neighborhoods were separate, but all were part of the same town, not like it was at River Town.
I truly enjoyed hanging around the plaza and watching folk go by. Some of the vaqueros would ride by dressed in a magnificence that I could hardly believe. They had more silver on their clothes and saddles than our bank back home had in its safe. They not only dressed with a flair, but they rode and carried themselves with a flair. And the senoritas…ah, they also carried themselves with a flair. The ladies were adorned with much less silver, or maybe I just wasn’t looking at their jewelry.
I found that the best place to sit was under the hotel awning facing the fountain. There was a steady stream of young ladies coming for water and some society and some flair. I liked flair, so much so that I bought one of those short Mexican jackets. I looked at myself in a store window and I’d have sworn I was looking at a big redheaded Hidalgo Don. Of course, that window didn’t show my homespun pants and knee-high moccasins, but from the sombrero to the waist, I looked good!