“Best follow me, then,” he said, “and be quick. Some drunk’s shootin’ the fence up at my ma’s.”
* * * * *
His ma didn’t live in The Bottoms, but rather just a few blocks over from where Estrella lived. I didn’t know where Sheriff Whitney was, or any other deputy, and I thought this should be a town matter, not that of a county deputy who didn’t know squat about keeping the peace.
A pistol roared, and I saw the muzzle flash underneath a street lamp. “Wait here,” I told the boy, starting to pull the .36, but thinking better of that. I walked toward a tall gent, who swayed like he was a kite in a gale. He was waving one revolver in his right hand, and had another tucked in his waistband.
“Come on out, Mary!” he yelled to a darkened house.
I figured I’d be arresting my first Texas cowboy, but this didn’t look like some brushpopper. He was tall, wearing Congress gaiters, not boots, and his clothes were town duds—a black Prince Albert, tails flapping in the wind, striped, button-down shirt with a pleated bib, unbuttoned waistcoat, wide necktie, and striped britches.
“Come on out, Mary!” he yelled again, and thumbed back the hammer of his short-barreled Colt. The point of a fence near the path to the cottage disappeared in an explosion of splinters. The man straightened, reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a handful of cartridges, most of which spilled to the dirt.
I don’t think he saw me until I stood an arm’s length from him. Then he dropped the Colt he had been trying to reload, and gripped the one in his waistband.
“You aren’t Mary,” he said. His breath smelled like a keg of Taos lightning.
“Don’t you think you’d best come with me?” I said.
He sniggered. “Like I said, you ain’t Mary.”
“Yeah, but we have this law about guns and such.”
“Don’t preach to me about law, kid. I’ll show you law.”
He tried to pull out that Colt from his waistband, but he was stumbling while I was drawing my own weapon. I bashed him upside the head with the barrel. He dropped like a rock, and I, Madison Carter MacRae, made my first arrest.
It proved to be a big one.
* * * * *
Chauncey Whitney whistled. He turned to me, smiled, whistled again, and the man I’d arrested the night before told him to shut up.
“You look off your feed, Brocky Jack,” Whitney said to the prisoner, who sat on a cot, leaning his head against the iron bars.
I leaped out of the chair. “You mean to tell me ...?. I just couldn’t finish.
“Madison, this is Brocky Jack Norton, marshal of Ellsworth, Kansas.”
* * * * *
It’s funny. Somehow, I thought my arresting the town marshal for public intoxication, disorderly conduct, and violating the no-gun ordinance—which is what Whitney told me to charge him with—might mend things between the Texas contingent and the Ellsworth business community. Reckon I was a kid, just a naïve boy.
On Friday, August 15th, after Brocky Jack Norton posted bail and hid himself in his room, John Sterling slapped Ben Thompson right across the face in Nick Lentz’s bucket of blood. Now, the details might seem fuzzy on account that I didn’t see it, but witnesses later said that the disagreement stemmed over some money Thompson said Sterling owed him for a monte game at the Gamblers’ Roost. Apparently Ben Thompson had loaned Sterling cash to cover a wager at the Gamblers’ Roost. So the following day, the 15th, Thompson approached Sterling in Lentz’s saloon to get his money back. Instead of getting cash, he got backhanded across the cheek.
Ben wasn’t carrying a gun, but figured he didn’t need one to tear off John Sterling’s head. Happy Jack Morco, however, was seated next to Sterling at a poker table, and, at Ben’s approach, stood, aiming his two revolvers at Ben’s belly, forcing him to back off. Morco then escorted Sterling out of the saloon. Both laughed as they left.
Sterling was a gambler, and he didn’t come from Texas. Most of the cowboys who tried their luck against him came away broke. Few credited Sterling with luck. Most considered him a cheat.
The story goes Ben Thompson, stewing over getting slapped—who wouldn’t?—stormed back to the Gamblers’ Roost, and began tossing whiskey down his throat. A short while later, Morco and Sterling walked by, stepped inside the saloon, and Sterling hollered: “Get your guns, you yellow Texas dog, and fight!”
Everyone said John Sterling was carrying a shotgun.
Let me explain something about Ellsworth’s checked-gun policy. If you were armed, it wasn’t like you had to ride immediately to city hall or the county sheriff’s office and deposit your hardware. Lots of times, folks would get off the train or ride into town and head straight to a watering hole to quench a mighty thirst, where it was common practice to check guns with bartenders, and then pick them up before you left town. Of course, Ben Thompson lived in a hotel, so he usually kept his revolver in his room, unless he was gambling or just worried, in which case he packed a concealed weapon and hoped no one busted him for it. Anyway, Ben wasn’t heeled when Sterling, backed by Morco, issued that challenge.
No one at the Gamblers’ Roost would loan Ben Thompson one of the guns they had checked, so Ben hurried to his room and fetched his own. A few minutes later, brother Billy, drunker than a goat but having heard that men were gunning for his big brother, located Ben on the town square. Both were armed, and both were in their cups. Billy, however, couldn’t hold his liquor. Couldn’t hold onto that double-barrel shotgun he was carrying, either. He dropped it, and accidentally triggered a barrel.
That’s the noise we heard.
“Let’s go,” Sheriff Whitney said, and we left the jail, heading for the square.
On the way a gambler and a merchant filled us in on what was happening. Sterling and Happy Jack were said to be hiding in the barbershop, which turned out to be nothing more than a rumor. The Thompsons were waiting for them on the boardwalk, which was fact. We could see those two Texians plain as day.
“Let me handle this,” Whitney told me. Like I had any notion what to do.
We walked toward the Thompson brothers.
Ben Thompson seemed to be about to unload the shotgun—he sure couldn’t depend on his kid brother with that big Greener—when he spied us.
“’Morning, Ben,” the sheriff greeted.
Thompson thrust the Greener back into his younger brother’s hands. His right palm hovered over the Colt’s butt sticking out of his coat pocket.
“What seems to be the trouble?” Whitney asked casually.
Ben Thompson explained, his face turning redder as he considered the ignominy he’d experienced from the likes of John Sterling.
“Now, boys,” Whitney said, “I could easily haul you two in for walking around town fully armed, but let’s talk this out, not make a mess of things.”
“You might not find it so easy, Sheriff, to haul me and Ben to jail,” Billy Thompson said, and patted the stock of his shotgun.
Whitney ignored him.
Ben said: “Easy, Billy. Chauncey’s been a good egg since we’ve been here.”
“Yeah,” Billy started, “but ....”
“This is between us and Sterling and Morco,” Ben told Whitney. “And this time, I’ll finish Happy Jack.”
“Morco’s already finished,” Whitney said. “So is Brocky Jack. In fact, the marshal just got out of jail. Mad Carter MacRae, my deputy, arrested him last night.”
Ben wet his lips. “That true?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Fat chance,” Billy said, and stepped off the boardwalk. “Let’s plug those yellow dogs, Ben.”
“Ellsworth’s about tamed, Ben,” Whitney said. “Don’t botch it now. I’ll take Happy Jack ... Mad Carter and me. With Brocky Jack’s arrest, and now with Happy Jack abusing his power, letting a gambler like Sterling go around town armed with a shotgun, loo
king for a fight, we’ll get rid of the whole force. They’re finished. But if you fight, even go looking for a fight, that’ll just mean more trouble. For you. And all the Texas cowboys and cattlemen here. Come on. I’ll buy you a drink, and you can check that Colt and Greener with the bartender. Then I’ll put Happy Jack behind bars.”
Sweat damped my armpits, stung my eyes. I thought I saw Ben smile.
Finally he said to Whitney: “You should be a preacher.”
We started for a dram shop. It was almost over. The Thompsons would check their guns inside, and then we’d lock up Morco and that cheating tinhorn.
Billy pushed through the batwing doors, made a beeline for the bar, and Whitney followed. I placed my right hand on one of the swinging doors, Ben just behind me, when footsteps sounded, echoing loudly along the manganese limestone sidewalk of the Grand Central Hotel, then dulling on the wooden planks. Coming closer.
Billy was about to hand the beer-jerker his shotgun, and Whitney was saying something to a guy at a table drinking a beer. Turning, I saw Happy Jack Morco running down the center of the street, gun drawn, John Sterling right beside him.
Ben spun, found his own gun. “What are you doin’?” he shouted, moving down the boardwalk away from the saloon, closer to Morco and Sterling.
Happy Jack didn’t answer. He kept moving, but Sterling stopped. When Happy Jack raised his revolver, Ben fired. Happy Jack dived. Ben’s shot splintered the door at a hardware store.
I stepped toward Ben, gripping my revolver, but uncertain about what to do next.
“What’s going on?” I heard Sheriff Whitney call out. Then he charged out of the saloon. He sized up everything in a moment, while I was still trying to comprehend all I saw.
“Hold your fire!” Whitney said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Stop this. Stop this!”
At that moment Billy stumbled through the doors, tripped, triggered the other barrel of the shotgun he still gripped, and sent a load of buckshot into Chauncey Whitney’s side and chest.
Likely you’ll think I’m lying, that my memory’s playing tricks on me the way it does many old codgers. Yet not a night has passed over the past forty-six years that I haven’t seen Chauncey Whitney standing there. That’s right—standing. That blast didn’t knock him off his feet. He gripped the column in front of the saloon.
“I am shot,” he said.
Forgetting all about Morco and Sterling, Ben dropped his gun, started to reach for the sheriff, then turned to his brother, screaming in rage: “You damned fool. You’ve shot your best friend!”
Billy’s reply still echoes, still makes me shiver. “I don’t care. I’d have shot Jesus Christ himself.”
Suddenly the plaza filled with people. Happy Jack Morco picked himself up, dusted himself off, holstered his revolver, started to walk away, only to turn and head over to the gathering crowd. Sterling had already vamoosed.
I guess I got my legs to work. Anyway, I found myself right beside Sheriff Whitney, seeing his life’s blood drip onto my John Mueller boots. He pulled a bloody left hand from his side, and put it on my shoulder. His right hand still gripped the column, knuckles white.
“Get Nellie,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I sent her to a picnic with the baby ... over at Fort Harker. You do that for me, Madison?”
My lips quivered, but somehow I choked out: “Yes, sir.”
“That’s a good lad.. His face went pale, like someone had turned a spigot and drained him of all color. “Tell her ....”
He collapsed onto me.
chapter
24
“All right. Break up this confab. Go on. All but you, Billy Thompson. I’m arresting you.. Happy Jack Morco grinned. “I’m gonna hang you. It’ll give me real pleasure to jerk that lever on the gallows.”
If I hadn’t been supporting Sheriff Whitney, I would have pulled my revolver and killed that wretched cur. Instead, I stared with contempt at the deputy marshal. He had started this whole thing.
Through clenched teeth, Whitney whispered: “I ain’t dead yet, Morco.”
Happy Jack blinked, amazed to see Whitney still among the living.
“Besides, it was an accident,” Whitney said, wincing with each word. “Billy didn’t mean to do it.. The sheriff drew a deep breath, and I could hear the sucking sound from his chest. He spit out a bloody froth, turned to me, whispering: “Get me home, Madison.”
A couple bystanders stepped forward to help me carry Whitney to his home at Lincoln Avenue and First Street, while the livery owner mounted a horse and rode to Fort Harker to fetch Whitney’s wife and daughter. As we toted Sheriff Whitney away, I saw Ben and Billy Thompson gathering in front of the Grand Central Hotel with more Texas cowboys and cattlemen, Major Canton among them. A mob of angry Ellsworth citizens encircled that fancy hotel’s entrance. Muffled shouts reached me, and I saw Major Canton shove something—money, I suspect—into Billy’s hands, and watched that clumsy idiot head through the front door. It didn’t take a detective from Scotland Yard to understand that Ben’s brother would go out the back door, find a horse, and light a shuck. Which is exactly what he did.
Cussing mingled with threats. Fingers were being pointed. More Texians headed toward the front of the hotel. More Kansans crowded the street. The scene was growing uglier by the minute.
“Let’s even the tally!” someone yelled. Whether that came from a Kansan or cowboy, I don’t know.
I stopped, letting another man take the sheriff’s arms. I looked back at Happy Jack Morco, who was standing there in front of Beebe’s hardware store, like he couldn’t decide what to do or where to go.
“Hey!” I yelled. “Morco!”
He dropped both hands to the butts of his revolvers, found me, and just stared.
I pointed to the Grand Central. “A riot’s about to break out. You’re a town law. Keep the peace!”
He glanced at that scene, then stared back at me. “Why don’t you help, Deputy?” he said snidely.
“It’s your affair,” I said. “You’re a town constable. I’m county. Same as Chauncey Whitney was.. I ran to catch up with my friend, maybe the only friend I had now in Ellsworth.
Ellsworth would burn that night, I thought, which suited me just fine.
* * * * *
“There is nothing Doctor Gregg or I can do.”
Eight words. But they had the impact of—I don’t know—eight million.
Nellie Whitney gasped, but did not cry. To me, she looked like a little girl, which she pretty much was, and not a mother and soon-to-be widow. She stared beyond Dr. Fox, as I recollect his name—Dr. Duck being out of town on another call—as Dr. Gregg eased some liquid down the sheriff’s throat.
“What do you mean?. I turned in the parlor to see the owner of the Drovers Mercantile pointing a finger at the doctor.
“He has taken shots in the arm, chest, and shoulder, Major Gore,” the doc explained somberly. “He is lung shot for certain. Neither Doctor Gregg nor I are ... well, good enough to save Sheriff Whitney’s life.”
“Can’t you dig out the shot?” someone else asked.
“Eighteen buckshot?. The doc sounded skeptical. “From almost pointblank range?”
“Well, then we’ll get us a surgeon who can do something,” Gore said, and he promptly announced that he would pay $50, plus expenses, for any surgeon who would try to save Chauncey Whitney’s life.
That’s how Dr. William Finlaw came to Ellsworth from Junction City the following morning. We held out hope that this educated doctor could do something, but he told Nellie and me the same thing.
“Several lead projectiles perforated both lungs.. He used words they probably teach doctors at fancy universities. “Some shot has lodged against his backbone. To operate would be futile. All we can do is give him laudanum to ease his pain, comfort him. You must be brave, Missus Whitney ... let hi
m hold his child, let him feel your hand in his.”
She was brave.
The sawbones left a couple bottles of laudanum, and some pills to help Nellie sleep. But she refused to take the pills. Eventually everybody left the house. I would have gone, too—though where I would wind up, I didn’t know—but Nellie stopped me.
“Madison?”
I looked at her.
“Please stay.”
My lips were dry. I was hesitant. Then Chauncey Whitney called out in a booming voice: “Madison!. He started coughing, and Nellie and I rushed to his bedside. She wiped blood from his lips, gave him a sip from the bottle of medicine. He motioned at the chair where Nellie usually sat by the bed. His deathbed.
The doorbell rang. Nellie said she would get it, so I settled into the chair.
“I got you in a fix,” Whitney said.
Confusion must have marked my face. I didn’t know what he was talking about. Me in a fix. The way I saw things, I had gotten Whitney shot. If I had been able to use my revolver, if I had stopped Billy Thompson, maybe—maybe—maybe ....
“You can take that tin star off, son.. He wheezed. I dabbed the blood from his lips. “Take it off. Don’t want you getting killed.”
Not knowing what to say, or even what he was really talking about, I just watched and waited until the laudanum took hold. Finally he closed his eyes, drifting off into pain-wracked sleep. Slowly I rose, and walked into the parlor, stopping to make sure Bessie was still asleep.
Estrella stood there, hugging Nellie. Both were crying, but they pulled apart when I entered the room. Nellie looked at me.
“He’s asleep again,” I said.
Mouthing—“Good.”—she looked back at Estrella.
“You should sleep, too,” Estrella said.
“I can’t,” Nellie said.
“Try. At least rest. You’ll need your strength.. Estrella wiped a tear off her own cheek. “I’ll stay. As long as you and Bessie need me, I’m here.”
“Thanks, Star.. Nellie looked through the doorway that led to the bedroom, shook her head. “It’s so unlike Sandy to be in bed at this time of day.. Her voice, so haunting, so detached, sent a chill racing up my spine. Then, almost ghost-like, Nellie walked into the bedroom, leaving me alone with Estrella.
Summer of the Star Page 17