Indian Territory 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  CONTENTS

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Quotation — Horace Greeley

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Copyright

  Piccadilly Publishing

  More on Patrick E. Andrews

  When Martin Blazer established his newspaper in Lighthorse Creek, he believed the pen was mightier than the sword. But Culhane Riley and his gang of cutthroats didn’t take kindly to Blazer’s editorials about law and order. The young editor was horsewhipped, his printing office wrecked, and it looked like Riley’s bunch would continue running things their way.

  Until Tom Deacon came to town …

  Deacon was pure hell with a gun, but he used it sparingly and only in what he considered a good cause. And he hadn’t found a better cause than Martin Blazer’s crusade for justice. The two banded together to take on the outlaw gang, and once the battle started there was no stopping the slaughter. Good men had to win, or else the devil would dance over their corpses on the streets of … Lighthorse Creek.

  This book is respectfully dedicated to

  The Great Trade and Craft of Hot Metal typography and Printing

  Then hail to the Press!

  Chosen guardian of freedom!

  Strong sword-arm of justice!

  Bright sunbeam of truth!

  — Horace Greeley

  One

  Although dawn was not even a pinkish glow on the distant horizon, the young man had awakened and rolled himself out of his blankets and had gotten far enough into this new day to finish eating breakfast.

  Now he stood carefully sipping strong, fresh coffee while doing his best to control his impatience at getting to the journey he planned for that day. The tin cup was hot, so Martin Blazer drank carefully to avoid burning his lips. The campfire was small, but bright enough to light up the immediate area well enough to tend to the few camp chores necessary in preparation for the day’s activities. There wasn’t yet enough light to be able to travel safely across the bumpy, rolling terrain that lay between him and his destination.

  In fact, it was still so dark that he had trouble making out the pair of mules hobbled a few yards from the large freight wagon. He walked around the heavy vehicle and inspected the tie-downs holding the load aboard. It was a useless attempt in the dark, but it gave him something to do while he fretted away the time waiting for the world to brighten up so he could resume his trip across the rolling hills of the eastern Indian Territory.

  Martin was a thin young man with coal-black hair and bright blue eyes, showing both his Cherokee and his white ancestry. He moved a trifle awkwardly, showing a slight lack of physical grace, but those eyes were bright with more than color. A flashing combination of deep intellect and bright creativity sparkled in his brain, and these were the driving forces that shaped the choice he’d made as a life’s profession.

  ~*~

  Martin Blazer was born on a farm outside the town of Lighthorse Creek, Indian Territory, in the Cherokee Nation. The place had not been either officially or deliberately named. The appellation had come about through the habit of the Cherokee Lighthorse—the native constabulary that acted as the law-enforcement agency for the Cherokee Nation—of using it as a camp. The safety afforded by these Indian policemen attracted farmers and merchants there to set up temporary business quarters in tents and shanties. These were finally replaced by permanent structures as the town formed up on both sides of the large creek that flowed there. Long after the lawmen had moved on to other locations and no longer used the vicinity as a base of operations, it was still known as Lighthorse Creek.

  Martin had grown up there and attended school for six years in the town. Unlike his more rambunctious pals, he loved studying, and by the time he was in his early teens, he had surpassed the young teachers who taught him. He read voraciously and intensely all the books he could get his hands on. Frequent travelers arriving in Lighthorse Creek were besieged by the young half-breed, who offered to trade volumes he had already read for any book that he hadn’t. He had a few he wouldn’t barter off, however. Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities, Tolstoy’s War and Peace, and the more recent The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain were among those he wouldn’t have taken anything for—not a new rifle, cash money, or a ticket to Kansas City.

  If the latter had been offered, however, the bargain would have sorely tempted him. Martin’s reading caused him to feel stifled by his close horizons. As he grew up he became restless, wanting to strike out and see the great wonderful world that had been described to him by the great writers. His parents thought he was a stubborn boy, and his older brothers considered him crazy. It looked like circumstances of family and finances would keep him tied to that farm to the end of his days, but a personal tragedy during a typhoid epidemic finally set him free.

  Martin’s parents and one brother died of the sickness. Like most thin men, Martin exhibited an enigmatic inner physical strength that gave him great resistance to disease. The surviving brother, wanting to head west for California, got little argument from Martin when he decided to sell the family farm. Each took an equal share of the price, and went out on his own.

  Martin didn’t exactly know what he was looking for. But he struck out north on the unsold family mule and rode up across the Kansas line into Wichita. The idea was to sell the animal and combine that with the proceeds from the farm to buy a train ticket to the farthest destination possible.

  But he never passed through to the other side of Wichita.

  This was the year of 1883, and Wichita was a growing community that offered plenty of excitement. The recent cattle drives that had put the town on the map were winding down by then, but the city was continuing to prosper as the seat of Sedgewick County, and its reputation was growing as a commercial center in the area. Although small in comparison with great metropolises in the east, its size astounded seventeen-year-old Martin Blazer. After selling the old mule and finding a room in a boarding house on the north side, he spent a few aimless days and nights simply walking around and gawking at the sights of so many people in one place.

  A few days passed and Martin decided he might find his fortune and a new life in this lively town. He took his money out of the bottom of the old carpetbag where he’d stashed it, and placed the money in the Wichita State Bank, then turned to some serious investigation of entering a profession.

  This endeavor took up three more days. His first attempts concerned merchandising. But the best jobs available in the local stores were those involving a lot of sweeping and toting. Martin had done harder work than that before, but these positions didn’t seem to offer any opportunity. An inquiry at an apothecary store revealed that there was quite a bit of schooling required in order to be a druggist, and he was equally disappointed when he applied for a position at the same bank where’d put his money. The bank president, a nice enough fellow even though he seemed as busy as a one-legged man in a kicking contest, stated that he would hire only someone with experience.

  By that time Martin was
beginning to get mighty discouraged. It looked like there was more than a good chance that he’d end up homesteading outside of town, which would mean that he’d be doing the same thing in Kansas that he’d done in the Indian Territory. The decision to visit the government land office was beginning to form in his mind when he noticed a sign in a shop window. The words were simple, but they were printed in fancy letters: PRINTER’S DEVIL WANTED Apply Within Martin didn’t know what a printer’s devil was, but he figured it sure couldn’t hurt him to find out. He paused long enough to gaze up at the sign over the establishment which identified the place as the office of a newspaper called the Wichita Herald.

  Martin stepped inside and went up to a counter stretched across the entire length of the place. He could see a man with his back to the door, working hard at some puzzling chore. The gentleman wore a blue denim apron and an eyeshade while doing something over a large drawer full of little boxes. He was picking tiny objects out of each compartment and placing them one at a time, but very rapidly, in a narrow metal tray in his hand. “Excuse me, sir,” Martin said.

  The man stopped his work and turned around. “Yes?”

  “I would be pleased to apply for the position advertised in your window,” Martin said.

  The man laid his tools down and walked over. “What in the world for?”

  Martin was a bit surprised. He decided candor would serve him better in this instance. “I’m looking for a job, sir.” He exhibited an embarrassed grin. “I’ll confess, sir, that I haven’t the slightest notion what a printer’s devil is.”

  “Then allow me, young man, to tell you exactly what he is,” the man said. “He’s the fellow that’s going to start the fire in here early in the morning. He’ll sweep and clean between distributing type that’s already been set and printed. He’ll run over to the saloon and get me a bucket of beer when I’m thirsty. That printer’s devil is going to work long and hard.”

  “I see,” Martin said, not too impressed with the terms of the job. “It would appear that the terms of the position are a bit one-sided.”

  “Oh, he’ll get something in return,” the man said. “I’ll pay him wages for what he’s worth. But that won’t be much to begin with. In the end, however, I’ll give him something more precious than anything man has ever had since the dawn of time.”

  Now Martin was becoming impressed. “Yes, sir. What is that?”

  “I’ll teach him the printing trade, boy,” the printer said. “Nothing has so made civilization soar upward in an explosion of enlightenment like the invention of movable type. It has spawned uprisings and reformation in all of human endeavor and institutions. You see what I mean, boy?”

  “Yes, sir. I certainly do,” Martin said. “I love to read, and I respect the power of the written word.”

  “Not the written word, boy,” the printer protested. “The printed word. The ones that were written were rare, and put down on parchment most painstakingly by monks in monasteries. They were worthy fellows, I’m sure, but the results of their labor were available only to the social elite and powerful. The words that are set in type and put to paper reach the multitude of common men to educate and enlighten them.” He paused. “You love to read, do you? Did you realize that these books that entertain and teach you are manufactured by typesetting and printing men? We sow and reap words like the farmer does grain, boy.”

  “Glory!” Martin exclaimed. “I’d love to do that, sir.”

  The printer shrugged. “And why should I entrust my noble and honorable trade to a lad like you? What would you do with it?”

  “Well, sir, I’d work hard and ethically to make sure only the best ideas were printed,” Martin said. “I’d do my best to see that all the great and worthy ideas conceived were put forth for the populace so that civilization’s advances might continue.”

  The printer stepped back and studied the young man. “Damn me, boy! You have a hell of a vocabulary. What’s your educational background?”

  “Six years, sir,” Martin said proudly. That was a lot of schooling for a boy in the Indian Territory. “And the books I’ve read.”

  The printer offered his inky hand. “My name is Grover, son, and I like your style. You want the job?”

  “Yes, sir! I sure do.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Martin Blazer.”

  “Well, Martin Blazer, you are now the Wichita Herald's printer’s devil,” he said. “You start work now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Martin said. He started to step around the counter.

  “Hold it,” Grover said, reaching in his pocket for a coin.

  “Your first duty is to get me that bucket of beer.”

  ~*~

  The sun began to ease upward, showing a reluctant promise to make its scheduled appearance. Martin tipped back the cup and swallowed the last bit of the now-cold coffee.

  Before bedding down the previous night, he had made sure his gear wasn’t scattered around. A neatly organized camp is the easiest to break down the next morning. Now he quickly gathered it up, and threw it into the back of the wagon. The dawn’s light, though still bleak, began to grow enough to cast a few shadows.

  It was time to bring in the mules and hitch them up. Lighthorse Creek was a bit more than half a day away.

  Two

  Martin swung up into the driver’s seat on the big wagon. He had just spent a quarter of an hour giving the load a thorough inspection in the daylight. Any shifting or spilling of the cargo would mean complete disaster. The bulk and weight would make it impossible to reload the freight without the help of at least a half-dozen men.

  Martin looked out across the mules’ backs toward the west. A feeling of happy anticipation swept through him. He was on his way to put into reality and substance a plan that had been spawned over the previous five years. It was an idea that had been so overwhelming and exciting since its inception that the previous wanderlust and restlessness he had felt earlier in his life were swept away like chaff in the wind.

  He flipped the reins. “Ho, you mules!” he called out. The animals strained against the harness, then settled into the steady, slow gait for which their species was well known.

  ~*~

  Martin worked and learned at the Wichita Herald under Bradley Grover for five full years. The first year of this labor had been demeaning at times. Besides having to step and fetch for his employer, his working tasks had been the most simple and monotonous in the composing room.

  After the newspaper had been set in type, and printed on the hand-cranked press, each piece of type and all the spacings had to be pulled out and put back in the cases for reuse. This task was called distribution, and was time-consuming and boring. Yet even this humble duty required that he learn something new. The lay of the case—which is the proper boxes in which each letter of the alphabet went, along with the mutt, nutt, and other spacing material—had to be committed to memory in order to cut down the amount of time necessary to distribute the material back into the proper compartments. Before he had mastered the California job case, Martin had been required to work far into the night to complete his assigned quota of work. But once the lay was learned, and his fingers grew more nimble, he was able to properly dispose of each page in record time.

  Finally, when Mr. Grover grudgingly admitted that Martin could perform the job “reasonably well,” the young man advanced up the ladder of his apprenticeship. Now he was allowed to actually set the type. Instead of putting the letters back into the case, he picked them out one at a time and placed them in a composing stick while reading from written copy. When the stick was filled, the assembled characters, with the necessary leading between each line, were taken out and placed in a galley. After the story was fully set, an inking brayer was run across it and a galley proof pulled for proofreading.

  Each error, omission, upside-down letter, and other “typo” was marked by Mr. Grover himself. Here Martin learned to literally “mind his p’s and q’s” with the bottom parts of each
letter looking remarkably similar in the upside-down, backward world of typesetting.

  “Watch the descenders on those letters!” Grover would snap. “The words are ‘pistol’ and ‘square,’ damn it! Not ‘qistoP and ‘spume’!”

  It took two full years to develop him into a fully qualified, trustworthy compositor. But he worked hard and learned fast, making Martin a true craftsman of the art. From that point, he went on into the heavier work of being a pressman. This meant shoving the heavy chases holding an entire page onto the press bed, inking it, and screwing down the heavy tympan down and actually making an impression on paper.

  Each page of every edition of the Wichita Herald was produced in this fashion, and Martin soon learned to take pride in seeing people on the street studiously reading something he helped to create.

  But the really exciting part of frontier journalism came when he was finally able to write something that would be typeset and printed in the paper. This occurred early one evening while Mr. Grover was away from the office for supper at a local restaurant. Martin and a couple of the compositors were finishing up the day’s work when a series of gunshots exploded outside in the street.

  Martin rushed from the office to see the excitement, and noticed one man lying dead on Douglas. Avenue while the other was hauled away by the city marshal. Knowing that Mr. Grover would want the story of the incident for the next edition, Martin rushed back inside and got a pencil and pad. Exchanging his printer apron for his suit coat, the young man ran out of the office and down the street to the city jail.

  The arresting officer, a mustachioed chap by the name of Wyatt Earp, graciously gave the young man a candid interview explaining exactly what had happened. The lawman spared no praise on himself, but he spoke clearly and precisely the exact facts of the matter. Martin played the professional journalist and took down every word. When he had the full story, he reverted back to being a kid and ran as fast as he could back to the paper.