The Fall of Abilene

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Clements’ head bobbed frantically. “Damned right.”

  “We’re not pulling our weapons,” Sam said. That’s when I understood that if anyone started shooting, a lot of men, Mexican and Texans, might die. Including Sam. And me.

  “Let’s just settle down and be sensible,” Sam said.

  “Tell them, damn it,” Sam told the vaquero. “Tell them before it’s too late.”

  One of the Mexicans—seven, by my count, but I wasn’t at my best, mathematically—put his hand on the butt of his holstered revolver. Sam saw this from the corner of his eye, turned toward the big cuss, stuck out both hands, and repeated what Spanish he knew. “No mas. No mas. For the love of Christ and our mothers, no mas.”

  Yet Sam’s movement left his revolver within Hardin’s easy reach, and before anyone realized what was happening, Hardin gripped Sam’s pistol in his right hand. Sam’s Navy didn’t get as much use as Hardin’s .44s, so the cylinder wasn’t loose at all.

  None of that I saw. The explosion of the revolver left my ears ringing, the air rushed out of my lungs, and I was driven deep into the sod by my brother. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. All I could do was try to fill my lungs with air and ignore the reeking stench of my hungover brother. Then I realized the person who had pushed me in the ground, trying to keep me out of harm’s way wasn’t Sam. It was Jim Clements. I never figured out why. Maybe he was just trying to save his own hide and I got in the way. By that point, nobody seemed to be thinking straight. Hell, none of us had since the evening before.

  Gunfire rang out again. Then a scream, curses, a groan, more shots. Clements was mumbling prayers, bathing me in saliva and his awful breath. My ears hurt. I was being bombarded by the thunder of hoofs and the oaths coming from the men, but at last, a silence settled, and slowly familiar sounds could be made out by me: longhorns bawling, horses blowing, and Hardin’s laughter.

  Chapter Nine

  By some miracle, neither herd had stampeded, but it would have been better if one, or both, had.

  Four Mexicans lay dead. The fifth, who had carried the Sharps rifle, was choking on his own blood, and each time he drew a breath, bubbles formed on his shirt front as a sickening wheeze sounded from the hole in his chest.

  Hardin aimed my brother’s revolver at the dying vaquero but then slowly raised the barrel, lowered the hammer, and spun the pistol around, handing it to Sam, butt forward.

  My brother took the hot weapon and let it slide into his holster.

  “I can’t shoot a man like that,” Hardin said, chuckling as he shoved his own Colt, still in his left hand, into a holster on his vest. “Especially since he’ll be dead in no time. Besides, your Thirty-Six is empty.” Hardin went to pick up the pistol he had dropped. “Munroe,” he said, “do me a favor and go fetch my hat over yonder.” He rubbed the top of his head. “That big buffalo gun almost parted my hair something good.”

  The rest of our crew, except for Erastus and Carlos, had arrived. Maybe that stopped other Mexicans from joining the attack. Two vaqueros galloped away, fleeing the senseless massacre. Holding the reins to their mounts, our riders stared at the dead and dying. Three-Fingered Dave looked pale. Someone let out a few choking sobs. But I was the only one who dropped to my knees and retched.

  Clements put his hands on my shoulders, whispering something.

  “Do we bury these, Wes?” Brit asked. “Like we did the Indian you killed.”

  “Five greasers?” Hardin shook his head. “We’re wasting daylight, boys. There’s more Mexicans in that outfit. They can do the digging, planting, and praying. Let’s get our beef pointed north. Abilene isn’t getting any closer.”

  He gathered the reins to his horse, but did not mount—Ol’ Roanie seemed too skittish to ride now. Hardin wiped his face, shook his head, and chuckled again. “You know what I just learned, boys? A shooting match cures a hangover.”

  * * * * *

  At camp that night, our first admirers came a-calling.

  The Dutchie, Fred Duderstadt, was bringing two thousand beeves a couple of herds behind ours. Two of his drovers joined him.

  Duderstadt wasn’t much older than most of our crew, and after introducing himself and his riders, he swallowed, searched our faces, and finally asked Hatley: “Are you Hardin?”

  Hatley snorted. “Not hardly.”

  “I’m your man.” Hardin controlled his anger. “You the law?” His thumbs hooked into his vest, letting the revolvers dip lower.

  “Just a stockman,” Duderstadt said. “And a man who appreciates the best.” His head tilted. “From what a couple of white-faced bean-eaters told me this afternoon, along with the number of men some of my boys helped bury, I’d say you are one of the best.”

  Hardin stretched a few inches taller. His face beamed. “Well, climb out of those saddles. Erastus can’t cook worth a hoot, but his coffee’s tolerable. Especially if it’s sweetened.”

  The Dutchman withdrew a flask from his war bag. “I happen to have sugar with me,” he said.

  So over our supper and the Dutchman’s rye, Hardin told the story over and over again. Our visitors listened as though Jesus were giving them the Beatitudes. The rye helped their listening and Hardin’s storytelling.

  “You know, Wes …” The Dutchman looked up. “It is all right if I call you Wes, is it not?”

  “You bring rye like this, you can call me anything but a carpetbagger or a Yankee, mister.” Hardin held up his tin cup in a toast.

  The stockman laughed. “Well, Wes, I have heard many stories about you down in Texas. But it strikes me that what happened this morning on the Little Arkansas, you have risen to the stature of legend.”

  “Ar-KAN-sas,” Hardin said.

  “I’m sorry,” the Dutchie said.

  “You pronounced it like the fine Southern state,” Hardin explained. “In Kansas, they pronounce it Ar-KAN-sas.”

  “What would you expect from a damnyankee state that loves darkies, John Brown, and Abe Lincoln,” Three-Fingered Dave threw into the conversation.

  Duderstadt tested the word. He sipped his rye, shook his head, and said: “Well, Wes, maybe from this day on you will be known across the world as Little Arkansas.” He pronounced it like a born Kansan, with a Dutchie accent, of course.

  After killing his rye, Hardin shook his head. “I allow that I’d prefer Arkansas, like the state, than how these Yankee-lovers call it.”

  The Dutchman nodded his agreement. “Wes Hardin, Little Arkansas.”

  * * * * *

  Soon our evening camps turned into the most popular place to be. Practically every night, some Texas cowboy, trail boss, or cattleman would drift into our camp. Most brought offerings of whiskey or tobacco. One brought a cake. Another an airtight of peaches, which Erastus appreciated, although Hardin would have preferred tobacco or whiskey.

  They treated Hardin like royalty. They listened to his stories of the gunfight against the Mexicans. He told them of the Indian he had killed with one shot to the head. He told about the Osage he killed for demanding a ten-cent toll per steer. He even told of the men he had killed down in Texas. He could talk until midnight and not repeat stories about shooting scrapes and killings.

  There were no more killings on the trail to Abilene. Just countless retelling of stories of killings. A few days before we reached Abilene, Hardin had increased the body count of dead Mexicans from five to six, but he was gracious enough to let Jim Clements kill one of the bad men. I’m not sure how much Clements appreciated that gesture.

  Around the first of June, we bedded down the herd along the North Fork of the Cottonwood, where a couple of drovers came over from another herd waiting to be sold and shipped off to slaughterhouses in Kansas City or Chicago. By that time, I figured every Texan in Kansas knew of Little Arkansas, John Wesley Hardin. For what I figured would be the last time—at least on this drive—Hardin we
nt into his act.

  When he finished, both Texans slowly rose, dropped their coffee cups in the wreck pan, and looked at each other timidly. The taller one nudged the redhead, who drew in a breath, exhaled, and approached Hardin meekly.

  “Mr. Hardin,” he said, though the redhead had to be ten years older than our Little Arkansas, “do you reckon it would be all right if we shook your hand?”

  “Lord almighty,” Brit whispered, “they’re treating him like he’s the king of France.”

  Hardin not only shook their hands, he gave each a plug of tobacco previous visitors had gifted him. “When you boys get into Abilene, tell that Bear River Smith that he can try to take my pistols any time he gets the nerve. I’ll give him what I gave those greasers.”

  The redhead looked at the tall one, swallowed, and turned back to Hardin.

  “Well, Mr. Hardin, Tom Smith is dead. Abilene’s got a new marshal this season.”

  Chapter Ten

  The situation had reversed; the Texas drovers had our interest. They had news. Not stories, some true, most exaggerated, that we had been hearing since Park City. Even Hardin moved closer to our visitors.

  “Dead?” Hardin asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the tall one said. “Got murdered in November, think it was.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Yes, sir,” the redhead said. “I mean, we wasn’t there. Nothing like that. We just heard from some fellows at the Bull’s Head tavern. You know both of ’em, I reckon.”

  “I pride myself on not knowing any Kansan, boys. Unless they’re dead.”

  “Good Lord,” Brit whispered again, and his bowed head shook.

  “Well, we didn’t hear it from Kansans,” the tall one said. “But Texans. Phil Coe. Ben Thompson.”

  Hardin brightened. “Those I do know. And I’d trust what they say.” He nodded for our guests to continue.

  Between the two of them, we got the basic details of the death of Abilene Marshal Tom “Bear River” Smith.

  He had secured an appointment as a deputy United States marshal, when the sheriff, or a deputy sheriff, or whoever was in charge, rode up with a couple of warrants for two Scots homesteading some patch of prairie north of Abilene. Smith rode out with him, but the homesteaders weren’t interested in returning to Abilene. Anyway, the long and the short of things is that Smith caught a bullet—the lawman who was supposed to have been serving the warrants skedaddled, and while Smith struggled with one of his assailants, the other came upon him from behind with an axe.

  “Practically chopped his head off,” the redhead said.

  “Pretty gloomy winter in Abilene,” the tall one said.

  “Big funeral, Coe told us. Planted him in the Baptist churchyard, even though, from what most folks tell us, Bear River was Catholic.”

  “If he carried a gun,” Hardin said, “he might have had the pleasure of facing me.”

  Our visitors exchanged glances, said nothing, and moved toward their horses at the picket line.

  “Just a minute, boys!” Hardin called out. When they turned around, Hardin grinned. “Who’s the new lawman in Abilene? Maybe he can try to take away my guns.”

  The redhead just mounted his horse, leaving the tall one to deliver the news.

  “Likely you’ve heard of him, too, Little Arkansas.” He swung into his saddle, wet his lips, before continuing. “He don’t care much for Texans, neither. Hickok’s his name. Wild Bill Hickok.”

  Now that was a name that got our attention, even Hardin’s. I drew in a deep breath, remembering the tales I had read about Hickok in that article by some colonel who had written about the man-killing legend a few years back in a Harper’s New Monthly Magazine that I had kept underneath my mattress until I loaned it to Ian Richardson, and Ian had yet to give it back.

  “What do you think about that, Wes?” Box Head asked.

  Hardin managed a façade of a smile. “Wild Bill or Bear River. Neither means anything to me. I’ll take whoever comes after my pistols.”

  That caused Brit to laugh. “Well, Wes,” he said after a moment, “you might want to find a pistol that doesn’t require you to hold the cylinder steady before you go up against Wild Bill.”

  Wes Hardin was game. You have to give him credit for that. He didn’t look flustered by Brit’s joke. He even laughed with the few amongst us who dared to laugh. “Maybe,” Hardin said, “I’ll take the marshal’s guns.”

  * * * * *

  Hardin sent Erastus into town with the chuck wagon the next morning to load up with any needed supplies.

  “No telling how long we’ll be here,” Hardin said, and even I, green pea that I was, understood what he meant. That endless line of Texas beef that we had followed for as long as I remembered now grazed up and down the North Fork of the Cottonwood. You couldn’t count the number of longhorns, and I prided myself on being a right good counter. The stench I had followed up the trail followed me, too—the Texas longhorns, and the dung and urine of those beeves.

  I knew it would take possibly days, weeks, or even a month or more before Mr. Carroll could find a buyer for this herd, which included thirty head of Benton beef. Sam and I might have to wait all that while before we could return home. Hardin gave instructions to the cook to find Mr. Carroll and let him know that the herd was here and the crew eager to blow off Texas steam.

  When Erastus returned, he brought instructions that Hardin was to ride into Abilene in the morning to meet with Mr. Carroll.

  “What did you see Bill?” Hardin asked.

  “I saw a naked lady on the balcony of some bawdy house,” Erastus said.

  “How naked?” Three-Fingered Dave asked.

  “Nothin’ on at all.”

  “Por Dios,” said Carlos, who got a good ribbing over that one.

  “Skinny or fat?” Box Head asked.

  “There was enough of her to go around,” Erastus replied.

  “What color was her hair?” Sam asked.

  “Which part of her?”

  “Her mustache, you damned fool,” Sam snapped.

  “You boys need to cool off.” Clements shook his head.

  “Where am I to meet Carroll?” Hardin asked.

  “Drovers Cottage.” Erastus whistled. “That’s a fancy place, Wes. And the smell coming from that kitchen …”

  “Likely smelled like real grub,” Hatley said, “unlike what we’ve been eating these past three and a half months.”

  “Did you see the Bull’s Head?” Hardin asked.

  “I saw a naked hussy, I saw Columbus Carroll, I saw a bowling alley and all sorts of taverns, about fifteen million beeves, and a general store that charged damnyankee prices for grub … some of which I bought to feed you miserable curs. I saw beef that filled the pens, which are bigger than some whole towns I’ve seen in Texas. And I saw gamblers and chirpies and more saloons than you could shake a stick at. And I saw choo-choo trains a-coming and a-going. I tell you, boys, this Abilene is something to be seen.”

  “When do we get to see it?” Clements asked his saddle pal.

  “I’ll let you know after I meet Carroll,” Hardin answered, and looked again at the cook. “Did you see that new lawman? The legend himself? The one and only Wild Bill Hitchcock?”

  “Hickok,” Sam corrected.

  Hardin just grinned.

  “No, Wes,” Erastus answered. “I sure didn’t. But I’ll tell you what I did see.”

  We waited.

  “I saw about ten thousand Texas cowboys,” Erastus said. “And not one damned pistol between ’em.” He moved to the back of the wagon, ordering some of us to help unload his plunder from the general store. “Yes, sir,” he said, his back to us, “those ol’ boys looked just as naked as that redhead standing on the balcony of that bawdy house.”

  * * * * *

  Erastus had managed to bu
y a couple of bottles of rye, which the boys consumed after supper. Even from our camp outside of town, the wind managed to carry the strains of piano and banjo music coming from Abilene. Every now and then, we thought we could hear laughter. I still recall snippets of conversation.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Sounded like a gunshot?”

  “That was one of Mickerson’s cowboys farting. He’s camped two miles upwind of us.”

  “No, it was a pistol shot.”

  “It come from a tenpin alley.”

  Mostly, though we listened to what Erastus had to say about what he had taken in of Abilene.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s like … like nothing you’ve ever seen. I mean, it’s not as big as San Antone, but maybe it is. Only … well … it’s just … disorganized. You see a bunch of soddies … grass sprouting off the roofs … some cabins, and then some of the fanciest houses you’ve ever seen. And then there’s this wild and woolly southeast part of town … that’s where I seen the naked redhead. It’s Hell with all the trimmings.”

  “Hell with all the trimmings.” Sam blew a smoke ring. “I’d say that describes Abilene to a T.”

  “’Course, there’s the Drovers Cottage,” Erastus went on. “Three stories. Stands out like a mountain in this country. Some ol’ boy told me that there’s a hundred guest rooms in that fancy house, and I’ve already told you about the smells coming out of that kitchen. They got oysters … oysters on the half shell.”

  “From the creek?” Clements asked.

  “The train, funny boy. Trains bring civilization to a place mighty fast. And the Drovers Cottage is right next to the rails … that’s the Kansas Pacific. One fellow told me the hotel’s got its own laundry. Folks was just sitting on the front verandah, in the shade, smoking cigars, reading newspapers … some from as far away as Chicago and New York City, or so I got told … and drinking brandies or coffee or drinks with ice. Ice, I tell you. Ice in Kansas. Ice in June.”