The Fall of Abilene

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Mike’s head shook. “Saloons cost money to run. So do doctors. I get paid more working here than I’d earn at my own place. I’ll stick it out, Jim. And … thanks.”

  So Mike stayed, and the Dickinson County Agricultural Fair opened at what the city officials called the county fairgrounds on Thursday, October 4, 1871. There was supposed to be a balloon taking off, which I wanted to see since Widow Lake’s had been destroyed, but the yellow-livered pilot said it was too windy. I guess it was a bit of a gale, but some cowboys and even a few farmers hissed and called him names.

  Mike and I walked with the crowd of sodbusters, some who couldn’t speak English at all and others who should have kept using their foreign tongue as awful as their English sounded. The Manhattan Brass Band, from just west down the K. P. line, played music. Two dollars was the prize for the best crop of oats, corn, winter wheat, potatoes, sweet potatoes, and turnips in Dickinson County, determined by judges who examined the samples displayed in bushels.

  A cold wind kept our collars turned up and our heads often bent down, but a decent number of folks attended. I’d never been around so many sodbusters and Abilene families. Some from the old country talked about turning this patch of prairie into a grove of ponderosa pines, with vineyards that would produce the sweetest wine ever tasted. I determined they were all fools, though some of the girls sure looked nice. But the heads of these beauties were turned by the drummers demonstrating these newfangled sewing machines.

  Hickok had pinned a deputy star on my vest the night before, making my head swell a tad when he said: “You deserve it. You’ve been a big help to us.”

  But by late afternoon, Mike and I were back in the office. Hickok looked up from filing his fingernails, asking: “Good crowd?”

  “I guess,” Mike said. “Little windy.”

  “Supposed to be worse tomorrow,” Hickok commented.

  * * * * *

  I was walking back from the Gulf House, carrying a bag of apples I’d bought with funds for the jail. I was moving down the street, holding my hat on with one hand. When I came to the corner, I stopped.

  A big brute in a slouch hat and Mackinaw was studying me as his mouth opened and closed a few times, before he finally said: “You … live … here?”

  Another damned foreigner, I thought, as I answered: “I guess.”

  He wet his lips. “Wind … blow … this … always?”

  I was stopped in front of Henry’s Land Office, so I figured here was another fool ready to claim a quarter section and put his wife and two sons—they were huddled behind him—in some hole in the ground till he realized life was a whole lot easier in … wherever.

  “Mister,” I told him, before continuing on, “it’s not even windy yet.”

  After stepping out of the wind and into the jail, I practically leaped out of my boots. A cowboy stood by the gun case, aiming a rifle right at me.

  Grinning, he squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Slamming against the door, spilling apples across the floor, shrieking like a child, I barely heard the rifle’s loud click. The cowboy laughed and set the carbine back in the case. Once my heart started beating again, I’d laid every foul word I knew on him. I wanted to rip those grinning lips off his face and shove them up his nose.

  Sam Houston Benton didn’t care.

  “What would you’ve done if Wild Bill had come through that door?” I finally asked.

  “Your long-haired hero’s riding a winning streak at the Alamo,” Sam said without humor.

  “Which is just around the corner,” I let him know.

  My brother shrugged. “Yeah, well, Ben Thompson says Hickok don’t set foot in the office until well into the afternoon.”

  “Thompson?” I asked. “He’s back here?”

  “No.” Sam moved to the stove and helped himself to some coffee. “I ran into him in Texas. He’s the one who told me you were Wild Bill’s slave. Figured I’d come up and emancipate you. If Lincoln could do it …” He sipped from Hickok’s cup.

  “I ain’t nobody’s slave,” I said. “Getting paid now. When the season’s over, maybe this weekend, I’ll go back home and give what I’ve earned to Ma and Pa.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Well, I know it’s not much money, but …”

  Sam slammed the cup on the desk, spilling coffee on some papers. “They’re dead, Noah.”

  He didn’t have to tell me anything else. My lips trembled, but no tears came. Not yet.

  Sam busied himself removing his bandanna, which he used to wipe up the spilled coffee, and then wrapped the silk rag around his neck, not bothering to tie it.

  “Fire.” He considered his fingernails. “Mr. Purgason’s kid was there.”

  Ted Purgason, who had lost his right arm below the elbow from a rattlesnake bite. Ted Purgason, who, one arm or not, would have joined Mr. Carroll’s crew had I not gotten the job, thanks to my brother. If I had been home …

  “The kid was in the barn.” Sam’s voice sounded like it was coming down a long hallway. “Said Ma was hoeing the garden. Pa must’ve knocked a lantern over or something. The kid yelled and pointed. Ma … she just run inside to save him. Hell, she should’ve used her head. Pa would’ve been better off dead. But that wasn’t her nature.” He spit into the cuspidor, wiped his mouth, and looked at me without any feeling. “Purgason’s kid ran to the door. Said he did, anyhow. But the smoke and flames drove him back. Nothing he could do. So he ran for his daddy. By the time they got back …” A shrug. “They put up a couple of markers, though I don’t know if they found their bodies … or whatever. Didn’t take long before the carpetbaggers came around.”

  He pulled his hat tight, his collar up, and walked to the door. “So you’re free,” he told me. “Be a damnyankee all you want. Nothing left for you in Texas, not even a home.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll drift.”

  My head bobbed. “You should. Hickok’s likely to remember …”

  Sam flew across the room, grabbing my arm and flinging me to the desk. I shifted around to face him just as he started waving a finger in my face while shouting: “I’ll drift when I’m good and damned ready. Nobody’s running me out of town again. Not Hickok. Not you. I can kill just like Hardin. And the Texans still in town sure would like to see your guardian angel dead.”

  It was then that the wind blew the door open, letting in the cold air before slamming back shut. My brother’s attention shifting, I slipped into Hickok’s chair, bowed my head into my hands, waiting for tears that would not come.

  * * * * *

  Neither Mike nor Hickok learned of Sam’s return. I tried to act normal, making myself check on the prisoners, opening the cells for those who had served their sentences, giving the others their supper, keeping up the books and papers that Hickok despised doing. When Mike showed up, he emptied the pot and made a fresh batch of coffee. Outside, the wind moaned, carrying with it the sounds of laughter all along Texas Street.

  “Something bothering you?” Mike asked.

  “No.” My voice sounded too high. I gestured toward the window. “Some fun, eh?”

  Mike kept studying me. “Last spree of the year. Nothing left for them once the fair’s over tomorrow. You sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah.” I made myself shiver. “It doesn’t get this cold down where I come from.”

  He kept right on looking through me as the door opened. Hickok gestured outside before shutting the door. “Some cowhands and tinhorns toted Jake Karatofsky to the Applejack. Making him stand them to drinks. They tried to get me to do the same while I was taking my supper. I declined but said I’d treat them all to drinks at the Novelty.” He pulled out a gold coin and flipped it to Mike. “Pay for them.” His head tilted back, and he rubbed his chin as though in deep thought. His left hand disappeare
d inside a pocket and brought out another coin, which he also flipped to Mike. “They are rather thirsty.”

  “You want me to … ?” Mike started.

  “Just make sure nothing gets out of hand. I’ll keep an eye on things elsewhere.” Hickok’s cold eyes found me. “How we looking for taking in boarders?”

  “Plenty of rooms to let,” I said. “Had six check out this afternoon.”

  That exchange had become common. Maybe my voice didn’t convey enough humor.

  Hickok just brushed his locks over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes that did not leave me for the longest time. Eventually, he shrugged, asked Mike for a cup of coffee, and sat down at his desk, where he signed papers I’d left for him. When he was done, he rubbed his eyes and rose. He checked his Colts, saying to Mike: “I’ll see you around.”

  Mike left a short while later. I stoked the fire, wondering when I’d cry for Ma and Pa, but knowing I would never cry over Sam. Something had happened between us that could not be mended. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe I had turned into a damnyankee.

  * * * * *

  The hands on the Seth Thomas clock seemed not to be moving at all. Now and then, I opened the door, felt the cold blast of winter, the threat of rain, or possibly snow, and listened to the revelry along Texas Street. I briefly watched a small commotion out front of the Old Fruit Saloon and the Bull’s Head.

  Brocky Jack Norton and Tom Carson came in for a quick cup of coffee, laughing, reeking of whiskey, and ignoring me—as they generally did—while they warmed themselves by the stove and drank the coffee quickly.

  “Streets are filled with crazy men,” Carson commented.

  “Drunken mob,” Brocky Jack agreed.

  “Even money Abilene burns tonight,” Carson quipped, tossing the cup into the wreck pan.

  “Good. Flames’ll keep us warm.” Brocky Jack wiped his nose, and the two deputies left.

  If the clock was actually keeping time, it was nine o’clock. This night, I feared, would never end, and again I opened the door. A train whistle cut through the darkness. A cat screeched, followed instantly by a dog’s yelp. The orchestra at the Alamo Saloon blasted some song I’d heard a thousand times since arriving but had yet to learn its name. Men and women laughed. Then … the gunshot.

  Sam! I felt that punch in my stomach again, a numbness, a dread. Across the street, the Bull’s Head and the Old Fruit now appeared empty. The music inside the Alamo had stopped, and so had much of the laughter. Some cowboys started making their way down Texas Street, running—you never saw cowboys run when they had horses nearby—and turned the corner.

  Grabbing my coat, I went that way, too.

  Texas cowboys filled Cedar Street, the shortest block between Texas and A Streets, but then they started backing up, some toward Texas Street, others toward the boardwalk in front of Seely and Northcraft’s store. Still, most remained on the street. Undeterred, I shoved one cowhand aside and then I saw Hickok.

  He came through the glass doors of the Alamo, stopped briefly on the verandah, before moving around a hitching rail and stepping onto the street near the well. A coal-oil lamppost bathed him in eerie light.

  “Who fired that shot?” Hickok’s hands held his Navy Colts.

  The answer was obvious. A few yards away, closer to A Street, Phil Coe stood laughing, holding a smoking revolver. Wetting my lips, I wrestled with the thought of returning to the jail to fetch a shotgun, but a quick glance over my shoulder revealed that the cowboys now blocked my path. Of the faces I could see in the dim light, none resembled Sam.

  “I was just shooting at a dog, Marshal,” Coe answered. “That ain’t a …”

  “I’ve given you Texas sons of bitches a loose rein tonight,” Hickok announced, “but that’s over. Drop that gun, Coe.”

  Coe waved his pistol. “But the street’s all muddy.”

  Drunken cackles swept across the street.

  “No firearms in the city,” Hickok said, pointing one of his revolvers at the center of the mob. “That hasn’t changed. You had your fun. You saw your fair. Now get out of Abilene. All of you. Before …”

  Phil Coe fired. I just glimpsed the muzzle flashes and heard the sharp reports. Almost like an echo, one of Hickok’s Colts barked twice, Coe staggered back, and, before falling to his knees, muttered: “I am killed.” This happened like a whirlwind, almost too quickly for me even to comprehend. I don’t know how much I actually saw or how much I’ve pieced together from newspaper accounts and that recurring nightmare.

  The rest of this deadly sequence, however, repeats itself in damnable clarity, always in slow motion, always forcing me to relive this hell.

  * * * * *

  A figure emerges from the shadows—my best guess, out of the alley—to Hickok’s right. The smoking Colt in Hickok’s right hand turns again, instinctively, protectively, and the roar almost ruptures my eardrums. Inches of flame and smoke belch from the barrel, illuminating Hickok’s face. Once. Twice. The ghostly shadow slams against the well, spins, drops onto its back.

  The shadow does not move.

  Hickok turns to the crowd and me. He aims both revolvers.

  “If any one of you bastards wants the balance of these pills, come and get them,” he says. “Otherwise, find your horses and get out of my sight.”

  Still on his knees, Phil Coe groans. He frowns at his belly, pitches forward into the mud.

  I stare at the other figure, the one by the well.

  Oh, Jesus Christ in heaven.

  I’m racing toward the Alamo, ignoring the Colts in Hickok’s hands.

  Jesus, God in heaven. No.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Hickok recognized me.

  Sometimes, I’ve hated him for not squeezing those triggers and killing me, too.

  At the well I slid to my knees, stopping in front of the body, spread-eagled in the mud, the Dean & Adams .44 in his right hand. Mike Williams’ eyes remained open, and, for a moment, I thought he was alive. Only the eyes never moved, never blinked, never saw.

  “Get out of here,” Hickok told the Texans.

  My mouth hung open. Trembling hands reached down, brushed the hair out of Mike’s eyes. His hat sat leaning against one of the hitching rail’s post. There were no horses. Most of the Texans had forgotten they were cowboys and had walked from the Applejack to another saloon and another, forcing some Abilene citizens to stand them to drinks. The back of my hand brushed across Mike’s cheek.

  “Poor bastard never knew what hit him,” someone commented.

  A glance up found Brocky Jack and Tom Carson looking down on the body. My first thought: Why couldn’t it have been one of you two? Brocky Jack, however, was wrong. The bullets caught Mike squarely in his chest. He might have died almost instantly, but he had been looking at Hickok and must have seen the flash from the .36. He knew what hit him. He knew who killed him.

  So did Wild Bill Hickok, who, moments later, still holding the Navy Colts, leaned against the well. His mouth trembled, but he did not speak. For the moment, he forgot about the cowboys, who just stood there, too stunned to move, to speak, or to shoot Wild Bill Hickok dead while they had the chance.

  Suddenly, Hickok dropped to his knees on the other side of Mike’s body.

  He looked down at his deputy and friend for what seemed the longest time, absently shoving the revolvers into the red sash. At length, Hickok reached under Mike’s body, the mud staining his fancy Prince Albert, and stood as though he were lifting a feather.

  The English revolver dropped in the mud. Brocky Jack picked it up.

  “Open the door,” Hickok said, maybe to me, maybe to one of the deputies. Tom Carson opened the glass door to the Alamo, the only thing he did worth a damn that night.

  Bartenders, the band’s conductor, and a few Abilene citizens, who had been oblivious to the tragedy outside, stood about, smokin
g cigars and sipping their toddies. The orchestra generally played there all day, morning and night, but the only sound now was the echo of our boots as Hickok carried Mike to a billiard table and laid the body atop the green felt. He folded Mike’s hands over his chest, closed Mike’s eyes with his fingers, and straightened.

  I heard the choking sob. Hickok leaned forward and kissed Mike’s forehead, and the tears broke forth like a flash flood. Yes, Wild Bill Hickok, hero of half-dime novels and killer of scores of men, wailed like some wild beast, covering Mike’s paling face with his tears, while Brocky Jack, still holding Mike’s revolver, and Tom Carson, armed with a twelve gauge, backed away. Had not a piano started playing some tune along Texas Street, Hickok might have cried over Mike’s body the entire night.

  Hickok had been trying to catch his breath between those rib-bruising sobs, but suddenly he stopped. His hat had fallen onto Mike’s legs, and, standing across from him, I saw those eyes glaze over with that coldness, that deadliness.

  He neither wiped his eyes nor blew his nose. Grabbing his hat, planting it on his head, straight—not at the rakish angle he usually preferred—Hickok spun around, glanced at the patrons still in the Alamo, saying nothing, and moved toward Tom Carson. He jerked the shotgun from the deputy’s hands and strode toward the front doors.

  Brocky Jack and Carson exchanged glances. Still in some sort of trance, I followed. The two deputies stepped out behind us.

  Cedar Street had emptied. Even Phil Coe’s body was gone, taken, I later learned, to a little house down the street where Doc Boudinot had been summoned. Lights shown from the Bull’s Head’s doors and windows. The hammers on the shotgun were eared back as Hickok walked through the mud toward Phil Coe’s former saloon.

  The doors, pulled tight on a blustery night such as this, smashed open from the force of Hickok’s boot. The piano player stopped. A roulette wheel clicked as it spun, until Hickok kicked it over. Texans leaped back, getting out of Hickok’s way.

  “I said clear out,” Hickok said. “If I see any Texas son of a bitch in town in an hour, I’m killing him and anybody with him.”