by Bruce Graham
She rose, soft features, black hair and brown eyes, dark complexion. “Good morning. I needed to straighten out my niece’s carriage.”
I tipped my hat. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you new here?”
She worked her way around the pram. “I’m visiting with my sister and her husband, she is ill with a bad cold and am caring for my niece. I’m Ramona Herrera, I live in Denver.”
“Nathan Gould. May I walk with you? I’m going to the Post Office.”
“I’d be pleased. My brother-in-law is with the bank, James Rooks.”
“I know him well. I do business with the bank.” I moved around the woman and the carriage. “I’ve lived here for two years.”
She joined me and we ambled along for a few moments. “You are in business?”
“I travel a lot. Your family is in Denver?”
“My father is in construction. Lumber, masonry, bricks, concrete. My brothers are in the business also. It is Denver Building Supply, they have buildings near the railroad. I’ve been working in the office, but I’ve graduated from the Pennsylvania School of Meteorology.”
“Very interesting.”
“I’ve worked with the design of buildings, tensile strength, material fatigue---”
“You have the advantage of me. What is tensile strength?”
She laughed. “Very few people know about it. It is the capacity of anything to withstand pressure. For example, a concrete or cement floor must be able to support an upright and whatever is on it. If the floor is not strong enough the building will collapse when the floor gives way.”
We were near to the Hotel. “I never thought of it that way. I come from Vermont and the buildings were mostly wood, with dirt floors.”
“The height of a building needs to be figured in order that the walls don’t collapse. For example, the Hotel is only three floors high. If it was higher the pressure of the roof and upper floors would tend to force the lower walls to be pushed outward and eventually they would collapse. You’ve seen pictures of the European cathedrals, where flying buttresses hold the walls. There are formulas for those things. I wanted to go to school to learn them.”
“Will you join me for lunch?”
“Not today, little David is too much bother.”
“Then dinner, at the Big T? Say six?”
“I’m not frightening you? Most men are afraid of smart women.”
“I’m not afraid of much. I was in the War.”
She paused and wrestled the carriage around.
“I hope you won’t need your brother-in-law’s approval. Shall I speak to him?”
She laughed. “No, he doesn’t tell me what to do. In fact, only my parents have any control over me. Yes, six o’clock.” She moved back the way we had come while I went into the Big T for lunch.
That afternoon I was anxious over how the evening would go, a feeling prompted by a temporary lull in requests for my services. The one concession I made to my profession was my daily, hour long, practice at rapid pistol draws before a full length mirror. My gun was unloaded, lest a mistake discharge the piece and prompt curiosity by neighbors. I practiced various pose, from flat footed to strides to one side or the other, to a crouch or standing straight, even starting with back turned and whipping out the pistol while turning. At a later time I even set up sawhorses and saddle, to simulate a quick draw while mounted and while dismounting. I may safely say that by my thirtieth birthday, I had mastered a wide range of positions that prepared me for the next thirty years of rapid gun handling, accomplished out of sight of any other person.
The evening’s dinner was given to light chatter, in which I inquired more about Ramona, while directing my conversation away from myself. I had, however, to confront a persistent series of “What do you do?” for which I had formulated the best story I could come up with: “I’m a traveling representative for the purchase of real estate. I spend a lot of time traveling, trains, stages, even horseback.” She accepted that, and I realized that due to my years of moving around the West I was knowledgeable enough about land and buildings that I could cover my tracks. I filed that story away for use in other milieu.
After dinner I walked with Ramona to her brother’s home, the location of which I had not known before. A handshake sufficed for a good-bye. The almost mile back to my house was taken up with fantasies of how Ramona might be more than a friend.
The ensuing weeks involved luncheon dates, carriage rides through the countryside, two plays and a performance by a minstrel group at the Trinidad Playhouse and several evenings at Tom Herrera’s home. While I was acquainted with Tom Herrera at the bank, I cultivated him at home as a means of fortifying my situation with Ramona. Eventually, however, I was faced with Ramona’s intention to return to Denver.
This coincided with a request for help from Carthage, Missouri. The letter included a draft for fifty dollars in expense money and explained that the writer, Solomon Crawley, was speaking for the African-American community that was confronted by a band of vigilantes who was coercing the blacks from seeking or accepting employment in the nearby, growing, city of Joplin, whose expanding industry was seeking workers. The letter promised “reasonable compensation,” but pleaded a limited ability to be generous in payment.
I was one of the few people in Trinidad who closely followed national, and to a certain degree international, events by way of The Rocky Mountain News. Reports during the Summer had spoken of clouds of economic uncertainty overseas and in the East, including cessation of new railroad construction and poor monetary decisions in Washington. I sensed that the decline in economic activity might put a limit on my business. I, therefore, decided to accept this one offer of work and so wrote to Mr. Crawley.
En route to Missouri I stopped in Denver and visited Ramona and her family. Her father, mother and brother were cordial, promised to greet me when I returned from my business trip, and expressed the hope that the business slowdown would not affect my efforts.
In Carthage I found the Crawley home, a modest three room house among like structures. Solomon Crawley was an elderly but still a robust black man who spoke of his and his family’s life as field hands on a small Arkansas plantation, which the Civil War devastated. With like newly liberated blacks who sought opportunity, he was faced with a gang of ruffians who beat and burned out people who were candidates to become workers in growing Joplin.
“The authorities seem willing to do something, but they can’t be everywhere,” said the old man. “And they’re limited in people and can only respond to complaints. Maybe we have an idea that could work, but the law wouldn’t see it our way.”
“What is your idea?” I asked.
“A trap. One of our people will brag about taking work in Joplin and when the raiders go after him, you confront them.”
I was quiet for a few moments. Then: “How many of these ruffians are there?”
“We figure twenty in all. But only a few take part in any one attack, maybe eight or ten.”
I smiled. “And what is the pay for me being outnumbered ten to one?”
The man lifted up a small sack. “A hundred dollars is all I could raise from our people.”
“Even Judas received thirty pieces of silver.”
“I thought we would do better. I have two ideas. One, we could speak to the County people about a reward to do away with this gang. Another, a couple of the businesses in Joplin might be willing to post their own rewards, to break them up and be able to obtain more workers.”
“Would any of your people be able to help me?”
“You’re asking for a lot, Mr. Gould. We expected that a professional gunfighter would be able to do the job alone.”
“Mr. Crawley, I’m risking my life and turn down a lot of jobs where the odds are bad or the actions otherwise too dangerous. If the pay is sufficient that balances against the risks. If you can raise $300 more, I don’t care how, and find two men to back me up with guns, I’ll do it. The two men won’t need to be in
the open, which is how I work, but they’ll need to be in the area to support me.” I stood up. “I’ll be at the Crossroads Hotel until the day after tomorrow.”
The next evening, Crawley found me lounging on the porch of the Crossroads Hotel. He handed me two sheets of paper. One was a handbill from the County Sheriff offering a $200 reward for the capture of the leader of a group of Ku Klux Klan terrorizing the black population of the county. The other offered a $200 reward for the breaking up of the gang.
“Very good,” I said. “That’s five hundred dollars. And the men?”
“Two of them will go where I say and follow your orders. They will have old guns from before the war.” He handed me a handwritten sketch. “Word will go out that James Williams is going to work in Joplin. His home is on the map. It may take a couple of nights to draw the renegades out, but they will, I’m sure, go after the Williams family.”
That night I met the two men with old guns, such as I had used for early training with the Army, near the Williams house. I examined the guns and verified that they were set up to shoot. “If you shoot,” I said, “be sure to aim right, you get only one chance.” I posted them in the trees away from the house, with instructions not to shoot unless and until I fired. I waited a hundred yards away from the house while the Williams family went through supper, chores and retiring for the night. By two in the morning I sent the two men home and left.
The next night we took up our positions earlier. Only a few minutes after the lights in the Williams house went out hoofbeats sounded through the glen. A half dozen mounted men, swathed in white clothes, two of them carrying lanterns, rode up before the Williams house.
“Come out, James Williams,” called one of the men. “Take your medicine.” The man swept a whip through the air with a crack.
A light went on in the house.
I stepped out from behind my tree, pistol in hand. “Hands in the air, drop the whip.”
The men milled about. One of them cried out: “Reuben, who is he?”
A shot splintered the tree a couple of feet from me. I aimed for the man with the whip and fired.
The man slumped, then fell from his horse.
Another shot, from the woods to the side of me: one of my helpers.
A horse fell over, its rider flopped on the ground. The other men in white wheeled and rode away in the direction from which they came. The rider on the ground staggered to his feet.
“Stop right there,” I called. “I’ll shoot if you don’t. Hands up.”
The man threw his hands into the air. “I give up. You killed Henry.” He seemed unsteady on his feet. “You broke my leg.”
“Serves you right, lucky you aren’t dead. Take off that sheet.”
A man emerged from the house, ax in hand. “Mr. Gould?” he called.
“That’s me,” I said. I moved to the limping man and shoved my pistol barrel into his gut. “Now, load your dead friend onto his horse and we’ll go into town.”
“I can’t walk.”
“Okay. Benjamin, Franklin.”
The two darkies came out of the trees.
“One of you take that horse and ride into town to the sheriff, tell him that we have the leader of the vigilantes and he should come and collect his body and another of the gang.”
The taller of the two seemed uncertain what to do with his gun.
“Give it to Williams, he might have use of it.”
The Negro tossed the musket to Williams and climbed unsteadily onto the horse. “I’m not used to this.”
I touched the man’s hand. “Get used to it. You people will need to get used to doing a lot of things. Your chains are off.” I slapped the horse’s rump and off they cantered.
Two mornings later I sat in the Sheriff’s Office with the Joplin business group’s two hundred dollars and Solomon Crawley’s one hundred dollars comfortable in my pocket. I was looking forward to getting out of town before the rest of the vigilantes decided to reorganize and come after me.
The sheriff rummaged around at his desk. “You’re looking for the reward, I suppose.”
“Definitely.”
“Most people around here appreciate what you did. This Henry Ricketson that you killed was the leader of this group, call themselves the Ku Klux Klan. They don’t like Blacks, Jews, foreigners, Mexicans, Mormons, Catholics. He rounded up a bunch of malcontents and they have been on the prowl for a couple of years. Caleb had a list of people in the gang, and a note from somebody in Joplin that told him about Williams looking for work. My posse is rounding up the gang members, they’ll be charged with section---oh, some section of the penal code dealing with threats and assaults and the likes. We might want you as a witness.”
“You won’t need me, you have Williams and the two who were with me.”
The sheriff frowned. “If we don’t have you for a witness it’ll be more work. I’ll need to hire an investigator from Kansas City to gather evidence. That’ll cost money. I figure your reward is earned when we’ve convicted the gang and sent them to the penitentiary.”
I sensed what he was driving at. I drew the reward hand bill from my pocket and stared at it. “It says ‘For Capture of Gang terrorizing African American citizens’.”
The Sheriff leaned back in his chair. “Not very clear wording. You captured one, killed another, that’s not the ‘gang’, and it’s customary that the one who captures testifies at trial, Judge Wallace will surely want that. I have to justify paying out two hundred dollars. Maybe I should run it by the county commissioners, and they don’t meet until the end of next week.”
“I get it. You want me to give up the reward.”
“Two hundred dollars will pay for an investigator.”
I stood up. “If they plead guilty you won’t need witnesses. Give Solomon Crawley the reward money and he’ll send me the reward money.”
“The accused will probably be represented by Lawyer Walston. He likes to know about witnesses and such. I’ll have to tell him about you.”
“And these K K K people may send friends to visit me, I suppose.”
“It’s something to think about.”
I hitched up my pants and threw the handbill on the Sheriff’s desk. “I give up. You can keep the reward. And you can put that reward notice where the sun can’t reach it.” I spun around and strode from the Office. Within two hours I was on my way out of town.
Two days later I was in Denver and headed straight for the Herrera factory on the west side. I found the office and introduced myself to the receptionist. She directed me to a room where several men and Ramona were working at desks with papers scattered about. I walked softly to her side.
Ramona looked up and smiled. “Buenos dias.”
I reached out to take her in my arms.
The men in the room looked up and stared.
She leaned into me and held onto me. But it was with less passion than when last we were together. “You are back sooner than you expected.”
“Yes, business is bad all over.”
“Father will want to see you. Come.” She took my hand and led me out of the room and into an office where the elder Herrera was at a desk covered with sheaves of papers.
He looked up and smiled, a small smile, almost like a polite smile. He rose and came around the desk. “Ramona, close the door.”
Ramona released her hand from mine, shut the door and moved sideways to me.
Herrera’s smile disappeared. “Where were you on this trip?”
“Missouri.”
“Do I understand that you are an agent to sell and purchase real estate? Or did I misunderstand?” I sensed something was wrong. I had been vague about my work, but had been forced to be definite with Ramona. “Business is not good right now. The financial trouble is nationwide.”
Her father half turned and produced a newspaper that was open to an inside page. “We receive newspapers from all over. I saw your name in the Saint Joseph Gazette, under regional news.” He held out the news
paper.
I took the newspaper. Under the headline COLORADO GUNFIGHTER SAVES BLACK FAMILY, was a simple story:
A planned Ku Klux Klan attack on a Black Carthage family ended in disaster for the renegades, with the leader slain, one member with a broken leg and a dozen other suspects in jail.
A Colorado hired gun, Nathan Gould, was lying in wait for the raiders. Henry Ricketson, the reputed chief of the local Klan, died in the ensuing shootout. Names of local members and several regional leaders were found on his body and state authorities are rounding them up.
The gunfighter, from Trinidad, Colorado, has left the area and efforts to contact him have been unsuccessful. Based upon the habits of his trade, it is likely that he will not make himself available for an interview.
My mouth went dry and I stared at the newspaper longer than I needed to read the story.
“Nathan, you lied to me,” said Ramona.
I glanced from the newspaper, to Ramona to her father and back to Ramona.
“Well,” said Herrera, “do you have anything to say?”
“What can I say? It’s true. I’m a hired gun. I try to help people who have problems. I’m not a criminal, I’m careful to believe that the people I work for have morality on their side. I’ve killed very few men, and those I have killed deserved it, like this Ricketson. He and his gang were going to beat, perhaps kill, an innocent man who just wanted to support his family. His home might have been burned, he and his family murdered. They had no other help to turn to. I’m glad for what I did.” I threw the newspaper onto a chair.
“Nathan,” said Herrera, “we have no quarrel with helping people, my grandparents and parents had trouble with Anglos for many years. Blacks deserve help, and perhaps you did right. But there are three problems here, that involve us and you. First, you lied about your work. That’s an issue of trust. Ramona will not be able to trust you because of that. Second, there’s the question of your work itself. We are active in our Church and most people would look badly upon somebody in our family who hires out to kill. When word gets around it might affect our business, some folks might avoid doing business with us because of it.”
