“Then don’t rile me,” Sinclair warned him. “As it is I ain’t gonna charge you with nothing either.”
“Obliged.”
“But don’t forget they’s still the hearing on the Grasslands issue and you been subpoenaed for that. It turns out they’s somebody in town you might like to see in regards to the affair. He’s asking for you too.”
“Who’s that?”
“A godamned oily lawyer by the name of Lorenzo Markham,” Sinclair said. “He’s an attorney for the Boomers west of here. I think he wants to act as your speaker. That could save you having to testify by yourself at the hearing.”
Luther’s interest perked up. “Yeah! I think I would like to talk to the gentleman. Where do I find him?”
“Down to the Delmar Hotel,” Sinclair answered. “By the way, I reckon you been seeing a lot of that army officer, huh?”
“He comes around the camp now and then,” Luther said. “Him and his soljers is set up south of town.”
“Some of them Boomer friends of yours is saying he’s sweet on your daughter.”
“Maybe,” Luther said, thinking of how Lieutenant Hollings always made a call at his wagon during frequent trips to the camp.
Sinclair laughed. “That boy is in one hell of a spot. He’s got to keep you off the Grasslands and rile you worser than a bee-stung bear while at the same time he wants to court your daughter.”
“He ain’t gonna court Rebecca,” Luther said. “What was that lawyer’s name again?”
“Markham,” Sinclair answered. “Lorenzo Markham.”
Luther walked to the door. “I’ll be seeing you, Marshal.”
“You will,” Sinclair responded. “I’ll be at the hearing.”
Luther left the office, now noticing that there were more people on the street just like Sinclair reported. Most were just sitting around on benches in front of stores as if waiting for something. Luther took a quick glance at them as he walked down the street to the Hotel. They seemed out of place and restless, like men facing a difficult task far from home.
The Delmar was a simple two-story frame building with a bathhouse and three-hole outdoor toilet in the rear yard. Luther went into the small lobby and asked the desk clerk for Lorenzo Markham. The man gave him the lawyer’s room number on the second floor. Luther went upstairs, found the door and knocked. A short, thin man answered the summons with a curt, “What can I do for you?”
Luther noted another man sitting at a writing desk in the corner of the room. “Are you Mr. Markham?”
“I’m his clerk,” the man answered. Then he again asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Markham. I’m Luther McCracken from the Boomer camp.”
“Mr. McCracken!” the man exclaimed, his face suddenly breaking into a friendly grin. “Please come in! I’m Lionel Densberg.”
Luther stepped into the room. The man sitting at the desk stood up and walked toward him with an outstretched hand. He was as tall and slim as Luther with thinning black hair worn so long it covered his collar. A drooping moustache dominated his hawkish face. “I’m most pleased to meet you, Mr. McCracken. Lorenzo Markham at your service.”
“Marshal Nolan Sinclair said you’d like to talk with me.”
“Indeed, sir! I’ve heard all about your experience down there on the Medicine Bundle Grasslands with the marshal, the army, and Mr. Dewey Harknell. I deeply regret Ed Byron’s murder.”
“Me too.”
“He’ll be sorely missed,” Markham said. “Do you happen to know anybody capable of newspapering in your bunch?”
“Cain’t say that I do.”
“Ed was being financed by certain interests who desire to see the Indian Territory opened for settlement,” Markham said. “They’re looking for a replacement.”
“I cain’t help ’em.”
“Too bad,” Markham said. “At any rate, I want you to know straightaway that I, too, am a Boomer, Mr. McCracken. In fact, I have been representing our movement in the efforts to settle in the Cherokee Strip. Are you familiar with Messieurs David Payne or W.L. Couch?”
“Nope.”
“Those two gentlemen have made so many incursions into the Indian Territory that the government has lost count,” Markham cheerfully explained. “It was my privilege to represent them and others from time to time. Naturally when I heard of the situation in this particular area, I desired to attend the meeting.”
“I got a piece of paper saying I got to go to that thing.”
“A subpoena, hey? Well, If you’d like me to represent you, I’ll have Densberg here draw up a declaration for the court to recognize me as your counsel.”
“We could sure use a good talker,” Luther admitted. “We was all worried about how we was gonna put up our arguments in front of a judge. None of us has much learning beyond reading, writing, and ciphering.”
The clerk Densberg interjected, “Mr. McCracken, you have the most eloquent speaker and debater for the Boomer cause right here ready to help you out.”
“Sit down, Mr. McCracken,” Markham said. “Let’s discuss our strategy for the hearing.”
“How much is this gonna cost, Mr. Markham?” Luther asked. “We ain’t got a lot of cash money.”
“No charge for my services,” Markham assured him. “I am happy to do what I can to get those lands taken away from the so-called civilized Indians and opened up for white settlement as they should be.”
Densberg said, “I’ll fetch a chair for Mr. McCracken.”
Chapter Seven
A few days after Luther McCracken’s meeting with Lorenzo Markham, Clarkville, Kansas was inundated by even more visitors who had come to attend the Medicine Bundle Grasslands hearings. The potential opening of Indian lands for white settlement generated serious interest all across the nation. Pro-settler organizations saw this as an opportunity to increase pressure on Congress to take necessary action to clear the way for occupation of large portions of the Indian Nations. The opposition was just as dedicated to their cause to keep unwanted persons out of those areas.
Thus, the attendees were a diverse group representing all these factions that included the Five Civilized Tribes, cattlemen, potential homesteaders, entrepreneurs, and a distinguished but subtle few who stood off from the others. This latter clique represented the executive boards of a trio of powerful railroad companies.
The Cherokee Nation, with the most to lose, also sent representatives from their national council in the hopes that their appeals and arguments could stave off what they feared was inevitable: the acquisition of large tracts of their sovereign territory through well-financed political chicanery by wealthy whites.
The number of guests overwhelmed the facilities of the Delmar Hotel’s small staff that consisted of no more than the proprietor, his one desk clerk and a part-time maid. Because of the unusual crush of people, only the most auspicious guests had rooms of their own. This included Judge Harold Ross of the Federal Court in Wichita, Joel Thompson of the Cherokee National Council, the cattleman Dewey Harknell, and Attorney Lorenzo Markham. His clerk Lionel Densberg was forced out of his own room by his boss to accommodate their most important client. This was John Pritcher, president of the Missouri Valley and Arkansas Railroad.
Densberg, miffed but understanding, found lodgings in a small room of a house owned by a local widow. The woman, Mrs. Anna Richardson, like many other townspeople, took advantage of the situation by renting out space in her home at an exorbitant rate of five dollars a night. Densberg gladly paid the inflated charges after being given a promise by Mrs. Richardson that she would not foist an unwanted roommate on him.
On the other hand, since U.S. Deputy Marshal Nolan Sinclair had already taken a room at the Delmar, he suffered no inconveniences of unwanted companions. None of the lower-ranking guests had the influence or the physical courage to insist that he share his digs. Other hotel guests ended up having to double, triple or even quadruple up in single rooms. That meant that
the secretaries, clerks, extra Federal law enforcement officers, and other hangers-on were packed so tightly in the available space that most slept on the floor on pallets.
The situation didn’t affect the cowboys off the Rocking H Ranch. They weren’t fond of sleeping indoors, and had happily set up camp on the opposite side of town from the Boomers. The location was the result of Marshal Sinclair’s direct order. He wanted to keep the two groups separated so that the threat of confrontations would be reduced to the absolute minimum. The lawman was fully aware that the smoldering hatred between the cattlemen and the sodbusters could burst into violence if the right circumstances occurred. Additionally, Sinclair and his men made frequent visits to the saloon to make sure no drunken brawls erupted between the groups of antagonists.
The owner of the saloon and the proprietors of the town’s two cafes enjoyed an increase in business from the many hungry and thirsty visitors. Their cash boxes literally overflowed, and they had to send three wagons north to Wichita for goods to restock their larders and liquor cellars.
The other local beneficiaries were the town children when it was decided the local schoolhouse was the best place to hold the hearing. Classes were suspended, and the youngsters positively shouted their happiness at the unexpected holiday. They went out into the streets to play and ogle all the strangers in town. The farm kids, however, still had to attend their one-room school out in the country as well as do their regular chores before and after a day of studying.
Lieutenant Grant Hollings moved his colored cavalry detachment in from its original bivouac to set up closer on the south side of Clarkville. When the first group of soldiers came into town for a look-around, they were turned away by Sheriff Blevins. None were surprised by the hostility, and offered no arguments. They quietly withdrew and returned to their camp.
The local merchants also made it clear they sought no business from the blacks, and the area’s sign painter was commissioned to express the white population’s attitudes. He produced several examples of his art that were posted at the various entrances to town:
WHITES ONLY IN THE CITY LIMITS OF CLARKVILLE
DAY OR NIGHT
The soldiers turned to Lieutenant Hollings, and informed him of the situation. They weren’t particularly anxious to associate with whites, but after being away from Fort Gibson for a couple of weeks, the troopers needed to buy a few basic necessities.
The young officer was not surprised; he had even expected the reaction from the local population. He went to the sheriff’s office to see if he could arrange for his soldiers to make a single supervised visit to the general store. Hollings was given a flat refusal by the lawman, the merchants, and even the town council. He was forced to make a list of the requests from individual troopers, then personally go to the local businesses to buy the things the men needed. The merchants were only too happy to peddle the items at double the usual prices to the irritated army officer.
Meanwhile, Harvey Matthews took Esther Ratner and her children to Wichita to catch the train for Ohio. By the time he returned to the Boomer camp, Judge Harold Ross had already announced that the hearing would convene that same afternoon. Harvey had to hurry to clean up and change clothing to accompany Luther and W.R. Dunbar to town. Most of the others stayed at the camp to wait for news of the proceedings since there would be only a few seats available inside the building.
Harvey, like the two other Boomer men, put on his best Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and went to the school. Townspeople and other onlookers were already crowded around the building, peering into the interior through the open windows. Lorenzo Markham met the Boomers at the door with a confident smile. “Are we ready, gentlemen?”
“We are,” Luther answered. “How about yourself, Mr. Markham?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. McCracken,” Markham said. “This is only one of many hearings for me. Lionel and I worked all night preparing our brief.” He stepped back and gestured for them to enter the building. “May I suggest the three of you sit together? It gives the impression of solidarity that won’t escape the judge’s attention.”
The Boomers had already met with the lawyer on three separate occasions. These sessions were held at the Boomer camp where no strangers could overhear their strategy. The Boomers’ confidence in the attorney increased to the point they fully trusted the articulate, well-educated man who had volunteered to represent them.
The trio of farmers tramped into the room and sat down on one of the benches. They saw Dewey Harknell on the far side of the room. The cattleman, sitting with Charley Ainsley at his side, openly scowled at them. Charlie grinned and winked with a very confident wiggle of a warning finger at the Boomers.
The Cherokee delegation of three men was up at the front. They were garbed in business suits, carefully chosen to emphasize the word “civilized” of the Five Civilized Tribes. Their hair was cut short, oiled and carefully combed to give the appearance of refinement and good grooming. The Cherokees seemed bored with the affair, not speaking much as they sat waiting for the hearing to begin. As with Markham, this was a repetition of other similar events they had experienced. A series of sessions had been going on to the west among the Cherokee government, another group of Boomers, and the Cherokee Strip Livestock Association.
Lieutenant Grant Hollings, conspicuous in his uniform, entered the schoolhouse behind two railroaders. He spotted Luther McCracken and nodded, but Luther looked away without acknowledging the greeting.
Nolan Sinclair and the other Federal law officers had stationed themselves at various points along the walls to keep a close eye on things. Each sported a prominently displayed revolver and billy club to let the onlookers know they were capable of handling any disturbances that might occur.
The crowd, both inside and outside the schoolhouse, grew noticeably more restless as the minutes ticked by. Those within the interior complained about not being allowed to smoke. Two or three who preferred chewing tobacco had to go outside to spit because of the lack of proper cuspidors.
“They should’ve held this thing in the saloon,” one cowboy growled.
“Half this crowd would be drunk within an hour,” a visiting Cherokee merchant remarked.
“They ain’t nothing wrong with that,” the cowboy replied. “It makes things a hell of a lot more lively. This fiasco could be settled once and for all with a show of gunplay.”
“Yeah!” an older, slightly drunk spectator agreed. He was a white man married to an Indian woman in the Chickasaw Nation. “That’s the way we used to settle things around here.”
A stenographer entered from a rear door and took a seat at a table next to the desk normally used by the schoolteacher. He produced some pencils and a pad, then nodded to Marshal Sinclair.
The peace officer marched up to the front of the room and turned to face the audience. He hollered out in a voice loud enough to interrupt the crowd’s conversations. “Hear ye! Hear ye! The Fed’ral Court of Wichita, Kansas is now called to order. All who have business before this court step forward and ye shall be heard.”
Luther McCracken and the Boomers looked around to see who would go to the front of the room. They were disappointed when nobody moved. Markham noticed their confusion with the protocol. He leaned over and whispered to Luther, “That’s just a formality. Nobody is expected to respond yet.”
Sinclair continued, “The Honorable Harold Ross, judge of the Fed’ral Court of Wichita, Kansas presiding. All rise!”
Everyone stood up as Judge Ross, wearing a black robe, came in through the same door used by his stenographer. He was a stout, grumpy man of some sixty years, sporting heavy side whiskers. He walked up to the desk and sat down. At that point Sinclair commanded, “Take your seats!” Then the lawman went back to his post in the back of the room.
The judge launched the proceedings with three heavy raps of his gavel. “This hearing we are conducting today is the result of a congressional order. Although similar ones have been held in the recent past, the growing pr
essure of demands for settlement of lands in the Indian Territory has made it necessary to hold open forums. This is to give all interested parties the opportunity to express their views, and present arguments on their own behalf. Today we will be discussing the Medicine Bundle Grasslands of the Cherokee Nation. The recorded testimony will be forwarded from this court to the proper committee in Congress for study and consideration. There’ll be no rebuttals or cross-examination, gentlemen, so say your piece the best you can. You’re only getting one shot at it.” He shuffled through some papers for a moment before looking up again. “Who is representing the Cherokee National Council?”
“I am,” the man said, standing up. “I am Joel Thompson, and I’m here by order of the principal chief.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” the judge said. “Who is representing the settlers?”
“Lorenzo Markham, Your Honor,” the attorney said, getting to his feet.
“How are you, Counsel?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Your Honor.”
“You’re keeping yourself busy, I see.”
“That I am, Your Honor.”
Judge Ross looked around. “Is the lessee of the area known as the Medicine Bundle Grasslands present?”
“Yeah, Judge,” Dewey Harknell said. “I’m Dewey Harknell owner of the Rocking H Ranch.”
“Stand up when you address the court, Mr. Harknell.”
“Sure.”
“Your ranch is on the land in question, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The property is leased to you by the Cherokee National Council, is it not?”
“Yes, sir,” Harknell replied. “And that’s what I told them damn sodbusters when –”
The judge interrupted with a heavy bang of his gavel. “You’ll get a chance to speak your piece, Mr. Harknell. You may sit down.” He took another look around the room. “Is Luther McCracken present?” Luther stood up apprehensively. The judge asked, “Do you accept Mr. Lorenzo Markham as your legal counsel in this matter?”
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