THE OLD
COLTS
Glendon Swarthout
Primus
DONALD I. FINE, INC.
New York
Copyright ~ 1985 by Glendon Swarthout
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Published in the United States of America by Donald I. Fine, Inc. and in Canada by General Publishing Company Limited.
for
Michael Zimring
Contents
Dedication
Author's Note
300 West 49th Street
Dodge City, Kansas
Author's Note
Wyatt Earp, 1928
The Knight’s Tale
May, with alle thy floures and thy grene,
Welcome be thou, faire, fresshe May.
Author’s Note
I met Walter Winchell one fine afternoon in October of 1970. I was introduced to him by a barber while having my hair styled at the O.K. Tonsorial Corral in Scottsdale, Arizona.
We chatted. That I was a novelist interested him in general, that my subjects had sometimes been shoot-’em up in particular. His shave and manicure completed, Winchell donned a snap-brim hat of black straw, waited, and when my barber concluded his ministrations, invited me to his home for a drink—a chance at which I jumped. (I had lived in Scottsdale eleven years. The ex-big-name-columnist-broadcaster had long maintained a residence in “The West’s Most Western Town” for his wife, whose respiratory problems were alleviated by the arid climate, and he lived alone there now, in retirement.)
I followed him in my car to his home. We had a drink. (He wore a shroud-colored cashmere jacket with black pocket square, white shirt, black four-in-hand, black shantung slacks, slip-on shoes of black alligator, and did not remove his black hat—the rig was as funereal as the atmosphere of the house.) At seventy-two, Winchell was but the casing of the bullet he once had been. His wife had passed away the preceding year. His son had suicided the Christmas before that. His relationship with his daughter was cat-and-dog. Cancer, and a broken heart, would kill him soon, in February of 1972, and there would be only two mourners at his burial site in Greenwood Memorial Park, Phoenix.
“You ever heard of an old Western character named Bat Masterson?” he asked, his voice scratchy.
“I surely have.”
(I had indeed. The life of William Barclay “Bat” Masterson was about as I’ll-be-damned as any ever lived by an American. He was sheriff and marshal in wild and woolly Kansas, ranked with Wyatt Earp among the most mythical lawmen of their lawless day. But he was also buffalo hunter, Indian fighter, army scout, gambler, shootist, and prizefight promoter in the West before absquatulating in his middle years to — of all places, with a derby hat on his head and the six-gun at his hip which promptly got him thrown in the jug — New York City. Here, too, his career was a jaw-dropper. In a gilded age of journalism he won his own celebrity as sports columnist for the Morning Telegraph. He became a friend of the famous, as welcome at the Waldorf-Astoria and the White House as he earlier had been at the Long Branch Saloon in Dodge City. For two decades he glowed as incandescently as the Edison bulbs along the “Gay White Way.”)
“I’m a Bat buff, in fact,” I went on to Winchell. “Read everything in print about Earp and Masterson and the Dodge City days. I know the Lake and O’Connor biographies by heart.” (Lake, Stuart N., Wyatt Earp: Frontier Marshal, Boston, 1931; O’Connor, Richard, Bat Masterson, New York, 1957.) I was curious of course. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve got something of his,” was the response. “Kind of a true story he wrote down in his last years.”
“Masterson? In his own hand?”
“You heard me. And I have to trust it to somebody—I’m not long for this world.” At my demur he pushed up his hat. “I should know, shouldn’t I?” This came with a bit of his old belligerence. “Here.” He bent, took a manila folder from a cabinet beside him, and stood with it in his hand. “Would you like to own it?”
“Would I!”
“Will you swear never to publish it?” I hesitated.
“Shit or say yes, Swarthout.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, you got it.”
I laid the folder in my lap. If I was dizzy, it was not the drink. That I was in the company of Walter Winchell was improbable. That he should make me a gift of holograph pages purportedly composed by Bat Masterson was impossible. I sparred for time and a clear head.
“How did you come by this?”
He sat down again. “Damon Runyon. One night— 1945 I think it was—Damon and I were in the Cub Room at the Stork. Sherm Billingsley had left our table to make the rounds and we were alone. Runyon couldn’t talk then—he was dying of throat cancer—had to write everything out on a pad. So he gave me the four pages in that folder and wrote out whose they were and how he got ‘em and asked me not to print ‘em after he was gone.
“Why you?”
“Because I was his best pal. He was divorced, he had nobody to leave anything to. He was in the same sad shape I am now.”
“Why not a library?”
“You’ll see when you read—it’s kind of a true confession by the old boy. The Western history big shots see it and they’d blow their stacks. Also because Masterson and I both used to work for the same paper, the Telegraph, believe it or not. He was before my time, but later, in the late Twenties, I was trying to get out of my contract with the Graphic—they were paying me peanuts—and Gene Fowler, editor of the Telegraph then, let me write an unsigned column so I could make some more dough. I called it ‘Beau Broadway.’ Anyway, Masterson and I both worked for the same rag, at different times. Colleagues, you might say. So Runyon knew I’d take good care of this thing.
I had to ask. “He took your word you wouldn’t print, ever?”
His eyes flashed with their former fire. “If I told Damon I wouldn’t, I goddamn wouldn’t.”
I nodded an apology.
“Well, you gonna read or not?” he challenged.
“One more question, Mr. Winchell. How did Damon Runyon get these pages?”
“What’s it to you?”
“How do we know they’re not a forgery?”
He glared at me. “Runyon bought ‘em in 1931. For a thousand bucks. From Emma Masterson, the widow.”
“Mrs. Masterson herself?”
“Runyon never lied to me in his life.”
“I see.” (It was plausible. I had read that one reason Runyon and Masterson, despite the age difference, became fast friends in New York was because both were western in origin. Bat, the plainsman, reminded Runyon of his father, a frontier editor whom he idolized. Al Runyon had been born and raised in Colorado, and did not take the name Damon till he gravitated east from Denver in 1911. Bat was a boy in Kansas, and during his gunpowder period gambled and kept the peace in such Colorado mining camps as Creede and Trinidad in addition to boomtown Denver. Such bosom buddies were they that on Bat’s death on October 25, 1921—suddenly, at sixty-eight, of a heart attack, at his pigeonhole desk in the Telegraph offices—Runyon sat up all night beside the casket while hundreds of the high and low filed through Campbell’s Funeral Parlor. It was logical Mrs. Masterson would go to the newsman with a legacy of this sort. And the year 1931 satisfied the chronology. I knew Bat and his missus had occupied an apartment at 300 West 49th Street until the old gunfighter kicked the bucket, and that Emma Masterson lived out a pinched and lonely widowhood until her own demise in 1932.)
“Well?” demanded Winchell.
“I’m ready,” I replied. I genuflected to the gods, girded my intellectual loins, and took up the folder.
To this day I wish to God I had not. To this day I wish I had spurned the gift. I did not h
ave then, nor have I now, any desire to cut a notch in anyone’s reputation. I delight in the “Bat” of legend. I should be honored to meet the Masterson of fact. But what I now owned, and what I was about to read, was a document so shocking that it spun the mind like the cylinder of a revolver. It smashed to smithereens. It turned Mr. Masterson, at least temporarily, into a total stranger. Should it be the real thing, I realized at once, it had surpassing historical significance. In order to possess the document, however, I had just promised Winchell never to publish it. I had therefore sentenced myself to sit in agony for the next fourteen years astride the longhorns of a dilemma. If I kept my word to him, would I not throttle a truth which should be told? Rob the bank of American history? If I broke it, on the other hand, if I succumbed to the scholar’s temptation and let the cat out of the bag, would that not make the memory of a remarkable American character into a cuspidor? Desecrate a hero’s grave?
(To some of us, I am ashamed to say, ink is more potent than blood, and publication a lure more irresistible than lust. In the end I would succumb.)
I opened the folder. There were four pages of lined foolscap, torn evidently from a copy pad of the sort available in any newsroom. The paper was yellow, the ink a faded brown, the script neat and entirely legible. I looked first at the fourth page. It was signed at the bottom “W.B. Masterson,” his habitual signature, which anyone might have duplicated, and was dated “May 7, 1916,” which signified nothing. But the first page was headed “300 W. 49th St.”
The palms of my hands damped. I closed my eyes, opened them, tried to quell my pulse and put a lid on my blood pressure, then began to read.
Halfway down the first page I encountered a name which took my breath away. I looked up at the waiting Walter Winchell.
“My God!” I gasped.
“I told you so!” he scratched.
When I had finished the four pages I looked up again, around the room, out the windows at the milky distant mountains, as though to establish my own time and place and credibility.
“I’ll be damned,” I said.
I thanked Winchell profusely that day in 1970, promised a second time never to go to press with the Masterson manuscript, took my leave and the precious pages home in palsied hands.
I was in a fever to authenticate them. That very evening I masked all but ten lines of page one, photocopied them, and sent them with an urgent request to Joseph W. Snell, Executive Director of the Kansas State Historical Society in Topeka, a friend and the country’s ultimate authority on the Mastersons, Bat and his brothers Ed and Jim. Would he please have these ten lines checked against whatever he could find in Bat’s hand immediately if not sooner?
His response was weeks in coming, but he is a scholar and a gentleman and my heart leap’d up when I beheld his verdict: Yes, irrefutably, based on both internal evidence (personal and topical references only Bat could have made) and on the science of calligraphy, this was William Barclay Masterson on paper. Not only had the Society’s handwriting expert compared it with the signatures and lines extant on writs and pay vouchers surviving in the official records of Ford County, Kansas (which Bat served as sheriff in the late 1870’s), but he had sent it on to the Connecticut State Library, where is preserved the 1885 letter by Bat to the Colt company ordering a special pistol “easy on Trigger,” and calligraphists there, after close comparison, declared my ten lines good as gold.
Joe Snell was understandably excited, and buckshot me with questions. What had I stumbled on? Where? How? What was its length? Was there a book in it? When would I publish? I must know that such a find was a priceless piece of Americana. I must recognize that rumors of the discovery would create a ruckus in the Western historical community.
I sent him sad news. My lips were sealed.
But like murder, rumor will out, and in the next year or two I had hot letters of inquiry from curators, archivists, librarians, collectors, dealers, paperback amateurs, and leather-bound professionals. I made no reply whatever. I let them stew in their own jealous juices. I kept my word to Walter Winchell, hence his to Damon Runyon, and Runyon’s, probably, to Emma Masterson. I locked the four pages in my safe, where they ticked away like a detonative device.
300 WEST
49th STREET
“Mr. Masterson?”
Bat cocks an eye.
“Guy to see you.”
“Collector?”
“You can smell ‘em a mile away—so I set him up.” The copy boy is sixteen and Lower East Side and his name is Sammy Taub.” Told him you’d never sell it—not for love or lucre.”
“Attaboy.”
“Say, Mr. Masterson, would you put in a good word for me with Mr. Lewis? I don’t wanna be a copy boy all my life.”
“What do you want?”
“A beat. City Hall, PD, maybe sports, like you.”
“Okeh. You get a little fur on your upper lip and we’ll see. Now send the gink in.”
“Yessir. Same split?”
“You got it.”
Sammy’s head snaps from the doorway as though by rubber band and Bat opens a deep drawer in his pigeonhole desk. It contains an arsenal of old Colt revolvers. Taking the one on top, closing the drawer, checking the grip for notches, he lays the Peacemaker on the desk in museum view and resumes, with Parker pen on yellow copy pad, his journalistic labors.
“Mr. Masterson?” Bat cocks an eye. “Bat Masterson?”
They came to the offices of the Telegraph, once a car barn at West 50th and Eighth Avenue, every week or so the year round, and for the same reason. This was a dressy, flashy, wheezy gent down from Waltham, Mass., who played with a pearl stickpin and popped sweat the second he had a gander at the weapon on the desk. A seat was proffered. He settled into it. Said it was an honor and a privilege to meet Bat Masterson. Said he was a student of the West, regretful he had never had an opportunity to partake of its adventure and romance. Said he would like to “palaver” a little about the old days. Bat said shoot. They talked about Dodge and Wyatt Earp and the killing of Sergeant King in Sweetwater, Texas, when Molly Brennan gave her life for Bat’s, and the scrap at Adobe Walls where Bat and a handful of buffalo hunters held off a horde of redskins and the rescue of the Germain sisters from the Cheyenne while Bat was a scout for General Miles.
“Earp was your friend.”
“My best.”
“He’s the other one I’d like to meet. Saw somewhere he lives in California.”
“I heard he does.”
The gent glanced at the gun on the desk, glanced away. “Don’t you miss those times, Mr. Masterson?”
“Not a damn. I’m a New Yorker now.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Fourteen years.
“I declare, I don’t know how a rough customer like you—begging your pardon—a man with a past like yours winds up on a newspaper in New York.”
“Luck and talent.”
“Pretty tame though, ain’t it? I mean, compared to the wide open spaces?”
“I hope I never see those dreary old prairies again.”
“Er, uh, is that your gun?”
“It is.”
“Mind if I have a look?”
Bat passed it over.
The hands trembled. The cylinder was turned, the weapon hefted. A fat index finger worked its way down the grip, counting the notches.
“Twenty-three,” Bat supplied.
A wheeze, of pleasure and confirmation. “You killed twenty-three men!”
Bat shrugged.
“I must tell you, sir, I collect a few guns. On an amateur basis, of course. Mr. Masterson, I will give you fifty dollars for this gun.”
“Not that one, you won’t.”
“But I can buy one like it—identical—in any pawnshop for ten.”
“Not that one, you can’t.”
“Why not?”
Bat set the hook. “That was the gun killed Walker and Wagner after they killed my brother Ed.”
“I
s that a fact?” The listener was all ears, including lobes. He knew the story by rote, but hungered for it first-hand.
Bat reeled the line in slowly but succinctly: how Ed Masterson, serving as deputy marshal, had been surrounded by six Texans outside the Lady Gay in Dodge one drunken night in 1878 and gutshot by Walker or Wagner at such close range that his coat was set ablaze; how Bat came on the run and fired four rounds from sixty feet in semidarkness; how one shot felled Wagner, who died the next day, and three Walker, who lingered a month with a hole in his lung before expiring; and how—here the narrator lowered the brim of his hat to half-mast and let his voice break ever so slightly—Ed passed on within half an hour, in the arms of his younger brother, who wept like a child. By this grand finale the gun collector had out a silk handkerchief and was bailing both cheeks.
“Mr. Masterson,” said he, “I will give you a hundred dollars for this gun.”
Derby down, Bat sat for a spell as though whipsawed by emotion and economics. “I am a little low on funds at the moment,” he muttered at length. “Let’s see the color of your money.”
“Gladly.”
Sir Waltham of Mass. extricated ass from chair and wallet from hip. Licking a thumb, he laid two fifties on the desk like aces back-to-back.
“Mr. Masterson, I can’t say—”
“Good day.”
“I assure you, I will never part with this historic weapon. It will be handed down—”
“Get the hell on your horse.”
“Yes, sir!”
Exit the gink.
Enter Sammy Taub. He was given a fiver, his usual cut of the take. He tucked it away, sucked a jujube, and contemplated his future.
“You won’t forget about Mr. Lewis, sir?”
“Not me.”
“How many guns you got left?”
“As many as you’ve got suckers.”
Exit the boy, grinning, while Bat attended to the completion of his column. It ran daily, required two hours to write on average, and was called “Masterson’s Views on Timely Topics”— which topics were invariably pugilistic. Bat had promoted fights and refereed fights and seconded fighters. He knew everyone in the game, from Jess Willard, the then heavyweight champ, to Tex Rickard, to the blind and pitiful pug who sold pencils outside Grupp’s Gym on 116th St. When he pulled his editorial pistol he meant to use it, and did, to the woe of fakers and fixers and the glee of readers, so that his column was scripture in the city and widely quoted on the sports pages of other papers nationally. His subject this afternoon was the Sailor White vs. Victor McLaglen—billed as “The Actor-Heavyweight”— fracas upcoming at the Garden. He finished, scrawled a “30,” pushed from the desk, left his office, strolled through the rivet of telephones and clack of typewriters and roar of reportorial brains that was the newsroom, dropped the pages into a wire basket on the city desk, reversed himself and would have departed for the day had he not been waved into a glassed-in office by the arm of W.E. Lewis, editor of the Morning Telegraph.
The Old Colts Page 1
