Dodge City

by Randy D. Smith

  "Anson Jones, sir," Anson said between gulps.

  "One of the Jones boys, huh. Sounds like an alias to me."

  Anson looked at the stranger. "A what, sir?"

  "A madeup name to hide a criminal past," the stranger answered.

  "No, sir. I didn't make it up."

  "Did your momma?"

  "No, sir. My mom didn't make it up."

  "Have it already planned out did she?"

  "I guess so, sir." Anson looked at Collier in confusion.

  Collier sat sipping his coffee, staring straight ahead.

  "You look familiar to me, boy. Sure I ain't never met you before?" the stranger continued.

  "No, sir. Not unless you've been around St. Joe."

  "St. Joe, huh. Your momma got red hair, too?"

  "Yes, sir. She does."

  "Maybe I do, boy. Know your momma, that is. What's her name, boy?"

  "Mary, sir. Mary Jones."

  Mary, huh? Mary Jones. Now let me see. Does she work downtown? Say, at the Palace?"

  Anson shook his head. "No, sir. She don't work at no palace."

  The stranger tipped back his hat. "You sure she never worked at the Palace? Tell me, boy, does your momma have a birthmark."

  Collier sat his cup on the bar, folded his arms and stared coldly toward the stranger. "What's your point?"

  The gambler gave him an icy stare. "Just discussing birth marks with the boy, gent."

  Several of the customers at the bar chuckled. Others were solemn, uneasy, afraid of the sudden violence that could erupt.

  Collier turned on his stool to face him. "That's enough.”

  The stranger smiled. It was a cold, challenging, odd sort of expression. "Well, I wouldn't say that's any of your concern, mister. Anyone with a fine new cowboy hat such as this young fellow's wearing, should be able to speak for himself."

  Collier's eyes narrowed. "Let's go, Anson."

  "Yes, sir," Anson said.

  Collier rose and placed a silver dollar on the bar. "Keep the change," he said as he turned for the door.

  "Oh, a big spender. A silver dollar for two twentyfive cent dinners. You must be a real important man," the stranger said.

  Collier put his hand on Anson’s shoulder and gently guided him toward the door.

  "Maybe you know about his momma's birthmarks?" the stranger said.

  Collier opened the door and led Anson through it without acknowledging the comment. Once outside, he spoke. "Wait for me on the train, son. I'll be along in a minute."

  "Yes, sir. How would I know about my mother's birthmarks, Mr. Collier?"

  Collier's jaw tightened. "Go on, son. I'll be along," he said quietly.

  Anson went on to the train. Collier waited until he started up the car steps and stepped back into the cafe.

  The stranger was being served a fresh cup of coffee. He looked up as Collier approached. Conversation in the cafe stopped as all eyes were on Collier.

  As Collier closed the distance the stranger started to step away from his stool. Before he could get both legs clear, Collier delivered a crashing blow between the stranger's eyes. He went down to the floor, his back slamming into the wood and sawdust. He started for his shoulder holster. Collier kicked his hand to the floor then pinned it with his boot, drew his Colt Army revolver and shoved the muzzle against the end of the stranger's nose. His voice hardened as he increased the pressure of the revolver muzzle. "You might be interested in a piece of news I have, kind of a story. Seems there was this fellow once. Didn't know when to shut up. Tried to bulldog a boy to make himself look big. That fellow ended up looking small. Real small." He drew the gambler's Smith & Wesson from its holster and slammed the revolver down the bar into the plates of the other men who had laughed. Collier's eyes narrowed as he turned his attention back toward stranger. "Wouldn't want you to do something stupid. A fellow that would talk to a boy like that strikes me as a likely backshooter."

  The stranger trembled with anger and fear.

  Collier drew back the pistol, lowered it to his side and walked out the door without looking back.

  The waiter gave a sigh that could be heard across the room. The stranger came slowly to his feet; his nose a cherry red. Without a word he retrieved his pistol and went out the back door of the cafe through the kitchen. Conversation in the cafe began again with several men joking quietly to ease the tension.

  Collier didn’t uncock his Colt until he was ready to enter the train car.

  "What took you so long, Mr. Collier?"

  "I forgot to get rid of all my trash," Collier answered quietly.

  It seemed an odd answer but Anson let the matter drop. Several minutes later, the train jolted forward toward Dodge. The rhythm of the rails and the gentle shuffling from side to side of the car made them sleepy again, especially after the meal. Collier was almost asleep when Anson spoke. "Thank you, Mr. Collier.”

  "What for?"

  The boy spoke quietly. "For everything. I...I"

  Collier smiled and leaned back in his seat. "Go to sleep, Anson."

  The train lumbered on into the night. Collier slept while the boy thought of adventures to come. The most glorious adventures waited just a few hours away. Sleep would have to wait its turn.

  CHAPTER IV

  Dodge City and Abraham McKnight belonged together. Both man and town were rough, crude and vibrant with energy. Barely three years old, Dodge was headquarters for the buffalo hide trade, a growing rail shipping center to the East for the Texas cattle trade and the main outlet for goods and services for most of western Kansas. Even in late February, the frontier community was alive with commerce. The tiny hamlet's single row of frame buildings formed a business district just north of the Arkansas River flood plain and nestled against rolling sandstone hills. Saloons and sporting houses thrived along Front Street. New churches and sturdy family homes rising on the hills to the north stood as symbols of painful changes slowly growing respectability.

  Winter was the time of the buffalo trade. Goods and supplies for the hunting parties waiting for the northern migration of the buffalo were being loaded out of the trade goods stores. Most of the hiders, skinners and many of the hunters were loading their wagons. Bugs Burton, a short stocky skinner for the Collier and McKnight crew was checking the supplies. Two, hundred pound sacks of flour, ten pounds of coffee, twenty pounds of sugar, four pounds of salt, two sides of bacon and twenty pounds of beans supplied the store bought rations. The bulk of their food would be the buffalo themselves. Sixteen hundred pounds of lead, four hundred pounds of black powder and a quantity of paper patched caps and casings made up the shooting supplies. Arsenic, a gross of skinning knives, and camping gear rounded out the load. The whole lot would be divided into three wagons so the skinning crews could split behind the two shooters for more efficient slaughter of the buffalo, leaving a supply wagon at a central base camp.

  McKnight stood behind Burton talking loudly, making jokes and generally enjoying the whole affair. McKnight was a big man with shoulder length black hair and full beard. A heavy buffalo robe coat covered his buckskin shirt decorated with elaborate blue and white beadwork. His great bearlike hands waved wildly as he related story after story to passersby and his crew members. Slightly deaf after years of shooting, McKnight was eccentric, kindhearted and friendly. He was also head strong, an occasional drunkard and compulsive gambler. Collier admired his courage, skill and honesty. McKnight had enjoyed a fiveyear party during their partnership. He owned only the clothes on his back, his buffalo gun, and his share of the working capital. He could neither read nor write but he could count and work sums. His uncanny talents as a hunter made him a valuable asset to the team.

  The train whistle signaled his partner's arrival and McKnight was eager to see his friend. The tracks lay between the town and the river. It was only a short distance to the station. McKnight ambled swiftly through the muck of the street, oblivious to the splashing mud. As McKnight made his way up the loading dock he saw Collier
and Anson Jones retrieving their baggage.

  "Hello, ya ringtailed son of a Texas duster! How the hell are ya!" McKnight roared across the station as he extended a great meaty paw.

  Collier was engulfed in an arm shaking, back slapping, smelly buffalo coat hug. Anson Jones stood staring with an openmouthed gaze. The boy had never seen a bear, a buffalo, or an Abe McKnight and wasn’t exactly sure which of the three had Collier in his grasp.

  Collier managed to free himself from McKnight's grip and stepped back. "Abe, this is Anson Jones. He's going to help with the hides this season. Anson, this fellow is Abraham Reynolds Marmaduke McKnight, my partner."

  Anson stared at the great form of buffalo hide, hair and mud.

  McKnight grabbed his hat and boomed out a greeting. "A redhead, huh? Well, ain't he pretty. How do ya do carrot top? Come to chase spikes, did ya? Well you're a gonna need more meat on your bones than that if you're gonna keep up with my shootin'. Probably ya better go with Collier this season till ya grow about six inches and gain about a hundred pounds. Then maybe you'll be able to keep up with the likes a me. I'm a raw hided, hard living, hell bent for sure buffler killer that eats little boys like you fer breakfast. But if'n you’re Collier's friend, you’re mine and I'll back ya to the death if need be. Put her there, runt."

  A strong odor of rotten meat filled Anson's nose as he extended his hand toward McKnight's. The closer McKnight came to the boy, the stronger the smell. Anson fought hard not to gag as his arm was almost shaken from its socket.

  "Collier, ya old bag of prairie dog shit. You look like a Wells Fargo faggot in that outfit. I hope ya brought some working clothes. We got us a powerful lot of pilgrims to outshoot this season if'n we're a gonna make a profit off'n them spike hides."

  "You don't need to look and smell like a buffalo to shoot one. I expect we'll get our share," Collier said.

  "I sure as hell hope so! I got me a whole stable a whores here in Dodge that depends on me to get um through the winter. Why it would be a public disaster if'n we don't make a big profit. Ya coming boy or are ya nailed to that station dock? Where the hell did ya find that youngster, Collier? Why he moves slow enough to be a Kickapoo squaw."

  Anson held his shoulder and stared. He reckoned McKnight to be forty feet away and his voice seemed just as loud as earlier. Only the smell had decreased as distance lengthened.

  "Hell's fire, runt! Come on! Spring's a coming!" McKnight boomed.

  Anson tripped on an uneven board and fell face down in the filth of the street.

  "Ha..Ha..Ha! Nice goin there, runt. Now you look like a spike skinner. But ya know ya didn't need to dirty yourself up on my account. Hell, boy, I was just joking. Besides if'n I was to go swimming, I'd a picked the river over Front Street. It's a hell of a bunch shallower than this here horse shit!"

  Anson rose to his knees and watched with brokenhearted agony as his new felt hat slowly sank in the muck.

  McKnight roughly scooped the hat and plopped it on the boy's head. "Don't worry about your hat, carrot top. It'll freeze tonight and you can knock most of that shit off'n it." He lifted Anson to his feet and gave hardy slap on the back. The great mound of a man walked with his arm around the boy as they crossed the street. "Hell, maybe I will take this boy on my crew. He looks like he'd fit right in now."

  Collier chuckled. “Abe, you haven't changed a bit. It's sure good to see you."

  Anson walked uneasily between the two men. McKnight didn't seem to smell nearly as bad as before. Besides, the most famous city of the West awaited his personal inspection.

  CHAPTER V

  The Great Western Hotel was, for the day and location, a rather imposing structure, especially to a fifteenyearold from the hills of northwestern Missouri. Brocaded red upholstered chairs and couches ringed the lobby. Elaborately decorated wood and glass drew the boy's attention as Collier registered at the front desk. After a drink with McKnight in the Alhambra saloon and some preliminary decisions about supplies, the partners had parted company. There had been talk of a hunter's meeting that evening at Wright and Rath's and Collier wanted to get settled before attending it. Collier seemed uneasy after the drink with McKnight. McKnight had mentioned that many thought the herd would not cross north of the Canadian River this season. Collier said little and changed clothes immediately after entering the hotel room.

  "Which side of the bed do you want, Anson?"

  "At home I always slept in the middle to keep Tim and Jeff from fighting."

  Collier smiled. "Well, if it's alright with you, I'll sleep nearest the door. I'll probably be up pretty late tonight."

  "Yes, sir, that will be just fine."

  Collier handed the boy a fifty-cent piece. "Clean yourself up and when you feel like it, go down to Delmonico's and grab yourself something to eat. Don't wait up for me. It looks like there's going to be more to this season than I bargained for." Collier wore a dark blue woolen shirt and heavy tan working pants tailored to fit close. Red suspenders and calf high boots finished the work dress. He strapped on his Colt Army .44 cap and ball revolver held in a cross draw holster. On his right side hung a sheathed common butcher knife with buffalo bone handle. The outfit seemed to change Collier's looks completely. Anson had always seen Lane Collier in a dark business suit or in pants and vest. He seemed to move more comfortably, not nearly as stiff and formal as he was around St. Joe. "Sure you don't want me to go along, Mr. Collier?"

  "No. Enjoy yourself...see the sights. I'm afraid this will be a pretty dry business meeting." Collier started out of the room then stopped. "There's a clothes brush in my bag. I think it will help clean up that hat a little."

  "Thank you, Mr. Collier. Sir, where is Delmonico's?"

  "Right on Front Street. You'll find it." Collier paused. "Keep a tight grip on your money and eat first before going anywhere else. Dodge is full of foolish temptations and clever men. Understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Collier was out the door, taking a hip length leather coat with him.

  Anson felt the emptiness and strange atmosphere of a place so far from home. He couldn't remember having been alone and inside a building at the same time. His times of being alone had always been in the fields or choring. His family's house was always crowded with little brothers and sisters and a world of activity. He smiled. Missing his mother and family was a sort of new adventure.

  The Wright, Rath and Company headquarters stood at the west end of Front Street, housed in a two story false front frame building. An outside stairway ran to the second story where the hunters' meeting was being held. The meeting had started when Collier and McKnight entered. A storage area, the middle of the room had been cleared with hunters sitting around the space on boxes and barrels. Collier recognized many of the men. Wright Mooar, a young man and one of the informal leaders, was speaking to the group. The Cook brothers, Charlie and John, were against the east wall. A young hunter named Billy Dixon, thought to be one of the best shots in the trade was seated near John Webb, Frank Mayer and John Poe. Sam Carr, the loner, who did the whole operation of shooting, skinning and hide work by himself, was seated above and behind the others. Jim McIntire, the Indian fighter and hunter, was dipping his pipe in his tobacco pouch rumored to be made from the breast of a squaw he had killed. Steele Frazier, Fred Singer, Frank Carver and Jonah Campbell were also present. It was the first time Collier had ever seen so many hunters gathered together at one time. Buffalo hunting was a young man's game and other than Jonah Campbell and Sam Carr, Lane Collier at thirtyseven was one of the older men present. Collier was also considered an expert in Indian affairs having scouted for the army out of Fort Larned for several years and being part Indian himself.

  Wright Mooar interrupted his speech. "I see Collier and McKnight have made it. It's good to see you boys. I was hoping you could make the meeting. Do you have anything to say?"

  Collier waved him off and shook his head. "Just got here, Wright. You fellows go on with your meeting."

  “As I was say
ing, Frazier and I went to see Colonel Dodge and he said, 'Boys, if I were a buffalo hunter, I would hunt where the buffalo are.' We took that to mean the army wasn't going to give us any trouble for crossing the Dead Line. Last winter we did just that and had no trouble with the Injuns. Hauled out over thirty thousand pounds of hides before the ground thawed."

  Jonah Campbell, a tall, thin, handsome hunter in his late thirties spoke. "Yeah, but that was winter. Now that it's warmed up, those Injuns are going to be out and looking for trouble. It could be a different story."

  "That's right, Jonah. That's why I propose that we go in a large group and work out of one main base camp. If the Injuns do give us trouble, we can fight em off as a group rather than being hit in small camps. Charlie Meyers says that if we set up such a camp, his people will buy the hides from us right there so we don't have to haul them clear back to Dodge."

  Jack Pratte, a short smallframed man who hunted with Curly Walker, spoke up. "I also heard that Bent is going to set up a place on the Canadian to service us."

  A.C. "Charlie" Meyers, a young man with sharp features who was literally the founder of Dodge City and a former competitor of the Rath company, stepped to the floor. "You fellows know that Wright, Rath and Company pay top dollar for your hides. Both our outfits will match any offer that Bill Bent and his people make and we'll follow your camp."

  Pratte spoke up quickly. "I didn't mean it that way, Charlie. I just meant that others are planning to go into the nations after them buffalo."

  Mooar interrupted. "We know what you meant, Jack. No one's trying to crowd out anybody. There's plenty of buffalo for everyone." He paused and looked at Collier. "Lane, what do you and McKnight think of our plan?"

  Collier was reluctant to speak but all eyes were on him. “It sounds practical enough. I'm just wondering if you fellows realize what you're getting yourselves into."

  Voices broke out throughout the room.

  Mooar quieted the crowd. "Go on, Lane, what are ya thinking?"