by Joe Corso
Charlie was pleased to see Comet being led up the ramp and placed in one of the cars used to transport the horses, and he felt better knowing she wouldn’t be left behind. He looked forward to riding the train and there was no denying that it was much more comfortable than traveling across the plains on horseback. Buntline pointed to the front of the train. “I intend to be there when the golden spike is laid. Right now, the railway ends at Virginia City, but plans are already in the works for the Central Pacific and the Union Pacific to meet at Promontory, Utah sometime in May in 1869. What a story that will make.” He took a quick glance at Charlie. “Who knows, maybe the famous Lone Jack Kid will accompany me to that great event. Can you believe it? We’re riding on a train that can take us from New York to California at 30 miles an hour without stopping. Think about it, Kid, all this train needs is an engineer, a conductor, and a fireman, and as long as we have wood for the fire and water for the boiler, we can sit back and enjoy the scenery.”
Ned reached under his seat where he had placed two packages. He took the smaller one out and handed Longstreet a ham sandwich and a bottle of warm soda pop, and then he unwrapped a sandwich and opened a bottle of soda pop for himself. The Kid leaned back, removed his hat, and laid it on the seat in front of them. “Man, I can’t believe we’re traveling at this speed. At this rate, we’ll be in New York in no time.” Ned swallowed the mouthful of food he had been chewing and before taking another bite, he said, “We’re still in Montana Territory. We still have to travel through North Dakota and Nebraska. So we have a lot of traveling to do yet.” Ned took a final bite out of his sandwich and motioned for the Kid to finish his. When he swallowed the last of his sandwich, he reached under his seat and pulled out his carpetbag. Longstreet was watching and wondered what he was looking for in that old canvas bag of his. To his surprise, Buntline pulled out a pair of ivory-handled, nickel-plated, engraved Colt Navy pistols.
Charlie tilted his head and looked at Longstreet. “Can I have a look at those babies, Ned?”
Ned laughed. “Why not, Kid? I ordered them from Colt. They’re yours. I had them made special for you.”
Charlie picked them up lovingly and examined them thoroughly. He checked the cylinders on both guns to see if they were loaded. They weren’t.
“I don’t understand this. Why did you buy these guns for me?”
“Look, Kid. We’re heading for New York and when we get there, I want you to look exactly like the image I built up for you. When the press sees you, they’ll know without even asking that you’re the Lone Jack Kid.”
The Kid hadn’t noticed the beautiful black holsters the guns came in until then. “Go ahead. Check out the holsters.” Charlie picked them up and he knew that they couldn’t be bought in a store. The black leather rig was custom made with large L and J western-style initials in black and silver lettering embossed diagonally along the holsters. The lettering was edged with silver and silver studs were riveted along the sides, which matched the silver conches on his hatband. There was a silver embossed picture of a coiled rattlesnake ready to strike in between the letters on each holster. Charlie unbuckled his holster and put his new rig on. The side holster fit him perfectly, but the shoulder holster sat high on his chest. He had to adjust it twice before it fit comfortably and allowed to perform his quick draw. Ned pulled a box of 44 cartridges from his bag and motioned to the Kid to follow him. “Come on, Kid, let’s go out to the last car and stand on the rear platform and test those guns out.”
The Kid smiled. He was gonna enjoy testing these shootin’ irons. When Buntline and the Kid were outside on the rear platform with the wind whirling around them, the Kid flexed his fingers, and then, without any warning, he quickly reached for the shoulder gun and fired at cactus plants, hitting every branch he aimed at. As the train sped along, he noticed a lone tree approaching, so he jerked his side arm in a blurring motion, so fast that it was difficult to see his hand when it grabbed his gun. Then, in the same motion, he fired and hit every branch he aimed at. “How do they feel, Kid?”
Charlie looked at the guns and placed them back in their holsters. “The guns are fantastic. I just have to work on the holsters a little with bee’s wax to loosen the leather up so the guns pull freely. Gotta be careful, though. Use too much wax and it’ll soften the leather and ruin the holsters. For anyone else, they’d be all right, but lately the way I’ve been challenged, I want these guns to practically slide out of the holsters by themselves. Don’t worry; when I’m finished with them, they’ll be perfect. Come on, Ned, let’s go inside. I want to take these babies off. I’m afraid I’ll scratch them. I’ll save them for when we get to New York.”
“Good idea, Kid. Wear them while you’re in New York and on special occasions.”
The train left Montana Territory and entered South Dakota. “Put your new guns on, Kid. We’ll be stopping soon.” They stopped for water in the little town of Okaton. They went into a little general store that served food as well as snacks and newspapers. Buntline’s eyes zeroed in on the dime novels on the shelf and he nudged Charlie. “Look. My book is even here in this little town.” Ned picked up a book and took it to the cashier, a boy of no more than fourteen. With a dramatic flourish, he laid the book on the counter and bought it. The young man thanked Ned, but before he picked up the book, he winked at the boy and in a booming voice asked, “Do you know who this man is standing beside me, looking at the gloves?”
The young man behind the counter shook his head. “No, I don’t. Who is he?”
Buntline, ever the showman, pointed to the cover of the book he held in his hand and said in a loud voice, “Why, hell, son! My name is Ned Buntline and I wrote this book and the man on this cover is standing right beside me. He’s the famous Lone Jack Kid himself.” He gave the boy a pat on the shoulder and said to him, “Now you can tell your kids that you met the one and only Lone Jack Kid himself when he stopped right here in Okaton.”
The boy was speechless. He kept looking at the picture on the cover of his dime novel and then at the Kid. He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t speak; the words wouldn’t come out.
It didn’t go unnoticed by Buntline. “Go ahead, son. What did you want to ask me?”
The young man pointed at the Kid. “Ca - ca - can he sign my book for me?” He stuttered, almost afraid to say the words.
Buntline patted the boy on his shoulder and said loudly so all in the room could hear. “Of course he will. The Lone Jack Kid never refuses anyone who asks for his autograph. Come on over here, Kid. This young man would like you to sign this book for him.”
Buntline picked up a pencil and handed it to the Charlie.
The Kid asked the young man, “What’s your name, boy?”
“Donald.”
“What do your friends call you? Donald or Don?”
“Donald,” he said. So Charlie signed the book. “To my friend Donald. The Lone Jack Kid.”
Passengers were now aware that the famous Lone Jack Kid was traveling on the train with them. The following day, one by one, the passengers stopped by and asked Charlie for his autograph and, to their surprise, he proved to be a very respectful young man who signed his name on whatever item was handed to him.
CHAPTER 24
After riding for three uneventful days, the train suffered a minor mishap. On the morning of the fourth day, the conductor walked through the train, announcing that they would have an unscheduled overnight stop in North Platte, Nebraska (which sat at the end of the Union Pacific line). The stop was necessitated by a problem with one of the steam engines valves that had to be repaired. The conductor assured the passengers that the delay would only be for a day and the train would leave the station at nine a.m. sharp tomorrow morning. “There’s a fine hotel and plenty of entertainment in town - but a word of caution, folks. When the railroad laid tracks through North Platte, it caused the growth of a lot of saloons, a combination of prostitutes, and criminals. So make sure that you stay on the right side of town, and
if you should happen to venture across to that side of the tracks, watch your valuables ‘cause besides prostitutes and criminals, you’ll find pickpockets and ruffians there.”
The train limped into North Platte and hissed to a screeching stop with steam billowing from vents on both sides of the engine filling the station with a dense smoky vapor. “Come on, Charlie, let’s find a restaurant and get something to eat.”
“Sounds good, partner.” The two men walked out of the station and into a hell town. Desperate-looking men looking for trouble eyed them up and down as they walked down the street, hunting for a place that served food.
“Over there, Charlie,” Ned said, pointing to a store with a triangular sign standing outside of the entrance stating “FOOD SERVED HERE” printed in large letters on it.
The men were famished. They hadn’t had a good home-cooked meal since getting on the train in Virginia City. Although the kitchen wasn’t large, it was packed to the rafters with customers. Must serve good food here for it to be this crowded, Buntline mused.
Charlie spotted a table near the kitchen and pulled Ned with him as he threaded his way past crowded tables to the empty table. He managed to sit down just before two rough-looking men got there. “This’s our table,” one of the men said.
The other man, about a head shorter than his partner, added, “You better get up now or we’ll make you.”
Charlie had a ghost of a smile on his face as he looked up at the men without a trace of fear in his eyes, which didn’t go unnoticed by the frightened people sitting at tables near them. The Kid pointed to the door. “It would be a shame to kill you boys in front of all these people before my friend and I had a chance to eat our lunch. Now, why don’t you two wait outside before you force me to do something that we’ll both regret? Wait outside, boys, and when I finish my lunch, why, I’ll be happy to accommodate you.”
The two men looked at each other a bit confused. Should they start the ball here in front of all these witnesses or should they wait outside for him to come out. They decided that it would be best if they waited outside for him. The taller of the two men spoke to the Kid menacingly. “We’ll be waiting outside for you.” Charlie laughed at him. Hearing him laugh, the man said, “You won’t be laughing when we get you outside, stranger.” Then he turned in a huff and walked out.
After paying for lunch, Buntline tugged on Charlie’s sleeve. “I’m gonna back your play, Kid. There are two of them out there and I’m gonna even the score.”
The Kid nodded in that understanding way of his. “Okay, Ned, but walk out holding your gun by your side. This way you’ll save yourself a few precious seconds by not having to draw it.” Ned understood. Charlie hadn’t noticed, but the many customers in the restaurant had their eyes on him as he headed for the door. As soon as the door closed behind him, everyone rushed to the window to see what would happen. Most people couldn’t get near the window and rushed out onto the wooden platform to have a better view.
The two troublemakers were standing in the middle of the street, waiting for Charlie to position himself for the fight. But instead of standing there waiting for the action to start, Charlie walked straight toward the two men as was becoming his habit with Buntline walking about an arm’s length beside him. The tall man saw Charlie walking toward him and went for his gun, but Charlie was faster on the draw and he killed him. The man’s accomplice watched his friend fall to the ground, unsure of what to do. Charlie hit him hard on the side of his head with the barrel of his gun before he could decide, knocking him to the ground. Most of the local people were used to gunplay in their streets, but after witnessing this gunfight, everyone knew that there was something different about the stranger with the two guns. Someone asked who the stranger was. A passenger from the train who happened to be in the crowd told them, “Why, he’s the Lone Jack Kid, and he’s traveling on the train with us.”
Word spread through North Platte like wildfire. Everyone wanted to get a look at the Kid - and if they were real lucky - even shake the famous gunfighters hand. Ned Buntline could always smell a public relations opportunity when he saw one. He stopped a bystander and asked where the most popular saloon in town was located. “That would be the Steadfast Saloon. You’ll find it about half way down this side of the street.”
Buntline thanked the man, then he pulled the Kid’s arm. “Come on, Kid, let’s go.”
“Where are we going in such a hurry, Ned?”
“Just keep up with me. You’ll find out soon enough.”
They didn’t get far. A voice bellowed at them from across the street. “Hold on a minute, you two.” The sheriff stopped them in their tracks. “Where do you fellas think you’re going?”
Buntline smiled showing a set of tobacco-stained teeth under his wiry brown walrus mustache. “We’re heading to the Steadfast Saloon. Take a walk with us, sheriff, and I’ll buy you a drink while we talk.”
“Not so fast. What’s your name, stranger?”
“I’m Ned Buntline and my friend here is Charles Longstreet.” The sheriff scratched his beard. “Longstreet, Longstreet. Where have I heard that name before? Wait a minute. Buntline. You’re the writer of those dime novels, right?”
“Yes, that’s me all right.” The sheriff now looked at the Kid with something bordering on respect. “Charles Longstreet. You must be The Lone Jack Kid.”
“Right again, sheriff,” Buntline said. “Now come on and let’s get us a drink ‘cause after the morning we had, we could sure use one.” The sheriff was in the crowd when the gunfight took place and he knew it wasn’t the Kid’s fault, so he agreed to a drink. He had stopped Buntline and the Kid because he was concerned that another gunfighter came to town and he had enough problems containing the gunmen already here - without another one adding to his troubles.
The three men entered the saloon and sidled up to the bar. The sheriff raised three fingers. “Don’t bring us any of that watered down shit, Chet; bring the good stuff.”
Buntline, a heavy drinker who appreciated good liquor, smiled. “Mighty nice of you, sheriff,” Buntline said, lifting his drink to the sheriff, who reciprocated by lifting his own drink.
“When are you fellas leaving my town?”
“Tomorrow. The conductor said the valve on the train would be fixed by then.”
“Good,” the sheriff said, happy that two potential problems were leaving on tomorrow’s train. “That calls for another drink.” He whirled his fingers in a circle.
Chet noticed. “Three drinks coming up.”
Buntline pulled the sheriff aside and took out his journal in an attempt to ply information from him. He asked him for his name and after he received it, he asked the sheriff if it was possible to get a written statement from him concerning the gunfight. The sheriff surprised him by saying he’d be happy to write a statement. The sheriff didn’t agree to write it to accommodate Buntline or for any sense of propriety; his motives were purely selfish. He recognized the PR benefit of being associated in the same story with the Lone Jack Kid. It would add to his prestige, and help his popularity with the local folks in North Platte, especially with his upcoming election.
Buntline was animated because he’d have a written statement from a sheriff in a rough town, describing the gunfight from his perspective. Hell, this in itself could be another book, he thought. “I’ll need that statement before I leave town, sheriff.”
“Stop by my office in about an hour and it’ll be ready.”
Buntline was confused. “Sheriff, where is your office?”
The sheriff laughed. “Sorry about that. I forgot that you two are strangers here. It’s right across the street. Here, look out of the window. There. There it is. Do you see it?”
“Yes, I do. Thanks, sheriff. We’ll see you in an hour.”
The sheriff left the saloon and headed to his office eager to write his statement.
Buntline’s demeanor changed. Now they were alone and he became worried that someone might challenge the Kid an
d he couldn’t have that . . . but he needn’t have worried. The appearance of the Lone Jack Kid in North Platte had the opposite effect it had in other towns because instead of local gunmen looking to challenge him, they liked him. They crowded around him at the bar, slapping him on the back, and insisting on buying him drinks. Buntline watched the line of drinks growing longer, and warned the Kid to sip them. He didn’t want him at a disadvantage if someone wanted to make a name for himself by killing the Lone Jack Kid.
An hour later, the two men walked out of the saloon and crossed the street to the sheriff’s office. Buntline hoped the sheriff had the statement ready as he promised he would. When Buntline and the Kid walked into the jail, the sheriff handed Ned his written statement. “I bet you thought I wouldn’t have it finished. Am I right?”
“You’re right, sheriff, but I’m glad to see that you’re a man of your word.” Buntline flashed the sheriff a dazzling smile and winked at him. “You better be careful, sheriff, I just might write a book about you, then you’d have the Kid’s problems . . . The book might make you as famous the Kid here. Who knows? When you hear the three taps, you might have to hire men to protect you from gunslingers and autograph seekers who’ll challenge you for your autograph.”
The sheriff leaned back and gave what sounded like a cough, but instead was a surprisingly loud laugh. “You caught me by surprise with that one, Buntline. Now go on, you two rogues, get out of my office before I arrest you for lying to a lawman.” He walked out of the door with them, then had a change of mind and decided to walk to the hotel with them. They walked a short distance when the sheriff stopped them. “Hold on a minute; I have something I want to say to you before we get to the hotel.” He hung his head, apparently unsure of how to start. “Look, it’s been a pleasure meeting you two characters, and I wish you luck in New York, Kid. Just be sure to watch your back ‘cause there’ll be some desperadoes out there who’d like to be the man who killed the Lone Jack Kid, but I’m sure you heard this before, most likely from lawmen like myself.”
