Wichita Town Tamer

by Dale Graham

  Wichita Town Tamer

  The good citizens of Wichita, Kansas, are desperate to appointed a lawman who can control the wild Texas cowboys fresh off the trail and eager to have fun. Far more serious, however, are the plans of certain crooked plotters who want to take over the town for their own ends. Bear River Cal Bonner has earned an enviable reputation as a town tamer and soon brings peace to the cow town.

  But his enemies in the form of saloon boss Cody Meek and impresario Perry Blaine are determined that the slogan ‘Anything Goes’ will be resurrected. They bring in a hired gunman to challenge the town marshal. The showdown that follows goes badly wrong for Cal who is left for dead. Will the town once again fall into the hands of the unscrupulous bad hats?

  By the same author:

  High Plains Vendetta

  Dance with the Devil

  Nugget!

  Montezuma’s Legacy

  Death Rides Alone

  Gambler’s Dawn

  Vengeance at Bittersweet

  Justice for Crockett

  Bluecoat Renegade

  Gunsmoke over New Mexico

  Montaine’s Revenge

  Black Gold

  Backshooter!

  Bitter Trail

  The Reckless Gun

  Snake Eyes

  Sundown over the Sierras

  Wyoming Blood Feud

  Hangman’s Reach

  Lonely is the Hunter

  Writing as Ethan Flagg:

  Dead Man Walking

  Two for Texas

  Divided Loyalties

  Return of the Gunfighter

  Dynamite Daze

  Apache Rifles

  Duel at Del Norte

  Outlaw Queen

  When Lightning Strikes

  Praise Be to Silver

  A Necktie for Gifford

  Navajo Sunrise

  Shotgun Charade

  Blackjacks of Nevada

  Derby John’s Alibi

  Long Ride to Purgatory

  No Way Back

  Revenge Burns Deep

  Bad Deal in Buckskin

  Send for the Bad Guy!

  Wichita Town Tamer

  Dale Graham

  ROBERT HALE

  © Dale Graham 2016

  First published in Great Britain 2016

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2189-9

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Dale Graham to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  CHAPTER ONE

  Anything Goes!

  Marshal Cal Bonner was fast asleep in the jailhouse. His breathing was steady and even. A loose smile etched a thin line across the rugged contours of his face. He was dreaming about a far more enticing smile offered by one of Cody Meek’s gals. Candy Flowers was chief croupier at the Prairie Dog saloon and that grateful ‘come-on’ look hinted of more to come if’n he played his cards right.

  ‘How’s . . . about . . . it . . . then . . . Candy?’

  The murmured appeal slurred out even though the marshal’s eyes remained tight shut. One of Candy’s friends had been rescued by the lawman from the unwanted lascivious attentions of some Texas cowboys. The two culprits were now resident in the cell block awaiting payment of fines by their fuming ramrod.

  Cal had chosen to remain in the jail overnight due to threats made by sympathetic pals from the Lazy K outfit. Their herd of 2,000 longhorns were grazing outside town awaiting transfer to the stock yards. Although he carried two pistols and was prepared to employ them, Cal preferred the use of less terminal methods if at all possible. Such tactics had proved extremely effective against the wild antics of the boisterous Texans. The two rannigans now lying comatose in the cell block bore the bruises testifying to the marshal’s diligence in upholding the law.

  Wichita had only recently attracted a spur of the Atchison, Topeka Railroad that had effectively opened it up to the burgeoning cattle industry. The plan was to extend the line all the way down to Santa Fe in New Mexico territory. The cattle stockyards were now closer for the drovers coming up the Chisholm Trail from Texas. As the attraction of cow towns like Abilene, Ellsworth and Newton had faded, so Wichita’s star was in the ascendant, at least until it was usurped by another cow town. But it was to be three years before Dodge City became known as the ‘Babylon of the Trail’.

  The name Wichita originated from the Indian tribe who occupied the flats adjoining the Arkansas River more than 4,000 years before. In the fifteenth century, Spanish conquistadores under the leadership of Vasquez de Coronado had decimated them. Since then there had always been some form of settlement here.

  As the frontier moved steadily westwards, Wichita was always regarded as a tough prairie town. A minor trading post along the Chisholm Trail for the endless herds heading north. Only a year before Cal arrived, the place had been nothing but a loose collection of wooden shacks and tents. But without money in their pockets, the cowboys were eager to push on to the trail’s end. That was now Wichita.

  By 1872 the town was wide open. Signs posted at both ends of Kingman Street declared that ‘Anything goes in Wichita’. Once they were paid off the cowboys spent freely. Every kind of iniquitous entertainment was on offer to cowpokes denied the chance to let off steam during the three-month trek north.

  But for the permanent residents there were distinct drawbacks.

  Endless supplies of hard liquor, gambling and girls in abundance were provided by traders intent on making their fortunes while the boom lasted. With guns being freely loosed off, places like Wichita proved decidedly hazardous for respectable citizens. Prosperity was all very well, but continued good health demanded that some form of order be established. The two opposing factions needed a compromise.

  A town marshal was the answer. In exchange for law and order, the saloons, gambling halls, cat houses and theatres had to pay an enhanced premium for the privilege of remaining in business. It was a small price to pay when such high profits were at stake.

  But only the toughest, or the most foolhardy accepted such a death-defying job. Hurricane Bob Selman was of the latter persuasion. The burly cowboy had stayed on after a drive. But he was drunk as a skunk when signing up to allegedly uphold the fragmentary law. And so was the lawyer who administered the contract. It was inevitable that Selman favoured his own kind over the regular citizens. Shootings increased and the whole place was like a scene from the Devil’s playground. The situation could not continue without some form of blow-out.

  The running down of a youngster by rampaging cowboys charging down Kingman was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Selman was sacked. But who could be brought in to replace him? The town council needed a resilient guy, but a steady and reliable one who recognized the law as a means of keeping firm order.

  At an emergency council meeting, the name of Bear River Cal Bonner was mentioned by the mayor, who had just returned from a business trip to Abilene. Bonner was at that time a deputy town marshal working under the auspices of the legendary Wild Bill Hickok. But his job had become redundant since the town’s heyday as a rip-roaring cow town had faded. Two paid officers were not required anymore. So it was last in first out.

  ‘This guy has already tamed four towns and he comes highly recommended,’ intoned the mayor eagerly. ‘Anybody selected to work alongside Wild Bill has to be good. As mayor I suggest we offer him the job of town marshal here in Wichita.’

  A heated discussion followed. Ther
e were those on the council who did not welcome a tough lawman. Any clampdown on the wayward Texans could severely dent their profits being paid into the bank. A vote was finally held. The decision was close but the appointment of Cal Bonner was adjudged to have won.

  Cody Meek was not one of those who joined in the cheering that followed. He stamped out of the meeting. A dark scowl marred the urbane persona he normally espoused. The sartorial Meek ran the Prairie Dog saloon, which was the most popular with the free-spending cowpunchers. His absence from the celebrations was not missed. Mayor Wishart and his supporters were well pleased with the result of the vote. Democracy had won the day. Perhaps now the town could move into a more respectable phase and thus merit its upgrading to city status.

  Later that day, a cable was despatched to Abilene offering the job of town marshal to Cal Bonner. It was accepted within the hour.

  Cal had earned his spurs in the rough and ready gold mining townships of Colorado. It all started when he accepted the job of end-of-track railroad trouble-shooter for the Union Pacific in Wyoming. His primary job was to keep order among the workers. But Cal was more concerned with sharks who were intent on fleecing the track labourers of their hard-earned wages. When one of their comrades was lynched by a vigilante mob for an alleged murder at Bear River, Bonner led a protest in retaliation.

  The gun battle that followed led to the town being burned to the ground. Although Bonner supported the workers, he managed to keep both sides of the fracas apart long enough for an army contingent from Fort Bridger to establish firm control. This brave and resourceful action led to him being labelled ‘Bear River’.

  With his reputation established, Cal Bonner was in great demand. He moved south to clear up mining settlements in Colorado. His polite yet heavy-fisted approach was instrumental in taming such boom towns as Tin Cup, Crested Butte and Bonanza. But it was only when he was appointed as a deputy to Wild Bill Hickok that his reputation as a town tamer become well known throughout the frontier territories.

  Between times in Wichita there had been no law to curb the excesses of the recalcitrant Texas cowpokes. With their pockets bulging with greenbacks, the young tearaways were eager for a good time. Shootouts were commonplace. Most were instigated by too much hard liquor. ‘Anything Goes’ was no idle boast. The citizens were more than ready for some peace and quiet – if such could ever be the lot of a booming cow town.

  The arrival of Bear River Cal by train was, therefore, keenly anticipated. The mayor and a couple of town councillors were on the platform to greet him. Cody Meek was not among them. The man who stepped down off the train was a handsome six-footer with broad shoulders and hands as big as plates. He was clean shaven with a chiselled jaw. A straight back and no-nonsense demeanour lent him an imposing air of authority. Blue-grey eyes twinkled adding a jaunty air of mystery.

  It was a positive and convincing first impression.

  Mayor Henry Wishart stepped forward. ‘Are we glad to see you, Mr Bonner,’ the panting guy gushed holding out a hand. It was engulfed by a bear-like paw. The mayor winced then quickly introduced his two associates. ‘This town needs a firm hand to bring these young punks into line.’ He shook his own appendage back to life.

  ‘And we reckon you’re the man to do it,’ interjected a stout well-dressed man with a stethoscope slung round his neck. ‘Doc Bailey at your service. Welcome to Wichita.’

  The cheery greeting was accompanied by a loud hail of shouting on the far side of the railroad station. It had emanated from one of the numerous saloons. Three pairs of nervous eyes flicked towards the sound of mayhem. Raucous bellows of drunken hilarity were followed almost at once by a little Chinaman who came running out of the Oriental saloon. Two swaying cowboys emerged holding a snipped pigtail in the air. ‘You want this back, Chow Ling?’ one drawled, waving his smoking pistol around. ‘It’ll cost you ten bucks.’ His pal joined in the rampant guffawing as, arm in arm, they staggered back inside the drinking den.

  ‘That’s the sort of thing we are up against,’ grumbled the third man. A tall lanky dude with more hair gracing his upper lip than his head, Nathan Clover was the bank manager. ‘I don’t envy you the task, sir.’

  The new marshal’s hands purposefully shifted to the pair of .36 Colt Navy pistols housed in a twin rigged gun belt mounted in the cross-draw manner. Wild Bill had always placed his trust in the reliable handguns, so Cal Bonner had followed suit. Thus far he had found no reason to doubt his old boss’s choice. Only the crossover method of drawing distinguished the two law officers.

  ‘I’ll give the place a look over before I decide how best to tackle things,’ he drawled out casually. ‘No sense blundering in before I have gotten a feel for what’s needed.’

  A questioning regard panned across the three hovering officials.

  ‘Anything you want, just let us know,’ the mayor declared. ‘I have taken the opportunity of booking you in with a widow lady, Marge Gillett. She runs the best rooming house in town. You should be comfortable there.’

  Cal gave a satisfied nod of approval. ‘Much obliged. I take it the job includes board and lodging?’

  It didn’t. But Doc Bailey quickly stepped in before the mayor could challenge the contention. ‘Of course, sir. All part of the deal.’

  Mayor Wishart deigned it prudent to curb the disparity hovering on his lips.

  ‘I’ll bid you good day then, gentlemen,’ the new town marshal said, picking up his valise and sauntering off down the middle of Kingman Street.

  ‘What do you reckon, Henry?’ Clover asked. ‘Has he gotten the makings?’

  ‘We can only hope the extra we’re paying for his services will be money well spent,’ averred the prudent official. ‘Only time will tell.’

  Before he had even finished speaking, a group of newly arrived rannies galloped past. The three officials watched open-mouthed. In town for less than ten minutes and the guy was already being put to the test. The wild crew bore down on the unsuspecting new lawman.

  ‘Out the way, mister, if’n you don’t want to end up in the dirt,’ the leader of the bunch hollered out as the six riders deliberately brushed past as near as damn it without touching the startled pedestrian. After all, these guys were expert horsemen. They did, however, manage to spatter his trousers with mud. It was all part of the fun.

  ‘Looks like that fella could use a bath,’ a young jigger honked out, much to the delight of his buddies.

  The incident was quickly forgotten as they hurtled by, dragging their tough mustangs to a halt outside the Troubadour saloon where far more alluring entertainment was available. One cowpoke let off a pistol to announce their arrival as the brash dewlaps entered the premises to the accompaniment of jingle bob spurred boots.

  Cal’s narrowed gaze followed the rowdy bunch into the saloon. A thin yet frosty smile creased the craggy profile. ‘Now I know where my first job lies,’ he muttered to himself. ‘But first I need to change my pants and fill up with a good meal at the Widow Gillett’s.’

  Wishart and his associates nervously watched as their new man carried on down the street. They all fervently dispatched silent entreaties upstairs that they had made the right decision. As Mayor Wishart had said, only time would tell.

  Following the directions given to him, Cal hung a right down a side road beside the saddlery. And there it was on the far side at the end. The landlady was welcoming and made a fuss of her new guest. The burgeoning reputation of Bear River Cal Bonner had gone before him.

  ‘We sure could do with a good lawman of your calibre here in Wichita.’ Widow Gillett was a well-padded lady of middle years with white hair tied up in a large bun. But most important as far as the new guest was concerned, she knew her way around a kitchen.

  ‘Those Texans spend a heap of dough,’ she espoused firmly while dishing out the grub. ‘And the young varmints want to have a good time. I don’t begrudge them that. Trouble is they just don’t know when to call it a day. All of them carry guns. Any guy hawking a hogleg
around is likely to use it, especially when he’s liquored up. We’ve had too many burials in the cemetery of late. It’s to be hoped you can put a stop to it, Marshal.’

  ‘I’ll certainly do my best, ma’am. You can be sure of that,’ Cal replied between mouthfuls of the best steak pie he had ever tasted. What the good widow said certainly made sense. He would keep it in mind. ‘This sure is good cooking. Reckon I’m gonna enjoy it around here.’

  Clad in fresh duds, his tooled leather gun rig strapped around his waist, the new lawman set off to make his mark on the town. And it wasn’t long in coming.

  The Troubadour was one of many such dens of vice fronting Kingman Street. He stepped inside. The noise hit him like a slap in the face. A piano was hammering away over to the right opposite the long mahogany bar. Some guys were dancing a jig with gaudily clad saloon girls, all eager to part the cowboys from their money. Around the edge gamblers plied their trade at circular green baize tables.

  Straw on the floor soaked up spilled beer, not to mention sickly vomit. And judging by the sour reek it clearly hadn’t been changed recently. The smell of these places always made Cal’s nose wrinkle. A blend of stale beer, tobacco and unwashed bodies. Smoke from numerous quirlies mingled with that from tallow lamps. Even during daylight hours, saloons were dimly lit. A thick fug hung in the air.

  Cal peered around. He was not averse to a drink. But in more congenial surroundings than this. His sharp eyes probed the hazy scene, all too soon settling on the cowpoke who had laughed in his face out on the street earlier. He was at the back waving a pistol around. With casual indifference the guy known as the Brazos Kid let off a couple of shots at some pot dogs resting on a shelf. Neither hit their target. He was too full of liquor to shoot straight.

  A flinty gleam was reflected in the new marshal’s gaze as he advanced down the room. The majority paid him no heed, being too intent on their own pleasures. Some who were more observant paused on spotting the shiny badge pinned to the guy’s leather vest. Only when he was no more than three feet from the culprit did the cowpoke heed his presence.