The Fall of Abilene Read online

  “I think I’m going to eat there this time,” Brit said.

  “That’s what you said last year,” Box Head reminded him.

  “I want to hear about the saloons,” my brother said to Erastus.

  “You saw them all last year,” Box Head said.

  “I want to hear, though.” Sam blew a smoke ring.

  “There’s a passel,” Erastus told us. “Most of them are on what they call Texas Street. Oh, and there’s a boot shop on Texas Street. The Alamo’s the fanciest saloon. There was a gigantic band playing music inside when I rode past. I didn’t go in, mind you. Now, that boot shop …”

  “I don’t give a damn about boots, Erastus,” Box Head said.

  “Is there a jail?” Hatley asked.

  “Yeah. Made of stone.” Erastus chuckled. “Some boy said the cowboys tore the jail down last year. But it got built back up. Ain’t much of a jail. The one in Fort Worth’s bigger. So’s the one in Waco. And San Antonio, of course. I’ve seen those.”

  Then Hardin came by, took the last bottle from Hatley’s hand, managed a pull, and tossed the rye to Clements.

  “Who’s night-herding?” Hardin asked.

  “Hell, Wes,” Box Head said, “beeves ain’t got nowhere to go. Next herd up is only six inches from where we’re camped.”

  “I guess that means you’re night-herding, Box Head,” Hardin said, and caught the bottle when Clements tossed it back.

  “Oh, come on, Wes,” Box Head complained. “Don’t send me out tonight. Send the kid. He ain’t even drinking whiskey.”

  Hardin shot a glance in my direction. “No, Counting Boy’s got a busy day tomorrow.”

  “Doing what?” Box Head demanded.

  “He’s riding into Abilene with me.”

  Hardin and Hickok

  Chapter Eleven

  While I won’t say that my jaw hung agape, I know my eyes widened in astonishment once Hardin, Clements and I crossed the bridge over the river and entered Abilene.

  Not that I was some chawbacon. Goliad might not be Kansas City or Chicago, or even Fort Worth, but it certainly consisted of more than a bunch of ramshackle houses and an old-fashioned, Texas-style town square. Besides, I had seen San Antonio—twice.

  At first glance, Abilene looked to consist of mostly sod houses and decrepit cabins. Yet we soon heard the sound of an out-of-tune piano, followed by the blasting scream of a locomotive that caused my bay to start bucking. Laughing, Hardin and Clements reined in while I fought to get the gelding under control.

  “You know what that sounds like?” Clements asked when the gelding had calmed.

  Hardin answered: “Money.”

  We followed the road on one side of the Kansas Pacific tracks.

  For this early in the morning, the lumberyard bustled with business, but I guess if you sold lumber in a place where you could hardly find any trees, it paid to open up early.

  We passed the first saloon, the Elkhorn, on A Street. Hardin and Clements barely slowed down for that, or the restaurant, the liquor store, the Novelty Theatre, a clothing store, or the two-story Merchants Hotel.

  Coughing up foul-smelling, black smoke, the train started pulling away from the depot. I wanted to stop and watch, but my companions kept pushing on. Except in magazines and newspapers, I’d never seen a train.

  I yelled: “They’re not shipping any cattle.”

  Hardin and Clements chuckled as they rode toward this monster of a building at the end of the block.

  Finally, Clements twisted in his saddle, shook his head, and said: “That train’s heading west, kid. I don’t reckon they’re buying much beef out that way.”

  My face reddened only briefly, because we stopped in front of the Drovers Cottage. With the exception of the Menger Hotel in San Antonio, I’d never seen any hotel this big, or this elegant. Well, the Menger, with its stone walls and wrought-iron balconies, might have been fancier, but I’d only admired the Menger from the street. Soon, I’d be stepping inside the Drovers Cottage, a three-story mansion. But another building caught my eye, this one on the other side of the Kansas Pacific tracks, and from a distance, it looked grander, taller, and better built than the hotel.

  I pointed as we stopped at a hitching rail. “What’s that?”

  Hardin and Clements glanced, shrugged, and swung down to tie up their horses.

  “It’s Joseph McCoy’s house,” declared Mr. Columbus Carroll as he stepped off the verandah and flicked his cigar onto the dirt, crushing it out with his boot.

  Now Hardin studied the big house. “Who’s he? God?”

  Chuckling, Mr. Carroll shook Hardin’s hand, saying: “In this town, you might say he’s just that.” He withdrew fresh cigars from the inside pocket of his coat, handing one to Clements, one to Hardin, and even one to me. “Or was God … till the new lawman arrived. But we wouldn’t have Abilene, boys, if not for Mayor McCoy. He got the cattle pens built. Got the business started. He’s a good friend of Texans.”

  “Who’s the new god?” Hardin asked. “Hickok?”

  Mr. Carroll bit off the end of his cigar, spit it out, and found a match. He lighted his cigar first, then pointed the match at Hardin. “You’ve heard about Wild Bill?” He dropped the match and nodded at the bulge underneath Hardin’s duster. “If you’ve heard of Hickok, you’ve heard of the town ordinance.”

  Hardin took a long drag on his cigar, tried to blow a smoke ring but couldn’t, and, leaving the Havana in his mouth, he pulled open his duster to reveal the two pistols holstered onto his vest. “Wes Hardin doesn’t go around naked,” he told Mr. Carroll.

  “Yes,” Mr. Carroll said. “We’ve heard of your exploits.”

  “I got your cattle here.”

  Mr. Carroll remembered Clements and me, for he started to fish another match out of the box, but Clements shook his head. “If it’s all right with you, sir, I’ll wait to enjoy my smoke after breakfast.”

  “Me, too,” I said, though, truthfully, the last time I’d tried to smoke a cigar had been one Pa had left on a fencepost, and I’m sure my face turned green before I puked in the creek.

  “You didn’t eat in camp?” Mr. Carroll asked, but we all knew he was joking. “You mean to say you’d prefer the Drovers Cottage over Erastus McDougal’s scrambled eggs.”

  “I ain’t seen an egg since Texas,” Clements said.

  We followed Mr. Carroll into the massive dining room.

  * * * * *

  It was the best food I’d tasted. Mr. Carroll took care of the bill himself, which was quite generous, because I saw how much they charged for bacon, eggs, and coffee when the waiter brought the check.

  “I’m sure your men would like to get paid,” Mr. Carroll said, after he left some greenbacks on the table, picked up his coffee cup, and directed us to follow him to the verandah. There we sat in rocking chairs and watched Abilene come to life as Clements and Hardin smoked their cigars and Mr. Carroll did the talking.

  “The market’s tight,” he said. “Buyers right now aren’t paying what we think beef should bring. One-year-olds are selling for eight dollars, and that’s robbery. A two-year-old might fetch fourteen, but probably no more than twelve. Three-year-olds around eighteen, maybe twenty. And cows maybe sixteen to eighteen. Of course, you boys brought up beeves. Those are bringing about three cents, gross. And representatives from all the packing houses say that price is likely to drop, too.”

  Which would’ve still been more money than I’d ever seen.

  “The boys,” Hardin said, “yes, sir, they would like to get paid.”

  Mr. Carroll laughed. He understood that Hardin was really saying that John Wesley Hardin would like to be paid.

  “Don’t fret over that, Wes. With this market, those damnyankee thieves trying to run roughshod over me and the rest of us, I can’t afford to keep too many men on my payroll. Bring
them in tomorrow to be discharged.” He asked the waiter for brandies. I wondered how much those would set him back.

  “And us?” Hardin asked.

  Mr. Carroll didn’t answer him. “Where is the herd?”

  Clements told him.

  “I imagine they’re packed in tighter than a Jew’s purse.”

  “The herd’s not going anywhere, Mr. Carroll,” Clements said. “And the grass is good. For now.”

  “How many would it take to keep an eye on them? Till they’re sold?” Mr. Carroll asked.

  Hardin shrugged. “Two. Split the shifts. But you’d have to pay more than twenty or thirty a month. One thunderstorm or prairie fire, and it’ll be hell sorting out all that beef.”

  Clements added: “And you’ll need to hire more to put them in the pens once you and some chiseler agree on the price.”

  “I know. I know.” The brandy arrived. Even I got a snifter. Watching Mr. Carroll, I figured you were supposed to slosh the sweet-smelling liquor around in that fancy glass more than you were supposed to drink it.

  Clements and Hardin killed theirs in quick shots. That caused Mr. Carroll to grin and shake his head. He sipped and sloshed. So I sloshed and sipped.

  “Jim, Wes,” he said as he set his brandy on the side table by the rocker. “How would you two like to stay on? I’ll make it worth your while.” He leaned back, adding: “The buyers from the packing houses will come to their senses in another month. I’m certain of it.”

  I didn’t think that at all. In another month, many more herds would hit Abilene, and the offers would drop lower and lower. No one would ever call me a sound businessman, but I sure knew how to count.

  “How much?” Hardin said.

  Mr. Carroll gave a figure that sent some of my brandy sloshing over the snifter’s rim. “Don’t tell me you’re in a hurry to get home,” he said to Hardin.

  “Hell, no. But most of the boys will be,” Hardin said, “once they’re broke.” He laughed. “By tomorrow or the day after.”

  The cattleman turned to me. “I imagine you’ll want to get back to your parents, son.”

  I lied and gave a quick nod.

  “I’ll be going south, too, Mr. Carroll,” Clements said. “But I thank you for the offer.”

  “Jim …” Hardin said, sounding practically desperate.

  Clements waved him off. “This ain’t my country, Wes. No trees. Just bad water, Yankees, and sharpers.”

  “You can’t make this much money down in Texas,” Hardin argued.

  “Which I’d blow in one night. No sense in giving my money to a bunch of Union trash.”

  Hardin laughed. “I’ll talk you out of it. After we see the color of Mr. Carroll’s cash.”

  “No,” Clements said. “You won’t.”

  But Hardin did not hear his friend, because Mr. Carroll had reached inside his coat and pulled out a fat wallet. He counted out more money than I’d ever seen, wrote receipts, and handed the paper money to Clements, Hardin, and even me. We signed our receipts and shoved the money into our britches.

  “What’s first, boys?” Mr. Carroll asked.

  “A bath,” Clements said. “And a shave.”

  “A whore,” Hardin said. “Then a bath.”

  “I don’t know,” I said as everyone looked at me.

  Mr. Carroll stood, left some money on the side table for our drinks, and returned the wallet to his pocket. “There’s just one thing, Wes.” He pointed at Hardin’s duster, which he had kept on and buttoned once he had entered the Drovers Cottage. “That iron will get you into a lot of trouble. Wild Bill Hickok is a lot like Marshal Tom Smith in many ways. No firearms are allowed in Abilene. Smith enforced that his way. Wild Bill does it his way. Smith used his fists. Wild Bill prefers Navy Colts. Lose the hardware before you hit the dram shops.”

  Hardin pointed at Mr. Carroll. “What about that shoulder holster you’re wearing, sir?” he asked.

  “I’ve fixed it with the city police,” Mr. Carroll said. “Besides, I don’t have your reputation. The way the drovers coming into town have talked about you, it wouldn’t surprise me if Hickok’s entire police force will be watching out for Lucifer himself to come riding in.”

  “I got to protect myself,” Hardin said. “Too many Yankee trash hanging around here.”

  “You might be able to get away with carrying a revolver in the Devil’s Addition.” Mr. Carroll made a vague arm gesture to the south. “Most anything goes there.” He even laughed. “It’s properly named. Hell is always in session down in the Addition. But up here, in Abilene proper, even over on Texas Street, for the love of God, Wes, please check your Colts.”

  “Can’t you fix things with the city police for Wes?” Clements asked.

  “No,” Mr. Carroll said. “After everything that happened on the way up here … the arriving drovers have been filled with stories … every grafter and gambler in town has heard of John Wesley Hardin. So has the newspaper publisher. And Hickok hears every whisper. So John Wesley Hardin is known all over this town.”

  “That’s fine, Mr. Carroll,” Hardin said. “Because my name’s Little Arkansas.”

  “They’ve heard of him, too,” Mr. Carroll informed him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Clements rode back to let the boys know they would be paid in the morning, but Hardin said I needed to stay with him. Naturally, I did not object.

  He did not find a prostitute first but followed Clements’ suggestion, when we discovered a bathhouse on First Street.

  “That’s the one,” Hardin said.

  I headed for the door, eager to wash eight hundred miles of grime and stench off me.

  “Where you going?” Hardin remained on his horse.

  “A bath,” I said. “And a shave.”

  “Like you need a razor.” Hardin nodded at the storefront. “You’re going to pay fifty cents for a hot bath, kid, and put on those same clothes you’re wearing? Or was it your plan to take a bath in your duds?”

  I grinned. “That’s a thought.”

  “Our clothes don’t need soap and water. They need a match.” He gestured a few stores down. “Let’s buy us some new duds.”

  “All right.”

  I started down the boardwalk but didn’t make it to the trash bin before Hardin called out: “Now where are you going?”

  I pointed at the sign: Gus Mills Clothing.

  “Afoot?”

  “It’s next door.”

  Clucking his tongue and shaking his head, Hardin waited till I walked back, mounted my bay, and we rode to the store.

  “Never walk,” Hardin told me, “when you can ride.”

  * * * * *

  Hardin bought a new suit, a light-colored hat, new everything. I didn’t splurge the way he did and got the cheapest outfit I could find. We carried our plunder back to the horses, stuffed the wrapped packages in our saddlebags, and found T. C. McInerney’s boot shop on Texas Street. This will tell you something about the economics of Abilene in 1871. McInerney’s store was three times the size of Gus Mills’ clothing store and Ringoshie’s saloon combined. Mr. McInerney must have had a dozen folks working for him, and we got ourselves fitted quickly with off-the-shelf boots—tall, with ridges for our spurs and white stars inlaid into the uppers.

  I spent more on those boots than I’d spent on all my clothes. I’d spent more on those boots than Pa had paid for a mule or horse.

  Then we rode back to the bathhouse and barbershop, taking our time as Hardin studied all the saloons and businesses that filled both sides of Texas Street. When we found the bathhouse on A Street again, we had to tether our horses in front of a jewelry store down the street, because the hitching rails had already filled up.

  * * * * *

  Bains Publics

  Et

  Salon de Coiffure

 
Ignace Archambault, Propriétaire

  The writing was fancy, in cursive, and certainly not in English. We wouldn’t have known it was a bathhouse if not for the sign, cut out and painted up like a bathtub—and, of course, the striped pole of red, white, and blue that stood to the left of the doorway.

  That bath felt heavenly. Monsieur—that’s French for Mr.—Ignace Archambault was a funny-looking man with a strange accent and a waxed mustache. Half the time I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he knew how to get a couple of cowboys cleaned up.

  We smelled sweet, too, after the baths—and Hardin’s shave, although he kept his mustache. I told the Frenchman, because I was getting a shave, too, no matter how much it cost, that he could leave my mustache, too.

  “Quelle moustache?” he said, and shaved it off anyway, to Hardin’s enjoyment.

  With Hardin smelling like peaches and me in my striped britches, bib-front shirt, and a hat just like Hardin’s, only black, we paid the Frenchman. We had our picture taken when we saw a photographer’s shop, paid a dollar for four tintypes. I meant to mail two of mine to my folks but never got around to it.

  I don’t know what became of those tintypes, but I didn’t care much for my likeness—and the images made me appear left-handed.

  Finally, we rode around the well on Cedar Street and stopped to admire the Alamo Saloon, which appeared bigger and grander than anything in town, except the Drovers Cottage or Mayor McCoy’s home. Music sounded from inside, but not from a banjo or piano but a brass band, maybe even a full orchestra. I thought we’d go inside, but Hardin rode on and turned onto Texas Street, studying two specific watering holes on the south side of the busy street.

  He seemed to be considering the closest one, the Old Fruit Saloon, but the other one grabbed my attention. It was bigger, and if you consider the sign on its façade, a whole lot more boastful. The Bull’s Head depicted a real bull—a quite masculine bull, if you savvy what I’m saying, that would’ve had Ma and all her churchgoing friends raising conniption fits over the artist’s rendering of an honest-to-goodness longhorn bull.