Dear Reader,

As a Substack columnist, I have often wondered if the Substack platform might be a good place to introduce readers to my books. The thought occurred to me that perhaps serializing or posting a few chapters of the first book in my Finding Billy Battles series might be an effective way to acquaint readers with my work.

So, beginning today and continuing once a week for the next few weeks, I will be sharing, at no cost, several chapters of Book #1 in the Finding Billy Battles series.

My objective in writing the Finding Billy Battles series was to tell a compelling story by weaving fact and fiction into what I call “faction.” Therefore, many of the events, places, and people in Billy’s life are real, and I have attempted to be as accurate as possible with those facts.

I am proud to say that each book in the series has won several literary awards. You can read about some of those awards and read reviews of each book on my Amazon book page, https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B001KHDVZI/?ccs_id=24ac3875-21a9-421b-9a04-ec9dcb645d14, or my website, https://ronaldyatesbooks.com/

If you choose to follow Billy Battles on his rousing and sometimes perilous journeys—and I hope you will—I welcome your thoughts about the book. Feel free to drop me a line at jhawker69@gmail.com.

Today, I am publishing Chapter Three of Book #1 in the Finding Billy Battles series. During the ensuing weeks, I will post a new chapter each succeeding Saturday.

Last Saturday, I posted Chapters One and Two of Book #1. If you missed that post, you can access it on my website at https://ronaldyatesbooks.com/.

I hope you will join Billy Battles on his incredible 100-year-long journey through life.

 

Finding Billy Battles: An Account of Peril,

Transgression and Redemption

(Book 1 of a Series)

Copyright © 2014 by R. E. Yates

Published by California Times Publishing,

Los Angeles

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921605

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or using any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is an original work of fiction. However, some names, characters, places, and incidents described in this book are based on facts. Others were invented by the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

 

 CHAPTER 3

Mr. Hawes got his own room while Ben Minot and I bunked together in one room. It was the practice in those days for grown men to sleep in the same bed, because most bedrooms were big enough for only one bed. Still, I wasn’t exactly exultant at the idea. As it turned out, however, it would be only a day or so before I would have the room to myself. More on that later.

The first morning right after a fine breakfast of eggs, bacon, and fresh-baked bread, Mr. Hawes, Ben, and I set out for the small one-story building on Third Street near Chestnut that would house our Potter drum-cylinder press and the other printing equipment. Mr. Hawes, always a cautious man, signed a six-month lease to rent the building.

“In business, you have to be a prairie dog. You always want to leave yourself a way out of any burrow,” Mr. Hawes said.

As was the case with most buildings in Dodge City in those days, the building was a clapboard structure about sixty feet deep and maybe twenty feet wide. The press was positioned at the back of the building, while the California job cases, type, and other equipment were placed in the middle. Toward the front were a desk and a six-foot-long counter. We spent most of that first day getting everything ready, and toward evening, Mr. Hawes put out a single sheet with an editorial announcing that Dodge City had a new newspaper—the Dodge City Union.

 

Dear Friends, it is with great pride and pleasure that I announce the publication of a fresh newspaper in Dodge City. We are the Dodge City Union, a politically independent publication whose only master is the truth. We do, however, reserve the right to criticize our public servants, both high and low. Neither the mayor nor the councilman nor the policeman will be immune from our sharp barbs when they deserve them. We intend to denounce public theft, robbery, and wholesale stealing wherever and whenever we find them.

At the same time, we want to help Dodge City grow and flourish, and we intend to do our best to promote the interests of this community far and wide. While Dodge City is far famed as a “wicked cattle village,” the Union wishes to foster a more affable impression and thereby foment pecuniary interest from afar. While this city has grown prosperous on the hide of the buffalo and the flesh of the Texas longhorn, progress dictates that we must develop new sources of profit.

We promise to push our city fathers to that end and in so doing earn and receive our chuck.

Your faithful editor,

Horace M. Hawes, Editor and Publisher

 

Ben and I had the job of printing that first paper and delivering it to every business in town. When we finished, Ben and I met up at the Union office.

“You go on ahead home, William,” Ben said, looking south toward the Deadline. “I have a couple of places I want to go first.”

I checked my pocket watch. It was only about 6:00 p.m., so I had about an hour to wander up and down Front Street before I had to be back at Mrs. Kimmelmann’s for supper. I walked past the Dodge House Hotel, a large white wooden structure fronted by tin awnings. I still had a few copies of the Union with me and decided I would drop a few off at the front desk for any guests who might be in the hotel.

The hotel clerk stood behind a high counter. Only his head and a white collarless shirt open at the neck were visible to me. A dense crop of gray hair spilled over his ears. A smoldering cigar rested in a brass ashtray on the counter. I remember how he looked me over as I walked through the door. He must have thought I was a Texas drover who had missed the entrance to the Long Branch Saloon just down the street.

“What can I do for you, sonny?” he asked.

“Could I leave these with you?” I responded. “I am with the Union, a new newspaper in town, and this is our first issue.”

“Don’t see why not,” he said. “Put ’em here on the counter. And who might you be?”

“My name is William R. Battles, and I work for Horace Hawes, the publisher and editor of the paper. We’re originally from Lawrence.”

“Lawrence, eh. Isn’t that the place those murdering Missouri pukes burned down back during the war?”

I nodded. “It’s all built back up now.”

The desk clerk was looking over the Union. “Not much to it, is there?”

“Well, it’s our first edition, and it’s really only meant to let folks know that we have begun publication. There will be a lot more news in it soon. Mr. Hawes is an accomplished editor and publisher. I am sure he would be grateful for any news items you could provide.”

“Oh yeah… how grateful would that be?”

“Mr. Hawes would have to speak to that,” I said.

The desk clerk simply nodded. I could sense he felt he had engaged in enough conversation with me. But I wasn’t finished. I had an idea that I could show Mr. Hawes just how useful I was.

“Do you think the hotel might like to take out an advertisement in the Union?” I blurted.

“You would have to talk to Mr. Boyd about that. He’s the owner, and he makes those decisions.”

“I see… I will let Mr. Hawes know.” I thanked the clerk and walked back onto the wooden plank sidewalk, feeling rather proud of my initiative. In the distance, south of the railroad tracks, I could hear the sounds of saloon music and people laughing. I walked past Mueller’s boot shop and Zimmerman’s Gun and Hardware Store, hoping to leave a couple of copies of the newspaper with them as well, but they were closed.

Eventually, I came to the Long Branch Saloon. I looked in and saw a long, narrow building flanked on the right by a long white bar that ran almost halfway down the side of the saloon. In the back were poker, faro, and chuck-a-luck tables. A five-piece orchestra played music, and much to my surprise, the bartenders were not only serving cold beer but a variety of mixed drinks, brandies, and liqueurs. I had assumed saloons in places like Dodge City served only rotgut whiskey.

I considered entering, but as I had never been in a saloon in my life, I thought better of it and decided to turn around and head toward Mrs. Kimmelmann’s boardinghouse. As I walked the few blocks north, I wondered what Ben was up to. When we had parted, he had headed south past the railroad tracks.

I didn’t know it at the time, but Ben was still fighting the war of the rebellion; and where better to do that than in one of Dodge City’s infamous cantinas with their Mary Magdalenes willing to sell their souls to whomever. In this case, it was those Texas drovers who rode into Dodge after two months on the trail looking for some good whiskey and bad women. I think Ben was hoping to run into one of Quantrill’s border raiders in one of those saloons south of the Deadline.

About ten minutes later, I was standing in front of Mrs. Kimmelmann’s boardinghouse. It was a fine structure, fully two and a half stories high, with a broad veranda that wrapped around the front and both sides. A sad-looking cottonwood tree was trying to grow in the parched front yard. The Kimmelmann house was located in the residential hills of Dodge City and commanded a wonderful view of the country, including the main business area located below along Front Street and north of the Santa Fe Railroad tracks.

I walked through the front door and made my way to the small dining room.

“Where’s Ben?” Mr. Hawes asked.

“Well, when we finished circulating the paper, he said he had some places to go.” I was trying to be as circumspect as possible.

“Places to go, eh,” Mr. Hawes said.

“Well, I’ll wager I know where those places are,” Mrs. Kimmelmann said. “Horace, I will not have any ruffians or drunkards residing in my home.”

“Now, Martha, I am sure Ben is neither. He is a good Christian man who served his country honorably in the War of the Rebellion. You would not begrudge a hardworking man like Ben a little after-work refreshment, would you?”

“I was not born yesterday,” Mrs. Kimmelmann said over her shoulder as she walked into the kitchen.

Mr. Hawes looked at me as if to say, “Look what you started.”

At that moment, Mrs. Kimmelmann’s other boarders began filing into the dining room.

There was Mrs. Wiesbacher, a woman in her forties who taught school. Unlike Mrs. Kimmelmann, Mrs. Wiesbacher was a small, Rubensian woman with hard black eyes. She had a soft, almost doughy face, and on her right cheek was a dime-sized brown mole. But the feature that most impressed me was her enormous bosom—the largest I had ever seen in my scant eighteen years.

There was Mr. Mason, a drummer who sold cloth, ribbons, thread, needles, and other materials for making clothes. Mr. Mason, who was in his early fifties, was not much bigger than Mrs. Wiesbacher, but unlike her, he was rail thin with pale-blue eyes, nut-brown hair, a walrus mustache, and a goatee that brought his chin to a point.

Finally, there was Signore Antonio Difranco, an exiled Italian nobleman. Difranco spoke excellent English and dressed immaculately. Like Mrs. Kimmelmann, he was tall. He carried himself with an aristocratic bearing. He had apparently served with the Italian patriot Giuseppe Garibaldi during the Franco-Prussian War. I was never able to determine Mr. Difranco’s exact age, but he seemed to be in his mid-forties. He had a finely chiseled, clean-shaven face and a luxuriant head of ash-blond hair. I had no reason to doubt Signore Difranco’s background, and I am happy I didn’t, because my friendship with him would become one of the most important in my life.

“What brings you from Rome to Dodge City, Mr. Difranco?” Mr. Hawes asked as we settled around the dinner table. “That seems like such a vast distance—not only in miles, but also in refinement and sophistication.’

Before he could answer, Mrs. Kimmelmann hissed, “Horace, you must not refer to Signore Difranco as mister. He is of noble station in Italy.”

Signore Difranco waved off Mrs. Kimmelmann’s admonition, albeit politely, and turned to Mr. Hawes.

“Well, Mr. Hawes, we must seek our fortunes where opportunity resides, and here in the American West, opportunity abounds,” he answered. “Is that not why you are here? To take advantage of opportunity?”

“It would seem so, Mr. Difranco. It would seem so. You will excuse me. I am not well informed on noble titles, nor do I believe they belong in this country. After all, our ancestors fought a revolution to free us from such feudal bonds.”

Signore Difranco smiled and nodded affirmatively. “You are quite correct, Mr. Hawes. I too fought with Garibaldi, in part to rid Italy of such medieval conventions.”

Signore Difranco then turned to me. “What about you, young man?” I was still impolitely staring at Mrs. Wiesbacher’s mole and those great, heaving peaks.

“Uh… what… I’m sorry, I…”

“What brings you out to western Kansas? Are you seeking your fortune?” Signore Difranco sent a knowing wink my way, as if to say, “I know exactly what you are looking at.”

I looked at Mr. Hawes. “Not exactly. Mr. Hawes has been kind enough to give me a post on his new newspaper. I am currently a student at the University of Kansas in Lawrence. But I was born just west of here.”

“I see,” Signore Difranco said. “You want to become a scribe… a scrivener then?”

I looked at Mr. Hawes, and before I could answer, he said, “Young William is an apprentice. He is learning the newspaper trade from the bottom up. Sometimes he writes. Sometimes he sweeps the floors and delivers the newspaper. Isn’t that right, William?”

I nodded, and my eyes turned to Aida, who was placing bowls of food on the table. She had just put a bowl of boiled potatoes and a platter of fried chicken on the table when there was a loud, insistent knock at the front door.

“Now, who can that be at suppertime?” Mrs. Kimmelmann said. She opened the door, and there stood a man about six feet and one inch tall with a long, drooping moustache. He was dressed in a long black coat and wore a gray broad-brimmed slouch hat. Under his coat, I could see the butt of a revolver, possibly stuck into a holster or belt. Then I saw a small silver badge on the lapel of his coat.

“Sorry to intrude, ma’am,” he said. “Is there a Horace Hawes here?”

“Why, yes, that would be me,” Mr. Hawes said, getting up from the table. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you know a Ben Minot?”

“Why, yes, he is in my employ.”

“Could you step outside for a moment?”

Mr. Hawes walked through the door on the small front porch. I followed him.

“Who are you?” the visitor demanded, looking at me with intense gray eyes that examined me from head to foot. This was a man who I could tell was all business and not to be trifled with.

“He is also in my employ,” Mr. Hawes said. “And by the way, just who are you?”

“I am Deputy City Marshal Earp, and we have Ben Minot in the city jail.”

Mr. Hawes looked at me and then back at the city marshal. “What? Why?”

“Mr. Minot was involved in an altercation with some Texas drovers. Normally, that wouldn’t concern the city police, but in this case, the scrap spilled north of the deadline, and Mr. Minot throttled one of the drovers pretty bad. His outfit has filed a complaint.”

“Why, I never… I am greatly surprised by this news, eh… Mr. eh…Earp, did you say?”

“That’s right, the name is Earp.”

“Ben Minot is a fine man… not one to seek trouble such as you describe. He must have been provoked in some manner.”

“That ain’t for me to decide. That will be up to the judge. Mr. Minot will have to appear in court in three days’ time with those other boys. Right now, however, there is a question of his bail, which is set at twenty dollars. Will you be providing that?”

“I most certainly will be.”

“Then you best come with me, and we can take care of that business.” The three of us walked mostly in silence back to the center of town. Mr. Earp, a taciturn man, said very little. But about three-quarters of the way to the jail, he offered his assessment of the events that landed Mr. Minot in the poke.

“Seems to me, Minot might have said something those Texas boys didn’t cotton to. One of them jerked his hog-leg, and your man disarmed him and beat him over the head with it. A couple of others joined in the fray, and Minot dragged the injured drover out of the saloon and up the road, with two of his friends following along behind. That’s when the ruckus crossed the Deadline, and that’s when I had to put my oar in.”

“Did Ben assault you?”

“Not a bit. I did have to knock him to the ground before he would let loose of the drover. But he came along quite peaceable.”

“What about the drover? Is he in jail too?”

Earp explained that Ben had throttled the drover into unconsciousness, and because it was he who had brought the fracas across the Deadline, he was the one who had been arrested. Nevertheless, he did lock up the drovers for the night, but not in the same cell as Ben.

“I don’t expect Minot has heard the end of this, however. Those Texas boys are an ornery bunch and won’t be forgettin’ this beatin’ anytime soon.”

Just as we were arriving at the city jail, I caught sight of someone I knew.

He was leaning against the wall next to the door.

“Bill? Is that you?” The man looked at me uncertainly. Then he grinned broadly.

“Why, if it ain’t little Billy Battles—only you ain’t so little anymore.”

The man I had recognized and who was now addressing me was Bill Tilghman. His family and mine had become friends in Lawrence after they had accompanied us for part of the way from Fort Dodge back in 1866. Even though they had moved on to Atchison, Kansas, from Lawrence, my mother and Bill Tilghman’s mother remained in contact. On occasion, when the Tilghmans had business in Topeka, they always stopped by our place in Lawrence for a day or two. Bill was about six years older than me and was working as a deputy at the time.

“I didn’t know you were living in Dodge City,” I said, reaching for his hand. We moved through the door and into the city marshal’s office.

“Been here about a year or so. I had a part interest in the Crystal Palace Saloon until last year, when I sold out. Had a ranch outside of town until the Southern Cheyenne burned it to the ground. That’s when I moved into town. I didn’t want to suffer the same fate as my brother.”

I remember my mother telling me that Bill’s brother Dick had been killed by Cheyenne and Kiowa warriors back in 1872, while the brothers were working as buffalo hunters on the Kansas prairie.

While Bill and I were talking, Mr. Hawes and Earp had moved to the small cell where Ben Minot was being held.

“I’m sorry about this, Mr. Hawes,” Minot said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What happened?” Mr. Hawes asked.

“I suggest you take that conversation outside,” Earp said. “I don’t want to overhear anything I shouldn’t. Mr. Minot has a court date coming up in a few days, and I reckon I’ll be called to testify.”

That was good advice. Mr. Hawes paid Ben Minot’s bail, and we moved out onto the sidewalk.

“Where you stayin’?” Bill asked. I explained we were boarding with the widow Kimmelmann.

“You’ve picked a good place to camp. She runs a first-rate place, and I hear the grub is good too.”

“We wouldn’t know. We never had the opportunity to partake,” Mr. Hawes responded with obvious irritation.

“If you want some good grub, you can always give the Dodge House a try,” Bill said.

“We will return to Mrs. Kimmelmann’s. I am sure she still has some vittles left over for us,” Mr. Hawes said.

When we walked into Mrs. Kimmelmann’s dining room, it was empty, except for Mrs. Kimmelmann, who was sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee.

“Well, I expect you will want some supper,” she said.

“I’m very sorry about this, Martha,” Mr. Hawes said. “It was—”

“Never you mind. I’m sure there’s an excuse… some kind of fimble-famble. But I won’t put up with unseemly behavior by guests in my house.”

“I’m powerful sorry if I have offended in any way,” said Ben Minot. His hands were squeezing his hat brim as though it might fly away. “Things just got out of hand.”

Mrs. Kimmelmann gave him a cold stare and then turned and walked into the kitchen. Then, sticking her head through the door, she said, “You all had better sit down if you’re want’n to put your noses in the manger. Aida will be there shortly with leftovers.”

The three of us ate mostly in silence that evening. After supper, I walked out onto the front porch and sat on a wooden settee. I was pleasantly surprised when Aida joined me.

“You mind?” she asked, settling in next to me on the settee. Her English was excellent, but I relished listening to her Spanish accent. We made small talk on the front porch, and she explained how she came to be working for Mrs. Kimmelmann.

Aida was working in a brothel, though not as a soiled dove. She was only twelve at the time, and she was toiling as a scullery maid, cleaning up after each evening’s “pleasures.” One afternoon, quite by accident, Mrs. Kimmelmann was returning from visiting a friend south of Front Street when she spotted Aida hanging up washing behind a bordello called the Yellow Canary.

She was shocked to discover that Aida spoke excellent English—the result of growing up in a Catholic orphanage in Nogales, Texas. The orphanage closed its doors when Aida was ten, and she was taken in by a foster family.

The family promptly sold her to a local madam, who then moved her strumpets and painted cats north to Dodge City, where the pickings were more plentiful. Mrs. Kimmelmann knew it would only be a matter of time before Aida would be forced to service the randy Texas cowhands, so she “bought” Aida’s freedom from the madam for $100.

That was six years before, and Aida had developed into a bona fide beauty. I can recall that she had long black hair that she unpinned and allowed to fall over her shoulders after the day’s labors. She had dark brown eyes that flashed when she smiled. I was most taken, however, with her disarming and cheerful personality.

I admit to fantasizing about Aida, often hoping she might steal into my room some night and climb into my bed. Of course, that never happened. For one thing, I was still too naive and inexperienced in the ways of women to understand that Aida was only attempting to get to know me better. We were, after all, about the same age, and she had little opportunity to talk with young men her age.

One evening, as we sat there listening to the sound of crickets and bullfrogs, she turned to me and said, “Billy, I do so enjoy these little talks. How long do you think you will stay in Dodge City? What do you want to do with your life?”

“I’m not sure on either account… but I know I want to travel… to get out of Kansas, to see a lot more of the world.”

Aida looked off into the distance. “That sounds wonderful.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“It is difficult to say. I owe so much to Mrs. Kimmelmann. Had she not found me… well, who knows where I would be now.”

I cleared my throat nervously. “Yes, I…”

Before I could continue, Aida interjected, “But I have my life before me, and I do so want to have a family. I never really had one of my own… just the leavin’s of others.”

I looked down at the porch floor. “I had no father, but my mother was always there for me. I can’t imagine…”

“No, you cannot,” Aida said, sensing that I was about to bring up her life before Mrs. Kimmelmann rescued her. “Nobody can.” We both fell silent for several minutes.

“Do you think I am an attractive girl?” Aida asked finally, still looking off into the night.

“Attractive? I would say you are about the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

Aida turned and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “You are a sweet one, William Battles.” Then she stood up, straightened her dress, and added, “Time for me to go. My day begins at four thirty while you lazy louts get to sleep in till six.”

I laughed and watched her walk into the house. That was as close as I ever got to being intimate with Aida. Had my life not taken a regretful turn a few weeks later, we might have developed a more romantic liaison, and who knows, maybe she might have paid me a visit one night. As I look back on it now, I can truthfully say that for her sake, it was probably just as well that we never moved to the next stage of “sparking,” as we called it back then.

Breakfast the next morning was an awkward affair. The other boarders seemed to be waiting for Ben to appear. But he didn’t. He skipped breakfast and walked by himself to the newspaper office. The next day, he moved out of Mrs. Kimmelmann’s house and into a small room in a clapboard shack south of Front Street.

“I think I have overstayed my welcome at Mrs. Kimmelmann’s place,” he told Mr. Hawes and me in the Union office. “I will be moving out tomorrow.”

“Suit yourself, Ben, but I don’t think Martha holds anything against you,” Mr. Hawes said.

Two days later, Ben appeared in court and pleaded guilty to a charge of disturbing the peace. Even though Wyatt Earp gave evidence against him because it was he who had broken up the ruckus, he did so in such a way that the three Texas drovers were just as culpable.

“Them Texas boys had been paintin’ their tonsils pretty good when they came on Mr. Minot in the Varieties Saloon,” Wyatt said. “Words came to blows, as is sometimes the case when Texas drovers and old Union men like Mr. Minot meet up. The barkeep, Mr. George Masterson—brother of Ford County sheriff Bat Masterson—said Mr. Minot laid one of the Texas boys out pretty good when he jerked his hog leg. He took the drover’s weapon away and handed it to George. Then Mr. Minot walked out of the establishment and made his way up Second Avenue to Front Street. The drovers followed him, and more fisticuffs ensued as the party hit Front Street. When I arrived, Mr. Minot had thoroughly cleaned the plow of two of the drovers and was workin’ on the third. I broke up the fracas and hauled the entire bunch to jail.”

The judge fined Ben and each of the drovers $10 and warned all of them not to disrupt Dodge City’s peace again. It was a warning that Ben didn’t always heed, but that kind of legal problem was nothing compared to an incident that was just a few weeks away and that would have a momentous impact on both our lives.

*****

Next Saturday, Chapter Four