Dear Reader,

Today and every Saturday for the next few weeks, I will be sharing, at no cost, several chapters of Book #1 in the Finding Billy Battles series on Substack.

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 Six 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 published Chapter Five of Book #1. If you missed that post or any of the earlier posts of the book, you can access them 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. The author invented others, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER 6

Almost two weeks passed since our return from Battles Gap. I tried to put the tragedy out of my mind, but I was plagued with nightmares. The image of Sarah Bledsoe lying dead on that blood-soaked table with a gaping hole in her neck was especially horrifying for me. It still is as I write this.

In accordance with the law, I was required to provide a statement to Bat Masterson, who was still the sheriff of Ford County. There would be a coroner’s inquest and a hearing before a judge. Mr. Hawes had sent a telegram to my mother, and she responded that she would take the train to Dodge City in about a week.

“No need to worry,” Bat had told me. “Wyatt and Bill will vouch for you, and you have two reputable witnesses who will explain what happened.”

None of that helped me deal with the specters that were waking me each night since my return to Dodge City. Not even vivacious Aida could jar me from my sullen, dispirited mood.

Then one morning in the Union office, I was cleaning type and putting it back into a California job case when I heard Bat and Bill Tilghman walk in. The two men stood in the front of the building near Mr. Hawes’s desk, and Bat waved for me to come to them.

“Billy, can we talk to you for a minute?”

I walked to the front of the newspaper office, past Ben, and stopped at Mr. Hawes’s desk.

“Is everything all right?” Mr. Hawes asked.

“There have been some complications,” Bat said.

“What kind of complications?” I asked.

“The kind that can only come from the governor’s office,” Bill Tilghman said, his face turning red with anger.

“Seems one of those Bledsoes is tight with some powerful people in Topeka, and now there needs to be a grand jury impaneled and a possible indictment for the murder of Sarah and Matthew Bledsoe. I just got the telegram an hour ago.”

“What?” shouted Mr. Hawes. “Why, that is ridiculous. We all know what happened. Billy was defending himself—and us! And besides, he only shot Mrs. Bledsoe. Ben here shot Matthew Bledsoe in self-defense.”

Bat looked surprised at this news. “That right, Ben? You shot Matthew Bledsoe?”

Ben nodded. “I did, and I would do it again. Them boys was tryin’ to kill us with buffalo guns. We were defending ourselves.”

“You know that, and we know that, but the law is the law,” Bat said.

“Am I to be taken to jail?” I asked. Suddenly, my knees were weak, and I had to support myself with a hand on Mr. Hawes’s desk.

“Sounds to me like somebody’s dealin’ from the bottom,” Ben said.

“Yes, it does,” Mr. Hawes said. “This is an outrage, Bat. And putting Billy and Ben in jail would be an even bigger outrage.”

Then Bat did something that he would become renowned or notorious for when he was a star toter. He obeyed the law, but only up to a point.

“I can’t rightly put Billy or Ben in the juzgado if they aren’t here, and I can’t find him now, can I? Nobody here knows anything about the telegram from Topeka, so if Billy and Ben were to leave town, nobody would be the wiser.”

I looked at Bill Tilghman and then at Mr. Hawes. Bill was nodding his head. Mr. Hawes looked up at the gray, hammered-tin trefoil ceiling and rubbed his chin.

“What about Billy’s mother? Why, she’ll be here in a week’s time,” Mr. Hawes said.

“For now, I suggest that Billy go back to Mrs. Kimmelmann’s place and wait there,” Bill Tilghman said. “We’ll meet there in an hour or two and decide what to do next.”

“What about me?” Ben asked. “I’ll be go to hell if I will run from those bushwhacking sons-a-bitches. Besides, I got family back in Lawrence…”

“The arrest warrant is only for Billy,” Bat said. “I guess they figured he did all of the shooting. So as far as the law is concerned, Ben, you are in the clear.”

Mr. Hawes stood up from his desk. “You mean Billy has to accept responsibility for both killings? Why, that doesn’t seem at all reasonable.”

Bill Tilghman put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t make much difference if it is one or two killin’s. As far as anybody is concerned, Billy here done the state a great service.”

I was reluctant to accept the blame for both deaths, but at the same time, I didn’t want Ben to be on the run.

“I will take my medicine,” Ben said. “Billy, here, doesn’t need to swig it.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter much to me,” I said. “Ben has a family back in Lawrence. He takes off, he may never see them again.”

Bat and Bill Tilghman nodded. “Billy has a point,” Bat said. “Much easier for a young man like Billy to go on the dodge than someone like Ben.”

Ben was having none of it. “If Billy has to churn up the dust, then by God, I will go with him. He wouldn’t last long out there on his own.” Ben looked at me. “Sorry, Billy, but you are still a greener when it comes to this kind of business.”

Mr. Hawes put his hand on my shoulder. “Well, Billy, what do you want to do? This is a big step. If you leave town, you will be on the dodge.”

“Well, at least till he is out of Kansas,” Bat jumped in. “After that, nobody will care much what he did here in Ford County. Let me, Bill, or Wyatt know what you decide Billy. I can give you a few more hours.”

The two of them left the Union office, and I walked back to my work area and took a look around. I sat down on my stool and contemplated Bat’s words. My situation just didn’t seem possible. How did I go from being a young man spending a summer working at a newspaper to being a brigand, a murderer? I could feel my throat tightening, and I found myself fighting back tears. The office was as quiet as a tree full of owls. I could see both Ben and Mr. Hawes stealing furtive glances my way, not wanting to embarrass me. Finally, Mr. Hawes broke the silence.

“Billy, I think we should get back to Mrs. Kimmelmann’s.”

I nodded. “I guess so.” Then I began cleaning up my workspace.

“Let that be,” Mr. Hawes said, putting his hand on my shoulder. Ben walked over and helped me clean up my workbench.

“I’ll get my kit together and meet you at Mrs. Kimmelmann’s place,” he said. “Thanks, Billy, for what you done. You damned sure saved all our lives. And when I get back to Lawrence, I sure as hell will let Luther Longley know that he done a fine job teaching you to shoot.”

I wasn’t eager to be reminded of that particular skill at that moment, and Mr. Hawes gave Ben a cold stare.

“I think there’s been enough talk about what happened,” Mr. Hawes said. “Let’s get you back to Mrs. Kimmelmann’s.”

During the walk back to the boardinghouse, Mr. Hawes and I didn’t talk much. My heart was racing. In just a few hours, I had become a long rider, an outlaw.

When we arrived at Mrs. Kimmelmann’s, I went to my room, changed into riding clothes, and packed the rest of my belongings in the black leather satchel my mother had bought me before I left Lawrence a few months prior. Then I walked back downstairs.

“Why, this is an absolute tragedy,” Mrs. Kimmelmann said when Mr. Hawes told her why I was leaving. “Just shows how awful this godforsaken country is and how it can destroy a young man’s life.”

Mrs. Kimmelmann didn’t know I was standing in the doorway.

“Billy here did nothing wrong, and I am sure he will not come out on the little end of the horn when all is said and done,” Mr. Hawes said.

“Let us hope not,” Mrs. Kimmelmann said.

A half hour passed, and Ben Minot walked into the house, carrying saddlebags over his shoulder and cradling Mr. Hawes’s Winchester.

“I got us a couple of fine mounts from the livery,” he said. “Wasn’t easy. Old Tom down there is still on the prod about them two horses that Bledsoe feller stole and the three plugs we brought back.”

The 10-gauge Parker shotgun, which I had bought a few months before at Zimmerman’s Gun and Hardware Store, was propped up on a chair next to my satchel.

“You got shells for that scatter gun?” Ben asked.

I nodded at my satchel. “I have three boxes full in there.”

Ben and I stood side by side just inside the door of the parlor. Mrs. Kimmelmann, Mr. Hawes, and Signor Difranco were all seated before us.

“Where will you go, and how long will you stay away?” Mrs. Kimmelmann asked.

A short discussion ensued, during which several possible destinations were mentioned. Someone suggested riding south into the Oklahoma Indian country. Someone else thought Texas would be a good objective. The discussion was still going on when Bill Tilghman walked into the room.

“Why not go back to Battles Gap?” he said. “It ain’t that far, and I don’t expect anybody would think of looking for you out there. Spend a week or two out there, and we’ll send for you once everything has blown over. I’ll send a telegram to your ma tellin’ her to wait up a bit on comin’ to Dodge.”

I was not happy about this idea. The thought of sleeping in a house where a woman I had shot had died turned me pale as a crow’s beak.

“Why, Billy, you look like you got the Spanish fever,” Mrs. Kimmelmann said.

“I’m a might all-overish about going back out there,” I said.

“Nonsense. Why, that’s your homestead,” Mr. Hawes said. “You have every right to be there.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I responded.

At that point, Bill Tilghman stepped in. “Look here, I say we get movin’ while we still have the light.” He was going to ride out with us. We said our goodbyes. Mrs. Kimmelmann hugged me, and Mr. Difranco offered his hand.

“William, my boy, I am confident all will be well,” he said. “We will see you in a few weeks.” He was right about seeing us in a few weeks, but he was dead wrong about all being well.

At about one in the afternoon, Ben, Bill, and I rode west from Dodge City. The ride to Battles Gap took about four hours. We walked, trotted, and loped our horses for short stretches, not wanting to tire them out.

We arrived at Battles Gap at about five thirty. Bill decided he would spend the night and ride back to Dodge the next morning. We walked into the house, and my gaze immediately went to the large wooden table where Mrs. Bledsoe had died. It was still stained with blood, and I felt queasy looking at it.

Ben grabbed a blanket and threw it over the table. I nodded. But I still knew what was underneath.

“I’ll give it a good scrubbing tomorrow,” he said. Then we emptied our saddlebags. Bill and Ben had thought to bring some tins of canned vegetables, fruit, and meat. The Bledsoes had also left several sacks of flour, sugar, salt (both table and curing), dried beans, and potatoes in the larder. Outside, in the smokehouse my father had built, were salt-cured sides of beef, buffalo, and venison.

The Bledsoes knew what they were doing when it came to handling meat. Not surprising, given that they had been buffalo hunters. In my father’s smokehouse, they had placed a layer of hay on the raised floor and covered the hay with salt. Then they placed the meat on the layer of salt. Once that was done, they covered the meat with more salt and placed another layer of straw on top of it. There was little to no refrigeration in those days, and meat cured this way could be stored safely for up to a year.

After it was cured, you could smoke the meat using either a hot or cold smoking method. My father used a cold smoking method, which meant that the smoking process lasted days, or even weeks, as the purpose of cold smoking is to preserve the meat for future use by removing moisture. You had to keep an eye on the meat for skipper bugs and other insects, such as maggots from green flies.

We watched the sun drop below the flat Kansas plains, ate a quick meal of beans and dried meat, and decided to call it a night.

“Which room you want?” Ben asked.

The house had a total of five rooms: two small bedrooms, the kitchen and dining area, a small parlor located off to the left of the kitchen, and a storage room situated behind the kitchen. Out behind the house was a small storm cellar, and maybe fifteen yards farther away was the outhouse.

I decided on the second, smaller bedroom—the one I am sure I had occupied until I was about six—and slept on an aging trundle bed that my father had built. Trundle beds had a smaller rollaway bed that was pushed under the main bed during the day. Both the big and small beds had cords to form a base for the mattress. The mattress covers on both beds were filled with corn husks and straw that were spread over the rope netting.

Ben took the other bedroom, and Bill opted for the barn. “I’ll make myself a hay bed. I don’t relish leavin’ our mounts alone.”

That night was a fitful one for me. I barely slept, and when I did, I dreamt of the dead Mrs. Bledsoe lying lifeless and gray on the kitchen table.

Early the next morning, Bill left for Dodge City, and Ben and I settled in. I spent much of the day wandering around the old homestead, seeing if I could remember anything about the place when I lived there. I couldn’t. The place was completely unfamiliar to me. Yet the more I walked around the place, the more I felt drawn to it. Perhaps it was the knowledge that my father and my mother had built the house, the barn, the outbuildings, and the smokehouse with their own hands.

I walked to the weathered barn my father had built in 1862 with the help of several families who were traveling west by wagon. In return for their help, my mother and my father provided the families with water, cured pork, and other meat for the journey west.

I climbed to the second floor, where the hayloft looked south over the rolling, mostly treeless prairie. You could see for miles in any direction. To the south, I could make out the almost half-mile Cimarron Cutoff that wagons had once taken. Now, some twenty years later, it was overgrown with weeds.

The barn was one of those German Scheune that my father had helped put up as a young man on the family farm back in Ohio. It was gable-roofed and measured approximately forty feet in width, and was about seventy feet long. It stood perhaps fifty feet tall. Inside was a threshing floor, two granaries, a harness room, a small silo, a workshop, and a root bin. The largest single area was reserved for hay, which was put up in the loft.

On one side, a fore bay, or extension, projected about six feet beyond the lower level, providing a covered overhang that proved useful in keeping snow away from the barn doors. It was in remarkably good condition, though it could have used a coat of paint. When it was built, my father had used a mixture of linseed oil, ferrous oxide, and lime to preserve the hard-to-find wood he had used to build the barn. The mixture had done its job. The lower walls and foundation of the barn were built from the fieldstone my father had harvested from the prairie. The area around Battles Gap was littered with large sandstone and limestone outcroppings. In treeless western Kansas, fieldstone was a major building material.

As I walked through the barn and inspected the other buildings, I had a strange sense of another presence. Even though I had no memory of him, I felt as if my father was somehow nearby, as if his ghost roamed the farm he had built and then left for a war he would never return from.

I returned to the house and sat on the covered front porch in one of the rough, unpainted chairs my father had made out of scraps from the wood he used to build the barn. Ben walked out and sat in the chair next to me.

“How’s it feel to be back on your old homestead?” he asked.

“I don’t know… OK, I guess. It’s not as if I remember much about living here—except for what happened two weeks ago.”

The next day, we decided to do some hunting. Fresh game, we decided, was preferable to the dried pork and other cured meats that hung in the smokehouse and curing shed. We looked for buffalo first, but the vast herds that once roamed the plains had long since disappeared by the early 1880s. Rabbits were plentiful, as were turkeys, ring-necked pheasants, and bobwhite quail. Occasionally, we found a small herd of pronghorn antelope or a white-tailed deer.

For several days, the hunting kept us busy, but more importantly, as far as I was concerned, it kept my mind off my problem with the law. We would get up just after dawn, eat a plate of beans, drink some coffee, and then head out in search of game. We usually took our horses, but if we were only looking for game birds, we walked the fields around the farm.

By noon, around one o’clock, we would start for home with whatever game we were able to bag. We would eat lunch and then spend the afternoon field dressing and cleaning the game. This was pretty much our routine for the next week or so. During that time, we never saw another living soul—a fact that helped me understand why my mother wanted to relocate to Lawrence back in 1866.

Then it happened. The day began with a gully washer rainstorm, and by midafternoon, the winds picked up. The sky turned a terrible green, and black-colored clouds began to whirl as only they can in western Kansas. There was a terrible howling sound as the wind roared across the prairie, sending debris flying everywhere. I watched as the wind took one of the hayloft doors off its hinges and sent it soaring like a flying carpet for several hundred yards before dumping it onto a fallow wheat field. Ben and I were running around trying to fasten down as much as we could. Meanwhile, the wind was blowing so hard that the rain actually stung our exposed hands and faces.

I ran to the barn to see to the horses, both of which were rearing up and kicking at their stalls. I had just calmed them down when I heard the sound of a horse outside the barn. I looked out just in time to see three men ride up to the house and dismount. I was about to call out to them when a hand grabbed my shoulder from behind.

“Shhhh.” It was Ben. “I seen them fellers make a loop around the place, as if they was lookin’ for somethin’. I don’t think they are up to any good.”

I opened the door a crack. With the wind driving the rain as hard as it did, it was difficult to recognize any of the men, who were now standing on the porch of the house.

“Wait a minute… isn’t that…”

Ben finished my sentence. “Nate Bledsoe. Why, I’d know him in hell with his hide burned off.”

We both retreated to the horse stalls where our rifles were still in their saddle scabbards. My shotgun was also in the barn.

I had two boxes of rifle ammunition and a box of shotgun shells in my saddlebag. Ben was also well equipped with ammunition. So, unlike the last time we were both here, that would not be a problem.

However, what would be a problem was our situation in the barn. We had plenty of water. The rain barrels were full, and we pulled one of them inside. We decided I would watch the back door of the barn while Ben went up to the hayloft, where he had a good view of the house and the 150 feet or so between it and the barn. It would be only a matter of time before the men came to the barn to get their horses out of the rain.

Once in the house, it would be evident that someone was living there. Then it hit me. They may not know who was living in the house. And if they didn’t, then they might move on after the storm stopped. I made my way to where Ben was. He was lying prone behind a mound of hay just behind the hayloft door that wasn’t ripped away by the wind. I shared my theory with him.

“Could be, could be,” he whispered. “But you best return to the back of the barn, just in case someone comes a-snoopin.” We decided that if they did, we would stay quiet and hide.

A half hour went by. Smoke began pouring from the house’s fieldstone chimney. The three men were obviously cooking supper. Then one of them came out of the house and led the three horses toward the barn. Ben signaled for me to hide.

The barn doors opened, and the man entered, leading the three horses. He stopped when he saw that there were two other horses in the barn.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said out loud. “Looks like someone’s around after all.” He put two of the horses into a large tie stall and left the third one in the alleyway. Then he walked to the box stalls, where Ben and I had put our horses.

Nice mounts, he said to himself. He looked around the barn for a few minutes and then walked back to where I had burrowed into a stack of hay in the last empty stall. I hoped he wouldn’t see the barrel of the rifle that I pointed at his midsection. He didn’t.

After looking in the two granaries and the empty harness room, he walked to the front of the barn and made his way up the ladder to the loft. Ben had also burrowed under a mound of hay as I had. After a few minutes, he was apparently satisfied no one was around, so he climbed back down the ladder, put the third horse in one of the smaller tie stalls, and walked back to the house. He looked to be in his early forties—a short, wiry man with bowed legs. He carried a revolver, butt first, on his left side.

I waited a few minutes and then crawled out from under the dry alfalfa, wiped myself down, and made sure my rifle barrel was clear. It was then that I noticed my shotgun leaning against the stall. The man hadn’t seen it. I picked it up.

“You OK, Billy?” Ben asked in a half-whisper as I leaned from the loft.

“What now? Here, catch.” I threw Ben my shotgun.

“Damned if I know,” Ben said, moving back to his perch above the loft door. Outside, the rain had let up. I climbed up the ladder, and for the next hour or so, we sat watching the house. Inside, the kerosene lamps were lit, and smoke poured from the chimney. I pulled the hunter-case watch from my pocket and checked the time. It was after six, and the sky, already dark from the storm, was getting even darker. We could hear thunder in the distance and see the occasional crack of lightning.

“Looks like we may be spending the night out here,” Ben said.

Just then, the front door opened, and Nate Bledsoe stepped out. He pulled a brown pommel slicker around his shoulders and headed for the barn. Then he stopped, turned around, and went back on the porch.

“Don’t you two forget,” he said, pushing the door open. “We’ll meet up at the Bimbrick place tomorrow morning. You best be there, or Wilson’ll have your hides.” Then he slammed the door and walked toward the barn.

Ben and I scampered to the back of the loft where the hay was highest and burrowed our way in just far enough that we could see the barrel of our rifles poking a half inch or so from the hay.

We listened as Nate Bledsoe cinched up his saddle.

“Goddamn, would you look at them two gut twisters,” he said, eyeing our horses. “Somebody’s gonna be sorry they left ’em desatendido.”

Bledsoe led his horse out of the barn and back to the house. He walked to the porch and shoved the door open again.

“Bring them two screwbalds in the barn with you tomorrow,” he yelled. “That’s good horseflesh someone’s left behind.”

“Bullshit,” someone answered. “We ain’t thiev’in any horses.”

“Didn’t know you was both so cold-footed,” Bledsoe responded. “To hell with it, then. You mind that you show up tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the men in the house responded.

Bledsoe then rode away toward the northwest. The sky flashed white with lightning, and the wind howled between the buildings in the barnyard.

Ben and I decided we would wait until the two men turned in; then we would slip into the house and roust them. We watched the kerosene lamps go out at about nine o’clock. By then, the rain had stopped, and the sky had cleared. A half-moon lit up the barnyard, enough so we could make our way to the house without tripping over anything and making noise. Finally, at about ten, we decided to make our move.

“You go round the back and come in through the store room,” Ben said. “I’ll come in the front door. When you get back there, count to ten and then come in. I’ll do the same. Make sure your rifle is ready. Let me have your shotgun. I can’t miss with that in the dark.”

“You figure there’ll be trouble?” I asked.

“Hope not, but these fellers didn’t look like circuit preachers either. I expect they spend most of their time ridin’ the coulees.”

When Ben came in the front door, he would see the men immediately if they had bedded down in the large front room. But we figured they were in the bedrooms, and we were right. When Ben entered through the front door, I had just come in through the storeroom behind the kitchen. We met up next to the large table, which was still covered with plates, cutlery, and coffee mugs. The smell of cooked beef and beans filled the air, making my stomach growl.

Ben pointed at me and then at the second bedroom. Then he pointed at himself and the first bedroom. The doors to the rooms were only about five feet apart. Ben poked me in the ribs and indicated he would count to five with his fingers, and then we would both burst through the doors.

I watched Ben’s fingers count off to five, and then, as planned, we both pushed open the doors and rushed to the beds. I shoved the barrel of my Winchester into the body of the man who was lying on his back, snoring loudly.

“Up, get the hell up, you son of a bitch,” I shouted. I heard Ben in the next room doing the same.

The man started, sat up, and reflexively reached for the night table, from where I had already moved his .44 revolver.

“Get up,” I ordered again, “and get out to the kitchen.”

“Take it easy,” he said, still groggy. “I ain’t done nothin’.”

“You’re trespassin’, is all,” I said. “Now git to the kitchen.” The man was up, wearing only his long johns, and padded toward the kitchen.

Ben and the man he had rousted from bed arrived about the same time. He lit a couple of kerosene lamps and put them on the table. I kept my rifle pointed at the two men who sat on the opposite side of the table. Ben went to the door and locked it by sliding a heavy wooden bar through two iron loops on either side of the doorframe.

“Sit!” he ordered, nodding at the table. “Now let’s see what we have here.”

“We ain’t done nothin’ wrong, mister,” said the bow-legged man who had stabled the group’s horses.

“Yeah, we was just passin’ through,” said the other man, who looked to be the more dangerous of the two. He was a big, bulky man with ham-like hands. His face was heavily tanned. A dark brown moustache and goatee encircled his mouth.

“What about that other feller who rode in with you?” Ben asked. “Where’s he?”

“Why, he went off to meet some kinfolk,” said the smaller, bow-legged man.

The other man cut in. “Where were you when we rode in? We didn’t see nobody, so we figured—”

“You figured you’d just make yourselves to home, did you?” Ben said. “Well, this here ain’t no hotel or boardin’ house. This is a private farm. Do you always make yourselves so comfortable in other folks’ houses just because nobody’s home?”

“You can kiss my ass,” said the bigger man. He started to get up. Like the other man, he was dressed only in his faded red long johns.

Ben cocked the two barrels of the Parker 10-gauge. “Wouldn’t do that if I was you. Unless you want me to blow you in half.”

He stopped and studied Ben’s face for a moment, looking for that revealing mote of darkness that only men who have killed other men have in their eyes. He must have seen it because he sat back down with the look of a man who had come face-to-face with a man killer.

“Goddamn that Bledsoe… look what he’s got us into,” said the smaller man.

“Shut up,” his partner said. Then, looking at Ben, he said, “Is this your place?”

“Not mine,” Ben said. Then he nodded toward me. “His.”

The man with the goatee scrutinized me. “Ain’t you a might young to be runnin’ a spread like this, sonny?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I walked into the two bedrooms and retrieved the two men’s weapons—a Colt .45, a Schofield revolver, a Henry repeating rifle, and a Sharps .50 buffalo gun. I returned, unloaded each of the revolvers and rifles, and put them on the floor.

“This it?” I asked. Before they could answer, we heard the sound of horses outside.

“Strange time to come callin’,” Ben said. He moved to a window and took a quick look. I blew out the kerosene lamp nearest me. Someone tried to open the door.

“Hiley… Finney… you in there?”

Ben shook his head from side to side and shoved the barrel of the shotgun into the mouth of the man with the goatee. I pointed my Winchester at the smaller man.

We could hear the muffled conversation going on outside the house.

“Hell, didn’t I tell you… Why, they probably lit out already,” said an unfamiliar voice.

“Then why the hell is the door locked, you stupid son of a bitch?” It was Nate Bledsoe. He had returned with three other men. “Goddamn it to hell, Hiley… Finney, will you open this door!”

With that, Ben walked to the door, removed the latch, and quickly opened the door.

“Come on in, gents, and join the party,” he said, pointing the shotgun at Nate Bledsoe. “But let me relieve you of all that heavy hardware you all are a-totin’. Lift those smoke wagons real slow and drop ’em to the dirt. Then do the same with your rifles.”

Ben’s revolver was stuck in his waistband. He lifted it out with his left hand, pointed it at Bledsoe, and kept the Parker trained on the men still on the horses. I moved to the door, holding my rifle pointed at Hiley and Finney.

“Why, you murderin’ son of a bitch,” Nate shouted when he saw me. “Come back to the scene of your crime, did you?”

I don’t know what made me say it, but I did.

“No, I came back to see if there were any more of you thievin’, murderin’ Bledsoes I could send to hell.”

It seemed to catch Bledsoe off guard because his mouth almost slammed shut.

“Git off them horses,” Ben ordered. “And git in the house.” Ben retrieved the weapons that Bledsoe and the other men had dropped to the ground. He stepped aside as the men walked past him into the kitchen. They stopped when they saw Hiley and Finney. Bledsoe looked at the two hapless figures sitting at the table in their long johns.

“You two ain’t worth a fart in a whirlwind,” he said. “How’d you let ’em get the drop on you?”

“We was sleepin’, is all,” said the smaller man, who it turns out was named Hiley. “And them fellers jumped us. What are you doin’ back here anyways?”

“There was a change of plans, but now that don’t make no never mind,” Bledsoe said.

“In case you forgot, this place belongs to Billy Battles here, not you or these two chuckleheads,” Ben said.

“So what now? You gonna gun us down like you done my ma and my brother?” Bledsoe asked.

“Why don’t you tell the whole story, you son of a bitch,” Ben said, shoving the shotgun into Bledsoe’s gut. He looked at the three men who had ridden in with Bledsoe. They were standing together near the hearth.

“You boys best have a seat on the floor,” Ben said. “We have some things to sort out.”

For the next half hour or so, he recounted what had happened at Battles Gap two weeks before and what had happened in the meantime. Bledsoe interrupted the narrative several times until Ben tied his hands and shoved part of a grain sack in his mouth.

When he finished his story, he turned to Bledsoe and said, “Anything you want to add, you weasel’s ass?”

I removed the gag from Bledsoe’s mouth. His voice was dry, and when he tried to talk, he fell into a fit of coughing.

“Didn’t think so,” Ben said. “Now that you boys know what really happened a few weeks back, maybe you can tell us just why you were ridin’ with this lick finger.”

Nobody spoke up. “Don’t be bashful, boys,” Ben said, nodding toward Bledsoe. “This Alibi Ike ain’t nothin’ to be scared of.”

“We was promised twenty dollars to back his play agin some folks who done him wrong,” said one of the men sitting on the floor. “We was goin’ to ride into Dodge with him.”

“Well, now you know who he was talkin’ about,” Ben said. “It’s us. And another feller back in Dodge City. And while you’re at it, you might throw in folks like Billy Tilghman, Wyatt Earp, and Bat Masterson. Them’s the folks this snollygoster wanted you to back his play against. ‘Cept, I doubt if he has the sand to jerk his dewey at the law in Dodge City, though he may just be dumb enough to try.”

After listening to Ben talk, several of the men whispered among themselves, including the two at the table.

“Mister, I can’t talk for them others, but I don’t want nothin’ to do with huntin’ any law dogs to smoke up,” said one of the men sitting on the floor. In rapid succession, each of the other men concurred.

“You boys all feel that way?” Ben asked. There was a general muttering of agreement.

“Then all you boys are welcome to bed down in the barn tonight, but I’ll be holdin’ on to your hardware till mornin’, and that includes any Kansas neck blisters or skinnin’ knives you’re packin’,” Ben said.

I was amazed at how cool Ben was during this entire episode. Watching him set type in Lawrence and Dodge City, I never suspected he had the kind of experiences with weapons and hard cases like these men that would have allowed him to conduct himself in such a persuasive and forceful way.

For the most part, I just stood there listening and watching, offering up an occasional nod or affirmative grunt while Ben talked. The whole episode taught me the importance of never judging people by the way they look or by what they do. Ben was a typesetter, but he was also a killer of men. He had spent the Great Rebellion as a sharpshooter, picking off Confederate soldiers with such efficiency that he earned two battlefield promotions and became one of General Sherman’s favorite francotiradores. Of course, I only learned these details about him long after the events at Battles Gap.

The next morning, Ben and I carried the weapons out to the barn and put them near the front door. We left them unloaded and put the men’s cartridge belts and holsters into a couple of large grain sacks, which we tied to the saddles of our horses. To avoid any temptation, we told the men we would hang on to their ammunition.

Ben and I decided that enough time had elapsed for us to probably return to Dodge City.

“You can pick up your cartridge belts and other rigs about a mile down the trail,” Ben said. “We’ll leave them for you under the old bridge that covers the dry riverbed. I suggest you pick ’em up and keep movin’. And I don’t mean back to Battles Gap or Dodge City.”

The men grumbled about the dangers of riding on the Kansas prairie without ammunition in their rifles and revolvers.

“Goddamn it,” shouted Bledsoe, “there’s Comanches and Kiowas everywhere around here.”

“You shoulda thought about that before you come out here lookin’ for trouble,” Ben told the six men who were gathered at the barn door sorting through the pile of weapons. A couple of men began saddling their horses. I shut the cabin door, took a last look around, and climbed aboard my horse. Ben was already on his horse.

“You boys are welcome to saddle them mounts, but I want you to wait an hour before you head out down the road,” he said. “If I see any man jack of you before an hour has passed, well then, you will play hell trying to find your rigs.”

I could tell Bledsoe was mad as a peeled rattler: “You son of a bitch,” he yelled. “Don’t think this is finished. You’ll be seeing me again.”

He was right.

Next Week: Chapter Seven

If you enjoyed this post, please consider subscribing to ForeignCorrespondent and tell your friends to subscribe. “It’s free—what a deal!” If you’ve received this from a friend and would like to be added to our distribution list for future blog posts, simply enter your email in the notifications box to sign up:

 https://ronaldyatesbooks.com/category/foreign-correspondent.

You can also find my commentaries on Substack at https://ronyates.substack.com/ and the American Free News Network at https://afnn.us.

Please feel free to comment: We genuinely love hearing from you!