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 Chapters Six and Seven of Book #1 in the Finding Billy Battles series. During the ensuing weeks, I will post a new chapter each succeeding Saturday.

If you missed 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 don’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 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 shot had died turned me peeked 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 surprisingly, 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 out 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 off to the left of the kitchen, and a storage room 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 utterly 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 significant 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 legal problem. 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 horrible 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 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 about nine o’clock. By then, the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared up. 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 return, 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 anyway?”

“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 that we would hold onto 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 to 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 came 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.

*****

CHAPTER 7

Ben and I rode into Dodge City later that morning and went directly to Bat Masterson’s office, where we recounted the events of the previous night.

“Looks like Bledsoe was formin’ his own vigilante posse,” Bat said. “You probably should have shorted his stake rope, because I expect he will be comin’ after you again.”

“I’d rather not have any more killins’ on my résumé,” I said. “I am sure I am already a big disappointment to my mother.”

“Speaking of your mother,” Bat said, settling behind a small desk, “she arrived on yesterday’s afternoon train and is stayin’ at Mrs. Kimmelmann’s place.”

“Where does Billy stand with the law, Bat?” Ben asked.

“Funny thing,” Bat said. “I never received any warrant from Topeka, so for now, I have no reason to be lookin’ for Billy.”

I was shocked by this news. “You mean I am in the clear?”

“Not exactly,” Bat said. “Sometimes the wheels of justice are just downright creaky. Sometimes paper pushers make mistakes, and sometimes things just get lost out here on the high plains.”

“You mean—”

“What I mean is this gives Billy a window to crawl out of… and if I was you, I would start crawlin’ toward the west. The Santa Fe train leaves for Colorado tonight.”

As Bat was talking, Wyatt and Bill Tilghman walked into the sheriff’s office.

“I think that’s good advice,” Wyatt said. A few weeks later, Wyatt himself pulled up stakes and headed for Arizona.

Ben and I thanked Bat for what he had done and for what he was doing. He clearly had a warrant and had managed to “misplace” it. We walked our horses to the Union newspaper office, where we explained to Mr. Hawes what had happened at Battles Gap.

“Who would have thought you would encounter Nate Bledsoe there again?” he said. “Why, it’s the worst kind of double jeopardy.”

Ben and I returned our rented horses, and the three of us rode with Mr. Hawes in his double buggy to Mrs. Kimmelmann’s. I heard Mrs. Kimmelmann in the kitchen and walked to the back of the house, where she was preparing dinner. My mother, she informed me, had gone into town with Mrs. Wiesbacher to do some afternoon shopping.

“She wasn’t expecting you for another few days,” Mrs. Kimmelmann said. “She will be as chipper as a jaybird to see you, I can tell you that.” Then, as I turned to go, she added, “Your mother is a fine lady. It’s a shame she must endure this calamity.”

It felt like a slap in the face, but I nodded in agreement and walked into the parlor, where I met Signore Difranco, who was himself preparing to leave on the evening train. I filled him in on my situation.

“Well, my boy,” Difranco said. “There is often a very thin line between being a brigand and being just an innocent citizen. Sometimes, doing the right thing may put you on the wrong side of the law, but you must do it just the same. I believe that is the reason Sheriff Masterson is willing to assist with your departure.”

Mr. Hawes nodded. “Wise words, indeed, Signore Difranco. Wise words indeed.”

At the time, I wasn’t convinced. Mostly, I was afraid of being on my own. I was still only nineteen, and even though I had often threatened to run away from my home in Lawrence, now that I was truly going to be on the run, I was uneasy about the prospect of making my way alone in the world. After all, what skills did I have? How would I earn a living?

Mr. Hawes answered that question for me. “I am wiring my good friend James Harris in Denver. I will ask him to find a position for you on his newspaper, the Denver Sun.”

“Excellent!” Signore Difranco said, slapping his knee. “Denver is my destination also. We shall travel together, my boy.”

In less than two minutes, I had gone from a feeling of despair to hope. I would not be traveling alone, and I would apparently have a job waiting for me in Denver. A few minutes later, a four-seat spring wagon stopped in front of Mrs. Kimmelmann’s house.

In it were Bill Tilghman, my mother, and Mrs. Wiesbacher. I watched Bill help my mother and Mrs. Wiesbacher climb down from the buggy. My mother was wearing one of her own creations—a peach-colored dress with a cuirasse bodice and just a slight hint of a bustle—very stylish for that time. She wore a small straw hat with a flat crown and long ribbons all tipped slightly forward.

Because my mother was in the dressmaking business, she always reflected the latest in ladies’ fashion, and today she looked stunning as she walked along the red brick path to Mrs. Kimmelmann’s front door. This memory is very vivid to me because at that moment, I was sure it would be the last time I would ever see my mother. I opened the door just as she was about to walk through it.

“William!” she said, running forward and wrapping her arms around me. Even though she was surprised to see me, her voice was low and controlled, not willing to betray any emotion in front of so many people she didn’t know. “Is it true, what they are saying about you?”

I could only nod in the affirmative. We moved into Mrs. Kimmelmann’s parlor.

“Did you kill those people?” Mother asked after we had settled into our chairs. Before I could answer, Mr. Hawes jumped into the conversation.

“Let me assure you, Mrs. Battles, that what William did was entirely within the realm of rectitude. Had he not done what he did, neither I nor Ben Minot would be alive today.”

“That may be, Mr. Hawes, but now I have a son who is little more than a desperado, and I fear where that will lead. I had intended that he learn the newspaper trade, that he improve himself through the discipline of journalism, and that he finish his education.”

“I am afraid I failed you, Mrs. Battles,” Mr. Hawes said, his eyes focusing on the floor. “And young William here…”

Mother looked at me and then at Mr. Hawes. “I don’t fault you, Mr. Hawes. You went out of your way to assist William with the disposal of our property. I understand that. But perhaps you can explain exactly what happened…”

Before Mr. Hawes could answer, Signore Difranco entered the room. “And who have we here?” he asked, stopping in front of my mother.

I introduced my mother, who, at the time, was forty-three and a very attractive woman. I knew she had suitors in Lawrence when I was growing up, but none that she cared much about. However, as Signore Difranco took my mother’s hand, bowed, and clicked his heels with the deportment of a French general, I could tell my mother was slightly smitten by the man standing before her.

He was just a few years older than my mother, and he carried himself with the self-assurance and poise of the Italian aristocracy. Later, on the train to Denver, Signore Difranco told me about his background. His mother, a member of a titled French family, had married an Italian patrician, thus uniting two noble families—one French, the other Italian. However, as with many aristocratic European families of the nineteenth century, during the early stages of the Industrial Revolution, both houses had little money to accompany their grand pedigrees.

While Signor Difranco was well-educated and had a grasp of several languages, for men such as him with no viable skills, one of the few occupations open was the military. And that was where he spent most of his life, finally ending up fighting with Garibaldi in the Franco-Prussian War. As a result of the Franco-Prussian War, Italy was united, and Garibaldi was voted a pension by the Italian government. However, less significant officers, such as Difranco, received no such reward from the Italian government, and many emigrated or went into exile, which is how I came to meet him in Dodge City.

Signor Difranco placed his valise next to mine in the hallway. My mother watched him as he returned to the parlor.

“Am I to understand that you will be accompanying William on the train to Denver, Mr. Difranco?” Mother asked.

“Indeed, I will be.”

“I thank you in advance for that mission. Heaven knows William could use some enlightened companionship after this sad adventure.”

Mr. Hawes cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I believe Mrs. Kimmelmann has prepared a fine repast for us in the dining room, if you would care to join us.”

“I meant no offense, Mr. Hawes,” my mother said, standing up from her chair.

“None taken, Mrs. Battles, I assure you.”

Signor Difranco extended his arm to my mother. “May I?”

My mother took his arm, and the two walked into the dining room as though they were a married couple.

I followed with Mr. Hawes, who was evidently feeling guilty about all that had happened in the past several days.

My mother turned her head back. “Bill Tilghman, won’t you join us?”

Bill, as was his wont, was standing quietly in the doorway separating the parlor from the hallway.

“Thank you, ma’am, but I am not a boarder here.”

“Don’t be daft, Mr. Tilghman,” Mrs. Kimmelmann said. “There is plenty to go around.”

“Well then, I am not one to turn down the chance for tasty chuck. I do rightly thank you, ma’am.”

The noon dinner was a quiet affair. I barely ate anything, thinking of what was ahead of me. My mother also had no appetite.

At the conclusion of the meal, all the diners left the room, but my mother held me back.

“Wait just a minute, William,” she said. “I want to talk to you about some things before you go.”

Bill Tilghman stuck his head in the door. “We have about three hours before the 5:40 heads west,” he said. My mother nodded at Bill and turned back to me. We spent the next hour or so talking.

“Now, William, I want you to promise that you will write me and let me know where you are and what you are doing.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I am sure that in a year or so, everybody will have forgotten about this episode, and you will be able to return to Lawrence to finish your education. I want you to promise that you will make every effort to do so.”

“I promise.”

“Before I left, I had a talk with Luther. He has kinfolk in Denver, and he plans to write to them about you. The Longleys are good folk, and Luther said they will help you should you ever need it. I believe one is his brother and another is a sister.”

She pressed a small envelope into my hand containing an address in Denver.

I nodded.

“And now here is some money.” It was an envelope containing about $400 [In 1879, $400 had the purchasing power of about $9,000 in today’s dollars] and she stuffed it into a pocket inside my suit coat. “Be careful with it. It is money I was saving for your education.”

“I don’t know…,” I said, removing the envelope from my pocket.

“Keep it!” my mother said. Her voice was firm, but I could hear it crack a bit. “I won’t have my son living in destitution.”

Then, sitting next to me, she took my hands in hers. My mother was not normally an emotional woman. She didn’t have time to be. She had been on her own for almost fifteen years, and in that time, she had cultivated a keen sense of self-reliance. But now, as we sat there alone in the dining room, at a table still cluttered with dirty dishes and glasses, I could see tears in my mother’s eyes.

“Oh, William, this is not what I wanted for you.” She was sobbing softly now.

“I am sorry I have been such a disappointment,” I said. “But I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Those Bledsoes were as mean as teased snakes. And I truly believe they meant to kill us all. If I could change things, I surely would. As wicked as she was, I do regret shooting Mrs. Bledsoe. I wasn’t trying to hit her.”

“I know all of that. Bill Tilghman and that Earp fellow explained it all to me.” She looked out the window. A soft afternoon wind was creating dust devils on the dirt road in front of the house.

“I’m sorry, Mother, I—”

Before I could finish, Mrs. Kimmelmann entered the room carrying a small package held together with some twine. Aida was behind her. She smiled weakly in my direction.

“Here,” Mrs. Kimmelmann said. “I have packed some sandwiches inside and a couple of pieces of my apple pie. Lord knows what you will find to eat between here and Denver.”

My mother looked at Mrs. Kimmelmann and Aida and rose slowly from her chair.

“I want to thank you both for looking after William,” she said. “In his letters, he mentioned your kindness.”

“Billy is a good lad, Mrs. Battles,” she said. “I am sure all this bad business will be straightened out eventually. We will miss him.”

“Yes, we will,” Aida said. “You are a true friend, Billy.”

I rose from my chair and extended my hand to Mrs. Kimmelmann. “Thanks for everything,” I said.

Then, turning to Aida, I extended my hand to her as well. But she didn’t take it. Instead, she walked up to me and said, “Pshaw! You are like a brother to me, Billy Battles. And I reckon it’s just fine for brothers and sisters to give one another a hug.”

I felt a hot flush creeping across my cheeks, and I glanced at my mother as Aida put her arms around me. I flinched a bit, and then relaxed and put my arms around her. It was the most intimate moment I ever experienced with Aida, and it would be the last.

“Bye, Billy,” Aida whispered in my ear. “Take care of yourself.”

I looked down at Aida. “You too, Aida,” I stammered.

My mother and Mrs. Kimmelmann watched this display with mild surprise, and then as Aida and I separated, my mother dabbed at her eyes with one of the lace hankies she carried in the sleeve of her dress. She took my arm, smiled at Mrs. Kimmelmann and Aida, and then we walked slowly to the hallway where Bill Tilghman, Signore Difranco, and Mr. Hawes were waiting.

“We best be gettin’ to the depot,” Bill said, looking at his pocket watch.

Bill, Mr. Hawes, and Signore Difranco squeezed into the front seat, while Mother and I climbed into the backseat. Mother grasped my hand and held it tightly as the wagon bumped along the rutted dirt streets. A few minutes later, we pulled up to the Dodge City depot. The train was already in the station, taking on luggage and water. The black locomotive hissed and coughed clouds of smoke into the evening air as a handful of passengers climbed aboard.

Mr. Hawes extended his hand. “My boy, you are a credit to your mother. I want to thank you again for what you did the other day. Had you not done so, I wouldn’t be standing here today.”

He looked at my mother and added, “And that’s an open-faced fact. He’ll do to ride the river with.” With that, he handed me an envelope. “Your wages and a little extra to keep you fixed for a while. When all this blows over, you know you always have a position in my newspaper.”

I thanked Mr. Hawes and turned to my mother. We stood facing one another on the platform as passengers climbed through a train doorway behind me. I thought I might begin to cry, but I had made up my mind I would not—not in front of Signore Difranco and the other passengers.

“All aboard!” shouted a conductor as he walked along the platform. “All aboard!”

“Oh, William,” my mother sobbed, grabbing me and pulling me close in a bear hug. “Please be careful… and don’t forget to write me as often as you can. You are all I have left in this dreadful world.”

I looked down at the red brick platform, choking back my own tears.

“I will look after him as though he were my own son, Signora Battles,” Signore Difranco said. “You can depend on that.”

My mother responded with a labored smile directed at Signore Difranco. “I do thank you for that, ever so much.”

Signore Difranco clicked his heels and once again took my mother’s hand, kissing it. Then he turned to me. “I will meet you on board, William.”

We watched him climb aboard and enter the Pullman car.

“Mother, I—”

“Oh, just go on now… and write me when you are settled in.”

I climbed onto the train and walked into the Pullman car. I had never been in such an opulent mode of transportation before. I divided my time while walking down the aisle, looking out the windows at my mother, and searching for Signore Difranco.

The car was about seventy feet long. The interior finish was lacquered walnut with carved and inlaid decorations. Oil lamps hung on the walls. I found Signore Difranco about halfway up the car, sitting on the side away from the platform where my mother still stood. As I got to my seat, I looked across the aisle and out the window just in time to see my mother walk away from the platform and disappear around the corner of the depot. At that moment, I felt about as wretched as I ever had.

I was still staring blankly out the windows when the train lurched forward and began to move slowly away from Dodge City. It seemed as if I had just arrived, and now I was leaving. But it wasn’t only Dodge City I was leaving. I was leaving behind everything that I had ever known, everything that defined me as a person. I just didn’t know it at the time.

Signore Difranco noticed my desolation.

“You know, William, there is little doubt that what you are doing is difficult and painful,” he said. “I know. I have also done it. I had to leave everything and everybody I ever knew and loved back in Italy. My exile has taken me to another continent. At least you are still in North America.”

“I guess that is something,” I said.

His words didn’t sink in at the time. Later, as the pain of leaving my mother standing on that train platform subsided, I was better able to appreciate them. “Look, my boy. We are both exiles now, and who knows what grand adventures lie before us, what wonders we shall observe, what history we shall witness.”

It was true. I had spent the past couple of years nagging my mother about leaving home to join the Seventh Cavalry at Fort Riley, Kansas, or to go to Kansas City to seek my fortune—neither of which she would endorse. Now here I was, heading west to Denver and who knew where else. My life, it occurred to me, was just getting underway, and I even had a world-wise companion to accompany me.

“When you put it like that… ” I began.

“Precisely, my boy, precisely.”

I turned my attention to the flat, sunbaked landscape that was rolling by outside. The train turned slightly northwest, and I could see the sun setting in the west. The trip to Denver would take all night, and I planned to spend much of it making copious entries in my journal. I had more than enough to record, and as Mr. Hawes had taught me, a good reporter must take notes while the memories were still fresh in the mind. I must have written in my journal for a good two hours, recounting the last few days’ events, including the shooting of Mrs. Bledsoe and one of her sons.

At some point, Signore Difranco and I walked to the dining car for a light supper. I copied the menu into my journal, and I am still amazed at the sophisticated carte du jour that existed in 1879. On the menu were beef la carte, roast rib ends of beef, new boiled potatoes, new beets, new string beans, cold roast beef, tongue, chicken, ham, sardines, and crab salad in mayonnaise. For dessert, there was ice cream, cake, preserved fruits, English and Graham wafers, Roquefort, Canadian, and Edam cheese, coffee, and tea. I don’t recall what I ate, but at about 10:00 p.m., my eyes began to grow heavy, and I put down my journal. I decided I would keep the sandwiches and pie Mrs. Kimmelmann had packed for me until the next day. We had another ten to twelve hours of travel time to Denver, including a train change at Pueblo.

We walked back to the Pullman car. It had two compartments at each end, ten sections, and a roomy washroom. In addition to the black walnut woodwork with inlay, framed mirrors hung between the windows. The seats were covered with plush greenish-brown upholstery. All fixtures were polished brass.

A porter walked into the car and began preparing each section for the evening. Upper berths could be folded into the ceiling during the daytime to allow for coach-like seating and then dropped down to form a bed at night. The lower berth was created by sliding the facing-seat cushions on the seats together.

“All the comforts of home, eh, William?” Signore Difranco said. “Such wonderment. Americans are truly an inventive race. Do you prefer upper or lower, William?”

“I’ll take the upper, if you don’t mind.”

“Thank you. I was hoping you would say that,” Signore Difranco said. “I am not quite as agile as I used to be.”

I climbed into the upper berth and, within minutes, was sound asleep. As I had for the past several nights, I continued to have nightmares about what had happened at Battles Gap. The image of the dead Mrs. Bledsoe stretched out on that blood-soaked table was not fading away even as I moved farther and farther away from Dodge City.

I woke to the sound of the conductor announcing that we would be in Pueblo, Colorado, in less than an hour. This was where we would change trains for Denver. The Denver and Rio Grande would take us north while the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe continued on to Trinidad. A few months before I arrived in Dodge City, a war of sorts had broken out between the two railroads, both of which were competing to put track along the narrow Royal Gorge.

A silver strike in Leadville on the other side of the gorge had both railroads battling for access in what came to be known as the Royal Gorge Railroad War. The AT&SF hired Bat Masterson to put together a group of gunmen. Masterson’s force included such famous shootists as Doc Holliday, Ben Thompson, Dave Rudabaugh, and Mysterious Dave Mather, as well as about seventy other gunmen. As both sides assembled their armies, the case continued to be heard in court, with lawyers for both railroads arguing on behalf of their clients.

Masterson’s forces had achieved great success through early June of that year, but on June 10, the Fourth Judicial Circuit ruled in favor of the Denver and Rio Grande, changing the course of events entirely. With the assistance of the sheriffs in the counties through which the railroads passed, the Denver and Rio Grande mounted an attack on its rival’s forces.

There was heavy fighting at the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe strongholds in Denver and Colorado Gap, but they fell quickly. Bat Masterson’s headquarters in Pueblo held out the longest, but later that day, they also conceded defeat. There were a few bloodless skirmishes later on, but the railroad wars were essentially over, with the Denver and Rio Grande in control of the Royal Gorge.

“It was mostly just a small bore squabble,” Bat told me once. “Didn’t amount to much, but at the time, we thought it would. We got to Pueblo on June 9, and by June 11, it was all over. The Santa Fe paid $3 a day to the men I hired. There was one fatality, and someone got a busted tooth, which Doc Holliday fixed right up.”

Signore Difranco and I boarded the Denver and Rio Grande train in Pueblo, and about three hours later, we were in Denver. I had been asleep when the train crossed the Kansas-Colorado border, and now, as the train pulled into Denver, it hit me that I was no longer on the run. At least for now. But things were about to change.

Next Week: Chapter Eight

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