THE FATAL GRATITUDE OF MR. KELLY
It was at the election following the one which made Mr. Masterson
sheriff of Ford County that Mr. Kelly, proprietor of the Alhambra,
became mayor of Dodge. Mr. Masterson, aside from being a natural captain
of men, had had his genius for strategy ripened as a scout-pupil of the
great Ben Clark during the Cheyenne wars, and on this ballot occasion
contributed deeply to the victory of Mr. Kelly. Mr. Masterson came
forward and withstood certain Mexicans, who otherwise would have
exercised the ballot to Mr. Kelly’s disadvantage. The Mexicans belonged
with the Cross-K brand, which had its range across the river; and since
Mr. Walker, proprietor of the Cross-K, was an enemy of Mr. Kelly, they
were rightfully regarded by Mr. Masterson as tools of the opposition.
Mr. Masterson urged, and with justice, that an extension of the
franchise to Mexicans would be subversive of good morals, and offensive
to the purer sentiment of Dodge.
“This is, or should be,” said Mr. Masterson, “a white man’s government,
and how long, I ask, will it survive if Mexicans be permitted a voice in
its affairs? If we are going to take the limit off in this ridiculous
fashion we might as well send for Bear Shield’s band of Cheyennes and
tell them to get into the game. To grant Mexicans the right to vote is
to make preposterous that freedom for which our fathers fought and bled
and died, and should republican institutions be thus trailed in the
dust, I see nothing for it but an appeal to arms.”
This long speech was made to the judges of election, who were fair men
and friends of Mr. Kelly. There were ten of the Mexicans and the contest
was close; the judges remembered these things, and the position taken by
Mr. Masterson, in defence of an unsullied suffrage, was sustained.
“It wasn’t worth a battle,” explained Mr. Walker in later comment on Mr.
Masterson’s oration, “or I might have called that bluff of Bat’s about
an appeal to arms.”
When Mr. Kelly was inaugurated in the discharge of his high trust, his
earliest feeling was one of favour to Mr. Masterson; for his majority
had been but five, and Mr. Kelly was a grateful man. The situation at a
first blink baffled the friendship of Mr. Kelly. What could he do for
Mr. Masterson? The latter, as sheriff of Ford, already held an office
superior even to that of Mr. Kelly’s. Clearly, Mr. Masterson was beyond
and above the touch of his gratitude, as though it stood on tiptoe; he
must sit down and suffer a sense of obligation which he could not
discharge. These truths came home to him after hours of profound
thought, and he sighed as he reflected on his helplessness.
But Mr. Kelly was enterprising, and gratitude is as apt as necessity
itself to sharpen the edge of invention. That debt he owed Mr. Masterson
had not borne upon him two days before he began to see a way in which he
might return the other’s friendly deeds upon his head. As mayor Mr.
Kelly, under the State law just passed, could construct the post of
marshal. The town had never had such an officer. Thus far it had needed
none; Mr. Masterson, in his good-natured way, had stepped outside the
strict duties of his place as sheriff and, without money and without
price, acted the part of marshal. In the latter rôle, as honourable as
it was perilous, Mr. Masterson’s six-shooters were already looked upon
by Dodge as the local paladium.
Mr. Kelly, mayor, decided that he would create the post of marshal at a
round stipend to him who should hold it. Also, he would name as such
functionary Mr. Masterson’s brother Ed. When Mr. Kelly had completed
this plan he rewarded himself with four fingers of Old Jordan; a glow
overspread his countenance as he considered that he might thus requite
the generous interference of Mr. Masterson concerning those Cross-K
Mexicans, who, if their pernicious purpose had not been frustrated,
would have defeated him of his mayoralty.
Mr. Masterson was not in Dodge when this kindly resolution was reached
by Mr. Kelly, being over on Crooked Creek in quest of stolen mules. It
thus befell that Mr. Kelly could not consult with him touching that
marshalship, and the exaltation of his brother. On second thought Mr.
Kelly did not regret the absence of Mr. Masterson; that marshalship
would be a pleasant bit of news wherewith to greet him when, weary and
saddle-worn, he rode in with those lost mules and the scalp of that
criminal who had cut their hobbles and feloniously taken them to
himself.
Still, Mr. Kelly would seek advice; this was only caution, for the
jealous West is prone to resent a novelty in its destinies which
descends upon it as a surprise. The word, therefore, was sent throughout
Dodge by our careful magistrate that he meditated a marshal, with Ed
Masterson as the man.
Mr. Wright approved the scheme; likewise did Mr. Short and Mr. Trask.
Mr. Webster and Mr. Peacock were understood to disparage the design. As
for Mr. Walker of the Cross-K, his condemnation became open and he was
heard to loudly proclaim it to Mr. Webster across the Alamo bar.
“And,” concluded the bitter Mr. Walker, replacing his empty glass on the
counter, “if the Masterson family is goin’ to be sawed onto this
community in a body, I for one am ready to pull my freight.”
“Well,” casually observed Mr. Short, who had dropped in from the Long
Branch to note how a rival trade progressed, “I’ve always held that
pullin’ your freight was safer than pullin’ your gun.”
“Perhaps I’ll pull both,” retorted Mr. Walker.
Mr. Walker, however, did not press the conversation to extremes. Mr.
Short was a warm adherent of Mr. Masterson; moreover, he had killed a
gentleman in Tombstone for merely claiming the privilege of counting the
cards. True, that person of inquiring mind had set forth his desire for
information with a six-shooter, and as Mr. Short was back of the box at
the time, and the bullets were addressed to him personally, his retort
was upheld by all impartial men. None the less, the ready completeness
of the reply made for the dignity and western standing of Mr. Short, and
Mr. Walker, who knew the story, felt no ambition to go with him to the
bottom of Mr. Kelly’s new policy of a marshal.
When Mr. Kelly heard how Mr. Wright and Mr. Short and Mr. Trask
applauded, he said that the affair was settled; those gentlemen were his
friends. Messrs. Walker and Webster and Peacock were of the opposition,
and Mr. Kelly was too good an executive to listen to his enemies. He
would name Ed Masterson marshal; in order that Mr. Masterson might
witness his brother’s elevation he would defer it as a ceremony until
Mr. Masterson’s return.
It was four days later when Mr. Masterson came in with those wandering
mules and the particulars concerning the last moments of the bandit that
stole them, and who had opposed a Winchester to Mr. Masterson in the
discharge of his duty. Following his return Mr. Masterson strode into
the Alhambra with the purpose of restoring himself and conquering a
fatigue incident to his labours. It was then that Mr. Kelly laid open
those changes contemplated in the official list of Dodge, which were to
work advantage for his brother. To his amazement Mr. Masterson, on
receipt of the information, became the picture of dismay.
“Why, Bat,” exclaimed Mr. Kelly, alarmed by Mr. Masterson’s evident
disturbance, “ain’t the idee all right?”
“Worst in the world,” groaned Mr. Masterson. “Has Ed heard?”
“Shore,” replied Mr. Kelly; “I nacherally told him the first flash out
o’ the box. Bob Wright says it’s a beautiful scheme; so does Short.”
“I know, Kell,” said Mr. Masterson, wearily, “and no doubt Bob and Luke
believe it’s the thing to do. But they don’t know Ed; he’s no more fit
to be marshal than I am to join the church.”
“Oh come, Bat,” cried Mr. Kelly, evincing a critical disbelief, “no
gamer hand than Ed ever buckled on a gun!”
“That’s it,” returned Mr. Masterson, “Ed’s too game. He’s so game it
obscures his judgment. Those outlaws from below will study him, and in
the wind-up they’ll outwit him. If you make Ed marshal he won’t last the
year. Some of those murderers will get him sure.”
“I can’t understand, Bat; you told me yourself that when you an’ Ed was
killin’ buffalo down on the Canadian for Billy Dixon, Ed was the best
shot that ever went on the range; an’ the quickest.”
“Quick and as dead to centres with either a Sharp’s or a Colt’s as you
could put your finger. There’s no discount on Ed’s gun play, and so I
tell you now. The trouble lies inside Ed; he’s too easy, too ready for a
talk. And he can’t read his man. Indians and Mexicans? yes; I’d trust Ed
to take a six-shooter and report favourably on twenty of ’em at a
clatter. But a white man is too cunning; those Texas killers that come
over the Jones and Plummer trail will throw him off his guard. There’s
the loose screw, he’s guileless; if it’s a case of white man, he doesn’t
know when to shoot. As I tell you, make Ed marshal, and he’ll never see
another summer.”
“But what can I do? I’ve already told him.”
“Yes,” returned Mr. Masterson with a sigh, “and he’s as obstinate as a
badger. You’ve got the notion planted in Ed’s head, and you couldn’t
shoot it out with a buffalo gun! The way you’ve put the cards in the
box, Kell, there’s nothing to do but appoint him. I can see the finish,
though!”
Within the fortnight following Mr. Kelly’s investment of Ed Masterson
with authority as Marshal of Dodge there arose an incident which went
far to uphold the fears of Mr. Masterson. It was made plain, even to the
dullest, that Marshal Ed was too thoughtless to secure a best and, for
himself, a safest result in the discharge of his official duties.
The proof came in the broad glare of an afternoon, when the unblinking
sun was still four hours high. A lonesome stranger had sought the Dance
Hall; finding that theatre of mirth deserted, the desolation of the
place weighed heavily upon him.
Smitten of the hope of adding vivacity to the scene and rendering it
more cheerful, the lonesome stranger pulled his pistol and shot into the
upright piano which reposed at the far end of the room. The lonesome
stranger put three bullets through and through the instrument; and, as
each cut a string, the deficiencies thus arranged were found later to
mar the production of those gallops and quicksteps and mazurkas upon
which Dodge depended in hours of revelry.
Mr. Peacock, who took to the sidewalk when the lonesome stranger
produced his pistol, called aloud upon Marshal Ed for aid. That officer
responded, and stepped into the Dance Hall just as the lonesome one
fired the third shot.
“Here, here!” exclaimed Marshal Ed, his thumbs jauntily in his belt, and
never a move toward his weapon, “here, you horse-thief! what do you
figure now you’re doing?”
By way of reply the lonesome one sent the fourth bullet into the left
shoulder of Marshal Ed. The latter, upon this hint, got his own
artillery to bear and, while the shot in his shoulder knocked him off
his feet, the lonesome one also went to the floor with a bullet in his
hip.
Marshal Ed was up in a flash; the lonesome one was making an effort to
rise. At this, Marshal Ed fell upon him in the most unofficial spirit
and beat him with his pistol. When Mr. Masterson came upon the field his
lively relative, weapon back in its scabbard, was surveying the lonesome
one where he lay bleeding on the floor.
“Two of you pack that party to the doctor,” quoth Marshal Ed, addressing
the concourse of citizens that arrived with Mr. Masterson. Then, in
reply to the latter’s inquiry: “No, he didn’t do anything in particular;
he was simply shaking up the joint, I reckon, under the head of good of
the order.”
Nothing could exceed the indignation of Mr. Masterson when, fifteen
minutes later, he learned of the bullet in Marshal Ed’s shoulder. It was
then that the outrageous scandal of it began to break upon him.
“You find a bandit shooting up the Dance Hall,” cried the discouraged
Mr. Masterson, “and all you do is enter into conversation with him!
Then, when he’s plugged you, and you on your side have dropped him with
a bullet in his leg, you beat him over the head!—him, with two
cartridges left in his gun! What do you reckon those other five shots
were put in your own six-shooter for? And you call yourself Marshal of
Dodge!”
The doctor, having repaired the lonesome one, began a hunt for the
bullet in Marshal Ed’s shoulder, while Mr. Masterson, after freeing his
mind as recorded, retired to the Long Branch to hide his chagrin.
“Ed’s new to the game, Bat,” observed Mr. Short, as he joined his
depressed friend at the bar. “Give him time; he’ll make the round-up all
right. What he went ag’inst to-day will be proper practice for him.”
“It won’t do, Luke,” responded Mr. Masterson, hopelessly, “Ed never’ll
last to go the route. Did you ever hear of such a thing? A party has
plugged him, and lies there organised with two more loads. Ed, with five
shots in his gun, can’t think of anything better to do than beat him
over the head. If I wasn’t so worried I’d feel ashamed.”
Dating from that uprising of the lonesome stranger there befell a season
of serenity, the peace whereof was without its fellow in the memory of
Dodge. The giddy and the careless paid no heed, but pessimists and ones
grown old on the sunset side of the Missouri took on brows of trouble.
The latter, counting on that inevitable equilibrium which nature
everywhere and under all conditions maintains, looked forward to an era
of extraordinary explosiveness, when bullets would fly as thick as
plover in the fall. These folk of forecast could not tell when this
powder-burning would take place, but they felt that it was on its smoky
way.
True, that period of deep quiet was occasionally rippled by some
tenderfoot who, made foolish of whiskey and the liberal lines laid down
by Dodge for the guidance of visitors, was inclined to go too far. Or
now and again a Mexican became boisterous beyond what a judicious public
sentiment permitted to his caste, and offered a case where the dignity
of Dodge required that he be moderately “buffaloed.” These slight
ebuillitions, however, were as nothings, and came under the caption of
child’s play. It was not until the taking place of what stirring events
are to be recounted that those pessimists and ones of prophecy, being
justified of their fears, gathered at the Long Branch, the Alhambra and
the Alamo, and over their liquor reminded one another how they had
foretold the same.
It was brown October; the fat beef herds came winding in from the
lowing, horn-tossing south, and Dodge in its shirtsleeves was busy with
prosperity. The genial boys of cows, their herds disposed of, were eager
to dispense their impartial riches upon monte, whiskey and quadrilles,
and it was the chosen duty of Dodge to provide those relaxations.
On the fateful day which this history has in mind, Mr. Walker of the
Cross-K brought in a bunch of nine hundred steers. They came trooping
and bellowing through the Arkansas with the first dull lights of
morning, and, before Dodge sat down to its prandial meal—which with a
simplicity inherited of the fathers it took at noon—had been turned over
to certain purchasing gentlemen from the East, for whom they had been
gathered. Their task performed, the weary riders who brought them up the
trail gave themselves freely to those metropolitan delights which Dodge
arranged for them. They went about with liberal hands, and Dodge
rejoiced in profits staggering.
Among those who rode in with the Cross-K herd was Mr. Wagner. In moments
of sobriety no danger had its source in Mr. Wagner. Endowed of strong
drink and a Colt’s pistol in right proportions, he was worth the
watching. Indeed, within the year Mr. Wagner, while thus equipped, had
shot himself into such disrepute in the streets of Mobeetie that he
defeated a popular wish to hang him only by the fleetness of his pony.
It was then he came north and attached himself to Mr. Walker and the
Cross-K.
Throughout those daylight hours which fell in between that transfer of
the Cross-K herd and the lighting of what kerosene lamps made gay the
barrooms of Dodge, nothing could have been more commendable than the
deportment of Mr. Wagner. He imbibed his whiskey at intervals not too
brief, and distributed his custom with an equal justice between the
Alhambra with Mr. Kelly, the Alamo with Mr. Webster, and the Long Branch
with Mr. Short. Also, he drifted into the outfitting bazaar of Mr.
Wright and spent fifty dollars upon an eight-inch Colt’s six-shooter,
calibre-45, the butt of which was enriched and made graceful with carved
ivory. This furniture Mr. Wagner would later swing to his hip by means
of a belt, the same corrugated of cartridges.
It was not observed that his drinks had begun to tell upon Mr. Wagner
invidiously until the hour of eight in the evening when, from the family
circle of the Dodge Opera House, he roped the first violin of a dramatic
organisation called the Red Stocking Blondes. It was during the overture
that Mr. Wagner pitched the loop of his lariat into the orchestra, and
as the first violin played vilely the interruption was well received by
the public.
The management, however, came before the curtain and said that the show
would not proceed while Mr. Wagner remained. With that, Marshal Ed led
the disturber forth, took a drink with him to prove that his removal was
merely formal and nothing personal meant, and bid him return no more.
Mr. Wagner, acting on the suggestion of Marshal Ed, at once surrendered
every scrap of interest in the drama, as expounded by the Red Stocking
Blondes. It should be remembered that at this moment Mr. Wagner, in
deference to the taste of Dodge, which frowned upon pistols in places of
public entertainment as superfluous and vulgar, was not wearing that
brand-new Colt’s with the ivory butt.
It was roundly the hour of midnight, and Mr. Peacock’s Dance Hall shone
with the beauty and the chivalry of Dodge. Marshal Ed had come over to
the Dance Hall to hold the chivalry adverted to in decorous check and
keep it to paths of peace.
Mr. Wagner arrived and took his place in a quadrille. It was observed
that the belt of Mr. Wagner now upheld that Colt’s pistol of the ivory
butt. Aroused by this solecism, Marshal Ed descended upon Mr. Wagner and
captured his unlawful embellishments. He was holding the six-shooter in
one hand and Mr. Wagner in the other when Mr. Walker, sober and suave,
drew near.
“If you’ll give him to me, Ed,” remarked Mr. Walker, “I’ll take care of
him.”
Since the proposal provided for the peace of Dodge, Marshal Ed accepted
it. He made over Mr. Wagner and the weapon of ivory butt to the
soft-speaking Mr. Walker. Thereupon Mr. Walker conducted Mr. Wagner
outside.
Taking Mr. Wagner to the rear of the Dance Hall, where no ear might
listen and no eye look on, Mr. Walker perfidiously readorned him with
that ivory-butted treasure of a Colt’s-45.
“Now,” observed Mr. Walker, as he buckled the belt and its dependent
ordnance where they would do the most harm, “if I was you I’d go surgin’
back into the Dance Hall an’ if any jimcrow marshal tried to pounce on
my gun I’d blow his lamp out.”
Marshal Ed had emerged from the Dance Hall into the glare of light which
issued from its front windows when Mr. Wagner, walking deviously, his
broad-rimmed hat cocked at an insulting angle, the offensive six-shooter
flapping ostentatiously against his leg, brushed by. Mr. Wagner wore a
challenging glance and was snorting defiance of the law.
It was now that Marshal Ed displayed that want of caution and
indifference to precedent whereof Mr. Masterson had warned Mr. Kelly.
Under the conditions presented _vide licet_ the sudden, not to say
warlike, return of Mr. Wagner, it was officially the business of Marshal
Ed to shove the muzzle of his own gun into the face of Mr. Wagner and,
to quote the words of Dodge as it digged the graves next day, “stand him
up.” In case Mr. Wagner did not hold his hands above his head, Marshal
Ed was to officially unhook his gun and put a period to Mr. Wagner’s
career.
So far from following this rule of conduct, Marshal Ed reached out with
both hands and seized Mr. Wagner by the shoulders. Thereupon Mr. Wagner
yanked the Colt’s pistol of ivory butt from its scabbard; as a
counter-move, Marshal Ed, while retaining a right-hand grip on Mr.
Wagner’s shoulder, grabbed the pistol with his left hand and held the
muzzle to one side. There the two stood, Mr. Wagner powerless to bring
his weapon to bear, and Marshal Ed unable to wrest it from his grasp.
At this juncture Mr. Walker, who, in anticipation of what might occur,
had privily provided himself with a pistol, came out of the darkness to
the rear of the Dance Hall and thrust the weapon in the face of Marshal
Ed. Mr. Walker pulled the trigger, the hammer descended, but instead of
the expected report there came nothing more lethal than a sharp click.
The cartridge, ashamed of the treachery in which it found itself
employed, had refused to explode.
Before Mr. Walker could cock his weapon for a second trial three
splitting flashes burned three holes in the night. Bang! bang! bang! The
three reports were crowded as close together as the striking of a Yankee
clock. Mr. Masterson, from sixty feet away, had put three bullets into
Mr. Walker before the latter could fall. It was like puffing out a
candle. Mr. Walker of the Cross-K was dead.
Mr. Masterson, from where he stood, would not chance a shot at Mr.
Wagner; Marshal Ed was too much in the line of fire. Acting a next best
part, he came up to the two on the run. But he came late. While he was
still ten feet away Mr. Wagner, in the twists and turns of conflict,
felt the muzzle of that new ivory-mounted Colt’s pistol press for one
insignificant moment against the other’s breast; he pulled the trigger
and Marshal Ed fell, shot through the lungs, his clothes afire from the
burning powder. As Marshal Ed went down, Mr. Wagner followed
him—dead—with a bullet in his temple from the revengeful pistol of Mr.
Masterson.
Mr. Wright and Mr. Short carried Marshal Ed into the Long Branch. Mr.
Masterson, who with unfluttered pulse had looked death in the eye a
score of times, began to cry like a woman. Mr. Kelly, mayor, united his
tears to Mr. Masterson’s.
“It was my fault, Bat,” wept Mr. Kelly; “I only wish I might have
stopped that bullet myself.”
“It has turned out like I told you, Kell,” said Mr. Masterson; “those
murderers out-managed him!”
Mr. Short reappeared and laid a sympathetic hand on Mr. Masterson’s
shoulder.
“Bat,” said Mr. Short, “do you want to see Ed? He’s dyin’; he’s down to
the last chip!”
“Poor Ed! No; I don’t want to see him!” said Mr. Masterson, tears
falling like rain.