DODGE CITY, KANSAS, 1871

Twenty-five-year-old, well-educated schoolteacher, Tom Hawken, must leave Boston quickly to avoid the consequences of a false paternity accusation. On his way to Dodge, a Pinkerton  Agent tries to apprehend him.

Tom arrives in Dodge City where his clothes, speech, and mannerisms immediately label him as an outsider, and ‘tenderfoot’ in the ways of Western life.

The first thing he does is get a room at the Dodge House Hotel; then he finds Jones’s eatery. He flirts with Clara, the waitress, and upon returning to eat there regularly, he makes friends with Clara and her parents.

Clara helps Tom by suggesting Western-appropriate clothes and other items so he can dress like other cowboys and not be ogled and teased for his Eastern ‘tenderfoot’ background. She takes him to see Boot Hill and gives him its history. On that tour, Clara told me something surprising and interesting. White men used to be called ‘cowhands’ or ‘cattlemen.’ It was black men who were called ‘boys,’ a diminutive term, and a rather insulting word used by slave owners, which meant that the black ‘cowhands’ were called cow ‘boys’ as opposed to white men being called cow ‘men.’ After the Civil War, the term ‘cowboy’ referred to white and black men, plus there was one black cowboy for every four white cowboys.

Clara helps Tom learn about Dodge City: the stores, shops, saloons, and the railroad he arrived on that will soon start transporting cattle to Eastern cities. When that occurs, Dodge will grow quickly, but with the wrong type of men: buffalo hunters, drunks, criminal behaviors of all kinds, and shootists wanting to start a reputation or looking to enhance their already earned reputation. The Long Branch Saloon would inevitably be the center of most of the lawlessness in Dodge. The China Doll, a house

of prostitution, along with the Long Branch Saloon, would increase the lawlessness even more. The average citizens, shops, and store owners would constantly fear going outside, especially at night because they had no lawmen in their town.

One day, Tom and Clara, on a romantic, pre-engagement carriage ride, came in contact with a group of cattlemen who just arrived outside Dodge where they were taking a break for a couple of days before their final drive to Abilene. The cattlemen, desperate for an entertaining change in their boring week-to-week lives on a cattle drive, wanted beer, whiskey, gambling, and prostitutes. One particular cattleman, a cowhand named Sawyer Biggs, a young, arrogant troublemaker, immediately dislikes Tom, and he makes disrespectful, rude, hand motions, facial gestures, and sexual innuendos, and caused Clara to become fearful. Tom stared at Sawyer, thinking that arrogance is poison to intelligence and a good thing he wasn’t riding without a saddle, or his horse would die of poisoning.

Tom and Sawyer have conflicting interests and have had two violent encounters. The final encounter results in gunplay, in which Tom is not confident, since, back East, he was only familiar with hunting rifles and shotguns.

Sawyer, in the street, on the way out of town with his friends, sees Tom going for breakfast and instantly challenges him to a gun duel for which Tom is not prepared and only has had a few weeks of short practice sessions with his newly acquired, and ten-year-old pistol.

The cowhand, cattle drover, Sawyer, is killed by Tom under unusual circumstances. Tom was recovering from a leg wound and a chest wound that shot off both his nipples and left a shallow, horizontal scar across his chest.

After Sawyer’s death, Sawyer’s boss on the cattle drive, warns Tom about Sawyer’s notorious twin brother, Edward Biggs, who, at the age of fifteen stole his father’s gun and murdered his friend and cousin because they tried to stop him by saying they would report him to the town Sheriff for wanting to rob the local Charleston Citizens’ Bank in 1860.

A day later, the Charleston Courier reported that Edward Biggs wanted the money to leave Charleston and avoid the Civil War. But while robbing the bank, Edward killed a female employee for not being fast enough to give him the money that he had demanded. It turned out that the young employee froze at the sight of Edward’s gun and couldn’t act immediately. Edward had thought the employee was ridiculing him by displaying a smile (most likely a fearful smile accompanied by temporary paralysis) while hesitating to collect the money. Edward got most of the money that he had wanted, ran a short distance home where his horse was waiting in the stable, galloped out of town, and disappeared. He was never seen or heard from again. He probably changed his name.

                                                        *

                                      PRESENT DAY, 1871

Tom walked to the livery to talk to the owner, Ben Jacobs. In the past year, since Tom had arrived in Dodge, Ben and Tom had become good friends despite the thirty-plus-years age difference. Ben treated Tom like a son that he’d never had. They had spent many an afternoon bullshitting with each other when the livery chores were done, usually with Tom’s help. Tom, in turn, treated Ben as if he were his cherished grandfather.

Ben saw Tom coming and quickly reached into the pocket of his heavy apron and pulled out a letter, waving it at Tom. They shook hands with expanded, happy smiles, patted each other on the back, then focused on the letter from home. Tom’s mom and dad wanted Tom to come home for a visit. The letter included a note from his best friend, Art, who also wanted him to come home. Tom sought Ben’s mature advice because he didn’t want to go home yet.

The result was much simpler than he had expected. Ben advised him to go home for a couple of weeks or a month and see if he still fit with the Boston city life. He should have a serious talk with his parents and his friends, and then decide where he wanted to be. Ben emphasized that Tom’s decision would determine his future direction, so he should give it much serious thought.

Tom responded, “If I stay in Boston, I’d have to break my engagement to Clara. She has already told me she can’t abandon her mom and dad. Clara said her parents rely on her heavily to profit from their restaurant business. She couldn’t move to Boston if I chose to stay there.”

“Tom, yer so young thet yuh may not see thet life is a road ta better no yerself. If yuh returns home, you will see what yuh wants, an’ what yuh wanna be, an’ what yuh wants fer yer future to be like. It not be easy ‘cause thet will include yer marriage plans. I got married too fast an’ I was too young, so it ended quick, leaving me feelin’ old an’ guilty ‘bout how I coulda been a better man, a better husband. Ruth an’ I had no chil’ren and we parted on bad terms, mostly my doin,’ so I decide thet marriage not be in me future. But you ‘ave many decisions ta make an’ so little experience ta hep yuh. So, go home, Tom, an’ make those decisions ‘bout yer life now and in the future.”

Ben patted me on the shoulder. With sadness dripping from his voice, said, “Son. I am dearly missin’ yuh if yuh stays in Boston, but it may be the right thing fer yuh to do. Marriage ain't be happenin’ if Clara needs ta stay here, an’ yuh decide ta stay in Boston. So, if Clara can’t leave her parents an’ yuh decides ta stay in Boston, then yuh ‘ave decided about no marriage. Yuh knows sadness often happens even wid good decisions.” Ben paused, then inhaled deeply through his mouth, letting it out slowly through his nose before saying, “If yuh decide to stay in Boston, I will surely be missin’ yuh, son.”

That was the first time he’d ever referred to me as ‘son.’ He’d treated me like a son but had never said the word ‘son.’

Ben thought of something else and stated, “Oh Tom, listen; me and the other City Council members have decided that no lawman would want to be Sheriff in Dodge City. Why would they? We don’t have a Sheriff's office or jail. We were short-minded in thinking that anyone would accept the job when there was no buildin’ to go with the job. So, Tom, while you are gone, we be buildin’ a Sheriff’s office an’ a jail. I even ordered a wind-up, pendalum-operated Regulator clock for the office. It uses somethin’ called a ‘pendalum.’ It be the kin’ a clock thet only the Long Branch has. Mebe yer office be done when yuh gets back. Until we hire someone, are City Council meetin’s will take place there. We all be hopin’ it won’t be em’ty fer long. Also, when money be ‘vailable, we build a Court House, too.”

“Looking forward to seeing it when I get back. I’m leaving early tomorrow morning, so this is goodbye until or if I get back.”

                                                        *

Early the next morning, as I rode the train, I felt the spirit of Clara’s lips lingering on mine. I hated to leave her, but I had to do it for my mom and dad. I got on the Santa Fe train to Chicago, changed trains there, and got to Boston in a few days.

Mom and Dad, plus Art, met me in that late fall evening. Dad and Mom invited Art and me to have dinner at the Durgin-Park Restaurant on Winter Street, where he reminded me that I wasn’t in trouble with my not-pregnant, former girlfriend. Her family and friends were humiliated by her lies, so she had many fences to mend, or she’d find herself out to pasture.

After being gone for over a year, it was a good family reunion. Dad shook my hand as if it were a bar of gold that he wouldn’t let go of. Mom stood on tip-toes as she hugged me tearfully. As Dad and Mom stared at me, Art was standing behind them, pretending to pick his nose and flicking his finger toward me so his dried, pale green boogers shot toward me. He hadn’t changed much, although he had filled out; more muscular, but still a few inches shorter, but maybe twenty pounds heavier. It wasn’t fat.

I had been there a week before Mom and Dad talked to me seriously about my future. I told them about Clara and our engagement. Dad didn’t think I should go back to Dodge. He had been made president of the newly built Boston Bank on Washington Street. Mom said she understood and wanted me to be happy but leaned toward me coming home. I informed them that my dilemma was that Clara couldn’t abandon her parents to live in Boston to be with me.

When we were alone, Art ejaculated, “Shit man! You aren’t going back there, are you?” His face was hard to read, especially since his lips smiled somewhat, while his eyes saddened.

“I’m not sure, Art. The woman I love is there. You’d like her. She’s nothing like the silly, pretentious women I’ve dated here.”

“Have her come to Boston, then?”

“You already heard me mention that to Mom and Dad. She won’t abandon her parents. And before you say anything about them, they are good people. Let’s have a new topic, Art. Tell me, how did you come by those muscles? You look solid.”

“Ahh. I wondered if you’d notice. On the side, I’ve been picking up some extra money by boxing, so I’ve been training by running, lifting weights, and with amateur boxing matches. I’ve been doing it for a year, now. You left, so I had to do something. We were always getting into fights, so boxing seemed natural to me. I earn more money now in one fight than I make in a month at work. I think I’m good enough to take you on now, Buster.”

Seriously I answered, “That may be true, but we’ve never fought, except in the boxing ring during our lessons at the gym, plus a little pushing and shoving and some strong swearing outside the ring. It’s not a good idea that we fight. Hard feelings break up close friendships. Let’s say that you would give me a tough fight.”

“Geez, Tom. I was kidding and teasing you. I wasn’t serious, Buddy. I want you to know that I’ve got nothing keeping me here in Boston. You know that my Mom and Dad are dead, and any distant relatives I have don’t live in Boston or even near Boston. They live in New York City or in that area. We aren’t close, so I want to go to Dodge if you go back to Boston. I want to see part of the West, learn new things, see new things, and have an adventure. And I’ve got plenty of money saved from a year of work. Wha-da-ya-say, Buddy?”

“Fine with me. You’ll get to meet my future wife.

“I want to build a house for Clara and me. You could be a great help with that, and having my best friend with me would be great. I Dodge, I used to instruct a few kids in a run-down billiards room inside a vacant building. I converted one large room and made it the school room. I want to buy that building and fix the other parts of it, so you and I can live there. Until then, we’ll stay at the hotel. I’ll talk to the hotel owner about the use of an old, mostly unused, because of its smallness, to use as the new classroom. The owner had built a larger room in the hotel as his business increased, and the original dining room became too small. The school won’t be in that billiards room any longer, so that whole structure will be available. We’ll fix the Billiards building and live there, instead of the hotel. It’ll take some work to fix, but not hard labor, and when we build a house for Clara and me, you can have that building for your home, unless you decide to return to Boston.”

“A better idea,” Art said sarcastically, with an added smile, “ is that when we build a house for you and Clara, we should add a room for me. Nice and cozy, right?”

“Whoa, partner. That’s not gonna happen. It’s a terrible idea, especially for newlyweds. And Clara would plant her knee into my balls if I even hinted at that idea. It’s not good for the privacy of newlyweds in their new bedroom.”

“Oh! I see. You just kicked me out of the house I’m going to help you build before it’s even built. Hell! Some best friend you are,” Art said with a grin and a fake laugh.”

“As usual, you are so full of shit that you need a poop-bag strapped to your ass to collect it all, like those Chicago city horses have on them strapped to their asses.”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m serious about wanting to go to Dodge with you. Think it over, Pal. I need to get away from boring Boston.”

“Then you might as well know that I’m telling my mom and dad that I’m returning to Dodge. If you want to come along, you’re welcome.”

“Hot damn pardner! When do you think you’ll leave?”

“About a week from today. It’ll be hard on both Dad and Mom, though.”

“Well, the dead don’t worry, so I don’t have to worry about my mom and dad and being a Pinkerton ‘gopher’ will be a welcomed job loss.”

When Art and I parted, I went to the city and bought five-by-four feet, slate blackboard for the Dodge school, and a dozen eight-by-ten inch, wooden-framed, slate boards for students. I thought that two dozen white chalk sticks should be enough. They will be there waiting for me or whoever was to teach the chickabiddies. There was a certain mother there who may agree to take my place.

                                                        *

A week later Tom and Art boarded the train for a long, boring trip to Dodge by way of  Chicago to catch the Santa Fee RR from Chicago to Dodge. While in Chicago, Tom went to the same bookstore where he once again bought even more books, now that he knew that he could mail them to Fred Zimmerman’s store in Dodge.

Art followed Tom around the bookstore. It was dusty, with an old book and a mildew-type odor. The floor was dried and splintering wooden planks. The selves contained more books than the Boston library. Most were old, especially the ones Tom picked. Tom told Art that he wanted classics that were not in demand, thus they were in the store for a lengthy time collecting dust. Most of the books looked used but in fair condition. Few of the books were new, but new ones could be ordered then delivered by the railroad, from Chicago or New York City, though the waiting time may be weeks.

“Damn! You’ll never change. Always got your nose stuck in a book.”

“You never liked school and books, let alone a higher education. But we’ve been friends since we could walk, so friends we remain, despite our minor differences.”

Tom browsed slowly since their layover in Chicago was for three hours. Tom told Art that during his teacher training, he had little time to read anything that did not pertain to his teacher studies. Then, while teaching, he didn’t have time because after-hours’ times were for his entertainment. He and Art didn’t read as kids unless it was a school assignment. However, the older Tom got, the more he read for learning or just for enjoyment.

Tom picked his first book. It was John Stuart Mill’s A System of Logic (1843), then he picked Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow (1820). Tom was rushing back and forth looking for interesting books for him and Clara, and educationally appropriate books for teaching children. When Tom saw the McGuffey’s Reader (1830,) by William Holmes McGuffey and the nearby Blue Back Speller book (1783), by Noah Webster, he greedily grabbed them, while mumbling, “These two books will help me with the youngsters that I’m teaching.” He was sweating now.

Art remained mute and tried to be patient while crossing his arms across his chest with a bored expression. He followed Tom around the room. Next, Tom bought The Count of Monte Christo (1844) and The Three Musketeers (also 1844), both written by Alexander Dumas. Tom walked slowly around the bookshelves, then his sweaty hands—face, too— pulled out the titles Tales of Two Cities (1859), by Charles Dickens, and The Diary of an Early American Boy (1805), by Noah Blake. He grabbed both of them as if he were starving and was going to eat them. He whispered, “I’ll want to read the American Boy book to the children, as he wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. He glanced at Art, then moved onward quickly after interpreting Art’s growing impatience. He stopped when he noticed a copy of the book Walden by Henry David Thoreau (1854) and nearby was Emerson’s Self-Reliance (1841). He smiled but continued onward because he’d already read them. He asked the owner about philosophy books.

“Philosophy, huh? Nobody buys those kinds of books. I have a dusty table with a few books that nobody will buy. You may look there. You may even be able to read the titles if you wipe the dust off them. They’re over there.” He pointed to a dilapidated table in the far corner.

“Christ almighty, Tom. We don’t have all day.” Art coughed. “Also, you are raising clouds of dust as you move quickly.”

“Just a couple more and I’m done.” Tom walked to the corner, bent over the table, started dusting off the spines of books with his handkerchief, and struck gold when he found a book titled, Ancient Greek Philosophers: The Controversial Thinkers. He grabbed it and stood up, breathing heavily.

Tom looked at Art and said, “I won’t be able to get good books like these except using special orders, and then it may take a month or two for them to arrive by train and even longer by stagecoach.”

Tom’s back cracked when he stood upright. His head shifted to a high shelf above the table. One author stood out for him. David Hume, a 1700s philosopher whom he had heard referred to many times. It was Hume’s book, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding (1748). He grabbed it quickly as he saw Art’s face turning red with impatience. He thought, Art’s arms must be burning while holding some of my books.

“Art, this Hume guy wrote about human nature, about the impossibility of miracles, about the religiously famous essay called ‘The Problem of Evil,’ where he proposed that God created everything, including evil. In his time Hume was considered a great thinker and essayist, but his skepticism of religion was not accepted by most of the same people who called his thinking and essays brilliant. His books and essays stopped many thinkers in their tracks. It made them think about something that, to them, had been unthinkable, yet they couldn’t ignore his supposition, but Hume was shunned in certain circles of society. Why? Because he made the thinkers think again.”

Art was now getting angry while holding several books for Tom. Tom had half the pile. Tom said to Art, “Wait here. Be right back.” Tom placed his pile of books on the floor. Seeing Tom do that, Art placed his pile of books on the floor, too.

 As Tom rushed to the front counter his eyes spotted the book Charlotte Bronte (1847), by Jane Ayre, but he ran passed it, then stopped suddenly, ran back, and grabbed it. He wanted Jane Eyre’s books for Clara.

When he paid for the books, they were placed in two old grain bags. Art looked at the heavy bags of books with disinterest but smiled at Tom and offered to carry one of them.

Tom said to the owner, “Sure wouldn’t have expected you to have these books. Not many readers going out west.”

“Ha. Sir, this is Chicago, the second largest city next to New York City. People have better educations and with that, they like to read. I can usually get any common book you want by railroad delivery. You amazed me last year with your book selections when you told me you were going out West. Dodge, it was, right? I sure didn’t expect that selection of books. Educated locals, especially those from the East, are my normal customers. Our education system here is ahead of its time.

“Can we go now?” Art sneered comically, as Tom ignored him,

We had a couple more hours before our connecting train, so I treated Art to a meal at a local eatery. When we finished, I slung my book bag over my shoulder, and we walked to the post office where I could mail the books to Dodge and not have to carry them around with me. On the way out we saw another ‘wanted’ poster for the guy named Stoney. But I knew that this was an alias for Sawyer’s twin brother, Edward Biggs. Details stated he was wanted for assault, robberies, stealing horses, and multiple murders. There was a five-hundred-dollars reward for his capture. I told the story of me killing Sawyer Biggs and that a cattleman friend warned me that Sawyer’s twin brother, Edward Biggs, would come after me and that Edward Biggs was much worse than Sawyer.

 About every two hundred feet or so, we noticed more ‘wanted posters’ for Charlie Stone who was wanted for, robbery, assault, and multiple murders. The poster said he went by the name Stoney. As we looked at another poster about Charlie Stone, two saloon thugs confronted us each holding a knife, held at arm’s length, toward us.

The leader smiled confidently and waved his hunting knife in our faces before saying, “Yuh gots a choice, lads. Gimme yer money, or yuh gets cut. We don’ want ta cut yuh. Just give us yer money and we be gone.” The leader stuck his arm out full length, with a lunge that did not reach me. I knew it wasn’t supposed to reach me, just scare the shit out of me. I looked at Art and said, “You ready?”

“Like old times, in our early and late teens fighting the roaming Irish gangs. So, Tom, let me start the dance, OK?”

“It’s yours, buddy.” We had already casually placed our dominant hand in our knife pocket. Last year, when I bought my Barlow folding knife, I bought two of them. I had already given one to Art, so we had the same knives. We had a routine we often used long ago. We’d quickly step backward two feet and at the same time draw out our knives and open them. The backward steps created space, so we weren’t stabbed where we previously stood.

Without a warning to the thugs, Art lunged in at the thug that was facing him and slashed his wrist. The thug screamed, dropped his knife, and, in shock, watched his blood run over his knuckles, and then branch out to flow down his index, middle, and ring fingers. He’d have many more cuts if Art had continued, but there was no reason to do so. He looked at me.

As Art was slashing his opponent, and the other thug stared at his friend’s blood, I took advantage of his distraction, quick steps forward and kicked the second guy in the balls; now there was no need to use my knife as I saw his knife fall to the ground. They turned and ran; Art’s opponent left a blood trail even though his other hand was tightly-gripped over his slashed wrist.

We each picked up a knife and by the time we stood up, those two thieves were gone, and we had a train to catch.

We were traveling, on a faster train. I asked one of the train workers about our train which looked new, and he informed me that most commercial trains traveled about 30 miles per hour, but we were fortunate to be riding on the newest train that would travel about 50 miles an hour on its way from Chicago to Dodge. We agreed that it was a lot better than using the much slower Kansas Overland Stagecoach System, which couldn’t even match the slower trains. When we reached the Kansas border, the train was rolling along smoothly, though the prevalent dust in our noses caused frequent coughing and the use of a handkerchief. Neither of us was used to train travel. The click-clack of the iron wheel against the iron rails was putting most people to sleep, including Art. I carried my gun with me to Boston but didn’t show it. It was now in my overhead suitcase with a new box of ammunition. The train was slowing down to pass around a dangerous curve. That’s when a gang of four horsemen

 galloped up to the side of the passenger cars. One big man, perhaps the leader, was riding a beautiful, chestnut brown mare quarter horse, a terrific short-distance runner in a quarter of a mile race and having gotten its name from that fact. Because of its speed, it had no trouble keeping up with the train but that would be for a short distance. Since they needed to slow down at the curve, it was an ideal spot for a robbery. The three other riders were riding smaller, mustangs, two browns, and one black. Cowboys especially liked the Mustangs because they had unusual endurance, though not as fast as thoroughbred horses. Mustangs could manage bad weather easily, and since they used to be wild, they had a mysterious sense of rattlesnake detection. If a race were for a half-mile or a mile, the Mustang would beat the quarter horse with its superior stamina.

The train robbers were shooting into the air at first, then one of them carelessly put a bullet through a window two seats down from me. A woman and her young daughter screamed as they were showered with glass. I shouted to the passengers, “Move to the other side of the train,” The outlaw gang had their oversized cotton handkerchiefs covering their faces as masks.

No one was drowsy now. Too much excitement and danger, so everyone was awake and scared. Some caring people were helping the woman and daughter who had more fear than they had minor cuts. I pulled my Colt rigging out of my suitcase and told all the passengers to get below the windows. Art’s eyes looked like bulging half-dollars. I pushed his unwary body down, on his knees, below window level. I opened the window and shot the closest rider in the back of his neck. He slid off his horse as if his saddle were greased. I ran forward to the next car yelling the same instructions. The window I wanted was stuck, so I smashed it with the handle of my Colt, then shot another rider in his ribs. He jackknifed over the pommel of his saddle and stopped his horse. I yelled, “Any man with a gun, defend yourselves and your friends. As I pushed forward, I heard two shots coming from the car I had just passed through.”

Running toward the front of the train, I nearly crashed into one of the riders knocking him backward. His gun was drawn and aimed toward me. Being knocked backward caused him to pause as he regained his balance. As I turned sideways, I heard the sound of one gunshot but saw explosive fire shoot from both our gun barrels. He collapsed to the floor with a lethal chest wound. I escaped injury as the bullet passed me and lodged into a wooden seat. Luckily, whoever had been sitting there was lying on the floor. I realized that I was massaging my no-nipples chest, a titillating feeling with a bad memory accompanying it.

Someone screamed, “The big fella is riding away.”

 I looked out the window and saw him. He was the one riding that chestnut mare quarter horse. I noticed that it had two white socks— white hair—one on its front right leg and one on its left rear leg.

I hurried returning to my seating section. When I opened the door and walked in I nearly tripped over a dead man lying on his back, something silver on his neck. “Oh, no,” I thought. “A passenger was killed.” I stepped forward, kneeled, and then saw that the silver item was the handle of a throwing knife. I whipped my head up and looked at Art. “Jesus, what did you do? Did you kill a passenger? I don’t understand.”

“You certainly don’t understand, Tom. See his gun under that seat, and the Bowie knife sheathed on his belt? He was a robber coming from the back of the train to rob these passengers of their valuable items.”

“Hey mister,” a gruff man yelled at me, “He saved not only our lives but also our valuables, so don’t you treat him like a criminal.”

“No sir,” I said politely. “He’s a friend of mine and I was confused about what happened. Art, I apologize.”

“ It’s OK, Pard. Between a good guy, me, and a bad guy, him, I had the edge. I didn’t have a gun, but I stopped him with my sharp mind.”

There was some laughter when he emphasized the words: edge, and sharp mind, but I was too upset to say join the hushed laughter.

                                                        *

A few days later we arrived in Dodge. Clara rushed down the wooden platform and threw herself at me. I lifted her off her feet and we hugged each other tightly, both of us realizing that we missed each other in a way that seemed to be expressionless, yet holding onto love tightly, securely, and expectantly.

A cloud of dust appeared as our collision of hugs forced dust off our clothes, especially mine, from the dusty interior of the train and its constantly open windows. It was either being showered in dust or melting in the confined heat.

Unfortunately for Art, that dust cloud settled over him. I heard him choke a few seconds before Clara and I coughed at the dust lining our throats.

“You’re dirty.” She patted her hand on my shirt and another dust cloud formed. “Yuh need a bath.”

“Wow. How sweetly romantic,” Art teased after he cleared his throat, then gave me a playfully sarcastic smile.

“Oh. Sorry Art. Clara, this is my best friend, from Boston, Art Mays.”

They both said, “Pleased to meet you,” and Clara hurriedly stated, “I’m so damn glad you’re back. Chalkley Beeson, the owner of the Long Branch, is gonna start a poker tournament, with sizable winnings. Rumor is that it will draw gamblers from as far away as Texas. Not only that, but Beeson also wants to have pistol, rifle, knife-throwing, and hatchet-throwing competitions. Dodge with become a circus of criminals, especially shootists looking to make a reputation. Rumors include: Wyatt Earp; Doc Holliday; Poker Alice, who’s worse than Calamity Jane. Then there’s Billy the Kid; Clay Allison; Sam Bass; Luke Short; Ben Thompson, and some of the other Western outlaws and gamblers. That means certain gunfights and other troubles that . . .”

Tom butted in. “Whoa, dammit! Stop naming the bastards. And Earp is a lawman, not a criminal, and you didn’t mention John Wesley Hardin who’s so mean that he killed a guy, who was in an adjacent hotel room, for snoring too loudly.”

“Yeah?” questioned Clara. “And how many lawmen have turned criminal? You know, like Sam Bass, Ben Thompson, and Luke Short? Right now, a bad guy named Stoney is already in town, shooting in the street, and breaking windows whenever he feels like it. He’s not only mean but hard to look at ‘cause he’s got a face that could scare a buzzard off a pile of guts. Also, there are already three or four guys practicing throwing their hatchets and knives for accuracy. They are practicing on the outhouse walls. Can you believe that? Oh! I forgot to tell you that we have a new sheriff’s office and jail. Ben made sure of that. No lawmen, though.

“Geez. I’m glad you didn’t tell me that while we were eating. Anyway, the law wants Stoney. Art and I saw ‘wanted posters’ on the walls of some Chicago buildings, especially inside the post office. But the ‘wanted posters’ didn’t use the name Edward Biggs. That’s Sawyer’s twin brother. There was no doubt that it was Sawyer’s brother because the picture drawn on the poster looked just like Sawyer. But the name on the Wanted Poster wasn’t Edward Biggs, it was Charlie ‘Stoney’ Stone. He must have changed his name because he’s in serious trouble with the law. He’s wanted for several crimes, including robbing stagecoaches, rape, rustling horses and cattle, and, worst of all, cold-blooded murder. He and his gang tried to rob our train, but Art and I scared them off. He was the only one of the gang that was left, so he must have decided to come here early for the tournament.”

The three of us walked to Clara’s parents’ restaurant, where Art and I ate lunch. We both enjoyed a good, home-cooked meal. A few minutes after serving all the customers, Clara joined us. She smiled at a funny thought, then said, “Do you remember Rooster and Shine from last year? Well, they’ve been gone a long time to hunt buffalo. They came in the other day with a stomachache from laughing. They said that they heard that some wealthy people back east are building indoor outhouses.”

Art added, “ It’s a separate room with a special chamber pot, I guess.” Art was aware of them in Boston. Art continued, “Some guy named Joe Gayetty, in 1857, invented layered, medicated toilet paper that came in small sheets and that the outhouses in Boston were beginning to be called ‘crappers’ named after Thomas Crapper who somehow made it practical to have the outhouse inside of the house and still be called ‘crappers.’ Those kinds of indoor outhouses will be called ‘crappers,’ too and the deposits in them are being called ‘crap.’ What-do-you-think?”

“Your guess sounds reasonable to me, but for God’s sake, won’t the smell in these homes with indoor crappers cause a putrid stench from the mounting crap deposits?”

“I would think so. You already used the words ‘crapper’ and ‘crap.’ See what I mean? The idea will never work out, though, due to the smell and the disgust about having it inside the house and because of the old saying, ‘You don’t shit where you eat.’ Damn! Just saying that gives me a chill up my spine.”

“Damn, on a ship, there's a ‘poop deck’ at the stern, and below the deck, under the poop deck, there’s a cabin called the ‘poop cabin.’ Both are at the rearmost part of a ship, called the stern. The ‘poop deck’ is elevated from the main deck, but it’s out in the open so the fresh air and wind can blow away the smell. But there’s rarely a smell since the poop goes into the ocean. So, ships have already had indoor toilets long before those dumb idiots put them in houses.” I had to clench my teeth so I wouldn’t laugh. I couldn’t help but laugh when I remembered being constipated.

Clara and Art looked at each other, sneering, then they looked at me, with Art quickly saying, “That’s horse shit! You are so bad at jokes. You’re teasing us.”

“Yeah, I am. I thought it was funny. The name poop deck and poop cabin, the cabin under the poop deck comes from the French word ‘la poupe,’ which American sailors changed to ‘the poop.’ OK, no more bad jokes.”

“They’re always bad,” Art protested, then looked at Clara, stating, “And you can tell because he laughs at his own jokes. Can’t keep a smile or a laugh off his lips.”

                                                                  *

CUT WHOLE PARA? When I’m in the restaurant, for coffee, when sitting down or swinging my right arm, my right hip holster rises into my ribs. It bothered me when it rose like that, plus it interfered with the swing of my right arm. I decided to see if Ben had any cross-draw holsters, though I don’t remember him having any. Having the holster and gun hanging diagonally over my zipper, but the barrel tipped toward my left hip, would be much more convenient. It was a popular setup for some cowboys and frequent card players, especially serious gamblers, who sat for long periods, as Doc Holliday did. Being seated is much more comfortable that way.

Clara asked me, “Did you notice the two other saloons being built? That’ll make four of those hellish places. The newest one is nearly finished and now two more are being built. Soon there’ll be more saloons than homes. And now we’ll have competition, because, down the street, a café is starting to be built, but it’s owned by a retired buffalo hunter who will attract the buffalo hide and wolf hunters, plus occasional mountain men. There will be more saloons and more eateries built, but I’ll bet none of them eateries will be as modern or more comfortable, or better coffee and pastries, with the high-quality food and taste of Buck’s and Ida’s masterful cooking.”

The next morning, Art and I walked to Zimmerman’s store, picked up the deliveries, and then carried the large black slate board that I’d eventually get hung on the classroom wall. We also brought the individual, but much smaller slateboards, plus boxes of chalk and a half-dozen felt erasers to the billiard building. They would improve school instruction. I left McGuffey’s Primer on the teacher’s desk, still not sure who would be the teacher. I hoped it would be Sharon Broder, who had teaching experience and whose daughters were in my classroom.

 Desks would be a bit more expensive, so I’d ask the City Council to furnish them. That request would probably be turned down. In that case, I’d ask my dad to pay for them and have them sent to Dodge by train and then delivered to Zimmerman’s warehouse.

We departed the classroom and no sooner stepped onto the street when we saw, to our amazement, a Western Lady Godiva. Just like the legend, she was naked, straddling a small, graceful, white, mustang mare and doing so without the aid of a saddle. As I watched her my crotch became itchy. I thought that she must be having that same feeling with horsehairs prickling at her nether region. Then the impulse to scratch my crotch overwhelmed me. She saw me rubbing myself and raised her head to the sky with unrestrained and bellowing laughter. She kept her horse trotting leisurely as she slid back and forth on her horse's back, with her shapely legs and bouncing perky breasts, with goose-pimples everywhere. She was having fun teasing us since we were nearly alone in the street. She, once again, exaggerated her smile, but her eyes looked as if they were focused on Art. As her horse continued forward with poise and elegance, I remembered the meaning of  Godiva. It meant ‘God’s gift.’ To any healthy male, that would not be an exaggeration. Then I also remembered that the term ‘peeping Tom’ also came into existence due to the Lady’s nakedness.

 I felt as if my feet were stuck to the road, Art’s too, and our bodies unmoving, as our eyes bulged outward, and my face turned red with a soft grimace of embarrassment. Art’s face was the opposite of mine. It had a slight blush accompanied with a charming, and flirtatious smile. Her hair shone brightly in the clear morning air. A slight breeze made her hair look as if it were flowing stalks of golden wheat. Her firm breasts jostled in the early morning sunlight, the cool breeze making her nipples erect, an outstanding sight. Teenage envy broke through my adult defenses as I stared at her youthful, unturned breasts, which matched her upturned nose. Unconsciously, I found myself rubbing my missing nipples, which brought on some discomfort, but not enough to interfere with the mesmerizing view in front of me.

We hadn’t noticed Fred Zimmerman approach us until he stated, “Some luscious sight, right, gentlemen? While you were gone Chalk Beeson, of Long Branch fame, devised the best, tasteless enticement for business anyone has made so far in Dodge. That (he pointed at her), is his recent, young, and shapely recruit by the name of Polly Darton. The lady’s getting rich by being naked, but Chalk is getting much richer. Women folk are up in arms about it. They won’t let their men go outside when Polly rides her white horse up and down the street twice a day. She rides in mid-to-late-mornings to attract noon business for the Long Branch, and then she rides before

 sundown to attract the hugely profitable evening business. But, fellas, you can’t buy her services. She is not for sale and not to be touched. She’s just an attraction who can play the piano and dress provocatively for Chalk’s business. Rumor is that she’s from a poor family who are friends of Chalk. He’s very protective of her, in a fatherly way, so no one can abuse her. She works at the Long Branch as an entertainer, sometimes sings, and usually just plays the piano with lively tunes and sometimes sexual humor. Rumor also says that she’ll work for a year, then go home, back East somewhere, with her earnings to help her parents. Who would have thought that she was so concerned about her parents’ poverty that she would take such a job? Would you believe that Chalk knows such a decent family? Oh, and she’s usually escorted when she leaves the Long Branch. Perhaps, more importantly, she’s not employed as a prostitute, only as an entertaining attraction.”

 Art and I were still ogling her adorable figure and jelly-like breasts. It was difficult to turn away, but I did, then nudged Art to regain his attention. As I nudged him, I saw Clara peeking out of the restaurant window. No smile and not pleased. It came upon me, shockingly, that as she stood in the window because I was seeing her naked, though she wasn’t. I could imagine the talk we’d have concerning the Lady, but my rule is, ‘Look, but don’t touch.’

“I need to see Ben, so I’m headed for the Livery,” I said to Art. As we walked, I explained, “The owner of the Livery has been a good friend to me. He sold me my gun and holster rig, plus the Colt pistol, a horse that I called Boston, then shortened to ‘Boss. Ben even had the saddle that came with Boss when he bought it from a widow, so, naturally, I bought it. You’ll see why I was quick to buy it when you see the prices of new ones at Mueller’s Saddle and Leather Goods Store.”

A noise caught our attention. It seemed to be coming from Ben’s Livery.

Art chimed in with, “That sounds like red-hot trouble Pard.” I agreed as we ran to the Livery.

We were most of the way when I could smell the livery’s hay, fermenting manure, and horse sweat. We heard Ben's roughly raised voice shouting at someone. We ran inside the wide-open barn doors and saw a tall, scruffy, rugged, and mean-looking man threateningly towering over Ben like a grizzly bear threatening a rabbit. Ben was grimacing, red-faced, and helpless as the crazed man held Ben with a two-fisted upper-vest grab with hands as big as a Grizzly Bear and with each knuckle looking like a rock.

“What’s going on Ben?” I yelled from the entrance, then proceeded to close the distance to the middle of the livery.

The large man turned to face me, so Art and I could both see that it was Stoney, the mule-faced desperado from the failed train robbery. Not surprisingly, he was drunk, but not enough to incapacitate him, but enough to want to release his fury on Ben.

“Stop yer jaw-wobbling,’ yuh ten’erfoot bottom-feeder an’ git outta here. This be none a yer bidness.”

“Ben’s my friend, which makes it my business. Take your hands off him.”

“Well, looky here,” Stoney screamed at Ben, spreading mists of spittle into the air. “ It seem yer greenhorn frien’ has hisself some balls.” Then, turning to look at me, he growled, “ If yuh wants ta keeps ‘em, though, yuh’d bes’ git.”

I stood my ground and glared at his ugly, wild-man features. His sarcastic smile showed some missing teeth, and the ones still there were a sickly yellowish-brown, having been in the process of decaying for some time. The repulsiveness of his mouthful of dying teeth would have made Doc Holliday, who was originally a dentist, gag with each look at his mouth.

“Tom. It’s OK. It’s just a squabble about the stable fee,” Ben said with a reddened face and frightened eyes.

I faced Stoney, saying, “I don’t know anyone in town who has ever questioned Ben’s stable fees as being unfair. He’s a very reasonable person, so why are you causing trouble about his fee?” Without waiting for a response, I added, “ Pay the man, mister, and get out.” I didn’t think my balls were that big, but my bluff was huge.

Stoney’s eyes looked glazed. He let go of Ben, staggered two steps backward, blinked rapidly, and stared at me in surprise. He started for his gun. He was too slow. I drew mine and, in a second had the distance between us closed, just as his gun was clearing its holster. I smashed the barrel of my gun onto his wrist at the back of his thumb. He groaned in pain, dropped his gun, then pulled his gun hand to his stomach as he rubbed the sore area with his left hand. He was focused on his injured hand when I used my left hand to grab him by the belt at the front of his pants and yanked him toward me. The front of his pants stretched away from his stomach toward me creating a gap. I pushed the full length of my gun barrel down, inside the front of his pants. He jerked at the coldness of the gun barrel against his tender skin. When he heard me cock the hammer of my gun, his entire body became stiff as he looked downward at my gun.

“So, you think I have no balls, huh? Do you want to join me? Castration by bullets won’t be pleasant. Think clearly, now. Who’s going to stop your bleeding? No one here is going to mess with your privates. You think anyone would mess with your bloody manhood?” I pulled my gun out of his pants and told him to get out and that I’d return his gun to the Long Branch bartender.

He stumbled toward the barn door, saying, “Keeps me a tab, mister. I pay when I feels bedder an’ sees straight” He pointed to me, saying, “ This ain’t over, greenhorn.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Thanks, Tom,” Ben uttered as he straightened his shirt and vest.

“Glad to help, Ben.” I had already learned that being a gentle, tender foot does not work. A Western man needs to be both hard and tough but know when and where to be gentle or tough. “I’m learnin’ Ben.”

“That guy’s new in town. People calls ‘em Stoney ‘cause his last name be ‘Stone.’ Mighty rough character, that one is. Heard someone say he’s so mean that he would fight a rattlesnake an’ give ‘im the first bite. Who’s yer frien,’ Tom?”

I put a friendly hand on Ben’s shoulder, looked at Art, then at Ben, and said, “Ben, this is my good friend from Boston, Art Mays. We’ve been friends since we were so young that we had to look up at peoples’ knees. We got even better acquainted when we both were taking boxing lessons, in our mid-teens and often had to fight each other. So, Ben, I hear that trouble’s coming in the form of a Poker Contest at the Long Branch. A lot of yahoos will come, bringing all sorts of trouble, especially with no lawman around.”

“Yea. That makes the whole town worried,” Ben answered with a worried expression.

Art said enthusiastically, “Hey, this would be a good place for me to learn about horses, saddles, guns, and such. Mr. Jacobs, if you need some help, just give me a call.” Well, I’ll be damned. You an’ me, boy, we jest hit a bit a luck. I do needs some extra help. Been gettin’ more blacksmithin’ jobs so it be hard to care a them horses during busy times, an,’ ‘specially, at the end a the day. I’d like to hire yuh. I give yuh fair pay. Wha-da-ya say, my new, young friend?”

“Well, Art. Nothing like a pot of luck falling into your lap. I get money for teaching and from working at odd, fix-it jobs at the restaurant. Plus, the City Council has asked me to take a paid job as an advisor for modernizing the town, since I have experience living in modern Boston. Now you can have a paid job, too. And it’s a much better job than working in the women’s underwear department at Zimmermann’s.”

Without a comment to Tom, Art stated “Mr. Jacobs, I’d be happy to work here. I’m gonna learn a lot, I think, before my ‘greenhorn’ and ‘tenderfoot’ customs fade away.”

“Good for you, boy. Ah, the first thing I be doin’ is ta stop callin’ yuh ‘boy.’ From now on you be Art and I be Ben. By God, that be wunnerful. Let’s shake on it.” They shook to close the deal, and both of them were smiling.

The three of us heard the loud sound of horses and wheels. Then we both realized that the sound was not unusual; it was the noon stagecoach, but it did sound as if it were going faster than usual. As it sped into town, its large wheels throwing up rooster tails of dust, and its spokes looking blurred as an illusion made them seem to revolve backward.

Jesse, the driver, pulled hard on the reins as he made a sudden stop in front of the stagecoach building. It was so sudden that it looked as if the horses were going to sit down as they strained to stop. Jesse ran around the stagecoach to help the older shotgun guard off his high seat. I didn’t know the guard. The stage lines often changed the guard, but the drivers were usually the same. The stagecoach manager came running out to the boardwalk. Jesse yelled for him to send for the doctor. Jesse reached up to help the guard get down, then led him into the stage-line office where there was a roughly-made plank-bed to lay the guard onto.

From where we were standing, it looked as if the guard was going to vomit, then we saw that the guard was old-looking. He was sick and having a hard time breathing due to the dust and the rough ride. Jesse said it was hard to get a shotgun guard to replace the regular who left his job suddenly. So Burt, who is usually a clerk in the stagecoach office offered to do it temporarily. But the ride was much rougher than he had figured, said it was adventurous, and got him out from behind the desk. But motion sickness, the constant bouncing, and the choking dust got to him.

I also saw what looked like half a dozen dancehall women getting off the stagecoach. They were dressed in fine, brightly-colored clothes to attract attention. Their red lips looked like animated roses as they talked and laughed. Many of the men’s heads snapped around so quickly that I thought they’d break their necks. When Lady Godiva was on her white horse trotting up and down the street twice a day, it was as if those men were cracking their knuckles.

The ladies were spry enough to exit the coach without assistance, then walked straight to the Long Branch, so there was no mystery about why they were in town. Doc Martin, not long ago, mentioned that the number of cases of syphilis and gonorrhea was dramatically rising and the only known treatment was with Mercury, which had plenty of bad side effects.

I barely caught a glance at the skeletal man who exited the coach because he was partially hidden by the saloon women and had his head down as if not wanting to draw attention. He followed the women as they went straight toward the Long Branch. But what I did see was a tall, middle-aged man, who was so skinny that his face looked cadaverous, with sunken eyes, plus hair so thin that the skin over his skull could be seen as pale and tight. He had the look of starvation, yet he walked spryly. He was dressed informally, in tattered Western-style clothing that was worn, and had the look of a poor man, or a man that did not care about how he looked. The overall vision was of worn, tattered clothes hanging onto his broomstick body.

Later, I asked Jesse about the guy.

“Tom, the guy says his name is Boon Elm. Don’t know where he be from, but he’s one god-damned, scary-lookin’ corpse. Gave me the creeps an’ I didn’t have ta ride with him. I heard the ladies laughing at and teasing him. Not a good idea, I think, ‘cause he looks ta be a walking dead man who be bringin’ nightmares, ta others, as his hobby. Christ, did yuh see that hatchet he wears on his right hip an’ the Bowie knife on his opp’sit side? Then, inside his vest, there be skinny knives. Looks ta be no reg’lar handle, just straight-pointed steel from the point ta the opp’sit end. Funny lookin’ they be. A course the Bowie knife mebe be fer buff’ler skinning, though he don’t look like he could even lift a buffler’s ear. Didn’t see no gun on ‘im, though.”

“Boon Elm, huh? Odd name. I wonder if it’s his real name. Thanks, Jesse.”

                                                        *

A couple of days had passed slowly, and boredom had set in like an umbrella over the town. To understand how extreme that boredom was, Polly Darton, the town’s Lady Godiva, wasn’t getting much attention from the town’s male residents. The gawking, laughing, and whispered dirty jokes had all fallen to a minimum, except at the saloon. Then I could tell, by their faces, that they had reached the point where ‘Too much of a good thing gets boring,’ takes place.

Some of the women residents came to City Council meetings more frequently and demanded that they hire a lawman. There was no money for hiring a lawman, so the City Council passed an ordinance that the saloon had to pay fines for its and its customers’ infractions. The three councilmen approached Chalk Beeson, the owner of the Long Branch Saloon, about their actions. To their surprise, Chalk agreed to pay the negotiated fine amounts, so he could get them and their women off his back, especially stop the complaint of the loud noises coming from the rowdy, cowboy customers and the band that he had playing loudly most nights. That would be the money the City Council could use to pay a lawman, though there was, so far, no one who wanted the job even though, in the past, the job had been unsuccessfully advertised.

                                                *

Late at night, the moon looked like a fiery bullet hole in the dark sky. The Livery barn doors opened slowly, with no squeaking. A blast of hay and manure rushed outward. There was the muted sound of crushed hay that littered the floor, but it was like a whisper in the wind as he approached Ben’s room in the back of the livery. There was no door because Ben wanted to be able to hear the animals if they were disturbed or in need. The man had been slow and cautious, to limit his noise so he did not bother the horses, though some of the curious ones turned and stuck their heads out of the stall’s half-doors. The bright moon reflected light off a metal object in his hand. The dark figure, looking like a live shadow, stepped closer.

                                                *

Art woke before Tom. He didn’t want to bother Tom. “Let him sleep in,” he thought. He doubted that the restaurant was open yet, but he didn’t want to be a burden to Tom, so he started for the livery. He knew that Ben rose from bed before daybreak and the sun was now peeking over its horizontal bed.

One barn door was open. “That’s odd,” Art thought. He entered and called Ben’s

name but got no response. He called louder, but still no response. The hairs on the back of his neck stiffened as his eyes shifted back and forth, suspiciously, throughout the barn. Everything looked normal until he spotted red splotches on the hay that was lying on the dirt floor. “Shit,” he said aloud, as he rushed to Ben’s room in the back. Ben lay there covered in blood. His chest looked like a red bib. The side of the bed had a small pool of blood that dripped onto the dirt floor making a black spot as it mingled with the dirt. Blood dripped from Ben's neck, looking like a slow, twisting ribbon.

Art sprinted to get Tom. Once in the room, he screamed, “Tom! Wake up!” He shook Tom, leaving blood on his nightshirt. Tom grumbled at his sudden awakening. “Goddamnit!” Art yelled close to Tom’s ear. Tom rolled over and groggily said, “What the hell, Art. What’s goin” on? Then Tom, noticed, with shock, that Art’s hands were so bloody that no flesh could be seen, as if Art were wearing bloody gloves. And then the blood’s hot-copper smell assaulted his nose

“Get up and get dressed. Ben has been knifed. There’s blood all over his room. Get your ass out of bed, now.”

“Is he alive?” Tom asked.

“I don’t think so. It looks to me like he was pinned to his bed, and then slashed. There are cuts on his chest and shoulders. His arms have cuts, but none of them look too deep. He has a cut at the hairline of his forehead, almost as if the attacker thought of scalping him, then had second thoughts about it.”

Having dressed, Tom said, “Let’s go.” They ran to the barn, their bootheels crashing on the wooden floor, raising the dust that lay on the boardwalk.

On entering the barn, Tom used both hands to scoop up a pile of hay. He asked Art to do the same. Once at the doorway of Ben’s back room, Tom dropped his hay at the side of Ben’s bed, kneeled, and listened for the sound of breathing. He couldn’t hear Ben’s breath, so he placed his fingers on Ben’s neck and felt a weak pulse.

“Art. Please get Doc Martin. Hurry,” Tom stated in an angry, agitated voice. He wiped tears off his cheeks, then noticed the parallel lines of blood on Ben’s blanket, which were most likely made by the assailant wiping the blood off his knife blade. That gruesome sight increased his irritation to an explosive peak as if a barbed wire was dragging across a bundle of nerves. He thought, “Art was right. Someone straddled Ben so the lower half of his body was trapped under the blanket as the weight of the assailant straddled him heavily as if he were a horse. His ability to escape, or even move much would have been denied to him.”

Doc swore angrily when he saw the condition Ben was in. He didn’t mind getting blood on himself as we did. Art and I unconsciously kept wiping our blood-stained hands on the thighs of our pants. I looked at my hands as if Shakespeare was reciting some words from his play Macbeth, and thinking as Macbeth after he kills Duncan that not even an ocean of water will cleanse these hands.

“We need my stretcher,” Doc stated, not looking at anyone. My tears dripped to the ground and mixed with a patch of dirt. Near that patch of wet dirt lay a small piece of dirty, greasy leather. I picked it up and shoved it into my pocket.

“I’ll get it,” Art said When he returned, we loaded Ben as carefully as we could onto the stretcher and brought him to Doc’s office where he had a bed for a patient, though it was rarely needed.

Once there, Doc looked at us somberly. “Chances are not good that he’ll make it. He’s lost too much blood. Any chance you might know who did this? The shock of his injuries has placed him in a state that we doctors call comatose. It means he’s in a deep unconscious sleep for an indefinable time. It could be a day, a week, or a month. If his body heals well enough, then his natural body mechanisms will wake him up. But don’t take that as a guarantee. He’s really in bad shape. I’m surprised he’s lived this long. I wanted all of you to see him, to say your dearest goodbyes, spiritual or otherwise, just in case he dies tonight. That, friends, sounds awful, but I won’t pull punches. At least, if he does die tonight, you will have had your chance to see him and say your final words to him. Do you have any idea who would do this to Ben?”

Art and I looked at each other, thinking the same thing and feeling the same violent urge. “Yeah, Doc,” I responded. “We have a good idea who did this.” We left Doc and returned to the Sheriff’s office where we took two old 1860 Henry Repeating rifles and placed them in our horse scabbards. It was just a precaution, but caution may save lives.

I gazed sadly at Doc Martin who was standing in the doorway of his office. “Thanks, Doc. If ever you are in need, and it’s something I can help with, you let me know, and it’ll get done, OK?”

“Sure. Thanks,” Doc replied, as Clara walked out of his office.

Art returned to our room, and I walked off with Clara. We went to her family's home above the restaurant. She, her parents, and I had kind stories about Ben. They knew him much longer than I did, but I doubt they loved the guy more than I did. He was like a part-time father.

Back in the room with Art, I stated, “We’ve practiced with your pistol on all those boring days. Neither one of us is a shootist, but you know how to use it and maintain it. Now you need to start wearing it. Don’t be silly about how you wear it. Wear it high on your waist or some idiot cowboy will think you’re a shootist and challenge you.”

“Gotcha,” he replied.

The next morning, before breakfast, Art and I went to see Ben. We knocked, entered Doc’s office, and were stunned to see a sheet draped over Ben’s entire body.

***I heard Doc say, “Sorry Tom, he died during the night and there was no one I could ask to give you the sad news.” His voice sounded like it was an echo from a faraway mountain.

Doc continued, “He died too quickly and at a bad hour or the night. I had wanted the three of you to see Ben in case he didn’t make it. I know this sounds awful, but if he died and you didn’t have a chance to say your final goodbyes, you’d feel bad. It’s only natural. Unfortunately, you didn’t get that chance. I’m sorry. His condition must have suddenly, but quietly, gotten worse as I slept. He’s never regained consciousness. He’s in what we doctors call a comatose state. That means that he was in a state of deep unconsciousness and there’s no telling when he will wake up from it. Maybe a day, a week, a month. Everyone is different. I’ve heard of patients being comatose for months, even years, then one day they wake up. Extremely rare, of course, but Ben had lost too much blood, and all the cuts he sustained were too much of a shock to his body. He was a quiet man, not very social, but friendly. You should know, Tom, that you made him unusually happy this last year. It has been a few years since I saw genuine smiles of happiness in him. You did that. He was always talking about you with a big smile and contentment. I’m so sorry, Tom. I’ll take care of funeral arrangements for you. Ben had no family. None that he knew or was close to, anyway. That’s why Ben gave this letter to me, to pass it on to you if he died. I would say that it’s a parting letter, as well as a ‘will.’ We didn’t expect it to happen so soon. I didn’t open it.”

We all stood next to Ben’s lifeless body and said our final goodbyes to a good man. Then we said goodbye to Doc. We left his office, but he stood in the open doorway and waved at us, though he said nothing. The morning sun gleamed off his eyes and cheeks, reflecting his teardrops. He had also liked Ben. His tearful emotion, however, told me that he and Ben had once been much closer friends than I was aware of, but that must have been before I arrived in Dodge.

Tears washed over my eyes. I desperately wanted Ben to recover. Art looked stunned, his eyes wide and mouth open. He said his dead parents didn’t look as bad as Ben had looked. He expressed his anger with a growl. I felt a volcano of rage bubbling upward, inside of me, singeing my heart and burning my lungs, making me gasp for breath. I choked and nearly vomited as I doubled over, my hands braced on my knees for support. I felt Art’s warm hand on my shoulder. A good friend who felt my pain.

We walked to the restaurant, though I wasn’t hungry and only wanted coffee, lots of coffee, strong, black, and able to float a nail on it. Clara saw Art and me through the restaurant window and rushed to the doorway with a worried look distorting her lovely face. We kissed, but not with enthusiasm. “I just heard about it from a customer. She kissed my cheek and rubbed my shoulder. Art was kind, quiet, and patient as Clara took command of my dazed mind. Clara said, “You need coffee. Come inside and sit. I’ll bring a whole pot of coffee. Art, please join us.”

It was too early for there to be many people, but those men were town residents who had also heard the sad news, and whose emotions were stamped on their faces. Emotions of disgust and fear. There was only one unrecognized woman customer. She had one hand over her breast in shock, while the men shook their heads back and forth, worried about what was happening to their town.

Art and I ate, but nothing tasted good to me. It wasn’t the food. I knew I was in one of my moods that affected my tastebuds. Art asked if I wanted to eat my eggs, bacon, and mashed potatoes. I took a slab of bacon and gave my plate to Art who smiled with delight and yellow, egg yoke-stained teeth. “You look ridiculously funny, Pard’,” I whispered.

When we departed, I kissed Clara goodbye and said, “See you at dinnertime, Honey.” We both paused, looking affectionately at each other. Her smile was framed by her hair, like a curtain on each side of a window, and in the window was a rose. We parted slowly, each of us showing a restrained smile.

Art had kept walking to the hotel, so I ran to catch up to him. We returned to our

room so Art could get his gun and holster. Then we returned to the livery to do our

 best at running the business I’ve visited Ben often enough to know how he operated the livery. We fed and watered the horses, and brushed some that needed it. Luckily, the livery was only half full. By the end of the day, two of the six horses had been picked up, and money was paid for the livery service. Of the other four horses, two of them were ours.

Back in our room, I read Ben’s letter. It said:

My good fren, tom. If yuh be a reedin this then I be ded. I wish I coulda no yuh longr. Yuh mad my live hapyer then it be fer many a year. Yuh be a good man Tom. Stay thet way. Done know what kilt me but hope yuh will look inta it. Olden age dead i be hopin but thet Stoney scars me. I no what grate feer tase like. It be a dry mowth wid gritty taste of mowth full a sand. Be safe my good fren. My WILL be with dis ledder in anvilope. I gives all my thangs and liveree bidness to yuh Tom. It all be yores now. God bles yuh an keeps yuh tom an keep yuh saf. Ben

                                                         *

At mid-afternoon, we mounted our horses and traveled a couple of miles out of town for target practice. I taught Art the same way I taught myself, including important advice from Ben. Art was a fast learner and could accurately hit targets such as tree stumps, knot holes, the crotch of branches, and even a leaf that got stuck in the bark of a tree branch. He, like me, wanted to draw fast. He tried it and lost much of his accuracy. He slowed down and regained that lost accuracy. Neither one of us was   likely to be a noted gunslinger, though, in my last few practices, I had good accuracy as I drew my gun a little faster than normal. The funny thing was, I wasn’t aiming with the gunsights. I once told Ben about it. He said that it was called, ‘instinct shooting’ and he only knew of three persons that did it well: Bill Hickock, Wyatt Earp, and John Wesley Hardin. “Let me tell yuh, Tom,” he said,” Hickock and Earp had done some bad stuff at times but were moral people. John Wesley Harding is a sadistic, immoral, stone-cold killer.”

I kept saying to Art, “Don’t be fast, be accurate,” followed by, “I’m not as slow as I used to be, but I’m not fast either. A shootist often misses the first shot, so don’t sacrifice accuracy for speed. My stance came about accidentally. It worked so I stuck with it. It’s the sideways stance that I showed you. You need to figure out the best stance for you. I learned that I’m much less of a target when I turn sideways with my shoulders lined up with the target. I learned that trick by accident when I killed Sawyer Biggs, the brother of Edward Biggs, who now goes by the name of Charlie Stone or Stoney. I am gifted with the ability to shoot instinctively. You either have it already, or it takes months or years of practice to learn it.”

“How do you do it?” Art wondered out loud.

“To shoot by instinct, you don’t line up the front and rear sights. I surprised myself last year when I saw that I could do it, and be accurate, but not as accurate as using the sights. I can take a faster shot that way. Watch,” I said to Art as I drew my gun, held it up next to my lower ribs, and instinctively shot an inch away from my target, a knot hole in a tree, about fifty feet away.

“Damn!” Art murmured, as he raised his eyelids showing both shock and wonder. “Do it again,” he begged.

“OK. But this time you pick the target for me.”

“Sure,” Art looked around at the ground and up into the trees. He suddenly saw a squirrel and pointed it out.

“No. I don’t want to kill something that’s not a threat to me or you. Pick something else, a safe object.”

“OK. I got it now. See where a small patch of bark fell off that oak tree. It’s about the size of a silver dollar. Can you put a bullet anywhere in that bare patch?”

“You picked one twice as far away but let me try.” I drew moderately fast, aimed by instinct, and shot. The bullet impacted about two inches outside the patch. I pulled the hammer back again and aimed the gum with my eyes on the gun sights of my fully extended arm. After pulling the trigger and seeing that the bullet struck the bare area of tree bark.

Art slapped his thigh and said, “Wow, man. You’re a shootist.”

“A shootist, I am not, Art. Being called that is dangerous. A real shootist would likely kill me with his first shot. He’ll draw in a blur and be accurate. Being called a ‘shootist’ will get me challenged and possibly killed by a superior gunman. I manage a gun well enough to defend myself. Now, you keep practicing.”

After an hour of gun practice, we got our rifles out and practiced with them, too. In my teens I had been a deer hunter, so using the rifle came easily to me, but Art needed more practice. He shot as I gave him tips for better shooting. We stopped our practice session before dinner time. We mounted and casually rode back to the restaurant for dinner.

When we were back in our room, Art started snickering.

“What are you thinking now,” I asked him.

“I always wanted to view the Wyoming Grand Titans in person. But I don’t have to travel any farther West, because when you introduced me to Clara, I had a grand view of them.” More giggling, then our silly joking prevailed.

Art blurted, “Such a titillating view even though it was only a titbit, perhaps only a tithe. I hope I’m not causing a tither feeling, but if so, please forgive my tittering. Yep, you’re a lucky guy to have such a pretty titi with well-shaped tits.

I countered with, “Well, now, aren’t you the titman with the brain of a titlark or a titmouse? I’ll admit, Clara does, on special occasions, titivate me as we both titter together. Sometimes we are tittup, so we dance around the room pretending that we hear music. You and I will never measure up to the titular characteristics of a city Sheriff and deputy. OK, let’s stop all the ‘tit’ words now. It would embarrass Clara if she knew we were both being assholes.”

“Also,” Tom added, “Our Eastern education can sometimes be embarrassing to us and humiliating to others. Choose your words carefully. But as long as we’re on the subject of education, did you know that besides the fact that Doc Holliday and Johnny Ringo hated each other, no one understood their insults at each other? Why? They both spoke Latin when they insulted each other.”

“Mentioning education bores me and makes me sleepy. Good night.”

I had been troubled for a week about what to do concerning Ben’s attack. I thought that there was still some doubt that Sawyer’s brother was the knife wielder who cut up Ben. Art wanted to act by boldly confronting him. He had visited the Long Branch against my advice. His story was that Biggs was drunk most days and most nights as well. In a heated card game, Biggs rose from his chair at the table, drunk and dizzy, about to protest something. All he did was deposit his stomach contents of sardines and cheese onto the table. The splash putrid splash of vomit got on everyone at the table.

“As I departed the Branch, I saw something funny,” Art continued. “The long bar is crowded and has three bartenders because the customers stood two-men-deep like busy bees wanting their nectar immediately. The cigarette and cigar smoke was so thick that it was so nauseous that I had to leave with burning eyes and a stinging nose. as they choked each other, and me, with their thick fog of smoke which hung over the bar area like a thick, ominous cloud. They tie their horses anywhere they can tie the horse’s reins ‘cause there are not enough railings. It looks humorous seeing them tied to shrubs, saplings, and lower stunted tree branches. The funny thing I saw was that many of those horses have their heads together as if they are telling tales about the men who ride them.”

It was perceptive but I wasn’t in a humorous mood. “Art, it may be more conclusive evidence if we could examine Sawyer’s brother Edward Bigg’s, who now goes by the name Stoney, examine his knife for blood. We know he couldn’t have used his axe or Ben would have bled to death fast with deeper wounds. On second thought, even if we found blood, that wouldn’t prove that he was the culprit. It could be animal blood, but I’d still like to see it. Shit! That’s useless. I’ll bet that most of the cowboys in town have blood on their knives from hunting and skinning. So, might as well orget that.”

Art responded, “What if we enter the saloon at night when it’s busiest? At those times people a shoving, pushing, and bumping into each other. You can distract him, and I’ll take his knife.”

“What? How are you going to do that? You don’t think he’ll feel you steal his knife?”

“Hey, tenderfoot, you aren’t aware how I make extra money during your year-long absence from Boston. My Pinkerton office job hardly paid enough to stay alive, so I got creative. I can pick a man’s pocket real good. Only been caught a couple of times, and then my boxing came in handy. But I got a lot better at it.”

I looked at him disapprovingly. “You can pick a pocket ‘real good’? How about ‘really well’ instead of good?”

“Screw that. We ain't in school no more, so I can speak foolishly if-n I wants ta,” Art responded sarcastically.

“Well, as far as the English language is concerned, you’ll fit right in with most cowboys.”

“Whoa, Pardner. What were those dirty looks you gave me? I know it’s stealing. But I don’t steal from people who can’t afford it. The rich manure-heads won’t miss it. Stealing a hundred of their dollars, to them, is like stealing one dollar from poor folks. You darn well know that I’ve never been as sanctimonious as you are. Shit, man, some of us fellas thought you’d become a priest.” Art laughed following his sarcasm. He continued, “I’m like that Robin Hood guy. I steal from the rich and give to the poor, and sometimes I feel poor. I needed money for drinks and entertainment. You remember those days. Shit! You were once as bad as the rest of the gang, even with well-to-do parents. Plus, I helped some poorer families of other friends.”

“No, and my apologies concerning my holier-than-thou attitude. Yeah, we did some crazy and risky stuff Pard,’ but I don’t remember stealing money.”

“Well, why would you? You didn’t need the money. You got an allowance, and if you needed more, you just asked your dad for more. Now let’s get back to the knife. So, do you agree that the best time to do it is when the saloon is packed and there’s little room to move around so people jostle each other? That’s always the best time to do it,” Art stated.

“Agreed. That’s good. Let’s do it tonight.” That made him happy.

“Hot damn!” he shouted, followed by, “The place is usually jammed around ten o’clock. Sound good?”

“Yep.” I placed my arm around Art’s shoulders and we both laughed, his shoulder bouncing my arm.

We finished dinner at about seven p.m. I stayed with Clara and Art went to our room for a nap. When ten o’clock came I woke him up. We checked our guns, then walked to the Long Branch. At our end of the street, the noise was dim, but the closer we got the louder the noise got. Most of it was incomprehensible, drunken slurs. Piano music competed with it. Someone was tapping the ivories to the sentimental tune of Old Dog Tray. We pushed our way through the batwing doors and sauntered toward the bar, smelling, and seeing a table with sardines, oysters, salted crackers, cheese, and salty jerky. Free food? Sure, but the salt makes someone thirsty, and Beeson was a wise man for offering those snacks freely.

The piano music continued loudly though we could not see it or the one playing it through the mass of customers and a heavy smoke fog. We squeezed through the crowd. The floor was covered with sawdust and straw to absorb spilled beer, whiskey, vomit, and, occasionally, blood. My nostrils rebelled so I breathed through my mouth, when possible (when not talking). We finally reached the bar with plenty of eyes on us, the outsiders. I noticed a couple of brandy and gin bottles, seldom asked for and no wine was apparent as it was shunned for its weakness and taste. We worked our way through the sweaty group of men, then Art ordered a beer while I ordered a shot of whiskey. We looked around the room and saw Biggs sitting at a card table, sweaty, face flushed with anger.

Art leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, “He’s sitting. I can’t do it while he’s sitting. We have to get him to come to the bar.”

I signaled our bartender. “You see that big guy at the card table? The one who’s shouting at the dealer.” He acknowledged me. “I want to buy him a drink. Will you bring it to him?”

“Do I look like I have time to serve drinks at tables?” He stood on something and peered over all the heads, then screamed, with his hands cupping around his mouth, “Hey Stoney! Stoney! A guy wants to buy you a drink. Get over here.” Stoney (Biggs) stood up, slammed his cards down, not winning the hand, and weaved his way to the bar. My back was to him, so he didn’t recognize me. The bartender pointed at me, and I turned to face him.

“You? Do yuh really wanna buy me a drink? I should smash yer head in fer yuh. But I drink first.” He looked at the bartender, who had several patrons begging for his attention, and said, “I wan’ da ‘spensive whiskey, not the cheap House tonsil paint, an’ I wan’ it poured inta a glass a that new beer, that ‘Anahouse Butch stuff from Saint Louey,” he said loudly to the bartender. An this fella (he pointed to me) he be paying fer it. The bartender temporarily disappeared to get the more expensive Anheuser-Busch beer, leaving angry customers with only two bartenders. Art squeezed to the other side of Stoney, thus getting into position to lift Stoney’s knife out of its sheath.

Stoney drank the whole glass at once, then licked the froth off his thick lips. He stared at me; fists clenched, a sneer twisting his lips, and with anger in his glazed eyes. “Why yuh buy me a drink? Yuh tink it because you kilt my brother, Sawyer? You a dead man. Yuh jest doesn’t know when and where you died.” His laughter was so loud that it shut out all other saloon noises. People stopped drinking, stopped dancing, stopped their card games. Finally, Stoney stopped laughing, and held his fist up to me, saying, “Jest when an’ where you be wondering every day.”

“Look. I know you must be angry at me due to our disagreement with the livery, but my killing Sawyer was in self-defense. He was trying to kill me. I wanted to apologize for the livery disagreement, not for killing in self-defense.” Art was in position. The bartender showed up to deliver the second drink and to collect the money from me. After Stoney took two giant gulps of the mixture, he bellowed. “Yuh wansta play cawds? I takes yuh money before I takes yer life.”

Art was now back by my side and silently mouthed the words, “Got it.” I read his lips and smiled.

“No, but thanks for asking. My friend and I (I looked at Art) need to visit a friend who’s expecting us. Thanks for accepting my apology.” Before Stoney could reply, Art and I walked away quickly toward the batwing doors. Before we got there, Stoney bellowed the question, “How’s yer liv’ry frien.’ Heard he got ’tacked. Must be awful ta be that old an’ git knifed like that. Musta made hisself a enemy.” The sarcastic, teasing smile let us know, without admitting it, that he was the culprit that slashed Ben, and that by taunting me, he was letting me know that I couldn’t do anything about it. But hinting that you did something isn’t the same as proof that he did it, not conclusive proof anyway.

I turned my head to look at Stoney. “Is it true that your hobby is trying to drown fish? I heard that you once got stabbed at a gunfight?” The laughter was so loud that the dust from the roof came floating down like dirty snow. Once in the street, Art whispered, “I got the knife. It was easy amongst all the pushing and shoving going on at the bar.”

We kept walking, then I heard Art clear his throat. To me, that meant he wanted to say something. I was right.

“Tom. Something I don’t understand.”

“OK. What is it?”

“How do those soiled doves not get pregnant?”

“Jesus Christ, Art. We are risking our necks, playing a dangerous game with a killer, and you wanna know why the soiled doves don’t get pregnant. One reason is that all the women who work in saloons are not prostitutes. They have other jobs that pay less, like getting cowboys to buy more drinks, singing, playing the piano, and cleaning rooms. Stuff like that.”

“We went there and got what we wanted, so now I’m curious.”

“Well, Clara told me that they take half of an empty lemon skin looking like a cup and place it over their cervix to prevent pregnancy by blocking a man’s sperm. Now don’t ask me about a cervix. That’s Clara’s word. I don’t wanna get into that detail ‘cause it's somewhere in the back of a woman’s vagina. I don’t understand that stuff, nor do I want to. She said that another method is used when there’s no time to prepare a lemon. The woman uses a sponge soaked in vinegar, then lightly squeezes out the excess vinegar and places the sponge over the cervix. Vinegar kills the man’s sperm. No more questions on that topic, please. Did I tell yuh that I talked to Beeson about not mixing diluted strychnine and turpentine with diluted whiskey, and then serving it? I heard some saloons do that to make the weakened whiskey have a more robust taste and effect. It’s called Tarantula Juice. Chalk gave me his word that he doesn’t do that. “Why would I?” he told me that it would make his customers sick and stop coming to his bar. He emphasized that his bar is never empty, so there’s never a reason to do that.” I believe him. Art and I walked the remainder of the way silently.

Back in our room we lit our kerosene lamp and hung it on a wall hook. Then we pushed our lone table against that same wall, so the bright light of the lamp lit the table. Then I placed two candles, spaced about eighteen inches apart and under the hanging lamp. Art placed Stoney’s knife between the two candles where the three light sources were the brightest with no shadows being cast on or from the knife. On close examination, our turned heads touching the table with one ear, we saw dried flakes of blood where the blade joins the handle, which is the hardest place to clean any knife. However, that wasn’t conclusive evidence. I looked at the leather-wrapped handle and jerked upward in shock. I ran to get a dirty pair of pants that I had worn

 the night of Ben’s attack. In one pocket I pulled out the old, dirty, and greasy bit of leather. I brought it to the table, Art looking at me with intense curiosity.

“Art, focus on the knife’s handle. What do you see?”

“Dirty, well-worn, and greasy leather. It’s so old it will fall apart if it isn’t wrapped with new leather. Oh, and there’s a patch torn off it. Why do you ask?”

Tom stated, “Take this piece of leather that I found near Ben. Notice anything?”

Art looked at it, turned it around, and then shot me a startled look of surprise and shock. He bent over the table, turned the knife, and fit the piece of leather into the spot it had been torn from. “Son of a bitch, Tom. It’s from Stoney’s knife handle.”

“Conclusive proof?” I asked him.

“That’s for damn sure. No question about it now. Stoney practically told us he did the attack because there was no proof. This is convincing proof, so let’s plan what to do over a cup of coffee and a pastry at the restaurant.”

While in the street, Clara came to us. She invited Art and me to her home to visit with her parents. We were welcomed by them and were seated in their living area. When we were seated it was quiet, for a few moments, then I told about how I had met Ben and how close we had become good friends and that he was like a grandfather and an advisor. He was always there for me and treated me like a loved son. I spoke of how many afternoons I spent helping him at the livery simply to be with him and hear stories about his life, his young adventurous days, and how much he liked to help people who came to his livery. He was gentle, soft-spoken, and wise with experiences far beyond most people who were much younger.

Everyone spoke kindly about Ben and told of the pleasant experiences that they had with him. Clara and her parents, Frank ‘Buck,’ and Ida met him when he was a  regular at the restaurant until he developed a touchy stomach and could only eat bland food. Ben still stopped in once in a while just to say hello and to chat,” Ida added.

An hour later Art and I walked to our room at the hotel. I lay down on my bed while Art sat on his, and gently tapped one foot on the floor as if not knowing what to do or say. Our table was between our beds, against the wall, in line with our pillows. My books were all sitting on their back covers. I saw Art grab the Ancient Greek Philosophers book. I could tell that by the color of the book covers. He picked it up and placed it on his lap, where it opened by itself, the back cover fell on his left thigh, while the front cover rested on his right thigh. He stared at the open pages, and then some words must have caught his eye because the motion of his eyes indicated that he was reading. If I were to think of just one of my books that he would pick to read, that would be the last one. Maybe the bright-colored covers attracted him or his selection may have been as simple as that book was on top of the nearest of the two piles of books. Anyway, in a couple of minutes, he groaned. He whispered to himself. He mumbled, “Damn.” Then he clearly said, “What the hell!”

As a distraction from my sad thoughts, I asked him, “Did yuh find something interesting?”

“Yeah, and it’s making me crazy. This one philosopher asks, ‘Can God create a rock so heavy that even he cannot lift it? If God can create such a rock, then the rock is now unliftable, which limits God’s supposed power. But if God cannot create such a rock, then he is still not all-powerful because he cannot create such a heavy rock.’”

“Does that make sense to you?” Art asked as his eyes radiated surprise and frustrated doubt.

“Well, if people choose to say their God is all-powerful, and you can’t see anything wrong with the logic of what you read, then, yes, it does make sense and their God can not be all-powerful. It reveals a contradiction concerning the extreme powers that religion attributes to its God. Thinking further, one might, then, also question God’s ability to be all-knowing, and all-good, plus being everywhere, and hearing everything. but then they don’t think seriously about what they are saying. They don’t like to have logic interfere with what they like. Poor logic, contradictions, and any paradoxes that bring into doubt those extreme characteristics may infer unreasonable thinking that leads to unreasonable conclusions about their God. Religion became an inherited family tradition thousands of years ago. Children don’t decide what their religion will be, they automatically believe as their parents believe; with no questions asked, no doubts expressed, no curiosity, no skepticism about parental beliefs. Tell me, Art. If you grew up with your parents, all your relatives, and all your friends, all believing that the Greek God, Zeus, is the true God, wouldn't you grow up thinking that Zeus is your true God, too? Early indoctrination by parents and peers is lethal to skepticism and curiosity.”

“Hey, man. You're Catholic, too, right?”

“Like you, I was brought up as a Catholic simply because my parents are Catholic. I didn’t decide that for myself. I inherited it from my parents and relatives. A young mind is a sponge, so whatever their mom and dad say and believe is the right thing for them to say and believe. I started questioning my religion long before my teens. I couldn’t simply accept the nonsense portions of my parents’ faith, so I’m a Skeptic and sometimes more. The Catholic church has opposed every innovation and remarkable discovery since the times of Galileo to the present. Loyalty to petrified opinions, dogmas, half-truths, and outright lies is not an approach that an unbiased thinker travels on. It is sad to say that the truth dies easily in the face of old superstitions and mighty lies.”

Art interjected, “Hell. That’s enough confusion for me. I don’t need my brain smashed by thinking so deeply. I’ll read the Three Musketeers instead.” He replaced the philosophy book and gladly grabbed the fictional musketless Musketeers book and started reading.

I smiled and asked him, “How come the musketeers don’t carry muskets, just swords?”

“Don’t start that confusing thinking again. Let me alone, damn you.”

I laughed softly, thinking, “Calling those three men Musketeers is like telling a story about three adventurous, and famous horsemen who always walk to their adventures. That brought another silent giggle to me. Five minutes later, Art was asleep. He was fully clothed, but there was no sense disturbing him. I undressed, blew out the lamp, and climbed into bed.

 As I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling, I began imagining ways to seek revenge on Stoney. It was like projecting my thoughts onto the ceiling. They were vague and distorted, but real enough to enjoy. It seemed like I lay there for a couple of hours, revenge keeping me awake. My whole body suddenly stiffened as an urge to have my gun flooded out all other thoughts.

I eased my way out of bed, dressed, checked my gun, and left the room quietly. I walked into the street, and darkness engulfed me with it many twinkling eyes winking at me from far above. The Long Branch was still roaring with noise and energetic activity. I stepped up on the boardwalk, slammed the bat-wing doors open, and screamed, “Stoney, or is it Edwar Biggs? I found a piece of your knife’s leather

manage next to Ben’s bed.

Stoney reached for his knife but only felt an empty sheath.

“You murdered Ben because of a disagreement on a livery price. It was only a God-damn bill for Ben taking care of your horse. You murdered him for that?” The saloon went quiet as Stoney stood from his card game, grinning.

“Ben didn’t do anything to you. It was me who made you leave the livery. I threatened you, even stuck the barrel of my gun down the front of your pants. It was me, not Ben, that you have a quarrel with. Seems that the big and strong can also be the biggest cowards. You humiliated yourself. Others are starting to see the true you now. A big mouth, growling grizzly bear of cowardice. You killed him with your knife as he slept? That’s the lowest kind of coward. I challenge you. Come outside and show us what a cowardly fool you really are.”

“He humiliated me, so he had it coming to him.”

“No! Ben didn’t humiliate you. Ben was cowering in fear when I showed up at the livery. He couldn’t threaten you. You were like a bear and he was a rabbit. You’re the worst kind of coward there is.”

The bartender bent behind the bar and produced a ten-gauge, double-barreled Greener shotgun, and said, “No violence in here fellas. Bring it outside.

“Trying to do just that barkeep. Maybe you can help with that,” I stated as I started turning for the bat-wing doors. Just then I heard someone say, “Watch out.”

Stoney had stood up from the table with his gun already drawn. I turned, saw his gun, and pulled my gun as I stood sideways to him. He fired and missed, but I heard the bullet buzz passed me. I shot, instinctively, not aiming with the gun’s sights, and rapidly fired twice, a bullet penetrated each of his eyes. He staggered backward, then crumpled to the floor. As he was falling, I did use my gun sights to aim at the bartender. “I see your fingers. You so much as put any more pressure on that Greener and you’ll be dead, too. Your finger will turn white from blood being pushed out to it when you press the trigger. That’s when I shoot you. Put it away. It’s obvious that I shot in self-defense.” He placed the Greener below the bar.

As I backed out of the bat-wing doors, I held my gun at the ready posture, but no one challenged me. There was a lot of whispering though. I heard, “He deserved it,” and “Did you see the two holes where his eyes used to be?” As a precautionary measure, I backed up until I was covered in darkness. Then I returned to my bed and did not sleep all night. The door was locked and my gun was on my chest. I was prepared.

I must have fallen asleep because I startled myself awake the next morning just after sunrise. A bad dream had awakened me. No, I thought, it wasn’t a dream at all. It was real. I had killed Edward Biggs, alias ‘Stoney’ at the Long Branch early in the morning hours. I saw that I was still dressed. I replaced my gun in its holster. I woke Art and told him what happened. He lacked words to say, except that he was disappointed that he couldn’t have covered my back. I chose not to talk about it anymore. He respected that. We walked quickly in the brisk early morning air to the restaurant.

Finally, the ominous storm cloud that cluttered my mind blew away with a strong cup of coffee. Art took Clara aside and told her what happened during the night. She said nothing, just poured me another cup of coffee. Finally, I could only feel a haze of minimal brain activity. I thought of Ben and I wondered, how many tears it would take to dilute a strong cup of coffee. I spent the day in bed and in a daze. Killing was getting tiresome.

                                                *

That night the sun was tired. It had rolled in a slow, fiery blaze across the sky and now it was time to go to bed on the western horizon. From its bed, the last of the sun’s rays would sprinkle the darkening sky with salt. Each grain will sparkle and wink at its earthly audience. I spent the night seeing Ben’s face outlined by the sparkling stars and made into a constellation. I would remember Ben whenever I gazed at the night sky.

The next night, as if Ben’s death and revenge on Stoney weren’t enough, Art and I moseyed over to the Jones restaurant for dinner and heard the news that was traveling around the room. It was about a cowboy found dead and with one of his legs missing. It was not a good time to be eating my medium-rare steak. Even the ketchup for my skillet-fried potatoes sent a chill up my spine. Art thought it was funny—gallows humor. “Bloody good dinner, right Tom? Hey, why’d you put blood on those spuds? You don’t suppose that missing leg is in the kitchen, do yuh? Don’tcha wonder what rare-cooked human thigh mabe tase like?”

“OK, OK. You’ve had your fun. So how did you like your steak?”

“Bloody good tastin'. Don’t like blood on my spuds, though. Ha!”

“Seriously. What do you think about a dead guy with his leg missing?”

“Not much … unless more bodies with missing legs or limbs show up.”

“Yeah, I agree.”

                                                                  *

The following week it happened again. A drunken cowboy departed the Long Branch and was not heard from for two days. He was found lying behind one of the Long Branch’s outhouses. One leg was missing, like before, the leg was cut high on the thigh and looked to have been cut with a hunting or skinning knife until the bone was reached, and then a hatchet or axe smashed through the bone near the hip.

The town residents, as well as the cowboys, were on edge. Conversations quickly switched from Ben’s death to the two murders with each victim missing one leg. Art and I talked about it. Did the killer and the victim know each other and were they enemies? Were the missing legs a symbol of some past action? Maybe the killer was deranged, but even so, there must still be some reason to cut off a leg. There’s a reason for everything. It’s simply a ‘cause and effect’ problem. The ‘cause’ is the reason, and the effect is the action determined by the ‘cause.’ The problem was that curious minds wanted to know the reason for the effect.

One day, at the Livery, I was chatting with Art about the Livery business, and if he missed Boston, and women and sex. At one point, when our laughter stopped, there was a pause that became elongated by the thought of a question not asked. So I asked, “Art, are you thinking the same thought as I am, concerning those missing legs?”

“Cannibalism? Is that your thought?

“Yep. Same thought. What a mess. It’s nearly unheard of except in cases like the Donner Party of westward travelers in 1846, but an investigation declared that it was truly the only way for any of them to survive, so no punishment came to the few survivors. More recently, in 1867 or 1868, there was the Colorado Cannibal; a guy named Alferd Packer who killed because, he said, he liked the taste of human meat. Before you ask, ‘Yes. His name was Alferd, not Alfred.’ He was imprisoned, escaped, and then caught, and sent to a mental asylum where he escaped, again. He returned to cannibalism, was caught, and then hanged. Now, it’s 1871, and we may have another killer cannibal.

Art gestured emphatically with a fist and said, “Damn, Tom! If other people start thinking that way, our Dodge City citizens, and cowboys will panic. Everyone will be afraid, and armed, plus no one will go out alone. Even the saloon cowboys won’t go to the outhouse without someone with them. The city residents may choose to shit their pants rather than go to the outhouse alone. Panic combined with fear will get someone killed by accident.”

                                                            *

My visits to Clara had the undertones of sadness and fear. I saw her at meals and, sometimes, in her home. On those occasions, I could see apprehension in the eyes of her parents. The dangers and fear that were multiplying in Dodge brought up talk about moving, perhaps to Leavenworth, Kansas, which was three hundred miles northeast.

The City Councilmen hired a gravedigger to dispose of the two one-legged corpses The following week was quiet, nothing disturbing. Quiet before the storm?

“Art,” I asked. “How do you like taking control of the Livery Business?”

“I like it. It’s not usually difficult and I sure like the paying customers. They put a jingle in one pocket and a whisper of paper money in the other. I can easily pay you back for the loans you gave me. You know, the mixture of the odors of horses, horseshit, and hay creates an odor that is appealing to me. Really. I’m not joking.”

“I know what you mean. Now, what if that were your main job in town? Doing it every day? We may not see each other as much, but you would have a needed job and your own money.”

“I need the money and like the job, so, at least temporarily, I’d be satisfied with the Livery business. I couldn’t do the Blacksmith’s job though. This is odd, you know with me coming from lower middle-class Boston to a barn with a blended smell of horses, horseshit, hay, and manure.

“If you like it, I could sign the business over to you. Ben would appreciate someone who seriously cared about the job.”

                                                            *

I hadn’t taken care of school business yet. The school was closed temporarily. The children were pleased, but the parents were not. The school gave them a few hours' break from their little devils.

I had the two Broder girls in my classroom, even though Mrs. Broder used to do homeschooling until her husband needed help around the farm. She had more education than most women and men in the West. I asked her, Sharon Broder, to think about taking my schoolteacher’s job. That was before my trip to Boston. I decided to visit her and hoped she would take the job because, secretly, the remaining members of the City Council, in private, approached me about being the town sheriff. I liked the idea but needed someone to take my job as the teacher in town. The city council promised me that my replacement would receive the same pay as I had received. I was sure Sharon would accept it with her husband’s, Eric, blessing. They needed the money.

I walked to the Livery, chatted with Art, and praised him for his care of the horses. They were brushed, had fresh water, and a pile of hay. We talked as he completed shoveling the manure. The horses must be teasing him because as he cleaned up one horse's droppings, a previous horse would squeeze out more.

“I’ll saddle Boss myself, Art. Thanks for the grooming job you did.”

“Sure. No problem. I like the thought of you paying me to take care of your horse.”

I didn’t respond to that. I saddled Boss and leisurely trotted him out of town. The Broder farm was a couple of miles away. I was thinking of cannibalism all the way there and should have been thinking about school. I no sooner tied Boss to the railing when Sharon opened the door and met me on the porch. She had a smile on her face which made me hopeful.

“Tom, would you like to come in? I have milk and fresh baked oatmeal cookies.”

I went inside as the kids were coming from the barn. “Hi, Mr. Hawken,” they said in unison. They came in for a drink, then left.

“Mighty nice girls you have,” I said.

“Thank you.” I sat at the table, ate a cookie, and drank the glass of warm cow’s milk, then asked, “Sharon, have you thought about my offer?”

“Yes. Eric and I talked it over, and since it pays, we decided that we could use the added income. So, yes, I’ll take over your teaching responsibilities. My kids don’t like it, though. They miss you. I thought a male teacher would scare them, but what happened was just the opposite. But, Tom, why leave? You're doing a great job with the kids, and soon there will be more.”

“Well, I’ve had a job offer that I’d like to take, and I can’t be the teacher any longer.”

“What job is that, Tom?”

“At this moment, I can’t tell you, but it will be revealed in a day or two. I forgot to mention that the hotel has offered their rarely used and smaller dining room for a classroom since my friend, and I are staying in the billiards building. A long table will be coming soon, and the students will have their own small slate-boards and chalk. Let me know of any other concerns or materials. I’ll ask my dad to ship them to us by train. Sorry, I can’t get you the desks. Too expensive for the council.”

Eric entered the house as I was leaving.

“Hi, Tom. The girls told me you were here. Wish I could have made it in sooner, but it’s good to see the kids’ teacher, again.” We shook hands. They were both nice people.

“The chickabiddies are going to get your wife as their new teacher now. Sharon will be a good replacement, I’m sure if you can spare her, but that point was decided already according to Sharon.“

“It was a decision by both of us, but the kids like you a lot. They’re sad to see you go, but you made sure the City Council knew it was still a paying job and the extra money will sure come in handy.”

Back in town now, I rode Boss to Zimmerman’s store. He had taken over the leadership of the City Council from Ben.

The store was nearly empty, so Henry pointed to a corner of the store and we both walked to it. “What happened?” Henry asked.

“Sharon Broder is replacing me as the City’s teacher and let me remind you that her new job is a paying job. Don’t offer her less than you paid me.” He agreed with the nod of his head, then I asked, “ What’s that addition to your store?”

“Forgot to tell you before. Sorry. It’s the new telegraph office. Unfortunately, even though it’s all hooked up to use it, we have no one who knows the Morse Code to operate it. We’ll find one soon enough. I’ve got inquiries out.”

“Thanks for the information. It will be useful to me and the city. Yes, I’ll accept the Sheriff’s job, but only until you hire a better-qualified person, and one more thing. I want a paid deputy.”

“Let’s not move too fast. The council needs to see how much money we collect from the fines that Chalk Beeson is paying. But, yes, a deputy soon. So, if we’re good on those points, I’ll get the other council members together and we can meet at the new Sheriff’s building and have a quiet, swearing-in-to-office ceremony. Shall we do it before lunch at eleven?”

“Sure. See you then Henry.” He was smiling widely as if in happy relief that the City would finally have a lawman. As far as a deputy was concerned, I was thinking about asking Art. As my trusted deputy, we could rely on our flesh and blood, tendons, bones, and occasionally, muscles, especially since Art was bigger and stronger than I had remembered. That pleased me because it may come in handy. But would Art want to be a deputy? He had the livery business well in hand and was earning a satisfactory wage from it. Maybe he should be a part-time deputy. Time will tell.

As we all departed from the new Sheriff’s building, we started hearing banging noises on the outer wall of the building. We walked out, turned the corner, and saw two drunk hatchet throwers who had made an ‘X’ on the wall with a sharp stone. They trying to hit the center of the ‘X’ but were not even close to the legs of the “X.” Mostly the hatchets were bouncing off the wall like stones bounding off metal.

“Hey!” I yelled, “Stop that. I don’t want you damaging buildings with your hatchets.”

“Well …er …ah, who you be? There ain't no lawman here, so it be none a yer bidness.” He laughed, and then his friend laughed. Their hatchets were on the ground, so I walked to them and picked them up. I’m the new sheriff in this city and I’m giving you a choice. Jail or walk away. If you choose to walk away, then see me tomorrow morning and I’ll give the hatchets back to you.”

“Well, shit, Mist-a Sheriff. Sure don’t wanna be in jail. Mostly want beer and wimins. Ain’t that right, Sonny?”

Sonny staggered closer to his buddy. “You think he be a real sheriff, Elmer? He looks ta be more boy then man.”

“He be wearing a sheriff badge, an’ we don’t want this ta spoil are drinkin,’ so we be walkin’ away. That OK sheriff?”

“That’s fine. What are your names, and why are you in Dodge? Then you two can be on your way.”

“Name’s Johnny Cole from Texas. People calls me Sonny. Gonna win me that hatchet throwing contess.”

“Like hell you is! The winner be me!” Elmer raged.

“Horseshit, Elmer. When we not be drunk, I always beats yuh nine outta ten throws.” Then in a teasing tone, “Sure glad I don’ have ta worry ‘bout yuh in this contess. I been a winner in many a hatchet-throwing contess, but I gives yuh second place ‘cause you be me drinkin’ buddy.” Cole laughed at Elmer while trying to place a hand on Elmer’s shoulder in friendship. He staggered, only brushed Elmer’s shoulder, then lost his balance and nearly fell.

Tom and Art saw the flash of rage in Elmer’s eyes, like orbital daggers, and the building-up of violence in his clenched, whitened, bloodless fists. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone from Boone’s fists but the anger lingered a second longer in his eyes. His eyes watered as if trying to put out the burning in his eyes.

Elmer slapped Johnny on the back and Johnny stumbled again. Tom caught him and stood him up. “ Me? I be Elmer Boone. Jes call me Boone. I be related to ole Danny Boone. He an’ I is from Penny-vania. Shit! I means—he said it slowly— Penn-cil-vane-ya, then thet Kentucky terr’tory. He be my great, great somethin’.” He burst out in a drunken, hysterical laugh, nearly falling.

“Don’t know who the hell Danny Boone is, but neither one of you will win the contest if you’re not sober or in the grip of a drunken hangover, with an exploding headache,” Tom stated.

“No, no, no. The hatchet-throw contess no be fer two, three weeks. We be sober then, but na ‘til then. Right, Boone?”

“Thet be true Sonny. Don’t like this kid shereef. Needs be taught a lesson; cut ‘em down to kid-size.”

“Don’t be stupid, Boone. We don’t want jail. We wanna beer an’ wimmin, so shuts yer pie-hole. Ok if we get a beer, Sheriff?”

“Fine. Get going. Come to the Sheriff’s office tomorrow and get your hatchets.”

As they walked away, Boone said, “Hombre talks funny. An Eastern yella-belly, I bet.”

Sonny offered, “Mayhaps he a baby whip-por-snipper… ah wippsersmacker. Ah fergits the name. Yuh knows, I mean he be a young, arr’gant an’ sassy, sissy. We needs beer.”

                                                                  *

He walked in the darkness of early morning; the night and its shadowy brethren had always kept him safe. The only light in the town was at the Long Branch, the saloon that was the third building from the end of  Front Street. The lights were always on there. Customers may be gone but always there was a man with a ten-gauge Greener ready to curtail any two-legged mischief.

The man did not worry. He was walking away from the saloon’s dim light and into deeper darkness, a path that also ruled his life. He felt at home, the darker, the better. Since he was a kid, he’d thought of the blanket of the night’s darkness as a security covering. Silence was the rule at this hour. His sadistic smile remained constant since, like his feet, it made no noise, then became tempered to match the blackness of his mind. He carried something long, bulky, and heavy-looking, but his footsteps were steady, so he was sober, and well-balanced. On certain nights drinking was forbidden because it was the enemy of conquest. Dark clothes aided him immensely. He shifted the weight of his object as he approached the new Sheriff’s office. He quietly stepped up on the boardwalk and faced the front door. Squatting slowly, and carefully, he placed the object in front of the door. It made no sound, so it wasn’t solid. The stealth of his walking matched the quiet and deadly stealth of a mountain lion. As he walked away, the saloon light was dim, like a candle before a wind blew it out. His dark-colored gloves and matching bandana concealed the whiteness of his skin though his deep sunburn would have sufficed. Rounding the corner of the building, the man disappeared into the specter of darkness, a phantom at home.

                                                                  *

Upon waking, Tom’s and Art’s stomachs competed for attention as they growled from hunger. The Jones restaurant was always open as if the sun rising over the horizon commanded its owners. They each salivated over their thoughts and images of bacon, eggs, ham, and skillet-browned potato slices. Tom though, had an extra reason to salivate. The chocolate in his life, Clara.

Clara was cleaning and setting tables, as her parents finished preparing the kitchen for the few early morning customers. Smiles appeared as Tom and Art entered as the first customers of the day.

Clara stopped and walked to Tom; her arms outstretched. They hugged and kissed once while Art rolled his eyes mocking them, teasingly, but jealously. Tom yelled hello to the kitchen and a couple of muffled responses exited the steamy kitchen. When they were seated, Clara yelled toward the kitchen, saying, “Two regulars for Tom and Art.” Her mom and dad knew Tom’s routine and supposed that Art would do the same until he felt comfortable in his new home.

Clara then sat with Tom and Art sipping their coffee, which was their normal routine when Tom came in each morning. It gave them a chance to talk for ten or fifteen minutes before Clara would get busy with their usual early-morning customers who were mostly the businessmen, the store and shop owners in the City. During the conversation, the subject of books came up. Art said he was reading The Three Musketeers by Alexander Dumas. Tom mentioned that he was reading a philosophy book about the ancient Greek philosophies.

“A philosophy book about ancient Greek thinkers? Not interested in that mind-bending stuff. Art, when you’ve finished with your book, may I read it?” Clara said, excitedly. “At least I’ve heard of that book, though it’s never been available. Tom likes to read the boring stuff.”

Art stared at Tom and giggled, then he and Clara both laughed at him, while they placed a finger on the tip of their nose, pushing it upward to indicate Tom’s snobbery, then increased their laughter.

Then, as the morning sun rose lazily into the sky, in walked an unfamiliar female customer, all dressed in fancy, high-brow clothes. She walked confidently and looked stern. A man walked into the restaurant and immediately sat at a table in the far corner. He looked around the room. As he twisted his body, his suitcoat opened and Tom saw the pistol in a shoulder holster and assumed it was a bodyguard for the unfamiliar customer, which gave him a clue as to who she was. She looked entirely different than she looked while riding her white horse, but her button-like, upwardly turned nose, was distinctive to me, but not to my friends.

Clara got up and casually approached her. A smile appeared as she said to Clara, “Coffee, please. Black with one level teaspoon of sugar or honey if sugar is unavailable. Also, a black coffee for the gentleman seated in the corner—she pointed to him.” Clara smiled at her, turned, and got the coffee. When she returned and set the coffee down, the lady ordered a breakfast of two sunnyside-up eggs, each placed onto buttered white bread, and a glass of water. Clara stood politely listening but never used paper to write orders on. She always remembered and verbally gave the orders to her mom and dad. When they were extra busy, Clara wrote the orders to keep them in order and make it easier for the kitchen.

We were so busy Clara had forgotten to serve coffee to the men, so out of the kitchen she came with a tray with three cups, spoons, honey, and a full pot of coffee. Sugar was scarce and was saved for baking cakes, pies, and other desserts. The men liked some sweetness, so she had a container of honey. Clara served the black coffee to the newcomer, then served coffee to Tom and Art, with a honey container.

She set the tray down on another table and once again sat with Tom and Art, who were staring at the pretty young lady.

“Got an eyeful of that stranger?” she asked.

“Sorry Dear, but I don’t recognize her. I know almost everyone in town.”

Then Art stopped staring and whispered, “Holy Christ on a cross. Tom, that’s Lady Godiva, only she’s dressed, not naked with wind-blown hair.”

Tom quipped, “Yep, Pardner, she does look different. Handsome woman.” He put his hand to his mouth but couldn’t suppress his giggle.

Clara bumped her shoulder into Tom’s shoulder. “Look, but no touching, Sheriff.”

Tom nodded in agreement, but Art leaned across the table, whispering, “ My eyes ain’t full yet, and the ‘no touching’ doesn’t suit me, because Polly’s gonna be my girlfriend.”

Clara and Tom were shocked by Art’s bold announcement, their eyes, and deeply lined foreheads making that obvious.

“Damn,” Tom whispered. “That’s pure danger, Art. She usually has a bodyguard.”

Art smiled sarcastically, got up from the table with his coffee, and walked to Polly’s table. He introduced himself and asked if he could sit and talk. Smiling demurely, she pointed to the chair across from her. A conversation was started but didn’t last long because someone was running up the street yelling. “It’s a leg! Another leg!” He kept repeating it over and over as he ran along the full length of Front Street.

Clara’s mom was bringing breakfast to Tom and Art when they both got up and ran through the door, Tom yelling, “Where is it? Where’s the leg?”

A screaming response said, “It be in fron’ a yer sheriff’s office door.”

Tom ran down the street to his new office, with Art not far behind.

Tom and Art stared at the leg. It looked as if it were torn out of the victim’s hip with the help of some brutal hacks, perhaps by a large knife, but probably from a smaller, camping hatchet.

“Not much blood on the boardwalk. It was drained of blood before being placed or thrown here. I’ll turn it over.”

“Shit!” yelped Art, “it’s got a bite out of it. Now we know we’re dealing with a deranged cannibal. “Jesus, man. Back in Boston, a couple of years ago, the newspaper had a gruesome story about a hatchet killer who ate parts of his victims, especially the liver, which, from what I’ve read, can be eaten raw, as the Indians did

 after hunting and killing animals.”

“God Dammit! As if we don’t have enough trouble with cowboys, cattlemen, and the Long Branch. Now we may have a killer cannibal in town. You remember anything else about him?”

“Yeah. I remember his name was Levi. I remember because of the Levi pants. Seems like he may have been related to Danny . . .”

“Danny Boone?”

“Yeah. Danny Boone.”

We have to find those hatchet throwers that came early for the contests. What’d they say their names were? Wasn’t one called Sonny Cole?”

“Yep. And the other guy said his name was Elmer Boone, but the newspaper didn’t give his name as Elmer Boone. Maybe Elmer is a relative of the killer.”

“Maybe that leg belongs to Sonny and Elmer’s the killer. What do you think, Art?”

“Damn! I don’t know, but we can’t go accusing someone of being a killer as well as a cannibal simply because we are suspicious.”

“Yeah. Let’s get this leg out back and bury it. Don’t want anyone to see the bite. Was Danny Boone from Kentucky? Maybe Pennsylvania?” asked Tom.

“I don’t know. . .  Oh, wait . . .  “

Kentucky, I think. Seems that I remember ‘Lincoln County’ being mentioned in that newspaper article. I remember that ‘cause of President Lincoln. I also remember that Dad wouldn’t let Mom read about it.”

“Gonna send a telegraph to the county seat in Kentucky. See if the law there knows about this man.”

The next day the new city telegrapher gladly helped Tom find the county seats for both Pennsylvania and Kentucky using his telegrapher skills. By early afternoon Tom

knew that Boone was born in Pennsylvania, but his parents then moved to Kentucky, whose county seat in  Lincoln County was Stafford, while the county seat of Berks County, Pennsylvania, where Danny Boone was born, was Reading.

In their room that night, Tom drafted two telegraph messages to be sent to Stafford, Kentucky, and Reading, Pennsylvania, both messages, were nearly identical and they inquired about a killer who was also a cannibal.

“When do yuh think you’ll get an answer, Tom?”

“Any time now. Both were sent as ‘urgent messages.”

The next day came an answer from the Reading, Pennsylvania Sheriff. The message to Tom said the Sheriff did not know such a killer in Pennsylvania, but he referred me to Kentucky law enforcement which did have a problem like that a few years ago.

In late afternoon Tom got the telegram from the Stafford, Kentucky sheriff. It came in four parts due to its length. The telegrapher handed them to Tom with a sore arm and eyes from such an unusually long telegraph message that said:

“To Dodge City Sheriff Tom Hawken. You must be about Levi Boone Helm, the ‘Kentucky Cannibal.’ Killed his cousin and slashed his wife and daughter with Bowie knife. Was crazy enough to ride his horse into courtroom at trial. Found to be insane, so sent to state asylum. Escaped. Went west to escape the law. Escaped asylum with two other men who he killed and ate parts of them while on the run. Last heard, he went to Texas to be part of cattle drives. Maybe on cattle drive to Kansas area. Had worked for the violent Danite Mormons but didn’t stay long because he killed the Mormons who argued with him. When last seen, a year ago in Colorado, he was reported being pale, sunken-eyed, and so dirty that flecks of dirt fell off him as he walked. Height 5-7, weight 120. Extremely dangerous. Prefers using hatchet as a weapon.”

Art read the telegram over Tom’s shoulder, both of them stiffening at the confirming news.

“Well. Looks like our Mr. Elmer Boone is really Levi Boone Helm. He certainly wasn’t being smart to take a name so close to his real one. A guy like that doesn’t know what he doesn’t know, until he finally has it pointed out to him, and will he remember that he knows it now.

“Huh? You mean, if he could speak his mind, he’d have to remain silent?” Art joked.

“Something like that. Tomorrow, while you take care of the livery, I’ll go around town to see if anyone has seen Boone, especially at the Long Branch. Do you wanna meet for an early lunch with Clara? Say 11 o’clock?

“Sure thing.”

                                                                  *

The next morning, at breakfast, Clara was concerned. “Tom, what’s going on? I haven’t seen you very much, and you are usually always here for dinner.”

Art excused himself to give Tom and Clara privacy. He went to get a fresh cup of coffee and a pastry. That done, he sipped the coffee and nibbled on the pastry while hoping there was no lasting problem between Clara and Tom. Then, seeing the frequent smiles from both of them, he was relieved and walked back to the table.

Clara had to leave for the kitchen. Tom and Art paid for the food and walked outside.

“What was that about, if I may ask?”

“Clara was curious about my absences and the stress that showed on my face. She was satisfied with me being busy trying to solve the cut-off legs mystery. I didn’t go into detail with her. If she asks you about it, keep the gory details out of it. And now I have something important to ask you . . .”

“So, ask?”

“I need a deputy. It’s tough to do the job without help. Would you be interested in that sort of job? You’ll be paid a deputy’s pay.”

“Hell, yeah, I’m interested. Been practicing with my six-shooter almost every day. I do it in the back of the livery where that huge pile of buffalo skulls lay abandoned. Like you, I’m now accurate, not fast. Deputize me when we get to the office.”

Art was not, officially, my deputy, whether the City Council was prepared for it, or not, but he was wearing a deputy badge, which he rubbed, oiled, and made shiny and smooth, and he started wearing it even while doing chores in the livery. If necessary, I’d swear him in as my deputy and share my pay with him.

I did as I said I would. I visited as many store owners as I could to ask them if they had seen Boone. I gave as clear a description as I could. Boone was seen, but not for the last few days. I had better luck at the Long Branch where, for the price of two drinks, I got some useful information.

“Yuh sees, Sheriff,” the man said, “when it comes nighttime me an’ a frien’ smells smoke. Seems ta be comin’ from the east or northeast, but only on a breezy night. Right, Lefty?”

“Shore ‘nough, Zeek. An’ there be a old Homesteader, run-down an’ abanned barn out thet away. Someone seem to be thare. Yuh knows of it, Sheriff? Ain’t seen ‘im in coupla days. Not a friendly lookin’ sort a guy, but he hang around with a hatchet-throwing frien’ a his. I Ain’t seen him of late either.”

“Yeah, I know the place. The old Patterson place,” Tom said. “ They couldn’t make a go of it, so they moved on before I came here. Heard stories about them. Supposedly nice people. Sorry to lose them. We need more nice people and families here in Dodge.”

“Glad ta help yuh, Sheriff,” said Zeek. “It warth ‘nother beer?”

“Bartender! Give these two men another beer. Money’s on the bar.” Tom departed, thinking, “All these cattlemen are in for a terrible surprise when they hear about the invention of barbed wire in ’67 by a farmer in Ohio. The feuds, violence, and killings will triple because the cattlemen expect an open range to drive their cattle to market, not barbed wire around a person’s farm which is a formidable obstacle to a cattle drive and pasture lands.”

                                                                  *

Two days later Art approached Tom wanting to speak privately. They went to the Sheriff’s office with nobody in jail, they could be alone. Tom sat behind his desk and Art sat in a chair next to him, leaning forward, listening

Between a whisper and his regular voice, Art said, “You must have noticed that I’ve been gone from the room a couple of nights and getting to bed late.”

“That’s your business, Art. You need your privacy. No problem.”

“It may be a problem because I was in the Long Branch spying, trying to gather information from careless and loud speaking. I tried to be friendly and told Chalk I was only there to drink and not there for any Sheriff’s or Deputy’s business. He was surprised and told me to place my deputy’s badge in my pocket to prevent arguments and brawls, then told his bartender to give me a drink ‘on the house.’ I circulated around the room both nights, listening. There definitely is a rumor or educated guessing that there is a crazy killer in the area. One loud, raging man shouted the word ‘cannibalism’ and demonstrated by biting his arm and pretending to tear a chunk out of it. The dumb-ass even drew blood and didn’t seem to feel it. Drunk as a skunk, but he got laughed at and teased until a friend bought him a beer to stop his loud fantasies.”

“So you did hear something else worthwhile?”

“Sure did. At a card game, another drifter burst into a conversation by asking who owned the farm two miles north of Dodge. The other guys at the table shrugged their shoulders, but one guy in the crowd overheard the question and answered that it was the Patterson farm, that the Pattersons were homesteader farmers who couldn’t make the farm profitable, so they packed up and moved out a couple of years ago. Lefty and Zeek said the same, right?’

“Damn it, Art. Get to the point.”

“OK, OK. The drifter said the Pattersons may have come back ‘cause he saw a campfire and heard and saw a couple of guys laughing, eating, and enjoying their whiskey. It appears that someone is staying out there. Do you think Boone and his hatchet-throwing friend are camping there?

“Holy shit! That could be our break in this case. I want to solve it fast before the city turns into panic and chaos which leads to lawlessness. We need to ride out there tonight in the deep darkness of early morning. We’ll check it out. OK with you?”

“Atta boy, Tom. I was hopin’ you’d say that. But my priority now is to get dinner. You, too?”

At the restaurant, they had a fine meal of fresh buffalo steaks, French fried potatoes, and boiled carrots. Tom and Art helped with the clean-up process and then got a chance to visit Clara for a couple of hours. Clara could tell that something was wrong and pestered Tom until he confided in her. She blanched with disgust as she listened, then mumbled, “How awful. You two be extra careful. That guy sounds like he’s an insane butcher with no concern for human life.”

“Now that you mention it, he escaped from an eastern mental hospital, then came west to escape the law that was after him.”

At the former billiards hall, Tom and Art tried to sleep but couldn’t, so they talked about strategy and gunmanship. Tom got two more guns and gave one to Art. They each loaded and placed the extra gun under their belts in a cross-draw position. Tom had his folding Barlow knife, but Art didn’t. Tom asked him to get it and keep it in his pocket from now on.

At one o’clock in the morning, they gathered their horses at the livery and slowly walked them out of town in silence. A nearly full moon was descending. Moonlight threw shadows at them. Trees, boulders, and shrubs took on a haunting appearance as they moved in the breeze casting their moving shadows. Night times like these made objects look and act differently, acting strange enough to haunt the mind, but suspending it between joy and  fear.

The two friends rode quietly, each trying not to make a loud sound that may be heard. After a mile, they came to a slight rise in the land, with the land on the other side descending so they had to be at the top of the rise to see beyond it. They rode to the top and stopped.

“There it is, Art whispered.” He pointed to the campfire.

“I see it. I only see one person, and he’s singing some old campfire song.”

“Yeah,” Art whispered, “but look at him ravenously biting into something. He’s ripping and tearing at it, his mouth full and making a noise like a canine snarl.”

“You hit the nail on the head, Pard. Let's get about 200 feet from the campfire, still hiding in darkness, and sneak up on the guy. I don’t see anyone else.” As they proceeded slowly, the man at the campfire was still chewing grotesquely while waving his arms about himself as he butchered the song, The Yellow Rose of Texas. He ate like a demented savage, not only biting but tearing off hunks and strips of meat.”

They got within the stated distance and tied their horses to a branch of a stunted tree. Tom wanted to approach slowly and catch the guy off balance. But, unfortunately, now was the time that Boss neighed when having a heightened sense of the metallic smell of blood.

“Art, he’s stumble-walking to the barn. He may have heard Boss. Go around the side or back of the barn. I’ll enter from the front.” Art moved away. Tom gave him time to get into position before he moved forward. When Tom reached the crumbling front doors of the barn, he saw that one door had fallen to the ground. High winds, the sun’s heat, and the scouring action of blowing sand, dirt, and stone grit had damaged the barn severely, the same way as a huge, flying carpet of sandpaper will wear away wood, constantly and violently rubbing against the wooden barn. Tom used the other door for protection, though he wondered if a bullet could penetrate its thinness. He peeked around the door, heard the shot, and saw the flame erupt from the man’s gun barrel.

“Boone! Is that you in there? Stop shooting and talk to me.” From the same place another shot came. This one was closer because Boone had zeroed in on his voice.

“Leave me be, Sheriff. I reco’nize yer voice. First time I been caught by saprise an’ canna git away. I too drunk. Thet mean I gotta kill yuh. Ride back ta town, an’ take that boy deputy wid yuh. He think I don’ hear ‘im crawlin’.’” Boone shot in Art’s direction. “See thet, boy. I knowed yuh be there.

Boone laughed and, again, shot at Art’s crawling sounds. His shot was too high. Steady hands can’t co-exist with a drunk body and an alcohol-marinated brain. Tom saw that Boone was staggering in a circle, looking as if he were a clumsy dancer. Tom pulled his head back behind the lone standing door.

Moonlight was shining through the boards in shafts of light, just like they would shine through bullet holes, but the rays were much wider. The smell of decayed wood, rotted hay, and straw, plus aged mold had produced an offensive rancid smell in the air.

Art was silent, just the way Tom wanted him to be, then Tom yelled, “Boone! Where’s Sonny?”

Laughter. Exaggerated, silly laughter filled what was left of the barn. Boone shouted, “I took ‘im out ta dinner. Yuh didna see ‘im by da campfire? Body be in tall grass but yuh musta see me eatin’ ‘im. It be the muscles in ‘is arm. Gave yuh one a ‘is legs.” Louder laughter now. I ran inside and took cover behind a crippled wagon. Boone shot again, wasting one more bullet. I saw his outstretched arm swaying randomly as the moonlight reflected off the metal. He wasn’t attempting to conceal himself. It was an easy shot, but I wanted to bring him in for a trial, nice and legal. I yelled to Art, “Don’t shoot unless you have no other choice. I’d like to close this case nice and legal.” I heard him say, “Gotcha,” and then he changed his position in case Boone took another shot toward his voice. I was happy that he remembered that strategy.

Boone started snarling and tearing at his hair. Moonlight reflected off his wet lips. Again, I heard the sound of chopping teeth. He had moved a few feet so the moonlight coming through the barn’s wooden siding-slats showed me that he had hair in his hands. He was maddeningly drunk and demonstrating why he spent time in a state’s insane asylum. Suddenly he threw the hair in my direction as if had weight. A few feet from where he stood the light of the moon glittered off slick, greasy clumps of knotted hair. It made me nauseous thinking of how long it had been since he bathed. Carelessly he shot at me again, his sixth shot. I wondered if he knew that he was out of bullets. I knew he wasn’t wearing his holster that had bullet loops and half of them were full. I saw him when he had heard Boss neigh. I saw him grab his gun handle, but as he ran, the holster fell to the ground. His gun was empty now, but he began talking to unseen demons. He dropped the gun and started punching the air. He bent over and picked up two long bones, probably thigh bones.

“Art? Were you counting shots?”

“No. didn't think to do that. Sorry. Gotta lot to learn, Tom.”

“OK. Same with me. I still have a lot to learn, but always count the shots, OK? That’s how I know he’s out of bullets.

“I hear you. What do we do now?” Again, as a precaution, I suppose, he made a rustling noise as he changed position.

I stepped out from behind the wagon. “Stick with me, Pard. We’ll keep each other alive. Another thing. Just ‘cause he’s outta bullets, that doesn’t mean” . . .

Tom shouted, “Shit! The son of a bitch! That bastard just threw a hatchet at me. If I hadn’t been behind this wagon it would have hit me.” Boone screamed, his eyes glazed, his body trembling, he could barely stand. “He’s more accurate with that hatchet than he is with a gun.” Boone was screaming and hopping around in a circle. The moonlight had shone off the hatchet, but Tom had been too slow to react as it darted straight at him, stopping when it hit the wagon’s sideboard, in front of his chest. Tom had mistakenly thought that the bones Boone picked were thigh bones, but they were hatchets. Tom lowered his body behind the wagon and mumbled, “Dammit! After he emptied his gun, he had hatchets lying on the ground. Art! He may have more weapons, knives, or hatchets.

“You stood up with your upper body exposed? Come on Pard. Didn’t yuh say be careful and don’t hurry,” Art teased Tom. Slow and careful will keep you alive. I thought he was holding bones, too. He must have Sonny’s hatchet, too.”

“Hey Boone. Time to surrender. Got a comfortable jail cell, bed, and three meals a day. What do yuh say?”

Silly laughter, again. Then, “You guys are fools. Oh yeah? Wha’ kine a meat yuh gonna give me? Gotta makes it extra rare so it be bloody.” His laughter grew much louder. Boone sang, “Raw meat, no cooked meat, bloody red and sweet. I like the people I meet ‘cause I likes their meat. Their arms, legs, an’ ass-cheeks be good, the way human meat should. Strangers are dangers ta eat, so in the end I’d rather eat a frien.’ Come an’ gits me, yuh tenderfoot fools.”

I moved to a large support beam so I could look around it. I kept my head in the open too long when the shocking thud sound of a throwing-knife penetrated the beam, splintering it at stomach height. It wasn’t an ordinary knife that penetrated deeply into the beam. The throwing-knife was thinner than a regular knife, and it was razor-sharp on both edges. It wasn’t just the beam being decayed that caused the deep penetration. The knife was made for throwing but could serve as a regular camping knife as well.

“Dammit, Boone. You know you aren’t getting away. Look at yourself. All you can do is stagger. I don’t know how you can still be accurate with hatchets and knives, but I was told once to never bring a knife to a gunfight. You can barely walk. Your body is so thin that if you turn sideways, you’ll disappear. How can that be if yuh eat regular? Oh, I see. Meals are few and far between. So simply come out with your empty hands raised.”

“Yuh dinna asks me why I kill Sonny. But no matter. I kill ‘im ‘cause he be better then me throwing the hatchet and knife. First time I ever meet someone better then me. Wid him outta the way, I can win an’ git lotsa money fer a prize.”

“Sonny treated you fairly. He was nice to you. Isn’t friendship valuable to you?”

“Naw. It ain’t. That why it be easy to kill ‘im. So, OK lawman I’s comin’ out. I be safe in jail, wid a bed, an’ free vittles. Good deal, I think. Yuh gots no judge, so what yuh gonna do wid me?”

“Take you to Kansas City to stand trial.”

“Holy shit! I be hanged there?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“Me sayin’ ‘holy shit’ remind me of a joke. Yuh know what ‘holy shit’ is? It is that Cat’lic Pope’s poop. That be ‘Holy Shit’ fer sure. I bet thet papist pee holy water, too” Crazy laughter prevailed.

“Good! Damn! I be tired a-runnin.’ Gittin’ too ole fer this, an’ canna git me any breast meat.” He bent over, fell to the dirt on his back, then sang that cannibal song again as he thrashed around in the dirt, raising a good amount of dust, flakes of hay, and straw. The moonlight captured it, making the cloud of dust look eerie, like a ghost hiding inside the thick cloud of dust. He continued to laugh for a minute, then lay still, but his arms were raised as we approached him.

Back in town, I put the madman in a jail cell. He fell into bed. Five minutes later he was asleep, snoring loudly, then he’d stop and slur the words, “I hungry. I hunger,” then went back to snoring.

I was too tired to visit Clara. Tomorrow I’d telegraph the Marshal and judge in Kansas City to arrange sending  Boone there by train. I’d escort him and leave Art in charge of the official lawman work. Then I’d spend as much time as possible with Clara.

Art had more energy and he said, “I want to see Polly before she leaves to go back east,” and then he was gone.

The next day we saw Clara and talked for a long time. Art was quiet, his mind and lips having gone elsewhere. I held Clara’s hand and whispered,  “He’s younger and has always been energetic. He’s determined when he sets his mind on something.” Art didn’t hear us. He simply stared at a wall.

The following day, at breakfast, I saw Clara and Art looking at me ominously. I said, “What the hell’s going on with you two?”

Clara spoke. “What about the Poker Tournament, the contests, and the rowdiness that are coming here in a couple of weeks?”

“Art and I will give it a lot of thought. Maybe we can hire Hickock and Earp to help us,” It was intended as a joke, but Art and Clara weren’t laughing, their eyes and lips indicated that they were deadly serious. But I had been overly serious, nervous, anxious, sore, stiff, and uncomfortable for days. I wasn’t in the mood to be serious, so I told them, “Listen to this joke. A young, atheist cowboy was seated at a nearly empty bar, quietly drinking his beer. A much older cowboy sat next to him and ordered a beer, then said, “Do yuh wanna talk young man? The young cowboy replied, “Watcha wanna talk about?” The old cowboy then says, “I know you’re an atheist, so I wanna talk about atheist animals. The young cowboy’s curiosity peaked. He said, “Sure. Keep going.” The old man continued, “Yuh see, young man, I have a horse, a cow, and a tame deer in my barn. I feed them the things every day, yet a deer craps little pellets, while a cow craps flat patties and a horse craps in clumps. Why do you think that is?” The young atheist cowboy says, “Hmmm, I’ve got no idea.” So now the old cowboy says to the young, atheist cowboy, “Do you think you’re qualified to discuss God when you don’t know shit?”

Clara and Art burst into laughter.

“Hey,” Art blurted. “I have a joke, too. I overheard it the other day while at Zimmerman’s store. Here it is. A weary cowboy rides into town and enters a saloon and no customers are there. The bartender is alone and behind the bar, lazily polishing glasses. “Where is everyone, the cowboy asks?” The bartender bartender says, “At the hanging.” The cowboy looks surprised. He says, “I didn’t hear about a hanging today. Who’s being strung up?” The bored bartender answered, “You know. It’s the Brown Paper Kid that’s always hanging around town.” The cowboy is puzzled, then blurts, “Oh, yeah. I think I’ve seen him around. He’s the kid that wears brown paper pants, and a brown paper shirt and vest, right?” The wearied bartender just nods at him. The cowboy furrows his brow in thought, then says, “Damn! Only seen him a time or two, but he seemed polite and well-behaved. Why they hanging him,” He asks. The bartender puts the glass down, throws the towel over his shoulder, and then leans on the bar with his forearms. He stares at the cowboy and says, “The new sheriff is hanging him for ‘rustling.’”

Now Clara and Tom have ejaculated with laughter.

“Well, damn it. I gotta joke, too. You see, there’s this old, grizzled cowboy in need of a shave. He rides to town and walks into the barbershop. He drawls to the bartender, ‘I needs a clean shave. Haven’t shaved in days and don’t wanna cut meself. The barber grabs a wooden ball from a cup on the counter. He tells the cowboy to put it in his cheek because it will stretch his cheek making it easier to get a cleaner shave. When his haircut is finished, the cowboy looks into a mirror and says, “That be the cleanest shave I ever had, but what would have happened if I accidentally swallowed that ball?” The barber replied, “Just bring it back in a couple of days like everyone else does.”

Tom and Art sneered with distaste at the joke. Tom said, “I never would have suspected that you would tell that kind of joke, though it was both nasty and funny. Now all there of them laughed until Clara said, “Pop told me that joke.” Hilarious, belly-aching laughter gripped the three friends.

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                                                          END

ADDENDUM:

“Bad men need nothing more than to compass (achieve) their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing.”

John Stuart Mill (English philosopher) 1806-1873

Said during his 1867 inaugural speech, delivered at the University of St. Andrews, London, England.

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All mentioned cannibal-killers were real people from historical records.