Dodge City - Kansas -1871-Part 2

By Bill Sheehan

          I was restless when I woke up earlier than usual. Being the new sheriff in Dodge City, during the latter half of 1871 was turning out to be harder than I had expected, especially when trouble presented itself, and calming talk, manners, and reason did not positively affect the many rude, crude, and aggressive cowboys who practically lived in the saloon. My buddy and now deputy, Art, was sleeping peacefully, but snoring so loudly that his nose-thunder may have been what had awakened me. I felt a bug crawling down my forehead and I swiped at it. My hand slipped off my forehead and came away wet from sweat, not a bug. I pushed my feet off the bed and sat, still feeling the grogginess of waking from a sound sleep. I placed my elbows on my knees and ran my hands through my hair. I put one hand on my pillow and then leaned on it. The pillow was damp from sweat, so I turned it over. I wiped my forehead again and dried my hand on my thin night shirt while I was wondering why I felt so hot. The window was open and the heat seemed to be coming through the open window. While still feeling hot and groggy, I realized my whole forehead was hot and sweaty. My thoughts cleared and I thought, “The nights were seldom hot enough to cause sweat without some exertion, and sleeping was not a form of exertion. So why was I sweaty and blinking my eyes so often from salty sweat?” Then I started squinting due to the bright light that shone through and around the window as thin curtains billowed out into the room by a current of warm air.

            I don’t usually wake up alert. A cup of coffee and a half hour to think is what I need first thing in the morning. Also, I’m not particularly eager to talk while drinking my coffee. Clara Jones, my fiancé who worked as a server in her family restaurant, understands that now. She teases me by saying, “I could stand next to you naked and all you would do is ask for a refill of coffee.” As grumpy as I am in the morning, I sure like to see her try that.

            Then I heard shouting and stared at the window. I was startled, then realized it was not sunrise but the middle of the night. Barefoot and in my underwear, I ran to the open window, which was supposed to let the cool, night air into the room. But I felt heat instead. I stuck my head out and saw that the Long Branch Saloon was on fire. The Saloon was a few buildings down the street but I easily felt the heat. The conflagration was so bright and hot that I could feel its heat, while its red, orange, and yellow lights made the street look like it did in daylight. The infernal blaze had already progressed too far to put it out. All anyone could do was try to prevent adjacent buildings from becoming part of the conflagration. It looked as if it was a tiny, misplaced section of hell. Next to the saloon was the China Doll House of prostitution.

            I dressed quickly, buckled my holster on, then threw my pillow at Art, and yelled, “Art! Get up! There’s a fire.” I saw him sit up, startled with his elbows on his knees, and his head held in his hands. I ran out of the house and down the street while shooting three times, into the sky, to wake people up. I saw the four China Doll women and their Madam standing outside, hysterical and crying. I did not see the night security guard whom Beeson hired to protect the beer, liquor, and money. He had a ten-gauge shotgun, and after already killing two robbers a month ago, few cowboys were foolish enough to try to break into the saloon; however, drunk cowboys were not logical and some may still want to get their names in a prominent place at the cemetery. I hoped that the guard had gotten out.

I saw the four soiled doves standing in the street dressed in thin, transparent, silk robes revealing too much which I knew would cause a distraction among the firefighters. I gave Madam Phillis the key to my office and asked her to take the women there and wait. Phillis smiled at me, coquettishly, which was her normal routine, and then she led her women to my office.

            I could hear running. I looked over my shoulder to see Art nearly trip and lose his footing in a rut from a wagon wheel. Then townspeople, mostly men, came rushing out of their homes to see what was happening and offer their assistance. The only thing to do was try to stop the fire from burning the China Doll building. Most of the city buildings had no space between them, one wall touched a wall on the next building. The town’s buildings were so tinder-dry that sparks could easily ignite the dry wood in a chain of fires that had to be stopped to save a major part of the town.

            I screamed an order to the men and said, “Hurry! Get axes and rope, the rest of you get buckets of water but don’t throw in on the saloon fire. Throw the water on the wall of the China Doll! We want to stop the fire from spreading there! That wall is already smoking and ready to burst into flames.”

            Men got buckets, filled them with water from the horse’s water troughs, and then threw the water on the China Doll wall. That wall was on fire now but could be slowed down with the water. However, when the wind changed direction toward the men, they could not get close enough to use the water. The smell of the men’s burnt hair was noxious. The men were splashing water on themselves, especially on their facial body hair.

            The buildings were deformed by heat waves that continued to change their appearance with rolling waves of heat. Art and I had never seen a fire as huge and as hot as this one. We helped place the ropes in the horse troughs to soak up the water. Then some of us tied hay bale hand hooks to the ends of the ropes. When we were all ready, four wet ropes with hooks and two men for each rope, we threw the hooks at the saloon's fiery wall that was next to the China Doll. Only three of them caught a structure that was still strong enough to hook onto. We grunted, swore, and sweated to pull the ropes. Other men came to help pull. We needed to do it quickly so our ropes didn’t burn. Several more men came to help pull the ropes and the wall next to the China Doll fell away from that building. We had to leave the ropes and hooks in the blazing building since we could not retrieve them.

            Art and I yelled, “Throw water on the China Doll outer wall. The fire had not burned through that wall, but it was almost completely scorched black with small fires bursting out at different places. The saloon, however, was lost. The combustible liquor added to the intenseness of the fire. I saw Chalk Beeson, the saloon’s owner, look of anger, his face fiery red, signaling desperation and defeat. He was counting on the poker and faro tournament to gain his biggest profit since it had opened.

            When the small wall fires on the China Doll building were out, the men soaked the three feet of ash and ember ground between the two buildings, then put out as many little fires as they could around the periphery of the saloon fire.

            The fire burned all morning, afternoon, and most of the evening. Volunteers stood watch with plenty of pails of water for any flare-ups. Most parts of the fire were out the following morning and others were smoking like rising ghosts escaping hell. Smoldering parts meant there were still hot embers so, if possible, they were dowsed with water. The embers sounded like hissing snakes dying in agony when the water hit them.

            The next morning, the fire was completely out, leaving the smelly, charred remains of the Long Branch Saloon. After breakfast, with Clara, Art and I returned to the fire. We saw some of the volunteer firefighters showing and bragging about their minor burns and singed hair. The funniest was the men with no eyebrows or only one eyebrow. Soon puffed-out chests were visible to show how important their effort was, while many women gathered in groups to whisper, “That was a smelly night. It was like the bed had been on fire and just the cooled ashes were what we slept on. The foul odor of sweat, burned skin, and ashes do not make sleep easy.”

            For a week many women walked about town smiling and looking over their shoulders at the burnt, blackened saloon remains, some of them pinching their noses to avoid the smell.

            However, the town’s children were delighted with something new and thrilling to distract them from their boring lives. They blackened their fingers in the charred wood and then painted each other's faces. They ran around town squealing with unbound happiness until their mothers saw them and screamed at them to return to wash themselves. One older child, Jonny, thought he was an Indian on the warpath. He started dancing in a circle imitating mimicked sounds of what he supposed that an Indian would make. He ignored her, thus frustrating his mom.

Then his dad came to his son and kicked him in the ass, which guided the boy home. The father didn’t kick the boy hard, though it looked like he had. He lifted his leg, faking a kick, then pressed the sole of his boot onto the kid’s buttocks and pushed so the boy had to leap forward toward home. When out of sight of his mom, Jonny, glanced over his shoulder and smiled mischievously. His dad secretly returned the smile while holding a vertical forefinger across his lips. While that was happening, Tom and Art were stepping through the ashes, looking for clues as to how the fire may have started. The first thing they found was the charred body of the security guard. They wondered if he had accidentally started the fire.

                                                    *

            They both had their heads down, focusing on the ashes, when Art looked at Tom and said, “You think this was an accident?”

            “No. I think someone didn’t want the poker and faro card tournament to occur, though I can’t blame them due to all the bad behaviors that will disrupt their calm lives. But it’s still a crime. I doubt the security guard did it, but I don’t know why he didn’t get away.

            After a few minutes of slowly walking around on the ashes, Art called to Tom while pointing at the ground beneath the window.

            Tom walked to Art and stared at the ground where his friend was pointing. Jagged pieces of glass lay on the floor. Some of them had melted, but some had not. That didn’t matter now. Tom and Art formed the same conclusion: Something had been thrown through that window from outside the building.

            Tom paused in thought. “If the fire blew out the window, the glass shards would be outside, not inside.” Tom bent downward.

            “What’s that?” Art asked while pointing at the object that Tom had picked up.

            “I accidentally kicked it. It wasn’t visible until all the ash fell away from it. It’s the bottom section of a bottle.” He showed it to Art.

            Art stated, “Good eyes, Tom,” then, “Good feet.”

            Tom added, “Also, from the remaining parts of the back door, it looks as if it had been wide open.”

            “So,” Art paused, then stated, “If you want to get a fast blaze going, a good draft is necessary, like having a door wide open. But first, you have to disable the guard, either kill or knock him out. The latter is best. No noise can be heard.

            “Yep,” Tom added, “You got it, and here’s the object that started the fire. Probably kerosene or coal oil was in this bottle. A rag for a fuse will set it on fire, and then the bottle is thrown through the window. Whether it breaks or not, you are guaranteed to start a fire that will blaze quickly with a good draft, which it had, but how did the back door get open?”

            “There's no key lock, just a board across the middle of the door. Not too hard to figure out a way around it.”

            “Yeah, but someone could wait until the guard went out the back door to use the outhouse, then surprised the guard,” stated Art.

            “Probably, but we need to talk to Chalk Beeson to see if he has been threatened, and who his enemies are. Could be the motive is personal. Revenge is a good motive, too.”

            Art grinned, then, “Ain't it curious that one saloon burns down as the newly built saloon will be finished in a day or two. Now the tournament can be held at the newly built Alhambro saloon owner. Getting rid of the chief competitor would make for a great start for a newly built saloon. Is that just a coincidence?”

            Tom pressed his lips and a ripple of wrinkle rows appeared across his forehead. He paused in thought, then said, “Too easy to blame the new saloon owner, Beatty Kelley. Coincidence? I don’t trust coincidences associated with crimes. When they occur in everyday life experiences, then yes, they can be mysterious, interesting, and funny, but when trying to solve a crime, no apparent coincidence should be overlooked. In cases involving crime, they should not be discounted. Let’s talk to Mr. Kelley.”

            As they walked to the new saloon, a shot rang out as Tom’s western hat was blown off his head. Both lawmen drew their pistols and when Tom looked at the building roofs, Art followed, though he looked on the other side of the street as they stood back to back.

            When all was quiet and there was no indication of the shooter, or what roof or window the shot came from, Tom picked up his hat and stared at the hole in the brim. It was almost a perfect circle.

            “Double damn.  That was close,” Art shouted. “You see where the shot came from?”

            “No, but look.” Tom put his little finger through the hole easily. “Nearly a perfect circle, so the shot came from a high place; a high window, or a roof. See how the bullet scuffed this side of the bullet hole while the remainder of the hole is neatly cut through?”

            “Yeah, Tom. That shot must have come from a roof on the side of the street you were looking at.”

            “Right, but I didn’t know that at the time, so it was good that you were checking your side of the street and had my back. Thanks, Buddy.”

            They both turned and continued to the Alhambro Saloon. As soon as they walked through the bat-wing doors, Beatty Kelley quickly walked to meet them. “Sheriff, I swear to you that I had nothing to do with that fire.”

            Tom replied, “I hope not. I’ve always found coincidences like this to be as rare as a child’s rocking horse’s poo.”

            Art smiled at the phrase he hadn’t heard before. In his mind, he thought, “Rocking horse poo? What could that be? Sawdust diarrhea or wood chips poop?”

            Kelley added, “To show my goodwill, I talked to Chalk and offered to have the tournament here for twenty-five percent of the profits. He accepted the deal, plus the first-place winner will win four-thousand dollars. Second place will earn two-thousand, and third place gets one-thousand, so that issue is also settled. Chalk didn’t even accuse me. That shocked me and so did the puzzling look on his face. He seemed to be thinking about who else might have set his place on fire.”

            “Good enough. Thanks, Kelley,” Tom and Art turned and walked out of the saloon.