Lawless (41 page)

Finally, the conductor’s cry broke through his euphoria. After one last kiss, he raced along beside the moving train and jumped to the steps of a second-class car. He clung to a hand rail, overcome with the miracle of his love for her, and watched her small, strong figure disappearing slowly in the rain, her head high—confident and unafraid now, as he was.

Her gloved hand rose and moved slowly, waving in affectionate farewell. He gripped the hand rail and stayed in the slashing rain until she was lost from sight.

But he knew he’d see her again. Whatever the price, whatever his punishment.

O
N THE NIGHT
the Chicago fire began, Jeremiah Kent was sharing in the prosperity of Abilene, Kansas.

His professional wardrobe showed he was doing well. Just within the last three months, he’d purchased a new long-tailed coat, checked trousers, embroidered waistcoat and silk cravat, not to mention the flat-crowned hat in which he kept his hideout gun. After drifting from place to place for a couple of years, he’d finally stumbled into El Dorado.

He’d arrived in Abilene in April, a few weeks before the start of what the locals referred to as the summer season. Everyone told him 1871 would be the biggest year yet in the town’s short history as a cattle shipping center. Optimists predicted that six hundred thousand Texas longhorns would move north to the Kansas railheads before winter again closed Jesse Chisholm’s trail through the Indian Territory. Of that total, the Abilene stockyards would get by far the largest share.

Ever since the little promoter from Illinois, Joe McCoy, had stepped off the train and seen a profit potential on the empty prairie, Abilene had developed a reputation for enterprise. McCoy and his associates had financed and built pens, chutes and scales, then arranged favorable shipping rates with the railroad.

They had somehow persuaded or paid the governor and members of the state legislature to ignore the quarantine line which made it illegal for longhorns to enter Dickinson County because they were probably carrying spleen fever ticks.

And from the beginning McCoy and all the energetic merchants who’d caught a glimpse of his vision saw to it that the summer visitors were accommodated in every way so that they’d speak favorably of Abilene when they returned home. After all, the war was in the past, Texas was back in the Union, and the drovers and their crews of youthful whites, blacks and Mexicans were not, first and foremost, Southerners or even Americans. They were
customers.
In the true spirit of Yankee enterprise, the customer was Abilene’s first and only uncrowned king.

Whatever a trail-weary man wanted—from new red-top boots with stars and crescent moons cut into the leather, to groceries, to a bath, to a woman—he could find it in Abilene. Prostitution operated full tilt in the Devil’s Addition, the southeast quarter of town below the tracks. Despite the lobbying of a certain small clique whose piety was bad for business, the City Council refused to vote to drive out the soiled doves. Instead, the Council chose to contain them, since the girls were absolutely vital to the success of a combination shipping point and end-of-the-trail resort.

Strong drink was necessary, too, of course. More than thirty saloons along the Texas Street esplanade provided it. Some of the visitors also liked to buck the tiger. That was where Jeremiah came in. Within four short months, under the latest of a succession of assumed names, he’d made himself one of the best-known gentlemen of Hell Street, as the town’s moralistic minority termed the esplanade. He had done it by turning his favorite pastime into a successful profession. He dealt poker, monte, and other games of chance.

In Abilene, he was not far from Ellsworth; it was located just about sixty miles west, beyond the quarantine line. When he had drifted out from Kansas City in the spring, he’d been concerned that he was returning too near the scene of one of his crimes. He stayed alert in case anyone from Ellsworth or Fort Harker should show up and penetrate the various layers of protection provided by his new clothes, new name and new profession. So far, no one had. In fact, after killing the sergeant in the Ellsworth dance house, he’d never seen a sign of pursuit, which convinced him the United States Army thought Amos Graves was unimportant, or that he was. The latter angered him not a little.

Now, in early October, he’d been in Abilene longer than he’d been anywhere else since the war. It seemed an ideal spot for a man of his ability and growing reputation. Besides, the pickings were incredible. And involved next to no risk. Another itinerant gambler whom he’d met in his travels—an older man, wise with experience—had lectured him convincingly about the best way to get rich and, just as important, stay out of meaningless fights. The secret was simple honesty. Not only was cheating dangerous, it wasn’t necessary. The odds favored the dealer, and the Texans were usually besotted when they played, further heightening the dealer’s advantage. Jeremiah drank too. He’d discovered gin, and put away a pint to a pint and a half every day of the week. But he took care never to be as drunk as his customers.

By cultivating a reputation for honesty, he attracted a lot of repeat business. Of course he had to pass a small percentage of his winnings to the owners of whatever liquor palace he happened to be playing in—the Old Fruit, the Applejack, Jim Flynn’s, the Pearl or any of a half dozen other good ones. Even so, he earned enough to dress well, live comfortably, and provide himself with all the female companionship he wanted.

Another aspect of his reputation contributed to his success. Since arriving in town, he’d taken pains to establish that part by dropping casual remarks into card table conversation, and by backing up the remarks with participation in whatever shooting contests or exhibitions the saloon crowd arranged.

Jeremiah never won those contests, never pulled off the most spectacular feats of marksmanship in the exhibitions. His friend the marshal always bested him. No surprise there, though. Abilene’s marshal practiced with his pistols for an hour or two every day. Men such as George Custer and Little Phil Sheridan called him the best sharpshooter in the West. The marshal’s favorite challenge was to call for a tomato can to be tossed up in the air. No other man Jeremiah had ever met could fire at the can with both pistols, keep it spinning aloft and score nine or ten hits out of twelve rounds—every time. The best Jeremiah had ever done was seven out of twelve rounds. Once.

Nevertheless, he usually ran a good second in the contests, and that lent an air of truth to his smiling, modest answers to questions put to him over cards. Hearing him say certain things about his background, the Texans always seemed to enjoy their game a lot more. Jeremiah knew it was because in the West, murder was not always considered reprehensible. Done at the proper time and place, it could make a man a celebrity. It had certainly done that for the marshal. So he was more than willing to admit to a less than spotless past—without going into detail, of course.

Jeremiah kept track of his family with an occasional letter to Boyle, the Irishman he’d met at the Union Pacific railroad in ’66. He always asked Boyle to write him care of a post office. Jeremiah signed a different fictitious name to each letter, but Boyle always knew from the content who was inquiring. During September, Boyle had written to say Jeremiah’s father had died of a heart seizure. He’d wept in his room and his tears had made the ink run so that when he went back to read the letter a second time, it was nearly illegible.

The Irishman was certainly doing well for himself. Jeremiah had seen some of his retail stores along the U.P. route further north, and in June, he’d played monte with a man who turned out to be a purchasing agent for Boyle. The man had traveled all the way down from Cheyenne to pick up five hundred prime head to add to the herd Boyle and his wife were building. Jeremiah hadn’t let on that he was acquainted with the Irishman. But he was rather proud that the only person in all the world who knew he was still alive was a very prosperous individual, a solid citizen.

Whenever he wrote Boyle, he kept personal details to a minimum. He had a lingering fear of Kola’s prophecy, and hence a fear of revealing too much about himself, particularly his whereabouts. Under no circumstances did he want to make it possible for Boyle to slip and accidentally tell one of his brothers where he was. No matter that they were hundreds of miles away—in Matt’s case, thousands—he just didn’t want to take a chance. So far, every one of Kola’s predictions had proved out.

Since Ellsworth, he hadn’t put the guns away. And they had indeed given a certain luster to the name he used most often. But Kola had also said the killing would never stop, and that too was turning out to be correct. Once having acquired a reputation, it was periodically necessary to defend it.

So he lived with a nagging fear of the rest of it coming true: the gradual slide back into obscurity, the end of his life as the Sioux had described it.

That, he absolutely couldn’t bear to think about. Which was one of the chief reasons he’d grown so fond of gin.

Abilene’s commercial establishments didn’t observe the Sabbath. Doing so would have eliminated one seventh of a week’s profit. So Jeremiah worked that Sunday night as usual. About six forty-five he concluded a blackjack game in the town’s largest and finest watering spot, the Alamo.

The place occupied a corner on Texas Street but fronted on Cedar. A good deal of money had been spent to make it opulent. The bar was solid mahogany, the fittings solid brass. A splendid array of pudgy, pink-breasted nudes in gold frames decorated the walls. But the management also believed in appealing to higher instincts. Two musicians sat in a niche playing popular airs on the piano and violin.

Jeremiah had just gotten up from the table and was at the bar, buying drinks for himself and his victim, a gregarious, freckled, tipsy young Texan. He signaled the barkeep.

“Gin for me, Hal. Whiskey for my friend. Ben, I’m mighty sorry to have relieved you of all your wages.”

The boy grinned in a fuddled way. “Pleasure—pleasure’s mine.”

The barkeep put down two brimming glasses. He slid the darker one toward Ben. “Kansas sheep dip. Best in the house.”

“Obliged to you,” Ben said. He spilled half the whiskey before he got one swallow. He wiped his mouth with his cuff. “Besides,” he said to Jeremiah, “I know you did it fair an’ square. I don’t mind losin’ to any man who’s good friends with the marshal.” The boy belched. “That is the truth, ain’t it? You and Wild Bill are pals, ain’t you?”

“Bosom companions.” Jeremiah nodded, stretching it slightly. “I suppose that’s unusual, him being a former Yank scout and me a onetime Reb. But we both like handsome women. We’re both students of the picture cards. We both shoot pretty well, although he’s the best—” A touch of envy had crept in. He hunched over his tumbler of gin and lowered his voice. “His real name’s James, you know.”

“Is that right!” The boy glowed. The tidbit of information made him feel intimately connected with the great, which was exactly why Jeremiah used it with all his customers.

“Yes, sir. James,” he went on. “James Butler Hickok. I’ll tell you one more thing. Jim just can’t figure why people out here, and then the Eastern magazines, started calling him Bill. It’s a genuine, gold-plated mystery.”

“You mean he doesn’t know how he got the name?”

With great solemnity, Jeremiah shook his head.

“Think of that,” the boy murmured. He drank the rest of his Kansas sheep dip. Most of it wound up on the front of his buckskin vest.

The piano and violin struck up “Just Before the Battle, Mother.” One of the barkeeps who had a face as innocent as a divinity student’s began to sing the lyric in a clear, lovely tenor. Men at the tables stopped their games. Several soon had tears in their eyes; Appomattox was not that far in the past.

The Texas boy evidently had no strong emotional memories of the war because he kept after his companion.

“The fellers back in camp are gonna be mighty interested to know that about the marshal. They’re gonna think it’s mighty exciting that I heard it from Mr. Jason Kane, too. That I sat right over yonder and bucked the tiger with Jason Kane. You’re pretty famous yourself, you know.”

He experienced a moment of complete happiness. “Why, thank you. Thank you kindly.”

“But I’d sure like to know one thing, Mr. Kane. That is, if you don’t mind?”

He smiled warmly. He knew what the question would be.

“Ask away.”

“Exactly how many men have you sent to the ground?”

No point explaining he’d killed one woman too; that did nothing for a man’s reputation. Jeremiah let his smile thin out a little, till it took on that faintly cruel cast. The Texas boy instinctively stepped away from him. Jeremiah didn’t lie.

“Fourteen, and I guarantee you, Ben—every one was a dishonorable person who deserved it.”

“Fourteen. Lord God!” Pop-eyed, the boy pumped Jeremiah’s hand. “Pleasure, Mr. Kane. Surely has been.”

“My sentiments, too,” Jeremiah returned, his eyes glowing with good humor. He touched the brim of his oversized hat. “Hope you find work to pay your way home to the valley of the Red.” He warmed himself a moment longer in the worshipful gaze of the Texas boy, who couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen. At twenty-five, Jeremiah felt ancient by comparison.

When Ben staggered out, Jeremiah finished his gin, called for another and tossed it off with barely a pause. The bartender shuddered.

“Jesus, Jason. You keep drinking it that fast, it’ll kill you one of these days.”

No, it won’t. I know how I’m going to die.

Angered by the intrusion of the thought from God knew where, he slammed the empty glass down, making Hal start and blather an apology. Jeremiah’s temples hurt. Why did he have to keep remembering the prophecy? Why did Kola keep reaching out from the dead to spoil everything? He fought his fury and fear, leaned over the bar and gave Hal a magnanimous pat on the shoulder.

“Sorry. Not your fault. I was thinking about something else.”