The Man from Pinkertons and the Gunrunners

Chapter 2

As he drew nigh to Pilgrim’s Crossing, Kyle reined in his horse and sat quietly for a minute or two; just observing the town. He was on the crest of a low hill, with the buildings stretched out before him, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. He could see at once what sort of place it was.

During the late 1860s and early 1870s, many little towns sprang up as settlers moved south and west across the continent. Some of these communities flourished and would ultimately become prosperous and well-populated cities. Others, struggled to survive and eventually floundered and failed, turning into ghost towns. Sometimes, this process could take only a year or two. Gold would be found and a little settlement would begin, which catered for the needs of the prospectors and miners. For a while, it would be a boom town and then the reef would be worked out and the town would die. Looking now at Pilgrim’s Crossing, Kyle could pretty well write its history and predict the future, although he knew little about it and had never before been near the place in the whole course of his life.

Just looking at the town now, it was possible to see that it was declining, rather than being on the ascendent. All but one or two of the clapboard buildings could do with a lick of creosote or coat of paint. More than that, many buildings on the outskirts of Pilgrim’s Crossing seemed to have been abandoned. Some were ruinous, others had simply fallen down. By the look of things, unless something changed for the better, some of those buildings which were currently inhabited would be keeling over in the next high wind. Doubtless, this had been a thriving settlement during the war, but from the look of it, since then it had been steadily deteriorating. This was the problem when you based the economy of a town upon those merely passing through, and men on the shady side of the law. You might get an influx of money, but the one thing you will not acquire is stability. For that, you need farmers; families who have put down roots and have a stake in the land. There was no sign of any tended land around Pilgrim’s Crossing.

As he rode down the slope at a walk, Kyle recollected to himself that his task was only to gather information, nothing more. This was a pleasant and agreeable thought, for he would not care to try and push himself into anybody’s business in a town like this. It was perhaps thirty miles from the nearest lawman in Texas, even assuming that he would be minded to come here to investigate a death. Most likely, if he got himself into trouble here, then he would be dead and in his grave by the time that Texas and the New Mexico Territories settled to their own satisfaction who had responsibility to aid him. He really would be on his own here.

As he and the horse which he had hired ambled along the town’s only street, Kyle checked off in his own mind the best way of approaching his work. Thee seemed to be two saloons. The larger of the two was built partly of brick and according to a sign painted upon the side, it was possible to gamble there as well as become intoxicated. Then too, there was a smaller and shabbier establishment, which had a very run-down look about it. It was here that Kyle decided to begin his enquiries. After arranging for the horse to be tended at the livery stable on the edge of town, Kyle wandered down to the Lucky Man and walked through the bat-wing doors to an interior which smelled musty and looked grimy. There seemed to be only one party of men, sitting at the back of the room. He went to the bar and ordered a whiskey, for he wished to blend himself in with the background of the town and suspected that asking for a glass of buttermilk, which was what he really desired after that long hot ride, might have the opposite effect and make him stand out as an oddity.

One of the men sitting with Stannard watched Kyle enter the bar and marked him down as a soft-looking customer with whom he might have a little amusement. The morning was dragging rather, and Seth Brown felt that he could do with a little fun. He said to the others, ‘Watch now, I aim to make game of that fellow as just came in.’

Stannard said, ‘Don’t be starting a shooting match or anything you know. We’ll be staying here for another day or two yet.’

‘Nothing of the kind,’ said Brown, ‘I’ll just put a scare into him.’ Bullying the weak and helpless was for Seth Brown a never-ending source of pleasure, but most of the men he had so far encountered in Pilgrim’s Crossing were not the kind to take being bated by anybody in good humour and he was well aware that nobody would be pleased if he precipitated a gun battle, when their great coup was just nearing fruition. This mild good natured looking individual though was just the sort whom he might torment. The temptation was too great to resist.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kyle saw one of the party at the back of the bar detach himself from the others and make his way towards the table at which Kyle was sitting. He’d no apprehension that anything might be amiss, for he’d never even visited this town before and nothing about the man’s face seemed familiar. As the stranger walked past Kyle, he seemed to stumble and looked for a moment as though he was about to fall. When he had seemingly regained his balance, he turned angrily towards Kyle and said harshly, ‘Why you great oaf, I damned near tripped over your feet there. What do you mean by sticking your great long shanks out in that way and making a hazard for anybody passing?’

Kyle eyed the man appraisingly and said mildly, ‘Well, whatever it was you tripped over, it surely wasn’t my feet. I have them tucked under the table here, as you’ll observe.’

‘You calling me a liar?’

Kyle appeared to take this question seriously and to give it a good deal of thought. At length, he said, ‘Happen you’re mistook and there’s no more to the case than that.’

Aware that his friends were all watching him and expecting a little entertainment, Seth Brown said, ‘Strikes me, you’re looking for trouble. Is that how matters stand?’

Kyle had had about enough of this and while he’d been happy enough to try and smooth things over without violence, it was as plain as could be that this man would not be content until he had got some kind of reaction. Some men were like that, going through life looking for strife.

Brown said, ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? I asked if you was looking for trouble?’

Edward Stannard and his comrades agreed later that it was the sheer speed of the thing which took them all aback. One moment their friend was bullying the seated man and the next, his supposed victim was on his feet with a pistol in his hand. He grabbed Seth Brown by the shirtfront and jammed his pistol hard into Brown’s throat, saying, ‘If it’s trouble you want, just let me know how much. I got plenty and to spare if that’s what you’re after, you understand me?’

For all his blustering ways and tendency to pick on those smaller and weaker than himself, Seth Brown was no fool. He sensed that he had chosen the wrong target this time and that his own life was now balanced on the edge of a knife. He remained perfectly still and was careful to say nothing more which might further inflame the situation. The fire seemed to go out of the other man and he withdrew the gun from where it had been pressed hard against a tender part of Brown’s jaw. The man said, ‘We’ll leave it there, hey?’ Then he sat down again, leaving Seth Brown standing there and feeling uncommonly foolish. He toyed briefly with the notion of pulling his own pistol and shooting down this cur, but realised that he would be most unpopular with all the others, who were looking to glean a rich reward in a short while at the culmination of all their plans. That being so, he simply turned around and walked back to the others, who had been hugely entertained by the scene which they had witnessed. There were jovial remarks, men saying things like, ‘He surely put one over on you there, boy!’ and ‘That didn’t turn out how you planned it Seth and no mistake!’

Stannard was not laughing along with the others, but was instead staring hard at Kyle. He had been as amused as the others at seeing Brown, whom he regarded as a boastful bag of wind, set at naught. He was also asking himself if another pair of hands might come in useful in the exploit which was brewing. Not that he had any intention of cutting a stranger in on their profits, but another gun on their side when taking on a troop of US Cavalry might be no bad thing. He could always be disposed of afterwards if need be. With this in mind, Edward Stannard stood up and walked over to where Kyle was sitting, still sipping his whiskey quietly. Stannard said, ‘Sorry about my friend there, he gets a little boisterous then and when.’

Kyle looked up at the man standing beside him and at once gauged him to have been at one time an officer. He had that air of authority about him that was at once obvious to anybody who had served in the army. Kyle, who had only ever been a private soldier, knew at once that this man had been an officer and not some lowly lieutenant either. Colonel would be his best guess. The accent told him too that this was not a former Union officer either. These estimations passed through his mind in a flash, before he said, ‘I seen a good deal worse than that in saloons. It’s nothing.’

‘Ah,’ said Stannard, ‘A man after my own heart, somebody who takes matters as they come. My name’s Stannard, Edward Stannard. What brings you to this place, might I ask? Pardon my curiosity if you’d sooner not say?’

Kyle shrugged and replied, ‘I was heading south and this is the way the road led me. There’s no more to the case than that. I never been down this way before, thought I might find work.’

This all sounded distinctly promising to Edward Stannard. Here was a drifter, a man who looked as though he were on the edge of destitution and likely to agree to any kind of proposition which might keep in food and liquor for a few weeks. Already, Stannard’s mind was working furiously, calculating how he could take advantage of this fellow and make use of him, before ensuring that whatever role he was allotted resulted in his death. It would be good to have a stooge, somebody whom he could manipulate like a marionette and this man, it seemed to him, fitted the bill to a ‘T’. He said, ‘It may be that I can help you out, if you’re not too particular as to the work you do and don’t mind getting your hands dirty. You’re staying the night here?’

‘That was my intention.’

‘The boys and I are staying above the Girl of the Period, that’s the other saloon, down the way a little. We come here, because the bar there doesn’t open until after two. Why don’t you drop by there this evening and in the meantime I’ll talk it over with my partners.’

‘That’s real nice of you, sir,’ said Kyle, in what he hoped was a reasonable facsimile of gratitude and humbleness. He thought calling this fellow ‘Sir’ was a nice touch. ‘I’ll be sure to swing by there tonight.’

‘Good man.’ said Stannard who, truth to tell, did indeed like it when men addressed him as ‘Sir’. He walked back to the table where his men were seated and said softly, ‘Boys, I think we found just the fellow to do our dirty work for us. He might be a fast mover when it comes to guns and so on, but I’ve a notion that he’s not so quick when it comes to brain-work.’

‘You only just met him!’ objected one of the men.

‘I’m not planning for to let him in on our business,’ replied Stannard irritably. He did not like it when he was challenged publicly in this way. ‘I have it in mind that he might lend a hand and then meet with a tragic and unforeseen accident, if you take my meaning. Another gun or two never comes amiss when you’re facing professional soldiers. Taking down that convoy won’t be like knocking down skittles, you know. There’ll be more than just some green youth riding shotgun. We’ll be taking on eight or ten men and they’re like to be a match for us in firepower. Every man-Jack of ‘em’ll have a carbine and a pistol too.’

All of which was indisputably true. Edward Stannard and his men much preferred it when the odds were a little more in their favour. If the fellow sitting over yonder could be persuaded to fight alongside them and then be conveniently killed in the process, then it might indeed be worth recruiting him.

Kyle was in no hurry to leave the Lucky Man, for he had much to think about. He well knew the kind of impression he often made on other folk; that of a man slow of wit and easily gulled. This false appearance had served him well enough in the past and it looked as though it would again here in Pilgrim’s Crossing. As he was musing in this way, another customer entered the saloon. This was a short, fussy-looking man whose appearance suggested that he might be a bank clerk or deacon in a church. There was an air of self-importance about him, as though he thought a great deal of himself and was apt to stand on his dignity. He was something shorter than average with eyeglasses and a neatly trimmed moustache. After entering from the sunny street, this fellow stood just inside the entrance, looking around him and blinking nervously. The bartender ignored him and it was the officer who had spoken earlier to Kyle who went over to the little man and spoke quietly to him. He didn’t take him to sit with the other men though, and instead sat down at a table with the newcomer and the two of them conversed together with every sign that their talk was confidential and that what they were talking about was not intended to be spread abroad.

This was interesting. Kyle wondered what on earth this meek-looking individual might possibly have in common with the officer who was now talking so earnestly to him. They looked an ill-matched pair, but clearly they had some common interest. Then he realised that he didn’t even know if any of the people in the bar-room even had anything to do with gun running. For aught he knew to the contrary, the little man could simply be a tailor from whom the officer was ordering a new set of clothes. If he weren’t careful, Kyle would find that his imagination was running away with him and he would be chasing a desert mirage. It was perhaps a good time to get a little fresh air and then see how things looked this evening when he was due to meet up with the man who was still speaking in an urgent undertone to the little man sitting across the table from him.

***

Although President Juarez had fought off the attempt to overthrow him the previous autumn, it was plain to everybody that the danger to his authority was far from over. Diaz and his army had retreated into the mountains to regroup and it was widely expected that he would launch an offensive in the spring. It was a moot point whether or not the law was on the side of Benito Juarez or Porfirio Díaz. When Juarez campaigned in 1870 for a second term as president, Diaz claimed that this was illegal and some lawyers agreed with him. The following year, after Juarez had been re-elected, Diaz claimed there had been irregularities in the staging of the election and then in November 1871, he coordinated a revolt against the president. Diaz promised to restore Mexican honour and also some of the land lost in the war with the United States, more than twenty years earlier.

All these developments south of the Rio Grande were disturbing to Washington and it was felt that the best thing they could do was to help maintain Juarez in power. For that reason, a consignment of Gatling Guns was to be handed over to the Mexican government in anticipation of the assault which Diaz was expected to begin any day now. Whichever side had those Gatlings would be well-nigh invincible on the battlefield against an opposing army reliant upon muzzle-loading muskets; which had been the most common weapon on both sides in the fighting which had taken place in November.

A very similar calculation had been made by Edward Stannard, at one time a colonel in the army of the Confederacy. He saw as clearly as could be that whichever side in the forthcoming battles had those Gatling Guns at their disposal would be sure to win the day. It was his intention to see that General Diaz had the weapons though, because together with another little advantage he was about to bestow upon the Mexican rebels, their army would be more than a match for anything which President Juarez might deploy against them. If everything went to plan, Stannard could see himself becoming one of the most important men in Mexico.

***

At about eight that evening, Jethro Kyle made his appearance at the Girl of the Period. This was an altogether grander place than the Lucky Man, although it was a little faded and down at heel. In its heyday, thought Kyle, this must have been quite a smart location. There were gaming tables and an enormous mirror hanging over the bar, stretching for the entire length of the room. Closer examination though showed that the baize on the gaming tables was torn and stained and the mirror had dark patches and flecks where the silvering had deteriorated. It was cracked too in a couple of places. It was the same with the chandelier, which although ostentatious and large, was also grimy and had some of the lustres missing. It looked as though nobody had the spare money to spend to get the room up to its previous standards.

It struck Kyle that the clientele of the saloon too were not of the highest quality. Perhaps at one time there had been folk dressed in fancy eveningwear, but now it was full of rough looking men, some of whom had not even bothered to shave or dust off their clothes. Kyle himself had felt a little shy of entering such a grand building without decent attire, but he saw at once that his anxiety on the matter had been altogether misplaced. He fitted right in.

So gloomy and smoky was the saloon, that Kyle could hardly see all the way across it. It was very crowded and judging by the look of the men drinking there, he guessed that these were not living in the town itself but had ridden in just to drink in the saloon. There were many horses tethered not just outside The Girl of the Period, but at other hitching rails along the street. A badly out of tune piano was hammering out some dance tune and a couple of girls in indecently short skirts were dancing near the piano player. Kyle assumed that they were most likely prostitutes and that if this setup was similar to others which he had known, there might well be a cathouse upstairs.

It took Kyle a while to identify Stannard and the little group around him; including the man who had tried to provoke a quarrel with him earlier that day. He weaved his way carefully through the crowd, until he was standing by the table which Stannard shared with three other men. The fellow into whose face he had earlier rammed the barrel of his pistol glared venomously at Kyle, who responded with a friendly nod, saying, ‘Sorry you and me seemed to get off on the wrong foot this morning. Dare say I was half to blame.’

‘Well,’ said Stannard, ‘That’s spoken right handsomely. You sound like a man of peace. Mind, you’re not too peaceful, I’m hopeful? We need a fellow with a bit of vim in him, if you take my meaning.’

‘I don’t think you mentioned the nature of the work, you was offering me?’

‘That’s right, you want to know what it’s all about,’ said Stannard. He turning to the man sitting beside him and said, ‘Seth, why’n’t you go up and bring us some more drink, including something for our new friend here?’

Seth Brown looked a mite mutinous at this request, but he was evidently used to taking orders from Stannard, for he stood up after a second or two’s pause and went off to the bar. Stannard invited Kyle to take Brown’s chair and then leaned towards him in a conspiratorial fashion.

‘What it is, my boy,’ said Stannard, ‘Is that we need somebody who is up to all the tricks and fears naught. Somebody not to fussy about breaking the odd law into the bargain. Would that be a fair description of your good self, would you say?’

‘I reckon,’ replied Kyle laconically, ‘Depending on what’s in it for me.’

‘That’s the spirit!’

Whatever else Edward Stannard might have been about to say and whatever falsehoods he was going to utter, were destined not to be heard on this occasion, because a disturbance erupted at the bar and conversation ceased, while men took to calculating if this was just a minor dispute or something likely to end in bloodshed. Even the piano-player halted, as though keen to see and hear how the matter might pan out.

Seth Brown had been greatly put out when a man he was baiting had pulled a gun on him and made him look ridiculous, earlier that day. His comrades had twitted him about this at intervals since it had happened and this had not improve his temper. That the boss was now inviting this same man to join their band, even if he would later be sacrificed in some way, had done nothing to improve the sweetness of Brown’s temper. So it was that when he had arrived at the bar and somebody had tried to play an ancient and time-honoured trick upon him, it was exactly what he could have wished for.

Sometimes, those who thought that they could get a little money or even just a few free drinks out of a gullible and easily frightened stranger would arrange matters so that the victim appeared to have smashed a valuable pipe; a Meerschaum or some such. By placing a cheap clay pipe strategically near a man’s elbow while he was at the bar, he was sooner or later bound to move and send the thing tumbling to the floor, where it would break. The person operating this little fraud would then scoop up the pieces before anybody could examine them in detail and claim that the other man’s clumsiness had destroyed a treasured possession.

Perhaps Seth Brown was chosen because he was a little shorter than average and the man trying to gull him in this way only saw him from behind and thought that being a deal taller than the mark he had chosen, he would be able to bluff him into paying up. For whatever reason, he selected Brown and then, when the clay pipe fell to the floor, he picked up the pieces quickly so that nobody would be able to look at them too closely and said in a loud, angry voice, ‘Why, you clumsy bastard, you broke my favourite pipe. I set a store by that thing, let me tell you!’

After the humiliation which he had suffered that morning, Brown was on the lookout for just such a chance of hurting somebody and this came to him as a gift from the gods. He turned slowly and faced the tall, beefy man who had levelled the absurd accusation at him, saying, ‘You really want to try this game on me? Well then, you carry on.’

There was something unsettling about the cold eyes of the man he was hoping to buffalo into handing over a few dollars, but having begun the enterprise, Luke Martin felt obliged to see it through. He raised his voice and moved towards the smaller man in a threatening manner. ‘What’s that you son of a whore? You really want trouble, hey?’

The other man just stood staring at him, as though he were measuring Luke up for a coffin, and so unnerving did Luke find this, that he made a fatal error. Since the man he was trying to bully did not seem at all impressed, let alone cowed, and was regarding him moreover with a cool air of superiority, Luke Martin thought it might be worth making out as though he were on the verge of a murderous rage. He was a little drunk or never would he have done anything so foolish. So it was that he reached down, grasped the hilts of his pistol and made as though to pull it from the holster. He had not the slightest intention of shooting anybody, it was pure braggadocio.

Seth Brown did not react for a moment, partly because he could hardly believe his luck, but also on account of he wished to make certain-sure that there were witnesses to somebody drawing on him. Both legally and morally, he now had a perfect right to use his own weapon, as this was a clearcut case of self-defence. He waited a second until the man facing him suddenly realised what he had done and moved to rectify matters by returning his pistol to its holster. Before he had the chance to do so though, Brown pulled his own piece and shot Luke Martin twice, once in the chest and then again in his belly. Both shots were very close together and were followed by a third, from another source. Seth Brown stood for a moment, with a puzzled look on his face and a crimson hole in the middle of his forehead. Both he and Martin dropped to the floor at the same time.