Telegraph Days (10 page)

B
OOK
II
 
Telegraph Days

T
HE FIRST PERSON
to recover from the shock of the big fight that wiped out the Yazee gang was Beau Wheless—for maybe ten minutes Beau was as stunned as the rest of us, but then his business instincts kicked in and kicked hard. A capacity for rapid response to commercial possibility probably explains why Beau Wheless was the richest man in Rita Blanca.

“Come on, Billy, help me line up these Yazees,” he said to his son. “Let's pile up their guns and valuables—and search close. I think we've got the makings of a fine little museum here.”

I thought the man must be daft.

“Museum of what—dirty clothes?” I asked.

But Beau was energetic, not to mention smooth. His eyes were already looking far ahead in time and seeing the endless march of dollar signs, visible at the moment only to himself.

“Let's call it the Museum of the American Outlaw … what better place to have it than right here in Rita Blanca?” he said.

It takes a true businessman to look at six bloody, bedraggled, filthy corpses, their eyes open to the heaven they wouldn't be going to, and see a museum.

“Would you charge admission?” I asked—my glimpse into how the mercantile mind worked made me think there might be something to this fellow Beau Wheless after all.

“Free admission to reporters and a dime to strangers and idle passersby,” Beau said. “Maybe we'll raise it to a quarter later on.”

“Okay, where will this museum be?” I asked.

“In the window of my store, to start with—until we get a nice room ready for it,” Beau said.

“And where are all these reporters you said could get in free?” I asked.

Just then Hungry Billy gave a cry, dropped to his knees, and puked. He had just pulled a sack full of objects I couldn't identify out of Bert Yazee's saddlebags.

“Ears,” Ted Bunsen declared, when he went to take a look. “Billy's found a big bag of ears.”

“They'll be perfect for Beau's museum,” I said, rather tartly.

In fact Ted Bunsen looked peaked. Being shot in the shoulder was clearly a source of discomfort.

“I'm taking you to Doc Siblee,” I told him. “You could have a broken collarbone.”

For once Teddy didn't argue with me. I think he was feeling pretty low. For one thing he was shot, and for another, he had not played a very effective role in the defense of the community that was paying his wages, such as they were.

My little brother, who had never fired a pistol before, had become a great hero, while Teddy had been able to be no help. In the heat of battle he probably didn't think about that angle, but the battle had cooled and there it was.

Stiff as I usually was with Teddy, I didn't enjoy seeing him so disappointed with himself.

“Now, Theodore,” I told him, “I want you to cheer up. This is No Man's Land. There'll be plenty more outlaws for you to slaughter, I'm sure.”

“Doubtful,” Teddy said, though he smiled when I gave his hand a good warm squeeze.

The Doc was not long in discovering that I had been right in my diagnosis. Sheriff Ted Bunsen had a broken collarbone.

I
T WAS IMPORTANT
that I took the trouble to walk Ted to the Doc's. Otherwise he might well have balked, as men are prone to do when anything medical is suggested to them.

But I was not through with Beau Wheless and his plans for an Outlaw Museum. By this time Hungry Billy and the helpful blacksmith had drug the dead outlaws to the undertaker's shed, where they were rapidly being squirted full of embalming fluid.

“We can't allow them to get rank before the reporters get here,” Beau informed me. “Have you sent off any telegrams yet?”

“No, but I'll inform the paper up in Dodge,” I said. “It'll be a relief to travelers to know they don't have to worry about the Yazees anymore.”

“Do it!” Beau said. “Then we can expect a crowd of reporters to come down on us in about three days.”

“Three days?” I asked. “We're a long way from anywhere, Beau—or haven't you noticed?”

“Nobody can cover distance like newspapermen on the scent of a story,” he said. “Half the forts in Kansas are full of reporters who are just waiting for some general to corner some Indian that the U.S. Army can blame Custer on.”

“But Custer wasn't killed in Kansas,” I pointed out. “He was killed in Montana.”

“All that means is that the reporters will be drinking too much whiskey and losing money at cards—our story will be the biggest thing on the horizon, as soon as you send that wire.”

The casual way Beau said “our story” irritated me for a moment. Strictly speaking, it seemed to me, the story involved only my brother,
Jackson, and the now-defunct Yazee gang. And yet Jackson was over in the jail, taking a nap—he had no inkling yet that there even was a story, one that would render him famous for the rest of his days. The Yazees would be famous too, although their fame would have to be posthumous.

Beau Wheless already had his big camera out—he meant to photograph the dead Yazees as soon as the embalming was done.

“Here's a notion for you, Nellie, once you get that wire off,” Beau said. “You need to write up a booklet about all this—there's a printer in Dodge who could print it off for you,” he told me, with a gleam in his eye.

“You've seen outlaw books,” he went on. “They needn't be longer than dime novels. I'll pay for the printing and we'll split the profits down the middle—if you'll hurry and write it up, maybe we can get it on sale before the hordes arrive.”

I had a hard time imagining hordes in Rita Blanca, but Beau Wheless was an experienced man and I was just a young woman. The only thing I didn't like about Beau Wheless was his Adam's apple, which was large; it jerked around unattractively when he talked.

“I've never written a booklet before, but I suppose I can put my mind to it,” I said. “But let me remind you that I'm not destitute. I can pay to have my own booklet printed, and then I wouldn't have to share the profits with anyone. Of course, if you chose to sell the booklet in your store you'd be welcome to a fair commission.”

Beau looked a little pained.

“But it was my idea,” he said.

“And it was my brother who kept you from being slaughtered,” I reminded him.

“Go write it, then,” Beau said. I suspect he saw his defeat as temporary.

“Avoid long sentences if you can,” he advised. “People who read outlaw books don't care to have long sentences wrapped around their throats.”

Then he and Hungry Billy and the blacksmith propped the dead Yazees up on some boards they had knocked together.

All afternoon, as I was in my office scribbling out the story of the big shoot-out in Rita Blanca, I could see Beau Wheless popping in and out of his little photographer's tent, taking picture after picture of the once dreaded Yazee gang.

S
CRIBBLING OUT STORIES
and sketches has always come easy for me. From girlhood I had written little stories, more or less in the manner of Mrs. Edgeworth's or Mrs. Ewing's. Mrs. Browning was, for the time being, still more than I could aspire to. I kept my sketches in a box, which I forgot to bring with me when we headed west. I let my big sister Millicent read a few of my sketches and she thought I ought to be sending them off to magazines—but then Milly died and I let that project drop.

The story of the Yazee battle was a good deal different from what I was used to writing. It wasn't based on vapors in my head or flutterings in my bosom. There had been a real gunfight that happened on a real street in a real town. Many of the townspeople had observed it: Doc Siblee, Ted Bunsen, Hungry Billy, the blacksmith, and plenty of others. Later quite a few of these spectators complained that they deserved more attention than they got, but I was the one writing up the event and I did my best. The fact that there were hurt feelings on the part of a few soreheads for the next fifty years was merely one of the many aspects of life that were out of my control.

Of course, right up I had to back my narrative up a few pages and explain who the Yazee brothers were, and why they needed killing. I had to get in Bert Yazee's penchant for using a war club and all that.

Also, I had to explain exactly where Rita Blanca was, no easy task. Since Rita Blanca wasn't part of a regular state I finally resorted to Father's pocket atlas and just put in the latitude and longitude as best I could work them out.

Once those ticklish matters were out of the way I sailed right into the big charge of the Yazees. I didn't hesitate to put myself into the
story—after all, I had been in the story. I was already out in the street, facing the six horsemen, before Ted Bunsen came out and got shot in the collarbone. I had had to yell at Jackson, when once he appeared, just to get the boy awake enough to deal with our peril. If I hadn't insisted that he draw his pistol and shoot, Jackson might have stood there with sleep in his eyes while the two of us were ridden down.

Of course, I didn't stint when it came to giving full credit to my brother for his exceptional shooting. Doc Siblee later told me confidentially that every member of the gang had been shot dead in the heart.

“I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it,” the Doc said. “Few gunshot wounds are instantly fatal—but those six were instantly fatal, and you can quote me on that.”

I did quote him on that, only to have various experts from various countries weigh in on the matter, most of them contradicting our good doctor and claiming that nothing of the sort could have happened.

All afternoon, while Beau and Hungry Billy took pictures, I stayed in the office and let my pen race. Oh, how it raced! Before it stopped racing I had more than fifty pages ready for the printer, who, inconveniently, did business some one hundred and fifty miles from where I sat.

When I showed my manuscript to Beau he was quick to approve.

“You're a fine hand with the pen, Nellie,” Beau allowed. “What title are you going to fit onto this tale?”

In my haste to get the facts down I had given no thought to a title, but I knew I had better come up with something quick or Beau would think of one and use it to claim fifty percent of the profits.

“Banditti of No Man's Land,
how's that?” I asked him.

“Too short,” he ruled at once. “You need a little more than that.”

I suppose that was fair. A little more weight in the title might not hurt. I went over to the counter in Beau's store and came up with this lengthy effort:

The Banditti of No Man's Land. A True and Authentic Account of the Destruction of the Yazee Gang, Terrors of the Prairie. Eyewitness Account of the Heroic Stand Made by Deputy Jackson Courtright. Six Outlaws Shot Dead in the Heart. Miraculous Marksmanship, Claims Local Doctor.

Beau thought that that title was adequate—the one problem that remained was how to get it to the printer in Dodge City.

“The fastest way's horseback,” Ted Bunsen advised. He was looking wan and moving slow.

“I'll take it, Sis—I know how to get to Dodge,” Jackson volunteered.

“We'll
take it!” I corrected. “I'm not sending my booklet off with anyone as absentminded as you. You might forget what it was and start a fire with it, or something. I can't risk it.”

“If you were planning to start off on that mule you'll never get there,” Aurel Imlah commented, referring to Percy, of whom he had a poor opinion.

“Joe Schwartz took over those Yazee horses,” Ted pointed out. “I doubt he would mind loaning you a couple of nags for a few days.”

“If he should balk I'll counsel him,” Aurel said, but Joe never even came close to balking, though I believe it shocked him a little when I sashayed in wearing trousers. The pants had been Father's. I was not about to set off on a trip through wild country trying to balance myself on a sidesaddle.

“Nellie's always been a tomboy,” Jackson said to Joe.

Later I reminded my brother privately that I was no kind of boy, tom or otherwise, and I expected him to remember that fact.

I chose Bert Yazee's big roan horse and appropriated his saddle as well.

Jackson Courtright had always been prone to gentlemanly indecision. The way to get him into action was not to give him any choice. The Yazee gang hadn't given him any choice, but even then, he waited until the last second to pull his gun and shoot.

Faced with a pen full of horses to choose from, Jackson's indecision flared up again. He rode all five of the remaining Yazee horses, trying to make up his mind. He liked some things about a bay, and some things about a sorrel, and some things about a black, but he could not decide. The one horse he hadn't tried was a small, squatty mustang. I am not noted for my patience—forty-five minutes of watching Jackson switch from one nag to another had me grinding my teeth.