The Sharp Edge Gang in Some Fancy Company - and Some Fancy Footwork
This was an adventure of the Sharp Edge Gang, played as a Demo game at a Wargames Con in Bristol, England. It follows-on from a previous game in the early activities of the gang, as operated by Wayne Millard, Ian Chard and the “late” Neil Coltman. Needless to say it involves their alter egos as the gang leaders, and in a future issue their biographic details may well appear for the benefit of those unfamiliar with them [if Wayne gets around to it!]. Its been written up as coming from our mythical Annals of Pima County, complete with cod footnotes etc.
For readers who fancy refighting the scenario – and it is a good one, with lots of tension, Character Sheets for the Sharp Edge Gang and the Earps & Mastersons are included. These will need to be adjusted to suit whatever rules you are using – we use our own Old West Rules, of course. We haven’t bothered with any Indian Characters – in this game they are the archetypal “unknown enemy” and you can use any figures and ratings you already have.
We generated the Indians and controlled their direction and movement by dice ie there wasn’t an Indian player as such, but there’s no reason why there shouldn’t be – but don’t allow too much clever co-ordination by the Indians, with them moving straight at and taking out the Whitemen – they were as much after the iron horse as the men, and they did not fight with the same cold calculation as most ‘gamers bring to the table. Make sure that you have a mechanism to keep them wild and woolly. Make up for this a little by having more of them, by all means, as the full fire power from the train once [if!] they get their act together could be pretty lethal. Don’t have the Indians dismounting and fighting to the last man either – this should be a fast strike and then gone, inflicting what damage they can but not staying around to get into a stand-up fight.
Extract from The Annals of Pima County
This account of the activities of one of the gangs of the Old West has been reconstructed from contemporary newspaper accounts and autobiographies of some of the participant - some of which were no more than “penny-dreadfuls”. It is this which accounts for the rather lurid tone of the account which follows - and yet it seems entirely appropriate to the characters involved. The Sharp Edge gang never achieved the full notoriety of the Wild Bunch, the Daltons, the Hole In The Fence gang or the James’s. They were always minor league compared to these giants of the West, and this must account for the lack of a work of serious historical scholarship devoted to their activities. It is a pity that one has never appeared as their story is a colourful one and one certainly worth reporting in these pages.
“Of course this is gonna work!” Gun Hill, NMT
For once one of their schemes had actually worked! Here they were, one half of the current members of the Sharp Edge Gang with saddlebags full of dollar bills recently liberated from a bank in a small, no account northern New Mexican town called Gun Hill. A clever diversionary ploy had misdirected the posse of in pursuit of the other, innocent, half of the gang. Meantime the real bank robbers had calmly boarded the last train out of town that day, carrying their saddlebags full of stolen money.
It had been Duke’s idea. “Of course it will work” he had insisted to the others, “the posse will chase off after the others because they will have made a lot of noise and will ride out of town whooping an’ hollering’ jus’ as we leave the bank. In th’ confusion we jus’ slip aboard th’ train an’ make oursel’s comfortable. Then we get off at th’ water hole on Saleda Flats, where our horses ‘ill be waitin’ fur us. Nothin’ ken go wrong, boys, trust me!”
Eventually he had persuaded the others that it might just work, and as no one else had a better plan for raising some badly needed funds, they agreed to the plan. And it had all gone perfectly. The bank raid had gone without mishap. Everyone had played their part beautifully - no slip ups, no arguments and no disturbance. One half of the gang [Duke, Chiz, Brad Coltman, Trump Mitchell, Gomez Herzilla and Jake Chooser] had ridden into the little town of Gun Hill, NMT, just before noon, in ones and twos so as to draw no attention to themselves. The other half of the gang had done the opposite, shouting and carousing and ending up in the saloon, where they drank and gambled until the pre-arranged time and then they spilled out onto the street and across to the bank. The mixed with the gang members coming out of the bank. Scattered around them and climbed aboard the horses left outside the bank by the real bank robbers. Then, yelling and shooting, they charged out of town, whilst the others slipped quietly down a side alley and moved off towards the train depot. Sure enough, the town marshal assembled a small posse and rode off after the fleeing “bank robbers.”
Once aboard the train, Duke, Chiz, Brad, Trump, Gomez and Jake had settled into their seats and drawn as little attention to themselves as possible. This was not easy, as part of Duke’s plan involved them donning “respectable” clothing rather than the normal cow herder gear they habitually wore. The idea was that this would both look more acceptable in the bank and on the train, as they could pass as cattle buyers, which would also explain the money they were carrying if it should be discovered. Unfortunately, they were far from comfortable in such garb, especially as most of the store bought clothes didn’t fit very well. Awkward and uncomfortable in the unfamiliar stiff collars and 3 button coats, with obvious bulges giving away the presence of an arsenal hidden about their persons, they sat stiffly in one corner of the only passenger carriage on the train and sweated. Once the train moved of they relaxed a little and began to take more notice of the other passengers, and with a shout, Duke leapt to his feet.
“Godam, ah don’ believe et. Bat, Wyatt is thet really you?” With this he strode down the gangway to the opposite end of the compartment to where four men dressed in dark business clothes sat playing cards.
One of the four sprang to his feet, his right hand reaching under his left shoulder under his coat as he turned to the source of the shout. Seeing the bulky figure stuffed into a suit a size too small bearing down on him and not recognising him, the hand appeared in a blur with a Colts Sheriff’s model short barrelled revolver.
“OK, fella, that’s close enough!” he snapped as he levelled the Colt at Duke’s ample midriff.
“Bat, its me, Duke” Millard said, his face breaking into the hallmark ear to ear grin. “Don’ yuh recognise an ol’ buddy?
The other fellow stared intently for a moment and the realisation dawned.
“Duke, Duke Millard, by all that’s holy - I just didn’t recognise you in those clothes!”
With this the potentially dangerous moment passed and the two men shook hands. Ten minutes later both groups were sitting together exchanging stories. Duke and Chiz had met up with Bat Masterson and Wyatt Earp buffalo hunting out on the Kansas plains back in late ‘73, along with Billy Dixon, and one or two other soon to become famous names.
It soon transpired that the two groups had followed very different courses since those dusty days as buffalo hunters. Without giving too much away the Sharp Edge boys sketched in what they had been up to in the intervening period. They said they had been in cattle [which was true, except they were other people’s cattle,] mining [which was also true, but again it was other people’s mines] and banking [again true, but like today, it was other people’s banks and other people’s money.] All of this was accompanied by lots of laughing and winking. This all came to an abrupt halt when, after Bat and Wyatt had introduced their companions, their brothers Jim [Masterson] and Virgil [Earp,] they had explained what they were doing on the train. They were on their way to one of the booming Kansas cowtowns - to take over as town marshal and deputies! The looks on the Sharp Edge boys faces at this point was, as they say, a picture. They were astounded and more than a mite worried at this unexpected turn of events.
At this point the conductor came round punching tickets, which gave the boys a chance to collect their thoughts. Following the conductor out onto the platform, Chiz asked him if it was OK to get off at the next water stop to stretch their legs.
“Well no, sir, that’s agin regulations. More then my jobs worth to let you get down there.” was the less than helpful reply.
Chiz made his way back to the rest inside and drew Duke aside to explain the conductors response.
“We’ll jus’ hev t’risk it, Duke.” the young outlaw said. “I’ll keep Bat and Wyatt an’ the others talkin’, while you an’ the others get off anyway an’ find the horses.”
Nowhere, NMT
Two hours later the train came to a halt alongside a water-tower and wood stack out in the middle of nowhere. On the other side of the tracks was a small lineman’s shack and a privy. Despite the conductors warning, the boys decided to go ahead with their plan and get off the train in order to reach their waiting horses. Gathering up their saddlebags containing the loot from the bank raid, and eyeing their erstwhile friends who were now on the “wrong” side of the law, they clambered down off the carriage to look for their mounts.
The place had an eerie stillness about it - the only sounds came from the wheezing and puffing of the great locomotive.
“Hey, I toll’ you fellas t’ stay on board!” shouted the conductor as he to descended from the mail car. “OK, you ken mek yoursel’s useful at least. One on yuh get up on thet water tower en disconnect the strap fer th’ hose.”
Not wishing to draw attention to themselves any more than they already had, Chiz told Gomez and Brad to get the saddlebags off the train on the side away from the water-tower, Trump and Jake to go look for the horses and Duke to climb the tower, whilst he went back on board to talk to Bat and Wyatt to reassure them that all was well.
After the usual argument Duke walked over to the wooden structure and began to climb. As he did so, his view over the terrain widened and he could make out the arroyo just of to the east with the trestle bridge which took the tracks, the rocky outcrops on either side and the flat featureless desert all around. Then something caught his eye - a movement or brief flash of light, he wasn’t sure which, down in the arroyo near the rocks and scrub.
“Ah, the horses.” he thought. “Hey, there they are!” Duke shouted down to the others, pointing towards what was now becoming a small dust cloud.
Inside the train, Chiz, intent on taking their minds of what was going on outside, had been engaging his old companions in idle chat. He was not having much success. Bat had just been saying that “Something strange is going on here, Chiz, what are you boys up to? I sure as hell hope you aint thinkin’ o’trying to rob this train!”
Chiz hurriedly assured him that nothing was further from their minds, which was true, and that they just wanted to stretch their legs, which wasn’t, but the lawmen were far from convinced.
“Why are you carryin’ yur saddlebags, boys?” asked Wyatt. “Yuh don’ need them to stretch yur legs. Yuh mus’ be mighty concerned about them - or whuts inside ‘em!” he went on.
So saying he clambered down off the train and walked over to where Gomez and Brad were standing with the pile of saddlebags.
Just as he reached Gomez and before the bemused Mexican could think of a response, Duke’s shout broke the silence. All heads turned to look in the direction indicated at the dust cloud. Gomez and Wyatt were on the wrong side of the train to see the dust cloud and could not make out what Duke was actually saying and so they just stood looking in his direction.
Somewhere nearby a dog barked, almost drowning the cry of “That aint jus’ horses - there’s riders too - sheet - ets Injuns!”
It was indeed Indians. A warband of Kiowas hell-bent on destroying the terrible Iron Horse which thundered, sparking flame and sparks which set light to the prairies and terrified the buffalo. Lead by Tall Bull, they poured out of the arroyo determined to rid themselves of the metal monster once and for all, and all the Whitemen with it. As they rode up the slope beside the trestle bridge they split into two groups, one on either side of the high wooden structure, firing and yelling as they came.
“Then Again, Maybe Not!” Nowhere, NMT, later
The last flames from the burning water tower spluttered and died as the stragglers from the Kiowa war party disappeared into the heat-hazed horizon. They were happy with their one fair haired scalp and several bags full of the green paper they knew could buy them better rifles to help in their continual struggle for survival. Their magic had been strong this day and all of the warriors in Big Bow’s party were returning home unscathed and looking forward to the coming scalp dance. It had also been a long time since so many coups had been taken in one raid. There would be many stories to tell to their people. Big Bow was also a happy man for his prestige had risen like the moon and he would have no trouble finding followers for his next venture onto the war trail.
Duke felt as though his body were on fire - as indeed it had been for the last few seconds before the water tank walls burnt through and the conflagration was engulfed. He now lay, and steamed, amongst the charred embers of the Saleda Flats wayside station. As his mind slipped between lucidity and unconsciousness he found time to thank the Lord for giving him strength enough to hid away on the water tower platform, while below the painted savages from hell had pricked and teased and jabbed at poor Jake Chooser’s limp and lifeless body. As for the two arrows now sticking a good twelve inches out from his prostrate body, well he thought he’d best leave them alone for a while. OK, so it was a little difficult to lie down, but even in his befuddled state he realised that it would be unwise to increase still further the pool of blood now spreading beneath him.
Time passed.........
Pima City
Many miles away the train wheezed, grunted and clanked as it gently slowed to a halt alongside the platform at Pima City. A good hour had passed since the whirlwind of painted Redmen had erupted out of the desert and struck the astonished passengers and crew, and no-one had really spoken during that time. There were wounds to bandage and imagined ambushes to shoot at. How many prairie dogs had bitten the dust in that time no-one could tell, but it must have been some for they were all crack shots to a man ! Even Bat had been badly rattled by the bizarre experience - “Injuns? Jeezus, this is 1875 for Christ sake!"
Chiz ran his fingers through his hair and tried to restore some order to his shaken thoughts. All that effort at Gun Hill for nothing. The image of his fortune lying in the dust as the train pulled away wouldn’t leave his mind. Then there was Jake Chooser. He was a strange one sometimes, but that was no way for a white man to die. Then there was Duke. This was it then, really, the end of a long friendship - all those times together, good and bad.
“Christ Almighty” he muttered to himself, “thank the Lord I didn’t climb that durned water tower m’self!”
Duke’s shouted warning had come too late. Although Jake and Trump had heard it OK, and had coped well enough with unpleasant surprises in the past, the very word ‘Injuns’ seemed to unhinge them and they had to fight for control of their senses. They were looking for their horses. They were going home rich men. What in tarnation were the devil’s own painted fiends doing interfering with their lives? They stood rooted to the spot.
Bat’s puzzlement lasted only seconds. Duke was always one loud bastard but this sounded serious. Like the shootist he was, he reacted quickly to the situation and steadied his nerves for action. Then he saw them, fifty if there was one, whooping an’ hollering just like the old fellers used to describe. Quick reactions allowed even quicker legs to carry him towards safety, screaming as he went .
“Move that chugging sonnavabitch or we’re all hairless !”
All thoughts of easy living were unceremoniously dumped from the minds of Gomez and Brad. The idea of facing Bat Masterson had been scary, but hot-shit, this was a nightmare! No slouches themselves at the hundred yards dash they were right behind Bat, leaving those precious saddlebags to be ridden over by the fast approaching red men.
A brief but furious fight overwhelmed the slowly moving train. All the whites except Jake and Duke had managed to reach the relative safety of at least the foot plate and as the iron beast built up steam they punched and kicked at any Kiowa who came close. A few ragged shots were emitted from the open windows of the carriage (at least this interruption had saved Chiz the humiliation of trying to make up further implausible reasons for the gangs’ actions), but no bullets found their mark. The charm promised by Big Bow truly was taking effect for not even a horse was scratched. Today the contest was to be won by the iron tipped arrow, for even at full gallop the Indian marksmen were more than a match for the frightened whites.
Poor Chooser was dead before he had the opportunity to decide whether or not the feeling in his bowels was the after-effect of that Mex meal he’d had in Gun Hill, or something much worse. Even Duke’s normally unerring aim was running against form and this was not much improved by the arrow which slammed into his leg causing him to reel backwards, dangerously close to the edge of the platform. The second arrow to the chest punched him back away from this danger, allowing him to crumple up at the foot of the water barrel. Here he lay, bleeding but thankfully forgotten while the Redmen taunted the now speeding train and set to fire every wooden structure the white people had erected at the place they called Saleda Flats.
The shaken passengers emptied from the train as the Pima City telegraph sped its fearsome message across the south west. Wyatt approached Chiz on the platform and not for the first time that day Chiz’s stomach tightened itself into a hard, painful ball.
“Well Chiz, whatever yer game wus I guess its over now. I’m sorry ‘bout yer friends, Duke was a good man. I suggest that when the military arrive we head back out t’ Saleda an’ pick up the pieces. It ain’t right fer a Christian to end up food for the coyotes “.
That was it then, thought Chiz. The end of the Sharp Edge gang as the world knew it. Maybe he’d find a new partner or maybe he’d go straight for a while. But hell, wait on there he mused, what was that sayin’ of ol’ granma’s?
Every cloud has a silver linin’, my boy, she used to drone on, but this time it was true. Duke must of had a sweetheart in near every town between here and the Rio Grande, and they’ll all need to be informed, and I dare say... consoled! He smiled wryly to himself and twirled his drooping moustachios.
Nowhere, NMT, later still
With a company of cavalry as escort they had gone back to the scene of the attack. They dug a hole next to the burnt out station and in it laid Jake Chooser’s pathetic remains. Duke’s body had not been found, for no-one looked at the blackened remains of the water tower. Trump was adamant that he’d seen Duke fighting tooth and nail with half a dozen Redskins after descending the wooden structure.
“The poor bastards bin teken off for a ritual torturin’ t’death” exclaimed Trump, never one to play down a situation.
Gomez winced visibly for he knew what the Kiowa were capable of. Just then Brad noticed a pistol lying beneath the more than half burned tower legs.
Picking it up he cried “Hey fellas, this here looks like ol’ Dooks le Mat! ”
Chiz raced over and with eager fingers tore it from Brad’s grasp.
“Holy crap! This here’s the fella Botch gave Duke an’ I won offen him and he swindled me back out uv way back in Mexico. Come home to daddy eh?”
Blowing the dust away from the action Chiz was about to stuff the weapon beneath his belt when he was shocked to hear a familiar, if somewhat croaky, voice from above.
“Hey down there, any o’ you fellers got a slug of whisky about ya?”
Looking up they saw a sad looking face that they all recognised, a little darker than usual but as ugly as ever.
“Hey, Duke, you careless son of bitch” grinned Chiz, holding out the le Mat at arms length “looks like ya’ dropped something!”
Notes
In particular, see Stuart Lake, He Carried A Six-shooter, for a rather brief, and much glorified, account of the Earps’ role in the little fracas dealt with in this article. Like many historians of the period, he is dismissive of the role played by Millard and Chard, but new research used for this piece shows that they were major protagonists in the fight.
There entry in D McGloughlin's Encyclopaedia of the Old West is short and pointed, in his usual ascerbic style "Sharp Edge Gang, The: This band of low-lifers and teenage punks rode high on the hog in the Pima County locale of New Mexico Territory and over the boarder in Mexico for a spell in the 1870s and 1880s but gang members had an unfortunate habit of succumbing to either the bullet, rope or long spells in the State Pen. Few were more than simple no-goods, but two, Duke Millard and Chiz Chard, made a more of a lasting impression at the time - but not so you'd notice now."
The events in Gun Hill have been pieced together from the town's newspaper, the Gun Hill Gazette and Clarion, for the relevant weeks, fortunately now preserved in the archives of the Daily Planet, Metropolis, NJ, microfilm roles A-2534-98435/1877.
A Le Mat percussion revolver was a favourite weapon in the South during the Civil War, and some were still retained afterwards because of the 9 shot cylinder and extra barrel under the cylinder which fired a shotgun cartridge, useful as a nasty surprise at close range. Very few were made; after 1864 manufacturing was moved from France to Birmingham, England. After the war manufacturing was resumed in France but with pin-fire and centre fire ignition, and such guns were widely used in the French penal colonies. See Peterson, H, Encyclopaedia of Firearms, Connoisseur, 1964.
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