Dust Up in Dalhart
written and directed by Richard Duthie
It was a beautiful, cool afternoon at Credibility, New Mexico. The fall sun shone down warmly and people thronged the streets. Sheriff Nathan Pearce of Cochise County was relaxed for the first time in months, and with his boots off, his tired feet could enjoy the privilege of a rest on the jail's desk. It seemed incredible that there was no trouble -- miraculous, thought the exhausted lawman. Nothing would budge him, unless Deputy Calhoun couldn't deal with it. He shifted his gaze from the hole in his right stocking, to the dirty window, through which he could see Hookey Horner bending the ears of an innocent youth with his tales of how he won the west. 'Poor kid' I thought Nathan, before his heavy eye-lids flickered shut.
The poor kid in question was Horton Fenty, son of the keeper of the Butterfield Stage Station to the north. Horton had come into Credibility Gap on some errands for his Pa but had been waylaid by Hookey who was looking for a free whisky. The boy, eager to hear the local drunk's tales, spilled out the money for his errands, and they headed for the nearest saloon. Hockey's eyes lit up at the appearance of a bottle and he downed a glass before starting his yarn. His appreciation of good liquor was evident as glass followed glass. The saloon seemed too close and hot and at the old man's suggestion, they moved outside. Here they took their ease in a pair of roll-back chairs under cover of the saloon's porch, cooled by a gentle breeze. Hookey stretched, burped, and began his story.
My tale goes back to '69, when I wuz a drover at Charlie Hansal's spread in Morgan County, which had only one town of any repute, an' that wuz Dalhart. Dalhart wuz small, mainly a stopping post for drifters and generally supplying local spreads. The main cattle trails were near so it served as a centre for the area. It was a cattlemen's town with the usual rooming houses, hotel, cattlemen's association, stores, saloons, and the First National Bank. The local ranchers were rich an' their profits filled the Bank. Word just naturally got around about such a prize ripe for the plucking. The town wuz sitting purdy with her Marshal Ben Elliot - until along loped James Booth .....
At this moment the saloon's ancient piano began to crash out a boisterous tune to the accompaniment of loud voices. Hookey's words became more difficult to hear and the youth leant nearer the old man so as to hear more clearly.
The scene blurs, fades and becomes another place, another time - Dalhart, 1869. It was a dry, overcast Spring morning. Already the daily intake of drifters and ranch hands were riding alone or in groups of varying numbers along Main Street. Those who had guns, followed the directions on the signs outside the town, by hanging their hardware in the Marshal Is Office (Ben Elliot did not like rowdies with sixguns). After this they rejoined the stream of visitors who moved about the business establish- ments. Most went to the saloon for the delights of gambling, drinks and female company. The rest went on errands or lounged on the street.
The first indication of trouble was a shot followed by a shout from one of the visiting cowboys. The gunfire had come from the south end of Main. Only two horsemen had arrived together by the south trail that morning. One was a much respected farmer whilst the other was Lewis Messina, one of the Booth Gang. Had the farmer known who Messina was he would not have been so cordial towards him. Messina had approached the visitor on the trail outside town, pretending to be a friendly drover.
The farmer did not realise he was being used as a cover for the outlaw's entry into Dalhart. On entering the town the outlaw found that his cover was too good as the farmer wanted to buy him a drink at the saloon. This was contrary to Messina's orders. He replied that he had to make an enquiry at the Hotel, hoping this would settle the matter. But the farmer still pressed him to a drink. Letting the farmer walk ahead of him as they passed the gunsmith, Messina snatched up a pair of tongs lying beside the wall. With this he buffaloed the unsuspecting man to the ground. He smiled to himself, happy in the belief that no one had seen him hit the farmer.
The outlaw had made one big mistake. He had clubbed the farmer down in front of the gunsmith's single small window. Thomas Nordyke, seeing a blurred movement outside, went to the window to have a better look. Out in the alley he saw the unconscious farmer and Messina, who was retrieving a hidden gun from his dirty trousers. Almost at once their eyes met.
The gunsmith reacted first, his hands frantically searching for the Smith and Wesson he had been repairing. Messina's Colt Navy roared, sending a ball smashing through the cheap glass panes, to make a deep furrow in the workshop bench, near Nordyke's hand.
'Lay off, pal! Out the door, quick, with your hands on your head!' Messina's pistol barrel jerked in the direction of the gunsmith's veranda. While the nervous gunsmith edged his way out taking care to follow the outlaw's orders, Messina debated on the possible out- come of his hasty action. He may have captured the gunsmith's and have the south end of town covered but would the shot have caught the others off-balance?
The rest of the Booth Gang were caught on the wrong foot, particularly the Weekes brothers. Henry and Barney had sauntered into the Bank, after they had made sure it was empty, but for the two staff. Henry was about to demand the safe's opening when the pistol shot echoed over the town. The two brothers were stunned: had someone discovered that they were going to hold up the Bank? George T. Peabody, the Bank Manager, rushed past the dazed outlaws on his way to the door, to see what was happening on the street. Barney, with the mistaken impression that the Bank Manager knew who they were, lunged out with his Colt Army and chopped Peabody in the back of the neck. The manager's portly body collapsed and fell through the door.
The sight of Peabody's large form sprawled on the sidewalk, half out of his Bank, was enough to tell the townsfolk why there had been a shot. Yelling and shouting: 'Bank raid!' 'They've shot Peabody!' and 'Raiders', they tumbled out of their houses and stores along with some of the visiting cowhands. The mob had only one destination, the Jail, with its guns.
To Booth this was the last straw. He had hoped that if there was to be any rough stuff, he, Doby and Messina would keep the trouble-makers pinned down. But Booth was not the first to act. Caught off balance he let the townsfolk start to run unchecked up the street towards the Jail. The gang leader soon regained his cool, his Remington New Model covered the street from his refuge in Rose's Cantina. Two of the townsfolk dropped in the dirt with body wounds, but the rest continued to sprint passed, unaffected by the bandit's desperate attempt to pin them down. Fortunately for the citizens, Deputy Chandler was at hand.
From his position behind one of the saloon's veranda supports, he opened up at Booth with his carbine. The outlaw quickly ducked as .44 shells ripped through the frame of the window he had been shooting from. Re-appearing at the other side of the shattered glass, he loosed off a deliberate shot which struck the lawman in the left arm, causing him to fall back amongst the chairs near the swing door. Booth now commanded the middle of the street.
Doby, unlike his boss, was ready when the action started. His orders were to cover the Jail and to stop anyone going in and out. The Henry rifle pointing from between the saloon steps at the Jail door, showed he meant business.
The Marshal, when he appeared with his aged Deputy, did not take care and he soon fell to Doby's rifle, whilst crossing the junction of Peace and Main Streets. However, the Deputy knelt down beside Elliot and forced Doby to seek cover with some steady shooting from his rifle. Both lawmen were out of action but the outlaws had wasted time in dealing with them and at least fourteen townsfolk and cowhands had reached the Jail. With surprise, Doby and Booth surveyed the empty street. Where had everyone gone?
Join us in Part 2, next issue, for the climax of this exciting and unusual game.
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© Copyright 1975 by Donald Featherstone.
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