The Kincaids

By Matt Braun

The classic, Golden Spur Award-winning novel of a man, a family, and a nation.

He came off the frontier: a buffalo hunter, a gambler, a loner. In Abilene he won a saloon at cards, and earned the fear of a lawless town. From then on, Jake Kincaid would not be stopped. He began a rampage of ambition and deal-making that forever changed a land called Kansas and the Indian Territories. But along the way the deeds and misdeeds of Jake Kincaid affected more than the frontier-- they shaped the lives of his two sons. One who became a lawman. One who became an outlaw. Both destined to come face-to-face behind blazing guns...

From Wild Bill Hickok to the Dolan outlaw gang to Teddy Roosevelt's Rough Riders, The Kincaids tells the classic saga of America at its most adventurous-- through the eyes of three generations who made laws, broke laws, and became legends in their time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: May 15, 1999
• ISBN: 9781429902083

Matt Braun

Matt Braun was the author of more than four dozen novels, and won the Golden Spur Award from the Western Writers of America for The Kincaids. He described himself as a "true westerner"; born in Oklahoma, he was the descendant of a long line of ranchers. He wrote with a passion for historical accuracy and detail that earned him a reputation as the most authentic portrayer of the American West. Braun passed away in 2016.

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Table of Contents

Title Page

BOOK ONE - KANSAS

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

BOOK TWO - OKLAHOMA TERRITORY

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

BOOK THREE - OKLAHOMA

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Epilogue

St. Martin’s Paperbacks by Matt Braun

BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER

Copyright Page

TO BETTIANE

The Unwavering One

BOOK ONE

KANSAS

1871–1884

Prologue

CLOUDS OF ORANGE and white butterflies floated lazily on a gentle breeze, and the fragrance of chokecherry blossoms filled the air. The plainsman scrambled out of an arroyo, where he’d left his horse tied, and cautiously worked his way up a grassy knoll. Crawling the last few feet on his hands and knees, he stretched out flat, hugging the earth, and slowly eased his head over the crest of the hill. He lay motionless, scanning the distant prairie as a wisp of wind brought with it the pungent buffalo smell. He filled his lungs with it, savoring that moist gaminess, full of fresh droppings and sweaty fur. But he waited, as a great cat would wait, unhurried and calm, absorbing everything about him before he began the stalk.

As he always did, he felt himself the intruder here, looking upon something no mortal was meant to see. About these still, windswept plains there was an awesome quality, almost as though some wild and brutally magnificent force had taken earth and solitude and fashioned it into something visible, yet beyond the ken of man. A vast expanse of emptiness, raging with dust devils and blizzards, where man must forever walk as an alien. A hostile land that mocked his passage, waiting with eternal patience to claim the bones of those who violated its harsh serenity.

And however long he roamed these plains, he was still the intruder, an outsider with no sense of kinship for the forces which mocked him. As though—should he wander here forever—he would merely come full circle. Alone, a creature in a land of creatures, yet somehow apart. Which left nothing but the moment, and the predatory instinct that had brought him here. The kill.

Before him the plains were spotted with small, scattered herds of buffalo. At a distance it appeared to be a shaggy carpet of muddy brown stretching to the horizon. But-up close the herds took form, and from the hilltop, individual buffalo assumed shape, even character. A hundred yards beyond the hill, two ponderous bulls were holding a staring contest. Their bloodshot eyes rolled furiously as they tossed great chunks of earth over their backs, and their guttural roar signaled the onset of a bloody duel. Suddenly their heads lowered and they thundered toward one another, narrow flanks heaving, legs churning. The impact as they butted heads shook the earth and drove both antagonists to their knees. Stunned, yet all the more enraged, they lunged. erect in an instant, locking horns as their massive shoulders bunched with power. The muscles on their flanks swelled like veined ropes; sharp hooves strained and dug for footing; froth hung from their mouths in long glutinous strings; and their tongues lolled out as the brutal struggle sapped their lungs. Then, with a savage heave, one bull flung his adversary aside and ripped a bloody gash across his shoulder. The gored bull gave ground, retreating slowly at first, then broke into headlong flight as his opponent speared him in the rump.

The victor pawed the dusty earth, bellowing a triumphant roar, and like some stately lord on parade, struck a grand pose for the cows. He had fought and won, and while he might fight dozens of such battles during the rutting season, for the moment he stood unchallenged.

The plainsman eased over the top of the knoll while the herd was still distracted by the struggle. Slithering down the forward slope on his belly, he took cover behind a soapweed as the vanquished bull disappeared across the prairie. The bush made a perfect blind; after unstrapping his shell pouch, he set a ramrod and a canteen on the ground close at hand. Then he set up the shooting sticks and laid his Sharps over the fork. He was ready.

Alert, but in no great hurry, he began a painstaking search for the leader. Every herd had a leader, generally an old cow. Shrewder than the bulls—perhaps more suspicious—they made the best sentries. What he sought was a cow that seemed unusually watchful, on guard, testing the wind for signs of danger. Until a man dropped the leader, his chances of getting a stand were practically nil. After a long, careful scrutiny, he finally spotted her. And what a cunning old bitch! Hidden back in the middle of the herd, holding herself still and vigilant, and peering straight at him, trying to raise a scent.

Grunting softly, he eared back the hammer and laid the sights behind her shoulder, centered on the lungs. The Sharps roared and a steamy gout of blood spurted from the cow’s nose. She wobbled unsteadily under the wallop of the big fifty slug, then lurched backward and keeled over. A nearby cow spooked, sniffing the fallen leader, and bawled nervously as she wheeled away. Cursing, he yanked the trigger guard down, clawed out the spent shell, and rammed in a fresh load. As he snapped the lever shut, the cow was gathering speed, ready to break into a terrified run. Thumbing the hammer back, he swung the barrel in a smooth arc, leading her with the sights. When the rifle cracked the cow simply collapsed in mid-stride, plowing a deep furrow in the earth with her nose. Alarmed now, several cows gathered around, and their calves began to bawl. The old bull wandered over, snorting at the scent of blood, and started pawing the ground.

But the herd didn’t run. Bewildered, hooking at one another with their horns, they simply milled around in confusion for a while. Some of them pawed the dirt and butted the warm carcasses, trying to goad the dead cows onto their feet, yet slowly, without apparent concern, the others went back to chewing their cuds or cropping grass.

He had his stand.

Loading and firing in a steady rhythm, working smoothly now, he began killing the skittish ones. Carcasses dotted the feeding ground, as each new report of the Sharps brought another crashing thud on the prairie below. Still the herd didn’t stampede—looking on with the detached calm of spectators at a shooting match—seemingly undisturbed by the thrashing bodies and the sickly-sweet stench of blood. It was a drama of pathos and tragedy he had seen unfold a hundred times over in the last three years. Insensible to the slaughter around them, the dim-witted beasts had concern for nothing save the patch of graze directly under their noses. Eerie as it seemed, the instinct for survival had been blunted by the more immediate need deep within their bellies.

After every fifth shot he sloshed water down the rifle barrel to keep it from overheating. Then he swabbed it out, hurriedly reloaded, and returned to the killing. Yet he was steady and deliberate, somehow methodical, placing every shot with precise care. This was something he did well—took pride in—managed swiftly and cleanly, without waste or undue suffering. A craftsman no less than a predator, but skilled at his trade.

A master of death and dying, and staying alive.

One

THERE IS A point of no return in each man’s life. An instant, seldom detected at the time, which will alter all his days on earth. Yet pragmatic men mock such things. Nothing sacred intrudes. Nor does the superstition of lesser men haunt their resolve. They halt before a river, beckoned onward by the moment, heedless of what lies beyond. It is merely a ribbon of water, symbolic of nothing, to be negotiated and then forgotten.

Jacob Kincaid was such a man. Astride a buckskin gelding, squinting against the sun, he stared out across the Smoky Hill. The river was appraised at a glance and quickly shunted aside, an obstacle of small consequence. Rolling grasslands, sweeping gently onto the limitless plains, were similarly dismissed. After three years stalking the great shaggy herds west of Fort Hays, one stretch of prairie looked much like another. A buffalo man, wherever he roamed, saw only the creatures he killed. Earth and sky and water were simply there. Constant, unchanging, with a deadly sameness that came to be taken for granted.

Yet he had ridden a hundred miles to see this spot for himself. Where the river made a slow dogleg south beneath limestone bluffs, and a lonesome stand of timber stood defiant on the far shore. Where a man named McCoy had built a town called Abilene.

It was this crude collection of buildings, surrounded by milling herds of cattle, which held Jake Kincaid’s attention. Beyond Fort Hays, in a land of solitude and solitary men, there was much talk of this place. The plains grapevine pegged it as the first of its kind. One of a kind. A cowtown. Something on the order of the boomtown mining camps, except that the lodestone was not gold or silver but cattle. Texas longhorns driven north to a windswept Kansas railhead where fortunes were made and lost overnight.

Kincaid understood the lure of such talk. Perhaps better than most men. For it was this very thing that had brought him west, across the swift-flowing Missouri to the distant buffalo grounds. A siren’s call. That ancient temptress wielding her goad of high stakes and fast play in a land where the faintheart’s puny rules hadn’t yet taken hold. Where a man could reach out and grab—claim whatever he was big enough to hold—unencumbered by strictures other than those he might impose upon himself.

But understanding this, there was a greater essential Jake Kincaid failed to grasp. As he kneed the buckskin down the bluffs and into the water, time and circumstance frivolously embraced. That he was here, fording the Smoky Hill on a blistering summer day in 1871, seemed neither uncommon nor extraordinary. No less a nomad than the buffalo he hunted, it seemed quite natural, this urge to look on the place called Abilene. A delicate balance of instinct and curiosity had brought him this far, and like a wolf prowling new ground, he saw no reason to question the impulse. He simply followed his nose.

Afterward though, from the vantage point of hindsight, he would at last comprehend. The Smoky Hill had, after all, proved symbolic. A spectral passage of time—the point of no return—come and gone as his horse splashed through the stream. Unwittingly he had crossed over to the other side, and never again would his life be the same.

Late afternoon shadows splayed across the timbered bottomland as Kincaid brought the gelding up the far bank and rode into Abilene. Ahead lay the Kansas & Pacific tracks, roughly bordering the river, and beyond that Texas street, the town’s main thoroughfare. Somehow, taken at first glance, it was less than he had expected. Not at all the grand city conjured up in his mind at Fort Hays. A huddle of some fifty ramshackle buildings constituted the entire town. With the exception of what appeared to be a hotel, the business establishments had high false fronts and an unmistakable look of impermanence, as if they had been slapped together with spit and poster glue. Yet the street was crowded with people, more than he’d seen assembled in one spot for better than three years. Unaccountably, his sagging spirits took a sudden turn for the better.

It wasn’t a metropolis risen from the plains. That much was clear. But it was there, ugly and squalid and bursting with some galvanic energy all its own. And in that moment of assessment Jake Kincaid was struck by one of those queer hunches on which a gambling man gladly stakes his life. Grungy as it was, the town had the smell of money. A feel of shifting fortune. Which unraveled interesting speculation for a man whose luck was running strong.

Aside from money, there was also an enervating smell of cow dung. The prairie encircling Abilene was a vast bawling sea of longhorns awaiting shipment to eastern slaughterhouses, and a barnyard scent assailed the nostrils. Yet, oddly enough, it was an odor he found not unpleasant. One he might easily come to relish. It had about it the pungency of gold on the hoof, and in that there was much to recommend it.

Somewhat satisfied with his estimate of things, confident that Abilene would shortly disprove the alchemy of silk purse and sow’s ear, he reined the gelding across Texas Street and dismounted in front of a livery stable. Curiously, though the sun was fast disappearing in the west, he had a gut-certain impression that things had never looked brighter.

An overhead lamp cast a soft, fuzzy glow across the poker table. The spill of light, not unlike diffused cider, flecked through Kincaid’s sandy hair, gave his weathered features the burntmahogany look of old saddle leather. Three years on the plains had turned him bark-dark as a Kiowa, and the curing effects of the sun had aged him beyond his time. Though he was scarcely twenty-four, his appearance and manner were those of a man ten years older. That he had killed several thousand buffalo, along with a small clutch of hostiles, lent him an air of gravity well suited to his brushy mustache and somber expression.

Just at the moment, though, the men gathered around the table were less concerned with his appearance than with his uncanny skill at cards. Whatever his age, he played poker with the boldness and craft of a Mexican bandit, and most of their money was now heaped in a golden mound at his elbow. They were disgusted with themselves, in the way of all hard losers, and thoroughly astounded by the unchecked winning streak of this greasy, foulsmelling plainsman who had wandered into their midst.

Kincaid was no less baffled himself. Perhaps his best bluff of the evening was in the deadpan performance of someone who knew precisely what he was doing and how to go about it. Quite the contrary, it was fortune who called the turn. He played the cards dealt him, inwardly thunderstruck by his phenomenal luck, and pretended to a skill which was more guile than expertise. He won steadily, slowly busting the other players, and by midnight the outcome was a foregone conclusion.

Already, a local merchant, along with an eastern cattle buyer and a whiskey drummer, had quit the game. When Kincaid sandbagged the next pot, checking on three queens and raising the bet, the Texas cattleman seated beside him slammed out of his chair and stalked from the saloon. That left only one player, Quincy Blackburn, a nattily attired fat man given to blubbery chuckles and glib chatter. By no mere coincidence, he also owned the Lady Gay, the saloon in which they were seated. Like most of his breed, Blackburn operated the dive strictly as a front. He was an accomplished gambler, having plied his trade on the riverboats for several years, and men who thrived on high-stakes poker beat a constant path to the Lady Gay.

Now, gambler and buffalo hunter stared at one another through a haze of stale smoke and dim light. Unspoken, yet shared, was a faint amusement at this ironic twist, for never had two men been more dissimilar. One, squat and larded with the good life, impeccable in manner and dress. The other, whipcord lean, whiskery stubble marking his jawline, decked out in rancid buckskins that smelled of sweat and tallow and uncured hides. That it was now a two-man game, they never doubted for an instant. Blackburn had a fat man’s passion for money, and Kincaid was soaring high on a lethal mixture of euphoria and popskull whiskey. It somehow made sense that they would join hands and butt heads in a final test having less to do with poker than with an atavistic risk of character.

Blackburn’s bright little eyes settled at last on the golden mound across from him. Idly, he gestured with a pudgy hand, the mechanical smile of a pitchman touching his mouth.

How much would you say you’ve won? Just offhand.

Kincaid shrugged, unable to suppress a grin. Eight thousand. Mebbe nine.

Anymore in your kick? Or is that it?

Depends. What’d you have in mind?

Something—sweeter. Blackburn smiled. That is, if you’re still feeling lucky.

Try me and see.

A sporting man! I like that. The gambler paused, darting a glance at the nearby tables, then lowered his voice. Just between us, your run pretty well tapped the bank. Now, if you could sweeten what’s on the table—say, another thousand—I’m willing to cover it with a half-interest in the Lady Gay. All things being equal, I’d say it’s a fair bet.

Kincaid’s face betrayed nothing. He studied the fat man a moment, certain now that he had been gaffed in some shifty dodge as yet unrevealed. Then his gaze shifted and roved over the saloon in a deliberate, unhurried inspection. It was the first dive he’d hit after leaving the livery stable, and by no means a palace. But it drew a good crowd, kept two bartenders and a covey of girls busy, and had all the appearances of a steady money-maker. While he’d never entertained the notion of becoming a saloonkeeper, there were lots worse ways to make a living. Hunting buffalo and fighting Indians, just for openers. Whatever had brought him to Abilene, this winning streak was a sign. Unmistakably a sign that he was on the scent of bigger game, and maybe right here was the place to start. The Lady Gay.

As for the money in front of him—what the hell? Easy come, easy go. If he lost there was always the buffalo and another season on the killing grounds. But somehow he didn’t believe it would happen. Luck had grabbed hold of his shirttail, and a man had to play out his string.

Get a hunch, bet a bunch.

Leaning forward, he pulled a money belt from underneath his shirt and dumped it on the table. Then, with a peculiar glint in his eye, he looked across at the gambler. Let’s play whole hog or nothin’. There’s better’n ten thousand in that belt. He scooped up a handful of double eagles from the pile on the table and let them slowly trickle through his fingers. This and the belt against the Lady Gay.

Blackburn’s tongue flicked out, wetting his lips, like a bullfrog catching flies. The gaff had sunk deeper than he suspected, and he could scarcely contain himself. Frowning, never one to rush a sucker, he gave it a moment’s judicious thought. At last, jowls flushed, he heaved a sigh and nodded.

Agreed. Winner take all. Quite casually, he collected the cards and began shuffling, his stubby fingers moving with the effortless grace of tiny birds. Stud all right with you?

Kincaid’s thorny paw stretched out, took the deck from his hand, and placed it in the center of the table. Then he nailed the gambler with an icy scowl and very carefully gave the cards a whorehouse cut.

You oughtn’t to use strippers in a friendly game. Course, I’m of a forgivin’ nature, so I’ll overlook it. Unless you’ve got some objection, we’ll just cut for high card. And like you said—winner take all.

Blackburn blinked, started to speak, then thought better of it. Silently, he watched as Kincaid cut the deck and turned up the king of diamonds. Shifting forward, his hand covered the balance of the pack while his fingers began an imperceptible caress of the cards.

Then he stopped. The metallic whirr of a pistol hammer suddenly stayed his hand and he found himself staring down the bore of a Colt Dragoon. Wooden-faced, without a trace of emotion, Kincaid rapped him across the knuckles with the tip of the barrel.

Fat man, you draw an ace and I’ll tack it to your headstone.

The gambler swallowed hard, eyes riveted on the pistol, and slowly turned over the nine of spades. Kincaid eased back, lowering the hammer on the Colt, and laid it on the table. Several moments passed, then the cold look faded and his lips curled back in a wolfish grin.

Drinks are on the house. Right after we get it in writin’.

Not long after sunrise, Jake Kincaid took a leisurely stroll through Abilene. He was an early riser, a habit common to those accustomed to a bed of buffalo robes on hard ground. Despite the late night, devoted for the most part to settling his affairs with Blackburn, he saw no reason to waste the morning. At this hour, with the sporting crowd hardly more than asleep, he pretty much had the town to himself. The streets were virtually deserted (even the dogs seemed to be night owls in Abilene) and that fitted nicely with his own plans.

Having adopted Abilene as his new stamping grounds, he felt obliged to inspect the place. Nose around a bit, get acquainted, find out exactly what a cowtown was. Not that he expected it to be all that different from other towns, but it never hurt to scout unfamiliar ground. Get the lay of the land, a feel for the pulse of things. As the town’s newest saloonkeeper, sort of an overnight magi-presto businessman, it wouldn’t hurt to sniff out the big augurs. Take their measure. Let them know that he’d come to stay—and play—not for chalkies but for all the marbles.

This was the thing that had come clear overnight. Kincaid sensed some irresistible force booting him in the butt. Nudging him first in the direction of Abilene, then toward the Lady Gay, and finally into a showdown that had sealed the pact. Nor was it mere coincidence. Whatever the force, it had brought him here for a reason. In three years he hadn’t once attempted to sink roots. Since coming west from Kentucky, turning his back on a worn-out farm and a graveyard overcrowded with family, he had roamed without purpose or direction. And now, finally, he had come to roost. Call it instinct or fate or whatever name suited, he felt it in his bones. The twists and turns were finished, his wanderlust sated at last. Today was a whole new deal, a fresh shuffle, and Abilene was where it started.

Except that he was shod in clunky mule-eared boots, he might have leaped sky high and clicked his heels. The world was green and bright, the sun golden warm, and a gentle westerly breeze brought with it the sweet ambrosia of cowdung. A day to crow and stretch and drink deeply from the horn. Hallelujah Day.

But if his vision soared, drunk with the glory of himself, there was nothing erratic about Kincaid’s eyesight. Abilene in a bright morning sun was, if anything, more unsightly than it had been the evening before. Undistracted by glimmering lights, crowds, and whooping trailhands, he saw a cowtown at last for what it was. Texas Street stretched north from the railroad tracks for two blocks. Cedar Street crossed east and west, intersecting Texas, for a distance of another two blocks. And that was it. A well-chucked rock would have hit the town limits in any direction.

Perhaps of greater consequence was the glaring disparity among business establishments. Kincaid prowled the streets in dismay, his rosy vision of the future become instead a gushing nosebleed. By rough count, Abilene had thirty-two commercial enterprises, discounting the jail and a slapdash affair proclaiming itself a church. There was a bank, two hotels, a couple of stores, and perhaps a half-dozen other legitimate businesses. The remainder, practically shoulder to shoulder along both sides of all four blocks, were some mongrel combination of saloon, gambling den, or whorehouse. And all of them, the economic cornerstone of fabled Abilene, were direct competitors with his own watering hole. All of a sudden, the Lady Gay didn’t look so gay anymore. She had assumed the heft, not to mention the peculiar odor, of a pig in the poke.

After breakfast in the local greasy spoon, Kincaid came away with a case of heartburn that wasn’t altogether traceable to the food. Still, gloomy as things looked, it could have been worse. He might have won a cathouse, and according to the counterman in the café, several new brothels were even then being constructed at the east end of Cedar. Some of them with as many as forty rooms! Already this monument to horny Texans had been dubbed with a fitting sobriquet—The Devil’s Half-Acre.

Walking back to Texas and Cedar, he stopped and built himself a smoke. The town was slowly coming to life, but he gave the shopkeepers and ribbon clerks scant notice. His eyes were fastened on the Lady Gay, catty-corner across the street. Lost in thought, puffing smoke like a dizzy dragon, he muddled it through again. While he was up to his armpits in competition for the Texan trade, there was an advantage. he had overlooked. The Lady Gay occupied a strategic location, the southwest corner of Texas and Cedar, squarely in the center of town. Abilene’s one and only intersection. And it stood to reason that anybody fresh off the trail would have to pass this corner whatever direction he was headed. Which gave the Lady Gay an edge on every dive in town. Allowing, naturally, for the joints that occupied the other three comers.

But a damn fine edge, all the same. If a man did something different—made the Lady Gay stand out from the others—then he might just give himself an even bigger edge. Whittle the competition down a notch or two by—by doing what?

Kincaid stood there scratching his head, suddenly at a loss. He had no answer for his own riddle. How to stalk a buffalo herd, where to get the best price for hides, those were the things he knew. About the saloon business, though, he didn’t know beans. from buckshot. And it slowly dawned on him that he was in over his head. Full of big ideas but short on savvy. All wind and no whistle.

Unless.

The germ of an idea fitted past, taunting him but dancing away before he could grasp it. Maybe something to do with whiskey and girls? He shook his head, discarding that out of hand. Every dive in town served liquor, and women weren’t exactly scarce. So that was an itch already being scratched. The same went for elegant trimmings. He’d seen enough this morning to bet that somebody had already rigged out a place with fancy mirrors and all that plush stuff from back east. Not that it would hurt to get the Lady Gay gussied up some. But that alone wouldn’t turn the trick.

Something was missing though. A piece of the puzzle he’d overlooked. Sifting through again, he ticked off the enticements that separated men from their money. Whiskey and women and fancy digs. And—why, hell yes, it was staring him right in the face. Gambling.

But that wouldn’t hold water either. Half the joints in town had gaming layouts. Which made the Lady Gay just another frog in a mighty big pond.

Unless.

The germ suddenly blossomed, and Kincaid blinked, nerves jangling with excitement. He took a long pull on the cigarette, inhaling deeply, and steadied his hand. Slow and easy, he told himself, that’s the ticket. Look it over careful.

Just supposing a gambling den offered something unheard of—honest games. Holy Jumpin’ Jesus! A man would have to turn ’em away from the door. Everybody just naturally assumed that the dives rigged their games. Walked in knowing they’d be flimflammed before they could get back out the door. Crooked games were common as dirt. Not one man in a hundred expected to get a fair shake. If they could, though—at the Lady Gay. Why, hell’s fire, it’d take two men and a small pony to cart the money over to the bank.

Except for one little drawback. Jake Kincaid glumly admitted that he didn’t know his ass from his elbow about operating a gaming den. Which was near certain to get him skinned and hung out to dry. All the same, there was someone who knew the tricks of the trade. A fellow that had just recently come upon hard times.

And for the price, even Quincy Blackburn might get religion.

Jake Kincaid spent the remainder of the day roaring around Abilene like a whirling dervish. When Abe Karatofsky opened his store that morning Kincaid was standing at the door. Placing himself in Karatofsky’s hands, he asked to be outfitted in the fanciest duds available. Then he sparked what was to become a lifelong friendship by informing Karatofsky that he would take three of everything. And damn the price!

The wizened, eagle-beaked little merchant scurried about the store like a demented leprechaun. In short order he had Kincaid decked out from head to toe, selecting with care to complement the plainsman’s lithe build and rugged features. Slouch hats, with a flat brim and the high crown blocked in a distinctive, triangular mound. (This was to become Kincaid’s trademark, imitated in boomtown railheads for the next quarter-century.) Tight, finely crafted top boots of the softest calf leather. Broadcloth frock coats, nankeen trousers, and linen shirts. All topped off with elaborately brocaded vests, silk cravats in subdued shades, and an enormous pocket watch the size of a sugar bowl.

Last, and with some difficulty, he persuaded Kincaid to part with his Colt Dragoon. Trust my word, Karatofsky observed, squinting over his spectacles, it is not a gentleman’s weapon. Kincaid acceded at last, and added to the pile of clothing was a slim Colt Navy of .36 caliber. In the way of gentlemanly things, it killed a man no less dead but dispatched him with a minimum of gore.

Karatofsky then escorted the plainsman across the street to Price’s Tonsorial Parlor and had Price personally supervise the finishing touches. Haircut and shave, with a stylish mustache trim, followed by a scalding bath that parboiled a year’s accumulation of sweat and grime. When Kincaid emerged onto Texas Street an hour later the transformation was startling. Gone was the shaggy, unkempt, rank-smelling hide hunter. Instead, reeking of lilac water and rosewood soap, he marched off looking for all the world like an aristocratic pilgrim come to see the circus called Abilene.

His next stop was the office of Joseph McCoy, the town’s mayor and founding father. Slender and congenitally nervous, with a weak chin and a stringy goatee, McCoy gave the impression of a myopic ferret. But his appearance was deceptive, an advantage on which he traded with uncommon skill. Back in ’67 he had bought a stretch of raw prairie for four-bits an acre and promptly conned the Kansas & Pacific into laying track to his then imagined town site. Scarcely four years later Abilene was a thriving community, if something of an eyesore; before the summer was out, nearly a quarter-million longhorns would be herded north to the stockyards owned by the town’s leading citizen.

McCoy was astute, tenacious as a starved rat, and fanatic in the way of all zealots. And Kincaid himself was far too shrewd to underestimate this frail builder of towns. He introduced himself, informed McCoy that he was the new owner of the Lady Gay, and stated that henceforth the games would be run honest and aboveboard. The mayor and his friends, particularly eastern cattle buyers, were welcome day or night, and could be assured of a fair deal. McCoy commented dryly that the news would come as a severe disappointment to Marshal Hickok, whose income was supplemented by weekly—contributions—from the gaming dens. On that note, they parted. McCoy was agreeably impressed, if somewhat skeptical, and Kincaid appreciated the warning. He was familiar with Bill Hickok’s reputation, as well as his methods, having witnessed the town tamer in action back at Fort Hays.

Sometime later, Kincaid found Quincy Blackburn drowning his sorrow at the Alamo Saloon. Straightaway he propositioned the gambler with his revolutionary idea, offering one-third the profits for overseeing the operation. Blackburn was in turn dumbfounded, mawkishly grateful, and rather apprehensive that the sporting crowd would take a dim view of his break with tradition. But he accepted.

Kincaid advised the gambler to let him worry about the sporting crowd. Then in a quiet, businesslike voice, he laid down the law. If cheating was ever again detected in the Lady Gay, Blackbum’s gonads would replace the little round ball used in the roulette wheels. The fat man broke out in a cold sweat, appalled by the vision of his balls clattering in search of a number. Like a reformed drunk declaring eternal abstinence, he agreed. They shook hands and the deal was clinched.

With the gambler in tow, Kincaid then made his first official appearance at the Lady Gay. After bolting the doors, he assembled the help and laid it out for them in blunt, ungarnished terms. The bartenders would serve no more watered whiskey. The girls were to cease picking pockets and rolling drunks; propositioning customers for outside engagements wasn’t forbidden, but neither was it encouraged. The dealers were to run straight games, relying strictly on the odds, and forget their nimble-fingered artistry of the past. Mechanical devices, formerly used to boost the odds at faro, chuck-a-luck, and roulette, would be removed.

A tone of crisp finality in his voice, he looked around the room. Those are the rules. Anybody that can’t live with ’em, draw your time. Whoever stays, just remember you’ve been warned. Play square and I’ll see that you profit by it. Cross me and you’ll wish you hadn’t.

He let them digest that for a minute, then jerked his thumb toward the front of the saloon. Doors open at six tonight. Let’s make sure everything comes off without a hitch. Anyone wants to quit, see me in the office.

A bartender and three dealers separated from the others and headed toward a backroom cubbyhole that served as an office. Kincaid strode along after them, nodding to the girls and men who remained, inwardly surprised that he hadn’t scared off the whole bunch. He’d been hard on them, perhaps more so than called for. But he didn’t want any misunderstanding. Or miscues. Starting tonight the Lady Gay was just that. A lady.

As he passed the end of the bar a girl standing apart from the others smiled and clucked her tongue. He stopped, oddly aware that she was taller than most but round as an apple in all the right places. Not a stunner but nothing to sneeze at either.

You speakin’ to me?

No, but I was thinking awfully loud. Her smile widened, faintly mocking yet somehow pleasant. Do you always bully the help that way?

He liked that. Spunk was a good trait in a woman. What’s your name?

Sadie. She held his gaze, still smiling. Sadie Timmons.

Tell you what, Sadie. You order supper for us up in my room and I’ll let you answer the question for yourself.

Is that one of the rules you forgot to mention?

Kincaid smiled. I make ’em up as I go along.

He left it at that and walked off, anxious to have the quitters paid and out of the Lady Gay. But in the back of his mind a vagrant thought surfaced, and with it a question. He wondered what she’d order for supper. Besides herself.

Kincaid was rarely given to compromise. He had implicit trust in his own assessment of men and events, and more often than not, he arranged things pretty much to suit himself. But he had made one concession to the sporting life. A small accommodation demanded by the rigors of late hours and a fast pace.

After two months in Abilene, he allowed himself the luxury of lolling about in bed long past sunrise. As impresario of the town’s most widely discussed gaming den (a title bestowed on him by the editor of the Abilene Chronicle) he felt this minor self-indulgence was in keeping with the scheme of things. He had earned it, and with luck still clutching his coattails, he could now afford it.

Yet, while he stayed in bed longer these days, he seldom slept past dawn. Some internal source kept him charged with energy, and unlike most men, he needed only a few hours’ sleep to restore himself. Early morning, then, had become a time of scrutiny and reflection. Awake, languid but restless, he lay back while his mind dissected whatever amused or interested him. Like a surgeon poking about in a maze of entrails, he took things apart, examined them closely, and satisfied with his appraisal, put them back together again. Most mornings his thoughts centered on the Lady Gay and his plans for the future, or perhaps the quirky politics of Abilene’s even quirkier politicians. But on this particular day, a bright summer morning in late July, he allowed himself a respite from business. As a diversion, not so much interest as clinical curiosity, he was performing a thoughtful examination of the woman who slept beside him.

Streamers of sunlight spilled through cracks in the drawn windowshade, bathing her face in a silty glow. Her head nestled against his shoulder, one arm thrown over his chest, and her hair, falling loose in thick, shimmering waves of amber, was draped over the pillow. She had slept this way from that first night, snuggling close, like a child clutching in the dark at some warm and faithful toy. At first, unaccustomed to sharing his bed, Kincaid felt smothered by her nearness, overcome with the musk of her perfume and the cloyed scent of her body. But within a few nights that had changed. Oddly, he came to like it, found the closeness of her pleasant, and the smell of her a heady opiate which made his sleep full and restful.

Thinking back on it now, aware of her soft, velvety breath on his chest, he regarded it a wonder that she was here at all. Certainly, he hadn’t meant for it to become a regular arrangement. Not that first night, nor any of the nights that followed. Entanglements held a man back, slowed both his stride and his style, and were to be avoided assiduously. Yet, quite without knowing when or how, or through whose design, Sadie Timmons had become his woman. His confidante, even. Someone who shared his thoughts, through some witchery he hadn’t yet fathomed, as well as his bed.

It surpassed understanding. And left him vaguely disquieted.

Women were playthings to Jake, something to be used and discarded as a feckless boy would swap marbles or butterfly wings. While he had never pondered its deeper implications, he was a creature of swift-felt insights and cold honesty within the core of his own intolerance. As a child, fascinated by all things grisly, he had seen his mother devour his father piecemeal, in the way a female spider eats her mate. Discontent with her world and herself, his mother had feasted on a man too compassionate to fight back. The contest was protracted, if unequal, until finally there remained only the husk of a man. Then, with the husk buried and nothing left to gorge upon, his mother devoured herself and came to rest beside the one she had loved neither wisely nor well.

Later, grown to manhood himself, Jake saw nothing in the buffalo camps and far-flung railheads to alter his view of the hungry spider. He remained fascinated by the duplicity of women, enigmatic creatures who were at once naive and cunning. Who functioned on a perverse logic alien to that of man, and consequently were not to be trusted. Their bodies were both bait and weapon, beguiling instruments, yielding them an incredible power over men. And in that there was an even greater imponderable. Women were known blackmailers, born to the craft negotiating all emotional business with their bodies. Yet men gladly sacrificed their freedom—lied, cheated, spent a lifetime playing silly games, ever baffled by the scatterbrained gibberish that passed for intuitive wisdom—all this and more they gave in tribute for an occasional palliation of their goatlike lust.

It seemed a monstrous price to pay and Jake had never once come close. He frequented whorehouses and dancehalls, taking a moment’s pleasure for cash exchanged, and kept clear of the ensnarling web. As he saw it, women were necessary but expendable, and since reaching manhood he had left them where he found them. Until he came to Abilene. And the Lady Gay.

Sadie Timmons, like those who had preceded her, was meant as nothing more than an evening’s entertainment. A quick romp, with no one the loser, and back to business as usual. But something had gone awry. What, exactly, Jake still hadn’t determined. The whole affair seemed to defy logic, as if his brains hung between his legs, and rational thought was now the victim of that goatlike lust he mocked in other men. Granted, there was a dimension to Sadie he hadn’t found in other women. Or so he had convinced himself, at any rate. As yet, though, he had been unable to define it, much less nail it down as a reasonable excuse for his witless behavior. Just for openers, she was no beauty. Tall and stately, perhaps, but hardly what a man would call dainty. Her face was broad, with high cheekbones, and her mouth too wide. Although admittedly humorous when she smiled, and at certain times sensuous, it was still a lot of mouth. Then there was her body. A dazzler, awesome when first seen. Almost too much of a good thing, which somehow distracted a man. Long sculptured legs, flat-bellied and melon-bottomed; high full breasts tipped with coral, and skin like alabaster glimpsed in the rosy flicker of candlelight. Perhaps her best feature, though, was her eyes. Blue as larkspur, round and expressive, with a certain bawdy wisdom. Yet touched with something apart—a look of vulnerability—which contradicted everything about her. Scarcely what a man expected to find in a saloon girl.

Worse luck, behind that playful teasing manner, the damnable girl was smart. Bright as a brass button. She had the mental presence of a faro dealer, alert and crafty (although among men she pretended otherwise), and that somehow made him uncomfortable, like watching a vixen toy with fieldmice. All in all, he couldn’t figure why he had kept her around this long. Why he hadn’t given her the fast shuffle and a swat on the rump and called it quits after that first night. Perhaps this, more than anything else, was what bothered him. She had him stumped. He didn’t understand her or her attraction. Nor did he understand himself, and that grated. A hard admission for a man who found life’s riddles uncomplicated, susceptible in the way of a rusty clasp to a locksmith’s probe.

He jumped, abruptly jarred from his ruminations. Her fingers trickled through the hair on his chest, light and tingling, the caress of a snowflake on matted curls. Twisting around, he found himself swallowed whole in those large china-blue eyes, and it crossed his mind that she had been watching him for some time. No doubt practicing her furtive witchery, reading his thoughts. Then her fingers swept lower, snowflakes atop a throbbing shaft of stone, and all else ceased to matter.

They came together in a violent, wordless clash. Brute need slaked in molten fire. Their mouths joined hungrily, nibbling and probing, one consuming the other. She clung to him, moaning softly, legs spidered around his thighs. They rolled and heaved, caught in the furious beat of his stroke, and she took him in a ravening haze of explosive, agonized thrusts.

Afterward, breathing huskily, they separated and lay back in the bed. Spent, words meaningless, they said nothing. Whatever they sought had been found, and for the moment, it was enough. A fair exchange, each taking from that brutal thrash of arms and legs what was needed most. Their bodies touched, her hand resting gently on his arm, but no sign of endearment passed between them. They were together yet apart. Drifting lightly on a quenched flame.

Some time later, with the sun climbing high, he stretched, yawned widely, and rolled out of bed. Sadie lounged back against the pillows, feeling soft and kittenish, watching him pad about the room. His morning ritual seldom varied, and by this time, she could anticipate his every move. A quick splash in the washbasin, a short but vigorous scrubbing of teeth, and a few haphazard strokes at the sandy thatch of hair. Then, at last, the major decision of the day—selecting a snappy outfit from his wardrobe. This required considerable study, and some mornings he wasted a quarter-hour or more pawing through coats and pants and vests. That he was vain as any woman delighted her, and that he was wholly unconscious of it pleased her even more. Later, after a bath and shave at the tonsorial, and a leisurely breakfast, he would take his morning jaunt around town. Makin’ the rounds, he called it, which was merely a pretext for keeping his fingers on the pulse of things. And she encouraged these daily strolls, wanting him to be seen and remarked upon. That she was the greeneyed envy of every girl in town—Jake Kincaid’s woman—gave her a warm shudder similar to what she imagined cats must experience from catnip. Disgustingly shameful, perhaps even gloating, but sweet as honey.

This morning, though, she was thinking of none of these things. Her eyes saw his movements but her mind was fastened upon the man himself. In a scrutiny so calculated it would have given Jake Kincaid the shivers had he sensed her mood.

In the way of certain women, Sadie Timmons was perhaps a bit more nimble than the man with whom she slept. Possessed of an acuity and guile that had nothing to do with years and everything to do with life. Her road to Abilene had been rocky, strewn with memories best forgotten, and along the way she had known many men. Some she had slept with, others she had not, for while she had bartered much, never had she sold herself. Yet, of all the men in her life, she had known none so intimately as Jake ICincaid.

He was arrogant and selfish, an ambitious man, obsessed with himself, as all ambitious men are. Strong and tough and resourceful, lacking either mercy or pity for those weaker than himself. Never skulking or treacherous, but an opportunist nonetheless. Someone who saw the world as a place inhabited by dupes and rogues, and perceived expediency as the cardinal law of nature. A man of monumental calm, capable of violence and cruelty and godlike rage. An eagle soaring high, alone in its lordly pursuit of lesser creatures. Needing nothing. Nor anyone.

But Sadie Timmons observed these things only in passing. What concerned her most was not his contempt for man, but rather his massive indifference to women. While he had much to learn in bed, she liked what she saw on the outside—squared jaw and chiseled features, eyes like flaked chips of quartz. The mark of a determined man who would climb high and fast. And alone, unless she broke through that outer shell. Somehow touched a nerve and led him to invent a reason for taking her along. That she meant to go with him, out of the dungheap and into the clouds, Sadie never questioned for a moment. What remained was the matter of how she would arrange it. Or more precisely, how Jake Kincaid could be inveigled into arranging it for her.

As he started out the door, brushed and scrubbed and his mind racing, she sat up in bed. The sheet fell away, exposing her breasts, and her china-blue eyes lit up in a wicked smile.

Don’t forget our matinée, sugar.

He turned, one bushy eyebrow cocked in a quizzical frown. Then he grinned, understanding both the meaning and the promise. Very slowly, he gave her a broad, exaggerated wink.

Sis, you just keep it warm. I’ll see you directly.

The door closed and Sadie fell back in bed, delighted with herself. Men were such peacocks. And none quite so much as the strong ones. Tweak their vanity—dare to question so much as their virility—and they began pawing the carpet like a bull in rut.

Keep it warm indeed.

Smooth as he was, Mister Jacob Kincaid had much to learn. The weary warrior fell first. None faster than the one who had spent himself on a lover’s couch. And among other things he might soon discover, she could outlast him till hell froze over.

She giggled a bawdy giggle, hugging herself with the cleverness of it all. Then she lay back in the pillows, stretching like a great amber cat, and began devising the next step.

The Lady Gay was a carnival gone wild.

Dealers and stickmen chanted their litanies in the quick, slick cadences of a tentshow barker. A tinny brass band, never quite in tempo with the rinky-dink piano, blended discordantly with the drunken laughter of trailhands and muleskinners and spiffy eastern drummers. And while they drank, a bevy of girls circulated the floor, breasts jiggling, their rouged lips fixed in plaster smiles, appearing somehow magically at the elbow of any man whose glass ran dry.

Like exotic spices churning round in a battered grinder, the hubbub was deafening. Full of squalls and squeaks, shouts and shrieks, convoluting faster and faster in an orgy of sweat-soaked men and painted ladies. A moment of frenzied jubilee, brief and spastic, to be recalled with wonder when the icy blast of winter brought men huddled to the fires of sanity restored.

But at the Lady Gay it was just another night, like any other. An event staged with clockwork precision. Orchestrated in a manner no less tantalizing than a gypsy organgrinder and his dancing bear.

Under Jake Kincaid’s persuasive hand the Lady Gay had become the premier honky-tonk in Abilene. He had a sure feel for the appetites of rough-mannered men, whatever their calling. He reasoned, and rightly so, that the vices of cowhands, bullwhackers, and tobacco-spitting teamsters were every bit as outrageous as those of buffalo hunters. With that as his gauge, he had brought several innovations to the town’s night life. After consulting Sadie, whose experience quickly proved invaluable, he hired more girls, had their dresses shortened at the bottom and lowered at the top, and soon had them traipsing around the place in hardly enough clothing to pad a crutch. This created a sensation, and no dearth of talk, for he was still lenient with the girls about their after-hours trade. Next, he introduced Abilene to the game of Monte (a card layout of Mexican origin much favored by Texans and other hot-blooded creatures). Last, to the everlasting grief of Marshal Hickok and his overworked deputies, he made the specialty of the house a toxic libation known as Taos Lemonade (concocted of grain alcohol, red peppers, tobacco juice and a dash of gunpowder, it was savored greatly by men of pugnacious disposition and cast-iron stomachs). All the curly-wolves and self-styled macho hombres battled for a place at the bar, and Jake shortly had a monopoly on the Texan trade.

Then he went a step further. A long-held conviction, that the uppercrust takes perverse delight in rubbing elbows with the sweaty masses, was put to the test. Essential to the success of this experiment (and Sadie again endorsed his sentiments) was a garish tone of elegance. He plastered the walls with French mirrors and fake Renaissance nudes; stocked the back bar with a gaudy clutch of fine wines, liqueurs and aged whiskey; and hired a noted pugilist (decked out in a swallowtail coat and ruffled shirt) to serve as bouncer. As sort of a cowtown piece de résistance, he then imported a brass band from Kansas City and installed them on a specially built balcony at the front of the saloon. Added to a fiddler and an ebony-skinned ivory tickler (relics of less sophisticated days) it made for an unholy syncopation that could be heard south of the Smoky Hill. But it also proved his point. Texas herd owners, eastern cattle buyers, even the town’s merchant princes and starchy tradesmen, flocked to the Lady Gay nightly, staking out choice seats where they could watch the action and imbibe civilized liquor.

Yet, of all his innovations, perhaps none held Abilene so spellbound as Jake’s adherence to honest games. The townspeople applauded this hallmark to progress, and the Texans lustily bucked the Tiger, confident that with a fair shake they could thwart the laws of mathematical probability. Jake left the gaming tables to Quincy Blackburn, and while the odds allowed for an occasional winner, the Tiger relentlessly devoured a whole generation of Texans.

As Blackburn had predicted, the sporting crowd was appalled by this break with tradition. But they merely bided their time and watched. Jake’s most ominous threat, shrewdly anticipated by Mayor McCoy, was instead Wild Bill Hickok. The marshal exacted heavy tribute from the gambling dives, and he took it as a personal affront that anyone would undermine his sandcastle. Less than a week after the Lady Gay reopened Hickok and the new owner had clashed. Hickok stormed into the office one morning, blustering and cold-eyed, his shoulder-length locks fairly curled with outrage.

Kincaid, you and me have got a problem. And I think it’s about time we had ourselves a little powwow.

I’m all ears, Marshal. What’s on your mind?

Don’t gimme none of your sass, sonny! Hickok leaned across the desk and glowered in his face. You know gawddamn good and well what I’m talkin’ about. Folks are sayin’ you don’t aim to pony up like the rest of the boys ‘cause you figger you’re runnin’ honest games and that gets you a free ride. Well, lemme tell you something, sport—there ain’t no free rides in Abilene. If you want to play, then you got to pay. The lawman straightened, twirling one end of his mustache. And I’m the gent that does the collectin’.

Marshal, I’ve never been one to tell a man his business, but it looks to me like you’ve got things a little cross-wise. See, it’s you that’s got the problem not me.

And I suppose you got it all figgered out how we’re gonna solve it?

Matter of fact, I have. You don’t tell on me and I won’t tell on you.

Tell what? Whyn’t you just quit slingin’ all that bullshit, and say whatever the hell you’re tryin’ to say?

Fair enough. You don’t tell anybody I’m not payin’ you off—which I’m not—and I won’t tell the town council that you’re gettin’ your palms greased by every pimp in Abilene. That way we both come out ahead.

Sonny, you got a big mouth. Hickok worked up a menacing scowl, and caressed one of the Colts stuck in a red sash around his waist. You keep talkin’ that way and I might just have to put a leak in your ticker.

Jake smiled a slow, glacial smile. You could try.

Hickok blustered and threatened, and wasted a good deal of energy pounding on Jake’s desk, but five minutes later he marched out with his tail between his legs. And a bargain that was to remain a secret despite the inquisitive probing of Abilene’s finest.

In his jaunts around town Jake had turned up an interesting piece of information. Hickok was also collecting payoffs from Abilene’s whoremongers, Rowdy Joe Lowe and the Earp Brothers being the most scurrilous of the lot. Gambling was one thing, but money from the flesh game was tainted. Had the town fathers been apprised of this unsavory alliance Hickok would have been out on his ear, hat in hand. Never above a good horsetrade, not to mention a little blackmail, Jake swapped the hawk-nosed lawman tit for tat.

The Lady Gay operated its games without further harassment from Hickok. And the frontier’s most fearsome killer of men went on collecting graft from cowtown pimps. Quid pro quo. While Jake would learn the meaning of this ancient custom only in later years, it was a device he would employ with polish and flair for the rest of his life.

Although details of the incident were sparse, townspeople and Texans alike began eyeing this johnny-come-lately with a whole new outlook. Apparently he was no flash in the pan, another of those slick-talking promoters out to fleece the public with some new variation of the shell game. His tables actually were honest, a point grudgingly conceded even by the sporting crowd themselves. And anyone who could make Hickok haul water wasn’t to be taken lightly. Not by a damnsight!

Aside from the publicity value, Jake had been amused by the whole affair. He considered Hickok a flamboyant charlatan, trading on an undeserved reputation. Back at Fort Hays the lawman had gunned down two drunks (hungrily billed as gunfights by distant newspapers) and was later run out of town after killing a Seventh Cavalry trooper in a saloon brawl. Hardly the grim reaper of law and order. More to the point, Jake simply wasn’t afraid of Hickok. Life on the plains, hunting buffalo and being hunted in turn by hostiles, had blunted his fear of death. He suspected he’d killed more men than Abilene’s hawk-nosed marshal, and if it came to a showdown, he had a sneaking hunch who would back off first. Of course there was no discounting the possibility that Hickok might bushwhack him some dark night. But that’s what life was all about. A man paid his money and took his chances.

As for his honest games, Jake could scarcely keep a straight face. Everybody was praising his integrity when all the time it was strictly a come-on. From what he’d seen at Fort Hays, and here again at Abilene, ethics and business were seldom compatible. A man outmaneuvered his competition, while distracting the rubes with some flashy sleight-of-hand, and the foxiest of the bunch wound up with all the marbles. It was just that elemental.

All the same, once committed, a man had to hold the line. In late June, Quincy Blackburn had caught a dealer marking cards with a needle ring. Presumably, though it was never proved, the man was skimming off excess winnings. before settling accounts each night. Jake acted immediately, and with a ruthlessness that chilled the blood of onlookers. While the crowd watched, he beat the dealer into an unrecognizable pulp, then dragged him to the door and dumped him outside. Dusting his hands, he strolled back inside and ordered drinks for the house.

There was nothing personal about it. Jake held no hard feelings toward the dealer and he had administered the beating with stony detachment. It was strictly business. An object lesson for the other dealers, and a graphic, if somewhat gory, testimonial to the Lady Gay’s policy of honest games.

And now, in late August, with the cattle season in full swing, Jake Kincaid’s standing in the community was unassailable. The sporting crowd, headed by Ben Thompson and Phil Coe (who already had their own troubles with Bill Hickok), adopted an attitude of live and let live. Privately they had concluded that while he was a heretic to the gambler’s code, this brash youngster would make a better ally than enemy. Abilene’s legitimate businessmen, impressed with his forthright character