Kelly glared at Bob for a second or two and then groped for his six-gun, raising the .45 at Bob when a janitor ran in from the hotel corridor and beleaguered him, grappling his strong arms over Kelly’s and jolting the slight man against the room’s wall. Kelly looked between his feet and jerked the gun’s trigger, obliterating the man’s big toe and then going down with him as the janitor fell in agony. Kelly wriggled away to a corner and glared at the janitor as the man rolled with his pain. Bob was sitting in a chair like a passenger, looking aghast at the damage he’d caused, and Kelly said to him, “You’ve always got an angel, don’t ya. Some fool’s always rushing in to save your sorry hide.”
The police came and Kelly gave up his gun to a pal, and in the course of the explanations that followed, Bob Ford slipped out of the room as if he could disappear.
He stayed away from Kelly after that and moved into the storeroom of his saloon, sleeping on a cot with Dorothy there, letting vagrants and spongers and hungry young men sleep on the gambling tables and bar for fifty cents a night.
Everyone, it seemed then, was going to Creede; grubstaked strangers from as far away as Indiana were loitering around the railroad yards in order to gather the latest exaggerations from the King Solomon Mining District, or they grouped around the big fires in the cold, goading the sting from their fingers. Bob joined the rings of men around the fires or in the congested hotel lobbies, chatting with gandydancers who’d put in the railroad spur and with the rugged mountain men who’d strung the telegraph lines. According to them there was no government in Creede, no taxes, no lodgings, not many stores, no fancy women in sight; the only saloons were cold canvas tents rigged over log walls and the whiskey was cut with plugs of tobacco.
So Bob bought green sawmill lumber and got the many stragglers around Pueblo to raise and carpenter a grand dance hall on ground that was swept free of snow. He bought extravagant furniture and draperies and oil paintings of naked goddesses and with a practiced eye appraised how everything looked in the place. When the building was complete, he ordered a crew to cautiously take it apart and pile it on a railroad flat car, and by the time Wagon Wheel Gap was opened in April and the Denver and Rio Grande was operating in the high country again, Bob was moving on with his common-law wife and his pretty waiter girls to the city where he could begin a new life.
He became a man of property and exemplary reputation. He squandered a magnificent sum of money and made his Exchange Club a palace. The rough boards on the outside of the gambling hall and bagnio disguised eight gaming tables of green felt and sculpted mahogany, an intricately scrolled and filigreed Eastlake bar of forty-foot length, a long brass rail four inches off the floor, brass spittoons at each junction, brass fittings on each cabinet and door, and glassware exactly like that used in the Teller House in Central City. Overhead lighting came from crystal chandeliers, muslin cloth of dark green concealed the pinewood walls, and everywhere were copied paintings of Aphrodite and the apple, Leda and the swan, the rape of the Sabine women, Venus at her toilette, Venus and Cupid, even La Primavera.
Downstairs were eight pretty waiter girls, many croupiers in crisp white shirts and yellow ties, and two or three mixologists with gartered sleeves and great waxed mustaches. Upstairs Dorothy oversaw the expensive activities of prostitutes with made-up names like Topsy, Lulu Slain, the Mormon Queen, and Slanting Annie. Everything was meant to be as high-class and congenial as an Eastern gentlemen’s club, without gunplay or fights or conniving; corporation presidents and their mine managers visited after supper, a glee club of Yale graduates sang around the piano, prospectors galumphed around the place bragging about their claims, assayers, grocers, and storekeepers made their evening elapse over newspapers there, and earnings changed hands at an average of nine hundred dollars per hour, sixteen hours per day, six days a week—meaning, of course, that Bob Ford’s gambling hall could garner more in one year than the James gang could in thirteen.
Creede itself was nothing like the Exchange Club. It grew in a gully between two great mountains, so that the sun only gave it eight hours’ light in a day and the snow run-off guttered along the single main street from April to July, obliging pack animals and pedestrians to slog through stocking-high muck and manure. The altitude was eight thousand eight hundred forty feet, so it was infrequently anything but cold (twenty degrees below zero in March was not uncommon) and the only water for months at a time came from pails of snow cooked over a fire—many negligent or already overworked men were consequently filthy, infested with body lice, and so foul-smelling that the Cyprians kept perfumed hankies to their noses as they gave up their pleasures.
A great variety of humanity was coming to Creede: cowhands, cardsharps, shopkeepers, tramps, mining engineers, crew managers, speculators in precious metals, fore
igners from every country in Europe, Mexicans, Ute Indians, common laborers, cattle rustlers, circuit riders, petty thieves, physicians who had no license to practice, one or two lawyers who’d been disbarred, and a good many men whose lives were money. They were coming at the rate of three hundred per day, with the railway passengers sitting two to a chair or squeezing so tightly together in the aisles that a man could lift both feet and not fall. The Denver and Rio Grande recovered the cost of its railroad construction to Creede in just four months and lodgings were so scarce in the camp that each night they rented out ten Pullman cars on a sidetrack. Shanties might give refuge to eight or nine men, as many as sixty cots were jammed into one hotel dining room, the poor taught themselves to sleep upright supported by ropes that were strung across storage rooms, some people limped around Creede on crutches, having lost their feet to the cold.
And though it was against all odds and expectations, the man who governed all of them, the grand authority in Creede, was the slayer of Jesse James, Robert Newton Ford. Bob made the judgments and regulations, oversaw the punishment of criminals, the paltry disputes of commercial men, the controversies between saloonkeepers and their patrons; he arranged many civil matters, approved sketches of construction, appointed the sheriffs and tax collectors, paid the yearly salary of the justice of the peace. If he was not appreciated or very often praised, he was nonetheless complied with as a man of power and strong opinion who could not be crossed without peril. He gave permissions, exceptions, dispensations; he gained prerogative, reputation, prestige, satisfaction.
His was a night life. He slept late and read the Colorado newspapers in an elegant silk kimono as Dorothy brought in doughnuts and coffee and straightened the dark green room. His eyes moved speedily over the pages, skipping the lists of mine applications, stopping only on stories of gruesome accident and crime. He wore his ginger brown hair longer now than when he was twenty, in a gentleman’s cut that gently waved and was scented with European fragrances. His distinguished mustache gave him years and panache but his boyishness wasn’t gone yet, and when he stripped in front of his common-law wife, his slight but scrappy body seemed that of a juvenile. His clothing was English and high-fashion, his starched white shirts always seemed just bought, actor’s lifts made him seem long-legged and six feet tall, he cocked his bowler hat to the right and was genial on the street.
He walked gracefully even in snow and affected a certain jauntiness by flicking his hat brim with a finger in greeting and by swinging an Italian cane, tilting against it as he gossiped and joked. He was gregarious to everyone and genuine to his companions. He smoked good twenty-five-cent cigars. He greeted all regulars to the Exchange Club and gave away to every gambler shot glasses of an overnight whiskey he concocted on a stove, though he himself would lounge at a corner table with J. and F. Martell cognac or a green bottle of Jackson’s sour mash. He might stay eight or nine hours there, inviting acquaintances over to join him, giving orders to the dancing girls and prostitutes in gestures and sign language.
If he did not forget to eat he partook of a huge meal at seven, getting it over with at one sitting and never seeming to gain weight. Then he’d spin roulette or play poker in his gambling room, often giving up on straights or perfect combinations of cards rather than bring on a challenge that he’d been cheating. He could in fact perform magic tricks, practice sleight-of-hand, cut to the royalty at will, guess accurately what a player was holding, move the aces anywhere he wished as he swiftly shuffled the Bicycle deck. His fingers were nimble, his mind was quick, his blue eyes caught every nuance; he recognized patterns and strategies and was rarely swindled or captivated except when it suited his purpose.
He laughed often in an overeager, miscarrying voice and could talk engagingly at great length, but his subject was all too frequently himself; a glance from him could cut the tongue from a man, and he aggravated at the slightest suggestion of insult when among spectators, going for his gun with no more misgivings than if he were reaching for change. He was physically strong and wild with his fists, a grappler and aggressor who could go straight at anyone without regard for their size. And yet he was cautious, fidgety, high-strung, vigilant. He kept his back to the angled meetings of walls or kept his eyes on the long saloon mirror that was just lately imported from France. If doors were left open, he shut them; he never lingered near windowglass, never gave his back to strangers, never climbed ladders or chairs; a gun was string-tied to his thigh all day and slipped under his pillow at night.
He noticed the comings and goings of the nightwalkers he managed and was gentle with them, called them daughters, savagely cudgeled any man who was rough with them in their sleeping rooms or paid them less than they’d agreed upon. He would periodically prowl the upstairs corridor, putting his ear to the sleeping room doors, and if she wasn’t then employed, Bob would ask Dorothy to prettify herself and join the company at his corner table. Already there would be his rough good friends in Creede: Joe Palmer, who would be run out of town in April, “Broken Nose” Creek, a cousin of the Younger brothers, and Jack Pugh, a horse thief who’d come to Creede to run a livery stable. They would speak together of appalling crimes that they never actually committed; Bob would exaggerate his participation and accomplishments in the James gang’s last years, going on and on with his misrepresentations as Dorothy pampered him with courtesies and pleasantly simpered at his guests. If there was a dispute about the long career of the James gang, Bob was the authority, for he recognized every legend, consumed every history and dime novel, he was basically as engrossed in the man as a good biographer could be and even called the Jameses his cousins, a heritage that nobody argued with.
He openly collected the prostitution receipts from Dorothy at midnight, giving the money to a cash register that was scrolled and plated with nickel. He kissed his common-law wife goodnight and sent the dancing girls out or upstairs, and then gradually shooed his patrons from the saloon so that he could make an accounting of his profits from faro, birdcage, roulette, and stud poker. The croupiers helped him sweep the floor and wipe the counters and tabletops with soaped towels, then Bob adjusted the pipes and pans and stovetop temperature for his overnight whiskey, paid the two mixologists for their evening’s work, and locked and barred every door.
Then he might pour a big glass of Chapin and Gore and clean his pistol by candlelight. He could hear the girls pillowfight upstairs, could hear one of them slip down to be with a paramour, could hear a boy creep into the privy in order to pass the night in its dry protection. Bob would point the Colt at objects in the saloon and make the hammer snap the quiet in the great room. And he’d say a word or two to Jesse as he went upstairs to sleep.
THE COMING OF SOAPY SMITH to Creede began the change in Bob. He was a mountebank, swindler, and confidence man who was born Jefferson Randolph Smith in Georgia in 1860, grew up throughout the South, and graduated from moving cattle in Texas to carnival work in Colorado. He was a glib and magnetic talker with a glad-to-meet-you jubilance and a way of getting delighted attention whenever he joined a crowd. He would gull men who thought they were cunning and wily into collaborating with him on an illegal project and then make them the target of the intrigue before they could get out of it, finagling so many in that manner that the city of Denver was no longer safe and he thought it wise to go west.
And so he came to Creede in February 1892 on a Denver and Rio Grande passenger train that rammed a giant plow along the rails in great surfs and tempests of snow. He went there with a gang of sixteen bodyguards, gamblers, and underlings and gradually made his way through the town, introducing himself to every shopkeeper and card-sharp, a joke for each man he stopped on the street, a gift of beer for everybody in whichever saloon he barged into, always acting the scamp and rogue and good sport, a man who was rich and leisured, who had the common touch.
He progressed in such a way along Amethyst Street that he got to the Exchange Club over a week after he arrived, and Soapy placed himself at the gaming tables so that he could peer across the room at the lord of the place, Bob Ford.
He saw a jittery, laughing man of thirty sitting magisterially in a corner, eating cake with his fingers, inviting company over, pouring cognac for all comers. His rough friends sat around the circular table in Mackinaw and astrakhan coats, snow becoming water on their big crossed arms and sliding into beads on their mustaches, their ungloved and grimy hands blackly smudging the glassware. Though Bob Ford’s birthday was weeks past, his age was apparently a topic, for Soapy once overheard him say, “I always thought I’d go off like a skyrocket, but now it looks like I’ll just be petering out”; and then Bob pursued other issues, monopolizing the conversation, paying little attention to what was said by others or even to his own replies, only talking ceaselessly like a man trying to clean every scrap of language out of his puzzled mind. And always he was looking to his right or left, looking into the many assorted mirrors, looking at every gun, until he appeared to spy an enemy in the gambling crowd and got up to intercept one of his pretty waiter girls and say, “Don’t give him anything.”
The man he said that about was Edward O. Kelly. He’d journeyed downward into dipsomania and depression since his gunfight with Bob in the Phoenix Hotel and he’d come to Creede without hope or plan. The police department in Pueblo had pressured Kelly until he paid a Fourth Street physician for surgery on the janitor’s foot, sharpening the man’s stupid prejudice to such an extent that he shot and killed a man of color named Ed Riley for a simple act of clumsiness. The common bigotry of the age salvaged Kel
ly and he wasn’t charged with a crime, much less found guilty, but he was expunged from the police department, finding work only as a streetcar driver and begging for coins on the sidewalk until he’d gathered enough for passage to Creede.
And then he gained entrance to the Exchange Club, ogled its extravagance, gripped and regripped his cold fingers at a fire, and when a girl came by, Kelly had the gall to order a complimentary shot glass of whiskey in a gruff voice that Bob recognized.
In accordance with the saloon owner’s instructions that Kelly ought not to be given anything, the girl returned to the bar with the shot glass on a tray and Bob imperturbably paused by one of the gaming tables to study the dexterity of a poker dealer he’d recently hired. Bob stacked coins and looked to an overhead mirror and saw Kelly shrug off his long wool coat as he argued with himself. The man seemed wild, insane, and fifty years old, though he would have been thirty-five, and Bob caught a glimpse of Wood Hite in Kelly as the man adjusted his long pistol. He was wearing a blue policeman’s jacket with the insignia buttons cut off and a cartridge belt and gun were strapped over it so that they middled him. Kelly gave some learning to his right hand and unsnugged his gun in its cracked leather holster as he jostled through the gambling hall crowd to close on the man he thought of as his antagonist.
Kelly pulled up his pistol and a girl shouted, “He’s gonna kill you!” but Bob only smiled and pretended he was Jesse as he approached Kelly sociably, his arms sweeping out as if he accepted all humanity and especially his present company. “Hey!” Bob said. “Hey, you ought to let bygones be bygones!” And then he grinned so congenially that he surprised Kelly and slowed him just enough to unexpectedly slap the man’s cheek with his right hand and clasp the pistol with his left, jolting Kelly low and awry as Bob jerked the gun from his grip. He then snapped his right knee into Kelly’s mouth and the ex-policeman collapsed with a split upper lip and Bob cruelly rapped the man’s skull with his own long pistol, the knock like a knuckle on wood. “Get out!” Bob yelled. “Get out and don’t you ever set foot in my place again.”
“I guess I will if I want to,” Kelly said.
Bob stamped the floor and Kelly shied, cringing under his lifted arm. Bob laughed at the sight and gave up, walking back to his corner table with gamblers clapping him on the back and giving him their approval. And Bob was sitting with his Creede gang and getting only some of their jokes as he watched Kelly barge over to his long coat and then out into night and a snowstorm. Bob said, “It just goes on and on and on.”
Dorothy said, “I can’t hear you,” but Bob said nothing more.