Weaving together an intriguing storyline with the real historical events and luminaries of turn-of-the-century Lincoln, Nebraska, including John J. Pershing (commanding the Nebraska Corps of Cadets), Willa Cather (reporter for the State Journal), and Charles Dawes (lawyer and future Nobel Peace laureate), Barrelhouse Boys is a fictional romp through the gaslight era that shouldn’t be missed!  

For our Kearney fans...

Original beginning to Chapter 42

Saturday, August 11, 1894

Kearney…originally Fort Kearny—no second “e,” a letter that had somehow popped into being unbidden in the last decade—was a water stop for the U.P.  Though the general intention was for the train to take it on, Ezekiel Gardner was more interested at the moment in letting a little go.  The Pullman car where he now rode was indeed plush—but unfortunately, had no water closet, so Zeke found the outhouse attached to the depot a welcome relief.

Buttoning his denim trousers and stepping from the outhouse, Gardner paused on the train platform to roll a smoke.  Down the north side of the tracks a few hundred yards west from the depot, an uneven jumble of single story saloons and hash houses backed up against the rear entrances of the hotels and respectable businesses facing Central Avenue.  Piano music, always a favorite of Zeke’s, wafted gaily from one of them.  The large sign over the door proclaimed it as the Crackerbox—aptly named, it seemed, as portions of its tarpaper roofing were blowing freely in the Nebraska wind, and its narrow fronted construction shook dubiously in cadence with its internal commotion.  Checking his watch, Zeke observed that it read 12:24—gives me a good thirty minutes before the train is set to leave, Zeke thought.  Snapping it shut, Ezekiel began to chastise himself, hesitated, then smiled and murmured, “Oh, what the hell,” as he stepped from the platform down the road the paralleled the tracks towards the music.  As always, he hoped that the piano player was a girl; preferably, a pretty one.

Strolling into the saloon, he saw immediately that he was at least half-right.  The pianist was a girl…a lot of girl, it would appear.  Although not altogether to Zeke’s taste, her painted smile did have a certain je ne c’est quoi, and she could play like a positive demon.  Near the door, the ex-lawman found a place to stand at the end of the smoky bar.  He held his finger up to the thin man behind it with a towel wrapped about his waist, who, despite his harried look, soon managed to scare up a beer.  

Gazing about the room, Gardner gradually perceived that he was not the only passenger from the train that had been drawn to the music.  Along the bar, two Scottsbluff cattlemen from the Pullman car were exchanging hot remarks about the advantages of Hereford versus Angus beef; a thin Lutheran pastor headed towards Mullen was having a last pull at a beer, his collar conspicuously absent; and in the corner sat a tall, stocky man at a poker table—Flint’s shadow, thought Gardner…and now my own.  Once again, the thought crossed Zeke’s mind of somehow giving this man the slip, and making his way back to Lincoln…and then squelched the thought.  No, if this trip is going to serve any purpose, it will be to keep McGee’s focus on the grain contract, and on me…not on Lincoln.

There were plenty of spectators around the table, but Zeke’s viewing angle allowed him to observe the three men playing Cheevers, and with a professional eye, and began to see a pattern develop.  There had been many men who gambled their wages away back in San Francisco after the transcontinental railroad had been completed, and Zeke had found himself as one of them—before taking a turn at the only sure game in town…joining the house.   Like other former soldiers, he had provided gambling hall “security” for a time, until finally his hands, proven clever with a gun, were given their chance at dealing—for which they were equally quick.  The man dealing was also quick, but that wasn’t where the danger was.  Zeke wondered if anyone else would spot the thief in their midst…when Cheevers’ deep voice rumbled, “We have a problem, boys…somebody around this table is a cheat.”

In the next split second, Zeke’s eyes saw what few could have seen, and even he didn’t believe—a drawn revolver had materialized in the man’s left hand. And was leveled at the dealer.

“Sit quiet, friends,” Cheevers said, suddenly placing the .45 Colt on the table in front of him, then leaning back in his chair.  “The one with the sticky fingers isn’t seated at the table.”  In one smooth motion, and with a speed that Zeke could not have imagined possible for a man of his size, Cheevers pivoted out of his seat, stood, and snatched the collar of a young boy that had been standing behind him.  He raised the boy, now shaking, to eye level, then whispered something unintelligible in his ear.  With a quivering hand, the boy took a wallet out of his pants and held it out to the man—who smiled, and gestured to the table.

“That’s fine…just put it down there,” he said, pointing.  “Next to my revolver.”

The boy eyed the door, but his escape was cut off—he was utterly surrounded by a crowd in the Crackerbox that was now interested in nothing else.  Reluctantly, he placed the billfold gently…on…the table…

Quick as a snake, Cheevers grasped the revolver by its barrel, smashing the boy’s hand beneath its butt—then flipped the gun and pointed it upwards, cocked, under the boy’s chin, before the boy could pull his broken hand to his chest.

“Stealing is a sin,” Cheevers said, in a raspy whisper, his cold eyes boring into those of the boy’s, whose own eyes were filled with pain and terror.  Slowly, deliberately, his face turned to Ezekiel Gardner…and grinned.

Down the street, the train gave its warning whistle, signaling its readiness to depart and breaking the spell that had frozen the normally chaotic, Brownian motion of the Crackerbox.  Still grinning, Cheevers set the whimpering boy on his feet and tousled his head, holstered his weapon, and walked out of the bar, brushing past Gardner without another hint of recognition.

One was enough, Gardner observed, and shook his head as he followed the other passengers to the train, westbound for supper in Sidney.