Oakley Hall - Warlock

The hoofbeats and the barking and yelping diminished, going down toward the horse corral. “Well, I will be getting over to the bunkhouse,” Curley said, pretending to yawn. “Good night, Dad McQuown. Abe.”

“We’ll be going down tomorrow after supper,” Abe said.

“Down where?” the old man demanded. “What you going to do now?”

Abe ignored him. “That will put us through Rattlesnake Canyon after dark,” he said. “Tell the boys.”

Curley tipped his hat back and scratched his fingers through his hair, grimacing. “Hacienda Puerto?” he said. “I thought you figured we ought to lay off that awhile, Abe. They followed us a good way last time and we didn’t make off with hardly enough head to count. It is getting tight.”

“We will take more people this time.”

“Well, there is talk Don Ignacio’s got himself an army down there now, Abe. They are going to be waiting for us, one of these times. If they catch us—”

Abe swung toward him. “God damn it, there will be nothing happen because I will be along! You only get caught when I am not there. One shot through and another one dead, and then run home to me to back them off you!”

Curley had brought the old man back that time, leaving Hank Miller dead; and he had refused to go back with Abe and the rest to the ambush in Rattlesnake Canyon. Abe had not forgiven him that, and had not forgiven Bud Gannon, who had left San Pablo afterward. And Abe had not, he thought, forgiven himself either. Rattlesnake Canyon still ate at them all.

“All right, I’ll tell them, Abe,” he said, and went outside and closed the door behind him. He stood on the porch looking up at the stars past the old chimney. He should go, he thought; he should get out now. As he walked tiredly down the steps and over toward the bunkhouse, he took out his mouth organ and began to blow into it. The music he made was sad in the night.

November 16, 1880

Venit, Vidit, Vicit . The recent dramatics at the Glass Slipper were eminently satisfactory to all, except, no doubt, McQuown and his men, and Clay Blaisedell has succeeded almost past our wildest hopes in subduing the Cowboys. We have been most marvelously impressed with his demeanor here so far.

A man in his position is, of course, handicapped, but he is evidently experienced with makeshift arrangements. A tiny, one-cell jail, no court, no proper judge this side of Bright’s City — except for a J.P. who is only that on his own mandate and general tolerance, have not fazed our Marshal at all. Thus he has for weapons only his reputation and his own six-shooters, with which to threaten, to buffalo, to maim, or to kill. The first, the inherent threat of his reputation, we hope will serve our purposes.

Blaisedell had various suggestions to make. One was that we set up a deadline; no firearms to be carried past a certain part of town. We were uneasy about this, and Blaisedell readily agreed that the edict might cause more trouble than it prevented. Another suggestion of his was met with more enthusiasm: this is what is known as a “white affidavit.” If it is felt that the peace of this town or the safety of its inhabitants are threatened by any man, or if a criminal is transported to Bright’s City for trial for a major crime, and the Bright’s City jurymen fail to render a true judgment (as is often the case), a white affidavit is to be issued. This is no more than an order on the part of the Citizens’ Committee that an offender is to be forbidden entry to the town by the Marshal. If such a one disregards this posting, he then enters under pain of death — which is to say, he must face Blaisedell’s six-shooter prowess, which, we are hopeful, will strike fear into the bravest hearts.

We are most pleased with ourselves, and with our Marshal, so far. As Buck Slavin points out, Warlock’s bad reputation has long stood in the paths of Commerce and Population. If Blaisedell can effect order here we may expect both to increase, for the peaceable and the timid must certainly shy away from the violence well known to have ruled here. Thus, with an influx of citizens of finer stamp, in time the better element of the population will come to overbalance by far that of the violent and irresponsible, peace will come to enforce itself, and Commerce will flourish. To the good fortune of the members of the Citizens’ Committee of Warlock.

Still, there are doubts. I have been troubled in wondering whether we of the Citizens’ Committee have fully realized the responsibility we have assumed. We have hired a gunman whose only recommendation is a certain notoriety. We are responsible for this man of whom we know, actually, nothing. I suppose our troubled consciences are assuaged by the thought that we have assumed a makeshift authority for a makeshift situation, and a temporary one.

The question of our status remains frozen in suspension. Are we in Bright’s County, or in a new, yet-to-be-surveyed county? What keeps us from being granted a town patent before this matter is settled? Is there more to it than merely General Peach’s carelessness and senility? Is there, as Buck Slavin hints in his darker moods, some official feeling that Warlock is not worth troubling with, since it will soon fade away with its subterranean wealth exhausted, or its mines gradually closing down as the market price of silver continues to fall, or becoming flooded and unworkable?[1]

Poor and makeshift our efforts may be, yet there would seem proof in them that a society of sorts is possible in an anarchistic state. We feel we are ultimately in the Republic, separated from her only by an incredibly inept and laggard territorial government, and so obedience to the forms is necessary. Or are those forms themselves so ineradicably imbedded in men’s minds that we cannot think but in terms of them? The general passive acceptance of Judge Holloway’s fines (which everyone knows he pockets), and his imposition of sentences to our little jail or to unpaid community tasks, would seem to indicate this.

Be that as it may, I think the Citizens’ Committee has been most lucky in their employment of Blaisedell. He might have begun his action here in Warlock against the lesser fry. Instead he waited (and incurred some initial criticism for his inaction), and made his play against McQuown himself. I understand that his handling of McQuown, Burne, et al. in the Glass Slipper was masterful. He could have shed blood, but correctly chose not to do so. It is said that Curley Burne actually saluted Blaisedell in tribute to his gentlemanliness and forbearance, as he departed.

We have not seen McQuown since, nor any of his men. There has been no bloodshed since Blaisedell’s arrival. Blaisedell has had to buffalo a few recalcitrants, and has escorted some Cowboys and drunken miners to the jail, but violent death has removed itself from our midst temporarily.

Blaisedell is an imposing figure of a man, with a leonine fair head, an erect and powerful carriage, and eyes of an astonishing concentration. He seems guileless and straightforward, very dignified, yet I have seen him laughing and joking like a boy with his friend Morgan in the Glass Slipper. It is rumored that Blaisedell has an interest in that gambling hall. He spends much time there in company with Morgan, and on several occasions has engaged himself in dealing faro there. From what we have seen of Blaisedell thus far, he seems to have no excesses; he is not given to whoring, drunkenness, or profanity. I think he must needs be a blessedly simple man, in his position, for does not the capacity to deal in violence without excesses, to deal actually in men’s lives as he must do, denote an almost appalling simplicity?

Or is he, in the end, only a merchant like myself, with his goods for sale as I have mine, knowing, as I know, that the better the goods the better price they will command, and the price variable as well with the Need? I see my mind must seek to bring this man to my terms, or perhaps it is to my level.