Centennial by James A. Michener

THERE WAS A DARK SIDE TO WESTERN HISTORY, AND MANY A family that later attained prominence did so only because some enterprising progenitor had known when to strike and how to keep his mouth shut.

Two men, long-tested friends, would enter a valley together, prospecting for gold; one would emerge with an ironclad claim to the mine they had discovered, leaving the other six feet deep with a bullet in his back.

Or three men, trusted partners in numerous difficult deals, would ride into an arroyo, and one would be dry-gulched, with the desirable result that profits could be split two ways instead of three.

Such things happened in towns, too. In the summer of 1889 Centennial witnessed a grisly affair which affected the way the town developed. It began in Minnesota when a Mr. Soren Sorenson went to his bank, withdrew his funds, placed them in a small black bag and told the banker, "It's too cold here. Gonna try my luck in Colorado."

"The American cowboy is the dumbest man on earth and the rancher who employs him is even worse."

The speaker was a forty-eight-year-old sheriff named Axel Dumire, a small, lean man with a bulldog jaw. He wore twin holsters for the Colt .45s he wanted people to see when he stalked the town. He had Texas-style boots, filigreed with silver, and a Texas hat, even though he had never been in that state. He did not wear a jacket of any kind, preferring a heavy red-flannel shirt, whose sleeves were kept up by elastic arm bands, and a leather vest.

He had reached Centennial after service in a long series of west Kansas towns, where his soft-spoken ways, good humor and flinty resolution made him respected if not feared. Only rarely had he found it necessary to draw his guns, and then he held them hip-high, walking steadily forward and relying upon his determination and obvious willingness to shoot it out to force his opponent to back down. So far he had succeeded.

After the spate of killings in the range wars between cattlemen and sheepherders, the citizens of Centennial felt they should import a lawman to quieten things down, and Axel Dumire had done just that. His calm persuasion had encouraged the warring sides to make peace, and his reputation as a tough enforcer had kept killers out of town. The big job was done, but the little jobs were never done.

"There's always a circus comin' to town," Dumire said one June morning as he studied the handbill for Cartright's Sensational Congress of Heroism and Courage. Scores of Wild Animals. Most Thrilling Act in the World. Daring Dan and the Apache.

"You ever seen Daring Dan? " he asked the loungers on the porch of the Railway Arms. "He's legitimate. Best shot I ever saw. Wait till you see what happens."

"Sounds as if you admire him," one of the men said.

"I do," the sheriff confessed. "I admire any man who can do what he's done."

"What's he done? " the man asked.

"Pay your money and see. " He resumed his conversation with the other men. "It's the rabble that follow the circus that gives me trouble. The cheats, the three-card monte experts and that damned thimble game. Our cowboys just throw their money away, with never a chance of winning."

"Don't you always say ranchers are just as dumb?"

"They are. A man with a good education accepts responsibility for runnin' a ranch worth a million dollars and then comes to the circus and allows some fast-talkin' con artist to sell him one-third of Yellowstone Park-and you know what clinches the sale? The crook offers him the middle third, where the hot water is, so's his cows can graze through the winter without danger of the place freezin' up."

"Nobody's that dumb!"

"I could name one right here," the sheriff said, staring at a tall, thin cattleman who was listening from the edge of the group. "He went into one of the girlie tents. Saw this pretty octoroon with nothin' on. For twenty-five cents he was allowed to pat her on the ass and for seventy-five cents more he could pluck a hair out of her front. " The men turned toward the tall man and began laughing. "Yes," Dumire said, "we're speakin' of you, Joe. " The tall man blushed and offered no defense.

"So this year I intend to keep the circus reasonably clean, and if I have to deputize some of you men for the next two days, I want your help. First man I'm goin' to call on, since he's had experience, is you, Joe."

This evoked even louder laughter, but the tough little sheriff rose, went to the tall cattleman and pinned a badge on him. "Set a thief to catch a thief," he said, "and you keep out of those tents."