The Grass is Always Greener Chapter 7, Part 1
Elizabethtown was abuzz with new people and businesses by September of 1868, and a constant hum of county election gossip was in the air. In the five months since Callum Ennis had first stepped onto the bustling streets, so much had changed that he could hardly compare his first impressions of the tents and grizzly men in the burgeoning camp to his current view of fresh-hewn structures, ladies in dresses, and men in suits. Only the return of chilled night air reminded Callum of those recent days past.
Standing in front of John Pearson’s store and saloon, Callum was waiting for Thor, who was due to return from having their lode of ore assayed in Ute Creek. Earlier this morning, Ellie had returned by stagecoach to her family at the Pasco Farm. Since the stage picked up in front of Cahill’s drug store and post office, Callum had seen her off and then resumed his patrolling of the streets he gazed upon now. He stood leaning on a porch railing where he could see the Storey Hotel, a side lane that led up to the next street, and the road that led back downhill toward Froelick’s store, past Niles’ wagon yard, and out of town.
Callum considered the apparent escape of Wall Henderson. One by one, the vigilante posse had returned with low-hung heads and wornout horses. He also pondered how he would approach Maxwell regarding the purchase of his desired land, situated between the Pasco Farm and the Apache crossing to the south. He worried that Maxwell wouldn’t welcome the ranching competition, but he reasoned it might help him convince the railroad to come closer to Cimarron or even to Elizabethtown.
Finally, Thor came into view marching up from his jerky tent. Callum had trouble recognizing him at first. Gone were his usual ragged dungarees and his bearskin hat. Instead, he had donned a new black suit with a pressed white shirt, a full-brimmed matching hat, and three new leather bags. He almost looked like one of the new business owners or politicians that were nowadays arriving all the time. But as he came closer, there was no mistaking his bushy, grey beard or the thick, blackand-grey curls hanging about his neck.
“I’ve got good news and bad news!” Thor called until he was close enough to speak discreetly.
“I might as well tell you and Froelick at the same time. Is our associate inside?”
“He is, sir. Waiting patiently,” Callum joked as he led Thor into Pearson’s Saloon and to their regular table, where Froelick was, in fact, sitting fairly still.
Unable to contain himself for long, Froelick stood up when his friends approached. His relative calm was giving way to his usual excitable energy over what Thor had brought them. He blurted, “I heard you outside, Thor. Out with it, then!”
“Gentlemen.” Thor addressed his partners with a sort of contrived formality that suited him only humorously. “Each man at this table is richer. I have the funds in gold and greenbacks with me in these bags—already split up.”
Callum and Froelick were both struck silent at how well their luck had paid off. It took several minutes and half a glass of beer for either man to speak.
“You, uh, said you had bad news?” Froelick asked meekly.
“Oh, yes. Sadly,” Thor responded solemnly. “Maxwell has left for Colorado, and he won’t be selling any land through a proxy. He thinks he’s found investors there who want to buy the entire land grant, and, well, that complicates things for Mr. Ennis.”
Callum’s heart was sinking. What was the good of this new wealth if it couldn’t earn a new life for his family back in Houston?
Thor continued. “It ain’t all bad, son. You are gonna be relieved of your law duties soon -and proper this time. I met a man who represented Maxwell’s interests in a bid to make this a territorial county. He said he’s organizing elections for a sort of ad-hoc government to legitimize their case before Congress. He even told me they’d name the county after ‘ol Schuyler Colfax if they thought it would help.”
“And when will this be?” Callum half-heartedly inquired.
“Any day now,” Thor answered, trying to keep Callum’s spirits high. “That fella was on his way here to drum up more support, kinda like they were doing with that ridiculous band a few days ago.”
Froelick, now fully his animated self, brushed his frizzy white hair back over each ear, pushed his round glasses back up his nose, and held up a trembling hand to halt Callum’s slide into melancholy. “I have a plan!” he exclaimed. “I’m not sure you’ll like it, but it would work.”
Froelick went on to explain that he’d heard a lot of talk among his customers about who they would support for a sheriff. It seemed most of Elizabethtown was split between Callum and Joseph Herberger. Froelick also mentioned that he knew Maxwell was interested in controlling these new politics. Apparently, he had floated the idea of being probate judge himself, while choosing men loyal to him for the other positions. In particular, he wanted a fairly well-respected man, Henry J. Calhoun, to be sheriff. While Maxwell could control the votes in Cimarron, Ute Creek, and Virginia City, Elizabethtown’s population represented a bit of a wild card.
“So my plan is this,” Froelick concluded. “If you run for sheriff with half the town’s support, then you can offer to drop out in the final days and endorse Mr. Calhoun if Maxwell will sell you the land you’re after.”
Callum considered this while Froelick stared intently at him, waiting for an answer to his complicated ruse. After a minute, Callum shook his head and stated sadly, “No sir. I’m not deceiving anybody. I thank you just the same.”
Not giving up, Froelick raised his trembling hand again. “Before you settle on your answer, consider this. If you don’t run, Herberger might just whip up all his vigilante buddies and actually win. You know that would be worse.”
“He’s got a point,” Thor nodded.
Callum continued shaking his head, steadfast in his principles. But before he could explain his rejection, Clay Allison burst into the saloon shouting Callum’s name. It wasn’t clear whether Allison was angry or desperate, but he was every bit his bullish self in his insistence on finding Callum Ennis.
Out of respect for John Pearson, the square-shaped Dutchman who took pride in his quiet little saloon, Callum decided to steer this disruption outside. He stood up, motioned for Allison to turn around and go back out, and swung on his coat to join him. Despite all his agitation, Allison obliged, and the two men walked into the street out front.
“Mr. Allison,” Callum observed. “Have you been drinking?”
CONTINUED IN NEXT ISSUE