To the Editor of the Wichita Eagle, my name was Gahlivi Wesa. I was the person your reporter Mary Carson interviewed in 1876 concerning all of the strange happenings in Dodge City. I regret causing her demise by telling her my story, but it had to be told & she was willing to tell it.
After all that happened in Dodge, I married Meredith Atkins, settled down, & put up my guns (to live peacefully with her & her people). We were happy for five years & were starting our own family. My horse ranch was beginning to become successful. Then the Pinkertons came.
I returned from finding some wild horses for breeding & sale, when I came to my old ranch burning. Meredith & her father were dead in the front yard. Their bodies had been riddled with .45’s, yet there were only tracks from two white men. Why would two white men use so many bullets to kill two Quakers? Maybe they were afraid that these two were very dangerous? Or that they had dangerous friends?
I went out to my sweat lodge & retrieved my guns from where I’d buried them & then preformed a Booger Ceremony to ensure their demise. The next morning I went into Lower Dodge to the Mustang, to settle up my accounts there. Problem is, They surprised me there. When I went into the bar, I found Dancing Bear hung up from the rafters of the main room, swaying in the slight breeze of the early morning. He had been dead for several hours, probably hung last night after they’d killed my Meredith. They were probably expectin’ me to come here right away & were confused when I didn’. Sittin’ about the main room were six Pinkertons, all armed & waitin’.
I was able to kill three of them in the gunfight that followed, but there were another six hidden outside in the Crazy Old Man’s old soup kitchen. When I came to, I found myself sittin’ on a horse tied & ready to be hung outside my bar. Spread out about me were at least a hundred citizens of Dodge, most of them callin’ out fer my blood, even my business partner “Miss Kate.”
All of the other “Irregulars” had left some time before all of this. Crooked Man had gone back to his Virginia & his family. Pinkerton had returned to duty in the north immediately after our killin’ War, he claimed he was “re-assigned.” Boca returned to Mexico After some kind of shoot out with a China man in Dodge with Walter shortly after (he said something about the Oregon territories). The Crazy Old Man died a couple of years (1878) later to the white man’s lung disease. So I was left to continue my life on my own.
When the crowd had gotten pretty ugly chantin’ fer my blood, the Pinkertons finally slapped the horse I was sittin’ on & lynched me there in front of my place…
I “awoke” some time later, close as I can figger it was ‘about one year later, in an unmarked grave outside of town. Kicks-A-Lot was waitin’ fer me. We went into town & found the Mustang had been renamed back to the Warhorse. I walked in to find my guns displayed behind the bar as some kind of attraction. The bar-keep was chargin’ 50 cents to handle my peacemakers, a dollar fer my sharps, & five fer my Henry (this one seemed to scare most people with China Doll’s picture laminated to the stock & her scalp hangin’ from it). I killed the bar-keep with my bare hands & took my belongin’s back. Me & Kicks-a-lot then rode up into upper Dodge to the Longbranch, to see what was happening there. On the way I spotted my tomahawk held in a cigar store indian’s wooden grip outside of what used to be Hoover’s Liquor & Cigars. I took it & then set fire to it too.
I found Miss Kate there havin’ her breakfast, sittin’ at the old poker table with four other people, talkin’ about events in Dodge. When I walked in, the conversation stopped. I was able to find out from Kate that the pinkerton agency had sent agents into Dodge specifically to clarify all of the stories that had come out of here durin’ our time. By “clarify” she meant that they were able to somehow clear people’s memories of specific events, or just make people disappear (or in my case bury).
So I went up to Chicago & got a hold of the agents involved with “closing” this case & have spent the last ten years collectin’ scalps. You may have gotten reports of Pinkertons dying by Indian hands (because of the scalping (I now have 32)), but I can’t say I’m of the people anymore. What sets me apart is I’m pretty sure that the agency has somekind of spiritual protection, so I use silver bullets that’re blessed by various faiths to kill them better with.
So now I’m sittin’ outside a Shan-Fran warehouse/Dojo, watchin’ an old firend live his life in bliss. I’ve seen a couple of pale-faces pokin’ around the neighborhood, askin’ questions like they own the place. Lucky fer me, here there aren’t too many pale-faces & there are more of my people doin’ trade with the yellow-man. We’ll have to wait & see when they make their move (I think I’ll have a smoke in the mean time)…