Read Online The Floor of Heaven by Howard Blum - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Howard Blum
Tags: United States, History, Biography & Autobiography, Canada, 19th century, Adventurers & Explorers, Post-Confederation (1867-)
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shiny from wear, and he looked to Soapy to help him earn the money that would buy him his next opium pipe.
“Judge” Norman Van Horn was another disbarred lawyer, and, like Soapy, he had the smooth gift of telling the tale with eloquence. He also had a impressive knowledge of the law and, no less handy, was an expert on how to wiggle his way around it. His specialty was fixing juries and bribing the police.
“Old Man Tripp”—Van B. Tripplet was his proper name, but it had been long forgotten—was a white-bearded prospector with a weary face as creased as the seat of a hard-ridden leather saddle. He had spent a lifetime looking for gold and silver, but had never managed to strike the mother lode until he had hooked up with Soapy. Now he had great success as a roper, steering his fellow prospectors into Soapy’s conniving clutches.
Then there was “Professor” Turner Jackson. While the academic title was an unwarranted boast, there was no denying that the professor knew a great deal about mineral deposits and mines and, more important, how to talk authoritatively about these subjects. Prospectors new to the West would put great stock in his advice—and only realize too late that they were being gamed.
With so many cons in play, it was to be expected that a few of the resentful, gun-toting marks might come looking for Soapy with the hope of evening the score. But Soapy had enlisted a small army to protect him. The chief enforcer was a dull, brutish thug known throughout Denver as “Ice Box” Murphy. He’d earned the nickname (and a lifetime of ridicule) after his attempt to rob the payroll of a local meat market. His plan had been to sneak into the building in the dead of night and then blow the safe. In the darkness, however, Murphy had inadvertently fixed his sticks of dynamite to the door of the meat locker. The force of the explosion left sides of beef scattered about, while the payroll remained locked tightly away across the room in the solid steel safe.
Working under “Ice Box” was a hard crew of veteran gunslingers. “Big Ed” Burns and “Texas Jack” Vermillion wore their holsters low on their hips, and were as coiled and dangerous as a pair of rattlers. They had fought beside Wyatt Earp in bloody Tombstone, Arizona, and the fact that they had survived was proof of their talent. “Shotgun” Tom Collins had earned his nickname from the cannon of a shotgun he toted; one blast could blow a man in half. While “Sure Shot” Tom Cady was a beautiful pistol shot; his draw was quick, and his aim perfect.
It was a very efficient organization. Soapy would set the cons in motion, and his gang would help make sure they came off without a hitch. The opportunities were enormous. “Denver,” as Soapy would boast with a larcenous pride, “never had a chance.”
BUT IT wasn’t all scheming and scamming. Denver was a bright, good-time city, and Soapy, accompanied by his deferential retinue, liked to strut through the downtown saloons and dance halls and have himself a hurrah or two. One of his passions was faro. Many evenings he’d join the other punters “bucking the tiger,” as the faro players called their sport, sitting at the long baize-covered table at Big Ed Chase’s Arcade. He didn’t play with chips, like the rest of the bettors. Instead, he’d dig deep into his pockets and pull out the day’s earnings. Then he’d wager twenty-dollar gold pieces on each draw from the box as if they were nothing more than bars of soap; which, of course, they might as well have been, considering how Soapy was making his money. But as fast as he was raking it in on the streets, Soapy was squandering it at the faro table. His huge losses had people talking. Soapy, however, never seemed to complain. A few hours before dawn he’d walk out of the Arcade with his pockets empty, nod a polite good night to Chase, and by noon that day he’d be out again with his tripe and keister.
Fortunately for Soapy, he
“Judge” Norman Van Horn was another disbarred lawyer, and, like Soapy, he had the smooth gift of telling the tale with eloquence. He also had a impressive knowledge of the law and, no less handy, was an expert on how to wiggle his way around it. His specialty was fixing juries and bribing the police.
“Old Man Tripp”—Van B. Tripplet was his proper name, but it had been long forgotten—was a white-bearded prospector with a weary face as creased as the seat of a hard-ridden leather saddle. He had spent a lifetime looking for gold and silver, but had never managed to strike the mother lode until he had hooked up with Soapy. Now he had great success as a roper, steering his fellow prospectors into Soapy’s conniving clutches.
Then there was “Professor” Turner Jackson. While the academic title was an unwarranted boast, there was no denying that the professor knew a great deal about mineral deposits and mines and, more important, how to talk authoritatively about these subjects. Prospectors new to the West would put great stock in his advice—and only realize too late that they were being gamed.
With so many cons in play, it was to be expected that a few of the resentful, gun-toting marks might come looking for Soapy with the hope of evening the score. But Soapy had enlisted a small army to protect him. The chief enforcer was a dull, brutish thug known throughout Denver as “Ice Box” Murphy. He’d earned the nickname (and a lifetime of ridicule) after his attempt to rob the payroll of a local meat market. His plan had been to sneak into the building in the dead of night and then blow the safe. In the darkness, however, Murphy had inadvertently fixed his sticks of dynamite to the door of the meat locker. The force of the explosion left sides of beef scattered about, while the payroll remained locked tightly away across the room in the solid steel safe.
Working under “Ice Box” was a hard crew of veteran gunslingers. “Big Ed” Burns and “Texas Jack” Vermillion wore their holsters low on their hips, and were as coiled and dangerous as a pair of rattlers. They had fought beside Wyatt Earp in bloody Tombstone, Arizona, and the fact that they had survived was proof of their talent. “Shotgun” Tom Collins had earned his nickname from the cannon of a shotgun he toted; one blast could blow a man in half. While “Sure Shot” Tom Cady was a beautiful pistol shot; his draw was quick, and his aim perfect.
It was a very efficient organization. Soapy would set the cons in motion, and his gang would help make sure they came off without a hitch. The opportunities were enormous. “Denver,” as Soapy would boast with a larcenous pride, “never had a chance.”
BUT IT wasn’t all scheming and scamming. Denver was a bright, good-time city, and Soapy, accompanied by his deferential retinue, liked to strut through the downtown saloons and dance halls and have himself a hurrah or two. One of his passions was faro. Many evenings he’d join the other punters “bucking the tiger,” as the faro players called their sport, sitting at the long baize-covered table at Big Ed Chase’s Arcade. He didn’t play with chips, like the rest of the bettors. Instead, he’d dig deep into his pockets and pull out the day’s earnings. Then he’d wager twenty-dollar gold pieces on each draw from the box as if they were nothing more than bars of soap; which, of course, they might as well have been, considering how Soapy was making his money. But as fast as he was raking it in on the streets, Soapy was squandering it at the faro table. His huge losses had people talking. Soapy, however, never seemed to complain. A few hours before dawn he’d walk out of the Arcade with his pockets empty, nod a polite good night to Chase, and by noon that day he’d be out again with his tripe and keister.
Fortunately for Soapy, he
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