Sandhills Snapshot: the last Wild West Shoot-Out

[franksolich]

He was a wizened little old man by the time I was aware of him, extravagantly adorned with a big black handle-bars mustache, a pipsqueak of a little guy with this hirsute ornament, a pushover, but I had heard about him long before seeing him; that this tiny little man had been responsible for what was perhaps the last Wild West shoot-out in the history of America.

This happened the summer of 1963 in the Sandhills of Nebraska; as far as I know, it has not happened anywhere since.  Of course, people are shooting each other every day of the year, but a Wild West shoot-out demanded certain formalities, courtesies, and rituals, which seem pretty much ignored nowadays.

By the time I saw him, Draper Tappermann was generally an object of ridicule, although he seemed to garner a great many votes come election time.  It was the practice in this community of 3,000, if one was dissatisfied with the choices on a ballot, to write in his name; in fact, one time, Draper Tappermann came within 7 votes of unseating a county commissioner.

Draper Tappermann was the scion of an Old Family, one of the first families in the county, from circa 1890.  The family had prospered greatly the first 40 or so years, but then had lost much of what it had, during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s.  Dust-storms were a mind-rattling, mind-losing, experience for those who endured them, and the father of Draper Tappermann had eventually gone insane.

By the time I was around, essentially all that Draper Tapperman still had was an impressive collection of antique firearms, some of them dating back to the Mexican-American War of the 1840s, and all of them personally wielded by ancestors of his.  The collection had at one time been much larger, but need and want forced erosion of the collection.

Draper Tappermann however was married to a woman whose antecedents were not impressive, but whose bank account was.  As is common with people desiring to hide their wealth (for fear that others might demand they share it with them), her appearance blatantly bespoke utter poverty.  She was a large woman, but solid muscle, no fat; grey-haired. 

She looked very much as one imagines the Obamaite cali primitive to look; she wore unwashed dresses that were tilted at the hem, one side betraying the presence of her slip beneath.  In the summertime, she wore white socks and black patent-leather shoes; in the wintertime, she wore rubber hip-waders.  A full-bodied apron (a "Mother Hubbard"?), and if the weather was cold, a trench-coat from circa the first world war.

I imagine she was a perfectly nice person--she never did anything to indicate otherwise--but I never got to know her.

to be continued; this is the short chapter, and there's one long chapter, and that's the story

[franksolich]

Draper Tapperman spent most of his days at the local pool hall, although he wasn't necessarily popular.  I have no idea why he wasn't popular; remember, I knew him only after he was an old man, and it's inevitable that one changes as one ages.

The pool hall was in one of the oldest buildings in town, "1904" in Roman numerals enscribed in marble above the doorway; the building had been a bank for about 30 years.  It had (and has) housed the pool hall longer than it housed a bank.

Even though he was not the owner, the pool hall was bossed over by "Tiny," a bald guy in his 60s, way over 6 feet tall and way over 400 pounds.  "Tiny" was the cook at the establishment, and had until a few years previously (i.e., a few years prior to the summer of 1963) been an assistant cook in one of the homes of Eleanor Roosevelt in New York.  Even though a rock-ribbed Republican, this prior employment history caused some to distrust him, and the food.

But, as the actual owner of the business oftentimes said, it was a pool hall, not a French restaurant.

Because of the configuration of the interior architecture--it had been a bank, after all--the "kitchen" was mostly a very large stove without burners, and then a narrow aisle less than three feet wide, and then the counter.

I never observed the phenomenon myself, but my parents sometimes commented that the "around" of "Tiny" was considerably scarred and in some places skin-grafted, as the whole stove, not just the top of it, got burning-hot, and so when "Tiny," lodged in between the stove and the counter, turned without looking, he would char himself in mid-section.

One day during the summer of 1963, Draper Tappermann inserted a quarter-dollar into the pool table.

The balls didn't come out.

Such happened at times, and so Draper Tappermann kicked the slot-part of the pool table.

The balls didn't come out.

Draper Tappermann yelled some curses, and told "Tiny" he wanted his money back.

"Tiny" told Draper Tappermann no one had seen him insert twenty-five cents into the pool table, and without conclusive evidence that he had done so, well, "Tiny" wasn't in the habit of giving out twenty-five cents to everybody who wanted twenty-five cents.

There were about half a dozen other customers in the pool hall, none of whom had seen Draper Tappermann put in a quarter.  Perhaps one or two might have, but just wanted him to leave, and so said they hadn't.

Draper Tappermann insisted upon getting his quarter.

"Tiny" ordered him out of the pool hall, telling him to come back when he was cooled down.

Draper Tappermann left, commenting ominously that he'd be back.

modified; I hit "post" instead of preview, and as I'm otherwise preoccupied, decided to break up the second chapter into smaller parts