Now ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the players who will likely end up in the story. It is an improbable cast.

Print Olive was a Confederate soldier turned Texas cattleman. Print and his Longhorn herds came north to the free grass prairies of Custer County in the 1860s. He was a free-ranger, even if he had to kill a few folks who didn’t see things his way.

There was Buffalo Bill Cody, a professional buffalo killer and flier-of-the-flag whose success contributed significantly to the destruction of the Native American way of life. He later graciously, or keenly, hired a few survivors to ride in his post-buffalo-killing enterprise. Bill and Print were neighbors of a sort. Soulmates of a sort too.

Francis Keens was an early Kearney businessman. One claim to fame was his role in the midnight ride in October 1874 to Shelton where he snatched the county records and returned under cover of darkness to Kearney, the re-homed Buffalo County seat. Keens is regarded as an important contributor to early Kearney.

Sister Ann Mary Schmidt was a young Kansas farm girl, ferried to Kearney in the back of her parents’ buckboard to her future as a Carmelite nun. Her can-do skills did….

Compassionate Healing International (CHI) is a global holding company on the lookout for underperforming care facilities who they deem could benefit from their self-proclaimed management expertise, and in the process contribute to their bottom line.

Then there are a few minor characters who will likely make it past the cutting room floor.

David Barry is a famous pioneer photographer. He had a particular charm that inclined many famous Lakota chiefs and braves to sit before his camera. The result is an unparalleled portrait collection of historic value.

Nebraska Governors Garber and Nance, General George Crook, and Rutherford B. Hayes, the 19th President of the United States, earned their tickets to entry in our story with their decisions and efforts to draw the law-and-order line at the western edge of Buffalo County.

And finally, there is the place, a specific place. Today it is called Mount Carmel Home-Keens Memorial, or 412 W. 18th Street, Kearney, Nebraska. In previous lives it was a heavily traveled portion of the Mormon Trail; before that a mid-morning break on day two of the Pawnees’ annual trip to their favored hunting grounds. It was a transition zone between the long grass and short grass prairies which had sustained centuries of nomadic hunters and their prey. And long before that it was an ocean bottom; and a savannah roamed by beasts unimaginable today. A friend now walks the shallows of the Platte and occasionally comes upon a glistening, fossilized mammoth tooth.

And finally, there is I, me, Stevie Buttress, the crafter of this forthcoming tale. The story will be a bit like the land, a palimpsest, layers laid down on layers. There are people you will recognize. The story woven over the top is partially fiction, the writer’s imagination of how events might have unfolded. I still need to decide which of a wide variety of events contribute to the final product. The decisions will be based on the goal, which is to produce a work worthy of the readers’ time and attention, and in the end, as the last word is digested, the reader’s hoped-for reaction…a nod and a smile.

Prentice aka Print

Franklin Dart and Thomas Nightengale had closed up shop for the night, Franklin his Famous Mercantile and Thomas the K&N Drug. “Let’s head over to the Harrold House. I’ll stake you to a jolt of Simon’s good stuff,” Thomas proffered. Invitation accepted, the men walked a cautious path down the puddled and muddy streets.

Both men had arrived a few years earlier, riding the straight-line breezes of the Board of Immigration for Nebraska’s promising and captivating promotional flyer that read-mild and even temperatures prevailing throughout the short winters, the constant circulation of air during the heated season, the gently rolling face of the country affording a natural and complete drainage, all conspire to make Nebraska one of the most healthy spots on the earth.

They’d been around long enough, from the early Kearney Junction days to the city’s incorporation in 1873, to appreciate the hyperbole in the Board’s enthusiasm. “Constant circulation of air?… windiest damn place I ever been” Thomas growled. Nonetheless, none of that exaggeration could top their own sense of optimism and expectation for the future.

Following a violent mob scene between pro- and anti-slavery forces in St. Joe, Missouri, President Lincoln had grabbed the politically opportunistic moment to select a more northern terminus, one less controlled by the pro-slavery forces that, in his judgment, stood in the way of his plan to open new lands to the west, and had dictated that the Union Pacific Railroad would be built through the Platte River Valley. Since that news had been reported speculators of every stripe had been laying down their bets along the route. Once the rails had been extended to the 100th meridian, settlers had been pouring into Kearney on every train. Thomas and Franklin were poised to supply their every need. Business was booming, and that was to be the topic of the evening’s conversation.

“Sydenham’s notion that Kearney should become the nation’s capitol might’a been shootin’ a little high, but you gotta give the man credit for some serious huevos,” Dart opened the topic. “Naming 39th Street and 2nd Avenue Capitol Hill was a stroke of marketing genius and bravado. I think we should keep that handle, even if the fools back east want to stick to the boggy banks of the Potomac.”

Then, glancing over at a table in the far corner of the room, “What’s F. G. doin’ wasting time with that saddle tramp when we came here to talk business?” The F. G. in question was Francis G. Keens, business partner of Tom’s, and the “K” in K&N Drug.

“Chap rode in from Plum Creek. Asked for a moment of F. G.’s time. You know F. G. Never met a stranger. The man said he had a request and a delivery from Cody, that promoter from over North Platte way. He’ll join us soon as he gets done. And I don’t think it’s a saddle tramp he’s talking to. The saddle he rode in on is one of the finest I’ve ever seen. It has some inlays that speak to money. We’ll find out from F. G. who he is.”

Minutes later F. G. Keens and the stranger rose from their table, shook hands in what appeared to be a jovial manner. The stranger headed out the door and F. G. joined his friends.

Radical Winds ~ by Steve Buttress, posted by Chuck Peek