The notorious Dalton gang, well known to Kansans, are described in an entertaining novel format. Our author obviously did his homework. The story is well known, the local boys in ill conceived disguises, were massacred in their hometown of Coffeyville KS. I happen to know people there, in this now lazy Kansas town, famous for the demise of the two of the brothers and two accomplices. The story is told many years after the fact by the younger brother that was wounded but went to prison and tells the story of a family of 15 in hardscrabble territories during the sooner movement that would become Oklahoma. After the trail of tears, in the 1890s, the native Americans were relegated to reservations and the lawlessness of outlaws and all sorts of gnarly scofflaws were largely opportunists. Bob Dalton, the brains behind the operations, was a lawman to start with his rough brother Grattan and younger follower Emmet (our storyteller). They quickly realized that federal wages for the dangerous job of capturing federal criminals in the wild territory was hazardous and poor paying (the government paid poorly and were often late). Oklahoma was not yet a state, so the towns had their own lawmen, but the territories were essentially wide open to the wicked. After some easy graft, the Daltons started their crime sprees, cattle rustling at first, then trains, then banks (and random extortion of poorly prepared easterners coming to the territories for their great opportunity). The characters and their jargon were as solid as McCarthy’s Cities of the Plain, but these are immoral men with less goodness in them and a melancholy fatalism in their ruminations.
I chose this book after learning (from the superb Books are Made of Books, Michael Crews) that my favorite author (Cormac McCarthy) used it as a reference when preparing to pen his epic Blood Meridien, where he captured exquisitely the rapaciously wild Glanton gang in the southwest territories in about the same time frame. Where Hansen succeeds is the earthy prose, told from the mind of a not-so-brilliant brother, Emmet, who remembers the wild days when his brothers in hideouts carouse and slum and go out marauding when funds run low. Hansen captures these rough and shady characters with sparkling description, often hilarious and always unique. He has the gift of the old storyteller around the fire, noting with pithy and original dialogue how it really was in barren bends and scrubby red earth. Hansen has that ear for language that all the great authors have and inhabits these men wholly. I love this kind of writing; it reminds me of people I’ve known, and the violence and pain and everyday ailments leave know doubt this man knows his subject. The Dalton boys took advantage of the locals’ hatred of the railroads and the eastern powers, fancying themselves Robin Hood types (though they mainly squandered their money on themselves). They also idolized the James and Younger gangs that went before them (Hansen has wrote a well-known novel about them as well).
The enabling women of the story are also rendered with accuracy, how they clung to the charismatic outlaws. Especially the lady who went by Eugenia Moore, who blended into the towns and did much of the surveillance for the planned robberies. She never got to marry Bob, in fact he and Grat died shockingly young, but corresponded with the jailed Emmet where their letters because the source of a great deal of information.
Here (p. 150) is on of Hansen’s characters “He was a wide and blue-eyed and sober man, bult from the belly up like he should’ve been six-foot-six, but he walked on runty legs that sawed him down to five-foot-five. His sideburns were cut off at the top of his ear; he had a brown mustache that was six inches across his face; he was losing his wispy blond hair.”
The narrator (p. 155) trying to convince his sweetheart his ways are not overly wayward: “’About whether it’s ill-gotten or not, well, you can’t look at it that way. Indians ate the heart of Father Marquette and farmers stole land from the Cherokee; in Mississippi they raped and sold brown women slaves and the Union Army looted Savannah; railroads pushed Chinamen into tunnels with explosives tied to their backs and now train robbers stuff money into grain sacks. The world rocks a little off balance and then it adjusts itself. There’s misery in every human enterprise and whether the outcome is good or evil depends pretty much on who you’re talking to at the time.’”
Hansen shows off his vast historical knowledge of his subject and spare yet rich prose describing a bank in Coffeyville (p. 213) on the fateful day: “Then we followed Bob in a walk around the west side of the Opera House past a short alley that no longer exists, that’s now filled by the Chamber of Commerce office, the side limit of that alley being the rear of the two-story Luther Perkins building which was narrower in front than back because of the angled convergence of the side streets of Walnut and Union, the resulting trapezoid considered as baffling an architectural wonder in the Sunflower State as the Flatiron Building was to New York. It was an 1890 construction, the pride of the town, as fussy and gimcracked as wedding cake, and occupying its front windows and first floor was the C.M. Condon and Company bank.”