Showdown at Knight's Gate
© 2010 Tim Fort
SOMEWHERE west of Laramie, or perhaps south of it, where tumbleweeds blow and Jimson weed grows, the harsh western sun beat mercilessly down from an electric blue sky on that morning of Friday, August 13th, 1899. The man with the rough-hewn face and three days’ growth of whiskers stared forward with stark red eyes partially shaded by his Stetson, and beads of sweat popped up on his forehead. He grasped a bullwhip in his left hand and a cocked revolver in his right. The cougar he was staring down had an ornery glint in its eyes that meant business. Something wasn’t right, thought the Stranger, and he intended to do something about it.
Yes, there something definitely wrong. The Stranger reckoned that a real cowboy wouldn’t hold both a whip and a gun at the same time if it were a real life-threatening situation. He really didn’t know, though, as he never ridden a horse or gotten within a country mile of an honest-to-goodness cowpie. He was a bottom-of-the-bill vaudeville actor who had acquired his reddened, rough complexion from many nights of riotous drinking in the saloons around Faneuil Hall and The Commons, partying with showgirls and Bohemian intellectuals. His only qualification for the job was the cowboy costume he wore in his Wild West Irish tenor act.
The Stranger pulled out a silk handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Dahn it!” he exclaimed, “I’m sure a whip isn’t a propah weapon against a cougah, so I just need the revolvah!”
He tossed down his bullwhip, not that the stuffed cougar posed any real threat anyways. He wanted to get his current job posing for photographs finished so he could collect his money, find a saloon, and soothe his throbbing hangover before high-tailing it out of town.
“Fine with me,” replied Tim the photographer, who didn’t care anymore if the old-timers in the audience laughed at the fakery. “Lets get this hohver before the lights hignite the backdrop.” Then the owner of Tim’s Photographic Studio tripped the camera trigger. After the flash subsided, leaving another soot ring on the pressed-tin ceiling, he proclaimed, “Hokay, hall done!”
“I hate to be in a rush, but I hahve to cahtch the train bahck to Bahston in an owah!” he replied as Tim pressed a quarter eagle into his hand. The Stranger yanked off his Stetson, then tossed his gun, an Authentic Buffalo Bill Six-Shooting Cap Gun With Loud Report, onto Tim’s table. As he headed towards the door, he figured that he did well today, making an easy $2.50 for a few photographic slides. The slides were for an audience sing-along at Fortescu’s Projecting Vitascope Parlour down the street, shown between thrilling moving-picture scenes of boxing cats and the scandalous kiss--a horrific fifteen-foot osculation--between May Irwin and John C. Rice.
The Stranger and Tim bade each other farewell as they both headed out into the drizzly, overcast Denver sky. The Stranger took off down Van Vinck Boulevard, never to be heard from again. Then Timotheos Kinetikasis, formerly of Athens, Greece, yawned and stretched his arms before the rain drove him back inside.
But let us turn our attention, Dear Reader, away from this mundane vignette, for the real story occurs nearby. Over the shiny cobblestone boulevard and across the rain-slicked streetcar tracks from the studio was the Knight’s Gate Chess Club for Refined Young Men from Eight to Eighteen. It was so named for the wrought-iron chess piece on the gate leading into the club, as well as the refined young men inside, many of whom had never seen a real horse. The heavy teak door leading into the club shone brightly from the Edison Mazda lightbulb that was recessed into the white marble portico.
The vestibule of the club was paneled with wooden marquetry depicting thrilling moments in chess history. Past the vestibule was the long and narrow main hall, filled with red patent-leather armchairs and several oak tables covered with chess boards. Along one of the white marble-lined walls were a couple of electric Tiffany lamps and an iron radiator covered with a floral design. On the opposite wall were two large bookshelves filled with morally-uplifting books from the likes of Horatio Alger and Oscar Wilde. Constantly coming in and out of side chambers were English servants in maroon livery
Between the bookshelves and over the fake gas fireplace was a portrait of R. J. Dobbes, the eccentric inventor who founded the club with money from his successful business manufacturing the Dobbes Patented Therapeutic Shock Machine. He was dashing man with jet-black hair slicked back, a thin waxed moustache, and a Meerschaum pipe clenched between his grinning teeth. R. J. had once shocked the members of Denver Polytechnic and Agricultural School by boldly proclaiming that someday a steam-driven ‘computational engine’ the size of Rhode Island could beat a human opponent at chess, causing many of the scientists to swoon or drop their monocles. He was currently in Colorado Springs working with his Serbian friend Nicky Tesla on a bizarre scheme to transmit electricity through the air.
Word had gone out via telephone to the gang of mean hombres who were habitués of the club that that an epic showdown was scheduled for High Noon–unless the Morning Tea went late. They referred to themselves as the Rooks of Knight’s Gate, and they were the rootinest, root-beer-tootinest gang of e’er-do-wells what ever fianchettoed a bishop. Many had braved the mile-long journey by electric streetcar that rainy August day to witness the hammer-and-tongs confrontation between two of their roughest and toughest members.
They were a motley crew of Wild West archetypes, and several of them had arrived in time for Morning Tea. Sitting in a leather chair and sipping Earl Gray out of a blue Wedgwood teacup was an older member of the Rooks of Knight’s Gate, an Indian who worked in a cigar store nearby. His name was Raj Anandalingam, and when he wasn’t working in Rhode’s Tobacco Shop or playing chess, he was taking night classes in gramophone repair. He was wearing a white turban which perfectly matched the Arrow collar on his business suit. He was the most talkative member of the gang, so he was known to all as the Windy Hindi.
There was Poor Slim standing near Raj eating a scone and getting crumbs in his reddish-brown beard. Ignatz Slimanski wasn’t exactly poor as his father owned Denver Gas and Light, but he had to live in rustic conditions. Not only did he have to make due with gaslight at home, but he also dwelled in the boondocks south of Hibiscus Avenue where, quite shockingly, they still ran old-fashioned horse-drawn trolleys. He wore a non-descript brown coat, white shirt sans collar, and his short pants were held up by a genuine faux snake-skin belt made in New York City. Slim was the Chairman of the chess club, responsible for setting up the chairs before each match.
Then there was The Duke looking cool and collected under his black Homburg hat which he wore everywhere. Earl Duke was a sharecropper’s son from Obama, Alabama with a degree from Morehouse. He was pursuing a Ph.D. in mathematics at Colorado State, and when he wasn’t battling it out over a chessboard, he’d be at a local saloon playing sizzling ragtime–when he got carried away by Scott Joplin’s Maple Leaf Rag, he could be a real heck-raiser. He warmed himself by the radiator and sipped some orange pekoe tea from his cup. The Duke wore a gray silk suit of Italian make, and his crimson ascot tie went well with the scarlet garter on his right arm.
Then there was the Native-American guy, Robert Koyaani-Scottsea, a mining engineer from Tempe, Arizona who was studying at Denver Polytechnic. He was known to the gang as Bob Hopi and had recently gotten into trouble for scalping. Denver’s Finest had busted him a week before in front of the Denver Opera House where he was selling tickets to the sold-out comic operetta, So Sioux Me, for the exorbitant price of ten cents each. Otherwise, he was a upstanding citizen who abstained from Demon Rum and only used Dr. Bunkum’s Therapeutic Extract of Opium and Cocaïne bought at legitimate drugstores. He pulled a gold watch out of his vest pocket, and saw that there was only a few minutes to go before the big showdown.
Last of the onlookers was Plain Ol’ Johnny. John Smith was formerly known as Hsü Luang Tsao back in Canton, but an immigration official misspelled his name on arrival in America. He came over to labor in the railroads–Union Pacific was converting its Colorado Division to double-entry bookkeeping and the need was great for accountants who were proficient on the steam abacus. He looked menacing with his red pinstriped shirt and Navy bow tie, and could wield a mighty pawn when provoked. Johnny was the official Board Member and it was his responsibility to set up the chess boards at the start of each meeting. He was starting to get nervous because neither of the combatants had yet shown up at the Knight’s Gate Chess Club.
And at that very moment, before one could say ‘dramatic foreshadowing’, one of the two principals of the upcoming duel slammed open the teak door of the club with a flourish. Despite his youth, Sinister Syl was the unofficial leader of the posse, the king of the Rooks of Knight’s Gate. He stood there with a scowl on his face and waited for the others to acknowledge him. He looked chic in his Little Lord Fauntleroy suit jacket and short pants. Flowing out from beneath his sailor’s hat were his pride and joy–his golden locks of hair that gave him a manly look reminiscent of General George Armstrong Custer.
He was an insufferable snob for good reason–he could whup any patzer in the Knight’s Gate Chess Club with one queen behind his back. They called him Sinister Syl because he boldly moved his chess pieces with his left hand in defiance of getting it slapped with a ruler. He was defending his turf and his honor against an even-younger upstart who was bold enough to challenge him to a showdown. As soon as he got his seat in the main hall, and the applause of the others died down, a servant handed him a shot glass of sarsparilla which he took neat without flinching. He handed back the glass and demanded another. Syl was quite a hard-posterior indeed.
In the middle of the hall was a solitary oak table where the showdown was to take place. There was a jade chess board in the middle where the epic battle would wage over sixty-four squares of cutthroat action. Upon the board was a carved onyx chess set upon it of Staunton design, the most expensive set ever sold at the local pawn shop, Smythe’s Emporium. The knights were chomping at the bit and the opposing kings scowled at each other. However, if the challenger didn’t show up by noon, no contest would take place upon the checkered field of honor, and he would lose by default.
Bob Hopi glanced again at his gold watch and intoned in his wise voice, “If He Who Challenges Syl does not arrive before the Sun God reaches his zenith in the Great Sky, he shall suffer defeat and go to his Ancestors in shame.”
Then the Windy Hindi spoke up. “Please spare us from your quasi-mystical rhetoric.”
Bob, who came from two generations of mining engineers and knew nothing about mysticism, blushed sheepishly and replied, “Sorry.”
And then, out of the West, came a whirlwind of trouble known to all as the Gefilte Kid. As the Van Vinck streetcar sparked along the boulevard that fateful day in August, it fatefully bore him to his showdown with Sinister Syl. He was a stark figure in plaid Macintosh rain slicker and dark blue yarmulke. Moshe Roszensteyn was an untamed Sheol-raiser from the wilds of Hyperion Street and would often stand in front of the mirror in his bedroom and fantasize that he was the proprietor of the Bar-B-Mitzvah Ranch.
He had challenged Sinister Syl to a duel-to-the-death a week before, ordering his manservant to slap Syl’s valet with a kidskin glove, and he was a-hankerin’ to make good on his challenge. However, in spite of his swaggering Wild-West ways that could fool many a tenderfoot, those close to him knew he was actually a nana’s boy at heart. His beloved grandmother, Nanette Roszensteyn, was matriarch of his family and was having a hard time adopting to the rough ways of the West. There were only two delicatessens within walking distance that had the type of knishes she loved–and try to find a decent Viennese mesmerist in Denver on weekends!
It was exactly 11:55 AM when the streetcar stopped in front of the Knight’s Gate Chess Club. As the Gefilte Kid alighted from the streetcar, a gainfully unemployed member of Denver’s underclass named Charlie climbed on board. He wore a derby hat that accented his thick eyebrows and comically narrow moustache, and his too-tight clothes pinched him as he settled into his seat. He was on his way to Seattle where he would board a tramp steamer to Alaska and take part in the gold rush. Although his adventures in the Gold Rush would later be the subject of a slapstick comedy, he was an anonymous stranger with regards to Our Story, and will not be mentioned again.
By the time the Gefilte Kid had entered the chess club and properly admired himself in a mirror for a few minutes, the time was a minute to High Noon. Sinister Syl glared at him from in front of the chessboard and sneered, “So, you made it on time after all. I kinda thought you’d be yellow, myself.”
The Gefilte Kid sneered back and countered, “No, I’m actually wearing my brown Buster Brown suit today,” as he took off his Macintosh. In addition to his suit, he wore a checkered Genuine Annie Oakley kerchief that perfectly complemented his yarmulke, and his round horn-rimmed glasses sat jauntily on his face in a devil-may-care attitude. The lambskin chaps over his trousers spelled Trouble with a capital ‘T’. “And,” the Kid added, “we’ve got a score to settle, pardner.”
It was true; the current score was 3-3 for the Denver Under-13 Chess Championship, and this was the critical game that would settle the issue. Also, the winner would be awarded a scholarship to the Cheyenne Phrenology Institute, and would go on to the National Normal School Chess Tournament held in the rural part of Manhattan up near the Dakotas.
Sinister Syl stared unblinkingly as the Gefilte Kid plopped into the red chair opposite of him. He said sternly, “There’s not enough room on this checkered field for the both of us.”
Although he was too late for his calming morning cup of chamomile tea, the Gefilte Kid was in top form. He pulled out a plug of saltwater taffy and added, “I’m a-rarin’ to go if you are, Sinister Syl.”
Syl stared at the Gefilte Kid from under his blonde curls and replied, “Oh, yeah? Are ya man enough for me?”
“You betcha.” The Kid bit off a corner from his taffy and spat into a cuspidor. “They say I’m a wild and meshuggeneh guy around these here parts.”
“Who do you mean by ‘they’, you varmint?”
The Gefilte Kid’s eyes narrowed and he peered at Syl through his glasses. “Paul Morphy and Ruy López, that’s who!”
Then the seconds came forward to discuss the terms of the duel. The Duke was Sinister Syl’s second, and Poor Slim seconded for the Gefilte Kid. They both quickly agreed that neither would use the infamous Schlemmper’s Gas Attack, named for former member Juan Schlemmper who used it after a night of eating sauerkraut and frijoles. Other than that, and the strictest application of the Marquis of Queensbury Rules, the Rules According to Hoyle, Robert’s Rules of Order, and established parliamentary procedure, it was to be a knock-down, drag-out, no-holds-barred fight. A fight in a figurative sense, of course, because neither duelist would resort to actual fisticuffs even if either one knew how.
The tension was great as they waited for Sinister Syl’s first move. Some of the gang bit their tongues to avoid kibitzing, and Plain Ol’ Johnny’s armpits began to get wet. Finally, Syl raised his left hand and let it hover over the board for a few moments, then pushed his queen bishop pawn ahead two squares. Then a sly look overtook the Kid’s face, and he boldly thrust his queen knight pawn forward two squares. The onlookers gasped almost to a man; for the first time in ages somebody had played the risky Seventh Cavalry Gambit in these here parts.
“Oohh, I’m tho thcared,” said Syl mockingly, then replied by grabbing the pawn. When the gang realized that the opening had just transposed into the Seventh Cavalry Gambit Declined, Sitting Bull Attack, the tension was almost too much. Two onlookers started to get the vapors and Poor Slim had to cross his legs lest he wet his knickers.
“I think I can make you regret your line of opening, you low-down coyote,” replied the Kid who punctuated his words by spitting taffy juice into the cuspidor.
“Yeah, right,” Syl replied with smug confidence. “And I suppose that in the future man will walk on the Moon, too.” A sneer curled up on his lip as he slyly castled king-side.
“They’ll walk on the Moon someday, alright,” countered the Kid, and he boldly added, “And I’ll bet they’ll even drink powdered orange juice when they return to their lunar vessel!”
They fired a few salvos of knights and bishops at each other, then threw their big guns, the rooks and queens, into the fray. The battle was so fierce that the Kid didn’t know his chamomile tea had belatedly arrived. Syl threw a Zugzwang with his left, and the Kid countered with a right-handed Zwischenzug. The Windy Hindi had to physically hold his mouth shut for fear that, Ganesha forbid, he should succumb to the sin of kibitzing. The gang gasped “O-o-oh” as the Kid boldly castled queen-side.
Then it came down to a pair of knights jousting outside the fortress that protected Sinister Syl’s king from the savages. But it was all in vain as an arrow penetrated the chink in the wall left by his fianchettoed bishop. The Gefilte Kid galloped his knight to king bishop six, the horse’s nostrils flaring in contempt at Syl’s castrated knight pawn, and then the Kid announced mate in one with a flourish. Plain Ol’ Johnny was so overcome that he had to go into a side chamber and meditate for a while
A shiver went through Syl as he bit his lower lip and pouted, but he bravely resisted the urge to suck his thumb. The Kid just sat there, looking menacing, as he boldly sipped his chamomile tea from his Wedgwood cup. Syl tossed back his third glass of sarsparilla, and, fortified with liquid courage, shot back, “It’s not over yet, Gefilte Kid.”
The Kid pushed on the bridge of his glasses, which were sliding down his nose, and said coolly, “Oy vey, quit yer struggling and just sit there quietly while I mate you, Pilgrim.”
Syl’s sneer disappeared, “You wouldn’t dare, you cad!” The Kid didn’t reply; he just leaned back in his red leather chair and calmly adjusted his yarmulke. Syl added, eyes growing wide, “Do you really think this is the last gasp of Sinister Syl?” The Kid, unfazed, took another sip of his chamomile tea, and said nothing.
Then a crazy look overtook Syl’s face. He said with a strange quiver in his voice, “Y’know, my uncle is a real live cowpuncher who works on a ranch...” In truth, his uncle tenderized steaks in a South Park resort hotel, “... and he taught me all I need to know about winning, pardner.” Syl was positively agitated.
Syl then tipped back his sailor’s hat with forced cockiness and continued, “Uncle Chester borrowed me what is known as a ‘persuader’...” Syl pulled out a gun from under his Fauntleroy jacket to the gasp of several onlookers, and aimed it squarely at the Kid’s heart. He continued, “...and I’d like to persuade you, Mister, to move knight to rook five if’n you know what’s good fer ya!” Syl nudged his king over one square with his right thumb. Two of the club members swooned with fright.
The Kid exhaled so hard that chamomile tea sprayed out his nose and he almost crapped his chaps with fear. Syl sneered, “Feeling lucky, eh, Kid?” The Kid was even more pale than usual. Syl looked menacing as he blinked through his long eyelashes and brandished his revolver. “Go ahead, punk, mate my king!”
Then a sly grin crept over the Gefilte Kid’s face as he recognized the make of the gun. He had seen it previously in the Sear’s catalog his family kept in the water closet at home next to the toilet-paper dispenser. Sinister Syl had nothing more than an Authentic Buffalo Bill Six-Shooting Cap Gun With Loud Report, sold for nineteen cents in the toys section.
Thus emboldened, The Kid grabbed his knight, slammed it mercilessly down upon Syl’s rook pawn, and announced, “Checkmate!” He looked Syl squarely in the eye and added, “Never bring a toy gun to a knight fight!”
Syl snarled defiantly, “And I would have been regional champion if it wasn’t for you, meddling Kid!”
The Kid, still unblinking, proclaimed with much chutzpah, “Now I’m giving you until sundown to git out of town, ya kvetcher!”
Syl replied, sniffing back tears of rage, responded, “I give you my word.”
None of the gang made eye contact with Syl, but stood with heads turned down as he rounded up the broken pieces of his dignity, threw back his shoulders, and walked tall as he strode out of the main hall. And in the back of the Van Vinck Boulevard trolley, the silhouette of a shattered, lonely figure could be seen against the somber Denver sky that afternoon. Syl feared that he’d be haunted by defeat forever, but it only lasted about two hours until his mom comforted him a mug of hot chocolate and a copy of the Police Gazette before he took a nice long bath.
Not only would the Gefilte Kid be top dog in the Rooks of Knight’s Gate after that historic encounter, but suddenly girls of the Robert Ingersoll Preparatory School competed against each other to hold his hand, and some of the more brazen hussies would even kiss him on the cheek. He went on to the National Normal School Chess Tournament where he placed second only to Melvin Kalikimaka from the Hawaiian Territory. Later, he would lead his troops to victory during the historic battle against the Omaha Gentlemen’s Chess Club in Ought Three. After his education at the Cheyenne Phrenology Institute, he went on to make westerns for Vitagraph in Manhattan under the name Manly McChin, and married a nice Jewish girl from Schenectady who was known on screen as Theda La Marr.
Sylvester made good on his word to get out of town before sundown. His mother announced after his bath that he was to escort his older sister Henrietta at the Hyacinth Show in the morning. The show would be out in the remote wilds of Englewood, six miles away, meaning an arduous three-hour journey in their Stanley Steamer that evening. The trip would be made pleasant, though, by the clouds scattering right before dusk, so that the streetcar tracks and telephone wires looked golden in the evening sun as their vehicle roared down Periwinkle Parkway.
And, with the sun slowly sinking in the West, and the eerie howls of the coyotes–well, actually stray dogs and cats–drowned out by the thunderous putt-putt of the mighty steam-car, we wish you, Dear Reader, a knighty night.
The End