Mariners fall afoul of killer Twins, lose 11-1
an afternoon duel ends in disaster
It was an uncharacteristically sunny day in the small town of Minneapolis. In the 41 years since the Dakota Indians had been expelled from the state of Minnesota, the town had developed into a center for logging and milling, harnessing the power of the mighty Mississippi River. The Minneapolis milling industry was profitable, but dangerous. The river gives life and power, but it is unpredictable and uncaring. The collapse of the Eastman tunnel caused the banks of the river to erode, leading to several buildings sliding into the torrent. An explosion of flour dust at the Washburn Mill, owned by the company that later became General Mills, killed 18 people and scattered debris over 8 city blocks.
It is in this growing town that we lay our scene. On main street there is a saloon owned and operated by Bohemian immigrant Frank Pracna. Opened in the early 1800s, it burned down in 1889 and a year later was rebuilt into a brick building that still stands to this day.
Last night, on a quiet Saturday evening in 1904, two armed gunman, dubbed the Minnesota Twins by the press, held poor Frank Pracna at gunpoint and robbed him of the 60 dollars in the register (roughly $2,100 in 2024). There had been a rash of robberies in the Minneapolis area over the past couple of months. Just last week, following several robberies of lake houses just outside of the town in Excelsior, MN, a man named Bill Simmons had been arrested. Simmons maintained that he had nothing to do with the robberies, and named zero accomplices. Feeling desperate, the police decided to take Simmons on a pub crawl through the town in the hopes that, in an inebriated state, Simmons would confess and rat out his alleged gang. It didn’t work.
Hearing about this string of crime in the midwest, a Pacific Northwest bounty hunting posse known as the Seattle Mariners set out to bring the Twins and their accomplices to justice. They had just dispatched a notorious gang in Houston, Texas, and were eager to make a little extra cash before returning home. Yet the additional stop would prove fatal.
Arriving in Minneapolis, a pair of Mariners sauntered into a saloon on the outskirts of town, not a reputable establishment like Mr. Pracna’s on main street. Inside, the 60-dollar-richer Twins were celebrating their recent acquisition of wealth, and had settled into the natural rhythms of a night of carousing. The sudden appearance of the unwelcome bounty hunters had put a damper on their spirits, however.
“I’m afraid you aren’t welcome within this establishment, my friends,” the first twin, a man named Pablo López said upon seeing the visitors.
“That’s alright. We had no intention of partaking the your midwest hospitality,” spoke the Mariner Logan Gilbert, a man with an unbroken record of success in apprehending outlaws. “We simply wanted to give the pair of yous a gentlemanly warning. Tomorrow afternoon we will be turning you into the authorities. Alive or dead.”
“And why,” began the other Twin, Max Kepler (the Twins had different fathers), rising from his seat, “would we let you do a thing a like that? My colleague and I are quite comfortable with our current state of affairs, and we see no reason to involve the authorities at this time.” Kepler took another sip of his drink.
Cal Raleigh, famous for the capture of the Canadian female bank robber “Blue Jay Betty,” drew his six gun and shot the glass out of Kepler’s hand. Every hand in the saloon reached for their own weapon, but López raised a hand before anyone could dispatch the two impudent hunters.
“You two may not know this, but for a pair of Mariners, you’re a long way from sure. This is the nation’s heartland. This is our territory. Fish don’t do too well on land.” He eyed Gilbert and Raleigh. “But if you insist on flopping on the shore, we will oblige. My brother and I will see you at 1pm tomorrow at that new park, Target Field. It’s a fitting name.”
The two outlaws had been called out by two bounty hunters, and the good citizens of Minneapolis would get to be witness to a rare sight: a double duel. The four men met in the field at 1:10 pm on April 10, 1904. The Twins liked to be slightly late to duels to get under the skin of their opponents.
They lined up 20 paces apart from each other, each man’s hand hovering over his pistol. Not a sound was in the air apart from the whistle of wind over the red dirt. The four men held their breath for what felt like an hour. And then all at once, four hands raced down to four pistols and two shots rang out in the air. Two men dropped to the ground, kicking up clouds of dust the briefly obscured them. The outlaws who had been terrorizing the Midwest would continue their robbing and carousing. The two bounty hunters lay still on the ground.
Perhaps it was hubris what slew them, more so than the Twins. They ventured too far from home and paid the price of any wayward explorer exercising authority where they had none. The rest of the Mariners posse, despite being outraged over the murder of their compatriots, knew better than to try to press the issue. Minnesota was hostile territory, and it would be better for everyone if they quietly left in the night, heading for the still young Washington State.
Perhaps they they’d be able to recover.