Nathan Gould- Gunfighter from Green Mountain

by Bruce Graham

  I began to shake. I sat down on the edge of the desk chair. I wondered if he knew that I was the killer he wanted, or if he was playing cat and mouse to see what he could work out. The name Martin rang a bell. I opened a side drawer in the desk and pawed around among the sheaf of recent wanted posters. Most of the characters were Mexicans or weathered reprobates, and one for Miguel Martinez, of Beaumont, leaped into my hand, wanted for assault with intent to kill, four years earlier. I spun about and grabbed the office copy of the 1866 Texas Criminal Code down from the shelf. Under Limitations of Actions I found that the statute of limitations for assault with intent to kill was six years. I stared at the volume and cast it onto the desk.

  I went out of the Office and strode toward the corner of the building that served as the umbrella organization for the buffalo trade. At the open door, I found Ezra Coggeshell, the titular head of the group in intense conversation with a shabby looking man in filthy boots. Coggeshell finished his discussion with a curt “That’s the way it is, Tom, take it or leave it.”

  “I guess I’ll take it for now,” said Tom. He spun on his heels and left the cubicle.

  Coggeshell turned and faced me. “Okay, here’s the hero who saved us all from bankruptcy. What’s new in your department?”

  I closed the door and perched on the corner of his dinky little desk. “Ezra, you know that my tenure here is likely to run out any time.”

  “Sure, I even hear rumbles of a few who might be wanting to run for your job, especially if you don’t. The work isn’t difficult like in a few towns.”

  “I’m thinking of a career change. I’m pretty handy with a gun and it might be useful in another community.”

  “Have you thought of Pinkertons?”

  “I heard of them, they’re probably pretty legitimate.”

  Coggeshell opened his center desk drawer and fumbled through a bundle of business cards. “Here you go. Send a wire to this office. They’re always looking for tough men.” He handed me the card:

  PINKERTON PROTECTION AGENCY

  We Never Sleep.

  Midwest Office: 481 Cliff Street

  Omaha, Nebraska

  Wire: PinkProtects.

  “Thanks, Ezra. Why would you have spoken to Pinkertons?”

  Coggeshell leaned back in his chair with a creak. “Carson was slow to deal with the Longley boys. We knew he was slow on the draw and was glad to have you as a front in case of gunplay. We were surprised when he went down. So we talked with them. The Committee’s still thinking about it.”

  I was three nights wandering the streets before I found Martin bellied up to the bar at the Buffalo Head Saloon. I drifted through, greeting the few drovers and hunters who knew me, until I sidled up on his off-hand side. I took out my pistol and held it behind my thigh, hammer cocked, finger on the trigger. I touched him on the arm. “Martin, you’re under arrest.”

  He stiffened.

  “Take off your guns.”

  “I’ll take them out, Amigo. What do you arrest me for?”

  “Assault with intent, four years ago, in Houston.”

  Martin spun and faced me, right hand on his pistol. “Amigo, I want you to drop your gun.” He sneered and jerked his elbow back in the classic movement of the quick draw.

  The people near us shrank back.

  My hand pulled up my gun.

  His pistol was out of his holster, his thumb working the hammer.

  I jerked the trigger. My gun roared.

  Martin jumped. He doubled up with an oath. He sank to his knees with a cry. His gun went off. He went forward with his head on the floor.

  I slid sideways away from the bar.

  Martin groaned. “I’m hurt, bad.”

  “Somebody get the Doc,” I called out. “This man is wanted in Houston. “When the doctor’s finished with him, let me know, I’ll lock him up.”

  The crowd milled around.

  I rolled the man on his side. Blood was gushing from his abdomen. I undid his gun belt and dragged the rig from around him and picked up his pistol.

  Martin was groaning and crying. “You killed me.” He lay still, except for labored breathing and groaning.

  I rose with his gun belt and pistol in hand. “I’ll be in my office.” I strode from the saloon and down the dark street to the Office. I studied the street while the doctor went toward the Buffalo Head with bag in hand and his teenage helper in tow. I waited a respectful time and was ready to go back to the Saloon when the doctor appeared, leading four men carrying a litter with a bandaged figure, head exposed. More time passed.

  I left the Office and went to the steps up to the doctor’s office. Several figures were milling about. I went up into the doctor’s office.

  The doctor’s helper was at a desk. He shook his head. “It won’t be long. We’ll let you know.”

  “I’m going to bed. You’ll call Parker for a coffin and let me know in the morning.” And so I did.

  At breakfast I saw the doctor enter the restaurant. I waved.

  He walked to me and took a chair. He called for coffee. “You’ve given me work and the County expense. You could have been more efficient and finished him right away instead of keeping me up until four this morning.”

  “I wasn’t intending him to draw on me, that’s why I got close to him.”

  “It’s over anyway.”

  When breakfast was finished I went to the office and wrote a letter to the Pinkertons, stating that I was familiar with their work from the Zapata fracas and considered myself a good candidate to join their firm, citing my Army service. I mailed the letter. Now that I had resolved to move on, time seemed to drag, while I hoped for a favorable response. In the meantime, I contemplated an auction of impounded guns.

  The reply was better than I expected. The man was bearded, in what we called Kansas City clothes, and a derby hat, with no gun showing and a small traveling bag. He introduced himself as Lemuel Leicester, the Texas chief of Pinkertons. He flourished my letter when he sat in the Office. “The Agency is seeking mobile people for the High Plains and Desert. You sound as if you’d like that.”

  “I would. I don’t have a family, I’m fast with a gun, if necessary, but don’t go out of my way looking for it. I was with the Union Army.”

  “You mentioned a shootout on the Rio Grande and we spoke to the men involved in that. They said that you had the sense to hold your fire and let them do the job. What have you done since then?”

  “Here for almost three years. I’m sorry to say that I was promoted from deputy when the Sheriff was shot down by one of the Longley brothers.”

  The man started slightly. “What happened to you? Were you away?”

  I had decided to downplay my gun skills, but he could look it up. “No, I was at his side and shot John Longley before he could get to me.”

  The man whistled. “On the way here I was speaking to the stage driver, he said that you also shot down Miguel Martinez.”

  “I tried to arrest him.” I reached into the drawer and handed Leicester the circular on Martinez. “He wanted to shoot it out. I got him before he got me.”

  The man took a pad and pencil from his inside jacket pocket and started to make notes.

  “It must sound as if I have an itchy trigger finger. I don’t look at it that way, but it might seem so.”

  “We have clientele where swiftness with a gun is called for. Do you have a preference for where you would like to work out of?”

  “I’d prefer to be out of Texas. I’ve had bad luck here. In fact, I’m originally from New England, so cold weather would be all right.”

  The man was still writing. “How would a hundred a month to start strike you? Plus expenses of course. I’ll need to get confirmation from Omaha.”

  I smiled. “Definitely. I’ll need some better clothes, the duds here are what the buffalo hunters and drovers expect.”

  “And fifty dollars as, shall we say, a signing bonus. A two year contract to start and automatically renewed every
year after that. How soon will you start?”

  “Two weeks?”

  The man stood up. “I’ll be back by five with Omaha’s confirmation.” He put his pad away and held out his hand.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I reported to the Omaha office rigged out in my Midwestern suit, half boots and small box hat. My ’51 Navy was in my valise with its ammunition. Leicester and two other men, identified as Richard Wyman and Hugo Pfluger passed around drinks and cigars and engaged in small talk with me. We discussed my duties, that were vague and handed me a draft on Wells-Fargo for a fifty dollars, representing what they called a signing bonus and estimated expenses. My pay and estimated monthly expenses, they explained, would be deposited with Wells-Fargo at the end of each month, and any shortage in my expense payments would be covered every three months.

  Pfluger handed me a small wooden box. “I understand that you favor a ‘51 Navy, which will be good, as long as you can keep it out of sight when traveling and often when dealing with clients. When on assignment you will often need to show the weapon. But for your personal possession at all other times this is best. It’s a Remington over and under Derringer, .41caliber and for emergency use. Get used to it and carry it in your sleeve, on the calf, anywhere out of sight and yet able to be brought to bear in a crisis.”

  “Your area of assignment to begin with,” said Wyman, “is Colorado and Wyoming and points North and West. For the time being you’ll be at the Denver office and dispatched from there. We’ll be in touch by telegraph.”

  I was curious about what I’d be doing.

  Pfluger waved toward a map on the wall. “The mining towns of Colorado and Wyoming want protection, but your general duties involve the acquisition of information. You circulate around the saloons and businesses and try to decipher if crimes against the banks, Wells-Fargo, the stage lines are in prospect. Sometimes you’ll be an out of work miner, other times a drummer, other times a government inspector of some sort. But except when dealing with clients you’ll want to act a lot stupider than you are, you’ll get more information that way. You’ll have a code to use in your communications with us, and we’ll do the necessary. For example, the Pennsylvania coal mines have had labor problems, and we infiltrated the workers’ organizations and squelched their agitation and potential violence before it got going.”

  “Our usual method,” said Leicester, “is to be unknown to the locals, our directions are from the higher ups. If something happens, you act. But if there is no mishap you simply cool your heels for a day or two and return. Often enough, there’ll be some action. Sometimes a rumor will be put out that we are on the case, and that is sufficient to keep the bad men away. Often no one in the area will even know if you are one of us or even that one of us is on the job.”

  “Your badge,” said Wyman, handing me a crisp printed card and a metal shield embossed with “Pinkertons.” “And your disguise cards.” He dropped a bundle of a dozen or more faded, dog eared cards in a leather pouch. I studied several: “Land Purchaser, Purcell Realty Trust, St. Louis, Missouri;” “Collins Pipe Company, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania;” “Whitney Spirits, New York, New York;” “Bank of Commerce, Pension Representative, New Orleans, Louisiana.”

  After more small talk Wyman handed me a railroad ticket to Denver. “We’ll be in touch. You’ll handle yourself all right. Oh, one more thing: while on assignment, don’t volunteer to do any pro bono work.”

  “Any what?”

  Wyman smiled. “No rescuing of maidens from fire breathing dragons, unless that’s your assignment from us.”

  The trip to the Denver office was totally lacking interest. I spent three days studying maps and information from many sources, before a wire arrived from Omaha in Pinkerton Code.

  I was to watch a local man named Crosley while he was in Denver and make note of his moves for two weeks. I set out and kept him under surveillance, noting his movements, his work at a brewery and his rendezvous with several seedy looking characters. When he vanished onto a train headed west, I abandoned my effort, telegraphing Omaha: “Crosley headed toward Salt Lake on train” and the date.

  The next day Crosley appeared at the office and flashed a Pinkerton badge. “Congratulations, Nate,” he beamed. “You did a great job. This was a test and you passed it fine. There were only three times when you could have done better.” He handed me a note with dates and times.

  I felt my ire rising some, but realized that Pinkertons must have some way to see how well we did.

  “The next two years won’t be a test. You’ll be up against some tough hombres and you’ll need all of your craft to see it through.” He rose, shook my hand and left.

  Subsequent telegrams put me on to serious work, although hardly exciting. Daphne Gregory was suspected of embezzling from the Rocky Mountain State Bank. My job was to find out what she was doing with the money before she was arrested so that the bank’s insurer could recover it. By following her I deduced that she was passing the funds on to a male accomplice, and that the money was used to make payments on a ranch in the foothills. With my report the woman was arrested, along with her accomplice, and the property forfeited to the insurer, which led to the recovery of most of the embezzled funds.

  My next few projects were even less exciting. They included netting a bunch of petty horse thieves, finding where an errant husband was keeping a paramour and who was behind exploration for coal in the area. My oddest activity was infiltrating the Union Colony of

  Colorado, on the Platte River, a crackpot scheme by New York publisher Horace Greeley to seed growth in the West. I spent several weeks gathering information for ranchers who feared that the development was intended to spread homesteaders throughout the territory. What became of my reports I don’t know.

  I was beginning to become bored when a telegram alerted me to possibly more interesting, as well as serious, work. It was short: “Accompany $10,000 in greenbacks from Denver to the nearby mines, stage to depart Wednesday, dawn. Robbery in prospect, one of criminals on stage.”

  I decided that my disguise should be as the “National Accountants, Washington, D.C., Watchdogs for Mining Industry” and a tenderfoot outfit. My ‘51 Navy would be in my valise, my Derringer in my derby.

  The stage left at a little after noon, with four other passengers, two rough cut men carrying tools, a clean shaven man in plug hat and frock coat and a woman in denim with a hat box. On the second or third serious climb out of Denver the woman suddenly slid from the seat and crumpled onto the floor, groaning.

  “Driver, stop, the woman’s sick,” cried one of the workmen.

  The stage began to slow.

  I immediately looked out both sides of the coach. On one side were two men on horseback in the thick brush. “Don’t do it,” I shouted. It’s a holdup, whip the mules.”

  The woman didn’t move.

  I slid my hand into my bag and grabbed my pistol.

  The man who had hollered stared at me.

  “They’re out there,” I said. “I can see them.” I leaned out the coach window. “Whip the mules,” I shouted. I cocked my pistol. “Keep going.”

  The stage gained speed.

  The figures on horses moved parallel to the coach partly obscured by the brush. I knelt down and grabbed the woman by her hair. “Get up here, my beauty.” I jerked her up until she could be seen from outside. I held my pistol to her head.

  The woman howled and cried out.

  “Keep hollering, tell them not to shoot.”

  “Don’t shoot,” she yelled. “It’s me.”

  The coach reached a height of land and turned away from the thickets behind which the riders were hidden.

  “Keep going,” I hollered. I slid my pistol into my valise. “Okay, get up and neaten yourself up.”

  “You…. Some gentleman you are.”

  I smiled. “Yes, I’m often disappointed in myself. Driver, how does it look?”

  “Fine, so far.”

  “Don’t slow down.
Keep going.” I sat and looked at the landscape. “Who are they?”

  The woman was rearranging her clothes. She said nothing.

  We settled down for the rest of the journey. When we arrived at the diggings I wasn’t able to persuade the local authorities to do anything about my female companion, who wouldn’t give her name and claimed to be looking for her fiancé, one Charles Charbonneau. Nobody by that name turned up. The money was delivered to two well armed deputies, who moved it into safe quarters. I found the manager of the diggings, and identified myself and asked him if he would do something about the woman.

  “Was there a hold up?” he asked.

  “Not exactly. But we could see them out there.”

  “Like being almost pregnant. Could you identify them?’

  “No, they weren’t close enough.”

  “Did she admit anything?”

  I described what I had done.

  “Mr. Gould, this is the Wild West. No jury would convict her of anything. You were the one who did something to her. She’ll be taking the stage when you return to Denver. There’ll be no bullion on the stage, so the coach will go through all right. Take up the matter with the sheriff in Denver if you like, but you’ll be laughed out of the office. He has crimes going on right in front of his face and no time for this sort of thing.”

  The manager’s call was completely correct. I was able to report the episode to Omaha and received a ‘Well Done’ in return. But I was told that I wouldn’t do another run to the mines, since I’d certainly given away who I was. I was somewhat mortified, especially when two months later I learned that another Pinkerton man, who I had never met, cut down two holdup men on the same money run, and saved another payroll from being stolen.

  My regular assignment was to watch over the downtown banks, police protection being deemed to be not adequate to deal with the growing influx of ne’er do wells and transients. I dropped two holdup men during one fracas and was suddenly, by name at least, somewhat of a hero to the business community, at the same time that my notoriety with Pinkertons caused me to be less useful in the community.