Mr. St. John

by Loren D. Estleman

  Midian Pierce, seated in a leather-upholstered armchair next to the fireplace, looked at him over the top of his open Bible and said nothing. Hostility crawled beneath the older man’s bland expression. George’s greeting had been no more friendly, which brought up the detective’s opinion of him. He himself had taken an instant dislike to the zealot the first time he had crossed the threshold earlier in the week. He was “Testament” to St. John too, but to Rawlings he was just one of the breed of dangerous fanatics that had decided him to leave his native West Virginia when he was twenty.

  George brightened a shade. “Ike, I brought along someone you may remember… Bill?”

  The door opened, admitting a lean, bespectacled man half a head taller than Rawlings in a wrinkled traveling suit too short in the sleeves and a soft gray gambler’s hat with a flamboyant brim. He seemed no older than the Pinkerton, but his face was haggard and his broad sad smile looked world-weary. Brown stubble blurred the long line of his jaw. He carried a shiny black valise under one arm.

  “Bill.” St. John sounded puzzled. He squinted, apparently unwilling to don his own glasses in the others’ presence for a better look at the new arrival. Rawlings had already noted his vanity. “The name doesn’t match the face.”

  The tall man removed his spectacles. St. John swore. “Bill, hell!” he exclaimed. “You’re—”

  “We called him Wild Bill Edwards in Comanche Tom’s show,” interrupted George, “if it’s all the same to you, we’ll just keep on calling him that.”

  “You in trouble, son?” the old lawman looked concerned.

  Still grinning, Edwards put his spectacles back on. The thick lenses magnified his eyes twice over. “None you didn’t put me in when you arrested me for that Katy Flyer job back in ‘89. Old Thunder sent me up to Detroit for twenty to life. They paroled me last year. I’m supposed to still be in Michigan.”

  “Could have been worse,” grunted St. John. “Parker had you set for the morning drop if that clerk died.”

  The Pinkerton grew restless. “You shot a man in the course of a robbery?”

  Before Edwards could reply, St. John snorted. “If he’d meant to, that man would be dead and so would he. Bill—I’ll get used to that—Bill was in the habit of shooting clerks’ buttons off at twenty paces till they decided to open the safe in the express car. They usually did by about the third button.”

  “What happened in ‘89?”

  “Damn fool clerk moved,” Edwards said.

  St. John said, “Bill covered his tracks pretty sweet. If George wasn’t along, we never would of found him. This Crow can track a cockroach through a busy anthill.”

  Rawlings studied the desperado. “You must have been awfully young.”

  “Celebrated my twentieth birthday behind bars.”

  “Got paper out on you?” St. John asked. Edwards shrugged. “You’d best lay low just in case. There’s four bedrooms here; take your pick. The last campaign worker ducked out Wednesday. I won’t say what it cost to feed those greedy sons of bitches.”

  George said, “We heard about the election on the way here. It’s a damn shame.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’d of made a lousy congressman anyway, Cap’n,” put in Edwards. “First time you got in an argument with a Republican, you’d of plugged him in the belly.”

  Laughter rose from the trio, dissipating the bitterness. The old lawman poured out drinks from a cut-glass decanter on the pedestal table. Only Pierce and the Indian declined. The former was deep in Leviticus and George never partook. Edwards put down the valise to accept his glass. Something clanked inside the case when it touched the floor.

  “I don’t think my superiors will appreciate having a parole violator on their payroll,” said the Pinkerton.

  St. John looked at him coolly. “He’s on my payroll, not theirs. Besides, we need a sharpshooter, and you’ll go a long way before you find one better than Bill.”

  “I want it understood that the Pinkerton’s don’t indulge in unnecessary killing. It’s our policy to bring fugitives in alive whenever possible.”

  “Mine too, son. But out there it isn’t always possible, and that’s when a good eye and a steady hand come in handy.”

  “As long as the eye is good,” put in Rawlings pointedly.

  Edwards said, “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Pinkerton.”

  “Rawlings.”

  “Whatever.” He lifted the eyeglasses and let them drop back onto his nose. “With these on I can pick the spots off a ladybug across the road, and I got two more pair sewed in the lining of my riding coat.”

  “Speaking of sharpshooters,” said George, “where’s Al Herder? I never knew you to go manhunting without him and that Remington rolling-block he always carried.”

  St. John’s expression was grim. “Al’s dead.”

  “Damn!” Edwards touched his glasses.

  “What happened?” asked the Indian.

  “My wire caught up with his widow in Pittsburgh. He was in moving pictures, running cattle for a fellow name of Anderson. Six weeks ago some dumb bastard bet him a week’s pay he couldn’t jump his roan over a six-rail fence. He couldn’t. They buried him with a busted neck.”

  “Damn,” repeated Edwards, more subdued this time.

  “Pittsburgh, for God’s sake.” George sounded angry.

  Edwards said, “I had him figured to get shot by somebody’s husband.”

  “Yeah.” St. John held up his glass. “Al.”

  The newcomers echoed the name and drank. Rawlings abstained, contemplating the copper-colored brandy in his tumbler. The old lawman set his down almost full. His companion of the past week realized suddenly that he hadn’t seen him drink since Election Day.

  “The Lord taketh away and the Lord giveth back,” announced St. John, glancing slyly at Pierce and his Good Book. The zealot appeared to take no notice of the deliberate misquote. “Bill, damn glad to have you along, even if you are wanted.”

  It was almost noon. St. John asked the two late arrivals if they were hungry and learned that neither the Indian, who had spent the last few days traveling with luggage, nor Edwards, who had kept him company, had eaten anything substantial since they left Florida. Immediately he called down to the desk for steak and red wine and whatever green vegetables the hotel had on ice. While they waited he introduced Rawlings formally, and over steaming plates the Pinkerton filled in George and Edwards on their mission.

  “Race Buckner,” he said, producing a WANTED bulletin printed in Wichita September 18, 1903. The photograph was a studio shot of a young man with a boy’s face in celluloid collar and cocked derby, a walking stick resting on one shoulder. “He’s twenty-six now, single, no arrests. Officials in Kansas want him for selling bogus shares in the King Ranch in and around Dodge City three years ago.”

  Edwards handed back the circular. “He’s come up some.”

  “His tactics haven’t changed.” Rawlings recounted the details of the bank robbery in Wyoming. The two new men chuckled.

  “Where was this Buckner seventeen years ago when I needed him?” asked Edwards, chewing.

  “Finishing fourth grade, if they got his birthday right.” St. John was in good spirits.

  “Several bank employees and a railroad clerk have placed him at the scene of four holdups in Wyoming, Colorado, and Utah over the past ten weeks. His take so far totals more than thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  A respectful silence settled over the table, disturbed only by the clicking of Pierce’s knife and fork against his plate. He continued to ignore the conversation while eating.

  “How many in the gang?” George asked finally.

  “Four,” replied the Pinkerton. “Counting the man who answers the telephone.”

  “Five.”

  All eyes turned to the preacher, busy sawing off a piece of steak the size of his thumbnail. “Why five?” Rawlings inquired patiently.

  “Because that’s how I’d do it. You said thi
s Buckner was smart.”

  “I’d listen to him,” advised St. John over his wine glass. “Testament thinks like a bandit.”

  The detective waited, but Pierce made no attempt to clarify. At length Rawlings asked for an explanation. The man’s smug indifference was infuriating.

  Pierce spoke between bites. “One to watch the people in the bank, one to fill the sack, one at the door, and one to hold the horses. Telephone man makes five.”

  Rawlings nodded. “All right, we’ll say five. Now, as to the other men in the bank. We have a reader on Merle Buckner, Race’s first cousin, whose description fits the man posing as the photographer. Thirty, divorced, medium height, dark hair, moustache. He served four years in the Montana State Penitentiary for armed robbery. Ordinarily, because of his age and experience we’d consider him the leader, but since his cousin does all the talking and the method they’re using suits him more than Merle, we’re assuming otherwise.”

  “Like with Jesse and Frank,” suggested Edwards.

  Rawlings ignored the comment. “We believe their system of getting away employs fresh horses stashed along their escape route in relays, Pony Express style. That refinement we attribute to the Montana branch of the family.”

  “What about the man with no hands?” put in St. John. “James Blame Shirley. We think,” Rawlings added.

  Edwards said, “I’ve heard that name.”

  “No reason you shouldn’t have. Besides Roosevelt and Dewey, the Spanish war produced only one national hero, when Shirley threw aside his commanding officer during the siege of Santiago to save him from an explosive device hurled at his feet. He was attempting to toss it clear when it detonated in his hands. Congress awarded him the Medal of Honor. The Wyoming bank manager identified him positively from a newspaper sketch, but witnesses to the other three robberies were less sure.”

  The Indian pushed aside his plate and set fire to a long black cheroot that smelled unpleasantly like burning rubber. “Just how does a man with no hands go about sticking up a bank?”

  “Simply and ingeniously.” The detective held up a bony wrist. “He wears a double-action Colt strapped to one stump with the butt removed, the trigger guard filed off, and a ten-dollar gold piece welded to the trigger. All he has to do is point the stump and…” -he swept his other arm club-fashion back under the extended limb.

  “Ha!” Edwards was delighted. “But what makes a war hero turn outlaw?”

  “You can’t eat medals,” said St. John. To Rawlings: “What about gunplay?”

  “They haven’t resorted to it so far.”

  “What’s this job pay?” George asked.

  “That’s my department.” Removing his napkin from under his chin, the old lawman cleared a space around him. Clutter seemed to inhibit his powers of discussion. “Two hundred a week, payable at the end of the trail. Pinkertons supply the horses and equipment.”

  George said, “Well, it sure beats Comanche Tom’s show. Count me in.”

  “Me too,” said Edwards.

  “Testament?” St. John looked across the table at Pierce, who had finished eating and was sitting back with his eyes closed and his fingers laced across his spare middle. He looked like a thin sinister Buddha.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” he replied.

  “Fine. Now we wait.”

  “Wait for what?” Rawlings asked the old lawman.

  “Trail’s cold. Till they kick a hole in another bank or something, we got no place to go. When they do, we’ll be on them like ugly on a buzzard.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  St. John smiled behind his moustache. “Then I reckon you won’t be needing us.”

  Chapter Six

  Trains

  Engineer C. T. Goddard considered the water stop at Elephant Crossing in Colorado the most dangerous and stimulating on the entire weekly Wichita-to-Denver run. Three of his predecessors had looked down the muzzles of guns in the hands of hard-eyed men with bandanas hiked up over their noses on that spot, and he himself had been waylaid there twice. The first time, he had scalded a robber beyond recognition with a jet of steam and made good his escape; on the next attempt he had drawn the bulldog pistol he carried in his hip pocket, killed one bandit, and ran off the rest. No one had bothered him since. E. H. Harriman himself had once remarked that one Goddard was worth twenty armed guards from Wells Fargo.

  White head stuck outside the cab, he backed the engine under the spout, where the fireman swung it down to fill the boiler. After twenty-two years with the U.P., Goddard had yet to come to a stop squarely underneath. Sixty yards off the crossing, a cluster of tar paper shacks hunkered sullenly against a red-topped butte that from a distance looked like a gigantic silo, apart from the shacks the only irregularity in hundreds of miles of grassy plain. The settlement had been an end-of-track town that had refused to die when the rails left it behind, preferring to dig in and weather down like a determined scorpion on a bare rock. It had survived—barely—but the effort had sapped all the hospitality from the town, and it was worth a passenger’s life to step into the saloon for a quick drink while the train took on water.

  Goddard was put on his guard, therefore, when three men in new Stetsons and greatcoats appeared outside the cab as he whooshed to a stop. Two of them wore their coats unbuttoned, a bad sign. The third had his hands in his pockets. The engineer reached behind him, closing his fingers around the butt of the stubby pistol.

  “Afternoon.” The speaker was young, with light eyebrows and dark burnsides; no whiskers. His voice was pleasant.

  Goddard studied their faces. The tallest of the three wore a thick moustache and a grim look. He was older than his companions. The other one, the one with the cold hands, was an inch shorter, with a broad face and his hat down to his eyebrows. An icy breeze came up and lifted his coat collar. He ignored it.

  “What do you want?”

  The spokesman opened his coat, revealing a Remington on his left hip and a brass star pinned to his shirt. “We’re deputy U.S. marshals. We got a wire that a killer escaped from the Kansas State Penitentiary at Lansing six days ago and we think he might be riding your train. Wonder if we might have a look.”

  “Anyone can lay hold of a badge,” said Goddard. “You got a warrant?”

  “John Doe.” He reached for his breast pocket. The engineer whipped out the bulldog.

  “Slow.”

  Grinning, the stranger unbuttoned the pocket and produced an official-looking document. Goddard read it swiftly, one eye on the trio. Wordlessly he handed it back and put away the gun.

  The conductor came hobbling along the cinder bed. He was a small, dark German who had been complaining about his bad feet for as long as the engineer had known him. His blue uniform was dusty, the trousers bagging like rubber waders from his suspenders. “What goes on?” he demanded. “How much water do you need to go forty miles?” Then he noticed the deputies and stopped.

  When Goddard filled him in, his narrow face screwed up with annoyance or pain, the engineer couldn’t tell which. “How long is this going to take? We have a schedule to maintain.” The German addressed himself to the man with the moustache. Of all of them he looked best suited for command. But it was the original deputy who answered.

  “Long as it takes to find out if he’s on board.” He jerked his chin toward the line of cars. There were seven, including the express box and caboose. He and the man with the moustache mounted the first coach, accompanied by the conductor. The third man remained behind with Goddard.

  “How’s Dan McCoy these days?” the engineer asked.

  “Depends on who’s Dan McCoy,” replied the deputy. He had murky brown eyes that reflected no light.

  “Funny you don’t know him. He’s the marshal hereabouts. Your boss.” And Goddard went for the gun in his hip pocket.

  With a swift, snakelike maneuver, the other drew his hands out of the pockets of his coat, only he had no hands. In place of his right, the sightless barrel of a C
olt extended from the sleeve to within an inch of Goddard’s left eye. The other stump crossed underneath. “Stand still or be scraped off the boiler. Your choice.”

  The engineer obeyed, smiling. “You forgot the fireman,” he taunted. “First thing I check after reading my orders is that whoever I ride with is armed. Right now there’s a Smith & Wesson forty-four aimed at your head.”

  “You mean this one?”

  The new voice startled Goddard. He half turned and saw the man with the moustache standing in the cab, displaying the big American revolver the fireman always wore under his belt. Of the latter there was no sign. Cold lay like iron against the engineer’s back. “Where’s Lewis?”

  “If you mean the wood monkey, he’s taking a little nap. If you don’t want to join him you’d best hand me that jug pecker.” He reached down a palm. Goddard hesitated, then plucked out the bulldog between thumb and forefinger and laid it in his hand.

  “No one’s ever robbed a train of mine,” he said.

  The handless man smiled thinly. “It’s a new century, Dad. Lots of things being done that ain’t never been done before.” He moved the gun a tenth of an inch. “Let’s climb up and enjoy the view.”

  After passing through the coaches and studying dozens of upturned, curious faces, pausing occasionally to question a passenger and scrutinize his identification, the fair deputy asked the conductor to let him into the express car.

  “This I cannot do,” protested the official, indicating the legend AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled on the door.

  “Well, if a deputy marshal ain’t authorized, who is?”

  The German’s brow puckered. The other bore in.

  “Listen,” he said, dropping his lawman’s tone. “You got a boss, I got a boss. You know how it is. I go back to the marshal, tell him we didn’t find this outlaw, he asks did I search the whole train. I say, ‘Yeah, everything but the express car.’ He says, ‘What’s the matter, you scared of the dark?’ and I’m back out punching cows. It’ll only take a minute.”

  The conductor sighed, nodded, and rapped on the door. There was a pause, and then a tiny square panel was slid open at eye level. Hostile gray eyes shifted from one face to the other.