by Tim Champlin
"Okay, everyone put all your valuables on the ground in front of you. Turn your pockets inside out."
We reluctantly complied.
"Just got this damned watch fixed," Curt muttered to me as he leaned down to put it on the ground.
"Quiet!" the masked man commanded.
When we had finished, the robber hooked his shotgun over his saddle horn by a leather thong and dismounted. He slipped off his saddlebags and quickly began scooping up the change, the watches and wallets on the ground, as his companion held his rifle on all of us. When he had finished, he quickly searched the men, and flipped Cathy's jacket open, but didn't touch her. Our gold was still safe. Then he went to the rear luggage boot and I could hear him rummaging around.
"Throw down the box!" the other man ordered the sheriff while this was going on. Grunting and heaving, Sheriff Pierce finally struggled over past the driver and dropped the heavy green box. The iron-bound wooden box landed with a thump and didn't bounce.
As all this was going on, I had somewhat recovered from my first fright and was able to begin looking more closely at the two highwaymen, trying to determine if there was anything distinctive about them. Both men's horses were sorrels, with no distinguishing marks. Their brands had been obliterated. Their gear consisted of well-worn Texas saddles and unadorned bridles. The man with the Winchester wore a black hat over his sack mask and an old, blue Army coat that was frayed and patched. It could have been left over from the war. The man who was ransacking the rear boot came back into my line of sight. Over a pair of overalls he wore a dirty suit coat and had a blue bandanna tied around his neck.
Ratty as they looked, they seemed to know exactly what they were doing. They were quietly efficient and coordinated, without a trace of nervousness.
"Back in the coach!" came the order from the bandit nearest us. I know fewer than five minutes had elapsed since we had first been stopped.
We obediently climbed back inside and automatically sought the same seats we had vacated.
"Move it out, driver, and don't look back!" I heard the deep command, muffled by the sugar-sack mask.
Immediately, the whip cracked and the coach lurched into motion again, the horses straining to haul us up the hill. We had covered about fifty yards, and the coach began to level off and pick up speed on the crest when I stuck my head out the window and looked back. The two, one mounted and one afoot, stood motionless, watching us out of sight. The express box still lay on the ground at their feet. Then we rounded a curve and started down the grade, and the robbers were lost to view. Almost immediately, we heard two shots.
"Shootin' the lock off," Curt remarked.
"Too heavy to carry off as is, I guess."
For the first time, the well-dressed stranger opposite me spoke. "They'll be in for a surprise when they open it." A tight, humorless grin stretched the heavy mustache.
"How's that?" Curt asked.
"Besides some rocks, they're going to find a very irritated rattlesnake."
Curt, Cathy, and I exchanged surprised glances.
"How do you know?" I finally asked.
"Because I helped put it there."
"What?"
"Of course. I'm a banker. I have money and gold going out on these stages just like a lot of other people. It's in my best interests to help discourage these robbers. I cooked up this idea with Agent Bundy."
"This was a decoy, then?"
"Right."
"When is the real gold going out?"
"I don't know. And I don't want to know. I imagine the Wells Fargo agent is one of the few people who has that information, since it's his responsibility."
He stretched his mouth in that thin, humorless grin and sat back, hooking his thumbs in his vest pockets. As he pulled his coat back, I caught the glimmer of a gold watch chain. It only slowly penetrated my consciousness. But then it struck me, and for a few seconds I heard nothing more of the conversation. All the men had been personally searched, but this man still had his watch? The banker noticed my stare, and suddenly pulled his coat closed and buttoned it. I still couldn't reconcile what I'd seen. Had the robber been in a hurry or nervous? I couldn't remember. I was so preoccupied myself, hoping our own gold wouldn't be discovered, and uneasy the robbers would get edgy and start shooting, that I hadn't paid enough attention as we were being searched. I started to ask him, but some instinct held me silent.
I glanced at Curt, but if he'd noticed the same thing, he gave no indication. And neither did Cathy, who sat between us.
Jacob Stoudt is the name," the banker was saying, extending his hand to Curt, his smile widening. "That's spelled S-t-o-u-d-t."
"Curt Wilder," Curt replied, taking the outstretched hand. "And these are my friends, Cathy Jenkins, Wiley Jenkins, and Matt Tierney."
Stoudt touched his hat to Cathy as he acknowledged the introductions. It seemed odd to me that this man who had not spoken a word to us until after the robbery, was now so friendly and expansive. It was as if a weight had been lifted from him. He no longer seemed nervous. But maybe, since he'd helped set up the surprise, he'd just been uneasy, halfway expecting we'd be robbed. Sometimes shared misfortune makes friends of strangers. Surely there could be no other explanation.
Our coach pitched rhythmically as the horses picked up the pace on the level. The driver didn't stop until we hit the next station at Little Meadow.
"Everybody okay in there?" he inquired, opening the door for us as the team was being unhitched.
"You're mighty concerned about us if you're just now askin'," Wiley remarked sourly as we stepped out.
"Well, I could see weren't nobody shot," the driver replied evenly, "so I figured to get the hell outta there before somebody was."
Through the entire episode, and through our ride so far, the bearded miner had not said a word, as if being held up were all in a day's work. But I also noticed that his pockets had contained only a jackknife, a few small coins, and a plug of tobacco. Either his money was well hidden, had been in his luggage, or he knew better than to travel with money. Maybe he'd wired it ahead.
The robbery, so quick and sure, was only an hour or so behind us, yet it already seemed almost like a dream. During the stop, we checked our luggage, and the driver checked his packages. Nothing appeared to be missing. "Except for a few dollars and a few personal items, those two had mighty lean pickings today," the banker chuckled, patting his leather valise back into its place. "Unless you count a little snake venom as a surprise bonus."
The teams were changed and we went on, not stopping for supper until dark. It was at a low log station somewhere in the western Hills. Even though Wiley had brought some food, we chanced the fare in the stage station. The stew was thin and watery, and the beef or venison in it was tough and full of gristle. It was served up by a villainous-looking station keeper who apparently hadn't bothered to bathe in several months. I could hardly wait to get back outside to some fresh air.
After we were bouncing and sliding along again over the winding road, Wiley took out his knife and carved us some cheese and bread from the canvas pack he had brought inside with him. We shared with the banker and the miner.
As the night hours wore slowly on, all of us, one and two at a time, began to nod. Packed together as we were, the jouncing of the coach threw us against each other. It was as black as velvet inside the coach, since we'd untied and let the leather window curtains unroll to keep out the cold wind.
I dozed, was bounced awake, and dozed again. Sometime in the small hours of early morning I was vaguely conscious of voices outside and lantern light coming and going. But I couldn't bring myself awake, and really didn't want to, since the coach had stopped rocking.
I did come fully awake sometime in the predawn blackness. It must have been about four o'clock. My neck was stiff, and my feet cold and swollen. I had a terrible taste in my mouth. The miner was snoring in a far corner, from what I could hear. I pulled aside the leather curtain beside me and looked out. But the darkness
was absolute. Beyond the light thrown by the lantern attached to that side of the coach, I could see nothing. The rattling of chains and squeaking of harness mingled with the thudding of the trotting horses' hooves. I dropped the curtain and tried to wedge myself into the corner of the smooth leather seat for a nap. My gritty eyeballs told me I needed it.
When I was again jolted awake by an extra hard bounce, it was full daylight. Sometime during the night we had dropped down out of the Hills to the west and were now heading almost due south across the gently rolling plains of Wyoming toward Cheyenne. At a breakfast stop a short time later I discovered there had been a change of drivers and our team now consisted of four horses instead of six.
The sun and a moderate south wind had melted most of the snow and nearly dried the road. Remaining patches of snow in the sheltered hummocks were the only reminder that winter had only retreated and was lying in wait. The driver, apparently aware of this, was really moving the team, and we had to brace ourselves as the high Concord coach bounced and pitched over the dun-colored prairie. We made good time all day, stopping several more times to change teams. After a half-hour supper stop at sundown, our mud-spattered coach went rolling into the next night, with another fresh man at the reins.
The next day we left the stage stops stretched out behind us one after another like knots in a long string: Eagles Nest, Chugwater, Bear Springs, Pole Creek. Late in the afternoon I stuck my head out the window at a shout from the box. And there was Cheyenne, several miles ahead.
It was nearly suppertime when our coach finally wheeled to a stop in front of the Wells Fargo station.
Sheriff Pierce was still riding shotgun, even though there was nothing more to guard—unless the whole robbery was a ruse and we were actually carrying treasure somewhere aboard.
We all climbed out stiffly and retrieved our luggage from the rear boot. I was slightly numb from the trip, both physically and mentally, even though we'd made Cheyenne in good time.
The banker and the miner both disappeared on business of their own, and the four of us headed for the nearest hotel. We'd grown so used to the high prices of Deadwood that our rooms seemed almost cheap by comparison.
Next morning, when we had a chance to look around, we could see that Cheyenne was also in the midst of a boom. Buildings were going up everywhere, and the growing city was swarming with people. The railroad and the army were mainly responsible for the boom; it hardly resembled the Cheyenne we remembered from the previous May.
It was the presence of the army in town that caused us to keep our hats pulled low over our faces when outside our rooms. And we three men hadn't shaved in several days. But nobody looked twice at us.
The train was due in at 10 A.M., and we were at the depot in time to see the glistening black locomotive come puffing and wheezing in from California.
As we sat warming ourselves over coffee, I could see the distress of imminent parting in Curt's eyes. We'd divided up our gold dust and converted it to greenbacks. There was nothing left to do except to say good-bye, but we were all strangely tongue-tied. When the conductor finally called, "Boooorrd!" we went silently out onto the platform, and I gave Cathy a hug and gripped Wiley's hand. "We'll look for you in the Spring, then?"
He smiled wanly. "If I'm still around, I plan to be back. Nothing is for sure, though."
"Hell, things will look better when you're well and it's warm and sunny, and you have a good meal under your belt. We'll stash your share of the gold we find. You'll have a good, fat poke when you get back, and you won't even have to work for it," I grinned, shaking him gently by the shoulder. I was surprised at how thin he felt even through his coat.
"'Boooorrd!" the conductor yelled again. A gust of cold wind swirled the smell of acrid coal smoke down from the stack of the engine that was panting and steaming nearby. I glanced over my shoulder and glimpsed Cathy and Curt locked in an embrace in the crowd.
The whistle shrilled, and we rushed Wiley and Cathy onto the steps of their coach and handed up their packs just before the train began to move. The crowd surged forward in a sea of faces and waving arms as the coach windows slid past. There was an emptiness in the pit of my stomach as I watched their train roll away and shrink into the distance, a stream of gray smoke blowing straight out to the south. Both of us continued to stand looking while the crowd dispersed around us, until the caboose was only a speck on the plains.
"C'mon, Curt, she'll be back. Let's go send a telegram to the Times-Herald. They owe me a summer's pay. And I sure as hell earned it."
CHAPTER 11
"Raise you two."
"See your two and call." There was the muted click of ivory chips being tossed onto the green felt.
"Pair of nines."
"Three jacks." Chuck Bundy smiled and raked in the small pile of chips.
"Deal me out," Curt said, tossing in his cards and shoving away from the table. "At the rate I'm going, my stake'll be cleaned out before Spring." He got up and walked to the front window of the Golden Eagle Saloon, and stared out at the swirling snow.
"Think I'll quit for a while, too," I said, getting up and leaving Bundy and Sheriff Pierce to continue by themselves. I signaled Burnett behind the bar to draw me a beer, paid him, and took the mug to join Wilder at the window. The cold, pale light made our skin look strangely white compared to the yellow light of the coal-oil ceiling lamps deeper in the room.
"Looks like this one is gonna bury us," I commented, also looking out at the white stuff that was drifting up onto the boardwalk.
"Yeh. I'll bet this has shut down that new stamp mill at the Alpha and Omega Mines. They just got started the week after Christmas."
"This weather has shut down most everything." I glanced sideways at Curt. "Don't look so depressed. Just make up your mind that we're going to be here for a while." I shrugged. "After all, there's nothing we can do about it even if we wanted to."
"I guess you're right. But this is only mid-January, and we haven't seen the ground in at least six weeks."
"I know. I'm getting cabin fever, too. At least I've got a deadline every week to get something written for the paper."
"How do you find anything to report on when everyone left in town is living like a mole?"
I grinned. "There may not be much going on outside, but you forget that I used to be both a society and a political reporter in Chicago. You have to ferret out the news. That's what I use that kid, K.J., for. He keeps me up on all these tidbits of gossip. That kid really has his ears open. This job may not pay much, but it keeps me hopping trying to get enough to fill up my columns."
"What in the world do you find to write about?"
"You've read some of my stuff. A lot of rumors about what's happening on the outside, the Indian movements, troop movements, holed-up prospectors shooting each other over some trifle, the suicide of a prostitute, speculation about when the creeks will open up in the spring, and bow many more people will come in. When I'm absolutely stumped for a subject, I usually just make up an editorial and give my biased opinion on anything that comes to mind."
"One of your blasts almost got your editor into a fight with his rival."
"Well, anything for a little excitement."
"You may have excitement enough if this food shortage materializes."
"Wish you wouldn't bring up subjects like that," I answered. "I've already taken up one notch in my belt."
"The sheriff was telling me the storekeepers estimate there is only enough food, at the present rate of consumption, to last until late February, and it looks like this storm is going to delay that hunting party that was being talked up last week."
"Guess we'll just have to drink more and eat less. There's no shortage of this." I took a deep draft of my beer to follow my own advice and wiped my newly grown beard with the sleeve of my jacket.
We fell quiet and continued to stare out at the silent, drifting snow. The only sound was the monotone of the dealer and the whirring and rattling of the roulette wheel i
n the back of the room. About two dozen men were in the Golden Eagle, killing the long winter hours gambling with smaller or larger stakes, according to their means. It was early afternoon, but the gloom of the winter day lay on the deep room that had no side windows.
After Wiley and Cathy had left in November, we'd come back to Deadwood on one of the last stages that ran into the Hills and continued to work our claim in Thunder Valley for about two weeks until the snow and the cold forced us to quit for the winter. We moved into town in December and occupied our old room at the Merchants Hotel at a cheaper rate; the hotel manager was glad to get the business. The room had had a potbellied stove installed that knocked off enough of the chill to make it more livable than our tent in Thunder Valley. Our hotel stove was about as effective as the stove that was just now glowing almost white-hot at the side of the room behind me. Yet I couldn't feel its warmth where we stood by the front window.
Christmas and New Year's had come and gone with the gold camp's usual excessive celebration. I had taken a job as a reporter for the weekly Pioneer, mainly to have something to do, but Curt found time hanging heavy on his hands for the first time in his life. Even in winter garrison with the army he'd had his daily routine of military drills and duties to fill the time. But now he was like a caged lion. Cathy was gone, and the only women we saw in town were married or prostitutes. As he had just proven, he was no gambler; cards and dice and roulette held little appeal for him. As long as I'd known him, he struck me as one who read little, even if there had been something to read to pass the time. He was a man of action, and in this regard he did seem out of place in this winterbound town.
"You know, I'm getting kind of tired of playing cards with Bundy and Pierce, too," I said in a low voice. "Bundy's about as short of something to do as we are since Wells Fargo got snowed out and the telegraph wires went down. And that sheriff … well, I don't know about him. I think the man is honest enough, but I get the impression he's a little short on brains. All he seems to think about is eating, drinking, and sex. I don't believe he's made any effort to find out who was responsible for all those stage robberies since the stages stopped running. Maybe he thinks everybody has forgotten about them. He just spends his time playing cards and breaking up fights."
