Spur Giant: Soiled Dove

by Dirk Fletcher

  He wore his working clothes: brown town pants, a tan, long sleeved shirt, doeskin vest, and a black string tie. His cowboy boots were battered and worn, but the most comfortable he had ever owned. On his right hip rode a worn leather holster housing a .45 Colt. The bottom of the leather was always tied down with a thong around his thigh.

  Spur pushed the door open at the Federal Court building where Judge Parker had sentenced so many killers to be hanged. It had once been an army barracks, two storied and made of stone as part of the original U.S.Army's Fort Smith built in 1817. He looked around, saw an office and stepped toward it.

  Inside he found a large desk with a small man behind it wearing half glasses, a dark suit, tie. The man had large jug handle ears and almost no hair on his slightly misshapen head. He looked up and his disfavor showed plainly on his face.

  "All deputies are to use the side entrance and report to the Chief Deputy Marshal."

  "You keep the riffraff and rabble out of your office that way, I'd figure," Spur said walking to the front of the big desk and staring down. When the clerk made no comment Spur went on.

  "My name is Spur McCoy. General Halleck sent me and I need a word with Judge Parker. I'm a United States Secret Service agent here to clean up your railroad robbery."

  "Oh. I'm sorry, these deputy marshals-"

  "This is a courtesy call, to let the judge know I'm in town and working on the robbery case. I don't actually need to stare at him face to face."

  Before he finished the sentence a door to the left opened and a large man came through it. He had on the flowing black robes of his office. His dark hair was parted on the right side and he had bushy brows, a black moustache and a bountiful, untrimmed goatee. His face was set in a stiff, formal, impartial mask.

  His dark eyes concentrated on Spur a moment, then he stepped forward and held out his hand. Spur shook it.

  "Spur McCoy, good of you to come. I saw you once in Washington with General Halleck. I received word you would be coming. My deputies here have little experience in actual investigation work. The court stands ready to offer you any assistance you may require. Tell Percival here what you need and he'll provide it."

  "Good to meet you, Judge Parker, I won't be needing much. Just wanted to say hello."

  Parker nodded, handed Percival a paper and without another glance or word, strode back through the heavy doors to what Spur figured was his courtroom. Spur watched him leave then looked at Percival.

  "Anything you need, Mr. McCoy?" the clerk asked.

  Spur shook his head, waved at him and walked out of the court house and down the steps to the baked dry ground around the building. He knew the jail was in the basement. The place had not been designed to be a jail and was dark and he figured damp. He turned to the street and asked someone how to find the county sheriff's office.

  Sheriff Booth Grimm looked about 50, wore a serious full black moustache, had soft blue eyes that always seemed to be running, and offered a firm handshake.

  "Heard you was coming, McCoy. We need lots of help on this one. Got a report for you here. Bastards made out like they had twenty rifles. Which they did actually, but fired them with a string and the trainmen thought an army was up there on the ridge. Caught the train going up the Deadhorse hill grade where she slows to about five miles an hour sometimes depending on how long the string of cars is she's toting."

  "How many men hit the train?"

  "Near as we can tell, just three. Blew in the express car side door with an outside bomb, then blasted the safe. Knocked out the express man and beat him some, but he ain't hurt bad. Reckon you'll want to talk to him. His name's Clancy Steffens."

  "Be good to talk to him." Spur read the two hand written reports the Sheriff handed him. Not much there. Little more than the lawman had told him. One porter had been wounded from one of the rifle shots but it wasn't serious.

  "So it's not just robbery, but we can charge them with attempted murder as well," the sheriff said. "Makes it a bit more serious."

  "I'm thinking the kidnapping might be more important," Spur McCoy said.

  The sheriff stood and walked to the window. The lawman was average sized and had a generous belly flowing over his three-inch wide belt. "The young woman they snatched is Amy Hellman, only child of our governor Wild Bill Hellman."

  "The governor's only child? How old is she?"

  "Twenty-one. Common knowledge around the state that she's never got on well with her parents, her pa especially. So far there hasn't been any reward posted for her return. We've had a flock of letters and wires from the capitol down in Little Rock. Newspapers are screaming headlines.

  "Governor Hellman is saying all the right things, but somehow it has a false ring to it. We haven't heard if there's been a ransom demand. Governor don't like to talk much about Amy usually. Now he has to."

  "I'll stay in touch. Where can I find this Railway Express clerk, Clancy Steffens?"

  "Family man. This is his home base. Lives at 210 Third Avenue. I've known him for several years. Good man."

  Spur pondered the reports again. "Twenty thousand in Federal greenbacks, and two sacks of registered mail. Any complaints yet about what was in them?"

  The sheriff shook his head. "Not yet. We'll have a mess of them soon. I sent out two of my deputies, but they ain't much at tracking. Lost the three horses about half-a-mile from the spot of the shooting. They found the rifles. Twenty of them all tied down. All old weapons, not worth much. They brought them in. Probably sell them off sometime."

  "Then nobody's found the registered mail yet?"

  "Not hide nor satchel full."

  "Lots of times on a robbery like this they dump out the registered mail and rip it open looking for cash, diamonds, that sort of thing."

  "Like I say, my deputies ain't too good at tracking, and Judge Parker can't spare a man right now, he tells me. I figure Post Office people will be in town soon. Hope you can find them letters before the postal folks get here foaming and frothing at the mouth."

  "See what we can do." Spur thought about it a moment. "The mail and the cash can wait. They won't go anywhere. The girl might. I better concentrate on her first."

  "Sounds reasonable. You want a posse? This is a hard town to get up a posse, but I can try."

  "I work better alone, Sheriff. But thanks. I might need somebody to back my play later on. The robbery took place about five miles north of town?"

  "About the size of it. The railroad men left two small red flags there as a marker."

  "I'll check it out from that end."

  It was just after noon when Spur picked up a horse from the Anderson Livery Barn on the north side of town and took the old North Road. The livery man told him the road paralleled the tracks for two miles before it veered to the right. He could ride over and follow the tracks the rest of the way.

  Spur McCoy had eaten at a small cafe before he left and carried a canteen. He didn't have any food or camping gear. Spur had a feeling this tracking wouldn't take long. Either the outlaw's tracks would be gone after three days, or they would fade out somewhere. There was a chance these robbers were new to their trade and might lead him right into their camp. He could use a simple case for a change.

  An hour later, Spur came to the two-foot square red flags on stakes pounded into the side of the right-of-way. One of the eyewitnesses said that two men had ridden along the tracks and swung on board the slow moving train. He found the hoofprints along the tracks for some distance. A short way beyond the flags, he saw that one set of prints had penetrated deeper into the soft dirt.

  Riding double. One rider must have taken the girl on his horse, probably in front of him. That could mean the kidnapping was a spur of the mo ment idea. If they'd planned it, why wouldn't they bring an extra horse for the kidnap victim?

  He turned and followed those deeper tracks. They changed direction and rode north, now veering away from the tracks into the small valley and toward the brushy ridge to one side.

  In th
e soft ground and across the brushy hill, the tracks were easy to follow. Soon a third horse joined the first two. Only one of the sets of prints showed double riders. About three miles north of the attack site, the tracks petered out on some sheet rock. He circled the half acre of bald rock but couldn't find where the tracks left the stone.

  Spur sat on his horse a minute thinking. This was how they had fooled the deputies. What would he do in a case like this? Lead the horses across the hardest ground available. Yeah.

  He moved out a quarter-of-a-mile from the rock and made a circle around the place, leading his horse, watching the ground for any resumption of the trail.

  He found it on the far side but now the tracks headed south again. A mile on he found where they had stopped in some tough to penetrate, dastardly thick brush. The two mail sacks and registered mail of all kinds lay scattered around. Half of it had been ripped open, evidently examined to see if there was anything valuable in it.

  He picked up every piece he could find and stuffed it all in one mail sack, pushed the other sack inside, pulled the ropes, and tied the sack behind his saddle.

  Then he followed the trail again. Now it switched back north. A half-mile later, the tracks entered a small stream no more than a foot deep and ten-feet wide. He went across but could find no spot where the tracks came out of the water.

  North. He took the near side of the creek and worked his way north along the soft banks. It would be obvious when the three horses left the water and got back on their right route to wherever they were heading.

  He rode the bank for two miles, but nowhere did he find any sign of the tracks leaving the water. He crossed over and rode back south expecting to locate some sign of the riders on that side.

  By the time he got back to the original entry point, he had found nothing. That meant they had reversed their direction again and rode south in the stream covering their tracks.

  Spur repeated his search routine, this time to the south. Nearly a mile downstream he found where three sets of prints came out of the water. One set sank deeper into the soil than the other two.

  No change, double weight still on that horse. Now he had an easier trail as he worked along the horseshoe prints. The riders didn't seem to be trying to cover their tracks. Why?

  Three miles later, he found out why. The tracks veered to the left to the North Road and kept moving south toward Fort Smith. In places, he had trouble finding the three sets of prints due to other traffic on the road. Two farm wagons with wide steel wheels had rolled into town since the trio of horses had passed nearly wiping out all sign of the tracks.

  He found enough to keep on the trail.

  Near the town of Fort Smith, the tracks faded completely as dozens of horses and wagons had used the road in the three days. The object of their ride was now plain. Spur had tracked them to within a quarter-of-a-mile of Fort Smith before the sign was blotted out.

  Why would the robbers ride deliberately into Fort Smith where they must know that the search for them would have its headquarters?

  Spur McCoy rode on into Fort Smith, found the Post Office in the Mallory General store and handed the mail sack to the postmistress.

  "What's this?" Mrs. Mallory asked.

  "My guess is that's the registered mail that was stolen off the train two days ago as it headed into town."

  A man in a trim brown suit, matching vest and gold watch chain came forward at once. He held out a card.

  "Bret Hardy, United States Postal Inspector. I've been sent here from our regional office in Kansas City to investigate this matter. May I ask who you are?"

  Spur told him and he relaxed a little.

  "Where did you find this registered mail?"

  Spur explained where he found it and what he did.

  "Good, excellent. We'll deliver all registered mail that hasn't been tampered with," Mrs. Mallory said.

  "No, Mrs. Mallory. I'll have to determine that. No one may touch that mail but me until I make a determination," Inspector Hardy stated.

  Spur watched the officious little man. Obviously, he was a person who liked his work which he thought was the most important in the world.

  "Oh, Mr. McCoy," the Inspector said. "I'd like you to sign a receipt that you retrieved this registered mail giving the time and place. We need it for our records."

  "Afraid I can't do that, Mr. Hardy. Then I would be swearing that I received everything that the rail clerk signed for previously. I know how your system works. Then I'd be liable for anything missing. I won't sign any such receipt."

  Hardy looked concerned. "You won't sign for what's here?"

  "No. I don't know what's here and what's missing. Have you been notified that some valuable items were on that particular train?"

  Hardy squirmed, moved from foot to foot, looked out the window and pushed one hand in his pocket, then brought it out.

  "Actually, we have. There were three valuable parcels in these sacks, signed off by the expressman in Kansas City, received by one Clancy Steffens, and now it would be my guess that all three will be missing when I go through the sack."

  "Which leaves either me or the train robbers, or anyone else who happened along that same area, as the felons with the valuable goods. Mr. Hardy, if I were going to steal something from the registered mail, why would I then conveniently bring you the rest of it?"

  "Yes, yes, that's reasonable."

  "Hardy, I want to know what's been reported missing. My office outranks yours considerably. Do you want the Secretary of the Treasury to instruct your boss to tell you to inform me about the missing items?"

  Hardy wiped a line of sweat off his forehead. He blinked several times and his hands went behind his back and stayed there. At last he shook his head.

  "No, I guess I don't want that kind of pressure. Let me make a quick check on what's in this bag, then I'll tell you and the Sheriff and the District Attorney all at the same time."

  A half hour later the four men gathered in Sheriff Grimm's office. District Attorney Zane Hawthorne overflowed the chair he sat in. Fat arms bulged his black suit jacket and his white shirt struggled to cover a huge belly. By contrast his face was hard and lean with gray eyes that were always on the move gathering information every second.

  Spur had heard that the man had a photographic memory and could repeat conversations word for word that he had had with people ten years ago. His eyes were close set with a narrow, small nose between them and thin lips below. He had almost no chin, then his body ballooned. His hands and fingers were fat as well.

  Hardy looked at the Sheriff who nodded. Hardy stood and paced the end of the office a moment, then held his hands behind him.

  "Gentlemen, we have a delicate matter here. There has been a kidnapping of your governor's daughter. The safe on the express car was blasted open and $20,000 in new Federal banknotes heading for banks here and on south were stolen." Harding watched for a reaction. Sheriff Grimm wrote down the figure and looked up.

  "There also was a large envelope filled with bearer bonds. These bonds are unregistered by owner, only by amount and number, and can be sold at any stocks and bonds firm or brokerage house with no questions asked. They are as good and as negotiable as paper currency. The value of these bonds changes, but when they were sent by registered mail from Kansas City three days ago, they were worth a little over one-hundredthousand dollars."

  The District Attorney also took notes on the first page of a small leather bound pad.

  "The other item missing is a fully negotiated Bill of Sale for the Triangle T ranch, north of here, owned by Dylan Teasdale."

  "The Triangle T?" the D.A. asked. "That's the biggest ranch in most of Arkansas. Worth a great deal of money."

  "There was ten-thousand in cash in the envelope as a good faith payment, along with a signed agreement to purchase the ranch and cat tle for four-hundred-thousand dollars, to be paid over a period of time.

  "My problem is, how do we find and reclaim the bank money, the bonds, and the s
tolen legal papers," Hardy said. Then he sat down.

  The four men looked at each other. Spur had not told them that he had followed the robbers back to town. He figured it better not to let them know that right now.

  "I'm sure that my office and that of the Sheriff will put every resource at our disposal in trying to find the perpetrators," the District Attorney said. "The trouble is, we have very little to go on. The expressman said the two men he saw both had masks over their faces and wore hats. All he saw were the men's eyes and a little of their foreheads. Nothing to work with."

  "Mr. McCoy," Hardy said. "When you found the mail sacks, did you continue to track the culprits?"

  "I did. They moved to the North Road, but after several miles of following their sign, I lost the tracks in a maze of farm wagon wheel prints and other horse traffic. Remember, it was almost three days after the deed when I had a chance to trace the robbers."

  "Damn," Sheriff Grimm said. "That means we don't have a God damned thing to go on. No starting place."

  "Sheriff, I noticed two or three small settlements between Fayetteville and Fort Smith when I came down on the train," Spur said. "You might send a man up that way and see if anyone saw the four people pass by, or stay all night anywhere."

  Sheriff Grimm nodded. "Good. I'll have a man catch the next train through. Faster than riding a horse."

  "I've sent a telegram to the Director of Currency at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Washington," Spur said. "He's going to wire back to me the serial numbers on those twenty-dollar bills that were stolen. They keep such records. The bills are new and all in sequence, and should be easy to spot in town if the robbers spend any of them here or nearby.

  "We'll supply every merchant in town with a list of the serial numbers and ask him to check every twenty-dollar bill he sees. Could be productive."