It had to be the same gang, though, because they wore dusters and there were five of them, sacks pulled over their faces, and they had hit the stage just as it had pulled up to Chalk Creek—and had ridden back down the road toward Breckenridge or Georgetown or Idaho Falls or wherever. Away from Leadville, though, and out of Dooley’s jurisdiction.
Still, after taking statements and sending out more telegraphs, once again Dooley made his way to Chalk Creek to find no tracks, no remnants of cigarettes, no clues whatsoever.
He rode back to town, did his marshaling duties, went over to a hotel café and met with Jarvis to sign more documents for the mine, and returned to his room, let Blue out, fed him, and waited till midnight before sneaking to the livery. He saddled General Grant and eased his way out of town. Payday was two weeks behind him and a little less than two weeks before him, so the town would likely be quiet. Dooley rode to Chalk Creek and found a good spot on the Leadville side of the stream that provided plenty of shelter. He would have a clear view, come morning, of the stage when it came in. And if anyone tried to shoot Butch Sweeney or rob his mud wagon, Dooley would be there to stop the robbery.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Dawn crept up slowly in the high country, and cold. Dooley could remember waking up to temperatures like the hinges of hell when he had cowboyed in Texas and Arizona, but here he tried to warm his hands with frosty breath. Behind him, he heard General Grant unleashing about a gallon of urine. Frowning, Dooley wondered if any hidden bandit might hear the noise, for sounds traveled far in this country. That’s why he had cautiously levered a round into the Winchester when he had first made camp, if you could call this a camp.
He shifted his legs to make himself more comfortable and get the blood circulating again. Without moving more than he had to, Dooley scanned the road and beyond. He studied the crevasses, the forests, the shadows, and the tops of rocks. He sought out where five men would have a good view of the road and might be able to ride out from their hiding places in a hurry.
Mostly, he waited.
That was one attribute he was glad to have. Patience. Men in a hurry did not survive long in this country
The sun rose. His breath lost its frosty accent. General Grant waited patiently, casually grazing on the shrub and mountain wildflowers nearby. No riders appeared. He felt pretty sure he was alone here, but he might be wrong.
He waited some more.
How much time passed he did not know, but well before the sun moved over his head, he recognized the sound of hooves pounding the hard-packed dirt that was the road to Leadville. Traces chimed out, and at length came the popping of a whip and the swearing of the driver of a stagecoach. The driver would be Butch Sweeney.
Dooley made himself move now, but slowly, not giving away his position to anyone who had less than a hawk’s vision. He brought the Winchester up, eased back the hammer almost silently, and stared ahead. He did not look at the road, for Butch’s mud wagon would show up in good time. He focused on the places he felt most likely could hide road agents on horseback.
He controlled his breathing, tried to keep his nerves at bay, somehow managed to steady his heartbeat.
The wagon topped the rise. Butch was easily recognizable in the driver’s box. The mules did not look tired, and that was due to the driver. Butch Sweeney wasn’t that green kid fresh off a farm and trying to learn to cowboy. Not anymore.
The stagecoach slowed as Butch neared Chalk Creek. Dooley sucked in a deep breath, held it, pressed his lips tightly. And watched the mud wagon ease across the creek into Dooley’s jurisdiction. Still, Dooley did not move until Butch was cussing up a storm and working the whip, sending the mules back into a run. Dooley stood slowly, still looking this way and that, trying to see some sign of a gang of bandits. When none appeared, he moved quickly to General Grant, shoved the Winchester into the scabbard, tightened the cinch, and swung into the saddle. Once he put the spurs against the fine gelding’s ribs, he, too, found himself back in his jurisdiction.
As he galloped after Butch’s stage, Dooley decided that it made sense. The bandits had hit a couple of stages just outside of Leadville, so now they had decided to move on to some other town. Georgetown or Silver Plume or maybe they’d even leave Colorado for something new. No sense in pushing one’s luck. Despite that thinking, Dooley kept his eyes sharp, half expecting those five desperadoes to appear out of the dust.
It didn’t happen.
As Dooley drew nearer, he began shouting at Butch to rein up, although he knew with the wind blowing, the mules running hard, and the wheels rattling on the wagon, his young pard wouldn’t be able to hear him. Eventually, Butch Sweeney looked over his shoulder and must have recognized Dooley—or at least General Grant—because he pulled hard on the lines and the old coach eased to a stop.
Dooley reined up alongside the wagon, closest to the driver’s seat, and let the gelding catch his wind.
“What’s up, Dooley?” Butch asked.
Dooley looked inside the wagon, as Butch had rolled up the canvas curtains. Empty.
“You run into any trouble?” Dooley said once he had caught his breath.
“Nah.”
“No passengers, eh?”
“Not this run, Dooley. You gonna answer my question and tell me what’s happening?”
“Been some stage holdups.”
“Here?”
Dooley thumbed down the road. “At the crossing. I thought they might hit you.”
Butch grunted. “Well, don’t that beat all.”
“You didn’t hear of any holdups between here and Denver, did you?”
“Truth is, I didn’t make it to Denver this time, Dooley. Axle busted at Georgetown. The Swede there fixed me up, and since I didn’t have much of a load and no passengers, I come back.”
Dooley considered this. It didn’t make sense that Butch wouldn’t continue on to Denver, because passengers might be waiting to ride to Leadville, but, well, Butch Sweeney—like most cowhands—never had much of a head for business.
“But no one mentioned no stage robberies in Georgetown. And I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary—no strangers, nothing like that—from there to here.” He grinned widely. “You bodyguarding me, Dooley?”
Dooley smiled. “Let’s get to town, pard. I’ll buy you breakfast and fill you in on all that’s happened since you left.”
* * *
Back in town, the Leadville Ledger editor asked Dooley a few questions about the holdups and agreed with Dooley’s assessment that the bandits had moved off to hit some other unsuspecting mining town. The journalist also asked Butch Sweeney about avoiding the holdups, but Butch just smiled and quipped how this time busting an axle on that miserable road near Georgetown might have done him some good. Since he had no passengers or anything worth robbing.
“Do you think Marshal Monahan is right and that the robbers have moved away?” the editor asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t contradict nothing Dooley Monahan has to say. And it sure makes a lot of sense, if you ask me, which you did. The roads were safe for me, so I guess they’re safe now. Hope so, anyhow.”
That’s what was printed in the paper the next day, and that’s why Butch told Dooley that he didn’t need any supper that day on account he had been eating his words all day.
Because the stagecoach from Georgetown was robbed at the exact same spot that afternoon.
Five men on horseback. Wearing dusters and some sort of masks. This time, though, the messenger had been able to describe the horses: two bays, a black, a chestnut, and a piebald. They had robbed the driver, the messenger—even taken the latter’s Parker shotgun—and robbed the new schoolmistress, Miss LaDene Monroe, who was coming into town all the way from Chillicothe, Ohio. Taken her Bible, her volume of Shakespeare, and, most important, her complete set of Readers for the children of Leadville. She also happened to be young, thin, blond, and very, very attractive. An ugly schoolteacher wouldn’t have aroused that much sympathy.
“What do you plan on doing about this wave of crime, Marshal?”
Dooley frowned. So George Miller had decided to do the stumping today instead of that crooked man from the Denver Telegram. Miller offered the schoolteacher a handkerchief, but she politely declined. That helped Dooley, he figured. At least it made him like the schoolteacher a lot more, especially when she stepped away from Miller.
“Same as before,” Dooley answered.
“You mean nothing,” Miller said.
“I’m sending a telegraph to the county sheriff, asking for a posse of deputies or at least one deputy sheriff, because these crimes are falling outside my jurisdiction. I can’t lead a posse after those men because of that jurisdiction. The road agents haven’t stolen any mail or broken any federal law so the U.S. marshal can’t do anything for the time being. My hands are tied. I don’t like it. But that’s the way things are.”
Miller’s smile was menacing. Dooley knew he was up to something. The county clerk had an audience, and Dooley, as he had just said, had his hands tied. He had underestimated George Miller.
“I just think it’s interesting . . .” Miller began, and Dooley swore underneath his breath as Paul Pinkerton stepped out of the crowd, pencil and notepad in his hands. “Yes, it’s interesting that these lies happen to occur just a few feet outside of our town marshal’s jurisdiction. And our marshal keeps making a note of that very fact. And what strikes me as even funnier is that only one stagecoach that makes a regular run to Leadville that has not been held up . . . happens to be . . . owned and operated and even driven by our town marshal’s best friend, Butch Sweeney.”
Dooley felt his ears redden. If only he, Dooley Monahan, was as corrupt as George Miller. Then he could just draw his pistol and put a .45 caliber slug in the liar’s gut. Alas, Dooley had this thing called a conscience, and this belief that a man was supposed to do what’s right.
“Mr. Odenkirk,” Miller called out.
The shotgun-toting guard for the most recent stagecoach holdup stepped away from the bank’s front wall.
“Yes, sir.”
“You said one of these brigands rode a chestnut?”
“Yes, sir.”
Miller smiled. Dooley’s stomach turned sour.
“If my memory is correct, Butch Sweeney owns a chestnut mare.”
“And those first robberies happened while . . .” Dooley shut his trap, remembering too late, and George Miller sprung his trap.
“Yes. Butch Sweeney was conveniently out of town. Making his run to Denver. But Mr. Pinkerton of the Telegram has news, don’t you, sir?” That was not a question.
The lying scribe from Denver flipped back a few pages in his notepad and told the crowd, “The Leadville stage never made it to Denver. No one in Denver saw it. A telegraph was sent from Mr. Sweeney saying that the stage would resume its run later. No explanation was given, except that a busted axle in Georgetown was to blame.”
The crowd began to murmur. Dooley’s temper began to boil.
Then Marshal Blue stepped out. He held something in his hand, and Dooley knew what it was: a warrant.
“I thought,” he somehow managed to say, “that no federal crime had been committed.”
The corrupt lawman grinned. “Miss Monroe told me that she had a letter from her fine mother as a bookmark in her volume of Shakespeare. A letter was stolen. That means this was a federal offense.” He raised his voice. “I’m going after the leader of this gang of stagecoach robbers, Butch Sweeney! Who’ll join me?”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Dooley found Butch in the hotel room, unshaven, sitting on the bed, scratching Blue’s ears. Quickly, Dooley closed the door. “What are you doing here?” he asked urgently.
“Julia told me what was going on,” Butch said. “I saw the crowd, saw Miller and Marshal Blue, figured it was time for us to skedaddle.” He hooked a thumb toward the wallpaper. “Got our horses tied up in the alley out back.”
“Butch,” Dooley pleaded, “you’re innocent. Innocent men don’t run.”
“They do when they don’t want to get lynched.”
“They’re not going to lynch you.”
Butch stopped petting the shepherd. He hadn’t been looking at Dooley all this time until now. “Dooley, they’ll hang me twice.”
Anger rising, Dooley fought back the urge to berate his friend with a litany of profanity, or to at least give him a firm punch in the nose. He opened his mouth, and shut it. Spurs jingled, boots pounded on the stairs, and excited voices easily sounded through the hotel’s thin walls.
Butch heard the racket, too, and he understood.
Coming to his feet, Butch reached for his gun as Dooley jerked open the door and stepped into the hallway. A pistol barked, Dooley dropped to his knee and returned fire. He had never shot at a federal lawman before, and certainly did not want to hit the man, even though Richard Blue deserved to be at least grazed. The crooked peace officer dropped his pistol and dived toward the stairs. By then Butch had stepped outside and sent two rounds from his pistol.
The door slammed, trapping the barking shepherd in Dooley’s room, the dog’s paws scratching like a tiger against the flimsy door. Dooley hooked his thumb down the hall, and Butch took off toward the door that led to the outside stairs. There was a pretty good chance Richard Blue had some of his posse there, but Dooley knew he and Butch couldn’t stay here. He sent another round that splintered the corner.
Dooley kept backing up, his gun trained at the men cowering behind the wall. He felt the breeze as Butch opened the door. No gunfire sounded outside, and Butch Sweeney was pounding down the stairs. That meant Richard Blue had not seen the horses. Maybe.
Dooley stepped onto the landing, slammed the door shut, and flinched as a bullet punched a hole just inches from his head. Butch had already swung into his saddle and pulled General Grant away. Halfway down the stairs, Dooley turned, fired a round through the door, then leaped over the rail, spread his legs, and landed in the saddle. He filled his left hand with the reins, kept his Colt in his right, and raked General Grant’s ribs with his spurs.
Both horses thundered out of the alley, the riders leaning low, as three or four bullets flew past them from Marshal Blue on the landing. Then the riders had turned the corner.
Butch Sweeney had once told Dooley that he had always wondered what it would be like to be an outlaw, riding hell-bent for leather out of a town, bullets chasing after him, seeing the frightened faces of citizens standing on the boardwalks or in the middle of the streets.
Well, now he knew.
* * *
“Hold up!” Dooley yelled as the horses splashed across Chalk Creek.
Reluctantly, Butch Sweeney brought his horse to a halt and turned angrily in the saddle. “A federal deputy’s jurisdiction don’t end at that creek, pard!” he snapped.
“I know that,” Dooley barked back. “I also know that you didn’t rob those stagecoaches . . .” He stopped. “Did you?”
“Of course not, Dooley. You know me better than that.” He pulled on the reins to turn his chestnut around and started to spur the horse again.
“Hold it!” Dooley snapped. “We’re both going to be put on wanted posters now. Unless we stop it!”
“Well, how the hell do you plan on doing that?”
Dooley made himself smile.
“I got an idea,” he said. “We’ve been following the wrong trail to nail George Miller’s hide to the barn wall.”
* * *
At this time of night, Dooley knew his mine would be empty. Jarvis had recommended that they quit paying men to guard the place at night, as the guards had been doing nothing except drawing Dooley’s pay for months now. Dooley had always listened to his bookkeeper.
Dooley and Butch eased their horses to the shed, and Dooley dismounted. He found a shovel, and started digging, while Butch remained mounted, holding the reins to General Grant.
“I can’t believe you bury your money in a hole in the ground,” Butch sai
d.
“Would you trust a bank in Leadville?”
Butch said: “You got some in Shaw’s bank.”
“Not as much as I got here.”
“You sure no one’s here?”
Dooley stopped digging. “There shouldn’t be.”
But he heard the noise, too. He leaned the shovel against a tree and pressed his lips together, as Butch dismounted and ground-reined both horses. They drew their rifles from the saddle scabbards and moved to the side of the shed. Dooley jutted his jaw toward the office, and they crept to the side.
They could hear the voices now, and a horse nickered. Freezing, Dooley felt his stomach tighten, fearing either Butch’s chestnut or General Grant might answer, but the only sound was the rustling of leaves and limbs in the trees. Dooley peered past the wall and could make out the outlines of horses in the corral.
“Guards?” Butch whispered.
Dooley answered, “Shouldn’t be.”
They saw the glow of a campfire out behind where the worthless rocks were dumped. Dooley moved his left arm out and made a wide wave. Understanding, Butch Sweeney crept out that way, disappearing in the dark. Then Dooley crouched and began picking his path toward the fire.
He leaned against a rock slab and let his eyes adjust to the fire. Five men. Not miners. Not guards. They were drinking, laughing, and suddenly Dooley understood. He raised a hand to his mouth, covered it slightly, and gave his best impression of a hoot owl. One of the men laughed and said, “Who! Who! Who!”
Which told Dooley what he needed to know.
Those men were drunk.
So Dooley raised his rifle, eared back the hammer, and sent a round into the center of the fire. Sparks flew. Men fell backward, and Dooley leaped over the rocks, levering another round into the Winchester and sending another bullet into the center of the camp.
Hang Him Twice Page 27
