by Ed Gorman
I had just laid my head down on the pillow when I remembered the telegram I’d forgotten to read. I did my best to make sense of it. Something about a bank robber and somebody blowing up something or other. Something about how I was needed somewhere else and fast. I slept till nearly noon and got up and reread the telegram. Then I headed west.
Chapter 5
Five Months Later
My first extended assignment was to help local law stop a bomber who was working a wide area setting off large explosions at various federal government buildings at night. Part of my job was to determine if there was a new type of explosive involved.
The first suspicion was that the man was a former Confederate soldier. The war might have ended on paper but that was the only place it had ended.
Turned out, the man was a woman and the bombings had nothing to do with the war. Her husband, a miner who had learned how to handle explosives during the war and had apparently taught his wife more than a little bit as well, had been hanged for robbing trains carrying federal government goods. She didn’t believe the hanging was fair because his two partners were given long sentences. They had confessed that while they’d been along for the stealing, they hadn’t approved of the killing, which, they claimed, had always been done by the husband. So she set off to protest what she saw as a great injustice. I was inclined to agree, because if the other two had been so much against the killings, why had they continued to go along on the robberies?
I spent Christmas in Denver in a whorehouse. There are some who would no doubt find that morally reprehensible, and others who would find it awful lonely-sounding. I didn’t find it to be either one. There was a great turkey feast and the girls all told stories about the dopiest of their customers (making me wonder, of course, what they’d say about me), and afterward I went upstairs and had myself a good sleep, only to wake up with a very pretty young prairie girl helping me keep the bed warm. We got on right nicely, if you care to know any of the details.
On January 3, while working in the mountains with a local sheriff who was trying to find out who had killed a federal judge who had been spending the holidays with his family there, I got the telegram from Susan Daly.
TOM SENT TO WILLOW BEND ON ASSIGNMENT.
CONNELLY AND PEPPER ALSO WORKING CASE.
AM SCARED FOR TOM.
PLEASE HELP.—SUSAN
I wasn’t sure I could get there in time to help. And as much as I owed him, I couldn’t leave a case of this importance and take a train somewhere to talk him out of his plans.
I didn’t even feel guilt about my reluctance. He’d saved my life but I’d helped him at several key times in the past four years, especially where his drinking was concerned.
But later in the day one of those little coincidences that make life both interesting and frightening took place. I got a second telegram, this one from Washington, D.C., informing me that a bank robber named Chaney who worked out of Willow Bend had used some explosives to blow up the back end of a bank one night when it was empty. I sent a return telegram, wanting to know why Connelly and Pepper just happened to be on the same assignment. The return wire read:
FEDERAL AGENT JIM SLOANE MURDERED
WHILE INVESTIGATING ROBBERIES.
AGENT DALY SENT IN AS REPLACEMENT.
AGENTS CONNELLY AND PEPPER REQUESTED
ASSIGNMENT.
That wasn’t like Connelly and Pepper. They were rarely given the important tasks of breaking counterfeiting rings or ferreting out plots against the government or protecting members of the judiciary, and they certainly didn’t care at all about the death of a fellow agent. They mostly worked the lower levels of crime. They had personal acquaintance with every pickpocket, burglar, flimflam artist, and gunnie for hire in the West. They knew them because they had practiced the same esteemed callings themselves over the years.
The fact that they’d requested this assignment—undoubtedly after Tom had been sent there—made me wonder if they weren’t getting just a little bit tired of all his accusations. Especially if they were true, it would be in their best interest to silence him once and for all. And where better to do that than some out-of-the-way place like Willow Bend?
I probably still wouldn’t have gone to Willow Bend if we hadn’t caught the break we needed in the case. The same man who’d killed the first federal judge had badly wounded a second one. But that judge had badly wounded his would-be killer in the process. The killer was in a hospital in grave condition. The wire relating all this information also said that he had confessed to the crimes and would be held until it was determined where he would be tried. There are always jurisdictional problems in cases like that but unless the second judge died, I assumed the trial would be held where the first judge lived—if the killer lived long enough to even stand trial.
And that was how I came to be in Willow Bend.
Winter had blessed the prosperous town of Willow Bend with several inches of snow, giving it the look of a sentimental holiday card.
I took a hotel room and then headed directly for the library, which was a single large room in the basement of the haberdashery. Though newspaper stories were usually slanted to the tastes and whims of the man who owned the press, looking through a few months’ of weekly papers gave you a quick idea of who the powers were and what events the citizenry were interested in.
The richest man in that part of the Territory was one John Flannery Sr. Along with his other investors, he owned six banks. The newspaper owner was no friend of his. A number of stories suggested that his son, Flannery Jr., who had run the family business for the past several years, was foreclosing many ranch and farm loans in the Territory so he could sell his reclaimed property for several times its present worth to “a cabal of Eastern interests.” Most of the time all that Western papers had to say was “Eastern interests” and their readers were ready to draw their guns. They didn’t need “cabal.”
But the Flannery family had a serious problem. Every single one of the family-owned banks had been robbed in the previous three months and—it was suspected—the money turned over to ranchers and farmers by the Robin Hood-like bank robber. It was also suspected that he may have killed a federal man who’d been out there before me.
Sheriff Nordberg was quoted as saying that he had “no proof” that a young man named Michael Chaney was the culprit, though there seemed to be a popular belief he was. Nordberg said, “There’s no doubt people are treating him like a hero. They won’t even consider the possibility he killed that federal man. They say he’d never kill anybody.”
All this made young Flannery look bad, according to the stories. Flannery Jr. couldn’t seem to stop the robberies, not even with a $10,000 reward being offered for concrete information.
None of this information had any direct bearing on Tom Daly or Connelly and Pepper, but because I would have to be asking a lot of questions of people I didn’t know, it wouldn’t hurt to have some sense of what was on their minds.
The rest of the material was pretty much what you’d find in all weekly newspapers. A discussion of sanitation at a town council meeting; a belated statue to be built in the town park honoring a Civil War hero; and all the usual material about births, deaths, and potluck church suppers that filled the hours between.
Because I was a stranger, shaved and in a clean cattleman’s suit and Stetson, the librarian came over every so often to see if there was any other material I needed. She had a quietly erotic face and intelligent brown eyes.
“This is some story about this Chaney. Robbing banks and giving the money to the ranchers and farmers.”
She responded cautiously. “Some people think he’s a hero for doing it.”
“And some people don’t, I take it?”
She couldn’t resist smiling. “Well, the people who don’t care for him are usually associated with the Flannerys in some way.”
“How about this sheriff? This Nordberg? How do you think he feels about Chaney?”
She lower
ed her voice. “Are you a reporter or something?”
I shook my head. “Just passing through. Interesting story. I’m surprised it hasn’t gotten more attention in the Territory newspapers.”
“Well, Mr. Flannery Sr. owns most of them, so he plays it down. It’s embarrassing. He has guards stationed everywhere but Mike gets the money anyway.”
The “Mike” told me her feelings about the young bank robber.
I stood up. “Thanks for your help.”
“My pleasure.”
I picked up my Stetson.
Her nice brown eyes turned coy. “I still think you’re a reporter of some kind.”
Chapter 6
There should be a door to the past. I’d keep mine closed.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
I didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. I knew who it was. I’d actually been looking for him but once he was there I wanted to go somewhere else. Fast.
“You tried any of the pussy here yet, Ford? They’ve got some awful nice stuff.”
Good old Harry Connelly.
I was walking down one of the boardwalks. It was two in the afternoon and the streets were packed with shoppers on that snowbound but warm afternoon. Most of the shoppers were women. The ones around me looked with startled displeasure at Harry. They weren’t used to hearing language like Harry’s, especially not bellowed that way.
He was the same Harry, dapper in Edwardian clothes, almost foppish the way his red scarf was thrown just-so across his full-length black winter coat. At the moment, he’d be carrying a variety of weapons, including the Colt strapped to his hip and, if he ran true to form, at least two other handguns and a couple knives hidden about his person. And if he ran out of weapons, he could kill you with his hands. He was especially good at ripping eyeballs out with his thumbs.
From down the main business street came the saloon sounds of laughter and player pianos. Later, a couple of the girls who pried whiskey money from the customers would take the stage and sing a couple of songs.
I’d learned a few more things about the town since I’d left the library.
Willow Bend was one of those modern Western towns. It understood that a part of commerce was sin. Thus, the town council allowed for three saloons, two just off the center of town and another down by the railroad roundhouse. It also allowed, with much greater discretion and disdain, a bawdyhouse just on the east end of the town limits.
The girls had to come in once a month and get checked by one of the town docs and if there was any trouble at the house, the madam got fined, and usually pretty heavily. The girls were not allowed to spend time with any townsmen except within the confines of the house. And they were allowed into the business district only twice a week and only for two hours for each trip. A wag suggested that the town just paint all the whores bright red and be done with it.
I’d also learned that the town had suddenly become the only place where people in that part of the Territory could find the things they needed. There’d been another town thirty miles away but it had folded when the railroad had bypassed it. By then the business was there and going to stay there.
So Willow Bend was enjoying the fruits of another town’s disaster and things were moving along well. Connelly was probably right about the quality of the girls. They were a specialty of the town—as Harry had just loudly reminded the ladies now on the boardwalk.
“I’ll bet I can tell you why you’re in town.”
“You a mind reader now, Connelly?”
“No. But it seems every time Pepper and I end up in the same place as Tom Daly, you have a habit of showing up, too.”
“And just why are you here, Connelly? We both know you don’t care about some rich man’s banks being robbed, and I doubt you even knew who Jim Sloane was.”
He gave me a hard look, but didn’t answer my question. “Last time, Ford,” he said, “you thought you were protecting Pepper and me from your friend. Who are you here to protect this time?”
“Whichever of you needs it,” I said. “I don’t like to see anyone take the law into their own hands. That was one of the oaths I swore when I put on this badge. Same as you,” I added.
He shook his head. “That friend of yours has already tried to kill us, and he’s still shooting his mouth off about us all over the place. If something happens to him, the law’ll be on our side. You just remember that, Ford.”
A woman with a regal face framed perfectly by her blue bonnet passed by. Harry not only tipped his hat but gave her a small bow. She smiled, pleased. You didn’t see a whole lot of bowing in a mountain town like Willow Bend.
Connelly said, “We’re here to have some fun since we wrapped up that revenue case. Now Washington told us to help out the sheriff finding this Mike Chaney.” He laughed. “Chaney could run for office, the kind of publicity he’s getting. The thing is, he’s messing with six banks that are the pride of the National Banking System. And don’t forget Chaney was the guy who probably killed Sloane, the federal guy the boss sent out here before us, just like he killed Nick Tremont’s boy.”
“I heard that was self-defense, that Tremont drew down on him.”
“Well, that’s what you’d expect Chaney to say, isn’t it?”
“This Flannery really foreclosing so he can sell the land to some Eastern circuit?”
Connelly made a clucking sound. “Why, I do believe you think he’s doing the right thing, helping all these poor farmers and ranchers. That’s why I say he could run for office, he gets any more popular. The thing you seem to forget, Ford, is that he’s breaking federal law. This isn’t homegrown money he’s stealing; this is the real thing, money printed in Washington, D.C., and printed on government presses.”
Not until after the war did the government step in and demand that the currency become federalized. Until then banks could print their own currency. Banks failed by the score and everyday people were cheated out of millions. By that point there was only one kind of currency and banks had the right to call in federal help if they were getting robbed. Connelly and Pepper would be hunting for the local Robin Hood.
“He’s a banker, Ford. He makes money by investing. If these people can’t pay, he has a right to foreclose.”
“Some banks take the long view. They see that it’s good to help local people stay in business, even if they have to float them for a while and let them pay when they can.”
Connelly shook his head, pulled a gold watch from his coat pocket. “He’s a banker, not a priest. Why shouldn’t he make money when he can?”
“The way people seem to like this Chaney around here, it might cost him a lot of business. They might go somewhere else.”
“That’s where John is sitting pretty,” he laughed. “There’s no other bank within sixty miles of here.”
Chapter 7
“This is getting to be a convention,” Sheriff Daryl Nordberg laughed after I had introduced myself and taken the chair he’d offered me. “I can’t remember ever having this many federal agents here at the same time.”
“I’m here unofficially.”
He was square. Square head; big, square shoulders; wide, square hands. The blue Swedish eyes were friendly enough but the mouth hinted that the friendliness could disappear fast. He wore a khaki uniform. Despite his thinning hair, he looked no older than midtwenties to me.
The office was also square. Two pine filing cabinets, a glassed wall case holding three different types of rifles, and a four-shelf bookcase behind him. There were three photographs of the same pretty young woman. In one of the photographs, he stood close enough to her to have his arm around her shoulders.
“I guess I don’t know what you mean by unofficial.”
“Connelly and Pepper have an argument with the other agent, the one who came to replace Jim Sloane and to find out how he died. I’m worried that something might happen. I want to get to the agent before anything does.”
Blond eyebrow raised. “Connelly and Pepper, you say?
”
I nodded.
“There’s a pair of characters for you. They dress like some kind of theater boy.”
“It’s an act.”
He nodded, looked unhappy. “I found that out. Somebody said something to one of them in a saloon here the other night and Pepper broke his nose and knocked out three of his teeth. And the woman who runs the whorehouse said there’s no doubt they like the ladies.”
“They’re tough boys. But I want to keep them away from Tom Daly. You got a handle on folks who come through town?”
“If Daly’s a little guy with a big mouth, I can tell you right where to find him.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
He leaned back in his office chair. It needed some grease. “Nothing big. Nothing even worth running him in for. But he’s been here about a week and he’s already been kicked out of two boardinghouses.”
“You happen to know where I’d find him now?”
“As of yesterday, he was staying with a woman named Emma Landers. She’s a widow lady who runs a boardinghouse for railroad men. I asked her to take him.” He smiled. “I’m a chicken. Scares me to run a federal man in, even if he is a drunk. I’ve got a wife and a baby to support.”
I looked again at the photographs behind him. Wife in all three; him in one. But no evidence of a child.
“I won’t get you involved unless I need to. Sounds like you’ve got a lot to do already with this Mike Chaney.”
“I’ve got two part-time deputies looking for him now. Plus Connelly and Pepper. No luck so far.”
“How about a full-out manhunt?”
He shook his head. “For one thing, Western Union told me that there are a lot of bad storms headed this way. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a mountain storm before, but it’s about the most dangerous thing I can think of. You get caught in an avalanche, you probably won’t survive. I don’t want to have a lot of men caught out there in that. And for another—” He paused. “He’s a hero to a lot of people who wouldn’t have ranches and farms today if he hadn’t robbed those banks.”
