Wanted: Sam Bass

by Paul Colt

  Ben Munson, the stationmaster, stepped onto the boardwalk accompanied by two Wells Fargo men waiting to deliver the gold shipment to City National Bank.

  Tiller looked down from the box. “Best call the sheriff, Ben. They ain’t nothin’ here for them two to guard. Road agents hit Pete Daley north of the forty-mile south station.”

  Pale morning sun fought its way through the grime coating the passenger lounge windows. It pooled on a nearly new plank floor already stained with dried mud and footprints. Straight-backed benches lined the wall facing the ticket counter. Waiting passengers sat here and there, fanning themselves against oppressive late summer heat.

  Wells Fargo Agent David Dickerson mopped his brow with a linen handkerchief gone damp with the chore. He paced the lounge, impatiently waiting for Sheriff Calhoun. Losing a large shipment would not be well received in San Francisco. He expected a shipment of that size would be insured. That might mitigate the loss in financial terms, but it did little to deflect the damage done to the Wells Fargo reputation. The station door swung open filled by the sheriff’s substantial silhouette. He stepped inside and closed the door. Dickerson turned on the lawman, face flushed, jowls straining his sweat-stained collar. His plump lips sputtered in frustration.

  “So Sheriff, what’s to be done about it?”

  “Hold your horses Dickerson. Give me a minute to figure out what the hell happened here.”

  Charlie Tiller stood hat in hand beside the stationmaster’s desk. Munson sat at his desk. He hated sitting there no more useful than teets on a bull. Then again better that than finding himself in Dickerson’s shoes. The Wells Fargo man was the one with the twenty-thousand-dollar problem. Wells Fargo was his customer so he had to bear some responsibility here, but Wells Fargo was paid to provide security for these shipments. They were a passenger as far as the Cheyenne & Deadwood was concerned. The sheriff crossed the lounge to Munson’s desk followed closely by the Wells Fargo man.

  “All right, Ben what happened?”

  Munson handed Calhoun a single sheet of paper marked and witnessed by Pete Daley. Daley was the driver at the time of the robbery. He didn’t have much to offer by way of particulars. Two masked men stopped the stage two miles north of the forty-mile stop. They lifted the strongbox and sent the coach on its way.

  “Not much to go on here.”

  Munson shook his head.

  “Are you sure that’s all there is?” He glanced from Munson to Tiller.

  “Charlie Tiller here is the relief driver. He brought in Pete’s statement,” Munson said, as if to excuse Tiller.

  “Did he give anyone a description?”

  The sheriff turned to Tiller. The driver twisted his hat in his hands and shrugged. “Our shotgun messenger reported that one of them rode a blue roan and that one sounded like he might be a Texan,” Dickerson said.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it, Sheriff. Sorry, best we can do,” Munson said.

  Calhoun scratched the stubble on his chin. “Not much to go on.”

  Dickerson drew up his bulk. “Twenty thousand dollars in gold is plenty to go on, Sheriff. So what’s to be done?”

  Calhoun pulled a scowl, growing impatient with the pushy express agent. He shrugged. “That stage was robbed two hundred and sixty miles from here. It’s not my jurisdiction even if I had the manpower to go chasin’ up there. Hell, it ain’t even in Deadwood jurisdiction if they was to have a lawman up there, which they don’t.”

  “So you’re tellin’ me there’s nothing you can do about armed robbery and the loss of twenty thousand dollars in gold.”

  “I’m tellin’ you it’s outside my jurisdiction. You’re the one hired to protect that shipment.”

  “And that’s what I’m supposed to tell my superiors?”

  “That’s your problem, Dickerson. Not mine.”

  Denver

  Two Days Later

  “Colonel Crook?”

  The feller at the office door that afternoon looked like he might be an undertaker. Course I knew he wasn’t an undertaker. I knew all the undertakers in Denver. That sort of went with my line of work. He stuck out his hand with a business card.

  “Samuel Fairchild, Wells Fargo.”

  “Mr. Fairchild, what can I do for you?”

  “Wells Fargo would like to engage the services of your Great Western Detective League in a matter of vital interest.”

  “Vital interest is it? How may we be of service?”

  “May I have a seat?”

  “Please.” He took a seat across the desk. I settled into my chair.

  “Four days ago the Cheyenne & Deadwood stage was robbed of twenty thousand dollars in gold. The shipment was under Wells Fargo protection. We would like to engage you to recover it. We are prepared to offer you a reward of one thousand five hundred dollars for the apprehension of those responsible. We will add a one-thousand-dollar bonus for the recovery of our shipment. The terms of our offer are detailed in this engagement letter.” He drew a folded page from a leather case and slid it across the desk.

  I scanned the page. It was all there all right. Trouble was I didn’t have an operative standing by just then to take on such an assignment. I needed to think. I opened my notebook and took up my pen.

  “What can you tell me about the robbery?”

  “Not much I’m afraid.”

  He was right about that. It took almost no time at all to recount the meager facts of the case. It was nowhere near enough time for me to devise a way to take on such a lucrative assignment. Fortunately as is true of invention, necessity can also mother inspiration. By the time I scrawled the last of my scanty notes, I had a way forward. Well I didn’t exactly have a way forward. I had a way that might work. It was a bit chancy, but then few things in life are risk free. Given the size of the prize I thought I just might be able to recruit the operative I needed.

  “Mr. Fairchild, the Great Western Detective League is at your service.” I held up his card. “May I contact you at this office when we have something to report?”

  TWO

  Silver Slipper Saloon

  Denver

  I found him seated back to the wall at a corner table in one of the more disreputable saloons in a shabby part of town. Briscoe Cane was easily recognizable from the file I’d compiled on him. He bore lean weather lined features that might have been stitched out of old saddle leather. He had hawk features, punctuated by cold gray eyes animated by some inner light that turned on and turned off with his interest. Shoulder-length hair, gray before its time, gave him an aged appearance. His lean, angular, hickory-hard frame at first appeared awkward. For the object of one of his pursuits, misestimating his appearance might prove fatal. Cane was known to possess cat-like quickness and deadly accuracy in the use of a veritable arsenal of weaponry concealed under a black frock coat. I approached his table under cover of a friendly smile.

  “Mr. Cane?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’d like a word with you.”

  “Air’s free.”

  “May I sit?” He favored me with an annoyed glance.

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Mr. Cane, I’ve followed your work with interest. I could use a man of your abilities in my organization.”

  “My abilities? What do you know of my abilities? We’ve never met.”

  It was true, we had never met. But my file on the man was rather complete. “I know, for example, you favor a pair of finebalanced bone-handled blades, one sheathed behind that. 44 holster rig and the other in your left boot. I know you can draw and throw with either hand fast enough to silently defeat another man’s gun draw.”

  He arched a brow.

  “I know you are equally fast with that Colt and a. 41 caliber Forehand & Wadsworth Bull Dog rigged for cross draw at your back. Some consider a spur trigger pocket pistol the weapon of choice for a whore. Such a notion would sadly misestimate your use of it. Those that do, seldom do so for long.”

&nb
sp; His eyes narrowed in a squint. “Where the hell did you get all this, Mr. ahh?”

  “Crook, Colonel David J. Crook, US Army retired. Where I got the information is unimportant. What is important is that I have it. I also know you carry a Henry rifle and I’m told you can pluck out a man’s eye at a thousand paces. I know that when called for, you possess a master craftsman’s skills with explosives. In my humble opinion, were it not for the staunch religious foundation afforded by your upbringing you might have had a more prosperous career as an assassin than the one you have as a bounty hunter. So as you see, your abilities are quite well suited to my organization.”

  His brows bunched over the bridge of his nose. “Your organization?”

  “Yes, the Great Western Detective League. We are an association of law enforcement professionals across the West. We cooperate in the solving of crimes.”

  “A law enforcement association headed by a man named Crook. Other than a bit of humor I don’t see what that’s got to do with me. I hunt for bounty.”

  “Precisely! So do we, after a fashion. And that’s why you would be a perfect fit for my organization.”

  “I work alone.”

  “If you prefer, that can be arranged.”

  “Don’t need no arrangin.’ I work alone now.”

  “But don’t you see that’s your problem?”

  “Look, Colonel I work alone. I don’t need no organization.”

  “Oh but you do.”

  “Why?”

  “For information.”

  “For information. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What exactly are you working on now, Mr. Cane?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “Further to my point, at the moment you’re not working on anything.” I didn’t know that of course. It was only a guess. Like hunches, guesses are things an investigator must play from time to time.

  He scratched the bristled stubble on his chin. “How’d you know that?”

  I shrugged. “Investigators are paid to know things. Your current circumstance suits my point perfectly. You are not gainfully engaged at the moment. I on the other hand have here in my pocket a two-thousand-five-hundred-dollar opportunity.”

  Both brows parted wide eyed. He waved the bartender over with a glass and poured me a drink.

  “Two thousand five hundred dollars you say.”

  “That’s correct. Your share could amount to one thousand five hundred dollars if you take the assignment and succeed.”

  “What about the rest?”

  “That belongs to the Great Western Detective League. I take twenty-five percent to compensate my administration of the league. The other fifteen percent goes into an escrow for distribution in equal shares to all league members at the end of the year. That yearly bonus can amount to a tidy sum. It assures our members’ interest in the league’s overall success.”

  “Hell if I work alone, I get the whole thing.”

  “No you don’t. If you work alone, you sit here not working. That’s the value of information. That’s the value of belonging to the league. The league casts a wide net. We get the best information. We get superior results. So superior that clients like Wells Fargo seek us out with opportunities like this one.” I drew a folded sheet from my inside coat pocket for emphasis. He eyed it. “Is it better to work steady for sixty percent of the proceeds plus a bonus on the success of other league members; or to sit here idle for one hundred percent of sometimes?” His mouth turned down at the corners, bent in serious contemplation.

  “All right, Colonel, I’ll give your league a try. Tell me about this opportunity of yours.”

  “Splendid!”

  Stage Road to Deadwood

  Cane caught a stage north to Cheyenne the next morning. By his estimation wherever the bandits went, they had a six-day head start. That lead would only get bigger by the time he got to see if he could find anything amounting to a trail at the scene of the holdup. He caught the northbound Cheyenne & Deadwood stage the following day. He pretty much kept to himself with his two fellow passengers. One a drummer in a shabby suit with a fondness for a bottle he kept in his coat pocket. The other a working girl migrating north to the mining opportunities in Deadwood. The drummer made no secret of his ogling interest in the dove’s breasts. She affected disinterest for the moment. Cane expected that to change at the first opportunity to relieve the man of some coin.

  A day and a half out of Cheyenne the stage rocked along the dusty road approaching the two-hundred-sixty-mile rest stop. This would be the end of the line for Cane. According to the report Crook gave him, the holdup occurred two miles north of this stop. He meant to inspect the crime scene and let his observations there decide his next move.

  He’d had a brief conversation with the relief driver who took over at the two-hundred-mile station. By a stroke of good fortune, Pete Daley was the driver the day of the holdup. He planned to finish that conversation before he left the stage.

  He felt the team slow. He stuck his head out the window, catching a brief glimpse of the station before pulling back from the choking dust clouds. The road descended gently toward the station at the bottom of a shallow valley. The rough cut log structure had a privy and corral, much like the others they’d passed. This was one of the larger stations with a small passenger lounge where meals were served. These were spaced along the route between smaller stations that provided fresh horses but few comforts. The larger stations had a two-man crew to handle the horses and the cooking.

  “Whoa!” Daley hauled lines, drawing his team to a lurching halt beside the station. He set the brake and climbed down from the box. He opened the coach door.

  “Thirty-minute stop, folks.”

  Cane stepped down and offered a hand to the dove. She took it, favoring him with a smile that said if he were interested she’d be more than pleased to forego the drummer’s favors. He returned her smile expecting she’d get her piece of the drummer’s poke about as soon as he left the two of them to the coach seats. The drummer stepped down and followed the sway of her hips up the steps to the passenger lounge. Hell, Cane thought, she might have it all by the time they covered the last forty miles to Deadwood.

  Dust devils swirled across the corral, dancing among horses sleeping hip-shot, noses turned to the breeze. A wiry old codger rounded the corner from behind the station. A wind-whipped bush of gray whiskers and greasy shoulder-length hair flapping wildly under a dusty slouch hat.

  “Hey, Pete, we’ll have a fresh team hitched up for you in no time.”

  “Thanks, Jake,” the driver said.

  “Can I have a word, Pete?”

  “Sure, Cane. What is it?”

  “I’d like some information about the holdup last week.”

  “Sure. Much as I got, which ain’t much. You the law?”

  “After a fashion. Great Western Detective League. Wells Fargo retained us to look into the matter.”

  “Private law, makes sense out here. There ain’t no other law.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Come on, let’s catch a cup of the mud Cookie calls coffee.”

  The gangly gaited driver led the way to the station. He clumped up the plank steps into a dimly lit passenger lounge with a rough-cut table and benches. Cane guessed the benches were intended to help the passengers appreciate the thinly padded coach seats.

  “Have a seat,” Daley said. “Cookie bring us some of that sludge you call coffee.” The sound of tin cups rattled from the kitchen, one of two rooms adjoining the lounge.

  Cookie appeared carrying a steaming pot and tin cups. Heavyset and grizzly he looked like he might be his best customer. A badly stained apron strained at his girth over the sweat-soiled top of his union suit. He grunted what passed for a greeting and poured two steaming cups of coffee, set down the pot and waddled back to the kitchen.

  Daley cocked his head in the direction of his retreating bulk. “None too sociable, but not a half bad cook. Now what can I
do for you?”

  “What can you tell me about the holdup?”

  “Not much I’m afraid. They hit us a couple of miles north of here. The southbound run climbs a long rise into a blind curve. The team’s mostly played out by the time you get there. Between that and the climb you come into that curve at a walk. Two of ’em blocked the road with their guns drawn.”

  “What did they look like?”

  He shrugged. “Both of ’em was masked up. The taller one spoke with an accent I took for Texan. He rode a blue roan. Not much to the other one other than the nasty way he threw that gun around. You seen one trail-dusted hombre on a bay horse, you seen ’em all.”

  “What happened?”

  “The big one called for the box. The Wells Fargo messenger threw it down. The other guy shot off the lock, took a look at the haul and sent us on our way. Didn’t have to ask twice as far as I was concerned.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  “I could use one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “See if you can get your stationmaster to loan me the use of a horse for a couple of hours. I’d like to look around up there to see if I can pick up any sign of which way they went.”

  Ten minutes later the stage pulled out trailing a spare horse tacked up with Cane’s saddle. Two miles up the road Daley hauled lines in a narrow gulch that entered a blind curve to the north.

  “This is it,” he called.

  Cane tipped his hat to the dove and climbed out of the coach. He untied the spare horse and glanced up at Daley.

  “Much obliged.”

  “Good luck. I hope you get the sons a bitches, though by now I expect they’re long gone as smoke.”

  “Likely so. Again much obliged.”

  “Hey-up haw!”

  The stage rumbled around the bend out of sight save a trailing dun cloud. Cane walked the site. You couldn’t ask for a better place to rob a stage. That part was easy. The question was what happened afterward? Which way did the outlaws go? If they took the stage road north or south, picking up a trail would be all but impossible. He looked around. The gulch hemmed in the road on both sides. He noticed a stone that looked out of place beside the road. He bent down to examine it. Of course it didn’t belong there. A chunk of metal wasn’t a stone. He picked up a piece of the blown padlock and turned it over in his hand. Yup, they’d opened the strongbox all right. He tossed the lock aside and stood.