by Paul Colt
“Best I can.”
“Well it sounds pretty good. I hope you’re right.”
FOUR
Sydney, Nebraska
Cane rode into Sydney by the gray light of early evening. His slicker dripped rain from a storm that rolled through trailing a heavy down quilt of gray cloud. Smoke’s hooves made sucking sounds as they jogged up the muddy street. The smell of mud and wet canvas mingled with the scent of rain. He only had partial prints coming out of that stream and precious little sign after that. If, in fact, the trail of the men he was after led here, he’d made it by little more than a hunch. He eyed the muddy collection of hasty construction, tent top saloons and cribs belonging to ladies for hire. Sydney sure enough had the look of a hospitable haunt for a man after a good time. Well, he was here. No time like the present to start looking.
He followed the sound of a piano to a large tent top with Last Stop splashed across a hand-lettered signboard. A picket line of stout rope strung between two scrub oak served for a hitch rack. He stepped down and looped Smoke’s rein over the line. He inspected the stock tied there. No sign of a blue roan. Then again that was probably too much to hope for. He slogged through the mud to a plank walk that led to an open-air saloon. The planks had the look of being thrown down in honor of the rain.
Inside a sparse crowd stood along the Last Stop rail. A couple of early games were open for business. The real action wouldn’t get going until later. A quick look at the crowd didn’t reveal any obvious suspects. He found his way to the bar. The bartender wandered over, polishing a glass.
“What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey.”
The bartender set down a glass and poured. “You want me to leave the bottle?”
Cane nodded. “I’m lookin’ for a couple of men.”
“We see a lot of ’em, most everyone on their way to Deadwood.”
“These two would be comin’ from Deadwood.”
“Don’t see so many of those. Them that do come back is mostly broke.”
“These two are well-heeled in gold. One’s tall, talks with an accent, likely a Texan. He rides a blue roan. The other’s a smaller fella, got plenty of attitude.”
The bartender shook his head. “Cain’t say as I recall anyone like that.”
“I think I know who you mean.” The speaker directed a stream of tobacco juice into a brass spittoon at his boot. The man wore mud-stained wool britches, a rumpled coat and shapeless crown hat. He had watery blue eyes and a bush of unkempt red whiskers. “I only noticed ’em cause I was havin’ a drink with Jim Berry, Bill Heffridge and Tom Nixon when the tall one started talkin’ to Tom.”
“Briscoe Cane’s the name.” He stuck out his hand.
The man clasped it in a meaty paw. “Simon Purdy.”
“I’d be pleased to buy you a drink Mr. Purdy.”
“You buy me a drink, you best call me Simon.” He passed his glass along the bar.
Cane poured. He lifted his glass. “Pleased to meet you, Simon. Call me Briscoe.”
Purdy lifted his glass and took a swallow.
“Mind tellin’ me what happened with your friends and those men?”
Purdy shrugged. “Nixon and Heffridge was talkin’ about some kind of business scheme like they was always doin’.”
“What sort of business?”
Purdy scowled. “You the law?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s just say I’m interested in certain kinds of business. If you’ve got information that suits my interest, it might be worth your while.” He drew a twenty-dollar gold piece from his pocket and set it on the bar.
“Hmm. No skin off my nose then. Nixon and Heffridge was talkin’ about something to do with the Cheyenne & Deadwood stage.”
Cane arched a brow. “The Cheyenne & Deadwood stage, you’re sure?”
Purdy nodded.
“I’m interested.”
“The tall one seemed to know Nixon. He walks up says hello and they start talkin’.”
“Did you catch a name?”
Purdy scratched his chin. Cane topped up his glass.
“Bass, that was it. He said his name was Bass, Sam Bass. Introduced his partner as somethin’ Collins. I didn’t get it all.”
“Then what happened?”
“Next thing you know Nixon rounds up Heffridge and Jim and the lot of ’em go off to a table.”
“What happened after that?”
Purdy shrugged. “All I know is that when they broke up to leave, Jim stopped to say good-bye.”
“Did he say where they were goin’?”
“He mentioned somethin’ about meetin’ a train.”
A train. Cane tossed off his drink. “You’ve been a big help Simon.” He slid the twenty-dollar gold piece down the bar and left.
Shady Grove
A week later I found myself once again sitting on the sun-soaked veranda, waiting for Colonel Crook. It was another one of those autumn days when the sun promises warm and the mountain air says cold. I couldn’t believe we were going to sit out here for another afternoon. Mona Lisa wheeled him out the double doors from the warm reception room and down the expansive porch to where I sat, hoping to warm myself in the sun. Once again I forgot the chill. How does a woman look that good wearing a drab institutional uniform? I found myself at a loss, though not necessarily over that particular question. She smiled that smile of hers, the tip of her nose pink with the cold.
“Good afternoon, Colonel.”
“Robert, I’m surprised you’d subject yourself to another of my nostalgic ramblings.”
“How could I not?”
Our eyes met.
“You haven’t finished the story.”
She turned to go. I’m afraid my attention wandered after her.
“Yes, I see that. She’s a lovely girl. Penny I think they call her. You should introduce yourself.”
I came back to the purpose at hand. Colonel Crook had a twinkle in his eye.
“Now where were we?”
I consulted my notes. “Cane just discovered the men he was following were Sam Bass and a man named Collins.”
“Ah yes, Joel Collins.”
“According to the Tribune archives, Sam Bass was quite the notorious outlaw in his day.”
“He was a bad one all right, only most of that came later. These events occurred early in his outlaw career.”
“Continue then, please.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to take a few moments to track down that young lady and introduce yourself?”
I reddened. I hoped he didn’t notice for the cold. “Please, continue.”
Big Springs, Nebraska
September 18
Bass drew rein on a low rise overlooking a ragged scar beside the rail line a half mile distant. A watering station and small depot were about all that remained from the days when a tent top town boomed at end-of-track. That town, like so many others along the right-of-way, picked up with the crews and moved on to the next stop. What remained served the purposes of a watering stop for man and machine.
Bass wheeled his horse and backtracked off the rise. He circled north concealed by a ridgeline to a grassy notch behind the depot. He drew a halt and stepped down. “Picket the horses and get some rest. I’m goin’ up top to have a look around.”
A brisk west wind tossed the grassy draw as Bass climbed to the top of the ridge. He lay on his belly, looking through the sweet-smelling grass at the rough-cut depot below. A small platform extended out to the track. The privy stood behind the west end of the depot. An overgrown rutted roadway ran along the south side of the tracks, past the abandoned remnants of a town. A lonely dust devil swirled down the street pushed along by the wind. The ramshackle hulk of a livery stable and blacksmith shop stood across the road from the depot beside a small corral with a broken rail. A single hip-shot horse slept nose to the wind, the only sign of life in sight.
<
br /> A portly stationmaster came around the shadow of the east wall and ambled toward the privy. Sun glinted off his bald pate. He wore a white shirt with garters at the sleeves. He disappeared into the small one-holer. Bass doubted the station had any more crew than him or maybe one more. A telegraph wire stretched to the station from a trackside pole. He made a mental note to cut it. The privy door opened and the stationmaster emerged into the sunlight buttoning his britches. He didn’t appear to be armed. Bass half smiled. It looked like a piece of cake. His palms itched at the prospect of all that money.
FIVE
September 19
One o’clock. Bass snapped his watchcase closed. “Come on boys time to rise and shine.” He hoisted his saddle over his shoulder. The men began to rouse themselves. He gave the snoring Heffridge a nudge with his boot as he passed on his way to the picket line.
The horses began to stir, sensing night work as he reached them. He settled the blanket on the back of his roan and hoisted the saddle up. Satisfied with the fit at the withers, he lifted the stirrup fender over the seat and fished the cinch from under the horse’s belly. He double looped the strap through cinch and saddle rings, tugged it finger snug and tied it off. He dropped the stirrup back into place and swept his eyes around the boys.
Impatient, he stepped into the saddle to hurry them along. One by one Collins, Nixon and Berry mounted up. “Heffridge, the train will be in Buffalo Station before you get that horse saddled. Catch up when you can.” He wheeled his horse and squeezed a lope up the ridge toward the depot. Heffridge scrambled into the saddle and galloped off after the sound of retreating horses.
Bass eased them down the face of the ridge. Rumpled clouds hinted at moonlight, thick and dark here, thin and gray there. The depot resolved into a black block rising up from the plain. Dim yellow light winked behind a solitary window. He led the way south toward the back of the depot and drew rein a hundred yards short of the depot. A silvered ribbon of track appeared in the west and disappeared out of sight in the east. The livery across the road lay dark and still beside its skeleton corral. Bass stepped down. Collins and the boys ground tied their horses and gathered around. He flicked the cover of his watch. One thirty.
“Joel, you and Berry take out the stationmaster. Be quick and keep it quiet.” He cut his eyes west at a distant rumble of thunder. “Wait for the train in the depot. When she pulls in, Joel you play stationmaster and get the drop on the engineer and fireman. Berry, you keep an eye on the mail car. The Pinkertons will go to the privy by turns. Nixon you wait for the first guard by the privy. Take him out quiet. Join up at the mail car when he’s down. Berry and I will take the mail car after the guard leaves. Heffridge you bring up the horses when you see Nixon head for the train. Leave us our horses and then take Joel’s up to the engine. There’s a lone tree north of the tracks a half mile east of the depot. We’ll meet the two of you there once we get the gold loaded. He looked from one man to the next. “Any questions?” Heads shook all around. “Good. OK Joel get started, and remember, no gunplay.”
Collins nodded. Thunder rumbled in the distance as the wind picked up. “Looks like you boys waitin’ outside might get some wet.” They went to their horses and pulled on slickers.
Collins and Berry dissolved into the night. They paused at the depot window. Collins peeked inside. The stationmaster sat at his desk. His chin rested on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. He ducked below the window light and turned to Barry, signaling quiet with a forefinger. “He’s asleep.” He masked up and drew his .44. Berry took his lead and followed up the platform.
Rolling thunder covered the soft scrape of boots on the plank platform. Collins cut his eyes to Berry at the door. Berry nodded. Collins burst through the door, his gun leveled at the startled stationmaster. The large man’s eyes bulged above fleshy cheeks and jowls. He raised his arms, blinking owlishly. “I ain’t no hero, don’t get paid for it.”
Collins motioned for Berry to tie him up. He tied the frightened man to his chair and gagged him with a spare bandanna. Outside the first splashes of rain spattered the platform and slapped the station roof. Collins trimmed the lamp wick in the window and brought the light back up.
Bass watched the lamp go dim and bright as rain pattered his hat brim. “Looks like Joel and Berry got the station under control.” He covered his watch with his slicker and flicked the lid open. One forty.
“Best go have a look at the privy, Nixon.”
“Maybe I’ll take a shit to get out of this rain.”
“Suit yourself. Just have your ass out of there before the Pinkerton comes callin’. I’m goin’ down the line a bit to wait.”
Bass left Heffridge with the horses. He followed Nixon toward the back of the depot. He climbed the platform and crossed to the east end. He drew his Colt, held it by the barrel and hooked the butt over the telegraph wire. He jerked the connection free. The wire recoiled to the base of the trackside pole. Satisfied he climbed down from the platform and walked west parallel to the tracks and far enough away to avoid being exposed by the engine headlamp.
White lightning shattered the darkness, turning the landscape into a momentary tapestry of shadow and light. Thunder rumbled through his gut. Rain slanted across the depot platform in wind whipped sheets, lashing his slicker with the furry of the storm. Off to the west a train whistled faint protest. Bass turned his back to the sharp needles of rain and checked his watch in the next flash of lightning. Five minutes to two, it won’t be long now.
Horses whickered and pranced wide-eyed in lightning flashes. Heffridge gathered the leads, talking softly to quiet them. They could ill afford to have them bolt, leaving them stranded at the scene of a train robbery.
The whistle sounded again, closer this time. Deep in the darkness down the tracks to the west a pinpoint of light pierced the veil of rain running off Bass’s hat brim. Lightning exploded again, close enough to shake the ground with an instantaneous crash of thunder. Instinctively he recoiled against the scant shelter of a lone tree. The angry edge of the storm swept past, taking the strongest winds with it and leaving a heavy downpour in its wake.
Further west lightning flashed over a gray plume belching through the concussion that followed. The headlamp danced over the roadbed, lighting rain-slicked silver rails in an eerie glow. The light grew larger as the train approached. Clouds of smoke curled from her stack bleached gray against the storm-blackened sky. The locomotive slowed behind a warning whistle blast. Brakes screeched steel on steel, white steam billowed in clouds as driving arms pushed past Bass. Up the track the engine drew level with the depot and rolled to a stop at the watering station, venting its final bursts of steam.
The depot door opened, spilling yellow light on the rain-soaked platform. Collins stepped into the pool of light, his rain slicker silhouetted briefly as he closed the station door. He held the stationmaster’s lantern in front of him and made his way up the platform toward the watering station. He kept his head down against the wind and rain, his hat shielding his mask. His free hand, stuffed in his slicker pocket, held his drawn gun.
One car forward of the caboose at the west end of the platform, the mail car door cracked open. The pale glow of lamplight illuminated the dim interior. The dark silhouette of a heavyset man wearing a suit and bowler appeared in the doorway. He stepped onto the platform and hurried through the rain toward the privy at the back of the depot.
Bass masked up and drew his gun. He made his way cautiously past the caboose and climbed the platform to the mail car. The moment the Pinkerton disappeared from the platform, a second figure stepped out of the depot. The masked shadow made its way swiftly and silently across the platform to the mail car.
“Evenin’.” The engineer in the grease-streaked coveralls greeted the stationmaster. The hat behind the lantern turned up, dark eyes glittered above the bandanna masking the man’s other features. The dark bore of a. 44 with its lethal halo of chambers appeared beside the lantern.
“Step
away from the throttle. You fireman, step out here where I can see you. Nobody move and nobody gets hurt.”
The Pinkerton stepped off the platform into the shadows at the back of the depot. The pressure to relieve himself fixed his attention on the black shape of the privy he could barely make out through the gloom. The gun-butt blow that caved in the back of his bowler felled him like a dead tree.
Nixon pulled the guard’s pistol from his coat pocket. He used the handcuffs he found in another pocket to fasten the man’s hands behind his back. Satisfied, he turned to the train. His boots splashed through muddy puddles on the path to the platform.
Bass met Berry’s eyes across the dimly lit mail car doorway. He nodded. Both men stepped through the car door, guns leveled at the startled Pinkerton guard.
“Hands up!” The bandanna covering Bass’s face puffed the words. The guard raised his hands, favoring the bandits with his most menacing if meaningless scowl.
“Get his gun.” Berry lifted a .38 from a shoulder holster inside the guard’s tweed jacket.
“He’ll be carryin’ handcuffs. Use ’em on him.” Bass turned to the strongbox. Berry found the Pinkerton’s handcuffs and cuffed his hands behind his back.
“Where’s the key?” The Pinkerton drew a sullen expression. “I said where’s the key?” Bass cocked his gun to make the point for him.
“They don’t send one with a shipment like this. The only one who might need it is the likes of you.”
Heffridge watched Nixon climb the station platform framed in the dim light from the open mail car. He collected the horses and led them toward the train past the Pinkerton fallen in the muddy runnels beside the privy.
Nixon pulled up short at the corner of the depot as a dark figure climbed down from the back of the caboose. He wore a distinctive conductor’s coat and hat. Rain glinted off the dull metal barrels of a sawed-off shotgun. He stepped up the platform to the mail car.
The pistol shot exploded in the close confines of the mail car. The lock on the strongbox shattered. A cloud of choking blue smoke hazed the lantern light. Bass kicked the lid off the box with the toe of his boot. The lid clattered to the worn floorboards.
