by Paul Colt
“That’s just this last turn. I been after you since Deadwood.” Bass managed something between a crooked smile and a grimace. “Then you’ve had one hell of a chase. What’s your name?”
“Briscoe Cane.”
“You the law Briscoe Cane?”
“Bounty hunter.”
“What does a bounty hunter want with the likes of me?”
“You bought yourself quite the reputation, Sam. Folks with deep pockets want to see you brought to justice.”
He closed his eyes. “It’s a comfort to feel wanted when you’re killt. Who are these rich friends of mine?”
“Wells Fargo, Union Pacific, Texas Central, just to name a few.”
He choked. “How much they think I’m worth?”
“All totaled, three maybe four thousand.”
“I guess that sounds pretty good in your line of work.”
“Worth my time and trouble.”
“That’s the difference between us, Cane. While you was chasin’ me for three or four thousand, I took eighty thousand off just them first two friends you mentioned.”
“And got yourself killt for it.”
Bass clenched his eyes against a wracking cough. “I reckon there is that.”
“Might be best if you made peace with your Maker instead of jawin’ with me.”
Bass lifted a brow. “You a bounty hunter or a preacher?”
“No law says a bounty hunter can’t be God-fearin’.”
“I suppose not. A God-fearin’ bounty hunter is one thing, a God-fearin’ train robber is another.”
“You still got time.”
“I don’t expect your God would have much call for the likes of me.”
“Oh I don’t know, He made a place for one good thief. I expect He might have room for one more. Never hurts to ask for pardon. You’d ask the governor if you was sentenced to hang.”
“I’ll think on it some.”
Blocky Jackson watched the scene play out from the shadows of the trees up the lane. An hour later the big Pinkerton returned with a wagon, a Ranger escort and a familiar figure riding with them. Jim Murphy, what’s he doin’ with them? It don’t appear he’s under arrest. What the hell’s goin’ on? Then it hit him. Judas Jim Murphy.
He watched as they loaded Bass into the wagon. Even from a distance he could see death’s gray pallor stalk his friend.
Judas Jim Murphy sold us out, Sam. I’ll get him. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get the son of a bitch.
Round Rock
July 21
Longstreet paused at The Crossing Saloon bat wings. He swept a quick look around the dimly lit smoky haze. Cane sat at a back corner table. He pushed through and strode across the scarred plank floor, the sound of his boot heels lost below the low hum of gambling, grumbling and girls giggling for hire. Cane glanced up as he pulled back a chair.
“He’s gone.”
He nodded and poured the Pinkerton a drink. “Tough hombre. Lasted longer than a man shot that bad should by rights.”
“No need to wait around for a trial before collecting those rewards.”
“Nope, no need.”
“How much you figure it adds up to?”
He shrugged. “Bass got so notorious I kinda lost count. Between Wells Fargo, Union Pacific, and them two Texas railroads I expect the colonel will have us a pretty fair payday by the time I get back to Denver. Course we didn’t recover all the UP gold, but we got us a fair share of it. I figure my part might come to three thousand or so. How about you?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you got Barnes. That should be good for somethin’.”
“Pinkerton will pocket whatever that amounts to. All I got was a congratulatory telegram from Kingsley.”
Cane lifted his glass. “Don’t spend all that in one place.” He knocked back his drink and poured another round.
“I tell you Beau, you’re wastin’ your time workin’ for that outfit. The Eye that Never Sleeps, that’s you all right. Old man Pinkerton pockets the rewards for your work and gets a good night’s sleep to boot.”
“It’s a living.”
“Hell, why not come back to Denver with me? Talk to the colonel. I’ll put in a good word for you. We make better partners than competitors.”
“Denver, hmm. I might just do that after a spell.”
“What spell?”
“After I spend some time in Buffalo Station.”
Cane threw him a knowing twinkle in his eye. “Come on, boy, I’ll buy you some supper.”
“You can afford it.”
“I can.”
Denver
1908
Morrison’s Café wasn’t fancy. The food was good and the service included table linen. By the time Friday night rolled around I’d had about all the waiting a man in love could stand for a week. I’d taken to escorting Penny to dinner, where we planned our weekend outings. I found my weeks revolving around our time together. That included the charade we played for the benefit of her colleagues at the Shady Grove Rest Home and Convalescent Center. Colonel Crook of course knew the truth of our courtship, but his silence could be bought for a blessing by a weekly bottle of contraband whiskey, so long as my lovely attendant didn’t find out.
We were seated at a candlelit corner table one frigid February Friday night I well remember. She looked lovelier than usual, though I must confess that may have had something to do with my appetite for loveliness that evening. We’d toasted the evening with a second glass of sherry while awaiting the serving of a German chocolate cake that had become an unlikely favorite for my Irish girl. When I’d made so bold as to observe that, she informed me that chocolate transcended nationality. I stood corrected.
“Will you be along to see him tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“And how is the book progressing?”
“We’ve finished the Sam Bass story.”
“Oh. What then?”
“The colonel created quite a remarkable agency with his Great Western Detective League. We’ve only written the first case. His ramblings and my rummaging in the newspaper archives tell me he recruited a fascinating network of operatives with more tales to tell.”
“You think then you have more than one book here?”
“I hadn’t put it quite like that before. Yes, quite likely I think. I’ve more work to do to complete this story of course. Then there is the small matter of finding a publisher.”
“Oh Robert, I’ve no doubt you shall. You shall have a wonderful career as an author.”
She saw the future as I hoped to see it. Suddenly it occurred to me I might see it with her. I may have choked on a bite of cake at the thought. It had a rather permanent ring to it.
When I walked her home after supper, I saw her turned-up nose profiled in the streetlamp differently somehow. When we climbed the step to her rooming house, I kissed her sweetly as was my custom. Ardor came upon us in a rush. I feared it frightened her as much as it surprised me. I held her close. She held me just as close, not too terrified by the moment. We stood there warm in the cold. Fresh snowflakes began to fall. I brushed a few from her cheeks, kissed her more chastely and left. I considered a world of new possibilities on the long cold walk to my own solitary room that night. It did indeed appear a world of new possibilities was opening to me; and for Colonel Crook, an assured supply of his weekly whiskey ration.
“All in good time, my boy, all in good time.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Sam Bass and Joel Collins terrorized the Cheyenne & Deadwood stage in 1877. On September 18, along with Bill Heffridge, Tom Nixon and others, they robbed a Union Pacific train at Big Springs, Nebraska. The gang made off with sixty thousand dollars in newly minted twenty-dollar gold pieces. Collins and Heffridge were killed in a shoot-out with a posse a week later at Buffalo Station in Kansas. Bass escaped to Texas where he soon resumed his outlaw career. A string of train robberies attracted the attention of law enforcement including US Marshal Stillwel
l Russell, a company of Texas Rangers and Pinkerton agents. Sam Bass was fatally wounded in a shoot-out in Round Rock, Texas, on July 19, 1878, after being betrayed by gang member Jim Murphy. He died two days later.
While certain characters and events of these stories have a basis in historical fact, the author has taken creative license in characterizing them. The Great Western Detective League is loosely based on General David J. Cook’s Rocky Mountain Detective Association. The names have been changed to allow the author, along with those who record history, to spin a yarn for the entertainment of the reader. Where there is any conflict between historical assertion and the author’s interpretation, it is the author’s intent to present a fictional account for the enjoyment of the reader.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Paul Colt favors Unexpected History, stories that have some little known or overlooked aspect to otherwise familiar characters or events. His analytical insight, investigative research and genuine horse sense bring history to life. His characters walk off the pages of history into the reader’s imagination. His style blends Jeff Shaara’s historical dramatizations with Robert B. Parker’s gritty dialogue.
Paul’s first book with Five Star, Boots and Saddles: A Call to Glory, received the Marilyn Brown Novel Award, presented by Utah Valley University for excellence in unpublished work prior to its release in 2013. His Grasshoppers in Summer received Finalist recognition in the Western Writers of America 2009 Spur Awards.
Paul’s work in Western fiction gives creative expression to a lifelong love of the West. He gets his boots dirty researching a story, whenever possible from the back of a horse.
Learn more at www.paulcolt.com.
