The Reluctant Pinkerton

by Robert J. Randisi

  The other two men were wearing trail clothes—like Terry Milligan—and their hats were on the table. One of them was “big and floppy,” according to one of the tellers. And one of the men had a “barbershop quartet” mustache and muttonchops. Roper went back to Howard.

  “I’ve seen enough to convince me it’s them,” he said. “When I take them back to Rockwell, they can be properly identified.”

  “Alive or dead.”

  “I will bring them back alive if I can,” Roper said. “It would be easier—and more legal—with your help. And the reward could then go to you.”

  “I’m not interested in any reward,” Howard said quickly, “and I don’t want any credit.”

  “I just want to be able to say I had the law on my side,” Roper replied. “Would you sign a statement saying you were with me when I apprehended them?”

  For a moment he thought the lawman was going to decline, and then Howard said, “I suppose so.”

  “All right,” Roper said. “I’m going to walk in there and try to get the drop on them. You can stay out here and watch. You don’t have to get involved unless you want to.”

  “If you need help,” Howard said, “I’ll be there.”

  “I know you will,” Roper said.

  He mounted the boardwalk, and this time went inside.

  * * *

  Roper set his rifle down on the bar, ordered a beer, kept his eyes on the three men in the mirror behind the bar. He counted eleven other men in the place, plus the bartender, and none of them were paying him any attention.

  He turned with the beer in his left hand and looked at the table with three members of the Milligan gang sitting around it. It was quiet in the place, and whatever conversations were going on were being held in low tones. When he spoke, everyone in the place would be able to hear him, but there was no way around it.

  He drew his gun and said, “Terry Milligan.”

  “Yeah?” Milligan said. He turned his head to see who had called his name and froze when he saw the stranger holding a gun on him. “Wha—”

  The other two men, Abbot and Newman, looked over at him.

  “You and your friends just take it easy,” Roper told them.

  “What is this?” Milligan asked.

  “I’m taking you in for bank robbery and murder in Wyoming.”

  “This ain’t Wyoming,” Milligan said.

  “Well, we’ll just go on back there,” Roper said.

  Milligan looked around while Abbott and Newman kept their eyes on the gun.

  “Looks like you’re here alone,” Milligan said.

  “Looks like.”

  “You figure on takin’ my brothers back, too?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “All five of us? On your own? You got a lotta confidence.”

  “I’m holding the gun.”

  “There’s three of us,” Milligan said. “One of us’ll get you.”

  “I’ll kill one, maybe two of you with no problem,” Roper said. “Who wants to go first? Look at your friends. Not them.”

  Milligan snuck a look at Abbott and Newman, who didn’t return the look.

  “Doesn’t look promising, does it?” Roper asked.

  Mulligan looked back at him.

  “You might take us, but you won’t take my brothers,” Milligan said.

  “We’ll see. Now you and your friends drop your guns to the floor.”

  None of the three men moved.

  Roper cocked the hammer on his gun.

  Abbott and Newman took their guns out and dropped them to the floor.

  “Now you, Milligan,” Roper said, “unless you want to be a big man.”

  “What’s your name?” Milligan asked.

  “Roper,” the detective said. “Talbot Roper.”

  “You’re a dead man, Roper.”

  “We’ll see,” Roper said. “Now drop it, or use it.”

  Milligan stared at him for a few seconds, then took his gun from his holster reluctantly, and dropped it.

  Roper holstered his gun and grabbed his rifle from the bar, at the same time shouting, “Sheriff!”

  * * *

  After Sheriff Howard and Roper put the three members of the Milligan gang in a jail cell, they stood in the office facing each other. Howard hung the key on a peg in the wall.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “Now I’ll go and get the other two while you stay here with these.”

  “You’re goin’ up against Ned and Stu Milligan alone?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “How fast are you with that gun?”

  “I’d hate to have to depend on the answer to that question,” Roper said. “I’d prefer to get the drop on them, like I did with these three.”

  “It might not be as easy,” Howard said. “You’ll have to watch Ned. He’s pretty fast.”

  “And Stu?”

  “Like I said, he’s the brains, but he can hit what he shoots at.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Roper headed for the door.

  “Hey.”

  “Yeah?”

  For the second time Howard dried his palms on his thighs.

  “I could come and back your play.”

  “What about these three?”

  “They ain’t gonna get out,” Howard said.

  Roper thought about it, then said, “No, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to get you killed, Sheriff. You’ve helped me enough. You better just stay here.”

  He went to the door, put his hand on the knob, then it was his turn to say, “Hey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If I don’t come back,” Roper said, “you better just let these three go.”

  Howard grabbed his hat and jammed it on.

  “I’m comin’ with you.”

  “But—”

  “If you don’t come back,” he said, “I’m probably a dead man anyway.”

  Roper thought about that, then said, “Good point.”

  * * *

  The house the Milligan gang was living in—or “squatting in,” as Sheriff Howard put it—was walking distance from town, so once again Roper took his rifle and left his horse in front of the sheriff’s office.

  “Maybe,” Roper said, “we should check the other saloons to be sure they’re not in town.”

  “The Milligans only drink at Stallworth’s,” Howard told him.

  “If they’re such regulars there, do you think someone told them by now that their brother and the rest of the gang are in jail?”

  “It’s possible, I guess,” Howard said.

  “In which case they know we’re coming.”

  “They know you’re comin’,” Howard said. “They won’t be expecting me.”

  “That’s a good point,” Roper said, “and one that we could use to our advantage.”

  “So then, how do you want to play it?” the lawman asked.

  “There are a couple of ways we could go,” Roper said. They discussed them as they continued to walk.

  * * *

  Inside the house, Ned and Stu Milligan were sitting at the table, drinking coffee.

  “Where’s Terry?” Stu asked.

  “He’s at Stallworth’s with Abbott and Newman,” Ned said.

  “I wish he wouldn’t drink with them,” Stu said.

  “Well, maybe we should tell him that we intend to cut them loose,” New said.

  “The hard way,” Stu said, and the two men laughed.

  “We pulled enough jobs with them,” Ned said. “Time to let them go.”

  “For good!” Stu said, and they laughed again.

  The inside of the house was almost bare, except for the table, the stove, and five bedrolls. It was stuffy and dirty and smelled of men’s sweat.

  “Jesus,” Stu said, “it stinks in here. Open that door and let’s air it out.”

  “I don’t smell nothin’,” Ned said.

  “That’s cause most of the smell is comin’ from your feet.”

  N
ed didn’t reply, but got up and walked to the door.

  * * *

  Roper decided to go straight in.

  He and Sheriff Howard reached the outskirts of the grounds around the house, where the sheriff could remain hidden behind some trees while Roper approached the house.

  Just as Roper was reaching the house, the front door suddenly opened and one man appeared there. Roper stopped, caught with no place to go, and the two men stared at each other.

  Damn, he thought.

  Roper heard the man call to his brother Stu, which made this Ned. He was mindful of what the sheriff had told him, that it was Ned who was the gunman.

  Talbot Roper was not a gunman, he was a detective. He knew how to use a gun, but he was not a fast draw. He left that to the Hickoks and Mastersons. But he had something else that served him well against faster men—he was cool, and he was accurate.

  The second man joined the first at the door, and they stared at Roper.

  “Hey, boys,” Roper said. “Did you get the news?”

  “What news?” Stu asked.

  “Your brother’s in jail, along with his two friends,” Roper said.

  “In jail?” Ned asked. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “They’re under arrest.”

  “What for?”

  “Bank robbery and murder, in Wyoming.”

  “Frank wouldn’t dare,” Stu said.

  “Who?” Roper asked.

  “The sheriff,” Stu said. “He wouldn’t dare arrest them. He’s got no jurisdiction.”

  “He didn’t arrest them.”

  “Then who did?”

  “I did.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “The name’s Talbot Roper.”

  “What the—” Ned started, but Stu stopped him, said something in his ear. Roper had the feeling Stu Milligan knew his name. After all, he was supposed to be the brains.

  “Whaddaya want here?” Ned asked.

  “I’m taking you two in, as well,” Roper said.

  “You ain’t a lawman,” Ned said.

  “I don’t have to be,” Roper said. “I was hired by the town of Rockwell to bring you boys back.”

  “The whole town?” Stu asked.

  “The whole town.”

  The Milligans stepped out of the doorway onto the porch and moved apart so they wouldn’t be in each other’s way. There had been one moment when Roper could have taken them in the doorway, when they were standing too close together, but the moment had passed.

  “You got one chance, Roper,” Stu said. “Right here. And after we kill you, we’ll go get Terry out of the jail.”

  Roper kept his eyes on Ned. He would move first.

  “Hold it, boys,” Sheriff Howard said. “I can’t let you do this.”

  All three men looked over at Howard, who had come from Roper’s right with his gun out. He had the Milligans covered.

  “Stay outta this, Frank,” Stu said.

  There it was again, Roper thought. Stu Milligan called the sheriff “Frank.” He now knew where he had seen the man before.

  “Can’t do that, Stu,” the lawman said. “You boys are gonna have to drop your guns.”

  “Let us do this,” Ned said. “Us against him. It’s only fair.”

  Sheriff “Howard” looked at Roper.

  “I’m no fool,” Roper said. “You’ve got the drop on them, Sheriff.”

  “We ain’t droppin’ our guns,” Stu said, “so you’re gonna have to shoot…Sheriff.”

  Roper still kept his eyes on Ned. He knew they meant what they said. They weren’t giving up. The sheriff might take Stu—who was between the lawman and Ned—but Roper was going to have to take Ned.

  “All right,” Roper said. “Now you’ve got one chance, boys.”

  “No chance—” Ned said, and went for his gun.

  Roper drew, but knew Ned had him beat. He heard the shot, felt a bullet tug at his shirtsleeve. When he fired, it was with a steady hand and great confidence. He put a bullet right in Ned’s chest before the man could fire again.

  He was aware of the other shots, but dared not take his eyes from Ned until the man hit the ground. When he did look, Stu Milligan was also facedown on the porch.

  The sheriff walked over and stood next to him.

  “You got nicked,” the man said, looking at Roper’s arm.

  “It’s not bad,” Roper said. He replaced the spent shell in his gun and holstered it.

  “I’d better get somebody out here to collect the bodies,” the sheriff said. “You gonna want to take them back?”

  “The live ones will be good enough,” Roper said. “You got a potter’s field?”

  “We do.”

  “Put them in there.”

  The lawman nodded, and they started walking back.

  * * *

  The next morning Roper came into the sheriff’s office to collect his prisoners.

  “Coffee?” the sheriff asked.

  “Sure.”

  They sat at the desk and had their coffee.

  “I heard one of the Milligans call you Frank,” Roper finally said. “Twice.”

  “I thought you might have.”

  “I’ve seen you before, but I couldn’t place you until he called you Frank. What brought you here to wear a badge under the name ‘Howard’?”

  “When Jesse was killed, I was lost,” Frank said. “I did my time and didn’t know what to do with myself.”

  “I thought you were never convicted,” Roper said. “Never did any time in a penitentiary.”

  “That’s true,” Frank said, “but I was in jail a year waitin’ for my trial. Believe me, don’t ever let anybody tell you that ain’t servin’ time.”

  “So what happened when you got out?”

  “I lived with my ma for a while, then didn’t know what to do with myself. I decided to come back to Missouri, but I came here to Festus, where nobody knew me.”

  “And took the name ‘Howard’?”

  Frank shrugged.

  “My way of honoring Jesse’s memory, I guess.”

  Jesse James had been living as “Thomas Howard” when he was shot in the back by Robert Ford.

  “And the drinking?”

  “I get depressed,” Frank said, “but thanks to you, I think I can come out of it.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “I guess the question is, what will you do?” Frank asked Roper.

  “You mean, will I tell anyone that Frank James is the sheriff of Festus, Missouri?” Roper shook his head. “You helped me out, Frank. If you want to stay here as Tom Howard, that’s up to you.”

  “Thanks. The only others who knew who I was were the Milligans.”

  “Terry?”

  “No,” Frank said, “Stu and Ned. We had worked with them once.”

  “And they never told anyone?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Because of some sort of outlaw code?”

  “Who knows?” Frank asked. “Maybe that was their way of honoring Jesse’s memory.”

  “Well,” Roper said, standing up. “I appreciate your help, Frank. Whatever you decide, I wish you luck.”

  The two men shook hands and Frank James—one half of the most famous set of outlaw brothers—said, “Thanks. I’ll get your prisoners now.”

  1

  Denver, Colorado

  Six weeks later…

  When Roper entered his office on West Colfax, he was surprised to find it clean but empty. Apparently Mrs. Batchelder had been letting her girls in to clean but, from the look of the secretary’s desk, not to do actual work. Of course, with him gone for so long, there was not much in the way of work to do except some filing, and message taking.

  Mrs. Batchelder’s school was only about a block or so away, but he decided not to drop in there. It was midday and he had literally just gotten back into town, so he went into his office to have a look at his own desk.

  He found half a dozen telegrams stack
ed there. The first one shocked him, the subsequent ones surprised him. They had all come in over the past two days. He took off his jacket, hung it on the back of his chair, and sat down.

  He was seated behind his desk, examining the messages for a second time, when he heard the outer door to the office open and close. He wondered if it was one of Mrs. Batchelder’s girls, but it was a man who appeared in his doorway to peer in tentatively.

  “Hello?”

  “Come on in,” Roper said.

  He stood up as the well-dressed man stepped into the office. His suit was expensive—more expensive than the three-piece suit Roper was wearing himself—and so was his haircut. He appeared to be in his early thirties, and ill at ease.

  “Mr. Roper?”

  “That’s right,” Roper said. “And you are?”

  “Oh, yes, sorry,” the man said. He came toward the desk and handed Roper a business card. It had the name “Eric Masters” on it, and the name of the law firm “Hastings, Pierce and Block.” Roper knew they were a local firm with offices on Market Street. Since Masters’s name was not on the masthead of the firm, Roper assumed he was an associate.

  Half of the clients Roper entertained were lawyers, so the man’s occupation did not surprise him.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Masters, and tell me what brings you here.”

  The man sat down, still looking uncomfortable. Roper sat, unhappy that someone had walked into his office just moments after his arrival. It made him feel as if his office was being watched.

  “My firm represents the Pinkerton Agency here in Denver,” Masters said.

  “Is that so?” Roper fingered the messages on his desk. He didn’t believe in coincidence, so now he was sure his office had been under observation. It annoyed him that he hadn’t seen it for himself when he arrived.

  “Yes,” Masters said, “I’ve been authorized to give you this.” He took an envelope from his pocket and set it on the desk. It was thick, unsealed. Roper picked it up and looked inside. Most of the thickness came from cash.

  “There is also a train ticket in there, to Chicago,” Masters said.

  Roper put the envelope back down.

  “William and Robert would like you to attend their father’s funeral,” Masters said.

  “Why?” Roper asked.

  The first telegram he’d read had informed him that Allan Pinkerton had died. That was a shock. He knew Pinkerton, had worked for him both during the war and after. They had never gotten along, but he did learn from the man, and hearing that he had died at sixty-five years of age was a shock. The message was from William Pinkerton.