The Ballad of Black Bart

by Loren D. Estleman

  “Yes, we’ll get to that. I prefer to know a bit about a fellow and his holdings before I propose doing business with him. If you can give me those numbers and the name you filed under, I’ll look them up in Sacramento. Mr. Thacker?”

  The secretary turned to a fresh page in his writing-block and dipped a pen.

  “We’re much alike,” Bolton said. “You’ve seen me, you surmise; but I know your face definitely, from the newspapers. You’re Wells, Fargo’s chief of detectives, are you not? What business can you have with a mining speculator?”

  “I’m nearing the age of retirement. I don’t intend to die at this desk. I’ve put aside some money and am looking for a place to invest it. I assume you need to replace your equipment from time to time, hire good men, who don’t come cheap. The fresh funds will be useful, and I would request only a modest percentage of the proceeds. I should like to visit your mines in the Mother Lode.”

  “Did I say the Mother Lode? I beg your pardon. My properties are all on the east face of the Sierra, near the Nevada line. I am just back from visiting them, with a brief stop to rest in Reno afterward.”

  Hume frowned at the end of his cigar. “It’s I who must ask your forgiveness. I was under the impression you were in gold, not silver.”

  His hands traded places a third time.

  “I’m sorry if I expressed myself in such a way that you would place that construction on what I said. In San Francisco, when people learn you’re in mining, they make certain assumptions that one doesn’t trouble to correct.”

  “I see.” Although it was clear from Hume’s manner that he did not. “We do a fair amount of business on that side of the Sierra. I should like to inspect one of your properties, if you can give me its location.”

  Blue eyes searched the floor, as if a map were engraved on it. “Directions in this case are difficult. I generally approach them from memory.”

  “If you’re at liberty any time soon, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to perform as my guide.”

  “Having just returned from there, I don’t expect to be at liberty for at least a month. I have transactions awaiting attention in the city.” He lifted his gaze. “You’re trespassing upon my convenience. May I inquire as to the real reason for invading my privacy?”

  “You came at my associate’s invitation. No one compelled you to accept it.”

  “I was lured here on the promise of a proposition.”

  “So it is, and we shall come to it. May I in turn inquire as to your evasive answers to my questions?”

  “If they are evasive, it’s because the questions are impertinent. Gentlemen do not engage in badgery, nor do they submit to it.”

  A fine thread of steel ran through his tone. Morse fought the temptation to lean forward in his chair. The crack had begun to open. He could not risk sealing it with an eager movement.

  “We are nearly done.” Which was a lie the chief took no trouble to make convincing. “My mission is quite important, as will presently be made plain. You must agree it’s every citizen’s duty to cooperate with authorities in the interest of justice.”

  “That, sir, would depend upon your definition of the term.”

  “Authority? It’s true I’m not a sworn officer of the law, but I enjoy the cooperation of—”

  “Not authority. Justice.”

  Hume, the master commander of the Company’s department of war, switched to a frontal assault.

  “How did you come to injure your hand?”

  Bolton frowned at the scar. “I caught it on the vestibule alighting from the train in Truckee.”

  “Have you a mine near there?”

  “No. I got off to stretch my legs on the way to Reno.”

  “Near Reno, then.”

  “This is becoming intolerable.” Bolton began to lever himself to his feet. Now both detectives leaned forward, resembling predatory birds. He resettled himself.

  “Will you allow us to accompany you to your room at the Webb House?” Hume asked. “I’m certain this can all be cleared up there.”

  “Certainly not. You’ve squandered enough of my time as it is.”

  At a signal from the chief, Morse rose, slid open the top drawer of the nearest filing case, and deposited the object he’d removed from it atop the accumulation on the desk. With the elaborate care of a haberdasher, Hume lifted the black bowler by its brim in both hands and offered it to Bolton. “Would you indulge me by trying this on?”

  The man seated opposite him said nothing, leaving his hands folded on his stick.

  “Mr. Morse?”

  If Bolton noted the sudden disappearance of a “Mr. Hamilton” from his orbit, he showed no trace.

  The special agent and his superior had blocked out every movement in this performance. Still standing, he lifted the pearl-gray bowler he’d placed on the halltree and examined the tag stitched to the leather sweatband. “Seven and an eighth.”

  Hume turned over the hat he held and examined the tag; another bit of theater mounted for the benefit of their guest. If anyone knew Black Bart’s hat size as well as Black Bart himself, it was he. He looked from it to Bolton, who smiled thinly.

  “It’s a common measurement. Is it your intention to question every man in town who wears seven and an eighth?”

  “I may go to that trouble. But before we disturb half the local male population, tell me what is your opinion of this?”

  No file drawer this time, but Hume’s own pocket produced a square of linen, once white but now stained copiously, not the least from much handling. He took it by the top corners, held it up, and let it unfurl like a sail.

  To his man’s credit, he wasted none of their time arguing the handkerchief’s ownership; the laundry mark was quite visible, and he seemed to be aware of the establishment’s policy of individualizing each item.

  “I confess I didn’t miss it. I purchase them in sets of five. May I ask where it was found?”

  “May I ask where it was lost?”

  “Again, I cannot say. If I kept track of such things I suppose I wouldn’t be so absentminded as to have misplaced it.”

  “It was found near the scene of the attempted robbery of one of our shipments near the town of Strawberry.”

  “I don’t know the place. I suppose whoever came upon my handkerchief claimed it for his own. I would not expect a highwayman to scruple about returning it. That he should lose it himself strikes me as ironic.”

  “I submit that you lost it fleeing for your life, after a round from an express manager’s shotgun cut that crease across your temple. You’re a fortunate man, Mr. Black Bart. Bullets seem to bounce off you like sleet.”

  His guest blinked. “My name is Bolton.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  A man whose feet may leave no trace,

  still lays down a trail that leads to his face.

  For when you make your living from theft,

  you can yet be track’d by the hole that you left.

  The interview came to an end after three hours. It was nearly midnight. The man who called himself Bolton was visibly exhausted, his collar wilting and his face haggard, as if the skull had shrunken away from the skin. He offered no objection when officers came in response to a message sent by courier to take him to the city jail; he appeared relieved that the ordeal was over, if only for a while.

  Morse, who had done little more than listen for discrepancies Thacker might overlook in Bolton’s answers, felt nearly as played out. Hume alone appeared as fresh as at the beginning. The chief seemed to draw energy from approaching victory.

  The suspect’s day was over, but his captors had hours to go before they slept. At the Webb House, a wide-eyed clerk conducted them, accompanied by Captain Stone with a warrant, to Bolton’s room.

  With Morse recording the inventory in a notebook, Hume opened a travel-worn valise and laid out its contents on the bed: A hatchet, its wooden haft rubbed to a high gloss from handling; a pinch bar, blunted at the cleft end; and changes of shirts, st
ockings, and underthings, still creased from the haberdasher’s shelves. It contained no shotgun, nor was one found in the wardrobe or under the mattress, which Hume rent all round with a clasp knife and probed the horsehair stuffing for hidden items.

  Two sets of overalls—spares, no doubt—were folded neatly on the floor of the wardrobe. They matched Black Bart’s attire as described by witnesses; but so did thousands of pairs sold in San Francisco.

  The drawer in the nightstand reaped a harvest of large- and small-scale maps of the Mother Lode country, stagecoach schedules for the region, and a page of foolscap partially covered with script written in a neat, clerkly hand; a letter, the content suggested, the intended recipient unknown. Hume and Morse, who had stored all of the loops and tails of Black Bart’s handwritten poetry in their memories, agreed that there were many similarities.

  Stone said, “I’ve never testified in a trial in which a man’s handwriting swayed the jury either way. We can’t convict a man for writing a letter, owning dungarees and some tools, and blowing his nose in good linen.”

  Hume returned his attention to the drawer. Inside lay a Bible bound in pebbled black cloth, of the kind frequently provided by places of lodging. He laid it atop the nightstand, pulled the drawer all the way out, examined the bottom and back, and peered into the space it left. No incriminating evidence was fixed to the woodwork. A methodical man, he put the drawer back on its slides and picked up the Bible to return it. He hesitated, then lifted the cover. A yellowed slip of paper adhered from years of contact to the front flyleaf, bearing a penciled legend in a hand different from Bolton’s own:

  This precious Bible is presented to Charles E. Boles, First Sergeant, Company B, 116th Volunteer Illinois Infantry, by his wife as a New Year’s gift. May God bring him home in faith. Decatur, Illinois, 1 January 1865.

  “Boles,” said Morse. “How many names can one fellow have?”

  Hume stood in the center of the room, drumming his fingers on the book. Setting it down, he swung about, scooped up the empty valise, and rummaged through the interior, thrusting a hand deep into each of the pockets in the lining. He felt something balled up in a corner. It was stuck there, as if it had been jammed in hard. He closed his fist round coarse cloth and worried at it. When it came loose he pulled out a small sack. He opened it and reached inside.

  He drew out a handful of something that glittered when it streamed between his fingers.

  Stone, a tall, gaunt man who looked even more so in his snug uniform, both rows of brass buttons polished bright, was of an age similar to the detectives, but his burnsides and military-brush moustaches were as black as anthracite.

  “By God,” he said. “I told my boy Midas was just a story.”

  Hume hefted the sack on his palm, then passed it to Morse, who did the same. The police captain took it last.

  “Six ounces, give or take.” He returned it.

  “Give.” Hume jiggled the sack. “This and a month’s pay says it’s six and a quarter. That was the amount stolen from Funk Hill.”

  Morse said, “Where is his weapon?”

  “Buried somewhere in gold country. He left in a hurry, and would want to lighten his load. We’ll find it.”

  “Maybe in all that digging we’ll make a fresh strike for ourselves before the century turns.”

  The chief scooped everything back into the valise and snapped the latches. “Why go to the bother, when we can just ask the man who buried it?”

  * * *

  On a combined total of four hours’ sleep, the Company men approached a windowless cell in the square brick box of the jail. The corridor was dark but for the circle of orange light shed by the turnkey’s lantern. Like its neighbors, the cell was made of steel slats riveted together and the building constructed around it. The man sat upright on a cot chained to the wall with his feet on the floor and his hands resting on his thighs. The feet were clad in thick woolen stockings. His slashed boots stood at the foot of the cot, their tired shanks drooping.

  He looked more rested than his visitors felt, and trim in the white shirt and gray trousers he’d worn with his suit, minus collar and cravat, but with the top button fastened at his throat. His hair and whiskers were tidy, slicked down with water; a white enamel bucket was provided for drinking. His blue eyes were bright as a bird’s.

  Hume and Morse remained standing. The chief held out the Bible. “You might find comfort in it.”

  “Thank you.” The man on the cot took it and laid it beside him without taking his eyes off Hume.

  “Which is it?” Hume asked. “Bolton or Boles?”

  “My name is Charles E. Bolton.” No trace of belligerence showed in the man’s tone.

  “We’re sorry to have to rouse you so early,” Hume said, “but you can sleep on the boat. You’ll need this; it’s chilly out.” From under one arm he produced a Chesterfield overcoat and tossed it onto the cot. “I got Ware to open early: You forgot to pick up your laundry. We’re taking you by river to Stockton, and from there to Calaveras County.”

  Bolton lifted his wrists obligingly.

  Hume shook his head. “You won’t be in manacles. We’d rather not attract public attention. The journals are at present unaware that Black Bart is under arrest.”

  “He is not; but I give you my word I will not attempt to escape. My innocence will free me soon enough.”

  “A thief’s word is written on sand. Captain Stone will accompany us. You will be among armed men who will not hesitate to shoot you down if you try anything.”

  Harry Morse thought the chief was being unnecessarily harsh now that the bird was in hand. It appeared that eight years of frustration and the jeering of the press had been building up like magma waiting to erupt.

  It would get worse.

  * * *

  A riverboat is no place for restful sleep. Unlike its oceangoing counterparts, theirs drew a shallow draft, and its passengers were aware of each shift and yaw as it navigated the swift current, like a swimming creature on whose back they rode. As the wedding-cake craft steamed westward, its paddle wheels churning the San Joaquin into a silver-white froth, the four men sat side by side on rigid wooden benches, overcoated and with their hats screwed down tight against chill air laced with tissues of fog. Their breath made jets of gray.

  Hume, more sanguine now, made conversation. “Is this how you started your journeys, or did you walk the whole way?”

  “I haven’t been in this country for years.”

  “As you like. I’ll be getting off in Clinton. I’m expected in the valley. It may surprise you to know Black Bart isn’t the only business of interest to the Company.”

  “It neither surprises nor concerns. I am no business at all.”

  It certainly came as a surprise to Morse, who glanced at Stone and from his expression knew that he was not alone in this; but neither man commented.

  The prisoner sat back, folding his hands across his spare middle and closing his eyes, but still he didn’t sleep. He seemed to be humming to himself. Morse, seated beside him, leaned closer, pressing a palm to his opposite ear against the throbbing bellow of foghorns, panting of the steam engine, and swosh-swosh-swosh of the paddles to listen: It was “The Wells, Fargo Line.”

  In Clinton, on the Alameda County side of the bay, Hume stood, and at a nod from him Morse rose and joined him at the rail. His superior lit a cigar, shielding the flame of the match from the wind. “Sheriff Thorn’s awaiting a wire. Have him meet you in Stockton.”

  Morse was champing to ask what business could be so important as to take the chief away from the prize of his career; but he knew better than to question him about something he had not chosen voluntarily to confide.

  They parted on the dock. Morse sent the message and re-boarded just as the boat resumed moving. He found the others where he’d left them, Stone looking greenish, but with the fierce expression he wore on all official occasions intact. Their captive was dozing. If the special agent had entertained any doubts as to t
he identity of the man they were escorting, they left him then. Here was all the outward serenity Bolton had carried into Hume’s office, and into harm’s way no fewer than twenty-eight times on the outlaw trail.

  As the pitch of the engine changed, reversing the action of the paddles to slow its progress, the Stockton dock, whitewashed and hung with sandbags to keep the hull from colliding with the timbers, came out of fog; and with it a crowd of people that must surely have strained the deep-sunk supporting posts to the limit. Morse saw the familiar uniform of shapeless, unwashed overcoats and greasy bowlers peculiar to the journalist class, and on a makeshift platform built of packing cases, something that confirmed it: the black-painted wooden box of a tripod camera, a tray heaped with magnesium powder, and a stick of smoldering pitch held by the man crouched behind it; and the special agent was very glad that his chief wasn’t present.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Ev’ry legend has three acts, just like a Greek play;

  in the first he’s a phantom, no face to display;

  when the next curtain rises, his image is known;

  at the end of Act Three, he’s Olympus’s own.

  With a shared oath, Morse and Stone manhandled Bolton to his feet and inserted themselves in a scrum of debarking passengers, which formed a phalanx between them, the flock of journalists, and the photographer on his perch, all of whom scanned the crowd for a glimpse of James Hume, the only member of the expected party they could be certain to recognize by sight. Only then did the special agent grasp the reason for the chief’s abrupt absence. Knowing the sly ways of scribblers, he’d held little faith in the arrangements he’d made to keep the thing under wraps, and by taking himself away had prevented them from drawing a straight line from the familiar predator to his faceless prey.

  “I just wish the old man preferred bridge to poker,” said Stone through clenched teeth. “It helps to inform your partners how you plan to bid.”

  Which remark told Morse the captain had reached the same conclusion as he.