Wanted: Sam Bass

  WANTED: SAM BASS

  GREAT WESTERN DETECTIVE LEAGUE

  WANTED: SAM BASS

  PAUL COLT

  FIVE STAR

  A part of Gale, Cengage Learning

  Copyright © 2015 by Paul Colt

  Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

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  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Colt, Paul.

  Wanted: Sam Bass / Paul Colt. – First edition.

  – (Great western detective league ; 1)

  ISBN 978-1-4328-2938-4 (hardcover) – ISBN 1-4328-2938-6 (hardcover)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-2943-8 eISBN-10: 1-4328-2943-2

  1. Law enforcement–United States–History–19th century–

  Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.O4673W36 2015

  813'.6–dc23 2014031285

  First Edition. First Printing: January 2015

  This title is available as an e-book.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-2943-8 ISBN-10: 1-4328-2943-2

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  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 19 18 17 16 15

  PROLOGUE

  Deadwood

  August 1877

  The No. 10 Saloon catered to rough mining types and the assorted gamblers, gunmen, scoundrels and soiled doves ready to help a man with an itch out of his hard-earned poke. Sam Bass confined his interest to playing cards with a couple of Manuel Homestake miners he considered easy marks, much to the disappointment of more than a few of the whores. A handsome devil by the doves’ estimation, he wore a frock coat over a slight frame. He had dark wavy hair barbered close with a curled mustache. His cool gray eyes gave the doves a flutter. Others thought more of his cross draw double rig. The guns bore him a fearsome reputation that served to keep his card playing peaceful. If the cards ran against him, he could count on the Colts to stake him to a new game.

  Hank Schott, foreman at the Homestake came to the No. 10 for his usual payday sport. Bass drew him into his game for the price of a drink. Schott enjoyed some celebrity owing to his position at the richest mine in the Black Hills. He was free to impress his importance on any that might care to listen. Liquor improved his self-importance. It didn’t help his hand at cards. The handsome Texan in the frock coat seemed only too happy to listen, pour and win.

  Bass fanned his cards and shoved in his bet. “Two dollars.”

  Hank squinted at his cards. “Two dollars, make it three.” The other two miners checked to Bass.

  “I’ll see your three and raise you two more.”

  Schott scratched the stubble on his chin. “Goes again’ my better judgment, but I’ll see and call.”

  “Full house, ladies and gents.” Bass laid down queens and jacks.

  Schott tossed over two pair. “Dad burn it! I’d best scratch my itch while I still got some payday left to scratch it with.” He stretched and yawned. “Besides I got a long day comin’ tomorrow.”

  Bass laughed as he raked in his pot. “What makes tomorrow longer than any other day at the mine?”

  The miner shook his head. “Puttin’ up a shipment. You got to get all the weights and measures and tallies right for the manifest. All that cipherin’s enough to make a man’s head hurt.” He scraped his chair back.

  Bass tossed in his cards. Long day putting up a shipment sounds like a big one.

  “That’ll be enough for me, boys.” He cast around the smoky saloon until he spotted his partner at a back corner table. Joel Collins sat under a buxom redhead bent on tickling his fancy. A smaller man, Collins aspired to make up for his lack of stature by associating with a hard case like Bass. He had an ornery disposition, hot temper and enough of a gun hand to cause trouble he couldn’t always finish. Bass tolerated the little gunny because he mostly did what he was told when he was sober. The half-empty bottle and two glasses on the table told that story for the night. Collins’s share of a fraudulent cattle sale amounted to enough for the whore to fall in love with him, at least until the money ran out. Bass crossed the crowded saloon and interrupted the opening act to a trip upstairs.

  “Joel.”

  “Not now, Sam. I’m busy.” He plainly enjoyed a handful of warm willing flesh.

  “Maybe not now, but be ready to ride at sunup.”

  “Sunup?” He cocked an eye over the lace frill at a brimming bodice.

  “Sunup. We got work to do.”

  “What work?”

  “Come along now if you want to know, otherwise I’ll tell you in the morning.”

  “I’m already comin’ along. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Suit yourself. Just don’t be late.”

  Cheyenne & Deadwood Stage Road

  Slanting sun crested the pine-blackened hills in the east. Bass and Collins rode south out of town. Collins nursed the whiskeyhazed effects of the night before, trying to remember if she’d been worth it. The fact that he couldn’t made the harsh light of day all the worse for it. He let the miles roll by, suffering his private misery in silence.

  Bass set a blistering pace from the moment they cleared the outskirts of town. He held to the stage road, deviating only to skirt the rest stops spaced at ten-mile intervals along the run between Cheyenne and Deadwood. Most stops offered few comforts beyond a small station, privy and corrals where the relief teams were stabled. Somewhat larger stations placed at forty-mile intervals offered passengers and stage hands the comfort of a small lounge where simple meals were served.

  At midday, Bass mercifully drew a halt beside a roadside stream to rest and water the horses. They stepped down. Collins splashed water in his face clearing enough of his head to overcome some of his misery.

  “Where the hell are we going and what’s the hurry?”

  “Back from the dead, are we? You have a good time last night?”

  “Must have. A man don’t generally feel so poorly unless he done something to deserve it. Now answer my questions.”

  “Like I said last night, we got a job.”

  Collins rubbed the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger in a futile attempt to staunch the throbbing behind his eyes. “What kind of job?”

  “We’re gonna hit the Deadwood to Cheyenne stage tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  “Well, while you was fixin’ to get yourself a poke last night, I was busy workin’.”

  “Workin’ hell, you was playin’ cards.”

  “I’m surprised you remember. One of my marks was a talkative foreman at the Homestake.”

  Collins set aside his misery
at the mention of a gold strike that rich.

  “There’s a big shipment headed south on the stage tomorrow. I mean to take it.”

  “Uh-huh. So there’s the stage road. What’s the hurry?”

  Bass shook his head, suffering the fool. “I don’t mean to just take it. I mean to keep it.”

  “What’s that got to do with bustin’ our butts in the saddle? We tryin’ to beat the stage to Cheyenne?”

  “The nearest law is Cheyenne. We need to find a spot to hit the stage and make a clean getaway. We got until midday tomorrow to find us that spot. Now mount up. We got ground to cover.”

  Two miles north of the southbound forty-mile stop, they found a spot where the stage road climbed a steep rise that curved through a narrow rock gulch. Bass drew rein to have a look. A southbound stage would come into the curve blind with no room to maneuver. They’d have to slow down for the grade with a team so close to the end of a ten-mile run. Two riders blocking the road could stop the stage. It looked like easy pickings as long as the shotgun messenger didn’t go all heroic on them. After that it was a matter of making good their getaway.

  They found a sheltered crevice east of the gulch to keep them out of sight of any northbound traffic while they waited. Collins’s head cleared by late afternoon, restoring him to his more talkative self.

  “Where we headed after we hit this stage?”

  Bass fished the makings out of his coat pocket. “Ready for more of what got you last night already?”

  “I’m always ready for a good time. Where’s it gonna be?”

  “South.” He rolled his smoke and tucked it between his lips.

  “South. South covers a lot of ground.”

  Bass scratched a match and puffed. He spit a bit of tobacco off his tongue, clearing the way for his answer. “If anybody comes lookin’ for us, it’ll likely come out of Cheyenne. If we head southeast it’s about the same as doublin’ back on ’em. We’ll be long gone before anybody figures that out.”

  “Smart.”

  “Somebody’s got to be. We’d starve sure as hell if we was to rely on you playin’ cards.”

  Collins scowled in reply. “I reckon I’ll rustle up some firewood for supper.”

  “No fire. We ain’t puttin’ up smoke sign that tells anyone with a curiosity we’re here.”

  “What about supper?”

  “Hardtack and jerky, now shut up and get some sleep.”

  Morning sun climbing the eastern sky told Bass it was time to take up the watch.

  “Climb up them rocks over yonder and keep your eyes peeled for that stage. You can wake me when you got sign of it.”

  “Me? Why me? You got eyes too.”

  “You earn your share your way and I earn mine my way.”

  “My way seems to include all the work. What’s your way?”

  “I think for both of us. Now get your ass up them rocks and sing out when you see somethin’.”

  “Hey-up haw!” Pete Daley slapped lines. The horses labored as they neared the end of their leg on this run. Daley was tired too. Four more legs before he’d get his relief. A drink, a meal and a good night’s sleep would all sit pretty good after a long day’s drive. He’d have a day’s rest before picking up the northbound for the run back to Deadwood.

  Joe Harris, the Wells Fargo shotgun messenger, sat beside him in the box. Now and then his head jerked as he fought the rock and pitch of the stage in a failed effort to stay awake. Some guard, Pete thought. It’d serve him right if he fell off the damn box. That’d wake him up, or break his neck.

  Up ahead the road climbed to a narrow passage winding between the rock walls of a gulch bending west. The team slowed, pulling into the climb. Pete drew lines, bending the team to the turn. The coach swayed as they rounded the curve. A pair of masked bandits with guns drawn blocked the road. The tired team checked its pace at the sight of them. Pete hauled lines. He had no place to run even if the horses had anything left which they didn’t. Harris snapped awake too late to make a play for his shotgun. Daley set the brake. One of them yanked the coach door open.

  “Nobody in here.”

  The tall one in the lead leveled a .44 at Daley. “Throw down the strongbox and nobody gets hurt.”

  “Do like he says, Joe,” Daley said, holding the team.

  The Wells Fargo man scowled.

  “Throw down the damn box, Joe. It ain’t worth dyin’ for.”

  Harris climbed up on the roof of the coach and walked back to the boot. He hefted the locked strongbox out and tossed it into the road. The bandit beside the passenger door wheeled his horse to the back of the coach and stepped down. Harris started back to the box. He jumped when the unexpected shot exploded in the narrow confines of the gulch. The padlock shattered with a metallic plink. The bullet whined away.

  “Looks like we struck pay dirt,” the shooter announced checking the contents of the box.

  “Pleasure doin’ business with y’all.” The man with an unmistakable Texas drawl touched the muzzle of his gun to the brim of his hat.

  Daley took one last look at the pair as he gathered his lines. He didn’t need a second invitation.

  “Hey-up haw!” Bass watched the stage disappear down the road. He stepped down from his horse and joined Collins at the strongbox. He dropped to one knee. Neatly packed sacks of gold lined the box three layers deep.

  “There must be twenty thousand here.”

  Collins nodded. “Yeah, sure looks pretty, don’t it. Let’s get it loaded and get the hell out of here.”

  The pair hastily filled their saddlebags. Bass stepped into the saddle. Collins’s horse turned skittish, dancing in a circle as he attempted to mount. He drew a left rein, tucking the horse’s muzzle to his shoulder and stepped aboard. Bass wheeled his blue roan and led them southeast at a gallop.

  ONE

  Denver, 1906

  My name is Robert Brentwood. I am employed as a reporter for the Denver Tribune, though in this venture I’ve come to compile a record of the Great Western Detective League for a book I expect to pen one day. I stumbled on reports of this association of law enforcement officers in the Tribune archives. Imagine my surprise when I discovered quite by accident that the mastermind behind this storied network of crime fighters was still alive and comfortably ensconced at the Shady Grove Rest Home and Convalescent Center. My nascent writing career seemed foreordained by so fortuitous a discovery.

  I arrived at Shady Grove one bright autumn afternoon. My enquiry at the reception desk was directed to a sun-washed veranda looking out over purpled peaks splashed in fall color. I found Colonel David J. Crook seated in a wheelchair soaking up the sun. He sat ramrod straight with an air that denied the ravages of his near eighty years, his only concession to the cool mountain air being a blanket wrapped about his legs. He had thick white hair, bushy muttonchops, accenting a strong jaw and stature that retained the calm, cool measure of his younger years. A creaky floorboard announced my approach. He glanced my way, his bright blue eyes alert beneath folded wrinkles and bushy brows.

  “Colonel Crook?”

  “I am.”

  “Robert Brentwood, Denver Tribune. I wonder if you might spare me a moment of your time?”

  “Time? Time young fella, is all I got. These days all of it’s spare. Pull up a chair.”

  I drew a nearby rocker down the porch and took a seat beside him.

  “What possible interest could the Denver Tribune have in an old soldier like me?”

  “Actually, sir it is more a personal matter, though I am a professional writer.”

  “All right then, what possible interest might a bright young professional writer have in an old soldier like me?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about the Great Western Detective League.”

  He arched an eyebrow and broke into a wistful smile as if recalling an old friend. “What prompts your interest in that?”

  “Some stories I found in the Tribune archives. I’d like to write a book about the le
ague. I’d like to hear your side of those stories.”

  “A book? Well if that don’t beat all. Those stories are old news.”

  “Not to me. You and your colleagues pioneered some very progressive criminal-investigation techniques. I think those innovations deserve recognition.”

  He chuckled. “Pinkerton got credit for all that.”

  “More than he deserved I’m sure. This is your chance to set the record straight.”

  He knit his brows down the bridge of his nose. “You’re serious aren’t you?”

  “Quite serious.”

  He pursed his lips. “All right, where would you like to begin?”

  “Would you like to go inside? You might be more comfortable there.”

  “Hell no! It’s too warm in there. Winter’ll have us cooped up in that hothouse soon enough. This time of year I take all the mountain air I can get. You get to be my age son, you never know when the time for that will run out.”

  I pulled a notebook and pencil from my coat pocket. Truth be told, I was thinking more about my cold fingers than the old man’s comfort. I opened the notepad. “What can you tell me about Sam Bass and the Big Springs train robbery?”

  His eyes drifted off up a mountain of recollection. “Briscoe Cane, Big Springs was his first case with us. First time we had a run in with Pinkerton too. The best thing to come out of that was Longstreet.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It all started with a stage holdup. Bass and his partner hit a Deadwood to Cheyenne stage and made off with a Wells Fargo gold shipment. Wells Fargo never took a thing like that lying down. They had a reputation to protect.”

  Cheyenne

  1877

  The Deadwood stage wheeled off the stage road, the team straining in their traces. The coach rumbled west on Sixteenth Street. “Whoa!” Charlie Tiller, the relief driver, hauled lines, drawing the stage to a halt at the station. The freshly painted sign proclaimed Cheyenne and Black Hills Stage and Express Line. Most folks called it the Cheyenne & Deadwood stage. The line carried prospectors and profiteers north to the Black Hills goldfields. On the return run it carried gold bound for City National Bank of Cheyenne. It took two days to make the three-hundred-mile run from Cheyenne to Deadwood with rest stops to change horses every ten miles.