Wanted: Sam Bass Read online

  Nixon’s pistol spit fire from his position beside the depot. The conductor staggered. His shotgun loosed a double charge spattering the rail bed and station platform with shot. The trainman toppled to the platform.

  The horses spooked, rearing wide-eyed and backing away from the gunfire. Heffridge fell to his knees in the mud, hanging on to the reins as the frightened animals dragged him through the mud.

  Nixon crossed the platform. “Whoa there, easy, easy,” he said to calm the horses. Gunplay was bad enough, lose the horses and they’d be in trouble. He stepped off the platform beside his own mount, catching the reins just below the bit. “Easy there.” He stroked the horse’s neck. Heffridge recovered his feet. The horses began to settle beside Nixon’s mount. “Come on Bill, let’s get these horses to the train.”

  “Hurry up.” Bass waved at Nixon from the mail car door. “What the hell was all the shootin’ for?”

  Nixon tossed a shower of rain off the brim of his hat in the direction of the body lying beside the caboose. “The conductor decided to play hero.”

  Bass paid no attention. “Give me them saddlebags.”

  Nixon jerked the saddlebags from his horse and the two he led. He handed them up to Bass. “Bill take Collins’s horse up to the engine. We should be ready to ride pretty quick.” Heffridge set off at a trot leading Collins’s bay.

  Inside the car, Bass and Berry made quick work of stuffing the contents of the strongbox into the saddlebags. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” Bass jumped to the platform and headed for Nixon and the horses. He handed one heavily loaded saddlebag to Nixon and stepped off the platform into his saddle. Berry followed his lead. They spun their horses north and galloped behind the depot, wheeling east.

  Heffridge pulled up beside the locomotive long enough for Collins to swing aboard his horse. Collins wheeled his horse east and squeezed up a lope along the roadbed. As they passed the engine he glimpsed a lantern bobbing in the darkness across the road south of the depot. He spurred up a gallop down the tracks as a muzzle flashed futile fire at their escape.

  A lone tree stood sentinel at the east end of the old town. Bass drew rein and stepped down. “Get them saddlebags down. We’ll divide up our shares here and split up.” They emptied the three saddlebags. He counted thirty mint shipping pouches. Each carried one hundred gold double eagles. Sixty thousand dollars, five pouches to a man.

  Nixon hefted his saddlebag. “Hell of a night’s work.”

  Bass spat. “Yah, well ride smart and you might get to enjoy it.”

  “Ride smart meaning?”

  “Meaning we ride north to the Platte. We split up there and use the river to cover our tracks.”

  They mounted up. Bass led them north through the night. They reached the banks of the North Platte as the sky turned a predawn gray. They paused to water the horses.

  “You boys head west. Split up when you see the chance.”

  Collins cocked an eye. “Where you goin’ Sam?”

  “None of us need to know the answer to that question for any of us.”

  “But I just figured, since we been ridin’ together.”

  “You figured wrong, Joel. We split here. You go on with the rest. Now get out of here.”

  Nixon and the others splashed into the stream along the riverbank. Collins stared at Bass for a moment in disbelief. He saw no give in the set of Bass’s jaw. He wheeled his horse into the stream and followed the others.

  Bass watched them go, confident he’d get home. He waited until the others were well out of sight and sound before turning his horse downstream, doubling back on their trail.

  Shady Grove

  The colonel paused to yawn. His chin nodded to his chest. A light footstep sounded up the porch. She appeared as if on cue. I pretended to review my notes, watching her approach. Her eyes smiled. I’m not sure I fooled her.

  “Time for lunch, Colonel.”

  She had a velvety voice flavored in butterscotch.

  He bobbed awake. One eye peeked under a bushy brow. He glanced from his attendant apparition to me.

  “Penny isn’t it?”

  She blushed ever so lightly. “It ’tis.”

  I marked a hint of Irish brogue.

  “The scribe here is Robert Brentwood. His facility with the written word must exceed his capacity for the spoken word. I presume to introduce you to him for the simple fact a man my age may not live long enough to see him do it for himself.”

  We blushed. Crook winked, pleased with himself.

  “Mr. Brentwood, Penny O’Malley. I’ve drawn the short straw to give care to this old rascal.”

  “Please accept my condolences.”

  She laughed a merry throaty laugh. Crook scowled at the turn of the table.

  “And please, call me Robert.”

  “Very well then, Robert, you must call me Penny.”

  The colonel straightened in his chair. “I see my work here is very nearly done. Now if you will invite this young lady to tea, I shall be content to go to the drivel they call lunch.”

  I favored the old man with a conspiratorial smile. “She strikes me as more an ice cream sundae sort of lass.”

  She laughed again. “Don’t tell me you’re Irish, Robert Brentwood.”

  I shook my head with a smile. “Only a wee dram on me sainted mother’s side.”

  “Where the Irish are concerned sir, there’s no such thing as a wee dram. And yes, I do like an ice cream sundae.”

  “Splendid,” Crook said. “You do owe me boy.”

  I watched her wheel him away. Ice cream on Sunday seemed a long day to wait.

  SIX

  Shady Grove

  The following Saturday arrived on a swirl of early winter snow. I was shown to a cozy lounge for my interview with Colonel Crook. Penny rolled him down a long hall with a waxed wooden floor leading to the visitor’s lounge. She looked fetching as ever, though I had to admit she looked positively stunning in the simple floral dress she’d worn to the ice cream parlor the previous Sunday. Her eyes brightened that Mona Lisa smile as she rolled the colonel to a stop across from my chair. I stood.

  “Robert.”

  “Penny. Is he behaving himself today?”

  “He’s been incorrigible with questions all week.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Good afternoon to you too, Robert.”

  I recovered. “Good afternoon, Colonel.”

  “Now about that book of yours, or have you taken up another interest?”

  “I have.” She blushed. I liked it. “But I do believe we should continue with the book as well.”

  “For lack of a respectable excuse to continue these flirtations of yours?”

  Buffalo Station

  September 19, 5:30 a.m.

  What the hell is going on? The damn train is three hours late and not a peep out of Big Springs! Ben Wise snapped his watchcase closed. It smelled like trouble. He paced the station, turning the situation over in his mind. She left Cheyenne on schedule. For whatever reason he couldn’t get a telegraph acknowledgment out of Big Springs. Indians cut the lines quite often in the early days, though that hadn’t been much of a problem in recent years. He got through to Cheyenne, so the trouble had to be at Big Springs. Was it the telegraph connection or something worse? Wise had a bad feeling he couldn’t explain.

  The familiar whistle blasts—a short, then a long—sounded in the distance. Finally! He let loose his pent-up tensions. Still there’d be hell to pay for the schedule. He threw on his hat and coat and stepped out onto the platform. The rain had cleared through. A fresh breeze mingled the scents of rain and sage. Off to the west the headlamp appeared around the mile marker bend. Wise headed toward the watering station. He’d have the tank ready the minute she stopped.

  The engine ground to a stop, screaming steel and belching gouts of steam. Wise caught the chain ready to swing the watering trough into place. The engineer waved from the cab. “I’ll take care of that Ben. You best see
to your telegraph key. The Pinkerton will want to wire Cheyenne. We’ve been robbed!”

  North Platte

  Nixon called a halt to rest the horses on the grassy riverbank as the sun climbed toward midday. Sunlight glittered on the eastward course of the river. Not far upstream a rocky wash spilled out of the hillside to the river. He nudged Berry and pointed with his chin. “Looks like a good spot to turn north. Collins and Heffridge can go on and find their own way out.”

  Berry nodded. “We’ll make better time than ploddin’ along at the river’s edge.”

  Nixon walked over to where Collins rested against a tree trunk. “Joel, me and Jim will be leavin’ you at that wash up yonder. You and Bill can stick to the river a bit further and pick your way out.”

  Collins wouldn’t have chosen Heffridge for a partner, but when Bass went off on his own he guessed that’s how things would wind up. Bass kind of soured on him after the poker game in Deadwood so he wasn’t surprised when the partnership ended. Sam took the lead of the outfit when Nixon and his boys joined up. Nixon pretty well had things his way before that. When Bass left, Nixon took up where he left things. He and Berry were tight. That left him with Heffridge. With his share of the gold, he wouldn’t need the man very long.

  Julesburg

  September 19

  A dark, ragged line of rooftops broke the green gold sea of prairie grass lapping at the shore of a bright blue southern sky. Heffridge glanced nervously over his shoulder at their back trail. “You really think this is a good idea Collins?”

  “Last place they’d look for us, besides we need supplies to make it to Dodge.” The idea of following the rail bed southeast from Julesburg struck him as a great plan. They could cover a lot of ground fast and leave very little trail for pursuit to follow if anyone did figure it out.

  “How long you figure on stayin’ here?”

  “No more than tonight and enough of tomorrow to get provisioned.”

  They rode into the east end of town, south of the tracks. The livery amounted to a corral and a blacksmith’s shop with a loft. Collins drew rein. “You stay with the horses, Heff. I’ll take care of this.”

  Dim light filtered through a dusty window and the occasional chink in the plank shed. He found the proprietor smith at his forge, pumping the bellows.

  “What can I do for you?” His deep voice rumbled from a barrel chest. The buttons and sleeves of a dirty red union suit strained against his muscled bulk. He wore a heavy leather apron over wool britches held up by sweat-stained suspenders.

  “Got a couple of horses to put up for the night.”

  “Fifty cents each.”

  Collins fished a silver dollar out of his pocket and tossed it to the smith. He caught it, turned it over in dark stained fingers and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “Put ’em in the corral. They’ll be waitin’ in the mornin’.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know of a packhorse that might be for sale?”

  The smith arched an eyebrow and cracked what passed for a smile. “Not a horse, but I got a saddle-broke jenny I might let you have.”

  “I ain’t never had much luck with mules.”

  “Oh this one’s real sweet. She’ll do you good. You put up your horses. I’ll bring her in so you can have a look at her.”

  By the time they unsaddled the horses and turned them out, the smith had a sturdy, brown-eyed buckskin mule cross tied in the shop doorway. Heffridge checked her hooves and hocks. He threw a packsaddle up on her back. She stood quietly. He took her halter lead and led her around the stable yard. She moved willingly with no sign of sass or temper. He led her back to the cross tie and gave Collins his opinion. “Good mule.”

  “How much?”

  “She’s four-year-old prime. Fifty dollars seems more than fair.”

  “More than fair is right. It’s a damn mule. I’ll give you forty dollars if you throw in the packsaddle and not a penny more.”

  The smith scratched the dark stubble of beard at his chin. “I’m bein’ cheated here, but it’s late. You got yourself a mule.”

  Collins tossed him two coins. The bright gold double eagles caught the lantern light. The smith caught them in a soot-stained fist and held one up to the light.

  “We’ll pick her up in the morning with the horses. Now where might a feller find a room for the night?”

  The big man scowled. “South Platte’s the only hotel in town if that’s what you mean. Otherwise Sadie and one of her girls over at the Rusty Spike might put you up if you was to stand for the price.”

  A whore for the night? Collins could afford that. So could the dull-witted Heffridge. “Much obliged.”

  Sadie eyed the two strangers. The Rusty Spike had a few regulars. Newcomers stood out. Things weren’t at all like the end-of-track heydays anymore. Chipped paint and scarred surroundings testified to that. The only surface in the place that had a shine was the bar top, owing to the bartender’s boredom. The shorter one had the cocksure attitude of a bandy rooster. He looked like trouble. The big one had a bovine look like he might have an ox somewhere in his breeding. She shuddered. The shorter one smiled at her. She smiled back. It was her job. He came over like a fish on a line.

  “Where can I find Sadie?”

  “You found her.”

  “Joel Collins is the name. The feller over at the livery said you might put a man up for the night.”

  She knew the type. Held a higher opinion of himself than he could ever back up. Still booked for the night was booked for the night. She lifted her chin to the oxy one. “What about him?”

  “Him too.”

  She glanced at a plump blonde with laudanum-vacant eyes, leaning against the bar. “What say Tilley?”

  She giggled.

  “That’ll be twenty dollars each, startin’ with drinks.”

  The short one tossed her a mint-new double eagle. She made a show of tucking it in the opulent swell overflowing the bodice of her dress. “Come on, Joel Collins, you done married yourself a wife for the night.”

  She led the way to a corner table and motioned the bartender for a bottle and glasses. Get him drunk enough she might even get a good night’s sleep in the bargain.

  SEVEN

  September 20

  Dusty light filtered through window grime bathed the Rusty Spike in a sepia morning glow. Sadie sat at a corner table nursing a cup of coffee and a bad head. The little shit could drink and keep it up. So much for a good night’s sleep. She pushed at an errant strand of auburn hair. She turned the gold double eagle in a small circle on the scarred tabletop with a chipped fingernail.

  The town buzzed with news of the Big Springs robbery. Sixty thousand dollars was a king’s ransom. She’d heard the talk. The Union Pacific was offering a thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the capture of those responsible. A thousand dollars could get a girl’s attention. Having a mint-new gold double eagle didn’t make a man a train robber. Heaven knew the Rusty Spike saw enough double eagles, but something about that pair didn’t sit right. They didn’t have the appearance of businessmen or wealthy travelers. They were rough-cut and well armed. They just happened to have money, maybe a lot of money. The reward offer said to report any information to the nearest Pinkerton agency. That’d be the one up at the depot.

  Tall, muscular and handsome, Beauregard Longstreet’s family roots ran deep in the old South. He came from the fringes of the more prominent Longstreet line best known for his cousin, the distinguished general who served under Robert E. Lee. Beau had never been West Point material. He parlayed his family name into a junior officer’s appointment and rose to the rank of captain before the cessation of hostilities. Humiliated in defeat, he drifted west, reaching Saint Louis penniless. He signed on as a Pinkerton guard out of necessity. He soon demonstrated a knack for protection. They’d done a good deal of defending in the later stages of the war. His experience as a field commander distinguished his performance. He gained greater responsibility in his assignments
as the company followed the railroads and goldfields west.

  Pinkerton put him on the next train to Julesburg as part of the team investigating the Big Springs robbery. He figured the next stop up the line from the scene might be close enough to be interesting. That was before he got to Julesburg. He set up shop at the depot and put out the company offer of a reward for information leading to the apprehension of those responsible. Since then there’d been nothing to do but wait. The wait he concluded was for orders to get out of this shit hole. No selfrespecting train robber with sixty thousand dollars in gold would be found dead in a dump like this.

  He rocked the barrel-backed chair away from the small desk the stationmaster had given him in the corner of the passenger lounge and loosened his starched collar in the crook of an index finger. He stifled a yawn as he gazed out the dust-streaked window across a rolling sea of prairie grass stretching north and west to the skyline. The soft scrape of a light footstep on the plank floor at his back called him back to his present.

  He twisted around his chair’s groan. The woman wore a black lace shawl over a low-cut lavender gown in a failed attempt at modesty. Her red hair piled high in disheveled wispy ringlets. Watery green eyes lent an air of vulnerability to a face that remained somehow soft and pretty, despite the hard edges imposed by the harsh life of a frontier working girl.

  “Good afternoon ma’am, Beau Longstreet at your service.”

  “Sadie, Sadie Sawyer,” she mumbled.

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Sawyer. How may I be of service?”

  Handsome devil with a syrupy Southern drawl, nice. “Please, call me Sadie. It’s about the reward.”

  “You have information about the Big Springs robbery?”

  She nodded fumbling with the drawstrings to a faded blue purse. “I may. I have a suspicion.” She handed him a bright new twenty-dollar gold piece.