Wanted: Sam Bass Page 9

  “Big tough Pinkerton, got a yellow streak fit for a reb. You gonna show yourself, Longstreet, or do I have to come lookin’ for you?”

  Cross eased his horse north along the east end of the platform.

  Longstreet pulled his head and shoulders into sunlight. The air felt fresh in his lungs free of the dusty heat below the platform. He wriggled the rest of the way out and lay flat on his belly beside the platform. He had Cross’s back, near the north depot wall. The potential threat wouldn’t hold his attention much longer. He needed a real one. The short-barreled pocket pistol wasn’t accurate much beyond thirty paces. He needed close range.

  He stood, stepped around the platform and began advancing on his target hoping the gunman wouldn’t notice. He moved slowly, one eye on Cross and one eye on the ground careful to avoid any sound. Thirty paces. He forced himself to ignore the bloodstained, gingham-clad body lying on the platform. Bitter anger soured in his throat. Twenty paces. They’d cared for each other at some level. Some unknown, mysterious connection bound them. Fifteen paces.

  “Drop the gun, Cross.”

  The gunman froze. The son of a bitch had gotten behind him. A slow smile parted his mustache as he chanced a glance over his shoulder. The Pinkerton stood in plain sight ten paces behind him. Times like these a man had to trust his shot. He swung his .44 on line and fired. The sudden movement startled his horse. The animal sidestepped, sending the bullet wide of the intended body shot.

  Longstreet fired. He charged the startled horse, filling his lungs with an old rebel yell called from some long-quiet place. The spooked horse backed and reared, eyes wide, nostrils flared. Cross fought the bit. He cocked his gun and fired wildly.

  The Pinkerton caught the gunman’s eye at point-blank range. White hot anger blazed in his chest. The pocket pistol spit muzzle flash and powder smoke, round after round slammed into Cross. The first caught him under his extended shooting arm, destroying his aim. The second shattered his hip. The third tore into his rib cage below the heart, pitching him from the saddle.

  Longstreet held his aim, waiting for any sign of movement. He stepped closer and rolled the body over with the toe of his boot. Braylin Cross lay dead. He holstered his pistol. He kicked Cross in the jaw, unable to inflict enough injury on the dead man to satisfy his rage. He turned on his heel and walked back to the platform. He sat beside Sadie’s body. Dissolved anger choked his throat.

  TWELVE

  Buffalo Station

  September 26

  A short-long whistle blast roused him from sleep. The train slowed for the roll into Buffalo Station. Minutes passed. A powerful whistle blast, screeching brakes and gouts of steam announced the arrival. The train stopped short of the station to take on water. Cane gazed out the window, sizing up what he could see of the town. Buffalo Station had surely survived more of its end-of-track boom than Big Springs. A small town sprawled around a commercial center north of the depot. Stores and saloons were visible along with a livery and what might be a hotel. If Collins and Heffridge needed supplies, Buffalo Station could more than fill the bill.

  Cane shifted on the uncomfortably hard seat, chafing at the delay. He looked across the car to the prairie south of town. Late-afternoon sun slanted out of the west. Not far south of town a wispy cloud of smoke rose to the blue sky just beginning to catch touches of pink. Dust sign and dark smudges suggested some large party making camp. Cane pursed his lips, curious. The train lurched forward slow rolling the short distance to the station platform.

  He stood and collected his saddlebags, grateful to be done with the train seat. He made his way up the aisle to the car door as the train lurched to a stop at the depot. He stepped down to the platform. A small rough-cut log depot stood on the far side. He clumped down the platform steps and walked back to the stock car where a stockman unloaded his horse.

  Smoke greeted him with a stomp and a snort, plainly pleased to be done with the rock and sway of the train. He led him to the depot hitch rack and wrapped a rein. He climbed the platform. The door needed a push to break a warped seal. Hinges creaked as he stepped inside the dimly lit office and passenger lounge. The stationmaster, a harried scarecrow of a man with garters holding up his sleeves looked up from a cluttered desk. He blinked owlishly behind smudged spectacles amid a sun washed storm of dust mites.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m lookin’ for the Pinkerton agent.”

  The little man thumbed toward a shadowed back corner of the passenger lounge. An agent with a drooping mustache sat at a small desk crammed behind the potbelly stove. He snapped out of a doze as Cane approached.

  “Pinkerton agent, Reed.” He extended a hand. His rumpled brown suit looked as though it had gathered dust with the rest of the place.

  “Briscoe Cane.”

  A flicker of recognition crossed his eye. “Pleased to meet you. I got a wire from Beau Longstreet. He said you might be along.”

  “Any sign of the men who robbed the train at Big Springs?”

  The agent shook his head. “They split up soon as they left town, scattered near as we can tell. From what Longstreet tells me, you got as much trail as anybody.”

  “I got a hunch two of ’em might be headed this way. Any idea who’s makin’ camp south of town?”

  The Pinkerton nodded. “Fifth Cavalry column headed up to the Powder River troubles. They camp out there to keep the men out of town. Pisses off the saloon keepers and whores somethin’ fierce.”

  “I can imagine. Much obliged for the help.”

  “You let me know if them two you’re after show up.”

  “You’ll be the second to know. Have a good evening.”

  Shadows gathered as the sun drifted toward the horizon. Cane toed a stirrup and swung into his saddle. He wheeled Smoke south, crossed the tracks and picked up a jog toward the army encampment.

  Soldiers milled about the camp or sat taking their evening meal. He’d read the newspaper account of Sherman’s plan to confine the hostiles to the reservations this summer. This unit had to be part of that campaign.

  A sentry challenge at the perimeter led to the duty officer, a crisp young fellow who likely maintained his commission in the postwar army courtesy of West Point training.

  “Lieutenant Benjamin Sparks at your service, sir.”

  “Briscoe Cane, Lieutenant. I’m on the trail of two men wanted for the Big Springs train robbery. I wonder if any of your patrols might have come across them.”

  “No reports have come to my attention since I came on duty this evening. Are you an officer of the law?”

  “Great Western Detective League.” It sounded official. Cane thought it might help.

  “I’m not familiar with that.”

  “We’ve been retained to recover the stolen gold shipment and bring those responsible to justice.”

  “I see. It’s a civilian matter then. The army can’t provide direct assistance you understand. Unofficially you might ask our chief of scouts. His scouting parties might have seen something.”

  “Unofficially then, where might I find this chief of scouts?”

  “The scouts are camped on the west perimeter.” He hooked a gauntleted thumb toward a fire site over his right shoulder.

  “Much obliged.”

  He wasn’t hard to find.

  “Caleb Forrester.” The grizzled old scout rose, unfolding his crooked frame from a cross-legged sitting position with an unexpected ease. He wore soiled buckskins and a sweat-stained slouch hat. Clots of gray-streaked hair hung to his shoulders. Deep etched lines hardened his features to a sunbaked mask. His lean jaw jutted behind a scruff gray beard. Watery blue eyes flicked a calculated assessment in his casual greeting. By the look of him he might have been taken for some older unkempt kin to Cane. He stuck out a gnarled hand. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m lookin’ for a couple of men. The duty officer thought your scouts might have spotted them.”

  Forrester scratched his chin. “You the la
w?”

  Cane shook his head. “Bounty hunter.”

  “Same difference, sit down. I was about to have a bite of supper. T’ain’t much, biscuits’n gravy. The cook may have sliced some fatback nearby. Care to join me?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Forrester waved for another plate and returned to his seat beside the fire. The scout camp sprawled away from the regular army camp. Crow and Arikara knotted around their own fires. “What might you be after these men about?”

  “It starts with stage robbery and then moves on to train robbery.”

  “They sound like right upstanding citizens.”

  The cook, a potbellied man in a stained apron brought him a plate of biscuits ladled with thin gravy. Cane thanked him with a nod. “Last I knew they circled Big Springs headed this way. Did any of your scouts report seeing two men headed this way?”

  Forrester shook his head, hocked and spat for emphasis. “Cain’t say they did.” He squinted off to the southwest. “Then again maybe we just did.”

  Cane followed the scout’s line of sight. At first he didn’t see anything but purple haze. Then he made out three dark shapes moving slowly out of the south. “That just might be them now.”

  “You want some help, just in case?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “It’s a civilian matter so you’ll have to take the lead. My men and I will back you up if it comes to that.”

  Cane set his plate aside and headed for his horse. By the time he mounted and rode out of camp, Forrester and a half dozen well-armed men trailed along. As he closed the distance to the approaching riders he made out two of them leading a pack mule.

  “Look yonder, Heff.” Collins stuck out his chin toward riders approaching in the fading light. “Don’t like the look of that.” The lead rider picked up a trot closing the distance between them. He drew rein at twenty yards.

  “Collins, Heffridge, you’re under arrest for the Big Springs train robbery and other offenses.”

  “Damn!” Collins sighed.

  “We could make a run for it.”

  “These horses are played out. We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “What do we do then, give up?”

  “You do what you want, Heff. Them sons a bitches ain’t lockin’ me up.”

  Cane took the smaller of the two riders silhouetted against the gathering gloom for Collins. He was the one who went for his gun. His shot went wide off the muzzle flash and trailing report. Cane fired twice blinded by his own first flash. He heard a faint grunt. Collins’s horse wheeled. Cane’s mount danced left as Collins sent another errant shot in the direction he’d just left. Heffridge got off one shot to no effect, when Forrester’s scouts lit up the purple dusk with a volley that knocked Heffridge out of his saddle. Cane leveled his gun at Collins. The man fought to control his horse, unable to hold a firing line. Cane’s Colt exploded twice. Collins pitched forward beyond the clouds of gray smoke drifting off on the evening breeze. The whole encounter ended as quickly as it began.

  Shady Grove

  “The next day I received a telegram reporting the conclusion of Cane’s pursuit of Collins and Heffridge. Between the two of them he recovered a third of the UP loss. Collins also carried a substantial amount of gold dust that might reasonably be attributed to the Wells Fargo case. Sam Bass and the rest of the loot remained at large.”

  “That’s it for today,” Penny said.

  I must admit I was so absorbed in the colonel’s account I didn’t hear her come along when she did.

  Crook fished a gold watch from his pocket and popped the lid. “Sure is punctual. You two must have big plans for the weekend.” She blushed.

  “Can you give us a minute, Penny? Is that the end of the story? I mean Bass was still in Buffalo Station wasn’t he?”

  “He was. The trail might have ended there for some, but not for Briscoe Cane. That and a little help from a friend, but it appears that’ll have to wait until next week.”

  Julesburg

  September 26

  Dust swirled behind the dark-suited parson in the wide-brimmed black hat. A handful of headstones, plain wooden crosses and crudely lettered memorials marked the graves of those buried in the overgrown cemetery north of town. Longstreet stood at the graveside flanked by the bartender and two black-clad whores from the Rusty Spike.

  The parson murmured a familiar passage reading from a well-worn bible. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”

  Longstreet’s mind drifted away. She saved his life. He’d enjoyed her company, connected with her in a way he didn’t understand and couldn’t explain. He’d treated her in a way most men wouldn’t. No more than he might have done for any decent woman. Maybe that was it. He’d seen decency where most never bothered to look. In that he may have given her something of value. Something she thought she might never have. She’d saved his life for it. He’d never forget her. It might not be much, but it was more than she had before they met.

  Buffalo Station

  By the time they reached Delmonico’s for dinner the town was abuzz with talk of the shoot-out below the army camp. According to the waiter Alanzo, the Pinkertons claimed they’d gotten two of the men responsible for the Big Springs train robbery. Bass took the news without visible reaction. His mind raced. Suddenly Buffalo Station felt decidedly uncomfortable, the enticing presence of the widow Stone notwithstanding. She ordered wine. He ordered whiskey.

  “Can you imagine the nerve of those men? Fugitives from justice ride into Buffalo Station as though they had not a care in the world.”

  “Hard to believe.” He shook his head. “Fortunately responsible law enforcement was up to the task.”

  “At least they got two of them. Unfortunately the rest of them are yet to be apprehended.”

  “I shouldn’t fret if I were you. Justice is sure to be done in due course.”

  “One would hope, though I must say I lack your certainty in the matter. Ah, our steaks are here. I’m ready for more pleasant fare.”

  By dessert he had a plan. He escorted her back to the hotel and excused himself, feigning illness. Safely in his room he packed his few belongings and let himself out by the back stairs. He collected his horse at the livery and put his plan into action.

  THIRTEEN

  September 27

  Gray morning light seeped through the lace curtains. Cane hadn’t even noticed them when he crawled into bed the night before. He slept off the effects of the Collins and Heffridge pursuit and the showdown it led to. The bright light of day left him with the question of what to do about Bass and the rest of the gang. If he hadn’t killed Collins he might have gotten a lead. No time for second-guessing a man in a gunfight. You fought for survival on instinct.

  He poured water into a basin on the nightstand and splashed his eyes awake. His stomach reminded him that in all the excitement the night before he hadn’t even finished the biscuits and brown water that passed for gravy. He made his way down to the lobby to find the scarecrow night clerk who’d checked him in had been replaced by an attractive auburn-haired woman with a fine complexion.

  “Good morning.” She favored him with a bright smile.

  “Good morning. Might there be a place nearby for a bite of breakfast?”

  She lifted her chin toward the door. “Delmonico’s across the street.”

  “Much obliged.”

  The restaurant came off a cut above the usual frontier fare. Steak, eggs, biscuits and real gravy washed down with a pot of coffee put Cane right to deal with the problem of picking up Bass’s trail. He left Delmonico’s and headed for the depot. As expected he was greeted by a telegram from Colonel Crook.

  Congratulations on successful pursuit.

  UP offers three thousand dollar reward for Bass.

  Alert sent to all points.

  Return to Denver by first conveyance.

  Crook

  Return to Denver and what? Wait? Wait for what? Wait for the Great Western De
tective League to pick up the trail? He crumpled the foolscap. The notion grated on his every instinct as a hunter.

  He glanced at the Pinkerton agent hunched over his desk, earnestly discussing some facet of the case with an older gentleman in a bowler hat and tweed jacket. He carried a silver-tipped cane that affected a dandified demeanor amid the rough-hewn furnishings of a frontier depot. The discussion, while animated, appeared casual, lacking the urgency to suggest Pinkerton had anything better to go on than he did. Bass and the others didn’t just disappear into thin air. There had to be a trail. He had three thousand more good reasons to find it. Well, eighteen hundred to be exact.

  The morning eastbound whistled its approach. Cane stepped out on the platform among a small knot of waiting passengers. A black smoke smudge stained the western sky. Another throaty whistle blast sounded as the engine slow rolled into the station. Her brakes sighed clouds of steam as she drew up beside the platform. Carriage doors opened and disembarking passengers spilled out onto the platform. Further to the west mail and freight made their delivery and departure exchanges. It all appeared routine until Cane noticed a familiar figure among the arriving passengers.

  Beau Longstreet stood out in an average-size crowd. He glanced around and started for the depot. Cane waved him down.

  “Longstreet, I didn’t expect to see you here. Things must be quiet in Julesburg.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Bass?”

  “No. Cross.”

  “What happened?”

  “Like you said, he tried to back shoot me while I was having lunch with Sadie.”

  “Lunch? I told you she was a grateful whore.”

  “More than grateful, she saved my life. But please, don’t call her that. She’s dead.”

  Cane caught the shadow of grief in Longstreet’s eye. “Sorry, I didn’t mean no disrespect. What happened?”