The Iron Wagon

by Al Lacy

  When Paul had hugged everyone, he went once again to his mother. “Just have to hug my mama one more time.”

  Breanna smiled. Then in her heart calling on the Lord for strength, she wrapped her arms around this stalwart son of hers, who was so much like his father, and whispered in his ear, “Go with God, my son. I know He will always be near to you.”

  Paul tenderly kissed his mother’s cheek. “I know this is what the Lord wants me to do, Mama. Don’t be afraid for me. The Lord will take care of me.”

  “I won’t be afraid, Paul. You couldn’t be in better hands.”

  The train conductor’s strong voice made the last call for all passengers to board the train.

  Breanna raised up on her tiptoes and planted a soft kiss on Paul’s cheek. “Better hurry now. You don’t want the train to leave without you. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mama.” Paul waved at his father, his sisters, and the others, and he hurried to the railroad coach to which he had been assigned and boarded the train.

  Seconds later, Paul appeared at a window as he sat down. When he smiled and waved to the group, they all smiled and waved back. Moments later, the engine chugged, throwing billows of black smoke toward the sky, and pulled away from the station. As the train vanished from sight, silent tears glided down Breanna’s cheeks, but God’s grace reigned in her heart.

  When Paul arrived at the Phoenix railroad station and stepped off the train, he spotted three men in federal deputy marshal uniforms in the crowd, moving toward him.

  The three lawmen drew up, and one of them extended his hand. “I know you’re deputy U.S. marshal Paul Brockman because Marshal Pierce told me you look a whole lot like your father.”

  As they shook hands, Paul smiled. “I’ve been told that a few thousand times.”

  Grinning while still gripping Paul’s hand, the federal lawman said, “I’m Deputy Leroy Woodard.”

  Paul tightened his grip. “I read the telegram you sent to my father. Glad to meet you.”

  Woodard then introduced Paul to Deputies Mack Holman and Dan Slater. After Paul had shaken hands with each of them, Deputy Woodard said to Paul, “We’ve rented an apartment for you, just a block from the office.” And they headed that way.

  The next morning, Deputy Woodard introduced Paul to more deputies, then showed him around the office, filling him in on the basics of how things were done there. Paul told him it was exactly as things were done at his father’s office, so he would be able to handle it correctly.

  Deputy Woodard then took Paul to the hospital, explaining that Marshal Pierce wanted to see him.

  When they stepped into the hospital room that Danford Pierce occupied, the marshal was lying flat on his back in the bed. A big smile curved his lips as he looked up at Paul. “My, oh my! You’ve really grown up since we last saw each other. And I do mean up! You’re as tall as your father, aren’t you?”

  “Yes sir. Six feet five inches.”

  “And, boy, do you ever look like him!”

  Paul grinned. “Yes sir.”

  Deputy Woodard stood by as his boss and Paul Brockman talked about Paul’s duties. Finally they were finished. “Thanks for coming, Paul,” Marshal Pierce said. “I know you can handle the job.”

  As the week went by, Paul demonstrated to Deputy Woodard and all the other deputies that he indeed could run the office as well as handle outlaws that caused trouble in Phoenix.

  On the following Sunday, September 22, Paul Brockman was out of town with two other deputies, trailing three outlaws who had robbed a stagecoach the day before. Paul had planned to attend First Baptist Church that day.

  At the First Baptist Church of Phoenix that morning, Pastor Alex Duffy announced from the pulpit that the Edgar Martin family would soon be leaving Phoenix for San Diego, California. He explained that Edgar had been offered a good job there by a friend whose business was doing well. The Martins would be buying a covered wagon and planned to hook up with one of the wagon trains heading westward across Arizona to California.

  After the service, many of the church members approached Edgar, Celia, and Lisa and told them that they would miss them when they moved to San Diego.

  Paul’s work at the federal marshal’s office kept him from being able to attend the midweek service at First Baptist Church on the following Wednesday night. On Sunday, September 29, once again, he was in pursuit of outlaws with other deputies, and they did not catch them until nearly midnight.

  On Wednesday morning, October 2, the Martin family joined up with a small wagon train of only six wagons, which had camped just outside of Phoenix the night before, and were on their way to southern California.

  Later that morning, a telegram came to the U.S. marshal’s office in Phoenix from George Henderson, the warden of the federal prison at Yuma. The deputy on duty in the front office brought the telegram to Paul to read.

  When the deputy left to return to the front desk, Paul sat at Pierce’s desk, opened the envelope, and read the telegram. All five of the Dub Finch gang had escaped from Yuma Prison the day before, taking two guards with them as hostages and threatening to kill the guards if anyone followed them. The names of the four gang members with Dub Finch were Jack Devlin, Curly Bender, Buck Gentry, and Kurt Jagger.

  The dead bodies of both guards had been found early that morning, lying near the road, despite the fact that no one from the prison had followed them. Warden Henderson thought the vile Finch gang may be headed eastward across Arizona and wanted to let Marshal Danford Pierce know about it.

  Paul left Pierce’s office and shared the message of the telegram with the deputies in the front office. He told them they would need to let all the deputies know the news so they could be on guard in case the Finch gang showed up in or near Phoenix. Everyone hated the thought of Finch and his gang coming their way.

  Paul was about to go back to Pierce’s office when he and the other deputies saw a man enter the building. Paul recognized him instantly. He headed toward the man, and as Pastor Alex Duffy spotted him, he said, “Aha! Deputy Paul Brockman! You’ve grown up since I saw you last, but you sure do look like your father!”

  As they shook hands, Paul said, “It sure is good to see you again, Pastor Duffy. I’ve been planning to come to church, but it’s been one thing after another since I got here, keeping me busy when your doors are open.”

  Pastor Duffy smiled. “I understand, Paul. I’m sure you’ll be at First Baptist as soon as it’s possible.”

  “You can count on that.”

  The pastor said, “You’ll be writing to your parents while you’re here, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Paul nodded.

  “Well, I thought your father might like to know that one of the families who were saved when he preached here last April is moving to San Diego, California—the Martin family. So Edgar, his wife, Celia, and their daughter, Lisa, are traveling there right now in a wagon train. Please tell your father what I said. Okay?”

  “Sure. I remember Papa telling our family about the Martins. He will be glad to hear that they were good members here.”

  Pastor Duffy patted Paul’s arm. “Well, I’ve got to go. See you at First Baptist whenever you can come.”

  “You sure will,” Paul replied, “as soon as possible.”

  Early on Friday morning, October 4, just a day after Paul turned twenty-two, Paul was sitting at Marshal Pierce’s desk, having arrived only a few minutes earlier, when a deputy ushered two men into the office. They introduced themselves as Lawrence Citron and Marcus Rusk, who were residents in Phoenix.

  Lawrence cleared his throat and began to speak. “Marcus and I have been in western Arizona for several days. And while we were heading home yesterday on the road that leads to Yuma, some soldiers from Fort Huachuca told us that the five-man Dub Finch gang escaped from the Yuma Prison on Tuesday and that they were headed eastward.”

  Marcus continued the story. “When we stopped last night near the road to make camp, we happened to s
ee a campfire several yards farther down the road. Lawrence counted five men around the fire.”

  Lawrence nodded. “That’s right. And we sneaked up close in the dark and heard one of the men call their leader Dub. The five of them were talking about their escape from Yuma Prison, saying that they were going to stop in Phoenix tomorrow, rob the Phoenix National Bank, and then head for Mexico.”

  They had Paul’s undivided attention. Lawrence Citron and Marcus Rusk told him that they quickly went to their horses, saddled up, and galloped toward Phoenix. They’d just arrived, so it would be later that the gang would hit the Phoenix National Bank.

  With this information, Paul gathered four of the deputy U.S. marshals and six soldiers from Fort Huachuca who were in town. He told them what he had learned from Phoenix citizens Citron and Rusk about the planned holdup of the Phoenix National Bank. Paul’s plan was for the four deputies to hurry home and put on civilian clothes so they could pose as customers in the bank. They would have revolvers hidden under their jackets or suit coats. After Paul finished laying out the plan, the four deputies hurried home, then returned quickly, dressed and armed as planned.

  Forty minutes before the bank’s opening time, Paul took the ten men to the bank. Flashing his badge at the locked glass front door, Paul quickly gained the attention of one of the vice presidents. When the man opened the door, Paul told him why he, the deputies, and the soldiers were there. They were quickly taken to bank president Harry Miller’s office. Paul laid out the plan to Miller, and he agreed with it.

  “I’ll put two of my older male employees who have been with the bank for a long time on the bench just outside the front door,” Harry said. “They can appear to be resting for a while, since folks often sit there. Then they can warn anyone about to enter the bank and send them away.”

  Paul and his men liked the president’s plan. The rest of the employees were told of the pending robbery and of the plan, and though they were nervous about what was going to happen, they were ready to duck and hide when the lawmen and the soldiers aimed their guns at the robbers.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The Phoenix National Bank opened at nine thirty as usual, with the two silver-haired bank employees sitting on the bench just outside the front door.

  Some twenty-five minutes after the bank had opened, the two men on the bench recognized Dub Finch—whose photograph they had seen in newspapers—as he and his four gang members approached the building.

  Dub was a muscular, thick-bodied man of forty-five. His ebony eyes carried a calculating and greedy look to them. His homely face was rough-whittled from the timber of trouble he had made for himself in life, and one glance at his features made it clear that he could be plenty mean.

  From the hairy reaches of Finch’s stocky neck to the crown of his large head, his skin was dark, like burnt oak. His five-foot-eleven-inch frame weighed better than two-hundred-and-sixty pounds, with massive bones that seemed too thick to ever be broken. His shoulders were exceptionally broad, his deep chest and muscular tree-trunk upper arms made men eye him with awe.

  When Finch and his men entered the bank, they sensed nothing out of order as they moved up to the tellers’ counter, where four well-dressed men were doing business.

  As they whipped out their guns, Dub Finch shouted, “This is a holdup!”

  Suddenly, deputy U.S. marshal Paul Brockman and six soldiers in army uniforms rose from behind the tellers’ counter with their cocked guns pointed directly at the robbers at the same time that the tellers swiftly ducked down and the other bank employees and officers ducked behind their desks.

  Aiming his own gun directly at Finch’s big face, Paul shouted, “Drop your guns, every one of you, and get your hands in the air—or else!”

  The five stunned escaped convicts and robbers, realizing they were outnumbered, looked at each other wide eyed. They were stunned even more when the four customers turned out to be deputies dressed as civilians who whipped out their guns and cocked them.

  Paralyzed by the horror of their helpless situation and with their hair bristling coldly at the napes of their necks, the four men with Finch looked at their leader. Finch swallowed hard, dropped his gun on the floor, and raised his hands over his head. He said to his men, “Do the same. We haven’t got a chance.”

  As the guns clattered to the floor and the other four robbers raised their hands over their heads, the bank officers and employees looked on with smiles as Paul Brockman and his four deputies handcuffed the robbers and, along with the soldiers, guided them at gunpoint out the door.

  Bank president Harry Miller followed them out the door. “Thank you so much, Marshal Brockman, deputies, and soldiers. Your heroic actions today prevented bloodshed and robbery.” Harry turned to his two older employees still sitting on the bench. “And thank you, men, for your help. You can come on back into the bank now.”

  When the bankers had gone back inside, Paul thanked the soldiers for their help. Then he and his deputies, along with the soldiers, took the Dub Finch gang to the Maricopa County jail in Phoenix and had the sheriff lock them up.

  Jack Devlin was locked in a cell with Dub Finch, while Curly Bender, Buck Gentry, and Kurt Jagger were locked in an adjacent cell. As Paul stood in front of the two cell doors with his deputies and the soldiers, he looked at the outlaws and said, “You will be taken back to the Yuma Prison, where this time you will hang.”

  All five gang members glared at Paul through the bars of their cell doors with hatred in their eyes, and Paul knew they would like to kill him.

  When Paul returned to his office with the soldiers and deputies, one of his men asked, “Marshal Brockman, how do you plan to get those five gang members back to the prison?”

  “I’m not sure at the moment, but I’ll figure out a way to do it.”

  One of the solders spoke up. “Marshal Brockman, we would escort you and the gang all the way to Yuma, but right now, the army here in Arizona is just too busy handling Indian troubles all over the territory. We simply don’t have the time to make the nearly two-hundred-mile trip from Phoenix to Yuma.”

  Deputy Leroy Woodard said to Paul, “If we had enough men to help you take Finch and his pals back to the Yuma Prison, we would do it, but we need every deputy here at the office to handle other outlaws.”

  Paul nodded. “I understand, Leroy. I’ll work out some way to get the Finch gang to Yuma; then I’ll let you know what it is.”

  With that, Paul went to Marshal Pierce’s office, closed the door, and sat at the desk. While pondering the problem, his mind suddenly went back to the iron wagon he’d seen at Fort Logan. He snapped his fingers. “That’s it!”

  Going to the outer office, Paul told the deputy at the desk that he would be back shortly. He had some important business to take care of.

  As Paul hurried along the boardwalk of Phoenix’s main thoroughfare, he headed toward a wagon builder’s shop that he had noticed several times. He wanted to see if the wagon builder could put an iron cage on a wagon made of iron. His plan was to lock the five outlaws in the cage and drive the wagon to Yuma Prison himself.

  As he drew up to the shop, Paul noticed on the sign that the wagon builder’s name was Max Younker. He also noticed that Younker had several husky draft horses in a corral next to the shop. When Paul stepped inside, Max was at a worktable, repairing a wagon wheel.

  Max smiled at the man with the badge on his chest. “Hello, Marshal. You’re the one taking Marshal Pierce’s place, aren’t you?”

  Paul smiled. “Yes. My name is Paul Brockman.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  Paul told the wagon builder what he needed and why.

  “I commended you, Marshal, for what you’re doing, but it would take me several days to build the iron cage. Up till now, I’ve only made wooden wagons.”

  Paul rubbed his chin. “I really would like a wagon totally made of iron. This gang of killers I’ll be hauling to Yuma Prison are dangerous men.”

  “I understa
nd. Tell you what,” Max Younker said. “I know an elderly ex-soldier at the west edge of town who has one of those army wagons made completely of iron and with just such an iron cage. He’s been trying to sell it. His name is Clarence Lewis, but everybody calls him Sarge because he was a sergeant in the army for many years.”

  “Sounds good! You tell me exactly how to find Sarge Lewis, and I’ll see how much he wants for the iron wagon.”

  “Please let me know if you’re able to obtain the wagon.”

  “Sure will,” said Paul.

  Max then gave Paul the directions to Sarge Lewis’s old cabin. Paul went immediately to the location and there saw the iron wagon next to the cabin. It was exactly like the Fort Logan iron wagon, including the measurements of the wagon bed and the cage.

  Paul knocked on the door, and after a few seconds, he heard the slow shuffle of feet inside. When the door opened, a silver-haired old man with thick glasses looked at him. “What can I do for you, Marshal?” he asked in a weak voice.

  Paul told Sarge Lewis who he was, then explained why he needed Sarge’s iron wagon with the cage on it.

  “I sure am glad that the Dub Finch gang has been caught and will be taken back to Yuma Prison to be hanged.”

  Paul nodded. “How much do you want for the iron wagon?”

  Sarge smiled. “Because of what you will be using the wagon for, I’ll give it to you for free.”

  Paul’s eyebrows arched. “Really, sir?”

  The old man nodded. “Really, son. You take it and keep it.”

  Paul thanked him, then said, “I will hurry back to Max Younker’s shop to see how much he’ll charge me to use two of his draft horses to pull the iron wagon to Yuma. I’ll be back as soon as I get the horses.”