Stagecoach Graveyard

by Thom Nicholson

  “I heerd that he’s ordered some big water pumps from back East to pump out the Little Bill shafts.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. When those pumps come in from Pittsburgh, they’ll be shipped by his wagons from Reno to here. I figure about eight wagons to carry ’em all. You’ll take the whole string out and both O’Brian and Hearst will fall like a house of cards. Better yet, if we can get O’Brian to fail before then, Hearst will have to use my freight service and I’ll simply have them diverted to your ranch, so I can use them if or when I hit a water pocket in my mines.”

  “When do ya think they’ll get here, Mr. Stoddard?”

  “It won’t be long. Hearst has to get the Little Bill or the Comstock back online and soon or he’ll run out of money. I’m selling his stock short every day, to keep the price so low he can’t raise any funds by issuing more stock. When he goes bust, I’ll make millions.”

  Barton shifted his feet. He was anxious to get away from Stoddard. “I’ll be standin’ by with twenty or thirty men, awaitin’ yur instructions, Mr. Stoddard.”

  “Good. And by the way, have you seen this poster?” He passed a wanted poster to Barton, who quickly scanned the writing and lithograph picture. It was for Luke Graham, wanted for murder and robbery of the O’Brian stage line.

  “How the hell did this happen?” Stoddard questioned. “You know I wanted you to ensure that none of your men could ever be charged with something. If they’re caught, they might spill their guts out to the law.”

  “I surely don’t know, Mr. Stoddard. But I assure ya I’ll git to the bottom of this as soon as I git back to the ranch.”

  “Get rid of this Graham. If you doubt that he can make himself scarce around these parts, put him in a shallow grave up in the woods somewhere. I’m tempted to insist that you do that anyway, just to drive home the point about being careful.”

  “I’ll do it immediately. That’ll shore make the others take notice that I mean what I say when I tell them to leave no witnesses behind.”

  Stoddard nodded. “That’s the end of our discussion, then. Keep yourself ready to move on O’Brian’s wagons the moment I send you the word.

  Meanwhile, keep pecking away at any stages he tries to run from Virginia City to Carson City or Reno.”

  Barton took a deep breath when he exited the office. Suppressing a shudder, he headed for the bar across the street. He needed a stiff drink to loosen the tight feeling in his throat. He liked working for a man of such wealth and power, but he was still deeply afraid of the man. Barton sighed. Being poor was no party when a person had to work for a man like Stoddard.

  Barton visited the dry goods store below Stoddard’s office and purchased some staples for the ranch before heading south on the high mountain road toward the cutoff to his place. As he approached the cut created by centuries of snowmelt that led to the meadow where he claimed enough land to support a few hundred cows, he breathed deeply of the pine-scented air. Cedars and ponderosa pine trees grew in abundance at this altitude of the front slopes of the Sierra Nevadas. His single-story, log-constructed main house with a sod roof showed smoke from the kitchen stack, so supper would not be far away. One thing about the old Chinaman who cooked for him and his crew of cutthroat outlaws was that the small Oriental cook put a hot meal on the table every day at precisely the same time.

  “Afternoon, boss,” Charlie Call called out as Barton stepped off his dark bay at the front hitching post and climbed the two wooden steps to the porch. Call was the ramrod of the crew and a hardened gunnie, with several notches on his gun. He pushed himself up from the staghorn rocker and opened the front door for his superior. “I suspect ole Chink has just about got supper on the table.”

  Barton held up his hand, stopping Call. “First things first, Charlie. Call the men to gather round.”

  The fifteen men at the ranch quickly clustered at the base of the steps leading to the porch. Barton held up the wanted poster given to him by Stoddard. “You men take a look at this. It’s a wanted poster for one Luke Graham, wanted in Carson City for murder and robbery. There’s a thousand dollars reward, dead or alive. Care to tell me how your name happens to be on this here poster, Luke?”

  Suddenly, like oil floating on water, an imperceptible space separated the unfortunate outlaw, Luke Graham, from his fellow outlaws. Luke’s voice cracked with anxiety as he tried to come up with an explanation that would satisfy the anger in Barton’s voice. “I don’t know, boss. I swear to ya, I ain’t been spoutin’ off my mouth or nothin’ in Carson City. I don’t know how they got a hold of my name. Nosiree, I shore don’t.”

  “You boys all have heard me say to leave no witness that could identify any of us, ain’t ya?”

  A murmured rumble of agreement rose from the assembled men. Everyone was watching the cowed Luke, wondering how the drama was going to play out.

  Barton paused to let the tension grow for a moment, then gave an order. “You, Red Mike”—who happened to be standing the closest to Luke—“take Luke’s pistol.” The command was promptly obeyed. Barton gave the sweating Graham a cold leer. “I guess we had to have one jackass that couldn’t obey orders. A couple of you boys take ole Luke here up to the tree line and give him a proper send-off. Luke, don’t come back this way, ever. Clear?”

  Red Mike spoke up. “I’ll do it, Mr. Barton. Iffen you’ll have Chink fix me up a sack of sandwiches to make up fer missin’ dinner.”

  “That I will, Mike. Sailor, you go with Mike and Luke, so there’s no trouble. Luke, ya got ten minutes to pack up your kit and be offa my place. Sailor, watch ole Luke so’s he don’t pick up nothin’ that ain’t his whilst he packs his possibles. Mike, step up here. I wanna talk with ya a minute.”

  Luke wiped sweat from his forehead. “Mr. Barton, I got two hunnerd dollars comin’ fer the last job. Ya gonna let me have it?”

  “Shore am, Luke. I always make things right with my men. I’ll have it in gold fer ya when yu’re ready to leave.”

  Luke hurried away, the rest of the men trailing behind, save Red Mike, who moved to where Barton could whisper softly to him. “You and Sailor plant ole Luke up there in the trees and you two can split the money I’m givin’ him. Understand?”

  Mike slowly nodded his head, his oversized mustache twitching as he spoke. “Gotcha, boss. Consider it done.”

  Twenty minutes later the three men rode slowly toward the green slash that marked the line between high timber and the meadow grasses. Luke was cussing a blue streak, trying to understand the calamity that he found himself in. Mike eased his horse up to where he could talk softly with Luke without Sailor overhearing. The ex-seaman lagged behind, never quite the horseman that a man raised in the West came to naturally.

  “Luke, shut up,” Mike whispered. “Yu’re in big trouble.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Barton told me to plant ya back in the woods somewhere.”

  “Jesus, Mike. Whaddya gonna do?”

  “When we reach the trail that leads over the back pass to Reno, you pull a branch of a tree back as you ride past, and let it go. I’ll get my hoss to buckin’ and carryin’ on until yu’re hidden in the trees. Then I’ll throw a couple a’ shots in yur general direction and block Sailor from chasin’ after ya. You head on up to my folks’ place in Winnemucca and hide out until things cool down. Then you can head over to Californnie and do somethin’ in the gold fields there.”

  “Will you be all right, Mike? Ya don’t reckon Barton knows we’re cousins, do ya?”

  “Nope, I don’t think so. If you play this right, we’ll be okay. Once ya start, don’t stop till ya reach Reno, and only stay there long enough to load up with provisions. Ya got any money?”

  “I got about three hunnerd, countin’ what that bastard Barton give to me. It’ll have to do, I reckon.”

  “I’m sorry, cuz. It’s a tough break. The money’s been pretty easy here, so far.”

  “I’ll make do, I reckon. I’m grateful to y
a, Mike. Thanks fer gittin’ me off the hook.”

  “Here’s the trail. Keep yur eyes peeled fer the right branch. Take this bag of food. Good luck to ya.” He turned to call out impatiently to Sailor, lagging behind, “Come on, Sailor. Let’s git this over with.”

  Just as Mike turned back, a long branch pulled forward by Luke slapped back, hitting his horse and him with a stinging sweep of pine needles. Mike spurred his horse into a frenzy of bucking, hollering, and carrying on as if he were about to be violently thrown off the saddle. By the time he got his pony under control, Luke was long gone. Cursing savagely, Mike swung down from his agitated horse and tightened the cinch, all the while blocking Sailor from riding past to chase after his cousin.

  “Damn, Mike, he’s got plumb away. Barton ain’t gonna like this.”

  “Weren’t no help fer it, Sailor. That branch spooked my horse plenty. By the time I got him under control, Luke was gone. We’ll just have to take whatever cussin’ Barton wants to give us. Iffen he wanted Luke dead bad enough, he’d ’a done it hisself, don’tcha agree?”

  The two men took their cussing and returned to the bunkhouse, relieved that Barton was not as riled up as they thought he might have been. Mike drifted off into a satisfied sleep, grateful that he had saved his cousin from a certain and ignominious death.

  Luke rode hard and made Reno the next afternoon, before his water and food gave out. His first stop was the Silver Bird Saloon, where he downed three glasses of rye whiskey, just to wet his throat properly, then had a bath and shave before gorging himself with a big supper. After taking a leisurely stroll around the downtown area to settle his food, he returned to the Silver Bird and played cards all night, winning nearly a hundred dollars from four locals.

  Encouraged by his luck, he took a room at a nearby flophouse and played again the next night. This visit to the card table was not as fortunate for Luke, and he rode out of Reno early the next morning more than seventy dollars poorer then when he had arrived.

  While he was playing, the new deputy sheriff came into the saloon and stood at the bar, sipping a beer and watching the action at the tables. “Who’s that jasper?” Luke asked one of his table companions.

  “The deputy? He’s standing in fer Sheriff Longabaugh, who broke his leg when he fell offa his hoss. A bounty hunter, name of Keller, Marty Keller. One of the sheriff’s buddies from his Texas Ranger days. Ever heerd of him?”

  Luke shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, he’s bad medicine. Always gits his man, and always brings ’em in dead, shot through the back.”

  “Lousy SOB,” Luke muttered under his breath.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothin’. Just sayin’ it’s a shame that someone can make money shootin’ another man in the back. Don’t seem right, if ya ask me.”

  “Well, I suppose when ya ride the crooked trail, ya gotta take yur chances with the likes of Keller. I will say he’s kept the town nice and quiet since he’s been on the job. Shootin’s are way down.” The man cackled as he laid down his hand, a full house, triple eights over fives. “Got ya agin, Luke. Yur luck ain’t so good tonight, is it?”

  “Dang it, Hal. Yu’re makin’ my luck run sour, talkin’ like that. Jus’ shut up and play cards.” Luke watched uneasily until Keller walked out of the saloon, losing three straight hands in a row. He pushed back from the table, disgusted with his bad luck. Somehow, he blamed Keller for it. “I’m done. I ain’t gonna put no more a’ my money in yur pockets, by gum.” He grumpily stomped over to his room, and restlessly slept until daylight. Then he hit the road for his uncle’s house on the small ranch outside Winnemucca, three days’ ride up the Salt Lake Trail.

  Chapter 5

  Back in the Manhunting Business

  Marty flipped the butt of his cigar into a sand-filled box sitting outside the café. Hitching his pants up slightly, he turned toward the sheriff’s office. He tipped his hat to a passing woman. “Morning, ma’am. Looks like a hot one today, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, indeed.” She walked on and Marty opened the door to the office. He was surprised to see Jesse sitting behind his desk, shuffling through a pile of new wanted posters that had just been delivered by the freight agent.

  “Morning, Jesse. You must be feeling better?”

  “I’m about to go stir-crazy, lyin’ around my room. The doc says I can start walkin’ on my leg now, so I decided to drop by and see if any paperwork needs lookin’ after.”

  Jesse stacked the posters, making certain one was on top. “By the way, Marty, I got a wire from my deputy. He’ll be on the mornin’ train from Sacramento. I guess you can say that today’s the last day you’ll have to wear a badge fer me. And don’t think I don’t appreciate it. You saved my bacon, pard. The town owes you a lot.”

  “Not really, Jesse. I got good pay for two weeks of badge totin’ and I’ve got no complaints. But now that Pacer’s hoof and leg have healed, it’s time I got back to my business.”

  Longabaugh held up a poster. “I’m gonna do you a favor in return, Marty. This jasper, Luke Graham, comes from up around Winnemucca, a town northeast of here. I’ve seen him in town more’n once. He used to hang out at the Silver Bird when he did his drinkin’ and card-playin’. Why don’t you mosey over that way and see if he’s been around lately! The poster’s sent up from the sheriff in Carson City, so Graham may be makin’ a run thissaway.”

  Marty took the poster and read through the description of the wanted man. “Says he killed a stage guard during a robbery. Looks like he needs catching, for a fact.”

  “Yeah, the stage line that runs from here to Carson City and Virginia City has had a spate of holdups lately. I can’t think of another time when anyone was kilt, though. Sounds like the robbers are gettin’ even more ruthless.”

  “It happens when they’ve had a string of successes. They get more confident that they can get away with anything. It’ll only gets worse unless they get stopped, hard and permanent.” He nodded to Jesse. “Appreciate the tip, Jesse. I’ll mosey on down to the Silver Bird and see what I can find out.”

  Marty stepped out into the warm sunshine and headed toward the saloon, his eyes scanning the street for any sign that something might be amiss. He had learned to tread cautiously and to be alert for the unexpected no matter what time of day or circumstances. It went with his chosen profession.

  The Silver Bird was one of the less desirable drinking establishments in Reno, located next to a feed and grain store. It was dim and dirty inside with a sour smell of spilled beer emanating from the sawdust on the floor. A long bar extended along one wall fronted by half a dozen card tables. A faro table took up most of the remaining space to the rear of the saloon. At the far end of the bar, a rummy-faced old man with thinning silver hair and a rose-colored nose, from many years of swilling the hard sauce, pounded on a tinny piano.

  The place was empty except for the barkeep, a swamper busy sweeping last night’s refuse into a pile next to the door, the piano pounder, and a solitary boozer sitting listlessly at a table, nursing a glass of rye whiskey. Marty walked past the drinker to the bartender and waited until he had the barkeep’s attention. The bartender shifted a stub of a cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and threw Marty a disinterested glance. Marty patiently waited, his face impassive. The barkeeper rested his forearms on the bar and spoke softly, his voice hoarse from a blow to his larynx many years earlier.

  “What can I de fer ya, Deputy?”

  Marty passed over the wanted poster. “I just talked to Sheriff Longabaugh. This fella Graham. When was he in here last?”

  The bartender knew Luke slightly and had no regard for the young outlaw, since the drunken Luke had once slapped him for not serving him a drink after closing hours. “Well, let’s see. I think Thursday was his last night here. Yep, I’m certain of it. He played cards until about midnight and then left. Ain’t seen him since.”

  “He say where he was staying?”

 
“Luke always slept over to the Ryan Hotel when he was in town. I reckon he did the last time too. It’s just up the street.”

  Marty nodded. “I know where it is. Thanks.” He headed for the hotel, his pace picking up. He was close to Graham, on the very first day of the hunt. The eight-room fleabag hotel had an aging, slightly built clerk sitting behind the front desk, idly playing solitaire and slapping flies with a rolled-up newspaper.

  In response to Marty’s inquiry, he looked at the register. “Yep, Graham stayed here Wednesday and Thursday night. I think he pulled out early on Friday morning. Ain’t seen him since.”

  A quick trip to a nearby livery verified the information. Marty returned to the sheriff’s office. Jesse was still at the desk, working on his account books for several misdemeanor fines Marty had collected in his absence.

  “ ’ Pears that Luke headed out to the east, according to the livery owner,” Marty reported. “The road toward Winnemucca. You know the sheriff there?”

  “Yep.” Jesse nodded. “I’ve met ’im. He’s about as worthless as tits on a boar hog, but I reckon he’s almost honest.”

  “You give me a letter to him, so I can find out what he knows about Graham?”

  “Be happy to. You leaving tomorrow?”

  “Just as soon as your deputy arrives on the train.” “I’ll hate to see ya go, Marty. Any way I can convince ya to stay here and help me keep a lid on Reno?”

  “No, thanks, Jesse. I’ve got a blood debt that needs collecting and I’m determined to get my satisfaction.”

  “Ya ever need a place to light, don’t forget me, pard.”

  “Thanks, I won’t. I reckon I’ll head to the store and put together some supplies for the trail. See you later, Jesse.”

  Marty rode into the small town of Winnemucca early Friday morning, knowing he was only three or fewer days behind his quarry. The letter from Jesse Longabaugh made enough of an impression with the local lawman, a fat-bellied, one-eyed, ex-army sergeant named Russell, that he gave Marty directions to the Lazy W Ranch, owned by Graham’s uncle Harvey Whitcomb.