by John Legg
Culpepper leaned back. Collins arrived and set two full glasses of beer on the scarred table. “Those’re on the house, boys,” he said. “Enjoy ’em.”
Culpepper nodded. “Now, Bob, where were we? Ah, yes, the attack on my deputies. Who hired you for that?”
“I still don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Sheriff,” Haggard said, his voice sounding quite reasonable.
“Well, perhaps you don’t. Let me see if I can refresh your memory just a little.” Culpepper took a healthy slug of beer and wiped the foam off his red mustache with the back of a hand. “Deputy Cahill here and two special deputies were takin’ a criminal to Durango, where he was going to be shipped to the penitentiary in Florence when a group of men—includin’ you—stopped them and attempted to take that unfortunate soul and lynch him.”
“At the risk of incurrin’ your wrath, Sheriff,” Haggard said, “I think you’re plumb loco. I was sittin’ here a week, week and a half ago, with that trollop. I wasn’t out tryin’ to lynch Ferd.”
“That’s interestin’,” Culpepper commented. “I never said when the attack took place. Nor did I say who the scoundrel was that was bein’ escorted to his date with the hoosegow.” Haggard laughed uneasily. “Hell, Ferd Wiley’s the only prisoner you’ve had in some time, Sheriff,” he said carefully. “And everyone in town knew when he was bein’ taken out of here. I even heard there was an attempted lynchin’ of Ferd the night before he left.”
Culpepper nodded. “All true enough. But I still think you’re full of beans.” He craned his head around and bellowed, “Fatty! Get Fanciful Pearl back here!”
When the young, pasty-faced prostitute sidled nervously up to the table, Culpepper asked, “Were you here with this pukin’ scoundrel a week, ten days ago?” When Fanciful Pearl hesitated, Culpepper added, “Don’t you worry about this maggot. He ain’t going to hurt you.”
“No, Sheriff,” she said in a whisper. “I sure wasn’t.”
“Thank you, Fancy,” Culpepper said, rising. “That’s all we need from you.” He held out a hand.
Fanciful Pearl looked confused for a moment, then shook it. Her face brightened when she felt the heavy gold coin that transferred from his big hand to her small one. “Thank you Sheriff,” she said enthusiastically, as she hurried away. As soon as she was out of sight of the sheriff, she looked down to confirm with her eyes what her hand had noted—it was indeed a halfeagle piece. It would take her a couple turns lying on her back with some stinking miner to make five dollars. And she wouldn’t have to give any of this money to Fatty Collins. She felt positively rich.
“All right, maggot,” Culpepper said. “On your feet.”
“What the hell for?” Haggard protested.
“You’re under arrest. For assaultin’ a deputy who was doin’ his duty, attempted murder—of Ferd Wiley—attempted murder of three county deputy sheriffs, and for bein’ a vomitus maggot in general.”
Haggard’s face went pale, and he stared into Culpepper’s hard face. “You ain’t joshin’ about this, are you?” he asked, almost in wonder, as if it had just dawned on him that Culpepper was serious.
“No, sir, I’m not. Now, get yourself up.” Culpepper stepped just to the side and pulled the table away from Haggard. Then he moved toward Haggard a little.
Shaking some, Haggard got up. But as he did, his hand moved for the pistol at his waist.
Cahill gasped, then shouted, “Watch it!”
But Culpepper was well aware of Haggard’s desperate move. The sheriff took one step forward and then hammered Haggard with a fist in the sternum with all the strength his could get out of his short, powerful, compact body.
Haggard choked in one sudden breath, then sat. His face was ghastly white, and his mouth worked furiously, though nothing came out. He sat there, trying to breathe, or choke, or just plain die, but none of those seemed likely at the moment.
Culpepper reached over and took Haggard’s pistol out of the holster, ejected the shells onto the floor, and shoved the empty revolver into his own belt. Then he waited. .
It took almost two minutes before Haggard could breathe again, though to him it seemed like it took an entire lifetime. But finally some air began to trickle down into his lungs. He almost felt himself relax some, but he was still too scared. He had never faced anything so horrible as to sit unable to breathe and aware of it as each exquisitely worrisome second ticked away.
When Culpepper figured that Haggard could speak again, he said, “I’m going to ask you one more time, maggot, who paid you to attack my men?”
“Wilson Pennrose,” Haggard gasped.
Culpepper could not really say he was surprised. Cahill had said all along that some of the culprits appeared to be employees of a mining company—and Anvil Mining was the biggest in the region. And because Pennrose was the main man behind Anvil, it would stand to reason that he was behind this. The only surprise for Culpepper was that Pennrose had operated so much in the open, as it were, when he could easily have stayed far behind the scenes and let his minions do the dirty work for him.
“Was he behind the ruckus at the jail the night before my deputies left with Wiley?” Culpepper asked harshly.
Haggard nodded, still not trusting himself to be able to speak too much.
“All right, Jimmy, take this skunk over to the jail and lock him up,” Culpepper said. “And go easy on him. We don’t need a corpse on our hands. Of course, if he was to resist goin’ along, a few well-directed thumps wouldn’t be out of line.”
Cahill nodded. He had a fiery temper at times, and knew it. But he was proud of being a lawman, and considered himself a pretty good one. Because of that, he was generally able to keep his temper in check, even when confronted with men like Bob Haggard.
“Let’s go, asswipe,” Cahill growled, pulling Haggard out into the saloon. He searched Haggard for weapons, finding a pocketknife and a belly gun, both of which he tossed on the table. Then he shoved Haggard on the back. “Move,” he ordered.
Culpepper followed Cahill and Haggard outside. But at Twelfth Street, Culpepper turned left, while Cahill and his prisoner continued down Blair Street. Between Reese Street and Snowden Street, on Twelfth, was the headquarters of the Anvil Mining Company.
Culpepper had been in the large, single-story building only a few times, but those were enough to give him a good working knowledge of what went on in there and where people would be.
Just inside the door of the headquarters was a wide, though not very deep, open area in which there were half a dozen desks lined up in a row across the width, and one near the center doorway at the rear. Studious-looking young men worked quietly, their nib pens clacking in bottles of ink and then scratching across paper. Only one of the men, the one nearest the rear, looked up when Culpepper entered.
Beyond the office workers, straight to the back, was the boardroom, as it was known. It was a combination meeting place, dining room, and saloon for the highest officers of the Anvil Mining Company. Along the sides were six small offices, one each for the principals of the company—except for Pennrose, who had his own office off the rear of the boardroom.
Culpepper moved unhesitatingly toward the boardroom. The young man at the desk there rose, his arms crossed on his chest. Culpepper pointed a large index finger at the man’s chair. “Sit,” he said quietly.
The young man—Culpepper didn’t know his name— opened his mouth to protest, but then Culpepper held a forefinger up to his lips. The young man hesitated. Then, seeing the look in Culpepper’s piercing blue eyes, he closed his mouth and sat.
Culpepper nodded at the man, then grabbed the door handle and turned it. The door to the boardroom was locked. “Well, durn it all, anyway,” Culpepper muttered. He lowered a big right shoulder and jerked it forward.
The door caved in with a loud crunch, and then hung there on only one hinge as Culpepper pushed inside. All seven mining officials looked up, surprised and worried. They were, by and large, a well-fed lot of men,
each with a tumbler of fine sour- mash in front of him and a fat cigar stuck in his lips or between his fingers. They were, each and every one, dressed in good wool suits, including vests and ties, either string or long. All but one—Pennrose, who was cleanly shaven—had a mustache and beard. And they all had expressions of bewilderment mixed with fear on their faces.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Culpepper said. “Sorry to break up your little sewin’ bee here, but I have business with Mister Pennrose. The rest of you can leave, or stay, whatever you’re of a mind for.” He stopped and waited a moment.
No one left as Culpepper marched toward the head of the table, where a nervous-looking Wilson Pennrose sat, hands on the tabletop, crossed, with a cigar between the fingers of the one on top. Culpepper suspected no one left because Bear had come in right after Culpepper and plunked himself down near the door. He sat quietly, panting a little.
Culpepper stopped and leaned over, placing his own hands flat on the tabletop near Pennrose’s. “I don’t know how much clout you have, or think you have, Mister Pennrose,” Culpepper said flatly, eyes boring in on Pennrose’s. “And I don’t really much give a hoot. What I do care about is havin’ men you hire tryin’ to kill my deputies.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sheriff,” Pennrose said calmly.
“I’ve got Bob Haggard in jail now.”
“Who’s he?” Pennrose asked without blinking.
“Mister Pennrose,” Culpepper said with a sigh, “I might not be the smartest man the Good Lord ever put down here, but I ain’t nowhere near as dumb as you like to think I am. I know it was you who was responsible for the lynchin’ party at the jail the night before Deputy Cahill rode out of Silverton with Ferd Wiley. And I know it was you who paid them bushwhackers who wounded Buster Reinhardt and John Maguire.”
“You’re crazy, Sheriff,” Pennrose said, trying to sound lighthearted. He did not want to anger the sheriff any more than he already did.
“No, Mister Pennrose, I’m not. Now, I can’t prove any of this, of course. If I could, I’d have marched you straight off to the hoosegow already. But I know it’s the truth, and you know it’s the truth, and I’m going to tell you this: You try some new business like this again, and I’ll make sure you pay.”
“Sheriff, I still don’t know what you’re talking about. I really don’t. However, without knowing that, I can still say that Ferd Wiley was a thief and an assailant. He’s just as responsible for the attack on Leroy Monteith as Tuck Reynolds was. If Reynolds was hanged, then, by God, Wiley should’ve been, too.” Culpepper pushed away from the table and strolled around the table until he was standing behind Pennrose. “I can see how you’d feel that way, especially since I finally figured that you were disappointed at the trial.”
“I was?” Pennrose asked flatly.
“Yep. You know, I almost didn’t speak up at the trial. It took me a while to figure it out, but I think I finally did. It was obvious to anyone that Judge Pfeiffer was none too happy when I asked for leniency for Wiley. I figured he was plannin’ to sentence both Wiley and Reynolds to hang. No one would’ve argued. I finally concluded, though, and I’d wager a month’s pay on it, that you ‘encouraged’ the judge to lean that way. But I had to go ruinin’ your plans by speakin’ up.”
Culpepper paused to swallow a mouthful of Pennrose’s whiskey. “That’s good,” he said, setting the glass down. “I noticed you disappeared for a while when the jury was ‘deliberating.’ After a bit of cogitation, I decided that you went back and had a few words with Judge Pfeiffer.”
“Oh?” Pennrose asked nonchalantly. “And just what did I have to say to him?”
“You told him to give Wiley a prison term instead of sentencing him to hang.”
“Why would I do that?” Pennrose asked with a snort. Culpepper walked back around where he could watch Pennrose’s face. “To keep me happy and unsuspectin’,” he said flatly. He had worked this out on the way over, and he was angry at himself for not seeing it earlier. “Then you sent that lynch mob over to the jail, figurin’ that me and Jimmy’d let them have Ferd. That way, you could have everything—you keep me off your back because Ferd got the leniency I asked for, and you’re satisfied because both scoundrels were hanged.”
“Hell of a plan, Sheriff,” Pennrose said. “But it wouldn’t work. Jesus, Jonas, I know you wouldn’t give up a prisoner to some damn lynch mob.” He sounded sincere.
Culpepper nodded. “I thought of that, too. And there’s a good chance you’re tellin’ the truth.”
Pennrose’s eyebrows raised in question.
Culpepper finished off the whiskey in Pennrose’s glass, much to the mining official’s annoyance. “That’s why you hired some of the men in the lynch mob to hit the trail and ambush Jimmy.” He paused. “Givin’ you the benefit of the doubt, I figure you just told those rascals to shoot high or somethin’, hopin’ to drive Jimmy, John, and Buster off while your men grabbed Ferd and finished up your business.”
“Nice of you to give me the benefit of the doubt, especially after two of your men were wounded, from what I hear.”
Culpepper nodded. “That’s a fact. But I figure those maggots you hired either got spooked, or my men put up a lot more of a fight than your scoundrels were plannin’ on.”
“So, Sheriff,” Pennrose said evenly, “where does this leave us?”
“It leaves me with one escaped prisoner, two wounded special deputies, and one angry deputy. And I’m not in the best of humors. It leaves you with…well, I don’t know, other than the fact that it leaves you with one angry county sheriff on your tail.”
“I can deal with that,” Pennrose said dryly.
“I suppose you can,” Culpepper said with a nod. “But you’d better hope that I don’t come up with some evidence to prove any of this, or you’ll find your carcass over in the hoosegow.” Culpepper bent over the table again, hands down, face only inches from Pennrose’s. “You might think your money and your high position both with the minin’ company and as head of the county board mean you can do anything you durn well please. Well I’m here to tell you that you can’t. I don’t cotton to the things I think you’ve done, Mister Pennrose, and I’m tellin’ you here and now that if you try to cross me again, I’ll forget that I’m a duly sworn peace officer and land on you hard.”
“That a threat, Sheriff?” Pennrose asked tightly.
“No, sir,” Culpepper responded, pushing himself back up once again. “Just a warnin’.” He paused. “You said before that you knew I wouldn’t give up a prisoner to a lynch mob. That’s true, so I also suppose you know that I’m a man of my word. I’d heed my warnin’ if I was you. Good day, gentlemen.”
The next day, Culpepper told Cahill about his talk with Pennrose.
“I wish we could’ve done something about him,” Cahill said.
“Me, too. But we can’t, and there’s no use frettin’ over it.”
“What do I do about Bob Haggard?”
Culpepper shrugged. “That’s up to you. I talked to Judge Pfeiffer about him yesterday. He doesn’t think we have much of a case and, truth to tell, neither do I.”
“Am I just supposed to let him go?” Cahill’s temper began to flare.
“If you want my advice, Jimmy, I’d say, yeah, let him go. Maybe you, John, and Buster—if those two’re up to it—could give him a pretty good thumpin’ before you let him go, just to kind of encourage him to leave these parts and keep his ornery hide away.”
Cahill mulled that possibility for a few moments, then nodded, as a small, hard smile spread over his lips. “I think that might work.”
Chapter Eight
The narrow-gauge Denver and Rio Grande Company’s Silverton-to-Durango train puffed backward into the station. Before it had completely halted in a swirl of hissing steam and screeching brakes, the fireman, Chester Graves, had hopped off and was hotfooting it up the street.
Graves burst into the county sheriff’s office, almost out of breath. C
ulpepper looked up sharply, wondering what this was all about. “Train,” Graves puffed. “Robbed.” He stood wheezing, hands on his knees.
Culpepper jumped up. “Come on, Bear!’ He shouted, as he charged out the door. Minutes later he was pulling himself onto the train that still huffed and puffed as it sat at the depot.
The engineer, Lou Barber, was in a high state of agitation, and it took a little while before Culpepper got him calmed down enough to be able to talk. In the meantime, a crowd had begun gathering, lured by the whisper of trouble in the air.
Finally Culpepper began getting a little angry, and he snapped, “Lou, quit your babblin’ and tell me what happened. You keep on like you’re going and we’ll never find out.”
Barber was a nervous-looking man even in the best of times. Now he was almost shaking with agitation. He was handsome under the grease and oil and soot, in his mid-thirties, of medium height and weight. He rubbed the back of a hand across his forehead, leaving a streak of grease.
“We were eight, maybe ten miles down when I come to a damn pile of boulders on the track,” Barber said. “So naturally, I stop the damn train. A couple of damn men, with guns drawn, swung onto the damn train and told me they were stickin’ us up. Who was I to argue with them? So me and Chester, we stood there coolin’ our heels under the muzzles of a couple of damn Colts. Then the two damn men watchin’ us said we could go, but not to chase ’em. They jumped off the train, and got on their damn horses. Then they rode off.”
“How many of them were there?”
“I couldn’t really tell, Sheriff. At least half a dozen, I’d say, maybe more. I ventured me a little damn look out when they rode away and saw quite a few of ’em.”
“What’d you do then?”
“I made a quick check of what was took, and then backed the damn train up and sent Chester runnin’ for you.”
Culpepper nodded. “What’s gone?”
“Best I can tell, about all the cash, some jewels, and a fair portion of the silver.”