by John Legg
Culpepper whistled softy. “You have any idea how much was on the train?”
“No, Sheriff, I surely don’t. You’d have to ask Marv Coleridge, who was responsible for loadin’ all the damn stuff. Or maybe Wilson Pennrose, or one of the other big chiefs of Anvil Minin’.”
“I’ll do that. You know who it was robbed the train?”
“Sure as hell do. It was Mack Ellsworth.”
“You sure?” Culpepper wasn’t all that surprised. Now that winter was gone, Ellsworth could be expected to have his gang out raiding as much as possible.
“Of course I’m sure, damn it all. He was one of the two holding a Colt revolver in my face—him and Hugh McLeod.” Culpepper nodded. He knew of both men. McLeod was Ellsworth’s right-hand man. “Which way’d they go?”
Barber shrugged. “Hell if I know. They was ridin’ south along the tracks, but that don’t mean they didn’t cut up into the mountains the minute they were around a damn curve.”
“Anything else you can think of?” Culpepper asked.
“Nope. I just hope you catch those bastards, Sheriff. And soon. I ain’t of a mood to have no one go stickin’ a pistol in my face.”
“I don’t know of anyone who does like such treatment, Mister Barber,” Culpepper said. He turned and swung down off the train to where Bear was waiting patiently, tail waggling. “Come on, boy,” Culpepper said, running a hand swiftly across the dog’s big head.
Culpepper stopped when he spotted Lee Bondurant, a ten-year-old who made some spending money by helping out around the train depot. “Hey, Lee,” Culpepper called, “go find Jimmy Cahill for me. Tell him to get himself over to the office right off. There’s a dime in it for you. Come on over to the office later and I’ll pay up.”
“Yessir.” Lee’s eyes widened. “What’s goin’ on, Sheriff?” he asked, eager to have privileged information.
“None of your beeswax, boy,” Culpepper said, but not in an unfriendly way. “Just go on and do what I told you.”
Despite a sense of urgency, Culpepper walked slowly toward his office. He needed time to think, to cover the possibilities in his mind. Not that there was all that much to think about. It was obvious he would swear in a posse and get on Ellsworth’s trail. Still, by the time he reached his office, he had decided that there was nothing unforeseen in this case. What needed to be done was simple and straightforward, and he was comfortable with it.
At the office, he unlocked the drawer in which he kept his ammunition. He took out two boxes of .44-caliber cartridges. He set them on the desk, then locked the drawer. He was getting some sets of handcuffs from a box along one wall when Cahill entered.
“You wanted to see me, Jonas?” Cahill asked.
Culpepper straightened. “Yep. Mack Ellsworth and his scoundrels robbed the train.”
Cahill’s eyes raised. “He’s gettin’ an early start this year.” Culpepper nodded. “This year, though, I aim to see that he also gets an early stop.” He sighed. “I’ll need to russ up a posse, which I’ll do, now that you’re here. I want you to stay in Silverton and keep an eye on things.”
Cahill nodded. “Knowin’ those bastards, they’ll be pullin’ robberies up in Chattanooga or Red Mountain City the minute you and the posse ride out of Silverton.”
“Those scoundrels pull somethin’ like that, and I’ll be one angry feller.”
Cahill laughed a little. “I’m sure Ellsworth and his boys’ll be quakin’ in their boots at the thought of that.”
Culpepper grinned a little, nodding. “I suppose they will.” The situation was serious, but it did have its humorous aspects. “I’m going up to see Pennrose. While I’m gone, send somebody over to the Exchange and have Art saddle my horse.”
“What’re you goin’ to see Pennrose about?” He was still angry about the likelihood that Wilson Pennrose had been the one responsible for him, Reinhardt, and Maguire being attacked.
“Get some help. It’s Anvil Mining’s money that was taken; Penrose should be willin’ to help. I’ll be back here before I pull out,” Culpepper said as he and Bear turned for the door. He swiftly strode up Thirteenth Street to Greene, down to Twelfth, and up Twelfth to the Anvil Mining Company headquarters.
Culpepper noted that the door to the boardroom had been fixed since he’d been here more than a week ago. It was unlocked this time, and he walked straight in.
“Sheriff,” Pennrose said evenly. He seemed angry. “You’re here about the robbery?” he asked.
“You heard, then?”
“Of course,” Pennrose snapped. “What’re you going to do about it?”
“Well, I thought I’d let someone else handle it,” Culpepper said dryly. Noticing the apoplectic look on Pennrose’s face, he said, “I’m going after them. That’s why I’m here.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Get me some of your men for a posse.”
“Why should I do that?”
“How much was taken from the train today?” Culpepper countered.
“More than a hundred thousand in cash,” Pennrose said sourly. “Maybe a third that much in silver bullion, plus some thousands in jewelry and other things. Why?”
“How much of it belonged to Anvil Mining?”
“Damn near all of it.” Pennrose paused. “I want the men who took it, and I want all of it returned.”
“Then give me a couple of your men for a posse.”
“Chasin’ outlaws is your job, Sheriff. My men’s job is minin’ silver.”
Culpepper shrugged. “It ain’t my silver and cash that was taken,” he said nonchalantly. “I reckon I don’t have to worry too much about gettin’ it back.”
“I’ll make damn sure you never win another election in Silverton, you overstuffed son of a bitch.”
Culpepper shrugged. “If it means I don’t have to deal with rascals like you, I might not even run in the next election. I’m curious about one thing, though. Since most of what was stolen belonged to you and Anvil Minin’, why aren’t you more interested in helpin’ me get the pukin’ scoundrels who did it?” He paused, allowing Pennrose to speak.
When nothing was forthcoming, Culpepper said, “It’s not unheard of for a man like you to be involved with someone like Mack Ellsworth. You tellin’ him what the train’s carryin’, and when it’s leavin’. Ellsworth hits the train, you sit here and make noises, then the two of you split the loot.”
“I’ve never been so goddamn insulted, Sheriff. You’ll pay for that someday, I swear to God you will.”
“Well, until then, why don’t you help me out? It might make some others think more kindly of you. “
“I don’t give a good goddamn what anyone thinks of me.”
“So I figured. But if you’re not workin’ with Ellsworth, helpin’ me out here might go a long way to convincin’ me and others.” He grinned tightly. “And, there’s always a chance you could saddle me with one of your gunmen, who might shoot me in the back, thereby allowing you to fulfill your threat.”
“I wouldn’t have someone shoot you in the back, Sheriff,” Pennrose said seriously. “If I sent men against you, they’ll come at you head-on.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” Pennrose sat in thought for a little, then nodded. “You have a point, Sheriff,” he finally said. “How many men you want?”
“Five, six ought to do it. I should be able to get a few from town.”
“When?”
“At the Exchange in an hour.”
“They’ll be there. And, Sheriff, these’ll be miners. I want the few—and I emphasize that it’s very few—gunmen in Anvil’s employ to stay here. Just in case Ellsworth and his men decide to pay Silverton a visit.”
Culpepper nodded. He would feel more comfortable without several of Pennrose’s hired guns riding with him. On the other hand, neither the townsmen nor the miners would be hunters of men, and that could be trouble on the trail of a gang like Mack Ellsworth’s. Well, there w
as nothing he could do about it now.
Culpepper headed back to the office. There he told Cahill to round up some volunteers for a posse, to make sure supplies were available and that everyone’s horse was ready.
“Where’re you gonna be while I’m doin’ all the work?” Cahill asked a little petulantly.
“Home, tellin’ Merry what’s going on,” Culpepper said without any shame or snideness.
Cahill nodded. “Sorry, Jonas.”
“Nothin’ to be sorry for, Jimmy. I appreciate your help.”
“I know.” Cahill smiled a little. “Well, you’d best get goin’. You’ve got less than an hour, which means I’ve got less than an hour, and I’ve got a hell of a lot more work than you do at the moment.”
As usual, Merry was not happy to see her husband go, but she said nothing about it. Instead, she fed Culpepper well, dragged him to their well-used bed for a bit, and then helped him get ready to leave. She knew he had a job to do and that she did not need to make it any harder for him.
For his part, Culpepper knew how Merry felt, and he really appreciated the fact that she did not make a scene about the many inconveniences brought by his job. As he did nearly every time he got ready to leave town because of his work, he silently vowed that someday he would reward Merry for her devotion and quiet support. He could never figure out how, though.
Then he was heading for Greene Street and the livery stable. Cahill was there with eleven men—six of them townsmen, including John Maguire and Buster Reinhardt; the other five were miners. All had horses saddled, and Cahill had two mules packed with supplies enough to last the group several days.
“Everyone got enough ammunition? And blankets?” Culpepper asked.
The men nodded or growled a low affirmative.
“You sure you two rascals are up to this?” he asked, looking from Maguire to Reinhardt. “It’s only been two weeks.”
Both nodded.
“All right,” Culpepper said. He put his saddlebags and bedroll on his horse and then shoved his Winchester into a saddle scabbard. With a last look around, Culpepper pulled his bulk into the saddle. “Let’s ride, boys,” he said.
Chapter Nine
They followed the Denver and Rio Grande tracks, moving at a good pace. When they encountered the pile of boulders, Culpepper dismounted and began looking around for sign. When he found some hoof prints that he thought belonged to the outlaws, he brought Bear over and had him sniff at the tracks a little. “All right, boy, follow them,” he said to the dog, before pulling himself back into the saddle.
Bear was not a tracking dog by any means, but his natural ability to smell far more than a man meant he could follow a trail as long as its scent was fairly clear to him. And Culpepper figured that having Bear follow the track was a lot better than having to do it himself.
The trail headed south, following the railroad tracks, and after a few miles, Culpepper figured Ellsworth and his gang were heading for Durango. The outlaws often spent time there, though they spread their blight for miles in all directions.
They camped that night on the eastern shore of a small lake. Because of the lake, there was plenty of game to be had, and they dined on fresh elk that Buster Reinhardt had brought down. The place also had plenty of wood from the pines and aspens growing thickly nearby, and there was even some new grass the animals could forage on.
Culpepper had the men up before dawn the next morning, though, and on the trail after a hasty breakfast. The outlaws had a five-or six-hour head start on him, and Culpepper wanted to make up some of that time.
Bear continued to followed the scent, or at least, so it seemed to Culpepper and the others. They had no reason to doubt the animal, since he was still moving along the railroad tracks.
Culpepper was surprised when late in the afternoon Bear suddenly turned west a few miles from Durango. Culpepper called to the dog to halt, and then he stopped, thinking. Finally he nodded. “Come on, Bear, this way,” he called.
Confused, the dog loped over toward his master, tail wagging furiously.
“You can follow the trail again tomorrow,” Culpepper said, as if the dog would understand.
“We goin’ into Durango?” one of the miners—Luke Brown—asked. He was one who’d thought that following the dog was foolish.
“For the night,” Culpepper said with a nod.
“Then what?” Brown asked.
“Then we come back here tomorrow and go that way.” Culpepper pointed west.
“What’n hell for?” Brown whined.
“Because that’s the way I say to go,” Culpepper said flatly. “You want out of the posse, turn yourself around and go back to Silverton.”
No one said anything; they were all too frightened of Culpepper, especially when he got that stubborn look on his broad face.
Soon after, they were riding into Durango. Following Culpepper’s lead, they stopped in front of the office of Town Marshal Ed Hernandez. “Buster, you and the rest of the men take the horses down to the livery and see to them. Mine, too. Then go get us some rooms over at Pena’s Hotel. I’ll meet you there and we can go fill our stomachs.”
“You payin’ for all this, Sheriff?” another miner—Ward Graham—asked. The other men laughed.
“Good Lord, no,” Culpepper said with a grin. “You boys think I owe Anvil Minin’ or something? But,” he added, “the county’ll pay, since you rascals’re part of an official posse. Now git.”
Culpepper went into the marshal’s office and was a little surprised to see Hernandez himself inside. He had dealt with the man on several occasions in the years he’d been San Juan County sheriff, and had found that Hernandez was smart, witty, and a thoroughly professional lawman.
“Sheriff Culpepper,” Hernandez said with a smile, rising to shake Culpepper’s hand. Hernandez was tall and lanky, with a craggy face, longish pitch-black hair, a thin black mustache, and dark eyes. His skin was dark enough that some might mistake him for an Indian.
“How’ve you been, Ed?”
“Just fine. You?”
“The same.”
Hernandez poured them each a cup of coffee, then sat. “So what brings you down to Durango, Jonas?” Hernandez asked. “You sure as hell didn’t come down here just to say hello to me.” Hernandez had almost no trace of an accent.
“If I had the leisure to just come down here on a visit, I’d be a lot happier feller, I can tell you. But, no, this is business. Mack Ellsworth and his men hit the train out of Silverton yesterday morning. Those pukin’ scoundrels got away with one big passel of cash and silver.”
“They’re bad ones, all right,” Hernandez agreed as he rolled a cigarrito. “They’re here in Durango often enough, but they’ve never done anything in town I can arrest them for. Nothing provable, anyway. Hell, even Sheriff Hammond hasn’t been able to do much about them.”
“So I figured,” Culpepper said with an annoyed shake of the head. “They been here the last day or so?”
Hernandez shook his head. “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of any of his men in a couple weeks.”
“Figured that, too.”
“Sorry.”
Culpepper shrugged. “It ain’t your fault. Has Frank said anything about them?”
“Not to me. What makes you think they’re here? Other than the fact that they like to think of this as ‘home’ sometimes.”
“Followed their tracks all the way down from where they robbed the train. A couple miles out of town, though, Bear here tried to tell us the trail turned west.”
Hernandez’s eyebrows raised. “That’s odd.”
“I thought so.”
“Wonder what that old bastard is up to.”
“I’ll be darned if I know. But I sure aim to find out.” Hernandez nodded. “If he was in town, or even real close to the outskirts, I’d offer you some help,” he said apologetically. “But my jurisdiction doesn’t run too far outside of Durango.”
“I know,” Culpepper said with a nod. He gulp
ed some coffee down. “I was just lookin’ for information.”
“You might go see Frank. Even if he hasn’t seen any of Ellsworth’s men, he’s still got jurisdiction in La Plata County. He might want to go along with you.”
Culpepper nodded again. “I’ll talk to him. He around town, I suppose?”
“Somewhere.”
“Thanks, Ed,” Culpepper said, rising. He swallowed the rest of his coffee and left. He checked his pocket watch. He still had a little time before his posse was at the hotel. He turned up the street, walking swiftly toward the sheriff’s office. He found La Plata County Sheriff Frank Hammond inside. The two men went through the greeting and pleasantry rituals before getting to the point.
“I ain’t seen ’em neither,” Hammond said, after Culpepper had explained his short visit to Hernandez’s a few minutes ago.
“You have any idea where they might be headed?” Culpepper asked. “It don’t seem natural for them to turn west two or three miles outside of Durango.”
“Maybe they’ve found a new hideout or somethin’,” Hammond said with a shrug. “Tell you the truth, Jonas, I’m glad those sons of bitches’re out of my hair. Let them pester some other poor bastard of a sheriff and let him worry about ’em. You ought to do the same.”
Culpepper laughed. “Easy for you to say, Frank. You don’t have to run for election on a record of not havin’ been able to bring Mack Ellsworth to heel.”
“Sure I do,” Hammond said, joining in the laughter.
“Not when it’s the Anvil Minin’ Company’s money that was taken.”
“I see your point.” Hammond paused. He didn’t really want to go along with Culpepper, but he figured that as a fellow lawman, he ought to offer. “You want my help?” he finally asked.
Culpepper thought it over a few moments. He had never taken to Frank Hammond much. He liked Ed Hernandez a lot better. Hernandez was more pleasant to be around, and much better at his job than Hammond. Indeed, Hammond looked like an outlaw most of the time. He was of medium height and had a scraggly beard and mustache. His face was hard-looking and was pocked and scarred. He wore black almost exclusively—black hat, coat, wool pants, boots. The only thing relieving the blackness was his crisp white boiled shirt.