by John Legg
“Merkle’s gang?” Coffin asked.
“Ain’t sure about the first two. He usually has enough men at his beck and call that he could hit three, four places at once. He’s sent out three or four bands at one time to hit stagecoaches and such, while he sat in a Virginia City saloon playin’ stud poker. Every lawman in the territory knew it was Merkle callin’ the shots, but without him bein’ there, we couldn’t do a thing. However, on the latter one, someone identified Merkle as well as Kurt Ochs, one of Merkle’s top two men.”
Pembroke sat quietly for a few moments drinking coffee. Coffin thought it strange that Beryl and Enoch Pembroke could be so similar in looks but so different in some of the ways they acted. Beryl did not smoke, rarely drank. He never used coarse language either. His only real vice was in his occasional sessions with a prostitute. Beryl never talked about it, and Coffin wondered how Beryl reconciled such sins of the flesh with his deep faith. Coffin knew that Beryl had had a wife during the war, but he didn’t know what had happened to her, and Beryl would never mention it. Coffin had heard that Beryl was courting a respectable widow in town, but he was not sure that was true. Beryl was not so much closed-mouthed as he was quiet and unassuming. He was also soft-spoken, and many a man took that as a sign of weakness. It was a mistake to do that. Beryl Pembroke was as hard a man as Coffin had ever seen. He came across to many as a pompous, self-righteous prig, but he believed strongly in God, justice and his own abilities. He was not a man to take lightly.
“Anyway,” Pembroke continued, “nobody in the first two holdups recognized any of the men as Merkle’s. It don’t mean they weren’t, but we’ve got precious little to go on. I suspect Merkle is behind those robberies—and the others.”
“Others?”
“There were two more stages hit the day after you left, four two days ago, and two more yesterday.”
Coffin whistled. “Active little bastards, ain’t they,” he commented.
“Yes, they’re scoundrels, indeed,” Pembroke said quietly. “The two worst were the two got stopped northeast of Virginia City. Both were headin’ to Denver with eight passengers, several mail pouches, and two strongboxes of gold.”
“Well, they ain’t gonna hold up a stage just for pickin’ the pockets of a bunch of passengers or so.”
“True enough. But how did they know to hit the ones carryin’ the most gold?” Pembroke mused.
“Do you send shipments that way often?” Coffin asked.
“Fairly regular. The strongboxes hold the gold paid to the merchants for their goods. The merchants and workmen toss their gold into a pot, such as it is, for takin’ back to Denver. It goes to pay what they owe for supplies, or for new supplies they need to bring in.”
“Do those stages run regularly to Denver without the gold sometimes?”
“I suppose.” He paused. “What I mean is they don’t too often have big shipments of gold like these. They almost always carry a small amount. Miners sending it back to families in the East. A miner or merchant wanting some personal items. The big shipments generally go about once a month. Every once in a while, though, it works out like it did this time—two big shipments within a few days.”
“Could the robbers just have gotten lucky? You know, hitting all those stages within a week or less in the hopes they might hit a motherlode?”
“Possible,” Pembroke said. “But mighty unlikely.” He fiddled a few moments, then said, “I think Merkle and his men are responsible for all of them. I also think that he has somebody in Madison—or maybe even in Virginia City—who’s alerting Merkle and his men when the big shipments are being made.”
“Sounds reasonable, in an odd sort of way, Beryl,” Coffin said. “But what about the other ones?”
“I think they were done to throw suspicion off Merkle and his men. And to divert attention away from the two big robberies.”
Coffin thought about that for a bit, then nodded. “I think you’re on to somethin’, Beryl.”
“It’s certainly plausible,” Pembroke said. “But I have no proof. No proof at all. Makin’ it all the worse is that I’ve heard that vigilance committees are going back into action. That’s somethin’ we really don’t need. I’ve not ever seen a vigilance committee who hasn’t hanged at least one innocent man.”
“Anything we can do to stop ’em?”
Pembroke shook his head. “No. The only way would be to catch ’em in the act of hangin’ somebody and arrest ’em. Trouble with that, though, is there’s Usually a passel of vigilantes and only one or two lawmen. Those odds aren’t very favorable. It’s possible you could arrest ’em later, but you’d have to be able to identify ’em positively. And that’s nearly impossible.”
“They caused any trouble yet?”
“None that I know of, Joe. But if the rumors are true that they’re back in operation, it won’t be too long before someone’s found with his neck stretched.”
“Damn,” Coffin muttered. “Enoch’s headed east, then?”
“No,” Pembroke said flatly. “We heard about the two local holdups almost right away since they were so close. Enoch rode out the next morning. It wasn’t till the next day that we heard about the other. It took about two days to hear about the second big one. I just found out about that one last night.” He shook his head. “There’s a road ranch—a way station for the stages, where the folks can get a meal and spend the night while traveling—not far from where the two robberies took place. One of the men there galloped to Virginia City—and then herewith the news. He no sooner got back to his road station when he had to do it all over again.”
“Damn,” Coffin snapped. “Well, I best get myself back on the trail again. I’ll stop by Virginia City first and see if there’s anything I can learn there. Then I’ll head northeast.” He paused, thinking about that for a moment. “Northeast? To get to Denver?”
Pembroke laughed just a bit. “Does seem odd—until you take a look at the countryside. Out past Virginia City is a big valley running north and south. You go south there’s a heap of mountains. So the stages head north a-ways before turning east. Once they get through Bozeman Pass, they’re almost on the prairie. Travelin’s easier then.”
Coffin nodded, already considering what he might need. “You trust the boys at that road station?” Pembroke nodded. “For the most part. We’ve never had any trouble from them. I guess there’s always a chance they’re in cahoots with Merkle, but it doesn’t seem likely.”
Coffin nodded and stood. “Well, I’ll get my supplies and such. I should be on the trail before noon.”
“Tomorrow’s soon enough,” Pembroke said. When Coffin looked at him in surprise, Pembroke said, “You’ve had a full couple of days, Joe. You deserve a little rest, and maybe some time for a little spree.” His distaste for such things was evident on his face. “And I know Amy’d be real glad to see you.” He glared at Coffin. “You are planning to do the right thing by my sister, aren’t you?”
“That doesn’t deserve an answer, Beryl,” Coffin said stiffly.
Pembroke nodded. “Sorry, Joe. I just have Amy’s best interests in mind.”
“So do I.”
Pembroke looked up at him and nodded. He was smiling a little.
Coffin spent virtually the entire day with Amy. He had first stopped at the general store and made arrangements for picking up his supplies in the morning. Then he hurried to the Pembrokes’ house. As he had hoped, Amy was very glad to see him.
They strolled around town, happy just to be together. Coffin had never been so joyous. He had thought at the time that he had loved Edna Yarnell, but he knew now that wasn’t the case. He was infatuated then, maybe even had loved Edna a little. But now he knew what real love was. In just a few meetings, be was absolutely sure that Amy was the woman he wanted to marry and settle down with. He thought she felt the same about him, but he was a little afraid of asking her about it; afraid that she would respond, negatively.
After supper, Beryl went off to make his r
ounds around Madison, leaving Coffin and Amy on the front porch alone. They sat next to each other on the porch itself, their feet on the next step down.
Finally Coffin screwed up his courage. “May I ask you somethin’, Amy?” he asked quietly.
She looked up, worry seaming her perfect face.
“I know we ain’t known each other long, Amy,” Coffin said earnestly. “But I’ve come to care for you more than any other woman I’ve ever met. I know I ain’t much to look at or anything, and I don’t have any trade. Despite all that, I’d be the happiest man in all God’s kingdom if you were to consent to become Mrs. Joe Coffin.”
Amy smiled, and to Coffin it was as bright, warm and welcome as the sun itself. “Oh, Joe,” she said softly, “I’ve thought about just that—and almost nothing else—since the moment we met.”
Coffin thought he was sitting on a cloud.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Coffin rode out the next morning feeling as if he were split in two. On one side, he wanted to do his job and do it well. He was always proud of himself when he was able to accomplish some goal he had set out for himself. On the other side, he did not want to be away from Amy for even a minute.
He learned little of any use in Virginia City and he pressed on the following morning. He arrived at the road station just before dark, and introduced himself to Claiborne and Thelma Simpson, and their two sons, Will and Augie. Coffin gladly accepted their invitation to supper.
While eating, Coffin pumped Simpson for information. Simpson seemed willing enough to talk, but he seemed agitated for some reason. Finally Coffin asked him about it.
“You’re askin’ all these questions about some old robberies just ’cause they were carryin’ a heap of gold, from what I hear. More damn worried about those rich fellas out there and their damn gold than you are about regular goddamn people.”
“What in the hell’re you talkin’ about, Clay?” Coffin asked, perplexed.
“Why aren’t you checkin’ out the holdup north of here, up near the Three Forks? The one where they leftpoor Louise Robbins dead on the ground.”
Coffin looked at him, eyebrows arched. “When was this?” he asked.
“Early yesterday. A stage comin’ down from Helena.”
“What else you know about it?” Coffin demanded, forgetting his supper at least for the moment.
“Not much,” Simpson said defensively. “Besides, it don’t matter none. You’ll sit here and take down what we know and then go right on back to trying to find that gold.”
“You listen to me, you skinny sack of pond scum,” Coffin hissed. “I’ve been on the trail since first thing yesterday. Before that I was on the trail near a week. All I stayed in Madison was for two good nights’ sleep. Now, unless you want me to gut you with this goddamn dull-tined fork, tell me what the hell you know.”
“Not much more’n I already told you,” Simpson said nervously. “The stage was comin’ down the valley from Helena. Along about the Three Forks area, some highwaymen held it up. From what we heard, Miss Robbins, who’d only been married a month—she was comin’ out to be with her husband—tried to stop the robbers from takin’ her ring. From what we heard, she tried to claw the eyes out of one of those bastards, so he shot her down.”
“There a road station up there somewhere?”
Simpson nodded. “The stage had just left there when it was hit, maybe a mile or two from Henry Wintermeyer’s road ranch.”
“I just head straight north from here to get there?”
“Yep.”
Coffin rose and patted his mouth with a dirty napkin. “I’m obliged for the meal, folks.” He dropped a dollar on the table. “But I best get movin’.”
Simpson was surprised, but he accepted it. “Sit, Marshal,” he said. “Finish your supper. Augie, go saddle the marshal’s horse.”
“Yessir.”
“The horse and mule get enough grain and water?”
“Yessir.”
Fifteen minutes later, Coffin was gone, pushing cautiously north. It was a cool night, made more so by a chilling northern wind that shepherded dark, thick clouds before it. Before Coffin had gone two miles, the skies opened up. Thunder grumbled from the Jefferson Range on the west to the Madison Range to the east, back and forth, it seemed, as if God were playing some odd game.
Anticipating the storm, Coffin had pulled on his slicker, but he could not keep all the water out. It hardly let up at all, as Coffin rode slowly through the pitch dark night. It was early in the morning when he finally stopped at the road station. Wearily he slid out of the saddle. A burly, dark-bearded man opened the door but stayed inside under cover. It was still raining hard.
“You Henry Wintermeyer?” Coffin asked as he walked to the building.
“I might be. Might not. Depends on who’s askin’.”
Coffin pulled his slicker open a little—just enough to give Wintermeyer a glance at the badge.
Wintermeyer nodded and stepped back, allowing Coffin to enter. “That there’s my missus, Gertrude, and our boy, Junior.”
Junior did not look much like a junior to Coffin. He was taller than Coffin, but only about fourteen. Coffin figured the youth was going to be one big fellow by the time he was full grown. Mrs. Wintermeyer was an attractive, slim woman, though she looked weary from a life of hard work and drudgery.
“Marshal Joe Coffin.” He nodded at everyone. “You mind if I set a spell and dry off some?”
“No, no, of course not,” Wintermeyer said. “You hungry?”
Coffin nodded as he peeled his slicker off and hung it on a peg next to the door. “My horse and mule could use some tendin’ to.”
Wintermeyer nodded. “Junior, go on and see to the marshal’s animals.”
“But, Pa,” Junior said, almost not whining, “he ain’t offered to pay.”
Wintermeyer chuckled in embarrassment. “Sorry, Marshal.”
“Nothin’ to be sorry for, Mr. Wintermeyer. A man deserves to be paid for the work he does.” Coffin flipped the young man a half dollar. “Of course, most folks wait till after the work’s done before they go stickin’ their hands out,” he added pointedly.
Junior Wintermeyer looked stricken. He wasn’t sure why. This short lawman was just standing there, tracing small circles on his abdomen with the palm of his hand. “All right, go on, Junior,” Wintermeyer said.
The young man left, and Coffin took a seat at the table. Gertrude ladled him up a big bowl of stew. “Buffalo,” she said, voice just a wispy thing. “Fresh yesterday.”
“Thank you.”
“You want anything else?”
“Coffee. Biscuits if you got any.”
In moments they were provided. Wintermeyer sat next to his wife across the table from Coffin. “What brings you to these parts, Marshal?” Wintermeyer asked.
“I was on the trail of some road agents. Then Clay Simpson told me a woman got killed up here durin’ a holdup a day or so ago?”
“That’s true, Marshal,” Wintermeyer said.
“The unfortunate little thing,” Gertrude interjected. “Such a sweet young girl. New married, too, she was.”
“So I heard.” Coffin looked at Wintermeyer. “You know who done it?”
Wintermeyer shook his head. “From what those passengers said when they come back here afterward, all the robbers had sacking over their faces as masks.”
“You have any guesses as to who did it?”
“No, sir,” Wintermeyer said firmly. “Even if I did, I’d keep such names to myself.”
Coffin nodded. He could understand the man’s fear. He was out here in the middle of nowhere with a wife and a son, and no one around to protect them. “You know where—or even which way—they went?”
“I ain’t sure. We never saw ’em before or after. Folks on the stage, though, they said the robbers went west. But since they didn’t come past here, there ain’t no tellin’ where they went.”
Coffin nodded. It was going to be impossible to
find those men. It would take an army to cover every square foot of the vast and overpowering land. “You mind if I stay the rest of the day and overnight? I’m bushed.”
“We’d be glad to have you, Marshal,” Wintermeyer said. He did not seem totally sincere.
“How much?” Coffin asked with a small smile.
“A dollar’d be just about right, I guess. With the fifty cents you give Junior, it ought to cover a night’s lodging, a couple meals and the care for your animals.”
“Sounds fair enough to me.” He handed Wintermeyer a silver dollar.
Wintermeyer stood and pointed to the back. “That’s our best bunk. It’s near the stove so you don’t catch a chill at night, and it’s a bit more spacious than the others.”
Coffin nodded. He spent the rest of the day cleaning his weapons, checking over gear and just generally wasting time. He didn’t want to get to bed too early, or he’d be kept awake by the noises of life.
It was not quite dark, though, when he finally lay down on the dirty straw mattress. He was asleep almost instantly.
Junior Wintermeyer watched intently as Coffin undid his gunbelt and hung it on the high corner of an old chair right near to the head of the bed. He wanted to see one of the weapons worse than anything. He wanted to get the feel of a big pistol, one that had been used to kill all sorts of men, he figured.
Junior went to bed but not to sleep. His mind still burned with the desire to see if one of Coffin’s pistols made him think he was a big man. It surprised Junior that such a little man could be a deputy marshal. It didn’t seem right. Maybe the magic was in Coffin’s pistols, he thought.
He waited until he was sure everyone was asleep. Then Junior climbed quietly down from his loft bed and crept on tiptoe toward Coffin. He stopped right next to the bed and reached out a shaking hand for the glossy walnut butt of a Remington. And he suddenly found the muzzle of a pistol brushing the crevasse between his eyes.
“You want to live to see the dawn, boy, you’ll get your ass back to bed and stay there,” Coffin growled quietly.