by Paul Colt
“Cane, glad you’re back. How was your journey?”
“Fine once I got off the train in Cheyenne.”
“Something unpleasant about the train ride?”
“Kingsley insisted on taking up the seat next to me.”
“I see. He can be a bit of a pain in the ass.”
“None needed on those damn leather benches. He’s quite curious about the workings of the Great Western Detective League.”
“How much did you tell him?”
“Very little. I don’t know much.”
“Mores the better, the less he knows.”
“Any word on Bass?”
“Not yet. These things take time. He’s probably still traveling to Texas. I’ve alerted league members in the more likely of his destinations. Something is certain to turn up before long.”
“That’s what Kingsley said.”
“The trick is for us to turn him up before they do. I’m pleased you came in. I have something for you.” He opened a desk drawer and drew out an envelope he passed across the desk.
Inside Cane found a bank draft made out to him.
“Your share of the Wells Fargo reward for the recovery of Collins’s share of their shipment. I trust the amount meets with your approval.”
“It’ll keep me fed and bed until we get our shot at Bass.”
“I thought so. You see information can be quite useful in this line of work.”
Cane pocketed the draft. It can.
Dodge City, Kansas
Longstreet boarded a stage bound for Dallas. Two days out the ride was hot, dusty and bone weary. The only thing to be said for it was that it gave a man time to think.
Abby Stone.
Now there was a thought to while away some miles. They’d had a fond farewell that didn’t allow for much sleep. He took care of that on the train to Dodge. Stage monotony gave him pause to savor the memory of her. Fascinating, brilliant and gorgeous, the mere thought of her stirred his cupidity. And where did that leave him? On a stage to Dallas for the Eye that Never Sleeps.
He was beginning to feel like that eye. Cane got his check and a return to Denver to await developments. He got sent to Dallas in hope of finding a development. He could have as easily awaited developments in the tender embrace of Abby Stone. Oh and then there was the check. Maybe Cane was on to something after all. Well they were both on the case. Time would tell who might come out the winner. Would it be Cane and the Great Western Detective League or the Eye that Never Sleeps? Either way, Beau Longstreet didn’t figure in much by way of sleep, let alone the spoils.
SEVENTEEN
Shady Grove
Penny showed no sign of displeasure with me on our Sunday sundae outing. Either whatever may have been bothering her had passed, or the old scoundrel simply enjoyed picking at the tethers of our emotions. In truth I suspected the latter. He was for all else an insufferable tease. She wheeled him into the solarium with her sweet Mona Lisa.
“Good morning, Robert. I see you’ve mustered the temerity to come back for more, though I’m not sure if it is my engaging company you desire or another excuse to pester the attentions of this young lady.”
She rolled her eyes and blushed in the bargain. I liked it. The old reprobate’s teasing did offer amusing aspects when I wasn’t directly the brunt.
“Of course it’s your company, Colonel. I couldn’t possibly duplicate your stories in an old newspaper’s stuffy archives. They offer black-and-white reports. You on the other hand offer colorful reflections as to be prized by the reader.”
“I should hope so, though I dare say I don’t believe a word of it.” He dismissed the notion with a wave.
“You’re welcome to him this morning, Robert.”
I nodded my thanks and watched her go.
“You truly are transparent, boy.”
“To the practiced eye of an investigator?”
“Investigator yes, but when it comes to that girl you’re the one with the practiced eye. How much practice does a man need?”
“Age may have cost you your perspective of that, Colonel.”
“Age! Are you suggesting? Never mind. I see your point. My perspective of that practice is a somewhat dim reflection. Now let’s see, where were we?”
I glanced at my notes. “All eyes were on Texas.”
“Ah yes. It took a couple of months, but sure enough Marshal Stillwell Russell picked up Bass’s trail.”
Dallas, Texas
Stillwell Russell sat at a cluttered desk in his small office on Houston Street. He read the telegram from Colonel Crook. Both Wells Fargo and the Union Pacific had rewards out for Sam Bass. That made for a high-profile criminal. Russell, US marshal for the Western District of Texas, pulled a frown. The frown came easy to his dour expression. He had long features made the more so by curly muttonchop sideburns. They gave him an appearance crossed between a stiff-necked preacher and a bloodhound. Crook had reason to believe the outlaw was headed for Texas. If he was right, Bass would likely pass through his jurisdiction even if it wasn’t his final destination. Reason enough to be on the lookout.
He mulled the question of what being on the lookout might mean. It would be easy enough if Bass pulled a job. The more interesting question was what could be done to spot him before he did. The man’s description could have fit half the cowboys, drifters and gunmen in north Texas. Not much help there. Then it hit him. The man was flush with newly minted twenty-dollar gold pieces. Put one of those together with the description and a man might have something. He’d make the rounds of the saloons and whorehouses. Give the bartenders and whores the description of a man who might pay in new gold double eagles. Offer them a fifty-dollar reward for information leading to the man in question, and he’d have the best eyes and ears a man could ask for on the lookout.
He cracked a half smile, as if to prove he could.
October 1877
You had to get there early. If you waited until the gambler had a game, you could wait a long time for a moment or two of quiet conversation. That’s how Longstreet had it figured as he began canvassing the games that dotted Dallas saloons. It didn’t take long to turn up new information, even if it wasn’t the sort of information he’d bargained for.
He arrived at the Lone Star saloon during the supper hour. He ordered a beer and took a seat at a corner table that gave him a good view of the other tables. The early evening crowd was thin. The real action wouldn’t start until later. One beer and thirty minutes after he sat down the man came in. He was turned out in a frock coat and brocade vest. He had a waxed mustache and cold eyes. He took a seat at a table off the far end of the bar facing the door. He produced a deck of cards and began shuffling in the idle manner of a man whiling away the time, waiting for a game. Longstreet took his chance.
The gambler looked up at his approach. “Looking for a game?”
“Information.” The scent of pomade rose above the familiar stale saloon smell.
“I deal in cards.”
“Information that pays.”
The gambler paused his shuffling. A flicker of something crossed his eye as he appraised Longstreet. “What sort of information?”
“I’m looking for a man.”
“What’s that to me?”
“He likes to play.”
“This information, what does it pay?”
“A hundred dollars if you spot him for me.”
He glanced around the room. “You the law?”
“Pinkerton. Beau Longstreet.” He extended a hand the gambler ignored.
“They call me Cutter. Have a seat.”
Longstreet pulled back a chair.
“This man have a name?”
“Sam Bass.”
“Let me guess, tall fella, ladies might find handsome. Sports new-minted gold double eagles.”
Longstreet sat back. “How’d you know?”
“Popular fella.”
“Who else is lookin’ for him?”
“US marsha
l, name of Russell.”
“Reward?”
The gambler nodded.
“My offer’s better.”
The gambler arched a dark brow.
Longstreet thought fast.
“I’ll make it better.”
“How’s that?”
“Two hundred if he comes back to your table in time for me to catch him.”
“How am I supposed to arrange that?”
“You strike me as a resourceful fellow. He likes to play. I bet you might even take some of those double eagles in the bargain.”
The gambler smiled. “Where do I find you Mr. Longstreet?”
“Windsor Hotel.”
“If he shows up, you’ll be the first to know.”
Murphy Ranch
Denton, Texas
Fall 1877
Bass arrived in north Texas and headed for the Murphy Ranch near Denton. An old friend, Arkansas Johnson worked for the Murphy outfit. He figured Johnson would help him hide out from any pursuit that might have followed him from Nebraska. He hadn’t been there much over a week when things started to take shape.
Evening turned the day’s heat cool and pleasant. Bass and Johnson sat on the bunkhouse porch having a smoke after supper. Johnson’s hawk-like gaze cut south along the road heading into town. He scratched a match and relit his pipe, letting the smoke drift on the evening breeze beneath a drooping mustache.
“What’s so interesting?” Bass said. Johnson lifted his leather-tough chin to the road. A dust cloud boiled out of the hills, rider coming fast.
“You figure that for trouble?”
“A man don’t push a horse that hard unless there’s a reason.”
“Maybe I should slip out of sight.”
Johnson bunched bushy brows in a squint. He shook his head. “No need. It’s one of ours.”
“How the hell can you tell at this distance? It’s damn near dark.”
“A man don’t ride that hard in the dark lessen he knows his road.”
“You sure about that?”
“Mostly.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I ain’t.”
“How do you know?”
“The kid took that sorrel out after a missing horse this morning.”
The rider galloped through the ranch gate and headed for the bunkhouse. He slid the blown animal to a stop and jumped down.
“Who lit your tail on fire?” Johnson asked.
The kid looked to be no more than twenty. Thick and powerfully built, he had a fringe of matted hair hanging below his dusty hat brim. He wore a .44 Colt rigged cross draw on his left hip. He cut a wary eye at Bass.
“Who’s he?”
“A friend. Sam Bass meet Frank Jackson. Most of us call him Blocky.”
Bass nodded.
“Now tell us what lit a fire under your tail feathers that’s worth near killin’ a fine horse over?”
“I got him.”
“Got who?”
“That horse thief.”
“What horse thief?”
“The one ran off the dun that went missin’.”
“Well if you got him, where is he?”
He glanced at Bass again. “He’s dead.”
“You kill him?”
The kid nodded.
“Where’s the horse?”
The kid shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me. Kept denyin’ he done it. I knowd the black son of a bitch was lyin’.”
“What black son of a bitch?”
“Henry Goodale.”
“How’d it happen?”
“I come on him trailin’ the horse. I asked him where he took our horse. He said he didn’t know what I was talkin’ about. I drew my gun and told him horse thieves get hung in these parts. He said he weren’t no horse thief and made like he’d be on his way. I told him stop or I’ll shoot. He didn’t stop. I shot him.”
“You killed him.”
“That shot didn’t kill him. He said, ‘Murderers hang too, even for killin’ a black man.’ I couldn’t very well leave him tellin’ who shot him, could I?”
“So you shot him again.”
He shook his head. “The sum bitch pissed me off so, I cut his throat.”
“That figures to have killed him.” Arkansas took his pipe stem from between his stained teeth and spit tobacco juice. “Best cool down that horse Blocky before the boss sees him lookin’ like that.”
He collected the lathered horse and led it to the corral.
Johnson shook his head. “Ruthless son of a bitch.”
“That kid could come in handy one of these days,” Bass said.
Hiding out, playing cowboy came with a stiff dose of hard work. It didn’t take long for Bass to grow restless. Gathering strays with Arkansas one raw afternoon they paused at a creek to water their horses.
“How much longer do you figure to do this, Arkansas?”
“Do what?”
“Punch cows.”
“It’s a living.”
“You call this living?” His eyes swept rolling fields of treeless dry winter grass and sage cut flat by a chill wind beneath a canopy of rumpled gray cloud. “Where’s the fun? I ain’t had a woman or a good card game in a month.”
“That kind of fun takes money.”
“It does. More than a man makes punchin’ cows.”
“What’re you thinkin’, Sam?”
“A man would have to punch cows ten years to make as much as the shares we took off that train in Nebraska for the price of a night’s work.”
He nodded and shifted in his saddle. “It’d take more than two of us to pull off something like that.”
“Yup. We could use that kid, Blocky.”
“We could. Might convince the Murphy kid to throw in too.”
“Jim?”
“Yeah. He’s got a wild streak. He’d figure it for a good time.”
“Know anybody else reliable?”
“There’s a couple of boys over to Denton we could talk to.”
“I think maybe we should. My ass is chapped with chasing beeves from dawn to dark.”
Alamo Saloon
Denton, Texas
The bottle passed around a cracked table from Johnson to Seaborn Barnes, to Tom Spotswood and back to Bass. Arkansas arranged the meeting with two hard cases down on their luck. He represented the men were reliable and competent.
“Arkansas here says you might have a job for us,” Spotswood said.
Bass nodded. “I might. Pay’s good. Work’s light, for a man willing to take a chance.”
“For a man willing to take a chance; or a man willing to cross the line?”
“You could put it that way.”
“Pay’s right, I’m willing. How about you Seaborn?”
Barnes knocked back his drink and poured another. He favored Spotswood’s question with a shrug and a nod.
“What do you have in mind?”
Bass glanced around making sure no one was in earshot. “A train.”
Spotswood scratched his chin. “Trains take some know-how.”
“Ever hear of the Big Springs robbery?”
“Who hasn’t? Union Pacific lost sixty thousand in gold.”
“They did. That’s why you rob trains.”
“That takes care of why. It still takes know-how.”
“Who do you think robbed that train?”
Spotswood met his eyes. “You?”
Bass nodded.
“Count us in.”
Barnes tossed off his drink.
EIGHTEEN
February 22, 1878
The Texas Central built the watering station that would become Allen, Texas. At the time, it wasn’t much more than that, a stop on the track between somewhere and somewhere else. It made a perfect spot for a daylight robbery on a clear chill winter afternoon in north Texas. Engineer Casey Cavanaugh had no more than braked the 6:20 to a stop at the watering station, when masked bandits appeared from behind the depot. A masked-up Seabo
rn Barnes rode up beside the locomotive and leveled a sawed-off shotgun at his chest.
“Don’t move and you won’t get hurt. You, fireman get down off that tender where I can see you.”
Safer Stringman climbed down, the whites of his eyes bulging against sweat-shined black skin. Further up the train Jim Murphy got the drop on the conductor.
Blocky Jackson and Arkansas Johnson entered the passenger carriages masked-up with guns drawn. Women gasped. Welldressed gentlemen turned ashen.
“Hands in the air and nobody gets hurt.” Johnson waved his gun to make the point.
Jackson produced a flour sack and handed it to a man in the first row. He leveled his gun. “Your wallet, that watch, all of it in the sack.”
Wide-eyed the older gentleman did as he was told.
“Now pass it along, just like the collection plate at Sunday services.”
Johnson laughed, his gun and his eyes flicking along the car from one passenger to the next. They moved down the aisle systematically relieving passengers of wallets, watches and such other baubles that might prove of value.
In the mail car, Tom Spotswood leveled his gun at the messenger guard. Bass searched the car. He found nothing more than a mail pouch. No mint shipment this time. He threw the pouch onto the roadbed and jumped down after it. Arkansas and Blocky cleared the last passenger car, carrying a flour sack full of loot. Bass waved Murphy and Spotswood off the train. He signaled Barnes to let the train go.
The brake released with a groan. Couplings engaged, a chain reaction clank rippled down the train to the caboose. She slow rolled out of the station, gathering speed. The gang mounted up and lined out for the hills.
Thirty minutes later Bass called a halt to rest the horses and divvy up the loot in a white-oak thicket beside Sweet-Water creek. Spotswood dumped out the flour sack while Johnson rifled the mail sack. Twenty minutes later Spotswood held up a fist full of cash.
“Thirteen hundred dollars and some watches, two hundred and some a man.” He spat.