“I just pissed a grasshopper off a weed. That makes him a pissed-on grasshopper.”
“So?”
“Don’t you get it? A pissed-on grasshopper is a pissed-off grasshopper.” Travis laughed again.
“Get ready,” Dinkins said without joining in the laughter. “The coach will be here in just a couple more minutes.”
“It means he’s mad,” Travis said, still trying to explain his joke.
“Get ready,” Dinkins said again.
Harley came back down from the rock. “They’re real close now.”
“Yeah, I can hear ’em,” Dinkins said.
The coach was close enough they could hear the driver’s shouts, whistles, and popping of the whip, as well as the clatter of hooves, and the squeaking and jarring of the coach itself.
“Heah! Heah! Giddap there, hosses! Just a little way and you can take a breather! Heah!”
“Get ready!” Dinkins hissed.
When the coach reached the top of the grade the driver called the team to a halt. The horses could be heard, breathing hard. The driver was putting the whip back in its holder when the four men stepped out from behind the rocks. Each of them was wearing a kerchief around the bottom half of his face, and holding a pistol, leveled at the coach.
“You folks inside, climb out here!” Dinkins shouted.
Three men climbed down, and as they did so, Calhoun produced a pistol and fired at the robbers, but missed. Dinkins and the others returned fire, riddling the coach with bullets. The rancher and the salesman went down. When the messenger made a move for his shotgun, he was killed. McVey jumped down from the driver’s seat, and ran off the road and into the rocks along with the doctor. Dinkins and the others pointed their guns at them and pulled the triggers, but all the firing pins fell on empty chambers. Not one of them had a charged cartridge remaining.
“Damnit!” Dinkins shouted angrily. Quickly, he and the others reloaded, but it was too late, the driver and passenger had already gotten away.
“Travis, look in the coach!” Dinkins ordered.
Cautiously, Travis approached the coach, then peered in through the window. He saw three women, drenched with blood.
“What’s in there?”
“Just women,” Travis called back. “And all three are dead.”
As Travis was checking inside the coach, Harley climbed up onto the driver’s seat. Looking underneath the seat he found a canvas bag, marked ESCALANTE BANK. With a whoop, he held it up.
“Look here boys, what I found!”
“What is it?”
Harley cut through the canvas, stuck his hand inside, and pulled out a handful of greenbacks. “Money, boys! Lots of money!” Harley shouted.
“Now what did I tell you? When Bill Dinkins plans a job, he does it right. Come on down, Wes. Let’s get out of here.”
Inside the coach, Mary Dawson lay uninjured, but pinned to the floor of the coach by the bodies of the other two women. She lay quietly until she was sure the outlaws had left. Only then did she start trying to work her way free. When she raised up and looked down at the two women whose bodies had held her down, she nearly gagged over what she saw. Both women had multiple gunshot wounds, and there was so much blood it was almost an inch thick on the floor of the coach.
Mary felt sick to her stomach at the grizzly sight, and knew she had to get out of the coach. By the time she climbed out, McVey and Dr. Potter were returning.
“Good Lord, Miss Dawson, how badly are you hurt?” Dr. Potter asked, seeing all the blood on her.
“I’m not hurt,” Mary replied. “But I think the other two ladies, Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Johnson, are dead.”
Dr. Potter checked on the two women, then nodded. “They’re dead.” He checked Evans and Calhoun. “They are, too.”
As Dr. Potter was checking on the passengers, McVey had climbed up to the box to check on Conway. “Doc, you want to come up here and take a look at Burt?”
Using the spokes of the front wheel, Dr. Potter climbed up to the box to stand beside McVey. Although there were no visible wounds on the shotgun guard’s body, he was very still, and his eyes were open and opaque. Dr. Potter put his hand on Conway’s neck, but could find no pulse. Then he saw the wound, a bullet hole over his heart, not immediately visible because of the way he was positioned. “There’s the wound.”
“How is he?” Mary called up to him.
“He’s dead,” Dr. Potter called back down.
“Doc, if you will help me, we’ll get the bodies laid out up here,” McVey said quietly. “I think it would be better for Miss Dawson, and for you, if you didn’t have to ride in the coach with them.”
“I’ll be glad to help you,” Dr. Potter said, climbing back down.
McVey looked down at Calhoun’s body. He was still clutching the pistol in his hand, the pistol from which only one shot had been fired.
“Here is the dumb son of a bitch who caused all this,” McVey said.
“That’s not fair, Mr. McVey,” Dr. Porter replied. “He didn’t cause it. The road agents caused it. He was just doing what he thought was right.”
“It was Bill Dinkins,” Mary said.
“What?” McVey asked. “Bill Dinkins? Are you sure?”
“Yes. I heard his name.”
“Then I take it back,” McVey said. “Dinkins is a cold-blooded murderer. Like as not he would have shot us all whether Mr. Calhoun took a shot at him or not.”
It took a good ten minutes to get the four bodies lifted up to the top of the coach to join with Conway’s body, which was already lying there.
“Are we going back to Escalante?” Dr. Potter asked.
“No,” McVey said. “We are going on. We are only two hours from Suttle, six hours back to Escalante. We’ll send a telegraph message back when we reach Suttle.”
One of the reasons this was the coach turnout was because of proximity of water, from Tomichi Creek. A pipe from the creek kept a watering trough filled for livestock that passed through. Dr. Potter wet his handkerchief in the trough, then used it to wash away the blood from Mary’s face, hands, and arms. “There’s nothing I can do about your dress, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you,” Mary replied. “Grandma will wash it. Poor Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Johnson. They were so excited about the meeting they attended in Escalante. They were going to tell their friends all about it.” Tears began to slide down Mary’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m crying like a baby.”
“No you aren’t, child,” Dr. Potter said reassuringly. “You are crying like a compassionate woman.”
“If you folks are ready, we’ll get underway,” McVey said, the tone of his voice much more gentle than it had been at the start of their journey.
Suttle, Colorado
The first thing the people noticed about the arrival of the coach was that McVey did not come galloping in as he normally did. Then someone saw the bodies lying on top of the coach, as well as bullet holes in the sides. “Hey, look at the coach!”
“What happened?”
“I bet they was held up!”
The forward progress of the coach down Center Street was so slow the citizens of the town who were curious and aggressive enough to do so, were able to keep pace with it.
“What happened?” someone called.
“Was you held up?” another asked.
McVey made no reply. He continued to stare straight ahead, concentrating on driving the team as resolutely as he could. Finally he pulled to a stop in front of the Dunn Hotel, which also served as the stagecoach office for Suttle. The crowd that had followed him drew up there as well, so by the time McVey set his brake there were close to a hundred people gathered around the coach.
Caleb Stallings, the station manager, stepped onto the front porch. When he saw the blood, the bodies, and the holes in the side of the coach, he got a horrified expression on his face. “Stan, my God!” he called up to the driver. “What happened ?”
“We was waylaid,” McVey said. He stood, then p
ointed his hand toward the top of the coach. “These folks was all kilt, I’m afraid.”
“Good Lord, Stan, are you the only one left alive?”
The door to the coach opened then, and Dr. Potter stepped down. He reached back into the coach to help Mary down.
“Mary!” an older woman called and broke from the crowd rushing toward Mary, who met her halfway. The two women embraced, weeping as they did so.
“Juanita?” a gray haired old man said, his voice cracking. “Where is Juanita Gray, my wife?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gray,” Dr. Potter said. “Mrs. Gray and her friend, Mrs. Johnson, were both killed. So were Mr. Calhoun and Mr. Evans.”
“Pop!” a young boy of about sixteen called. “No! I came to town to get him! What will I tell Ma?”
As news spread through the town, bringing realization that five people had been killed, three of whom were from Suttle, anger and sorrow became pervasive.
There were resolute shouts to form a posse to go after the perpetrators, but nothing progressed beyond the shouts. The real finality of the event occurred when Gene Welch, the undertaker, arrived at the scene, not with a hearse, but with an open wagon large enough to accommodate all five bodies.
“Would someone give me a hand, please?” he asked, and a dozen or more willing souls stepped up to help pass the bodies down from the top of the coach.
Harold Denman, editor of the Suttle Sentinal didn’t even bother to write out the story first. He composed the story as he set the type, which was not that difficult a job for him. He had grown up in a print shop, and had been setting type for as long as he could remember. Because of that he was able to read the type in reverse as easily as he could read it forward.
Inking the platen, Denman brought down the press to make the first impression. Then he pulled the first page of the press and looked at the story he had written, putting it out as a special edition.
Coach Holdup Between Escalante and Suttle
FIVE ARE MURDERED IN COLD BLOOD
In a most dastardly fashion, Bill Dinkins and his gang of murderers and thieves lay in wait at Purple Peak Pass on Friday of the week previous. When the driver, Stan McVey, reached the top of the grade, he stopped, as all good drivers do, to give his team an opportunity to catch their breath.
It was there, according to Mr. McVey, that four masked men showed themselves. Without so much as one word, they began shooting, the balls taking fatal effect not only on Mr. Evans and Mr. Calhoun, but also on Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Johnson, they being passengers. Burt Conway, the messenger, was also killed. The robbers relieved the coach of its money pouch, containing five thousand dollars.
Miss Dawson, who survived the attack, told Sheriff Jones she overheard one of the men say the name Bill Dinkins. It is this comment, uttered by one of the perpetrators of the evil deed, which has enabled the sheriff to declare it to be the work of the Dinkins gang.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Delta, Colorado
There was nothing specific about the little town that caused Smoke to go there. It was just one of the many fly-blown towns he hadn’t checked out before. It was one week after he left Sugarloaf, this time convinced that Sally was fully on the mend. He had spent the last six nights out on the trail, so the thought of a bed and bath was all the incentive he needed, whether Dinkins was there or not.
After making certain that Seven was stabled and fed at Fadley’s Corral, he checked in to the Central House Hotel.
“Yes, sir, Mister”—the clerk turned the register to examine it—“Jensen? Mr. Jensen, welcome to Delta and the Central House Hotel. I hope you find the accommodations satisfactory.”
“I’m sure I will, thank you,” Smoke said. “I see that you have a restaurant here in the hotel. Is it one that you would recommend? I mean, beside the fact that you are working here?”
“I do indeed recommend it, and it is not just because I work here,” the clerk replied.
“No need to apologize for being loyal to your employer. I admire loyalty. Suppose, after dinner, I would like to have a drink or two. Which saloon would you recommend?”
“We have three saloons in town, but I would recommend the Palace Sampling Room. You can’t miss it. It is right across the street from the Farmers and Merchants Bank.”
“Thank you.” Smoke saw a stack of newspapers on the corner of the desk. “Local paper?”
“Yes, sir, this is the Delta Free Press, printed right here in town, once a week.”
Smoke picked up one of the papers. “How much is it?”
“Oh, the paper is free for the hotel guests, sir,” the clerk said.
Smoke nodded, then went into the dining room. Selecting a table where he could place his back in the corner, he read it as he waited for his dinner to be served.
One article had the headline Outlaw Cole Parnell Hurled into Eternity in Legal Hanging.
He felt no particular need to read that article, as he had been present when the hanging took place. But the next article did catch his attention.
Coach Holdup Between Escalante and Suttle
FIVE ARE MURDERED IN COLD BLOOD
Smoke smiled. Escalante was the next town over from Delta. He was on the trail, all right.
As Smoke started into the dining room, the clerk reached under his desk and pulled out a circular someone had brought him a few days earlier.
WANTED
FOR MURDER
SMOKE JENSEN
$5,000 REWARD
DEAD OR ALIVE
to be paid by
Sheriff of La Plata County
The desk clerk scrawled a quick note, then signaled to one of the bellhops. As the young bellhop approached the desk, the clerk held the note out toward him. “Kenny, here is a quarter for you. I want you to run down the street to the Palace Sampling Room and give this to Loomis Coltrane.”
Kenny nodded, then left the hotel on his mission.
Ten minutes later Loomis Coltrane came into the lobby. Coltrane was a medium-sized man, unprepossessing in appearance with a sweeping mustache and evil looking eyes. He strode over to the desk. “The note said you wanted to see me.”
“Do you remember the wanted poster you brought me the other day?”
“Yeah, what of it?”
“Suppose I told you that I know where you can find Kirby Jensen?”
“Kirby Jensen? I ain’t interested in him. It’s Smoke Jensen that the reward is for.”
“They are one and the same.”
“The hell you say.”
“Yes, I say.”
“So, what if I am looking for him?” Coltrane asked.
“It might be that I know where to find him,” the clerk said.
“Where?”
“Information like that should be worth something, don’t you think?”
“Where is he?”
“Like say, a thousand dollars?”
“A thousand dollars? Are you crazy? I ain’t got that kind of money.”
“I’m willing to wait until after you collect the reward.”
“That’s too much money. There are already three of us involved,” Coltrane said.
“That will give you thirteen hundred and thirty dollars apiece. Surely you can be satisfied with that.”
Coltrane stroked his jaw for a moment, then nodded. “All right, I’ll go along with it. That is, if your information tells us how to find him.”
The clerk leaned around to look into the dining room. At first he didn’t see Smoke, then he spotted him in the far corner.
“Do you see that man back in the corner, reading the newspaper?”
“Yeah, what about him?”
“That’s Smoke Jensen.”
Coltrane studied him for a moment longer. “Hmm. He don’t look all that tough to me.”
“I’m sure there has been many a man who has made that same judgment, or should I say, misjudgment?”
Coltrane took a step toward the dining room.
“No,” the clerk said shar
ply. “Whatever you have planned, don’t do it here.”
“Don’t worry, I ain’t goin’ to do anything here,” Coltrane said. “Not without Grange and Stallings.”
“For your information, he will be going down to the saloon after his dinner.”
“How do you know?”
“We discussed it as he was signing in,” the clerk said.
Coltrane hurried back to the saloon. It was early evening, and the saloon was at its busiest, with drinkers, card players, and even a few who were eating their dinner. He saw Stallings talking with one of the bar girls, and motioned him over. Grange was standing at the far end of the bar, nursing a drink, and Coltrane walked down to join him. He waited to speak until Stallings joined them.
“Jensen is here,” Coltrane said.
“Where?”
“Right now he is having his supper. Then he’s coming down here, so I suggest we get ready for him.”
Coltrane moved to stand just inside the door of the saloon watching for Jensen. When he saw him coming, he gave a signal to the others, who hurried to get into position.
The saloon had a wide boardwalk flanking the dusty street, a couple hitching posts out front, and bat wing doors through which Smoke pushed his way inside.
When he entered the saloon, he stepped to the side and made a quick perusal before he walked up to the bar to order a beer. At one time saloons such as this one had become so much a part of his day-to-day existence they had become part of his heritage. From Denver to Cheyenne to Phoenix to Dodge City, one saloon was like another.
Since he’d married Sally that was no longer the case. He still spent a lot of time in Longmont’s, but that was because Louis was his friend. And Longmont’s was so superior to the ordinary saloon, it was more like a private club than a public watering hole.
“What will it be, mister?” the bartender asked.
Smoke saw that, for some reason, the bartender seemed more than a little nervous. “What’s wrong?”
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