by Al Lacy
Lying on his hard cot at Mile High Hospital, Dane was reliving those early days in the alley too, and thanking God for His goodness.
Every time he closed his eyes, willing sleep to come, a vision of beautiful Tharyn was there on the screen of his mind. No other girl had ever touched his heart like Tharyn did. It was so wonderful to see her, and to know she was all right. It was also comforting to know that she was not married.
As planned, the Tag Moran gang entered the bank in Vernal, Utah, and rode away, leaving one of the bank tellers lying dead on the floor. Though the gang members were disturbed that Tag had shot and killed the teller, they were elated to have so many stuffed money bags.
They were able to elude the posse that was quickly on their trail by using streams to cover their direction of escape.
Three days later, they robbed the bank in Evanston, Wyoming, and rode away with even more money than the Vernal robbery had yielded. Bart, Jason, Gib, and Tony were feeling queasy in their stomachs because Tag had shot down a customer in the Evanston bank who was pulling his gun in an attempt to stop them.
As Tag’s four men put their minds on the money they had garnered in the Evanston robbery, the queasiness soon left them.
At the Brockman home outside of Denver, John, Breanna, Paul, and Ginny were eating breakfast together on Monday, October 11, while John and Breanna were talking about Tharyn Tabor’s long-lost friend, Dr. Dane Logan, showing up in Denver a few days ago.
Breanna had worked at Mile High Hospital the day after Dr. Logan had done the hip replacement on Elsa Johnson, and had talked to Tharyn at church yesterday about Elsa. Tharyn had told her that Elsa was still doing quite well and would be going home in a few more days.
John swallowed a mouthful of pancake. “I’m glad to hear she’s doing so well. And let me tell you, honey, it’s a real blessing that young Dr. Logan is going to be taking over for Dr. Fraser. That poor old man is so tired. He desperately needs a rest. I’m sure he’s going to want to jump in and help Dr. Logan once in a while, but he’ll get that much needed rest.”
“Yes,” said Breanna. “And believe me, from what I learned about Dr. Dane Logan, he’s going to be such a blessing in Central City and here at the hospital. Matt and Dr. Jess White are both singing his praises.”
“I’m glad.”
“And let me tell you, darling, I’ve never seen Tharyn so happy. She’s a walking sunbeam.”
John chuckled. “Maybe they’ll get past the brother-sister thing and something more serious will develop.”
Breanna smiled. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Well, I’m looking forward to meeting this young Dr. Logan.” He picked up his coffee cup, drained the last few drops, and set it down. “Well, this federal lawman had better get to his office. Lots of work to do.”
That morning when John Brockman was at his desk in the U.S. marshal’s office, Deputy Charlie Wesson tapped on the door, opened it, and stuck his head in. “Chief, I have a telegram here for you from the Uintah County sheriff in Evanston, Wyoming.”
“Oh? Well, let’s see what it’s about. I’d sure be pleased if it’s to inform me that the Tag Moran gang pulled a bank robbery there, and Sheriff Billington and a posse had caught them.”
Wesson handed the chief the yellow envelope.
Brockman tore it open and began reading it silently. He frowned and stopped reading. “It’s about the Tag Moran gang, all right, but they didn’t catch them.”
“Oh,” said Wesson.
Brockman read on, and when he had finished it, he looked up at Wesson. “Charlie, the Moran gang robbed the bank in Vernal, Utah, five days ago, then three days ago, robbed the bank in Evanston. Tag shot a bank teller in Vernal and killed him. Then in Evanston, Tag shot and killed a bank customer who tried to stop them. Sheriff Billington chased them with a posse but lost them. He thinks I should bring some deputies and see if we can track them down.”
“I’m all for it, Chief. You remember that I asked to be one of those deputies if it came to this.”
“Yes.”
“How about it?”
“You’re on. Let’s see, the deputies who are here in town right now are Tom Lewis, Steve Hagan, and Roger Thurston, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, I’ll have Roger fill in for you here in the office, and Tom and Steve will go with us. I want you to wire Sheriff Billington that three deputies and I will leave by train today. I have a hunch that the Moran gang just might hit the bank in Green River next. Tell Billington we’ll let him know how it goes in Green River. Then wire Sheriff Mike Randall in Rock Springs and tell him what’s happened in Vernal and Evanston, and that we’ll be there tomorrow. We’ll rent horses in Rock Springs and be in the saddle to ride to Green River.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll find Tom, Steve, and Roger and set things up. Then I’ll ride home and let Breanna know what I’m doing. We’ll take the next train to Cheyenne, which leaves in two hours. Then we’ll grab the next train out of Cheyenne heading west.”
“I can’t wait, Chief,” said Charlie, showing his teeth. “We’ve got to bring that gang to justice.”
In Rock Springs, Wyoming, Sweetwater County Sheriff Mike Randall sat behind his desk while the afternoon sun slanted through the office windows, and ran his gaze over the faces of his three deputies. “Yes, gentlemen, I fully believe the Moran gang will hit our bank next. I’m really glad that Chief U.S. Marshal John Brockman and his three deputies are coming. This could very well be the downfall of Tag Moran and his gang.”
“Have you met Chief Brockman in person, Sheriff?” asked Deputy Ross Allen.
“Yes. When he first arrived in Denver to become chief U.S. marshal, I happened to be there. I went to his office, introduced myself to him, and we had a nice chat. Of course, I had heard a great deal about him when he was traveling the West as the mysterious John Stranger.”
“Supposed to be faster’n greased lightning on the draw, isn’t he?” said Deputy Corey Rapp.
Randall grinned. “That’s putting it mildly. A lot of hotshot gunslingers have tried to outdraw him just to make a name for themselves. Most of them did make a name for themselves, all right—on tombstones or grave markers. A few lived through the ordeal, only because Brockman was able to put them down without killing them.” He chuckled. “And the ones I know about who lived could never fast-draw again because Brockman purposely put a bullet in each one’s gun arm.”
“I’m really looking forward to meeting him, Sheriff,” said Deputy Rick Lampton. “I know a family up in Lander who was down and out financially, and John Stranger came to their rescue. Gave them—I forget now, how much—but gave them quite a sizeable amount of money.”
The sheriff started to comment, but his eye caught sight of four riders drawing up to the hitch rail outside the office. A grin split his face. “He’s here.”
Outside, as Chief U.S. Marshal John Brockman and his deputies were dismounting, they saw the sheriff and his deputies come out the door.
Brockman and Randall shook hands, then introductions were made and the lawmen shook hands all around.
As they were filing inside, Brockman was walking next to the sheriff. “Mike, have you heard anything about the Moran gang since I wired you yesterday? Do you know if they’re still in the area?”
“That they are, Chief. They robbed the bank in Green River about this time yesterday afternoon. Got away clean. I’ve got a powerful hunch that they’ll lay low for a few days, then hit our bank right here in Rock Springs.”
“I have the same powerful hunch, Mike. Let’s sit down with our deputies and devise us a plan.”
Two days later—Thursday, October 14—Tag Moran and his gang rode out of a tree-lined gully just west of Rock Springs and headed across the rolling prairie toward the town.
“Boys,” said Tag, “so far on this trip, we’ve done well for ourselves. We should have a pretty good haul at this bank too. Then we’ll hightail it back into Colorado
and find us a good place to hide for a few days. Once we’re sure the coast is clear, we’ll head back to the hideout.”
Soon they rode into Rock Springs and paused at Main Street, looking both ways.
Tony Chacone was first to spot the sign to their right a block away that read: Bank of Rock Springs. “There it is, Tag,” he said, pointing. “Okay, boys. Let’s go do it.”
As they rode up to the front of the bank, the clock on the sign told them it was ten minutes before three o’clock.
Bart Moran grinned. “Should be plenty of cash in the tellers’ drawers right now.”
“Not to mention what they’ve got stashed in the vault,” said Jason.
“Yeah,” Gib Tully said. “More in the kitty for our future life in California!”
As the five outlaws were dismounting, Tag said, “Okay, boys. I’ll lead in as usual and announce that we’re holding the place up. Do your stuff.”
Tag walked a couple steps ahead of the other four and ran his gaze around to see if anyone on the street was watching. He saw no one looking their way. He pulled his revolver from his holster just before he reached the door. The others drew their guns at the same time and followed their leader inside the bank.
Tag quickly counted three customers at the tellers’ windows, but before he could announce loudly that they were there to hold up the bank, he froze in place when eight lawmen rose up promptly from behind desks and tables on every side and cocked guns pointed at him and his men. One tall, dark-haired lawman said, “Drop your guns and get those hands in the air!”
Sweat beaded on Tag’s brow as he looked at his gang members. “Give it up, boys. We don’t have a chance.”
The others followed suit as Tag dropped his revolver and it clattered on the hardwood floor. Dismay was on their faces as they raised their hands above their heads.
“I’m Chief United States Marshal John Brockman!” boomed the dark-haired man. “Tag Moran, you and your henchmen are under arrest.”
The gang members stood mute as the lawmen closed in, picked up their guns, and began handcuffing them with their hands behind their backs.
As the handcuffs made their clicking sounds, Tag looked at Brockman, his face twisted. “How do you know who I am? Ain’t no lawmen got a picture of me.”
“No photographs, Moran, but plenty of artists’ sketches. That’s how we know it was you who killed that bank employee in Vernal and the bank customer in Evanston.”
Tag’s face blanched and he licked his lips nervously.
“You and your cohorts are going to be locked up in Sheriff Randall’s jail for right now,” Brockman said levelly. “Bank robbery is a federal offense, as I’m sure you know. The closest federal judge is in Rawlins. My deputies and I will take you there tomorrow to face Judge George Yeager. It’ll be quite convenient that way, since the Wyoming Territorial Prison is at Rawlins.”
Tag drew a grating breath. A coldness washed over him that made his flesh crawl. He stared at Brockman, but his lips stayed pressed together in a thin line.
Sheriff Randall said, “Chief, I’ll have Deputy Ross Allen drive one of our wagons. He will drive you, your deputies, and your prisoners to Rawlins. You can take your rented horses back to the stable.”
Brockman smiled. “Thanks, Mike. If you’ll have your deputies feed Tag and his bunch some supper, my boys and I will take you to one of Rock Springs’ cafés and feed you.”
Randall nodded. “It’s a deal, Chief.”
“Since it’s a hundred miles from here to Rawlins, we’ll head out right after supper, okay?”
“Sure,” said Randall, looking at Deputy Ross Allen. “Okay with you, Ross?”
“Sure,” said Allen. “The quicker we can get these low-down outlaws to Judge Yeager, the better.”
In the Sweetwater County Jail, the Moran gang was split up into two adjacent cells. Tag and his two brothers were in one cell, and Gib and Tony were in the other.
When supper was brought to them by Deputies Corey Rapp and Rick Lampton, none of them had much appetite. The deputies left, and the gang members sat on their bunks and picked at their food.
After a while, Tag gave up on eating and laid his plate and coffee cup aside.
Bart did the same. “Tag, we should have listened to Kathryn. She was right. We should’ve taken what we had and gone to California. Now look at us.”
Tag sat on his bunk, his face resting in his hands, and stared at the floor.
In the adjacent cell, Gib nodded, looking through the bars. “You’re right, Bart. We should’ve followed my sweet wife’s advice. Now we’re gonna be locked up for years in that prison at Rawlins.”
Jason’s features were almost as pallid as those of his oldest brother. “What’s bothering me is what that judge will do to Tag. He’ll sentence him to hang as sure as anything for killing those men in Vernal and Evanston.”
Tony peered through the bars at the sick-looking Tag Moran. “I wish there was some way we could break out of here.”
Tag raised his head and set dismal eyes on him. “Me too, Tony, but there isn’t. The best time would be when we’re riding in that wagon toward Rawlins. But with Brockman and his three deputies escorting us, we ain’t got a chance. It’s thirty or forty years for you guys in that stinking prison, and the hangman’s rope for me.”
At nine-thirty the next morning Deputy Ross Allen pulled rein in front of the Carbon County courthouse in Rawlins, Wyoming. Chief U.S. Marshal John Brockman was on the seat next to Allen. The three federal deputies were in the bed of the wagon with the outlaws, who had their hands handcuffed behind their backs. All five faces were pictures of total gloom.
Brockman turned around on the seat and looked at his deputies. “I’ll go in first and talk to Judge Yeager. Be back as soon as I can.”
Judge George Yeager had met the chief U.S. marshal on a couple of occasions in years gone by, and warmly welcomed him into his office when his secretary, Millie Warner, ushered him in. When Yeager heard how Brockman and his deputies had apprehended the Moran gang, he was elated. Yeager told Brockman he already knew about the recent robberies of the banks in Vernal, Evanston, and Green River, and was aware that Tag Moran had been identified as the one who killed the bank employee in Vernal and the bank customer in Evanston.
Yeager smiled from ear to ear. “Good work, John! Those no-goods have run rampant all over this part of the country. I guess you know they also robbed a stagecoach here in Wyoming not long ago. Got fifty thousand dollars.”
“Yes. I know about it. I want you to know that Sheriff Mike Randall and his men found the money in the Moran gang’s saddlebags that they had taken from the banks in Vernal, Evanston, and Green River. The money will be returned to the banks.”
Yeager was a beefy man with a round face. He smiled again. “Great! I’m glad to hear it.” He paused, then said, “John, I have court cases booked today, and through next Wednesday. I can have the trial for the Moran gang next Thursday, October 21.”
Brockman nodded.
“Until then, I’ll have the sheriff keep Tag and his bunch in jail here in town.”
Brockman nodded again.
The judge then looked toward the open door that led to his secretary’s office. “Millie! Would you come in here for a moment, please?”
Millie quickly appeared at the door. “Yes, your honor?”
“I need you to go across the street to the town’s photographer and tell him I want him to go to the county jail yet today and take pictures of each man in the Moran gang. We’ve never had photographs of those outlaws, and we should have them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Millie?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Will you go first to the Rawlins Herald office and have them send one of their reporters over here right away? I want to alert the paper of the Moran gang’s capture and upcoming trial. I’ll have the people at the Herald wire the news to newspapers all over Wyoming, Colorado, and Nebraska, and send them copies of the photogr
aphs by train and stagecoach. They should have those photographs so they can publish them in their papers along with this story and let people see exactly what each gang member looks like.”
When Millie was gone on her errands, Yeager said, “John, I’m positive the gang members will be convicted in their trial. And I’m also positive that since Tag Moran killed those men in Vernal and Evanston during the robberies, he will get the death sentence. And because those other gang members were in on the robberies when people were killed, they will all be sentenced to life in prison.”
“I have no doubt of it, Judge,” said John, rising to his feet. “My men and I will go ahead and take the prisoners over to the jail so the sheriff can lock them up.”
“All right,” said Yeager, also standing up.
“Once we’ve got them behind bars, my men and I will head for the railroad station and catch the first train to Cheyenne, then we’ll head for Denver on the next train south.”
Yeager moved around his desk and shook Brockman’s hand. “That was excellent work, John—trapping the Moran gang right there in the bank. And just think! The banks in Wyoming, Colorado, and Nebraska won’t have to fear them any longer. You and your deputies will be heroes when this story hits the newspapers!”
Dr. Dane Logan was sitting in a coach on the afternoon train from Cheyenne to Denver. He was alone on the seat, and while looking through the window at the magnificent Rocky Mountains in the distance to the west, he let his mind wander back to the moment at the Cheyenne railroad station some thirty minutes ago when he went through the difficulty of saying good-bye to his parents. They were so special in his life. Because of them his dream of becoming a physician and surgeon had come to fruition.
“Bless them, Lord,” he said in a whisper. “As I look back, I know in my heart that once I was released from prison, I would have eventually become a doctor. But knowing I had their love and support, not to mention the financial aid they gave me, made the road a lot easier and much more pleasant.