by Tim Champlin
Four of the green wooden treasure boxes, measuring a foot by two feet, were carried from the Wells, Fargo office and loaded by the shotgun messenger and one of the extra guards. Each box was locked with a brass padlock. The men grunted as they heaved two boxes up and into the front boot under the driver’s feet. With great effort, they swung the other boxes into the rear boot. To all the men and women milling around the coach, it was obvious the boxes were filled with gold and silver ingots.
Almost time to get aboard. Ross took a business card of the Pioneer Line from his vest pocket. On the back of it was a list of the stops and the approximate distance in miles between each. From Virginia City, they’d go down the valley to Carson, then to Glenbrook, up the mountain to Lake Bigler, Yank’s, and descend the long grade to Strawberry Valley, about sixty-five miles from here. From that stop, it was on to Webster’s Riverside station, Sportsman’s Hall, and Placerville, where Ross would debark, spend the night, and return—provided he wasn’t wounded…or dead.
He slid the card back into his pocket and walked across the street to where the coach was rapidly filling. Two portly men in suits were squeezing in beside two women who were apparently traveling together. The Concord coach was never designed to hold that much blubber on one of its bench seats. Ross had to turn away to keep from laughing aloud at the sight of the two fat men squirming in beside the obviously irritated women whose well-filled skirts already occupied most of the seat.
Ross stood aside and waited for everyone else to board. He was in no hurry to be crammed inside with all that humanity for the rest of the day. Both front-and rear-facing seats were quickly taken, and the free-standing bench in the middle was fully occupied with three men. The coach rocked on its leather thorough braces as everyone struggled to find a comfortable seat. Ross knew, as last to board, he might have to ride on top. In fact, he was hoping for that very thing. Even the roof would be crowded, he realized. Besides the burly shotgun messenger who’d taken his seat on the left side of the box, one extra guard, carrying a Henry rifle, was climbing up to ride on top of the coach, among various small sacks and wrapped parcels lashed to the low hand rail rimming the top.
Inconspicuously lounging near their saddled horses, a half block away, were two armed outriders who would be trailing the coach.
“You going, mister?” the shotgun guard yelled down at him as Agent Crawford slammed the left-side door against the crush of bodies inside.
Ross was jarred out of his reverie. “Yeah.”
“Then you’d best get up top.”
Ross put a foot on a rear wheel hub and pulled himself up to the roof, sitting behind the second guard.
Finally, when all was ready, Frank Moody strolled to the right side of the coach, pulling on his yellow gloves. He glanced imperiously around, then swung lightly to the high seat, and laced the reins between his fingers. All eyes were on him, but he didn’t make a practice of whipping his team to a gallop on C Street just to make a grand exit. On the contrary, he took pride in starting his horses gently so the passengers were hardly aware they’d begun to roll. In Moody’s opinion, voiced to a reporter for the Enterprise, jack-rabbit starts were for fools and beginners, and were hard on both animals and equipment. He preferred to save his team for the pull up mountain grades, or for outrunning road agents. His whip was likewise used sparingly, and usually snapped only near the ears of his leaders, if they began to lag.
Thus, six horses and the heavily loaded coach began to move as one, with no fuss, or shouting, or cracking of whip. Almost before Ross realized it, they were rolling, the buildings sliding by smoothly on either side, trace chains jingling, iron-bound wheels grinding over packed earth. Except for not having anything to lean back against, he much preferred to be up here where he had a fine view, plenty of fresh air and sunshine. He stretched out on his stomach, propping up on both elbows. The extra guard, who laconically chewed a wad of tobacco, sat, cross-legged, with the rifle spanning his lap.
They quickly reached Carson City, but stopped only for a bag of mail and a few small parcels the guard was able to tuck in around luggage in the boot.
Two hours later they were in the Sierras, where they stopped to change teams, without the driver leaving his seat, then were off again, winding along a ridge-top road that was dry, level, and hard-packed. Between the trees towering above the road, snow-capped peaks shone in the distance, with a deep blue sky in the background. The air was noticeably cooler, and Ross enjoyed every minute of it.
Every now and then, on a straight stretch of road, he glimpsed one of the outriders trailing the coach one hundred yards behind. As the miles rolled under their wheels, Ross began to wonder if the safety precautions were going to work and prevent the planned robbery. Surely, in daylight, with two armed guards atop the coach and two more on horseback, no outlaws would chance being shot attempting a hold-up. Then he thought of the plant he couldn’t identify who rode inside the coach.
Near the crest of a hill, Moody slowed the team to pass three tall freight wagons; their ten-mule teams and drivers were bunched up in a turnout, apparently resting before they began the long descent northeast toward the Comstock. The wagons were piled high with pipes and mining gear. One of the other wagons carried boxes and barrels of flour, beans, whiskey, and ready-made clothing.
Five miles farther, they overtook another train of big freight wagons, the ox teams plodding westward. Moody rested his foot lightly on the brake and walked the lines up between his thumbs and forefingers, just enough to communicate with the leaders. While the bearded teamsters watched stolidly, Moody eased team and coach past them with hardly a foot to spare on the narrow road. Ross enjoyed watching the driver work. He was a master of his craft.
Seven miles beyond, the team trotted into a long, curving upgrade. A twenty-foot-tall bluff of vertical rock bounded the left side of the road. On the right, a thick stand of pines sloped off into a shallow ravine.
Moody subtly brought the tiring horses to a walk. “Whoa!” The driver’s right foot jammed against the brake lever. The team came to a stop just in time to avoid hitting a slender pine fallen from a rocky crevice across the road, blocking their way.
Two masked men with rifles leaped out from either side of the road.
“Throw up your hands!” came a sharp command.
Caught on a narrow road with no room to turn and nowhere to go, the two guards were helpless under the muzzles of the rifles. Moody swore explosively as he slowly moved his hands to shoulder height, still holding the lines.
“Heave down the box!” a bandit commanded.
Moody wrapped the lines around the brake handle and leaned forward. “Gimme a hand with this,” he muttered to the shotgun messenger as he reached below his feet into the boot.
“Hear tell you got four treasure boxes this trip,” one of the masked men said, laughing.
The driver and guard gripped a handle on either side of a box and heaved it up and out, letting it fall to the dirt with a thump.
“Well, well! That sounds like it’s full of something almighty heavy. Gold, maybe?” the talkative robber said.
“Rocks,” Moody said.
“We’ll see about that,” the robber said. “If it’s rocks, I’ll leave your guts inside this box for your boss to find.”
“Quit jawing and get to it!” the shorter of the two bandits growled.
“Shut up! I’m a man who enjoys his work,” the first one shot back. Then he motioned with his rifle. “Now the other box. Toss it off on the right side.”
Ross heard some commotion at the rear of the coach and looked to see two more bandits on foot throwing back the leather flap of the rear boot. They had to holster their guns to lift out the two heavy treasure boxes. Ross gritted his teeth in frustration. In spite of all the precautions, the hold-up was going off without a hitch so far. He heard no sound from within the coach. The bandit posing as a fare-paying rider was likely holding a gun on the other passengers, nullifying any resistance from them.
A rifle cracked from behind them. One of the bandits dropped his end of the load and toppled over onto the box. The other bandit jerked his pistol and fired two shots at the following outriders, sixty yards back, who were in the act of leaping off their mounts and taking cover on each side of the road.
The two masked robbers near the front of the coach dashed back into the heavy stand of trees on the right. The long pine across the road blocked the team and coach from moving, but the horses panicked at the explosions of gunfire, jumping and tossing their heads. Nobody was at the reins as Moody was crouching low in the front boot, long pistol jumping in his hand as he fired at the fleeing bandits in the thick stand of pines.
Ross felt the guard next to him flop down and heard the ratcheting of the Henry’s lever. The battle was on. Without being aware of drawing his gun, Ross had his Colt in hand and fired down at the distracted robber behind the coach. But it was a snap shot and the slug spanged off the iron rim of the rear wheel. Suddenly aware of danger from both directions, the masked outlaw dived under the tall coach.
The shotgun messenger jumped down from his seat to recover his short double barrel from the ground. Just as he snatched it up and turned, he caught a slug in the knee from the outlaw under the coach. He crumpled to the ground. A hand with a gun thrust out the coach window. A tongue of flame darted from the muzzle and the guard, who was struggling to crawl to cover, flopped over on his back.
Individual shots exploded into a general roar, nearly drowning screams from inside the stage. Slugs ripped rough chunks of bark from thick pines. Bullets struck splinters from the top edge of the stage as the hidden gunmen zeroed in on Ross and the guard atop the coach. Flat on his belly, Ross felt very exposed and dared not move. But they were something of a moving target, Ross realized, feeling the coach jerking. The brake was set, but the rearing and plunging of the squealing team set the coach to rocking and sliding.
Ross heard the muffled boom of a shot beneath him. The bandit inside was shooting at someone. Another blast from below and a slug tore through the roof next to his elbow. The inside plant was trying to clean off the top of the coach!
Furious, Ross sprang off the roof, flexing his knees to cushion the landing, rolling to the ground and then to his feet in one fluid motion. He thrust his Colt inside the coach window. A well-dressed fat man was in the act of firing another shot upward through the ceiling. Ross eared back the hammer and shot him pointblank in the side, filling the coach with burned powder smoke as the passengers cringed from the blast.
Suddenly Ross felt something burn his left heel. The man underneath! Ross leaped to his right and rolled behind the legs of the nervous horses. Lying flat, arms extended, he fired once, then was blinded by a hoof scuffing dirt into his eyes. He frantically blinked his watering eyes to clear his vision as the robber fired at him. But the slug was deflected by a spoke in the front wheel. Ross got off another shot. Through blurred vision, what appeared to be a dark blob stopped moving. As his watering eyes began to clear, Ross saw the robber lying still under the coach.
The firing became sporadic, and then stopped. Ross’s ears were ringing from the explosions, as he moved away from the thudding hoofs. How many more were there? He tried to make a quick count, but his mind was in a whirl. At least two in front and two in back. The ones in front had gotten away into the trees, probably where their horses were tied. The two in back were down. The outriders had gotten one and he’d gotten the other, plus the man inside the coach.
The shotgun guard was lying nearby, probably dead, or close to it. Ross got cautiously to his feet, carefully wiping the remaining dirt from his eyes.
Moody was back on the box. “Whoa! Easy!” His mellow voice had a calming effect on the team as he drew on the reins. But the horses were still stamping and walling their eyes.
Ross heard the sound of receding hoof beats in the timber as the two remaining bandits made their getaway.
By some miracle, the guard atop the coach had not been hit and climbed down, being careful not to touch the hot metal of his Henry rifle.
Ross opened the coach door. “Everyone all right?”
A woman was slumped in the seat. “She just fainted,” the second woman said, reaching for Ross’s hand to climb out. Her knees nearly buckled, and she sat down weakly on the ground, her face drained of color.
The rest of the male passengers got out and Ross went to confer with the guard who was examining the shotgun messenger on the ground. “Dead,” he stated, straightening up. “Well, we got three of them, and they got one of us,” he summarized with a grim look on his face. “Helluva human price, but these bandits keep right on trying.”
“The four boxes are safe,” Ross said. “Three on the ground and one still in the rear boot.” He swung up his Navy Colt at the sound of hoof beats. But it was only the uninjured outriders reining up close by.
With the team under control, Moody stepped down to join them. He took off his hat and wiped a sleeve across his brow. Drawing a deep breath, he looked from one to another. “Get the bodies up top and lashed down,” he said, returning to practicalities. “Reload the treasure boxes.” He reached inside his duster and pulled out a flat flask. “Anybody wants, can have a jolt of this forty-rod to brace up. Make sure the passengers are all right, while I check the horses. Then a couple of you help me secure a line to the lower end of that pine across the road, and we’ll tie off to the coach. I’ll back the team down slowly and we’ll drag that tree out of the way far enough to go around.”
“I’m not sure Wells, Fargo pays me enough to do this job,” the guard said, leaning his Henry against the coach. He reached underneath to drag out the body of the robber.
Moody gave a tight-lipped smile. “You could be humped over a ledger somewhere, ruining your eye-sight for half the money.”
“You got a point.”
Ross felt a wetness on his ear and put his hand to it. His fingers came away bloody. He took his bandanna and carefully pressed it to the earlobe that began to sting where the bullet had clipped it. Blood dripped on the shoulder of his jacket.
As the adrenaline ebbed, he noticed he was limping, unable to put weight on his left foot. Sitting on the ground, he removed his shoe and sock. The flesh on the inside edge of his heel was purpling, but the slug had not penetrated his foot, only grooved the hard leather edge of the shoe’s heel. “Lucky,” he muttered, putting his sock and shoe back on.
A total of four men were dead, and one of the male passengers had a slight wound in his calf muscle where a bullet had penetrated. The stage was riddled with holes. But the four treasure boxes were intact and Ben Holladay’s plan had been dealt a sharp setback.
“Where’d they hit you?” one of the outriders asked, seeing Ross holding a bloody bandanna to his head.
“Just nipped my earlobe and my heel.”
The lean, wind-burned rider spat out the used-up lump of chewing tobacco stored in his cheek. “Hell, I been bit worse by bedbugs.”
Ross ignored the jibe, pocketed the bandanna, and reached into his coat pocket for his spare cylinder. He saved the empty one, and felt to be sure his .32 back-up pistol hadn’t fallen out of his inside breast pocket. It was still a long way to Placerville.
Chapter Thirteen
Once the coach was again under way, it carried a mostly subdued, shaken group of people. Four bodies lay on the roof, tied side-by-side to the hand rail. Moody had covered them with a well-worn roll of canvas he used to protect parcels in the front boot.
While inspecting his team, Moody had discovered a bullet crease across the rump of one of the wheelers, but the wound was superficial. The guard with the Henry rifle took the place of the dead shotgun messenger on the box beside the driver.
Ross rode inside, seated next to the woman who’d been revived from her swoon. He occupied the seat of the outlaw he’d killed.
As Moody pushed the team along the level road, then down the long, gradual grade, Ross began feeling queasy. Normally the rocking motion of
the coach, even when someone was smoking a cigar, didn’t bother his stomach. He turned his face toward the breeze blowing in the window and tried to concentrate on imagining himself relaxing by a lake in fresh air and bright sunshine. This had worked in the past to keep him from vomiting. But his thoughts kept returning to the fight as he replayed the gun battle, step by slow step. He began to realize his stomach distress was a reaction to having shot and killed a man—something he’d never done before. Regardless of how justified this was, he couldn’t get around the fact that he’d taken a human life. If he could’ve gotten the drop on the man to arrest him, or maybe only wounded him…Ross leaned closer to the open window for fresh air. He’d been fighting for his life and the lives of others, and had no time to think—only time for reflex action. He didn’t even know the man’s name. After the fact, he regretted his decision to deal himself into this situation. It was really none of his affair. He took a deep breath and leaned back against the leather seat, feeling drained.
The wounded man was a miner on his way to San Francisco to see relatives. One of the men had helped rip the miner’s pants leg up high enough to expose the bullet hole, then tied a bandanna around the wound, which had minimal bleeding. The bullet had penetrated his calf, lodging too deep to be extracted without a sharp knife. The man shouldn’t have tried to resist the undercover robber once he had drawn his gun.
No one spoke; everyone was lost in thought. Two of the men kept consulting their watches and looking out the windows at the sun declining behind the mountains, evidently hoping to reach Strawberry Valley soon. Ross managed to fall into an exhausted doze, heedless of any potential danger from another hold-up down the road.