05 Ironhorse (17 page)

Virgil walked to the stove and poured some more coffee into his cup.

“There is a cigar there for you, Marshal,” Berkeley said.

“Box on the desk.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Virgil set his coffee down and got a cigar from the box. He got a match from a narrow porcelain cup and dragged the tip across the underside of the desk. He got the fire going good, picked up his coffee and walked to the open door, and looked out into the street. He leaned on the doorjamb and took a sip of coffee.

There were two wingback chairs opposite the desk where I was sitting. Berkeley poured himself some more coffee and sat in one of the chairs. He blew on his coffee before he took a sip.

“Your Indian pouch?” Berkeley asked motioning to Bob’s pouch on the desk.

I picked it up and looked at it some.

“Naw.”

I dropped it back to the desk.

“Belonged to the mean son of a bitch Vince was talking about.”

Berkeley blew on his coffee some more and took a sip.

I picked up the pouch again and looked at its handiwork. It was sure enough Indian-made—it had fringe, a few bear claws and rattlesnake tails dangling from the sides. The long waist strap was made of tightly woven deer sinew. I opened the pouch and dumped the contents on the desk.

“Whetstone, coin sack, comb, jerky,” I said.

I tossed the comb and jerky in the trash and picked up the small leather coin sack with a brass snap. I opened it. Inside, there was a single silver dollar, two Indian heads, and a folded-up piece of paper. I opened the paper. It was a newspaper article. I leaned over and turned up the desk lantern. I read the caption out loud:

Dateline Huntsville. Convicts Escape.

Virgil turned, looked at me. I waved the article in the air.

“A keepsake, no doubt . . . from Bob’s pouch here.”

“Must be exploits accounted.”

Virgil took a sip of coffee.

“Read me the clipping.”

I leaned into the light and read.

58

PRISON GUARDS KILLED as Two Convicts Escape Huntsville. Murderer and Criminal Mastermind Break Out of Jail in Huntsville, TEX, March 1.

Years ago on the Sweetwater Ranch, now part of the infamous XIT Ranch, ranch foreman Jay Christopher Wood and his wife, Sharon, were brutally stabbed to death by Robert Brandice. Brandice was tracked down by Sweetwater’s law counsel, Virgil Cole.

“Law counsel?” Virgil said as he moved from the door and sat in the chair next to Berkeley, “That’s a new one. We were hired guns.”

“Least you got your name in the paper,” I said, and continued reading.

Brandice was eventually apprehended by Cole after a shoot-out that left Brandice on his deathbed. Brandice was subsequently found guilty and sentenced to hang, but his sentence was reduced to life, considering Brandice’s fragile condition.

“Fragile?” Virgil scoffed. “Fragile like a Chicago mill saw.”

Eleven years later, Brandice and his cell mate, John Wellington, walked out the front door of Huntsville Prison at seven o’clock this evening dressed as prison guards. The uniforms they were wearing belong to Huntsville guards Cameron Thomson and Gary Dempsey. Both Thomson and Dempsey had worked at the prison for twenty-plus years and were revered and respected senior employees of Huntsville. Thomson and Dempsey were found under the bunk in Brandice’s cell. Both had been tied up and stabbed to death. A homemade knife was later found at the scene. Brandice’s cellmate, Wellington, was serving a sentence of sixty-five years for second-degree murder and masterminding an embezzlement scheme that nearly brought down the Texas banking industry, leaving one person dead. Wellington had been incarcerated for two years prior to this escape. Wellington lost an arm while operating a steam lathe during his incarceration in Huntsville. Both men are considered extremely dangerous. Sheriff Daniel McGinley called for a posse just after midnight. He divided the men into four groups to scour the territories within a radius of the penitentiary. Sheriff McGinley offered a $1,000 reward for each of the men. Men at Large: Robert Boulder Brandice, forty-six. Brandice is described as a lean man, medium height, with long hair and beard. He has a history of violence and has been in and out of jail many times. John Bishop Wellington, fifty-five. Wellington is European; however, his nationality unknown. He’s tall, well mannered, speaks several languages fluently, and was reported to be an experienced Shakespearean performer.

I looked at Virgil. He put his cigar between his teeth, set his coffee on the desk, and picked up the Henry rifle.

“Thespian, huh,” Virgil said.

Virgil slid the Henry rifle under the light on the desk and pointed to three small letters engraved on top of the receiver near the rear sight.

Berkeley and I leaned in for a closer look.

“JBW,” Virgil said. “Not that it does us any good knowing who he is, but at least we got us a handle on the mysterious Yankee. John Bishop Wellington.”

I continued reading the remainder of the article to myself but stopped and looked up at Virgil.

“There’s more here, Virgil. This part provides us some good.”

Virgil looked at me; I continued.

Wellington’s crime gained the state’s attention when three prominent Texas attorneys—Stephen Humphrey, William Mills, and James Lassiter—were also indicted after the ill-fated embezzlement scheme went awry. Charges were eventually dropped on the three due to the lack of state’s evidence. Many believe Wellington was the scapegoat for the others, who were heavy with counsel.

I looked at Virgil, Virgil looked at Berkeley, and Berkeley looked at me.

“Attorney James Lassiter,” I said. “Huh, wonder if that is the same Lassiter who’s dreaming about aforementioneds and abrogate absentions in the Hotel Ark about right now?”

59

AFTER THE HARD
rain, a low mist was rolling in across the dark streets of Half Moon Junction. The air was dense and damp. We left the horses hitched in front of the jailhouse and walked the short distance up the street toward the Hotel Ark. For some reason it wasn’t until we were on the move that I realized how big Berkeley was. He was almost a foot taller than me, and moving at a quick pace like we were, his long strides were hard to keep up with.

“So this escaped convict, John Bishop Wellington,” Berkeley said. “You think this is his plan?”

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

“What about Mr. Hobbs?” Berkeley said. “Do you believe there is a cooperation between the men, that they were in on this together, Hobbs, Lassiter, and this Wellington?”

“Don’t know for sure, either,” Virgil said. “Figure we’ll find out soon enough.”

“I have to say, Marshal, I was not remotely leery of Lassiter and Hobbs,” Berkeley said. “Frankly never crossed my mind they could be behind something like this, never. I considered them to be caring and intelligent.”

“Money makes smart men do stupid things,” Virgil said.

“Especially a half-million dollars,” I said.

“Especially,” Virgil said.

“I believed them, based on their relationship with the governor and their prominence, their credentials.”

“Bigger the credentials, bigger the prospect you’ll find a rat or possum at the bottom of the barrel,” Virgil said.

“What about the governor?” I said. “You think he had a dog in this hunt?”

“Be a fool if he did,” Berkeley said.

“Well, he is a Texan,” I said.

“That he is,” Berkeley said.

“And a politician,” I said.

“Questionable combination,” Virgil said, “but having his family and the Pinkerton agents along, I’d say he was set up.”

“I can tell you, he was in bad shape when we got him and his wife into the hotel room. White as paper. He just collapsed in a corner chair, closed his eyes as if it were a bad dream.”

“How do you want to go about this?” I said. “Rousing Lassiter up?”

Virgil stopped at the bottom of the steps before entering Hotel Ark and looked at Berkeley.

“Which room is Lassiter’s?” Virgil said.

“Second floor, top of the stairs on the right, first door on the east.”

“And Hobbs?”

“His room is just to the other side of the stairwell, west side. Stairs split the two rooms.”

“What about the governor?” I asked.

Berkeley pointed up.

“Got one room on the third floor. Governor and his wife are there,” Berkeley said.

Virgil looked at me.

“You go through Hobbs’ door. I’ll go through Lassiter’s at the same time. No polite knocking or knob turning; needs to be a surprise.”

“I’ll be right there with you,” Berkeley said, “in case you need backup.”

We started to move.

“One thing,” Berkeley said as he pulled a gold-plated watch from his vest pocket and flipped open the lid. “It’s late.” He looked at his watch. “Or I should say early.”

“They should be sound asleep,” I said.

“They should,” Berkeley said as he slipped the watch back into his pocket, “but I want you to know, they both got trim . . . So if you would, please be mindful of the merchandise.”

Virgil nodded slightly with his eye on me, and we entered the hotel.

60

WE WALKED INTO
the hotel, moving quietly past the pair of black bears that guarded the entrance, and into the main room. A single lamp was burning on a belayed wagon-wheel chandelier hanging low in the middle of the room. Big Burns stepped out of his small room behind the desk, yawning.

“Need something, Mr. Berkeley?”

Berkeley put his finger to his lips for Burns to be quiet.

Burns looked back and forth between the three of us. Berkeley got close to him.

“Seen anybody come or go?”

Burns shook his head.

“No, sir.”

“Stay put,” Berkeley said. “Make no noise.”

Burns nodded, looking at the three of us.

Berkeley retrieved a small cut-glass finger lantern from a low cupboard behind the desk and lit the wick. Once he got the flame going good, we followed him past the bobcats and walked very quietly up the steps to the second floor.

When we got to the second floor, Berkeley pointed to each of the rooms, identifying first Lassiter’s room and then Hobbs’ room. Then he stepped back, placing his back to the wall at the top of the staircase. I positioned myself with my Colt in front of Hobbs’ door. Virgil leaned the Henry rifle on the wall behind him, drew his bone handle, and got in front of Lassiter’s door. Berkeley pulled out a .38 Smith & Wesson Lemon Squeezer from his belt and nodded that he was ready.

I kept my eye on Virgil.

Virgil looked at me and dropped a sharp nod of his chin.

I moved fast, my shoulder hit Hobbs’ door hard, and in an instant I was in the room. Hobbs was flat on his back, lying naked in the center of the bed. The pretty whore we’d met earlier in the evening was riding him. She had a steady diagonal lope working that was causing Hobbs some toe curling, but she stopped and looked at me as if I was there to borrow some flour or sugar. Hobbs raised his head up like a turtle on its back. What hair he had on his head was pointing in every direction, and his face was beet red.

“Wh-what . . . What’s the meaning of this?” Hobbs said.

The whore stayed atop of Hobbs, looking at me. A skilled equestrian awaiting instruction.

“Off,” I said.

She responded quickly. She pulled back and slung one leg over him. Hobbs grabbed the crumpled bedding and covered his privates. The whore stayed on her knees, looking at me.

I picked up a crocheted blanket at the foot of the bed and tossed it to her.

“Who do you think you are?” Hobbs said.

“You know who I am, Mr. Hobbs.”

“Damn right I do, and you have no business coming here.”

“Stop talking,” I said. “I’m gonna let you get your trousers on. You’ll have plenty of time for talking, rest assured.”

Hobbs groveled, “Now, see here.”

I raised my Colt a little more toward the center of his eyes, and he stopped talking and shook his head.

“Oh, for the love of God,” Hobbs said. “Rose, get me my unders and trousers.”

Without wrapping herself in the blanket, Rose walked to the corner chair like she had a book on top of her head and retrieved Hobbs’ underwear and trousers. She walked back to the bed and handed Hobbs his clothing.

“Everett,” I heard Virgil call out from the hall, “you got Hobbs?”

“I do!”

Virgil stepped into the room, Colt in one hand, the Henry rifle in the other. Berkeley was a step behind him.

“Lassiter flew the coop.”

61

“WHERE’D HE GO?”
Virgil said to Hobbs.

“What?” Hobbs said, looking over his shoulder at Virgil as he pulled on his trousers. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Virgil looked at me.

“The woman in the room with Lassiter said he told her to stay put till he came back. Said he left as soon as they got upstairs, over an hour ago.”

Virgil looked back to Hobbs.

“Where did he go?”

“He left?” Hobbs said. “I don’t know. I have no idea. Why?”

Virgil stayed focused on Hobbs but spoke to Berkeley, who was standing behind him.

“Mr. Berkeley, I need you to get our horses out front. The chestnut and the roan; leave the other two.”

“Will do,” Berkeley said, and left the room quick.

Rose picked up the blanket and moved near to me as Virgil walked around the bed and faced Hobbs.

“Tell me about Wellington?”

“Who?”

“I don’t got time for you to dally with my demeanor.”

“Dally with your . . .”

Hobbs shook his head.

“I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Read the back end of that clippin’, Everett,” Virgil said without looking in my direction.

I pulled the article from my vest pocket, opened it, and read it out loud.