This Violent Land (5 page)

“W
oo, damn! Did you see that?” Merlin asked excitedly. “It went up all fiery-like!” He jumped up from the outlaws' hiding place and danced a little jig as burning pieces of the stagecoach came crashing back to earth in the road.

The three men waited until all the debris had stopped falling, then cautiously approached the devastation. The coach was in several pieces, none too large for two men to pick up. Some of the pieces were still burning.

Lying in the wreckage were five bodies—the driver and shotgun guard, a man, a woman, and a child. They were burned and torn almost beyond recognition as being human.

The two rearmost horses of the six-horse team were dead. The next two horses were bleeding from wounds, and only the front two were uninjured, but they were trapped in the harness, unable to move.

The three outlaws picked through the wreckage until they found the canvas mail pouch.

“How much did we get?” Eddie asked.

Pete cut the bag open and discarded the letters inside it until he came to a bank pouch. “Here it is!”

The bank pouch was opened, then the smiles faded.

“Eighty-seven dollars?” Merlin said after they had counted the money. “All this for eighty-seven dollars?”

“The big guy ain't gonna be pleased,” Eddie said.

“What will he have to complain about?” Pete asked. “We done what we was supposed to do. We held up the stage. If eighty-seven dollars was all it had, that ain't our fault. He's the one that picks the jobs out for us.”

“How come he don't come with us?” Merlin asked. “We're the ones takin' all the risks. He gets his cut, and he don't do nothin'.”

“You want to take that up with him?” Pete asked.

“No,” Merlin admitted.

“I didn't think so. There'll be other jobs. Come on, let's get out of here.”

Leaving the dead bodies and the nervously whinnying horses behind them, the three men took their paltry proceeds from the brutal robbery and rode off.

* * *

Two hours after the three men rode away, Dooley Cooper, owner of the Summit County Stage Line, was one of five men walking around the wreckage. The five bodies had already been loaded onto a wagon, ready to be taken on in to Eureka.

“Boss, them two hurt horses is goin' to have to be put down,” said one of Cooper's men. “I don't know how they lived this long, hurt as bad as they are.”

“Yes, Carl, by all means, put them down,” Cooper said. “We're going to have to dig a big hole to bury them. We can't leave them here.”

“I've got Dewey and Perkins diggin' now,” Carl said. “We can use the horses that weren't hurt to pull the others out of the road.”

“Take care of those poor beasts.”

As Carl walked back over to the bleeding and suffering horses, from which the two lead animals had already been disconnected, Cooper continued to look around what was left of his stagecoach. He saw a wooden pistol lying in the road and bent down to pick it up. A name was carved in the handle.

“I don't recall taking on a large money shipment.” Fitzsimmons was the clerk of the Summit County Stage Line. Normally he wouldn't have been out in the field, but when the report came in that the coach hadn't just been robbed, but had been completely demolished, Cooper had figured he would need every man in his employ to get the mess cleaned up.

Cooper agreed. “We didn't have a large shipment. Whatever money the coach was carrying had to be less than one hundred dollars, or the bank would have notified us.”

“Who would do something like this for less than one hundred dollars?” Fitzsimmons asked.

Cooper showed Fitzsimmons the carved wooden pistol. “This must have belonged to the kid.” He shook his head. “What sort of lowlife would blow up a stagecoach and kill everyone in it, for
any
amount of money?”

“Here comes the sheriff.” Fitzsimmons pointed to an approaching rider.

“
Now
he gets here,” Cooper said in disgust.

Sheriff Jesse Hector was a tall, very thin man with dark hair, a pencil-thin mustache, and a prominent Adam's apple. Dismounting, he tied his horse to the wagon containing the bodies of the five people killed in the stagecoach blast.

“Damn, they did a job on it, didn't they?” Hector said as he approached what was left of the wreckage. Almost half of it had already been cleared away.

“Sheriff, you say that almost in admiration,” Cooper said. “There's absolutely nothing about those criminals to admire. They're animals. They killed five human beings, four horses, and destroyed one of my coaches.”

“How much money did they get for all this?” Hector asked as he looked over the wreckage.

“I'm not sure. We'll have to wait and see what the bank says. All I know is, they got less than one hundred dollars.”

The sheriff jerked around with a surprised look on his face. “Did you say they got less than one hundred dollars?”

“That's right.”

“But how can that be? It was my understanding that the bank was going to be transferring ten thousand dollars today.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I don't know. Maybe Scott told me.”

Matthew Scott was the president of the bank.

Cooper shook his head. “Well if he was plannin' on shippin' that much money, he must have decided to put it off until later. We have a contract. By contract, anytime he ships more than one hundred dollars, he has to let me know. He hasn't said anything to me about ten thousand dollars, so you better believe it wasn't on this coach.”

“Damn,” Fitzsimmons said. “Boss, you know what I think? I think that whoever did this must have heard the same information Sheriff Hector heard. They must have thought the bank was shipping a lot of money. Why else would they go to all this trouble and kill all these people?”

“I guess you're right.” Cooper raised the wooden pistol up to look at it. “I can't believe anyone is mean enough to dynamite a man and his family. Especially a little kid.”

“Boss, there are some mean people in the world. Me and you both know that,” Carl put in.

* * *

From the
Rocky Mountain News,
October 7, 1870:

“Eighty-seven dollars? You come here with eighty-seven damn dollars?”

“That's all the stagecoach was a-carryin', I swear,” Pete said.

“I know, I know. I read it in the papers. I don't know what happened. I heard that it was going to be carrying a lot more money than that.”

“I'm glad you read it in the paper, boss, and ain't got the idea that maybe me and the others was tryin' to cheat you out of your cut,” Merlin said.

The outlaws' employer snorted in contempt. “I don't think any of you are dumb enough to try anything like that.”

“Have you got any more jobs in mind for us?” Pete asked.

“I don't have anything yet, but I'll keep my eyes peeled and my ears open, and when I come up with something else, I'll let you know.”

 

 

 

Janey stood on the platform waiting for her luggage to be brought to her. She had already hailed a cab. The driver, leaving his hack tied out front, was standing beside her, waiting to receive the luggage from the baggage claim so he could carry it to the cab.

“Driver, wait here for me, will you? Here is my claim ticket for the luggage. I want to buy a newspaper,” Janey said.

“Yes, ma'am,” the driver replied.

Richards had given her the five hundred dollars she had asked for, so she needed to plan her buying excursion, which she would take care of as soon as she had the paperwork signed. She figured to start her shopping spree by perusing all the ads in the paper.

Standing nearby on the platform, Smoke watched the pretty woman walk away. For a fleeting moment, he thought there was something familiar about her, but it was for an instant only. He had seen, and met, a lot of women in the past several years.

He stepped closer to the driver. “Is your cab for hire?”

“No, sir, I'm afraid not. I've been hired by that pretty lady over there at the newsstand. You can go ask her if she doesn't mind sharing a cab if you'd like.”

“All right, thanks. I believe I will ask her.” Smoke started toward the newsstand. The woman might be willing to share the cab with him . . . or she might think he was being a bit forward. At any rate, it wouldn't hurt to ask. Besides, he wanted to get a closer look at her. He couldn't shake the idea that he had seen her somewhere before—not only seen her but had actually met her.

“Smoke!” a man's voice called out to him. “Smoke, over here! It's me, Cephus!”

The man who hailed him was another of Marshal Holloway's deputies, Cephus Prouty.

“Hello, Doodle!” Smoke called back, using the deputy's nickname. Turning away from the woman at the newsstand, he walked toward the deputy marshal.

Janey was just about to buy the paper when she heard the man's voice. Something about it caught her attention. Just a note, but something that tugged at a distant memory, long buried. She turned toward him, but he was walking away from her.

She would have liked to get a closer look, but she was afraid to. What if he was someone she had known in her other life, when she was on the line for Chicago Sue? Or even more dangerous, what if it was someone she had met in Kansas City?

She turned pointedly away. If he was an old client of hers, she didn't want him to recognize her.

“What are you doing here?” Smoke asked Doodle.

“I came to see if you wanted a ride back to the office. Sheriff Donovan sent a telegram to Holloway, telling him what train you would be on.”

“Well, that's very nice of you to meet me.”

Doodle grinned. “Yeah, well, I want to get on your good side. Sheriff Donovan says you're a hero because of what you done over in Red Cliff.”

“Sheriff Donovan exaggerates. But it was nice of him to send word as to what train I would be on.” Smoke looked back toward the newsstand where he had seen the woman he thought he had recognized, but she was no longer there.

“What do you say we get a beer first?” Doodle asked.

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Smoke replied.

“W
hy did you bring these papers here to have them notarized?” the notary clerk asked Janey. “You could have had them done in Salt Lake City.”

“That's my fault,” she lied. “I talked Mr. Richards into sending the papers here, because I wanted to come to Denver.”

The clerk chuckled. “Well, I can't blame you for that. I mean who wouldn't prefer Denver to Salt Lake City? Unless you are one of ‘The Saints.' ” He examined the papers, then clucked his tongue. “My oh my. This involves quite a bit of land.”

“Yes, the PSR is a large operation, one of the largest, if not
the
largest in all of Idaho. But, as you can see, the transfer has been duly signed by all parties concerned.”

“Technically, I should witness the signing in order to notarize this.”

“You mean I've made this long trip for nothing?” She pouted, looking at the notary with wide, pleading eyes. “I can't go back and tell my bosses that I didn't get these papers notarized. What will I do?”

The notary sighed. “I really shouldn't do this, but I can see that everyone has signed the documents.” He chuckled again. “And I certainly would not want to see a pretty young lady like you have to go back empty-handed to your employers. Very well, I'll notarize them.”

“Oh, thank you.” Janey flashed her most provocative smile. “You are such a dear man.”

“I wish you'd tell my wife that,” the notary joked.

“Oh, honey, most wives really don't like to see me,” she said in a seductive voice.

The notary laughed. “I guess I can understand that.”

After getting the papers signed, she stuck them into her reticule and, flashing another coquettish smile toward the notary, left the office to begin her shopping trip. She had a lot to buy, but contrary to what Josh Richards thought, she was buying very little for herself.

Unbidden, she thought of the voice she had heard while buying a newspaper at the stand in the depot. Well aware of the saying,
Curiosity killed the cat
and knowing that she was wanted for murder back in Kansas, she wondered if the voice she'd heard was from Kansas City. What if someone was in Denver looking for her?

That killing hadn't actually been murder, of course. Janey had gunned down an abusive customer in the house where she was working. The man, who had already stabbed another girl, had gone after her with the knife.

The newspaper hadn't reported the story that way. It had called Janey a murderess. All the local lawmen were friends with the man she had shot, who was a member of the City Council, so a murder charge had been a foregone conclusion. Before she could be arrested, she had fled with the help of another customer who had befriended her, and ever since, the bloody incident had hung over her head.

Drawing in a deep breath, Janey put those unpleasant memories behind her and managed to smile at what lay before her. She had all of Denver waiting for her, and the money Richards had given her was burning a hole in her pocketbook.

Her first stop was a ladies' shoe store. She was on a personal quest to find shoes that were pretty and comfortable, and she believed that with five hundred dollars to spend, she could do just that.

 

 

 

At that very moment, not too far away, the driver of a stagecoach saw something in the road ahead which required his immediate attention. “Whoa, whoa!” He hauled back on the reins.

Up ahead, a log was lying across the road, blocking it enough that the coach couldn't get around. A man wearing a long duster and a broad-brimmed brown hat stood calmly just in front of the log.

“What the hell happened here?” the driver asked.

“Oh, you mean this log?”

“Yeah. How did it get here?”

“I put it here.”

The driver stared. “What? Why in Sam Hill would you do a thing like that?”

“Because I wanted you to stop, and I didn't figure you would if all I did was try and wave you down.” Moving fast, the man pulled his pistol and pointed it toward the driver and the shotgun guard. “I believe you're carrying fifteen hundred dollars, aren't you?”

“How in blazes did you know that?”

The man smiled. “Thank you for confirming my belief. It is my intention to take that money from you.”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the guard started moving his hand toward the shotgun, which was leaning up against the front right corner of the footrest.

The man in the road fired his pistol. The sudden blast made both men on the seat jump as the bullet hit the shotgun, knocking it over. It fell flat into the bottom of the footrest.

“You don't want to do that,” warned the man on the road. “In fact, why don't you just go ahead and put your arms up? I know it'll be a little uncomfortable for you to hold them up that way until my partners and I conclude our business here, and I apologize for that, but it just might save your life.”

“What partners would that be?” the driver asked. “You're the only one I see.”

The gunman nodded. “Yes, we planned it that way.” He hollered, “Boys, keep an eye on them. If anyone tries to be a hero . . . shoot him.”

“Where are they?” the shotgun guard asked, looking around nervously.

“You ask too many questions. How many passengers are you carrying?”

“Two men and two women.”

“Ladies and gents in the coach, for your own safety, I'm going to ask that you come on out now. Stand to the side of the road where I can keep an eye on you.”

Two men exited the stage first, one of them quite elderly. The two women followed. One was also quite elderly.

“I'm sorry to inconvenience you,”said the surprisingly well-spoken robber. “But if you will just have a little patience with me, this will all be over in just a moment.”

The older woman immediately put her hand across a brooch she was wearing.

The stagecoach robber chuckled. “You don't have to be worried, ma'am. I'm not going to be taking anything from any of you nice folks.” He looked back up at the driver and the guard. “Now if you would, please, just go ahead and throw that money shipment down.”

The driver picked up a canvas pouch.

“Wait a minute,” the road agent snapped. “Is that the mail pouch?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I don't want any of the mail. We wouldn't want all the grandmas and grandpas not to be able to write to, or hear from, their grandchildren now, would we? Just open it up and take the money out.”

“The pouch is locked, and I don't have a key,” the driver protested.

Quick as a wink, the man on the ground took a knife from his belt and threw it toward the driver and the shotgun guard. The blade flashed in the sunlight, then stuck in the back of the seat, exactly between them.

“Yow!” the shotgun guard shouted in shock.

“Good Lord, mister,” the driver added shakily.

“Cut it open, then toss the money down,” the man ordered. “I'm sure that the money is all in nice, neatly bound stacks.”

The driver did as he was told, then tossed three bound stacks of currency down to the ground.

“Ah, yes, see what I mean? And now if you would, please return my knife. Carefully.”

Again the driver complied, leaning down from the seat to hand the knife to the robber.

“All right. You and the guard can climb down from there and move the log off the road. It only took two of us to drag it out here, so I'm sure you won't have any trouble with it.”

The robber stood by watching until the log was moved and the driver and guard had climbed back up onto the box.

“Ladies, gents, if you would, please, get back into the coach now, and do have a pleasant trip.”

“You are such a nice, polite young man,” the older of the two women said. “Why are you robbing stagecoaches? You know your mother wouldn't approve of such a thing.”

“No, ma'am, I don't suppose she would.”

“Can we go now?” the driver asked after the passengers had reboarded.

“Yes, by all means. Bye now.”

“Good-bye, young man,” the elderly woman called back, waving through the window of the coach.

The highwayman watched until the coach was some distance away, then he walked around to the other side of a line of rocks where his horse had been tethered for the entire time. He swung into the saddle and rode away.

 

 

 

Janey had so many packages that she had to hire a buckboard to take her to the depot to catch the train back to Bury, Idaho. She made arrangements for all the packages to be shipped, then she settled down in the lobby to wait for the train.

As she sat there she saw at least half a dozen families who were also waiting, husbands and their wives, and the children. They were all a part of “the other life”—how she referred to those people who lived normal, respectable lives—working fathers and mothers who stayed at home keeping house for husband and children.

Most of the time, Janey was perfectly content with her life. She had more money than she would ever spend. She had a private carriage that had been built for her in Paris and a uniformed black driver. She even had bodyguards who often accompanied her whenever she went into town.

She was certain the bodyguards were not as much for her personal protection as they were to intimidate anyone who might want to get closer to her. Especially any man who might want to speak with her.

Sometimes she would slip away, not in the ostentatious carriage with the resplendently dressed driver, but in a simple surrey. She had done it a few nights ago in order to play cards with her friends at the Pink House.

But for all the money and elegance, there were times when she watched the interplay between mothers and their children, that she felt as if something might be missing in her life. She thought of her own family, her father Emmett and her brothers Luke and Kirby. Were they still alive? And if they were still alive, where were they?

What was she being so melancholy about? She had a family—Flora, Emma, and all the other girls at the Pink House. Like her, the other girls had no family, or the family had turned their backs on the girls when they had entered the profession.

People who were drawn together by such mutual experiences were closer than normal families anyway. There was no such thing as sibling rivalry.