Mark L. Redmond
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Benjamin Edward Robertson’s lips moved slightly as he read the red and blue broadside hanging on the wall in front of him. Anyone who had bothered to look at him while walking past the Tucson depot would have noticed that he was angry about something. The occasional profanity he muttered between the words he was reading would have revealed to a more observant pedestrian a stronger emotion. In fact, Benjamin was furious.
“Tucson and Tombstone Stage Company,” he mumbled. “Shortest, quickest, and only direct route—” the next three words came from Benjamin’s personal vocabulary instead of the print on the broadside. Shaking his head slightly, he continued to read.
“The only line running Six-horse Concord coaches daily and carrying the U.S. mail between Tucson and Tombstone—” two more of his own words slipped from his lips. He gritted his teeth and read, “Only ten hours!”
Benjamin took a deep breath through his nose and blew it out between his lips. Turning on his heel, he crossed the dusty street and entered a saloon.
The saloon was busy, but not crowded. Since the stage wasn’t scheduled to leave for at least an hour, Benjamin paid for a beer, helped himself to a sandwich and a pickle from the free lunch at one end of the bar, and walked to an empty table. After setting his Stetson on the opposite side of the table and his carpet bag on the chair beside him, he removed his duster and draped it over the back of the chair.
As he ate, Benjamin thought about the events that had brought him to Tucson. From boyhood he had imagined that he would grow up to be a lawman. Both his father and his grandfather had served as county sheriffs, town marshals, constables, or other kinds of peace officers for as far back as he could remember. He had grown up listening to their stories; and as he had listened, he had known he wanted to be like them.
A voracious reader, Benjamin had read dozens of dime novels and every newspaper story he could find that reported a crime. Then one day he had discovered a story about Allan Pinkerton, founder of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. In 1861, the Agency had thwarted an assassination plot against President-elect Abraham Lincoln; and five years later it had solved the $700,000 Adams Express Company theft.
Much of the Agency’s early work had involved protecting trains and pursuing train robbers. This kind of work had appealed to Benjamin much more than the often-mundane duties of a town marshal.
He had been excited when he mailed a letter to the Pinkerton Agency in Chicago. The three-week wait for a reply had seemed like an eternity to him. His hands had been trembling as he opened it; but as he read the letter, his excitement returned. The Pinkerton Detective Agency had invited him to come to Chicago for an interview.
The following morning, Benjamin had mounted his buckskin mare and ridden west from his family’s farm near Cleveland, Ohio. When he arrived in Chicago ten days later, he had stabled his horse and checked into a hotel not far from the Pinkerton headquarters.
Two days later, Benjamin Robertson posted a letter to his parents, informing them that he had been employed as a Pinkerton agent. He didn’t mention the disappointments he had encountered during the hiring process.
Benjamin had envisioned being interviewed by Allan Pinkerton himself, but the agent who conducted the interview had explained that his employer was away on business at the time. While Benjamin had been delighted to accept the agent’s offer of a job, he had been disappointed to learn that he would have no say in where the agency sent him after he had completed a two-week training course.
“Stage leaves in fifteen minutes!” A man who was dressed like a cowboy had pushed open the saloon doors, made his announcement, and disappeared.
Benjamin finished his sandwich, washing it down with the last of his beer. He shrugged into his duster, put on his Stetson, picked up his carpet bag, and walked out of the saloon.
When he reached the station, Benjamin approached the two men who stood beside the stagecoach. He handed his carpet bag to the driver and, after showing the agent his ticket, he climbed into the stage.
An elderly couple eyed him warily as he took a seat opposite them. Travelling with his back to the horses had never bothered him. There wouldn’t be much to see on this trip regardless of which direction he was facing. Besides, his attention would be focused on the other passengers. One of them would be the man he was hunting.
“He’s never killed anyone,” Sam had told him, “but he’s stolen a lot of money from the stage line.” Sam, an experienced Pinkerton agent, had trained Benjamin and had given him this assignment. “He’s a slippery devil,” Sam had added. “We don’t even have a description of him. All we know is a reliable informant says he’ll be travelling on that stage, presumably with the intention of robbing it.”
A middle-aged clergyman paused at the door, smiled at the other passengers, and then seated himself next to the couple. “I’m Father Chapman,” he said.
“Tom Wells,” the old man said. He leaned forward, pointing to his companion, who now sat between him and the clergyman. “And this is my wife, Cora.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” he said. Still smiling, he turned to Benjamin.
“Bob Smith,” Benjamin said. Sam had advised him against using his real name while working on a case. “You’re not going to make a lot of friends out there,” he’d said, “but you’ll likely make some enemies. There’s no sense letting them know who you are, so use an alias.”
The next passenger was a well-dressed middle-aged man, who might have been a banker. He sat on the opposite end of the seat Benjamin occupied, and he removed his broad brimmed, flat-crowned hat when he saw Mrs. Wells.
“Good afternoon, Folks,” he said. “My name is James Bolinger.”
Father Chapman introduced himself and the rest of the passengers. As he was introducing Benjamin, the final passenger climbed into the stage.
The newcomer was clad in a buckskin shirt and pants that looked as if they had seen better days. His long, greasy gray hair flowed from beneath a battered tan leather hat and reached almost to his shoulders. As the man pulled himself through the door and turned to sit between him and the well-dressed man, Benjamin saw the holstered revolver and the large sheath knife belted to the man’s waist. He also noticed the bulge in the man’s cheek, which indicated the old man was chewing tobacco. The tin cup he carried served as his spittoon.
When Father Chapman began his introductions again, the old man silenced him by holding up one hand. “No offense, Father,” he said, “but I’m not looking to make new friends. I lost my horse, and I need a ride to Tombstone so I can get him back.”
Benjamin was surprised at the soft tone of the old man’s voice. He had not raised it when he spoke to Father Chapman. He had been firm, but not rude. The old man needed a bath, but Benjamin reckoned the odor wouldn’t be so bad once the stage was moving.
Just as the agent closed the door, the cowboy who had announced the departure of the stage approached him. He had his saddlebags draped over one shoulder, and his six-gun was belted around his waist.
“Sorry, Sir,” the agent said. “The coach is full. The next one runs tomorrow, same time as this one.”
As the cowboy turned to walk away, Benjamin saw the disappointment on his face. He had taken only two or three steps when the agent spoke again.
“You could ride up top with the driver if you’ve a mind to, but you’d still need to buy a ticket,” he said.
The cowboy turned slowly, looked up at the driver, and took a step toward the stage. “Would that be all right with you?” he asked.
The driver’s voice was muffled, but Benjamin heard his reply. “Hand me your saddlebags and climb up here. I’d be obliged for the company.”
The cowboy paid for his ticket; and Benjamin felt the stage rock as the man climbed up to sit beside the driver, then lurch as the team started the stage out of Tucson. If the Pinkertons’ informant had been correct, the outlaw was one of the passengers on the stagecoach. Benjamin had ten hours to figure out who he would be arresting when the stage arrived in Tombstone.
As he furtively glanced at the other passengers, Benjamin reminded himself of the strategy he had developed for capturing the outlaw everyone seemed to think was so “slippery.” His plan was to use the process of elimination to determine which passengers couldn’t be the outlaw. Once he had narrowed the possibilities to one or two passengers, Benjamin felt certain he would be able to identify his man either by asking a few questions or by observing the behavior of the remaining suspects.
By the time the stage stopped for the first change of horses, he had already eliminated from his list of suspects the elderly couple who had entered the stage ahead of him.
“Stretch your legs if you want to, Folks,” the driver said. He held the door open and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “The privy is behind the station, but we won’t be here for ten minutes, so be quick.”
As the stage pulled away from the station, Benjamin turned his attention to Father Chapman. The priest appeared to be what he claimed to be, but Benjamin recalled Sam’s words, “He’s a slippery devil.” He decided to test the priest’s authenticity.
“Father,” he said, “do you really believe money is the root of all evil? I know the good book says it is, but I’m not sure about what I believe.”
Having been raised by God-fearing parents who had taught him Biblical principles from the time he was old enough to understand them, Benjamin knew the answer to his question. So did Father Chapman. He had been leaning back in his seat with his arms folded across his chest. Without moving, he smiled at Benjamin.
“Ah, Mr. Smith,” he said, “like many other people I’ve met over the years, you have misquoted the Apostle Paul.” He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. He was still smiling. “Money is simply a tool we use. It cannot be good or evil. The apostle identified the love of money as the root of all evil.”
Benjamin thanked him and tried a second question. “Didn’t the Apostle Paul tell us not to drink wine?”
Again, Father Chapman smiled. He shook his head slightly and said, “I’m afraid this passage is often misquoted too. The apostle admonished us not to be drunk with wine.”
Benjamin thanked him again. Satisfied that Father Chapman was exactly what he claimed to be, he turned his attention to the well-dressed James Bolinger, who sat on the opposite end of the seat Benjamin occupied. As Benjamin thought about ways to get Bolinger to talk about himself without arousing his suspicion, Mr. Wells spoke to Bolinger.
“What takes you to Tombstone, Mr. Bolinger, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Bolinger had been staring out the window, but he looked at the elderly couple and smiled. “I don’t mind at all, Sir,” he said. “I’m in the hotel business, and I’m hoping either to buy an existing hotel in Tombstone or build a new one.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Bolinger,” Father Chapman said. “I thought you looked familiar. Don’t you own one of the hotels in Tucson?”
“I do, Father,” Bolinger replied, “and two more in Phoenix. I built my first hotel in Cottonwood almost three years ago.”
The conversation continued, but Benjamin wasn’t listening. He pretended to doze; but under his hat brim, he studied the foul-smelling old man in buckskin, who really was dozing. Identifying the man as the stage robber or eliminating him as a suspect would be a difficult task if he slept all the way to Tombstone. Of course, Benjamin reasoned with himself, a “slippery devil” might try to avoid suspicion by sleeping or pretending to sleep so he couldn’t be questioned.
At the next stop, the buckskin man awoke and stepped down from the stage. He yawned and stretched, rubbing his lower back with his calloused hands. Benjamin watched him walk to the rear of the coach, where he spoke briefly to the cowboy who had been riding with the driver.
Turning to walk to the privy, Benjamin muttered, “what if there are two slippery devils?” He was still wondering about that possibility a few minutes later when he climbed aboard the stage.
With only two more stops to change horses before they reached Tombstone, Benjamin decided to push a little harder in his efforts to expose the robber. The buckskin man had settled back in his seat and tipped his battered hat forward so the brim covered his eyes, but he was still awake.
“Did someone steal your horse?” Benjamin asked.
The man remained silent and motionless. Benjamin had decided to chalk up his effort as a failure when the man, still without moving, spoke.
“Yep,” he said.
“Do you know who stole it?” Benjamin asked.
After another long pause, the man spoke again. “Yep,” he said.
Feeling as if he had nothing to lose, Benjamin asked, “When you find it, will you steal it back?”
The man pushed his hat back with the forefinger of his left hand and turned to look at Benjamin. His face was expressionless as he spoke. “I aim to take it back; but since the horse is mine, I don’t reckon you’d call that stealing.” Lifting the tin cup to his lips, the man spat into it and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Are your ancestors Spanish?” he asked.
The question caught Benjamin off guard, but he managed to shake his head slightly.
“Good,” the man said. He tugged his hat brim back down and folded his arms across his chest. “This was starting to feel like the Inquisition.”
Benjamin shrugged his shoulders when he saw Father Chapman’s smile. He was relieved to see that Mr. And Mrs. Wells had been talking to Mr. Bolinger and hadn’t overheard his conversation with the buckskin man.
Settling back in his seat, Benjamin thought about what he’d learned. Sam had told him a reliable informant said the robber would be on this stage. Benjamin’s investigation had eliminated all but one of the passengers.
He thought about the cowboy, who was riding with the driver. The man had nearly missed the stage. He was lucky the agent hadn’t made him wait until the next day.
Benjamin tipped his hat forward and leaned back in his seat, pretending to be asleep. He thought about the possible outcomes of his investigation. If the cowboy was the “slippery devil” he was hunting, Benjamin would arrest him when the stage reached Tombstone. If the cowboy wasn’t his man, the informant had been mistaken; and Benjamin had wasted his time. The latter possibility angered him.
He realized a new agent wouldn’t be assigned one of the most important cases: but if this “slippery devil” wasn’t on this stage, Benjamin intended to have a conversation with Sam—or maybe Allan Pinkerton himself—about sending an agent on a wild goose chase. First though, he needed to investigate the cowboy. Benjamin would leave no stone unturned on his first case.
At the next stop, Benjamin pulled the driver behind the stage on the side away from the relay station. After identifying himself and showing the driver his badge, he asked the first of his two questions.
“Are you carrying anything of value?”
“I ain’t supposed to say,” the driver replied, “but I reckon I can tell you. We’re carrying $5,000 to Phillip Smith’s bank in Tombstone. Nobody knows about it but me—and now you. Why are you asking?”
Briefly Benjamin explained his assignment and then asked his second question. “Do you know the cowboy?”
“Never laid eyes on him before today,” the driver said. “He asked the same question you did, but I didn’t tell him anything.” He removed his battered hat and ran his fingers through his greasy hair. “Mister, we gotta’ get moving.” He replaced his hat. “We got one more stop between here and Tombstone. I’ll keep an eye on that feller and talk to you when we stop. I don’t reckon he’ll try anything while were moving.”
Although Benjamin knew the stage stops were approximately the same distance apart, the ride to the next station seemed to take twice as long as the other stretches had. He leaned back in his seat and smiled. He pictured himself shaking hands with Allan Pinkerton and being congratulated for his excellent work in capturing such a “slippery devil.”
This first assignment had been too easy. Benjamin had simply used his wits to eliminate each passenger until he found his man. Once the Pinkertons realized what potential he had, Benjamin would be assigned some of the more important cases. He’d be traveling by train instead of riding in a dusty stagecoach, and he’d be pursuing a criminal whose capture would require him to use some real detective skills. He was ready for the challenge.
At the final stop before Tombstone, Benjamin waited until the other passengers were stretching their legs or visiting the privy and then stepped behind the coach. The driver was waiting for him.
“We don’t have much time,” the driver said. “If you’re right, we don’t want this hombre to get spooked. If you want me to, I can get the station man here to send a telegram to the town marshal in Tombstone so he’ll be ready to arrest him when he steps down from the stage.” The driver grinned. “Keep an eye on him, but don’t let him catch you watching him. Just get on the stage like you have been, and he won’t suspect a thing. When we get to Tombstone, the marshal will have him in irons before that outlaw knows what hit him!”
Bejamin watched the driver saunter to the way station, enter it, and close the door behind him. The cowboy had been one of the passengers who headed for the privy, so Benjamin walked in that direction too. He stopped at the large wooden water barrel, took the dipper from a nail in the post where it was hanging, and filled it. The water didn’t taste good, but it quenched his thirst. He hung the dipper on the nail and continued toward the privy, nearly colliding with the cowboy as they rounded the corner of the station coming from opposite directions.
A few minutes later as Benjamin passed the station on his way to the stage, the driver stepped out of the building and walked beside him. He spoke quietly without turning his head.
“It’s done,” he said. “The marshal will meet the stage with one of his deputies. I reckon your man’s in for a surprise.”
The rest of the passengers were waiting in the stage. Benjamin climbed in, and the driver closed the door behind him. The stage rocked when the driver climbed up to his seat. For the first time since he’d boarded the stage, Benjamin relaxed. He leaned back in his seat. Trying to ignore the smell of the buckskin-clad man, the hot breeze that made him sweat while it coated him with dust, and the flies that buzzed around him, he fell asleep before the stage left the station.
The bouncing of the stage jarred Benjamin awake. A glance at his pocket watch told him he’d slept for less than a quarter of an hour. Except for Mr. Bolinger, who stared out the window, the other passengers appeared to be dozing.
Benjamin calmed himself by reasoning that, as a new agent, he should expect to be assigned the simple cases that required minimal detecting skills. He hoped his next case would prove to be a little more of a challenge. Once the Pinkertons realized Benjamin had what he considered to be a natural aptitude for solving crimes and apprehending criminals, they would promote him and give him more important cases.
He checked his watch again. The stage should reach Tombstone in a little more than half an hour. Slipping his hand inside his coat, he felt the butt of his holstered revolver. He probably wouldn’t need it since the Tombstone lawmen would be waiting for the stage.
Benjamin smiled as he envisioned Sam’s expression when he learned that the new agent had effortlessly captured the “slippery devil.” Sam hadn’t been openly skeptical about giving Benjamin this assignment, but something in Sam’s expression and his tone had suggested that he didn’t expect Benjamin to succeed. “I have a surprise for you, Sam,” he muttered.
“You got a lady friend meeting you in Tombstone, Son?” The buckskin-clad man grinned at Benjamin. “That’s the third time you’ve checked you watch in the last quarter of an hour.”
Benjamin felt himself blushing. “No, Sir,” he replied. “Just business.”
When the stage finally rolled into Tombstone, Benjamin removed his Stetson and slid forward on his seat, turning to look out the window. Among a group of people waiting on the street, he spotted at least one with a star on his shirt.
Benjamin shoved the door open and leapt to the dusty street as the stage stopped in front of the station. A second lawman appeared beside the first one. Both held their six-guns, but they were aimed at him. Stepping forward, the taller of the two men spoke.
“I’m the town marshal,” he said. “There’s no reason for anyone to get shot today. Just hand me your gun slowly, and we’ll walk to my office.”
Stunned, Benjamin pulled his coat open, tugged his revolver from its holster, and handed it to the marshal.
“You’re making a mistake, Marshal,” he said. “The man you want is riding with the driver. He’s the one who’s been robbing the stagecoaches, and he was likely planning to rob this one too.”
The two lawmen looked past Benjamin at the driver’s seat, then at each other, and finally back at him.
“Son, have you been drinking?” the marshal asked.
When Benjamin glanced over his shoulder, he found the cowboy was the sole occupant of the driver’s seat.
“What did you do to the driver?” he asked.
The cowboy looked confused. “He got off the stage right before we left the last way station,” he said. “Said he was sick as a dog, and he gave me a ten-dollar gold piece to drive the stage the rest of the way.”
“That sure don’t sound like Dave,” the deputy said.
“I reckon that’s because it wasn’t Dave,” the cowboy said. “It was the feller they hired to take Dave’s place till he gets out of jail.”
“Now, hold on a minute,” the marshal said. He pointed at Benjamin and the cowboy and holstered his six-gun. “I need you two gents to follow me to my office so we can sort out a few things. Driver, hand the strongbox down to my deputy.”
The four men walked in silence to a building that was, according to the freshly painted sign that hung on its front wall, the jail and the marshal’s office. Benjamin and the cowboy followed the marshal into his office. The deputy entered last and closed the door behind them.
Motioning the two men toward chairs that faced him, the marshal seated himself behind his desk. He rested his elbows on its uncluttered surface and looked at the cowboy.
“What were you saying about Dave Whitman being in jail?” he asked.
“That’s what the driver told me,” the cowboy said.
“Did he say what Dave had been charged with?” asked the marshal.
“He said Dave got drunk and busted up a saloon,” the cowboy replied.
“Well, now,” the marshal said, “than don’t make any sense.” He stroked his chin. “I’ve known Dave for nigh onto ten years, and he’s been a teetotaler since the day we met. He’s also one of the most mild-mannered men I’ve ever known.”
The cowboy lifted both hands in front of his chest. “Now that you mention it, I’ve never seen Dave drinking anything stronger than coffee either. We’re not pards, but I’ve seen him around town.”
The marshal shifted his gaze to Benjamin. What’s your story, Son?” he asked. “What brought you to Tombstone?”
Benjamin slowly reached into a vest pocket, pulled out his badge and his identification card, and laid them on the desk in front of the marshal. Then he shared the details of the case on which he was working. No one interrupted Benjamin. When he had finished, the four men sat in silence for several minutes.
Then, muttering a curse, the marshal bolted from his chair, crossed the room, and lifted the strongbox from the floor. Dropping it made a dull thud, and he spoke over his shoulder to his deputy.
“At least it’s not empty,” he said.
“It was heavy enough when I carried it over here,” the deputy said. “You want me to fetch the key from the station manager?”
The marshal nodded; and the deputy rushed from the office, slamming the door behind him. The marshal stood stiffly, his hands pressing his lower back as he turned to face the two men who remained in the room. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his sandy brown hair. Replacing his hat, he looked at them and shook his head.
“I’ve got a real bad feeling about this situation, Gents,” he said. “Did either of you notice if that driver was carrying anything when he left the stage?”
“I didn’t know he had left until we got here,” Benjamin said.
“He had two big carpet bags,” the cowboy said, “and they looked heavy.”
“Hold on a minute!” Benjamin said. He felt a knot forming in his stomach. “You must be mistaken!” He rose from his chair and began to pace back and forth between the desk and the strongbox. He stopped in mid-stride, facing the marshal. “Wait! He sent you a telegram! He told you to meet the stage so you could arrest—” Benjamin’s shoulder muscles tightened, and he spun to point at the cowboy— “him!”
The cowboy sat with his arms folded across his chest. Shaking his head slightly, he let out his breath as if he’d been holding it. “I reckon we’ve been hoodwinked,” he said.
“He did send me a telegram,” the marshal said. He pulled a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Benjamin.
“Read it aloud, Pardner,” the cowboy said, “without all of them stops that always interrupt the message.”
“To the Tombstone Marshal’s Office,” Benjamin began. “The stage from Tucson is running on time, but you must be ready for some trouble. One of the passengers is believed to be the man who has been holding up our coaches for the past five months. The man appears to be in his middle twenties. He is wearing a black suit and a flat crowned black Stetson. He is also carrying a tan duster.”
It was Benjamin’s turn to mutter a curse. He resisted the urge to crumple the paper and throw it across the room. Instead, he finished reading it. “Be advised the man should be arrested and jailed immediately as he has been difficult to capture.”
The door burst open; and the deputy, breathing hard, staggered into the room. Without speaking, he handed a key to the marshal. As the lawman knelt beside the box and inserted the key into the padlock, the other three men gathered to look over his shoulder. The marshal removed the lock and lifted the lid to reveal the contents of the box: three large rocks and a folded piece of paper.
The marshal handed the paper to Benjamin. “I reckon this is for you,” he said.
Scrawled in pencil across the outside of the paper was the single word, Pinkerton. Benjamin unfolded the paper and read its contents aloud.
Don’t be too hard on yourself, Pinky. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you have. Who knows? Maybe our paths will cross again someday. I reckon you have the makings of a good agent.
Stunned, Benjamin folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. The marshal closed the lid to the strongbox with the toe of his boot and muttered another curse. He looked at Benjamin.
“He’s a slippery devil, ain’t he?”