THE HOLDUP GOT BANNER headlines. The September 4 edition of the Rocky Mountain News devoted half the front page to the robbery. On street corners and in saloons, no one talked of anything else. The railroad, for the moment, was yesterday’s news.
According to the newspaper, the haul from the robbery was seven thousand dollars. Ben Holladay, owner of the Overland Stage Line, was quoted as saying that the robbers would be apprehended and brought to justice. Few people doubted his sincerity, but the comment was regarded with skepticism. Quotes from the driver and the express guard indicated that none of the highwaymen had been identified. Hardly anyone seriously believed they would be caught.
Holdups were by no means rare in the mining camps. On an average of once a month someone would attempt to waylay a gold shipment. For the most part, however, the holdups were the work of a lone bandit, occasionally a pair of desperadoes. And more often than not, the bandits were killed or driven off by the shotgun guard. Four robbers, working as a team, was a sensation. Nothing like it had ever happened, and people’s imaginations were fired by the daring act. The word “gang” suddenly became part of their lexicon.
The morning after the holdup, Clint entered the First National Bank. A note, delivered by a messenger, had asked him to drop by the office of Walter Tisdale. His first reaction was that the banker wanted to discuss some matter involving Virgil. On second thought, he’d decided there was small likelihood that Tisdale would ask his advice on family affairs. All of which left him a bit mystified as to the reason for the summons.
Tisdale greeted him with reserved politeness. A tall, heavily built man seated before the desk rose as Clint entered the office.
The banker motioned Clint forward. “Clint Brannock,” he said, indicating the other man, “I’d like you to meet Ben Holladay.”
“Marshal.” Holladay stuck out a hamlike hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Mr. Holladay,” Clint said, accepting his handshake. “Glad to know you.”
Tisdale asked him to be seated. Clint took a chair beside Holladay, and the banker resumed his place behind the desk. After they were settled, Tisdale looked across at Clint.
“As you know, Mr. Holladay owns the Overland Stage Line. Yesterday one of his stages was robbed between here and Central City.”
Clint nodded. “I read about it in the paper.”
“We’ve asked you here,” Tisdale went on, “to request your assistance. We feel you might be of some help in solving the robbery.”
Somewhat astounded, Clint shook his head. “You just lost me, Mr. Tisdale. How would I be of any help?”
“Suppose I let Ben explain. He has all the particulars at his fingertips.”
Holladay turned in his chair. “Well, first off, let me say I’ve heard good things about you, Marshal. You’ve made quite a name for yourself here in Denver.”
“I don’t know about that,” Clint said. “I’m just doing the job.”
“And doing it damn well, too! It’s high time we had a marshal who’s not afraid to bust some heads.”
“Glad to hear you approve.”
A pained expression came over Holladay’s face. “I wish to hell the U.S. Marshal had some of your grit. Sorry bastard doesn’t know his butt from a bunghole!”
Clint appeared surprised. “That’s the first I’ve heard of a U.S. Marshal. Where’s he keep himself?”
“Over in Golden,” Holladay said in disgust. “He got the appointment as a political handout. So far as I know, he’s never set foot outside the capital.”
“How’s he do his job, then?”
Holladay laughed out loud. “The son of a bitch doesn’t even try! He’d wet his pants if he came face to face with a real live desperado.”
Walter Tisdale seemed to wince at Holladay’s language. “What Ben’s saying,” he cut in smoothly, “is that we can’t depend on federal officers. We have to look to the problem ourselves.”
“Hallelujah!” Holladay rumbled. “Unless you help yourself, you’ll wind up with hind tit every time. Never seen it to fail.”
From stories Clint had heard around town, the statement was characteristic of the man. Shrewd and somewhat coarse in manner, Holladay had begun as an Indian trader. When the Mexican War broke out, he had turned teamster and freighted supplies for the army. Later, he’d become involved with the Pony Express, as well as hauling contract goods for Western military posts. In 1862, he had organized the Overland Stage Line, obtaining a government mail contract for Colorado and Montana. Over the next three years, he had extended his stage routes across the Rockies into Utah, Idaho, and Oregon.
What intrigued Clint most was Holladay’s attitude about local politics. According to the grapevine, there was longstanding enmity between David Hughes and the Overland’s owner. While Holladay was one of the wealthiest men in Denver, he took little part in civic affairs. The railroad, in particular, was a project that drew neither his support nor his financial backing. He saw it as a threat, direct competition for his stage line. His opposition had done nothing to endear him to Hughes and city hall.
“Well, anyway,” Holladay rambled on, “we’ll get no help from that pisswillie in Golden. So I thought maybe you’d lend a hand.”
“How?” Clint said, meeting his gaze. “I’m just a town marshal.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Holladay agreed. “But you’ve got your ear to the ground down in the sporting district. You hear things.”
“Like what?”
“Like all the local dirt,” Holladay ventured. “The sporting crowd loves a juicy piece of gossip. All the more so if it’s about some hard-ass who’s thumbed his nose at the law.”
“And you think I’ll hear something about the stage robbers?”
“Hell, you’re bound to! Whoever heads that gang pulled it off smooth as silk. Anything that slick is sure to get talked about.”
Clint’s eyes narrowed. “Suppose I do hear something? What then?”
Holladay smiled. “I’m offering a thousand dollars’ reward—on each of them—dead or alive.”
“Four men works out to four thousand.”
“Kee-recto,” Holladay affirmed. “Or if that game doesn’t interest you, I’ll pay a handsome price for information—the right names.”
“Apart from the money,” Tisdale added hastily, “you would be doing the town a service as well. Denver depends on this bank for business loans, and our major depositors are the mining camps. Your help might well make the difference.”
Clint was silent a moment, considering. “All right, I’ll keep my ears open. What happens if something does turn up?”
Holladay chuckled. “You come see me.”
“And then?”
“What else?” Holladay roared. “We catch ’em or we kill ’em!”
Tisdale looked like he had an acute gas pain. He ended the meeting as quickly as possible and saw them out of his office. Later, it would occur to him that Ben Holladay and Clint Brannock were a matched pair. Neither of them believed in half-measures—or the velvet glove.
Quintin and his men rode into Denver the following day. Frank Purdy thought it was a bad idea, foolhardy and dangerous. His protests had been greeted with amused contempt.
Years of guerrilla warfare had convinced Quintin that the bold move was generally the unexpected move. He argued that no one would look for them in Denver, where the stage had proceeded after the holdup. Instead, the search for the robbers would focus on Central City and the other mining camps. Tobert and Johnson, as usual, went along with his opinion. Purdy was reduced to disgruntled silence.
After stabling their horses, they took rooms in a seedy southside hotel. At Quintin’s insistence, most of the loot from the robbery had been buried some miles outside town. The quickest way to arouse suspicion, he’d warned the others, was to go on a wild spending spree. Still, they’d earned a celebration, and good times cost money. He allowed each of them a thousand dollars in gold dust. If anyone asked, they were prospectors on a lark to the big city.
A walk through the sporting district put Quintin in high good humor. He decided that he liked the looks of Colorado Territory. Since fleeing Kansas, he’d seen little that struck his fancy. In New Mexico, where he had recruited Tobert and Johnson, the prospects were limited to rustling cows and stealing horses. Denver, with the mining camps nearby, was an altogether different matter. Gold dust was plentiful, and stagecoaches were easy pickings for a man versed in guerrilla tactics. In mountainous terrain, as he’d quickly noted, a holdup was quite similar to a well-planned ambush. He thought perhaps he’d found a place to light awhile. So far, Colorado looked hard to beat.
The balance of the afternoon went quickly. After a few drinks, the men parboiled themselves in a bathhouse, followed by haircuts and shaves. Drenched in bay rum, they next visited a whorehouse and spent a few hours cavorting with the girls. By midevening, with a steak dinner under their belts, they were ready to cut loose and see the elephant. No wing-ding was complete without a stopover at the gaming tables, and they wandered over to Blake Street. On a whim, Quintin chose the Bella Union. He figured a plush dive was more their speed.
Frank Purdy decided to keep his mouth shut. It bothered him that the owner of the Bella Union was Clint Brannock’s brother. Yet, were he to say anything, he knew the others would peg him a faintheart, or worse. Added to that, there was no reason for him to pussyfoot around town. He’d been posted from Denver for a week, and the week had ended yesterday. He was entitled to do whatever he pleased, go anywhere, and to hell with the marshal. All the same, he told himself to take it easy.
The Bella Union was crowded. Quintin and his men found a spot at the end of the bar and ordered drinks. For a time, they surveyed the elegant barroom in thoughtful silence. Then, after a second round of drinks, their boisterous mood returned. Tobert, who was already feeling his liquor, happened to glance toward the rear of the room. Through the doorway, he saw Monte Verde behind the twenty-one table. His eyes brightened and he let out a whoop of laughter.
“Quintin, would you looky there! They got theirselves a lady dealer.”
“Shore do,” Quintin said, twisting around for a better look. “And she’s easy on the eyes, too.”
On his way past the bar, Earl caught the name. “Quintin.” He almost halted in midstride, but instead kept walking. At the door to the gaming room, he stopped and lit a cheroot. Casually, as though counting the house, he let his gaze drift back to the bar. He studied the man called Quintin, wondering if he also answered to the name of “Jack.” Stranger things had happened, and he recalled Clint saying the guerrilla leader had headed west from Kansas. On the spur of the moment, he decided to play a long shot.
Inside the gaming room, Earl paused briefly at the twenty-one table. He stood behind Monte, pretending to watch the play, and spoke to her in a low tone. Her eyes skittered to the bar, touching on the four men, and she nodded imperceptibly. Earl smiled, as if satisfied with the play, then walked off. He made a tour of the room, inspecting the tables, and stopped to talk with Joe Dundee, one of the floormen. Finally, looking preoccupied with other matters, he left the gaming room and went to his office.
A few minutes later the four men wandered in from the bar. As they moved through the door, Monte finished dealing a hand to the players at her table. She paid off one bet, collecting on two others, and glanced up at Frank Purdy. She gave him a dazzling smile.
“Hello, Frank,” she said pleasantly. “Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”
Purdy appeared dumbstruck. He knew her from the mining camps and more recently as the Bella Union’s star attraction. Yet he’d spoken to her only in passing, and never with any familiarity. He finally found his tongue.
“ ’Evening, Miss Monte,” he said awkwardly. “Good to see you again.”
“It’s mutual,” Monte said, still smiling. “You shouldn’t stay away so long, Frank. You’re always welcome at my table.”
Purdy preened at the attention. He hooked his thumbs in his vest, aware that the other men were watching him with new respect. “Well, now, I might try a few hands. Could be my night to howl.”
“Never know till you try,” Monte said engagingly. “Introduce me to your friends, Frank. The more the better, I always say.”
“Well, sure,” Purdy said, gesturing grandly. “This here’s my new partner, Jack Quintin. The ugly one is Bob Tobert and the other gent’s Bill Johnson.”
Monte batted her eyes at Quintin. “You boys new to Denver?”
“Pretty much,” Quintin said, moving closer. “We’ve been prospecting up in the mountains. Struck ourselves a right nice claim.”
“Good!” Monte bubbled. “I like a man with a fat poke. Care to try your luck?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Purdy led Quintin and the others to the cashier’s window. After exchanging gold dust for chips, they returned and took places at the table. Monte quickly discerned that the one named Tobert was too drunk to mind his tongue. She alternated between playing on Quintin’s male vanity and Tobert’s dulled wits. Dealing seconds, she let them win while she asked innocent-sounding questions. It proved to be no contest.
An hour later Monte excused herself. The men groaned, but she got a laugh when she said, “Nature calls.” She left them in the hands of a relief dealer and hurried to the office. Earl looked up from his desk as she came through the door. He seemed unusually tense.
“Well?” he demanded.
“You were right,” she said gravely. “He’s Jack Quintin . . . from Kansas.”
Earl stiffened. “How come you’re so sure?”
“Simple,” she said with a slow smile. “One of them’s drunk and I got him talking. Before Quintin could shut him up, I got their life story.”
“I guess there couldn’t be two Jack Quintins from Kansas.”
“No, not likely.”
“How about Purdy?” Earl asked. “Where’d he meet up with Quintin?”
“Good question,” she replied. “As near as I can tell, they got together in Central City. Quintin says they’re partners in a gold claim.”
Earl let go a harsh bark of laughter. “I’d lay odds that bunch never prospected anything.”
“You wouldn’t get any takers.”
“Are they still downstairs?”
She nodded. “I’m supposedly taking a break. They’re waiting for me to get back.”
“Hold them as long as possible. If they leave, tell Joe Dundee to follow them. I want to know where they’re staying.”
“You sound like you’re going somewhere.”
“I won’t be long.”
Earl stood, moving past her. The door opened and closed before she thought to ask. But then, almost as quickly, she decided the question was pointless.
She knew where he was going.