The Wells Fargo Depot in Topeka was a two-storied building that fronted the town’s plaza, not far from the old Spanish mission church whose white adobe bell tower was a landmark that could be seen for miles across the Big Plains.
The depot was an adobe building, white with some color around the doors and window sills. Wells Fargo & Co. was emblazoned over the front door in bright red trimmed with yellow. There was a loading platform that was level with the stage door and boot for the convenience of passengers. The stage from Santa Fe had just pulled in and a small group of people stood on the platform, waiting for their luggage to be unloaded in the hot sunshine. One man, tall and rangy, revealed glossy black hair when he removed his hat to wipe around the sweatband with a spotted kerchief. He stood apart from the others, his gray eyes watching the baggage being unloaded. As a battered canvas war bag and bedroll was tossed off, he jammed his hat back on his head and walked towards them.
He wore a six-gun on his right thigh, the rawhide tie thong hanging loosely. At other times he would have the thong tied tightly around his thigh. He shouldered his baggage and the brass butt plate of a Winchester rifle showed through an end of the bedroll.
The man walked with an easy gait into the Wells Fargo office, ducking his head slightly to get through the doorway. He was about thirty, with a hawk-lean, darkly tanned face. His gray eyes caught the attention of a clerk who hurried over to him.
“Lookin’ for Jim Hume,” the tall man announced.
The clerk lifted his green eyeshade for a better look at the man. “Mr. Hume? He works out of our Denver office. Chief of Detectives.”
“I know. I’m Clay Nash. He sent word for me to meet him here.”
“Mr. Nash! Oh, yes, sir. You’re expected. Right through that door and up the stairs. Second office to the left. But he has someone with him, Mr. Nash.”
Nash nodded and climbed the stairs slowly, savoring the coolness inside the adobe building after the long, stifling, dust choking stage ride from Santa Fe. At the office door he could hear the low murmur of voices. He rapped on the door, then opened it and looked in.
Jim Hume was a blocky man pushing fifty. He had a squarish face, short-cropped brown hair and a nicotine-stained longhorn moustache. There was a solid look about him, like a sun-scorched boulder that had weathered long years. He sat behind a small desk, his gimlet eyes hard as his gaze went to the door. But his face relaxed as he recognized the big investigator.
Across Hume’s desk sat Larry Holbrook in a straight-backed chair, his narrow face tight, his mouth no more than a razor-slash. His eyes softened as he recognized Nash.
The Texan dumped his war bag and bedroll, thumbed back his hat and grinned as he shook hands with the two men.
“Got here as fast as I could, Jim,” he said, scratching at the dark stubble showing around his jaw line. He flicked his gaze to Larry. “How do you like ridin’ shotgun, kid?”
Larry swallowed hard. “I guess I like it, Clay, but I don’t think I’m gonna be doin’ it anymore.”
Nash frowned deeper as he dragged out a chair and sat down, looking quizzically at Hume.
“I told you in my wire that there’d been a robbery,” Hume said tautly. “Larry was shotgun guard on that run, Topeka to Deadbranch.”
Nash set his gaze on the youth and began to build a cigarette. He said nothing.
“I fouled up, Clay,” Larry said quietly. “Forgot all my trainin’. Left my shotgun up on the seat and climbed down to carry a pregnant woman passenger through the water to the river bank. They caught us flat-footed.”
Nash had noticed the bruise along the side of Larry’s jaw. Now he put his cigarette between his thin dips, flicked a match into flame on his thumbnail and puffed smoke.
“Did you put up a fight?”
“Not so’s you’d notice,” Larry admitted shamefacedly. “They had us cold-decked. Even took my guns—the company Ithaca and my own six-gun.”
“You dunno the worst of it,” Hume put in grimly. “They killed a man and crippled another. They also robbed a banker of two thousand in cash and got jewelry from the women.”
“Express box?” Nash queried.
Hume shook his head. “Never touched it. There were bank bonds in it and minin’ company stock. Seems they knew there was no cash. But they knew the passengers were totin’ plenty.”
“Masked, I guess?” Nash said to Larry.
“Yeah. Five men. I got a good look at the leader, though,” he said, rubbing gently at his swollen jaw. “Just over six feet I reckon, maybe two-hundred pounds, black or dark brown hair, gray-green eyes, big nose, little finger missing from his left hand. Rode a piebald gelding.”
Nash pursed his lips and looked towards Hume. “Good description, Jim.”
“Know him?” Hume snapped.
“Sounds mighty like Jubal Ricks, ’specially that missing finger.” Nash glanced at Larry. “Was the finger cut clean off or mangled?”
“Mangled,” Larry said. “One of the others was a redhead and two fellers were on horses that carried the Slash W brand on their rumps.”
“You did mighty good, kid,” Nash said, impressed. He looked quizzically at Hume as the Detective Chief handed him a piece of paper.
“Slash W’s a big ranch out on the edge of the plains,” Hume said. “Lost some steers and horse stock a month back. Could be that those two animals were part of those stolen. Sheriff Cass nailed a couple of the rustlers and they reckoned the Olsen brothers were with ’em, but they haven’t been caught yet. Wouldn’t be the first Wells Fargo stage the Olsens hit.”
Nash nodded as he studied the paper. He smiled at Larry. “You did all right under the circumstances, kid.”
“He left his gun,” Hume said flatly. “It’s the driver’s job to aid any passengers who need it.”
Larry flushed. “Hell, Prince deliberately stopped in the middle of the river crossin’, Mr. Hume! I mean, that might be a sort of standin’ joke with Wells Fargo drivers, but I figured it was pushin’ things some when that pregnant female had to go ashore. It’s a rock bottom and she might’ve turned her ankle.”
“Her husband was there,” Hume said.
Larry made an impatient gesture. “Hell, he was no help. Beefed all the time about takin’ down the driver’s name and mine. Was gonna report us to Head Office and so on. But did nothin’ to help his wife. I know I done wrong, Mr. Hume, leavin’ my shotgun and so on, but I figured it’d be better for the company if I made some sort of show of helpin’ that poor woman.” He leaned forward his hands gripping the desk edge. “Will you give me another chance, Mr. Hume?”
“It’s mandatory for a guard who neglects his duty to be dismissed, Larry,” Hume said curtly. “The company’s liable for a lot of money by way of compensation. We’ve got to try to track down the kin of that dead passenger and pay the medical bills for the other—”
“All that aside, Jim,” cut in Nash, “Larry seems to have had the good of the company at heart. He couldn’t’ve known the banker was carrying so much money, and I reckon I would’ve done the same thing in his place. ’Specially if I was new to the game.”
“He went through our training course,” Hume replied stubbornly. “He broke a cardinal rule ...”
“We all break the rules at times, Jim. Some of us are lucky enough to get away with it. Others ...” Nash shrugged, looking at Larry Holbrook and remembering the youngster had had a lot of aggravation in his life. Also, he felt obligated to Larry for having saved his life that time with Sundance, along with the lives of all the people on that train he kept from getting wrecked. He started to remind Hume of these things, but Larry got to his feet abruptly, his clenched fists at his sides and his face flushed.
“Hold up, Clay!” Larry said sharply. “I don’t aim to trade on those things. I got a job here like I wanted and that was payment enough. Now I fouled up, so I guess that’s it. Now I’ll be on my way.”
Nash eyed Hume and shook his head. “You’re makin’ a mistake, Jim.”
Hume glared at his top agent and then he looked back at Larry Holbrook. He sighed. “All right, Larry. Despite what you say, the company owes you a lot more than just a job ridin’ shotgun. You made a mistake, a costly one, but you’re a good man just the same. To be honest, I don’t know what I would’ve done in the same situation. But don’t let me down again. Savvy?”
Jim Hume smiled faintly as Larry stared at him, his mouth slightly open. He still had a job! He reached across the desk and shook hands with Hume.
“Thanks, Mr. Hume. I won’t let you down again, I swear I won’t. No one’ll rob any stage I’m ridin’ from now on! And I won’t let go of my shotgun for any reason.”
He went across the room to Nash and shook hands with the big Texan, grinning. “Thanks, Clay.”
Nash shrugged. “You deserve a second chance.”
“I’d sure like a second chance at that Jubal Ricks hombre you mentioned,” Larry said. “Don’t s’pose I could help you run him down ...?”
“Nope,” Hume answered before Nash could speak. “You’ve been trained as a shotgun guard. That’s a hell of a lot different than being a detective. Clay’ll handle that part of it.” He rummaged amongst his papers and came up with a pink form that Nash recognized as a stage schedule. Hume scanned it swiftly, marked off a line in pencil and handed the paper to Larry. “You’ll ride the stage to Atcheson.”
Larry’s face fell. “It’s only a passenger run, Mr. Hume. There’s no express box, nothin’ worth guardin’.”
“Wells Fargo passengers are always worth guarding, son,” Hume said firmly. “You ride out on that stage. It leaves in two hours.”
Larry, looking disappointed, folded the sheet of paper and put it in his shirt pocket as he made for the door. His hand was on the latch when Hume said:
“You’ll ride that stage back across the Big Plains, too—after you pick up the New Mexico Bank’s express box in Atcheson.”
Larry grinned broadly.
“Thanks, Mr. Hume! I’ll get that box back, don’t you worry.” He looked at Nash. “Adios, Clay. Catch you next time round.”
“We’ll have a drink together,” Nash said as he watched the youngster leave the office. He turned to Hume. “He’ll be all right, Jim.”
“He better be or my tail’s in a sling,” Hume said sourly. “The Head Office wanted him fired.”
“He’s a good man,” Nash insisted. “Maybe he’s still a mite headstrong, but he’ll grow out of it. He’s a trier, Jim.”
Hume grunted.
Nash got to his feet and stretched stiffly. “Well, I think I’ll get me a bath and some grub. If you’ll arrange for a horse for me, I’ll go after Jubal Ricks before sundown.”
“Know where he is?”
“Picked up word on him a few weeks back when I was working on that train hold-up. He was seen at Tall Trees beyond Big Plains, askin’ around for the Olsens and a couple of hardcases no one ever heard of. Could be that was when he got a bunch together and hit the Deadbranch stage.”
Hume frowned. “I’d sure like to know how he found out that banker was carryin’ so much dinero. Or maybe he just got lucky, eh?”
Nash shook his head. “Ricks doesn’t ever ‘just get lucky’. He plans his jobs every step of the way. Look at that hold-up. He knew about the driver being an ornery cuss who likes to stop the stage midway across the ford so passengers have to wade to the bank. Larry leaving his shotgun to carry that woman was a bonus.”
Hume nodded as he pushed a file across the desk to Nash. “Full details are in there, Clay. Read it, get cleaned-up and outfitted, then go bring the bastard in.”