In The Blood

Three

ThreePulling open his cracked leather portmanteau, Simms slipped his two big revolvers inside. Sitting back in his chair, he examined the much smaller, pocket model Colt and moved the cylinder around, one notch at a time. With deliberate care, he raised it and took a bead along the short, stubby barrel. He grunted and looked across to where Henson was sifting through a pile of official-looking papers.

“The boss said you have the details,” drawled Simms, already bored with the office, the paperwork, the fastidiousness of his colleagues. He dropped the revolver into his coat pocket. Being a hot day, he'd slung his coat across the back of his chair, and now ran his fingers underneath his collar, the perspiration building. “Damn, have you no air in this place?”

“I thought you'd be used to it, living out on the range.”

“In the open is fine, in here, trussed up like a racoon in a cage, it's not.”

“I've never seen a racoon in a cage.”

“Then you have much to discover.”

Henson frowned and dropped three sheets of paper in front of his colleague. “These are copies of the telegrams sent down the line after the first robbery.”

“First robbery?” Interested now, Simms leaned forward and picked up the closest notification. He scanned the words, curling his tongue over his top lip as he often did when reading. When he'd read through all three, he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “All right, so give me the details.”

“They hit the south bound train which had on board, amongst other things, the wages for the laborers working on the line extension. A pretty sum. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Simms whistled. “Dear God Almighty.”

“They have almost two thousand men working on this particular line, and that was their six-month retainer. As you can imagine, they ain't happy and production has stopped. The railroad company contacted the Government and that's where we come in.”

“Wasn't it guarded?”

“The train?” Simms nodded and Henson sneered. “Of course it was. Four men, two in the railcar, which carried the money – stashed inside a two-inch solid steel safe. Another guard stood with the driver, one on the tailgate of the caboose. He was the first to die, shot from long range.”

“Long range?”

“It was a hell of a thing. The g**g laid several petrified tree trunks across the tracks, which slowed the locomotive, then they opened fire. There were five riders, according to the witnesses, so we're guessing there are at least six of them, given the sharp shooter must have been some distance away. After they'd shot the guard with the driver, they uncoupled the caboose and told the driver to pull away. With the caboose detached, they ordered the guards inside to open up. The brakeman apparently came out, hands above his head. A family man, name of Jeff Rivers. Worked for the company for ten years, one of the originals. When the guards refused to come out, they shot and killed Rivers without so much as a blink. The guards gave it up then.”

“Sounds as if the g**g were mighty determined.”

“Murdering sons of bitches is what they are, Simms. Our agency doesn't operate in the West, not yet. But the President himself wants these men apprehended and brought to justice. He sees this sort of thing as a precursor to a whole lot more such incidents once the railroads move into the New Territories. What you did, bringing back the General's daughter, has impressed the railroad company no end.”

“The Government too, so I'm led to believe.”

“Seems that way. They've engaged us to help bring this situation to a conclusion.” Henson lowered his voice, tone growing ominous. “But they want it done with extreme, brute force, to advertise to everyone that the government won't tolerate such crimes and will always pursue the perpetrators using the full weight of the law.”

“Even if that means killing them?”

“If needs be. Those bastards killed something like seven people on that train, Simms. Once they blew open the safe, they set about relieving the few passengers of their personal possessions. One man stood up to them, retired army major by the name of Cartwright. He was travelling over to Laramie with his wife and son, a twenty-two-year-old, recently promoted to Second Lieutenant. When Cartwright stood up, the g**g killed him stone dead, and tried to do the same with the son. The bullet hit him in the arm, a wound which may well end his soldering before it's even begun. The murderers left the widow to lament over the body of her—”

“All right, Henson,” said Simms, holding up his hands in mock-surrender, “you've painted the picture well enough. These are dead men walking, is what you're saying.”

“Is what I'm saying.” Henson's index finger stabbed at the second paper. “Here are their physical descriptions, and further testimonies from witnesses. As far as we can ascertain, they made their way southwest. In one of the few remaining miners' towns, they shot up a saloon and got into a gunfight with a g**g of roughnecks. One of the g**g ended up dead. So that leaves five of them.”

“Including the sharpshooter.”

“Who took care of the roughnecks.”

“How many were there?”

“Eight.”

Simms held Henson's stare. “This sniper – for that's what he is – he killed all eight?”

Henson nodded. “His companions were holed up in the saloon, and the sniper, as you call him, picked off the attacking roughnecks, one by one.”

Simms studied the descriptions of the g**g, but as for the sharpshooter, there were no details.

“There's only one man I know who can shoot like that,” said Simms. “His name is Samuel Brewer. I served with him back in the War. He's way too old now. Besides, this just isn't his style. But…” He picked up the papers, folded them and, swiveling around on his chair, stuffed them inside his jacket.

“But?”

“But, he might just know who else can shoot like that.”

Henson grunted and placed a thick envelope on the desk. “Expenses. When you apprehend the robbers, process them at Fort Laramie. Telegraph us here, then we'll give you further instructions.”

“Process? What sort of a word is that? You mean sling 'em over the back of a horse and claim the bounty?”

“You're not a bounty hunter, Simms. You're a Pinkerton Detective. For some reason, which I fail to understand, Chesterton is allowing you free-reign across the Territories, but you will be a paid a retainer, with bonuses when your assignment is completed. It's not a bounty. They're turning a blind eye to the bounty you took for Mason and Newhart.” Henson slumped into his chair. “What are you going to do with that money anyways?”

“I've already done it. Bought a spread, built a little house. It was my intention to dabble in being a farmer, until I got the call from Mr. Pinkerton that is.”

“You're not a farmer, Simms. You're a gunman. A shootist. A pistolero. Isn't that what they call people like you down Mexico way?”

“People like me? Jesus, Henson, if you're not careful, your halo's gonna slip.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” and he stood up, tugging on his jacket, “you're a self-righteous bastard who needs to get his fat a*s out of this office and into a saddle. Until you've ridden the range, Henson, you've got no right to judge.”

“You shouldn't be a Pinkerton, Simms. You're too damned wild.”

“And if I wasn't, Henson, who would go after men like those bastards?” He c****d a single eyebrow. “You?” He shook his head, picked up the portmanteau and tipped his hat. “I'll see you in a few weeks, Henson. Until then, don't get your hands too dirty. You may need to type out another telegram.”

He swung away and left the office without a further glance, knowing Henson would sit and seethe with no words to counter what Simms had said.