“You think the money will go by stage coach?” Harley asked.
“That’s the only way it can go. And, since there ain’t but three stages per week between Escalante and Suttle, it ain’t goin’ to be hard to figure out which one it’s on.”
Harley smiled. “It’s nice of them to tell us about the money, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, I don’t imagine the stagecoach people are all that pleased with the article.”
Escalante, Colorado
Stan McVey, the driver of the Escalante to Suttle stagecoach, had been making that particular run for the last four years, and he knew every creek, hill, turn in the road, rock and tree along the sixty-two mile route. He stood out in front of the depot for a few moments, watching as the team of six horses was attached to the coach.
“Mr. McVey, I put Ole Dan on the off side like you told me,” one of the hostlers said.
“Thanks, Jake. He tends to pull to the left all the time and if he is on the off side, well, the near horse will keep him going straight. Do you know if Lonnie took a look at the reach?” As McVey asked the question, he knelt down and looked at the bar that connected the rear axle with the front part of the coach. Stretching out his hand, he grabbed hold of the reach and tried to shake it. It felt secure.
“Yes, sir, he said he tightened up the bolts.”
“Good enough,” McVey said.
“I’ll loop the ribbons around your whip,” Jake said.
Looking over toward Burt Conway, he saw his shotgun messenger receiving a canvas bag from Mr. Dempster, the owner of the Escalante Bank. McVey had read in the paper about the transfer of money, which meant that anyone who might have an idea about robbing the coach also read it. He knew that the stagecoach supervisor, Mr. Sinclair, had complained about it, but he was told by G. E. Hastings, editor of the newspaper, that he enjoyed “freedom of the press,” and there was nothing Sinclair could do to prevent him from publishing such information.
Satisfied that all was well with the coach, McVey walked into the depot to address the six passengers—three men and three women. It was an unusual mix of passengers, for none of the men were married to any of the women.
The station manager brought McVey a cup of coffee and he took a couple swallows as he looked at his passengers. The two older women, Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Johnson, were talking. Mr. Evans, a salesman, had made the trip many times. He was making notes of some sort. Mr. Calhoun, a rancher from near Suttle, and Dr. Potter, a local physician, were engaged in conversation. Miss Dawson, who was about seventeen, was with her mother, who had come to see her off.
McVey finished his coffee, then glanced up at the big clock that stood by the back wall. It was ten minutes before departure, time for him to give the passengers his normal pre-run briefing. “Folks, can I have your attention? Can I have your attention, please?”
All the conversation stopped as the passengers looked toward him.
“My name is Stan McVey. I’m your driver for this trip, so if you would, I’d like for you to gather ’round for a moment or two so’s I can talk to you about this here trip you’ll be takin’ today. It’s eight and a half hours from here to Suttle, if ever’thing goes like it’s s’posed to go. Gents, I’d prefer that you don’t drink no liquor durin’ the run, but there ain’t no law agin’ it, so there ain’t no way I can stop you. But, if you are goin’ to drink, then I ask that you share the bottle with them that might want it, on account of sometimes arguments get started over that.
“Since we got ladies present, I’m also goin’ to ask that you don’t smoke no cigars or pipes inside the coach without the ladies tellin’ you it’s all right. That’s ’cause the smell sometimes irritates the ladies. You can chew if you like, but when you spit, make sure you spit with the wind, and not agin’ it, ’cause iffen you spit agin’ it, why it will come right back into the coach. I don’t care if it gets on you, but it’s the others in the coach I’d be worryin’ about.
“I’m goin’ to ask you not to be cussin’ none either, ’cause oft time the women gets offended by that.
“Now, are any of you gents wearin’ guns?”
Only Calhoun indicated that he was.
“Then I’ll be askin’ you not to be shootin’ your gun out the window at rabbits, or deer or anythin’ like that, ’cause the gunshots tend to scare the horses and they might commence to runnin’. Oh, and if for some reason the horses do take off a’ runnin’, then for sure don’t be jumpin’ out of the coach. It might be a little frightenin’ to you, but trust me, you’re a heap safer off stayin’ inside.
“And finally, I want to say this, and you’d best listen to me, ’cause I am real serious about it. If any of you men does or says anything that upsets or offends any of the ladies, I’ll put you off the coach and you’ll be walkin’ back to the depot. And believe me, you ain’t goin’ to like that. Now, if there ain’t no one got ’ny questions to ask, we’ll be loadin’ up in”—McVey glanced at the clock—“about three minutes. That means you just barely got time to get there.”
Young Mary Dawson turned to her mother and they embraced. “You tell your grandmother we’ll be expectin’ her and grandpa around the Fourth of July,” Mary’s mother said.
“I will,” Mary promised.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right? I mean, this is a pretty long trip to be taking all by yourself.”
“Mama, I have friends who have gone back East for a whole year to go to school. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can. It’s just that I worry so.”
“Don’t worry. I have to go now. Bye.”
“I’m coming outside to see you off,” Mary’s mother said.
The men, whether responding to the words of the driver, or out of authentic gentlemanly concern, were most solicitous of the ladies as they boarded the coach. The shotgun guard kissed his wife good-bye, then climbed up on the box, sitting on the left side.
“You drive safely now, Stan,” Mrs. Conway said as McVey grabbed hold to climb up into his seat. “And you two look out for each other.”
“We’ll do that, Martha.” He turned to Conway. “I saw you pick up the bag from the bank. Is everything all set?”
“Yeah, we’re ready. It’s stowed under the seat,” Conway said. “Woulda been better though, if there hadn’t been anything about it in the paper.”
“You got that right,” McVey replied.
Removing his whip from its holder, McVey whirled it around once over his head, then snapped it over the head of his team, causing it to pop loudly.
Inside the coach, Mary jumped at the sound of the popping whip. “Oh! What was that?”
Calhoun chuckled. “Don’t worry ’bout that, miss. That was just the driver snapping his whip over the team.
“Heah, team!” McVey shouted, his exhortation clearly heard by all who were inside the coach.
It pulled away from the station, exiting Escalante at a rapid clip. There would be no way MeVey could hold this speed for any length of time, but he liked to depart and arrive in great fashion, and having the horses gallop as he drove out of town was a way of doing that.
Bridgeport, Colorado
Jericho Taggart was a regulator, a man who made a living by hunting wanted men. He specialized in hunting those who were wanted Dead or Alive, because the rewards were generally higher for such a person. Also the Dead or Alive provision gave him all the cover he needed to bring in his quarry dead. With live prisoners there was always the chance they could get away, and with it, the reward money. Also a live prisoner would, if he had the chance, kill the man who was attempting to bring him in.
There was no such problem with dead prisoners.
The men Taggart brought in weren’t just dead, they were very dead—because his weapon of choice was a Sharps .50 caliber buffalo rifle. He could stand half a mile off from his quarry, and with the energy generated by the large, heavy .50 caliber bullet, a hit almost anywhere would generate enough shock to kill, often before his victim even realized he was in trouble.