Harley came back down from the rock. “They’re real close now.”
“Yeah, I can hear ’em,” Dinkins said.
The coach was close enough they could hear the driver’s shouts, whistles, and popping of the whip, as well as the clatter of hooves, and the squeaking and jarring of the coach itself.
“Heah! Heah! Giddap there, hosses! Just a little way and you can take a breather! Heah!”
“Get ready!” Dinkins hissed.
When the coach reached the top of the grade the driver called the team to a halt. The horses could be heard, breathing hard. The driver was putting the whip back in its holder when the four men stepped out from behind the rocks. Each of them was wearing a kerchief around the bottom half of his face, and holding a pistol, leveled at the coach.
“You folks inside, climb out here!” Dinkins shouted.
Three men climbed down, and as they did so, Calhoun produced a pistol and fired at the robbers, but missed. Dinkins and the others returned fire, riddling the coach with bullets. The rancher and the salesman went down. When the messenger made a move for his shotgun, he was killed. McVey jumped down from the driver’s seat, and ran off the road and into the rocks along with the doctor. Dinkins and the others pointed their guns at them and pulled the triggers, but all the firing pins fell on empty chambers. Not one of them had a charged cartridge remaining.
“Damnit!” Dinkins shouted angrily. Quickly, he and the others reloaded, but it was too late, the driver and passenger had already gotten away.
“Travis, look in the coach!” Dinkins ordered.
Cautiously, Travis approached the coach, then peered in through the window. He saw three women, drenched with blood.
“What’s in there?”
“Just women,” Travis called back. “And all three are dead.”
As Travis was checking inside the coach, Harley climbed up onto the driver’s seat. Looking underneath the seat he found a canvas bag, marked ESCALANTE BANK. With a whoop, he held it up.
“Look here boys, what I found!”
“What is it?”
Harley cut through the canvas, stuck his hand inside, and pulled out a handful of greenbacks. “Money, boys! Lots of money!” Harley shouted.
“Now what did I tell you? When Bill Dinkins plans a job, he does it right. Come on down, Wes. Let’s get out of here.”
Inside the coach, Mary Dawson lay uninjured, but pinned to the floor of the coach by the bodies of the other two women. She lay quietly until she was sure the outlaws had left. Only then did she start trying to work her way free. When she raised up and looked down at the two women whose bodies had held her down, she nearly gagged over what she saw. Both women had multiple gunshot wounds, and there was so much blood it was almost an inch thick on the floor of the coach.
Mary felt sick to her stomach at the grizzly sight, and knew she had to get out of the coach. By the time she climbed out, McVey and Dr. Potter were returning.
“Good Lord, Miss Dawson, how badly are you hurt?” Dr. Potter asked, seeing all the blood on her.
“I’m not hurt,” Mary replied. “But I think the other two ladies, Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Johnson, are dead.”
Dr. Potter checked on the two women, then nodded. “They’re dead.” He checked Evans and Calhoun. “They are, too.”
As Dr. Potter was checking on the passengers, McVey had climbed up to the box to check on Conway. “Doc, you want to come up here and take a look at Burt?”
Using the spokes of the front wheel, Dr. Potter climbed up to the box to stand beside McVey. Although there were no visible wounds on the shotgun guard’s body, he was very still, and his eyes were open and opaque. Dr. Potter put his hand on Conway’s neck, but could find no pulse. Then he saw the wound, a bullet hole over his heart, not immediately visible because of the way he was positioned. “There’s the wound.”
“How is he?” Mary called up to him.
“He’s dead,” Dr. Potter called back down.
“Doc, if you will help me, we’ll get the bodies laid out up here,” McVey said quietly. “I think it would be better for Miss Dawson, and for you, if you didn’t have to ride in the coach with them.”
“I’ll be glad to help you,” Dr. Potter said, climbing back down.
McVey looked down at Calhoun’s body. He was still clutching the pistol in his hand, the pistol from which only one shot had been fired.
“Here is the dumb son of a bitch who caused all this,” McVey said.
“That’s not fair, Mr. McVey,” Dr. Porter replied. “He didn’t cause it. The road agents caused it. He was just doing what he thought was right.”
“It was Bill Dinkins,” Mary said.
“What?” McVey asked. “Bill Dinkins? Are you sure?”
“Yes. I heard his name.”
“Then I take it back,” McVey said. “Dinkins is a cold-blooded murderer. Like as not he would have shot us all whether Mr. Calhoun took a shot at him or not.”
It took a good ten minutes to get the four bodies lifted up to the top of the coach to join with Conway’s body, which was already lying there.
“Are we going back to Escalante?” Dr. Potter asked.
“No,” McVey said. “We are going on. We are only two hours from Suttle, six hours back to Escalante. We’ll send a telegraph message back when we reach Suttle.”
One of the reasons this was the coach turnout was because of proximity of water, from Tomichi Creek. A pipe from the creek kept a watering trough filled for livestock that passed through. Dr. Potter wet his handkerchief in the trough, then used it to wash away the blood from Mary’s face, hands, and arms. “There’s nothing I can do about your dress, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you,” Mary replied. “Grandma will wash it. Poor Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Johnson. They were so excited about the meeting they attended in Escalante. They were going to tell their friends all about it.” Tears began to slide down Mary’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m crying like a baby.”
“No you aren’t, child,” Dr. Potter said reassuringly. “You are crying like a compassionate woman.”
“If you folks are ready, we’ll get underway,” McVey said, the tone of his voice much more gentle than it had been at the start of their journey.
Suttle, Colorado
The first thing the people noticed about the arrival of the coach was that McVey did not come galloping in as he normally did. Then someone saw the bodies lying on top of the coach, as well as bullet holes in the sides. “Hey, look at the coach!”
“What happened?”
“I bet they was held up!”
The forward progress of the coach down Center Street was so slow the citizens of the town who were curious and aggressive enough to do so, were able to keep pace with it.
“What happened?” someone called.
“Was you held up?” another asked.
McVey made no reply. He continued to stare straight ahead, concentrating on driving the team as resolutely as he could. Finally he pulled to a stop in front of the Dunn Hotel, which also served as the stagecoach office for Suttle. The crowd that had followed him drew up there as well, so by the time McVey set his brake there were close to a hundred people gathered around the coach.
Caleb Stallings, the station manager, stepped onto the front porch. When he saw the blood, the bodies, and the holes in the side of the coach, he got a horrified expression on his face. “Stan, my God!” he called up to the driver. “What happened ?”
“We was waylaid,” McVey said. He stood, then pointed his hand toward the top of the coach. “These folks was all kilt, I’m afraid.”
“Good Lord, Stan, are you the only one left alive?”
The door to the coach opened then, and Dr. Potter stepped down. He reached back into the coach to help Mary down.
“Mary!” an older woman called and broke from the crowd rushing toward Mary, who met her halfway. The two women embraced, weeping as they did so.
“Juanita?” a gray haired old man said, his voice cracking. “Where is Juanita Gray, my wife?”