“It ain’t too late if you ain’t none too particular. We got some boiled ham and boiled taters.”
“That’ll be fine.” Smoke paid for the beer, then nodded toward a nearby table. “I’ll be right over there.”
As he was eating his late supper, Smoke noticed a card game going on in a small alcove off the back of the saloon. The players were engaged in an animated conversation and he heard one of them say the name Dinkins.
Smoke lingered over his supper until one of the four players left the game, then he walked to the table. “If you need a fourth player, I would be willing to join you,” he said politely. “But if this is a private game, I have no wish to intrude.”
“There’s an empty chair there, you’re welcome to join us,” one of the players said.
“Thank you.” Smoke pulled out the chair.
“Wait a minute,” one of the other players said quickly. “Before you sit I need to know if you are a saddle tramp, or a man of means.” This was a fat man with heavy jowls and narrow, squinting eyes. He was wearing a tan jacket and a dark brown silk vest. A gold chain stretched across his vest, accenting his girth.
“Why do you ask?” Smoke replied
“The reason I ask is because this isn’t a penny-ante game. I wouldn’t want you to get in here and suddenly realize you was in over your head.”
“Jim is right. We don’t want to take you in, mister, without you knowing what you are letting yourself in for. This is what you might call a high-stakes game.” The player who had invited Smoke to pull up a chair was a man in his early sixties, wearing a dark blue suit. He also had gray hair and whiskers, and friendly eyes. “Here is the thing, you see. You have to buy a minimum of fifty dollars worth of chips, just to get into this game. If you can do that, you’re more than welcome at our table.”
“Thank you. I’ll take a hundred.” Smoke took five gold double-eagles from his pocket and put them on the table in front of him.
“Take care of him, Ollie,” the gray-haired man said. Then to Smoke he added, “Ollie is our banker.”
Ollie was about thirty, slim and clean-shaven, with a hawklike nose. Like Smoke, Ollie wasn’t wearing a suit. He reached into the chip box and took out a handful of painted chips, in red, white, and blue. “Red is one dollar, white is five, and blue is ten,” he explained, sliding the appropriate amount over to Smoke.
“I’m Al Frakes,” the gray-haired man said by way of introduction. “I publish the newspaper here. The banker is Ollie Lynch. Ollie is a messenger for Wells Fargo. And the gentleman who challenged you is Jim Saddler. He owns the leather goods and saddle shop, which I think is most appropriate for someone with the name Saddler.”
“Who might you be?” Saddler asked.
“The name is Jensen. Kirby Jensen. But most folks just call me Smoke.”
The three players looked at him in shock.
“You are Smoke Jensen?” Ollie asked.
“Yes.”
Jim Saddler stuck his hand across the table. “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Jensen. I hope you don’t hold it against me that I asked if you had the means to play in this game.”
“Not at all,” Smoke said. “If I didn’t have enough money to play, it would have been a friendly gesture.”
Saddler was the dealer and on the first hand, Smoke drew two pair, which was enough to keep him in the game. He wasn’t able to convert it into a full house though, and he lost to Frakes, who had drawn three tens.
Over the next half hour Smoke won some and lost some so that he stood at about ten dollars ahead in the game.
The conversation flowed easily, mostly about the game, but often coming back to an article that had been published in Al Frakes’ newspaper about the train robbery.
“What article is that?” Smoke said.
“Well now, I just happen to have a copy of that newspaper with me,” Frakes said. “It is, in my humble opinion, the best newspaper published between Denver and San Francisco.”
“Your opinion isn’t all that humble, when you figure that you are the publisher,” Saddler said, and the others laughed.
Frakes gave Smoke the newspaper, then pointed out the article that appeared on the front page.
Bold Train Robbery Near Sapinero
BILL DINKINS GANG THE CULPRITS
It was lacking five minutes of eleven in the evening when one of the outlaws, believed to be Travis Slater, climbed over the tender and ordered engineer Ernest Gibson to slow the train. Complying with the request the train was slowed, then diverted to a side track where it was ultimately brought to a halt.
Engineer Gibson jumped down from the engine cab and attempted to escape, but was shot down and killed by Travis Slater. When conductor Martin Kraft and passenger Thad Wallace exited the train to see what was the reason for the unscheduled stop, passenger Wallace was shot and killed.
The robbers then dynamited the express car and ordered the messenger, Sy Miller, to open the safe, from which the robbers took one hundred and thirty-six dollars. They then proceeded to pass through the train, ordering the passengers to “give it up,” but were able to gather less than two hundred dollars in that operation, making their entire haul for the robbery, just over three hundred dollars.
What the robbers did not know was that, when the train was stopped, Mr. Miller, anticipating a robbery, had opened the safe and removed a money shipment of twenty thousand dollars, hid same in the express car, then closed the safe again, fooling the robbers into believing the money they found was all the money that was being transferred.
They fared little better in robbing the passengers, for the quick thinking conductor convinced the passengers to entrust their funds with the Negro porter, Julius Jackson. Jackson, while pretending to help the robbers by carrying their loot bag from car to car was, unbeknownst to them, carrying over three thousand dollars of the passengers’ money on his person.
The robbers were so bold as to make no effort to conceal their identity, and Bill Dinkins even suggested to Lydia Lane, a young, fifteen-year-old girl making the trip alone, that she could someday brag to her grandchildren that she was robbed by Bill Dinkins.
A mounted posse went in pursuit of the gang by the next morning, but they lost the trail and returned empty handed.
“I’ll bet they were some mad when they found out the messenger had hidden the money shipment,” Frakes said.
“Ha! And that the porter had hidden all the passengers’ money,” Saddler added.
“They ain’t likely to find out,” Ollie said. “Not where they are now. There’s no newspapers.”
“Where they are now?” Smoke said. “Why do you say that? Do you know where they are?”
“More’n likely they are in Risco,” Ollie said.
“Risco?” Frakes asked.
“It’s a little town on Cebella Creek, about halfway between here and Powderhorn,” Ollie said.
“I’ve never heard of it,” Frakes said.
“It’s not on any map,” Smoke said. “And that’s by design. They don’t want anybody to know they’re there.”
“Why, that beats all I’ve ever heard,” Saddler said. “Why would a town not want anybody to know of its existence?”
“It’s what some might call a Robbers’ Roost,” Smoke said. “Men who are running from the law go there, knowing there is little chance anyone from the law will trace them there.”
“You know the town, Mr. Jensen?” Ollie asked, surprised by Smoke’s response.
Smoke had visited the town once when he was on the dodge, going by the name of Buck West. “Yes, I know the town.” He gave no further explanation.
“How is it that you know the town, Ollie?” Frakes asked.
“I wasn’t always an agent for Wells Fargo. At one time in my life I was a different kind of agent.”
“My God,” Saddler said. “You mean you were a road agent?”