Yancey Jessup never shot a man so far as anyone heard tell, or held a man up, or pilfered a penny before he stole $2,110,000 in gold coins from an Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway freight car without ever drawing his gun. His embittered, consumptive friend Zotom, dishonorably discharged when the Army discovered his father was Kiowa, revealed to Jessup the shipment amount and timetable as he lay on the mend at St. Patrick Hospital in Montana Territory. Jessup promised to share the gold with Zotom, deserted his trail herd and the drovers he bossed, traveled to Topeka and drove a wagon to the depot. A lone young Army corporal lay soundly sleeping on the freight car floor, cradling his rifle. Jessup crept aboard, covered the slumbering soldier's face with a cloth soaked in ether and changed clothes with him. Jessup then loaded the twenty bulging money sacks in his wagon, concealed the loot beneath burlap sacks and drove the horses through the city to the prairie and parts unknown while the train station and streets bustled at midday.
Matt thought trailing Jessup two hundred miles to the north of Kansas a waste of time, but the order had come from headquarters in an official letter, stating Jessup had been sighted near Dodge making tracks for Nebraska. A circular with his likeness was folded neatly inside the envelope.
The man was not a killer, and Matt saw little hope of recovering the gold as two months passed since Jessup made off with it. The State wanted its money back though and wanted Jessup punished, and Matt understood why. Forty thousand fifty-dollar gold coins in fifteen sacks, plus five sacks stuffed with double eagles, eagles, half eagles and gold dollars was a lot of money, worth more than paper currency and accepted anywhere in the states and territories.
Matt had left no one in charge of Dodge when he set out with Chester. At the dawn of summer with the sun already blazing and the days muggy, men prone to robbery and gunplay lacked the vigor to do little more than eat, drink and sleep, like the rest of the townsfolk. Few cattle drives came through Dodge in the hot months, and the town was quiet.
Matt knew he needed to catch up to Jessup soon. Chester was growing tired after four days on the trail, and they still had to make the trip home with Jessup when Matt caught him.
When they sighted a lone oak tree in the distance with a man lying in the shade of its branches and his horse nearby, Matt sensed Chester's excitement like a delirium borne of weariness. They squinted through the glaring white daylight across the flat expanse of grass stirred by a hot breeze, their eyes sore from the sun and the touch of fever that came from being out under it. "Reckon that's him, Mr. Dillon?"
"Maybe. Too far to tell." Whoever the man was, they had no way of sneaking up on him unless he slept. No rockpiles, rises or groves broke the flatness of the plains in any direction to the cloudless horizon. Matt calculated from the miles they trailed that he and Chester had almost reached the Nebraska border, possibly crossed into the state. There was no signpost or settlement in sight to let them know for sure.
The marshal and his partner rode side by side to within some three yards of the man on his back under the oak tree, his hat resting on his face. Chester looked at Matt, who touched a finger to his mouth. They quietly dismounted, and while his friend held the horses' reins, Matt drew his gun, aimed it at the sleeping man and tipped stealthily to him.
The man was middling in height and build with a trim form, his chest slowly rising and falling under a white linen shirt, black string tie and silver silk vest. Too spiffy for a drifter, and Matt could tell from the mother-of-pearl butt of the six-shooter at his hip that the gun had cost him. Not that he had a speck of trouble paying for it.
Pointing his gun at the man, Matt bent over him, plucked his firearm from the holster and slid the gun in the marshal's belt. The polished silver barrel winked in the sunlight.
The man threw the hat off his face and jumped up, and Matt raised his gun. "Hold it." He recollected from the circular the regular chiseled features, penetrating eyes and narrow brows sweeping upward at the ends. Jessup had crinkly dark hair, combed back from a widow's peak and graying at the temples. His eyes were clear gold like the coins he stole.
"Yancey Jessup?"
"Yes. That's my gun in your belt. I had it made special."
"You're under arrest for grand larceny."
Eyes twinkling, Jessup smiled wide as he looked up at the lawman's direct blue eyes and stern expression, then laughed heartily. "Chester," said Matt.
Chester quickly limped to the marshal. Matt pulled handcuffs out of his pocket. "Put these on him."
"Yessir."
"Not without a fight," said Jessup, grinning.
"Hold out your hands, Jessup," Matt ordered.
"Go back to your cow town, Marshal."
Matt leisurely holstered his gun, then with a sudden swift motion reached out and grabbed Jessup's wrists, one in each hand. Jessup kicked at Matt's legs and thrashed in his grip. Holding his wrists, Matt pushed him over backward. Chester moved in and shackled Jessup's wrists in front of him, and Matt pulled him up by his arms. Jessup quit struggling and shrugged. "What the deuce," he said.
"Where'd you hide the gold, Jessup?" said Matt.
"How about you get lost, Marshal? Lose yourself in the badlands."
"Tell me where that gold is or I'll beat it out of you."
Jessup looked intently into Matt's eyes, then said, "No you won't." Matt blinked, taken aback. "You can't conceal who you are or what you feel, Marshal. It all shows, and you're bluffing."
Searching Jessup's keen eyes, Matt realized he was no common bandit. He did not spook easily, he was smart, and he discerned the marshal's mettle clear as Matt saw his. Matt could believe reports that Jessup never broke the law before stealing the gold. He'd worked eight years as a trail-herding boss, and despite his manacled wrists, Matt's threat to trounce him and their size difference, his squared shoulders and astute visage told Matt his prisoner held the reins, or so Jessup thought. The letter from headquarters said he was aged forty-three—nine years older than Matt and ten years Chester's senior. Matt's sureness of the situation slipped, like the ground shifted under his boots. If there was any hope of recovering the gold, he'd have to reason with this man. Roughing him up wouldn't do it. As though reading Matt's thoughts, Jessup flashed a smile that lit up his face and chuckled.
"Ain't nothin' funny," Chester said grumpily.
"Take the bridle off his horse, Chester, so he can't get hold of the reins. Put a rope round the horse's neck and tie the end to my pommel."
The men mounted up and headed toward Dodge. "You'll get three years prison time, Jessup," said Matt.
"I know it won't be easy. I've never been locked up, but I'll survive. Three years hard labor for over two million in gold. It's worth it."
"Tell me where the money's hid, the judge might cut your time to eighteen months, and you could end up serving nine months if you behave."
"No. I'm the only one knows the hiding places. No one else will ever find one sack of that money, and no lawman will take the trouble to trail me all over the country, waiting for me to lead them to the gold. I hid it lots of places, spread far apart."
"Why did you do it, Jessup?"
"A sick friend wanted me to, first off. And I was tired of working, so it sounded like a fine plan. Got my first job as a stable boy, just thirteen years old. Started cowpunchin' at sixteen and trail-herding at eighteen. At thirty-five I was a trail boss. Eight years later at forty-three, I had nothing to show for it. Less than one hundred dollars in the bank. Paltry nest egg for old age, right? Now I have well over two million in gold. Plenty to share with my friend, and enough to keep me in luxury all my days. Even if some lucky body stumbles on one or two or three of my caches, they're welcome to it, cuz I can spare it and still be rich."
Matt could think of no further argument to convince Jessup to reveal where he stashed the money. Except the obvious moral one which didn't seem to trouble him, he had no reason to give up the gold and every reason to keep it. Matt could do nothing more about retrieving it and decided not to try.
"Most men start earnin' their keep as young'uns twelve, thirteen years old, got nothin' much ta show down the road," said Chester. "A hardworkin' poor man, abides by the law his life long, don't steal a mountain of gold like you done, Jessup."
"Poor man like you never would, Chester. Without knowing you, I reckon you're one of the most honest men I ever met."
"Ain't sayin' much for a man not to take what don't belong to 'im," said Chester.
"No, but I took it anyway, and I ain't returning it."
"Never heard anythin' so cussed," Chester said. "An' that friend of yours what put the notion in yer head is much to blame as you whether he's sick or not."
"Leave my friend out of it. I stole the money and I'm the one responsible."
"Yeah, and he's helpin' you spend it," said Chester.
"Shut up about him," said Jessup. Having got out what was stuck in his craw, Chester went quiet.
The air grew heavier with moisture as the sun dipped closer to the western horizon, and a tangy scent like the inside of a well filled the air. The lingering heat as the sun set kept the men's hair damp with sweat, and their shirts clung to their skin. When they came to a stream and stopped to make camp at twilight, their canteens were empty and their mouths and throats parched, and the horses were starting to froth. While Chester filled the canteens, Matt spread Jessup's bedroll on the grass, told him to sit down and tied his ankles together. "Don't try to undo these knots or I'll have to bind your arms and legs," Matt said.
They ate jerky and cold biscuits, then Matt took the key from his pocket and unlocked the handcuffs restraining Jessup's wrists in front of him. "You're taking them off?" said Jessup.
"Haveta make sure you don't escape or get hold of a gun while we sleep."
"That gun in your belt is mine, and it's a sight fancier than your old Peacemaker." Jessup rubbed his wrists when Matt removed the handcuffs. "If I get my hands on a gun, it'll be the one you stole from me. I don't want yours."
"You won't git yer hands on no gun," said Chester.
"Sure I will."
"Put your hands behind your back, Jessup," said Matt.
Jessup stiffened, holding his wrist and staring at the marshal. "I can't sleep trussed up that way. My wrists are sore." He held out his hands, and Matt peered through the gathering darkness at the red stripes circling his wrists.
"We got some bandagin' to wrap 'em roun'," said Chester. "You kin lock the irons atop the cloth, Mr. Dillon, so's they won't chafe."
"No," said Jessup.
"Go ahead, Chester," said Matt.
"Dillon, you hard-nose," Jessup said.
Chester took a tin of salve from his saddlebag, rubbed the ointment on Jessup's wrists, wrapped them in cotton strips and snugly tied the ends. "Hands behind your back, Jessup," Matt repeated.
"No."
Matt handed the manacles to Chester and took hold of Jessup's right arm. Jessup reared up on his knees and punched Matt's jaw left-fisted, not very hard since he was righthanded. Matt let go of his arm and backhanded him, and he fell stunned on his bedroll. The marshal flipped him on his belly and held his arms behind his back, and Chester snapped the handcuffs in place.
"Jessup, if we have to do this dance every time I restrain you, you're gonna have a hard time on this trip," said Matt.
"You hard-bit cur," Jessup gasped.
"Shet yer dirty mouth," said Chester.
"Chester," said Matt. He slipped the end of a rope length through the link between the handcuffs and tied it, winding the other end of the rope round his hand.
Jessup turned on his side and closed his eyes. Matt and Chester heard him snoring as they lay down. He slept soundly all night.
Dark lowering clouds like shredded rags obscured the rising sun at daybreak, and the sharp watery smell, stronger than last night, permeated the air. Though the cloud cover shielded the men from the burn of the sun, the air remained hot and oppressively humid. Matt and Chester hadn't built a fire the night before, but with a three-day ride ahead and the prisoner to tend, they needed coffee and fresh-cooked breakfast.
While Chester watered the horses at the stream and filled their feedbags with oats and corn, Matt unlocked the handcuffs from behind Jessup's back and told him to sit up and cross his wrists in front of him. "I can't," said Jessup as he lay on his side. "My shoulders hurt and my arms are dead."
Mindful of his gun in its holster and Jessup's gun in Matt's belt, the marshal sat his prisoner up and vigorously rubbed his shoulders and arms, keeping an eagle eye on Jessup's slightest movement. Holding his arms out in front of him, Jessup did not resist when Matt picked up the handcuffs. Matt left his ankles tied until they broke camp.
There were no trees anywhere in sight and no sticks to gather for the fire. Chester had collected a sack of twigs before they left Dodge. He shook some out on the ground, scraped them into a mound and touched a match to the wood. He boiled coffee and fried spuds and flatbread in fatback as the prisoner sat quietly watching.
Every three days or so on the trail, Matt and Chester used a shaving kit they shared. As Matt shaved while Chester fixed the food, Jessup shifted his keen gold eyes to the marshal. "Shave, Jessup?" said Matt. The prisoner bobbed his head, and Matt gave his angular sun-browned face a shave.
Chester dished up food and poured coffee for the marshal and Jessup, and shaved while they ate. Chester's belly twisted with hunger when he wakened, so he fixed a lot of food. He'd packed more than enough to last for Mr. Dillon, himself, and the gold thief when they caught him, 'til they got back to Dodge. Mr. Dillon and Jessup didn't want second helpings, so Chester refilled their coffee cups, piled the rest of the spuds, flatbread and fatback on his plate, and ate it all with two cups of coffee.
"Wanna guard Jessup while I clean the dishes, Chester?"
"Oh no, ah'll do that all." Chester washed the dishes in the stream, packed everything up, filled the canteens and saddled the horses, and dumped water on the fire. He stood yawning and stretching as Matt untied Jessup's ankles. "I surely could use a nap, by golly. Fallin' asleep on ma feet."
"Coffee you drank oughta keep ya awake," said Matt. "It was strong enough to curl your toes."
"Ain't doin' the job fer some reason," said Chester.
Since complaining at sunup of his sore shoulders and numb arms, and thanking the marshal for giving him a shave, Jessup had said nothing. He wasn't chatty and measured his words. When he had somewhat to say, he talked long as he thought needful, then went silent—alert and watchful, his neatly carved features neither cheerful or downcast and his countenance sure, like he held the reins even though his horse wore no bridle, just a rope around its neck tied to the marshal's saddle pommel. Jessup had a ready smile and easy laugh, yet only when the urge took him.
Matt rode slightly ahead of and a horse's length to the side of Jessup, and Chester rode a little to the rear at the prisoner's other side. Chester soon slumped in the saddle, dozing, his reins slack, and Matt didn't wake him. His horse, a smart gelding, kept his position walking near Jessup's horse. Chester slept when he was tired, he couldn't help it, and the marshal knew there was no keeping him awake. Until his partner was rested, Matt would have to fix a closer eye on the prisoner.
The clouds darkened as the day wore on, and Matt couldn't tell when the sun reached its highest peak. He calculated the passage of hours in his head and stopped by a creek when he thought it was noon. They dismounted and stretched their legs while the horses drank and cropped grass and sunflowers on the creek bank, and Chester filled the canteens. Trickling sweat in the sticky air, the men were always thirsty. They ate jerky in the saddle for lunch.
Darkness fell earlier than the night before. Clouds cloaked the moon and stars, and despite the relentless heat, Chester built a fire so they could see by its light. "Cain't have a fire 'n not bile coffee," he said.
"Coffee will keep you awake, Chester," said Matt. "You need your rest so you won't sleep in the saddle tomorrow."
"I want coffee," said Jessup.
"You do, do ya. Guess I'm outnumbered," said Matt. He needed the coffee when he thought on it. He hadn't drunk any last night and slept too sound. Good thing Jessup slept sound, too, not that he'd get far if he made an escape attempt with his ankles tied and his hands shackled behind his back. Matt sensed in his gut that Jessup would not deliberately shoot him or Chester, but the prisoner would want the handcuffs key and his gun back if he tried to flee, and if Jessup managed to sidle to Matt's bedroll while the marshal and his partner slept, one or all three of them could take a bullet in the scuffle. Matt wasn't sure why he hadn't removed the slugs from Jessup's fancy silver and pearl six-shooter, which the marshal kept in his belt, unless he thought Jessup might somehow get hold of Matt's Peacemaker, leaving him with Jessup's unloaded gun. The prisoner's vigilant self-assurance unsettled the marshal and rattled his confidence in himself as a lawman, a state so unfamiliar to him that the rattling in itself made Matt even more uneasy.