Chapter 2: Assembling Guns
Hayes sat in his small room at the local bar, reading over the newest batch of papers and reports. The Marshals, a battered and rough looking pair named Brian Cobb and 'Texas' McBride had already arrived and were downstairs, waiting on his last man. For the Bureau, six men had arrived, McCoy, Chamberlain, Dupont, Fitzroy, Bauer, and Decker, all of whom had been given lodgings either with local Policemen, or in the bar. Fordham's other two men, a pair named Reynolds and Pope, were going with them. The last man they were waiting on, Ewell, was due in shortly.
So far it looked like a good group. All of the men had been under fire before and had done well. All were fairly good pistol or rifle shots, and most had experience in both urban work and out in the countryside, though none could match the Marshals. Hayes was satisfied with them.
To make things better, Fordham had made good on his weapons. A shipment of M1911s and Springfield rifles had arrived, along with some Evans repeaters, and they had taken their pick. The Marshals had stuck with their personal weapons mostly, but the Bureau men took their pick, all of them brandishing powerful Colt pistols and other weapons.
Hayes shook his head. He'd been spending the past two evenings reading and talking with Hart, trying to get an idea on both West Elizabeth and New Austin, learning roads, towns, landmarks, everything he could. He was quick learner, but still, he knew nothing beat first hand experience.
He'd also read up on Jack Marston as much as he could. The man's story almost sounded like a damn tragedy. As a boy, he'd been raised by outlaws. For a sadly short amount of time, only two years, he'd been able to have a normal life before the government had taken him hostage and set his father out to kill his former gang. When his father returned, he'd only had a few days before Edgar Ross came to finish the job. Young Jack buried his father and their ranch hand on the same day. Later he dropped off the map, reappearing only occasionally, before returning to bury his mother at 19. There, he disappeared almost completely, with only descriptions that sounded like him from Mrs. Ross and Edgar's brother, and some others. He wouldn't appear again for another two months, when he began robberies.
And some of those were damned impressive. Marston worked alone, and usually was able to gun down large numbers of men by himself when things got violent. Jack Marston had become a new name to be feared, so much so that his last couple of robberies had been over in minutes, with no fight. Hayes noted it all, had to know what his opponent was capable of.
A series of knocks came at his door and John Hart walked in, dressed in different clothes, an animal hide coat with his Marshal's badge on it, brown pants, and his hat. A bandoleer was strapped across his chest and a Springfield was slung across his back. He nodded to Hayes.
"Got some news. Jack Marston robbed another bank wagon, north of Fort Mercer."
…
They dismounted at the site of the robbery. The survivors and the dead had already been taken to Armadillo. All that was left the wagon, blood stains and shell casings. Hayes, Hart, Cobb, McBride, Dupont and Decker had all come to survey the area, along with the man who had found it, a guy named Murphy.
The Wagon was fairly well destroyed, the rear wheels blown off. There was a small crater and scorch mark in the ground. Hart walked over to it and squatted down, peering into the wagon. The interior still stank with the smell of blood, and the lock of safe-box had been busted off. There were a handful of loose dollars scattered throughout the interior, strays that had been missed. A single .45 Schofield casing sat in the dust a few feet away
Hayes got up and walked away from the wagon, surveying the ground. He could see a few spots that indicated bloodstains, though traffic had disrupted them mostly. He nudged the spots a couple of times and was rewarded with the occasional shell casing.
He kept going, until at ten feet away he stood at a broken cart. There he found a small pile of shell casings, those belonging to a .45 Schofield. He nodded and turned back to Hart and the others, who were watching him patiently. "I know what happened."
…
Marston stood by the cart, watching the bank wagon coming, slowly and surely. He had taken off his coat, trying look unthreatening as possible, which always helped with this particular ruse. There were five he could see, three on horseback and two on the wagon, not a big group. About ten feet away, Jack called out.
"Howdy! My cart broke down, ya'll mind giving me a lift?"
The bankers, Pinkertons by Jack's guess, stopped, the apparent leader staring at him intently, looking for a gun and not seeing one. He relaxed, but only slightly. "What happened?"
Jack laughed helplessly and motioned to the wagon. "Damn cougar scared the horse somethin' fierce and it went nuts. Broke the wheel in a rut and ran the hell off." He shook his head sadly. "It was a damn fine horse."
The leader nodded his head understandingly. Cougars were common around here and the young man was lucky it hadn't come after him. "Tell you what son, you wait here while we make our delivery and we'll send a coach back to you, that okay?"
Jack shook his head and sighed. "You sure I can't get a ride mister? It's a dangerous place to be with no gun."
"Yeah, sorry kid, not a whole lot else we can do." The leader said, seeming generally sorry, and Jack grimaced. He wouldn't enjoy that part of the job.
"Jesus Bill, just leave him already!" A man on the wagon yelled, and Jack immediately decided that he would enjoy that part.
"Well Mister, how about you just give me the money in the wagon?" Jack asked, innocently, and the Pinkertons froze, the words sinking in. All of them went for their guns.
Jack drew his Schofield from behind his back and gunned down the asshole on the wagon, a shot to the head. He shifted his aim and shot to the rear of the wagon. He hit his target, a small bundle of dynamite he had hidden in the brush. The wagon shot forward, the wheels blasted to pieces and the other man being thrown off like a poor son of a bitch.
Jack turned and took out Bill and the other riders, shoulder shots that threw them off their horses and into the dust. He shifted his aim and wounded the last wagon man, who was still stunned.
In only a couple of seconds, it was over. Jack broke open the Schofield and reloaded it, moving towards wounded men who were only just recovering. He casually scooped up their revolvers and tossed them away. The leader, Bill watched him do it.
"You didn't kill us?"
"You're just doing your job," Jack replied, the Schofield still in hand. "And I'm doing mine. Nothing personal Mister." Bill snorted and then winced. Jack laid out some bandages and supplies from his satchel on the ground and didn't say anything else, walking towards the wagon.
A shot rang out from the wagon, and narrowly missed Jack, grazing his shirt. He twisted and fired off a single shot, taking the sixth man, hiding in the wagon, cleanly through the neck. The man was dead before he hit the ground. Jack reloaded, a lesson from Ricketts, and walked forward, the revolver held low but ready. No movement.
He opened the door and pulled out the safe-box. The box was heavy and solidly built, but the lock itself was cheap, so Jack simply hammered it off with the butt of his Schofield. It fell uselessly in the dirt. $400 cash dollars sat in front of him, mostly higher bills, but enough ones to look unappealing. Jack quickly and thoroughly shoveled what he wanted into his satchel, keeping anything bigger than a $5 from being blown away. A handful of ones escaped back into the wagon. Jack simply shrugged and shoved the box back inside. He got up, walking back to his cart, where he grabbed the rest of his gear and clothing. He turned back to Bill, who was bandaging his wound. "I'll make sure Armadillo sends someone soon." and he walked away, whistling for his black stallion as he went.
…
Hayes waited for the replies. Cobb and McBride seemed to scoff, Dupont and Decker seemed to be digesting his readings of the scene, and Hart seemed genuinely impressed. He nodded to Hayes.
"You read the ground well Gene. Damned impressive."
Hayes nodded his thanks. McBride spoke up.
"So you're telling us Marston spared four of the Pinkertons and even sent help back for them? Thats bull." Cobb nodded and Hayes grinned cockily at them.
"Mister Cob, Mister McBride, you two know anything about Jack Marston?"
"We know he's a murdering scum and he needs a tight rope 'round his ne-"
"So you know nothing." Hayes interrupted, harshly, and the two seemed taken aback by the sudden change in cocky smile was still there, but the expression was colder, angrier. "You two ever hear of profiling? I bet not." His tone switched now, like he was talking to children. McBride bristled, while Cobb, though offended, wasn't ignoring him.
Hayes continued. "It's something we started doing back east. We build a dossier on the men we hunt, learn how they think and act, patterns and behaviors, etc. Mr. Hart here was using it for years, just long before we named it. Let me make this clear. Cold blooded murder isn't Marston. He'll kill, yes, but in every example, someone antagonized him or outright opened fire on him, or attacked someone else in front of him. He prefers wounding to killing. And this wouldn't be the first time he actually had aid sent back for wounded men."
McBride scoffed, but Cobb spoke up. "Sorry. Never worked with you Bureau fellows before. Nothing personal."
Hayes nodded, and turned to Murphy. "Any chance we can see those Pinkertons?" Murphy nodded.
"Yeah, I think we can do that."
…
They entered Armadillo at around 5 in the afternoon, and the town saloon was lively. Murphy rode up to Hayes and nodded to the building. "Ya'll can wait in there, I'll see if any of the Pinkerton boys can talk."
Hayes nodded his thanks, and the men tied their horses outside. Hayes stopped to scan the ground. This was where Marston had killed those men just a short time ago. He shook his head and followed the others into the saloon, bumping into a man in black coat and black hat on his way out.
The other man, a younger man was apparently deep in thought, and bumped into Hayes hard, knocking his hat off. Before Hayes could even begin to get it, the other man scooped it up and handed it to him. "Sorry about that Mister."
Hayes dusted it off and put it back on. "Not a problem. Have a good evening." The other man returned the sentiment and Hayes entered the saloon, following Hart to a table while the others went to the bar. The two sat down, and held up a hand to the bartender, indicating for a shot glass of whiskey each while they waited.
…
As he walked away from the saloon, Jack Marston thought back to the man he had bumped into and shook his head. He really slipped up, was that close to a person and didn't even notice him. If the man had been out to kill him, he'd have been in deep trouble.
Jack laughed softly. He sure was lucky the man in the suit and slouch hat didn't have any such goal in mind.
…
They were there for an hour before Murphy returned with another man, his shoulder bandaged. Hayes recognized the description as Bill the Pinkerton. The two joined them at the table, and Hayes immediately bought them both a drink.
Bill nodded his thanks. "Well, I heard you men wanted to talk with me?"
Hart nodded. "Yes, Mr...?"
"Young."
"Right. You were shot by Jack Marston in his robbery the other day."
Bill Young nodded. "Yes sir. Wrote up a report to my boss, have a copy here." He began to reach for a satchel hanging from his side, winced, and looked to Murphy. The other man pulled it out of the satchel, and handed it to Hayes, who began to read it, while Hart asked Bill more questions. Halfway through it, his eyes froze on one spot.
"Mr. Young, it says here he wore a black hat with a duck feather in it, that correct?" Bill nodded, and Hayes continued. "Describe it for me."
"Average sized brim, worn, white feather." Bill reported, and Hayes set the report down and turned to Hart.
"He was here. We passed him on the way out. Hell, I bumped into him."