Chapter 31: One Man’s Justice

Dave Stockton was half asleep and beginning to sway in the saddle. Small wonder, as it was close to noon and he’d been riding since dawn, with only a short break. That, plus the heat, was more than enough for a man who wasn’t the most hardened of riders.

There had been no choice for Stockton, his goal being unreachable by train or stagecoach. Now it was in sight, though that was not much comfort, as the town of Simpson, Arizona was hardly the end of the rainbow for a respectable man. The place was a known nest of brigands, a remote spot with no law officer, the nearest one being over fifty miles away. That gentleman, Jonas Hawkins, was a conscientious fellow, but no fool. He had many calls on his time. Perhaps he should have visited Simpson, but he could not rid himself of the feeling that if he did, his exit from the place might well be horizontal.

Two miles from the town, Stockton dismounted and spent five minutes performing a routine of bending and stretching exercises. He considered it important to appear sound in wind, limb and mind at any place where he was a stranger. Failure to do that might give the wrong signal to any human vultures around.

Deciding to review his position before riding on, Stockton walked to a nearby rock, made himself as comfortable as possible on it, then did something unusual for him. Normally, he smoked only three times a day, after meals, but the present commission was preying on his mind – and anyway, another half-hour couldn’t make much difference to the outcome. Pulling a short black cigar from his shirt pocket, he lit up and pondered.

Since the retirement of his mentor and predecessor as top operator of the Calloway Detective Agency, Dave Stockton had chalked up a string of successes. Now he had a nagging feeling that he had perhaps met his match. Like most men on the right side of the law, he knew that many of the criminals in the West were cowboys who had fallen upon hard times. They resorted to wrongdoing because they couldn’t find work of the kind they understood. Generally, they were incompetent felons and tracking them down wasn’t too difficult. But the others were professionals who planned and executed their work on a businesslike basis.

It had been a long and arduous chase. Stockton had been trailing his quarry for over a month, sustained by the knowledge that what he had done a dozen times before, he could do again. However, he was aware that the man he was pursuing now was quite different from most of those he hunted.

Vincent Cork had, as far as was known to anyone save perhaps himself, pulled off four jobs, all characterised by a high degree of originality and audacity. It was the last of these that had led to the offer of the current high reward and had put Dave Stockton on his trail.

Cork had performed the remarkable feat of robbing, in the same afternoon, two banks thirty miles apart. There had been nothing casual about the feat. It resulted from careful preparation and could have been halted in mid-flow, had that been necessary. Stockton considered the matter for the umpteenth time. The chain of events had been pieced together by the official forces of law and order and the few witnesses involved.

It seemed that Cork, posing as an Easterner seeking to enter the cattle business, had several times taken the train up and down the line concerned. Finally, he had registered at two hotels, one in each of his target spots. There was general agreement that he had played his part well. He’d impressed everyone as a free-spending, well-spoken fellow, whose regular and invariably modest card playing losses had been treated with mild amusement by the gambling fraternities in both places.

As far as could be established afterwards, Cork had retired for his customary afternoon rest in his hotel room at the northern end of his beat. Half an hour later, a shotgun-bearing man in shabby range garb had held up the local bank, then vanished among the back-lots. Five minutes after the incident, Cork had strolled out of his hotel, noting that the town was in uproar.

Nobody associated the fashionably-dressed amiable Easterner with the desperado who had just carried off the bank’s cash. And no-one noticed the ladder lying flat below Cork’s rear room. In a moment of striking boldness, Vincent Cork had accosted the sheriff, asking what had happened. On hearing the news, the brazen culprit had wandered off to the railroad station, where he’d expressed his shock and outrage to the deputy sheriff, who had been despatched to the spot to ensure that the miscreant did not get away by train.

Even after a major felony, most people go about their normal business. Vincent Cork caught the southbound afternoon train. He alighted at the next stop and went to his room. Ten minutes later, the bank, fifty yards from his hotel was robbed, exactly as its neighbour to the north had been. Again, the range-clad stranger who did the deed had disappeared and again, shortly afterwards, the immaculately-dressed Cork had left his hotel room, exchanging the odd pleasantry with the desk clerk before making his way through an alarmed throng to the town’s premier saloon.

Not until three hours had gone by did a member of the hotel staff notice that Cork’s rear billet was above a stack of timber which gave easy access to the bedrooms. Meantime, while the hubbub went on around him, Vincent Cork enjoyed a few drinks before ambling off with his carpet bag to catch the evening train, which took him further south. It was a whole day before anyone realised that he never reached the next town, to which he’d booked a ticket. Unnoticed by any of his travelling companions, he had disembarked from the back of the train at a spot where he knew it had to move slowly and, unnoticed by anyone joined his waiting horse and made good his escape.

Cork’s total haul had been thirteen thousand, nine hundred and twenty dollars, a sum which had caused the banks to combine resources in an effort to secure his capture. Calloway’s agency had been enlisted and Dave Stockton had drawn the case. He had traced his man to Simpson. Now he was almost there. Maybe Cork had already left the place, but Stockton’s instinct suggested otherwise. The town’s isolation inclined him to think that this was where he would find his man. He knew that Simpson lacked law officers, but was not unduly concerned. In his experience, such men had varying attitudes. Sometimes they were pleased to have private help, while on other occasions they regarded it as unwarranted meddling.

Finishing his smoke, Stockton remounted and covered the last stretch, arriving at the livery barn to find a wizened little fellow slouching against the open door, staring into space. On establishing that this man was in charge here, the detective dismounted and handed over his animal. In response to his attempts to strike up a conversation, he got barely intelligible grunts. He paid the hair-raising cost of a day’s care for his horse – inside and fed. The liveryman expressed no surprise when his new customer wanted to know exactly where the animal was to be stabled. Such caution was common among the sort of visitors this town received.

Stockton decided that there was no point in posing any more questions to the taciturn horse-minder, so unstrapped his saddle-roll and stepped into the main street. Midway along one side was a shabby-looking building proclaiming itself a hotel. That would have to do. As it happened, the newcomer would have had little choice anyway. Tramping along, he found the door open. Inside, to the right, was a reception desk, beyond which was a staircase leading to the bedrooms. To the left was a small lobby, furnished with two battered tables and half a dozen moth-eaten upholstered armchairs. Behind the desk, sitting on a stool and reading a novel, was a young fair-haired fellow. He looked up, but made no attempt to offer a welcome. Stockton nodded. “Afternoon. I’d like a room, a rear one if you have it. Might be quieter than the front.”

“Ain’t too rowdy anywhere, mister, but you can have number four. That’s as far back as she goes. Two dollars a day, in advance. Cheaper by the week – ten dollars.”

Stockton pushed over a gold eagle. “Make it a week. If I don’t stay that long, you can keep what’s left.”

That seemed to make the young fellow slightly friendlier. “Mighty thoughtful. You got to sign in.” He pushed a register across the counter, flicking a finger at an inkstand and pen. Stockton made a show of laboriously filling in the date, name and hometown columns. The desk clerk, who was accustomed to reading words upside down, produced a wry grin. “Obliged, Mr ... Smith. I guess the J stands for John?”

Stockton gave him the blandest of looks. “That’s right. John Smith.”

“Common name hereabouts. We generally have a few in town. I believe there are two others right now.”

“Big family,” Stockton replied.

“True enough. From Chicago, I see. You’re a long way from home, Mr Smith.”

“So I am. Had to leave for health reasons. Weak chest. Heard good things about the climate here.”

“You heard right. A lot of men come here on account of their health. Funny thing, they all complain about the same thing back home. Too much lead content in the air.”

Stockton grinned. “Dangerous stuff, lead. Especially when it comes in certain ways. Where can a man get a little action here?” He made hand movements simulating the riffling of cards.

“We got four saloons,” the clerk replied. “Two of ‘em are graveyards. The third gets pretty busy Saturday nights, but I’d say the only place that might interest you is Regan’s, just beyond the intersection on this side. Plenty going on there, day and night. There’s faro, blackjack and roulette and poker – mostly five-card draw.”

“Suits me,” said Stockton. He took the proffered key, tramped up to the room, dropped his saddle-roll onto the bed, swilled hands and face, went back downstairs and crossed the street to an eatery. The place was run by a hefty middle-aged woman who though far from jovial, was a first-class cook. She provided steak, roast potatoes, greens and apple pie, all beyond reproach. Stockton did justice to her efforts then returned to his room. Two cups of coffee with the meal had done little to counteract his fatigue and by two o’clock he was fast asleep.

It was after five when Stockton awoke. That seemed a reasonable enough time to look around the place while there was probably still some activity before the likely mid-evening lull. Leaving the hotel, he ambled along the main street. He was passing a store when a young woman emerged from its doorway and almost collided with him. Not devoid of the usual male instincts, he noted the straight, imperious carriage, the fine head of auburn hair and the fashionable dress. What could a man do? Stockton made a show of doffing his hat and looking awkward. “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he said. “I hope I didn’t startle you.”

The woman smiled and was about to reply, when a man stepped out of the store behind her. “Something wrong, Ellen?” he asked, his voice a striking gravelly bass.

“No, nothing at all,” she answered.

Stockton replaced his hat, but instead of going on his way, he stood staring at the man. Calloway’s leading operative was familiar with Vincent Cork’s description, which was in most respects unremarkable. The fugitive was of average height and build, had black hair, normally short, was clean-shaven and had no scars or obvious bodily peculiarities. However, almost everyone who had been in contact with him had commented on his green eyes and extraordinarily deep voice. Stockton was looking at the first characteristic and had just heard the other. He was rooted to his spot, eyes wide.

“Is everything all right, sir?” said the man. “You look surprised.” That voice again.

Stockton pulled himself together. “I’m fine,” he said. “Please excuse me. I didn’t mean to inconvenience the lady. I’m sorry.”

The man nodded. “No problem, I’m sure. Shall we go, Ellen?” The two walked off arm in arm across the intersection and along the side street.

Aware that he had blundered, but reasoning that he could hardly make matters better by hurrying off, Stockton hovered at the crossing, watching the couple’s departure. It was a short vigil. Within a minute, The pair stopped outside a house, the woman extracted something from a net bag and pointed at her left eye. The man produced a handkerchief and removed the offending object, then the woman handed something to him, opened the gate and went into the house. The man began to retrace his steps.

Stockton walked back along the main street, stopping to stare at gunsmith’s window display until he established which way Cork was headed. That turned out to be towards the hotel, so the detective ambled along, keeping his distance. Cork was carrying the small object he had taken from the woman. Without pausing, he held it up to his face, then put it into a pocket and wandered on, finally crossing the street and entering an alley. Forcing himself to maintain his casual pace, Stockton reached the spot, to find that Cork was not in sight.

Concluding that there was nothing more to be done for the moment, Stockton swung round and set off back along the main street. Deciding that his best course was to blend into the scenery, he went to his room, freshened up and sauntered out again, going back along the street to the saloon recommended by the hotel clerk.