Caleb knew about the siege of Vicksburg.It was the last major Confederate stronghold on the Mississippi.After it fell, the Union gained control of almost the entire river.Not long after that, Lee was defeated in Gettysburg.
“After they sewed him up, he went back to his unit and fought under Sherman for the remainder of the war.By the end of it, he’d distinguished himself as a fighter and a leader.He was a lieutenant when he was discharged with his regiment in Washington.”
Caleb now understood better why no one had caught this gang yet.“How does a man like that become an outlaw?Everyone knows that plenty on the rebel side never stopped fighting, but this fella should have had a future for himself.”
“I am getting to it,” the preacher said.“After the war, he went west, like a lot of folk.Ended up prospecting for gold in Montana.That’s where the bad blood started.”
“What happened?”
“Some five years after he got out there, he had an ugly encounter with a couple of Wells Fargo men.”
“That’s all a little vague, ain’t it?”
“There’s more.His men told me that these two Wells Fargo agents had worked out a scheme to help themselves.They were stealing miners’ gold that was being shipped along the Montana Trail to Utah.”
Caleb knew from years back that Montana stagecoaches made for tempting targets.They carried passengers loaded down with gold dust or cash, and the strongboxes were generally a treasure trove of mail containing more cash, land deeds, and stock certificates.When Wells Fargo expanded, buying up other stagecoach companies, they hired all sorts of men to work as agents and provide safe routes.It was no secret that some of them fellas worked both sides of the law.
“He sent a letter to the company bosses in Frisco,” Preacher continued.“In it he complained about the thieves and criminals they’d put in charge of the trail.Well, it got back to those fellows in Montana.They sent a gang of men with shotguns to quiet him for good.”
“But they couldn’t.”
“Nope.”
“So he’s been robbing their stagecoaches ever since,” Caleb finished the story for him.
“They told me they’ve been moving about—Montana, Utah, and even California and Oregon—just to stay ahead of them.That was before coming here.”
Caleb wondered if the judge had any idea about the history of these men.He wondered if he’d care.
“Do you know how long they’ve been at it?”
“One of them said about five years.”
“And never been caught.”
“That’s because they’re gentleman robbers.”
“Gentlemen robbers,” Caleb repeated, almost choking on the word.“What makes you say that?”
“Well, think about it.Here they are, taking in…what, thousands of dollars a year.But they swore to me they never once fired a weapon to kill no one during any robbery.”
“I have a hard time believing that.”
The preacher shrugged.“That’s what they told me, and I believe them.”
Caleb shook his head and pushed up to his feet.Two men were dead.Someone else inside that stagecoach was wounded.Maybe there was some truth to this story about how these fellas got started, but he’d also heard that the gang had lost one of their men in a recent robbery.He asked Preacher about that.
“That must have been since I was there.”
And maybe, since then, they’d changed their ways.
Grief could do that to men.So could fear.So could following one wrong choice with another until the trail back disappeared behind you.
“I hope this helps you decide how you want to proceed, Mr.Marlowe.I know when fighting starts, a man doesn’t always have a chance to ask questions.I just wanted you to go in there knowing what I know.”
Caleb nodded and helped the old man to his feet.The minister was still very shaky, but he seemed to do better as they walked.
“But you never met their leader,” he asked as they neared their camp.
