One More Sunrise (8 page)

“I sure hope that guy you called Doke will take Darryl to a doctor, Tag,” said Gib. “Where do you know him from?”

“Doke Veatch is from Scottsbluff, Gib. We all grew up together. We were good friends. I know him well. He’ll take care of Darryl, all right. Little brother will end up in jail, I’m sure, but at least he’ll still be alive.”

Tony grinned. “Well, maybe someday we can bust him out of jail, Tag.”

“We’ll just do that, my friend.”

When the horses and their riders had all had their fill of water, Tag said, “Let’s open this cash box and see if we’ve really got fifty thousand.”

Gib was still sitting on the fallen tree trunk. His wounded shoulder was no longer bleeding. Tag carried the box to the spot and sat down beside Gib. The others gathered around and watched as their leader opened the box and took out a wad of currency in small denominations. Tag counted it, and they all were pleased to find that it was exactly fifty thousand dollars.

Tag placed the money back in the box and closed the lid. “We’ll put most of this in our retirement fund, boys.”

“That’s really gonna help,” said Bart.

They all laughed and agreed.

Tag stood up, box in hand. “Fellas, now that we’ve got Gib’s wound bandaged up so it isn’t bleeding, I want to delay our return to the hideout long enough to find out about Darryl. I’m not sure where Doke will take him on the stagecoach to get him to a doctor, but I want to talk to him and find out how little brother’s doing. Wherever he takes Darryl, Doke will have to be back on that stage as soon as possible, I’m sure. How about we go back to that patch of woods near Chugwater and buy some groceries at that little store there? You boys can hide in the woods while I track Doke down and find out about Darryl.”

Everyone was in agreement. Gib was hoisted into his saddle, and the gang rode back northward toward Chugwater.

Dr. Dane Logan was occupied in one of the curtained sections of the examining room at the office in Cheyenne, removing dirt particles from a farmer’s eye. The usual stethoscope hung around his neck.

Dr. Jacob Logan had been awakened by a loud knock on his door before daylight to find a frantic rancher whose wife had gone into labor just after midnight. Dressing quickly, he had hitched his horse to the buggy and speedily followed the rancher and had not yet returned.

While dripping water into the farmer’s eye and carefully clearing away dark little specks of dirt with a cotton swab, Dr. Dane heard the door between the office and the examining room open, and footsteps moving to another part of the room. There were low voices, one of which was his mother, and another which was that of Nurse Ella Dover. There was also a low-toned male voice.

Then footsteps the doctor recognized turned in his direction.

Naomi Logan pulled back the curtain. “How’s it going, son?”

“Just fine, Mom. Mr. Webber’s eye will be fine.”

“Good. We … ah … have an emergency.”

Dane glanced over his shoulder. “What is it, Mom?”

“An outlaw was just brought in with a bullet in his back. He’s part of a gang who held up a stagecoach over by Chugwater a little while ago. Got himself shot while they were pulling the robbery. Rest of them got away. He is bleeding profusely. I had the man who brought him in put him on the examining table in section three. Ella is with him, and doing what she can to stop the blood flow.”

“Okay, Mom. I’m almost through here. Tell Ella I’ll be there in two minutes or less.”

Dr. Dane finished cleaning the farmer’s eye within another minute, sent him on his way, and hurried toward section three. He saw a young man standing just outside the curtain, watching him as he approached.

The doctor paused. “You’re the one who brought the wounded man in, I assume.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“And he’s an outlaw.”

“Yes, sir. Got shot like your mother just told you. I explained it to her while I was carrying him in here.”

Dr. Dane nodded. “You can tell me all about it later. Right now I’ve got to go to work on him. You can come inside the curtain if you want. Just don’t get close to the table.”

“All right.”

When Dr. Dane stepped through the curtain, he saw the unconscious young man lying facedown and Ella Dover working furiously to cut the fabric away from the bullet hole. She was also pressing a clean cloth on the gaping wound, trying desperately to stem the flow. The sickening coppery smell of blood was strong.

Dr. Dane moved to the opposite side of the table from Ella and pressed his fingers on the side of the patient’s neck. “Pulse is very weak.”

Ella glanced at him. “I don’t think he’s going to make it, Doctor. He’s in bad shape. He’s obviously lost a lot of blood.”

“I’ve got to get that slug out,” said Dr. Dane, picking up a metal probe from a small cart next to the table.

Ella wiped blood from around the wound, then watched as the doctor went after the slug.

Suddenly the patient jerked, stiffened, then went limp.

Dr. Dane quickly turned him over and attempted to get him breathing again by massaging his chest.

Ella looked at the young man standing close by and shook her head.

After a minute or so, Dr. Dane ceased massaging the chest, placed the earpieces of the stethoscope in his ears and pressed the microphone over the heart, listening intently. After a brief moment, he sighed, shook his head, and looked at Ella. “He’s dead.”

He turned to the pallid-faced young man. “I’d guess by the size of the hole in his back that it was a thirty-eight caliber bullet. You can tell me the story now.”

“My name is Doke Veatch, Doctor. I’m the shotgunner on the Wells Fargo stage that runs between Fort Collins and Casper. We were on our way north. A gang of robbers forced us to stop just south of Chugwater and robbed us. Not only took our money, but also our handguns. Left me with an empty shotgun and the driver with an empty rifle. When they were riding away, one of the male passengers—who had managed to hide his spare revolver inside the stage—grabbed it and opened fire on them. He hit this one, dropping him from his horse. The others didn’t stop. Just kept on riding.”

Dr. Dane nodded. “You ever see any of the robbers before?”

Doke felt his spine stiffen. “No, sir. I have no idea who they were.”

Ella was covering the body with a sheet.

Dr. Dane said, “Doke, I need to have our sheriff come and see if he knows who this outlaw is. He will want to know about the incident and he will want to talk to you.”

Doke shrugged. “Sure.”

The doctor excused himself, went through the office and stepped out onto the boardwalk. He called to a man walking by and asked him to go tell Sheriff Jack Polson he needed him to come to the office right away.

Dane was talking to his mother at her desk when the sheriff came through the door. “What have we got, Doctor?”

“A corpse, Sheriff. One you need to know about.”

The doctor led Sheriff Polson to the examining room where Ella Dover was cleaning blood off the table next to the lifeless form that was covered with the sheet.

Dr. Dane introduced the sheriff to Doke Veatch, explaining that Doke was shotgunner on the Wells Fargo stage that ran the route from Fort Collins to Casper.

Polson shook Doke’s hand. “Sure. Your face is familiar. I’ve seen you on the stage several times when it’s been here in Cheyenne.”

Doke smiled. “I’ve seen you too, Sheriff.”

“I’ve met your driver, but I can’t think of his name.”

“Buck Cummons.”

Polson snapped his fingers. “Yes! Buck Cummons. He’s been with Wells Fargo for quite a while, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, sir. Over twenty years.”

Dr. Dane pulled the sheet down, exposing the face of the dead man. “I’ll let Doke tell you the story, Sheriff.”

Doke told the story, exactly as he had told it to the doctor, adding that they were carrying the metal cash box containing fifty thousand dollars from the Bank of Fort Collins to the Bank of Casper, which the robbers somehow knew was aboard.

The sheriff rubbed his chin, leaned close to the lifeless form, and studied the facial features. He turned to Doke. “How many robbers were there?”

“Six, including this one.”

Polson rubbed his chin again and looked down once more at the face of the corpse. “Sounds like the Tag Moran gang to me. They’re the only gang of six that are robbing banks in the territory. Though I have no photographs of any of the gang’s members, I feel certain from the descriptions sent to me by lawmen in Colorado and Nebraska that this is indeed one of the Moran brothers.”

Doke felt his stomach roll over.

Polson rubbed his chin thoughtfully once more. “Strange.”

Doke frowned. “What do you mean, Sheriff?”

“As far as I know, the Moran gang has never held up a stagecoach before. They concentrate on banks.” He paused and shook his head. “But of course, as you explained, you were carrying the metal box containing fifty thousand dollars that somehow they had found out about. This is no doubt why they held up the stage.”

“I would say so, sir.”

“I’ll wire the bank of Fort Collins about the robbery, even though I know Wells Fargo will do so as soon as they learn about it in Wheatland.”

“Yes, sir,” said Doke. “Well, if it’s all right with you, I’ll take this dead outlaw’s horse and ride north. I need to catch up to the stagecoach by dawn tomorrow morning before Buck has to head back south from Casper.”

“Sure,” said the sheriff. “Just let Wells Fargo have the horse.”

Doke nodded. “Fine.”

Dr. Dane laid a hand on Doke’s shoulder. “I want to commend you, Doke, for the compassion you showed this outlaw. Most men wouldn’t have bothered with him. They’d just have let him die and said good riddance.”

Doke rubbed the back of his neck. “I just couldn’t go off and leave the man lying on the ground, bleeding, Doctor. I had to try to save his life.”

“Well, indeed you are to be commended,” said Polson. “It was a genuine act of mercy.”

Doke smiled. “I guess there’s enough callousness in this world, Sheriff. Well, I’d better get going.”

Doke bid good-bye to Ella Dover, then the doctor and the sheriff followed him into the office, where he also bid good-bye to Naomi Logan.

Both men stepped out onto the boardwalk and waved to the Wells Fargo shotgunner as he rode away, riding north out of town.

Dr. Dane turned to the sheriff. “I’ve read a lot about this Moran gang. They seem to be quite elusive. Not one of them has ever been in jail.”

“Right. They’re slick for sure. But one of these days they’ll make a mistake and get themselves caught. Not too long ago, I was in contact with Chief U.S. Marshal John Brockman in Denver about all the banks the Moran gang have robbed right here in Laramie County. He is aware of every one of their robberies in
Wyoming, Nebraska, and Colorado. He told me if the gang isn’t caught soon by lawmen and posses in the towns where they hold up banks, he will have to form his own posse of deputy U.S. marshals and go after them.”

Dr. Dane nodded. “Do I understand correctly that in the two years this Moran gang has been holding up banks, they have not yet killed anyone?”

“Yes. Truly amazing, isn’t it? But sooner or later, someone will resist them during a robbery, and the gang will kill them.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that.”

“Well,” said the sheriff, “I’ve got to get back to the office. I’ll send a couple of my deputies to pick up the outlaw’s body and take it to the undertaker for burial. The county will foot the bill.”

Just before the sun lifted its fiery rim above the eastern horizon the next morning, Buck Cummons was boarding his passengers in Casper for the trip south when he noticed a rider galloping his horse down the street.

He recognized the horse first, then seconds later, he was able to make out the face of the rider.

Doke Veatch skidded the horse to a halt close to the stage and swung down from the saddle. Moving toward the driver, he said, “Morning, Buck. I’m glad I made it before you pulled out. The sheriff in Cheyenne told me to give this horse to Wells Fargo, so I’ll just run in and tell our friendly agent that he’s got a new horse.”

Buck studied Doke’s face. “You look pretty tired.”

“I’m that all right. Darryl Moran died at the doctor’s office in Cheyenne, Buck. I had to ride all night in order to get here in time.”

Buck chuckled. “Well, I have a hard time feeling sorry for an outlaw when he gets himself killed. Anyway, you can sleep sitting up there beside me in the box while we head south.”

Doke led Darryl Moran’s horse into the Fargo corral, then
went inside and informed the agent that he had a new horse.

Soon the stagecoach—with six passengers aboard—pulled out of Casper and headed toward Douglas, which was some sixty miles away. Doke slouched on the seat next to Buck and dozed for a while, then sat up, yawning.

Buck looked at him and grinned. “Feel better?”

Doke yawned again. “Yep. Think I can stay awake now.”

Buck brought up the Tag Moran gang, commenting on how people all over Wyoming were talking about them, and that all the banks in the territory were tense because they never knew where the gang would strike next.

Doke yawned once more and nodded.

Buck said, “Tell me more about your childhood and your acquaintance with the Moran brothers.”

“Well, we were neighbors in Scottsbluff. As I told you, we grew up together. We were schoolmates and spent a lot of time together. I haven’t seen them in about four years. I don’t know who the other two men in the gang are.”

The stage hit a bump, causing both men to have to adjust their position on the seat. Buck lifted his hat and ran splayed fingers through his hair. “So you and the Moran brothers were pretty close friends, I take it.”

“Mm-hmm. Especially me and Tag. He saved my life once.”

“Oh?”

“Mm-hmm. When we were boys, we used to swim in the North Platte River together in the summertime a lot. One day Tag, his three brothers, and I were swimming in the North Platte. Tag was seventeen and I was twelve. There had been a lengthy, severe rainstorm in southeast Wyoming and northwest Nebraska the day before, and there was a lot of debris floating in the river. All of us had been swimming for about an hour when we decided to crawl up on the bank and rest.”