Chapter 1

I rode into Devil’s Paw, Arizona Territory, looking as sorry as the rest because a finely dressed man would be suspect in such a place. Gone, the silver-banded black Stetson and the black frock coat. Gone also, the white shirt and tie. In their place, the clothes of a man living rough: worn wool pants, blue cotton shirt, kerchief, and sweat-stained hat no longer white. Add several days’ beard and no bath for a week and I entered Day’s Saloon without notice. At the bar I threw back a whiskey, poured a second, and only then turned to look about the room.

As I was in search of a particular fellow, it was not a casual viewing. I’d been shown a picture of Merle Bonner, suspected stage robber, by my employer, Martin Whitlock of the Whitlock Detective Agency out of Denver. “Taken when he entered Yuma Prison to do five for bank robbery,” the boss had said. “Released eight months ago, which is about when Pratt’s Express reports their coaches starting to get robbed.”

I’d studied the picture, noting Bonner was maybe twenty going in and baring the familiar disgruntled look of a lawbreaker who, much to his surprise, has been caught. There was defiance, too, like Bonner refusing to accept his fate, even as he wore stripes. One thing I’ve learned, though, is you can’t tell from a man’s expression if he’s truly tough, as the meanest man I ever encountered smiled like he’d just been kissed.

“Word is Bonner has a gang operating out of Devil’s Paw in Arizona Territory,” Whitlock had continued. “I want you to go there and infiltrate that gang so we can set up an arrest at their next job. The town marshal isn’t much, so you’ll have to count on Bob Shull, Pima County Sheriff. I haven’t tipped him to our operation as yet. That’ll be done once you have information for me.”

Whitlock knew my work as I’d been in his employ six years and had done jobs in Utah, Wyoming, Colorado, and New Mexico. Only once had I a case in Arizona, so there would be some learning involved. I always worked alone, devising methods to get in with bad fellows, mostly posing as an outlaw on the run. I’d never failed the boss and didn’t intend to now, thus I bore a keen eye in Day’s Saloon.

When, after half an hour, I’d gained no sight of Bonner, I went out onto Main Street, which was sleeping as towns go, because Devil’s Paw was no ordinary place. Set near the Mescal Mountains just south of the Gila River, well north of Tombstone yet not so far north as Globe, it was favored by men on the other side of the law and thus lacked much of the everyday commerce of most towns. Things were loose, businesses mainly saloons and brothels, with a store or two, a livery, couple eating places, one hotel, and nary a church. Being not yet noon, men laid around between bouts of drinking, and the music that filled saloons at night was absent. I figured another couple hours and the place would start hopping.

With my horse stabled and fed, I sought a room and snoozed a few hours as I’d had a long ride down from Denver.

* * * *

When I woke near dusk, I didn’t clean up. It was when I headed toward a meal that I saw some men ride in, and there in the lead was Merle Bonner. A little hoot escaped me at such good fortune, but I’d had experience with circumstance and knew she could surprise you. Most often I’d spent weeks, even months, looking for a fellow, but on occasion it was the other way around. One time the fellow I was looking for sat next to me at a lunch counter. Watching Bonner and his gang pass by, I decided food could wait.

I have a quick eye, as a detective must, picking up on things others might miss. Merle Bonner rode straight in the saddle, walking his horse like he was on parade, which here, in who-cares Devil’s Paw, I suppose he was. A clean-shaven younger fellow rode beside him, more relaxed, not caring so much, while the two behind were laughing at something they’d spotted. I looked over to see a drunk relieving himself in the street. All this I took in while appearing to merely glance about the street, and as they moved on, I did, too.

The four passed Day’s Saloon to stop further down at Evergreen’s Saloon. Once they went inside, I followed. Evergreen’s was smaller than Day’s and had no piano or banjo man, just the bar to one side and some tables opposite. A couple of worn bar girls plied the customers.