Sam Bass by Bryan Woolley Page A

guess I’ll check the horses,” and he left. That’s how the day went.
    So we were glad when in the late afternoon we heard a voice drifting on the wind from below, shouting, “Sam! Sam Bass!” It was Jim Murphy, and Sam and I ran out of the cabin, waving our arms and calling back to him. Jim worked his horse up the slope and dismounted and took a quart of whiskey from his saddlebags. He handed it to me and said, “In honor of the day, from the Murphy family and the Parlor Saloon.” His face, what I could see of it between his hatbrim and his turned-up collar, was red and not at all cheerful. He led his horse to the corral and turned it in and walked back to us, rubbing his hands together. “The law’s got Henry,” he said.
    â€œWhat for?” Sam exclaimed.
    Jim waved us toward the cabin, and we followed him inside. He stood in front of the fire, his back to us, warming his hands. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there,” he said. “Let’s have a drink.”
    â€œDamn it, Jim, what happened?” Sam said.
    Jim drew the cork and took a long pull on the bottle. He coughed quietly. “It was Pinkertons,” he said. “They kept saying Henry’s name was Nixon and that he was with Joel Collins in Nebraska. Them and Dad Egan surrounded his house last night and kept hollering for him to give hisself up. And Henry kept hollering back that he ain’t been out of Denton since summer. Hell, Dad knowed that.”
    â€œTom Nixon’s in Canada,” Sam said. “Henry wasn’t nowhere near us.”
    â€œI know that!” Jim yelled angrily. “You think I don’t know that? Now let me tell it! Old Henry wouldn’t give hisself up. He just kept telling them he was innocent. But this morning they said they was going to storm the house if Henry didn’t give hisself up, so he did. He was afraid his wife and younguns would get hurt. So he just walked out and give hisself up on this fine Christmas morning.” Jim waved the bottle toward the door, where the wind was howling. “And his wife and kids come to me crying, and his wife says, ‘Do something, Jim. You know this ain’t right.’”
    â€œIt ain’t right, by God! Tom Nixon’s in Canada!”
    â€œGo tell that to Dad Egan and them Yankee detectives. I went to Dad’s house and said, ‘Look, Dad, Henry was working for me all during September. That’s when that robbery was, ain’t it?’ And old Dad just picked at his fingernails with his knife, and he said, ‘The Pinkertons said he was their man, and who am I to doubt it? I ain’t sorry to see Henry Underwood out of Denton County. I hope he goes to the gallows.’”
    â€œThat righteous bastard!” Sam yelled. “We’ll get Henry back, by God!”
    â€œThey done taken him straight to Sherman and put him on a train,” Jim said. “And there was about four Pinkertons with him. Even if you was to catch up with them, they’d just kill Henry and say you done it. There’s a reward for him. For Nixon, anyway.”
    â€œHow much?” Sam asked.
    â€œFive hundred dollars.”
    â€œHow much for me?”
    â€œThe same, I guess, if they know you was in it. They figure Collins for the leader, and they done got him.”
    We fell into silence. Jim, standing with his back to the fire, looked at me and then at Sam and then back again, and Sam and I were looking at him. The wind seemed to be dying a little. The logs were popping and cracking in the fire. I couldn’t think of a thing to say, but I knew somebody ought to say something. Then Jim said quietly, “How’s things, Frank?”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œWe miss you in town. When you coming back?”
    â€œLeave Frank alone,” Sam said. “He’s staying with me.”
    I kept thinking about Henry’s wife and children and how confused they