Shooting For Justice, G. Tilman [best historical fiction books of all time .txt] 📗

“Harry, this has been your show more than anybody’s for about eight years. Why don’t you make the arrest? You deserve the glory. Lord knows John and I owe you for the way you have supported the two of us since we’ve known you,” Sarah said.

Lee asked the laundry owner to describe the customer. Lee told Morse and Sarah he was a small, older man perhaps in his sixties and dressed extremely well. He said the suits he cleaned for Bolton were of the highest quality.

“With the money he made robbing stages, I damn well bet they are!” Morse said, immediately apologizing for cursing in front of a lady. Sarah shrugged and brushed it off.

“Why don’t you two go with us to the hotel? If he’s there, I will arrest him and take him to Jim Hume. If not, we’ll work out a stakeout plan to catch him when he returns.” Both agreed it was a good approach.

They walked four blocks. The laundry owner stopped in front of the Webb House Hotel and pointed.

“I guess we’re here,” Lee noted.

“Let me go in and inquire about him,” Sarah said. “I will pretend to be his niece.”

At the very moment, a man walked out in a suit and bowler hat. He had a walking stick, diamond stick pin, diamond ring, and they were to later find, gold watch.

The laundry owner became very excited and started saying, “Bolton! Bolton!”

Bolton turned to go back in, but Sarah drew fast and yelled, “Freeze, Black Bart!”

Shocked, the man froze in his tracks and Lee handcuffed him.

Bolton flinched as the handcuffs were put on and Lee found a wrist was heavily bandaged from where jehu McConnell had fired and nicked him on the wrist with a rifle.

Lee proceeded to frisk him as Sarah put away her .44. He was completely unarmed. Not even a penknife. The laundry owner returned to his business, fifty dollars in gold richer from Harry Morse. The three detectives walked the man, who looked like a wealthy businessman, to Wells Fargo headquarters.

Sarah made sure Hume was in his office and congratulated Harry Morse. Lee returned to Morse Detective Agency and its owner walked the man known as Bolton into James Hume’s office.

“Chief Detective James Hume, may I present my prisoner, Charles Bolton. He is otherwise known as Black Bart, the poet stage robber,” Morse announced.

The door was open, and the detectives present in the bull pen let out a cheer. Almost eight years of investigating. Now an arrest was made by one of the nation’s most respected detectives.

Hume rose in his seat and approached Bolton.

“Mr. Bolton, I have been looking forward to this moment for a long time. You have been a thorn in the side of Wells Fargo and to my friend Morse and myself. Specifically, since July of 1875. You have robbed some twenty-eight of our Concords.

“Please sit down so we can get to know you.”

The prisoner sat and the three conversed for several hours. He was not interrogated. The talk was more the nature of three old school friends getting caught up after not seeing one another for some time.

They found the man’s name was really Charles Boles, he was a fifty-five-year-old war veteran and great poetry fan. He carried a shotgun yet never used it. Subsequent searches of his room and storage found the shotgun. It was a breech loader whose hammers were permanently frozen in the cocked position and totally inoperative. The only thing working was the barrel wedge which allowed Boles to break the old gun down to carry in a duffle bag when walking to robbery sites. He admitted he was terrified of horses. He rode the ferry across San Francisco Bay and walked to each robbery site. Sometimes, he said larger hauls of gold coins were difficult for him to transport back to the city.

After advising the district attorney’s office who they had in custody, they turned him over to the San Francisco Police to hold until trial.

Boles, because he was sixty (he had lied about his age) and had never harmed anyone, was sentenced to six years at San Quentin State Penitentiary. His charge was one count of armed robbery. He was not charged with the other twenty-seven. No treasure from the robberies was ever recovered. A model prisoner, he would be released four years later and would literally drop off the face of the earth.

After considering him the spawn of the devil for eight years, Hume and Morse candidly admitted to each other over whiskeys the night of the arrest how charming a gentleman Charles Boles was.

Sarah felt good about Harry Morse getting all the credit. He devoted eight years to chasing Black Bart. He deserved the addition to his already national fame sure to follow capturing the stage robber. There would be other stage robberies and train robberies, but Sarah thought, there would never be another Black Bart.

Morse Detective Agency expanded greatly from the fame of its founder. Probably far more than Harry Morse wanted. He did not want to be a large business owner. He loved solving crimes. No one would be more famous at it until he was surpassed worldwide by a fictional London detective with an odd hat four years later.

9

Sarah was glad to come home, especially with a feeling of a job well done. She had ridden hours alone, found her site, done a perfect crime scene sketch and search and had found the clue resulting in the arrest of one of the most sought-after outlaws in the West.

To cap it off, she had assured the credit went to the detective who deserved it the most. Nobody had put in the work to capture Black Bart like Harry Morse.

Pope agreed with her when she shared the story over dinner with the rest of her new family. He got up and hugged her with pride.

She couldn’t help tease her husband by quoting Morse who said, “When you drew