The Adventures of Doc and Wapiti Bob
Late May 1899
Wyoming Territorial Prison
Laramie, Wyoming
“Sorry, Dr. Grey, but Murdo McRaith ain’t here no more.” The prison guard dragged a thumbnail across his beard-stubbled chin, making a scratchy sound.
Stunned disbelief shot through my chest. “What do you mean ‘he ain’t here’? I have it on good authority that he was arrested by Mr. Charles Siringo of the Pinkerton Agency less than a week ago and brought here. He was to be released into my custody and my custody alone.”
“Well, I guess he had other plans,” the guard said, giving a shrug. “Some friends busted him out.”
“Did no one attempt to go after him?” I asked, still unable to believe what I’d heard. “The local constabulary? The county sheriff?” I considered myself to be a calm, restrained person, but at that moment I found myself resisting the urge to grab the guard by the front of his shirt and shake the stupidity out of him.
The guard looked at me like I was the one who was acting dimwitted. “The ‘local constabulary’ had bigger fish to fry,” he informed me in a mocking tone. “Same time Murdo was bustin’ outta here, Butch Cassidy an’ his Wild Bunch robbed a train in Wilcox an’ made off with nearly $50,000 cash. Everybody an’ their dog lit out after the outlaws, but they ain’t been caught yet.” He shrugged again. “If they ain’t been caught by now, chances’re slim that they will be.”
“McRaith’s an extremely violent criminal. He’s wanted for murder in Scotland!” I protested.
Another shrug. “Well, he ain’t wanted for anything in Wyoming. At least, not yet. If he was, maybe folks’d be more upset about him breakin’ out.”
I opened my mouth to say something more and changed my mind. Obviously, I wasn’t going to get any help from this guard or anyone else in law enforcement, for that matter. I hadn’t come all this way just to turn around and go home without my quarry, though. “Do you have any idea where Mr. McRaith might have gone after he escaped?” I asked.
“Not really. We didn’t exactly confide in each other.” The guard smirked at the notion.
“Well, was there anyone else in the prison he might have talked to? Anyone with whom he might have struck up a friendship?”
The guard dragged his thumbnail across his chin again. “He wasn’t here long enough to make friends. An’ we don’t exactly encourage conversation. But it’s possible he talked to some of the men that worked in the broom factory with him.”
“Can I speak to them?” I asked.
The guard stuck out his chin and sucked his front teeth for a moment, like I was asking for something completely unheard of. “I’ll see if ol’ Henry’ll talk to you,” he finally said. “He’s been here a long time, gets along with most everybody. I’ll tell him I’ll lop a day off his sentence for good conduct if he talks to ya.”
I felt the tightness in my chest ease slightly. “Thank you. I’d greatly appreciate that.”
“Stay here. I’ll go fetch him.”
A couple minutes later, the guard returned with a tall, broad-shouldered man of about forty years. His wrists were bound with a pair of metal handcuffs. While his shaved head and striped outfit were meant to diminish his appearance, the strong set of his nose and brow and the intensity of his dark eyes communicated a lively intelligence.
“Heard you were lookin’ for Murdo,” he said after the guard introduced me as Dr. John Grey. His voice was deep and strong.
“He’s wanted in Scotland—for murder,” I told him.
Henry nodded his head. “He had shifty eyes, that’un. Like he was always plottin’ an’ schemin’. He acted friendly enough, but I never did trust him.”
“Did he say anything about breaking out or where he might be headed?” I asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.
Henry paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “He didn’t say much about himself, but he was fascinated by Butch Cassidy,” he finally answered. “One a the other inmates told him he was stayin’ in the same cell where Butch Cassidy was held a coupla years ago. Butch was locked up for stealin’ horses,” Henry explained. “He hadn’t started robbin’ banks and trains yet. Anyway, once Murdo found out he was stayin’ in the same cell as Butch, he went on and on about wantin’ to meet Butch, wantin’ to become part of his gang. Coupla the guys started callin’ him ‘Baby Butch’ behind his back ‘cause he was such a short little guy an’ he wouldn’t stop talkin’ about how much he wanted t’ be like Butch.” He sighed. “My guess—and it’s just a guess—is that when Murdo left here, he was gonna try to meet his hero.”
“And where would he go to do that?” I asked.
Henry glanced at the guard for a moment before continuing. “Well, there’s a coupla different hideouts outlaws like t’ use. I never been to any of ‘em, but I’ve heard other prisoners talk about ‘em. There’s Robber’s Roost. That’s in Utah. Or Brown’s Hole. That’s along the Green River, kinda where Wyoming and Colorado and Utah all meet up. An’ there’s the Hole-in-the-Wall. That’s up in the northern part of the state, close t’ Buffalo. From what I’ve heard, the Hole-in-the-Wall is a big valley surrounded by high sandstone cliffs. There’s only one way in an’ one way out, an’ they keep that entrance guarded at all times.”
“If you were Murdo, where do you think you’d go?” I asked.
Henry sighed. “I don’t really know. If you could find out which way Murdo was headin’ when he left town, that’d give you an idea of where he was plannin’ t’ go.” He studied me for a moment with his dark eyes. “You’re not from around here,” he said. “Do you know much about Wyoming?”
“Very little,” I confessed. “Only what I have read.”
“There are lotsa places to hide in Wyoming—lotsa canyons and mountains, lotsa wild, rough places where ordinary folk wouldn’t normally step foot. It’d be easy for a fella to disappear for a while if he wanted to. Lookin’ for Murdo in a place you know almost nothing about is gonna be hard, if not impossible, ‘specially if he knows you’re lookin’ for him.”
“I’ve been told I’m a determined sort of person,” I said, pulling myself up straight. “In fact, the people who know me best would tell you I’m downright stubborn. While some people might consider stubbornness a flaw, I find it to be one of my biggest strengths. I won’t stop looking for Murdo until I find him.”
“Well, I wish you luck,” Henry said. “An’ I wish I’d been able to tell you more.”
“I appreciate everything you’ve told me,” I said. I started to turn away, then stopped myself. “This is none of my business, but I’m curious: Why are you here?”
“I killed a man,” Henry said. His gaze was calm. “One a my ranch hands was pesterin’ my step-daughter, making unwanted advances. She was only fourteen at the time--way too young for what he was after.” He made a displeased face. “When he put her in a compromising position, I shot him.” He sighed in resignation. “I was protectin’ my family, pure and simple, but the judge give me a life sentence. I’m hopin’ if I keep my nose clean and don’t cause any problems, the governor’ll see fit to pardon me. No tellin’ when that’ll happen, though. Could be next year, could be ten years from now.” He paused. “It’s been my experience that if a certain type of man kills once, he’ll kill again. An’ by certain type, I mean a man who feels no remorse over takin’ a life. I regret shootin’ my ranch hand. If I could do it over again, I’d try t’ solve the problem a different way. I didn’t talk t’ Murdo much, but it seemed like there was an emptiness to him, like all th’ kindness or humanity had been drained outta him an’ was replaced by somethin’ a lot worse. If you manage to catch up t’ him, you’d better make sure you take the first shot, ‘cause he won’t hesitate t’ shoot you.”
“I’ll endeavor to do so,” I said. I started to extend my hand to him, then remembered that Henry was in handcuffs. “Thank you. When this is all over, I’ll write a letter to the governor and tell him you were a big help to me.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Henry said. “Good luck to you. I hope you catch Murdo.”
“I hope so, too.”