EPISODE 1: Reno Jack

For more information about the historical background to the novel, please click here:

INTRODUCTION

Temple Hayden, the protagonist, is firmly rooted in old ideals of the nineteenth century. His experience as a lawman on the American western frontier has left him unprepared for rapid changes, some of which will alter America forever. President William McKinley was assassinated in 1901, and Theodore Roosevelt assumed the presidency. The same year, the American military joined, with other nations, in suppressing the Boxer Rebellion in China. In 1903, Henry Ford started a company to produce motor cars, and two bicycle makers attached a gasoline engine to a glider and achieved a brief, power-driven, heavier-than-air flight. Also in 1903, King C. Gillette began the manufacture of safety razors with replaceable blades, and the popularity of men’s florid whiskers started to fade. In 1904, as part of the continuing pursuit of empire, America sent representatives to observe, along with other nations, the Russo-Japanese War in Manchuria.

Irene Watteson, a young woman born of Russian parents in China and raised by adoptive Americans in San Francisco, seeks to understand her heritage. She and Temple Hayden become entangled in the brutal conflict in Manchuria despite their attempts to avoid it. Over the course of several months, they discover the good, bad, and the ugly about themselves and their world.

EPISODE 1: Reno Jack

Temple Hayden never killed a man on Sunday. Not that he had scruples against it; he was not a religious man. The occasion—or the necessity—had just never come up. Until one Sunday morning in February, 1904, when he stepped off the train in Healdsburg. The two-hour journey north from San Francisco with his lanky body cramped in a parlor-car seat left his disposition as rumpled as his black worsted frock coat. He rested his leather Gladstone bag on the depot platform and stretched his legs. But even the rain-fresh chilly air and the soothing sound of Sunday morning church bells calling the faithful failed to mollify his mood.

He had never met George Albert Jacobs, alias Reno Jack, the man he’d come to arrest, but he knew his kind. Thieves. Swindlers. Men who burgled houses and cracked safes. Reno Jack robbed banks. For over eleven years he’d robbed banks from Colorado to California, but he’d never killed anybody. Until he lifted eight-hundred dollars in gold coin from a San Francisco bank and shot a teller who tried to block his exit. Hayden’s assignment on this the last day of his career with the United States Marshals Service was to close out Reno Jack’s career too, one way or another. 

A well-fed man in a well-tailored business suit stepped up to him, smiled, and extended his hand. “Marshal Hayden, it is indeed an honor. Chief Constable Eugene Tarwater.”

Hayden tapped the brim of his black broad-brimmed Stetson hat and shook Tarwater’s hand. 

“It’s Reno Jack for certain, Marshal, just a few miles north. My two deputies got him cornered since sunup but I didn’t want to start anything until you got here. He’s not coming out without a fight. Yes sir, you can take my word for it. Got a Winchester and cartridges waiting for you in the carriage.” 

A fresh-faced deputy held the reins of a high-wheel Stanhope Phaeton hitched to a matched team of chestnut geldings. The Stanhope’s hard rubber tires, typical of a town carriage, were not the sort of rig a U.S. Deputy Marshal would choose to confront a desperado in open country. “Sorry for the equipage,” Constable Tarwater said. “If you prefer a mount I can provide.”

“Not at all; this will do. Fine looking team you got there.”

“Borrowed from the mayor,” the constable said. “Them horses are his pride and joy. God help me if any harm comes their way.”

Two men in sporty Norfolk jackets perched in an open automobile parked nearby. “Reporters,” Tarwater said. “From the Santa Rosa Gazette. I’ll chase ‘em away.”

Hayden waved him off. “No need. Get your deputy in the carriage. I’ll be along presently.” He walked back to the reporters as one of them was about to crank-start the automobile’s engine. “You boys keep this motor rig a quarter mile behind us. If you spook my team, I’ll shoot the wheels off it. You understand me?” 

He returned to the carriage, slid his Gladstone bag onto the floorboard, and climbed aboard. The constable hoisted himself up beside Hayden and took the reins, his young deputy got in the rear seat. The horses snuffled, eager to get away from the bustle of the depot. Once on the level road parallel to the Russian River, they settled into an easy trot. The high-pitched chatter and bang of the automobile engine echoed from well behind. Not far enough to prevent the stench of hot motor oil and gasoline exhaust from mingling with the rich smells of groomed horses and linseed-oiled harness leather. Hayden gritted his teeth and tugged his hat low above his eyes.

Five miles north of Healdsburg, Tarwater turned the carriage eastward on Alexander Valley Road and rolled into vineyard country. Hayden, still irritated by the reporter’s automobile lagging behind the carriage, was even more annoyed by Tarwater’s deputy asleep in the wagon bed. They stopped briefly to water the horses at Jimtown, a cross roads with a small general store, then pushed on a half mile farther to a simple stone bridge over Dutter Creek. They halted just beyond the bridge at a wide spot shaded by stately live oaks. The automobile, still well shy of the bridge, wheezed and shuddered to a stop. The reporters remained in their seats like reprimanded schoolboys. 

“I told ‘em they could take photographs,” Tarwater said. “But not until afterwards. We can hike in from here. It’s just over that rise yonder.”

Hayden stepped down from the Stanhope and slapped the road dust from his sleeves. He took a .44 caliber Smith and Wesson from his Gladstone bag and tucked it into his waistband. 

“You mind those horses,” he told the deputy, who had managed to rouse himself. “And don’t let the reporters pull any foolishness around this buggy.”

Hayden and the constable, rifles resting on their shoulders, set off along a trail toward nearby oak and toyon-studded rolling hills. After a quarter of a mile, they crested the rise and came to a meadow newly-sprouted with deer grass. A gentle breeze drifted up from a dense copse of live oaks, carrying with it the scent of rain-damp sage and the steady hum of insects. 

“Over thataway,” Tarwater said. They hiked across the meadow and came across three saddled and hobbled horses grazing near the trees. Two belonged to Tarwater’s deputies. “This other one here,” the constable said, “Reno Jack stole from Dunning’s stable back in town this morning.” 

“Get a man up here to tend them properly,” Hayden said. “If there’s gunfire, they’re apt to spook.”  

“Yes sir, my deputies are just up ahead. I’ll fetch one right away.” Tarwater hurried on to the oaks. 

“Let them know you’re coming,” Hayden called after him. “I don’t want you shot before we get started.” After Tarwater was out of sight, Hayden approached the horses.

“You don’t like being here either, do you?” he said softly. He extended his closed hand to the nearest horse and let him get a good whiff, then slowly moved his hand down the horse’s shoulder to his foreleg. The horse stamped approval as Hayden slipped the leather hobbles from his fetlocks. He repeated the process with the other two horses and waited. When Tarwater’s deputy approached, the horses nodded in recognition and the deputy nodded in recognition of Hayden’s badge. 

“You keep these mounts steady,” Hayden said. “And if Reno Jack comes this way, don’t let him take one under any circumstances. You got that?” 

“You mean I should shoot him?”

Hayden glared at him and walked away. Under the oaks’ green canopy, he found Tarwater with his other deputy. Hard-muscled and lean, eyes as cold as gun metal, the deputy looked capable of killing without a twinge of remorse. He’d taken a defilade position behind an oak. Tarwater huddled behind him and peered at a deer-hunter’s shack just beyond. Built of lichen-mottled wood planks and a rusted corrugated tin roof, the shack leaned precariously against a broad tree trunk. Racks of deer antlers fastened to the porch posts added a homey touch. No windows on the near side, only a dark open doorway leading onto a broad wooden porch roofed over with more rusted metal. Streaks of sunlight through dense foliage zigzagged across the front of the shack. 

“Anything?” Hayden asked the deputy.

“Not a sound. He ain’t fired a shot nor said a word.” 

“You sure he’s still in there?” Tarwater said.

“Oh, I seen him, Chief. Not twenty minutes ago. We got his horse back yonder and I—”

“Stop,” Tarwater said. “This here is United States Special Deputy Marshal Hayden. He’s in charge. You direct your answers to him.”

“Yessir, Chief.”

“Nobody fires a weapon unless he comes at you,” Hayden said. “I want him to walk out unmolested. Is there a door or window in the back?”

“No sir. We been all around it. Front door is the only way in or out.” 

Hayden motioned Tarwater behind a tree. “Get your shackles ready.” Hayden moved toward the shack from the windowless side, stopped twenty feet from the door, and cradled the Winchester in his arm.

“Okay Jacobs, throw out your firearms and come on out,” he called. “United States Deputy Marshal Hayden. You know me, you know I won’t shoot if you come out slow, unarmed, hands in the air.” 

No response. The constable and his deputy aimed their rifles aimed at the doorway. Hayden leaned his shoulder against a tree trunk and waited. If he could see Reno Jack’s eyes, even for an instant, he’d know the outlaw’s decision. Life or death. “Come out and let's have a look at you,” Hayden mumbled.

As if in response, a sound came from the cabin, a low growl that rose to an anguished, high-pitched screech, the disembodied wail of an injured animal. Hayden raised his rifle. A dark figure, arms flailing, loomed in the doorway and screamed onto the porch. Simultaneous rifle shots from Hayden’s flank burst the silence and sent blue jays screeching skyward from the trees. The figure lurched from the porch and crumpled to the dense carpet of dry leaves. Tarwater jumped from behind his protective oak and let out a celebratory yip.

“Get back,” Hayden shouted. “Hold your position.” He swore to himself and squinted at the dark doorway as the familiar, acrid smell of burnt cordite filled his nostrils. The blue jays ceased their angry cries and settled back in the shadowy branches. The man lay motionless, silent, face down on a carpet of dry leaves. 

“Jacobs is dead,” Hayden said loud and clear. “Put an end to it. Throw out the weapons and come out now.”

“No need for that,” Tarwater said. “He was alone. There’s nobody else in there.” Hayden ignored the constable’s foolhardy and dangerous assumption. He walked slowly to the doorway, lowered the hammer on his unfired Winchester, and leaned it on the doorpost. He reached back on his hip and drew the Smith and Wesson revolver from his waistband and ducked through the doorway.

Inside on the rotted floor planks he found the scattered remnants of Reno Jack’s existence; a Colt revolver, a Winchester .44-40 rifle, a box of cartridges, an empty canteen, and a pile of damp matted rags. On the back wall, deer antlers festooned with cobwebs dangled from a crossbeam like ghastly Christmas ornaments. Beneath them, a window, shuttered by wood planks with sliding bolt latches. Reno Jack could have climbed out and slipped away unseen. Or he could have made a fight of it with his rifle. That he had done neither confirmed Hayden’s intuition. A curtain had descended on Reno Jack’s world and he’d decided to bow out. He came out unarmed with no intent to cause more harm. Hayden understood. Make it quick and final. No prison cell or hangman’s rope for Reno Jack.

One of the rifle shots had ripped a ragged splinter from the wooden doorjamb and lodged in the rear wall. The other struck Reno Jack full in the chest. The deputy rolled the dead outlaw onto his back. “That’s him alright. Reno Jack. Yessiree, looks just like his handbill, don’t he?” 

“You go inside,” Hayden said. “Bring out everything you can find. Check under the floorboards for gold.” At the mention of gold, Constable Tarwater hurried after his deputy. Hayden knelt down and tugged back the lapel of Reno Jack’s blood-soaked coat. An unsealed envelope protruded from an inside pocket. No address, no postage. Hayden slipped a folded sheet of paper from it. Across the top was stenciled: CLASSIFIED. UNITED STATES NAVY DEPARTMENT. TOP SECRET. As Hayden tried to make sense of the typewritten rows of numbers, he noticed one word scrawled in pencil. NAKANO. He tucked the document back in the envelope and shoved it into his coat pocket. From inside the shack came tormented squawks of the floor planks being wrenched up as Tarwater and his deputy searched for stolen bank loot. Hayden knew they wouldn’t find it. Reno Jack was better at taking money than keeping it. A week has passed since he held up the bank; by now the gold was in somebody else’s pocket. Most likely, he thought, a Barbary Coast harlot or two. 

He sat down on the porch and contemplated the dead man’s face; ashen and serene, eyes closed, lips twisted in a macabre smile as if he understood some cosmic joke. Hayden smiled along with him. Now what’s an old reprobate like you doing with a classified government document? And on a Sunday too.