It was the spring of 1901 when two men robbed the Vulture Mine¹ of its payroll. The mine foreman described the men as, “Two armed men, sporting long black coats, black derby hats, with red bandanas.” They had come into the mine office demanding the payroll. That same afternoon, a posse of ill-equipped horsemen from the mine headed east after the bandits, assuming the thieves were heading to the Hassayampa and then south to Mexico. When the posse found no sign of riders after an afternoon of riding in circles, they headed back to the Vulture before nightfall. That is when Sheriff Stout² called Jacob. Stout said the governor had asked him to contact Jacob to track down the robbers. The governor was an old friend of Henry Wickenburg³, the mine owner, and wanted the case resolved quickly. After a bit of haggling over price, the sheriff agreed on a daily wage of $10 on the trail and $25 for expenses. To expedite the matter, Jacob was to catch the train in Phoenix and head to the Vulture Mine where he would be outfitted with a horse and supplies.

As he stepped off the train with his saddlebags, bedroll, saddle, and rifles, an older man in a broad-brimmed gray hat, sporting a well-trimmed white beard, stepped forward offering his hand, “Jacob Bartlett I’m guessing. Henry Wickenburg, owner of the Vulture Mine and most of this town as it stands.”

“I’m at the right place then,” Jacob greeted.

The two men walked from the loading dock across a dusty street toward a buckboard with a horse waiting. Jacob threw his gear in, and he and Henry Wickenburg rode out to the mine. They pulled up to the mine office, a stone two-story building.

“They knew we had the payroll in the safe; came in quick, guns out, and had the payroll clerk open the safe,” said Wickenburg, “Wished that clerk would have put up a fight, but a man with a wife and a couple of kids ain’t about to lose his life over my money,” he added.

“This may put me under if that money is lost — damn thieves,” Wickenburg lamented. “I suspect they worked for me, knew when we paid miners and the lay of the land here.”

Wickenburg continued, “Stout says you are a first-class tracker and can get a job done. Heard you was a deputy up there with O’Neil⁴ and rode with the Rough Riders.”

“That is true. I can track and have hired on with Sheriff Stout to find the fellows that took your money,” Jacob replied. “Whether they have your money when I find them is tough to say, but I will find them at some point,” he added.

As they reached the office porch, a tall, thin man with a full black beard stepped out the door, “This our tracker?” he asked. “Silas Smith. I’m the one who saw the two men running out the office with four saddlebags slung over their shoulders. They headed off over there,” he said, pointing to a stand of palo verde behind one of the wooden shop buildings.

Assuming Silas was the mine foreman, Jacob asked, “See their faces?”

“Nah, just their backsides. Wearing long, black suit coats and black derby hats,” Silas replied.

Jacob recalled a recent photo of Butch Cassidy⁵ in San Antonio with a suit and derby hat. Maybe these fellows saw themselves as heroes of the overused workers just taking money from the rich that don’t deserve it. Either way, Jacob thought, not my issue.

“Time is sliding by. Let’s get me a horse, pack animal, and supplies for at least a week,” Jacob said.

“A week!” Silas boomed, “Hell, they’ll be in Mexico in a week.”

“The border doesn’t stop me. If it’s Mexico, I’ll find them,” Jacob assured his new employers.

As they walked over to the company store, Wickenburg said, “Get what you need,” and as he turned to leave, he reached into his vest. Wickenburg handed Jacob four Liberty Head $10 gold coins. “Motivation,” he said, and then he walked back to the office.

The store had plenty of food, and Jacob was able to pick out a decent horse from the corral and a sturdy horse to pack. Having two horses provided a little back-up insurance.

“How many guns you packing?” asked Silas.

“Enough,” replied Jacob.

“Well, don’t matter if you bring ’em in with holes in ’em or not. Mr. Wickenburg needs that money,” Silas stated.

“To be clear, I’m not an assassin like Tom Horn⁶. I track, find them, and I let the law pass judgment,” Jacob responded, “No more, no less.”

The exchange reminded him that there were those who saw his work as bounty hunting or as a paid assassin. In his mind, 1901 was seeing the end of men like Tom Horn, whom he had ridden with years earlier. Jacob viewed tracking as a test of wits, sort of a guessing game with clues. It was not about killing the prey, but it was about finding your mark without them finding you first. Finding outlaws often wasn’t hard; it was trickier deciding what to do with them once you found them. Few were willing to give up without a fight. He had been tracking most of his life; he had started on the reservation with Talkalai-tin⁷, who Jacob always called Moses because he had led his people out of the mountains down to San Carlos to make peace with the army.

Moses had shown him the ways of his people, the Bedonkohe band of the Apache. Jacob understood that the Apache could track anything that moved across the earth.

Jacob packed up his provisions on the packsaddle, stashed his two rifles in scabbards, and strapped his Colt .45 single action pistol holster high on his side under his left arm. He had carried the pistol in the Cuba campaign. His two rifles were old and new. He still carried the Winchester model 1873, a short barrel that was his first rifle from his days as a scout for the army. The new rifle came after the Rough Riders; it was the Springfield 1896 .30-40 Krag. Both had a place in his arsenal. It was pushing late afternoon; he had a couple of hours to find a trampled trail and start the chase.

It didn’t take long. The posse had focused on the east. Jacob looked to the north. After riding a few miles north up Red Cloud Wash, he saw tracks of two horses headed over the ridge to the west. He saw the broken branches of a palo verde tree that was just coming into bloom. Even though the riders had stayed in the creek that was still flowing a little water, their tracks were not washed away as the bandits had hoped. These were the clues. There was enough light to follow the tracks over the ridge and then down into the next drainage which headed north.

After about a mile, the two riders had met up with three other horses and another rider. The rider that had been waiting had smaller sized boots. The horses had been tied to a dead palo verde, and the pacing footprints of the third rider suggested he’d been waiting a spell. From the depth of the tracks and the gait of the horses, it was clear that two horses were pack animals. With almost two days on the run, Jacob decided the riders had 40 miles on him. It was spring, and the night air was cool, allowing for long days in the saddle. Jacob wondered, Did they believe they had escaped the posse and so would relax their pace, or would they keep pushing into the moonlit night?

The tracking was easy — horses in sand washes leave easy to read sign. Traveling in the washes, they could make miles without hurting the horse as rocky slopes and steeper ridges would. The desert was flat down here. Jacob didn’t really know this western Yavapai country very well. It was still wild, few towns, and as you got further north, more canyons and water in the creeks.

His horses had been living the easy life in the corral at the mine and were tired. Jacob needed to find water and let them rest. He supposed there was water along this route and hoped he found it soon. Hearing the squeak of a windmill, he knew water was close. He dismounted, tied the horses, and crept up through the brush. Riding up on others in the middle of the night was never good. He got to the clearing surrounding the windmill. There were corrals and a trough — no horses, and no one there except for some cattle bedded down nearby. He figured he had to give the horses a couple of hours rest and then be off by first light.

Leaning on his saddle against a corral post, Jacob spoke quietly, “What’s my plan?”

He had been focused on getting back on the trail and not losing valuable time, but now he needed to define his quarry. Who are they? Where are they headed? How well organized is their escape? What happens when I find them? One question at a time, he thought. No reason to think there weren’t three riders. Did that work in my favor? Maybe. Three outlaws create a triangle of connection, no tight bond. Will they stay together or split up? Small boots, a woman, a boy?

Trying to think ahead, Jacob reasoned that with paper money it would be foolish to bury it or stash it where the elements could destroy it. How much money was there? Jacob realized that no one had said the amount of the payroll. Why was that? Did they not want me to be swayed by the potential of a small fortune over my pay for finding the thieves? His mind was straying from what he needed to focus on. Where are they headed?

Jacob figured that within in a day, the sheriff offices in Prescott, Flagstaff, Yuma, and Tucson would have received wanted notices for two men who robbed the Vulture Mine. That worked in his favor. Three riders wouldn’t draw the same suspicion that two riders would. He also figured that none of these sheriffs would organize a posse to search for the thieves until there was enough reward to warrant leaving the comfort of their homes and offices. Wickenburg would have to put up a good reward to motivate bounty hunters, and he hadn’t done that. Jacob guessed the old man was not flush enough to offer a big reward. This worked for Jacob; he wouldn’t have to contend with other men trying to pick up the bandits’ trail.

As the sky turned a faint orange, Jacob saddled the horses. He rode out of the windmill’s shadow, realizing the horses from the Vulture corral were a bit tenderfooted and not had much trail time of late. Jacob decided he’d need to find a ranch and do some horse trading. As the sun broke the horizon, he rode to the top of the ridge where he hoped to see a ranch nearby.

Off to the northeast, he could see a faint wisp of smoke. Was it a ranch house or last night’s campfire? Either way there was promise. He took his binoculars from the saddlebag to get a better look. He could make out a couple of buildings and a corral — a ranch. It was going to take him at least an hour’s ride off the trail, but he needed stronger horses.

Approaching the ranch, Jacob realized he needed a story. He didn’t think it wise to disclose his true mission. The rancher might take an interest in why was he trying to trade horses and what he was really doing out there in the Arizona desert. The other problem was that he really couldn’t truly claim to own these branded horses. It came to him — he was out scouting a possible route for a new rail line north out of the Vulture to the main line up near Hackberry or Seligman. It seemed like a solid story.

As he rode up through the gate, a man came out of the barn to his right. Slowly moving his left hand up to his hat to give it a tip and a “Howdy” while holding his right hand across the saddle in reach of his pistol.

“What’s your nature, mister?” the square-shouldered man asked. The man held a leveraction rifle in his right hand by his side.

“Friendly. Looking for fresh horses. Wondering if we can do business,” Jacob replied shifting his hands to the saddle horn.

“That’s possible. This cash business?” the rancher asked.

“Can be. Mind if I get down and we talk?” Jacob countered as he started to ease out the saddle. “Jacob Bartlett” as he offered his hand to the rancher.

The rancher shook his hand, and then he stepped back and leaned the rifle against the barn. “Sure, what are ya looking for?” he asked.

“A couple of trail horses with a bit more wind in them and not so tender in the foot,” Jacob answered.

The rancher walked over to the corral next to the barn, and at least five horses walked over to him along the fence, each leaning a head over the top rail, looking to be fed. “See anything ya like?” he asked.

“Those two on the right look fine, but I got to tell you, I really only need them for maybe two weeks and then I can bring them back,” Jacob explained. “I’ll give you ten dollars coin and my two horses to hold till I get back,” he offered.

The rancher straightened up and became a bit more rigid, “What’ll I do with those two lame horses, and what would make you come back for them anyway?” rancher asked.

“Well, I suspect that is a fair question. The horses belong to my employer, and I need to get them back in a couple weeks time after I finish my survey work. Don’t think these horses will last that long on the trail, which kind of puts me in a bind,” Jacob offered up as a promise.

“Twenty in cash now. I got to board and feed those nags till you come back,” the rancher retorted.

“Ten, gold now, deal?” Jacob responded.

The rancher nodded yes and replied, “We got a deal.”

After switching his saddle and the horse pack over to the new horses, Jacob paid the rancher with a $10 gold piece from his vest pocket. He mounted up, relieved that he had pulled this trade off.

“Who’s ya say you were working for?” asked the rancher.

Jacob had figured this question was coming and had practiced his response in his head, “Can’t say who is paying me, but can tell ya I’m looking at a new railroad route from Wickenburg up to the mainline up near Hackberry,” he offered, “Would be a boon for folks in these parts.”

“Don’t expect no money from any railroad, but having a line nearby would maybe make this place worth something more than a ranch full of dry desert with no grass,” rancher lamented. “See you in a couple of weeks, Jacob Bartlett.”

Getting a feel for his new ride, Jacob headed back west to the arroyo and the tracks of the fleeing bandits. Riding alone felt good, better than trying to hide the truth from some hardworking rancher trying to make it in the cattle business out in this desert. Owning land was what most folks wanted to do when they came out west. Jacob’s family had come west to get off the farm and its sun-up to sun-down work, but still most folks longed to own something, rather than to toil day in and day out for someone else’s fortunes. Maybe this is why these three thieves had robbed the Vulture. Maybe they were hard-working men who had gotten tired of having no say in their lives and no promise of a better future. With money, they could buy a spread of their own, or own a store, or live in their own house. Living in company housing and owing your salary to the company store was the bane of many a miner who couldn’t find their own lode and needed to eat. Or maybe these three were just shiftless drifters trying to make an easy score and live off of someone else’s success. No way to know at this point, but knowing would play into what these three were going to do when he caught up with them.

The tracks were still pretty easy to find. Pressing on into the late evening, Jacob felt the need to get to higher ground. He figured his three riders would be slowing down if they didn’t sense any pressure coming from behind them. No posse. As a single rider, he could move undetected, no dust, no campfire smoke. But would they slow enough for him to close the gap so he could see his quarry and observe their movements?

He crested a high ridge to the north just as the sun was about to set. A large, flat plain of desert scrub loomed northward with a canyon forming off toward the east. The canyon would be the logical place to go — more cover, maybe water. Good place to not be seen from a distance. If the canyon had water, it would have trees and cover, maybe some alamo trees or sycamore. Canyons had advantages and flaws, easier to hide in the trees but only one-way out. Getting caught in a canyon with shooters above you was deadly as he remembered from the battle of Big Dry Wash years before, but moving under cover was better than out in the flats. He pulled out his binoculars and scanned the plain out in front of him — nothing, no ranches, no towns, no roads, no riders, just desert and a canyon.

Heading back to the arroyo, the evening light was moving into dark. No moon yet, so it was slow going making sure the tracks were still in the wash and had not gone off into the desert. The moon came up making the night bright again. With the diversion to pick up new horses, about three hours had been lost. The plan was to make up time that night.

Without a watch, there was no sense how long he had traveled, but the moon was still high and the fresh tracks were still in the arroyo. He was nodding off in the saddle as the horses moved with a steady walk, not the quick pace they had earlier in the day. It seemed like time to stop. The brush along the arroyo got thicker, and now there were some willows. Rounding the bend, the arroyo emptied into a larger creek, maybe the Santa Maria River. Against the far bank was a seep spring with a small stone catchment below. The five horses had watered here; the tracks were filled with water, so maybe a day ago. He filled his canteens and watered the horses. It was another half-mile or so up the arroyo to a thicket of large mesquite trees that provided a place to tie off the horses and rest, a good view in both directions of the arroyo and a chance to get a little sleep.