American Posse

By Mary Walsh

One of the biggest unsolved crimes of the 20th century, one that has baffled the FBI for decades, has now landed in the hands of Wyatt Earp. In present-day Boston, the renowned lawman of the Old West and his posse of masterminds must solve the greatest art heist in US history. How did someone manage to steal the Rembrandts and other priceless art in 81 minutes from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum? 

 

With a $10 million reward up for grabs, the stakes couldn't be higher. Will Wyatt Earp's team of experts be able to piece together the clues and crack the case?

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Walsh
• Release date: Aug 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201142865

Mary Walsh

MARY WALSH was born in St. John’s, Newfoundland. She studied acting at Ryerson University and is the creator of the CBC’s This Hour Has 22 Minutes, which has won numerous Gemini, Canadian Comedy and Canadian Screen Awards. She is a versatile actor and has appeared in both dramas and comedies, including the Gemini Award–winning Hatching, Matching and Dispatching, which she wrote and starred in. Recently, Walsh has starred in Sensitive Skin, Rookie Blue and Slasher. She currently has several feature films in development, and in 2017 the cast of Hatching, Matching and Dispatching will be reunited for a CBC feature called “Christmas Fury,” of which Walsh is the writer, producer and star. She is a Member of the Order of Canada and has received a Governor General’s Performing Arts Award for Lifetime Artistic Achievement.  

Book preview

Chapter 1

T en million dollar reward! Wyatt Earp slapped a December 2, 2022, edition of The Boston Globe on the lacquered bartop in front of him. A stack of paper napkins fluttered away from the sudden movement. He sat at the end of the bar on a rickety stool and patted his Colt .45, which was forever glued to his hip. Even when he slept, the piece was only an arm's reach away. His handsome face, outlined by a strong square jaw, was weathered but strong, just like him. Nearby, his black handsome full-brimmed gambler hat was hooked on a wall ready to be taken on its next adventure.

Wyatt called to his barkeep, Eddie, get over here and take a look at this!

For the last time and forever the first time, it’s Edgar, the bartender grumbled under his breath. He put away a clean highball glass, tossed the drying towel onto the counter, and ambled toward Wyatt.

Think what we could do with that kind of money. That’s a lot of dinero. Wyatt pointed to the newspaper headline.

Perhaps hire more barkeeps, Edgar muttered. He raked a hand through his wavy, dark hair. Though I fancy the depths of solitude, it would be nice to have help now and then.

Oh, hobble your lip, Wyatt said. We’re plenty fine.

Edgar huffed.

Wyatt’s Golden Dragon Tavern was nearly empty on a quiet Friday afternoon. An old-timer sucked down his gin at one of the back tables. A young black fella wearing a white button-down shirt and slim suspenders strummed at his guitar at the table near the front windows. At the far end of the bar, a man and a woman, who didn’t seem like they belonged together, finished up their last round of drinks. They nodded to Wyatt and left.

Ignoring Edgar, Wyatt read the subtitle, Gardner Museum Extends $10 Million Reward for Information in Art Heist.

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum? Edgar leaned toward Wyatt’s newspaper. The museum south of Fenway? There are so many.

Yeah, Wyatt replied. It’s right off the Green Line. He held the newspaper upright, inches from Edgar’s face, and tapped it with a finger. Says thirteen works valued at half a billion dollars were stolen in nineteen ninety and never recovered. Half a billion dollars, Eddie! Wyatt blew out a low whistle that a hound could hear a mile away.

Edgar rolled his eyes at Wyatt’s continued name butchering. They had worked together for a few years and Wyatt never called him Edgar. What was stolen?

A few Rembrandts, a Manet... They spelled it wrong. Don’t they mean Monet?

Edgar chuckled and offered Wyatt an arrogant grin. "Claude Mo-net painted water lilies. Edouard Ma-net painted modern life. Two different men."

Eh, well, one of ‘em oughta change their name, Wyatt scoffed. Too confusing.

What else was taken? Edgar asked.

Wyatt scanned the article again. Some Daygas prints, and a couple others I ain’t never heard of.

Do you mean Degas? Edgar pronounced it Duh-gaa.

There’s an s in there, Wyatt countered. Why in the hell would it be Duh-gaa?

Because Edgar Degas was French, Edgar fired back, his gray eyes twinkling. They don’t pronounce their s’s.

Some people think they’re so smart, Wyatt muttered, knowing that Edgar had bested him. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. But he was okay with that. He studied the bottles of libations that filled shelves against the back mirror. He dreamed of increasing his inventory of Jack Daniels, Johnnie Walker, and Glenfiddich. He’d even splurge $200,000 on a rare bottle of Dalmore 62 whisky for a special occasion. Just think what we could do with that ten million dollar reward. Buy a herd of horses. Get me some new guns. And bars of silver and gold. The ideas tumbled over themselves in his mind. I have a few debts I can pay off.

Wyatt didn’t want to burden Edgar that the city inspector had come by a few days earlier with a condemned property notice. The roof constantly leaked like a dripping faucet. The plumbing needed to be replaced. All of the windows on the second floor let the frigid Boston winters blow through. A family of mice was on the verge of paying rent in the basement. Termites chewed through the wooden floors. Wyatt had 30 days to make the necessary repairs or he and Edgar were out on the street and the end of his vigilantism.

It’s a lot of money. Edgar leaned in curiosity against the wooden bar. Who is paying for it?

Says the museum. Wyatt squinted at the newspaper.

The statute of limitations hasn’t run out? Edgar asked.

Nope. Wyatt shook his head.

I’ve never heard of a reward so high, Edgar said. Wonder why? Is the museum searching for new leads?

Wyatt shrugged. No idea. But I ain’t complaining.

We could use that kind of money.

Let’s do it. Wyatt crumpled the newspaper and let it drop to the counter. Then he clapped his hands together.

Wyatt, the lifelong lawman, loved the chase, like hunting buffalo in the Old West before he was sent to Boston. He missed his brothers–Virgil, Morgan, James, and Newton. And his good friend Doc Holliday. Especially Doc. They were so close that Wyatt considered Doc another brother. He wasn’t sure when he would see them all again. If ever. Edgar was a trusty substitute, but he wasn’t blood. How Edgar found him, Wyatt never knew. Showed up one day asking for work saying he needed money. Edgar was an odd stick. Always jotted things down in a notebook. Never carried a gun. And he was city folk.

Boston was a fine place for Wyatt, but cars outnumbered horses. No other horse could measure up to Dick Naylor. Oh, how he missed that horse. Dick Naylor could outrun anything on four legs. Damn Billy Clanton stole him after Wyatt and his brothers arrived in Tombstone years back.

Now, Wyatt was in a new city in a new saloon. Without his brothers. Without Doc. Without his horse. He had no idea how long he would be here. The clock on the far wall had been stuck at 5:45 since he first came to The Golden Dragon Tavern. His purgatory.

Eddie, fetch me a drink, please. Wyatt flicked a hand toward the rows of numbered metal beer steins suspended from the ceiling racks.

The usual? Edgar asked.

Yup.

Instead of grabbing a beer mug above him, Edgar snatched a glass from below the counter. He filled it with sarsaparilla and pushed it toward Wyatt.

Wyatt threw back a gulp of the sweet soft drink. He appreciated that Edgar kept a stock of it for times when he needed a drink since Wyatt tried to abstain from alcohol. With the glass in his hand, he gestured toward Edgar’s black vest, trousers, and a matching bow tie. A gold chain connected to a watch in Edgar’s pocket. Why do you wear that getup in here anyway? This ain’t a museum. Wyatt loved hazing the tenderfoot.

I like how it fits. Edgar glanced in the mirror along the back wall and straightened his bow tie.

Hey Robert, Wyatt called to the young black man playing guitar near the front of the pub. The music wasn’t what he grew up with, but he had come to appreciate it. You think Eddie would look good in a cowboy hat?

Robert stopped strumming and answered, Yessir, Mr. Wyatt. I reckon that he would. He smiled at Wyatt and went back to filling the room with a bluesy tune.

Wyatt said, Let’s find the thieves who lifted that art.

Edgar replied, I don’t know. Seems beyond our reach. It’s a big job. We can’t do it alone. There are only two of us. We have no idea what we’re getting into.

Darn tootin’, Eddie. Wyatt drummed his fingers on the countertop. We can do it. We need a new crew. He stood from the stool, tall and straight like a pine tree, and hooked a thumb into his belt loop. A hand-tooled cowhide leather belt wrapped around his waist. Its buckle was real silver made by a silversmith in Tombstone. It was worn and weathered, just like him. He loved that belt.

Make it better than the last one, Edgar said, pushing a finger through the bullet hole in the lower edge of his vest. Fortunately, the bullet only damaged his clothes. He ended up with a few scrapes and that was it. I nearly got shot.

Yeah, yeah. Stop living in the past, Eddie. Sorry ‘bout that. But it was a hog-killin’ time. Wyatt downed the rest of his sarsaparilla. We recovered those outlaws and the Boston sheriff—er, detective—was satisfied. Wyatt still had a tough time getting used to modern ways, but he was learning.

But this is bigger than a bank robbery, Edgar protested. The art’s been missing for decades. It’s in the wind.

You’re right. But the money will make it worthwhile. Wyatt stared at his sidekick. The young man’s trimmed black mustache was nothing compared to Wyatt’s bushy blonde one. We don’t just need a crew, we need a posse.

Chapter 2

After the last of the patrons cleared out, only Wyatt and Edgar remained in The Golden Dragon. Robert had stopped playing his guitar an hour earlier. He packed up and went home. The old-timer paid his tab and staggered off. The mismatched couple agreed to disagree and went their separate ways. Edgar finished wiping up a table and bussed dirty glasses into a plastic tub. Wyatt stood behind the bar, staring at the rows of suspended metal beer steins. Each one was labeled with a different number inside the bottom rim.

All done. Edgar dropped the tub of glasses with a thud on the counter next to Wyatt. Just need to wash them.

That can wait, Eddie, Wyatt said, still gazing upward. With the numbers on the interior, Wyatt had no rhyme or reason in selecting a mug. Come here. Get a wiggle on.

Edgar joined Wyatt and studied the steins. What are we observing? You know those numbers are random.

I know, Wyatt sighed. I wish we had a way to know what they meant.

Maybe there’s a cipher to them? Edgar wondered. It may be roundly asserted that human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve.

A cipher? Wyatt glared at his barkeep. If there is, I ain’t figured it out yet.

You need to know the encryption behind it, Edgar explained. Julius Caesar created one of the early ones when he needed to protect his military messages. He didn’t want his orders in enemy hands.

We ain’t the enemy, Eddie. Wyatt stood, hands on hips. He pursed his lips and thought back to the last time he pulled down some steins. That’s how he and Edgar helped solve the bank robbery a couple of months back. The Boston police offered up a $10,000 reward and Wyatt put it toward the upkeep of the bar and other incidentals. Ten million dollars from the art museum would keep him and Edgar set for a long time. He could buy anything with that kind of money. High-end tech. Vehicles. An arsenal of guns. Cash to pay informants. A tank. He wasn’t sure what he would do with a tank, but it sounded like a great thing to have. He had no idea how long he would be at The Golden Dragon, but he needed money to stay. He would have loved to go back to the Old West, but that was impossible. And the city inspector could only be kept at bay for so long.

Sometimes it seems like it, Edgar sighed.

You ready?

Ready as I’ll ever be, Edgar said. How many do you think we’ll need?

It’s a big job. Let’s shoot for four. Then with me and you, that makes half a dozen.

With his six-foot frame, Wyatt easily reached up and selected a stein. Each mug was emblazoned with a gold dragon on the bottom and a designated number on the interior base. The metal was cold in his hands, like a rifle that had been left outside in the snow.

Number 45. He placed the mug on the counter next to Edgar.

Edgar jotted the number down in a small leather journal he pulled from his pocket.

Why are you writing them down? Wyatt asked.

To see if I can figure out the code, Edgar replied, without facing Wyatt. We might need to know it in the future.

Fair ‘nough. Maybe one of these days I’ll pick a number to bring back Doc?

I know you miss him, Edgar replied.

Wyatt’s forehead creased. Every day.

Edgar offered a small smile. Next. He nodded toward the ceiling.

Wyatt chose a second stein. This one wasn’t as cold as the first one, but not warm either. He set it next to the first stein. Number 36.

Edgar wrote 36 on the next line in his journal. Two more.

Anticipation filled Wyatt. He tapped a booted toe on the wood floor. The thought of ten million dollars buzzed around his head like a bee. He could buy a ranch, a dozen horses, some new guns, maybe even a plane. He’d even get Eddie some new clothes. He still felt bad for putting a bullet hole through the young man’s vest.

Wyatt pulled a third stein from the rack above him and set it next to the others. It was a little warmer than the other two. Number 12.

Edgar entered the number after the others. Last one.

It better be a good one. If I only had a wishbone, Wyatt stated. He selected the last stein and it was the hottest of the four. The heat was so intense that he nearly dropped it. After he juggled it a few times, he set it on the counter next to the others. Number 28.

Edgar wrote the last number in his notebook. Then he gathered the mugs and put them onto a high shelf, not to be used again. They had learned from prior assignments that the mugs could only be used once.

Eddie, something’s odd, Wyatt said.

What?

The first mug was frosty in my hand, like a prairie dew, and each one got gradually warmer. The last one was as hot as the noonday sun.

Why do you suspect?

Wyatt shook his head. Not a clue. I hate not knowing what it means.

Now, what?

Just like the other times, we wait and see what happens. You know that, Wyatt replied. He settled onto a barstool and propped his legs up onto the nearby stool. His cowboy boots shuffled against each other. They used to have spurs, but Wyatt found them useless in the city. Take a load off.

I’m working, Edgar replied.

You’re off the clock. Wyatt motioned to the empty stool next to him. Have a seat.

Edgar climbed onto the stool and surveyed their surroundings. Electric lanterns, that were once oil, illuminated the room.

The Golden Dragon was quiet except for their breathing. Not even the clock on the wall ticked. Time was Wyatt’s nemesis. It held him at The Golden Dragon with invisible shackles. He was usually prepared to face his enemies, but he hated not knowing how to fight back. Not even his gun could help him.

Wyatt drummed his hand on the bar. His trigger finger had considerable influence in the shaping of the Old West. His sturdy hands had gripped guns that helped him win gunfights and put outlaws in jail. Townspeople had respected and feared him because of his hands. He hoped they could do the same now. Now he had been dealt a bad hand, but he forced himself to make the best of it. He needed someone to save, someone else to lock up. He wanted to do something. His frenetic energy kept him on edge.

The silence killed Wyatt and he finally spoke. A mouse from the basement scurried along the baseboard making Wyatt sigh.

Eddie, you ever been married? Wyatt knew it was a personal question, but he couldn't take it back. He didn't know much about Edgar because the barkeep didn't volunteer much.

Yes, Edgar answered curtly. She died of consumption.

Oh. Sorry. Wyatt stared at the intricate stitching in his boots. What a fool he was for asking that question. He wanted to kick himself.

It’s okay, Edgar whispered. She was proficient at playing the piano. She, and her music, were lovely. I miss her.

I know the feeling, Wyatt said. My first wife, Urilla, died, too. Right before our first child was to be born. She had typhoid. Lost the baby, too. Wyatt didn’t want to talk about dead wives anymore. He had seen enough death to last three lifetimes.

He pounced on another subject while they waited.

Looks like snow. Wyatt glanced out the front windows of The Golden Dragon. A few flakes drifted down from the December night sky.

I don’t mind the cold, Edgar said. Winter is beautiful. I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty.

Wyatt gave a lopsided grin. Well, I’ve been in Boston for two years and I still ain’t used to the winters.

You might need some better boots. Edgar nodded toward Wyatt’s footwear.

Naw, these have been with me for years, Wyatt said. Nothin’ can get through these babies. Not even a bullet. He stood up and stomped his boots, emphasizing to Edgar how tough they were. Tough, like him.

Just then, the wooden swinging doors pushed open and a man walked in. 

Chapter 3

G ood evening gentlemen , what a fair night this is. The man stomped his black buckled shoes on the doormat, knocking off errant snowflakes. The stranger had an arrogant aura about him, as if he were a king. A king in the wrong time period.

Wyatt and Edgar stared at him, exchanging silent glances. They both stood from their seats.

With a sweeping