Black Bart Reborn

By Steve Bartholomew

When Black Bart left prison he figured he'd had enough of crime and Wells Fargo. After all, he'd got time off for good behavior, and only had to do time for robbing one stage coach out of the twenty-eight he held up. Bart thought he would try his hand at mining once again, and maybe settle down later by running a pharmacy. He also had plans for the woman he loved, Magdalena Ramos. Those were his plans. What he didn't figure on was the man who had put him in San Quentin to begin with, Detective James Hume. Nor did he plan on meeting his old nemesis, Jason Sutliffe who had started Bart on his life of crime.
A month after leaving prison, Bart was determined to vanish from the Earth and from history. The official records say he did. This book is a tale of where he might have gone, and what he might have done. It is not history. It is a story. Read it yourself and see.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Bartholomew
• Release date: Aug 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201487959

Steve Bartholomew

I grew up in San Francisco, joined the Army after high school. That's where I got my most valuable education. Since then I've lived in a few other places, such as Mexico City and New York. Now I inhabit a small town in Northern California, where we have a volcano and a lake. What more could I ask? I have been writing since age 9. What more do you wish to know?

Book preview

Chapter One

From the Daily Alta California, February 22, 1888:

BLACK BART RELEASED.

The Noted Stage-robber Completes His Six Years’ Sentence.

Yesterday morning. Charles Bolton, alias C.E. Boles, alias PO8, but more universally known’ as Black Bart, having completed his sentence of six years’ imprisonment for stage-robbing, was released from San Quentin State prison with two years off for good behavior. Bart commenced his career, as a stage-robber in July 1875, when he stopped the Hilton and Sonora stage and relieved it of the treasure-box. Although the country was searched high and low, Bart got off clear with his booty. This robbery was the first of a series of twenty-seven, and for years Sheriffs, Constables and detectives were kept running from one end of the state to another, but without success. A very large reward awaited the lucky man who could lay his hands on the ubiquitous Bartholomew, but it was not paid out for many a year. Bart had the peculiarity of identifying, or rather branding each one of his exploits by placing some of the worst poetry ever chucked into the wastebasket by a justly indignant editor in each treasure-box after having taken out the contents. The verses all contained strong allusions to the express companies, detectives and capitalists....

STEPPING THROUGH THE prison gates, Charles Boles took a deep breath. He blinked in the new sunlight; after four years of working in the prison pharmacy, his eyes were not what they once had been. He looked around, trying to orient himself. Outside San Quentin the world stunned him. Fishing boats ran in the bay, white on blue. He saw the far hills, green and golden, then took a second, long breath, inhaling it all.

That was when he saw the reporters, five or six of them. They converged upon him, having singled him out among the small group of prisoners being released that day, and began asking annoying questions in rapid fire...he could barely make out what they were saying. He passed a hand across his flowing mustache. They had allowed him to keep that in prison, though they had taken most of his hair. He thought, I shall let my hair grow long and shave the mustache. Maybe grow a beard. Change how I look and how I shall live. I’ll even change my name.

Finally, he raised both hands as if in surrender. Gentlemen, please. One at a time, if you will.

The man closest to him took a step closer. "Mr. Boles, I’m Sutton from the Chronicle. Can you tell us if you plan to rob any more stagecoaches?"

One of the other reporters was handing him a cigar. He accepted it, sniffed, and contemplated it a moment. No sir. I am planning to give up crime.

They all scribbled his comment in their notebooks. Then another raised a hand. Sir, do you plan to write any more poetry?

Boles smiled. Now, didn’t you just hear me say I’m giving up crime? He pushed past the reporters, heading for the ferry landing.

Nearby, a matronly lady had overheard the interview, having greeted her newly paroled husband. She approached a blue-uniformed prison guard.

Who was that distinguished looking gentleman, if I may ask?

The guard took a moment to wipe his forehead with a red bandanna.

Him? He’s famous. That was Black Bart, the stagecoach robber.

CHARLES MADE HIS WAY to a modest rooming house in San Francisco, where he paid a week’s rent. On his first day of freedom he wandered the streets till dark, stopping for a steak dinner at a small, quiet restaurant. Then he went back to his room and read a newspaper until it was time to sleep in a real bed in a room by himself. He wasn’t worried about the future. He had plans. In the meantime, he was still getting used to the feeling of being free. He could go to bed and get up any time he wanted to. By God, he was free!

The next day, he walked down to the Bank of California. He had stashed about eight hundred dollars there, gathering interest, under a different name. He didn’t have much trouble withdrawing it in cash. The gold and silver coins he put in his pants pocket, the bills in an envelope next to his heart. That was nearly all he had to show for his years as a robber. If he was careful, he could live on it for several months. That ought to do him, he thought. He tried to recall how much he’d stashed in that hollow tree on his friend’s ranch up near Petaluma. He thought there was another three or four hundred. He’d be seeing her in a few days.

He did some shopping, buying a decent suit to replace what they had given him before leaving prison. He got himself a greatcoat, bowler, and silk vest, as well as a watch and chain, and quality boots. A gentleman should never look like a bum. He gave his prison issue suit to a wino on the street; then he began to feel more cheerful. All he lacked now was a walking stick; he’d shop around a bit more tomorrow.

Next day, he realized he was being followed.

He left his rooming house around 8 A.M., intending to walk over to Market Street for breakfast. He was staying at Nevada House on 6th Street; it wasn’t quite to the standard of the last place he’d stayed before prison, down on 4th. But then, he didn’t intend to stay long. On his way out the door, he’d noticed some low-life gent lounging in the parlor, reading a paper. Boles paid him no mind, but when he’d gone half a block something made him glance back over his shoulder. That same gent was on the sidewalk, strolling in his direction and trying to look casual with both hands in his pockets. Boles kept walking, turned the corner onto Market, and paused in front of a plate glass window where he could observe his reflection. A moment later, this same gent appeared in the glass, pausing at the corner to stare in the opposite direction.

Damn Wells Fargo, Boles muttered. The window belonged to a tobacco shop. He decided to go in and buy a cigar while he thought it over. He emerged a few minutes later and stopped to light the cigar and take a long puff. The gent was nowhere to be seen, until Boles spotted him over on the other side of Market, leaning against a wall and gazing into space.

He wondered if Wells Fargo had seen him at the bank the day before. Likely they wouldn’t put the same man on him every day. Well, even if they knew about his withdrawal there wasn’t much they could do about it, since they couldn’t prove the money was theirs. His cache in the oak tree was another matter. Why couldn’t they leave a fellow alone, he wondered?

Next day, there was no one in the parlor when he went out, but it didn’t take him long to spot his tail. He led the fellow on a long chase, walking through Chinatown and North Beach, back to the Embarcadero, and then on back to Market. With a chuckle, he recalled his Army days, when he’d thought nothing of walking twenty miles a day. He’d never ridden a horse in his life. If this fellow wanted to follow him, Boles would see he got some exercise. Make him earn his pay.

This was probably the doing of that detective, Hume, the one who’d caught him and put him away. Boles wondered if he’d be down at the Wells Fargo office today. Perhaps he should drop in and give him a piece of his mind. On second thought, he might think it over a day or two. Maybe he could come up with something better.

That afternoon, he spent some time in his room composing a letter to his wife Mary Elizabeth, back in Hannibal. He was still fond of the lady, though he supposed he might never see her again. He told her he was out of prison and vowed to commit no more robberies. He also mentioned he was becoming more irritated than ever with Wells Fargo. You would think after four years....  At that thought, he paused to stare out the window. Yes, it was Hume. The man was like a terrier, never letting go. Perhaps he imagined Boles had a great fortune stashed away somewhere. Boles sighed and lit a cigar. He’d made thousands off Wells Fargo during his robber years, around six thousand a year, not a bad haul. But most of it was gone. And he was lucky he hadn’t been killed. No doubt Hume was waiting for him to make a move, to go for his cache of gold. If only it existed.

He took another walk, smiling and waving to the man following.

The 23rd of February was two days after his release. That was today. In the evening, he went back to Market Street to pick up a copy of the Evening Bulletin. He turned to the personals column and found what he was looking for.

Black Bart will hear something to his advantage by sending his address to MR, Box 29, this office.

Chapter Two

Magdalena Ramos put down the newspaper. Of course she had no intention of going near Box 29 to retrieve any messages. She glanced at the other newspaper on her kitchen table, the one with the item about Charles being released from prison. Then she walked out onto her porch to look over the apple trees and the horse corral beyond. She believed she could trust Manuel, her chief honcho, to run the place for a month or so. She hoped he wouldn’t get too drunk while she was gone.

The Box 29 message was a pre-arranged code, to let Charles know when they could meet. They had already agreed on where. She would have liked to go sooner, but a month from now most of the rain would have let up. At least she hoped so. She wanted to get out of this place. Maybe after this business was done with, she’d sell the ranch and move to Arizona.

Restless, she went down to the horse barn and saddled Raven, her mare. Wearing her split skirt, she mounted and rode out, waving to Manuel, who was loafing around the corral. She chuckled to herself, knowing Manuel was still scandalized that she didn’t ride sidesaddle like a lady. She was no lady. Charles could have explained that fact. She rode down past the oak grove, barely glancing in that direction. She knew that was where Charles had hidden his gold, but she didn’t know which tree. He’d never had quite enough confidence to tell her. She didn’t know how much there was, either. She hoped it was a lot; he would probably need it.

Today the road looked to be in fairly good shape despite the rain, so she rode on into Petaluma. She tied up her horse in front of Granger’s Cash Store and went on in, ignoring stares of the men idling about in front.

Help ya, ma’am? Granger’s son Fred spoke from behind the counter.

Where’s your pa today? Laid up with the gout again?

No, ma’am. He went on down to the city to order more inventory.

Fred was only about sixteen, but he seemed a businessman. Magdalena approved of that.

That’s what I want to do. I mean order some supplies. Here, I’ve made a list. She pulled a paper from her sleeve. Fred gave a low whistle. Her handwriting was tiny and precise; it filled the entire page.

Don’t worry if you don’t have everything in stock. I can wait a week or two. But I’ll need everything there, if you can get it.

He nodded. Yes, ma’am. I can get a lot of this food over to you tomorrow, though it’s going to put a dent in our stock. Some of the hardware I might have to order.

Take your time. I can pay in advance if you like. She turned to go, then paused at the door. Oh, and Fred....

Yes, ma’am?

Be extra careful with the powder and fuse.

A FEW DAYS LATER, MAGDALENA finished brushing down Raven and draped her with a blanket. She would have to trust Manuel to take care of the stock in her absence. At least he was good with horses. She went back out to the yard and looked up at the cloudy skies. I wish Charles was good with horses, she said aloud.

Ma’am? That was Mosquito, who may have thought she was speaking to him. He was Manuel’s boy. No one knew his real name.

Nothing, lad. It’s supper time. Why aren’t you washed up?

I gotta go clean the harness.

Your pa drives you too hard sometimes. Go wash up. Tell him I said so.

Mosquito nodded and moved off. She unlocked the storage shed and looked inside once more. She had everything on her checklist: Food, blankets, tools, guns, powder, and fuse. She still had misgivings, but Charles had promised he wouldn’t rob any more stagecoaches. He was going after a mining claim. That was all. Then he planned to disappear. She thought she might vanish with him.

Rosa was serving supper in the kitchen when she came in. As usual, she dined with Manuel, his wife Annie, and Mosquito.

I’m planning to be gone maybe a couple weeks, she said to Manuel. It depends on if my uncle gets better or sicker. If the weather is good, I expect I’ll take the steam schooner from San Francisco to Monterey. I’d like that better than the train. I might be gone longer, maybe a month. Do you think you can manage that long?

Manuel grinned and assured her she had nothing to worry about. But of course she would worry.

I’ll be packing two or three big trunks. That’s one reason I want the boat instead of the train, easier to pack all that luggage. I’ll need one of the men to drive the springboard down to the Sausalito ferry.

Sure thing. Eddie can do that.

Magdalena plunged her spoon into the stewed chicken. She would travel by train, not boat. And not to Monterey.

A MONTH WENT BY. EACH morning when she woke, she said One dayless. She had waited four years to be with Charles again. Why was it so hard to wait this one last month?

Then it was only a few days, less than a week, to leave-taking. Magdalena checked over the contents of the steamer trunks again. No one at the ranch had seen their contents, although she knew there would be no way of stopping gossip in town. No doubt the loungers down at Granger’s Cash Store would be having a field day discussing her need for so much prospecting equipment. She had no intention of telling them. She meant to move the gear unseen. Manuel and the others would think she was taking a lot of clothes, preparing for a lengthy absence. Of course the trunks would be too heavy for a wardrobe, but that couldn’t be helped. Let them guess and wonder. She would get the stuff to Charles.

She closed the trunks, locked them, and went out to check the horses again. She would miss the horses. But perhaps she would come back. She had