Last Stage From Wickenburg by Lynn Downey

Mollie Sheppard checked her carpetbag one final time, looked around the now-empty rooms of her home, sighed, and adjusted her hat. When she heard the buckboard pull up, she walked out the front door and closed it with a finality that startled the birds in the cottonwood trees.

Arthur Henderson jumped off his perch in the wagon and took Mollie’s bag, helping her into the seat. He climbed back in, took the reins, and moved the horses in the direction of Prescott’s stage stop.

“I’m sorry you’re leaving, Miss Mollie,” Arthur said.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll miss you. It’s not been easy to keep friends around here.”

“I know, ma’am. And I understand your reasons for gettin’ outta town.”

Mollie turned her head as they passed a small, unpainted house.

“I started to lose heart when Ellen was murdered last year,” said Mollie. “And Jenny just before her. Seems the smaller the town, the more danger for women like me.”

“Well, I reckon you know what you’re doin’. But I still think it’s a shame.”

They didn’t speak again until the wagon pulled up to the station. Arthur helped her get down, and she pressed some bills into his hand.

“Thank you, Arthur.”

He touched his cap and drove away.

The November morning light was weak and did nothing to warm the chill in the air. The four horses hitched to the coach breathed out steam, and the other passengers milling around did the same.

Mollie recognized driver John Lance, who was bustling about loading bags and trunks and keeping an eye on the horses. She also saw jeweler Frederick Shoholm, who returned her greeting. She knew he’d sold his share of the business and was on his way to San Francisco. Four other men were strangers to her, but the last one was not. Kruger. William Kruger, the clerk to the quartermaster at the army encampment at Date Creek about twenty miles from Prescott. He and his brother lived in a boardinghouse in town, and she knew him—as she would have put it if asked—“professionally.”

He grinned when he saw her and ambled over.

“Good morning, Miss Sheppard. I heard you had sold up and were leaving Prescott. It will be a privilege to travel with you. Are you heading to San Francisco?”

“Hello, Mister Kruger. What are your travel plans?”

He noticed she hadn’t answered his question.

“Just to Ehrenberg to take up a new post there,” he said. “But I doubt it will have the same charms as Prescott.”

Mollie inclined her head and moved away from him just as Lance called, “Okay, everybody, time to get aboard.”

All the men stood aside as she got into the coach first. As the rest piled in, she noted that three of them seemed to stick together, and one was a handsome boy with a mischievous face. Lance climbed into the driver’s seat and took the reins. He shouted to the team, and the coach rolled forward knocking the passengers together.

A long coach trip makes strangers into easy acquaintances, and Mollie was never one to wait for introductions.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Are you all taking the through stage from Wickenburg?”

The good-looking young man spoke first.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Frederick Loring, and these are my colleagues, Pete Hamel and Will Salmon.”

The two men touched their hats and smiled.

“We have just finished our duties with Lieutenant Wheeler’s western expedition and are on our way to San Francisco.”

He had an interesting accent that Mollie couldn’t quite place.

“I heard about that. What an exciting time you must have had.”

“Well, not all of it was exciting, but we did very good work,” said Hamel.

“Mister Hamel is our topographer,” said Loring. “He made sure we didn’t get lost. And Salmon here kept our horses and gear in good shape.”

“Loring was our secretary,” said Hamel.

“Secretary?” asked Mollie.

“Yes, to document our activities for the government. I also have a contract with Appleton’s. Perhaps you know the magazine?” Loring asked.

“I do, though I haven’t seen a copy in quite some time. It’s hard to get magazines delivered out here.”

“I compiled stories of our adventures for their readers,” Loring said.

“He even got the facts straight.” Hamel grinned.

Loring pretended to roll his eyes, and Mollie couldn’t help but laugh.

“Where are you from, Mister Loring?” she asked.

“Boston, ma’am,” he replied.

“You’re a long way from home.”

“Yes, and I’m heading back after I spend a little time in San Francisco to write a few more articles.”

“I admire your industry,” Mollie replied.

“Well, I only read the Army and Navy Journal,” said Kruger.

No one had an answer for this. The other man then gave his name as, “Charles Adams, flour merchant,” and the passengers settled into the long trip.      

The coach rolled into Grant’s stage station in Wickenburg just before midnight. The weary group stumbled into the station where the owner gave them something to eat and showed them to a series of rooms where they could bed down for a few hours.

Departure time, 7:00 a.m., came too quickly. The roads would be better after Wickenburg, so they had that to look forward to at least, and their Concord-style coach was roomier and more comfortable than the one from Prescott. Mollie got in first, sitting in the rear-facing seat, and Kruger plopped himself next to her. Salmon, Shoholm, and Hamel also stepped in, while Loring and Adams sat up top with Lance.

Once they put a couple of miles behind them, Kruger asked the men if they wanted to play cards. They all agreed, and he pulled a pack from his field bag while Mollie draped her fur cape across the center bench to make the game easier. She wasn’t included in the invitation, and she didn’t ask to join in, though she watched for a while. It never hurt to learn new ways to play poker.

About an hour later, as the men grew more boisterous in their betting, everyone felt the coach surge forward, and then Lance’s voice pierced the air.

“Apaches! Apaches!”

No one moved, but the stage suddenly lurched and seemed to turn on its axis. And then more sounds came.

Of bullets hitting wood and flesh. And screams.

Mollie saw Shoholm jerk and fall over the center bench and then felt a sudden searing pain in her right arm. Salmon leaped out of the coach as Hamel and Kruger pulled sidearms from under their seats and started firing through the windows. Kruger grunted as a bullet grazed him.

Mollie kept low, cradling her arm, and then there was no more noise and the coach ceased to sway.

She and Kruger stared at each other, and then Mollie reached down and picked up the gun that Shoholm had held but had no chance to fire.

“We have to run for it,” said Kruger, looking at her and Hamel. They nodded as he looked carefully out the window.

“The coach has turned around,” he said. “We’re facing east, and we need to go the other direction. Get ready.”

A few moments later, he pulled Mollie to her feet, threw open the door, and they both jumped to the ground. They couldn’t help looking behind them and then wished they hadn’t.

Lance, Adams, and Loring lay dead or dying on the ground. A few yards away, a group of men on horseback or on foot lurked behind low mesquite trees. Mollie gasped and started to say something to Kruger, but he prodded her forward.

“Come on, we have to move!”

Kruger turned and fired in the direction of the men who made some effort to pursue them and then stopped. With Kruger now and then supporting Mollie as they ran, they headed off the road into the desert, finding cover in a large creosote bush. They lay still, not speaking, counting each minute they didn’t hear the sounds of men or horses approaching.

Nearly an hour later, Mollie and Kruger stumbled back to the road avoiding the site of the attack.

“We’ll keep going west,” Kruger said.

“Why didn’t Hamel follow us?” Mollie said.

“He must have been killed. They’re all dead. Damn those Indians.”

“What?”

“It was Indians, didn’t you see them?”

“I saw some white men, or maybe Mexicans,” Mollie said.

“Don’t be stupid, it was Indians. They wanted our money. They wanted the horses.”

“I’m telling you, there might have been some Indians. But I also saw white men.”

Kruger didn’t answer as he pulled on Mollie’s uninjured arm and strode westward.

They were both so tired they barely registered the sound of the approaching buckboard. Kruger was the first to notice, and he ran forward raising his arms. Driver John Nelson pulled up and stared at the disheveled pair.

“Thank God,” said Kruger. “We need your help.”

“What happened? Where did you two come from?” Nelson asked.

“We were attacked. Our stage was attacked,” said Mollie. She was already getting into the wagon.

“Hey, wait a minute…” Nelson began.

“Sir,” she said. “We are the only survivors of an attack on the Wickenburg stage. The killers might still be out there.”

Kruger jumped into the wagon next to her.

“Where are you headed?” he asked Nelson.

“I’ve got the Wickenburg mail,” he said. “But I’ll take you back to Culling’s Well. It’s closer. I’ll have to leave you there and deliver the mail, but I’ll send back help.”

“Thank you,” breathed Mollie.

The Culling’s Well station was crude, but welcome, and Mollie and Kruger managed to sleep for a few hours before a group of horsemen with a wagon pulled up after nightfall.

“Are you the folks from the stage attack?” asked one of the men as the weary pair approached them.

“Yes,” said Kruger, as Mollie nodded.

“Well, get in, we’re taking you to Wickenburg. Where are your belongings?”

“What belongings? We have nothing. We left everything behind. Our shoes have barely survived, not to mention ourselves,” said Mollie.

The man ignored her and motioned for the two of them to get into the wagon. Well-armed horsemen followed behind as it rolled away. The rescue party arrived in Wickenburg near dawn, and Mollie and Kruger walked into Grant’s Station once again, collapsing into the same beds they’d slept in the night before.

Later that morning, Dr. Evans, camp physician at Date Creek, came into Wickenburg to look at Mollie and Kruger’s wounds. His was superficial, but hers was troubling. A splinter of wood from the coach had torn into her right arm and was still there—deep. The wound was inflamed, and the doctor feared that infection would set in. So, he suggested that she come back to Date Creek with him for treatment in the infirmary.

“You can board with our matron,” Dr. Evans told Mollie. “She’ll take good care of you.”

“I’m obliged, doctor, thank you,” she said.

“You can remain here in Wickenburg and wait for another stage to take you on your interrupted journey,” Dr. Evans said to Kruger.

“No,” he said. “I need to make sure Miss Sheppard is well taken care of.”

“I don’t need you to watch over me,” said Mollie. “I’m in good hands.”

“You need protection, especially in light of your… situation.”

“And what situation is that?” Mollie said, with a hard stare.

Evans spoke before Kruger could reply.

“I don’t care what situation she’s in. She is coming with me to Date Creek. You can join us or not, but you will need to bunk with the enlisted men. We have no facility for guests.”

The doctor’s carriage was comfortable, but Mollie was grateful when they finally pulled into the camp. Evans steered her toward a small adobe where a thin woman in a black dress and white apron greeted her and tucked her into a small cot.

She made Mollie stay in bed, and though the throbbing in her arm didn’t get worse, it still made movement difficult. The matron wasn’t exactly friendly, but she wasn’t hostile either, even though Mollie was sure she knew about her former profession.

Kruger asked the matron if he could visit during those first few days, but Mollie refused him. She was puzzled by his attention, which seemed more desperate than carnal.

Late on the third day of her convalescence, Date Creek’s commander, Captain Richard O’Beirne, came into the matron’s quarters to speak to Mollie. Kruger trailed him into the room.

“Good morning, Miss Sheppard. I hope you are recovering well?”

“I am, thanks to your generosity,” she said.

“Doctor Evans tells me that your wound is healing, though slowly. We are not equipped to take on a long-term patient, so I have arranged for you to stay with the Gilson family at their ranch a few miles from here. Missus Gilson is happy to take you in, and we will make sure she and her husband are compensated for any costs. Mister Kruger is also invited to stay.”

“That is unacceptable, Captain. Miss Sheppard must remain under your protection, considering what has happened to us. The Indians might want to return to finish the job,” said Kruger.

“That is unlikely,” said O’Beirne.

“Then the real reason must be because she is an unfortunate,” Kruger said. “And you do not want her presence to taint your post.”

“That is a positively unfounded and despicable accusation, Mister Kruger. I only care about Miss Sheppard’s welfare.”

He then spoke directly to Mollie, turning his back on Kruger.

“I hope this conversation hasn’t upset you, Miss. With your permission, the Gilsons will pick up both of you tomorrow.”

“Thank you for your concern, Captain. And I will gladly go to the ranch.”

O’Beirne herded the loudly protesting Kruger out of the room.

Mollie enjoyed her time with the Gilsons. They were kind and didn’t ask questions. She had a room to herself while Kruger bedded down in the lean-to that served as a kitchen. He sometimes rode the three miles back to Date Creek saying he needed to talk with officials there.

A few days after Christmas, Kruger walked into Mollie’s room. She was now well enough to sit in a chair and read, and she asked him why he was still at the ranch.

“There is no reason you can’t go back to Wickenburg and resume your journey,” she said. “I’m sure you are anxious to start your new position.”

“I have more important things to do, and so do you,” Kruger said.

“I need to rest. That’s all I have to think about,” she replied.

“Listen, Mollie…” he began.

She bristled at the use of her Christian name.

“Mister Kruger, let’s please keep to the formalities, despite our current circumstances.”

“Fine. Miss Sheppard, you and I both lost money and other valuables in the attack. The

only way we can get any recompense is to file a claim of Indian depredation with the government. They pay people for losses due to Indian raids.”

“I know. Captain O’Beirne talked to me about that. But I don’t believe that Indians were fully responsible.”

“What are you talking about?”

“As I told you at the time, I saw white men, or maybe Mexicans, among the attackers. I don’t dispute that a few Indians might have joined them. But to call it an Indian raid is wrong.”

“What do you care? Do you want to leave here with nothing? Haven’t you seen the newspapers?”

“Yes, I read the account of the ‘Wickenburg Massacre’ in the Prescott paper. I see they got all the facts from you,” she said. “But I have been down to nothing before and survived. I am grateful I have my life, and I will not swear to something I don’t believe. You are welcome to do whatever you please.”

Mrs. Gilson popped her head into Mollie’s room.

“Excuse me, Miss Sheppard. You asked about the La Paz stage to San Bernardino. You can pick it up the day after tomorrow. Will that suit you?”

“Yes, Missus Gilson. Thank you.”

Kruger said to Mollie, “I’ll go with you and make the arrangements.”

“Mister Kruger, I appreciate your concern, if that’s what it is, but I am well enough to get to California on my own. The Army returned my cape and some of my jewelry. That is enough to get me started again.”

“You need an escort.”

“I do not.”

Mollie picked up her book and started to read. She heard Kruger mumble something, and then he was gone.

She wasn’t surprised that he was at her side the morning she left. Mollie was feeling hopeful because the wood splinter had finally worked its way out of her arm. Mrs. Gilson had cleaned the wound thoroughly and given her fresh gauze to take with her to keep it that way.

Boarding another stagecoach brought back terrifying memories, but Mollie didn’t let them bother her. What did irritate her was Kruger’s announcement to the other passengers that he and Mollie were the only survivors of the Wickenburg Massacre followed by a highly embellished account of how he saved both of them from a mob of howling Indians.

Some of the passengers asked Mollie for her version of events, but she refused to talk about it, asking them to respect her privacy as she was still recovering from her wounds. When Kruger looked relieved, she finally realized why he was sticking to her so closely.

He needed her to corroborate his story about bloodthirsty Indians stealing his life savings so he could get money from the government. If she spoke up, if she told anyone she thought white men were involved, no one would believe his story.

She considered this option for a moment. Kruger would not only be discredited, he would be humiliated. It was tempting. But if she did that, he would continue to hound her, and that was unacceptable.

After a few days in San Bernardino, Mollie and Kruger made their way to Los Angeles.

Reporters sought them out, and Mollie told them about her fur cape, even showing the newspapermen the bullet holes that she hadn’t yet repaired. She let Kruger do most of the talking purposely placing herself in the background of the story.

In early January, they took a steamer to San Francisco and checked into the American Exchange Hotel. Reporters besieged them there, too, and Kruger’s story was picked up by papers as far away as Boston, Cincinnati, and New York.

One morning, after a late night of drinking with some traveling salesmen, Kruger knocked on Mollie’s door. There was no answer, so he went down to the dining room, but she wasn’t there either.

He walked up to the reception desk and asked the clerk, “Can you tell me if Miss Sheppard has come down for breakfast?”

The young man looked through his ledger and said, “Miss Sheppard checked out very early this morning.”

Kruger gaped.

“Did she leave a forwarding address?”

The clerk checked again.

“No, sir. She paid her bill in full.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“No, sir. But you might ask the bellboy.”

He pointed toward a sturdy youngster in a burgundy uniform.

Kruger hurried over and got his attention.

“Did you see Miss Mollie Sheppard leave this morning?”

“Yes, sir. She took a hackney, but I don’t know where she was headed.”

“Damn.”

Kruger walked out of the hotel’s front door and looked up and down Sansome Street.  He knew he wouldn’t see her, but he had to take some sort of action. He stared at the people bustling past him for a full minute then his shoulders drooped, and he went back into the hotel.

Luckily, the bar was open.

—

The April day was summer-like as government officials, Boy Scouts, bands, and spectators gathered around the stone structure a few miles west of Wickenburg. The city had planned two big events for the same day—dedicating a new highway underpass and a monument to the victims of the Wickenburg Massacre, placed on the site where it happened more than sixty-five years before.

First on the agenda was the monument. Made of large, multicolored river rocks, its pyramid shape was topped with a bronze sculpture of a stagecoach pulled by four careening horses, held back by a driver with a whip in his hand. On the stone face was a plaque in the shape of Arizona, with the date of the massacre, names of the dead, and the culprits—Apache-Mohave Indians.

After the speeches were over, the crowd lined up a few yards away for barbequed hamburgers and hot dogs and sat at tables covered with red and white checkered cloths. The Boy Scouts got there first.

A woman in her thirties wearing a smart navy-blue suit stayed behind as people moved away toward the food. She held onto the elbow of an old woman who wore a green gabardine dress and matching jacket. She leaned on a cane, but her posture was perfect. Now alone, they walked up to the monument.

Paul Hughes, a reporter for the Arizona Republic newspaper, noticed that the women didn’t join the other revelers and headed slowly in their direction as the older woman ran her hand over the plaque. He took a notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket and joined them, touching his hat.

“Excuse me, ladies. My name is Paul Hughes. I’m with the Arizona Republic. I wonder if I could ask you some questions?”

The younger woman glanced at her companion.

“What about?”

“Well, for one thing, you seem more interested in this monument than anybody else does, including the Wickenburg officials. Can you tell me why?”

The older woman pointed at the plaque.

“It wasn’t Indians,” she said.

“What?” said Hughes.

“Do you see what it says there?” she asked him, ignoring his question.

Hughes peered at the carved words.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s the names of everyone killed in the massacre.”

“Why do you suppose it says that ‘Mollie Sheppard died of wounds?’”

“Well, I guess that means she lingered for a while, like they said during the speeches. Though come to think of it, the plaque doesn’t say anything about the man… what was his name… the man who survived?”

Hughes flipped through his notebook.

“William Kruger,” the old woman said.

“Why, yes, that’s right,” said Hughes. “He told people the Sheppard woman died soon after the massacre.”

“They only have his word for it, don’t they? Some people say she just disappeared after they got to San Francisco, and nobody heard from her again. They also never found a death notice.”

“How do you know that?” Hughes asked.

“I guess you can say I’m an expert on the ‘Wickenburg Massacre,’” she replied.

Then, turning to the younger woman she said, “It’s getting warm. Will you help me with my jacket, dear?”               

She shrugged out of her jacket, still holding onto the cane. Her companion gently pulled her slim arms out of the sleeves.

Hughes waited respectfully before asking his next question.  “How do you know so much about the massacre? My readers would love to have your perspective. Would you be willing to give me an interview?”

He got closer to the women and noticed that the old lady had a long scar above her right elbow.

She smiled at him and said, “Certainly, young man. Why don’t we go into town and you can buy me a drink.”

Hughes returned the smile.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to ask your names.” He turned first to the younger woman, pencil at the ready.

“I’m Sarah Finnerty. This is my grandmother.”

“My name is Mary Finnerty,” the older woman said.

As Hughes wrote down her name, she spoke again.

“Call me Mollie.”

Lynn Downey is an award-winning historian, novelist, and short story writer. She has written two books about Wickenburg, Arizona: Wickenburg: Images of America, and Arizona’s Vulture Mine and Vulture City, finalist in Arizona History for the New-Mexico Arizona Book Award. Her other passion is the dude ranch, and her Journal of Arizona History article, “A House-Party on An Old Frontier Ranch: How Arizona Became the Dude Ranch Capital of the World,” was a finalist for the Spur Award in 2024. Downey’s latest book is American Dude Ranch: A Touch of the Cowboy and the Thrill of the West. Her debut novel, Dudes Rush In, set on an Arizona dude ranch, won the New Mexico-Arizona Book Award for Historical Fiction. Downey is the Past President of Women Writing the West and serves on the board of the Dude Ranch Foundation. Her author photo was taken by Mark Yateman.