“No thank you,” She said crisply with an air of independence and slung the bag into the overhead compartment.
“Would you like the window seat, ma’am?” He started, but she curtly interrupted his gallantry.
“No. The aisle is just fine.” She took the seat promptly, almost falling into it as the train lurched again. The whistle blew and the engine whined as it started to pick up speed.
Her bulky skirt billowed against Tom Ragan’s thigh and she adjusted it promptly. “I hope I’m not crowding you , sir.” She apologized.
“Oh no. Not at all,” He protested. “Let me assure you, I am very pleased, you could join me. I had been expecting a dull, lonely trip.”
“Well don’t get excited, Buster,” The polite ‘sir’ had turned to annoyed ‘Buster.’ Her blue eyes flashed with anger. “If you think, I’m a pickup. You are most wrong!”
“Whoa, whoa, there, Miss. I’m sorry if I came across that way. I merely meant that the company would be appreciated. I assure you, I am making no advances to you. After all, I have a wife and seven children.” He lied with a grin on his face.
“Seven? My god!” She gasped.
“Oh, but two sets of twins.”
“I didn’t mean to…” She started to apologize.
“There you see,” He said. “We both didn’t mean anything. Let’s start again. I’m Tom Ragan on my way to Nevada on business. I’m a cattle buyer.” He offered his hand. The lady smiled sheepishly and took it.
“I’m Francy Jones,” she said, not offering anymore about herself or her destination. “My mother always warned me about talking to strangers, so you see, it was nothing personal.”
Ragan told himself that he saw the light of interest in the young lady’s eyes. He didn’t think she really believed him about the wife and kids. This could be a mighty interesting trip if she was going as far as he was. He wondered about her destination, but didn’t ask. He was sure she would tell him sooner or later. He was sure he could break down her defenses. After all, he gloated to himself, he was a master at it.
The miles trudged on and the conversation became less stilted; eventually becoming more relaxed, more instantaneous. They chatted and laughed comfortably, the time ticking away, the miles falling behind them. And when he finally slid in the question of her destination, she blurted absent, of all privacy protection, “I’m going to Alkalai Springs to visit my sister and her husband. They have a horse ranch….”
Ragan didn’t let her finish. “Alkalai Springs?” He exclaimed. “We just passed it.”
“What?” She practically jumped from her seat. Her voice was loud enough to draw attention from the other passengers.
“Didn’t you hear the conductor call for Alkalai Springs?”
“No! But,.. but we didn’t stop anywhere. I would have known.” She protested.
“No one was getting off. The train didn’t stop. If I had known, I would have pointed it out to you. I feel it is my fault,” Ragan said. “I must have distracted you and you didn’t hear the call.”
“No, that can’t be,” she screamed, throwing herself out of the seat trying to stand erect, but the lurching of the train beneath her feet forced her body against the seat upright as she reached for her bag on the upper shelf and dragged it violently out of its repository.
With a sudden yelp of surprise, she fell into Ragan’s lap and arms. He laughed at the spectacle and the contact. He threw his arms around her, carpet bag and all.
She struggled to free herself, shouting her protest at the restraint. Ragan only laughed louder and squeezed her tighter. “That does it, Buster,” she screamed. It was back to Buster again. She brought the traveling bag up in a single swoop and plastered it against Tom Ragan’s face. He released his grip with sudden surprise and his hands went to his head, dizziness and clouds of darkness swirling around in his stunned brain.
She pushed herself off him, sliding back into the aisle, her soft hands seeming to drift along his coat lapel. By the time, Ragan recovered from the attack, he could see her rushing toward the car door, pulling it open, letting in a blast of air and noise and then disappearing as the door swung shut.
Ragan rubbed his aching jaw. Then he realized that he thought he had felt or noticed something wrong. His hand darted his inside coat pocket. His eyes darkened with anger and chagrin as he realized his wallet was gone. “Why that little faker,” he thought. Just a cheap little pickpocket. And he had fallen for it.
He dove forward out of his seat and pushed his way to the car door and rushed out, crossed over the coupling platform and opened the door of the second adjoining passenger car. Just as he pushed the door open, he saw the fleeing girl exiting out the door at the other end of this car.
He trudged on, hoping to close the distance between them. On through the exit he followed, again across a coupling platform and through the door of the next car. It was dark inside this car, save for what little light flashed through cracks in the walls and around the sliding side door. In the dim light, he could make out the shapes of boxes, baggage, and freight.
He stood silent for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He listened, heard a sound, then glimpsed a movement as a shadow ducked behind a pile of wooden boxes. Ragan half smiled to himself with satisfaction and edged slowly toward the hiding place. “Miss Jones,” He chided triumphantly. “I know you’re there.”
“And now you know I’m here,” a deep manly voice said from behind him and he felt the hard steel of a gun muzzle, pressing deep into his spine. He let out a sudden gasp of pain and surprise. His body tensed and froze except for the automatic and slow rising of his hands acknowledging his capture. “Keep your hands up and don’t move.” The voice commanded.
Francy stepped out from behind her cover, reached for a lantern hanging from an upright and lit it. The glow illuminated the car, casting ominous shadows. “So, this was all a set up,” Ragan sneered. “And I fell for it.”
“Hook, line and sinker,” Francy smiled, lifting a .38 calibre pistol in her right hand and pointing it directly into Tom’s face.
“So tell me, Jack. Just how did you manage to get out of that coffin and hearse?” Ragan said nonchalantly as if he were confident that he could still be in control of the situation.
“Maybe, I didn’t, Tom,” Jack Clayton said, pressing the pistol barrel harder into Ragan’s back, forcing him to jump. “Maybe, I’m a ghost here to haunt you.”
Ragan felt Clayton’s left hand encircle his waist, fingers fumbling for Tom’s gunbelt buckle. “Now don’t get excited, Tom.” Jack said as he loosened the buckle. “You’re not my type.” The gun belt and matching sixguns fell heavily to the floor.
“I’ll be needing those fancy guns of yours,” Then he plucked the fancy Stetson from Ragan’s head. “And this too.”
The train whistle blew. The train seemed to be slowing down and the car floor slanted upward as the train chugged up an inclined grade.
“Looks like we are right on time, Francy,” Jack said. “Get the door while I keep this guy under control.”
She moved quickly to the sliding door, unlatched it and slid it open. Wind and sunlight burst into the open car with a blinding force. Francy stepped back from the door out of the blast and grabbed an upright for stability.
Jack, held Ragan tighter and once again prodded him with the gun barrel, letting him know that with the suddenness of environment change that this was not an opportunity to try an escape.
Jack held him a few moments, getting his bearings in the wind which was dying down as the train slowed in its upward climb. “O.K.,” Clayton said. “Move to the doorway. Be careful, you don’t want to fall out before I’m ready to toss you out.” He pushed Ragan forward, their legs and feet moving in tandem and unison.
“You, you can’t do that,” Ragan protested, his fear getting the best of him and his fake show of confidence gone. Jack forced him to the edge of the opening. The ground was whizzing by, almost a blur.
&n
bsp; “I’ll be killed!” Ragan screamed.
“Then, I guess that will just about make my day.” Jack shoved him out, pushing hard enough that he would roll away from the chugging train.
Farther up along the track, Clayton could see three riders waiting. As the bundle fell from the train and rolled in the dust, they spurred their horses forward to pick him up like a sack of mail. As a prisoner of Rutherford B. Hayes’ agents, he would be kept out of the way.
Jack and Francy laughed.
****
CHAPTER 6
SHOOTOUT IN SPRING CITY
It was mid morning the next day, when the train made its stop at Spring City. Jack Clayton wearing his usual black broad cloth suit and Tom Ragan’s fancy black hat and gunbelt, stepped off the train, turning to take Francy’s arm and gallantly help her down the steps, although she didn’t need help. None the less, as a couple to the outside world, they were a perfect picture of a gentleman and lady.
Jack, with Tom Ragan’s hat and guns would now be Tom Ragan . Francy worked for Rutherford B. Hayes. Hayes was currently running for president in hopes of being in a position to right many of the wrongs and atrocities that had occurred during President Grant’s scandal ridden eight years in office. Jack had worked for Hayes a few months earlier. Rutherford B. Hayes, Rudy as Jack called him, had served with Jack in the Ohio militia during the war between the states. Jack had saved Rudy’s life, and they had become friends.
It was a daring a conspiracy that sent Jack to the Black Hills and had reunited them. Jack had unofficially continued to work for Hayes, unbeknownst to John Randolph. Something sinister was happening within the Justice Department and Jack no longer knew who he could trust. Although he trusted Randolph implicitly, he chose to leave him out of the loop as to his involvement with the presidential candidate.
Clayton was already working on the silver smuggling case, when Rudy contacted him about the silver problem that was shaping up with the remonetization bill. With a common goal, Hayes had assigned Francy Jones, one of his best operatives to work with Jack on this case. Jack and Francy had worked well before in the Black Hills.
Now, Jack as Tom Ragan and Francy Jones descended from the train, the livestock car was being unloaded and a handler was leading a tall red stallion, already saddled and bridled down the loading ramp. Jack hooked his carpet traveling bag over the saddle horn, took up the reins in his left hand and picked up Francy’s bag with his right. The two of them strode off away from the train toward the main streets of town.
The striking couple and magnificent stallion did not go unnoticed. A pair of piercing gray eyes focused on them and followed their movements away from the depot.
From under the awninged shade of the ticket booth, a wizened elderly man watched intently. He was slim in stature and his jeans, shirt and vest hung loose. His pistol belt seemed to be slipping off his thin hips. He chewed on the corner of his drooping gray mustache and adjusted the strap of his battered hat that covered his thin hair and balding head, as he watched them intently. It was his job to watch people and be aware of strangers, especially these days with all of the trouble that had been going on in the area. A sheriff’s star on his vest reflected rays of the rising sun. Sheriff Mort Dooley decided he should keep an eye on this pair of newcomers. He stepped away from the shade and followed the couple at a distance.
The lady did not look suspicious, but the man with the fancy two guns worried him. The casual way he walked with confidence was the trait of a gunman. He followed them to Main Street, leaned against the wall of the Mercantile and continued his vigil.
The man and woman stopped in front of the Spring City Hotel. They exchanged a few words and the man handed the lady her traveling bag. He tipped his hat to her and stepped back allowing her room to climb the two steps to the hotel entrance and disappear inside.
The man turned and continued walking down the street, leading the big horse. Farther down the street was the livery and it looked like the man was angling in that direction. A logical move for a new comer with a horse to be taken care of.
Jack could hear the tinny strains of a honky tonk piano, drifting out of the Red Bull Saloon down the street. It seemed too early in the day, but the place was obviously open and doing business. Cowhands and miners were passing in and out of the swinging batwing doors. The music grew louder as Jack approached. He was almost parallel with the establishment when two boisterous young men slammed through the batwings onto the saloon porch. They were both tipsy and laughing at anything and everything in general. These men were trouble ready to happen and Clayton knew it could very well mean trouble for him. He knew these men; Billy Tait and his younger brother Jeb.
Quickly, Clayton lowered his head, letting the brim of his Stetson shade his face, and continued walking nonchalantly on passed the saloon. Just the luck, he thought. A few minutes in town and he could be recognized. The Tom Ragan impersonation would be finished before it could begin.
Clayton had met up with the Tait boys before and because of him the boys had spent two years in Leavenworth Federal Prison. They would have a score to settle with Jack.
He felt the hackles on the back of his neck bristle as he strode by the pair. Hopefully, they were too drunk to notice him. When he heard their laughter stop, it worried him more. Had they seen him? He dared not turn and look back. Dared not quicken his step.
Had he looked back, he would have seen the two ruffians halt before stepping to the ground where their horses were hitched. Billy Tait had stopped laughing and stared at the back of the man walking in the street. Jeb also stopped laughing as he saw his brother become distracted. “What’s the matter, Billy?” Jeb asked.
“I dunno,” Billy mumbled. “I just thought for a moment that…. But, it couldn’t be. That man looks like that G-Man Clayton. Didn’t see his face though.”
“Naw,” said Jeb. “Clayton’s got that mean big black of his. Besides, I heard he’d been killed down in Arizony.”
“You’re probably right. That ain’t him.” They stepped to their mounts, climbed aboard, wheeled, and rode at a gallop down the street, and passed Clayton, kicking dust into his face.
Jack breathed a sigh of relief as he saw them pass him and ride on. He raised his head as he watched them go. But his relief was short lived, for the Tait brothers suddenly reined up hard, their horses hind legs sliding between their front legs, almost losing footing altogether, but managing to stay upright as the boys twisted them savagely around and drumming their rib cages to send them charging furiously back the way they had just come. The Taits had their guns out now and aimed directly at Clayton.
Instantly, Jack knew they must have recognized him as they passed by. Quickly, pulling the big red stallion around and sending him back down the street away from the oncoming riders, Clayton dived to the side of the street and lead from the blazing pistols raked the dirt inches behind his moving frame. He rolled up against the wooden sidewalk on his back, half sitting up. He had both six guns out as he came to a halt and they both were belching flame and thunder.
The Taits roared closer, firing steadily as they came, but from charging horses, their aims were not good. Bullets spattered against the wooden sidewalk and into the walls of the Millinery behind where Clayton lay returning fire.
Billy Tait swayed in the saddle and his mount pulled up short, as he took one of Clayton’s lead pills in his left shoulder. Then new firing came from back down the street. Jeb’s hat flew off as a speeding projectile whistled close to his shaggy blond head. He pulled his mount up, looking down the street .
While both men were preoccupied with this new attack, Clayton leveled both guns and poured lead into the Taits. With screams of pain and snorts of thrashing horses, the two men fell from their saddles and sprawled in the dust as their terrified horses wheeled and bolted riderless down the street.
Dust was hanging in the air as Clayton pushed himself to his feet and strode toward the two prone bodies, both pistols aimed directly at their heads as
he cautiously approached. Jeb was lying on his back, both arms outstretched, a mass of blood covering his chest. Blood dripped from between his teeth and his sightless eyes stared blankly into the sun.
Billy was lying on his stomach, gun still clutched in his hand. Jack holstered his left hand gun, reached down and retrieved Billy’s. Then with the toe of his shiny, black stove pipe boot, he hooked it under Billy’s ribs and kicked him over. He was just as dead as his brother Jeb.
Clayton was still staring at the bodies as he absently holstered his pistol and dropped Billy’s beside him. It was always a grim moment when he had to deal with gunmen like this. Even though they had asked for it, Jack always wished it could have been some other way. Still in thought, Jack barely heard the footsteps behind him before he heard the raspy voice. “Just hold it there, young feller,” Sheriff Mort Dooley commanded. Jack turned slightly toward him as he came into view, his six gun out and aimed at Clayton’s chest. Towns people were once again venturing out into the street, gawking. It had all happened so fast and now it was over, just as fast as it had begun.
“I saw it from the beginning,” The sheriff added. “I know they started it. And I helped you out, but I’ve got a lot of questions to ask you. So, I’ll just trouble you for that fancy gun belt and shooting irons of yours, until I get this straightened out.” Then he added gloomily, “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when Josh Tait finds out what you did to his two boys. Him and his other two boys will want your hide for sure”
Jack, grimaced, just what he needed, more trouble to interfere with what he was here for. With reluctance, he unbuckled the belt and handed the rig over.
“The jail’s over there.” He motioned with his scruffy pointed chin. “Keep your hands up and get moving.”
“My horse ran loose down the street,” Jack started.
“Don’t worry none about him,” Dooley said. “I had someone catch him up. He’ll be in the livery and your traveling bag will be brought along to my office.. Now do as I say and get moving.”
Riders of the Silver Trail Page 4
