Dead Freight for Piute

by Short, Luke;

  Cole rode into the wagon yard at one o’clock and dismounted. He was hungry and he was anxious about Ted. But more than either he hated to face Celia until he knew about the extra teamster.

  It was half an hour before Juck rode in and slipped off his horse. Cole could tell his luck by the expression on his face, which was somber. Juck shook his head as Cole ceased talking with Phil Grimes, the hostler, and came over. “How about you?” Juck asked.

  “None.”

  Juck swore bitterly, and Phil Grimes, coming up behind them, said, “You hunted up that list of relief drivers Ted has?” The whole crew was worried now and didn’t have to be told what was amiss.

  “Where are they?” Cole asked.

  “In the office somewheres.”

  Cole crossed to the rear door of the office and went in, Juck behind him. At the desk, which was almost the only furniture in the long room besides a couple of straight-backed chairs, was Letty Burns. Cole started with surprise at the sight of her, and Letty looked up from her ledger.

  “I got to work like you told me, Mr. Armin.”

  “Fine. Fine,” Cole said absently. He had forgotten her. “Have you looked through the stuff?”

  “No sir. I found the books, though I had to look through a lot of papers.”

  “Did you find anything that looked like a list of names? Of relief teamsters?”

  Letty Burns frowned and shook her head, then stood up and invited them to look. The task was hopeless besides being foolish. Ted would know where they were, but to see Ted he had to face Celia, and he shrank from that. He stood there, undecided, when Letty Burns said quietly, “You’re looking for a teamster to replace Mr. Wallace?”

  Cole nodded, glancing at her.

  “Have you tried old Jim Rough?” she asked.

  Juck snapped his fingers and boomed, “That’s one we missed, Cole!”

  “Can he do it?”

  “Hell, yes! He’s half Piute and old as sin, but he can still throw his weight around on the end of a brake strap. He put this road in here from Californy, and he could freight a ship in here usin’ pianos for wheels.” He headed for the door. “Sit tight, Cole. I’ll git him.” And he vanished.

  Cole felt a great relief flood over him. He sat down, and Letty Burns said, “May I go out for lunch now, Mr. Armin?”

  Cole grinned. “Go ahead.” He watched her clear her desk and pick up her pocketbook. It was the same pocketbook she carried last night, and it put him in mind of something.

  “Tell me,” he said. “How’d you happen to know about this Jim Rough?”

  Letty faced him, her pretty face unreadable. “Didn’t I tell you last night that my brother freighted here for a while? I’ve heard him talk of teamsters—the best ones. I—well, I just remembered.”

  Cole nodded. “If it works it saves our necks.”

  Letty smiled. “I hope I can prove to you and Mr. Wallace I’m worth my pay.”

  Cole watched her go out, and he doubted if they had made a mistake. But only time would tell.

  Letty stepped out onto the jammed sidewalk and let the crowd push her two blocks. When she came to Miller’s Emporium she turned in. The store was crowded, so that no clerks bothered her immediately.

  Slowly she drifted down past the dry-goods counter, past the grocery counter and to the hardware counter, which was near the door.

  A big crockery churn stood by the door that let out onto the loading platform, and she pretended to examine it. When everyone was busy she slipped out the back door, went leisurely down the steps and headed across the cinders to the shed on the alley. She rounded the corner of it, and Keen Billings, who was hunkered down in its shade, came to his feet. He touched his hat politely, but there was eagerness in his eyes.

  “It worked,” Letty said briefly. “Juck has gone out to see Jim Rough now. I’m quite sure they didn’t find another man, because they came in looking for Ted Wallace’s list of relief teamsters.”

  “Good,” Keen said, and a smile broke his heavy face. “Nice work, Letty.”

  “You’re sure nothing bad will happen over this?”

  “What could?” Keen Billings said, spreading his hands and shrugging. “They just won’t have enough drivers. They’ll see that and quit.”

  Letty Burns watched him closely, and then her glance shifted to the cinders of the alley. She said slowly, “Ted Wallace’s broken leg came just at the right time for Monarch, didn’t it? He was pushed, you know,” and she looked up at Keen.

  “I was wonderin’ when you’d come to that,” Keen said steadily. “I’ll swear on anything you want that I didn’t do that, Letty. More than that, I’ll swear that I don’t know who did.”

  His eyes were steady as Letty watched them.

  “I can remember what happened to Pete when he had a broken leg,” Billings said solemnly—and shrewdly. “I don’t like to see men die that way.”

  Letty winced.

  “I didn’t shove Ted Wallace. But that’s no sign I don’t aim to take advantage of his broken leg,” Billings said frankly. “I do. Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “No,” Letty said slowly. “I suppose not.”

  “You’re not forgettin’ Pete, are you, Letty?” Billings went on. “It took him a long time to die. And Ted Wallace isn’t even goin’ to die. He’s just goin’ to wind up broke, that’s all.” He added with gentle irony, “Or are you agin’ our doin’ that, seein’ as he killed your brother?”

  “No,” Letty said huskily. “No, I don’t object! I want to help!”

  “Good. I’ll see you day after tomorrow right here.” He looked shrewdly at Letty, knew he could hold her forever and walked away, very careful to tip his hat before he left her. Ladies—real ladies—were funny about little things like that, Keen knew.

  10

  Cole was awakened by a hand on his shoulder. He came awake with a rush to find Celia, a gray flannel wrapper held about her and her golden hair cascading around her shoulders, standing by his cot. The flush of sleep was still in her cheeks.

  “What are you doin’ up?” Cole whispered severely.

  “You don’t need to whisper,” Ted said from the other cot. “I haven’t slept a wink all night. I’ll bet Seely hasn’t either.”

  “I haven’t slept much,” Celia confessed. “But I wasn’t going to lie in bed and let you get your own breakfast again, Cole. Now hurry up and dress while I make breakfast. It’s two-thirty.”

  She left the room, and Cole began to dress. Ted watched him from the bed, his eyes alert with excitement. Suddenly he said, “I’d give a thousand dollars to see that today, Cole. And I’d give two thousand to drive one of the wagons.”

  Cole, pulling on his boots, grinned faintly. “You’re lucky. After it’s over I’ll likely have gray hair—just watchin’ it.”

  “Tell Juck to watch that shale. If she starts to go tell him to jump and the hell with the wagons.”

  “I told him yesterday—twice,” Cole said.

  Ted grinned and said, “All right, old-timer, rib me. But you don’t have to stay in bed here in Piute until it’s over.”

  Cole stood up and walked over to the bed. He mussed Ted’s hair and said, “Go to sleep. When you wake up we’ll have a contract from the China Boy that will cure your leg in a day.”

  “Beat it,” Ted growled.

  Celia sat opposite Cole at breakfast, a cup of coffee before her. She had never looked lovelier, Cole thought, what with the excitement of this day before her. She wasn’t afraid; she was confident, and somehow, against his will, some of her confidence was communicated to him. She asked him again about Jim Rough, and Cole told her all he knew.

  “He must be good,” Cole finished. “He was cranky about his wagon. Said he wanted to look it over last night and made us leave it at his shack. He looked tough as rawhide. Old but tough.”

  “Then we’ll do it, Cole!” Celia said. “I know those other men. They’re rough and they drink and fight and carouse, but they’re loyal. The
y like Ted—and they like you too. Juck would die for you!”

  Cole flushed and looked down at his plate. “Maybe he’s goin’ to have to,” Cole said dryly.

  Celia laughed then. “You hate a compliment, don’t you, Cole?”

  “I never got one,” Cole said slowly.

  “Then you’ll get one now,” Celia said. “Last night when Ted was hurt I saw the doubt in your eyes. You didn’t know if you were good enough or knew enough to run Western Freight. You’ve felt all along that you shouldn’t be here. But rather than show me that, you bluffed it through.” She smiled, almost shyly. “Thanks for that, Cole. I’m all right now. I know we can pull through, but it was a bad minute.”

  Cole looked briefly at her, his face a deep red, and then at his plate, and when that didn’t help he came to his feet.

  “I’ve scared you,” Celia said, laughing a little.

  Cole suddenly smiled and shook his head. His tongue was serious. “Not scared me the way you think, Celia,” he said slowly. “You scare me a little, I reckon, by what you expect of me.”

  He dodged out then, stopped in Ted’s room long enough to say good-by and then clattered down the steps. When he looked back Celia was standing in the doorway, a candle in her hand. She waved at him, and he waved back, disturbed and restless and uneasy.

  But the sight of the wagon yard across the alley changed all that. By the light of several lanterns the nine picked teamsters were just finishing their hitching. There were five wagons here. Four more were out at the Union Milling, and one was at Jim Rough’s house, a mean little shack out on the flats below town on the way to the China Boy road. Phil Grimes, the hostler, and a couple of boys had already left with the remuda of mules, which would make up the teams for the other five wagons.

  When Cole walked into the circle of lantern light where the teamsters were gathered, listening to Juck, they greeted him with friendly equality. They liked this tall new boss of theirs. He asked them questions that made sense, and he didn’t give orders to them like they were one of their mules. He had savvy and he didn’t talk much, and there was something in his eyes behind their friendliness that warned a man to speak softly.

  “Line ’em out, boys, if you’re ready,” Cole said. “Juck, you and me will head for Jim Rough’s place.”

  Cole saddled his horse, mounted and swung out ahead of Juck’s wagon and led the clanking, jolting parade out of town. The mules, rested for a day and grained well during their rest, were feeling salty. A lantern, swung from the collar of a lead mule of each wagon, lighted the night and gave an eerie appearance to the procession. It looked to Cole as he looked back over the line as if this might be a funeral procession of five giants.

  Presently, when they reached the turnoff to Jim Rough’s place, Cole left the mill road. The reason he had asked Juck to come along was that Juck could give Jim Rough, who had never been to the China Boy, some rough pointers on the road.

  Juck’s lantern cut off toward him, and the others went on ahead. A moment later Cole could see another lantern in Jim Rough’s yard. That would be Phil Grimes, dropped out with Jim’s mules and helping to harness.

  When he came closer he saw that the teams were hitched to the wagon, pointing toward the mill road. As he approached Phil walked toward him, and Cole pulled up.

  “Come in here and take a look,” Phil said grimly.

  Cole slipped from his saddle, feeling a sudden uneasiness. He followed his hostler into the house and looked where he pointed. On the bunk lay Jim Rough, snoring deeply, and at the foot of his dirty bunk was an overturned jug. The reek of whisky was rank in the room.

  “I throwed some water on him, a hull bucket!” Phil snarled. “He’s out cold!”

  Dimly Cole heard Juck pull up in the yard outside. He stepped over to the bunk and knelt by Jim Rough and slapped his face sharply. The man did not move, although his snoring stopped. He had been a big man once, but now his flesh was shrinking. His face had a kind of debauched content when in repose, and a sudden rage shook Cole.

  He hauled the teamster to a sitting position and belted his face with his hand. Jim Rough’s head rolled loosely and did not raise.

  And then Juck’s voice broke the silence. It was the most blistering cursing Cole had even heard. Juck strode over to the bunk, took Jim Rough from Cole’s hands, stood him on his feet and shook him until Cole was sure his head would snap. When Juck let him go Jim sagged to the floor like an empty sack.

  Juck raised his glance to Cole, dread in his eyes. “Well, by God!” he said bitterly. “That licks us!”

  “Can you do it with nine wagons, Juck?”

  Juck only shook his head. “No chance. Not and move four hundred tons.”

  “And there isn’t a driver you can get, any kind of a driver?”

  Again Juck shook his head. “Not one that wouldn’t wreck his outfit.”

  For one still moment, while the hostler whispered bitter curses, Cole looked at Jim Rough. The ability that lay somewhere in the brain and muscles of this sodden flesh shut them away from success. He was a sorry-looking thing, wet and drooling and already snoring again, and everything in Cole protested at the sight. A stubborn anger was lighted inside him, and it burned slowly as he beheld this wreck of a man. He thought of Ted Wallace and Celia. A man, seventy years old, tough and burned out and useless, had licked Ted and Celia. And here he, Cole Armin, stood—young and just as tough and not burned out. Cole came to a sudden decision then.

  He looked up at Juck and said quietly, “Juck, I’ll take his wagon.”

  Juck didn’t say anything for a moment. He was weighing all the odds against the man, and it was his observation that brains and guts made up for a lot of experience that was lacking. A little luck was all they needed, and this man was lucky.

  “That’s the way to play it,” Juck said matter-of-factly, and his big mouth broke into a grin. “We can’t waste no time.” And he started for the door.

  By sunup they were on the long, steep haul to the China Boy. Cole was second in line, behind Juck, and he was trying to remember the things Juck had told him to watch out for. Instead he was remembering the scene at the foot of the grade when he, instead of Jim Rough, had come up with the tenth wagon past the other wagons lined out waiting for them. Juck had been ahead of him, and as Juck came abreast the others he passed the word about Jim Rough.

  And as Cole came along after him it was the way his men looked at him that made a difference. To a man they grinned at him or waved at him, wishing him luck. They liked him. They wanted him to do it, although nobody but Juck really believed he could. That helped, and he wished savagely that he knew a tenth as much about this business as his men did.

  He returned to his study of the road, which he saw through the dust haze that Juck’s mules were kicking up. In the wagon behind him he could hear tough little Bill Gurney, not a care on his mind, whistling in an off key. Cole concentrated on the road.

  It was deceptively mild at first, not half so bad as the road to the Glory Hole. But soon the switchbacks started to tighten up and the grade increase. The rocks, almost barren of growth except stubborn dwarf cedars in the cracks, still held yesterday’s heat, and as the sun climbed they started to warm up again. Slacked loosely in the saddle of the near mule, Cole studied each curve, each straight stretch, each grade. He tried to forget what lay beyond the road. Sometimes it was just a sheer drop on one side that fell to dim, hot canyons below. Other times it was the same sheer drop on both sides as the road, having worked up to the maximum height on this ground, crossed on a narrow ridge of rock to start a new climb all over again. And as the road climbed higher it got narrower, and then finally, swinging downgrade onto a narrow neck of rock that divided two deep canyons and coming around the ample curve beyond it, Cole saw a change in the character and color of the rock in the straight stretch before him. He didn’t have to be told what it was. This was the shale that all the teamsters feared.

  The whole gray side of this mountain was shale, a
nd the road had been gouged out of it, following each contour. Above and below him the shale stretched out like tiny slate shingles on a vast roof. It was a treacherous footing at the best of times, for this was not living rock; it was a great shabby scale, feet deep, on the steep shoulder of the mountain. It slid and buckled at the first touch of frost. It could be surprisingly solid at times; other times, when the whole mountain was deserted, the men at the China Boy beyond would hear it start to move. A great dusty avalanche would roar for an hour, and when it was over the road was gone. Like some savage beast, bent on a cruel whimsey, it was unpredictable and strange. Men feared it and rightly. Teamsters hated it. And putting twenty tons of ore and twelve tons of mules on its face at once was flying in the face of Providence. This, then, was what Western Freight was fighting.

  The China Boy mine lay at the head of a canyon a mile beyond the shale. Like its sister mines it seemed to cling precariously to the side of the mountain, its heap of tailings lying in a great smear down the face of the canyon.

  In reality, however, it lay on a flat, the cluster of buildings backed against the mountain. There were barracks here, for this was too far to travel to work from Piute. There was the candle house, the grading shed and enginehouse and the office buildings. The huge grading shed had been perched on the edge of the canyon, and the tailing used to shore up a road under the rear of it. The wagons could drive around under the rear of the shed, be loaded by gravity in a matter of minutes and be on their way down through this high desolation to the flats.

  Girard was there to meet them, and there was little time wasted in talk. The mine was working steadily, its sign the regular chuff-chuff of the hoist engine. Skips from deep in the earth rode to the surface, were dumped in ore cars pulled by mules and tracked over to the grading shed. Juck drove his wagon under the loading chute, and while it was being filled he talked to the teamsters gathered around him in the pitilessly hot sun. They were a rough-looking crew, dusty and unshaven and utterly sober.