Dead Freight for Piute

by Short, Luke;

  “Keep the order you got, boys. Stay far enough apart so’s you can see through the dust. Remember you’re overloaded and ride that brake. If she gets away from you, jump, and the hell with the outfit. That’s all.”

  The men scattered silently to their teams, and Cole walked up to his with Juck. Juck wanted to speak but was reluctant to do so. Finally he blurted out, “You remember that, Cole, about if it gets away from you. Nothin’s worth havin’ twenty tons of ore piled on top you—not even this damn contract.”

  They were at Cole’s wagon now. He said quietly, “I’ll watch you, Juck. And don’t loaf on account of me.”

  “Right,” Juck said gloomily. “Another thing. When you’re drivin’ over them bad rocky places keep your right leg out of the stirrup and your eye on the tongue. She’ll swing around and break your leg quicker ’n you can wink.” And he strode off, a man of little sentiment.

  Cole smiled to himself. In Juck’s mind he was almost as good as dead. But not quite, and that was what counted.

  Once loaded, Juck drove off and Cole drove under the loading hopper. He and the loader didn’t talk. The shovel men distributed the load; he drove ahead to fill the tandem wagon, and when that was done he was ready.

  Then the mules were under way down the road toward the shale. Cole had his right hand on the brake strap buckled to the saddle horn, his other hand holding the reins of the swing team and resting on the jerk line for the signal to the lead team. He tested the brakes now and knew then by the pressure exerted that this was a tremendous load. He looked back at the curved brake lever, thick as his arm, and wondered if it was strong enough. It had to be.

  After that he was in a tight and busy little world of his own. All he could see were the humping backs of his ten spans of working mules and the dim shadow of Juck’s wagon ahead of him in the dust. A man had to remember just three things, he kept telling himself: the signals on the jerk line, which would turn his lead team left or right; the driving of the swing team, just ahead of the leaders; and the brake. The brake was what counted.

  When he saw Juck hit the shale nothing happened, and he breathed deeply once more. He was braking gently now, keeping the sullen, lurching load behind him under control.

  He had a bad moment when he hit the shale too. It crunched and cracked under the broad wheels of the wagon, but there was no other sound. He couldn’t hear it anyway if it started to slide, and that was some comfort. He didn’t need to worry.

  Presently he was through the shale safely and now saw the dip to the curve below. The road swung down sharply into an abrupt but banked curve and then vanished from sight around the shoulder of the mountain. He pulled his brake strap and the dry squall of the brakes keened out over the rataplan of the mules’ hooves. This would be the test of the braking, Cole thought behind thought and leaned more heavily on the strap. The squall turned into a wail.

  And then there was a sharp crack, the rending of wood, and the strap slackened suddenly.

  The brake lever had snapped! He didn’t need to look; he knew!

  For one slow second the wagons didn’t react, and then the rumble of their wheels increased. And in that one second Cole knew he had a choice to make. There was this drop to the curve. By luck and the grace of God he might make the turn, and beyond that was a fairly long stretch, and beyond that he couldn’t remember.

  Either jump and get clear, or stick and try and bull it through.

  He found his chest contracted, and suddenly he yelled at the mules and cursed them in a wild and savage passion. He’d made his choice. He’d stick and risk it!

  The mules, roused out of their drowse by the urgency in his voice, stepped up, and the wagon fell into the downgrade. He didn’t need to signal the leaders. There was only one way for them to go. What he must remember, he told himself, was not to cut the swing team too short, or the top-heavy wagons would roll over and off the cliff.

  And now the mules were in a run, and the curve started. The ponderous wagons behind lurched and rumbled, like some great monster working up its anger. The lead team and the following team were around the curve now, skipping the chain as it swung in close to the shoulder. Then the third, four, fifth and sixth spans went out of sight, and the low chain screamed as it rubbed the rock shoulder. The seventh and eighth spans of mules veered away from it in panic and then got jerked around the bend. And now the ninth, the swing team, was set for the turn. With an iron hand Cole drove them to the very lip of the drop and then turned them gently on the edge of that wicked curve. The near mule almost went off, and in his panic he lunged into his collar and fought.

  Cole knew how close that was, because his mule was on the lip of the drop for three full seconds and he could look down into that abyss.

  And now, in this second, he would either win or die. He didn’t look back. He yelled at the mules, running now, and they lunged into their collars. The heavy chain whipped back with a snap into a straight line, knocking number-three team’s feet from under it. The other mules reared and dodged and skipped as the chain swung back under them. But the swing team pulled!

  There was a slow groaning sound from the wagons behind as they took the curve. They skidded, and Cole could hear the scream of their iron tires on the rock. He wouldn’t look back! He could only wait.

  And since nothing happened in those two seconds and the mules were still running he knew that the wagons, running at a tremendous speed now, had taken the curve upright.

  Ahead of him was a fairly long stretch of straight road that barely sloped, and then it turned imperceptibly to the left, and the mountain fell away. This was the narrow ridge between the low shoulder and the one they were on now. It was a long curve over that narrow ridge, but beyond was the up pull, which would stop the wagons. The off mule of number three was crippled, but he was still on his feet, panic driving him.

  Would the wagon pile into the mules on that ridge, or could they keep ahead of it? Cole didn’t know. But he did know that once they were across the ridge the mules would fight and rear and buck and could not be made to pull the load. Without brakes it would settle backward then, gain momentum; the tandem wagon would cut short; the tongue would break, the other wagon would knock it over, and everything—the wagon, the mules and himself—would be dragged off the edge and into the chasm below. He would have to block the wagons to stop them rolling back. But how? And he had to get across the ridge first.

  He yelled at the mules again now, for the thundering wagons were creeping up on them. For one brief moment there was nothing he could do. And in that time he reached down for the brake strap and pulled it up to him. First the strap, and then the severed brake lever that had been trailing under the wagon. There was nine feet of it left—good strong oak. He laid it awkwardly across the saddle and unbuckled the brake strap from the horn. The wagons behind him howled and jolted, but he would not look at them.

  The lead mules swung into the ridge, cutting short. The others, the second, third, fourth and fifth, took it at a dead run too. The chain began to crowd the near mules off the edge, but the ones on the sixth and seventh teams did the impossible feat of straddling it. If the turn had been more abrupt they would have been swept off their feet.

  And then, forcing the swing team to hug the inside edge, Cole swung into it. The wagons rocked and jolted and drove, their wheels close to the edge, but they turned that imperceptible bit that was needed to cross the ridge.

  And then suddenly they were on the upgrade. The lead mules took up the slack and then the others; and at the pressure on their collars they started to fight and pitch. The wagon slowed down and Cole freed his feet from the stirrups, the brake lever still in his hands. Now the mules weren’t pulling at all, and abruptly the wagons slowed to a stop.

  Cole vaulted out of the saddle onto the lip of the road and let the front wagon coast to a stop beside him, the panicked mules forgotten. And as the big rear wheels of the wagon ceased moving Cole rammed the brake lever in between the spokes of both wheels, up aga
inst the bottom of the wagon bed, and then stepped away, watching, praying.

  The wagons settled back. Cole watched the spokes. There was a muffled crack as the thick spokes took up the tremendous weight. For one terrible second Cole thought they would snap, but then they ceased moving. The brake lever bit into the spokes. He could see it take up all that tremendous weight and bite deeper and deeper, quarter inch by quarter inch. The spokes cracked again, and then all was still with the wagons. They had stopped moving backward; they were blocked!

  Cole put his hand on the wagon side for support and looked up toward the mules. There was Juck, and his wild voice was lifting in the kind of curses the mules understood. Team by team, he quieted them, fighting his way back to Cole.

  Cole sat down on the edge of the road, his knees suddenly weak. He hung his head in his arms and stared at the dust.

  He heard Juck beside him say in a low voice, “Goddlemighty, boy. You done it!” And Juck put a rough hand on his shoulder and bawled, “You done it, you hear? You done it!”

  Cole came to his feet, his hands shaking, and looked at Juck. Juck’s face was wet with sweat.

  “I seen it all,” Juck said. “I watched you die, Cole! I had you dead and smashed like a tomater three times. Three damn times!”

  Cole smiled and shook his head. “I might’s well die right now, Juck. I used up all the luck a man has in a lifetime.”

  “What happened? The brake lever break?”

  For answer Cole pointed to it. He saw Juck stiffen and he looked at the lever, the butt end of which stuck through the spokes.

  And there, for anyone to see, was the freshly cut mark of a saw. The brake lever had been sawed almost in half, so that when it was applied in a pinch it would snap.

  Cole and Juck walked up to it and stood looking at it. There was a smear of candlewax and ashes along the outside. Whoever had done it had disguised the cut nicely to harmonize with the weathered gray color of the oak.

  Juck said after a long, long pause in a mild voice, so calm that it was final, “I’m goin’ to tear the heart out of Keen Billings for that, Cole.”

  “No, you aren’t,” Cole said in a quiet and terrible voice. He looked off at the curve he had rounded only minutes before. The third wagon, driven by Bill Gurney, was just inching around it. “No, Juck,” he said quietly. “He’s mine. If you kill him, I’ll kill you. He’s mine, and so is Craig Armin.” He looked at Juck, and Juck only nodded, understanding.

  They turned to the repairing of the brake lever as soon as they had examined the now-quiet mules. The off mule of the third span had a deep cut in its leg where the chain had struck, but it was not crippled. For a brake lever for Cole’s wagon they used a spare timber Bill Gurney always carried for such an emergency.

  Afterward, ready to go again, Juck went on to his wagons. Cole whipped up his own team while Bill pulled the block, and they were off again.

  At six o’clock that night, after the last load of China Boy ore was in the Union Milling hoppers, Cole had a contract in his pocket from Girard, who had ridden down behind them on their second and uneventful trip. But it was a different Cole Armin who told his teamsters that their score at any saloon in town that night would be on Western Freight. It was a different Cole Armin who grinned at their cheers, who accepted their awkward congratulations for a feat that they would never have had the guts to try and that made him their superior to them.

  And it was a different Cole Armin who stood beside Juck as the men scattered for their wagons. The old Cole Armin would have been content in his quiet way, knowing that he had done a good job well.

  But that wasn’t what he was thinking. There was a hard core of hatred in him now, and a man could see it in the bleak coldness of his gray eyes. His face was haggard, dusty, but his eyes were burning. Juck saw it. He said awkwardly, “Mebbe we better go tell Ted.”

  “You go, Juck,” Cole said. “I’ve got some business to do. Alone.”

  Juck shifted his feet. “Alone?”

  “Alone.” He gave Juck the contract and walked off.

  11

  Letty Burns lived in two rooms of an unpainted frame house on a side street west of the town’s center. The other half of the house was owned by a hoistman at the Jeffers and Beecham mine who worked nights, and his wife kept the same hours. But in spite of the fact that there was apt to be noise on the other side of the house to keep her awake Letty Burns preferred it to the steady roar of the nighttime riots inevitable had she chosen a place closer to town.

  It wasn’t strange, then, that she mistook the knock on her door when it wakened her for the movements of the family next door. She turned over and was about to go to sleep when the knock came again. She heard it this time, and a little flicker of fear washed through her. She was jumpy lately, she thought. She got out of bed, put on her wrap and called, “In a moment, please.”

  She lighted the lamp, and her fingers that held the match were trembling. Putting the lamp out on the table, she threw the covers over the bed, then crossed the sparsely furnished room to the door. A gun was lying on the table beside the lamp, and, remembering it, she came back for it. At the door she called, “Who is it?”

  “Cole Armin.”

  Letty unlocked the door and stood aside, and Cole Armin came in. He had to stoop a little to clear the low door, and when he stepped in Letty saw his boots, his corduroy pants and his cotton shirt were powdered with dust. She drew her wrap around her, brushed her black hair out of her eyes and said in a friendly voice, “I heard about it, Mr. Armin. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Cole said wearily. He didn’t apologize for coming. He walked over to the table, laid his hat on it and watched Letty close the door.

  “Do you want me for some night work, Mr. Armin?” she asked.

  “No, Letty. Sit down,” Cole said mildly. When he looked at her his eyes were smoky and uncomfortably piercing. Letty settled on a bench against the wall, well out of the light, and said, “Then you might as well sit down too. Would you like me to make some coffee?”

  Cole only shook his head and settled into the rocker. He put his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands before him and stared at the floor. Letty was suddenly uncomfortable at his strange actions. For one brief instant she knew stark fear, and she fought it.

  Cole said, looking up, “How much of what went on up there at the China Boy did you hear, Letty?”

  “Just that we moved four hundred tons before the deadline and that Girard gave you the contract. Why?”

  Cole didn’t answer. He looked at his boots again and then began to talk in a mild voice. “Letty, I’m going to kill a man, two men—maybe three. But I want to be sure first.”

  Letty didn’t speak for a moment. “Sure of what?” she said in a small voice.

  “Of their guilt.” Cole kept looking at her. “Today, with twenty tons of ore at my back, the brake lever on my wagon broke.”

  “Your wagon?” Letty said swiftly. “I didn’t know you were driving one, Mr. Armin.”

  “I had to. Jim Rough was drunk—hog drunk—when we went to pick him up this morning.”

  “Oh.” Letty’s mouth stayed half open as her mind took all this in. She hadn’t talked to Billings today. She knew that Jim Rough’s condition hadn’t stopped Western, but she hadn’t heard what had happened. It all came to her now, and she understood. Cole Armin had driven instead of Jim Rough. And the brake lever on his wagon had broken. Letty shivered a little and licked her lips. “I see,” she said in a faint voice, then she corrected herself. “No, I don’t, entirely. Your brake lever broke.”

  “It was sawed half in two,” Cole said, still watching her. “It was done last night, either by Jim Rough or by somebody who got Jim drunk and then did it. Jim has gone.”

  “How horrible,” Letty murmured. “You—you weren’t hurt?”

  “I’m here,” Cole said. “That don’t matter.” He straightened in his chair and leaned back, stroking his chin with the palm of his hands and keeping h
is steady gaze on Letty. He didn’t speak, and Letty dreaded what was coming next.

  To forestall it she pretended ignorance. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Mr. Armin. What do you want?”

  “I got to thinkin’ how queer all this was,” Cole murmured. “Ted Wallace is shoved downstairs and his leg broke. We can’t hire a relief driver because they’ve all been paid by Craig Armin to get out of town. We’re up a stump.” His voice changed. It was gentle now. “You savvy that much, Letty?”

  “Yes.”

  Cole went on. “We’re up this stump when all of a sudden you pull a name out of the hat. Jim Rough. He’s free to work; he wants to.” His voice died, and he kept looking at Letty.

  Letty knew it was here and that she couldn’t pretend ignorance any longer. Her face was red, too, she felt. “I see,” she said quietly. “It does look bad for me, doesn’t it?”

  Cole didn’t say anything. Letty couldn’t look at him, and yet she had to defend herself. The panic within her drove the words out of her mouth. “I didn’t recommend Jim Rough, Mr. Armin! I asked you if you’d seen him. Juck recommended him; I didn’t!”

  Cole still didn’t say anything. Letty mistook it for doubt and, smart girl that she was, she decided to force her hand. She came erect and walked over to the table. Her anger looked genuine, and she was pretty as she spoke angrily to Cole. “What right have you to say that, Mr. Armin? What proof have you that—”

  “Proof of what?” Cole said quickly.

  Letty stopped, hesitating. “Why—that I knew anything about the brake lever being sawed.”

  “I didn’t say you did,” Cole drawled, his face impassive. “I said I just wondered.”