by Alan David
She sighed and pulled the covers up to her chin, afraid that there might be love bites on her neck.
‘What is it, Aunt Polly?’ she responded.
The door opened and yellow glare filled the room. Netta put her head under the covers.
‘Sorry, child. The shooting disturbed me. Did you hear it?’
‘Yes, but there’s usually some shooting in the town after dark. I was trying to get back to sleep.’
‘Your uncle went out before it started. I think he knows what’s going on. He’s just come back and he said there was an attempt made on the bank. But Chet Manning was there and stopped it.’
Chet would be on hand! Netta smiled. She wished there was some way she could get him to take her part against Willard. But he did not seem to know that she existed. Sometimes he smiled at her, but although he was only six years older than she he seemed at least three times her age in experience. He did not even regard her as a younger sister. His attitude suggested that he was more of an uncle, and that hurt. No one took her for a grown woman.
‘Goodnight, Netta.’ Aunt Polly interrupted her thoughts.
‘Goodnight, Aunt Polly.’ Netta sighed with relief as the door was closed and darkness returned to the room. She emerged from the covers, her thoughts milling. The incidents had bewildered her, and the powerful emotion Willard had aroused in her was shocking to a high degree. She felt strangely drained of strength, and wondered if Uncle Asa was right about the fire and brimstone ...
Manning was riding out of Buffalo Junction as Netta settled down to sleep. He was following the ribbon of twin steel rails, the latest construction to be added to the intricate web of main lines, feeders and spurs slowly spreading across the West to form a complicated system of high-speed transport. The new line was heading south-west in the direction of Apache Pass, and Manning considered what he had learned on his arrival from El Paso. He had been tossed into action the moment he saw Asa Blaine.
Without so much as asking for verification of the report telegraphed from El Paso about the Delmont gang, Blaine had risen from his desk at sight of Manning and grasped the younger man’s arm. ‘No time for talk, Chet,’ he had rasped. ‘Let’s get out of here and take up our positions. I’ve cut it too close as it is, but some of our men are ready.’
‘What’s going on?’ Manning demanded.
‘Tell you as we go.’ Blaine led the way out of the office and through to the back of the house. ‘Leave your horse where it is until we come back.’ They crossed the back lots. ‘I haven’t heard any shooting yet, but I’m certain my information is correct. There’s fifty thousand in gold bullion in the bank which is due out on the eight-twenty to El Paso in the morning. I got a tip-off that a hard bunch is gonna lift it around midnight.’
‘Hell, you’ve got enough men around without dragging me back from El Paso soon as I got there,’ Manning protested. ‘Am I the only troubleshooter on the payroll?’
‘You’re my chief troubleshooter and it’s your place to be here.’ Blaine’s tone was uncompromising. ‘Your father never quibbled about what he had to do. He handled your job before you, and left a mighty big reputation for you to live up to.’
‘Mebbe that’s why he’s dead before his time. I’m not likely to forget that, Asa. All right, so what’s going on? I’d like to know before I put my foot in it.’
‘You now know as much as I do.’ Blaine was a shapeless figure in the night as they made their way across the back lots towards the bank. ‘Be careful here. I got men posted and their trigger fingers will be itching.’
A gun blasted at that moment as if to punctuate Blaine’s words, and Manning drew his .45 and cocked it. They both halted and listened to the fading echoes. They had not seen the flash, and Manning shook his head slowly as he peered around. He did not like the situation. There was no sense in walking cold into a setup. Blaine had organised this reception and should have handled it himself. But he went forward slowly.
‘You know where your men are posted?’ he asked guardedly. ‘I don’t want to stop railroad lead.’ He glanced sideways at Blaine’s heavy figure. ‘Where’s Hank Chilvers?’
‘Patrolling the town. He’s left the bank to us. But one shot doesn’t make sense. You figure somebody fired it accidentally?’
‘That’s all we need!’ Manning retorted.
Another shot hammered, followed by an immediate reply, and Blaine started forward quickly. Manning went with him, ready for trouble yet feeling out of it. But they were getting close to the bank and the gun echoes were fading. Then hooves pounded suddenly, sounding urgent in the darkness, and Blaine shouted a warning as a group of riders swept into view from around the far side of the bank. A gun cut loose immediately from the near corner of the building, firing at the riders, and Manning dropped to one knee, wanting the horsemen in silhouette. Orange flashes tattered the night and tore the shadows asunder as the riders returned fire. Blaine cut loose with a .45, standing with legs braced.
Manning saw that the riders would angle across their front and held his fire until they were within range, wishing that Blaine would do the same. The riders checked in the face of Blaine’s shooting, but evidently figured there was only one gun opposing them and came on. Manning held his fire, counting horses. There were five of them, and the ground tremored under the concerted pounding of steel-shod hooves. Blaine stopped shooting and blundered towards Manning.
‘For God’s sake!’ he yelled. ‘Shoot at them!’
Manning tightened his lips as the riders opened fire again, and lances of flame spurted through the shadows. The crash of shooting battered against their eardrums, but now the riders were within easy range and Manning lifted his sixshooter. Swinging the weapon, he allowed for movement and began shooting, his lips peeling back from his teeth in a snarl of defiance as gunsmoke enveloped him. He slitted his eyes against the darting flashes and saw a rider pitch out of his saddle and bounce on the hard ground. Almost immediately a second man threw wide his arms and plunged sideways. But in the next instant the survivors were swallowed up by the night and he ceased firing, yawning to rid his ears of gun-shock as the ominous drumming of hooves faded and receded. He reloaded his spent chambers instinctively, plucking fresh shells from his cartridge belt.
‘You got two of them,’ Blaine rapped, and went forward to where the victims were lying. ‘I hope they’re alive. We need someone to talk. All we got so far are rumours.’
Manning dragged his mind back from the incident as he followed the rails towards end of track. So he had killed two more of the vultures who made a precarious living trying to wrest a fortune from the railroad! It was a never-ending, thankless job, and he knew that he was living on borrowed time. The law of averages was against him. One day he would run out of luck as his father had done. He clenched his teeth and pushed the horse into a canter, wanting to get on with his chore. He did not know what to make of the rumour about Ben Yaro moving in against S & W to prevent them getting to Apache Pass before Western Pacific, but it would not be the first time two rival companies had resorted to violence in order to gain an advantage. Unscrupulous men lost all principles amidst the hot competition of American business life. But he knew of Yaro’s reputation. The man was wanted for murder in some States, had been a killer lawman in others, and if he came into action here then S & W would have to take on more gunhands. The whole thing could boil over into a full scale war.
Four hours later he rode into the camp at end of track to find lamps burning in the coach on the loop-line which served the construction boss as an office and a home. There was a work train with flat cars full of ties and rails on the main line, but the workers’ camp site was in darkness, the construction crews asleep. Soon there would be the first hint of dawn in the sky, and Manning reined up for a moment to contemplate the scene. The breeze was cool now, but when the sun came up it would turn hotter than the draught from a locomotive’s firebox. He turned his head slowly, listening to the intense silence around him as he wondered how long i
t would last. Then he rode into the camp at a walk.
When he mounted the steps of the coach a door was jerked open and he was faced by Ike Mozee, the construction boss. Mozee was a redhead, squat and brawny, with slitted green eyes and features burned almost black by the sun. He was forty-five, and tough as the iron rails he used.
‘Chet! Glad to see you!’ He held out a big, calloused hand. ‘I got the word on Delmont. About time you nailed that skunk. Come on in and have some coffee.’
‘Thanks, Ike. What are you doing awake this time of the morning? Got problems?’
‘Mebbe I have, seeing you ride in at this time,’ came the perceptive reply. They went into the coach and Mozee took a big coffee pot off the hot stove. When they were both sipping the scalding black brew, Mozee squinted at Manning. ‘Looks like you had a tough time nailing Delmont,’ he commented.
‘Yeah, but he’s dead now and I’m still alive. You had any kind of trouble around here, Ike?’
‘Nope. But now you come to mention it, I figure it is a mite too quiet, and it’s been like that some time. We always find the odd hardcase who won’t take orders, but I’ve never known any camp work so well.’
‘That could be a bad sign, because I am here to warn you of trouble.’ Manning repeated the information Asa Blaine had given him about Ben Yaro, and saw concern show in Mozee’s dark features.
‘Hell, and right when we’re getting along just great. You’ll have to take strong measures, Chet. If I’m to meet the deadlines my men won’t be able to work with a rifle in one hand. I’m having to push to the limit now to maintain my schedules.’
‘I know. But warn your boys to be ready for anything, just in case. You’ve got some guards around and I’ll see to it that you have more as soon as possible.’ Manning paused and frowned. ‘Talking of guards, I just rode in here unchallenged. Don’t you have someone posted during the night?’
‘Sure do!’ Mozee rose and hurried to the door, and Manning followed closely, touching the butt of his sixgun. They went across the track until Mozee faced a stack of ties and called in an undertone. ‘Hey, Billy, where are you?’
The wind sighed, but there was no other reply and Manning drew his gun. He covered Mozee as the construction boss went into the shadows. The next instant there was a muttered exclamation. A match scraped and Manning pushed forward to peer down at a sprawled body lying awkwardly against the ties. He saw dark strings of blood on the guard’s neck and chest, and did not need to be told that he was dead. His throat was cut.
‘So it’s started already!’ Manning spoke harshly. ‘I guess we don’t need better proof than this, Ike. Asa is right. We’re in for a war. I’d better get back to town and start organising. When are you sending the work train back?’
‘It’ll be leaving in an hour.’ Mozee straightened from the dead man. ‘I’ll call out all the guards we have, but you better get some reinforcements here soon as you can, Chet, or I won’t make those deadlines, and you know what will happen if Western Pacific get to Apache Pass ahead of us!’
‘I’ll take the train back to Buffalo Junction,’ Manning said thinly. ‘Things will be humming around sun-up, don’t you worry.’
Chapter Three
Willard Blaine was in the grip of conflicting passions as he slunk through the shadows back to the barn after leaving Netta to go home alone. He was satisfied that she would not inform against him, and the memory of her soft body beneath his hands made him grit his teeth. One day soon he was going to work off some of his excesses on that cousin of his! She had aroused his enmity the first time they met on a visit West with her parents when he had been sixteen and she eleven. He had taken her behind the house for a grope and Asa caught him in the act. Although she had not been willing she had seemed to lead him on, and he blamed her for the whipping he had received. Now she had come to live with them permanently, and she was full grown and ready for taking. Her presence disturbed him although he did not know why. Yet he associated her with that harsh whipping, and the interminable sermons he afterwards received about the sins of the flesh seemed to run counter to all his natural instincts and desires. Ironically, the whipping accomplished the opposite of what Asa intended. It perverted Willard’s emotions. The infliction of pain had become necessary for him to achieve complete satisfaction, but that pain had to be suffered by others while he experienced the pleasure of recording their discomfort, as Netta had smirked happily that day years ago while he took the full brunt of his father’s outrage.
But there were other pressures at work in his mind at that moment and he thought about them as he crouched in the shadows and watched his father and Chet Manning together. Manning was almost ready to ride out, and Willard watched the big, tough troubleshooter with hatred. Willard had been roughly shaped by his relentless father until he had fallen into a vicious pattern which enmeshed him like a spider’s web. He hated the West, with its dust, heat and wildness. But he could not afford to move East yet. That was another reason why he hated Netta. She had lived in New York.
He eased forward to try and hear what was being said, but Manning suddenly swung into his saddle and lifted a hand to Asa. The next moment he had gone, and Asa departed, making for the house. Willard remained in hiding, listening to the sound of fading hooves, a sneer twisting his lips. Soon he would have the better of everyone. But what he had overheard, combined with the shooting earlier, made him worry about his own safety. He was playing a dangerous game, associating with vicious men who had the necessary courage to back up their actions while he, a physical coward, could call only upon an innate cunning.
Manning had been talking about Ben Yaro, whose presence was apparently known to Asa. But Yaro had counted on remaining incognito for several more weeks, at least until he had laid the firm basis for his campaign against the S & W. That shooting could only have been a setback for Yaro, and Willard waited in the darkness and shivered as he wondered if Yaro would blame him for the trouble, for he had assured the gang boss through their contact that nothing could go wrong. But it would not matter in the long run. Willard was amassing quite a hoard of wealth from his past connections with various criminal elements. Delmont had been the last, but, with his death, Yaro had appeared on the scene, and the pickings promised to be far richer than anything which had come before.
A barn owl hooted in the background and he stiffened, peering around intently. Was it the real thing or not? He gave a fair imitation of an owl in reply, and was rewarded with a slightly different call. A long sigh escaped him as he rose and went forward to stand in the doorway of the barn. A few moments later two figures materialised from the shadows and approached him. He caught the glint of starlight upon the weapon in the hand of one of the men.
‘It’s okay,’ he called guardedly. ‘I’m Willard Blaine and there’s no one else around.’
‘That ain’t what we found when we rode in to hit the bank,’ came the harsh reply, and the next instant Willard was cringing under the grinding pressure of the sixgun muzzle which was jabbed mercilessly into his stomach. ‘I pay for good information, but I rode into an ambush and damn near got my head blowed off. What in hell is going on, Blaine? If you’re playing a double game I’ll carve my initials on your windpipe.’
‘Yaro, I don’t know what happened. The information I sent you was correct at the time. Manning was in Mexico chasing Delmont when I met our contact, and I figured Delmont and his boys would prove to be more than a match for him. But it all went wrong. I don’t even know how or when Manning returned to Buffalo Junction. I heard the shooting while I was waiting here to check with your man, and then my father and Manning came in and I heard them mention your name. Someone’s blown the whistle on you, but it’s got nothing to do with me.’
‘Let’s go into that office and light the lamp so I can get a good look at you.’ Ben Yaro’s tall figure moved slowly, and now his voice was pitched barely above a whisper, but his tone was filled with menace.
‘Hell, you can’t light no lamp,’ Willard p
rotested. ‘The shooting must have alerted everyone.’
‘You don’t have to tell me. I lost two men in the shooting, and there are townsmen still standing around the street. But I need to get something straight with you, Blaine, if we’re gonna work together, and the sooner the better. Trig!’ He half-turned to his companion, a tall, beefy figure in the night. ‘Light that lamp and take a look around. Make sure we ain’t walking into another trap.’
Willard gulped, for the gun muzzle prodding his belly button did not waver for an instant. He wondered if he had made a mistake in stepping up to this class of criminal. Ben Yaro was no run of the mill train robber. He was a professional gunhand who took on the really big, complicated jobs. It was rumoured that Western Pacific were paying him thousands to stop S & W being first to Apache Pass. But there were other more sinister stories about the man and Willard had greedily ignored them when the first feelers were put out in his direction because he was desperate for money and Yaro seemed to be his best prospect, He had to get away from Buffalo Junction before Annie Briscoe’s father found out who was responsible for the girl’s suicide, and the town marshal discovered who had murdered three girls during the past two years.
‘Get moving.’ Yaro prodded Willard with the gun as a match scraped and flared in the stable office and a dim yellow light flickered.
Willard walked into the small, dusty room and turned to face the two big men who studied him impassively. He had not seen Ben Yaro before, but knew him immediately from the description their contact had given him. A jagged, angry scar was the first thing he noticed, and it cut a half circle around the base of Yaro’s throat, like a pet snake curled there. The face was set in harsh lines which made it seem like a weathered mask. There was a cruel cast to the lips, and the dull, muddy eyes were filled with contempt. There seemed to be no human intelligence in them, but an animal cunning gave them a glitter that meant trouble. Willard realised that Yaro had no capacity to feel remorse. That lack of sensitivity was coupled to a sharp imagination and a calculating ruthlessness. It was easy to believe that Yaro was a vicious, unbridled killer. He seemed to ooze brutality from every pore.
