by Alan David
Flinging himself down the rungs, he dashed into the coach and grabbed up his gunbelt, snatching the sixgun clear as he ran outside once more. He fired a warning shot skywards, and now he could see the approaching herd quite clearly. It was as if scales had fallen from his eyes. There was a herd of cattle coming towards the camp.
It was such an ordinary sight that he could attach no menace to it. A local rancher might be moving his herd to better grazing. There could be any number of reasons for the cattle being in the valley. But on the other hand he could take no chances while there was a threat of trouble hovering over the Railroad.
At that moment guns blasted in the distance and men started yelling. Mozee gazed through narrowed eyes at the herd and saw it suddenly accelerate into full flight, stampeding directly towards the massed tents of the construction workers. A thrill of horror tore through him and his mouth gaped. For a moment he could not believe his eyes. But the shooting continued and countless hooves pounded the valley floor, jarring the coach with their impact. He saw the other riders quite plainly now, riding in towards the camp on a level with the stampeding herd, and they were quite separate from the drovers with the cattle. Guns were booming, their sharp reports punctuating the dull thunder of hell on the hoof.
He ran back into the coach and snatched up a Winchester and a bandolier of 44-40 ammunition, then went back to the platform and climbed to the roof of the coach. Dropping flat, he levered a shell into the breech of the rifle and began to take aim at the nearest of the riders, who were also shooting, although they were well out of sixgun range. But they were intent upon making as much noise as possible to create panic in the camp, and when he thought of the sleeping men in the flimsy tents, being startled awake by the noise, Mozee’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins. They wouldn’t stand a chance. Even if they got up and grabbed their guns they would be overwhelmed, unless they gained various vantage points like stacks of ties and rails which would prevent the stampeding herd overrunning them.
He watched the herd, saw it being guided towards the tents, and lifted the rifle and began to shoot at the leaders, dropping steers with each shot, working the lever as fast as he could. But the falling steers merely tumbled beneath the pounding hooves and were trampled flat while the main body of the herd came on unchecked.
Other guns were blasting now. Guards were joining in, and also the men who were already awake and stirring. Mozee turned his attention to the detached riders approaching on his right, and they seemed to be making for his part of the camp. He gritted his teeth, levered a fresh shell into the rifle, and swung the weapon quickly as he drew a bead on one of the galloping riders. Gunsmoke blew into his face when he fired, and the next instant there was an orange flash and a puff of black smoke which engulfed both horse and rider, then the echoing thunder of an explosion. He was startled, frowning as he looked at what was left of his target. Dynamite! The man had been carrying explosives. It came to him then what was going on. These detached riders were intent upon destroying the heavy equipment in the camp.
Gritting his teeth, he reloaded and concentrated upon the horsemen, shooting rapidly until the rifle was empty. He downed only one more rider, for the light was deceptive and the horses were moving fast. He reloaded, and as he thumbed cartridges into the rifle he looked around to take stock of the situation.
There were men tumbling out of the massed tents, some only half dressed, but all carrying rifles, and some were already running for solid cover when they saw the grim tide of living beef bearing down upon them. Others were making a stand where they stood, too far from substantial cover to get clear, and they were shooting at the leaders of the cattle in a desperate attempt to turn them aside, but those rampaging leaders were already upon the perimeter of the massed tents, trampling them underfoot together with the men still inside them. Mozee forgot his rifle and gazed at the frightful sight. Nothing could stop the forward movement of that herd, and there were riders on the flanks and in the rear, goading on the terrified beasts.
Like a brown wave the cattle swept through the camp, and Mozee could only watch helplessly, caught up in the shock of a grim nightmare. This was Ben Yaro’s work, he .thought remotely. No one in his right senses would attack a work camp, but a large herd of stampeding cattle could lessen the odds at a stroke, and Mozee groaned as he averted his gaze from the blundering mass that was beginning to make hash of his orderly camp.
He returned his attention to the horsemen, determined to stop them, but when he opened fire again he drew slugs at his position and had to duck as the roof about him splintered and flew to pieces under the impact of questing lead.
Then he thought of the telegraph, and knew that he had to get a message to Buffalo Junction. It would not bring help in time to save them but it would set the wheels in motion. He arose to descend the iron rungs and a bullet hit him in the chest, spinning him around and knocking him off the roof. He fell heavily to the ground, which was tremoring like an earthquake under the pounding hooves, and looked up groggily to see the foremost steers blundering towards him, flattening everything in their path, horns clashing together, hooves stirring up the dust. In a few moments they would be level with the coach, which was too large for them to damage, and he summoned up his remaining strength and rolled sideways, pushing himself over the nearest rail to lie beneath the coach. He had barely gained its cover when cattle went streaming by on either side in twin torrents of frenzied, living flesh.
The noise was terrific and his ears protested. The din seemed to bemuse him. The pain in his chest cut through his breathing.
He gasped for breath, and fine dust filtered beneath the bogies as the stampede swept by. Then he let his face drop into the dust and lay defeated, his strength gone, his consciousness threatening to recede completely.
The camp was a scene of hellish fury. Small groups of men, rudely awakened from sleep, bunched together and tried to shoot down the cattle looming up around them. But such groups did not stand a chance and were overrun and trampled into the dust, cut to ribbons by countless sharp hooves. Others had run to the comparative safety of substantial cover and fought a vicious battle with the men urging on the steers. Gun-fire rattled incessantly, but was almost drowned out by the relentless thunder of pounding hooves.
The massed tents were flattened, and the men unlucky enough to be trapped in them never knew what hit them. Dozens died without the chance to fight, and the brown wave of terror surged on inexorably, splitting to bypass the more solid objects in their path. But the water tower supports were loosened, then smashed, and the whole edifice collapsed, drenching the frenzied animals.
Explosions echoed sullenly on the early morning air. Dynamite blasted the telegraph tent and the work train. Trig Forbes galloped in close to Mozee’s coach and three sticks of dynamite were hurled through the windows. He was moving away again before the blasts sounded in quick succession, and Ike Mozee, almost unconscious under the coach, felt the sharp concussion of each blast. He trembled, but was too far gone to worry about his camp.
Yaro remained out of range, like a general watching results of an attack on a battlefield. He saw the cattle surge unchecked through the camp. There were isolated pockets of resistance from which guns hammered ceaselessly, but the main area of defence had been the workers’ tents, and they were all gone, trampled into unrecognisable tatters. His men were moving in now, shooting up anything that still moved, and the drovers turned from the herd and pitched in with their weapons. A gun battle developed and the incessant crackle of small arms fire was punctuated by the deafening explosions of dynamite.
He saw the work engine explode and burn and the coach was shattered by several charges. Smoke billowed, staining the clear sky. Yaro grinned in satisfaction. This was going better than he had anticipated. The water tower was gone, its woodwork trampled underfoot. Then the first rays of the sun peered across the east rim of the valley to witness the wholesale destruction.
Yaro called to one of his men and ordered a concerted at
tack to be made against the pockets of resistance. He did not want to ride out until the entire camp was completely devastated. He was going to teach S & W exactly what a beating meant, and this would be a lesson from which they could never recover. He grinned crookedly as he considered the way he operated, and knew that no quarter was the only way to win.
There were over thirty men in Yaro’s party, including the drovers, and they were all hard-riding, two-fisted gunslingers who had served their apprenticeship in violence during the Civil War. Mercy was not a part of their make-up, and they swept through the camp uttering rebel yells, shooting at everything which moved. There was stiff opposition from several points, but they had grim experience in guerrilla tactics and seldom wasted a shot. The surviving construction workers were demoralised and shocked, most of them having been blasted from their sleep into the harsh realities of an all-out war.
Gunfire hammered ceaselessly and men died quickly. Yaro had given explicit orders on how the camp was to be attacked, and he remained in the background, watching the results. He rode across to where Trig Forbes and his small party were preparing to dynamite a stack of rails. Forbes was grinning excitedly. Sweat was running down his forehead and he cuffed it away, his eyes glistening.
‘This is more like it, Boss,’ he said. ‘Let’s get under cover, huh?’
They moved out and Forbes lit fuses, then retired, and they had barely ducked out of sight when a succession of explosions tore through the devastated camp. Yaro felt his eardrums protesting, and clenched his teeth as he raised up to see the rails lifting under the force that was being exerted around them. Each rail weighed five hundred pounds, and they were bent and twisted by the explosions.
‘They ain’t fit for use now,’ Forbes said. ‘What else do you want to go up, Boss?’
Yaro looked around. Small groups of his men were still riding hither and thither, trading lead with those construction workers who had survived the stampede and thought to grab weapons before vacating their tents. But there was a great number who were unarmed, and all they could do was lie in cover and wait for the shooting to end.
‘Make sure all the rolling stock is out of action,’ Yaro said harshly, ‘and all the ‘equipment they’ll find difficult to replace.’
‘I already blew the work train, but I’ll make sure it’s nothing more than scrap metal.’ Forbes motioned for his men to accompany him, and, as they rode away, Yaro turned to look for his other lieutenant, Brannigan.
The big redhead was leading an attack against a stack of heavy wooden ties in which a number of Railroaders were crouched and resisting determinedly. Yaro reined up and watched. He ignored a bullet which passed closely by his head and saw Brannigan go spurring around the stack, his two six-shooters blasting rapidly. He was followed by half a dozen gunnies, and the shooting emanating from the stack lessened perceptibly.
But the shooting was petering out now, and the whole camp was a shambles. Smoke was rising from several large fires as stores and supplies burned, and Forbes triggered off another explosion, this time inside the cab of the work train, which sent fragments of hot metal soaring across the camp. The echoes of the big bang rolled sullenly into the distance.
‘Okay, that’s enough,’ Yaro said harshly when Brannigan reined up beside him, panting and dishevelled. The redhead’s face was contorted with passion, a mixture of blood-lust and satisfaction. He enjoyed killing and wrecking. ‘Call the boys together and let’s get out of here. We’re riding south, and I wanta be done with this as soon as I can. We’ll have to lie low for a few days after this because this place is gonna be swarming with guards.’
‘We can take ‘em all!’ Brannigan wheeled his mount and went at full gallop back through the camp, summoning the men, and then they pulled out fast, Yaro leading them, while at their backs some of the Railroaders emerged from cover and expended futile shots at them.
But Yaro was not finished. He peered around as they rode at a fast clip along the roadbed that had been prepared for the construction crews to lay their rails, and when they reached the first of the small camps of graders they spread out and rode through it at a gallop, yelling and shooting, cutting down everyone who showed. The initial attack accounted for the guards and workers, and Forbes went in with his party to dynamite anything of value. Nothing was left for the Railroaders to use.
They continued without rest, and hit three more camps before Yaro was satisfied. Then he led his men into cover and they dismounted to rest. Brannigan carried out a roll call and reported that they had lost nine men.
‘That ain’t bad,’ Yaro commented, sitting on a rock with Forbes and Brannigan beside him. ‘It went off okay, huh?’
‘Just like old times.’ Brannigan grinned. ‘I don’t figure S & W are in business any longer, eh?’
‘We’re getting paid to put them right out of business,’ Yaro warned. ‘All we’ve done this morning is stop the new line moving towards Apache Pass. They’ll get things moving again, but we’ve cost them a lot of time and they’re gonna have to bring in plenty of gunhands to protect what they got left. That’s okay. I reckon we don’t need to hit this stretch of the line again. But S & W have lines all over this part of the country and we’re gonna grind them to a halt. We’re going back to train robbing. All the money we can steal will belong to us. I figure we’ll be rich by the time S & W get around to trying to stop us. By then they’ll be running short of resources, and Western Pacific will be at Apache Pass.’
‘Are we heading back to the ranch now?’ Forbes asked. His face was covered with sweat and dust streaked it. ‘You said we’re gonna have to lie low, but can we all stay at the ranch and not be spotted?’
‘If we can keep quiet we can,’ Yaro said roughly, ‘and I’ll personally gutshoot anyone who don’t obey orders. Ryker has been in this part of the country long enough to make everyone figure he’s a real rancher, and the place is isolated. We’re gonna have to lie low whether we like it or not.’
‘What about Chet Manning?’ Brannigan demanded. ‘Why don’t you let me go into Buffalo Junction and nail him? I can take him.’
‘Stop talking through your hat,’ Forbes rasped. ‘He took care of three of the best gunhands we had, and did it single-handed. The Boss said Manning will be done for in a couple of days. That’s why Creed and Penner are in town. They’ll handle it.
‘That’s right.’ Yaro nodded. ‘I got this business sewed up so forget about Manning. They said his father was hell on wheels, but who finished him off? Now take the men back to the ranch, Trig. I’m gonna ride over to Broken Rail. I wanta have a talk with Willard Blaine.’
‘Take a couple of men to cover your tracks,’ Forbes said worriedly.
‘Brannigan can ride with me. But you make sure you don’t leave tracks for anyone to follow. Hit the rocks to the East and then split up into groups. Lay false trails before you make for the roost.’
Forbes nodded and got to his feet. He called the men together and they mounted and rode out. Brannigan remained with Yaro, and when the dust had settled and silence returned, the redhead looked into Yaro’s scowling face.
‘You pleased with what we did this morning?’ he demanded.
‘It went off okay.’ Yaro got to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s split the breeze. It’s a long ride to Broken Rail, and I wanta get to Willard Blaine before his old man calls him back to Buffalo Junction.’
They rode out and Yaro motioned for Brannigan to ride ahead. They made good time, hitting hard ground every so often to lose their tracks. The day passed, hot and dusty, but Yaro did not appear to notice the discomfort. He was already planning the next part of his campaign, and there was plenty of trouble coming for S & W.
It was dark when they finally spotted the lights of Broken Rail, and, despite the fact that they had been in the saddle for almost twenty-four hours, Yaro was still alert. They reached town limits and halted in front of the stable.
‘Take care of the horses,’ Yaro ordered. ‘Then get yourself cleaned up and eat.
Don’t get drunk and don’t look for trouble. Soon as you’ve eaten you get back to the horses and be ready to pull out at a moment’s notice. You got that?’
‘Sure thing, Boss.’ Brannigan grinned and led the horses into the barn as Yaro walked into the shadows along the street.
Yaro expected to find Willard in the saloon at this time of the evening. It was after supper time, but he needed to talk to Willard before thinking of himself. When he peered over the batwings into the big, crowded room, he blinked his eyes in the glare of the many lamps and let his hooded gaze sweep over the men present. He saw Willard at the bar talking to a saloon-girl, and turned his head to survey the shadowy street, his instincts working at full stretch as he tried to gauge the atmosphere. There seemed to be nothing wrong and he shouldered open the batwings and entered the saloon, moving across the crowded floor to edge into the bar at Willard’s side.
Willard was talking seriously with the girl, trying to arrange a meeting with her after she went off duty, but she had experienced his unusual sexual appetites and wanted nothing to do with him. Yaro listened for a moment, then nudged Willard, who turned to glance at him, then gulped in surprise as recognition dawned.
‘Howdy,’ Yaro said quietly. ‘We need to talk. Where can we go?’
‘Get lost!’ Willard said to the girl, jerking his head at her, and she was relieved to get out of his company. He looked at Yaro and there was a blend of dread and admiration in his dark eyes. ‘For God’s sake! What are you doing here? Someone might recognise you,’ he gasped.
‘I ain’t known by sight around these parts,’ Yaro retorted. ‘Now how about that talk? I’m fit to drop. I been up and about for the last twenty-four hours.’
‘You don’t have to tell me.’ Willard glanced around quickly to see if they could be overheard. ‘I got a wire during the morning telling me what happened out at end of track.’
‘Shuddup. I don’t need any details. I was there and saw what happened. What I wanta talk about is the future. Let’s get out of here and find someplace quiet. My next strike will be to grab a train and carry out a raid along the length of the track from Buffalo Junction to El Paso. What I wanta know is which would be the best train to hijack.’
