In the kitchen, the drifters made short work of rustling up a substantial breakfast, every morsel of which they hungrily consumed. The coffee-pot was empty by the time a bleary-eyed barkeep and a yawning bank-teller came down to eat.
“Where’s Miss Sadie?” enquired the barkeep. “Aw—I plumb forgot.”
“This morning,” the bank-teller reminded him, “we cook our own breakfast.”
“Well,” frowned the barkeep, “I don’t relish my own cookin’, but I reckon we gotta make sacrifices at a time like this.”
“Why, certainly,” nodded the bank-teller. “Every eligible young lady deserves her chance. Today is Sadie’s day, and I wish her luck.”
The Texans traded knowing grins. Obviously, Sadie had made no secret of her intentions. Her boarders were her friends. They donned their Stetsons and ambled out to the front porch to build and smoke their after-breakfast cigarettes. Sadie waved to them from her perch on the surrey seat. And then came the lamb for the slaughter, the well-groomed New Yorker, striding briskly along the boardwalk with a bundle of manuscripts under his arm.
Larry and Stretch sank into cane back chairs and dug out their makings, as Milty accorded Sadie a sweeping bow and climbed up beside her. Sadie clucked to her team, flicked her reins. The surrey rolled away towards the north end of town, and Stretch heaved a sentimental sigh.
“Ain’t that purty?” he breathed. “Maybe you and me are missin’ somethin’, runt. Why don’t we hook ourselves a couple fillies and settle down?”
“You weary of driftin’?” challenged Larry.
“Damn right,” declared Stretch. “We’ve been on the drift for near fifteen years, and that’s a helluva long time. Time we quit.”
“We’ll quit,” Larry nonchalantly predicted, “when there ain’t another fight to be fought.”
They lit their cigarettes. The smoke spiraled up to merge into one companionable cloud.
“It ought to work fine,” frowned Larry. “She’ll pretend she’s gonna drown. She’ll do exactly as I told her, and Milty will play hero, and ...”
“Everything’ll work out fine,” Stretch agreed. He dribbled smoke through his nose, yawned. “I guess he can swim good, so they got nothin’ to fret about.”
“How’s that?” Larry darted him a sidelong glance. “Milty can likely swim is what I mean,” muttered Stretch.
“I should’ve thought of that,” said Larry.
“Makes no never-mind,” drawled Stretch. “Just so long as she can swim is all that matters.” He chuckled softly. “Hey, that’d be kinda comical, wouldn’t it? Sadie haulin’ him outa the crick, ’stead of him haulin’ her?”
Larry slowly shook his head.
“That,” he frowned, “wouldn’t be good. Hell, no. That could muss up the whole deal. His doggone pride would be hurt.”
“I don’t reckon she’ll be in danger,” shrugged Stretch. He slanted a glance at Larry. “D’you?”
“Maybe the creek’s deep,” fretted Larry. “She falls in—right? He leaps in after her, forgettin’ he don’t know how to swim. She grabs him. He loses his nerve—starts strugglin’—and they both drown “
“Doggone,” protested Stretch. “This picnic ain’t hardly started, and you got ’em dead and buried already!”
“I don’t hold with spyin’ on folks that’s courtin’,” said Larry.
“But?” prodded Stretch.
“But,” said Larry, “I’m thinkin’ we better keep an eye on Sadie and the scribbler—just in case.”
“Milty wouldn’t like that,” warned Stretch.
“What Milty don’t know,” said Larry, “won’t hurt him. We don’t have to get so close they’ll spot us. We can watch ’em from a long ways off.”
“Why, sure.” Stretch suddenly remembered the field glasses owned by his partner, a gift from a man they’d befriended years before. “You go fetch ...”
“I’ll fetch the glasses,” muttered Larry, as he got to his feet, “while you saddle the horses.”
The field glasses were slung over Larry’s left shoulder when, some ten minutes later, the Texans rode out of Doone City to pick up track of the surrey.
Beyond the outskirts, they easily cut sign of the vehicle owned by their landlady. “Headed thataway.” Stretch pointed. “Same territory we covered yesterday, I reckon.”
“Uh-huh. Silver Butte,” grunted Larry. “Let’s keep movin’.”
For many a mile, they trailed the surrey across verdant prairie, drawing ever closer to the creek and the towering bulk of the butte. It was almost ten o’clock when Larry called a halt on a grassy rise. They cooled their saddles, hobbled their mounts well to the rear, then bellied down and scanned the terrain ahead.
Through the binoculars Larry carefully studied the tranquil scene. The surrey was stalled by the creek’s near bank. Sadie gracefully reclined on a flat rock, her head bent towards the journalist who, seated beside her on the grass, read aloud from his sheaf of manuscripts.
He passed the glasses to Stretch who, after an appraisal of the scene, remarked, “So far, so good.”
“We’ll hang around a spell,” drawled Larry. “When Sadie makes her play, I want to be sure she don’t end up drowned.”
“Nor Milty,” suggested Stretch.
“Oh—sure,” grunted Larry. “I was forgettin’ about him.”
Simultaneously, some distance to the east of the butte, the bogus Utes were completing their preparations. Carrizo Bend was naught but a slight angle of the railroad route. It was, however, ideal for their purpose. The actual turn was shielded from view of the northbound trains by a mound of lava rock. Left of the tracks, the land dipped sharply, a steep grade slanting down to the dry floor of an arroyo.
Britt had finished his chore. With crowbar and spanner, he had dislodged a section of rail. And this slight defect was all that was needed.
“Engine’ll jump the tracks here,” he assured Tolin. “The way I see it, the whole shebang’ll keel thataway ...” he pointed; “… and roll into the arroyo.”
“There’s gonna be one helluva crash,” predicted Tolin. “Chad better be ready to jump.”
“We don’t have to fret about that jasper,” opined Britt. “He’ll look out for himself.”
“Everybody behind the rocks,” ordered Tolin. “From now on, all we have to do is wait.”
The twelve hardcases led their blanket-toting, unshod ponies around behind the mound. Every man yearned to smoke, but there would be no smoking. Werris’ orders would be followed strictly. Discarded butts of cigarettes or cigars, eventually spotted by a law posse, could be a dead give-away. As damning as if the pseudo Utes had worn boots and Stetsons. The whole party toted rifles, no handguns, because it was well known that few, if any, of the Artega Springs Utes owned pistols.
They looked the part, thanks to Werris’ foresight. Half-naked and bewigged and befeathered, their bare flesh painted to resemble the brown hides of the Utes, the brighter, gaudy stripes of war paint liberally smeared, they presented a fearsome exterior.
Each man was equipped with a sizeable sack—empty. And, here again, Werris was taking no chances. The sacks were fashioned of buckskin. Into them would be loaded the big plunder, a fortune in raw gold.
Tolin and Britt swapped complacent grins.
“Fine day for gettin’ rich,” opined Tolin.
“Ain’t a thing can go wrong,” declared Britt. “I’ll say this for Chad Werris. He’s thought of everything.”
“Only we can’t afford no slip-ups,” Tolin cautioned the other men. “Remember now—no talk. If any passengers hear us gabbin’ American, we’re dead pigeons. We whoop and holler like Utes—but no talk. That clear?”
“Every hombre knows what he has to do,” drawled Britt.
“Heaven help the first gun that points my way,” muttered the bedaubed Grady.
“That’s how I feel,” scowled Hodge. “I aim to come through alive. It’s one thing to grab a fortune in gold. It’s somethin’ else—livin’
to spend it.”
“It’s my hunch we’ll scarce get shot at,” said Tolin. “Whole blame train’ll likely pitch into the arroyo. Any guard that don’t get killed will be too sore to be dangerous.”
“What time you got?” demanded Britt.
“You think I’m loco?” chuckled Tolin. “Utes don’t tote a timepiece.” He raised his eyes to the sun. “I calculate it’s after ten—gettin’ on for ten-thirty. We better be on our toes. Be hearin’ that northbound train purty soon.”
~*~
Milty Ricks cleared his throat, bent over his thirtieth brainchild and announced the title.
“Ode To A Confused Coyote.”
Sadie heaved a sigh and, somehow, managed to hide her exasperation.
“That’s beautiful, Milty. Just—just beautiful!”
“The title may seem contradictory,” Milty paused to explain. “But we must concede that animals are capable of emotion. If humans can become confused, why not a coyote?”
“Well—naturally!” beamed Sadie. She rose from her perch, adjusted her skirts and stared towards the far bank. “Milty, read this one louder, please.”
“Louder?” he frowned.
“I want to hear every wonderful word,” she murmured, “while I’m over there—picking some of those lovely wildflowers.”
Squinting against the sunlight, he scanned the opposite bank. The wildflowers were a bright splash of color, but seemed a long way away.
“But, my dear,” he frowned, “you must be careful. If you fell in ...”
“Don’t worry,” said Sadie. “I’m sure-footed. And see?” She pointed. “Stepping stones—all the way to the other side.”
“They appear to be half-submerged boulders,” he observed, “and—uh—rather slippery.”
“I’ll be very careful,” she promised.
She gathered her skirts demurely, moved off the bank and began treading the rocks. Milty read aloud.
“Confusion and desolation—one tiny animal limping the barren wasteland …”
In midstream, Sadie made her play. Her startled gasp caused Milty to struggle to his feet, his eyes bulging, his precious poems fluttering in the wind. In a flurry of gingham skirts and waving limbs, his one-woman audience was somersaulting into the water. The splash was the most harrowing sound he had ever heard. He stood transfixed a moment, while ...
Atop the rise to the west, Larry Valentine adjusted his field glasses and surveyed the small drama with increased interest. “She’s in,” he tersely informed Stretch.
“Can you see her clear?” frowned Stretch.
“Uh-huh,” grunted Larry. “I see the top part of her now. She’s wavin’ to him and lookin’ plenty scared.”
“What’s he doin'? ’
“Just standin’ there like he’s frozen—the doggone, lame brained fool!”
“Well—hell ...!”
“Hold on!”
“He’s jumpin’ in?”
“Yep. There he goes. Peeled off his coat and leapt in.”
Sadie broke the surface again, spluttered, blinked towards the west bank. Her rescuer was approaching fast, swimming to midstream with powerful strokes, calling to her urgently.
“Don’t give way to fright! Be quiet ...!”
And then he was by her side, his left arm sliding about her waist.
“Oh, Milty ...!”
“Remain limp,” he counseled. “The east bank appears closer. I’m sure we can reach it, provided you don’t struggle.”
Bravely, he struck out for the east bank. He felt supremely confident, and grateful to his fair companion, who was meekly obeying his orders. Getting Sadie to the safety of dry land proved to be an easy chore. He picked her up, carried her to a soft patch of grass and gently laid her down. Sadie promptly sat up, clasped her arms about his neck and kissed him.
“You did it, Milty,” she murmured. “You—risked your life—to save mine!”
“My dear girl,” he fervently assured her, “I certainly couldn’t just—uh—stand there and watch you drown.”
“You’re a real, genuine hero,” she asserted, “and you must never care what people say about you—all those Doone City folks that never could understand you.”
“Well ...” He shrugged self-consciously. “It was nothing.”
Larry lowered his glasses, rolled over and grinned at Stretch.
“Milty jumped to the bait?” asked Stretch.
“Damn fool swims like a fish,” chuckled Larry. “Did a fine job of rescuin’ her.”
He raised his glasses again. Sadie was on her feet now, forlornly surveying her saturated clothing.
“You’ll catch a chill,” fretted Milty.
“You’re thinking only of me,” she smiled. “Poor Milty—you’re all wet, too.”
“First things first,” he decided. “The sun is warm. Your—uh—garments will dry, but ...”
“But not on me.” She nodded calmly. “Of course, I’ll have to take them off—hang them to dry.”
That shook him. He recoiled from her, blinked desperately to right and left. She came to his rescue with a practical suggestion.
“I have to take off everything, Milty, and that’s that. But you don’t have to worry. There’s a rug in the surrey. You could go fetch it for me.”
“Well—certainly ...” he frowned.
“After you fetch the rug,” she patiently explained, “you can stay here and get dry. I’ll go up there ...” she gestured towards the summit of the butte, “where you can’t see me. I can hang my clothes to dry and—well—I’ll have the rug to cover me.”
“A very sensible suggestion,” he acknowledged.
Stretch propped his chin in his hands, frowned at Larry. “What’s happenin’ now?”
“Milty’s crossin’ over again—walkin’ on the rocks.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know. He’s gone to the rig. Uh—sure. He’s on the other side again, givin’ her the rug, and now she’s climbin’ up Silver Butte.”
“That’s real ladylike—real polite.” Stretch nodded approvingly. “Goin’ away where he can’t peek at her, to strip outa them wet duds.”
“We ain’t doin’ ’em no favor,” frowned Larry, “if both of ’em catch their death.”
Elated with the success of her ruse, Sadie finished her climb. She had reached a point that seemed sufficiently secluded. A thick clump of brush screened her from view of her rescuer. Some twenty feet above was the skyline, the summit of the butte. Beyond, as she well knew, was open country cut by the railroad tracks.
She stripped off her sodden garments. Rightaway, a cool breeze assailed her damp nakedness. Shivering, she reached for the rug and draped it about her. It slid from her shoulders when she began hanging her clothing on the bushes, so she detached her sash from her gown and used it to secure the rug at her waist. Humming gaily, she spread her underwear and stockings, turned her slippers upside-down to the sun.
It occurred to her, then, to steal a glance down the slope. Milty was a small figure, pacing back and forth along the bank. The distance was too great for her to perceive that steam was rising from his sodden shirt and pants, and that he was feeling worse than uncomfortable.
“You and your gosh-darn poems,” she reflected. “You’re a real man—with a man’s nerve and strength—but you just don’t realize it.”
A familiar sound reached her ears, and her curiosity compelled her to climb to the top of the butte. From her early childhood, she had always been fascinated by the sight of a General locomotive speeding across the barren wastelands, pulling three carriages to some faraway destination—and she couldn’t resist it now.
Atop the butte, she lay on her side, propped up by an elbow, admiring the oncoming train. Carrizo Bend was partially visible from this angle, an interruption of the straightway, marked by the rock-mound.
In the rear car—the baggage-car—Chad Werris toted his rifle to a side door, unlocked it and shoved it open. One of the guards glanced his way
, and casually enquired: “How’s it look out there, Mr. Werris?”
“Mighty peaceful country,” reported Werris. “And that’s the way I like it.”
“Ain’t afeared of a hold-up, are you?” challenged the other man. “Heck, we’ll be in Mooresburg by two o’clock, and Calico Peak come sundown. This train never yet got stopped by owlhoots—and never will.”
“A good guard is always on the alert, Kellaway,” muttered Werris. “Especially with a shipment this size.”
“Just how much is this shipment worth?” demanded Kellaway.
“If I told you,” smiled Werris, “you wouldn’t believe—”
He leaned out the open doorway, stared northward a moment, then withdrew into the carriage and stood braced. That one glance had won him a glimpse of the familiar rock-mound. In less than a minute, the locomotive would be jumping the rails at Carrizo Bend.
At speed, the engine rounded the bend and, at the first jolting sensation, Werris yelled, “Jump for your lives. We’re going off the tracks ...!”
Up ahead, the engineer and his sidekick unleashed a stream of oaths. The locomotive was shuddering, veering to the left. Hard on the driver’s warning cry, the fireman leapt for his life, crashed to the slant of the arroyo and began rolling. Shrill screams arose from women in the first passenger car, as it keeled crazily, breaking its couplings and leaving the track. First the engine, then the tender and passenger car, pitched down the slope in a welter of grinding steel and shattering timber.
The second car and the caboose shuddered to an abrupt halt. Werris leapt out, rolled behind a rock and unholstered his Colt. Kellaway and the other guard sprang out, to be immediately cut down by a hail of bullets, as the ‘Indians’ came pounding into view, whooping and yelping, shooting fast. The conductor reeled back into the caboose with his right arm bloody and his face ashen.
War painted riders were milling to both sides of the track, their rifles barking harshly, forcing the occupants of the second passenger car to throw themselves to the floor. Down below, on the floor of the arroyo, the uninjured were struggling from the wreckage, gaping up at the whooping ‘braves’, then hastily hunting cover.
As he paced the creek bank, patiently waiting for his clothes to dry, Milty was almost sure he could hear the clatter of distant gunfire. Almost, but not quite. A goodly distance separated him from the scene of chaos.
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