by Brand, Max
It was a very queer thing. The queerest of all was that Naylor did not feel like laughing about it!
CHAPTER XIII
Surprised
AS THE men of Crow’s Nest scattered, Silver began to pace up and down beside the fire, careless of whether or not the rain came rattling down on his head and shoulders. After a time, when not a voice could be heard out of the distance, he said:
“Come out, boys.”
They came out into the firelight.
“You made a flock of fools of ‘em,” cried Duff Gregor. “That was the slickest that I ever seen, Jim! That was a beauty! Kind of too bad that they ain’t ever goin’ to know what a lot of fools you made of ‘em!”
Silver looked straight and hard at him.
“Perhaps they will know, one day,” said Silver. “Perhaps they’ll know when you’re caught up again, Gregor.”
“Me? The gang that ever catches me is goin’ to have nothing but dead meat to handle, lemme tell you!” answered Duff Gregor, striking one hand into the palm of the other.
Silver looked steadily at him and said nothing. Bill Naylor, a little shamed by this desperate boast of Gregor, bit his lip and stared at the fire.
“It was the best job,” said Gregor, “that I ever seen, and it saved my hide. Here’s my hand, Silver.”
Silver looked down at the proffered hand and shook his head. Gradually the smile of Gregor froze, and his hand fell away. It seemed to Naylor one of the most terrible things that he had ever seen.
Silver said, more gently than ever: “We’d better not shake hands, Gregor. There are too many things that we don’t know about one another. Maybe I’m doing the worst thing of my life in letting you go. But Bill Naylor has done a job that I wouldn’t want to spoil.”
The shudder caused by that speech was still working up and down the spine of Bill Naylor long after they were off the island, long after they had forded the narrower arm of the Kendal River and had floundered such miles through wind and mud that their clothes were beginning to grow dry on their tired bodies. He felt that he would far rather have had heavy leaden slugs tearing through his body than to have listened to the speech of Jim Silver.
But all that Duff Gregor did about it at the time was to fall silent. And all that he did about it now was to curse Jim Silver and all of his kind.
Naylor stopped him suddenly by halting in a lull of the storm and saying:
“Well, except for the way Jim Silver acted, the pair of us would be on the way back to jail — or dead — by now.”
Gregor had to consider this remark for a time before he ventured: “Look here, Bill. You beginning to think that Silver’s the right kind of a gent?”
Naylor could not answer this. For if Silver was “the right kind of a gent,” then the entire life of Naylor was thrown away. No, Silver could not be “the right kind of a gent.” It was Barry Christian who must serve as the ideal.
They followed the course which Christian had prescribed for them if they did not meet on the island. He had told Bill Naylor to keep on a certain trail until he reached the remains of an old ranch. The ranch house itself was gone to ruin, and the sheds were sinking in corruption; but there remained the huge barn that had once housed hundreds of tons of wild hay against the winter season of scarcity. It was far into the night when at last those weary travelers saw the roof and the shoulders of the barn break across the smoothly running lines of the hills. Big Duff Gregor had been cursing the journey long before they reached this goal.
As the barn arose, huge and black, close to them, Bill Naylor whistled the signal which had been agreed upon. A moment later the whistle of Barry Christian gave answer, and Naylor could have groaned with relief.
As they came up they saw the vague outlines of Christian standing beside the big sliding door that closed one end of the barn. His voice gave them greeting:
“Hello, Gregor. Well done, Bill!”
He shook hands with Gregor, who exclaimed:
“They gave us hell! We needed faster horses than that pair.”
“You should have pulled out without being seen,” answered Christian.
“It was bad luck that gave ‘em a glimpse of me,” said Gregor, “and after that the whole town came on the run after us. They came like so many devils.”
“They thought they were running after two devils,” said Christian. “You two are fagged. Well, we can spend the rest of the night here — until the gray of the morning. By that time we ought to get away into the hills. Come in here and you can turn in.”
He showed the way into the barn. There were still heaps of the old hay on the floor, and behind a partition in a corner of the big building, Gregor and Naylor simply burrowed into the hay and prepared to close their eyes.
Christian sat down on his heels near by and talked to them for a moment. He had his horse hobbled out at a little distance from the barn, he said. One of them could ride it when they started the march in the morning; for his part, he would be glad enough to stretch his legs, walking. They would not have to go far into the hills before they would come to places where they could buy good horses. Because this was a district where the old days of Barry Christian were remembered, and where men would be glad to see them return — days when big amounts of ready cash could be secured in reward for very small acts of service done to the great outlaw or to his men.
“I showed myself to one man,” said Christian. “He thought I was a ghost come to haunt him, at first; but afterward he seemed to be glad that I was around. We are going to start something in this same neck of the woods. I‘m going to line the pockets of you fellows with gold!”
Gregor groaned with relief and comfort as the hay pressed close to him the warmth of his own body.
“We been through a lot to-night,” he said. “We’ll talk about the next job in the morning. You know what we’ve been through? We’ve been through Jim Silver.”
The silence of Barry Christian was a throbbing thing that Naylor felt through the darkness. Then his voice, strangely flat, said:
“Silver again?”
“Silver again,” said Gregor, and told the story in some detail. He ended by cursing Silver for not being willing to shake hands. But Christian began to laugh. There was a snarl in his laughter.
“That’s his weak side. That’s where he’s a fool,” said Christian. “One of these days I‘ll work on that weak side of his and get him down. I begin to know how to handle him. Make an appeal of a certain sort to him and he can’t resist it. Here’s Bill Naylor, half his life in prison, and on the way to join me; but Jim Silver lets the pair of you go because he takes it for granted that Bill has been a hero and helped you out because he’s your best friend. The poor fool! He doesn’t realize that my money walked Bill out of the town. Why, it makes me laugh!
“And Silver hears that the honest sheriff has a sick child, and he comes all the way back to Crow’s Nest to lend him money, eh? Well, the honest sheriff has money of a different sort, right now — and he’s going to repay it with his blood. I‘m not through bleeding him. But what pleases me is the fact that Jim Silver can be bamboozled like this. That’s why I laugh. And that’s why I’m going to have him down one of these days. No fool can stand up against me and keep on winning!”
There was truth in that remark, and Bill Naylor felt it. No mere fool could stand up against Barry Christian. Not even if he had all the skill, strength, and courage in the world. He could not succeed against Christian so long as he showed a really weak side, and that was what Silver was indicating. He was too corrupted by belief in the natural goodness of human nature. He could trust, actually, to a rogue like Bill Naylor, jailbird.
And yet perhaps there was something in the heart of Bill Naylor that had been touched more deeply than he himself knew. He closed his eyes and found himself picturing again the scene by the camp fire among the trees, and the formidable shape of Silver, glistening in the wet slicker. He could remember every tone of the man’s voice. He could remember what Silv
er had said about friendship as the most sacred thing in the world.
Perhaps it was.
Naylor, opening his eyes suddenly, stared up at the blank and whirling darkness. Suppose, he thought, that the friendship of such a man as Jim Silver should come to him? What would he, Naylor, be willing to do for the sake of it when he had been willing to do so much even to be esteemed a man by Barry Christian, who always sneered at such ideas as those of friendship?
According to Christian, the mainspring of our actions is the desire for profit, and he had built up his formidable gangs in the trust that he, Christian, was more profitable to them than any other man could be. But still there was something working in the heart of Naylor.
Then, with a great, screeching voice, the sliding door at the end of the barn was thrust open. Men entered, and wide waves of lantern light washed through the blackness of the interior!
CHAPTER XIV
A Big Deal
THE characteristics of the three appeared in that instant in good part. Duff Gregor came to his feet with a hissing outgo of his frightened breath. Naylor got to one knee, with a gun ready in his hand. And Barry Christian said, not even using a whisper, so perfectly was he aware of the way sound would travel:
“They’re not looking for us. There are only three. And they’re holding lights for us to shoot by, if we want to take them in hand. Steady, boys. By thunder, I think I know two of ‘em. I do know two of ‘em!”
He had out a pair of guns. The glimmer of them in those famous hands made Naylor feel that the lives of the three strangers could be wiped away with a mere gesture.
The three were composed of a tall man in the prime of life, with very nervous movements of head and hand; a big, bulky fellow with so much stomach that it was certain that he would be uncomfortable on horseback, and another fellow of average size. He and the tall fellow carried lanterns. One of these was hung up against the wall of the barn. The fat man sat down on the hay cross-legged and made a cigarette. All three of those tossed aside wet slickers.
Barry Christian was saying in a whisper to his companions: “The fat man, Pudge Wayler. The tall man, Pokey. The other’s new; the first two used to work for me. This is something worth while.”
It was in fact something worth while, as almost the first words of the conversation revealed.
For “Pudge” Wayler was saying: “All right, Mr. Rooney. This ought to be a safe enough place even for an express clerk to talk in.”
Rooney walked in an irregular circle toward the fading borders of the lantern light. Then he exclaimed:
“It’s a rotten hard business for me, Wayler. You fellows have the law on your backs, anyway, but I have forty years of going straight behind me. Let me tell you this right now. If I go through with the deal, you’ll have to pay me for the forty years.”
“Sure, sure,” said the fat man. He took off his sombrero and ran his hand over his fat, shining bald head and his face. “Don’t worry about that, old son. You’ll get your split.”
“How big a split do you make it?” asked Rooney.
“That depends on how big the job is,” said Wayler.
“How big?” demanded Rooney. “Are you fellows such green hands that you have to be told what it means to stop an overland express train and get at the money safe with two express guards on hand to protect it?”
“Listen,” said “Pokey,” making a nervous gesture with both hands. “Didn’t I tell you that we used to work for Barry Christian? Does that mean that we’re dumb? We mean — how much is going to be in the safe?”
“Three hundred and fifty thousand, if there’s a penny.”
Pokey did not exclaim. He merely turned and looked down at Wayler with a smile.
Pudge Wayler said: “Well, that’s a neat little haul. What slice do you want?”
“One third,” said Rooney.
“Hello, hello!” said Wayler.
“Wait a minute,” urged Pokey with polite sarcasm. “You don’t understand what he means, Pudge. He means that he tips off the lay to us, and then you and me hold up the train, kill the guards, blow the safe, and get out the haul. That’s all we have to do, and that makes it a three-cornered split.”
“I’m not a fool!” said Rooney. “I know that you’ll have to have half a dozen good men in on the deal with you.”
“And still you want a whole third for yourself?” asked Pudge Wayler.
“I want a whole third,” said Rooney. “I’m the one who spots the train that takes the shipment. Otherwise you fellows would never be able to put your hand on the right train. You’d have your trouble for almost nothing. I get a third or I don’t go through.”
Wayler and Pokey consulted one another with silent eyes. They said nothing, and Rooney went on:
“Another thing. This has to be a right job. You can’t just grab the safe and then run for it. I want the whole list of passengers searched the way a regular train robbery would be run off. Otherwise it’ll be too plain that somebody has tipped you off about the cash shipment.”
“That’s true,” said Pudge Wayler. “That’s sense. But it’s a tricky job, sometimes, handling a long list of passengers. It takes time, and some of those hombres may have guns and know how to use ‘em.”
“I’m not saying that it’s easy,” Rooney assured him. “I’m just telling you what has to be done if you fellows are going to work with me.”
“The boy is hungry, and he knows just what he wants to eat,” answered Pokey satirically.
“I’ve told you the facts. You can wrangle them to suit yourselves,” said Rooney. “Tell me short and straight: Do you play the game my way, or not at all?”
“Wait a minute, Rooney,” said Pudge Wayler. “You got the wrong idea. I can see what’s put you off. You’ve had the idea that train robbers are kind of benevolent brotherhoods. You got an idea that fellows that rob trains are just doing it for the sake of getting a little fun. And then they give away the hard cash to the gents with the great brains that sit in offices in town and polish mahogany desks with their heels. Is that the picture you’re drawin’ of us?”
Rooney had the grace to laugh. The other two laughed, also, but very shortly.
“All right, boys,” said Rooney. “I know what you mean. But you’re the fishermen with the rods and lines, and I’m the fellow who hooks the fish on under the water. That’s why I get the big split. There are not five men in the outfit that could tell you the train that shipment goes on.”
Wayler nodded. “There’s not five men,” he said, “that can tell you how straight those guards on the train are going to be able to shoot. And I don’t have to stand twice to make a shadow.”
“I know,” said Rooney. “That’s another thing that I’ve got on my mind. I’m sending those two poor devils to their death. I’m doing about the rottenest trick that any human being can do. And I’m going to be paid for it or I won’t go through.”
Pokey barked out, his voice suddenly high and shrill: “You go to the devil, then! I got a mind to bash in your face for you!”
Rooney made a quick, jerking step to the rear, and a little bulldog revolver appeared in his hand.
“All right, boys,” he said. “If that’s the way you feel about it, it’s just too bad. And the deal quits right here. I’ll say so long to you and go home.”
“I don’t know,” said Pudge Wayler, who had a big Colt lying out on his knee the instant that Rooney made a move. “I don’t know about all of this. You got some information that we want. I dunno that you’re so sure of leaving before we have that news out of you.”
“No,” yelled Pokey. “You can name that train, and you’re goin’ to do it!”
He, also, had a gun in his hand, and slipped off to the side so as to take Rooney between two fires.
The express-company man seemed perfectly at home in the situation. He was at least not the sort to be bluffed. He said: “Back up, Pokey. Mind you, you may get me, but I’ll get one of you first. And you’re the man, Wayler. You�
��re the easiest target, and I’ve got you in my eye. Tell Pokey to back up!”
His voice had lowered. He seemed preoccupied, and the preoccupation was plainly with his gun.
Here Barry Christian arose and moved forward through the gloom. He called out:
“Steady, boys. We’ll have a new deal here.”
Pokey and Rooney stopped moving. Pudge Wayler got to one fat knee. And Duff Gregor moved with Naylor at the shoulders of their chief.
“Who’s there?” called Rooney.
“A man you all may need,” said Christian.
“It’s the voice of Barry Christian!” yelled Wayler, jumping to his feet with surprising lightness.
“You fool!” answered the steady Rooney. “I know — the whole world knows — that Christian’s dead in the Kendal River.”
Barry Christian walked straight on into the lantern light. He said:
“Hello, Pudge. Hello, Pokey. Glad to see you, Rooney, in —
There was a wild yell from Pokey. He threw both arms high over his head and bolted for the door of the barn. He issued from it, his screeching of terror trailing behind him like blown flames behind a torch.
“Let him go,” said Christian. “He’ll think it over and come back to see.”
“It’s a lucky thing,” said Rooney, “that I didn’t mix myself up with that sort of a yellow hound.”
“Steady, Mr. Rooney,” answered Christian. “Pokey is the sort that fights like a wild cat, but he’s not used to ghosts.”
Big Pudge Wayler had put up his gun, and now he came forward with both hands stretched out before him, and his eyes popping in his fat, pale face. He actually grasped Christian with both hands, and then groaned out:
“It’s Barry — and no — ”
He paused there, too overcome for speech. Christian seemed a little moved by this reception, for he slapped the shoulder of the fat man and answered:
