by Chuck Tyrell
Clark’s was empty when Comstock and Stryker walked in, as it usually was in the early afternoon. Becky came from the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“That’s hit the spot, Becky. Thanks. Sit down, Matt.”
Stryker sat back to the wall, facing the doorway. Comstock took a seat to his left, rather than sitting across from the marshal. Becky came in with two cups and a steaming pot of coffee. The two men said nothing as she poured the fragrant brew.
“Enjoy.” She again disappeared into the back.
“What is it, Fletcher?”
“I’ve got a favor to ask of you, Matt.”
“Ask away.”
“I’ve been collecting cash for some time now, and I’ve finally got enough to buy a new buzz saw unit and a planer mill.”
“That’s good.” Stryker blew at the coffee, then took a sip.
“But I need to send that cash to Wells Fargo in Holbrook so I can write bank drafts to pay for the machinery.”
“When?”
“The cash is in my safe. When would you be able to ride the train to guard it?”
“You want to send it on the train?”
“Fastest way.”
“Hmmmm.”
“You don’t like the idea?”
Stryker scrubbed a finger at the scar beneath his eye. “Be okay to make it look like you were sending it on the train . . .”
“Decoy?”
“We’ll think of something. You just make sure everyone thinks the cash goes on that train.” Stryker took a deep swig of his coffee. “Jimmie Clark knows how to brew that Arbuckle’s,” he said.
“I hear you,” Comstock said, and sipped at his own brew.
“Watching over that little sister of yours must try your patience at times.”
“She’s got her own mind.”
“That her mind behind the article in the Examiner on the McGurty thing?”
“I reckon.”
“She’s not helping me tame this town.”
“I’m just her brother.”
“Sure would help if she’d quit her rabblerousing. Cahill’s enough trouble without having the whole town looking at us lawmen all white-eyed and skittish.”
“Matt, I learned a long time ago that when that girl gets her mind made up, she’ll turn a stampede rather than change her ideas.” Comstock rubbed a hand across his face. “Comes from growing up with no folks and a brother that pays no attention, I reckon.”
Clanton Reeves drew a big breath. “Fletcher Comstock told me to get a strongbox for the machinery money, Mr. Cahill. Said he was sending the cash to Wells Fargo in Holbrook on Thursday’s train.”
Cahill sat up in his chair. “That only gives us three more days to get ready,” he muttered.
“Er. About the remainder of my commission—“
“—You’ll get paid when we’ve got the money.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Cahill. I’m thinking of leaving Ponderosa, maybe going to San Francisco.”
“You can trust me, Reese. Just keep asking Wells Fargo there in the city. One day your commission will show up. You’ve got my promise.”
Reese stared at the floor, then nodded. “All right, Mr. Cahill. I’ll take you at your word.”
Cahill smiled, but it seemed to Reese that too many teeth showed. He made up his mind right then that his destination would be El Paso and that he’d leave with the morning light. He excused himself and rushed away to buy a horse and pack his duffle.
“Wynn!” Cahill’s voice came through the thin walls into Old Glory.
Wynn Cahill knocked back the rest of his whiskey and ambled to the back door. “Gotta see what my big brother wants,” he said to no one. Across the room, Breed watched Wynn leave the saloon and heard his heavy boots clump up the stairs.
“I’m here, big brother,” Wynn said.
Cahill waved at a chair. “Know Clanton Reeves?”
“That skinny drink of water that always dresses in checkered suits?”
“That’s him.”
“Why?”
“I paid him five hundred for information. I got the information, and I think he’s going to take a run. You keep an eye on him. If he rides out, you get my five hundred back.”
“Any way I want?”
“Any way you want. But be back before tomorrow night. We’ve got to set up for that train.”
Wynn grinned. “I’ll have your money by then, big brother,” he said.
“Good.”
When the gang saddled up to ride down country, Wynn handed Cahill a sack of coins. Cahill dug out a handful and handed the double eagles to Wynn. “Commission,” he said.
Wynn grinned. “Woulda been worth it just to hear that dude yell, and he did yell.” He pocketed the coins.
Each man rode his best mount and led a second horse. “Wish we had fresh horses staked out,” Cahill said.
“Ain’t gonna be no posse after us until it’s too late,” Wynn said. “Besides, no one will know who lifted the cash.”
“Still . . .”
“You worry too much, big brother.”
“Yeah, I reckon.”
The four men rode into the darkness west of Bogtown, paralleling Corduroy Road toward Camp Kinishba. They turned onto the freight road where it crossed Corduroy and set out for Holbrook at a slow lope. As they turned onto the freight road, Tom Hall stepped his long-legged gray out of the trees to watch the band of four disappear to the north.
Matt Stryker rode ahead of the wagon with a sawed-off Greener 10-gauge across his saddlebows. Dan Brady sat on the high seat with the driver, holding a Colt revolving shotgun. Tom Hall followed the wagon with the scattergun he always carried cocked and ready.
At the headquarters of Comstock Log & Lumber Company, men loaded a heavy-looking box bound with iron bands and padlocked at each band. The wagon turned around and rumbled back down Main Street in front of the whole town. With Stryker standing watch and Hall guarding the turnoff, Brady and the driver hauled the box to the platform and loaded it into the baggage car where the mailman would guard it all the way to Holbrook.
“We’ll be in the next car,” Stryker said, “if and when you need help. You sit easy, Ralph, and keep that Colt of yours primed and loaded.”
“I will, Marshal.”
“If someone does hold up the train, though, don’t you try to fight it out. Just let the owlhoots have the box and don’t play the hero. A ton of double eagles ain’t worth your life. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, Marshal. I won’t try to shoot it out with any owlhoots, but I won’t make it easy for them either.”
“I’ll say it again, Ralph. We don’t want any dead heroes.” He stared at the mailman with hard blue eyes.
“I hear you, Marshal. If owlhoots come calling, I’ll let them get the box.”
“Good.” Stryker turned on his heel and left the baggage car. Tom Hall stood at the entrance to the passenger car. It hooked directly to the coal tender and the baggage car came right after that. Then an enclosed freight car, followed by four flat cars loaded with lumber and the caboose. On the downhill run to Holbrook, the big steam engine should have no trouble with the load, Stryker thought. He walked down the track to the caboose, looked under the car, climbed the steps and opened the door. No one inside yet. He walked through the caboose and out the front, dropping down to the side of the tracks. He inspected each lumber-loaded flat car, then walked by the closed freight car and the baggage car to the passenger car where Hall was waiting. “All clear?”
“Seems that way.”
When the train pulled out of Ponderosa, Dan Brady saw the train off from the platform, then walked back to the marshal’s office. Matt Stryker sat in the rear of the passenger car with his hat pulled low over his eyes. Six other people occupied the car; none sat together. Tom Hall was not among them.
Stryker didn’t try to second-guess the train robbers. The train would start to slow long before it came to a stop at whatever barricade they set up. Besides, he w
asn’t there to prevent a robbery; he was a decoy. He slouched in the seat, hat low over his eyes. To the casual observer, he might well have been asleep, but Matt Stryker’s nerves were stretched as tight as the strings of Abe Tenney’s fiddle.
The train moved slowly down the mountain, taking more than two hours to reach the siding west of Snowflake, some thirty-five miles from Ponderosa. That left nearly thirty miles to Holbrook. Cahill’s gang hadn’t hit yet, but they would – Stryker had no doubts – they would.
When the train’s brakes screeched and the engineer threw the gears into reverse and the big drivers strained against the tracks and began to shower sparks as they gradually started turning backwards. Stryker drew his Frontier Colt .44 and inserted a cartridge into the empty chamber that had been beneath the hammer. He wasn’t there to fight Cahill. He just wanted to make sure the gang pulled off the holdup.
The train came to a stop a good hundred yards south of Seven Mile Wash. A rail lay across the tracks. The train wouldn’t get to Holbrook before the rail was replaced.
“Hey! What’s going on?” One of the passengers, a drummer by his clothes, poked his head out a window. A six-gun crashed and the window exploded into shards. The drummer yelled and dropped to the floor between the seats. Stryker removed his hat and crawled to a window. He raised his head just far enough to see over the sill. Four men with flour sacks over their heads, holes cut to see through, sat their horses at the engine. The engineer and fireman stood by the steaming locomotive, hands in the air.
“Stand and you’ll not get hurt,” the leader growled. The trainmen bobbed their heads.
“Take care of the freight car,” the leader commanded.
One of the men levered a shell into his Winchester .44-70. He walked his horse down the tracks until he was opposite the freight car. As the horse walked along the tracks, the man fired the Winchester into the side of the car about four feet above the floor. He levered and fired again. A horse screamed. He fired a third time and a fourth. In all, fifteen shots went through the wall of the freight car. The horse still screamed and struggled when the man rode back to the leader. “Done,” he said.
The leader rode over to the baggage car. “Hey. You in there. Throw out the strongbox and you’ll live.”
The door edged open and the strongbox appeared in the opening.
“That’s a good lad,” the leader said. “You,” he waved at one of the men, “get the box.”
The rider reached down and heaved the box up in front of him.
“Okay. Let’s go.” The four men rode down into the arroyo and headed east.
Stryker waited until the sound of their horses faded before getting to his feet and jumping to the ground. He ran to the freight car and rolled back the door. Saif stood pressed up against the back wall, trembling. Tom Hall’s gray was down, a hole in its neck, and Tom lay spread-eagled on the floor, blood seeping from his chest.
“Stand back,” Cahill said. He aimed his Colt .45 at the point where the shackle of the padlock went through the straps on the strongbox. Ordinarily he didn’t even look at the loot from a job until the gang was completely in the clear. This time, the strongbox was big and clumsy. It would make riding much easier if they stuffed the coins or greenbacks or whatever was in the box into saddlebags. Besides, they couldn’t ride back into Bogtown with the strongbox in plain sight. Everyone would know who took the Comstock money then.
Cahill fired the pistol and the bullet clanged against the iron straps and the steel shackle of the padlock. He fired again, but the lock still refused to disintegrate.
“Shit.” Cahill smashed the lock with the butt of the six-gun. He might as well have been tickling it with a feather. “Need a crowbar,” he said. “Breed, ride into Snowflake. See if you can find us a crowbar.” He flipped Breed an eagle. “That should cover it.”
Breed snagged the coin. “Be back in a couple of hours,” he said. His paint left a cloud of dust as it carried its rider south and a little west at a dead run.
Wynn Cahill dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby alligator juniper. He picked a likely sandstone outcropping and jacked the cartridges from his Winchester into his hat. He pulled a greasy rag from the near saddlebag on his brown and sat down on the outcrop to clean the rifle.
Morales tied his horse to the same juniper, sat with his back to the tree, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. Breed would be back soon enough, and a man had to sleep when he got the chance.
Cahill holstered his Colt and picked up the strongbox. Heavy. He shook it. Whatever was inside clanked faintly. Coins. Double eagles, probably. At five coins to the hundred dollars, there would have to be something like a thousand double eagles to make up twenty grand. Of course all the money didn’t have to be in coins. Might be some in greenbacks. Cahill put the strongbox down. Nothing to do until Breed got back with a crowbar.
“Might as well grain the ponies,” Cahill said. “Once we get the box open, we’ll ride straight through to Bogtown.”
“Think I killed that horse?” Wynn wiped at the Winchester with the rag as he spoke. “Sounded hurt some. The bullets I put into that car shoulda hit something. Only one horse in there? No telling. Wonder why Stryker didn’t come out shooting? Don’t seem like him to sit back and let someone take whatever he’s guarding. That mailman was all fired cooperative, too. I was looking for a little more excitement.”
“Who cares about excitement,” Cahill said. “We got the strongbox.”
“That we did. If we could just get it open.”
“Breed’ll be along.”
Wynn nodded.
Morales snorted as he slept beneath his hat.
Almost two hours later by the watch in Cahill’s vest pocket Breed rode back with a five-foot crowbar across his saddlebow. “Dollar and a half,” he said as he dismounted. He dug into his pocket and handed Cahill the remainder from the eagle.
“Honest of you,” Cahill said.
Breed showed a small smile.
“All right. Let’s pry the locks off this box of cash.” Cahill jammed the blade end of the crowbar against a strap. Too tight for the blunt blade to slip under. He reversed the bar and hit the shackle-strap connection with the point. The box bounced out of the way.
“Can I try, boss?”
Cahill handed the crowbar to Breed. “Have at it.”
Breed stuck the pointed end of the bar into the shackle of the padlock. “Hold the box,” he said. Cahill and Wynn grabbed the strongbox. Breed walked the crowbar around the box, putting pressure on the shackle. Halfway around, the lock popped. The same technique broke the second lock, the third, and the fourth. Breed stabbed the crowbar into the ground.
“Let’s have a look,” Cahill said. His voice trembled. He removed the strongbox lid. Old Examiner newspapers covered the contents of the box. Cahill grabbed a handful of paper and ripped it away.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
The box was full of rusty washers.
Chapter Seven
“Tom!” Stryker vaulted into the freight car.
“Ah. Ah. M-m-a-tt.” Tom Hall’s voice was hardly a whisper. His face was white and covered with a sheen of perspiration. He groaned, but didn’t move.
Stryker dug a clasp knife from his pocket, clawed it open, and cut Hall’s shirt and long johns away from the wound. A deformed bullet had torn a large hole in Hall’s chest. It bubbled and frothed with Hall’s shallow breathing. Stryker shrugged off his Mackinaw and ripped a sleeve from his flannel shirt. He folded the sleeve into a square, ripped off the other sleeve, cut it into strips, and tied the pad over Hall’s wound. “You lie still, old friend. We’ll get you out of this.” He rolled the Mackinaw into a pillow and placed it under Hall’s head. “Hang in there,” he said, and scrambled from the car.
“Fred! Fred!” Stryker ran down the tracks toward the engine.
The engineer poked his head around the cowcatcher. “What’s up, Marshal?”
“Those outlaws shot my partner. Get the steam up and bac
k this train to Snowflake siding. There’s a doctor in Snowflake, right?”
“Doc Heywood.”
“Move it, man!”
The engineer and the fireman clambered into the engine’s cab. Stryker ran back to the freight car. Hall still breathed, but the breathing was very shallow. His eyes were closed. Stryker checked the gray. Dead. He went to Saif. The Arabian still trembled. “All right, all right,” Stryker said, soothing the stallion. He stroked the horse’s nose, then ran his hands over the black’s gleaming hide. He found one bullet burn across the top of Saif’s hips, but otherwise the horse was uninjured. Damn those Cahills. Killing a good horse like Tom Hall’s gray for no good reason. God but he hated people like that. The whistle blasted and the train clanked as the engine pushed the cars back against their couplings. Seven miles to Snowflake siding. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour. Stryker sat down by Tom Hall and leaned his back against the side of the car.
The siding west of Snowflake was little more than a pair of tracks set west of the main line. The switch to put the train onto the siding was about two hundred yards north of the ketch pens and loading chute. The ketch pens were skinned aspen poles, brought down the mountain from Ponderosa on the train. Off to the east a line of willows marked Silver Creek and the roof of Shumway’s mill showed red in the afternoon sun. In some parts of town, poplars were beginning to make themselves seen, and the sandstone walls of the new Snowflake Academy stood as yet with no rafters.
“Doc Heywood’s place is on past the Academy,” said Fred Baxter, GW&SF engineer. “You’ll know it. The only place in town that looks like a little castle.”
Stryker tightened Saif’s cinch and stepped aboard. “Be back shortly,” he said.
“We’ll water up while you’re gone,” Baxter said.
Stryker gigged Saif with his rowelless spurs and the Arabian was at a neck-stretched run in three steps.
Men working on the Academy building paused to watch Stryker go by. He’d slowed Saif to a gallop and the horse held his head high as he pounded down the wide street.
Stryker threw Saif’s reins over the hitching post in front of Doc Heywood’s little white castle. “Stay, Saif,” he said, and strode to the front door. Pounding with a big fist, Stryker called for the doctor.
