“Who’s inside?”
Bat would not answer that. Betsy swiftly withdrew her head from the window. He had not seen her in the dusk. She knew he would kill her just as soon as he discovered who she was. She mourned for faraway Boston. Why had she ever taken this foolish trip?
She moved swiftly across the seat, hitting her knees against her big wicker and leather trunk. In it were skirts and hats, carefully packed.
With brilliant inspiration, knowing that her fate depended upon her action, Betsy threw the trunk lid up, cast out the cardboard hat boxes and rolled hastily into the yielding mass of her piled skirts. There was just room enough with the hats out. She dropped the lid just as she heard his footsteps grating in the road beside the stage.
She heard something else. The patent locks clicked shut as the lid fell. But she had no fear. Bat would let her out as soon as the danger was past.
Sunset threw open the door, right gun ready to chop down if anyone had been waiting inside. He stood there for an instant, inspecting the place.
“Empty, huh?” said Sunset.
Bat leaned far over and looked down with jaw sagging. “Huh?” He blinked hard and leaned farther, almost falling from his high perch.
“Something wrong here,” said Sunset. “You don’t want me to look this over. What is it? Another messenger box?”
The stage creaked as he mounted the step. He looked at the shipping tag which had been affixed at the last outpost of the slowly advancing railroad.
“‘Trotwood, Puma Pass,’” read Sunset. “So it is something else.”
He gave the trunk a hard shove. It shot out the other door and slammed to the ground, bottom side up. Sunset jumped down beside it and heaved it over.
“It’s heavy enough,” he said. Turning to look up at the box, he added, “I think that’s downright thoughtless of you, Bat. You know I’m interested in anything goin’ to Slim Trotwood.”
“Sure,” shook Bat. “Sure, Sunset. I … I guess I kinda forgot, that’s all.”
“Next time kinda remember to remember,” threatened Sunset.
Deliberately he drew out a bowie knife and hacked down two small pines. He lashed these, one on either side, to his heavy rimfire saddle, making a specie of Indian travois.
Across this he placed the trunk, tying it in place with his lariat. Finishing, he turned to Bat and Tom. “When you get to Puma Pass, you tell that damned coyote Trotwood that I still aim to fight him as long as I got lead to sling and strength to pull a trigger. Savvy?”
“We told him last time and he damn near skinned us alive,” complained Bat.
“Tell him again,” said Sunset.
“You bet,” said Bat quickly.
Sunset took his reins and led his mustang onto a game trail at right angles to the wagon road. With the trunk bumping along on the travois, he made his way between the pines, finally disappearing from view.
Tom, always short on words, growled, “You done it again.”
“Can I help it?” blustered Bat. “He’d of shot me if I’d moved my little finger.”
“You wouldn’t be in with him, would you?” growled Tom.
“Me?” cried Bat. “In with a road agent? Why, you low-down lobo, I ought to …”
“Save it for a road agent,” said Tom. “You better see if that girl ain’t dead from heart failure.”
Bat remembered then. He swung down and looked into the stage. He stuck his shaggy head inside and peered into all the corners. He looked under the wheels without result and then stood back scratching his head.
“She was here a minute ago,” said Bat.
He made a complete circuit of the stage and again inspected the interior and again scratched his head. “All she left is a few hats. Now where the ding-dong do you suppose the critter went?”
Tom got down and looked with no more result than Bat. Together they walked down the grade, peering into clumps of bushes. They came back and searched the coach again.
“If that don’t beat hell,” said Bat. “She’s gone to glory.”
“Damned if she ain’t,” said Tom.
“Never did trust Boston nohow,” said Bat, spitting into the dust. “We better get that tree outta the road and git the word to town.”
A half-hour’s work rid them of the tree and four hours of torturous mountain roads brought them into Puma Pass’ one unpainted street.
Yellow squares from the windows fell into the restless thoroughfare. Doors swung outward when the word swept along the row of false-front buildings. Cowboy boots rapped lightly and miner’s boots thumped solidly as a crowd gathered to watch the stage come in.
Tom braked to a halt before the California Saloon. Bat stood up in the glow of his box lanterns and half dismounted, shouting to the crowd:
“We lost a dame out and we been robbed! Where’s Slim Trotwood, the yaller pup?”
The crowd was astounded at the first part of the news. They were silent until Bat hit dust and then they swarmed in upon him with a roar of questions.
“I tell you that’s all I know,” protested Bat. “We lost her out slick as a whistle. Where’s Slim Trotwood?”
A thin, dark-haired man in a black frock coat was hastily let through the press. He came to a halt in the ring of light spread by the stage lanterns.
Slim Trotwood was dressed in the height of fashion. His black knee boots had a white ring around each top. His hat was a fifty-dollar John B. and his shirt was made of the finest of linen. He had a thin white face and he wore upon it a twisted smile which showed his great superiority. He spoke with a cultured Boston drawl.
“Who wanted me?”
“I did,” said Bat. “We brung your daughter as far as the foothills and then all of a sudden she disappeared.”
“My daughter?” said Trotwood, almost showing his surprise. “You must be mistaken, Connor. My daughter is in Boston.”
“She ought to a stayed in Boston,” said Bat. “You didn’t have no business lettin’ a cute little trick like her come all the way out to Montana.”
“Be quick, man,” Trotwood snapped. “Where did you lose her?”
“Now ain’t that intelligent,” scoffed Bat. “If I knowed where I lost her I wouldn’t a lost her.”
Trotwood was annoyed. “I’ll have my men make a search immediately if you’ll tell me the approximate location.”
“Up by Sioux Canyon,” said Bat. “You’ll find the tree alongside the road. Yeah. I forget to tell you. We was held up.”
“You mean we didn’t get our money again?” said a hard voice out in the crowd.
A thick-shouldered hunched man of great height, who had the appearance of never being able to straighten up because he’d hit his head against the sky, shuffled to Trotwood’s side. His red-rimmed eyes were angry.
Trotwood faced him with contempt. “You’ll get your pay soon enough. The Great Western would hardly fail to pay its bills.”
“I been stalled long enough,” said the tall man.
“Simpson,” said Trotwood, severely, “I’ll have no more nonsense, if you please. You have my word.…”
“Your word,” mocked Simpson.
Trotwood’s action did not seem to be enough to warrant Simpson’s hasty change in tone. Trotwood merely thrust his hand slowly into his frock coat in a Napoleonic gesture.
“Get your horses and the rest of the men,” said Trotwood carefully, as though controlling himself only with great effort. “Sunset Maloney is responsible for this. This time, we are going to make him answer.”
Simpson backed off, turned and shuffled toward a livery stable down the street, collecting a small knot of men as he went.
Trotwood turned to Bat. “You seem to have great difficulty in defending your charge, Connor.”
“I’m brave enough,” said Bat. “If that Sunset hadn’t got the drop on
me, I’d a blowed him fuller a holes than a Swiss cheese. Next time I meet him, he’ll have a fight on his hands!”
Somebody in the crowd cried, “Wildcat Connor.”
Bat turned to face the unseen attacker. “Yeah? You wouldn’t a done any different.”
“Wildcat Connor!”
“Yeah?” bellowed Bat. “Look here, from Texas to Oregon, I’m knowed as a lead slinger and I ain’t goin’ to let no sucklin’ pig laugh at me without …”
Simpson was coming up the street with the men and Bat forgot what he was saying for the moment as he watched them.
Trotwood mounted his well-groomed horse, putting his polished toes daintily into the stirrups of his postage-stamp English saddle.
Simpson and his five hard-faced companions closed up around Trotwood, who glanced at them to see that they were all there and well armed.
“We shall proceed to Sioux Canyon,” Trotwood told them, “and attempt to track him from there. I trust that we have ropes enough to do our work tomorrow.”
He raised his arm and dug spur. The cavalcade rolled up the street, lights from windows flashing on bits and guns as they raced by.
The sound of hoofs faded slowly and Bat turned to tromp up the steps of the Palace Saloon, ignoring questions from the curious. He went into the smoky interior and walked down the bar, still refusing to further discuss the holdup. Men drifted away from him and he finally stood alone, pouring a drink of red liquor into a smudged glass.
When he had downed it he saw that a stranger stood beside him. The man wore range clothes much out of place upon his round, awkward body. He was unused to such clothes. His face was burned red by wind and looked soft.
“Set him up another, barkeep,” said the stranger.
“Don’t care if I do,” said Bat.
The bartender set up several more and finally Bat found himself at a quiet table in the corner facing the stranger, who said his name was Smith.
“Who is this Sunset Maloney?” said Smith.
“Good kid,” said Bat tipsily. “None better. Sure death when he’s mad but easygoin’ most always. Red hair makes him that way.”
“Other shipments come through untouched,” said Smith. “What’s Sunset Maloney got against Trotwood?”
“What’s everybody got against Trotwood, you mean,” snapped Bat, grabbing the neck of the bottle and slopping his drink as he poured it, so great was his sudden heat.
“Well, what?”
“It’s that Great Western Railroad,” said Bat, tongue well greased by now. “They got to have this pass. They can’t get across the Rockies at this point unless they get this pass. Puma Pass means plenty. But it’s all owned. Mining claims, small ranches, truck farms to feed the miners that keep crossing back and forth here. This is the best way through the whole dadblamed Continental Divide and the Great Western’s got to have it.”
“What’s that make Trotwood?”
“A polecat,” said Bat. “He come in here and sized it up and then shows his papers as agent of the Great Western. Everybody wants the railroad but there ain’t nobody wants to sell any land, that being valuable right here. So Trotwood hires a Texas gun-toter named Simpson and some of his friends. Five settlers had disappeared. There ain’t nobody else willin’ to argue it with Trotwood. So he’s buyin’ all land at fifty percent of its value. Sell or get killed, that’s the situation. And everybody’s afraid to touch him.”
“Can’t you organize?”
“Like them vigilantes they got over at Virginia City? We tried it and the ringleader disappeared and now everybody’s scared to name hisself a leader.”
“Where’s Sunset Maloney fit into this?” said the persistent stranger, who said his name was Smith.
“Sunset?” said Bat, settling himself and pouring another drink. “Like I tell you, he’s redheaded and easygoin’ most of the time, but he gets mad suddenlike and nothin’ can stop him when he’s mad.
“He come in here right after the government reopened the Bozeman trail. He’s up from Wyoming, just a kid, fresh as paint but broke. So old Ten-Sleep Thompson takes him under his wing and they get along on small strikes. Pretty soon they got enough together for a spread and for the past ten years, they run it. It’s right in the middle of this valley below here. The longhorns was doin’ well and everything was goin’ fine and Sunset grows up to his present manhood of twenty-three, all grin or all fight, either way.
“And then Sunset goes to trail a herd up from Wyomin’ and when he gets back, Trotwood has moved into Puma Pass. That’s bad, but what Sunset finds is worse. Ten-Sleep Thompson has signed over the spread to Trotwood for cash nobody ain’t seen yet, though Trotwood says it’s comin’. Ten-Sleep is dead and buried when the kid arrives home.
“So he hits the trail and starts layin’ for Trotwood. He stops all stages to take off any Trotwood money. He pops up unexpected when Trotwood gets too persuasive with some miner. An’ if it wasn’t for Sunset, this whole place would have been sold out to Trotwood a long time ago. So far, Sunset has got all the gold Trotwood tried to import, and as long as he keeps out of Trotwood’s … Say, gabbin’ around like this plumb made me fergit something mighty important. See you later, stranger.”
Bat wobbled to the door and went out into the street. He made his way to his cabin but he did not enter. He went around back and began to saddle his mustang.
“Damn it to hell,” muttered Bat, wrestling with the saddle and seeing three horses when he knew he only owned one, “I was goin’ to take just one drink to make it look less suspicious and I get to gabbin’ like an old hen at a tea party and plumb fergit Sunset. If he swings, I’ll never draw another easy breath!”
The saddle slid off on the other side and Bat lurched under the mount’s neck to get it. He put it up again and it slid off on the nigh side.
Swearing at the three shimmering mustangs, Bat tried to concentrate on what he was doing.
CHAPTER TWO
Outlaw’s Captive
FROM the moment Betsy Trotwood had lost her consciousness in the falling trunk until she awoke in the dimness of an old trapper’s cabin was a complete blank.
She lay looking disinterestedly at the pattern of shadows the rafters made, trying to clear her wits and think. The last thing she had seen had been a tall man in stained leather standing on a fallen tree with a gun in each hand. Somehow that did not connect up with this.
Gradually she became aware of someone seated beside her. Slowly she turned her head to behold a man silhouetted against the flickering light given out by a piece of rag stuck into a cup of bear grease on the table across the rough room.
Even then she did not know what it was all about. Her head ached dully and the man meant nothing to her, for the moment, less than the rafter shadows.
“Gee, ma’am,” said Sunset with a gusty sigh of relief, “you shore had me worried for a while. How do you feel?”
This soft drawl was not the clear and deadly voice of the road agent. She studied the silhouette curiously.
Sunset got up. “Let me get you a cup of tea,” he said eagerly. “You’ll be ready to fight a buzz saw before you know it.”
He crossed the room to the fireplace and her eyes followed him. He stood for an instant against the light of brightly glowing coals and abruptly she knew him.
She recoiled, pressing herself against the logs at the back of the bunk, gripping the edge of a blanket with her small hand.
Sunset, all unknowing, came back with the tin cup full of steaming tea. “Here, ma’am. Drink this.”
He saw how she stared at him then. The terror in those wide blue eyes came as a shock to him. He set the cup on a three-legged stool and looked at her. “What’s the matter?”
She found her voice, fought the tremble out of it. Her mother’s people had given her a legacy of spirit and poise. “Thief!”
“Thief?�
�� said Sunset. “Oh, now, see here, ma’am, don’t go judging things so fast. I’m no more thief than you are, beggin’ your pardon.”
“I’ll thank you to take me to my father instantly,” said Betsy.
Sunset looked at her in hurt amazement. Her tone cut into him cruelly. But he was conscious of a lingering amusement too. She was so small and delicate that he could have lifted her with one hand but she was showing more fight than a shoulder-shot grizzly.
“See here, ma’am. I’m sorry about this. But I was just as surprised as you were. I feel pretty bad kicking you out of the stage that way, but how was I to know? And I tell you, ma’am, when I opened that trunk of yours and saw you in it, all white, I was plenty scared. I thought you were dead. You’re safe, honest you are. I wouldn’t hurt you. If I could I’d do anything in the world for you. You can believe that, ma’am.”
She was inching further away from him than ever, cold contempt in her gesture and expression. He could feel the intensity of her growing rage.
Clumsily he sought to quiet her. “Whatever made you get into Trotwood’s trunk? That was plumb careless of you, ma’am. Somebody ought to have told you that anybody that runs up against anything belongin’ to that skunk runs into sure trouble.”
“Are you referring to my father?” she said frostily.
“Your father?” said Sunset. “No, ma’am. I’m talkin’ about Double-Deck Trotwood, or Slim Trotwood, or any other name he goes by.” In sudden wonder, seeing the way the words affected her, he said, “Say, you ain’t tied up with that ornery, two-bit tinhorn, are you?”
“Sir, I’ll have you know that Jonathan Trotwood is my father.”
“Your father?” gaped Sunset. “Oh, now, see here, ma’am, that isn’t anything to joke about.”
“It is certainly no joke.”
“You’re dead right. Not if it’s a fact.” Sunset sat down weakly on the edge of the bunk. “Tell me straight now, ma’am. Is that weasel-faced back-stabber your dad, honest-to-God?”
“You must realize that your language is most offensive,” said Betsy.
Tinhorn's Daughter Page 2
