He glanced at his watch now. It was time.
He walked back to the campfire. Dowse that fire and mount up. There was no need to discuss the holdup itself, for they had been through all of that. He turned on Fillmore. Don’t forget now, Frenchy, nail that caboose. If the brakeman gives you any lip, kill him!
Far off, the train whistled.
They stepped into their saddles, checked their gear. Charlie Gant led the way down to the point where the barricade waited.
The cut was narrow, and they had built the barricade carefully to make it look like a slide off the side of the cut. Inspecting it again, Gant doubted if any casual glance would arouse suspicion.
He felt jumpy, but there was no occasion for worry. He had planned this better than any time before, and his jobs had a way of working out. Even Floyd had admitted nobody could plan a job better.
Floyd…
Why think of him now? Suppose Charlie had stayed and shot it out with Rawlings then? Could he have saved Floyd if he had opened fire? He would never know. Just the same, he wished Floyd was here now. He was the solid one, the stayer.
Floyd was one man he could always count on.
But could Floyd count on you?
The question came to his mind unbidden, and he swore and jerked on the reins so that his horse reared. He quieted it down, but his mood remained savage. He drew his pistol and checked the action and the loads. He looked back at the others. Ready? he asked.
Their replies came back to him. Ready! … Sure! … I’ll say!
They were good men. Just the same, he wished Floyd was here. The train whistled again, and he could hear that far-off rush of wheels that reminded him so much of the wind in the pines of a great forest. It was coming up the valley now, almost to the mountains.
It might have been better had he been further from a town; but still, they must clear the track before they could go on, and that would take time. And this position gave them a straight run across the valley. A hard run but a good one, and safe enough if they made it as he had planned. He would bring this off, disappear for a few weeks, and then he would pay a visit to that ranch Rawlings was headed for. The thought gave him a savage pleasure.
At that moment the train whistled again.
He started his horse walking foreward, and the rest followed.
Only three or four minutes now…
Chapter 24
It was very still in the express car, and very hot. Zeb Rawlings stood his rifle between his knees and wiped his palms on his trousers. Waiting was hell. It always made a man jumpy.
He could feel it coming now, the dry mouth, the sick, empty feeling in the belly. This time it would be for keeps. One of them would die. Charlie Gant was like a mad dog that would bite and tear at anything in his lust to destroy. Take a brave man every time, Zeb thought-I’d fear a brave man less than a coward. The coward has no scruples.
Floyd Gant … there was a good man. An outlaw, but a good man with it all, a solid man. You knew where you stood with Floyd Gant. They had fought Indians together, hunted from the same stand, slept under the same buffalo robe. You took what shelter you could get when those Panhandle winds were blowing.
Without Charlie to talk him into it, Floyd might never have become an outlaw, and with him it probably started as a lark more than anything serious. In those days a good many cowhands had rustled a few head to buy drinks or to see them through a hard winter.
Out on the buffalo range Zeb had shared a fire with Floyd Gant many a time, never friendly, exactly, yet not enemies, either. There had always been that unspoken rivalry that comes between two men of almost equal ability at anything; and out on the hunt Floyd was the best hunter, except for himself. There was no telling about that, either, when you came to think of it. There was too much luck involved. Your aim might be perfect, you might have judged the wind right-and then the buffalo might lift his head, kick at a fly, or even shift his weight. A mere shifting of the weight from one fore-leg to the other could mean the difference sometimes between a shot through the heart or lungs and a bullet glancing off a shoulder bone or breaking a leg. And a bull with a broken leg might easily excite the herd so that you’d get no more shots. If you kept the wind in your face or blowing from them toward you, and if you took your time, you could shoot buffalo from a stand … and shoot for hours, sometimes. They had never learned to fear a gun, and the booming sound meant nothing to them. But the smell of blood would make them restless and they would move off. Or a wounded buffalo threshing around would start them sometimes. Zeb looked at the others. Hot in here, he said.
Clay nodded. Sure is. We have to keep her locked up.
Where do you think? Ramsey asked suddenly.
This side of Kingman, I feel pretty sure.
You think they’ll run for the Hualapais?
No.
Indian Charlie was with them-he’s part Hualapai. No, I don’t think so. Gant will do something different. He’s too smart to do the usual.
The train whistled.
There’s a cut right ahead, Ramsey said thoughtfully. And Boulder Spring is right back in the rocks, only a few miles off. Clay got up and went to the front of the car. The train was veering around a slight curve that gave him a view of the track up ahead. Barricade! he called. There’s a barricade up ahead!
We’re slowing down, Stover yelled.
Dropping his rifle, Zeb jumped for the door and dashed through it, scrambling over the tender to get to the cab of the locomotive. Don’t stop! he yelled.
I can’t plow through that!
Zeb dropped from the tender to the floor of the cab. Open her up! he cried.
Wide open!
She’ll jump the tracks!
At the edge of the brush near the tracks, Charlie Gant stared unbelieving as the locomotive seemed to gather speed. The driver-wheels churned at the track. Why, the damn fool! he said aloud.
The train hit the barricade with a tremendous crash and rock, logs, and debris flew in every direction. The force of the impact knocked Zeb and the engineer in a heap on the cab floor. Only a quick grab at a hand-rail kept Zeb from falling out.
But the debris had been piled on top of the logs laid across the rails, and not between them, and it was thrown wide. The locomotive stayed on the tracks, but it was slowed almost to a halt by the impact. The jolt made the engineer lose his grasp on the throttle, perhaps slowing the speed at the same time. All right! Gant yelled. Take em!
Bullets smacked against the cab and one of them struck the coal, spattering the cab with tiny fragments like a sudden burst of bird shot. Zeb took careful aim. Gant was coming up the track, and he had a clear sight on his chest. Suddenly his hand was knocked up and his bullet went wild in the air. Don’t be a fool, Zeb! Ramsey said. Let him get aboard! You want Gant; now’s your chance to get him in the act!
Zeb started to make an angry reply, then he realized Ramsey was right. After all, unless Gant was actually killed on the train there might always be some who would say that he had hidden behind his badge when he killed Gant. Listen! Ramsey grabbed his arm. They’re getting on behind, and they have to cross those flatcars to get here. That’s where we can get them! Scrambling over the coal car, they started back. Stover was waiting, with Clay and Suns, inside the express car, guns ready. Zeb and Ramsey went on into the vestibule of the passenger car, and started through. A man grabbed Zeb’s arm. What’s up? What happened up there?
Stay where you are, Zeb replied shortly. There’s a holdup. A woman gasped, and several men started up. Sit down! Ramsey commanded. And get down on the floor!
The Indian, Lund, and Jenks were already in the caboose. Charlie Gant came up the steps and lunged through the back door.
Did they all get on?
Gyp’s on the wire car. Frenchy’s picking up the horses. Good! He turned sharply on the brakeman who stood back, white-faced and scared. Hit that brake!
No use. It would just burn out with the engine going like this. Gant struck viciously with the bar
rel of his pistol and the brakeman dropped as if shot. Roistering his pistol, Gant grabbed the wheel and spun it. The wheels screeched, but the train did not slow. Smoke poured up from the caboose hotbox. All right, load up your guns and let’s go! He looked ahead over the weaving flatcars. It’s a long way to that gold!
With drawn guns they started forward, scrambling over the wire and the logs. Zeb, Ramsey, and now Clay waited inside the passenger car, while the few passengers crouched close to the floor between the seats, as far forward in the coach as they could crowd. Some had suitcases and bedrolls stacked around them. A woman with two young children sat on the floor with her back against a seat-back, and facing the open seat upon which a two-foot-high bedroll had been placed.
Gant made his way over the wire car, falling a little behind to let Lund and Indian Charlie be the first through the door. Opening it, they lunged in, and were met by a blast of gunfire.
The Indian was knocked back against the wall of the car and he went down, his face twisted into a grimace of shock, surprise, and pain. Desperately he fired, working his gun like a cornered rattlesnake, striking at everything within sight.
Lund had seen the guns an instant before the fire opened and had dropped to the floor. Shooting up, his first bullet struck Clay, turning him halfway around. Clay tried to bring his gun to bear and Lund shot again, then lunged up to his feet. He found himself staring into the eyes of Zeb Rawlings. Riddled with bullets, he fell back against the door, which gave way behind him and he tottered back into the vestibule.
Rawlings! he gasped at Gant. Rawlings is in there! He swayed, and grabbed at the brake wheel, but fell over the rail. For an instant he clung, his white, blood-streaked face staring up, and then his fingers began to slip.
Gant stared back at him, his muscles frozen as he looked down into that bloody, horror-filled face, and then the fingers let go and Lund fell beneath the churning wheels of the train. A scream of mortal agony sounded, and then there was only the pound of the wheels.
Only a second had passed. Wheeling, Zeb’s face showed in the doorway and Gant fired wildly, desperately, and then he leaped for the car. He grabbed for a hold, felt his fingers slip on the rough bark of the logs, then dig in. With astonishment, he saw a fingernail had torn loose and his finger was raw and bloody.
Suddenly panic swept through him. Rawlings was here! Rawlings would kill him! Frantically, he scrambled up the logs. Astride, he turned and shot back, emptying a gun into the door, then he slid down the logs and crawled toward the barbed-wire car.
In the doorway of the caboose Gyp Wells was firing to cover his retreat, but Gant, glancing back again, saw Zeb come through the door. In a panic, Gant fired again; and then as he moved backward, he saw where a bullet had struck the cable that bound the logs, almost cutting it in two. Somehow, somewhere he had discarded his empty gun and drawn the second one. He could hear Zeb coming, scrambling over the logs, and as he looked up, Gyp Wells ducked back for cover in the caboose. Putting the muzzle of his pistol down against the cable, Gant fired.
The wire cable, released from its tension, snapped past him like an angry whip. He dropped to the wire car and started scrambling over the bundles. His hands were ripped, his clothing torn by the fierce barbs, but he could think only of escape. Desperately, he looked around again. Zeb was running along the top of the logs, and even as Gant looked they started to split apart, rolling toward the down side of the car as the train rounded a small curve. Right before his eyes, Zeb disappeared between the logs, and Gant felt a wild impulse to yell. With savage delight, he kept looking back over his shoulder as he scrambled over the wire.
The logs, still held by the wire cable that bound them at the other end, had opened like a fan, one of them almost dragging on the ground beside the speeding train.
Zeb had felt himself going, and he caught wildly at the rough surfaces of the logs as they spread under his feet; then as the front wire held, the logs stopped shifting.
The butt end of the trailing log fell between two boulders as the train started to round a bigger curve. It ripped loose with a terrific wrench, almost derailing the flatcar and pulling loose the coupling pin, which had been poorly seated.
The train plowed into the curve at high speed and logs spilled off the side. Zeb felt logs falling away from him, and as he was exposed a bullet tore a deep gouge in a log at his right. Rocking with the force of the falling logs, the coupling came loose, and the locomotive, followed by the express car and coach, went rolling on around the curve.
The flatcars and caboose slowed, almost stopped, and then slowly began to roll backward down the grade.
Zeb heard a wild shout behind him, then Ramsey yelling, Stop the train! Back her up!
Another bullet struck within inches of Zeb’s face and he crouched low beside the log, shifting his gun to his left hand to expose himself as little as possible. Suddenly, Gant saw his chance. Zeb Rawlings was trapped on the log car. Now, if ever, he could get him. Quickly, he scrambled to cover behind the donkey-engine. Lifting his gun, he waited, watching his chance. Zeb was crouched among the fanned-out logs, with only partial protection. Gant was out there somewhere, on the caboose or the wire car, but he dared not lift his head to look. The flatcars and caboose were rolling back down the grade, but the grade would not last forever. With Gant back there, there was at least one other outlaw whom he’d seen leap back inside the caboose. He waited, holding his gun, ready to chance a shot. Suddenly he heard the train whistle more loudly, and a shot struck the donkey engine with a bang.
The train … it was backing up. Ramsey was bringing it back to help. Behind the donkey engine, Gant waited. Slowly, his panic left him. There was still a chance. Even if he did not get the gold, he could get Rawlings, and within minutes they would be back where Frenchy Fillmore was holding the horses. Incongruously, the thought came into his mind: How did a man named Isaac Fillmore come to be called Frenchy?
A bullet struck the donkey engine, then another. Gant chuckled. Let them try. Nothing could shoot through that engine, and all he had to do was wait. He would get his shot at Rawlings … and then he would get to the horses, and they’d be off and away.
Ramsey would have no horses, and by the time he got some Gant would be across the Colorado and headed into the desert where no one dared follow. In his ears sounded a clack-clackety-clack of the wheels of the slowing cars. Now he would get his chance. The fear had gone, the panic had gone. Zeb Rawlings was a sitting duck.
Lou Ramsey stood in the passenger car and looked out. Beside him was Stover. Clay, nursing two bullet wounds, lay, half-sitting, in a seat behind him, still holding his gun and hoping for a shot.
Ramsey pointed at the donkey engine. Four parallel lines of rope held it to the flatcar. Lifting his pistol, he took careful aim and fired. One of the ropes parted. He fired again and cut a slice in another of the ropes. Stover lifted his rifle and settled down for careful firing. Slowly, the two sections of the train drew together. Only a few yards separated them. Zeb Rawlings tasted blood. Somehow he had split his lip in scrambling over the logs. He saw another of the logs go and shifted his pistol to his right hand. From his belt he extracted several shells and, holding back the loading gate, shoved them into the cylinders.
The flatcars had almost ceased to roll, and as they dipped around a shallow curve, a bullet parted the last rope and the donkey engine slid over the side of the car.
Gant saw himself caught in the open as Zeb reared up from behind a log. Gant fired quickly, desperately, then dropped to the roadbed beyond the car. Zeb jumped, his leg giving way under him as Gant fired. He came up, and for an instant they faced each other beside the track. For an instant only they stared across their guns at each other, and then both fired simultaneously. Zeb felt the shock of a bullet, but steadied himself and fired again.
Gant seemed to jerk, and then as his eyes met Zeb’s over the gun, he turned and fled, leaping into the rocks, falling, rolling over. He scrambled among the rocks, and Zeb stalked him, an
d when Gant came up firing, Zeb fired again. Gant went down.
Coolly, Zeb ejected shells from his pistol and loaded up, standing bare-headed under the blazing sun. He smelled the acrid smell of powder smoke, tasted the blood in his mouth, felt the terrible weakness from his wounds begin to take over as the first shock of injury left him. He was hurt, he knew, badly hurt, but he had a job to do that must be done now.
He started forward and fell. Something was wrong with his leg. He caught hold of a boulder and held himself there an instant. Gant seemed to have disappeared. No … there he was, off to the left.
Zeb Rawlings turned with great effort, felt a bullet splash rock near him, lifted his gun, and squeezed the trigger. The gun leaped in his hand, and he saw Gant’s shirt flower with crimson.
Zeb hobbled a step nearer, and brought the gun up again. Gant disappeared among the rocks, not twenty feet away. Zeb started forward again, and then everything seemed to blaze with a hot bright light, and he fell forward, striking the sand with his mouth open. He tried to close his mouth, but it was half filled with sand. He gripped his pistol and rolled over on his back, spitting sand. The blazing sun was on his face, in his eyes.
Suddenly a figure loomed over him. It was Charlie Gant, bloody, wild, desperate … but on his feet.
He looked down at Rawlings, and a queer light came into his eyes.
Bad luck, he muttered. You always were bad luck for me. Every time … His words trailed off, and Zeb Rawlings with a tremendous effort of will brought his gunhand around as Gant started to bring his gun up. Rawlings pointed the gun up at Gant and fired and fired, and fired again. He felt the gun blasting in his hand, rather than heard it, for there was a fast roaring in his ears. He felt something fall against him, and then his gun was empty and a terrible weight seemed pressing him down. Is he dead? He heard someone ask the question, and someone else replied: I don’t know … but Charlie Gant is.
How the West Was Won (1963) Page 26
