"You Jack Tawlin?"
"Yes."
"Well I'm more than considerable pleased to make your 'quaintance. I'm Charley Hill." He stuck out a hand and took Taw's in a hard, calloused grip. "Mind if I sit and set you up to a drink? Jess is a friend of mine. Said I oughtta look you up and say hello."
"Glad to have you."
"Hank!" Charley bellowed over his shoulder, natural good humor edging into the roar. "Bring us a couple red-eye over here!" He stepped around to a chair with a pronounced limp that somehow went well with the onesided grin, and pushed his ancient hat far back on his head, exposing a ragged bush of faded brown hair. "What you readin' in that newspaper there?"
"About some fellow from Queensberry who's made a bunch of rules for fist-fighting. According to this there's places you oughtn't to hit a man in a fair fight. You ought to limit the time you go at it, and maybe, it says, even use gloves."
"Oh, my God!" Charley ran his hand over his whiskery face and shook his head. "If they take good, clean fightin' away from a man, what'll he have left? And if they use gloves, how can it be fist-fightin' any more anyways? I tell you it's a pity and a cryin' shame what this modern world is comin' to. I never read them newspapers nohow. Wouldn't, even if I could read. They upset a man and set him to thinkin' about horrible things."
Taw put the paper in an empty chair. "You say you know Jess?"
The bartender brought their drinks to the table and Charley paid him four bits in dust. "I taught the kid what little he knows about drivin'. You or your pa must've taught 'im horses purty good. He picked it up right quick."
"That your line, staging?"
"Yep. Up until a little while back I was at 'er for forty years, back east in New York and Detroit and Chicago at first. Last twenty year out in this raw country. I was workin' for Holiday when Jess hit 'im for a job. He started in cleanin' out stables, and I recall showin' him first off how buffaloin' the lead horse was half the battle. He was ridin' whip inside a couple of months, then they switched him to holdin' down the express office here at the Fork."
"I'm obliged to you for helping the boy out."
Charley snorted at his drink. "Nobody ain't obliged to nobody for nothin'. Fellow did the same thing for me forty years ago."
"You're not riding whip for Holiday any more?"
"Nope. Says he don't want me since I got this 'ere Godforsaken leg caught up in the spokes of a movin' wheel." He finished his drink and said, "Jesus! Hank's tarantula juice would kill a government mule! How 'bout going on over to my place? I got me some Scotch whisky up to Galena last month."
Taw glanced up quizzically. "Scotch?"
Charley grinned. "Man's gotta have something worth while in life."
Charley's one-room shack was the last, lonesome building far out on Sherman Street. There was a big lean-to behind it from which Taw heard the grouchy bray of a mule. Charley pushed the door open and waved Taw into the dark, windowless interior.
Scratching a match, the older man said, "Got a candle here someplace. This place ain't nothin' but a few boards to give the wind howlin' cracks, but for the time bein' I call 'er home." He held the flame to the candle wick, then went to the other side of the room where clothes and odds and ends were stacked carelessly in a standing wood crate. "Scotch is in here somewheres, unless some unholy mean thief has made off with it. Ah, here it is!"
Over two tin cups of Scotch, Charley looked closely at Taw and said, "Jess tells me you're throwin' in on a certain business deal with us."
"What business deal would that be?"
Charley's grin broke out wider and he limped to a broken chair to sit down. "Why hell, what else? Prospectin' for gold inside Old Ironsides."
"I said I'd listen to the idea, Charley. No more."
"You got yourself some doubts?"
"Lots of them."
The older man nodded. "Don't blame you, Taw. I thought it was crazy when they come to me a while back. But hear 'em out, boy. Snyder and Jess are comin' here later on. I'll let Snyder talk out the plan with you, since it's his. But I'll tell you one thing."
"What's that?"
Charley Hill relaxed in the chair, its back creaking ominously as he stretched his boots out before him. "In my coachin' time, I seen or heard about almost every kind of stage robbery they ever was, from Texas and Dakota clean out to Californy. I've had to toss down a strong box a fair amount of times myself. Anyway, robbin' stages was invented by a fellow name of Tom Bell early in the fifties. Nobody ever thought of it up till then. So he ups and stops a Concord Elegant out of Marysville not far from Frisco. Got him an' the boys with him shot up some, and laid his hand on a hundred thousand dollars for about ten seconds. His idee got to be downright popular, not barrin' the fact that he wound up right afterwards at the wrong end of a hemp rope.
"There's all sorts of crazy stunts been pulled on both sides. Couple fellows, not wantin' to be recognized by the clothes they was wearin', robbed a Nevada stage in masks and red flannel underwear. One coach was hit by thieves so regular that the mine owner had his gold melted down into one big ball that was so heavy nobody could carry it off on horseback. Another man loaded his money box with black powder and a flint fixed onto the catch so's she'd blow off when the box was opened careless. Poor fellow forgot it'd also spark when he closed the lid, and he blew himself sky-high."
"What was it you wanted to tell me, Charley?"
Hill was feeling his whisky. He laughed softly as he continued to reminisce. "Then there was the fellow down in Texas who was so sure there was greenbacks on a stage he stopped that he was spittin' mad when he couldn't find none. He took a ax to 'er and chopped that whole stage right down into kindlin' wood. Rear boot to forward boot and roof to thoroughbraces, he smashed 'er all to hell." Charley chuckled as he poured another drink.
"Thing I wanted to tell you, Taw, is that nobody's ever made a livin' out of robbin' coaches. First place, they get killed off early in the game, usually. Them big-bore shotguns do a horrible lot of damage when they go off in your face. And even when fellows make good at it, why they don't do themselves no real good. Average holdup nets maybe thirty, forty dollar and a couple of no-good watches that don't keep right time anyways. Lad name of Sam Bass was tryin' it out lately, and he didn't do no good at all. He was starvin' to death in the business. I hear he's switched to robbin' trains down in Texas."
Taw chuckled. "Charley, you sure don't paint a very pretty picture. If you feel that way about it, why are you playing along with Jess and Snyder?"
"Let's have 'nother of these fine Scotch whisky drinks." Charley got up and refilled their cups. Back on his rickety chair he said, "Because this is the first time in all my long life that I ever heard of a good, sound notion for doin' the job up right. As a rule, a bunch of men have just hung out around a trail where a coach was headed and run out and threw down on the driver when it come by. Then they either got shot to hell, or else they got away with enough money to buy themselves breakfast the next mornin'. No brains. No plannin'. Nothin' except grief and trouble." He shook an unsteady finger at Taw. "There is a big difference in this deal. And it's all in one man's head. Alvin Snyder's head. He's picked the right place. And his idea is pure genius, worked out to the hair on a bug's ear. He's planned it from beginnin' to end, smooth as silk. Chances are good nobody'll even be hurt. And every man in on it will be rich."
"You want to be rich, Charley?"
"You're damn right I do." Hill waved impatiently at the hard-packed dirt floor of his shack. "There ain't no future to goin' through life like I'm doin' now." The older man's habitual grin won out in a brief struggle with a frown. "Why hell, I'll be gettin' on in years 'fore I know it. So I'm gonna get me a great big mountain of money, and I'm not gonna spend one penny of it wisely. I'm figurin' on blowin' it all foolishly and happily. Gonna spend 'er on women and Scotch whisky and gamblin' and wild, wild times. Especially women, God bless their graspin' little hearts. And I'll give it to hobos and bums like me and tell them to have ra
mbunctious times too. And when I die, if just one person thinks back on me and says to himself, That ol' Charley Hill, why damn me if he wasn't one hell of a fellow!' then I'll be satisfied with the way I lived my life and the way I spent my money."
Taw rolled some Scotch on his tongue and swallowed it thoughtfully. There was a book lying on Charley's bunk and he walked over to pick it up and thumbed through it.
"If you can't read, Charley," he said, "how come you have a Bible?"
Hill shrugged. As the thoughts of his colorful future ebbed away in favor of the question at hand, his grin softened. "Just plain foolishness, Taw. Sometimes I sit by candlelight here and turn through those pages. Paper's got a nice feel to it anyhow. And I try to put my mind to the beautiful things there must be in the book."
Taw put the book back on the bunk. "Maybe that's even better than reading it. You're a peculiar man, Charley Hill."
"I'm a drunk ol' bastard. I've been drinkin' since yesterday and I'm gonna pass out slow and easy in about one minute. Make yourself to home, Taw, and if I'm not awake by the time Snyder and Jess get here, just dump me outa this chair on the floor. That'll bring me around."
Chapter Three
CHARLEY broke into a light, fuzzy snore, and Taw sat down to wait. He took a jackknife from his pocket and absently whittled a quien-sabe design in one of several long, skinny rods leaning in the corner near his chair. Next to the rods was a roll of heavy brown wrapping paper.
Taw finally gave up whittling and left the shack to wander up Sherman Street into town. He stopped at Snyder's General Store on Pawnee Street and asked the owner for half a dozen of the curly black cheroots under the glass counter.
Glancing at the door, Snyder said, "You'll be there, at Charley's?"
"Yeah. I'll be there." Taw put the cheroots into his shirt pocket.
"That'll be two bits," Snyder said.
Lighting one of the strong cigars, Taw went back into the lengthening shadows of Pawnee Street, making a quick estimate on the money he had in the world—about twenty-two dollars.
As he passed Lincoln Street, Taw caught a glimpse of Christine's house far out and away from the nearer buildings. Looking at the house caused a quick, slow-fading tightness in his chest. A pretty little girl with eyes red from crying. A girl who kept herself and her house spotless and nice, trying double hard to make it up to her husband for what she'd been before. Jess didn't know what a fine bargain he had there.
Taw was passing the express office when a tiny, white-mustached man in expensive clothes and a top hat strode rapidly out of it, almost bumping into him. The little man stopped and said, "Jack Tawlin!"
"Well I'll be damned! Chunk Holiday! Heard you spent your time in Chicago these days. Too busy counting your money to do much else."
"Long time, Jack. Seven, eight years I guess. Just in talking to your brother. He's a smart lad. Doing fine with us. How have you been?"
"All right, Chunk."
"You looking for a job?"
"I'm not doing anything right now, to tell the truth."
Holiday's small, bright eyes grew cautious as second thoughts came to him, and he stared down at the boardwalk. "I'd sure like to have you go to work for the line again, but I'm filled right up at present. Not an opening any place. Business ain't so good as you might expect."
"No matter, Chunk. I'm figuring on moving west anyway. Just visiting Jess here for a few days."
"Like I said, your brother's a good man. Damn shame I ain't got a place for you. Well, nice to see you, Jack." Holiday crossed the dusty street at a swift walk and jumped into an elaborate, enclosed carriage pulled by a pair of matching bays. The driver shook the reins and the carriage moved down Pawnee Street. Taw watched it for a moment, a wry grin on his face. He nodded at Jess, who was standing at the counter behind the express office window, then turned and walked back toward Sherman Street.
A few minutes after Charley had roused himself, grumbling and snorting like an old bear nosing in the dirt for roots, Snyder and Jess arrived at the shack.
When Jess shut the door behind them, Snyder said, "I'm glad you're going to hear me out, Taw. It will be the turning point in your life."
"I'll admit I'm getting curious to find out about your plan."
Snyder noticed the three-quarters empty whisky bottle and glared at Charley. "I want you to cut down on your drinking."
"I'm no good cold sober," Charley argued.
"Well, keep it down." Jess slapped Hill on the shoulder. "You're not much good dead drunk, either."
The four of them found places to sit and Charley passed the bottle to Jess. Snyder tossed his bowler hat on the rough, round table and turned to where Taw was settled down on the bunk. "I've been over every inch of the stage route out of Deadwood a hundred times to find the most strategic place to hit. We're going to strike at Sawtooth Bridge about twenty miles south of Pawnee Fork. My plan allows for the optimum use of the terrain there."
"Before you go any farther, Snyder, one thing's been bothering me." Taw relit the dead stub of a cheroot. "How many are in on this?"
"Six men."
"Six men? Against twenty-seven? What about that army you mentioned?"
"For a few important minutes, we'll have the help of a war party of Ogallala Sioux warriors."
"Really?" Taw said dryly. "They like you well enough to fight for you?"
"That's one of the smartest parts of Snyder's idea," Jess broke in. "Those braves'll be working for us without even knowing it. And they'll do a hell of a job."
Snyder took a pencil and a piece of paper from his vest pocket. "Pull up that stool, Taw, and I'll show you what's going to happen to Old Ironsides and the twenty-seven men riding guard on her."
Taw and the others moved in around the table and Snyder outlined a road running across a wide, open flat-land to a bridge. "This is the route Old Ironsides follows. She comes barreling across the middle of Stony Flat and on across the Sawtooth Bridge. Five minutes after crossing the bridge she's headed up over Rabbit Ear Pass."
"Now." Snyder made a cross off the side of the trail. "Half a mile before the bridge, there is a butte here. From it, the land slopes down to the road on one side, off to the badlands on the other. Perfect place for a Sioux war party to attack." Snyder traced the path of Old Ironsides with his pencil as he talked. "Let's say the gold coach is about five hundred feet from the bridge right here. The two men riding point are already almost onto the bridge. Four outriders behind them two hundred feet. At this instant the Sioux attack from the butte, riding hell for leather.
"The six guards between the coach and the bridge will fall back in orderly fashion to reinforce the others, placing their full fire power between the coach and the Indians." Snyder traced lines showing the retreat of the forward riders. "This maneuver will leave the coach to cross the bridge first. The guards will allow this, since there is absolutely nothing across the bridge to be afraid of. The land is totally naked for a mile, and there is no threat possible."
"Where in blazes is everybody who's supposed to be in on the robbery?" Taw offered cheroots around and Jess and Charley each took one. "So far it's pretty noisy, with all that whooping and shooting going on, but senseless as hell."
Snyder nodded. "It won't be. The coach will be across the narrow bridge approximately three to seven seconds before the guards on horseback get to it. As soon as the coach is safe across, the nineteen outriders become helpless."
"Why?"
"The bridge disappears."
"How does a God-damned bridge disappear?"
"Easy. One of our men blows it up."
Taw took a deep breath. "Go ahead."
There was a slight noise at the door and the men in the small room stiffened. Snyder turned to frown at the door and said, "Iron Eyes?"
The door opened a crack, then swung wide. A huge man, who had to duck coming through the doorway, stepped in softly, walking on the balls of his feet.
Snyder got up and shut the door carefully. "Taw, this i
s Iron Eyes, half-brother to Spotted Wolf, chief of a principal tribe of the Ogallala Sioux."
"Other half Irish." In size Iron Eyes could have been taken for a pure Irish giant. But the high, wide cheekbones and the deep black of his eyes and hair marked him an Indian. He stared down at the men in the room, then singled out Taw. "They say you are a killer. I do not think you can kill me."
Taw could feel the hair on the back of his neck bristling, and his muscles tightened. There was a hard, unmistakable challenge carried in the tone of the big half-breed's voice.
Taw patted his gun. "This could kill you, Iron Eyes."
The breed stared silently at Taw for a long moment. Then he crossed to a shadowed corner of the room and squatted on his heels, his black hat, shirt and pants making him almost invisible in the dark.
Jess shifted back to the table, "Tell the rest of it, Snyder."
The store owner chewed his lower lip briefly. "After the bridge goes up, the next part is a gamble of sorts. But whether or not it works, we'll get the gold. There is a sharp turn right—here—on a downgrade toward Rabbit Ear Pass. The coach will reach it about four minutes after the bridge explodes. Just around the turn there will be a large log lying across the road. There will be no time to stop."
Charley nodded. "They could burn their brakes out and they'd still smash. There's only time for the men still with the coach to jump. Those boys're old-timers who know it's no damned good havin' a stage piled on top of you. Fellows on top will have time to yell and hop off. Boys inside'll have to go like hell, but they'll make 'er all right."
"And the stage is wrecked," said Taw.
"No." Snyder scratched a match to life and gave Taw a light for the almost forgotten cheroot he held in his hand, while Charley lit up for himself and Jess. "The stage goes right through the log. The log is a special design of mine. It's lying in the corner over there."
Taw looked at the long, slender sticks and the brown wrapping paper, which he now noticed had been colored to look like bark. "You're making a log out of paper and sticks? Is this a holdup or a Halloween joke?"
The War Wagon Page 3
