Hard Ride to Hell (9780786031191)

by Johnstone, William W.

  Hanrahan didn’t argue with that, although it was evident from his expression that he wanted to.

  A couple of days passed without much happening. Matt spent some time in the station office talking to Emily, and while she seemed to warm up to him a little, she still kept her distance emotionally. That was fine with Matt. He was looking for outlaws at the moment, not romance.

  He also spent some time in Hanrahan’s saloon and took advantage of the opportunity to get to know the crusty saloonkeeper better. He hadn’t forgotten about Nicholas Radcliff’s accusations against Hanrahan.

  The big Irishman got more voluble when Matt worked the conversation around to his early days in New York.

  “Aye, it was a rough time there in Hell’s Kitchen,” Hanrahan said as he leaned an elbow on the bar and talked to Matt. “When I was but a wee lad, the gangs put me to work runnin’ errands and carryin’ messages for ’em. My da was dead, and ’twas the only way I could help me poor old ma. I shudder to think about some of the things I saw in them days. There was this fella called Big Bill, and since he worked as a butcher he always had this meat cleaver with him, and one time he . . . No, never you mind, I don’t want to even think about it.

  “When I got older and married Emily’s ma, God rest her sainted soul, I was runnin’ a tavern that the gang had set me up in, but I knew I had to get out. That was no place to raise a family. As it turned out, Emily’s the only family I had, since her ma departed this world bringin’ her into it. That just made me more determined to leave New York. I saved up enough to get us train tickets and some left over to start a business out here.” Hanrahan waved a beefy hand at their surroundings in the saloon. “And ye can see the results. I started off small, with barely a hole in the wall, and expanded as the years went on.”

  “You’ve done well for yourself,” Matt said.

  “Aye. It hasn’t been easy. And goin’ into the stagecoach business . . . well, ’twas quite a risk, let me tell you, lad.” Hanrahan heaved a sigh. “If I have to forfeit me contract with the line, I don’t know what it’s gonna do. I might lose everything.”

  “Maybe if there were fewer saloons in Buffalo Crossing, you wouldn’t have to worry about that,” Matt suggested.

  Hanrahan let out a derisive snort.

  “The competition doesn’t worry me. No other saloon in these parts can hold a candle to mine. No matter what happens, we’ll muddle through somehow, Emily Anne and me. I’ll do whatever it takes to make that true.”

  Matt could tell that Hanrahan was making an effort to sound confident, but the man actually was worried. The question was how far he would go to protect his businesses.

  While he was waiting for the stagecoach run, Matt also kept an eye open for a boot heel with that peculiar gouge out of it. He couldn’t go around asking men to show him their boots, not without arousing a lot of suspicion and getting some unwanted questions, but anytime he saw a man with his feet propped up somewhere, he took an unobtrusive look at the heels of the hombre’s boots.

  So far that effort hadn’t paid any dividends, and he didn’t really expect it to. The chance that he might find the man he was looking for was a longshot at best, but it didn’t cost him anything to try.

  Sheriff Blocker looked Matt up a couple of days after the ambush and reported, “I went through all of my wanted posters and didn’t find that fella who jumped us. That doesn’t really mean anything, though. There are plenty of owlhoots out there who don’t have paper on them. Or maybe he does and I just never got that particular reward dodger.”

  “He wasn’t shooting at us by mistake, that’s for sure,” Matt said. “He couldn’t have missed that sheriff’s badge of yours, shining in the sun the way it was.”

  “I’m just glad he didn’t use it for a bull’s-eye,” Blocker said.

  The day that the eastbound stage from Rock Springs was scheduled to arrive at eleven o’clock, Matt was at the station early, carrying his Winchester.

  Emily looked at the rifle and said, “We’ve got a shotgun for you to take along.”

  “I know that and I’ll be glad to have it,” Matt told her, “but I’m taking this repeater of mine with me, too.”

  “When there’s a chance you’ll run into outlaws, you can’t have too many guns, I suppose.”

  Emily was visibly nervous. Matt asked, “The gang hasn’t hit two runs in a row before, have they?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean they won’t. Things are getting pretty desperate for us, Matt. If we’re held up again, the company might go ahead and cancel our contract, especially if there are significant losses. They had to make good on the bank shipment from the last time, and they weren’t happy about it.”

  “So there was money in that strongbox.”

  Emily was standing at the window, looking out. At Matt’s question, she turned and nodded.

  “That’s right. You’re working for us now, so I guess it’s all right to admit it. Mr. Farnsworth, the bank president, was having some cash shipped in from Laramie.”

  “Is there going to be anything like that in the strongbox this time?”

  “I don’t know,” Emily said. “Nobody’s told me anything about it if there is, but it’s possible.”

  Seamus Hanrahan came in a short time later. The big man had traded his usual tweed suit for gray wool trousers and a butternut shirt. He was hatless, but he had a huge, long-barreled revolver tucked in the waistband of the trousers.

  He fastened a glare on Matt and said, “If ye be thinkin’ of tryin’ a double-cross, boyo, know that the first shot from this old hogleg o’ mine will blow a hole right through ye.”

  “Seamus, we decided to trust Matt, remember?” Emily said. “We have to trust somebody.”

  “How come you call him Seamus?” Matt asked. “He’s your father.”

  “Well, I called him Da when I was little.”

  “’Tis because she’s a rebellious, thankless child,” Hanrahan said, “and that’s her way of showin’ her disrespect for her poor ol’ da.”

  “Ha! Just look at him. How could anybody call a big, hulking brute like him Da?”

  Matt grinned. The deep affection these two felt for each other was obvious, no matter what they called each other or how many sharp words they exchanged. That was just their way, he understood.

  Old Ezekial, the hostler, came into the office and said, “I see the dust from the coach outside of town. She’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  They all went outside to wait. Matt saw the dust cloud rising west of town, too. In a moment, a dark shape was visible at the base of it, and that shape quickly resolved itself into a Concord stagecoach being pulled by a team of six horses. The coach attracted the usual attention from the townspeople as it rolled to a stop in front of the station.

  Emily coughed a little as the dust cloud swirled over the four of them waiting in front of the station. When it blew away, Matt saw the driver and the guard climbing down from the box.

  “Any trouble, boys?” Hanrahan asked them.

  The driver shook his head and said, “Nary a bit. We didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, Mr. Hanrahan.”

  “May the Good Lord let it stay that way,” Hanrahan said. “Jake, give that Greener to Jensen here.”

  The guard handed the double-barreled weapon to Matt and asked, “You’re ridin’ shotgun from here to Pine Knob, friend?”

  “That’s right,” Matt said.

  “Better you than me!”

  The driver looked just as relieved as the guard to be leaving the stage. Both men took off their hats and slapped dust from their clothes.

  Emily opened the coach door and said, “There’ll be a ten-minute stop here, folks, while the teams are changed. You’ll find hot coffee in the office, if you’d like a cup.”

  So there were passengers on this run, Matt thought. He watched with interest as a couple of men and a woman climbed out to stretch their legs. All three were well-dressed. The two men bore a definite resemblance to each other.
Father and son, Matt decided. Judging by the possessive way the younger man took hold of the woman’s arm as they went into the station, she was his wife.

  The older passenger looked at Hanrahan and said, “I know you, don’t I?”

  “That ye do, Mr. Baxter. I’m Seamus Hanrahan. I’ll be handlin’ the team between here and Pine Knob.”

  “I thought you owned a saloon.”

  “I do. But me daughter’s the manager of this station, so I’m helpin’ out by drivin’ the coach.”

  The man sniffed.

  “You’d better keep us safe. We’ve heard that road agents have been stopping these coaches. If my son and I didn’t have to be in Laramie on business, I wouldn’t be making this trip right now.”

  “Ye’ll be perfectly safe, sir. I guarantee it.”

  Baxter gave him a curt nod and went on into the station. Hanrahan turned to Matt with a shake of his head.

  “’Tis a bit of bad luck,” he muttered. “Claude Baxter is a rich man. Owns a piece of several gold mines. And ’tis well-known in this part of the country that he always carries a lot of cash on him. If those bandits know somehow that he’s on this coach . . .”

  Hanrahan didn’t have to finish the sentence. Matt knew exactly what he meant.

  Claude Baxter might be too tempting a target for the outlaws to resist, not just because of the money he might be carrying, but also for the ransom he would bring if they kidnapped him, his son, and his daughter-in-law.

  The run to Pine Knob had just gotten even more dangerous.

  Chapter 22

  The stage rolled out of Buffalo Crossing on schedule carrying the three passengers. Before it left, Emily drew Matt aside and said quietly, “I overheard Mr. Baxter talking to his son. They’ve got ten thousand dollars in gold in the strongbox to buy some mining equipment in Laramie.”

  “Your father was worried about something like that,” Matt told her. “Don’t worry, we’ll get them through.”

  “I hope so,” Emily said. “If anything happens to that gold, we’re ruined. Claude Baxter will see to that.”

  As the settlement fell behind them, Matt looked ahead to Tomahawk Pass. He said to Hanrahan, “What do you think the odds are they’ll hit us in the same place as the last time?”

  “They might,” Hanrahan said. “But there are plenty of other places along the route where they can set up an ambush.”

  “You were right about Baxter. He’s got ten grand with him.”

  “Saints preserve us,” the big man muttered. He slapped the reins against the backs of the team. “The man’s a fool. That’s just askin’ for trouble.”

  Matt agreed. But there was nothing they could do about it now except try to get Baxter and his gold safely to their destination.

  His nerves were drawn taut as they entered the pass. Sheriff Blocker had done like he said he would and brought mules out here to drag the boulders out of the road. The trail was clear ahead of the stagecoach. Hanrahan whipped up the team and went through the pass in a hurry, while Matt’s eyes intently scanned the hillsides searching for any sign of an ambush.

  Nothing happened except for Claude Baxter yelling up from the passenger compartment, “Hanrahan! Why are you going so fast? You’re bouncing us around in here like a bunch of beans!”

  “Just tryin’ to get you where you’re goin’ on time, sir!” Hanrahan replied.

  “Well, slow down a little! We’re not in that big a hurry.”

  Hanrahan slowed the coach, but only after they were through the pass. The road entered a long series of bends curving between more hills that weren’t as rugged as the two Tomahawk Peaks. There were still plenty of places the gang of road agents could hide, but none that were set up quite as well for an ambush. Matt stayed alert anyway. He didn’t plan on relaxing and heaving a sigh of relief until they reached Pine Knob.

  Several miles rolled by. They came to a broad, shallow creek that flowed over a gravelly bed. Hanrahan started the team across the ford.

  There were no hills close by to provide hiding places for the outlaws, but quite a few aspens and cottonwoods grew along the stream’s banks. Matt cast a wary eye toward them and suddenly stiffened as he saw sunlight reflect off something.

  “Better whip up the team, Seamus—” he began.

  The sharp crack of a rifle shot interrupted him. One of the leaders threw up its head and screamed in pain, then collapsed. That forced the rest of the team to come to an abrupt halt, leaving the coach halfway across the creek.

  “Get down!” Matt yelled as he grabbed his Winchester from the floorboards and threw himself off the box to the left. He landed in the stream with a splash and rolled underneath the coach.

  Hanrahan’s bulk created an even bigger splash as he jumped into the water. The big man scrambled under the coach.

  “Are you hit?” Matt asked.

  “No, but the devils came close, damn their eyes!”

  Both Baxters, father and son, were shouting and cursing, and the woman screamed as shots continued to ring out.

  “Get down and stay there!” Matt called to them. “They’re not shooting at you!”

  He hoped that was true. From what he had seen so far, it seemed to be. Bullets smacked into the creek around the coach and some of them thudded into the big wheels, chewing splinters from them. Matt figured he and Hanrahan were the real targets. The outlaws would want the Baxters alive.

  The water was cold, since the creek was fed by deep underground springs and snow melt. Matt ignored its icy grip flowing around him and thrust the Winchester’s barrel between the spokes of the nearest wheel. He spotted a muzzle flash and instantly returned fire. A man flopped limply out from behind the tree where he had been hidden.

  “Ye got one of the scoundrels!” Hanrahan said.

  “Yeah, but there’s plenty more of them,” Matt replied, “and there’s not enough cover here.”

  He looked around and spotted a long, gravelly sand bar that stuck up a couple of feet from the water, about twenty yards to their left. No shots were coming from beyond that spot, so Matt thought it might provide enough cover to give them a chance. That would mean leaving the passengers, but Matt hoped they would be safe enough. They were worth a lot more in ransom as long as they were still alive.

  Matt pointed out the gravel bar to Hanrahan and said, “Make a run for it, Seamus! I’ll cover you!”

  “No, lad, I’m too big and slow,” Hanrahan insisted. “Ye go first, and if ye make it, I’ll give it a try.”

  Matt was going to argue, but he realized Hanrahan was right. He said, “Did that old horse pistol of yours get too wet to fire?”

  “Not a bit! I kept it out of the water.”

  “All right. Keep ’em busy!”

  As Hanrahan opened fire with the big revolver, Matt lunged out from under the coach and sprinted toward the gravel bar. He heard bullets whining around him, but none of them touched him in the few seconds it took him to cover the distance. One last bound took him behind the long mound of gravel and sand. He threw himself down behind it and twisted back toward the stranded stagecoach.

  “Come on, Seamus!” he yelled as he opened up on the trees with the Winchester, firing as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever.

  Hanrahan clambered out from under the coach and launched into a lumbering run. Matt groaned inwardly as he saw how slowly the big man was moving. He remembered what Sheriff Blocker had said about Hanrahan having bad lungs. The man huffed for breath as he stumbled along.

  With a sudden cry, Hanrahan went down. Matt yelled, “Seamus!”

  Hanrahan struggled to get up, and then went still. Matt bit back a bitter curse. Emily would never forgive him for letting her father get killed. He liked the big Irishman, too, and was filled with rage toward the men who had cut him down.

  Loud splashing drew his attention away from Hanrahan’s body. He looked upstream and saw several riders galloping along the creek bed toward the coach. They wore masks and had their hats pulled low. One of the
m fired, and the other leader in the team screamed and went down.

  Matt realized what they might be trying to do, but before he could react, a storm of lead tore into the gravel bank from the riflemen who were still hidden in the trees. As dirt and chips of stone sprayed over him, he had to duck as low as he could to avoid the barrage.

  When he dared to raise his head again, he saw that the outlaws had cut loose the two dead horses. A couple of them were on the box now, one handling the reins. He backed the surviving members of the team, then lashed them with the whip and sent them pulling around the bodies of the slain leaders.

  They weren’t just robbing the strongbox this time, Matt told himself in amazement.

  They were stealing the whole damned coach . . . and the passengers inside it!

  Before leaving Buffalo Crossing, Matt had filled his pockets with shotgun shells and cartridges for the Winchester. The shells were useless now after being soaked in the creek, but the rifle rounds would be just fine. He dug out as many as he could and thumbed them through the Winchester’s loading gate as the outlaws drove the coach out of the stream.

  Lunging to his feet, Matt raced after the vehicle. As he ran, he sprayed slugs toward the trees. He didn’t care if he hit anything as long as he kept the men hidden there busy ducking instead of shooting at him. His long legs flashed as they carried him out of the creek. The outlaw handling the reins and the whip urged the team on to greater speed.

  The Winchester clicked as it ran out of bullets. Matt tossed it aside, unwilling to carry its weight. His boots weren’t made for running, but he poured on all the speed he could as he came up behind the coach.

  The other outlaws yelled warnings at the men on the box, but they didn’t seem to hear over the thundering hoofbeats of the team. The rest of the gang couldn’t shoot at him, Matt realized, without endangering their own men, as well as the passengers. They didn’t want to risk that.

  Knowing that he would have only one chance at this, Matt leaped. He put all his speed and strength into the jump, which carried him onto the back of the coach. He grabbed at the canvas covering of the rear boot.