Overland Stage

by Paul Lederer

  ‘All right,’ Cameron said, as they paused on a nearby table of rock, looking down into the valley where Calico Station could be seen as a matchbox in the distance. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I want to know what your plan is,’ Frank said, with an edginess in his voice that Cameron had not detected before. ‘I don’t want to go barreling into a trap down there.’

  At the same time Frank scanned the distances to the west from the shadow the brim of his hat cast across his eyes. There was no sign of an army patrol. That at least was in his favor. He could detect no one behind them either, but that meant nothing. The broken hills could disguise any approach easily.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Bell,’ Cameron said easily. ‘Of the people inside the station Kyle Post is badly wounded, and he’s on my side anyway. Then there’s the station manager and his wife. They don’t know anything about this. Besides that there’s only Eleanor’s Aunt Mae.’

  Frank Bell was still uneasy, Cameron understood that. The man lived on the fringes of civilization and made his way through cunning, and mistrust was his business.

  ‘I don’t want to go into the station,’ Frank said in a lower voice. ‘I don’t like the idea of being in a closed area with armed men I don’t know.’

  ‘All right,’ Cameron agreed readily, ‘you don’t need to go inside. I’ll draw the team up fifty yards or so before we reach the stable.’

  Bell said coldly, ‘Don’t make a mistake, Black. I won’t stand for it.’

  ‘I know, Frank! Trust me on this. All I want is to get my share and leave with the women before the army does show up.’

  ‘I need two horses,’ Frank said, knowing that each was toying with the other, but not willing to risk calling Cameron on it. Not just yet.

  ‘There’ll be some in the stable,’ Cameron said, knowing full well that the Apaches had stolen the saddle horses the day before.

  Unconvinced, Frank Bell still had no choice but to play the cards he was dealt. The two men walked back toward the coach where Eleanor watched anxiously from the box, the dry wind shifting her skirts and loose hair. Axel Popejoy stared out of a window in the coach.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ Cameron asked, indicating the round-faced drummer.

  ‘Him?’ Frank Bell answered with a chuckle. ‘Nothing. He just wants your scalp.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ Cameron said drily.

  Eleanor watched Cam wonderingly as he climbed back up into the box and took the reins.

  ‘What did he want?’

  Starting the team forward, Cameron told her. ‘He’s afraid of an ambush, of being inside a building with too many guns around. He and I are going to walk to the stable by ourselves.’ She started to object, but he interrupted, ‘It’s the only way. I’ve got to play this his way. But you are going to have to pitch in now, Ellie.’ Lifting his eyes Cameron could make out the angles of the adobe block stage station through the surrounding oak grove.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked anxiously. Her lip trembled, but there was determination in those dark wide eyes.

  ‘I’m going to draw up in a minute. You and Popejoy are to stay with the coach, but after you see us enter the grove, I want you to unset the brake. The horses want their stable and their hay. They’ll start forward on their own if nothing’s holding them back. If they don’t do that – start ’em! A snap of the whip will do it for sure.’

  ‘How will I—?’

  ‘They’ll halt on their own,’ Cameron assured her. ‘They know their route, understand their job. If not, well, lock the brake up again and do your best.’

  ‘I think I can do that,’ Eleanor said dubiously.

  ‘You’ll have to. Once you reach the station, get off fast. Run to the door, scream, pound, anything – but get inside. You’ll be safe there. Stan Tabor has a bum leg, but he also has his rifle at the ready if I know him. You’ll be able to fort up inside until help does arrive.’

  ‘I see,’ Eleanor said, her gaze meeting his. ‘What about you, Mr Riley? What are you going to do?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, I can handle Frank Bell.’

  How? She wanted to ask, but did not. ‘What about Popejoy?’

  ‘He’ll follow you into the station when he sees what’s up,’ Cameron believed, although his concern for the little drummer was a distant one. It was only Eleanor’s safety that he cared about. Cared in a way deep and unaccountable. ‘Just make sure they drop the bar behind you, and tell Tabor that no one is to be allowed to breach that threshold. You understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘I understand,’ Eleanor said, nodding gravely. For a moment their eyes continued to meet, but neither of them spoke the hidden words they sheltered within.

  The stage behind the walking team which strained against the draw of the reins creaked on, and as they reached the last bend in the road, Cameron pulled them up again, too sharply, to their obvious annoyance. Cameron set the brake hard with his boot and wrapped the reins around it loosely, not using the slip knot he would normally have tied. He drew in a deep breath of the warm, damp air, glanced toward the oak grove which concealed the buildings beyond at this point in the trail, winked broadly at Eleanor and climbed down to the ground to meet Frank Bell.

  ‘Anyone around?’ Bell asked.

  ‘I didn’t see any sign of it.’

  ‘Well, then, let’s have at it, Black. I don’t have to warn you again, do I?’

  ‘No, Frank, you’ve made your point.’

  Axel Popejoy sat peering like a dog from the coach, his pudgy hands on the window sill. He watched as the two men strode off into the oak grove, Bell behind Cameron, his hand never leaving his right-hand gun. Bell was going to cut him out of the reward! That was all Popejoy could think of. Suddenly he leaped from the coach, fell to his face in the muddy earth, rose again and ran awkwardly after them.

  At that, Ellie made her move. She slipped the brake, using both hands to yank the wooden lever back until the coach began ever so slowly to roll forward, the horses, pulling against the weight of the stage, discovering that it was moving behind them and they could walk to the comfort of the station.

  In the oak grove, Frank heard the squeal of the ungreased hub and swung around. ‘What the hell’s she doing?’ he demanded.

  Cameron, a few strides ahead of the outlaw looked back and answered, ‘You know women. Took a notion, I suppose.’

  ‘Hell, she’ll alert the station!’

  ‘We can’t stop her now,’ Cameron said, fighting back his smile as they watched the stage round the final bend in the trail and disappear. There was a sudden rush of footsteps behind them and Frank Bell swiftly, easily, drew his right-hand Colt and cocked it in one smooth motion. He had the muzzle leveled when Axel Popejoy burst from the surrounding cover, his pink face eager, his hat lost, mud smearing his suit. He halted in a staggering, slipping moment of panic.

  ‘Don’t shoot, for God’s sake!’ the little man said throwing his arms high. ‘It’s me!’

  ‘I know it is,’ Frank Bell said in a furious hiss. ‘What are you doing here? I told you to—’

  ‘We had a deal, remember?’ Popejoy said, his words a wheezing gasp after his short burst of exertion.

  ‘I’d shoot you if I knew that it wouldn’t bring someone running from the way-station,’ Frank Bell said so coldly that Popejoy blanched, took an uneasy step backward and simply gawked at the comanchero. ‘Never mind, come on. I don’t want to waste any time about this. Get moving, Cameron,’ he said, waving his pistol which, now unholstered, would not be returned to its leather cradle.

  There was a thick carpet of leaves beneath the oaks, but their passing boots made no sound against the sodden detritus. The shadows were cool, but with the passing of the storm the land was drying rapidly and steam rose from the earth, wraithlike among the oaks. The scent of dead ash now reached them and in a little while they reached the scorched remains of the stable, the collapsed, blackened hen coop beyond it. Cameron’s concern lay in th
e other direction, however. He now saw that the coach had drawn up in front of the way station, that the team stamped and tossed their heads in angry impatience, waiting for servicing, that the heavy oaken door to the adobe was closed solidly. Eleanor had made it to safety.

  They had reached the stable. Entering its rank darkness Frank Bell cursed. ‘You said there would be saddle horses there. Where are they?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Cameron answered. ‘Maybe the Apaches came back.’ The look he encountered when his eyes met Frank’s was one of fierce hatred. Popejoy watched the two men with utter incomprehension. Were they going to tie Cameron Black up and hold him for the army, or what? It occurred to him that something else was being discussed between the two badmen, but he couldn’t fathom what it was and so he watched silently, a pathetic little figure far out of his element.

  ‘I’m going to have to make my run, you know that,’ Frank said.

  ‘So am I,’ Cameron replied, as if he still believed that Frank Bell actually intended to split the gold with him. ‘I can’t help it, Frank. We can cut the ponies out of the coach harnesses if we have to.’

  ‘We don’t know if any of them has ever worn a saddle. I doubt that, don’t you? Are we supposed to break those horses? Besides I know how weary they are. Anyone could catch up to us on those broke-down untrained nags. And,’ he added, ‘more than likely there’s people at the loopholes of that adobe watching down their sights if anyone tries to approach those horses.’

  ‘I can’t control everything, Frank.’ Cameron couldn’t resist adding, ‘Maybe the men trailing us are bringing along a spare pony for you.’

  ‘You saw someone?’ Frank asked, rising to the needle. ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. Two men, following along all the way from Ranchita. I’d guess it was Dockery and Monty, wouldn’t you? They were the two in a position to consider what we might be up to, maybe to overhear something we let drop.’

  Frank Bell was silent, barely smothering his rage. He was beginning to understand what sort of trap he might have built for himself. He snapped at Cameron, ‘To hell with them, to hell with all of it! Let’s get on about our business. What we came here for.’

  Cameron nodded. There was no point in trying to discuss it. He had run out of excuses. And you don’t get far arguing with a man with a gun in his hand. Not when he was starting to panic and was willing to give up his soul for that gold.

  The day had grown warmer yet. The scent of charred wood and of tragedy was heavy in the air. The wind scudded a few broken clouds past overhead. The lonesome dog Cameron had heard before lifted its voice in a mournful howl, still afraid to come home, shivering out there in the bleak wilderness, no longer trustful of men and their ways.

  Cameron nodded toward the collapsed chicken coop. He smiled darkly at Frank Bell and said, ‘Come on then. For the moment let’s make ourselves wealthy men. Time will tell how long Satan allows us to stay rich.’

  NINE

  ‘Under there,’ Cameron Black said, nodding toward the collapsed, charred pile of rubble that had once been a corner of the hen roost. The place smelled of charred wood and burned feathers still, rank with the mold of years of chicken droppings.

  ‘Get it out,’ Frank Bell ordered.

  ‘What about him?’ Cameron said, nodding at a defeated and confused Axel Popejoy. ‘I’ll need some help.’

  ‘All right. He’ll give you a hand.’ Frank Bell’s expression was complex. He had his pistol ready, and he was set to use it. Avarice also floated behind his eyes and yet there was a darting wariness in his glance as he considered the possibility that Dockery and Monty might be on his backtrail. Those two would not take kindly to having been cut out of their share of the army payroll.

  Cameron, aware of all this, but seeming not to be, moved into the pile of ash, the fallen timbers, and toed the upright he had kicked free from its moorings the day before. He glanced back at Popejoy and said, ‘Come on, drummer man, earn your keep.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’ asked Popejoy, still clueless but deeply suspicious.

  ‘You’ll know when we find it,’ Cameron answered. Popejoy waded through the ash-strewn debris cautiously, holding his hands high as if he was afraid of dirtying them. That could be, Cameron considered. He doubted the man had ever done a day’s labor in his soft life.

  It didn’t take as long as Cameron had expected. The corner of the charred strongbox emerged from the rubble and he turned his ash-streaked face back toward the comanchero who held them under the gun still. Cameron forced a smile, ‘Got it, Frank!’

  Cameron Black began to clear away the debris with Popejoy’s ineffectual help. Grabbing a singed leather handle, he dragged the box out into the open. Still he watched Frank Bell, a smile disguising Cameron’s real purpose: measuring distances, Frank’s alertness, the split second of time he would have to make his move to disarm Bell.

  For if he wasn’t able to do that, he had no doubt that Bell would happily and without regret, gun him down. Frank was waiting only for the box to be opened, to make sure that the gold was still in it, that Cameron had not attempted one last deception.

  Frank Bell was trapped now, and he knew it. There were surely Winchesters filling the loopholes in the adobe walls of the way-station should anyone try for the horses. Almost as surely two enraged comancheros were coming from the east, wanting their share of the payroll.

  And, more than likely there was an army patrol making its way toward Calico, the stagecoach having failed to arrive on schedule.

  Cameron Black now found himself in a much closer trap. Pinned in a small burned-out shack with an unstable gunman, a proven killer, who had no reason at all to keep him alive if the chest contained the sought-after gold. Cameron stepped away from the chest, holding his hands up as Frank Bell strode to it, his gun still leveled. The drummer man, his face now sooty, goggled at the two of them uncertainly.

  ‘If it’s not here,’ Bell said brutally. ‘I’ll kill you.’

  And when he found that the gold was there and he needed Cameron no longer, he would kill him anyway to eliminate a threat to his piracy, for he had known Cameron Black in the old days – not well, not long, but well enough to know that the man would not back down. Frank Bell regretted that he had not tracked Cameron down then and killed him as he had killed Slow Jack for deserting the comancheros. For no one deserted the comancheros. They suffered no traitors in that closed and violent society.

  But Frank Bell himself was now a traitor to them, and they would be coming for him as well.

  He needed to move quickly now and he knew it. There was no doubt in his mind after Cameron’s remark that Dockery and Monty, perhaps with others following them, had designs on the gold. And he had no doubt that they would kill him if they discovered that he had double-crossed them.

  Waving his pistol ominously, he told Cameron, ‘Step away from that chest. If it’s empty …’ He nearly strangled on a knot of broken curses in his anger.

  Cameron backed away, Popejoy still watching them both in confusion. Frank Bell crouched to open the gold chest and Cameron made his desperate move. He flung himself against Bell’s body as he was preparing to blow the lock from the strongbox, and the Colt .44 in Frank Bell’s hand discharged as they collided.

  Cameron’s body slammed into Bell’s hard and the pistol flew free. Bell clawed frantically at his left-hand holster, but Cameron had anticipated that, and he pinned Bell’s hand to his side as he swung his own left fist over the top and down hard into Frank’s jaw. Bell went briefly limp then recovered his strength and fought out in blind fury. Temporarily forgetting about gunplay, his fists swung wildly in all directions, driving Cameron off him.

  Bell rose, spun and shouted out, ‘Now! Take him now?’

  Cameron, braced and ready for a frontal attack was totally taken by surprise when Axel Popejoy threw himself into the fray, leaping onto Cam’s back, his stubby arms clenching around his throat. Cam twisted around and banged the side of his fist above his sh
oulder where Popejoy’s head had wedged itself. The drummer sagged away, his weight falling from Cameron’s back.

  But it was too late. Frank Bell had recovered and now stood with his Colt in his hand, his dark hair hanging across his eyes, his smile vicious and assured.

  ‘So long,’ Frank Bell said.

  There was the sudden crack of a weapon, but it was not Frank’s Colt that had spoken. Bell, his eyes wide with surprise, blood trickling from his mouth, straightened spasmodically and, as he looked toward the doorway of the destroyed hen house, he slumped back onto and over the strongbox, his stunned expression unchanged as he blinked once and fell dead.

  Cameron swung around to discover Ellie behind him, the Winchester repeater she held still curling smoke from its muzzle. Her legs went limp and she staggered toward him, her dark eyes wide with disbelief. ‘I …’ was all she managed to say as she handed the rifle to Cameron and threw her arms around him, shuddering with the shock of realization of what she had done.

  Cam held her tightly for a minute as Popejoy sat up rubbing his soot-streaked face, sobbing softly. Frank Bell did not move; he would never move again.

  ‘I told you to stay in the station, didn’t I!’ Cameron said with a ferocity he did not feel. ‘You could have been killed, Ellie.’

  ‘So,’ she managed to snuffle, her face buried against his shoulder, ‘could you.’

  ‘Don’t kill me,’ they heard Popejoy plead. He had gotten to his feet and now circled them, trying to reach the doorway. He suddenly took to his heels and rushed out, throwing his arms in the air. Then they heard him cry out, ‘Watch out! He’s on a killing spree.’

  Frowning, Cameron stepped away from Ellie. Who was Popejoy yelling his warning to?

  A peek around the scorched door frame provided the answer. Sitting a tall, leggy roan horse with froth on its mouth, was Dockery. As the comanchero reached for his holstered pistol, Cameron shoved Ellie aside, went to a knee and raised the Winchester to his shoulder. Dockery’s bullet, fired off-handedly, whipped past Cam’s head and punched through the flimsy back wall of the coop.