‘Did you see that woman in blue who went upstairs?’ asked Lamar as they turned out of the alley.
Hart nodded. ‘Sure did.’
‘She was something special, weren’t she?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Ollie. ‘Were the pair of you tendin’ to business or not?’
‘Yeah,’ replied Hart, slotting his boot into the stirrup and pulling himself up into the saddle, ‘they reckon Swain’s our man.’
‘And they’ll play along with the rest?’
Hart shrugged. ‘They say they will. It depends how far off it is and how greedy they are at the time.’
‘What’re the chances?’ asked Lamar as they rode down the narrow street.
‘I’m not sure. But if I were a betting man, I don’t think I’d like the odds.’
‘Never mind,’ said Ollie, ‘Hardin’s the bettin’ man, not you. Let’s hope this time he don’t know every card in the deck.’
~*~
The long ride home was uneventful, aside from Hart’s horse throwing a shoe and Lamar managing to clean the others almost out of what little money they had left. He celebrated by stopping at a way station and buying a bottle of good whiskey which he shared willingly, recounting at the same time the yarn he’d told half a dozen times before about how during the War Between the States, he infiltrated the Pinkertons while working as a secret agent for the Confederacy. Hart couldn’t help but notice how this time the woman he seduced in order to carry out his plan was wearing a long blue evening dress at the time. Well, part of the time.
Himself, he tried to stop thinking about the way it had finished between himself and Kathy; he thought some about Hardin’s wife, Jane, instead, but that didn’t seem to work. The only thing that did was Lamar’s whiskey which numbed the hurt away the same as it did for an aching tooth.
The one matter they all thought about but didn’t discuss was their informants. Each mile further on they rode, the chances of Reardon and Caldicott coming through seemed weaker and weaker, as if in taking on a new name Hardin had succeeded in setting himself beyond their reach.
Chapter Twelve
August 1877
Spring had warmed into summer and no message had come from either Reardon or Caldicott. The Rangers had become immersed in other things. If Hardin had made up his mind to stay out of the state and out of reach, maybe there was little they could do about it. Still it riled Hart mightily that he was off somewhere in Alabama living the life of a married man with kids and a regular home, all that with so many killings to his credit while Hart himself had finally got nothing from the woman he loved but the image of her head turning away and her last words fading into the wind. Kathy. There were times when the thought of her - of knowing her and not being able to have her - threatened to break him. And at those times when he wanted to get off on his own, the outfit’s regulations made such an action impossible. So Hart itched with all manner of frustrations that summer of seventy-seven. Frustrations which weren’t eased by what took place in Marshall that July.
Captain Armstrong had detailed him to go over there, along with Ollie Halverton, Lamar and Keogh. They found themselves in the middle of a long-running conflict between the Texas and Pacific Railroad and its workers about wages and conditions. A new union, the Trainmen’s Union, was having a lot of success all over the country in pushing a hard line and there’d been strikes and walkouts and, in quite a few places, violence had flared with troops being ordered in and blood being shed. The Trainmen sent down a feller called Ira Davis to stir things up; he had a spotted kerchief in his vest pocket, a briefcase packed with facts and figures and a gimpy leg from where he had an accident working as a brakeman. And he could talk!
Needless to say, the Texas and Pacific wanted Hart and the other Rangers to ride in and drive Davis back where he came from, break up any possible strike and force the men back to work. But it wasn’t as straightforward as that. For one thing the Rangers weren’t on the railroad payroll and for another it seemed as if them as were had maybe been getting a raw deal for long enough. In the end the four Rangers were stuck in the middle with very little they could do other than try to make sure not too many innocent folk got hurt. It was a bloody mess, right enough, but maybe not as bloody as if they’d not been there at all.
At the end of the month the Texas and Pacific forked out the back pay the strikers were demanding and promised that a raise in wages would be recommended. Hart had shrugged when he’d heard the news; from what he’d seen of the railroad officials, recommended was about as far as it would go.
The whole thing did little to make Wes Hart happier with life as a Texas Ranger. He was feeling the need for space and distance, for his own way of life, his own company. He was thinking vaguely along those lines, doing some hankering after the plains of Montana, when Keogh’s round face showed round the bunkhouse door.
‘Busy?’
‘Not so’s anyone would notice.’
‘Captain wants you.’
The letter was open on the captain’s desk, small, well-formed words that Hart could not read upside down. He waited to be asked to sit down, did so looking at the smile that wasn’t quite making its appearance on Armstrong’s leathered face.
‘Son …’
‘Yeah.’
‘They finally did it. They come through.’
Still Hart wasn’t sure. He watched the smile emerge and then he thought he was. ‘Reardon and Caldicott.’
Armstrong nodded, laughed, lifted up his cane and brought it back down on to the corner of the desk with a resounding slap. ‘Either you put the fear of God into ’em or they want them dollars real bad or both, but if what they say here’s true, we could have our chance.’
He used the tip of the cane to push the letter across the desk towards Hart, who took it up and turned it around and read it. Twice.
‘Well? ’asked Armstrong with maybe a sign of impatience. ‘Ain’t that what we been waitin’ for?’
Hart still wasn’t certain.
‘Hell, son! I don’t know what you was expectin’ from these fellers? Hardin’s head on a silver platter?’
Hart shook his head. ‘Pensacola ain’t Texas,’ he said.
‘That what’s worryin’ you?’
‘It’s one thing.’
Armstrong pointed the cane at Hart and winked broadly. ‘May not be Texas, but it’s sure as hell close enough.’
Hart glanced at the letter again and dropped it down on to the desk.
‘I reckoned,’ said Armstrong, drawing out his words, ‘as you’d be a sight more pleased.’
Hart hesitated. ‘So did I.’
Armstrong nodded, folded the letter. ‘Somethin’s eatin’ into your craw, Wes, ain’t it?’
Hart looked at him, saying, doing nothing.
‘You want to talk about it?’
‘Uh-uh.’
The captain nodded again, more curtly this time. ‘Okay. That’s your privilege, I guess. Only ...’
‘Only what?’
‘Just don’t let it get in the way of what you’re about.’
‘I won’t.’ There was anger straining at the edges of Hart’s voice and his eyes had narrowed the way they did when he was facing a man whose gun he was going to have to take away. Except that it wasn’t so easy to take away words.
‘Man here,’ said Armstrong, ‘he’s a Ranger first an’ other things second.’
‘I know that.’
The captain pressed both hands on to the edge of the desk hard. ‘All right. First time you don’t, you know what you got to do.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Hart, getting to his feet. ‘Any time I don’t think I can do the job any more I’ll tell you before you get the chance to tell me.’
Armstrong shook his head. ‘Hell, son, you can do the job. You’re ...’He stopped and watched Hart turn towards the door. ‘Want him bad, don’t you? Hardin, I mean.’
Hart turned slowly. ‘I guess.’
‘I
never asked you your reasons.’
‘Maybe I never figured ’em out.’
‘He did threaten to kill you. That’d be enough for most men.’
Hart nodded: ‘Maybe it is.’
‘Sure,’ agreed Armstrong. ‘Except that it isn’t.’ He swung his cane to the floor and used it to lever himself up. There were good days for his leg and bad days and this one was a horned bitch. He stared at Hart keenly, weighing what he was going to say. ‘It ain’t nothin’ to do with that wife of his? You ain’t got the hots for her or anything, have you? I mean, the two of you ain’t carryin’ on?’
It seemed so absurd to Hart that he blurted out a laugh. ‘For God’s sake! You and Hardin both.’ It only occurred to him later how close Armstrong was edging up on the truth, though not in the same was as he’d meant it. ‘I saw her twice, that’s all. Questioned her about Hardin. Routine.’
Armstrong nodded. ‘He figured it for somethin’ more.’
‘Then he’s a jealous fool.’
‘Sure.’ He rapped his cane. ‘Okay, son. We’ll run this through in a day or so, make sure we’ve got it sewed up tight. We ain’t goin’ to get but the one chance.’
When Hart left the office, Armstrong poured himself a shot of rye and lit a stumpy cigar and wondered what had happened to that pretty woman Hart had been passing time with. He wondered if she was what was the burr under his saddle and hoped that she wasn’t. Either way, he figured she was one more reason why when they went across the state line for Hardin, Wes Hart was going to be well back in the shadows.
~*~
The meeting with Reardon and Caldicott was set for the twenty-second. They’d hired a private room in the State Hotel in Pensacola and business was to be brought to a satisfactory conclusion over duck and cherry sauce and the obligatory bottle of champagne. John Wesley Hardin - or J.W. Swain - never seemed properly happy unless a business deal was crowned with champagne. Once the celebrations were over, Hardin and whoever had accompanied him would board the train at Pensacola junction and return to Alabama.
Armstrong had given the Florida cattlemen his word that no move would be made against the fugitive while he was at the State Hotel, nor at any time when the two informants were likely to be endangered.
‘The train,’ the Rangers captain said. ‘We’ll take him when he’s on the train. We’ll take him before it pulls out of the station. He’ll be in a confined space and won’t be able to run. Chances are the drinkin’ won’t have left him any too sharp. For certain, he won’t be expectin’ trouble.’ Armstrong gave it his good smile. ‘I think we got him good!’
The plan was simple enough. The Texas Rangers would wait at the rail station, out of sight. As soon as Hardin and his party boarded the train, a man would move in to seal off both exits to the car. Then Captain Armstrong himself, with two men as back-up, would climb on board and confront Hardin. If he agreed to go quietly, so much the better. If not...
‘He ain’t never gone quiet before,’ said Keogh.
‘I ain’t never arrested him before,’ laughed Armstrong.
The others laughed too, but then as the amusement faded, Lamar said, “These two goin’ into the coach with you, how ’bout slippin’ one of ’em round the other side, let him come in the other door?’
‘You volunteerin’?’ smiled the captain.
Lamar raised an eyebrow. ‘Why not?’
‘Okay. You got the job. Just make sure you don’t get glory-crazy and set foot in the coach too soon.’
Lamar nodded, thinking that none of them was going to be able to steal any glory from the captain on this trip - whatever was to be had from taking John Wesley Hardin prisoner, Armstrong wanted it all.
‘Your back-up,’ said Hart, leaning forward, ‘you got any one of us staked out for that?’
Armstrong knew what was coming. Still he said, ‘Why, Wes?’
‘I’m volunteerin’.’
Armstrong shook his head slowly. ‘An’ I’m turnin’ you down.’
Hart’s stomach tightened. ‘How come?’ The words came a little too fast, a little too angry from his mouth.
Armstrong tightened his grip on the top of his cane and let Hart see that he’d overstepped the invisible line. ‘Son, I’d as soon have you back of me as any man I’ve served with. Sooner than most. But Hardin knows you by sight and he’s swore to get you on a personal matter. Leastways, it’s personal as he sees it. One glimpse of you an’ his temper’s goin’ to be up in his throat and he’s more likely to make a play for his gun whatever else.’ He paused, watching Hart’s face. ‘No, I want you out of line, out of sight. I want you on the platform guardin’ the rear entrance to that car. You’re there an’ I know it’s sewn up and there ain’t nobody bustin’ out. That’ll make me feel good.’
Hart didn’t like it; he didn’t like what Armstrong had told him and neither did he appreciate the way the others, Keogh, Ollie, Lamar and the rest, were looking at him, waiting for him to react. He bit down on his anger and gave a curt nod. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘That’s fine.’
‘Okay.’ Armstrong looked around at the men. ‘Ollie, I been hearin’ good things ’bout you lately. I want you steppin ’into the coach right back of me.’
Ollie blushed and scratched his ear and went redder still and tried not to sound too proud when he agreed. Armstrong gave out the rest of the assignments. Keogh was to watch the opposite end of the car to Hart and a Ranger by the name of O’Reilly would be back down the platform just in case things went badly wrong and one of Hardin’s men managed to break clear.
‘When’s it to be?’ asked Lamar.
‘Train’s due out at thirty minutes after nine tonight. Hardin’s meeting up with Reardon and Caldicott at five. The private room’s booked till a quarter after nine.’
‘Do we know how many he’ll have with him?’ asked Keogh.
‘Reardon reckons not more than three. Twice before he’s had that number, once just two. But it ain’t them we’re concerned with. John Wesley Hardin’s all we want. You remember that.’ He looked sternly around his men. ‘All of you.’
~*~
The station building was forty feet long and partitioned into three, the central section being the ticket office and the main entrance from the street. To one side was a small dining room with four square tables and a broad stove which was giving out a sight too much heat for a warm night. The other side was mostly used as a freight depot for the various goods the line handled. It was in here that Captain Armstrong waited, along with Ollie Halverton and Lamar. Lamar was well into one of his tall tales but no one was listening, least of all the captain, who prodded around between the crates and trunks as if moving was the only thing that kept his heart pumping blood. He leaned heavily on his cane, keeling over towards the left; his leg was giving him merry hell and he didn’t know for sure if that was a true sign that Hardin was on his way or not. Occasionally he would stop his rambling and lash out with the cane, thwacking it against some heavy object as if it were the gunman’s face. Lamar hardly paused in his yarn. Ollie leaned against a wicker box and tried to pretend that his guts were not churning over fit to make butter and cream both.
Keogh and O’Reilly sat in the stifling heat of the diner and slowly drank warm beer. Hart stood back across the tracks, deep in the shadow of a couple of unused cattle trucks. The Alabama train was standing thirty yards short of the platform, all serviced and fuelled and ready to shunt forward and pick up the passengers who were waiting to begin their journey.
Fourteen passengers and none of them John Wesley Hardin.
‘What in hell’s name’s gone wrong?’ demanded Armstrong, fetching a tin box a tremendous clout with his cane. ‘Where is he?’
Neither Lamar nor Ollie had an answer. Lamar hesitated a few moments before launching back into his story but was no more than a dozen words in before Armstrong turned on him and told him to shut up and let him think.
Lamar scowled and pushed his fingers through his thick beard; Ollie turned his hea
d aside so that Lamar wouldn’t see him smiling. Even then, it was the first thing he’d had to smile about for a long time.
Wes Hart stood with a cigarette cupped tight between the fingers of his left hand, the palm of the right resting on the pearl-handled grip of his Colt .45. Hardin wasn’t going to show. He knew it in his belly and he’d known it for the past half-hour. He didn’t know why but he was positive his feelings were right. With half a mind to cross over the track and tell Armstrong, he held back. He was as likely to get bawled out for quitting his position as thanked - and there was always the possibility that he was wrong. Hardin could still come.
With a slow rumble of steam, the engine came forward on to the track alongside the platform. The two Rangers left the diner and stretched their legs, watching the boarding passengers carefully. None of them could possibly have been Hardin, not even had he taken it into his head to disguise himself against discovery.
Armstrong rubbed at the dirty glass and peered out. Although it was yet light, the kerosene lanterns that overhung the platform had been put to use. He scanned left and right, cursed, and repeated the process in the opposite direction. With another curse he growled at Ollie to fetch Wes Hart as soon as the train pulled out.
‘You don’t reckon Hardin’s goin’ to show?’ asked Ollie and earned himself a place in the captain’s personal perdition.
Fifteen minutes later the train drew out of the station with much clatter and steam and before its iron rumble receded, the red rear lights easily visible, Hart had joined Armstrong in the freight depot.
‘What’s your guess?’ snapped Armstrong.
‘That he’s got drunk, got into a game of stud, found a woman—maybe all three.’
‘Yeah, ’the captain agreed. ‘It rings true.’
‘You want me to go into town an’ check?’
Armstrong nodded. ‘Yeah. There’s the risk of you bumping into Hardin, but if what you reckon is correct, that ain’t so likely. Not if you play it safe. Wait an hour or so, then slip in. Forget about looking for Hardin direct. Concentrate on Reardon. He knows you and that’s better than facing him with one of us an’ scarin’ him into warning Hardin off. Find Reardon and see what’s happened for sure. When Hardin’s plannin’ on makin’ his move. Report back to me here.’
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