Sudden: Makes War Page 10

Early next morning the three conspirators devoured a substantial breakfast, saddled their mounts and, in the grey light of the dawn, disappeared in the direction of Sandy Bend. They did not follow the regular trail, having no desire to be observed, or to visit the town itself. This meant a loss of time and speed, but was necessary, since to run into the Wagon-wheel men would be fatal to the success of their plan.

  Leaving the Circle Dot range at the eastern limit, they plunged into an almost trackless waste of broken country, the natural difficulties of which made anything in the nature of a direct course impossible, but all three were expert in the art of breaking a trail, and having started in good time there was no need to force the pace.

  The foreman led the way, and though they were often driven wide of their line, his sense of direction brought them back to it. Nature was awake, birds whistled and called, and in the undergrowth they could hear the stealthy movements of unseen denizens of the woods. Riding in single file, they spoke seldom; each of them was dwelling on the part he had to play; a slip might result in unpleasant consequences. The morning air felt chill on their faces, but the slowly-mounting sun would soon bring more heat than was comfortable.

  At the end of several hours, the leader called a halt and got down. Pointing to a sharp ridge on their right, he said:

  “Oughta be able to git a glimp o’ the Bend from up there. I’ll take a peep—better he shore than sorry.”

  He trudged away, and they presently saw him come into view on the peak of the height.

  He was soon back, a grin of satisfaction on his face. He waved a hand to the right.

  “The Bend is over there, so we’re pointin’ slap on the target,” he said, and with a glance at his watch, “Time a-plenty, too.”

  “An’ it’s a good place for the purpose, is it, Bill?” Dover queried.

  “Couldn’t ‘a’ found a better if I’d bin Jesse James hisself,” Burke assured him.

  Another five miles brought them to a small forest of pines, and threading their way through the slim, straight trunks they came to a strip of thick bush, on the other side of which ran a single line of railroad. They pulled up where the matted foliage of the trees afforded deep shadow.

  “Here she is,” the foreman said, unstrapping a small axe from behind his saddle.

  “No need for that, Bill,” Dan said. “That windfall will serve our purpose.”

  A rope was tied to the prostrate tree, and one of the horses dragged it to the side of the line. The three men then lifted and laid it across the rails.

  “They’ll have to get down to shift her,” Sudden said. “Yu’ll take charge o’ them, Bill, while I deal with the passengers, an’ Dan attends to the baggage-car. We’ll spread along, keepin’ in the bushes till the train stops. No shootin’, ‘less yu have to, an’ then—miss.”

  The horses were concealed in a group behind the brush, and tied, in case the noise of the locomotive should startle them. Burke consulted his watch again.

  “She’s liable to be here any time now,” he said. “Better pull down the blinds an’ git to our stations.”

  With faces masked by bandanas in which eye-holes had been cut, and hat-brims drawn low down, they looked at one another and laughed.

  “Shore does make a difference,” Sudden admitted. “I wouldn’t trust either o’ yu with ten cents.”

  “Funny what a sense o’ security that bit o’ rag gives you,” Dover reflected aloud. “I was feelin’ a mite nervous about the job, but it’s all gone.”

  “Me, I’ll be glad when it’s over,” the foreman confessed. “Our intentions is good, but we’re bustin’ the law all to bits.”

  A puff of smoke down the line sent them under cover; the train was coming. Laboriously it approached, rumbling along the rails, belching white clouds, and then, with a screeching of brakes, slowed and stopped. The driver thrust his head out of the cab and stared at the obstruction.

  “Hey, Luke, there’s a blame’ tree in the road,” he called. “We’ll hey to git down an’ shift her.”

  Clumsily the two men clambered out and moved to the front of the engine. At the same moment, a masked figure stepped from the bushes and, in a gruff voice, said:

  “Put ‘em up, boys, an’ you won’t git hurt.”

  A levelled revolver, held in a steady hand, added weight to the command, and the railwaymen had no thought of disobeying. As their hands reached for the sky, the driver spoke:

  “The pot’s yourn, Mister. I’m too wicked to die—yet.”

  The train-robber grinned beneath his mask but made no reply. He had done his part, and was wondering how his friends were faring. Actually, they had picked their places to a nicety.

  The conductor, thrusting out his head to discover the reason for an unusual halt, nearly collided with the muzzle of a six-shooter.

  “Shut yore trap an’ do just what I tell yu, or .” The threatening gesture was unnecessary—the conductor’s pay did not justify heroism. He fell back, and allowed the possessor of the weapon to board the train. The man handed him a small leather sack.

  “Collect all the cash an’ valuables in the coach, startin’ with yore own,” he was told. “I’m just behind yu, an’ if there’s any funny business, yu won’t be here to laugh. Sabe?”

  Evidently the conductor did, for he emptied his pockets with alacrity, and then entered the coach. There were only half-a-dozen passengers, and every one of them protested, but the sight of the sinister figure stalking behind him silenced all argument. But, as Sudden afterwards related, “What they were to do to the railroad company would—put it outa business.”

  When the ordeal was completed, and it did not take long, the bandit took the bag, stepped to the end of the coach, and addressed his victims:

  “Listen, folks. When yu reach Sandy Bend, go to the bank ,n’ yu’ll get back yore property.

  This ain’t a real stick-up we’re doin’ it to win a wager, but—don’t try no tricks, ‘cause that’ll make it serious.” As he descended from the train, he motioned the conductor to follow. “I’ve told those people the truth, but I’m keepin’ yu covered till my friend has finished.”

  A moment. later Dan appeared, a corded, wooden box under one arm. He had experienced no difficulty—the baggage-man also was too sinful, or poorly-paid, to risk his life.

  Moreover, he had no knowledge as to the value of the purloined box, which, with some sacks of flour, comprised all his charge. So, white-faced, he watched the marauders vanish into the undergrowth. After all, the banker at Sandy Bend could afford to buy more gun-fodder, for the box—addressed to him—was labelled, “Handle with care. Cartridges.”

  Sudden read the inscription and laughed grimly. “Golden bullets, but they won’t be fired at the Circle Dot. Well, boys, we’ve done fine, but the job ain’t finished; I’ve gotta get the plunder to the Bend an’ beat the train. I reckon Nigger an’ me can make it. Yu two point for home.” They demurred a little at this, but he would not listen. “We settled it thataway,” he reminded. “I ain’t knowed there an’ yu are.”

  Rolled in his slicker, the box and leather bag were roped to his saddle, and just as the engine-driver and his mate pushed the obstruction clear of the line, he set out.

  The train resumed its interrupted journey, the occupants excitedly discussing the incident, and speculating on the possibility of recovering what they had lost. The conductor was disposed to a sanguine view.

  “No sense in tellin’ us that if it ain’t so,” he said. “We couldn’t do nothin’, an’ it’s just the sort o’ mad caper them cowboys would indulge in on a dare. Anybody out much?”

  “My wallet contains two hundred dollars I’ll be glad to see again,” a passenger replied.

  Smaller amounts of currency, rings, and watches were claimed by the rest, and when the conductor stated that the baggage-car contained only sacks of meal and a box of cartridges, an atmosphere of optimism developed.

  “If they’re winning a worthwhile sum—and they must be to risk a long
term of imprisonment—they’ll play safe and return the booty,” the largest loser argued. “We’ll know soon.”

  But their troubles were not yet over, for after travelling another five miles, the train slowed down and stopped with a jerk. The conductor stuck his head out—cautiously this time, and promptly drew it in again.

  “Damn me if there ain’t another tree on the line,” he said. “What’s the game? We got nothin’ more for ‘em.”

  The bewildered passengers heard a sharp order, accented by a rifle-shot, which brought the two men on the engine tumbling hastily to the ground, hands in the air. The tall, heavily-built cowboy who had given it slanted his smoking weapon on them, and said warningly:

  “Stay put if you want to go on living.”

  Stealing a glance back along the line they could see that the previous procedure was again in operation; two other men, masked and with drawn pistols, had boarded the train. In vain the conductor—who at once realized that these were not the same visitors—tried to explain.

  “Yo’re too late, Mister, them other fellas has beat you to it; we’re cleaned complete.”

  The bandit pushed the gun in his face. “What other fellas?” he barked. “Talk fast, or by the Devil’s teeth …”

  The trembling man talked fast, and called upon his passengers to support his story by an ocular demonstration—their empty pockets. The recital did not improve the intruder’s temper.

  “Can you describe ‘em?” he asked.

  The conductor’s reply was hardly helpful. “They was cowboys seemin’ly, with their faces covered. Said they on’y did it to win a bet, an’ we’d git our stuff back at the Bend.”

  The stranger laughed sneeringly. “An’ on the strength of a lie like that you let ‘em git away with it, you lousy cowards.” He backed out of the coach, with a parting threat that anyone who stirred would be shot.

  In the meantime the custodian of the baggage-car was telling the same story with less success. Bundy, who had allotted to himself the task of securing the real reason for the robbery, was not easily convinced. He, too, wanted a description of the unknown holdups, and got no more than his confederate. Then he searched every inch of the van, even tapping the boards with the butt of his gun.

  “What’s in them?” he growled, pointing to the sacks. “Meal, I s’pose,” the man replied.

  “Open an’ tip it out,” Bundy ordered, and when the fellow hesitated, jammed a six-shooter into his ribs.

  This produced immediate action, the sacks were untied and up-ended, but no wooden box was forthcoming.

  “Like I said, she ain’t there,” the train-man unwisely remarked.

  “Can’t I see? you — yella dawg’s pup. Go an’ look some more, blast you,” Bundy snarled.

  With a savage swing he drove a fist behind the man’s ear, flinging him, face downwards and well-nigh senseless, into the pile of flour, and went out. Flint was waiting for him, and a call brought Garstone. A few words revealed the position, and the big man’s face—could they have seen it—might have caused trouble; it expressed only incredulity and rage.

  “Are you asking me to believe that?” he cried involuntarily.

  “Please yoreself,” Bundy snapped. “Go search the train an’ question those lunkheads, if you want.”

  “But it’s impossible—only we three knew, unless …”

  “Unless what?”

  “That other fellow, who was to have a thousand, got a better offer and sold us.”

  “Well, he didn’t, an’ he’s losin’ his too,” the foreman retorted. “He dasn’t play tricks on me—I know too much about him. Somebody’s got in ahead of us, either by accident, or because they heard somethin’. I’m for home; no good hangin’ about here.”

  Three very disgruntled would-be train-robbers, each deeply suspicious of the others, climbed into their saddles and disappeared in the shadowy recesses of the pines. Once more the train went on its eventful way.

  About the same time the rider of a black horse got down outside the bank in Sandy Bend, took from behind his saddle a box which seemed to be weighty and a small bag. Stepping inside, he asked to see the manager.

  “What name shall I say?” the clerk enquired.

  “Please yoreself, he won’t know it anyway,” the stranger smiled. “Just say it’s real important.”

  After a short wait he was ushered into the private office. The manager, middle-aged, with an astute face and keen eyes, pointed to a chair.

  “Have a seat, Mister —. I failed to catch your name.”

  “That ain’t surprisin’—I didn’t give it,” Sudden smiled. “My business is on’y to hand over somethin’ I reckon belongs to yu.”

  He placed the box on the desk, and the banker’s eyebrows rose. “It certainly does,” he replied. “But you are not working for the railway?”

  “I am, an’ I ain’t,” the puncher said. “An’, anyway, the train don’t ‘pear to ‘a’ come in yet. Yu came mighty close to losin’ them—ca’tridges.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, last night, me an’ a couple o’ friends chanced to learn of a plan to hold up the train this mornin’—the fellas was short o’ feed for their guns, I expect.” The story-teller’s eyes were alight with mirth. “We hadn’t much time, an’ the on’y wagon-trail out we could hit on was to stage a stick-up ourselves—sorta forestall ‘em, as it were—an’ fetch the plunder to yu.”

  The manager stared. “That was a clever but very daring expedient,” he said.

  “Oh, I dunno, the odds are allus in favour o’ the holdups,” Sudden replied. “Yu see, they have the advantage o’ springin’ a surprise, an’ the fellas on the train are covered afore they know it.”

  “You talk like an expert.”

  “I’ve studied the subject,” the puncher grinned. “Fella can’t tell what he may come to.”

  “Your knowledge seems to have served you well on this occasion. You had no trouble?”

  “It was like money from the of folks at home,” the puncher said easily. “There’s one thing, we had to make it look right an’ clean the passengers too. I told ‘em to call here for their property—it’s all in the small sack. Mebbe yu’ll ‘tend to that?”

  “Most willingly,” the manager replied, and laughed. “So the other gang must have held up a stripped train? The joke was certainly on them. Now, see here, my friend, you and your companions have rendered the bank and the railway a great service, and I wish—”

  “It don’t need speakin’ of,” Sudden interrupted. “We put this over for personal reasons, an’ that’s all there is to it.”

  The banker was studying him keenly. “I’m perfectly certain I’ve seen you before, and recently,” he observed.

  “No, seh, yu ain’t seen me afore, nor even now,” the visitor replied meaningly.

  “Well, it shall be as you say, but if at any time I can help you, count on me.”

  “I’m thankin’ yu,” Sudden said, gripping the hand extended. At the door he turned.

  “Mebbe I oughta tell yu that the record o’ the numbers o’ them ca’tridges will be found—missin’.”

  He was gone before the astounded manager could say another word. An examination of the box revealed the expected gold and notes; in the bag were jewellery, bills, and small change.

  The banker scratched his head; in all his experience of the West, he had never heard of a prank like this.

  The last drop in Bundy’s cup of bitterness was added when he met his employer in the afternoon.

  “I sent Rattray in to the Bend with the wagon to collect some flour I ordered from Washout,” Trenton said. “It was to be on the ten-fifteen, and he should be back by this. Seen anythin’ of it?”

  The foreman said he had not, which, as he now knew, was a lie; not only had he seen it, scattered all over the dirty floor of a baggage-car, but he had sent a man squattering into the middle of it. The reminder of the chance they had missed seared like a hot iron, and when he was alon
e he told the world exactly what he thought of it in a flood of abuse which only ceased when a swift suspicion came and gave the Recording Angel an opportunity of re-charging his fountain pen.

  Was it by accident that the Wagon-wheel flour was on that particular train? Had Trenton learned of their plan and made his own move to checkmate it? Bundy swore he would find out, and he finished with a blistering promise of vengeance.

  Chapter XI

  The news of the attacks on the train travelled fast, and soon reached Rainbow; the passengers had chattered freely of their unusual experience. Speculation as to the real reason for the quixotic behaviour of the first gang of bandits, and witticisms at the expense of the second, were on the lips of everyone. It therefore resulted that the Wagon-wheel foreman and his confederates had salt unwittingly rubbed into their wounds at frequent intervals. The identity of the actors in the comedy was still unsuspected, for the banker and his clerk both described the person who had returned the stolen property as just an ordinary cowboy. This did not satisfy Bundy, and two days after the event he made the journey to the Bend in the hope of discovering something.

  During a round of the saloons, he heard himself ridiculed and had to agree that he was a blundering fool so often, as to make him wish he had not come, especially as he had learned nothing. But, at last, when on the point of giving up, and in a drinking hovel of the lowest type, he was rewarded. The talk was on the one topic, and for about the tenth time in various places he had said:

  “Beats me how that fella could ride into a town like this, in broad daylight, an’ git away unnoticed. Ain’t all blind in the Bend, are you?”

  “Not that early in the day,” laughed a bystander.

  “An’ it warn’t quite like that neither,” chirped a dried-up old fellow. “I seen his hoss—leastways, I reckon it was his’n the time fits—standin’ outside the bank.”

  Bundy tried to appear indifferent. “Did ye now? What kind of a hoss was it?”

  “Big rangy black, with a white blaze on the face; mustang breed, I’d say; a fine critter,” the old man replied. “Worth a fortun’ to a road-agent.”