DAYLIGHT had not yet broken when the three four-horse wagons were loaded
and ready for the road. Not a moment had been lost after Roderick’s
arrival at the Major’s. That night he had had a grim glimpse of what
western lawlessness among the mountains might mean, and had speedily
convinced the Major that his policy of instant departure was the wise
one. Bud Bledsoe and his gang would rest at least one day, perhaps two
or three days, after their devilish exploit with the sheep-herders, and
when they came reconnoitering around the blockhouse in which the ore
was stored it would be to find the rich treasure gone. The teams by
that time would be at Walcott, or at least well on the way to their
destination.
The little bunch of friends had set to work with a will. Jim Rankin got
the first team down within half an hour, and by that time the Major, Tom
Sun, who had duly turned up from Rawlins, Boney Earnest, Grant Jones and
Roderick had a goodly pile of the one-hundred-pound ore sacks stacked in
front of the house, ready to be lifted into the wagon. Without a hitch
or delay the work proceeded, and now that the loading was completed, and
the rifles and ammunition had been stowed under the drivers’ seats,
the tension of suppressed excitement was relaxed. Pipes were alight
during a final consultation.
The three tough old westerners, it was settled, were to drive. Boney had
announced his absolute determination to come along—the smelter could
go to blazes, he had applied some days before for a week’s leave
anyways and if W. B. Grady chose to buck because he took it now, well
he could “buck good and plenty, and be damned to him.” Tom Sun was
keeping in stern repression his wrath against the miscreants who had
massacred his sheep and probably killed his herders as well; it would
be stern satisfaction for him to have a fight on the road, to settle
accounts with Bud Bledsoe by the agency of a rifle bullet. Jim Rankin,
after his quiet taking-down by Roderick at the livery stable, had
recovered his accustomed self-assurance and bellicosity, and was
“prognosticating” all manner of valorous deeds once it came to guns
out on both sides and fair shooting.
While these three would manage the teams, Buell Hampton, Grant and
Roderick would scout ahead on their riding horses, and provide a rear
guard as well so that the alarm of any attempted pursuit could be given.
Badger had been fed and rested, and looked fit for anything despite the
night’s ride to Jack Creek.
Jumping into the saddle Roderick, accompanied by Grant Jones, who knew
the road well, led the way. The wagons followed, while the Major delayed
just long enough to lock up the house, including the now empty inner
chamber, and clear away the traces of the night’s work. The whole
cavalcade was three or four miles out of Encampment before the sun had
risen and the townsfolk were astir.
The distance to be traversed was just fifty miles, and that night the
first camp was made beyond Saratoga. No public attention had been drawn
to the wagons; none of the people encountered on the road or at stopping
places had any reason to think that these ordinary looking ore-sacks
held gold that was worth a king’s ransom. There had been no signs of
ambushed robbers ahead nor of pursuit in the rear. But that night, while
a few hours of sleep were snatched, watch was kept in turn, while each
sleeper had his rifle close at hand. With the first glimmer of dawn the
journey was resumed.
It was well on in the afternoon when the Major spied, some distance out
on the open country to the left, the dust raised by a small party of
horsemen. He rode up to the wagons to consult his friends. He had just
pointed out the sign to Jim Rankin, when the riders disappeared behind a
rocky ridge.
Jim had been shading his eyes while gazing fixedly. He now dropped his
hand.
“By gunnies, they are after us right enough,” he exclaimed. “That
was Bud Bledsoe in the lead—I know his ginger-colored pony. They’re
going to cross Pass Creek lower down, then they will swing around into
White Horse Canyon, coming back to meet us after we’ve crossed the
bridge and are on the long steep hill just beyond. Dang me if that
ain’t their game.”
The Major rode ahead to warn Grant and Roderick. The bridge over Pass
Creek was only three miles from Walcott. If the three scouts could
gain the crest of the steep slope, before the robbers, the advantage of
position would be theirs.
Roderick grasped the plan of campaign in an instant, and, digging his
spurs into Badger’s flank, galloped off full pelt. Grant and the Major
followed at the best pace of their less mettled ponies.
It was less than a mile to the bridge, and Badger was soon breasting
the hill at a swinging canter. Just before reaching the summit Roderick
descended, and throwing the bridle over the pony’s head tethered it in
cowboy fashion. “I’ll be back in a minute, old fellow,” he said,
as he gave Badger an affectionate pat on the neck. Then, rifle in hand,
he walked up the remaining few yards of the slope, and cautiously peered
over the crest into White Horse Canyon.
Great Scott! seven or eight horsemen away down at the foot of the
descending incline were just scrambling out of the waste of cacti
and joshuas on to the roadway! The first comers were waiting for the
stragglers, and a pow-wow was evidently being held. Roderick gripped
the butt of his rifle. But he heard the clatter of hoofs behind him, and
drew back for the time being. Waving a cautioning hand to Buell Hampton
and Grant as they approached, he gave the news in a few words. It
took only a minute to tie all three horses securely to the low-growing
grease-wood that here skirted the road—the animals, although
well-trained, might be stampeded by the shooting. Then, rifles in hand,
Roderick, Grant and the Major crept up to the crest of the ridge. Before
reaching it the sharp tattoo of horse hoofs smote their ears.
“That’s Bud Bledsoe in the lead on the ginger pony,” exclaimed
Buell Hampton.
Nothing more was needed by Roderick; if Bud Bledsoe was there, the gang
were lawbreakers and bent on further villainy.
“Bang!” went Roderick’s rifle; and the ginger-colored horse
plunged forward on his knees, and then rolled over, kicking wildly in
the air. Two horses behind stumbled over the obstruction, and instantly
there was a confused heap of struggling beasts and men. Four other
riders had reined in their steeds just in time, and were standing
stock-still on the highway.
“Keep it up, but don’t kill,” muttered the Major, just before he
fired his own rifle. Almost at the same instant came “bang” from
Grant’s shoulder, and a second shot by Roderick.
At this fusillade the four cowboys still mounted jumped their horses
into the sage brush and cacti and were gone like a streak across
country. One of the fallen horses had struggled to its feet, and a
figure leaped into the saddle. It was Bud Bledsoe—Roderick knew him by
his gorilla-like figure. Leaving his two fallen comrades to their
fate, the leader raced after the fleeing quartette. Three rifle bullets
whizzed past him to quicken his pace. Then the marksmen on the ridge
stood erect.
Two motionless human figures lay on the road at the bottom of the hill;
the ginger horse had rolled in among the bushes in his death throes, the
other was limping along with a broken leg. Roderick ran down the slope
on foot, leaving the others to follow with the horses.
The first man he reached was dead, his neck broken by the fall. Roderick
recognized him at a glance—for when once riding the range with a bunch
of cowboys they had passed a lone rider on a mountain trail and the name
had been passed around—Butch Cassidy, a horse rustler, and an outlaw
of the hills. The other fellow was bleeding from a wound in his breast;
there was a gulping gurgle in his throat. He had evidently been hit by
Grant’s first bullet, which had been fired too quick for any heed
to be paid to Buell Hampton’s merciful injunction. Just as Roderick
raised the limp hand the wounded man opened his eyes; then he uttered
one great sob and died.
A few minutes later bullets from Grant’s revolver put the injured
horses out of pain.
In the dusk of the falling night the dead men were borne on the ore
wagons into Walcott. The station agent recognized the second corpse
as that of a notorious gambler and hold-up artist, an old associate of
Big-Nosed George in early days. The railroad man treated the bodies as
trash, but condescended to wire down the line for the coroner and the
sheriff. The car, which had been ordered several days before, was on
the side track awaiting the ore shippers, and he counselled that there
should be no delay in loading, as a through freight for Denver was due
shortly after midnight. So the fight was forgotten, and the work of
transferring the ore sacks from the wagons was soon in progress, all
present, even the Major, lending a hand.
After the task had been completed, the bill of lading prepared and all
charges prepaid, Jim Rankin, Boney Earnest, Tom Sun and Grant Jones
boarded the car. They were well provided with blankets for bedding
and still carried their rifles. Buell Hampton and Roderick remained to
arrange for the sending back of the teams and saddle horses; they would
follow on the morning passenger train, and the whole party would reach
Denver practically at the same hour next night.
No further incident occurred. But not until the carload of ore had
been duly delivered, sampled, and weighed did the four faithful and
well-armed guards relax their vigilance. The purchasers were the
Globe Smelter Company, with whose manager Boney Earnest had personal
acquaintance.
While secrecy was exercised concerning this remarkable ore shipment,
yet the news gradually crept out and it became known that something
phenomenal had occurred. The newspaper reporters hovered around the
Globe Smelter endeavoring to pick up a few crumbs of information.
Buell Hampton and his friends were registered at the Brown Palace Hotel
where they had arranged for connecting rooms. Two days afterwards Buell
Hampton announced to his friends, in the privacy of his room, that the
returns were all he had anticipated. The money had been duly deposited
to his credit, and now he wrote checks running into five figures for
each of his friends, and admonished them separately and collectively to
deposit the money in some Denver bank to their individual credit, then
return to their Encampment homes and each continue his avocation as if
nothing had happened to improve their financial affairs.
“As for myself,” said the Major, “I have a mission to perform,
and I probably will not return to Encampment for a matter of fifteen or
twenty days.”
That night Major Hampton left for New York carrying with him certified
checks for a large sum of money, and on the following morning the
others took train for Wyoming. Within a few days all had resumed their
accustomed routine. Jim Rankin was back on his stage coach making his
usual trips; Boney Earnest, after an acrimonious scrap with Grady over
the question of absence without leave, was in his old place before
the blast furnace; Tom Sun regained his home at Split Rock, north of
Rawlins, Grant Jones returned to his editorial duties, Roderick to his
preparations for a prospecting expedition.
Both Grant and Roderick had brought with them checks for a few thousand
dollars, which they deposited in the local bank to the great surprise of
the cashier. And even before leaving the bank they began to realize
that their importance in the community had already gone up a hundred per
cent. Such is the prompt efficacy of a substantial bank balance!