It seemed to Steve as he looked at the girl, with her hair, which wind
and rain had lashed into clinging tendrils of glinting bronze, pressed
close against Greyson's arm, that his universe tore itself from its
orbit and hurtled into fathomless space. For thirty throbbing seconds
the blue eyes challenged the brown, then he turned away.
"Courtlandt!" called Greyson dominantly, but Steve was speaking to the
division superintendent who, white with anxiety, had hurried up.
"Sure they'll have to go along with us, Steve," reassured the autocrat
of the train. He turned to Greyson. "We'll take you to the coast, all
right, but you won't get off the train till you've paid a good fat fine
for stopping it. You and the lady get aboard, pronto. Steve, lock her up
in one of the compartments. I'll look after the man. Mac, if anything
else tries to hold us up you shoot and shoot quick, no matter if there
are skirts mixed up in it." He rushed off in company with the burly
brakeman. Greyson caught Courtlandt's arm.
"Look here, Steve, you must listen. Jerry----"
"You needn't apologize for my--my wife, Greyson. She's coming with me."
He put his hands none too gently on the girl's shoulder.
"But, Steve, you don't understand," Jerry protested. "I----"
"All aboard there!" yelled the brakeman angrily. Steve fairly lifted the
girl to the platform of the Pullman. He hurried her along the corridor
to a compartment.
"Come in here, Jerry, and no matter what you hear don't come out. I'll
send the maid to help you get your clothing dry." He turned to go, but
she laid her hand on his arm.
"Steve, you must listen to me. I want to tell you----"
"What can you tell me except that you love Greyson and ran away with
him? I can't hear that now--I won't. You're mine and I keep what is my
own. And remember this, if you try to communicate with him while you are
on this train--I'll shoot him." His eyes were black; there was a white
line about his nostrils.
"Steve, you're all wrong,--but if you won't trust me----" she shrugged
the remainder of the sentence. Then her voice was pleading. "Did
Bruce--Mr. Greyson,--get a chance to speak to the division
superintendent?"
"Did he? I'll say he did. What Nelson isn't saying to your--your gallant
friend at this minute, isn't worth saying." He looked at her
suspiciously as she laughed. He took a step nearer.
"No, I shan't have hysterics, Stevie. Now that I know that my gallant
friend, as you call him, is explaining our late plan to the division
superintendent, I haven't a care in the world,--in fact," with a dainty,
politely repressed yawn, "if I could have this place and the maid to
myself, I might take a nap. I shall have plenty of time. It is a long
way to the coast," with another irrepressible ripple of laughter. Then
as he lingered, "You needn't stand guard. I shan't run away again. An
encore lacks the snap of a first performance," audaciously.
Courtlandt opened his lips to reply, thought better of it, closed the
door smartly behind him and went in search of the maid. Back in the
compartment which the division superintendent used as an office he
lighted his pipe, and paced the floor back and forth, back and forth as
he tried to marshall order from the chaos of his thoughts. Why didn't
the fool train start, he wondered, as he listened to what seemed an
endless amount of backing and starting and grinding of brakes.
His mind went back to the moment in Lower Field when Johnny Simms had
handed him a letter and bolted. He could see every word on the
tear-blotted page now:
"Ranlett doesn't want the cattle. He cut the fences so that the
Double O outfit would follow the Shorthorns into the mountains.
He and his bunch are figurin' to rob the west-bound to-night at
Devil's Hold-up. Government silver. Watch out! Ranlett has
spies everywhere."
There had been no signature, no mention of Simms, but Courtlandt felt
sure that he was in on the deal and that the wife was trying to keep her
husband from being caught in what might easily prove to be more than
robbery. His first reaction from the message had been amused
incredulity. It was absurd to believe that in these enlightened days a
man of Ranlett's intelligence, and he was infernally intelligent, would
try to get away with such a mid-eighties stunt. The sense of amusement
was succeeded by startled conviction. The fact was that Ranlett did
think he could put it across and was to make the attempt that night. He
must hustle through his work and make Slippy Bend in time to board the
train. He could neither wire nor 'phone if it were true that Ranlett had
spies everywhere. He must keep his own counsel until he could talk with
the official in charge of the west-bound.
After that he had followed trails and conferred with ranch section
heads. As clouds began to spread out from the southwest he galloped
into Slippy Bend. He had supper in a leisurely fashion at the one
hotel, dropped into the post-office for a chat with Sandy, who was
sorting his mail for the morrow's trip, and discussed crops and stock
and tractors with the group of men gathered there. He had reached the
railroad station about ten minutes before the treasure train was due. He
hailed the railroad man-of-all-work whose slouch relegated him
unquestionably to the preefficiency era.
"West-bound on time? I'm going up the line to follow some steers that
have mysteriously wandered off. I'm not looking for trouble, but----" He
tapped the holster which hung from his belt. Baldy Jennings, whose head
resembled a shiny white island entirely surrounded by a fringe of red
hair, chewed and spat with intriguing accuracy as he listened. Steve's
explanation had precipitated a flow of observation.
"Shucks! The world's sick. Most of it don't want to work and them that
does won't be let by them that don't. The majority seem to figur' that
it's a darned sight easier to pick the other man's pocket than to fill
their own by honest sweatin' labor. Sure, it never wa'n't none of my
butt-in, but I used to tell old man Fairfax that Ranlett was narrer
between the horns. Oh, you don't hev to mention no names, I know who
took them steers,--but cripes, it didn't do no good, he wouldn't listen
to Baldy Jennings. And now the coyote's knifed you! An' your old man
givin' him every chanct. Human natur'! Human natur'! Well, I gotta get
busy. The railroad don't pay me sixty bucks per fer swappin' talk even
with the owner of the Double O. Here comes the west-bound." A shrill
whistle echoed back and forth among the hills like a shuttlecock. The
vibration of the rails announced the coming train.
Courtlandt's pipe went out, he stopped his restless pacing of the narrow
compartment as he visualized the first person who had stepped from the
train. It had been Nelson who had been a captain in the battalion in
which Steve had served overseas. His face, which had been white and
tense when he reached the platform, had suffused with color as he
recognized Courtlandt.
"Well, you can knock me for a gool, if it isn't the Whistling Lieut.!"
he cried eagerly. "What are you doing in this teeming mart of trade?" he
added, as he glanced at Baldy Jennings staring open-mouthed at the
meeting and beyond him to the few coatless, vested, bearded favorite
sons who leaned against the sagging building.
Courtlandt had laughed. When the fog of surprise had lifted he had seen
that the years had not changed Nelson. His black eyes were as keen as
ever, his little mustache had the same moth-eaten effect, the network
of veins on his slightly bulbous nose were redder perhaps, and he was in
civilian clothes. That realization wrinkled Steve's brow in perplexity.
"What are you doing here? Last I heard you had joined the regular army
and were stationed somewhere around Phila----" Perception of the
situation came in a blinding flash. Nelson's eyes met his steadily.
"There are some occasions when a soldier appears in mufti. Especially
when he is passing as the newly appointed division superintendent of a
railroad." Steve drew a breath. So that was it. His eyes traveled over
the train. Which was the treasure car? Obviously the one in the middle
which looked like an ordinary baggage-car. The rest were brilliantly
lighted coaches, from the windows of which eyes peered out curiously,
indifferently or interestedly as the temperaments and minds behind them
dictated. His glance came back to Nelson.
"You're the man I'm looking for. I've lost some cattle, and I'm going up
the line a way to look for them. I must give you all particulars. I'm
counting on you to help me, if there should happen to be any rough stuff
pulled off, see?"
The two men had stood apart from the confusion of the station. The rain
beat down. Over among the mountains thunder and lightning held high
carnival. Courtlandt drew Nelson into the lee of the building. He struck
a match and held it above his pipe till the wood burned down to his
fingers. In the flickering light he and the superintendent, pro tem.,
had regarded one another steadily. Nelson moistened his lips:
"Sure, I see, Steve. Glad to have you along." He raised his voice as one
of the train hands approached. "Make yourself comfortable in my
quarters. Perhaps I can find a couple to make up a little game."
Courtlandt was quite unconscious of the rumble of the train as in
imagination he relived the time he had spent waiting for Nelson to join
him in the double compartment which had been fitted up as an office for
the superintendent. Minutes seemed hours. When he did come the smile had
left his lips. His eyes were stern. He closed the door with a bang.
"Deal out what's coming, quick!" he had commanded and Steve had told him
almost word for word what Mrs. Simms had written. "You're sure of this?"
"I've given the message as it came to me. The person who sent the
warning had every reason to keep mum."
"I get you." Nelson pulled down a map which was rolled against the side
of the car. He studied the maze of lines and dots and dashes. "Going
along with us?" he had asked casually.
"The surest thing you know." Steve remembered how absurdly light-hearted
he had felt. Nelson looked so thoroughly equal to his job.
"Then you'd better--now what the devil is _that_?" he growled as the
engine blew a furious warning and the brakes ground on with a suddenness
which threw both men against the desk. "We can't have reached Devil's
Hold-up yet."
And then--Courtlandt's crowding thoughts had reached the moment when he
had heard a girl's voice say:
"Don't scold, Mr. Brakeman. It was reckless--but--but, you see, we had
to flag this train--we--we want to go to the coast. We're--we're
eloping!"
Jerry and Greyson! And he would have staked his life that she was true
blue, that even if she felt that she could never love the man she had
married she would have trampled temptation. The intolerable ache in
Steve's heart maddened him. She should not carry out this mad plan. He
wouldn't let her go if she hated him eternally. He'd make her love him,
love him as he had loved her from the moment he had looked up to see her
enter the living-room of Glamorgan's apartment. He had been so
infernally proud that he had tortured himself by pretending indifference
and now he had been brutal. He should have let her explain--he'd go now
and listen to what she had to say. God help him to act the man no matter
what it was. He would be tender, he would be sympathetic--but--he'd
never give her up.
Nelson entered and closed the door softly behind him. His face was
white, there were tiny flecks of foam on his lips, his eyes blazed.
"In five minutes we'll slow down to a crawl before entering Devil's
Hold-up. The bandits counted on that. I'll go forward to the cab. Trail
along after me. Leave your holster here. The passengers mustn't get the
idea that we're packing guns; get me?"
"I get you. Where is Gr--where is the man who flagged the train?"
Nelson turned with his hand on the door-knob.
"In the car back locked into a compartment with an armed guard before
it. He wanted to talk but I wasn't taking chances with any middle-aged
Lochinvar until after we'd passed the Hold-up. Got the woman in the case
locked up, haven't you?"
"Yes, she----" Courtlandt cut off the explanation he was about to offer.
Why enlighten Nelson? If he could keep Jerry's name out of the mix-up,
so much the better. Greyson wouldn't be likely to talk.
"All right, see that she doesn't break loose. A girl who would flivver
along a railroad track would have to be roped and tied to keep her out
of a wild party like this or I miss my guess."
Steve looked unseeingly at the door as it closed behind Nelson. He was
right; it would be like Jerry to get into the mix-up. He would stop at
her compartment as he went forward and make sure that she was there. He
unfastened the holster from his belt and flung it to the desk. With a
slight bulge in the region of the hip pocket of his riding breeches he
left the office. At the door of the compartment in which he had left
Jerry he knocked.
There was no answer. He tapped again and listened. There was no sound
inside save the creaking of woodwork and springs as the car swayed with
the grinding of wheels. Courtlandt whitened. Could she have left her
room? With quick impatience he opened the door and stepped inside. In
his surprise he slammed it behind him. Jerry, rolled in a blanket, lay
in the bunk asleep.
Even the noise he had made did not rouse her. Evidently the maid had
taken her clothing to dry it, for she was blanketed like a mummy from
her feet to her dimpled chin. Courtlandt crossed the narrow space
between them and looked down upon her. Her hair was spread over the
pillow to dry, her dark lashes lay like fringes, the one cheek visible
had a long red scratch, a bare foot hung over the edge of the bunk. Her
sleep was so profound that she barely breathed.
Why was she so exhausted, Steve wondered anxiously. In a flash he
remembered. She had been up all the night before with Mrs. Carey. Was it
only last night that he had taken her to the B C ranch? It seemed weeks
ago. No wonder that she was tired; she couldn't have had much sleep in
the last forty-eight hours. What did the bruise mean? He leaned over her
and touched it lightly. It was not a recent scratch. Very gently he
raised the pink foot which swayed with every motion of the car and
covered it with the blanket. He looked down upon the girl for a moment.
With jaw set and the veins in his temples standing out like cords he
went out and closed the door behind him.
The train barely crawled as Courtlandt swung from the step of the coach
to the ground. His eyes were strained; there was a white line about his
lips as he pulled himself up into the gangway between tender and engine.
The storm had rolled east-ward. Above the distant mountains a broad and
yellow moon played at hide-and-seek with fleecy remnants of cloud. Stars
appeared dimly, reconnoitered for a moment, then shone with steady
brilliancy. Nelson, seated on a tool-box in the cab, rolled a cigarette
with slightly unsteady fingers. The engineer had his head out of the
window; his assistant was tinkering a bit of balky machinery. Nelson
looked up as Courtlandt appeared.
"Did you come out to see the wheels go round Steve? I'd rather ride here
than anywhere else myself. What the devil! What's to pay now, Hawks?" as
the engineer ground on the brakes.
"Boulder on the track," rumbled the sooty man. He turned white under the
soot as his eyes crossed in a futile endeavor to look along the shiny
blue nose of an automatic in the hand of his grimy assistant.
"Hands up, all of you! Come over here, Hawks. You gentlemen can talk to
me while my friends give the train the once-over."
"Well, I'll be----"
"You sure will if you talk," growled the grimy one, looking like a
popular conception of his satanic majesty sans horns. Courtlandt and
Nelson who had been caught completely off guard by this attack from
within, stood with upraised arms. "Now, what t'ell!" The gun swayed for
the fraction of a second as a figure slid down over the coal in the
tender and landed in a crumpled heap in the gangway. Courtlandt seized
the opportunity. By the aboriginal expedient of kicking his victim
smartly in the shin he surprised the grimy one into a howl of pain.
Instinctively one hand reached for the aching member. Steve seized the
revolver.
"You're some gunman," he jeered. "Go back into that corner and sit
down!" And Satan's understudy, shorn of all of his gun and two-thirds of
his bravado--went. "Hawks, tie his feet and hands. Here's his gun.
Nelson, I can manage if you want to give orders elsewhere. What have we
here?"
The man who had fallen from the tender had struggled to his feet. He
braced himself against the side of the cab. His hair was matted down
over his eyes, his khaki shirt was in strips, his breeches and riding
boots were caked with mud; evidently he had been a rider before he
turned bandit, Courtlandt thought as he covered him with his forty-five.
Hawks was standing guard with his prisoner's own automatic. Fate has a
keen sense of comedy.
"What's your business?" Steve demanded. The man made an evident effort
to rally his senses. His voice was low and broken as he answered:
"There are twenty men in the gap--waiting for this train--the
silver--bricks. Here--here are the names----" He fumbled in his shirt.
Steve watched him with wary eyes, his finger on the trigger of his gun.
The trussed man in the corner swore volubly. The engineer silenced him
with the toe of his boot. Courtlandt took a step nearer the gasping,
groping man. The light was dim, if he were tricking him--but he wasn't.
With painful effort he produced a paper. His right arm hung helpless. A
red spot the size of a nickel appeared on the breast of his shirt. "Here
it is. I--I played into Ranlett's hands with the steers--Steve." He
collapsed in a heap on the floor.
"Steve!"
Courtlandt was on his knees beside him echoing his name. He slipped his
arm under the bent head. The man looked up with a laugh that died in a
painful rattle in his throat.
"You didn't know me, Steve?"
"Denbigh!"
"Don't take it so hard, this--this scratch isn't anything. I--I swore
I'd square myself with the world and--and my conscience. I've been
playing my cards for this grand slam for weeks. Somehow Ranlett got wind
that the silver--was to--be shipped sometime this month. When I found
that Beechy was your man I dropped him a hint as to the ownership of the
treasure he was after--then--then--I took care of him for Ranlett--see?
You'll find him stunned but unhurt in the shack in Buzzard's Hollow.
No--don't interrupt--let me talk while I can--they'll be here in a
minute. To-night they must have been watching me. When I tried to slip
away Simms fired. I--I rolled over the cliff--they must have thought
that finished me--it did--almost--but I was determined to get here. Keep
those names--I--hope--I've saved the government's money."
His head fell back on Courtlandt's shoulder, his eyes closed for a
moment. Then with, almost superhuman effort he rallied:
"I can't drift off yet. Two green rockets--in my shirt. As--soon as
you've caught the gang--send those up. They'll keep Ranlett and--and the
others in the Hollow till--you get there. They mean that--that----"
Courtlandt had to put his ear close to Denbigh's lips to hear the last
words. He laid him down and reached into his shirt for the rockets.
Nelson appeared.
"Leave him, Steve, I need you. I've sent a gang out to move the boulder.
We'll let the bad men think they've fooled us. Half the passengers on
this train are regulars in mufti. Little ol' Uncle Sam isn't taking
chances when he ships silver bricks to the coast. Here they come! Look!"
in a hoarse, excited whisper.
Out from between crevices and behind cottonwoods stole sinister shadows.
The men trying to remove the boulder from the track worked steadily.
The night was so still after the storm that Steve could hear their hard
breathing, their gruff commands and the clink of metal against rock as
they attacked the granite. The man in the corner opened his lips to
shout a warning but Hawks stuffed his mouth full of oily waste before he
could utter a sound. Nelson oozed delighted anticipation.
"Good Lord, man!" Steve exploded, "you haven't crossed the bridge yet.
Those men are after the government's money and they're going to put up a
stiff fight for it."
"So they are, so they are, little ol' Steve, but they won't get it. We
dropped the treasure car, the last lighted Pullman with the silver
bricks in it, off on the siding where those crazy elopers flagged us.
Your Uncle Dudley wasn't taking any chances."