THE HOLD-UP
Just beyond the flag station at White Point, where the forest-clad
slopes of the great hills crowded in upon the railroad track, a scene
of utter lawlessness was being silently enacted.
The spot was a lonely one, lonely with that oppressive solitude always
to be found where the great hills of ages rear their towering heads.
It was utterly cut off, too, from the outer world, by a monstrous
abutment of hill which left the track a mere ribbon, like the track of
some invertebrate, laboriously making its way through surroundings all
uncongenial and antagonistic. Yet the station was but a few hundred
yards beyond this point, where it lay open to the sweep of at least
three of the four winds of Heaven. But even so, the two places were as
effectually separated as though miles, and not yards, intervened.
No breath of air stirred the generous spruce and darkening pinewoods.
The drooping, westering sun, already athwart the barren crown of the
hill tops, left a false, velvety suggestion of twilight in the heart
of the valley, while a depressing superheat enervated all life, except
the profusion of vegetation which beautified the rugged slopes. For
the most part the stillness was profound, only the most trifling
sounds disturbing it. There was an uneasy shuffle of moving feet;
there was the occasional crisp clip of a driven axe; then, too,
weighty articles being dropped into the bottom of a heavy wagon sent
up their dull boom at long intervals.
The outlaws worked swiftly, but without apparent haste. The success of
their efforts depended upon rapidity of execution, that and the most
exact care for the detail of their organization. Provided these things
were held foremost in their minds there was small enough chance of
interruption. Had not the train, with its all unconscious driver,
passed upon its rumbling way toward Amberley? Had not all suspicion
been lulled in the mind of the bucolic agent, who was even now
laboriously expending a maximum of energy for a minimum return of
culinary delicacies in his vegetable patch? What was there to
interfere? Nothing. These men well knew that except for the flag
station there was not a habitation within ten miles, and the
ruggedness of the hills barred them to every form of traffic except
the irresistible impulse of railroad enterprise.
Three men carried out the work of unloading the box car, while the two
others held the train crew at bay. All were masked with one exception,
and he, from his evident authority and mode of dress, was obviously
the leader of the gang.
He was a slight, dark man, of somewhat remarkable refinement of
appearance. He was good looking, and almost boyish in the lack of hair
upon his face. But this was more than counterbalanced by the
determined set of his features, and the keen, calculating glance of
his eyes. The latter, particularly, were darkly luminous and lit with
an expression of lawless exhilaration as the work proceeded. Compared
with his fellows, who were of the well-known type of ruffian, in whom
the remoter prairie lands abound, he looked wholly out of place in
such a transaction. His air was that of a town-bred man, and his
clothing, too, suggested a refinement of tailoring, particularly the
rather loose cord riding breeches he affected. The others, masked as
they were, with their coatless bodies, and loose, unclean shirts,
their leather chapps, and the guns they wore upon their hips--well,
they made an exquisite picture of that ruffianism which bows to no law
of civilization, but that which they carry in the leather holsters
hanging at their waists.
The trackside was strewn with disemboweled whitewood barrels. The
wreckage was grotesque. The ground was strewn in every direction with
a litter of white cube sugar, like the wind-swept drifts of a summer
snowfall. Barrels were still being dragged out of the car and dropped
roughly to the ground, where the sharp stroke of an axe ripped out the
head, revealing within the neatly packed keg of spirit, embedded so
carefully in its setting of sugar. The cargo had been well shipped by
men skilled in the subtle art of contraband. It was billed, and the
barrels were addressed, to a firm in Calford whose reputation for
integrity was quite unimpeachable. Herein was the cunning of the
smugglers. The sugar barrels were never intended to reach Calford.
They were not robbing the consignees in this raid upon the freight
train. They were simply possessing themselves, in unorthodox fashion,
of an illicit cargo that belonged to their leader.
Fifteen kegs of spirit had been removed and bestowed in the wagon.
There were still five more to complete the tally.
The leader, in easy tones, urged his men to greater speed.
"Get a hustle, boys," he said, in a deep, steady voice, while he
strove with his somewhat delicate hands to lift a keg into the wagon.
The effort was too great for him single-handed, and one of his
assistants came to his aid.
"There's no time to spare," he went on a moment later, breathing hard
from his exertion. "Maybe the loco driver'll whistle for brakes." He
laughed with a pleasant, half humorous chuckle. "If that happens,
why--why I guess the train'll be chasing back on its tracks to pick up
its lost tail."
He spoke with a refined accent of the West. The man nearest him
guffawed immoderately.
"Gee!" he exclaimed delightedly. "This game's a cinch. Guess Fyles'll
kick thirteen holes in himself when that train gets in."
"Thirteen?" inquired the leader smilingly.
"Sure. Guess most folks reckon that figure unlucky."
The third man snorted as he shouldered a keg and moved toward the
Wagon.
"Holes? Thirteen?" he cried, as he dropped his burden into the
vehicle. Then he hawked and spat. "When that blamed train gets around
Amberley he'll hate hisself wuss'n a bank clerk with his belly awash
wi' boardin' house wet hash."
Again came the leader's dark smile. But he had nothing to add.
Presently the last keg was hoisted into the wagon. The leader of the
enterprise sighed.
It was a sigh of pent feeling, the sigh of a man laboring under great
stress. Yet it was not wholly an expression of relief. If anything,
there was regret in it, regret that work he delighted in was finished.
One of the men was removing his mask, and he watched him. Then, as the
face of the man who had been concealed under the car was revealed, he
signed to him.
"Get busy on the wagon," he said.
The man promptly mounted to the driving seat, and gathered up the
reins.
"Hit the south trail for the temporary cache," the leader went on.
"Guess we'll need to ride hard if Fyles is feeling as worried as you
fellows--hope."
The man winked abundantly.
"That's all right, all right. He'll need to hop some when we get busy.
Ho, boys!" And he chirrupped his horses out of the shallow cutting,
and the wagon crushed its way into the smaller bush.
The leader stood for a moment looking after it. Then he turned to the
other man, still awaiting orders.
"Get the other boys' horses up," he said sharply. "Then stand by on
horseback, and hold the train crew while they tumble into the saddle.
Then make for the cache."
The man hurried to obey. There were no questions asked when this man
gave his orders. Long experience had taught these men that there was
no necessity to question. Hardy ruffians as they were they knew well
enough that if they had the bodies for this work, he had a head that
was far cleverer even than that of Inspector Fyles himself.
Meanwhile the leader had moved out into the center of the track, and
his eyes were turned westward, toward the bend round the great hill.
They were pensive eyes, almost regretful, and somehow his whole face
had changed from its look of daring to match them. The exhilaration
had gone out of it; the command, even the determination had merged
into something like weakness. His look was soft--even tender.
He stood there while the final details of his enterprise were
completed. He heard the horses come up; he heard the two men clamber
from the caboose and get into the saddle. Then, at last, he turned,
and moved off the track.
Once more the old look of reckless daring was shining in his luminous
eyes. He dashed off into the bush to mount his horse, leaving his
softer mood somewhere behind him--in the West.
There was a clatter and rattle of speeding hoofs, which rapidly died
out. Then again the hills returned to their brooding silence.
The withdrawal of the outlaws was the cue for absurd activity on the
part of the train crew. A whirlwind of heated blasphemy set in, which
might well have scorched the wooden sides of the car. They cursed
everybody and everything, but most of all they cursed the bucolic
agent at White Point.
Then came a cautious reconnoitering beyond the door. This was promptly
followed by a pell-mell dash for the open. In a moment they were
crowding the trackside, staring with stupid eyes and mouths agape at
the miniature snowfall of sugar, and the wreckage of whitewood
barrels.
The conductor was the first to gather his scattered faculties.
"The lousy bums!" he cried fiercely. Then he added, with less ferocity
and more regret, "The--lousy--bums!"
A moment later he turned upon his comrades in the aggrieved fashion of
one who would like to accuse.
"'Taint no use in gawkin' around here," he cried sharply. "We're up
agin it. That's how it is." Then his face went scarlet, as a memory
occurred to him. "Say, White Point's around the corner. And that's
where we'll find that hop-headed agent--if he ain't done up. Anyways,
if he ain't--why, I guess we'll just set him playin' a miser-arey over
his miser'ble wires, that'll set 'em diggin' out a funeral hearse and
mournin' coaches in that dogasted prairie sepulcher--Amberley."
* * * * *
Mr. Moss was disentangling the crick in his back for the last time
that day. His stomach had forced on him the conviction that his
evening meal was a necessity not lightly to be denied.
His back eased, he shouldered his hoe and moved off toward his shanty
with the dispirited air of the man who must prepare his own meal. As
he passed the lean-to, where his kindling and fuel were kept, he flung
the implements inside it, as though glad to be rid of the burden of
his labors. Then he passed on round to the front of the building with
the lagging step of indifference. There was little enough in his life
to encourage hopeful anticipation.
At the door he paused. Such was his habit that his eyes wandered to
the track which had somehow become the highway of his life, and he
glanced up and down it. The far-reaching plains to the west offered
him too wide a focus. There was nothing to hold him in its breadth of
outlook. But as his gaze came in contact with the frowning crags to
the east, a sudden light of interest, even apprehension, leaped into
his eyes. In a moment he became a creature transformed. His bucolic
calm had gone. The metamorphosis was magical.
In one bound he leaped within the hut. Then, in a moment, he was back
at the door again, his tensely poised figure filling up the opening.
His powerful hands were gripping his Winchester, and he stood ready.
The farmer in him had disappeared. His eyes were alight with the
impulse of battle.
Along the track, from out of the hills, ran four unkempt human
figures. They were rushing for the flag station, gesticulating as they
came. In the loneliness of the spot there was only one interpretation
of their attitude for the waiting man.
Mr. Moss's voice rang out violently, and caught the echo of the hills.
"What in hell----?" he shouted, raising the deadly Winchester swiftly
to his shoulder. "Hold up!" he went on, "or I'll let daylight into
some of you."
The effect of this challenge was instantaneous and almost ludicrous.
The oncoming figures stopped, and nearly fell over each other in their
haste to thrust their hands above their heads. Then the eager, anxious
shout of the gray-headed brakeman came back to him.
"Fer Gawd's sake don't shoot!" he cried, in terrified tones. "We're
the train crew! The freight crew! We bin held up! Say----!"
But the lowering of the threatening gun saved him further explanation
at such a distance.
The light of battle had entirely died out of Mr. Moss's eyes, but it
was the brakeman's uniform, rather than his explanation, that had
inspired the white flag of peace.
The man came hastily up.
"What the----?" began the agent. But he was permitted to proceed no
further.
The angry eyes of the brakeman snapped, and his blasphemous tongue
poured out its protesting story as rapidly as his stormy feelings
could drive him. Then, with an added violence, he came to his final
charge of the agent himself.
"What in hell did you flag us for?" he cried. "You, on this bum
layout? Do you stand in with these 'hold-ups'? I tell you right here
this thing's goin' to be just as red-hot for you as I can make it.
That train was flagged _without official reason_," he went on with
rising heat. "Get me? An' you're responsible."
Having delivered himself of his threat, he assumed the hectoring air
which the moral support of his companions afforded him.
"Now, you just start right in and get busy on the wires. You can just
hammer seven sorts of hell into your instruments and call up Amberley
quick. You're goin' to put 'em wise right away. Macinaw! When I'm done
with this thing you're goin' to hate White Point wuss'n hell, an' wish
to Gawd they'd cut 'flag station' right out o' the conversation of the
whole durned American continent."
Mr. Moss had listened in a perfect daze. It was his blank acceptance
of the brakeman's hectoring which had so encouraged that individual.
But now that all had been told, and the man's harsh tones ceased to
disturb the peace of their surroundings, his mind cleared, and hot
resentment leaped to his tongue.
He sat down at his instrument and pounded the key, calling up
Amberley; and as the Morse sign clacked its metallic, broken note he
verbally replied to his accuser.
"You've talked a whole heap that sounds to me like hot air," he cried,
with bitter feeling. "Maybe you're old, so it don't amount to
anything. As for your bum freight it was late--as usual. It wasn't my
duty to pass it through till you shouted for signals. There ain't any
schedule for bum freights. When they're late it's up to them."
But for all Mr. Moss's contempt, and righteous indignation, the
brakeman's charge had had its effect. Well enough he remembered the
disjointed connecting rod, and he wondered how these "hold-ups" had
contrived it under his very nose. In his own phraseology, he felt
"sore." But his ill humor was not alone due to the brakeman's abuse.
He was thinking of something far more vital. He knew well enough that
his explanation would never satisfy the heads of his department. Then,
too, always hovering somewhere in the background, was the, to him,
sinister figure of Inspector Fyles of the Mounted Police.