It was just at the hour when night fades into the pale shades of the
dawn. No. 52 was thirty minutes behind schedule, which accounted for the
extra throb and sway of the long string of Pullmans, as the huge
compound engine thundered its way around the curves of the Snake Creek
hills.
Suddenly there came the screech of brakes and the train ground to a
shuddering stop. There was no sign of water-tank, station or signal. The
front end of the train was just around a sharp curve.
A man darted back from the engine, running close to the side of the
baggage car. He stepped in between the baggage car and the next coach,
broke the air-hose, lifted the coupler and swung out, waving his free
hand. As the engine started ahead he swung up on the rear of the car and
the engine and one car went on around the curve.
In the rear of the engine cab stood a masked man, with a pistol in each
hand. Lying half across his seat was the fireman, a bloody welt on his
head, while the engineer looked straight ahead and drove according to
directions. The fireman had attempted to fight the two masked men, and
had paid for his foolishness. A mile farther on the man gave the command
to stop, forced the engineer to precede him out of the cab, and the two
of them went back to the baggage car.
Under the baggage car, huddled on the precarious rods was a man. His
face was covered with a once-clean bandanna handkerchief to protect him
from the stinging particles of dust. His clothes were driven full of
grit and he was smoke-blackened until it was impossible to tell whether
he was a white man or a negro.
The halting of the train had been a godsend to him, as he was nearly
exhausted from an all-night grip of the rods, where he had fought
against sleep and exhaustion. He could see the lower half of the
engineer’s and the masked man’s bodies, as they came to the door of the
baggage car. He saw the other man come from the rear of the car and join
them.
He strained his ears to hear what was being said, but was unable to get
more than an occasional word. He heard some one mention “dynamite” and a
little later, “good sense.” Then he heard the door slide back in its
grooves.
He relaxed for a moment and reached for his cigaret papers and tobacco.
He grinned through the grime on his face at the cigaret he managed to
make. It was greasy from his fingers, and his dry tongue had little
power to seal the smoke.
Suddenly there came a crash above him—a jerking crash, which almost
threw him off the rods. His cigaret fell to the road-bed and he clung
with both hands. The three men dropped back to the ground, and he could
see that one of them was carrying a canvas sack, which was heavy with
its contents. One of the men started toward the engine.
It suddenly struck the man on the rods that this was a train hold-up.
One of the men seemed to take a backward step, and from up by the engine
came the dull report of a pistol. The man who had staggered went to one
knee and the other sprang to him. The man on the rods could see that
this kneeling man was completely masked. The other was firing toward the
engine.
He stopped and helped the other to his feet, and as he did so he dropped
his pistol to the rocky ground. He yanked the other man to his feet,
swept up the pistol, and the two of them slid off the grade into the
brush, taking the heavy canvas sack with them.
The man on the rods uncoiled swiftly and crawled out the opposite side
of the car, and a moment later the engine and car began backing swiftly
toward the rest of the train. The man had rolled into the brush and
stayed concealed until the engine had disappeared around the curve.
Then he got to his feet and crossed the track, looking curiously in the
direction taken by the bandits. It was a heavily wooded slope, and the
two men were nowhere in evidence. He glanced down at the ground. A bent
and blackened silver dollar lay among the rocks and near it was a small,
almost triangular piece of pearl. He picked it up and studied it, and
finally put it into his pocket. Then he crossed the track and plunged
into the hills, going in the opposite direction to that taken by the
bandits. He swore softly at himself for being fool enough to leave the
train at that time. He realized that the rods of that train, even if he
was discovered at the next stop, would be safer than being found in the
hills.
He watched the train pass the spot of the hold-up, roaring its way to
the next stop to spread the alarm, which would send mounted men on the
trail of the outlaws. In a few hours the hills would be searched by men
who knew every inch of them.
The man plunged on over a ridge and down into a ravine, where he found a
stream of water. In lieu of soap he used sand, and did not cease
scrubbing until he was restored to his normal color. He was wearing a
cheap flannel shirt, an old vest, overalls and short boots. His hat was
a nondescript sombrero.
When he had laundered himself as well as possible he sprawled at the
edge of the stream and drank deeply. The reflection of his own face in
the pool seemed to amuse him. All his life Jimmy Devlin had smiled at
his own features; for Jimmy Devlin was far from handsome.
Jimmy’s hair was a cross between a roan and a sorrel. It would not part.
His eyes were very blue and deepset. His nose was a trifle too generous
and had been knocked a bit askew in a fight. His mouth was large and
seemed to hold a perpetual smile. He was thirty-two years of age; five
feet eleven inches tall and weighed a hundred and seventy-five. He was
an expert cow-hand, willing to argue anything from psychoanalysis to the
right way to bake a bean—and had just got out of the penitentiary, after
fifteen months served on a three-year sentence.
Jimmy had been sent up for doing just what he had seen these two men
doing a short time before. According to the records of Red Lodge County,
Jimmy Devlin was a bold, bad train-robber.
This was one of the reasons why Jimmy did not want to be picked up by
the officers. Inside his vest pocket were his parole papers. He knew
that the officers would be very glad to find him, and he also knew that
he would have a hard time making them understand that he had nothing to
do with it.
If he had been found on the rods of that robbed car he might have been
able to convince them that he had nothing to do with it; but a paroled
train-robber’s words are of little weight, especially when zealous
officers are seeking some one to imprison.
Therefore, Jimmy Devlin headed once more into the land of purple sage
and dim trails. He felt that he was many miles removed from the spot
where he had been arrested and tried, and there was little danger of any
one knowing him. Jimmy hated the parole. He would have to stay within
the boundaries of the State, and to report at regular intervals to the
sheriff of the county. Just now he felt of the bit of paper sewed inside
his vest pocket, and it brought a frown, as he plodded along.
He stopped and looked across the hills, which stretched away to the
horizon, an endless sea of hill-waves. As far as he could see there was
no hint of a squatter’s cabin nor sign of barbed-wire fences. Thunder
Range was still the open land—a land of the dim trails.
Suddenly Jimmy’s serious face broke into a smile and his hand crinkled
the paper in his pocket.
“Sure,” he muttered, half-aloud, “I should be glad that the paper says
Montana instead of Rhode Island, because I hear they have a small area
down there.”
He turned and started through the sage, disturbing the day dreams of a
jack rabbit, which darted from in front of him and went spindle-legging
its way down the hill, gathering speed at every jump, until it became
but a gray blur in the sage.
“You should be glad, too,” chuckled Jimmy, as the rabbit faded from
view. “Sure, you’d only get goin’ good and run off the edge into the
ocean.”
Jimmy hitched up his pants and started on, hat in hand. Here was a big,
free land—an empire of hills and valleys, far from real civilization;
yet Jimmy Devlin felt that he could not be a part of it. He could never
be a free man, as long as he must report to the law.
“Twelve wise men said I was a train-robber,” he muttered softly, “and
who am I to dispute twelve wise men?”
He shaded his eyes with his hand and glanced around, as if challenging
some one to dispute the question.
“Three years they gave me to repint of my sins, and in fifteen months
they got tired of feedin’ me. Repint on your own meal-ticket, says they.
Be a good citizen from now on, lie to the sheriff fluently, and by doin’
so ye may save the State the cost of feedin’ ye slumgullion stew and the
wear and tear on large rocks.”
Jimmy grinned and scanned the country.
“Talkin’ to meself like a shepherd. I must take another name, that’s
very sure, except with the sheriff—bad luck to him. Still, he may not be
a bad sort. I hope I get a job before the hills are full of
man-hunters—so I do.”
He topped a rise and stopped. Before him spread the Thunder Range. He
could see the great crescent of mountains, the long, sloping foot-hills.
He took a deep breath and shook his head in wonderment.
“Sure I’m a lucky devil, so I am. I was in the Thunder country and
didn’t know it.”
He scanned the country and looked back, where he could see the dim,
green line of Bitter River.
“It’s the place,” he muttered. “I’m too far South yet, though. Sure, I
wonder if he did what he said he would? Wish I knew where he was, the
poor divil. He wanted to go to Arizony and try to fight the pain in his
chest. I was fool enough to cut into the game and let the sheriff chase
me. I thought I had a fast horse; but I miscounted me speed per mile.
“Ah, well, it was only fifteen months. I hope that some soft-hearted
Mick will help me out in return, if I ever need it. Fifteen months in
the penitentiary and further orders not to leave the State. Mebbe it was
worth it—I dunno. Talkin’ to meself again! Hm-m-m!”
He shook his head and started toward the North.