“DON’T MOVE!”
★
Bob wished that he could feel the confidence of Condon Adams’ words as he
stepped into the elevator and dropped toward the main floor. At the desk
he turned in his room key and then took a taxi to the same station where
earlier in the night, in company with Condon Adams, he had captured two
of the suspected gem smugglers.
The young federal agent purchased his ticket for Atalissa and the agent
cautioned him about the change at the junction. Then Bob picked up his
bag and walked through the now practically deserted waiting room and out
into the train shed where a stubby, three car train was waiting for the
final call of “booo-ard” to start its jerking journey southward. An
express car and a combination baggage and mail car were behind the engine
while the rear car was a dimly lighted coach.
Bob climbed up the steps. The seats were of green plush, and halfway up
the interior of the car was a wooden partition which marked the forward
end of the coach as the smoking compartment. There were only two people
in the rear half and Bob turned one seat over so a double seat would be
available. Then he stuck his ticket in his hat band, folded up his
corduroy coat for a pillow, and curled up to make the best of the lonely
trip to Atalissa.
The federal agent had dropped into a light sleep when the train started.
He roused up long enough to hear it roll over a bridge and then he went
back to sleep, failing to hear the conductor when he removed the ticket
from the band of his hat.
The local jerked and stopped and then jerked into motion again. This
operation was repeated a number of times, but Bob slept heavily through
it all, for his body was near exhaustion. It was well after dawn when he
finally moved and he groaned softly as the blood started flowing once
more through his cramped legs.
Bob sat up and massaged his legs and arms. It was quite clear out now and
the local was rocking along a desolate stretch of Florida east coast.
Somewhere along the line the other passengers had left the train and Bob
was now the only occupant of the coach.
He got up and walked to the water cooler. Fortunately there was an ample
supply of water and after bathing his face and hands with the cool
liquid, he felt much refreshed though ravenously hungry.
Up ahead the engineer blasted his whistle for a highway crossing and Bob
felt the air brakes go on, the old wooden coach jumping around in protest
as the speed dropped sharply. They clacked over switches and Bob, looking
ahead, could see a weather beaten station, on the other side of which
another train was standing. This, he concluded, must be the junction.
The conductor, coming back from the baggage car, gave Bob his train
check.
“Don’t have many passengers going to Atalissa,” he said. “Them that wants
to get there usually go by car or boat.”
The local rocked to a creaking halt and Bob, his Gladstone in hand,
stepped down on the cinder platform.
The accommodation which was to take him the rest of the way to Atalissa
was on the other side of the station. The engine, an antiquated little
affair, looked about like a teakettle, but the two freight cars and the
passenger car on the back end were standard size equipment.
The conductor, in faded blue overalls, looked at Bob’s ticket.
“Guess you’re the only passenger,” he said. “Well, we might as well be
going.”
“How about breakfast?” asked Bob.
“Hungry?” asked the conductor.
“Just about starved,” confessed Bob.
“Well, we stop at Ainsworth about ten miles down the line. There’s a
little place there where you can get a bite to eat.”
There appeared to be nothing else to do so Bob climbed up the steps of
the old wooden coach and put his Gladstone in the first seat at the rear.
The engineer whistled a wheezy “high ball” and the conductor swung up on
the back end as the accommodation started its daily run for the seacoast.
The air in the coach was stuffy and Bob found it pleasanter on the rear
platform, watching the track wind away in the distance and they swung
around curves and chugged their way up steep grades. It seemed incredible
that in such a peaceful appearing country there must be located the
headquarters for a relentless band of smugglers.
The second stop of the accommodation that morning was at Ainsworth and as
the train slowed down for the station, the conductor came back and spoke
to Bob.
“We’ll be here about fifteen minutes. That ought to give you time enough
to get something to eat. Restaurant’s right back of the station.”
Bob estimated that Ainsworth must be a village of some two hundred souls
and he was dubious about the quality of the food which he would obtain,
but when he stepped inside the eating house he was agreeably surprised by
the cleanliness and an elderly woman took his order with pleasing
promptness.
Bob took a cold cereal, and ate it with relish while eggs and bacon
sputtered on a stove in the kitchen. When they were ready he ordered
coffee and several doughnuts.
“Don’t need to hurry too much, they won’t go away without you,” reassured
the woman who waited on him.
But Bob finished in ample time to enjoy a leisurely walk back to the
train. When he reentered the day coach he was surprised to find another
occupant, a large, heavy-boned man with a faded mustache and thinning
hair. What surprised Bob even more was to see a badge on the other’s vest
and he strolled forward through the car. His eyes opened a little wider
when he saw that the badge worn by the other said, “Sheriff.”
The water cooler was a convenient place to stop and Bob, studying the
other man in leisure, drank two cups of water.
Suddenly the sheriff spoke.
“Now that you’ve about sized me up, what’s on your mind, Bud?”
Bob almost fell over backwards for he had tried to make his observation
of the other man altogether casual.
“Nothing,” he managed to reply, but the word failed to carry conviction.
“Not trying to dodge the law, are you?” asked the sheriff, and Bob
noticed that a perfectly capable looking gun was holstered under the
other’s right shoulder.
“No,” said Bob.
“Then why are you carrying a gun?”
Bob started, almost guiltily, and his face flushed.
“That,” he retorted, “is none of your business.”
After the words were out he could almost have bitten his tongue in two
for if the sheriff pressed him for an answer, he would be forced to
reveal his identity and such things as local sheriffs being involved in
crime was not altogether unknown.
“I’m making it my business right now,” snapped the older man and before
Bob could move, a gun appeared in the other’s hands.
“Put up your hands and turn around. Do it slowly and you won’t be hurt,
but if you make one false move, I’ll let you have it.”