FUGITIVE
Rodeo, Hachita, Monument--long hours between each town as the local did
its variable thirty-five miles an hour across the southern end of New
Mexico. It was Pete's first experience in traveling by rail, and true
to himself he made the most of it. He used his eyes, and came to the
conclusion that they were aboard a very fast train--a train that "would
sure give a thoroughbred the run of its life"--Pete's standard of speed
being altogether of the saddle--and that more people got on and off
that train than could possibly have homes in that vast and uninhabited
region. The conductor was an exceedingly popular individual. Every
one called him by his "front name," which he acknowledged pleasantly in
like manner. Pete wondered if the uniformed gentleman packed a gun;
and was somewhat disappointed when he discovered that that protuberance
beneath the conductor's brass-buttoned coat was nothing more deadly
than a leather wallet, pretty well filled with bills and loose
silver--for that isolated railroad did a good cash business and
discriminating conductors grew unobtrusively wealthy. And what was
still more strange to Pete was the fact that the conductor seemed to
know where each person was going, without having to refer to any
penciled notation or other evident data.
The conductor was surprisingly genial, even to strangers, for, having
announced that the next station was El Paso, he took the end seat of
the combination baggage and smoking car, spread out his report sheet,
and as he sorted and arranged the canceled tickets, he chatted with
Pete and Brevoort, who sat facing him. Had they heard the news?
Brevoort shook his head. Well, there had been a big fight down along
the line, between the northern cattlemen and Arguilla's soldiers. It
was rumored that several American cowboys had been killed. He had
heard this from the agent at Hermanas, who had "listened in" on the
wire to El Paso. Perhaps they had heard about it, though, as they had
come up from that way. No? Well, the El Paso papers already had the
news, by wire. How was the cattle business going, anyway?
Brevoort said that it was pretty fair.
The conductor knew of a nice little hotel near the station--in fact he
stopped there himself. El Paso was the end of his run. If the boys
were going to see the town, they couldn't do better than to stop at
this hotel. Clean beds, good food, quiet, and reasonable as to rates.
Pete was about to say something when Brevoort touched him gently with
his knee.
"We was lookin' for a place like that," said Brevoort, suddenly
loquacious. "We sure aim to see this town. We just been paid off--we
was workin' for the Bar-Cross--and we figured on seein' a little high
life a-fore we went to punchin' again. Is that hotel you was speakin'
about open all night?"
The conductor chuckled. "Ain't been closed a minute for six years that
I know. Mostly railroad men. And say, if you figure on being in town
more than a couple of days, you can save money by taking your room by
the week."
"Thanks," said Brevoort. "We aim to stay a week, anyhow."
"Well, they'll use you all right," asserted the conductor. "And if
you're looking for a place to buy anything--clothes or collars or
shirts--why, right across from the hotel there's as fine a little
clothing-store as you can find in town. The man that runs is a friend
of mine, and he'll use you white. Just tell him I sent you. Stokes is
his name--Len Stokes."
"Thanks, neighbor," said Brevoort, and Pete thought that Brevoort's
tone was the least bit sarcastic.
"That's all right," said the genial conductor. "I always like to see
the boys have a good time."
Pete himself was a trifle suspicious of the conductor's solicitude as
to their welfare, naturally unaware that that worthy official got a
rake-off on all customers mentioning his name at the hotel and
clothing-store.
He gathered up his reports and tickets, snapped a rubber band round
them, and dropped them in his capacious pocket. "We're eight minutes
late," he remarked, glancing at his watch. "Now what--" He rose and
made for the end door as the train slowed up and stopped at an isolated
siding. Pete glanced out and saw a little red box of a building, four
or five empty freight cars, and a curve of rail that swung off south
from the main line. No passengers got on or off the train, but Pete
noticed that the conductor was talking earnestly with a hollow-cheeked,
blue-overalled man who had just handed him a slip of paper.
The conductor waved his arm. The train pulled out. A little later he
came and took his seat opposite Pete. Conductor Stokes seemed even
more genial than ever, elaborating on the opportunities for "a good
time" in El Paso, and reiterating the hope that they would make
themselves at home at his hotel. He joked and talked familiarly about
the more notorious sections of the town, warned them to be on the
lookout for thugs, and finally excused himself and entered the baggage
compartment.
Pete saw Brevoort lean forward and hastily snatch up a crumpled slip of
paper which had dropped from the conductor's pocket as he got up.
Brevoort scanned the paper, crumpled it, and tossed it out in the aisle.
"We didn't see that," he told Pete.
"What was it?"
"Forget it," said Brevoort, as the door opened and the conductor,
glancing about, finally saw and recovered the service wire. "Running
orders," he said, as he stuffed it in his pocket and moved on down the
aisle. Pete gazed out of the window, apparently absorbed in looking at
the desert. Brevoort rolled a cigarette, and nodded casually.
The door in the far end of the car slammed. Brevoort turned to Pete.
"Look straight ahead and--listen. That paper you saw was a telegraph
from the agent at Sanborn sayin' a man had been found shot, and to
watch out for two cow-punchers that bought tickets for El Paso--which
is us. That's how we came to stop at the junction back there, which
ain't a regular stop. It means there'll be a marshal waitin' for us at
El Paso."
"Then let's git off this doggone thing," suggested Pete.
"She stops onct before we git in," said Brevoort. "It's gittin'
dark--and we got one chanct. When she slows down, we go into the
baggage-car there and tell the boss we're lookin' for our war-bag,
which we didn't have. Jest about the time she stops, we drop off. The
side door's open."
"We'll be plumb afoot," said Pete.
"Yes. And we'll have to hole up somewhere till we git some
store-clothes--and change our looks--and mebby our luck, which is
runnin' bad right now."
"Do we split up when we hit town?" queried Pete.
"We got to: and you want to git rid of that there cash just as quick as
you kin. Got any of your own money on you?"
"Got a couple of month's pay. You got the tickets. I'll give you
that."
"Forget it! Small change don't count right now. Awhile back I was
thinkin' of puttin' it up to you that we split the big money and take a
little pasear up to Alaska, where it ain't so warm. The Spider dassent
squeal to the law, bein' in bad hisself. We could sure make a get-away
with it. But that there telegraph done settled that deal."
"It was settled afore that, Ed."
"Meanin' you wouldn't split, anyhow?"
"That's what."
"But it's crooked money, Pete. And it ain't lucky. Supposin' we get
caught? Who gits the money? The Spider, or Arguilla's bunch, or you
or me? Not on your life! The cops get it--and keep it."
"That's all right. But if I git through, these here pesos goes to that
bank. Anyhow, you said it ain't lucky money. So I aim to git away
from it pronto. Then I'm square with The Spider--and I quit."
"You can't shake the game that easy, Pete. I quit when we started for
Sanborn--and what did we run into? And you bein' with me gits you in
bad, likewise."
"If that's what's botherin' you, why, I'll take the chanct, and stick,"
said Pete.
"Nope. Right now I'm lookin' out for myself, and nobody else. If they
kin hang that last deal onto me--and you know what I mean--why, your
Uncle Ed'll sure have to take the long trail. And I aim to keep
a-ridin' in the sun for a spell yet. We're gittin' clost to town.
Mebby we can drop off easy and sift out of sight without any fuss.
Then we got a chanct to change our clothes and git rid of that dough.
They'll be lightin' the lamps right soon. Them saddle-bags buckled?"
"They sure are."
"All right. When you hear 'em whistle for the crossin' jest stand up
and drop 'em out of the window. Nobody kin see you from behind. Then
we mosey into the baggage-car and tell the agent in there we're lookin'
for our war-bag. Bein' express messenger, he packs a gun. You want to
step lively for that side door."
"I git you, Ed. What's all them lights out there?"
"That's the town. She's jest whistlin' for the crossin'. Dump your
freight--easy, like you was lookin' out at the scenery. That's her.
Now, stretch your arms and kind of look round. The conductor is out on
the back platform. Come on!"
The express messenger was leaning from the side door in the act of
swinging a parcel to the local agent at the Grossing, when Brevoort and
Pete entered. With his back toward them and absorbed in launching the
package he did not see them as they angled quickly to the other door
and dropped off into the night. The train slowed almost to a stop, the
grinding brakes eased, and it drew away, leaving Pete and Brevoort
squatting behind a row of empty oil barrels along the track.