SEALED ORDERS.
I’m glad you’ve decided to throw in with us, Milt. It’ll beat punchin’
cows for a crusty uncle. You’ll have a change of scenery from Texas to
Wyomin’, and all kinds of excitement, includin’, mebbe, a little
shootin’, which ought to appeal to a young feller like you.”
Two men sat conversing in the railroad station. One was middle-aged,
with grizzled hair and mustache, tall and big-limbed, but with no
extra flesh on his massive frame. His face was long-jowled and
determined looking, and his keen gray eyes were overhung with bushy
brows, which were often drawn together in a scowl. Asa Swingley had
awed many an opponent into submission. Others, whom his aggressive
appearance could not impress, he had beaten or shot, for “Two-bar Ace”
was equally at home in a rough-and-tumble or a gun fight.
“Well, I’ve said I’d come, and you can count me in,” said Swingley’s
companion. “But I reserve the right to drop out if I think things
aren’t on the level.”
Swingley’s brows drew together quickly, and he shot a stabbing glance
into the eyes that looked into his. But there was no quailing under
the look. The big cattleman gazed into the face of a youth whose
determination equaled, if it did not exceed, his own.
Milton Bertram was only slightly smaller of build than the giant
cattleman. Both men had laid aside their coats, owing to the heat of
the station. In their flannel shirts, with cartridge belts and guns
sagging at their waists, trousers tucked into high-heeled, spurred
boots, they typified perfectly the man’s country from which they had
come. Bertram had laid aside his sombrero, showing a luxuriant crop of
black hair with a distinct tendency to curl. His forehead was broad,
its whiteness in strong contrast with his deeply tanned features. His
smoothly shaven face was regular in outline, and his dark eyes, for
all their straightforward and fearless expression, had a half-humorous
twinkle in them which mystified Swingley.
“It’s too late for you to quit now,” declared the latter finally,
discovering that he could not “look down” the youth at his side.
“I didn’t say anything about quitting,” answered Bertram easily. “I’ve
thrown in with you, though it is at the last minute. But, to tell you
the truth, I haven’t exactly liked the looks of this scheme very much
from the start. You’ve shown too much secrecy about it--getting all
these men together under sealed orders.”
“You’ll find it’s got the right brand run on it.”
“All right, but you’ve got to admit I’ve had some grounds for
suspicion. The gang you’ve picked up is the worst in this section.
You’ve headed the bunch with Tom Hoog, a notorious killer, and the
others aren’t much behind him.”
“I like men who can take care of themselves,” replied Swingley.
“Well, you’ve got ’em over there,” went on Bertram, looking into the
adjoining waiting room, where, in a haze of blue smoke, many
cow-punchers could be seen, lolling about on bed rolls, waiting for
the calling of their train.
They were, as Bertram said, a formidable-looking outfit. Nearly every
man had a record as a killer. With big pistols slapping at their hips,
as they walked, and with rifles in leather scabbards, stacked in the
corners of the room, or leaning against the rolls of bedding, the
outfit took on the appearance of an armed camp, during a moment of
ease.
Tom Hoog, who had been mentioned by Bertram as the leader of this
daredevil lot, sat apart from the others, gloomily smoking. He was of
medium height, spare but sinewy, with an aquiline nose, which tended
to curve downward over a thin-lipped mouth, in which a cigarette was
always crimped as in a vise. Hoog’s hands evidently were his pride.
They were long and slim, and they had always been kept so well
gauntleted that they were as white as a gambler’s. A wonderful shot
with rifle or revolver and gifted with uncanny quickness on
the “draw,” Hoog had a reputation as a killer that had made his name
feared throughout the district.
“Those fellows are all right,” went on Swingley, “but, outside of
Hoog, they ain’t oversupplied with brains. That’s the big reason why I
wanted to get you. With you and Hoog as my lieutenants I’m goin’ to be
sure that things will go right, and my orders will be carried out.”
“Much obliged,” replied Bertram dryly.
“I had you in mind right from the first,” continued Swingley, with a
keen glance at the young cattleman’s ingenuous face. “I knowed you had
a row with your uncle, old Bill Bertram. Old Bill’s a hard one for any
one to get along with, and the more land he gits control of the harder
he is on them around him. I’m glad you’ve come in, even if it is at
the last minute. Our special train’ll go inside of an hour, right
behind the regular train for the north. You’ll have to look after your
own beddin’ and guns and other stuff, but the wranglers’ll see to
gettin’ your saddle aboard the baggage car, after they’ve loaded the
horses, which they’re doin’ now. I’ll look for you around here in
about an hour.”
The big cattleman rose and, with a growled “good-by” to Bertram, made
his way to the adjoining room, where he took a hasty survey of the
scene and spoke a few words to Hoog. After satisfying himself that
none of the cow-punchers had succumbed to the lure of the town and
drifted away from the station, Swingley strode out on the platform and
was lost to sight along the tracks, where he had gone to superintend
the last of the loading of the horses.
Left alone, Bertram smoked a moment, with his elbow on the arm of the
bench. He knew that he had engaged in a desperate enterprise of some
sort, but the thought of withdrawing was prompted not by the danger,
but by the suspicion, that perhaps the expedition was of a shady
character.
“If we were heading the other way, I’d swear it was a Mexican
revolutionary project of some sort,” thought Bertram. “But there’s no
doubt that we’re going north. I can’t think what it is, unless it has
something to do with the cattle trouble that’s been going on in
Wyoming. Anyway we’ll find out soon enough. Gee, but I hate the job of
having to tie up with Tom Hoog and that gang in there!”
As he rose and put on his coat and stepped out of the station into the
darkness at the poorly lighted entrance, Bertram’s attention was
attracted by a young woman. He had noticed her a few minutes before in
the station. She had come in alone, and, when the northbound train was
called, had arisen and started for the door leading to the gate. But
apparently she had lost her ticket, as, after a hurried search, she
stood irresolute. Then, as if at a loss what to do, she had turned,
and walked out of the station.
“You seem to be having trouble, ma’am,” said Bertram, raising his hat.
“Is there anything I can do?”
The girl, for she seemed to be hardly more than eighteen, drew back in
alarm at first, but something in Bertram’s voice apparently reassured
her, as she answered: “I’ve lost my railroad ticket.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Denver. I must go on this train, and I’m ashamed to confess that I
haven’t enough money to buy another ticket.”
The girl’s voice was as appealing as her face, the beauty of which had
attracted Bertram’s attention in the waiting room. She was of medium
height and of slender proportions, but life and determination were
reflected in her quick, graceful movements and in her speech, which
just now seemed to have lost some of the certainty which was a natural
part of it. Her level brows were drawn together in a frown, and, in
the light from the station window, Bertram could see something like
tears glistening in the brown eyes.
“Have you inquired in the station?” asked Bertram.
“No, because I know that would be of no use. The ticket was stolen by
somebody who wanted me to miss this train.”
The cowboy’s eyebrows were raised slightly, and he whistled. “Who’d
want to stop you?”
“I can’t tell you, but I have known that an attempt would be made to
prevent me from going to Denver--and beyond. I noticed a rough-looking
man next to me at the ticket window, an hour or so ago, when I bought
my transportation. Then he was beside me again when I was checking my
baggage. It must have been at the baggage window that he took the
ticket from this bag.”
“Well, your train goes in five minutes,” answered Bertram. “There’s
only one thing to do, and that’s to get another ticket pronto. Or, if
there is any one watching you, maybe it’d be better if I bought the
transportation. You wait here, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Before the girl could reply the young cowboy, who was used to acting
on impulse, reentered the station and sauntered over to the ticket
window. In a voice loud enough to be heard in the adjoining room he
asked the ticket seller if the clock in the waiting room was right.
Then, in a lower voice, he asked for a Denver ticket, accomplishing
the exchange of money and transportation without calling any undue
attention to the transaction. Then he sauntered to the door and
stepped outside again.
“Come on,” he said, thrusting the ticket into the girl’s hand and
keeping tight hold of the little fist. “There’s no use of your going
through the ticket office. We’ll hurry around the end of the building,
and you can dodge past all those trunks and get to the gate, just as
easy as a colt slipping through a corral.”
“Where can I send the money for the ticket?” asked the girl, as they
hurried through the darkness.
“Oh, just send it to Milton Bertram, care of William Bertram, of the
Box Ranch, Bertramville,” replied the cowpuncher. “If you don’t write
me a long letter, telling me how you enjoyed the trip, I’m going to be
sure peevish.”
The girl laughed, and the note of her laughter was as clear as a meadow
lark’s trill. Bertram stood in the darkness near the baggage room and
watched her disappear through the gate. He saw the train depart and
then turned regretfully away, his hand still thrilling to the touch of
the girl’s hand, which had given his own a quick clasp of
thankfulness.