"The big deal," Jenner said, "is that the cheatin' little pipsqueak—the one you caused to empty a piss stream down his leg right there in the middle of the Crystal Palace Saloon on account of you had the muzzle of your .45 rammed up his left nostril—happened to be the son of one of the most prominent cattle buyers in town. The kind of man, in other words, who ain't likely to enjoy knowin' that folks will be snickerin' behind his back over his son havin' been showed up as a cheatin' little pissy-pants. He's gonna want to lash out at somebody."
"Then it seems to me he oughta be lookin' in the direction of his weak-bladdered offspring if he wants to lash out. Besides, a couple of the town marshal's deputies came around last night and settled everything down. It's all taken care of as far as any chance for a backlash on me."
"Is it? How can you be sure?" Jenner said. "How do you know the buyer ain't at the marshal's office—or maybe the mayor's—right now, demandin' that something be done about the ruffian who threatened the life of his boy? You know how loud money can talk in prairie towns like this. Whatever those deputies considered as bein' 'settled' last night won't amount to a hill of beans if the big bucks buyer insists on something more bein' done."
Frane's expression became twisted with concern. "So what are you sayin', Royce? You think I may be in a heap of trouble?"
"I don't know. But we can't risk it," Jenner told him. "I think it's best if you hightailed it out of town. Take the rest of the boys who came in with us and go on back to join the others up in the camp we got set up north of that checkpoint. There's plenty of provisions already there. I'll be joinin' you before evenin', but I've got to stick here a while longer and trade a couple more telegrams before I leave."
"You heard anything so far today?"
Jenner nodded. "Just a little while ago. The race is underway. Everything is fallin' into place just like it's supposed to...A couple more days they'll be right in our laps."
Jenner's tense body language seemed abruptly to shift, loosen somewhat. He leaned forward and extended a hand to Frane, helping him back to his feet. "I'm sorry for the rap in the mouth, Eliot," he said earnestly, making direct eye contact with the man he'd knocked down only moments earlier. "But this thing is big. Big. If we pull it off, we'll be set for life. That's why we got to stay sharp every second."
"I understand, Royce. I shouldn't've done what I did. You can count on me not to slip up any more."
Jenner continued to grip the hand he'd pulled Frane up by, continued to peer intently into the other man's eyes. "If things go bad, Eliot, it will mean more than just missing out on the big pay-off. It will mean we've put ourselves crossways of some very bad people—people who will come hunting for us and never stop, never turn back. Never. More than anything else, that's the part you need to keep in mind."
Chapter Eight
The race went without incident for the balance of that first day. With only a minimal amount of position shifts, the riders remained in the same loose grouping they had assumed from the start. Omar Nassir stayed in the lead throughout. His big gray Arabian, El Numa, seemed to glide as smoothly and tirelessly as the rider's flowing white robes that streamed out behind him.
The siding where the race train awaited, along with overnight rest accommodations for riders and mounts alike, was seventy-five miles from the morning's start line. The racers clocked in just as dusk was settling, only a handful of minutes separating Nassir, the leader, from Curly Nesbitt bringing up the rear.
As soon as he'd climbed out of the saddle and turned Charger over to the grooms who would rub him down, feed and water him, then present him to the vet who was on hand to examine all of the horses to make sure they suffered no injuries or strains, J.D. looked around for Kate. He didn't have to look far. She came slamming into his arms and planted a big kiss on his mouth, not caring who was looking on.
When their lips parted, J.D. held her at arm's length and said with a grin, "Well, hi there pretty lady. Are you on hand to greet all of the race riders like this?"
"Don't they wish," Kate replied impishly. "But my kisses are only for you, cowboy."
"Kisses? That's all I've got to look forward to?"
"Depends how you play your cards. Might be this gal could be persuaded into something more."
"I'll be sure to keep that in mind. But I do my best persuadin' when I ain't caked with about a half acre of ridin' dust and parched to the bone. They got any cold beer around here? And a place for a fella to wash up?"
"I'm way ahead of you," Kate told him. "They have a choice of sleeping compartments on the train or personal tents that are set up for any of the riders to use if they want. I was able to get us one of the latter, off near the end of the row where we'll have more privacy. In our tent, I have waiting a plateful of food that I loaded up from the mess tent, along with a half dozen bottles of beer bedded down in a bucket of ice. There's a wash stand with fresh water in there, too."
"You're dang near as smart and thoughtful as you are pretty, you know that?" This time it was J.D. who planted the kiss. Then he said, "Lead the way, darlin', I feel my persuadin' powers startin' to gain strength already."
Kate slipped her right arm through J.D.'s left and nudged him in the direction of the tent she had claimed for them. This temporarily occupied her gun hand and somewhat obstructed the Colt riding on her shapely right hip—conditions she seldom willingly allowed—but for the few minutes it would take to reach the tent, and taking into consideration that J.D. continued to have free access to his sidearm, Kate made the exception.
As the deepening shadows of dusk gave way more and more to the darkness of full night, the two of them threaded a course through the throng of people and activities, all on hand in some capacity related to the race. Pools of pale gold cast by frequent high-hanging lanterns, augmented by the illumination from several crackling campfires, lighted their way. Twice, reporters tried to stop them in order to try and get a statement from J.D., only to be politely but firmly brushed away each time.
The tent, when they reached it, was a roomy, high-peaked structure of the type favored by military officers. Inside, the features were spare but comfortable, made even more so by the touches Kate had added.
While J.D. stripped to the waist and got washed up—after chugging down one of the cold beers from the bucket—Kate spread out the food she'd brought atop a folding table. When the two of them sat down to partake, Kate settled on the edge of the Army cot, part of the furnishings that came with the tent, along with a surprisingly comfortable canvas camp chair that J.D. sank into.
While they ate, they shared what each had to offer in the way of news and/or observations from their part of the day.
"Only trouble is," J.D. said, kicking it off, "I'm afraid I ain't got a whole lot to report. My day, like everybody else around me, was spent pushing our mounts to keep up with that crazy A-rab. I'll tell you one thing and that ain't two: That sand-chewin' devil can flat-out ride, and that big gray of his is one fine-tuned animal. Like a damn machine."
"Sounds like you've upgraded him a bit from the camel jockey you immediately decided you didn't trust and weren't interested in giving the benefit of any doubt."
"Well, maybe I jumped to the wrong conclusion. Maybe," J.D. allowed. He took a swig from a fresh beer. "Besides, admirin' the way somebody does something or a certain skill they might have don't necessarily mean you're ready to swap cuts and become blood brothers. You can admire the way an axe murderer swings his axe and how fine he conditions his blade, but that don't make him somebody you'd want to invite over for Sunday dinner with the family."
"You saying you think maybe Nassir has got an axe under all those billowing robes?" Kate teased.
"Knock it off. You know what I mean."
"Okay. Anything else?" Kate wanted to know.
"The only thing else, and I'm not sure if it means anything or not, is that Pete Blaylock seemed to be givin' me the stink eye all day long. Every time I glanced his way, he was glarin' back and pure shootin' dag
gers with his look."
"You have words with him about it?"
"No, not yet. Considerin' how it ain't no secret that you and me are part of all this to be on guard for shady doings, I'm guessin' maybe Blaylock figures we've pegged him as one of our prime suspects to keep an eye on. And he don't much like it. That could mean he's out to play it straight and he resents our suspicion—or he ain't anglin' to play it straight and he don't like havin' us around lookin' over his shoulder."
"Either way, it doesn't sound like he accomplished making us any less suspicious of him."
"Nope...So how about from your end? You come across anything interesting?"
"Not really. Not much more than you I'm afraid," admitted Kate. "I had a nice lunch with the Grigg brothers. Not that they're on our suspect list or anything, but that was sort of the high point of my day. It gave me a better sense of the two of them. I have to say, I favor Jonathan somewhat over Edgar. He seems a bit warmer, more down to earth. And he is dearly in love with his wife, something that's always a plus in my book. Edgar is less personable, more driven. He seems to relish all the excitement of this race, whereas Jonathan acts more like he got caught up in the whole thing and almost wishes he hadn't."
"Well it's a little late for that. He's caught up in the thick of it, and that's for sure."
"I did observe something more that might be of note," Kate said. "Late in the morning, before I took lunch with the brothers, I saw Edgar talking to a man in the club car. The man was a stranger, dressed in range clothes, unshaven with a growth of white-tipped whiskers. Hardly the businessman sort you usually see Edgar consorting with. The two of them seemed involved in a very intense conversation.
"I really didn't think too much of that at the time. But later, after lunch, when I was headed back to my seat and passing between cars, I saw that same white-whiskered man on the outside platform of the car I was entering, huddled off to one side in another deep conversation with a second man I recognized as Burt Kanelly, one of the bunch accompanying the Chicago race entrant Earl Dykstra."
"I get nothing but bad vibes off that character," J.D. muttered.
"I think you can safely say that Kanelly is cut from the same cloth. Anyway, I asked around later and found out the name of the white-whiskered gent he was talking to is Brewster Colfax," said Kate. "But I didn't have a chance to learn much beyond that."
"The fact he hangs around with the likes of Kanelly tells quite a bit."
"That's what I've been thinking. So what does it say, then, that earlier Colfax was also in a mighty serious-looking gab fest with Edgar Grigg?"
J.D. scowled. "I don't know. But it's kinda worrisome, I'll admit. Since you say you saw them jawing in the club car, though, it could be something as simple as the Colfax fella cornering Edgar with some line of gab—the way it sometimes happens in those kind of settings—and Edgar not bein' able to politely give him the slip."
"Could be," Kate allowed, adopting a scowl of her own. "But I can't help thinking we're being awfully willing to make possible excuses for Edgar and that Blaylock jasper, too. Especially you, that goes against your whole nature. How many times have you told me that one of the ways you've kept your skin this long was to always suspect that where there's smoke there's most likely fire?"
"And I ain't sayin' no different now," J.D. protested. "By all means we need to keep an eye on that pair. I was only suggestin' there could be explanations for their actions, that's all. We need to be careful we don't focus so narrow on them two—especially so early in the game—that we miss something from somebody else."
"Well, of course. That goes without saying."
"Good. That settles that, then." J.D. leaned back and sank a little deeper in the canvas chair. "Now that we got business talk out of the way, don't I remember some other talk sorta waitin' in the wings? Something about a certain somebody maybe persuadin' a certain somebody else to—"
A gunshot, sharp and loud even above the pulse of voices and activity that floated through the siding camp, split apart the night. Then two more, in quick succession, came right behind it.
Chapter Nine
In unison, J.D. and Kate sprang to their feet. Colts flashed into their hands and they burst out of the tent before the report of the third shot had completely faded from the air. In keeping with established practice, as they emerged from the tent they broke in opposite directions—Kate to the left, J.D. to the right. Both dropping into a half-crouch and seeking the nearest pool of shadows until they could be certain they had not been drawn out to target themselves for additional fire.
"Which way?" Kate called after no bullets ripped in their direction.
"My side," J.D. answered. "Up on the tracks—one of the cattle cars, I think."
His speculation was confirmed a moment later when the sound of two more shots blasted out. They came from inside the cattle car farthest from their tent. J.D. and Kate could see the bright, yellow-tipped stabs of muzzle flashes, horizontally sliced by the slatted sides of the car.
Kate rushed to J.D.'s side and then the two of them broke into a run toward the source of the shooting.
The encampment of overnight shelters—mostly tents of various sizes and shapes, including a canopy-covered grouping of tables that comprised the mess hall and, distinctly separated from the rest, a clump of small pup tents where the soiled doves from the bordello car plied their trade—was strung out parallel to the siding rails, on the north side, about twenty yards back.
J.D. and Kate raced down the open space between the tracks and the encampment. Some of the people they ran by called out questions, most merely looked on with silent uncertainty and concern.
As they drew abreast of the mess tent, J.D. spotted the Grigg brothers and Estelle, half emerged from under the canopy. The men each held a fat, after-meal cigar in one hand and a tin coffee cup in the other; all three wore alarmed expressions on their faces.
"Stay back!" J.D. told them. "Keep everybody back!"
"Are there horses in that car?" asked Kate, as more shots crashed from up ahead. Suddenly, in between blasts of gunfire came the sound of breaking glass—a lantern shattering!—followed by the flickering glow of flames instantly, hungrily starting to spread.
"Thank God, no!" Estelle Grigg shouted in response. "They're still grazing out back of the tents."
The Blazes broke stride and slowed to a more cautious approach as they reached the near end of the looming cattle car inside of which the shooting was taking place and where now a fire was beginning to rage. A pair of sliding doors stood open on this side, giving access to a loading/unloading ramp that sloped down from the floor of the car to the ground. Tongues of flame were lapping out through the opening.
"You cover this side," J.D. told Kate. "I'm cutting over to the other—that fire's bound to flush somebody."
Without waiting for a response, he veered away and ducked under the edge of the railroad car's frame, just behind a set of massive steel wheels. Over the first rail J.D. scrambled, then bellied low to clear the rods and cables that ran the length of the undercarriage. He balanced himself on one hand, sometimes his knees, as he crabbed to the next rail. At all times he kept his Colt drawn and gripped in his right hand. As he cleared the opposite rail and came out on the south side, more gunfire erupted above and behind him—the latter, he judged, signaling that Kate had joined in on the lead throwing.
Rising once more to a standing position, J.D. peered up at this side of the long car. Through the gaps between the side slats, he could see the throbbing orange-gold of roiling flames. Inasmuch as he was still stripped to the waist from washing up before taking the meal Kate had ready for him, the dancing light patterns played across his lean, well-muscled torso. He could hear the crackle of the fire, feel its heat. It wouldn't be long, he told himself, before no living thing would be able to survive in there.
J.D. poised with his Colt held at the ready, anticipating that—since Kate had already established her presence on the other side—any gunman le
ft inside meaning to try and make a break for it would have to come out over here. In the tense seconds he held there, waiting, J.D. became aware of a new sound, an increasing noise apart from the gun shots and the feeding frenzy of the fire and the buzz of anxious voices growing in volume throughout the encampment as concern for the threat of the fire increased. There was a rhythmic, rumbling clatter to this new sound as it became louder, closer. And then, as the ground under his feet began to tremble, J.D. abruptly knew …
A train was coming hard and fast down the main track!
Snapping a glance to the west, J.D. saw the unmistakable glowing orb of the locomotive's headlight and the column of thick black smoke chugging against the winking of a few early stars and the lighter darkness of the sky. An east-bounder was sweeping around a long, low curve and approaching at full steam. Inasmuch as the siding that held the parked "race train" was offset from the main tracks by more than a dozen yards there was no real danger posed by the approach. But, from where J.D. now stood, the rush of another train passing by so fast and so close would be breathtaking.
Nevertheless, refusing to be distracted for too long by this new development, J.D. swung his attention back to the situation at hand. Just in time. As his focus returned, the wide loading door on this side of the cattle car slid back and the shape of a gun-wielding man was revealed, backlit by a wall of angry flames.
Shouting to be heard above the clatter of the approaching train, J.D. thrust his Colt forward and called out, "Drop the gun and come ahead. Try otherwise, I drop you!"
The man in the doorway was desperate. And foolish. He made a motion as if he was going to hold out his gun and drop it to the ground. But, at the last second, he jerked it back into a shooting grip and snapped off a shot at J.D. The latter responded instantly, drilling the shape with two slugs square to the body mass. Now, as he died, the man did drop his gun. The upper half of his body twisted part way around, legs crumpling, and then he pitched forward out of the inferno.
Blaze! Ride Hard, Shoot Fast Page 5