The sheep owner flicked his cigarette ash into the tray, and looked at the lieutenant out of half-shuttered, indolent eyes. “Gave it to you, Bucky.”
O’Connor sat up. His blue Irish eyes were dancing. “You’re a cool customer, Cass.”
“Fact, just the same. Got that letter I handed you the other day?”
The officer produced it from his safe.
“Open it.”
With a paper knife Bucky ripped the flap and took out a sheet of paper.
“There’s something else in there,” Fendrick suggested.
The something else proved to be a piece of paper folded tightly, which being opened disclosed a key.
O’Connor read aloud the letter:
To Nicholas Bolt, Sheriff, Or Bucky O’connor, Lieutenant of Rangers:
Having come into possession of a little valise which is not mine, I am getting rid of it in the following manner. I have rented a large safety-deposit box at the Cattlemen’s National Bank, and have put into it the valise with the lock still unbroken. The key is inclosed herewith. Shaw, the cashier, will tell you that when this box was rented I gave explicit orders it should be opened only by the men whose names are given in an envelope left with him, not even excepting myself. The valise was deposited at exactly 10:30 A. M. the morning after the robbery, as Mr. Shaw will also testify. I am writing this the evening of the same day.
Cass Fendrick.
“Don’t believe a word of it,” Cullison exploded.
“Seeing is believing,” the sheepman murmured. He was enjoying greatly the discomfiture of his foe.
“Makes a likely fairy tale. What for would you keep the money and not turn it back?”
“That’s an easy one, Luck. He wanted to throw the burden of the robbery on you,” Bucky explained.
“Well, I’ve got to be shown.”
In the morning he was shown. Shaw confirmed exactly what Fendrick had said. He produced a sealed envelope. Within this was a sheet of paper, upon which were written two lines.
Box 2143 is to be opened only by Sheriff Bolt or Lieutenant Bucky O’Connor of the Rangers, and before witnesses.
Cass Fendrick.
From the safety-deposit vault Bucky drew a large package wrapped in yellow paper. He cut the string, tore away the covering, and disclosed a leather satchel. Perry Hawley, the local manager of the Western & Southern Express Company, fitted to this a key and took out a sealed bundle. This he ripped open before them all. Inside was found the sum of twenty thousand dollars in crisp new bills.
* * *
CHAPTER XVI
A CLEAN UP
A slight accident occurred at the jail, one so unimportant that Scanlan the jailer did not think it worth reporting to his chief. Blackwell, while eating, knocked a glass from the table and broke it on the cement floor of his cell. There is a legend to the effect that for want of a nail a battle was lost. By reason of a bit of glass secreted in his bed something quite as important happened to the convict.
From the little table in his room he pried loose one of the corner braces. At night he scraped away at this with his bit of glass until the wood began to take the shape of a revolver. This he carefully blacked with the ink brought him by his guard. To the end of his weapon he fitted an iron washer taken from the bedstead. Then he waited for his opportunity.
His chance came through the good nature of Scanlan. The jailer was in the habit of going down town to loaf for an hour or two with old cronies after he had locked up for the night. Blackwell pretended to be out of chewing tobacco and asked the guard to buy him some. About ten o’clock Scanlan returned and brought the tobacco to his prisoner. The moon was shining brightly, and he did not bring a lantern with him. As he passed the plug through the grating Blackwell’s fingers closed around his wrist and drew the man close to the iron lattice work. Simultaneously a cold rim was pressed against the temple of the guard.
“Don’t move, or I’ll fill you full of holes,” the convict warned.
Scanlan did not move, not until the man in the cell gave the word. Then he obeyed orders to the letter. His right hand found the bunch of keys, fitted the correct one to the door, and unlocked it according to instructions. Not until he was relieved of his weapon did Blackwell release him. The jailer was backed into the cell, gagged with a piece of torn bedding, and left locked up as securely as the other had been a few minutes earlier.
The convict made his way downstairs, opened the outer door with the bunch of keys he had taken from Scanlan, locked it behind him, and slipped into the first alley that offered refuge. By way of the Mexican quarters he reached the suburbs and open country. Two hours later he stole a horse from an irrigated ranch near town. Within twenty-four hours he had reached the Soapy Stone horse ranch and safety.
After this the plans for the raid on the Texas, Arizona & Pacific Flyer moved swiftly to a head. Soapy Stone and Sam dropped into Saguache inconspicuously one evening. Next day Stone rode down to Tin Cup to look over the ground. Maloney telephoned their movements to the Circle C and to the Hashknife. This brought to Saguache Luck Cullison, Curly Flandrau, and Slats Davis. Bucky O’Connor had been called to Douglas on important business and could not lend his help.
Curly met Sam in front of Chalkeye’s Place. They did the town together in a mild fashion and Flandrau proposed that they save money by taking a common room. To this young Cullison agreed.
Luck, Curly and Dick Maloney had already ridden over the country surrounding the scene of the projected hold-up. They had decided that the robbery would probably take place at the depot, so that the outlaws could get the agent to stop the Flyer without arousing suspicion. In a pocket of the hills back of the station a camp had been selected, its site well back from any trail and so situated that from it one could command a view of Tin Cup.
The owner of the Circle C selected three of his closemouthed riders—Sweeney, Jake and Buck were the ones he chose—to hold the camp with him until after the robbery. The only signal they needed was the stopping of the Flyer at Tin Cup. Then they would come pounding down from the hills in time to catch the robbers before they had got through with their work. Maloney or Curly would be on the train to take a hand in the battle. Caught by surprise, Soapy’s gang would surely be trapped.
So they planned it, but it happened that Soapy Stone had made his arrangements differently.
Luck and his riders took their blankets and their traps down to Tin Cup according to agreement, while Davis, Maloney and Flandrau looked after the Saguache end of the business. All of them were very friendly with Sam. The boy, younger than any of them, was flattered that three of the best known riders in the territory should make so much of him. Moreover, Stone had given him instructions to mix with Curly’s crowd as much as he could. He had given as a reason that it would divert suspicion, but what he really wanted was to throw the blame of the hold-up on these friends after Sam was found dead on the scene.
Young Cullison had stopped drinking, but he could not keep his nerves from jumping. His companions pretended not to notice how worried he was, but they watched him so closely that he was never out of the sight of at least one of them. Soapy had decreed the boy’s death by treachery, but his friends were determined to save him and to end forever the reign of Stone as a bad man.
It was one day when the four young cowpunchers were sitting together in Curly’s room playing poker that a special delivery letter came to Sam. The others, to cover their excitement, started an argument as to whether five aces (they were playing with the joker) beat a straight flush. Presently Sam spoke, as indifferently as he could.
“Got the offer of a job down the line. Think I’ll run down to-night far as Casa Grande and see what’s doing.”
“If they need any extra riders here’s some more out of a job,” Dick told him.
“Heard to-day of a freighter that wants a mule-skinner. I’m going to see him to-morrow,” Slats chipped in.
“Darn this looking for a job anyhow. It’s tur’ble slow work,” C
urly followed up, yawning. “Well, here’s hoping you land yours, Sam.”
This was about two o’clock in the afternoon. The game dragged on for a while, but nobody took any interest in it. Sam had to get ready for the work of the night, and the rest were anxious to get out and give him a chance. So presently Dick threw down his cards.
“I’ve had enough poker for one session. Me, I’m going to drift out and see what’s moving in town.”
“Think I’ll snooze for a while,” Sam said, stretching sleepily.
The others trooped out and left him alone. From the room rented by Davis the three watched to see that Sam did not leave without being observed. He did not appear, and about six o’clock Curly went back to his room.
“Time to grub,” he sang out.
“That’s right,” Sam agreed.
They went to the New Orleans Hash House, and presently Davis and Maloney also arrived. The party ordered a good dinner and took plenty of time to eat it. Sam was obviously nervous, but eager to cover his uneasiness under a show of good spirits.
Curly finished eating just as Sam’s second cup of coffee came. Flandrau, who had purposely chosen a seat in the corner where he was hemmed in by the chairs of the others, began to feel in his vest pockets.
“Darned if I’ve got a cigar. Sam, you’re young and nimble. Go buy me one at the counter.”
“Sure.” Cullison was away on the instant.
Curly’s hand came out of his pocket. In it was a paper. Quickly he shook the contents of the paper into the steaming cup of coffee and stirred the liquid with a spoon.
Sam brought back the cigar and drank his coffee. Without any unnecessary delay they returned to his room. Before the party had climbed the stairs the boy was getting drowsy.
“Dunno what’s the matter with me. I’m feeling awful sleepy,” he said, sitting on the bed.
“Why don’t you take a snooze? You’ve got lots of time before the train goes.”
“No, I don’t reckon I better.”
He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and slumped down. His lids wavered, shut, jerked open again, and closed slowly.
“Wake me, Curly—time for train.” And with that he was sound asleep.
They took off his boots and settled him comfortably. In his pocket they found a black mask big enough to cover his whole face. The registered letter could not be found and they decided he must have destroyed it.
The sight of the mask had given Curly an idea. He was of about the same build as Sam. Why not go in his place? It would be worth doing just to catch sight of Soapy’s face when he took the mask off after the robbers had been captured.
“What’s the use?” Davis protested. “It’s an unnecessary risk. They might shoot you in place of Sam.”
“I’ll look out for myself. Don’t worry about that. Before the time for getting rid of Sam comes Mr. Soapy and his bunch will be prisoners.”
They argued it out, but Curly was set and could not be moved. He dressed in young Cullison’s clothes and with Maloney took the express at 9:57. Davis remained to guard Sam.
Curly’s watch showed 10:17 when the wheels began to grind from the setting of the air brakes. He was in the last sleeper, Dick in the day coach near the front. They had agreed that Dick was to drop off as soon as the train slowed down enough to make it safe, whereas Curly would go on and play Sam’s part until the proper time.
The train almost slid to a halt from the pressure of the hard-jammed brakes. A volley of shots rang out. Curly slipped the mask over his face and rose with a revolver in each hand. He had been sitting at the end of the car, so that nobody noticed him until his voice rang out with a crisp order.
“Hands up! Don’t anybody move!”
An earthquake shock could not have alarmed the passengers more. The color was washed completely from the faces of most of them.
“Reach for the roof. Come, punch a hole in the sky!” To do it thoroughly, Curly flung a couple of shots through the ceiling. That was enough. Hands went up without any argument, most of them quivering as from an Arkansas chill.
Presently Cranston herded the passengers in from the forward coaches. With them were most of the train crew. The front door of the car was locked so that they could not easily get out.
“We’re cutting off the express car and going forward to ’Dobe Wells with it. There we can blow open the safe uninterrupted,” Bad Bill explained. “You ride herd on the passengers here from the outside till you hear two shots, then hump yourself forward and hop on the express car.”
Fine! Curly was to stand out there in the moonlight and let anybody in the car that had the nerve pepper away at him. If they did not attend to the job of riddling him, his false friends would do it while he was running forward to get aboard. Nothing could have been simpler—if he had not happened to have had inside information of their intent.
He had to think quickly, for the plans of him and his friends had been deranged. They had reckoned on the express car being rifled on the spot. This would have given Cullison time to reach the scene of action. Mow they would be too late. Maloney, lying snugly in the bear grass beside the track, would not be informed as to the arrangement. Unless Curly could stop it, the hold-up would go through according to the program of Soapy and not of his enemies.
The decision of Flamdrau was instantaneous. He slid down beside the track into the long grass. Whipping up one of his guns, he fired. As if in answer to the first shot his revolver cracked twice. Simultaneously, he let out a cry of pain, wriggled back for a dozen yards through the grass, and crossed the track in the darkness. As he crouched down close to the wheels of the sleeper someone came running back on the other side.
“What’s up, Sam? You hit?” he could hear Blackwell whisper.
No answer came. The paroled convict was standing close to the car for fear of being hit himself and he dared not move forward into the grass to investigate.
“Sam,” he called again; then, “He’s sure got his.”
That was all Curly wanted to know. Softly he padded forward, keeping as low as he could till he reached the empty sleepers. A brakeman was just uncoupling the express car when Curly dived underneath and nestled close to the trucks.
From where he lay he could almost have reached out and touched Soapy standing by the car.
“What about the kid?” Stone asked Blackwell as the latter came up.
“They got him. Didn’t you hear him yelp?”
“Yes, but did they put him out of business? See his body?”
Blackwell had no intention of going back into the fire zone and making sure. For his part he was satisfied. So he lied.
“Yep. Blew the top of his head off.”
“Good,” Soapy nodded. “That’s a receipt in full for Mr. Luck Cullison.”
The wheels began to move. Soon they were hitting only the high spots. Curly guessed they must be doing close to sixty miles an hour. Down where he was the dust was flying so thickly he could scarce breathe, as it usually does on an Arizona track in the middle of summer.
Before many minutes the engine began to slow down. The wheels had hardly stopped moving when Curly crept out, plowed through the sand, up the rubble of a little hill, and into a draw where a bunch of scrub oaks offered cover.
A voice from in front called to him. Just then the moon appeared from behind drifting clouds.
“Oh, it’s you, Sam. Everything all right?”
“Right as the wheat. We’re blowing open the safe now,” Flandrau answered.
Moving closer, he saw that his questioner was the man in charge of the horses. Though he knew the voice, he could not put a name to its owner. But this was not the point that first occupied his mind. There were only four horses for five riders. Curly knew now that he had not been mistaken. Soapy had expected one of his allies to stay on the field of battle, had prepared for it from the beginning. The knowledge of this froze any remorse the young vaquero might have felt.
He pushed his revolver against the teeth of the horse wra
ngler.
“Don’t move, you bandy-legged maverick, or I’ll fill your hide full of holes. And if you want to keep on living padlock that mouth of yours.”
In spite of his surprise the man caught the point at once. He turned over his weapons without a word.
Curly unwound a rope from one of the saddles and dropped a loop round the neck of his prisoner. The two men mounted and rode out of the draw, the outlaw leading the other two horses. As soon as they reached the bluff above Flandrau outlined the next step in the program.
“We’ll stay here in the tornilla and see what happens, my friend. Unless you’ve a fancy to get lead poisoning keep still.”
“Who in Mexico are you?” the captured man asked.
“It’s your showdown. Skin off that mask.”
The man hesitated. His own revolver moved a few inches toward his head. Hastily he took off the mask. The moon shone on the face of the man called Dutch. Flandrau laughed. Last time they had met Curly had a rope around his neck. Now the situation was reversed.
An explosion below told them that the robbers had blown open the safe. Presently Soapy’s voice came faintly to them.
“Bring up the horses.”
He called again, and a third time. The dwarfed figures of the outlaws stood out clear in the moonlight. One of them ran up the track toward the draw. He disappeared into the scrub oaks, from whence his alarmed voice came in a minute.
“Dutch! Oh, Dutch!”
The revolver rim pressed a little harder against the bridge of the horse wrangler’s nose.
“He ain’t here,” Blackwell called back to his accomplices.
That brought Stone on the run. “You condemned idiot, he must be there. Ain’t he had two hours to get here since he left Tin Cup?”
They shouted themselves hoarse. They wandered up and down in a vain search. All the time Curly and his prisoner sat in the brush and scarcely batted an eye.
At last Soapy gave up the hunt. The engine and the express car were sent back to join the rest of the train and as soon as they were out of sight the robbers set out across country toward the Flatiron ranch.
Crooked Trails and Straight Page 19