Trigger Gospel

by Harry Sinclair Drago

“That’s just the trouble; he won’t give up as long as he can raise a gun. He thinks he’s as good as ever. We know better. It ain’t no trick to fade him now.”

  For some reason, Little Bill’s mood was as sombre as his brother’s. The others felt it.

  “Aw shucks,” Link chided them, “why borrow trouble ? There’s ten banks hoisted to every train that’s stuck up.”

  “And jest because it’s ten times as easy,” Tascosa declared with a chuckle. “I didn’t figger when I mentioned Waco’s name that it would bring on anything like this. I was afraid he might go gunnin’ for the sheriff when he heard about tonight.” He got to his feet and stretched preparatory to rolling up in his blanket. “I’ll see him tomorrow, Bill, and tell him what’s what. You better roll in now.”

  Little Bill looked after his horse before he turned in. By the time he had washed out the crease Beaudry’s bullet had made and smeared it with axle-grease, the camp was asleep. He got his bedroll then and stretched out beside the wagon. The train of thought Luther had started was still with him and he could not throw it off. He recalled Tascosa’s words about a claybank being unlucky.

  “Can’t be anythin’ to that,” he brooded. “Pop’s never even seen the horse.”

  When sleep came finally it brought dreams of a train rushing through the night; of the ghostly shrieking of a locomotive’s whistle; of an old, spindle-shanked man dozing in his chair in an express-car.

  Chapter IV

  THE heavy, combination mail-and-express car began to roll and lurch on its trucks as the train gathered speed. Number Nine was running eighteen minutes late tonight. Coming out of Medora, Quinlan, the engineer, began to open her up in earnest. He had fifty-five miles of nearly straight track ahead, with only a stop for water at Skull Creek and the bare possibility of being flagged at Wetona between him and the end of his run at Bowie. He expected to pick up at least twelve of those eighteen minutes.

  The glow from the open fire-box played redly over big Ike Bonura, his fireman, and the sweat that dripped from Ike’s streaming brow as he toiled with his shovel fell like drops of blood. He had been building steam for half-an-hour. As he continued to pile it on, the cinders fell in an angry shower on the roof of the mail and express car next the tender.

  Dick Ferris, the railway mail clerk, braced himself as he distributed the stuff that had come aboard at Medora. He was a colorless, thin-faced man; the green eye-shade that he wore cast a sickly tinge over his countenance.

  “This rattler seems to be going places, Waco!” he exclaimed, addressing the old, hatchet-faced man, three times his age, who rode express with him. “They must have been doing some work on the roadbed along here. We seem to be kicking up a lot of dust.” He cast an eye at the ventilators in the roof of the car. “I hope we don’t hit a loose rail.”

  “Say, you’re right cheerful tonight, ain’t yuh?” Waco returned. He was sprawled out comfortably in an old side-arm chair. Without removing his thin shanks from the steel express box on which they were propped he half-turned to send an inquiring glance at Ferris. “What seems to be eatin’ yuh? Yuh been carryin’ on that-a-way all evenin’.”

  His resemblance to his sons was marked. He was taller than Little Bill, but their faces had been carved from the same mold. There was a quizzical expression in their eyes that was identical.

  “Nothing eating me,” Ferris answered, “but I’ll be glad when we roll into Bowie.”

  “What yuh kickin’ about then?” Waco demanded. “We’re certainly rollin’.”

  “Yeah—but a lot can happen in fifty miles. You’re not fooling me by pretending not to have anything on your mind. I know you’ve got something in the safe. You didn’t have your hand off your gun as we stood in Medora.”

  “Well, it’s a purty rough, tough sort of a town,” Waco laughed.

  “Yeah—so tough you couldn’t get the door locked quick enough.”

  Waco scratched his head reflectively. His closely cropped red hair was still as thick as his sons’.

  “I didn’t know you was so observin’, Dick,” he mused aloud. “I don’t mind admittin’ we got a little stuff aboard tonight. I reckon it’s safe enough now; we ain’t openin’ up for nothin’ this side of Bowie.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Ferris murmured nervously. “I’m still carrying one of the slugs in my leg that I got over at Waukomis last spring. I don’t want any more of that.”

  He began to make up the pouch for Bowie. A mournful blast of the whistle split the night air. It sucked in through the ventilators with a blood-chilling whine. Ferris’ head went up with a jerk.

  “Jest blowin’ for the Santee bridge,” Waco explained hurriedly. He was surprised to find his own throat dry.

  They roared across the bridge a moment later with unabated speed. Ferris went on with his work. Waco had nothing to occupy him but his thoughts.

  As a rule, they kept up a running fire of conversation. Tonight, however, they found less and less to say to each other as Number Nine rolled up the miles. In some peculiar way the air had become charged with an electric tension.

  Ferris accepted it with pathetic resignation. His pale face was pasty-looking, his hair damp across his forehead. Waco tried to throw it off. His nerves had never bothered him, and he told himself there was no reason for them to snarl tonight. And yet, when he felt the train lose speed and an almost imperceptible tightening of the air hose as the engineer prepared to slap on the brakes, he felt a cold chill race down his spine.

  The two men found themselves staring at each other and saying nothing. It was only a moment before the pressure was removed from the airline. The wheels began to click faster again.

  Waco grinned a little foolishly at Ferris. Both now realized that the momentary loss of speed meant that they were rushing past Ardusa, their flag stop. Quinlan had only slowed down to see if the light was against him.

  It was Ferris’ turn to laugh off key now.

  “What’s the matter, Waco?” he prodded. “What pulled you out of your chair?”

  “Nothin’ but your damn nonsense!” the old man snapped. “You got me seein’ things too! You get the board out and we’ll play a hand or two of seven-up. Anythin’ would be better than sittin’ around like this, waitin’ for somethin’ to happen.”

  After the first hand or two the game became just a perfunctory business of shuffling and laying down pieces of pasteboard, for their minds were not on what they were doing. Both were listening, tense and alert, to every sound and movement of the train. Thirty minutes of it was all they could stand. Ferris had just caught himself dealing poker instead of seven-up.

  “That’s more than enough,” he scolded. He glanced at his watch. “10:52, Waco.”

  “Yeh. Ought to be slowin’ down for the Skull Creek tank directly.”

  “Damned lonely spot.”

  “Yeh—” Waco answered laconically.

  Presently Quinlan began to use the air. The sharp clicking of the wheels died away to a dull rattle. Panting lustily, Number Nine’s big iron horse slid up to the Skull Creek tank.

  The sharp hiss of steam from the exhaust valves and the whine of escaping air reached Waco and Ferris. The night was still, save for the droning of the cicadas. They heard the fireman climb over the coal; the lowering of the spout; the rush of water into the tender.

  These were all familiar, reassuring sounds. Ferris mopped his face in relief.

  “Guess it’s all right,” he grinned. “If we get by here—”

  His words were lost in the sharp, staccato crash of half-a-dozen guns, the slugs pinging off the steel tender or plowing into the walls of the wooden express car.

  Hoarse cries followed. Men could be heard running alongside the train. Up ahead there was another burst of gunfire.

  Waco and Ferris had leaped to their feet.

  “They’re here!” Ferris gasped. “I knew it! I felt it in my bones tonight!”

  “Jest keep your pants on,” Waco ground out harshly. “There’s a
bunch of ’em out there!”

  A wire grille separated the railway post-office from the rest of the car. Ferris drew his gun as he retreated behind it.

  “Better put that gun out of sight,” Waco advised. “It’ll be just like committin’ suicide if they catch you with it.”

  “You mean you’re going to let them in?” Ferris cried.

  “I may have to do that. I don’t intend to be foolish about this …. Follow my lead and you’ll be all right.”

  “If they come at me, I’m shooting!” Ferris said stubbornly.

  “Have it your way,” Waco muttered. “If you use that shootin’-iron you better shoot to kill. But it ain’t you they’re after. There’s been a leak somehow; they know I got twenty thousand in currency in the safe. Well, they ain’t got it yet, I can tell ’em!”

  Almost immediately there came a loud banging on the door.

  “Come on, open up in there!” a hoarse voice bellowed. “I’ve got dynamite enough here to blow this car to hell if you don’t move lively.”

  Waco took his gun from the holster and tossed it on his desk. His nerves were not troubling him now. An old, lean gray wolf stalking its prey could not have been cooler or more deliberate than he as he dropped to his knees and spun the combination dial of the safe.

  From without came a second summons to open the door.

  “Who are you?” Waco demanded this time.

  “You know who we are, Waco!” an angry voice shouted back. “You quit your nonsense and git that door open!”

  Waco recognized the speaker. It was Smoke Sontag.

  “Is that you Smoke?” he stalled as he took a package from the safe and dropped it into the little cast-iron stove—unused for weeks—which stood in the corner of the car.

  “You damn well know it is!” the outlaw answered.

  “All right, I’ll open up,” the old man promised.

  This was robbery on a rather unique plane, in that both parties were known to the other. Here was no case of bandits attacking behind a handkerchief or a black mask. Like the Daltons and the Doolins, the Sontag gang had a name for ruthlessness that was well-calculated to strike fear whenever it appeared, and they made the most of it.

  Waco was searching for a package with which to replace the one he had taken from the safe. He found one—similar in size and weight—a package of billheads, from a Medora printer, on their way to Bowie. It was the work of a moment to deface the label and toss the package into the safe.

  He gave the dial a spin and hurried to the door, flashing a glance at Ferris as he fumbled with the lock.

  “Git your hands up when they come in—and keep your lip buttoned!” he cautioned him.

  The heavy door was run back with a bang, due to assistance from without.

  Three of the Sontags climbed into the car. Smoke did the talking. He was a giant in size, fear-proof, reckless and a born leader of men.

  “Come on get ’em up higher!” he barked at Waco. The old man raised his hands above his head. “That’s right, just keep reachin’ for the stars. I ain’t takin’ no chance on you.” He spoke to his brother. “You take care of the mail clerk, Grat: Shorty and me’ll ‘tend to Waco.”

  Grat Sontag, a weasel-eyed, pockmarked killer, already had Ferris backed into a corner. The mail clerk didn’t move fast enough for him, however, and Grat grazed his head with a bullet.

  It was neat shooting, but Ferris thought the miss was accidental; that he was to be slain even though he had his hands in the air. Foolishly he reached for the gun he had hidden. Grat did not miss this time. With a tired sigh, the clerk crumpled up on the floor.

  Smoke ignored the interruption.

  “Waco—you got twenty thousand in currency with you tonight. Where is it?”

  “In the safe.” Waco Stillings’ eyes were cold and stony.

  “See if he’s got a gun on him,” Smoke ordered.

  Grat ran his hands over Waco and found nothing.

  “All right, take your hands down, and open up that safe!”

  “Smoke, it’ll mean my job if I open up that safe for yuh,” the old man declared solemnly.

  “It’ll mean your funeral if you don’t!” Grat Sontag whipped out viciously. He poked a gun at Waco. “Get her open!”

  Waco whirled on him indignantly.

  “Say, don’t you git so reckless with your gun-talk!” he blazed. “I ain’t no scared mail clerk. I’ll open this safe, but I’ll take my time about it; and I’m remindin’ yuh to think twice before yuh shoot me down like yuh did Ferris there. If anythin’ happens to me my boys will see that I git justice if they have to chase yuh to hell to git it!”

  Smoke waved Grat back. Both had some acquaintance with the Stillings boys.

  “That’s all right, Waco,” Grat grumbled, “just open her up; we won’t have no trouble with you.”

  “All right, jest so we understand each other,” the old man muttered as he bent over the safe. “I don’t mind a little gun-play now and then. I’ve shot it out with better men than the best of yuh—and they always had a chance to fill their hand before I cut down on ’em. Less than that is jest murder, and I don’t mind tellin’ yuh so to your teeth.”

  “Suppose you tighten your lip a little!” Grat jerked out. “We ain’t got all night to wait here. Get her open!”

  “She’s open,” Waco announced.

  “Then get your hands up and back away!” Smoke barked at him.

  He kept Waco covered as Grat rifled the safe. Shorty Pierce, the third man, scooped up the gun that Waco had tossed on the desk. It took only a second or two. Waco was watching them craftily. Grat did not bother to examine the package he had taken from the safe.

  “Come on, Shorty!” Smoke commanded. “You and Grat pile out of here; I’ll follow.”

  The two men ran to the door and jumped to the ground. Smoke backed away after them.

  “Don’t show your face until after we ride away,” he warned. “You’ll sure get busted if you do.”

  “Go ahead; I ain’t stoppin’ yuh,” Waco flung back at him fiercely.

  A minute later, after firing an admonitory fusillade that rattled harmlessly against the side of the express car, the Sontags rode away. Members of the train crew who had found discretion the better part of valor ran up now. The conductor peered into the express car to find Waco bent down over Ferris’ lifeless body. He started to climb in.

  “Good God, don’t waste any time askin’ questions!” Waco snarled at him. “Give Jerry the highball and git this train rollin’ !”

  “But Ferris looks as though he was badly wounded,” the conductor protested. “If there is a doctor aboard we ought to get him up here.”

  “No doctor is goin’ to help this boy,” Waco told him. “He’s dead. He’s likely not to be the only one if we don’t pull out of here before Smoke discovers that he didn’t get what he came for.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Richards, the conductor, asked.

  “I mean the money is there in the stove,” said Waco. “All the Sontags got was some printed matter—and Smoke’s sense of humor ain’t up to appreciatin’ anythin’ like that.”

  Chapter V

  IT WAS less than sixteen miles from the scene of the holdup to Bowie, for the Skull flowed to the northeast for some distance before it joined the Cimarron. Number Nine made the run in record time. Five minutes after she pulled into the Bowie yards news that the Sontags had boarded her in spectacular fashion, killing a mail clerk but failing to get the money they were after, through the coolheadedness of Waco Stillings, was winging its way over town.

  A crowd gathered at the station and saw Ferris’ body removed from the train. Telegraph wires had begun to hum. From Oklahoma City came word that Heck Short, U. S. Marshal, and his man-hunters were leaving for Bowie at once. From even more distant Kansas City came a message authorizing a reward for the capture of Ferris’ slayers, dead or alive. Newspapers asked for details of the holdup.

  Waco found it a little bewilderi
ng as he sat in the division superintendent’s office. He had been enjoined against saying anything until the Marshal arrived. A stricture of that nature was akin to locking the barn after the horse has been stolen, for alleged eye-witnesses among the passengers had ostensibly purveyed all details already.

  Some time after midnight Waco made his way uptown. He lived beyond the business section. It was his intention to go directly home, but he had no more than set foot on the main street than he was hailed right and left. Lights still burned brightly in Bowie’s saloons, for the town retained enough of its frontier character to refuse to be put to bed until it was good and ready to go. As a result, Waco’s progress became something of a triumphant procession. Various refreshments were urged on him, but he refused them successfully until he reached the Longhorn Saloon. There Sam Swift, Bowie’s new mayor, captured him and propelled him inside.

  “Here he is, boys!” Sam beamed as he pushed Waco up to the bar. “He put Bowie on the map tonight! The drinks is on me!”

  The crowd cheered. Waco was embarrassed. He had never found himself a hero before. In the past he had often been in the public eye in Bowie, but that was on those occasions when it used to delight him to ride into town with a bunch of punchers and express his exuberance by shooting out the lights.

  When Waco refused to enlarge on the story of what had happened at Skull Creek crossing, they put it down to modesty. It didn’t make any difference really; they had heard enough to give them a pretty definite idea of what had occurred.

  Some one else bought a drink, and then another and another. Sam had his arm around Waco now.

  “He’s an old fightin’ son-of-a-gun, boys!” he bellowed. “A little starched in the legs, but he’s the man who ought to be the next sheriff of this county!”

  The crowd shouted its approval.

  “Speakin’ of the sheriff,” Sam continued with mock concern, “has some body mislaid him? Where is Beaudry?”

  “He’s right here, Sam,” Cash answered for himself from the door. He slapped the dust off his shoulders as he strode in with his chief deputy. He was panting a little breathlessly. “Let me up to the bar; I sure crave a drink.”