Savage Country

by William W. Johnstone

  He wasn’t by himself for long, though. One of the saloon girls appeared beside the table almost as if by magic and said, “Hello, honey. You don’t want to drink alone, do you?”

  Actually, that was what he wanted to do, but before he could say anything the girl had sat down beside him without being invited. She was tall and rather slender, with straight red hair. Her blue dress was scandalously short and cut low enough in the front so that he could see fully half of her breasts. She grinned at him, exposing teeth that were a little crooked. Young enough so that there was still some freshness about her, she was probably prettier than most of the females in the Big Nugget tonight.

  But compared to either Rebel or Pamela, she was undeniably plain, and Conrad wasn’t attracted to her at all. As she edged her chair nearer and leaned toward him so that her breasts were even more visible, he felt only a vague revulsion at the very idea of taking her to bed, which was probably what she wanted.

  “Buy me a drink, sugar plum?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said. “In fact . . .” He took a coin from his pocket and slid it toward her on the table. “I’ll pay you to go drink with someone else.”

  She frowned as she tried to comprehend what he was saying. “You don’t want me to drink with you?”

  “That’s right.” He smiled, not wanting to hurt her feelings even though she was only a soiled dove. “It’s nothing against you, miss. I just don’t desire any company at the moment except this fine product of the brewer’s art.” He lifted the half-empty mug of beer.

  “Lawsy, you talk funny,” she said as she made the coin he had offered her disappear. “You ain’t from around these parts, are you?”

  “No, I come from a place far, far away.”

  “Albuquerque? No, lemme guess. Santa Fe?”

  Conrad shook his head. “Farther than that.”

  “Denver!”

  Conrad was about to disabuse her of that notion when a man stepped up beside the table and said, “Honey, you run along now and bother some other cowboy.”

  “I wasn’t botherin’ him none,” the girl said with a pout. “Was I, mister?”

  “No, you were fine,” Conrad told her. “But I’d just as soon be alone.”

  “You heard the man,” the stranger said. He was well dressed in a brown tweed suit and had sleek dark hair. Something about him was vaguely familiar, but Conrad couldn’t place him.

  Still pouting, the girl got up and left the table. The stranger took her place in the chair.

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” Conrad said. “I’d prefer to be alone right now.”

  “Oh, I heard you,” the man said, “but I reckon you better listen to me. My name’s Jonas Wade. I saw you back in El Paso with Frank Morgan, as I was leaving that hotel where Morgan saved my life.” He swept a well-manicured hand at their surroundings. “I own this place now, thanks to three queens and a pair of jacks that showed up in my hand at just the right time.”

  “You won it in a poker game?”

  “That’s right. Luckiest day of my life, I guess—except for the day I met Frank Morgan.”

  Conrad nodded slowly. “I remember you now. We weren’t introduced, but I saw you with Frank. My name is Conrad Browning.”

  Wade’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “The mine owner? The fella who’s building a spur line up here from Lordsburg?” He held out a hand. “I’ve heard of you, and I’m mighty pleased to meet you, Mr. Browning. Is Frank with you?”

  “Not at the moment, no. He’s still down at the railroad construction camp.”

  “That’s good,” Wade said with a nod. “If he was here in town, I wanted to warn him.”

  “Warn him about what?”

  “There are three men in town—I think they’re relatives of that hombre Frank had to kill back in El Paso—and they say that as soon as they see The Drifter again, they’re going to kill him.”

  Chapter 21

  The mood in the camp was still somber the next morning after the explosion that had destroyed the trestle. No one would soon forget the guard who had been killed or the destruction that had been caused.

  After breakfast, Frank and Sam Brant stood outside the railroad car where the construction boss and his foremen had their office and living quarters. Each held a cup of coffee. Frank said, “What are your plans for today, Sam?”

  Brant heaved a sigh. “We’ll get started rebuilding that trestle, I suppose. There’s really nothing else we can do. The line can’t go anywhere until it gets across this gorge.”

  Frank rubbed his jaw in thought for a moment and then said, “I don’t know much about building a railroad, but hasn’t the roadbed already been graded between here and Ophir?”

  “Yeah, you can follow it all the way on to the settlement without any trouble. You thinking of leaving?”

  “Not at all. The reason I asked was because I wondered if you could somehow get rails and cross-ties across to the other side and have some of the men laying them while the rest of the crew was working on the trestle.”

  Brant’s forehead creased in a frown. “I guess you could load ties on a cart and trundle it down the trail on this side of the gorge, across the pontoon bridge, and then up the trail on the other side. Only way to get rails across, though, would be to have a gang of men carry them one at a time the same way. It’d be slow as hell.”

  “But you’d be making at least a little progress that way,” Frank pointed out. “Or do you need the whole crew working on the trestle?”

  “No, I’ve really got more men than I need for that,” Brant said slowly. “You see, normally what you do is you send a crew on ahead of you to build the trestles and have them ready when the rails reach them. That way it doesn’t take long to lay the rails across the trestle and then you just go right on once you’re on the other side. The men working on this one ran into problems, though, and it’s a damn big project. We caught up to them before they finished. And now we’re stuck here.”

  “Unless you put as many men on the trestle as are practical to work on it, and have the others carry ties and rails across and start putting down track. Even if they only get a mile done in the time it takes to rebuild and finish the trestle, that’s that much you won’t have to build once you’re across. You could consider it a running start.”

  “Well, it might work,” Brant allowed, but he still sounded a little dubious. “Only a fella who’d never built a railroad would have come up with an idea like that, though.”

  Frank grinned. “Sometimes a fresh pair of eyes comes in handy. Helps you see things differently.”

  “I’ll talk to the boys about it and see what they think,” Brant said with a nod. “In the meantime, what do you figure on being up to today?”

  Frank’s expression grew more serious. “I’m still convinced that the gang causing you so much trouble is holed up somewhere around here. I’m going to keep looking for them.”

  “Well, good luck to you. If you find them, though, don’t try to tackle them alone. Come on back here and tell me. I’ve got plenty of men just itching for a crack at those bastards.”

  Frank nodded, but he was thinking that the railroaders might not be much of a match for the gang. Based on the two encounters so far, he suspected the troublemakers were hired guns, at least for the most part. They would be experienced killers, and pitting even tough railroaders against them might not be enough.

  He would deal with that problem, though, when he found the gang’s hideout. He finished his coffee and then went to get Stormy ready to ride.

  A short time later, he rode out of camp with Dog padding along beside him. The day before, although he had ridden all around the camp, he had concentrated his search in the area north of the railhead, across the river. Today he decided to turn his efforts more to the south. It was possible the gang was trailing the railroad, rather than staying out ahead of it.

  Frank followed the rails back toward the pass where he and Conrad and Rebel had run into the man who had blown up t
he dynamite shed. As he rode, he wondered about the two young people. By now they ought to be in Ophir.

  He knew good and well that Conrad and Rebel were interested in each other; it didn’t take a genius to see that. Conrad was so blasted stuffy, though, that he might not do anything about it, thinking that Rebel was somehow not good enough for him. That was a foolish notion, of course. Rebel was a fine-looking young woman, and she could ride and shoot. As far as Frank was concerned, that put her well ahead of any girls Conrad might have known back East. Conrad, of course, would probably see it differently. He tended to see most things differently than Frank.

  For the time being, Frank contented himself with hoping that Conrad and Rebel had made it to Ophir without running into trouble. If there were any personal matters between them, they would have to hash those out for themselves.

  It was a pretty morning, but there were thunderheads building up over the mountains. There might be a shower later, or even a storm. Frank hoped that wouldn’t be the case, but he had a slicker rolled up behind his saddle in case the skies opened up.

  Before he reached the pass, he veered off onto a likely-looking trail that led up higher into the mountains. This was a game trail, he decided as it switched back and forth and climbed steadily. At one point he was able to rein in, twist around in the saddle, and look back down the mountain toward the river gorge. He saw the construction camp at least a mile away and hundreds of feet below him. From this distance he could make out the railroad cars and the tents, but he couldn’t see any people, even though he knew that Sam Brant’s crew would be scurrying around down there, busily working as they rebuilt the destroyed trestle.

  He faced forward again, and was about to hitch Stormy into motion when a flash from the slopes above him suddenly caught his eye. The reflection was only there for a second, but Frank knew he hadn’t imagined it. He stiffened in the saddle.

  Somebody was up there, and the flash might have been a reflection off a gun barrel, or more likely, a pair of field glasses. Out here in the middle of nowhere, there was only one thing for somebody to be keeping an eye on—the construction camp.

  Frank had a hunch that whoever that watcher was, he was up to no good.

  “Stay close, Dog,” he ordered the big cur as he began to ride higher along the trail. After a few minutes, he reined Stormy to a halt again and swung down from the saddle. Sound carried well in this thin air, and if he rode any closer, he chanced that the watcher would hear the clink of the Appaloosa’s shoes against the rocky ground. Frank estimated that the flash he had seen was now about five hundred yards above him on the side of the mountain. He would have to go the rest of the way on foot.

  In some places, the climb was fairly easy; in others, he had to lean forward and hang ono the slope with both hands as he slowly made his way upward. He stopped often and checked to see where he was in relation to the spot where he had seen the reflection. He was circling it gradually, getting above that point.

  Of course, if the watcher wasn’t there anymore by the time Frank got in position, then he would have had this climb for nothing. He didn’t let himself dwell on that possibility.

  The day was warm enough and the climb difficult enough so that by the time Frank reached his objective, his faded blue shirt was stained with sweat. He paused, took his hat off, and sleeved beads of moisture from his forehead. Then he put the Stetson back on and crawled forward on hands and knees, up a slanted rock that overlooked a broad ledge about ten feet below it. When Frank came to the edge of the rock, he saw that the ledge was littered with boulders.

  And sure enough, a man was crouched among those boulders. He had a rifle, a canteen, and a canvas pouch. A pair of field glasses hung around his neck on a strap. As Frank looked on, the man leaned forward, lifted the glasses to his eyes, and trained them on the railroad construction camp, which was visible far below.

  After a few minutes, the man lowered the glasses and let them hang from their strap as he settled back into a more relaxed position. He opened the canvas pouch and took out a biscuit. He began to eat it, washing it down with sips of water from the canteen.

  The man’s hat was lying on the ground at his side, so Frank had a good view of his head, but couldn’t see much of his face from this angle. He was stockily built, with thick dark hair, and from what Frank could see of his face, it was rather red. Frank didn’t know if that was from the sun or if the man was naturally florid. The man turned his head a little and Frank saw part of a thick dark mustache. The watcher wore black trousers, a brown leather vest, and a gray shirt. He didn’t appear to be armed except for the rifle that lay on the ledge beside him.

  Now that he had his quarry in sight, Frank could afford to be patient. He took a long look around at the rugged mountainside. He wasn’t sure how the watcher had gotten up here, unless there was a trail at the other end of the ledge. Frank could see this end, where the ledge petered out among the cluster of boulders, and he knew there was no way up or down there.

  With a frown, Frank pondered his next move. He could jump this hombre here and now and try to get some information from him, such as who he was and why he was keeping such a close eye on the camp, or he could try to follow the man and hope that he would lead him back to the rest of the gang causing trouble for the New Mexico, Rio Grande, and Oriental.

  Frank hadn’t decided on a course of action when the problem was solved for him. The rock on which he lay suddenly shifted. It hadn’t been as firmly lodged in the side of the mountain as he’d thought. The rock didn’t go very far, only a couple of inches, but that was enough to cause a noise and make the watcher spring to his feet and twist around to peer upward in surprise. When he saw Frank, he started to reach down and grab for his rifle.

  Might as well make his move now, Frank thought as he launched himself into the air, dropping swiftly toward the man on the ledge.

  The man had his rifle in his hands, but hadn’t had time to lift it and turn when Frank crashed into him in a clean tackle. The impact knocked the watcher off his feet and drove him to the rocky surface of the ledge. He cried out in pain as Frank’s weight came down on top of him. The rifle slipped out of his grasp and clattered away. Frank got his left hand on the ground, pushed himself up, and drove his right fist into the man’s face. That stunned the watcher. He went limp, all the fight knocked out of him.

  Frank came to his feet and drew his Colt as he stood over the man. His hat had fallen off when he leaped from the rock, but he didn’t bother to pick it up just yet. Keeping the man covered, he said in a flinty voice, “Don’t try anything funny, partner. I don’t want to kill you, but I’ll put a bullet through your knee if I have to.”

  The man just blinked groggily, and Frank didn’t know if he understood or not. After a moment, though, the man rolled onto his side and let out a groan. He said in a thick voice, “Don’t . . . don’t shoot . . . mister.”

  Frank backed up a couple of steps and rested a hip against one of the boulders. He said, “Who are you?”

  The man lifted his head and shook it, obviously trying to clear away some of the cobwebs from his brain. He managed to sit up. Looking owlishly at Frank, he asked, “Who are you?”

  “I just asked you the same question,” Frank pointed out. “You first.”

  “My name . . . my name is Walt Scheer.” He reached up and rubbed his jaw, wincing a little as he encountered a painful spot that ached from being slugged by Frank’s fist.

  “Why are you keeping an eye on that railroad camp, Scheer? Planning to cause some more trouble for those men down there?”

  “What?” Scheer frowned in what appeared to be genuine confusion. “I haven’t caused any trouble for them.”

  “No? You didn’t have anything to do with that trestle blowing up last night?”

  “Is that what happened? I could tell there had been a fire, but I wasn’t sure about an explosion.”

  “Quit trying to pull the wool over my eyes,” Frank snapped. “Are you trying to tell me you don�
��t work for the gang that’s been causing so much trouble?”

  Scheer looked up at him, meeting The Drifter’s gaze squarely. “I work for the Southwestern and Pacific Railroad. I’m a construction engineer.”

  That answer took Frank by surprise. He was expecting Scheer to lie, of course, but he hadn’t expected the sort of claim that the man had just made.

  “What have you got to do with that spur line going from Lordsburg to Ophir?”

  “Nothing,” Scheer said. “Yet. But when the NM, RG, and O fails to finish the line, the SW and P plans to step in and take over the job. I’m up here studying the route so that we can do it better.”

  A frown creased Frank’s forehead. “That doesn’t sound too likely to me. You were watching the camp.”

  “You can see the camp from here, sure,” Scheer said. “But take another look. There’s also a good view of the gorge, and you can see for at least three miles on the other side of it.” He warmed to his subject, turning and pointing. “There’s the roadbed that’s been graded. But look over yonder.” Scheer began to seem excited as he pointed in a different direction and went on, “The trestle is in the right spot, but if you curve the line to the west a little once you reach the top of that slope, your roadbed will go over more level terrain. There’s already a natural cut through that ridge too, so you could use that instead of having to blast out one of your own.”

  Frank’s curiosity got the better of him. He had to turn and look where Scheer was pointing. There were several feet between him and the so-called engineer, though. If Scheer tried to jump him, Frank would have plenty of time to deal with that threat.

  After studying the landscape on the far side of the gorge for a few moments, Frank had to admit that Scheer might be right about the alternate route he suggested being easier. Frank said, “Nathan Buckhalter was in charge of the survey that laid out the route—”

  Scheer snorted in contempt. “Nathan Buckhalter is a poor excuse for a surveyor and an engineer. He wouldn’t know the best way for the line to go if it came up and bit him.”