Savage Country

by William W. Johnstone

  But Brant wasn’t there. The construction boss’s bunk was empty.

  Frank’s forehead creased in the darkness. Maybe Brant had woken up and sensed there was trouble too. He might already be out there, taking a look around the camp. Frank walked quietly to the back of the car, eased the door open, and stepped out onto the platform. He dropped lithely to the ground.

  Dog came padding over to him and nuzzled his hand. “What’s wrong, old boy?” Frank asked in a whisper. Dog looked toward the siding where the freight car and the flatcars were parked, and a whine came from deep in his throat. “Quiet,” Frank told him, and then both of them started toward the siding, moving soundlessly through the shadows. Frank’s jeans and dark blue shirt made it more difficult to see him in the darkness, and he was grateful for that.

  Before he reached the siding, he heard something else that surprised him: a low, rumbling sound from the tracks beyond the cars. The locomotive that had brought the supplies was getting up steam again.

  Frank glanced at the sky. The stars told him it was well after midnight, but it wouldn’t be dawn for a couple of hours yet. If the locomotive was pulling out for Lordsburg, it was getting a mighty early start. But he supposed that was possible, and it might explain why Sam Brant wasn’t in his bunk as well. The construction boss might have gone to talk to the train crew before the locomotive pulled out. Frank relaxed slightly, thinking that maybe he had been too suspicious.

  Then the next moment he tensed again as he heard voices and realized that he hadn’t been suspicious enough.

  “Damn it, why’d you bring them out here? Why didn’t you just kill them in town?”

  “Because that’s not what the boss ordered us to do. And since he’s your boss too, you can take it up with him, I reckon.”

  Frank stood there breathing shallowly as his brain tried to digest what he had just heard. The first voice belonged unmistakably to Sam Brant. The second one was less familiar, but the circumstances under which Frank had heard it before meant that he was unlikely to forget it. The second man was Royal, the leader of the gang that had been carrying out the sabotage.

  But not the mastermind, though. Royal was just working for somebody else, as was Sam Brant. Hadn’t Royal just said that they had the same boss?

  Brant was a traitor, working against Conrad and the railroad. That was hard to believe. Frank had liked and trusted the man, and he had always been a good judge of character.

  Everyone made mistakes sometimes, though, even The Drifter. The important thing was that it wasn’t too late to rectify this one. Frank eased his gun out of its holster and slid through the shadows, moving closer to the car that held the dynamite shipment. He saw several dark shapes standing there, shapes that were men.

  “Who’s that woman anyway?” Brant asked.

  “Hell if I know,” Royal replied. “She was with the Browning kid when we grabbed him, along with that girl. Tarleton told us to bring all of ’em out here and turn them over to you. He said you could get rid of ’em so that nobody would ever know what happened to them.”

  Frank froze again. Royal and some of his men had kidnapped Conrad in Ophir, that much was obvious. From the sound of it, Rebel had been with him and was a prisoner too. That didn’t come as a real surprise. Who was the other woman Royal had mentioned? Frank had no idea, unless it was Allison McShane. She was the only other woman in Ophir Conrad was acquainted with, as far as Frank knew.

  Now he had to be more careful than ever. Not only did he have to worry about starting a gunfight around that dynamite, but he also had to think about the safety of the prisoners.

  “Yeah, I know what to do with them,” Brant said. “Open the door of that freight car and toss them inside. There’s enough dynamite in there to blow practically this whole camp to Kingdom Come, and if they’re on top of it when it goes off, there won’t be enough of them left for anybody to ever find. Nobody can prove we had a thing to do with their disappearance.”

  Frank’s blood felt like ice water in his veins as he listened to Brant. The traitor planned to set off a third explosion, the biggest blast of them all. From the sound of what Brant had in mind, the explosion would kill most of the workers and destroy all the supplies. It would be a setback that the New Mexico, Rio Grande, and Oriental couldn’t overcome, especially if its principal owner, Conrad Browning, was also dead. Brant—and Tarleton—would win. Frank had no doubt now that Tarleton was connected to the rival railroad. With his mining interests, if he was able to take over the building of the spur line as well, Clark Tarleton would soon be the most powerful man in the territory.

  And all it would take to accomplish that goal was hundreds of deaths.

  Carefully, so that it wouldn’t make too much noise, one of the hired killers slid back the door of the freight car. “Damn,” he said. “How many crates o’ dynamite you got in here?”

  “Enough,” Brant said. “Enough to do the job. I made sure that extra cases were sent up from Lordsburg.”

  Frank wasn’t sure how Brant intended to explain how he survived the blast. Then the answer came to him. The locomotive. Brant was going to take the engine and pull it back out of range of the giant explosion. He could claim that he was going back to Lordsburg on the railroad’s business, and no one would be alive to deny the story. The locomotive had only an engineer and a fireman on it, and Brant could pay them off, if he hadn’t already, or even kill them to keep them quiet.

  One by one, three bodies were lifted from the ground and heaved into the freight car with the dynamite. Brant himself closed the door except for a small gap and said, “All right, get the hell out of here. I’ll give you time to get away and then light the fuse. Steam’s up in the engine, so it won’t take me long to pull out either.”

  “All right, Brant. Tell Tarleton we’ll be waitin’ in the usual place for the rest of our money,” Royal said.

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Royal and the half-dozen men with him began to drift away into the night. Frank waited for them to leave. A pitched gun battle was the last thing he wanted right now. Stray bullets might penetrate the walls of that freight car and strike Conrad or one of the women. Or worse, hit some of that dynamite and set it off. Frank couldn’t take that chance. Royal and his men could be rounded up later.

  Brant had left the freight car door open about a foot. Frank guessed that the fuse leading to the dynamite came out through that gap. When Royal and his men were gone, Brant fished out a lucifer and snapped it to life on his thumbnail. The sudden flare of the match lit up his face for a second.

  That was when Frank stepped up behind him, gun leveled, and said, “Drop the match, Sam.”

  Brant stiffened. “Morgan!” he breathed.

  “That’s right, Sam, and I heard enough to know what you’ve been up to—and what you’re about to do.”

  “Better back off, gunfighter,” Brant warned. “All I have to do is touch this match to the fuse, and the whole place blows up.”

  “Not quite. I imagine that’s a pretty slow-burning fuse. Go ahead and light it. I’ll have plenty of time to kill you and then come put it out.”

  “Maybe . . . if I light the end of it.”

  Brant did something then that Frank didn’t expect. He flipped the burning lucifer through the gap, into the freight car. At the same instant, his other hand came up, gripped the door, and slammed it shut, so that Frank couldn’t see if the match landed on the fuse inside the car or not. Brant lunged to the side, twisting and clawing a gun out of his pocket.

  Frank fired, but Brant was moving, and while the bullet clipped him and made him stagger, it didn’t bring him down. Colt flame bloomed in the darkness as Brant returned the fire. Bullets whistled past Frank’s head as he was forced to dive behind a nearby stack of cross-ties for cover.

  Then Brant was off and running toward the engine, while Frank had no idea whether the fuse was burning, or if it was, how close it was to the dynamite.

  They might be minutes—or even bare secon
ds—away from a blast that would be like the end of the world for anyone unlucky enough to be caught in it.

  Chapter 34

  Frank had no choice. He jammed his Colt back in its holster, scrambled over the pile of ties, and sprinted toward the freight car. He shouted, “Dog! Get him!” as he ran. Dog took off after Brant.

  With his heart slugging in his chest, Frank reached up, grabbed the door of the freight car, and pulled. The door slid on its tracks, banging back against the stops. Sparks lit up the inside of the car as they crawled along the fuse toward the stacked crates of explosives. Frank was barely aware of Conrad, Rebel Callahan, and Allison McShane lying there unconscious, unaware of the razor-thin margin that stood between them and death.

  Brant’s toss had been a good one. The lucifer had landed on the fuse only a couple of feet from where it was attached to a box of blasting powder. The small explosion that would result from that would set off a much larger one as it spread to the crates of dynamite. The fuse burned about a foot per minute, and more than half of it was already gone.

  Frank grasped the floor of the freight car and levered himself up and in. On his knees, he lunged across the intervening space and reached desperately for the fuse. His hand closed around the burning end, smothering the sparks with his bare flesh. His lips pulled back from his teeth at the burning pain, but it was as nothing compared to the relief that flooded through him as the fuse went out. Just to make sure, he yanked it loose from the box of blasting powder and threw what was left of it aside.

  Still on his knees, he turned to Conrad, Rebel, and Allison. A quick check told him that they were all alive and seemed to be all right except for being knocked out and tied up. Leaving them where they were, he slid out of the car and dropped to the ground beside the tracks.

  The locomotive was gone, backing away from the camp with a chugging and puffing of its engine. Brant was getting away.

  Frank ran toward the makeshift corral where the horses were kept. A whistle alerted Stormy that he was on his way, and the big Appaloosa was ready, tossing his head in anticipation. Frank threw the gate open, ran inside, and swung up bareback. There was no time for a saddle and tack. Stormy didn’t mind, though. He burst out of the corral and launched into a gallop, obeying the commands that Frank communicated with his knees and heels. Frank grabbed the Appaloosa’s mane and held on.

  Men were already coming out of their tents and yelling questions in response to the shots that had been fired a couple of minutes earlier. They would see the door of the freight car standing open and would find Conrad and the women. Meanwhile, Frank sent Stormy racing along beside the railroad tracks as the locomotive continued to back away. It was picking up speed now, even going backward.

  Frank and Stormy passed Dog, who was bounding along barking. Frank knew from that that the big cur had been unable to catch Brant before the man reached the locomotive. Brant was trying to escape even though he had to realize by now that his plan to blow up the camp was ruined. He had run a big risk—if the dynamite in the freight car had exploded, the locomotive might not have been far enough away to escape the blast—but since Frank had had the drop on him, he hadn’t had any choice but to chance it.

  Sparks cascaded upward from the diamond stack of the big Baldwin locomotive. As Frank drew closer, he saw spurts of orange flame from the cab. Brant must have spotted him giving chase and was firing at him. Frank leaned forward over Stormy’s neck, making himself a smaller target. He urged the Appaloosa on. He had to catch up soon, or the train would pick up so much speed that it would outdistance him.

  Stormy stretched his legs, pouring every bit of his speed and stamina into the pursuit. The gap between horse and locomotive dwindled, then began to grow larger again. Frank could almost feel Stormy reach down inside himself and bring up one last burst of speed.

  They passed the cowcatcher and were alongside the engine. Brant triggered more shots from the cab. Frank returned the fire and saw sparks fly as his bullets spanged off the metal sides of the cab. Brant was leaning out to the side, trying to get a better shot, but he jerked back as Frank’s bullets came too close.

  Stormy drew even with the cab. Frank holstered his Colt, reached out for the nearest grab-iron, and swung himself off Stormy’s back and into the cab. His boots had barely touched the floor of it when Brant lunged at him, swinging the fireman’s shovel. Frank ducked under it. The shovel hit the brake lever and knocked it forward. With a shriek of metal against metal, the speeding locomotive began to slow.

  Frank saw a couple of still, huddled shapes on the floor of the cab, and realized that they belonged to the engineer and fireman. They must not have been working with Brant after all. He had shot them both once the locomotive was under way. Frank lunged at Brant while the man was off balance from the missed blow with the shovel, but his foot slipped in the pool of blood that had spread around the engineer’s body. Frank tackled Brant, but awkwardly, and Brant didn’t go down. He smacked the handle of the shovel against Frank’s head.

  Dizzy from the blow, Frank fell to the floor of the cab. He rolled to the side as Brant tried again to bash his brains out with the shovel. Lifting his leg, Frank kicked Brant in the hip, knocking him toward the controls at the front of the cab as the train finally lurched to a stop.

  Brant hit the throttle and knocked it wide open. The train began to lumber forward as Brant slashed back and forth with the shovel, aiming the blows at Frank’s head. Frank barely avoided them, and finally managed to reach out and grab Brant’s ankle. He heaved as hard as he could.

  Brant went over backward and landed hard on the floor of the cab. Frank came up on his knees and reached for his Colt, but it was gone. It had slipped out of the holster sometime during the fight. He lunged at Brant instead, swinging his fist. The punch landed solidly as Brant tried to get up. Both men sprawled across the cab. Frank almost fell out, but he grabbed the side at the last second and stopped himself.

  They surged to their feet at the same time and stood there slugging away at each other. From the corner of his eye, Frank saw that the locomotive was barreling through the construction camp. The siding where the freight car full of dynamite was parked flashed past. Men ran along the tracks, waving their arms and yelling, although Frank couldn’t hear them over the rumble of the engine.

  Brant landed a punch that slammed Frank back against the coal tender. He bent and snatched a gun from the floor. Frank knew it was the one that had fallen from his holster. Brant thrust the revolver at him and shouted, “You’ve ruined everything, Morgan, but at least you’ll die!”

  “Brant!” Frank shouted back, pointing ahead of them. “The trestle!”

  Brant’s eyes widened with terror as he realized what was about to happen. He dropped the gun, then spun around and lunged toward the controls. At the same moment, Frank leaped from the cab, sailing out into the air, taking his chances this way. He had a last glimpse of Brant inside the cab, leaning against the brake lever. Sparks shot from the drivers as a metallic scream like the unholy wail of a banshee filled the air.

  But it was too late. The locomotive reached the end of the tracks and plunged out onto the unfinished trestle, which buckled under the huge weight. For an instant, the locomotive seemed to leap out into the yawning emptiness of the gorge....

  Then it plunged down, taking Sam Brant with it.

  The crash was awesome. Frank saw it from the bush at the edge of the gorge where he hung with his feet dangling. He had been able to grab the bush as he fell after his leap from the cab of the runaway locomotive. A ball of fire blossomed in the rocks along the river as the locomotive and the tender slammed into them. Frank looked down and thought that while the explosion was only a fraction of the size of the one that Brant had planned, it was still a fitting end for the traitor. Frank turned his head away as some of the sizzling debris pelted down around him.

  Then he started to climb, pulling himself up from the edge of the gorge. He wasn’t to the top yet when a hand reached down from above
and clamped strongly around his wrist.

  “Let me help you . . . Dad,” Conrad said.

  * * *

  Clark Tarleton was seated in the lobby of the Holloway House when Frank walked into the hotel the next afternoon. The industrialist and mining magnate was reading a copy of the Ophir Ledger, and he didn’t seem to notice Frank at first. Finally, though, Tarleton lowered the paper and looked over it at the man standing in front of him, and his eyes grew wide with shock.

  “Thought I was dead, didn’t you, Tarleton,” Frank said. “I’m not. Neither are Conrad, Rebel, or Mrs. McShane. But Sam Brant is, and so is Royal. Brant died last night out at the construction camp, and Royal went down this morning when him and his gang were paid a visit by a posse that Marshal Everett put together on the quiet, so you wouldn’t hear about it and take off for the tall and uncut. I wanted at least one more witness who would testify against you, and we got more than that. Royal’s bunch put up a fight, but several of them surrendered when they figured out they were trapped. They talked, Tarleton. They talked a lot. Told us all about how you had men posted at heliograph stations between here and the camp so you and Brant could talk to each other by flashing Morse code from one station to the next. That’s how you gave Brant his orders. Pretty slick setup. In the end, though, it wasn’t enough.”

  Tarleton’s face had hardened as Frank talked. As Frank fell silent, Tarleton blustered, “You’re insane, sir. I don’t even know you.”

  “I think you do. I’m Frank Morgan.”

  Tarleton rattled his newspaper. “You’re a madman as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Bluff all you want,” Frank said. “I heard Brant and Royal admit last night that they were working for you. I reckon when the authorities here get in touch with the ones back East, they’ll find out pretty quicklike that you own part of the Southwestern and Pacific Railroad. You may own all of it through some dummy companies, for all I know. You had plenty of reason for wanting Conrad’s spur line to fail, so your railroad could take it over. That motive, and the testimony of the men who are in custody, will be enough to put you behind bars for a long time, Tarleton.”