Steel Trails of Vengeance

by Ray Tassin

  In two quick steps Danner reached the door and grabbed the cavalry belt. The silver buckle bore the crossed sabers and the letters C.S.A., which Danner identified as the insignia of the Confederate cavalry. Elation swelled his chest then, for this increased the odds that Tuso possessed a LeFaucheaux pin-fire. But where was it? Hanging the belt back on the nail, Danner left the room, locking the door behind him.

  He met no one until he reached the lobby. There, the desk clerk was sorting mail and turned around only when Danner reached the desk.

  "Any mail for me since I moved out?"

  "Just some newspapers from Kansas City." The clerk bent over, reaching under the counter. Danner moved around the end of the desk and replaced Tuso's key in the mail slot, unnoticed by the clerk. Taking the newspapers, Danner went out to his horse and stuffed them in his saddle-bags. Then he mounted and moved on toward the depot.

  The familiar clanging in the workshops across the yards and the familiar smells so closely associated with railroading brought a nostalgic tightness to his throat. A way of life grows on a man, he thought; it stays with him eternally.

  Danner moved along the platform and into the musty depot, waiting while a stocky woman wearing a faded calico dress and ragged shawl bought a single ticket to Junction City. As she turned away from the ticket window a soft tread sounded behind Danner. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Tom Wainright—a different Wainright. Some of the bitterness still showed on the young-old face, but a touch of harassment lurked there also. Wainright nodded.

  "I'd like to talk to you privately, Mr. Danner." He hesitated, then added a bit grudgingly, "If you aren't too busy."

  The temptation to ignore the request was strong in Danner, but curiosity was stronger. He nodded assent, then turned to the ticket clerk.

  "The first of our grain will arrive in Richfield Monday. Will the boxcars be here?"

  "They're on the siding now, waiting," the clerk nodded.

  Danner ducked his head in thanks and turned to Wainright, who hadn't moved. "Now?"

  "If you don't mind," Wainright nodded, turning. Danner followed him out to the platform. Wainright seemed unsure of himself as he groped for words.

  "I—I guess you've heard about the warehouse and train robberies." He glanced at Danner, keeping his body turned so that his empty left sleeve was out of sight.

  "I've heard," Danner said coldly.

  "Some other thefts have occurred also—little things, mostly, like kegs of spikes, sledge hammers, even two flatcar-loads of rails." He squirmed uncomfortably. His embarrassment puzzled Danner.

  "And you think I might supply the answers," Danner challenged him, "because your biggest shipper—"

  "No!" Wainright protested, flushing. "No, I just wanted to make sure you understand what is going on because—well, I want you to return to your job and straighten out this mess."

  Amazement struck Danner like a huge fist. He could only stare at Wainright. What a galling thing it must have been for Wainright to come to him with such a request. The deep red stain on Wainright's face showed his discomfort, yet Danner saw no indication of remorse or self-reproach. Danner waited for satisfaction to creep into his chest, but it didn't come. And, suddenly, he knew it never would. Nothing that hurt the railroad could ever please him, even a railroad controlled by Wainright.

  "Well, are you interested?" Wainright demanded.

  Slowly, Danner shook his head. "You can't stop thieving unless you are willing to prosecute the thieves."

  "I know. I only ordered the release of the Dooleys to please our biggest shipper."

  "And to show me who was boss."

  "Now, look—"

  "Browder," Danner interrupted, "is a master thief and likely is behind all your trouble, all the way back to the Spaulding robbery before you came here."

  "I can't believe that."

  Danner smiled thinly. "That's why we can't work together."

  "Suppose I agree to prosecute anyone you arrest?"

  "You have a special agent to make your arrests."

  "Green?" Wainright shook his head. "He's been discharged already. Look, I know I've treated you badly—that you have every right to refuse me. But you have my apology and a promise that I'll back you to the limit in the future. And I'll give you a nice increase in salary."

  A strong urge to accept worked on Danner. Railroading was his way of life and he didn't kid himself about how much he missed it. Even now he could almost feel the rattle of a coach under his feet and the surging power of a locomotive. He seemed to smell the smoke and hear the whistle sound its forlorn cry. Then he noticed Wainright staring at him with growing bitterness and he clamped his jaws shut.

  "It just wouldn't work out."

  "What more can I say or do?" Wainright demanded.

  Danner shrugged. "Your uncle must have a number of capable special agents he can send out here."

  "I've already tried that. It will be weeks before one is available and the line needs help now— your kind of help."

  "Too bad." Danner started to turn away.

  "It must please you greatly to see me crawl like this," Wainright blazed with sudden fury. "That was the word you used, wasn't it? 'Don't come crawling to me for help,' you said."

  Now Danner knew for certain that he had made the right decision and he retreated farther behind his shield of indifference.

  "It wouldn't work out."

  "I'm sure of it." Wainright's temper flared. "I only made the offer because Miss Richfield insisted. It was against my better judgment, particularly in view of the circumstances surrounding that Spaulding robbery." Wrathfully and with no little arrogance, he whirled and strode along the platform toward the office building.

  Danner knew a moment of melancholy as he watched the retreating back, for he'd lost forever any chance of returning to the railroad that had been his life for so long.

  Danner left his horse in the stable behind the hotel and walked around to the hotel porch and settled in a chair. Sooner or later Lona would come by here. Idly he watched people drifting about.

  Noon came and with it the heat reached an uncomfortable high. Stretching, Danner took a final look eastward along the street, but failed to see Lona. Then he moved along the plank walk to the small city park. He found the Swensen wagon, but not Lona. She might be lunching with the Ralstons. He waited by the wagon until nearly one o'clock, then returned to the hotel.

  The dining hall was empty when he entered. He sat facing the door that opened out onto the hotel lobby and had nearly finished his dried apple pie when he saw Melinda Richfield pass by the door. He finished the last of the bitter black coffee, paid his tab and stepped into the lobby. Melinda stood at the registry desk talking to the clerk. Danner headed for the street door, but didn't quite reach it before he heard Melinda call to him.

  He turned and watched her approach, seeing the stubbornness of her squared shoulders and tightly drawn lips.

  "Have you a moment?" she asked. Danner nodded toward a couch in the front corner of the lobby and followed her to it.

  "I want you to reconsider the offer Tom Wainright made to you this morning."

  Danner shook his head. "I can't help him."

  "Can't, or won't?" Her lips thinned even more and color rose to her cheeks.

  "Does it matter?"

  "Tom was man enough to admit he treated you unfairly and to apologize. Aren't you man enough to accept his apology and forget the past?"

  "Do you think that's all there is to it—a simple matter of forgetting the past?"

  "What more could there be?" she snapped, then seemed to regret the display of temper as she caught her lower lip in her teeth. Danner settled deeper in the couch.

  "Let me explain it this way," he said, wondering why he should want her to understand, and irritated with himself for wanting it. "We quarreled, not so much because he treated me unfairly, mostly, it was because we are different, with a different set of values on things. Then, there's the matter of his warped persona
lity. If I went back to work for him, it wouldn't be forty-eight hours until we clashed again. We just can't work together in any sort of harmony, because we just aren't the same kind of people."

  Deep feeling moved her bosom. She said, "Can you blame him for the way he has acted in the past when you know the reasons? Can you condemn him forever because of what he was for a little while?"

  "I'm not condemning him," Danner replied. "Just avoiding him, in order to avoid trouble with him. A man like that gives you no other choice."

  With a sharp cry she jumped to her feet. "You are still judging him by what's happened in the past. I was engaged to him once and returned his ring when he became so hard to get along with. But he's changed these past few weeks. He's more like the man he used to be."

  "I hadn't noticed."

  "Do you have any idea what it cost him in pride to come to you for help?"

  "He can afford to lose a little."

  "So can you."

  Her piercing stare assailed him. With deliberate slowness he eased up from the couch and returned her stare impassively. The cold ruthlessness reaching out at him reminded him of her father. No amount of argument had ever changed the Colonel once he had set his mind along a certain path and Danner knew it would be as foolish to argue now with Melinda as it always had been with her father.

  "We seem to have said it all," he said.

  She stiffened, drawing herself up to the full measure of her five feet in height. "You won't help Tom?"

  "No."

  "Then he's a better man than you are. I'm glad to know that—about both of you."

  Wordlessly, Danner turned away and crossed the lobby to the front door. The raw edge of temper tinged with ruffled pride added a stiffness to his step.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The hotel stable seemed deserted; yet Danner hesitated before entering. Early afternoon just wasn't the proper time for the stable to be completely deserted.

  Danner strode to the left, then leaned against the back wall of the hotel, never taking his eyes off the entrance to the stable. Absently he rubbed his hand against his thigh where his Colts usually rested. He could borrow a gun from the sheriff before going in for his horse, but that would make him look mighty foolish if he was guessing wrong. The minutes ticked by with a stillness broken by the occasional sounds of travel along the street and faint horse sounds from the stable. Twice his gaze moved to a pitchfork protruding from some hay piled against the front of the stable. The pitchfork just might be insurance enough, Danner thought.

  Idly, as if he intended feeding his horse, he strolled over and caught the pitchfork, scooped it full of hay, then moved inside. Some of the stalls were empty, others contained horses and apparently nothing more. Danner's mount moved about in the fourth stall to his left. Danner dumped the hay on the ground in front of the animal and leaned the pitchfork against the side of the stall. From under his lowered hatbrim his glance swept the length of the stable, finding nothing. Yet the uneasy feeling persisted.

  The well-fed horse showed no interest in the hay. Danner saddled him swiftly. He pulled the cinch tight, then stiffened with a premonition born of years along troubled trails. Slowly he turned, to find Tuso grinning at him from fifteen feet away. A pair of tall, thin strangers flanked Tuso, one on each side. Low-slung holsters showed plainly the profession of the unkempt pair, just as a blankness in their narrowed eyes left little doubt about the men's depravity. Tuso leaned forward slightly on the balls of his feet, still grinning broadly.

  "You're in a wee bit of a spot, big man," Tuso gloated. "I never dreamed it'd be so easy, especially finding you without your six-gun."

  Danner fixed an impassive stare on the swarthy face. "Your companions get worse all the time, Tuso."

  "You mean the Grell brothers here?" He inclined his head with a sly grin. "They ain't much, for sure. But they're a right handy pair to have around in times like this—do just what they're told and never a question. Say hello to Mr. Danner, boys. He's a big man around here." Then Tuso laughed, deep from within his tremendous chest. Neither of the Grells made a sound or movement. Like specters they looked through him, completely devoid of any indication that they were capable of humor.

  "I had you figured wrong, Tuso." Danner leaned back against the stall, groping for the pitchfork with his left hand.

  "How's that, big man?"

  "I always figured that when you and I finally got around to tangling, it'd just be the two of us."

  "That's the way it'll be when killing time rolls around." Relish shined from the small black eyes on each side of the broad flat nose. "But right now the boss says no killing. You're too good a patsy for what he's got planned. All he wants us to do is crack a few ribs for you, and maybe a jawbone and leg. Nothing serious. Just enough to keep you layed up until after those sodbusters finish their wheat harvest. I'd even handle this alone, except that I bunged up my hand a couple of days ago on a sodbuster's iron jaw." He held up his left hand to reveal a dirty bandage and splint. Danner waited silently, resisting the temptation to bring out the pitchfork.

  Tuso nodded to the Grell on his right and the wraithlike creature stepped back into one of the stalls. He returned carrying three singletrees and handed one to his brother, one to Tuso. Holding up his club, Tuso glanced from it to Danner, grinning.

  "A right nice rib-breaker, don't you think, big man?"

  Danner moved the pitchfork over to his right hand. The trio began moving toward him slowly, clubs ready. With a swift motion Danner stepped away from the stall and raised the pitchfork to waist level, prongs aimed at Tuso's great chest. The three stopped, hardly twice the length of the pitchfork away from Danner. Tuso continued to grin with anticipation, but he held his distance.

  "Aw, come on, big man," Tuso chided. "You know that pronged broomstick ain't no defense against six-guns."

  "What type of six-gun, Tuso?" Danner asked softly. "A pin-fire, maybe?"

  The grin vanished, replaced first by a puzzled look, then a wariness. "What about a pin-fire?"

  Jubilation touched Danner briefly. A long shot had hit paydirt. "You do own a pin-fire, don't you?"

  Slowly Tuso shook his head, still wary, still puzzled. "What's it going to be, big man? If you don't get rid of that sticker, we'll just have to stand off and shoot you, instead of breaking you up a little."

  "The Grells, maybe," Danner conceded, staring directly into the small, round eyes of Tuso, "but not you. If I'm to take the big ride, you'll be just ahead of me on a runaway horse."

  Tuso leaned forward a little while his animal instincts sought a solution to the stand-off. Danner could see his mind working, casting about, considering, rejecting. And behind it all a puzzlement lurked, nagging at him as he tried to figure out what Danner had meant by the remark about a pin-fire. Danner realized he shouldn't have mentioned the gun, for eventually Tuso would figure out that the weapon would tie him in with the Spaulding robbery. Then he would get rid of it and Danner could go whistle for evidence to clear his name.

  Tuso rocked slightly now, from his toes to his heels and back again. The only sound came from huge flies buzzing around the animal waste covering the floor of the stable. A moistness formed under Danner's hatbrim. His arm grew tired from the unnatural position of holding the pitchfork. Finally, Tuso tossed his singletree to the littered floor and nodded to the Grell brothers, who followed suit.

  "Another time, big man," Tuso said, grinning. Then he turned and led his sidekicks out through the rear of the livery stable.

  Danner exhaled deeply as the tenseness went out of him. He felt weak as he stepped into the saddle and rode out into the bright sunlight.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dust from a pair of thrashers clouded the air in the south field. Danner sat in the shade by the barn, watching. The sun's position in the sky told him it was about nine o'clock when he spotted a lone wagon depart from the near thrasher. Soon he recognized McDaniel driving the four-mule span. The heavily loaded wagon creaked into the yard and
McDaniel dropped to the ground.

  "Should be some more wagons here pretty soon," Billy grunted.

  Danner nodded. McDaniel moved over to the well, hauled up a fresh bucket of water and drank noisily. Sighting another wagon coming from the southwest, Danner strode into the corral and saddled his horse. He led the animal to the shade of the barn and resumed his wait. Four wagons were in sight now. The first to arrive at the barn was handled by the old stringbean, Gustafson.

  "Olie Swensen said we're to meet here and go to Richfield in groups," Gustafson explained, scowling. Danner nodded in agreement and invited the old granger to get down. But Gustafson remained on the seat of his wagon.

  Half an hour slipped by before the sixth wagon arrived. Then they began the trip to Richfield. McDaniel held lead wagon position behind Danner, the only horseman, leading the way.

  The river was hardly a trickle this time of year and fording it was no problem. Able to see several miles in each direction, Danner rode well in front of the string of wagons without bothering to swing away from the road. On each side of the road, yellowish-brown wheat bent with a gentle breeze and gave off a crackling sound.

  When they drew near the dry wash known as Wilson's Crossing, Danner spurred on ahead of the wagons. The wash was nothing more than a ten-foot gully slashed out of the soft earth, with the ground leveling off on each side. The crossing dipped down to the bottom of the wash and came out the far side in the same manner. The bed of the wash couldn't be seen from the right or left of the crossing, only from the center where the road crossed. This made it a prime site for an ambush.

  Before starting down the slope, Danner dismounted and drew his Colts. He glanced around at the wagons a hundred yards back, then led his horse downward. Nerves taut, he kept his back to the near sidewall and faced the west arm of the wash. Only emptiness greeted him. He whirled to his right. Again he saw nothing but the empty bed of the gully. He mounted and rode up the north bank.

  The wagons made the crossing without incident, though each driver cast a furtive glance at Danner in passing. Danner knew they were wondering if they should fear Tuso or him and the knowledge brought a stiffness to his back muscles. He resumed his place in front of the column.