‘He don’t want to be with people. He likes to keep apart. He keeps movin’.’
Lowell turned to the group which had assembled. ‘I’ll be takin’ Mr Rickard off your hands,’ he said. No one raised any objections.
‘What are you gonna do with him?’ one of the men asked.
‘Take him to Shoshone Flats and hand him in to the marshal. Believe me; he’s got plenty to answer for.’
Chapter Six
Fuller emerged from the entrance to the frame-constructed Palladium Hotel and glanced up and down the main street of Shoshone Flats. It was a busy place since the arrival of the railroad. People thronged the boardwalks; men on horses and some on mules rode up and down and wagons criss-crossed at the junctions with side streets. At the lower end of the drag a plume of smoke and a general bustle of activity indicated where the new railroad station was situated.
He had just concluded his business with an agent. Earlier that day the herd, which had been left to graze outside the town, had been counted. It had not taken too much time before the final numbers were agreed upon and the delivery sealed. Some of the cattle were sore-footed, but that was hardly surprising. All in all they had come through with remarkably few losses. He was relieved to have them off his hands; they weren’t his concern any more.
The only thing to mar his sense of satisfaction was the thought of the lonely graves of the men they had had to bury out on the prairie. His face broke into a frown. The memory made him think of Rickard. It was a tribute to the self-control of his men that they had refrained from taking out their anger on him but had brought him to Shoshone Flats to face justice. Right now he was banged up inside the jail-house awaiting the arrival of the circuit judge. That might take some time, but nobody was shedding any tears.
He was about to turn away when he heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Conrad approaching.
‘I’d say we did a good day’s business,’ he said.
‘Yeah. This deal should see us through. I’ve got a lot to thank you and the men for.’
‘I figure we ain’t got any reason to stay around.’
‘Let the boys let off a little steam for a night or two longer,’ Fuller remarked. ‘They’ve earned it.’
Conrad reflected for a moment. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right. Me, I figure I’ll be stayin’ in camp.’
Fuller smiled. He knew his foreman, and it wasn’t his style to look for a good time. He wouldn’t be entirely happy till he was in the saddle and on his way back to the Long Rail.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ve arranged to meet my niece at the restaurant. She’s been doin’ some shoppin’. I’ll treat you to a pot of coffee.’
‘Is she OK goin’ around by herself?’
‘Why wouldn’t she be? She isn’t a child.’
‘No. I was just thinkin’ after what happened. . . .’
‘She’s fine. Anyway, she’s got Lowell along with her.’ Fuller looked at his foreman. ‘Come on, I don’t want to keep her waitin’.’
They strolled down the street to the rather grandly named Elite Restaurant. Inside, sitting at a table near the window, sat Lorna and Lowell. They were deep in conversation and only looked up when Fuller and Conrad were right beside them.
‘Oh hello, uncle,’ Lorna said. ‘And Mr Conrad.’
The newcomers made themselves comfortable and when the waitress arrived, Fuller ordered a fresh pot of coffee for them all. When it came, Fuller poured and they took a few moments to savour it.
‘How did you get on with the shoppin’?’ Fuller asked.
‘Fine. I picked up a few things. I was surprised at the number of stores.’
‘That’s partly because of the railroad,’ Fuller said. ‘It wasn’t always that way. Lowell might remember it in the old days. Things were a bit different then, eh Lowell?’
Lowell’s eyes were on the street and he appeared not to have heard. Lorna glanced at him and he turned back.
‘Sorry’ he said, ‘I was just lookin’ at somethin’ outside.’
‘Yeah? What?’ Conrad asked.
‘I can’t quite make it out. Somethin’s goin’ on down near the railroad station.’ He took another glance and his face broke into a smile.
‘Guess what?’ he said. ‘I think it’s Rickard’s mule train.’
‘Those hides must be gettin’ rancid by this time,’ Conrad remarked. He turned to Lorna. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he added.
Lorna laughed. ‘I should think you’re right,’ she said.
‘It’s kind of ironic,’ Fuller remarked, ‘what with Rickard himself bein’ behind bars.’
Lowell twisted in his chair. ‘Would anyone object if I go and take a look?’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t mind renewing acquaintance with that old mule-skinner Howson I was tellin’ you about.’
‘Of course not,’ Lorna answered for them all.
‘If you’re finished here by the time I get back, I’ll see you in camp,’ Lowell said.
With a smile towards Lorna he got to his feet, made his way out of the restaurant and began walking to the railroad station. There was a considerable amount of activity going on and as he approached he could see that most of it was centred on the mule-train. At the back of the station some cattle pens had been built and the wagons were in process of drawing up nearby. He looked on for a few moments as they manoeuvred, looking for the oldster, but he couldn’t immediately see him. In any event it wasn’t really the mule train he was interested in. He had made his excuses to leave the table in order to get down to the tracks and look for Mossman’s rail car. Rickard had said it was drawn up on a siding so it shouldn’t be too difficult to find.
An engine with a carriage attached was standing in the station. He assumed it had come in earlier and deposited its passengers. He began to walk along the roughly constructed platform till, reaching the end, he dropped down on to the cinder track. A little way down was a wooden building with a tin roof. Beside it, on side tracks, an engine stood in an obvious state of disrepair along with a couple of battered boxcars. None of them looked like the sort of thing Mossman would be likely to be living in, but he walked up to each in turn to take a look.
As he surmised, they were empty and awaiting repair. He looked inside the shed but it was empty. He carried on walking a little way and then stopped. He looked down the tracks. There was nothing else to be seen apart from a pile of lumber; just the lines running parallel till they came together and vanished in the distance. He was disappointed. It seemed like Rickard had been lying. Still, it was an unlikely kind of lie. Maybe Mossman had moved on. He considered making another visit to the jailhouse but felt reluctant. He’d had enough of Rickard and didn’t relish the prospect of renewing their acquaintance, no matter how briefly.
Yet again Mossman was proving elusive. Suddenly he had a thought. Where were those hides bound for? Who was Rickard dealing with? The obvious answer was that it was Mossman. The two were closely connected in other ways. In general, Rickard seemed to be acting as Mossman’s agent in Granton. So maybe the old muleskinner would know where Mossman was to be found. If not, he or somebody else from the mule-train would be dealing with one of Mossman’s representatives and the agent might know. Turning on his heel, he began to walk back along the track.
Abbott Mossman’s railroad car was not like any other. The windows were frosted glass apart from a larger one at the front end of the carriage, which was of stained glass. It threw a bright, variegated light on to a rich pile carpet and plush-covered furniture with antimacassars, and cushions. Elegant fringed curtains hung at the windows and crystal chandeliers dangled from a painted ceiling. At one end was a cabinet containing bottles of fine wines and spirits, and at the other a leather-topped writing desk and wide easy chair.
On the exterior platform Mossman himself sat drinking a vintage brandy in the shade of the surrounding trees which screened him from the eyes of any inquisitive outsiders. A special section of track had been laid for the car to be shunted into its place of conce
alment. Mossman himself was as surprising a sight as any of the appurtenances of his special carriage. Lean and bent, with straggling white hair which hung to his shoulders, he gave the impression of someone quite aged, but his smooth features belied it. At the same time there was a strange pallor about his skin, as if it had been bleached. If Lowell or any member of the Long Rail outfit, however, could have seen to whom he was talking, they would have been even more surprised, because it was none other than Rickard.
‘Well,’ Mossman said in a high piping voice. ‘Now that I’ve arranged for your – what shall we call it? – removal from the jailhouse, I think I may take it that the transfer of the buffalo hides can take place with a minimum of negotiation.’
Lowell nodded. He knew what Mossman meant. He wasn’t likely to make any profit on that particular transaction.
‘Yes, of course,’ he replied.
‘And you’re quite sure that Lowell has finally been dealt with?’
‘Absolutely. You need have no more concerns on that front.’
‘Concerns? I wouldn’t have put it quite in those terms, but be that as it may. Tell me again; how did you handle it?’
‘It was easy enough. A simple ambush.’
‘It was meant to be a simple ambush the last time, but it didn’t turn out that way.’
‘We can all make mistakes. I learned from that episode. No, I can assure you Lowell is dead.’
Rickard was anxious to turn the conversation in a different direction. His rescue from jail on Mossman’s initiative hadn’t been entirely unexpected, but he had been placed in an awkward situation. The simplest expedient had been to lie. It was highly unlikely that Mossman would come across Lowell in Shoshone Flats and once he was clear of the place, he could make his way back to the Half-Box M and make appropriate arrangements to deal with Lowell once and for all.
‘Well,’ Mossman said. ‘I don’t think we need to continue this conversation further.’
Figuratively, Rickard breathed a sigh of relief. Mossman leaned forward and rang a bell which was near his hand. After a few moments, one of his men appeared.
‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,’ Mossman said.
He nodded at his man as Rickard rose to his feet, feeling very satisfied the way things had gone. For a few moments he lived in that state of felicity till he found himself staring down the barrel of the gun which the man had just pulled from his pocket. The gun exploded and he sank to his knees, staring in bewilderment. A second shot tore away the top of his head and he fell backwards off the platform to the ground below. Mossman glanced over the rail.
‘See that the body is removed,’ he said, ‘and then make arrangements for the coach to be hitched up to the locomotive. You and the boys can take up an extra carriage. I think it’s time for a trip.’
Lowell sought for Howson but couldn’t find him. He considered talking with one of the other mule-skinners, but decided Howson was the man to give him the answers he sought. He thought he had a pretty good idea where he might be and made his way to the nearest saloon. He was right. As soon as he walked through the batwings he saw his target lounging against the bar with a bottle of beer in his hand. He sidled up beside him.
‘Howdy,’ he said. ‘How about a shot of whiskey to go with that beer?’
The oldster showed no surprise at seeing Lowell again. Lowell ordered a bottle and invited the man to join him. When they had sat at a table he poured a couple of stiff drinks for them both.
‘You made it to town, then,’ the oldster conceded after he had taken a few swigs.
‘Yeah.’
‘Rickard coulda got us killed back there,’ Howson said.
‘It ain’t Rickard I’m interested in anymore,’ Lowell said.
A grin spread across the oldster’s face.
‘Now don’t tell me you’re lookin’ for someone again,’ he said.
‘You got it right.’
‘Hell, ain’t you kinda makin’ a habit of this?’
Lowell lifted the bottle and refilled the man’s glass. His own stood untouched.
‘Guess I am,’ he said. ‘This time it’s someone called Mossman.’
The oldster looked at him closely. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. He seemed to think for a moment before downing another whiskey. Then his face creased into another grin.
‘You’re too late this time,’ he said. ‘Mossman pulled out and left town.’
‘Left town? When did he do that?’
‘About a couple of hours ago. You just missed him. In a manner of speakin’, so did I.’
Lowell still hadn’t grasped what the man was saying. ‘How do you know this?’ he said.
‘Man at the station.’
‘What, you mean he left on a train?’
‘You sure catch on,’ Howson replied.
Lowell took only a moment to think.
‘Thanks, pardner,’ he said. ‘See you around.’
He got to his feet and began to walk quickly down the smoke-filled room. Howson opened his mouth to shout something after him but before he could speak Lowell had clattered through the batwings and was on his way.
‘That man sure has somethin’ eatin’ him,’ Howson mumbled to himself. ‘Wonder who he’ll be after next?’
With a shrug of his shoulders to all and sundry he poured himself another drink.
Lowell didn’t hesitate. He had told Fuller he would be back but there was nothing he could do about that. He had to catch up with Mossman and there was no time to wait. Making his way to the livery stable where he had left his horse, he quickly had it saddled up. He paid the ostler and, leading the sorrel out through the back entrance, climbed into leather. He didn’t want to run the chance of any of the others seeing him. There would be explanations, delays, and something else he couldn’t put into words, but it concerned Lorna. Most of all, he had the information he needed. He had found Mossman and he didn’t mean to let him go. Although Mossman might be travelling fast along his own railroad, he intended to keep riding till he caught up with him.
The horse was well rested and fresh. As soon as he was out of town, Lowell spurred it to a gallop and it stretched out, its mane flowing, following the line of the railroad tracks. He hadn’t got far when he saw the added stretch of tracks leading into the grove of trees. He considered taking a closer look but it was pretty obvious that it was where Mossman concealed his railroad car. Even if Mossman had not already left, he would have been unable to see it. The place might be worth examining later, but at present there was no time to spare. Time and speed were of the utmost importance.
Mossman had a good start on him and he didn’t know how fast the train was going. For the moment he just let the horse run, but eventually, not wanting it to get blown, he eased it down to a trot, then a walk, then a trot again. After he had been riding that way for a time he topped a low ridge and way off to the north he discerned a black patch moving slowly across the prairie which he surmised was buffalo. He drew to a halt to let the sorrel catch its wind, observing them. He drew out his field-glasses and as he swept the horizon, he saw something else in the distance which quickened his pulse: a faint smudge of what looked like smoke. It might be nothing more than a cloud of dust, but since it lay in the direction of the railroad tracks he was convinced that it was smoke from the stack of an engine. Replacing the binoculars, he touched his spurs to the horse’s flanks and urged it once more to a gallop.
He wasn’t wrong. As he gradually got closer he became more and more convinced that it was Mossman’s train. The rail tracks glistened and the air above them danced in the heat. At times he thought he saw the train ahead of him but each time it proved to be a mirage. Then the smoke seemed to thin and dwindle away. He kept riding as hard as he dared but he could not see it any more. Then he realized that the reason was probably that the train had remained stationary for a while and had moved on again. There was nothing to do but keep going. Then he saw why the train had stopped.
Ahead
of him, piled on the prairie, were the black shapes of dead buffaloes. He was reminded of the previous occasion he had found them. These ones had been very recently shot but already the scavengers were busy at their remains. Dense clouds of black flies hung over the scene. Mossman had taken the time for a little sport – except that, as far as Lowell was concerned, it wasn’t sport but wanton slaughter. Mossman had not even bothered to get out of the train but just killed them from the security of his railroad car. There was something to be learned, however. From the number of corpses, Lowell reckoned that they couldn’t all have been shot by one man. That meant Mossman was not on his own. He had others along with him. How many? There was no way of knowing. He would just have to take his chances – but at least now he was fore-warned.
It was clear to Lowell that he wouldn’t catch up with the train unless it stopped again. It was getting late in the day. Since the specialized rail car seemed to be Mossman’s home, perhaps the train would halt somewhere for the night. As darkness fell, he kept riding. The sun seemed to pause on the horizon before it dropped over the edge. Night came quite suddenly and starlight glittered like silver on the rails. He was beginning to think he was out of luck when he saw traces of smoke and then, taking him almost by surprise, the looming bulk of the train appeared ahead of him. The locomotive was pulling two carriages. Light showed at the windows of the rear coach but the one next to the engine was dark apart from the glow of a lantern.
Lowell brought his horse to a halt and dismounted. He ground-hitched the animal and then crept up on the train, which was on a siding. Occasionally, muffled voices reached him from the rear coach, but there didn’t seem to be much activity. He guessed that Mossman’s men were under orders to keep any noise to a minimum. When he reached the rear coach, he carefully peered in at one of the windows. From what he could see, there were half a dozen men inside, sat around a table playing cards. He ducked down and approached the second car. Curtains were drawn at the frosted glass windows and he could see nothing. He moved on. There was no sign of an engineer and he guessed he was probably playing cards with the others. For a moment he hesitated, wondering what to do. Was Mossman inside the car? There was only one way to find out.
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