by John Benteen
“Jim, good work.” Yance was more restrained, an odd expression on his face as he looked at the sprawled bodies.
“Yeah,” Sundance said and he pulled free of Art’s encircling arm. A hush fell over the crowd as with instinctive caution he replaced all the spent rounds in first one gun and then the other. He slid his into holster, the other in his belt. Then, wordlessly, swaying slightly, he began to walk.
The crowd parted for him. He walked through it, everything within him numb, wholly used up. He had fought the duel with Evans, and that had been enough. Now this had wholly drained him, though he knew the fight would grow into legend. As weary as he had ever been in his whole life, he walked on down Rucker Street.
At the boarding house, Martha waited on the veranda. When he came up the steps, she took his arm. “Jim are you—”
“All right. Yeah.” He went in, headed for her room. There he dropped into a chair. She followed him and closed the door.
“I want a bottle,” he said.
“Yes.” She was there with it in an instant: good bourbon.
Sundance uncorked it with his teeth, spat the cork across the room. He drank, and then he drank again. After that he had another drink. And beyond that he remembered nothing—until he awakened next morning naked between the sheets of Martha’s bed, to which she had dragged him after he had passed out.
Chapter Nine
It was approximately half a ton of gold, neatly cased in iron-bound wooden boxes each weighing fifty pounds. Sundance saw Art Rawlings’ hand tremble slightly as he signed the receipt for it. Then, in the small freight warehouse behind the office, he passed it to the manager of the mine, who himself let out a sigh of relief. “Damn,” the manager said. “I’m glad to get that off my shoulders and onto yours. I hope I’m doing the right thing. Wells-Fargo in Tucson made a bid to haul it, but it was a hundred percent higher than yours. Even so, I almost gave it to ’em. But after the way this man—” he glanced at Sundance “—and the Darts took care of that Cable outfit yesterday, I figured that cinched it. I don’t see how it could be in better hands than a line that hires men like yours to protect it.”
“We’ll protect it,” Rawlings said. “Don’t worry. It’ll be safely in Lordsburg by tomorrow night, turned over to the special agent for the railroad, who’ll see it gets safe transportation to the railhead. From now on, you have nothing to worry about.”
“I hope you’re right.” The manager was a hard-bitten man in his fifties in corduroys and laced-up boots. “What kind of measures will you take to see it gets through safely?”
Art Rawlings shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t tell even you that. The handling of this shipment’s gonna be absolutely secret, Casey.”
Casey nodded. “Well, when you come down to it, it would take a pretty special hold-up gang to take it, anyhow. You don’t just stick that much gold in your hip pocket and ride off with it. Hell, they’d have to have a wagon or a string of pack horses. And with the Garfield gang rubbed out and now the Cables gone, it ought not to be as rough as it has been. All the same, I’m glad I don’t have the responsibility of getting it through to Lordsburg.” He laughed shortly. “I guess if you don’t make it, the mine’ll wind up ownin’ a stagecoach company.”
Sundance, leaning against the counter, had recovered fully after a good night’s sleep, a fine breakfast, and a few stimulating moments when Martha Fenian had slid into the bed with him afterwards. Now he said, “Mr. Casey. Before you go, some questions. What about the people at your mine? How many know about this shipment?”
“Counting the ones at the smelter, only a half dozen. This whole thing’s been handled special. Of course all the miners know we struck a big new lode, took out a lot of ore. But as to when and how it would be shipped, we kept that absolutely secret. Once it was smelted, I never let anyone handle it that I wouldn’t trust with my own life. I put together a special team, and we boxed it and brought it here and unloaded it ourselves. If you’re worried about any of my men tipping off road-agents or the like, forget it.” He smiled tautly. “I’ve been around a long time, Sundance, and I’ve handled a lot of bullion, and I know how to pick my men, and what security measures to take. There’ll be no leaks from the mine about this shipment.”
“No offense,” Sundance said. “But for this much money, even the best of men might be tempted to turn rogue.”
Casey’s smile vanished. “I’m as aware of that as you are. It’s part of the risk we all have to take. Something you better keep in mind in selecting your own guards. But I’ll stand by what I said. There’ll be no leaks from the mine.” Carefully he put the express receipts in his wallet. “I’ll be going back there now, and none of my men will be leaving mine property until I have word that this shipment’s safe in Lordsburg.”
“Fair enough,” Art Rawlings said. Casey shook hands with him, Yance, who had been watching and listening in silence, and Sundance and then went out.
Carrying the sawed-off shotgun with which all three were armed, Art double-bolted the door behind him. Then, letting out a long breath, he faced Yance and the half-breed. “Well, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “that’s that. And now we’d better hold a powwow and make up our minds: what is the best way of getting this gold to Lordsburg safely? My own idea is that we ought to have up to a dozen top-notch outriders all the way. Pick the best men we’ve ever used, pay ’em top wages, and have an armed escort with that coach that’ll make anybody in his right mind forget the idea of tryin’ to hit this shipment.”
“No,” Sundance said.
Yance and Art both turned to look at him. “Hell,” Sundance said. “Why don’t you just paint a sign and hang it on each side of the coach—this stagecoach is carryin’ a quarter of a million dollars? All right, the Cables themselves are dead. But there’s still a bunch of owlhoots and gunmen out yonder at their ranch that was robbin’ coaches, likely, long before they ever met the Cables. You let a parade like that go out of Coffin City, it wouldn’t take long for the word to drift. And then somewhere along the line, there’d be one hell of a hold-up crew waiting for us. No. My idea is that this coach rolls out of here like any other, only it carries no passengers. And there’ll be no outriders: let Yance himself drive and I’ll ride shotgun. The minute you start hirin’ a dozen gunmen to go along with us, you’re tipping your hand. And I don’t care how much you trust the men you hire; they’ll know there’s something big in that coach, and some, maybe all, will turn against us and take it for themselves—or try to. The only way you’ll get this gold through is to pretend that, this coach ain’t one bit different from any other and that there’s nothin’ on it nobody would give a damn about.”
“Now, wait a minute!” Art seemed to bristle. “Let a quarter of a million roll to Lordsburg with only two men to guard it?”
“That’s it,” Sundance said. “It’ll likely take most of the night, but you, me, Yance—nobody else—loads this gold on a coach. Then it waits until a run when you ain’t got a single passenger booked east, so nobody wonders why there’s no riders, not even the people in your office—especially the people in your office. It goes out of here routinely, innocent as hell. The only difference from usual procedure will be Yance driving. And he can say he’s doing that because he’s overdue to inspect the stations—which is true.”
Art was silent for a moment. “Christ, that’s a long chance to take.”
“Not if only the three of us knows what’s on the coach.”
Rawlings rubbed his face, turned to his brother. “Yance?”
“Why ask me?” There was sullenness in Yance’s voice. “You don’t trust me anyhow. You made that plain yesterday.”
“Dammit, it’s Ellie I don’t trust, not you.” Art relaxed a little. “And ... I’m sorry. I was wrong yesterday. Hell, it’s your line as much as mine. And you’ve got equal say. You stand to lose as much as I do.” He came to Yance, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Forget what I said yesterday. I was under a big strain.” He grinned. “Ok
ay?”
“Okay,” Yance said, but it was evident that he still was not wholly mollified. A kind of grimness lingered in his eyes and on his face, and Art’s hand slipped away. “Me,” Yance went on, “I’ll go along with whatever you and Jim decide. But I think Jim’s right. No outriders. Him and me together can handle it all the way.”
Art looked at him keenly for a moment, then turned away, thinking hard. “I still don’t like it,” he muttered.
Sundance said: “I’ve got a contract, remember? It gives me a free hand and my word goes on everything like this. But it’s up to you—you can pay me off right now, the second ten thousand, and handle it any damned way you like.” His voice harshened. “I’ve laid my life on the line for your outfit a hell of a lot of times since I signed on. In Lordsburg, out there on the desert, first, with the Apaches, then with Evans, and last night with the Cables. Either you trust me or you pay me off.” Art stood rigidly for a moment. “Nobody but you and Yance,” he said at last, thinly.
“That’s the way it’ll be.”
Rawlings turned. “All right. The three of us’ll load the coach in the dark tonight. I doubt there’ll be any passengers tomorrow. Everybody’s still damned leery of the Apaches after that massacre, for all we’ve tried to do to offset it. Nobody’ll want to ride a coach without outriders. If it works out that way, you roll tomorrow mornin’ come ten o’clock. But—” His eyes were hard. “Sundance, if anything happens to my brother or that gold because of this decision, you’d better hope you ain’t alive to meet me afterwards.”
“We’ll wait and see,” Sundance said, not liking that threat, discounting it because Art was wound up like an eight-day clock. “I’ll meet you here at two in the mornin’ and we’ll get her loaded. Then, like you say, at ten we’ll roll.”
“And in the meantime?”
Sundance thought of Martha Fenian. “And in the meantime,” he said, grinning faintly, “I’m gonna take it easy and get some rest.”
~*~
With a jingle of trace chains, the snorting, stamping of fresh and eager horses, the Concord coach pulled up in front of the office of the Rawlings Line precisely at ten the next morning. “All right, you goddam ewe-necked, spavined, cow-hocked bastards!” Yance Rawlings roared, reining in the team, putting on the brake. “Whoa up!” When the team had halted, he wrapped the lines around the brake lever, looked down at the half dozen people on the sidewalk, gathered to see the coach roll out. “Any passengers for Lordsburg? Last call for passengers for Lordsburg!”
On the sidewalk, Sundance kept a poker face. Yance knew very well there would be none; Art had been right. One man near him spat. “Hell, I wouldn’t ride that coach for a million bucks. Not with no guards and Apache smokes everywhere you look out yonder. They say they hit Feeny’s Ranch two days ago, between here and Pitahaya Wells, killed every man on it and rustled all the stock.”
Sundance nodded. “They’re on the warpath, all right.” And that, he thought, was no lie; Cochise was keeping his promise to make life as miserable for every white in Apache territory as he could. But that he would also keep his promise about the Rawlings Line, Sundance did not doubt. This was no time to emphasize that, though. He slung the sack of mail aboard, picked up rifle and the double-barreled ten-gauge Greener. Art Rawlings, face pale, watched as he climbed up into the guard’s seat. Then Art yelled: “Last call for Lordsburg!” He waited barely half a second, then bellowed: “Roll ’em out!”
“Hiyaaa!” Yance popped the lines. The horses, the stoutest, fastest, in the Rawlings remuda, leaned into the traces, broke into a trot. The coach swayed on its thoroughbraces as the team increased its speed. Sundance twisted on the seat, looking back. In front of the stage office, Art raised a hand, waved, dropped it, was veiled in a cloud of dust. In a thunder of hooves, the coach swept out of town, at a dead run now to mask the weight of its load, simulating a nearly empty vehicle. Eagle, saddled and bridled, kept pace alongside.
Once they were out of sight of Coffin City, Yance slowed the straining horses. “Well, here we go,” he grunted. “Sittin’ on a powder keg all the way to Lordsburg.”
Sundance did not answer. Rifle ready, shotgun close at hand, he scanned the road ahead, the desert on either side. He glanced down at Eagle’s ears. The wind was blowing toward them; if other horses or men were up ahead somewhere, those ears would be sure tip-off. Right now, they were relaxed.
A half hour passed, during which both men were silent. Then Yance said, “You know what? If we get this load through, I might just take a share of the profits, sell out my interest in the line to Art and strike out on my own. Me and Ellie been talking: this goddam desert country’s no place for a gal like her. She belongs in a big city somewhere. Frisco, or Chicago—not out here workin’ in a bar like the Occidental. Anyhow, Art’s gittin’ harder and harder to work with every day. Nothin’ I do suits him anymore.”
Sundance said, “I thought you two got along pretty well.”
“Only fair,” Yance said. “We got to work together because we’re brothers and in this together. But he’s always had just a little edge against me. I’m the young one, but I’m bigger’n him and I have twice as much fun and twice as many women. Him, he keeps his nose to the grindstone and all he thinks about is money ... And sometimes I think he don’t trust nobody but himself.”
Sundance did not answer. Ahead, the road made a bend around a huge rock pile, its boulders bigger than the coach itself. He glanced at Eagle. The stallion had raised its head; now its ears pointed straight forward.
“Stop the team,” Sundance said.
“What?” Without slowing, Yance stared at him.
“I said, stop the coach!”
“You crazy? This coach don’t stop for nothing ’til we hit station one! Hiiyahh!” And Yance, instead of hauling on the lines, whipped up the horses.
Sundance turned the muzzle of the rifle, pressed it hard into Yance’s ribs. “I said, stop the coach!”
Yance straightened up, instinctively pulling back on the reins. “Whoa … !” He stared at Sundance, eyes flaring. “Jim, what the hell—?” Then his mouth twisted. “So that’s it,” he whispered. “That’s why you wanted no outriders. You aimed all along to take the money for yourself!”
“Don’t be a fool,” Sundance said. “Just hold up a minute and don’t make any sudden breaks.”
“Why, damn you—” Then Yance broke off as the three riders emerged from the shelter of the rocks, trotting their mounts toward the Concord. Yance’s jaw closed with a snap. “And they are in on it with you,” he whispered. “I might have knowed.”
Sundance did not answer. Double-barreled shotguns across their saddle bows, rifles in their scabbards, the two leading riders had reached the coach. Sundance said, “You’re right on time, Tulso, Pliny.”
“So are you,” Tulso Dart said. He drew his rifle from its scabbard and his brother followed suit. Both men dismounted, handing their mounts’ reins to the third rider—the young Mexican mozo from Martha Fenian’s boarding house. Tulso grinned up at Yance. “Ease off, Rawlings. We mean you no harm. We’re your guards—all the way to Lordsburg.”
Yance gawked. “The hell you are! Who says so?”
“I worked it out with ’em,” Sundance said. “You men get in the coach and pull the blinds. Sorry there ain’t much room, but she’s loaded down with gold.” As they obeyed, he turned to Yance, still holding the rifle on him. “I can tell you now,” he said, “we’re gonna be held up, unless I miss my guess. Likely between Station One and Two. When it happens, Tulso and Pliny are our hole cards.”
“Have you gone crazy?” Yance stared at him. “We agreed, nobody was to know about this shipment.”
“And I broke my word,” Sundance said. “I sent word to Tulso and Pliny to come to Martha Fenian’s yesterday, before we loaded up the gold last night. We worked it all out then. It ain’t over, Yance. Just because the Cables and Evans are dead don’t mean it’s finished. There’s still a bunch of gunmen out t
here in the North End, and they’ve got a man to lead ’em—a man who knows about this shipment. He ain’t gonna let it get through. But he won’t hit us until we’re well past Station One. When he does, he’s gonna have more reception than he’s counting on.”
“A man who knows about the shipment—You’re crazy!”
“No, I’m not. Now, I’m asking you to trust me and start this team. When we hit the first station and they change, you don’t say anything about the Darts inside there, and we roll out as soon as the new horses are in the harness. Once we’re out of gunshot sound of the station, it can come any time.” He drew in a long breath. “I hope I’m wrong, but I know damn well I’m right. Now. Either you trust me or you’re gonna get this rifle barrel across the head and I’ll drive the team while you ride inside.”
Yance licked his lips. Then his eyes lit with understanding. “You mean Casey—the manager of the mine. You think he’d rob his own outfit?”
“It ain’t Casey’s outfit, it’s the Rawlings Line.”
“But I’ve known Casey for two damn years! He’s straight as a string!”
“Like I said, this much money could cause anybody to go rogue. Now. Will you do as I say?”
Yance’s big hands tightened on the reins. Sundance tensed. Then Yance relaxed. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like it at all, but—I got to trust you. After Lordsburg and day before yesterday I got no choice. But I don’t trust them Darts.”
“Well, you’ll have to. They’re no apple blossoms, but they’re not highwaymen—they’re lawmen. And they’re playing for stakes just as big as this shipment in the long run. Besides, if anything happens to this coach, Martha Fenian and that Mexican kid know they were in on it.” He paused. “I’ve been around a while, Yance, longer than you. This is my business. I can judge the man to tie to, the man to watch. After that fight at the corral, I made up my mind I could tie to Tulso and Pliny Dart. They didn’t have to back me, two against one and more. They did it because they’d made a promise—and they kept it. Now. Roll the coach.”