by Jack Sheriff
‘Bad?’
‘Flesh wound, in and out, but I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.’
Brave words spoken by a man whose tight voice betrayed his agony. Will reached out, grasped his shoulder encouragingly, then turned as, thirty feet away, Nelson came crashing out of the brush.
‘Come on.’
With difficulty he got Gillo on to his feet and walked him to where Cree was now standing talking to Nelson. There, Gillo sank down again with a groan.
‘He got them both,’ Cree said, nodding at Nelson. ‘We can ride, I guess – but we’re down one man and two horses.’
‘No,’ Will said, ‘it’s just the man. Slim’s horse is OK, and those two fellers must have left theirs somewhere around . . .’
He wandered back to the trail as Jake Cree crouched to tend to the wounded deputy and Nelson went for their horses. Slim’s horse trotted out of the gloom towards Will; over where the trail had been cut up by the fall, he found Slim’s six-gun; and, with a slap on the rump that sent Slim’s horse trotting to join the others, he manhandled the saddle off his own dead horse and toted it on to the grass.
‘Slim reckons he’ll be happy where he is,’ Cree said.
‘Happy!’ Slim said, with an attempt at a sickly grin. ‘Do I have a choice?’
‘One of us could stay behind,’ Nelson said, ‘but we’re up against tough odds.’
‘I told you,’ Slim said. ‘Go get the job done.’
‘Two down. That leaves five,’ Jake Cree said.
‘And one of those is ours,’ Will said.
‘Yeah,’ Slim said tightly, ‘but the four left to deal with will be the best – Harry Tracy, Johnson, Dave Lant.’
‘And Cajun Pride,’ Cree said, ‘a man already dying, and intent on going out in a blaze of glory.’
‘Well,’ Dave Lee Nelson said, ‘if that’s what the man wants, what the hell are we waiting for?’
‘Damn right,’ Will Sagger said. He dragged Slim’s rifle out of its boot and handed it to the deputy, replaced it with his pa’s Winchester, and once again he was first into the saddle as they mounted up, pulled out on to the trail and rode into the night in search of a locomotive’s haunting whistle.
Chapter Sixteen
The railway lines were twin ribbons of iron arrowing across the grassland, their smooth upper surfaces glittering in the fitful moonlight and already singing like twin tuning forks under the immense weight and power of the Overland Flyer.
For the train was close now, very close – and even Daniel Sagger, who wanted no part of this robbery, was caught up in the excitement. Dave Lant had walked down the slope to place a red lantern on a sleeper in the centre of the tracks. Now, hopping like a jack-rabbit over rough grass tussocks, he hot-footed it back to where outlaws and horses were gathered behind a small stand of trees.
‘You see how easy it is?’ Cajun Pride said slyly, cajolingly. ‘Stick with me, Cold Hand, see this through, and you’ll be a rich man. Hell, I’ll even leave my share to you in my will, in six months or less you’ll be double rich – so how does that sound?’
‘It sounds like there’s still time to call it off,’ Sagger said, allowing the rising tide of excitement to carry him along but tempering it with righteousness and giving it direction and force. ‘Turn your back on this madness, ride away with me now, Cajun, or—’
‘Or what?’
That was Harry Tracy, belligerent, jaw jutting, blue eyes as cold as the hard metal of those vibrating railway lines.
‘Was I talking to you?’ Sagger said curtly, his eyes still on Pride.
Tracy stepped close, thrust out a stiff arm and slammed the heel of his hand into Sagger’s shoulder, rocking him backwards.
‘No, but I’m talking to you, and what I’m asking is, Utah rides with you – or what?’
‘Forget it, Harry,’ Cajun Pride said, swiftly stepping across to put a restraining hand on Tracy’s shoulder as he slid his wasting frame between the two men. ‘We’ve got work to do, and time’s running out.’
‘Yah, I tink we have a train to rob,’ Johnson said, as Tracy shook off Pride’s hand and continued to glare at Sagger. ‘Why the hell you argue?’
But Tracy was not to be put off, and the Swede’s words had given him fresh ammunition.
‘How do we rob a train,’ he said, ‘when we’ve got a smart aleck amongst us dead set on pulling out the man who thought up the whole idea?’
‘That train’s getting close, Harry,’ Dave Lant warned breathlessly. He was away from the group, and after a glance back at the red lantern he was lookin east along the tracks. Sagger pointedly ignored Tracy, followed Lant’s gaze and thought he detected a glow in the distance that could have come from the Flyer’s smoke stack.
‘Settle down,’ Cajun Pride said, ‘for Christ’s sake and for the sake of this robbery—’
‘Hell, Utah, can’t you see it?’ Harry Tracy said. ‘The partner you dragged into this, he’s gonna get us all killed, he—’
‘Enough!’
Slight, pale, a man with greying hair and a voice that could slip from strength to weakness in one painful moment, Cajun Pride was still a potent force. He had placed himself as a barrier between Sagger and Tracy, and now his voice cracked like a whip as he whirled to face Harry Tracy.
‘I pulled Daniel in because we rode together in the past, and we’ll ride together tonight. If you don’t like that. . . .’
‘I like it fine,’ Tracy said, scowling, ‘but I can’t say the same for Sagger. So ask him. Is he going along with this, is he going to pull his weight? – because if he ain’t, then I want him to get the hell out of here.’
‘Daniel?’
Sagger hesitated. The train was a hammering presence hurtling down on the waiting owlhoots, excitement and urgency were palpable forces ripping a man’s common sense to tatters – yet when he fought that excitement, overcame it and obeyed those instincts that screamed at him to turn his attention to the west, to listen for approaching hoofbeats – he heard nothing. He had no way of knowing if Will, Cree and Gillo had come through the ambush; no way of knowing if they were even now out there in the darkness, listening, waiting. . . .
And suddenly the four watching outlaws were jumpy, anxious to get the bad-tempered dispute settled because now there could be no doubt: the glow to the east had brightened, sparks could be seen drifting like fireflies against the night sky and, even as they all became aware of a strengthening rumble that could be felt and heard but could not be ignored, a mournful whistle cut through the tense silence and softly, with awe in his voice, Dave Lant said, ‘Jesus Christ, just listen to her come!’
Lant was carrying the dynamite in his saddle-bags. Sagger knew that if the train stopped, the outlaws would be on it, hammering on the express car’s doors, blowing them apart if the messenger refused to open up, piling in and doing the same to the iron safe if they got another refusal.
Violence. Bloodshed. Good men dying.
Without his friends, he was a man alone and powerless. But if he allowed the robbery to proceed – and, dear Lord, what alternative did he have? – then he would have the backing of other men, those stalwarts on the train who would violently repel the outlaws if the chance came their way. And, Sagger thought, if he stayed at the back of the band then the outlaws would be caught in the jaws of a pincer and . . .
They were waiting. Hard eyes stared at him. Tracy’s hand was close to his six-gun and Swede Johnson, influenced by the cold-eyed killer’s naked aggression, had moved to the side to give himself a clear view and was also ready for gunplay. Suspicion was like a bad smell, a bad taste, and Sagger knew that if he didn’t answer quickly . . .
‘Goddammit, Daniel,’ Pride growled.
‘Get to it,’ Sagger said. ‘I’m with you.’
With a sudden rush that could only have come from relief Pride turned to him, wrapped him in a surprisingly strong embrace, then stepped back with his hands still on Sagger’s shoulders.
‘You’ll never regr
et it,’ he said, eyes burning in the darkness. ‘And I’m not talking about money, I’m talking about what this means to me, and how you’ll see it in the years to come.’
And then he wheeled away and it was all action.
For the daring robbery that would bring his career to a dazzling, climactic close, Cajun Pride had chosen the start of a straight coming out of a tight curve, reasoning that if the engineer had reduced the Flyer’s speed for the bend he would more easily pick out the warning lantern’s red glow as he hit the straight, more easily react before the train picked up speed.
Everything was going according to plan.
The Overland Flyer’s lantern became visible, like the staring eye of some huge animal racing along on the other side of the trees lining the start of the long bend. The roar of the big locomotive pulsed, then hammered at sensitive ears. The very earth shook beneath their feet.
Then the roar diminished: the train was slowing.
‘Easy now,’ Cajun Pride said.
Closer, closer, slowing all the time as the bend tightened. And now, at the rear of the long, dark bulk that was the huge locomotive, they could see the glow from the footplate and, outlined against it, a shadowy figure leaning out to watch the way ahead. Out from the fringe of trees the Flyer sped, the rails straightening before it, the long straight beckoning – and then, abruptly, the squeal of brake blocks, the hiss of steam as the engineer hauled back on the throttle; the screech of iron wheels sliding on the iron track and the stink of hot metal—
‘Not yet.’
Cajun Pride screamed the warning as the outlaws leaped forward and swung into the saddle. Faces white in the thin moonlight, they eased towards the edge of the trees, but waited there, reins tight as they held back the excited horses and watched the train slow, slow. . . .
‘All right, now, let’s go!’
And with with one final glance behind him, Daniel Sagger touched his horse with his heels and took it at an easy pace after the outlaws who were plunging down the slope towards the glittering tracks and the Union Pacific’s Overland Flyer which, within feet of the smoking red lantern, was drawing to a grinding halt.
Chapter Seventeen
Will Sagger witnessed the outlaws’ charge from the crest of a rise 500 yards to the east, reining in Slim Gillow’s dancing horse and squinting across the moonlit landscape to a dark stand of trees and, beyond that, a pinprick of red light standing between the rails in front of a huge locomotive almost lost in billowing clouds of white steam. And, even as he watched, the crackle of gunfire drifted to them and they could see muzzle-flashes reflected in the windows of the stationary train.
‘I count five,’ Jake Cree said, ‘so your pa’s riding with them.’
‘He’ll have his reasons.’
‘Hell,’ Cree said, ‘on his own against those varmints there’s damn all else he can do.’
‘So what are we waiting for?’ Dave Lee Nelson said, and without lingering for their reply he put spurs to his horse and set off across the intervening distance at full gallop.
The scene they were bearing down on was like something from Dante’s Inferno, smoke and flame and dark, milling figures, and the raucous cries of violent men going about their deadly work.
Will and Jake Cree caught up with Nelson and rode with him. As they drew near to the train, Will thought he could see his father, several yards up slope from the group and apparently doing nothing to help or hinder – but his attention was swiftly drawn to the footplate where two men were locked in a violent struggle against the glow of the locomotive’s furnace.
‘They get the engineer off there,’ Cree said, ‘that train’s not going anywhere in a hurry.’
And with a glance at the little gunsmith, hat-brim flattened by the breeze, his eyes blazing with excitement, Will drew his six-gun and sent three fast shots winging low over the top of the locomotive.
As the shots whistled overhead, faces turned towards them. The night rang with cries of confusion and anger. On the footplate, the two men broke apart and, taking advantage of the distraction, the engineer loosed a violent, swinging kick and sent his adversary crashing backwards to the ground.
‘That’s tossed the fox in with the chickens,’ Nelson said, flashing Will a savage grin.
Then they were closing fast on the outlaw band, and all was pandemonium.
The man who had fallen from the footplate took one look at the advancing riders and ran, limping, for his horse. Those who had raced towards the express car were caught in two minds, finally decided that flight was the only option and turned back to the horses. One man tripped and went down in a heap, and Will saw a sack fall and sticks of dynamite spill out into the wet grass.
‘Move out!’ Will roared, and flapped a hand wildly at the engineer. He caught the man’s wave of acknowledgement, heard the almost instant hiss of steam and the slamming of a metal brake lever, and the train began to inch forward. The red lamp went over with a crackle of broken glass. When it winked out, the outlaws seemed to lose all heart.
Still rushing towards the disorganized band, Will ducked in the saddle as a slug buzzed angrily past his ear. But it was a wild shot. The outlaws were falling over themselves in the rush for their horses, casting hasty glances over their shoulder as they scrambled into the saddle, then wheeling away and snapping shots that did nothing more than punch holes in the night sky.
One stayed behind. Instead of joining the frantic flight, this man rode fast up the slope to where Daniel Sagger sat his horse, watching. And as he rode, Will saw the flash of a six-gun, roared, ‘Pa, look out now!’ and was sickened to see the man pull alongside Daniel Sagger and reach across to point the six-gun’s muzzle at his head.
‘Stay back!’ he yelled. ‘Come any closer, and he gets it.’
‘This is when we need Slim to throw names at us,’ Jake said. ‘But even without him, I’d say that’s Cajun Pride, the Utah Kid.’
‘And we’ve got a stand-off,’ Will said.
‘What do you hope to gain?’ Dave Lee Nelson shouted, above the rattle of the departing Flyer.
‘Time. Another chance at the Overnight Flyer when you ain’t around.’
‘Your time’s running out,’ Will said, pulling alongside Nelson and Cree as they drew rein. ‘From what I hear, you’re a dead man refusing to lie down.’
‘Jesus!’ Jake Cree breathed. ‘I’ll bet that one hurt.’
Undeterred, Will said, ‘Leave my pa to get on with his life—’
‘It’s all right.’ They saw Daniel Sagger lift a hand, push the six-gun away from his head and watch the Utah Kid slip it into its holster. He said, ‘I set out for Hole In The Wall to talk to Cajun. I’ll continue to do that in the time he’s got left. For an old friend that’s maybe the least I can do.’ His face was pale in the wan moonlight. His last words seemed to hang in the air, and for a moment he appeared fascinated by what he had said.
Then he drew a breath, fixed his gaze on Will and said, ‘I knew that Winchester would bring you running, son. Does it feel good?’
‘You know it does,’ Will said huskily.
‘Fired her yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘When you do,’ Daniel Sagger said, ‘you’ll find her a sweeter gun than any you’ve handled.’
‘That’s fine, then,’ Will said, wondering where all this was leading.
‘I remember when your pa got that,’ Cajun Pride said. ‘Hell, I’ve never seen a finer shot—’
‘Enough.’ Daniel Sagger cut him short. He cast another hard glance at Will, then reached over to slap Cajun Pride’s horse and the two men moved away. They walked their horses up the slope, heading towards the crest beyond which the pale moon hung low and the skies were luminous.
‘Get that Winchester out and ready,’ Jake Cree said. ‘They get to the top, take Cajun Pride with a single shot.’
‘Jake, I can’t do that!’
‘You think your pa was talking for the sake of it?’ Nelson said.
‘
You want me to back shoot him? A dying man?’
‘If you don’t,’ Cree said, ‘he’s liable to back shoot your pa – because, sure as eggs is eggs, your pa ain’t going to talk him round. The Utah Kid’s responsible for your ma’s death. Accessory to murder.’
‘That’s for the law to decide.’
‘If you were listening,’ Nelson said, ‘you’ll recall that your pa said something about talking to Pride’s the least he can do for an old friend. But he put a maybe in there and, the way he acted, I think his mind was on a whole lot more.’ He looked hard at Will. ‘If it’s in his mind, but he’s in no position to act, then someone has to do it for him.’
‘The man’s got the cancer,’ Jake Cree said softly. ‘Wouldn’t killing a man in that condition be an act of mercy?’
For a long moment, Will hesitated. Then he reached down and slid the shiny Winchester out of its boot. The stock was cold, the barrel icy. He slid his fingers through the lever, jacked a shell into the breech; looked up the slope.
The two men were approaching the crest, and it seemed to Will that, as they hit the top and became black outlines against the luminous skies, his pa moved away; placed a space as wide as a horse is long between him and Cajun Pride.
‘How’s your shoulder?’ Cree said quickly. ‘Will it hold steady for the shot, stand the strain?’
‘It’s fine.’
But what about me, Jake? Will thought. The battered shoulder will take it, the left arm will hold up for as long as it takes – but can I? Will I bear up under the strain of knowing what I’ve done? Live with that knowledge, day after day, for the rest of my life?
He licked his lips, lifted the rifle; again looked towards the ridge where the two mounted figures stood as if frozen.
All right, he thought, get on with it – for, when all’s said and done, what wrong will I have committed? The man’s in pain, dying. He killed my ma, and he’ll kill my pa if I don’t stop him.