Air screeched through the port as he threw on every ounce of pressure in his brake cylinders. All along the train was the clang of brake shoes and the scream of protesting steel. The “556” bucked, reared, rocked like a living thing, then lunged ahead under the shove of the mighty mass of steel ramming her coupler.
With a yell of terror, the fireman went through the window. The head brakeman also “jined the bird gang.” Together they rolled down the rocky embankment to lie, bruised and bloody and unconscious, at its foot.
Most didn’t have time to get out. He was still on his seatbox, fighting to save his train, when the “556” crashed into the huge mass of rock that had been levered onto the track. Over she went, thundering and grinding, steam roaring from a tornoff cylinder, her cab smashed, her tender twisted loose fom the connecting bar. Gurgling water, snapping coals and hissing air added their quota to the general pandemonium.
There was another sound as Mose Bardwell staggered to his feet, his grizzled head bloody, one arm swinging useless at his side.
It was a sharp, spiteful sound—the crack of a high-power rifle.
Baldwell straightened, an amazed look on his crimson-streaked face. For an instant he stood poised, then he crumpled to the ground and lay motionless.
Lights were bobbing forward from the caboose. The conductor and the rear brakeman, bruised and bleeding, but not seriously injured, were hurrying to the assistance of their less fortunate fellow workers. Heedlessly they ran toward where, very silent, but very sure, death waited. They reached the scene of the wreck, panting for breath, bawling anxious questions. They paused irresolute for an instant, clearly outlined in the glare from the open firebox.
Again the unseen rifle cracked, and again. A moment later, a dozen shadowy forms stole past the bloody bundles that lay beside the still burning lanterns. They picked up the lanterns, cast callous glances at the still forms of the murdered trainmen, and hurried toward the rear of the train.
And from the black shadows inside an empty coal car, dark, burning eyes watched them pass, peered perplexedly at their operations at the rear of the train, and then filled with sudden understanding. On silent feet the young Mexican sped along in the shadow of the motionless cars, past the wrecked engine and on toward the black mouth of Dominguez Canyon.
Huck Brannon instinctively knew it was not time to get up, in spite of the hammering on his door. A glance through the window showed that the winter dawn had not fully broken. And yet old Ah Sing’s voice was shrilling to him:
“Get up, Huck! Get up, Huck!”
“What’s the matter with you, you yellow hootowl?” he bawled in peevish reply. He could hear old Lank cursing inside the inner room, then the solid thump of his bare feet on the floor.
“Get up, Huck!” screeched Ah Sing. “Hell bloke loose!”
Brannon snapped fully awake. He leaped to the door, flung it open. Ah Sing slipped in, beside him a young Mexican who gasped and panted for breath. Despite the bitter cold, his face streamed sweat and his shirt was dark with it.
“Him tell!” barked Ah Sing. “Get dlessed, Huck!”
“They wreck train,” panted the Mexican. “I, Pedro, saw all. They work to roll dynamite down the track and so blow up the bridge at the curve.”
“Wreck the train where?” Huck asked quietly as he hurried into his clothes.
“At the curve just below canyon mouth,” the Mexican replied. “Rocks on track. Shoot engineer—conductor. Dynamite in last two cars.”
“Hold it, feller,” Huck pointed out. “There’s a stretch of north downgrade there Those cars won’t run up hill, and they would have to get over the rise.”
“They have the—the—what you call—the move-car.”
“Car movers,” Huck interpreted.
“Si, si! That go click-click on end of pole. They move the cars up the grade little by little. They shove!”
Old Ah Sing screeched weird profanity. Lank, bellowing curses, flung open the door. Huck stopped him with a terse word.
“Wait!” he said. “Don’t go off half-cocked. This is going to take some thinking out. It’s four miles to that curve. They’ll be over the rise ‘fore we can get there with men. How many of them are there, Pedro?”
“The dozen, perhaps more,” replied the Mexican.
“And all armed,” muttered Huck. “Get Smoke,” he started to order Ah Sing, then instantly countermanded:
“Nope. No good. Even if I made it, they’d hear me coming and see me. Just wait till I was within rifle range and then pick me off. That wouldn’t help a thing.
“Lank,” the cowpuncher added, “if they get away with this, we’re sunk!”
“Hell!” exploded Mason, “that bridge won’t take long to put back, even if they do blow it.”
“No,” Huck replied quietly, “but an explosion at that curve, or anywhere in the gorge for that matter, will bring down the overhanging cliffs and dam the creek—it’s sure to. Before anything can be done the water will back up into the canyon and flood our mine. It’ll take weeks to pump it out, and cost thousands of dollars we haven’t got.”
“That damn creek!” growled Mason, glowering through the door at the offending body of water, “it’s allus causin’ trouble. Was it Injuns wrecked the train, feller?”
“I know not for sure,” replied the Mexican. “It was dark and I could not see well. I hear them make talk, and I thought to hear the speech of my people—the Spanish—but I could not be sure because of the rush of the water.”
Huck Brannon, tense, motionless, thinking furiously, gave a sudden start.
“Rushing water!” he repeated. “Man, I believe you’ve hit it!”
Instantly, and heedless of Lank’s bewildered sputters, he leaped into action.
The miners were already getting up for breakfast and Huck’s bellows brought them boiling from their cabins.
“Crossties!” he ordered. “Half a dozen or so. Get three or four of those heavy stringers and the longest spikes we got. Right over here to the creek bank. Mike, get a car mover and bring it to me.”
Within scant minutes he had the railroad ties laid side by side. Men with mauls were spiking them together. The heavy stringers were spiked to them laterally. With miraculous speed a rough, unwieldy, but serviceable, raft was constructed.
“All right, into the water with it,” Huck ordered. “Lank, you and the boys break out all the guns we got and hustle down the canyon as fast as you can. Mebbe you’ll get there in time to pick off some of those murdering hellions.
“Pedro,” he called to the young Mexican, “did you notice whether there were cars on the siding, five miles south of the wreck?”
“Si,” the Mexican youth replied. “I see as the train pass. There three—four boxcars.”
“Materials for the new tipple,” Lank put in. “Not quite ready for ‘em and no room to store in the yards.”
“Huck! Huck!”
Sue’s voice, pregnant with anxiety, suddenly cut the early morning dusk.
Swiftly the men turned toward the running figure. Sue was still drawing on a leather jacket against the morning chill when she reached them. A red flush, apparent even in the dim light, was staining her cheeks to a crimson color. She was out of breath.
“I can’t stop now, Sue,” cried Huck. He took a step toward her. “But in case something should happen to me—hell!” He swooped down, suddenly had her in his arms, held her for a moment, tight against his breast, kissed her—and then released her.
Sue swayed as she slipped out of his hands.
“Okay,” Brannon cried, taking a long pole from the hands of a miner and stepping onto the bobbing raft.
“What you gonna do, Huck?” Lank asked anxiously.
“Stop those hellions from ruining our mine,” Huck told him grimly. “All right, you fellers, hand me that car mover, then let go and shove off.”
“You’ll be kilt!” bawled Lank as the raft swirled into the grip of the current. “You can’t outfight a dozen!”
“But maybe I can out think ‘em,” Huck called back as the unwieldy contrivance whisked downstream.
Instantly, however, he had no more time for thinking. The creek ran like a mill race and the rushing water swirled and eddied. Fangs of black rock, with white spray spouting over their ragged edges, broke through the surface and it extended him to the utmost to keep his fagile craft from being capsized or dashed to pieces.
Body rigid, eyes staring, breathing heavily, and standing as though petrified, Sue watched Huck struggling with his raft. The blood had drained from her face and she was now as pale as the ghost light that sifted through the crack of dawn. Suddenly, she came to life.
“Huck!” she cried at the top of her lungs. “Be careful, darling. Be careful!”
But it was doubtful if he heard her, even though she ran along the bank of the river for a space. He was too busy in his fight with the elements. Too busy with eminent danger.
The tough wood of the pole groaned and crackled, bending like a reed as he fought with every atom of his strength to stave off disaster. He whisked through the mouth of the canyon and the dizzy speed, if anything, increased. Far ahead, in the strengthening light, he could see an ominous black pillar rising into the wintry sky—the smoke from the wrecked locomotive. Beyond that would be the grade where the drygulchers labored to lift the dynamite cars over the rise.
“Maybe they’ll be too busy to notice me pass,” Brannon muttered. “If they aren’t—”
He grimly left the thought unfinished and devoted all his energies to fighting the raft around a rock-studded bend where the water smoked against glassy walls of stone.
He made it, gasping and panting, sweat beading his face, the veins of his forehead standing out like cords and black as ink. He straightened his aching back as a stretch of slightly smoother water appeared, and hitched his gun belts a little higher. The creek bank here was clothed by dense growth, but a little farther on the railroad drew nearer to the water and the protecting fringe of growth had been cleared away.
A moment later he saw the shining ribbons of steel writhing up the long and gradual rise. And almost to the crest were the reddish blobs of the two dynamite cars and the caboose. Behind the rear car, crouching figures manipulated the car movers. Others shoved sturdily against the back and sides of the car, which inched slowly upward toward where the ribbons of steel seemed to end and the crest of the ridge stood out hard and clear against the sky.
On shot the raft in the fierce grip of the current, reeling, rocking, swirling through the eddies, grazing deadly fangs of stone. Huck Brannon, cool, alert, eye and muscle perfectly co-ordinated, guided, controlled, averted disaster a score of times. And ahead, the dark line of the railroad drew ever nearer the water’s edge and the toiling figures loomed larger and larger.
A shout, thin with distance, sounded above the roar of the water. Huck Brannon cursed bitterly. He was beginning to hope that he might whisk by unnoticed. But that hope was abruptly dashed. Steadying himself on his precarious perch, he waited.
From the milling group about the dynamite cars mushroomed a puff of bluish smoke. Something wailed through the air close to Huck’s head. The cars still moved steadily up the grade, but a number of the pushers had detached themselves from the group and were running toward the creek. The rising sun glinted on the barrels of their rifles.
Another gun cracked, and another slug whined past. Huck measured the distance, planted his feet firmly, took a swift glance downstream. The stretch of water ahead was nearly free from rocks.
The drygulchers raced to the water’s edge, shooting as they came. Bullets stormed about the man on the bobbing raft, kicking up fountains of spray, knocking splinters from the ties. One clipped a chip from the pole he held in his hand.
But Huck Brannon waited, alert, gambling his very life against the aim of the running men. Suddenly he dropped the pole and went for his guns.
Out of their sheaths flashed the big Colts as the raft swung toward the bank. The first of the drygulchers was almost to the water’s edge.
An instant later he yelled shrilly and plunged into the racing flood. Over his twitching form rolled a crimson ripple; then the current caught the flaccid body and hurled it downstream.
Huck Brannon’s long guns gushed reddish flame and wisping spirals of smoke. The reports merged in a drumroll of sound that crackled above the roar of the water and the yells of the drygulchers.
Another man went down, and another. The rest, dodging and ducking, fired wildly with little pretense of aim. A bullet whisked through the sleeve of Chuck’s woolen shirt. Another almost slammed his feet from under him as it removed a portion of his boot heel. His hammers clicked on empty shells, he holstered one gun and his hand flew to his cartridge belt.
Then he was past, and before he could reload he was out of pistol range. Rifle bullets whined by, but the raft was reeling and bobbing and the nerves of the killers were shaken. Another instant and a clump of growth hid him from view. On flew the raft, the crest of the rise dwindling and lowering in the distance.
And then over the lip, dark against the sunny sky, the lurching shape of the caboose hove into view. It swayed, dipped, a car followed it, and another. The cargo of destruction moved down the long grade, slowly at first, but gathering speed with every turn of the wheels.
XVIII
Flame and Fury
On raced the raft, the white water lapping over the edges of the timbers, the black fangs of rock racing to meet it, the swirling eddies sucking like hungry mouths. Swiftly it drew away from the rumbling freight cars, until they were but a dim blotch in the distance. A bend and a shoulder of stone hid them from view; but still Huck Brannon could hear that ominous rumble ringing in his ears. His keen glance swept ahead, seeking the siding upon which rested the cars of material destined for the mine—and destined to be its salvation.
From time to time his gaze lifted to the frowning, overhanging cliffs, and each time he shook his head.
“Would be mighty easy if it wasn’t for those damn rocks,” he muttered. “All we’d have to do is shove the materials cars out on the main line, let the dynamite slam into ‘em and blow to glory. But we can’t afford to take the chance. Almost as certain to bring down the cliffs here as at the bridge. No, that won’t do. If I can just get far enough ahead of those damn runaways!”
Anxiously he glanced over his shoulder, back along the shimmering rails that drew together in the distance. Fearfully he expected to see the bulk of the runaways roar around the last curve.
“Not in sight yet, anyway.” He breathed relief, and turned to stare ahead.
The raft swept past a clump of growth and Huck saw the materials cars on the siding less than half a mile ahead. Instantly he began to fight the raft toward the outer bank of the stream.
Stubbornly the clumsy craft resisted his muscles, while the current sought powerfully to hurl it back into midstream. For hundreds of yards he didn’t seem to gain a foot. Then the raft slowly responded to the pull of his sweating and aching arms. Inch by inch it swerved toward the shore, its speed decreasing as it forged away from the full force of the current.
That slowing added to Huck’s anxiety. He could not afford to take too much time in reaching the siding. The runaways would be upon him before he could act. He redoubled his efforts as the head of the siding came opposite him. The strong pole creaked and groaned, bent more and more. He got a purchase on a clump of stone and gave a final mighty shove. The next instant he was sprawling on the spiked crossties, a short section of the shivered pole in his hands. The raft rocked crazily, swung about and headed for midstream once more.
Huck scrambled to his feet, measured the distance to the rocky shore and leaped, the heavy car mover hugged to his breast.
The leap, prodigious though it was, was short. He hit the water with a splash, reeling and swaying. With a surge of thanksgiving he realized he had made it to the shallows. The water was scarcely a foot deep. He kept his footing and scrambled
for the bank. Another moment and he was racing toward the materials cars, which stood on the lower end of the siding, but a short distance from the switch stand.
Huck passed the cars and reached the switch stand. A blow of the car mover shattered the lock. He seized the lever and opened the switch. Then he raced back to the cars, scrambled up the ladder of the first one and released the brakes of each in turn. Another instant and he was on the ground, clicking the foot of the car mover beneath a rear wheel of the last car.
The car stubbornly resisted the leverage. Huck rocked his weight on the handle of the mover, surging up and down. There was a groan, a creak, a squeal of protesting metal. The wheel moved a little. Huck frantically worked the lever and the wheel turned more. Then gravity came to his aid and the cars began to slowly move down the siding. Gaining speed, they clattered over the frog and onto the main line.
The cowpuncher swung the switch shut, raced after the moving cars and swarmed up the ladder. As he reached the top a faint, unmistakable rumble came to his ears—the roar of the runaways. Glancing back he saw them, a black blotch swinging around the distant curve.
With appalling speed they rushed toward him. The cars he was riding were also picking up speed, beginning to sway, their wheels clicking out a fast tempo. But as yet it was nothing to that of the rocketing cars of dynamite.
There was nothing Huck could do but wait. He knew he was gambling his life. Already the speed of the car he was riding made leaping to the ground little less than suicide. And if that thundering cargo of destruction caught up with him before the materials cars had gained speed nearly equalling theirs, he would be blown clean to New Mexico by the explosion. Grimly he waited, his hands on the brake wheel of the rearmost car, his narrowed eyes watching the runaways close their distance.
The Cowpuncher Page 12