She looked lonely and dejected, sitting her mount at the base of the slope, watching the three riders disappearing northward. Once, Larry threw a furtive glance over his shoulder. She raised a hand and shyly fluttered her fingers. He shrugged and grimaced, dug in his heels.
“C’mon,” he growled. “Let’s get some speed out of these mounts.”
Such was the situation in those remote regions of the Colorado Territory at this time—the hunters moving up from the south, following track of their quarry and trying to forget the existence of a certain impulsive redhead—the predatory Harnsey gang also moving northward, seeking a suitable site for an ambush, somewhere along the railroad route. And in Denver, several hours earlier on this same day …
Two youthful and brawny law officers arrived at the railroad yards, one balancing a strongbox on one shoulder, the other hefting a sawn-off shotgun. Despite the wee small hours, these stalwarts looked uncommonly alert, husky and formidable, also good humored.
The same couldn’t be said for the party to whom they delivered the strongbox—Homer Peck, guard of a southbound freight train due to steam out of the Denver depot exactly seven minutes from now. Though a veteran railroader, Homer didn’t appreciate early rising, and this was manifest in his gruff greeting to the lawmen, his air of gloom.
He was in his mid-forties, balding, scrawny and somewhat less than six feet. The scruffy moustache did naught to enhance his lugubrious countenance, with its watery blue eyes, its too-large nose, its too-small mouth and receding chin. He was a bachelor, but he had plans.
“Howdy, Homer,” grinned one of the deputies, as they climbed into the guard’s caboose. “You’re lookin’ wide awake, and no mistake.”
“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” commented the other. “Just a’rarin’ to go.”
“That ain’t funny,” grumbled Homer. He squinted at the strongbox. “Let’s see now. That’s from the Settlers’ National—consigned to the Winfield branch—that right?”
“Sure enough, Homer,” nodded the shotgun-toter. “Go ahead now. Stash it in your safe, and Georgie and me can go get our breakfast.” As Homer fished out his key and unlocked the old iron safe, the deputy added, “Keep a sharp eye on things this trip. Plenty dinero in the box.”
“How much?” Homer boredly enquired.
“Twenty-five thousand green men,” said the deputy. “A fortune in any man’s language.”
“Who collects in Winfield?” asked Homer. “Bank manager—cashier—county sheriff?”
“Likely the cashier and a Winfield lawman,” frowned the shotgun toter. “It wouldn’t be the manager. He’s laid up. Seems they had quite a hunk of excitement down Winfield way. Harnsey gang robbed the bank. You ever heard of the Harnsey gang, Homer?”
“Don’t believe I ever did,” mumbled Homer.
He swung the safe door shut, turned his key in the lock and got to his feet. The deputies traded knowing winks.
“Homer,” opined the shotgun toter, “ain’t interested in bandits and such.”
“But a certain little lady in Collyville now,” grinned his colleague. “Homer’s sure interested in her. That so, Homer?”
“When’re you gonna hitch up with her, Homer?” demanded the shotgun toter. “Hell, you’ve been courtin’ her damn near ten years, the way I hear it.”
“None of your consarned business,” scowled Homer. He consulted his battered silver timepiece. “Near time for us to roll out. Be obliged if you jaspers’d make tracks, so this train can get movin’.”
“Mighty important cargo this trip, huh, Homer?” jibed the first deputy, as they climbed from the caboose. “Not just the cash shipment. I spotted a ploughshare in the end truck, a harmonium, couple cows in the stock truck …”
“Freight and stock,” growled Homer, “are just as important as some humans I could mention. As for them two animals in the stock truck, you smart aleck deputies must be goin’ blind. They ain’t cows. They’re seed-bulls—for a ranchin’ man way down south of Winfield.”
“We didn’t have time to notice,” the second deputy gravely explained, “if those critters were wearin’ pants or skirts.”
“Mighty funny,” sniffed Homer. “I’m near bustin’ my sides from laughin’.”
The deputies departed, chuckling. Homer thrust his head out the side door and peered ahead. Simultaneously, the bullet-shaped dome of engineer Bart Clifford was poked out of the locomotive’s cabin.
“All set, Homer?” he called.
“Yeah,” nodded Homer. “Take ’er away, Bart. How’s Dan’s lumbago?”
“Easin’ a mite,” reported Clifford, as he withdrew his head.
They were referring to the fireman, florid, pot-bellied Dan Malloy, who was now lethargically plying his shovel. Clifford sounded the whistle. Homer retreated into his caboose and pulled the side door shut. The freighter rolled out of the Denver yards.
Seven miles south of Denver, Homer perched on a box beside the safe, filled and lit his old bent-stemmed briar and got to thinking about the lady of his heart, referred to so derisively by the irreverent deputies. He had always regarded Emily Bessimer as a mighty special lady and, certainly, the only one for him. She was thirty-eight now. Back when Homer had first begun courting her, she had been twenty-eight. Time sure flew. As far as Homer was concerned, she was ‘as purty as ever’. But, of course, love is blind.
Two obstacles stood in the way of his joining in holy wedlock with the stout, double-chinned Emily. One was Emily’s stouter, triple-chinned mother. The other was money. Hard cash, and the folding kind, and plenty of it. In a way, both obstacles were related. Old Ma Bessimer would damn soon bless their union if his fortunes changed. That, it seemed, was the old lady’s major ambition—to see her daughter hitched to a man of means. Homer had saved diligently for many years but, financially speaking, still wasn’t Beulah Bessimer’s idea of an ideal spouse for her precious daughter.
He puffed at his pipe, propped an elbow on the safe and said, to the jumble of freight in the near corner,
“I dearly love that woman, and I sure crave to wed her.”
How long would it take him to save enough cash, enough of it to satisfy old Beulah—not to mention Emily herself, who had inherited her mother’s mercenary instincts?
“I’m underpaid,” he decided. “It’s gonna take a heap of years, and the waitin’ is keepin’ me awake nights.”
Money—oh, how he needed it, as much of that purty green stuff as he could acquire. Well, he had the need and the desire, but the opportunity? No. Not for a long time, or maybe never. He sighed heavily. Why couldn’t he be as other men, the smart ones? Conductor on one of those passenger carrying Specials, for instance. Or a big-shot cattleman, riding a thoroughbred and with his pockets heavy with cash. Or a real sharp professional gambler, maybe. He once heard of a poker specialist who won twelve thousand dollars in one night. Ye gods! Think of that! And how about the Bascombe gang that raided the westbound of the Trans-Continental last year? Fifteen thousand dollars they got from the baggage-car.
He slanted his gaze to the safe. The idea smote him then, right between the eyes and boring into his brain. Temptation—insidious, insistent. For the first time in his uneventful existence, the scrawny railroader began considering the advantages of larceny. Dare he try it?
He was trembling. Ash shook from the bowl of his briar. He discarded his pipe, stared fixedly at the safe and began weighing his chances. Getaway. Of course, that was the most vital factor of all. Of what use to steal twenty-five thousand dollars if one couldn’t get away with it?
“Gettin’ away with it,” he reflected. “Yeah. That’s what really matters.”
The bold approach, he decided. Yes, by golly. Brazen it out. Empty the strongbox for a starter. Uh huh. He would then stow the dinero in his pockets and, into the strongbox, he would pack torn newspaper. The strongbox would be returned to the safe and the safe relocked. Okay so far. Emily lived in Collyville, which was a noon stop. One hour. He could tell th
e engine crew that he was feeling poorly, was too sick to continue the run south. This would justify his quitting the train at the Collyville depot and hustling to the residential sector, ostensibly to consult a doctor.
“Only …” He grinned a crafty grin, “I won’t be lookin’ for no doctor. Not so you’d notice. First, I go fetch Emily. I tell her somebody died and left me all his cash—twenty-five thousand. Let’s see now. Who could he be? A rich uncle. Yeah. That’ll do fine. And I’ll tell her I got to collect my inheritance in Grogan City. That’s near a hundred miles east of Collyville and right close to the Kansas border. Couldn’t be better! We’ll elope is what. Yeah. Get hitched in Grogan City, then hustle on into Kansas, where the Colorado law can’t lay a hand on me. As for Emily and her momma—hell! They’d never know the truth.”
He took the first step. His hand trembled, as he fitted his regulation railroad key into the lock of the safe. The door swung open. He lifted the strong-box out, balanced it on his bony knees and subjected it to a thoughtful examination. How to get it open? This was a Settlers’ National cashbox. Only bank staff were issued with keys to fit this lock. Could the lock be picked, maybe? Well, only one way to find out.
To a bale of wire atop the stack of small freight he trudged. Nine inches of the coil jutted out. He grasped it between finger and thumb and, for several miles of Colorado wasteland, bent it back and forth—back and forth—until it snapped off. He squinted at it, tried to remember what it looked like—the key used by bank employees when unlocking official cash boxes for the purpose of checking the contents. Hell. How could he remember? He bent the wire this way and that, began jabbing it into the lock and twisting it.
This proved to be a lengthy but fruitful project. Success came less than four miles from Collyville and twenty minutes before noon. His makeshift key turned cleanly and he heard the lock click. His heart thumped and his pulse raced, as he raised the lid. Ye gods and suffering snakes—had he ever seen, so much green stuff?
His hands shook. He was perspiring profusely, as he transferred the contents of the strongbox to his pockets. From under the box he took a week-old newspaper, which he tore into oblongs of similar size to the banknotes. With these, he refilled the box. He closed it and was mildly surprised to discover that his improvised key worked both ways. The box relocked easily. He returned it to the safe, locked the safe and resumed his perch on the box. He tried to fill his pipe again, but was incapable; he was trembling so violently that he couldn’t nudge tobacco from his pouch to the bowl.
To say his feelings were mixed would have been an understatement. He had done it, by golly. He, the lowliest employee of the Denver & Rio Grande, had committed grand larceny and was getting away with it.
They would get wise to him, of course. The railroad authorities, the bank’s Winfield representatives, the Winfield County lawmen. But, by the time that strongbox was being unlocked in Winfield, he would be on his way to the border—with his beloved Emily. According to his muddled calculations, there would be time, just time enough, to sneak into Kansas. That part was all very clear in his mind. Well—fairly clear.
The worst was over, he assured himself, as he shoved the side door open and peered ahead. Collyville’s outskirts were visible now. Yes siree. He had leapt the first hurdle, and the rest would be easy. Quit the train at Collyville. Go see Emily and tell her the good news. Rent or buy a rig of some kind and a pair of fast teamers—then on to Kansas!
In the settlement of Collyville, the coming of a passenger train usually drew a small crowd of sightseers to the railroad depot. But Old Lucy, the huffing, wheezing freight train? Only the depot’s Jack-of-all trades, three small boys and two flea-bitten hound dogs turned out to give welcome. Homer donned his cap and, as soon as the train squealed to a halt, clambered down and trudged along to the locomotive. Clifford and Malloy were descending from the cabin. They eyed him with deep concern, and the engineer’s first remark made Homer’s deception that much easier.
“Hell, Homer, you look gosh-awful! Whatsamatter?”
The fireman drawled a query:
“You sick, Homer?”
“Yeah!” Homer nodded vehemently. “Real bad. Dunno what it is.” He clasped his hands to control their trembling. “I ache all over—feel like I’m burnin’ up with fever.”
“He couldn’t be drunk,” Clifford assured his partner.
“Nope,” agreed Malloy. “Not Homer. I’ve seen how he drinks. One shot o’ redeye and that’s his limit. Homer’s a feller that never gets drunk.”
“So,” frowned Clifford, “I guess he is sick.”
“You fellers’ll have to go on without me,” mumbled Homer, “if I ain’t back inside an hour. I’ll go find a doctor rightaway. Maybe he can fix me with a dose of somethin’ or other. Then again—uh—maybe I’ll be laid up.”
“You got a good record with the line, Homer,” asserted the engineer. “Ain’t nobody’d blame you if you was too sick to finish this run. I reckon the best thing is for you to go see a sawbones.”
“All the manifests and stuff,” offered Homer, “you’ll find ’em in my caboose. You know who gets the freight and them seed bulls.”
“We’ll take care of it,” promised Clifford. “Hey now— you feelin’ strong enough to make it to the doctor? Maybe I’d better come along, and …”
“No, no …!” gasped Homer. “I’ll make it!”
He whirled and hurried away from the depot.
He had to struggle hard to conceal his rising elation, as he made his way to the intersection of Chestnut and Sycamore. Everything fine so far. Bart and Dan wouldn’t be looking for him until sixty minutes from now. Even then, they would be none too sure as to whether he would return, and would be prepared to continue the run without him. He had fooled them. By golly, he could fool everybody. Hard-boiled Homer Peck, the most audacious train robber of all!
And now to sweep Emily off her feet. Maybe old Beulah would protest, but not for long, not when he told of his inheritance. As he hustled along Sycamore Row, he kept his eager eyes on the familiar house, the austere, two-story edifice wherein his beloved resided with her mountainous mother, and so he failed to notice the many rigs stalled along both sides of the street—surreys, buckboards, gigs, of every variety.
He swung the gate open and scampered up the walk to the front porch, sweating, gasping for breath, conscious that his heart was thumping. The door was open. He barged through and came to an abrupt halt, eyes bulging, jaw sagging, pulse racing. A man had barred his way. That man was elderly, beefy and gimlet-eyed, and Homer recognized him at once. The polished badge on the lapel of Marshal Marcus Woolley’s Sunday coat seemed to flash an alarm signal at him, bedazzling him. He swallowed a lump in his throat, groaned inwardly and asked himself the inevitable question. How could the marshal have found out?
“Hold it right there, Conductor-Man!” hissed Woolley.
“Marshal —…!” began Homer.
“Ain’t you got no shame?” chided Woolley.
“I swear I never …” faltered Homer. “I mean—I didn’t …”
Homer’s voice choked off. Incredulously, with his brain in a whirl, he gaped along the hall toward the parlor entrance. The marshal put a firm hand on his trembling shoulder and quietly declared.
“Too late, Homer. Much too late. Yeah. You waited too long. Should’ve made your play sooner.”
“Oh, my gosh …!” breathed Homer.
“But, damn it all,” Woolley continued, “you got to hang onto your pride and act like a man. Don’t shame yourself by bustin’ in here thisaway. Don’t be a sore loser.”
“A loser …?” Homer started convulsively. “Holy, jumpin’ …!”
“Come back here!” barked Woolley.
But Homer was moving and fast, stumbling to the parlor entrance. A strange, droning voice was reaching him. He could hear what was being said, but couldn’t believe it.
“… and do you, Emily, take this man for your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold
, to …?”
“Stop!” yelled Homer. “Wait! Hey, Emily! You can’t …!”
For a tense and hectic moment he was framed in the parlor entrance, staring wild-eyed at the soberly-garbed townfolk packed into the room, then at the two people fronting the local preacher over by the windows. Emily—his Emily—rigged as a bride! And who in tarnation was that jasper standing beside her?
He tried to force his way into the room. One of the male guests seized his arms. Emily turned, glared at him and, with her voice dripping icicles, said,
“Will some gentleman kindly remove that ruffian?”
“Ruffian?” gasped Homer. “Me?”
“Stand aside, Mr. Foskett!” boomed the rotund and formidable mother of the bride. “I’ll deal with this person.”
Homer’s arm was grasped again—this time harder. Old Beulah outweighed him more than somewhat, and had no difficulty in spinning him around and propelling him out into the hall. Along to the front door she shoved him. He braced himself against the doorjamb and eyed her dazedly.
“It ain’t fair!” he groaned. “She can’t …!”
“She can and she is!” snapped the triumphant Beulah Bessimer. “What else could you expect, Homer Peck? You think I’d let her wait another ten years for you?”
“Allow me, ma’am …” began the marshal.
“Never mind, Marshal Woolley,” she frowned. “You can go back to the parlor. I’ll take care of this …” her lip curled and Homer flinched from her, “this miserable good-for-nothing.” Woolley ambled away along the hall. She leaned closer to Homer and shook a fat finger under his nose. “Now you heed what I’m telling you, Homer Peck! It’s all over. You had your chance and missed it, and now my Emily will be Mrs. Clarence Gilliard.”
“Who’s—Clarence Gilliard?” he panted.
“A haberdashery drummer from Salt Lake City,” she informed him. And she added, smugly, “With prospects.”
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