“What charge?” Larry threw him a scathing sidelong glance. “There’ll be three of us and eight of them. Why make it easy for ’em?”
“I keep getting the idea,” frowned Junior, “that you and Stretch have done this before. You talk and act like a couple professional manhunters.”
“For the past ten-twelve years,” shrugged Larry, “we’ve been a lot of places and done a lot of things—includin’ tanglin’ with scum like Harnsey.”
“So, compared to you,” fretted Junior, “I’m just a raw greenhorn. But I still say we ought to force this fight, charge to the attack and …”
“Charge to the attack …” Larry grimaced in disgust, “my fat Aunt Fanny. Ride in whoopin’—to make sure they spot us? Give ’em time to draw a bead on us and pick us off? Not a chance, kid. Any time us drifters risk our hides, it’s because we got no choice. This time, we got a choice. I don’t think Harnsey has caught on that we’re followin’ him. That’s what gives us the edge, savvy?”
“But I’ll insist on doing my share,” asserted Junior.
“Look, Ranger,” frowned Larry, “I’ll make you a promise. There’ll be a chore for you, when the time comes. I don’t know what that chore will be, but it’ll be important enough. That satisfy you?”
“I’ll hold you to that promise,” declared Junior.
“Yeah,” sighed Larry. “You do that.”
Nine – Deed of Daring
At two-fifty p.m., the eight desperadoes rode around the base of a steep cliff and drew rein. Craig Harnsey, with a complacent grin creasing his unprepossessing visage, studied the gleaming tracks of the Denver & Rio Grande and the area beyond.
“Quint,” he grunted. “Let me see your watch.” Spring surrendered the timepiece. Harnsey consulted it, returned it, then frowned toward the north. “My calculating about to pay off. We ain’t too late, that’s for sure.”
“You’re thinkin’ that freight train’ll show pretty soon?” challenged Newcombe.
“I don’t think it,” drawled Harnsey. “I know it. Got it all figured out. We’ve been travellin’ fair close to the railroad all day, haven’t we? Sure. And none of us heard a train, and I’ll tell you why. Only one train comin’ south today. The freighter from Denver—with all that dinero ridin’ snug in the guard’s caboose.”
“Got to hand it to you, Craig,” muttered Spring. “You sure picked us a fine stake-out.”
And this was true enough. A hundred yards to the north, the tracks led out of a thick forest. The engineer would have no clear view of the area fronting the cliff until the locomotive emerged from the timber. Not until then would he spot an obstruction on the tracks and, if he were prompt to use his brakes, the train could be halted in time to avoid a crash. But it would be an abrupt halt and, for Harnsey and Company, the rest would be easy.
Boulders littered the base of the cliff. In response to Harnsey’s orders, Newcombe, Haines and two other men dismounted and began rolling the rocks onto the steel rails. Fifteen yards on the other side of the tracks stood a ten foot high mound of lava rock. Positioned behind it, the eight horsemen would be concealed from view of the engine crew, but would be close enough for a surprise attack.
“Just a freighter,” Harnsey assured Spring, as he watched the boulders rolled onto the lines. “Easy pickin’s, Quint.”
“Sure,” nodded Spring. “Only three men on a freighter. Engineer. Fireman. Guard. We’ll be climbin’ all over ’em before they know it.”
“And no trouble bustin’ the safe,” growled Harnsey. “No need for dynamite. With a forty-five nudgin’ his fool head, that guard’ll beg us to use his key!” He gestured impatiently. “One more rock’ll do it. When you’re through, c’mon over here behind the mound.”
He led Spring and the other riders across the tracks and around behind the mound. A few minutes later, Newcombe and his three companions joined them there. Grinning, they rolled and lit cigarettes, glanced toward the timber and cocked their ears. As was his habit, the scar-faced Haines dug his flour-sack hood from his saddlebag, pulled it over his head and redonned his Stetson. Newcombe sniggered and remarked,
“You sure look spooky, Mitch.”
“Laugh all you want,” muttered Haines. “You’ll never see my face on no Wanted dodger.”
“Shuddup and listen,” said Harnsey. And, tersely, he detailed his plan of attack. “When this freighter stalls, I’ll head straight for the caboose along with Quint, Harp and Mitch. The rest of you get on both sides of the engine and make damn sure them railroaders don’t suddenly get rash. Watch ’em careful. Nobody gets hurt ’less he makes a wrong move.” He took a pull at his cigarette, let his gaze travel from face to face. “Any questions?”
“No questions,” Spring assured him.
“So now,” drawled Newcombe, “all we got to do is wait.”'
They waited while, from the south, three Texans and a red-haired girl made a cautious approach to the railroad tracks. The gleaming rails were clearly visible to Larry, and he was about to turn his mount to the right to begin following the base of the cliff, when the warning sound reached his ears. He reined up hastily, pantomiming for his companions to follow his example, and holding a finger to his lips.
Quietly, Stretch remarked,
“I heard it too.”
“It’s my guess that …” began Junior.
“Button your lip,” advised Stretch. “Let Larry, handle all the guessin’.” He eyed his partner expectantly. “How’s it stack up with you?”
“We ain’t showin’ ourselves around the other side of this doggone butte,” muttered Larry, “till we’re sure they’re movin’ on—or stoppin’. Either way, we’d have to find out.”
“Leave it to me,” offered Junior. “I’ll volunteer to …”
“Wait for it, kid,” grinned Stretch. “Larry’ll tell you when.”
Larry stared upward a while, his brow creased in thought.
“All right,” he frowned. “Here’s what we do. We’re goin’ up there. That’d be better than sneakin’ around the base of the butte. If they’re waitin’ on the other side, they’d spot us for sure and maybe we’d be wide open. From up top, I figure we’ll see further.” He pointed to Ruthy. “Remember what I told you—about followin’ orders?”
“You’re the boss,” she shrugged.
“Bueno,” he grunted. “So you take care of our horses.” He gestured toward a mesquite clump. “Back there is as good a place as any. Hide the horses—and yourself.”
She grimaced impatiently, but voiced no objection. The Texans dismounted. Junior helped himself to the Henry, while Larry and Stretch slid their Winchesters from the saddle sheaths. They waited until Ruthy was on her way to the brush, leading their horses. Then, with Larry leading, they took to the slope.
On this side, it wasn’t particularly steep. The ascent was tiring, but not dangerous, and the level strip up top proved to be some ninety feet long and a mere ten feet broad. They dropped to their knees and, with great caution, crawled to the forward edge.
Carefully, they scanned the area below. From this lofty vantage point, all was clearly visible. They could see the rock mound and, thanks to their altitude, some of the men and horses lurking in back of it. They could see, also, the boulders blocking the rails, and the swerve of the gleaming tracks leading into the forest. As to the identity of those waiting men, there could be no doubt. One of them wore a flour-sack hood. Another was equipped with several items all too familiar to Junior.
“My hat!” fumed Junior. “My guns! And, consarn his lousy hide, he’s straddling Big Shadow!”
“Jasper in the hood,” observed Ruthy, “is straddlin’ my horse—uh huh—that’s Sammy Boy for sure.”
The Texans couldn’t believe their ears, until they rolled over and looked at her. She lay beside Larry, pensively surveying the scene below. And she didn’t look any too penitent. Larry managed to stifle an oath. Stretch sighed heavily.
“I ought to …!” began Larry.
> “You can’t tan my hide up here, Larry,” she murmured. “I’d likely holler—because you sure hit hard. And maybe they’d hear us.” She nestled closer to him, grinning roguishly. “I couldn’t stay down there all by myself—just a’frettin’ for you. Besides, I got the horses hid away, and I’m an extra gun, and …”
“Quiet down,” he growled. “I got no time to trade gab with you.” He cast another glance downward. “Right now, I have to figure our next move.”
“Plain enough what they’re aimin’ to do,” suggested Stretch. “There’ll be a train comin’ thisaway purty soon. I’d say it’ll be a southbound, on accounta them bandidos keep peekin’ north. That how it looks to you, runt?”
“That’s how it looks,” nodded Larry.
“I always did say,” grinned Stretch, “that the best time to spring a surprise on an owlhooter is when he’s about to do somethin’ plumb unlegal—like robbin’ a train, for instance.”
“Larry …” began Junior.
“Will you shuddup!” hissed Larry. “How can I calculate with you blabbin’ in my ear?” He spent a few moments in earnest concentration, thinking deeply, stroking the shiny barrel of his Winchester with his brown fingers. Then, “We could wait till they stall the train,” he mused, “before we open up on ’em. Range is a mite long for six-shooters, but okay for the long guns.”
“Sounds okay,” grunted Stretch.
“Only one thing wrong with that notion though,” fretted Larry.
“What?” prodded Stretch.
“Folks on the train could still get hurt,” said Larry. “Yeah.” Stretch nodded understandingly. “I know what you mean. We gotta make up our minds what we crave most. Warn them folks on the train—or get the drop on the whole damn Harnsey outfit, right when they’re about to try another holdup.”
“We could do both,” Larry suddenly decided. “We could maybe warn the engineer, so the train’ll stall somewheres yonder of the timber. That’ll keep innocent travelers out of this hassle. Then, when Harnsey’s bunch gets impatient and comes out from behind that mound, we could give ’em a real rough time. They don’t know we’re up here, so we’d have the edge on ’em.”
“Larry,” breathed Junior, “that’ll be a mighty important chore—heading that train off—warning the engine driver. Let me handle it.”
“Reckon you could?” challenged Larry.
“Believe me,” frowned Junior, “I got it all figured out. All I have to do is climb back down the grade, fetch my horse and start moving north—keeping fairly close to the railroad route …”
“And goin’ careful,” stressed Larry, “so those bandidos won’t hear you.”
“Then,” finished Junior, “I cut across to the tracks, signal the train and—that’s that. Of course, the timing is what counts. I’d better get going rightaway. No telling how soon …”
“All right, kid,” said Larry. “It’s your chore, and you make it sound real easy so, this time, you oughtn’t muss it up.”
“I won’t fail,” Junior stoutly asserted. “I’ll let nothing stop me from warning that train!”
He retreated to the rear edge of the level strip and began a fast descent to the flatlands below. For a man of Junior’s rare talents, it was easy. No time wasting. No careful search for handholds. He made the descent the Burch Tatum Junior way, losing his balance half-way down the slope, performing an ungraceful somersault and rolling the rest of the way.
Panting, spitting dirt and wincing, he picked himself up and hustled to the brush where the horses awaited. Within the minute, he had untethered the bay stallion and was swinging astride—and Ranger Tatum’s great adventure was beginning.
To his credit, it must be recorded that he kept Larry’s instructions in mind. He rode a wide arc to circle the forest north of the Harnsey stake-out, and he kept that big stallion to soft ground so that its hooves produced a minimum of sound, lessening the danger of alerting the outlaws. Once beyond the timber, however, he relied on his own imagination—a dubious resort at any time. He rode fast, keeping the railroad tracks in clear view. The bay gave of its best and Junior had that devil-may-care feeling again.
Onward he rode, at high speed. But, damn it all, those tracks weren’t getting any closer. He seemed to be rising above them. Seemed to be? Hell! He had risen above them! He reined up to check his position, darted a glance to his rear, then turned to stare forward. The bay stood rigid on a shelf of rock. That shelf jutted some seventeen feet above the railroad tracks. Seventeen feet—or seventy? When it came to judging heights, he had to admit he was no expert. But, like it or not, he could go no further. He would have to warn the engine driver from this very spot, …”
The freighter was now steaming into view, puffing and rattling toward him. It would, he realized, pass directly beneath him. Could he get down there in time to signal the driver? No. His time was running out.
“The situation,” he decided, “calls for bold action.”
And who better than Burch Tatum Junior to perform such an act of valor—a death-defying leap from the ledge to the fuel tender of the locomotive? Of course, he would have to time it to perfection. If he fell between the tender and the caboose, for instance, all would be lost. Including Burch Tatum Junior.
Undaunted by this harrowing thought, he dismounted and stepped resolutely to the rim of the shelf. The locomotive was now less than sixty feet away. He gathered himself for the long drop, bending his knees slightly, and spreading his arms.
Smoke from the locomotive’s stack was spurting upward. It was time for him to go. Now or never. And he had chosen his moment with impeccable timing—or had he? He leapt. Feet-first he fell and, under these hectic conditions, perfect visibility could not be guaranteed. He knew the engine was passing beneath him and that he was still high above it. Hell’s bells—the tender also rattled by—and so did the caboose!
Providence protects straying babes, stumbling drunks and inept heroes, such as Burch Tatum Junior. His fall was broken by a pile of straw. He seemed to bounce off it, and then he was flopping hard on his backside. He gasped, raised his head. His back was braced against something; he didn’t know what. He stared incredulously. His scalp crawled. Perspiration beaded on his brow and began trickling down his cheeks. Two pairs of eyes were surveying him intently, brown eyes that bulged, red-rimmed, above large nostrils that flared as though in sudden rage.
Bulls! Two of them. Massive beasts with sharp horns and trigger-fast tempers. He had fallen into the stock truck behind the conductor’s caboose. The hefty stud critters stood shoulder to shoulder, their bowed heads—and their horns— so close to him that he could feel their hot breath. He tried to rise. Both animals bellowed, so he remained squatting. Hell’s bells, he was trapped. He couldn’t rise, couldn’t move to left or right. Any sudden action might enrage these heavyweights. One thrust from those horns would pin him to—to what?
He moved his left arm slowly, feeling at the slats against which his back was braced. Of course. He was trapped against the side of the truck. He could slide his hand between the slats and feel—what was that? Some kind of large metal rod with a chain attached. He grinned weakly at the bulls, turned his head slightly and inspected the rod, and understood. If he grasped that hunk of steel and jerked it upward, the side of the truck would give way, falling outward to form a ramp—the standard method of loading and unloading transient livestock.
“But,” he fretted, “if I let the side down, I’ll fall out. I’d be escaping from these damn-blasted bulls—but I could break my neck!”
He kept his hand on the rod and blinked nervously at the bulls. The hell with it! Was he to be thwarted by two dumb animals? He had to get out of this stock truck and climb to the roof of the caboose. From there, he could jump across to the fuel tender and call his warning to the engine crew.
He flexed his muscles and, trading stare for stare with the bulls, began rising. One of them snorted. The other pressed the point of a horn against his chest and made a
&n
bsp; growling sound. Not loud, but compelling. Had that crittur been capable of speech, he could imagine it would say,
“Don’t try it, Mister! Stay put!”
He stayed put, sweating, fretting, cursing, but not daring to move, and the southbound freighter rolled onward, with the forest in clear view.
~*~
“Hear anything?” grunted Quint Spring.
“Heard it long before it reached your ears, Quint,” grinned the boss outlaw. “Told you, didn’t I? My hearin’ is extra sharp.”
“That’ll be it,” muttered Spring. “The freighter.”
“Uh huh,” nodded Harnsey. “Won’t be long now. Five—ten minutes at most.”
Sprawled side by side at the extreme edge of the butte, the trouble-shooters traded glances. Ruthy was huddled close to Larry, probably apprehensive, but keeping her thoughts to herself. Stretch said, quietly,
“I wonder if you made a mistake.”
“About what?” demanded Larry.
“Sendin’ Junior to stall the train,” frowned Stretch.
“Well, damn it all,” growled Larry, “that’s an easy chore. I don’t see how he could bungle it.”
“Speakin’ for myself,” grunted Stretch, “I ain’t forgettin’ how he twirled that little old hogleg, back at the gunsmithery.
Gingerly, Ruthy edged forward to peer down the cliff face.
“We couldn’t try climbin’ down?” she asked Larry.
“No percentage,” he retorted. “Why warn ’em? This way, we get the drop on ’em.”
For another minute they lay there, intently studying the rock mound beyond the railroad tracks far below. They were at the very edge of the cliff top and, as yet, unaware, that this section of the rim was as unsafe a position as they could have chosen. Well, Larry Valentine couldn’t think of everything. How could he know that, a mere six feet below them, the face of the cliff was shedding dirt and pebbles? Under their combined weight, the cliff edge was giving way.
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