Fight for Powder Valley!

by Brett Halliday

  He lost all sense of time and of distance, until he began to hear a loud roaring in his ears and his bleared eyes saw a peculiar yellow light that spread out in front of them.

  He had a momentary thought that they had been walking all night and this was daylight until Sam growled, “Awright. Slide down to one side less’n you want the train to run over us.”

  Then he realized the roaring in his ears was the chugging of a locomotive toiling up the grade, and the yellow light came from the single headlight that glared balefully at them from the direction of the city.

  Sam stooped over the land-company president and dragged him to his feet when he tripped over a rail and slid down the embankment.

  “She’s comin’ slow an’ easy up the grade,” Sam muttered. “Must be pullin’ a heavy load. Mebby slow enough fer us to grab her while she goes by.”

  Biloff’s body was lax and his knees sagged. His mouth hung open and his breathing was loud and painful to hear.

  Sam stared at him disgustedly in the yellow glow of the advancing headlight. “Yo’re a Gawd-awful nuisance,” he declared. “You ain’t gonna be no help a-tall catchin’ a ride, are you?”

  He shook Biloff violently. The financier begged thickly, “Leggo. I do’ wanna ride. Leggo.”

  Sam said, “Hell.” He hesitated, then held Biloff off from him with his left hand and smashed his right fist against the point of his sharp chin.

  That reduced Biloff to a hundred and forty pounds of gangling dead weight, much easier to handle than when he was half conscious.

  Sam dragged him up the embankment and dropped him on the edge, squinted his eyes at the advancing headlight and set himself for the job that was coming.

  When the huge locomotive crawled past at a speed of not more than ten miles an hour, Sam stooped and got Biloff in his arms, slung his thin body over his shoulder and waited until he saw the open door of an unloaded cattle car coming toward him.

  He started walking fast, then broke into a trot as the open door came swiftly nearer. When it was opposite him, he heaved Biloff’s unconscious body inside and made a desperate grab for the side of the door.

  His clutching fingers missed and he fell flat on his face. He got up as the train rolled on, began trotting beside it again and reached up to catch the iron rungs at the end of the third car back.

  He swung onto the step and held on grimly, then slowly climbed up and on top of the swaying car.

  He tried to stand erect, but the wind whipped at him and the side-sway was more than he could take. He dropped to his knees and grimly crawled forward across the top of the car, was afraid to attempt jumping the gap between it and the next car, and climbed down the ladder at the front end, awkwardly shifted his weight to the rear ladder of the next car and climbed up on top again.

  He negotiated the length of two cars in that precarious fashion, and was back on top of the cattle car into which he had hoisted Judson Biloff’s unconscious body.

  There was real heroism in this grim journey of Sam Sloan’s over the swaying unfamiliar tops of the cars. He expected to fall to his death every moment, but he couldn’t give up now. He had to hurry and get inside that cattle car before Biloff came back to consciousness and realized he was unguarded.

  He crept forward again to the middle of the cattle car, then slid down the perilous slope toward the edge directly above the open door that was his objective.

  A sudden lurch broke his hold and sent him over the edge. His fingers gripped and held for a mere instant while his body swung free, then a lucky lurch in the right direction swung his body inward just as his fingers let go.

  He landed heavily on top of the still slumbering body of Biloff. He rolled over and sat up, wondering if he was still alive—and if so, why?

  A weary voice spoke to him from the far end of the car as he sat there, “I thought I’d seen everything in my time, until I witnessed your downward climb. Did you do it merely in a spirit of fun, or is that the way you think it’s always done?”

  15

  Sam Sloan slowly drew his gun and rested it across his knees with the muzzle pointing at the unseen speaker. He grunted, “Who’s doin’ the talkin’?”

  “I’m mostly called Jingle Joel, the genial man with the rhyming soul. You need fear me not, for I’m a sot. Though sober at present as a mother pheasant.”

  Sam blinked his eyes incredulously. His new companion sounded crazy but harmless. He muttered, “Sober as a mother pheasant? How d’yuh know a mother pheasant stays sober?”

  “What, my man, do you think the birds of the field are addicted to drink?”

  The voice moved nearer to Sam, and he made out the small ragged figure of a man tiptoeing toward him with an exaggerated show of caution. Long gray locks were blown by the wind sweeping through the slatted cattle car, and he wore stiff, pointed chin whiskers that bobbed up and down as he spoke further, pointing his forefinger at the limp body of Judson Biloff:

  “Is that carrion meat on the floor, or a living man about to snore?”

  Sam chuckled and slid his .45 back out of sight. “He was a livin’ man when I tossed him in. I dunno whether he’s about to snore or not.”

  The poetical hobo squatted down on the other side of Biloff. He stared at Sam’s blackened face with disconcerting candor and intoned:

  “Your face is black but your voice sounds strange, less like a Negro than a rider of the range.”

  Sam grinned and rubbed his face with his fingertips. He admitted, “I ain’t quite that black underneath this colorin’.”

  Jingle Joel nodded happily. He murmured, “A poor disguise is better than none, when from the law you are forced to run.”

  A loud, smothered snort escaped from Biloff’s lips. He struggled to sit up and looked around wildly, sank back on the wooden floor when his gaze fell on the wizened and goateed face of the little man with the rhyming soul.

  “Who are you?” he cried wildly. “Where am I?”

  “I am I as you should guess, and you’re traveling south on a slow express.”

  “But where … how? What happened to Sam Sloan?”

  “You and Sam are safe on the lam. He’s proved himself a friend tried and true, swinging from the rooftop to be here with you.”

  Biloff turned his head fearfully and saw Sam’s face indeed on the other side of him. He groaned and closed his eyes, all hope of escape fading when he realized that Sam had not been left behind as he had first hoped. Not only that, but here, evidently, was another maniac riding with them in the same cattle car. It was strange, Biloff thought, that he had never before realized there were so many crazy men loose in the world.

  The little gray-headed man said gravely, “Your friend does not appear to be pleased, for the sight of your face his pain hasn’t eased.”

  Sam said, “He ain’t no friend of mine. He’s a low-down snake an’ I’m takin’ him to Powder Valley fer a hangin’.”

  Jingle Joel squinted down at Biloff with interest. He nodded and agreed, “When I look close I do discern a face for which only a mother could yearn. But Powder Valley has a rhythmic sound, your homeland range, I’ll be bound.”

  “Yeh. I live there.”

  “Stated tersely with directness and force. In the Valley I presume you ride a horse.”

  Sam said, “Yeh,” again. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable in the little man’s presence. He talked as if he’d come out of the pages of a book but he looked like a hobo. Sam couldn’t figure him out at all. He wished he had chosen another car for the southward trip. He got out his makings and uneasily rolled a cigarette.

  The aged rhymester held out his hand and said politely, “Though our friendship is new, my request is old, I beg a smoke when yours is rolled. And if you say me nay I’ll blame you not, but hope when you die you go where it’s hot.”

  Sam grinned and passed over his sack of tobacco and papers. “Do you hafta say things that way?”

  “I cannot speak without a rhyme, not while my wits are in their pr
ime,” he was assured proudly.

  “Some kinda disease?” Sam asked anxiously. “Tain’t catchin’, I hope.”

  “A disease of the mind but not of the body. I do better with a hot toddy.”

  The little old man deftly rolled a cigarette and inserted it between his lips. “Now I must ask you for a light. Lean close to me and I’ll not bite.”

  Sam leaned forward so the glowing tip of his cigarette touched the end of Jingle Joel’s. The quaint little man settled back on his haunches puffing complacently.

  “You spoke of hanging a moment ago. Were you fooling me or is it so?”

  “It’s so, right enough. If he don’t up an’ die on me ’fore I get him there.” Sam nudged Biloff with his toe. “Whyn’t you sit up an’ take notice?”

  Biloff sighed and remained prone.

  “I fear he’s the victim of deep despair, with a burden of guilt that’s hard to bear. ’Tis stamped on his face, ugly and thin, the look of a man long steeped in sin.”

  “You said it, pard.” Sam nodded admiringly. “Doggone, you shore know all the words that I ain’t never heard before.”

  “Let us skip the praise and get down to truth. You look honest though uncouth. Tell me why you are painted black, and wearing a coat that fits like a sack. There’s a mystery here, ’tis plain to see, and I’ll not rest till it’s told to me. I’m a tired old man with a yen for drink, but not a bum as you might think. You need not fear to tell your tale, if you get locked up I’ll go your bail.”

  Sam had a feeling that he couldn’t stand much more of the old man’s rhyming. Already, his own thoughts were beginning to shape themselves in the same sing-song pattern. It was a disease, by God, and it was catching. He was already feeling the first symptoms. He knew if he didn’t shut the old man up, he’d go crazy trying to think up rhyming words himself. And the only way he could see to make him shut up was to start talking himself. He drew in a deep breath and began relating the whole story of Powder Valley.

  Jingle Joel did not interrupt the telling once. He listened with nods of approval and little clucking sounds of sympathy. When Sam had finished, he shook his head sadly:

  “’Tis an unfair world where such things be, where the men with money are such as he. But what good will hanging do in this case? It won’t the nesters from their farms displace.”

  “It’ll rid the world of a skunk named Jud Biloff.”

  “True enough, my impetuous friend, ’twill suffice from this life him to rend. But what have you got when that is done, a lump of clay whose race is run. No, my stalwart defender of cattle, I fear you’ve chosen the wrong way to battle. Alive, this villain might restore your land, but dead, he’ll never raise his hand. Laudable though I know your intent, I feel it was with purpose I’m sent. I am determined to stop your action, if I must join the farming faction.”

  Sam’s brain was reeling under the impact of this rhymed logic. He muttered defensively, “Awright, then, what’d you do, if you was me an’ I was you?” He caught himself with a gasp of alarm. Damn it! he had caught the disease. He was doing it too.

  But Jingle Joel seemed to notice nothing strange in the rhymed reply. He merely said, “That is a problem we must study. When I am sober my thoughts are muddy.”

  Sam grunted sourly, “Yeh. I could do with a little drink, might jog me so I could think.” He clamped his lips together in horror. No! He must get a grip on himself. This way lay madness.

  He surged to his feet abruptly and went to the door to lean out and let the cold night air blow the insidious taint of rhyming madness from his mind. He wished forlornly that he had a drink. Or that Pat was here to talk to him and stop that accursed jingling every time he opened his mouth.

  He was vaguely conscious that the little goateed man had gotten up behind him and was going back to his own end of the car.

  Sam drew in a great sigh of relief. Jingle Joel probably thought Sam was mocking him and felt insulted. That was fine. It was wonderful. If he’d just stay insulted and silent, Sam felt that he might yet retain his sanity.

  He heard Judson Biloff scrambling about on the floor, and then sitting up with a low moan. For a moment, Sam heartily envied Biloff. The financier had at least escaped going mad by not listening to Jingle Joel.

  He faintly heard the land-company president murmur, “Oh, my head. I wish I was dead.”

  Sam stiffened and turned his head slowly. Perhaps that was just an accident. Maybe Biloff hadn’t meant it to be a rhyme. In a solicitous tone, he queried, “Feelin’ better?”

  His blood ran cold in his veins when he heard from Biloff’s lips a weak, “Oh yes indeed. A drink is all I need.”

  Sam sagged against the side of the car and tried once more. “Where do you think you’ll get a drink?” He shuddered as the words left his lips. He had unconsciously hesitated after “think.” It had got him, by God. There was no use fighting against it. And it had evidently got Judson Biloff too, for he replied:

  “I’m sure I hear the gurgle of liquor. See if your friend for a drink will dicker.”

  Sam Sloan gave up all pretense of remaining sane. He stumbled through the darkness toward the end of the car where Jingle Joel had a gallon jug resting in the crook of his elbow and tilted to his mouth.

  “Save me a shot,” Sam panted, “you old sot.”

  The rhymester sighed as he lowered the jug from his mouth. “To drink alone is an evil token, the only vow I’ve never broken. I only implore you to give it back, after you’ve partaken of my applejack.”

  Sam caught the jug from him fiercely and tilted it above his head. Biloff came forward timidly and implored:

  “Give me a drink before I die, and after I’m drunk swing me high.”

  Sam hung on to the jug as his only hope of salvation. He dimly heard Jingle Joel reproving him:

  “There are three of us with bellies eager, I sincerely trust your swallows are meager.”

  He staggered back and thrust the jug into Biloff’s hands. His own voice sounded high and strange in his ears, “Tip it up an’ take a swig, then we’ll all dance a jig,” and the pounding of the iron wheels on the rails beat out a rhythmic accompaniment to the gurgling of the jug.

  16

  The car in which Pat and Ezra were riding was sidetracked in Pueblo some time before dawn the next morning. Both men were awake and restless, but there was nothing they could do except stay locked in until someone came along and released them.

  It wasn’t a very happy prospect that faced them. They figured a squad of police might be awaiting them when the door was finally opened. And if they weren’t arrested at once, there still remained the problem of making their way to Hopewell Junction somehow, getting their horses and riding on back to the security of Powder Valley before the long arm of the law from Denver reached that far and caught them up.

  Added to that was the nagging uncertainty about Sam’s whereabouts and his success or failure in getting away with his prisoner. Not that it made a hell of a lot of difference, Pat thought sourly. Everything was in the worst possible kind of mess. Between the three of them, it seemed to Pat they had managed to bungle everything completely. He wasn’t fool enough to think that the law couldn’t reach down into Powder Valley and snatch all three back to Denver to stand trial for their varied crimes. The time was past in the West when a man could hide out in a private stronghold and defy the law. Even if the other residents of the Valley stuck with them, it would only mean a bitter civil war with a lot of killing on both sides—the death of many innocent men—the one thing that Pat had been trying desperately to avoid.

  And, though he did not discourage Ezra by telling him so, he saw no possible good that could come out of kidnaping Biloff. Even if Sam did succeed in getting him to the Valley undetected. Biloff was a stubborn man, and Pat doubted whether even the threat of hanging would be enough to force him to give up the Powder Valley project.

  Here they all were, fugitives from justice—he, with a telltale pair of handcuffs still dangling
from his wrist. And he and Ezra were locked up in a dark box-car like a pair of trapped animals waiting for someone to come and release them. It was a completely gloomy outlook.

  Pat paced up and down in front of the door and smoked innumerable cigarettes while he watched daylight show through a crack between the sliding doors, and then a bright gleam of sunlight that told him precious time was flitting by while he could only wait fretfully for whatever fate had in store for them.

  Ezra was less perturbed about the eventual outcome than Pat. In fact, Ezra was complacently convinced that he and Sam had made a great contribution to the cause by their trip to Denver. He was quite proud of the ruse by which they had snatched Biloff away from his office, and was optimistic about Sam’s ability to carry out his end of the deal. He was proud, too, of the manner in which he had rescued Pat from the police station, for Pat hadn’t spoiled the big man’s simple pride in his feat by explaining that the police had been on the point of releasing him when Ezra spoiled everything by appearing in the doorway brandishing his gun.

  So Ezra snored comfortably on a couple of wooden packing cases while Pat wore himself out striding up and down and worrying.

  Pat suddenly ceased his pacing when he heard voices outside the box-car. He listened a moment, holding his breath. They stopped outside the door. He heard hearty laughter, then the rattle of the outside lock. He tiptoed over to Ezra’s side and shook him violently, commanding in a low tone:

  “Snap out of it, Ezra. They’re unlockin’ the door.”

  Ezra yawned and lumbered to his feet. “Who’s out there, you reckon?”

  “How the hell do I know? The police, maybe. Get hold of your gun an’ be ready for anything.”

  Pat tiptoed forward and drew the revolver he had taken from the Denver policeman. He held the gun in his left hand, hidden under his jacket, and thrust his right hand deep in his pocket to hide the incriminating handcuffs from sight. If it wasn’t the police they might be able to bluff their way out of the trap.