West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels

by James Reasoner

  Sam wasn’t particularly worried. He’d been busted before and had come out of it. Failing at mining, freighting and gambling had put all of them into the worst possible position, trying to overcome in a town where gold was paramount. All they could do now was to try and survive Deadwood, a place where a man could get his throat slit for half a dollar in broad daylight, resulting in an unmarked and shallow grave in the rapidly growing cemetery at the far edge of town.

  In spite of the dismal thoughts, Sam was still confident Joel would come up with something just as he had twice before.

  With most of the money gone, no job to fall back on and things being tight, Sam simply fell back into doing what came to hand: something he hadn’t done for a long time, outright stealing. Snitching a sausage and a few crackers at the mercantile, a scoop of grain for his horse when the stableman wasn’t looking. He even picked a wallet from a coat hung on a rack at the hotel restaurant and was rewarded with twelve dollars. Nights proved to be a good time to wander the shadows for any drunks who fell to the ground. Lifting a watch or pocket change was usually all he could expect, using a quick hand under the guise of helping the liquor-sodden man to his feet. Every theft emboldened him to take even bigger chances for scant payoffs.

  Finally, one bright spring morning, Joel finished his meal and then sat back in the rickety cabin chair. "I figure it’s time we took out of here," he declared. No argument was forthcoming from any of his three companions. They rose as one and began their preparations, sure and certain Joel – like the biblical Patriarch Moses – would soon be leading them to the Promised Land.

  It was past noon before they had packed their clothes and camp gear on the horses and then rode away from the claim without looking back. They had ridden only a few miles when the creaking noise of the stage headed to Deadwood could be heard coming along the road a short distance ahead. Joel reined his horse to a halt then began pulling a bandanna up to mask his nose and jaws. "Let’s just wait until that stage catches up to us and we’ll see what they got for gold and cash."

  Sam, Skeeter and Willie didn’t seem at all surprised by Joel’s sudden action and they immediately began obediently donning masks of their own without the least bit of reluctance. All four men had all been softened by lavish living and were now hardened by their circumstance, none of them strangers to stealing. They were broke and needed a stake, even if it meant robbing the stage.

  Sam had to admit that his heart began to thud when he pulled that mask over his face and drew his six-gun. All the thieving he’d done in the past was secretive and away from anyone’s view, but this was all new. Sam didn’t dwell on the idea that the taking what you wanted by force was that wrong or immoral, and it excited him. He wasn’t aware of how much so until he realized his gun hand was shaking as he pointed it toward the coach.

  The four horsemen blocked the road with six-guns drawn, and the stage driver immediately pulled the team to a halt. A quick search by Joel and Skeeter revealed no strong box full of gold and there was only one male passenger. Between the two, they took nine dollars total, only to endure a severe tongue lashing from the driver. "You sorry sons a bitches need to get some work!" he cursed sourly as he lashed the team forward.

  After the stage left, Joel bemoaned their bad luck. "Damn! I thought all stages carried a strongbox with a little something in it. But this coach didn’t even carry a box! And that passenger was as bad off as we are with next to nothing in his pockets." He parceled out the loot, keeping the odd dollar for himself. "What the hell," he grinned. "Maybe the next one will be better!"

  A few days later, they were some ten miles from Deadwood when the stage from Cheyenne came lumbering up the roadway. When ordered to halt, the driver tried to stop the team, but in the excitement of the confrontation the team of horses spooked and lurched forward. The move startled both Skeeter and his horse, his reflexes causing him to pull the trigger. His six-gun fired, the bullet hitting the driver in the chest, and the stage team bolted away. The four bandits, unnerved by the shooting, didn’t give chase. None had considered that anyone would get hurt.

  "It was an accident!" Skeeter wailed. "I didn’t shoot him on purpose! My damned horse shied and jumped, causing me to pull the trigger!"

  The injured driver was able to get the stage to town before he died from his wound. Deadwood’s citizens were outraged at the shooting. A reward of five hundred dollars was quickly offered for the bandits, dead or alive.

  The gang of four should have figured it was time to make tracks from the entire area. Instead, being rootless, they roamed at will, looking for easy pickings on their casual way to nowhere. They didn’t plan out any future robberies but were intent on making robbery pay. They rode a round-about route that circled Deadwood, ten to fifteen miles distant, paying close attention to well-traveled roads until crossing paths with some unlucky traveler.

  They rode north about sixteen miles to Crook City, another mining camp town. It wasn’t much of a town, just a scattering of frame houses and log cabins in the bottom of a draw. There were, however, a hotel, restaurant and two saloons open for business. It wasn’t anything like the carnival atmosphere of Deadwood and the establishments didn’t charge the high prices that Deadwood demanded. The closest thing to law enforcement was the axe handles that saloon bartenders kept near to hand. Sam, Joel, Skeeter and Willie settled in for two days before leaving.

  In the days that followed, the four brazenly held up any travelers they came upon, and took any valuables found. They stuck up two freight haulers and three stages, gaining a little over one hundred dollars for their skullduggery before finally slipping further south into Nebraska Territory.

  The likelihood of some sort of gunplay from one of their hold-up victims was ever present and it caused Sam a bit of concern. He wasn’t worried of his own safety, he never thought of death, but he had no intention of deliberately shooting anyone and none of his fellow bandits had exhibited that they would either. One man had already been accidently shot and with all the robberies they had done, there was a good chance that a posse might be looking for them right now. He didn’t say anything to the others but he was glad to be putting Deadwood and the Black Hills behind them.

  One night, just at dusk, the four men made a camp out of sight in a little hole of a canyon. Sam busied himself caring for the horses while Skeeter gathered firewood and Willie prepared the coffee. Joel had climbed to a vantage point to see if they had picked up any followers. There was a sudden panic when Joel yelled to them, "Riders coming!"

  The three in camp dropped whatever they were doing and grabbed their rifles, jacking shells into the chambers. They turned to Joel for more news, surprised when Joel stood and began waving his hat. That certainly wasn’t the action of anyone looking to dodge the law. Before long two riders appeared next to Joel, who had returned his hat to his head and then reached out and shook one of the men’s hands. He pointed to the camp and then motioned for the men to follow him. Sam and the others recognized the two men whom they had previously met in the Deadwood saloon as Tom Nixon and Jack Davis. Nixon had the carcass of a young doe deer tied to the back of his saddle.

  Later, when all six men were lounging around the campfire still licking their fingers from the venison feast and sipping whiskey-laced coffee, Joel inquired, "You boys been doing any good since leaving Deadwood?"

  Nixon smiled. "Things have been kinda tight. We tried to hold up a stage two days ago but the driver cussed us out and said four others had already held him up that morning. Was that you?"

  Joel grinned, then answered casually, "Most likely. We hit everyone we came across. There wasn’t much to be had in none of them."

  Joel dumped the remnants of his coffee cup then stood to address the contingent of men who were huddled around the flickering fire, strengthened by a bit of wind. "We’ve been out here holding up coaches and travelers for chicken feed but there’s bigger game just waiting to be taken." Sam and the others were still seated on their butts, listening quietly
, wondering what scheme Joel had cooked up now.

  "What I’m talking about is a train," Joel went on. "Others have been holding up trains for hell, ten, twelve years or so. I think it was the Reno brothers that made a big haul over in Indiana back in '66."

  Sam, as a boy, had heard many exciting stories about the Reno brothers’ deeds when he had lived with his uncle. The Reno brothers lived in Seymour, Indiana only about forty miles from his uncle’s farm.

  Joel plunged on, "I heard they got ninety thousand, but that could just be a story. But every train has an express car that has a safe. It's called a ‘way safe’, used for storing passenger valuables and maybe even a payroll. And then there’s the passengers themselves and lots of ‘em. Hell, most are well heeled, otherwise they wouldn’t be using the train. Poor folks are the ones who ride wagons or horses."

  Tom Nixon stood to lend his support to Joel’s efforts in convincing the others. "I heard of trains being held up during the War. A lot of booty was taken that way, by both sides."

  Joel cut in, "Anyone of you ever take part in such?" Everyone there shook their heads side to side, indicating no, while glancing left and right to see if anyone admitted that they had.

  Eyes narrowing, Joel looked around. "With enough men, I figure we could take one. Once we make the hit, it would take only one or two men to keep the engineer in line and the train from moving. Two would hit the express car while others keep watch. After we’re done with the express car we can see what the passengers have in their pockets."

  "How do we get the train to stop?" Jack Davis asked.

  Joel considered the man’s words. "That’s a fair question. We could barricade the track and they’d have to stop the train, but that puts anyone onboard with a shooting iron on the alert and ready to take pot shots at us. I prefer to work in the dark, when those inside the lit up coaches can’t see what’s going on outside. Trains run on steam, and they have to make water stops on a regular basis to replenish the water, otherwise the boilers would blow up. If we studied the route and found the water towers, it’d be just a matter of waiting until the train comes by."

  "That sounds good to me," Willie piped up. "To hell with the goldfields up North and droving them damned Texas cattle! I’ve had enough. If it takes robbing a train to get me the hell out of here and back to the farm in Missouri, then I’m ready to go and the sooner the better."

  Apparently everyone else was ready as well. Skeeter and Jack Davis tried to ask Joel questions at the same time. "Where do you plan on hitting the train?" Skeeter was quick to get in while Davis merely asked, "When can we do it?"

  Joel showed his patience by answering each question as it was asked. "We’ll need to travel to the South Platte River. That’s where the railroad tracks are. We follow along the tracks until we come to a likely water tower that’s away from any town. Then it’s a matter of waiting for the right train."

  "How do you know which train is the right one?" Willie asked.

  Joel was quick to answer. "Other than isolation and darkness there ain’t too much more we can ask for except hoping there’s plenty of loot. To make sure, I figure we ought to ride into Ogallala or some other town and nose around a bit. Maybe we can get a handle on the schedule and such."

  Early in the morning a few days later, the six men walked their horses down the street of Ogallala, arousing little interest as hundreds of Texas cowhands came and went during the season. They stopped at a store and bought a few supplies. Joel had the store owner cut two yards of calico cloth from a bolt before they left.

  Sam took it upon himself to go to the train station and see what he could learn of the next arriving train. "Tomorrow night late, there’s one due in from San Francisco," the agent said. "It would cost six dollars for a ticket to Omaha." Sam thanked the man and muttered that he’d think on it, then left. He headed straight for where he knew Joel and the others were waiting.

  Joel’s face lit up like a candle when he got the news. A train from California – gold rich California – could be carrying a hell of a lot of money. "Let’s get on down the track and see if we can locate a tower," he said.

  Keeping the tracks in view, they headed west. After about twenty miles, they located a water tower and a small station. From a distance, they observed a man leaving the station to visit an outhouse and return. For want of more information they rode on. In the late afternoon the six men could see in the distance the town of Julesburg, Colorado, a sleepy farm town near the South Platte River. Ribbons of shiny steel rails ran east and west through town.

  Joel sat on his horse as spoke to the others. "There are enough of us that we have the look of a gang on the prowl, not a good thing right now. I figure Sam and I will go into town to see about the train schedule, and if that station we passed is the right one. Everybody else ought to find a camp spot out of sight until we can find out what’s what. We’ll be back in the morning."

  Tom Nixon nodded. "We’ll go back to that little creek we crossed about a mile ago." He watched as Joel and Sam turned their horses, and then signaled for the others to follow him as they headed in the opposite direction to set up camp.

  When Joel and Sam checked their horses at a livery, Joel pointed to the railroad tracks and asked the hostler, "Does the train come through here often?"

  "Twice a week," the man answered. "Next one’s due in tomorrow night at ten."

  "Does it make any other stops nearby?"

  "Far as I know, it goes about twenty five miles up the line to the Big Springs for a water stop and then on east to Ogallala and beyond."

  "And always on time, I’ll bet," Joel grinned.

  "I believe so," the man said.

  "Know a good place to eat and drink?" Joel asked.

  The man nodded his head toward the street. "Vern’s Hotel has got everything you need."

  * * *

  A stubby man of middle years, slightly balding, spun a register around. "Just sign right here and I’ll get your keys."

  Each man paid a dollar for the room and took the keys offered then walked into the hotel restaurant and seated themselves. A matronly woman came to take their order, bringing the coffee pot with her. A short time later the woman brought their meals. Sam and Joel wolfed down beef steaks, potatoes, biscuits, and lots of coffee. Afterwards they walked into a small and subdued hotel saloon. They soon learned that there weren’t any girls working the floor, no card dealers waiting to draw them into a game and no piano. The place wasn’t anything like the cowtown saloons or even Deadwood’s dens that were boiling with activity, smoke and noise. Apparently folks came to this saloon just to get a drink after their day of labor. The saloon was as flaccid as the whole town. Sam and Joel retired to their rooms when the bartender began closing at 10 p.m. The few local patrons had all gone home.

  The next morning at breakfast Sam said, "This place is too quiet for me, I’d go stir crazy before the week was out."

  Joel sat back in his chair. "Yeah, I couldn’t stand much of this either. Let’s get a bottle and go find the others," he said softly.

  They retrieved their horses, bought some smoking tobacco and a two dollar bottle at the mercantile, and then mounted and rode to their companions’ camp.

  Joel told everyone in the camp what he had learned from the stableman. "All we need to do is go back to the water tower and keep out of sight until the train comes by tonight."

  Four hours later they could see the Big Springs tower in the distance. "That stationkeeper is most likely inside the building so let’s stay a ways off and watch," Joel said. They found a hub of oak trees a few hundred yards away. "Let’s camp here until it's time, but no fire. It’s as good a place as any to wait."

  "You figure it’ll be worthwhile to take on that train?" Skeeter asked.

  Joel wondered if Skeeter was getting cold feet. "It’s gotta pay better than stagecoaches and freighters. Might have a good strongbox and there could be some passengers flush with cash and jewelry. All we have to do is get aboard the train and see."


  Skeeter nodded but seemed nervous.

  As they lounged around the little camp Joel outlined the plan. "Tom and Willie will get the drop on the engineer and fireman. Jack and Sam will take care of the express car. Skeeter and I will keep watch, then we’ll hit the passengers." Joel pulled the calico cloth from his saddle bags and tore it into squares. "I bought this special so’s we all got masks," he said as he pulled some strings from his piece.

  Skeeter, getting excited, took one and tried it on. "They might start calling us the calico bandits!" he joshed.

  At l0:l5 the six men donned their new calico masks. The station house window showed dim lamp light spilling out when Joel and Skeeter walked through the front door with six-guns drawn. The keeper, a slim man in his sixties was surprised but gave no resistance. "What do you usually do when the train comes by?" Joel asked the man.

  "I walk out and hold a red lantern as a beacon for them to stop," the man replied.

  Joel cocked the hammer of his weapon and placed the barrel against the bone behind the stationmaster’s left ear. "I hope you’re telling me straight, old man. I wouldn’t want to have to start shooting."

  The wide-eyed old timer nodded. "I won’t give you any cause for shooting."

  At l0:30 they could hear the train coming. Jack stepped outside and looped a rope around a nearby sagging telegraph wire, pulled it down and cut the line.

  Hustling the station man toward the door, Joel issued his instructions. "Just walk out with that lantern and do as you usually do and you won’t get hurt," he told the station man. "I’ll be close by and watching."

  It was 10:45 p.m. with a half-moon showing when the train came lumbering down the track, wheels squealing as it approached and ground to a halt. They all watched, listening to the puffs of steam as it escaped the pistons. Bright sparks, embedded in the heavy black smoke that poured from the smokestack, wafted ruby red against the nighttime sky before dropping onto the ground. The sparks glimmered for a moment or two in the darkness before going cold and fading into black oblivion.