“I don’t know you,” said the engineer. “By what right are you giving me orders?”
“This is a request,” Nathan said mildly. “If it has to be an order, we can telegraph Foster Hagerman, the division boss, in Dodge. Will that be necessary?”
“I reckon not. Who am I to say is responsible for these dead bodies?”
“Compliments of Nathan Stone. Anybody questioning my authority is welcome to telegraph Mr. Hagerman, in Dodge.”
Nathan joined Enos in the caboose, and with a triumphant blast of the whistle, three thirty-eight picked up steam, high-balling westward.
“Makes a man feel better,” Enos said, “rollin’ in without our express car bein’ blowed all to hell and another payroll gone.”
With three blasts of her whistle, three thirty-eight approached Dodge. The westbound waited on a siding, the engine chuff-chuff-chuffing as it kept up steam. She lurched ahead as three thirty-eight cleared the main line and rolled into the depot two hours and forty-five minutes late. To Nathan’s surprise, a crowd was waiting. Among them was Foster Hagerman, and he stepped forward to take Nathan’s hand.
“I just had a telegram from Kansas City,” Hagerman said. “The marshal at Wichita has identified three of the robbers. They were wanted by the law in Missouri. Damn fine piece of work, Stone. Take the next three days off. I’ll talk to you again on Wednesday.”
But Nathan was besieged by the curious, one of them Eli Kirby, editor of the town’s weekly newspaper, the Dodge City Bulletin.
“Mr. Stone,” Kirby said, “you not only thwarted a train robbery, you accounted for eight of the robbers. What do you have to say that I can print?”
“That we saved the payroll and accounted for eight of the outlaws,” said Nathan.
“But how?” Kirby persisted. “I want the details. Our readers will want to know how you did it.”
“So will other train robbers,” said Nathan.
With that, he walked away, but he saw Kirby going after three thirty-eight’s fireman and engineer. He wished he had cautioned Hagerman against allowing the trainmen to talk about the robbery. For sure, the next band of train robbers wouldn’t ride in bunched for a greeting with a lighted stick of dynamite.
“Supper’s on me,” Sheriff Harrington said, as Nathan passed the jail. “Delmonico’s?”
“Yes,” said Nathan, “but give me a couple of hours. I feel like I’ve been throwed and stomped.”
Returning to his room at the Dodge House, Nathan let himself in and locked the door behind him. He threw his hat on the bed, unbuckled his gun belt, and tugged off his boots. He then peeled off his shirt, trousers, and socks, and pouring water into a basin, proceeded to give himself as much of a bath as was possible. Using a large towel provided by the hotel, he dried himself and stretched out on the bed. Awakening refreshed, he got up, took clean clothes and socks from his saddlebag, and got dressed. Reaching Delmonico’s he found Sheriff Harrington already there, drinking coffee and reading a copy of the Kansas City Liberty-Tribune. Nathan hooked a chair with his foot and sat down.
“You’re becoming a celebrity,” said Harrington, looking at him over the top of the newspaper.
“Not by choice,” Nathan replied. “Damn it, this is all I need. There’ll be gun throwers taking the train just to get a shot at me. I can hold my own with the outlaws. It’s all the young fools who haven’t started to shave, looking for a fast reputation, that bother me.”
“I’ll help you all I can,” said Harrington. “Any of them that show up here, I’ll take away their guns, put ‘em on a fast train, and send ’em home.”
Nathan laughed. “I’m obliged, Sheriff.”
Dodge City, Kansas. August 5, 1874
Knocking on Foster Hagerman’s door, Nathan was bid enter. Hagerman nodded toward a chair, and Nathan sat down. The railroad man shuffled through some papers on his desk until he found the one he wanted. Finally he spoke.
“Saturday, you’ll be taking the train to Pueblo. Monday morning, you’ll take the eastbound for Kansas City. There’ll be no passengers, with stops only for fuel and water. On board will be a shipment of more than fifty thousand dollars in raw silver. Need I say any more?”
“My God, no!” Nathan replied. “That’s enough to draw every outlaw from the Trinity to the Yellowstone. But why are we taking this shipment? Most of the silver mines are near Denver. Why risk hauling that much silver a hundred miles, when the Kansas-Pacific has a terminal in Denver, with a line straight through to Kansas City?”
“Ah, the Kansas-Pacific has its share of holdups, too. The mines have taken to alternating their shipments, hoping to confuse the robbers. They managed to get their last shipment through on the Kansas-Pacific, but they aren’t willing to gamble on a second one. They believe they stand a better chance, wagoning the silver to Pueblo under heavy guard and having us take it on to Kansas City.”
“It strikes me thieves wouldn’t have to be too bright to unravel a system like that,” Nathan said. “They must have some idea as to the time schedule, when a shipment’s ready to be sent east.”
“You may be proven right,” said Hagerman. “All we know is that it’s worked so far, and until it fails, I suppose we’ll continue.”
“How far is Pueblo from Kansas City?” Nathan asked.
“A little more than six hundred miles,” Hagerman replied. “Including water and fuel stops, about sixteen hours. If there are no delays, you should reach Kansas City about ten o’clock Monday night. You can lay over until Wednesday and take three thirty-eight back here on Wednesday morning.”
Nathan returned to the Dodge House. It was by far the best frontier hotel he had seen. Thanks to the railroad, there were almost always current copies of the St. Louis and Kansas City newspapers. Nathan bought a St. Louis Globe-Democrat and a Kansas City Liberty-Tribune. He read the Kansas City paper first, for it always seemed to have news of what had happened in Texas. There had been a shooting in Comanche, Texas, involving twenty-one-year-old John Wesley Hardin. After an argument in a saloon, Hardin had been involved in a shootout with Comanche County Deputy Sheriff Charles Webb. Assisted by his two companions, Jim Taylor and Bill Dixon, Hardin had killed Webb and had escaped with his companions. But in retribution, Tom Dixon, along with Hardin’s brothers Joe and Bud were caught and lynched. In a separate incident in Comanche, Wild Bill Longley had killed a man. Longley had been caught and jailed, but had bought his way out. Turning to the St. Louis paper, Nathan found a piece involving the Younger gang. Following a train robbery, John and Jim Younger had been involved in a shootout with the Pinkertons near Monegaw Springs, Missouri. John had killed a Pinkerton man and had in turn been shot dead. Wounded, Jim Younger had escaped. Nathan put the papers aside. In between runs for the railroad, there was little to do except eat and sleep. Unless, of course, he started gambling again. But he wasn’t hurting for money, and he resisted the urge to go back into the saloons.
Pueblo, Colorado. August 8, 1874
Nathan reached Pueblo early Saturday afternoon. Adjoining the railroad terminal was a bunkhouse for railroad men who had to lay over, and Nathan was assigned a bunk for the two nights he would be in Pueblo. The silver shipment was already there, he learned. There was a vault in the dispatcher’s office, and besides the dispatcher, two armed guards were on duty around the clock. Having eaten breakfast before daylight, Nathan was hungry, and he didn’t have to go far. There was a little cafe—The Starlight—near the terminal, and it seemed a gathering place for railroad men. Somebody called Nathan’s name and he spotted the grinning crew of old three thirty-eight. There was Dub Collins, the engineer, Amos Handy, the fireman, Enos Pilpaw, the brakeman, and Art Raines from the express car.
“Drag up a chair,” said Collins. “We ain’t got a thing to do until Monday mornin’ but eat and talk.”
“I reckon you gents are taking three thirty-eight back to Kansas City, then,” Nathan said. “I’ll be leaving at six o’clock Monday morning, myself.”
“Th
en you’ll be ridin’ with us,” Enos Pilpaw said. “That makes me feel a sight better.”
“Me, too,” said Art Raines. “We been told not to talk about that run, but I reckon you know all about it.”
“I know,” Nathan said, “and I’m glad you gents will be in charge of the train.”
A waitress behind the counter had her back to Nathan, and he caught his breath, for her build and the flowing, curly black hair reminded him of Molly Tremayne. He kept his eyes on her until she turned around, and she had Molly’s dark eyes and sensuous lips. His heart skipped a beat, and the look on his face must have given him away, because his four companions laughed.
“That’s Melanie Gavin,” Enos said. “She and her Ma, Elsa, own this place. Mike Gavin was killed in a railroad accident, and Elsa used the money from the railroad to open a cafe. All the railroad men eat here, and the place never closes.”
“She’s a beautiful woman,” said Nathan, “and she reminds me of someone I used to know in Saint Louis,”
“You should of lured her into double harness,” Art said. “I just wish Melanie had took to a railroad man, instead of the snake-eyed varmint that’s sparkin’ her.”
“And who would that be?” Nathan asked.
“Clell Shanklin,” said Art. “He owns Shanklin Freight Lines, hauling from here to Denver and from Denver back. His wagons brought in this shipment from the mines that’s down at the dispatcher’s office now.”
“So he knows about these shipments before they leave Pueblo,” Nathan said.
“He’d have to,” said Amos Handy. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m wondering just how trustworthy Shanklin is,” Nathan said.
“We can’t answer that,” said Dub Collins. “All we know is that none of us like him.”
“Damn,” Amos said. “Speak of the devil.”
The man who entered the cafe looked like anything but a teamster. His black boots were polished to a shine, accenting his black trousers and black frock coat. His fancy white shirt had lace at the cuffs, his broad, black string tie was long and flowing, and topping it all was a pearl gray Stetson. The left armpit of the coat bulged just enough to suggest a shoulder holster. He looked as phony as a pair of loaded dice, and Nathan immediately decided he didn’t like Clell Shanklin, either. Shanklin quickly gave them reason a-plenty for their dislike. Although the cafe was almost full, Shanklin seized Melanie, bent the girl over backward, and showered her with kisses. She broke loose, her face flaming, and obviously had to restrain herself. Nathan was wishing mightily that she had floored the insensitive Shanklin, but she didn’t, and Shanklin laughed.
“God,” said Enos, “I wish her ma would set her straight, and send that greasy coyote back to the wagon yard.”
“Aw, hell,” Art said, “she’s a grown woman, likely twenty-five years old. Some gals never rise above greasy coyotes. Run one off, and she’ll snag the next one.”
Nathan left the cafe with his four companions, separating when the railroad men decided to visit some saloons. Nathan returned to the railroad bunkhouse, and despite the noise, managed to sleep. When he awoke, it was late, and some of the other bunks already had snoring occupants. As quietly as he could, he tugged on his boots, donned his hat, and buckled on his gun belt. Recalling that the Starlight Cafe never closed, he went there for supper. Except for a burly male cook and Melanie Gavin, the place was deserted. Nathan took a stool at the counter, and Melanie came to take his order.
“Cook me a steak all the way through,” Nathan said, “with onions and potatoes on the side, and plenty of coffee.”
“Gotcha,” said the cook.
“I haven’t seen you in here before,” Melanie said.
“I was here for dinner,” said Nathan, “but you were busy.”
She stood there, her face scarlet, her eyes not meeting his. Nathan took pity on her and changed the subject.
“I’m Nathan Stone, and I’m with the railroad. I’d never been in here until today.”
“You look more like a cowboy than a railroad man,” she said. “You must be one of the guards for that silver ...”
Her voice trailed off as she realized what she was saying. Abruptly she turned away, filled a cup, and brought Nathan his coffee.
“Yes,” Nathan said, “I’m with railroad security. I was of a mind to have some words with Clell Shanklin. I’m told he spends a lot of time here.”
“That’s none of your business,” she said shortly. “He has an office here in town.”
“I don’t reckon I need to talk to him now,” said Nathan. “I’ve learned what I needed to know.”
Nathan said no more. When his meal was ready, he ate, paid his bill, and left. He then crossed the street as though returning to the railroad bunkhouse, but took refuge in the shadow of some boxcars on a railroad siding. Not more than a few minutes after he had left the cafe, Melanie slipped out the door. She stood there awhile, as though undecided, and then set off up the street toward the lights of town. Keeping to the shadows, Nathan followed. When she reached the wagon yard, he waited until she had climbed the steps and crossed the dock. Nathan reached the door in time to hear Shanklin’s response to whatever the girl had told him.
“Damn you,” Shanklin shouted, “what did you tell that railroad detective?”
“Nothing,” Melanie cried. “He asked about you, and I ...”
There was the sound of a blow, a cry of pain, and the thump of a body hitting the floor. Nathan had heard enough. He stepped through the door and found Melanie on her knees, blood trickling from the corners of her mouth. Shanklin stood over her, his lean face a mask of fury.
“Get up and get out of here,” Nathan told the girl.
Shanklin turned on Nathan, his hand darting beneath his coat, but it wasn’t nearly as quick as Nathan’s fist. It caught Shanklin on the point of his chin, snapped his head back, and lifted his feet off the floor. He slammed into a wall, bringing down a mess of harness and gear that had been hanging on pegs. He groaned once and lay still. Nathan turned to find Melanie standing there, wide-eyed and trembling.
“Damn it,” said Nathan, “I told you to get out of here. Come on.”
He took her arm and she didn’t resist. He said nothing more until they were on the street, making their way toward the cafe, two blocks away.
“Do you want to return to the cafe, or do you want to go home?”
“To the cafe,” she said. “I don’t want Ma ....”
“You don’t want her to know he hit you,” Nathan finished.
“Through the back door,” she said, when they were almost to the cafe.
He led her there, and from somewhere she produced a key, unlocking the door.
“Now get inside,” said Nathan, “and stay away from that freight office.”
“Come in,” she said. “Please. I want to talk to you.”
Not knowing what he might be in for, Nathan stepped inside and she locked the door.
CHAPTER 17
Nathan sat on a stool while Melanie bathed her face in cold water. Up front, in the cafe, there were voices and a rattle of dishes. Finally, the girl turned to Nathan and spoke.
“There’s a bench by the door, where we can’t be seen or heard from the front.”
“Now,” said Nathan, when they were seated, “what do you want to talk about?”
“Why are you after Clell?” she asked.
“I’m not after him,” said Nathan. “Yet. He’s told you things he should have kept in confidence, and I’m wondering who else he’s told.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know damn well what I mean. Why do you think raw silver is being freighted all the way from Denver to be shipped to Kansas City? One word to a band of thieves and all this security would be for nothing.”
“And you’re thinking Clell Shanklin might sell that information.”
“I’m thinking that he could, and you’re not all that sure that he won’t, so you went to warn him, didn’t you?
”
“No!”
“Then why did you go?” Nathan demanded.
“I ... that’s ... that’s none of your business.”
“I think it is my business,” said Nathan. “Obviously, he thought you must have told me something. Or does he just slap you around to amuse himself?”
“Just go,” she said tearfully. “Please go.”
Nathan got up and turned the knob of the door, releasing the latch. Before leaving, he spoke quietly.
“You wanted to talk, and I think you need to talk. You can reach me by telegram at the AT and SF terminal, in Dodge City, Kansas.”
She said nothing, and he stepped out, closing the door behind him. He looked around before making his way to the street. It was late, and seeing nobody, he crossed the street to the dispatcher’s office. There was no light and the door was locked. He knocked once, drawing an immediate response.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
“Nathan Stone, security with the AT and SF. Just wanted to be sure there’s nothing out of kilter.”
“We appreciate your concern,” said the guard, “but we have everything in order.”
Nathan went on to the bunkhouse, vaguely uneasy. Melanie Gavin knew more than she was telling. Otherwise, why would Shanklin have reacted so violently when he learned Nathan had been questioning the girl? Nathan believed Clell Shanklin was already involved or about to become involved in some scheme that would jeopardize the silver shipment, but he had only his suspicions. To Nathan’s surprise, late as it was, the railroad bunkhouse was virtually empty. Three thirty-eight’s crew was there, however, and they were awake.
“Man, you should have been with us,” Enos said. “Clell Shanklin come in the saloon with a bruise on his chin that was a real beaut. He was as riled as a stomped-on rattler.”
“Damn,” said Nathan, “I always miss out on the good stuff. Speaking of Shanklin, how long has he been hauling shipments from the mines to Pueblo?”
The Killing Season Page 23