Flying Eagle

by Tim Champlin

  “Rawlings.” He pointed in a vague northwest direction. “Probably forty miles or so as the buzzard flies—or the balloon,” he added with a wry smile. “Maybe fifty or more the way you’d have to go.”

  “Any ranchhouses closer?” Jay asked, indicating the hoofmarks of the cattle.

  Gorraiz shook his head. ‘Those prints don’t mean anything. Cattle wander all over this range for hundreds of miles around. But there does happen to be a ranchhouse maybe eight, ten miles from here. But you don’t want to go there. That’s the Jacob Wright place. If they even suspect you’ve been around me, they’re liable to shoot you on sight.”

  “Just point us in the right direction,” Hall said, joining the conversation. “They won’t know where we came from.”

  Vincent Gorraiz shook his head again. “Old man Wright has a nose like a coyote, I hear. He’ll smell sheep on you.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Hall said. “We need to get back. Maybe this Wright will have some horses we can borrow or buy.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that,” Gorraiz said. “Old man Wright has a fearsome reputation. He doesn’t like any strangers on what he considers his land. I don’t think you’d get a very warm reception.”

  “We could appropriate some horses at gunpoint, if he won’t sell,” Hall said, his face turning red in the early morning rays of the sun.

  “I wouldn’t try that. He’s got some mean gunhands working for him.”

  Jay was eyeing the mule that Cutter rode. Maybe Gorraiz could be persuaded to part with it for a price. They could make it to Rawlings, taking turns riding the mule and walking. Maybe the mule could carry double if he wasn’t pushed. A thought flashed into his mind. He remembered seeing Cutter sitting cross-legged on the ground this morning. Hardly a position a man would take who has an injured knee. He wondered how badly hurt this sneak thief really was. He tucked this bit of information in the back of his mind for future reference.

  “What mountains are these?” he asked Gorraiz.

  “The Sierra Madres. There’s a bigger range on east about forty miles. There are some well-watered valleys in between the two where Wright runs a lot of cattle. They don’t bother me much if I stay up on summer range in the mountain meadows. But more sheep are moving onto the range in the southern part of the Territory, and I hear from my uncles that the Cattlemen’s Association is pushing to clear the range of all sheep. Now that I’m coming back down to winter range, I expect trouble. Bad times coming.” He shook his head sadly.

  “Can’t your uncles help you?” Jay asked.

  “They’ve got flocks and families of their own to look after farther north—two or three days’ ride from here. I’ve got a cousin at Medicine Bow who helps me now and then. But I doubt if I could depend on him in a fight, even if he was here. In fact, he’s supposed to meet me down this way in a week or so and bring me a few supplies. I can’t leave these animals to go into town. I trust Chuck to take care of them, and have left him alone with them for a couple of days at a time, but it’s just too dangerous now. I think you boys should stay with me for a few days. When my cousin comes, he’ll have a wagon, and you can ride back to Medicine Bow with him.” His tone indicated this was the simplest and most obvious solution.

  Jay considered this for a couple of minutes. The time and place of the expected meeting with this cousin seemed very vague. He chafed at the thought of the delay. But, on the other hand, it sure beat walking all the way to Rawlings. It was possible that Gorraiz just wanted them to travel with him for protection against attacks by the cattlemen’s gunhands he seemed certain were coming. This thought rankled. Jay had seen quite enough gunplay for a while. The three of them had been extremely lucky that they had not been shot during the holdup attempts. He wanted no more confrontations if he could help it.

  “We’ll give it some thought,” Jay replied, noncommitally. For some reason he could not fathom, he felt uneasy. Maybe it was the weight of responsibility for the Wells Fargo bank notes and gold. Maybe it was the presence of Marvin Cutter. Maybe it was the proximity of the Jacob Wright ranch-house and gunhands Gorraiz had told them were determined to run him off the range. Whatever the cause, Jay had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He would not mention it to Hall for now. The aeronaut would probably blame the feeling on the dried fruit concoction they had eaten for breakfast. But the feeling persisted as the morning wore on, and Jay caught himself unconsciously loosening his Colt in its holster.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was the dog who gave them the warning. Before any horsemen were heard or seen, Chuck began moving the flock toward the sloping hill on the southeast side of the valley. When his woolly charges didn’t move fast enough, he darted from one to another of the stragglers, nipping at their hind legs.

  “Somebody’s coming,” Gorraiz said. “The three of you better hide in those trees until I see who it is.”

  “There’s no road through here, so it’s no traveler just passing through,” Vincent said at Jay’s questioning look. “And we’re on land that Jacob Wright claims as his own.”

  Before he had even finished speaking, Jay and Fletcher Hall were jogging after the sheep with Marvin Cutter following quickly on the mule. When they reached the treeline, Cutter slipped off and hobbled into the growth of young pines that hid the three of them from view.

  Just as they crouched out of sight, Jay heard the muffled drumming of hooves on the grassy earth. In less than a half-minute, several horsemen trotted into view around some low hills from the direction the flock had been headed.

  They reined back abruptly to a walk at the sight of the bleating flock of two or three hundred sheep. Some startled sheep bolted away, but Chuck quickly rounded them up and brought them back with the rest. The dog nervously paced back and forth, watching the approaching horses, head erect and alert.

  Gorraiz had stopped, calmly awaiting the approach of the four riders. He made no move toward the rifle that still rested in its saddle scabbard on the mule. As the men reined up and the lead rider dismounted and walked toward the sheepherder, Jay caught his breath. It was the same man who had dynamited the small bridge at the train. He recognized the bow-legged stride, and the leather vest with the silver conchos the man wore. If these were the attackers, where were the other three? There had been seven men during the last attack.

  “Howdy,” Bowlegs said, stopped a few feet away.

  Gorraiz nodded in greeting, but said nothing.

  “We’re looking for two, maybe three men who are probably in this general area. You seen anybody since yesterday?”

  “No. Nobody. Just my sheep and my dog.”

  Jay’s stomach was in knots.

  “I know it sounds funny,” Bowlegs went on, with a humorless half-grin, “but these men probably came down in a balloon on the side of the mountain back here.”

  “A balloon?” The sheepherder shook his head solemnly.

  “Where were you camped last night?” one of the men still on horseback asked.

  “Back up this valley a ways,” Vincent said, pointing over his shoulder.

  “And you didn’t see a big gas balloon flying over just before dark?” the mounted one persisted, dubiously.

  “If there was such a balloon, I must have been asleep already, or was busy cooking my supper. I wish I had known about it. I’ve never seen a flying machine such as that before. Where did it go?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” Bowlegs said, gruffly. “I hope you’re not lying to us, sheepman. If we find out you are, we’ll be back here, and there may be nothing left but your dog to take care of these sheep.” Bow­legs swung into the saddle and the four of them trotted off, up the valley and deeper into the foothills.

  Gorraiz signalled for them to stay hidden for two or three minutes after the sound of the hoofbeats had completely faded.

  Jay felt shaken when he got to his feet and came out. But he tried to hide his feelings by remarking lightly to Hall, “They’re sure going to a helluva lot of t
rouble to get at what’s in these sacks.”

  Hall looked at him and then up the valley where the men had disappeared. “Are holdup men usually that persistent?”

  It was the very same question Jay had been asking himself since he had seen the horsemen through the field glasses from the balloon.

  “I don’t know.”

  “They’re not after you, personally, are they?” Hall asked.

  Jay shrugged. “I don’t think so. They have no reason to be. Even without their masks, I didn’t recognize any of them. I wonder where the other three went. There were seven of them.”

  “Maybe split up to comb these foothills.”

  “Maybe we’re overlooking something . . . or someone,” Hall said, turning toward the silent Marvin Cutter. “You said this man was hidden in the express car, and that’s what they attacked. We all assumed they were after the contents of the safe. Maybe they were after the notorious thief, Marvin Cutter, for some reason. What about it?”

  Cutter shook his head. “I never saw those men before. Sure, I have my share of enemies, but most of them are on the side of the law. If they’re after me, I don’t know why. Could be ’most anything,” he grinned, his gums showing pink through the growth of black stubble.

  “I doubt they were after him,” Jay said, thoughtfully. “Remember, the lieutenant just managed to throw that stick of dynamite out the door that had been planted next to the safe.”

  Hall was unconvinced. “Could be the gold in that safe was just an added bonus—you know—as long as it was there.”

  “Look, gents, if you think it’s me they’re after, I’d be glad to ride on outa here and not inflict myself on you anymore. That is, if you want to pay for this man’s mule. If not . . .’’he shrugged. “With my bum leg and all, I may have to stay with you for a time.”

  Jay wondered just how “bum” that leg really was. If Cutter was exaggerating his injury, why? What was his motive? This whole thing was very confusing. He couldn’t fit the pieces together. Was there any relationship between this thief from the city who had stowed away and the train robbers? Was Cutter just an opportunist who was planning to stay around, pretending to be an invalid, so he could seize a chance to make off with the sacks Jay carried over his shoulder?

  Gorraiz whistled a signal to Chuck and the collie started the flock leisurely down the valley again. Cutter remounted the mule with help from Jay. Gorraiz took his rifle from the scabbard and carried it cradled in his left arm. He would not be caught unawares again. “Sheep-killing gunmen come only in the dark, with masks,” he remarked. “But now I will be ready for anything.”

  The Winchester was an 1873 model. It was not a carbine and was relatively heavy, but the stocky Basque carried it as if it weighed nothing.

  When the sun was high, they paused to rest in the shade, but not to eat. They sprawled on the grassy slope under the trees and sipped water from the canteens, before refilling them from the clear stream that still meandered along their course as the valley flattened out.

  Jay set the sacks on the ground beside him. He could not get his mind off the robbers who were still chasing after the contents of these sacks. If the estimated $30,000 was split seven ways, that would only amount to something over $4,000 each. A goodly sum, but was it really worth all the trouble they were going through to get it? Was it just the money, or was it something else? Jay had pondered it, and pretty well convinced himself that Cutter had nothing to do with these robbers. But, if not the thief, and possibly not the money, what then? The robbers must have somehow gotten misinformation about the amount of treasure the train had been carrying. They must have thought it was much more.

  Idly, he pulled apart the drawstrings of the bags and dumped their contents out onto the grass. There were the stacks of crisp bills, the leather pouch of gold coins, some official-looking, gilt-edged stock certificates in a small folder inside a large brown envelope, a small, sealed tube, wrapped and addressed to a James Simpson at the Excelsior Hotel in Chicago. Any return address? He turned the light tube around. Only “J.O. Brown” with “San Francisco” scrawled underneath it. Did he dare open it? No; that would violate everything the Wells Fargo Company stood for—safe, speedy delivery of any merchandise entrusted to the company. That certainly meant no tampering with packages by company messengers or anyone else. But these were extraordinary circumstances, he reasoned, turning the sealed tube over in his hands. Surely it would justify just looking inside to see if this might be the one thing the robbers were after. But if he were wrong, it could very well cost him his job when the company found out.

  To hell with it, he decided. If what he had been through in defense of company cargo and property wasn’t proof enough of his loyalty, then Wells Fargo could have their job and be done with it. He ripped the paper wrapping carefully off the end of the tube and shook it. Nothing came out of the hollow, bamboo shoot, so he inserted his finger and pulled forth a folded slip of paper. He could feel Hall’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look up as he unfolded an oblong piece of pale blue stationery. On it was written in a bold, black script, “Palace Windsor Twelve Oaks.”

  The cryptic note made no sense to him. He handed the paper to Hall who read it silently and handed it back.

  “What do you make of it?”

  Jay shrugged. “I thought it might give some clue as to what these robbers were after. It’s obviously some sort of shorthand that will mean something to this James Simpson it’s addressed to. Means nothing to me.”

  “Whoever Brown is, I wonder why he didn’t send his four-word note by telegraph. It would have been a lot quicker and cheaper. Looks like he started to address it for the U.S. Mail, but gave it to Wells Fargo instead.”

  Marvin Cutter was sitting in the grass on the other side of Jay with his injured leg stretched straight out. He reached across and picked up the bamboo tube and looked closely at the handwriting on the address and the name, “J.O. Brown.” Jay, surprised at the thief’s interest, reached to take it back from him, and saw Cutter’s face go deathly pale. The container dropped to the grass between them, and Jay thought the man was going to faint.

  “What’s wrong? You all right?”

  Cutter swallowed hard, nodding as he did so.

  “What’s wrong? Did you see something on there? What was it?”

  Cutter shook his head and passed a hand over his eyes. “I’m all right. Got a little dizzy there. Must be the pain in my knee.”

  Jay got the note back into the tube, tucking the paper carefully around the end, hoping it might look as if it were just scuffed in transit. He returned the bank notes and gold to the two empty sandbags, as they got to their feet and prepared to move on.

  Jay, watching the small man out of the corner of his eye, saw him take four normal steps before he suddenly began to limp heavily again.

  As Jay boosted him back up onto the mule, he silently resolved to insist on taking a look at that knee as soon as they made camp for the night. He might not be able to tell much about it, but he could see if it were swollen. It was obvious to Jay that Cutter had recognized something about the writing on that address that had shaken him severely. So severely, in fact, that he had totally forgotten to limp on the leg that was supposed to be injured. He hoped he was not seeing ghosts where there were none, but one way or another, he was going to get the truth out of this Marvin Cutter before another day passed. Had he known what was ahead, he would have forced the truth out of Marvin Cutter at that moment.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Even though they were on edge and alert the rest of the afternoon, they saw no more of the train robbers. The riders had either taken another route down out of the mountains, or were still up above them somewhere, searching for the downed balloon.

  “Where are you taking these sheep?” Jay asked as the sun was sinking low on the horizon.

  “We’ll camp just a little farther on. Tomorrow I want to go a few more miles. There’s an old log cabin that was built by a mountain man about fifty years
ago. Nobody lives there now. If the place is livable, I plan to shelter there during some of the worst winter weather. That’s where my cousin and I plan to rendezvous when he finally gets here with the supplies.”

  “I thought you lived outside all winter,” Jay grinned at him.

  “Not if I can do better. My wool doesn’t grow as thick as theirs. I hear a man over in Rawlings has built a little cabin on a wagon bed that he’s trying to sell to one of my people up north of here. I haven’t seen it, but the blacksmith who made it claims it’s the greatest thing for sheepherders. Take your house with you. No more sleeping on the ground in the cold and cooking over a campfire. It may catch on, but the only problem I can see with it is it can’t be driven into the mountains where I take my flock for summer grazing.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’m used to being outside all year long.”

  The weathered skin of his hands and face above the beard were ample proof that he rarely spent any time under a roof.

  “It will be nice to get in out of the deep drifts if we have some bad blizzards this year.”

  “What about the sheep?” Jay wanted to know. “They don’t look like they could survive on their own.” As soon as he said it, he knew he was showing his ignorance of sheep raising. But Gorraiz didn’t seem to mind. In fact, the more the Basque talked, the more fluent he was becoming, and the more he enjoyed the conversation. It was as if his vocal mechanism was finally sliding together with oil on the machinery after months of rusty disuse. Jay noticed his halting, short sentences had grown into longer, more involved utterances.

  “Oh, sure, the sheep can survive on their own, as long as my dog and I are nearby to keep them bunched and look after them. See, most of them are Churros, a breed brought by the Spaniards almost three hundred years ago. They’re tough. They winter well. To get a little more meat and a different, thicker wool, I’m experimenting with crossbreeding. See that big fella over there? That’s an expensive Merino ram my uncle bought to upgrade the stock. Maybe in another year or two, he’ll produce enough good crossbred lambs so I can turn back a good profit to my uncle and get a flock of my own. I love this solitary life,” he said, glancing around at the beautiful foothill valley, “but I don’t plan to live this way the rest of my life. I don’t want to be chasing these animals when I’m a lonely old man with the ague in my bones.” He grinned, showing white, even teeth. Somehow, Jay could not picture him as a decrepit old shepherd as he watched the powerful, thick-muscled figure stride along, staff in hand. “It’s hard work sometimes, with the lambing and shearing seasons, but there’s plenty of time the rest of the year for just taking it easy and reading and thinking and enjoying the beauty of all this.” He gestured at the green hills and the mountain range behind them.