Pulling Charlie Ruff back, Chantry leaned into him and battered his body with short, wicked blows to the wind. Suddenly stepping back, he whipped up an uppercut that caught the bigger man under the chin. His head flew back and his knees buckled. Charlie hit the floor on his knees, but in the instant before he hit, Chantry swung a hard right to the jaw. Charlie fell forward on his face.
For a moment, Chantry stood looking down, and then he stepped back. The croupier held out his guns. “You’ll be needing those.” And he added, “I know that outfit. Watch yourself.”
“Thanks.”
Bloody, his shirt torn, Tom Chantry
pushed toward the exit. He had wanted none of this. He had not liked Charlie Ruff, but he had not wanted to fight him; now it was done, and he had won.
Outside the cool wind chilled his sweaty body. He started up the street, wanting to get under cover, to bathe, and get into a clean, fresh shirt.
Chapter 22
He went to the frame hotel. The lobby was empty except for the clerk, an older man with a round, moon-like face.
“Hello, Mr. Chantry. Looks as if you’ve had trouble. Want a place to wash up?”
“Yes … and a shirt if you can rustle one up.”
“I’ll try. Come along.” He led the way down a passage and into the back room on the ground floor. “There’s a well out back.
I’ll get you a bucket of water. You’ll
want some hot water for those hands.”
When he returned with the bucket and began kindling a fire in the stove, he asked, “What happened?”
“I had a fight. With Charlie Ruff.”
The clerk whistled. “Ruff? You must have whipped
him. You’re not badly beat up.”
“I did what I had to do.”
“A lot of people will be pleased—not only here, but
down in Texas too.”
The clerk sat down. “My name’s
Finlayson. We haven’t met but I’ve seen you around, and you’re a friend of Mr. Sparrow’s. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Chantry was about to say there was not, but changed it. “One thing. What do you know about Sarah Millier?”
“Enough not to be so gullible as most of the local citizens. She had visitors, Mr.
Chantry. Mostly they used the back stairs, but I saw them once or twice—the Talrims or Frank Ruff. She saw me noticing them once, and commented that they had some information on her brother.”
Chantry explained about the brother, and gave some background on Sarah and Paul. “There’s some connection with French Williams, but I don’t believe it’s friendly.”
“I always liked French,” Finlayson commented. “Well, I don’t know what to think about her, but I’m glad she’s gone.”
“Gone?” Chanty straightened up, water dripping from his hair and hands.
“Checked out about an hour after sundown. There was a rig waiting out front. I didn’t see who was driving.”
Tom dried his face and hands, working gently over his bruised and battered knuckles. He worked his fingers to keep stiffness from settling in the muscles.
He was terribly tired, but there was no time to rest. After thanking the clerk, who refused payment, he went out and made his way to the corral. His horse was there, and he roped it and saddled up.
He swung into the saddle and turned his horse toward the siding where the private car was waiting. … Only it was gone.
He rode to the main track, and looked around, but there was no car … it had pulled out.
He swung his mount and raced across town, weaving in and out among the buildings, the tents and stacks of lumber, to the other sidings. A small shack was over there where relief engineers and other trainmen bunked.
Dropping from his saddle, he went in the door. A man turned sleepily in a bunk. “Who’s that?” he muttered.
Chantry struck a match and lighted the lamp. “Whitman’s private car is gone. Where is it?”
The man swung his feet to the floor. He was wearing red woollen long-johns, now faded to a vague pink. “Whitman’s car? I’m supposed to take that out more’self. It’s gone, you say? That can’t be.”
“Where’s your engine?”
“On the siding. Right back yonder.”
Both men rushed to the door. There was no engine.
The siding was empty.
“Stole! Somebody stole the engine!”
He turned back into the room and yelled at the
other trainmen, now half awake. “The engine’s gone! Somebody stole it!”
“It’s Harvey!” A tall, skinny man started up. “I seen that outlaw Harvey aroun’!
He used to be a trainman back Missouri
way!”
Tom Chantry went to his horse. They had Doris! They had Whitman and Earnshaw too, and the gold, and they had a start of an hour or longer; but one thing about a locomotive … it had to keep to the tracks. Somewhere, not very far off, they would have horses waiting.
He started along the tracks at a canter.
Where were McCarthy and Callahan?
A mile out of town the loading pens showed their skeleton frames against the sky, but there was no train. He pushed on, riding beside the tracks, watching the skyline ahead.
He had no idea what lay before him. That they would be stopping soon, he was sure. The outlaws would not dare risk going into the next station. He rode on into the night, his eyes probing at the darkness ahead.
Suddenly the shapes loomed up. The locomotive stood silent, except for a faint hiss of steam. The private car was lighted, but no sound came from it.
Slowing his pace, gun in hand, he circled the car at a distance. The hoofs of his horse made little noise as they moved through the grass.
He rode closer, then dismounted and ground-hitched his horse. Close to the car, he stopped to listen. No sound. He stepped up on the road bed, caught the rail, and swung up to the platform.
His left hand closed on the knob, turned it. The door opened easily and swung inward. The drawing room was empty, the door to the bedroom stood open. He went past it … empty.
There were signs here of hasty dressing; clothing was thrown about. The safe stood open, papers were scattered on the floor. They had the money, and they had Whitman, Earnshaw, and Doris.
He found a red lantern, lighted it, and hung it out on the east end of the locomotive. There were no trains west of this; the next to come would be from the east.
He searched the car, found two boxes of .44 cartridges, which he took, as well as an extra pistol, hidden under the pillow of Whitman’s bed. He thrust that into his waistband. He gathered some food, found a canteen and filled it. He found a good deal of hunting gear in a closet under Whitman’s bed, but nothing he could use. Outside, he stuffed the food into the saddlebags, hung the canteen around the pommel, and then scouted for tracks, using a lantern.
He found a place where horses had stood, several of them. And there was a faint trail leading off to the south.
For a moment, after he was in the saddle, he sat thinking. They must have taken the three prisoners so there would be nobody to tell who had taken the gold, or where they had gone. It was unlikely they would keep them for long. Sarah would be for killing them. She had intended to kill him back there under the trees in the rain, even though her brother had not wanted it. She would want no witnesses, and the Talrims would agree.
The Ruffs? No telling about them, they might agree, and they might just ride off and leave it to Sarah and the Talrims.
Just then he heard the pound of hoofs, and, turning, saw a rider approaching along his own trail. The man pulled up when he saw him.
“Chantry?” It was Sparrow.
“Here.” Chantry held his gun, waiting.
There were a lot of things about Sparrow that were unexplained.
“Are they gone?”
“Yes … and the money too.”
“They’ll ride south,” Sparrow said. “I’m
sure of it. They’ll head for Coe’s old
hide-out.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“No … only approximately. Nobody
but outlaws knew where it was, but we can look.”
“Maybe,” said another voice, “you’d let me help.”
They turned sharply, and faced a horseman who had come up quietly through the drift sand on the side of the track. It was French Williams.
“Howdy, Tom,” he said, and Tom could almost see the taunting, appraising look in his eyes. “I see you got the herd through.”
“No thanks to you,” Chantry replied shortly.
“I wasn’t supposed to help … remember? I will say that some of the boys set up a fuss when I pulled them off the herd. You make friends, d’you know that? Helvie, Gentry, and them, they swear by you.”