The man in Holstrum’s store suddenly stepped out. Shanaghy caught a fleeting glimpse of the man, wearing a black vest and a red handkerchief about his neck, and then he went for his gun.
As he did so he heard a sharp cry from his right and up the street. “Win!” It was Josh Lundy’s voice.
And then Shanaghy was firing. He shot over Drake’s head at the man on the hotel steps with the rifle. And without glancing to see what effect his shot had, he turned right and shot at the man on the store steps. His action was swift and totally unexpected, in that both men believed all his attention was on the men before him. At the same moment he heard a burst of gunfire from right and left, and he saw Win Drako down in the dust and Bass running, hands in the air.
Drako was looking at him, lifting his gun. But there was something wrong with Drako, the gun was coming up too slowly. Another shot from the left and Drako turned half around and fell.
In the distance, a train whistled.
Shanaghy saw Josh Lundy come into the street, rifle in hand, and Josh was walking toward the two men down in the street, walking cautiously. From the other side came a tall young man in a black hat and coat, a man he did not know.
He walked toward Shanaghy, shifting his rifle to his left hand. He held out the right. “Am I always to be getting you out of trouble?” he asked. Shanaghy stared. There was something familiar, yet … “On the pier, in New York,” the man said. “We were boys then and John Morrissey saved our bacon.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! I-!”
“I am Dick Pendleton … Jan’s brother. It’s been a long time.”
The train whistled again, nearer.
Shanaghy grabbed Pendleton’s hand, then suddenly everything started to fall into place.
“Dick! Another time!” He ran for Drake’s horse, jerked loose the slip knot and sprang to the saddle.
The water tank! Of course, they’d be doing it there and never coming into the station at all. It was only after he cleared the town that he began to realize what he was letting himself in for.
There would be several of them. The women … women? Why had he thought that? Then he knew-because there had to be two women. He couldn’t make it out otherwise.
Two women who might or might not be present. There’d be George, and George, he thought, would be good with a gun. Used to using one, at least. There’d be the man who had posed as the brakeman … and how Shanaghy wanted to see him. He’d made him jump off a freight into darkness. Shanaghy had never wanted to kill a man, and he didn’t want to kill that brakeman, but he would like to give him a taste of what he’d had.
He slowed his pace. He would be within sight of the train in a minute.
He had forgotten to ask Dick Pendleton about Jan. Was she home? Was she safe?
The thought that he had forgotten left him feeling guilty. And that old man …
Coonskin … who wanted a shot at the eastern dude. Where was he? When he topped the hill he saw the train. It was pulled up at the water tank and was taking on water. There was nobody around.
Had he guessed wrong? Would he have to turn and race back into town again? He rode down the hill and pulled up, looking at the train. It was longer than usual, at least eight cars. An express car, a baggage car, a passenger car and five freight cars, as well as a caboose.
He checked his guns and flushed with embarrassment. He had forgotten to reload. He did so now. There was a rifle in the saddle-scabbard, too. What had Win been shooting with? He could not recall. It had happened so fast, there’d been no time to consider anything, even to notice.
Those two men he’d shot. Both had gone down and they must have been the other sons of Drako.
There was some activity on the other side of the train. He heard somebody swear and heard the rattle of trace chains. His heart was pounding. When that train started to move …
How many would there be? Too many.
Suddenly a brakeman appeared and gave a signal. The train whistled, then started taking up slack. Then slowly it chugged forward. On the far side of the train the wagon was also moving.
He drew his gun.
The rifle was probably loaded and ready but he felt more at ease with a six-gun.
The train started forward and he walked his horse. He was ready, poised. Suddenly the train started to back up. It backed a dozen yards, then stopped, the locomotive puffing contentedly.
Swearing, he rode toward the rear, planning to ride behind the train. It started backing up again. He wheeled his horse, rode alongside the train and leaped for the ladder. He scrambled up the ladder as the train suddenly jerked to a stop, before spinning its wheels and starting forward again. He ran forward along the car tops. Suddenly a bullet clipped near his feet. It had been fired from the engine. Shanaghy fired back and heard the clang of the bullet as it struck, somewhere in the cab.
Another bullet whipped by him and he dropped to the top of the car, clinging tightly with his one free hand. He fired again and then leaped up, ran forward and sprang down to the tender atop the coal pile. The engineer held a gun in his hand, one hand on the throttle. “Drop it!” Shanaghy said. An instant the engineer hesitated, then let go of the pistol.
Shanaghy scooped it up, then said, “Now back up, carefully … slowly.”
“What is this? A holdup?”
“You know damn well what it is,” Shanaghy said. He glanced toward the road that led south. The road was empty as far as he could see. Win Drako’s horse was grazing beside the road. “You,” he said to the engineer. “When you get to town, you go to Greenwood’s and report to him and tell him what has happened and what you’ve done.” The engineer stared at him unbelieving. “You think I’ll do that?” “I do.” Shanaghy smiled at him, and it was not a pleasant smile. “You do it. If you don’t, or if you try to get away, I’ll come after you.” The engineer shrugged. “You ain’t done so well so far. Maybe I ain’t scared.” “You ask them in town how well I have done. But look, mister, I’m not persuading you. I really don’t give a damn what you do, but if I have to come after you you’ll wish you’d shot yourself first.”
He swung down and walked toward the horse. It looked up at him and started to walk off. Shanaghy spoke gently. The horse stopped, looking at him again, and he caught up the reins and stepped into the saddle. The tracks of a wagon were in the road, if one could call it that. For it was merely two wheel tracks leading off to the south. Such a wagon could not be far ahead, but he still had no idea how many men were with it. Yet when he crossed the next rise there was no sign of the wagon at all. The wagon and its cargo had vanished!
Ahead of him lay open road, visible for over a mile, with only a few dips. And there was nothing in sight. The road itself and the plains around it were empty. He rode on, more swiftly, dipping into a dry wash where the banks were caving badly, then up the opposite side.
Nothing …
The gently rolling plains stretched far away, and there was nothing in sight but a few cattle, feeding on the drying grass.
He slowed down. Something was wrong, radically wrong.
There had been a wagon. He had seen its tracks. He knew he had.
But now there were no tracks!
For a moment he sat very still, simply staring. It was no illusion. There simply were no wagon tracks in the road. Not fresh ones, at least. He rode right and left on the prairie but found nothing. He swung wide in a big circle … Still nothing.
Irritably, he rode on, searching for some sign of a wagon passing, but he found nothing. So, he thought, the wagon had turned off. Swinging his horse around, he rode back.
He found the tracks again, then lost them in the wash with the caving banks. A moment of digging and he found the wagon, wheels pulled off, the wagon bed lying flat … and empty.
There were horse tracks some fifty yards from where he found the wagon, a place where several horses had been tied. He found tracks, but nothing else distinguishable.