“Nearby. The Denver & Rio Grande stops near there. The way I figure, they’ll ride to Durango and look for us there, and they’ll lose time. They might take the train, but they’d be afraid if we weren’t on it that we might take the next one or some other route. They’ve got to cover everything.”
His shoulder was painful. He had treated it as best he could, but it worried him. It needed medical attention, but there was no chance for that this side of Denver, unless there was somebody on the train who could give it.
They went down the mountain early in the morning and reached the Animas River shortly after daybreak. They forded the river where it was stirrup-deep, and a little over an hour later they crossed the Florida near the mouth of Cottonwood Gulch.
The Ute Indian Trail lay across the flat before them, the low wall of the Mesa Mountains to the south. Ruble Noon headed east, holding to a good pace and keeping Piedra Peak ahead of his right shoulder.
“How far?” Fan asked again.
“Ten miles … maybe less. With luck, we won’t have to wait long.”
“I’m frightened. We’re so close to the end.”
“Forget it-the worry, I mean. We’re going to make it.”
Lebo spoke. “Dust, back yonder.”
“Utes, probably.”
“Only one rider,” Lebo said, “and coming up fast.”
They dipped into a hollow, topped the rise beyond, and looked back. Dust was in the air, but it was far back.
They could see the green line of trees along the Los Pinos River. The railroad was just this side, following the river south.
Ruble Noon drew his Winchester from the scabbard, and looked back again. The rider was gaining on them.
“What is there at the station?” Fan asked.
“Very little. The Ute Agency is just a couple of miles north. I think there’s a water tank and a box car for a station.”
“I hope there’s some shade.”
“There is.”
She was silent for a while, and then said, “I am sure I have come through here on the tram several times, but I remember nothing of it.”
“No reason to. It’s a forgettable place. The beauty is in the country around.”
His mouth was dry and his stomach felt empty. He glanced back toward the strange rider, still too far away to see. Ahead of them he could now make out the outline of the water tank, and of a low building-it was more than a box car. The trees along the river were green. He could use a drink.
He deliberately slowed their pace, not wanting to attract too much attention, and hoping that before they reached the station he could see whoever might be there. There would be a train along soon.
The platform was empty. The small, two-roomed building that was the station was empty also. They rode up, then went past it and pulled up under -the rustling green of the cottonwoods. For a moment he sat in his saddle, listening. Then he got down.
‘Jonas?”
He turned sharply, surprised at the name. It was Fan who spoke. “I told you I was going to call you that. It is your name, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
At that moment he knew for sure that it was. For the first tune the name felt right to him – not a name he had simply chosen, but one that belonged to him, a name that was his.
“Jonas, isn’t there some way we can get away without trouble?”
“That’s the plan. If the train arrives before they do, and if they are not on the train, then we can make it. But remember, Fan, they’re going to try to get the gold from you.”
“Let them have it.”
“I can’t. Not in good conscience, I can’t. I took money from your father to kill four men, but if I can save what is yours without that, then I will have done what it was given me to do.
“And this would not be an end, Fan. You cannot submit to evil without allowing evil to grow. Each time the good are defeated, or each time they yield, they only cause the forces of evil to grow stronger. Greed feeds greed, and crime grows with success. Our giving up what is ours merely to escape trouble would only create greater trouble for someone else.
“If we can get on the train and get away before they come we will have won; but if they arrive with the train or before, we must fight.”
He stopped, and she was silent. The day was hot and still. Over the mountains great black thunderheads loomed up, vast swellings shot through with jagged streaks of lightning. The air was close, unlike mountain air. On the Pacific coast in the old days they would have said it was earthquake weather. He put a hand down and touched the butt of his gun. It felt curiously cool and comforting, and he knew he would need it soon.
He would need it, because there was no yielding to any of them. The weak and the doubtful were dead or gone; Kissling was gone, and others were gone, too. Tough Dave Cherry was gone. And Ben Janish – the top man with a gun, the one most feared – he was gone.
There were enough who remained, but any one of them might die, and that went for him as well. He was good – he knew that deep inside himself. He was resolute, he was fast, he was sure. Above all, at the moment of truth, that moment when it came time to draw and live, or draw and die, he was cool… or he always had been.
Would he be so now? That was the thing. A man never knew. He had seen strong, dangerous men suddenly lose faith in themselves, either in front of a gun or during a fight, like Billy Brooks against Kirk Jordan in Dodge. Brooks had proved his nerve time and again, and when the Jordan thing was long past he was to prove it again and again – but against Jordan and his big .50 buffalo gun he lost his nerve.
Lebo spoke. “There’s a rider comin’,” he said. “Down the old Ute Trail.”
They could see him. He was coming hard, riding all out … and in a moment they knew why. The train whistled. It was far up the track, but it was coming.
Ruble Noon touched his tongue to his lips. “Strip the gear off the horses,” he said. “They’ll go back where they came from.”
The Mexican looked at him. “You going out there, amigo? Out in the open?”
“Yes.”
Lebo’s shrug was eloquent.
They could hear the pound of hoofs now, and the train whistled again. Ruble Noon eased his gun in its holster to be sure it was free to move fast.
Thunder rumbled . . . the storm was closer now.
They started for the station, leading the two pack horses. Fan walked beside them, still holding her rifle. Little puffs of dust lifted from the road as they crossed it. On the platform their footsteps sounded loud … a brilliant streak of lightning bulged a cloud with livid flame, and thunder cracked. A few scattered drops fell.
Ruble Noon removed the sacks from the pack saddles and put them down on the platform.
Then suddenly they were there, at the end of the platform, and he had no idea where they had come from.
Lang was there, and Manly, and there was another man-a Mexican, tall and thin, wearing a wide sombrero, twin cartridge belts, and a thin black mustache.
Cristobal!
Ruble Noon’s agreement had been for four men and a woman. A woman? He would never have agreed to that.
Suddenly it was crystal-clear in his mind. He had not agreed to kill any of them. He had agreed to free the ranch of outlaws by his own means, and he had been warned to be careful of four men and a woman. Careful, and only that. And the woman would be Peg Cullane.
So Tom Davidge had known something about her, too. Now they might never know what it was, but Tom Davidge had known very well who his enemies were, and who they might be.
Cristobal now … As dangerous a gunman as ever came down the pike. And there he was, with Manly and Lang. .. . Was nothing ever going to be easy?
“You can leave it right there, or you can die,” Manly said. “You’re lucky-you’ve got a choice.”
“The gold’s gone,” Ruble Noon lied. “All we have here is some lead shot. We got the gold away, and used this to keep you off the regalar shipment, which is halfway to Denver by now.”
“You can’t give us that,” Manly said, “so don’t try.” Fan Davidge had a piece of the black-painted gold in her pocket and she held it up. “See?”