In the caboose, two Mexicans with little in common were dozing, their heads drooping, their shoulders nudging. Big Jim wasn’t dismayed. He was sure Maria’s sombrero would stay firmly planted over her head, keeping her profusion of raven hair piled high and out of sight. Toby Jethrow was wistfully reflecting on his chances of quitting his job unbeknownst to his waspish spouse and fleeing the territory, fleeing the whole damn country, in fact, and settling down to a life of indolence on some tropical isle. And Jim was delving into his pockets for his Durham-sack, cigarette papers and matches, when ...
The sudden screeching sound of steel upon steel, the shuddering and jolting, jerked Maria and Benito wide-awake and caused the big black stallion to neigh nervously in his stall. Although a veteran of his profession, Toby was taken by surprise; the sudden stop jerked him off his seat to flop onto the floor. He mumbled a curse and struggled upright, rubbing at his backside.
“What in tarnation is Dan Mayhew up to? We’re stalled right at Powderhorn Bend ...!” He hastily admonished Jim, who had risen and was about to shove the right side door open. “Keep that door shut, Jim! We’re stalled atop a cliff—and that’s the wrong side. If you fell out ...”
“All right,” frowned Jim. “There’d be nothing to see on this side anyway.” He crossed to the left side door, shoved it open and stared ahead. “Uh huh. Looks like there’s been a landslide. Come take a look, Toby.”
The conductor joined him in the doorway. From this angle, they could see just beyond the bend and a few yards ahead of the locomotive. Rock and earth were piled five feet high on the tracks—and small wonder Mayhew had been obliged to make such a sudden halt; he would have had little or no warning after rounding the bend.
“Well—if that ain’t the damnedest thing,” scowled Toby. “First time we ever had us a landslide in this section. I didn’t know there was loose rock up there.”
He pointed to the timbered slope and, casually at first, Jim followed his glance. Mayhew and his fireman were about to descend from the locomotive cabin, and a dozen passengers were peering out the windows, excitedly complaining of the delay—when it happened.
A gun roared—then another. While five masked men rose from behind the obstruction on the tracks, seven more came riding down the timbered slope, discharging their six-guns, yelling orders to the suddenly alarmed Mexicans.
“Hold-up!” gasped Toby. “A—consarned—damn-blasted—hold-up ...!”
There were times when ex-Sergeant James Rand was apt to react in an instinctive way, and this was just such a time. The old battle-savvy, the urge to defend himself and those under his charge came to the fore, and his every movement was swift and automatic. He back-stepped to where he had dumped his saddle and gear. He slid his Winchester from its scabbard, strode to the right side door and began shoving it open.
“Griff Bowes took a shot at ’em,” panted Toby, “and now they’ve killed him—those dirty—lousy sons of—”
Over Toby’s tirade and the barking of the pistol jerked from the conductor’s hip pocket, Jim called an order to the wide-eyed Benito.
“Stay right where you are—and take good care of Cousin José.”
When he stared downward, all he could see was the three-foot wide strip of shaley ground between the steel rails and the extreme edge of the cliff top. That slant was certainly steep, and its base seemed a long way down, although it actually extended no more than seventy feet. He glanced upward and decided that, if he cared to risk his neck and perform quite a feat of acrobatics, he could pull himself up onto the roof the caboose, thus increasing his chances of getting a clear shot at the raiders. Ignoring Toby’s shouted warning, he did just that. It took him only a few seconds and imposed no great strain on his considerable physical strength.
Huddled on his knees, he readied the Winchester for action. Most of the raiders were in clear view now, all of them garbed in range clothes and with bandannas knotted about the lower halves of their faces. They rode back and forth along the west side of the tracks in the thirty-foot wide area between the base of the timbered slant and the right-of-way. Their guns roared to the accompaniment of the indignant profanity of the rancheros and the shrill screams of their womenfolk. And Jim’s blood was up.
A bullet missed his head by mere inches; obviously he had been spotted. He crouched on one knee, drew a bead on a moving horseman and fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing his victim throw up his hands and pitch from his saddle. Another rider spotted him, wheeled his mount and triggered two shots in rapid succession. Jim winced from the fiery agony, the sharp pain of a bullet burning the left side of his neck, then took aim and squeezed the trigger again. The fast-shooting raider dropped his gun and slumped in his saddle, remaining mounted, but out of action now, clasping his left hand to his right shoulder.
Jim’s scalp crawled. Something hot welled up inside him like a sudden sickness, and he knew what it was. The old hurt, the bitter, savage indignation, the all-consuming hatred of the man who had so treacherously slain Lieutenant Christopher Rand. One of the raiders, in clear view of him now, wore garb contrasting with the shabby range clothes of his colleagues. His was the flashy rigout of the professional gambler, and Jim’s eyesight was keen—keen enough to note the pearl stickpin in the flowered cravat. Moreover the knotted bandanna could never conceal those pale blue eyes or the physique of this rider. If this wasn’t the man sketched by Owen Tully, it was his twin. With a snarled oath, Jim raised his rifle again. But his time had run out. The fact that he had managed to put two of the attackers out of action was a small miracle; he couldn’t hope to emerge unscathed from this affray. Several men were cutting loose at him from fairly short range. Two bullets scored on him almost in the same moment, not lodging, but plunging him into oblivion and knocking him from his lofty vantage point. One creased his brow. The other grazed his torso at the left side, throwing him off-balance. He fell and slid, somersaulting off the roof and plunging to the surface of the steep slant to the east of the stalled train.
Maria was staring out the right side door and saw the big man fall. Only the unclean hand of the alert Benito, clamped firmly about her mouth, prevented her screaming. Benito watched aghast, as the unconscious Jim hurtled head over heels down the cliff-face. He leaned further out of the door to see the tall man end his fall on the broad shelf seventy feet below, sprawled flat on his back with blood from his head-wound obscuring his features.
All resistance was abruptly and effectively overcome, when Rocky Wesson remembered the advice offered by the gambler, Keefe. The fireman was dead, having made the fatal mistake of trying to shoot it out with the raiders. Dan Mayhew was kneeling beside his sidekick, about to wrest the pistol from his dead hand, when Wesson dismounted, grasped him by his shirt-collar and rammed the muzzle of his Colt against his head.
“That’s it, Mr. Engineer!” he snarled. “That is really it! You’re all through!”
“Sneakin,’ yellow-bellied ...!” began Mayhew.
“Shuddup!” barked Wesson.
“You people in the train ...!” Farnsworth was calling to the passengers. “We’ve taken a hostage—the engineer! His life is in your hands! Unless you surrender your weapons immediately—he dies!”
Leering triumphantly behind his bandanna mask, Wesson hustled Mayhew past the fuel-tender and into clear view of the passengers, and that was the end of all resistance. The fireman wasn’t the only casualty. An elderly ranchero, gamely trading shots with the attackers, had suffered a head-wound, death had been instantaneous. There had been a great deal of violent action in a short space of time, less than two minutes.
Toby Jethrow heaved a sigh, dropped his pistol and raised his hands, as two of the raiders dismounted and leveled their rifles at him.
“All right!” gasped the man with the bloodied shoulder. “Where’s the sharpshooter that cut loose from up on the roof?”
“I saw him fall over the other side,” offered one of the riflemen.
“Muerto,” sighed Benito.
“Jim’s dead?” blinked Toby. “You mean—they got him? Hell, I sure am sorry. I was gettin’ to like him a lot.”
The other rifleman tossed his weapon to his sidekick, unsheathed his Colt and climbed into the caboose. Ignoring Toby and the two undersized Mexicans, he moved across to the right side door and stared down the slope. The sprawled body at the base of the slant was clearly visible. He noted the bloodied condition of the face, also the red staining the front of the cotton shirt, and jumped to the obvious conclusion. And then he lost all interest in the fighter who had so violently opposed the attack force, because his eyes had fastened on the gleaming object lying on the narrow strip between the tracks and the edge of the drop. When Jim had fallen, his precious Winchester had clattered over the side of the roof and dropped to the edge of the slant.
Rick Leech’s eyes gleamed, as he gingerly lowered himself onto that narrow strip to take possession of the fallen rifle.
“Spoils of war, eh?” he called to the other thieves, as he climbed back into the caboose. “You ever see such a purty Winchester? Well, by thunder, I’m keepin’ it. It’s mine.”
Maria raised her head slightly and, with her sadness increasing, noted the weapon now being examined so eagerly by the outlaw. She had known the big Americano only a short time. There were quite a few years separating them and by no stretch of the imagination could she think herself in love with him, but she had learned to admire and respect him, to rely on him. Many a gringo would have taken advantage of her long before now. He hadn’t. She had exasperated him. She had actually blackmailed him into helping her. But, in his own unique way—sometimes rough, sometimes tender—he had shown the utmost consideration for her feelings.
“You ever see such a beauty?" Leech again demanded of his companions.
This Winchester was almost brand-new, having been purchased and presented to Jim Rand only a short time ago, upon his honorable discharge from the army. All ranks had contributed, because every soldier of the fighting 11th had respected the indomitable Sergeant Rand. The Winchester and an ivory-butted Colt .45 had been farewell gifts wished upon Jim by his old sidekicks. The camp blacksmith had made quite an artistic job of burning Jim’s initials onto the rifle’s stock.
Chuckling, Leech rammed a shell into the breech and swung the barrel to cover Toby, Benito and Maria.
“Don’t nobody make a wrong move,” he warned.
The dead and wounded raiders had been roped to their horses. Farnsworth was walking his mount back and forth, hefting a cocked .45 and keeping a wary eye on the windows of the passenger cars, while five of his men moved through those cars and relieved the travelers of their valuables. Bulging wallets, rolls of banknotes, coin filled purses and many articles of jewelry were dumped into a large grain sack.
Having passed through the passenger cars, one of the looters toted the sack to Farnsworth, who dismounted and eagerly inspected the contents.
“Good,” he nodded, “but not good enough. There’ll be more.”
“What? Dinero—or trinkets?” demanded the hardcase.
“More jewelry,” frowned Farnsworth. “All we have in the sack is the stuff their women were wearing. What of the rest of it—the necklaces, bracelets and pendants to be worn at the grand ball? It’s my hunch we’ll find ’em in the conductor’s safe.” He jerked a thumb impatiently. “See to it.”
Farnsworth’s minion toted the sack to the caboose, climbed in and, after nodding cheerfully to Leech and the other rifleman, rammed a gun into Toby’s belly and ordered him to unlock the safe. Having been the husband of Bellowing Beulah for more than a few years, Toby was hardly the stuff of which heroes are made. He fished out his key, unlocked the safe and surrendered the strongbox. Leech promptly blew the lock off with a well-aimed slug from Jim Rand’s Winchester. The gleaming wealth was quickly transferred from the box to the grain sack. Watching them covertly, Maria thought of the gunnysack on the floor just behind her feet. It contained not only her female clothing but all of her jewelry, every item of which she intended converting into cash to finance her trip to the west coast. If these desperadoes became suspicious of her, all would be lost!
But Leech and the others were unconcerned with one nervous railroad guard and a couple of stiff-scared peons. Having assured themselves that the caboose contained no hidden weapons, they made to climb out.
Wesson came to the side doorway. He had hog-tied Dan Mayhew with a lariat; the raiders had no further need of a hostage, because the passengers were well and truly demoralized and incapable of defending themselves. As well as cash and jewels, the grain sack contained many an expensive handgun, the finely engraved, nickel-plated pistolas so highly favored by wealthy Mexicanos.
“You got it all?” he demanded of Leech and company.
“Damn right,” grinned Leech, “including a real purty Winchester for me.”
“Bueno,” nodded Wesson. “Let’s go.”
“Come out of that caboose and get mounted,” called Farnsworth. “We’re moving on now!”
Benito and Maria joined Toby at the left side door, watching as the raiders made their fast exit. In Indian file and with Farnsworth leading, they rode past the engine, past the pile of rock and rubble and on toward the northwest. Toby noted, with his heart sinking, that the bulging grain sack was hitched to the boss-outlaw’s saddlehorn. To Benito, he gloomily predicted:
“Foundation Day ain’t gonna be so much fun for county folks this year—and the railroad bosses are gonna be mighty sore at me.”
“What could you do, amigo?” shrugged Benito. “You were outnumbered—just like my dear and close friend.” Already, a passenger had untied Mayhew’s bonds, and the engineer was ready to assist Toby at the hefty chore of restoring order. Toby only now remembered that one of the passengers was a qualified physician. Dr. Pasquale Amendaro of San Tomas. There was, of course, nothing Amendaro could do for the hapless Griff Bowes or the elderly hacendado butchered by the raiders. For the most part, the good doctor would be kept busy attending the shocked female passengers.
Benito muttered an oath. Impulsively, Maria had dropped from the right side doorway and was beginning a too-fast descent of the seventy-foot slant! He called to her, urgently:
“Tardio, little José! Not so fast! If you fall ...!” He shrugged resignedly, as he informed Toby, “Is best I go after her.”
“After who?” blinked Toby, in the act of exiting by the other doorway.
“After him!” Benito corrected himself hastily.
“No use climbin’ down there to check on Jim,” sighed Toby. “I got a hunch he’s a goner.”
“Even if José did not go down there,” said Benito, tapping his chest, “I would have, because I must always be sure of my Amigo Jim.”
Gingerly, he lowered himself to the narrow strip at the edge of the cliff. Maria’s serape had been torn away by an outjutting of brush, halfway down the slope. It dangled from the growth, beckoning the little Mex. As he carefully began his descent, he observed that she had almost reached the base of the steep slant. Stones dislodged by her sandaled feet were cascading downward, some of them bouncing off the broad chest of the sprawled ex-sergeant.
Benito detached the serape and continued his descent, scrabbling for a footing, cursing in his peasant Spanish whenever it appeared he was in danger of falling. Then, after what seemed an eternity, he reached level ground and trudged to where the big Americano lay sprawled, his bloodied head cradled in the arms of the weeping Maria.
“Do not grieve, Señorita Maria,” Benito attempted to comfort her, although a lump was fast rising in his own throat; he was inclined to be sentimental and had become very attached to the formidable Jim Rand. “He has lived a rich life, and ...”
“He still lives!” she shrieked.
“Silencio—por favor!” gasped Benito. “Do not scream like a muchacha. Try to remember you are supposed to be a young hombre.” He flopped beside her, stared anxiously at Jim’s bloodied countenance. “He lives you say? Is this for certain?”
“I felt his heartbeat!” she panted.
And, at that precise moment, Jim opened his eyes to discover that his face was being pressed to the heaving bosom of the still-weeping girl. Characteristically, his first words were born of his practical streak.
“For Pete’s sake,” he growled at Benito, “fetch her serape and cover her up!”
Benito hastened to obey, after darting an apprehensive glance upward. From here, very little of the activity at Powderhorn Bend could be seen. Maria gathered the serape about herself, adjusted her sombrero and studied the big man anxiously. He had rolled over and was hauling himself to a sitting posture. His head had ceased to bleed; so had the wound at his left side. But there was a great deal of congealed blood and he was covered in dust from head to toe; he didn’t look at his best right now. The bullet-burn on his neck showed livid above his bandanna.
“Is a foolish question, Amigo Jim,” frowned Benito, “but I ask it anyway. How ...”
“I know what you’re gonna ask,” muttered Jim. “How do I feel? Well, here’s a straight answer. I feel ...!” But now, remembering that Maria was a lady, he resisted the urge to indulge in profanity; he simply said, “I ache all over.”
“Your face ...!” fretted Maria.
“Let up on that wailing,” chided Jim, as he raised a hand to investigate his head-wound. “Try to forget you’re female.”
“Such a fall.” Benito shook his head incredulously. “I wonder you could still be alive, amigo.”
“I was on the roof of the caboose,” Jim recalled, squinting up toward the stalled northbound. “I got off a few shots, downed a couple of ’em—and then—saw a certain party. And that’s the last I remember.” He nodded knowingly. “Bullet must’ve knocked me clear off the roof, and I rolled all the way here. Well—by thunder ...”
He began struggling to his feet, with Benito mumbling a protest.
“Do not try to move, amigo. There may be bones broken. The conductor says there is a medico with the passengers ...”
“That’s one piece of luck,” grunted Jim. He was on his feet now. Having ascertained that his head-wound was naught but a gash high on his forehead, he gingerly examined the crease at his left side. Maria’s heart went out to him, as his face contorted. “Uh! Well—it feels like—the slug didn’t hit my ribs.”
“You are one fine caballero, Señor Jim,” murmured Maria. “I give thanks you live—while I mourn the others—”
“What others?” Jim demanded, and he unholstered his .45 and began checking it, assuring himself that its leather sheath had protected it from damage.
“One ranchero,” frowned Benito, “and the fireman. Is all very sad, my amigo.”
“Two dead, huh?” mused Jim. “Well, that’s rough but, the way those bandidos were slinging lead all over the place, it’s a wonder there weren’t more passengers killed. Anyway ...” Again he stared up toward the bend, “they aren’t getting away with it, that’s for sure. They’ll answer for what they did today.”
Benito talked on, as he took Maria’s arm and began following Jim up the slant. The big man climbed slowly and with care. His wounds plagued him but, unfortunately for Gil Farnsworth and his venal henchmen, he had suffered no broken bones. He was capable of pursuing the raiders, tracking them down one by one. He was sure of the identity of the dandified rider, the man rigged as a tinhorn gambler, the man whose bandanna-mask could not obscure a fancy cravat in which a pearl stickpin showed clear. Despite the bandanna, the resemblance to the man sketched by Owen Tully was undeniable.
“And now,” he told Benito, “you toss my gear out of that caboose, while I go find the doctor.”
Maria immediately voiced a protest. She could safely do so, as they were some distance behind the second passenger car and out of earshot of the still-agitated travelers. It was a scene of hustle and bustle, with an atmosphere of shock still hanging heavy over the stalled northbound. Beyond the bend, Dan Mayhew and a half-dozen burly male passengers were laboring at clearing the tracks. The doctor, an elderly, slender Mexican sporting a silvery moustache and beard, was moving among the passengers, courteously enquiring as to how many required his professional services. The bodies of the fireman and the aged ranchero, those two simple men who had died so heroically, had been wrapped in blankets and placed in the caboose. Jim realized the necessity, but was sorry on Maria’s account.
“It’s too bad you’ll have to finish your journey to Moredo with a couple of dead men sharing the caboose,” he told her, “but I guess you realize it can’t be helped.”
Again she vehemently protested, and he wondered if she were concerned for his welfare, or selfishly preoccupied with her own future.
“We made a bargain, Señor Jim. You promised to take me to Moredo, finish your business there—and then escort me to Redstone and see me on my way to San Francisco.”
“I’ll meet you and Benito in Moredo,” he gruffly assured her. “You’ll manage until I get there. Meantime—I got a little unfinished business with one of those bandidos.”
“To fight one,” she warned, “you might have to fight all, and there are so many! You are outnumbered!”
“Well ...” He grinned a harsh grin, “maybe I can persuade ’em to fight me one at a time.”
“But ...!” she began.
“I got no time to argue,” he growled. “Take care of her, cucaracha.”
“Si,” nodded Benito. “You may depend on me, Amigo Jim.”
“That’ll be a novelty,” quipped Jim, as he began trudging toward the train.
A short time later, squatting beside the baggage car, he submitted to the ministrations of the gentle Dr. Amendaro with as much patience as he could muster. Benito had tossed out his saddle, harness and pack roll. He had fed himself a stiff shot from his bourbon bottle and, by the time the medico finished bandaging his head and torso, was determined to be up and away.
“But you are not fit to ride, señor,” Amendaro protested.
To which Jim grimly retorted:
“Watch me.”