HAM EGGERS HAD been a prey to mixed emotions when finding himself a fellow-passenger along with Montana for what he had planned as an abortive trip across the pass. Nervousness raked his vitals like a clawing cat, aggravated by his knowledge of what was scheduled to happen.
Then he had gotten a grip on himself, careful to keep his face as muffled as possible but reassured by the likelihood that Abbott did not know nor could not recognize him. While on the whole it would be better for this interfering troublemaker to find a last resting place along with the others at the bottom of the next cliff.
The imminent demise of those who rode with him left Mr. Eggers untroubled. It was merely their bad luck that they had chosen to ride the stage on this particular day.
He had experienced no difficulty in loosening the nut on a wheel, seizing the opportunity while the others strolled about, working the stiffness out of their joints. That anyone might notice the loosened nut had seemed highly unlikely.
With the wheel slated to work loose and drop off, he would have preferred to end his ride, but since that would excite comment and perhaps spoil the plan, it was necessary to take his place inside the coach again. Sitting next to the door, opposite the descent, it would be easy to jerk open the door and jump with time to spare.
Even more important, he wanted to be right on the spot, to descend to the wreckage along with Lefty Hoag and retrieve the rewards of this adventure—the gold which had been loaded aboard the stage. With so rich a haul, it was prudent to be on hand to make sure.
It was not so much that he mistrusted Lefty Hoag as that he trusted no one.
Having the outlaw ready and waiting was another prudent part of the plan, in case the wheel did not work properly. A bullet, spilling the driver from his seat, would leave the team to panic and insure their destruction.
That Montana clearly suspected him of having meddled with the wheel had been apparent when Abbott had crowded him away from his seat adjacent to the door. Trapped where he could not save himself, it had been necessary to change his plan, to save his own life by signaling Hoag not to shoot.
He was sorely disappointed. He needed that gold, and had counted it as good as in his clutches. Relief at being allowed to leave the stage, unchallenged, was only a partial mitigation.
His need for money remained, somewhat greater than before. The glance he bestowed upon Montana as they left the stage at the capital matched that of a wolverine. Like an elephant, a wolverine never forgets. Unlike the elephant, it pursues an active policy of harassment against all enemies, until able to wreck final and complete destruction upon them.
His need for money made it necessary to hasten the larger, long-range scheme on which he had been working. If, at the same time, he could find some way to work Abbott into it, that would be the crowning touch.
Immediately and as usual, he needed tools with which to work. Ham Eggers preferred to think of himself as the brain, operating other hands. Also, should anything go wrong, those who served would be the dupes, to receive both blame and punishment.
Night had blotted away all save the outlines of the tobacco hills for more than an hour before Eggers’ watchfulness was rewarded. Lefty Hoag rode into town as unobtrusively as an added star in the galaxy above, but Eggers had been watching the road. He stepped out, making himself known.
The outlaw was in an ugly mood. Rendered sober by lack of anything with which to alleviate that condition, it had irked him to be signaled at the last possible moment not to pull the trigger. Eager for a share of the riches, his avidity had doubled upon glimpsing Abbott among the passengers on the hill top. To be able to even an old score with no additional effort was even better than whiskey.
“What’d you stop me for?” he demanded of Eggers. “I could have pulled it off all right, even if the wheel stayed on and the driver was suspicious—”
“Sure, only I’d have gone off the road and been smashed to hell along with the rest of them,” Eggers pointed out, and failed to see the speculative regret which gleamed in Hoag’s eyes. Too late he was realizing what an improved opportunity he had missed. Instead of five hundred out of ten thousand odd dollars, he might have had it all.
Choking back the words which would reveal the imprudence of the thought, he resorted to a snarl.
“All right, so you didn’t have sense enough to get lost when they fixed the wheel. But I need money. I’m flat broke, not to mention havin’ a thirst like a camel’s.”
“That’s all right.” Eggers had come prepared. He produced an unopened flask and gave it into Hoag’s eager clutch. “Only go easy with it till later,” he warned. “I’ve got another job for you. Tonight, with any luck. After it’s taken care of, you can drink a barrel, if you like.”
Hoag eyed the flask between eagerness and disgust.
“A barrel? Hell, that’s just a starter.”
“You’ll have money to buy plenty more. Same price as you’d have had from the other job. Five hundred.”
Eggers winced as he made the offer. It had been easy to promise a share of the loot from the stage, since that would not come from his own pocket. But to part with real money was exceedingly painful. In this case, when he was all but broke, it was doubly so. But to settle with Abbott would be worth it.
“There’s another bonus in this for you,” he added craftily. “You hate this hombre as much as I do. Your job is to kill Abbott, now that he’s in town. And the sooner the better.”
Hoag was already tipping the bottle, allowing the fiery liquid to gurgle down his gullet as though it had been cold spring water. He choked, recovered, and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand.
“Abbott, eh? Now that’s somethin’ like. Ain’t nothin’ I’ll take more pleasure in doing.”
“Once he’s dead, you get the money,” Eggers promised, and slipped away in the darkness.
Knowing Hoag, he counted the job as good as done. Nor did he see any reason for cautioning the outlaw as to the dangers inherent in such a killing. If an outraged citizenry caught up with Hoag immediately after, so that mob vengeance again decorated a tree or pole, that would save him paying the promised fee.
That Lefty Hoag should have come straight on to town, on the heels of the stagecoach, had not surprised Eggers. Wildly reckless, he would count himself safe, unbelieving that anyone might link him with the abortive attempt against the gold shipment, or his proclaimed intention on a prior occasion to murder the Governor.
No one was likely to be looking for him along the gulch. In any case, the line of camps was crowded on account of the legislative session, overflowing with visitors.
It had been impressed upon Abbott that the long arm of coincidence was being stretched too far. It might be mere chance that his own life had been threatened a second time by Hoag, or that Lefty might have followed with perhaps a third try in mind. Montana preferred to resolve such doubts, and the best defense, in a private skirmish as in war, lay in attack.
He let himself in to the saloon, closing the door quickly, slipping to the side. With a wall at his back, he looked the place over. His first swift glance disclosed no sign of the man he sought, still he was reasonably sure that he had not been mistaken.
This was a more ornate establishment than he had expected, especially for a back street. It was a product of some of the easy money which the camp had so prodigally produced. A long bar ran two-thirds of the length of the room. Some gaming tables occupied the otherwise open end, all at the moment vacant. A few customers still loitered, as though reluctant to put a period to the day, indifferent to the yawning of the bartender. Rows of bottles and ranks of glasses glittered in the reflection of coal-oil lamps.
An added touch was a small forest of pine and spruce trees, set in wooden tubs, after the manner of potted palms. These, Montana was quick to note, formed a screen, behind which it was impossible to see with certainty.
To prowl or investigate that barrier could be inviting trouble. There was a side-door, so it was possible that Hoag had gone on out.
Crossing to the bar, Montana ordered a drink, then turned at a hail. The Honorable Samuel Partridge, whom he had met earlier in the evening, came up.
“I didn’t get a good chance to tell you how much I liked what you said to the group of us,” he observed smilingly. “But it made sense, and we had it coming.” He drew out chairs from one of the tables. “If you have a little time, I’d like to talk.”
Partridge proved to be pleasant company. That the other patrons, as well as the bartender, were interested and frankly listening did not bother him. What they were discussing would be common knowledge by the following morning.
Following his companion’s example, Montana removed his hat. It was new since losing the other in the swirling waters of the creek, dark gray in shade. Partridge’s was white, of a matching size and shape.
Finishing their drinks, Partridge scraped back his chair. Absently he picked up a hat, settling it upon his head.
“I’ll do all I can to second what you’ve proposed,” he promised. “See you tomorrow.” Glimpsing himself in the big wall mirror as he neared the door, he stared, then, grinning, returned to trade hats.
Montana, settling his own upon his head, was abstracted, deep in thought. He failed to detect stealthy movement behind the screen of evergreens. Hoag, like an animal warned by a sixth sense, had dodged behind them at his entrance, then crouched, scarcely breathing.
Only as they prepared to leave did the gunman stir. Moving fast, bent low, he reached the end of the bar, conveniently at hand. For a few moments his attention focused on his quest, then, finding what he sought, he closed his fingers about the bung-starter, kept out of sight but conveniently on a shelf by the bartender. Rising up, Hoag was in time to see the door closing behind Montana.
Unnoticed, Hoag let himself out at the side door. Reaching a vantage-point, he scanned the surroundings, eyes as sharp as those of an owl, winging silently overhead at the same moment. Then he sucked in a breath of excited satisfaction.
A white hat was dimly visible not far ahead, as its wearer approached the foot-bridge across the creek. Below it, the bank was high, a quick down-slope of a dozen feet to the water. At this point the stream, much used in these latter years for the washing of gold, but on this night running free and untrammeled, widened and deepened.
However rank his breath with alcohol, Lefty Hoag was able to move fast and smoothly. He came up behind the wearer of the white hat, lifted the bung-starter, then brought it smashing down, to the total ruin of one more hat.
Without a sound, the victim swayed, toppled, and splashed as he hit the pool and sank from sight.