The Trailsman #305

Dobkins was satisfied that things were going along fine now. The original plan had been a good one, and he hadn’t liked to abandon it, but the new one would serve.

Dobkins and Fowler were in the big coach as it rocked along the trail, swaying in the thoroughbraces. The leather curtains were open, letting in light and air. It was just as well that it had rained the night before, Dobkins thought. There wasn’t any dust, and the curtains wouldn’t have kept it out even if they’d been closed.

“I’m sure they were told of the shipment by that woman in the saloon. Stop worrying about it.”

“All the better. We’ll kill him and leave his body behind just as we’d planned to do all along. It would be perfect if he did show up.”

Fowler sat quietly for a while after that, only grunting occasionally when he bounced against the side of the coach as one of the wheels went into a shallow hole.

“I’ll take the guard,” Dobkins said, “but remember that we’re not doing away with them until they’ve helped us dispose of the robbers.”

Dobkins preferred to ignore that remark. He thought of himself as a civilized man who occasionally had to do things that were a bit outside the law, possibly a bit outside of any mode of civilized conduct. He did such things because he had to, however, not because he enjoyed doing them. He couldn’t expect a ruffian like Fowler to understand that.

Besides, getting killed while protecting the gold shipment would probably be the best thing that ever happened to the two men sitting up on top of the stage. After it was all over, Dobkins would tell a story that would make them seem like heroes, and their names would be prominently featured in newspapers all over the West. Even back east, most likely. It was a better fate than most men could ever hope for.

“We won’t shoot them in the back if we can avoid it,” Dobkins said. “That wouldn’t look good. They’re supposed to be killed by the bandits. If we have to shoot them in the back, we will, but otherwise we need to make it look good.”

Dobkins took out a heavy gold pocket watch and opened its cover. They’d been traveling for a little more than half an hour.

“Not long now,” he said, snapping the watch shut. “We’ll be at the next stage station if they don’t hurry up and do something.”

Fowler checked his Henry rifle. “I’m ready. I wish they’d do something and get it over with.”

Dobkins found himself thinking the same thing. His palms were sweaty with anticipation. Not nervousness, he told himself. He never got nervous. He was simply eager for the action to begin.

And then it did. Above the creaking and rattling of the coach came a cry from above, and the stage began to slow as the driver hauled back on the reins.

Dobkins stuck his head out the window and peered down the side of the coach. A wagon was parked sideways across the road ahead, but there was no driver. No one was in sight. No horse was hitched to the wagon.

“It’s a trap,” Dobkins called up to Avinger. “The best thing would be to start shooting as soon as anybody shows himself.”

Dobkins opened the door and stepped out of the coach, his shotgun at the ready. On the other side, Fowler got out with his Henry.

It was quiet, and Dobkins studied the rocks on either side of the trail. The wagon was conveniently located so that anyone who’d been in it would have a place to hide. The rocks also prevented the coach from pulling around the wagon and continuing on its way.

Dobkins hugged the side of the coach, waiting, watching, and wondering what would happen next.

“I think somebody wants me or you to move that wagon. Might be better if one of our passengers did it, though.”

“No,” he said. “Moving it’s up to you if you want to do it. I think we should wait.”

“Can’t wait all day,” the driver said. “I got a schedule to keep, and I gotta drive the stage.”

He climbed down, holding his shotgun, and started toward the wagon. He looked from side to side as he walked.

Dobkins was doing more listening than looking. If someone were hiding in the rocks, he’d have to come out sooner or later if his plan was to rob the stage.

When that happened, Dobkins would shoot whoever it was. That would bring the odds down, making them four against three, assuming that the usual four owlhoots were out there. Dobkins always liked to improve the odds.

Fargo found his saddle easily enough, and soon the Ovaro was saddled and the Trailsman was on his way. The mud flew from beneath the big stallion’s hooves, and Fargo hoped he’d be in time to stop whatever it was that Prue was dreading.

He could have used Samson’s help, but he hadn’t wanted to take any chances with him. Samson wouldn’t listen to reason, especially not as angry as he was at being whipped by the Trailsman.

However, Fargo had deliberately left Samson a bit of an opportunity, if the big man had enough sense to take advantage of it.

Even if he had enough sense to take advantage of it, he might not figure out what to do next. That was up to him. His thinking didn’t run in the same direction that a normal man’s might.

Fargo could understand why Samson wanted revenge on Ferriday, but he couldn’t figure why he’d use his daughters to get it. It would make a lot more sense to Fargo to make a trip to Saint Jo and beat the living hell out of Ferriday, and let it go at that. Samson didn’t think that way, though, not that Fargo could tell.

And then there was the business of not killing anybody. No doubt the sisters had something to do with that idea, but Samson didn’t hold with killing, either. It seemed to Fargo that a man bent on revenge wouldn’t care how he got it, but not Samson. He had to do things differently.

It was a mystery, and Fargo didn’t think he was the man to solve it. All he wanted to do was to get to the trail before something terrible happened to the sisters.

Why was Ferriday hauling it? He’d made a policy of avoiding shipments like that because of the danger involved. Carrying gold was asking for trouble.

Maybe Ferriday thought that, since his stage was getting robbed for small things, he might as well go ahead and take the risk of running a big shipment through, but that wasn’t likely. A businessman didn’t think that way, or at least no businessman that Fargo had ever known.

The Trailsman found he couldn’t think like either Ferriday or Samson, even though both of them were mixed up in this mess together.

Fargo got the feeling that there were things going on he didn’t know about, and that somehow Prue was right about his part in the robbery, even if he didn’t know what that part was. For that matter, Prue didn’t know herself.

Fargo had known Indians who had some kind of second sight, who could foretell events or sense things that were beyond the understanding of most folks, but he’d never known a white woman like that. Prue could do it, though. He’d seen enough evidence of it to believe.

Which got him to wondering why she’d gone along with her sisters so uncomplainingly. If she knew there was a disaster waiting for them, why not just refuse to go?

Samson wouldn’t have stood for it, Fargo supposed, but the sisters all together might have been able to persuade him that he was wrong.

There was no use to worry about any of it. Fargo shook his aching head to clear it and urged the Ovaro on.

Fargo hadn’t been gone long before Samson figured out that there was a little slack in the chains that bound him. He thought he could wiggle out of them if he could concentrate and be careful.

Concentration and care were two things that were pretty much foreign to him, but if he wanted to get loose, he’d have to be more disciplined than usual.

It was pretty stupid of that bastard Fargo to have left him a way out, Samson thought as he worked his body like a snake, trying to shed the chains like a rattler sheds its skin.

After only a few minutes the chains had slipped down over Samson’s hands, and he was able to push them the rest of the way off. He stood up, shook himself, and realized that his ribs were sore.

That damned Fargo had hurt him. It had been a long time since Samson had been hurt by anybody in a fight, not since prison, in fact. Fargo would have to pay for that, but he’d run off like a coward.

So Samson would have to go after him. When he caught up with him, he wouldn’t shoot him. He’d break his neck instead. That seemed like a fair exchange.

While he was saddling his horse, Samson realized that he was still thinking about killing Fargo. It was wrong to do that for revenge. He’d been willing to do it while Fargo was a danger to him, but now Fargo had gotten away. If he was planning to tell the soldiers or some U.S. Marshal about Samson, it was probably too late to do anything about it unless Samson could catch up to him and stop him. He might have to kill him to stop him. That would make it all right.

The Ovaro was a good-looking horse, and Fargo wasn’t nearly as heavy as Samson, so Samson thought there wasn’t much chance of catching up.