They called him Mohawk Brown. He was a rawboned man with high cheekbones and a squashed nose. His eyes were like almonds and he had black hair that hung to his shoulders.
There were many stories about him and how he came by his name but it wasn’t really important; the main thing that folk remembered about Mohawk Brown was that he was a ruthless killer.
He was a violent man and killed without thought. Mohawk Brown didn’t mind which method he used: gun, knife, fists, boots or a rock. He could strangle a man expertly with a shoelace. No one was sure where he came from except that it was one of the eastern states. Some said he had originally hailed from over the seas, from Ireland or one of the European countries. But, whatever his origins, Mohawk Brown was a man who would be long remembered on the frontier. He was wanted for murder in seven states.
And he had recently formed his own bunch of men: as ruthless a band of hardcases as any of the pirate crews of the old Caribbean.
Mohawk walked among his men as they sat their mounts on the slope that overlooked the old ghost town called Resurrection. Mohawk motioned one of the men into the trees then walked into some rocks and sprawled out, picking up the pair of field glasses that rested beside a man lying there with a rifle.
“Anythin’?” he asked, adjusting the focus.
“One rider. Looked like that freighter hombre from Julesburg,” the guard replied and pointed with the rifle barrel. “On the porch of the old saloon.”
Mohawk swung the glasses and found the old saloon by its sagging, weathered front, then eased down to pick out the man on the porch. He made a fine adjustment to the focus and studied the man; he was dressed in a frockcoat and striped trousers, wore a flat, black hat and sat nursing the big Frontier Colt that he normally carried in the oiled rig on his hip. He was about forty, thick-set, with a pendulous underlip and a splayed nose. Mohawk nodded slowly.
“Yeah ... that’s Tod Burman,” he murmured. “Always was eager where there was a buck to be made.”
“Two riders, Mohawk,” one of the mounted men called.
The outlaw chief hipped and using the glasses, saw the riders almost immediately, picking them out just as they joined company at the juncture of two ancient trails. He grunted.
“Sam Castle from Rollin’ C Ranch and that crooked lawman, Pres Hayden from ...”
His voice trailed off and the guard beside him furnished the name of the sheriff’s town: “Willow Bend. A Christer town.”
Mohawk nodded slowly; he knew all about Hayden’s righteous town, run by folk from the Bible Belt. The lawman attended church each Sunday and put on a pious outward appearance. It would shake those smug townsfolk to their heels if they knew their lawman was one of the Ghost Riders. The sheriff was in his late twenties but there was bitterness showing in his face far beyond his years. He was thin and short but mighty fast with a gun. As there was little profit to be made with his talents in such a peaceful place as Willow Bend, he had searched for other outlets that would net him some cash.
The Ghost Riders suited him right down to the ground, for it allowed him to continue his righteous appearance while he filled his pockets—to overflowing.
His companion, Sam Castle, was in his fifties, a man who looked as though he had been carved out of the rugged country; his face was as eroded as some of the draws he had to ride through on his way to the ghost town from his ranch in Rawhide Valley. His grim, leathery lips were partially hidden by the drooping moustache, and his chill, blue eyes were never still, roaming restlessly all the time he rode. It was one way Sam Castle had managed to survive, from the days when he had fought off Indians in his valley to the present time, when outlaws and lawmen alike could be stalking him.
For Castle was a rich man in his own right and it had puzzled Mohawk Brown considerably why he had ever joined up with the Ghost Riders. He guessed no man ever had enough money and could always find use for more.
“They’re all on time, Mohawk,” the guard said.
“All except the last one,” Mohawk answered, sweeping the glasses around the ghost town to watch the others meeting outside the tumbledown saloon.
They didn’t shake hands; they nodded to each other and then lined up on the porch. Mohawk smiled faintly as he saw their faces turn towards the ridge where he and his men were hiding. They would be a mite jumpy when they didn’t see his crew, but that was all right with Mohawk: he was dealing and he aimed to play the cards his way.
“Here he comes,” the guard said.
Mohawk looked towards the western trail that entered the ghost town at the far end of the main street. He could see the rider’s dust rising from behind the old shack. He kept the glasses focused on the corner of the shack and waited.
A minute later, the rider came into view and Mohawk examined him closely for a long spell before nodding and handing the glasses back to the guard as he stood up.
“Yeah, that’s Grant Tibbs, all right. Let’s get on down there and put on a show of strength for ’em.”
He mounted and walked his horse to the head of his men. There were nine apart from Mohawk. He adjusted his battered hat and made a sweeping, forward gesture. They rode down from the ridge and by the time they had reached Main, the others were standing on the saloon porch, waiting. Mohawk lined his men up in a half-circle.
All his riders had rifles or shotguns balanced on their knees as they faced the others. Mohawk folded his hands on his saddlehorn and nodded to the gathered men on the porch.
“Howdy, gents. See you all got here safe and sound.”
“You were supposed to be here when we arrived,” snapped Tod Burman.
“We was,” Mohawk told him and jerked his head towards the ridge.
Burman flushed a little.
“You’re supposed to be guardin’ this here town, to see that no one comes in between meetin’ times. You ain’t supposed to be galivantin’ all over the country.”
Mohawk’s eyes slitted even more than usual.
“Who says I was?”
“I had reports of your wild bunch cuttin’ up rough down in Conifer, Mohawk,” Pres Hayden said, his voice surprisingly deep for such a thin man.
The outlaw leader shrugged. “We ain’t monks. We ain’t gonna sit here and twiddle our thumbs till you fellers decide there’s another job you want to pull and so call a meetin’. We got our own business to tend to.”
“Wasn’t the arrangement, Mohawk,” Sam Castle said mildly.
Mohawk shrugged. “Who the hell cares? I make my own.” He raked his steely eyes around the group. “Anyone object?”
“You’ll know when we do,” Tibbs said.
The outlaw set his gaze on the Wells Fargo agent.
“That so? How?”
“We’ll kill you,” Tibbs answered calmly; his indifference seeming to lend more weight to his words.
One or two of the outlaws moved uneasily in their saddles. Mohawk Brown kept his face blank, though his eyes were glittering fiercely.
“Any time you want to try,” he invited.
“Hold up, hold up,” said Burman suddenly. “We didn’t come here to argue. The town’s okay, so I guess that’s all that matters. But you make sure you keep it that way, Mohawk.”
“I stick to my deals. I left two men on permanent guard when we hit Conifer,” he said, reluctant to explain even this much, but the freighter was right: they didn’t meet to argue. If the Ghost Riders had called a session, then something was in the wind.
Something that could profit them all.
“All right, let’s call it settled,” Tibbs said impatiently. “We better get started on this meeting, because when you hear what I got to say, you’re gonna be stood on your ears.”
They went into the saloon and Mohawk positioned his men outside at various vantage points around the town, then followed the others into the old barroom. Part of the shingles in the roof was missing and sunlight filtered through in a slanting shaft.
Mohawk sat on the edge of the bar and rapped his heels against the front panel until the others frowned at him. He stopped moving his legs and shrugged. All attention was fixed on Grant Tibbs.
The Wells Fargo man hunkered on his heels and raked his gaze around the group.
“We agreed when we formed the Ghost Riders that we’d only meet for jobs that we figured were worthwhile, right?”
“We don’t have to go through all that,” Pres Hayden said impatiently.
Tibbs nodded slowly. “Guess not. All I wanted to say was that what I got to tell you is the most worthwhile thing we’re ever gonna come across.” He paused and looked around at their expectant faces with a faint smile. “Our biggest haul to date has been the bank at Julesburg, nicely set up for us by Tod Burman there.”
The freighter smiled smugly; it had been a smooth job and went off with a minimum of trouble and killing.
“It was a good haul,” Burman couldn’t help saying. “Got us five thousand apiece.”
“Chicken feed,” Tibbs said abruptly and Burman’s smile faded. “I got news of a train that’s gonna be carryin’ over a hundred thousand in gold pieces.”
He let it sink in and felt his chest swell when he saw how the news rocked them. They all looked incredulous.
“A hundred grand?”
“Hogwash. Someone’s foolin’.”
“If it is gospel, they’ll have the whole goddamn army guardin’ it.”
“They’d never ship that much on a single train.”
Tibbs grinned. “Go ahead, gents. Get it off your chests. But I can back it up ... it’s gospel and I got me a lot more details yet.”
They fell silent and gave the Wells Fargo man their full attention.
“Ready for it? Okay ... this is what I know. The Denver mint’s just turned out the first hundred thousand in gold pieces; twenty dollars right through to ones. But that money ain’t goin’ into general circulation. Washington’s got some sort of deal goin’ with one of them foreign countries, France, I think, but it makes no never mind. The only thing we’re interested in is that Wells Fargo’s got the contract to ship that gold by express car to Washington by the end of the month. Come hell or high water.”
“Which is exactly what I’m sayin’,” spoke up Hayden. “Hell or high water—which means they’ll have all the help they need to see it gets through. It’s too big a job for us, I say.”
“Now, hold up, there, Sheriff,” Mohawk Brown said, making the lawman’s title sound like a dirty word. “You ain’t just five or six hombres, remember. You got my boys, too, and we’re experienced in holdin’ up trains. In case you forgot.”
Hayden colored at the outlaw’s tone and his mouth, pulled into a tight line.
“I ain’t forgot one single thing about you, Mohawk.”
“Good idea, Sheriff,” the outlaw chuckled, but there was a chill edge to his laughter.
“Look, let’s hear Tibbs out,” Sam Castle said. “I didn’t ride all this way just to hear you hombres snipe at each other. Go ahead, Tibbs—give us the rest.”
The Wells Fargo man nodded and made himself more comfortable.
“Okay ... like I say, it’s got to get to Washington by the end of the month and, as I savvy things now, Wells Fargo’ve been workin’ on it for a couple of weeks already. And we got the best up against us: Jim Hume and Clay Nash.” His mouth pulled into a bitter line. “Nash killed a couple of fellers I was sendin’ to stay up here to join Mohawk’s bunch and the Ghost Riders. Good men, but Nash got ’em both.”
“We all know Nash,” growled Tod Burman.
“Well, you can bet he’ll be ridin’ shotgun on that gold shipment,” Sam Castle said. “They’ll have to give it their best. What other details you got, Tibbs?”
“Near as I can find out, there’s gonna be at least a troop of cavalry “
“Cavalry?” interrupted Burman.
Tibbs nodded.
“Gonna be a special car for their hosses. I hear there might be a Gatling gun on board someplace, too, and no passenger cars at all. There’ll be guards inside the express car, of course, but I dunno how many. They’re covering the car in steel plate in Denver right now.”
Hayden threw up his hands.
“See? Told you there’d be no chance of gettin’ anywheres near that gold. We might as well forget the whole damn thing right now.”
“Hell, don’t be in such a hurry to throw away your share of the hundred grand,” Mohawk Brown said and jumped from the bar. “Trains are my specialty. Told you that.”
“Not trains like this one’s gonna be,” Hayden said. “You heard Tibbs—they’re platin’ the express car with steel. No bullet will go through that and you can’t blast your way in.”
Mohawk pursed his lip and wagged a forefinger in the general direction of the crooked lawman.
“You’re runnin’ off at the mouth again, Sheriff. You gotta look into these things before you say go ahead or forget it. And I don’t aim to forget a chance at a hundred thousand just on your say so.”
Hayden didn’t like Mohawk talking to him like that and his hand hovered above his gun butt. The outlaw leader grinned.
“Aw, don’t be stupid, Sheriff.”
He gestured briefly to one of the empty windows at the side of the saloon. A man stood there with a shotgun cradled in his arms. Mohawk, still grinning crookedly, indicated another window and the batwings. Outlaws, armed with rifles, stood at each.
“We’re guardin’ you fellers, but my men are also guardin’ me. Just a precaution,” Mohawk said, and there was something in his eyes that had Hayden backing down fast. It seemed to him that the outlaw chief was just aching to kill him ...
“Now, like I said,” Mohawk continued, with considerably more confidence than earlier, “let’s go into this deal a lot more before we throw it out. You fellers agree?”
He raked his eyes around the group one by one and they nodded slowly. He let his gaze rest on the crooked sheriff and Pres Hayden finally nodded, almost imperceptibly. Mohawk grinned without mirth.
“Now, that’s better. We got together to make a profit, didn’t we? Well, Tibbs here has come up with a tough one, but I reckon we’ll find a way around it. There’s always a way—if you know how to look for it. I reckon I’ll be able to get into that express car. Once I work that out, we got no problems other than how to stop the train and keep the cavalry from disturbin’ us while we’re packin’ away the loot.”
Sam Castle sniggered. “Mohawk, you are sure one mighty big optimist. That’s all we gotta do, huh?”
Mohawk made an expansive gesture. “That’s all. Like I said, there’s always some way. It’s the biggest job we’ve ever tackled but I got a feelin’ we can do it.”
“Even if we can,” Tod Burman said slowly, “how are we gonna get rid of the coins? They’ll be brand new—and recognized too easy.”
“Melt them down,” Grant Tibbs said. “We can get the gold value for them. Fact, we can get us a premium with a feller I happen to know in Mexico. Seems there’s a man down there who ain’t anxious for this Washington deal to go through. He’s willing to pay big to stop it. I hear he’ll buy that gold from anyone who can get their hands on it—and pay a bonus.”
“Then we just have to find a way to stop that train and bust into the express car,” said Sam Castle. “With a ready market waitin’, I don’t see that we can pass up the chance without givin’ it a deal of thought first.” He turned to the Wells Fargo agent. “How long we got, Tibbs?”
“Well, if it has to be in Washington by the end of the month, it’ll have to leave Denver three days before at the earliest—depending on the route they choose.”
“Be the shortest, wouldn’t it?” Hayden asked, sounding a little sullen.
“Not necessarily,” Tibbs said pompously. “Wells Fargo pick the safest, not the fastest route in cases like this. They won’t have any transfers or changes of trains once it gets underway, but they’ll use all the most populated tracks—which could add a couple of days to the travelin’ time. For all I know, they might even have soldiers linin’ the tracks clear across the country from Colorado to Washington D.C.”
The others started to look dubious again.
“They won’t ...” All eyes turned back to Mohawk Brown as he spoke up confidently. “I’ve tangled enough times with Wells Fargo—and Hume and Nash in particular—to know they will make things as ordinary as they can. They’ll rig things like it was a freight train with the usual express car. They won’t draw any more attention to it than necessary.”
“If they don’t, then they’ll be mighty damn sure no one can get at that gold,” Hayden said tightly.
Mohawk grinned at him.
“You don’t seem to savvy, Sheriff.” The outlaw waved a hand around the group. “This here’s the Ghost Riders. We’re about to tangle with Wells Fargo for the first time. We got to show we can do it.” Then his smile disappeared. “An’ we got to show ourselves we can do it, too. We pull this one off, and there’ll be no stoppin’ us. Folk’ll run inside and close their doors every time someone mentions the name.”
He walked across and, with stiffened forefinger, poked gently and repeatedly at Hayden’s chest.
“This is the deal that’s gonna give us the toughest reputation ever, Sheriff, and we just got to grab it. Our whole damn future could depend on it. Not to mention that it could make us all rich. Now, you shut down, and quit throwin’ cold water over every idea that comes up or I’m gonna have to tip a signal to my man with the shotgun and make sure you shut up permanent. You savvy that—Sheriff?”
Hayden swallowed and said nothing. The others were silent, but Sam Castle frowned deeply.
He didn’t like the way Mohawk Brown was tending to take over things.
The next thing he might try to take over could well be the gold itself.