HERE WAS A touch of Oriental magic, for the girl in town had been white. Now she looked at him out of the same eyes, but with a Chinese face. Only it was a mobile countenance, lacking the traditional inscrutability of the Far East. He saw shyness and apprehension, along with a dawning recognition. Desperation flooded her eyes as she looked toward the hanged man. Montana nodded.
“I’ll try and get him down,” he promised. Never had fate taken a stranger turn. But the trestle was railroad property, and he was trouble-shooter for the railroad.
Misery etched the girl’s face, tears squeezing from her eyelids and coursing down her cheeks. They plowed furrows through heavy make-up, but even grief could not spoil her beauty.
“I’ll have to get up above and loosen the rope,” Montana added, then lost no time. It was necessary to climb the fill at the end of the bridge, then retrace his steps to where his horse still waited, bridle reins hanging.
The grade had been completed on either side of the creek, but with no ties laid. Across the trestle they were set so closely together that there was hardly room to reach between them. With the weight of the man dragging at the rope, it was impossible to get a grip and loosen the noose. He was probably already long dead; still, there might be a breath of life remaining, so time was vital. Jerking out a pocket knife, Montana slashed the rope.
It parted with a sharp pop, followed by a thud as its burden hit down below.
When he returned, the girl was standing, tears running down her face, but not bending to touch the victim. Montana dropped to his knees, forcing a thumb under the embedded rope. As it came loose he flung the noose off, then bent above the motionless chest. The appeal in her eyes was reason enough, but he was certain there would be no heartbeat.
A choked cry from the girl attracted his attention. There had been no sound of warning, but suddenly other figures were emerging from the gloom, as sinister as the dark glide of the water. The foremost man was tall, of a height to match Montana’s. Here again was an Oriental effect. He wore a long gown, elaborately embroidered, rich colors flowing as he moved. He seized the girl’s arm, pulling her back.
Other shorter figures came at his heels. The workmen whom Montana had encountered for the Border and Western were mostly Irish, like McNamara, but he’d heard that the Prairie and Pacific had imported coolies for their labor gangs. Only the leader was no coolie. Gowned as he was, he had the look of a Mandarin.
The girl was struggling in his grasp, silently but desperately. He shoved her roughly toward the pair behind, and Montana came upright, uttering a yell which would have brought a flush of pleasure to the cheeks of McNamara’s Hibernian ancestors.
There was method in that war hoop. There was a possibility that some of the B & W crew might be within hearing distance, in which case he hoped they’d come running. With the odds as they were, and the girl to consider, he had no desire to hog all the fun.
With night about to fall, the darkly flowing creek was conveniently at hand to receive any disposable object, such as a body.
Montana’s fist sank into a spongy midriff, bringing a choking cough, doubling the victim and flinging him to the edge of the water. But the others, surprisingly, were not fighting. Then he saw why. Another woman was in the background, and the girl had been passed to her. Now the entire group were falling back, losing themselves in the night. They had planned and executed a delaying action, and since the ruse had been successful, there was nothing to fight about.
He hesitated, baffled by methods foreign to anything he had ever experienced, uncertain of his next move. Odds of three or four were fair enough, but a dozen was a bit strong, particularly when he could not come to grips. A sound, between a gasp and a choke, came from the ground.
It might be a trick of the light, reflected off the water, but it looked as though the hanged man had moved. Montana looked more closely.
This, too, might be a trick of the gloom. But when he’d loosened the noose and flung it off, the shirt which the victim had worn had had a silken sheen, a gaudy, flowered creation somewhat after the style of the robe of the Mandarin.
Now the shirt was a pale blue denim, and soiled, as might be expected of a hard-working coolie.
Montana grasped it, and as his fingers closed on it, the dead man came to life. Double-back legs kicked in concert, the heavy boots like a battering ram. The unexpectedness of it worked, catching Montana in the stomach, flinging him back and down. Gasping, he lay awhile before he could draw agonized breath back into his lungs, and by then the man was gone.
The deception and exchange of bodies had been smoothly worked. Of course the darkness had aided, but Montana acknowledged ruefully that overall it had been a masterly performance. His own part in it he’d as soon forget.
Boots pounded on the trestle above, and men shouted questioningly. Nearly a dozen men had responded to his call, but they had arrived too late. All that remained in the way of tangible evidence was a piece of slashed rope with a noose at one end.
The prairie stretched, black and unrevealing. Montana did not mention the girl. He could find no ready answer to what had happened. This girl had had a yellow cast to her skin, though that might have been the make-up. The girl in town had been white. Only the eyes of both were the same, filled with terror and appeal.
One thing seemed certain. She was a prisoner, needing help—which he had failed to give. The implications were not pleasant to think about; there were too many possibilities.
Jeb Brown had suggested a mystery, a puzzle which left him bewildered. On these points Montana was in full agreement. The evidence of his eyes made it plain to all men that the railroad was a tangible thing, a reality, in the process of being built. The presence of a man like Mike McNamara was further solid proof. Mike was terribly in earnest about his job, and Montana knew him for a man of integrity, of unshakable honesty.
But he could think of a score of questions to which there were no good answers. Yet answers there had to be. Men did not carry on an enterprise of such magnitude, with men hanged from trestles along the way, without some solid reason.
His intention had been to return to Duarf, then go on to the Half Moon Slash and a reunion with Jeb Bowen. Instead, Montana compromised, heading for the construction camp at a midway point. There had to be answers, and he intended to find them. He compromised with his conscience by dispatching a man on horseback with a note for Bowen.
“I’m having a look at the workings of the railroad. Will be seeing you one of these days.”
Unless I get my own neck in a noose, from poking it where it’s not wanted, he amended in his thoughts. I’ve had what you might call a gentle warning—Thoughtfully he rubbed at the sore muscles pf his stomach. Next time they might play rough. But then—and his seldom-seen grin touched his mouth—so might I!
Big, high-wheeled wagons, laden with construction equipment, with food and a miscellany of supplies, were unloading at the camp. This too was lively and convincing, and the answer which Mike McNamara had given was reasonable, if not entirely convincing.
“We’re outrunning the engines and track-layers. They’re still a long way to the east, somewhere back in Dakota, I understand. This way, we’re what you’d call leap-frogging—setting up a camp, building a section of grade far in advance, as the P & P is doing on the way east—with each outfit trying to beat the other to a junction, and in the amount of track laid. It saves time.”
Such logic was beyond dispute.
A cook shack emitted savory odors as he passed. Next to it was a dining hall for the workmen, supposedly empty at that hour. Hearing voices, Montana looked inside. The sunlight which penetrated the windows was diffused by cigar smoke, and several men were at an end of the long table, engrossed in a game of poker. Such idleness at that hour of the day was explained by their appearance and attire. Either they were officials, or visitors to the country. They bore the stamp of the East, of prosperity. The chips on the table suggested that the stakes were high.
One man looked tall even when sitting; golden-haired and smiling, he tossed down his cards and reached to rake in the pot.
“Thanks for a pleasant hour,” he said, and stood up. “But this is too slow and, if you’ll pardon the observation, gentlemen, too easy. It’s like taking candy from children.”
An easy grin took the sting from his remark. Another man, wearing a high hat above glossy burnsides, glowered petulantly.
“Are we that bad at poker?” he demanded. “I’d heard that you were naturally lucky, O’Leary. But a thousand dollars in an hour shouldn’t be too tame.”
“I suppose my trouble is that I’ve played for high stakes too often, gentlemen,” O’Leary murmured apologetically. “One day’s deal once netted me half a million. Of course it’s not the winning that matters, but the thrill of the gamble.” He placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder.
“I’ve not reached there yet, Haskins, but they tell me that you’re closer to Duarf than the P & P, with an easier route left to build. According to that, the odds should favor you. But to make life interesting, I’d like to make a wager that the Prairie and Pacific will still be the first to reach Duarf.”
He had their attention, along with Montana’s. Haskins was vice-president of the Border and Western, so the others were probably officials or heavy investors in the company. Their presence there, within a score of miles of Duarf, might be in the nature of a celebration for something regarded as already as good as accomplished.
O’Leary, it became clear, had no connection with either line. He was there as a guest, principally because he had money in many things and because he was a gambler. Wherever excitement was to be found, Prentiss O’Leary had a way of turning up.
“You are a gambler, O’Leary, if you make such a bet,” Haskins admitted. “A few weeks ago, even, it would have appeared different. But today it would take a miracle to halt us.”
“I know,” O’Leary conceded. “That’s what makes it interesting. As you know, I like long shots. Of course, under the circumstances, I’d expect good odds.”
“And what would you call such, considering?”
O’Leary got a fresh cigar alight and puffed contentedly.
“Oh, say five to one.”
“That’s fair enough. What’s your proposition?”
“I’d want it to be interesting.” O’Leary stooped, coming up with a leather case. “I’ve a bit of cash with me, as it happens—twenty thousand dollars.” He took out a thick sheaf of bills and riffled them through his fingers, then came up with a big envelope.
“I’ll seal the money in this envelope, then turn it over to whoever is named to hold the stakes. You gentlemen can do the same with your amount, and the bets can be placed in the Cattleman’s Bank at Duarf, pending the outcome.”
He licked the flap and sealed the envelope. The others sat silent. Despite their casualness, matching his bet with a hundred thousand dollars was no small matter. Haskins’ laugh was like a bark.
“We’re not in your class as thrill seekers, O’Leary, but such easy money can’t be left to lie around. I’ll put up an equal amount, and I’m sure the rest will be raised.”
It was, within the next quarter of an hour. That money also sealed and turned over to a stake holder, with instructions to deposit both bets in the bank for safe-keeping. Montana watched with interest. He’d seen some big gambles, but this outmatched them.
O’Leary’s hawk-like quality was enhanced by the mane of yellow hair. Beneath it, his eyes, instead of being blue as might be expected, were so dark as to appear black. His manner was genial and easy, but there was about him an air of assured confidence, of knowing what he was about.
In station and wealth he belonged with these others. Otherwise he seemed out of place, willing to bet on the opposition. Montana felt a premonitory shiver, which went with the development of a hunch.
Such a bet doesn’t make sense—as they know. That’s the reason they were so ready to cover it. But I’ve a feeling that Mr. O’Leary knows exactly what he’s doing—and that it runs in his mind that he’s not gambling, but betting on a sure thing.