THE SUN STILL shone out of a cloudless sky, but it seemed to contain a chill as Montana followed the others outside. Dust rolled toward them, and out of it emerged running horses and a stagecoach. As it neared, he read the name on the side, seeing that it was from Dakota.
Because of the size of the construction camp, it was a major if temporary stop along the line. The tired horses were unhooked, a fresh team run out from a barn and into place. Montana watched without particular interest. He’d get something to eat, then head on out himself.
His attention was caught as a woman leaned from the window of the coach. She met his glance and withdrew her head, while a wave of color mounted from throat to forehead. Montana took a quick step. This girl was white, but he had looked into that same pair of eyes, tear-stained, under the trestle the evening before.
He hurried forward, his pulse speeding. But the driver whipped up his horses, and the stage whirled away in a fresh cloud of dust.
“Now that—” O’Leary spoke at Montana’s shoulder—“is damned disappointing. I wanted to take that stage myself!”
Was he imagining things? Montana wondered. O’Leary’s gesturing, behind him, must have been intended to signal the driver to wait. It couldn’t have been for the opposite reason.
He was seething with impatience to get his horse and head toward Duarf in the wake of the stage. At least the girl was going there, and that was mildly reassuring. Nor did she appear to be a prisoner or to have suffered harm from the night before.
But he was hungry, and it might be better if he did not appear too obviously to pursue.
Nostril ticklers, such as had already assailed his nose, wafted from the cook shack. Flies clustered on its screen door, momentarily disturbed as the door swung outward to the kick of a boot. Chocolate-colored water, liberally interlarded with potato peelings, splashed from a pan. A blob of muddied dust licked at Montana’s boot.
“By all the saints, if it ain’t Montana Abbott! Bill, I could give you a kiss, you’re that sweet a sight for sore eyes!”
Montana’s mood lightened in response to so warm a greeting. The big, red-knuckled hands clutching the pan matched the color in the woman’s cheeks, and if her hair was hastily combed and almost blowzy, the fire flashing within it was undimmed. The welcome in the eyes of violet blue was unmistakable.
“Katie O’Day!” he exclaimed. “Now the day is better for the sight of you! Where did you come from?”
“That’s the question I might be asking of you, Bill. I’ve been cooking here a spell, after Mike McNamara persuaded me that the men of this camp needed good food, and were likely to quit and ruin everything for his railroad if they didn’t get it. For his sake I took the job, also because I needed the money, but for my own I think I’ll quit! I would find more satisfaction in cooking for one man than three score.”
“You should find no trouble either way, Kate. As I recall, you have no peer with a skillet, and it’s a handsome woman you are.”
Somewhat surprisingly, she colored, reaching instinctively to tuck back a loose strand of hair. Her eyes on his face were hungry.
“It’s the soft tongue lined with soap you have, Bill. And you’ve become so big a man they call you after the territory, which in no way surprises me! Don’t tell me you’re working for the railroad?”
“I’m drawing pay from them and heading for Duarf. I’m supposed to be a trouble-shooter, though so far I’ve found nothing on which to draw a target.”
“In that town you no doubt will. It is a broth of a camp. Hunky!” Her voice lifted sharply. “Fill that kettle with spuds and shove it over the fire! Then mix a batch of biscuits, and let’s see can we eat them without being poisoned?”
“Yes’m, Kate, hunky-dory!” A rolypoly little man grinned delightedly. “Hunky maka biscuits like nobody bisiness!”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Kate sighed resignedly. “You stickin’ around long, Bill?”
“I wish I could.” Kate’s homesick look tugged at his heartstrings. “But I’ve got to keep on the move.”
“Maybe I’ll kick over the traces and head there myself! We could see the town together!”
“We sure could,” he agreed. But his mind, as he rode on, was on other things—particularly another woman. He was annoyed, which he knew was unreasonable, when O’Leary caught up with him.
The hills were taking on size when they came upon trouble. O’Leary blinked and shook his head.
“Am I seeing things?” he wondered. “Sure it’s a railroad grade—and that’s a steam locomotive if ever I saw one. But how did it ever get so far beyond the line of track?”
“I understand it’s some sort of a bet,” Montana explained. “The B and W is determined to be first into Duarf with its rolling stock. So this engine has been moving overland, even if not exactly under its own power. That crew has been sweating it ahead for weeks. The prairie wasn’t too much of a problem, but here they seem to be having trouble.”
“Well, that’s one way of doing things,” O’Leary conceded. “But we may be arriving on the scene just in time to see the end of that fine scheme—and with success almost in sight!” He spurred his startled horse to a wild run. “That would be too bad.”
In its proper element, straddling steel rails and pulling a string of cars, the engine would appear small. Here, riding high – too high – it loomed huge and formidable. Four heavy wagons had been fastened together to form a single vehicle, roped and braced, two abreast. On these the locomotive had been loaded, again braced and lashed in place. Two teams, of ten horses each, were attached to the lead wagons, pulling slightly at divergent angles to insure better balance.
Despite numerous problems, they had progressed surprisingly well. But here, following the wagon and stage road toward Duarf, the trail was almost too narrow for the two wagons abreast. Nor had the builders of the road been concerned with more than a passable route, never envisioning such a use as it was now being put to. To the right, the hill rose steeply. At the opposite side it sloped away to a drop-off.
The teams, straining on the hardest pull of the long trek, had reached this critical point and been unable to go any farther. A few more feet would have the engine over the hump, but it was stalled, the horses scrambling, trying desperately to hold. Under the weight of the locomotive, the outer wheels were sliding, dirt beginning to break loose.
Catastrophe was only moments away.
If the wagons went off, pitching and sliding, the wreckage would engulf engine and teams and drivers alike.
Their ponies neck and neck, Montana and O’Leary swept up, even though that seemed reckless to the point of folly. If the wagons backed and rolled, they might be caught and be helpless to aid. The push of their shoulders from behind would be too scant to tip the scales, and as luck would have it, there were no stones which might be used to block the wheels.
Coiled lariats were tied to both their saddles, and Montana was jerking his loose, though with no firm notion of how he might put it to use. Up ahead, with both saddle ponies pulling to aid the straining teams, they might provide the vital difference, but there was no time to get that far and hook up.
O’Leary had a plan. He was completely cool, heedless of personal risk. He tossed his own lariat at Montana.
“Try and reach that pine and take a turn of the ropes about it,” he instructed. “Then throw me the other ends. I’ll fasten them on the wagon.”
Forcing his unwilling horse ahead, O’Leary stood in the stirrups. Then, nimble as a cat, he was upright, standing on the seat of the saddle, balancing a moment as the pony came alongside and there was no more room for it to run. Montana felt a surge of admiration as he swung around the knob of the hill to reach the pine tree which crowned it like a sentinel.
O’Leary had to jump, clearing a tricky gap, to land on the wagon, where the shock of his additional weight might be enough to send them tumbling. But he relished the big gamble, even though his life was on the board. He leaped, landing like a cat, thrusting a hand against the engine to steady himself. Up above, Montana shook out the ropes.
The teams were straining desperately, yet losing ground. The men who were supposed to set the brakes had jumped when disaster appeared imminent.
The ropes snaked toward O’Leary, and as he snatched and took a turn around a heavy brace, Montana slid from the saddle and waited. It would spoil everything to take a half-hitch about the tree before O’Leary had secured his end of the ropes, since there was no slack. Once the ropes were fastened at that end, there would be no time to spare.
O’Leary snubbed the ropes to a half-hitch, holding fast rather than taking the time to tie a knot. He gestured with one hand, on his face the pleased intentness of a small boy. Montana whipped his ends around the tree, the drag of the ropes pulling, threatening to tear them from his hands before he could get a snub and control. Twisting, he clung, boots braced against the base of the tree.
It was still nip and tuck. The tree, roots sparsely anchored in gravelly soil, might tear loose under the strain. The ropes might not be enough to counter the dragging slide of wagons and engine.
It was up to the drivers, and they at least had stuck to their posts. With pleas and imprecations they urged the teams to a final effort. Aided by the new leverage, they obtained fresh footholds. The wheels turned. It took only moments to pass the danger spot. Montana released his hold, and O’Leary jumped off at the side.
“We turned the trick.” He grinned, and Montana forgave him the brag. Not only had he risked his life, but he’d shown himself to be a good sport. Getting the locomotive to town was a part of the deal against which he had laid a heavy bet. But that knowledge had not stopped him.