EIGHT

Beneath a sultry sky Thad Folger guided the rented wagon out of Westfield once again as Lieutenant Calhoun and Killeen flanked him. Folger had already given up on any idea of trickery. He knew when he had had it, and so he sullenly drove the wagon toward the old Crazy Eights Mine road. Whether the threat of hanging had been only bluff, he did not know, but they could certainly have him locked into the Westfield jail for theft. He was too old to spend weeks, months, years behind bars.

He cursed his fate. But he was not blaming Lieutenant Calhoun or Killeen for his fall, nor himself, but characteristically, the railroad for having fired him in the first place.

An hour on, Folger found the cut-off leading to the old mine and started the team up the steep incline. He himself had worked building this road once, he reflected. Hard work it had been, but it paid well. Before the mine boss had caught him smuggling some high-grade ore off the mountain.

That was the way his luck had always run. The thing with Thad Folger was that he did not understand that any of it could have ever been his own fault. Well, it was all over now one way or the other. He certainly would never be able to work up the nerve to try looting the railroad freights again – he would be watched closely. If he could avoid prosecution for past mistakes. That was the way Folger thought about his crimes – simply mistakes he had made.

‘There’s someone on our trail,’ Killeen said to Mark Calhoun as they climbed the rutted road higher into the hills. Calhoun spun in the saddle and peered downward.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ Nate Killeen said. ‘In this country, in this weather, horses can’t help but raise dust in passing.’

‘Is it that gang of border raiders we passed?’ Calhoun asked, growing nervous.

‘It could be a few of them – but I make it out as only two, maybe three horses.’

‘What do you think we should do, Killeen.’

‘Continue with the mission. But cautiously. It could be nothing.’

Even Killeen did not believe that. This country was not entirely uninhabited, but it was odd that at this exact time they would find themselves being trailed by a couple of men. Killeen was not a great believer in coincidences.

‘Let’s do what we came to do,’ he told Calhoun. ‘I’ll drop off at the head of the trail and keep an eye out for trackers.’

‘I can’t.…’ Calhoun replied weakly. His confidence seemed to be deflating again.

‘If this wart,’ Killeen said, nodding toward Folger, ‘and an old drunk could lower the rifles, you two should be able to pull them up again.’

‘Yes,’ Calhoun said, stuttering. Then amazingly, he grinned and added, ‘One of these days, I’ll learn to start listening to you.’

Reaching the ridge crest where they could see the old tumbledown mine structures, Killeen held them up as he took the Winchester ’73 from the back of Thad Folger’s wagon.

‘Is this loaded?’ he asked, then worked the lever to find that indeed it was not. ‘What were you going to do with it, wave it at people to frighten them off?’

Folger was in no mood for any sort of conversation. He watched in unhappy silence as Killeen loaded the new rifle with .44-40 rounds from the loops on his gun belt – one of the Winchester’s most appealing attributes. Killeen thought that he could have held off a couple of men with his Colt, but having the long gun was definitely desirable.

‘I’m going to find a position in those boulders,’ Killeen said, indicating the stacked yellow rocks alongside the trail. ‘You go about your business. Even if you hear shooting, keep at it. We need to get this done.’

‘Where’s the hiding place?’ Calhoun asked Folger as Killeen, leaving his stoic dun to graze on a patch of yellowed buffalo grass, began climbing the boulders.

‘Right over there,’ Folger said, growing more morose by the hour. ‘I’ll show you.’

‘You’d better,’ Mark Calhoun said quietly, but finely. ‘You’ve got a lot riding on this, you know.’

‘I know,’ Folger grumbled with a touch of irritation. Familiarly, he guided the team across the dead mining camp to the long disused shaft where he and Tombstone Jack had hidden the shipment of army rifles.

‘Right here,’ Folger said, halting the team.

‘Where? I don’t see anything,’ Calhoun answered.

‘That hole up there,’ Folger said with weariness. ‘We put those rocks over the lines we lowered the crates with.’

‘Very clever,’ Calhoun said.

‘It seemed so at the time,’ Folger replied.

‘Well, climb down and let’s get to work,’ Mark Calhoun said. His eyes flickered toward the rocks where Killeen had disappeared, wondering if they were about to be stormed by a gang of border raiders.

They bent to their task, kicking away the covering rocks or clawing at them until they found the concealed ropes. The sun grew hotter on their backs; the air seemed drier in their lungs. Folger obviously was not used to this kind of work. Mark Calhoun, twenty years younger, struggled. To the west, at the head of the trail, a single searching shot was fired. Killeen had found his targets.

‘Get a move on,’ Calhoun urged Folger who seemed about to faint from the exertion and the heat. They now had the ropes uncovered – there were six of them in all, two lines for each of the shipping crates. Calhoun collected the first pair and handed one of the lines to Folger who stood perspiring, ashen. From across the old mining camp they heard two more rapidly fired shots.

They bent to their task, drawing on the lines. Mark Calhoun wondered how deep the shaft was as he labored at pulling the heavy weight of the crate up. Folger stood beside him, panting. Suddenly Mark felt the palms of his hand burning, losing skin as the crate fell away, slipping with blistering speed through his hands. Folger had let go of his line. The man looked suddenly unwell. From the boulders Mark heard three more reports from Killeen’s rifle and two answering shots from below.

‘Damnit!’ Calhoun snarled, ‘we have to get this done – for everyone’s sake!’

‘I just don’t know if I can,’ Folger protested, looking at his own hands. ‘I’m not a young man anymore.’

Calhoun started to issue a sharp retort, thought better of it and tried to put himself in a more experienced officer’s boots. What to do? Of course!

‘I’m going to back the wagon in. Then we’ll tie all six lines on to the axle. Got it?’ As another shot was fired from the rocky knoll, Folger only nodded dismally. Calhoun mounted the wagon box and backed the well-trained horses to within range of the ropes, set the brake and leaped down to help the fumbling Thad Folger knot the lines around the rear axle of the rented wagon. What if the horses could not draw the weight out of the depths of the mine shaft? Worse, what if the strain caused the axle to break? There was nothing to do but try it and hope for the best. Hadn’t Folger ever given any thought as to how he was going to recover the hidden weapons?

The plan worked. It was simply done. The team without strain pulled up the three crates from the depths of the shaft. One crate was split open, but not destroyed. The other two looked as good as they did on the day they were assembled, though a little scuffed and dirty.

From the head of the trail more shots could be heard.

‘Let’s get these loaded up quickly,’ Lieutenant Calhoun said.

‘How are we supposed to get out of here?’ Folger asked.

‘Is there another trail down?’

‘Not suitable for a wagon and team,’ Folger said, not fearfully, but with weariness. Thad Folger had had enough of his own schemes, it seemed.

‘We’ll have to talk to Killeen and find out what the situation is,’ Calhoun said.

Even as Calhoun spoke, Killeen, seeing that they had retrieved the crates, was clambering down from among the boulders. At Calhoun’s approach he stood in the center of the road, holding the reins to his horse.

‘I’m pretty sure that I plugged one of them,’ Killeen said. ‘The second rider gave it up. He’s either hiding down there or he’s scattered for home.’

‘You think we can risk the trail?’ Mark asked.

‘I don’t think there’s any other choice,’ Killeen told him. ‘We’re in a trap if we stay here and other riders come along.’

‘You’re right, of course,’ Calhoun agreed. ‘How do we handle it?’

‘I’ll take the lead,’ Killeen said. ‘Let Folger drive the wagon – he knows there’s nowhere to run now. You bring up the rear.’

‘All right, general,’ Lieutenant Calhoun replied. Killeen couldn’t detect any mockery in his voice. If it was intended, it made no difference. They had to get down out of the hills, and fast. Killeen had no idea where Mingo and his men were, but if the raiders knew that the rifles had been recovered, they would be on their way in a matter of minutes.

Waco lay concealed in a clump of tightly-woven chaparral – sumac, sage and manzanita – alongside the wagon road. His shoulder had at first throbbed with fiery pain, now it only throbbed and itched – itched terribly. He knew he had been lucky. The marksman in the rocks had only nicked him. The mysterious Tom Bull had taken one full in the chest.

Tom had always been a trustworthy ally in a fight. They called him ‘Mysterious Tom’ because he had never given even his closest companions the story of his life. It was said that he had been a Union soldier during the War, had seen the depredations of William Tecumseh Sherman on his march to the sea, the looting and sacking, become sickened by it and tried to transfer his allegiance to the Rebel cause. Captured as a spy, he had been sent to Andersonville prison where after months of suffering he had escaped with a handful of other prisoners and made his way West, leaving the war temporarily behind.

But it had caught up with Tom Bull again, and he had joined up with Quan trill’s Kansas raiders until he saw the savagery of those men, which was reminiscent of Sherman’s army. He decided that he had no loyalties left, and so Tom Bull had aligned himself with the renegade border raiders under Trevor Steele.

Tom Bull was plain and simple – a fighting man looking for a just war and unable to find one.

Now the mysterious man was dead, never having given up his secrets. The sniper above them in the rocks had directed a rifle bullet into Tom’s heart. Waco did not feel anger, but the icy fingers of fear were beginning to scratch at his spine as he lay in the hot dust alongside the road, hearing the wagon approach.

Waco had not ever thought of himself as a coward, but wasn’t there always a time when a man has to admit he has had enough? Big old Tom Bull, his eyes wide-open had just flopped back to lie staring at the empty sky. Waco had decided at that moment that he did not want to go out that way, not for a few rifles, not for Mingo or for Trevor Steele. He buried his face against his forearms and waited while the horses above him clopped past along the trail.

‘Where are they then?’ Mingo asked finally after the last hand had been played. He had accepted one of Trevor Steele’s thin cigars and now was lighting it. ‘The game was fine, the whiskey is good, but this is not what I came here for, hombre.’

‘I sent Waco and Tom Bull out to bring them in,’ Steele lied easily.

‘And if the local law should become curious about my presence?’ Mingo asked.

‘No one knows who you are. Besides the marshal is a fat fool.’

‘People have been killed by fat fools,’ Mingo said significantly. ‘I don’t mean to be. Show me the rifles; tell me your price; let me ride away.’

‘You don’t trust me, old friend!’ Steele said with a wide smile.

‘Once a man has left the gang, you can no longer afford trust,’ Mingo said, his dark eyebrows drawing together. ‘I think you have gone soft,’ he added. ‘The way you dress – the way you live. You have made me promises. You must be expected to keep them, Steele.’

‘Of course,’ Trevor Steele answered. ‘It is all taken care of. I promise you.’ Steele smiled again, but if a man can sweat internally, that was exactly what Steele was doing at that moment. He could read the threat in Mingo’s eyes, and he had no idea how Tom Bull and Waco had made out on their assignment. ‘Just be patient for a little longer – would you like to have a meal or take a turn at the roulette wheel?’

Mingo did not answer, nor did his scowling expression change. He summoned Herb Blake to the table with only a gesture of his eyes. He whispered something into Blake’s ear and the badly scarred little man nodded.

Steele, like Thad Folger, was beginning to wish he had not gotten himself mixed up in this business.

‘We need to take the train,’ Nate Killeen said as they neared the outskirts of Westfield.

‘What?’

‘We need to transfer the rifles to the train. We won’t have much chance if we try taking the wagon across country and Mingo figures out where we’ve gone. We’ll go around to the back of the depot, then I’ll find out when the next freight is coming through.’

‘All right,’ Lieutenant Calhoun said wearily. He was again ready to surrender his mantle of command to Killeen. Folger, who knew the way well, followed the river road to the depot and pulled up in the shade of the storage shed. Killeen swung down from his dun horse.

‘I’ll talk to Garrett, or if he’s not here, to Toby, the ticket agent. They’ll be able to tell us when the next westbound train is due. Watch Folger and the rifles and yell out if you see trouble coming.’ Killeen added, as if in all seriousness; ‘And, Lieutenant, no women for now.’

Mark Calhoun wasn’t sure how to take the remark. He only nodded and swung down himself in the heated shade as Killeen made his way to the front of the depot, crossing the platform. He almost walked into Tombstone Jack.

‘Hello, Jack,’ Killeen said with surprise. ‘I had the idea you’d be out of action for awhile.’

‘Wish I was,’ Jack said unhappily, ‘but Garrett told me I’m still hired on; I thought I’d better work my regular shift.’

‘Is Garrett here now?’

‘He’s inside?’ Jack asked with narrowing eyes. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing much. I just to need to arrange for a small shipment to Fort Thomas.’

‘You don’t mean you got them back!’ Jack asked in astonishment. Killeen only winked an eye in response. As Killeen went on his way toward the station master’s office Tombstone sought out one of his familiar hidey-holes, reaching for the flask on his hip.

‘Not until three o’clock!’ Quentin Garrett was saying. Killeen nodded.

‘That’ll have to do then. Passage for two men and their horses and three crates of army material.’

‘It’s not,’ Garrett said uneasily, wiping his forehead with his white handkerchief, ‘anything that is going to cause an uproar, I hope – this shipment?’

‘Mr Garrett,’ Killeen answered, ‘I certainly hope not.’

‘Well?’ Mingo demanded. The scrawny, scarred Herb Blake stood before the leader of the border raiders in his small hotel room, trail dusty and perspiring.

‘They brought the rifles back to town,’ Blake answered.

‘Who?’ Mingo was in a foul mood. ‘Steele’s men – Waco and Tom Bull?’

‘No. Three men I’ve never seen before. They took them directly to the railroad depot.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I followed them all the way, Mingo.’

‘Then we’ve got to take them at the depot. We can’t ride down a freight train and stop it on the desert once it gets up to speed.’

‘No,’ Blake agreed. ‘What do you want me to do, Mingo?’

‘Gather the boys, tell them to stop whatever they’re doing – drinking, gambling, womanizing – and be ready for some work. Three men, did you say, Blake?’

‘That was all – three men. Unless they were meeting others at the railroad station.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ Mingo said. The bandit leader was at the window now, thumbs hooked into his gunbelt as he stared out at the streets of Westfield. ‘I wish we had the whole gang with us, but we’re enough of a force. We’ve got to get there before the train pulls out, though. You’d better scoot and round the boys up.’

‘What about Steele? He might have a few men he can loan us,’ Herb Blake suggested.

‘Steele is out of this now,’ Mingo said, turning to face Blake with a ferocious expression. ‘He had his chance to come through and he let me down. Now we do it on our own; I’ll talk to Steele later. On my own. Get out of here now, Blake – do as I told you. I want those rifles,’ Mingo said threateningly. ‘That’s what I came here for. I will have them.’