ROCK CREEK was little more than a watering tank on the main line. At one time a roaring construction camp, it had dwindled away to a way-station, little used, and a few section sheds. Beside it was the rocky gully which gave it a name. The desert flowed up for miles from every direction, studded with sage and cactus, with buttes and mesas. Beyond, in another world, sere and verdureless mountains, many colored, dreamed in the pitiless drench of the sun.
Reb had been there more than once. He knew exactly how the Wild Bunch would work. They would not board there and run the train down the line a mile or two. There was no need. Only the station agent—he was flagman and telegrapher also—need be taken care of, and the way was clear while the locomotive took on water.
So Reb did not have to nose out the details of the hold-up he proposed frustrating. It was only a matter of awaiting the time, playing his cards for safety and certainty. He debated the advisability of starting off on a cattle trail with some of the lesser lights of his calling, to allay the suspicions of the Bunch; but it was not necessary. The Sundance Kid unconsciously told him so when he joshed Reb as the time drew near. He did not dream Santee meant what he had said, nor did any of the others. They commiserated with him on his decision to take no part in the job.
“Be seein’ yuh, Reb,” the Kid waved a derisive hand, as he and the others rode away from the Park the day before their intended coup. Logan had become faintly contemptuous since their clash. He had got a glimpse of the inevitable deadlock between them, and was fortifying himself. It was the ruthless way of his kind.
Reb nodded negligently from where he sat on a pine log, trying to look irritated and indifferent. He had used all his persuasions on these men: there was nothing left but guile. Some of the boys remaining behind with him watched enviously the Kid’s departure. Reb held their minds by the discussion of a job of their own. It was three hours after the Bunch had gone before he dared saddle up his own pony.
“I’m goin’ to scout out a bunch around Meeker,” he said casually, as he swung up. “Be gone a day or so. Then we’ll get to work.”
They assented—four grizzled range men, thumbing cards in the shade of the pines—for they read Santee’s superiority and liked to be with him. They trusted him. “An’ here’s where I let even them boys down,” he thought gloomily as he rode away.
There was a shadow over him, like a weight on his shoulders, as he worked east for five miles and then turned abruptly north toward the Union Pacific, bisecting the desert. He had the greatest reluctance for the job before him. Some deep mood of hopelessness told him that he must somehow fail—that win or lose now, failure dogged his heels and would ride him under before the streak broke. He fought it, as always, valiantly; but bleakness touched his face all that day.
“I’m doin’ this fer Ronda—her an’ Billy,” he told himself. “Nobody else on earth would understand. But they will, if they ever learn.” It comforted him to say it.
It was like armor to know that he was keeping faith with them.
He camped that night at a water hole in the desert, severely alone. Not since leaving the Park had he seen a soul: only the bounding rabbits, the snakes and lizards, and once a slinking coyote. In the morning he went on warily, giving Rock Creek a wide berth to the east, and then, having crossed the railroad tracks, to the north. It was only in the afternoon, when he reached Rock Creek gully two miles to the northwest, that he turned down the defile and drew near the water tank and the brown buildings shining in the sun.
A mile from his objective he dismounted. After that he stole from one scorched curve of the gully to the next, reconnoitered ahead, then returned to lead up the roan. It was always near at hand. It must always be. And now he began to plan his campaign.
He had turned it over a good deal already. It would have been possible to board the express at the next stop east and be ready to meet the Bunch as they boiled aboard—or to warn the railroad people of trouble, as any unimaginative man would have done. Reb had given up the first with reluctance, liking its boldness, but knowing he would be recognized and his object misunderstood. The second he scorned as treachery, defeating his own object.
There was another alternative, however, and one he had decided on. If he could get to the Wild Bunch before it got to the train, he might hold them at the point of a gun until their chance was gone. At best that was most dangerous to himself, and only a delay. Balked, the Bunch might turn on him and rend him—they were almost sure to. And that was no gain. So he had decided to brace them at the moment they reached the train, ready for their grim work.
“It’ll mean an out-an’-out battle,” he mused calmly. “I’ll have to bluff the boys plumb in front of their game. An’ they’ll rare up.” But this was not enough to discourage him in his plan.
It had, on the other hand, the merit of surprise. It would disorganize their aims. It would make for deadly unexpectedness at every turn. And more than that, it would warn the railroad men, appraise them of their narrow escape, enable them to guard against a second attempt at the spot.
It was by far the most perilous course Reb could have adopted, and by no means the surest. But there was fairness in it, an even chance for all. Santee trusted to his nerve and ingenuity to carry him through.
The express from the east would pull in at 8: 10—about dusk. Until then Reb’s sole object would be to avoid the Kid’s men, find a way to reach the train undetected, and insure his own avenue of escape afterward. To many men the dragging time, the uncertainty, would have been nerve-racking. Reb was unmoved, his hand steady, his muscles slack. He knew the Wild Bunch would shoot him down if they caught him here. He would mean nothing to them save an obstacle. It was what he meant to be.
He found a tongue of sage running out from the creek gully toward the watering tank that would have to do for his advance. Then he settled impassively to wait, fighting his desire for a smoke. It was a watchful waiting, for he had not yet placed the outlaws he now knew to be somewhere near. At any moment they might stumble over him.
The sun burned low. The desert silence was profound. The last freight had rattled by on the main line hours ago. Reb watched the shadow creep up the gully wall opposite and then, as the sun touched the horizon, engulf the sage. The sky was red, was pink, was lustrous opal, was gray.
Miles across emptiness a faint locomotive whistle keened. It was half-an-hour away, but Reb stood up. The evening lowered rapidly. He filled the last chamber in his six-gun, twirled the cylinder, saw that the gun hung free and then crawled out of the gully into the sage.
Still he had seen no sign of the Kid’s men. Had they slipped up—changed their minds—gone elsewhere? Reb’s nostrils stirred; his teeth bared.
“No fear,” he thought. “Harve Logan’s a wolf at this game. They’ll get here like they’d sprung out of the ground, when the time comes.”
The express was nearer now. Its faint roar ran forward across the desert, a stealing whisper of sound that faded, returned, momentarily grew stronger. Reb crept through the sage, alert to pierce the gathering dusk.
Disturbance broke out at the little station a hundred yards away: a few thumps, an angry cry, a gun shot. Then silence. It dispelled any doubts Reb might have had. The Bunch was here, they were taking care of the agent.
The train ran near. It let out a fresh blast, slowing, and came on, its trucks clacking and clattering over the rail-joints as it passed the station and puffed up to the water tank. The voices of the engine crew were audible.
The shape of the cars was vague now, except for the lights in the windows; the firebox glowed. Reb stood up and walked forward.
Figures ahead of him were suddenly busy around the locomotive. Curt commands cracked: Engineer and fireman—the trainman who attended to the water—climbed down beside the breathing iron monster, followed by a lithe figure with a hard face and a gun in his hand. It was Lonny Logan.
“Line up, here,” he growled to the crew. They did so, grumbling, with Lonny facing them. For a moment, stealing close, Reb thought he would have no chance to approach the outlaw.
But the shadows along the engine tender were thick. He followed them, moving quietly but openly. Just as he stepped near, Logan turned. The light shone on Reb’s gun from the engine-cab; Lonny thought him one of the Bunch.
“Okay here,” he grunted. “Go ’head with the boys. But send somebody up here with my hoss.”
Reb said nothing, taking another step forward. The Kid’s brother must have had a sudden sense that something was wrong. He stared. Before he could open his mouth, Reb’s boot came up in a hard-driven kick.
The boot struck the gun in Lonny’s hand. The weapon spun sidewise to strike against a drive-wheel. At the same instant the engineer, a heavy man, but active, realizing what was going on, made a dive for the outlaw. They grappled fiercely.
Before Reb recovered his balance after the kick, Lonny began to curse feverishly. He was wiry; he twisted this way and that in the trainman’s grip. Reb’s gun flashed up. There must be no outcry here, as he had seen to it that there was no betraying gunfire. The barrel slashed down over Logan’s head—just as he lurched about.
Reb’s blow struck the engineer instead. He groaned and wilted.
Stifling an exclamation, Reb struck again. Lonny had jerked free; his body leaned as he thrust a leg out to run. The blow fell alongside his ear—tumbled him end over end. He was out.
Reb caught himself and whirled. The encounter had taken a bare ten seconds altogether. No one had had time for other than fleeting impulses. The remaining trainmen had acted on theirs and fled incontinently into the thickening night.
Reb snorted. He had hoped to have the engineer crawl in his cab and pull out at once. It was too late for that now. The man lay groaning on the ballast—and there was other work to be done. Reb strode down the side of the train to the meeting he had known all the while must come.
Cries sounded ahead of him. A shot rang out on the other side of the train. At the end of the second car, a coach, a man bounded off the platform. It was an outlaw: it was Bill Carver.
“Hey, you!” he called gruffly. He grabbed for Reb’s arm, to swing him around. Reb’s appearance had startled him. He thought he knew where all his friends were; yet even in the darkness Santee would not be mistaken for a trainman.
Reb thought fast. A glance in his face and Carver would give the alarm. Even as he turned, his fist came up—driving straight for Carver’s luminous eyes. It struck with a dull smack. Bill sagged, clutched for support. His fingers weakened, and he slipped down.
Reb thought: “That was dumb. I’m goin’ to need my right hand bad.” He flexed his fingers, moving on toward the express-car.
A blast ripped the night. They were blowing the express-car door open. Splinters showered. Men ran forward. Reb identified Flat Nose George, Bob Leigh, the Sundance Kid. It was the latter who clambered up in the shattered door. Reb had no time to spare.
“Kid!” he ripped out.
Its very suddenness arrested the outlaws.
“Who is that?” an imperious demand flashed back. It came from Leigh, not Harve Logan. He didn’t need to ask, he knew.
“Santee!”
The Kid’s crackling ejaculation was followed by the smash of a shot as he fired. George Curry, half in the broken door, slipped back and ducked. A gun banged from his position. Leigh had faded too, but not far.
“Come out of the car, Kid!” Reb jerked out. He had not fired as he dodged and weaved, closing in; but Logan and Leigh sent two more raking slugs in search of his voice.
“Be damned to yuh!” the Kid yelled. There was a fierce heat in his defiance.
More yells sounded from down the train. Windows banged up. But no one was likely to come running forward while lead flew. At the moment, Reb was intent on nothing but getting the Sundance Kid out of the express-car. He started for it with reckless abandon.
Curry and Leigh’s guns flashed near at hand. Reb silenced them momentarily by letting loose a blast in the air. He had no quarrel with these men that demanded blood. It was Logan whose mind must be changed, violently or otherwise.
He reached the car door and started to swing up. From somewhere within a thunderous detonation sounded; lead ripped the boards near Santee’s knee. Then a diversion occurred: the half-stunned express guard blazed away at the Kid from his position on the floor. Logan returned the fire. It was blind fighting—and blind chance that guided a ball which ripped into Reb’s thigh as he rose in the door. He wavered, caught himself.
The Kid was cursing in frenzied disgust, somewhere in the dark car. Reb had not fired at him once as yet. He wanted to lay hands on him—fling him out of the car by main force. And he got his chance as Logan started for the door, crying out to Leigh and Flat Nose George to come on.
He and Reb collided fiercely. For a moment they struggled, Reb fighting the waves of nausea that threatened him, sweeping up his trunk.
“Will yuh get out of this?” he bawled into the Kid’s face.
“No! Damn yuh, Reb—”
Reb laughed abruptly, harshly. “Then I’ll throw yuh out!” He jerked violently. Logan resisted with the ferocity of a cougar. They toppled on the splintered edge of the express-car door.
The interference had kindled a blind, hot rage of helplessness in Bob Leigh and Flat Nose George, crouched outside. It was never learned which of them fired point-blank at the two figures in the shadowy door, just as they lost their balance. Perhaps he thought to finish Reb. But it was the Sundance Kid whose back was turned. The slug smashed through his spine, came out through his stomach, and ranged upward into Santee’s vitals. Together they fell, not half-a-dozen feet, but into eternity. A dead man landed under Reb on the cinder ballast; a half-dead man rolled from him, struggled a little, and then slumped back. Reb had time for but one thought—he had foiled the train robbery, whatever the cost to himself. The outlaws were effectually scattered. There was more firing, but their bolt had been shot.
He lost account of time. His mind hovered in a dream world while men yelled and ran, and a lantern flashed. He heard hazily the deep voice of a trainman:
“I’ll be damned! It’s the Wild Bunch—an’ Reb Santee leadin’ ’em! I reckon there ain’t no doubt now that he’s been cuttin’ capers in Wyomin’ right along. It looks like he’d cut his last one, this time!”