the Man from Skibbereen (1973) Page 17

"Against vigilantes? They will hang you, Robb, if you're in town."

  "I've heard such talk before! It's only balderdash!"

  "Is it now? The murmur of their planning is all about, and you'll find they know where all of you are, and they've the places chosen and the ropes knotted. You'd be wise to ride now, ride far and fast."

  "Don't be a fool." Robb's laugh was jeering. "No shanty Irishman's going to frighten me off with stories. And if I do go," he smiled, "I'll have your scalp at my belt."

  "In front of the lady?" Cris said. "You'd kill a man in front of a lady?"

  "A lady? Her?" He brayed again.

  The man was going to kill him. Cris knew that was Robb's intent. He was showing off a bit like the bully he was, and then he was going to try.

  "I am no gunfighter," Cris said, "my way is with the fists."

  "Not this time, Irish. I'm going to kill you when I--"

  Crispin Mayo had no hope of beating him, but he needed the extra split second and he drew first. His big hand was only inches from the gun and it swung back, closed on the butt, his finger touched the trigger and the gun swung up.

  Del Robb had been confident and contemptuous. He knew Cris Mayo had used a gun but little, being fresh from a country where they did not carry guns, and he had expected him to back off, to beg, to fumble for the weapon at least. He did none of these, nor was he clumsy. The split second of reaction time was enough. Robb's move was late, hurried. Mentally he was caught off balance, and the distance was less than ten feet.

  Robb's gun was coming up when the bullet hit him. He felt the sharp, hard nudge in the midsection and his fist closed convulsively on the gun. The bullet plowed a groove in the floor and Del Robb lifted on his toes, then dropped back on his heels, his gun still coming up, his eyes hot with fury.

  Crispin Mayo was a fighting man, and his way was to step in, to follow up with his punches, and so he stepped in now. Two quick steps even as his bullet struck and then he thumbed the hammer twice more, rapid--fire, at a range of four feet.

  Robb's eyes opened very wide and he backed up to the door jamb and leaned there. "You lucky son--of--a--!"

  Cris slapped the gun from his hand with a blow. It fell to the floor, and Robb still stood, leaning against the door jamb, his knees slowly weakening. Then he toppled onto his face.

  Cris stepped back, turning to Hazel Kerry. "I am sorry," he said.

  "Save it for somebody who needs it," she said. "I never liked him. I was afraid of him. He threatened me."

  "Forget this," Cris waved a hand around him. "Pack what you can and catch that train. You've got about an hour, but please... don't miss it!"

  He thumbed cartridges into the gun, then holstered it. "Where are the others? Do you know?"

  "That's the trouble, I don't know! Only that they are here, in town."

  "Get on the train. Don't wait until the last minute, just go down there now."

  He went outside into the full glare of the sun. Reppato Pratt and Halloran were coming toward him from the stable.

  "What happened?" Rep asked, stopping him.

  "The rest of them are here. We've got to find them."

  "Don't worry," Halloran said, "the McCleans are coming through town with a troop of cavalry. They'll be put on the train that way, and a squad will stay with them all the way to the end of track and then accompany their stage to California. General Sherman's orders."

  "Who was in there? I mean, besides Hazel?" Rep asked.

  "Del Robb. He's dead."

  They stared at him, scarcely believing, yet knowing that he would not joke at such a time. Del Robb!

  He walked across to the saloon. Down the street at Brennan's Belle of the West several men were standing. Their horses were at the rail, dusty and hard--ridden. Cris went inside and Brennan took his cigar from his teeth. "I have your money for you, Mayo, if you're strong enough to carry it now." He counted it out on the bar in gold pieces, then replaced it in the bag. "Take it, lad. You're going on with McClean?"

  "To California, I think. I want to start a horse ranch."

  "So you said. Well, you've got a mare waiting for you at the station. It's Parry Blessing's mare. He sent it to you, as a gift."

  Cris shook his head. "That can't be true. He'll never give that horse up while he lives."

  "That's just it. He's dead... killed by one of the Parley crowd, but with his last breath he said he wanted you to have the mare, so somebody brought it in."

  "That's a fine mare." Crispin Mayo considered the situation. "You say somebody brought her in. Who?"

  "We don't know who they are. Some strangers who got to Blessing before he died. Interrupted Parley's killer before he could steal her. They left the mare at the hitching rail down by the station."

  Cris rested his big hands on the edge of the bar. He considered the subject. Then he said, "Brennan, I want to buy you a drink. And one for each of these gentlemen. I will have a beer."

  "I never touch the stuff," Brennan said, "but I'll take a cigar. Luck to you."

  "Blessing knew I had eyes for that horse," Cris said, a little sadly. "I'll be glad to have her. But I'm sorry for him. We could have been friends."

  Far away they heard the train whistle. Cris tasted the beer. "Gome with me, Rep. I'll need help, and nobody knows mustang horses better than you."

  "Cris, I think I just might do that. 'Cause you're dead right about that."

  "Troopers coming," Brennan said. "That means McClean and his daughter."

  Crispin Mayo drank his beer, drank again, and put down the glass. He held out a hand. "You'll be coming on west, Brennan. Once the railroad's built through, there'll be naught to keep you here."

  "I might at that." Brennan shook, and nipped the end from his cigar. "Cris, keep your gun handy."

  They went outside onto the boardwalk. Cris Mayo went to the stable, retrieved his rifle, and with his two friends walked along down the street toward the tracks. He remembered his carpetbag at the hotel. Let it stay, there was nothing in it but shabby clothes. The train whistled again. "I'll be able to load the mare with McClean's horses," he said aloud. "There'll be room enough."

  They passed men, talking quietly in small groups; they glanced at Rep, then at Cris, and one made some comment. Several of them turned to look.

  A row of buildings faced toward the station. Cris walked past them and crossed the street. The station seemed to be empty. Several idlers loafed about, awaiting the train. Some carpetbags stood where the owners had put them down. A lone man, in a gray suit of English cut, was lighting a pipe, his back toward them.

  Rep nodded to indicate the end of the hitching rail. "There's your mare, and a purty sight. Shall we get 'er?"

  "Wait." Cris was unsure why he wished to wait, but something warned him that if Parley meant to move it must be now or never.

  Two troopers came down the street leading the Colonel's gelding and Barda's mare. Then he saw a rank of riders, a lieutenant beside Colonel McClean, Barda on the other side, ahead of a troop of cavalry.

  The two troopers who had brought the horses tied! them, then turned to face the oncoming troop. Both men were armed and ready, watching for any overt! move.

  Halloran, who was off duty, stepped to one side. He was also armed. Rep whispered to Cris, "I don't like this here. Parley'll have sumthin' up his sleeve."

  The train whistled again, and they saw it appear far down the track. McClean, the lieutenant and Barda rode to the hitching rail and dismounted. One of the waiting troopers took their horses, which were Army mounts; the gelding and mare were not saddled, but ready to be loaded for their long trip.

  Cris walked toward them. "Sir?"

  McClean stopped. "How are you today, Mayo? What can I do for you?"

  "I have a mare, sir. A very good one that I've inherited. I am going on to California, too, and I wondered if there'd be room enough in the car with your horses? I could pay, sir."

  "Of course, and certainly there's no need for you to pay. Sergeant, see to it,
will you?" McClean glanced around. "Where is the mare?"

  Cris pointed and the sergeant turned toward her. "Wait, Sergeant," Cris spoke quietly, "you'd better let me go. It may be a trap. I believe Parley's men know that I wanted that mare."

  The sergeant flipped open the flap on his holster. "Right, sir. I'd like a chance at them."

  "It is my mare. You can cover me, if you like." He glanced around. The colonel and Barda were walking slowly toward the train, the lieutenant with them.

  Cris turned suddenly, and Rep stepped back quickly to keep from being bumped. "Sergeant! They've got to be aboard this train. The renegades, I mean! It's the only place they can be!"

  The sergeant shot a quick, sharp look. "I doubt it, but you could be right." He strolled over to the other troopers, who were dismounting. He spoke, and two of them wheeled their horses and trotted toward the train.

  Cris untied the mare and turned toward the ramp; that had been lowered from the stockcar. A trooper was already leading the McClean horses toward it. Cris followed. Walking with the mare between himself and the train, he took the moment to draw his gun and push it into his waistband a little closer to his hand.

  He watched the horses go up the ramp. He noticed that the engineer had not gotten down from the engine. A brakeman stood by the car where the colonel would ride. He had stepped aside for them to board.

  The two troopers had ridden the length of the train, peering in at the windows. They shook their heads.

  "Nothing," the sergeant said. "You've overrated them, Mayo."

  Cris let his eyes run along the train. Two passenger, cars, the stockcar for the horses, two freight cars, the mail car. Where? Where?

  He walked down and watched Rep tying the mare in her stall. The car was not a regular stockcar but was fitted with stalls for several horses, and usually used to carry animals belonging to railroad engineers or Army officers. The stalls had been knocked together quite hurriedly.

  He looked toward the engine. Nobody in sight. He felt hollow inside and his lips were dry. He could feel deadly danger all about him. His nape crawled with it.

  He put his hand in the front of his coat and took hold of his gun, then walked slowly along the cars. The freight car nearest the engine was not sealed. He walked on past it, then stepped over to the sergeant.

  "They're in there, I'd stake me life on it! And there's somebody on the tender or hidden in the cab who has a gun on the engineer. Look at him, man! Not even down here to stretch his legs!"

  "Not much of a place to hide in that cab," the sergeant was doubtful. "I'll speak to the lieutenant."

  He strolled away without haste toward the rear of the train, and Cris watched the freight--car door. They must have some place from which to watch: a crack in the door? At the door's edge?

  Suddenly, the whistle blew. The train stirred, started to move. Cris glanced down along the train. McClean and Barda had disappeared into their car.

  The sergeant was talking excitedly now to the lieutenant, and the train started to move. Cris knew instantly that the order had been given to pull out, and fast. He turned sharply and grabbed a ladder on the end of the car nearest him, pulling himself up.

  Rep, who had descended from the stockcar, jumped for another one and made it.

  The lieutenant suddenly started forward, but the train was already moving and he had twenty steps to get to the last car. By the time he reached it the train would be rolling too fast, for it was pulling out at a rapid clip. He might order the troop to pursue it, but would probably balk at assuming that much authority on the mere suspicions of an Irish gandy dancer--he'd more likely shrug it off as an idiosyncrasy of the engineer, pulling out fast to make up time. But a squad was supposed to accompany the McCleans! Surely he'd order them, at least, to chase after the train?

  Cris climbed to the end of the car next to the suspected one, and sat down near the brake wheel. How could the enemy get out while the train was moving? Or were there horses waiting somewhere ahead, where they planned to stop? Some place where they could ride at once into the Medicine Bow Mountains?

  There were doors on either side, but getting out would not be easy while the train moved, unless there was a steep grade like that on which they had originally planned to attack the train, near the little red station where he'd first found himself involved in this devil's dance.

  He knew nothing about the grade ahead of them, but Parley would have had it scouted.

  There was something else. In the far end of the car there was a small door, large enough for a man to crawl through. Emerging there, they could come down the walk atop the cars to where McClean and Barda were.

  He stood up. Walking atop cars was no problem for one so accustomed to the unsteadiness of a ship's deck. He rolled along the catwalk toward the rear of the train and passed over the second freight car. He glanced back once... no pursuit so far.

  To pull the pin and disconnect the cars would be no advantage, as the freight car in which he believed the outlaws to be was connected to the engine, which would simply back up and make the connection again.

  He went down the ladder and entered the car where McClean was. Rep was standing near the colonel. Barda was seated beside him, her face strained, her eyes very large. Only two soldiers had made the train, two of the squad who were supposed to be riding as a guard.

  "She pulled out too fast," Rep said tensely. "They were all comin' up to board, but that there engineer, he really taken off. Suthin's wrong."

  "Sir," Cris said to McClean, "I believe the enemy are in the car next to the engine. They either plan to come out of the small door in the end of the car nearest the tender, and then back along the catwalk, or else they have horses waiting for them somewhere ahead."

  "The engineer?"

  "They have him, sir. I know it. He never came down at all... I mean, they must have a man or two riding the front end of the tender, and they've got the drop on the engineer. He does what they say or he gets a bullet in the back."

  "I see." McClean glanced around. "That's an intelligent theory. Well, there are at least five of us here who are armed." He stood up and faced the other passengers. There were three men and two women. He raised his voice. "Are any of you men armed?"

  A long, lean old man with steel--cold eyes looked up. "Gunnel, I never seen the time sinct I was knee--high to a toad--frog when I didn't carry a shootin' iron."

  McClean explained briefly, and the old man spat into a brass spittoon. "I'm headed for Californy, an' I done paid m' fare. I figure to go right through on this hyar train to Hell--on--Wheels and then on the stage, an' nobody ain't goin' to mess up m' ride. Sinct I was a boy I been aimin' to ride these steam--cyars. If them fellers are fixin' to worry us, or to cause trouble for the purty young lady, you count on me. I figure to fetch one or two of 'em."

  Rep looked at Cris and grinned. There was an ally worth having.

  McClean turned to the others. One, a fat--cheeked drummer with a pearl--gray derby, pulled a six--shooter from under his coat and waved it. "Yessir. I'll be standin' by."

  A buxom blonde with a tightly cinched waist took a .44 Remington from her valise. She laid it in her lap and smiled up at them. "The soldier boys always stood by me when there was trouble, so you can deal the cards, Colonel. I'll play them like you say."

  "My compliments, ma'am," said McClean, bowing.

  The third man stood up. He was the man in the English--cut suit and his face was flushed. "You think there will be shooting?"

  "I hope not," McClean replied, "but it does look possible."

  "I have a shotgun," the dude suggested. "I brought it out hoping to try it on prairie chickens or quail, but if you think--"

  "When the time comes," McClean suggested, "just point it at them and squeeze off your shots. You'll get some birds, all right, some very tough birds!"

  The second woman was Hazel Kerry. Without speaking, she showed them a pearl--handled derringer.

  "Mayo, my lad," said Colonel McClean almost gaily, "i
t's a regular army we have here! Ten guns! Parley can't have figured on that!"

  Cris laid his rifle on a seat and checked his pistol again. The train rumbled over a trestle, then curved through a cut in the hills and emerged into open country. Up ahead the whistle blew... now what was that for?

  He peered from the window, squinting his eyes against the cinders and the blown smoke. The smell of coal smoke was thick in his nostrils. He could see nothing moving up ahead; the country was rugged with much brown grass, many thrust--up rocks. The train whistled again, a long, drawn--out whistle that sounded lonesomely across the hills. The train rumbled over another trestle, and he shifted his feet restlessly.

  "I am going up there," he said to McClean. "I think that was a signal. Maybe I can keep them bottled up."

  He started for the end of the car and Rep and the old man followed him.

  "If they got the ingin," the old man said happily, "mebbe we can dust 'em out o' there."

  Cris led the way, stepping from the front of the car to the coupling, then, catching hold of the ladder on the next car, he climbed up. He walked along the swaying catwalk, stepped over space to the next car, and suddenly a man raised up on the tender holding a Winchester. The fellow took his stance and lifted the rifle to his shoulder.

  From behind him Cris heard the ugly crash of a gun, and the man with the rifle took a slow step backward atop the coal, sat down, and then did a somersault and vanished.

  The train whistled again, and began to slow down. Cris moved forward again along the swaying top of the car.

  Out of the hills to the left came a small group of riders and eight or nine led horses.

  Cris jumped to the tender. He saw the body of the man who had been shot and a second man raising up, turning toward him. Unwilling to risk shooting the engineer, Cris shoved his gun into his holster and leaped.

  The man tried to step back and Cris' shoulder hit him in the chest. The man went backwards down the steps and Cris, unable to check himself, plunged after him, hit the ground atop him, and rolled over with him while the train went racing on.

  As it swept by, Cris heard the passengers shooting from the coach, a barking, roaring volley; and when he staggered to his feet, momentarily groggy from the fall, he saw the horses rearing and plunging and a couple of the riders in full flight toward the mountains.