Fight for Powder Valley! (18 page)

And, though he did not discourage Ezra by telling him so, he saw no possible good that could come out of kidnaping Biloff. Even if Sam did succeed in getting him to the Valley undetected. Biloff was a stubborn man, and Pat doubted whether even the threat of hanging would be enough to force him to give up the Powder Valley project.

Here they all were, fugitives from justice—he, with a telltale pair of handcuffs still dangling from his wrist. And he and Ezra were locked up in a dark box-car like a pair of trapped animals waiting for someone to come and release them. It was a completely gloomy outlook.

Pat paced up and down in front of the door and smoked innumerable cigarettes while he watched daylight show through a crack between the sliding doors, and then a bright gleam of sunlight that told him precious time was flitting by while he could only wait fretfully for whatever fate had in store for them.

Ezra was less perturbed about the eventual outcome than Pat. In fact, Ezra was complacently convinced that he and Sam had made a great contribution to the cause by their trip to Denver. He was quite proud of the ruse by which they had snatched Biloff away from his office, and was optimistic about Sam's ability to carry out his end of the deal. He was proud, too, of the manner in which he had rescued Pat from the police station, for Pat hadn't spoiled the big man's simple pride in his feat by explaining that the police had been on the point of releasing him when Ezra spoiled everything by appearing in the doorway brandishing his gun.

So Ezra snored comfortably on a couple of wooden packing cases while Pat wore himself out striding up and down and worrying.

Pat suddenly ceased his pacing when he heard voices outside the box-car. He listened a moment, holding his breath. They stopped outside the door. He heard hearty laughter, then the rattle of the outside lock. He tiptoed over to Ezra's side and shook him violently, commanding in a low tone:

“Snap out of it, Ezra. They're unlockin' the door.”

Ezra yawned and lumbered to his feet. “Who's out there, you reckon?”

“How the hell do I know? The police, maybe. Get hold of your gun an' be ready for anything.”

Pat tiptoed forward and drew the revolver he had taken from the Denver policeman. He held the gun in his left hand, hidden under his jacket, and thrust his right hand deep in his pocket to hide the incriminating handcuffs from sight. If it wasn't the police they might be able to bluff their way out of the trap.

The doors creaked loudly as they slid apart and let a surge of hot sunshine inside. Ezra strode into the opening with his gun half-drawn, blinking his eyes against the sudden light, while Pat drew back out of sight to await developments.

“Yo're mighty slow about unlockin' this here parlor car,” Ezra announced belligerently. “Danged if I ain't got a mind to sue the railroad fer the service.”

A loud laugh greeted his words. Pat heard a wondering voice say, “We didn't order a gun-toting cow-puncher from Denver with this shipment, did we?”

And another voice answered with a chuckle, “He ain't on the bill of lading. Must of got loaded by mistake.”

Pat stepped to Ezra's side swiftly, drawling, “That's shore enough right. By golly, that likker they sell in Denver is shore enough strong stuff. Where at are we?” he ended to help the pretense along.

A tall spectacled man laughed up at him from the ground. “There's two of them. What'd you boys do … hunt a place to sleep it off and get locked in by mistake?”

“That's right.” The tall man's companion wore a greasy jumper suit and a stiff-brimmed hat. A searching glance out the door showed Pat the car stood on an isolated siding near the outskirts of Pueblo. He leaped to the ground nimbly and forced a short laugh from his lips, “Youall don't know how good it feels to get out of that car. This here is Pueblo, ain't it?”

“That's right,” the tall man laughed. “You boys better beat it fast before the railroad cop sees you and runs you in for vagrancy.”

“You bet we will,” Pat responded feelingly. He turned and winked at Ezra. “Hop down an' let's hunt a restaurant where they sell hot cawfee.”

“There's a little café right down the street there.” The spectacled man pointed as Ezra slid down beside Pat.

His companion stared at them with hostility. “I don't like this so much,” he observed. “You reckon we shouldn't run 'em in for stealing a ride?”

The tall man frowned and shook his head. “They've just been sleeping off a drunk. You can't blame them for that.”

Pat grinned and caught Ezra's arm. “C'mon. Let's get out of here.” He pulled the one-eyed man away from the tracks and toward a side street where the restaurant had been indicated.

Ezra went with him under protest. “Whyn't you let me handle that feller?” he growled. “I'd of …”

Pat groaned aloud. “You'd have knocked him cold an' then we'd have the Pueblo police on our necks too. Keep your big mouth shut till we get out of town anyhow.”

Ezra relapsed into an injured silence and allowed himself to be drawn into a small café where he devoured scrambled eggs and a huge stack of wheat cakes while Pat contented himself with three cups of scalding black coffee.

In answer to Pat's question, the counterman told him it was ten o'clock in the morning, and that the stagecoach left Pueblo for Hopewell Junction and points southeast at ten-thirty.

The coach traveled a route that took it out of town just three blocks from the café, and Pat and Ezra were waiting on the corner when it came rumbling down the street half an hour later.

The driver pulled up his six-horse team with a flourish when Pat stepped out and waved his hat.

He said, “Hopewell Junction? You bet,” and opened the door to let them inside the swaying contrivance.

Pat entered first, keeping his handcuffs out of sight in his pocket, and was relieved to find only three passengers aboard; a cattle-buyer from Kansas City and two elderly ranch wives who sat together at the rear of the coach.

It was a long, uncomfortable, and maddeningly slow ride. It seemed to Pat that the six-horse team must have a liberal portion of snail-blood in their veins to be able to go so slowly. But the swaying motion of the vehicle made him drowsy after two nights without sleep, and it wasn't long before his head was resting on Ezra's shoulder and he was snoring lightly.

This time it was Ezra who awakened Pat from deep slumber when the journey was over. They were approaching the outskirts of the little railroad junction, and the long slanting shadows outside the stagecoach showed it was late afternoon.

Pat sat up with a start and peered out, then muttered to Ezra, “We better play safe and get out before we drive up in the middle of town.”

Ezra said, “That's why I poked you,” and they got up and went forward where Pat yelled up at the driver, “We want off right here.”

The driver looked surprised, but he pulled up and let them out on the flat just north of town.

They circled warily around the business section to the livery stable where both had left their horses, and sneaked in the back entrance without being seen.

The hostler was an old man who greeted them without surprise. “I bin wonderin' when you'd be back fer them nags of your'n. You want 'em both saddled?”

Pat said they did. He asked the old man if anyone had been in town looking for them.

The hostler said he hadn't heard of anyone. As he led out their horses, Ezra nudged Pat and indicated a roan gelding in the stall next to his mount. “I reckon Sam ain't got here yet. That's his hawse standin' there.”

As he saddled their horses, the old man grunted, “Lotsa comin' an' goin' to Powder Valley these days. A man'd think people'd stay put 'stead of chasin' back an' forth all the time. 'Nuff to make a man git disgusted an' quit his job.”

“Anybody else been by here today?” Pat asked quickly.

“That's what I'm sayin', ain't it? Not more'n two hours ago three of the craziest galoots I
ever
see stopped by on their way.” He stopped to spit a thick stream of tobacco juice on the floor, then pointed a gnarled forefinger at two jaded and sweaty buggy horses munching hay in adjoining stalls. “See that team yonder?” His voice trembled with indignation. “Plumb wore to a frazzle … an' as nice a pair of hawse-flesh as I ever laid eyes on. Know where they come from?”

“No. Where?”

“All the way from Pueblo, b'God. An' at a dead run if you ask me. Three crazy fellers in a buckboard drivin' 'em. Man's got no bizniss drinkin' an' drivin' a team.”

“Who were they?” Pat asked idly.

“I didn't know none of 'em. Don't wanna know none of 'em. They traded teams an' went on to Powder Valley like the devil hisself was chasin' 'em. Wild-eyed drunk an' talkin' crazy … all three of 'em like they'd et a book of poetry an' was belchin' it out.”

Pat's interest faded. “Couldn't have been law-men,” he muttered.

“I reckon not. The little nigger feller seemed like he was boss. But there was a ol' coot with chin whiskers …”

Pat was starting to mount his horse. He stopped with one foot in the stirrup. “Did you say a Negro?”

“Yeh. Plenty funny lookin'. Wearin' cowboy boots an' tight pants and a big baggy coat. Come to think of it, he ast about you fellers, too. Friend of yores?”

“Asked about us?” Pat frowned. “What did the others look like?”

“One was a ol' feller with chin whiskers like a goat, an' t'other was tall an' stringy-like. He was
mighty
drunk. Kep' sayin' somethin' like: ‘Gimme a drink afore I die, an' when I'm drunk swing me high.'” The old man dropped his voice into a monotonous sing-song as he recited the words.

Pat's jaw sagged. He glanced doubtfully at Ezra who was listening with a baffled frown.

“An' they asked about us?” Pat repeated.

“That's right. The colored man shore did. I remember his very words, crazy-like, they was. They keep running through my mind an' I reckon mebby
I'm
goin' crazy too. He said: “There's one thing that I got to ast, has Pat an' Ezra this way passed?' Do you get it? Them were his very words. I swear they was.”

Pat's jaw sagged lower. “He was talkin' po'try. Couldn't be Sam.” He looked to Ezra for agreement.

“Hell no,” Ezra exploded. “
Couldn't
be.” But he frowned at the hostler. “You know Sam Sloan?”

“Shore I know Sam. Sa-ay!” The old man staggered back a step, clapping his hand to his forehead. He mumbled, “I'm recollectin' things now. Things that didn't make sense when they was here. But that ain't strange. Nothin' made sense when them three was here.”

“What kind of things?” Pat demanded.

“Yessiree. I see it clear now. Dagnab it.
That
was Sam Sloan. Blacked up like a nigger. A-foolin' me with that there sing-song talk.”

Pat wasted no more time in idle conversation. He swung into the saddle and spurred out of the stable, closely followed by Ezra. If Sam was ahead of them, roaring drunk with a two-hour lead, only God could say what was happening in Powder Valley.

They didn't waste any breath in talking as they thundered along the road toward Powder Valley. The sun was descending into an angry red haze in the west and there were crimson streamers in the sky like long fiery fingers pointing directly to their destination.

The men rode easily, grim-faced in the saddle, gauging the speed and the staying-power of their mounts to cover the distance in the shortest possible time without killing the stout-hearted horses beneath them.

The sun went below the mountains and darkness shrouded the flat land leading into the foothills where the Valley twisted downward on both sides of Powder Creek. The stars came out and the thin rim of a moon showed palely close above the horizon. Clumps of sage and of mesquite threw misshapen shadows on the ground as they raced past and the gangling arms of yucca formed themselves into weird patterns in the cold light of the stars and the moon.

Pat began to ease his horse up as they approached the turnoff where a rutted road led upward from the main route into the valley toward Sam and Ezra's ranch near the headwaters of the creek. He twisted sideways in the saddle and shouted to Ezra, “Do you reckon they went straight on to Dutch Springs or would Sam go to the ranch first?”

“Gawd knows,” Ezra panted, “what Sam'll do when he's likkered up like the old man said. Hard enuff to figger him when he's sober.”

Pat pulled his slobbering horse down to a lope and then to a trot as they reached the turnoff. He leaped from the saddle and bent down to search the hard ground for some trace of wheel-tracks to determine whether the buckboard had turned off or continued on to Dutch Springs.

Ezra stepped down beside him, grunting, “We need Sam's Injun nose fer this job. He can smell out a set of fresh tracks.”

“I can't match Sam for running a trail,” Pat agreed. “But these here tracks look fresh enough. See? Two hawses, trottin' fast. That'd be a harness team. An' right here … the left wheel cut through the rut.”

“Yep. Yo're right. There's been a buckboard drove up to the ranch this very afternoon.”

They trotted back to their horses and swung into the saddles again. Pat began to hope they might not be too late to avert disaster. If they could catch Sam and Biloff, with their queer companion, before the trio got into Dutch Springs and the Valley ranchers learned of Biloff's presence—they might be able to prevent the hanging that Pat wanted desperately to avoid. He knew it would ruin everything if they hanged Biloff in the valley. Inevitably, it would bring in state troopers, martial law, and the irrigation project would go on anyway.

But if he could get hold of Biloff, there was a chance that a cool head and some hard logic would convince the man the only way he could save his own skin was to call off the project. That was the chance Pat was fighting for, the hope that made him spur his faltering mount cruelly up those final miles toward the ranch where he hoped to intercept Sam and his kidnaped prisoner.