Sheriff on the Spot (16 page)

“We'll ride back with you, Pat.” Sam's dark features tightened recklessly. “I'll make that first ride into Dutch Springs with the mail. After that—well, we'll see.”

Exactly as though he could read Sam's mind, Pat knew what the wiry little man was planning. He'd make that first mail ride, and then he'd confess to killing Fred Ralston to prevent Pat from breaking his oath by covering up for him.

There was no use discussing that now. Pat knew Sam would deny it violently if he accused him of having that in mind. And Pat still had hopes that he could fix things up to keep Sam out of jail. He didn't rightly know just exactly how everything would work out, but he had the glimmering of a plan. A lot depended on getting Sam back to the Pony Express station in time to carry that first mail sack—as Lon Estis was announcing in town that Sam would do.

So he said gruffly, “That's fair enough. We've got just about time to make it back to the station in time for both of you to take over like nothing had happened. Like you say, Sam, we'll see how things turn out after you've made that first ride.”

He went back to the clump of juniper where he'd left the bay mare, mounted her and rode back to rejoin his two friends in the trail.

Sam looked at him curiously as he rode up, and asked, “Weren't you ridin' a roan when you tried to come up to Windrow's cabin?”

“Yeh. Big Red. I threw the pack-saddle on him an' turned him loose to go home when I saw my only chance to head you off was by ridin' over the mountain an' down the slide.”

“You must of bin figgerin' on a long ride. Bringin' a lead hawse an' a pack-saddle.”

“I figgered on trailin' you down into New Mexico if you'd gone across the pass.”

“How'd you know we didn't?”

“I stopped by the Estis ranch. Lon told me you hadn't rode that way.”

“He know you were after us?”

“No. No one knows it. Like I say—no one knows you killed Ralston or held up the bank. I reckon Kitty Lane an' Joe Deems'll keep their mouths shut till I have a talk with 'em.”

Sam Sloan nodded as though that satisfied him, and the three strung out single file on the trail and put their horses to a gallop. The sun was almost directly overhead, showing that there was little time to spare for Sam and Ezra to reach the Pony Express way-station in time to speed the first pair of mailbags on the new north-south route into Dutch Springs.

15

It was less than an hour from the time for the first Express rider to come galloping in from the south when Pat left Sam and Ezra at the little way-station ten miles south of Dutch Springs.

The station itself consisted of a two-room shack, with beds in the rear room for the station-keeper and the rider who was lying over between trips. Behind the shack was a large corral and a feed-shed for the carefully selected mounts of the fast mail service. The way the route would be ridden, as Pat understood it, was that Sam would be ready and waiting with a fresh horse saddled when the rider from the south completed his ten-mile dash at breakneck speed.

As he reached the station, he'd have his mailbags loose and ready to fling to Ezra. Without wasting a moment, Ezra would toss them behind Sam's saddle and he would gallop away on the next lap to Dutch Springs. The rider whom he had relieved would sleep at Ezra's station until Sam returned from Dutch Springs the next day with the southbound mail. It was an intricate and speedy process, carefully worked out by the Government and requiring the services of a great many men and horses, but it had already been proven feasible on the east-west route, and there was no reason why this new north-south feeder route should not prove just as valuable.

The riders were carefully selected for horsemanship and reckless courage, with none of them weighing over one hundred and thirty-five pounds; while the station masters were required to be men of proven integrity, chosen for their ability to handle horses and men.

There was a curious air of tension about the little way-station as Pat prepared to ride away. Both Sam and Ezra were having a hard time trying to act nonchalant as they waited for the first rider to gallop in from the south. They were both strongly conscious of the responsibility that rested upon them; had an excited feeling of being a part of something big and important in the growing-up of the West.

Today would mark an important milestone in the history of Powder Valley—and they were to have a part in making that history.

Pat grinned down at them from the back of his bay mare as he paused to roll a final cigarette before riding away. “I'm sorry I won't be here to see you take off, Sam. You figure on hangin' up a record on the ride into Dutch Springs?”

“I won't be ridin' at a walk,” Sam told him.

“I bin thinkin' about things,” Ezra broke in anxiously. “I shore hate tuh not be in Dutch Springs an' see how things turn out. Don't you reckon it'd be awright for me to mosey on in after Sam's took out with the mail? There won't be a blasted thing for me tuh do here till Sam gets back tomorrow.”

Pat licked his cigarette and shook his head. “You got to be on the job here, Ezra. You promised that when you took the job.”

“Don't see why,” Ezra said wistfully.

“Because this is Government business. If anything goes wrong at one station along the way, it throws the whole schedule off kilter. That's one reason why I wanted you boys to come back. Think what would of happened if you two hadn't been here when that rider comes in an hour from now. The whole damn mail route would be ruined. Folks wouldn't trust their letters to go through, an' wouldn't pay the big money for speed. Damn it, you got to realize the Government's dependin' on both of you.”

“Yeh, I reckon yo're right,” Ezra agreed pensively. “By gorry, think of it, Sam. The president of the United States will be waitin' in Washington to hear what time you make on yore run.”

Sam said, “Yep. I've bin thinkin' of that,” in a surly tone. He looked up at Pat from beneath the brim of his Stetson. “You gonna be in Dutch Springs when I ride in?”

“I reckon. 'Less you pass me on the way. An' you're liable to do that if I don't get started. I ain't goin' to ride this she-hawse any too hard. Not after the way she brought me down over that rockslide.”

“Yeh. You better be startin',” Sam agreed. “I'm gonna be ridin' like a streak of greased lightnin' when I get them mail bags on my saddle. Give me room if you see me comin'.”

Pat Stevens nodded. “I'll be seein' you in Dutch Springs. An' you take it easy, Ezra. I got a hunch everything will be all right.”

As he rode away he wished it was more than a hunch. He
thought
he saw a way out for them, but shucks, it was just a lot of guessing. He needed something definite to back up his guesswork. If he could get that—if a certain thing would happen during Sam's ride into Dutch Springs—

But he refused to let himself do too much hoping. It was a wild chance at best. He'd have to try bluffing it out if his hunch didn't come true, and bluffing was a tricky solution.

He spurred the willing mare into a lope as he left the way-station behind. The road to Dutch Springs lay flat across the open prairie for a distance of some five miles. He wanted to be across that open expanse well ahead of Sam.

There was a rough area of foothills and deep gulches through which the road passed after the open plain ended. This rough area was not more than about half a mile in width, and after the road passed it there were ranch houses along the way leading into the outskirts of the village.

If he made the ride on schedule, it would just about be dusk when Sam hit that broken stretch of country. That was the time and the place if Pat's figuring was right.

He held the mare to a lope all along the stretch of open country. The lower rim of the sun was almost touching the topmost western peaks when he reached the beginning of the broken region.

He slowed the mare to a trot and searched the terrain ahead and on either side of the road carefully. He could see nothing, but there were numerous deep gulches along the way that would afford perfect concealment for men and horses.

The road wound around the base of a hill and dipped suddenly into a wide dry wash lined with willows on either bank.

Pat reined to the right off the road into the bottom of the dry wash. It was deep enough to hide him from sight as he rode up a hundred yards and around a bend that put him out of sight of the road.

He dismounted and ground-tied the mare, pulled his carbine from its leather boot suspended from the saddle, and crept up over the north bank of the wash cautiously.

He parted the thick growth of willows and peered out, nodded with satisfaction as he discovered his recollection of the terrain had been good and he was directly south of a high, rocky knoll that looked out over the entire expanse of rough country.

He pushed through the willows and bent forward to make his way up to the top of the knoll, dropping to his hands and knees as he neared the top, then to his belly, wriggling forward until he could see over and get a clear view of the road winding around in front of him.

Only the upper half of the sun was visible as he settled himself in a comfortable position on his belly with his short rifle thrust out in front of him and resting on a boulder for steady shooting.

He realized he was letting Sam Sloan take a terrific chance in riding unwarned into a possible ambush, but this was the best way Pat could figure to handle the situation. He couldn't warn Sam of possible danger without telling him everything he suspected, and he was loath to do that. He might so easily be wrong. If nothing happened, it would ruin everything to have told Sam. It was better this way. Sam would have to take his chance with possible dry-gulchers. He'd ridden into worse danger before and come out unscathed. On top of the knoll with his saddle-gun ready, Pat was in a commanding position to take a hand in any trouble that might arise.

He didn't want to scare them off if they were hidden down below there waiting for the Pony Express rider to come dashing through. The entire success of his plan depended on having them feel safe to attack Sam as he rode by. It was sort of making death bait out of Sam Sloan, but Pat knew Sam would be the first to approve if he knew why it was being done.

The sun was below the western horizon now. A red glow still lingered in the sky, touching the landscape with a rosy hue that was remindful of blood.

There was a vast silence that seemed intensified by the approach of darkness. As far as Pat could see in any direction, he could not perceive a single moving thing. It was as though the world stood still, catching its breath in anticipation of the deadly drama about to unfold here on the road into Dutch Springs.

Not a superstitious man, Pat Stevens was deeply sensitive to the varying moods of nature, and he felt a sharpening of his perceptions, a tightening of his muscles as the sun sank lower behind the mountains and the blood-hue slowly faded from the silent land.

Into that graying silence came the faint drumming of galloping hooves from the south. Pat felt a prickling sensation, as though the short hairs at the back of his neck were standing up. The sound came louder, like the faint rolling of distant thunder. He twisted his head and saw a black speck far off on the ribbon-like road.

The black speck grew swiftly larger and the pound of hoofbeats more tumultuous. Something inside Pat made him feel like standing up and waving his hat and shouting. He was seeing the first Pony Express rider in southern Colorado. The beginning of a new era in the West, and it made him feel glad and triumphant and tremendously proud all at once.

He could tell, now, that it was Sam Sloan, leaning forward over the neck of his racing horse, pacing him carefully over the ten-mile grind to make the maximum speed without breaking his wind.

Suddenly, horse and rider were lost to Pat's sight as the road dipped down into the wide arroyo behind him. Seconds later, they leaped into view on the other side, over a ridge at unslackened speed, then down a short slope to another dry wash.

Pat's gaze remained concentrated on the speeding mail rider, and every sense was alert. It wasn't taking long for Sam to dash across that dangerous half mile of broken country. If something didn't happen soon—

The crouching figure of Sam Sloan disappeared into another arroyo almost half a mile away. As he went out of sight Pat heard the sound he'd waited for and dreaded, yet hoped he'd hear. The sharp spang of a rifle.

Pat didn't breathe until horse and rider showed again on the other side. Sam was slewed sideways in the saddle and his six-gun was barking back at a point to his left and rear.

Two other horses surged out of the dry wash a little west from the road. The twilight was thick enough to show orange flame lancing from their guns leveled at the Express rider.

One of the pursuing riders rode into the steady sights of Pat's rifle. He pressed the trigger gently and the rider went headlong into the dust.

The other was checking his plunging horse, turning to see from whence this new danger had come.

Pat had time for careful aim, and even in the murky half-light of dusk his bullet went where it was aimed.

The second rider faltered in the saddle, slumped forward and fought to regain his balance, then fell heavily to the ground. His horse trotted on away from him, and the man half arose as though to follow, and then dropped to the ground again.

The drumming of galloping hooves grew fainter. Sam Sloan was a barely discernible moving speck in the gathering dusk. True to the traditions of the Pony Express, he had not slackened speed one instant. No matter how curious he might be, he carried the mail northward and nothing must be allowed to slow it up.

Pat got to his feet and trotted down the slope to his mare. He vaulted into the saddle and sent her back to the road, then northward.

She snorted nervously and shied away when they came to a figure crumpled in the dust of the road, the first of the dry-gulchers to cross Pat's rifle sights.