Talon & Chantry 07 - North To The Rails (v5.0) (21 page)

“Any sign of the Talrims?”

“No…but I’d swear I caught a glimpse of French Williams. It was near the store, and I walked down that way, but there was nobody around.”

Whitman and Earnshaw had come from the dining room. Chantry turned to the railroad man. “Any chance of getting a locomotive? We may want to move this car, and fast.”

“The cars are on the siding a mile east of town,” Whitman said. “As I understand it, the cattle are to be there for loading by daylight.” He paused. “I can have an engine ready to move your car at any hour you wish.”

“At four o’clock in the morning then. Move this car to the loading area. Maybe we can put through the whole deal before they realize what is happening.”

Earnshaw smiled. “Tom, you worry too much. There won’t be any trouble. Porter and Wills will be there with their cattle, we’ll load them, pay them, and start east. Doris tells me you two want to be married. Well you can come east and be married there, even if you want to return here. Just don’t worry. I think you’re being overconcerned.”

“You may be right. Anyway, humor me enough to say nothing about the move.”

Outside he talked briefly to McCarthy and Callahan, and then headed for the street.

Would he know his father’s killers? It had been so long ago, and he had only a glimpse of them then. But the big man he would surely know, for there weren’t many like him. He walked down to the store, looking carefully around.

This was where Mobile Callahan thought he had seen French. What would Williams’ role be in this? Would he try to get the gold for himself? He was a strange sort of man who did many things on impulse. He was ruled by whim, by impulsive likes and dislikes that seemed to follow no rule.

The street was crowded as usual. Chantry went into one of the huge gambling tents for the first time. It was filled with pushing, bearded, sweating humanity. His eyes roamed the room…not a familiar face in sight.

Suddenly, across the room there was one. Familiar, yet unfamiliar. A huge, red-haired young man loomed head and shoulders above the crowd. It was not the man who had helped to kill his father; he was too young. From the description this had to be Charlie Ruff.

Their eyes met. For an instant the smile left Ruff’s eyes and he stared, hard-eyed, at Tom Chantry. Then the smile appeared again, and the big man came shouldering through the crowd, ignoring those he brushed against. Angry looks changed quickly when they saw the size of the man who had shoved them out of the way.

He stopped, wide-legged, in front of Chantry. “Howdy! You’ll be Chantry. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Several heads had turned, watching.

“You’ve come a long way for what you’re going to get,” Charlie said, grinning. “You better tuck your tail an’ run while you got a chance.”

“And what am I going to get, as you phrase it?”

A big young man, secure in his huge size and strength, Charlie Ruff had walked through life with little trouble. There was no fear in him, and there never had been. Men stepped aside for him, or backed away. He liked it that way, and he was used to it.

But he guarded his words now. “You’re going to get what you’ve got comin’,” he said, “and I’m goin’ to give it to you.”

“Then why not now?” Chantry asked.

Charlie’s grin stiffened a little. He had never been challenged before, never called to back up a threat. The games had come to a halt, people were backing away. Tom Chantry unbuckled his belt and handed it to a croupier. “Why not now, Charlie?” he said again.

Charlie Ruff was in a quandary. When he had started for town the last thing his father said was for him to stay out of trouble. “Watch a little, play a little, see if any of that crowd are around town,
but stay out of trouble!
”

It was too late to think of that now. He had wanted to throw a scare into this man. He had wanted to push a little just to see the man back off, as others had done.

“Sure,” he said, “why not now?” And he swung.

Charlie Ruff had thrown his huge fist with intent to demolish. Not a man in the room, with the exception of the croupier, who had seen many men and had learned how to judge them, and a couple of old-timers, expected anything but a quick, brutal beating. But what happened then Charlie Ruff was unprepared for.

Tom Chantry slipped inside of the ponderous right and smashed a right to the ribs. It was a beautifully timed punch and it landed solidly. Instantly he rolled and hooked a left to the same spot, then came back just enough and brought up a short, wicked uppercut to the chin.

Charlie Ruff went down, his breath knocked from him, his nose streaming blood.

He hit the dirt floor of the tent with a thud that shocked him through and through. Never before had he been hurt, never had he been knocked down.

He stared, then with a grunt he came off the ground and ran into two hard fists. The first split the skin under his eye, the second pulped his lips. But he was big and tough, and he kept coming. He reached out his huge arms and Chantry stepped back to get distance, but the crowd shoved him back. The huge arms caught him and enveloped him in a bear hug.

Charlie Ruff was a powerful man, and now he was wild with anger. He wanted to kill this man, to break him in two. With all his power he began to squeeze.

For one brief, agonizing moment Chantry thought he was gone. He felt a hard fist crushed against his spine, felt himself bent backward. Charlie Ruff was at least fifty pounds heavier, and much stronger.

There was one thing to do and he did it. He kicked up both feet and fell backward.

The sudden yielding fooled Charlie Ruff and he fell forward, stumbling in trying to catch his balance, losing his grip on Chantry as he did so.

Chantry was up and around in an instant. Charlie got his balance and turned, and caught a sweeping right to the jaw that knocked him against a tent pole. The whole tent trembled, and then the big man turned and came in, trying for his hold again.

Chantry stabbed a left to the mouth, and as Ruff lunged he side-stepped away from him.

For a moment they faced each other. For the first time Charlie Ruff knew fear.

He blinked through the sweat and blood at Chantry, standing there ready, lean, hard, and dangerous, waiting for him. Charlie Ruff had strutted and pushed and shoved all his life, smaller men had stepped away from him, appalled not only by the sheer size of him, but by the knowledge that where he was his father and brother were not far behind. But now they were not here, and he was alone.

The crowd was packed tightly around him. There was no place to run. He had felt those iron-hard fists, and he did not want to feel them again. The only way out was to kill Chantry. He was bigger, he told himself, and Chantry had been lucky so far. Slowly he began to circle, and Chantry turned coolly to face him as he moved.

Suddenly he charged, head down, arms flailing. A sweeping right smashed Chantry on the shoulder, staggering him and numbing his arm. The big man lunged into him, grabbing and pounding. Charlie knew nothing of fighting, but he had size and power.

His fists thudded and banged. Chantry staggered, shuddering under the power of Charlie’s blows, and Charlie tried to smother him with sheer weight and size. Chantry went down, narrowly avoided a ponderous kick, then lunged up and caught Charlie with an overhand right. He slipped inside of a swing and smashed with both hands at the big body.

Pulling Charlie Ruff back, Chantry leaned into him and battered his body with short, wicked blows to the wind. Suddenly stepping back, he whipped up an uppercut that caught the bigger man under the chin. His head flew back and his knees buckled. Charlie hit the floor on his knees, but in the instant before he hit, Chantry swung a hard right to the jaw. Charlie fell forward on his face.

For a moment, Chantry stood looking down, and then he stepped back. The croupier held out his guns. “You’ll be needing those.” And he added, “I know that outfit. Watch yourself.”

“Thanks.”

Bloody, his shirt torn, Tom Chantry pushed toward the exit. He had wanted none of this. He had not liked Charlie Ruff, but he had not wanted to fight him; now it was done, and he had won.

Outside the cool wind chilled his sweaty body. He started up the street, wanting to get under cover, to bathe, and get into a clean, fresh shirt.

Chapter 22

H
E WENT TO the frame hotel. The lobby was empty except for the clerk, an older man with a round, moonlike face.

“Hello, Mr. Chantry. Looks as if you’ve had trouble. Want a place to wash up?”

“Yes…and a shirt if you can rustle one up.”

“I’ll try. Come along.” He led the way down a passage and into the back room on the ground floor. “There’s a well out back. I’ll get you a bucket of water. You’ll want some hot water for those hands.”

When he returned with the bucket and began kindling a fire in the stove, he asked, “What happened?”

“I had a fight. With Charlie Ruff.”

The clerk whistled. “Ruff? You must have whipped him. You’re not badly beat up.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“A lot of people will be pleased—not only here, but down in Texas too.”

The clerk sat down. “My name’s Finlayson. We haven’t met but I’ve seen you around, and you’re a friend of Mr. Sparrow’s. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Chantry was about to say there was not, but changed it. “One thing. What do you know about Sarah Millier?”

“Enough not to be so gullible as most of the local citizens. She had visitors, Mr. Chantry. Mostly they used the back stairs, but I saw them once or twice—the Talrims or Frank Ruff. She saw me noticing them once, and commented that they had some information on her brother.”

Chantry explained about the brother, and gave some background on Sarah and Paul. “There’s some connection with French Williams, but I don’t believe it’s friendly.”

“I always liked French,” Finlayson commented. “Well, I don’t know what to think about her, but I’m glad she’s gone.”

“Gone?” Chantry straightened up, water dripping from his hair and hands.

“Checked out about an hour after sundown. There was a rig waiting out front. I didn’t see who was driving.”

Tom dried his face and hands, working gently over his bruised and battered knuckles. He worked his fingers to keep stiffness from settling in the muscles.

He was terribly tired, but there was no time to rest. After thanking the clerk, who refused payment, he went out and made his way to the corral. His horse was there, and he roped it and saddled up.

He swung into the saddle and turned his horse toward the siding where the private car was waiting.…Only it was gone.

He rode to the main track, and looked around, but there was no car…it had pulled out.

He swung his mount and raced across town, weaving in and out among the buildings, the tents and stacks of lumber, to the other sidings. A small shack was over there where relief engineers and other trainmen bunked.

Dropping from his saddle, he went in the door. A man turned sleepily in a bunk. “Who’s that?” he muttered.

Chantry struck a match and lighted the lamp. “Whitman’s private care is gone. Where is it?”

The man swung his feet to the floor. He was wearing red woollen long-johns, now faded to a vague pink. “Whitman’s car? I’m supposed to take that out m’self. It’s gone, you say? That can’t be.”

“Where’s your engine?”

“On the siding. Right back yonder.”

Both men rushed to the door. There was no engine. The siding was empty.

“Stole! Somebody stole the engine!”

He turned back into the room and yelled at the other trainmen, now half awake. “The engine’s gone! Somebody stole it!”

“It’s Harvey!” A tall, skinny man started up. “I seen that outlaw Harvey aroun’! He used to be a trainman back Missouri way!”

Tom Chantry went to his horse. They had Doris! They had Whitman and Earnshaw too, and the gold, and they had a start of an hour or longer; but one thing about a locomotive…it had to keep to the tracks. Somewhere, not very far off, they would have horses waiting.

He started along the tracks at a canter. Where were McCarthy and Callahan?

A mile out of town the loading pens showed their skeleton frames against the sky, but there was no train. He pushed on, riding beside the tracks, watching the skyline ahead.

He had no idea what lay before him. That they would be stopping soon, he was sure. The outlaws would not dare risk going into the next station. He rode on into the night, his eyes probing at the darkness ahead.

Suddenly the shapes loomed up. The locomotive stood silent, except for a faint hiss of steam. The private car was lighted, but no sound came from it.

Slowing his pace, gun in hand, he circled the car at a distance. The hoofs of his horse made little noise as they moved through the grass.

He rode closer, then dismounted and ground-hitched his horse. Close to the car, he stopped to listen. No sound. He stepped up on the road bed, caught the rail, and swung up to the platform.

His left hand closed on the knob, turned it. The door opened easily and swung inward. The drawing room was empty, the door to the bedroom stood open. He went past it…empty.

There were signs here of hasty dressing; clothing was thrown about. The safe stood open, papers were scattered on the floor. They had the money, and they had Whitman, Earnshaw, and Doris.

He found a red lantern, lighted it, and hung it out on the east end of the locomotive. There were no trains west of this; the next to come would be from the east.

He searched the car, found two boxes of .44 cartridges, which he took, as well as an extra pistol, hidden under the pillow of Whitman’s bed. He thrust that into his waistband. He gathered some food, found a canteen and filled it. He found a good deal of hunting gear in a closet under Whitman’s bed, but nothing he could use. Outside, he stuffed the food into the saddlebags, hung the canteen around the pommel, and then scouted for tracks, using a lantern.

He found a place where horses had stood, several of them. And there was a faint trail leading off to the south.