CHAPTER VIII—THE OVERLAND MAKES AN UNEXPECTED STOP
It was near midnight when the Overland train, traveling north, came in sight of Curlew Spur. The Overland did not stop at Curlew Spur, nor did it stop at Red Arrow except on a flag, but this night, from beside the track at Curlew Spur, blinked a tiny red light.
It was something that no engineer would ignore. The big passenger train, roaring up through the Red Arrow Valley, suddenly slackened speed, and the engineer swore inwardly at the signal that would put him off his schedule.
The train ground to a stop, with the pilot of the engine just past the red lantern, which was sitting on a block of wood. There was no one in sight. On the right-hand side of the train was the shadowy bulk of the loading-pens. On the other side was nothing but open country. Here the track ran straight for nearly a mile, and as far as the powerful headlight bored out through the night, the track was open.
The engineer swung down from his cab and walked over to the lantern, where he was joined in a few minutes by the conductor and one of the brakemen. It was a common lantern, with an old red bandanna handkerchief wrapped around it.
“What’s it all about?” asked the conductor angrily. He was a portly individual, inclined to wheeze heavily.
“I dunno,” grunted the engineer. “You see it, don’t you?”
The conductor picked up the lantern, turning it slowly in his hands.
“Some smart jigger playing a joke,” decided the brakeman. “Maybe some bo flagged us down for a ride.”
“I’d like to get my hands on him!” snapped the engineer.
The brakeman turned to the conductor.
“You go down this side and I’ll go down the other. Unless he’s on top, we’ll find him.”
The brakeman circled the engine and walked down the other side of the train, flashing his lantern beneath the trucks of the coaches, but without any success. He and the portly conductor met on the right-hand side of the train.
“Nobody in sight,” said the brakeman wearily. “Might as well high-ball, Charley.”
The engineer had climbed back into his cab, and he saw one of the men signal him to go ahead. It was slightly upgrade, and the staccato exhaust echoed across the hills as the big drivers spinned ahead of the sand stream. Then the drivers gripped heavily and the engine surged ahead.
They had proceeded about a hundred yards, when the fireman, looking back toward the rear, noticed that the lights of the rear coach were getting farther away all the time.
He turned quickly and yelled at the engineer:
“Hey! We’re broke in two, Frank!”
But before the engineer could grasp the import of his words a man was standing in the gangway behind them, covering them with a heavy six-shooter. The man was masked with a black cloth that covered all of his head and neck. The engineer started to retard the throttle.
“Pull her open!” snapped the masked man. “Git back there on yore seat and look ahead.”
The fireman obeyed. There was nothing else for him to do. For about a mile and a half the engineer ran at about twenty-five miles per hour.
“Cut her down,” ordered the masked man. They were entering a deep cut, where the road turned sharply to the left.
“Slow down and stop here at the end of the cut.”
The man was brisk and business-like, wasting no words. The engine slowed and stopped, and the engineer waited for the next order.
“Both of yuh go down ahead of me. No funny business. I’m not takin’ any chances.”
The engine crew descended, and close on their heels came the masked man. It was then that they realized that the express car was still attached to the engine.
“March back to the express car—single-file. Remember it’s light enough for good shootin’.”
They went back along the track, stumbling over stones and tie-ends, until they were at the door of the car.
“You know this messenger?” asked the bandit.
“I don’t,” said the engineer.
“All right. Knock on the door, tell him who yuh are, and that if he don’t open the door, I’ll blow it open. I’ll give him just five seconds to make up his mind. I’m ready to do the job up right.”
The engineer hammered heavily on the door and was greeted by an instant response. The door rolled open and a sleepy-eyed messenger stared out at them. He was looking down into the muzzle of a heavy revolver.
“Slip yore gun loose and drop it,” he ordered.
The messenger drew out his gun and dropped it on the car floor. The bandit motioned for the engineer and fireman to climb into the car, but before they were both inside, the bandit swung up the other side and was facing them.
“I—I was asleep,” faltered the messenger. “Thought we’d made a stop at Red Arrow.”
“Lucky thing yuh did,” growled the bandit. “Open yore safe.”
The messenger shook his head.
“I can’t unlock it.”
“All right.”
The bandit kicked the messenger’s revolver toward the upper end of the car.
“Three of yuh set on that trunk,” he ordered. After they were perched together on a sample trunk, he went over to the through safe and proceeded to set his explosives. He had the light behind him; so they were unable to see just how he prepared the charge. It was ready inside of twenty seconds.
“Get behind those trunks,” he said, and they lost no time.
On the wall near him hung the messenger’s sawed-off shotgun, and he took it off the wall, pumped out the cartridges, and tossed the gun aside, before he lighted the short fuse and stepped farther back against the wall.
The car jarred heavily from the explosion, and a gust of smoke billowed toward the open doorway. Before the three men dared lift their heads, the bandit was squatting at the wrecked safe, facing them, as he looted it of package and canvas sack. He stuffed the packages in his pocket and inside his shirt, while the three men choked in the fumes of nitroglycerine.
Then the bandit got quickly to his feet and stepped to the doorway. For a moment he looked back at the three men before he dropped to the ground.
“Can you beat that?” choked the messenger. “The nerve of the devil!” He choked from the smoke, stooped quickly and swept up his revolver. Running to the door of the car, he leaned out.
From out in the darkness came a streak of flame and a bullet struck the opposite side of the doorway. As fast as he could pull the trigger the messenger sent six shots into the darkness.
But there was no reply from the bandit. It was a full minute before any of them would dare to venture to the open doorway. But everything was serene.
“How much was in the safe?” asked the engineer.
“I don’t know—plenty. Let’s go.”
As quickly as possible they backed to the spur, where they picked up the rest of the train. The wheezy conductor was almost incoherent, acting as though the engineer was personally to blame for running away without the rest of the train.
They did not need a flag to stop them at Red Arrow. The lethargic telegraph operator woke up and fairly burned up the wires, while another man ran down the street to the sheriff’s office, where he hammered on the door.
“Git away fr-rom there, ye dr-r-runken bum!” wailed the sleepy voice of Scotty McKay. “Don’t ye know a jail when ye see one?”
“The Overland train has just been held up!” yelled the man outside.
“Aye—by the Red Arrow bridge,” grunted Scotty, who thought a smart cowboy was trying to be funny. “Git away fr-rom that door before I——”
“I’m not kiddin’ yuh, Scotty! This is Dan Shipley. I tell yuh, there’s been a holdup.”
“Chuck! Wake up, ye sleepin’ angel! Don’t ye hear the man yellin’ bad news? Git up and find Slim, can’t ye?”
“What the hell is wrong with yuh, yuh kilt-wearin’ bog-trotter?” demanded Chuck Ring sleepily. “Lemme ’lone.”
“Where’ll I find Slim Caldwell?” asked Shipley anxiously.
“Sweatin’ blood at the Red Arrow Saloon,” grunted Scotty. “He was seven dollars loser when I left him.”
The man went running up the wooden sidewalk and Scotty fell back into his blankets.
“Holdup, eh?” grunted Chuck. “I’ll bet they got a million dollars. The Overland carries millions.”
“Millions!” snorted Scotty. “There ain’t that much.”
“Oh, yes, there is. That Overland carries——”
“Where to? Do ye think the millionaires send their money out for a ride? Mebby we better git up, eh?”
“Which way did they go, Scotty?”
“Which way did who go?”
“The robbers.”
“How in hell would I know?”
“Yuh hadn’t ought to overlook little details like that.”
“Ye make me tired, Chuck.”
“Ho-o-o—hum-m-m-m-m! I hope Slim decides to wait until mornin’. Yuh can’t do nothin’ in the dark, anyway.”
And that was just what Slim Caldwell decided to do. He went to the depot and talked with the train crew and messenger, getting all the details as they had seen them, and then came back.
The train went on, all of an hour off its regular schedule.
Slim didn’t have the slightest hope of catching the lone bandit, who had had over half of the night to make his getaway. To the east of the tracks, only a couple of miles away, was the lava country, a land of broken lava where little grew, and where a man might hide away for an indefinite length of time.
The man was alone on the job, which would make it even more difficult than if it had been done by a gang. The description given by the three men might cover half of the men in the valley. There had been nothing conspicuous about the man’s actions or apparel. He wore a large black hat, dark shirt, overalls tucked in the tops of his boots.
“Sweet chance to find that whipperwill,” sighed Slim. “Half the men in the valley dress thataway, and they all pack guns.”
“Look for a man wearin’ a black mask,” suggested Chuck.
“And carryin’ a million dollars,” grinned Scotty. “How much did he get, Slim?”
“Nobody knows. The messenger didn’t talk much, but the engineer told me that the man was loaded down with stuff—and they don’t ship pig-iron nor spuds in that through safe.”
“I tell yuh they carry millions in that safe,” said Chuck.
“Aw, go to sleep,” said Slim. “We hit the grit at daylight, and we’ll be a long time on a horse.”