Ralph Compton Sixguns and Double Eagles Read online

  In turn, he counted out twenty-five double eagles to each of the men.

  “Now,” said Jernigan, “when and where do we get the rest? How do we know you’ll be here, when we’ve done the job?”

  “I won’t be here,” Grover said, “and none of you are to return here. Tomorrow night, I’ll be at the Palace Hotel in Wichita.”

  “Hell,” said Jernigan, “that’s three hunnert miles from here.”

  “Two hundred for you,” Grover said. “You’re meeting the train a hundred miles east of Dodge. Now get out of here one or two at a time, and when the westbound gets here tonight, it better be haulin’ the dead bodies of that pair of pistoleros.”

  “How far Dodge City?” El Lobo asked.

  “It’s about a ten-hour train ride,” said Wes. “We should be there tonight around nine o‘clock, unless somethin’ delays us.”

  The train stopped at Wichita, taking on water, passengers, and freight. Shadows crept over the plains, and at dusk a porter lighted the lamps in the passenger coaches. There were sandwiches at suppertime, and the westbound slowed slightly as darkness descended. Empty stirred restlessly as the wheels clicked over the coupling joints, and it was half past six when Wes looked at his watch. Suddenly Wes leaned forward, peering out the window into the darkness.

  “What you see?” El Lobo asked.

  “Man on a horse riding alongside the train,” said Wes. “This may be it, amigo, and it couldn’t come at a worse time. Come on. We can’t afford to be trapped in here. Some of these people will be killed. Maybe we can make it to the top of the coach.”

  But suddenly they were thrown to their knees in the aisle, as the train, with a hiss of steam and the screaming of wheels against steel rails, lurched to a halt. Wes and El Lobo, keeping their heads down, crawled down the aisle toward the end of the coach. Growling in frustration, Empty had taken refuge under an empty seat. Then came a voice from the darkness outside the coach.

  “We want two hombres that’s on this train, and you know who you are. Come out with your hands up, and nobody else will be harmed.”

  While the rest of the passengers seemed frozen in fear, Wes and El Lobo continued to crawl toward the end of the coach. A slug shattered a window, a woman screamed, and the voice from the darkness spoke again.

  “We have the fireman and the engineer under the gun. If the two of you don’t come out, they’re going to die. If that ain’t enough, we got dynamite. We’ll blow them coaches all to hell. What’s it gonna be?”

  “Come on,” said Wes. “We’ll have to risk it. Empty stay.”

  Wes turned the door handle, and still on hands and knees, he and El Lobo scrambled out onto the steel platform at the end of the coach. Lead screamed off iron stanchions and slammed into the coach through the open door. Followed by El Lobo, Wes tumbled down the iron steps, and belly-down, began firing at muzzle flashes. But the return fire became too intense and they began crawling under the passenger coach, as lead sang off the steel rails and thunked into the ends of crossties.

  “They’re under the train,” a voice bawled. “Some of you git on the other side and cut ‘em down.”

  The light from the coach windows had Wes and El Lobo at a deadly disadvantage, and it seemed their only chance lay in reaching the opposite side of the coach, where they might lose themselves in the covering darkness. But their attackers were there ahead of them, and when they sprang to their feet, they met a hail of gunfire. Once, twice, three times, Wes Stone was hit. His back to the side of the coach, a roaring Colt in each hand, El Lobo fired at the muzzle flashes. But he was overcome by the force of numbers, and he fell facedown beneath the wheels of the passenger coach.

  “They’re done for,” a voice shouted. “Let’s ride.”

  There was the thunder of hoofbeats, and then but for the weeping of women aboard the train, only the chuffing of the locomotive in the quietness of the night. Fearfully, the conductor crept down the coach’s iron steps as the fireman and engineer approached.

  “My God,” said the conductor in a trembling voice. “My God.”

  “This one’s alive,” the engineer said, kneeling beside Wes, “but not by much.”

  “His friend ain’t no better,” said the fireman. “I can’t find a pulse.”

  “Let me try the big artery in the neck,” the engineer said.

  “Is he dead?” the conductor asked.

  “Not quite,” said the engineer, “but he may not last long. Let’s get them aboard. If we can reach Dodge in time, maybe we can save them.”

  “We’re a good two hours away,” the fireman said.

  “Not if we highball it,” the engineer said.

  “That’s dangerous at night,” said the conductor.

  But the engineer and fireman quickly carried Wes and El Lobo back into the passenger coach and left on the run for the locomotive’s cab. The passengers who had remained in the coach quickly moved to the far end, avoiding the critically wounded men. With a blast of the locomotive’s whistle, it surged ahead, its pale headlight barely penetrating the darkness.

  “By God,” said the fireman, “I hope there ain’t nothin’ on the track between here and Dodge.”

  “We’ll have to roust out somebody when we get there,” the engineer said. “The railroad must be notified immediately. This kind of publicity could be hell.”

  The westbound reached Dodge forty minutes early, and the division chief, Foster Hagerman, was still in his office. He was beside the track when the engineer and fireman swung down from the cab.

  “We need a doctor, quick,” the engineer said.

  “Get a doctor here as quickly as you can,” Hagerman ordered, passing money to the driver of a waiting hack. “Now,” said Hagerman to the train men, “while we’re waiting for the doctor, tell me what happened.”

  The conductor had remained with Wes and El Lobo in the passenger coach. Quickly, the engineer and fireman told of being held at gunpoint, being forced to stop the train, and the magnitude of the gunfire that had followed.

  “There were more men than the two who forced you to stop the train, then,” Hagerman said.

  “Yes,” said the engineer. “There might have been a dozen. When they rode away, we heard many horses.”

  The hack returned, bringing Dr. Hamilton, a bespectacled little man that Foster Hagerman knew.

  “Another holdup?” Dr. Hamilton asked.

  “Something even more senseless,” said Hagerman. “The train was stopped and two of the passengers were shot. They’re in the coach next to the caboose, and they’re in a bad way.”

  Dr. Hamilton took his satchel and headed for the passenger coach, followed by the engineer, the fireman, and Foster Hagerman. The rest of the passengers had left the coach when the train had reached Dodge. The seating being inadequate, Wes and El Lobo were lying in the aisle. Beyond them, Empty stood there growling fiercely.

  “My God,” said Hagerman, “that’s Nathan Stone’s dog.”

  Both Wes and El Lobo lay on their backs. Blood had soaked the fronts of their shirts and there was no sign of life.

  “We must get them out of here, where there’s plenty of light and hot water,” Dr. Hamilton said. “We’ll need blankets and the use of that hack to get them to the hospital.”

  But Foster Hagerman stood there speechless, his eyes on the pale face of Wes Stone.

  “Move,” the doctor snapped. “There’s no time to lose.”

  “There should be blankets in the depot,” said the engineer. “Mr. Hagerman?”

  “Yes,” Hagerman said, “I’ll get them.”

  Hagerman returned with four blankets, and with the help of the railroad men El Lobo and Wes were bundled up and carried to the waiting hack. Growling, Empty followed.

  “To the hospital, quickly,” Dr. Hamilton ordered, climbing up beside the hack’s driver.

  The hack clattered away, Empty running along beside it.

  “Those men have horses and saddles in the boxcar,” said the conductor. “Wh
at about them?”

  “Unload them,” Hagerman said. “I’ll see to them.”

  “You seemed to recognize the dog,” the engineer said. “Do you know either of the two wounded men?”

  “One of them,” Hagerman said, “but he can’t possibly be the man I knew. If he lives, I have the feeling he’ll have a story to tell.”

  When the horses had been unloaded from the boxcar, Hagerman locked the saddles in his office. Leading the two horses, he started for the livery across the street from the Dodge House. Leaving the horses to be tended, he hurried to Dr. Hamilton’s house, the rear of which served as a hospital. The doctor’s wife served as his nurse, and she met Hagerman at the door. Hagerman spoke.

  “Two men were brought here, Ida. Are they ... ?”

  “They’re alive,” said Ida Hamilton, “but that’s all I can tell you until the doctor brings some word.”

  “I’ll wait,” Hagerman said.

  Hagerman waited almost two hours before Dr. Hamilton emerged from his operating room.

  “They’re alive,” said the doctor, “and God alone knows why. The Indian was hit four times, any one of which could have been fatal. The other young man had three pieces of lead in him, one of them near the spine. They’ve lost an enormous amount of blood, and I can’t promise that either of them will last the night. If they do, they’ll have a chance.”

  “Did you search them for personal belongings?” Hagerman asked.

  “No,” said Dr. Hamilton. “I’ve had my hands full, trying to keep them alive. This is the most brutal thing I’ve ever seen. Have you any idea why it happened?”

  “None,” Hagerman replied, “but somebody wanted them dead badly enough to stop the train and gun them down. I’m wondering if the person or persons responsible might not try again, if they learn these men are still alive.”

  “My wife and I will be looking in on them for the rest of the night,” said Hamilton.

  “That’s well and good,” Hagerman said, “but this must be reported to the sheriff, and I’m going to ask him to post a guard here for the next several days.”

  “Perhaps you should,” said the doctor. “They’re not going to be in any condition to defend themselves. If they live, it’ll be weeks before they’re on their feet.”

  Hagerman reported the shooting to the sheriff, and his request for a guard outside the doctor’s house was granted. He then returned to his room at the Dodge House. Tomorrow, Harley Stafford would be returning from Colorado on the eastbound, and Harley would be vitally interested in the critically wounded young man whom he had once befriended. Only a boy then, his name had been Wes Tremayne.... 7

  Dodge City, Kansas. October 21, 1884.

  With a blast of its whistle, the eastbound approached the depot. Only one passenger waited to board. Grover, bound for Wichita, carried a leather suitcase. Breakfasting at Delmonico‘s, he had heard talk of the ambush and of the two shooting victims who were under guard at Dr. Hamilton’s. He thought grimly of the men he would be meeting in Wichita, and their failed mission. When the train shuddered to a stop, Foster Hagerman was standing beside the track. Harley Stafford stepped down.

  “What is it?” Harley asked. “Something important?”

  “I think so,” said Hagerman. “Come into the office.” Harley sat down, moving to the edge of his chair as Hagerman told him of the tragic ambush and of the two victims lying near death at Dr. Hamilton’s house.

  “I thought I was seeing a ghost,” Hagerman said.

  “The kid we knew as Wes Tremayne is the very image of Nathan Stone as a young man, and he has Nathan’s dog with him.”

  “I reckon there’s no doubt as to who he is, then,” said Harley. “Who is the gent who was gunned down with him?”

  “I have no idea,” Hagerman said. “He’s an Indian, and was wounded more critically than Wes. They’ve lost a lot of blood, but they’re still alive. Dr. Hamilton says they have a chance.”

  “I’d like to see them,” said Harley. “Do you know where the bushwhackers stopped the train?”

  “The engineer said it’s a hundred miles east of here. There should be plenty of broken glass from the coach windows. When will you be riding out?” Hagerman asked.

  “Soon as I look in on Wes and his friend,” said Harley. “If those murdering bastards can be found, I’ll track them down.”

  Chapter 6

  Wichita, Kansas. October 21, 1884.

  “You have all the money you’re going to get,” Grover said. “We don’t pay for failure.”

  “They can’t be alive,” said Jernigan. “Not after all the lead we poured into them.”

  There was angry agreement from Jernigan’s companions, and some of them had their thumbs hooked in their gunbelts.

  “They’re in Dodge and they’re very much alive,” Grover said.

  “Then by God, we’ll go there and finish ‘em,” said Dixon.

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Grover said. “You’re finished in Kansas. You’ll lose yourselves in Indian territory or ride to Texas.”

  “And if we don‘t,” said Jernigan, “what do you aim to do about it?”

  “Do my civic duty and turn the lot of you over to the law,” Grover said smugly.

  “You double-crossin’ bastard,” said Jernigan, “we never done nothin’ you didn’t pay us to do.”

  “But you have no proof,” Grover said, “and who’s going to believe a bunch of killers? Besides, I can produce enough witnesses to hang all of you ten times over.”

  “Yeah,” said Dixon. “Paid witnesses.”

  “Nonetheless effective,” Grover said. “Now get out.”

  “We’re goin‘.” Jernigan snarled. “But you ain’t seen the last of us.”

  “Oh, but I have,” Grover said. “One way or another.”

  As Foster Hagerman and Harley Stafford approached Dr. Hamilton’s house, Empty came to meet them.

  “That’s Empty, Nathan’s dog,” said Harley. “He remembers me.”

  “Ida’s been feeding and watering him,” Hagerman said, “but she can’t get close, and he won’t go into the house.”

  “Maybe he’ll go with me,” said Harley. “He needs to know Wes is still alive.”

  Hagerman knocked and Ida opened the door, but even with Harley’s urging, Empty stopped short of entering the house.

  “We’d like to look in on them, Ida,” Hagerman said.

  “That’ll be up to the doctor,” said Ida.

  Dr. Hamilton had heard them come in, and he entered the room, closing the door behind him.

  “They’re no worse,” the doctor said, “but not a great deal improved.”

  “Are we allowed to see them?” Hagerman asked.

  “Perhaps for a minute,” said Dr. Hamilton.

  Harley and Hagerman followed the doctor into the room where there were two beds. Both wounded men were sheathed in bandages to the chin. Harley looked at El Lobo only briefly before turning his attention to the other bed.

  “It’s been more than four years since he rode out, callin’ himself Wes Tremayne,” said Harley, “but he’s the very image of Nathan Stone as I knew him.”

  “Nathan never spoke of a son,” Hagerman said, “but I think we’re lookin’ at him. I’d say he’ll have quite a story to tell, when he’s able to talk.”

  “Which may not be for another week,” said Dr. Hamilton. “Out.”

  “We have a stake in that kid,” Harley said when he and Hagerman had left the house and had started back to the depot. “I aim to trail that bunch of varmints that stopped the train.”

  “Up to a point,” said Hagerman. “There’s a limit as to how far we can go and have it considered railroad business.”

  “Then don’t call it railroad business,” Harley said. “I haven’t forgotten that holdup near Boulder, when I was gunned down. Nathan Stone trailed the outlaws all the way to Arizona Territory and brought back the gold. What I can’t do for Nathan, I can do for Wes.”

  “I
understand,” Hagerman said. “Take a few days’ leave and do what you must.”

  “I’m obliged,” said Harley. “The next gold shipment’s a week away. I’ll be here in time for that.”

  *The Autumn of the Gun (Book 3)

  Dodge City, Kansas. October 27, 1884.

  Five days after Wes and El Lobo had been taken to Dr. Hamilton‘s, Wes opened his eyes. On the sixth day, he spoke.

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re at Dr. Hamilton‘s, in Dodge,” Ida Hamilton said.

  “My amigo,” said Wes. “El Lobo.”

  “Your friend’s in the bed next to you,” Ida said, “but don’t be moving around. You’ve been badly hurt, and your wounds haven’t had time to heal.”

  Hearing voices, Dr. Hamilton came in.

  “Hold off on the talk,” said Hamilton. “You’re not all that strong.”

  “Sí,” El Lobo grunted weakly. “No can move.”

  “You have no business moving,” said Hamilton. “You were shot four times, and all you need is to start those wounds bleeding again.”

  That same day, Foster Hagerman received a telegram from Harley Stafford, in Kansas City. It read: “Leaving on westbound today.”

  When the train pulled into Dodge, Harley stepped down from the passenger coach and led his horse from a boxcar. Hagerman was waiting for him.

  “I didn’t have time to ride here and then return to Kansas City for the gold shipment,” said Harley, “so I went there first.”

  “What did you learn?” Hagerman asked.

  “Not much,” said Harley. “There were ten men involved in the ambush, and I trailed them to Wichita. I lost them there, but picked them up again when they rode out to the south. I had to give it up when they reached Indian territory, so that I could get back to Kansas City to ride with this gold shipment. How is Wes and his friend?”

  “Able to talk a little,” Hagerman said. “They should be stronger by the time you’re back from Boulder. I’ll take your horse to the livery.”