Fight for Powder Valley! (16 page)

“And I suppose,” Pat said disgustedly, “that you didn't think anyone would suspect anything was wrong when they found the coachman all tied up in the stable?”

“We figgered that, too,” Ezra assured him proudly. “In the note we was gonna have Biloff say 'twas all a joke some old friends had played on him, an' not to pay no never-mind to what Jake said about us.”

“All right,” Pat agreed in a weary tone, “so you had it all planned just right.”

“Yeh. But that fat man ruined everythin' by callin' the police. They were chasin' Sam when he got to where he was to pick me up. He slowed jest enough fer me to hop in, an' then we went on hell-fer leather. We knowed then that a note from Biloff to his wife wouldn't fix things up,” Ezra concluded mournfully.

“And so?” Pat prompted.

“An' so we pulled off on a side-road this side of Littleton an' dodged the blue-coats that was after us. An' Sam said I better take the team back, 'cause if we got caught we didn't wanta be hung fer hawsestealin'.”

“I reckon you thought kidnapin' Biloff wasn't very important?” Pat asked sarcastically.

“Well, it shore ain't like hawse-stealin'. Tha's one thing you know dang well Sam an' me wouldn't do.” Ezra sounded excessively virtuous as he pointed out the difference between a mere kidnaping and the black crime of stealing horses.

“All right,” muttered Pat. “So you took the hawses back. What'd Sam do?”

“He took out acrost country afoot with Biloff in front of him lookin' green aroun' the gills,” Ezra chuckled. “Sam figgered he might could ketch a train-ride or somethin' an' get Biloff to Powder Valley that-away without gettin' caught.”

“What happened when you took the hawses back?”

“I stopped down the street a ways an' Injuned up to see what was what. There was policemen there an' I heard 'em talkin'. They said they had Pat Stevens locked up in jail … thinkin' you was the one that'd helped Sam do the job. So I jest hot-footed it down fer a look-see … an there you was. An' here we are,” Ezra ended happily.

“Yeh. In the middle of the worst mess we was
ever
in,” Pat groaned. “We dasn't show our faces in Denver. The good Lord only knows where Sam is an' what's happenin' to him. An' no matter what happens to him,
we
can't lift a finger to help. You an' him sure fixed things up right.”

He stopped abruptly as he heard footsteps outside the box-car door. There was the rattling of an iron bolt, then receding footsteps.

Ezra chuckled in the silence that followed. “No need to fret ourselves now,” he announced comfortably. “We're locked in till we hit Pueblo whether we like it or not.”

14

Sam Sloan crouched down behind a haystack in a meadow south of Denver and watched Ezra drive away in the glittering surrey behind the team of matched bays belonging to Mr. Biloff.

The owner of the team and surrey sat disconsolately on the stubbled ground in front of Sam. Mr. Biloff had lost his hat in Sam's wild dash for freedom and his long black locks hung dankly on each side of his ashen face. For the first time in a lifetime devoted to cheating other people, Mr. Biloff felt the clammy fingers of fear clutching his heart. He was convinced that Sam Sloan was crazy—and his one-eyed partner also. They had both refused to talk to him since rudely snatching him away from the curb in front of the Exchange Building. He hadn't been able to make head or tail of the brief words they had exchanged in his hearing when Ezra swung aboard the surrey as it careened out Broadway in front of pursuing police.

After eluding their pursuers and turning off on this side-road, they had stopped at an isolated spot and made him get out and crouch down behind a haystack where he couldn't overhear their conversation. Then the big, one-eyed man had driven away alone while the black-faced man wearing Jake's uniform got out and strolled over to squat down beside the financier.

The whole affair would have been ludicrous, like a fantastic scene lifted bodily from a stage melodrama, had not Mr. Biloff been convinced that both the men were maniacs. Sam's appearance was certainly laughable enough to fit him for end man in a minstrel show. Jake's uniform fitted him badly, and the cowboy boots showing beneath too-short pants were fully as ridiculous as the way in which the oversized uniform cap kept slipping down over his coal-black features.

But Mr. Biloff's sense of humor seemed to have deserted him entirely. Instead of laughing, a cold tremor of fear sent him into a fit of shuddering each time he dared to glance in Sam's direction. He had little doubt that the crazy man would pull his gun and kill him at any moment.

For Mr. Biloff now knew who the black-faced impostor was. He hadn't recognized Sam Sloan in his disguise until Ezra joined the party. But there could be no mistaking Ezra. Biloff's thoughts had flown immediately back to Powder Valley and to Ezra's partner whom he had encountered at noon in front of his office. He knew both the men had been closely associated with Pat Stevens in the past; and the true meaning of the whole monstrous riddle had at once become clear to him. Ever since he had realized the identity of Sam Sloan, Judson Biloff had been preparing himself for death. In his case, there wasn't much he could do to prepare for the end. He had been a cruel and unscrupulous man for too many years to be hypocritical and attempt to change now. He only hoped his nerve would last and he would be able to meet death bravely.

When Sam settled back from watching Ezra drive away, Biloff turned a haggard face and unblinking eyes in his direction. He demanded hoarsely, “Why don't you
do
it? What are you waiting for? Isn't this as good a place as any?”

Sam pushed Jake's cap onto the back of his head and squinted at Biloff in mild wonderment. “Why don't I do
what?
”

“You' know. W-what you're planning. Oh, I can tell. I know you have some absurd idea that my death will change things in Powder Valley. But I assure you it won't. The project will go on. My death will change nothing.”

Biloff wet his lips and waited tensely to see if this logical appeal had any effect at all upon Sam. If the man still retained an iota of sanity he might be persuaded to abandon his murderous plan.

Sam slowly shook his head. “Killin' you would do one thing. It'd get a stink off the earth. Not that you mightn't keep on stinkin' after you was daid,” he went on thoughtfully, “but I don't reckon it'd be as bad. No more'n any other daid man would stink, I reckon.”

Biloff shuddered and gulped down his heart which had crawled up into his throat and threatened to choke him. His worst fears were confirmed. The man was a stark maniac. No slightest doubt about that. The only possible course of action was to pretend to agree with him. He coughed and forced a dry “Ha-ha,” from his lips. “Most amusing. Yes, indeed. You are a droll fellow.”

“What's 'at yo're callin' me?” Sam started forward, his eyes flashing angrily.

“No offense intended. None whatever. No indeed. I merely meant …”

Sam growled, “Shut up.” He irritably rubbed his stubble of beard and aggravated the itching underneath the heavy coat of shoe-blacking. “I got enough to worry about without tryin' to figger out them fancy words that I don' know what they mean.”

He settled back against the pile of hay and relapsed into glum silence.

They sat that way for a long time. The sun was sinking behind the high range of serrated peaks westward and the lengthening shadows slowly merged into dusk.

A damp chill crept into Biloff's thin shanks from unaccustomed contact with Mother Earth, but with it came a warm glow of revived hope. Sam seemed in no immediate hurry to do away with him. He appeared, instead, to be waiting for something to happen. Biloff could not guess what he was waiting for, but any reprieve from immediate death was welcome. He kept thinking the police would surely arrive and search them out. It seemed preposterous that they could have lost the trail of the fleeing surrey. If he got out of this alive he'd certainly lead a movement for a thorough shake-up of the city police department. His taxes helped pay their salaries.

While Biloff was working himself up into a pleasant lather of rage against the inefficiency of the police, it was steadily growing darker in the hay-field.

Sam arose abruptly, as though he had made up his mind about something important. He said, “Take off yore coat an' yore tie an' collar.”

Biloff stared up at him in fright. “Wh-at for?”

“Because I say so. Yank 'em off.” Sam scowled and made a gesture toward the .45 in his waistband.

Biloff got to his feet unsteadily and removed his coat. Sam threw off his uniform cap and the plum-colored tight jacket. He kicked a hole in the haystack and thrust the bundle of clothing inside. Biloff unfastened his collar and tie and removed them. Sam reached out his hand and ordered, “Gimme that coat.”

He took it and tried it on. It was tight across the shoulders and much too long in the sleeves. Sam smiled a terrifying smile as he buttoned it up and looked down at himself. “Now grab a handful of dirt and mess up yore face,” he directed harshly. “We're gonna be fixed so nobody won't recognize either of us when we start out.”

“When we start out … where?” Biloff quavered as he stooped and got a handful of dirt which he smeared over his face.

“To Powder Valley, of course.” Sam looked at him in surprise. “Where'd you reckon?”

“I didn't know, I'm sure. Why are we going to Powder Valley? And how?”

“There's a hangman's rope waitin' fer you in Powder Valley,” Sam told him harshly. “With a hunderd men hankerin' to pull it an' stretch that long neck of yours till it cracks. Awright. I reckon that'll do. You don't look like you b'long in no fancy city office now. If ever I seen a hard-lookin' tramp, you shore fill the bill.” Unexpectedly, Sam chuckled. In Biloff's ears, it sounded like fiendish merriment. “Nossir, I reckon we could walk right past a passel of
po
-lice right now an' they wouldn't do nothin' except mebby run us in jail for thirty days. Awright,” he ended abruptly. “Start walking. Don't stretch them long laigs too fast 'cause mine're short an' I'm wearin' ridin' boots. I'll be right behind with a-holt of my gun.”

Then began one of the most terrible experiences Mr. Biloff had ever undergone. It was only light enough to make out ground obstacles dimly, and Mr. Biloff stumbled forward slowly with the knowledge that any false move might bring a .45 slug into his back. It grew cold swiftly in the mile-high altitude once the sun had slid beneath the mountain peaks, and the cold gnawed into Biloff's coatless torso.

But he was afraid to argue, afraid to offer one word of opposition lest he smash the tenuous thread of sanity which he was positive was all that stood between him and immediate death.

It was a nightmarish journey westward through the straggling outskirts of the city until the financier finally struggled up the steep side of a railroad embankment and stumbled over the steel rails reaching southward from the city.

He floundered and fell face down upon the cinders and wooden ties between the rails, but Sam nudged him sharply with the toe of his boot and ordered, “Get up on yore hind laigs an' walk down the track. If we're lucky, we'll come to some switchyards or loadin' pens where mebby a train'll stop an' let us catch a ride. An' if we're not lucky you'll keep walkin' the ties all night.”

Biloff drew in a sobbing breath and struggled to his feet. The sharp cinders had torn his pants and scratched his bony knees cruelly as he fell. He knew he couldn't go on farther. Death would be preferable. He drew himself up with an assumption of dignity and folded his arms. “Can't we discuss this without going farther? I'm prepared to …”

Sam slapped his mouth with the back of his hand. He growled, “We ain't discussin' nothin'. You passed up yore chance fer that with Pat Stevens this mornin'. Start walkin' down the track.”

“But I'm ready to do anything …
anything …
”

“I don't figger on seein' the hangman's noose cheated.” Sam gave him a violent shove. “Get goin'.”

Judson Biloff got going. He bowed his head and floundered southward between the steel rails. A trickle of blood came from a split in his upper lip where Sam had slapped him. He sucked the blood noisily into his mouth and it was pleasant running down his parched throat.

They went on and on interminably into the blackness of the night. Each time Biloff fell face downward from sheer exhaustion, Sam stood over him and cursed him until he found a further remnant of strength that drew him to his feet and sent him on.

He lost all sense of time and of distance, until he began to hear a loud roaring in his ears and his bleared eyes saw a peculiar yellow light that spread out in front of them.

He had a momentary thought that they had been walking all night and this was daylight until Sam growled, “Awright. Slide down to one side less'n you want the train to run over us.”

Then he realized the roaring in his ears was the chugging of a locomotive toiling up the grade, and the yellow light came from the single headlight that glared balefully at them from the direction of the city.

Sam stooped over the land-company president and dragged him to his feet when he tripped over a rail and slid down the embankment.

“She's comin' slow an' easy up the grade,” Sam muttered. “Must be pullin' a heavy load. Mebby slow enough fer us to grab her while she goes by.”

Biloff's body was lax and his knees sagged. His mouth hung open and his breathing was loud and painful to hear.

Sam stared at him disgustedly in the yellow glow of the advancing headlight. “Yo're a Gawd-awful nuisance,” he declared. “You ain't gonna be no help a-tall catchin' a ride, are you?”