The End of the Trail Page 7

  Pat’s face reddened. He said ominously, “You’re gettin’ too smart for your britches, young man. If you keep on plaguing me, I’ll send you straight home tomorrow.”

  Dock knew his father well enough to shut up. He went to the wash basin and dipped the tips of his fingers in the cold water, began dabbing at his face cautiously.

  The door opened and Sam came in. He and Ezra had the room next door. He said cheerfully, “Looks like we’ll maybe have some fun this trip after all, huh?”

  Pat said, “We’ll have fun enough when we get to Sanctuary Flat.”

  “Maybe before we get there too,” Sam suggested eagerly. “’Cordin’ to what the sheriff said, that there Runyon gang must be hidin’ out in the mountains where we’re headed. If we should jest happen tuh run ’cross ’em while we’re huntin’ a trail across the Divide, I reckon it wouldn’t hurt none to earn that reward money while we’re about it.”

  Pat Stevens sank down on the edge of the bed, shaking his head angrily. “We’re not up here to chase mine holdups. I don’t want any truck with the Runyon gang. Come on, Dock. You ready for supper?”

  “Sure. You betcha.” Dock hastily wiped the trail-dust from his face with a damp towel and tossed it aside. Ezra met them outside the door, and the four of them went down to the lobby together.

  Half a dozen men were in the lobby now, gathered about the desk and talking excitedly to the clerk. One of them looked up and said something as the three men and boy descended the stairs, and the group became instantly silent.

  One man detached himself from the others and met the quartet at the foot of the stairs. He was a thin man of medium height, wearing a floppy black hat, gray woolen shirt, and muddy leather boots laced up tightly about his calves.

  He said, “I want to have a word with you, Mr. Stevens,” in a quiet, determined voice.

  Until he spoke, Pat didn’t recognize him as Dexter Van Urban, the Eastern railroad builder and one of the five members of the Sanctuary Cattle Syndicate of Denver.

  Pat said, “Sure, Mr. Van Urban. These here are my pardners …”

  Van Urban made an impatient gesture. “I know who your friends are. It’s all over town by this time. Please come upstairs with me to Mr. Raine’s room.”

  “O. Manley Raine?” Pat demanded in surprise. “What’re you an’ him doin’ here in Fairplay?”

  “Please, Stevens.” Van Urban took his arm. “I prefer not to discuss these matters in public.”

  “Sure,” muttered Pat. He told the others, “Go ahead to the restaurant next door an’ start supper. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  He climbed the stairs silently beside Van Urban. Anger was boiling up inside him at the way he was being treated like an office clerk, but he kept his anger in check until Van Urban opened a door and ushered him into a room where the Denver bank president was seated in a rocking chair by the window.

  He stepped inside and waited for Van Urban to close the door before demanding, “Are you two fellers following me? I don’t like it if you are. If you can’t trust me to do a job, you can hire someone else.”

  “We can easily explain our presence in Fairplay,” Van Urban told him incisively, “and we want you to do the same.”

  “Start explaining then.”

  “It’s simple enough. We haven’t followed you as you seem to think. We’re examining the possibility of running a railroad up here from Denver. I’ve been making a field survey and Mr. Raine is arranging to float a bond issue to finance the line. Can you explain yourself as satisfactorily?”

  “Why should I?” Pat demanded. “How do you figure it’s your business?”

  “You are supposed to be doing an important job for the syndicate of which Mr. Raine and I are both members,” Van Urban reminded him. “We have a large sum of money at stake in Sanctuary Flat. If you intend to spend your time chasing bandits through the mountains for a five-thousand dollar reward, we think you should at least notify the syndicate so we can make other arrangements to take care of our problem on Sanctuary Flat.”

  “That’s certainly not too much to ask,” said the banker peevishly, folding his hands over his fat paunch and nodding.

  “What makes you think I’m chasing bandits?” Pat asked angrily.

  “It’s all over town,” the banker told him. “Everyone knows the sheriff has sent for you and your cronies to catch the holdup men that he can’t catch.”

  “The hell it’s all over town,” Pat grated. “Suppose I tell you both I didn’t know anything about the mine holdup till after we hit town tonight?”

  “Then I think you’d better explain what you’re doing here with a pack outfit instead of on your way to Sanctuary Flat where you agreed to go,” Van Urban told him cuttingly.

  “What makes you think I’m not on my way to Sanctuary Flat?”

  “Making a detour through Fairplay?” Van Urban raised his eyebrows incredulously. “Really, Stevens! All of us know the only route into the Flat is by rail from Pueblo.”

  Being a fair man himself, Pat Stevens recognized at once the justice of their criticism. He’d feel the same way if he’d hired a man to do an important job and then found him traipsing off somewhere else as though he had no intention of doing the job.

  He said quietly, “Two men have already got themselves killed by ridin’ a train into the Flat to find out what’s happenin’ to yore cattle.”

  “True enough,” O. Manley Raine said impatiently. “But you knew all about that when you accepted the assignment. Are you trying to tell us you got cold feet after thinking it over?”

  Pat glared at the fat bank president and fought back his anger. He wasn’t in the habit of explaining himself to anyone, but he did feel that these men deserved an explanation of his intentions.

  “I’ve got a hunch there’s another way to get down into the Flat without bein’ marked for murder like yore other two men were,” he told them gruffly. He went on to explain his scheme for pretending to be exploring out a Pony Express route across the Divide.

  “That way, we’ll have a chance to look around in the Flat some without anybody suspectin’ what we’re doing. I even brought my boy along with me so’s it’d look right.”

  “An excellent plan, it seems to me,” Mr. Raine approved when Pat finished.

  “But what about this story that’s all over town about you being here to chase down the Runyon gang?” Van Urban demanded.

  Pat shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t help what people think. If that’s all you want, I’ll go on and eat supper.”

  “I owe you an apology,” Van Urban told him stiffly. He extended his hand. “You know how anxious we are to get that Sanctuary Flat matter cleared up.”

  “Shore. I don’t blame you none for wonderin’ what I was doing up here.” Pat gripped the engineer’s hand, nodded to the banker, and started out. He stopped in the doorway to warn them. “Be best if you don’t say anything to anybody about where we’re really headin’. Let ’em think we’re after the Runyon gang if they want to.”

  Both men assured him his secret was safe with them, and Pat went down to join the others at supper.

  9

  Pat Stevens found Dock sitting alone at a table in the restaurant next door to the hotel. He sat down beside his son and asked gruffly, “Where’d Sam an’ Ezra go?”

  “Other side of the hotel to Happy Jack’s saloon. They said for us to go ahead and eat and not wait for them.”

  Pat’s face tightened grimly. He started to get up, then settled back with a shrug. “They’re old enough to know better, I reckon.” He picked up a fly-specked menu. “What do you want for supper?”

  Dock’s young eyes were shining. “Old enough to know better than what, Dad?”

  “Than to start drinkin’ before eating supper. Have you looked at the menu?”

  “Yeh. I want corned beef an’ cabbage, Dad. We hardly ever have it at home.”

  “I’ll try it too,” Pat agreed. A waitress came to their table and Pat gave the o
rder.

  “Who was that man in the hotel that took you back upstairs, Dad?”

  “Fellow I know from Denver. He builds railroads.”

  “Gee! You know lots of important people, don’t you? What’d he want?”

  “Talk over a little business. You forget about us seein’ him, Dock.”

  “Is it a secret?”

  “Sort of.” Pat buttered a thick slice of bread and began to munch on it. The waitress brought them two bowls of thin soup and a plate of crackers. The soup was hot and tasteless. Pat crumbled some crackers into his bowl, and Dock did the same.

  The boy was sitting facing the door, and as he was finishing his soup he looked up and said, “There’s that man we met on the street. He’s the sheriff, ain’t he? He’s looking around like he’s hunting for someone.”

  Pat turned in his chair to catch Sheriff Hartly’s eye. The sheriff came to their table, smiling broadly. “Thought I’d find you here. Still the best place to eat in Fairplay.”

  “Take a load off yore feet,” Pat urged hospitably. “Sit and eat with us.”

  “I’ll drink a cup of coffee.” Sheriff Hartly pulled back a chair and sat down. “Just came from supper at home but my old lady won’t make coffee at night. She’s got a fool notion it keeps her awake, so I can’t have none either.”

  The waitress brought two steaming plates of corned beef and cabbage, and Pat ordered a glass of milk for Dock, coffee for the sheriff and himself.

  “Where are your two pards at?” Hartly asked.

  “Samplin’ Happy Jack’s likker, I reckon.”

  The sheriff looked serious. “Might be better if they stayed sober tonight.”

  “You try tellin’ ’em that.”

  “I mean it, Pat. I ought to warn you, there’s liable to be trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t rightly know. But Five-Fingers Martin has spread it all over town that you-all are on the trail of the Runyon gang.”

  Pat had his mouth full of corned beef. He chewed it slowly and asked, “What of it?”

  “The gang has got friends here in town, Pat.” Sheriff Hartly leaned forward earnestly. “It’s a cinch that somebody in Fairplay is workin’ with ’em, keeping track of gold shipments an’ tipping ’em off when to pull their holdups.”

  “And yo’re afraid their friends might cause us trouble tonight?”

  The sheriff spread out his hands. “It stands to reason. You and your Powder Valley pardners have got a reputation for bringin’ back your men dead or alive. I reckon the Runyon outfit would like mighty well to scare you off the trail ’fore you get started.”

  “I told you we’re not on their trail.”

  The sheriff nodded blandly. “I know you tole me that. I don’t blame you for denyin’ it, but nobody’s going to believe you, Pat.”

  Pat Stevens shrugged resignedly. “I can’t help what they believe. I tell you we’re headin’ up across the Divide to hunt out a new Express route.”

  “Shore. But everybody thinks that’s just a blind. You can’t deny you’ll be going right up towards the Runyon hideout.”

  Pat sighed and occupied himself with his food for a couple of minutes. Then he said, “Tell me more about the Runyon gang. Who are they?”

  “Couple of brothers. Art an’ Cleve. They were prospectors hereabouts years ago an’ made a little strike that one of the big companies beat ’em out of. You know. ’Twas all legal an’ correct, but it soured ’em both and they turned outlaw. Went back up into the hills and hid out there an’ began pulling mine holdups. Little ones at first, but then their gang got bigger and they got bolder. Last Saturday was the worst they’ve done. Held up the Double-Shot Mine an’ killed three guards. Got away with fifty thousand dollars’ worth of gold.”

  “Can’t you get up a posse an’ track ’em down?” Pat demanded.

  “I can get up a posse all right, but trackin’ them down is somethin’ different. We lose the trail at the same place every time,” the sheriff went on slowly. “They leave town on the old stage road headin’ south, and the tracks turn up Snowslide Canyon where a slide caught that last stage thirty years ago. That slide blocked the canyon half-way up, and the road ends there. So do their tracks, Pat. Just like they took wings an’ flew when they got there.”

  “That don’t make sense,” Pat said flatly.

  “Sure it don’t,” the sheriff agreed. “But that’s what happens. Everybody knows yore one-eyed pardner is the best tracker in seven states an’ they figure he’ll succeed where all the rest of us have failed. That’s why I’m afraid there’ll be trouble tonight. Anybody here in town that’s in cahoots with the gang is going to do their best to keep Ezra from gettin’ on the trail tomorrow.”

  Pat had finished his supper. He shoved back the empty plate and pulled a wedge of pie toward him. He took a swallow of coffee and asked, “Have you got any idea who’s in cahoots with ’em here?”

  “Nary a one.”

  “What do you know about Five-Fingers Martin?” Pat asked harshly.

  The sheriff looked surprised. “He runs the livery stable an’ minds his own business.”

  “Did you know he was a jail-bird?”

  “I sure didn’t.”

  Pat nodded. “We ran into him down in Texas. Must of been all of fifteen years ago. He was robbin’ stages then. Sam an’ Ezra an’ me cleaned up his gang. He got his arm shot off in the round-up and went to jail. We didn’t know he was out until we saw him here today.”

  “D’yuh think … he’s mixed up with the Runyon brothers?”

  Pat shrugged. “The livery stable would be a handy place to get hold of information about gold shipments and such. I wouldn’t accuse him,” he went on slowly. “He acted glad enough to see us this afternoon. Doesn’t carry any grudge for what happened in Texas near as I could tell. I’m not going to worry about anything he might do.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t be only just him … if he is the one that’s in with the gang. We’ve got a bunch of tough hombres in Fairplay, Pat. A lot of them that carry grudges against the big mineowners and sort of sympathize with the Runyon gang’s holdups. You see, the gang is smart. They never raid the little mines owned by local prospectors like they used to be. They always hit the big fellers. There’s a lot of people in town that wouldn’t like to see Art and Cleve Runyon caught.”

  Pat’s eyes glowed hotly. “You think feelin’ might get ’roused up against us by someone like Five-Fingers Martin goin’ around sayin’ we’ve come here to trail the Runyons down?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Hartly confessed. “I’d feel easier if you-all would pull out tonight.”

  Pat shook his head. “We’re sleeping in the hotel tonight.” He finished his coffee and set the cup down with a thump. “An’ that’s where you’re going right now,” he told Dock.

  “Aw Dad! An’ miss all the fun mebby?”

  “Maybe,” Pat said grimly. He got up and told Hartly, “Thanks. I’ll park my boy upstairs in the hotel room and then try to round up Ezra and Sam and keep ’em sober. Come on, Dock.” He stalked out of the restaurant.

  Fairplay was beginning to come alive. The boardwalk outside the restaurant was crowded with bearded miners and spurred ranch-hands, intermingled with a sprinkling of men in regular working clothes from the smelting plants about the city. There was ceaseless movement back and forth from one saloon to another, boisterous shouted greetings as men recognized old friends they hadn’t seen for months.

  Dock pressed close to his father, his eyes alight with excitement as he viewed the busy street. “Can’t I stay out a little while?” he pleaded. “I won’t be in the way. Honest I won’t. Just long enough for one tiny peek into Happy Jack’s or some place like that.”

  They were at the front door of the hotel. Pat hesitated, looking down into Dock’s shining face. It was still quite early. The crowds were sober and well-behaved. He said, “I’ll let you come into Happy Jack’s with me for a little if you
’ll promise to stay right with me an’ then go up to bed without an argument when I say so.”

  “Sure. I promise, Dad.” Dock tugged at his hand gleefully and Pat let himself be pulled past the hotel entrance to the swinging doors leading in to Happy Jack’s Emporium of Pleasure.

  They entered a long narrow room with a mahogany bar running the full length of it. The entire wall behind the bar was an unbroken mirror from floor to low ceiling. Four bartenders were busily at work supplying the needs of the fifty or more men lining the mahogany, and Happy Jack himself lounged at the head of the bar to greet newcomers and call a cheery good-night to departing customers.

  Happy Jack was a tremendous man. He stood well over six feet in height and had a round torso the size of a water barrel. He had silvery hair and a pair of magnificent mustaches dyed dead black and curled upward at the ends, with a span of at least eight inches. All of his front teeth were solid gold and they shone resplendently when he laughed, which was practically all the time. He wore a white silk shirt and embroidered vest, with a huge diamond stickpin in his flowered cravat, and diamonds flashed on all four fingers of both hands.

  When Pat Stevens pushed open the swinging doors and entered, the proprietor let out a resonant bellow of welcome, “Pat Stevens! by all that’s holy. The law-man of Powder Valley, big as life and twice as handsome. Come in, man. I’ve the best in the house waiting for you.”

  He lumbered forward like a huge friendly bear, showing all his gold teeth in a wide smile and engulfing Pat’s hand with a glitter of diamond rings.

  “Who’s the young fellow?” he roared, putting his other hand on top of Dock’s head. “I’d say he was yours, Pat, except I doubt you could spawn a son that handsome.”

  “You’d have to see his mother to understand how that come about,” Pat admitted with a grin. “Shake hands with Happy Jack, Dock.”

  Dock put his hand out and said in a small voice, “I’m pleased to meetcha, Mr. Happy Jack.”

  Their host chuckled thunderously and stooped to lift Dock to his shoulder. He strode to the bar and set him on it, asking Pat over his shoulder, “Is the youngster weaned off root beer yet?”