The predators, p.1
The Predators, page 1
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The Predators
Paul Lederer writing as Owen G. Irons
ONE
‘Predatory,’ Tombstone Jack said removing his hat to scratch at his thinly-thatched head. ‘I recognize the word, but I can’t seem to find a home for it.’
Thaddeus Folger crouched down beside Jack in the ribbon of shade cast by the railroad depot’s awning. Glancing up the long silver rails of track stretching to the prairie horizon, he explained, ‘It’s a matter of the railroad company paying us for what they’ve taken from us.’
‘They never took nothin’ from me,’ Jack replied, ‘Except once when the vice-president of the line was due to come through on an inspection, Garrett took my whiskey flask away.’
‘That’s what I mean!’ Thad Folger said loudly. He took Tombstone Jack by the lapels of his shabby tweed coat and drew him nearer. ‘They are downright predatory. They took what was yours, deprived you of your small comfort. They had no right to do that – anymore than they’ve had the right to take away your pride, to rob you of your proper position in life, to deny you your just desserts.’
‘You’re talking about them firing you, aren’t you?’ Jack said, removing Thad’s clutching fingers from his lapels.
‘Well … yes, that is one more example of their brazen disregard for their employees’ God-given rights.’
‘You were skunking away a crate of goods about every night that you were standing watch,’ Jack reminded Thad Folger. ‘Hardware, tinned food, dress fabric.…’
‘Only because they refused to pay me a living wage!’ Folger replied indignantly. ‘I was balancing the scales of injustice. A man has the right to lead a life of reasonable comfort.’
‘What you are really getting to – the long way around – is that you want me to help you rob the railroad,’ Jack said, cutting to the heart of the matter.
‘What I am saying,’ Thad Folger answered without abandoning his virtuous stance, ‘is that the railroad has put me in a position where I have no other choice but to seek redress. I was meanly treated. You, Jack, what have you left for your old age? I’ll tell you: nothing. Not even the memory of a well-spent and comfortably-rewarded life.’
‘That’s enough of this talk,’ Jack said, holding up a gnarled hand to fend off Folger’s cascade of words. ‘If you want me to help you hijack freight off the six-o’clock train, just say so!’
‘You have the right …!’
‘Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, I could use the money,’ Jack replied, rubbing his bristly chin.
‘That’s it,’ Colin Babbit said. ‘They’re coming in on the six o’clock train for a certainty.’ Henry Crimson, still looking doubtful, took the yellow Western Union telegram Babbit had placed on the banker’s desk and studied it.
‘Are you sure you can trust this Pierce Avery?’
‘Absolutely. We rode a lot of trails together before he got himself thrown off his horse and broke his leg. I told you, he’s the yard boss at the freight office in Tamarind Springs. He knows everything that is loaded on the trains down to the last nail.’
Henry Crimson leaned back in his green leather office chair and scratched at the back of his head, barely disturbing his pomaded hair which was parted in the middle. The banker smiled – or Babbit thought it was an attempt at a smile and his small blue eyes brightened behind the rimless bifocals he wore.
‘There’s a lot of money to be made in rifles,’ the banker said thoughtfully, now studying the narrow face of his potential partner. Babbit wore a full reddish mustache and it twitched now as he agreed with the banker.
‘You bet there is.’
The guns in question were the brand new Winchester ’73s being freighted to nearby Fort Thomas to replace the outdated .45-70 Springfields the army had been using for years. The breechloaders were slow to load and had long been obsolete. The War Department, it seemed, had belatedly come to recognize that, and was now prepared to arm their cavalry soldiers in the Western lands with modern weapons. This was the first shipment of the new rifles.
‘Will you need help?’ Henry Crimson asked.
‘Of course I will. Those rifle crates will be heavy. I’ll need a few strong men, a wagon to haul them away. Maybe a place to stash them until the heat is off.’ Colin Babbit was leaning on the banker’s desk now, his face intent. He desperately needed money. He was not much younger than Pierce Avery had been when he had shattered his leg in three places and found he would no longer be able to hit the trail. That he had found a job working for the railroad had been a boon for Pierce, but it didn’t pay much, and certainly the sedentary life of an office worker did not appeal to Colin Babbit. He needed to make his score, and now.
He had suggested the idea to Crimson one night in the Starshine Saloon. Both men were heavy drinkers, and Babbit had merely been looking for sympathy, maybe a suggestion. He had not known that Henry Crimson had been chipping away at the bank’s money for years and lived in constant fear of the territorial bank examiner finding out about it. It meant prison for sure unless he could find a way to replace the stolen funds.
Crimson had built a fine frame house for his chubby bride and indulged her beyond his salary. It wasn’t so much his own humiliation that would trouble him if he were arrested for embezzlement, but what Lena would have to endure, since the town’s ladies would surely ostracize her if Crimson were ever found out, and Lena took great pride in her position as one of the town’s leading matrons. One reason she had married the banker in the first place.
‘You know reliable men you can hire for the job?’ Henry Crimson asked.
‘I think so. Of course we’ll have to give them something in advance.’
‘Give me a price, Babbit. I’ll take care of that end of things.’ After all, what did a few dollars more matter now? He had already dug himself a hole too deep to crawl out of, and this promised to be a redemption – if Colin Babbit could pull it off.
‘I was thinking that we should hit the train when it stopped at Comanche Wells for water. We sure can’t rob the train right here in Westfield, not with the whole town looking. We’d be sure to be seen and there would likely be a gunfight.’
‘No, that’s no good,’ the banker agreed hastily. ‘Not in town, of course not. If you think Comanche Wells is the place.…’
‘It is. There’s flat land for miles around. The only people living there are the station master and a few jackrabbits,’ Colin said, trying for some humor to ease the tension which had been growing in the room. Now that the plan had been agreed to and established, both men knew that they were in too deep to pull out. If they failed they would have the law and the US Army as pursuers. It was a desperate plan, but Babbit could find no flaw in it. Out on the open plains, the train stopped for water for its boiler, would be an easy target. Babbit had already checked with Pierce Avery – there would be no passenger cars attached, so they didn’t have to concern themselves with some unexpectedly bold traveler taking a hand.
‘Find some men,’ Henry Crimson said, rising. The banker was taller than he seemed seated behind his desk. Arrow-thin, he and his somewhat pudgy wife were quite a sight when they went out walking and more than a few jokes had been made behind their backs. ‘And,’ Crimson added, readjusting his spectacles, ‘make sure they’re tough enough for the job. When you’ve done that and located a wagon, come back here and tell me how much money you’ll need to carry matters through.’
Babbit left without having shaken hands, and from his office window, Crimson could see the old trailsman striding down the main street toward the nearest saloon. He wished that things had not come this far, to the point where he was actually soliciting a criminal enterprise, but then again he had done it to himself. Not out of greed, he told himself, but out of love. His explanation did not stand up to self-examination in the brilliant light the desert sun beamed through his window. Sighing heavily he seated himself again. A few local ranchers had applied for loans lately, and he was going to have to turn them down. Not because he didn’t trust them, but only because he had frittered away a good portion of the bank’s money.
Babbit’s scheme had to work.
‘What do you figure,’ Tombstone Jack was asking Thad Folger.
‘It’s nearly dusk at six o’clock, this time of the year. The train will be stopping for about an hour to let the crew step down and grab some supper. There shouldn’t be anyone around – a few idlers and kids who like to watch the trains come and go, but outside of that, no one.
‘We pull a railroad freight truck up on the opposite side of the train and take what we can find and move quickly. Last week I got a shipment of ready-made town suits,’ Folger said, his voice lowering to a cunning whisper. ‘Sold them to the dry goods store on the cheap. They got a bargain; I got some good money out of it.’
‘We should be so lucky this time,’ Tombstone Jack said a little worriedly.
‘It’ll work fine,’ Folger said, slapping Jack on the shoulder. ‘If anyone sees you, they all know you work here. Who would question you? Is Garrett around that late?’ he inquired. The station master was a concern.
‘No, he knocks off at five and goes home to dinner unless there’s something important going on,’ Jack answered.
‘Outside of the marshal, there’s no one to worry about. Does Slattery ever come down here?’
‘To watch the trains?’ Jack asked. ‘Why? It’s the railroad’s business, not his.’ Besides, he thought, the fat town marshal hated even to lift himself out of his office chair for any reason. ‘No, he won’t be around.’
‘And Jack, the railroad won’t even know that anything is missing until it reaches the end of the line. That’s how I’ve gotten away with it this long.’
‘I still don’t like this much,’ Tombstone Jack said.
‘But you’re going through with it?’ Thad Folger asked a little anxiously.
‘Yes, I guess I am,’ Jack drawled.
‘We’ll need at least six men,’ Colin Babbit was saying in a near whisper as he sat in the Starshine Saloon across the table from Trevor Steele. ‘And a wagon.’
Trevor Steele had listened to Babbit’s plan with doubt and then with unexpressed eagerness. Rifles! He could use them for sure.
‘How can you be sure that the rifles are really on board?’ Steele asked and Babbit once more told the story of Pierce Avery, the man at the Tamarind Springs freight office.
‘And you trust him?’ Steele asked, biting at his lower lip.
‘Yes. He’s my friend, an old trail partner.’ Babbit smiled thinly, ‘And I promised him a cut of the profit.’
That was the same reason he was counting on Steele. The man had been known to do most anything for money. And Trevor Steele had a dozen tough men at his beck and call, waiting just for moments like this.
‘Comanche Wells, you figure?’ Steele asked thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I guess that is the place to hit the train. No citizens, no law around for miles.’
‘I’m going to start that way with a wagon as soon as I can rent one,’ Babbit said.
‘Hold on,’ Steele said as Babbit started to rise. ‘You haven’t told me who was going to pay my men?’
‘You don’t need to know. Just tell me how much you want and I’ll see that you have it within the hour.’
‘All right,’ Steele said unhappily. He liked to know the people he was working with. For one thing, that sort of information might come in handy later. He quoted what seemed an exorbitant price for his services and scribbled the number down on a scrap of paper in case Babbit’s memory faltered. Babbit stared at the pencil. Steele wrote the numbers as if using a carving knife. ‘No less, you understand?’ he asked with a veiled threat.
‘I’ll get it,’ Colin Babbit said uneasily, folding the paper and placing it in his shirt pocket. He hoped that Henry Crimson didn’t balk when he saw the figure. But Babbit had the idea that Crimson wasn’t using his own money for the operation anyway. Stepping outside into the harsh daylight, Babbit glanced at his steel pocket watch. There should be time to beat the train to Comanche Wells if he kept moving.
Fifteen minutes later Babbit was at the Trail’s End Stable, bargaining with the owner. Crimson had handed over the money without a comment, but his face, set into an unhappy scowl, revealed a sort of desperation. When Babbit had tracked down Trevor Steele standing at the bar of the Starshine talking to a pair of rough-looking bearded men – part of the crew he was assembling? – he motioned with his head and Steele followed him outside to accept the packet of currency, flipping through it casually before tucking it away in the pocket of his gray, tailored coat.
‘The train should reach Comanche Wells a little after seven. It’ll be coming on to full dark by then. If you cut through the rocky pass along the Pine Bluff you can be there well ahead of it, soon enough to choose your positions, take care of the station master and the train crew.’
‘I know what I’m doing,’ Trevor Steele said. ‘Just make sure you’re there with that wagon.’
‘Mr Steele,’ Colin Babbit asked with some concern, ‘are you sure you can gather six men in time?’
Steele laughed. ‘I can get men to work for me at the drop of a hat,’ he boasted.
Babbit hoped he was right, because there wasn’t any time to waste.
Now as he dickered with Wally Shoup, the owner of the Trail’s End, over a wagon which Shoup could not know that Babbit would have rented at any price, Colin Babbit for the first time began to feel nervous. The planning had been by far the easy part. The execution of the plan would take luck and nerve. Babbit had had a pretty rough life, but he was no natural criminal.
‘This is the last usable wagon I have around,’ Shoup was saying. A thin, red-headed man he had a cheek full of tobacco as always. He spat. ‘Not an hour ago Tombstone Jack came by and.…’
‘I’ll take it,’ Colin Babbit said more loudly than he intended. He had no wish to hear the details of Shoup’s business day.
After selecting two sturdy-appearing bay horses to pull the wagon, they went into Shoup’s closet-sized office and Babbit paid the rental fee. Babbit’s hands trembled anxiously as he counted out the money, but Shoup apparently did not notice. His eyes were only on the currency being dealt out on his desk.
Shoup helped Babbit harness and hitch the horses to the wagon and then sauntered back into the shadowed stable while Babbit started on his way beneath the high, white sun toward Comanche Wells.
‘Did you get the wagon?’ Thad Folger asked Tombstone Jack.
‘Sure did. It’s on the side of the depot, next to the railroad trucks,’ Jack said. ‘No one will think anything about it, figuring it’s someone come to pick up their freight.’
‘And so it is,’ Thad Folger replied with a sly smile.
Tombstone Jack was looking a little unsettled. He fidgeted, glanced at his watch – five o’clock – and fidgeted some more. ‘This is going to work, isn’t it, Thad?’
‘It will. It has to.’
Otherwise they would find themselves sharing time in the territorial prison. Thad couldn’t really see how things could go wrong. Marshal Slattery wouldn’t be around. He had never come down to the depot before. There would be no passengers and no railroad guards simply because there was no place for them to ride, and it was only freight, anyway. Gold shipments had extra protection, but this was not gold, only shipments of odds and ends to settlers on the far plains. Thad had managed to make a small if steady profit off such goods before he was fired from the railroad, and he had made a few contacts. Merchants who were not particular about where their stores came from.
‘Good thing you work here,’ Folger commented to Tombstone Jack. ‘Otherwise we couldn’t get away with it.’
‘Well, I might not be working here anymore after today, right?’
‘They’ll never know where they lost the freight,’ Folger said. ‘Could be at any one of half a dozen stops along the line. You’re safe.’
‘What do we take?’ Tombstone Jack asked.
‘Whatever’s closest to the door and easy to unload. We don’t want to be around the train any longer than necessary. Put a smile on your face, Tombstone! When I was working here, I pulled this off three times a week or more.’
‘Until they caught you.’
‘They never caught me!’ Folger answered with resentment. ‘They only suspected me. That’s what I was talking about, you see? How can they fire a man from his job only on suspicion? That’s what should be a crime.
‘And if I am a criminal – well they made me one. When I lost my job, I had no other way to go.’
Tombstone Jack had heard this same complaint, or variations of it a dozen times. It always amazed him that Thad Folger was able to dredge up real indignation when he told it. Jack settled on to the bench in front of the depot, legs stretched out, watching for the six o’clock train.
TWO
The station master, Quentin Garrett, locked his office door at precisely five o’clock and started home. His wife had a standing order that Garrett adhere to his schedule. She would have one of her tasteless suppers, always served with over-boiled potatoes, waiting for him when he reached home and then he would spend an enjoyable evening watching her knit. The truth was Garrett was happiest when he was at the station. There things were always in motion and he was in charge. However, the six o’clock was not a passenger train, but only a freight and it was not even unloading anything at this stop and he could be of no possible use.
The railroad crew would step down, stretch and take their meal over at the Bluebird Café. Tombstone Jack would chase off any kid who wanted to climb aboard the locomotive – he was good for that much at least. He spotted the idler sitting on the bench at the side of the depot as he passed. For this Jack was paid? Truthfully, Garrett knew, there was little for Jack to be doing either except keeping an eye on things. At least Garrett didn’t spot that thief Thad Folger lurking around; apparently he had taken Garrett’s warning to stay well clear of the tracks to heart. Quentin Garrett plodded home, realizing that there was only so much a man could do to keep his world organized. Fate always took a hand.
