Bridge washouts, Indian tampering, and the occasional herd of buffalo had meant abrupt halts and unplanned delays.
When Paul Dodd suggested off-handedly that one of them investigate the current reason for stopping he was largely ignored. Bill Crookshank reminded him that Drew had gone in search of Mike and between the two of them they would come back with the story. "If it's worth anything," Bill added, watching his brother rake in another pot. "Damn, Dave, but you need your nose tweaked tonight. Too proud of yourself by half, taking our money the way you have."
At that moment the door at the rear of the car opened and Happy McCallister announced he'd be pleased as a preacher to pass his hat and collect their offerings. The fact that he was cradling a shotgun in his arms encouraged the stunned newspapermen to follow instructions.
"Reckon you fellows will have quite a story to tell your paper," Happy said, watching from the doorway as his partner gathered the winnings. "'Course that wouldn't be wise. Me and my friends ain't in this fer the glory like them James boys. None of us would want this in that big city paper of yours."
Dave Crookshank, irritated at being cheated of his hard won money, laughed a little bitterly. "And how do you propose to keep us silent?" Although his brother kicked him under the table, Dave continued to stare defiantly at Happy.
"Well," Happy drawled, his eyes thoughtful below the brim of his weathered hat and above the line of his kerchief, "it seems to me I could kill you now."
"We're not going to write anything," Bill said.
"Or I could kill you later," Happy went on, ignoring the hastily given promise. "Generally, though, that involves trackin' you down, and I don't cotton much to trackin'. Some boys is good at it, but I've never been one of 'em." Happy's sharp eyes scanned the circle of men at the table. He waved the barrel of his shotgun in the general direction of the empty chair. "Where's the other one of you?"
No one answered.
"Doesn't really matter if you tell me or not," said Happy. "My partner here can spot a newspaperman like a vulture spots carrion. Not much difference in his mind. Nor my mind, come to think on it. Neither one of us needed your paper's name painted on the side of the car to realize what you are. Unfortunate all the way around." Happy motioned to Obie to finish quickly and head for the forward door. "See ya, fellas. 'Course it'd be better for everyone if I didn't."
For a full ten seconds after the robbers moved out of the car and disappeared into the next one, none of the Chronicle staffers said a word. Jim Peters pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his wide brow.
"God, for a moment there I thought they meant to kill us."
Dave pushed away from the table, his chair scraping the floor. He did not look particularly relieved by Jim's words. "I think I better go have a look in the caboose. There's no telling what they did before they got here."
His brother waved him off. "What about Drew and Mike?" Bill asked the others. "Do you think they'll be safe?"
Jim finished mopping his brow. "They were bluffing about being able to spot a reporter." He looked around the table for reassurance. "They had to be. Anyway, Drew can take care of himself, and who in their right mind would suspect Mike?"
"Who in their right mind holds up a train?" Bill asked dryly.
Paul Dodd reached for his sketchbook lying on the table behind him. Taking out a pencil, he began to draw. "Would you say the one with the shotgun was taller than the other or just about the same height?"
Bill grabbed Paul's pad. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Illustrating the story you're going to write."
"Not me," Bill said. "And not anyone else at this table, including you. You heard what he said. He'll track us down."
Paul laughed a little uneasily under his breath. "Yeah, but he said he wasn't very good at it."
Happy and Obie didn't stop moving forward until they had gone through the
When Paul Dodd suggested off-handedly that one of them investigate the current reason for stopping he was largely ignored. Bill Crookshank reminded him that Drew had gone in search of Mike and between the two of them they would come back with the story. "If it's worth anything," Bill added, watching his brother rake in another pot. "Damn, Dave, but you need your nose tweaked tonight. Too proud of yourself by half, taking our money the way you have."
At that moment the door at the rear of the car opened and Happy McCallister announced he'd be pleased as a preacher to pass his hat and collect their offerings. The fact that he was cradling a shotgun in his arms encouraged the stunned newspapermen to follow instructions.
"Reckon you fellows will have quite a story to tell your paper," Happy said, watching from the doorway as his partner gathered the winnings. "'Course that wouldn't be wise. Me and my friends ain't in this fer the glory like them James boys. None of us would want this in that big city paper of yours."
Dave Crookshank, irritated at being cheated of his hard won money, laughed a little bitterly. "And how do you propose to keep us silent?" Although his brother kicked him under the table, Dave continued to stare defiantly at Happy.
"Well," Happy drawled, his eyes thoughtful below the brim of his weathered hat and above the line of his kerchief, "it seems to me I could kill you now."
"We're not going to write anything," Bill said.
"Or I could kill you later," Happy went on, ignoring the hastily given promise. "Generally, though, that involves trackin' you down, and I don't cotton much to trackin'. Some boys is good at it, but I've never been one of 'em." Happy's sharp eyes scanned the circle of men at the table. He waved the barrel of his shotgun in the general direction of the empty chair. "Where's the other one of you?"
No one answered.
"Doesn't really matter if you tell me or not," said Happy. "My partner here can spot a newspaperman like a vulture spots carrion. Not much difference in his mind. Nor my mind, come to think on it. Neither one of us needed your paper's name painted on the side of the car to realize what you are. Unfortunate all the way around." Happy motioned to Obie to finish quickly and head for the forward door. "See ya, fellas. 'Course it'd be better for everyone if I didn't."
For a full ten seconds after the robbers moved out of the car and disappeared into the next one, none of the Chronicle staffers said a word. Jim Peters pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his wide brow.
"God, for a moment there I thought they meant to kill us."
Dave pushed away from the table, his chair scraping the floor. He did not look particularly relieved by Jim's words. "I think I better go have a look in the caboose. There's no telling what they did before they got here."
His brother waved him off. "What about Drew and Mike?" Bill asked the others. "Do you think they'll be safe?"
Jim finished mopping his brow. "They were bluffing about being able to spot a reporter." He looked around the table for reassurance. "They had to be. Anyway, Drew can take care of himself, and who in their right mind would suspect Mike?"
"Who in their right mind holds up a train?" Bill asked dryly.
Paul Dodd reached for his sketchbook lying on the table behind him. Taking out a pencil, he began to draw. "Would you say the one with the shotgun was taller than the other or just about the same height?"
Bill grabbed Paul's pad. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Illustrating the story you're going to write."
"Not me," Bill said. "And not anyone else at this table, including you. You heard what he said. He'll track us down."
Paul laughed a little uneasily under his breath. "Yeah, but he said he wasn't very good at it."
Happy and Obie didn't stop moving forward until they had gone through the
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