last private Chronicle car and assured themselves there were no reporters in hiding. "Nice accommodations they got for themselves," Happy observed as he and Obie stepped onto the small balcony outside the equipment and printing car. "Seems almost a shame to wreck it all."
"Sure we should?" Obie asked, pushing back the brim of his hat. "Houston might not like it. It was never part of the plan."
"That's because Houston didn't know about the Chronicle. These cars must have joined the train back in Cheyenne. If he had known..." Happy let his voice trail off and allowed Obie to draw his own conclusions. When he was certain they were of the same mind he pointed to the link-and-pin coupling and said, "Let's take care of this, shall we?"
Obie jumped off the balcony and onto the roadbed, moving between the cars carefully. The link-and-pin coupling which held the cars together proved to be a stubborn affair and Happy leaped down to assist. Working together they managed to pull the pin free.
"Nothing's happening," Obie observed.
"The grade's not real steep here," Happy said. "Give it a few minutes. These cars'll start rollin' back. You'll see. Right down the mountainside. First curve comes and—" He didn't have to finish. He made a diving motion with his hand to indicate what would happen to the accelerating cars when they reached the curve.
"Maybe gravity needs a boost," Obie said, grinning. He pulled himself back up on the balcony of the car and made certain the handbrake wheel was fully loosened. "Let's give it a push. C'mon. Throw your back into it."
In the dining car Bill Crookshank's legs shifted under him momentarily. He looked at the others. "Did you feel that?"
"What?" Jim asked.
There was another lurch and this time Bill stumbled a little. "That. What the hell's going on?"
"Seems like we're on the move again," Paul said. "Robbers must have left and they're firing up ol' No. 349."
Jim Peters turned his attention from his sketchbook to the windows. It was too dark to see clearly outside but it only took him a few moments to get the sense of car's movement. "We're rolling again all right," he said without emotion. "It's a hell of a thing though, we're rolling the wrong way."
After Happy and Obie watched the cars drift away, gathering momentum with each passing second, they hopped back on board the stationary train and entered the emigrant car. The stunned foreigners stared silently at the men as they moved quickly through the car.
"Smells worse'n cattle," Happy said when they left the second car. "Can't take nothin' from 'em cause they ain't got nothin'. And if they did have something worth takin', the smell of it would bring a posse down on us faster than you can say 'Miss Hearts eats tarts.'"
"Pay attention," Obie warned his partner as they opened the door to the second class car. "These fellows won't be so obligin'."
Obie's assumption was not entirely on the money. The cowboys, farmers, and miners were a subdued lot thanks to the sawed off shotgun Nathaniel Houston was holding on them. A single blast of buckshot from his weapon could cut a man in half. The passengers knew it and the pile of weapons at Houston's feet bore testimony to that fact.
Houston had his lean frame propped negligently in the forward doorway of the car, as if he were bored with the proceedings rather than impatient. Only his darting black eyes indicated his watchfulness. He pinned Happy and Obie with his hard glance when they entered the car. It was enough to let them know they had taken too long.
"Complications," Happy said, gathering up the collected weapons. He threw them out an open window on the cliffside of the car. When he was done he tipped his hat in a mocking salute to the passengers and bid them good evening.
Covering Happy and Obie's back, Houston didn't lower his weapon until they were out of the car. "What complications?" he asked in a low, sibilant voice. He handed Obie the shotgun and took up the younger man's
"Sure we should?" Obie asked, pushing back the brim of his hat. "Houston might not like it. It was never part of the plan."
"That's because Houston didn't know about the Chronicle. These cars must have joined the train back in Cheyenne. If he had known..." Happy let his voice trail off and allowed Obie to draw his own conclusions. When he was certain they were of the same mind he pointed to the link-and-pin coupling and said, "Let's take care of this, shall we?"
Obie jumped off the balcony and onto the roadbed, moving between the cars carefully. The link-and-pin coupling which held the cars together proved to be a stubborn affair and Happy leaped down to assist. Working together they managed to pull the pin free.
"Nothing's happening," Obie observed.
"The grade's not real steep here," Happy said. "Give it a few minutes. These cars'll start rollin' back. You'll see. Right down the mountainside. First curve comes and—" He didn't have to finish. He made a diving motion with his hand to indicate what would happen to the accelerating cars when they reached the curve.
"Maybe gravity needs a boost," Obie said, grinning. He pulled himself back up on the balcony of the car and made certain the handbrake wheel was fully loosened. "Let's give it a push. C'mon. Throw your back into it."
In the dining car Bill Crookshank's legs shifted under him momentarily. He looked at the others. "Did you feel that?"
"What?" Jim asked.
There was another lurch and this time Bill stumbled a little. "That. What the hell's going on?"
"Seems like we're on the move again," Paul said. "Robbers must have left and they're firing up ol' No. 349."
Jim Peters turned his attention from his sketchbook to the windows. It was too dark to see clearly outside but it only took him a few moments to get the sense of car's movement. "We're rolling again all right," he said without emotion. "It's a hell of a thing though, we're rolling the wrong way."
After Happy and Obie watched the cars drift away, gathering momentum with each passing second, they hopped back on board the stationary train and entered the emigrant car. The stunned foreigners stared silently at the men as they moved quickly through the car.
"Smells worse'n cattle," Happy said when they left the second car. "Can't take nothin' from 'em cause they ain't got nothin'. And if they did have something worth takin', the smell of it would bring a posse down on us faster than you can say 'Miss Hearts eats tarts.'"
"Pay attention," Obie warned his partner as they opened the door to the second class car. "These fellows won't be so obligin'."
Obie's assumption was not entirely on the money. The cowboys, farmers, and miners were a subdued lot thanks to the sawed off shotgun Nathaniel Houston was holding on them. A single blast of buckshot from his weapon could cut a man in half. The passengers knew it and the pile of weapons at Houston's feet bore testimony to that fact.
Houston had his lean frame propped negligently in the forward doorway of the car, as if he were bored with the proceedings rather than impatient. Only his darting black eyes indicated his watchfulness. He pinned Happy and Obie with his hard glance when they entered the car. It was enough to let them know they had taken too long.
"Complications," Happy said, gathering up the collected weapons. He threw them out an open window on the cliffside of the car. When he was done he tipped his hat in a mocking salute to the passengers and bid them good evening.
Covering Happy and Obie's back, Houston didn't lower his weapon until they were out of the car. "What complications?" he asked in a low, sibilant voice. He handed Obie the shotgun and took up the younger man's
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