Bucky O'Connor: A Tale of the Unfenced Border, Page 2

  CHAPTER 2. TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION

  "Hands up!"

  There was a ring of crisp menace in the sinister voice that was a spurto obedience. The unanimous show of hands voted "Aye" with a hastyprecision that no amount of drill could have compassed.

  It was a situation that might have made for laughter had there beenspectators to appreciate. But of whatever amusement was to be had oneof the victims seemed to hold a monopoly. Collins, his arm around theEnglish children by way of comfort, offered a sardonic smile at theconsternation his announcement and its fulfillment had created, but noneof his fellow passengers were in the humor to respond.

  The shock of an earthquake could not have blanched ruddy faces moresurely. The Chicago drummer, fat and florid, had disappeared completelybehind a buttress of the company's upholstery.

  "God bless my soul!" gasped the Pekin-Bostonian, dropping his eyeglassand his accent at the same moment. The dismay in his face found areflection all over the car. Miss Wainwright's hand clutched at herbreast for an instant, and her color ebbed till her lips were ashen, buther neighbor across the aisle noticed that her eyes were steady and herfigure tense.

  "Scared stiff, but game," was his mental comment.

  "Gents to the right and ladies to the left; line up against the walls;everybody waltz." called the man behind the guns, with grim humor.

  The passengers fell into line as directed, Collins with the rest.

  "You're calling this dance, son; it's your say-so, I guess," heconceded.

  "Keep still, or I'll shoot you full of holes," growled the autocrat ofthe artillery.

  "Why, sure! Ain't you the real thing in Jesse Jameses?" soothed thesheriff.

  At the sound of Collins' voice, the masked man had started perceptibly,and his right hand had jumped forward an inch or two to cover thespeaker more definitely. Thereafter, no matter what else engaged hisattention, the gleaming eyes behind the red bandanna never wanderedfor a moment from the big plainsman. He was taking no risks, for heremembered the saying current in Arizona, that after Collins' hardwaregot into action there was nothing left to do but plant the deceased andcollect the insurance. He had personal reasons to know the fundamentalaccuracy of the colloquialism.

  The train-conductor fussed up to the masked outlaw with a ludicrousattempt at authority. "You can't rob the passengers on this train. I'mnot responsible for the express-car, but the coaches--"

  A bullet almost grazed his ear and shattered a window on its way to thedesert.

  "Drift, you red-haired son of a Mexican?" ordered the man behind thered bandanna. "Git back to that seat real prompt. This here's taxationwithout representation."

  The conductor drifted as per suggestion.

  The minutes ticked themselves away in a tense strain marked by poundinghearts. The outlaw stood at the end of the aisle, watching the sheriffalertly.

  "Why doesn't the music begin?" volunteered Collins, by way ofconversation, and quoted: "On with the dance. Let joy be unconfined."

  A dull explosion answered his question. The bandits were blowing openthe safe in the express-car with dynamite, pending which the looting ofthe passengers was at a standstill.

  A second masked figure joined his companion at the end of the passageand held a hurried conversation with him. Fragments of their low-voicedtalk came to Collins.

  "Only thirty thousand in the express-car. Not a red cent on the old manhimself."

  "Where's the rest?" The irritation in the newcomer's voice waspronounced.

  Collins slewed his head and raked him with keen eyes that missed nota detail. He was certain that he had never seen the man before, yethe knew at once that the trim, wiry figure, so clean of build and sogallant of bearing, could belong only to Wolf Leroy, the most ruthlessoutlaw of the Southwest. It was written in his jaunty insolence, in theflashing eyes. He was a handsome fellow, white-toothed, black-haired,lithely tigerish, with masterful mouth and eyes of steel, so far as onemight judge behind the white mask he wore. Alert, cruel, fearlessfrom the head to the heel of him, he looked the very devil to lead anenterprise so lawless and so desperate as this. His vigilant eyes sweptcontemptuously up and down the car, rested for a moment on the youngwoman in Section 3, and came back to his partner.

  "Bah! A flock of sheep--tamest bunch of spring lambs we ever struck.I'll send Scott in to go through them. If anybody gets gay, drop him."And the outlaw turned on his heel.

  Another of the highwaymen took his place, a stout, squat figure in theflannel shirt, spurs, and chaps of a cow-puncher. It took no secondglance to tell Collins this bandy-legged fellow had been a rider of therange.

  "Come, gentlemen, get a move on you," Collins implored. "This train'sdue at Tucson by eight o'clock. We're more than an hour late now. I'mholding down the job of sheriff in that same town, and I'm awful anxiousto get a posse out after a bunch of train-robbers. So burn the wind, andgo through the car on the jump. Help yourself to anything you find. Whosteals my purse takes trash. 'Tis something, nothing. 'Twas mine; 'tishis. That's right, you'll find my roll in that left-hand pocket. I hateto have you take that gun, though. I meant to run you down with thatsame old Colt's reliable. Oh, well, just as you say. No, those kids geta free pass. They're going out to meet papa at Los Angeles, boys. See?"

  Collins' running fire of comment had at least the effect of restoringthe color to some cheeks that had been washed white and of snatchingfrom the outlaws some portion of their sense of dominating thesituation. But there was a veiled vigilance in his eyes that belied hiseasy impudence.

  "That lady across the aisle gets a pass, too, boys," continued thesheriff. "She's scared stiff now, and you won't bother her, if you'rewhite men. Her watch and purse are on the seat. Take them, if you wantthem, and let it go at that."

  Miss Wainwright listened to this dialogue silently. She stood beforethem cool and imperious and unwavering, but her face was bloodless andthe pulse in her beautiful soft throat fluttered like a caged bird.

  "Who's doing this job?" demanded one of the hold-ups, wheeling savagelyon the impassive officer "Did I say we were going to bother the lady?Who's doing this job, Mr. Sheriff?"

  "You are. I'd hate to be messing the job like you--holding up the wrongtrain by mistake." This was a shot in the dark, and it did not quitehit the bull's-eye. "I wouldn't trust you boys to rob a hen-roost,the amateur way you go at it. When you get through, you'll all go todrinking like blue blotters. I know your kind--hell-bent to spend whatyou cash in, and every mother's son of you in the pen or with his toesturned up inside of a month."

  "Who'll put us there?" gruffly demanded the bowlegged one.

  Collins smiled at him with confidence superb "Mebbe I will--and if Idon't Bucky O'Connor will--those of you that are left alive when yougo through shooting each other in the back. Oh, I see your finish to afare-you-well."

  "Cheese it, or I'll bump you off." The first out law drove his gun intothe sheriff's ribs.

  "That's all right. You don't need to punctuate that remark. I line upwith the sky-pilot and chew the cud of silence. I merely wanted to frameup to you how this thing's going to turn out. Don't come back at me andsay I didn't warn you, sonnie."

  "You make my head ache," snarled the bandy-legged outlaw sourly, as hepassed down with his sack, accumulating tribute as he passed down theaisle with his sack, accumulating tribute as he went.

  The red-kerchiefed robber whooped when they came to the car conductor."Dig up, Mr. Pullman. Go way down into your jeans. It's a right smartpleasure to divert the plunder of your bloated corporation back to thepeople. What! Only fifty-seven dollars. Oh, dig deeper, Mr. Pullman."

  The drummer contributed to the sack eighty-four dollars, a diamond ring,and a gold watch. His hands were trembling so that they played a tattooon the sloping ceiling above him.

  "What's the matter, Fatty? Got a chill?" inquired one of the robbers, ashe deftly swept the plunder into the sack.

  "For--God's sake--don't shoot. I have--a wife--and five children," hestammered, with ch
attering teeth.

  "No race suicide for Fatty. But whyfor do they let a sick man like youtravel all by his lone?"

  "I don't know--I--Please turn that weapon another way."

  "Plumb chuck full of malaria," soliloquized the owner of the weapon,playfully running its business end over the Chicago man's anatomy."Shakes worse'n a pair of dice. Here, Fatty. Load up with quinine andwhisky. It's sure good for chills." The man behind the bandanna gravelyhanded his victim back a dollar. "Write me if it cures you. Now for thesky-pilot. No white chips on this plate, parson. It's a contribution tothe needy heathen. You want to be generous. How much do you say?"

  The man of the cloth reluctantly said thirty dollars, a Lincoln penny,and a silver-plated watch inherited from his fathers. The watch wasdeclined with thanks, the money accepted without.

  The Pullman porter came into the car under compulsion of a revolver inthe hand of a fourth outlaw, one in a black mask. His trembling fingerpointed out the satchel and suit-case of Major Mackenzie, and underorders he carried out the baggage belonging to the irrigation engineer.Collin observed that the bandit in the black mask was so nervous thatthe revolver in his hand quivered like an aspen in the wind. He wasslenderer and much shorter than the Mexican, so that the sheriff decidedhe was a mere boy.

  It was just after he had left that three shots in rapid succession rangout in the still night air.

  The red-bandannaed one and his companion, who had apparently beenwaiting for the signal, retreated backward to the end of the car, stillkeeping the passengers covered. They flung rapidly two or three bulletsthrough the roof, and under cover of the smoke slipped out into thenight. A moment later came the thud of galloping horses, more shots,and, when the patter of hoofs had died away--silence.

  The sheriff was the first to break it. He thrust his brown hands deepinto his pockets and laughed--laughed with the joyous, rollickingabandon of a tickled schoolboy.

  "Hysterics?" ventured the mining engineer sympathetically.

  Collins wiped his eyes. "Call 'em anything you like. What pleases me isthat the reverend gentleman should have had this diverting experienceso prompt after he was wishing for it." He turned, with concern, tothe clergyman. "Satisfied, sir? Did our little entertainment please, orwasn't it up to the mark?"

  But the transported native of Pekin was game. "I'm quite satisfied, ifyou are. I think the affair cost you a hundred dollars or so more thanit did me."

  "That's right," agreed the sheriff heartily. "But I don't grudge it--nota cent of it. The show was worth the price of admission."

  The car conductor had a broadside ready for him. "Seems to me you shotoff your mouth more than you did that big gun of yours, Mr. Sheriff."

  Collins laughed, and clapped him on the back. "That's right. I'm aregular phonograph, when you wind me up." He did not think it necessaryto explain that he had talked to make the outlaws talk, and that he hadnoted the quality of their voices so carefully that he would know themagain among a thousand. Also he had observed--other things--the garbof each of the men he had seen, their weapons, their manner, and theirindividual peculiarities.

  The clanking car took up the rhythm of the rails as the delayed trainplunged forward once more into the night. Again the clack of tongues,set free from fear, buzzed eagerly. The glow of the afterclap of dangerwas on them, and in the warm excitement each forgot the paralyzing fearthat had but now padlocked his lips. Courage came flowing back intoflabby cheeks and red blood into hearts of water.

  At the next station the Limited stopped, and the conductor swung froma car before the wheels had ceased rolling and went running into thetelegraph office.

  "Fire a message through for me, Pat. The Limited has been held up," heannounced.

  "Held up?" gasped the operator.

  "That's right. Get this message right through to Sabin. I'm not goingto wait for an answer. Tell him I'll stop at Apache for furtherinstructions."

  With which the conductor was out again waving his lantern as a signalfor the train to start. Sheriff Collins and Major Mackenzie had enteredthe office at his heels. They too had messages to send, but it was notuntil the train was already plunging into the night that the stationagent read the yellow slips they had left and observed that both of themwent to the same person.

  "Lieutenant Bucky O'Connor, Douglas, Arizona," was the address he readat the top of each. His comment serves to show the opinion generally inthe sunburned territory respecting one of its citizens.

  "You're wise guys, gents, both of yez. This is shure a case for theleftenant. It's send for Bucky quick when the band begins to play," hegrinned.

  Sitting down, he gave the call for Tucson, preparatory to transmittingthe conductor's message to the division superintendent. His fingers werejust striking the first tap when a silken voice startled him.

  "One moment, friend. No use being in a hurry."

  The agent looked up and nearly fell from his stool. He was gazinginto the end of a revolver held carelessly in the hand of a masked manleaning indolently on the counter.

  "Whe--where did you come from?" the operator gasped.

  "Kaintucky, but I been here a right smart spell. Why? You takin' thecensus?" came the drawling answer.

  "I didn't hear youse come in."

  "I didn't hear you come in, either," the man behind the mask mocked. Buteven as he spoke his manner changed, and crisp menace rang in his voice."Have you sent those messages yet?"

  "Wha--what messages?"

  "Those lying on your desk. I say, have you sent them?"

  "Not yet."

  "Hand them over here."

  The operator passed them across the counter without demur.

  "Now reach for the roof."

  Up shot the station agent's hands. The bandit glanced over the writtensheets and commented aloud:

  "Huh! One from the conductor and one from Mackenzie. I expected those.But this one from Collins is ce'tainly a surprise party. I didn't knowhe was on the train. Lucky for him I didn't, or mebbe I'd a-put hislight for good and all. Friend, I reckon we'll suppress these messages.Military necessity, you understand." And with that he lightly tore upthe yellow sheets and tossed them away.

  "The conductor will wire when he reaches Apache," the operatorsuggested, not very boldly.

  The outlaw rolled a cigarette deftly and borrowed a match. "He mostsurely will. But Apache is seventy miles from here. That gives usan extra hour and a half, and with us right now time is a heap morevaluable than money. You may tell Bucky O'Connor when you see him thatthat extra hour and a half cinches our escape, and we weren't on theanxious seat any without it."

  It may have been true, as the train robber had just said, that time wasmore valuable to him then than money, but if so he must have held thelatter of singularly little value. For he sat him down on the counterwith his back against the wall and his legs stretched full length infront of him and glanced over the Tucson Star in leisurely fashion,while Pat's arms still projected roofward.

  The operator, beginning to get over his natural fright, could notwithhold a reluctant admiration of this man's aplomb. There was acertain pantherish lightness about the outlaw's movements, a trim graceof figure which yet suggested rippling muscles perfectly under control,and a quiet wariness of eye more potent than words at repressinginsurgent impulses. Certainly if ever there was a cool customer and oneperfectly sure of himself, this was he.

  "Not a thing in the Star to-day," Pat's visitor commented, as heflung it away with a yawn. "I'll let a thousand dollars of the expresscompany's money that there will be something more interesting in itto-morrow."

  "That's right," agreed the agent.

  "But I won't be here to read it. My engagements take me south. I'll makea present to the great Lieutenant O'Connor of the information. We'reheaded south, tell him. And tell Mr. Sheriff Collins, too--happy toentertain him if he happens our way. If it would rest your handsany there's no law against putting them in your trousers pockets, myfriend."

  From outside there came a shor
t sharp whistle. The man on the counteranswered it, and slipped at once to the floor. The door opened, to letin another masked form, but one how different from the first! Here wasno confidence almost insolent in its nonchalance. The figure was slightand boyish, the manner deprecating, the brown eyes shy and shrinkingHe was so obviously a novice at outlawry that fear sat heavy upon hisshoulders. When he spoke, almost in a whisper, his teeth chattered.

  "All ready, sir."

  "The wires are cut?" demanded his leader crisply.

  "Yes, sir."

  "On both sides?"

  "On both sides."

  His chief relieved the operator of the revolver in his desk, broke it,emptied out the shells, and flung them through the window, then tossedthe weapon back to its owner.

  "You'll not shoot yourself by accident now," he explained, and with thathe had followed his companion into the night.

  There came to the station agent the sound of galloping horses, growingfainter, until a heavy silence seemed to fill the night. He stole to thedoor and locked it, pulled down the window blinds, and then reloadedhis revolver with feverish haste. This done, he sat down before his keyswith the weapon close at hand and frantically called for Tucson over andover again. No answer came to him, nor from the other direction when hetried that. The young bandit had told the truth. His companions had cutthe wires and so isolated from the world for the time the scene of thehold-up. The agent understood now why the leader of the outlaws hadhonored him with so much of his valuable time. He had stayed to holdback the telegrams until he knew the wires were cut.