Read Ebook: Cinders by Tuttle W C Wilbur C

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Ebook has 126 lines and 6785 words, and 3 pages

"Slim, where's your horse?"

"Right there." Slim pointed at a long-legged sorrel, tied to a ring in the rear platform. "What's the matter?"

"Yeah, I seen it." Slim was sarcastic.

"Down the track about two miles!" panted the agent. "It's being held up. Just got a wire."

"Oh, yeah."

But Slim was halfway to the sorrel, running as fast as he could go. The agent ran back, opened his key and sent an assurance that help was coming.

"What are you kidding about?" demanded the operator at Mesquite City.

Swiftly the San Rego agent told him about the holdup. Mesquite City was the county seat.

"Shall I notify the sheriff?" asked Mesquite City.

The San Rego operator started in to tell him what to do, when the door opened behind him and Sadie came in. He glanced at her and turned back to his key.

"Dad, where is Slim going?" asked Sadie.

Dad broke off sending.

"He's following that freight."

Then Dad turned and hammered out instructions.

"Where is that freight?" Sadie was outwardly calm, but her face had gone white. Slim was following out her instructions.

"Two miles down the road," said Dad, and continued to hammer at his key.

Sadie fairly ran out of the office and around to where her roan horse was tied. She had seen Slim going away in a cloud of dust, which had not yet settled. In a few moments she was adding to the dust cloud, following Slim.

"Soup" Lannigan was not a gentleman--not by at least a generation or two. He was a yegg, pure but not at all simple. Just now he slid back the door of a freight car, wiped a little coal dust off his face and looked around. Soup was not at all handsome. He was about five feet seven inches tall, with broad shoulders, almost no neck, and a pair of long muscular arms. His forehead retreated while his jaw protruded. If a scientist were to discover Soup's skull--it would date back at least twenty thousand years.

It was hot in that box car, but it was also hot outside. Soup was thirsty. He squinted back past the caboose, looking around like an animal. Then he rubbed his eyes. Even at two cars distant his eyes beheld a white-clad arm appear and toss a couple of bottles into the sage.

Soup wrinkled his forehead in deep thought. He knew that there were no dining-cars on freight trains. He also knew that this caboose did not carry a white-clad porter. Soup swung warily down, edged away from the car and squinted at the shiny private car. Then he ducked back.

There was nothing to cause Soup to duck back, except, like an animal, he was always expecting something to happen. Then he crawled under the train. Ten cars distant he could see the crew working over a hotbox. He scuttled back. Just back of the private car was a sharp curve, and Soup was wise enough in railroad matters to know that the rear brakeman would be beyond that turn, flagging the rear.

Soup licked his lips, gripped the stubby automatic in his sagging coat pocket, and went softly back to the platform of the Lake Louise. He felt sure that there would be more cold bottles; and he was not averse to taking most anything of value.

The telegraph instrument did not amuse Alicia for long. She was unable to decipher anything it said, because it clicked too fast; so she sank down in a deep, leather chair, picked up her book and began reading. The air off the desert was like a blast from a furnace. Two electric fans droned softly, but did little more than stir up the heat.

In his own end of the car, where an ice box and other luxuries of private-car life were carried, Moses Jones, an elongated, shuffling son of Ham, proceeded to uncork two more bottles. Mose was immaculate, but very moist.

Mose picked up his tray, containing glasses and the two cold bottles, stepped into the corridor just in time to feel the swift jab of Soup's automatic into his white-clad ribs.

Mose almost telescoped under the strain, and he elevated his tray until the bottles almost hit the ceiling.

"Yuh--yuh--yessah!" grunted Mose.

"Yeah, bo!" replied Soup. "Squeak once and you're done."

"N-n-nosah," whispered Mose.

"Yessir," nodded Soup. "Move on, nigger."

Straight into the privacy of the Steele family came Mose and Soup; and the first hint of something wrong was when one of the bottles fell from its dizzy height, landed in the middle of the card table and shot its agitated contents into the face of James Worthington Steele.

It was then that Mose Jones side-stepped and gave them an unobstructed view of Soup Lannigan, who was enjoying himself hugely.

"Don't yelp," advised Soup coldly. "C'mere, you!"

He meant Alicia. She came. The combination of automatic and Soup's face was enough to cow any one. Alicia sank into one of the seats and stared at Soup.

They shelled. Soup held out his battered cap for the spoils and his eyes glittered. The hunting was much better than he anticipated. Mose Jones rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall, while his legs fairly twitched for a chance to run.

Far down the line the engine whistle signaled for the rear flagman to come in. Soup backed toward the rear door, his automatic covering the two men and two women.

"T'anks, folks," he said. "I'll be on me way now."

He laughed mockingly and backed into a man, who had come through the rear door, filling the passageway with his bulk. Soup spun around, tried to use his automatic, but this hulk of a man tore it from his hand, threw it out of the window and proceeded to mop up the open space with the luckless Soup.

Soup was no coward. He had fought many fights; but this fat person; who wore flapping leather chaps, spurs and a heavy belt, did not give him a chance. The cap, which contained the loot, went flying under a chair, when Slim Simpson got Soup by the legs, handling him like a wheelbarrow, and rammed him viciously into the underpinning of a heavy chair.

Soup went limp. Slim tossed Soup's legs aside, as if he had no further use for them, and stared at Alicia. Came the "bump" of some one boarding the car, and Sadie came in. Her face was streaked with dust, but in her eyes was a great resolve. She wasn't going to lose Slim Simpson, not without a battle. Slim gawped at her and waved his arms weakly.

"Huh--hello, Sadie," he panted, and then turned to the dazed Alicia.

"You--you tell her," he said dramatically, pointing at Sadie. "You tell huh-her about that wink. Hurry up, can'tcha?"

"The--that wink?" faltered Alicia wonderingly.

"You winked at me?" queried the perspiring Slim. "Back there at the depot, you winked."

"At you?" Alicia shook her head. "No. I--I didn't. It was a cinder in my eye."

"Now, yuh see?" Slim was triumphant.

But just at that moment Soup Lannigan decided that it was a mighty good time for him to leave. He jumped to his feet, knocked Sadie aside and darted out of the rear door.

"Gosh ding him, he didn't stay dead!" blurted Slim; and out of the door he went.

Soup Lannigan, running like a rabbit, was heading for the brushy hills, when Slim went into his saddle, shook out his rope and gave chase. And Sadie was not far behind him.

Straight up over a brushy slope galloped Soup, bending every effort to gain deeper cover, while behind him pounded two running horses; and now he could hear the swish of a whirling loop. Again the engine whistled, as if cheering them on.

Down through a gully went Soup, where Slim was forced to detour; but a few moments later he was chased on to the next slope. For ten minutes they played hide-and-seek; but the hard riding cowboy won, when Soup essayed to cross a fifty foot stretch of open country to gain a mesquite patch.

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