Trigger Gospel (5 page)

From without came a second summons to open the door.

“Who are you?” Waco demanded this time.

“You know who we are, Waco!” an angry voice shouted back. “You quit your nonsense and git that door open!”

Waco recognized the speaker. It was Smoke Sontag.

“Is that you Smoke?” he stalled as he took a package from the safe and dropped it into the little cast-iron stove—unused for weeks—which stood in the corner of the car.

“You damn well know it is!” the outlaw answered.

“All right, I'll open up,” the old man promised.

This was robbery on a rather unique plane, in that both parties were known to the other. Here was no case of bandits attacking behind a handkerchief or a black mask. Like the Daltons and the Doolins, the Sontag gang had a name for ruthlessness that was well-calculated to strike fear whenever it appeared, and they made the most of it.

Waco was searching for a package with which to replace the one he had taken from the safe. He found one—similar in size and weight—a package of billheads, from a Medora printer, on their way to Bowie. It was the work of a moment to deface the label and toss the package into the safe.

He gave the dial a spin and hurried to the door, flashing a glance at Ferris as he fumbled with the lock.

“Git your hands up when they come in—and keep your lip buttoned!” he cautioned him.

The heavy door was run back with a bang, due to assistance from without.

Three of the Sontags climbed into the car. Smoke did the talking. He was a giant in size, fear-proof, reckless and a born leader of men.

“Come on get 'em up higher!” he barked at Waco. The old man raised his hands above his head. “That's right, just keep reachin' for the stars. I ain't takin' no chance on you.” He spoke to his brother. “You take care of the mail clerk, Grat: Shorty and me'll ‘tend to Waco.”

Grat Sontag, a weasel-eyed, pockmarked killer, already had Ferris backed into a corner. The mail clerk didn't move fast enough for him, however, and Grat grazed his head with a bullet.

It was neat shooting, but Ferris thought the miss was accidental; that he was to be slain even though he had his hands in the air. Foolishly he reached for the gun he had hidden. Grat did not miss this time. With a tired sigh, the clerk crumpled up on the floor.

Smoke ignored the interruption.

“Waco—you got twenty thousand in currency with you tonight. Where is it?”

“In the safe.” Waco Stillings' eyes were cold and stony.

“See if he's got a gun on him,” Smoke ordered.

Grat ran his hands over Waco and found nothing.

“All right, take your hands down, and open up that safe!”

“Smoke, it'll mean my job if I open up that safe for yuh,” the old man declared solemnly.

“It'll mean your funeral if you don't!” Grat Sontag whipped out viciously. He poked a gun at Waco. “Get her open!”

Waco whirled on him indignantly.

“Say, don't you git so reckless with your gun-talk!” he blazed. “I ain't no scared mail clerk. I'll open this safe, but I'll take my time about it; and I'm remindin' yuh to think twice before yuh shoot me down like yuh did Ferris there. If anythin' happens to me my boys will see that I git justice if they have to chase yuh to hell to git it!”

Smoke waved Grat back. Both had some acquaintance with the Stillings boys.

“That's all right, Waco,” Grat grumbled, “just open her up; we won't have no trouble with you.”

“All right, jest so we understand each other,” the old man muttered as he bent over the safe. “I don't mind a little gun-play now and then. I've shot it out with better men than the best of yuh—and they always had a chance to fill their hand before I cut down on 'em. Less than that is jest murder, and I don't mind tellin' yuh so to your teeth.”

“Suppose you tighten your lip a little!” Grat jerked out. “We ain't got all night to wait here. Get her open!”

“She's open,” Waco announced.

“Then get your hands up and back away!” Smoke barked at him.

He kept Waco covered as Grat rifled the safe. Shorty Pierce, the third man, scooped up the gun that Waco had tossed on the desk. It took only a second or two. Waco was watching them craftily. Grat did not bother to examine the package he had taken from the safe.

“Come on, Shorty!” Smoke commanded. “You and Grat pile out of here; I'll follow.”

The two men ran to the door and jumped to the ground. Smoke backed away after them.

“Don't show your face until after we ride away,” he warned. “You'll sure get busted if you do.”

“Go ahead; I ain't stoppin' yuh,” Waco flung back at him fiercely.

A minute later, after firing an admonitory fusillade that rattled harmlessly against the side of the express car, the Sontags rode away. Members of the train crew who had found discretion the better part of valor ran up now. The conductor peered into the express car to find Waco bent down over Ferris' lifeless body. He started to climb in.

“Good God, don't waste any time askin' questions!” Waco snarled at him. “Give Jerry the highball and git this train rollin' !”

“But Ferris looks as though he was badly wounded,” the conductor protested. “If there is a doctor aboard we ought to get him up here.”

“No doctor is goin' to help this boy,” Waco told him. “He's dead. He's likely not to be the only one if we don't pull out of here before Smoke discovers that he didn't get what he came for.”

“What do you mean by that?” Richards, the conductor, asked.

“I mean the money is there in the stove,” said Waco. “All the Sontags got was some printed matter—and Smoke's sense of humor ain't up to appreciatin' anythin' like that.”

I
T WAS
less than sixteen miles from the scene of the holdup to Bowie, for the Skull flowed to the northeast for some distance before it joined the Cimarron. Number Nine made the run in record time. Five minutes after she pulled into the Bowie yards news that the Sontags had boarded her in spectacular fashion, killing a mail clerk but failing to get the money they were after, through the coolheadedness of Waco Stillings, was winging its way over town.

A crowd gathered at the station and saw Ferris' body removed from the train. Telegraph wires had begun to hum. From Oklahoma City came word that Heck Short, U. S. Marshal, and his man-hunters were leaving for Bowie at once. From even more distant Kansas City came a message authorizing a reward for the capture of Ferris' slayers, dead or alive. Newspapers asked for details of the holdup.

Waco found it a little bewildering as he sat in the division superintendent's office. He had been enjoined against saying anything until the Marshal arrived. A stricture of that nature was akin to locking the barn after the horse has been stolen, for alleged eye-witnesses among the passengers had ostensibly purveyed all details already.

Some time after midnight Waco made his way uptown. He lived beyond the business section. It was his intention to go directly home, but he had no more than set foot on the main street than he was hailed right and left. Lights still burned brightly in Bowie's saloons, for the town retained enough of its frontier character to refuse to be put to bed until it was good and ready to go. As a result, Waco's progress became something of a triumphant procession. Various refreshments were urged on him, but he refused them successfully until he reached the Longhorn Saloon. There Sam Swift, Bowie's new mayor, captured him and propelled him inside.

“Here he is, boys!” Sam beamed as he pushed Waco up to the bar. “He put Bowie on the map tonight! The drinks is on me!”

The crowd cheered. Waco was embarrassed. He had never found himself a hero before. In the past he had often been in the public eye in Bowie, but that was on those occasions when it used to delight him to ride into town with a bunch of punchers and express his exuberance by shooting out the lights.

When Waco refused to enlarge on the story of what had happened at Skull Creek crossing, they put it down to modesty. It didn't make any difference really; they had heard enough to give them a pretty definite idea of what had occurred.

Some one else bought a drink, and then another and another. Sam had his arm around Waco now.

“He's an old fightin' son-of-a-gun, boys!” he bellowed. “A little starched in the legs, but he's the man who ought to be the next sheriff of this county!”

The crowd shouted its approval.

“Speakin' of the sheriff,” Sam continued with mock concern, “has some body mislaid him? Where
is
Beaudry?”

“He's right here, Sam,” Cash answered for himself from the door. He slapped the dust off his shoulders as he strode in with his chief deputy. He was panting a little breathlessly. “Let me up to the bar; I sure crave a drink.”

He filled a glass to the brim and dashed the contents off deftly. The crowd was watching him, its attitude a mixture of indifference and hostility.

“That tip you had was certainly red hot, just as you said,” Sam Swift volunteered. “Suppose you've heard the news.”

“I didn't only hear it, but if I'd had some fresh horses I would have been right in it,” Beaudry enlightened them. “We covered some country since mornin'. Our broncs was staggerin' when we ran into Tas Cummings' outfit camped at Cherokee crossing on the Cimarron. I commandeered their horses, but they wa'n't none too fresh after comin' up all the way from the North Fork. We kept on down the river until we came to the Skull. We'd just turned up the creek when we heard shootin'. … I knew what it meant.”

“You must have missed them by just a few minutes,” Sam suggested. His tone was solicitous to the point of being mocking. Beaudry failed to catch it.

“I'd had Smoke dead to rights tonight,” he ground out savagely. “I didn't intend to waste no time tryin' to take that bunch alive. It was just the damnedest luck a man ever had that I missed 'em. We came on, best we could, but the train had pulled out before we got there.” He shook his head to express his bitterness. “Wa'n't no point in tryin' to overhaul Smoke's bunch with the stuff we was ridin'.”

“Guess you was doin' well to get back to Bowie,” Sam declared solemnly.

“Just about crawled in,” Cash agreed. “But I'm promisin' you I ain't done!” he burst out with a sudden show of spirit. “This thing's personal between Smoke and me now! I'll fetch him!” He banged the bar with his fist to emphasize his words.

“Luck can't be against us always,” Blackie Chilton, his chief deputy, declared.

“That's what I say, Blackie!” There was a calculating light in Beaudry's eyes as he glanced furtively up and down the bar. He was intent on ascertaining what sort of an impression he had made. An interruption from the end of the bar did not add to his. pleasure.

“Why don't you deputize Waco?” a raucous voice demanded.

“Say, that's no joke!” the sheriff reprimanded the speaker. “I don't yield to no man in my respect for what he did tonight!” He forced his way up to the old man. “I certainly want to shake your hand, Waco,” he declared humbly. “I never heard of a gamer thing—standin' up in front of a gang of recognized killers and doin' what you did! I'm mighty proud of yuh.”

Waco let him pump his hand. He liked Beaudry as little as did his sons.

“I'm buyin' for the crowd now!” Cash boomed. “I want you to drink with me to Waco!” He had said nothing about his difficulty with Little Bill. He felt the time was hardly propitious for mentioning it. “Well, here's to you!” he exclaimed as he raised his glass.

“ 'Bout time you made a speech, Waco,” Sam Swift urged. The crowd took it up, but Waco refused to warm to the idea.

“His modesty is right becomin'!” Cash laughed. He slapped Waco on the back familiarly. “I bet Smoke Sontag is livin' up to his name right now. Can you imagine him, boys, when he found that all he'd got was a bunch of Otto Hahn's Purity Market billheads? I bet his eyes popped!”