Burgade's Crossing, page 10
"Mister Bridges! Be quick!"
The conductor came running inside. When he saw the unconscious crewman, he jerked to a halt; a moaning sound vibrated in his throat. "My God, old Dan! Is he...?"
"No. Wounded but still alive."
"Shot?"
"Struck with something heavy. A gun butt, like as not."
"Gaunt, damn his eyes."
"He was after something in here. Take a quick look around, Mister Bridges. Tell me if you notice anything missing or out of place."
"What about Dan? One of the drawing-room passengers is a doctor...."
"Fetch him. But look here first."
Bridges took a quick turn through the car. "Nothing missing or misplaced, as far as I can tell. Dan's the only one who'll know for sure."
"Are you carrying weapons of any kind? Boxed rifles, handguns? Or dynamite or black powder?"
"No, no, nothing like that."
When Bridges had gone for the doctor, Quincannon pillowed the baggage master's head on one of the smaller bags. He touched a ribbon of blood on the man's cheek, found it nearly dry. The assault hadn't taken place within the past hour, after Gaunt's disappearance from the lavatory. It had happened earlier, during his fifteen-minute absence outside Needles-the very first thing he'd done, evidently, after recognizing Quincannon.
That made the breaching of the baggage car a major part of his escape plan. But what could the purpose be, if nothing here was missing or disturbed?
The doctor was young, brusque, and efficient. Quincannon and Bridges left old Dan in his care and hurried forward. Gaunt wasn't hiding in the tender, and neither the taciturn engineer nor the sweat-soaked fireman had been bothered by anyone or seen anyone since Needles.
That took care of the entire train, front to back. So where the bloody hell was Evan Gaunt?
Quincannon was beside himself as he led the way back downtrain. As he and Bridges passed through the forward day coach, the locomotive's whistle sounded a series of short toots.
"Oh, Lordy," the conductor said. "That's the first signal for Bars tow."
"How long before we slow for the yards?"
"Ten minutes."
"Hell and damn!"
They found Sabina waiting at the rear of the second coach. She shook her head as they approached; her backtracking had also proven fruitless.
The three of them held a huddled conference. Quincannon's latest piece of bad news put ridges in the smoothness of Sabina's forehead, her only outward reaction. "You're certain nothing was taken from the baggage car, Mister Bridges?"
"Not absolutely, no. Every item in the car would have to be examined and then checked against the baggage manifest."
"If Gaunt did steal something," Quincannon said, "he was some careful not to call attention to the fact, in case the baggage master regained consciousness or was found before he could make good his escape."
"Which could mean," Sabina said, "that whatever it was would've been apparent to us at a cursory search."
"Either that, or where it was taken from would've been apparent."
Something seemed to be nibbling at her mind; her expression had turned speculative. "I wonder...."
"What do you wonder?"
The locomotive's whistle sounded again. There was a rocking and the loud thump of couplings as the engineer began the first slackening of their speed. Bridges said: "Five minutes to Barstow. If Gaunt is still on board...."
"He is."
".. .do you think he'll try to get off here?"
"No doubt of it. Wherever he's hiding, he can't hope to avoid being found in a concentrated search. And he knows we'll mount one in Barstow, with the entire train crew and the authorities."
"What do you advise we do?"
"First, tell your porters not to allow anyone off at the station until you give the signal. And when passengers do disembark, they're to do so single file from one exit only. That will prevent Gaunt from slipping off in a crowd."
"The exit between this car and the next behind?"
"Good. Meet me there when you're done."
Bridges hurried away.
Quincannon asked Sabina: "Will you wait for me or take another pass through the cars?"
"Neither," she said. "I noticed something earlier that I thought must be a coincidence. Now I'm not so sure it is."
"Explain that."
"There's no time now. You'll be the first to know if I'm right."
"Sabina...." But she had already turned her back and was purposefully heading forward.
He took himself out onto the platform between the coaches. The Limited had slowed to half speed; once more its whistle cut shrilly through the hot desert stillness. He stood holding onto the hand bar on the station side, leaning out to where he could look both ways along the cars-a precaution in the event Gaunt tried to jump and run in the yards. But he was thinking that this was another exercise in futility. Gaunt's scheme was surely too clever for such a predictable ending.
Bridges reappeared and stood watch on the offside as the Limited entered the rail yards. On Quincannon's side the dun-colored buildings of Barstow swam into view ahead. Thirty years ago, at the close of the Civil War, the town-one of the last stops on the old Mormon Trail between Salt Lake City and San Bernardino-had been a teeming, brawling shipping point for supplies to and highgrade silver ore from the mines in Calico and other camps in the nearby hills. Now, with Calico a near-ghost town and most of the mines shut down, Barstow was a far tamer and less populated settlement. In its lawless days, Evan Gaunt could have found immediate aid and comfort for a price, and, for another price, safe passage out of town and state; in the new Barstow he stood little enough chance-and none at all unless he was somehow able to get clear of the Desert Limited and into a hidey hole.
A diversion of some sort? That was one possible gambit. Quincannon warned himself to remain alert for anything, anything at all, out of the ordinary.
Sabina was on his mind, too. Where the devil had she gone in such a hurry? What sort of coincidence...?
Brake shoes squealed on the sun-heated rails as the Limited neared the station platform. Less than a score of men and women waited in the shade of a roof overhang; the knot of four solemn-faced gents standing apart at the near end was bound to be Sheriff Hoover and his deputies.
Quincannon swiveled his head again. Steam and smoke hazed the air, but he could see clearly enough. No one was making an effort to leave the train on this side. Nor on the offside, else Bridges would have cut loose with a shout.
The engineer slid the cars to a rattling stop alongside the platform. Quincannon jumped down with Bridges close behind him, as the four lawmen ran over through a cloud of steam to meet them. Sheriff Hoover was burly and sported a large mustache; on the lapel of his dusty frock coat was a five-pointed star, and in the holster at his belt was a heavy Colt Dragoon. His three deputies were also well-armed.
"Well, Mister Bridges," the sheriff said. "Where's this man Evan Gaunt? Point him out and we'll have him in irons before he can blink twice."
Bridges said dolefully: "We don't have any idea where he is."
"You don't.... What's this? You mean to say he jumped somewhere along the line?"
"I don't know what to think. Mister Quincannon believes he's still on board, hiding."
"Does he now." Hoover turned to Quincannon, gave him a quick appraisal. "So you're the fly-cop, eh? Well, sir? Explain."
Quincannon explained tersely, with one eye on the sheriff and the other on the rolling stock. Through the grit-streaked windows he could see passengers lining up for departure; Sabina, he was relieved to note, was one of them. A porter stood between the second and third day coaches, waiting for the signal from Bridges to put down the steps.
"Damn strange," Hoover said at the end of Quincannon's recital. "You say you searched everywhere, every possible hiding place. If that's so, how could Gaunt still be on board?"
"I can't say yet. But he is...I'll stake my reputation on it."
"Well, then, we'll find him. Mister Bridges, disembark your passengers. All of em, not just those for Barstow."
"Just as you say, Sheriff."
Bridges signaled to the porter, who swung the steps down and permitted the exodus to begin. One of the first passengers to alight was Sabina. She came straight to where Quincannon stood, took hold of his arm, and drew him a few paces aside. Her manner was urgent, her eyes bright with triumph.
"John," she said, "I found him."
He had long ago ceased to be surprised at anything Sabina said or did. He asked: "Where? How?"
She shook her head. "He'll be getting off any second."
"Getting off? How could he...?"
"There he is!"
Quincannon squinted at the passengers who were just then disembarking: two women, one of whom had a small boy in tow. "Where? I don't see him...."
Sabina was moving again. Quincannon trailed after her, his hand on the Navy Colt inside his coat. The two women and the child were making their way past Sheriff Hoover and his deputies, none of whom was paying any attention to them. The woman towing the little boy was young and pretty, with tightly curled blonde hair; the other woman, older and pudgy, powdered and rouged, wore a gray serge traveling dress and a close-fitting Langtry bonnet that covered most of her head and shadowed her face. She was the one, Quincannon realized, that he'd nearly bowled over outside the women's lavatory in the first-class Pullman.
She was also Evan Gaunt.
He found that out five seconds later, when Sabina boldly walked up and tore the bonnet off, revealing the short-haired male head and clean-shaven face hidden beneath. Her action so surprised Gaunt that he had no time to do anything but swipe at her with one arm, a blow that she nimbly dodged. Then he fumbled inside the reticule he carried, drew out a small-caliber pistol; at the same time he commenced to run.
Sabina shouted, Quincannon shouted, someone else let out a thin scream; there was a small scrambling panic on the platform. But it lasted no more than a few seconds, and without a shot being fired. Gaunt was poorly schooled in the mechanics of running while garbed in woman's clothing: the traveling dress's long skirt tripped him before he reached the station office. He went down in a tangle of arms, legs, petticoats, and assorted other garments that he had wadded up and tied around his torso to create the illusion of pudginess. He still clutched the pistol when Quincannon reached him, but one well-placed kick and it went flying. Quincannon then dropped down on Gaunt's chest with both knees, driving the wind out of him in a grunting hiss. Another well-placed blow, this one to the jaw with Quincannon's meaty fist, put an end to the skirmish.
Sheriff Hoover, his deputies, Mr. Bridges, and the Limited's passengers stood gawping down at the now half disguised and unconscious fugitive. Hoover was the first to speak. He said in tones of utter amazement: "Well, I'll be damned."
Which were Quincannon's sentiments exactly.
"So that's why he assaulted old Dan in the baggage car," Bridges said a short while later. Evan Gaunt had been carted off in steel bracelets to the Barstow jail, and Sabina, Quincannon, Hoover, and the conductor were grouped together in the station office for final words before the Desert Limited continued on its way. "He was after a change of women's clothing."
Sabina nodded. "He devised his plan as soon as he recognized John and realized his predicament. A quick thinker, our Mister Gaunt."
"The stolen clothing was hidden inside the carpetbag he carried into the lavatory?"
"It was. He climbed out the window and over the tops of the smoker and the lounge car to the first-class Pullman, waited until the women's lavatory was empty, climbed down through that window, locked the door, washed and shaved off his mustache and sideburns, dressed in the stolen clothing, put on rouge and powder that he'd also pilfered, and then disposed of his own clothes and carpetbag through the lavatory window."
"And when he came out to take a seat in the forward day coach," Quincannon said ruefully, "I nearly knocked him down. If only I had. It would've saved us all considerable difficulty."
Hoover said: "Don't chastise yourself, Mister Quincannon. You had no way of suspecting Gaunt had disguised himself as a woman."
"That's not quite true," Sabina said. "Actually, John did have a way of knowing... the same way I discovered the masquerade, though at first notice I considered it a coincidence. Through simple familiarity."
"Familiarity with what?" Quincannon asked.
"John, you're one of the best detectives I've ever known, but, honestly, there are times when you're also one of the most unobservant. Tell me, what did I wear on the trip out to Arizona? What color and style of outfit? What type of hat?"
"I don't see what that has to do with...." Then, as the light dawned, he said in a smaller voice: "Oh."
"That's right," Sabina said, smiling. "Mister Gaunt plundered the wrong woman's grip in the baggage car. The gray serge traveling dress and Langtry bonnet he was wearing are mine."
When Quincannon dropped off the mine wagon late that morning, he saw that Samuel McClellan was one of the gaggle of men already waiting in the shade of the gallows frame. Assistant foreman was a cushy job, mostly that of inspection of completed work, and allowed for less than the ten hours other miners spent in the hole. But McClellan was invariably one of the first on the job and among the last to leave-one of the reasons he had aroused Quincannon's suspicions. Once a man turned to highgrading, he thought nothing of working long and hard to line his pockets.
Quincannon took off his miner's hat, sleeved road dust from his face. As early as it was, the day promised more blistering summer heat, with none of the cooling winds that often blew among the high Sierra peaks. Off to his right, the departing wagon raised another column of dust as it started back down the long passage into the Patch Creek settlement. Where the creek itself was visible among willows and aspens, the water caught sunlight and dazzled like molten silver.
He moved across the noisy mine yard. A skip had just clanged out of the shaft and its load of ore was about to be dumped into the bins set beneath the gallows frame. Topmen and mules maneuvered timbers and planks for lowering to the eleven-hundred and twelve-hundred levels currently being mined. Rope men and steel men were already at their tasks. Day-shift miners stood talking and laughing in little groups, waiting for the whistle-half as many as there had been when the Gold King Mine was among the largest and most profitable lodes in the northern mountains. But there was still enough gold to be hacked out of its galleries and cross-cuts to make highgrading profitable and James O'Hearn and the other, absentee mine owners willing to part with a handsome sum to put a stop to it.
Quincannon paused just outside the gallows frame, watching McClellan. The man was in a nervous twitch today, his voice two octaves higher than normal, his laugh forced. And well he might be. He was the weak link among the highgraders, however many there were-Quincannon's guess was no less than three, no more than five. It had taken him less than a week on the job to single out the assistant foreman as a likely suspect, and a nocturnal visit to his lodgings in town had turned up just enough milled dust to confirm his guilt. McClellan seemed to sense that he had been found out. His actions the past few days had grown increasingly furtive, as if he might be thinking of taking it on the lammas with his cut of the spoils. Quincannon had yet to discover where the bulk of the highgrade was stashed, but he maintained a close watch on the assistant foreman. Sooner or later McClellan would lead him to the stolen gold and the identity of his partners in the scheme.
The partners remained shadowy figures. One other man had taken Quincannon's notice, a slab-faced day-shift tender named Murdock who was also among those waiting now for the whistle. Twice in the Golden Dollar Saloon Quincannon had seen McClellan and Murdock with their heads together in a way that suggested more than mere friendship. But as yet he'd been unable to gather a shred of evidence to implicate the man.
The whistle blew to announce the end of the night shift. Shortly Quincannon heard the cage rattling in the shaft, and it soon shot into view at a jolting, close to unsafe speed before the squealing brakes gripped the cable. The hoist engineer's little game, and a dangerous one that caused ominous grumblings among the night shift as they filed out, caked with dust, sweat, and drip and smelling like the mine mules.
Not long after the last man was off, the shift boss, a squat Cornish "Cousin Jack" whose nicotine-stained mustaches had given him the name Walrus Ben, led the day shift onto the swaying cage. Quincannon contrived to stand near McClellan as Walrus Ben gave two pulls on the hoist cord, the signal to lower the cage. The assistant foreman glared at him once, fidgeted, and turned his back.
The drop into darkness was fast, jerky, the square of light above vanishing almost immediately for the shaft was crooked from the pressure of the earth against it. The cage bounced to a stop at eleven-hundred, where Murdock and a dozen others alighted, then dropped to the station at twelve-hundred. By then Quincannon's ears were clogged and he was deaf from the change in air pressure. It was a phenomenon he'd never gotten used to, on the job here or in the gold mine where he'd worked one long summer in his youth. As he and the others stepped off, they stamped their feet until the pressure eased and hearing returned.
In the powder room across the station they hung up coats, stowed lunch pails, gathered tools, and lit candles and tin oil lamps. As Quincannon started off to the cross-cut that was being driven across a new and potentially rich vein, someone caught his arm and drew him to a halt. McClellan. The assistant foreman's fox face already ran with sweat. In the smoky light from Quincannon's lamp, his eyes held the sheen of fear.
When the other men passed out of earshot, McClellan said in a harsh whisper: "Who are you, mister?"
"John Quincannon's the name. As you well know."
"I well know that you've been watching me, following me. What I want to know is why."
"You've made a mistake. I've no interest in you beyond our time in this treasure hole."
"You're not a miner. I know miners... you're too soft, too deep for this work."
"Too deep, mayhap. Hardly too soft."
