money; or maybe they wanted to go to the elegant hotels back east or on the coast and really live it up. I decided Ruby Shaw might be wanting just that, and from all I’d heard Ruby was a girl who got what she wanted…up to a point.
There was no other reason that I could see for them to start on the outlaw trail again so soon. Not with money in their pockets that the law couldn’t touch them for.
One of them would come to town to scout around, and no doubt they also had somebody in town already who knew when the stage would be carrying money. Did that somebody know about me? I had to chance it that he didn’t, and make sure he didn’t learn anything about me. Which meant I had to stay holed up.
There was a peekhole in the wall where a man could see what went on in the office, and there was a window that looked out on the street. The building next door cut off the view, but sitting by that window a man could watch folks pass for a few yards on this side of the street, and several times that distance across the way.
About noon on the second day a man walked up the street and leaned against the awning pole and began to build a cigarette. He was a lean, swarthy man I had not seen before. He looked like any cowpoke, except that his boots were polished, he wore fancy Mexican spurs, and his outfit looked a mite better than most cowhands could afford.
When he cupped his hands to light his smoke, his eyes came over to the stage station, held there for a moment, then drifted along. He stalled around there until he had smoked three cigarettes, then he walked off down the street, but later he came back and stood against the front of a building just within range of my view.
There was a bench there, and after a while he sat down on it and spent a good part of the afternoon right there. And while he studied the station and watched what went on, I studied him.
He carried a six-shooter in a holster on his right hip, but he also wore a coat, whereas most riders simply wore a vest, because it gave them shoulder room and had pockets for tobacco, matches, and such-like.
As I watched, he put a hand into the left side of his coat several times—a movement I was sure he wasn’t aware of. What was there that occupied his mind? Money? Could be. A weapon? More likely. There was no bulge that I could see at this distance, but why not a derringer—insurance against those little occurrences that sometimes happen?
It would be a thing to remember.
The next day the man with the polished boots was no longer around, but there was another one, and this one I had no trouble recognizing, for it was Reese.
He was less patient than the first man, who I surmised was Pit Burnett. Reese would sit for a short while, then move off and stroll along the street, and presently return. Everybody on the street was too busy to pay them much mind, for western towns had few men just idling time away. Every man had a job to do and he was busy doing it.
The next day I was supposed to take my trip on the stage to study the route, and I was restless to be going. But as I waited there in the back room, all of a sudden a buckboard came rolling up the street with two men on the driver’s seat, one of them carrying a Winchester. Riding behind was another man, also armed. Reese was half asleep on the bench across the way, but when that buckboard showed up he got up as quick as if he’d been bee-stung. On the side of it was painted the words, GOLD HILL MINING CO .
When I looked at the bench again Reese was gone.
This then was it. I wasn’t going to get a chance to take that first ride over the road. This shipment would be going out on tomorrow’s stage, and I’d be riding with it.
After a few minutes the buckboard rolled away and I got up. One of the men who had come with it had evidently remained behind.
Rollins opened the door and stuck his head into the room. “Come in here, Shell. I want you to meet somebody.”
He was a short man, square and heavy around
There was no other reason that I could see for them to start on the outlaw trail again so soon. Not with money in their pockets that the law couldn’t touch them for.
One of them would come to town to scout around, and no doubt they also had somebody in town already who knew when the stage would be carrying money. Did that somebody know about me? I had to chance it that he didn’t, and make sure he didn’t learn anything about me. Which meant I had to stay holed up.
There was a peekhole in the wall where a man could see what went on in the office, and there was a window that looked out on the street. The building next door cut off the view, but sitting by that window a man could watch folks pass for a few yards on this side of the street, and several times that distance across the way.
About noon on the second day a man walked up the street and leaned against the awning pole and began to build a cigarette. He was a lean, swarthy man I had not seen before. He looked like any cowpoke, except that his boots were polished, he wore fancy Mexican spurs, and his outfit looked a mite better than most cowhands could afford.
When he cupped his hands to light his smoke, his eyes came over to the stage station, held there for a moment, then drifted along. He stalled around there until he had smoked three cigarettes, then he walked off down the street, but later he came back and stood against the front of a building just within range of my view.
There was a bench there, and after a while he sat down on it and spent a good part of the afternoon right there. And while he studied the station and watched what went on, I studied him.
He carried a six-shooter in a holster on his right hip, but he also wore a coat, whereas most riders simply wore a vest, because it gave them shoulder room and had pockets for tobacco, matches, and such-like.
As I watched, he put a hand into the left side of his coat several times—a movement I was sure he wasn’t aware of. What was there that occupied his mind? Money? Could be. A weapon? More likely. There was no bulge that I could see at this distance, but why not a derringer—insurance against those little occurrences that sometimes happen?
It would be a thing to remember.
The next day the man with the polished boots was no longer around, but there was another one, and this one I had no trouble recognizing, for it was Reese.
He was less patient than the first man, who I surmised was Pit Burnett. Reese would sit for a short while, then move off and stroll along the street, and presently return. Everybody on the street was too busy to pay them much mind, for western towns had few men just idling time away. Every man had a job to do and he was busy doing it.
The next day I was supposed to take my trip on the stage to study the route, and I was restless to be going. But as I waited there in the back room, all of a sudden a buckboard came rolling up the street with two men on the driver’s seat, one of them carrying a Winchester. Riding behind was another man, also armed. Reese was half asleep on the bench across the way, but when that buckboard showed up he got up as quick as if he’d been bee-stung. On the side of it was painted the words, GOLD HILL MINING CO .
When I looked at the bench again Reese was gone.
This then was it. I wasn’t going to get a chance to take that first ride over the road. This shipment would be going out on tomorrow’s stage, and I’d be riding with it.
After a few minutes the buckboard rolled away and I got up. One of the men who had come with it had evidently remained behind.
Rollins opened the door and stuck his head into the room. “Come in here, Shell. I want you to meet somebody.”
He was a short man, square and heavy around
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