Stepping outside, Pat looked around for his two companions but they were nowhere in sight. He climbed in the buckboard and drove to the stables a few hundred yards from the station. After arranging for the care of the horses, he began taking the bags out. Sally’s, he noted, appeared to be overly heavy, and a slow grin came on his face as he set it down and opened it. The grin changed to a chuckle when he felt around and encountered the cold steel of her small pistol. She insisted that he go unarmed, but she had brought her own weapon along. That was like Sally.

  When he entered the depot he found Sally talking animatedly to the young dude who had been there when they arrived. She introduced her husband with a smile to “Mr. Torrence, who’s going to Pueblo too,” and Pat hesitated a moment before shaking hands.

  “Your wife tells me you’ll be taking the stage out of Pueblo, Mr. Stevens. Going far into the mountains?”

  Pat said, “Not far,” turning to drop his carpetbags and Sally’s valise in the corner.

  “I understand it’s dangerous traveling on the Pueblo stage these days,” Torrence persisted. “Seems to me a man like you would be armed for a trip like that, Mr. Stevens. I’ve heard a lot of stories around these parts about your prowess with a six-gun.”

  Pat said, “Have you?” glancing aside helplessly at Sally who was twinkling at him maliciously.

  “I certainly have. And your two partners, too. Before Sheriff Ross was killed there was some talk that he might ask you and your friends to help him clean out the band of hooded bandits that have been terrorizing Dusty Canyon.”

  “Out here in the West, folks don’t get so curious,” Pat cut him off curtly, not caring how angry Sally got with him. “I’m not packing my guns this trip, and I don’t look for any trouble.”

  The chugging of the engine outside interrupted the conversation. Pat hurried outside and gave one last searching glance around for Sam and Ezra before Sally followed him. There was not a person in sight. Only the noise of wheels, the clanging of the bell and the shrill blast of the train whistle broke the cold silence.

  Turning back into the room, he picked up the bags as the train creaked and groaned to a stop. The puffing little engine was pulling a baggage car, two passenger coaches, and a string of freight cars and gondolas which ended with a red caboose.

  Pat caught Sally’s arm and hustled her up the steps of the second passenger coach. Dropping the bags in a corner behind the door, he took her on to a seat and before leaving, admonished her:

  “You’d better stay inside, honey. You’ll catch your death of cold outside after sitting in that hot station room. I’ll be in in a minute.”

  As he reached the steps, he encountered Mr. Torrence carrying his oddly wrapped bundle by the improvised handle. Standing aside to let him come up the steps, it struck Pat as very strange that a young man who was so expensively dressed should not pack his clothes in a valise, but his mind was too intent upon watching for Sam and Ezra to dwell long upon the thought.

  He stood on the bottom step looking down the long row of freight cars until the brakeman called “All aboard,” and until the train puffed mightily and chugged slowly away. Sam and Ezra did not show up. Disappointed, he went into the coach, shoved the back of a seat over so that he could sit facing Sally, and arranged the valise and two carpetbags beside him.

  “Thank goodness,” Sally breathed, “we won’t have to worry about a hold-up going to Pueblo,” and relaxed against the plush seat to enjoy the rare pleasure of a train ride.

  Although Pat made several trips through the other passenger car and on through the baggage car, Ezra and Sam were nowhere to be found. He thought, gloomily, that if they had grabbed one of the gondolas as the train pulled out they would freeze to death before reaching Pueblo. His only hope was that they were riding the caboose.

  The stranger who had introduced himself as Torrence sat at the far end of the coach, apparently engrossed in a book. They were the only three passengers, and when Sally opened the lunch box which was stored in one of the carpetbags she insisted upon Pat inviting him to share it.

  After much urging by Sally, he accepted the invitation, but his manner had changed from that of the first few minutes when Sally introduced him to Pat. He was dour and sullen and uncommunicative, but he ate heartily of the cold turkey sandwiches and Sally’s special Christmas cake.

  The stagecoach which was to carry them to Dusty Canyon was more than an hour late leaving Pueblo. The driver was plainly half-drunk, and there was no guard with him. The hulking figure in the driver’s seat explained that the guards had done too much celebrating over Christmas and wouldn’t accompany them back, but that it really didn’t matter, because the stage never carried any gold up the canyon.

  The sun was going down behind the serrated peaks to the west before they started. Pat waited for Sally to mention her pistol, hoping that she would urge him to take it and be ready to protect them in case they were attacked, but dusk came and she did not mention it. Inside the two-seated coach, it was quite dark. Talking volubly, Pat wormed his hand to the carpetbag beside him and surreptitiously opened it, felt inside and assured himself that his guns were within easy reach.

  The stage was dipping steadily down toward the floor of the canyon, rocking and reeling over small boulders in the trail while the driver alternately sang drunkenly and cursed the horses, lashing them with a whip.

  Suddenly a shot rang out close by. Simultaneously the horses lurched over a huge boulder, tilting the coach perilously on the two right wheels. Sally was thrown hard against Pat, pinning his arm against the side of the coach. At that instant the right door came open. Grabbing for his wife with his left arm, Pat tried to free his right one to grab for the carpetbag and his guns, but just before the coach righted itself, the two carpetbags fell through the door and landed on the ground with a dull thud.

  Then a hooded and robed figure appeared to dive from a rock into the driver’s seat, and while Pat and Sally were being jostled from one side to the other of the coach as it settled, another tall, black, ominous figure pushed a gun inexorably into Pat’s ribs.

  “Make a move an’ you’re dead,” a hard voice said.

  After prancing back and forth, the horses subsided and the coach was still.

  “Git out, you,” the voice commanded. “Effen yuh don’ make no fuss the gal won’t git hurt, but ef yuh do, she’ll git the same as you.”

  Pat said softly to Sally, “Be quiet. I’ll get out and if they promise to let the driver take you on, I’ll go with them.”

  Sally moaned, slumped low in the seat, pretending to faint while her hand frantically felt around for her valise. Pat got out and shut the door tightly behind him. She heard him arguing with the man and prayed that she would locate her pistol before they took him away, but already the coach was moving forward slowly and in the rapidly approaching darkness she saw that they were rounding a sharp curve and that Pat was being led away between the two robed figures.

  Before the stage had gone a hundred yards her fingers found the valise. Unstrapping it hastily, she took out her pistol and started forward to open the narrow door leading up to the driver’s seat, but sank back in terror and despair when she realized that if she shot with the carriage moving she might hit Pat … and thought, too, that any fight on her part might cause the men to shoot Pat then and there.

  The stage had rounded the curve and the high jagged wall of the canyon was between them. Deeper and deeper into the floor of the canyon they plunged, with the driver making no attempt to hold the team back on the steep decline.

  Sally covered her face with her hands, pressed her fingers into her eyes to keep the tears back. This was no time for tears. Her only hope was to reach the Sutton cabin and send help back as quickly as possible. The bumping and swaying and lumbering of the coach was no longer uncomfortable and terrifying, for it carried her more swiftly to her destination.

  The two black-hooded and robed figures walked menacingly beside Pat as they stumbled up a precipitous path which was scarcely visible. Occasionally he had a glimpse of a quarter moon through the tall pines, but already it was sinking low, and in a short time would sink beyond the canyon’s rim. Now and then the path narrowed so that they were forced to walk single file, but there was always the muzzle of a gun against his body.

  Not a word was spoken on the strange journey. Finally they came upon a clump of pines which hid a low log shack backed up against a projecting cliff. Pat’s keen ears caught the sound of running water, heard the whinnying of a horse, and knew that this was the end of the trail for tonight … perhaps the end of the trail for all time for him … unless the Stevens luck held.

  Then he was cursing under his breath. Where the devil were Sam and Ezra? Why the hell hadn’t he forced Sally to let him strap his guns around his waist where they belonged? He had been a blasted fool not to take matters in his own hands and do things his way. Maybe Sam’s and Ezra’s jokes about him getting soft were not jokes. Maybe he had gone soft.

  One of the men pushed the cabin door open while the other stood relentlessly by with the muzzle of his gun against Pat’s ribs. A light flickered inside as a lantern was lifted up to a rafter, then Pat felt the gun prodding him forward.

  He stepped into a long low room with a plank floor. Cold dank air was in his nostrils, telling him that the cabin had not been heated or aired for a long time. A rough table stood in one corner and there were four straight chairs with cowhide bottoms. A kitchen range occupied another corner, and drawn up close to the fireplace were two larger chairs with rockers.

  The man who had preceded them into the room was drawing a loop of rope from a rafter. Pat’s gray eyes grew wary as he measured the distance from the floor to the rafters. They were not more than three inches above his head. He wondered how long he could endure dancing on his tiptoes if they hung him in here.

  Relief spread through him when one of the men ordered: “Set down on that chear,” pointing to one of the rockers with the muzzle of his gun.

  Pat sat down and the shorter of the two men began winding the rope around his body, holding it fast against the chair, pinioning his arms against his side. In that moment Pat knew, gloomily, what he would do if he didn’t have a wife and a son. He would take the desperate chance of flinging his arms out in an effort to knock the gun from the tall man’s hand. As it was, there was nothing to do but submit … and wait.

  When the knot was securely tied behind the chair, the tall man holstered his gun and the shorter man went to the stove and started a fire.

  Thankful that he would at least not freeze to death for the next few hours, Pat settled as comfortably as he could with the rope binding him.

  Suddenly one of the men laughed harshly and said, “Reckon yuh won’t be hankerin’ a’ter messin’ intuh what ain’t none o’ your damned bizness, Mistuh Stevens, a’ter we turn yuh over to thuh big boss.”

  So, Pat thought, the rumor had gotten around that he was coming to Dusty Canyon to clean out the gang of robbers.

  “Shet your mouth,” growled the taller man, “an’ go fetch in some grub offen the haws.”

  Pat was thinking fast. Caught as he was, the only thing to do was try to reason with them. He said, “I had no intention of going after your gang. My wife and I were coming up to visit some friends. We meant to take the stage back to Pueblo tomorrow.”

  “We got our awders,” the man snarled from the stove where a fire was roaring. Warmth gradually penetrated the cabin and Pat’s bare hands were losing some of their stiffness.

  “Seems to me,” Pat argued, “you’ve done enough meanness without attacking a man who hasn’t got anything you want to steal and who has no notion of trying to turn you and your gang in.”

  “You’re lyin’,” the other snapped. “They ain’t nobody ever heerd o’ yuh, Pat Stevens, that’d believe yuh.”

  “But I quit trailin’ thieves and killers more’n four years ago,” Pat contended. “All I want is to get back to my ranch and take care of my wife and boy. There’s plenty others that’ll go after you and your gang, and they’ll get you yet,” he ended doggedly.

  “Shut up that threatenin’ talk,” the tall man growled. “You’re wastin’ some o’ your last breath talkin’ tuh me. I’m carryin’ out awders.” He laughed with an inhuman sound which seemed very odd to Pat. As if it was forced, as if the man tried hard to disguise his voice. His words, too, sounded queer. Unnaturally guttural and spoken from one corner of his mouth.

  Pat’s big hands writhed under the tight rope, itching to be free to jerk the hood from the man’s face and have a look at it.

  The shorter man came through the door with a bundle in his arm and it was not long before the aroma of frying bacon and boiling coffee filled the room. Pat was hungry. Sharing their lunch on the train with Torrence had cut his share down.

  When the food was ready the taller man said gruffly, “Reckon y’might loosen that rope on his right han’ a leetle, Buck, so’s he kin hold ontuh a cup o’ coffee. Allus fill up a man’s belly jest ’fore yuh string ’im up to a cottonwood. It’s the gen’lmanly thing tuh do, and it makes ’em swing heavier.” He guffawed loudly.

  Pat’s eyes shone like bright coals of fire. He kept them lowered, waiting for the short man to loosen the rope. If he could get his right hand free while they both had their guns holstered, he would have a fighting chance.

  “You gone plumb rantin’ crazy?” the shorter man bellowed. “Effen I loose that rope on his right hand it’ll come loose all ’round. I’ll cram some rations down his th’oat m’self.”

  Pat’s hopes dwindled and he said crisply, “I’m not hungry.” He knew this was foolish defiance. His big body required regular provisioning to keep it strong for an emergency, but he did not retract his statement.

  When one of the men filled the stove with fresh wood, Pat had another hopeful thought. If the men should leave him alone even for a short time, he might be able to burn the rope on the stove, free himself to make a dash from the cabin. He might even find the path up which they had climbed … and find his guns lying in the stagecoach trail below.

  As the night wore on, however, his hope became utter despair. Neither of the men had left the room. Neither of them dozed as they sat before the fireplace where a small blaze had been kindled as the night grew bitter cold. When the short man sneezed violently, Pat had a fleeting glimpse of his chin when he raised the black mask a little to get a handkerchief to his nose. His chin was covered with a black stubble.

  Ruefully, Pat thought of Sam Sloan.

  He decided it was about midnight when the taller man stood up, stretched himself, and announced that he was going outside and walk around for a while, warning the other to keep close guard over the prisoner. Before leaving, he bent down to examine the knot of the rope.

  Listening keenly, Pat was certain he heard a horse being led away from the cabin. The clomp of his hooves against the rocks grew fainter, then they were running as the sound died away in the distance.

  Glancing at the guard who sat in a rocker, Pat saw that he was dozing. He sat up suddenly and asked, “Did yuh hear somethin’?”

  “I heard a horse running,” Pat answered. “Looks like your friend has gone and left you.”

  “Dad-blast his guts,” the man roared, “I’ll teach ’im tuh leave me holdin’ thuh bag.” He jumped up, cursing angrily, and went hastily through the door.

  The minute the door closed behind the short bulky figure, Pat began dragging the rocking chair toward the stove as hastily as was humanly possible, hoping against hope that there was still enough heat to burn the rope and that he could manage somehow to make the contact.

  The shorter of the robed figures did not lead his horse away slowly as the first man did. Pat heard the rapid beat of hooves against the rocky slope, and knew that the frightened, surly coward was racing to apprise the “boss” of the fact that Pat Stevens was helplessly strapped to a chair in the cabin awaiting his final orders.

  FOUR

  Luck had been with Sam and Ezra at Hopewell Junction. Instead of coming near the station, they had stabled their horses in a corral some distance from the depot, and when the train came near they made a dash across the track and were hidden by the cars until the caboose reached them. The train was moving slowly, and they swung up the steps of the caboose unobserved.

  There were three punchers in the little red car who, to use their own words, were nursing three carloads of beef cattle to market. Sam and Ezra promptly engaged them in a poker game.

  When the train stopped in Pueblo, neither of them made a move to get off. One of the punchers who had lost heavily in the game drawled, “I thought you’ns was gettin’ off here. Ez fer as I’m consarned, you won’t win no more offen me.”

  Ezra answered him by calling and laying a full-house face up on the improvised table, and after the other hands were laid down, he raked in the pot. He then arose stiffly from an empty crate and took his stand by the window. He chuckled when he saw Pat and Sally going toward the depot. Pat was straining his eyes in every direction and stumbled over the plank curb separating the cinder path from the board walk above which hung a sign, PUEBLO.

  “You see ’em?” Sam asked, watching him closely.

  “Pat near about broke his neck lookin’ fer us.”

  “He’ll be comin’ down here to the caboose lookin’ fer us,” Sam suggested.

  “Nope. He won’t. Sally’d shore know what he was up to if he done that,” Ezra replied sagely.

  The three punchers had left the caboose to walk around outside and the two men were alone. Sam asked, “How much’d you take in the game?”

  “’Bout ’nuff to buy us a coupla wall-eyed cayuses, I reckon. How much you got?”