Six Ways from Sunday, page 24
“I’d be glad of the security.”
“You may need it,” I said.
I got me a blanket and a pillow and settled into a skinny wicker thing, and spent the night there, with that old six-gun of Celia’s in hand, but nothing happened. Just when the eastern sky was lightening up a little, I abandon the porch, settled a saddle on Critter, and rode into Swamp Creek, which was real still and peaceful. It almost looked like one of them ghost towns, but I knew there was still a few dozen people around.
The Mountain House was dark and no one was stirring. I had a feelin’ maybe I ought to escort Mr. Burt out of town a ways, just to keep him safe. I steered Critter on over to the livery barn, thinkin’ to find out a few things. It didn’t take long to figure out that Burt had left Swamp Creek. That rental rig out of Butte was gone, and so were the trotters. I looked around some, but they just wasn’t there. Burt had flown the coop.
I spotted old gimpy Willis, the hostler, who was pitching hay out of the loft and into mangers, and he saw me about the time I saw him.
“What brings you here about the time you go to bed, Cotton?” he asked.
“None of your insults, Willis. I’m early to bed and early to rise.”
“And early to tell a whopper,” he said.
“You see anything of Mr. Burt?”
“Yeah, he come in here last eve, about the time I was fixing to bunk, and he asked me to put the feed bags to them Butte trotters while he collected his stuff at the hotel, and then harness them to the carriage. So I grained the trotters and fed a little hay, too, and an hour later he comes out with his satchels and gets set to go.
“I says, it’s mighty dark, and not an easy trip to Butte, sir, and he says he knows the way, and likes to ride at night, and in any case dawn will catch up with him and he’ll go halfway in light.”
“He taken off middle of the night?”
“I warned him there’s some tough grades and a few shoulders around mountain slopes, but he just shrugged it off. ‘Mr. Willis,’ he says, ‘I used to be a prospector, used to going alone, and I used to be a hard-rock miner, working in dark, and I made my fortune by getting in ahead of everyone else, mostly when they were sleeping. I’d be first in whenever there was a rush, and that’s how I got rich.’”
“He does get around,” I said. “He got in here and looked at all them mines before anyone knew he was around. He works alone, all right.”
“What did he come here for?” Willis asked.
“Bought up the Swamp Creek District,” I said.
“The whole kit and caboodle?”
“Yep, the whole thing, from Scruples.”
“Guess we’ll see him again pretty quick.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe the mines will all come roaring back.”
Chapter Thirty-five
There wasn’t much happenin’ around there, so I had breakfast at the only café still open, run by an ex-madam with Saint Vitus’ Dance, which was how she got to be so popular in her first profession. I had me some johnnycakes and eggs, and while I was polishing that off, I heard a lot of bellerin’ and rumbling.
That was the biggest ox team I ever did see, twenty yoke, forty ox, dragging a big flatbed outfit with a mess of wheels. I knew at once what was up. Scruples was movin’ out. This outfit would haul his Pullman Palace Car back up to the railroad and put her on rails once again. Sure enough, them dozen big teamsters rolled up the road from Swamp Creek and turned up the steep grade to the hill where Scruples’ railroad car stood.
So the tycoon of Swamp Creek was finally fetching himself to somewhere else. I followed along, like most everyone in town, to see the show. There was still fifty or more around there, and pretty near all of them got to hiking toward Scruples’ place to watch the goings-on.
The Pullman rested on the crest of the hill, giving it a view of the countryside, and the lane down to the Swamp Creek Road was steep in places. And just the other side, under a clay bluff maybe twenty feet high, was that giant black swamp that gave the valley its name.
I followed the crowd up the slope to see the show. There was Arnold and The Apocalypse sort of lording over the place and frowning at the gathering crowd. The Apocalypse was dressed in black, as usual, and wore them popguns at his belt, and was bouncing around there looking for someone to exterminate. He eyed me some, but didn’t do nothing, knowing I was in the exterminating business, too.
Scruples was inside of that car, busy at something. And the only one missing was Lugar, and a quick check of the livestock pens told me that Lugar’s horse was gone, so I thought maybe he’d gone on up to Butte to get a bank up there busy with those letters of credit. That made sense. Old Scruples, he wanted some cash in his britches right off, and trusted Lugar to get it.
Well, it was a show, all right. Them dozen burly teamsters knew what to do. They jacked up the Pullman and pulled out the railroad trucks and settled the train car on that big flatbed. Them trucks they put into a separate wagon that come along behind. Scruples, he never did leave the car, but he did come out on the rear platform to watch a little. He was lookin’ mighty fine, all gussied up, like this was a dandy day to celebrate his departure from miserable little Swamp Creek. Old Scruples was heading for the big time, maybe Virginia City, Nevada, or some town like that where he could drink scotch with all the rest of the tycoons.
Them teamsters knew what they were doing, and had a big turn-jack and some blocks of wood, so it didn’t take long to get that car settled on the flatbed and chocks put in there to hold her tight. Meanwhile, them twenty yoke of oxen had been rested and fed and watered, and were raring to go by the time the teamsters got things all set up the way they wanted.
Scruples, he finally decided he ought to say something to the bunch around there, so he hushed us with a wave of his hand.
“I’ve sold the district to B. Z. Burt of Nevada,” he said. “He’s familiar to you all. The foremost mining man in the country. I don’t know his plans, but I’m sure he’ll soon reopen the mines, and Swamp Creek will prosper.”
That sounded good, but I was thinkin’ of all them graves in the Swamp Creek cemetery, people that got in the way of this man.
The teamsters rigged up a block and tackle to ease the flatbed down the slope to the Swamp Creek road. They had some big hawsers and pulleys, and tied one end of that manila rope to a pine tree up there, and the other they wrapped around a peg on the flatbed, and pretty soon they was tugging and testing it to make sure it all was just fine.
It looked fine to me. Them fellers knew what they was doing. There wasn’t much of any brakes on the flatbed, so they had to ease it down to the road with that tackle. They had some wheel chocks, too, so they could stop the descent of that flatbed and Pullman car and rig up the block and tackle to another tree lower down the slope.
Scruples, he stepped out of his palace car when all was ready, and them teamsters was getting set to lower that load the first fifty yards or so. But just then, Lugar rode in on a lathered-up nag, and handed Scruples an envelope. Scruples, he halted the show for a moment and stepped aboard.
“I’ll be right out,” he said. “This goes in my safe.”
I sort of wondered if Lugar had got clear to Butte and somehow got some cash. He could have just about done it if he hurried that horse along and left last night. The car was sort of creaking on that flatbed, and the big hawser was sort of humming a little, drawn taut and ready to let the flatbed down the grade real slow, with six or seven of them teamsters playing out rope into the pulleys. Then the bad stuff happened. That big rope began to whine. That’s the only word for it. It started whining and vibrating and shooting off strands, right where it was tied to the flatbed wagon, whining and snapping, and then she pulled apart, and that rope sailed back, and all six of them teamsters fell over, surprised by the slack.
Nothing much happened, at least not for a while, and then the flatbed creaked forward a few inches, and some more.
“Scruples, jump,” someone yelled, but he was inside twisting the dial on his little old safe in there, and he didn’t notice. Some of the teamsters tried to throw chocks in front of the wheels, but that flatbed, it just upped over the chocks, and started rumbling down that grade hell-bent to perdition, carrying that old Pullman car atop.
The crowd, it scattered like doves, getting out of the way fast, though the flatbed wasn’t going fast, just sort of grumbling along on its own path, which was straight down the road, all them wheels turning over.
Down below, where the other teamsters had all them yoke of oxen lined out, waiting to get hooked up, the teamsters hawed and yelled and got them oxen moving out of the way, so the flatbed wouldn’t mow ’em down. There was no stopping it now, though one or two teamsters tried to throw chocks in there, but the flatbed just rode up and over.
Scruples, he was nowhere in sight, not paying attention, or maybe cussing the teamsters for moving his car before he was out and ready. Whatever, he wasn’t around to enjoy the show.
The flatbed hit a steep spot, and that’s when the slow motion quit and the fast started. Up to then, it was just all real slow, the car creaking its way, but then at that dip, the whole shebang got up some speed, and pretty soon it was going faster than a man could run, and them teamsters quit trying to throw chocks under there, and stood there panting.
It was the awfullest sight a man could ever see, that thing getting up speed, faster and faster, faster than a horse could trot. The teamsters below, they got them oxen going, and it was pure luck that the last yoke cleared out a moment before that flatbed and Pullman car rumbled straight across the Swamp Creek road.
Then, I’ll never forget it, that there flatbed hit the clay bank beside the swamp and the whole deal went sailing over the edge. I never thought I’d ever see a railroad car flying, but that Pullman Palace Car had wings, and it sailed out into the swamp, and finally come down with a big thud, splashing black mud and cattails and muck every which way.
People was too shooken up to say a thing. They stood there, froze to the ground.
Somehow, that thing landed upright, after teetering one way and another, and diving nose-first into the muck. There it was, the roof of that Pullman still in the sunlight, while the rest of the car was slowly settling in the muck, with displaced cattails just about everywhere. The first thing I noticed was a mess of bubbles boiling up all over the place, bubbles gurgling around the sides of the car, bubbles boiling from the muck.
But the awfullest sight was to see that car settling down, inch by inch, as the swamp began to claim it. I never saw the like. People, they just stared. Most was far up the hill, close to the stock pens and the old bunkhouse. A few teamsters, they was down on the road trying to keep them oxen from running off.
Me, I followed that car down, and stood there on that clay bank, watching the railroad car slip deeper and deeper into black muck. The swamp was sure enough going to eat that car and bury it under twenty feet of goo.
The worst of it was, I didn’t see Scruples anywhere. The muck was slowly reaching the windows and was covering the doors at either end. I thought maybe he got himself knocked out. That was a pretty serious old leap when that car taken off. I began yelling.
“You in there, Scruples? Open a window and I’ll get a rope to you,” I said.
I sure didn’t hear any response. I went and got a rope from one of them teamsters, and tied her to a stump and worked my way out in the swamp, belly flopping my way across the top, and finally got to the car. I crawled up on the roof and began knocking on it.
I don’t know why I was trying to save the man, considering all he done, but it was in me to rescue him if I could. I couldn’t think of a worse way to check out than to be trapped in a Pullman Palace Car sinking into a swamp. Maybe I was just hoping to save him for a proper hanging, which is what he deserved.
Then, finally, I heard a knock about where that little office with the safe in it was. I got my ear down and listened, and sure enough there was some tapping. I knocked and he tapped. I worked over to the side and yelled, trying to get heard through the window glass.
“Open the window and I’ll pull you out,” I said.
But he didn’t reply, and the window, which was slowly disappearing into the muck, wouldn’t offer him a way out for long.
I knocked and he knocked back, but that’s all. I didn’t have no ax or anything, and I don’t think an ax would have let me cut through all that steel, so we ended up knocking away, and there wasn’t much to do.
That old car, it just got to settling farther and farther, and pretty soon there was only a few inches of metal above the swamp, and I had to haul myself up the rope or get sucked under.
“Sorry, Mr. Scruples,” I said.
There was a mess of bubbles coming up, and if he was alive, he was in an air pocket in the roof that was getting smaller and smaller. It sure wasn’t a good way to go.
By now there was a mess of people on the bank, and they got hold of the rope to make sure I’d have help, and they slid me over the swamp and then pulled me up the bank. I was dripping muck, but otherwise all right. That revolver of mine was plumb useless, which didn’t comfort me any as I watched Arnold and The Apocalypse and Lugar run down the hill in my direction.
“Guess he’s gone,” I said.
The car, with Scruples in it, finally vanished into the muck, and a mess of black goo slid over the top. One end was slower to go under, and stuck there proudly for a few minutes, but finally it slid under, too, and then there was nothing at all except a mess of bubbles boiling up, and we all watched for a while as the bubbles slowed down, and then there was nothing there but swamp.
Chapter Thirty-six
We stood there on the bank of the swamp, watching bubbles come up. The teamsters looked like they wanted to crawl under a rock. The town people, they just gawked. It sure was quiet. No one could think of anything to say, so we stood there watching the bubbles, knowin’ what was down there in that muck.
The sun sure was bright. There wasn’t a cloud anywhere. That Swamp Creek Valley was as peaceful and comfortable as I’d ever seen it. Finally, Lugar, the head gunslick, stirred.
“Guess it’s over,” he said.
But The Apocalypse had other ideas, and came over lookin’ for trouble.
“Guess you killed him,” the black-clad little fart said.
I didn’t bite on rotten bait like that. They all seen me trying to pull him out of that sinking coffin of a car.
“Cut it out,” Lugar said to the punk.
“I say you killed him,” The Apocalypse said to me.
I ignored him. The feller was standing there, legs spread, ready to whip out his popguns and do me. I turned my back.
“What are you, some coward?” he snarled.
I didn’t see any reason to pay him any attention.
“His revolver’s full of mud. Leave him be,” Lugar said.
“You stay outa this. I’ve been waiting for this a long time,” the gunman said.
I just ignored him. There wasn’t nothing I could do anyway, with a barrel plugged up with black muck. I guess he knew that, and that just made him bolder.
“He tried to bail out Scruples,” Lugar said, real firm. “Get up to the bunkhouse and draw your stuff; there’s nothing left here for you.”
“I got unfinished business,” The Apocalypse said.
I didn’t know what to make of it, so I ignored him. This here valley had suddenly turned peaceful and sunny, except for the itchy gunman. I didn’t know what he had against me, but he sure was acting like it was real bad. He looked like he would invent something if it suited him.
“It’s over. Time for you to clear out,” I said.
“You calling me a coward?” he said.
This was getting annoying, except I had a gun full of mud and he had two working ones.
“You draw, coward, or face what comes next,” he said.
I never could figure someone like that out, but I knew he wanted to pump a few lead pills into me. People was getting out of there fast, in fact running for cover, except for one or two.
That’s when Arnold clobbered him. That old ham fist came down like a sledgehammer, and The Apocalypse was poleaxed and hit the ground hard, and was clawing at his holsters when Arnold knocked him cold with a poke at the chin.
The Apocalypse sort of quivered there. Arnold whacked a kneecap for good measure, and kicked him in the ribs to make him hurt a little. I thought I heard a rib or two cave in.
He looked at me. “Wasn’t a fair fight,” he said.
I should have been grateful. Instead, I was plumb puzzled. “You worry about a fair fight?”
“You don’t see me killin’ anyone, do you?”
I sort of liked Arnold, at least for a moment or two.
“Yeah, well, take this killer out of here or I’ll finish the job,” I said.
“Thought you’d say that.”
Arnold was sort of grinning at me. He’d pounded the hell out of me so many times, I grinned back. You don’t want to make Arnold mad.
The Apocalypse started groaning and coming back to this world, so Arnold whacked him one in the noggin. The little shooter slid back into oblivion.
“I’ll get him outa here,” Arnold said. “There’s no paycheck now.”
“He killed people around here.”
“Yeah, and when we get to Suicide Gulch, someone’s gonna kill him. His eyes are no good anymore. He can’t hit the broad side of a barn. It’s just a matter of time, right?”
“He’s getting blind?”
“Yeah, he makes up for it being ornery.”
The Apocalypse groaned and woke up real slow.
“How come it’s night?” he said.
It was broad daylight.
“Guess I hit him too hard,” Arnold said.
“Where’s that Cotton? I want to kill the sonofabitch,” said The Apocalypse.
“He’s standing right here.”
The Apocalypse reached for his popgun, but Arnold stepped on his shooting hand.
“Cotton shot me in the face,” The Apocalypse said.
