Read Online The Smoking Iron by Brett Halliday - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brett Halliday
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But, he realized they wouldnât. They were in a mood to shoot first and ask questions afterward. Pat Stevens was right, of course. Dead, heâd never prove his innocence. As long as he remained alive there was always the chance that the truth about the shooting of the sheriff might become known.
He gritted his teeth and turned away from the street, skulked cautiously along the side of the hotel to the rear exit of the alley.
Keeping in the shadows as much as possible, he made his way around to a point near Joe Bainesâ livery stable on the road leading westward into the Big Bend. He could see the big El Paso-San Antonio stage halted in front of the livery stable, and hostlers were bustling about changing the twelve-horse team.
In front of the big stage was a smaller one, with six horses harnessed and waiting. He knew that must be the Hermosa stage. He crouched by the side of the road and watched while men transferred baggage and supplies from the through stage to the smaller one. From that distance, he couldnât see very clearly, but it looked as though some passengers were being transferred. Then he saw the driver climb into his high seat in front, and a moment later his whiplash cracked out over the backs of the leaders.
The six-horse team swung away sharply from the stable.
Dusty Morgan began trotting forward to meet it, giving the impression that he was running toward town in an effort to intercept the vehicle.
He timed his approach well, was seen by the driver before the stage had gained much speed, but after it was well away from the stable and from any possibility of his being seen and recognized by any of the townspeople.
The lead team snorted and swerved aside to avoid running him down. The driver tightened his lines and leaned down from the high seat to peer at the dismounted man as Dusty shouted:
âHey! Stop the stage for me.â
The driver sawed on the lines and brought the six horses to a stop twenty feet ahead. Dusty panted alongside and leaned over the front wheel. âMy hawse gave put down the road a piece. This the stage to Hermosa?â
âThatâs right. You got a ticket?â
âNo. I was jest ridinâ in to catch it. But I got plenty of money.â Dusty reached into his pocket.
The driver glanced back over his shoulder at the stage depot a couple of hundred yards away. An avaricious glint showed in his eyes. He grunted, âNo use wasting time goinâ back to buy a ticket. Iâll take the cash. The fareâs twenty dollars.â
Dusty counted out twenty dollars in gold and handed it up to the driver. He went back to the side door and jerked it open.
There was a loud shouting at the livery stable. Men began running toward the halted stage.
With the cash fare in his pocket, the driver was as anxious to get away without having his passenger seen as was Dusty. He yelled at the leaders and cracked his whip just as Dusty stepped inside the dark interior of the vehicle.
The resulting lurch sent Dusty sprawling onto the floor. The horses swung into a trot and then into a wild gallop. Dusty got up off the floor and made his way back to the rear of the swaying coach. He pressed his face against the pane of dirty glass and looked back, but the moonlight was too dim to give a clear picture of what was going on back there. He had a confused impression of men gathering on horseback. It might well be a mounted posse forming to follow the stage. Someone might have seen the strips of blanket dangling from his hotel window, or Pat and Ezra might have let the secret of his escape out.
He couldnât tell. At least, there would be some respite even if a posse was after him. The stage was rolling along at high speed and mounted men would have to push their horses hard to overtake it.
Dusty turned back from the window and felt his way in the darkness to an empty seat. He couldnât see whether there was anyone else inside the dark coach or not. He
But, he realized they wouldnât. They were in a mood to shoot first and ask questions afterward. Pat Stevens was right, of course. Dead, heâd never prove his innocence. As long as he remained alive there was always the chance that the truth about the shooting of the sheriff might become known.
He gritted his teeth and turned away from the street, skulked cautiously along the side of the hotel to the rear exit of the alley.
Keeping in the shadows as much as possible, he made his way around to a point near Joe Bainesâ livery stable on the road leading westward into the Big Bend. He could see the big El Paso-San Antonio stage halted in front of the livery stable, and hostlers were bustling about changing the twelve-horse team.
In front of the big stage was a smaller one, with six horses harnessed and waiting. He knew that must be the Hermosa stage. He crouched by the side of the road and watched while men transferred baggage and supplies from the through stage to the smaller one. From that distance, he couldnât see very clearly, but it looked as though some passengers were being transferred. Then he saw the driver climb into his high seat in front, and a moment later his whiplash cracked out over the backs of the leaders.
The six-horse team swung away sharply from the stable.
Dusty Morgan began trotting forward to meet it, giving the impression that he was running toward town in an effort to intercept the vehicle.
He timed his approach well, was seen by the driver before the stage had gained much speed, but after it was well away from the stable and from any possibility of his being seen and recognized by any of the townspeople.
The lead team snorted and swerved aside to avoid running him down. The driver tightened his lines and leaned down from the high seat to peer at the dismounted man as Dusty shouted:
âHey! Stop the stage for me.â
The driver sawed on the lines and brought the six horses to a stop twenty feet ahead. Dusty panted alongside and leaned over the front wheel. âMy hawse gave put down the road a piece. This the stage to Hermosa?â
âThatâs right. You got a ticket?â
âNo. I was jest ridinâ in to catch it. But I got plenty of money.â Dusty reached into his pocket.
The driver glanced back over his shoulder at the stage depot a couple of hundred yards away. An avaricious glint showed in his eyes. He grunted, âNo use wasting time goinâ back to buy a ticket. Iâll take the cash. The fareâs twenty dollars.â
Dusty counted out twenty dollars in gold and handed it up to the driver. He went back to the side door and jerked it open.
There was a loud shouting at the livery stable. Men began running toward the halted stage.
With the cash fare in his pocket, the driver was as anxious to get away without having his passenger seen as was Dusty. He yelled at the leaders and cracked his whip just as Dusty stepped inside the dark interior of the vehicle.
The resulting lurch sent Dusty sprawling onto the floor. The horses swung into a trot and then into a wild gallop. Dusty got up off the floor and made his way back to the rear of the swaying coach. He pressed his face against the pane of dirty glass and looked back, but the moonlight was too dim to give a clear picture of what was going on back there. He had a confused impression of men gathering on horseback. It might well be a mounted posse forming to follow the stage. Someone might have seen the strips of blanket dangling from his hotel window, or Pat and Ezra might have let the secret of his escape out.
He couldnât tell. At least, there would be some respite even if a posse was after him. The stage was rolling along at high speed and mounted men would have to push their horses hard to overtake it.
Dusty turned back from the window and felt his way in the darkness to an empty seat. He couldnât see whether there was anyone else inside the dark coach or not. He
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