things right off; even the sheriff did just what he told him to do.”
One of the passengers, a slab-mouthed individual with a leer in his eye, looked knowing. “There are folks who’ll tell you he’s an outlaw,” he said. “That’s El Halcon, that folks say is just too smart to get caught. Got killings to his credit. Will get his comeuppance some day.”
The conductor glared and tightened his grip on the instrument. “If I didn’t need this thing bad right now, I’d bust it over your blankety-blank head, you blankety-blank gossipspreadin’ old woman!” he roared.
“Hey, I didn’t mean anything,” protested the alarmed passenger, backing away. “I was just telling you what folks say. I don’t know whether it’s true or not.”
“Then keep your blankety-blank trap shut till you know what you’re talking about,” growled the conductor. “Get outa my way, I got work to do. Killings to his credit, eh? Uh-huh, just the sort as he got to his credit today. Get out of my way, I said.”
Perched on the crossarm atop the pole, Slade deftly secured the wires to cut in on the line.
“All set to go,” he called to the conductor, who at once began to operate the sending key, rather raggedly.
“Okay,” he called back, closing the key. “I got through and made ’em understand. They’ll get things rolling in a hurry.”
Slade cast off the wires and slid down the pole.
“Now I’ll unload my horse,” he said.
The conductor and two passengers assisting, the loading plank was lowered, down which Shadow stalked sedately.
“Sure some critter,” the conductor observed admiringly. “Betcha he could get you to town faster than this old rattler.”
“Wouldn’t come far from it, I imagine, if he was in a hurry,” Slade conceded as he cinched the rig into place. “Now let’s get back to the head end. I want to have a word with the express messenger.”
When they arrived at the scene of the wreck, Slade and Sheriff Serby climbed through the shattered express car door to find the messenger sitting in a chair smoking a cigarette and profanely expressing his opinion of things in general.
“Son,” the sheriff asked, “just what were they after?”
The messenger hesitated, glanced inquiringly at Slade.
“Go ahead,” urged the sheriff. “If it wasn’t for him, the chances are right now you’d either be dead or pistol-whipped within an inch of your life; they’d have made you open that safe.”
“Not supposed to talk about it,” said the messenger, lowering his voice. “Supposed to be a closely guarded secret, as they say. They figured nobody would suspect it being sent by this jerkwater. Better’n fifty thousand pesos in that old box. Closely guarded secret, my foot!”
Slade nodded thoughtfully. He’d had experience with “closely guarded” secrets of a similar nature. Looked like the Starlight Riders had sources of information not accorded to the general public.
“Feeling all right?” he asked.
“Sure,” the messenger replied. “Lucky for me I was back away from the door when they flung that stick of dynamite against it. Thought for a minute the sky had caved in.”
“Now for a look at those bodies,” Slade said as they descended from the car.
Serby had allowed no one to approach the bodies. The masks were stripped off, revealing hard-case countenances contorted in the agony of death swift and sharp, with nothing particularly outstanding about them.
“The sort that’s been passing through town all the time ever since the railroad came and the big boom started,” said Serby. “No, I don’t rec’lect seeing any of them. Chances are I wouldn’t have noticed them if I did—just like a hundred others.”
“Suppose we let the passengers have a look,” Slade suggested. “One of them might remember something.”
But as man after man filed past, peered at the faces and shook their heads, it appeared that nobody could recall seeing the unsavory quartet before. Or if they did, they wouldn’t admit it.
“Same old story,” growled the sheriff. “You can’t get anybody to talk.”
And then, unexpectedly, they hit paydirt. The slab-mouthed passenger who had identified Slade as El Halcon paused, peering close by at the dead faces. He looked up, and his eyes met Slade’s squarely.
“Feller,” he said, “I reckon I made a mistake by sounding off like I did back there by the caboose—seems I’m always talking out of turn—and I’m sorry. And I rec’lect seeing two of those skunks, the little one with the speckled face and the lanky one with the red hair. Sheriff, you remember that saloon down by the river that was made hash of a while back? Well, I was in there that night, and so was that pair. I noticed them ’cause them and four or five more were sitting at a table and looking like they were waiting for something—kept looking at the clock. I got a sorta funny feeling and decided I’d better get out of there. Mighty glad next day that I did, when I heard about what happened there. Yep, I saw ’em there. Maybe I talk too darn much, but I don’t take up for that sort. Maybe what I just told you might help.”
“I’ve a notion it might, and thank you,” Slade said. He held out his hand, which the other took rather diffidently, then hurried off, looking very pleased.
Slade smiled at the conductor, who had joined them. “Never can tell,” he observed meaningly.
“Guess that’s right,” conceded the con.
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