Jack looked into the steely eyes of the wizened old man and could see that he meant business, but he could also see the man was afraid and trying to control a shaking hand. Jack half smiled, “Alright.” He turned and headed for the jail.
****
CHAPTER 7
THE MISSION BEGINS
“So you are Tom Ragan,” Mort Dooley repeated after Jack gave the name and explained that the Taits must have mistaken him for someone else or if he had had a run in with them before, he did not remember it.. “Ain’t you that government fellow the Colonel sent for?”
Jack was caught off guard with surprise. He was not aware that Tom Ragan’s expected presence in Spring City had been communicated to anyone other than Colonel Montrose.
“Did the Colonel tell you that?” Clayton asked.
“Yes, he did,” the sheriff said matter of factly. “I suggested that we needed to bring in some outside help. I haven’t been able to get a lead on these rascals that have been attacking the mines and the freight wagons. And now with this Dark Rider in the fray, well I’m afraid I’ve been split three ways from Sunday. The Colonel said he would try to get government help. He knows people in high places. When he found out they were sending you, he told me to be on the lookout and bring you right out to his place.”
“Well,” Jack said. “I had hoped to work undercover. But…..”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry there none, son. I won’t tell anybody anything.”
Jack grinned at the man’s sincerity. “I’m sure you won’t.” Then he changed his tone. “What about this Dark Rider, you spoke of?”
“Well, whoever this gang is, that’s causing all the trouble; well they got competition from the Dark Rider fella. Funny thing though. At first I kind of laughed about him, ‘cause he was getting in the way of these other fellas, preventing them from their stealing. He didn’t seem to hurt anyone else. But lately, this Dark Rider’s got his own gang and has been hitting our banks, freight and stage lines. Just as bad as the others. Not much else I can tell you. We’ll go see the Colonel and he’ll fill you in on anything else he can help with.”
“Is he here in town?” Clayton asked.
“No he’s got a nice place about five miles north of town and close to his mining operations. Lives alone there with his wife, now that the kids are gone. His daughter married and moved east. His son was killed a month ago when raiders hit their freight wagons on the way to Carson City. The Colonel, himself was wounded in the leg.
“I kind of feel like it was my fault. It was my job to keep law and order. I guess I’m just getting too old.”
“Sounds to me like these raiders are too big a problem for anyone. I can’t guarantee that I can do any better.”
The old man looked into Clayton’s clear blue eyes, a little mist in his own. “Thank you, son. It was right nice of you to say that, but I know I’m not the man I used to be.”
Jack didn’t know what to say. He was silent. Then said, “We’d better get going, the day’s more than half over already.” Besides, he was thinking that he’d be better off outside of town when Josh Tait found out about his boys.
It was about two o’clock when Jack Clayton and Sheriff Mort Dooley reined up to the hitch rack in front of Colonel Montrose’s big two story white frame house in Antelope Valley. The sun had been high in the sky for several hours by now and the heat had become somewhat oppressive. Both riders were sweaty as were their mounts, even though they had been ridden leisurely to keep them fresh as possible.
Jack had left his suit coat behind at the Sheriff’s office and had unbuttoned his vest and loosened his black string tie before setting out on the trek.
Mrs. Montrose answered the knock and opened the door. She was small in stature and her gray hair was thinning. “Oh, hello, Mort,” she said, her voice a little warbly and cracked.
“This is Mister Ragan, Ethel,” the sheriff said. “Is the Colonel in?”
“Pleased to meet you Mister Ragan.” A slight curtsy. “The Colonel’s in his study. Please come in.”
They followed her to the back of the house and she ushered them through a pair of double doors that opened into a large room and left them. The walls were lined with bookshelves and sunlight streamed in through a large window behind an ornate wooden desk. The man behind the desk was thin and had a neatly trimmed white beard that matched a full head of unruly white hair. When he pushed himself to his feet, leaning on a shiny black cane, his full height of over six feet could be seen. “Mort,” he greeted cordially. “Good to see you.”
“Colonel,” Mort got right to it, rushing forward. “This is Tom Ragan, the government man you sent for.”
The Colonel beamed, limping around his desk, to extend his hand. “Well, I’m sure glad to see you,” He said, appraising Clayton with his sharp dark eyes.
“I hope I can be of help.” Jack said, taking his hand.
“Sit down, sit down,” The colonel offered, pointing to a chair in front of his desk, as he retreated to his own chair. Mort slid another chair over from the corner.
“The sheriff has been telling me about the trouble you’ve been having with the raiders and the Dark Rider.” Jack opened the tirade.
“It’s completely out of hand,” the Colonel said. “No fault of Mort’s,” he added. “We’re up against a highly organized army of bandits. Mines have been sabotaged, shipments have been hijacked, payrolls have been held up, men have been killed. My own son included.”
“You have no clue as to the identity of any of these raiders?” Jack asked.
“No,” he sighed. “They always elude us. They seldom leave any witnesses alive.”
“Have all of the mine owners been hit?”
“Every last one of us,” the Colonel said. “Those of us who ship ore to Carson City for smelting and refining have had our shipments hijacked. It’s almost impossible to get our shipments through. There are two mines in the area that do their own refining and have helped the rest of us with what available capacity they had but their mines have been raided and the bullion taken. We have mined a great deal of silver in the last few months, but except for what is unmined, most of it is now gone. So, we banded together to form a protective association. There are six of us all together, including my operation, The Silver Sabre, John Wheeler’s Lucky Strike, Dan Sturgis’ Silver Boot, Bill Porter’s Big Dig. Jim Petrie’s Silver Lode has a refinery as well as Ed Gordon’s Glory Hill. Unfortunately, Ed was killed just last week. If we didn’t know better, we’d think the raiders had killed him, but it was an accident. He fell into his stamping machine. An awful way to go.” The Colonel shook his head in despair.
“How do you know it was an accident?” Jack asked.
“Ben Colby saw it. He tried to reach him in time, but it was too late.”
“And who is Ben Colby?”
“He’s business manager for Ed Gordon’s partner from back east somewheres. Ed ran into financial difficulty about a year ago and he needed financing. He sold half interest, but the partner never took an active role in the management until a few months ago when Ben Colby was sent to manage the partner’s share. Now Colby manages the whole operation.”
“Just what kind of person is this Ben Colby,” Jack asked.
“Nice fellow,” the Colonel said enthusiastically. “If you’re thinking, he’s connected with anything, I’m afraid you are barking up the wrong tree.”
“What’s happening to Ed Gordon’s share?”
“Ed’s been alone since his wife died last year. His only relative is a niece in Chicago. Colby plans on sending her share of any profits to her. With all the trouble we’ve had, there has been little profit.”
“I see,” Jack mused. Then as an added thought. “Are any of these other miners aware that you sent for help?”
“Why, yes. Of course. We all agreed to ask the government for help. That’s why you are here.”
****
CHAPTER 8
THE DARK RIDER STRIKES AGAIN
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It was late afternoon when Jack and Mort Dooley headed back to town. The sun had lowered somewhat in the pale blue sky and the heat of the day was starting to dissipate. It had been decided that the Colonel would contact the other miners in the association and they would all meet at seven o’clock that night in Spring City at the office of Lawyer Arnold Daggett, who the Colonel had also confided in. Clayton had found the Colonel to be a very fine and honest gentleman. Perhaps, too much of a gentlemen and too honest to handle the business at hand. He had made everyone aware that Tom Ragan was a government agent so undercover work would be entirely out of the question. But then again, undercover was the work of Jack Clayton. What was the work of Tom Ragan? Obviously Ragan would not have come here to solve the problem. He was in fact, to be part of the problem.
Clayton and the Sheriff was just starting to top a rise, when the stillness of the air was broken. Their mounts jerked to a halt with a startle. Gunfire in rapid succession howled over the ridge. The two men glanced at each other urgently, then sent their horses forward to the top of the rise and pulled up.
In the valley below they could see the winding dirt road that lead into town. To their left around a bend, they could see the afternoon stage barreling through; the driver whipping furiously at his four up team. The shotgun guard was turned facing rearward, his shotgun leveled and firing at the band of riders coming in hot pursuit, guns blazing.
Clayton counted six bandits including the leader who was clad in black from head to toe. Mort exclaimed, “It’s that dad burned Dark Rider and his gang!”
For a moment they took in the scene, then as they saw the shotgun rider throw up his weapon and fly backward off the box, Clayton knew they had to take a hand. “Let’s go!” he shouted as he kicked the big red stallion into a gallop and took off down the slope without waiting for Sheriff Mort Dooley.
Clayton, six shooter in hand, rode straight toward the oncoming stage and outlaws, firing in rapid succession. He rode passed the concord, just as the driver dropped the reins, grasped his bleeding chest and fell from the boot, landing almost in front of Clayton. Jack pulled the big red to a sliding halt, dust billowing around him and kept on firing. Click! The weapon was empty. In one lightening movement, Clayton sheathed the Colt and drew his left hand gun. The outlaws had pulled up now, turning their attention to the intruder, slinging lead. Clayton fired again and again. One outlaw fell from the saddle and he saw one of the other outlaws sag in his saddle, clutching his bleeding shoulder.
Mort Dooley came charging up behind Clayton , firing haphazardly, unable to control his shaking hand, but the additional firepower was enough to give the outlaws enough food for thought and convince them to give up the attack. They wheeled their mounts. The man who had fallen, had managed to get to his feet and two riders on each side of him scooped him up as they rode off in bitter retreat.
Clayton threw a couple of shots after the fleeing bandits, until this shooter also clicked empty. Then as if without thought, he holstered the weapon as he wheeled the big red around to race after the driverless runaway coach.
Mort started after the outlaws, but quickly decided it was not a safe thing to do, so he reined up, wheeled, and rode off after the man on the big red stallion.
The Concord swayed and rocked dangerously back and forth, wheels coming off the ground at times as the lumbering carriage slewed violently around curves in the road. The frightened horses raced on, traces dragging on the ground beneath their pounding hooves.
Clayton urged the big red on, asking for more speed, and getting it. This horse was every bit as fast and strong as Regret. And he had as much heart.
On an on they raced, steadily and surely cutting down the distance. And now they were close enough that the dust from the rampaging wheels was thick as fog around them. Jack urged the big horse off to the left, riding alongside the coach now. He could see the teams up ahead and the dragging reins.
Faster! Faster! He pushed the gallant steed onward. Now he was even with the box. Faster! Faster! Now he was parallel to the rear team. Onward! Onward! Now he was close behind the lead team. Then, closer. Closer.
Then reaching out with his right, he grasped the left lead horse’s bridle and pulled, simultaneously pulling the big stallion to a sliding skid, dragging the frightened teams to a gradual halt.
The horses stomped in place and blew, their ribs heaving beneath their lathered coats.
Red Devil snorted relief as Jack leaped from the saddle, darted for the stage, and threw the door open, dust still hanging it the air and raining down on him.
He tried to mask his surprise as he saw the four passengers. There were three men in business suits, huddled in their seats, quivering with fear. In the right rear seat of the coach sat a composed young lady with red hair. As surprised as she was also, she showed no surprise at the sight of Jack Clayton. Knowing, that this young lady could blow his cover by revealing his true name, Clayton quickly said. “I’m Tom Ragan. Are you all, alright?” His gaze fixed on the lady whom he knew to be Tamara Wild, Pinkerton Detective.
While the other passengers mumbled something that Jack didn’t even bother to listen to, Tamara Wild answered. “Yes. Fine. I’m Sue Gordon.
****
CHAPTER 9
DANGEROUS ENCOUNTER
Dusk was starting to set in and the air was rapidly beginning to chill. Townspeople ran from all parts of the street, gathering around the stage and crowded close, as it clamored to a stop in front of the Nevada Stage and Freight Line Office.. The crowd babbled with murmuring sounds as their questions blended into a droning cacophony of unaudible discourse.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Clayton called to the teams as he leaned back on the driver’s box, pulling the reins tight and back as far as he could to bring the four up to a halt.
“You’ll hear all about it soon enough,” Mort protested, waving the onlookers back away from the stage as he climbed down from the box where he had been sitting in the shotgun rider’s seat. “Somebody, give us hand with these bodies.” He waved toward the roof of the coach where the forms of the fallen guard and driver lay.
Some men moved forward and were climbing up to the box as Clayton climbed down from his side after tying off the reins to hold the team. He strode to the boot and untied Mort’s and his horses, led them to a hitch rack, retied them, and walked back to the stage.
Mort was on the sidewalk, conversing with a middle aged man who Clayton assumed to be the owner of the stage line. The body of the guard had been lifted down and was being carried away while the driver’s body was now in the process of being handed down. The crowd was still milling about, but had dispersed somewhat to allow room for the removal of bodies.
Jack returned to the boot and untied the canvas flap, flipped it open and began to retrieve the luggage. The three men in business suits, picked up their baggage and scurried quickly away. When the last body had been removed, Tamara Wild descended from the coach. Jack already had her bag ready to hand to her. She reached for it and smiled coyly, “Why thank you, Mister Ragan.” Her green eyes bore into his.
Jack tipped his hat. “My pleasure, Miss…Gordon.” He grinned wryly as she turned and walked away to the sidewalk. He heard her ask Mort Dooley for directions to the office of a certain lawyer named Arnold Daggett and Mort pointed down and across the street. Jack’s steely eyes followed the direction and sighted in on the shingle of Daggett’s office. Then he heard Mort say to her, “I’m on my way there now, Miss Gordon. Come with me.” He took her arm and they strolled on down the street into the gathering shadows.
Jack was still watching them go, wondering what Tamara was doing here posing as Ed Gordon’s niece. Perhaps, they would wind up working together again on this case, but chances were that things were just going to get more complicated as they usually did when Tamara was around.
A passel of horses and riders thundered into the street from the other end of town, interrupting Jack’s thoughts. The power of the charging horses, stirring the
air and churning dust up into Jack’s face forced Clayton to jump backwards toward the sidewalk as if trying to avoid being ridden down by the careless riders. He watched them pass by. Four of them. The lead rider was lean and swarthy and rode a rangy looking grulla. They reined up in front of the Red Bull, dismounted and stomped inside. They looked like trouble. Could this be Josh Tait and his boys? No, he told himself, they all seemed to be about the same age.
Clayton checked his watch. Six O’clock. Another hour before the miner’s meeting at seven. He needed to see Francy right away. He hated to frequent saloons, but this meant he would have to visit the Red Bull.
He stepped into the shadow of the alley between the stage depot and the adjoining hardware store. Here, out of sight of any watching eyes, he took a small pad of paper and a stub of a pencil from his vest pocket and scribbled a quick note, folded it the size of a bank note and placed it in his wallet with the other bills. Then stuffing the remaining pad and pencil stub back into his pocket, he stepped out onto the boardwalk and sauntered casually down the street and through the swinging bat wing doors of the saloon.
The same tinny piano he had heard earlier today, was still sounding out the same trilling tune. An oversized wagon wheel shaped fixture overhead held ten lighted lanterns and did a good job of lighting the barroom floor. Several other lanterns were spaced along the walls and the overall light was fairly bright for an indoor establishment.
The place was already beginning to get crowded. Most of the tables were already filled with boisterous men drinking and more sullen men playing the gaming tables. The table that interested him most was halfway across the room, directly in front of him. Three people were intensely concentrating on a poker game that looked as if it had been in progress for a quite a while, judging by the small stack of chips in front of each of the two men and the stacks of chips piled up in front of the striking blond haired, lady dealer in the elegant blue evening gown. Francy Jones had used the cover of a lady gambler before and she was good at it.