Friends and Enemies (16 page)

“If you start to get dusty, turn loose and hike on down at your own speed,” Robert instructed.

Standing between the horses, Robert Fortune watched Chambers lace his ungloved fingers around the black iron railing at the back of the carriage. “You ready, Byron?” he hollered.

“Quite so,” Chambers shouted back.

Robert led the horses on one cautious step after another down across the boulders. When he felt the wheels gaining momentum, he leaned back against the harnesses. One foot at a time they crept down the descent. The horses, but not the carriage, had reached level ground when Robert finally loosened his grip.

Just as he reached up to wipe the sweat off his forehead, a gunshot exploded from somewhere up ahead. Granite shreds flew up in front of the horses. In unison they reared. Fortune tried to grab their harnesses, but his hands slipped. The panicked horses' hooves came back down, and the rigging between slapped him to the ground. Then they took off on a wild gallop.

Robert pulled his arms and feet in as he tried to avoid the horse hooves and wagon wheels racing over him. Chambers's boots ran up his back. He rolled over and clutched the accountant with both arms around the knees and held on.

“Whoa!” Robert shouted and bounced along like an empty airtight can tied to a dog's tail. “Whoa!”

The team bolted to the right. The centrifugal force swung Robert to the left. He bounced free over the dirt and rocks, and rolled to a stop, holding nothing more than Mr. Chambers's boots . . . and wool trousers.

He rolled over and sat watching the white legs of the accountant being dragged toward a grove of small whitewood trees. “Turn loose!” he shouted. “Turn loose, Chambers!”

Robert struggled to his feet. His ankles ached. His knees felt raw. His legs were bruised. He had staggered about twenty feet when the team abruptly stopped.

Trouserless, Byron Chambers still clutched the back rail of the carriage. His black, gartered stockings were torn to shreds. Robert trotted toward him, but each step shot pain up his legs. “Are you alright, Byron?”

“How in the world would I know if I'm alright?” the accountant screamed. “I could be dead for all I know. The tortures of hell couldn't be much worse than what I've endured.”

Fortune laid Chambers's boots and trousers on the back of the carriage. “Well, it looks like you're all in one piece.”

“I'll have to take your word for that.”

“And your trousers seem to be in better shape than mine.” Robert could feel dirt and rocks in his boot. “You can turn loose of the railing now, Mr. Chambers.”

“I can't. My hands seem welded in place.”

“You might want to pull your trousers on. I believe they might have gotten a little bit dusty.”

“Dusty? Dusty!” Chambers yanked his talon-like grip free from the iron railing and stared at blisters starting to form on his fingers. “My word, I could have been killed by the runaway wagon, not to mention the gunshot!” The chartered accountant reset his top hat, then fastened the buttons on his shirt and straightened his tie.

The gunshot!
Robert reached for his holstered revolver. “Don't pull that pistol, mister!” a brusk voice shouted as a masked gunman rode out from the whitewoods behind them. A dirty red bandanna covered his round face. “Toss down your guns and pull out your pokes!”

Robert Fortune eased down on a boulder, his back to the gunman, and started tugging off his boots.

“I said, toss down your gun and hold up your hands!” he hollered.

Chambers snatched his trousers and held them in front of his legs.

Robert dumped the gravel out of his boots and tugged them back on. “Puddin, is that you?”

“Throw down!” the gunman barked.

Fortune stood and walked toward the masked gunman. “Oscar Puddin, it's me . . . Robert Fortune, the train inspector. Remember? Are you tryin' to hold up this Englishman again?”

The round-faced man tugged down his dirty red bandanna. “Fortune? What in blazes are you doin' out here? There ain't a train for miles!”

Robert looped his thumbs in his belt. “Oscar, I'm disappointed in you!” He turned to Chambers. “Go ahead, put your trousers on, Byron. You remember Oscar, don't you?”

“My word, I thought you threw him off the train.” Chambers hobbled around on raw feet, trying to pull on his trousers.

Robert tried to brush some of the dust off his own trousers. “No, I put him off the train when we stopped for water. I should have tossed him when we went over that steep trestle. Look at this, Oscar . . . a nice pair of trousers all ruined. I think I bruised every bone in both legs when that team bolted.”

Puddin kept his gun pointed at Fortune. “I didn't mean to spook the team. You was supposed to throw down.”

“Now, see there, Oscar. You just weren't thinkin'. You should have known your shot would spook the team. A man has to think through these things if he's going to be successful in your line of work.”

Puddin cleared his throat. “Toss down your gun, Fortune. I got the drop on you this time. I want your money, and I want it now!”

Fortune dusted off his shirtsleeves with his hat. “Oscar, anyone that works at it as hard as you do ought to make more money. I don't have any poke. This is not a good road to work as a highwayman. There's no place to spend money out here, so naturally I didn't bother to bring any along. I don't even have any tobacco or jerky to give you. It's kind of embarrassing not having anything to offer.”

Puddin spat a wad of tobacco on the granite rock below. “The Englishman's got money! Gold mine money.”

“He's a chartered accountant, not a mine owner. What kind of wages do you think they draw? Why, miners up at Lead make more money than accountants.”

“He wears a mighty fancy suit,” Puddin insisted.

“Not any more,” Robert said. “He's got sore feet and skinned-up legs. You did enough damage for one day. Now, ride on out before you get yourself shot.”

Puddin waved the gun at Robert Fortune. “What did you say?”

Robert turned away from the gunman. “You heard me. Go on. Get out of here!”

“I got a gun drawn on you!” he shouted.

Fortune refused to turn back and look at the outlaw. “If you were the shootin', stealin' type, we'd both be dead by now. Go on, Oscar, before my assistant gets riled and plugs you.”

“You ain't got no backup this time,” Puddin insisted.

A lever action carbine cocked behind him. Oscar Puddin spun around in the saddle. When he did, Robert Fortune drew his revolver.

The mounted gunman stared at the barrel of the .44 carbine.

Robert strolled over to the startled man. “Oscar, this is my brother, Sammy.”

“Where did he come from?” Oscar blustered.

Robert pushed his hat back with the barrel of his revolver. “Mama and Daddy said an angel brought him, but I always sort of doubted that myself. Drop your gun, Oscar. You wouldn't be the first man Sam Fortune has shot.”

“Sam Fortune from down in the Indian Territory?”

“That's the one.”

“But . . . but . . . I heard he was dead!”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Sam said.

“That's no fair,” Puddin turned to Robert Fortune. “You always have backup.”

“Toss the gun down, Oscar. It's too pretty a day to get shot.”

The big man threw the gun to the ground and slumped his shoulders. “I can't believe this. I didn't go to Deadwood. I stayed out of the badlands jist like you told me. I'm on my way to Montana and back at Garden City I heard that some city boys is way out here in the hills in a nobby carriage. So I reckon to pick up a little grocery money. That's all I wanted. And it's you! It ain't fair.”

“What are you going to do with him?” Samuel asked.

“I suppose we'll have to haul him back to Deadwood and toss him in jail.” Robert plucked up Puddin's gun and stuck it in his belt.

“He's a big man,” Sam pondered. “I bet it'll take a lot of taxpayer money to feed him in jail.”

Robert yanked up Puddin's right pant leg and snatched out a sneak gun. “I suppose you're right about that. What do you think we should do?”

Sam lowered his carbine from his shoulder to his side. “We could jist shoot him.”

“You cain' do that!” Puddin protested.

Robert walked around to the other side of the gunman and wrenched a large hunting knife out of his left boot. “He's right, Sammy. With Mr. Chambers as a witness, we can't shoot him down. You got any more sneaks, Oscar?”

Byron Chambers sat on a boulder, rubbing his raw toes. “I'll turn my head and close my eyes.”

Puddin reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a tiny, single-shot .22, then handed it down.

Robert rubbed his beard. “No, I don't think we can shoot him . . . unless . . .”

“Unless he's tryin' to escape?” Sam suggested.

“I ain't tryin' to escape,” Puddin blurted out. “Look at me, I haven't even tried to ride off!”

“He's right about that,” Robert said.

Sam rode his buckskin right up next to Puddin. “Maybe he'll try to escape after while.”

“Could be,” Robert pondered.

“No sir. I won't try to escape.”

“Well, Oscar, just to keep my brother from shootin' you, let's tie your hands to that A-fork saddle of yours. That way, there's no chance of you escaping.”

“You take all the fun out of it, lil' brother,” Samuel grinned.

“You stay out of this. Let the inspector do his work!” Oscar Puddin insisted.

Byron Chambers tugged on his boots. “I trust you two will be discreet when recalling this scene,” he said. “It is quite humiliating!”

“Runaway carriages are common occurrences. You didn't break your neck, your arm, or your leg. You did alright. Mind you, you'll probably want to get the trousers cleaned and have a bath before you head back to Toronto,” Robert added. “But think of the stories you can tell the other chartered accountants back in Toronto.”

“Yes, well . . . there will be a few adjustments in details, I can assure you of that,” Chambers declared.

After Robert reset the rigging on the team, he and Chambers climbed into the carriage. “Are we ready to proceed?”

“Maybe I ought to stick a little closer, lil' brother,” Sam said.

“Yep, I'll need you to shoot Oscar if he tries to escape.”

“I ain't goin' to try nothin',” Puddin insisted.

“Well, then, Oscar, why don't you lead the way?” Robert suggested.

“I don't know where you're goin'.”

“Neither do we. We were just told to head east, and that's what we'll do.”

“If you don't know where you're goin', how will you know when you get there?” Puddin called back.

“We'll know when we're there 'cause they'll start shooting at us.” Robert slapped the leather lines on the team. “Why do you think I want you to lead?”

Jamie Sue was at the sink washing out her beige dress when she heard the pounding on the front door.

That must be the express company. And the girls aren't here.

She wiped her hands on a cotton towel and smoothed down the front of her green satin dress.

The pounding on the door continued.

I would think the express company could be a little more courteous.

She scurried into the living room.

The pounding began once again. “I know you're in there!” a deep voice shouted.

“Just a minute . . .” Jamie Sue called out. When she swung open the door, a tall, broad-shouldered man with narrow eyes, drooping mustache, and tight-fitting bowler greeted her with a scowl.

“Well, just what do you intend to do about it!” he shouted.

Jamie Sue's hand flew up to her mouth. “Do about it? I want you to tote all the trunks and crates into the living room!”

“What?” he hollered. “You think I'm a servant?”

“You're from the express company aren't you?”

“I most certainly am not! I want to know what you're going to do about my window!”

“Window?” Jamie Sue had a strong urge to go back inside and slam the door between them.

The veins of the man's neck pulsed with every word. “You're Little Frank's mama, aren't you?”

“Oh, my, yes.” Jamie Sue let out a sigh. “Little Frank came home and started to tell me something about a window, then tripped and broke his finger. It's been quite hectic. I'm very sorry about the window.”

“Looks like someone punched you in the nose.”

Jamie Sue's fingers patted her nose. “I, eh . . . also fell, while trying to help my son.”

“It still looks like you been beat up. Where is that kid of yours?” the man demanded.

“He's over at a friend's house and . . .”

“Then what's all this talk about a broken finger?”

Jamie Sue crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“It ain't the worst name you Fortunes have been called. What are you going to do about my window?”

She clutched her hands tight. “Are you Mr. Moraine?” She could feel her heartbeat in her fingers.

“I sure am, and your boy purposely failed to catch a baseball and let it bust my kitchen window.”

Jamie Sue stiffened. “I seriously doubt if he did it on purpose, but we will certainly be glad to . . .”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Moraine hollered. “You don't even know me.”

Jamie Sue saw the lady across the street peek out at them from behind white lace curtains. “I know my son. He very well might have missed a ball. He might have thrown it errantly. He might even have hit the ball through your window, but he certainly did not purposely cause damage to your house. I will call the hardware and have them send someone up to fix it.”