Chapter II

It was just at the hour when night fades into the pale shades of the dawn. No. 52 was thirty minutes behind schedule, which accounted for the extra throb and sway of the long string of Pullmans, as the huge compound engine thundered its way around the curves of the Snake Creek hills.

Suddenly there came the screech of brakes and the train ground to a shuddering stop. There was no sign of water-tank, station or signal. The front end of the train was just around a sharp curve.

A man darted back from the engine, running close to the side of the baggage car. He stepped in between the baggage car and the next coach, broke the air-hose, lifted the coupler and swung out, waving his free hand. As the engine started ahead he swung up on the rear of the car and the engine and one car went on around the curve.

In the rear of the engine cab stood a masked man, with a pistol in each hand. Lying half across his seat was the fireman, a bloody welt on his head, while the engineer looked straight ahead and drove according to directions. The fireman had attempted to fight the two masked men, and had paid for his foolishness. A mile farther on the man gave the command to stop, forced the engineer to precede him out of the cab, and the two of them went back to the baggage car.

Under the baggage car, huddled on the precarious rods was a man. His face was covered with a once-clean bandanna handkerchief to protect him from the stinging particles of dust. His clothes were driven full of grit and he was smoke-blackened until it was impossible to tell whether he was a white man or a negro.

The halting of the train had been a godsend to him, as he was nearly exhausted from an all-night grip of the rods, where he had fought against sleep and exhaustion. He could see the lower half of the engineer’s and the masked man’s bodies, as they came to the door of the baggage car. He saw the other man come from the rear of the car and join them.

He strained his ears to hear what was being said, but was unable to get more than an occasional word. He heard some one mention “dynamite” and a little later, “good sense.” Then he heard the door slide back in its grooves.

He relaxed for a moment and reached for his cigaret papers and tobacco. He grinned through the grime on his face at the cigaret he managed to make. It was greasy from his fingers, and his dry tongue had little power to seal the smoke.

Suddenly there came a crash above him—a jerking crash, which almost threw him off the rods. His cigaret fell to the road-bed and he clung with both hands. The three men dropped back to the ground, and he could see that one of them was carrying a canvas sack, which was heavy with its contents. One of the men started toward the engine.

It suddenly struck the man on the rods that this was a train hold-up. One of the men seemed to take a backward step, and from up by the engine came the dull report of a pistol. The man who had staggered went to one knee and the other sprang to him. The man on the rods could see that this kneeling man was completely masked. The other was firing toward the engine.

He stopped and helped the other to his feet, and as he did so he dropped his pistol to the rocky ground. He yanked the other man to his feet, swept up the pistol, and the two of them slid off the grade into the brush, taking the heavy canvas sack with them.

The man on the rods uncoiled swiftly and crawled out the opposite side of the car, and a moment later the engine and car began backing swiftly toward the rest of the train. The man had rolled into the brush and stayed concealed until the engine had disappeared around the curve.

Then he got to his feet and crossed the track, looking curiously in the direction taken by the bandits. It was a heavily wooded slope, and the two men were nowhere in evidence. He glanced down at the ground. A bent and blackened silver dollar lay among the rocks and near it was a small, almost triangular piece of pearl. He picked it up and studied it, and finally put it into his pocket. Then he crossed the track and plunged into the hills, going in the opposite direction to that taken by the bandits. He swore softly at himself for being fool enough to leave the train at that time. He realized that the rods of that train, even if he was discovered at the next stop, would be safer than being found in the hills.

He watched the train pass the spot of the hold-up, roaring its way to the next stop to spread the alarm, which would send mounted men on the trail of the outlaws. In a few hours the hills would be searched by men who knew every inch of them.

The man plunged on over a ridge and down into a ravine, where he found a stream of water. In lieu of soap he used sand, and did not cease scrubbing until he was restored to his normal color. He was wearing a cheap flannel shirt, an old vest, overalls and short boots. His hat was a nondescript sombrero.

When he had laundered himself as well as possible he sprawled at the edge of the stream and drank deeply. The reflection of his own face in the pool seemed to amuse him. All his life Jimmy Devlin had smiled at his own features; for Jimmy Devlin was far from handsome.

Jimmy’s hair was a cross between a roan and a sorrel. It would not part. His eyes were very blue and deepset. His nose was a trifle too generous and had been knocked a bit askew in a fight. His mouth was large and seemed to hold a perpetual smile. He was thirty-two years of age; five feet eleven inches tall and weighed a hundred and seventy-five. He was an expert cow-hand, willing to argue anything from psychoanalysis to the right way to bake a bean—and had just got out of the penitentiary, after fifteen months served on a three-year sentence.

Jimmy had been sent up for doing just what he had seen these two men doing a short time before. According to the records of Red Lodge County, Jimmy Devlin was a bold, bad train-robber.

This was one of the reasons why Jimmy did not want to be picked up by the officers. Inside his vest pocket were his parole papers. He knew that the officers would be very glad to find him, and he also knew that he would have a hard time making them understand that he had nothing to do with it.

If he had been found on the rods of that robbed car he might have been able to convince them that he had nothing to do with it; but a paroled train-robber’s words are of little weight, especially when zealous officers are seeking some one to imprison.

Therefore, Jimmy Devlin headed once more into the land of purple sage and dim trails. He felt that he was many miles removed from the spot where he had been arrested and tried, and there was little danger of any one knowing him. Jimmy hated the parole. He would have to stay within the boundaries of the State, and to report at regular intervals to the sheriff of the county. Just now he felt of the bit of paper sewed inside his vest pocket, and it brought a frown, as he plodded along.

He stopped and looked across the hills, which stretched away to the horizon, an endless sea of hill-waves. As far as he could see there was no hint of a squatter’s cabin nor sign of barbed-wire fences. Thunder Range was still the open land—a land of the dim trails.

Suddenly Jimmy’s serious face broke into a smile and his hand crinkled the paper in his pocket.

“Sure,” he muttered, half-aloud, “I should be glad that the paper says Montana instead of Rhode Island, because I hear they have a small area down there.”

He turned and started through the sage, disturbing the day dreams of a jack rabbit, which darted from in front of him and went spindle-legging its way down the hill, gathering speed at every jump, until it became but a gray blur in the sage.

“You should be glad, too,” chuckled Jimmy, as the rabbit faded from view. “Sure, you’d only get goin’ good and run off the edge into the ocean.”

Jimmy hitched up his pants and started on, hat in hand. Here was a big, free land—an empire of hills and valleys, far from real civilization; yet Jimmy Devlin felt that he could not be a part of it. He could never be a free man, as long as he must report to the law.

“Twelve wise men said I was a train-robber,” he muttered softly, “and who am I to dispute twelve wise men?”

He shaded his eyes with his hand and glanced around, as if challenging some one to dispute the question.

“Three years they gave me to repint of my sins, and in fifteen months they got tired of feedin’ me. Repint on your own meal-ticket, says they. Be a good citizen from now on, lie to the sheriff fluently, and by doin’ so ye may save the State the cost of feedin’ ye slumgullion stew and the wear and tear on large rocks.”

Jimmy grinned and scanned the country.

“Talkin’ to meself like a shepherd. I must take another name, that’s very sure, except with the sheriff—bad luck to him. Still, he may not be a bad sort. I hope I get a job before the hills are full of man-hunters—so I do.”

He topped a rise and stopped. Before him spread the Thunder Range. He could see the great crescent of mountains, the long, sloping foot-hills. He took a deep breath and shook his head in wonderment.

“Sure I’m a lucky devil, so I am. I was in the Thunder country and didn’t know it.”

He scanned the country and looked back, where he could see the dim, green line of Bitter River.

“It’s the place,” he muttered. “I’m too far South yet, though. Sure, I wonder if he did what he said he would? Wish I knew where he was, the poor divil. He wanted to go to Arizony and try to fight the pain in his chest. I was fool enough to cut into the game and let the sheriff chase me. I thought I had a fast horse; but I miscounted me speed per mile.

“Ah, well, it was only fifteen months. I hope that some soft-hearted Mick will help me out in return, if I ever need it. Fifteen months in the penitentiary and further orders not to leave the State. Mebbe it was worth it—I dunno. Talkin’ to meself again! Hm-m-m!”

He shook his head and started toward the North.