Once Upon a Time in the Past: Book Iii: The Last of the Logan Boys

BOOK THREE

THE LAST OF THE

LOGAN BOYS

Earnest Tex Sims Sr.

AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: 1-800-839-8640

© 2010 Earnest Tex Sims Sr.. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 8/9/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4520-0265-1 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-0264-4 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010907695

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Contents

FROM THE AUTHOR:

PART ONE

THE LAST HOLD UP

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

PART TWO

THE HOUNDER

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

PART THREE

THE TRAILS OF TWO

ALIAS MEN

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

ONCE UPON A TIME IN

THE PAST

FROM THE AUTHOR:

In three books I tried to capture all aspects of the Old West—the rowdy towns, saloons, prostitutes, homesteaders, cattle ranchers, cattle rustlers, cattle drives, stampedes, canvas-covered wagons, wagon trains, wild horses, cowboys, Indians, miners and prospectors, fur traders, claimjumpers, sheriffs, outlaws, gunfighters, railroads and trains, stagecoaches, banks and holdups, love, life, and death—when I wrote the trilogy of Once Upon A Time In The Past .

In Once Upon A Time in the Past western series the towns and characters are fictitious. But Mason City, Kansas is as real and alive as Kansas City, Kansas was back in the day. El Dinero, Texas is as dusty and dry as Waco. Smoky Butte, Missouri is as hazy and untamed as Sikeston was back when outlaws rode through the streets with guns blazing. Payton, Kansas is as full of cattle, rustlers, saloons, barrooms and whores as Abilene was back when cowboys rode into town on weekends just to shoot up the place. Trails, Missouri is just as real as any town was along the rutted trails of yesterday. Two Stones, Georgia’s red clay streets is as pure and crimson as Dalton’s. Muddy Creek, Missouri is just as quiet and humble as Independence. Boom Town, Arizona is nonetheless as lawless and reckless as Tucson was back when the West really was wild with its saloons, prostitutes, prospectors, fur traders and claimjumpers roaming the frontier, fighting themselves and Indians for that yellow, precious metal called: GOLD!

PART ONE

THE LAST HOLD UP

THE LAST HOLD UP

CHAPTER 1

Wind whispered in the streets. Dust stirred the air of a little slumberous Missouri town as Chance William Logan sat the firm saddle of his black stallion, Midnight, fox trotting the horse through the dusty haze of a warm autumn morning. His garb—black britches, hat, vest and shirt—stained with trail dust, he rode into town, looking from side to side, his alert, smoky-gray eyes scanning the empty streets and boardwalks.

The sign at the outskirts of town had read there were forty-three people in Black Crow, Missouri. But he had yet to see the first. Towns always have sheriffs or deputies standing out on the boardwalks in front of their office on the lookout for strangers and drifters riding into town. Sheriff nor deputy stood out front of the office this morning. If not for the horses tied at the hitch racks fronting the buildings, Black Crow could have been just another ghost town along the western frontier.

Most of the gray-colored neglected buildings of Black Crow did reminded Chance of ghost towns: Their glassless windows stared somberly toward the empty streets. Their open doors seemed to welcome dust. Yet, in spite their neglected appearance, some buildings showed promise of life: The Dry Goods Store, Black Crow Livery Stables, The County Sheriff’s Office, Black Crow Saloon, and a few other buildings along the stretch.

Suddenly a voiced cried out, Chance! just as Midnight made to clop past the livery stables and, though it seemed only a whisper in the wind, Midnight’s rider detected the sound amidst the dusty streets and pulled it up sharply, prancing the horse to a gape- mouth halt, the wind in its mane and tail, showing grass-stained teeth, whinnying.

The horse, still pranced on its hind legs, its rider’s sharp, smoky-gray eyes peered through the dust and saw through its haze two familiar faces staring at him from the alley onside the stables that creased his jaded face in a grin. At sight of two of three long-lost brothers he hadn’t laid eyes on in almost a year, Chance Logan, Midnight still pranced, left the saddle before the stallion’s front hooves touched the street. Running in a hurried trot toward the livery stables, his black stallion trotting along without his lead behind him, the outlaw raced to greet his brothers, shouting Burt! Young Pete! and simultaneously clasping his arms around their necks as he stopped before them. Boy! Am I glad to see you, fellas?

It was finally over. After almost a year of searching, it had finally ended. The brothers were once again the Logan boys.

He looked around, his eyes searching the alley and, not seeing the black brother, feared something of the worst had happened to Jesse; thinking reluctantly Jesse killed somewhere trying to rob a bank, stage or train, or even hanged.

If Jesse was not dead, or in jail, where was he?

With his arms still around Burt’s and young Pete’s neck, Chance almost quit breathing a long second at the thought the black brother might be dead, his alert, smoky-gray eyes scanning every inch of the streets, alleys and the buildings, but didn’t see Jesse anywhere. Finally, almost too afraid to asked, he stammered:

Hey, fellas—Where’s Jess? He—ain’t—?

Big Burt and young Pete looked to one another, still embraced with their big brother, and then Burt gave him an answer.

Na, Burt said, him and young Pete letting go their embrace with Chance. Jess’s alright, just went over to the Dry Goods to rustle up some grub. ’Spect ’im back in a lil’ bit.

Chance breathed freely again. Letting go of Big Burt and young Pete, he stood a few inches back from them, staring at them a long minute, taking a good, long look at the brothers he thought was dead.

His heart touched, Chance hugged his brothers once more, looking somberly over their shoulders to see if the black brother, Jesse, was in sight.

Still, Jesse wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

Where in hell have you fellas been keepin’ yourselves? he asked the brothers, standing back and taking a better look at them, holding on to both their shoulders. Hell! I been looking everywhere for you fellas.

We stayed hid out in the Missouri hills for a spell, young Pete replied. Then we lit out for Arkansas. Hung around there for a while, and then we lit out of there looking for you. Young Pete’s voice drew stiff, and sounded somewhat gloomy, Chance noticed and felt when the kid brother said somberly: We want—wanted to come back for you that night, Chancre. But we thought you were dead or caught by the posse."

Young Pete paused as sky-blue eyes stared into smoky-gray eyes.

We thought it was too risky to turn back and look for you.

I know, Chance said, feeling the kid brother’s somberness. And if it’d been one of you, I’d’ve done the same.

Chance looked for Jesse once more, but still did not see him.

That was the purpose of my fallin’ off Midnight, Chance went on. I figured if I’d tried to stay with you fellas, with that bullet hole in me an’ all, I’d’ve gotten us all caught and hanged.

Chance paused again to look up the alley to see if Jesse wasn’t coming.

Nothing of the black brother that time, either.

After I heard neither hide nor hair from you fellas, Chance said, I’d figured that that posse that shot by me lyin’ hid in them bushes alongside the trail that night might’ve caught up to y’all, too. He looked for Boots again, and then, still not seeing the black brother, went on: But thing is, we’re back together, safe and sound.

A brief pause.

Am I right?

Right! Big Burt and young Pete chorded, embracing Chance; Chance embracing them, looking over their shoulders to see if Jesse wasn’t coming.

As before. No sign of the black brother.

Where the hell is Jess? Chance complained, his uneasiness in vain.

No sooner he said that the black brother shambled up the boardwalk, striding with a white flour sack of provisions slung over his shoulders.

Chance, in spite the happiness that overwhelmed him to see the black, adopted brother shambling up, kept his cool. He whispered something in Big Burt’s ear that young Pete overheard. Chance, letting go of Burt’s and Pete’s necks, eased over to an old beer keg onside the stables and sat down on it. He pulled his black, dusty, sweat-stained hat down to cover his eyes and partially shield his face. He crossed his legs, head down, as if to be a drunken, prejudice saddle bum just slumbering in the alley.

When Jesse strutted up, whistling one of his mammy’s old slave hymns, Chance yelled: Hey, where the hell yer think yer’re goin’, nigger? Chance, stifling a laugh, was playing a prank on the black brother, Burt and young Pete in on it, but Jesse, thinking Chance a prejudice drifter picking at him, halted abruptly. Chance, though his hat was down over his eyes partially covering his face, could see Jesse’s every move Yea! Chance teased. You! I’m talkin’ to yer, boy! Come over here and shine my boots!

Jesse, no way of knowing that prejudice sum’abitch that called him nigger was his brother Chance Logan, rushed Chance and, in a fit of anger, snatched Chance to his feet, Chance’s hat falling off his head as Jesse jerked him face to face. Jesse, his fist drawn back, was ready to bring it home to met Chance’s jaw, if Chance hadn’t yelled: Whoa, Jesse! Put a hold on that fist! It’s me—Chance!

Suddenly, overwhelmed with sudden surprise and joy, Jesse braked the move and uncurled his fist. Lost for word at the moment, Jesse could do nothing but embrace his brother, who could do nothing at the moment but embrace him.

Chance! Jesse exclaimed. It’s—you! Hey fellas! he said to his brothers Big Burt and young Pete, as if the brothers didn’t know it was Chance. Look who’s here—Chance! Or, am I starin’ at a ghost? Jesse calmed down some and, still embraced with Chance, said tearfully:

We—we thought you was dead, Chance.

Well, Chance replied cheerily, I sure ain’t no ghost, Jess. So I must be alive.

We—Burt and Pete an’ me— Jesse said soberly—thought thet posse caught up to you. An’ thet—you was dead . . . hanged.

Aw, cheer up, Jess, Chance said, bragging: Ain’t a posse around that can catch Chance Logan.

Before Chance and Jesse could un-embrace, two more pair of arms entwined them as young Pete and Big Burt rushed in to embraced their big brother.

It was like old times again—back when they use to embrace one another in the old days at bad news or good news when they were boys.

Letting go of their embrace with one another, the Logan boys settled down and seated them behind the stables. They munched on pemmican taken from the sack Jesse had cadged from the dry goods store.

The old liveryman was hammering on something inside the shop where Night Moon, Sunshine and Thunder Cloud stood in stalls feasting on oats while a tall, skinny, black-skinned Negro currycombed their coats and groomed their mane and tails for their masters’ next exploits, which, at this moment, they discussed the plans.

They ate beef jerky as Jesse filled Chance in on the details, which Jesse, young Pete and Big Burt already had laid out:

Have Burt and young Pete told you’ bout our plans, Chance? Jesse was asking.

Na, said Chance. But it sounds like a big ’un?

It is, Jesse said.

Then lets have it, Chance urged.

There’s a train comin’ through north of here, Jesse began.

When’s this? Chance asked, eating beans out of its can.

Three, four days, Jesse said. "We ain’t shore. But the train—now listen to this ’cause it’s a good’un—will be carryin’ thirty-five thousand in gold bricks!"

Chance let go of a whistles. "Fifty thousand. That mucho dinero! Chance gasped and looked to young Pete, Big Burt, and then Jesse. By the way, he inquired. Who ran this outfit while I was away?"

Boots, young Pete said swiftly, proudly. And damn good!

A damn good leader, too, Big Burt put in, chewing pemmican as if it was a cud of his chewing tobacco. No offence, Chance.

None taken, Chance said, just as proud of Jesse as Big Burt and young Pete were. damn good leader, hu?

Damn good‘n, young Pete added modestly. But not as good a leader as you, Chance. No offence, Boots.

None taken, said Jesse.

They watched Chance pat his pockets and knew he was searching for a smoke, at which he always wanted after a good meal, but didn’t seem to have one at the moment.

You ain’t got any cigarros in that flour sack, do you, Jess? Chance asked then, still searching his pockets for one. But before Jesse could answer, Big Burt rose, stepped inside the stables and returned a short time later with a handful of skinny cigarros he had bought some weeks ago in Arkansas in a store in the town that they left Linda Bright Eyes Bell. The cigarros were a little old, a little stale, but were satisfying to Chance’s cravens.

Jesse watched Chance smoke the cigarro a minute.

We want you to make the layouts on this one, Chance, Jesse said, referring to the train job, speaking for Burt and young Pete also. That is since you’s back wit’ us again an’ can stay on yore horse. Jesse had added that with a touch of humor in his tone.

Chance puffed on the cigarro, thinking a second about Jesse’s offer.

I’ll stay on my horse, Chance said amusingly. And, he added, I’m at this moment back in charge of the Logan boys’ gang. But, first, let’s hear some more about the layouts of this job.

Jesse explained it to Chance in brief details, and then, with a stick drew designs and sketches on the ground. Burt and young Pete looked on.

We’ll need a stick of dynamite for a job like that, Chance suggested.

Jess already got dynamite, young Pete put in.

Chance looked up swiftly.

See what you fellas meant about Jess being a damn good leader.

He paused, thought some more on Jesse’s plans.

We’ll need to find a good-sized tree to place the dynamite under, Chance said. It’ll need to be tall enough to reach across the rails.

Chance paused again. He chunked the stick he had used to draw the sketches to the ground. And then, with his hands, he erased the sketches from the dust of the alley. He brushed dust off his hands, and then looked to the brothers.

Can’t think of a better way to stop a train.

CHAPTER 2

It was pouring rain when the train came splitting up the tracks, the big black locomotive, bearing the wordings UNION PACAFIC RAILWAYS in big white bold letters on each side and boasting 49 on its nose, chugging up the tracks like a raging bull buffalo, steam streaming from its nostrils. The engineer shrilled the whistle at every crossing as the train split the lashing rain of a stormy, black afternoon. It was as dark as night. The off-track trees and bushes went by in a blurred zip!-zip!-zip! Curling ribbons of black smoke boiled from the cone-shaped stack and flattened over the long line of boxcars trailing rocking behind the locomotive.

Nearing a curl in the tracks the engineer shrilled its whistle, the big, powerful locomotive still chugging at full speed, a warning for all on the tracks, animal or man, to gangway for the mighty tons of steel coming around the bend. Suddenly, just as the nose of engine peeked around the bend, an explosion thundered loudly. The tracks rocked viciously, and shook the mighty tons of steel. Right before the engineer’s and the coalman’s eyes a big wet leafy oak tree crashed heavily across the tracks breaking branches and limbs that spewed water and leaves into the semi-dark sky.

Acting on impulse the engineer reached up and pulled hard on the brakes to slow the powerful locomotive, keeping it from plowing headlong into the branches and limbs of the tree. The brakes locked on iron rails. Fiery sparks flew from both sides of the steel wheels. The big black locomotive skidded to an angry halt, moments before it would have smashed headlong into the tree across the tracks. The sudden impact of the emergency stop pitched the passengers forward in their seats. The cries and screams of passengers— females and males alike—blotted out at the sound of steel shrieking on steel; the more than twenty rail cars hitched behind the locomotive jerked and jostled to a shrieking halt with a mighty cry of steel, metal, and humans.

The hapless locomotive sat there, chugging, stalled on the tracks, blocked in by an old oak tree, huffing and puffing out smoke and steam, as if it was a wounded bull buffalo taking its last breath, expiring in the falling rain.

Before the engineer and helper could climb down out of the cab four masked riders emerged from off-tack bushes and trees, sitting the saddles of rain-soaked horses, guns blazing into the rainy sky, a warning they controlled all that happened now. The black leather slickers of their backs glistered like glass from the steady rain falling on them. Rain dripped off the brims of their hats as they charged into the opening, still firing wild shots.

Suddenly the conductor, unseen among the boxcars, leaped to the ground like a mad leopard, Winchester in hand, and eased alongside the boxcars to the train robbers.

Just hold it right there! the conductor demanded of the outlaws, aiming the blue steel barrel of the Winchester at the four robbers. And drop those guns, then move—

Young Pete Logan’s Colt.45, already palmed in his hand, licked out its blazing tongue of death and thundered simultaneously with God’s thunder. The conductor’s arms flew up as the big .45 caliber bullet hit dead center his chest, knocking him off his feet, and slamming him back against one of the boxcars.

Okay, train driver! Chance Logan said then through a neckerchief over his face. Anymore surprises and everybody on this train’ll end up like that fella there lying in the rain! Chance paused to allow Mother Nature to do her part. Now that you’ve got our message, he said smoothly after the thunder and lightening, you won’t mind showing us where that gold is!

In the cab, on the other side of the locomotive, the coalman, a big black Negro in blue jean overalls, was slowly leaning the shovel he used to throw coal into the furnace of the engine against the wall inside the cab. Then he wrapped his long black fingers around the double barrels of a shotgun. Like a big black grizzly bear, the coalman leaped to the ground in a sudden rush, training the shotgun on the outlaws, but a bullet from Jesse Logan’s Colt struck him in the head. The shotgun exploded off target into the cloudy sky of pouring rain.

Now, Chance Logan demanded once more, train driver, if you’re through playin’ around maybe you can show use where the gold’s at.

The engineer looked down at the dead coalman’s body sprawled on the ground in the rain beside the train. Then he looked alongside the boxcars at the crumpled frame of the conductor’s rain-soaked corpse bellied down with arms and legs out-flung, lying beside the tracks.

Seeing these bodies of his crew, the engineer reluctantly climbed down from the cab of the locomotive into the thick veil of rain.

It’s back there! The engineer pointed to the rear of the boxcars snaked along the tracks. The gold’s back there in the caboose!

You want us to try and guess what board it’s under? Chance asked sharply through his mask, Or are you gonna show us where it’s at?

The engineer, a thick-shouldered train operator in pinstriped overalls and pinstriped cap, name of Harry Saps, but nicknamed Skillet because of the big black locomotives he drove, climbed down from the cab of the locomotive. The rain dripped off a graying beard as he took a black-dots red neckerchief from his hip pocket to wipe his rain-wet face.

You ready to get that gold, Boots? Big Burt said, looking to Jesse.

You betcha, Jesse replied, and then he and Burt swung down from their saddles in front of the engineer, waving their pistols in the man’s face.

C’mon, train driver, Big Burt urged. "Show us that Glory Hole’s."

The engineer moved off, Burt and Jesse behind him, pistols trained at his back, ambling alongside the boxcars to the little red caboose waiting at the rear. When the engineer and the outlaws came abreast the little red boxcar the train operator yelled something at the door, indicating someone was inside, apparently an armed guard.

Who’s there? the answer came from inside.

Open up, Bob!

Who the hell is you? came the voice again.

It’s me, Bob, the train driver said, Skillet!

There was silence inside the caboose, as if the guard was listening with an ear against the door trying to hear what was going on outside. Then the man behind the door answered quietly, almost whispering it:

What do you want, Skillet?

The engineer looked to the outlaws, his eyes trailing down at the pistols trained at his belly. A flash of lightning showed bright day for an instance, and then it was dark again, followed a short time later by a roll of thunder.

Yea, it’s me, Bob? Saps whispered unconsciously. Open up!

What you want, Skillet? asked the voice inside.

The gold, Bob, Harry Saps said. Let me have it.

Silence again. Then Bob whispered:

You holdin’ us up, Skillet?

No, Bob, Saps said patiently, "I’m not holding us up! They are!"

"Who’s they? the voice inside whispered. I ain’t supposed to open this door for nobody, no matter what—not even you, Skillet—until we get to our destination.

You know that, Skillet!

They’re the Logan boys, Bob! Harry Saps said roughly, losing his patience at the stubbornness of the guard. Now, you open this door, Bob Cooper, this instant! And that’s an order!

Silence. And then noise; furniture dragged away from the door. The door creaked . . . slowly cracking open . . . and then Bob Cooper stuck his head out.

Come on, Bob! the engineer urged. Open it up; all the way. They’re the ones holding us up. Not me.

The door opened all the way. And Bob Cooper stood erect in it clutching a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun in his hands. Bob Cooper was a tall man, slender, and looked in his late forties. Short stubbles of a beard matched his wrinkled brown coat, slacks and drooping mustache. An askew black tie hung from the throat of his neck.

Bob stared out into the falling rain at the engineer and the outlaws.

Chunk that sawed-off, Big Burt demanded with the wave of his Colt .45. The shotgun plopped into a puddle of water at their feet. Burt spat chewing tobacco juice into the puddle shotgun was chunked, then put his eyes back on Bob.

Better throw that pistol down too, Bob.

Bob looked thoughtful, as if in apt the outlaw’s demand.

The one that’s gonna blow your ass off, if it goes off, Bob, Burt said curtly, then watched Bob pull a long barrel, wooden-handled Peacemaker from the waistband of his trousers and chunk the pistol to the puddle of water the shotgun was.

Jesse climbed up into the caboose then, urging the guard back with the point of his .45. And then, with the Colt, motioned Bob to show him where the gold was, at which Bob was reluctant until the hammer of Jesse’s Colt cocked and aimed directly at his belly.

Having heard of how a belly-shot caused slow, painful death, Bob swallowed hard, and then removed a short plank from the floor of the caboose, revealing a safe-like hole under the boards.

Eyes aglow, Jesse stood there, grinning to his ears like a deadly, black panther showing white teeth. The guard could not see the smile for the blue neckerchief covering the lower part of the black outlaw’s face; only the crinkles around Jesse’s eyes staring at forty-five gold bricks secluded in a Glory Hole under the wooden floor of the caboose.

Jesse looked to the guard then, still grinning under the neckerchief.

Bless you, Bob, he said mockingly. Then Jesse and Bob commenced removing the bricks from the hole, cadging them one by one to the door and handing them down to Big Burt and Harry Saps, who then stacked the brinks neatly on the ground.

Chance and young Pete would load the gold bricks into the saddlebags of their mounts as soon as they frisked the passenger car for what valuables the occupants possessed.

When Jesse was on the ground, Bob stood in the doorway of the caboose, looking out into the rain at the outlaws and engineer.

Okay, Bob, Big Burt said, motioning his pistol when all the gold was out of the caboose, you can go on back in there now. And, Bob, lock the door behind you.

Bob Cooper moved at Burt’s command, backing into the door like a water tabby into its shell, closing the door—

Suddenly the door opened again with such swiftness it startled Jesse and Burt to switch their .45s from the engineer to the caboose. Bob Cooper had reappeared in the doorway. Now, he threw his arms up, frightened almost to wet his britches at sight of those Colt .45s trained at his frame.

How—did—you know? Bob stammered, looking out at the outlaws.

Burt spat. I didn’t, and then motioned his Colt .45, ordering Bob back into the caboose, at which Bob obeyed, but had purposely left the door open to see them.

Bob? Burt hailed at him.

Yea sir?

Close the door, Bob.

Immediately the door slammed shut. And they could hear furniture scraping the floor, as Bob was securing the door again.

Only a steady drizzle of rain fell now, as Big Burt and Jesse marched the train operator back toward the front of the locomotive. The locomotive, its big black bulk of steel shinning in the rain, sat on the railroad tracks chugging like an angry buffalo with its nostrils gusting steam on both sides.

At gunpoint, the outlaws ordered the operator up into the cab. With their mounts’ saddlebags weighed down with gold bricks, the outlaws sat the saddles of their backs in the drizzling rain. The outlaws’ slickers glistered like glass as the reflection of lightening flashed on them. As if cannonball fire, thunder rumbled, rolled across the sky like Indians beating drums.

In the cab of the control room, the engineer stuck his head out the small, square window to shout, Hey! at the outlaws just as the outlaws made to spur their mounts off into the rain. The outlaws drew up sharply, sliding their mounts to a halt, and looked back over their shoulders at the operator.

You got problems, Train Driver? Chance shot back curtly, Midnight moving uneasily, its black coat shining in the rain.

What about that tree? Harry Skillet Saps asked.

What about it? Chance answered, Midnight dancing, bobbing its head, anxiously biting its bits, and wanting to be off into the rain.

Can’t drive a train over a tree! the engineer said sullenly.

Well, Train Driver, Chance smirked, Midnight dancing, "I was taught you don’t know what you can do until you try it. Adios!" and then the outlaws were gone, galloping off into the drizzling rain, leaving Harry Saps and his passengers glaring through the thin veil at their retreating backs from the cab and windows of the stalled train.

Miles away from the holdup site the Logan boys, the robbers of the U.P R. train, swung down from the saddles of their rain-soaked mounts to give the over-ridden, over-burden animals a breather, taking refuge under a big red oak tree to shelter them from the drizzling rain.

It was wet and damp under the tree, but its leaf-branched limbs kept most of the rainwater off; every now and then drops dripped off leaves to plop atop the crowns of the outlaws’ wide-brimmed hats.

We’ll set camp here the night, fellas, Chance was panting, rainwater dripping off the brims of their hats. The horses can use the rest. And we can, too.

Next morning they were in their saddles again, Big Burt’s palomino and Jesse’s appaloosa weighted down with the burden of the gold bricks now.

Where’ll we swap the gold, Chance? young Pete asked as they sit their horses under the oak of the previous night.

It had stopped raining sometime during the morning, the ground still was wet, the air cool, the smell of damp leaves and wet earth in their nostrils.

Overhead, thick with gray, low-hanging clouds, the sky promised more rain.

Robbers’ Roost, Chance replied, looking at the clouds. And we best get started if we want to stay ahead of the rain.

With their slickers tied behind the cantles of their saddles, they started their mounts prodding up the rain-wet trail, hooves slinging mud.