'I doubt Wesley Hardin has killed that many people yet,' Call said. 'And Wesley Hardin is a bad one.' Near the livery stable, where Call had encountered Sheriff Jekyll, a large log had been rolled into the shade, to make a sitting place. Two old men with only a few teeth between them were sitting on it, whittling with small pocketknives. Call went over and sat on the log too. He was annoyed with himself for not having taken the casualty figures more seriously, sooner. The numbers had been available, but numbers were usually exaggerated. He had fought several fierce battles, with both Indians and Mexicans, in which no one was killed on either side. Usually there were wounds, but fighting men were not easily killed. In the War, of course, the great engagements had left hundreds or even thousands dead, but frontier fighting was of a different order.
In the worst Indian fight he had engaged in, he had only been able to say positively that two Indians were killed--he buried the two himself.
Call rarely saw a newspaper and had not followed the Garza boy's murdering that closely.
He had assumed that the figures were exaggerated.
Let one or two people get killed in a feud or a ruckus, and as the story went up and down the trail, the figure would swell until it became twenty or thirty. Before the Garza boy showed up, the most notorious outlaw in the West was Billy the Kid, who was said to have killed a man for every year of his life, when he was nineteen. But Dish Boggett, the gifted Hat Creek cowboy who was now selling hardware in Lincoln County, New Mexico, where the troubles occurred, assured Call that the boy had only killed four or five men. Goodnight, who had been in Lincoln County while the range war was going on, agreed with that figure.
If the information in the telegrams was true, Joey Garza had quickly eclipsed Billy the Kid as a killer.
In his conversation with Sheriff Jekyll, Call had asked if anyone knew how the Garza boy got the trains to stop. One man working without a gang, would have to be inventive to stop a train.
'He piles rocks on the tracks,' Sheriff Jekyll said. 'He ain't lazy. He works in the night, piling up rocks, till he gets a kind of wall.' 'But a locomotive going full speed could bust through a pile of rocks, surely,' Call said.
'Maybe, but the train might derail, and then you'd be in a pickle,' the sheriff replied.
'If Joey Garza's after you, you're in a pickle anyway,' a lanky deputy named Ted Plunkert observed.
'If it was me, and I was driving the dern train and I seen a pile of rocks and thought Joey Garza had piled it up, I'd pour on the steam,' the deputy added.
Sheriff Jekyll looked startled and embarrassed by his deputy's remark. It had never occurred to him that Ted Plunkert would venture an opinion of any kind, in the presence of the great Captain Call. Ted Plunkert had not made a comment of such length and complexity since Jekyll had hired him. What could have prompted him to wag his tongue for five minutes when he, the sheriff, was discussing serious matters with Captain Woodrow Call?
'Ted, you were not consulted,' Sheriff Jekyll said bluntly.
'I'll consult him--he's making better sense than you are,' Call said, no less bluntly. He didn't like Jekyll's manner, which was fawning yet superior. Many young lawmen took a similar tone with him, nowadays.
Sheriff Jekyll blushed scarlet. Call thought the man might have a seizure, he was so embarrassed.
'Well, the engineer can plow on, if he wants to risk it,' the sheriff said.
'It's run or fight, if you're dealing with Joey,' Deputy Plunkert said. 'I doubt I'd be ashamed to run, if he had the drop on me.' 'Are you employed steady, or would you consider accompanying me?' Call asked. He liked the deputy's dry manner and matter-of-fact outlook.
'It's steady, but it's warm,' the deputy said.
'I wouldn't mind going to higher country, where there might be a breeze once a month or so.' 'Now, Plunkert, who asked you into this conversation?' Sheriff Jekyll said. He considered it damn unneighborly of the Captain to try and hire his deputy. He didn't much care for Ted Plunkert, but if he left, there would be no one but himself to sweep out the jail.
Call sat on the log, by the toothless old men, and considered the situation.
Survivors of the robberies claimed there was no gang. A single blond Mexican boy, well mounted, showed up and took their finer possessions.
Though some of the passengers were armed, something in the boy's manner kept them from using their arms in their own defense. The lost payrolls had come to almost a million dollars in cash. Dozens of watches and rings and jewels had been taken, and the people killed had not been offering any resistance. The boy stopped trains carrying a score or more passengers, robbed them, killed a few, and left, only to strike again, far away, when it suited him.
In Call's experience, it was unusual for criminals to have such confidence. One reason they ran in packs was because confidence was one quality they seemed to lack. It was also unusual for criminals to have much ability. When they succeeded, it was usually because they had circumstance on their side. It might be that the Garza boy was an exception--a criminal with real ability.
Brookshire was so upset that he could not keep still. He saw Captain Call sitting on the log with the two old men. Obviously, the Captain was thinking matters over. Brookshire tried to allow him his privacy, but it was hard.
Another telegram could arrive from Colonel Terry at any moment, informing them that they were both fired. The Colonel had never been loath to change help.
Brookshire found himself edging a little closer to the log where the Captain sat. If only they could get started, he might feel a little better.
'Ain't we gonna start soon?' he asked.
'Joey Garza could be getting farther and farther away.' 'That's just a guess, though,' Call said.
'He might be headed back down the river toward us, for all we know.' 'What are we going to do?' Brookshire asked. 'The Colonel won't sit still for much more of this.' 'Nobody's asking him to sit still,' Call said. 'He can catch the next train and come out here and catch the boy himself, if he's impatient.' 'Oh, but he won't want to,' Brookshire assured him. 'The Colonel don't like to leave New York--he's too attached to Miss Cora, for one thing.' 'Do you still want to go with me?' Call asked. He had taken a liking to Brookshire.
