place.
From here, Sally could see the house Smoke had built for them, a large two-story edifice, white, with a porch that ran all the way across the front. It had turrets at each of the front corners, the windows of which now shined gold in the reflected sunlight. Also in the compound were several other structures, including the bunkhouse, cook’s shack, barn, granary, and other outbuildings. She could also see much of the thousands of acres that made up Sugarloaf Ranch.
Abandoning her contemplation of the ranch, she turned her attention to the road that ran from Sugarloaf into Big Rock. There, she saw a plume of dust, then, just ahead of the plume, a galloping Appaloosa. She smiled at the sight—Smoke was coming home at a gallop.
Mounting her own horse, Sally started back down the trail toward the ranch compound. Though the trail down was too steep to allow a gallop, her horse was sure-footed and nimble enough to traverse the distance rather quickly, thus allowing her to reach the house before Smoke. Dismounting, she climbed up onto the wide porch so she could watch his arrival.
The road, which on the state and county maps was called Jensen Pike, ran parallel with a long fence, before it turned in through a gate that had the name of the ranch fashioned from wrought-iron letters in the arch above. But, as Sally knew he would, Smoke did not come through the gate. Instead, he left the road, then urging Seven into a mighty jump, sailed over the fence almost as if on wings. After successfully negotiating the fence, he galloped into the compound before pulling the horse to a stop and leaping down from the saddle.
“Seven, you are the greatest horse in the world!” Smoke shouted, patting the hard-breathing animal on its forehead.
Sally laughed. “You said that to the other three horses you named Seven, and the two you named Drifter.”
“They were the greatest horses in the world too,” Smoke said.
“Don’t be silly. There can only be one greatest,” Sally reminded him.
Smoke held up his finger and waved it back and forth. “No, that’s the schoolteacher in you talking,” he said. “If you love horses, you know there can be as many greatest horses as you want.”
Again, Sally laughed. “All right,” she said. “I guess I can’t argue with you on that. How was your trip to town? Did anything interesting happen?”
“Not really.”
Sally arched her eyebrows. “Not really? That means something actually.”
“Tell me, woman, when I think something, do words just appear on my forehead for you to read my thoughts?” Smoke teased.
“Yes,” Sally said. “Now tell me what happened.”
Smoke told Sally of his confrontation with Emmet Clark, finishing with the fact that he’d let Clark ride away.
“Oh, Smoke, do you think that was smart?” Sally asked.
“I don’t know if it was smart,” Smoke said. “You are the smart one of the family. But I think it was right. I believe him when he said that he is a man of honor. And I respect honor.”
“That’s because you are a man of honor,” Sally said. “Take care of Seven and wash up. I’ll have dinner ready soon.”
A brilliant streak of lightning lit up the night sky and in its flash, Bobby Lee Cabot could see the four men who were with him, their ponchos pulled about them, scrunched down in their saddles. It was raining hard, and Bobby Lee readjusted his own poncho as he waited with the others alongside a railroad water tank. Under the frequent flashes of lightning, the steel tracks of the Nevada Central Railroad glistened in the rain.
“What if the train don’t come?” Conklin asked.
“The train comes ever’ night,” Dodd answered. “What makes you think it won’t come tonight?” Frank Dodd was the leader of the group. Dodd was just under six feet tall with broad shoulders and powerful arms. In his middle forties, he had spent more than half his life in prison. In a prison fight, another inmate had cut off half of his left eyelid, as well as a piece of his upper lip, leaving him permanently scarred. That same encounter had left the man who scarred him permanently dead.
“What if this here train don’t have no money on it?” Conklin asked.
“What if I just put my boot up your ass for askin’ so damn many dumb questions?” Dodd replied irritably.
“I’m just askin’ is all.”
“Well, don’t ask.”
The five men were waiting alongside the track halfway between Lone City and Cloverdale, Nevada. They were here, in the middle of the night in the middle of a rainstorm, because their plan was to rob the train when it stopped for water. Actually, it was only the plan of the other four. Unbeknownst to the others, Bobby Lee was a railroad detective with the Western Capital Security Agency. He had worked his way into the gang in order to find a way to bring them to justice.
Shortly before departing on this train robbery expedition, Bobby Lee sent a letter to Herman Wallace, the sheriff of Esmeralda County, notifying him of the gang’s intentions. In the letter, he asked Sheriff Wallace to be riding in the express car with enough deputies to end the train robbing spree of Frank Dodd, Walter Conklin, Wayland Morris, and Jules Stillwater.
That would go well for Bobby Lee, who had spent six months tracking them, then getting himself into position to stop the bandits. He was sure that the railroad company would give him a bonus for his part, but it wasn’t the bonus that motivated him. It was the satisfaction of taking out a gang of robbers who had been a thorn in the side of the railroad for the better part of two years.
The rain stopped and some of the clouds rolled away, revealing a full moon, which illuminated the area almost as bright as day.
