Sherlock Holmes and the Treasure Train

'When you've dropped us there, return to the station,' said Holmes. 'There will be two more men coming, and you are to bring them to the same place.'

'Few folk come to Brent, but in case, how'll I know . . .'

'Oh, you'll spot them,' I said, with an inward smile. 'Just look for the widest man you've ever seen.'

Dandy Jack merely nodded.

'Have there been strangers in the area of late?' inquired Holmes.

'None that I've seen.' Holmes did not press the matter, and finally, our driver felt impelled to make a conversational contribution. 'I've nosed 'round, sir, and give the matter more thought. At tavern every night, there's palaver fer fair.'

'About how the gold was removed from the boxcar.' It seemed to me that Holmes made this statement with a certain satisfaction.

'Aye, sir. If I'm any judge, every man jack in these parts is as puzzled as I am.'

Holmes nodded as though he had anticipated this. Silence fell, broken by the clip-clop of the sturdy bay and the intermittent calls of songbirds.

When Dandy Jack deposited us at the clearing that marked the end of the spur line, he tipped his battered hat and went about his return trip in accordance with my friend's instructions. The clearing and its deserted buildings seemed as they had been on our last trip to this place. At that time, Holmes' attention had been much given to the end-of-track and the area where the boxcar had been discovered. Now he seemed interested in the stretch of ground between there and the small hill with the rock-filled entrance to the abandoned tin mine. But then, he had paid scant attention to it previously. I doubted if he expected to come up with a clue at this late date, and felt that he shared that thought.

'There is really little we can do until the boys get here, Watson, though I did want to get to the spot as soon as possible.'

But it was not Bertie and Tiny who arrived. Rather, it was another voice that called out and succeeded in startling me no end, for I was convinced that we were alone in this deserted spot.

'Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson,' was the cry that surprised me as we were making our way toward the mine entrance.

From the woods on one side of the hill, Richard Ledger appeared on the run. In one hand was the Beals revolving rifle I had seen him use so effectively.

Holmes and I came to a stop, and as Ledger reached us, there was an added complication.

'Very slow, Ledger,' said a strange voice. Clued by the direction of the sound, my eyes flashed to the top of the hill. Standing there was a tall and swarthy man with an Enfield rifle pointed directly at the three of us, as were the guns in the hands of the two men standing beside him. There was no sound for a long and nerve-racking moment, and the whole scene became a frozen tableau. Then Ledger, with a shrug that might have meant anything, reached out slowly with the hand carrying the Beals rifle. He was facing Holmes and myself, his left side toward the hill and the menacing men atop it. Then he pitched the rifle some distance from him. A moving object attracts the eye; and I fancy the riflemen instinctively watched the falling weapon, perhaps in anticipation that it might fire when it hit the ground.

Ledger's left hand, resting on the lapel of the unbuttoned topcoat he was wearing, moved the garment slightly away from his body and I saw a holster attached to his belt in front with the handle of a revolver pointing toward his right side. Simultaneous with this movement, his right hand flashed to the exposed gun butt, then reversed direction in a border draw. As the muzzle cleared the leather, it was already pointing in the direction of the hill. Of a sudden, there was a drumbeat of sound. Not single shots, but what seemed like a continuous roar. In a moment like this the eye transmits the image to the brain with a speed akin to that of light, which is a good thing since it all happened at once.

In but a fraction more than one second, five shots burst from Ledger's gun. The first shattered the rifle in the hands of the swarthy man. The second caught his right-hand companion in the forehead, passing out through the top of his head. The third one found the last of the trio in the vicinity of his left breast pocket. The fourth caught the swarthy man in his mouth and plowed into his brain, while the fifth blew its way between his eyes, making an obscene hole going in and a much larger one going out.

It was unbelievable, but there were three dead men on top of that hill before the first body hit the ground.

An unreal silence claimed the clearing and the hill on one side of it. There was the smell of cordite that wrinkled my nostrils. Then, from a silver beech on top of the hill, a bird trilled questioningly, as though to inquire what was going on. You'll never understand, little feathered friend, I thought. You'll also be quite surprised if you flit to the ground, for the green of the turf is being stained a darkish red.

Ledger blew on the muzzle of his gun and began to slide it back into its holster when I found my voice.

'Pardon me,' I said, in a higher tone than is customary for me. I gestured toward the revolver. 'May I?'

As he handed me the weapon, from the corner of my eye I noted Holmes regarding me strangely.

'Double-action Colt Lightning,' I said.

'.41 caliber,' replied the gunfighter. He was matter-of-fact about it, and his manner, after this moment of awesome violence, was unperturbed, like a workman who has performed a familiar task.

His eyes, said to be the gateway to the soul, reflected no flame of exhilaration or dancing sparks of triumph. Just twin pools, unruffled and unrevealing, though the color might have been an even lighter blue than I had noted previously. From a dim recess of my mind, two words stumbled forth. Killer eyes. Perhaps the title of some ha'-penny dreadful subconsciously noted on a bookstore stand. Perhaps words out of context from a description of a bird or beast of prey. I felt I understood them better now.

I indicated the butt of the gun questioningly.

'Parrot-beak handle,' the man said. 'I fancy it.'

I swallowed. 'Five shots in one and one-fifth seconds. I read somewhere that it had been done.'^*

^*Watson was right, for the time has been recorded, and with the same double-action model he was holding in his hand.

Holmes was looking towards the hilltop. 'They've had it,' said Ledger as I returned his gun to him.

'I can certainly believe that,' replied Holmes.

The sleuth walked over and retrieved the rifle with which Ledger had distracted the three strangers. Silently, I commended him for this action. Though the immediate peril was removed, the situation was still tense and I fingered the Smith-Webley in my pocket nervously.

Gesturing toward the hill, Holmes posed a question. 'You didn't come with them, I take it?'

'After them. Your mention of that Michael fellow is what got me on their trail. The tall man was Jack Trask, who was on the Wellington Club team. Served in Egypt and later with the Legion in Africa. Surly chap with a shady background, but that's not unusual for a Legionnaire. The other two I don't know. Couldn't figure out why they came here either.'

'That, I know,' replied Holmes.

'Guess you know about me, too,' said our rescuer.

As Holmes nodded I felt impelled to offer a remark, which drew another strange look from the sleuth. 'Not everything. It may not be necessary that we do. You are not Ledger, of course.'

'He died in my arms. We were on the same side, you see, and we lost. I'd grown to know him well. He had no kin, and there were too many wishing for me to join Ledger, so I took his papers and got away.'

'It was you who worked for the Kimberly people.'

The man confirmed Holmes' statement with a nod. 'They didn't know Ledger, and as soon as they put a gun in my hands, they accepted my identity without question.'

An unrelated thought came to mind and forced its way to my lips. 'Was your friend Ledger as good as you?'

There was a philosophical acceptance in his eyes along with a tinge of sadness. 'Ledger's dead and I'm alive.'

Holmes had strolled in the direction of the rock-clogged entrance to the abandoned mine. I surmised that the pseudo-soldier appreciated the absence of further questions regarding his, shall we say, colorful background. He