The train coughs suddenly, quite nearby, startling him, and he presses back against the glowing tunnel wall, but only silence follows. As, cautiously, he edges forward again, it occurs to him (the red walls remind him so: yes, they are no illusion) that his fears of its roaring out and running him down have been for naught, for of course the train has ducked down here cowcatcher first and cannot turn around, that red glow being provided by its caboose lantern. Which, as he rounds a falling bend, he sees, rocking faintly to and fro from the heaving tremors of the trapped engine down at the other end. It cowers there, nose buried in the narrowing tunnel like a whipped puppy trying to hide in a boot.
Well well, he says. Whut deepot’s this?
The train lets off an explosive burst of steam and sets its whistle shrieking, its bells clanging, but it’s all empty bravado.
He waits for it to cool down and then he says: They aint no way outa here, y’know, cept backin out tailfirst through the hole yu come in. It’s all uphill, yu caint git up no speed, and they’s a passel a bodaciously wicked desperadoes up thar jest itchin t’take yu apart rivet by rivet when yu come crawlin out. So I reckon the best thing fer yu t’do is give up yer goods right here and go peaceful.
There’s another whistle howl and blast of steam and a rattling of the couplings, the caboose lantern bouncing wildly on its hook at the parlor end and sending shadows leaping about the hellish tunnel, but the train knows well it’s beat. A final rackety spasm shudders its length, and then the cars slump forward in defeat, knocking dolefully up against one another, and the caboose lantern ceases to sway and hangs limply in dimmed despond.
I’ll see to it they dont hurt yu none, he says, and the train, in abject surrender, sighs grandly and commences to spill out its contents. When it has wholly emptied itself, he leads it, its steel drivers and wheels groaning self-pityingly, back up out of the mine shaft. He feels he has been down here for weeks, but it has probably not been so long, though he does emerge into midday sunlight, there to find his gang still mounted and waiting for him as he left them, the black mare foremost, greeting him at the entranceway with an eager whinny and a nuzzle of his chest. Yu kin let the train go, boys, he announces. We aint got no more use of it. It’s dumped all its freight down below. Go hep yerself!
Yippee! the men shout, and leap out of their saddles, and, as soon as the train, chugging gloomily, has backed out of the way, they go charging off into the mine, firing their pistols and racing one another for first pick among the goods. He can hear their clattering bootsteps echoing up out of the pitch-black tunnel, the occasional ricocheting shot, their curses as they bounce off the walls and each other and tumble down the shaft. Still sitting on her horse above him — in the sun, her golden palomino has a soiled and scurfy aspect, more the color of day-old cowpatties — the bandit queen takes her mask off and says: I got some news fer yu, kid.
Before she can deliver it, though, they are interrupted by a terrific explosion in the depths of the mine and the tunnel mouth spews forth a macabre and filthy rain. He turns in rage and fires his rifle futilely at the escaping train, showing now only its red-tipped caboose, wagging tauntingly in the sun-bleached distance. He leaps astride his mare, prepared to give chase, but Belle restrains him.
Whoa, cowboy, she says, grabbing the reins. Let it go. We didnt need thet gang no more anyhow. They’ve ketched the real hoss thief. Yu been pardoned. Yu’re a free man. He rests back in the saddle, taking in this unexpected news. Free. The sound of it soughs through him like a freshening wind. He stretches, and the land seems to stretch out around him. In the distance, above where the judas train disappeared, a lonely hawk wheels like a summons. It’s time, it spells out upon the slate-blue sky in graceful loops and swirls, to leave this town behind. Even as a badman on the loose he has been held captive by it, but no longer. He strips off his mask and squints off toward the spreading horizon, looking for something out there on the rim to aim at before it all recedes out of sight. Yu kin go back t’bein sheriff agin, darlin. Me’n yu, we kin clean up thet disreptile town.
I dont much cotton to the sheriffin line, mam. Reckon I’ll be hittin the trail. The chanteuse, for that’s what she is once more, looks sorrowed by the news but not surprised; it’s who he is, after all. So who’d they say done it?
Well yu wont hardly believe it. It’s the schoolmarm. She come ridin inta town on it, bold as brass.
Whut? But I give her thet hoss.
Dont matter none how she come by it. She wuz settin it and thet wuz fault enuf. They clapped her sanctimonious fanny smack in the calaboose, no questions ast nor answered, thet’s all she wrote. They’re hangin her tomorra at high noon and good riddance.
The hawk has left the sky, that slate wiped blank. The horizon has shrunk toward him some, but whether to urge or thwart his departure is not clear, and the wind has died, if it was ever blowing. His mare snorts impatiently, paws the ground. He strokes her neck. Did yu say thet sheriff’s job wuz open?
I thought yu wuz boltin off inta the sunset.