The engineer was leaning on the windowsill of the engine cab, enjoying a moment of rest. There was no such rest for the fireman, who, even though the train was motionless, was shoveling coal into the furnace to keep the steam pressure up. Glistening coals fell from the firebox to the rock ballast between the tracks. There, they glowed for a moment, then went dark.
The engineer looked at Matt, and Matt met his glance with a steady gaze of his own. The engineer nodded a greeting at him, which, under the circumstances, Matt greatly appreciated.
“All right, Killer, you get on first,” Hayes said.
“It’s not going to be easy with these chains,” Matt said.
“Yeah? Well, I’m not about to pick you up and throw you on, so I suggest you get on the best way you can. Try.”
Matt put his hands on the edge of the car, then vaulted up easily.
“Well, now,” Hayes said with a little chuckle. “I’m real impressed. You done that just real good. You, express man,” Hayes called.
“The name is Kingsley,” the express agent replied. “Lon Kingsley.”
“All right, Kingsley.” Hayes gave the express man his gun. “Keep him covered till I get up there. He’s a killer.”
“A killer?” Kingsley replied, obviously disturbed by the fact.
“Yeah, so be careful with him.”
Nervously holding the gun, Kingsley stepped back away from Matt. “D-don’t you try nothin’ now,” he ordered.
“Easy, mister,” Matt said. “I don’t intend to try anything.”
With some effort, Hayes managed to climb up into the express car. He reached out for his pistol. “I’ll take that back now,” he said.
Kingsley handed the pistol back to Hayes, who put it in his holster.
“Aren’t you going to keep him covered?” Kingsley asked.
“Why?” Hayes replied. “He’s in chains. It’s for sure he’s not goin’ anywhere.”
“I guess not.”
“Don’t worry, we won’t be that much of an inconvenience to you,” Hayes promised.
“I reckon you two can ride with me as long as you stay out of my way. I’ll be processin’ mail along the way.”
“We won’t be no bother,” Hayes promised. He pointed to the end of the car where there was one chair. “Sit there,” he said.
When Matt started to sit on the chair, Hayes called out to him.
“Huh-uh, not on the chair, the chair is mine. You’ll be sitting on the floor, so you may as well sit there now and make yourself comfortable.”
As instructed, Matt sat down on the floor, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes. He and Hayes no sooner got settled than the engineer blew his whistle, then opened the throttle. The train started forward with a series of jerks, then smoothed out as it gradually began gaining speed.
Chapter Six
Shortly after the train left the depot, Cummins held a meeting of all his deputies.
“All right, boys, it’s time to go to work. You fellas know what stores, businesses, and homes you are responsible for. Get started, then bring it all to the saloon.”
“Marshal, maybe we had better ease up a bit,” one of the deputies suggested.
“Ease up a bit?” Cummins said. “What do you mean by that, Crack?”
“Well, I mean, some of the folks, at least the folks I’m dealin’ with, are beginnin’ to get contrary about payin’ taxes ever’ week.”
“They are, are they?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s just too bad,” Cummins said.
“So, what do I tell ’em when they start complainin’ like that?”
“Tell them it’s the law,” Cummins said. “If they want to live in my town, they have to pay the piper.” Cummins giggled. “And we’re the piper,” he said. “Are you going to have a problem with that?”
“No, I ain’t goin’ to have no problem with that,” Crack said. “I was just commentin’, that’s all.”
“If I want any comments, I’ll ask for them. What about the rest of you? Any of you have any trouble with this?”
None of the deputies responded.
“Boys, when you think about it, we’ve got us a real sweet deal here,” Cummins said. He laughed out loud. “You might say that what we have is a license to steal. Ever since the city council voted to put in the law tax, all we have to do is just control a few drunks, make sure nobody gets beat up, and arrest anyone who spits on the sidewalk. Now, what do you say you get to work?”
At the very moment Cummins was charging his deputies with the task of spreading out to collect the “law tax,” a secret meeting was being held in the back room of the Bank of Purgatory.
Joel Montgomery, the president of the bank, was conducting the meeting, and he poured himself a drink before calling the meeting to order. “Goodman?” he called. “Are you keeping a lookout?”
“Yes,” Goodman said. “There’s nobody out on the street.”
“Well, there will be soon. This is the day they spread out to collect their tax. So if you see anyone coming this way, let me know.”
“I will,” Goodman promised.
“Men,” Montgomery said. “There’s a bottle here. If any of you want a drink before we get started, get it now. Because once we get started, we’ve got some serious business to discuss.”
“It ain’t goin’ to work,” one of the men said. He was short, with a reddish tint to his skin, and a large, blotchy nose.
“What isn’t going to work, Amon?”
Amon Goff owned the leather goods store.
“All of us gettin’ together and tellin’ Cummins we ain’t goin’ to pay his taxes no more,” Amon said. “It ain’t goin’ to work.”
“And why won’t it work?” Montgomery asked.
“Because the tax is a law that’s done been passed by the city council. If we don’t pay it, why, they’ve got the right to put us in jail. What we need to do is get the city council to pass a law changin’ that.”
“And how do you propose that we do that, Amon?” Josh Taylor asked. Taylor ran the feed store. “There’s only seven men on the city council, and four of ’em are Cummins’ deputies.”
“I don’t know how we’re goin’ to get it done,” Amon said. “I just know that if one of us refuse to pay the taxes, we’re goin’ to wind up one of two ways. Either dead, or in jail.”
“Yeah,” a man named Bascomb said. Drew Bascomb owned the freight line. “Even if we fight back, we could wind up getting hung. You seen what happened to that stranger that rode in here today. Gillis tried to collect the five-dollar visitors tax and the stranger shot him. Now, I say, good for the stranger, ’ceptin’ he’s on the way to Yuma to get hung.”
“I heard about that,” Montgomery said. “Did any of you see it? I mean, how is it that it just happened today, and already the stranger has been tried and convicted? The judge isn’t even in town.”
“Cummins held the trial himself,” Goff said. “Within five minutes after it happened, Cummins had a jury picked and he held the trial right there in the Pair O Dice saloon.”
“That’s not legal, is it?” Bascomb asked. “I mean, can Cummins hold a trial without the judge?”
“You may remember that Cummins got himself appointed associate judge,” Montgomery reminded the others. “His authority might be questionable, but he probably was within his right to conduct the trial. Now, as to the trial itself, I’m sure there were all sorts of technical errors that would qualify for an appeal. For example, does anyone know if he had a lawyer?”
“Bob Dempster was his lawyer,” Goff said.
“Bob Dempster? Good Lord, was Dempster sober?”
“Ha!” Bascomb said. “When was the last time anyone saw Bob Dempster sober?”
“Damn, the stranger could appeal this case a dozen ways from Sunday,” Montgomery said.
“Maybe so,” Bascomb said. “But he just left on the train to Yuma. Chances are, he’ll be hung by this time tomorrow night.”