Tuso rocked slightly now, from his toes to his heels and back again. The only sound came from huge flies buzzing around the animal waste covering the floor of the stable. A moistness formed under Danner's hatbrim. His arm grew tired from the unnatural position of holding the pitchfork. Finally, Tuso tossed his singletree to the littered floor and nodded to the Grell brothers, who followed suit.
"Another time, big man," Tuso said, grinning. Then he turned and led his sidekicks out through the rear of the livery stable.
Danner exhaled deeply as the tenseness went out of him. He felt weak as he stepped into the saddle and rode out into the bright sunlight.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dust from a pair of thrashers clouded the air in the south field. Danner sat in the shade by the barn, watching. The sun's position in the sky told him it was about nine o'clock when he spotted a lone wagon depart from the near thrasher. Soon he recognized McDaniel driving the four-mule span. The heavily loaded wagon creaked into the yard and McDaniel dropped to the ground.
"Should be some more wagons here pretty soon," Billy grunted.
Danner nodded. McDaniel moved over to the well, hauled up a fresh bucket of water and drank noisily. Sighting another wagon coming from the southwest, Danner strode into the corral and saddled his horse. He led the animal to the shade of the barn and resumed his wait. Four wagons were in sight now. The first to arrive at the barn was handled by the old stringbean, Gustafson.
"Olie Swensen said we're to meet here and go to Richfield in groups," Gustafson explained, scowling. Danner nodded in agreement and invited the old granger to get down. But Gustafson remained on the seat of his wagon.
Half an hour slipped by before the sixth wagon arrived. Then they began the trip to Richfield. McDaniel held lead wagon position behind Danner, the only horseman, leading the way.
The river was hardly a trickle this time of year and fording it was no problem. Able to see several miles in each direction, Danner rode well in front of the string of wagons without bothering to swing away from the road. On each side of the road, yellowish-brown wheat bent with a gentle breeze and gave off a crackling sound.
When they drew near the dry wash known as Wilson's Crossing, Danner spurred on ahead of the wagons. The wash was nothing more than a ten-foot gully slashed out of the soft earth, with the ground leveling off on each side. The crossing dipped down to the bottom of the wash and came out the far side in the same manner. The bed of the wash couldn't be seen from the right or left of the crossing, only from the center where the road crossed. This made it a prime site for an ambush.
Before starting down the slope, Danner dismounted and drew his Colts. He glanced around at the wagons a hundred yards back, then led his horse downward. Nerves taut, he kept his back to the near sidewall and faced the west arm of the wash. Only emptiness greeted him. He whirled to his right. Again he saw nothing but the empty bed of the gully. He mounted and rode up the north bank.
The wagons made the crossing without incident, though each driver cast a furtive glance at Danner in passing. Danner knew they were wondering if they should fear Tuso or him and the knowledge brought a stiffness to his back muscles. He resumed his place in front of the column.
Danner rode far ahead of the wagons and by the time he reached the forested area the wagons had fallen behind a good quarter of a mile. He reined his horse down to a walk as he entered the grove, scanning both sides as he moved along. The far end of the area was perhaps two hundred yards away. He cocked his head to catch any fugitive sound. A rustling to his right reached him. In a single motion he drew, cocked and aimed his Colts. A rabbit broke across the trail and vanished into the trees at his left. Danner kicked his mount into motion again.
At the north end of the passage through the trees, Danner reined around and returned to the south entrance, moving faster this trip. Still he detected nothing. He sat idly in the saddle, awaiting the arrival of the wagons. He guided the column through the trees, half expecting horsemen to appear from some hidden spot within the wooded area. Yet no attack came. He could almost feel the stares of the grangers on his back when the wagons reached flat prairie again. Relaxing in the saddle and rocking with the gait of his horse, Danner considered the only remaining spot from which Tuso could launch a surprise attack—the low hills near Richfield—and the weakest of the three possible sites. Danner searched for a reason why Tuso would choose this spot, but he was unable to come up with an answer that made any kind of sense.
Twisting in the saddle, Danner glanced at the string of wagons and off to both sides. In every direction an appalling flatness stretched to infinity, a sea of wheat broken only by the narrow and sometimes meandering road. The gentle rustling of the wheat and the dust swirling upward with gusts of wind, emphasized the powder dryness of the prairie. A sudden chill hit Danner then, straightening him in the saddle.
Tuso could easily destroy these wagons and discourage all further rebellion, by the simple process of setting fire to the prairie. A single spark would start a holocaust sweeping across the plains, devouring all living things. Danner recalled a prairie fire he had once outrun and now he found himself scanning the plains for smoke. Tuso just might try such a stunt.
Far ahead of their position the first of the low hills took form. By the time he reached the area Danner rode tensed for trouble. The road curved to his left for a quarter of a mile before cutting back north and heading straight into Richfield. If trouble came it would be on this quarter-mile strip where Richfield remained shut off from view. Tuso's bunch couldn't pick off the grangers without getting in closer to the wagons.
Pulling up along the north side of the trail, Danner watched the hills while one by one the heavy grain wagons passed him by. Then he sent his mount trotting along the trail. He passed the wagons and Richfield appeared in the distance, with no signs of horsemen in between.
Danner exhaled slowly, feeling a tiredness spread over his body. He tried to figure out why Browder's hardcases hadn't hit them. No answers came to him and he gave up thinking about it when they reached the edge of Richfield.
For three days Danner led train after train into Richfield, each time without incident. Nor did he see any of Browder's gunnies in Richfield. Two round trips Thursday morning just about finished the job. The final trip Thursday afternoon required only four wagons.
At the siding west of the depot Danner sat slackly in the saddle while the last wagon was weighed. Olie Swensen and McDaniel stood near the last of the boxcars, bent over a tally sheet. The last wagon moved off the scales and alongside the doorway of the boxcar. Several grangers climbed to the top of the heavy wagon and began shoveling the grain into the boxcar. A bogus door reached almost to the top of the doorframe, holding the grain inside. It was over the top of this bogus door that the grain had to be shoveled.
Danner counted thirty boxcars in the string, then tried some rough, mental arithmetic. At 116,000 pounds per car, the train held somewhere around three and a half million pounds of wheat—a fortune in golden grain, representing a year's earnings for most of the farm families within fifty miles of Richfield.
Dust enveloped the grangers working on top of the wagonload. They were near the bottom of the bed now and only their heads and shoulders showed above the high sideboards. Soon Danner heard shovels scraping the bottom. Then it was all over and the doorway was sealed off completely. Dismounting, Danner approached Swensen and McDaniel; then the four sweat-drenched and dusty grangers who had emptied the last wagon joined them.