Every granger in town would soon know he was back, Danner thought grimly. He had hoped to be out of town before anyone noticed him. Perhaps he should have kept out of sight until dark. He shrugged and climbed the courthouse steps, turning in at the sheriff's office.
"Jeff!" Brant leaped from his chair, mouth hanging open. "Do you want to get lynched, boy? The grangers—"
"What happened to McDaniel?"
"Huh? He's still alive, barely. Gustafson was dead when we found him."
Wearily, Danner slumped into a chair by the desk. "I've learned the highlights of what happened," he said, eying the old sheriff. "But I need to know the rest of it."
Brant sat down on the corner of his desk.
"Highlights. That's about all there is, boy. The train left here about dark and the Spaulding agent should have reported it passing there two hours later. When no report was made, the telegrapher here inquired and was told the train never reached there. Wainright came to me and I took a posse out. We spent the next day checking every inch of the main line and the spurs to Velma and Crossville." Brant threw up his hands. "It just disappeared."
"Trains don't just vanish," Danner exploded, straightening in his chair. "They go only where there's track."
"I know, I know," Brant replied. "But I looked myself and it just ain't there."
Silently Danner weighed the information, muscles corded with frustration. "Who was on the key here that evening?"
"Dick Boley."
A good hand, Danner thought—as good as Ma Grim at Spaulding, so the train couldn't have doubled back to Richfield and gone on west. He looked up at Brant. "Who was aboard the train when it pulled out?"
"Best I can find out, just the crew, plus Billy and Gustafson. I was in the yards myself. If any of Browder's bunch were hanging around, I didn't see them."
"Has Billy been able to talk yet?"
Brant shook his head. "He's been unconscious since we found him. And we've found no sign of the crew. They just vanished along with the train."
Danner quit the chair and moved restlessly in a circle, head lowered in thought. "Someone boarded that train at the station or before it had gone far, shot Billy and Gustafson, then forced the crew to take the train to a hiding spot. It couldn't have gone past Ma Grim, nor could it have come back here past Dick Boley. It's got to be somewhere between here and Spaulding."
"Nope." Brant shook his head. "Wherever it might be, it's not on the tracks between here and Spaulding, nor on the Velma or Crossville spurs."
Danner clamped his jaws shut, knowing Brant was right—even though he couldn't be.
"I've got to see Billy. Where is he?"
"At Doc Harvey's. Lona is staying with him since Doc doesn't have a nurse."
A low rumble reached Danner then and he tried to distinguish it. In three strides he reached the window facing the street. About two dozen grangers were converging on the courthouse lawn, their faces grim with fury. Olie Swensen was in the forefront, but apparently wasn't the leader.
"You better scoot out the back," Brant breathed anxiously.
Danner shook his head. "I'll talk to them."
"Dammit, Jeff," Brant blazed. "You don't have to meet everything head-on. Give them time to cool off a little before you try explaining."
"Would you cool off if you were in their position?" Then Danner walked out to the top of the steps.
A tremendous growling swelled up from the crowd. Some shook fists and shotguns at him. A teenager at Olie's right clutched a hangman's noose. Danner raked the crowd with a searching glance, feeling the weight of their wrath beating against him. He raised his hand for quiet and the voices gradually subsided—but not the tight anger in their faces. For once Olie Swensen seemed at a loss for words, and it was the blond-bearded leader of the Andersen clan who stepped forward.
"We're God-fearing family men who hate violence, Danner," Andersen said, his voice determined. "We want no trouble. But you have a choice to make in the next half-minute. The rope," and he gestured toward the noose in the hands of the teenager, "or telling us what you've done with that train."
Danner had known fear many times and should have felt it now, but his anger at their blindness crowded out all else. He pushed back his hat and leaned forward slightly.
"Listen closely, now, for I'll say this just once and no more. You've come to the wrong man. I just returned from Topeka. The man you want—"
"We think not," Andersen interrupted, unruffled. "Every farm family in this area faces starvation for a year if we don't get the train back. We are fighting for the lives of all our women and children."
"Then fight the right man."
"We are—you."
"Then I guess we've said it all." Long seconds dragged by in a stillness heavy with tension. Even Olie remained quiet, although his wrath showed plainly on his grumpy features. Danner rubbed the moistness from the palm of his right hand, wondering if he would be able to shoot into the crowd if they came for him. Andersen fidgeted uncertainly.
"What is your answer, Danner?"
"You've had the only answer you are going to get from me."
"We've seen what you can do with that gun of yours, but you leave us no choice."
The time for talk was gone now and Danner saw no need to waste more breath. Andersen would be the first up the steps, he decided, so he fixed his stare on Andersen's faded shirt front. A restlessness touched the crowd, yet no one moved forward. The ranks of the mob had swelled to fully fifty men now. Andersen glanced about him to make sure of ample support, then he clamped his jaws together with determination, moving forward slowly. Those in front fixed their stares on the holstered gun of Danner's, fearing it, but pressing onward.
Danner remained poised and motionless.
The elder Andersen was a yard in front of the others and the first to start up the steps. When he reached the middle of the steps Danner kicked out and up, his boot toe catching Andersen under the chin and spilling him into the group. All the leaders went down in a tangle. With a single motion Danner drew his Colts and eared back the hammer. Then a shotgun blasted almost in Danner's ear and he whirled to find Sheriff Brant leveling down on the crowd with a twelve-gauge he had used to fire into the air. Andersen struggled to his feet.
"I can't believe you would defend this man," Andersen said quietly.
"If you really want that grain back," Brant stormed, "you'll go home and give Jeff Danner a few days to find it."
"We figger he knows where it is now," Andersen returned, his blond whiskers quivering. "But that doesn't mean we'll ever see it again."
"Now hear me, Andersen—all of you," Brant said, his frail body rigid. "Jeff Danner is the best lawman I've known in forty years of wearing a star. I tell you he had nothing to do with that theft, but given a few days he'll locate the train. That's why he came back from Topeka."
Confusion spread across the bearded face of Andersen and he glanced about for support. An uncertain mutter came from the other grangers. Danner holstered his Colts. He knew they had passed the point of violence, at least for the moment. Andersen must have realized it also, for the stiffness went out of him. But he stared at Danner suspiciously before speaking again.
"Danner, can you offer us something more than just your word that all this is true?"
Danner shook his head without speaking, still in the grip of a rash and stubborn anger.
Andersen flushed, unsatisfied but unwilling to change his course. "Suppose we give you three days. Can you promise to recover our grain in that length of time?"