# The Buckaroo of Blue Wells/Chapter 4

pp. 11–15.

### CHAPTER IV
#### JIMMY GETS HIS DANDER UP

JIM LEGG sprawled on a seat in the day-coach and tried to puzzle out from a time-table just when they would arrive at Blue Wells. It was a mixed train, both passenger and freight, stopping at every station along the branch line; sixty miles of starts and stops, and the highest speed would not exceed twenty miles per hour.
It had been sweltering hot, and Jim Legg’s once-white collar had melted to the consistency of a dish-rag. But the shades of night had brought a cool breeze, and the gruff brakeman had assured him that the train would probably arrive on time.
Not that it made much difference to Jim Legg. He had never seen Blue Wells. To him it was merely a name. He had been forced to leave Geronimo to the tender mercies of a hard-faced express messenger, and had seen him tied to a trunk-handle in the express car.
It suddenly occurred to Jim Legg that he had made no provisions for feed and water for the dog. It did not occur to him that the messenger might be human enough to do this for the dog. The engine was whistling a station call, and Jim Legg resolved to investigate for himself.
The train clanked to a stop at the little station, and Jim Legg dropped off the steps, making his way up to the baggage car, where the messenger and a brakeman were unloading several packages. Jim noticed that the weather-beaten sign on the front of the depot showed it to be Encinas, the town where the deputy sheriff’s sweetheart lived.
The brakeman went on toward the engine and Jim Legg got into the express car. Geronimo’s tie-rope had been shifted to a trunk farther up the aisle, and the messenger stood just beyond him, looking over a sheaf of way-bills by the dim light of a lantern.
The train jerked ahead, but Jim Legg did not notice that they were traveling again, until the train had gained considerable speed. The messenger turned and came back toward the door, not noticing in the dim light that he had a new passenger. The dog reared up and put his paws on the messenger’s overall-clad leg.
But only for a moment. The messenger whirled around and kicked the dog back against the trunk.
“Keep off me, —— yuh!” he rasped.
The dog rolled over, but came to his feet, fangs bared.
“Try to bite me, will yuh?” snarled the messenger.
He glanced around for some sort of a weapon, evidently not caring to get within kicking distance of the dog again, when Jim Legg spoke mildly—
“You really shouldn’t do that.”
The messenger whirled around and stared at Jim Legg. He did not recognize him as the man who had put the dog in the car at the main line.
“What in —— are you doin’ in my car?” he demanded.
Jim Legg shifted uneasily.
“Well, I—I’m watching you mistreat a dumb brute, it seems. That’s my dog, and I didn’t put him on here to be kicked.”
“Your dog, eh?”
The messenger came closer. He recognized Jim now.
“Got on at Encinas, eh?”
“I think that was the name. The train started, and I had no chance to get back to the coach, you see.”
“Yeah, I see. But that don’t make any difference to me. Nobody is allowed to ride in here. You’ll have to get off at Blue Wells.”
“Is that the next station?”
“Yeah. We’ll be there in a few minutes.” He looked back at the dog. “You hadn’t ought to ship a dog like that. He’s no —— earthly good, and he tried to bite me just now.”
“You’re a liar!”
It was the first time Jim Legg had ever said that to any one, and this time he had said it without a thought of the consequences. It seemed the natural thing to say.
“I’m a liar, eh?”
The messenger would weigh close to two hundred pounds and was as hard as nails.
“Yes, sir,” declared Jim Legg. “If you say that Geronimo tried to bite you just now, you’re a liar. I could report you for kicking that dog.”
“Oh, you could, could yuh? Like ——! The company ain’t responsible for dogs. You never checked him. He’s just ridin’ here, because I was good enough to take him in; just a —— dead-head.”
“Good enough, eh?”
Jim Legg took off his glasses, put them in a case and tucked them in his pocket. The messenger came closer. The train was whistling, and they felt the slight jerk as the brakes were applied.
“I saw you kick that dog,” said Jim calmly, although his heart was hammering against his ribs. “No man would do a thing like that. It was a dirty trick—and then you try to lie out of it.”
“Why, you little four-eyed pup!” snorted the messenger. “I’ll make you take that back. Anyway, you’ve got no right in this car, and I’m justified in throwin’ yuh off.”
Jim Legg threw out his hands in protest to any such an action. He had never fought anybody, knew nothing of self-defense. But the messenger evidently mistook Jim’s attitude, and swung a right-hand smash at his head. And Jim’s clumsy attempt to duck the blow caused the messenger to crash his knuckles against the top of Jim’s head. The impact of the fist sent Jim reeling back against a pile of trunks, dazed, bewildered, while the messenger, his right hand all but useless, swore vitriolically and headed for Jim again.
But the force of the blow had stirred something in the small man’s brain; the fighting instinct, perhaps. And in another moment they were locked together in the center of the car. The train was lurching to a stop, but they did not know it.
The messenger’s arms were locked around Jim’s body, while Jim’s legs were wrapped around those of the messenger, which caused them to fall heavily, struggling, making queer sounds, while Geronimo, reared the full length of his rope, made an unearthly din of barks, whines and growls, as he fought to get into the mêlée.
The train yanked ahead, going faster this time. Jim managed to get his right hand free and to get his fingers around the messenger’s ear, trying ineffectually to bounce the messenger’s head on the hard floor.
His efforts, while hardly successful, caused the messenger to roll over on top of Jim, who clung to the ear and managed to roll on top again. They were getting perilously near the wide door. Suddenly the messenger loosened one hand and began a series of short body punches against Jim’s ribs, causing him to relax his hold on the ear. It also forced Jim to slacken his scissor hold on the messenger’s legs.
Quickly the messenger doubled up his legs, forcing his knees into Jim’s middle, hurling him over and sidewise. But the shift had given Jim a chance to get both arms around the messenger’s neck, and when Jim swung over and felt himself dropping into space, he took the messenger right along with him.
They landed with a crash on the edge of a cut, rolled slowly through a patch of brush, and came to rest at the bottom of the cut. Fortunately Jim was uppermost at the finish. The breath had all been knocked from his body, and he was bruised from heels to hair.
He separated himself from his former antagonist, and pumped some air into his aching lungs. The train was gone. Jim looked up at the star-specked Arizona sky and wondered what it was all about. It suddenly struck him funny and he laughed, a queer little, creaky laugh. It sounded like a few notes from a wheezy old accordion he had heard a blind man playing in San Francisco. San Francisco and the Mellon Company seemed a long way off just now.
He crawled to the track level. There was no sign of the train. Everything was very still, except the dull hum of the telegraph wires along the right-of-way fence. Then the messenger began swearing, wondering aloud what was the matter. Jim Legg got to his feet and filled his lungs with the good desert air. He looked back toward the cut where he had left his opponent.
“Shut up!” he yelled. “You got whipped and that’s all there is to it.”
And then Jim Legg guessed which way was Blue Wells, and started limping along the track. The stopping and starting of the train between stations meant nothing to Jim Legg. He did not suspect that the first stop had been because a red lantern had been placed in the middle of the track near the Broken Cañon trestle, thereby stopping the train, and that just now three masked men were smashing through the safe, which contained the Santa Rita pay-roll. There, three men had cut the express car, forced the engineer to drive his engine to within about two miles of Blue Wells, where they stopped him, and escorted both engineer and fireman back to the express car.
The absence of the messenger bothered them, because they were afraid he had suspected a holdup and had run away, looking for help. At any rate, they went about their business in a workmanlike manner, and a few minutes after the stop they had exploded enough dynamite to force the safe to give up its golden treasure.
Quickly they removed the two canvas sacks. One of the men stepped to the doorway. Somewhere a voice was singing. The road from Blue Wells to the AK ranch paralleled the railroad at this point.
“Come on,” said the man at the door.
Swiftly they dropped out of the car, leaving the engineer and fireman alone. A lantern on a trunk illuminated the car. Suddenly the engineer ran across the car and picked up the messenger’s sawed-off Winchester shotgun, which had fallen behind a trunk during the fight between the messenger and Jim Legg.
He pumped in a cartridge and sprang to the door. Just out beyond the right-of-way fence he could see three shadowy figures, which were moving. Then he threw up the shotgun and the express car fairly jarred from the report of the heavy buckshot load.
The distance was great enough to give the charge of buckshot a chance to spread to a maximum degree, and none of the leaden pellets struck the mark. But just the same the three shadowy figures became prone objects.
Again came the long spurt of orange flame from the door of the express car, and more buckshot whined through the weeds.
“What kinda —— whisky was that yuh bought?” queried the voice of Johnny Grant from among the weeds.
“Well, if you think I’m goin’ t’ let any —— train crew heave buckshot at me, yo’re crazy,” declared Eskimo Swensen, and proceeded to shoot at the glow from the express car door.
“H’rah f’r us!” whooped Oyster, and unlimbered two shots from his six-shooter. His aim was a bit uncertain and it is doubtful if either bullet even hit the car.
Wham! Skee-e-e-e-e! Another handful of buckshot mowed the grass. Three six-shooters blazed back at the flash of the shotgun, and their owners shifted locations as fast as possible, because those last buckshot came too close for comfort.
Then came a lull. In fact the shooting ceased entirely. The three men in the grass saw the light go out in the car. There was no noise, except the panting of the engine, its headlight cutting a pathway of silver across the Arizona hills. Minute after minute passed. It was too dark to see an object against the car or engine, and the three men in the grass did not see the engineer and fireman crawl along to the engine and sneak into the cab.
“Where’s that —— murderer with the riot-gun?” queried Eskimo Swensen. He was anxious to continue the battle.
“Sh-h-h-h-h!” cautioned Johnny. “Somebody comin’.”
They could see the vague bulk of a man coming along the track. Then it passed the end of the express car, blending in with it. The three cowboys could hear the crunch of gravel, as the newcomer walked along the car, and they heard him climb inside. Came the tiny glow of a match, the snappy bark of a dog. A few moments later came the thud of two bodies hitting the gravel.
“I whipped him, Geronimo,” they heard a voice say.
“My ——!” snorted Eskimo. “I thought Geronimo was dead or in jail.”
Then the engine awoke and the part of a train started backing down the track, but there was no more shooting. Once away from that immediate spot the engineer put on more power, and went roaring back toward where they had cut loose from the rest of the train.
The three cowboys sat up in the grass and watched the dim figures of a man and a dog, heading toward Blue Wells, while from far down the railroad came the shrill whistle of the locomotive.
Johnny Grant got to his feet, and was joined by Eskimo and Oyster. The shooting had sobered them considerably, and when Eskimo produced the bottle Johnny shoved it aside.
“Aw, to —— with the stuff!” he said. “I’ve been seein’ too many things already. Let’s go home before we get killed for bein’ on earth.”
“I dunno,” said Eskimo, after a deep pull at the bottle. “It seems like anythin’ is liable to happen around here, but I never expected to be ambushed by a danged train.”
They crawled back through the barbed-wire right-of-way fence, and headed for home, too muddled to do much wondering what it was all about.
The train passed Jim Legg before he reached Blue Wells, and he got there just after the announcement of the hold-up. A crowd had gathered at the depot, and Jim Legg heard some one saying that about thirty thousand had been stolen.
He heard some one question Chet Le Moyne, who admitted that the Santa Rita pay-roll had been on the train. Men had gone to notify the sheriff. Jim Legg did not realize that they were speaking about the train he had fell out of, even when the disheveled express messenger made his appearance. He had been picked up along the track.
The engine crew were offering all the information they had to interested listeners.
“There were three men,” said the engineer.
“Three that you saw,” amended the messenger, who was nursing a black eye, several facial bruises and a bad limp. “The fourth one tangled with me in the car. That’s how the door happened to be open. He got on at Encinas. I ordered him off the car and he tangled with me. In the fight we both fell off. But I sure gave him enough to make him remember me.”
“Was he masked?” some one asked.
“Masked? No.”
“What kind of a lookin’ geezer?”
“Great big son-of-a-gun. It was kinda dark in the car, and I didn’t see his face very plain. I never suspected that he might be a stick-up man, or I’d have took a shot at him, but it all happened so quick that I didn’t have time. He tried to pull his gun, but I blocked it, and we sure pulled some scrap.”
Jim Legg kept in the background, wondering at the coincidence. Two scraps in express cars in the same evening.
“And we pretty near got ’em, even at that,” said the fireman. “They jumped out of the car, leavin’ me and Frank in there. Frank got the messenger’s shotgun and sure sprayed ’em good and plenty.
“But they were tough eggs, and stopped to do battle. You can see where their bullets hit the car. I think we hit some of ’em. But one of their bullets split the slide jigger on the pump-gun; so we decided to quit the battle.”
Two men came panting into the crowd.
“We can’t find the sheriff,” they announced. “His horses are gone from his stable; so he must be out of town.”
“Aw, he couldn’t find the hole in a doughnut, anyway,” said one of the men.
“And his deputy is at Encinas,” added one of the men who had gone after the sheriff. “We found that out at the Oasis.”
“Anyway, there’s no use chasin’ hold-up men at night,” said Le Moyne. “Nobody knows which way they went. They probably had their horses planted near where the safe was busted, and by now they’re miles away. What I’d like to know is this: Who in —— knew that the pay-roll was comin’ in tonight?”
No one seemed to know the answer. Jim Legg moved in beside a man and asked him where the hold-up had taken place.
“The train that jist came in from Encinas,” said the man.
“This last one?”
“——, there’s only one a day, stranger.”
Jim Legg turned away, leading Geronimo on a short piece of rope, and headed up the street, looking for a hotel.
“That messenger is the first liar I ever appreciated,” he told the dog. “I’m a great big son-of-a-gun, I am, and I tried to pull a gun. I’ll bet Ananias turned over in his grave tonight.”
They were just passing the front of Louie Sing’s restaurant when a dog shot out of the alley, followed by an empty can and a volley of Chinese expletives. It was evident that a stray dog had been trying to steal something from the restaurant kitchen.
As quick as a flash Geronimo tore the rope from Jim’s hand, and was hot on the trail of the departing dog. They disappeared in the dark, leaving Jim Legg staring after them. He waited for several minutes, but the dog did not appear. Then he went on to the one-story adobe hotel, where he secured a room. Afterward he went back to the street, and for the first time he realized that his valise was still on that train.
He decided to try and recover it the next day. But there was no sign of Geronimo; so Jim Legg finally went back to the hotel, hoping that the dog would return and be in evidence the next day. Jim was still a little sore from his battle in the express car, although his face and hands did not show any signs of the conflict. But he found that his body contained plenty of black-and-blue spots, and in places he had lost considerable skin.
But he ignored them, yawned widely and fairly fell into his blankets. Mellon & Company seemed a million miles away, and years and years ago.