Yuma

Chapter One

There were four of them sitting around the table. The room small, windowless and the single door sealed shut, cigar smoke clung like a heavy shroud. The only light from a lantern, dimming as the oil began to wane, the swirling gray made the interior of the shack take on a gloomy color only found on a foggy night while visiting a cemetery. That might be a more fitting place to find men like this. After all, outlaws kept that kind of company, there among the dead. But right now this secret place, set in a hidden nook in the far reaches of the Laramie range, was exactly where they were destined to be. These four men were planning something big, something evil, perhaps something deadly if necessity to get what they wanted called for taking a life, or however many lives were going to be involved in this.

"Did I hear you right?" asked the only man not puffing on a burning log. "They're gonna be carrying one hundred thousand dollars?"

"Uh-huh." He held up two fingers. "Divided twice. Fifty going by one way, the other fifty going another route."

"I didn't know the stagecoach business was doing that well."

"It's not that they're usually rolling in that much. Old man Patterson just sold a bunch of land to the railroad."

"The railroad? Ain't they supposed to be in a war with each other?"

"I guess. But money and greed are bigger than any ill feelings. Since Patterson doesn't need that particular chunk of land to run stagecoaches through anymore, he sold it for a hefty sum to the railroad. The rest of the money is part of the payroll, ready to be doled out the first of the month."

"Why are they moving it? Seems kinda risky for the company, especially with men like us sniffing around."

"The transaction's being made in Laramie. But for personal reasons, Patterson doesn't trust the safety of the safe in Laramie's depot. He wants one that's impossible to break through. The nearest one of that description's at the main office in Denver."

"So they're rolling all that money from Laramie to Denver. Wow."

"Wow indeed. That's gonna bring a lotta road agents outta the woodwork, Buck."

Why Buck bothered to wave his hand through the thick curtain, he wouldn't know. But at least he knew the answer to this. "No one's supposed to know about it, Dawson."

A snort coming through his nose, Dawson's thumb jutted toward the original news carrier. "Spinner heard it."

"I didn't hear it," Spinner said, squishing out the last bit of embers onto the tabletop, not even bothering to flick the ashes away. "I got it straight from the source. Why do you think I've been working nights at Cheyenne's stage depot? I've been waiting all these weeks for the biggest shipment of company loot to ever pass through these parts."

Buck patted the man on the back. "And gaining everyone's trust by sitting behind a desk, adding up perfect columns and taking the innocent role even further by wearing a pair of specs on your nose. I gotta hand it to you, Spinner."

"The only thing I want handed to me is my share of the cash when this is over. Gimme one of your cigars, Welch. These things the Overland boss gave me taste like dirty boots."

Waving his hand again, Buck coughed. "Smells like it too. Of course all of you stink so bad a skunk would likely pass out, so let's hurry up so I can get back into fresh air or I'll wind up hacking my lungs out for a week."

Giving the newer cigar a long sniff, Spinner leaned toward the man to his left for the light. "Ah, that's better, Welch, thanks. Now, from what I've gathered, there'll be two stagecoaches. Both will be headed to Denver, but the routes won't be the same. One will turn west, the other east and then both will circle around to the south just past the Colorado border. They'll take the smaller, less traveled routes and turn in at night at selected weigh stations."

"Guards?"

"Oh, yeah. That's gonna be our biggest problem, Buck. The Overland's hired the best. I was hoping to get on the inside, as in inside the coach with my rifle in tow, but my shooting didn't qualify."

"That's gotta be some fancy firing arms if you didn't make the cut," Buck said, watching as Spinner merely lifted his shoulders. "Anyone I know win that prize?"

Shaking his head, Spinner pulled out a folded paper from his pocket. "Doubt it. Most of them work for the company in one way or another. I'm glad I wrote it down, otherwise I wouldn't remember their names. Let's see, one of the specially hired shotgun riders is named Sherman, the other, Harper."

Buck suddenly sat up straighter, even if it did make his head become level with the thicker, smellier air. "Harper? As in Jess Harper?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Jess Harper has a record. Why would the higher-ups hire someone like that to guard a shipment that size?"

"They must trust him."

"Why, though?" Buck gave his chin a rub. "That's a lotta temptation, soul scrubbed clean or not."

Spinner let go of his cigar to let a swig of whiskey go down. "Don't know, Buck. Them executives must think he's fit for duty. His name's been bounced around the office far more than Sherman's, far more than anyone else's for that matter."

"Yeah, because he has a record. Gimme that list, Spinner."

"Here," Spinner said, handing the piece of paper over. "You wouldn't know it the way they talk. You'd think Harper's hide was made of gold himself."

A smile growing, Buck gave the man with the inside knowledge a hearty pat on the shoulder. "Spinner, my boy, I think he is. Jess Harper is worth one hundred thousand dollars worth of pure, devil-spun gold."

.:.

There were four of them sitting around the table. The room small, windowless and the only door sealed shut, the single lantern was raised to hang from an above nail, letting the golden beams cast a halo around each head. If described this way where these sets of ears could hear, likely every man in the room would start to chuckle, maybe even spit, but in reality, it wasn't so far off the truth. No, they weren't angels, clearly depicted by the black hat being tugged lower to his eyes by a blue-clad sleeve, yet considering who they were working for, these men could definitely be called the good guys.

And they were. For a job with such importance as this, the Vice President of the Wyoming district of the Great Central and Overland Mail wouldn't hire anything less than the best.

Feeling the nerves tug at his core, Gene Winslow pulled a cigarette from his pocket. "Do you mind, Gentlemen?"

Offering a head shake, the blue-clad sleeve reached into his pocket to produce a match. With a swift scratch across the table's surface, he gave the vice president a light.

"Thank you. I suppose I shouldn't admit this, but I can't help but feel apprehensive about what we're about to do. One hundred thousand dollars is the biggest amount we've ever carried."

"Cut in half, though."

Winslow looked at a pair of blue eyes and nodded. "That's true, Slim, but split, it's still the same amount. It's huge."

"Why not trickle it down further, then?" asked Slim, gesturing to the man to his right. "You've hired Jess and I to watch over each fifty, so why not hire enough men to watch over ten, twenty a piece?"

"While that might seem logical, how many men can I really hire, especially ones with your kind of ability and ones that I trust? No, Slim, I've spread this news out as far as I'm willing to go among the employees. Two stagecoaches are all I can afford to have. Guarded by the two of you, the top guns of the bunch, and the eight others that'll be riding inside, that should make my stomach less queasy. But I'm afraid it doesn't."

Jess offered a slight smile. "If it helps at all, I've been practicing with both six-gun and rifle every day since you signed me on."

Winslow gave the blue shoulder a clap. "You know something? It does. But when you're out there, faced with enough bandits that are willing to split that much money, all the bullets in your irons might not be enough to keep you upright. Or to keep the strongboxes sealed."

"You ever think about storing the money someplace other than a strongbox?"

The vice president eyed the other man at the table, the one with the star. "Like what, Sheriff Cory?"

"Like giving somewhere on those two stagecoaches a redesign, making a hidden compartment that only you and your hired guns know about."

He leaned forward. "That is an idea. Slim?"

"I don't know why it couldn't be done. Jess and I have patched enough coaches to know what every part looks like, up, down and sideways, so I don't see why we couldn't build a compartment somewhere. Jess?"

"What about tucking it into the seat where the driver and shotgun sits? Instead of lock and key, its seal can be the actual seat, nailed in place after the money's dropped in. I guarantee no one'll be able to see where anything on the coach's been changed."

"Sounds perfect," Winslow said, setting his cigarette aside, his worries, though, those couldn't be set anywhere but where they stewed. "Can you get it done before we're ready to roll? It's the day after tomorrow, you know."

Slim nodded. "Have the coaches at our place in the morning and it'll be done by that night."

"All right, Slim. But if anyone asks, you're patching wheels and axles. You've done that enough times for the company that it wouldn't be a surprise for you to do it again. This is one secret that stays right here in this room until the drivers pick up the reins."

"Don't worry," Slim said, taking the vice president's hand in his for a shake. "No one will find out what we're doing."