Sam Bass by Bryan Woolley Page B

the guns of my companions. Sam and Tom clutched large parcels to their chests with their left hands. Seab was searching the men. Shouts and screams issued from the passenger cars farther down the track. “They’re clean,” Seab said.
    â€œAll right,” Sam said to our prisoners. “Stand where you are till we’re out of sight. Otherwise, you’ll die.”
    We mounted and rode out fast. When we were beyond sight of the train and the station and Allen we halted, and Sam said to Tom, “Did he get a good look at you?”
    â€œI don’t think so. I got it back up pretty fast.”
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked.
    â€œTom’s mask fell down when he jumped into the express car,” Sam said.
    â€œDamn!” I said.
    â€œWell, we’ll hope for the best,” Sam said. “We made a good haul, I think.” “What is it?” Seab asked.
    â€œSilver, mostly. Some greenbacks. Quite a bit, I think.” “What was the ruckus?” I asked.
    â€œThe bastard in the express car cut loose on us. He hid behind the boxes, and we had to shoot back to keep him down. I finally told him if he didn’t give up we’d set fire to his car, so he come out.”
    We camped in the Trinity bottom again. Sam brought the parcels to the fire, opened them and counted the silver and the greenbacks into four equal stacks.
    â€œAre you just taking an equal share?” Spotswood asked him.
    â€œYes. We all did equal work.”
    We got three hundred and twenty dollars apiece.

    The morning was cold, and since we hadn’t waited to eat or even make coffee, we were a groggy, cranky crowd, not fit company for each other. Spotswood’s mood was the worst. He complained in his sing-song way of aches in his joints from sleeping on the damp ground, of hunger, of the long ride, of anything that came into his mind. The rest of us made no replies, but each was miserable in his own way, and I, at least, had no desire to have Tom’s unhappinesses heaped upon mine. I wasn’t sorry when he pulled his pacer to a halt and announced he would go no farther. “I’ve had enough cold camp,” he said. “I want my woman and a good dinner, and I’m going to go get them.”
    â€œAll right.” Sam’s voice had a little anger in it.
    Spotswood’s departure called to my mind Henry Underwood’s Christmas visit to Denton, and I said, “Family men. They aren’t very reliable, are they?”
    â€œTom’s all right,” Sam replied. “He just ain’t cut out for being rich.”
    â€œIt was his mask that fell down,” Barnes said. “He might be trouble. Maybe I should go get him.” “And do what?” “Make sure he don’t talk.”
    What he was suggesting was murder. Sam studied Seab’s face. “No,” he said. I was relieved.
    We arrived at our cabin late the next afternoon. After we took care of the horses we flopped on the bare stone in front of the fireplace and slept for hours before we mustered energy enough to eat. Seab, as it turned out, was a decent cook, and he fixed a meal of beans and bacon and stewed apricots and biscuits and coffee. Then we unrolled our blankets and slept like babies until well after daylight.
    I got up before the others and went down to the creek and plunged my face into the cold water. While lying on the bank, I heard a woodpecker working. I looked around until I spotted him not high up on the trunk of an old acacia. I eased my hand down and unbuckled my spurs and then grabbed my hat. I tiptoed to the tree as quietly as I could, careful to keep out of the bird’s line of sight, and slapped the hat down on top of him. Barnes was stumbling down the slope, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and I said, “Seab! Guess what I’ve got under this hat.”
    â€œA buffalo,” he said.
    â€œA woodpecker. I caught him.”
    â€œWhat the hell