On Secret Service Read Free Page B

them away.
    Sledge continued, “I been shot at, knifed, mauled in the line of duty maybe a dozen times. And no, I’m not used to it. But even if they hit us tonight, I wouldn’t worry too much. Holdup men aren’t only crooked, most of them are stupid. Look how they mucked up last time. The rule is, no matter how scared you are, no matter what your belly’s telling you, keep it hid and always give back more than you take. That’s how you stay alive. That’s how you win.”
    Lon Price mostly liked his more experienced partner, but not this kind of talk. “We’re supposed to be professional operatives, not roughneck detectives.” In fact the boss forbade the use of the word detective in his presence.
    â€œOh, I forgot,” Sledge said with his familiar mockery. “You grew up with a preacher in a preacher’s house. All hymns, holiness, heaven, and hallelujah.”
    â€œListen, Sledge. My father was a good man. He cut his life short trying to help Negroes escape to Canada. He was even shot once by slave-catchers. You can say anything you want about me but keep still about him.”
    â€œSorry. Forgot my manners. Police work slaps ’em out of you pretty fast.”
    Lon was silent. Sledge changed the subject. “Think those Southron hotheads will start a war?”
    â€œI hope not. They can’t be allowed to destroy the Union. They can’t go on enslaving an entire race and breaking up families for profit. The Negroes have got to be free.”
    â€œAnd then we’ll all invite a few of them to our parlors for tea? Like they was white? I doubt it.”
    â€œDamn it, Sledge, that doesn’t—”
    Sledge shot his hand up for silence. He eyed the car ceiling. Lon heard faint thumps, moving toward the blind end of the car next to the tender. “Someone’s up there.”
    Sledge turned back his coat and put a hand on the butt of the shiny new Remington .36-caliber stuck in his belt. Lon carried a smaller Colt, a .31-caliber pocket pistol, a city weapon; a gentleman’s gun. “Bastards are already on the train,” Sledge said. “Sons of bitches bought their own tickets.”
    He ran to the wide door and slid it open. Icy wind blew in, and a few snowflakes. Outside, snow-covered fields flashed by, lit by the moon. Trees by the right-of-way slashed the side of the car like whips. Sledge hung on and leaned out, trying to see whoever was clambering down over the tender to force the engineer to stop the train. Someone else would uncouple the rest of the cars, and the engineer would pull the train a mile or so ahead, where the baggage car would be looted.
    In the corner of his eye Lon saw the clerk open a drawer. “Sledge, watch out!” The Colt .31 snagged in the lining of Lon’s pocket. The clerk pulled a revolver from the drawer and pointed it at Sledge’s embroidered vest.
    â€œYou stand still. I mean it.” The car was freezing, the wind moaning and tossing snowflakes in, yet the clerk’s pale face ran with sweat. “Put your hands in the air.”
    Sledge obeyed. “They bought themselves a worm inside,” he sneered. Lon freed the pocket Colt. He stood with his left side toward the clerk, who was so nervous he either missed the movement of Lon’s right arm or didn’t know what to do about it. Lon heard a noise to his right, the door at the rear of the car. He wheeled, gun in hand. A lanky man in a black, floppy hat and long, fur-collared coat stepped inside with a drawn revolver.
    â€œAll over, boys. Get their pieces, Vernon.”
    The clerk stayed at arm’s length as he pulled Sledge’s Remington from his belt. Sledge looked mad enough to bite the clerk’s arm off. Visibly trembling, the clerk turned around toward Lon. Sledge threw an arm around the clerk’s neck and pulled him against his chest as the other man fired. In the next coach passengers