Free Along The Fortune Trail by Harvey Goodman Page A

wagon, his horse breathing hard. Lundy smiled at the tall, burly man whose hat was pulled low over bushy eyebrows and a weather-beaten face. His thick, brown and gray handlebar mustache curled up slightly as he smiled back, looking Lundy in the eye with the familiarity of their twenty-year friendship. “Hello, Greg,” Lundy began. “I hope you didn't bust your horse into that kind of lather tryin’ to get here for some chicken ‘cause the invalid in the back just ate the last piece. Couple of biscuits left, though.”
    Sammy looked up toward Lundy with an amused expression, then he looked at the sheriff. “Good to see you, Sheriff Ritter … or maybe not. Usually if a lawman's pursuing you, it's not a good thing.”
    “That's true enough,” Sheriff Ritter said, as he swung down from the saddle. He tied his horse to the back of the wagon and stretched as he walked. “Glad to get down from there. I been humpin’ it trying to catch you boys.”
    “No doubt your horse is glad, too,” Lundy chuckled. “You look to be gettin’ an early start on a winter coat.”
    “I reckon I'd be fatter ‘n this if I was eatin’ Jacqueline's cookin’ on a regular basis.” The sheriff turned his attention squarely to Sammy. “Yes, sir, Sammy. I'm most often callin’ on folks to make ‘em answer to the law or give ‘em news they'd rather not hear. But I know this is going to be a memorable moment.”
    Lundy and Sammy looked at each other for an instant, then back at the sheriff, who was happy to let the statement hang for seconds with no follow up. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, Greg?” Lundy finally said, half irritated.
    Sammy cut in right behind with a tone of curiosity. “You found something out about the dead man?”
    “I sure did,” Sheriff Ritter said in a tone that signaled he was winding up for a big delivery. “Seems that hombre headed up an outfit that robbed a train in the Colorado Territory. His name was Lonny Ballantine and he killed the engineer … ole boy who'd worked for the railroad's owner, Mister Barclay Westerfeld, since the beginning. The word is, this engineer was about to retire. Mister Westerfeld wanted Ballantine's hide stretched over hell. He put out a ten thousand dollar reward for him, dead or alive.”
    The last sentence hung in the air, momentarily unrealized by Sammy as if he'd misheard something. But Lundy had sure enough heard it. “Did you say ten thousand dollars?” The slow delivery and wonderment in Lundy's voice indicated a sudden need to hear it said at least one more time.
    “That's right,” Sheriff Ritter replied, delighted to see the reaction by Lundy and the trance-like expression on Sammy's face. “You'll have to go to Denver to claim it, though. That's where this railroad owner lives, and he wants to personally give out the reward … get some publicity out of it, I imagine. I got all the information right here,” the sheriff said as he pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket.
    Lundy reached out and took it, then handed it down to Sammy, who immediately pulled out the papers within and began reading. “How'd you land on all this, Greg?” Lundy asked.
    Sheriff Ritter stepped back to his horse and began to tell the story as he unstrung his canteen. “It's quite a show. Had Jason over to Stratford a couple weeks back to see if he could find out anything pertaining to Sammy's unlucky acquaintance at the Frontier. They didn't know anything then, but got a wanted poster on this Ballantine feller a few days ago. The poster had his name on it and a good description. Story goes, one of his partners fell off the train during the robbery and busted his leg. They caught him directly, and he was happy to sing like a bird about Ballantine. Said he was leadin’ the deal. Must not of liked him ‘cause he told ‘em all they wanted about Ballantine, but wouldn't say nothin’ about another man that was said to be in on it. Nobody's caught up with him yet. As it turns