About twenty
minutes afterwards the flyer left Sicklen nicely fixed with a strong
posse, and an order to approach the cut with caution. It was only three
miles from Sicklen to the cut, and I knew it would be but a matter of a
short while until something was heard. Sure enough, forty minutes later
the despatcher's wire closed and this message came:
"To Bates, DS:
"Attempt to hold up No. 21 in Ashley's cut was frustrated by the
sheriff's posse. Outlaws had placed ties on the track in case we
did not heed the signal to stop. Two of them killed, three captured
and one escaped. Dick Durstine is here, badly shot through the
right lung. Will have him sent in from Sicklen on 22 in the
morning.
"Stanton, Conductor."
The next morning when 22 pulled in I went down and there, laid out on a
litter in the baggage car, was Dick Durstine, my former call boy, weak,
pale, and just living. He was conscious, and when I leaned over him his
eyes glistened for a minute, he smiled and feebly said:
"Say, Mister Bates, didn't I do them fellers up in good shape? When I
gets well again will you gimme back my job so I can learn some more
about the tick tick? I'll never monkey any more, honest to God, I
won't.
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