“free samples to customers” and left his office as quickly as he’d entered.
He exited the selling floor, entered the storeroom, passed through it, opened the back door and stepped into the alley. As he was locking the back door, he heard the sound of hooves and turned. His father and Clarence had returned with fresh horses from the livery stable. David took the bandannas from the pocket of the top duster as Clarence called out, “You can bring these back and get our own horses next time you come to town, David.”
David didn’t bother telling his father and Clarence “Thanks a lot.” Instead, he handed them their hats and dusters and bandannas, otherwise known as western desperado disguise kits. Time was wasting. He grabbed his saddle horn and swung up onto the back of the big gray mare.
Cutting cross country was the only way to keep up with the three white vans. Certain of their approximate destination, and with fresh horses under them and Jack, his son and nephew rode with abandon. David’s horse slipped and fell, but didn’t come up lame. David’s right shoulder would bruise, but wasn’t otherwise damaged. Checking the horse more thoroughly than he checked his son, Jack announced, “Let’s keep going!” and climbed up into the saddle.
Using the vans this far away from the time-transfer base was asking for discovery and myriad unanswerable questions; the stagecoach road leading to Carson City was well-travelled. Yet, it was obvious why the vans were being used: in order to save time.
Distant gunshots, fired too rapidly and for too great duration to be from weapons of the period, filtered up into the high rocks through which Jack, David and Clarence forced their mounts. “The afternoon stage, I bet,” Clarence shouted over the thrumming of their horses’ hooves. “Probably killed the driver and any passengers. Can’t leave witnesses. The bastards.”
“Good point to remember,” Jack called back.
An hour and a half later, their lathered horses rubbed down, grained and watered—but sparsely, lest they bloat— Jack stood in a mountain meadow, smoking a cigarette.
Clarence was on watch. Equipped with binoculars, he was posted a little over a quarter mile away, keeping a vigil over the stagecoach road. Both Jack and his son watched for Clarence to flash the signal mirror, alerting them that riders were coming.
Two miles farther out on the stagecoach road, the tracks of the vans had turned off, then traveled on for over a mile before the anachronistic transports parked in a narrow canyon. A corral had been built there; horses were saddled and waiting for the occupants of the vans. Jack had crawled close enough to observe in some detail, while David and Clarence stood watch with the horses. The “salesmen” were, as predicted, breaking up into groups of two. Each man was equipped with a gun belt complete with a revolver and a sheath knife, and each pair of men was issued a lever-action rifle.
The first two pairs of riders set out at once, not seeming terribly skilled as horsemen.
Crawling back until it was safe to crouch, then moving in a crouch as rapidly as he could until it was safe to stand, Jack Naile made his way back to David and Clarence. “I just saw riders, four men heading back toward the stagecoach road,” David announced. “Do we chase them?”
“No. The groups will pace each other a little. Let’s find a spot up ahead where we can rest the horses and ourselves. We’ll let the next four go past, too. We’ll try for the third set of riders. That way, if we miss them, we’ve still got one more chance.”
They’d urged their weary animals—animals at least as exhausted as their riders—away from the mouth of the canyon, then along the stagecoach road until they’d found a suitable spot. There were broad rocks, just high enough to shield the hat of a mounted man waiting on the other side. Up a little distance from the road, concealed from the view of any riders coming from the canyon, lay the meadow.
An hour passed before four men in period business suits, all identically equipped, rode past the rocks. David had stood the watch, Clarence replacing him.
Assuming hour intervals, by the black face of his Rolex, Jack announced to David, “It’s just about time, if they keep to regular intervals.”
Jack and his son and nephew had already changed into the dusters, replacing their own hats with the ones from the store. Jack noted to David, “I approve of the selection,