On the Wrong Track Read Online Free Page B

slightest whiff of bullshit, so I stuck to the truth.

    “’Fraid not, sir. We’re just a couple drovers. Seen our fair share of trouble, that’s for sure, but never from behind a badge.”
    I half-expected Crowe to offer the same advice as the Pinkerton who’d collected Lockhart from the saloon: Get your ass back to cattle, cowboy. But instead his head snapped down and up in a brusque nod.
    “Good. Do you know who I am?”
    As honesty about our inexperience had seemingly served us well, I came clean on our ignorance, too.
    “I haven’t the foggiest notion, sir.”
    That got me another nod.
    “I believe you. Excellent. You’re just the sort of men I’d be looking for if I could be looking for men like you.”
    “Come again?” I said.
    “Spies!” Crowe spat the word out like it was a bee that had buzzed into his mouth.
    “Now, hold on. You think we’re—?” I began.
    Crowe dismissed the question with a flutter of his stubby fingers. “No, no. Not you. That’s why you’re here. Because of them. The spies.”
    “I hope you’ll pardon my askin’, sir,” Gustav said, “but … spies for who?”
    “Who do you think?” the colonel snapped. “Those dirty, thieving clodhoppers! Barson and Welsh! They’ve hit our big runs time and time again! The ones carrying payrolls and”—he dropped his voice to a hoarse, angry whisper—“ gold .” Then he thumped his desk with a tiny, clenched fist, so bubbling over with rage I began to think he’d blow apart like an overstoked boiler. “There’s only one explanation! Spies inside the Southern Pacific! Informers! Goddamned traitors !”
    The colonel’s face grew redder and redder as he raved, but he managed to catch a deep, calming breath before he self-induced a stroke.
    “We’re doing what we can to root out such vermin, but it’s not easy,” he said as the angry blush faded from his face. “We’ve got all our best men hunting for the Give-’em-Hell gang, and I can’t just open up my doors and recruit more—not when anyone who comes to the S.P.
looking for work could be another spy. So I’ve instituted a new policy: I only hire people I’d have no reason to hire, and they, in turn, must have no intention of being hired by me.”
    “Which is why Burl Lockhart sent us here,” Old Red said. “Instead of hirin’ for yourself, you’ve got friends—folks you trust—pickin’ fellers out and herdin’ ’em your way.”
    The colonel gave the deduction an approving nod. “That’s right. I see Lockhart chose well. He’s not what he used to be, but he’s still got an eye for judging men. Except … he wasn’t drunk when he gave you that note, was he?”
    “No, sir,” I said, sensing that honesty was no longer our best policy—it was time to lie like a sonofabitch. “He seemed a touch hungover maybe, but he was sober as a judge.”
    “Alright, then.” The colonel leapt up to his full height (which wasn’t much higher than he’d been in his chair) and put his right hand in the air. “Repeat after me: I do solemnly swear …”
    Old Red raised his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, I did likewise.
    “I do solemnly swear,” we said in unison.
    “That I am not a dirty damned spying bastard …”
    My brother and I gaped at the colonel.
    “Swear it!” he barked.
    We swore it.
    “And that I will do my utmost to protect the property and passengers of the Southern Pacific Railroad.”
    We swore this, too.
    “So help me, God.”
    Again, we repeated the words—though I meant them more as a plea than a pledge.
    Crowe pulled one of his desk drawers open and fished out a couple of silver-gray doodads. One he handed to me, the other to my brother.
    They were stars—badges. For Old Red’s benefit, I read out what was engraved on mine:
    POLICE SERVICE

    267
    S.P.R.R. CO.
    My brother stared down at his star, numbered 268. He rubbed it with his thumb as if he needed the feel of the cool metal to convince himself it was real.
    “So,” he