O. Henry



   The Roads We Take

    Twenty miles west of Tucson, the "Sunset Express" stopped at a tank to take
on water. Besides the aqueous addition the engine of that famous flyer acquired 
some other things that were not good for it.
    While the fireman was lowering  the  feeding  hose,  Bob  Tidball,  "Shark"
Dodson and a quarter-bred Creek Indian called  John  Big  Dog  climbed  on  the 
engine and showed the engineer three round orifices in pieces of ordnance  that 
they carried. These orifices so impressed the engineer with their possibilities 
that he raised both hands in a gesture such as accompanies the ejaculation  "Do 
tell!"
    At the crisp command of Shark Dodson, who was leader of the attacking force 
the engineer descended to the ground and uncoupled the engine and tender.  Then 
John Big Dog, perched upon the coal, sportively held two guns upon  the  engine 
driver and the fireman, and suggested that they run the engine fifty yards away 
and there await further orders.
    Shark Dodson and Bob Tidball, scorning to put such  low-grade  ore  as  the 
passengers through the mill, struck out for the rich pocket of the express car. 
They found the messenger serene in the belief that  the  "Sunset  Express"  was 
taking on nothing more stimulating and dangerous than aqua pura. While Bob  was 
knocking this idea out of his head with the butt-end of his  six-shooter  Shark 
Dodson was already dosing the express-car safe with dynamite.
    The safe exploded to  the tune of  $30,000,  all  gold  and  currency.  The 
passengers thrust their heads casually out of  the  windows  to  look  for  the 
thunder-cloud. The conductor jerked at the bell-rope, which sagged  down  loose 
and unresisting, at his tug. Shark Dodson and Bob Tidball, with their booty  in 
a stout canvas bag, tumbled out of the express car and ran awkwardly  in  their 
high-heeled boots to the engine.
    The engineer, sullenly angry but wise, ran the engine, according to orders, 
rapidly away from the inert train. But before this was accomplished the express 
messenger, recovered from Bob Tidball's persuader to neutrality, jumped out  of 
his car with a Winchester rifle and took a trick in the game. Mr. John Big Dog, 
sitting on the coal tender,  unwittingly   made  a  wrong  lead  by  giving  an 
imitation of a target, and the  messenger  trumped  him.  With a  ball  exactly 
between his shoulder blades the Creek chevalier of industry rolled off  to  the 
ground, thus increasing the share of his comrades  in  the  loot  by  one-sixth 
each.
    Two miles from the tank the engineer was ordered to stop.
    The robbers waved a defiant adieu and plunged down  the  steep  slope  into 
the thick woods that lined the  track.  Five  minutes  of  crashing  through  a 
thicket of chaparral brought them to open woods, where three horses  were  tied 
to low-hanging branches. One was waiting for John Big Dog, who would never ride 
by night or day again. This animal the robbers divested of  saddle  and  bridle 
and set free. They mounted the other two with the bag across  one  pommel,  and 
rode fast and with discretion through the forest  and  up  a  primeval,  lonely 
gorge. Here the animal that bore Bob Tidball slipped on  a  mossy  boulder  and 
broke a foreleg. They shot him through the head at once and sat down to  hold a 
council of flight. Made secure for the present by the tortuous trail  they  had 
travelled, the question of time was no longer so big. Many miles and hours  lay 
between them and the spryest posse that could  follow.  Shark  Dodson's  horse, 
with trailing rope and dropped bridle, panted and  cropped  thankfully  of  the 
grass along the stream in the gorge. Bob Tidball  opened  the  sack,  drew  out 
double handfuls of the neat packages of currency and the one sack of  gold  and 
chuckled with the glee of a child.
    "Say, you old double-decked pirate," he called  joyfully  to  Dodson,  "you 
said we could do it - you got a head for financing that knocks the horns off of 
anything in Arizona."
    "What are we going to do about a hoss for you, Bob? We ain't  got  long  to 
wait here. They'll be on our trail before daylight in the mornin'."
    "Oh, I guess that cayuse of yourn'll carry double for  a  while,"  answered 
the sanguine Bob. "We'll annex the first animal we come across. By jingoes,  we 
made a  haul,  didn't  we?  Accordin'  to  the  marks  on  this  money  there's 
$30,000 - $15,000 apiece!"
    "It's short of what I expected," said Shark Dodson, kicking softly  at  the 
packages with the toe of his boot. And then he  looked  pensively  at  the  wet 
sides of his tired horse.
    "Old Bolivar's mighty nigh played out,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I  wish  that 
sorrel of yours hadn't got hurt."
    "So do I," said Bob, heartily, "but  it  can't  be  helped.  Bolivar's  got 
plenty of bottom - he'll get us both far enough to get fresh mounts.  Dang  it, 
Shark, I can't help thinkin' how funny it is that an  Easterner  like  you  can 
come out here and give us Western fellows cards and  spades  in  the  desperado 
business. What part of the East was you from, anyway?"
    "New York State," said Shark Dodson, sitting down on a boulder and  chewing 
a twig. "I was born on a farm in Ulster County. I ran away from home when I was 
seventeen. It was an accident my coming West. I was walkin' along the road with 
my clothes in a bundle, makin' for New York City. I had an idea of goin'  there 
and makin' lots of money. I always felt like I could do it. I came to  a  place 
one evenin' where the road forked  and  I  didn't  know  which  fork  to  take. 
I studied about it for half an hour, and then I took the left-hand. That  night 
I run into the camp of a Wild West show that was travellin'  among  the  little 
towns, and I went West with it. I've often wondered if I wouldn't  have  turned 
out different if I'd took the other road."
    "Oh, I reckon you'd have ended  up  about  the  same,"  said  Bob  Tidball, 
cheerfully philosophical. "It ain't the roads we take; it's what's inside of us 
that makes us turn out the way we do."
    Shark Dodson got up and leaned against a tree.
    "I'd a good deal rather that sorrel of yourn hadn't hurt himself, Bob,"  he 
said again, almost pathetically.
    "Same here," agreed Bob; "he was sure a first-rate kind of a crowbait.  But 
Bolivar, he'll pull us through all right. Reckon  we'd  better  be  movin'  on, 
hadn't we, Shark? I'll bag this boodle ag'in and we'll hit the trail for higher 
timber."
    Bob Tidball replaced the spoil in the bag and tied the mouth of it  tightly 
with a cord. When he looked up the most prominent object that he  saw  was  the 
muzzle of Shark Dodson's .45 held upon him without a waver.
    "Stop your funnin'," said Bob, with a grin.  "We  got  to  be  hittin'  the 
breeze."
    "Set still," said Shark. "You ain't goin' to hit no breeze, Bob. I hate  to 
tell you, but there ain't any chance for but one of us.  Bolivar,  he's  plenty 
tired, and he can't carry double."
    "We been pards, me and  you,  Shark  Dodson,  for  three  year,"  Bob  said 
quietly. "We've risked our lives together time and again. I've always give  you 
a square deal, and I thought you was a man. I've heard some queer stories about 
you shootin' one or two men in a peculiar way, but I never believed 'em. Now if 
you're just havin' a little fun with me, Shark, put your gun up, and we'll  get 
on Bolivar and vamose. If you mean to shoot - shoot, you blackhearted son of  a
tarantula!"
    Shark Dodson's face bore a deeply sorrowful look. "You don't know how bad I 
feel," he sighed, "about that sorrel of yourn breakin' his leg, Bob."
    The expression on Dodson's face changed  in  an  instant  to  one  of  cold 
ferocity mingled with inexorable cupidity. The soul of the  man  showed  itself 
for a moment like an evil face in the window of a reputable house.
    Truly Bob Tidball was never to "hit the breeze" again. The  deadly  .45  of 
the false friend cracked and filled the gorge with a roar that the walls hurled 
back with indignant echoes. And Bolivar, unconscious accomplice,  swiftly  bore 
away the last of the holders-up of the "Sunset Express," not put to the  stress 
of "carrying double."
    But as "Shark" Dodson galloped away the woods seemed to fade from his view; 
the revolver in his right hand turned to the curved arm of  a  mahogany  chair; 
his saddle was strangely upholstered, and he opened his eyes and saw his  feet, 
not in stirrups, but resting quietly on the edge of a quartered-oak desk.
    I am telling you that Dodson, of the firm of Dodson & Decker,  Wall  Street 
brokers, opened his eyes. Peabody, the confidential clerk, was standing by  his 
chair, hesitating to speak. There was a confused hum of wheels below,  and  the 
sedative buzz of an electric fan.
    "Ahem! Peabody," said Dodson, blinking. "I must have fallen asleep. I had a 
most remarkable dream. What is it, Peabody?"
    "Mr. Williams, sir, of Tracy & Williams, is outside. He has come to  settle 
his deal in X. Y. Z. The market caught him short, sir, if you remember."
    "Yes, I remember. What is X. Y. Z. quoted at to-day, Peabody?"
    "One eighty-five, sir."
    "Then that's his price."
    "Excuse me," said Peabody, rather nervously "for speaking of it,  but  I've 
been talking to Williams. He's an old friend of  yours,  Mr.  Dodson,  and  you 
practically have a corner in X. Y. Z. I thought you might - that is, I  thought 
you might not remember that he sold you the stock at 98. If he settles  at  the 
market price it will take every cent he has in the world and his  home  too  to 
deliver the shares."
    The expression on Dodson's face changed  in  an  instant  to  one  of  cold 
ferocity mingled with inexorable cupidity. The soul of the  man  showed  itself 
for a moment like an evil face in the window of a reputable house.
    "He will settle at one eighty-five," said  Dodson.  "Bolivar  cannot  carry 
double."

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