by Tony Masero
‘Two Pinkerton agent’s,’ an eager voice answered.
‘And how do you know that, my friend?’
‘Why, because they were present in my hotel when the James Gang struck,’ said the hotel clerk.
‘You saw them?’
‘I did indeed. A bold beauty and a daring fellow. Husband and wife, I think.’
‘And, out of interest for such a brave pair, how were they called, these Pinkerton people.’
‘Well, I have it in the register. One was a Mister Kirby Langstrom and the lady went under her maiden name of Mrs. Belle Slaughter.’
‘Langstrom and Slaughter,’ muttered Jesse, filing the names away in memory. ‘Well they sure caused a fuss and bother here it seems,’ he said aloud.
‘They did indeed,’ agreed the clerk. ‘Did you not see the battle?’
‘No, we was otherwise engaged.’
The clerk was distracted as a group from the crowd was intent on taking the bodies away for photography and display so Frank and Jesse moved off.
‘Damned Pinkerton’s,’ grumbled Frank.
Jesse would have cursed too but he was a Bible reader and forbade on any cussing and satisfied himself with cuss words of his own construction. It was how he had earned the nickname ‘Dingus’ from his brother, that being one of his favorite alternatives to something more volatile.
‘Indeed they shall be, if I catch up with them,’ Jesse promised. ‘But now we have the top hand on them. The gold shall be ours despite their attempts.’
‘Let’s get on back and see if they’re ready yet.’
‘Come on, come on,’ whispered Paddy to himself as he mentally urged his metal monster faster on down the track.
He looked out the cab window as they swung into a wide curve, the engine chuffing away satisfactorily. Dense forest flashed by on either side obscuring the track ahead around the bend.
‘Junction coming up,’ called his fireman.
‘Will ye give them a toot on the whistle. We don’t want any fool in a buckboard stuck on the line.’
Frank and Jesse were half way back to the depot when they heard the train’s whistle howling mournfully as it neared.
‘Is that coming here?’ asked Frank, his eyebrows knitted in sudden concern.
‘Hot dingly! I reckon it is, brother. Sounds like an express coming at all speed.’
‘Something we never considered.’
Jesse bit his lip, ’Do you reckon they’ve got the safe open yet?’
‘There’s been no blast I heard, so I reckon not.’
Inside the express car, the blacksmith was helping the deafened conductor and guard out of the car when he heard the sound of the oncoming train.
‘Dear God!’ he called up to the men still inside. ‘Get out of there, there’s a train heading this way.’
With a lighted match on the fuse, one of the men looked around.
‘Get along; there’s no other trains except the one we’ve left. Now get off or you’ll be blown apart when this lot goes up.’
‘If you don’t move now,’ cried the blacksmith. ‘It’ll be more than that safe that’s blown apart.’ With that he lifted both damaged men, each under a strong arm and scurried away as best he could.
With a dismissive shake of his head the outlaw set the fuse alight. ‘Okay, boys,’ he said to his companions. ‘Let’s stand away. She’s ready to blow.’
The sound that greeted them as they jumped down from the car was a rushing, wailing howl. They stood there for a second in frozen awe as the oncoming No. 97 tore into the express car and ripped it away before their eyes. There was no way Paddy had time to apply the brakes and with a wry look on his face and the confident knowledge he would not be beating Dougherty this time either, he faced his inevitable end with a long sigh of weary acceptance.
The cowcatcher in front of the locomotive caught the rear end wheels and lifted the express car up at a forty-five degree angle as No.97 crashed into the wooden car. Barreling on at speed, No.97 demolished the undercarriage and splintered the express car into shreds and with a great explosion of wood and metal it rammed the remains of the car high into the air. The great safe inside flew out and battered against the charging locomotive ripping the cylindrical sidewall open and spreading the fire tubes inside into a flowering spray of broken pipes encased in an erupting cloud of scalding steam and hot oil. The smokestack was torn off and the smoke box underneath ripped open in a black tumble of soot and smoke and as the train ploughed on through, the great safe fell away and bounded and bounced in its wake.
The speeding train rolled on through the debris but the battering it received forced a lurch to one side and the leaning locomotive overbalanced and jumped the rails with its coupling rods and drive wheels tearing into the gravel alongside the track. All the following carriages compacted into a crashing zigzag that closed in one on the other, slamming forward into the rolling locomotive as No. 97 spun over and disappeared under a great cloud of boiling water and steam as the boiler exploded and sprayed a hot mist over the train. Under the tearing impact of the compacted drive rod and pistons the raging boiler fire was blasted back into the driver’s cab, shooting the door off its hinges and sending such a roaring sheet of searing flame, blazing timbers and sparks into the cab that it turned Paddy and his fireman into carbonized corpses within seconds.
The three amazed outlaws watched the mayhem sweeping past and then turned to see the great safe as it bounced over and over towards them. They stood frozen to the spot, unable to moved as the hefty black box advanced directly at them. Then thankfully it rolled to a stop and tipped over one last time to rest in the dust at their feet, lying on its side not two feet from where they stood. It sat there virtually undamaged, malevolent and steaming. They looked at each other blankly.
‘Close one that,’ one of them croaked in relief.
Then the lit fuse hit the dynamite.
Maybe they had placed too much explosive inside the door cavity, or maybe the strung sticks of dynamite had been shaken around inside and ended up all bunched together in one clump. Whatever it was, the flash of the explosion was tremendous and the three men were vaporized within a blast that not only tore the safe apart but them as well. The boom ricocheted around the town and lifted a boiling black cloud in a darkly spinning column that shot skywards over and above the roiling clouds released by the train wreck. The blast wave spun outwards, gusting dust, knocking over parked wagons and collapsing the station ticket office into a heap like a fallen card castle.
Frank and Jesse felt the shockwave although they were still far enough away from the depot to experience the full effects of the blast. They both looked up in dismay, to see the spreading clouds of black smoke and watched a pale flutter like snowflakes fall from its midst. The drifting fall of dollar bills surrounded them, some of them flaming as they came. Along with the smoke, fifty thousand mint greenbacks where scattered by the wind and spread out in a wide path that encompassed the town and the countryside beyond.
‘Shit!’ muttered Jesse in disgust.
That was the first and last time his brother Frank heard his brother use any kind of unsavory language.
Chapter Five
Allen Pinkerton was fuming.
He was in a full Scottish temper and as irate as only an old Glaswegian could be, cursing and stomping around his office clutching a bulging sheaf of reports in his hand.
‘Damn my hide,’ he burst out glaring at them both. ‘How could you let it happen?’
‘We had our hands full with a runaway train at the time, Mister Pinkerton,’ explained Kirby, as irritated as his boss. ‘There was little we could do about it.’
‘But you had him in your grasp. You could have taken Jesse James, for heaven’s sake.’
Belle tried to calm him, ‘It wasn’t that easy or that straightforward, Allen.’
Pinkerton was flushed, his bearded face glowing with a red sheen. ‘So close. We nearly had him and the scoundrel walks away leaving a major train
wreck behind and fifty thousand dollars in the wind.’
He slammed the heap of reports down on his desk, ‘What is it about this wee man? Does he have a charmed life? Every time I almost have him he slips away. The agency is beginning to a look a complete pack of idiots. Our railroad clients are starting to see us as incapable of protecting their businesses, we are losing trade because of this rascal.’
‘He’ll go down, they always do,’ Kirby said.
‘Not good enough,’ growled Pinkerton. ‘I want him imprisoned and standing trial. And most of all, I want him taken by our hand.’
He was a stocky, energetic man, a small ball of dynamism and fervor and at this moment it was about to burst out of his overheated body. ‘Look here,’ he cried, stabbing a finger at the pile of reports. ‘Have you see the list of his crimes? It’s all compiled here; shootings and robberies, banks and trains taken at will, it’s an outrage. Fellows a damned menace to all and sundry. Bah!’ he cried, sending the sheaf fluttering across the room in a sweeping blast of anger.
‘He has a lot of friends,’ supplied Belle. ‘They keep him safe and informed. Many of their old companions of the Golden Circle are with the James brothers and the groundswell of discontent amongst the people of his home country are backing them.’
‘And that fool, John Newman writing all kinds of inflammatory support as well,’ barked Pinkerton.
‘It certainly doesn’t help,’ Belle agreed.
‘I want you two on it exclusively,’ growled Pinkerton. ‘Make this your primary concern. Bring down Jesse James and his gang. The whole lot of them, his brother Frank, the Younger brothers, Clell Miller, McCoy and the rest…. Whoever rides with him. Am I clear?’
Belle and Kirby could see there was no debating with him in such a state so they just nodded in agreement.
‘There is word that he returns often to his mother, Zerelda’s place. I know because I had a good agent in place there keeping an eye on things, fellow hadn’t been in Clay County a day when he turned up dead with two bullets in him and the murderers even had the effrontery to also kill the rancher who rented him lodging. Left a damned impertinent note warning us off pinned to the body.’
‘You’ll never take him on his home ground, Allen,’ Belle advised.
‘Well, next time I have word of his presence I shall arrange a raid on that house of his,’ fumed Pinkerton, sitting down heavily behind his desk.
‘It would be better to catch him out in the open,’ suggested Kirby. ‘Away from his friends and family.’
‘What do you suggest?’ Pinkerton grumbled, looking at Kirby from under his bushy eyebrows. ‘I’ll hear any ideas you have.’
‘The only way to catch a bear, my pappy always said, was to give him a taste of the honey pot he loved so well. A lure he can’t resist,’ Kirby said. ‘It has to be a big enough bait that Jesse just has to have it. Something we can set up with all secrecy and are waiting on him to come take.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Belle. ‘A big cattle payout perhaps, or something equally valuable.’
‘An army payroll maybe,’ Kirby went on. ‘In an environment we can trust outside of Missouri.’
Belle and Kirby looked at each other across the room, a slow smile spreading on their lips as the same idea occurred to them both simultaneously.
‘Do you think he would?’ Belle asked.
‘We could ask,’ Kirby answered.
‘What?’ barked Pinkerton. ‘What the devil are you two talking about?’
‘An old friend of ours,’ grinned Kirby.
‘We’ll need you to spread the word, Allen. Not too obvious. Some hinted report hidden away in the lower columns of the newspapers but spiked with a teasing jibe at the James gang. A whisper spread amongst our informants, things like that.’
‘You know we can manage that,’ Pinkerton agreed. ‘But what exactly are you getting at.’
Belle nodded thoughtfully, ‘Don’t you worry, Allen. Leave it to us; once we’ve arranged things we’ll let you know all about it. First we’ll have to go see if our friend will help out.’
Lomas Bell should have retired long since but even though he now felt aches in his body where none had existed before, he still loved the job too well to give it up. The people of Roosterville trusted him and he were kept in office not only by their support but also by the town’s sheriff, Carl Quintain, whom Lomas had trained up from a youngster.
Lomas sat in the sheriff’s office and stroked the white mustache hanging down and streaking each side of his lips and studied the young sheriff.
‘What do you mean someone’s crucifying chickens?’
‘Chickens, rodents, cats, and all kinds of birds. They even nailed up the Breeden’s favorite hound dog, for heaven’s sake. It’s tantamount to an epidemic, Lomas. There’s no figuring it. Why in the hell’s name would anybody want to go pinning dumb animals to barn doors?’
‘Beats the hell out of me,’ snorted Lomas. ‘Someone with a wildlife complex perhaps.’
‘It ain’t funny, Lomas. Folks are getting disturbed by it. They think its weird, some kind of cult thing or a religious sect perhaps. I even heard tell they thought it might be some reservation Indians going weird and playing up.’
‘Shoot, sounds more like a body’s got it in for annoying critters. Go take a look at the local school kids, this has to be about their mark I reckon.’
‘I don’t think so, kids wouldn’t go this far. Maybe one time or two but I’ve had over forty cases reported.’
Lomas unbuttoned his long-tailed cream colored jacket and crossed his legs languidly, ‘You go find out if that dog barked a lot at night, if them chickens were roosters crowing at all hours. Cats pissing on someone’s bean patch and birds pecking on a new grown cornfield. That’ll be the perpetrator. You always have to look for the motive, Carl. Who’s got the most to lose or gain in the case.’
Carl rubbed his chin thoughtfully, ‘There’s only that old Bible-punching hermit out on the coach road, Claus Bennerheim. He’s the grumpy kind crazy enough to do such a thing. I wouldn’t put it past him to go about exacting retribution in this way.’
‘And you want me to go check it out?’
‘It’s outside the town boundaries. As Marshall you could go, if you’ve a fancy.’
Tiredly, Lomas eased himself from his chair. His fifty-eight year old body was long and lean and he unfolded it with an elasticity that disguised the ache he felt in his lower back and shoulders.
‘Lord,’ he groaned. ‘It ain’t no fun getting old, Carl.’
‘You hurting again?’ asked Carl, with a look of sympathy. ‘You should give it up, partner. Head on down to your sister’s place and take it easy at your time of life.’
‘Hell, no,’ spat Lomas. ‘I’d go out of my mind. Sitting on the veranda fussed over by Ladybell, sweet as she is, sipping on mint juleps whilst I watch the sun go down. No, Carl, you and I ain’t about to part ways just yet awhile.’
‘Still….’ faltered Carl.
‘Don’t you concern yourself,’ growled Lomas. ‘There ain’t enough to fret about in Nebraska these days. Not if all we’ve got to worry about is some dumbass tacking up poor critters. I’ll see my time out doing what I do best and keeping my end up as I do it, have no fear.’
‘Well, you say the word, old man, and I’ll see the town sees you right with a pension and all.’
‘Just you worry about yourself,’ snarled Lomas irritably.
Lomas mounted up and took the road out of town at a leisurely pace. He considered his conversation with Carl as he rode and eased his shoulders by rolling them as he sat in the saddle.
‘Damned rheumatics,’ he mumbled to himself as he worked the tight muscles.
He knew he’d taken on this fool task just to get up and out. An hour or so in the saddle was his only form of exercise these days and if he didn’t want to atrophy sitting in Carl’s office all day he had to make the effort to move his bones. It sure was boring, he thought to himself. Nothing much happ
ened these days just the occasional case of tiresome drunkenness and wife beating to alleviate the usual dullness of small town life.
He saw the two distant riders approach him over the rise beyond and heading towards him down the trail.
With natural caution, Lomas squinted his eyes and tried to focus on the oncoming riders. But his vision was hazy these days and the two took on a wavering shade of dark and light that he could not identify. He thought of reaching into his inside pocket for the wire-rimmed spectacles he had invested in but his old pride kept him from exposing the weakness.
Lomas had been quite a ladies man in his day back when being a fast gun had meant something. He still looked dapper in his tailored cream jacket, wide-brimmed hat and neat cut white hair but he knew those days were behind him now. He had been something then and he remembered the feel of it when his body had responded without question and there had been no consideration of whether he was fast enough on the draw or quick enough in the saddle. Good old days, he thought with relish, back riding the border country with the Rangers and cutting down bad guys. Slicking through the Civil War behind enemy lines as an agent with the Secret Service. Days when the blood ran hot in his veins and he never felt the chill in his bones whenever the weather changed like he did now. It sure was no fun getting old.
‘Beats me how this ancient still gets astride a pony.’
He recognized the voice before the chiding took hold.
‘Kirby Langstrom, as I live and breath! And Belle too. Well what a day.’
Lomas grinned pleased to see his old friends but his gaze lingered a while longer on Belle. It was an overly long, unnecessary moment. He jerked as if he had suddenly come back to himself, ‘And just when I thought I was about to go out of my mind plodding through each sorry day.’
‘How have you been, old man?’ Kirby asked.
‘Not so much of the ‘old’, I can still cut a run, you sassy shavetail.’
What was this sudden preoccupation with age? Lomas wondered, as his recent thoughts reared up again, nudged back into his mind by the remark.