by R. W. Stone
Pedro nodded, got up, and went over to the bench seat that was nearest to the door at the front end of the compartment. He then sat down, put his pistol in his lap with his sombrero over it, and slid over toward the window, as far away from the door as possible. “Suerte. You be careful, jefe,” he said.
“Good luck to you, too, compadre.”
McCallum went out the back door of the railroad car and climbed the ladder to the roof. Before he brought his head fully into view, he peered cautiously over the top of the ladder. At the far end of the train he could see one man perched atop the first railroad car. But there was no sign of a second man.
Thad had no way of knowing how many robbers were on the train, but the man near the engine car had his handgun out and was aiming it at someone. Thad guessed he was pointing it at the engineer.
Since the robber was facing forward and occupied, McCallum unslung his rifle and went up on top. The effect of the moving train on his balance was stronger than he had expected and since the tracks curved from time to time the likelihood of a clean shot, even with a rifle, was slim to none.
He started walking the length of the car relatively upright, but almost immediately was blown sideways by the force of the wind. It was a miracle that he hadn’t fallen. He was forced to squat down and duckwalk to keep his balance. Unfortunately, the strain that put on his knees was incredible and he cursed silently at the sharp pain. Forcing himself onward through sheer willpower, McCallum progressed over two more cars before lowering himself down the ladder located between the cars.
“The hell with this,” he mumbled to himself.
At this distance, he felt he could finally make the shot, so, while steadying himself on the ladder, he lay the rifle down along the rail car’s roof and adjusted the sling along his forearm.
When the train straightened after a curve, McCallum took a chance and fired. The robber stood up, arched as if in a spasm, and pitched sideways off the train. Thad knew at least one man was already inside the train, probably working his way through the cars if he hadn’t yet realized what was happening above. And McCallum believed that his shot wouldn’t have been heard, especially not with all the wind howling and the added noise of the locomotive. Even so he would take no chances. It was not in his nature to do so.
McCallum climbed down the ladder and started forward through the train compartments. At each door, he yelled, “Pinkerton Detective Agent, relax everyone!” He knew the rifle would startle most of the passengers and, although he technically wasn’t an agent anymore, the white lie might just save him from being shot by some frightened but armed rider.
Upon entering the third car forward in line, he came upon a robber collecting money and valuables from the passengers. He was easy to spot. For one thing, the bandanna he wore as a mask was a dead giveaway, as was the fact that he whirled with a pistol in his hand as soon as McCallum entered the car. Even turning as fast as he did, the robber was still no match for a Winchester rifle that was already cocked, loaded, and leveled forward.
The train robber lurched backward from the force of McCallum’s rifle bullet and fell back, a hole in his chest, sprawling across an elderly lady, who promptly fainted.
Methodically McCallum cleared the rest of the forward cars, and then checked on the engineer who was scared but fortunately still in control of the train. Lowering the hammer on his Winchester, Thad then proceeded back toward the rear of the train.
When he was about three quarters of the way, a shot suddenly rang out and McCallum picked up his pace to the rear of the train. In truth, he was worried about his old companion.
* * * * *
Peralta was sitting in his seat with his old sombrero cradled on his lap when the rear door of the compartment crashed open. A robber wearing a blue bandanna tied around the lower half of his face entered, carrying a cocked pistol. He was also carrying a carpetbag in his left hand. Even with the mask Pedro immediately recognized him as the same man he and McCallum had roped earlier.
“Don’t nobody move and you won’t get hurt!” the robber yelled. “Get out all your money and jewelry and put it in my bag. Anyone who don’t put nothin’ in it will get plugged. Hell, I’ll plug ya if I even think you’re holding out on me.”
There were a few screams and gasps from the passengers, but most complied quietly. A loaded pistol is a mighty strong persuader and in most cases a public pacifier. The thief worked his way up the aisle till he was even with the bench Pedro was on.
“So, it’s you. Where’s your friend? I have a score to settle with …”
The robber wasn’t given a chance to finish his sentence. Pedro simply raised his sombrero and shot the man, point-blank.
“You can settle up with him in hell, señor. I think sooner or later you see us both there.” The man’s body was lying face up on the floor.
A few moments later McCallum busted through the door at the front of the car, rifle barrel first, looking for his friend. He almost tripped over the robber’s body, but he was relieved to see Pedro calmly replacing his hat. “What took you so long, jefe?” he asked calmly.
“Oh, I stopped to get some licorice from that kid with the candy tray,” McCallum replied. “Everything went as planned in here, I see.”
There was no smile on either man’s face.
McCallum then pulled the alarm rope and the train came to a sudden stop. “Guess we should get the conductor and search everywhere before we proceed. Maybe return their possessions to the passengers? Care to come along?”
“Sí, jefe. Vamanos,” Pedro replied, holstering his Remington pistol.
There had been four men involved in the attempted robbery; the fourth was found hiding in the stable car. The conductors tied him up after a brief lesson in railroad etiquette concerning robbers, and then cuffed his hands to a pair of big iron rings that were bolted into the wall as tie-downs for livestock. The battered robber wouldn’t be comfortable for the rest of the ride, but he most certainly would be secure.
“Good to go?” asked the conductor.
McCallum nodded. “I think so, but it’s your train.”
The conductor leaned out of the car and waved a flag. The engineer, standing by the big train’s engine, smiled and waved back at them before he climbed aboard. As the train picked up speed, cheers rang out from the passenger cars.
Chapter Five
Columbus, New Mexico, was just a sleepy little border town, but most of its inhabitants felt that the place had good potential for growth. There was a detachment of approximately 350 soldiers from the Thirteenth Cavalry stationed at Camp Furlong on the outskirts of Columbus, which helped create a sense of security in the community, and although there was turmoil occurring in the country to the south of their border, it seemed of very little interest to all but the most politically minded of the local population.
In the center of town just off the main square there was a small but prosperous photography shop run by Jacob Shaw. This morning his nephew Jeff was out in front of the store busily helping his uncle load their equipment into the wagon for a trip just north of town. The previous week they had been asked to photograph a wedding today for the daughter of a prominent local cattle rancher.
Jeff had arrived a couple of months earlier to learn the trade. He was a bright and energetic lad, but relatively naïve about the ways of the world. However, Jeff was smart enough to recognize a potentially successful commercial opportunity. Ever since Matthew Brady had become famous for his photographs of the Civil War, there was an ever-growing demand for such services and for trained photographers.
Jeff was also a fan of writers such as Stephen Crane, and in the back of his mind he thought that he might someday like to be a combination of both reporter and photographer, a sort of photojournalist. Jeff had very little, if any, knowledge of cameras and film, but his uncle had years of experience behind him and was fond of his nephew. When Jeff’s fath
er, Albert, wrote his brother about teaching the boy his trade, Jacob Shaw was both flattered and more than pleased to agree.
“Jeff, my boy,” he said, “just leave that camera out there on the tripod for now while we finish packing the wagon. We’ll put the camera in last. Last on, first off. Get it?”
“I get it, Uncle Jacob.”
Photography was still relatively in its infancy. Cameras were bulky and the chemicals and film were just as crude. Good photographers, like Brady who had come up with the idea of a traveling dark room, had learned to use those deficiencies to create artistic shading and spectacular images. Jeff’s uncle was not yet famous, but in Jeff’s mind he clearly fell into the category of someone very worthy of learning from.
“You know, you should have written to your parents by now. It’s not right to keep them in the dark,” Jacob commented as he returned to the wagon.
Jeff lowered his head and shrugged. “I know, Uncle. I tried to send them a telegraph but it turned out all the lines were down. Then I was going to write them, but I kept telling myself the lines would be fixed soon, and since that would be quicker than sending a letter, I kept putting it off. Guess I was wrong. It’s taken much longer than I thought it would.”
“Ever heard the saying about never putting something off till tomorrow when you can do it today? You know, that’s especially true when it comes to your family. Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve. No substitute for doing something right now, is there?”
Jeff shook his head slowly. “No, Uncle, I guess there isn’t.”
“OK, then, as soon as we get back to town after this job, get that letter in the mail. Right now, though, it’s time to get on with our business. So, while you finish with the wagon, I’m going to get my hat and coat and lock up the shop.” Jacob patted Jeff’s shoulder, and went inside.
Jeff confirmed that everything they needed was in the wagon, except for the large camera and its tripod. Emerging from the shop, Jacob Shaw put his hand above his eyes, as if he were saluting someone, and looked off into the distance. The expression on his face changed as if something bad had caught his attention.
“Something wrong, Uncle Jacob?” Jeff asked, curious.
“Look over there, boy. See the smoke? It looks as if there’s some sort of fire over where that army detachment is located.”
“Huh. Wonder what’s up? You suppose they could be burning trash?” Jeff asked.
His uncle shook his head. “This early in the morning? Not likely.”
Just then a loose horse raced down the street, passing the two and heading out of town. Its neck was lathered up and the horse had a wild, frightened look in its eyes.
“Now what’s that all about?” Jacob pondered aloud. “I wonder if the army barn caught …?”
A shot rang out and Jacob grabbed his right shoulder with his left hand, spun around, and fell to the ground.
“Uncle Jacob!” his nephew cried out. He barely had time to rush to the man’s side before a group of Mexicans charged down the street, shooting their pistols into nearby storefronts and windows.
Five of them brought their horses to a halt in front of Jeff, pointing their weapons right at him. Jeff, who like his uncle always went unarmed, backed up, stopping next to the tripod. He was sure the time had finally come for him to meet his maker.
The lad often used his sarcastic sense of humor to get himself out of trouble, but he knew in this situation sarcasm would be of little use. Luckily, he had inherited some of his father’s raw courage. And therefore, being Albert Shaw’s only son, there was no way a bunch of Mexican hooligans would make him beg for his life. No way. Not after one of them had shot his uncle.
As he shifted, his hand brushed up against the camera’s tripod. Jeff studied the group, slowly realizing they looked more like outlaws, not hooligans. Mexican bandidos. As he stood there, not knowing what to do, he remembered the advice of his father: If and when you have no other choice, you might as well be brave. Taking a deep breath, Jeff addressed the men in what he hoped was a calm but strong voice.
“So, which one of you wants his picture taken?” he asked, swallowing hard after he got the words out. He tried to smile, but deep down he was feeling very unsure of the situation. He pointed at the camera, lifted its curtain, directing the men’s attention to the cord that triggered the camera. “¿Tomo tus fotos, muchachos?” He repeated his previous question, but this time in Spanish as he tried to remember the basics of the language he had learned as a boy from his Cuban nursemaid.
Although Jeff could barely keep his knees from buckling as the outlaws stared back at him, he was determined to go out standing straight, looking death in the eye. He wasn’t sure if he could pull it off, but he felt confident that this was what his father would do in such a situation, and it was what he would expect his son to do as well.
A cloud of dust suddenly swirled as another Mexican galloped up the street. He pulled hard on his reins, putting his horse into a sliding stop in front of the men. This man wore a large black-and-white sombrero and across his chest he was wearing bandoleers full of ammunition. He had a rather round face and wore his mustache long over his lightly whiskered face. Although he appeared of average build, his presence was commanding, as indicated by the five men who, upon his arrival, turned toward him as if awaiting his instructions.
So far Jeff hadn’t been shot, so he decided to continue with his ploy.
“¿Foto, señor?” he repeated.
The man, who perhaps was the leader, stared at Jeff, studying him. He then burst out laughing. “At least this muchacho has a pair of balls on him,” he said in Spanish to the other men. They all broke out laughing, and Jeff, even though he hadn’t understood exactly what had been said, relaxed a mite and smiled nervously. After all, he was grateful to still be alive since he could hear shooting in other parts of town.
“You know, it might not be a bad idea to have someone taking some pictures of all our victories,” the leader said in Spanish. The man seemed to mull over the idea. “Grab this gringo, get his wagon and the crap that’s in it, and bring him along,” he ordered. “¡Vamanos!”
“Sí, mi general,” the men replied almost in unison.
The use of the term “general” got Jeff’s attention. What would bandits be doing with a general? he wondered.
Two of the men jumped from their horses, grabbed him, and practically tossed him up onto the buckboard’s seat. They then picked up the camera.
“Hey, careful with that … um … cuidado!” Jeff yelled.
The two looked at him angrily, but obeyed him, gently placing the camera into the wagon. Then they tied his hands and feet.
Jeff could hear shots being fired throughout the city, and as he looked around, he saw smoke billowing from a fire springing up just a few blocks away.
One of the bandidos climbed up onto the wagon seat and used a whip to start the buckboard’s team. Soon more men began joining them as they headed south out of town.
After they had passed Columbus’ town limits, Jeff estimated he was riding with an army of about a hundred men. They were armed to the teeth, and some were leading a herd of horses and mules, most likely stolen from the fort Jeff surmised. There were also several wagons loaded down with boxes. Since the crates all had army markings on them Jeff assumed they were filled with ammunition and weapons of some sort.
As the group approached the border with Mexico, a loud cheer rang out: “¡Viva Méjico! ¡Viva Villa!”
Chapter Six
After their train pulled into the station located just outside of town, McCallum and Peralta were approached by the head conductor.
“I’m sure the railroad will want to offer you men some sort of reward. Want to leave your names and addresses with me?” the man asked.
There might have been a time when McCallum would have taken pride in his accomplishment, but not now. All Thaddeus Mc
Callum wanted from life was peace and quiet. These days he didn’t like to be disturbed. Besides, the robbers might have friends and he didn’t want to bring any of them into his life.
Thad knew his friend well enough to know Pedro would feel the same. He looked at the conductor and shook his head. “Nope. If there’s any reward, just divide it evenly among the crew. They deserve something for the risks they take and for helping out this time.”
“You sure?” the conductor asked, surprised.
McCallum and Pedro both nodded.
“Well, then, thanks a lot,” the railroad man said sincerely. He offered his hand in gratitude. “And you both have a safe journey now, hear?”
“Try to. Besides, after this what more can go wrong?” McCallum joked.
After a short ride the two men finally approached the town of Columbus. Thad knew that there was an army detachment in the area, the Thirteenth, he believed, but he was still surprised to find a sentry posted this far outside of town. McCallum was a little annoyed when they were braced by him.
“Halt! Who goes there?” the sentry asked with a crack in his voice. He looked to be no more than seventeen and in McCallum’s judgment still wet behind the ears.
Pedro raised his hand to his face to cover a smile. Thad took a different tack.
“Soldier,” he snapped, “when you address someone while on sentry duty, say it like you goddamned well mean it. You sound like a frightened kid at the schoolmarm’s blackboard. Clear your damned throat before you speak.”
The soldier just looked at him in astonishment.
“And why ask the damned question in the first place if you don’t have the wherewithal to back it up? Take the damned safety off your rifle.”
“Er … yes, sir,” the lad replied, fumbling with his rifle.