by Jo Goodman
Ethan pushed his long legs into the narrow aisle and stretched as soon as she was gone. Until he felt the tension uncoil from his neck, shoulders, and back, Ethan hadn't fully appreciated how nervous Miss Dennehy's presence had made him. Recognition on her part could ruin everything. It made him wonder how good she was with faces.
Ben Simpson nudged Ethan with his elbow. Ben was a gaunt, bony man and the poke caught Ethan in the ribs. Ben flinched when Ethan turned and gave him a sour look.
Clearing his throat, Ben said quietly, "Check the time, will ya?"
"It's two minutes later than the last time you asked me. Relax, Ben. Everything's planned right down to the kerchief you're wearing around your neck. Houston saw to it himself."
Ben's thin body was filled with restless, nervous energy. He tapped his fingers on the bench in the space between Ethan and him. He wanted to check the inside of his coat once again, just to feel the reassuring shape of his Peacemaker. He didn't do it because Ethan would have given him that belittling look again. Ben wasn't certain he liked Ethan, or trusted him completely, but he did respect the way the man had with a shooter. Considering what they were going up against, that counted for a great deal in Ben Simpson's book.
"Seems like we've been climbing the side of this mountain forever," Ben said, staring moodily out the window. Darkness made it impossible for him to the see the sheer drop on his left but he knew it was there. Long before the railroad had come to the Colorado Rockies, Ben Simpson had explored the length and breadth of them on horseback. "I once had a mule that could do it faster."
Ethan closed his eyes, ignoring Ben's complaining, and reviewed in his mind the steps necessary to make Nate Houston's plan successful. His own success depended on making things work.
Ben poked him again. "You ain't asleep, are you?" Then, without waiting for an answer, "Check your damn watch."
Ethan took his time about sitting up and made a small production of patting down his vest pockets to find the one with the watch. "9:30," he said slowly, not showing his surprise. Perhaps he actually had fallen asleep. "It's time."
Ben was already on his feet, stepping over his partner and heading toward the car door. He didn't have to look back to know Ethan was following him. It was part of the plan.
Once they were outside and standing on the small balcony of the car, they didn't waste any time getting to the ladder of the car in front of them. Ben went first, making the climb to the passenger car's roof quickly and with a lightness that mocked his fifty years. Ethan waited until Ben cleared the ladder, then followed. Although No. 349 was in a steep climb and moving slowly, the cars bucked and wind swirled icily around him. The clear night sky was brilliant with star shine but only a sliver of new moonlight. Eventually the night would afford them the protection they needed as fugitives. Now it posed a danger. Ben and Ethan braced themselves, feet apart like sailors on a rolling ship, and waited until their eyes had adjusted to the darkness before they began moving toward the express mail car.
Hannibal Cage had been an engineer with the Union Pacific for three years. He had worked his way through the ranks, starting as a switchman, then a brakeman for four months, and finally as a fireman. He was a bull of a man, broad-shouldered and thickly muscled, and fully aware his strength was nothing compared to the power he wielded in the cab of Engine No. 349. He was completely in control of 35 tons of steel and steam, the final authority over his brakemen, fireman, and porters, and the guardian of the passengers' safety. He survived by taking his job seriously. He respected No. 349, treating her delicately in regard to the amount of coal and water his fireman gave her. He worked her slowly up a grade, never pounding her, and knew how to keep her to the curves on the sharp, treacherous descent down a mountain.
It was a matter of some debate whether Hannibal Cage loved his locomotive more than his own life. On the night of October 22 it was a moot point. When Hannibal saw the bonfire laid across the tracks as No. 349 cleared the grade, he threw the Johnson bar into reverse, signaled his brakemen with three short blasts of his whistle, and commented calmly to his fireman that he figured somebody was up to no kinda good.
The two guards in the express mail car were on their feet as soon as the train shuddered to a halt. Underneath them, along the entire length of the train, the wheels shot off sparks and screechingly protested the abrupt application of the engine's reverse lever. In anticipation of being boarded from the front, the guards raised their shotguns toward the car's large sliding door. It was an unfortunate assumption. Ben Simpson and Ethan Stone used the regular doors at either end of the car to enter simultaneously and surprise their victims.
Ethan's Colt .45 was leveled directly at the back of the stockiest of the two guards. His voice was low and even, rough in a whiskey-whispered sort of way. "You'll want to put those shotguns down, gentlemen, and you'll want to do it carefully. I'm not anxious to kill you, but I can't speak for my partner here."
Behind the kerchief that hid half his face, Ben Simpson bared yellowed teeth in a happy grin. "Can't say that I'm anxious, boys, but I ain't reluctant, if you take my meanin'."
The guards took his meaning quite well, placing their shotguns on the floor of the mail car and pushing them toward the robbers without ever turning around to face them.
Kicking the weapons out of the guards' reach, Ethan approached them cautiously. Fairly certain they had relied on their shotguns for protection and carried no pocket revolvers, he motioned Ben to close in. "You wouldn't want anyone to think you made it easy for us, would you?" he asked. He saw both of his victims wince as they anticipated what would come next. Ethan made the blow as sharp and clean as possible, bringing the butt of his Colt down hard on the back of one guard's skull. Ben's man flinched at the last second and had to be clubbed twice before he dropped unconscious to the floor.
"They're not going anywhere," Ethan said as Ben poked both men with the pointed toe of his boot. From the deep pockets of his coat he pulled out a stick of dynamite. "C'mon. We have work to do."
In the engineer's cab Hannibal Cage did not go down as easily as the express car guards. He had no intention of resisting the robbers until he was asked for the one thing he couldn't give: No. 349 herself. He fought like the man he was, hard and fair, and he gave as good as he got until Jake Harrity managed to get his gun between their twisting bodies and fire off one shot. When Hannibal slumped to the floor the fireman surrendered his shovel and complied with Jake's order to remove the engineer from the train.
"You'll never make it down the mountain on your own," the fireman warned Jake as he tended to his friend's grave chest wound. "No. 349 will take you right over the side."
Above his kerchief Jake's brown eyes raked the blackened and greasy face of the fireman. He shrugged, unconcerned by the railroader's warning. "We got us a man, tallow pot."
In the caboose, the conductor and two brakemen were easily overpowered by another team of robbers before they could respond to the engineer's whistles. After tying up the brakemen, Happy McCallister and Obie Long began moving forward with the intention of relieving passengers of whatever struck their fancy.
The Chronicle's poker game proved to be a bonanza. Dave Crookshank thought he was going to be the big winner of the night. He and his fellow staffers took little notice of the train's halting. After three months riding the rails, they considered themselves rather jaded travelers. On the prairies they had witnessed a swarm of locusts that brought the illusion of night to the afternoon sky and stopped their train cold. In the Sierras an avalanche blanketed their cars and kept them stationary for two days. Bridge washouts, Indian tampering, and the occasional herd of buffalo had meant abrupt halts and unplanned delays.
When Paul Dodd suggested off-handedly that one of them investigate the current reason for stopping he was largely ignored. Bill Crookshank reminded him that Drew had gone in search of Mike and between the two of them they would come back with the story. "If it's worth anything," Bill added, watching his brother rake in anoth
er pot. "Damn, Dave, but you need your nose tweaked tonight. Too proud of yourself by half, taking our money the way you have."
At that moment the door at the rear of the car opened and Happy McCallister announced he'd be pleased as a preacher to pass his hat and collect their offerings. The fact that he was cradling a shotgun in his arms encouraged the stunned newspapermen to follow instructions.
"Reckon you fellows will have quite a story to tell your paper," Happy said, watching from the doorway as his partner gathered the winnings. "'Course that wouldn't be wise. Me and my friends ain't in this fer the glory like them James boys. None of us would want this in that big city paper of yours."
Dave Crookshank, irritated at being cheated of his hard won money, laughed a little bitterly. "And how do you propose to keep us silent?" Although his brother kicked him under the table, Dave continued to stare defiantly at Happy.
"Well," Happy drawled, his eyes thoughtful below the brim of his weathered hat and above the line of his kerchief, "it seems to me I could kill you now."
"We're not going to write anything," Bill said.
"Or I could kill you later," Happy went on, ignoring the hastily given promise. "Generally, though, that involves trackin' you down, and I don't cotton much to trackin'. Some boys is good at it, but I've never been one of 'em." Happy's sharp eyes scanned the circle of men at the table. He waved the barrel of his shotgun in the general direction of the empty chair. "Where's the other one of you?"
No one answered.
"Doesn't really matter if you tell me or not," said Happy. "My partner here can spot a newspaperman like a vulture spots carrion. Not much difference in his mind. Nor my mind, come to think on it. Neither one of us needed your paper's name painted on the side of the car to realize what you are. Unfortunate all the way around." Happy motioned to Obie to finish quickly and head for the forward door. "See ya, fellas. 'Course it'd be better for everyone if I didn't."
For a full ten seconds after the robbers moved out of the car and disappeared into the next one, none of the Chronicle staffers said a word. Jim Peters pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his wide brow.
"God, for a moment there I thought they meant to kill us."
Dave pushed away from the table, his chair scraping the floor. He did not look particularly relieved by Jim's words. "I think I better go have a look in the caboose. There's no telling what they did before they got here."
His brother waved him off. "What about Drew and Mike?" Bill asked the others. "Do you think they'll be safe?"
Jim finished mopping his brow. "They were bluffing about being able to spot a reporter." He looked around the table for reassurance. "They had to be. Anyway, Drew can take care of himself, and who in their right mind would suspect Mike?"
"Who in their right mind holds up a train?" Bill asked dryly.
Paul Dodd reached for his sketchbook lying on the table behind him. Taking out a pencil, he began to draw. "Would you say the one with the shotgun was taller than the other or just about the same height?"
Bill grabbed Paul's pad. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Illustrating the story you're going to write."
"Not me," Bill said. "And not anyone else at this table, including you. You heard what he said. He'll track us down."
Paul laughed a little uneasily under his breath. "Yeah, but he said he wasn't very good at it."
Happy and Obie didn't stop moving forward until they had gone through the last private Chronicle car and assured themselves there were no reporters in hiding. "Nice accommodations they got for themselves," Happy observed as he and Obie stepped onto the small balcony outside the equipment and printing car. "Seems almost a shame to wreck it all."
"Sure we should?" Obie asked, pushing back the brim of his hat. "Houston might not like it. It was never part of the plan."
"That's because Houston didn't know about the Chronicle. These cars must have joined the train back in Cheyenne. If he had known..." Happy let his voice trail off and allowed Obie to draw his own conclusions. When he was certain they were of the same mind he pointed to the link-and-pin coupling and said, "Let's take care of this, shall we?"
Obie jumped off the balcony and onto the roadbed, moving between the cars carefully. The link-and-pin coupling which held the cars together proved to be a stubborn affair and Happy leaped down to assist. Working together they managed to pull the pin free.
"Nothing's happening," Obie observed.
"The grade's not real steep here," Happy said. "Give it a few minutes. These cars'll start rollin' back. You'll see. Right down the mountainside. First curve comes and—" He didn't have to finish. He made a diving motion with his hand to indicate what would happen to the accelerating cars when they reached the curve.
"Maybe gravity needs a boost," Obie said, grinning. He pulled himself back up on the balcony of the car and made certain the handbrake wheel was fully loosened. "Let's give it a push. C'mon. Throw your back into it."
In the dining car Bill Crookshank's legs shifted under him momentarily. He looked at the others. "Did you feel that?"
"What?" Jim asked.
There was another lurch and this time Bill stumbled a little. "That. What the hell's going on?"
"Seems like we're on the move again," Paul said. "Robbers must have left and they're firing up ol' No. 349."
Jim Peters turned his attention from his sketchbook to the windows. It was too dark to see clearly outside but it only took him a few moments to get the sense of car's movement. "We're rolling again all right," he said without emotion. "It's a hell of a thing though, we're rolling the wrong way."
After Happy and Obie watched the cars drift away, gathering momentum with each passing second, they hopped back on board the stationary train and entered the emigrant car. The stunned foreigners stared silently at the men as they moved quickly through the car.
"Smells worse'n cattle," Happy said when they left the second car. "Can't take nothin' from 'em cause they ain't got nothin'. And if they did have something worth takin', the smell of it would bring a posse down on us faster than you can say 'Miss Hearts eats tarts.'"
"Pay attention," Obie warned his partner as they opened the door to the second class car. "These fellows won't be so obligin'."
Obie's assumption was not entirely on the money. The cowboys, farmers, and miners were a subdued lot thanks to the sawed off shotgun Nathaniel Houston was holding on them. A single blast of buckshot from his weapon could cut a man in half. The passengers knew it and the pile of weapons at Houston's feet bore testimony to that fact.
Houston had his lean frame propped negligently in the forward doorway of the car, as if he were bored with the proceedings rather than impatient. Only his darting black eyes indicated his watchfulness. He pinned Happy and Obie with his hard glance when they entered the car. It was enough to let them know they had taken too long.
"Complications," Happy said, gathering up the collected weapons. He threw them out an open window on the cliffside of the car. When he was done he tipped his hat in a mocking salute to the passengers and bid them good evening.
Covering Happy and Obie's back, Houston didn't lower his weapon until they were out of the car. "What complications?" he asked in a low, sibilant voice. He handed Obie the shotgun and took up the younger man's carbine.
"Reporters. The Chronicle's had four cars attached to this train."
"Had?"
Happy nodded. "Obie and me took care of 'em."
Houston didn't say anything for a moment. He pulled his hat lower on his forehead, hiding the shock of blond hair that had fallen across his brow. "All right."
"All but one," Obie amended. "There's still one of 'em somewhere on the train. There was an empty chair at the poker table."
Just like every member of his gang, the lower half of Houston's face was covered with a kerchief. Still, the movement of his chin was evident as he jerked his head in the direction of the second-class car. "One of them?" he asked.
"Not likely," Obie said.
"First class, then," Houston said. "Let's go."
* * *
Drew Beaumont was amused. He hadn't meant to be. He thought that what he really wanted was to be back at the poker table with his fellow staffers. As things turned out, first class was proving to be vastly entertaining. Michael Dennehy was making a spectacle of herself and Drew always found that good for a laugh. In this case he thought he may be able to get thirty dollars out of it as well.
The fact that the train had stopped was a minor annoyance. Drew didn't give it another thought after he realized it meant a longer card game and therefore a better chance of recouping his losses. He had finally met up with Michael as she was leaving the emigrant car on her way to find the doctor in first class. When she mentioned her mission to Drew he saw his chance and bet her thirty dollars she couldn't get the good doctor to move from first class comfort to the malodorous emigrant car. It was not the sort of challenge Michael was likely to refuse.
Drew covered his mouth with his hand to hide his self-satisfied grin. Michael was finding the doctor to be unsympathetic. She had already plucked both pencils from her hair and had broken the tip of one while twisting it in her hand. Embarrassed by her badly concealed impatience, Michael had thrust the other pencil in the pocket of her duster. Drew could see her hand working spasmodically around it while she tried to reason with the doctor.
"It won't take more than a few minutes of your time," Michael said, trying a different approach. "I can't think that I've made myself clear as to how much Hannah Gruber needs your attention."
Thomas Gaines avoided looking Michael in the eye. He remained sitting with his newspaper opened in front of him. He shook the pages again, hoping to remind her that she was interrupting.