by Tony Masero
“Open the door,” he said to Zack, indicating the carriage door onto the tracks.
“You going to throw them out?” asked Zack.
“You’re damned right I am,” snapped Long. “Now get it done before the conductor comes along.”
Dutifully, Zack pushed open the door and howling, cinder tainted smoke blew in with a rush as Long hauled the heavy man to the opening. Gable was limply waving his hands in protest as Long heaved him into a sitting position and then booted him out into the darkness beyond.
“Now that gal,” he said turning to the woman, who was drawing herself slowly upright. She struggled weakly as Long enclosed her in his strong arms.
“Put me down, you bastard!” she cried suddenly as he lifted her from her feet, her dainty boots kicking at air. She squirmed in his grasp and lashed out with her loaded gloves but Long held her tight and carried her bodily to the doorway.
“Can we do this to a lady?” Zack asked doubtfully as the wind whipped his hair into his eyes.
“This ain’t no lady, this bitch would eat you alive,” with that Long threw her forward through the opening and she gave a long scream that soon vanished from hearing in the roar of the train.
“Hell!” said Long, reaching out and bringing the door closed with a grin. “I guess that was almost a close call but not that close.”
“I owe you an apology, Long,” said Zack, looking down at the dagger still clasped in his hand. “It seems you were right, it appears we are in great danger after all.”
“These boys don’t fool around, Cap’n. They mean to play for keeps. And now I’m guessing we’re going to need some more help on this little foray of ours.”
Chapter Seven
The men were waiting for them at the Chicago Passenger Terminal.
Long had telegraphed ahead from the stopover at Pittsburgh and the two he had called had promptly made their way to the meeting place during the twenty-four hours before the train pulled in.
The passenger station was bursting with travelers as Chicago was one of the largest stations on the line and it was the great terminus where trains from the Pacific west met those of the east. Zack looked around in awe at the mixture of people pressing around inside the vast iron-beamed cavernous interior of the station.
Smoke and hissing steam filled with the taint of hot oil and blazing fireboxes came from cowcatcher fronted locomotives and billowed into the air of the high curved roof. It joined with the general echoing and noisy row of called farewells and happy greetings from the milling crowd below. He saw solemn looking Indians dressed in feathered bonnets and blankets standing as still as posts in the swirling crowd and men down from the mountains in their dirty buckskins carrying long rifles and tracking slowly through the press as if they had all the time in the world. All them rubbing shoulders with hundreds of harried looking and rushing people more conventionally dressed in top hats and crinoline lined dresses.
Porters and conductors bawled at the tops of their voices as they tried to be heard over the general mayhem. Great piles of luggage stood awaiting transport where young boys in baseball outfits played a spontaneous game of ball and clambered over the trunks like screaming monkeys. It was amongst these mountains of baggage that they found their new associates lounging passively.
“Boys,” said Long, taking each by the hand in turn. “This here is Captain Zachary Endeavor. He’s the parcel we have to deliver safe and sound.”
The two were very different in appearance. Chad Howler was a bull of a Texan, barrel chested and brawny with a solid, rock-like face that managed a half-smile as Zack shook his hand. A hand so broad that it dwarfed Zack’s and enclosed him in a crushing grip.
“Howdy, Cap,” he said in a slow drawl. “Real nice to meet you.”
The other was more taciturn and Zack thought that he probably had a fair share of Indian blood coursing in his veins. Salem Twist was a lean and tanned figure, with seal-like black hair that ran down long over his shoulders, he wore beads at his throat and a fringed leather jacket where Zack could see the scabbard of a heavy Bowie knife poking from beneath the hem. He nodded slowly at Zack in silent greeting.
“We call him ‘Lemon’,” explained Chad with a grin. “He don’t say much but he’s sharp as citrus with that blade there.”
“We have a connection to make,” Zack said, looking at his pocket watch. “We need to find the platform for the Illinois Central bound for St. Louis.”
“Let’s get to it then,” said Chad decisively, lifting a saddle and saddlebags from amongst the piled luggage.
Lemon took up nothing more than a rolled blanket enclosing a rifle and the four of them struggled through the crowd to find the train.
“Two good men,” explained Long, as they walked ahead. “I’ve worked with them both before and you can trust they’ll do a good job.”
“Is Mister Twist a man of Indian origin?” asked Zack.
“He’s a breed. Half Cherokee I think, though I ain’t too sure on that as I never asked.”
“Best not too, I suppose,” said Zack, thinking of the half-breed’s dark brooding eyes.
“Just never thought of it,” shrugged Long. “Like I say, it ain’t the uniform….”
“Yes, it’s the man in it. I know,” interrupted Zack.
“You’re learning, Cap’n,” grinned Long.
“I think my attention improved a whole lot back there on the train,” Zack answered grimly.
“Hmm,” hummed Long appreciatively. “Nothing like a touch of reality to liven up the old attention glands.”
As they found their way to their carriage Zack was aware that things were changing inside himself. The social attitudes of the Boston lawyer were sliding from him as if he was sloughing a skin and he was aware that a certain coldness was reentering his system. It was a throwback; he knew it, a regeneration of an almost forgotten character. And he felt the icy hardness of indifference beginning to encase his soul again with something of dread. It was the warrior cloak he had worn back in the war. His fight with the woman in the train had reminded his unconscious mind of all he had been and done back then and it was rising to claim its proper place in his awareness. He shuddered at the thought but knew he must welcome the return. It was a question of survival, no more no less.
For a moment he considered Isabel. She flashed into his mind as a distant character, so far removed from bloody strife and out of place in this venture that it seemed improper to even consider her at such a time. He would try, he knew, to keep her presence safe in a part of his mind but for now she must be put aside as he confronted the dangers that may lay in wait.
They were settled in their seats, the wooden banks facing each other, when he asked the question.
“Do you think they will follow us aboard this train?” he asked.
“They’ll know by now that their last party never came through,” Long answered slowly as he considered the question. “It’s real hard to be sure if we’re overseen in these crowded conditions so impossible to say for sure. What do you think Lemon?” he asked the half-breed.
“They are here,” said the breed, looking out the window. It was the first words he had spoken and they were delivered sotto-voiced.
“Lemon feels things,” explained Chad. “He may not see them but he senses it. It’s an Indian thing.”
“So will they try something, do you think?”
“Maybe,” shrugged Long. “Be ready for anything.”
The train started out with a clanking jerk and Zack looked out of the window, watching each passing person on the platform with enhanced suspicion. He was determined not to be caught unawares again and he had taken his Colt from his bag and now kept it tucked in his waistband. It was uncomfortable though and he could see that Long had been right again and his clothing was not suitable and he had already determined to change things as soon as was practicable.
Thankfully though the journey down was uneventful and they reached the Missouri River and changed lines onto
the St. Louis and San Francisco railroad at St. Louis for the trip across Missouri. It was pleasant enough countryside passing by the window, mostly of a farming nature where the countryside was settled and Zack found he was relaxing as nothing untoward had happened and the green fields and forests they passed through carried with them a calming influence.
They had just pulled out of the small township of Lebanon and were crossing Leclede County when the first indications of danger arose. It was Lemon who stirred, he moved slightly from his normal seemingly comatose posture as if something had stirred him. He grunted and both Long and Chad looked up sharply.
“What is it?” asked Long, looking around the carriage, his hand on the butt of his revolver.
“Don’t know,” said Lemon. “Something.”
Zack was sitting on the window side of the seat next to Long and the round hole that appeared in the window six inches from his head startled him as splinters of glass flew in followed by a distant report. The three others acted instantly and Zack had never seen weapons appear in men’s hands so quickly.
A female passenger further down the carriage screamed. “Bandits!” she continued to repeat the cry as a barrage of rifle fire slammed into the carriage, shattering windows and splintering woodwork.
A beefy hand circled Zack’s neck and he was brusquely pushed down below the level of the window frame. He felt the weight of Chad’s stomach pressing against him as the gunman leaned across and knocked out the window glass with his pistol barrel.
“Best keep your head down, Cap,” he grunted. “We’ll handle this.”
There was no opportunity for Zack to answer as Chad began to release a stream of pistol fire through the shattered window. Zack could feel the Colt sticking awkwardly into his stomach and tried to wriggle out from under Chad to relieve the pressure and draw the weapon.
“Let me out of here!” he barked, sliding aside and finally getting the pistol clear. “Damn it, sir! You’re like to squash me to death under you.”
Chad dropped down as he reloaded and he laughed aloud. “Sure sorry about that, Cap. Guess I don’t know my own strength.”
“It isn’t your strength, mister. It’s that fat gut of yours that’s likely to do the damage.”
Chad looked at him reprovingly. “Me? Fat? Have you know that’s pure Texas muscle you feel there.”
Zack cocked the pistol and peered over the edge of the window frame. He could see eight riders, men with bandanas covering their faces riding parallel. Some were shooting rifles and others pistols as they chased alongside the train. Zack took aim and fired, he missed his target but could hear both Long and Lemon keeping up continuous firing from positions on each side of his seat.
“Right, I’m ready!” Chad called and reached across the frame to loose off.
“Reloading!” called Long as he sunk down to fill his cylinder.
Zack saw they acted as a team each covering the other so that a continuous rain of lead was kept winging in the direction of the attackers.
“That’s it,” said Chad, kneeling next to him. “Pace it out, Cap. You know, the old military way, first one wave, then the next as the first reloads.”
Zack nodded and picked a new target; he followed the rider’s lead and allowed him a fraction of leeway before pulling the trigger. The bandit spun sideways as if struck by a heavy bat, clutching his arm the wounded outlaw turned away and pulled out of the fight.
“Sweet shot!” called Long, now back in the fight. “We’ve got them side-on, so go for their pony’s.”
The rest of the carriage was in uproar as women screamed and sobbed in fear, babies cried and men shouted nervous directions to nobody in particular. Added to the crash of breaking glass and ricocheting bullets the noise was tremendous, not that Zack noticed it so much as he was concentrated on shooting down their attackers.
Soon the attack petered out and the riders pulled away, disappearing fast into the dense tree line running by the railroad track.
“They met more than they bargained for there,” growled Chad in satisfaction.
“Yeah,” agreed Long. “They didn’t expect that but they’ll know better next time.”
“How many you get, Lemon?” asked Chad with a teasing smile.
Lemon shook his head. “Not a one.”
“Well, Long got two that I saw and the Cap here winged one. Pretty good for an amateur.” He patted Zack on the shoulder.
The train pulled into Brush Creek, the next station along the line and the passengers were moved into the adjoining carriage that was unharmed and free of fallen glass. There was no town sheriff in Brush Creek but the porter who doubled as telegraph operator promised to pass word down the line to the nearest law officer.
“Not that it’ll do a whole heap of good,” snorted Long. “Those boys are to hell and gone by now.”
“You notice something?” said Chad.
“What’s that?” asked Long.
“It was only our carriage that took a hammering. None of the others got nary a pinhole. Those weren’t no regular train robbers, they were killers set to nail the Cap here.”
Long nodded in agreement. “That’s for certain. They mean to get you, Zachary. Looks to me like you’re on the right trail even if you don’t know nothing about it yet.”
The train had a schedule to keep and despite the bandit’s assault they were soon on the roll again and by nightfall they had changed trains once again onto the Atlantic and Pacific line and were entering Indian Territory. They slept whilst the train rolled on and it was the conductor who woke them at North Fork Town to make the connection for their ride down to Fort Worth. They crossed the Red River in the early hours and soon were arrived in the bustling frontier cow town.
~*~
It was here that Zack managed to change into some more suitable clothing; they had time so he found a hardware store and bought some rough wool-mix denims, boots and a white shirt with a string tie and silver boss. Long advised him on a holstered cartridge belt and a Remington .45 Long Colt. He kept his old cavalry hat minus the badge, partly out of affection and partly as it felt comfortably worn in, unlike his new store-bought clothes.
“Now we’re close,” said Long as they came out of the store and stood in the shade of the porch. “You’d best tell us how you want to handle things from now on.”
“It’s been arranged we’re to meet up here in town and James will take me on to his place in Dead River.”
“Whereabouts exactly you meeting up?”
“Some place called rather picturesquely, Hell’s Half Acre, apparently its some section of town around here.”
“Oh, my sweet Lord!” breathed Chad.
“What?” asked Zack. “You know it?”
“To be sure, everybody does. Apart from you it appears,” said Long. “It’s known by every damned outlaw, gunman, killer, cardsharp and whore from here to San Francisco. Boy, that is one cesspit. Nobody can clean it up. Ever since the railroad got here it’s been a red-light district busting with bars, dance halls and bawdy houses, it’s the biggest hellhole south of Dodge. Two and more acres of sin and corruption and he wants to meet you in there?”
“This can’t be right,” said Chad. “That’s just asking for trouble. Decent folk stay well clear of that place, every night there’s some knifing or shooting or other form of skullduggery.”
“Well, I’m supposed to meet up with him at a place called Mother Barns Hotel, now that doesn’t sound too dangerous, does it?”
Lemon snorted a laugh but said nothing; the other two just looked skywards.
“Mama Barns, my, my, I ain’t seen that shady lady for a spell. How about you?” Long asked Chad.
Chad laughed, “No, I thought she was dead. Last I heard she was down El Paso way, running a pleasure palace for some Mexican.”
“Looks like she got the word that this old town was making some money from the beef they hustle through to the rail head and moved up to service all them cowpokes loaded with pay after their
drive.”
They could hear the lowing of hundreds of steers coming clear across town from the stockyards as if to prove the worth of what Long said.
“Who could know that old man Chisholm would turn this place into such a money pit when he first cut trail up here,” Long went on.
“Well, “ said Chad. “At least we’ll get a decent steak in this burg.”
“Now that’s good thinking,” agreed Long. “Cap’n,” he said turning to Zack. “This’ll show you what a real steak looks like, not that namby-pamby hunk of skin they served us on that fancy train.”
“Longridge Golightly, as I live and breath,” said a deep voice from behind. “That ain’t you, is it?”
They turned around to see a rather ordinary looking twenty-eight year old, fine-featured man with thick curls of reddish-gold hair waved back over his ears. He was dressed in a suit and vest with a small silver bar and star pinned to his vest lapel and below that he sported an extravagantly long gold watch chain hung in a double loop from pocket to pocket. His eyes were clear blue and he wore a neat mustache over his lips and a small goatee under them. He also carried a silver plated cross-draw Colt in plain sight at his waist.
“Curly Jim,” grinned Long. “You old scoundrel. What you doing here?”
“They made me town marshal,” laughed Jim, taking Long’s hand. “Good to see you, old boy. Introduce me to your fellows here.”
“This here gentleman is rightly called Jim Stone,” said Long with a wave at the marshal. “They call him Curly Jim due to his hair but it all looks mighty neat just now, Jim.”
“Too hot down here to keep it over my collar,” Jim explained patiently.
Long did the introductions and told the marshal that they intended to make a foray into the red light district to meet up with a party at Mama Barns.
“Okay,” said Jim. “But keep your wits about you. Its mean down there, I’m locking up more than thirty bums a night, we get so much trouble. And stay away from the White Elephant saloon run by Luke Short, the ass is getting on my nerves right now and we’re heading for bust up, I can see it coming.”