Tough Justice

by Colin Bainbridge

  Trying to make as little noise as possible, he climbed over the platform rail of Mossman’s coach. A lantern was hanging outside the door, casting a warm glow on the stained glass window. Trying to keep out of the radius of its light, he moved to the door and drew his six-gun. He waited for a moment, straining his ears to catch any sound from inside. Hearing nothing, he braced himself and then swung his boot at the door. It flew open and he sprang inside. There was a figure sitting in the semi-darkness. He looked up with a startled expression and then sank back in his chair.

  ‘Mossman!’ Lowell snapped.

  The tall figure with the lank grey locks seemed to have gathered his composure.

  ‘I am Mossman,’ he said. ‘But who are you?’

  ‘The name’s Lowell, Burt Lowell.’

  He had spoken the name very deliberately, but if Mossman was surprised or startled he didn’t show it.

  ‘Well, Mr Lowell, I think it only fair to warn you that I have a number of men at my command in the other carriage. I have no idea what your game is, but I can assure you, you have no chance of getting away with anything.’

  Lowell’s eyes flickered over the carriage, taking in the plush, elaborate fittings.

  ‘On the contrary, I think you might have a very good idea,’ he said.

  Mossman’s eyes, when he looked at Lowell, were blank.

  ‘Why would you think that?’ he said.

  ‘Because you’ve been tryin’ to kill me.’

  ‘Trying to kill you? I don’t know who you are or what this is about, but I can assure you, if I had reason for wanting to kill you, you would be dead.’

  Lowell continued looking about the railroad car.

  ‘Is this why you did it?’ he said. ‘Is this what it was all for? It’s nice, but it doesn’t really amount to very much.’

  Mossman’s mouth opened and he uttered a hollow laugh.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said, ‘but it’s more than you’ll ever have.’

  ‘I guess that depends on what you’re lookin’ for.’

  ‘You forget,’ Mossman hissed, ‘I own the entire railroad company and a lot more besides.’

  Lowell grinned. Mossman sat forward and his piping voice, when he spoke, had risen a notch.

  ‘I’d advise you to put that gun down and leave,’ he said.

  ‘I wonder how you got your hands on the railroad,’ Lowell said. ‘Was it the same way you acquired the stagecoach company and the Half-Block M?’

  ‘What business is that of yours?’

  ‘I know you started the fire that burned down Buckhorn. I should. I was marshal there at the time.’

  ‘You were a fool. I gave you due warning.’

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t know me.’

  ‘You’re still a fool. You come bursting in on me and think you can intimidate me. You throw around wild accusations and question my business activities. Who the hell do you think you are?’

  ‘I think we’ve already established that you know who I am.’ Lowell had a sudden inspiration. ‘As for wild accusations,’ he said, ‘I think you should know that I’m in possession of all the legal papers that were formerly in Dinsdale’s safekeeping. Dinsdale, the attorney-at-law back in Granton.’

  He looked for a reaction and this time there was one. Mossman’s face visibly blanched. It was a long shot, but it had found its mark. He felt pretty certain that, though it might take time and someone with real legal skills to discover it, there would be enough evidence among those papers to destroy Mossman.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Mossman shrilled.

  Lowell hadn’t registered the fact that the conversation had risen in tone. In fact, now that he had proven to his satisfaction that his suspicions about Mossman were true, he felt somewhat at a loss as to how to proceed. Since learning that Mossman had left on his private train, he had been acting more or less from instinct. The whole situation seemed strangely unreal. Although Mossman had lost something of his savoir faire, he didn’t appear to be unduly alarmed by Lowell or his six-gun. Was he being brave? Lowell suspected that it was more to do with his overweening arrogance. He had come to consider himself outside the common run – immune and invincible.

  Mossman made to get to his feet and at the same moment Lowell heard a sound of movement coming from the roof of the train. He glanced up and for the first time noticed a skylight across which a dark shadow had fallen. In the same instant that he knew there was somebody on the roof he squeezed the trigger of his six-gun. The glass shattered and there was a loud scream. He heard a noise behind him and swinging round, fired again through the open door of the carriage. He heard an almost plaintive moan and then a thud as somebody collapsed on the outside platform of the car. Lowell sprang to the door and as the man attempted to rise, swung his boot and caught him on the tip of his chin. He heard a snap and the man went limp. He was under attack and he didn’t know how many of them there were. As stabs of flame lit the night and lead flew past, he took a leaf from the rooftop gunman’s book and, climbing on to the rail, heaved himself up to the roof of the train. Bullets were whining and singing as they ricocheted from the metal of the locomotive. A shot from close below whistled past his cheek. He looked down and in the light of the rear carriage window he had a clear view of two men by the side of the track. Before either of them could fire again, he let loose with his six-gun. One man fell and the other staggered back as his own gun exploded harmlessly into the ground. Lowell fired again and the man collapsed, disappearing from his line of vision.

  The sequence of shots was followed by silence. Lowell lay along the roof of the train, listening for any tell-tale sounds which might give away the presence of more attackers. He had seen six of Mossman’s men through the window of the train and he had accounted for four of them. There might have been more, but he didn’t think so. The man he had shot through the skylight lay on his back nearby, his empty eyes staring at the heavens. Lowell jammed slugs into the chamber of his gun and then, reaching out with his foot, pushed the corpse over the side of the train. It fell with a dull thump and as Lowell had hoped, one of the gunnies opened fire. This time it came from inside the car and Lowell was pretty sure that those of Mossman’s guards who remained were still in there. If so, he might be able to take them by surprise if he assumed the initiative.

  Slowly, he raised himself up and had just begun to move when there was a blinding flash of light and the loud report of a rifle. He felt a searing pain in his leg as the blast sent him toppling over the side of the train. For what seemed a long period of time he felt himself falling through space till his fall was arrested by a savage jolt and for a moment he lay winded and semi-conscious. He was sufficiently aware of the gravity of his situation, however, to roll underneath the train. As he did so a pair of legs appeared on the opposite side. He couldn’t afford to take the slightest chance so he raised his gun and blasted away. There was a howl of anguish and the man fell. His head appeared on a level with Lowell’s, twisted in agony. His rifle lay just beyond and they both reached out to take it. Lowell, however, was restricted by the train’s under-carriage and the wounded man’s hand got to it first. Grimacing with pain, he strove to bring it round. Lowell’s leg was hurting but the first initial shock of pain had ceased and he was still mobile. Rolling away, he got clear just as the rifle exploded.

  The shot whined, ricocheting from a wheel, and as the man fired again, Lowell hobbled round the end of the train and came up behind him. The man lay like a snake with its back broken, at his mercy. He tried in vain to raise the rifle and looked up at him with pleading eyes. Lowell stamped on his hand to release the man’s grip and picked up the rifle. He stood panting for a few moments, listening. He could hear sounds of movement near the engine and began to move away towards the back of the train. He rounded the carriage and stood erect, supporting himself against it. How many of the gunnies were left? Only one? He peered cautiously round the side of the car but could see nothing. The sound of voices reached his ears an
d he tried to ascertain how many people were involved. Then one of the voices rose higher and he recognized the thin tones of Mossman.

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ he was shouting, ‘you don’t know where he is?’

  Another voice murmured something in reply and then Mossman’s whining vibrato shrilled again.

  ‘He can’t be far! Go and find him!’

  The man Lowell had shot in the leg lay moaning, adding his sounds to those of the others. Lowell stepped back and tried to think. It was hard to keep a clear head. Should he try and make it to his horse? The night had grown dark as clouds scudded overhead. The track was veiled in shadow. He would probably have been able to make it if it wasn’t for his damaged leg. He looked over the silent, empty prairie and thought he heard a distant rumble. Sounds carried far. It could be a herd of buffalo. The sound faded and he thought he must have been mistaken. He couldn’t afford to give it any attention because there was at least one more gunnie left.

  He listened for footsteps but his ears only picked up the rumbling sound again. He hadn’t been mistaken. Something was causing it. Could it be horsemen? Who would be riding at that time of night? If it was caused by horsemen, there must be a sizeable group of them. Suddenly he saw a point of light. Despite his perilous situation, he watched in a kind of fascination as it grew and got nearer, like the eye of some ravening Cyclops.

  He still couldn’t work out what it was but as the rail beneath his feet began to vibrate he suddenly realized it was a train. The rumbling swelled to a roar and he could see sparks fly from its smokestack. It drew on, and as it got closer he perceived that it comprised only an engine with its caboose. At the same moment two figures emerged from the side of the car behind which he was pressed. He raised the rifle to take a shot but decided against it. The night was too dark and the likely outcome would simply be to give his position away. He lowered the weapon and shrank further into the frame of the carriage as the two men carried on moving till they were soon lost to sight. Lowell realized he was in a real fix. One of the figures was Mossman and the train could only be carrying more of his men.

  The engine was almost upon him now and the noise it made resounded like thunder. A light appeared and began to move backward and forward. It was Mossman waving a lantern. Suddenly Lowell could see his lank shape outlined against the beam thrown by the headlights of the train. Involuntarily, he started forward. What was Mossman doing? Lowell could not see clearly, but he seemed to have stepped on the track right in the path of the train.

  The engine plunged on and then, even above its deafening roar, Lowell heard a tremendous scream which seemed to split the night and sent a shiver of dread down his spine. The light of the lantern disappeared. There was a loud hissing of steam and the screech of iron upon iron as the engine driver applied the brakes. Sparks flew as the engine rolled and rattled and slid past the siding. Lowell watched in stunned horror. What had Mossman been thinking of? He could only assume he had meant to send a signal to the driver to stop, but what had taken possession of him to take such a risk? He had probably grown desperate as the number of his guards depleted. Whatever the answer, Mossman was now just a mangled, squashed piece of blood and bone on the track. What had happened to the other man?

  The engine slowed at last and then came to a grinding halt. Lowell was jerked back to life. At any moment Mossman’s men were about to pile out of the caboose. He hefted the rifle, ready to sell his life dearly, and leaned out again to see what was happening. Men were getting out of the caboose and moving cautiously towards Mossman’s train. It was hard to make things out but something about them puzzled him. He had expected them to come out whooping and shouting, looking for trouble. These men were acting in just the opposite fashion, being very circumspect. Did they realize what had happened? They came closer, four of them, and then suddenly his heart thumped and a wave of relief began to flow over him. He recognized them now. They weren’t more of Mossman’s gunslicks. It was Fuller, Eliot and Conrad, and the person with them, who it took a few more moments for him to recognize, was the oldster, Howson.

  Stepping out into the open, Lowell waved his arms and shouted, ‘It’s me, Lowell! Hell, I’m sure glad to see you boys!’

  By way of reply a gunshot rang out behind him and a bullet thudded into the wood of the rail car near his head. It was met by a hail of fire from Fuller and Conrad. There was the sound of a groan as someone hit the ground. He knew he had been careless to ignore the last gunman. He also knew now what had become of him. He limped forward, throwing the rifle aside, as Eliot came to his assistance.

  ‘Are you hit bad?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He would have collapsed but Eliot and Howson between them lowered him to the ground.

  ‘Are there any more of the varmints?’ Fuller called.

  ‘I don’t think so, but you’d better check out the train.’

  While Fuller and Conrad were carrying out a search of the train, Eliot was doing the best he could to treat Lowell’s injury. As Lowell had surmised, it was a flesh wound. A bullet had gone through his calf. He had lost a considerable amount of blood but Eliot effectively stemmed the flow, using their bandanas as a temporary bandage and tourniquet.

  ‘This seems familiar,’ he commented. ‘Man, you’re pushin’ your luck.’

  Just as he was finishing, Fuller and Conrad returned.

  ‘You’re a damn fool,’ Fuller said. ‘You should have took us along with you in the first place.’

  Lowell summoned up a grin. ‘I guess you’re right,’ he said, ‘but then it was kinda personal.’ He lay back, looking up into their faces. ‘Oh yes. By the way, since when did any of you learn to drive a train?’

  Fuller pointed to Howson. ‘He’s your man,’ he said. ‘Seems like he’s been an engineer in his time.’

  Just then the engine they had come in gave a loud noise and a fresh burst of steam began to hiss and boil.

  ‘Leastways, that’s what he says.’

  Howson spat a gob of brown liquid through his front teeth.

  ‘I got you here, didn’t I? Me and that old engine between us.’

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ Lowell said. ‘Things weren’t lookin’ too good there for a while.’

  Fuller glanced dubiously at Howson and then at the engine. ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘You and that loco between you have got to get us all back again yet.’

  Lowell lay on the floor of the caboose smoking a cigarette. Conrad had taken charge of his horse and was riding it back to Shoshone Flats. Beside him, Fuller sat with his back to the wall while, at a little distance, the injured gunslick sprawled unconscious, still clutching a bottle of medicine in his hand. It was something Howson had produced and it contained rot-gut whiskey laced with morphine. The oldster himself was grappling with the engine, with Eliot’s help. As it rattled along the track, the whole contraption shook and heaved. Every now and then it gave a lurch and smoke and steam found its way through the cracks and crevices of the car. Ahead of the heaving engine the headlights, like a scimitar, sliced through the darkness with their sharp beam of light.

  ‘I got everythin’ to thank you boys for,’ Lowell said.

  ‘You certainly cut it fine this time,’ Fuller replied.

  ‘I don’t mean just that. No, it’s somethin’ more. I don’t know how to put it. I feel as though somethin’s changed. I feel kinda different. Whatever it is, I owe it to you all.’

  ‘You’ve been alone too long,’ Fuller replied. ‘It ain’t good for a man.’

  Lowell took a pull on his cigarette. ‘How did you find out I’d gone after Mossman?’

  ‘One of the boys, Tremlow, saw you talkin’ with Howson. When you suddenly shot out of that saloon, he figured there was somethin’ up and had a word with the oldster. Hell, you’ve been makin’ a regular habit of landin’ yourself in trouble.’

  ‘And you’ve all been makin’ a habit of gettin’ me out of it again.’

  Fuller seemed to consider the matt
er. ‘Yeah,’ he concluded, ‘I guess there’s a kind of pattern. It was Howson’s idea to take the old engine. He reckoned it would save a lot of time, but the trouble it took to get it goin’, I’m not so sure. I figure he never had any liking for Mossman either.’

  Lowell hesitated for a moment. ‘What about Lorna?’ he said, trying to make the question sound neutral.

  ‘She’s fine. Tremlow rode with her back to the camp.’

  ‘I expect she’ll be worried.’

  Fuller gave him a quizzical look. ‘Yeah, I guess so. We told her a story but I suppose she’ll see right through it.’

  There was another lurch and then the train continued its way.

  ‘You’re welcome to stay at the Long Rail just as long as you want,’ Fuller said. ‘I take it you weren’t intendin’ goin’ back to that ghost town?’

  Lowell shook his head. ‘Thanks,’ he replied, ‘I’ll take you up on that offer.’

  ‘Welcome back,’ Fuller said. Lowell wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but it sounded good. ‘Once we’re back at Shoshone Flats, I figure takin’ a day or two to rest up and let the boys blow their money, if they haven’t done it already. Then we’ll start headin’ back for the Long Rail. One way and another, it’s been quite a ride.’

  Lowell took another drag of the cigarette and very gingerly stretched his injured leg.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, taking up Fuller’s own expression. ‘It’ll be good to be back again.’