Flying Eagle

by Tim Champlin

  “First and only impression. Probably never see him again.”

  Casey wiped his mustache with the napkin. “Guess I’d better be getting back to the boardinghouse to see if I have a message waiting for me.” He belied his eagerness by pouring himself another cup of coffee from the pot on the table. The late morning sun flooded the snow-white linen tablecloth between them, glinting off the silverware. In the few seconds of ensuing silence, the clinking of glassware and the murmur of other voices drifted to their ears from the few other patrons.

  A few minutes later they paid their bill and walked outside.

  “I’ll see you in two weeks,” Jay said, shaking hands with Fred. “And I want to hear that you’ve solved this disappearance case when I get back,” he added with a grin.

  “I’ll have it cleaned up by then,” Casey assured him as they went their separate ways.

  But, if Jay had known what he would encounter before their paths crossed again, he might very well have gone to Wells Fargo and resigned on the spot.

  Chapter Three

  Whenever Jay left on one of his Chicago trips, he always delayed until the last possible minute, reluctant to leave the familiar surroundings of San Francisco, the city he had come to love. He missed his friends and the social activities. But once he had locked himself into his self-imposed prison of the Wells Fargo Express Car on the eastbound Central Pacific and cut his ties, temporarily, with San Francisco, he was calm. But tearing himself away each time was a real conflict.

  Finally, at five o’clock that afternoon, he tossed his bag, containing his extra clothes, through the open door of the express car and vaulted up after it, disdaining to use the steps into the end door of the wooden car. Once inside, he left the big side door open to admit plenty of air and light. He stowed his bag under his built-in bunk against the opposite wall, then went through a familiar routine of checking the short, double-barrelled shotgun to be sure it was loaded before replacing it in its wooden rack. Under the rack was a small box with a hinged lid, which contained cleaning gear for the gun, some rags, and a can of oil, along with two dozen twelve-gauge shells and an equal number of shells with slugs. None of the ammunition had been used since Jay had been making this run. He knew it would probably keep almost indefinitely, but the thought went through his mind as he dropped the lid and fastened it in place, that it was about time to replace it with fresh shells, just in case. Since Wells Fargo had taken to the rails, the number of robberies had dropped off dramatically. Holdups were still frequent events on the stagecoach runs from the mining towns of Nevada and California where no trains had reached, but attempted robberies of express cars were much rarer. He read with interest every account in the newspapers of these train robberies and talked to other messengers who had actually experienced them. Two of the attempts had been successful. One instance where the robbers had penetrated the car occurred when the car was dynamited from underneath, killing the messenger. The second happened when the express car had been separated from the train after the rails were blocked and the express car set afire, forcing the messenger to open the door.

  All in all, Jay McGraw began this trip feeling not only safe, but bored. He always brought plenty of reading material in the form of a book or two, and a copy of the Police Gazette or Harper's Weekly stuffed into his bag to pass the time and further his interrupted education. Two years of college had come to an abrupt halt when he ran out of money back in Iowa. But, if the truth were known, it was his love of athletics that also contributed to the end of his college career since he had begun to neglect his studies.

  On the train, he routinely looked over the boxes and bags stacked in one end of the car, the freight and mail that he would ride with for the few days it would take them to reach Chicago. But what he was really assigned to guard was the famous Wells Fargo treasure box that had been the object of so many highwaymen over the past thirty years. He went to the open side door to take delivery of this box as two armed guards carried it up the platform and lifted it up to him. It was relatively small, measuring two feet by one foot by one foot, made of wood bound with iron straps, and secured with a large padlock. The box was painted green with WELLS FARGO & CO. in white lettering on one side.

  “Not as heavy this time,” Jay commented as he grabbed one end and slid the box inside.

  “Have a good trip, McGraw,” one of the guards said, handing him a large ring containing all the keys to the inside door locks on the car as well as that of the padlock on the treasure box. The old guard sauntered off without another word. It did not take the brass plate affixed to the front of their railroad caps to identify them as Wells Fargo men. Their seamed, weathered faces and white hair marked them as men who had survived many years as shotgun messengers on coaches in the far-flung reaches of the company’s network in the West. They had simply grown too old to be effective, but they still needed employment. The company had rewarded their faithful service by giving them this light, relatively safe duty to perform as long as their eyes were clear and their hands still steady. The men did security duty at the Wells Fargo office next to the Oakland depot, a responsible, but less strenuous and dangerous job.

  Jay swung the box inside the car and slid it against the wall. He would soon transfer its contents to the iron safe. Then, with one last look around at the Oakland platform, where a few stragglers were running for the passenger coaches, he slid the big door closed and locked it from the inside.

  Two blasts on the steam whistle were followed by a muffled announcement from the conductor. He waited a minute until the train started with a jolt before lighting the coal-oil lamp that hung from the ceiling in the center of the car. The warm yellow glow spread through the car, dispelling the gloom. Some light found its way in through a series of small skylights running the length of the car on either side of a narrow, raised walkway on the roof. The only additional light came through the iron-barred windows in each sliding side door. The bottom of the glass in these windows was even with the top of his head. There was also a small, barred window in the door at each end of the car. For reading and close paperwork, a smaller lamp was clamped into a wall sconce beside his desk near the head of his bunk. He lifted the chimney and struck a match to the lamp. Then he adjusted the wick to a steady brightness before sliding open the small, roll-top desk. Instantly, he smelled the aroma of roast beef.

  “Ah, she did it again,” he muttered to himself, carefully removing the linen napkin and the inverted pie plate that covered another tin plate piled high with slices of roast beef and potatoes smothered in gravy, boiled carrots, and a thick wedge of cornbread with butter. A knife and fork were rolled up in another napkin beside the plate. On a torn, brown piece of wrapping paper was penciled the single word, “Nancy.” When she first started leaving him meals to see him off on his trips, she had written him a short note, but lately she had simply signed her name. Nancy Fultz, a working girl from a poor family, waited tables in the cafe adjacent to the depot, where Jay had taken his meals often before boarding for his trips, and frequently upon his return. Of late he had taken to crossing on the last ferry he could get before his departure, preferring to spend as much time as possible in San Francisco before he had to go. Nancy’s heart was as big as the helpings she served him on the sly. In appreciation, he always paid her even more than the meal was worth. He found her charming and personable and had taken to including her in his circle of friends in San Francisco, where her wit and sense of humor had quickly made her very popular.

  He stripped off his jacket and black pillbox railroad cap and hung them on a peg, then sat down to eat while the food was still hot. His holstered gun bumped the arm of the captain’s chair and he briefly considered, then rejected, the idea of hanging up his gunbelt also. He had formed the habit of keeping his revolver with him all the time when he was on duty, except when sleeping, and then it was within reach beside his bunk. This weapon was his personal revolver—a pearl-handled, nickel-plated, .38-caliber, double-action Colt Lightning. He was an
excellent shot with it, and it had become part of him since he carried it constantly on the job. The weapon had been given to him more than two years before by the father of a girl he had rescued from Apaches in the Arizona Territory. Many Wells Fargo messengers carried Lightnings, so the company had had no objections to his using his own weapon. Even with five chambers loaded, it was much lighter than a big .45.

  Jay concentrated on eating his meal as the express rolled east into the darkness of the Central Valley toward Sacramento. After he finished, he washed his dish at the end of the car where he pumped water from a barrel into a tin basin. Then he pumped himself a good drink of water.

  He lugged the Wells Fargo chest over to the four-foot-high iron safe. He spun the dial of the lock left, then right, then left again according to a combination he’d memorized. Grabbing the handle, he gave a twist and the door opened with a dull, metallic “clunk.” Then he selected a key from the ring and opened the padlock of the treasure box. The box contained a heavy leather pouch that Jay presumed contained gold coins, judging from the feel of it. There was a thick, manila envelope, sealed with sealing wax, some stacks of bonds, and bound bundles of greenbacks in denominations of twenties, fifties and hundreds. There was also a lightweight bamboo tube about six inches long by about two inches in diameter. The tube was wrapped in brown paper and had a name and address written on it. It could’ve contained anything from a rolled scroll to precious gems. Jay shoved it into the big safe with the cash, bonds, and leather bag, closed and locked the door, and spun the dial.

  He grunted as he stood up from a squatting position, feeling the rush of blood back into his muscular legs. He heard the wail of the steam whistle as it blew for a crossing or some small town. But the train never slacked speed and his enclosed world rocked and jerked and bumped into the darkness.

  Flopping down on his bunk, he kicked off his shoes and reached into his bag for a book. But, after only two pages of the novel, his eyes began to get heavy. The rocking motion and the rapid clicking of the wheels over the rail joints acted as a soporific on him. He forced himself awake and tried to concentrate on his book. It was too early to go to sleep. But after an hour he gave up. “Don’t even remember what I’ve read,” he muttered to himself, yawning mightily and putting the book under his bunk. He unhooked his Elgin watch and put it in his shoe, unstrapped his gunbelt and slid it under his bunk near his head. Then he reached up and turned down the lamp to a low glow. Ten minutes later he was rolled in his blankets and asleep.

  Chapter Four

  Usually, by the second day out, Jay was toughened up to the trip. And this time was no exception. By the morning of the second day they had put the major mountain ranges behind them, with the help of a second locomotive on the steep grades of the Sierras. The train these two iron horses were hauling consisted of the Wells Fargo express car that was also carrying the mail this trip, followed by two passenger coaches, a Pullman, a flatcar, and the caboose. Tied down on the flatcar, with wheels firmly chocked, were two wagons, fully loaded and covered with canvas.

  The express car was equipped with a potbellied stove at the end opposite Jay’s bunk, its pipe protruding through the roof. But, even though these early autumn nights in the mountains had been cold, Jay had chosen not to use it. They had crossed the high desert of northern Nevada and Utah and had chugged and panted their way through the cuts and grades of the Wasatch Range, east of Salt Lake City. Since the train carried no dining car, they had stopped for a forty-minute lunch break at Rock Springs, Wyoming Territory.

  Jay consumed an antelope steak and potatoes at the depot restaurant. As he came back out, a toothpick between his teeth, a chill, northwest wind penetrated the white cotton shirt he wore. He glanced at the sky. Dark, ragged clouds were scudding overhead. The conductor was calling for everyone to board and the passengers were hurrying to reclaim their seats. Far out over the plain, Jay saw a formation of a flight of wild ducks, heading south with a strong tailwind. Above the wind, he thought he could even hear their faint cries. He watched, fascinated, until they blended into the darkened sky to the southeast. Then he hopped the forward end platform of his car and let himself in with his key, locking the door behind him.

  Dropping into the chair at his desk, he sighed and picked up a magazine. How often he wished he could ride the cupola of the caboose like the conductor did and, at least, get a good view of the passing countryside. Even on a dreary day like this, it would be better than being locked up where he could see nothing. When the train was moving, he often let himself out onto the rear platform of his car and stood, hanging onto the iron railing, breathing the air, tainted with smoke and ash from the locomotive, and felt the welcome wind whipping his face. He was not a person who could stand to be indoors most of the time. It would be next to impossible for him to work in an office every day, especially where he had to wear a coat and tie and answer to some hard-nosed boss. Occasionally, he even walked back through the passenger coaches, not only for the exercise, but also to get a look at the passengers. When he had done this the previous day he had seen a face he recognized, although it took him a few minutes to remember the man after he had passed on down the aisle and exited the back of the coach. It was Fletcher Hall, the aeronaut. Now, as he sat staring blankly at the magazine page, he wondered what that arrogant individual was doing on his train. Without realizing it, Jay had taken to assuming a possessive air about this train. Any train he rode as Wells Fargo messenger, he thought of as his , even though he had responsibility for only one car and its contents. This express was bound for Chicago with only short stops along the way, so Jay had to assume the man was returning to the East or Middle West with his gas balloon, carboys of acid, wooden kegs of iron filings, and other equipment. In fact, Jay suddenly realized, the two wagons on the flatcar must contain the deflated gas envelope, the lines, and all the paraphernalia needed to get one of those big gasbags aloft and put on a show such as the one he had seen in San Francisco. He wondered if the man had any other occupation besides ballooning. If not, it seemed like a rather precarious existence. He made a mental note to seek the man out to satisfy his curiosity before this trip was over.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the noise of a small box falling over in the far end of the car behind him. He thought he had checked those stacks of freight earlier. But, with the jarring and the constant rocking of the car, something had apparently jiggled loose.

  He got up and walked back to the piled boxes and bags. He had to squeeze between some heavy crates and the wall of the car. Just as he emerged into an open space behind, he caught a quick movement out of the corner of his eye. His heart leapt into his throat and his hand was on the butt of his Colt. He stood still, looking carefully around, but saw nothing. Had an animal somehow gotten in here—a rat, maybe? It was entirely possible. The thought that he had been sleeping in a closed car with a big rat sent a shiver up his spine. He pulled his Lightning and stepped softly around the next stack of barrels and boxes. The figure of a man sprang out almost from under his feet. Jay’s throat constricted as he leapt back, his gun going off with a roar as he involuntarily squeezed the trigger.

  “Don’t shoot, mister. I give up!” the man cried, dropping his knife with a clatter and backing away, his hands raised.

  Jay recovered quickly from his sudden fright and brought the pistol down level once more, trying to keep his hand from shaking. He was glad his first shot had gone wild into the wall. The weasel-like face of the man opposite him looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. The man was short, thin and wiry, with a narrow face that was covered with a stubble of black beard. Jay gazed at him for a few moments and neither of them spoke. Now that he had him, what was he to do next?

  “Get out from behind there and move up to the other end,” Jay finally ordered, his own voice sounding strange. He jabbed his gun in the direction he wanted the man to go. As the slight figure turned his back to obey, Jay stooped quickly to retrieve the dirk the man had dropped and shoved it under
his belt.

  “Sit there.” He motioned to the only chair in the car. The man collapsed into the captain’s chair by the desk like a loose sack of bones, and Jay noticed the pinched look of his cheeks, as if he were half-starved. Jay put a foot up on the endboard of the bunk and leaned his elbows on his knee, the Colt still steady.

  “Okay, who are you and what are you doing here?”

  There was no reply. Fear had been replaced by hopelessness and defeat. The man refused to meet Jay’s hard stare. His furtive eyes were darting about, as if looking for some avenue of escape. Then he fixed his gaze above Jay’s head at the window. Jay noted the high rock wall of Burning Rock Cut sliding past the opposite side door window. They were in the Bitter Creek Valley.

  “Give me some reason why I shouldn’t shoot you,” Jay said, having no intention of injuring the intruder, but trying to force a reply.

  The man still hesitated to speak. “Gimme a drink o’ water,” he finally croaked.

  Jay went to the water barrel and pumped a tin cup full of water while keeping his eyes on his captive.

  The man gulped down the water greedily, slopping some of it down the front of his sack coat in his haste. “More!” he gasped, holding out the cup with both hands.

  Jay refilled the cup and the man drained it again. Jay took the cup as the man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Jay waited. The man did not speak so he did.

  “This train’s moving, we’re in the middle of the Wyoming Territory, and this car’s locked, so there’s no place for you to go. Besides, I’m holding a loaded gun on you, so you’d better start giving me some information.”

  The stranger nodded his head dejectedly. “I stowed aboard just before the train left Oakland,” he muttered.

  “Speak up. I can’t hear you. Have you been in this car all this time?”