by Tim Champlin
An affirmative nod.
“What’s your name?”
“Marvin Cutter.”
A flood of recognition broke over Jay as he saw before him the pickpocket Fred Casey had arrested in Golden Gate Park. The thief had escaped jail the night before the train left San Francisco.
“Aren’t you a little out of your territory? There’s nobody to steal from here, except me . . . and possibly Wells Fargo.” He jerked his head toward the safe.
“I just had to get out of the city. And this train seemed like a good way to get as far away as fast as possible.” He shrugged, his eyes downcast.
“I doubt if they’d have started a manhunt for a petty thief who managed to escape the city jail. As well as the police know you, they probably figure they could pick you up ’most anytime.”
“That’s not it.” Cutter shook his head averting his gaze.
“What, then? Did you pull off some big robbery just before you jumped the train?”
Again a negative shake of the head. “I can’t say.”
“Well, no matter. I’ll let the law at Rawlings deal with you. We’ll be stopping there later this afternoon.”
For the first time, Cutter showed some genuine interest.
“What? No. You can’t put me off. Please. Not out here in the middle of nowhere. I’d die. There are no people. Please, I can’t be marooned in some little whistle-stop town surrounded by Indians.”
Jay had to smile. “A city boy, born and reared, I take it? Don’t worry, most of the hostile Indians have been run off from around here. I doubt they’ll keep you long in Rawlings. More than likely they’ll ship you back to San Francisco in handcuffs on the next train west, if the city will pay for a deputy to escort you back. The sheriff at Rawlings will probably send a telegraph message first to find out just what major crime you’re wanted there for now.”
“Please,” Cutter whined, a pitiful look on his lean face, “please don’t turn me over to the law until we get to Chicago or Omaha. I won’t try to escape. I promise. I even have a few dollars I can give you to buy me some food. I haven’t eaten in three days. Besides, I ain’t wanted for any crimes, at least not for any big crimes. I just lifted a rich man’s wallet so’s I’d have a few dollars to get the ferry across to Oakland and out of the city. I gotta be in a town of some size. I’d die out in this godforsaken wilderness.”
Jay considered the plea. The man did present a ragged, half-starved appearance, and he almost felt a twinge of pity for the wretched individual. But what was he going to do with him between here and Omaha or Chicago?
“Stand up so I can frisk you.”
Cutter stood and held his arms out. Jay went around behind him and patted him down for any concealed weapons. He found none. If he had had a gun, he would have used it to defend himself, instead of the knife, Jay thought. He didn’t know what Marvin Cutter had done to be so desperate to get out of his native San Francisco, but that was really no concern of his. His immediate problem was what to do with the man. He was an accomplished thief. Was he also an accomplished liar? Was this fear of being put off in a small town only a ruse? Maybe he had some other reason for wanting to get to Omaha or Chicago. Perhaps he felt his chances better of escaping and disappearing in a large number of people. But would he, Jay, get into trouble for not turning this man over immediately to the conductor or engineer, or at least the next law officer they encountered, probably at the next stop in Rawlings? He might lose his job by harboring a criminal in his car all the way to Chicago. Even if he told the train crew about it, they could do nothing. The only possible place Cutter could be kept a prisoner was in the caboose or right here in the express car. And the caboose was really too small to accommodate another person. Jay made up his mind.
“You’ll stay in this car as my prisoner until we get to Omaha, and then I’m turning you over to the law.”
There was an almost imperceptible relaxing of tension from the face of Marvin Cutter.
Jay holstered the pistol. Apparently no one had heard his wild shot or the train crew would have been here to check by now. But how was he to keep this man shackled? He wished he had a pair of Fred Casey’s handcuffs. But even if he did, there was nothing in the car he could attach him to. He would just have to tie Cutter’s hands and feet at night to prevent any opportunity for the thief to attack or kill him in his bunk. While awake, this slippery individual would take a lot of watching.
He reached into a tool box under the shotgun rack and brought out a length of twine.
“Move over to the side door there.”
Cutter did as he was told.
“Stretch out your arms.”
Cutter stood with his back to the sliding door and held out both arms while Jay cut a piece of the twine with the thief’s knife and tied each outstretched arm securely to the metal guides of the sliding door.
“I’m going to get you some food.”
He let himself out the end door with his key, relocked it from the outside, and made his way back through the train to the caboose, where he convinced the conductor he was still hungry and begged some of the thick vegetable beef soup the crew kept simmering on the pot-bellied stove. The portly conductor filled an empty lard bucket and capped it for him. Jay tore a generous hunk from a loaf of bread that lay wrapped on a cutting board next to the stove. The round-faced conductor arched his eyebrows at him. “Thought I saw you polish off a steak and potatoes hardly an hour ago in Rock Springs.”
“I’m still a growing boy, Tom. I need my nourishment.”
The conductor shook his head. “Eating like that, I don’t know how you stay so lean.”
On impulse, Jay reached into his pocket and fished out a silver dollar and laid it on the cutting board. “Put that in the kitty. And thanks.” He took the bucket and bread and went out the door. Thief or not, he was not about to let a man go hungry.
Chapter Five
Cutter was released and sat down, cross-legged, on the floor with the bucket between his legs. Jay thought he had never seen anyone so hungry. Cutter tried to appear that he was not hurrying, but he emptied the soup container and wiped it out with the last of the bread in record time, it seemed to Jay who sat on his bunk, watching. Neither man spoke. When the bucket was empty, Jay retrieved it and rinsed it out at the water barrel, and gave Cutter another drink of water.
Only after several swallows, did Cutter pause, wipe his mouth, and look directly at Jay for a second or two.
“Thanks,” he muttered, his gaze skittering away again, like a man who was used to cowering and being kicked. But maybe it was all an act so his captor would relax his guard. After all, Jay reminded himself, this man lived by his cunning.
“Too bad I can’t trust you,” Jay said with sincere regret. “I’ll have to tie you to one of those crates in back at night so I can sleep.”
Marvin Cutter nodded, looking at the floor as if he expected nothing better.
“Hate to do it,” Jay continued, “but I have no choice. I didn’t tell the rest of the crew about you. I don’t know why. Anyway, I’ll buy you some supper when we stop at Rawlings.”
Jay felt the tempo of the train begin to change and he knew exactly where they were. The locomotive was laboring to pull them on the long, gradual upgrade toward Table Rock on the Continental Divide. The noise of the huffing engine reached them through the closed forward door of the car as the speed slowed.
“Drag that chair over next to the wall where I can see you,” Jay commanded. He stretched out on his bunk with a magazine. He slipped his pistol out of its holster and laid it on the blanket beside him, ready to hand. As an afterthought he reached into his duffle bag under the bunk and pulled out another magazine.
“Can you read?”
A hurt look came across Cutter’s face. Jay flipped the magazine to him. “Here’s a copy of the Police Gazette.” The irony of the title didn’t escape him. Cutter caught the magazine in his long, thin hands without changing expression. After a few moments of hesitat
ion, he began leafing through its pages.
But it wasn’t long until Marvin Cutter’s eyes began to grow heavy and his head to droop. The magazine slipped from his fingers to the floor. Jay took an extra blanket from the foot of his bunk and draped it over the sleeping man. Apparently, the hot food and the relief of tension from his hiding had combined to affect him like a sleeping powder.
Jay sat back down on his bunk and observed the figure slumped in the chair against the wall. He was beginning to have misgivings about trying to keep this man under guard all the way to Omaha.
A sudden jolt of the car nearly threw Jay sideways on his bunk. Steel screeched on steel as the air brakes locked the wheels of the slow-moving train. Couplings banged as the coaches slammed together.
Jay McGraw jumped up and grabbed his pistol from the bunk. What was going on? Probably cattle on the track. It happened often in this unfenced open range. Several had been hit and killed on his own runs. The buffalo were nearly all gone, and the thousands of antelope were wary enough and quick enough to stay well away from the railbed, and the presence of men.
With a glance back at Cutter who had only stirred under his blanket but had not awakened, Jay went to look out the grimy glass of the small, barred window in the forward door. He could see nothing but the back of the tender just ahead and flat areas of sagebrush stretching away out of his vision on either side of the end platform. He took the ring of keys from his belt and let himself out the door. Leaving the door unlocked, he stepped down the three steps on the north side of the train and looked forward. Five horses stood near the engine. Two of them were riderless, and masked men were astride the other three. He turned back and scrambled up, slipping on the metal step and banging his shin. At the same instant he heard a gunshot, and a bullet spanged off the metal step where he had just been standing. Gasping, he fumbled with the key ring for a second or two until he remembered he had left the door unlocked. He leapt inside, slammed the door and quickly locked it, standing to one side, away from the small window.
He raced the length of the car and snatched the shotgun from its rack. His heart pounding and his hands trembling, he broke open the weapon to check the load. He had never been involved in a robbery attempt before and he had often wondered how he would react. Now he knew. He was scared. He snapped the weapon closed, reached into the box under the rack, and grabbed a handful of shells, dropping them into his side coat pocket. Then he remembered he had not reloaded the one shot he had taken from his Colt. Standing the shotgun against the wall, he fumbled in his gunbelt for a fresh cartridge. The shell dropped to the floor. This would never do. He had faced men with guns before. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He concentrated on calming himself. These robbers could be after only one thing—the contents of his safe. It held unknown thousands of dollars worth of greenbacks, gold, and unsigned banknotes. The safety of this express car was his responsibility. It was his sole reason for being here. He took another deep breath, rotated the cylinder of his Colt, punched the empty shell out, and replaced it with a fresh cartridge. He snapped the loading gate shut, lowered the hammer from half-cock, and reholstered the Lightning. Then he took up the shotgun and glanced over at Marvin Cutter. The thin man stirred slightly, pulled the blanket around his shoulders, and slept on. Jay felt a wave of irritation that he should be saddled with this man just now. Whatever was coming, he didn’t want to be watching his back. He didn’t trust Cutter. Skinny and weak-looking he may have been, but Jay did not underestimate him. For all he knew, Cutter might be a confederate of these robbers, whoever they were. It seemed very coincidental that these gunmen should show up just when he had a petty thief as a stowaway.
But he couldn’t worry about that now. He positioned himself behind a large crate and kept his eyes glued on the window in the forward door. He could hear and see nothing. The slow panting of the locomotive was the only sound. For a long minute, he could hear no other noise. He turned sideways so he could also keep an eye on the sleeping Cutter if, in fact, he was still sleeping, and not feigning it until a critical moment.
Jay heard a metallic clinking. He guessed the engine was being uncoupled from the train. A muffled voice sounded somewhere, but he couldn’t make out the words. Jay saw the brakeman’s head move past the window. A few seconds later he heard the locomotive’s deep-throated roar as the back of the tender began to pull away. He sprang up to the door, holding the shotgun ready, and flattened himself alongside the window. He carefully peered out through the grimy glass between the closely spaced bars. The engine continued to pull away and Jay saw the three horsemen, still mounted, one of them holding the horses of the two he presumed were in the cab of the locomotive. Less than a quarter-mile ahead, the engine puffed across a small wooden trestle and continued on for another several hundred yards before coming to a halt. A figure dropped down from the engine and ran back to the trestle. A few seconds later, he raced back toward the engine, running with a strange, bowlegged stride. Just as the man reached the tender, the wooden trestle erupted in a mushroom of splintered timbers, smoke, dust and flame. Twisted rails and pieces of wood rained down into the dry wash for several seconds as the sound of the blast faded on the wind.
Jay swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. The train was being isolated from the locomotive. The head of the snake was being cut off. These men were serious and obviously well prepared.
Maybe he could muster some firepower to resist them. The engineer and stoker were already in the hands of the attackers. Very likely the brakeman as well. The conductor might still be free in the rear of the train, but he did not carry a gun, not even a pocket pistol. The passengers were an unknown quantity. They looked to be a mixed group with several women and even three or four small children among them.
On a sudden impulse, he ran to the rear door, let himself out and crossed the adjoining platforms to the first passenger coach in one quick bound.
“We’re under attack!” he yelled to the full coach. A woman stifled a scream, and the coach erupted in a clamor of excited talk. Everyone was crowding the windows.
“What was that explosion?” one man asked.
“They unhitched the engine and pulled it across the bridge and then dynamited the bridge. We’re isolated. Any of you men who are armed and want to help defend this train, get up to the express car—quick!”
Three men got up and started forward.
Jay ran down the aisle toward the next car.
He shouted his message in the second car and got two recruits. He sent one of them to the Pullman and caboose to spread the word.
He dared waste no more time. He had taken only a couple of minutes, but it may have been too much.
Six men were crowded at the door of the first passenger coach, waiting for him. Just as he reached them, a gun boomed outside and glass exploded somewhere ahead. The men turned to stare at him. One wore the blue coat and yellow leg stripes of a cavalry officer. Another was in buckskin. A third sported muttonchop sidewhiskers under a bowler hat. And, to Jay’s surprise, there stood Fletcher Hall, the aeronaut.
“The express car’s locked,” buckskin said, peering out the door. “One of ’em just put a slug through the side window.”
Jay ground his teeth. They were trapped outside the express car.
“Open that door, and do it quick!” came the yell from one of the robbers who remained out of their line of sight. Jay squeezed past the men and opened the door a crack. He could see two of the mounted horsemen. Jay suddenly remembered Marvin Cutter. The thief must be cowering in the corner if he was awakened by a shot and a shower of glass. Should he even try to slip back inside the locked car with a couple of men? Even if he made it, they could not see out to shoot. He wished there were some sort of loopholes in the walls of the car. It was poorly designed for an active defense. You had to stay inside and lock the enemy out, similar to the way a terrapin defends itself.
“C’mon outa that car! If you don’t open that door, we’ll blast you out!” came the shout. �
��You have two minutes—starting now!”
Jay had to make a quick decision. He couldn’t let them get away with the cash without a fight. He slipped out the door and thrust his head around the right side of the train. No one there. Good. They were all on the north side of the train just as he had guessed. He ducked back inside, and made a quick survey of the six men who were still crowded by the door.
“Lieutenant, Hall, and you,” he pointed at the man in buckskin. “Come with me. The rest of you stay here and be ready to start shooting when you hear us fire.”
He carefully opened the door again and led them down the steps of the platform. “They’re all on the north side,” he whispered. “Get to the other end and get them in a crossfire before they have a chance to use that dynamite.”
The four men ran, single-file, down the uneven roadbed, the north wind whipping puffs of dust from under their boots.
“Hey! There’s somebody on the other side!” one of the attackers shouted. A gun boomed and a lead slug whined off an iron rail just in front of Jay. Someone tripped and fell behind him. Jay dropped to his belly and took a quick look underneath at the horsemen. Two of them were spurring their horses toward the end of the car to come around after them. Jay was still a dozen feet from the end of the express car, but he sprang up to one knee, cocked both barrels of his shotgun and waited. As the first horse vaulted the tracks and came into view, he let go the first barrel. It was a clean miss, but the rider let out a wild yell of surprise and was nearly pitched headlong as his horse stumbled on the uneven ground. Jay touched off the second shot before the bandit could recover his balance. A few of the pellets stung the bay’s rump. The animal squealed in pain and went racing back across the tracks and out of view.
Jay glanced back and saw the cavalry officer standing just behind him with his long-barrelled Army Colt in hand. The buckskin man and Fletcher Hall were flat on their bellies, firing at the attackers from under the tall express car. Jay and the lieutenant ran to the end and, crouching behind the iron platform, began firing at the five riders who had backed about thirty yards away from the car. Their horses were dancing and plunging as the gunmen were having trouble returning fire. The attackers had lost the initiative, and the raid was stalling.