by Tim Champlin
One of the riders yelled suddenly and grabbed his leg. As his horse spun, Jay could see a red stain spreading on his thigh. Jay could tell by the sound of the shots that the other three men who had remained in the passenger coach were getting in their share.
Finally, on a signal from their leader, the five would-be robbers pulled their horses around and galloped off through the gray-green sage. He heard a cheer go up from the men at the far end.
Jay stood up, becoming aware of how tense he was. In spite of the chill wind, he was sweating. He flipped open the loading gate of his Colt Lightning and began punching out the empties. He set the shotgun on the ground to reload next.
“That was just the first round,” the soldier behind him said. Jay turned and, for the first time, took a good look at the man instead of just at the blue uniform. What he saw was a hatless young man of about his own height with blond hair and a mustache. He had a frank, open face that was slightly windburned.
“John Ormand,” he said, shifting his gun to his left and extending his right hand.
“Jay McGraw. Thanks for your help, Lieutenant.” They shook hands. “I’m afraid you’re right,” Jay continued, trying to calm the shaky reaction that was beginning to set in, now that the adrenalin was beginning to ebb. Maybe if he were under fire every day, or even once a month, he might get used to it, but he was certainly having trouble keeping his hands and voice from shaking now.
All seven men came out from their hiding places and gathered on the north side of the express car as the retreating bandits disappeared over a rise in the grass and sage a half-mile away.
The man in the bowler hat and sideburns was mopping his brow with a handkerchief. They introduced themselves all around. The man with the bowler hat was a whiskey drummer named Clyde McFee. In addition to Fletcher Hall, the aeronaut, and John Ormand, the Second Lieutenant returning to Fort Laramie from leave, the lean man in the greasy buckskins was Jim Donovan, a hunter who attempted to keep Fort Laramie supplied with fresh meat during the winter. The other two were Ambrose Skelton, a topographical engineer with the U.S. Geological Survey, and Roger Decker, a balding, well-dressed storekeeper from North Platte, Nebraska.
Decker and Skelton went back to calm and reassure the passengers while Jay, temporarily forgetting about his unwelcome guest, unlocked the door and let the rest of them into the express car to hold a council of war.
As soon as he walked in, he remembered, but it was too late as the rest of them crowded in behind him to get out of the cold wind. Cutter was nowhere in sight. Jay glanced sharply around, but there was no sign of him. He was relieved that the thief had had the good sense to get out of sight somewhere behind the freight. The floor was strewn with broken glass. The five men sat on the bunk or leaned against the desk, and one sat in the only chair. A few seconds of silence followed as the four looked expectantly at Jay.
“We’re isolated here,” Jay began, standing in front of them. “The locomotive is on the other side of that dynamited bridge.”
“They made the engineer pull away at least a quarter-mile,” Donovan, the hunter, said.
“He might as well keep goin’ to Rawlings for help, cause he can’t get back to hook up to us,” Lieutenant Ormand said.
“What do we do now?” Donovan asked.
“Anybody got any suggestions?” Jay asked, breaking open his shotgun and popping out the empty casings. He reloaded from the shells he carried in his coat pocket.
“They’ll be back, that’s for sure,” Fletcher Hall said.
“You’re right,” Jay said. “So we’d better make some plans, fast.”
“At least one of them’s shot in the leg,” Donovan remarked. “Might be they’ll stay away awhile and lick their wounds.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. The longer they wait, the sooner somebody will miss this train and send a relief.”
“How long ’til dark?”
“Probably three hours, give or take,” Lieutenant Ormand replied. “Days are getting shorter, and with these dark clouds . . .’’ He shrugged.
“If they don’t come back in the next twenty minutes, I’m betting they’ll wait and make a night attack,” Jay said, hoping he sounded convincing. “If I were out there trying to pull off this robbery, that’s what I’d do. I’d slip up here after dark when the defenders can’t see to shoot, throw a couple of sticks of dynamite under this car or through the window, then blow the safe and ride off in the dark.”
“Not a chance,” the aeronaut said, shaking his head. “In the first place, people who rob trains get nervous. They’d burn three hours of daylight if they did it your way—three hours when they could be putting distance between themselves and any pursuit.”
Jay experienced a flush of anger at the pontificating of this pompous ass. The man delivered his opinion as if he were lecturing to a crowd of dimwits. Jay could feel his face reddening. “What do you think they’ll do?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
Before he could answer, the door opened and the engineer came in, dabbing at a bruise on his forehead with a red bandanna. “Boys, I’d a’ been gone a good ways to Rawlings by now, but they blew a hole in my boiler.”
“Damn! Where’s your stoker?” Jay asked, glancing around.
“Charley’s hurt bad. He went for one of ’em with a shovel when they jumped us, but they laid him out with a wrench. He hasn’t made a sound since. He’s breathin’, but I think his skull’s busted. He may not make it. The brakeman’s up yonder lookin’ after him. Didn’t think we oughta try movin’ him just now. They threatened to shoot me if I didn’t do exactly as they said. Made me run the engine up the track a ways, and then disabled the boiler and some o’ the lines so she won’t hold no steam. I heard all the shootin’ while I was walkin’ back here.”
“We’re stuck here, then,” Donovan said. “Any chance a relief train might come lookin’ for us any time soon?”
The engineer shook his head. “They’ll know we’re overdue right quick. The telegraph wire has been cut. But it’ll be a few hours before we see anyone come looking.”
“Any chance they’ll send a posse on horseback instead of a train?” Lieutenant Ormand asked.
The engineer shrugged, pumping himself a drink of water from the barrel in the corner. “Dunno. Maybe. But they don’t know we’re being attacked. They probably think we jumped the track or broke down. ‘Course that wire bein’ cut may give ’em a clue. All I know is that engine ain’t goin’ nowhere on its own until the boiler’s fixed in a machine shop.”
“Well, we’d better see to the defense of this train for however long we’re going to be here,” the lieutenant said. “Maybe, since the passengers have seen that we drove these bandits off once, we can get some more recruits among the men to help us do it again if we have to.”
“Oh, we’ll have to, all right,” Fletcher Hall stated. “And soon.”
“How much ammunition have we got if we have to stand off a seige?” Jay asked of the assembly.
The men looked at one another and began checking the cartridge loops in their belts. There were no rifles among them.
The door opened and Roger Decker, the storekeeper, burst in. “Here they come again!”
Chapter Six
The second attempt to rob the express car was beaten off a little easier than the first but only because Jay McGraw and his men were more prepared.
One of the four raiders was able to ride close enough to hurl a sputtering bundle of dynamite sticks at the express car before he caught a bullet in the shoulder and galloped away, reeling on his horse and clinging to the saddle horn. The dynamite stick bounced under the coupling between the Wells Fargo car and the first passenger coach and exploded. The men crouching behind the platform saw it coming in time to run about forty yards back into the sage before the fuse touched off the blast. It snapped the coupling and derailed the express car, lifting one end and setting its wheel truck just off the rails. The glass in several of the coach windows was blown out.
Except for a few of the passengers getting minor cuts from flying glass, no one was hurt, while the man who threw the dynamite had been put out of action by a disabling, and possibly fatal, bullet wound.
Jay McGraw had been firing from behind the forward wheel truck when the dynamite was thrown and had time only to run a few steps and throw himself flat on his stomach before the blast.
Following the explosion that splintered the floor and twisted the iron platform at one end of the express car, one of the three remaining bandits made a rush and managed to reach the car while all the defenders were gone.
As Jay scrambled to his feet, his ears still ringing, he saw a figure leap from his horse to the twisted metal of the platform. He kicked open the door and disappeared inside. Jay, his head still spinning and ears ringing from the concussion, staggered toward the car. Lieutenant Ormand and Donovan had seen the bandit get inside also. The man would have to come out somewhere—perhaps by opening one of the big side doors. He could not blow the safe while he was still in there. They had to stop him before he could set a charge. Jay counted only four raiders this time. They had left the wounded man behind somewhere. And now the dynamite thrower had been wounded. That left only three. Surely they could drive off three attackers with seven guns.
Lieutenant Ormand was the first one to reach the broken end door. Through a blur of blowing dust, Jay saw him go in. The firing had commenced again, the defenders exchanging shots with the two horsemen who were cavorting on the other side of the train. Donovan, Hall, and Jay all reached the wrecked end of the car at the same time. The officer had not come out. Jay crept up and jumped inside the shattered door, Colt ready. Lieutenant Ormand was diving across the glass-littered floor. He grabbed a sputtering stick of dynamite next to the safe and, in the same fluid motion, rolled and flung it out the side door the robber had slid open.
Jay instinctively dropped behind the corner of the roll-top desk and, in the space of three heartbeats, another terrific explosion rocked the car. Dirt and sand showered through the open doorway. Lieutenant Ormand rolled up to his hands and knees, his head hanging down.
Jay sprang to the edge of the open doorway just in time to see three raiders galloping away again. He lowered his Colt and let out a long breath, his heart pounding. He was suddenly aware, as the cold wind struck him, that he was sweating. He wiped a hand across the moisture on his forehead, and his fingers came away mixed with blood. He had been struck by a piece of flying glass or gravel and had a slight, stinging cut near his hairline. He turned to look after Lieutenant Ormand who was sitting on the floor, a fingertip to one ear.
“Damn near deafened me,” he said, speaking louder than necessary. Donovan and Hall entered the car.
“Well, they’re gone again, but probably not for long,” the auburn-haired Hall remarked, barely glancing at the officer. His manner was cocksure. Hardly a wavy auburn hair on his head was out of place, Jay noted. He was not sweaty and dirty as the rest of them were. As he spoke, he was automatically reloading his storekeeper’s model Colt .45.
The man was a boor, Jay thought, complimenting himself that his first impression of the man had been right. If Hall remembered their meeting at the reception in San Francisco, he gave no indication of it.
Jay walked to the partially open side door and looked out again. The bold raider who had entered the car and planted the burning dynamite stick at the safe apparently had had his horse brought up to the door by one of his friends so he could make a quick getaway. Jay could see the three of them now, sitting their horses just out of range, watching the train. The defenders had reduced the number of attackers to three. Jay wondered idly where the two wounded men were. Were they dying? Had they been able to ride somewhere to safety where they’d be cared for by their friends? As he remembered, they had leg and shoulder wounds which were probably not fatal, unless the bullets had cut an artery somewhere.
He turned away from the door and glanced around on the floor for his cap. It was gone and he had no idea where. He was suddenly terribly weary. Lieutenant Ormand had regained his feet as the other defenders began to drift in, picking their way around the splintered floorboards near the end door.
Jay made his way past them as they grinned and congratulated each other on having driven off the robbers a second time. He could hear the confidence level rising in their voices. But this second victory had been costly, Jay discovered as he entered the first passenger coach. Ambrose Skelton, the topographical engineer, had been struck in the head by a bullet. He was still breathing, but unconscious.
“No doctor aboard,” Clyde McFee, the short whiskey drummer, told Jay as he came up. “And, even if there was, I doubt he could do anything for the poor devil. I think it’s only a matter of time. And a short time, at that.” McFee laid his bowler hat aside on the upholstered seat and unbuttoned his vest to breathe easier. The unconscious man was stretched out in the aisle, face down, and had been covered with a blanket. His coat had been rolled up for a pillow. His breathing was ragged.
“Anybody else hurt?” Jay asked.
“Nope. Lot of people were scared though.” He nodded toward the rest of the passengers. Several pale faces were cautiously peering out from under the seats and looking out the shattered windows to see if the battle was over. A young mother was trying to soothe the whimpering of a little girl about three years old.
Jay glanced out the window. The three raiders had now disappeared entirely. He wondered if they were gone for good, or had just retreated to regroup and plan the strategy of their next attack. He could only guess. Maybe the wounding of two of their number would be enough to discourage them from any further attempts. They probably had not expected the organized resistance they had met. On the other hand, they had effectively crippled the train and the treasure was there for the taking, if they could somehow quickly destroy the resistance that Jay had mustered on the spur of the moment.
Jay stepped around the wounded man and went to the next coach where he found the conductor passing out coffee he had brewed in the large pot in the caboose and trying to reassure the passengers that everything was going to be all right. His bland, round face and calm manner seemed to be having the desired effect on some of them. Jay wished he felt as confident as he nodded to the portly, black-coated man. He ignored the questioning look in the conductor’s eyes and made his way back toward the front of the train. He stepped out onto the end platform of the passenger coach where the engineer and the four defenders, excluding McFee and the wounded man, were standing or sitting on the steps, holding another council of war.
As Jay pushed aside the shattered door, a swirling gust of cold wind whipped fine sand against the side of his face and forced all of them to shield their faces from the stinging blast.
“Think they’re coming back, McGraw?” Lieutenant Ormand asked.
“Depends on how badly they want that treasure,” Jay replied. “Personally, if it were me out there, and I was well supplied with dynamite, and I had gone to all this trouble already, you can bet I’d give it at least one more good try before anyone had time to come looking for us. As of right now, they have absolutely nothing to show for their efforts except two wounded men.”
“Yeah, but maybe they want to live to fight another day. Maybe rob a stage or something that’s easier pickin’s,” Buckskin Donovan said.
“I suppose it depends on how determined they are. We stung their pride. They might want to get us now, no matter what the cost.”
Fletcher Hall, the aeronaut, had not spoken. He was leaning his buttocks against the twisted iron railing of the platform, his arms folded across his chest, listening to the conversation.
“Why don’t we just give ’em the money?” the engineer asked, spitting between his knees into the sand from where he sat on the upper step.
No one spoke for a few moments. This alternative, Jay thought, had probably not even occurred to these men. They were all fighters, including the self-assured aeronaut. The silence lengthened, broken only by
the whistling of the wind through the brush. The engineer apparently took this as a unanimous negative because he said no more.
“What do we do now?” Donovan, the lean hunter asked. “I’m completely out of ammunition. Didn’t think I would need my Winchester this trip, so I left it at the fort.”
“I’m down to six shots myself,” Lieutenant Ormand said.
“Three here,” Roger Decker, the storekeeper, said.
“Anybody here carry a .38?” Jay asked. “I’ve got a good two-hundred rounds left in there.” He jerked his head toward the damaged express car. “And there are plenty of shells for the shotgun.”
Nobody did. The closest thing was a .41 caliber Derringer that McFee carried in his vest pocket. He had come out the door to join them during the conversation.
Just then the portly conductor opened the door and squeezed outside. He glanced around at the tense faces, his blue eyes wide. “Gentlemen, if they come again, I suggest we give them whatever they want. If they are well armed, we can’t expect to hold them off indefinitely and . . .”
“What’s this ‘we’ business?” Hall growled, speaking for the first time. “I don’t remember seeing you out here with a gun in your hands.”
The conductor’s pale, round face flushed pink. “What I mean to say is, I have the responsibility of these passengers. Already one of our number has been shot in the head and is probably dying.” He turned toward Jay. “Surely Wells Fargo cannot expect you to defend that express box at the cost of human lives, not to mention railroad property that’s worth even more than is probably in your safe.”
“We’ve come this far; there’s no giving up now,” Jay answered shortly.
“Why don’t we take the contents of your safe and bury it out here in the desert before they come back?” Decker suggested.