Flying Eagle

by Tim Champlin

  “Wouldn’t work,” Jay answered, shaking his head. “If they come again, they’re going to be mad and doubly determined. If they get control of this train and find the safe empty, they’ll know we hid it someplace, so they’ll just threaten or torture some of us until we tell them where it is. I think the safest place for that cash and gold is right where it is. Even if they overpower us, they’ll have to blast it open to get at it. I don’t know if all of them are experts at handling explosives, but the man who threw the charge under the car was wounded.”

  “The man who put the dynamite stick by the safe wasn’t,” Lieutenant Ormand said.

  “Look!” The engineer who was sitting on the step was pointing north. Seven riders sat their mounts about a mile away. They all fell silent, straining to see if the robbers were about to make another attack. At this distance, only their hats and clothing identified them as white men. If they were the raiders, they had four more men with them.

  “That’s the same bunch, right enough. I recognize that Appaloosa on the end,” Donovan said.

  “We may be in for it now,” Jay said, slipping his Lightning out and checking its load.

  For a full two minutes they watched the distant horsemen and nobody moved. A faint cry from inside the coach told them that one of the women had also spotted them. The men on the outside platform stared out across the sage- and grass-covered valley. Then the horsemen were gone as quickly as they had come. They wheeled their horses and disappeared over the undulating ground without a sound. Jay rubbed his irritated eyes and looked again at the spot where the images had merged with the gray-green of the vegetation and the dark, overcast, windy sky.

  “Just checking us out. And they’ve got more help this time,” the lieutenant observed. “We’d better decide how we’re going to handle this.”

  No one spoke for a long time as they all were either trying to formulate some plan of defense, or were waiting for someone else to come up with a suggestion that would be practical in light of the fact that all but Jay were nearly out of ammunition.

  Jay glanced at the sky. He estimated it was probably two hours until sunset. An idea was taking shape in his mind. If it worked, it could save the treasure and any further danger to the rest of the people here. He turned to Fletcher Hall. “How long would it take you to get your gas balloon unpacked and inflated?”

  Chapter Seven

  “What?”

  For the first time, Jay saw a startled look in the aeronaut’s blue eyes. But he quickly recovered. “What has my balloon got to do with this?”

  “If you can get it into the air, it would be a quick escape for us where they can’t follow. You and I could get this treasure box safely away from here and save anyone else from getting hurt at the same time.”

  Hall shook his head firmly. “Out of the question. The way the wind is blowing, I doubt that we could even keep it under control long enough to inflate and get airborne. Besides, it would take too long to set up all the paraphernalia to generate the gas.”

  “Why not try? What other choice do we have?” Jay insisted.

  “Look,” Hall said, as if trying to calm himself enough to explain something to a dim-witted child. “After the acid is sealed in the tank, iron filings have to be added slowly as the gas forms and is pumped into the envelope. It’s a complicated procedure that takes several hours. One doesn’t just pump up the balloon and take off in a matter of a few minutes. Our friends out there could attack and overwhelm this train and be gone with the loot long before we could even get the wagons unloaded and set up to generate.”

  “If they were going to attack, why didn’t they do it a few minutes ago?” Donovan wondered aloud. “They must not know we’re almost out of ammunition.”

  “My guess is they’re waiting for dark,” Jay said. “Even if it cuts down on the time they have to get a head start on the law, they now have reinforcements and, with dynamite and the cover of darkness, they’d have a much better chance. Then, they’d also have the rest of the night to get a long head start on any trackers.”

  There was a glum silence. The men were staring at their boots or off into the distance, lost in their own thoughts.

  “I think we oughta give the balloon idea a try,” Donovan finally said. There were several grunts and nods of agreement. “After all, what have we got to lose?”

  “It will cost me several hundred dollars to get that balloon into the air, and maybe several thousands of dollars if it’s wrecked,” Fletcher Hall replied sharply.

  “I’m sure Wells Fargo or the railroad will reimburse you for any losses,” Jay said, trying to keep his voice even and convincing. He really had no assurance that this was true.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen how fast some of these companies pay up after the danger is past,” Hall replied sarcastically. “About as fast as the government does. No, you can forget about using my balloon. It would never work.”

  “Mr. Hall,” Lieutenant Ormand said, turning to face him and drawing his Colt. “I am declaring this an emergency. As an officer in the U.S. Army, I’m sworn to protect the citizens of this country. In this situation, I feel it’s my duty to commandeer your balloon and equipment. It’s probably our only chance of escaping these outlaws without further loss of life.” In spite of his youthful appearance, there was no mistaking the steel in his voice.

  “You can’t do that. You have no authority!” The aeronaut’s eyes bugged slightly and the veins swelled in his neck.

  “Oh, yes I do. Don’t make me have to enforce my order.”

  Hall’s face reddened, but he glanced quickly around at the assemblage of grim faces and apparently decided that he’d try to save what face he could.

  “All right. But I have witnesses that I was forced into this. It’ll never work, I tell you!”

  “Shut up and show us how to get your stuff unloaded,” Donovan said.

  Hall glared at him.

  “It’s in two wagons back on the flatcar,” Hall said finally, his voice dropping in resignation.

  All seven of them, including the engineer, dropped off both sides of the platform and ran back along the sides of the train toward the flatcar that was just behind the Pullman and just ahead of the caboose.

  While the engineer stood watch for another attack, the others swarmed over the two wagons, unlashing the heavy covers.

  “Be careful of that! Set it down over here. Carefully!” The corner of a wooden crate slipped out of Decker’s hands and the box was yanked out of Donovan’s grasp on the other end, falling two feet to the platform with a crash.

  “You clumsy idiots!” Hall screamed.

  The buckskin-clad hunter gave the raving Hall a hard look, started to say something, then bit it off and leaned down with Decker to retrieve the crate.

  Hall paced up and down alongside the train, red-faced, giving orders and directing movements of the gear that was being unloaded. At last came the balloon itself, enclosed in its netting of cord.

  “Keep those lines straight when you unroll that!” Fletcher Hall was yelling. “If they get tangled, we’ll never get them straightened out.”

  Jay and the rest of the men unfolded and unrolled the big envelope and stretched it out on the ground along the right-of-way on the southern, downwind, side of the flatcar.

  “Don’t snag it on those bushes,” Hall was yelling.

  The men were working quickly, but carefully, as if aware that, obnoxious as he was, Fletcher Hall was the only one who knew anything about this balloon and thus might be their only hope of escape from the next onslaught of the train robbers.

  Finally, the balloon was spread out to his satisfaction, and the supporting lines all pulled straight to the wicker basket that lay on its side. Hall then directed the lining up of the containers for the carboys of hydro­chloric acid, the wooden kegs of iron filings, and the pump that would draw off the hydrogen gas formed by the combining of the acid and the iron. The pump was connected to a hose that fastened to the base of the cambric envelope. Hall ha
d told them it would be a long, laborious process. The iron filings had to be slowly added to the acid, the gas generated and then worked by the hand pump into the huge balloon. It was nearly a half-hour before everything was ready and the first iron filings were being added under Hall’s watchful eye. Jay began to realize how long this procedure was going to take. Hall had not been exaggerating.

  Jay glanced at the sky. The wind was still blowing, but the low clouds were shredding and blowing away to the southeast. The late afternoon sun was throwing intermittent shafts of light across the gray-green sage of the high desert valley. He looked off to the north where the raiders had disappeared. How much longer would they give the besieged train? He hoped his theory was correct. He assumed that they were waiting to attack under the cover of darkness. It was almost too much to hope that the robbers had given up for good.

  Jay climbed back up onto the flatcar and leaned on one of the two wagons, staring off to the north where the robbers had been last seen. He nervously loosened the Colt in its holster, hardly aware he was doing it. As he leaned over the edge of the heavy Studebaker wagon, his arm bumped something hard. He threw back the corner of the loose canvas cover. It was the metal valve atop a cylindrical metal tank. He pulled the cover all the way off and saw a dozen of these tanks held in a wooden rack just inside the sideboard of the wagon. He stepped up on the wheel hub and into the wagon for a closer look. But there were no markings on the canisters that he could see. Another dozen rested in a row on the opposite side of the wagon. He tried lifting one of the tanks. It weighed a good seventy or eighty pounds. He let the cylinder slide back into place.

  Fletcher Hall looked up sharply when he heard the sound it made.

  “Hey! Leave your hands off those tanks!” he yelled at Jay. The other men looked up to see what he was riled about.

  “Get out of that wagon!” Hall said, hopping up onto the flatcar.

  “What are these?” Jay asked, making no move to climb out.

  “None o’ your damn business. That’s my property. Now, get outa there.”

  They look like some sort of pressure tanks,” Jay continued, a little taken aback at this volatile reaction. He had a sudden, uncontrollable urge to needle this man, more than he did to find out what the tanks contained.

  “I said, get away from those tanks!” Hall was leaning over the tailgate of the wagon, his face beet-red.

  “I only wanted to know what was in ’em,” Jay said with feigned innocence.

  Hall looked around, suddenly aware of the attention he was drawing. The men who were adding the iron filings to the acid had stopped and were staring at him. Even several of the passengers from the Pullman had come outside to see what the shouting was all about. He lowered his voice, and tried, unsuccessfully, to assume a casual attitude. “They’re just dangerous, that’s all. They contain compressed gas. You don’t want to bump those valves on top. They could explode. Very dangerous,” he muttered, sidling away from the wagon, but keeping an eye on Jay McGraw, who hadn’t moved. “They’re experimental. Don’t want to jar them around. That’s why I built those special racks to carry them,” he added, lamely.

  “What do they have to do with ballooning?” Jay persisted.

  Hall glanced sharply at him and then around to see if the others were listening. “Nothing, really,” he said, trying to pass the matter off. “They contain compressed hydrogen. The British Army has been trying to devise a method of carrying gas into the field for their balloon corps in Africa, and this is finally what they came up with. They’ve been experimenting with it for several years, but they’ve had trouble devising a valve that was gas-tight. These are the latest efforts. They think they’ve finally got it perfected.”

  “Have you used them?” Jay asked.

  “Once before.”

  “Did they work?”

  Hall plainly wanted to drop the subject, but he finally answered. “Yes.”

  “What’s the advantage over this method?” Jay pressed, leaning on the wooden rack and nodding at the gas-generating procedure going on below him.

  “Not as much equipment to haul around. Fewer people needed to get the balloon filled.”

  “Appears to me it’d be a lot quicker, too,” Jay said, forcing the obvious.

  “Yes.”

  “How much quicker?” he insisted.

  Hall looked pained, but trapped. “If we used most of those tanks, we could fill the balloon in less than thirty minutes.”

  Lieutenant Ormand looked around, startled. “Thirty minutes? Then, what the hell are we doing this for?” He gestured at the gear spread out on the ground.

  “Lieutenant, these are still experimental. These could blow up and kill somebody if not handled with extreme care,” Hall said.

  “Damn the danger! You know how to handle them. Get ’em out here and let’s get this thing inflated!” The officer was plainly very irritated.

  “I’m saving them for an emergency. They’re very expensive and hard to get. I have a friend in a British Army supply unit who . .

  “Get ’em unloaded!” Lieutenant Ormand interrupted him, drawing his pistol to emphasize his order. “We’ve already lost enough time. Another word out of you and I’ll arrest you for being a part of this gang of robbers.”

  In less than ten minutes the gas-generating equipment had been dismantled and piled, haphazardly, into the wagons, and the metal cylinders hauled out and handed down. Hall, realizing he was outnumbered and outgunned, threw himself into the task of hooking the valves of each cylinder, in turn, to a special connection at the mouth of the balloon and began discharging his precious cargo of compressed hydrogen into the envelope.

  The cambric fabric of the balloon itself was a closely woven linen, sealed and reinforced with a special varnish. At first, the gas seemed to make no appreciable difference in the shape of the envelope as tank after tank of gas was expended into it. Jay eyed the remaining tanks, wondering if there would be enough to fill it. But then the fabric began to lift and swell. Each successive tank formed the cambric into a larger and larger teardrop shape, pushing the material out against the cord netting that enclosed it. Finally, the huge balloon swung clear of the ground and immediately the wind swung it around to the south.

  “Keep a grip on it!” Hall yelled as the force of the shifting monster dragged two men across the ground at the end of the ropes they were holding. “Secure those mooring lines to the side of the flatcar,” Hall directed, running to assist Donovan and one of tjie male passengers who had come outside to help. Most of the others had migrated from the cars to watch the operation. It had been almost an hour since the raiders had last appeared and a feeling of confidence and safety seemed to be spreading. Jay and the others who were hurrying to fill the balloon knew better. Time was precious and they had to make the most of it. They could almost be ready to fly now if it hadn’t been for the stubbornness of the aeronaut. Jay couldn’t account for it. The man stood to lose some money and the hard-to-get and expensive compressed gas, but the people on the train stood to lose a lot more, including their lives, if they continued to resist the attackers. Maybe Fletcher Hall was willing to give up the contents of the express car to the bandits, as the treasure box meant no loss to him. But why had he joined in the defense of the train? He had volunteered to fight. Jay shook his head and looked away at the sky. The man was an enigma. Jay suspected the redhead had fought only so he would not be labeled a coward by any of the others. After all, he was the daredevil aeronaut. He couldn’t let his public image suffer.

  The balloon was taking on a definite shape now. It was completely clear of the ground and was jerking and tugging at its mooring lines. The wicker basket was securely moored to the edge of the flatcar.

  “Better get that treasure box; it won’t be long now,” Hall said, calmly. Jay looked sideways at him. The man gave no indication that he had been ranting and raving like a maniac only a few minutes earlier. He was now the disciplined professional.

  Jay took a quick, admiri
ng look at the billowing shape. The varnished linen was dust-colored, but the cord netting couldn’t obscure the magnificent bald eagle that had been painted on the surface of the balloon, its wings spread in full flight.

  He hurried back toward the wrecked express car to transfer the cash and bonds from the safe to the green express box. As he knelt alone on the glass-littered floor by the safe and spun the combination dial, his stomach began to tense at the thought of actually flying into the sky in that balloon. Hall had said the wind was too strong to fly. But Jay dismissed this. The aeronaut had made other claims and statements that had proved to be false. If it was unsafe, he wouldn’t be flying it himself. But then, hadn’t Lieutenant Ormand forced him at gunpoint to make the balloon ready to fly? He swallowed hard. There was no other way out. If the treasure box went, he had to go with it. He found himself almost wishing the robbers had gotten away with it on their first attempt. At least that would have relieved him of the terrifying thought of this balloon flight. He had been to the top of an eight-story hotel once, and had viewed the city from its dizzying height, but he had still felt the solid building under his feet. This time, if they weren’t dragged across the desert and smashed against the rocky ground, they would be soaring at the mercy of a gusty wind thousands of feet in the air, with nothing but the gaseous envelope and the thin wicker basket to buoy them up from certain death. Jay closed his eyes and tried to shut out the mental image. The guns of the robbers that he had already faced twice seemed infinitely preferable.

  He scooped the contents of the safe into the wooden Wells Fargo box, shut the lid, and snapped the big padlock in place, dropping the key into his pants pocket. Then, as an afterthought, he went to the box under the shotgun rack and picked up two boxes of .38 cartridges for his Colt Lightning and put them into the Wells Fargo box.

  Only then did he suddenly remember Marvin Cutter. With a start, he jumped up and looked around. He hadn’t thought of the thief since the last attack. He had completely forgotten about the man in all the excitement and confusion. Where was he? Jay squeezed behind the freight boxes and searched the car quickly. There was no sign of him. He had either taken off into the desert and escaped or he was hiding somewhere on or near the train. Except for the knife that Jay had confiscated, Cutter had not been armed. Jay had had the shotgun, so there was no chance he could have armed himself. He stood for a moment in the middle of the floor, pondering what to do. He had more important things to do just now than to organize a search for a man nobody else had seen. Forget him. As long as he stayed out of sight, good riddance.