by Brett Waring
The sawbones blinked after him as Nash lunged for the outside door and ran out into the rain.
The river was raging.
It thundered down out of the hills in a mighty roaring jet, smashing down all barriers, cutting across headlands that it had meandered around for centuries. The rains had swollen it to a record high, the biggest flood in living memory.
The Colorado had always had treacherous, violent stretches of water as well as tranquil lengths shaking through a picturesque countryside, with timber clad, snow-capped hills rising either side. There were deep-water sections, swift-flowing, blue with depth, capped with a creamy froth where they gurgled around and over obstacles. There were pebbly fords and rapids that dropped breathtakingly into foaming whirlpools.
Now the river was one long, surging, thundering, crashing fire hose jet, smashing boulders loose from the bottom that had held them firm, devouring the banks, washing away the roots of giant trees until they toppled into the flood and were carried away. Tons of earth disappeared into the muddy artery. Houses, cattle, wild animals and human beings were all swept away down the long, deep gorges and canyons.
The river was jammed in places with tangled logs and trees and debris, including the wreckage of cabins and houses. A whole town was washed away, wiped completely off the Colorado map. Only six people survived, all of them adult men.
The very land itself trembled with the river’s throbbing passing.
And the trestle bridge spanning the Skillet Canyon shook violently on its spidery legs and the rails above began to tear loose gradually from the spikes pinning them to the heavy wooden ties.
Coming downstream, heading directly for the trestle supports was a mighty pile of logs and uprooted trees. They rode the frothing, spewing waters on a collision course with the bridge.
Seven – Gold Train
Larry Holbrook wanted to quit right now but he was afraid to. The fact was, he was too damn’ confused to know what to do.
The idea of the gold train hold-up had palled quickly when that telegraph man had said the express car was now to be hooked up to a passenger train. He had never had much faith in Sundance’s assurance that he could blow the bridge and just put the express car and a couple of freight wagons down into Skillet Canyon. He might have led a lonely sort of life without much schooling, but Larry wasn’t dumb. He knew the weight of the falling cars would likely pull down the caboose with the train guard or even the locomotive itself with the engineer and fireman.
That was a freight train. With a passenger train it would be inevitable that some of the cars holding people would plunge down into the canyon. At the best of times, in the dry season with the piles of sand below, there would still be a heavy loss of life. With the river raging below that trestle bridge now, there was a chance that dozens of folk would drown.
He had voiced his fears to Sundance but the outlaw chief had said little except that he now had the jump on Jim Hume and that was all that seemed to count with him, even above the gold shipment itself.
Larry felt if he ran out, he would likely be chased and shot down just as they had shot down the telegraph operator in Benbow. If he stayed, he might yet be able to do something to prevent a massacre.
Idaho, Emerson and the breed brothers didn’t seem worried at the thought that they might kill dozens of people. What seemed to worry them most was how they were going to recover the express car. It wasn’t likely to land on the banks now for the normal riverbanks were feet under the surging waters. But Sundance Harmer said they would get their hands on the gold, all right.
And he went on making up the dynamite that he intended to fix to the bridge on this side of the canyon.
Larry could see his idea now. There was a huge, muddy slope under the bridge on this side, whereas the other side dropped almost vertically.
Sundance intended to blow the bridge before the locomotive reached it. It would then plunge over and down the slope, dragging the first few cars with it. They would topple to the side and if they were lucky a chain-reaction whip would spill the remaining cars on the line that was still on solid ground. It would be violent and wouldn’t be just a matter of the cars falling over gently. They would be flipped hard and fast and folk inside would be tossed about violently, maybe hurled out.
It was unlikely that anyone would survive the crash in a conscious state at that stage. And this would allow the outlaws to move in and blow open the express car without resistance.
But Larry looked at the muddy slope beneath the trestle and he was afraid that once the loco started plunging down, it would slide all the way into the river and drag all the other cars with it.
And the passengers, naturally.
He felt he had to try and prevent that happening, though he had no idea how he could go about this.
And he knew if Sundance got any inkling that this was what he had in mind, he would have no hesitation in killing him.
The train had made good time out of Denver. The Sierra and Prairie Line was efficient and there were few holdups during the first part of the journey. But when it moved into the rainy area, things were not so easy.
There had been some wash-aways but the S and P road crews had gone out to repair them and although one complete section of track had to be relaid, the train was held up only for five hours.
At another point, some of the mountain face had slipped and buried that section of line under tons of mud. Organized crews of nigh on a hundred men with shovels and wagons had the area cleared overnight so that when the train climbed up the grade and reached that section, it was only necessary for the engineer to keep pushing on the sand chute release so that the wheels could grip on the slippery steel of the rails.
The passengers were vastly impressed with the S and P’s efficiency, for they had long been used to interminable delays on other railroads, indifferent timetables and little in the way of comfort. But the Sierra and Prairie were reasonably new out here and they were working hard to win passengers away from the established railroads like the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe and the mighty Union Pacific itself. They were already taking over the Denver and Rio Grande with ‘fronts’ on the stock market and they had gained a tremendous amount of publicity with the scheme of tunneling through the Rockies.
S and P knew that once that tunnel was built, their carrying lists would treble, for freight as well as passengers. That was why it was so important that there should be few delays and one sure way to keep work going was to make certain that the men were paid on time.
In the special express car, bolted to the flatbed wagon, Hal McWhirter and Tom Slocum passed the hours with seemingly interminable games of poker. They played for matches, although there had been a few hands for money.
Neither man was really interested in taking hard-earned cash off the other and so they went back to playing for fun. It was after they had passed the section of track that had been cleared of mud that Slocum suggested they play for the gold they were carrying.
“I mean, we got eight chests, right?” he said. “You’ll have four and I’ll have four.” He grinned at the older guard. “We’ll be richer than we ever are likely to be, Hal! But it ought to add a little interest to the game. We still got—how long you reckon? Another full day?”
“That an’ a mite more, I’d say,” McWhirter allowed. “Yeah, well, all right I guess it’s okay. We don’t touch nothin’, though.”
“Hell, no! How could we, anyway?” Slocum gestured to the stacked iron-bound chests of gold inside a steel-wire cage that had a row of padlocks all down the leading edge of the gate. “Nothin’ short of dynamite’ll shift ’em. Okay—I’ll take the four on the left, you take the others. Say, how much we carryin’, anyway?”
McWhirter shrugged. “Officially it was given out that it was ten thousand, but there’s a helluva lot more than that in those chests. I reckon five grand in each. That makes forty-thousand at least.”
Slocum whistled. “Why the hell they sendin’ that much to a place like S
ignal?”
“My guess is the S and P’s movin’ in their gangs an’ kinda jumpin’ the gun a little, anticipatin’ Government approval and starting to dig the tunnel before it’s official. To keep the men happy—and their mouths shut—they’ll have to make certain-sure they get paid regular.”
“Risky for S and P, ain’t it?”
McWhirter winked. “They got their friends where it matters. They must know they’re gonna get the okay—Right, now let’s start dealin’. An’ I’d sure like to really win one of them chests of gold.”
Tom Slocum grinned, “What’d you do with that much money? Only booze it away? You’re a mite old to be spendin’ it on gals, I guess.”
“I’d spend it on one gal,” McWhirter said soberly. “My married daughter in ’Frisco. I’d give her the lot.” For a moment, his eyes looked distant as he let his thoughts turn to his daughter, and then he sighed and began to shuffle the deck of well-worn cards.
The train rolled on, starting into the grade and the long winding climb that would take it to the trestle bridge over Skillet Canyon.
The river smashed against the high sandstone cliffs on the bend and water rose and surged up the sides, hit the top in a foaming pyramid that was torn to shreds by the high wind that was blowing in these mountains now, driving the scudding rain clouds south.
The log jam of trees and shattered cabins and houses, jarred into the rock walls, splintered, and broke up into several smaller pieces. Individual trees and logs were snatched away by the wild currents, disappearing beneath the muddy, frothing surface, not appearing again for half a mile downstream. But some of the still-tangled groups of timber spun and rocked and dipped away down the river, riding the stormy tide.
Then, around the jutting cliffs, the river straightened for a mile or more and the water tore through here like a millrace.
Once the tangled jam of logs and trees hit this, the current hurtled it along at dizzy speed—straight for the half-drowned supports of the trestle bridge over Skillet Canyon.
On one side, the waters surged up like a continual giant wave, riding over a muddy slope almost to a level with the trembling railroad tracks, before spilling back into the main stream. On the other side, there were sheer cliffs and the water raced along here in a blur of mud, debris and foam.
The log jams hurtled down on the current, spinning, turning, finally jarring against the thick support legs of the trestle bridge with a crash and a splintering sound that seemed to come from deep under water.
The debris jammed there and the water built up against it, pushing with relentless pressure, slowly breaking away a few uprooted trees from the outer edges, but the thick middle section refused to budge and the whole force of the flooded Colorado pounded down against it.
The trestle began to quiver and shake and shudder.
The rain may have stopped but it didn’t make riding through the hills any easier after the vast amount that had been dumped in the area during the past two weeks, thought Clay Nash, easing his mount up a slippery slope.
The drowned earth seemed to slide out from under his horse’s hoofs in great slabs, not just small sections. At one stage it was like an island adrift in a river of mud as he and the animal were carried back down the slope for ten yards before he could get free of the slide.
Rocks tumbled down of their own accord and trees leaned at precarious, odd angles as their weight gradually pulled the roots free of the sodden ground. The Wells Fargo agent was mad; mad at the weather and the lack of progress through the hills; mad at the telegraph operator for having told Sundance about the gold shipment; mad at that kid, Larry, mad at himself.
He knew it wouldn’t help but he was simmering and driving himself to reach Skillet Canyon before Sundance and his bunch. He knew, deep down, that they had too much start and the mud was slowing his progress. Likely they would have the trestle bridge blown loose from its foundations before he could even get to the same side of the mountain. But he had to try. There was nothing else he could do. He was using every shortcut he knew but most of them were cut off by flood waters or temporary creeks flowing through once-dry washes and draws.
Whether he liked it or not, he was forced to travel in the high country. It was hell on the horse as well as himself, for this was the area that had been loosened by the days of heavy rains.
A high wind was shrieking through the timber now and flapped his slicker about him, probing all the rents and tears and openings, freezing him to the marrow. His hands were numb where they held the reins. He figured he wouldn’t be able to shoot a gun if he had to get one out in a hurry.
But he finally topped the mountain and far below he saw the bridge spanning the Canyon. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle when he saw the river and the way it was flooded. He frowned as he stared at that trestle bridge; there was something funny about it. Was it crooked? Had the torrent torn loose the foundations?
Gazing down at it from above like this he could see the bridge was out of alignment. Below it, caught around some of the supports, he could see the massive log jam with the floodwaters pushing against it. He swore aloud, the wind ripping the cuss-words away almost immediately.
The bridge was going ...
And, right then, he heard the distant whistle come to him on the wind and he hipped sharply in saddle, looking down the mountainside and seeing the black banner of smoke streaming out of the locomotive as it labored over the top of the grade and started its long, fast run down towards the bridge.
A movement to the left and far below took his attention momentarily and he stiffened.
A group of riders was gathering beside the tracks in a thick clump of timber. He knew it had to be Sundance Harmer and his bunch.
Nash also knew he was powerless to stop the tragedy that was about to happen right before his eyes.
Sundance Harmer reined down in the timber stand and looked around at the other outlaws, holding his Winchester rifle in his left hand.
He raked his cold gaze over them one by one, starting and finishing with young Larry Holbrook.
They could all hear the rumble and whistle of the train as it came down the straight heading towards the trestle bridge. It was still a quarter of a mile away.
“All right—who wants the job of lightin’ the fuse?” the outlaw leader asked. “Not much time and it’s a short fuse. But long enough to let the first part of the train get onto the bridge before she blows. With luck, it’ll blow under the freight car three in front of the express car. That ought to just tip it over the edge and no more.”
“But—but ’spose it goes off early, under a car load of passengers?” Larry asked worriedly.
Sundance bored his chill gaze into the youth. “That’d be too bad for them. I did what I could with what fuse I could get my hands on. It’d be better planned if they hadn’t shipped the gold so soon. Now we gotta take chances. An’ we can’t stand here jawing. Kid—you’ve drawed the short straw. Go light that fuse.”
He thrust a tin of vestas into Larry’s bony hand and casually brought up the rifle, covering him. He smiled without mirth.
“I’ll be watchin’. We all will. So don’t make no mistakes. Just do it right—like you did in Signal.”
He leaned forward suddenly, whipping off his hat and slapping it across the rump of Larry’s horse. The startled mount jumped and whinnied and then lunged forward and Larry kneed it towards the trestle bridge where the dynamite had been planted.
Well, he had to do something to keep that train load of folk from being blown into the raging river and he reckoned he wouldn’t have a better chance than now. But he also knew he was under the guns of the outlaws: if he didn’t climb down and light that fuse, they would simply shoot him down and Sundance or one of the others would ride out, and set the fuse going. Even if the engineer saw him, he wouldn’t be able to stop the train in time on these slippery tracks ...
Larry dismounted and, crouching, ran for the bridge, balancing with outflung arms as he moved along the l
eft hand track. He was surprised to find himself walking at an angle and he gulped as he felt the bridge trembling violently beneath him. Below, through the ties, he could see the racing waters and the jammed trees and logs.
And, almost at his feet, the bundle of dynamite.
Glancing around, the wind shrieking around him and chilling his thin body, Larry saw the distant train coming towards him like a child’s toy, rapidly growing larger as it approached. Rifles were pointed in his direction from the stand of timber.
He knelt and struck a vesta and the wind blew it out. He could feel the iron rails trembling beneath him, with the weight of the approaching train. There were loud cracks coming from the timbers and a rhythmic splintering sound. He yanked the fuse out of the dynamite, ripped the lashings loose and allowed the sticks to plummet down into the river to be whipped away by the raging water.
He simply couldn’t risk the lives of all those people on that train, even if it meant giving up his own life to do it. But there was a chance he might just get away with it.
He managed to get the fuse burning and he took a swift turn around a moving rail spike, jamming it there. The smoke wisps were ripped away almost instantly by the wind but from the timber they could be seen and it would look as if the fuse was burning. When nothing happened and the train crossed the trestle bridge safely, he could say the dynamite must’ve jarred loose and fallen from the bridge. Maybe Sundance wouldn’t believe him, but it was all he could do now ...
Larry ran for his horse and he saw the train had come much closer now while he had been thinking about the consequences of his act. He saw the engineer leaning from the cab, waving frantically at him.
He had been spotted.
At the same time, Sundance had realized something was wrong and he started shooting. Bullets whined past the kid’s ears and he lashed the horse wildly and leapt it across the tracks, hoping to put the length of the train between himself and the outlaws.
