The Majestic 311

by Keith C. Blackmore

  There were two men in the room, watching him quietly, wondering his intentions.

  Nathan tipped his hat at the one behind the bar, a tall gangly fellow in a black coat that looked suitable for the spring. Broad buttons were smartly fastened to the neck, where the ends of a dapper mustache drooped. The barman watched him carefully, no doubt wondering what had just come in from the approaching storm.

  “Cold out there,” Nathan said and smiled, flashing teeth he’d hadn’t picked in a couple of days.

  “Damn right it’s cold out there,” the barman said, unblinking. As if remembering his chores, he reached under the counter—all the while watching Nathan—and produced a washcloth. He got to scrubbing down the bar’s surface.

  “You got rooms for the night?” Nathan asked.

  That stopped the scrubbing and earned him a glare. “Rooms? Can’t you read?”

  “Yeah. I can read.”

  “So why are you asking if I got rooms for the night? I don’t got any rooms for the night. This ain’t a hotel. You see the sign out there? In here?”

  The barman punctuated each question with a chop of the hand.

  “I saw them,” Nathan replied.

  “And you can read?”

  “Said that I could.”

  “Then you’re wasting my time,” the barman scoffed and got back to some very energetic scrubbing.

  “All right,” Nathan said, taking a settling breath. “I’m looking for someone. Got a telegraph telling me to meet him here. Tall. Mustached. Though not quite like yours.”

  The barman stopped wiping down the counter a second time and glared. “Something wrong with my mustache?”

  That backed Nathan up. “Nothing wrong with your mustache.”

  “You’re goddamn right there’s nothing wrong with my mustache. I take care of my mustache. Ladies love my mustache. Hell, I got men come in here and admire my mustache. They come in here all the time and say, that’s a right-fine mustache you have there, Eddie. Right fine. See, I trim it and comb it out every day. I was just getting ‘round to waxing it before you came in. You damn well wish you had a mustache like mine.”

  Nathan left all that alone. “As I was sayin’, I’m looking for a man. Name’s Robinson.”

  “Robinson?” the barman said and looked towards the other occupant of the room, standing near a back wall. He was big, broad of shoulder, and wearing a black beard that might’ve been inspiration for a children’s story or two. He was dressed in an equally black duster opened to the waist, exposing a thick shirt underneath. The big man eyed Nathan something fierce, but all that was secondary, because, almost perfectly concealed behind a large leg, was a shotgun, pointed at the floorboards.

  Nathan could draw, even draw fast, and he could certainly shoot, owning a pair of Colt Navy revolvers strapped to each thigh, but those prized guns were under his own coat. That shotgun would put him through the door and well into the road if the owner wished it.

  So Nathan did the sensible thing. He lifted his hands and slowly tipped his hat.

  “You Robinson?” he asked, just as a blast of wind rattled the windows.

  Eyes that were either green or blue gazed back at him. “Nope.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Well then, anyone know—”

  The big shotgunner stepped aside, revealing the door he was standing up against. Nathan had to admit, the distraction of the shotgun made him miss the door completely.

  “Go on in,” the shotgun man said, one-arming his weapon to his shoulder.

  Nathan hesitated and decided that neither well-mustached Eddie or the shotgun man were going to do anything rash. So, with footfalls that echoed throughout the empty trading post, he proceeded to the door.

  Which swung open, revealing a simple but serviceable poker room. The walls were dark and bare spruce timber. A couple of windows were placed about neck-high, on either side of a support beam. Smoke drifted from a cigarette held in one hand.

  “Mr. Robinson?” Nathan asked upon placing a toe on the threshold.

  “I am.” The man smiled pleasantly, enjoying his smoke. “Mr. Rhodes?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Won’t you come in?”

  Nathan glanced at the shotgun man, who had lowered his head as if asleep. Just inside the door was yet another individual, bearded, with a full head of black hair, and studying the newcomer with a thoughtful expression.

  Nathan nodded in his direction.

  “Have a seat,” Robinson instructed.

  “Thank you,” Nathan said and pulled out one of four chairs around the table. A bottle of Three Clover Whiskey stood at the center, along with four shot glasses. Nathan had been on the road for a week, and a whiskey bullet appealed to him very much. He sat down.

  “The door, Jimmy, if you please?”

  The bearded man did as he was told. Nathan scooted himself toward the table, trying hard not to look at the bottle, for politeness’ sake.

  “Keep your hands on the table,” Robinson ordered softly and squinted as he took a draw off his cigarette.

  Nathan did just that, very carefully.

  “Have any trouble finding us?” Robinson asked.

  Nathan smiled. “Not too hard, seeing as you’re the only people around for miles.”

  Jimmy walked around the room until he stood at Robinson’s back. Quietly, surely, he pulled out a revolver before crossing his hands before him. All the while, that thoughtful, schoolmaster’s expression didn’t falter.

  “Don’t mind Jimmy,” Robinson said. “He’s just here to make sure you don’t try anything. I don’t think you’re going to try anything. Are you?”

  Nathan smiled again, but it wasn’t as broad this time. “No sir. Not me.”

  “Good,” Robinson said in a grandfatherly way. “Now then, let’s see… you were recommended to me by…”

  Nathan waited until he realized he was expected to say something. “Bob Sanders. Ah, Lone Bob Sanders.”

  “Lone Bob had a bit of trouble, didn’t he?” Robinson inquired with a frown and a smoke.

  “Yes sir, he did. He did.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Nathan gazed into Robinson’s face, then remembered Jimmy with his gun at the ready. “His horse tossed him. Animal got contrary and bucked him off its back. Bob landed square on his feet, but in a gorge he was riding alongside before he got bucked. Broke both legs below the knee. Skinned out both hands something terrible. Probably would’ve died if not for a wagon-load of Christians going by, later in the day. Still well after the cold got to nibbling on some of Bob’s parts.”

  “Excellent,” Robinson said. “You are Nathan Rhodes.”

  “I am indeed,” he replied, relieved he’d passed the initial questioning.

  “Had to make sure, you understand,” Robinson continued. “In case someone might’ve waylaid you. Attempted to … assume your identity. Chances are it wasn’t going to happen. Not to you, but call me being careful. And a bit paranoid, I suppose.”

  Nathan swept his hands over the table’s surface. “Think nothing of it.”

  “Keep your hands on the table, please.”

  Nathan immediately did so, his uncertainty returning.

  “All right, then,” Robinson started. “Where are you from?”

  “Little place in Saskatchewan. Not quite a town. Gonna be one, though. If that Melville fella has his way.”

  “Charles Melville? Hays? Head of the Grand Trunk Railway?”

  “S’pose so. Only know him as Melville.”

  “That’s him. There’s no other.” Robinson took another draw off his smoke. “Can you shoot?”

  “Yes sir, I can.”

  “Well?”

  “As good as anyone else, I suppose.”

  “That’s not very encouraging, Mr. Rhodes.”

  “Well sir,” Nathan said. “In my short time upon God’s green earth, I’ve found that it isn’t how well you shoot that matters. It’s how well you think when you’re shot at.”
<
br />   Robinson chuckled softly, the sound deep and rich. “Very good, Mr. Rhodes. I don’t entirely agree with you on that thought, but I can appreciate the sentiment. Let me ask you then, how often have you been shot at? To realize that pearl of wisdom?”

  Nathan mulled it over. He’d been shot at quite a few times, while robbing coaches or people in back alleys. “Enough,” he finally said.

  “Bob says you’ve killed two men?”

  In the silence that followed, the wind picked up outside, mustering enough force to bluster the windows again.

  “He told you that?” Nathan said, slowly wincing.

  “More or less.”

  “Through the telegraph?”

  Robinson nodded.

  Nathan sighed deeply, shifted, and faced the man across the table. He considered Jimmy right behind him, before returning to Robinson. “That wasn’t… real smart, Mr. Robinson. The telegraph sender’s just a regular—”

  “Don’t you worry about being reported,” Robinson cut in. “Not when Lone Bob is the one sending the message. Bob has a reputation. Not all of it is earned, but once you get one, it tends to act like a weed, in that it grows. Fabrications sprout from the sides, but the main stalk is the one that remains true. The one you worry about. In any case, don’t you worry about your killings becoming public knowledge. At least, not enough to summon the law to search for you. Bob will have looked after that. Guaranteed.”

  Perhaps so, but Nathan felt a twinge of unease. He couldn’t chance going back east now. Not for a while at least.

  “Let me tell you something,” Robinson said, smoke puffing around his words. “To ease your mind. About the job we’re planning. Jimmy, Charlie out there, and I. What do you know about the Klondike?”

  A tingle went up Nathan’s spine. “Only that there was a gold rush up there. Few years back.”

  “There was.”

  “Gold’s all dug up now.”

  “Not all,” Robinson said. “Still a few companies based in Dawson City. Prospectors have shifted to other places like Nome and Atlin Lake. Still a few workers digging into mountains and hills, sifting through rivers and streams. My point is, work is still ongoing. Slowed down some, but still ongoing. One company in particular—Shuster and Morris—has a sizeable workforce on its payroll. I’ve come into information that those people earn a regular wage. A wage that comes from Toronto, once every month, by train. About two weeks from now, that train will be going west on the Canadian Pacific. It’s got a pay car with roughly three hundred thousand dollars in its safe. Maybe more. Wages for those miners and processors working for Shuster and Morris. The train has to pass through the Rockies. The railway is steep there, so for the train’s safety, they built a series of tunnels called the Spirals, just opened up not two years ago. The Spirals help the train go up and down the mountain. Follow me so far?”

  Nathan nodded.

  “Good,” Robinson said. He checked on his cigarette. He had another three or four minutes on the thing, at least. “Now, the train will be traveling slow because of the gradient. By which I mean the slope. Rail folks call a slope a grade. Think it’s fancy. But I still call it a slope. Anyway, the train’ll be climbing, pulling the rest of the cars behind it. It’s going to pass under Cathedral Mountain, and when it comes out the other side, we’ll be waiting to board her. Just haul ourselves up like a bunch of deer ticks climbing onto a dog’s neck.”

  An attentive Nathan sat on the other side of the table, clearly all ears.

  Robinson smiled through the smoke. “We board her. And then we rob her.”

  At that point, Nathan realized he was expected to say something. All he could think of was, “Three hundred thousand?”

  “At least. Maybe a few thousand more.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “And it’ll be potentially dangerous. There’s every chance it’ll be guarded. By either police or soldiers or hired guns working security for the company. That’s one thing I haven’t been able to learn. So, we prepare for the worst. It’s winter, and it’ll be cold heading up into the mountains. That’s a week’s ride from here at best, but it’ll probably take longer. So, we’ll have to supply ourselves before we head out.”

  “From Eddie?” Nathan asked.

  “Yes, from Eddie. The whole affair has made him a bit nervous.”

  “That why he was acting like an asshole out there?”

  Robinson chuckled. “No, he’s always like that.”

  Nathan thought on that for a second. “How many men are in this group of yours?”

  “Ten. Eddie won’t be going but he’s the supplier, if you will. Lone Bob also has a stake in this, despite him being smashed up. So the cash will be divided ten ways. That fine with you?”

  “What’s my share?”

  “Thirty thousand.” Robinson smiled again. “At least.”

  “For a week’s work.”

  “A week’s travel, and perhaps two to three hours’ work.”

  Nathan chewed on that. “You got an escape plan?”

  “Of course. And we have guns.”

  “Got my own guns.”

  “Because of the unknown nature of the train’s security, we’ll get you a little more. A rifle at least.”

  Nathan didn’t mind that. He’d already made the trip out here on Bob’s word alone that it would be worth his while. It certainly looked to be worth his while.

  “Well, Mr. Robinson,” he said, his smile spreading. “I’ll join your group if you’ll have me.”

  “Call me Leland,” he corrected, reaching across the table with an open hand as he clamped his cigarette between his teeth. “Leland Baxter.”

  They shook hands.

  3

  The Boarding

  Upon hearing that eerie whistle, the men got busy.

  They dismounted, their shins sinking in snow. Hands flipped open saddlebags and bandoliers of extra ammunition were looped over heads and shoulders. Those with scarves adjusted them over their faces, while those without wrapped them on and tied them. The baleful moonlight cast their shadows long over the snow, and there was no issue with seeing anything in the undisturbed white of the gulley.

  “Milton,” Leland said and pointed with a rifle. “Take those horses a little farther back along the trail. Get them out of sight. Tie them off somewhere and get back here. The land leading up to the railway is uneven and there could be dips. It’ll be a hard walk for us, so when we get off that train, you make damn certain to cover our retreat. Shoot anything that’s pointing a gun our way, until we get to the treeline. Understood?

  “Give you cover, shoot anything pointing a gun at you. Got it.”

  “Try not to shit your britches when the shootin’ starts, Milton,” Eli jeered.

  “Go fuck yourself, peckerhead.”

  Leland silenced any further retorts with a single warning finger. Once order was again established, he inspected the six long-coated wraiths standing before him. His eyes twinkled, betraying a smile underneath the scarf pulled up over his nose. “All right, gentlemen. This is what we’ve been waiting for. Keep calm. Collected. And do your jobs. Try not to kill anyone, but be forceful if you must. Any questions?”

  “You think they’ll remember me like they do Bill Miner?” Eli Gallant asked.

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “I sure as hell hope so, ‘cause I hate that Kentucky bastard. ‘Hands up’ my ass. I was the first man to say them words. Me. Not him. Stole my goddamn words and got famous for it. Y’know they call him ‘The Grey Fox’ now?”

  Leland didn’t appreciate the distraction.

  The train whistle sounded again, somewhere deep in that stone-cut tunnel, where the tracks disappeared into a black curtain.

  “This way,” Leland said, and got to marching through the snow. “Single file.”

  “Why single file?” Eli asked.

  “Shut up, Eli,” Nathan said and meant it.

  “Make me.”

  But they all hear
d the clicking of two hammers being pulled back on a shotgun. The sound silenced the lot of them. Shorty Charlie Williams wasn’t aiming at Eli, but he wasn’t far off.

  “All right, all right,” Eli muttered and started walking. “Poor time to start shootin’ your partner, but what the hell do I know.”

  The seven pawed their way through the drifts, toward the rail bed. Their winter clothing warmed them, but it made them wider, stockier, and just a touch clumsy. Leland trudged through snow deeper than expected, and he sank in places, fighting to move forward. Nathan wasn’t fairing much better, and a quick glance over his shoulder told him the others, strung out in a wavering line, weren’t having an easy time of it either. He soon wished he had a pair of those fancy Cree snowshoes that allowed a man to walk on snow. They sank to their knees and mid-thighs, and any misgivings about leaving the horses behind soon vanished. The seven men stood out against the snow, their figures lit up by the moon and their shadows stretched across fine sheets of white.

  The rail bed was raised, and Leland actually fell face-first into a drift upon reaching the incline. Nathan, just behind him, reached out to lend the man a hand.

  “I’m fine,” Leland said.

  “It’s hard-going.” Nathan said, the snow’s deep chill penetrating his boots.

  “This is easy,” Eli chirped. “I’ve crawled through deeper in a Manitoba shithouse.”

  “Somehow I don’t doubt that,” Leland commented, getting to his feet. He pointed. They were parallel with the rail bed and the tracks and could see the tunnel mouth a distance away, perhaps some fifty yards or so.

  Where a white light, just a bit bigger than a firefly, winked into existence deep inside the tunnel’s depths.

  “Come on,” Leland urged. He double-timed it to the rail bed and freed himself of the deep snow. The others followed, grunting, their breath visible on the night air. The rail bed’s shoulders were firm and frosted in only a thin layer of powder, and Leland stomped his boots to clean off his legs. He quickly wiped clear what didn’t fall off.