Winchester 1886

by William W. Johnstone

  He didn’t have to speak. Waco heard the train’s whistle in the night.

  Sometimes, it was hard to figure out what an outlaw was thinking. Waco just didn’t understand why more train robbers didn’t operate the way he did. It worked fine and dandy.

  He stood beside the express car, banging on the door with the stock of his Winchester.

  Loose-lipped Ted Dunegan had done his job, had waved that red-glassed lantern, and brought the Baldwin engine to a stop. Locomotive, tinder, baggage car, express car, two coaches, smoking car, Pullman sleeper, and caboose all stopped behind it. The conductor had hurried from one of the coaches, wanting to know what had happened to the bridge, and Millican had drawn his revolver and pressed the barrel between the fat man’s double chins.

  The Tonk kept his Greener trained on the brakeman, conductor, and engineer. Waco sent loud-mouthed Ted Dunegan of Bluejacket and the three other men to relieve the passengers of any valuables. That left the express car to Waco and Millican.

  “Mr. Express man . . .” Waco butted the Winchester on the ground. “Open the door, sir.”

  No answer.

  “Loyalty is something you give your mama, your preacher, not the Adams Express Agency. Nobody gets hurt if you do as I say. I’ll even write a letter of recommendation to your ramrods in New York City, citin’ you for bravery.”

  Silence.

  Waco turned to The Tonk. “Leave ’em prisoners with me. Go to one of the coaches and bring back a woman. Young, old, mother, grandmother, kid . . . I don’t care.” He spoke loud enough for the express agent inside the car to hear.

  Millican moved toward the engineer, brakeman, and conductor, covering them with the revolver.

  Waco shouted up at the express car. “Mr. Express man. Here’s what’s gonna happen. One of my partners—who is not Ted Dunegan of Bluejacket—is goin’ to the coaches. He’ll bring back a woman. Maybe a kid. Maybe a nun. Perhaps a grandmother or mother-to-be. When she gets here, I’ll count to ten. If that door ain’t open at nine, I shoot the petticoat down—”

  The conductor’s gasp was cut short by Gil Millican, who buffaloed him with the barrel of his Smith & Wesson No. 2, a big-bore center-fire .32 with a seven-inch barrel that had gotten a lot of use in the past twenty years. The portly man fell to his knees, moaning softly, holding his head. The engineer and brakeman did not move, barely even breathed.

  From the coaches came a few muffled gunshots, shouts, laughter, and screams.

  The boys were likely burning lead, trying to put the fear of God into the passengers, make them cooperate. Waco stared down the rails, watching the lights that shone out of the windows, casting eerie shadows on the ground. He looked at his watch again. Time became precious. They wanted to be well out of the area before daybreak.

  “Why were you late?” Waco asked the engineer.

  “I don’t know, sir,” the man answered. “Zeke and me was part of a crew change in Vinita.”

  Waco spit in disgust. He could hear the boys in the coaches clearly, shouting like fools who had run off with a box of candy from some hayseed mercantile.

  “Look at this, Vern. Two double eagles!”

  “I got me a diamond stickpin, Joey. Hey, what you hidin’ in your boot there, mister?”

  Waco would be mighty glad to get shun of these boys. Let the law catch them in two days—three at the most—and haul them back to Fort Smith to rot in the dungeon, then be sentenced by Judge Parker.

  He felt better when he saw The Tonk, herding a woman toward him with his Greener.

  The Tonk said nothing when they stopped a few feet in front of Waco, but the woman had a mouth on her.

  “What is the meaning of this, you swine?”

  Well, the old broad had spunk. Waco gave her that. A heavyset women with gray hair in a bun, dressed in light gray wool, Waco figured her as a grandmother. Maybe a preacher’s wife.

  “Ma’am.” Waco tipped his hat and smiled. “We’re just testin’ the efficiency of the Katy and the Adams Express Company, and hope you would help us out. What’s your name?”

  She folded her arms, and snorted.

  “Where are you bound?”

  She glared.

  Waco pulled the short-barreled Colt. “Seriously, ma’am, we need to know what name to put on your tombstone.”

  The arms fell, and she stepped back, mouth opening as Waco thumbed back the hammer.

  “Last chance, Mr. Express man. I kill this old biddy. Then I send my pard back to fetch another woman.”

  The old lady’s eyes rolled into the back of her head, her knees buckled, and she fell. The Tonk made no attempt to catch her, nor did Waco.

  Their attention had turned to the express car. They watched with faces beaming and weapons trained at the door, which slowly slid open.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Borden Mann stopped the door after it slid maybe a foot. He couldn’t see much outside, just darkness and shadows.

  “Keep it comin’, Mr. Express man,” a voice called. “I can still shoot this ol’ lady.”

  It had to be Danny Waco. Who else had such gall? Back in Parsons, Jimmy had said that Cherokees had spotted Waco in the area. Borden wished his kid brother had taken him up on the offer and hitched a ride on the Katy. He tried to work up enough saliva in his mouth to spit, but couldn’t. He swallowed and called out, “I’m tossing out my revolver.”

  “You do that. Real careful. Then open that door all the way. I want to see what a brave, but smart, express agent looks like.”

  He drew the revolver from the stiff holster and stared at it. It was one of Remington’s New Model Pocket Army .44-40s, which the company had given him, brand-spanking new back in ’89, shipped directly from Hartley and Graham’s gun shop in New York. Remington had made only a few of these weapons, which looked more like a Colt than the old Remington 1875s. It had a five-and-a-half inch barrel, and, like most men, Borden kept only five loads in the chamber.

  Most men never loaded the chamber underneath the hammer. Nobody wanted to accidentally shoot himself in the leg or blow off a big toe. Well, Jimmy always kept “six beans in the wheel.” But Borden wasn’t his younger brother.

  “My patience is wearin’ thin.”

  Five shots. He didn’t have any extra ammunition. Then he looked at the box on the desk, the one holding the Winchester ’86 and one box of twenty .50-100-450 cartridges.

  He knew Danny Waco wasn’t bluffing. An old woman was out there, and if shooting started, the woman would die. So would Borden Mann. He had done his best, but maybe he could see if he could bluff Danny Waco.

  The Remington flew through the crack. He heard it thunk on the ground, then he gripped the door, slid it open, and let the light from the lantern on the wall shine on three outlaws, part of the train’s crew, and a woman lying spread-eagle on the ground. His eyes locked on her, and then found Danny Waco.

  “She just decided to take a little siesta, Brave Express man.” Waco holstered his revolver but raised his Winchester at Borden, waving the barrel to motion Borden to raise his hands and back away from the door.

  A big, burly Indian went into the baggage car with Waco, leaving another white man covering the engineer and brakeman with a long-barreled revolver. The conductor remained on his knees, holding his head with one hand, his right hand on the ground. The old woman did not move.

  Using the barrel of his carbine, Waco prodded Borden Mann back against the letterboxes and cubbyholes. The Tonk kept both barrels of a sawed-off shotgun trained on Borden as well.

  Waco knocked off Borden’s cap, grinned, then moved to the safe, kneeling on the floor, and looking back at Borden. “You want to open it up?”

  “I don’t have a key.”

  “Ain’t you the messenger?”

  Borden wet his lips.

  “I mean, you’re the only one I seen wearing that stupid cap with a bit of brass that says Adams Express on it.”

  Borden said, “I have no key.”

  “Who else would have
the key?”

  Borden said nothing.

  “I hate brave express agents.” With a heavy sigh, Danny Waco turned to the Indian, who was busy rifling through the letters and packages. “Tom, blow this brave man’s head off.”

  The Indian had ripped open a letter, and was smelling the pink stationery. Frowning, he wadded up the note, tossed it to the floor, and turned around, bringing the stock of the shotgun to his shoulder. Borden stared into the cavernous Damascus barrels, sawed down to just in front of the forestock. Ten gauge, by the looks of them. Yet he refused to turn away, refused to close his eyes. He just waited.

  “Tom,” Waco said, “let’s not play games. Instead of killing him, kill the conductor. Then the old crone. Then tell Gil to shoot the brakeman. Maybe that’ll get this brave man to finding us that key.”

  The Indian grinned, stepped over some boxes he had tossed onto the floor, and aimed the shotgun through the opening. “Step aside, Gil. You don’t want to get hit by no buckshot. Hey, Conductor. Look up. You should see this.” The big Indian snorted, and his face hardened.

  They would do it, of course. Borden knew that plain enough. If you believed the stories, Danny Waco had already killed twenty men between Mexico and Montana. He would let the Indian kill the conductor and the woman passenger, still fainted dead away on the ground.

  Borden knew something else, too. No matter what happened, Waco would kill him. That’s why he and the Indian kept using names. No matter who else died, it would be Borden’s last evening on earth. “Waco.”

  The Indian turned around, lowering the shotgun.

  Waco grinned. “You know me?”

  “I know of you.”

  “Then you know I’m a man of my word.”

  Borden didn’t respond to that. He found his chair in the corner, and sat, brought up his left leg, and tugged and tugged until that old boot came off. Next, he pulled off his sock, reached inside, and pulled out the key. He tossed it to Danny Waco.

  “You’re a bright man, Mr. Express man. Real smart.” Waco turned to the safe, put the key in the lock.

  “There’s nothing in there,” Borden said.

  The outlaw sniggered. “Right. That’s why you keep the key in your sock. No, Mr. Express man, I think I’ll find forty thousand dollars worth of greenbacks in this safe, courtesy of the American Cotton Company of Denison, Texas.”

  Borden’s face paled. He dropped his boot.

  The safe door opened, and Danny Waco roared in rage. Papers and letters flew out of the safe, followed by a pouch of coins, and some banknotes. But nothing resembling a giant payroll for a north Texas cotton firm.

  Waco came up, moving like a rattlesnake, striking. The Winchester’s barrel sliced across Borden’s head, and Borden fell from the chair. Head throbbing, he saw dots of orange and gold and red and white flash before him. He groaned. Bringing his left hand to his temple, he felt the blood.

  “Where is it?” Waco roared.

  “Where’s . . . what?” Borden tried to at least sit up, but Waco put his right foot on his chest, pressing down . . . hard.

  “The American Cotton Company payroll?”

  He shook his head. “Wrong train.”

  The Winchester slashed again, cutting Borden’s cheek, and loosening a few molars. “This is the Number Four, mister, and my informant in Texas said it was on this train.”

  “No,” Borden said. “The Four derailed. This is the Sixteen. Why we’re late.”

  The boot came off Borden’s chest, and Waco began slamming the Winchester’s stock against boxes and cubbyholes, splintering the wood, sending papers and packages onto the tabletop, the floor, and the sacks. He swore vilely, moved to the safe, kicked the door shut, and even banged his head against the wall.

  Borden Mann managed to smile, until another voice said from outside, “He’s lyin’, Waco.”

  Waco whirled, stormed to the doorway, “What the hell do you know about anything, Ted Dunegan of Bluejacket way? And why ain’t you up with the passengers?”

  “We’ve plucked ’em of all they got, Waco. Joey and Mal’s with ’em, makin’ sure they don’t try nothin’ foolish. Vern went to fetch our horses. But he’s lyin’, Danny. This is the Number Four.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Passenger told us.”

  Borden felt his stomach turn over. He had managed to pull himself up, leaning back against the sacks packed three feet high off the floor, blinking the blood out of his eyes, tasting more blood on his tongue and lips. His vision had cleared somewhat, enough that he could see Waco standing over him, could see the barrel aimed at his chest.

  “You heard that, didn’t you?” Waco asked.

  “I heard,” Borden answered.

  “I don’t tolerate liars. So who do I kill? You? Or do I dispatch Ted Dunegan to kill one of the Katy’s passengers?”

  Borden turned his head and spit out blood. “This is the Number Four, but there’s no payroll.”

  “My man in Texas . . . he knows things.”

  Borden’s head bobbed. Even that hurt. He cringed, tried to shake off the pain, and smiled. “He set you up, Danny. The payroll. We put it on the Flyer.”

  “The Flyer!” Dunegan cried out, followed by some curses, and a fist slamming against the express car’s wall. “Waco . . . you told me to let that train go by.”

  Borden laughed—until Waco kicked him in the chest, knocking him to his side.

  Waco walked back and forth, knocking over packages, kicking boxes, cursing, screaming, shouting out that he’d ride to Texas and personally kill Mr. Percy Frick.

  Borden tried to catch his breath. He pulled himself back to a seated position, smiling with satisfaction at the irate, almost insane, outlaw. He saw this young kid—must have been Ted Dunegan—climb into the car, and begin opening letters, packages. To Borden’s right, the big Indian Waco had called Tonk was doing the same.

  Moments later, Waco had calmed down. “What are you doin’?”

  “Seein’ if there’s anything valuable in this mail,” said the young outlaw, a blond-headed, pockmarked kid with peach fuzz for a mustache. He found a check, folded it, and stuck it inside his vest pocket.

  “How much did we get off the passengers and crew?” Waco asked.

  Peach Fuzz, Mr. Ted Dunegan of Bluejacket, shrugged. “Not forty thousand dollars. Not by a long shot.”

  Waco cursed again. “Percy Frick’s a dead man.” He knelt to pick up the purse of coins he had tossed out of the safe. He pulled on the string, tugged it open, and cursed again. “Nickels.” He glowered at Borden. “Who puts nickels in a safe?”

  Borden didn’t answer. He saw the Greener leaning against the handle of a McCormick’s reaper in the back of the coach, and saw the legs of the big Indian. Heard him opening a box, and Borden’s heart sank.

  “Well, here’s somethin’.”

  “Money?” Waco looked up.

  “Better.”

  Borden heard the metallic sound of a rifle being cocked.

  “That’s a sweet action.” The trigger pulled, snapping loudly.

  Borden saw the Winchester ’86 sailing across the room into Danny Waco’s hands.

  “A rifle?” Dunegan spit onto the floor. “It ain’t worth forty thousand dollars, is it?”

  “Shut up.” Waco had left his Winchester lying on the floor. He studied the rifle that had once belonged to Nels Who Smells, but was supposed to be going to James Mann in McAdam, Texas. Cocked it again, pulled the trigger, then flipped the gun around, staring down the barrel. “I’ve seen caves smaller than this.” He grinned.

  “Yeah,” the Indian said. “Here.”

  Waco shifted the big rifle, sticking it underneath his left armpit, and held up his hands like some ballist awaiting the throw of a baseball. Instead, he caught the box of shells the Indian had tossed, green paper with the image of a bullet in the center.

  “For Winchester Repeating Rifle, Model 1886,” Waco read and laughed. “Fifty caliber, hundred grains of powder, a
nd a four-hundred-fifty grain chunk of lead for a bullet.”

  “That would stop a train,” the Indian said.

  “No.” Borden tried to stand, but the Indian knocked him down. Borden pushed himself up. “You’re not taking my nephew’s rifle.”

  Again, he tried to get to his feet, but the Indian kicked him in the side. He felt his ribs break and landed hard on his back, groaning, spitting up blood again.

  “Your nephew, eh?” Waco’s voice, then the sound of the rifle being cocked, but only halfway.

  “McAdam, Texas.” It was the kid, Dunegan. He had crossed the room, and found the box Borden had put the rifle in. “James Mann, General Delivery.”

  “James Mann.” Waco sounded interested. “I know a Mann. Deputy marshal who rides for Judge Parker’s court. Goes by the name Jimmy. I call him something else.” He laughed. “He probably calls me something else, too. I didn’t know that ol’ lawdog had family. Don’t see how he had the time, seein’ how he’s been on my trail for years.”

  “He . . . doesn’t . . .” Just speaking hurt Borden.

  “Doesn’t what?” Waco stood over him.

  “Have a . . . family.”

  “You know Jimmy Mann?”

  “My . . . brother . . .”

  Waco laughed. He finished cocking the rifle, braced the stock against his thigh, and held a bullet, one he had pulled from the box of cartridges the Indian had tossed him. He fed the long brass shell into the gate, and cocked the rifle again. “Well, now. This robbery might turn out to be a fine success after all. So Jimmy Mann’s your brother, eh?”

  Borden nodded as best he could. “And I promise you, Waco. You take my nephew’s rifle. And we’ll hunt you down . . . if it takes us . . . to the ends of the earth.”

  The rifle’s stock came up to Waco’s right shoulder. He leaned over, sighting down. Borden Mann looked into the massive barrel.

  “Well, Mr. Express man, I promise you something, too, something you, your lawdog brother, and your little nephew can count on.” He waited, but Borden Mann would give this road agent no satisfaction. “I promise you that they’ll have to have a closed casket at your funeral.”