Hell on Wheels (A Fargo Western #15)

by John Benteen

  Fargo met her eyes. “Like I said, I’m still workin’ for Cayuse Mountain. Not as a fightin’ man, maybe, but I’ve been retained as a paid adviser in these negotiations. Right?”

  Before her father could speak, Ellen read the urgent message in Fargo’s gaze. “Yes,” she said. “That’s absolutely right. Mr. Davenport, Mr. Blackwell, we have retained Mr. Fargo as our adviser.”

  “No!” Morrison snapped. “I don’t know what kind of trick this is, but—Fargo, there’s a ticket to Cheyenne waitin’ for you at the depot. You either go pick it up and clear out or I’ll have ten men here in three minutes to handle you ...”

  “Will you now?” asked Fargo coldly.

  Hawk Morrison turned to Whitmore. “Will, tell him to go. You’re still president of Cayuse Mountain as of now. Send him on his way. While he is here, I will not deal.”

  Whitmore was silent, looking from Morrison to Ellen to Neal Fargo. Fargo saw him struggling with decision, fearing on the one hand to do anything to jeopardize the sale of his railroad; on the other, resenting Morrison’s attitude, wondering at the significance of Fargo’s intrusion. He either had to trust Neal Fargo or not. Then Whitmore said, shakily, “Fargo’s right. He’s our adviser. If he can’t sit in, there will be no deal. I won’t sell.”

  “Then so be it,” Hawk flared. “You and Cayuse Mountain can shrivel up and die, and—”

  “One moment, Morrison.” One of the gray-haired men stood up. “Mr. Fargo, I’m George Davenport, President of the C & W. This is R. F. Blackwell, treasurer. We’ve heard of you, and what we’ve heard has not been good. All the same …” He turned to Morrison. “You said everything was set and we came all the way from Chicago on that assurance. This purchase has been important to us for a long, long time. If Mr. Whitmore has retained Mr. Fargo as an adviser, that’s his right. But we will go ahead with negotiations. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” Morrison said tautly. “Very well, then. But Mr. Davenport, this man is a hired killer and he’s armed.”

  “You will please leave your guns in the outer office,” Davenport said. “Only then can we proceed.”

  Fargo hesitated, nodded, went to the door and summoned a clerk. He handed over all his weapons. “You look after these, bub,” he told the pale-faced boy. “Because if anything happens to ’em, I’ll have your ears. Understand?”

  “Y-yes, sir.” The clerk carried them into the bullpen. Fargo closed the door. “All right, gentlemen,” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting down, saddlebags in his lap. “Let’s go ahead. Will, what have they offered you for the road?”

  “Four hundred thousand dollars,” Blackwell said before Whitmore could answer.

  Fargo looked at Whitmore. Will licked his lips. “Best I could do,” he whispered. “It’ll pay me out, free and clear, give me a little stake. Not much, but it’s better than nothing.

  “No it ain’t,” Fargo said. He was aware of Morrison staring at him, eyes yellow with hatred, face totally a hawk’s. Fargo never left off watching him out of the corner of his eye. “It ain’t enough at all. Gentlemen, there’ll be no sale—at that or any price.”

  Then, coolly, he opened the saddlebags, took out a document, passed it over. “I had a lawyer draw that up yesterday. It’s all in legal order. It requires you to allow the Cayuse Mountain Railroad complete and total access to all your trackage whatsoever, from now on, as payment in full for all damages you and your employees have caused them.”

  ~*~

  For a moment, the room was very silent. Then Hawk Morrison laughed hoarsely. “You see, Mr. Davenport? I told you—” He started to his feet. “Fargo, get out. We’ve caused no damages to the Cayuse Mountain Line.”

  “I think you have. Plenty. You wrecked an entire locomotive, killed six men. Blew a tunnel … Tried to have me killed … I’d say that’s damage enough.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Fargo,” Davenport said harshly. “We have done no such thing.”

  “Your Division Superintendent has,” Fargo said. “And either you sign this agreement or we’ll sue the living ass off of you and, by God, we’ll win.” He smiled coldly. “Oh, I know you got a lot of high-priced lawyers. But we can get ’em, too. You doubt it, send this telegram, wait for an answer.” He handed Davenport a blank on which a message was scrawled.

  Davenport read it, laughed shortly. “You think such a man would help a common gunman, like you?”

  “I think so. I served under him in the Rough Riders. We’re pretty good friends. He owes me some favors. And when he was president of this country, he went after the trusts. Includin’ the railroad trusts. He ain’t president any longer, but he still draws some water. He’ll back us when he hears the story of how the big C & W tried to put the little Cayuse Mountain out of business.”

  Davenport looked uncertain. “The fact remains, we never authorized such tactics against the Cayuse Mountain line. Wrecking, dynamiting?” He turned to Morrison. “I’ve heard nothing of this.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” Morrison snapped. “Because it’s a lie.”

  Once more, Fargo dug into the saddle bags, brought out papers. “Rawhide Blaine’s confession says it isn’t. He says you instructed him to hire Ridge to spring the track and blow the tunnel. When Ridge can talk, he’ll verify it: I’ve already sworn out a warrant against him in federal court. One against you, too, Hawk.”

  Morrison’s face was pale, but suddenly composed. “Blaine,” he said quietly.

  “He’s where I can lay my hands on him when I want him. He tried to take me, but I outdrew him. And when I threatened to put a hollow-point through each hand, he spilled his guts. He don’t love you too much anyhow, Hawk. You laid a lot of bad mouth on him—too much for a man of Rawhide’s pride. So ... if he’s got to go to prison, he’ll take you with him. Only, you won’t go to prison. You’ll hang for murder.”

  “No,” Morrison said. “Mr. Davenport, this is …” He rubbed his face with one hand, the other slid out of sight behind his desk. Fargo was on his feet. He shook his arm; and suddenly the snub-nosed .38 taken off of Rawhide Blaine was free of its sleeve-harness and in his hand. “Don’t reach in that drawer for a gun,” Fargo rasped. “Hands on the desk, or I’ll blast you.”

  Hawk Morrison stared into the .38’s bore. Both hands slowly spread on his desk.

  Then Fargo tossed the saddlebags to Davenport. “There’s the rest of it. Morrison’s been stealing your railroad blind ever since he’s been in this division. Taking stuff out of sealed boxcars with the help of a bunch of corrupt brakemen and yard bulls, fencin’ it, livin’ high and usin’ some of the money to finance tryin’ to ruin the Cayuse Mountain Line. A conductor got wind of it, threatened to blow the whistle on him, and Hawk slugged him, backed a switch-engine over him, called it an accident. But it’s all there in Blaine’s confession—and in those saddlebags.”

  Davenport blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “Hawk stole big. He had to fake a lot of records. It was so tricky, he had to keep records of his own not to cross himself up.” He looked at Morrison. “Blaine told me about the box of papers you had hidden in your huntin’ cabin outside of town. I rode all night to get ’em, but it was worth it. And they’re all in those saddlebags. So that’s it, Hawk. You’re finished. And, Davenport, everything he did, he did in the name of your railroad. You’re involved, too, and the C & W hasn’t got a chance when we sue you.”

  Hawk Morrison turned to Davenport. “Mr. Davenport, I can explain. This is a frame-up, pure and simple. I’m innocent, I’ll swear to all of you. To you, Mr. Blackwell …” He turned. “To you, Ellen.” He reached for her hand. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Ellen!” Fargo roared. But he was too late. Swift as a falcon, Morrison had jerked her up, clamped an arm around her throat, swung her in front of him. She tried to scream, but he choked it off.

  “All right, Fargo,” Morrison said. “Drop the gun or I break her neck.”

  Fargo stood frozen for an in
stant. Then he let the bulldog drop.

  “Kick it under the desk.”

  Fargo complied.

  Still holding Ellen, Morrison backed toward the big window of his office, which fronted on the yard. Through it, Fargo saw the private train, steam up, crew waiting beside it. With his free hand, Morrison raised the window.

  “Okay,” he rasped. “End of track, I guess. But I’ll be goddamned if I’ll go to jail or hang. And you, Fargo … Someday I’ll be back to see you and when I do, hell won’t be hot enough to hold you. You’ve ruined it all, everything I planned, all I ever worked for and—Your turn will come. But, now—” Suddenly, savagely, he threw Ellen forward. She slammed into his desk, and then Morrison was out the window, streaking across the railroad yard.

  “Out of my way!” Fargo yelled, crowding toward the window, but he was blocked by bodies as the other men surged to Ellen. Fargo cursed. He caught a glimpse of Morrison swinging up on the step of the locomotive, of the engineer turning to protest, of Morrison’s foot smashing into his face. Then the engine was slowly rolling into motion.

  Fargo whirled, rushed through the office door, leaped the rail. There was no time to stop to get a gun; every second counted. Anyhow, he had a rifle on his saddle.

  Even as he unlatched the horse’s reins, the engine was rolling down the track, gathering speed. Fargo hit the saddle without touching stirrup, whirled the chestnut, slammed home spurs. It took off at a dead run, following the sidetrack down which the train, with a full head of steam, was chugging faster. And faster. In a minute it would be in the yards where the horse could not follow, and then streaking out on the main track, and Morrison would be gone. Fargo yanked his Winchester from leather, fired at the moving train. He heard lead scream off metal, whine across the yards. But it was hopeless, Morrison was too well armored by the cab, and you couldn’t kill a train with six rounds from a carbine. As the gun clicked on empty, Fargo cursed, threw it aside, bent low in the saddle, and spurred again.

  The horse gave all it had, stretched itself to the limit, and now, even with the train gaining speed, it was closing on that single passenger car. Ten yards, five, three, two, and now there was a chance, a bare one, the only one. The gallant chestnut drew level with the observation platform at the rear of the private car. And Fargo took the chance.

  He left the saddle like a bulldogger going for a steer. To miss was to smash his face on track and cinders, maybe crush his skull or break an arm. Hurtling through the air, he stretched his long arms, lean body, as far as bone and muscle could extend—and then his fingers closed around the platform rail.

  The jolt was terrible, and he felt one shoulder joint go, ball slipping from socket, popping in again, the pain dizzying and sickening. His boot-toes trailed in the gravel, bounced over ties. If a foot caught in the vee of a switch or connection he’d be torn apart. Gasping, he somehow managed to hang on, and then, with every ounce of strength he had, twist himself enough to get a foot up. It found purchase on the step of the car.

  Fargo hung there as the train raced through the yards, up to thirty miles an hour now, whistle moaning. Morrison was going all out—death or freedom. Switches were opening ahead of him, track clearing, as yardmen, who had no idea what was happening, seeing only the top brass’s private train coming hell-for-leather, made way. Signal lights flashed by. Empty strings of parked boxcars made a crazy pattern as the train roared past. Panting with pain, Fargo clung to the rail a moment longer, gathering strength, one boot propped on the corner of the platform step. His left arm, with the yanked joint, was a solid flare of agony now, soon it would be useless, unresponsive.

  The train was hitting at least forty, the web of yard track dwindling as it struck the main line east. Teeth clenched, Fargo worked along the platform rail, got his boot fully on the step, eased another dozen inches, and then he was standing with both feet on the step, hand clinging to the platform rail’s gate, which should have been locked. And wasn’t. As his weight tugged at it, the gate swung open. Fargo careened backwards, feet still on the step, body tilted outward, hands clasped to the swinging gate. To let go now was sure death, and yet at any second he was going to lose his footing as the open gate forced him further out and back.

  He had to trust the injured arm to hold him. Clinging to the gate with that, he clawed wildly with his right hand, missed, tried again, caught solid rail along the platform. With that leverage, he hauled up, pushed the gate shut. He heard its latch click as it swung back in place, and he pushed his belly tight against it. Then he tumbled over the rail onto the platform.

  He lay there for a moment, gasping for breath. Then he struggled to his feet, left arm dangling uselessly, and opened the back door of the private car, lurching in.

  It was plush: Sitting room, office, beds, a galley-type kitchen. Ahead, the whistle moaned; wheels clicked on track joints with machine-gun rhythm as the train, on the main line and a downgrade, now, picked up speed. Quickly, yet methodically, hampered by the useless arm, Fargo searched every drawer and cabinet in the car, looking for a weapon. He found none—not even in the galley. The cabinet that must have held knives and cleavers was securely locked.

  Fargo leaned against the galley counter, shook his head, trying to clear it of the pain. He had to think. Morrison was a railroad man. He knew by now they’d have telegraphed ahead to the next town—what, fifty, sixty miles? There they’d shunt the train on a sidetrack. So Morrison, surely, would stop the train before the next town, abandon it, strike out on foot. All right. Fargo would wait. He couldn’t fight the man on a moving train with one arm out of action. But once Morrison got off, he’d be after him. With both of them weaponless and the two of them on solid ground, he’d have a chance, anyhow. If he didn’t tackle Morrison, he could, at least trail him. Of one thing he was sure: he was not going to let Hawk get away. The man had tried to have him killed a half dozen times; he’d forced Fargo to kill two desperate Indians; he’d betrayed everyone who’d ever trusted him. And he’d spread his brag that he’d whipped Neal Fargo. All the rest aside, that last was unforgiveable. Fargo’s face split in a wolf’s snarl. He stepped out of the door of the private car that brought him out behind the coal tender. He could not stay back here. He had to get to where he could watch Hawk Morrison, be sure to leave the train the moment Hawk did.

  The downhill grade was steep; the train was like a rocket. Fargo braced himself on the car’s step, looked at the black wall of the tender looming over him. It was going to be a long chance, climbing those grab-irons up that sheer steel side with a useless arm, but it was a chance he had to take. But, he knew, it was going to hurt like hell; there was a good chance he would pull that shoulder out again.

  “Well,” he said aloud, voice lost in the roar of the train and the rush of air, “the tail goes with the hide.” And, reaching out with left foot and right hand, he began to climb.

  Another man might have cried aloud with pain when the strain came on the shoulder joint. Fargo only ground his teeth together. He could not pull up with the left hand, but he could cling with it for an agonizing instant while he got a new grip with his right. Rung by rung, slowly, awkwardly, like a wounded insect going up a wall, he climbed the tender.

  Panting, he finally made the top, a flat metal surface, the cover of the water tank. He scrambled out, lay there for a moment shielded from the vision of anyone in the cab by a mound of coal. Smoke whipped around him; sparks and ash battered face and eyes. He put his head down, and as he did so, the campaign hat whipped off his head. He cursed; well, later he would find it if he had to ride the whole damned track on horseback. For right now, he had to get into position to watch Hawk Morrison.

  On his belly, he slithered up the mound of coal. Reaching its crest, squinting into wind and smoke, he peered over.

  Ahead, a long grade swooped down for miles into a valley, the track string-straight, the slope steep. In the distance, the track curled around a bend before beginning its upward climb again. Morrison, white shirt smeared with so
ot, was at the throttle in the cab, peering out the window. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he slipped off the engineer’s seat, picked up a coal scoop. He stepped on a pedal; the firebox door swung open to reveal a bed of glowing coals, a dancing hell of flames. Morrison shoveled in a scoop of coal, turned for another, his motions rhythmic, his muscles bulging. Fargo understood now how he’d been able, single-handedly, to work up such speed. In the beginning, the engine had already been fired to every ounce she’d take; that pressure had got him through the yards. Chocking the throttle wide open, he himself had kept the firebox hot since then, and now the downgrade was adding to his speed. And speed, of course, was what he wanted—the greatest lead possible on any train that might pursue him.

  But, of course, he couldn’t fire the engine up that far grade by himself. Probably, when they reached the bottom, he’d stop the train, take off on foot into the broken country. There were ranches up there; come nightfall, he’d steal a horse. From then on, tough, resourceful, he’d have a better than even chance for escape.

  So he must have figured, anyhow, with no idea that Fargo was also on the train.

  Fargo hunkered there behind the coal, careful not to reveal his presence. A mile a minute, maybe more, the train pounded down the grade. Morrison closed the firebox, went back to the throttle, looked out, checked some gauges, sat there a pair of minutes. Once, in what must have been sheer fury, he struck the wall of the cab with a clenched fist. Then, picking up the scoop again, he opened the firebox door.

  And that was when Fargo, looking over the top of the engine, saw it and sucked in breath.

  Down there in the valley, strung around the curve, crawling up the grade, was a long snake of a freight train with a huge sleek engine out in front. Six or seven miles away, it was pulling hard and coming fast. And if its engineer saw Morrison’s train rushing toward it and blew his whistle, the sound was lost in the pound of drive wheels and the rush of air and the hiss of steam. And Morrison, shoveling coal into the firebox, had no idea that the train was there.