Hell on Wheels (A Fargo Western #15)
Page 13
Fargo cursed silently, mind working with lightning speed. A cornfield meet—that was what Whitmore had called it in railroad language: a head-on collision, and there was no way it could be prevented. If those two trains collided at this speed, everyone in the cabs of both was doomed, including Fargo on the coal tender. There was one chance, one only, and that was to hit the air brakes and hit them now, with not a second to lose—maybe then the train would slow enough so that a jump would not mean certain death.
There was no help for it. Fargo scrambled to his feet. “Morrison!” he yelled.
Hawk Morrison caught a tatter of the sound in the rush of wind. He looked up, empty shovel poised, saw Fargo standing there above him, balanced on the swaying tender. His jaw dropped, his eyes widened. It was as if he had seen a ghost. “Morrison!” Fargo yelled again and pointed. Morrison swung around. But not to check the train. Instead, he rammed the scoop into the firebox.
Fargo leaped.
Morrison turned, shovel laden with red hot coals, and threw them squarely at Fargo.
Fargo had barely time to raise an arm to shield his eyes. The barrage of fire hit him fully; he felt sears of pain on torso, thighs. His shirt caught fire, sweat-soaked cloth smoldering. But Fargo drove through the fire, regardless of the pain. Dropping his arm, he saw Morrison raise the scoop, chop down with it like an ax. Fargo flung himself at Morrison, knowing that shovel-edge could cleave his skull like a pumpkin. He got in under it, caught the down-swinging handle on his injured left shoulder. A new wave of pain rushed through him, but as Morrison tried to raise the scoop again, Fargo seized its handle close by the blade with his right hand, and wrenched.
The floor of the cab was strewn with glowing coals. When Fargo jerked, Hawk’s feet rolled on them, he went off balance. His grip on the scoop loosened; Fargo tore it from his hands. Then Hawk was on balance again, coming after him, and Fargo drove the scoop’s handle toward him. Morrison grabbed it with both hands, twisted. Fargo held: both men went to their knees on the red-hot coals. The train rushed on down the grade, devouring more than a mile with every minute.
They wrestled there, on their knees, for possession of the scoop, the only weapon in the cab. The heat of the open firebox blasted both. “Goddam you, Fargo,” Morrison hissed, teeth bared, lips peeled back, hawk eyes blazing yellow. With both hands, he twisted again, and Fargo went over on his back, head only six inches from the firebox, its heat searing. Morrison came down beside him, pulled by the weight of the scoop which Fargo would not release. “I’ll ram you in the firebox!” Morrison snarled, and he let go the scoop with one hand, which he sent splaying against Fargo’s face.
Fargo braced neck, head, body, used every ounce of strength he had, but inch by inch Morrison forced his head closer to the glowing coals. It was almost in the box, now; he could feel his hair singe. He let go the scoop. That threw Morrison off balance. Morrison’s hand on his face slipped and Fargo jerked his head and Morrison’s hand almost took off his ear as it slid past, and then Morrison screamed as hand and wrist went straight into the firebox. He rolled backwards, howling, scrambled to his feet, the scoop forgotten, and now they were even, each with only one hand, and Fargo was on his feet, too. The scoop, skittering across the floor, balanced for a second at the door of the cab and was whisked off into space.
To Fargo it seemed an eternity had passed; actually the fight had lasted less than two minutes. He gave it no chance to drag on. As soon as he had footing, he rushed at Morrison, who, with his good hand, was already dragging a hunk of coal from the tender chute, raising it high. As Fargo came in, he swung it down.
It never landed. Fargo’s right fist drove deep into Hawk’s solar plexus. His head, bent low, jerked up with all the force of powerful neck and shoulders. When it slammed into Morrison’s chin, he felt the pain in his seared scalp and skull, heard Morrison’s teeth click together. Then Morrison was falling, and Fargo spun away, diving for the air-brake lever.
He jammed it on. Steel screamed against steel with a banshee sound, sparks streamed upward past the doorway of the cab. No longer rolling, the train slid down the hill like a giant sled, wheels locked. And it was slowing, slowing ... A speed-gauge slid back before Fargo’s eyes: sixty, fifty, forty-five; still too fast to jump. He swung out toward the step of the cab, caught the iron there, waited.
Morrison was on hands and knees before the open firebox, head sagging. Fargo’s eyes shot to the speed gauge again: forty; thirty-five; the land outside rushed by as a blur. Then, from up ahead, close, too close, came the frantic blast of the whistle of the other train.
That sound penetrated Hawk Morrison’s consciousness, touched the instincts of the railroad man. He raised his head, blinked, his lips moved soundlessly. He tried to scramble to his feet, one leg gave way. Thirty, the gauge said, now: twenty-five. Fargo braced himself and swung out on the step. Ahead he saw the locomotive of the freight, not two hundred yards away, saw men jumping from it like fleas from a dying dog. The speed-gauge dropped another notch, now. Morrison was on his feet, looking around dazedly. “Hawk!” Fargo roared, “you’d better jump!”
Instead, Morrison seized another chunk of coal, raised it like a club, lurched toward Fargo. Fargo wasted not another second. Hanging by his one good hand, he kicked out with a booted foot, slammed Morrison back against the tender. Then he gathered himself, swung around, leaped far out into space.
Even as he fell, the suction of the train wheels pulled him, but the force of his leap was strong enough to overcome it. He fell as a horseman learns to fall when bucked off at the peak of a jump, in a ball, but easy, relaxed. He hit the ground with stunning force, skidded, rolled, came to a stop, shirt and skin both shredded.
But he was still alive, uninjured. Somehow, he managed to hoist himself up on his hands, raise his head. He was just in time to see the two engines slam together.
It was as if someone had rung a terrific gong. The great iron monsters met head-on. Then, like a wounded animal, the engine of the lighter train reared high into the air above the locomotive of the freight. It poised there, ripping its connection with its tender, almost like a giant creature on its hind legs. Fargo caught a glimpse of something white bouncing like a pellet inside the cab. He thought he heard a scream.
For a second that seemed endless, the engine balanced like that. Then, with a mighty hiss and moan, it fell over on its side, boiler buckled. The cab became a hell of fire as coals cascaded from the firebox. Over and over down the hill it rolled, followed by the tender. The freight locomotive, its tender, and half a dozen cars followed more slowly. All that ironwork, in a terrible jumbled mass, came to a halt on the level. Then there was a muffled crump as a boiler blew, and the malevolent ferocious hiss of jetting steam, and surely there was another scream, choked off short. Then everything was still, save for the hissing and spurting of the steam, as a boiling, swirling fog closed in around the wreck.
Neal Fargo lay there for a moment longer, gut knotted with reaction. Ten seconds more and he would have been in that inferno, seared by coals and boiled alive by seam. Then, with what strength he had left, he staggered to his feet. The world tilted crazily; he ached from wounds, burns, abrasions. He tried to walk but could not. But that made no difference. For now the crew of the other train was running toward them. Fargo stood there, feeling no pity for Hawk Morrison, feeling nothing but profound relief that it was over, until they reached him.
Chapter Ten
But he always came back fast. Ten days later, the arm was good as new, the burns on his torso and legs mostly healed. He had a few new scars, but he collected those anyhow, as a collector might put stamps in an album. He and Ellen stood on the platform of the depot at Junction Flats. The retrieved cavalry hat was at a go-to-hell angle on the back of his head and a cigar tilted jauntily in his mouth. The two locomotives, trailing strings of ore cars, plumed smoke as they pulled up on the track beside the station. Will Whitmore, face shining, swung down off the one in the lead.
“Well,
here they are, Fargo! Brand spankin’ new Baldwin 2-6-2’s, and plenty of new cars! No trouble with the credit, not with the mine agreement and that clearance from the C & W to back it up! And the two old ones are bein’ rebuilt here in Junction Flats! Free of charge by the C & W. They’ll be good as new in another month, and then we’re really in business again!” He put out his hand. “Damn, Neal, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You already did,” Fargo said. He patted his pocket, where the rest of the twenty thousand rode, plus the ten thousand bonus. “It ought to be all right from now on,” he added. “It ought to be just fine.”
“Oh, hell, yeah, it will be. That scare you threw into Davenport and Blackwell practically had ’em crawlin’ on their bellies. Especially when that telegram came from your man in the East—the one that gave you the shotgun.” He grinned. “That shook ’em. Which is why they repaired the two old engines free of charge and paid for these new ore cars as damages. And the new Division Super they assigned is an old friend of mine—straight as a string. From now on, the Cayuse Mountain Line is hotshottin’ with a wide-open throttle!” Then he sobered. “Neal, I wish you’d reconsider. You throw in with us, I’ll give you a quarter interest. You’ll be rich in no time!”
“Neal, please …” Ellen took his hand.
Fargo shook his head. “Sorry. Can’t do it.”
“But why not?” Her eyes begged him—just as she had been begging him during the long hours they spent together while her father was in Wyoming, picking up the new rolling stock. “Neal—”
Fargo looked down at her. “I told you once,” he said softly. “It ain’t the way I’m built. It wouldn’t be good for you or good for me. Remember? No regrets.”
Her lip trembled, but her voice was steady. “All right. No regrets. But ... come back some day, will you?”
“It’s more than likely,” Fargo said. “I get around.”
She was one of the few girls who did not have to stand on tiptoes to kiss him. Her lips were warm, soft. The kiss was brief. Then she turned away.
“Fargo …” Whitmore began.
“No, Will. It’s impossible. Besides, I’m a cavalryman. Me, I’ll take horses that aren’t made of iron.”
Whitmore seemed about to protest, then nodded. He thrust out his hand and Fargo shook it. Then Whitmore took Ellen by the arm. “Come on, honey,” he said gently. “We got a clear track to Felspar, but we’re on a tight schedule.” He helped her into the caboose and mounted to the engine.
The trains snorted, roared, moved out, slowly at first, then gathering speed. Fargo, on the platform, watched them go, smoke pluming back. A whistle wailed, deep, mournful, strangely stirring. On the platform of the caboose, Ellen stood waving frantically. Fargo took off the old hat, waved back. Then the trains picked up speed, and finally they were gone.
Fargo clamped on the hat and went to the ticket window. “My name’s Fargo. You got a ticket to Cheyenne for me.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Fargo. Right here. Compliments of the railroad. Train’ll be here in about five minutes.”
“Fine,” said Fargo. He took up station beside his trunk and relit his cigar. In the distance, now, whistles sounded once more. For an instant, Fargo felt a fleeting regret. Then he brightened, grinned. Down the line, another train was coming. Its high, black bulk dwarfed him as it pulled up. He supervised the loading of his trunk, got into a Pullman and settled down. In a few more minutes, the train was on its way.
Fargo was already looking ahead to its destination. After all, he owed a blonde woman in Cheyenne five thousand dollars—and it was going to be a pleasure to pay her back in person.
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