by Ralph Dennis
The blast of the grenades stunned him and so unnerved him that, when he reached for the Springfield ’03, he knocked it clattering to the platform. He grabbed it and worked the bolt and put a round in the chamber. His first urge was to run for the siding. He reached the edge of the platform before he realized he could not go anywhere without receiving orders from Corporal Lester. No matter what was happening at the siding, if Corporal Lester came looking for him and didn’t find him, you could bet that Carpenter would lose a few strips of hide.
He returned. He jumped the baggage cart and grabbed the knob on the door that led into the waiting room. He swung the door open and took one stride through the doorway. What he saw in the waiting room shocked him. Corporal Lester was over to his right, his hands raised above his head, just like in a film, and a short little man with cropped hair held two guns on him.
Carpenter’s rifle was at his right hip. His finger was outside the trigger guard. When he skidded to a stop, his finger slipped past the guard and touched the trigger. He didn’t realize he’d fired until the rifle kicked at him. The recoil almost twisted the Springfield from his hand. As luck had it, the rifle happened to be pointed in the general direction of the little man with the two guns. Randy gave a frightened yell that was almost a scream and fell or dived behind a bench.
Private Carpenter thrust the Springfield in front of him and grabbed the bolt and started to put another round in the chamber. A shot deafened him, and glass in the door behind him shattered and rained down on the platform. He looked to his left. A tall man behind the ticket counter was leveling a huge revolver at him, ready to fire again. Private Carpenter’s knees buckled under him; that weakness probably saved his life. The second shot splintered wood on the door frame behind him. From all fours he twisted around and made a dive for the platform outside.
He landed on the platform, directly on the shards of glass. He felt the glass rip at his hands and his forearms but he still held the Springfield. He was struggling to get to his feet when a heavy weight fell across his back. He dropped the rifle and shook the weight from his back. He twisted around and hit the man with a clenched fist. The man groaned, and he realized that he’d struck Corporal Lester. “God damn you,” Lester wheezed at him, and then both of them rolled to the left, away from the open doorway and the light.
A shot was fired inside. It tore into the platform. Another shot sounded. Corporal Lester said, “Oh, shit,” and he pointed at the Springfield ’03. It was in the wedge of light just outside the doorway.
Private Carpenter realized that Lester’s holster was empty. He patted himself. All he wore that could be considered a weapon was the bayonet in the sheath at his hip.
“Got to get that rifle,” Lester said.
“How?”
“How the hell do I know?”
They crouched on the platform, in the darkness below the windows. They were breathing hard, like big dogs in hot weather.
“Randy? Randy? You all right?”
“Yeah.” Randy lifted his head above the top of the bench back and peered out the doorway.
Clark looked down at the ticket clerk. He was on his backside, where Clark had pushed him when the soldier walked in and pulled the trigger and shot at Randy. “What now?”
“They said for us to hold the depot.” Randy poked a pistol over the back of the bench and fired two rounds into the platform. “I guess we’ve got it.”
The coach windows shook in their frames with the first blast. MacTaggart said, “What the bloody hell?” and stepped over Captain McGuire.
McGuire sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Huh?”
“I don’t know.”
“Earthquake?”
“I doubt it.” MacTaggart listened. After twenty seconds he started up the coach aisle. “I’d better check this with Telford.” He’d taken only a few strides when the second large blast rocked the rails.
He met Telford in the middle coach. He’d come looking for MacTaggart. As if on cue, both men said, “Did you hear …?” and then they looked at the awakening soldiers. Telford took MacTaggart’s arm and they hurried into the lead coach where the Railway Express operation was set up.
“What do you think those were?”
Telford closed his eyes. It was as if he were picturing what had happened behind them. “Somebody blew the tracks.”
MacTaggart nodded.
“That boxcar is reason enough.”
Telford reached across the seat and grabbed the emergency cord. He yanked at it twice. Only seconds later the train came to a full stop. About the same time the phone buzzed. Telford lifted the receiver. “Hold it a minute,” he said into the phone.
He turned to MacTaggart. “Put a party together. All the men that can be spared.”
“Good as done.”
Telford put the phone to his mouth. “Engineer, I want this train backed up toward Wingate Station. I want it done at all safe speed. Rear brakeman, I think the track’s been blown away. I want you to get us as close to Wingate as you can without derailing us.”
Telford looked at MacTaggart. His eyes were small and pink behind the thick glasses. He covered the phone mouthpiece with a hand. “You armed, Mr. MacTaggart?”
“An Army .45.”
Still holding the phone to his ear, Telford reached into the luggage compartment above his seat. He pulled down a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. He passed it to MacTaggart. Another reach of his arm and he drew out a heavy belt with about two dozen shells inserted in the loops. “My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be. Consider this a loan.”
MacTaggart slung the shell belt across his chest.
Telford moved his hand away from the mouthpiece. “Move as soon as the rear brakeman signals you,” he said.
MacTaggart reached his seat. Captain McGuire stood in the aisle. A jerk, and the train began to back slowly down the track. MacTaggart reached out a hand and braced himself against a seat back.
“Pick me a dozen men,” he said.
“Thirteen is the proper number,” McGuire said.
“Pardon?”
“I’m going with you.”
“Who’s going to handle security on …?”
Captain McGuire leaned past him and yelled the length of the coach. “Sergeant Jones.”
“You certain about this?”
“Sergeant Jones,” McGuire yelled again.
Sergeant Jones, a huge man in his early forties, waddled down the aisle toward them at a trot. “Yes, sir.”
Captain McGuire lowered his voice so that only MacTaggart could hear him. “That boy back there is my godson. More than that, he is under my command.” As if that hadn’t been enough, he added, “All those men are my responsibility.”
MacTaggart moved around him. He lifted his bag from under the seat. He drew out the Army .45 automatic. “Pick your men.” He jammed the automatic into his waistband.
Captain McGuire caught Sergeant Jones by the arm and turned him. “I need a dozen of the best men you have,” he said.
“Captain?”
McGuire turned to face him. “Yes?”
“As soon as you’re done with Sergeant Jones I’ll need him.”
“Huh?”
“If you and I are going flower-picking we’d better let Mr. Telford know who’s left in charge.”
“By the book,” McGuire said.
“It’s the only way.”
McGuire limped away, leaning toward the huge sergeant and in lively discussion. There wasn’t any way to know that he was worried sick about the boy, Foster. MacTaggart knew. He was worried as well. The boy was a damned fine lad.
After the first run by the boxcar, Captain Whitman nudged Vic in the ribs and waved him to the right, off the road. Vic parked the truck in the dusty field behind the roundhouse.
The second truck followed their lead and parked level with them. Johnny rammed the sliding door to the rear and jumped out. The headlights from both trucks illuminated the field with its sparse grass and, about sev
enty-five yards away, a low mound of stacked steel pipe.
Vic switched off the headlights and circled the cab to join Johnny. “On foot?”
Johnny pulled the slide back and let it travel forward: the Thompson was charged. “We can’t risk the trucks.”
The flat pop of a handgun sounded on the other side of the roundhouse. Johnny said, “What the …?” He ran the length of the truck and stopped at the edge of the field, where it touched upon the road. He arrived in time to see the Ford truck careen across the road and stab its nose into the brick wall of the building there. The hood buckled from the impact, and water spewed from the smashed radiator.
Harry trotted from the darkness behind Johnny and stopped at Johnny’s shoulder. “What was that?”
“I’d guess a mistake.” Johnny watched as the others gathered in a loose half-circle behind him. “That’s the danger of driving down the wrong road at the wrong time.”
“One piece of information we got from that mistake,” Harry said.
“What’s that?”
“Some of those dogfaces are still alive.”
Johnny gave him a sour grin. “You notice all the good news.”
Two shots sounded. The gunfire was from a distance, and the echoes were soft and flat.
Next to Gunny, Henri Leveque flinched and backed away. Gunny said, “The ones you hear ain’t the ones you worry about.”
“Locate those for me, Harry.”
“I’d say the train depot, Captain.”
Vic spat into the dust. “Another screw-up for the Gipsons.”
“Gunny.”
Gunny stepped forward. He carried the pump shotgun over his shoulder like he was on a bird hunt. “Yeah?”
“While we mop this up, you loop over and check on what’s going on at the depot.”
“Fine with me, Captain.”
“You want help?”
“Don’t need it.” He turned and walked away, past the trucks and into the darkness. He circled the mound of pipe and went out of sight.
“Betts?”
“Yo.”
“You made some charges?”
“That’s right.” Betts held up a bundle of six sticks taped together, the blasting cap and the fuse already attached.
“How far can you lob that?”
“Fifty yards more or less, if the wind’s right.”
“That ought to do it.” Johnny waved a hand at the roundhouse wall on the left side of the road as he faced in the direction of the tracks. “That’ll give you cover until you’re close enough. Harry, you back him.”
“Good as done.”
“The rest of us …” Johnny broke off and stared at Henri. “You got a weapon?”
“It’s in my car.”
“Jesus.” Johnny held out a hand toward Richard Betts. Betts passed him the Thompson he carried under one arm. Johnny said, “Don’t lose this one,” and tossed the Thompson to Leveque. “You know how to fire that?”
“Of course.”
Johnny laughed. “I didn’t think it hurt to ask.”
Harry and Richard Betts trotted away and reached the rear corner of the roundhouse. They stopped there and looked back.
“The rest of us do a little Sunday stroll down the street.”
Johnny stepped into the road. Tom followed him. “How you like soldiering, Tom?”
Vic crossed behind them and took a position in the center. Henri Leveque charged the Thompson and took his place on the far side of Vic.
“You didn’t answer me, Tom.” Johnny began his slow walk down the road.
“It’s a new experience, Johnny.”
When they were level with the rear wall of the roundhouse Harry Churchman nodded at Johnny. His Thompson at the ready, his back to the roundhouse side wall, he kept pace with the four men in the road.
Richard Betts was one step behind him.
Corporal Lester said, “Let me have your bayonet.”
Private Carpenter reached behind him and drew the bayonet from its canvas sheath. He passed it to the corporal. Lester held it by the heavy handle, and then he switched it and gripped the blade end.
Carpenter stared at him. Was he going to try some kind of knife throwing?
“Hold it like this.”
“Yeah?”
“Over there. The last window. You get there and I’ll give you the signal. You reach up and smash one of the panes.”
“What …?”
“Do what I say.”
Private Carpenter crawled the length of the platform. When he was below the last window he sat up straight and looked at the lights.
“Now,” Corporal Lester hissed.
Private Carpenter swung his arm upward and slammed the heavy bayonet handle against one of the bottom windowpanes. It shattered. Two shots fired inside the waiting room smashed into another part of the window. Glass showered down on Carpenter.
Corporal Lester lunged as soon as Carpenter smashed the pane. He made his dive across the lighted area in front of the open doorway. He grabbed the Springfield and rolled away into the safety of the darkness on the other side of the doorway.
A bullet scarred the platform behind him.
He clutched the Springfield to his chest. That was better. He didn’t feel naked anymore. He thought back through it. Carpenter had fired one round. The Springfield ’03 clip held five. That left four rounds.
He worked the bolt and put a round in the chamber. He lowered the rifle and placed it on the platform. “Throw me your ammo pouch,” he said to Carpenter.
Private Carpenter unclipped his belt. He duck walked from beneath the lighted window. He drew back his arm and tossed the belt. For an instant he was stretched out, extended, and he was lit by the spill of light from the window beyond him.
The belt flew past the open doorway and landed in front of Lester. He grabbed it and drew it toward him.
That same moment, to Lester’s right, at the track level, a shotgun boomed. One blast and then a second one. Both patterns of shot struck Private Carpenter and tore him almost in half before it bounced him against the station front.
Corporal Lester grabbed the Springfield in one hand and the ammo belt in the other. He took a headlong dive off the platform. He landed in a patch of cinders. He was so afraid, he didn’t feel the rasping that tore the skin from his hands and arms.
Gunny lowered the shotgun. He selected two shells from his pocket and fed them into the slot. He remained crouched in the darkness at the track level, below the platform.
“Randy?” He had to shout again. “Randy?”
“Yeah?”
“How many are there?”
“Two.” The voices of Randy and Clark overlapped.
“Stay put.”
“Gunny. Hey, Gunny …”
“Shut up.”
They did. One man left. If the man made his move, Gunny would be ready for him. A wing shot. Otherwise it was a standoff, and he would have to find a way to flush him.
At the first rumble of the battle at the train station Constable Lafitte lifted the phone receiver from the hook and waited until the town operator came on the line.
“Who is this?”
“Irene.”
“This is Constable Lafitte. For the next hour there will be an Army exercise at the train yard. If anyone calls and asks, you tell them that. And don’t put any calls through to this number. I’ll be at the train station. You got that?”
Irene said she did.
Lafitte broke the connection. He opened the lower desk drawer on the left and took out a shot-loaded blackjack. He crossed to the door and locked it, and then he switched off the lights.
The only instruction they’d given him was that he was not to allow the night man, Parsons, to interfere. And that was all that he was going to do.
He knew Parsons’s schedule. He took a nap in the early evening before he left for work. But by now he’d be awake. And if he heard the explosions, he’d come running across town. Though he kept his handgun wit
h him, he would stop by the office for one of the Winchesters. That was the way Lafitte figured he’d act.
He was right. After ten minutes he heard the running footsteps. The door was tried and found locked. A key scraped against the lock front.
Lafitte stood with his back against the wall beside the door. When Parsons entered and turned to reach for the light switch, his heavy breathing covered the sound of Lafitte’s movement. Lafitte took two steps and swung the blackjack. He struck Parsons behind the left ear. Without a sound Parsons fell face down on the floor.
Lafitte dragged him across the office and into Cell Number One. He dumped him onto one of the bunks. As an afterthought Lafitte unbuckled his gunbelt and relieved him of his revolver. On the way back into the office he locked the cell.
There. His part of the job was done.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Jean drove Mr. Leveque’s black 1940 Cadillac in a wide circle that avoided the center of Wingate Station. He kept to the back streets and he found the old seed-and-feed building with hardly any trouble at all. He parked in the driveway. The headlights, before he switched them off, lit the huge shiny padlock on the double doors. So they were all gone? He had expected that.
He remained behind the wheel of the Cadillac for a time. He had a decision to make, and he wished that Mr. Leveque were there to help him with it. He was expected at the train siding. But, even at a distance, he could hear the gunfire. The battle was far from over yet, he thought. Therefore he would need a weapon. He knew there was a Thompson in the boot of the car. In fact, since Mr. Leveque hadn’t taken his with him, there were two. The question was whether he could cross the town while carrying a Thompson. He did not think so. He could, of course, drive to the area of the depot. That way, no one would see the Thompson. There was risk in driving. The Cadillac was Mr. Leveque’s pride and his prized possession. Any damage to it from stray gunfire, and the Devil would receive his pay before the morning.
No, the pearl-handled .32 would have to do for him. Once he reached the train yard he could find another weapon if he needed it. Later, when the boss wanted his car, he could return for it.
