Slocum's Great Race

by Jake Logan

  “That’s something good?”

  “It’s when a man and woman get together.” Calhoun made an obscene gesture that brought a slight smirk to the gunman’s lips. Some of the tension eased.

  “Don’t cross me again,” Big Thom said, backing away so he could keep his eyes on Calhoun.

  This suited Calhoun just fine. He shook his head when Curly started for his six-shooter. If brains were dynamite, that man didn’t have enough to blow his nose. Calhoun waited for the door to click shut before turning to Curly and the other four.

  “You owlhoots need to keep it straight why we’re here.”

  “Aw, Boss—”

  “Shaddup,” Calhoun said automatically. “I talk, you listen. That’s the way it works. And what I’m sayin’ is that we need to collect even more of the keys. Those men in the other cars, they’re pansies. They ain’t gonna stand up to any of us.”

  “Why not just get down to some serious killing?”

  Calhoun glanced at the sun-darkened man who had spoken. Gerald “Skunk” Swain never said much, but when he did, Calhoun took note. The man had killed a half dozen men, most all getting shot in the back. The greasy dark hair was split smack down the middle of his head with a snow-white band that gave him his appellation. Tiny eyes peered out from under bony ridges, demanding an answer. Ignoring the gunman would be a big mistake, and Calhoun knew it. Of the remaining gang, Swain was the most dangerous, especially if Calhoun ever turned his back or tried to catch a nap.

  “We collect the keys a few at a time,” Calhoun explained. “Let the others find the clues and lead us to the strongbox. We don’t have to solve all the clues—and Colonel Turner promised that they wouldn’t be easy.”

  “So we’re not smart enough to solve them on our own?”

  “So we let the others do the work. Then we swoop down and take what’s rightly ours,” Calhoun said. He’d appealed to Skunk Swain’s baser instincts, and saw he had hit dead center. Swain nodded slowly, considering how many men he could gun down from behind. The number tallied high enough to please him, because he fell silent, crossed his arms, and perched against a crate, waiting for Calhoun to continue.

  “Abel had a half dozen keys and we throwed him out!” Curly cried, rushing to the open door and peering out. Calhoun restrained himself from kicking the man out for mentioning Abel or the keys he had.

  “He didn’t have that many,” Calhoun said. He had found only three in Abel’s pocket, but worried that Curly might be right. Abel had been a deft pickpocket besides being dangerous. If he hadn’t been taken care of, he would have been calling out Calhoun for leadership.

  “But, Sid, he—”

  “Shut up,” Calhoun said. “It won’t matter. We can get enough of the others’ keys to open the damned box.”

  “We could just shoot off the lock,” Curly said.

  “You stupid cow,” Calhoun said. “You think we can just waltz up to the strongbox when we find it and do something like that? Turner’ll have guards there and enough press and politicians to outnumber us a hundred to one. He’s doing this to draw attention to his damn Turner Haulage Company. He’s not going to keep that box hidden. Everything he’s doin’ is to make more people notice him.”

  “So we need the key.”

  “I’ll have most all of them, so the odds will be good one opens the box.”

  “If it doesn’t?” Skunk Swain uncrossed his arms and gripped the edge of the crate, where he shifted his weight enough to go for his six-shooter if he didn’t like the answer.

  “Then we’ll have to see how many of the bastards we can kill and how fast we can get away with the gold,” Calhoun said, giving his gang the answer they wanted to hear. Too many of them were like Swain, more interested in spilling blood than getting rich.

  That suited Calhoun just fine. While they were blazing away, he’d be getting away—with all the gold. He might have to take care of Swain first, though, since the man presented as much of a danger to him as Abel had. Calhoun smirked. Curly had his uses, and getting rid of Skunk Swain was about the best of them.

  “How many keys we got?” Curly asked, breaking into Calhoun’s thoughts. He held down his ire.

  “Enough.”

  “I got two,” Curly allowed. He looked around at the others. “What about y’all?”

  Calhoun was surprised to see that among them they had ten keys, Swain having two. Two of the others had one each. That made them 20 percent of the way toward opening the lockbox and running their hands through a stack of gold coins.

  He was a fifth of the way toward being rich.

  “What’s the plan for gettin’ the rest?”

  “We work real slow,” Calhoun said. “Take out the dumb-lookin’ ones since they won’t help us any by solvin’ the clues. By the time we get to the strongbox, we ought to have most all the keys.”

  “Some might have been lost,” Swain said. “That gent in the brown coat prob’ly had one, and he got tossed off the train.”

  “That’s only one key, and he might not have had it when he hit the dirt,” Calhoun said. “Who threw him out?” He looked around and saw no one knew. It didn’t much matter as long as his gang hung together and watched each other’s backs. Swain was especially good at that. Calhoun felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the thought. Getting rid of Skunk might be necessary soon, but not until he had served his purpose.

  And it wouldn’t do to overlook the two keys Swain had.

  “Uh, Boss, kin I talk to you in private?” Curly inclined his head in the direction of the open side door. “I got a worry.”

  Calhoun shot a look at Swain, then shuffled across the floor to stand with his back to the outer wall so Curly couldn’t simply shove him out if that was the man’s intent.

  “What is it? We got work to do and this ain’t doin’ it,” Calhoun said.

  “Uh, Boss, what if some of them got more keys than they fessed up to havin’?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They might be playin’ their own game. Skunk, he said he had two, but he’s got more. I know he stole a couple. That might mean the others are lyin’, too.”

  “So what do you think I should do about it?”

  “Call him out. He ain’t got yer speed. Take him out ’fore he gets your spine in his sights.”

  Calhoun considered the request for a moment, then burst out laughing until tears ran down his cheeks. Curly had tried to play his own game and remove a rival. That meant he intended to double-cross the rest of the gang, Calhoun included.

  “I didn’t think you had that in you, Curly.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Such loyalty to me. You’re worried about my safety,” Calhoun lied, enjoying Curly’s confusion. This wasn’t the reaction Curly had expected from the gang leader.

  “Yeah, sure,” Curly said, warming to the idea that he had fooled his boss. “That’s it.”

  Skunk Swain swung around, his six-shooter slipping from its holster. He leveled his gun at the door leading from the mail car to the forward passenger car. Calhoun covered his henchman, then saw why Swain had reacted. A face peered through the dirty window in the door.

  “It’s the bitch,” Swain said. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Get over here,” Calhoun said. He kept his own six-gun aimed at Swain, just to be sure. The others in his gang came over. Swain followed more slowly, but when he was a yard away from Calhoun, the train lurched and then screeched to a halt, throwing him forward.

  Swain, Curly, and Calhoun went down in a pile. The other two gunmen fell atop them and they all slid toward the open side door. Calhoun tried to grab hold of the edge and failed. The lot of them fell heavily off the train, hitting the ground so hard they lay stunned.

  Calhoun forced himself to his knees in time to see the huge plumes of smoke rise from the engine funnel as the train built steam again and roared along. He tried to get to his feet, and only became more entangled with the others. They fought and kicked and swun
g, making it impossible to stand. Calhoun fell backward and sat down hard. The train built speed and was leaving them behind.

  “Get back on. Don’t let them strand us out here!”

  Calhoun began shooting at the train to attract attention. The train only moved faster and sped away. Calhoun stumbled along, clicking an empty six-shooter in the direction of the receding train.

  “You sons of bitches! You can’t leave me out here!”

  “They did it on purpose,” Swain said, shoving his six-shooter into his holster. “They did it to eliminate some competition.”

  “Like hell they eliminated me,” Sid Calhoun growled. He stuck his pistol back into the sash around his waist and began walking, each step making him angrier than the last. Swain was right. Somebody had set them up and marooned them.

  Somebody was going to pay with his life. Sid Calhoun made that promise, and it wasn’t one he intended to break.

  7

  Zoe Murchison picked herself up off the passenger car floor and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her only good dress. She worried they had become permanent, along with the stains and dirty spots. If she didn’t present a professional appearance when she spoke with men such as Big Thom Carson, she had little chance of getting the news she needed for her articles.

  “What the bloody hell’d you pull the emergency stop for?” A man the size of a mountain towered over her.

  “Help me up.” She held out her hand, and was almost yanked through the roof with the powerful tug. She landed and had to catch herself on the back of a seat. “Thank you.”

  “Why’d you stop the train?”

  “We’re moving again,” she said, wanting to look out the window to see if Big Thom’s scheme had worked. Getting rid of Sid Calhoun and those dangerous men with him was worth a little indignity and a tear in her good dress. She tried to hide the rent, but the man grabbed her wrist and pulled it up high, stretching her until she groaned.

  “You’re hurting me!”

  “I’ll do more ‘n that if you don’t tell me what’s goin’ on.” He thrust his bearded face within inches of hers. She flinched at the gust of bad breath from the rotting teeth in his mouth.

  “I’ll do more ‘n you ever thought could be done to you if you don’t let the lady go.”

  “Who’s—” The huge man spun and found himself staring down the barrel of Big Thom’s cocked six-shooter.

  “I don’t want to waste any ammo on a son of a bitch like you, but if you want to know the truth, it wouldn’t take but a single word out of your foul mouth to make me expend a round. Wouldn’t need more than that, I don’t think, no, sir.” Big Thom thrust the gun forward until the front sight disappeared into the man’s gaping mouth.

  The incoherent mumbling must have communicated to Big Thom because he pulled the pistol back.

  “You didn’t let her go.”

  Zoe gasped with pain when the man suddenly released her. She rubbed her injured wrist and glared at him.

  “I need this hand to write with,” she said. “You have hindered a member of the Fourth Estate in her pursuit of a story.”

  “What are you goin’ on about, bitch?”

  That was the last thing the man said. Big Thom swung his pistol in a short, vicious arc that ended on the top of the greasy head. The mountain of a man collapsed in an avalanche.

  “He shouldn’t have spoke like that to you,” Big Thom said.

  “Your plan worked.” Zoe stepped over the fallen man and peered out one of the car’s side windows. The train had continued to gain speed until it was well past where Calhoun and his men were stranded on the prairie.

  “It did,” said Big Thom. “Pains me to have so many keys left in their pockets, but sometimes you have to ignore set-backs.”

  He collapsed into a seat and hiked his boot to the back of the seat in front. With his leg canted up, he studied Zoe closely.

  “You got a bug in your ear ’bout this race, don’t you?”

  “I intend to cover every story I can until the moment someone opens the treasure chest.”

  “The way the colonel’s got it set up, it might not happen that way at all. What if the only key that opens the box is with Calhoun or one of his men and they give up?”

  “I doubt they will quit. They seemed determined, all of them,” Zoe said. She sank down in the seat across the aisle from Big Thom. She tried to ignore the moans coming from the man he had buffaloed. That was only a little easier than shutting out the whispers from the other racers along with their intent stares. She and Big Thom were the center of attention in the car.

  “Reckon you might be right, but part of this run to get the gold is making damn sure the others are behind you every step of the way.”

  “You succeeded in that.”

  “Seems like this leg of the trip has eliminated several of the other racers,” Big Thom said. He spun the cylinder in his six-gun as he watched the man he had slugged return to consciousness.

  Zoe caught her breath when she realized what Big Thom intended.

  “You can’t just murder him,” she said.

  “Why not? Think of how you’d like reporting that. My name bold as brass in every headline across the country. I’d be famous.”

  “For murder!” She was outraged at this, then calmed a mite and wondered if he’d only intended to rile her. Some men enjoyed doing that, or so she had heard. Her experience did not extend that far.

  “The idea of watching a man die excites you. I can tell by the way you’re all flushed. You’re breathing faster at the idea of seeing him die.” Big Thom aimed the six-gun at the back of the man’s shaggy head.

  “Stop!” Zoe grabbed Big Thom’s gun hand and forced the barrel up and away. When the six-shooter discharged and the bullet dug a splinter out of the ceiling, she cowered back, frightened. “You would have murdered him in cold blood!”

  “Can’t say it would be so cold. Might be he killed my brother in Abilene,” Big Thom said.

  “Did he?”

  “Never been to Abilene. Don’t have a brother,” he admitted.

  “What’s goin’ on back heah?” The conductor pushed through the front door in the car and moved between the bench seats, homing in on the man lying in the aisle, moaning and stirring from his injury, and the man and woman wrestling over a six-gun.

  “Nothing to get upset over,” Big Thom said, tucking his six-shooter away. “Thanks for coming back to help.”

  “Help?”

  “This galoot wanted to get off. Me and the lady tried to stop him, but he was determined. His wishes ought to be honored. Ain’t that the policy of the railroad?”

  “He wanted to jump off?” The conductor stared wide-eyed at the man, now getting to his hands and knees. “Mister, did you—” That was all he got to say before Big Thom brought his boot crashing down onto the back of the big man’s exposed neck. The big man crashed facedown on the floor again.

  “See? He said so.”

  “Who pulled the emergency stop?” The conductor glared unafraid at Big Thom, but Thom shook his head and held out his hands.

  “Not me. Must have been someone else needin’ to take a leak.”

  “There’s a hole in the floor in the back of the car,” the conductor said, before he realized this was far from the real reason the cord had been pulled.

  “Come on, be a good guy and help me.” Big Thom got his feet under him and heaved, bringing the bulky, limp body to its knees. As he held the big man upright, he looked at Zoe and said, “The key. He’s got a key. Take it.”

  “But I—” She saw the cold determination in Big Thom’s eyes and knew better than to cross him. She hastily searched through coat pockets, and finally found the gold key suspended by a piece of string around the big man’s bull-thick neck. Before she could do anything with the key, Big Thom snatched it from her.

  “You can’t jist toss this fella off the train, not whilst we’re movin’,” the conductor said.

  “Then you can do it.” Big
Thom had his six-shooter out and aimed again.

  “I’ll help,” Zoe said, thinking Big Thom wouldn’t shoot both her and the conductor. The man’s expression told her how wrong she was. Anyone getting in Big Thom’s path to the $50,000 was expendable.

  Zoe and the conductor dragged the man forward and out onto the small platform between cars.

  “Missy, this ain’t right,” the conductor said.

  “I know, but what choice do we have?” She saw how Big Thom held the door open just a fraction of an inch, his gun barrel thrust through. If she didn’t carry out the man’s orders, he would plug her and the conductor, too.

  With some grunting and not a little bit of straining, she worked the fallen man’s body down the metal steps. His arm—she hoped it was his arm and not his head—caught on something and he was abruptly yanked away. Zoe didn’t have the heart to look around the train to see how he had fared. She might have contributed to the man’s demise.

  She might have caused his death.

  “We’re gettin’ close to the depot, missy,” the conductor said. “I’ll let the marshal know what happened.”

  “We’re a day’s travel from Kansas City,” she said. Seeing his reaction, she asked, “What do you know?”

  “Jubilee Junction’s where the first message for the treasure hunters is.”

  “But I thought—” Zoe cut off her statement. She had no idea what the rules to this race were, and had learned how the contestants changed them to suit themselves. Big Thom Carson had no qualms about killing. She thought she had found a savior when he had come up with the idea of a sudden stop throwing Calhoun and his gang out the open door. Now she knew he would have gunned them down if there had been a ghost of a chance of walking away alive. All Big Thom had been concerned about was the loss of the keys, not the possible injuries sustained by Calhoun and the others as they hit the ground.

  “Will the treasure hunters remain aboard the train?” she asked.

  “Don’t know. I’m jist a train conductor. That’s all I want to be.”

  Zoe let the man go back into the car. She started to follow, then thought better of it. She might know something Big Thom didn’t. How she could use this to her benefit was a mystery, but she was a reporter and had to take any chance to get her story.