Throw the Devil Off the Train

by Stephen Bly

  Hillyard lowered the note and leaned against the coach.

  Catelynn and the baby dead? Catherine never got to see little Marie. Never got to make things right with her sis. Dead? Both of them.

  He felt tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “That’s not fair,” he whispered. “Not the baby, too. That’s not fair.”

  Catherine’s voice was feather light. “You read the telegram?”

  All he could do was weep.

  The sun rose orange and pink behind them. By the time in filtered through the tall pine trees, they had washed their faces and returned to their seats in the front of the coach.

  Francine tied a bonnet on her head, then did the same for little Nancy. “It feels like I just watched the first half of the melodrama and had to leave before the second act. This trip has had more excitement than that circus train wreck at Castle Rock. Now that was a trip. Say did you know that elephants . . . .” She glanced at her children. “Eh, never mind. You going to fill me in on what happened?”

  “Francine, it turns out that both Race and I have personal, but separate reasons for hating Matthew Zane.”

  Hillyard gazed out the window. “We both lost our tempers and . . . .”

  “And tried to kill him.”

  Francine slapped her hand on Race’s shoulder. “I know all about that. We all heard those stories. What I was askin’ . . . what happened to you two last night all locked in each other’s arms?”

  Catherine glanced at Race and grinned. “I believe we took turns sleeping and crying most of the night.”

  Race nodded. “That’s about it.”

  “Well,” Francine sighed. “You did much more than that in my imagination.”

  The train weaved north at a siding and began to slow.

  Francine peered out the window. “This must be Dutch Flat. I hear there is a Danish bakery here. I knew a Danish baker once, a very large lady.”

  The passengers exited the train in an orderly fashion. Race and Catherine were the last to leave.

  “I’m not very hungry,” he admitted. He stepped down on the platform and offered her his arm.

  A strong hand grabbed his shoulder. His right hand grasp the grip of his Colt.

  “Leave it holstered, mister. Are you Race Hillyard?”

  Race spotted three men with badges.

  The tallest man pulled out a piece of paper and read it. “And are you Catherine Goodwin, also known as Catherine Draper?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Placer County Sheriff, Richard Barclay. You two are under the arrest for the murder of Matthew Zane.”

  “Zane’s dead?” Catherine exclaimed.

  “Pushed off the train just after midnight. We have a witness who said he saw you two do it.”

  ~~ CHAPTER TWELVE ~~

  Hillyard held his hat as he and Catherine stood in front of a long oak table. Sunlight streaked through the window, making the fog of dust in the musty dancehall seem like tiny sparks of gold.

  “Is this a trial?” he asked.

  The gray haired judge with large nose and scar across his chin peered at his gold pocket watch. “It’s an inquest to determine if we have enough evidence to hold you for a trial. I have other business to attend to today. Let’s try to sort this out in a hurry.”

  Catherine placed her gloved hand on the table, then pulled it back. “You can’t accuse us because of one prejudiced witness.”

  The judge laid his watch down and tapped on the glass face as if attempting to make it move faster. “That is precisely what is to be determined.”

  She looked over the people sitting on the side bench of the dance floor. “Matthew Zane deserved to die, but we didn’t do it.”

  The judge folded his hands. “You are not strengthening your case with such statements.”

  Hillyard waved his hat. “You have no case. This is an inquiry, remember?”

  “Silence.” The judge banged his clenched fist on the table. “I’ll tell you what I have. I have a sworn statement from the witness that you two pushed him off the train. I have live testimony from the conductor and several other passengers and a telegram from Washoe County Nevada Sheriff William Walker. I do have reason for this inquest.”

  “And they all think we killed Zane?” Catherine pressed.

  “Let’s start from the beginning. What is your Christian name?”

  “Catherine Marie Goodwin.”

  Hillyard turned and narrowed his thick eyebrows. “I didn’t know your middle name was Marie?.”

  “Both Catelynn and I share that middle name. My father insisted on it.”

  “Silence! Mr. Hillyard, and Miss Goodwin, if you can’t remain silent, I will be forced to remove you from this court and proceed without you. That would not be to your advantage.”

  “I apologize, your honor,” Catherine said. “I think we are a little in shock at this accusation.”

  Chet Pinehurst, leapt up from the side bench. “She’s just acting, She’s been acting on most of the trip. Everyone will tell you that.”

  “Quiet! This is the most disorderly inquest I’ve ever held.”

  A short man with plaid shirt and Levi-Straus denim trousers appeared at the back doorway. “Just one question, your honor,” he called out.

  The judge bent his head and peered around Catherine and Race. “Mr. Achley, what do you want?”

  “Are you getting back to the poker game soon, or can we just toss your cards in?”

  “Don’t you touch that hand. It’s the first decent one I’ve had in a week.” He waved a finger to a man on the side bench wearing a badge. “Deputy, you have my permission to shoot anyone who touches my cards.” He cleared his throat. “Now, eh . . . yes, the inquest.”

  “I have a legal question, your honor,” Catherine said.

  “Yes?”

  “Shouldn’t we be represented by an attorney at this time?”

  The judge nodded. “That is your right.”

  “I’ll provide them council.” The voice exploded across the room like a mamma telling junior to quit pouring sand in sissy’s hair. Francine shoved Nancy and Preston into the arms of the Mormon girls and marched to the front of the room.

  The judge leaned back in his chair. “Good grief. Do you have experience as an attorney?”

  She grabbed the edge of the table and leaned towards the judge. “What experience I have, or don’t have, is none of your business, shorty.”

  “We would like Francine Garrity to represent us, your honor,” Hillyard chimed in.

  The judge sat up straight and cleared his throat. “I will proceed. Here is what information I have. Mr. Matthew Zane died from multiple head wounds from striking granite boulders sixty-eight feet below the trestle over Old Swede Creek in Placer County. One witness. Mr. C. Pinehurst, said that Hillyard and Goodwin snuck into their compartment during the night and argued with Zane. They got into a fight, knocked him unconscious, and dumped his body out the compartment window.”

  “And where was Pinehurst all this time?” Francine demanded.

  “Mr. Pinehurst?”

  Pinehurst rose and straightened his tie. “I stepped on the back platform for some fresh air and a cigar. When I heard the ruckus, I hurried to the cabin. The door was locked, but I could hear everything.”

  “So you didn’t see them toss Zane out the window?” Francine pressed.

  Pinehurst glanced around. “No, but I heard him yell. Look, I know what I’m talking about, I trained with Pinkertons and I . . . .”

  Francine folded her massive arms. “I thought you said he was unconscious. How could he yell?”

  “He must have come to.” He stepped half way to the judge’s table. “When they exited the car, I rushed in. The window was open and he was gone. What else could I assume?”

  “I believe it’s the duty of this court to make the assumptions, not the witnesses. Isn’t that correct, judge?” Francine pressed.

  “Yes, but let me add the collaborating evidence.” The
judge shuffled some papers in front of him. He held up a crisp, white one. “The conductor of the train, Mr. Hugo Stanfield, has stated that Mr. Race Hillyard threw other passengers off the train.”

  Francine pounded Hillyard on the back. “And we were glad he did. They were ruthless kidnappers and outlaws. Of course, that was onto soft Nebraska prairie.”

  The judge plucked up another sheet of white paper. “Plus, I have testimony from various passengers that Miss Goodwin passed herself off to be Catherine Draper and Mrs. Matthew Zane at various times on the trip.”

  “I can explain that, your honor,” Catherine said.

  “If we go to trial, you will have to.” The judge waved a telegram in front of them. “And I have word from the Sheriff in Washoe County that Hillyard and Zane were in two fights, both threatening to kill each other.”

  “Your honor, look at Hillyard. You and I both know that’s the kind of man, had he wanted to kill someone, would have pulled his gun and killed him.”

  “That is not evidence. I have word from the jailer in Reno that Catherine Goodwin entered the county jail and at close range attempted to shoot Mr. Zane in the head while his was handcuffed to his cell.”

  “The bullet didn’t have any primer,” Catherine murmured.

  The judge looked at his watch, then stacked the papers neatly in front of him. “There is motive, opportunity and a witness. That is enough for me to . . . .”

  “Wait!” Francine slapped her hand on the table top so hard that the judge leapt from his chair. “You didn’t give me a chance to present my defense.”

  “This is not a trial.” He sat down. “But you may proceed with remarks.”

  “I’ll need time. I would like a recess.”

  The judge’s shoulders slumped. He threw up his hands. “How much time?”

  “An hour,” Francine said. “Go finish your poker hand and I’ll be ready.”

  “It won’t take me five minutes to finish that hand.” He banged his fist down. “This inquest stands recessed for one-half hour or so, depending on how the cards run.”

  Francine gathered many of the passengers from their coach in a huddle in the corner of the dance hall when the judge re-enter to room. He took out his watch, laid it on the table, then stacked a dozen gold coins next to it. With a wide smile he announced: “This inquest will now resume.”

  Francine strolled to the front. She carried Preston on one arm and led Nancy. “How did you do, shorty?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The poker hand. Was it a winner?”

  “Three jacks and a pair of sevens, worth one hundred and sixty-seven dollars.” He frowned, “Please address me by Judge Hesley Swanson.”

  “Is it my turn to present some evidence, Swanny?”

  “Proceed.”

  “My first witnesses are Adora, Balera, Calida, Darnia, Ermina and Faustina Jordan.”

  “One at a time,” the judge insisted.

  “No, they operate as a unit.” Francine turned to the six girls. “Would you please state what you saw last night.”

  Adora stood. “Mr. Hilly and Catherine sat on the back platform all night long.”

  “You watched them the entire time?” the judge questioned.

  Balera popped up next to her sister. “We took turns.”

  “Why were you watching them?” he pressed.

  Calida stood slowly. “We hoped they would do something more than just hug.”

  “But they didn’t?”

  “They never left the platform all night.” Darnia shrugged as she stood. “It was quite uneventful.”

  “And each of you will swear to that?”

  “Oh no, judge.” Ermina shook her head. “We won’t swear . . . ever.”

  “You will testify to that in a court of law?”

  “Yes, sir.” Faustina nodded.

  “Thank you, girls.”

  “I have more testimony, your honor.” Francine motioned a uniformed man to the table. “This is the fine conductor on the train, Mr. Hugo Stanfield. Will you tell Swanny what you told me?”

  “Your honor, first let me say, that I was quite delighted to call on Mr. Hillyard’s help during this trip. On several occasions, he assisted me. I consider him a brave and honest man. And yes, he did throw a man off the train earlier in the trip. He should have held him for arrest, but I believe he acted on what he considered the best interest of all the passengers.”

  Francine poked his side. “Tell him about the window.”

  “Mr. Zane and Mr. Pinehurst shared compartment 3C. The window in 3C is stuck and will only open about four or five inches.”

  “It was open wider than that when I entered,” Pinehurst shouted.

  “Quiet!” the judge replied.

  “You can inspect it for yourself, Judge,” the conductor offered.

  Pinehurst rushed the table. “Just because it won’t open now, doesn’t mean it wouldn’t open then.”

  “It was broken in Omaha,” the conductor continued. “Mr. Zane filed a complaint with me right after he boarded the train.”

  The judge shuffled through the gold coins. “Does that conclude your presentation?”

  “No, Swannie, it does not. Mr. J. J. Jackson, would you please stand.”

  A short man with barrel chest raised up.

  “Mr. Jackson is a cigar drummer who carries a valise full of samples,” she announced. “Did you sell your wares to Mr. Pinehurst last night?”

  “Six El Presidentes and four Conquistadors,” Jackson replied.

  “What do cigars have to do with this?” the judge mumbled.

  Francine continued. “How did he pay you?”

  Jackson nodded at Pinehurst. “With a twenty-dollar greenback he pulled out of a long, alligator leather wallet.”

  “Mr. Stanfield, as conductor, to the best of your recollection, who on your train carried an alligator leather wallet?”

  “Mr. Zane did. That’s the only one I saw.”

  Francine strolled over to Pinehurst. “Give me that wallet.”

  Pinehurst backed away from her. “This is absurd, it’s all conjecture. I most certainly will not hand over my wallet to a crazy woman.”

  “Those on the scene at Old Swede Creek stated that the man they found dead carried no wallet or identification. For that reason, he wasn’t identified until brought into Dutch Flat.” She turned back to the judge. “Swannie, make him give me the wallet.”

  “This is an inquest. I cannot order someone to surrender potential damaging evidence.”

  “You can’t, huh?” Francine huffed. “Well, I can.”

  With clenched right fist, she threw her body into the blow that caught Pinehurst just under the chin. The crack of the punch was followed by a loud thud when he hit the floor. He didn’t move.

  “Swannie, could you have your deputy remove the alligator wallet from Mr. Pinehurst’s coat?”

  The deputy pulled out the item and handed it to the judge.

  “Who do the papers inside indicate the wallet belongs to?”

  “Mr. Matthew Zane.” The judge flapped the wallet. “Are you saying the motive was robbery?”

  Race Hillyard waved a paper at Francine. She unfolded it as she approached the judge. “This is a telegram to Mr. Zane from a friend warning him of potential treachery by Mr. Pinehurst. There seemed to be a conflict brewing between them over some previous mining matter.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “That Pinehurst had the opportunity, motive and ability to toss Zane from the train. And more specifically, Mr. Hilly and Miss Catherine were not present when he met his demise.”

  The crowd broke out in applause.

  The judge banged his fist. “Quiet! It is the opinion of this inquiry that Mr. Chester Pinehurst be held in jail for the murder of Matthew Zane and that Hillyard and Goodwin be released.”

  The crowd swirled around them and they were halfway to the train car before they were left alone.

  Catherine hugged Francine. “You w
ere magnificent.”

  “They got me mad. I do pretty well when I’m angry. I once leveled the Elkhorn Café when I got steamed.”

  “You chased everyone off? Or you clobbered everyone in the building?” Catherine pressed.

  “I leveled the café, stud by stud, wall by wall. There wasn’t anything left but a big pile of firewood. Now, let’s get on to Sacramento. Nothing like a little excitement to get the heart pumping. Say, I’m peckish, think I’ll stop by the bakery again.”

  They talked non-stop for the next hour, but conversation faded as buildings began to appear.

  Catherine fiddled with her valise. She looked down at her lap. “The conductor said we will be there in less than five minutes.”

  Hillyard reset his wide brimmed hat. “How are we going to do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Say goodbye. I don’t want to make some big deal out on the platform in front of your Phillip.”

  She tilted her head and her voice. “Were you planning on making a scene?”

  “I was planning on lots of things, but I know that won’t happen. Catherine, I just don’t believe in my heart that this is the last time that I’ll see you. If I believed that, I would make a scene.”

  “What kind of sight would it be?”

  “Sort of like this.”

  He slipped his hand behind her head, pulled her face to his, and softly mashed his lips into hers.

  Mr. Hillyard, I should pull away and slap you. But this is the softest, most tender kiss I’ve ever felt. Perhaps I should . . . .

  When Race pulled back, the six Mormon girls in the back of the car cheered.

  Catherine caught her breath. “Why, Mr. Hillyard, are you trying to get me to throw away my heart?”

  His cheeks flushed. “Yes, ma’am, I reckon I am. But I know your Phillip will be waiting at the station.”

  “Would you like to meet him?”

  “No. I’ve watched you kiss other men. I don’t want to witness it again.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Stockton. I have to look up a Mr. Legrans Degott. Remember?”

  “I thought perhaps you’d go to Argentina.”

  “I might, but I have a lot of things to ponder first.”