Behind the Iron

by William W. Johnstone

  A moment later, Fallon found himself back inside the smoking car.

  The rabbi was looking up and starting to stand.

  “Get down!” Fallon tried to say. He wasn’t sure if the rabbi, or if anyone had heard him. Fallon couldn’t be certain that he had even said anything, though he knew his lips and jaw had moved.

  A bullet shattered a window in the back—no, actually the front—of the coach.

  The rabbi dropped back out of sight.

  All the other heads remained below the windows.

  He tried to figure out who was driving the locomotive. Or who was making the engineer and fireman keep the train speeding east. Certainly not Aaron Holderman. Dan MacGregor, perhaps? Or Linc Harper or one of his henchmen? MacGregor and Holderman would be doing this to get the train, and the passengers, away from the murdering outlaws. Linc Harper would be doing it because his planned method of a getaway, his horses, were across the flats and into the woods by now—except the one the gunman was riding alongside the smoking car right now.

  Fallon looked out of the windows, but the rider would be down the embankment now. The windows just revealed the countryside as it flew past. How fast were they going? Fallon wondered. Ten miles an hour? Fifteen? Not as fast as a horse could gallop. But as long as the fireman fed the boiler, the train could outrun the man on horseback.

  Fallon glanced through the glass at the back of the coach but saw only the countryside. A sudden fear made him sweep his head around and look to the south. The rider couldn’t have been on that side of the tracks, but there might be another horseman. Nothing. Just trees and blue sky.

  Biting his lip, Fallon crouched and moved back onto the platform. He eased his head around and saw the country. Clear. For now. Fallon went out, toward the passenger car where he had been talking to MacGregor when the ruckus began. He leaped over onto the next car and saw the rider, but barely.

  Fallon swore. The gunman had ridden up closer to the train now, and was leaning in his saddle, trying to grab hold of the metal bars that formed a ladder, trying to pull himself onto the train.

  Fallon moved back toward the smoking car when a bullet shattered the doorknob he was reaching for. Fallon dropped to his knee, spun, and saw another man on horseback. This one rode a dun. The front brim of his hat was pushed up against the crown as he galloped. Unlike the first horseman, he didn’t keep his reins by his teeth, but held them in his left hand. His right hand trained the revolver. It was a self-cocker, and the man squeezed the trigger twice more.

  Both bullets slammed into the wooden panels on Fallon’s left. He fired the Winchester. The bullet missed the rider but hit the horse—Fallon hated for that to have happened. Down went the horse, sending the gunman sailing over the horse’s head and landing hard on the ground. The man bounced twice before the dead dun rolled over him, driving the broken man deeper into the ground.

  The lever jacked. Fallon moved to the side of the platform on the back of the passenger car. Leaning over the side, he brought the rifle to his shoulder and took careful aim.

  Fallon swore. The horse held no rider and was slowing to a trot, drifting away from the roaring train, the reins dragging in the grass and tangle of briars. The rider had made it onto the train.

  Fallon moved back through the open entrance to the smoking car, his rifle ready. He saw nothing.

  Where was the gunman? Waiting? Fallon swallowed and dropped to a knee behind the bullet-riddled wooden seats where he had first taken shelter when he had entered the car.

  He held his breath and glanced at the bloodied calf. A smart man would have taken this time to wrap a rag around the wound and try to stop the bleeding. But Fallon was not about to let go of the Winchester.

  The wheels made that clicking and clacking sound, and the cries of the baby in the coach behind Fallon reached his ears. That’s when Fallon realized that his ears were no longer ringing. He could hear, almost clearly.

  He heard something then.

  Fallon looked up at the ceiling and raised the rifle.

  The gunman was on the roof, maybe halfway down the coach. Fallon aimed, put his finger against the trigger, but quickly let off the pressure. He had no idea how many bullets remained in the rifle.

  He looked down the aisle and he stood. The killer would be heading toward the front of the train. Fallon could hurry through the coach, come out on the platform between the smoking car and the baggage car, climb to the roof.

  And then what? Fallon thought. Shoot the man in the back?

  He blinked and answered his question out loud.

  “Hell, yes.”

  But Fallon did not move. He could hear the man on the roof. Even with the wind rushing past his ears, the man on the roof might be able to hear him. And no matter which side Fallon came up on the killer, front or behind, Fallon would have to raise his head to get a clear shot at the man on the roof. That meant the man on the roof would have a clear shot at Fallon’s head.

  He backed toward the door and kept the rifle pointed at the ceiling.

  The ceiling creaked. Fallon pressed his lips tightly together.

  The rabbi started a prayer.

  “The hell with this,” Fallon said, and pressed the trigger. The stock slammed against Fallon’s shoulder, and he rapidly worked the lever. Through the white smoke he saw the round hole in the ceiling. The Winchester spoke three more times, punching more holes in the ceiling. His ears were ringing again, but he saw a mass drop off the roof on the southern side of the tracks.

  Fallon raced outside, moved to the side, and looked down the tracks. A body lay on the gravel halfway down the embankment as the train kept backing up. Fallon sucked in a deep breath, exhaled, and stepped toward the center of the platform.

  A shadow crossed his face. Instinctively, Fallon dropped to his knees as a bullet whined off the metal railing. The Winchester blasted. Fallon saw the man standing on the roof of the passenger coach spin around, dropping the shiny pistol he had just fired at Fallon. But the man did not fall over the side. He landed on the roof. Immediately, Fallon gripped the metal bars that formed a ladder and climbed toward the roof. He paused only long enough to extend the rifle away from the wood and iron and flicked his wrist and sent the stock forward while gripping the lever for life. A spent shell was ejected, and Fallon jerked his wrist and arm the other way. The Winchester returned to his hand, barrel upward, hammer cocked, ready to fire.

  Fallon came up the ladder, laid the rifle on the roof, and saw the man as he clawed for a pistol with his right hand. His left hand hung bloody and useless at his side.

  Fallon squeezed the trigger. The gun did not buck, and he realized he was mistaken. The Winchester had been cocked, but it was empty now.

  The man laughed, and Fallon came up the rest of the way, screaming something like a charging bear and a mad dog.

  The man’s gun cleared his pants, and he pulled the trigger as Fallon swung the rifle at the gunman’s legs while diving toward the center of the roof.

  Both men dropped onto the roof, Fallon rolling toward the south and the gunman rolling toward the north. The Winchester fell over the edge. Fallon came up and dropped back as the man hurled the pistol—which was also empty—at Fallon’s head. It missed completely.

  Both men stood, cautiously, getting their sea legs.

  Fallon recognized the man before him. Maybe in his thirties, blond hair, cold eyes, a mustache and underlip beard. Linc Harper in the flesh.

  Harper tried to pull a knife from the top of his Coffeyville boot, but Fallon came at him with a flying kick. Both men landed hard, and Harper rolled toward the rooftop’s edge. Fallon came up, saw the knife Harper had dropped, and grabbed it with his left hand.

  Both legs throbbed now, but the wind from the rushing train cooled his sweat. Harper somehow managed to roll back toward the center of the roof. He sat up, sprang up, and stared at Fallon, who pushed himself to his feet. Fallon showed the outlaw leader the knife, made a feint with the blade. Harper wet his lips.

>   Fallon hated knives. He wasn’t good in a knife fight, and he wasn’t sure how much longer that leg of his, still bleeding from the calf, and bruised from so many falls, would support him.

  After spitting out blood that the wind took away to the west, Harper pulled his wounded arm toward his stomach. Next, the most wanted man in Missouri turned and ran.

  Fallon tried to shake some clarity into his head, and ran, or wobbled, on the rooftop as fast as he could. He watched the wounded man leap across the narrow abyss and somehow manage to keep his feet and not fall off either side on the next passenger coach. Fallon did not slow and let out a wild yell as he jumped. Harper’s landing had been anything but graceful, but the bandit had managed to keep his feet. Fallon fell onto the roof, his jaw slamming hard, slamming his teeth together. He sat up and looked at his right hand. That fist no longer held a knife.

  Desperately, Fallon felt his stomach, and shook off that fear. He hadn’t stabbed himself with Linc Harper’s hideaway knife. He had dropped it during his hard fall. He looked left, right, behind him. The damned weapon must have gone over the side. He looked up and saw Linc Harper leaping to the first passenger coach.

  Fallon came up, and moved, weaving, this way and that, his leg burning, his teeth aching, his head pounding, and now—as the two men made their way toward the engine—smoke stung his eyes. Just ahead of the first passenger car was the smoking express car. The wheels were miraculously intact.

  Linc Harper was on top of the express car now.

  But the killer had nowhere to go.

  Fallon leaped across the opening. His leg gave way, and he fell to his right, just as Linc Harper’s Coffeyville boot clipped his left ear. Had Fallon fallen in the other direction, the heel of the boot would have caught him dead center in the face and likely sent him off the train. But Harper’s kick sent him falling, too.

  Fallon swore and came up in a crouch. Harper made rolling toward the edge look almost graceful. He bounced onto his feet and moved toward the smoke.

  Fallon came toward him. The black smoke was blowing away from Fallon, in the wind, toward the train’s tender and locomotive. He could see the hole in the center of the coach, near the doorway of the express car. It looked to be maybe ten feet wide. There was a narrow ridge on the southern side of the roof, but not enough room for a grown man to traverse. Fallon stared at Harper, who moved to the edge of the rim.

  The men said nothing. They just stared at each other.

  Suddenly, Harry Fallon roared, gritted his teeth, and lowered his shoulder. He hit Harper in the side as the killer turned to try to avoid the onetime federal marshal. And the next thing Harry Fallon knew was that they were falling through the hole in the roof Linc Harper had caused with dynamite.

  They were falling into the smoke. Into the abyss. And probably, Harry Fallon thought, all the way to hell.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Coughing, blinded by the thick smoke and the awful smell, Fallon pushed himself to his feet. He blinked and moved to the opening in the side of the coach. He rubbed his eyes with his fist, coughed again, and looked into the decimated ruins of the express car. There was no sign of Linc Harper, and Fallon slowly grasped that the outlaw had rolled through the opening he had blown into the car. Linc Harper had fallen off the train.

  The train still sped east. Fallon now took time to pull a bandanna from his pocket and tie it tightly above the bullet wound in his calf. He had to get this train stopped, but he still didn’t know who was running the engine. Or how he could make it to the engine.

  Pull the emergency cord? Yeah, like the petrified engineer would obey that command. That’s what had pretty much started the robbery attempt.

  Fallon saw shelves along the side of the car, filled with letters, some burned, some not, and other boxes and sacks. He practically fell against the shelves, but pulled himself up toward the roof, turning the wooden holes into a makeshift ladder. The wind felt good once his head cleared the ceiling. He could breathe again. Grunting, he managed to drag his body onto the other side of the express car’s roof.

  He dragged himself a few more feet, came up onto his legs, and wobbled painfully toward the tender. He dived onto the pile of wood and felt thankful that this cheap-ass railroad still used wood and not coal. If the engine wasn’t being commanded by Dan MacGregor, a chunk of pine would be a hell of a better weapon than a handful of coal.

  He crossed over the wood, and the engine came into view. Holding the piece of firewood over his head, Fallon crept closer. He saw a familiar face, and Fallon let out a sigh of relief.

  Aaron Holderman, the big galoot, never looked so good.

  “Hey!” Fallon called out through cupped hands. He shouted Holderman’s name.

  There was no response, so Fallon yelled again. Still nothing. He even waved his hands. Holderman scratched his beard, so Fallon pitched a chunk of wood at the big fool’s feet.

  Jumping back, Holderman looked up while reaching for the revolver in his shoulder holster, but then recognized Fallon, and turned to yell something inside the engine’s cab. Wearily, Harry Fallon started climbing from the wood and into the engine. He couldn’t hear Holderman, and could barely recall climbing down, but the next thing he understood was that Dan MacGregor was easing Fallon into a seated position.

  Fallon saw the engineer and the fireman staring at him.

  He cleared his throat and told the detective. “Stop this damned train. Right now.”

  MacGregor nodded at the big engineer, who reached for the controls.

  * * *

  “I got the robbers in the passenger car,” MacGregor said, “saw Aaron running alongside the train, so I joined him. Somehow . . .” MacGregor shook his head, which was bleeding from a scratch near his cowlick. “Somehow Linc Harper didn’t see us as we moved to the engine. And the two men keeping a drop on Mr. Schultz and Mr. Doolittle . . .” MacGregor waved in the general direction of the engineer and the fireman.

  “We killed them deader than dirt,” Holderman proclaimed.

  “I killed them,” MacGregor corrected as he wrapped Fallon’s calf with a long piece of silk.

  “But I drew their fire.” Holderman pouted.

  “When the dynamite went off, and then when I glanced from the window and saw the horses scattering, I thought the best thing to do was to get the train out of here.” He pointed toward the locomotive’s cowcatcher. “They had barricaded the tracks with ties and an old buckboard, so the best thing I could come up with was putting it into reverse. Going east.”

  “We saw most of those boys hightailing it after the horses,” Holderman announced.

  MacGregor’s chuckle sounded bitter. “Father will want our heads when he learns we let Linc Harper get away. It would have saved you a stint in the Missouri pen.”

  “Maybe not.” Fallon waved at the back of the train. The fireman handed him a canteen, and Fallon drank thirstily, wiped his mouth, and told them about his rooftop fight with Linc Harper. Fallon kept drinking until the canteen was empty.

  “Thanks.” He smiled at the fireman and shook his hand.

  MacGregor straightened. He quickly turned to the engineer. “We need to get this train going back. West. Now.”

  Fallon cleared his throat. “First,” he said, “we need to make sure none of that bunch is still with us. And check on the passengers.”

  “And we must see about Major Mosby,” the engineer said.

  “Who’s Major Mosby?” MacGregor asked.

  “The conductor,” the engineer replied.

  “But Linc Harper might get away,” Holderman said.

  “No,” MacGregor said. “Hank’s right. And if Harper’s on the run, he’s afoot.” He looked at the engineer. “Would you happen to have an emergency telegraph kit aboard?”

  The engineer shook his head but said in a German accent: “One mile or two west of the barricade there is a relay station.”

  “Let’s hurry,” MacGregor said.

  * * *

  Werner Schultz
, however, was not going anywhere, west or east, until he had inspected his train. He had Holderman and Mr. Doolittle, the fireman, removing the barricade the bandits had put up to stop the train, while he, Fallon, and MacGregor walked down the rails.

  “Where is Mr. Whitaker?” the engineer asked.

  “Who?” MacGregor asked impatiently.

  “The express agent,” the German replied. He did not like the smoke still coming out of the ruins of the express car, so MacGregor was sent to round up some able-bodied men to come help put out the fire. While they were seeing to that task, Fallon had to climb back inside the car and see about the express agent.

  He found an arm in one of the cubbyholes atop blood- and soot-smeared letters bound for Jefferson City. A brogan, luckily with just some blood and yarn from a sock, against the engine-facing wall, and some substance that looked like brain matter and cartilage on a parcel heading to Fort Larned, Kansas. Fallon stuck the arm in an empty sack and set it gently on the floor of what was about to become a morgue.

  “If there’s anything else left of him,” Fallon told the engineer, “I expect that Harper and his bunch tossed it out.”

  Fallon’s ruined boot toed at a mass of blood on the floor near an opened strongbox that spread to the blown-apart doorway. That, he figured, was also all that was left of the expressman.

  The engineer frowned, but MacGregor and Holderman were back with the rabbi, two gamblers, a cowhand, and a drummer. They shoveled dirt onto the smoking heaps and pounded out the few flames remaining with canvas mail sacks while the detective, Fallon, and the engineer gathered the dead bodies of outlaws still aboard the train. These carcasses were deposited, unceremoniously, in the ruins of the express car.

  By the time the fire was out to Mr. Schultz’s satisfaction, Holderman and Doolittle reported that the rails were now clear.

  The passengers returned to their respective cars, and MacGregor glared at Mr. Schultz. “So,” he said, “you think we can go looking for Linc Harper now? Before he’s in Iowa or Canada?” MacGregor spat, and offered this enticement: “There is, you might remember, a price on his head for four thousand bucks.”