The Great Train Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  Matt holstered his own pistol and caught up with him out in the vestibule, just as Slade was trying to open the door to the baggage car. Slade whirled around with gun in hand, but Matt knocked the pistol away with a sweep of his hand.

  Slade swung at Matt but missed. Matt swung back connecting with a straight punch to the chin, knocking Slade back against the front door of the baggage car. At that same moment, the train started out onto a trestle over a deep gorge.

  The two men struggled for a moment longer. Slade had done physical labor for most of his life, and he was a very strong man, strong enough to resist Matt’s attempt to gain leverage over him. Slade was stronger, but Matt was much more agile, and that evened the odds.

  Then Slade saw something that he thought might give him the advantage. Attached to the front of the baggage car was an ax, to be used to break into a car in the event of an accident. Pushing away from Matt, Slade grabbed the ax, then lifted it over his head.

  “Say good-bye, you son of a bitch!” Slade shouted.

  From behind him, Matt heard a gunshot. Slade, with a shocked expression on his face, dropped the ax and grabbed his stomach. He took a couple of steps toward Matt, reaching out toward him, his hands bloodied by the wound in his stomach. Then he fell off the train and over the trestle, tumbling down toward the bottom of the gorge, two hundred feet below.

  “Ayiiieeee!” he screamed, the shout growing dimmer as he plummeted down.

  Matt stepped the edge of the vestibule, then leaned over and looked down and back. He saw his would-be assailant hit the side of the trestle, then bounce away to fall, the body perfectly still now, the rest of the way to the bottom.

  “Good-bye,” Matt said quietly.

  Matt turned back toward the open door of the private car and saw Mary Beth standing there, holding a smoking gun in her hand. She was trembling, and there was an expression of horror on her face.

  “I . . . I . . .” Mary Beth said, her bottom lip quivering. She dropped the pistol and covered her face with her hands.

  Matt stepped up to her, and wrapping his arms around her, pulled her to him. Once, as a child, he had held a wounded bird in his hand and had felt its heart beating rapidly and in fear. He recalled that moment now as he held this frightened young woman.

  “Let’s go back inside,” he said, leading her back into the car.

  He sat her down on one of the chairs, and John appeared beside them, holding a glass of brandy.

  “I think you need this,” John said.

  Mary Beth took the glass with a shaking hand, then drank the brandy without turning the glass down. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she wasn’t crying out loud.

  “Until we started on this trip, I had never seen a dead man,” she said. “Now I’ve seen four, and one of them I killed.”

  “Don’t look at it as killing,” John said. “Look at it as saving Matt’s life. And probably ours as well.”

  “Oh, Papa, we should have never come on this trip. It is accursed.”

  “It isn’t the trip, Mary Beth,” Matt said. “Whoever is behind this would be after you in San Francisco as well as on this train. And to be honest, you are probably safer on the train, because it is easier for me to watch over you.”

  At that moment there was a light knock on the door. Matt pulled his pistol, then jerked it open.

  It was Julius Calhoun, the porter.

  The porter threw his hands up and jumped back.

  Matt holstered his pistol. “What is it, Mr. Calhoun?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Sappenfield was in the baggage car getting a book from her trunk, and she said she heard shots.”

  “Yes,” Matt said. “We had a couple of unwanted visitors.” He pointed to the body on the floor.

  “Oh, Lord almighty!” Calhoun said. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Calhoun,” John said. “I wonder if you would be so kind as to help us put Jones’s body in the baggage car? I’m sure you can understand that I don’t want him in here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Calhoun said. “Yes sir, we can do that.”

  “Grab his feet,” Matt said. “I’ll get his arms.”

  “You called him by name,” Matt said, when he returned to the car a moment later.

  “Yes, that was Marcus Jones. The other man was Roy Slade. I may have been wrong in suspecting Raymond Morris. I am now convinced that the man who is trying to kill me is Fred Keaton. These men worked for him. The next stop where I will have enough time to do so, I intend to send a telegram back to Drew. According to the schedule, that will be North Platte, and we’ll reach there at about three thirty this afternoon.”

  “How long will we be in North Platte?” Mary Beth asked.

  “We are supposed to be there for about half an hour,” John said. “But, that was before the long delay back in Rock Springs, so I may have to wait until we reach Lincoln before I can send the telegram.”

  “How long will we be in Lincoln?”

  “I think we will be there for at least two hours. It is the longest scheduled wait time we have anywhere between San Francisco and Chicago, though the wait should not be as long as the wait was in Rock Springs. The reason our wait will be so long in Lincoln is because our car, and the Conqueror, will be disconnected there and reconnected to another train that will be headed for Chicago. This train will be going on to St. Louis.”

  Matt excused himself, then walked back through the train until he found the conductor.

  “What happened?” Kelly asked when he saw Matt. “Are Gillespie and his daughter both dead?”

  “What?” Matt replied, stunned by the question. “Mr. Kelly, why on earth would you ask such a thing?”

  “Mrs. Sappenfield reported that she heard shots coming from Mr. Gillespie’s car.”

  “No, they are not dead.”

  “Good, good,” the conductor said. “It’s just that when I saw you coming back here, I got a little worried is all. So, they are both fine?”

  “Miss Gillespie is a little shaken, but she’s recovering nicely.”

  “You can understand, I hope, why I would be worried about such a thing,” Kelly said. “After all, I’m the conductor, and that makes me responsible for the safety of everyone on my train.”

  “I suppose it does. But only until Lincoln,” Matt said.

  “Why only until Lincoln?” Kelly asked.

  “It’s my understanding that we’ll be changing trains there, I guess I just figured we would get a new train crew.”

  “You’ll be changing trains, but not railroads. I intend to stay aboard and see this thing through to the finish. It’s as I said, Mr. Jensen. I feel a sense of obligation toward Mr. Gillespie and his daughter.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, Mr. Kelly, and I’m sure that the Gillespies do as well.”

  When they stopped in North Platte, they learned that the stop would be only long enough for the engine to take on water. The through passengers were asked not to leave the train, but arrangements were made to remove Marcus Jones’s body. John Gillespie provided written statements from Matt, himself, and his daughter as to the circumstances surrounding Jones’s death. He also gave the sheriff enough money for Jones’s body to be returned to Cheyenne.

  They barely had time to conclude their business with the sheriff before the train left the station.

  It was nearly ten o’clock that night when the train pulled into Lincoln, and upon arrival, they learned that because their long delay in Rock Springs had upset the schedule all up and down the line, they were going to be held over until ten o’clock the next morning.

  “I know there has to be a good hotel in this town,” John said. “And while this car is quite comfortable, I don’t particularly want to spend the night in a railroad yard. Let’s find one and get us some rooms before they are all sold out for the night.

  “That will also give me an opportunity to have this car thoroughly cleaned.”

  “Will they clean the carpet as well?” Mary Bet
h asked, glancing toward the spots on the floor.

  “Yes, I’ll make certain that they do.”

  “Thank you, Papa,” Mary Beth said. “And I would appreciate staying in a hotel tonight.”

  Before finding a hotel, though, John stopped by the Western Union office in the train station to send another telegram.

  IN LINCOLN NEBRASKA NOW STOP WILL BE HERE UNTIL TEN OCLOCK TOMORROW MORNING STOP THERE WAS A TRY IN CHEYENNE ON MARY BETH AND ME STOP ASSAILANTS WERE ROY SLADE AND MARCUS JONES STOP BOTH WORKED FOR KEATON SO SUSPICION NOW SWINGS TO HIM

  JG

  “Do you wish to wait for a reply, sir?” the telegrapher asked.

  “No, I’m quite sure I won’t hear back from him tonight. But I will check in with you before the train gets underway again tomorrow.”

  “Are we going to the hotel now, Papa?” Mary Beth asked.

  “Indeed we are, darlin’,” John replied. “And, Matt, I expect you would like a room as well, wouldn’t you? A hotel room has to be better than that cramped berth in the Pullman car.”

  “Yes, sir, I would appreciate that,” Matt said. “To say nothing of the fact that I don’t intend to let either you, or your daughter, get too far away from me.”

  “Well, good. Then I shall get us three adjacent rooms for the night.”

  Matt had already seen that the attacks on John and his daughter were not limited to attempts on the train only, and he was sure that whoever was behind these endeavors would take advantage of any situation to accomplish their mission. He was determined that if they were going to kill John and his daughter, they were going to have to come through him. He hoped that, by now, word had gotten back to whoever was behind all this and that dealing with him wasn’t going to be all that easy.

  They checked in to the Marshal Hotel in the Haymarket District of Lincoln. John was able to get three adjacent rooms. John’s room was 207, Mary Beth was room 205, and Matt was in 203.

  Supper in the hotel dining room was Welsh rarebit and a red wine that Mary Beth pointed out, which came from the Gillespie wineries. Mary Beth was in a talkative mood, and Matt knew that she wanted to talk, needed to talk, to put behind her the trauma of having shot Slade.

  “Have you ever read Ivanhoe?” Mary Beth asked.

  “Ivanhoe? No, I don’t think I have. What is Ivanhoe?”

  Mary Beth laughed, the lilting sound of her laughter good to hear.

  “It isn’t a what, silly. Ivanhoe is a ‘who.’ He is a knight, in shining armor, who rescues damsels in distress. It’s a novel by Sir Walter Scott. ‘Now fitted the halter, now traversed the cart, and often took leave, but seemed loath to depart.’”

  Now it was Matt’s time to laugh. “I don’t have the slightest idea what that means.”

  “I don’t either,” Mary Beth said with a giggle. “But it’s written on the title page of the book.”

  “Why did you ask me if I had ever read it?”

  “You should read it, because you, Sir Matt Jensen, are every bit as much a knight as is Ivanhoe. Even more so, because I have only read of Ivanhoe, but you, I have but to reach across the table to touch.

  Mary Beth put her hand on Matt’s arm. “Are you sure you don’t have a suit of shining armor somewhere?”

  “I can tell you without hesitation, m’lady, that I do not,” Matt replied.

  “M’lady. Oh, I like that,” Mary Beth said.

  “I’m glad you are feeling better now, my dear,” John said.

  “I do feel better, Papa. You know, yourself, that I have never been a weak sister, and I don’t intend to start now. I guess I did what had to be done.”

  She smiled at Matt. “Besides, how often does m’lady get to rescue a knight in distress?”

  After supper, all three went directly to their rooms. It had been four days now since Matt had had a bath, and he was feeling a little scruffy. He decided to go down to the desk clerk and make arrangements to have a bathtub and hot water delivered to his room.

  “Why, there’s no need to bring a tub up to your room, sir,” the desk clerk said. “I am proud to say that we have the finest bathing rooms of any hotel in Lincoln, yes, and in the state as well. There are two of them down at the end of the hall on each of the four floors. All you have to do is light the gas under the water heater, give it a few minutes to heat up, then turn the spigot. Before you know it, you’ll have a whole tub full of hot water.”

  “Thanks.”

  Matt walked back upstairs, but before he returned to his room he went down to the end of the hall and found that neither of the bathing rooms were occupied. Going into one of them, he started a fire in the water heater, then he returned to his room while he gave the water time to warm up. It wasn’t as nice as his room had been at the Royal Hotel back in San Francisco, but then he had seldom seen any room as nice as that one. But John was right, when he suggested that Matt would be more comfortable here than he would have been in the berth on the Pullman car. And he would certainly be more comfortable here than he was on the frequent nights he spent out on the trail.

  Matt walked over to look out the window. From here he had a good view of the main street. The street, scarred with wagon ruts and dotted with horse droppings, formed an X with the track.

  On this side of the track the buildings were substantial, many of them false-fronted and most of them well-painted. Right across the street from the hotel was a mercantile store, quiet and dark at this time of night. Below him and next door to the hotel, was the Farmer’s Saloon.

  Because the saloon was under him, he couldn’t actually see it from his window, but he could see the bright splash of light it threw into the street, and he could hear laughter and piano music. He would like to have gone into the saloon to have a beer before turning in for the night, but he didn’t think it would be a good idea to leave John and Mary Beth alone.

  The railroad station was halfway down the street, and he saw that a train, heading west, was just now pulling away. After the train left he could see the Gillespie car on a sidetrack, gleaming under the glow of the gas lamppost. In contrast to the shining varnish of the car, he saw, on the far side of the track, a scattering of small structures, obviously homes for the less-affluent residents.

  That single car, he realized, probably cost more than every one of those buildings combined, and yet, to meet John and Mary Beth, you would never realize they were so wealthy. They were two of the nicest people he had ever encountered, and he couldn’t understand why they had become targets. From what Matt knew of John, he had treated fairly and generously everyone with whom he did business. Why would anyone want him dead? What did they stand to gain from it? More curiously, why would anyone want Mary Beth dead? What did she have to do with the business?

  Whoever it was, they were certainly persistent. There had already been several attempts made, and even though John was convinced that the danger was over now because he had identified the last two attackers as employees of Keaton, Matt wasn’t so sure. There was no way he was going to let his guard down.

  Deciding that the water was probably well heated by now, he left the room and walked down to the end of the hall to take his bath.

  Mary Beth was just getting into the tub when Matt opened the door. She stood there for a moment, so surprised by his unexpected appearance that she made no effort to cover herself. She was totally nude and Matt breathed in a quick gasp of appreciation for her beauty. He had known from the moment he first met her that she was a woman of great pulchritude, but this unexpected feast for his eyes left him somewhat stunned. So stunned that he just stood there for a long moment, unable to look away.

  “Matt, I’m sure that you can readily see that this room is occupied,” Mary Beth said. Her voice was calm, not shrill, and the expression on her face was one that was more of amusement than it was fear or anger.

  Matt smiled. “Yes, ma’am, I can surely see that,” he replied. “I’m sorry, I had built the fire for my own bath, but I see you beat me to it.” He continued to stare poi
ntedly at Mary Beth’s nudity and, as if realizing for the first time that she was naked, Mary Beth took in a sharp breath, then sat down in the water so quickly that she raised a splash.

  “You are the one who heated the water?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  Mary Beth, who was now holding her arms crossed over her breasts, shook her head.

  “I’m sorry. I thought that the hotel had heated it for the convenience of the guests. It never dawned on me that I would have to heat my own water.”

  “It’s no problem, I can always heat more water,” Matt said. “I’m sorry I walked in on you like this. I had no idea the bathing room would be occupied. Bu, really, you should have locked the door.”

  “I thought I did.”

  “No harm done,” Matt said. “As I said, there’s another bathing room next door. I’ll use it.”

  “Yes, thank you, I believe that would be most appropriate.”

  With another smile and a nod of his head, Matt pointed to the key in the door.

  “You should probably come over here and lock it after I leave. The next person to come in here may not be as much of a gentleman as I have been.”

  “Oh, you!” Mary Beth said with a laugh, as she raised her arm to throw the wet sponge at him. She hadn’t realized that in so doing she would, once more, expose her breasts to him. Matt laughed again, then stepped outside. He waited in the hall until he heard the key click, then he went next door to heat the water up again.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  San Francisco

  Lucas Conroy studied the telegram. It told him two things: Gillespie and his daughter were still alive despite all his best efforts, and the train would be spending the night in Lincoln, Nebraska.

  Conroy was beginning to think that he should have charged the consortium more than fifty thousand dollars. He had already spent more money than he had planned, but he knew that there was more than just money involved. He had a reputation to uphold. He couldn’t afford to fail on this job, whether he made less money than he had thought, broke even, or even lost money. By now it had become an issue of necessity. He must succeed at all costs, for if he failed, he may as well give up the business altogether.