Watching Eagles Soar

by Margaret Coel

  Molly crossed the compartment and threw open the door. “Conductor!” she shouted. From somewhere came the sharp, unmistakable snap of a door closing.

  She hurried along the corridor, shouting again for the conductor. As she stepped into the gangway, the rush of cold air whipped at her skirt and plucked her hair loose from the ivory combs. The floor bucked beneath her feet. With a kind of horror, Molly realized she was leaning against the railing over which the poor girl must have been thrown.

  “Conductor!” Molly shouted again as she plunged into the coach car. The odors of damp wool, cigar smoke, and sausage filled the air. Heads snapped around, eyes stared at her. The man in the red plaid coat leaned over his armrest and framed her in his gaze. “’Spect you’ll find the conductor back with the fine folks,” he said.

  She swung around and retraced her steps into the first-class car, shouting again and again for the conductor. The door at the far end creaked open, and the elderly women appeared around the frame and stared at her over tiny wire-rimmed glasses perched halfway down their noses. Another door opened. The man in the gray suit stepped out, blocking her way. “What’s the meaning of this disturbance?” he demanded.

  “A girl’s been murdered,” Molly said. Her frankness surprised her. She hadn’t wanted to admit what she knew must be true: no one could survive being hurled from the train over the steep mountainside. The two elderly women darted back inside their compartment.

  “Ridiculous,” the man said. “This is a first-class car.” Molly felt the pressure of a hand on her arm. “Allow me to be of assistance, Mrs. Brown.” It was a man’s voice, low and close to her ear.

  Molly pivoted about and stared up at Charles Langford, who lifted his chin, as if, with a snap of his fingers, he might banish the cause of her alarm. He was boyishly handsome, with a long, patrician nose, deeply set brown eyes, and sand-colored hair parted in the middle above a high forehead that gave him the look of intelligence. “Whatever is the matter?” he asked.

  “A girl was thrown from the train.” Molly heard her words tumbling together. Her breath came in quick, sharp jabs that pricked her chest like needles.

  “You saw it?” Langford’s forehead creased in thought.

  “Yes,” Molly said. “Well, not exactly. But I saw the girl flying over the ledge. We must stop the train.”

  “You mustn’t concern yourself further, Mrs. Brown,” Langford said in a low tone, meant to soothe her. “I’ll notify the conductor. You can return to your compartment now.”

  “Please do so,” said the man in gray. “And allow us to complete our trip without further disturbance.”

  Molly felt a sting of anger and disappointment. “You don’t understand.” She kept her eyes on Langford. “The girl may still be alive.” She doubted that was the case. “We have to go back.”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Brown.” Langford took her arm again and began tugging her toward her own compartment. “The conductor will follow the proper procedures.”

  “The conductor! He’s nowhere around. We have to stop now.” Molly jerked herself free and started running along the corridor, eyes fastened on the small box tucked under the ceiling near the gangway door. A red handle protruded from the box, and underneath, black letters swayed with the train: Emergency Brake.

  “No!” Langford shouted as Molly reached up and pulled on the handle with all of her strength. The handle snapped downward.

  A loud screech ripped through the sounds of the whistle and the blasts of steam coming from the locomotive. The train began to contract and reassemble, swaying sideways, jerking forward and back again. Metal squealed against metal; wood groaned and snapped. Molly huddled against the window as the two men stumbled against her, and then righted themselves. Somewhere a woman was screaming. Gradually the train came to a stop, and the sounds gave way to the shrill blasts of the whistle.

  The gangway door crashed open, sending a burst of cold air into the corridor. The conductor stood in the opening, his mouth forming words that appeared to be stuck in his throat. “What . . . What . . . What . . .” he stuttered. “What have you done?” He threw both hands into the air.

  “This woman is mad.” It was the voice of the man in the gray suit.

  “I’m so sorry,” Langford said. “I tried to prevent this.”

  Molly grabbed the lapels of the conductor’s blue coat. “A girl was thrown off the train at the big curve. We must back up and find her.”

  “Back up?” The conductor stared at her with disbelief—she might as well have uttered an obscenity. His massive chest rose and fell as he took in great gulps of air. “That is impossible,” he said, withdrawing a white handkerchief from inside his waistcoat and mopping at his face.

  “Stout! Where are you?” The man’s voice came from outside.

  “My engineer,” the conductor muttered. He stepped into the gangway, opened the gate, and started down, boots thumping on the steps. Molly followed. She hurried to keep up as they strode alongside the train. Tongues of steam flicked from the underside of the cars, but the wind stabbing at her face and hands was as cold as ice. A few feet away, the ledge dropped off into the chasm below.

  The engineer came toward them clapping mittened hands together against the cold. He wore a padded coat buttoned to the neck and a slouch hat pulled low over his ears. “What’s the meaning of this?” he yelled. “There’s an extra freight coming behind us. If that engineer misses the warning flares I whistled out, we’ll be knocked off the mountain.”

  The conductor tilted his head back toward Molly. “This woman says she saw a girl thrown off the train at the big curve,” he said.

  Molly stepped forward. “I am Mrs. J. J. Brown,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady in the cold. “I demand you back up and attend to the poor girl.”

  “J. J. Brown of Leadville?” A look of respect and admiration came into the engineer’s eyes.

  “Formerly of Leadville. We are wasting time, sir.”

  The engineer shook his head. “It is impossible to back up, Mrs. Brown. We’ll telegraph the police from Pine Grove. Now we must proceed.” He gave a little bow and started again for the locomotive.

  “All aboard, all aboard,” the conductor called as Molly followed him back through the knots of passengers who had also disembarked. Suddenly a chill unrelated to the cold ran down her spine. What had she done? Given the killer a chance to walk away? She stepped toward the ledge, eyes searching the track that stretched out from the train. No sign of anyone walking away. But where could the killer walk to? They were on a narrow ledge, high on a mountainside, miles from the nearest town. No, the killer would wait until they pulled into Pine Grove.

  Molly caught up with the conductor. “There’s a murderer on board,” she said. “You must not allow anyone to leave the train. You must telegraph the Denver police to meet us.”

  “Madam, you will allow me to do my job.” The conductor took her arm and turned her toward the steps where Charles Langford was waiting.

  “I’ll see Mrs. Brown on board,” Langford said, looking back at the conductor. Then he guided Molly up the steps and into the first-class corridor. They stopped at the first door. The sound of three long whistles filled the air as the train started to lurch forward.

  Molly said, “I saw the girl boarding in Leadville. She was with a traveling companion, a tall, dark-haired girl.”

  “A traveling companion.” Langford seemed to turn the idea over in his mind a moment. “My dear Mrs. Brown, the authorities will look into the details of this unfortunate incident.”

  Molly studied the relaxed, confident face—the face of a man who understood a world into which she and J.J. had taken only the first tentative steps. There was so much to learn. Still . . . “It would seem a simple matter to find the companion and learn what she may know,” she said.

  A gentle smile spread across Langford’s handsome face.
“If, indeed, the girl was thrown from the train, as you insist, Mrs. Brown”—a slight hesitation—“she could hardly be one of our sort. I am certain Mr. Brown would not approve of your meddling in this matter. Unfortunately you are bereft of his wise guidance at this moment. As a gentleman, I must stand in for your good husband and shield you from your womanly inclinations.” Langford opened the compartment door. “Allow me to fetch you a tonic for your nerves,” he said, stepping past her. The compartment was almost a duplicate of hers; green plush seat, lantern swaying overhead as the train gathered speed. Stuffed in the overhead rack was the chinchilla coat.

  “No need to put yourself to any further trouble.” Molly had no intention of drinking something that might dull her senses. She wanted to make certain the conductor did not allow anyone to leave the train at Pine Grove.

  “Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all. You will find the tonic most soothing.” The man had opened a black case on the seat and was pouring a ginger-colored liquid from a small crystal decanter into a glass. A pungent odor that Molly couldn’t identify drifted across the compartment.

  “Here you are,” he said, holding out the glass. “This will help you recover from your shock. You have only to open your mouth.”

  “Undoubtedly some people on this train would prefer me with my mouth closed, Mr. Langford,” Molly said, giving him a polite smile and starting toward her own compartment. Footsteps sounded behind her, and she realized he was following her.

  Molly opened her door, then hesitated. A cold understanding flooded over her: the murdered girl’s companion was also in danger. Molly had seen the anxious way the dark-haired girl had looked around the platform, as if she had wanted to make certain no one was following. Unfortunately the girl hadn’t seen the man in the red plaid coat watching from the depot doorway.

  Turning back to Langford, Molly said, “I’m sure someone was after the murdered girl. He must’ve gotten her in the gangway, where he threw her overboard. He may try to kill her companion to keep her from telling what she knows.”

  “My dear Mrs. Brown,” Langford began, a condescending note in his tone, “you have a most vivid imagination. If you choose to pursue this matter, I must warn you that it will harm your reputation. No one whose name appears in the newspaper in connection with a scandal could expect an invitation to the Christmas dance at the Denver Country Club.”

  Molly backed into her compartment, closed the door, and leaned against the paneling, marveling at the proposition Charles Langford had made her. She had only to remain in her compartment until the train pulled into Denver Union Station, and an invitation to the Christmas dance would be hers. Hers and J.J.’s, although she knew the real challenge would lie in convincing J.J. to attend.

  She closed her eyes and swayed in rhythm with the train, imagining herself in J.J.’s arms, gliding across the polished floor of the Denver Country Club, orchestral music filling the perfumed air, and all of the Sacred 36 admiring the gown she would have made for the occasion. She had waited two years for this invitation.

  Her eyes snapped open. She could wait a while longer. The dark-haired girl was in danger now.

  Molly flung open the door and hurried to the coach car. At the far end, a small group of miners waited outside the water closet. Other passengers sat upright, eyes ahead, as if on the lookout for the killer in their midst. Molly gripped the backs of the seats and pulled herself along the aisle, looking for the dark-haired girl. She stopped at the vacant seat across from the man in the red plaid coat. Tossed in the seat was a single black cloak, the fabric shiny and thin, a patch neatly stitched to the hood. She felt her heart turn over. The girl was gone.

  Molly whirled toward the man across the aisle. “Where is the girl with dark hair?” she demanded.

  The man moved his head from side to side as if to bring Molly into clearer focus. “Ain’t you the lady that seen her get tossed off the train?” His voice had the scratchy texture of tobacco.

  “You’re mistaken.” Molly held the man’s gaze. “The blond girl in the blue dress was thrown from the train.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon”—the man shook his head—“but the pretty one with the long yellow hair got off at Como.” Shouts and hard thuds came from the front of the coach. Molly glanced around. Two miners were pounding on the water closet door. Turning away from the commotion, she said, “What makes you believe the blond woman disembarked at Como?”

  “I got her grip down from the rack. Took it out to the platform myself.” A wistful smile played at the corners of the man’s mouth. “She was a pretty thing. I seen her in the depot. Don’t mind saying I was looking forward to getting acquainted. Too bad she was only goin’ as far as Como.”

  Molly tried to swallow back the alarm rising inside her. Obviously the man had concocted a story meant to exonerate himself: she had seen the girl flying over the ledge when the train was twenty miles beyond Como. And where was the dark-haired girl? Had he also tossed her from the train?

  The shouts and pounding were louder, angrier. Looking around, Molly saw that the conductor had joined the group. She started toward him. “Mr. Stout,” she called. “A girl is missing . . .”

  “Please, Mrs. Brown.” The conductor waved a hand in the air. “One emergency at a time.” He turned and rapped on the door. “Open up,” he shouted. “There’s folks need the facilities.”

  Molly stared at the closed door. So that was where the dark-haired girl had gone to. She was hiding from a killer. Molly pushed through the crowd of miners and, ignoring the look of astonishment on the conductor’s face, knocked hard on the door. “This is Mrs. J. J. Brown,” she called. “I know what happened to your friend. No one is going to harm you. You can come out now.”

  The only sounds were those of the miners drawing in sharp breaths, the wheels rattling beneath the floor. Slowly the door slid open. The girl leaned against the frame, dark curls pressed around a pale face, both hands clasped under her chin. Her knuckles rose in little white peaks.

  One of the miners sneered. “About time.”

  Molly placed an arm around the girl’s thin shoulders and drew her forward. As she guided her past the men, Molly called back: “Mr. Stout, please join us in my compartment.”

  * * *

  Laura Binkham sat at the far end of the plush seat, huddled against the window. Molly sat beside her, legs tucked sideways to make room for the conductor who leaned back against the compartment door, arms folded across his broad chest. The murdered girl—“A good girl, she was,” Laura said—was Effie Rogers. “She never meant to go wrong, but after she was let go . . .” Laura sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief Molly had handed her.

  “Let go?” Molly prodded.

  “From the grand house where Effie was the second-floor girl. Times got hard after the silver crash. Lots of fancy people couldn’t keep help like me and Effie anymore.”

  Molly pictured the fine mansions in Leadville, the army of former domestics searching for other employment after the silver market had crashed. Even she and J.J. had hit upon hard times, until J.J. had struck gold.

  The girl went on: “I was the lucky one. My mistress kept me on at half wages. Leastwise I had a roof over my head. Not like Effie. She caught on at a shop on Harrison Avenue, but the wages wasn’t enough to keep her. What choice did she have?” The girl pressed her lips together against the answer; light from the overhead lantern glinted in her dark eyes.

  “Effie began entertaining gentlemen friends, is that it?” Molly was beginning to understand: one of the friends was the man in the red plaid coat—a man Effie had most likely rejected.

  The conductor shifted from one foot to the other; his uniform made a scratchy sound against the door. “I hardly think any of this matters, Mrs. Brown.”

  “Please go on,” Molly said to the girl.

  “I told Effie, you gotta get hold of your gentleman.”

 
“Gentleman?” The man in the red plaid coat was certainly not a gentleman.

  “’Cause he’s the one that . . .” Laura threw an embarrassed glance toward the conductor, then lowered her eyes. “When Effie was employed in his grand home . . .” Her voice faltered. “I told her, he’s gotta help you out, your gentleman. He’s gotta take care of you.”

  The picture was beginning to change, like tiny glass pieces in a kaleidoscope forming and reforming. Molly had misjudged the man in the red plaid coat. She wondered which of Leadville’s millionaires had imposed himself on the second-floor girl.

  “So Effie sent a telegram to Denver,” the girl was saying.

  “Denver? You said Effie worked in Leadville.”

  Laura nodded. “That’s right. She come up there after she was let go.”

  “Did she tell you the gentleman’s name?” Molly asked.

  “Oh, no. Effie was very protective of his reputation. She always called him ‘my gentleman.’ And sure enough, he telegraphed her back. Said to meet him at the Vendome Hotel.”

  “The Vendome?” Molly felt the muscles in her chest contract. The compartment felt warm and close; it was difficult to breathe.

  “That’s right,” Laura said. “Only he never showed up.”

  “I must return to my duties.” The conductor withdrew a gold watch from his vest, snapped open the cover, and peered at the face. “We will pull into Pine Grove in exactly nine minutes.”

  “One moment, Mr. Stout.” Molly patted the girl’s hand. “Please continue.”

  “Well, the gentleman come to the shop and give Effie some money and a one-way ticket on the Denver Express. He says she was not to worry. He was gonna make things right with her in Denver. But she told me he was acting nervous, not like his old self. I think she was scared. So she asked me to come to Denver with her. You know, just ’til she seen everything was gonna be fine. My mistress give me two days off, and Effie used the gentleman’s money to get me a round-trip ticket. Soon’s the train pulled into Como, she pretended to get off, just like the gentleman told her. When it was all clear, she got back on and . . .”