The Express car, plus the two extra passenger cars, and the loaded freight vans would be thundering along behind the little engine, pushing and jostling. If they swayed too much, they could flip the engine clear off the track like shooting a stone from a slingshot.
But, once down the mountain, the engineer would feel a whole heap easier. Then it would be a long flat run—or mostly so—into Waco. There were a couple of places he would have to bring all his skill to bear, coaxing the small engine up a steep grade by the water tank at Apache Crossing, and over the rickety bridge, only ten yards long but never designed to take the weight he was hauling. It was over a dry wash that was fifty feet down to the bottom.
If it gave way, he knew that not many of the passengers would survive. He and his fireman certainly wouldn’t.
That would be the last obstacle; then it would be an easy run to Waco and an even easier, though boring, run down to Austin.
With luck, he figured they should make Waco on time at sundown. There would be an overnight stop for the railroads did as little night running as possible. They would depart for Austin early in the morning. The engineer could hardly wait to arrive: his wife and children would be at the depot to greet him because he had been on one of the longest runs of his career; absent for more than a month. It would be good to see them all again.
He didn’t know, as the loco was nursed around the dangerous mountain bend, the heavy cars swaying a little as they came on behind, that he would never see any of them again; that the last thing he would see would be the gun in the hand of the masked man who would swing onto the footplate and force his way into the driving cab
~*~
Kate Dukes looked out the window and instinctively tightened her grip on the arm of the seat.
She was on the side of the passenger car that faced the drop as the tracks curved around the mountainside. She hadn’t realized they were so high or that the drop was so precarious. Always, on other occasions when she had travelled the line, she had had a seat that was closest to the mountain. Now she felt quite dizzy as she looked down past the colored rock strata into the purple-hazed depths of the canyons and valleys.
The car seemed to be swaying more than she liked but they were travelling very slowly. While she was glad of this, at the same time, she wanted to be off the section of track as quickly as possible. Kate glanced across at the stony-faced Rangers then turned around and looked at the other passengers in the car.
Everyone was silent, even the children: it was a tense time and no one was trying to be falsely cheerful. One of the little girls began to cry. She saw one of her Ranger guards frown and flick his gaze down the car. His name was Heath and he was a family man: she thought that he was probably thinking about his own children.
He stirred uneasily and stood, grabbing at the luggage rack for support.
“Reckon I’ll go along and see how that express car is,” he said to the other guard, a man named Dobbs.
“Not our concern,” Dobbs told him in clipped tones. “They’ve only got two guards and the railway van man. It’s up to us to keep an eye on things.”
“Our job’s to guard Miss Dukes.”
Heath glanced at Kate and smiled faintly.
“Miss Dukes looks fine. D’you mind if I check things out, ma’am? They ain’t professionals they got guarding things back there and I figure my oath-of-office means we should keep an eye on everything that could be in danger from outlaws.”
Kate smiled. “Go ahead, Heath. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but you are acting responsibly.”
Heath nodded and moved off. When she looked back to Dobbs, she saw that his face was beet-red.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Dobbs. I wasn’t censuring you. You’re both carrying out your duty very well. I just happen to agree with Heath’s outlook that’s all. And I thank you for taking your job of guarding me so seriously.”
Dobbs relaxed, smiling faintly. He liked Kate. No one would harm her while he was alive to prevent it.
The train rocked on and Heath went through the door onto the platform of the express car hooked on behind.
~*~
There were still seven outlaws in Hallam’s bunch, besides himself.
The dirty outlaw was savagely angry that Montana had been the one to stop the lead of that crazy man in the mountain pass. He’d been a good offsider, could fight like a wounded grizzly and had brains to match. The others were what the army would call cannon-fodder. He would use them for violent raids, or to smash down doors and burn buildings.
But they weren’t much use for anything else. When it came to planning, Montana had been the only one worthwhile consulting. The others had no ideas that were workable. They thought only of the divvying-up of whatever loot they could pick up. How they came by it was up to Hallam.
Montana had been a good man with explosives, too. The outlaw chief wasn’t sure that he was going to have to use explosives to stop the Waco train, but if they were necessary, he knew he was going to miss Montana’s expertise.
But Brett Hallam was never one to dwell for long on his losses or on anything else that he was powerless to do anything about. If one plan had to be scrapped, he did it as soon as he was convinced of it and got right down to the business of devising a new one.
He and Montana had worked out a provisional plan for holding up the train but he would have to work it with one man short. It shouldn’t be too hard; Montana had brought back a lot of information about the train and Hallam knew that the locomotive was lighter than usual and therefore could easily be derailed. This would cause a pile-up and probably knock out any guards or trigger-happy hombres. But it could kill a few passengers, too, maybe a lot. Derailing was always risky. It stirred up hell and everyone turned against a gang that had been callous enough to kill needlessly.
Even other outlaws hunted them, for the intensity of the law’s pursuit made it hell for everyone and the sooner the real culprits were brought to heel, the better.
So derailing was something Hallam didn’t want to try unless he had to. It was a real possibility, though. The ambush in the pass had delayed them and he had lost his right hand man. The train was around the mountain where he had originally figured to pull the hold-up, and there were only two places left to him.
He could try at the water tank at Apache Crossing, or at the bridge over the dry wash just south of Monument Mesa.
At either place, he was going to have to do something pretty desperate to get the train to stop.
Maybe he would blow the bridge—if he chose that spot—and let the train plunge into the dry wash. Then he and his men could pick over the wreckage at their leisure. They would be long gone into the hills by the time anyone came looking for the train.
Only thing was it would probably kill everyone on board.
He wasn’t sure that there was enough gold on board to take that much of a chance ...
The water tank site was the only other place left to him and there were several ways he could go about stopping the train there—even though it was much riskier for himself and his men.
Unless he used dynamite ...
He could blow down the water tower, time it so that it fell onto the car in front of the express van, and cut it from the front of the train. Montana had said there was only the caboose behind.
That sounded promising to him, but he would have to give it some more thought before making a decision. Either way, someone was going to have to die, and Hallam didn’t aim for it to be him.
~*~
“It’s a long way between Hillsboro and Waco,” Cato said to Yancey as they rode through the hills, not bothering to look for tracks.
They knew the outlaws were making for the Hillsboro-Waco railroad line so they made off in that direction. It was difficult even finding their way out of the hills but Huckabee was able to pick out a few landmarks and they eventually cleared the country and gathered speed.
Yancey swung his mount around a bush and came in close to Cato; Huckabe
e riding slightly ahead and to one side.
“I been trying to picture that section of track, but I don’t know it very well. I got a sort of picture of lots of flat country in my head with a trestle bridge somewhere along the way.”
Cato looked blank.
“It ain’t my territory. Can’t help you.”
“What about you, Huckabee?” Yancey called above the sounds of the racing mounts.
The Winchester man hipped in the saddle and looked at him quizzically.
“You know the country along the railroad between Hillsboro and Waco?” Yancey asked.
Huckabee dropped back and nodded.
“Sure. I’ve travelled it maybe a hundred times, drumming up business. What is it you want to know?”
Yancey flicked a glance at Cato and arched his eyebrows: it looked as if bringing Huckabee along might pay off after all.
Might.
“Where would be the best place for Hallam to try for a hold-up?” Yancey asked.
Huckabee rode in silence for a spell.
“Well, there are several places where I reckon it could be done—but it’d depend on how he aimed to do it. I mean, if he’s going to use explosives, then that narrows it down some. But if he’s just aiming to block the line to get the train to stop so that he could board it—well, there might be a half-dozen spots where he could do that.”
Yancey swore and reined down. The others stopped their mounts and turned to face him as he started to swing down from the saddle.
“We might as well palaver right here. We’re gonna need a map to get an idea of what we’re going into.”
Cato nodded in agreement and he and the gun salesman dismounted and squatted beside Yancey where he was smoothing the dirt. He handed Huckabee a small twig.
“You’re the map-maker.”
Huckabee took the twig, paused for a moment to get the picture clear in his mind, then began to draw the railroad out of Hillsboro.
“It’s a flat enough run for a spell and then they come to this mountain range. Forget the name, but it just runs clear across the country at that part, a single line of hills.”
“Mingo’s Backbone,” Cato volunteered. “Named after one of the old mountain men. I knew Mingo’s grandson. Half-brother to a grizzly and twice as mean—but go on.” Huckabee nodded: “Well, the track has to go up and over that range. There are no passes they could’ve used so they had no choice. Up and over and around ... here. Steep grade down to the flats. It’s mostly like that all the way to Waco.”
Yancey frowned: “Yeah, I remember a lot of flat country, but I recollect some sort of mesa, too, and a trestle bridge.”
“That’d be right,” Huckabee agreed. “Monument Mesa. But the railroad skirts it and goes over a small bridge across a dry wash. Right about here.”
Yancey and Cato craned forward to see where he had marked in the mesa to one side of the wavy line that represented the railroad. He marked in the dry wash and the small bridge.
“If he put the bridge out, he could use the mesa for cover,” Yancey said, thinking out loud. “Then, when the train stopped—and let’s hope the engineer would see the bridge in time to hit the brakes—he and his men could ride out and get aboard pronto. They might even make it without the guards knowing what hit them till they shot their way into the express car.”
“They could stop the train at the water tank, too, at Apache Crossing,” Huckabee said. “Either blow it down or block the line. The train would roll in slow; it’s pretty sure they’d take on water there; a lot would’ve boiled away after the climb up the Mingo’s Backbone range.”
“What about on the Backbone?” Cato asked. “It was done once before, I recollect. No one expected it because there’s such a big drop down one side and the mountain rises steeply on the other. But some gang pulled it—related to mountain-goats, I guess, but they did it. You recall, Yance? Two-three years back. Got a load of silver dollars.”
Yancey nodded. “Well, that’s three main places—I guess the thing that’s going to decide where we look, is just how far the train’s come at this stage.”
“Well, it would’ve climbed over the Backbones by now,” Huckabee said with certainty. “They always make a fast run out that far and get the passengers over smartly, so I reckon they’d be on the flats between the Backbones and the water tank.”
“Which gives us the choice of the water tank or the bridge,” Cato said slowly. He squinted at Huckabee. “How far you reckon those places are apart?”
Huckabee thought for a spell and then looked at them soberly.
“Twenty miles,” he announced.
Yancey swore softly. They would have to pick the right place first time, for, if they were wrong, there would be no way they could reach the other one before the hold-up took place.
~*~
The engineer was singing as the little locomotive panted and rocked across the flats. The boilers were full from the tank at Apache Crossing and the fireman had a mighty fire roaring. Steam pressure was at the maximum, and all the joints in the tubes and rivets were tight.
The wind whipped past his face as he leaned out the window and tugged the whistle cord, blasting the regulation three times as they approached the run up to the bridge across the dry wash. Monument Mesa reared up to the right and its rugged bastions loomed closer as the tracks hugged its base in a curve before running up to the bridge itself.
It was an easy curve and he didn’t have to ease off the throttle. The engineer watched as the colored rock of the walls blurred past. Then the train started out of the shadow of the mesa and lined up with the bridge. It was only about a hundred feet and—
The engineer paled and grabbed the whistle cord, jerking it frantically, time after time. Alarmed, the fireman ran to the other side of the cab and looked out. He, too, paled.
They were fast approaching the bridge and they could see a man climbing up between the track ties, staggering upright and waving frantically.
Beyond him, there was a pile of rock blocking the tracks across the bridge.
The engineer hit everything and bawled at the fireman to get up on the tender and throw the manually-operated brakes as well. This was the kind of stop he had feared: clapping on everything could force the heavy cars behind to slam so hard into the wood tender and thus into the engine itself, that it would send the lightweight engine off the rails and end in a full-scale derailment.
The wheels screeched along the rails. Showers of sparks flew. The shackles clattered and clanked. The engine rocked wildly with the pressure of the cars behind and the fireman on the back of the tender, frantically spun the manual brake wheel as hard as he could until it locked. The cars pushed and skidded then thudded together. A few wheels even rose off the rails an inch or so, but just managed to keep the safety flange inside the track.
With a shuddering, bumping, slewing motion, the little locomotive came to a halt about ten feet from the man who was preparing to leap from the trestle. Smoke and steam hissed and the shackles clanked as the cars rocked and settled back on an even keel.
The engineer sagged across his throttle, sweat pouring from his white face. Then he jumped as the man who had ‘warned’ the train, came leaping along the side of the locomotive, stepping from tie to tie, then up to the footplate. Only now did the engineer see that the man was wearing a bandanna across the bottom half of his face.
And there was a gun in his hand.
The engineer straightened swiftly, and stumbled. He reached out to steady himself and his hand clutched at the big boiler valve wrench.
The masked outlaw thought he was going to be attacked.
He shot the engineer through the middle of the face as the rest of the outlaws came swarming from the cover of the mesa and boarded the train at various points.
Nine – Hostage
At the sound of the gunshot, the two Rangers guarding Kate Dukes came alive.
They had been watching out the window, but on the side away from the mesa, so that they did
not see the outlaws climbing on board. But, at the sound of the shot, they swung back from their idle curiosity towards Kate, who was also turning away from her window. Dobbs took her arm as his gun slid into his other hand. Heath, gun out and cocked, faced the other startled passengers at the far end of the car.
“Nobody come up this end,” he snapped. “Keep this section clear. That’s an order.”
Before anyone could reply, Heath ran for the door and stepped onto the platform, crouching. He caught a glimpse of masked men clambering aboard the train and realized it was either a hold-up or an attempt on Kate’s life. He snapped off a shot and one of the robbers, yelling, clawed at his shoulder and spilled off the stationary train.
Four guns replied and Heath ducked as bullets clipped the platform and sent wood splinters spraying around him. Some stung his face and he clawed at his eyes, yelling over his shoulder to Dobbs:
“Watch Miss Dukes. There’s a whole passel of ’em.”
Then his nostrils twitched involuntarily as he smelled body odor and stale sweat. He spun, bringing up his gun. Brett Hallam came onto the platform from the far side and his gun blasted twice. Heath jerked and spun away, arms flying up with the impact of the bullets striking his body. His gun exploded into the air then he toppled off the platform and landed head-first in the cinders beside the track. He didn’t move again.
Hallam went into the passenger car and spotted Dobbs protecting a girl with his body. He fired instinctively at the Ranger badge. Dobbs triggered and Hallam swore as the lead ripped the greasy hat from his head. He threw himself full length, angled his gun upward as he fired, rolled and came up three feet closer, triggering again. But the second shot was not really necessary. His first had caught Dobbs in the head and the man was already falling to the floor at the feet of the horrified Kate.
The terrified passengers were already cramming through the doorway at the far end of the car, yelling and jostling. Kate took one look at Hallam then reached for Dobbs’ gun. Hallam cocked back the hammer and tore down his bandanna mask.
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