On the Wrong Track

by Steve Hockensmith

  Old Red mused a moment, looking like he found my logic tempting in more ways than one. But then he sighed and gave his head a weary shake.

  “It don’t wash. El Numero Uno would’ve seen him.”

  Then he straightened up and strode away, starting out sluggish but picking up steam with each step.

  “We gotta turn this train inside out,” he said. “We’ll find Wiltrout—get him and the porters to help.”

  “May as well bring Lockhart in on it, too,” I said, hustling after him.

  My brother made the kind of noise you’d expect to hear from a rabid dog.

  “Hey, what about me?” El Numero Uno asked as we came out of the baggage stacks and walked past him. “You can’t leave me here all by myself!”

  “Not only can we, we got to,” I told him. “But don’t worry, Your Majesty. We done searched this car, remember? Ain’t no thin’ gonna happen to you he-arrrr-ooph!”

  If the word he-arrrr-ooph is unfamiliar to you, no doubt you’ve never seen a man fly off his feet, tangle midair with his brother, and slam down so hard on his side his guts practically pop out like candy from a piñata.

  Which was exactly what was happening to me.

  The Pacific Express was braking—hard—and Gustav and I weren’t the only ones thrown to the floorboards. El Numero Uno’s chair toppled over, as did the tower of luggage my brother and I had rebuilt just a few minutes before. There was an ear-piercing squeal of metal on metal, and when the train finally came to a stop, the unnerving din was replaced by an equally unnerving silence.

  “Sweet Jesus,” I said, shoving Old Red’s boot from my face. “If the engineer’d hit the brakes any harder, we’d be plastered against the end of the car like wallpaper.”

  El Numero Uno cleared his throat. “If you please … ?”

  I crawled over and righted him and his throne.

  “We sure made good time to Carlin,” my brother muttered, pushing himself to his feet and shambling toward the car’s side door. As he reached for the handle, the door to the Pullman opened.

  There was Kip, gaping at us from the vestibule with such bug-eyed terror I almost glanced over my shoulder to make sure Death himself wasn’t sneaking up on me, scythe at the ready. But then the news butch took a wobbly step into the car, and I could see that he wasn’t stupefied with fright by something behind me. The something was behind him.

  “Alright, you two,” croaked the masked man at Kip’s back. “Unbuckle your gunbelts and let ’em drop.”

  He brought up a Colt and rested it on Kip’s shoulder. The barrel nuzzled the butch’s ear, and the kid let out a mewling little moan.

  “If you ain’t unheeled yourselves by the time I count three, this boy’s gonna have a bullet where his brains oughta be.”

  I shot a quick look at my brother. He was just standing there, sizing the bandit up, neither challenging him nor yielding to him.

  “One,” the man growled. “Two.”

  Thirteen

  MYTHS AND LEGENDS

  Or, A Dime Novel Come to Life Is Nearly the Death of Us

  “Alright, alright,” I said, reaching for my buckle just as Gustav got to loosening his. “We know what comes after two—you don’t have to say it.”

  “Just take it easy,” my brother added as we eased our holsters to the floor. “No need to hurt the kid.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” the bandit sneered.

  It seemed hard to believe, such ominous words coming from so unimpressive a physical specimen, like thunder booming out of a licorice whip. The man was reed thin, with the squinty, close-set eyes one usually encounters in farm families who don’t know the dangers of inbreeding their stock, animal or otherwise. He was dressed like a sharecropper, in frayed denim and sweat-soaked flannel, the duds so dirty they gave off a little puff of dust when he tugged Kip backward into the passage to the Pullmans.

  “Come with me,” the man said.

  “Good luck,” El Numero Uno whispered as Old Red and I headed for the door.

  “Thanks, Your Worship,” I said. “We’ll be alright. You just sit tight.”

  “Do I have any choice?”

  We followed the bandit through the vestibule. His gun never left Kip’s ear, and the kid’s terror-stricken gaze never left us. As we stepped through into the sleeper, I heard muted murmuring and weeping up ahead—the sound of dozens of passengers cowering behind the curtains of their berths.

  “Ahhh, the guests of honor!” a cheerful voice called out. “Welcome, gentlemen, welcome!”

  The scrawny gunman pulled Kip into the nook outside the men’s washroom, giving us a clear view of the corridor. About two-thirds of the way down the car stood two armed men, both dusty and dressed for rough riding. Neither wore a mask. One was lean, close-shaven, blond, handsome, smiling. The other was the flip side of the coin: lumpy, hairy, dark, brutish, scowling.

  A stooped figure in a blood-dappled nightshirt was hunched at their feet.

  “Get up front with the others, Gunnar,” said the good-looking one. “See if you can’t convince the express messenger to join the festivities.” He waved a shiny, long-barreled .44 at Kip. “Take the kid with you. If there’s any sign of trouble back here, dust him.”

  “With pleasure.”

  The grimy little fellow grabbed Kip by the collar and dragged the whimpering news butch back toward the baggage car.

  “That boy comes to any harm, you’re gonna regret it, Gunnar,” I said.

  The threat sounded empty even to my own ears, and the bandit’s eyes crinkled before he disappeared through the door. Behind his mask, he’d been smiling.

  “So,” Old Red said coolly to the fellow giving orders, “you’d be Mike Barson, then. The papers all say you’re the pretty one.” He turned his attention to the man’s companion, who scowled back at Gustav like he was snot in his soup. “Which makes you Augie Welsh.”

  “The Give-’em-Hell Boys, at your service,” Barson said, offering us a bow.

  “Long as we’re makin’ introductions, let’s do it proper,” Welsh said. He pointed his gun squarely at Old Red’s head. “Come here. Let’s shake.”

  Only two passengers dared peeks out at us as we moved down the aisle: little Harlan and Marlin, the twins, who gaped at us so wide-eyed you’d think we were ghosts (already). As we drew closer to Barson and Welsh, the man at their feet turned to look at us, too, revealing the bloody, bruised face of Burl Lockhart. It was a face racked by pain—but not the kind that comes from a wound of the flesh. There was fear there, and despair.

  “What a couple of darin’ desperadoes you are,” I spat before I could stop myself. “Beatin’ an unarmed old man. What’re you gonna do next? Pistol-whip a baby?”

  My little outburst actually seemed to cut Barson to the quick. His smile faded, replaced by an expression I can only describe as rueful.

  Welsh had a very different reaction.

  “Pistol-whip a baby?” he said as Gustav and I finally came up close. “Alright … why not?”

  He stepped around Lockhart, spun his gun, and drove it butt-first into my brother’s stomach. Old Red wheezed and crumpled to the floor.

  “Why, you godda—”

  Welsh cut short my blasphemy by bringing his gun up sideways and ramming it into my face like a bulky set of knuckle dusters. I only retained my teeth because my nose took the brunt of the blow, and I staggered back with blood spurting from my nostrils. I managed to remain upright, though, and I stepped toward an extremely surprised Welsh intending to top with bare fists what he’d just done with cold steel.

  “Don’t,” Welsh growled, whipping the business end of his artillery so close to my blood-gushing nose I had to go cross-eyed to look at it.

  “Let me give you some advice, friend,” Barson said amiably. “Fall down this time.”

  He said this as if I had a choice. But I assure you, when Welsh walloped me upside the head, there was nothing voluntary about my quick trip to the carpet.

  In th
e hazy, topsy-turvy moments that followed, I was dimly aware of curses, grunts, and thuds. As my brain dragged itself out of the fog, I realized that some of these noises were even emanating from me. Old Red and I were having the metaphorical shit kicked out of us, and it might’ve turned literal if someone hadn’t yelled, “That’s enough!”

  To my surprise—and everyone else’s, I imagine—these words were not spoken by Mike Barson.

  It was Diana Caveo. And just in case Welsh chose not to listen to her, she sprang from her bunk and threw herself on her knees between his boot and my belly.

  “You’ve made your point! There’s no need to kill them!”

  Welsh froze—though he didn’t seem to be considering mercy so much as mulling over who to kick next. Barson appeared beside him, more amused than ever.

  “Leave it to a lady to tell us when we’ve overdone it,” he said. “Miss, you are entirely correct. Augie—keep ’em covered.”

  But Welsh had one last lick for us: He hacked and spat on each of us in turn. Miss Caveo was the only one he spared.

  “Ladies and gentlemen—may I have your undivided attention?” Barson boomed. He noticed me groggily staring up at him, and I swear he actually winked. “Though I suspect I have it already.” He reached into a pocket and extracted a folded piece of paper, which he shook out with one crisp snap. “We have a statement to make!”

  He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and clutched the lapel of his coat with his free hand just like a politician on the stump.

  “Two months ago, the ‘outlaw’ band known as ‘the Give-’em-Hell Boys’—aka, us—detained a Southern Pacific special—aka, the Pacific Express—outside Carlin, Nevada—aka, right here. Through the use of friendly persuasion, the ‘gang’ gained access to the train’s Wells Fargo car and the special freight therein. Wells Fargo and the Southern Pacific have subsequently reported their losses in this instance at forty-four hundred dollars in cash. We would like to set the record straight. In actuality, our profit from this enterprise is beyond our ability to assess. Suffice it to say, we are now the proud owners of one hundred bars of U.S. Treasury gold. Since personal enrichment has never been our primary motivation, we are prepared to part with said gold in the service of a greater good. As robbers—and we don’t deny that the label fits us—our crimes pale in comparison to those of a far more ruthless gang: the directors of the Southern Pacific Railroad. These unrepentant thugs have seen fit to offer bounties for our killing or capture, so we think it only fair that we be allowed to do the same to them. We are therefore placing a price of eight gold bars on the head of each and every member of the S.P.’s executive committee, as well as two bars each on their villainous henchmen Jefferson Powless and Colonel C. Kermit Crowe. We will deliver rewards in secret, pending proof that justice has been meted out. In the meantime, we will retire to our sovereign kingdom, the Humboldt Mountains, extending an invitation to all railroad dicks, Pinkertons, Wells Fargo agents, and freelance bounty hunters to join us at their convenience. We promise them a warm welcome.”

  Barson glanced up from the paper, his pale blue eyes twinkling in the dim light. He almost looked like he was waiting for applause.

  “That’s it,” he said. “This has been purely a social call, and I’m pleased to inform you that the passengers of this train will not be molested in any way. Our complaint is not with you. It’s with the Southern Pacific Railroad and its lackeys.”

  At the mention of “lackeys,” he looked down at Miss Caveo and shook his head with an almost wistful sadness.

  “Miss, may I suggest that you immediately apply for employment with the Southern Pacific Railroad Police? You make a much more impressive guard than these two.”

  Barson’s gaze flicked over me and my brother quickly, as if we were some nauseating sight he couldn’t quite stomach.

  “As for you, Mr. Lockhart … this might sound crazy, but I’m actually disappointed you didn’t turn out to be a real threat. I mean, here we are—the West’s greatest lawman and the world’s greatest robbers. Living legends, face-to-face. And you turn out to be more of a myth.” He sighed and shrugged. “Well, I suppose those dime-novel scribblers will make the most of it. Obviously, they have a way of making things seem grander than they truly are.”

  He held out the paper on which his speech had been written and let it go. It floated down toward us in the zigzag swoops of a falling leaf.

  “For the newspapers.”

  “Don’t leave this car till we’re gone,” Welsh snarled as the paper settled with a gentle rustle on Old Red’s lap. “If we see anyone so much as poke a nose out a window, I will personally slash that news butcher’s throat.”

  He stretched a leg over us, spinning around once his feet were planted to keep us covered as he backed away up the aisle.

  Barson tipped his hat to Miss Caveo. “I hope you and I might meet again under more pleasant circumstances.”

  “If you and I meet again, I assure you there will be nothing pleasant about it,” she shot back.

  Barson grinned. “Miss, if every man with a badge had half your grit, I’d take up knitting and never leave the house again. Enjoy the rest of your trip.”

  Then he followed Welsh, picking his way gingerly past Lockhart, Gustav, and me much as a man in new shoes might navigate the steaming piles in a cow pen. Unlike Welsh, he didn’t bother keeping a watch on us as he headed to the other end of the car. Somehow, the sight of his back was more disheartening than the sight of Welsh’s gun.

  The moment the door to the forward vestibule slammed shut behind Barson, we were joined by another passenger: Dr. Chan.

  “Oh, Mr. Holmes—your face!” he said when he saw me.

  “Jeez, Doc,” I groaned. “Now you got me worried.”

  I touched my jaw: still attached. My cheeks: no holes. My nose.

  “Shit!”

  I was jolted by a bolt of pain so intense I swooned, and the already dimly lit hallway around me spiraled into blackness like dirty water going down a drain. The spell passed as quick as it came, though, and when the world was fully in view again, it had brightened considerably, for Miss Caveo was peering down into my face, looking concerned.

  “Pardon me for the language,” I said. “And thank you for what you done. That was mighty brave.”

  “Mighty foolish is what it was,” Old Red groused feebly. “Miss, you coulda got yourself killed.”

  “Fortunately, I didn’t stop to consider that.” Her gaze darted down the aisle, to the door to the baggage car. “And no need to apologize for cursing, Otto. I wouldn’t mind doing some swearing myself just now.”

  My nose was still stinging something fierce, but hearing the lady call me Otto provided considerable balm.

  “There could be internal injuries,” Chan said. “All three of you need to remain as still as possible until I can—”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Gustav said, struggling to push himself upright. “But I don’t think so.”

  He faltered, sinking back toward the carpet, until a hand stabbed out of the nearest berth to catch him by the arm.

  “Listen to the man, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Kier said, steadying Old Red with what seemed to be a surprisingly strong grip. “You looked dreadful even before that beating you just took. Now you really need a rest.”

  “Yeah, take it easy, pal,” Chester Q. Horner threw in from the berth above her, his tremendous brown pompadour so thoroughly pillow-mussed it looked like his whole scalp had been twisted around sideways and stood on end. “There’s nothing you can do, anyway.”

  Lockhart came lurching to his feet.

  “I’ll tell ya what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna get out there and kill those sons of bitches!”

  “Mr. Lockhart, no,” Chan said. “The boy. Your injuries. Let me—”

  “Keep your filthy monkey-paws off me! I don’t need your help!”

  Indeed, now that the old Pinkerton was standing, I could see that he was right: He really didn’t need a doctor. His nose, like mine,
had been bloodied, and there were scuffs on his face and hands, yet other than that he’d come through the whupping remarkably unscathed.

  “Somebody get me a gun!” he roared. “They took Aunt Virgie!”

  Old Red and I glanced at each other uneasily. Had the old man taken a boot toe to the head?

  “Aunt Virgie?” Miss Caveo asked.

  “My gun! Burl Lockhart’s pearl-handled Smith and Wesson .44! They took it from me!”

  “I know how you feel, Mr. Lockhart,” I said soothingly. “They got our guns, too. I don’t like it one bit, but we can’t—”

  “Somebody in this damn car must have a gun, and I want it!” Lockhart hollered, spraying whiskey-scented spittle over everyone around. “I’m not just gonna stand here while those bastards get away!”

  “Calm down,” Old Red snapped. “Long as they’ve got Kip, we ain’t gonna go rushin’ out there like—”

  Lockhart responded with a blunt two-word expression that is widely considered the very acme of obscenity. So foul is this phrase held to be, it actually elicited a collective gasp from some of the female passengers who were beginning to emerge from their berths.

  But rather than go all faint and fluttery over a little vulgarity, Miss Caveo seemed to steel herself. She moved closer to me, turning to face Lockhart fully, as if the man would have to go through not only my brother and me but her if he intended to run outside waving a six-shooter.

  The tense silence that followed was shattered by a pair of thunderclaps in quick succession—gunshots from up ahead, in the baggage car.

  “Sweet Jesus!” I blurted out, but no one bothered with a gasp this time. There was more to worry about than propriety now. “Kip!”

  There were other sounds outside the Pullman—shouts, horses whinnying, the thump of hooves.

  Horner rolled back into his bunk and pressed his nose to the window. “They’re leaving!”