On the Wrong Track

by Steve Hockensmith

  “I don’t get it,” Kip said. “What is all this crap?”

  “Well, they was supposed to have ‘priceless treasures of the Orient’ in the Chinese exhibit at the Exposition.” I waved a hand at the casket packed with tea party fandangles. “I guess that’s it. Or some of it, anyway.”

  Kip gave me a skeptical frown. “A dumb old teapot’s a ‘priceless treasure’?”

  “Why not? For all we know, that teapot’s as old as Adam. Put some years on anything, and it gets to be valuable. Why, a hundred years from now, even them dime novels you peddle might be worth something.”

  The kid shook his head. “Still seems like crap to me.”

  “Dr. Chan didn’t think so,” Gustav said. He spoke haltingly, almost reluctantly, as if his thoughts were leading him someplace he didn’t want to go. “That’s why he kept tryin’ to get in here—to make sure this stuff was alright. He wouldn’t just up and leave it.”

  “But his bag—?” I began.

  “Tossed off the train to make it look like Chan skedaddled,” Old Red cut in. “It’d be easy enough to get the bag from his berth once Chan was out of the way.”

  “Whoa!” Kip hooted. “‘Out of the way’?”

  “Chan’s dead, most likely,” Gustav announced glumly. “Brought in here and walloped with a whiskey bottle.” He looked over at me. “I admit that’s pure theorizin’ of the sort Mr. Holmes wouldn’t have tolerated, but it fits the facts snug enough.”

  “Just this once, I’m gonna hope you’re wrong,” I said.

  Old Red nodded. “Just this once, I will, too.”

  “Hold on!” Kip protested, standing up and waving his hands. “Why would anyone kill the Chinaman?”

  “Probably cuz he kept sniffin’ around the baggage car,” I told him. “There’s something in here our killer’s been tryin’ to hide.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like … well, that’s a good question.” I turned to my brother. “Care to attend to it?”

  “As it so happens, I was just about to.” Gustav reached into the coffin, snaking his hands through the straw to grope at the bottom of the box. “Joe Pezzulo found the first hidin’ place, so there was a change of … hel-lo! Here we are.”

  He grunted and drew his hands out of the casket. They emerged wrapped around a thick, bricklike blob that shone like gold—for good reason. There were words and numbers stamped into the top, and I read them out loud.

  U.S. MINT

  KARAT

  400 OZ.

  “Shit,” Kip whispered.

  “Now, now—no need to be goddamn vulgar,” I muttered. I turned to my brother. “So that’s how that teacup ended up in the desert, huh? Some of Chan’s tableware got tossed out to make room for this?”

  “Yup. There’s probably fifteen, twenty more under all that straw.”

  Old Red set the bar on the floorboards with a clunk and dusted off his hands. Like the gold, his fingers were now flecked with sand.

  “So where’d the toupee come from then?” I asked. “You can’t tell me that’s an ancient Chinese treasure.”

  Old Red stood and moved to the second casket—the fancy one Mrs. Foreman was lugging back to California.

  “‘It is of the highest importance in the art of detection,’” he said, “‘to be able to recognize, out of a number of facts, which are incidental and which …’”

  He pulled the toupee from his pocket and dropped it on the coffin.

  “‘ … vital,’” I said with a chagrined nod.

  “You know,” Kip said, “I have no earthly idea what you two are talkin’ about.”

  “Don’t worry, kid,” I told him. “You’ll catch up.”

  I had. Finally.

  I’d seen the curly blond hair on that little man-wig, and I’d seen the curly blond hair atop the Foreman boys’ heads. I’d seen the tag in the toupee that said it came from San Jose, and I’d seen the tag on the coffin that said it was bound for San Jose.

  I’d seen clue, clue, clue, and clue. Yet I hadn’t seen how they lined up like the very rails we were riding upon, tracks that could have but one destination: the casket I was about to open.

  Gustav had seen it, though. And I was reminded with the power of a swift kick in the pants that there was another reason I tagged along after him as he chased his dream of detectiving. By God, he was actually good at this deducifying stuff.

  I dug the crowbar claw in under the lip of the coffin lid and pushed down. Almost immediately, the stench of decay seeped out into the car.

  “Oh, jeez … you gotta stop!” Kip groaned. “That sure don’t smell like gold!”

  “Could smell a lot worse,” Old Red said, and I took his point and kept on prying.

  Given that it was summer and the late Mr. Foreman had been dead at least four days (since it would have taken two just to get the body from Chicago to Ogden), the odor should have been retch-worthy when it was, in point of fact, worthy of a mere pinch of the nose.

  It didn’t take long to see why the stink of death wasn’t stronger. Mrs. Foreman had sprung for fine mahogany with hinges along one side, so after just a little more jimmying I was able to pop the lid up and get us a look inside … at perhaps thirty more gold bars.

  The exact number I didn’t have time to determine, for Gustav told me to close the casket quick.

  “We’ve seen what there is to see,” he said. “Foreman’s gone, but he was lyin’ in there long enough to leave some skunk behind.”

  I put down the lid, then swiveled around and sat on it, my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. Something hazy and blotched was swirling before my eyes—an explanation—and if I could just give it the right squint, it might come into focus.

  “Would one or the other of you be kind enough to tell me what the heck is goin’ on?” Kip demanded.

  Old Red could see I was straining my brain to deduce it through, and he gave me a little bow and held out his hands, palms up.

  He was offering me first crack at it. And I took it.

  “Well … I think the gist of it is the Give-’em-Hell Boys wasn’t stickin’ us up yesterday,” I said, talking slow so my mouth wouldn’t outpace my mind. “They was loadin’ us up. I’m sittin’ on the same gold they stole off the Pacific Express two months ago.”

  Gustav nodded, so I forged ahead a little quicker.

  “When they hit the train back in May, findin’ that gold in the express car must’ve been a surprise … cuz it looks like they didn’t know what to do with it. There was no way they could tote off all them heavy bars on their horses—long riders gotta move quick. So they buried it right there on the spot, outside Carlin. They’d go back later and lug it away. But how? Everyone in the country knows Barson and Welsh by sight, thanks to the papers. If they tried haulin’ freight around in the back of a buckboard, they’d be spotted before they got a mile. So they came up with another way to move the gold. They filled a crate with bricks … for the weight?”

  My brother nodded again.

  “Then they got it put on the Express,” I went on, “probably with help from an S.P. man or a passenger who had it loaded in as luggage. When the train got to where they had the gold stashed, they planned to stop it, throw out the bricks, load in the gold and then … damn, Brother. You really think they’d try it? They’d need balls the size of tumbleweeds.”

  Gustav nodded yet again, clearly pleased that I’d followed it all through myself, even if I did find the final step hard to take.

  “They’d need balls to try what?” Kip asked, growing impatient with my start-stop storytelling.

  “Well, the crate—it had airholes,” I explained. “We figured that meant somebody got himself snuck on back in Ogden. But that wasn’t the plan at all. Someone was aimin’ to hitch a ride after the robbery. Barson and Welsh were gonna put their own guard in with the gold!”

  “Only Pezullo spotted them airholes and opened the crate—which is why he had to die,” Gustav finally jumped in. “Then we found i
t, and the box was still pried open when the Give-’em-Hell Boys stopped the train. So they knew they couldn’t sneak anyone on the Express, and they needed a new place to stash their gold.”

  “Right here,” I said, patting my coffin bench.

  “They dumped Foreman in the desert,” Old Red continued.

  “His wig fallin’ off when they moved the body,” I snuck in.

  “And they threw out some of Chan’s ‘treasure.’”

  “Though somebody dropped a cup.”

  “Course, they couldn’t have nobody seein’ what they were up to. Which is why they had someone talkin’ to Milford Morrison on the left side of the train while they got to unloadin’ and loadin’ on the right side.”

  “But poor El Numero Uno was stuck out here, wasn’t he?” I said. “He must’ve seen it all.”

  “So he ended up a notch on someone’s shootin’ iron,” Gustav finished for me.

  Kip had been watching our back-and-forth with a pop-eyed look of wonder upon his face, and now he shook his head and chuckled. “You know, you two are really something when you stop your bickerin’.”

  Old Red and I traded sheepish glances.

  “But you slicked right over a mighty big question,” the kid went on, his tone turning serious. “Who killed Joe?”

  “Well, you tell me,” Gustav said. “Who’s the first person Pezullo would’ve told about that crate? Who had a key that let him get in and out of the baggage car as he pleased? Who knew Chan was tryin’ to snoop around near the booty? And whose berth is next to both the gents’ washroom and the passageway to the baggage car—givin’ him the chance to sneak out that snake and set it on us?”

  Kip blinked at my brother a moment, his face slack, before the name came to him. When it did, he didn’t seem to know whether to scoff or cheer.

  “Why, sure … it all fits, don’t it?” the news butch marveled. “Wiltrout. It … all … fits.”

  “Just about—though there’s something you’ll have to explain to me,” I said, turning to my brother. “Who stole Kip’s passkey? Wiltrout had his own already, and extras to spare. Why take Kip’s? And how’d he do it?”

  “I ain’t got that part figured yet,” Old Red admitted. “It might’ve been to throw us off the scent, get us lookin’ at passengers ’stead of em-plo-yees . Or maybe someone’s helpin’ him. Or it might’ve just been a coincidence.”

  Gustav spat out that last word like a bite of rotten meat, and the foul taste of it lingered on his tongue afterward to judge by the scowl on his face.

  “You know, we ain’t got much in the way of actual proof, either,” I pointed out. “And there’s a lot we still don’t know about what the Give-’em-Hell Boys had planned. Why take the gold west? How are they gonna collect it if they ain’t got men travelin’ with it?” I shrugged. “Seems to me we ain’t out of the woods yet.”

  My brother shambled over and slumped next to me, the excitement that had been buoying him sinking out of sight.

  “You’re right … but at least we got a trail to follow.” He tapped the casket beneath us with the back of his left heel. “The gold. Wiltrout’s gotta hand it over sooner or later—he’d get his throat slit if he don’t. So we confront him with it. He ain’t as tough as he acts. Could be he’d sell out the gang to save his neck.”

  “Or maybe we wire S.P. H.Q.,” I suggested. “They could have someone keep an eye on the coffins after we get to Oakland. When the Give-’em-Hell Boys show up to collect—bang. We bag ’em.” I rubbed the tips of my fingers gently over my now not-quite-so-swollen nose. “We might even get another crack at Barson and Welsh themselves.”

  “I’d like that,” Old Red said with a slow, brooding nod. “I’d like that a lot.”

  While my brother and I blathered, Kip walked around us and squatted down next to the Chinaman’s coffin.

  “Claimin’ some of the gold for yourself?” I asked him. “Or is it that tea set you’re partial to?”

  “Actually, there’s something you two overlooked,” Kip replied. “Something that would explain everything.”

  The kid stretched a skinny arm across the casket lid—and yanked my brother’s .45 from its holster.

  “Sorry, fellers,” he said cheerfully, hopping back a few steps. “I can’t have you messin’ with that gold. I was hopin’ I wouldn’t have to do this, but … well …”

  He pointed the hogleg at Gustav and thumbed back the hammer.

  Thirty-two

  THE KID

  Or, Kip Has the Time of His Life—While Fixing to End Ours

  “That ain’t funny, kid,” I said, trying to sound like a stern father stepping in when some childish prank’s gone awry. “Put the gun down before you hurt somebody.”

  “I think hurtin’ somebody’s the general idea,” Gustav said. He pounded the coffin we were sitting on with both fists. “Shit! I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner!”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Old Red,” Kip told him, as genial as ever. “You’ve been sick as dog and you still got closer than anybody else. Hell, Burl Lockhart himself didn’t figure it out.”

  “Mr. Holmes would’ve,” my brother muttered.

  “Could be,” Kip conceded. “You know, I like them Sherlock Holmes yarns myself. That sure was one clever bastard. Woo! Imagine him goin’ up against the Give-’em-Hell gang!”

  The kid’s eyes took on the evil gleam boys get when they’re dropping two tomcats into a barrel just to see what’ll happen.

  “So that’s who we’re still up against?” Gustav asked.

  “Well, at the moment you’re just up against me,” Kip told him. “And I’d like you up against that door.”

  He waved the gun at the baggage car’s side door.

  Old Red didn’t move. So I didn’t move.

  Kip shook his head.

  “I’ve already killed two men the last day. Don’t make me take it to four.” The kid pursed his lips and cocked his head. “Though you know what? I might actually like that. I mean, what’s the most you think Jesse James killed in a day? Or Billy the Kid? Not four, I betcha. I’d probably top ’em both!”

  “Stop playin’ games,” Old Red said. “You ain’t about to shoot off a gun in here.”

  “And why not?” Kip asked. “We’re in the noisiest car on the train with two doors and a vestibule between us and the nearest passenger. What’s a little pop-pop mixed in with all the racket a train kicks up? And anyway—so what if someone does hear? You had me jam the door shut, remember? Ain’t nobody gettin’ in here till I want ’em to. So don’t make the mistake of thinkin’ I’m afraid of this.” His finger caressed the trigger with light, almost lewd strokes. “Cuz I ain’t.”

  I wasn’t sure if I believed the kid or not, but I knew one thing for sure: We didn’t stand a chance sitting on our asses with a couple coffins between us and him. At least standing we could try to rush him when the time came … assuming a time would come.

  I nudged my brother and got to my feet. After staring up at me sourly a moment, Gustav slowly pushed himself upright. The Colt in Kip’s hand followed us as we moved across the car.

  “Thank you, gents,” the kid said once we had our backs against the side door. He eased himself down where we’d been squatting—on top of Foreman’s casket. “Now, Otto, if you wouldn’t mind … open it.”

  “You know, I rather think I do mind.”

  “Well, then let me put it another way.” Kip shifted his wrist ever so slightly, giving the .45 a tilt up and to the right. “Open that door or I’ll decorate it with your brother’s big ol’ brain.”

  I turned and reached for the latch. “My God, kid,” I said as I jerked the bolt, “how’d you turn out so rotten?”

  “Oh, I ain’t rotten. I’m ‘daring.’”

  I slid the door open maybe three feet—enough to fill the room with a roar as loud as any tornado. What little light came in with the howling of wind was broken into yellow-white lines that flashed and blinked in spurts. Otherwise,
all outside was black.

  We’d been so busy playing bandit-and-lawmen, we hadn’t noticed the baggage car’s small windows going dark. The Pacific Express was passing through another snowshed.

  “Close it!” Kip hollered.

  I was happy to oblige. If the kid had forced us to jump out into the wooden tunnel, my brother and I would’ve bounced off the walls and ricocheted straight back into (and under) the train, and it would’ve been sheer guesswork which mangled pool of goo belonged in which grave.

  Kip had the same concern, I was guessing. Not about reducing Gustav and me to menudo—he’d enjoy that. But he wouldn’t want anyone in the Pullmans noticing the splash of blood on a window or the thumping of our bodies disintegrating beneath the train. Better to be rid of us when the Express was out in the open.

  And surely, making us jump wouldn’t be enough. “Men with broken legs tell no tales” is not how the old saying goes. Before we went through that door, Kip would see to it that we’d already passed through the pearly gates.

  All this streaked through my mind in the two seconds it took to slide the door shut. While that wasn’t nearly enough time to think up a plan, it did let me plant the seed of a chance: When I worked the bolt again, I merely fiddled it around in the latch. The door remained unlocked.

  I turned to find Kip gnawing on his thoughts every bit as furiously as I just had. His head was tilted to one side, his eyes narrowed—and his finger was stroking the trigger again.

  Why wait? I could see him thinking. Two little twitches of the finger, and I’ll top Jesse James himself.

  “So all along it was you who killed your buddy Pezullo,” my brother said.

  The kid’s lips curled into a little smile that slowly slid sidewise into a smirk.

  “He found the airholes and the bricks,” Gustav continued, “and before he went to fetch Wiltrout, he showed ’em to his little pal—who brained him with the first thing he could grab.”

  Kip gave Gustav’s Peacemaker a little roll in the air. “Go on. Tell me what else I did, Mr. ‘Holmes.’”