On the Wrong Track

by Steve Hockensmith

  “Probably easiest to push it over to the tracks,” I said. “We don’t want to lift it till we have to.”

  I hunkered down, ready to start shoving, and waited for Old Red to join me.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Finally, I looked back at my brother. He was standing where I’d left him, staring, stiff and still. In my excitement, I’d forgotten what rail travel did to him.

  He looked like he wanted to forget, too … only he couldn’t.

  “Gustav—”

  “No.” Old Red closed his eyes tight, as though there was something behind them he was trying to keep from clawing out. “No.”

  Then his eyes popped open and he stomped over to join me.

  It hadn’t been me he’d been speaking to at all—it was the fear he was carrying around inside him. He was telling it to go to hell.

  It took us less than two minutes to get the handcar over to the tracks—and five times as long and ten times the effort to place it upon the rails. But at last there it sat, and though we’d thoroughly herniated ourselves, we didn’t waste any time on rest. We just climbed aboard—me in front, Old Red in the rear—and grabbed hold of the pump handles that powered the car.

  I looked across the seesaw arms at my brother, and he locked eyes on me. He was bruised, scratched, perspiring, pale, and trembling so hard I could practically hear his bones shaking like maracas.

  “You ready to do this?” I asked him.

  “Hell, no,” he growled back.

  And he pushed down on the pump.

  The section of track that arced by the linemen’s shack was on a fairly level stretch of ground, so it took a lot of pumping to get us going. The rust-choked wheels squealed like pigs at first, but the squeaking died down as we picked up speed. It became easier to push down the pump, too, and once the car was back on a decent incline it was no effort at all.

  When we were moving downhill fast enough to let gravity do all the work, I belted out a huzzah.

  “The Amlingmeyer Express is under way! Yeeehaa!”

  My brother didn’t join in, of course.

  “Just hang on, Gustav! I bet it won’t be thirty minutes before we hit a station!”

  I was trying to sound comforting, but it’s hard to comfort with a bellow. I had to shout to be heard above the rattling of the car and the metal-on-metal drone of the wheels and the wind whipping past our ears.

  “Us movin’ along so easy’s got me wonderin’!” Old Red yelled back, his knuckles white on the handles of his pump arm. “What’s wrong with this thing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Linemen wouldn’t throw it out for no good reason! There’s gotta be something on it that don’t work right!”

  A huge pillar of rock loomed up before us. The track coiled around it so tight the whole handcar tilted, the wheels on one side lifting off the rails for several nerve-fraying seconds. There was nothing to keep us atop the car’s spare wooden platform but our grips on the pump and the grace of God, and I didn’t have much faith in either. So I stretched out a foot toward the brake—a T-shaped metal pedal on the right-hand side of the car—and pushed down.

  Nothing happened.

  I tried again, with the same result. The pedal went up and down in its slot, yet if anything we were moving faster. Which answered my brother’s question about the handcar, albeit a little late: The brake was broke.

  I looked up at Gustav, about to suggest that we hurl ourselves from the car before it hurled itself over a cliff. Yet Old Red wasn’t looking at me or the brake. He was staring past me, gaping openmouthed at something I knew I didn’t want to see, whatever it might be. All the same, I forced myself to swivel around and peek over my shoulder. By the time I got turned, there was nothing there but a yawning black mouth that quickly swallowed us whole.

  We’d entered yet another snowshed. Heavy timber planks streaked past on both sides, so close it would take but a hop, skip, and a jump (or, in our case, a bump, bounce, and a splat) to reach them.

  Seconds before, it had merely been a possibility that a leap from the handcar would snap our spines. Now it was a certainty. We had no choice but to ride through to the end.

  Looking my brother square in the eye, I offered my assessment of the situation: “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

  To which he replied, “Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

  And then even the car itself seemed to be shrieking, its whirring hum jumping up an octave. The tracks had arced into a sudden, tilting curve, and glancing down I saw in a serendipitous burst of light from a loose side board that one set of wheels had again lifted off the rails—and was staying lifted.

  “Lean left! Lean left!” I screeched.

  Fortunately, Old Red had noticed, too, and he leaned to his right while I leaned to my left. (I’d lacked the presence of mind to switch the directions for his benefit.)

  The car settled back down with a clank, and when the track straightened itself a few seconds later, Gustav and I straightened up, as well. The ground around us grew flatter, and we finally coasted onto a more-or-less level stretch of rail.

  I sucked in a breath—my first in quite some time, it seemed like—while my brother went up on his toes, trying to peer over me at whatever lay ahead.

  “We’re slowin’ already,” I said, relieved. “Won’t be long before we can just step off and—”

  “Lean right!” Gustav hollered.”

  “My right?” I asked uselessly.”

  Old Red was already leaning to his left, so I had my answer. I put all my weight to my right just as the handcar jerked into a turn so sharp it felt more like we were going in a circle than rounding a bend. Once again, I heard the drone of the car kick higher, and the platform tilted like a drawbridge going up.

  “Lean! Lean! Lean!” my brother screamed.

  I just screamed.

  But the tipping point never came, and when the tracks uncurled, the car righted itself. The wheels slammed back into place with such force Gustav and I were almost bucked off the car, and both of us ended up on our knees inches from the side.

  As we hunched there, panting, a glow was quickly growing all around us: the literal light at the end of the tunnel. Only when I turned to face it, I saw something else there, too—a dark, hazy hole in its center, large and growing larger.

  By the time I realized it was a train, it was almost too late to jump.

  Thirty-five

  COMINGS AND GOINGS

  Or, We Run into Some Friends … at Forty Miles an Hour

  You might think the word fortunately has little place in any retelling of a collision with a train. In fact, it’s hard to believe a collision with a train could be retold at all, except perhaps by the horrified onlookers.

  Fortunately, the train in question wasn’t moving at the time, which was what gave me and my brother the extra second we needed to hurl ourselves from the handcar before it smashed into the back of the Pacific Express.

  Unfortunately, though I bounced my way to a stop with only new bruises atop old to show for it, Gustav let out a sharp cry that told me he hadn’t been so lucky.

  As soon as I stopped rolling, I hopped up and started running, fearful that I’d reach my brother’s side only to find a broken rib or a railroad spike poking from it. So I was almost relieved when he sat up, face twisted with pain, and clutched his right ankle.

  “Broken?” I asked, kneeling next to him.

  “I don’t think so.”

  He put his foot down and tried some test pressure on it—and collapsed on his back again, his foot in the air and a curse on his lips.

  “What in God’s name … ?” a deep voice rumbled behind us.

  I turned to see Wiltrout standing about twenty feet away, gaping at the back of the Express. Our handcar was wedged under the observation platform, its pump arms smashed.

  “How the hell did you end up behind us?” the conductor asked, more bewildered than angry—for the moment.

  “Ain’t no time to e
xplain,” Old Red said, forcing himself back into a sitting position while straining to keep his injured foot up off the ground. “Have you seen Kip the last few minutes?”

  “Or Miss Caveo?” I added.

  “No time to explain this?” Wiltrout shook a finger at our handiwork, his voice growing louder as rage shouldered surprise from the forefront of his mind. “No time to explain destruction of Southern Pacific property and the endangerment of—?”

  I jumped up and stalked toward him. “Listen, you big dumb son of a—!”

  “Otto,” Gustav said sharply. “There ain’t time for that, neither.”

  I stopped. He was right, of course. Damn him.

  “Look … you,” I growled at Wiltrout. “At this very moment, a female agent of the Southern Pacific Railroad Police is in mortal danger—from your news butch, who has already killed two men on your train. If the slightest lick of harm befalls her, Captain, you can rest assured I’ll tell Jefferson Powless and Colonel Crowe and the San Francisco Examiner and anyone else I can get to listen that you didn’t do a damn thing to stop it. Now … have you seen Kip or Miss Caveo?”

  Wiltrout glowered at me as I speechified, his jaw clenched so tight I could almost hear his teeth cracking like walnuts. But when I was done, he let up the pressure and opened up his mouth.

  “No. I haven’t seen them.”

  “I have,” Samuel said from the back of the observation car.

  Gawkers had crowded out onto the deck—Horner and Mrs. Kier among them—and the porter had to squirm his way through the throng to reach the mangled railing.

  “Maybe five minutes ago,” he said. “Kip was talkin’ to the lady, all serious and whispery. Then the two of ’em headed up to the baggage car. I thought it was peculiar, but—”

  Samuel gave me a gloomy How could I have known? shrug.

  “Alright,” Old Red said, “I ain’t got time to pussyfoot around it: Samuel, you gotta find us some guns—quick.”

  The passengers packed around the porter gasped and murmured, while it seemed to require every bit of willpower Wiltrout could muster not to explode like a bottle of nitro whacked with a hammer.

  “Ask around,” Gustav went on, giving no heed to the fuss he was stirring up. “I bet somebody’s got an iron we don’t know about.”

  Samuel nodded grimly and turned to go, but a plump hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  “Is Miss Caveo really in danger?” Mrs. Kier asked Old Red.

  “We think so, ma’am.”

  “From Kip? The news butcher?”

  “Mrs. Kier, just look at me and my brother,” I said. I brought up my hands and stood there a moment, showing off my newest contusions and ripped, mud-splattered clothes. “This is what Kip did to a couple of full-grown men within the last hour. And what he’s done in the last twenty-four is a whole lot worse. Yeah, he’s just a kid. But trust us. He’s a bad one.”

  “Well, then.” The lady—and I still thought of her as such, even though I now knew her to be a sharper—reached into her handbag and drew out a shiny derringer, which she offered to Samuel. “Miss Caveo may be a spotter … but I like her.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I had no hat to tip, so I offered her a little bow. She gave me a little curtsy in reply.

  “Bring any other guns you can round up to the baggage car’s side door,” Gustav said to Samuel. “We’ll meet you there.”

  “Oh, and while you’re it,” I jumped in. “Fetch Mr. Lockhart—and tell him to bring Aunt Pauline.”

  I turned back toward Old Red, expecting some snip from him for inviting Lockhart to the party. But he’d apparently decided there was no time for that, either. All he said was “Help me up.”

  He couldn’t so much as set toe to earth without swooning, so he tried hopping to the baggage car, one arm slung over my shoulder. It made for slow going—what with my extra height and his boogered-up foot, we were hobbling like a three-legged mule.

  “What’s more important?” I asked after we’d taken a few staggering steps toward the train. “Miss Caveo’s safety or your dignity?”

  “The lady, of course. What kinda question is that?”

  I answered by swinging my left arm down behind his knees and scooping him up off the ground.

  “Oh, Lord,” Gustav moaned. He didn’t tell me to put him down, though.

  I started toward the baggage car again, my pace much improved despite the big, mustachioed baby cradled in my arms. (He wasn’t much of a load to bear, really—Gustav’s got about as much fat on him as a licorice whip.) As we passed the observation platform, I noticed Chester Q. Horner eyeing us anxiously.

  “Hey, Horner—you gonna help us?” I asked, thinking it’d be nice to have him around to step behind should bullets start flying.

  “Well, I … I … I think I should leave it to the professionals,” he said, his smooth talk coming out lumpy for once.

  “Good thinkin’,” I called back as we hustled away. “Let me know when they get here.”

  Wiltrout drew up beside us, striding fast with firm, manly purpose—all the better to impress the passengers watching us through the windows.

  “Why’d the train stop?” Old Red asked him.

  “I have no idea.” The conductor didn’t look over at us as he answered—I think conversing with a man wrapped in another man’s arms made him a touch uncomfortable, for some reason. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to the engineer. I assume someone pulled the damn bell cord again.”

  When we got to the baggage car, I settled Gustav on the ground, leaving him balanced precariously on one foot like some long-legged bird. A moment later, Samuel dropped from the nearest Pullman carrying three guns: Mrs. Kier’s derringer, a snub-nosed Colt pocket .41, and a dinky, ring-triggered .22 so squat and rusty brown it could’ve passed for a dog dropping. I took the Colt, brought the derringer to my brother, and offered the .22 to Wiltrout—who refused it with a shake of his head. There was no audience for him now, and he was keeping a discreet distance from the side door.

  “Mind if I hold on to that gun?” Samuel asked.

  “Mind? I’d appreciate it.”

  I gave the .22 back to him.

  “Joe Pezullo—he was alright,” the porter grumbled. “But I never did like that damned kid.”

  “Where’s Lockhart?” Old Red asked him.

  “He had to … ready himself.”

  “Sober up, you mean,” Lockhart said, stepping stiffly from the passenger car. Aunt Pauline was holstered at his right hip. “No time for java, though, so you’ll just have to take me as I am. Now—what’s the trouble?”

  I filled him in quick as I could, noticing as he moved from the train’s shadow into sunlight that his face was glistening wet. Either he’d just splashed himself with water or he was sweating up a river.

  “Quite a tale … almost good enough for a dime novel,” he said when I was finished. “So you wanna try the side door first, huh? Good. Best to keep things out of doors—we got women and children about. Still, somebody’s gotta cover the door in from the vestibule.” He clapped Samuel on the shoulder. “Keep an eye on it, would you? You, too, pork chop.” He glanced at Wiltrout just long enough to jerk his head at the steps into the Pullman.

  Samuel paused a moment before leaving, looking like he didn’t want to miss whatever was to come next.

  Wiltrout scurried away with no hesitation whatsoever.

  “I do so hate it when bystanders go and get themselves shot—even the ones who deserve it,” Lockhart said, staring at the conductor’s back. He drew Aunt Pauline and cocked her hammer. “Alright, boys … shall we?”

  I helped Old Red hobble closer to the baggage car as Lockhart gave the side door a rap with his gnarled knuckles.

  “We need to talk, son,” the Pinkerton said, pressing back flat against the train and pointing Aunt Pauline up at the door. It was obvious just what kind of “talking” he was fixing to do. “Kip? You in there?”

  No one answered.

  “We go
tta try the door,” Gustav said, sounding unhappy about the idea—and I wasn’t exactly in love with it, either. If the door was unlocked, whoever poked his head through first might very well get it shot off.

  Nevertheless, I was about to step up and volunteer when Lockhart holstered Aunt Pauline and flattened his palms against the door.

  “I’m comin’ in, Kip,” he said. “Don’t lose your head, now. I just wanna chat.”

  He pushed, and the side door slid open, leaving him totally exposed—a thin, wizened target, but an easy target all the same. Yet no on tried to hit it.

  Lockhart started hauling himself inside, but he could barely get a foot up into the car. After he’d dangled there a few awkward seconds, I crammed my Colt under my belt and climbed in myself, doing some extra grunting and puffing so as not to bruise the old Pinkerton’s pride any further.

  “Let me scout it out, chief,” I whispered once I was crouched inside.

  “Well … alright,” Lockhart replied as if he just might argue me on it. He dropped back down to the ground. “But be careful.”

  “Yeah,” Gustav added, bringing up Mrs. Kier’s derringer and pointing it at the shadows ahead of me. “Very careful.”

  I nodded and pulled out my borrowed Colt.

  “Hey, Kip … it’s Otto,” I said as I crept farther into the car. “I ain’t mad about what happened—Gustav and me made out alright. So why don’t you just let Miss Caveo go, and we’ll settle this thing peaceful-like. What do you say?”

  He said nothing—because he wasn’t there.

  “Empty,” I announced once I’d checked the whole car. I opened the door to the vestibule—slowly, so as not to startle anyone on the other side with their finger on a trigger—and waved Samuel and Wiltrout through.

  “Check the gold,” Old Red said.

  I walked over and pushed back the lids on the Give-’em-Hell Boys’ coffin-shaped piggy banks.

  “Looks like it’s all here.”

  Wiltrout gaped at the caskets’ contents, clearly stupefied to finally see proof my brother and I weren’t raving lunatics.