FIVE MILES EAST of Bad Mountain a spur track curved away south, toward the collection of shacks called Hemite. Once a week an unglamorous train snuffled down these rails, took supplies in to the ranches, lumber outfits, the trading post. The traffic wasn’t enough to keep the iron roadway from rusting.
Where the spur left the main line two riders came out of the fog, swung down. One stood watch, gun in hand. The other used a crowbar on the switch lock. The metal stuck. He grunted, threw his whole weight on the switch bar, forced it over. Then they faded back into the dark brush, waited.
The Oriental Express was due at this point eight minutes later.
Engineer Sommers sulked, his jaws overworking the tobacco cud. He did not appreciate a stranger invading his cab, Wells Fargo or no. He didn’t like Blood preempting the fireman’s seat and window even though the man wasn’t using it, was feeding coal in from the tender. He cursed that the drivers spun, slipped on the wet rails, made their getaway a series of jerks that shuddered down every car. He watched the headlamp spear through the yard, pick every grimy detail. Almost every detail.
It did not spotlight the figure in the scrub brush beyond the yard. Lassiter crouched low, let the engine pass. He rose without hurry, swept his slicker back from his legs, vaulted up the embankment, caught the passing handrail at the back of the tender, anchored his foot on the step. His eyes traced down the train. There was no light. No bulking shadow of anyone leaning out from between cars. He climbed, swung over the open edge, squatted on top of the wet pile of coal. It was dark here, fog wrapping around everything, blotting everything.
The headlight fought to give even a narrow, blunt view of the way ahead. The red glow from the boiler box flamed every time the fireman opened the door to stoke the hungry monster, silhouetted the engineer, hand on the bar, head out to the rain trying to pierce the eddying mist. It picked out the third figure on the fireman’s seat, head and shoulders thrust through the window.
Lassiter could not identify that figure. The shoulders were bulky under a black slicker. Then the head came inside, a hand holding a wide brimmed hat sagging with moisture. The face turned toward the engineer. Sidney Blood.
Unexpected luck. Lassiter’s eyes glowed. He was out of the light. Even if they looked, his head would appear only a lump of coal.
It was a rough ride. The engineer was pouring it on, making up time to offset the delay at Bad Mountain, the wait for the Westbound in the Painter Siding hole. They made the five miles to Hemite Junction in seven minutes.
They hit the altered switch at sixty-five. Lassiter had a tight hold on the tender box, was braced. The engine tilted, swayed, almost went over. Wheels screamed. Took the turn. The switch did not split. Sommers yelled, hit the brakes. The engine righted. Sidney Blood slammed to the steel floor. The fireman fell on top of him. They fought the tangle, fought to their knees. Blood did not understand.
“What the hell …?”
Sommers’ long experience paid off. He was too old a hand to try too fast a stop.
“Some damn fool left the Hemite switch open. We’re …”
Blood didn’t hear the rest. His curses drowned it. He did hear the voice behind them, telling Sommers,
“Just keep going south, engine man.”
Before he spun, Blood knew that voice. It made his own a shocked shout.
“Lassiter.”
“Evening, Sidney.”
The engineer was twisting. The fireman reached for his shovel. Lassiter showed his guns, leaning down from the tender. They turned back to their business.
Blood’s shock faded. Pleasure replaced it. Lassiter thought the gold was aboard the Express, had stolen the train. It was a neat job. Blood never discounted Lassiter. But this time. This time Blood would win. Lassiter would run his prize to some selected point on the branch line. Cassidy would be waiting there with a crew. Blood wanted to laugh. They were in for a surprise. He wanted to see Lassiter’s face when eighty men cut down on him. Wanted to laugh in that face before the man died. And as a dividend, it was going to mean the end of the Wild Bunch.
Blood could taste the victory. Hear James Hume’s congratulating speech. Hume and the Superintendent, Valentine, would have him in the big office at San Francisco. Even Lloyd Tevis, president of the company, would be there. They would present him with an engraved gold watch. They would make over him. But good as that was, he would have his own reward. Lassiter.
He played the game. Made no move. He wanted nothing to set off fireworks until they were all before him. He said to Sommers,
“Do whatever he tells you, engineer. He’ll kill you as quick as he breathes.”
Sommers threw him a sour look. He hadn’t liked Blood being in the cab. He liked him less now. A coward. Sommers was proud. That his engine was taken over hurt that pride. Blood and the man with the guns, he would like to tackle both of them. But he had a wife, two kids. He would die in the tackling. It would be useless.
He eased the bar backward. The locomotive picked up speed. “Gimme some steam.”
The fireman started to rise. Lassiter said, “Stay where you are.”
The man stayed.
“Face forward, Sidney. Ease out that gun under your arm. Toss it overboard.”
Blood tossed it overboard. He ached to spin, to shoot, to try to take the man even if it got him killed. But there was more to gain. He choked, forcing control.
The train slid on, losing power, rounded a descending mountain curve. Blood, watching ahead, saw the lantern waving on the hillside, out of the reach of the headlamp.
From the tender Lassiter said. “This will be far enough. Pull her up.”
The engineer pushed the bar. The train slowed. Sidney Blood strained his eyes, looking for outlaws in the brush. It was hard to wait. But he would give no signal until he was certain they were around the train. The brakes bit on the metal wheels.
The long keening sound covered Lassiter’s noise. He slid from the coal, dropped into the cab. Blood did not know it when the gun barrel raked his skull. He fell, lay limp. The fireman saw, began a yell. It cut off as the gun creased him, knocked him again on top of Blood. Lassiter turned on the engineer.
“Cut it off.”
Sommers jammed the bar in with impotent fury, spat his cud at Lassiter’s feet.
Lassiter ignored it, caught the handrail, said a soft, “Adios,” dropped away into the night, lit running, heading toward the lantern.
Back in Clyde Turk’s coach the agent had survived the wild pitching as the car left the main tracks, gathered himself together, barked orders for his troop to stand ready. He waited, keyed up to bursting, ran out to the car platform, strained to hear Sidney Blood’s signal. His mind froze on Blood’s command; he was not to tip their hand before the attack came.
In the first sleeper the conductor waited. He did not know what for. He knew they were sidetracked. He knew something was terribly wrong. When the train slowed enough he swung down the steps, dropped to the ground. A dark shadow flashed past the headlamp glow, a man, jumping from the engine, sprinting out of sight in the dense fog.
Turk saw the lantern, the running figure at the same moment. He waited no longer for Blood. He fired. The shot was a signal. Inside the coach the men let loose a broadside.
Lassiter was still running, bent low. Bullets spattered around him. But they were low. The lantern was doused. The fog played tricks with direction. None of the lead found a mark.
Lassiter made out the shadowed bulk of the horses, came in a rush, made a running mount.
“Let’s go.”
He swung the horse, cut cross country, back toward the main line, toward Painter Canyon. He knew exactly how far it was.
Off around the bend an explosion rocked the air. Heavy. Then silence again, fog, rain seeming to increase.
“What was that?” The rider at his side sounded jumpy.
Lassiter did not answer. Each man knew only his own narrow assignment. Only Cassidy and Lassiter himself knew the full plan. It was a safety measure they could both agree on.
Back at the train they were working over Sidney Blood, the conductor trying to quiet the frightened passengers. The shooting had stopped. All was quiet except the hiss of rain, wind, steam that still escaped the cylinders.
Blood heard that as he came to. He lay on the wet ground beside the locomotive. He saw Turk bent over him, tried to sit up. His head reeled. It hurt when he shouted.
“Where is he?”
“Where’s who?”
“Lassiter, dammit. He was on the tender.”
Turk’s stomach fell an inch inside. “I had a glimpse of him. He ran out in the brush.”
“You didn’t get him? You let him get away?” Blood thought his head would explode.
“There was a lantern. We shot up everything between it and the train, enough to wipe out the Sioux nation. But then we heard horses. He must have made it through.”
Blood fought to his feet, damning his aching head. “Engineer. Get this thing the hell moving. Back it to the main line.” He scrambled again to the cab.
Minutes were lost. Passengers milling on the ground had to be rounded up, got aboard. The gunmen from the coaches were scattered, searching the brush. It took them time to get back. The fireman threw coal, trying to build up the lost pressure. The drivers moved sluggishly; the wheels took hold. The cars clanked, backing into each other. Slow, agonizing.
Blood watched from the window, rigid, willing speed with all his being. They had to get back to the junction before the cattle train passed it, the precious, gold bearing cattle train.
He had been suckered. He knew it now. It galled him that he had been so amused at Lassiter stealing the Express. Hell, the man hadn’t wanted the Express, only to get it and the army on it out of the play.
“Faster.” It came out a croak. “Move this thing, can’t you?”
The engineer grunted, threw him a baleful glare.
In that minute the rear sleeper went off the track. The grinding crash echoed like laughter in the cab.
Blood hit the steel deck again, bounced up, flung himself to the ground. He ran, limping. Turk was outside. The conductor was out. The brakeman had a lantern. They hurried. Gabbling passengers followed.
There had not been too much speed yet. The back wheels were twisted, off the rails. But the car had not tipped over. It hung at a foolish angle. Porters were there, pulling dazed passengers out. None was seriously hurt. But they were loud with blame for the crack railroad train they had trusted.
Those who saw it were suddenly silent. The deep hole, fifty feet across. Where the tracks had been. The right-of-way had been effectively blown.