THE RAIN HAD ceased falling several hours earlier. Onslow squatted down on his haunches alongside the track and followed with his eyes the twin lines of iron as they disappeared back across the plain towards Matamoros. His boots sank slightly into the still soft surface of the ground. Here and there long, dark pools had formed in hollows. Above him the sky was flat, slate gray, unmoving.
Onslow reached out his right hand and touched the smooth edge of the track. Checked his watch. Less than an hour to go.
He had checked Madden’s information as thoroughly as he could, unable to rid his mind of some nagging doubt that clung there without reason, like a burr. But everything seemed correct, above board. Maybe it was merely something that troubled him without reason or justification—nothing more.
Maybe.
There were to be five coaches on the train: the first carried federales, including most of the officers; the second and third coaches were windowless freight wagons, locked and loaded with crates of arms and ammunition; the last two held the main force of the federales.
McCloud had ridden to the Government forces’ camp at dawn and had watched them prepare and move out towards Matamoros, where they were to board the train.
Once all that had been established, the gringos’ plan was simple.
The bridge across the river would be made ready for dynamiting. At the point where the railroad came closest to the hills on the east, it would be boarded and the first three coaches uncoupled from the last pair. Once the engine and attached coaches were over the bridge, it would be blown. If the fourth and fifth coaches had the misfortune to roll as far as the bridge, they would either be blown up along with it or else plummet down into the river. If they came to a standstill before the bridge was reached then the Mexican rebels under Pablo Gonzalez would ride down from the hills and deal with them.
It was left to the gringos and a smaller number of rebel fighters to stop the train and take the guns. When Gonzalez and his men had ridden along the river and crossed it by the next available bridge, the arms would be divided. Onslow had already obtained the necessary horses and wagons for the trip south to Zapata.
A simple enough plan in the telling, but one which depended upon precision and efficiency—above all on the individual skills of the Americans. That, and their ability to work as a team, each one backing up the other in moments of potential danger.
Onslow stood up, pushing back his shoulder blades and stretching his muscles. It was time to get back to the bridge.
Jamie’s fingers were cold: more than cold: numb. It was next to impossible to tie wire with numb fingers. There was no way in which you could trust to touch. Everything had to be seen; every loop, each turn and twist and knot watched with the eye. And in the slowly gathering darkness, seeing was difficult enough.
Jamie glanced upwards, through the planking of the bridge. The sky was beginning to break up at last. Cracks through the uniform grayness. Clouds pushing from the east, black over the hills.
Jamie cursed and wedged four sticks of dynamite up high against the top of the wooden support. Uncoiled the length of wire and let it hang from his right hand. Moved hand and wire upwards, keeping the dynamite in position.
He curled the wire round the sticks and pulled it back, using his teeth; his legs and feet alone keeping himself in position on the cross-strut of the bridge.
One more after this and everything was set.
Below him the river flowed strongly. Water broke against the banks, against tips of rock that thrust themselves upwards; white flurries of spray darted and were gone. The river was full—close to flood. Not there, where the sides were steep and high underneath the bridge, but back to the east where it ran almost level with the flatness of the land.
And two miles to the next crossing.
Jamie smiled, even yet feeling the puckering of the twisted and scarred skin under his leather mask.
If any of the federales did get clear, they were in for one hell of a ride before making contact with the rest of the train. By which time, the arms should be loaded onto the wagons and away.
‘Shit!’
His fingers let the length of wire slip from their grasp. Jamie watched it float downwards until it was no longer distinguishable from the water beneath it. Already, the dark was taking hold: minute by minute.
McCloud and Madden were down there somewhere; both, he guessed, counting the time until they would be in action. McCloud had offered to climb up under the bridge and help Jamie set the dynamite, but Jamie had refused.
‘You stay down there and keep watch. I don’t want some Mex bastard ridin’ in and takin’ pot shots at me when I’m stuck up there like a target at some goddam fair!’
He knew it wasn’t the truth—knew it just as McCloud did. It was simply a matter of personal pride and skill that he set his own charges. Especially when their placement, that and the length and timing of the fuses were as important as for this one. Both men accepted it without saying so, without needing to.
Jamie got the second piece of wire into position and watched as his fingers moved it slowly round and round, as if watching someone else’s hand.
Onslow could barely read the face of his watch. Gray was now black. Past the hills it was possible to see the rain falling in slanting lines over the sea.
The gringos exchanged glances, saying nothing: almost as one they looked at the main support on the south side of the river. The fuse ends neatly tied together, then running up, up; separating and lengthening out towards the four points where the dynamite had been placed.
When Onslow saw Jamie’s face he was ready to believe that the Kid was praying: if he hadn’t have known that such a thing was impossible.
‘How long?’ asked McCloud.
‘Fifteen minutes.’
‘Guess we ought to move?’ Half a question, half a statement ‘Right.’
McCloud nodded to Madden and the two of them turned and went to their horses.
‘And good luck,’ Onslow said after them, as they cantered away, heading towards the bridge. Within a few minutes they would be in place on the hill close to the track. A couple of hundred yards further back from their position Gonzalez and his men would be impatiently waiting their turn to move—their signal, the blowing of the bridge.
Despite himself, Onslow looked out over the sea once again, then at the clouds that seemed lower than ever above them, now almost squatting on them, as if trying to press them into the landscape.
He saw Jamie’s half-face pale.
‘What if it starts before the train arrives?’
The question hung in the heavy air for several moments.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Jamie eventually, turning away. ‘I don’t fuckin’ know!’
At three minutes short of the estimated time of arrival at the bridge, Onslow picked up the lights of the train through his field-glasses. It had set off fractionally late.
Exactly one minute later he felt the first drop of rain upon the back of his hand.
A single drop that sent a shiver coursing through his body.
He glanced over at Jamie, but it was evident that the Kid had noticed, too. Already he was watching the clouds and the fuses, fuses and clouds. Calculating. Calculating. Calculating.
Now they could hear the engine as well as see it.
‘What ...?’ Onslow realized the question was useless; the only answer he could get was the same as before.
‘Ready, Kid?’
Without acknowledgment, Jamie slipped down the side of the banking, heading for the fuses.
‘Jesus Christ! There surely ain’t no such thing as luck on our side.’
McCloud glowered at Madden, checking his Colt for maybe the third time.
‘You nervous or somethin’, Madden?’
‘Who, me? Why in hell’s name should I be nervous? Any more than anyone else?’
Madden half-turned his back on McCloud, looking north. Just when you thought the train was travelling so slowly it was never going to reach you, there it was. Steam pushing up into the rain that was now falling heavily, strongly.
The pair of them ducked down, waiting in a crouch, tensing their leg muscles ready for the leap they would be making at any moment.
They saw the face of the guard lit up by the reflection of flames from the engine; saw the lights in the first coach, shapes of men in uniform; then the walled freight wagons. Hardly any lights in the rear two coaches.
For a second a question formed in McCloud’s brain and then it was thrust aside by the need for action.
‘Jump!’ came from Madden’s mouth and McCloud swung out into the rain and dark and a second later his boots were jarring against the flat wagon roof and he was falling flat, hands clutching for support.
‘Let’s go!’
They went quickly on hands and knees, one after the other along the center of the roof, pausing once when the train jumped at an uneven link in the track.
The door to the fourth carriage was shut; the iron railing of the small rounded platform glistened in the rain. The two men bent low over the couplings, fingers and hands round the bolt, pulling, straining.
It seemed impossible: the pressure was too great for them to work against it. The train thundered nearer and nearer to the bridge.
Yet suddenly it was free.
McCloud and Madden exchanged a hasty glance and then Madden jumped from the platform of the uncoupled coach onto the back of the freight wagon. As he leaped, Madden’s right boot slipped on the wet surface of the platform. His body went sideways, a space opened up between the two parts of the train and he was falling into it. Then a hand seized his arm and he was hauled across that space and he felt solid iron beneath his feet.
‘Thanks,’ he mumbled, breathlessly.
McCloud nodded. ‘That’s okay.’
The two of them began to climb back onto the roof, needing to work their way slowly along so as to reach the engine by the time it had crossed the bridge. Behind them, the gap between the train and the two uncoupled coaches was widening with every yard.
Onslow and Jamie Durham sheltered underneath the bridge on the southern bank of the river. Their mounts were tethered to the wood of the supports against their fright at the noise of the approaching train.
Both men watched as the fuse ends lit, spluttered, finally caught and began to climb. Jamie had secured the fuses on the undersides of the struts, where they would get the maximum protection from the rain.
But it was no longer just rain.
A torrent.
A storm of cascading water that hurtled down from the clouds in never-ending, unbroken lines; the wind carrying it, slanting it into the faces of the two men as they watched the progress of four tiny flickers of light.
And through the center of the storm thundered the train.
The track on the bridge above them began to sing with its approach; the light of the engine cut through the darkness.
‘Look!’
Onslow hadn’t needed to speak—they had both seen not one, but two of the fuses cease to live, one near and the other far.
Again the exchange of looks.
Again the roar of the train.
Still the rain.
The second fuse that stretched towards the furthest end of the bridge was doused by the flurry of wet that surrounded it. Jamie opened his mouth to speak but the engine was on the end of the bridge and now the noise was truly deafening.
Everything became lost in it, as everything had formerly been lost within the confines of the storm.
Onslow and Jamie ducked their heads and bent their backs under the impact of the sound that passed over their heads. An automatic gesture that had neither sense nor meaning.
When they raised their heads again, the final hope had fizzled flat: the last fuse had gone out.
Onslow cursed and untied his horse. ‘Come on!’ he shouted through the wind and the fading sound of the train. ‘Let’s go!’
Jamie wiped a sleeve over his eyes, trying to focus on Onslow. ‘You go. I got things still to do.’
Onslow stared round. The two uncoupled coaches seemed to be coming to a halt on the far side of the bridge. Beyond them, away to the right, a movement through the lines of rain that had to be Gonzalez and his men. ‘Leave the bridge, maybe it won’t—’
Jamie shook his head, already unbuckling one of his saddlebags. ‘No! I said I’d blow it and I will.’
Cade Onslow swung up into the saddle. There was no time to argue and if Jamie could still manage it, somehow, it cut off the chances of immediate pursuit.
He rocked in the saddle and his mount moved on up the bank and onto the plain. Further along the track, the engine was beginning to slow.
‘Hit the brake!’
Fireman and guard spun round in amazement as Madden jumped down from the pile of logs onto the back of the engine platform. The fireman was about to argue and then he saw the gun in Madden’s hand.
‘Hit it!’
The driver did as he was told. The rain began to shake from side to side as the brake screamed and squealed with the wetness of the track.
Madden was thrown to one side and the fireman thought about using the long-handled shovel that was in his hands. But the moment of lost balance was instantaneous and before he could act it was gone.
Madden grinned strangely, the diagonal scar on his cheek seeming almost to shine. ‘You just saved your life, friend. Saved your fool life.’
Back of the tender, McCloud waited for the first man in the leading coach to realize what was happening and make a move. His Colt was pointed at the door, somewhat above midway. The rain washed over his face, and under its pressure McCloud’s eyes were no more than the tightest of slits.
Come on, you dumb bastards, he thought, come on, come on!
When the door swung open, he almost fired too soon. Checked in time. Saw the startled face as if through a moving veil. Fired.
The federale went back and then forward as the shell struck him higher in the chest than McCloud had intended and rocked him round the end platform like a trapped animal in a cage.
McCloud could see clearly enough the stain that started to spread over the front of the uniform, washed thin immediately by the rain.
When the brake bit down, the soldier was thrown forward across the rail at the end of the platform and McCloud saw that there was a similar, larger, stain at the back of the coat also.
Another federale at the door: another shot. Like target practice, even in those conditions. The man went back heavily into the interior of the carriage, letting the wind slam the door behind him. His arm was trapped, several inches of sleeve, a slim wrist, fingers that opened and closed, opened and closed, opened ...
The train was stationary.
McCloud suddenly realized what was wrong. What hadn’t happened. They had crossed the bridge and stopped and still the bridge hadn’t blown.
He moved to the side of the train and looked along it. One man riding as fast as he could towards them. One. Onslow he guessed. Then Jamie ...
Jamie crouched a dozen feet from the southern end of the bridge. On the other side he could see that the two coaches had stopped; could see the Mexicans almost upon them.
Space and blackness and then the wood of the bridge that should no longer be intact.
He turned his back to the wind and struck the match. Immediately it went out. The second and third he couldn’t get to light at all. Despite himself, he knew that his fingers were starting to shake with the cold and the tension. The fourth match lit and held. He cupped his hand around it, the stick of dynamite held tightly between his knees.
Without further thought he lit the fuse.
The short, stubby fuse.
Already counting inside his head, he lit the second. For a moment he saw the flame dip and fade and as he was sure he would have to leave the second stick, the flame flared up again.
Inside his brain the seconds counted down.
Seven. Six. Five.
Jamie turned fast, but not so fast that the movement would put out the fuses. He arched his right arm and threw the first stick of dynamite; heard the hissing and spluttering as it swished through the rain. Threw the second. Immediately ducked flat on the ground, both arms over his head, sheltering it.
Two. One.
He didn’t dare to look. To hope. To ...?
The ground beneath his body seemed to leap inches in the air and he was hurled upwards and sideways. Pieces of timber fell around him, one of diem striking his left leg on the back of the thigh.
But the bridge: the bridge was blown.
Not as fully, as completely as he would have liked, but still the end nearest to him was demolished. Ends of railroad track curled upwards into the dark air. Planking sloped downwards, on the verge of tumbling into the river below. The gap was too great for any man, for any horse to jump.
Jamie sprang to his feet and started to run through the lines of rain that cut into his face and bounced from the surface of his mask, heading for where he had hobbled his mount.
Onslow heard the bridge explode and spurred his horse on even faster. Ahead of him he saw a man squeeze through a window at the side of the train and drop to the ground. Onslow slowed down, his hand reaching for the Colt automatic in his holster.
Before he could draw his gun, the man had pitched forward into the sodden earth.
Madden had moved along the roof of the first carriage and made his way to the back of it. McCloud still waited at the front. As Onslow reached the train, both men went through their respective doors, firing at will.
Onslow, jumped down, ran, followed Madden into the carriage.
Three bodies were piled into the center of the gangway, each partly covering the other. Arms and legs were thrown out at odd angles. It was impossible to tell which limb belonged to which person. Nor whose blood it was that pumped from a severed artery, spraying them all like some ceremonial fountain. As Onslow watched, a leg jerked outwards, an arm jumped sideways. A mouth opened and groaned. The blood continued to pump.
The floor, the central strip of patterned carpet, the sides of seats—everything was spotted with it.
There was another moan, impossible to tell if it came from the same source.
Close against the door at the far end, a fourth federale was jammed back into the corner. One of the gringos had fired into his face from close range. The featureless mass of flesh lolled awkwardly on top of a torso that wore a uniform dyed in thick red streaks.
A fifth man was huddled up into one of the seats. Onslow turned him over with his left hand, keeping the Colt ready. The man fell sideways to the floor, rolling halfway onto his back and becoming wedged against the seat back. He had been shot through the chest. His eyes were open. Onslow bent down and closed them quickly with his thumb.
Five and one outside: six soldiers.
And the officers were supposed to be travelling in the front carriage. None of these was an officer. All were young, raw recruits.
The question flashed between the three men, unasked yet clearly there in their expressions.
Jamie Durham stepped through the open doorway and into the carriage, taking in the scene swiftly.
He said it. ‘What the hell? I thought we had a hell of a lot more than this. Officers, too.’
Madden coughed, shifted his feet. ‘That’s the way it was supposed to be. I guess they switched round at the last minute. Don’t worry, those Mexes’ll take ’em. Back across the bridge.’
Gonzalez and his men surrounded the two coaches and immediately poured gunfire into them. Windows smashed and glass fragmented and flew everywhere. Wood splintered. Curtains were torn aside. Upholstery ripped apart. The shooting rose to a crescendo and maintained it for several minutes, drowning out even the force of the storm.
The Mexicans rode up and down both sides of the coaches, firing pistols and rifles with only the thought of total destruction.
Finally Gonzalez shouted his order to cease fire and gradually made himself heard. Through the still-falling rain they could see sieved fabric of the two carriages. No one could have lived through such a fusillade.
No one.
One of the rebels jumped down from his horse and ran forward, then another, and another.
They jumped up onto the train and pushed their way inside into the midst of the destruction, guns ready for signs of any survivors.
There were no survivors.
There were no bodies.
Both coaches were empty of people. No Federal soldiers had travelled on that section of the train.
Pablo Gonzalez stalked through both carriages and out again into the dark and wet, mounting his horse and beginning to ride in the direction of the river. Stopping at the thought of the twin explosion that had heralded his own attack.
It was no use going on in that direction.
His face was a mask of anger. Underneath it he was thinking, trying to understand why the federales had not been on the train as they had been told.
It was impossible that they had all crowded into one carriage at the front. Unlikely that they would have left the load of arms with scarcely any guard at all.
Which meant that the rest of the Federal troops were somewhere. Out there, somewhere ...
Gonzalez stared out into the storm-filled plain, seeing no one.