CHAPTER 23
The train stopped outside of Chidester Station just as the last hint of sunlight disappeared from the western sky.
The conductors passed the word among the nervous passengers that all was fine and the delay was due to a slight problem with the boiler engine. They would be underway shortly. The passengers were justifiably nervous about any unscheduled stop as the Great Northwestern Railway had been the target of horrific robberies and holdups the previous year. The conductors told them they had nothing to worry about because the man who stopped those robberies was on board. Aaron Mackey, United States Marshal. The Savior of Dover Station. This news eased the nerves of some of the more nervous passengers.
Everyone felt even better when the whistle blew and the train was moving once again.
According to the pocket watch of the assistant conductor, the delay lasted less than five minutes.
The consequences would last much longer.
* * *
It was Lagrange’s turn to sit in the chair by the door and guard Van Dorn’s railcar. After lighting all of the lamps in the car, he sat on a sofa and settled in to begin reading the latest edition of The Dover Station Record.
He was impressed by how the paper had grown from a tawdry, local broadsheet rag into a respectable newspaper filled with advertisements from businesses throughout the territory. The editorial section had changed, too, from little more than a gossip column to a proper page giving voice to the concerns of people who would soon play a role in the territory’s bid to become a state.
Lagrange thought the paper had certainly benefited from the new ownership of the Dover Station Company.
Lagrange had finished reading the paper by the time the train had completed its scheduled stop at Chidester Station, loaded new passengers and freight before resuming its long trek down to Laramie, then on to Chicago and finally New York.
He checked the clock on the wall and saw it was time to begin getting ready.
He set the paper on Van Dorn’s desk and began lowering the iron shutters on the windows. He walked over to the large cabinet at the end of the car and hummed a vaguely familiar tune he couldn’t quite place as he found the key to unlock it.
The cabinet had been installed by the railroad to serve as a discreet bar for the railcar’s guest. However, since Mr. Van Dorn did not drink, Mackey, Billy, and Lagrange had decided to put it to better use.
As an armory for five Winchester ’86s and one Greener shotgun with the rest of the space stocked up with boxes of ammunition for each. He knew the rifles and the shotgun were already loaded, for he had loaded them himself earlier that day. He figured he’d only need one of the Winchesters and the shotgun to handle the coming attack.
An attack that was bound to happen soon, as it would allow the Hancock clan to operate under the cover of darkness.
Lagrange had left strict instructions with the other Pinkerton men on the train to forget about the private car. Their concern was to protect the rest of the passengers at all cost. The attackers only cared about Mr. Van Dorn and his car. The Pinkertons were asked to make sure the fight didn’t spill into the rest of the train. Lagrange was afraid that if he did too good a job in repelling the Hancock clan, the battle might spread to the rest of the train, resulting in a bloodbath where innocents were sure to get killed. He had no doubt his men would ultimately prevail, but the loss of life among customers would devastate the railroad. He was paid to protect the railroad, not to hurt their business.
Lagrange had just taken down the double-barreled shotgun when he heard the rattle of someone fiddling with the chain blocking the platform to the private railcar. The sound was unmistakable, even over the low rumble of the train wheels along the tracks.
He thumbed back one of the hammers on the Greener, aimed it at the back door and waited. He heard a clanging sound of metal on metal and knew someone must have been working on the link-and-pin coupling that attached the railcar to the rest of the train.
Their plan became obvious to him then. They probably wanted to let the railcar pull loose, then drift back down the track on its own before it hit the Weaver Tunnel southeast of Chidester. The grade began to incline there and, without an engine to keep pulling it along or a break to stop it, the railcar would slowly roll back to even ground, where it and its passenger would be easy pickings for the Hancock clan.
Lagrange and Mackey had expected that. They had even counted on it.
The detective heard the unmistakable sound of the pin being removed and the clanking of the coupling mechanism opening. He knew that the railcar would follow the rest of the train until the incline and gravity forced them apart.
He gave the kidnappers credit. It was a good plan.
But it wouldn’t be good enough.
Lagrange doubted any shooting would start until the car was separated. Whoever they had sent to uncouple the car must have realized the railcar door was too thick to be shot through, which gave Lagrange some time. He spent it extinguishing the lamps in the car. He’d likely have enough trouble on his hands without worrying about a fire breaking out. Before extinguishing the last flame, he made sure the sliding door to Van Dorn’s room was locked. He knew the lock could only stand a couple of rounds, but it would be enough to slow them down for a bit.
That was the point of all of this.
Most passengers could not feel the gradual rise of the train as it began the climb toward Weaver Tunnel, but Lagrange was not most passengers. He had been a railroad detective long enough to notice such things, and it helped him get in position well in advance. He made sure the doors at both ends of the car were locked and bolted to make it just that much harder for the raiders to breach the car. He knew they would eventually, and when they did, Lagrange’s work would begin.
Lagrange heard the coupling clank, then the motion of the lock giving way as the railcar slipped back from the rest of the consist. His fellow Pinkertons onboard the train would have felt it, too, but Lagrange had ordered them not to investigate under any circumstances. The main play likely wouldn’t happen until the railcar was alone, miles away from the rest of the train.
Until then, Lagrange pulled his chair behind the corner of the railcar entrance and set the Winchester on the floor against the wall. He kept the Greener in hand and blew out the lamp.
He shifted his weight to account for the gradual movement of the railcar as it rolled downhill. He knew it was only a matter of time before they came to rest.
* * *
Al Brenner leaned against the platform railing as he pulled up his kerchief to mask his face. He wanted his identity hidden in case someone opened the door to see why the car was moving backward. If he was lucky, Van Dorn was the only one inside. If not, then whoever opened that door was in for one hell of a surprise.
He pulled his Colt and waited for someone to come out so he could keep the door open for when Carl and the others rode there. Carl and the others were still plenty hot over Mackey leaving them afoot the way he did, and Al wanted to look like a hero in his cousins’ eyes. He hoped the marshal was inside. The man had thrown him a beating at the Ruby a few days ago, and he wanted to hurt the lawman more than Carl did.
Al’s cousins always saw the Brenners as nothing more than dirt farmers who were dumber than the pigs they raised. Grabbing Van Dorn and killing Mackey before they got there would show them he was more than just a big, dumb hick.
But after waiting on the car platform for several minutes, he realized no one was coming outside. His hopes of revenge changed to the hope that meant that anyone inside the railcar was already asleep. The rest of the train had pulled well out of sight already. He figured it would take whoever was on board about an hour or more to stop the train, unload their horses, and come riding back for Van Dorn. That should give Carl plenty of time to get there and pry Van Dorn out of his car.
The railcar rolled to a stop, and Al knew it was time to signal the others.
Al holstered his Colt and searched his pockets for the matches Carl had given him before he’d ridden away from camp to board the train at Chidester. Brenner remembered he wasn’t supposed to call his cousin Winslow anymore on account of him changing his name back to Hancock after his run-in with Mackey outside of town, but some habits were tougher to break than others.
Brenner would have changed his name to Hancock, too, but given how his daddy was still alive and had no love for his in-laws, Al did not want to feel his father’s wrath.
Al found the matches in his pocket, struck one, and managed to light the lantern that hung beside the railcar door without burning his fingers.
He took the lantern off the hook and held it high, swinging it back and forth so Carl, Flint, and the others might spot it in the darkness and ride to his position. He didn’t like being on this creaking old bucket alone. The railcar felt like a house on wheels, and he didn’t trust something that made this much noise and wasn’t living.
He felt better again when he heard the jangle of spurs and the sound of men riding along the Montana prairie, not along the track bed. His cousins had seen his signal and were on their way.
Brenner hung the lamp back on the hook and grabbed hold of the doorknob. He slowly tried to turn it, but found it was locked. No surprise there. Maybe the other door would be open. It had been at the very end of the train, after all, and they probably hadn’t expected anyone to try to board a moving train from the rear.
With the lantern leading the way, he climbed down from the platform and walked beside the tracks to the back of the railcar. He stopped several times and listened, hoping he could hear something from inside, but all he heard was the sound of his cousins approaching carried on the night wind.
Brenner gingerly climbed up on the rear platform as quietly as a man his size possibly could. He knew Carl had told him to get clear of the car once he’d lit the lantern, but the notion of earning his cousin’s respect outweighed any orders he may have been given.
He tried the knob of the rear door, hoping it would turn, but it didn’t budge. Not an inch. Frustrated, he wanted to try to kick it in or, if that failed, shoot the damned thing, force his way inside, and drag the old man out of bed before Carl got there.
But there was no telling who might be waiting for him on the other side of the door, and Carl finding him dead would be an indignity he would have to carry with him through eternity.
Al waited at the side of the car until Carl and Flint showed up with the seven other Hancock men who rode with them. He was glad they had thought to trail another horse with them. It was a long walk back to Chidester from here.
“What’s going on, dummy?” Carl whispered from the saddle.
“Don’t call me dummy,” Al said. “I was smart enough to unhook the railcar like you told me to, wasn’t I?”
Carl didn’t apologize. He looked at the railcar. “Anybody come out of there yet?”
“Nope,” Al told them. “Not a sound or sign of anyone being in there. Hell, I’d have thought the thing was empty if we weren’t told different. I think the old man is still asleep.”
The men all laughed, Carl the loudest. “You hear that, Flint? The pig farmer here thinks they’re all still asleep in there.”
“Let him alone,” Flint said. “He’s not used to this kind of work like we are.”
Carl drew his pistol, signaling the rest of them to do the same, including Al Brenner. “Then he’d best get used to it right quick, ’cause it’s about to get awful loud in a second.”
Carl fired first and the others joined in, sending a withering barrage of pistol fire into the windows of the railcar at near point-blank range. All of the men, except for Al, were carrying two pistols, so when one ran dry, they switched to the second gun. By the end, all nine men had pumped twelve rounds apiece into the car. The ground around the track was shattered with glass from the windows. The carriage was pockmarked with holes.
But even accounting for this being his first raid, he knew something was wrong.
Things were quiet again when the men stopped shooting, and there was still no sound from the railcar. He forgot all about reloading his pistol like the others were doing, but instead raised his lantern toward the window. He expected to be able to see into the car but instead saw only a large plate of iron in each of the windows.
He was about to point this out to Carl, but he never had the chance.
The rear door of the railcar opened and the outline of a man appeared on the rear platform.
Al couldn’t see him clearly, but heard him say, “Looks like you gents are empty.”
A shotgun blast tore through the night sky, pouring buckshot into the line of riders behind him.
Horses and men screamed.
Instinct and fear made Al throw the lamp in the general direction of the man on the platform before he dove under the railcar. The shotgun roared again. More screams from his family followed.
As he rolled to the track under the car, Al could tell the lamp had shattered on impact, for flaming bits of glass covered the ground at the back of the train. He wondered if he had struck the shooter.
Al fumbled for his Colt in the cramped confines beneath the train and dumped the empty rounds from the cylinder. His hands were surprisingly steady as he drew fresh rounds from his belt and fed them into the gun.
The sounds of men and horses screaming in the night almost rattled him. Lit by the shattered lamp, he saw four Hancock men and horses were down. It was impossible to tell more than that.
Smart.
He heard someone drop to the railbed and begin moving away from the railcar. Hurried pistol shots from the remaining Hancock men rang out from the darkness, hitting the car and the iron plated windows. But the legs of the man Al had seen drop from the back of the car kept moving. A single rifle shot—not a shotgun blast—answered the pistols. Another horse screamed and a man cried out, followed by the sound of another horseman hitting the ground.
Al turned away as an errant round struck the ground to his left, kicking up dirt and dust into his eyes.
He realized he’d filled all six holes in the cylinder and shut it as quietly as he could despite the gunfire erupting all around him. The battle had assumed a horrible rhythm: a pistol shot followed by the rifle shot, then a scream or a curse, then another pistol shot.
Al realized he was lying flush with the rail and scrambled over it to get onto his belly. He kept expecting to see more feet dropping to the ground from the railcar, or more rifles join in, but all he heard was the one rifle firing into the darkness.
One man had done all of this. He assumed it had to be Mackey. Only he could do so much damage on his own.
Al had an idea. He scrambled over the second rail and rolled out from under the car on the far side of the tracks. The firing continued, but he wasn’t in that fight. Nellie had told them to grab Van Dorn or die trying and that’s exactly what he intended to do.
The rifle answered more pistols, though the conversation was becoming more one-sided now as the rifle did most of the talking.
Al reached the back of the car and saw the lamp had, indeed, shattered on impact. The remnants of the lamp still burned and cast an uneasy light on everything he could see. But the door to the car was open, giving him a clear shot at Silas Van Dorn. If he couldn’t grab the man, he’d shoot the old fool. Nellie would have to be content with that.
Al pulled himself up onto the platform one handed while he let the Colt lead the way into the car. The unsteady light from the shattered lamp burning on the platform cast his shadow over a fancy rug and the biggest desk he had ever seen.
And while his vision wasn’t perfect, he could tell there was no one else inside, except for the door on his left. He tried the handle and found it locked, too. He moved to the side several steps, aimed in the general direction of the lock, and shut his eyes to avoid being blinded as he fired twice. He opened his eyes and saw the lock and knob were ruined.
Al Brenner shoved the sliding door open and aimed his pistol into the darkened room. “Get up, you old bastard. You’re coming with me!”
But the room was entirely dark, save for the flickering triangle of weak light from the burning platform that revealed an empty, unmade bed.
Silas Van Dorn was not on the train. They had been fooled.
But that was impossible. Al had kept an eye on the car until the train had begun to leave Chidester Station. He had waited so long, he had almost missed the train when he jumped on board. He had been in the last car before Van Dorn’s car and knew that no one had left that way. Since Nellie’s people confirmed that the old man had gotten on the train at Dover Station, that meant Van Dorn must have gotten off the train before Chidester.
Nellie did not like being wrong. She liked disappointment even less.
Al Brenner was wondering how he was going to break the news to her when he heard something strange from outside.
Silence.
He had turned just in time to see a man with a rifle enter the railcar. Al backed up as he raised his Colt, but hit the bed and fell backward, firing as he fell.
He had no idea if his shot had hit its mark as the man with the rifle cursed and struggled to raise it in the cramped confines of the car. Al heard it clatter to the floor as he fired once again into the darkness where he thought the man would be. Al knew he had used four of his six bullets and only had two left. Clay might have been right about him being just a dumb pig farmer, but even he knew that two bullets could be the difference between life or death in a gunfight.
A single pistol shot rang out from the darkness and struck the pillow just behind Al’s head. Al fired again as he saw a shadow dart past the doorway. He had just one shot left and vowed to hold it until he thought he could hit something.
He sat up and cried out when he felt an intense, burning in his left shoulder. The pain made him collapse back onto the bed and he realized he had been shot. The bullet that had hit the pillow, sending feathers into the air, must have gone through him first.
He quickly holstered his pistol out of fear that the pain might make him squeeze the trigger and waste his last shot. He was panting as pain coursed through his shoulder. When he thought he had gathered enough strength, he cried out as he eased himself off the bed and staggered out of the room.
Even though the remnants of the exploded oil lamp were beginning to burn out, there was still enough light for Al to confirm he was the only one around.
There was also enough for him to see the bullet hole in the paneled wall and the streaks of blood along with it. The man with the rifle may have shot Al, but Al had shot him, too. That made him feel a little better. No one crossed the Hancocks without the Hancocks crossing back.
He moved outside but collapsed against the platform railing. He did not know if he had tripped or collapsed from blood loss. The reason did not really matter. He was down and knew he did not have the strength to pull his considerable bulk back up. He knew the hole in his shoulder had to be tended to, but he did not have the strength to do anything about it.
The last thing he saw before he passed out was the four dead horses and men heaped on the ground next to the railcar. How many Hancock men had survived, if any had survived at all?
Weakness took him as all went dark.