The missing fourth bandit had worked his way along on the roof, reaching the cab of the locomotive and stopping it by the simple expedient of shooting the driver dead and pulling back on the main brake.
As the train lurched to a halt, Herne squinted out of the side window and saw that they were stopped near the end of a trestle bridge.
“Stand still,” snapped one of the robbers, menacing him with a gun. Herne’s own Colt lay with the rest of the passengers’ weapons, at the feet of the man in the black coat with the pearl buttons.
The robber in priest’s clothing was kneeling by the side of the dead man, tugging off his gun belt and removing the derringer from its holster.
Finally trying to close the staring eyes with his thumb and giving up when they persisted in springing open, to gaze sightlessly at the ceiling.
“You know what he did for a living, mister?” asked the “priest’, looking up at Herne.
There didn’t seem much point in pretending ignorance, so Jed nodded. “Sure. He was an agent for the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”
“That explains it,” laughed the man.
“What?”
“Why I can’t shut his eyes. Even dead he’s still tryin’ to live up to the old "eye that never sleeps" motto.”
The joke brought howls of laughter from the rest of the bandits, now herding their prisoners into the end of the carriage away from the pile of weapons.
Herne had already decided that he was going to just stand there and let it happen. He had no interest in the Government plates. Certainly not enough to risk his life for them.
But there was something about the robbery that made him uneasy. None of the robbers were making any effort to hide their identities. They used names casually as if they had no fears of any of the witnesses talking about them.
There had to be a reason for that.
A reason that Herne was suspecting when he saw the Mexican, Diego, looking down at the drop of three or four hundred feet to the dry river-bed beneath, and smile at one of his comrades, a wall-eyed man named George.
Jed caught the phrase “fall like dry leaves”, and had a strong feeling that it was the train and the passengers that were being talked about. If they had dynamite to blow the door of the baggage car, it would be all too easy for them to use a little of it to blow the bridge.
“You will all stay in this one carriage, folks,” said the leader of the robbers, Cal. “You’ll soon have company. Nobody tries anything and nobody finishes up getting hurt.”
When Herne heard the boom of an explosion, he hoped that they hadn’t harmed Becky’s coffin.
While they waited, night closed in around the train. There were twenty-seven adults and eight children in the carriage, guarded by the Mexican and by George. Cal, the priest, whose name was Luke, and Danny, the fifth member of the gang, were all outside. At least one of them had gone to fetch hidden horses; Herne could hear them whinnying in the darkness.
He suspected that it was Danny, as Cal and Luke had been in charge of the dynamite, handling the greasy yellow sticks with casual expertise. From the noise in the baggage car it appeared that they had been successful in blowing the door without wrecking the whole works. There was the noise of splintering wood as they systematically opened every box and case in the car, seeking what they wanted.
Herne was prepared to bet any money that they would reappear with the printing plates.
The door opened, and all eyes turned towards the man who entered. It was the bogus priest, Luke, and he was grinning from ear to ear.
“Got them. They was in a box marked as engineering tools. Cal’s settin’ the charges outside. George, go out there and I’ll watch with Diego.”
“It’s damned cold out,” moaned George.
“I go,” said the Mexican, tipping his hat courteously to the ladies.
“Right. Cal says not to bother with taking money or rings or nothing from these folks. We caused them enough trouble anyways.”
George laughed. “Sure. Guess we don’t want to call them no more trouble. Not at all.”
The broad wink that he gave the departing Mexican was enough to convince Herne that the plans of the bandits didn’t include leaving any witnesses alive to talk about them. They were going to blow the bridge as soon as they were off the train, sending all their hostages on the breathless fall to the bottom of the chasm.
If it came to that Jed had already decided that he was going to risk a jump through one of the windows, hoping that he wouldn’t plunge clean over the side of the bridge. But that would still leave a whole lot of innocent folks to die for nothing.
Maybe there would be a better plan turn up if he stood quiet and waited.
“Mister?”
The priest called out again. “Mister? You. The old guy who was talking to the Pinkerton man.”
Herne realized the gun was pointing in his direction. “Who, me?”
“Yeah. I feel I’ve seen your face before.”
It was one of the problems of being Herne the Hunter. Wherever you went you were likely to run into someone who knew your face. Now he thought about it, Jed had the feeling that he knew Luke. Luke ...? Luke what? Then it came to him. Fort Laramie, where they’d been having some trouble with a few Arapaho bucks. Luke Barrell. That was it. Way back in about ’seventy. He’d been caught by a posse led by Herne on suspicion of running rifles to the Indians. Two of his accomplices had been hanged and he’d been lucky enough to get off, as there wasn’t sufficient evidence to convict him.
Now he was staring at Herne over the end of a pistol. Finger white on the trigger. Trying to remember.
“What’s your name, Mister?”
“Travis. Albert Travis.” Using his father’s Christian name and his own middle name.
“Travis. You ever been up around the Bozeman Trail through Fort Laramie?”
So he half-remembered as well. Herne shook his head. “Nope. Never did get that far north.”
“I’m sure that I know you. And I’m damned sure that when I remember it’ll be a whole cart-load of bad news for you. If I could ...”
His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from outside, the words blurred by the rising wind. “George, go see what they want.”
The robber went out, leaving the door open, so the cold air swirled through the carriage. There was an exchange of muffled bellows, and then George reappeared, shivering and slapping his hands together.
“Cal says they got what they wanted.” Then he dropped his voice and moved in closer to Luke Barrell. But Herne strained his ears and caught a mention of “fuses”, which was enough.
Death was very close.
Luke turned to the crowd at the far end of the carriage. “George here says that there’s a spot of trouble with our horses. I’m goin’ out to take me a look. You all stand quiet now, and nobody gets hurt. As soon as we’re away from here, there won’t be anything to stop you walkin’ away free as air.”
With a final stare at Herne, he turned on his heel and walked outside. Herne could hear his boots scraping on the wooden trestles, then a pause. Then a call up to George, who immediately looked at his pocket watch, licking his lips nervously. Finally, the noise of the feet moving away.
Immediately in front of Jed, a little boy was crying, his mother busy comforting another child. Herne bent down to pick him up, the movement as natural as brushing hair back from your eyes.
But when he straightened up, he was holding the honed bayonet in his right hand, concealing it behind the body of the bawling child. George watched him but didn’t spot the concealed weapon, being more concerned with the watch in his hand. Herne wondered about the length of the fuse. Had to be long enough for them to get the horses well away, otherwise they might get spooked. And they had to give George time enough to get down and clear. But not long enough for the folks on the train to get suspicious or to put the fuse out on the dynamite.
“George?”
“What is it?”
“You sure you trust that Luke Barrell?”
“How the Hell do you know his name? Hey, he said that he knew you!” For a moment he looked out of the window into the swirling blackness as if he was thinking of calling back his comrade, then realizing the futility of it. But his face showed his worry.
“I did see him up in Fort Laramie, like he said. Better than ten years back. I saw him all right, and I’d rather trust a dying rattler.”
“What’s that mean? You talk fast, Travis, or by God, I’ll blast you where you stand, and take the kid with you!”
“He ran out on two of his friends there. Stood safe and watched them dancing on air with hemp collar tight round their necks.”
“Luke wouldn’t …”
“Like Hell! He didn’t need them, any more than they need you now, George. You’re what I guess they’d call a mite expendable.”
“I’ll ...” The gun barrel wavered uncertainly, and there was another frantic look at the hands of the watch.
“They say to you to stay here on guard? Good old George, he’s done well. Kept them folks in that carriage right until the big bang.”
“Mister, what are you ...?”
The conductor on the train suddenly realized where Herne’s words were leading. A realization that came swiftly to the rest of the folks. Herne knew there was a danger of panic and shouted above the screams and babble of voices.
“Hold on there! Keep calm. Let George do some thinkin’ first.”
He had pushed his way to the front of the crowd, still gripping the bayonet in his right hand, so that he was only some eight paces from the bandit. Close enough to see the sweat that beaded the upper lip, despite the cold in the carriage.
The gun wavered. The little boy in Jed’s arms had gone quiet and still, which he didn’t want, and he pinched him to make him holler and wriggle again. Watching George like a hawk watching a jack-rabbit.
“Damn you, Mister! If you’re wrong …”
“If I was you, George, I’d be a sight more concerned about what happens if I’m right.”
“Jesus! He wouldn’t!”
“I’d wager with you, except we’d both be the losers, George.”
The final prod was enough. With a wordless yell, the man turned and took a step towards the door. Herne immediately dropped the child to one side, his right arm coming up and back, holding the heavy knife like a hatchet, by its hilt.
Throwing it with all of his power at the retreating figure. A woman screamed, and George began to turn back, sensing danger at the last.
He was too late.
Jed was able to take the heart out of an ace at twenty feet, so hitting George in the back at less than ten paces was like shooting fish in a barrel. Although he was just beginning to turn to face Herne, the point of the knife was already ripping through coat and shirt and skin and muscle, finally slicing through the walls of the heart.
“You bastard,” he said, before the impact of the throw sent him crashing back against the paneled door of the train. The gun was suddenly heavy in his fingers.
Bitter experience over twenty-five years had taught Jed the invaluable lesson that if your first blow doesn’t succeed then you follow it up faster than smoke. His dive was a part of the throw, striking the bandit with his shoulder, hitting at the wrist holding the gun, sending it spinning to the dusty floor.
George fell backwards, the impact forcing the point of the slim bayonet so hard into his body that the ruby-tipped point emerged through the front of his chest, glistening in the light of the oil lamps.
“You bastard,” he repeated, making one effort to get to his feet, before he lay back, chest heaving. Fighting for the last few breaths, fingers tearing at the hem of his own coat in concentrated effort.
Ignoring him, Jed leaped to his feet, holding up his hand for silence, his blazing eyes controlling the carriage filled with frightened folks.
“I reckon they’ve dynamited the bridge. Men get your guns in case they’re still out there. Women and kids off the train and off the bridge quick as you can. Don’t wait for anything. Now!”
He shouted the last word to get them moving, pausing himself only to retrieve his own Colt and strap the belt on. Rolling over the dying man to tug out the bayonet, not even stopping to wipe it clean. Ramming it back in the sheath in his boot.
While the passengers fought their way off the car, climbing down into the murky darkness and stumbling along the narrow trestle bridge towards safety, Jed was kicking in one of the windows, scrambling through, tearing his sleeve on the way. Landing on the balls of his feet with the lightness of a cat, immediately scouring the night for the tell-tale glow of the burning fuse that he was sure he would find there.
There was a scream as one of the mothers tripped and fell sprawling, her body hanging between two of the railroad ties. The conductor helped her up, and Herne was aware of them all struggling to get off the bridge. He guessed that the explosive must be near the middle of the train, to make sure that it all toppled in when the bridge went.
So it had to be somewhere ….
“There,” he said to himself, seeing the scarlet glint, getting close enough to hear the spluttering of the fuse. Throwing himself flat, Jed peered along between the still wheels of the stationary train, seeing where the bandits had taped a half dozen sticks of dynamite to the rods. The fuse sparked, a tiny yellow worm in the blackness, creeping its way towards the top of the explosive.
It was less than an inch away.
To reach it Herne had to crawl, spreading his body between the ties, hanging on the axle of the train, feeling the cold wind from the canyon far below tugging at his clothes.
A half-inch to go.
It wasn’t possible in the time to get to the fuse and snuff it out. The only chance was to draw the bayonet and slice through the tapes. Angling his body painfully, stretching upwards, the hilt of the knife almost slipping through his sweat-slick fingers.
Feeling the blade cutting through the bindings, watching the glow of the fuse as it crawled nearer and nearer the dynamite, only a couple of feet from his face.
Suddenly, it was free, falling towards him, landing with a heavy thud on a cross-tie, one end hanging over the drop. The fuse had almost burned right through, and Jed knew it could only be a matter of seconds before it blew up, taking the bridge, the train, the passengers ... and him, with it. It was out of reach of his groping fingers. Wriggling like a landed salmon, Herne was able to change his grip on the wheel, moving the knife to his left hand, straining and just reaching the dynamite. Pushing at it with the point of the bayonet.
Knocking it clear of the trestles, watching it plummet to invisibility into the abyss below him. Panting with the effort, feeling perspiration stinging his eyes. His throat dry as sand.
He was immediately conscious of the night sounds. The noises of the passengers still fighting their way off the bridge. Somewhere away in the distance he could make out the noises of horses, traveling fast. Up the trail that he knew would be leading them to the silver mine. Herne grinned to himself, seeing a chance to make some very easy money, telling the Government where the printing plates had been taken by the gang.
It was impossible to tell if the explosive reached the deeps of the canyon before the fuse finally ignited it, but the ensuing blast tugged at his clothes, and lifted the long hairs at the nape of his neck.
The air was heavy with the smell of the dynamite, and a thick cloud of smoke and dust billowed up all around him, making him cough.
“You all right, Mister?” called a voice from the further side of the bridge.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m just fine,” he replied, replacing the bayonet once more in its hidden sheath.
Crawling out from under the train, standing up and brushing himself clean. Making sure the Colt was still safe in the holster, the thong keeping it secure. Walking steadily towards the yellow light that showed where the conductor had managed to lead the party of passengers to safety.
Joining them and shrugging at their praise for him, accepting a hug from one of the women, and handshakes from just about everybody.
All things considered, it hadn’t been too bad. He’d killed one of the gang and he was going to be able to set the agents on them to recover the plates. What was best, he thought as he joined the guard and some of the men in walking to the baggage car, was that he had succeeded in avoiding any serious involvement.
He thought.
The door of the car was shattered to splinters, and the inside was filled with open boxes and crates, broken by the robbers in their search for the plates.
By the light of the conductor’s lamp, Herne was the first to see that Becky’s sealed coffin had been ravaged. The body lay untouched, still wrapped in its scented winding-sheet.
But the pendant was gone.