Death Train to Boston (29 page)

THE DOOR of the Hiram Hotel had a pane of glass in it, with a shade that was lowered when the hotel was locked for the night. In spite of—or perhaps because of—the fierce pounding going on, I delayed long enough to raise the shade so that I might see who was on the other side before opening the door.

It was Meiling.

I could not undo the lock fast enough.

Sandra Hunter had been awakened by the noise—as I flung open the door I heard her say something from the stairway, but I did not, could not, reply. I couldn't do anything, not speak or move or even think. I could only fill my eyes with the sight of my dear old friend, who flew through the doorway and threw her arms around me in an effusive fashion that was most uncharacteristic, not only of all Chinese women but also of the Meiling I knew so well. My crutches got in the way, but somehow we managed a tangle of hugging and greeting, until finally I laughed to see tears spilling from Meiling's eyes and to feel my own cheeks wet.

I had never before experienced this quality peculiar to us humans, that we sometimes cry when we are happiest of all.

Gradually I became aware that Sandra was standing nearby. I disentangled myself, clamped a crutch under an armpit, and wiped my wet face with the hand thus freed as Meiling also stepped back.

Nodding toward Sandra I said, "Sandra Hunter, meet Meiling Li. And vice versa."

Meiling found her dignity, made her small bow, and said, "I am pleased to meet new friend of my old friend Fremont Jones."

With that initial rush of happiness now subsiding, another emotion came swiftly to take its place. The new and far less welcome feeling, a sick and empty dread, established a residence in the pit of my stomach.

I swallowed hard and asked the key question: "Meiling, where is Michael?"

Sandra, Bright Feather, Meiling, and I were gathered around the warmth of the small woodstove in the corner of my room. Meiling had first held us spellbound with her tale: How at Michael's warning she had untied one of the horses from the back of the wagon and then ridden it bareback, clinging to that frightened horse for she did not know how many miles as they galloped in total darkness. At last she'd gained control of the animal, and had then hidden in a copse of trees for the rest of the night. As soon as the sky grew light enough to see she set out again, and fortunately it was not long before she found the track that was the road to Hiram.

Meiling had done what she was sure Michael would have wanted: She'd found and warned me. Now what next? According to Feather, we were having a council of war.

There was some disagreement as to the battle plan. Meiling did not want to involve anyone other than the two of us, herself and me. The objective was, of course, to free Michael and at the same time to capture "the big man," as Meiling called him. Her attempt to get her Mandarin-speaking tongue around the name Braxton Furnival would have been amusing in other circumstances.

I let the other three carry on their debate without me for a few moments while I thought about Braxton. Was it really he who had blown up the train, and done all the other things Meiling said Michael believed he'd done? The physical description she gave did sound like Braxton. She said Michael thought he was behind the harassment that the two railroad lines, the Southern Pacific, and Union Pacific, had hired J&K to investigate. Certainly Braxton had good reason to feel vindictive toward the owners of the Southern Pacific, but right now it was hard for me to believe he could hate me enough to blow up an entire train just because Michael and I were on it.

I was not going to be satisfied until I could see him with my own eyes, and hear with my own ears whatever he had to say for himself. Not to mention that the foremost course of action must be to get Michael away from this big man, whether the latter proved to be Braxton Furnival or someone else.

I had followed the course of the others' discussion even while thinking my own thoughts, and now I interrupted Sandra in the midst of a sentence.

She was saying, "This whole town would come out in a heartbeat—"

"Meiling is right," I said.

Their three faces turned to me, and I was struck by what disparate examples of female beauty we had here. Sandra, who was equally comfortable in any article of
clothing—or possibly without any at all, though I'd never had reason to test this out personally—was still in her robe and gown. Not even the heat of the woodstove could bring color to her pale skin, and her sharp but classic features were most definitely those of a "white woman." Bright Feather, who did not have red skin even though Indians were generally assumed to, nevertheless had a becoming pink flush on her dusky high cheekbones. Meiling, though dressed like a Chinese workman in a cotton tunic and trousers, quilted for warmth, with her long hair in a single braid down her back, was nevertheless the most exotically beautiful woman I'd ever known.

That striking impression took only an instant to register. They were all looking at me expectantly and I plunged ahead, sure now what I wanted to do. "Meiling is right because if this big man is indeed Braxton Furnival, then what he really most wants is me. He has good reason to hate me. I knew him well about a year ago. Let's just say he, well, he took a fancy to me. I used his interest to trick and humiliate him because I found out he was . . . dishonest." That was putting it mildly, but I did not even like to remember all the things I had found out about Braxton, much less to say them aloud.

I went on: "He has Michael for a hostage. That means our best chance of success will involve deception, and it is much easier to pull off a ruse when there are only a couple of people involved. The whole town, as grateful as I would be for so much help, could only succeed by overcoming him with force. In such a process, Michael might be killed."

Meiling nodded. "It is so."

Sandra looked doubtful, but Bright Feather said, "When you put it like that, I agree. Spell out your plan. We'll do what we can."

Half an hour later, just as the sun broke over the mountaintops, Meiling and I rode side by side out of Hiram, back the way she'd come. She rode her black horse, this time with a saddle borrowed from Feather. I drove a buggy that belonged to one of Sandra's regulars, since unfortunately my not-yet-entirely-healed legs would not allow me to ride, but I could sit easily enough.

We did not talk much, though I could not resist commenting that I'd been unaware Chinese women who'd grown up in San Francisco knew how to ride horses. Meiling replied, modestly, that such little skill as she possessed on horseback had been acquired during her time as a student at Stanford.

Our plan rested on an assumption that the big man and Michael would be on their way to Hiram, and that in her headlong flight last night, the horse had carried Meiling far enough down the road that she'd had a considerable head start. Still, we did not think we would have to ride far up the road before we came upon the men.

As indeed we did not. At first sight of horses in the distance, I went ahead more rapidly, while Meiling hung back and left the road. If these travelers should prove not to be the ones we sought, she would rejoin me.

It was critically important to our plan that I appear to be alone. Bright Feather and her husband Tom were to have left town ten minutes behind me and Meiling. That was some comfort, but of course a lot can happen in ten minutes.

I do not like guns, but I do know how to shoot and would not go into a situation like this unarmed. I had a shotgun on the seat beside me, borrowed from Tom, and I was prepared to use it. Closer and closer the two men on horseback approached. My heart was in my
throat as I strained my eyes, seeking to identify Michael's contours, the so-familiar set of his head upon his neck. Perhaps these two men were not the two I sought, for where was the wagon Meiling had mentioned?

They must have left the wagon behind, for in another minute I had recognized Michael. The bulk of the man beside him could most certainly be Furnival. I took up the shotgun in my right hand, held the reins in my left, said a few reassuring words to the sturdy horse that pulled the buggy, and went on.

When we were about ten yards apart, I pulled back on the reins and said "Whoa!" And when the buggy came to a complete standstill, I placed the reins between my knees and raised the shotgun with both hands. I took aim.

"Stop where you are!" I called out in a loud voice.

They didn't stop. The big man had the reins of the second horse, and the man astride that second horse was my Michael, no longer a shadow of a doubt about that—certainly not after an involuntary "Fremont!" escaped his throat.

"Stop or I'll shoot!" I said.

They didn't, and I did. It is not the easiest thing in the world to aim an unfamiliar shotgun from a seated position, but in a crisis I am always surprised what one can do. My shot went wide, but that was what I had intended. I had made my point.

"I am coming closer," I said, and jacked another round into the chamber.

When I was within ten feet I was able to identify Braxton Furnival with certainty, although he had a wild look about him.

"Fremont Jones," he said. "It's true, you
are
alive. Where's the Chinese gal?"

"Yes, I'm alive. Meiling is at the hotel in Hiram. She fell off her horse and injured herself badly, but she came on nevertheless to tell me what had happened."

I cut my eyes quickly to Michael—I did not dare look away from Furnival for long, which I was sure Michael understood, even though he was trying to send me some message with his own eyes.

"Too bad." There was a trace of the old Braxton in the gaze he swept over me from head to foot. He'd been a connoisseur of women, and charming enough in a rather rough way. But either I looked too haggard now to be any longer appealing, or he just simply hated me, because the light of appreciation in his sweeping gaze soon turned to contempt. He said, "Just tell me one thing before I shoot you. Were you in your compartment when the train blew up?"

I blinked. For a moment my mind would not decipher his question. But then I saw it as an opportunity, and my brain began to function, this time at high speed. "No, I was not. I had been in the dining car and had not yet reached my compartment. I do not, actually, remember much about it yet. I had quite a blow on the head. Was that your doing? You dynamited the train?"

"He did it, all right," Michael said. "Last night he told me everything. He's a braggart, aren't you, Furnival?"

"Quiet, Kossoff. Now that I have her, you're no longer of any use to me. Make trouble, I'll just shoot you dead right here and now. Be a good fellow and maybe I'll give the two of you a little time together before I kill you both."

"You seem to forget," I said, "that I am armed. I will most certainly interfere with your plans. Answer the question, Braxton."

"I dynamited that train twice over. Once, with a timing mechanism on the trestle. Again with sticks of dynamite on a long fuse laid right outside your compartment. I didn't do the thing inside the train myself, of course, I paid somebody to do it. I wasn't on the train when it went. I'm not that stupid. That extra step
with the dynamite in the train car was one I took after I recognized you and Kossoff getting on that particular train. I couldn't believe my luck. But that train was doomed anyway, even if you hadn't been on it."

"Just out of curiosity," I said, lowering the shotgun slightly as if dropping my guard, "was it you behind all those little episodes of railroad harassment that Michael and I were hired to investigate?"

"Of course it was me." Furnival preened, there was no other word for it, even though he was scarcely at the moment the peacock he used to be. More like a scraggly turkey.

He bragged for a bit. Every minute he talked was another minute for Meiling to get in place and make her move.

I raised the shotgun again and took aim. I had a bad moment when the horse decided we'd been sitting there long enough, as I was holding the reins between my knees and of course had no strength whatever in my legs. But the horse quieted, I didn't lose aim, and I said, "All right, that's enough. You're not really interested in Michael, Braxton. You know that, and I know it. Let him go, then toss away your gun, and I'll do the same. I'll come with you. My life for his."

"It's not his gun," Michael said grimly, "it's mine. He took it from me. And I don't want to trade."

"You have no say in this, Michael," I said. I sounded cold, and I felt that way too, entirely without emotion. I have observed several times now that I achieve this emotionless state when a true crisis is at hand. "Well, then, Braxton? What do you say?"

He never got a chance to say anything, because at that moment Meiling came running up behind him. In an astounding move she launched herself into the air with a great cry, and kicked Braxton Furnival two-footed with such force that she knocked him off his horse. Michael, although his hands were tied in front of
him and I saw the pallor of sudden pain cross his face, slid off his black horse. The sling Meiling had told me he needed for a broken collarbone that he kept reinjuring hung empty from his neck, and he'd been riding without a saddle. With both hands still tied, he picked up the gun Braxton had dropped, but there was no need. Meiling was all over the man. Unarmed, he didn't stand a chance against her hands and feet.