On the Wrong Track (31 page)

Read On the Wrong Track Online

Authors: Steve Hockensmith

BOOK: On the Wrong Track
10.35Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
THE END OF THE LINE
Or, The Amlingmeyer Express Runs off the Rails
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
We were on the
front porch of the boardinghouse, letting a cool breeze from the bay blow over our various lumps and scrapes, when we spotted a beefy fellow striding up fast. Even a block away, we could tell it was Jefferson Powless—and that he hadn’t come for a friendly chat in the sunshine. When the railroad dick reached the front steps, we were already on our feet, waiting to lead him upstairs to the privacy of our little room.
“You saw the newspapers this morning?” he asked as soon as we had the door shut behind us.
“Sure did,” I said. “They’re runnin’ the headlines so big they can’t squeeze in much more than a letter a page. ‘Butch Turns Butcher on S.P. Special’—that was a catchy one. ‘Lockhart’s Last Stand’ was pretty good, too.”
“‘Fisherman Lands Chinaman,’” Old Red threw in, limping over to our bed and seating himself with his sore leg stretched out stiff.
“Yeah, that was our favorite,” I said.
It had been a pleasant shock to learn that Dr. Chan had actually survived his run-in with Kip: A man out for some early-morning angling
had found him on the bank of the Truckee River, still out cold. By the time Chan came to and could convince someone his story about a killer news butch wasn’t sheer delirium, we were already beyond Summit and beyond help.
“To tell the truth, that was the only story this morning I could stomach,” I told Powless. Our room had a single chair, in the corner, but I didn’t sit down—or offer the S.P. man a seat. “I mean, how is it we don’t rate so much as a mention in a single article? You know, seeing as we tangled with the most famous gang in the country and came out on top?”
“And funny that all them stories make out like Barson and Welsh are still on the loose in Nevada,” Old Red added, not sounding like he found it funny in the slightest.
“We’ve been telling the newspapers the truth as we know it,” Powless said, his tone flat, his gaze cold. “I’ve heard what you two claim happened. But any proof went up in flames with that engine.”
I crossed my arms to hide my hands—which I couldn’t help but clench into fists.
“You think we’re lyin’?” I spat. “Well, what about Miss Corvus? Surely she backs us up.”
“Keep the lady out of it,” Powless rumbled. “Frankly, none of this reflects very well on her, either.”
“Now hold on,” Gustav said. “If you don’t believe us and you don’t believe her, why’d you come all the way back to Oakland? Barson and Welsh ain’t dead? Alright. Shouldn’t you be up in the Humboldt Range on their trail?”
“I had other business to attend to here.”
“Oh, I know you did, Mr. Powless,” Old Red said. “Like us and Miss Corvus and makin’ sure the papers printed the right tall tales.”
Unlike me, Powless didn’t bother hiding the clenching of his fists—his hands were curled into big red bricks he obviously wanted to slam down over my brother’s head.
“Barson and Welsh really ran rings around you, didn’t they?” Gustav pressed on, almost daring the man to act on his anger. “It was only
dumb luck that Otto and me was where we was when we was to stop ’em. I can’t believe you’d want the S.P. board knowin’ that—especially when you got the poor bastards scared out of their wits with that bogus ‘bounty’ Barson put on their heads.”
Powless just scowled at my brother, conceding nothing. So Old Red gave him a heap more to concede.
“And another thing—Mike Barson claimed his gang made off with a hundred bars of U.S. Treasury gold the first time they hit the Express. But all Wells Fargo and the S.P. admitted to was four or five thousand dollars cash. Well, Barson may have been a killer and a thief, but I know he was closer to the mark than y’all … cuz Otto and me seen a bunch of them bars with our own eyes. So as I figure it, you don’t want the truth out, cuz you got enough trouble with long riders as it is. If you fess up to losin’ a regular mint, every farmboy with a horse and an old flintlock’s gonna try to rob himself a train.”
As much as my brother was goading him, Powless remained motionless, and if it hadn’t been for the deepening ruddiness of his broad face, it would have been easy to mistake the man for one of the life-sized waxwork dolls they dress up with fancy duds in department store windows.
“And,”
Old Red said, “there’s the reward. If you admitted Barson and Welsh died yesterday like we say they did, then the Southern Pacific would owe Miss Corvus and Otto here something on the order of twenty thousand dollars. That ain’t really much for the likes of the S.P., I know, but why pay it if you don’t have to?”
Gustav finally stopped talking, and silence settled over the room. Powless still just stood there, looking like he was willing to keep on standing there forever if that’s what it took to prove his skin was infinitely thicker than any of my brother’s little pinpricks.
“Well?” I prodded him.
“Are you done?” he asked Old Red.
Gustav shrugged. “That depends on what you’ve got to say.”
Powless moved at last, swinging up his right hand, the index finger pointing at the ceiling. “A wrecked train.” He uncurled another finger.
“A dead engineer.” He continued the count. “A dead messenger. A dead news butch. A dead baggageman. In baseball, you get three strikes and you’re out. You’ve already got at least five.”
“But,”
Old Red said—and stopped there. He knew there was more coming or we would’ve been fired already.
“But,” the railroad man said with a nod, “we can get past all that. It could be forgotten, with time. You’re smart. The young lady told us as much, and I can see she was right … though you sure gab a hell of a lot more than she led me to expect. So the question becomes, can you be trusted? Will you do right by the Southern Pacific? If so, you can report to the Oakland yards tomorrow as guards. When you’ve proved you’re reliable, we’ll talk about other assignments.”
Powless stepped toward Gustav and brought up his right hand again—to offer my brother a shake.
“Do we understand each other?”
I
understood—and I fumed.
Keep your precious badge,
Powless was saying.
Call yourselves detectives. And then go to the yards tomorrow and beat the crap out of tramps and collect your ten dollars a week for it. And maybe,
maybe
I’ll let you actually detect one of these days. But in the meantime, you best shut up and stay out of the big boys’ way.
Gustav reached up and took Powless’s hand. It looked for all the world like my brother was striking a deal with the devil. Yet I had absolute faith it wasn’t so.
That morning, after we’d had our first look at the papers, I’d seen Old Red unpin his badge and place it
just so
on the dresser near the door. And before we’d hobbled downstairs to stretch out on the porch, I’d placed my badge
just so
beside it. They were lined up together like railroad ties or hoofprints, depending on your preference. Either way, the important thing was they were pointed in the same direction.
“I understand you, Mr. Powless,” Gustav said as he shook the railroad man’s hand, “but I can’t accept your terms.”
Powless threw my brother’s hand away like it had scorched him.
“Nothing personal,” Old Red went on, unruffled. “You’re just
tryin’ to keep your ass outta the fire. I can appreciate that. But Otto and me, we ain’t gonna lie or crack skulls for the Southern Pacific Railroad. Am I right, Brother?”
“You are undeniably, very,
extremely
right, Brother.”
Gustav pointed toward the dresser—and the door.
“Our badges are over there. You can take ’em on your way out.”
“Oh, I’ll take them alright,” Powless snapped. “And understand
this:
You two didn’t quit. You were fired. You’re just saddle trash that couldn’t hack it as railroad police. If you go telling fairy stories to the newspapers, that’s the story
I’m
going to tell. And trust me—my story’s a lot more believable than yours.”
He turned and walked away with calm, measured steps, pausing by the dresser to scoop up our badges. He replaced them with two five-dollar bills—our due for three days on the Southern Pacific payroll. Then he left, pulling the door closed behind him with a gentle click that seemed to echo through the house like a clap of thunder.
Old Red stared at the door glumly. “We just burned ourselves a bridge, Otto.”
“Kind of a rickety-ass bridge, you ask me,” I said. “There’s better ones.”
“Yup.” My brother shifted his gaze to me. “I reckon there are.”
It’s been almost three weeks since then, and we’ve just about mended up. Old Red’s ankle still pains him, but he’s been getting out and about as best he can while I’ve been scribbling away on this new book of mine. Every few days, we take the ferry over to San Francisco and drop in on the offices of the Southern Pacific Railroad—Gustav told the stationmaster in Carlin to make that the return address on the package he sent to
Harper’s
. Going there doesn’t exactly conjure up happy memories, but I don’t mind: One of these days, we’ll bump into a certain S.P. employee I’d like to see again, and that’ll make it all worthwhile.
Old Red’s been looking for the Pinkerton office over in San Francisco, too, although he says he’s not ready to go in even when he finds it—not with him still looking like something the cat hacked up. Yet
even as the bruises on his face fade, another, deeper one remains unhealed.
“Two days late and ten bucks short, that was me on that damn train—and just look what happened,” Gustav grumbled only yesterday. “Ol’ Holmes would’ve had the whole thing deducted before we reached the first station.”
I know he’ll snap out of it sooner or later, though—because if he doesn’t, I’ll do the snapping myself.
Last night, I looked up the Pinkertons’ address: 600 Market Street. One day soon, after this is in the mail to New York, I’m going to take him there.
Also by Steve Hockensmith
 
Holmes on the Range
The author wishes to thank:
 
Agatha Christie and William Goldman—for inspiration.
Ben Sevier, Wonder Editor—for patience, perception, and a free hand with the St. Martin’s bar tab.
Elyse Cheney, Wonder Agent—for not pulling any punches.
Annabelle Mortensen and Mike Wiltrout—for answering the Bat Phone on the first ring.
Kyle Wyatt of the California State Railroad Museum, Charlie Vlk of Railroad Model Resources, and various and sundry railrans (especially Larry Hochhalter, Bob Pecotich, Brian Jennison, Jim Betz, Jim Hill, and Randal O’Toole)—for everything I got right about trains. (For everything I got wrong, there’s no one to “thank” but me.)
Fisher L. Forrest—for everything I got right about guns. (For everything I got wrong, see above.)
David Baldeosingh Rotstein, Tim Cox, Anita Karl, Cecily Hunt, and Steve “Eagle Eye” Boldt—for making me look good.
John Harrington, Dan Kelley, Billie Bloebaum, Matt and Laura Nigro, Mark and Alyssa Nickell, Mom and Dad, and everyone who showed up—for making Hockapalooza ’06
rock
!
All the fabulous St. Martin’s and bookstore folks who’ve helped spread the word about Big Red and Old Red—for getting me started on the
right
track.
Kate and Mojo—for keeping me grounded in the real world.
Mar—for the whole schmeer.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
 
ON THE WRONG TRACK. Copyright © 2007 by Steve Hockensmith. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
 
 
 
 
eISBN 9781429917087
First eBook Edition : October 2011
ISBN-10: 0-312-34781-2
 
 
First Edition: March 2007

Other books

Playing Dirty by Susan Andersen
Wolf at the Door by Sadie Hart
The Pursuit by Janet Evanovich
Salting the Wound by Janet Woods
SEAL's Embrace by Elle James