Firewind, page 13
Forty-five seconds now.
His responsibility, his. One-legged savior, by Christ. They'd never pity him again after tonight. Nobody would ever pity Will Denbow again.
Thirty seconds.
Twenty.
The escarpment grew, jumbled rock jutting up to block off part of the purple-black sky. Curve three hundred yards distant, flanked by the cliff and by a long grassy slope that fell away to timber, to a dry streambed thick with brush.
Fifteen seconds.
Denbow slid around on the seat, put his right hand on the airbrake lever. Worked the wooden leg into position. Boiler heat shimmered in the air, gave the interior of the cab a faintly distorted look. The locomotive groaned and shrieked as if it were in pain; the pounding rhythm of steel and steam was like a battle hymn in his ears.
Ten seconds.
And he saw Kincaid swinging around with a chunk of wood from the tender - just one chunk, held in one hand up in front of his body like a club. That, and the look on Kincaid's face, turned Denbow rigid.
Five seconds.
Kincaid took a fast, hard step toward him. A surge of fury tore Denbow's hands from the throttle and air-brake lever, drove him up off the seat. The stranger barked something behind him; he saw Kincaid jerk the stick of wood up and ducked instinctively, left hand coming up to protect his face, right hand launching a swing at Kincaid's head -
There was a tremendous screaming, crunching noise. And the right side of the cab shattered like an eggshell.
Upheaval, sudden chaos. The locomotive wrenched violently, lifted, fell back; glass shattered, wood splintered, metal tore apart; shards and shrapnel flew through the cab. Denbow was hurled into Kincaid, and the two of them spun in a tangle of arms and legs, struck the fireman's seat, and burst apart. Denbow caromed into the firebox shield, striking the lubricator on the boiler butt; it burst, sprayed him with hot oil. He came off in a sideways stagger. Through an oil-streaked blur he saw a huge spear of metal slash across the cab, miss him by a foot, and hurtle out through what was left of the front window panel.
Jesus, side rod let go-
Then something else struck him a brutal blow across the head and knocked him senseless.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rudabaugh thought the boiler had blown up.
The wrenching of the cab ripped him loose of the tender bulkhead, threw him to the floor with pieces of glass and wood and metal raining down all around him. Fear spiraled through him, clutched like a hand at his groin. The dynamite and black powder would blow, too - Get out of here, jump, jump!
He twisted around on the heaving deck, threw both hands up over his head. There was a gaping hole in the right side of the cab, wind gusting through it. Things had stopped flying around inside; he had a glimpse of Denbow lying sprawled out on his face with blood on his head, Kincaid up on his feet and lunging toward the controls. Then Rudabaugh was on knees and elbows, crawling through broken glass that gouged his flesh in half a dozen places, sliced open his left palm. Trying to get to the far gangway.
He didn't make it.
From down on the rails came the wailing screech of brake shoes locking, sparks flying up. The locomotive seemed to buckle for an instant, then careened wildly again and commenced to lose speed. The motion flung him away from the gangway, skidded him backward across the footplate and up against the tender. Lengths of wood flew out of it; one fetched him a glancing blow across the temple. Then there was a surging impact behind them, and the locomotive lifted again, lost more speed as it fell back, lifted a third time.
Impact, even more violent.
A tearing-metal sound somewhere.
The locomotive wrenched sideways; the left side seemed to come up off the rails. Kincaid ran away from the controls - involuntarily, legs pumping in a crazy, comic way - and Denbow's body and his own slid and tumbled in that same direction. Rudabaugh felt himself jar into the bulkhead beside the left-hand gangway, felt the locomotive and the tender spin around to the left, coming off the tracks, and then tilt and jerk farther onto that side, as if they were being flipped around and over by another toppling weight behind them.
More metal ripped apart somewhere. The locomotive kept falling and sliding sideways across the rails.
The last thing Rudabaugh heard, before he was again torn free of the bulkhead, before he went spinning into darkness, was a series of echoing crashes that went on and on and on…
***
Kincaid was thrown clear.
One second he was desperately clinging to the throttle in the pitching cab, and the next he was being propelled away, and after that he was through the gangway and airborne, dropping down through clouds of hissing steam.
He landed on his feet on the slope that bordered the east side of the right-of-way, went down instantly with pain slashing through both legs, and rolled and kept on rolling over dry grass and through brush. Barreled finally into the brittle remains of a dead tree that crumbled but broke his momentum, kicked him over on his back. He slid downward another couple of yards, feet first, before he managed to dig hands and boot heels into the turf and stop himself at the edge of a dry creek.
The sounds of rent metal filled the dawn above him. He flopped onto his stomach, stunned and dizzy, then lifted onto one knee and shook his head until his eyes focused and he could see what was happening up there.
The two passenger coaches were still on the rails, still safe - that was the first thing that registered.
They were past him by fifty yards, deeper into the curve around the escarpment, coasting to a stop, still coupled to the aft boxcar. Beyond them by another fifty yards, the forward boxcar had snapped loose from its couplers both fore and aft and had derailed; it was lying angled and broken on its side on the grassy slope. Its doors had burst open and there were crates and boxes strewn all over the slope, some still rolling, bouncing, splitting apart, and spilling out rifles, handguns, cartridges. Another thirty yards beyond the boxcar, partially hidden by the curve, the Baldwin - headlamp still burning - and its tender were just skidding to a halt, diagonally across the tracks, the locomotive upended half on its top like some huge dying animal.
Kincaid shoved painfully to his feet. He seemed not to have broken anything in the fall; he was able to run stumbling upslope. The sounds of the crash were fading now as the Baldwin and the last of the tumbling crates and boxes came to rest, and he could hear the cries of the people inside the cars. He saw Joe Ashmead and Webb Murdock swing down from one of the coaches, Murdock clutching at his right leg. None of the others had come out yet, but there was confused, shadowy movement beyond the windows.
Rose, he thought.
Three quarters of the way upslope he turned toward the forward coach. Changed his mind, grimacing, and veered back toward the locomotive. He wouldn't accomplish anything by trying to fight his way into the car to Rose. More important, now, to find out what had happened to Denbow and the lean stranger, neither of whom appeared to be anywhere on the slope.
As he neared the broken boxcar, the incline ahead of him looked like an abandoned battlefield. Winchesters, Remington.50s, side-arms, boxes of rifle and handgun cartridges - all gleaming blackly amid splintered wood and clumps of dry grass. No cases of dynamite, no kegs of black powder… they were all inside the upright boxcar.
He ran around the derailed boxcar, up onto the right-of-way, and then down the ties between bent and bowed rails. Steam wafted all around the Baldwin and tender, seemed to cling to the metal surfaces like fog, giving them an unearthly look in the gray half-light. Torn metal made little crackling noises. The boiler valves were still popping, but more faintly as the heat diminished; Kincaid told himself there was little danger now of it exploding. Except for those sounds, and the cries of the passengers behind him, the wilderness here was wrapped in early-morning stillness.
He looked up at the gaping hole in the right side of the cab. He knew enough about locomotives to understand that a side rod had let go, likely as a result of a broken crankpin, and sliced off the feed water pumps, air pumps, running board - everything on that side - before slashing through the bulkhead. A miracle it hadn't decapitated one of the three of them when it ripped into the cab.
He climbed over the undercarriage, caught hold of the gangway frame, and hauled himself up to where he could see inside. At first he thought the wreckage was empty; then, when he leaned in a little farther, he spied an arm and a leg, part of a body wedged down between the fireman's seat and the boiler, up against the front bulkhead.
Denbow.
Kincaid pulled himself into the cab, eased down along the canted deck until he was standing on the left-side bulkhead. He squatted there to take a close look at Denbow. Still alive: chest moving, breath making a faint rasp through bloody nostrils. There was blood all over his head, a gash on the back of his skull - Kincaid had a vague memory of seeing him hit by a piece of flying woodwork, of stepping over the fallen man to get at the throttle and the emergency air. Denbow's wooden leg was gone, torn loose in the crash; the right leg of his Levi's was crumpled under the leg stump.
Kincaid probed quickly, didn't find any broken bones. Then he got a two-handed grip under Denbow's arms and tugged until he was able to prop him facedown against the deck, with his head up toward the gangway.
Outside there were voices, the sounds of people milling around. Somebody shouted, "Kincaid! You need help in there?"
"Yeah. I've got Denbow."
Scraping noises on the undercarriage, and a moment later Joe Ashmead's face appeared in the gangway. He scrambled inside the cab, dropped down beside Kincaid. Ollie Kimbrough came up to take his place in the opening.
"How bad is he?" Ashmead asked.
"Alive."
"Where's the one with the gun?"
"I don't know. He must've been thrown out after I was."
"I hope he wasn't as lucky as you."
"Yeah. Anybody hurt in the cars?"
"Few people bruised, and Jack Bennett's daughter busted her arm."
Kincaid let out a breath. Rose was all right, then. He said, "No time to waste. Let's get Denbow out of here."
He and Ashmead boosted the unconscious man up to where Kimbrough could get a grip on him. Two others helped lower him to the ground outside. Kincaid climbed out stiffly ahead of Ashmead. Uptrack he saw that everyone was out of the coaches now, running in a ragged line toward the locomotive. At the rear of the line Pete Weidenbeck and Burt Eil-ers were carrying Honeycutt. Near the front, her face a pale mask, was Rose.
But Kincaid stared past her, past them all - at the reddish glow in the sky to the north, paler now as the darkness grayed steadily with dawn light, but still high and smoke-crowned.
A wind had sprung up; he was aware of it for the first time, blowing sharp against his face and naked chest. And the wildfire was less than a mile away, coming fast through the timber, given impetus by the gusting wind.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Running, Rose saw that Matt was one of the men standing beside the wrecked locomotive. She felt relief move through her… but it lasted only until she realized Will was the man lying motionless on the ground, blood streaking his face and head.
Dead, she thought. He's dead.
She ran faster, stumbling because her legs felt weak. She pushed past Matt and the other men, fell on her knees beside Will. Stared at his bloody, ravaged face. Little red frothy bubbles were coming out of both nostrils; she heard the faint, liquid inhale-exhale of his breath.
She made a sound in her throat that was half laugh, half sob. The relief stayed with her this time as she lifted Will's wrist, felt for the pulse, found it strong. There was blood in his mouth; he would suffocate if it backed up in his throat and lungs. She turned his head and pushed him gently onto his side, wiped away some of the blood with the back of her hand.
Then she felt the area around the wound on his head. Skull fracture? She couldn't tell for certain.
She grew aware of movement and noise around her. People swarming confusedly. Jack Bennett's little girl wailing in pain from her broken arm. Martha Honeycutt praying aloud. Men talking in loud, urgent voices, some of them saying things she didn't understand.
"Everybody keep calm, stay together!"
"We can't get far enough away on foot. Fire'll be here before long; that dynamite and black powder will go up sure…"
"Must be fire lines set up by now. They'll be out at least a mile this side of Springwood… digging firebreaks in those fields and meadows…"
"There's a logging road crosses the tracks about a mile from here, connects with one of the roads into Springwood. If we can get to that…"
"Stay together, stay calm."
"All right, for God's sake, let's move out."
"Everybody downtrack! Stay together, don't run, save your strength!"
Rose stood up. Most of the people, obeying orders, were hurrying away from the locomotive in a tight pack spread across the rails and ties. She saw Pete Weidenbeck and Burt Eilers lift Sam Honeycutt from where they had laid him on the ground. Saw beyond them, for the first time with recognition, the scores of crates and weapons that were scattered across the east slope. The feeling of unreality touched her mind again. Guns… all those guns? And something about black powder, dynamite?
Madness…
Someone caught her arm - Matt. Joe Ashmead and Ollie Kimbrough were lifting Will between them. She transferred her gaze to Matt. His face was battered, soot-blackened; there were burns and cuts and scrapes on his bare chest and shoulders, on both arms. Ravaged, too. But he looked… strong. Strong.
"You all right, Rose?"
"Yes. I… yes."
"Better catch up with the others. I'll help with Will."
"No, I want to stay with him."
"There's nothing you can do-"
"I've got to stay with him, Matt."
Something flickered in his eyes, seemed to deaden them for a moment. He nodded without speaking, turned immediately to help Ashmead and Kimbrough.
Supporting Will, the three men moved awkwardly downtrack in the wake of the others; Rose kept pace with them. The pack leaders disappeared around the curve in the tracks, and briefly it seemed to Rose that they were simply vanishing, walking off the edge of a precipice. She shivered. And like Lot's wife, she could not keep herself from looking back.
The pale, smoky fire glow loomed higher, closer in the dawn sky.
***
In the first few seconds after he regained consciousness, Rudabaugh didn't know where he was.
He was groggy, his mind fogged with pain. There were sharp pulses in his right shoulder when he moved. Something under him crunched and snapped, gouged at his body like poking fingers. He raised up on his left elbow, movement that brought more snapping and crunching, more pain. When he could see again, he found himself surrounded by ferns and dry underbrush, the short rocky bank of a dry creek, the mossy trunks of trees. He saw all of this clearly, for there was dusky light in the sky now: almost dawn.
He realized how quiet it was.
Not just quiet… a hushed, eerie stillness. No birds, no insects, no sounds anywhere except for the rustling of the wind and a faint, distant thrumming.
The underbrush was clumped up behind his head, draped over part of his body; he was half buried in it. He swept it away with his left arm, sat up, and slid around onto his knees, biting down hard against the stabbing pain in his shoulder. He was at the bottom of the slope on the east side of the tracks. He stared upslope. The train was there, on and off the rails, broken into three pieces. The boiler hadn't blown after all; something else had torn up the locomotive and caused the wreck.
The entire area was deserted, the people gone.
He smelled smoke again, and then focused on the fire raging toward him from the north. Christ - it was the fire that was making that thrumming noise.
Struggling, he got to his feet. His right arm hung stiffly at his side; he knew without thinking about it that the shoulder had been sprained, maybe dislocated, in his long tumbling fall down the slope. But his legs were all right. He could walk and he could run.
He scrambled up toward the right-of-way. Pain cut at him with every step, but he didn't let it slow him down. Half of the ordnance from the derailed boxcar was scattered over the slope; he looked for dynamite or kegs of black powder among them, didn't see any. That was something. With the explosives still contained inside the one boxcar, it would take longer for the fire to set them off.
But not much longer…
As he dodged through the scattered weapons, the thought came to him that he would need a gun. He'd lost his Colt in the wreck, and he wouldn't stand much chance of making it out of these mountains unarmed, hurt as he was. He slowed, searching for a handgun. Spied a broken crate of government-issue Star.44s and veered over to it. He scooped up one of the revolvers, checked the action to make sure it hadn't been damaged. It took him another minute to locate a busted crate of cartridges. Clumsily - the fingers on his right hand were numb at the tips - he loaded the.44, shoved a handful of spare cartridges into a pocket. Then he plunged upward again.
When he reached the tracks, the crackling of the inferno was louder and he could feel its hot breath. Smoke rolled toward him in long, billowing columns. Flames boiled hungrily over a ridge less than half a mile away.
Rudabaugh wedged the revolver down inside his Levi's, held his right arm in tight against his body, and ran past the locomotive and headlong down the center of the tracks.
***
Moving at a slowed trot behind the rest of the pack, Kincaid and seven others carried Honeycutt and Denbow in two-man, five-minutes shifts: carry, rest, carry, rest. The men in each team stood shoulder to shoulder, supporting one of the wounded lengthwise across their bodies, the way you'd carry an armload of heavy firewood. Doing it that way allowed them to move straight ahead, conserved some of their flagging strength.
