North of the Line, page 4
‘Just what are you aiming to do with us, mister?’ the engineer demanded of Carson.
That individual smiled darkly. ‘Only right you should get a look-see at your own cargo. Step on up to this door, the pair of you.’
Only when they had done so did he nod at Dumont. ‘Open her up, why don’t you? But these two get to go in first. Savvy?’
The half-breed wasn’t stupid. And along with understanding came a sly smile on his brutalised features. A few blows with a hammer smashed off the padlock, and eager hands reached for the sliding door.
‘In you get, fellas,’ Carson ordered, prodding one of them with the muzzle of his revolver. ‘Be sure to tell us what you find!’
Samuel Bairstow’s heart jumped as the big door slid back noisily. It slammed to a stop mere inches from his head, allowing bright sunlight to flood in, but also effectively blocking any view of the outside. As Bronson had anticipated, it would be left to him to call the shots . . . quite literally.
The two lawmen were sadly oblivious to the appalling turn of events. They had heard some shouting, but what with their own incarceration and the noise of the steam engine, it had all sounded garbled. Only now was there any chance of clarity, but their immediate surroundings had fallen strangely quiet. Then a hand appeared, followed by scuffling sounds as a bulky figure slowly heaved himself aboard. Bronson’s forefinger tightened on a trigger as he shifted the twelve-gauge over to cover the intruder.
It was the quantity of grime on the man’s face that undoubtedly saved his life. He clearly belonged on a footplate, rather than in a jail. Grubby overalls only served to confirm that supposition. Bronson held fire, but as the engineer looked to his right and spotted the gaping muzzles, he froze in horror. Then there was a rush of liquid, and an expanding pool appeared at his feet.
‘Oh Jesus, mister,’ he pleaded. ‘Don’t shoot me, for pity’s sake!’
The marshal’s only response was a gentle sigh. Things definitely weren’t panning out as he’d expected, which served as a reminder that he wasn’t just up against run of the mill outlaws. Then a vaguely familiar voice called out. ‘Who all’s in there? Speak up, or I’ll blow a hole in his back!’
Bronson already knew whom he was pursuing, but hearing that still made him curse under his breath. Brin Carson had apparently got the jump on him, and it rankled. It rankled a lot! Glancing to his left, he gestured to Bairstow that he should reply, and just prayed that the Mountie had his wits about him. He soon found out.
‘This is Sergeant Samuel Bairstow of the Northwest Mounted Police. Drop your weapons. You’re all under arrest. If you harm this man, it will be all the worse for you.’
Beyond the wooden walls, there was a stunned silence as the gang members looked askance at each other. Dumont in particular, impressed by his forethought, stared at Carson with something approaching respect. It was Vern Hatcher who finally responded, and in fairly typical fashion.
‘Haw, haw haw. Just how do you propose to arrest us when you can’t even see us?’
To his credit, Bairstow was ready for that one, and happy to sow some uncertainty amongst the robbers. ‘We knew all about your pathetic little plans for this train, which must make you wonder who you can trust. And there’ll be a party of Mounties boiling across that plain in a matter of minutes. If you’re still holding your firearms, they’ll shoot any man on sight.’
As expected, there was another silence as the train robbers scanned the surrounding horizon. With absolutely nothing in sight, fear soon turned to disbelief. On the open prairie, it would be nigh on impossible for any number of horsemen to approach unseen at speed. Again it was Hatcher who had the words.
‘Too thin, law dog. Too thin! I’ve heard all about you redcoats. Most of you are off chasing Injuns . . . or leastways their squaws. Which means you’re out here on your lonesome, trying to make a name for yourself. But we ain’t under your gun, see? So you got nothing.’ He turned to the others and chuckled, but he was given little time to enjoy his eloquence.
‘What we have got is the money, Vern Hatcher,’ Bronson abruptly barked out.
‘Shit in a bucket!’ Carson exclaimed. ‘I know that voice. Is that you, Bronson? You old bastard.’
‘The very same, Brin Carson. Now do as my partner here said, and drop your weapons.’
The marshal’s name meant nothing to the Metis, but the two Americans shook their heads in disbelief. He was the last person they had expected to encounter north of the 49th Parallel, and it set them to thinking mighty hard. What if there were more federal officers on the train? Consequently, it was Gabriel Dumont who abruptly took over the negotiations.
‘I don’t care who you are in there. We got prisoners. So if you don’t hand the cash money over, we kill them all, one by one.’ He paused to emit a chuckle. ‘You ain’t so smart now, eh?’
Inside the boxcar, the two lawmen stared intently at each other as though desperately seeking a solution in the others eyes. It was Bronson who quietly put their dilemma into words. ‘They ain’t bluffing. We stonewall them, and innocent folks’ll get to dying.’
A quick glance at the terrified engineer only served to confirm the dire plight. His staring eyes were pleading frantically with them to agree on any terms. Colour began to drain from Bairstow’s face as he reached the only possible decision. He well knew who would get the blame for all this, because the marshal was just a visitor . . . even if it had been all his idea. With great reluctance, he nodded and whispered, ‘Give them the goddamn money.’
Bronson understood all too well the likely cost of such a choice, and not just the fact that the Mountie now still wouldn’t get paid. ‘OK, it’s yours,’ he called out in genuine disgust. ‘But we ain’t bringing it to you.’
Malicious glee spread over Dumont’s features as he glanced around at his cronies. He gestured for some of his Metis followers to move nearer the boxcar, and then called back, ‘So let the railroad man bring it out.’
Bronson sighed with resignation. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ was all he could think to reply. Then to the engineer he instructed quietly, ‘Do as he said. Once it’s out there, try and back off away from them. If you get chance.’
Realizing he wasn’t safe yet, that man nodded vigorously and then moved over to the strongbox. Desperate to be out of the limelight, he didn’t even attempt to pick it up, but instead grabbed the handle at one end and dragged it rapidly over to the doorway. He then dropped down to trackside with a great sigh of relief. Whatever else happened, at least he no longer had two shotguns aimed at him. However, he wasn’t out of it yet.
Carson had little trust in any man, and certainly not lawmen, so his orders were brusque. ‘Get that box over here, away from the train, and then stick around. You’re a hostage, remember?’
As the engineer complied, Dumont directed four of his men to keep the boxcar covered and the other two to watch the passengers. He would have the pleasure of smashing open the strongbox. And yet it soon became apparent that such a task was not a matter of moments. Even swinging a heavy crowbar vigorously, the half-breed could make no impression on it. Reinforced with steel bars, and multiple padlocks, the box had been deliberately constructed to require concerted effort. And that would take time!
Vern Hatcher, never known for his patience, was getting restless. ‘Enough of this shit; let’s just blast it,’ he snarled, aiming his revolver at one of the locks.
‘Belay that,’ came Carson’s surprisingly nautical command. ‘We start shooting, an’ those law dogs might just get to thinking we’ve killed the crew, and so decide they’ve nothing to lose by taking us on.’
‘Well we’ve got to do something,’ his partner retorted.
‘Torch the boxcar,’ Dumont snarled. ‘Burn those damned lawmen to death. Then we can do as we please.’
Carson’s response was scathing. ‘Don’t be a tarnal fool. Killing both a US Marshal and a Mountie just for the hell of it would be a sure way to a noose. And who’s to say there aren’t more of them out there somewhere,’ he added, gesturing vaguely at the vast prairie around them.
‘Who you calling a fool, Yankee dog?’ the Metis leader retorted, his voice suddenly low and dangerous. Sensing trouble, his men began to turn away from the train so as to watch the unloved Americans for any signs of aggression.
Inside the boxcar, Bronson decided that the time had come to start taking chances. Unbeknown to the raiders, although there was only one way into the boxcar, there were actually two ways out. Under his prone body was a trapdoor allowing egress onto the track, and it was high time to utilize it.
‘Watch the doorway,’ he hissed and then rolled to one side. With his only hand, he heaved on an iron ring attached to the timber, raising the door on its hinges. Below him, on the side furthest away from the outlaws, a single rail was visible attached to a crosstie on the packed track ballast. Lowering himself carefully through the narrow opening, so as to obtain a firm footing either side of the rail, he whispered, ‘Wait ’til I make my move. Savvy?’
Bairstow gave him a thumbs up, and then the marshal dropped down onto his haunches below the boxcar. The barrels of the shotgun were held steady in his iron hook as he peered through the gaps between the wheels. The view that this afforded meant that only legs of various shapes and sizes could be seen stationed along the trackside and near the strongbox. Two sets helpfully wore overalls, which marked them out as the railroad employees. Yet their presence also made things mighty awkward for his sawn-off’s wide spread of shot. Time, however, was running out rapidly.
‘We can’t stand around here mouthing off at each other,’ Vern Hatcher protested, before echoing his partner’s fear. ‘This is a train robbery, for Christ’s sake, and there might yet be a posse out there someplace.’
‘Damn right,’ Carson affirmed, his arms spread wide in a conciliatory fashion. ‘Let’s just forget the lawmen, tote that box away from here and break into it later. What do you say, Gabriel? Huh?’
That Metis grunted something unintelligible, but he must have been somewhat mollified, because he instructed two of his followers to fetch the horses. Unless Bronson made a move immediately, the whole gang would be gone and out of reach of the stranded lawmen. Remaining concealed, he shifted slightly to the left. Sadly, the ringleaders were still too close to the train’s crew, so he would have to strike at the minions. Taking a deep breath, he muttered, ‘Here goes nothing,’ and squeezed a trigger.
A charge of lead shot scythed into the knees of his first victim. As that man crumpled to the ground wailing in agony, Bronson, his ears ringing from the blast, altered his aim slightly and fired again. The gang members must have been on a hair trigger, because even as Bronson scrambled to a new position, he knew that his second shot hadn’t been so effective. A few pieces of lead had caught one of the half-breeds whilst on the move, drawing blood, but not crippling him.
‘He’s under the car,’ Dumont yelled. ‘Shoot the bastard!’
Gunshots duly rang out, sending hot lead ricocheting off the wheels and metalwork around the spot where Bronson had been seconds earlier. Reloading his shotgun, the marshal knew that unless he maintained the pressure, the next shots would likely be aimed at one of the crew. It was at that instant that Samuel Bairstow, taking advantage of the mayhem, unleashed his own shotgun from the doorway of the boxcar. With the benefit of height and close range, his first attempt simply couldn’t miss. The full blast struck a Metis in the chest, tearing a bloody hole in it, and killing him instantly.
Before he could try again, the Mountie had to duck back undercover to avoid a hasty return fire. Making best use of the time, he replaced the single empty cartridge and waited for Bronson to again draw their fire. He recognized that, with the outlaws out in the open and under deadly threat, the tables had turned abruptly. And he wasn’t the only one to realize the fact.
‘Forget the law dogs. We’ve got what we came for,’ Carson bellowed. ‘Let’s ride!’ So saying, he grabbed one side of the strongbox and waited for his buddy to do the same.
Dumont was suddenly torn by conflicting emotions. One of his men was dead for sure, but another lay on the ground, bleeding profusely and quite likely crippled. There was a creed amongst the closely-knit Metis that one man should always watch out for another. Yet at the same time, the cash box was about to depart with the damned Yankees! And this wouldn’t be the first occasion in Dumont’s brutal existence when greed had taken precedence, although he knew that he would later genuinely regret what he was about to do. So, after firing another shot at the boxcar he yelled at them, ‘We stay together, mes amis, oui?’
Still crouched under the boxcar, Bronson understood what was happening. Quickly backing out onto the far side of the track, he set off running towards the front of the train. That way he remained under cover whilst closing on the horses. It was obvious that most of the outlaws would get away, but if he could seize a minimum of two animals, then at least some form of pursuit would be possible. It was as he ran past the front carriage that he encountered the engineer and fireman. They had sensibly bolted at the first sign of disarray amongst the outlaws. Temporarily ignoring them, the marshal kept on going, his breathing growing increasingly ragged. He really wasn’t used to this running shit.
No longer under fire, Bairstow peered out through the doorway and saw only fleeing men as his erstwhile assailants made for their horses. It was extreme range for a sawn-off but, ‘What the hell,’ he decided. Gripping the forestock firmly, he squeezed both triggers at once. As the big gun bucked in his grip, a cloud of powder smoke momentarily obscured his view, but the howls of pain said it all. At least some of the lead shot had found flesh and blood.
‘Be sure an’ take all the horses,’ Carson bellowed as they approached the ground-tethered animals. He and Hatcher were carrying the strongbox between them, and had so far escaped any injury.
‘I’ll do the telling!’ Dumont snarled: his hot temper had been inflamed by the blood trickling from a fresh gouge in his neck.
The seven survivors of the hold-up made for their own mounts, and yanked the picket pins out of the ground swiftly. Despite, or maybe because of Carson’s order, two of them remained secured. And, struggling to both mount up and retain the strongbox, neither of the Americans were able to let loose the spare animals. Dumont briefly considered doing so, but then the urgency to be off was compounded by Bronson’s sudden appearance at the front of the engine. As the now mounted outlaws streamed off across the plains, that man again discharged his shotgun to speed them on their way.
‘One for the road, you bastards,’ he muttered, knowing full well that in reality his task had only just begun.
Chapter Five
Sadly, the outlaws’ hasty departure brought no respite, only a new set of priorities.
‘Get the passengers working on the track, pronto,’ Bronson instructed the crew. ‘When you get to the next town, tell the folks there what occurred, and that we are in hot pursuit. Savvy?’
The engineer nodded eagerly. ‘And thanks, mister.’
‘For what?’
‘Not blowing my head off with that scatter-gun.’
The marshal merely grunted. He had far more important matters on his mind. First off, there were two nervous horses still ground-tethered, and he wanted them. Glancing speculatively over at the crippled Metis, he saw Bairstow bearing down on him, and so dismissed them from his mind. After slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, he wedged the crown of his hat within the iron hook, thereby leaving his only hand free. Then, approaching the animals with his left arm extended, he fooled them into believing that the hat held some treat or other, and so was able to seize their reins. So far, so good.
The Mountie still had his shotgun cocked and ready. The Metis might be down and hurting, but he had a six-gun within reach. Even when that was safely tucked in his belt, tension still charged his powerful frame. There were certain questions that he needed answers to, and he would accept no refusal.
‘Which one of you pus weasels shot my wife?’
The train robber gazed up at him with anguished eyes. Blood seeped from numerous deep cuts on and around his knees. Clearly in agony, he just managed, ‘Wife. What wife?’
‘The young woman on the train that you robbed,’ Bairstow rapped out.
Despite his pain, the half-breed chose an unfortunate and foolish response. ‘Oh, her. She was yours, huh? You chose well. She was a pretty one. But you can go to hell, redcoat!’
‘You’ll be there first if you don’t tell me.’
The only reply was a stream of phlegm on the lawman’s boots. Without another word, he sharply jabbed the muzzles of his shotgun into the nearest knee. The result was instantaneous, and just as expected. With tears and snot flowing unchecked over his agonised features, the Metis suddenly couldn’t stop talking.
‘It was Dumont. Gabriel Dumont. She wouldn’t lie with him, so he just shot her. And he enjoyed it. If he’d had more time, she’d really have suffered. I know him. I know what he’s like. And all this was his idea. I just did what he told me to. I wouldn’t ever hurt anyone.’
‘Where are they all heading for now?’ Bairstow demanded impatiently.
‘I don’t know,’ the wounded man responded. Then his interrogator struck again, and the pathetic half-breed ended up in a foetal position, wailing in agony. ‘S’il vous plait, monsieur. You have the truth. We were to split the money and scatter. Now, if you are chasing them, everything has changed.’
Before the Mountie could comment on that, the sound of shod hoofs came to his ears. He glanced around to see the marshal mounted and leading a spare horse. ‘There isn’t time for this,’ that individual opined forcefully. ‘We needs to be off, full chisel. Mustn’t allow them time to force that strongbox and split up, ’cause two can’t follow seven.’
Sense took over from raw anger, and Bairstow nodded his agreement. ‘I guess.’ So saying, he eased the shotgun’s hammers down very carefully and then mounted the remaining horse.
