Shootout of the Mountain Man (30 page)

By the orange light of the cab, Clark could see the engineer leaning out the window of the cab, looking forward down the track with the stump of a pipe clamped securely in his teeth. It was, Clark knew, the last few seconds of this man’s life, and he felt an intense pain, not only over what was about to happen, but that he was a part of it.

The train moved onto the trestle, and Clark saw Dodd push down on the generator handle. Instantly thereafter, the dynamite exploded in a great, bright flash. A moment later, the sound of the explosion reached Clark’s ears, but even as he was listening to the blast, the trestle began to give way, first the supports that were directly involved with the blast, then the others, upon which the total weight of the train had been transferred. Unable to accommodate the increased weight, the remaining timbers also buckled and the engine, with the wheels still turning, left the bridge.

Back in the rearmost car, Smoke and Bobby Lee were engaged in conversation, and Smoke was telling his brother-in-law about Sally, Pearlie, Cal, and his ranch.

“I’m glad you’ve got a new family, Smoke,” Bobby Lee said. “And Sugarloaf sounds like a great place to live.”

“It is a great place to live,” Smoke said. “You’ll have to come visit me there, maybe stay for a while.”

“Ha. If I found a place like that, I would be likely to stay for years, not just a while,” Bobby Lee said.

“You are family, Bobby Lee. You are welcome as long as you—”

Smoke’s reply was interrupted by a loud crashing sound. The car came to an abrupt halt, and he and Bobby Lee, along with several other passengers in the car, were thrown from their seats.

His attention fixated on the events unfolding before him, Clark watched as the engine plummeted downward, moving slowly as if time had been suspended, until it hit the ground below. The boiler exploded, and bits and pieces of the engine and the first two cars were blown high into the air, chunks of wreckage seeming to hang in place for a long moment before tumbling back down, many of them falling dangerously close to Clark and the others.

The other cars were dragged down into the gully, the first two telescoping, with one car sliding into the other, the remaining cars buckling and breaking before coming to a smashing rest. As the sound of the gushing steam and explosion drifted away, nothing was left but the wails and cries of the injured.

Smoke banged his shoulder on the seat in front of him, then barked his shin painfully as he was thrown to the floor. Even before the sounds of splintering wood, breaking glass, and twisting metal subsided, there were the screams and shouts of surprise, fear, and then pain from the other passengers in the car.

“Bobby Lee!” Smoke shouted. “Are you all right?”

Bobby Lee was lying facedown in the aisle. Getting up slowly, he turned toward Smoke, and Smoke saw blood coming from a wound over his eye. Closer examination of the wound, however, showed that it appeared to be superficial.

“What happened?” Bobby Lee asked.

“We’ve had a train wreck,” Smoke said. “I think Frank Dodd has just hit the train.”

“Let’s go,” Dodd called to the others. “Let’s get the money and get out of here.”

The others started toward the wreckage, but Clark hung back.

“Come on, Clark!” Dodd called. “That is, if you want your share of the money.”

“My God,” Clark said under his breath. “What have we done?”

Clark had come too far and sunk too low to back out now. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he joined the others as they hurried toward the wreckage.

* * *

“Help me! Help me, mister, help me!” a man said, lying under a twisted mass of wreckage. His right leg was grotesquely twisted almost all the way back.

Clark stumbled over something and looking down, saw that it was a severed head. When he saw the pipe, still clenched in the teeth, he realized it was the engineer’s head.

“Oh, my God!” Clark said.

“Hurry up!” Dodd called. “Let’s get the money and get out of here!”

When they reached the express car, Clark saw that the messenger and all three of the guards from the Western Capital Security Agency were dead, but the safe was under the bulk of the overturned car. It was going to take all of them several minutes to pull the wreckage aside so they could reach the safe.

“We’re never going to get this out of here!” Conklin complained.

“Get to work! Stop complaining and start moving the wreckage aside!” Dodd ordered. “We don’t have all day!”

Smoke and Bobby Lee managed to work their way out of the last car by pushing through a large rent in the side. At first, the scene that greeted them was unbelievable, wreckage strewn about everywhere, men, women, and children lying dead, dying, or badly injured. The moans and cries created a terrible din in the night air.

Bobby Lee pointed to some men who were standing in a pile of wreckage that was once the express car. They were working intensely, throwing aside pieces of timber in a desperate attempt to get to something underneath. Smoke thought they must be trying to rescue someone and he started toward them, but Bobby Lee grabbed his arm.

“Smoke!” Bobby Lee said. “That’s Dodd and his gang!”

“Dodd!” Smoke shouted.

Upon hearing his name called, Dodd, without hesitation, pulled his gun and fired.

That was the opening shot of a deadly battle, with Smoke and Bobby Lee on one side, and Dodd, Clark, and the others on the opposite side. The surviving train passengers, dying, wounded, and unwounded, had orchestra seats while the muzzle flashes of rapidly firing pistols illuminated the faces of eight desperate men. For fully thirty seconds, the roar of pistol fire overcame even the wails and cries of the wounded.

Smoke and Bobby Lee stood side by side, exchanging fire with Dodd and the members of his gang. Gradually, the flashes grew fewer, and the exchange of gunfire slackened as, one by one, the would-be train robbers fell in their tracks from well-placed .44-caliber balls.

Errant pistol shots whizzed by Smoke’s ears, or hit the ground, sending up tiny fireballs before careening away with a high, keening sound, missiles of death in the darkness. Smoke felt, rather than saw or heard, Bobby Lee go down beside him, and he responded by shooting and killing yet another of Dodd’s gang.

Finally, the last of Dodd’s gang went down, and the shooting stopped. Smoke stood in place for a long moment afterward, holding a smoking pistol as the final echoes of gunfire rolled back from the nearby Excelsior Mountains. Now, even the cries of the injured had quieted, and as Smoke stood there, the only one doing so, it was as if someone had arranged a giant and very macabre tableau.

Suddenly, and totally unexpectedly, Dodd sat up and pointed his pistol at Smoke. Smoke reacted quickly by pulling the trigger on his own pistol, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

“Well, now,” Dodd said. “Look at this. Ain’t I the lucky one, though?”

The outlaw pulled the hammer back, but before he could fire, another shot rang out and a black hole appeared in his forehead as he fell back.

Thinking it might have been Bobby Lee, Smoke looked down at his brother-in-law, but saw only open and opaque eyes, looking up in their death stare. Bobby Lee was dead.

“I owed you that, Mr. Jensen.” The voice came from one of the outlaws with whom Smoke had just done battle. Looking toward the sound, he saw that one of the other outlaws had managed to raise himself up onto his elbows. It wasn’t until then that Smoke recognized him.

“Clark?” Smoke called out. “Emmett Clark?”

Clark coughed before he answered, and as he did, his cough spewed out blood.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said.

“You were riding with Dodd?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand. If you were riding with him, why did you shoot him?”

“Like I said, I owed it to you. Call it a matter of honor,” Clark said, and with another spasm of coughing, he fell back with one final, gasping breath.

When Smoke returned to Sugarloaf, he learned that both Pearlie and Cal had won everything in their events at the rodeo. In addition, Pearlie had won “Most Outstanding Cowboy,” which came with a prize of a silver-studded saddle. Pearlie let it be known that he planned to give the saddle to Smoke. Smoke told Sally that he didn’t feel right taking the gift, but Sally convinced him that it was very important to Pearlie, so Smoke agreed. With great pomp and ceremony, Pearlie presented the saddle, and Smoke saw that Sally was right. There was genuine joy in Pearlie’s face when Smoke accepted it.

For the first several days after returning, Smoke was a bit pensive, thinking not only about the events of the previous few weeks, but also about the fact that Bobby Lee’s death had severed the last living connection to Nicole. At first, he found the thought rather melancholy, but the more he contemplated it, the more he was able to find peace with the idea.

The door to that part of his past was forever closed.

Smoke had been back at Sugarloaf for three weeks when he received a letter that had no return address, but was postmarked from St. Louis, Missouri. Not until he opened it did he see that the letter was from the young woman he had met in Cloverdale.

“Smoke, is everything all right?” Sally asked when Smoke finished the letter.

“Yes,” Smoke replied. “Everything is fine. It’s from Minnie Smith, the girl I told you about.”

“The girl who worked at the Gold Strike Saloon? The girl you said was a very pretty girl?”

“Yes, that girl,” Smoke said.

“And she is now writing you letters?”

“Just one letter—so far,” Smoke said, holding the letter up teasingly.

“Oh, my. Should I be jealous?” Sally asked, but the smile on her face told Smoke that she understood he was teasing, and was merely joining in the banter.

Smoke got up from his chair, walked over to her, put his arms around her, and pulled her to him for a very deep kiss.

“What do you think?” he asked.