Slocum #422 (7 page)

“Are we going up a hill?” Sarah Jane asked. “What's happening? Tell me, dammit!”

Slocum looked toward the rear of the car. It ran downward at an increasing angle.

“The bridge is giving way!”

“Don't leave me. They're able to take care of themselves. Save me, John. You have to stay with
me!
” Sarah Jane staggered to him and clung fiercely. “Don't go back
there!
”

“Get into the engine cab. Run!” Slocum shoved a screaming Sarah Jane up the slope to the front door and shoved her through it into the next car.

All he had to do to get to the rear of the Pullman was to relax and let gravity pull him. He flung open the rear door. Wood creaked and snapped. The train slewed to one side, righted itself, then began sliding away backward. Mad Tom applied all the power locked in the Yuma Bullet and for a moment Slocum thought it would be enough.

Marlene Burlison reached the door from the second Pullman car. Sheer panic etched her lovely features. She screamed but the cry disappeared amid the sounds of wood snapping and steel twisting.

“Grab hold!” Slocum yelled. He leaned over the railing on the platform and held out his hand. All she had to do was open the door and take his hand.

He watched in horror as the Pullman car detached from the coupling, then plunged into the darkness. Amid the pounding of pistons, the hiss of steam, and the roar of the river below, he heard a loud splash as the sleeping car with Marlene inside crashed into the water.

Slocum almost followed Marlene down as the train lurched. The incline disappeared as the train righted itself and the speed increased, taking the Yuma Bullet away from the collapsed portion of the bridge and onto solid ground. He hung on, watching the deadly spot on the tracks vanish into the dark. He shoved himself to his feet and ran through the Pullman car to the front door, where he plowed into Sarah Jane, knocking her to one side.

“John, what happened?”

“The last three cars fell into the river,” he said.

Sarah Jane turned white and swayed. Slocum caught her as she swooned, then he whirled her about and put her into one of the chairs that had wedged itself near the door.

“Wait, where are you going?” Her words came out weak and frightened. “Don't leave me! I'm ordering you. Don't leave me!”

Slocum hesitated. That wasn't what he'd expected from the woman. Her life was one of service and toil, yet her first thought was for herself. Marlene might not be an easy mistress, but Slocum expected more from Sarah Jane than this ­self-­centered arrogance.

“I have to stop the train first,” he said.

Slocum made his way forward to where the fireman shoveled furiously and Mad Tom leaned into the lever controlling the speed looking every bit the maniac of his moniker. The engineer's brawny wrist flexed as Slocum grabbed it to pull back on the throttle.

“The last three cars are gone,” Slocum said. “Stop the train. Now!”

“Lost?” Mad Tom had been dazed and reacting out of shock. He jerked free and pulled back slowly on the throttle before applying the brakes. He cursed at the fireman to stop stoking. When the Yuma Bullet stopped, he stared hard at Slocum.

The flickering orange light from the boiler's flames turned the engineer into something eerie and evil.

“The bridge went out under the rear of the train,” Slocum said. “Miss Burlison's car is the only one you have left.”

“The caboose, mail car, and second Pullman? Gone?”

“Miss Burlison was in the second Pullman when it went into the river,” Slocum said. He looked around, then turned cold inside. “Jefferson must have been with her.”

“He's not with Sarah Jane?”

“I'm afraid not,” Slocum said. He hoped Mad Tom got his wits back. “How far until you reach Yuma and get help? You have to warn westbound trains that the bridge is out.”

“The repair crew is on the other side,” Mad Tom said dully. “They can get word to San Diego.”

“And you can go ahead and tell them in Yuma what the trouble is.”

“The bridge,” Mad Tom said. He perked up. “You said Miss Burlison's maid is all right?”

“Shaken up, but she's not harmed.” Slocum swung out, hanging on to a handrail, and looked back toward the Colorado. The river's roar could be heard, but there wasn't any sign the bridge had collapsed. In the dark that could be deadly for another train. “Mark the tracks as dangerous so another train won't go into the drink.”

“We're on the only track. Nuthin' can pass us,” the fireman said.

Slocum was glad one of them was thinking clearly. He obviously wasn't because he was worried about something that couldn't happen.

“I'll see what I can take with me to rescue Miss Burlison,” he said.

“Ain't much in that there sleepin' car,” Mad Tom said. “No rope or food or much o' anything.”

“Get moving. Send back a repair party for me as quick as you can.”

Slocum jumped to the ground. He looked up and saw Mad Tom staring ahead as if he saw through the darkness. Without a word, the engineer took off the brakes and the locomotive began chugging forward. In seconds the Pullman car swept past Slocum. Sarah Jane pressed into the window, waved to him, and shouted something he couldn't hear over the ruckus. In less than a minute the Yuma Bullet rattled into the night out of sight.

He hitched up his gun belt and began the hike back to the bridge. Every step might have been one more up to the gallows for his own hanging. When he reached the black chasm filled with the roaring Colorado River, he simply stared. The bridge had collapsed ­three-­quarters of the way across. Twisted tracks showed how the Yuma Bullet had powered itself forward at the expense of the last three cars.

Edging along carefully, he found a spar that had been ripped free on one end but remained fixed at the other. Slocum grabbed hold and worked his way out until his feet dangled down. Hanging by his hands, he judged distances and finally dropped. He fell twenty feet, hit the cross beam he had expected, only the impact proved too great. His legs collapsed under him. Plunging outward, he screamed. The mocking echo was swallowed by the river's rush. When he was sure he would follow the railroad cars into the current, another cross beam smashed into his chest, spinning him upright.

More from blind luck than skill, he grabbed on to the slippery wooden joist and swung back and forth. He hiked up one foot, caught the top of the beam, and pulled himself flat. He lay prone on the beam gasping for breath. A mule had kicked him in the chest once. The obnoxious animal's hoof hadn't hurt any more than the impact with the beam. As good as it felt to simply lie still, he forced himself to hands and knees and crept along until he came to an upright support.

The work crew had nailed short crosspieces on it to use as a ladder. Looking up, he saw that direction went nowhere. This was where the trestle had given way under the weight of the train. Stars littered the sky but gave little illumination as he gripped the first rung and tested it. Lowering his foot located another and another.

The only evidence that he was headed in the right direction in the darkness came from the increasing mist sprayed upward. Ten minutes of working his way down the crude ladder brought him to the supports driven into the rocky riverbank. He stepped away and sat on a rock, trying to make out details in the river.

Wagon trains had likely forded the Colorado here. The mail car had fallen rear wall down and was mired in a sandbank.

“Hullo!” His call and the roar of the river mingled and turned into nothing but noise. The mail clerk might still be alive inside. Or Jefferson. Or Marlene Burlison.

Slocum hunted about and found pieces of broken railcar along the bank. From the evidence, at least one of the cars had fallen into the rocks before being bounced into the river and swept away. He found two sturdy planks. Taking off his coat, he ran the wood through the sleeves to make a raft. Gauging the river's speed, he walked a hundred yards upriver. Not sure he would survive but having to look, he took a run at the water and thrust out the raft before him. Water surged about him and kicked up white foam when he hit belly down. For an instant undertow submerged him but he clung fiercely to the coat holding the wood planks in place. He bobbed to the surface, half lying on the raft.

The current swept him toward the sandbar. Kicking hard and not trying to go against the current, he angled toward the mail car. He misjudged distances and smashed hard into an axle poking out of the sand. A quick grab secured his pos­ition and kept him from washing away. Slocum got his feet under him but still had to cling to the axle for balance. Carefully moving, he got around the side of the mail car. Fully half of it had been buried when it came crashing down, but the door had popped free, leaving a way inside.

“Jefferson? You in there? Marlene?” He didn't know the mail clerk's name, but if the man heard him calling for the others, he would respond.

Hearing nothing, Slocum pulled himself up over the edge of the open door. Whatever had been in the safe was gone for good. The fall had ripped the iron safe from where it had been bolted to the floor and the river had carried it away. A huge hole in what had been the car roof showed where the safe had gone.

An arm poked out from under a pile of mailbags. Slocum scrambled over and began throwing the bags off until he found the mail clerk. He shouldn't have bothered. The mailbags had been a more fitting grave for the man than the spray kicked up by the river. The man's head hung at an unnatural angle, showing how he had died. The only consolation Slocum could find was that the death had been quick.

A more thorough search of what remained of the car turned up no trace of either Marlene or Jefferson. He worked his way up and came out on the upside of the car. Looking downstream caused his heart to race. The Pullman car hadn't washed away but had beached a couple hundred feet away. If he hadn't been so intent on the river directly under the bridge, he would have seen it while he clung to the trestle.

He found his ­coat-­raft and launched himself once more, heading for the Pullman car. He feared the depth of the river might cause undertow but a rocky outjut produced a shallow pool. He whipped around, got caught in the pool, and slammed into the shoreline. The protection afforded by the rocks kept the current from pulling him back into the river.

Aching and banged up, he dragged himself farther up the shore. He wanted to rush over to examine the Pullman car, but all his strength had been sucked out of his body by the harsh current and cold water. It rankled but he forced himself to rest. Only then did he call out to draw the attention of any survivor.

No answer to his shout.

Slocum walked over the slippery rocks and got to the car. It lay with the roof against the canyon wall, its undercarriage out into the river. At what had once been the front of the car, he tried to open the door. Stuck. Then a faint cry from inside spurred him on. He put one boot against the wall and grabbed with both hands, heaving hard. The door flew out of the frame.

“Mr. Slocum,” came the weak cry. “Help me.”

He made his way into the ­pitch-­black interior. The lamps had all burned out. The impact had ruptured the tanks holding the gas. If it hadn't been for the sudden immersion in the river, there might have been a fire.

“I'm coming,” he said, working past an overturned couch. Then he stopped. His foot went down into something yielding.

He swung to one side and used his feet to push away the couch. Even in the darkness he knew a dead body from a living one. The conductor had died. It hardly mattered if it came from the fall or drowning or something else. Jefferson was very dead.

“Where are you?”

“Here, John. I can't move my legs. Help me!”

He threw aside furniture and other debris to reach the woman. She lay in a heap, her blond hair masking her face. Her clothing had been ripped in a dozen places. Both legs were pinned by a section of the Pullman car wall that had been smashed inward.

“This will take a couple minutes. Can you feel your legs?” He reached down and ran his hand along her leg all the way to her inner thigh.

“Sir, please!”

He laughed. “You felt that?”

“I did, sir!”

“Then your legs aren't paralyzed. I've seen that happen during the war. One of my men was sitting under a tree when a Yankee cannonball crashed through the trunk. A tree fell over and a heavy limb fell on his legs.”

As he talked to keep her occupied, he found a grip on the wood.

“What happened to him?”

“He never walked again.”

“No!”

Slocum grunted and exerted all his strength to lift the wood away. Marlene rolled onto her side and got out from under it an instant before he slipped and let the wood crash back down. He sat back and looked at her.

“You have a terrible way of telling stories, Mr. Slocum.”

“You're going to be just fine. I see how you're kicking up your heels.”

“Really!” Marlene sat up and straightened her legs, then brought her knees up and moved them about. “I am free. Thank you. But that story was terrible, of the man who became paralyzed.”

“He wasn't paralyzed,” Slocum said, standing. He offered her his hand, then pulled her to her feet. She stood without any difficulty. “He died.”

“Then why did you ­say—”

“Didn't want to worry you none.”

He teetered when the entire car began to slide back toward the river.

“We must get free immediately,” Marlene said. “Do you need help?”

The question startled him. She held out her hand to steady him because he had lost his balance and sat down heavily when the car's weight shifted.

“I'm fine,” he said. As he followed her, he started noticing how her clothes hung in revealing tatters. “Are there any clothes in this car you can wear?”

“Why, yes, I suppose all of them would fit. Oh!” She realized why he had asked. Her left breast was exposed as was her left leg all the way from ankle to hip. “I didn't realize I was indecent.”

Slocum wondered at this. Here was a woman who took her maid to a whorehouse to spy on a man and woman in the next room, yet dishevelment after falling down into the Colorado River embarrassed her.

“There's a wardrobe. Is it Sarah Jane's?” He heaved open a door to a wardrobe tipped on its side. “Better hurry.” The car slipped a bit more as the current caught part of it and sought to suck it into the flow.

“I always liked this dress, but it isn't suitable for what we must do to get out. Here, yes, this will do.” She grabbed several items and clung to them as he herded her out of the car.

The screeching of wood dragged across rock drowned out conversation for a few seconds. Then the Pullman car spun out into the river, where the rapid current tore it in half as if it were nothing but tissue paper.

“Such power in that river,” Marlene said as they watched from the bank. “Thank you for saving me. I could have been killed.”

“We all could have been killed.” He looked up at the sheer wall of black, slippery stone. Returning to the rim would take some doing.

“What of the others? Jefferson is gone. I saw him die and could do nothing to help him.”

“The mail clerk's a goner, too.”

“What of . . . of Sarah Jane? She is all right?” Real concern gave a poignant ring to her words that again surprised Slocum. She truly cared for her maid and wanted to know her fate.