Clive Cussler - The Chase

They were nearing Reno, and Lofgren pulled the whistle cord to announce his intention of switching to the siding for coal and water. He eased back on the throttle to slow the locomotive. The switchman threw the switch lever to link the tapering rails, as he had done for Cromwell’s train earlier. Then he waved a green flag to alert Lofgren that the siding was open.

Even before Adeline rolled to a stop, Bell had jumped from the cab and took off running across the railyard to the depot, which looked like a thousand other small-town depots across the nation. It was characterized by wooden slat walls, arched windows, and a peaked roof. The loading platform was empty, giving Bell the impression that no passenger trains were due to stop there anytime soon.

He stepped inside, past the freight-and-ticket office, and stopped at the telegrapher’s small room. Two men were in the middle of a deep conversation when he walked in. It struck him that their faces looked serious and grim.

“I beg your pardon,” said Bell, “I’m looking for the stationmaster.”

The taller of the two men stared at Bell for a moment before nodding. “I’m the stationmaster, Burke Pulver. What can I do for you?”

“Has a train come through with only one freight car in the last ten hours heading east?”

Pulver nodded. “They were stopped on the siding for two hours while two express trains carrying relief supplies for the San Francisco earthquake victims rolled through.”

“They were delayed two hours?” said Bell, suddenly feeling optimistic. “How long ago did they leave?”

Pulver glanced up at the Seth Thomas clock on the wall. “About four and a half hours ago. Why do you ask?”

Bell identified himself and briefly explained his chase of Cromwell.

Pulver stared Bell in the eye. “You say that freight car was carrying the notorious Butcher Bandit?”

“He was on it, yes.”

“If only I had known, I’d have told the sheriff.”

The time gap was less than Bell had dared hope. “Do you have a relay crew available? Mine is worn out, after their record run over the Sierras.”

“Who’s your crew?”

“Lofgren and Long.”

Pulver laughed. “I might have known those two would try to beat their own record.” He studied a blackboard on one wall. “I have a crew on hand.” He paused. “I thought there was something funny about that train. Reno is a relay stop for just about every train going either east or west. Highly unusual, not taking on a relay crew. Your bandit won’t get far with an engineer and fireman who are used up.”

Bell looked down at the telegrapher, a bald-headed man with a green visor perched on his forehead and garters on his shirtsleeves. “I’d like to alert lawmen in the towns ahead to stop the train and seize the bandit, whose name is Jacob Cromwell.”

The telegrapher shook his head. “No can do. The lines are down. I can’t get a message through to the east.”

Bell said, “I’ll lay money Cromwell is cutting the lines.”

Pulver studied a large blackboard on another wall that showed the trains scheduled to pass through Reno. “I’ll have a crew for you in twenty minutes. You should have a clear run until you reach Elko. After that, I hope you’ll find the telegraph in operation or you’ll run the risk of colliding with a train traveling west.”

“In that case,” Bell said cynically, “I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing Cromwell collided with it first.”

ADELINE WAS HITTING HER STRIDE ON THE FLAT, open stretch of track. She was touching ninety miles an hour, roaring across trestles over dry gulches, flying through small towns, and hurtling past signals indicating open track ahead. The telegraph poles running alongside the track swept by in a confused blur. Gray smoke tinged with sparks and cinders spewed from the stack, streaming back in a horizontal cloud over the cab and flattened by the head-on rush of wind.

A doleful, flaxen-haired descendant of the Vikings, Russ Jongewaard, sat in the engineer’s seat, one hand on the throttle, while Bill Shea, a tall, humorous Irishman, shoveled coal into the firebox. After hearing from Bell that he was in a do-or-die attempt to capture the famed Butcher Bandit, they gladly came aboard to join the chase.

Lofgren and Long stayed aboard, too. “We’re volunteering for the duration,” said Lofgren. “With the four of us spelling each other, we won’t have to stop for another relay crew.”

Bell pitched in with the coal-shoveling duties. His thigh wound from Cromwell’s bullet in Telluride had not completely healed, but as long as he didn’t put too much weight on it there was little pain. His scoop held half as much coal as those that Long or Shea pitched in the firebox, but he made up for it with two shovels to their one.

The two Southern Pacific firemen took turns keeping an eye on the water gauge and watching the steam gauge, making sure it showed their fire was burning well and the engine was operating at just under two hundred pounds of steam pressure, within a hair of the redline mark. They studied the smoke coming from the stack. When it started to go from gray to clear, they added more coal. When it turned black, it meant the fire was too thick and they had to ease off.

A competition, unchallenged and unspoken, developed between Lofgren and Jongewaard, but it did not go unnoticed. Adeline may have shown the immense power of her machinery and the lightning speed of her churning drive wheels, but it was the strength and endurance of the men who drove her to her limits that set records across Nevada that day. The engineers had the bit in their teeth and worked hard to catch the train of the killer of so many innocent people.

Seeing the semaphore that signaled the track was clear beyond Elko, Lofgren kept the throttle against its stop as he swept past the depot at ninety-five miles an hour. People waiting on the platform for a passenger train stared aghast as Adeline shot by like an immense cannonball.

Fortunately, junctions were few and far between—a few spur lines running off the main track—so they kept up their rapid speed without slowing. Then agonizing slowdowns began to occur at the town of Wells, and again farther up the track at Promontory, to allow westbound relief trains through. The delays were utilized by taking on coal and water, but a total of eighty minutes was lost.

At each stop, Bell questioned the stationmasters about Cromwell’s train. At Wells, the stationmaster told him that the engineer and fireman who had driven Cromwell’s train from Oakland had been found by a section hand checking the ties and rails. He’d had them brought into town, barely able to stand because they were so fatigued and dehydrated. They had confirmed what Bell had feared: Cromwell had frequently ordered the train to stop so his hired gun could climb the poles and cut the wires.

“How are we doing?” asked Lofgren when Bell climbed back in the cab.

“The stationmaster said they passed through three hours ago.”

“Then we’ve picked up an hour and a half since Reno,” Long said with a wide grin, knowing their untiring efforts were paying off.

“From here to Ogden, you’ll have to keep out a sharp eye. Cromwell is cutting the telegraph wires. We’ll be running blind, should we come upon a westbound train.”

“Not a great threat,” said Jongewaard. “The company won’t risk sending trains down the main line if they can’t contact stationmasters to set schedules. Still, we’ll have to be on the alert, especially around turns where we can’t see more than a mile ahead.”

“How far to Ogden?” asked Bell.

“About fifty miles,” replied Jongewaard. “We should make the station in about an hour.”