Clive Cussler: The Chase

WITH LOFGREN at the throttle, Adeline pulled into Ogden’s Union Station forty-two minutes later. He was switched to the coal-and water-loading siding and brought the locomotive to a halt. Their routine was now well established. While Long and Shea loaded the coal and water, Lofgren and Jongewaard checked the engine and oiled the drive connectors and wheel bearings. Bell hurried into the big station and found the dispatcher’s office.

A pudgy man sat at a desk, staring out the window at an arriving passenger train. His interest was particularly taken by the young pretty women who showed ankles when stepping down the Pullman car steps. Bell read the name on a small sign sitting on the front of the desk.

“Mr. Johnston?”

Johnston looked Bell’s way and smiled a friendly smile. “Yes, I’m Johnston. What can I do for you?”

Bell ran through his story of chasing Cromwell for perhaps the sixth time since leaving San Francisco. “Can you tell me when the train came through?”

“Never came through,” answered Johnston.

“Never came through your station?” Bell’s thick eyebrows lifted toward his mane of blond hair.

“Yep,” Johnston said, leaning back in his swivel chair and setting a booted foot on a pulled-out drawer. “They were switched onto the line heading north.”

“How?” snapped Bell. “It was not a scheduled train.”

“Some rich woman showed papers to the dispatcher at the junction up the track that said she had chartered a train with right-of-way clearance to Missoula, Montana.”

“The bandit’s sister,” said Bell. “They’re trying to reach the border and cross into Canada.”

Johnston nodded in understanding. “The dispatcher checked with me on southbound trains. None was scheduled until tomorrow morning, so I told him to go ahead and allow the lady’s train to travel north.”

“When did this take place”

“A little less than two hours ago.”

“I’ve got to catch that train,” Bell said firmly. “I’d appreciate clearance to Missoula.”

“Why not telegraph the sheriff in Butte to stop the train and take the bandit and his sister into custody?”

“I’ve tried to do that since leaving Reno, but Cromwell has cut every telegraph line between here and there. No reason for him to stop now.”

Johnston looked stunned. “My God, he could have caused a head-on collision.”

“Until he and his sister reach the Canadian border, they have nothing to lose, even if it means killing anyone who gets in their way.”

Shocked understanding had come to Johnston. “Get that dirty coward,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. “I’ll gladly give you clearance through to Missoula.”

“I’m grateful for any help you can give,” said Bell sincerely.

“What’s your train number?”

“No train, only a tender and engine number 3455.”

“What kind of engine?”

“A Baldwin Atlantic 4-4-2,” answered Bell.

“She’s a fast one. What about relay crews?”

“I have two crews who insist on sticking to the chase until we grab the bandit.”

“In that case, all I can do is wish you luck.” Johnston rose and shook Bell’s hand.

“Thank you.”

“Two hours is a hell of a lead,” said Johnston quietly.

“We gained two and a half since leaving Oakland.”

Johnston thought a moment. “You’ve got a real chase on your hands. It will be close.”

“I’ll stop him,” Bell said gamely. “I’ve got to stop him or he’ll kill again.”

THERE WAS HOPE IN THE HEARTS OF THE MEN WHO sweated and toiled to drive Adeline over the rails. They had all risen up and reached beyond themselves to do the impossible. Men and women who worked the farms and ranches alongside the track stopped their labor and stared in surprise at the speeding lone locomotive that shrieked its whistle in the distance and thundered past beyond their sight in less than a full minute except for the lingering trail of smoke.

With Lofgren in the driver’s seat, he pressed Adeline harder and harder until they swept over the border from Utah to Idaho at a speed of nearly one hundred miles an hour. Pocatello, Blackfoot, and Idaho Falls came and went. Stationmasters could only stand in shock and confusion, not able to comprehend a locomotive and tender that came out of nowhere with no advance warning and plunged past their depots at unheard-of speed.

Before they raced out of Ogden, Bell had procured a pile of blankets so the crews could catnap between shifts of driving the locomotive and feeding its boiler. At first, they found it impossible to sleep for short periods because of the clamor of the drive train, the hiss of steam, and the clatter of the steel wheels over the rails. But as exhaustion set in, they found it easier and easier to drift off until their turn came at the scoop and throttle again.

Except for quick stops for coal and water, Adeline never slowed down. At one stop, in Spencer, Idaho, Bell learned that they were only fifty minutes behind Cromwell’s train. Knowing they were rapidly closing the distance inspired them to renew their efforts and work even harder.

The mystery in Bell’s mind was the report given him by the Spencer stationmaster. It seemed that the Southern Pacific main track stopped at Missoula, with only a spur that went another eighty miles to the small port of Woods Bay, Montana, on Flathead Lake.

“How do you read it?” Lofgren asked Bell after his place at the throttle was taken by Jongewaard.

“Cromwell must have found another crew after driving the engineer and fireman from Winnemucca half to death,” said Bell.

Lofgren nodded. “Without telegraph messages coming through and informing us otherwise, I have to believe he dumped them in the middle of nowhere, too, and forced a relay crew to come aboard for the final dash across the border.”

“Then he’ll have to do it by driving over a road in an automobile.”

Lofgren looked at him. “Why do you say that?”

Bell shrugged. “The stationmaster at Spencer told me Southern Pacific’s tracks end at Woods Bay on the east shore of Flathead Lake. I assume the only way Cromwell can continue north into Canada is by road.”

“I disagree. My guess is, he’s going to take his train onto the car ferry that runs across the lake.”

Bell stared at Lofgren questioningly. “Car ferry?”

Lofgren nodded. “Logs from timber operations in Canada are hauled on flatcars across the border to a small port on the west side of the lake called Rollins. From there, they are rolled onto a ferry that carries them across the lake. When they reach Woods Bay, they are coupled to trains that transport them to lumberyards around the Southwest.”

“Why doesn’t Southern Pacific simply run their tracks north to Canada?”

“The Great Northern Railroad received land rights from the government to cross the upper United States. They laid tracks that run from a landing on the west shore of Flathead Lake north to the border, where their locomotives are coupled to flatcars carrying logs hauled by the Canadian Pacific Railroad from the logging camps. Officials from both Great Northern and Southern Pacific refused to work together and never laid tracks that merged around the ends of the lake.”

“How do you know all this?”

“My uncle lives in Kalispell, above the lake. He’s retired now, but he was an engineer for the Great Northern Railroad. He drove an engine between Spokane and Helena.”

The interest in Bell’s voice gave way to trepidation. “So what you’re telling me is that Cromwell can ferry his train across the lake to the Northern Pacific tracks and go north into Canada without stepping off his freight car.”

“That’s about the size of it.”