David Healey - Rebel Train

“Can’t you find another train to steal?” he said.

“We like this one,” Flynn said.

“Goddamn Johnny Rebs.”

The woman gripped her partner’s arm. “Charlie Gilmore,” she said sharply. “Leave it alone.”

“Listen to the woman, Charlie.”

Flynn moved on. The car was not entirely full, but Flynn was aware of the many eyes fixed hatefully upon him. Some of the eyes held fear, others anger, which was fine with Flynn. However, the eyes of the couple from Baltimore were filled with contempt, a far more dangerous emotion. People who were afraid could be told what to do. People who were angry could be intimidated by the big Le Mat pistol. But there was no controlling contempt. It was a rebellious emotion. As far as Flynn was concerned, the sooner they unloaded the passengers, the better.

Flynn leaned toward Benjamin. “Keep your eyes on those two,” he whispered. The boy stared at the couple. “They’re trouble, lad. Maybe not for us, but they’re trouble in general.”

Benjamin nodded. At the back of the car, Captain Fletcher kept watch, his eyes going everywhere, self-important as always. He looked the part of an officer right down to his immaculate uniform, but Fletcher wouldn’t be worth a damn if there was any shooting.

Flynn cast a sideways glance at Benjamin. The boy had been looking pale since that morning’s gunfight. Killing was never easy work, Flynn thought.

He motioned Benjamin out of earshot of the passengers. “Listen, lad,” he whispered. “That was good work this morning. Now I know why I gave you that new Colt. You saved the day. That was just a lucky shot I got off. I can’t hit a damn thing with a pistol.”

The boy shrugged.

“Now, I’ve noticed you’ve been kind of quiet. I’m thinking it may be the first time you killed a man.”

Benjamin shrugged. “I reckon,” he finally said.

Flynn nodded. “It’s no easy thing, killing a man. It’s not like killing a chicken or a pig or a goat. Not at all like that. The priests will tell you it’s a mortal sin, except in war, when you get a dispensation from the church for killing, although I sometimes wonder if God takes the same view. Killing some men isn’t a sin at all, because some bastards deserve it. Now, if those two heroes this morning hadn’t tried to be brave and foolish, they would still be alive. Don’t you think?”

“I suppose they would be.”

“Now, the real question to ask yourself is whether or not you’ll hesitate next time before you shoot. Don’t freeze up. That’s war for you, lad. Hesitate, give the other fellow a chance, and you’re a dead man. I don’t know about you, lad, but I’d much rather be alive and feeling guilty than dead. Any day, lad. Any day it’s better to pull the trigger and stay alive. Remember that.”

Benjamin was silent for a moment, then asked, “You know something, Flynn?”

“What’s that?”

“Pettibone’s right. You talk too damn much.”

But he was smiling when he said it, so Flynn knew the boy would be all right.

Just then the whistle blew one short, sharp blast and the train began to slow. In the car, raiders and captives alike looked at each other uneasily, as if to ask, “What next?”

Colonel Percy jumped down from the engine, shouting as soon as his feet touched the ground. “Hazlett! Flynn! Leave one man to guard the passengers and the rest of you get out here. We have work to do.”

Moments later, Percy gave his orders. The raiders swarmed toward the locomotive for the tools they had commandeered from the repair crew. They grabbed up the crowbars and mauls, then headed for the tracks at the end of the train. The tracks crossed a road and creek below using a stone, twin-arched bridge, with one span for the road and the other for the waterway. The railroad bed leading to the bridge was very high and steep. Deep ravines filled with rocks and brush bordered the tracks.

“Just two rails is all you need to pull up,” Percy said. “Two rails on each side and anyone following us will go right off the track into that ravine.”

The raiders set to work. Crowbars slipped under the rails. Hazlett and Hudson alternately pushed down and pulled until the veins stood out like wires in their necks. Pettibone grabbed a maul. Flynn fitted the slotted end of a crowbar to the head of a spike and tugged and twisted, trying to work it free.

While the others worked, Captain Fletcher only stood and watched. Even Percy had grabbed hold of a maul and was pounding at a rail, sweating and cursing with his men.

“Pitch in any time, Fletcher,” Percy called out.

“I’m an officer,” Fletcher sniffed. “I don’t work with my hands.”

Percy straightened up and handed his maul to another man. “Is that so?”

“Yes, Colonel, that’s my right.”

Percy stood, staring for a moment at the priggish captain. Then his hand casually drifted to the hip holster that held his Colt revolver. He drew the weapon, cocked it, advanced a few steps toward Fletcher, and shoved the muzzle into the captain’s face.

“Fletcher, get to work or I’ll blow your goddamn head off.” Percy’s voice was brittle, like broken glass. “I have no patience with shirkers.”

Fletcher’s face blanched with fear. He began to stammer some protest, thought better of it, and edged around the gun to join Hazlett and Hudson, who were straining to free a rail.

“That’s better,” Percy said, holstering his pistol.

The spikes holding a rail in place gave all at once with a shriek as they ripped from the wooden tie, nearly pitching the men over backward. Forbes whooped as he lost his balance and plunked down on his backside. The men grabbed the loose rail and pitched it into the ravine twenty feet below. They joined the others sweating and cursing over the second rail and soon had that one free as well.

“Sure, and that will be a fine surprise for anyone coming after us,” said Flynn, looking down at the twin rails now gleaming in the brush.

“I don’t believe you mean that, Irish,” Hazlett said. He was standing a few feet away, a crowbar over one shoulder. “Maybe you want them to catch us. Hell, you might just be a Yankee yourself. Lord knows there’s enough potato-eaters wearing blue.”

“Hazlett, you don’t know your arse from a potato, much less a Yankee from a Reb.”

Hazlett snarled and in one, smooth motion, he planted his feet and swung the iron bar at Flynn’s head. The Irishman ducked and the bar swished harmlessly through the air. Forbes, standing next to Flynn, couldn’t get out of the way fast enough and the crow bar struck him a glancing blow on the upper arm. He howled and swore.

Flynn went at Hazlett from a crouch, thumping hard fists deep into his belly. Hazlett slashed down with the crow bar. Flynn dodged a second too late. The iron bar missed his head but the flattened tip ripped a bloody furrow along his jawbone.

Flynn ignored the pain and danced back out of reach. The two men circled each other. Hazlett’s dark eyes burned with hatred as he sneered at Flynn.

“I’m goin’ to do you good, Irish.”

“Anytime you’re ready.”

Colonel Percy stepped between them. “I will not have this!” he shouted, reaching for the iron bar in Hazlett’s hands. Hazlett didn’t let go. For a moment, it looked as if he might even attack Percy. Then, reluctantly, he let Percy have the crowbar. “There will be no fighting among ourselves. Flynn, Hazlett, do you hear me?”

Percy’s face had turned red, his grip on the crowbar tightening until his knuckles showed white, and it looked as if he might swing it at the sergeants. His voice was shrill. “Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.” Flynn spoke first. He relaxed, went out of a fighter’s stance, and gingerly touched the wound on his chin. His fingertips came away bloody and he glared at Hazlett. “I understand.”