Ralph Cotton - Midnight Rider

“Don’t shoot, Captain Boone!” the fireman cried out. “You said to wake you and your men when we reached Signal Hill.”

“Right you are,” said the captain, springing up from his seat. In the seat behind him, a man a few years his senior awoke and stepped out into the aisle, also carrying a carbine. He shook the shoulder of one of the two men in the seat behind him. In all, Captain Boone and five riflemen arose from their seats and took quick stock of themselves.

The fireman stared at them from the car door. The men all wore riding dusters and slouch hats. They busily gathered carbines, saddlebags and checked their big Colt sidearms.

“Not a uniform amongst ’em.” He shook his head and grumbled under his breath. “There’s nothing right about it.”

Turning to the fireman, Captain Boone looked him up and down and said, “That will be all, sir.”

As the fireman turned and left, Captain Boone called out to the five men as they finished preparing themselves for the trail.

“All right, troopers,” he said. “This be just a trial run, but let’s treat it like it’s the real thing, because Thursday night it will be.” He looked around over his shoulder as if to make certain no one was listening. Then he turned to the sergeant beside him and said, “Sergeant Goodrich, proceed with the exercise.”

“All right, men,” said the sergeant, “we’re going up Signal Hill—the most likely place for a robbery. You heard my captain, tonight is a trial. When the time comes, three of you will be positioned on and around the Treasury car. But rather than reveal ourselves tonight, we’ll proceed to our horses, ready them for the trail and stand by.” He looked back and forth. “Are you men ready to chase outlaws?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” the four men replied as one.

Beside the sergeant, a young corporal named Thomas Rourke stood awaiting an order.

“Corporal Rourke,” said the sergeant.

“Yes, Sergeant.” The corporal snapped to attention, standing in his long trail duster and slouch hat. He stood with the bearing of a military man in spite of his civilian trail clothes.

“Lead these men to the Treasury car as if we were under attack. Proceed to the freight car, check your mounts and stand by.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” said the corporal. He turned quickly to the three riflemen.

Standing beside the captain, the sergeant said sidelong under his breath, “Captain, if I may speak?”

Captain Boone only nodded.

“This is a load of bull, Captain,” said Goodrich. “These men need no practice exercise. These are crack troops.”

“I am aware of that, Sergeant,” said Boone. “But these are the orders. Tonight through Wednesday night, we will go through our exercises—prepare to expect the unexpected, as General Edwards always says.”

“Yes, sir, of course, sir,” the sergeant said. He looked himself up and down, his riding duster, his slouch hat in his right hand.

“Sergeant Goodrich, come quick! Our horses are gone!” Corporal Rourke called out from the rear platform through the open door.

“What the—” The sergeant rushed through the open car door, Captain Boone right behind him. Shoving their way past the three riflemen, both men stood beside the corporal, staring down the dark, empty tracks behind them. “The whole blasted train is gone !” the sergeant said.

“Son of a bitch,” said Captain Boone in a low, even tone. “This is no longer a training exercise . Rourke, go tell the engineer to stop this train.” He looked around at the other men while the corporal hurried back through the long, empty car. “Sergeant Goodrich, you and your men follow me.” Before the sergeant could say a word, the captain jumped down from the platform onto the tracks and faded into the darkness behind the train.

“All right, you heard him, troopers,” the sergeant bellowed to the men. “Does my captain have to do this job alone? Follow me!” He leaped out onto the tracks, his long duster tail flaring out behind him like wings. The other three men held their carbines high and followed close behind him.

Chapter 17

As the four severed rail cars slowed to a halt and began rolling backward down the long grade, the Stillwater Giant and Pres Casings hurried into the freight car that housed the soldiers’ horses. The animals were rested, saddled and ready to ride.

“Holy Moses,” said the Giant, “there’s a posse on the train. They were aiming to ambush us! How’d they know about this job?”

The two stood staring, stunned for a moment at their discovery. Finally Casings pushed his hat brim up and grinned at the Giant, looking relieved.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but let them wait.” He nodded toward the far end of the car.

Leaving the freight car, the two hurried down the aisle of the loaded mail car and out the rear door. They stood for a moment looking at the big Treasury car swaying along behind them.

“You can bet there’s guards waiting for us in there,” Casings said in a whisper.

“You suppose Grolin figured on it?” the Giant asked.

“If he didn’t, he’d better,” said Casings. “Come on. Watch your step.”

The two crossed onto the Treasury car platform and climbed the iron brakeman ladder to a catwalk running the length of its roof. They hurried in a crouch along the swaying walkway and climbed down at the other end as the separated cars continued gaining speed, rolling backward.

Nearing the bottom of the grade, the two saw a lantern wave back and forth slowly in the air, where another set of iron rails intersected with the track. The intersecting rails ran seventeen miles north to a siding depot at an abandoned trade settlement.

“Looks like Grolin’s right on time,” Casings said to the Giant. Then he glanced at the rear of the Treasury car and said, “Keep your gun on that door, in case anybody inside wants to give us some guff.”

The Giant drew a big Army Colt from under his coat and turned facing the back door of the car. The large Colt looked like a child’s toy in the Giant’s enormous hand.

“Anybody inside there better stay inside , until we tell them otherwise,” the Giant said, loud enough to be heard by anyone listening on the other side of the thick railcar door.

As the cars coasted into a wide swing onto the siding tracks, a young thief named Lionel Sharp ran forward with the switchman’s lantern and rifle in hand.

“Going my way?” he said, joking as he swung himself onto the platform beside Casings and the Giant. The Giant grabbed the young man’s shoulder and steadied him until he secured his footing.

“Depends on where you’re going,” Casings replied, recognizing the man.

The Giant gave his big grin and said, “And what you’re going to do when you get there.”

Casings looked him up and down, took the lantern he was holding and hung it on an iron hook beside the rear car door.

“Well, Sharp,” he said, “it looks like you finally landed yourself work with some real long riders.”

“Yeah, and I can tell you, I’m damned grateful for it,” said the young outlaw. “I’m so sick of working with rubes and pumpkin busters.…” He leaned forward and looked around Casings at the Giant. “You must be the Stillwater Giant. I’ve heard so much about you,” he said.

“What tipped you off?” the Giant asked with a flat, harsh expression.

Sharp stared up at the huge man, not knowing what to say.

Finally he managed “I—I didn’t mean nothing—”

“He’s funning with you, Sharp,” Casings said, cutting the young outlaw off before he embarrassed himself.