Slocum #422 Read online

  “I’ll check,” Slocum said, his hands lingering on Marlene’s waist. He picked her up and spun her about. She was as light as a feather.

  “Hurry, John. I don’t like my sleep being disturbed like this.”

  “Now, Miss Mulligan, don’t be rude,” Marlene said.

  For an instant fire passed between the two, then died.

  “I’m sorry. Hurry along, John. Find out why that foolish ­crazy-­eyed engineer brought us to a halt.” Sarah Jane looked out the window at the desolate landscape.

  Slocum opened the front door and stepped into the hot wind. He caught at his hat to keep it from flying off as he swung around and found the ledge along the tender’s outer wall that led forward to the cab. The land wasn’t as much a desert as he had thought looking from Marlene’s Pullman car. The vegetation ahead turned lush as it dropped down toward the Colorado River. Without the clacking of wheels against the tracks, he heard the rush of the powerful river.

  As he edged along, he saw a curious sight ahead along the tracks. A rainbow arched above the trestle. The river threw up a constant mist that made it seem as if the train would be running under the rainbow. But in this desert, the real pot of gold at either end of the rainbow had to be the water in the river fifty feet below.

  Jefferson and Mad Tom stood toe to toe, arguing, when Slocum stepped into the cab. The fireman sat silently on a drop seat near the closed iron grate that opened to the boiler. He smiled, a white gash in a face filthy with coal dust. Rocking back, crossing his legs, he folded his arms on his chest and enjoyed the spectacle of the engineer and conductor fighting.

  “What’s wrong?” Slocum asked.

  The two men turned on him.

  “I ain’t pushin’ the Bullet ’cross the bridge ’less them fools say it’s safe,” Mad Tom said.

  “They only workmen, not engineerahs,” Jefferson said.

  Slocum saw that four men had gathered along the tracks. They leaned on pry bars and shovel handles. The engineer and conductor went back to their argument. Slocum climbed down and went to the crew.

  “Why do you have the lanterns up?” He pointed at the two lanterns hung from poles swaying in the wind. The glass had been painted red to give a warning.

  “Well, sir, it’s like this,” said the one that Slocum took to be the foreman. “There was a powerful wind last night that sent a big wave racin’ down the river. Struck the far support just ’fore dawn. Me and the boys are tryin’ to figger out if it’s safe for a train to go across.”

  “The bridge might collapse?”

  “Might not either,” the foreman said. “Without climbin’ down and doin’ a complete examination, can’t say one way or the other.”

  “Have you seen damage happen to a bridge from such currents before?”

  The foreman spat, wiped his mouth, and silently nodded.

  “How long will it take for you to check out the sup­ports?”

  “Can’t rightly say. Might be a day ’fore we can climb down. Real dangerous since the wood gets all wet and slippery.”

  Slocum walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down into the roiling, raging Colorado. The bridge supports looked secure, but he wasn’t an expert. He jerked around when the foreman touched his arm and held out field glasses.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Signs of damage, maybe the wood being chewed away like some damn animal’s hungry for it.”

  Slocum studied the nearer bridge supports, then worked to the far ones on the east side of the river. He moved a few yards and got a better angle. He handed back the glasses.

  “The far timbers look bowed.”

  “Not supposed to be that way. I have to run my hands over the wood to get a feel for how safe it is if there’s nuthin’ showin’ up more ’n bowed supports,” the foreman said. “Replacing those struts would take a week, once we get the timber.”

  “I’ll tell the engineer,” Slocum said. He walked slowly back to the Yuma Bullet, where Jefferson and Mad Tom had run out of words and stood facing away from each other, arms crossed and looking fierce.

  “The bridge supports might be shaky,” Slocum said.

  “They don’t know what they talkin’ ’bout. We got to move on along,” Jefferson said. “Theah’s a schedule to keep.” He took his watch from his vest pocket and made a big show of studying it.

  “I ain’t riskin’ my train goin’ over a bad bridge. This here trestle’s been a caution since it was built.”

  “Mr. Burlison’d want us to go on.”

  Slocum looked at the conductor and finally said, “Even if it means risking the life of his daughter?”

  “He knowed the condition of the road. He ain’t nobody’s fool,” Jefferson said. “It’s his road.”

  “The river just rose last night and shook the foundations this morning.” Slocum looked across the bridge. The mist still rose from the river, but the sun had sunk low enough behind them to erase the rainbow. “Why not wait for a train coming from Yuma going to San Diego and see how it fares?”

  “We ain’t got a siding heah, Mistah Slocum. How we s’pposed to let the train by?”

  “He’s got a point,” Mad Tom said. “We’d have to back up danged near twenty miles to find a siding. Railroad schedules are precise.” He walked forward, chewing on his lower lip. Finally he came to a decision. “If the work crew thinks we kin make it, we go. They say no, we wait. Don’t care if we have to back up all the way to the Pacific Ocean.”

  Slocum hollered and got the repair crew foreman over.

  “You boys decide on what to do?” the foreman asked.

  “That depends on your expert opinion,” Slocum said. “The trestle is upright but bowed. You didn’t see any damage that would let you put a bet on a train taking a dive into the river?”

  “Ain’t a bettin’ man, but I see what you’re askin’.” He scratched himself, shuffled about, and finally said, “Without climbin’ down, ain’t no way to say if it’s safe. I got me a man workin’ his way down now.” He took his field glasses and walked to the lip of the cliff. After several seconds, he lowered them. “Either Ray’s wavin’ you on or he’s got a foot stuck.”

  “Then he’s wavin’ us on,” Mad Tom said. “Get to stokin’, you useless piece of shit.” He swung into the cab. The fireman had already shoveled coal into the boiler to build up a head of steam to cross.

  Jefferson grinned and slapped Slocum on the back.

  “We’s gonna be in Yuma by mornin’. Take some time, git a good breakfast.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed, “All aboard! We’s pullin’ out!”

  Slocum looked across the ­twilight-­shrouded tracks. He had never crossed the river on a train and had no idea what a bridge looked like, but this one seemed to sway. Mad Tom leaned out the side of the cab, yanked on the whistle lanyard, and released the brakes. The Yuma Bullet edged forward.

  “You gonna be left behind if you don’t climb aboard, Slocum,” the engineer said.

  Slocum waved and let the tender pass before he hopped up on the platform leading into Marlene’s car. The locomotive reached the western side of the bridge. Mad Tom advanced carefully, as if testing the bridge. Then he let loose with another loud whistle and the train picked up speed. Slocum appreciated that. The faster they went, the sooner they’d reach safety on the eastern side.

  He opened the door and went in. Sarah Jane sat where Marlene had been earlier. She gripped the arms of the chair. Her blue eyes widened in fear.

  “The bridge is wobbling,” she said in a tiny voice.

  “It’s all right, Sarah Jane,” Slocum said. “Where’re Miss Burlison and Jefferson?”

  “The next car. I think they were going to the mail car. Don’t worry about them. Stay with me. I’m frightened!”

  Slocum ignored her plea, took a step toward the rear of the car, and lost hi
s balance. He slammed hard into the side, his elbow breaking a window. Catching himself, he reached up and started to pull the emergency cord that signaled the engineer to halt. The Yuma Bullet plowed on ahead. Another whistle blast about deafened him. This one came long and loud.

  “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.

  7

  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.