Storm's Thunder (21 page)

“Left thirty-seven,” the second relaying what he sees. “Then around the right . . . twice around to the . . . what's that, twelve?”

The Pinkerton nods, hunched over the dial, his left hand fingering the dial from memory. He starts it back the other way, and the Apache looks up at the colonel-major, conveying something in broken English. The colonel-major nods, but there's an impatience, like the Apache hasn't said anything he didn't already know.

“I can't read that last,” the second bringing his head closer to the dial, and when he does the Pinkerton expressman slides his dead arm into his boot and snaps upward, his dead arm all at once alive and armed with a short knife that plunges into the eye of the second in command. The second reels back, squealing in horror. The Apache springs into action. He swings the club and hits the Pinkerton on the head. The little expressman slumps and the Apache grapples him from behind and throws him to the ground. He stamps on his neck and pins him there, then the Apache looks back at his commander, pleading for permission to kill.

Swift rage consumes the colonel-major. He flies off his horse, mouth agape, as if he can't comprehend what his own eyes just witnessed. Three Dazers run over and start at once kicking the prone expressman all over his body. The colonel-major glances over at his second, now on his knees in a spill of blood that can't mean more than a minute or two more among the living.

“You lost your mind?” Craw demanding, “You think you gonna change the way this goes, you black damned fool? Look at my brother. Look what you done. And for what? For what, huh? Let me see his face.” He marches over to where the expressman lays on his belly, covering his head with his arms. The Dazers stop kicking him. “You think we ain't gonna get that money?”

“Hell with you. Hell with all you bastards!” The expressman, red-faced, shouting through a blood-filled mouth pocked with dark voids of missing teeth.

“Get him up.” For all his anger, the man called Craw shows little regard for his dying brother's condition or even easing his pain. All his attention sits focused on the Pinkerton—and a different kind of suffering. “Lay him out, over the safe.” The Dazers huddled over the Pinkerton reach down and get control of his arms and legs. A small man, the Pinkerton, but the fight not nearly out of him. He sets to flailing and kicking for his life and even shoots a hard boot heel into the knee of a young man half his age. The injured Dazer hops off, swearing a streak, and the two remaining Dazers and the Apache drop their knees into the Pinkerton's back, hoping to let him flap about to the point of exhaustion. But Craw incites a flurry of activity.

“Fetch my two-man,” barking to the Dazer in red flannel. “It's with the mules.” The Dazer races off toward a clutch of mules and horses back up the arroyo. Something about the order causes unrest among the more senior members of the colonel-major's gang. Sergeant Lon and Eagle Feather intercept him in front of the bannerman.

“You do it this way, he's gonna kick,” Lon says.

“Four of you hold him down. Hell, use the whole team, let him kick all he wants. He'll stop kicking when he sees the two-man.”

“What I'm saying,” Lon making his case, “is if we hold him down, who's gonna watch them?” Lon jabs an elbow toward us and the colonel-major looks up, an idea flowering in his head.

“Even better,” Craw says. “You.” He points right at me. “And that one there,” indicating Owens. Lon starts my way, Eagle Feather heading for Owens. Clara May sets to protesting before the plan has even formulated.

“No, no. Please.”

“On your feet,” Lon approaching, the four-ten steady. I stand up and step toward him as Eagle Feather rouses Owens.

“Go with mamma, now,” Owens passing boy to his mother. “You be brave, son.” The boy wails, liquid bubbling from nose and mouth as he reaches for his departing father with a small, outstretched hand. Owens—his entire family howling in tears—lets Eagle Feather push him toward the safe and we bump elbows as Lon steers me in similar fashion.

“Two more,” Craw appraising the survivors in earnest now. “That old timer's got some pluck, get him in here.” I think he means Ballentine, but I can't be sure.

Red Flannel returns, winded, with a mule so loaded up with gear the animal seems near collapse. The Dazers get off the Pinkerton's back and bring him to his feet, but if they were to let go he'd drop straight back down again. Two Dazers escort a third into my periphery and I look over and see Ballentine, his ruddiness faded to an ashen gray.

“Need one more, boss,” Lon using the four-ten barrel to guide me to a position at one corner of the safe.

“That young buck, there,” Craw pointing to George. “He can hold a leg.” Eagle Feather doesn't like the idea.

“That one's trouble, boss.”

“He makes trouble, he's next,” Craw speaking up so George hears him plain. “Come on, get him up.” Eagle Feather leads a small contingent over to where George sits motionless.

“You hear that?” Eagle Feather warning him. “Any lick of trouble and it's over for you. Now on your feet.” George complies as they pull him up and lead him over to the opposite corner of the safe. Only then does Eagle Feather cut the rope that binds him.

“Where's my mule?” Craw growling as he stomps toward his gear.

“All right, rest of you, get back to work,” Eagle Feather commanding, but a ripple of nerves undercuts his voice. “Be dark soon. Every car's gotta be checked. Go on now.” The bulk of the Dazers head off, grumbling, back to their duties of looting the rest of the train and, most likely, executing any survivors. I think about the stallion again. The fight in him might just get him killed, if he ain't dead already. But the thought that burns the most is—what if the shock of the last hour has rendered him bashful, even docile? After the strongbox, Storm is the most valuable thing on this train. And if he's in one piece it won't take a trained eye to recognize that. I don't like any of it, not at all. The four-ten jabs my kidney, pulling me back to now.

“Get that shirt off him,” Craw yelling from behind his mule. I can't see what he's up to, but the rage in his voice shows no sign of letting up. The four of us stand around the safe, surrounding the Pinkerton, and behind each of us is an armed Dazer. The Apache makes the fifth wheel, the last word come trouble. The sound of cursing and gear being tossed about rises up from behind the mule, and in the window before the tempest Ballentine catches the eye of the Pinkerton.

“What's you name, friend?”

“Quiet,” Lon says. The Apache steps in and cuts down the back of the expressman's shirt. The rest of it rips off easy, revealing a torso eaten up with bloody gashes. The beating he took already would kill most any man half his age, and here he stands, meeting Ballentine's eye through blue-black slits nearly swollen shut. Toughness to a fault—that's a Pinkerton, for you.

“McLeash.” The man straightening with pride. “General Jeremiah McLeash, Army of the Cumberland.”

“Jeremiah, give 'em what he wants. Ain't a man here think less of you.”

“I said shut up,” Lon slapping Ballentine across the head. Spooner absorbs the blow and, with a shudder, comports himself. Even at gunpoint, his chin and dignity stay high as summer corn.

The big eye pulls the last of its fiery redness down behind the ridge above the arroyo, draping us in the cold shadow of dying day. So much dying. The colonel-major works his way back from the mule, something long and heavy slowing his approach. A Dazer moves behind him at the same speed, an unwavering distance between them.

And then I see the saw blade—six feet of steel, slightly bowed, like a grin—every tooth nearly two inches of razor sharp destruction. A thick, wood dowel juts up from each end, forming the pair of handles that leave no doubt how the “two-man” earned its name.

“Oh, dear God,” Spooner reeling as the saw's full presence unfolds. “Jeremiah, ain't no number of Union dollars worth dying for. Help yourself, man.”

“Listen to him, fool,” Craw's voice coolly resigned in its meanness. “That flouncy reb's makin' sense. I'm asking for the last time. You tell me how to crack that box, or I'll saw you in half.”

There lives, in the heart of every White Man, an expectation of privilege. And even staring down the barrel of death, sometimes the message that a dire situation has slipped from bad to worse falls on deaf ears. Now this small, broken old man thinks the color of his skin, or the company he works for, or some forgotten title from a fading war might pluck him from his predicament. But if a talker like Ballentine can't crack the code, then the cold sand of a dry arroyo swallows up another body.

“I give an oath to Mister Pinkerton himself. I survived Andersonville. I survived Comanche. I can sure as hell survive the likes of you.”

“Suit yourself. Lay him down.”

“You four,” Lon says, “each of you takes an arm, or a leg. You let go of that arm or leg, we shoot you dead.”

George steps forward and shoves Jeremiah McLeash backward. He falls back over the safe, his chest facing the sky, and I reach down and grab one of his legs, George locking up the other leg.

“It ain't gotta be like this,” Owens whispering as he secures the old man's arm in his own. “Just tell 'em you can't open it.”

Ballentine is the last to wrap up his duty, having to sit flat on his backside instead of kneeling like the rest of us. He doesn't move well, but once he gets a good enough grip, Craw steps in with the saw. Lon stores the four-ten in his belt and picks up the opposite end. The two of them heft the blade up and let it hang there for the Pinkerton to see. I can't help but look up at it, the bluish light finding a sliver of shine on the dirty, crusted steel. That saw has been through the paces, whatever they are, but cutting men in two weren't part of its recent past. The sweet smell of pine sap—unmistakable—flavors the air, confusing every sense of the landscape. No pinyon tree takes root within a hundred miles of here.

“Now or never, old man,” Craw says.

I feel McLeash tense as the teeth of the blade settle over his vision. What man wouldn't? And a breath more like a whimper slips out of him before he can stop.

“Okay,” the Pinkerton's voice a shell of what it had been. Craw leans in, listening, but otherwise fully committed to letting the saw speak. “I'll tell you.”

“Get to it, then.”

“Left thirty-seven.”

“Yeah, we got that much.”

“Right . . .” Jeremiah choking back a sob.

“No, no.” Owens muttering, close to his ear.

“Right, twelve.”

“Go on, what's after that?” Craw unimpressed.

“Left, ff—ff—-.”

Craw bends all the way forward, his face hovering over the Pinkerton's sputtering mouth. “Fuck your mother!” Then the Pinkerton busts into a laugh—a full, deep gut-buster.

“Cut him already,” I hear George say. But Craw stands frozen, caught in a haymaker of disbelief, until he explodes.

“Turn him over. Turn him over!”

Lon scrunches his mouth, confused. “What?”

“Turn him over. We're going through the back,
so it hurts more!
” Craw cuffs Owens across the head, ordering him to let go. Owens slackens his grip, I and the others do the same. And in a fluid motion Craw himself grabs the laughing Pinkerton and flips him over like a slab of dough. “Hold this bastard tight,” the four of us resuming our positions with the opposite limb. Craw snatches up his handle of the blade, Lon's already poised above the Pinkerton. They maneuver the center teeth over the midpoint of his spine, holding it there, a foot above him, until Craw's signal.

Then Craw nods. The blade drops straight down, of its own weight, and I clamp my eyes shut, Jeremiah's leg convulsing against my cheek. A sound like no other—the kind of agony that equalizes all men—rings out in a curdling shriek that shatters the twilight.

And then the blade begins to move. It takes less than a full swipe to crunch through the spine, and only half that to end the terrible screaming.

CHAPTER TWENTY

They pull the body of Jeremiah McLeash off the safe and one of the Dazers drags it a piece—until the little flap of muscle holding the torso to the legs tears off—and then the man says to hell with it and lets it drop. Vultures can do the rest. The Dazers take far greater care with the saw, wiping it down and leaning it against the berm to dry. The four of us get ordered back to sit with the others, while Lon sends Red Flannel to bring more rope. I suspect now they plan to tie us all up, at least the men, but for now George and I sit at Lon's feet, the four-ten swaying above our heads. Craw parlays with his inner cadre, near the horses, close enough that I hear the urgency in his voice.

“Be pitch dark in half hour. Hell if I want to be blasting a strong box by torch light. Fetch the gelignite.”

Owens lifts his head, concern heavy on his brow. He sits with his family. Clara May paws at his shoulder to keep quiet, but something about the new plan has him all worked up. The bannerman fumbles through a satchel and comes out with a leather pouch and a small wooden box. He hands them to Craw, who opens the box and stares down, frowning, at a square of gray clay.

“How much, you think? All of it?”

“The fella sold it said half oughta do, for most things,” Eagle Feather says.

“All right then,” Craw opening up the pouch. His hand returns with a blasting cap, the kind we used to play with as kids.

“Excuse me, sir.” Owens raises a finger to speak and Clara pulls it down, hissing in his ear.

“Sit your ass down,” Lon stepping toward him. The second Lon moves, I glance up and meet George's eye looking straight into mine—an entire conspiracy passing between us without a word.
First chance we get, we fight. And fight heavy.
Half a dozen barrels swing onto Owens. He swallows hard, his arms raising, palms out.

“Sir, my name is James Owens.”

“What do you want?” Craw says.

“I am a engineer of demolitions, in the employ of Anaconda Mining Company.”

“Anaconda?” Eagle Feather says. “That's the Hearst outfit.”

“That's right, sir. And I believe my talents can be of assistance to you. I see you got a batch of gelignite there.”

“What of it?” Craw growing impatient.

“Well, sir. Thing is . . .” Owens choosing his words careful. “As I'm sure you know, a chunk like that's enough to blow us all to kingdom come. The gelignite's powerful material. State-of-the-art. Also prickly as all get-out. And if not laid just so, every inch of lead in that safe becomes a cannonball, shooting in all directions.”

“That so?” Craw says. “Guess we'll need to watch ourselves, then. Quarter oughta do it.”

“It'll also incinerate whatever's in that safe.” Bull's-eye. Smart fella, Owens. Craw looks at him, greedy-eyed, the gears turning.

A horse cries out, far down the line, and a cold shudder drips down my spine. Wood splinters off in the distance, followed by shouting. The rest of the Dazers are cutting their way through the cars. But I know every sound Storm can muster, and that was not the stallion. Not yet, anyway. Craw confers with Eagle Feather, the flag-bearer listening and nodding, not much else.

* * *

I feel a presence slide in behind me and George. I don't dare turn around, but I catch a whiff of aftershave that I make for the older fella travelling with his wife. A man's voice, nearly inaudible and shaking with age, begins to speak.

“Now listen, boys. There's no need to do anything rash. I overheard these fellas talking and they aim to keeps us alive. See, the railroad company will pay to get us back. We're first-class. Rich even. The rail company can't let the respectable sort get kidnapped.” I am not rich anymore, but I let him keep talking. “So the plan is, we go with these fellas, and at the appropriate time, they'll sell us back to the company.”

“And if the company don't pay?” George says.

“Of course they'll pay. And if not, our families will.” Through his whisper, the man sounds hopeful, even cheery.

I bit down on a wave of sadness, but don't have the luxury or time to debate the old fool. I have no doubt he heard what he says he heard. Whether it was spoken in truth to keep us calm, or a lie to mask some darker course, I cannot say. But no matter how many times I unfold it and look at it, I can't figure how any sensible outlaw—even a reckless outfit like this—allows twelve witnesses to walk back into civilization knowing the faces of their captors. What would more likely happen, if they don't slaughter us here, is we become the last-chance bargaining chips in case the army tracks the Dazers down before they get back to their hideout. Maybe the army strikes a deal, maybe not. But my value, rest assured, wouldn't amount to a pile of pennies once the rail barons sniff out the true color of my blood.

“Just thought I'd make you boys aware. It's all gonna be okay.” I dip my head, letting him know I hear him clear. The gritty sand shuffles behind me and I feel the presence retreat back to its starting place.

“I ain't got no family's gonna pay to get me outta this,” George says.

“Me neither.” And our plan, what there is of it, remains unaltered.

* * *

“That your kin with you?” Craw pointing to Owens's family.

“Yes, sir. My wife and children.”

“All right then,” Craw says. He waves Owens forward, Clara May tugging on his shirt.

“No, James, don't. Please!”

“Darling,” he cradles her trembling face, eyes full of love. “Let me give them what they want. It'll be all right.” He kisses her, like he did on the train. She lets him go, sobbing into her hand. Owens bends down and hugs both children at once, and when he tries to break away they won't let go, screaming in his ear to stay.

“Let's get on with it,” Craw says. Clara May pulls the children's arms—like stubborn vines—off their father. The old woman slides over to help with the children, who are inconsolable. Owens takes the wooden box from Craw and before handing him the detonators, Craw says, “You burn up my money, I'll roast your family and make you watch.”

* * *

They move us back, over the top of the berm, into a tight line for easier guarding. We are in fact, twelve, counting Owens—the only survivors, far as I can see. But only the men have their hands bound behind the back. The thin rawhide cord digs into the skin, but when I stretch it, there is play in the knot. George pulls at his too, every chance he gets. Red Flannel tied it with a mix of grannies and overhand knots that no respectable cowpoke would use beyond the age of nine. These bandits aren't soldiers and they sure as hell ain't horsemen. So who are they?

They've already told me plenty.

Craw and his inner sanctum peer over the berm, same as we do, with a handful of soldiers—six by my count, all heavily ironed with shotguns and repeating rifles—minding the captives. The horses stand unattended at the base of the berm behind us, not far from the drying two-man. One of the horses meanders over and gives the saw a lick. All along the line of the gutted Santa Fe, the sounds of blasting and sawing and chopping continue unabated as the rest of Craw's men go about their pillage. Fires dot the bluing dusk, made blacker by the thick smoke of burning wood and the glowing coal of the tender car.

On the other side of the berm, at the edge of the arroyo, Owens makes for a lonely island. He sits cross-legged atop the safe, working upside down by the flickering light of two torches planted into the ground. The strongbox door faces away from us, out into the arroyo. We stare at Owens's backside, but such nervous anticipation hangs in the air, you'd think us a crowd of picnickers what had camped itself too close to the impending fireworks on the Fourth of July. Even for a robbery, the prospect of something blowing up proves too enticing to look away.

“He ain't gonna stay sitting there when it pop, is he?” Craw asks.

“Says it's the safest place to be,” Eagle Feather shrugging.

“His funeral,” Craw snorts, a chorus of laughter following. “How much longer?” yelling to Owens.

Owens doesn't look up from his work, and only answers because it's Craw asking. “Just another minute. These detonators are very old,” his voice in deep concentration.

“I'll be sure and parlay that to the dead man what sold 'em to us.”

* * *

Owens wipes his brow on his sleeve and breaks off a dab of gelignite, then he breaks off two pieces from that and stuffs them into his ears.

“Children,” he says. “Plug up your ears and look away.”

“When's it gonna blow?” Eagle Feather asks.

“Now.”

Something fizzles on the front of the safe. Owens covers his ear and spins on his butt and has hardly moved at all when—

An explosion, almost elegant in its clean precision, BOOMS from beneath him. A minor panic spreads through the crowd, faces kissing the dirt. I keep one eye trained over the berm. The safe door shoots straight out, spinning like a top, a hundred yards into the arroyo. And when the smoke clears, James Owens, chief demolitions engineer of the Anaconda Mining Company, sits cross-legged atop an open safe that hasn't moved an inch.

“Hot damn!” Craw bounds over the berm and charges down the hill, the cadre stumbling after him in raucous exaltation. My first look is at George. He separates his wrists—just enough to show me his freedom—then pushes them together again, preserving the visual effect of his bondage.

“Y'all stay put,” Lon and the four-ten remindful of their proximity. Owens climbs down off the safe and brushes off the dust.

“Oh, thank God,” Clara May crumbling with relief. Craw and the others blow past Owens without so much as a pat on the back and Owens starts up the berm toward us.

Craw peers into the safe and more hoots and hollers come with it. He reaches inside and pulls out two solid gold bricks.

In triumph, he hoists them over his head, “Lord, ain't that a beautiful sight—SONOFABITCH THAT'S HOT!” and throws them down, hopscotching in pain, with seared fingertips. The other boys fall about themselves laughing, and even Craw is too rich and happy to fret the insult.

“Guess I shoulda warned 'em they'd be hot,” Owens smirking as he crests the top of the berm. Clara May is there to meet him with a slap to the face, which he knows he had coming. She falls into his arm and they set about kissing again.

“You're an artist, Owens,” Spooner says, slapping his back. A cloud of dust poofs from the fabric. “Most impressive. If the South had a few pounds of that stuff, Fort Sumter'd be sitting at the bottom of Charleston Harbor.”

“Hey,” Lon calling to Red Flannel, “Get him tied up again.”

“Yeah, you ain't gotta turn my hands blue this time.” Owens says.

“I'm out of cord,” Red Flannel says. “You got any?”

“Idiot,” Lon unable to hide his contempt.

“Where the hell am I gonna go?” Owens shrugging. Red Flannel edges closer, hefting a rifle.

* * *

Craw and his four most trusted men stand together, admiring their newfound riches. The guidon removes his hat and fans out the smoke from the safe, cooling whatever is inside.

Both the torches blew out in the blast and Eagle Feather uproots one of them and brings a match to it. The torch flares and he uses that one to light the other. The bannerman pulls up the second torch and brings it close to the safe.

“There must be twenty of 'em,” the guidon marveling. “Twenty bricks. And a shitload of paper, too!”

Craw slaps his hands together—victorious—as the enormous effort of his caper yields a bounty far beyond his dreams. Eagle Feather, his broad, smiling face bathed in fiery orange light, puts his hand on Craw's shoulder and says, “We done it, boss. We done it.”

Eagle Feather's head twists hard to the side, half of it blowing off in a trail of pink mist. The Dazer next to him staggers backward, a soupy, red hole erupting from his chest.

Two men lay dead before the sound of the rifle even hits us.

“Sniper!”

And then the real panic starts.

George pivots and explodes from the hips, throwing an uppercut that lands true on the belly of Red Flannel. I hear an expulsion of air, bodies scuffling. I turn and run straight at Lon, the shotgun rising toward me. I lower my shoulder and crash into his chest, both of us flying down the backside of the berm. The four-ten booms near my head, the shock wave rippling against my skin. We hit the ground hard, rolling now, knotted together, down the berm until we crash into something. Lon screams—a terrified shriek. I peel off him, rising to my knees. Lon lays twisted against the two-man, the jagged teeth buried deep in his side. He paws for the shotgun. Without thinking, I throw myself into him, impaling him further against the saw. He coughs, blood spurting from his mouth. I rear back and throw my weight once more. The breath goes out of him and he stops fighting. In death, he looks like a boy. Like they always do.

Amid the pandemonium—screaming voices and counterfire—the report of the sniper's rifle echoes, unabated, through the darkening canyon. I flop onto my back and shimmy my bound arms down the back of legs, over the boots, and around the front. I scrape the rawhide cord against of the saw's teeth, shredding the hide in an instant. Something about that rifle fire—the comfort of the sound—slows my racing heart. I draw the pistol from my trousers, scoop up the four-ten and bandolier, and charge back up the hill, double-fisted.

Red Flannel flies down the berm, unable to protect his fall. He hits awkward and comes to stop near my feet, clutching what's left of his throat. George ripped the meat of it out with his bare hands. George stands high up the berm, his fists and forearms covered in blood.