Vendetta Trail (17 page)

EVERYONE ELSE ONBOARD THE TRAIN THOUGHT IT
was a failed train robbery attempt, but Rachel knew better.

“It was Tangeleno, wasn’t it?” she asked, when Hawke returned to the train.

“Yeah,” Hawke said. “It was the same two we ran into back in St. Louis.”

“How did they get here, ahead of us?”

“They probably took an earlier train, then got off and waited for us,” Hawke said. “The real question is: How do they know about Bellefont?”

“Bellefont? They don’t know about Bellefont. Nobody knows about Bellefont. I didn’t make up my mind that I was going there myself until just before I left New Orleans. And I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Just before he died, the one named Ned said Bellefont.”

Rachel shook her head. “I swear to you, Mason, I never told a soul until I told you. I don’t have any idea how he could have possibly known that I am going to Bellefont.”

“You said you didn’t make the decision to go to Bellefont until just before you left.”

“That’s right.”

“Why Bellefont? Why not Dodge City? Ft. Worth? Tucson? What made you choose Bellefont?”

“I told you, I’m going to buy a gambling house there.”

“How did you know about the gambling house?”

“I have a friend who lives there. We’ve been exchanging letters for the past year. She told me about it.”

“Did you keep those letters?”

“Yes, of course I did. She is a very good friend, and the letters are dear to me.”

“Did you bring them with you?”

“No. After the shooting, I was afraid to go back to the house.”

“So your letters are still back in your room,” Hawke said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“That’s how they learned about Bellefont. They found your letters.”

“But how could they? Clarisse would never let anyone into my…” Rachel gasped and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Mason, you don’t think they hurt Clarisse, do you?”

“They may not have hurt her,” Hawke said. “But if they wanted to get into your room, there is no way she could have stopped them.”

Less than two hours after Lorenzo left, he and a work team returned on a handcar. Lorenzo went from car to car, beaming broadly as he received his just praise for getting a work crew back in such a timely fashion.

The work crew was fast and efficient and, within forty-five minutes after they arrived, the track was repaired and the
Kansas City Flyer
was under way once more.

When the train made a sudden and unscheduled stop that morning, Dallipiccola thought that opportunity had come for him to take care of his business with the piano player and the
whore. But when practically everyone on the train went outside to see what was going on, he realized that he would have to wait a little longer.

He was as surprised as everyone else when a gun battle broke out between Hawke and a couple of unseen assailants. And, like the others, he initially thought it was a botched train robbery. But when the two bodies were brought up and displayed to the morbidly curious, he was surprised to see that it was Ned and Luby.

Back in Bellefont, Vizzini went into the telegraph office and stepped up to the counter. A sign hanging over the counter read:
BUFORD RODMAN
—
TELEGRAPHER
. And, as it so happened, Rodman was getting a telegram at that very moment.

“I’ll be right with you, sir,” he said, looking up. He continued to transcribe the telegram, then, smiling, he brushed his hands together and walked up to the counter. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

“Have you got any telegrams for Mrs. Louise Smalley?” Vizzini asked.

Rodman looked surprised. “Yes, as a matter of fact, one just came in for her.”

“Let me have it. I’ll take it to her,” Vizzini offered.

The telegrapher looked surprised by the offer. “Well, I don’t know. I’m not supposed to entrust the telegram to anyone but the recipient.”

“You mean you don’t use telegraph delivery boys?”

“Well yes, I have Jimmy, when he’s here,” Rodman said. He looked around the office. “But I have to admit that he isn’t very responsible, though. More than half the time I have to either go look him up or deliver the telegram myself.”

“If you want to deliver it yourself, that’s fine with me,” Vizzini said. “It’s just that Louise asked me to pick it up for her.”

“Louise?”

“She is my sister,” Vizzini said. “I’m in town visiting her.”

Rodman smiled broadly. “Well, sir, if you are Mrs. Smalley’s brother, then I see no reason why I shouldn’t give you the message.” He tore the message off the pad, then stuck it down into an envelope and handed it to Vizzini. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” Vizzini said.

With the telegram in hand, Vizzini returned to the hotel.

“You were right,” he said, handing the telegram to Tangeleno. “She did get one.”

“Yeah, I figured she would,” Tangeleno said, reaching for the envelope.

“Let’s see what it says.”

“They’ll be here tomorrow,” Tangeleno said, handing the message to Vizzini. “Did you have any trouble getting it?”

“No. I just told him I was her brother.”

“Good, good,” Tangeleno said. “Come on, let’s go get a drink,” he offered.

When Tangeleno and Vizzini went into the Brown Dirt a few minutes later, the bartender called out to him.

“Mr. Tangeleno,” he said. “I got somethin’ here I think you might like.”

Looking toward the bar, Tangeleno saw that the bartender was holding up a bottle of Chianti.

“Turns out that Mr. Algood had a bottle ’n’ he sold it to me,” he said.

“That’s very good of you,” Tangeleno said. “Oh, this is my friend, Mr. Vizzini.”

“Vizzini, huh?” Ely said. “Well, I’ll say this, Mr. Vizzini. Any friend of Mr. Tangeleno’s is certainly welcome in my bar.”

“Actually,” Vizzini said. “Any friend of Mr. Tangeleno’s is welcome anywhere.”

Ely tried to pull the cork on the wine bottle, but couldn’t get it out. He started to use his teeth.

“Here, don’t do that,” Tangeleno said. Don’t you have a corkscrew?”

Ely looked confused. “I don’t know what that is,” he said.

“Never mind, I’ll take care of it.” Tangeleno said. Pulling up his trouser leg, he took a knife from a sheath that was strapped to his ankle. He sliced off the top half of the cork, then pushed the bottom half down into the bottle.

“I’ll say this for you,” Ely said. “You seem to keep knives and guns all over the place.”

“Get us some glasses,” Tangeleno ordered.

Ely started to reach for a glass.

“Clean glasses,” Tangeleno said.

“Yes, sir.”

Tangeleno poured himself a glass of wine, then handed the bottle to Vizzini. Vizzini poured his own wine, then resealed the bottle with the top half of the cork. He didn’t make any effort to pay for the wine, and Ely didn’t ask.

Tangeleno and Vizzini took their glasses of wine with them and walked over to one of the tables.

Everyone in town feared Tangeleno now. It wasn’t just the fact that he had killed both Deekus and Farley, it was the absolute cold calmness of his demeanor afterward. One person described looking into Tangeleno’s eyes as “gazing into the portals of hell.”

“Damn me if that new feller don’t look near as bad as Tangeleno,” one of the men said quietly. “You reckon he carries him a gun under his jacket too?”

“From the looks of things, I’d say more’n one gun. And maybe two or three knives to boot,” Ely replied.

“Why do you reckon they carry their guns under their jacket?”

“Why not?” Ely asked. “I reckon he can carry it about anywhere he wants to carry it.”

“Well, come on, you can’t make no fast draw from there.”

“‘Fast draw’?” Ely said, laughing dryly. “Fast draw is for folks who make a game of killin’. If you take a good look at these two fellers, killin’ ain’t no game. For them it’s all business.”

“What do you think they are doin’ in Bellefont, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Ely answered. “But I hope they don’t stay long.”

Back on the train, Dallipiccola waited all day and into the night, looking for the perfect opportunity to kill Hawke and Rachel. Then, at midnight, when he was certain that nearly everyone on the train was asleep, he left his car to go find them. He would kill them both quietly, in the middle of the night, then he would leave the train and be halfway back to St. Louis before the bodies were even discovered.

The porters kept the train cars dark, in order to provide a relaxing atmosphere for the passengers. With only low-burning gimbals mounted lanterns at the front and rear walls kept the cars dark so the passengers could sleep. The day cars were the easiest to check, because all the seats were exposed and filled with passengers, twisted in tortured positions in an attempt to get comfortable.

The two sleeper cars were more difficult to check because all the berths were behind curtains. There were porters in each of the sleeper cars, but, like their passengers, they were asleep. The porters were sitting on a small stool at the back end of their respective cars, leaning against the wall, moving slightly with the sway of the train.

When Dallipiccola opened the first curtain, he realized, to his frustration, that it was too dark to see anything. He was about to give up, when he saw a candle lying on the bed. Evidently before the passenger had gone to sleep, he had been reading by candlelight.

Dallipiccola carried the candle down to the lantern, lit it, and then used it to illuminate the berths. He initially planned to examine every berth, but then reasoned that if he found one of them in the top berth, the other one would surely be in the bottom.

That reasoning enabled him to get through both sleeper cars more quickly than he thought he would. But it also proved to be a fruitless search, because he didn’t see either one of them.

Finally, he came to the Palace Car. Since he had already checked all the other cars, he knew this was where they had to be.

Dallipiccola stepped across the vestibule connector plates, but found that the door to the Palace Car was locked. He tried to open it but was startled when it was jerked opened from the inside. A porter stood just inside the door, blocking the way.

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” the porter asked.

“I, uh, just want to see what a fancy car like this looks like inside,” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you in.”

“Why not? I won’t bother anyone.”

“Because that’s the rules,” the porter said, as if that were all the reason he needed.

For just a moment, Dallipiccola considered trying to bribe his way in, but decided that it might make him too memorable. And in his business, it wasn’t good to be too memorable.

“I understand. I’m sorry if I bothered you,” Dallipiccola said.

“Ain’t no bother, sir,” the porter said. “We gets folks all the time wantin’ to take a look inside. But, like I say, I can’t let you in.”

“You are a good man,” Dallipiccola said as, without argument, he returned to his seat. He had taken passage in one of the day cars, and he cursed himself now for his parsimoniousness as he settled in as best he could to spend an uncomfortable night. He was a patient man, and he was certain that if he waited, opportunity would present itself.

THE NEXT MORNING AN IMPROMPTU RACE BROKE
out between a coyote and the
Kansas City Flyer
. The coyote kept pace with it for a while, but finally broke off its chase as the huge engine, with wisps of steam streaming back from the driver wheels, pounded tirelessly down the long lonesome expanse of railroad track.

Inside the train Hawke and Rachel had just returned from breakfast and were sitting in the elegant lounge area in the middle of the Palace Car. The big, comfortable, overstuffed chairs would rotate so passengers could either watch the scenery roll by just outside the window or turn their chairs inward so they could engage in conversation with their fellow passengers. The walls were richly paneled with rosewood and the floor was carpeted to deaden the noise of the undercarriage. On a table near the porter’s station, there were containers of coffee, tea, and water.

Rachel had her chair facing the window, watching the scenery, when she realized that they were traveling much faster than they had been.

“My,” Rachel said. “Look how fast the ground is going by. We must be going very fast.”

“We are indeed,” the conductor said, looking back toward Rachel. “We are doing better than forty miles an hour now, trying to make up for lost time.”

“Forty miles per hour? I don’t think I’ve ever gone that fast,” Rachel said. She turned to look out the window again, then she gasped. “Mason!”

“What is it?” Hawke asked.

Rachel pointed out the window at the shadow of the train as it slid quickly along the ground.

“The shadow,” she said. “I saw his shadow!”

“You saw whose shadow?”

“I don’t know. Some man,” Rachel said. “He is on the roof of the train.”

“Where is he? On this car?” Hawke asked.

“No, when I saw him, he was a few cars up that way,” Rachel said, pointing forward. “I can’t see him right now, but a moment ago there was an open area and I could see the shadow of the entire train.”

“Mr. Bates,” Hawke said, calling to the conductor, who had moved to the back of the car. “Do we have brakemen on top of this train?”

“Brakemen? Oh no, we don’t use brakemen on our passenger trains now. We have air brakes. Why?”

“We thought we saw the shadow of someone on top of the train.”

Bates laughed and shook his head. “Oh, I hardly think that. It must’ve been an optical illusion of some sort. Why, who would walk on top of this train at forty miles per hour?”

“He wasn’t walking, actually. He was all crouched over, and he was running along the top,” Rachel said.

“Which way was he heading?” Hawke asked, leaning over
to peer through the window. “Was he going toward the front of the train or toward the rear?”

“Toward the rear,” Rachel answered.

“Mr. Hawke, surely you don’t think she actually saw someone up there, do you?” Bates asked.

“Yes, I think she may have,” he said.

“What on earth would make you think such a thing?”

“Mafia,” Hawke said.

Rachel reached out to squeeze Hawke’s hand. “Oh,” she said.

“Mafia? What is Mafia? Is that a man’s name?”

“I think I’ll check it out,” Hawke said.

Hawke started toward the back door of the car, hooking the strap over his pistol to keep it from falling out.

“Mr. Hawke, where do you think you are going?” the conductor asked as Hawke reached for the door.

“I’m going up there to take a look around.”

“No, sir, I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to do that,” Bates said.

“Mr. Bates, they cut the brake hose in St. Louis. And you said yourself that if we hadn’t discovered that, it could have caused a wreck,” Hawke said. “Those same two men took out a trestle this morning. If the engineer had not seen it in time, that would have wrecked the train. Now, it would appear there is someone else on top of the train, and you say it isn’t a brakeman. So, do you really want to take a chance that it is just an optical illusion?”

“No, I…I suppose not,” Bates said. “Do what you feel you must do, but, I must caution you, the Missouri Pacific takes no responsibility for anything that might happen to you.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t blame the Missouri Pacific,” Hawke said.

Hawke stepped through the back door of the car. This was the last car, so the back vestibule was open. As he stood there,
he could see the track unwinding so quickly behind him that the cross ties were a complete blur.

The ground was whipping by at such a speed that he grew dizzy. He didn’t even like being out here at this speed, let alone up on top of the car. But he figured if someone else could do it, he could do it too.

Taking a deep breath of resolve, Hawke grabbed the little access ladder, then climbed to the top. He crawled out onto the roof of the car and lay there for a moment until he got his balance. There was a pendulum effect in the sway of the cars, with the wheels being the attaching point and the top of the car being the outer end of the pendulum arm. That meant that, up here, the swaying of the car was much more pronounced. Also, the blast of air, which, on the vestibule platform, was normally diverted by the car, was very strong up here. It was going to be difficult just to keep from falling off. Hawke stayed on his hands and knees for a moment until he was sure of his balance, then he stood up and looked toward the front of the train.

About two cars in front of him, he saw a man rise up. The man saw Hawke at the same time.

“What are you doing up here?” Hawke shouted, even though he knew he probably couldn’t be heard. His words sounded thin in the rush of wind and the roar of the train.

Dallipiccola fired at Hawke, then he turned and started running away from him, back toward the front of the train. Hawke dropped down to the roof of the car and fired back, but he missed. Dallipiccola also dropped down, then scooted forward on his belly until he reached the front of the car. He scrambled over, then climbed down. Hawke got up and started running toward him.

Suddenly Dallipiccola appeared again, this time shielded by the car so that only his head could be seen. Raising his pistol over the edge of the car, he fired, and the bullet clipped
the roof just in front of Hawke. Hawke returned fire and saw a shower of sparks made by his own bullet as it disintegrated against the top of the ladder to which Dallipiccola was clinging.

Down in the engine cab, the noise prevented Charley and Wayne from hearing the firing, so they were unaware of the drama being played out behind them. Their task was to coax as much speed as possible from the locomotive and they were doing just that. Charley was keeping the throttle wide-open, while Wayne shoveled in coal with the regularity of a machine. The train was thundering down the track and whipping around a large-radius curve at a tremendous speed.

As the train started around the curve, it opened the gap between the cars just enough for Hawke to take a well-aimed shot. But when Hawke pulled the trigger, the hammer fell upon an empty chamber. Frustrated, Hawke pulled the trigger a second time, but with the same result. He had forgotten to reload after his engagement with Ned and Luby!

Dallipiccola realized at once that Hawke was out of bullets. Smiling, he climbed back up onto the car and started running toward Hawke, holding his pistol extended in front of him. He leaped across the gap between the cars, reaching Hawke before Hawke had the opportunity to reload.

“For a piano player, you’ve been a very hard man to kill,” Dallipiccola said. He laughed, then raised his pistol.

Hawke saw that the train was about to pass under a small bridge. He saw, also, that Dallipiccola was pulling the hammer back on his pistol. “Say your prayers, Piano Player!”

“If you kill me, you’ll never find the gold,” Hawke shouted back at him.

Dallipiccola got a confused look on his face. “‘Gold’? What gold?”

“What gold? Why do you think Tangeleno has hired every
one in America to kill us? Because we got away with the gold.”

There was no gold, of course. Hawke was making a desperate play for time, hoping he could hold Dallipiccola’s interest just long enough. He didn’t need too much time. The engine was almost to the bridge now.

As Hawke hoped he would, the man lowered the pistol. “Tangeleno didn’t say anything about gold,” he said.

“How’d you find out about us? By telegram?”

His assailant nodded.

Hawke chuckled. “Come on, you think he’s going to put in a telegram that we stole half a million dollars in gold bars?”

The nose of the engine was passing under the bridge. There was about one second left.

“Look out behind you!” Hawke called, suddenly dropping flat on his stomach.

“You think I’m going to…
unhh!
”

Dallipiccola’s head, traveling at forty miles per hour, smacked hard into the side of the bridge. Hawke saw a little misty spray of blood fly, then Dallipiccola was gone over the side of the train. Hawke pressed himself flat on the top of the car as the bridge passed by overhead, then he stood up and looked back at Dallipiccola’s body, now lying grotesquely twisted on the track behind them.

Gingerly, he worked his way back to the end of the train, then climbed down the ladder. He stood out on the vestibule for a moment, then went back inside.