Longarm and the Train Robbers (19 page)

"I'll report
back," Longarm said.  "And if there is a bank robbery or murder,
you've only to ask and I'll assist you in any way that I
can."

"Thank you very
much," Dudley said with an embarrassed grin.  "I ain't been on
this job more than a few weeks.  I don't even know if I'm cut out
for it, but I just got married and I needed work.  My wife is
scared to death that I'm going to get beat up or
shot."

"It goes with the
territory," Longarm said.  "My advice to you is to treat people
with respect and not follow Denton's bad example.  He might be
big and strong enough to bully people, but you
aren't."

"I know that,
sir."

Longarm paused. 
"I can't advise you on what to do, but I will say this. The old
adage says that it is not the size of the dog but the size of the
dog's fight that counts.  I've known some deputies that didn't
weigh much more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, and they
commanded all the authority and respect they needed or ever
wanted.  And I've known big, tough men like Denton who bullied
men and then got waylaid or ambushed and sent to Boot
Hill."

Longarm heard the
sound of the train whistle announcing its imminent departure. 
"Ron, you go ahead and talk softly, but learn how to use both a
gun and a rifle better than any man in this town.  If you do
that, and people see that you're serious about your job, they'll
treat you right and there won't be a problem that you cannot
handle."

"Yes,
sir!"

Longarm barely
made it to the train.  It was slowly rolling west toward the
steep Sierra foothills when Longarm swung on board the caboose. 
Gasping and wheezing in the cold, thin air, he staggered into the
mail car and collapsed on a bench with the heavy Winchester still
clenched in his hand.

A railroad
signalman with ruddy cheeks and an Irish smile said, "Welcome
back aboard, Marshal Long!  Thought you'd left us for good.  Glad
to see you again."

"Thanks.  You
wouldn't happen to have a little whiskey hidden about somewhere,
would you?"

"Are there
shamrocks in Ireland?"

Longarm laughed. 
"I do believe there are."

"Then," the man
said with a twinkle in his eyes, "there is Irish whiskey to be
found in this car!"

There was actually
quite a bit of Irish whiskey stuffed into hidden places on
board.  And as the train struggled mightily up a steep grade
built along the rushing Truckee River, Longarm and signalman Liam
O'Neil enjoyed it to the fullest.

"How far are you
goin'?" Liam asked as he passed the bottle to Longarm.

"To the wreck at
Donner Pass."

"Oh," Liam said,
with a solemn shake of his head.  "Now that was an awful thing! 
A terrible thing!"

"I was on the
train that was blown off the tracks at Laramie Summit," Longarm
said.  "So I know how bad it is."

"Oh, I hope you
catch 'em!  It would be a fine day for this railroad and we'd
celebrate."

"I'll catch them,"
Longarm vowed, looking out the window at the rugged mountains
that they were trying to crest.

He thought of the
gang member he'd shot at the Laramie blacksmith shop, of Blake
Huntington's dead and glass-cut body lying in an alley behind the
Outpost Hotel, of the fella he'd killed in the shootout at the
ranch house, and finally of Fergus in the mail car.

"Liam, I take no
satisfaction in saying this, but I've already killed four men
that were part of that train-robbing bunch.  I'll never know
exactly what role each played, but they were all somehow
connected."

"And were they
also a part of the gang that did the evil work at Donner
Pass?"

"I think so." 
Longarm took a pull on the bottle of Irish whiskey.  "Do you live
in Reno?"

"I do!"

"Then do you know
the name of an important state senator that made a fortune on the
Comstock Lode, but then lost it again on mining
stocks?"

"That sounds like
Senator George Howard.  He's up for reelection and it's almost
sure that we'll vote the bastard out of office."

"He's
incompetent?"

"He's a crook!" 
Liam's voice turned hard.  "He's got his hands into every dirty
game in western Nevada.  More is the wonder that he hasn't been
hanged by the vigilantes before now."

"Where does he
live?"

"in Reno. 
Somewhere over in the fancy part of town."  Liam raised his
eyebrows.  "And why would you be askin'?"

"I've got my
reasons."

"Is he in cahoots
with this gang?"

"I didn't say
that."

"You didn't need
to, Marshal.  I can see the hunter's lust gleaming in your eyes. 
You're like an Irish setter hunting pheasants in the field.
You've the nose for blood and the heart for the hunt."

Longarm shrugged
and took another drink.  "What do you know about this fella named
Bruce Pettibone?"

"Oh," Liam said,
eyebrows lifting, "there's a good man!"

Longarm was
surprised.  It was his experience that most railroad detectives
and administrators were long on corporate politics and short on
good sense.  "For a fact?"

"Sure!  Mr.
Pettibone is a fine man and a brave one too!  He's tracked down
and shot outlaws who tried to rob the Union Pacific.  He
has!"

"Well," Longarm
said, "in that case, I'm looking forward to meeting Mr. Bruce
Pettibone."

CHAPTER
16

The trip up to
Donner Lake was slow but picturesque.  The lower, sage-covered
hills gave way to Douglas fir and ponderosa pine and the air
became even colder.  From the sheltered comfort of a coach,
Longarm watched freighters using oxen, mules, and horses as they
struggled up the winding and muddy road toward Lake
Tahoe.

The train passed
through immense wooden snowsheds that jutted out from the
mountainside to shunt off avalanches and keep the tracks open
after the worst of the winter storms.  A good thousand feet below
Donner Summit snow blanketed the ground, and Longarm knew that it
was going to be almost impossible to find any evidence around the
wreck of the train.  He knew that most of whatever new
information he would learn would have to come from Bruce
Pettibone.

The train passed
above Donner Lake, frozen and glazed with fresh snow. When they
arrived at the depot, Longarm was the only passenger to
disembark. The train did take on two freezing passengers, and
then waited to load some cargo before pulling out of the depot
for Sacramento.

"Good luck to
you!" Liam shouted.  "You catch and hang them bloody
train-wreckin' bastards!"

"I'll do my best,"
Longarm called, watching as Liam went to help another train
employee load some heavy wooden crates into the mail
car.

The train depot at
Donner Pass wasn't much.  In the summertime, there was a heavy
influx of people seeking the cool relief of the mountains.  There
were a few log cabins nearby, but most of those were down near
the lake.  Longarm entered the depot and headed for the ticket
cage.

"Good afternoon,"
he said.  "I'm looking for Mr. Bruce Pettibone.  Is he
around?"

"Yep.  But you'd
better hurry outside because he's about to board that train for
Sacramento."

"He can't do
that!"

The ticket man
shrugged.  "There are very few men that can tell Mr. Pettibone
what to do.  But it's a free country and you're welcome to try. 
You can see him through that window.  Short, handsome fella in
the red woolen mackinaw."

Pettibone was a
round bundle of energy and motion.  Barely five and a half feet
tall, he was uncommonly wide-shouldered.  Longarm's first
impression was of a beer barrel with arms and legs.  He was
baby-faced, but obviously not young because his hair was shot
with silver.

"Mr. Pettibone!"
Longarm called, hurrying after the man.

Pettibone turned. 
"Yes?"

Longarm fumbled
for his badge.  "I'm a federal deputy marshal from Denver and I
believe that the Laramie Summit derailment was committed by the
same people that also derailed the train at Donner
Pass."

"What makes you
think so?"

"It's a long
story."

"I'm sorry,
Deputy, but I've got to return to Sacramento."

The man started to
walk past, but Longarm blocked his path.  "I need your help.  The
people who wrecked your train are the same ones that sent the
train I was riding in over the edge of a mountain just east of
Laramie Summit."

"My investigation
tells me that is entirely possible.  However, I'm working alone
on this case."

"Do you have any
suspects?"

"No, not really,
but-"

"I've killed four
of the men that belong to the same gang that you are hunting." 
Longarm looked Pettibone square in the eyes.  "And I have
names."

Pettibone
blinked.  "You have names?"

"That's
right."

Pettibone glanced
at the men as they finished loading the crates.  The train
blasted its steam whistle, and he and Longarm could hear the
couplings strain as the big drivers that had pulled the train up
the mountain began to roll forward.

"Give them to
me!"

But Longarm shook
his head.  "I'll be damned if I'm going to help you or your
railroad if you won't cooperate in this
investigation."

Pettibone's face
darkened with anger.  The train began to move slowly. "If you
have suspects, I can work from Sacramento while you operate out
of Reno.  We can use the telegraph and probably be more effective
than if we worked together."

"We work together
here or not at all," Longarm said bluntly.  "And unless your
career depends on you getting on board that train, I suggest you
miss it and take me out to the wreck.  I want to see it and hear
everything that you know."

"Is that right?"
Pettibone exclaimed with exasperation.  "Well, when in tarnation
would I get to hear the names of your supposed
suspects?"

"Right
afterward."

Pettibone was a
man torn between exasperation, curiosity, and desire. Very likely
he considered that Longarm could not deliver the promised goods
or that the names he had were worthless.  Very likely he also had
someone waiting at the Sacramento depot for him who would be very
disappointed if he did not show up.

"Give me just one
of your suspects' names!"

Longarm balanced
his Winchester across his chest.  "All right," he agreed, "let's
start at the top of the dung heap.  The mastermind who planned
and probably financed the derailment of both trains is no less
than State Senator George Howard."

Pettibone gaped
with astonishment.  He seemed to have trouble finding words. 
Finally he stammered, "It's taken me thousands of hours of
investigation to reach that same conclusion!  How did
you-"

"Your Sacramento
train is leaving," Longarm said.  "the question I have is, are
you going or are you staying with me until we break this
case?"

Pettibone took a
deep breath.  "I'm staying," he decided.  "Let's go back inside
where we can talk in my office."

On the way in,
Pettibone called to the ticket man to locate the depot's
telegraph operator.  "Tell him to wire the Sacramento depot where
my wife and two sons will be expecting me in about three hours. 
Tell him to say that I have been delayed and will come home as
soon as possible."

"Yes,
sir!"

"This way,"
Pettibone growled as he strolled across the depot lobby and used
a key to unlock an unmarked door.

Pettibone's office
was in a clutter, which was a credit to the man as far as Longarm
was concerned.  Show Longarm a neat lawman or detective and he'd
show you a man that did not have enough to do.

"Sit down,"
Pettibone ordered.

"No," Longarm
said, dropping his bags and leaning his Winchester up against a
scarred file case.  "I want to inspect the site of the derailment
and then hear what you know before I tell you
anymore."

"I'm in charge
here!"

Longarm shook his
head.  "You know, that's exactly the same attitude that got
Marshal Denton all banged up and admitted to the
hospital."

"Denton is in the
hospital?"

"Yep."  Longarm
massaged his bruised and skinned knuckles, and the meaning was
very clear.

Pettibone's scowl
melted and he even grinned.  "Well, I'll be damned!  I thought
that I was the one that was finally going to have to take that
big bastard down a peg or two."

Longarm said
nothing.

"Listen,"
Pettibone continued, "any man that can whip Denton is a man that
I can respect.  Do you have any proof about Senator
Howard?"

"Not
yet."

Pettibone
frowned.  "All right," he said.  "Have you ever worn
snowshoes?"