The Killing Season (32 page)

“God,” Collins said in awe, “can you do that?”

“We're about to find out,” said Nathan. “The safety of that silver shipment may well depend on it. I want nothing said to
anybody
until I have heard from Kansas City. It'll take a telegram from Pierce Malone or Foster Hagerman to release that silver shipment, and I want not a word of this to get past the dispatcher's office.”

“Do you want the telegraph key and the lineman's spurs now?” Art asked.

“Yes,” said Nathan, “and I'd appreciate you keeping watch while I'm up the pole.”

“Is there anything the rest of us can do?” Dub Collins asked.

“Not right now,” said Nathan. “You'll need to get upsteam in the morning and be ready to roll when the dispatcher gets word to release that silver shipment. For now, all I can do is hope there's a dispatcher on duty in Kansas City who's got the sand to wake up the president of the AT and SF in the middle of the night.”

The sleepy dispatcher awakened to the chattering of the telegraph key, and he couldn't believe his ears. He knew of nothing more urgent than the routine departure of the six o'clock westbound. He had remained in the office because he had to be there at four, when the trainmen arrived. He doubted there was a railroad dispatcher anywhere who was on the line past midnight, and he hurriedly lighted a lamp. The instrument was signaling the same message over and over, requesting permission to send. Hurriedly he copied the message. It was addressed to Pierce Malone, and it read:

The message was signed “Nathan Stone.”

Quickly the dispatcher acknowledged, adding that response would not be immediate. He sighed, for it became his unpleasant duty to awaken Pierce Malone, president of the AT and SF railroad at one o'clock on Sunday morning.

A disgruntled butler answered the door with the expected response.

“Mr. Malone has retired for the night. He will be in the office Monday morning.”

“This can't wait until Monday morning,” said the dispatcher. “He must answer a telegram tonight. It's most urgent.”

Malone eventually appeared, and in anything but a good mood.

“Just who is Nathan Stone,” the railroad president demanded, “and
where
in hell is he? The dispatcher's office in Pueblo should be closed.”

“He's tied directly into the line, sir,” the dispatcher said, “and he knows the code as well as I do. I'm sorry to have awakened you, but if he's bringing a train east ...”

“Damn it, Higgins, you did the right thing,” Malone growled. “Wire Stone, tell him to get the hell off that pole and go to the dispatcher's office. I'll be in touch with him there within the hour. Then wire the dispatcher in Pueblo and tell him to let Stone in. Sign my name. Now get going.”

 

“He's taking long enough,” said Art Raines. “Suppose he doesn't answer?”

“He will,” said Nathan, from his perch on the telegraph pole.

Within seconds, the instrument clicked out a request to send, and Nathan responded. With some relief, he listened to the response and acknowledged it. He then disconnected his patch and walked his way to the ground.

“That was mighty short,” Art Raines said.

“That was the dispatcher in Kansas City,” said Nathan. “He's contacting the dispatcher here, telling him to let me in. Malone will be in touch with me as soon as he can get to the dispatcher's office. Go on back to the bunkhouse and all of you get what sleep you can. We'll be rolling out of here at six, highballing.”

By the time Nathan reached the dispatcher's office, a lamp had been lighted and one of the armed men stood outside the door. He demanded identification.

“I'm Nathan Stone.”

The dispatcher sat before the telegraph key, rubbing his eyes. The two guards eyed Nathan doubtfully. Nathan said nothing, and it was the dispatcher who finally spoke.

“Mr. Malone's goin' to be mad as hell. This better be important.”

“It is,” Nathan said, “and I'm taking full responsibility. When Malone responds, step aside. I'll send my own message.”

When Malone's message came, it was a question, blunt and to the point:

Nathan's response was equally blunt:

“Take over,” Nathan told the dispatcher. “The next message should be for you.”

When the key again began to chatter, the dispatcher took down the message. Nathan read it as it came over the wire:

It was signed, “Pierce Malone, President AT & SF.”

“My God, mister,” said the dispatcher, “you got some authority. Nothing like this ever happened before. I just hope three thirty-eight's crew ain't out in the saloons. They won't be expectin' this.”

“They're in the bunkhouse,” Nathan replied, “and they already know. I want the three of you to remain here until train time, and whatever happens, you are to tell nobody of this change in schedule.
Comprende?”

They nodded and Nathan made his way back to the bunkhouse. Not surprisingly, the trainmen were still awake, curious.

“Are we cleared?” Collins asked.

“We're cleared all the way to Kansas City,” said Nathan, “by order of Pierce Malone himself. The first westbound will wait for us on the siding at Dodge, and the second will take the siding at Wichita.”

“It'll take some time to build up steam,” Amos Handy said. “We'll have to be up at four o'clock, so why don't we just get up now? We can go over to the Starlight and have us some breakfast.”

“Go ahead,” said Nathan. “Just don't say a word about this change in schedule. Not to anybody. If there's any questions, you've all been making the rounds of the saloons, and have worked up an appetite.”

They dressed and left, leaving Nathan to stretch out on his bunk for the little time he had left for sleeping. When he awoke, Enos Pilpaw and Art Raines had returned.

“It's a few minutes past four,” Enos said. “Dub and Amos are checking in with the dispatcher. Then they'll fire up old three thirty-eight and begin buildin' steam.”

“While they're doing that,” said Nathan, “I'm going for some breakfast and hot coffee. Who did you see at the Starlight Cafe?”

“Just the cook and Elsa Gavin,” Enos said. “She never asked us any questions.”

Nathan entered the cafe, and Elsa Gavin took his order. She was maybe twenty years older than Melanie, and while time had robbed her of some of her beauty, much remained. Nathan wondered where Melanie was, if she was with Clell Shanklin, and what Shanklin had in mind regarding the silver. While shipping it a day early might take thieves by surprise, such a tactic wouldn't work a second time. Try as he might, Nathan couldn't rid himself of the suspicion that Clell Shanklin was a potential thief, or at best, would sell information to others, regarding silver shipments. It was a situation he intended to discuss with Foster Hagerman at the earliest opportunity. By the time he left the cafe, Nathan could hear the chuff-chuff-chuff of the locomotive, as it built a head of steam. Art Raines and Enos Pilpaw sat on their bunks, waiting, when Nathan reached the bunkhouse.

“Amos will have up enough steam to leave at five o'clock,” said Enos.

“No,” Nathan said, “we'll stay with the schedule Pierce Malone accepted. We can't get past Dodge City before the first westbound takes the siding there, unless you want to risk meeting it head-on.”

“You're right,” Enos agreed. “You're a better railroad man than I am.”

At five-thirty, Nathan, Enos, and Art left the bunkhouse and started for the train. At that point, Dub Collins put the locomotive in reverse and began backing toward the depot.

“They're ready to load the express car,” said Art.

This time, there was the locomotive, the tender, the express car, and the caboose. Dub eased back until the express car was even with the dock, outside the dispatcher's office. The silver was in heavy canvas bags, and after being brought to the dock, was then moved quickly into the express car. Art entered the car and Enos locked the sliding door. Nathan and Enos mounted the metal steps of the caboose as the train began to move. Dub Collins let go with the whistle, two short blasts and a lengthy one, trailing off into silence.

“Damn!” Clell Shanklin growled, sitting up in his hotel bed, flinging the covers aside.

“It's only a train,” said Melanie Gavin, trying to cover herself.

“Only a train, hell,” Shanklin snarled. “By God, they're movin' the silver that wasn't supposed to go until tomorrow.”

“You don't know that,” said Melanie.

“What else could it be?” Shanklin roared. “It's that damn Nathan Stone's doing. And you, by God. You talked to him, made him suspicious.”

“I didn't,” she cried. “I want nothing to do with your schemes to steal from the railroad, and I'd be ashamed to have anyone know what I know about you.”

He laughed, an evil sound, and she shuddered.

“Five years ago, when you was just nineteen, you didn't care what I done, long as I come up with money to get you to California,” he said. “Changed your mind, have you?”

“When I was nineteen, I was a damn little fool,” she said bitterly. “I let you take me, use me, ruin me. I wouldn't go to California with you, or anywhere else, for all the money in the world. Ma knew what you were, and she hated you. She hates you now, and if I got what I deserve, she'd disown me. Don't tell me any more of your sneaking, lowdown plans to take what doesn't belong to you. I didn't tell that railroad man anything, but if he asks me again, I might just spill my guts.”

“Damn you,” Shanklin snarled. He ripped her gown off and began beating her, driving his fists into her belly, slamming his knees into her thighs, and slapping her face. Finally he kicked her out of the bed and she fell facedown on the floor. She lay there weeping, and he got up, seized her by the hair and rolled her over to face him.

“I hate you!” she cried, and spat in his face.

He drove his fist into her face, slamming her head against the floor. Through clenched teeth he spoke. “You talk about me—to anybody—and by God, I'll kill you.”

 

The train roared through eastern Colorado, and from the caboose, Nathan kept watch. He believed, once they left Colorado, there was little chance of a robbery. Thieves, alerted by Shanklin, likely wouldn't ride a hundred and fifty miles to rob a train, and that's what it would take to get them out of Colorado. Two hours out of Pueblo, they made their first water stop.

“We're in Kansas,” said Enos, “for whatever it's worth.”

“It's worth a lot,” Nathan said. “This being an unscheduled run, I don't expect trouble from here on. How far are we from Dodge?”

“Little over a hundred miles,” said Enos. “We're highballing, and that means we're up to near fifty miles an hour. If nothin' goes wrong, we'll be in Kansas City by six o'clock tonight. Twelve hours. That's a damn good run.”

“Why cut back to forty miles an hour on other runs?” Nathan asked.

“Too dangerous,” said Enos. “On cloudy or rainy days and at night, visibility is poor. We have to travel slowly enough to stop if there's somethin' on the track, if there's a rail loose or a bridge out. Highballing can be a risk, even in the daytime.”

“Dodge is about halfway,” Nathan said, “so there's a chance we'll get there ahead of the westbound from Kansas City.”

“Yes,” said Enos. “We could get there as much as an hour ahead of the westbound.”

“Then we'll have to take the siding and wait for them to pass.”

“No, we have priority and they have their orders,” Enos said. “We'll take on water and fuel there, and we'll wait on the main line for the westbound to take the siding.”

Three thirty-eight reached Dodge City a few minutes before noon, and the westbound had not arrived, for the siding was empty. There evidently had been some communication between Pierce Malone and Foster Hagerman, because Hagerman was there when Nathan and Enos swung down from the caboose.

“You're an hour ahead of the westbound,” said Hagerman. “There's hot coffee in the dispatcher's office. Let's talk.”

Nathan told Hagerman the little he knew and what he only suspected, concluding with the possibility that Clell Shanklin might jeopardize future shipments.

“I have no proof,” Nathan said. “I had nothing more than a gut feeling to justify the changing of your schedule for this shipment. We might have waited until tomorrow and had it all come off without a hitch, but it didn't feel right to me.”

“This is why we hired you,” said Hagerman, “and when your suspicions call for some changes in schedule, don't be afraid to make those changes. Incidentally, I got a telegram from Pierce Malone this morning, commending you for your strategy in bringing in this shipment a day early, with an eleventh-hour change in schedule.”

“When will there be another shipment from the mines?”