Along The Fortune Trail (2 page)

T
he sheriff and Randolph Sinton caught up with Lonny the next morning. Mister Sinton was not completely gratified holding a Winchester on Lonny as the sheriff kicked Lonny awake. He wanted to shoot him right there and said so. Randolph was most incensed about Lonny pissing on his wife's pillows, rather than what had been perpetrated upon the house cat.

Lonny wasn't buying Randolph Sinton's blustery, tough-guy talk. Sinton looked soft and portly, so Lonny began to taunt him. “Ya know, that cat looked like a dandy hangin’ from that fancy chandelier. One thing for sure, he cottoned to them little fish. Too bad he didn't know it'd be his last meal,” Lonny chuckled. “Did your wife like the yellow morning scent I left for her? I gave it my best shot.”

Randolph Sinton had turned an interesting shade of fuchsia and looked as if he might explode when the sheriff turned to Lonny and said in a voice sounding of gravel and matter-of-fact intent, “Mister, the only time you'd better speak from here on in is if you're answering one of my questions. And then it better be direct and polite or you'll be shot trying to escape.”

Lonny took the sheriff at his word and shut up. He spent the rest of the trip back to Dodge wondering how he could have been caught, figuring no lawman would give chase over a cat.

The judge had called Lonny a perverted, deviate misfit, and had openly wondered how such people ever came to exist. The jury convicted Lonny of trespassing and destruction of property. The judge happily gave him the maximum.

L
onny had been in prison fourteen months when Bones and Derrick showed up. They'd each gotten six months for stealing the proceeds of the collection plate from the Protestant Church office. Both of them had left home in their early teens and had become friends while working at the stockyards in Wichita. Bones and Derrick had a lot in common: independent and predisposed to the recklessness of youth. Taking chances, illegal or otherwise, was part of the thrill of life, and perhaps held the opportunity for getting ahead in a world that demanded self-reliance. Derrick fancied himself the smarter one, but Bones had more nerve and heart. Bones was game and had quickly developed a reputation at the stockyards as the kid who could handle anything thrown at him.

Derrick had hatched the church plan as they viewed the departing congregation one Sunday. “Sure a lot of saved sinners there,” Bones remarked as they rode by. “I'll bet from the looks of that crowd they fill those plates all the way up. Wonder what the weekly take is?”

“Let's find out,” Derrick had quickly replied.

It turned out to be quite a tidy sum. The church secretary had not made a deposit for the preceding week, bringing Derrick and Bones's take to just over one hundred and forty three dollars, a sum that would have taken them two months each to earn at the stockyards.

If Henrietta Robson hadn't seen them exiting the church office in the last twilight of that Sunday evening, Derrick and Bones might have been one step closer to their dream of starting a saloon. As it was, she couldn't begin to identify them from her front porch, several hundred feet away and obscured by the billowing elm tree in her front yard. Still, there was no mistaking Bones's big paint, which was mostly white and distinctively splashed with brown markings, one of which Henrietta remembered quite clearly as being on the horse's right side and near perfectly shaped like a bell.

One month after Derrick and Bones arrived at the prison, some prisoner shuffling landed Lonny, Derrick, and Bones together as cellmates. It didn't take Derrick and Bones long to recognize that Lonny was quite tilted. Nevertheless, as impressionable young men, they were both taken in by the fictional accounts of his grand exploits, and they paid him the respect of a man they considered to be dangerous. Lonny didn't tell them he was in prison for the cat caper, electing instead to concoct a story about killing two Indians in self-defense but getting time anyway because one of the Indians had been the son of a very important chief.

As the weeks went by, the cell talk increasingly turned toward future plans. Lonny dispensed information about gold and silver strikes in the Colorado Territory as if he were receiving daily reports. “Boys, they're pullin’ so much color outta the ground up there, you'd need ya a ten ox cart just to haul it all,” Lonny announced regularly. “I'm headin’ up La Veta way soon as I clear this hellhole. You gents would be smart to do the same.”

The boom activity had been very lucrative for quite a few people. Stories of fortunes made drifted down the trail, keeping drifters and prospectors coming in droves. But the early arrivals staked the best claims, which often played out quickly. As Lonny found out after several months of hard work that he bitterly disliked, making any real money usually involved equal parts of skill, luck, knowledge, and perseverance. Lacking those attributes, Lonny eventually decided to make his own luck by thinking of himself as a ruthless, cunning, dangerous man who would do whatever was necessary and quickest to make himself rich. He decided to steal his fortune.

Lacking anything resembling a really secure facility, the Bank of Stonewall shipped out a significant amount of cash, gold, and silver to its home branch each week on the same train that came in over the pass bringing supplies and people. The town was in the height of its boom, with a population of about three thousand. Lonny knew the outbound train had to be carrying gold and cash.

He initially considered hitting the bank, but soon thought better of it. Too easy to get pinned in, too many people, he concluded. The train seemed a much better risk—one from which he could escape if things went wrong. He managed to get a look at the inside of the vault car as he moseyed around the depot one afternoon. It was not much more than a glimpse, but it revealed what the vault car and its access points looked like. Six to eight armed men served as guards for the trip, and the word was that they were a salty bunch of crack shots.

A plan began to form in Lonny's mind, a plan that would require more than one man. Lonny abandoned lone prospecting, got a job as a laborer for a bigger outfit, and hoped that he'd blown enough hot air at Derrick and Bones about riches to be had that they'd show up. Their last conversation in prison ended with a sort of three amigos pact of linking up and getting rich.

Lonny worked hard enough to stay employed, and he casually speculated to co-workers and comfortable acquaintances about how much money went out on the train each week, hoping to gain information or hear an opinion on the subject. The guesses were mostly stated as fact, running the gamut from a small fortune to a king's ransom. Lonny took the middle of the road on all that he heard, knowing that some of the estimates about wild riches came from men who were half-crazed from events of their migration west. Lonny figured the amount was between eight and twelve thousand dollars. The thought of such a sum made his adrenaline surge and his mind race with thoughts of what he could buy. He knew he could sell the plan to Derrick and Bones.

In his spare time, Lonny scouted the terrain of the pass. How he and a crew could board the train was something he hadn't figured out. There was no stretch in the canyon's terrain that allowed them to simply ride up alongside the train and board. Even if there was, the chances of being spotted boarding seemed more likely. But then one day he came upon it. Five miles out of town along the path of the train tracks, he came across an overhanging ledge. Only ten feet in length, it extended out far enough that you could look almost directly down at the tracks some twenty-five feet below. Lonny figured it would be less than a ten-foot jump to the top of the train. He reconciled it would be perfect. Derrick and Bones showed up six weeks later and the partnership was formed.

“G
et that cigar lit, Bones!” Lonny commanded. The smoke of the train drifted above the closest horizon, drawing a sooty line against a brilliant blue sky. One more bend, and the train would be in sight.

Bones cupped his hands, holding the match to the cigar, and puffed hard. The bright, red glow spread like a fast moving prairie fire, encircling the entire circumference of the cigar tip as he sucked deep and hard. Bones blew out a great cloud of smoke and coughed violently, causing his whole body to spasm and fold over at the waist. He straightened up a moment later with tears streaming down his face and hoarsely proclaimed, “She's a-goin’ good now!”

“Well, keep it goin’! You won't have time to be lightin’ matches,” Lonny fired back. That thought prompted Bones to take some more pulls at it, being careful not to inhale the smoke.

With the cigar clamped between his teeth, Bones knelt down and pulled a bundle of dynamite from his saddlebags. He stood up, hoisted the saddlebags over his shoulder, and then carefully stuffed the bundled four sticks of dynamite halfway down the front of his pants.

Derrick, who had said nothing since he had vomited and had had his life threatened, watched intently as Bones performed this procedure. “Here we go, Bones. Let's give ‘em hell,” Derrick weakly said, his voice almost quavering. Derrick was scared now and Bones knew it. They'd been friends long enough that Bones knew Derrick had now lost any stomach for what they were about to do.

“Don't worry, partner. We'll get through this fine,” Bones said with a wink and a grin. “Just stick close.”

The train rounded the bend and came into full view, shooting puffs of thick, black smoke from the stack as if being fired from a cannon. The noise level instantly tripled. Lonny, Derrick, and Bones could feel the ledge rumble beneath their feet with an ever increasing force as the train approached. Lonny momentarily feared that the ledge might collapse. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his toes inside his boots, trying to gain some extra sense of feel. The number fifty emblazoned the front of the engine, looking like a giant eye coming at them. “It's right behind the coal car boys,” Lonny shouted to ensure he was heard above the roar of the engine.

Derrick suddenly became aware of the speed of the train, as it was now almost underneath them. “Jesus! We better time this right!” he shouted.

“That's for sure,” Bones yelled back, as they all inched to the very edge.

“Let's go, boys!” Lonny yelled.

“Hang on to your hats!” Bones yelled. Then they jumped.

Derrick felt as if he were floating. The brief descent seemed like minutes instead of an instant, time enough to have recollections and see a picture of his life without even thinking about it. He wondered if the rush of images meant he was about to die.

The train was going slowly because of the steep grade and sharp turns, but it had enough speed to send Bones rolling upon impact. He caught himself at the edge of the car, an instant before he continued on over the side. The cigar was still in his mouth, hanging limply because he had nearly bitten through it. He bit it off at the break and gave it some quick pulls to reinvigorate it. Collecting the saddlebags, he looked up track and saw Lonny slowly mountain crawling over the jagged coal on his hands and feet toward the engine. Derrick was sitting ten feet away clutching his right ankle, pain etched on his face. “I snapped it clean in two!” Derrick wailed above the roar of the engine.

A downdraft suddenly diverted smoke from the engine's smokestack in to a swirling cloud that hovered right on top of the coal car where Derrick and Bones were located. The instant burning in Bones's eyes was only outdone by the sharp constriction in his chest as there became nothing left to breath but smoke. He spat the cigar out and hacked, tasting the hot coal soot searing his lungs. He couldn't see and tried to avoid breathing, but the need for oxygen became too great and he instinctively inhaled, taking more smoke into his lungs. His head spun as consciousness began to wane.

The lethal cloud blew out as suddenly as it had blown in, and Bones was bathed in blue sky and fresh air. For the next several moments, he alternated between gasping for air and coughing out chunks of black phlegm, as his eyes watered and his nose oozed snot.

Derrick was on his belly, his head hanging over the edge of the car. He coughed uncontrollably, each spasm shooting bolts of pain to his broken lower leg. The dampness he felt in his boot was his blood, flowing freely from the compound fracture just above his ankle.

Bones suddenly remembered the cigar and quickly began scanning the cracks and crevices of the coal around him. Finding it, he began dragging on the shredded cigar, as it occurred to him that he'd had about enough smoke for one day. Still, he worked to bring the cigar back to life.

In a low crouch, Bones moved over the uneven surface to Derrick's side. “I'm done for!” Derrick yelled, the pain and worry obvious in his voice. “My leg's broke bad. The only way I'm movin’ from here is crawlin’ or hoppin’, and ain't either one of those prospects lookin’ too good on this mountain a shit.”

Bones took a soft pull on the cigar as he looked at Derrick's right leg. It took a grotesque forty-five degree turn just below the outline of the top of the boot, the pants bulging where the tibia and fibula bones pressed against the inside of the boot. “I'll tell you what, partner,” Bones said hoarsely. “You just sit tight and I'll take care of business. Matter of fact, I think I can pull this off without killin’ anyone, and then I'll get you outta here.”

“Okay, Bones. I'll be right here waitin’,” Derrick said, in awe of his friend's confidence and composure.

“Get that bandana up in case there's any more smoke storms. I'll be right back,” Bones said. Like a lizard moving over sand, Bones moved along the coal on his hands and feet and disappeared over the end of the car.

From a crouch at the front of the coal car, Lonny looked down at the engineer's platform. The coal mover was a black man dressed in sooty bib overalls and a soaked white undershirt. He leaned on the handle of his shovel and wiped the sweat off his face with a well-used rag. Lonny sized him up as being six feet, 230 pounds or better, and powerfully built. The furnace door was open, and the fire was hot and well built. The engineer stood at the controls peering out the front of the train, his silvery hair flapping slightly from the warm breeze blowing through the front of the engine.

“You!” Lonny yelled at no one in particular. They looked around and up at Lonny, both their expressions instantly registering anxiety upon seeing the shotgun trained in their direction. “Blackie! You lay that shovel over nice ‘n’ easy, then close that furnace door, and don't think of nothin’ foolish. And you, engineer man! You just hold steady and don't move an inch!”

The shoveler laid it down easily and moved sideways to the furnace door, keeping a compliant expression on his face, but never removing his eyes from Lonny. “Get it closed!” Lonny barked. The man used the rag to swing the door shut and latch it. Then he slowly put his hands halfway up and shuffled several steps away from the furnace. “That's real nice,” Lonny mockingly said, motioning his shotgun directionally as he spoke. “Now you move on over to the edge there and jump or I'll kill you where you stand,” Lonny announced. The black man spoke with his eyes, as if to implore Lonny to some other alternative. The terrain out the left side of the engine was steep, falling away dangerously from the tracks, and strewn with trees and rocks except for an occasional patch of bare, open hill. “Get movin’, Blackie! This train ain't goin’ too fast. You'll be all right unless you stand there for a few more seconds. You do that and you'll be dead.”

The man turned his head to the engineer, “So long, Mistah Henry,” he said in a forlorn voice, and moved to the edge of the platform. He watched a moment till he spotted an opening, and was suddenly gone.

“Now there, Mister Henry,” Lonny shouted. “You just turn around and keep your eyes out the front and I'll be with you directly.” The engineer turned slowly to the front and stood stiffly while Lonny descended the ladder sideways, using one hand to grasp the side rail and the other to keep his shotgun trained on the engineer's back. Seconds later, Lonny pushed the business end of the shotgun against the engineer's side. “I seen that 30-30 in that scabbard there all along, but figured you were too fat and slow to make a move for it. Right, Mister Henry?”

“Mister,” the engineer began, “you sure are right. My name is Henry Salmon, and I'm too fat, slow, and old to think about anything other than cooperatin’ with you. I've got a wife, six kids, nineteen grandchildren, and less than half a year left on this job. I'm sure not going to give you any trouble. No, sir. What is it you want me to do?”

Lonny looked the man in the eye, not completely convinced of the sincerity of all that he'd just heard, and now slightly more on guard. “You can start showin’ me how this train works. How do you stop this thing or make it go faster? Which one of these levers is the brake? How far's it take to get this thing stopped?” Lonny asked rapid fire, not allowing time between each question for an answer.

When he finally paused, the engineer said, “There's not that much to it,” and he began showing Lonny the basics.

Inside of two minutes, Lonny figured he knew enough about the operation. Then he asked, “Is that fire good enough to get us a few more miles?”

“Oh yes, sir,” the engineer replied. “We don't pour much steam to her with these turns, and even this grade don't eat it up much only pulling five cars. But we'll be at the top soon, and then it gets tricky going down because you need to work some of these pressure valves and controls at the same time,” the engineer said, sensing that he might be the next one forced to jump if he wasn't needed. “I can sure run this train for you however you like, son.”

Lonny didn't answer. Instead he began looking around the cab, intently curious about all the controls. “What's that thing up there for?” He motioned with his shotgun to the inside corner of the roof of the cab. The engineer looked up, trying to determine what it was Lonny was asking about.

Henry Salmon felt the deep pain in his stomach as Lonny's knife went in to the hilt. The engineer's sudden shock and disbelief was quickly followed by panic and an instinct to fight for his life. He grabbed Lonny, who was leaning hard into him, in a desperate attempt to throw him off. Henry had been a strong man in his younger days, and he started to push with all he had. But Lonny had begun violently pulling upward with the knife, gutting Henry, whose strength quickly faded as Lonny jerked the knife up farther and farther. Henry Salmon stopped pushing and thought of his wife, his family, and all that had been in his life that he'd loved. He prayed to God to watch over his loved ones, and then he died.

“No, I don't think I'll be needin’ your services anymore, Henry.” Lonny backed away, causing the limp body to collapse to the deck. He pushed it out of the way and returned to the controls, looking out the front of the engine, trying to determine where he was.