Hell's Belle (3 page)

"The damned
things came uncoupled," a big man informed her, his face florid. "And
no one seems to know exactly when. The passengers from the rear sleeping car
are now adrift somewhere behind us, along with our luggage placed in the
storage bin in that caboose. Marooned in no man's land. And we could have just
as easily shared their fate."

"Oh my,"
Twila said numbly. It really
was
possible, and now that someone had
explained how it could happen, really horrible to contemplate. "Miss Vogel
and her grandfather…" she mumbled, still in disbelief.

"No, madam, we
cannot
stop the train," the conductor advised a nearly hysterical
woman. "We can't back her up. The engineer has no idea how many miles
could be involved, and we only carry so much wood to stoke our engine. He can't
risk getting us stranded, too." He glanced around. "Everyone, please
take your seats!"

The agitated knot
dissolved somewhat. Several people did indeed sit down or back away, but all
eyes were riveted on the poor fellow, who suddenly found himself the official
railroad spokesperson.

"Where's the
other conductor, the one who came through here before?" someone asked.

"It seems Mr.
Digby was in the rear of the train at the time of the…mishap."

"Well, at
least the Central Pacific's suffered some inconvenience too!"

The conductor held
up his hands until the passengers quieted. "Thank you. Now, as I
understand it, there was a mechanical failure which caused the coupling between
this car and the sleeper to fail. That released the sleeper car and caboose.
They're still linked together, but the engine's no longer pulling them."

"Oh, my
lands!" a woman gasped.

"Ma'am, please
calm down. The railroad has employees aboard. Not only the conductor, but a
regular flagman, who rides in the caboose. They're professionals and have been
instructed in emergency procedures. The flagmen will set out his lanterns,
probably start a signal fire."

"Who's he
signaling, the Apaches?"

"Ladies and
gentlemen, please! There's no reason to assume the other passengers are in any
danger. We'll be pulling into Evanston within an hour. We'll report the
stranded cars. The company will send wagons back. Anyone with luggage in the
caboose will be delayed getting into Ogden until we can retrieve it, but your
baggage and all passengers will be accounted for."

Twila was actually
grateful for Uncle Fletcher's scrimping. He'd sold most everything they'd owned
and insisted they travel with minimum baggage. All three Bells shared one large
trunk and a couple of other bags. Unfortunately, that part of the luggage had
been in the caboose. At least she'd kept her satchel at her seat. Glancing over
at it, she realized something was odd.

Then she opened it
and nearly died.

The bag
wasn't
hers! It looked similar, but this one must be the brown satchel belonging to
Hilde Vogel. Hilde had accidentally taken Twila's satchel with her when she
left for the sleeper car. She now had Twila's satchel, containing a change of
undergarments and the only mementos Twila had of her parents—a hair ribbon her
mother had worn before trimming her long tresses, a rusty compass her father
had owned since he'd been a young boy. Items of no value to anyone save Twila.

She wanted them
back. So badly, it brought a rush of hot tears to her eyes.

Rummaging inside
the unfamiliar satchel, she realized there was another compelling reason to
find the girl and switch the bags.

Miss Vogel's
satchel enveloped two lace handkerchiefs, a hairbrush,  a spare cotton chemise,
and beneath these, a very expensive-looking necklace. Twila was no expert, but
it didn't take intimate knowledge of gemstones to recognize pearls, and her
guess was the other stones were sapphires and rubies. The Vogels were
apparently rather well off. Hilde had mentioned losing a favorite bonnet, implying
she had several others. This necklace, so pretty and patriotic in red, white
and blue, could be extremely valuable. It looked old, maybe even from the
Colonial period. Which might make it a priceless antique, for all Twila knew.
This was terrible.

Yet Twila also knew
there was no way she was about to advise her uncle. The accidental exchange was
a reasonable mistake anyone could make, and really Miss Vogel's fault. But he
was already angry about the rest of their baggage, and Twila knew Fletcher
would blame her for the mix up. Once again, she'd be branded a scatterbrain and
the cause of even more delay in their westward progress.

No , the more she
pondered it, the more she became convinced there was no reason to say anything
to anyone. She knew the Vogels were headed for San Francisco. As the conductor
explained, there'd be a delay at Evanston while wagons went back for the people
and goods on the stranded cars. It would be simple enough to find Miss Vogel
and switch bags before the reunited passengers embarked on the next leg of
their trip.

Twila wasn't going
to trust a porter, and the conductor had enough distracting him at the present.
With so many distraught and angry folks aboard, he didn't need the additional
complication of a mix-up over two small bags. She could fix this problem
herself. And she would, just as soon as they reached the next station. She kept
a tight grip on the satchel's handle and began picturing how she's slip away to
return the precious necklace without either of the nosy Bell men knowing she'd
ever had it.

* * *

"What do you
mean, there
isn't
any baggage? I watched the porter take my trunk to the
rear car with my own eyes!"

"And a very
fine trunk it was, too," his companion announced, glaring at the railroad
employee. "Are you saying the railroad has lost all our things? I say,
there should be recompense for that, surely!"

Twila listened to
the heated exchange in numb shock. The same kind of shock she saw mirrored on
the faces of other passengers. They'd disembarked at the Evanston station and
waited for several hours, only to be told there was no point in waiting. Their
luggage was gone. Every single piece of it.

Apparently
Conductor Digby hadn't been a hapless victim of circumstance; rather he'd been
the inside man working with a team of robbers. Instead of stopping the train
and robbing all its passengers, they planted a man within the railroad staff
itself. He uncoupled the two cars, stranding them in open country. Robbers
surrounded the cars once they rolled to a stop. The passengers inside the
sleeper lost their money, watches, jewelry. The flagman was trussed and gagged.
Wagons were loaded with all the trunks and grippes from the caboose storage
bins.

It was a quick,
bloodless, efficient robbery. Clever indeed.

Someone in the
Central Pacific management decided it wouldn't be wise to deliver a carload of
angry and shaken robbery victims to Evanston. After giving passengers verbal
assurance that no one was in any danger, proof to the contrary would only
exacerbate an already tense, unpleasant situation. So the Vogels and their
cohorts had been escorted back to Green River's station. Everyone here in
Evanston was being urged to complete their sojourn to Ogden and points beyond.

Without their bags.

However, no one
needed a ticket for travel beyond this point. Refunds would be issued for all
fares paid. Meals and beverages would be free. And passengers were asked to
begin a formal accounting of items lost in the robbery. Railroad staff began
handing out pencils and scraps of paper.

"You're going
to say your gowns were the finest satins and velvet, young lady. This is
typical of your foul luck! The least you can do is see we receive a boon out of
this nightmare."

Twila didn't even
bother looking up at her fuming uncle. She meekly accepted the pencil and began
her list.

"I think I
speak for everyone present," her uncle boldly proclaimed. "Not a one
among us is anxious to sleep aboard your infernal contraption. I demand we be
put up in hotel rooms for the night, and set out again at daybreak. I will not
risk having my very clothing stolen off my back while I close my eyes in
sleep."

Uncle Fletcher,
always the master of overreaction and drama.

Unless a robber had
a desperate craving for musty wool and the odor of mothballs, Twila couldn't
imagine why anyone would want his clothing.

But his melodramatic
ploy worked. Within seconds, other voices angrily joined in, demanding free
lodging. Beefy fists clenched, male faces went florid or grim and pasty, while
females looked pale and frightened. Defeated, barely holding back more tears.
The company representative had little choice.

"All right.
We'll consort with the local establishments and make arrangements. Everyone
please stay with your respective traveling groups. We'll need to take a head
count."

A short while later,
Twila found herself in a dingy rear hotel room overlooking the manure piled behind
a livery stable. The Bell males, on the other hand, were downstairs playing
poker and smoking cigars with the other men from the train. Or, as they
preferred to describe it, "celebrating their victory over the negligent
and incompetent Pacific railroad."

Lucius was in rare
form that night, unable to recall when he'd had a better run of luck at cards.
His father didn't appreciate some of his son's less savory talents, but Lucius
knew a man had to be able to hold his own while standing in the middle of his emporium
or sitting at a card table. His father generally frowned at Lucius partaking of
spirits, as well. Except tonight. Fletcher was very much in favor of a bit of
drink and sport—seeing as how all of it was at someone else's expense.

Lucius won the pot for
the third time. One of the Englishmen got up and groused about needing to
relieve himself. His partner watched him depart, then gave Lucius an odd look.
"What's your father guarding there in his breast pocket? State
secrets?"

His father never
went anywhere without his ridiculous little journal. Fletcher Bell scribbled
all sorts of nonsense down in a series of little bound books, convinced that
someday someone would pay him handsomely to publish his memoirs. The train
debacle had absolutely delighted the old man.
There
would be a story, he
insisted.

Somehow Lucius
couldn't imagine telling this pompous English fellow that. Telling him that
essentially his father was a little…
peculiar
. Actually, rather pathetic.
Admitting that Fletcher Bell believed every bit of minutiae of his mundane
existence should be preserved for posterity.

The two
"blokes," as they called themselves, hadn't been staying in the
sleeping car, either, leading Lucius to suspect they could be misers like his
old man. They'd loudly proclaimed they'd lost quite a lot of valuables in their
trunks, and they looked prosperous sorts. Lucius could tell by their clothing
and grooming. Fletcher had taught him to measure a man's wealth by his garments
and shoe polish. A dapper fellow had money to spend keeping himself that way,
whereas a man could boast all he liked, but worn shoes and frayed cuffs told a
different tale.

Lucius knew he'd
never see these two again after the next couple of days. They'd all go in
various directions from Ogden. An outrageous thought dawned. A really wicked
little prank. He decided he rather liked the idea.

"I wouldn't
say anything too loudly, if I were you," he replied, glancing warily at
his old man, who was puffing his cigar and regaling some other fellow with his
big future plans for a new store. "And don't let on you've noticed. He
gets really tense about that book of his. It's got the
map
, you
see."

"Map? What
to?"

Lucius verified
that now the topic of his father's discussion had flowed into a heated economic
and political debate with the fat man from Minnesota."To the mine, of
course!" Lucius hissed. "We're going to Nevada, to a place along the
Truckee, not far from the High Sierras. You know it's all gold country out
there."

The Englishman
dropped his monocle. "Your father's got a map to a bleedin' gold
mine?"

The fellow's
mixture of shock and avid interest was so overwhelming, Lucius couldn't quite
keep a straight face. "Naw, it's just useless things he likes to scrawl
down to jog his memory. A copy of that list for the railroad, so he can be sure
later they don't try to cheat him. Things like that. I was joshing about the
mine. Still, my uncle Nathan knew several intrepid explorers. You never
know."

Lucius got up with
his winnings, still smirking. The English fellow would be whispering to his
cohort, thoroughly in awe of the Bells of Omaha—soon to be the Bells of Nevada.

"You catch any
of that?" Marquardt asked Cookson as the latter sat back down at the card
table. Only two other men still remained, and they were counting their money,
looking weary and ready to call it quits. "Think we've done it, gents.
Enough cards for one night," Marquardt announced.

The others agreed
and headed off to their rooms.