Blaze of Glory. Chapters 1-8

A group of outlaws plan to rob the Union Pacific Railroad. It doesn't go well.

Scott Ieppert

699 Vz Cr 1920

Fruitvale, Texas 75127

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Blaze of Glory

By E. Scott Ieppert







































Chapter 1







      A steam whistle pierced the morning calm; its echo bounced off the nearby cliffs. The Union Pacific train had arrived. Lurking in the shadows of a nearby tree line, Jack Diamond and his band of outlaws watched for their first glimpse of the locomotive, their horses tense and ready. A large shipment of gold would be aboard, heading for the mint in San Francisco. Jack had to have it, after months of work, the outlaws procured the train's precise itinerary. Meticulous planning gave them the perfect ambush site, Sherman Hill. This was the last pass over the Rockies. If the bandits couldn't stop it, the train would be out of the mountains and into the Platte River Valley in six hours.







        A mist had descended on the Laramie Mountains. The sun cast long shadows across the tracks as it rose above the tree line. Tall Ponderosas, mixed with Aspen and Fir loomed above. Sage brush grew from fissures in the granite, and spires of limestone jutted skyward from the cliff face. Soaring above, a Red-Tailed Hawk climbed high on a breeze. The air was crisp with the smell of the mountains. Its flora mixed with the fragrant aroma of sage. The chipper song of a meadowlark danced nimbly on the wind. In trills and warbles, the bird sang, flute-like in the morning air. An elk’s lonely bellow echoed from deep within the forest, belying the chaos that lay not far away.







    The raucous boomtown of Laramie lay twenty miles to the Northwest. Cheyenne sat thirty miles to the East. The trestle at Dale Creek Ravine was situated in the middle of nowhere. Two engines followed by a tender each pulled the train over the mountain pass. Two wooden mail cars, their yellow paint brilliant in the morning sun, was trailed by five dark brown passenger cars. Two of these were Pullman’s. Finally, the braking caboose, painted red and emblazoned with the Union Pacific logo, followed behind. 







    Black smoke rose in roiling puffs above the tree line. It billowed above the train and trailed down its length, eventually dissipating in the breeze.  Reducing speed, the locomotive navigated a bend in the tracks. Blaring its whistle once more as a warning, the train approached the trestle. At Dale Creek Ravine, the bridge was massive, over one hundred twenty feet tall and six hundred fifty feet long. With such a steep drop, trying to hit the train before it passed would have been an invitation to disaster. 







    Jack's stomach churned, threatening to fill his guts with water. Rising visibly about his head, his breaths were short in the chill mountain air. With trembling hands, he reached for his canteen. Removing the cork stopper from the dented hunk of tin, Jack swirled its contents. Satisfied the water had not frozen, he took a long pull. "Ain't got time for this shit. Not now."   







    Closing his eyes, Jack breathed in the cold mountain air. His hands steadied a bit as the cold water hit his stomach. Though hidden behind a bushy beard, a smile beamed on Diamond's face. He sat in the saddle with his eyes closed, taking a few deep breaths. Suddenly, his eyes were thrown wide as another whistle pierced the cold. He had a job to do. Using the tree line at the far end of the wooden bridge that spanned the ravine as cover, Jack Diamond said, "Dan, Hannah, we'll wrangle the caboose. Felton, Wil, you boys skedaddle to the engines and halt this heap! The rest of y'all, spread out through them passenger cars—one car apiece. I want wallets, timepieces, every last scrap they've got!" 







    The outlaws watched the train rumble onto the rails supported by the huge wooden structure. Like a ship at sea, wooden timbers creaked and groaned under the oppressive weight of the locomotive. Horses rustled in anticipation under their riders. Calming their mounts, the bandits waited. Jack looked around at those assembled with him, noticing anxiety among the band. He didn't want anything, especially an overzealous gunman, spoiling things early on. “Steady, hold your horses.”







    Diamond took a deep breath, calming himself. Lately, he had found that things weren't working out for him. He had had a string of bad luck. One big score could change it all. It wouldn't do to overthink the situation. "Easy now, she's coming on her own time.”







    Once the caboose was halfway across the bridge, Diamond put two fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle. With sweet dreams of leisure soon to pass, the outlaws rode unwittingly en mass toward calamity. The die was cast.







    Ten bandits on horseback broke from the trees at a full gallop. Charging forward at breakneck speed, the lead riders, Tom and Wil, reached the train just as the caboose left the dangerous trestle. Their horses began to overtake the cars as the locomotives gained speed.  Hooves thundered as the mounts kicked up a cloud of reddish dust. Spurred on by their riders, the horses gained upon their prey. The desperadoes shouted and hollered encouragements to each other as they reached their intended cars.  Jack, Hannah Jane, and Dan Johnson would enter the caboose, where Hannah would crack the safe. Tom and Wil were to overtake and subdue the conductors. After stopping the train, the pair were to bring up the wagon for loading of the gold. The remaining five outlaws would control the passengers, one per car. 







    The lead riders, Tom and Wil, got to their targets first. The others followed in random succession. Their horses' hooves drummed a hypnotic beat as they chased their quarry. Slowing down to keep pace with the train, they reached their respective cars almost simultaneously. Their hearts pounding nearly drowned out the mechanical chug of the train. In anticipation of their future fortunes, adrenaline coursed through their veins. Satisfied they could make the jump safely, they readied themselves. 







    With robust determination, the raiders put all their weight upon their left stirrups and reached for the train's railings. They each gave a light tug on the rail. Reassured of its strength, the bandits hoisted their right legs over their mounts. Their hearts thundered in their chests. Their pulses quickened in exhilaration. With muscles straining, the riders leaped. Gracefully, the bandits glided in mid-air. Landing solidly on the platform, the thieves readied themselves to enter their respective cars. Clear of the weight of their riders, the horses veered off away from the tracks, stopping to graze in a nearby clearing.







    Soon, all ten were safe aboard. With a moment to catch their breath, the outlaws took in the cool air of the Laramie Mountains. The smell of burned coal and oiled steel filled each nostril as the raiders readied themselves to enter the cars. Every second counted, and there were few to spare. They had to stop this locomotive in the mountains before it reached the more level terrain of the Platte River Valley.







    The outlaws thought they had everything under control.







    They couldn't have been more wrong.









*****







    The center aisles of each passenger car were surrounded by two columns of seats. Banking these were windows that refracted sunlight as if they were made of faceted gemstones. Streaks of light fell through the panes of glass, illuminating the floors in the yellow glow of life. Soft orange light from lamps on the walls, lit the ceilings above and shown their warmth down the walls toward the windows.







    A man in the first passenger car gasped as he pointed a shaky finger at the scene outside his window “Robbers!” he shouted. Some passengers stood; others stayed in their seats. All of them gawked at the unfolding drama. Bandits on horseback charged at them from a nearby tree line. Clouds of dust billowed in the air behind them as the horses galloped to catch the train. The men on their backs shouted, waving their weapons in the air. Word passed very quickly among the passengers. They were under attack. 







    Wide-eyed passengers sat in their seats, staring out the windows at the advancing outlaws. Some people screamed. Others got up from their seats to bar the doors to their respective cars. Still, others began removing valuables and looking for places to stash them, hoping to recover them later. People tried to calm those around them and sought ways to protect those they loved from whatever evil these men must have planned.







        Not everyone on board was scared. A few among them had been expecting this for a while now. One such was a young Pinkerton Agent named Joseph Winchester. Though young, this was not his first rodeo. He sat in the first passenger car. Surrounded by terrified commuters, Joe calmly checked his revolvers before returning them to the holsters he wore, concealing them under a heavy black frock coat. Then, taking out a gilded pocket watch, he noted the time.  “Half past eight.”







    With tensions aboard the train high, Joe kept cool. Turning his head, he looked at Agent Freeman. The senior agent stood at the car's door behind him. With a nod from Joe, Agent Freeman disappeared. The door to the car shut audibly behind him. Joseph turned his attention to the scene outside his window. The train lurched and jumped in mild turbulence; its rocking motion accentuated by the train's rising speed. He watched as two bandits passed his car, one older and the other much younger. He recognized Tom Felton on-site.







    Joe momentarily locked eyes with the outlaw. He gave the man a wink as the bandit rode hard for the engines. Tom's hazel eyes, wide with anticipation, narrowed as he spurred his mount, raking his heels along the steed's side. With a snap of his reins, the animal lunged forward. In an incredible burst of speed, the outlaw passed the car, followed by the younger man.







    His informant was right. Diamond took the bait. Reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, Joe removed a leather pouch. Opening it revealed a stack of four wanted posters. He removed the posters from the pouch and unfolded them. He riffled through the wanted notices, looking for Tom. Joe found Tom's poster near the bottom of the stack. Laying the others aside, he took Felton's poster and looked at it. Wanted.    $1000 reward, it read.







    His job forbade the acceptance of reward or even of a small tip. "Won't see a dime of that."





    He looked at the artist's rendition of the man, particularly at the eyes. There was no question about it. He had seen Tom, which meant the informant was correct. Diamond and his gang of miscreants were trying to rob the train.







"Trying," Joe mumbled, a wry smirk on his face.







      Despite the chaos around him, relief washed over Agent Winchester. His fears dissolved at that moment. Joe had set up this entire operation himself. At first, Agent Freeman had been reluctant to allocate a team of agents from Chicago to Wyoming without a guarantee. It had taken weeks of trips to Omaha, as well as clandestine meetings with his informant, good detective work, and determination to persuade his superiors that Diamond and his motley crew would attempt to rob the train. A baby's cry erupted nearby, catching his attention.







    A woman sat in a seat a few rows up from the agent. The infant in her arms wailed a piteous cry, terrified by the unfolding drama. Fighting tears, she trembled as she tried to soothe the child. The baby balled its hands into tiny fists, its eyes tightly closed with the effort. Slowly, the youngster kicked and punched at the air, obviously upset by the racket around it.







    A man in a dark business suit stood in the middle of the aisle. In one hand, he held his wallet, and in the other a gold pocket watch. He looked about the car in desperation. With a look of bewilderment, he tested the objects he held. The man lifted one above the other before repeating as if trying to judge their weight. Hanging his head in defeat, the man lifted his pant leg before placing them in his boots, hoping they'd be safe.







    Winchester took a deep breath. Strengthened by resolve, the young agent made his move. He stood. An aura of command flowed from him as he spoke. He calmed those he could with a kind, reassuring word.  The agent pointed to a group of men at the far end of the car. "Bar those doors! Use anything you got! Then hit the dirt! Everyone else, under the benches! Cover yourselves!"







    Joseph knew he had no authority over civilians. Over the years, he had learned to use his voice with authority when dealing with regular people. In tense situations, he sometimes needed to persuade civilians to remain calm. Keeping panic to a minimum reduces confusion should gunfire be necessary. The door to the car swung wide, and Agent Freeman reentered. He leaned in close to be heard in the commotion. "Get ready. Got two men in every car. If things get too rough, I've told 'em to fall back and gather up in the next car. We'll hold 'em off here best we can—won't let 'em get further. Long as this train keeps movin', they ain't got a shot at getting' to the mail car."







    Joseph walked toward the door. "Sounds like a plan."







    Freeman gripped the handles of his pistols as he observed the scene out the window. "It's all yours."









*****









    Having landed on their respective engines with practiced ease, Tom and Wil, each made for the doors to the engine rooms. Tom, the more experienced of the two, kicked open the door to the second engine and was surprised by the roar of a shotgun blast. Spent gunpowder was acrid in the air. Intense pain exploded like bolts of lightning from the bloody mess. The shot hit him full in the chest, barely missing his heart. The blow from the double-aught buckshot knocked the wind out of him and sent the outlaw sprawling backward. Ribs busted and flesh tore as the lead shot ripped through him. His body slammed against the tender car, jarring his bones. Tom wheezed, trying unsuccessfully to breath. The outlaw slid between the train cars. Horrified, Tom noticed the tracks rushing beneath him before his vision blurred. His heartbeat thumped against the remnants of his chest. The train's rumble faded in his ears. Tom had always known he would die with his boots on. 







    At the age of six, his father had developed senility. The man Tom knew as a hard-working sodbuster, up before dawn and working till dusk, withered to what looked to Tom like a living skeleton. His mind, usually sharp, had gone. Tom was the second youngest of four children, all boys. The oldest, Henry, was only nine when their father was so stricken. Their once flourishing farmstead faltered as none of the boys were up to running a farm. His father died when Tom was twelve. Tom left Tennessee and headed West.







    After falling in with a band of rustlers, Tom was wanted for stealing cattle. He had been on the run from that moment on. Always looking over his shoulder for some unseen attack, he had moved from town to town taking whatever job he could. He worked as a ranch hand and a blacksmith, but it was as a hired gunman that had brought him to the attention of Jack Diamond. Tom had been with the gang for a few years now, he was used to trouble as he had lived a fast life since he left his father's Tennessee farm. He had been in several close calls with his new comrades. They came out smelling like roses when all was said and done. Not this time, it seemed.







    All of this passed through his mind in his last moments. In his final moment, Tom noticed something. The blast from the shotgun had knocked him clean out of his boots.







"God damn!" Tom cursed with his last breath. He slid between the cars, onto the tracks, and into oblivion under the crushing weight of the wheels.









*****







    The engine door stood ajar. Wil glanced inside. To say the engine room was industrial would be an understatement. Comfort was not considered in the engine’s design. The interior was open to both the elements and the scorching heat from the boiler. Commanding his attention was a monstrous contraption, the firebox. Steam pipes, gauges, and levers protruding as it belched fire. Boiler controls, Wil assumed. Heat from the firebox was not as welcoming as he'd hoped in the morning chill. The noise inside the cab was deafening, the firebox chugged its methodical rhythmic cadence.







    Upfront and to the right sat the driving controls. On the right side of the boiler, within easy reach of the engineer, was the throttle lever. The brakes were operated by the controls on the conductor's side of the cab. A long lever stuck upright out of the floor. The Johnson bar was used to reverse the locomotive. A wooden seat sat within reach.







    There sat an old man. His hands trembled as he held them over his head; he said nothing. Eyes wide, the conductor stared at the outlaw. Wil stalked toward the terrified old man. The thief's lithe frame was nearly snake-like as he slithered into the engine room. Wil never broke eye contact, intimidating the old man further. "This'll be easy, a piece of cake."







    He stepped into the engine room; the smell of the coal fire and sweat filled his nostrils. Wil was so sure of himself that he didn't notice the fireman responsible for feeding the fire. The man stood in the corner, weapon in hand. Wil was promptly met with a shovel to the head. Pain exploded in his skull, and he crumpled to the floor; the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He remembered his mother as regret filled his mind. The last time he’d seen her flashed in his mind’s eye.







    She had worried about her boy for a few years. Wil had begun reading dime novels. He especially loved reading about Jesse James. Her anxiety increased after he purchased a pair of pistols from town. Her son had become obsessed. Each day, after finishing his chores, Wil could be found out behind the barn, practicing is quickdraw skills. He was not only fast, but the young man was accurate. Wil could pluck the eye from a buzzard with his peacemakers. It unnerved her to see the boy she loved rushing toward danger with a child’s glee. "Leave them irons here, Son." 







  Tenderly, Wil wiped the tears from his mother's eyes with his thumb. He kissed her gently on the forehead. She had always been overprotective; he thought with a smile. He was 15 and a man grown, he believed. "I'll be fine, Ma. I put in the hours ever' day, and no one's quicker. "



   



    Wil would not hear her pleas. Her son smiled at her. Confidence showed in his eyes. She had seen the same look in her brother’s eyes years before. She had come from a family of peace officers. Because of recent lawlessness in town, she had begged him to stay home. Her brother, Wil’s namesake, had left anyway; claiming his sense of duty would be offended in doing so. He had the same smile her son was giving her. William was ambushed one night while on patrol. This scene replayed itself in her head, on a loop. Tears glistened on her cheeks as she begged. "Keep them pistols home, Bill!"







    His mother was being silly, Wil had decided long ago. He had been to town on numerous occasions. Though never armed, Wil knew every street and alleyway. No, he had never ordered from a bar before, nor had he ever entered a saloon. How hard could these things be, honestly? Besides, what could possibly happen? He heard her cry once more as he walked toward the nearest saloon. "Don't take your guns to town." 







    Wil's mother was right to worry about her son. There was trouble that night, but Wil had kept his head. He didn't shoot anyone that night, a few months ago, and in keeping his cool, Will landed a job. There, in a saloon in the frontier town of Cody, Wil met Jack. Diamond was hacking on the youngster as he ordered his first drink. Already steaming drunk himself, Jack laughed as the boy turned beet red. Wil turned on Jack, hands near the grips of his pistols. Drunken Jack defused the situation, buying the young man another round. Wil impressed the seasoned outlaw by not drawing his weapons in anger. Wil was offered a job. This job had brought him here tonight, and he thought of his mother as he lay crumpled on the locomotive's wooden floorboards. The old man noticed that Wil was mumbling under his breath. The elderly gentleman had leaned close, his ear just above Wil's mouth.







    The fireman turned to the corner near the firebox. There sat a wrecking hammer, much like a modern claw hammer, but with a heavier head and nearly straight claw designed to break and pry wood apart. Its hickory handle was heavy as he hefted the tool, raising it above his head with deadly intent.







    The conductor raised his hand, showing the man his palm. "Hold it, Lunkhead! He's talkin'!" The old man frowned, before rising. He sat in a chair near the controls. With a puzzled look, the old man nodded to the fireman, who promptly brought the hammer down onto Wil's head.







    The fireman dropped the hammer. It thudded on the floor at his feet. The fireman shook his head. He had tended these fires for years, never getting used to the racket. "Blasted train’s got my ears plugged. What'd he say?"







    The elderly gentleman said nothing; he just sat there, puzzled. Scratching his head, the conductor glanced up at the fireman. He locked eyes with the fireman. "Mighty peculiar—nothin' I could wrangle sense outta."







    The younger man had lost his patience. He had worked with the conductor for years. He liked the old man, but was easily frustrated by him.  "Well, Old Timer, what’d he say? If ya don’t spit it out quick, I’m fixin’ to lose it here and now..."







    The engineer removed a rag from his pocket. The old man furrowed his brow in confusion before turning his gaze back to Wil.  The old man sniffed back a few tears before wiping the sweat from his brow. “Made no sense to me. He said “Don’t take your guns to town.””





                                                                            Chapter 2







    A few months before the robbery, Jack had been in Laramie, Wyoming territory. He sat at a corner table in his usual hang-out, a saloon. The room was dark and smoky, lit only by oil lamps. The smell of cigars and hand-rolled cigarettes hung thick in the air. There were brass cuspidors at the foot of each table, but the floor was covered with sawdust just in case of an errant splash of tobacco.







    Against one wall stood an upright piano. “Goodbye, Liza Jane” was a tune most patrons enjoyed. The piano player sat and hammered at the keys as if trying to beat a song out of the thing. He attacked the keys as if they had assaulted him in a previous life, and it gave the tinny sound of the piano a rougher edge. Against the opposite wall was the bar. Polished mahogany with ebony inlay greeted many a dusty cowboy fresh off the trail. But the star attraction here was the Rubenesque painting of a naked woman shown proudly behind the bar in place of the standard mirror. 







    The place was packed. Each table had four or five people at it. Some played poker, others bucked the tiger at the faro tables. Jack sat quietly, watching everyone with a cold calculation. The room was loud. At a nearby table, a trio of men sat. They spoke in hushed tones, trying to keep their conversation secret. At the bar, a businessman shook hands with his client, sealing some unknown deal.







    People spoke loudly to be heard over the raucous crowd. A fight broke out momentarily on the opposite side of the bar from where Jack sat. The brawl was over quickly as the barkeep produced a sawed-off double barrel and blasted a hole in the ceiling above the bar. Bits of plaster ceiling rained down on the bar. Debris splashed into drinks on the bar, contaminating the watered down whiskey. He pointed the weapon at the two men as a bouncer escorted the troublemakers outside.







    Diamond sat with his back to the corner, watching the room for any perceived threat. He had a half-empty bottle of Red Eye on the table before him and a lousy pair of deuces in his hand. Winning a few hands earlier that night had padded his purse, but now he had hit a slump. The cards weren't coming. It seemed like he hadn't hit a decent hand in hours. He was looking for a new score, something big and easy that would set him up for life. He was starting to feel old like time was running out. If he could get one more good job, perhaps his luck would change.







    He was about to fold his hand when a boy stepped into the bar, calling his name. He glanced over and saw the messenger heading his way. Jack had befriended Billy a few days ago on a visit to the telegraph office and had paid him a few dollars to keep an eye out for any messages addressed to him.







    Jack got up, grabbed the bottle, and left his cards behind. A surge of excitement came over him. Maybe this was it, the break he had been waiting for. He reached Billy and pulled a long swig from the bottle before taking the message from the boy's hand. His eyes widened as he read.







    Billy looked up at Jack with a wry grin pulling up on the corners of his mouth. He was a bright boy, full of questions. He spoke quickly, his sentences short and concise. "Is it big, Mr. Diamond?"







    Jack diamond liked this boy. He had always had a soft spot for children. There was something in Billy’s inquisitive nature that seemed to endear him to adults he encountered. Jack looked down. Smiling at the boy’s eagerness, Diamond read the message aloud.  "DIAMOND STOP HAVE JOB FOR YOU STOP MEET ME AT INTER-OCEAN HOTEL CHEYENNE STOP AM LEAVING NOW STOP WILL ARRIVE CHEYENNE LATE TOMORROW STOP BRING YOUR GUNS AND YOUR GUTS STOP JONES"





 

    His attention was drawn to the painting above the bar. He examined every inch of the framed work. Yes, the woman was beautiful, but it was the painting itself that captivated the youngster. Attention firm on the artwork, Billy addressed Diamond. "Sounds big."







Jack looked away from the telegram. Billy was looking toward the bar. Looking in that direction, he noticed what drew the boy’s gaze. Misunderstanding Billy’s scrutinizing glaze, he gave a knowing smile.  "Reckon I'm headin' for Cheyenne."







    He looked down at Billy, still smiling. Diamond was reminded of himself at that age. He saw the same potential in Billy that Jack's father had seen in him. Jack remembered how he had disappointed his father and squandered any potential he may have had long ago. The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.







    Billy was short for his age and it made him look younger than his eleven years. Locks of brown hair hung down, veiling his eyes as he looked down. The kid traced a circle on the sawdust floor with the toe of his boot. "Cheyenne? I've never been there, sounds dangerous."







    Diamond chuckled. This kid had the whole world ahead of him, Jack was slightly jealous, wishing he himself could somehow return to his former innocence. He liked Billy. "They're all a bit wild, boy. This here could be the big score—or my last ride." 







      The youngster turned toward the swinging doors behind him. As if he had been kicked by a mule, Billy bolted for the doors. "Hope you get back safe! Bye"



 



    Some random thought must have pushed its way to the forefront of the boy’s attention. Frustrated by his enthusiasm, Jack called out to Billy. "Go find your pa, boy!"

 





“You’ll sleep easier not knowing what I do," he mumbled to no one.







    Jack reread the telegram and smiled. Samuel Jones was his old friend and partner in crime. They had worked together on several jobs before and had always split the loot fairly. Jones was smart and reliable. He had a knack for finding the best opportunities. If he said he had a job, Diamond knew it must be juicy.







    He had not heard from Sam in years, not since the fiasco at the bank back in Fort Worth. A few members of their gang had died then; others were wounded. Jack got away by heading out the back door to the alleyway. He stole a horse and headed for greener pastures up North. He knew nothing of what happened to the members of his gang, save for the ones he saw fall, their corpses bloody and riddled with bullets. 







    Jack folded the message and tucked it in his pocket. He then grabbed his hat and coat and headed for the door. Diamond had to catch the next stage to Cheyenne. He had a feeling he was onto something big.  "It sure’ll be good, catchin’ up with Sam again."







    Leaving the saloon, he untied his horse from its tether before mounting. He rode Diablo towards the corner of Second and Grand Avenue, where sat the Laramie House, a two-story brick building with 25 rooms. Opened over a decade earlier, it sported a dining room and a bar.







    Jack dismounted Diablo and tethered him to the post outside the hotel's front entrance before entering and going to his room on the second floor. His room was a small and simple space with white plastered walls and a heavy rug on the floor. Inside the room were a bed, a dresser, and a washstand. Near the window, a chair looked out onto the street below. It was well worth the two-dollar daily charge.







    He entered the room, threw his hat on the bed, and walked to the dresser. Jack dipped his hands in the wash basin and splashed it on his face. He looked in the mirror then. He traced the lines on his face with his eyes. "Time sure sneaks up on a body, don’t it? When’d I get this old?"







    His eyes followed the line of the scar on his left cheek, given to him as a youth in a knife fight outside Dallas years before. He looked himself in the eyes then. They were hazel and were a real contrast to his long dark hair and mustachio. He sighed and reached for the bedroll on the floor near the dresser. Jack placed it on the bed next to his hat. He then opened his rifle roll to check his long arms.







    Re-rolling the weapons, Jack laid this next to his bedroll. He went to the closet and removed a leather bag. Next, he took his clothes from the dresser and placed them neatly inside the bag. He also placed boxes of ammunition inside the bag before tossing it on the bed.







Sam had always been able to take care of himself, he reasoned. "Can’t figure why I never checked on Sam after Fort Worth. Should’ve tracked him down after the robbery, but I ran off to Wyoming, thinkin’ only of myself."







    Jack walked over to the bed and sat with his face in his hands for a moment before looking out the window at the setting sun. There would be one last stagecoach leaving for Deadwood tonight, and he knew he had to be on it.







    The Deadwood Stage would get him from Laramie to Cheyenne in about 9 hours before traveling to the Black Hills of the Dakotas and the raucous boomtown of Deadwood. Its offices stood close enough to the livery stables that he could board Diablo there, then walk over to the stage office to purchase a ticket to Cheyenne. Livery fees being cheaper in Laramie made him decide to leave Diablo behind.







    Jack checked the Colt revolvers he always wore and his Bowie. He put on his hat, gathered his belongings, and headed out the door. After paying the few dollars he owed for his room, Jack walked out into the waning sunlight, mounted Diablo, and rode to the livery stables.







      Cold stars bore silent witness to the coach as it lumbered East from Laramie. A team of six mustangs, broken to pull the stage because of their endurance and natural sure-footed gate in difficult terrain, pulled on the large wooden carriage. A lone wolf howled in the distance, and Jack Diamond turned his gaze in that direction.





 

    The night air seeped through the coach's wooden frame, chilling him. He didn't notice; his thoughts were elsewhere. Jack gazed toward the horizon as fear gnawed at him from within. He was getting old now. Well past forty, Jack had seen his time in the sun fade to a dim shadow. Youthful invigoration had given way to a more cautious approach as he gained experience, but Jack had had no luck in months.







    Feeling the weight of his empty wallet, Jack clenched his fists. It had been weeks since his last job. Anxiety gnawed at him, threatening his sanity. Normally cool and composed, Jack found himself snapping at his friends. It had happened only a couple of times, times like these, when anxiety gnawed at his resolve. His stomach rumbled uncomfortably and Jack shifted in his seat. Uncertainty raised its ugly head.  "Might be some piss-poor guard work for scraps. Or worse, them bigger paydays come with bigger trouble. When it all hits the fan, reckon it'll get downright hairy."







    He didn't want that. What he wanted was an easy job with a high reward. Jack doubted he would get what he wanted.  He seldom did. Diamond doubted Sam would have gotten in touch with him unless the payout was lush. It had to be somewhere in the middle ground, he finally decided. It would neither be too dangerous nor overly lucrative. "Damn it, why’s everything gotta be such a tangle?"







                                                                            Chapter 3





 

    Suddenly, the train shook violently. The erratic movement jarred Jack Diamond from his feet and threw him against the wall of the caboose.  "What in the devil’s name was that?"







    Gunfire erupted from the cars ahead, and Jack knew something was wrong. Passengers were usually easily controlled. Typically, his men would break any would-be hero’s nose with a swift smash of a revolver. The spray of blood was usually dramatic enough to keep everyone else in line. If he was hearing gunfire, something must be very wrong indeed. His heart pounded in his chest as Jack steadied himself. He quickly scanned the contents of the caboose and was surprised at what he didn’t find. There was no safe. Had it been moved? If so, to where? Had it ever been aboard at all? Jack looked at the two robbers that flanked him. "What the devil’s goin’ on up there? Why the hell are we still movin’?" 







    Dan Johnson peered out the window with a furrowed brow. His accent was heavy when he spoke. "Look like we got comp’ny, cher. I don’t see nothin’, me."







    Hannah Jane checked her revolvers. She had seen jobs go bad from the beginning before. Something was different this time and she couldn’t tell what it was. Doubt pushed itself forward, screaming for her attention. Hannah Jane took a deep breath before speaking. "Something’s off. Tom should’ve gotten control of this train already. I sure hope he ain't dumb enough to let Wil take the lead engine."







                                                                          *****







  From behind a stack of boxes, the brakeman made his move. Not breaking concealment, he kept low, watchful for any sign he had been discovered. The brakeman held his revolver in a shaky hand. Sweat stung his eyes despite the cold. "Easy."







    He had always been sickly. His nose ran constantly, so he drew breath from his mouth. His father had never liked him, and he desired the man’s approval from beyond the grave. If he could ambush these three, maybe he could make a name for himself. He mumbled under his breath. “This is stupid, Jasper.” 







It was too late. Jasper, the Brakeman had made up his mind.







    Hannah watched Jack blink in confusion. Her friend shook his head. She had seen enough. "Well, Jack, where’s the fuckin’ safe?"







    His guts threatened to fill with water again. Jack smiled, attempting to make light of the situation even as his mind filled with questions. “Ain’t got a clue—workin’ on it, though."







    Still looking out the window, Dan turned to face the other bandits. "They done move it, hein?"







    Jack had an idea, his face lit up with excitement. "The mail car! Bet they went and shifted the safe to the mail car when the loot was loaded."







    Hannah was certain Jack had said the safe would be in the caboose. Their entire plan had hinged on the “fact” that the safe was in the rear of the train. Suddenly everything changed.  "Months of schemin’, wasted. Damn it, Jack, which one? There’s two mail cars!"







    Johnson turned from the window and faced the other two outlaws. He frowned. "So you tellin’ me we gotta blast through the passenger cars, find the right mail car, and bust in? Train’s still movin’, cher! What if it ain’t even on here, huh? What if somebody done set us up?”







    He had to put a stop to this quickly. The situation was spiraling out of control. Diamond had to regain the upper hand. Diamond’s voice was firm. "Ain’t no setup, Dan. They went and put it in the mail car, that’s all." 







  She should have that safe opened by now. The loot should have already been loaded. Anxiety still gnawed at Hannah. "Jack! They’re shootin’ at us, damn it!"







    As if intent on proving her point, the brakeman squeezed his trigger. The sudden blasts caught the bandits off guard—Hannah dove for cover behind some boxes. The shots had come from behind. Jack rolled left and joined Hannah, sharing her cover. Dan had crouched low. Pulling his pistols, the outlaw returned fire.







    His ambush had failed. An instant of regret came over him. A bullet slammed into his chest, knocking the brakeman against the wall behind him. Pain exploded from the gaping wound. Looking down at the grievous hole in his chest, the man pressed his hands over it. Another bullet hammered into his chest, followed by yet a third. The throbbing in his chest was torturous. Warm liquid flowed between his fingers and down his wrists, soaking his sleeves. The dying man held his hands to his face and stared at the blood, horrified. “Well, shit!”







    Taking careful aim, Dan put another slug between the brakeman's eyes. The wall behind his head turned a sickening red; almost black in the dimly lit caboose. Jasper crumpled to the floor, limp. The man's empty revolver smoked on the floor at his feet.







    Hannah stood, brushing dust from her jeans. "Who in the hell was that?" 







    Examining his coat, Jack noticed a couple of holes. 







    Hannah's eyes went wide at the words. She stood, mouth agape for a moment. "Who?" she asked, waiting for Diamond to connect. She chided herself for not thinking of it earlier. "Stupid."







    Diamond turned to his friend. The look on her face told him he was missing something. What was it? "The brake....."







    In his confusion, Jack had forgotten there were brakes in the caboose. "Shit." He pointed to a wheel on the wall behind Dan. "The brakes!"







    Johnson knew what his friend meant and instantly ran for the wheel at the front of the caboose. Jack and Hannah rushed toward the rear of the car. The two grasped the steel wheel and twisted as Dan did the same. The brake wheel screamed in protest. A small puff of rust spouted from the wheels' axle as it began to turn slowly. With all their strength, the outlaws twisted. The brakes tightened under their grip, and the bandits struggled to apply them. The brake's shoes squeezed the caboose's steel wheels, stopping their momentum. Sparks flew as the wheels seized under the pressure. Wafting up from the smoking brakes below, the smell of burned steel filled the caboose. The screech of steel on steel echoed about them, but the train didn't slow. The locomotives were too powerful.







    Things were getting worse. If he couldn't regain control, the entire raid would be in vain. Diamond couldn’t let doubt begin to erode his illusion of control. He needed to appear level-headed in dire situations. He had to remain calm. Jack threw his hands in the air in disgust. "Fuck!"







    Hannah looked to her companions. She had never seen Jack like this. His hands shaking, her friend hung his head. Hannah had often seen Jack's hands tremble. What she witnessed in him now worried her. His calm facade had cracked. Hannah caught a glimpse of fear shining through the fissures.  "This ain't workin’!"







    Dan walked over to Jack and put a hand on his friend's shoulder, "Hey, homme, you doin’ all right, yeah?" 







    Suddenly, the caboose lashed about like the tip of a whip. Sent sprawling, the surprised outlaws were thrown about the car. Heavy boxes fell from stacks. A few busted, spilling their contents onto the floor. Debris flew. Gathering themselves, the bandits stood. Pain erupted in lightning-like streaks from his back, dissipating to a dull ache. Jack had hit the wall behind him and fell. He shook his head to clear it. "Keep yer head steady. Make for the mail car and watch yer step. No one's stoppin’ us, not now." 







    Johnson tightened his grip on his revolvers. "Got it, mais, let’s get goin’, yeah?"





   

    Hannah sighed, audibly frustrated. “Fuck. Lead the way.”







    More gunfire echoed from the other cars, and the bandits carefully headed in that direction. The stench of spent gunpowder assaulted their noses upon opening the door. The air was thick with a blueish-gray smoke. Sunlight beamed in from the windows. Streaks of light beamed across the cloud of acrid smoke. People shouted. Others took cover on the floor between pews—a bullet whizzed by the bandits' heads, embedding itself into the wall behind them. The outlaws ducked instinctively behind a nearby pew, their hearts pounding.







    Scanning the chaos for signs of his men or any clue of what was happening, Jack felt a growing sense of unease. The situation was spiraling out of control. He needed to regain the upper hand fast. He narrowed his eyes as he searched the smoke-filled car. There were few passengers. The bodies of a couple of his men lay on the floor in the middle of the aisle. Some passengers stepped over the corpses, one nearly tripping, as they made their way to the door and out of the car.







    Diamond shouted to be heard above the din of commotion aboard the train, his mind racing. "Stay down now. We ain’t got time to stop—let’s keep goin’." 







    Hannah had crouched low behind him. "Who’s firin’ on us?"







    Still scanning the car, Jack turned his head toward Hannah. "Beats me. Looks like the law’s on us." 







“Shit,” Hannah said, rolling her eyes.







    Peering through the smoke, Jack tried to spot the source of the gunfire. He noticed a figure in a black coat aiming a rifle in their direction from the other end of the car. Diamond’s eyes were wide with recognition.  A mix of anger and fear coursed through him. “Pinkertons!”







"Somebody’s gone and ratted us out, fellas."  Hannah observed.







Glancing at his companions, Jack clenched his fists. "The safe’s in the mail car, sure enough. We gotta deal with this Pink, and fast." 







Dan grinned as he looked at Jack. "You need cover, homme?"







“Please,” Jack replied, in mock politeness. He readied himself to move.







    Another bullet slammed into the wall behind him, and Dan stood up, pistols in each hand. He hollered a shrill cry as he began emptying his revolvers. Acting quickly, the Pinkerton Agent dove for safety behind a nearby pew. He lay there in the corner to avoid Dan's onslaught. Diamond took the opportunity to move down the aisle between the pews, taking cover a few yards from the hiding agent. He crouched low, weaving between the pews, watchful for the agents' reappearance. Jack hopped over some luggage in his way and hid behind a bench. He had positioned himself along the opposite wall and a few rows ahead of the hiding detective. With empty revolvers and Jack in position, Dan took cover to reload.







    Jack waited patiently for the Pinkerton agent to reappear, pistol in hand. He didn’t have long to wait, for the agent was soon up again, aiming with his rifle at the pew protecting Dan and Hannah. Diamond knew he was undetected when he saw the agent’s eyes narrow. “He’s taking his shot.”







    The rifle blast was deafening, but it was Jack’s cue to act. Jack knew the agent would have to lever another round into the chamber. The agent would still have to aim again to re-fire.







    He stood and blasted away at the surprised Pinkerton Agent. Diamond held the revolver tight in his right hand and fanned the hammer with his left. He did this in rapid succession, again and again, until the piece was emptied. The agent fell backward, his back hitting the window beside him. The window shattered, sending razor shards of glass flying into the air, as the agent crumpled over the pew before him. The agent was dead. Reloading, Jack glanced back at Dan and Hannah. His friends were crouched behind a bench, their faces pale but determined. Quickly, the two joined their leader at the other end of the car. With a nod, they moved forward, keeping low and using the train’s interior for cover. Jack’s mind raced with strategies, his senses on high alert.





He couldn’t afford to lose control now. Not when they were so close.

 





                                                                              *****







      A heavy log crashed into the firebox. Sparks flew as glowing embers circled up the flue. Black smoke trailed down the length of the train as it wound down the mountain pass. Wiping sweat from his brow, the conductor turned his head.  "Hey, Lunkhead!"







    The fireman stood still. He faced away from the old man, looking down at the floor under his boots. The man sighed. "My name's Jackson, you cantankerous old coot."







    The conductor laughed. He liked this man and showed it by giving him a good ribbing. "Yeah, but you're a lunkhead anyways. Don't go putting too much wood on that fire."







    Another log crashed into the firebox. Embers shot up the flue once again. Jackson turned to the tender car. He reached for yet a third log. "We've got to get to the next stop fast."







    The conductor grasped a lever and pushed it forward. Steam hissed as it passed through the boiler's piping. The train was moving quickly, though it wasn't moving as fast as it could. He stood and looked out the side window at the tracks ahead. Satisfied the tracks were clear, he turned to the fireman. "What's the matter with you?"







    The third log slammed into the firebox. "I ain't no lunkhead, Old man. We knew this was coming. We were prepared. The passengers weren't. They were clueless. Maybe they weren't so lucky."







    He walked up to Jackson. The elderly gentleman looked the fireman in the eyes. "Easy. I'm just hackin' on ya, kid. We can't help the passengers. The Pinkertons are their best bet. We can't risk going too fast."







    Jackson furrowed his brow in confusion. He looked down at the conductor. The old man's eyes showed intensely. Jackson shook his head, raising his voice in anger. "I ain't no kid either! I've been doing this for ten years! I'm not going to overload the boiler!"







    The conductor had had all he was going to take from Jackson. "This train's a whip. Any instability up here is intensified down the length to the rear. Have you forgotten what all we're haulin'?"







"We should be haulin' ass." Jackson joked.







    He slapped the palm of his hand against his forehead. The old man looked at Jackson, mouth agape. "You are a Lunkhead, boy! You forgot what's in mail car #2!"







    Jackson went white. His complexion paled and he sweated heavier. Realizing what the old man meant sent a wave of terror through the younger man. He raised his hand, covering his mouth with his fingers. "Fuck!"



   





                                                                      Chapter 4

 





        Joseph Winchester had been an informant to the Pinkerton agency as a young man. His father ran a bar in Chicago. His family lived upstairs, and young Joe would help by cleaning the floors or tables as needed. Most patrons of the bar ignored Joe. He used this to his advantage and eavesdropped on every conversation he could. Joe could easily remember the names, dates, and many details of the things he had heard. Upon hearing one such conversation, Joe headed to the Pinkerton Agency with the information and a plan.







    Finding the offices of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency was not difficult for him at all. Alan Pinkerton has been a local celebrity and national hero for some time. People knew him and either loved or loathed the man. Several of his agents had been patrons at his father's tavern on more than one occasion, and it was one of these agents he now looked for.







    A mix of nerves and determination swirled in his belly like bees as Joe entered the offices at 80 Washington Street. The office was a buzzing hive of coordination. Heavy wooden desks scattered about the room showed orange in the gas lit room. Assorted maps, wanted posters, and filing cabinets were everywhere. Shelves on the wall held stacks of ledgers and case files. Above all, there were people. Agents scurried, purposefully about their business as Joseph was led to an office in back. Winchester sat with his back to the door as Freeman took his seat at the desk across from him. 







    His mother had taught him to read and write years before. Joseph took an empty ledger from the bar’s storage room and transcribed what he had overheard. He held the ledger in trembling hands as he told Agent Freeman all about it. After reciting his tale as practiced, Joe handed his ledger to the agent. “I put it all down in writtin’. It’s all there, clear as a fresh spring. I took down their names and painted ‘em clean as I could.”







    Clearly impressed, Agent Freeman smiled at the boy. He eagerly accepted Joe’s ledger and began rifling through the pages. Carefully Freeman examined each word. Wide-eyed, he turned the page. As he read, Agent Freeman realized that this enterprising young man had discovered a plot to rob the First National Bank. Not only that, but Joseph had also provided a detailed description of the two he had overheard. With one hand, he lifted the ledger, holding it near his head. “You did all of this?”







“Did it on my own, I did.” Joseph swelled with pride.







    Freeman was flabbergasted. This ambitious boy had uncovered a secret plot. He had given the agency what amounted to a full case report on his own initiative. And he did it all in plenty of time to vet the information within. Joseph Winchester left the office as an informant with a couple extra dollars in his pocket and a gigantic smile on his face. 







    That was nine years ago. Joe was now twenty-three and had been a full agent for nearly three years. He had been involved in several cases over those years. Agent Winchester learned from some of the country's best detectives. He polished his skill in disguising his appearance, going as far as learning to fake a few accents. Joseph proved himself a quick study. He had received his first undercover mission a few weeks after becoming a full agent. He had infiltrated a band of counterfeiters, bringing the ring down in a few weeks. A string of successful arrests had cemented his place within the agency. Ambition payed huge dividends to the young detective. He had made it, he often told himself. On top of that, he had done it his way. He was proud, ambitious, determined, and most dangerous to criminals, Joeseph was smart.







                                                                              *****







            After settling into his room, Sam Jones headed straight for the bar. He knew exactly where to find Jack Diamond. He scanned the room upon entering for any sign of his former friend and companion. " I reckon that no-good varmint’s holed up in here somewhere likely sittin’ in the corner. "







    Sam glanced to the corner at his left—no Jack. He took a kerchief from his pocket. He raised the rag to his face and coughed into it. Turning to scan the corner to his right, Sam smiled. "There he is plain as day."







    He stood there looking at Diamond, watching. Jack sat at that table, back in the corner as always. He stared at the cards in his hand with a furrowed brow. Sam had seen that same look on Jack's face numerous times before. It meant Jack was losing. Sam inhaled deeply to steady his nerves. Approaching the man that had sent him to prison for fifteen long, grueling years, Sam drew another deep breath, clenching his shaking hands into fists.







    Upon reaching the table, Sam stopped and tried to look into Jack's eyes. He wanted to see the look on his face when his friend recognized him. Waiting for Jack to lift his head slightly, Sam could see the cold Hazel eyes of his former friend, a friend that cost him fifteen valuable years. Sam coughed into the rag again before putting it back in his pocket. "Room for one more?"







    Diamond did not look up from his cards. He folded his hand in disgust, tossing the cards on the table and looking at the stranger. Sam sat directly across from his old comrade, yet Jack didn't recognize him. Diamond sat there and stared at him with the same furrowed brow. "Free country, Mister."







    Jones forced a smile. He didn't need his "friend" getting suspicious. “Mister, huh? That ain’t no way to greet no one, Pal.”





    Jack's eyes widened in recognition. The only person who had ever referred to him as Pal was the man he was there to meet. The man sitting across from him was far too thin to be Sam. Sam had a full head of light brown hair, but this man's hair was thinning nearly to the point of baldness. What hair he had was white as bone. "Sam?"







      Sam Jones could barely manage his rage. This man had left him to fend for himself over twenty years earlier. Jack had concocted a bank heist that went south. Citizens armed themselves to defend their savings. Most of the gang was killed. Sam and his younger brother had been the only survivors other than Jack. Daniel Jones had died of dysentery only a few months after being sent to prison. Sam had blamed Jack for the whole thing, especially for the death of his brother.  With fists clenched, Sam addressed his old friend. "It's me, Jack. "



    He saw Jack smile. His friend’s bushy beard stretched towards his ears. Light from the oil lamps flickered, illuminating Jack’s face. Dropping his cards on the table, Jack bolted from his chair. He raced around the table and embraced his buddy in a vicious bear hug.  Jack lifted him off the floor. “God, it’s good to see you, Sam. I’ve missed you!”



    Sam had expected this. Jack was an emotional man, overly friendly and slow to anger. He had few friends, but those he had Jack kept close. “All but me,” Sam thought, suppressing his rage. He narrowed his eyes. "You missed me, all right—but not enough to stick around and see how I was faring. Me and my brother stood out front, starin’ down the devil himself. Soon as the bullets started flyin', you hightailed it out the back door, Jack—headed north like the wind and never spared us a glance."







    Exhausted from his outburst, Sam coughed into the rag again.







    Flustered, Jack stood board straight, mouth agape. He was not prepared to see his old friend in this condition. Sam was seven years younger than he was. The man before him looked to be at least ten years Jack’s senior. The accusation Sam threw his way, stung.  "Hey, Pal, don’t go actin’ all high and mighty—you never came a lookin’ for me neither!"     







"That would've been quite the stunt, pullin' it off from inside The Walls!" He waited to see Jack’s expression. The very mention of the Walls Unit was enough to petrify the hardest outlaws in Texas. Its grueling working conditions combined with oppressive heat and humidity making a violently unstable mix. Riots and murder were common among inmates, but it was the guards most outlaws feared. Many jailers were criminals themselves in Diamond’s mind.







He went pale at the thought. “You were in Huntsville?”







      Rage threatened to spoil his wrath. Sam steadied himself and cleared his mind. He had a part to play if he were to exact his revenge on Jack. "Fifteen years, pardner. Fifteen long years."





    Fifteen years in any prison of the era was nearly impossible to survive. His friend did so in the Walls Unit, still one of the most feared prisons in the nation. Jack didn’t know how to respond to the news. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. What happened to Danny?”







    Sam was incredulous. Not only had Diamond planned a botched bank heist, but he and his younger brother had payed high prices for Jack’s ineptitude.  "Daniel’s gone, Jack. Died six months to the day after ridin’ straight into hell. You’d have known it, if you’d cared enough to find out." 





    He smiled at Diamond, belying the hatred he felt. Jack had encouraged young Daniel Jones’ criminal activities. Sam had tried to talk his brother out of joining the raid. Daniel wouldn’t hear his older brother’s protestations, and demanded he be allowed to tag along. Knowing Daniel would come anyway, Samuel relented. "That’s water under the bridge, Jack. I’m jaw flappin’ about what’s comin’ down the trail."





          Samuel Jones threw his arm around Diamond’s shoulder. He engaged in faux pleasantries to conceal his intent from his prey. Sam led the unsuspecting outlaw to the stairs and up to his room. Opening the door, Sam grinned. "Well now, looks like you’ve wandered straight into my trap—like the spider welcoming the fly."







    He stood for a moment. Wonder obvious in his expression. The word trap had sent shivers down his spine. “That’s not fuckin’ funny, you low-down scoundrel,”







    Dismissing the notion of treachery, Jack Diamond entered the room, unaware of what his Pal had in store.









                                                                          Chapter 5







    A scream rent the air as a man in a black coat and hat slammed his shoulder against the car's door. Steel hinges rocked on their mounts. The wooden door opened a few inches before jamming against a pile of luggage. Seeing the barricade would not hold, Winchester drew his pistols from under his coat. Knowing gunfire would announce his presence, Agent Winchester sat in ambush.







    Another crash. The outlaw threw himself violently at the door. Splinters flew as the hinge bolts failed. Luggage scattered across the floor. He stood in the doorway, pistol in each hand. Beams of light showed from behind. The bandit's menacing silhouette terrified the passengers. Screams and gasps escaped some commuters. "I’m takin’ your money and your trinkets—and I ain’t waitin’ around for ‘em neither!"







      Mild turbulence rocked the train. A wooden bob fell from the roof of the car. It hung above the middle of the aisle, swinging from a short cable. He strode confidently down the aisle. A mild limp gave the bandit a rugged swagger. He stood at the handle. The outlaw tucked his sidearms into their holsters. He smiled, thinking of the hell he was about to unleash. Reaching up with one hand, the outlaw grasped the handle. "I'd hold on to my ass if I was you."







    Winchester saw the danger immediately. "The emergency brake!"







      Suddenly, five shots exploded from the corner of the car. Each slug found its mark as it slammed into the outlaw's chest. His torso rocked backward violently with each impact. Wide-eyed, the bandit fell to the floor. Agent Freeman had caught the man off guard. Winchester did not hear the beginning of Freeman’s sentence. His ears rang from the sudden eruption of gunfire. He had heard the end of that sentence clear as a bell. “..........came closer than a rattler to a bootheel!"





    Screams escaped the mouths of a few passengers as the car filled with the smell of spent gunpowder. Smoke billowed in the aisle, swirling in the light draft. Beams of light fell through panes of glass to the floor, obscuring vision. Joe scanned the car in anticipation of more hostility. "We're sitting ducks!"







    Freeman was on the move. He had shuffled down the pew length and was hurrying up the aisle. "We've got to maintain control."







    Agent Winchester stood, service revolvers in each hand. He strode up the aisle, his heart pounding. Despite the preceding violence, he needed to calm the situation. He spoke loudly to be heard: "Quiet down, everyone! Listen up now—we gotta set up a defense. Who here’s packin’ iron?" 







    There was a sudden silence. Terrified passengers hid behind their pews, keeping their eyes trained on the floor at their feet. Joe hoped somebody would step up. When no one did, he was incredulous. "Not a soul? Ain’t one of ya a goin’ heels?"







    A man stumbled from the following car. Bleeding from a wound in the center of his chest, the man leaned upon Agent Freeman., who strained under the weight of the larger man. "Help me!"







      Rushing to assist, Joe recognized the man on sight. Agent Murphey had a wound nearly two inches wide in his chest. The man wheezed and coughed as blood soaked his clothing. Winchester removed his coat and placed it on the wound, applying pressure. "What the hell are they using?!"







    Keeping pressure on the wound, Joseph looked at the man. Agent Murphey coughed; blood bubbled at one corner of his mouth as he spoke. "The bastard's got Gene pinned down. He won't get into that car as long as Gene's on that street howitzer."







    He was hit with a coughing fit. Murphey rocked in pain. He took a few ragged breaths before continuing. "We gotta get them passengers outta there, quick as we can!" 







    Freeman was on the move. He hurried up the aisle, jumping a pew to take cover beside the door. He didn't go unnoticed. A blast of rifle fire embedded a lead slug into the door jamb by his head. Splinters showered the agent's face as he recoiled. As the bandit levered another round into the chamber, Freeman moved again. He left cover and hid near the door to the next car.







    Several passengers were hiding behind and under their benches. A few feet away, an old man coughed and spat into an old kerchief. He placed the rag into his pocket. Agent Freeman noticed the man was armed. "You, there! What do they call ya, old-timer?" 





    The light from the window shone on the old man's thin locks of white hair, illuminating his head in a golden halo. "They call me Samuel."







"Alright, Samuel. I need your help. My name is Agent Freeman. I'm a detective...." he began before trailing off.







    The old man began to cough into the rag again. Violently, he shook with each croup. "I know who you work for."







    A sudden blast of rifle fire sent a bullet whizzing by Samuel's head. Samuel could have sworn that he had heard the round fly past. Ducking low behind a bench, the old man checked to see if his pistols were loaded. He ran a bony finger along the rosewood grip of the deadly steel. Engraved into the reddish grip was the name Daniel.







    From behind a third-row pew, Agent Gene Spencer returned fire. His double barrel ten-gauge destroyed the wooden jamb. Smoke poured from its barrels, filling the front of the car. Passengers gasped and coughed. Others began opening windows to vent the acrid haze. Gusts of wind swirled the blueish smog, blowing it out the window. 







"I'm pinned in here, Boss" Spencer hollered, eyes fixed on the ruined door. "They can't get in, but we can't leave neither!"







    Craning his neck for a better view, Freeman peered inside the car. Terrified passengers stared back at him; their eyes wide; begging for salvation. "We’ll git ya outta there, Gene! Hold tight and keep an eye on that door! Samuel, make sure ever’body stays steady!"





    Peeking above the bench, Samuel scanned the car. Frightened passengers hid, huddled together behind their pews. A few were armed. "I'll try, but this place's a henhouse," he told the Agent. "And the wolves are circling."







    He needed to come up with a plan. His mind raced; Murphey needed a doctor fast. The passengers would have to be evacuated. Agent Spencer could keep the Outlaws out of the car, but he could do nothing to stop them from firing down the aisle at fleeing commuters. "I hear ya loud and clear." 







    A rifle slug slammed into the wooden jamb above his head, making Freeman recoil to cover. Taking the opportunity, he bolted away from the door and back into the preceding car. Winchester kneeled over the wounded agent. Murphy looked bad. His condition had worsened in the short time Agent Freeman was gone. He lay shivering on the floor. Blood soaked Winchester's coat and pooled on the floor under the dying man. Still pressuring the wound, Joseph looked at Murphey. Concern showed in his eyes as he comforted his friend. "Hold on, Murph. Hold on." 







                                                                                    Chapter 6







    Hannah Jane had always been secretive about her background. For as long as Jack had known her, her expression would instantly harden whenever someone brought up her past. She would say nothing. Those who knew her best were aware of her unparalleled affinity for horses. Very few surpassed her horsemanship. She was quick, agile, and graceful. Jack had often seen her hanging from the side of her mount, gripping the horse’s neck and wrapping her legs around the saddle, using the animal's body as cover from gunfire as she rode to safety. He had witnessed her calm an agitated horse with a whisper. Hannah could run up behind her horse and leap into the air, landing safely in the saddle, ready to ride. Jack supposed that she must have been a trick rider in the rodeo.







    As impressive as her horsemanship was, Hannah was an expert safe cracker. Her skills were unmatched, making her an invaluable member of the band. The most sophisticated safes cracked under the graceful dance of her lithe fingers. Tumblers fell into place within the lock as if by magic. Tuned by years of practice, her hearing was acute. Hannah's abilities allowed her to detect and identify the slightest reverberation from the mechanism. Opening the toughest safes was a breeze.







    Jack had met her fresh from prison. Hannah was fiercely defensive when questioned about it. He supposed she had honed many of her skills behind bars but decided to let the matter alone. If she wanted him to know, Hannah would tell him. It was that simple. All he knew of her past was that she had served time. The reasons behind her incarceration remained a mystery she guarded savagely.







    Hannah quickly proved her worth upon joining the gang. Her first job with Diamond and the band was a huge success. Hannah had opened the vault in under five minutes, and the band had escaped before an armed resistance could be formed. They did not need lynch mob justice interfering with their flight. The seasoned outlaws within the crew were left in awe of her safe-cracking abilities. The cool demeanor she displayed under pressure and her skills with a safe continued to impress Jack and the other bandits on their subsequent robberies. Hannah could pick a stage's strongbox with lightning speed. Her talents were priceless to any thief, and she gained respect within the gang.







    Best friends Jack and Dan Johnson found a companion in Hannah Jane. The three became friends early on. Over the years, their ironclad friendship solidified, forming the heart of the gang. The three were virtually inseparable. You rarely saw one without the other two within earshot. They were that close. Through everything, members would join the band, some would leave. Others died or, worse, were captured, but the core of the crew remained these three. 







    Hannah's relationship with Jack was unusually convoluted, with mutual respect and an unspoken understanding. Jack admired her strength and fierce independence. He saw these qualities in himself. Jack knew that Hannah could take care of herself. Yet, he protected her, anyway. He had always guarded his friends and family. With Hannah, it was a bit different. Making no sense of it, Jack thought it best to leave it alone.







    Her past remained a closely guarded secret. She never spoke of the years before her imprisonment or the events that led to it. Jack realized he knew nothing about her when he noticed her thousand-yard stare. When things were quiet or slow, Diamond often saw her sitting, deep in thought, looking out at an imagined horizon. Understanding that everyone carried their burdens heavy upon their shoulders, Jack respected her privacy.







    Diamond would sometimes wonder about the life Hannah had left behind, suspecting there was pain and loss in her past. Hannah was boldly and unapologetically an independent woman. He respected and admired that in her. Though unknown to him, he surmised her past experiences shaped the ferocity with which she protected her friends and her past. The present mattered. The future was important; Hannah's past was not, so he left it. They faced whatever challenges, come what may. Their bond was stronger, despite the secrets they each carried.







    Before, Hannah was always looking for her next target, usually the home of a well-to-do businessman or rancher. Many of the most elegant homes had safes stuffed with valuables. Upon finding a mark, Hannah would watch the target homes, monitoring the occupants and taking notes on their schedules. Most importantly, she noticed when the homes were empty, looking for a pattern. If one were detected, Hannah would strike, entering an empty house and absconding with the contents of their safe before riding to another town for another job.







    Being a member of a large band afforded her the opportunity for greater rewards. No longer was she hitting the homes of the wealthy alone. Yes, she stole plenty independently, but now, she was part of an organized group. Each outlaw brought their unique talents. Safe crackers, like today, were a rare commodity and very useful, especially when robbing banks, trains, and stages. These were her marks now. She had found a group of friends she felt comfortable with. Hannah enjoyed the camaraderie almost as much as she enjoyed spending her ill-gotten gains.







    Growing up on a small farm in the Midwest, Hannah had a difficult childhood. Her struggling family farm had failed from drought. Crops had been devoured by swarms of locusts, leaving the family near starvation. Early on, Hannah learned to fend for herself. Her father, a stern man, expected hard work and discipline. He had taught her to be self-reliant. Her mother, though, had instilled in her a love for horses. A trick rider in her youth, Hannah's mother performed in rodeos and traveling shows, even performing for P. T. Barnum. Passing on her skills to her daughter, she taught Hannah to ride and handle horses with a finesse that few could match.







    As a teenager, Hannah vanished from the farm, seeking adventure and a way to make her way. She worked whatever job she could. With her inquisitive mind, Hannah learned new abilities quickly. Her agility and horsemanship made her a priceless commodity in illicit affairs.







    Hannah had finally found acceptance. As an important member of the gang, she also found the bond she shared with Jack and Dan was brass-bound, forged, and tempered—honed to a razor's edge. They were family, and Hannah protected her family. When loved ones were threatened, she became fierce. Her cool demeanor would harden, and her fists would clench. Hannah would lash out violently in defense of her friends and family.







    She was a likable person. Despite her criminal activities, Hannah was quick to defend the helpless. She was not a murderer, nor a bully. She despised bullies. Hannah would do everything she could to publicly embarrass any she found. It had gotten her into trouble on numerous occasions. She didn't care what trouble came her way. Hannah was confident she could handle herself in any situation, even if she got beat for her trouble.







*****







    Étienne Maximilien Fontenot was born in the Vieux Carré, or Old Square, in English. This was the oldest section of New Orleans. He was raised in a house on the  corner of the Rue Bourbon and the Rue Saint-Philippe, that seemed as old as New Orleans itself. It was not as old as that. Build in the 1770’s the run down structure had been the only building to survive the 1788 fire that had destroyed the French Quarter. Its slate tiled roof protected the building from falling embers as the immolation roared about it. This home was reputed to have been owned by the brother of the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte. It was said to have been a smithy at the time and the brothers were thought to have fenced stolen goods from within its stone walls. This home, formerly a smithy, is now a bar. Its still standing today.







    Being the son of a riverboat gambler, Fontenot naturally gravitated to the mighty Mississippi at an early age. He was a big man, wide at the shoulders and narrow at the hip. He could often be found playing stud at a bar not far from his home. He’d sit at a table within the Old Absinthe House and deal cards to anyone willing to chance their luck against the smooth talking Cajun. Though he spoke quickly and with a heavy accent, Étienne Maximilien Fontenot was “slicker than snot on a glass doorknob,” or so his friend Jack Diamond had said.







    The two had met in the Summer, seven years earlier.  Fontenot and Diamond had been two of the fortunate few to have purchased tickets aboard the now famous Natchez. The two were aboard as the paddle-wheeler raced the Lee from New Orleans to St. Louis and back. It had taken two days for them to reach St. Louis. The Lee had gotten there first. Problems plagued the Natchez slowing her progress. The Natchez arrived in St. Louis later the same day as the Lee. On July fourth, the Natchez had lost her race back home. The two men had spent the entire trip drinking, gambling and smoking Cuban cigars. They departed the Natchez, and headed for the Old Absinthe House.







    Jack could not pronounce Étienne Maximilien Fontenot. Nor could Fontenot spell his name. Jack’s slow Texas drawl caused him to stumble over his new friends name. Tired of being laughed at, Diamond gave up. The man was Dan now. Much easier to say. Dan Johnson was easier to say anyway, Jack thought. Easy-going Fontenot, acquiesced to the name change. Jack had lost almost all of his money to this man. He now sat at a table, across from Dan Johnson, and bitterly lost the rest of it. The rest is history. The rest is history.







Chapter 7