The Chase (32 page)

A
DELINE
WAS HITTING HER STRIDE ON THE FLAT
, open stretch of track. She was touching ninety miles an hour, roaring across trestles over dry gulches, flying through small towns, and hurtling past signals indicating open track ahead. The telegraph poles running alongside the track swept by in a confused blur. Gray smoke tinged with sparks and cinders spewed from the stack, streaming back in a horizontal cloud over the cab and flattened by the head-on rush of wind.

A doleful, flaxen-haired descendant of the Vikings, Russ Jongewaard, sat in the engineer's seat, one hand on the throttle, while Bill Shea, a tall, humorous Irishman, shoveled coal into the firebox. After hearing from Bell that he was in a do-or-die attempt to capture the famed Butcher Bandit, they gladly came aboard to join the chase.

Lofgren and Long stayed aboard, too. “We're volunteering for the duration,” said Lofgren. “With the four of us spelling each other, we won't have to stop for another relay crew.”

Bell pitched in with the coal-shoveling duties. His thigh wound from Cromwell's bullet in Telluride had not completely healed, but as long as he didn't put too much weight on it there was little pain. His scoop held half as much coal as those that Long or Shea pitched in the firebox, but he made up for it with two shovels to their one.

The two Southern Pacific firemen took turns keeping an eye on the water gauge and watching the steam gauge, making sure it showed their fire was burning well and the engine was operating at just under two hundred pounds of steam pressure, within a hair of the redline mark. They studied the smoke coming from the stack. When it started to go from gray to clear, they added more coal. When it turned black, it meant the fire was too thick and they had to ease off.

A competition, unchallenged and unspoken, developed between Lofgren and Jongewaard, but it did not go unnoticed.
Adeline
may have shown the immense power of her machinery and the lightning speed of her churning drive wheels, but it was the strength and endurance of the men who drove her to her limits that set records across Nevada that day. The engineers had the bit in their teeth and worked hard to catch the train of the killer of so many innocent people.

Seeing the semaphore that signaled the track was clear beyond Elko, Lofgren kept the throttle against its stop as he swept past the depot at ninety-five miles an hour. People waiting on the platform for a passenger train stared aghast as
Adeline
shot by like an immense cannonball.

Fortunately, junctions were few and far between—a few spur lines running off the main track—so they kept up their rapid speed without slowing. Then agonizing slowdowns began to occur at the town of Wells, and again farther up the track at Promontory, to allow westbound relief trains through. The delays were utilized by taking on coal and water, but a total of eighty minutes was lost.

At each stop, Bell questioned the stationmasters about Cromwell's train. At Wells, the stationmaster told him that the engineer and fireman who had driven Cromwell's train from Oakland had been found by a section hand checking the ties and rails. He'd had them brought into town, barely able to stand because they were so fatigued and dehydrated. They had confirmed what Bell had feared: Cromwell had frequently ordered the train to stop so his hired gun could climb the poles and cut the wires.

“How are we doing?” asked Lofgren when Bell climbed back in the cab.

“The stationmaster said they passed through three hours ago.”

“Then we've picked up an hour and a half since Reno,” Long said with a wide grin, knowing their untiring efforts were paying off.

“From here to Ogden, you'll have to keep out a sharp eye. Cromwell is cutting the telegraph wires. We'll be running blind, should we come upon a westbound train.”

“Not a great threat,” said Jongewaard. “The company won't risk sending trains down the main line if they can't contact stationmasters to set schedules. Still, we'll have to be on the alert, especially around turns where we can't see more than a mile ahead.”

“How far to Ogden?” asked Bell.

“About fifty miles,” replied Jongewaard. “We should make the station in about an hour.”

 

W
ITH
L
OFGREN
at the throttle,
Adeline
pulled into Ogden's Union Station forty-two minutes later. He was switched to the coal-and water-loading siding and brought the locomotive to a halt. Their routine was now well established. While Long and Shea loaded the coal and water, Lofgren and Jongewaard checked the engine and oiled the drive connectors and wheel bearings. Bell hurried into the big station and found the dispatcher's office.

A pudgy man sat at a desk, staring out the window at an arriving passenger train. His interest was particularly taken by the young pretty women who showed ankles when stepping down the Pullman car steps. Bell read the name on a small sign sitting on the front of the desk.

“Mr. Johnston?”

Johnston looked Bell's way and smiled a friendly smile. “Yes, I'm Johnston. What can I do for you?”

Bell ran through his story of chasing Cromwell for perhaps the sixth time since leaving San Francisco. “Can you tell me when the train came through?”

“Never came through,” answered Johnston.

“Never came through your station?” Bell's thick eyebrows lifted toward his mane of blond hair.

“Yep,” Johnston said, leaning back in his swivel chair and setting a booted foot on a pulled-out drawer. “They were switched onto the line heading north.”

“How?” snapped Bell. “It was not a scheduled train.”

“Some rich woman showed papers to the dispatcher at the junction up the track that said she had chartered a train with right-of-way clearance to Missoula, Montana.”

“The bandit's sister,” said Bell. “They're trying to reach the border and cross into Canada.”

Johnston nodded in understanding. “The dispatcher checked with me on southbound trains. None was scheduled until tomorrow morning, so I told him to go ahead and allow the lady's train to travel north.”

“When did this take place”

“A little less than two hours ago.”

“I've got to catch that train,” Bell said firmly. “I'd appreciate clearance to Missoula.”

“Why not telegraph the sheriff in Butte to stop the train and take the bandit and his sister into custody?”

“I've tried to do that since leaving Reno, but Cromwell has cut every telegraph line between here and there. No reason for him to stop now.”

Johnston looked stunned. “My God, he could have caused a head-on collision.”

“Until he and his sister reach the Canadian border, they have nothing to lose, even if it means killing anyone who gets in their way.”

Shocked understanding had come to Johnston. “Get that dirty coward,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. “I'll gladly give you clearance through to Missoula.”

“I'm grateful for any help you can give,” said Bell sincerely.

“What's your train number?”

“No train, only a tender and engine number 3455.”

“What kind of engine?”

“A Baldwin Atlantic 4-4-2,” answered Bell.

“She's a fast one. What about relay crews?”

“I have two crews who insist on sticking to the chase until we grab the bandit.”

“In that case, all I can do is wish you luck.” Johnston rose and shook Bell's hand.

“Thank you.”

“Two hours is a hell of a lead,” said Johnston quietly.

“We gained two and a half since leaving Oakland.”

Johnston thought a moment. “You've got a real chase on your hands. It will be close.”

“I'll stop him,” Bell said gamely. “I've got to stop him or he'll kill again.”

T
HERE WAS HOPE IN THE HEARTS OF THE MEN WHO
sweated and toiled to drive
Adeline
over the rails. They had all risen up and reached beyond themselves to do the impossible. Men and women who worked the farms and ranches alongside the track stopped their labor and stared in surprise at the speeding lone locomotive that shrieked its whistle in the distance and thundered past beyond their sight in less than a full minute except for the lingering trail of smoke.

With Lofgren in the driver's seat, he pressed
Adeline
harder and harder until they swept over the border from Utah to Idaho at a speed of nearly one hundred miles an hour. Pocatello, Blackfoot, and Idaho Falls came and went. Stationmasters could only stand in shock and confusion, not able to comprehend a locomotive and tender that came out of nowhere with no advance warning and plunged past their depots at unheard-of speed.

Before they raced out of Ogden, Bell had procured a pile of blankets so the crews could catnap between shifts of driving the locomotive and feeding its boiler. At first, they found it impossible to sleep for short periods because of the clamor of the drive train, the hiss of steam, and the clatter of the steel wheels over the rails. But as exhaustion set in, they found it easier and easier to drift off until their turn came at the scoop and throttle again.

Except for quick stops for coal and water,
Adeline
never slowed down. At one stop, in Spencer, Idaho, Bell learned that they were only fifty minutes behind Cromwell's train. Knowing they were rapidly closing the distance inspired them to renew their efforts and work even harder.

The mystery in Bell's mind was the report given him by the Spencer stationmaster. It seemed that the Southern Pacific main track stopped at Missoula, with only a spur that went another eighty miles to the small port of Woods Bay, Montana, on Flathead Lake.

“How do you read it?” Lofgren asked Bell after his place at the throttle was taken by Jongewaard.

“Cromwell must have found another crew after driving the engineer and fireman from Winnemucca half to death,” said Bell.

Lofgren nodded. “Without telegraph messages coming through and informing us otherwise, I have to believe he dumped them in the middle of nowhere, too, and forced a relay crew to come aboard for the final dash across the border.”

“Then he'll have to do it by driving over a road in an automobile.”

Lofgren looked at him. “Why do you say that?”

Bell shrugged. “The stationmaster at Spencer told me Southern Pacific's tracks end at Woods Bay on the east shore of Flathead Lake. I assume the only way Cromwell can continue north into Canada is by road.”

“I disagree. My guess is, he's going to take his train onto the car ferry that runs across the lake.”

Bell stared at Lofgren questioningly. “Car ferry?”

Lofgren nodded. “Logs from timber operations in Canada are hauled on flatcars across the border to a small port on the west side of the lake called Rollins. From there, they are rolled onto a ferry that carries them across the lake. When they reach Woods Bay, they are coupled to trains that transport them to lumberyards around the Southwest.”

“Why doesn't Southern Pacific simply run their tracks north to Canada?”

“The Great Northern Railroad received land rights from the government to cross the upper United States. They laid tracks that run from a landing on the west shore of Flathead Lake north to the border, where their locomotives are coupled to flatcars carrying logs hauled by the Canadian Pacific Railroad from the logging camps. Officials from both Great Northern and Southern Pacific refused to work together and never laid tracks that merged around the ends of the lake.”

“How do you know all this?”

“My uncle lives in Kalispell, above the lake. He's retired now, but he was an engineer for the Great Northern Railroad. He drove an engine between Spokane and Helena.”

The interest in Bell's voice gave way to trepidation. “So what you're telling me is that Cromwell can ferry his train across the lake to the Northern Pacific tracks and go north into Canada without stepping off his freight car.”

“That's about the size of it.”

“If he gets across on the car ferry before we can stop him…” His voice trailed off.

Lofgren saw the apprehension in Bell's eyes. “Don't worry, Isaac,” he said confidently. “Cromwell can't be more than ten miles up the track ahead of us. We'll catch him.”

For a long moment, Bell said nothing. Then he slowly reached in a breast pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Slowly, he unfolded it and handed it to Lofgren.

The engineer studied and then spoke without looking up. “It looks like a list of names.”

“It is.”

“Names of who?”

Bell dropped his voice until it was barely audible above the clangor of the charging locomotive. “The men, women, and children Cromwell murdered. I've been carrying it since I was put in charge of chasing him down.”

Lofgren's eyes lifted and gazed through the front window of the track ahead. “The others should see this.”

Bell nodded. “I think now is an appropriate time.”

 

T
HREE HOURS LATER
, with Lofgren back on the throttle,
Adeline
began to slow as she came into Missoula. He brought the locomotive to a halt fifty feet before a switch stand. Shea jumped from the cab, ran up the track, and switched the rails to those of the spur leading to Flathead Lake. He ignored the switchman, who came running out of a shack.

“Here, what are you doing?” demanded the switchman, who was bundled up against a cold wind.

“No time to explain,” said Shea as he waved to Lofgren, signaling that it was safe to roll onto the spur from the main track. He looked at the switchman as
Adeline
slowly rolled past and said, “Did another train pass onto the spur in the last hour?”

The switchman nodded. “They switched onto the spur without permission either.”

“How long ago?” Shea demanded.

“About twenty minutes.”

Without replying, Shea ran after
Adeline
and pulled himself up into the cabin. “According to the switchman,” he reported, “Cromwell's train passed onto the spur twenty minutes ago.”

“Eighty miles to make up twenty minutes,” Jongewaard said thoughtfully. “It will be a near thing.” He pulled open the throttle to the last notch and, five minutes after leaving the junction, he had
Adeline
pounding over the rails at eighty-five miles an hour.

Flathead Lake came into view as they ran up the eastern shore. The largest freshwater lake in the western United States, it was twenty-eight miles long, sixteen miles wide, and covered one hundred eighty-eight square miles, with an average depth of one hundred sixty-four feet.

They were in the homestretch now of a long and grueling chase. Lofgren sat in the fireman's seat and helped Jongewaard survey the track ahead. Bell, Shea, and Long formed a scoop brigade to feed the firebox. Not having leather gloves like the firemen, Bell wrapped his hands with rags the engineers used to wipe oil. The protection helped, but blisters were beginning to rise on his palms from the long hours of shoveling coal.

They soon reached a speed higher than the spur tracks were ever built to endure from a speeding train. There was no slowdown over bridges and trestles. Curves were taken on the outer edge. One double-reverse turn they whipped around in a violent arc rattled the bolts in the tender. Luckily, the tracks then became as straight as the crow flew. Jongewaard held the eighty-five-mile-an-hour pace for the next forty miles.

“Eureka!” Lofgren suddenly yelled, vigorously pointing ahead.

Everyone leaned from the cab, the icy wind bringing tears to their eyes. But there it was, four, maybe five, miles directly ahead, a faint puff of smoke.