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TableofContentsTitlePageCopyrightPage
UNFINISHEDBUSINESS
THEPROLETARIAT’SARTILLERY
Chapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14
THEFAVOREDFEW
Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17
Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20Chapter21Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28Chapter29Chapter30Chapter31Chapter32Chapter33
THEBRIDGE
Chapter34Chapter35Chapter36Chapter37Chapter38Chapter39Chapter40Chapter41Chapter42Chapter43Chapter44Chapter45Chapter46Chapter47Chapter48Chapter49Chapter50Chapter51
Chapter52Chapter53Chapter54Chapter55Chapter56Chapter57Chapter58Chapter59
UNFINISHEDBUSINESS
DIRKPITT®ADVENTURESBYCLIVECUSSLER
ArcticDrift(WITHDIRKCUSSLER)
TreasureofKhan(WITHDIRKCUSSLER)
BlackWind(WITHDIRKCUSSLER)
TrojanOdysseyValhallaRisingAtlantisFound
FloodTide
ShockWaveIncaGoldSaharaDragonTreasureCyclopsDeepSix
PacificVortexNightProbeVixen03
RaisetheTitanic!
IcebergTheMediterraneanCaper
KURTAUSTINADVENTURESBYCLIVECUSSLER
WITHPAULKEMPRECOS
MedusaTheNavigatorPolarShiftLostCity
WhiteDeath
FireIceBlueGold
SerpentOREGONFILESADVENTURESBYCLIVECUSSLER
WITHJACKDUBRUL
CorsairSkeletonCoastPlagueShipDarkWatchWITHCRAIGDIRGO
GoldenBuddha
SacredStone
FARGOADVENTURESBYCLIVECUSSLER
WITHGRANTBLACKWOOD
SpartanGold
OTHERFICTIONBYCLIVECUSSLER
TheChase
NONFICTIONBYCLIVECUSSLERANDCRAIGDIRGO
TheSeaHuntersTheSeaHuntersII
CliveCusslerandDirkPittRevealed
G.P.PUTNAM’SSONS
NEWYORK
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eISBN:978-1-101-15148-8
1.Privateinvestigators—Fiction.2.Sabotage—Fiction.3.Railroadtrains—Fiction.4.West(U.S.)—History—20thcentury—Fiction.I.Scott,Justin.II.Title.
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UNFINISHEDBUSINESS
DECEMBER12,1934GARMISCH-PARTENKIRCHEN
ABOVETHESNOWLINE,THEGERMANALPSTOREATTHESKYlikethe jawsof an ancient flesh eater. Storm clouds grazed thewind-swept peaks,andthejaggedrockappearedtomove,asifthebeastwereawakening.Twomen,neither young, both strong, watched from the balcony of a ski hotel withquickeninganticipation.Hans Grandzau was a guide whose weathered face was as craggy as the
mountaintops.Hecarriedinhisheadsixtyyearsoftraversingthewinteryslopes.Lastnight,hehadpromisedthatthewindwouldshifteast.BitterSiberiancoldwouldwhirlwetairfromtheMediterraneanintoblindingsnow.ThemantowhomHanshadpromisedsnowwasatallAmericanwhoseblond
hairandmustachewereedgedwithsilver.HeworeatweedNorfolksuit,awarmfedora on his head, and a Yale University scarf adorned with the shield ofBranfordCollege.Hisdresswastypicalofawell-to-dotouristwhohadcometotheAlpsforwintersport.Buthiseyeswerefastenedwithaglacial-blueintensityonanisolatedstonecastletenmilesacrosstheruggedvalley.Thecastlehaddominateditsremoteglenforathousandyears.Itwasnearly
buriedbythewintersnowsandmostlyhiddenbytheshadowofthepeaksthatsoared above it. Miles below the castle, too long and steep a climb to beundertakenlightly,wasavillage.TheAmericanwatchedapillarofsmokecreeptowardit.Hewastoofarawaytoseethelocomotiveventingit,butheknewthatit marked the route of the railroad that crossed the border to Innsbruck. Fullcircle, he thought grimly. Twenty-seven years ago, the crime had started by arailroad in the mountains. Tonight it would end, one way or another, by arailroadinthemountains.“Areyou sureyouareup to this?” asked theguide. “Theascents are steep.
Thewindwillcutlikeasaber.”“I’mfitasyouare,oldman.”To assure Hans, he explained that he had prepared by bivouack ing for a
month with Norwegian ski troops, having arranged informal attachment to aUnitedStatesArmyunitdispatchedtohonetheskillsofmountainwarfare.
“IwasnotawarethatAmericantroopsexerciseinNorway,”theGermansaidstiffly.TheAmerican’sblueeyesturnedslightlyvioletwiththehintofasmile.“Just
incasewehavetocomebackoverheretostraightenoutanotherwar.”Hansreturnedanopaquegrin.TheAmericanknewhewasaproudveteranof
theAlpenkorps,Germany’selitemountaindivisionformedbyKaiserWilhelminthe1914—1918WorldWar.ButhewasnofriendoftheNazis,whohadrecentlyseizedcontroloftheGermangovernmentandthreatenedtoplungeEuropeintoanotherwar.The American looked around to be sure they were alone. An elderly
chambermaid in a black dress and white apron was rolling a carpet sweeperdownthehallbehind thebalconydoors.Hewaiteduntilshehadmovedaway,thenpalmed a leather pouchofSwiss twenty-francgold coins in his big handandslippedittotheguide.“Fullpaymentinadvance.Thedealis, ifIcan’tkeepup,leavemeandtake
yourselfhome.Yougettheskis.I’llmeetyouattheropetow.”He hurried to his luxurious wood-paneled room, where deep carpets and a
cracklingfiremadethescenebeyondthewindowlookevencolder.Quickly,hechangedintowater-repellentgabardinetrousers,whichhetuckedintothickwoolsocks,lacedboots,twolightwoolsweaters,awindproofleathervest,andahip-lengthgabardinejacket,whichheleftunzipped.JeffreyDennisknockedandentered.Hewasasmoothyoungoperativefrom
the Berlin office, wearing the Tyrolean hat that tourists bought. Jeffrey wasbright,eager,andorganized.Buthewasnooutdoorsman.“Stillnosnow?”“Give everyone the go-ahead,” the older man told him. “In one hour, you
won’tseeyourhandinfrontofyourface.”Dennishandedhimasmallknapsack.“Papersforyouandyour,uh,‘luggage.’
The trainwill cross intoAustriaatmidnight.You’llbemetat Innsbruck.Thispassportshouldbegooduntiltomorrow.”Theoldermanlookedoutthewindowatthedistantcastle.“Mywife?”“SafeinParis.AttheGeorgeV.”“Whatmessage?”Theyoungmanofferedanenvelope.“Readit.”Dennisreadinamonotone,“‘Thankyou,mydarling,forthebesttwenty-fifth
anniversaryimaginable.”’Theoldermanrelaxedvisibly.Thatwasthecodeshehadchosenwithawink
the day before yesterday. She had provided cover, a romantic second
honeymoon,incaseanyonerecognizedhimandaskedwhetherhewashereonbusiness.Nowshewassafelyaway.Thetimeforcoverwasover.Thestormwasbuilding. He took the envelope and held it to the flames in the fireplace. Heinspectedthepassport,visas,andborderpermitscarefully.“Sidearm?”Itwas compact and light.Dennis said, “It’s the new automatic theGerman
copscarryundercover.ButIcangetyouaservicerevolverifyouwouldbemorecomfortablewithanoldergun.”The blue eyes,which had swept again to the castle across the bleak valley,
pivotedback at the youngerman.Without lookingdown at his hands, the tallAmerican removed the magazine, checked that the chamber was empty, andproceeded to fieldstrip the Walther PPK by opening the trigger guard andremovingtheslideandreturnspringfromthebarrel.Thattooktwelveseconds.Stilllookingthecourierintheface,hereassembledthepistolinten.“Thisshoulddothejob.”Itbegantosinkintotheyoungermanthathewasinthepresenceofgreatness.
Beforehecouldstophimself,heaskedaboy’squestion.“Howlongdoyouhavetopracticetodothat?”A surprisingly warm smile creased the stern face, and he said, neither
unkindlynorwithouthumor,“Practiceatnight,Jeff,intherain,whensomeone’sshootingatyou,andyou’llpickitupquickenough.”
SNOWWASPELTINGHARDwhenhegottotheropetow,andhecouldbarelyseetheridgelinethatmarkedthetopoftheskislope.Thestonypeaksthatrearedabove it were invisible. The other skiers were excited, jostling to grab themovingropeforonemorerunbeforetheimpendingstormforcedtheguidestoclose the mountain for safety’s sake. Hans had brought new skis, the latestdesign, with steel edges riveted to the wood. “Wind is growing,” he said,explainingtheedges.“Iceonthetops.”Theystepped into their flexiblebindings,clamping themaround theirheels,
putontheirglovesandpickeduptheirpoles,andworkedtheirwaythroughthedwindling crowd to the rope, which was passing around a drum turned by anoisytractorengine.Theygrabbedholdoftherope.Itjerkedtheirarms,andupthe two men glided, providing a typical sight in the posh resort, a wealthyAmerican seeking adventure in latemiddle age and his private instructor, oldenough andwise enough to return him safely to the hotel in time to dress fordinner.
Thewindwasstrongatoptheridge,andshifty.Gustsswirledthesnowthickandthin.Onemoment,therewaslittletoseebeyondaclutchofskierswaitingtheirturnstostartdowntheslope.Thenextmoment,theviewopenedtorevealthehotel,smallasadollhouseatthebottomoftheslope,thehighpeakssoaringabove it.TheAmericanandHanspoledalong theridgeawayfromthecrowd.Andsuddenly,whennoonesawthem,theywheeledoff theridgeandplungeddownitsbackside.Theirskiscarvedfreshtracksthroughunmarkedpowder.Instantly,thecallsoftheskiersandthedroneoftherope-towengineceased.
Thesnowfellsilentlyonwoolclothing.Itwassoquietthattheycouldhearthehissofthemetal-edgedwoodcuttingthepowderysurface,theirownbreath,andtheirheartbeats.Hansledthewaydowntheslopeforamile,andtheysweptintoa shelter formed by an outcropping of rock. From within it, he pulled out alightweightimprovisedsled.It hadbeen fashionedout of aRobertson stretcher, a littermadeof ash and
beech and canvas designed to wrap tightly around a wounded sailor toimmobilize him so he could be carried through a ship’s steep and narrowcompanionways.Thestretcherwas lashed toapairof skis,andHanspulled itwitharopetiedaroundhiswaist.Thatropewastwinedaroundalongskipoleheusedasabrakeondescent.Heledthewayanothermileacrossashallowerslope.Atthefootofasteeprise,theyattachedsealskinstotheirskis.Thenapofthefurfacingbackwardgavethemtractiontoclimb.Thesnowcameon thicknow.HerewaswhereHansearnedhisgoldfrancs.
TheAmericancouldfollowacompassaswellasthenextman.Butnocompasscouldguaranteehewouldn’tdriftoffcourse,pummeledbythewind,disorientedbyacrazyhodgepodgeofsteepangles.ButHansGrandzau,whohadskiedthesemountains since he was a boy, could pinpoint his location by the slant of aparticularslopeandhowthatslantshapedthebiteofthewind.Theyclimbedformilesandskieddownhillagain,andclimbedagain.Often,
theyhadtostoptorestorclearthesealskinsofice.Itwasnearlydarkwhenthesnowpartedsuddenlyatthetopofaridge.Acrossonelastvalley,theAmericansawasinglelightedwindowinthecastle.“Givemethesled,”hesaid.“I’lltakeitfromhere.”TheGermanguideheard thesteel inhisvoice.Therewasnoarguing.Hans
passedhim the sled rope, shookhishand,wishedhim luck, andcut a curvingtrackintothedark,headingforthevillagesomewherefarbelow.TheAmericanheadedforthelight.
THEPROLETARIAT’SARTILLERY
1
SEPTEMBER21,1907
CASCADERANGE,OREGON
THERAILROADDICKWATCHINGTHENIGHTSHIFTTROOPINTOthejagged mouth of the tunnel wondered how much work the Southern PacificCompanywouldgetoutofaone-eyed,hard-rockminer limpingonastiff leg.Hisbiboverallsandflannelshirtwerethread-bare,hisbootswornthinaspaper.Thebrimofhisbatteredfeltslouchhatdroopedlowasacircusclown‘s,andthepoor jigger’ssteelhammer trailedfromhisgloveas if itwas tooheavy to lift.Somethingwasfishy.Therailcopwasadrinkingman,his facesobloatedby rotgut thathiseyes
appeared lost inhischeeks.But theyweresharpeyes,miraculouslyalivewithhopeandlaughter—consideringthathehadfallensolowhewasworkingforthemostdespisedpolice force in thecountry—andstill alert.Hestepped forward,on the verge of investigating. But just then a powerful young fellow, a fresh-facedgalootstraightoffthefarm,tooktheoldminer’shammerandcarrieditforhim.Thatactofkindnessconspiredwiththelimpandtheeyepatchtomakethefirstmanappearmucholderthanhewas,andharmless.Whichhewasnot.Aheadwere twoholes in thesideof themountain, themainrail tunneland,
nearby, a smaller “pioneer” tunnel “holed through” first to explore the route,drawfreshair,anddrainwater.Bothwererimmedwithtimberworkrockshedstokeepthemountainsidefromfallingdownonthemenanddumpcarstrundlinginandout.Thedayshiftwasstaggeringout,exhaustedmenheading for thework train
thatwould take themback to thecookhouse in thecamp.Alocomotivepuffedalongside,haulingcarsheapedwithcrossties.Therewerefreightwagonsdrawnbyten-muleteams,handcarsscuttlingalonglighttrack,andcloudsandcloudsof
dust.Thesitewasremote,twodaysofrough,roundabouttraintravelfromSanFrancisco.Butitwasnotisolated.TelegraphlinesadvancingonricketypolesconnectedWallStreettothevery
mouth of the tunnel. They carried grim reports of the financial panic shakingNew York three thousand miles away. Eastern bankers, the railroad’spaymasters, were frightened. The old man knew that the wires crackled withconflicting demands. Speed up construction of the Cascades Cutoff, a vitalexpresslinebetweenSanFranciscoandthenorth.Orshutitdown.Justoutsidethetunnelmouth,theoldmanstoppedtolookupatthemountain
withhisgoodeye.TherampartsoftheCascadeRangeglowedredinthesettingsun.Hegazedatthemasifhewantedtorememberwhattheworldlookedlikebefore thedark tunnel swallowedhimdeep into the stone. Jostledby themenbehind,herubbedhiseyepatch,asifuneasilyrecallingthemomentofsearingloss.His touch opened a pinhole for his second eye,whichwas even sharperthanthefirst.Therailwaydetective,wholookedacutabovetheordinaryslow-wittedcinderdick,wasstillwatchinghimmistrustfully.Theminerwasamanwithimmensereservesofcoldnerve.Hehadthegutsto
stand his ground, the bloodless effrontery to throw off suspicion by actingunafraid.Ignoringtheworkmenshovingpasthim,hepeeredaboutasifsuddenlyspellbound by the rousing spectacle of a new railroad pushing through themountains.He did, in fact, marvel at the endeavor. The entire enterprise, which
synchronizedthelaborofthousands,restedonasimplestructureathisfeet.Twosteelrailswerespikedfourfeeteightandahalfinchesaparttowoodencrossties.The tieswere firmly fixed in a bed of crushed-stone ballast. The combinationformed a strong cradle that could support hundred-ton locomotives thunderingalong at a mile a minute. Repeated every mile—twenty—seven hundred ties,threehundredfifty-twolengthsofrail,sixtykegsofspikes—itmadeasmooth,near-frictionless road, a steel highway that could run forever. The rails soaredovertheruggedland,clingingtonarrowcutsetchedintothesheersidesofnear-vertical slopes, jumping ravines on bristling trestles, tunneling in and out ofcliffs.Butthismiracleofmodernengineeringandpainstakingmanagementwasstill
dwarfed,evenmocked,bythemountains.Andnooneknewbetterthanhehowfragileitallwas.Heglancedatthecop,whohadturnedhisattentionelsewhere.The night-shift crew vanished into the rough-hewn bore. Water gurgled at
their feet as they tramped through endless archways of timber shoring. Thelimpingman held back, accompanied by the big fellow carrying his hammer.
They stopped at a side tunnel a hundred yards in and doused their acetylenelamps.Alone in thedark, theywatchedtheothers’ lampsflickerawayinto thedistance.Thentheyfelt theirownwaythroughthesidetunnel, throughtwentyfeetofstone,intotheparallelpioneertunnel.Itwasnarrow,cutrougherthanthemainbore,theceilingdroppinglowhereandthere.Theycrouchedandpressedahead,deeperintothemountain,relightingtheirlampsoncenoonecouldsee.The oldman limpedmore quickly now, playing his light on the side wall.
Suddenly,hestoppedandpassedhishandoverajaggedseaminthestone.Theyoungmanwatched him andwondered, not for the first time,what kept himfightingforthecausewhenmostmenascrippledashewouldspendtheirtimeinarockingchair.Butamancouldgethurtaskingtoomanyquestionsinthehobojungles,sohekepthiswonderingstohimself.“Drillhere.”Theoldmanrevealedonlyenoughtoinspiretheconfidenceofthevolunteers
he recruited. The farm boy carrying the hammer thought he was helping ashingleweaverdownfromPugetSound,where theunionhadcalledageneralstrike thatcompletely tiedup thecedar-shingle industryuntil thebloodsuckingmanufacturers beat themwith scab labor. Just the answer a budding anarchistlongedtohear.His previous recruit had believed he was from Idaho, on the run from the
Coeur d‘Alene mine wars. To the next he would have fought the good fightorganizingfortheWobbliesinChicago.Howhadhelostaneye?Sameplacehegot the limp, slugging it out with strikebreakers in Colorado City, orbodyguardingfor“BigBill”HaywoodoftheWesternFederationofMiners,orshotwhentheGovernorcalleduptheNationalGuard.Gilt-edgedcredentialstothosewhohungeredtomakeabetterworldandhadthegutstofightforit.Thebigfellowproducedathree-footsteelchiselandhelditinplacewhilethe
manwiththeeyepatchtappedituntilthepointwasfirmlyseatedinthegranite.Thenhehandedthehammerback.“Hereyougo,Kevin.Quickly,now.”“Areyoucertainsmashingthistunnelwon’thurttheboysworkingthemain
bore?”“I’dstakemylifeonit.Therearetwentyfeetofsolidgranitebetweenus.”Kevin’s was a common story in theWest. Born to be a farmer before his
familylosttheirlandtothebank,hehadtoiledinthesilvermines,untilhegotfiredforspeakingupinfavoroftheunion.Ridingaroundthecountryonfreighttrains looking for work, he had been beaten by railway police. Rallying forhigherwages,he’dbeenattackedbystrikebreakerswithaxhandles.Thereweredayshisheadhurt sobadhecouldn’t think straight.Worstwere thenightshe
despairedofeverfindingasteadyjob,orevenaregularplacetosleep,muchlessmeetingagirlandraisingafamily.Ononeofthosenights,hehadbeenseducedbytheanarchists’dream.Dynamite,“theproletariat’sartillery,”wouldmakeabetterworld.Kevinswungtheheavysledgewithbothhands.Hepoundedthechiselafoot
in.Hestoppedtocatchhisbreathandcomplainedaboutthetool.“Ican’tabidethesesteelhammers.Theybouncetoomuch.Givemeold-fashionedcastiron.”“Use thebounce.”Surprisingly lithe, thecripplewith theeyepatch tookthe
hammerandswung iteasily,usinghispowerfulwrists towhip thesteeluponthebounce, flick it back in aone fluidmotion, andbring it harddownon thechiselagain.“Makeitworkforyou.Here,youfinish...Good.Verygood.”Theychiseledaholethreefeetintothestone.“Dynamite,” said the old man, who had let Kevin carry everything
incriminating in case the railway police searched them. Kevin removed threedull-red sticks from under his shirt. Printed on each in black ink was themanufacturer’sbrand,VULCAN.Thecripplestuffedthemoneafteranotherintothehole.“Detonator.”“Youabsolutelycertainitwon’thurtanyworkingmen?”“Guaranteed.”“IguessIwouldn’tmindblowingthebossestohell,but thosemeninthere,
they’reonourside.”“Even if theydon’tknow ityet,” theoldcripple saidcynically.Heattached
the detonator, which would explode forcefully enough to make the dynamiteitselfblow.“Fuse.”Kevincarefullyuncoiledtheslowfusehehadhiddeninhishat.Ayardofthe
hemp yarn impregnated with pulverized gunpowder would burn in ninetyseconds—afootinhalfaminute.Togainfiveminutestoretreattoasafeplace,the oldman laid eleven feet of fuse. The extra foot was to take into accountvariationsinconsistencyanddampness.“Wouldyouliketofiretheblast?”heaskedcasually.Kevin’seyeswereburning likea littleboy’sonChristmasmorning. “Could
I?”“I’llcheckthecoastisclear.Justremember,you’veonlygotfiveminutesto
getout.Don’tdawdle.Lightitandgo—Wait!What’s that?”Pretendingthathehadheardsomeonecoming,hewhippedaroundandhalfdrewabladefromhisboot.Kevinfellfortheruse.Hecuppedhishandtohisear.Butallheheardwasthe
distantrumbleofthedrillsinthemainboreandthewhineoftheblowerspullingfoul air out of thepioneer tunnel anddrawing in fresh. “What?What didyouhear?”“Rundownthere!Seewho’scoming.”Kevinran,shadowsleapingashislightbouncedontheroughwalls.Theoldmanrippedthegunpowderfusefromthedetonatorandthrewitinto
the darkness. He replaced it with an identical-looking string of hemp yarnsoaked inmelted trinitrotoluene,whichwas used to detonatemultiple chargessimultaneouslybecauseitburnedsofast.Hewasquickanddexterous.BythetimeheheardKevinreturningfromhis
fool’serrand,thetreacherywasdone.Butwhenhelookedup,hewasstunnedtoseeKevinholdingbothhands in theair.Behindhimwas therailroaddick, thecop who had watched him enter the tunnel. Suspicion had transformed hiswhiskey-soddenfaceintoamaskofcoldvigilance.Hewaspointingarevolverinarock-steadygrip.“Elevate!”hecommanded.“Handsup!”Swifteyestookinthefuseanddetonatorandunderstoodatonce.Hetucked
hisweaponclosetohisbody,clearlyafightingmanwhoknewhowtouseit.Theoldmanmovedveryslowly.Butinsteadofobeyingtheordertoraisehis
hands,hereacheddowntohisbootanddrewhislongknife.Thecinderdicksmiled.Hisvoicehadamusicallilt,andhespokehiswords
withtheself-taughtreader’sloveoftheEnglishlanguage.“Beware, old man. Even though you have brought, in error, a knife to a
gunfight,Iwillbeobligedtoshootyoudeadifitdoesnotfallfromyourhandinaheartbeat.”Theoldman flickedhiswrist.His knife telescopedopen, tripling its length
intoarapier-thinsword.Alreadylungingwithfluidgrace,heburiedthebladeinthecop’sthroat.Thecopreachedonehandtohisthroatandtriedtoaimhisgun.Theoldmanthrustdeeper,twistinghisblade,severingtheman’sspinalcordashedrovetheswordcompletelythroughhisneckandouttheback.Therevolverclatteredon the tunnel floor.Andas theoldmanwithdrewhis sword, thecopunfoldedontothestonebesidehisfallengun.Kevin made a gurgling noise in his own throat. His eyes were round with
shockandfear,dartingfromthedeadmantotheswordthathadappearedfromnowhereandthenbacktothedeadman.“How—what?”Hetouchedthespringreleaseandtheswordretractedintotheblade,whichhe
returned to his boot. “Same principle as the theatrical prop,” he explained.“Slightlymodified.Gotyourmatches?”Kevin plunged trembling hands into his pockets, fished blindly, and finally
pulledoutapaddedbottle.“I’ll check the tunnelmouth is clear,” the oldman told him. “Wait formy
signal.Remember,fiveminutes.Makedamnedsureit’slit,burningproper,thenrunlikehell!Fiveminutes.”Fiveminutestoretreattoasafeplace.Butnotiffast-burningtrinitrotoluene,
whichwouldleaptenfeetintheblinkofaneye,hadbeensubstitutedforslow-burning,pulverizedgunpowder.The oldman stepped over the cop’s body and hurried to themouth of the
pioneer tunnel.Whenhe sawnoonenearby,he tapped loudlywith thechisel,twotimes.Threetapsechoedback.Thecoastwasclear.TheoldmantookoutanofficialWalthamrailroadwatch,whichnohard-rock
miner could afford.Every conductor, dispatcher, and locomotive engineerwasrequiredbylawtocarrytheseventeen-jewel,lever-setpockettimepiece.Itwasguaranteedtobeaccuratewithinhalfaminuteperweek,whetherjouncingalonginahotlocomotivecaborfreezingonthesnow-sweptplatformofatrain-orderstation atop the High Sierra. The white face with Arabic numerals was justvisibleinthedusk.HewatchedtheinteriordialhandsweepsecondsinsteadoftheminutesKevin believed that the slow-burning pulverized gunpowder gavehimtohightailittosafety.FivesecondsforKevintouncorkhissulfurmatches,removeone,recorkthe
paddedbottle,kneelbesidethefuse.Threesecondsfornervousfingerstoscrapea sulfurmatch on the steel sledge.One secondwhile it flared full and bright.Touchtheflametothetrinitrotoluenefuse.Apuffofair,almostgentle,fannedtheoldman’sface.Thenaburstofwindrushedfromtheportal,propelledbythehollowthudof
thedynamiteexplodingdeepintherock.Anominousrumbleandanotherburstofwindsignaledthatthepioneertunnelhadcavedin.Themainborewasnext.Hehidamongthetimbersshoringtheportalandwaited.Itwastruethatthere
was twenty feet of granite between the pioneer bore and themen digging themaintunnel.Butatthepointhehadsetthedynamite,themountainwasfarfromsolid,beingriddledwithseamsoffracturedstone.Thegroundshook,rollinglikeanearthquake.Theoldmanallowedhimselfagrimsmile.Thattremorbeneathhisbootstold
him more than the frightened yells of the terrorized hard-rock miners andpowdermenwhocamepouringoutofthemaintunnel.Morethanthefrenziedshouts of those converging on the smoke-belching tunnels to see what hadhappened.Hundredsof feetunder themountain, the tunnel’s ceilinghadcollapsed.He
hadtimedittoburythedumptrain,crushingtwentycars,thelocomotive,anditstender. It did not trouble him that men would be crushed, too. They were asunimportantastherailwaycophehadjustmurdered.Nordidhefeelsympathyfortheinjuredmentrappedinthedarknessbehindawallofbrokenstone.Thegreaterthedeath,destruction,andconfusion,theslowerthecleanup,thelongerthedelay.Hewhippedoffhiseyepatch,shoved it inhispocket.Thenheremovedhis
droopingslouchhat,foldedthebrimsinsideout,andshoveditbackonhisheadin theshapeofaminer’sflatcap.Quicklyuntying thescarfunderhis trousersthat immobilizedhisknee tomakehim limp,hestrodeoutof thedarkon twostrong legs, slipped into the scramble of frightened men, and ran with them,stumblingastheydidonthecrossties,trippingontherails,fightingtogetaway.Eventually, the fleeing men slowed, turned by scores of the curious runningtowardthedisaster.ThemannotoriousastheWreckerkeptgoing,droppingtotheditchbesidethe
tracks,easilyeludingrescuecrewsandrailwaypoliceonawell-rehearsedescaperoute. He skirted a siding where a privately owned special passenger trainstretched behind a gleaming black locomotive. The behemoth hissed softly,keeping steamup for electricity andheat.Rowsof curtainedwindowsglowedgolden in the night. Music drifted on the cold air, and he could see liveriedservants setting a table for dinner. Trudging past it to the tunnel bore earlier,young Kevin had railed against the “favored few” who traveled in splendorwhilehard-rockminerswerepaidtwodollarsaday.TheWreckersmiled.Itwastherailroadpresident’spersonaltrain.Allhellwas
abouttobreaklooseinsidetheluxuriouscarswhenhelearnedthatthemountainhadfallenintohistunnel,anditwasasafebetKevin’s“favoredfew”wouldnotfeelquitesofavoredtonight.Amiledown thenewly laid track,harshelectric lightmarked thesprawling
construction yard of workmen’s bunkhouses, materials stores, machine shops,dynamo, scores of sidings thick with materials trains, and a roundhouse forturning and repairing their locomotives. Below that staging area, deep in ahollow,couldbeseen theoil lampsofanend-of-the-trackscamp,a temporarycity of tents and abandoned freight cars housing the makeshift dance halls,saloons,andbrothelsthatfollowedtheever-movingconstructionyard.Itwouldbemovingalotmoreslowlynow.Tocleartherockfallfromthetunnelwouldtakedays.Aweekatleasttoshore
theweakened rock and repair the damage beforework could resume.He hadsabotagedtherailroadquitethoroughlythistime,hisbesteffortyet.AndiftheymanagedtoidentifywhatwasleftofKevin,theonlywitnesswhocouldconnect
him to the crime, the youngman would prove to be an angry hothead heardspouting radical talk in thehobo junglebeforeheaccidentallyblewhimself tokingdomcome.
2
BY1907,THE“SPECIAL”TRAINWASANEMBLEMOFWEALTHANDpower in America like none other. Ordinary millionaires with a cottage inNewport and a townhouse onParkAvenueor an estate on theHudsonRivershuttled between their palatial abodes in private railcars attached to passengertrains. But the titans—the men who owned the railroads—traveled in theirspecials,private trainswith theirown locomotives,able to steamanywhereonthecontinentattheirowners’whim.ThefastestandmostluxuriousspecialintheUnitedStatesbelongedtothepresidentoftheSouthernPacificRailroad,OsgoodHennessy.Hennessy’strainwaspaintedaglossyvermilionred,andhauledbyapowerful
BaldwinPacific4-6-2locomotiveblackasthecoalinitstender.Hisprivatecars,namedNancyNo.1andNancyNo. 2 for his long-deadwife,measured eightyfeetlongbytenfeetwide.Theyhadbeenbuiltofsteel,tohisspecifications,bythePullmanCompanyandoutfittedbyEuropeancabinetmakers.NancyNo.1 containedHennessy’soffice,parlor, and state rooms, including
marbletubs,brassbeds,andatelephonethatcouldbeconnectedtothetelephonesystem of any city he rolled into. Nancy No. 2 carried a modern kitchen,storerooms that couldhold amonth’sprovisions, adining room, and servants’quarters.ThebaggagecarhadroomreservedforhisdaughterLillian’sPackardGray Wolf automobile. A dining car and luxurious Pullman sleepersaccommodated the engineers, bankers, and lawyers engaged in building theCascadesCutoff.Onceonthemainline,Hennessy’sspecialcouldrockethimtoSanFrancisco
inhalfaday,Chicagointhree,andNewYorkinfour,switchingenginetypestomaximize road conditions.When thatwasn’t fast enough to serve his lifelongambition to control every railroad in the country, his special employed“grasshopper telegraphy,” an electromagnetic induction system patented byThomas Edison that jumped telegraphic messages between the speeding trainandthetelegraphwiresrunningparalleltothetracks.Hennessyhimselfwasawispofanoldman,short,bald,anddeceptivelyfrail
looking.Hehadaferret’salertblackeyes,acoldgazethatdiscouragedlyingandextinguishedfalsehope,andtheheart,hisfleecedrivalsswore,ofahungryGilamonster.Hoursafterthetunnelcollapse,hewasstillinshirtsleeves,dictatingamileaminutetoatelegrapher,whenthefirstofhisdinnerguestswasusheredin.The smooth and polished United States senator Charles Kincaid arrived
impeccablydressedineveningclothes.Hewastallandstrikinglyhandsome.Hishairwasslick,hismustachetrim.Nohintofwhateverhewasthinking—orifhewasthinkingatall—escapedfromhisbrowneyes.Buthissugarysmilewasattheready.Hennessygreetedthepoliticianwithbarelyveiledcontempt.“Incaseyouhaven’theard,Kincaid, there’sbeenanotheraccident.And,by
God,thisoneissabotage.”“GoodLord!Areyousure?”“Sodamnedsure,I’vewiredtheVanDornDetectiveAgency.”“Excellentchoice,sir!Sabotagewillbebeyondthelocalsheriffs,ifImaysay
so,evenifyoucouldfindoneuphereinthemiddleofnowhere.Evenabitmuchforyourrailwaypolice.”Thugsindirtyuniforms,Kincaidcouldhaveadded,butthe senatorwasa servantof the railroadandcarefulhowhespoke to themanwho had made him and could as easily break him. “What’s the Van Dornmotto?” he asked ingratiatingly. “‘We never give up, never!’ Sir, as I amqualified,Ifeelit’smydutytodirectyourcrewsinclearingthetunnel.”Hennessy’s face wrinkled with disdain. The popinjay had worked overseas
building bridges for the Ottoman Empire’s Baghdad Railway until thenewspapers started calling him the “Hero Engineer” for supposedly rescuingAmericanRedCross nurses andmissionaries fromTurkish capture.Hennessytook the reportedheroicswithmanygrainsof salt.ButKincaidhad somehowparlayed bogus fame into an appointment by a corrupt state legislature torepresent“theinterests”oftherailroadsinthe“Millionaires’Club”UnitedStatesSenate. And no one knew better than Hennessy that Kincaid was growingwealthyonrailroad-stockbribes.“Threemendead inaflash,”hegrowled.“Fifteen trapped. Idon’tneedany
moreengineers.Ineedanundertaker.Andatop-notchdetective.”Hennessywhirledbacktothetelegrapher.“HasVanDornreplied?”“Notyet,sir.We’vejustsent—”“JoeVanDornhasagentsineverycityonthecontinent.Wirethemall!”Hennessy’sdaughterLillianhurried in from theirprivatequarters.Kincaid’s
eyeswidenedandhis smilegreweager.Thoughonadusty sidingdeep in theCascadeRange,shewasdressedtoturnheadsinthefinestdiningroomsofNewYork.Hereveninggownofwhitechiffonwascinchedathernarrowwaistand
dippedlowinfront,revealingdecolletageonlypartiallyscreenedbyasilkrose.Sheworeapearlchokerstuddedwithdiamondsaroundhergracefulneck,andherhairhighinagoldencloud,withcurlsdrapingherhighbrow.Brightearringsof Peruzzi triple-cut brilliant diamonds drew attention to her face. Plumage,thoughtKincaidcynically,showingwhatshehadtooffer,whichwasplenty.Lillian Hennessy was stunningly beautiful, very young, and very, very
wealthy.Amatchforaking.OrasenatorwhohadhiseyeontheWhiteHouse.The trouble was the fierce light in her astonishingly pale blue eyes thatannounced shewas a handful not easily tamed.And nowher father,who hadneverbeenabletobridleher,hadappointedherhisconfidentialsecretary,whichmadeherevenmoreindependent.“Father,”shesaid,“I justspokewiththechiefengineerbytelegraphone.He
believes they can enter the pioneer tunnel from the far side and cut theirwaythroughtothemainshaft.Therescuepartiesaredigging.Yourwiresaresent.Itistimeyoudressedfordinner.”“I’mnoteatingdinnerwhilemenaretrapped.”“Starvingyourselfwon’thelp
them.”SheturnedtoKincaid.“Hello,Charles,”shesaidcoolly.“Mrs.Comden’swaitingforusintheparlor.We’llhaveacocktailwhilemyfathergetsdressed.”Hennessy had not yet appeared when they had finished their glasses. Mrs.
Comden,avoluptuous,dark-hairedwomanof fortywearinga fittedgreensilkdressanddiamondscutintheoldEuropeanstyle,said,“I’llgethim.”ShewenttoHennessy’s office. Ignoring the telegrapher, who, like all telegraphers, wassworn never to reveal messages he sent or received, she laid a soft hand onHennessy’sbonyshoulderandsaid,“Everyoneishungry.”Her lipspartedinacompellingsmile.“Let’stakethemintosupper.Mr.VanDornwillreportsoonenough.”As she spoke, the locomotivewhistle blew twice, the doubleAhead signal,
andthetrainslidsmoothlyintomotion.“Wherearewegoing?”sheasked,notsurprisedtheywereonthemoveagain.“Sacramento,Seattle,andSpokane.”
3
FOUR DAYS AFTER THE TUNNEL EXPLOSION, JOSEPH VAN DORNcaught up with the fast-moving, far-roaming Osgood Hennessy in the GreatNorthern rail yard at Hennessyville. The brand-new city on the outskirts ofSpokane,Washington,near the Idahoborder, reekedof fresh lumber, creosote,andburningcoal.Butitwasalreadycalledthe“MinneapolisoftheNorthwest.”VanDornknew thatHennessyhadbuilt here aspartofhisplan todouble theSouthernPacific’strackagebyabsorbingthenortherncross-continentroutes.The founder of the illustrious Van Dorn Detective Agency was a large,
balding, well-dressed man in his forties who looked more like a prosperousbusiness traveler than the scourge of the underworld. He appeared convivial,with a strongRoman nose, a ready smile slightly tempered by a hint of Irishmelancholy in his eyes, and splendid red burnsides that descended to an evenmore splendid red beard. As he approached Hennessy’s special, the sound ofragtimemusic playing on a gramophone elicited a nod of heartfelt relief. Herecognized the lively, yearning melody of Scott Joplin’s brand-new “Search-LightRag,”andthemusictoldhimthatHennessy’sdaughterLillianwasnearby.ThecantankerouspresidentoftheSouthernPacificRailroadwasamiteeasiertohandlewhenshewasaround.He paused on the platform, sensing a rush fromwithin the car. Here came
Hennessy, thrusting the mayor of Spokane out the door. “Get off my train!Hennessyvillewillneverbeannexedintoyourincorporatedcity.IwillnothavemyrailyardonSpokane’staxrolls!”ToVanDorn,hesnapped,“Tookyourtimegettinghere.”Van Dorn returned Hennessy’s brusqueness with a warm smile. His strong
white teethblazed inhisnestof redwhiskersasheenveloped thesmallman’shandinhis,boomingaffably,“IwasinChicago,andyouwerealloverthemap.You’relookingwell,Osgood,ifalittlesplenetic.HowisthebeauteousLillian?”heasked,asHennessyusheredhimaboard.“StillmoretroublethanacarloadofEye-talians.”“Here she is, now!My,my, howyou’ve grown, young lady, I haven’t seen
yousince—”“Since New York, when father hired you to return me to Miss Porter’s
School?”“No,”VanDorncorrected.“Ibelieve the last timewaswhenwebailedyou
outofjailinBostonfollowingasuffragetteparadethatgotoutofhand.”“Lillian!”saidHennessy.“Iwantnotesofthismeetingtypedupandattached
toacontracttohiretheVanDornAgency.”Themischievouslightinherpaleblueeyeswasextinguishedbyasteadygaze
thatwassuddenlyallbusiness.“Thecontractisreadytobesigned,Father.”“Joe,Iassumeyouknowabouttheseattacks.”“Iunderstand,”VanDornsaidnoncommittally,“thathorrificaccidentsbedevil
the Southern Pacific’s construction of an express line through the Cascades.You’vehadworkmenkilled,aswellasseveralinnocentrailpassengers.”“They can’t all be accidents.”Hennessy retorted sternly. “Someone’s doing
his damnedest towreck this railroad. I’m hiring your outfit to hunt down thesaboteurs,whether anarchists, foreigners, or strikers.Shoot ‘em, hang ’em,dowhatyouhavetodo,butstopthemdead.”“Theinstantyoutelegraphed,Iassignedmybestoperativetothecase.Ifthe
situationappearsasyoususpect,Iwillappointhimchiefinvestigator.”“No!”saidHennessy.“Iwantyouincharge,Joe.Personallyincharge.”“IsaacBellismybestman.IonlywishIhadpossessedhistalentswhenIwas
hisage.”Hennessy cut himoff. “Get this straight, Joe.My train is parkedonly three
hundred eighty miles north of the sabotaged tunnel, but it took over sevenhundred miles to steam here, backtracking, climbing switchbacks. The cutofflinewillreducetherunbyafullday.Thesuccessofthecutoffandthefutureofthisentirerailroadistooimportanttofarmouttoahiredhand.”VanDornknewthatHennessywasusedtogettinghisway.Hehad,afterall,
forged continuous transcontinental lines from Atlantic to Pacific bysteamrollering his competitors, Commodore Vanderbilt and J. P. Morgan,outfoxingtheInterstateCommerceCommissionandtheUnitedStatesCongress,andstaringdowntrust-bustingPresidentTeddyRoosevelt.Therefore,VanDornwas glad for a sudden interruption by Hennessy’s conductor. The train bossstoodinthedoorwayinhis impeccableuniformofdeepbluecloth,whichwasstuddedwithgleamingbrassbuttonsandedgedwiththeSouthernPacific’sredpiping.“Sorrytodisturbyou,sir.They’vecaughtahobotryingtoboardyourtrain.”“Whatareyoubotheringmefor?I’mrunningarailroadhere.Turnhimover
tothesheriff.”
“HeclaimsthatMr.VanDornwillvouchforhim.”A tallmanenteredHennessy’sprivatecar,guardedby twoheavyset railway
police.Heworetheroughgarbofahobowhorodethefreighttrainslookingforwork.Hisdenimcoatandtrouserswerecakedwithdust.Hisbootswerescuffed.Hishat,abatteredcow-poke’sJ.B.Stetson,hadshedalotofrain.LillianHennessynoticedhiseyesfirst,avioletshadeofblue,whichrakedthe
parlor with a sharp, searching glance that penetrated every nook and cranny.Swift as his eyeswere, they seemed to pause on each face as if to pierce theinnerthoughtsofherfather,VanDorn,andlastlyherself.Shestaredbackboldly,butshefoundtheeffectmesmerizing.Hewaswell over six feet tall and lean as anArabian thorough-bred.A full
mustachecoveredhisupperlip,asgoldenashisthickhairandthestubbleonhisunshavencheeks.Hishandshungeasilyathissides,hisfingerswerelongandgraceful.Lilliantookinthedeterminedsettothechinandlipsanddecidedthathewasaboutthirtyyearsoldandimmenselyconfident.Hisescortstoodclosebybutdidnottouchhim.Onlywhenshehadtornher
gazefromthetallman’sfacedidsherealizethatoneoftherailroadguardswaspressing a bloody handkerchief to his nose. The other blinked a swollen,blackenedeye.JosephVanDornallowedhimselfasmugsmile.“Osgood,mayIpresentIsaac
Bell,whowillbeconductingthisinvestigationonmybehalf?”“Goodmorning,”saidIsaacBell.Hesteppedforward toofferhishand.The
guardsstartedtofollowafterhim.Hennessydismissedthemwithacurt“Out!”Theguarddabbinghisnosewithhishandkerchiefwhisperedtotheconductor
whowasherdingthemtowardthedoor.“Excuseme,sir,”saidtheconductor.“Theywanttheirpropertyback.”IsaacBelltuggedaleather-sheathedsapofleadshotfromhispocket.“What’s
yourname?”“Billy,”camethesullenreply.Bell tossedhimthesap,andsaidcoldly,with
barelycontainedanger,“Billy,nexttimeamanofferstocomequietly,takehimathisword.”Heturnedtothemanwiththeblackeye.“Andyou?”“Ed.”BellproducedarevolverandpassedittoEd,buttfirst.Thenhedroppedfive
cartridges into the guard’s hand, saying, “Never draw a weapon you haven’tmastered.”“ThoughtIhad,”mutteredEd,andsomethingabouthishang-dogexpression
seemedtotouchthetalldetective.
“Cowboybeforeyoujoinedtherailroad?”Bellasked.“Yes,sir,neededthework.”Bell’seyeswarmedtoasofterblue,andhislipsspreadinacongenialsmile.
Heslidagoldcoinfromapocketconcealedinsidehisbelt.“Hereyougo,Ed.Getapieceofbeefsteakforthateye,andbuyyourselvesadrink.”Theguardsnoddedtheirheads.“Thankyou,Mr.Bell.”Bell turned his attention to the president of the Southern Pacific Company,
whowasgloweringexpectantly.“Mr.Hennessy,IwillreportassoonasI’vehadabathandchangedmyclothes.”“Theporterhasyourbag,”JosephVanDornsaid,smiling.
THEDETECTIVEWASBACKinthirtyminutes,mustachetrimmed,hobogarbexchanged for a silver-gray three-piece sack suit tailored from fine, denselywovenEnglishwoolappropriatetotheautumnchill.Apaleblueshirtandadarkvioletfour-in-handnecktieenrichedthecolorofhiseyes.Isaac Bell knew that he had to start the case off on the right foot by
establishing that he, not the imperious railroad president, would boss theinvestigation.First,hereturnedLillianHennessy’swarmsmile.Thenhebowedpolitelytoasensual,dark-eyedwomanwhoenteredquietlyandsatinaleatherarmchair.Atlast,heturnedtoOsgoodHennessy.“Iamnotentirelyconvincedtheaccidentsaresabotage.”“Thehellyousay!LaborisstrikingallovertheWest.Nowwe’vegotaWall
Streetpaniceggingonradicals,inflamingagitators.”“It is true,” Bell answered, “that the San Francisco streetcar strike and the
WesternUnion telegraphers’ strike embittered labor unionists.And even if theleadersoftheWesternFederationofMinersstandingtrialinBoisedidconspiretomurderGovernorSteunenberg—achargeIdoubt,asthedetectiveworkinthatcaseisslipshod—therewasobviouslynoshortageofviciousradicalstoplantthedynamitein theGovernor’sfrontgate.NorwasthemurdererwhoassassinatedPresidentMcKinleytheonlyanarchistintheland.But—”IsaacBell paused to turn the full force of his gaze onHennessy. “Mr.Van
Dorn pays me to capture assassins and bank robbers everywhere on thecontinent.Iridemorelimitedtrains,expresses,andcrackflyersinamonththanmostmenwillinalifetime.”“Whatdoyourtravelshavetodowiththeseattacksagainstmyrailroad?”“Train wrecks are common. Last year, the Southern Pacific paid out two
million dollars for injuries to persons. Before 1907 is over, there’ll be tenthousand collisions, eight thousand derailments, and over five thousand
accidentaldeaths.Asafrequentpassenger,Itakeitpersonallywhenrailroadcarsarerammedinsideeachotherlikeatelescope.”OsgoodHennessy flushed pinkwith incipient fury. “I’ll tell youwhat I tell
every reformer who thinks the railroad is the root of all evil. The SouthernPacific Railroad employs one hundred thousand men. We work like nailerstransportingonehundredmillion passengers and threehundredmillion tons offreighteveryyear!”“Ihappentolovetrains,”Bellsaid,mildly.“Butrailwaymendon’texaggerate
whentheysaythatthetinysteelflangethatholdsthewheelonthetrackis‘Oneinchbetweenhereandeternity.”’Hennessypoundedthetable.“Thesemurderingradicalsareblindedbyhate!
Can’ttheyseethatrailwayspeedisGod’sgift toeverymanandwomanalive?America is huge! Bigger than squabbling Europe.Wider than divided China.Railroads unite us. How would people get around without our trains?Stagecoaches?Whowouldcarrytheircropstomarket?Oxen?Mules?Asingleoneofmy locomotives haulsmore freight than all theConestogawagons thatevercrossedtheGreatPlains—Mr.Bell,doyouknowwhataThomasFlyeris?”“Of course.A Thomas Flyer is a four-cylinder, sixty-horsepowerModel 35
Thomas automobile built inBuffalo. It ismyhope that theThomasCompanywillwintheNewYorktoParisRacenextyear.”“Why do you think they named an automobile after a railroad train?”
Hennessybellowed.“Speed!Aflyerisacrackrailroadtrainfamousforspeed!And—”“Speediswonderful,”Bellinterrupted.“Here’swhy...”ThatHennessyusedthissectionofhisprivatecarashisofficewasevincedby
thechartpullssuspendedfromthepolished-woodceiling.Thetall,flaxen-haireddetective chose from their brass labels and unrolled a railroad map thatrepresentedthelinesofCalifornia,Oregon,Nevada,Idaho,andWashington.HepointedtothemountainousborderbetweennorthernCaliforniaandNevada.“Sixtyyearsago,agroupofpioneer familiescalling themselves theDonner
Partyattemptedtocrossthesemountainsbywagontrain.TheywereheadingforSan Francisco, but early snow blocked the pass they had chosen through theSierraNevada.TheDonnerPartywastrappedallwinter.Theyranoutoffood.Thosewhodidnot starve todeath survivedbyeating thebodiesof thosewhodied.”“Whatthedevildocannibalisticpioneershavetodowithmyrailroad?”IsaacBellgrinned.“Today, thanks toyour railroad, ifyougethungry in the
Donner Pass it’s only a four-hour train ride to San Francisco’s excellentrestaurants.”
Osgood Hennessy’s stern face did not allow for much difference betweenscowlsandsmiles,buthedidconcedetoJosephVanDorn,“Youwin,Joe.Goahead,Bell.Speakyourpiece.”Bell indicated the map. “In the past three weeks, you’ve had suspicious
derailmentshereatRedding,hereatRosevilleandatDunsmuir,andthetunnelcollapse,whichpromptedyoutocallonMr.VanDorn.”“You’re not tellingme anything I don’t already know,” Hennessy snapped.
“Fourtracklayersandalocomotiveengineerdead.Tenoffthejobwithbrokenlimbs.Constructiondelayedeightdays.”“Andonerailwaypolicedetectivecrushedtodeathinthepioneertunnel.”“What?Ohyes.Iforgot.Oneofmycinderdicks.”“HisnamewasClarke.AloysiusClarke.HisfriendscalledhimWish.”“Weknew theman,” JosephVanDornexplained. “Heused towork formy
agency.Crackerjackdetective.Buthehadhistroubles.”Bell looked each person in the face, and in a clear voice spoke the highest
complimentpaidintheWest.“WishClarkewasamantoridetheriverwith.”Then he said to Hennessy, “I stopped in hobo jungles on my way here.
OutsideCrescentCityontheSiskiyouline”—hepointedonthemapatthenorthcoastofCalifornia—“Icaughtwindofa radicalorananarchist thehoboscalltheWrecker.”“Aradical!JustlikeIsaid.”“Thehobosknowlittleabouthim,buttheyfearhim.Menwhojoinhiscause
arenotseenagain.FromwhatIhavegleanedsofar,hemayhaverecruitedanaccomplice for the tunnel job.Ayoung agitator, aminer namedKevinButler,wasseenhoppingafreighttrainsouthfromCrescentCity.”“Toward Eureka!” Hennessy broke in. “From Santa Rosa, he cut up to
Redding and Weed and onto the Cascades Cutoff. Like I’ve been saying allalong. Labor radicals, foreigners, anarchists. Did this agitator confess hiscrime?”“KevinButlerwillbeconfessingtothedevil,sir.Hisbodywasfoundbeside
DetectiveClarke’s in the pioneer tunnel.However, nothing in his backgroundindicatestheabilitytocarryoutsuchanattackbyhimself.TheWrecker,asheiscalled,isstillatlarge.”A telegraph key rattled in the next room. Lillian Hennessy cocked her ear.
When thenoise stopped, the telegrapherhurried inwithhis transcription.BellnoticedthatLilliandidnotbothertoreadwhatwaswrittenonthepaper,asshesaidtoherfather,“FromRedding.CollisionnorthofWeed.Aworkmen’strainfouleda signal.Amaterials train followingdidn’tknow the freightwas in thesectionandplowedintothebackofit.Thecaboosetelescopedintoafreightcar.
Twotraincrewkilled.”Hennessy leaped to his feet, red faced. “No sabotage? Fouled a signal,my
eye. Those trains were bound for the Cascades Cutoff.Whichmeans anotherdelay.”JosephVanDornsteppedforwardtocalmtheapoplecticrailroadpresident.BellmovedclosertoLillian.“YouknowtheMorsealphabet?”heaskedquietly.“You’reobservant,Mr.Bell.I’vetraveledwithmyfathersinceIwasalittle
girl.He’sneverfarfromatelegraphkey.”Bell reconsidered the young woman. Perhaps Lillian was more than the
spoiled, headstrong only child she appeared to be. She could be a font ofvaluableinformationaboutherfather’sinnercircle.“Whoisthatladywhojustjoinedus?”“EmmaComdenisafamilyfriend.ShetutoredmeinFrenchandGermanand
triedveryhard to improvemybehavior”—Lillianblinked long lashesoverherpaleblueeyesandadded—“atthepiano.”EmmaComdenworeasnugdresswithaproperroundcollarandanelegant
broochather throat.ShewasverymuchLillian’sopposite, roundedwhere theyoungerwomanwasslim,eyesadeepbrown,almostblack,hairdark,lustrouschestnutwithaglintofred,constrainedinaFrenchtwist.“Doyoumeanyouwereeducatedathomesoyoucouldhelpyourfather?”“ImeanthatIwaskickedoutofsomanyeasternfinishingschoolsthatFather
hiredMrs.Comdentocompletemyeducation.”Bellsmiledback.“Howcanyoustillhave timeforFrenchandGermanand
thepianowhenyou’reyourfather’sprivatesecretary?”“I’veoutgrownmytutor.”“AndyetMrs.Comdenremains...?”Lillianrespondedcoolly.“Ifyouhaveeyes,Mr.Detective,youmightnotice
thatFatherisveryfondofour‘familyfriend.”’HennessynoticedIsaacandLilliantalking.“What’sthat?”“I was just saying that I’ve heard it said that Mrs. Hennessy was a great
beauty.”“Lilliandidn’tgetthatfacefrommysideofthefamily.Howmuchmoneyare
youpaidtobeadetective,Mr.Bell?”“Thetopendofthegoingrate.”“ThenIhavenodoubtyouunderstandthatasthefatherofaninnocentyoung
woman,Iamobligedtoaskwhoboughtyouthosefancyclothes?”“MygrandfatherIsaiahBell.”OsgoodHennessy stared.He couldn’t havebeenmore surprised ifBell had
reported he had sprung from the loins of KingMidas.“Isaiah Bell was yourgrandfather?Thatmakesyour fatherEbenezerBell,presidentof theAmericanStatesBankofBoston.GoodGodAlmighty,abanker?”“Myfatherisabanker.Iamadetective.”“My fathernevermetabanker inhis life.Hewasa sectionhand,pounding
spikes.You’re talkingtoashirtsleeverailroader,Bell. Istartedout likehedid,spikingrailstoties.I’vecarriedmydinnerpail.I’vedonemytenhoursadayupthroughthegrades:brakeman,engineer,conductor, telegrapher,dispatcher—upthelinefromtracktostationtogeneraloffice.”“Whatmyfatheristryingtosay,”saidLillian,“isthatherosefrompounding
ironspikesinthehotsuntodrivingceremonialgoldspikesunderaparasol.”“Don’tmockme,younglady.”Hennessyyankedanotherchartdownfromthe
ceiling.Itwasablueprint,afine-linedcopyonpalebluepaperthatdepictedinexquisitedetailtheengineeringplansforacantileveredtrussbridgethatspannedadeepgorgeontwotallpiersmadeofstoneandsteel.“Thisiswherewe’reheaded,Mr.Bell,theCascadeCanyonBridge.Ihauleda
top-hand engineer, FranklinMowery, out of retirement to build me the finestrailroadbridgewestoftheMississippi,andMowery’salmostfinished.Tosavetime,Ibuilt itaheadof theexpansionbyroutingworktrainsonanabandonedtimber track that snakes up from the Nevada desert.” He pointed at themap.“Whenweholethroughhere—Tunnel13—we’llfindthebridgewaitingforus.Speed,Mr.Bell.It’sallaboutspeed.”“Doyoufaceadeadline?”askedBell.Hennessy looked sharply at Joseph Van Dorn. “Joe, can I assume that
confidencesareassafewithyourdetectivesastheyarewithmyattorneys?”“Safer,”saidVanDorn.“Thereisadeadline,”HennessyadmittedtoBell.“Imposedbyyourbankers?”“Not thosedevils.MotherNature.OldManWinter is coming,andwhenhe
gets to theCascades that’s it for railroad construction ‘til Spring. I’ve got thebestcreditintherailroadbusiness,butifIdon’tconnecttheCascadesCutofftotheCascadeCanyonBridgebeforewintershutsmedownevenmycreditwilldryup. Between us, Mr. Bell, if this expansion stalls, I will lose any chance ofcompletingtheCascadesCutoffthedayafterthefirstsnowstorm.”JosephVanDornsaid,“Resteasy,Osgood.We’llstophim.”Hennessywasnotsoothed.Heshooktheblueprintasiftothrottleit.“Ifthese
saboteursstopme,it’lltaketwentyyearsbeforeanyonecantackletheCascadesCutoffagain.It’sthelasthurdleimpedingprogressintheWest,andI’mthelastmanalivewiththegutstoclearit.”
IsaacBelldidnotdoubtthattheoldmanlovedhisrailroad.NordidheforgettheoutrageinhisownheartattheprospectofmoreinnocentpeoplekilledandinjuredbytheWrecker.Theinnocentweresacred.ButforemostinBell’smindatthismomentwashismemoryofWishClarkesteppinginhiscasual,offhandedwayinfrontofaknifeintendedforBell.Hesaid,“IpromiseIwillstophim.”Hennessystaredathimforalongtime,takinghismeasure.Slowly,hesettled
intoanarmchair.“I’mrelieved,Mr.Bell,havingatophandofyourcaliber.”WhenHennessylookedtohisdaughterforagreement,henoticedthatshewas
appraising the wealthy and well-connected detective like a new race car shewouldaskhim tobuyforhernextbirthday.“Son?”heasked.“Is thereaMrs.Bell?”Bell had already noticed that the lovely youngwomanwas appraising him.
Flattering, temptingtoo,buthedidnot takeitpersonally.Itwasaneasyguesswhy.Hewassurelythefirstmanshehadseenwhomherfathercouldnotbully.But between her fascination and her father’s sudden interest in seeing hersuitablymarried off, themomentwas overdue for this particular gentleman tomakehisintentionsclear.“Iamengagedtobemarried,”heanswered.“Engaged,eh?Whereisshe?”“ShelivesinSanFrancisco.”“Howdidshemakeoutintheearthquake?”“She lostherhome,”Bell repliedcryptically, thememorystill freshof their
firstnight togetherendingabruptlywhen theshockhurled theirbedacross theroomandMarion’spianohadfallenthroughthefrontwallintothestreet.“Marion stayed on, caring for orphans. Now that most are settled, she has
takenapositionatanewspaper.”“Haveyousetaweddingdate?”Hennessyasked.“Soon,”saidBell.LillianHennessy seemed to take“Soon”as a challenge. “We’re so far from
SanFrancisco.”“Onethousandmiles.”saidBell“Muchofitslowgoingonsteepgradesand
endless switchbacks through the Siskiyou Mountains—the reason for yourCascades Cutoff, which will reduce the run by a full day,” he added, deftlychangingthesubjectfrommarriageabledaughterstosabotage.“Whichremindsme,itwouldbehelpfultohavearailwaypass.”“I’ll do better than that!” saidHennessy, springing to his feet. “You’ll have
yourrailwaypass—immediatefreepassageonanytraininthecountry.Youwillalsohavea letterwritten inmyownhandauthorizingyou tocharter a specialtrainanywhereyouneedone.You’reworkingfortherailroadnow.”
“No,sir.IworkforMr.VanDorn.ButIpromisetoputyourspecialstogooduse.”“Mr.Hennessyhasequippedyouwithwings,”saidMrs.Comden.“If only you knew where to fly ...” The beautiful Lillian smiled. “Or to
whom.”Whenthetelegraphkeystartedclatteringagain,BellnoddedtoVanDorn,and
theysteppedquietlyoff thecaronto theplatform.Acoldnorthwindwhippedthroughtherailyard,swirlingsmokeandcinders.“I’llneedalotofourmen.”“They’reyoursfortheasking.Whodoyouwant?”IsaacBell spokea long listofnames.VanDorn listened,noddingapproval.
Whenhehadfinished,Bellsaid,“I’dliketobaseoutofSacramento.”“Iwouldhavethoughtyou’drecommendSanFrancisco.”“Forpersonal reasons,yes. Iwouldprefer theopportunity tobe in thesame
city with my fiancée. But Sacramento has the faster rail connections up thePacificCoastandinland.CouldweassembleatMissAnne’s?”Van Dorn did not conceal his surprise. “Why do you want to meet in a
brothel?”“If this so-calledWrecker is takingonanentirecontinental railroad,he is a
criminal with a broad reach. I don’t want our force seenmeeting in a publicplaceuntilIknowwhatheknowsandhowheknowsit.”“I’msureAnnePoundwillmakeroomforusinherbackparlor,”VanDorn
saidstiffly.“Ifyouthinkthat’sthebestcourse.Buttellme,haveyoudiscoveredsomethingelsebeyondwhatyoujustreportedtoHennessy?”“No,sir.ButIdohaveafeelingthattheWreckerisexceptionallyalert.”VanDorn replied with a silent nod. In his experience, when a detective as
insightful as IsaacBell had a “feeling” the feeling took shape from small buttellingdetailsthatmostpeoplewouldn’tnotice.Thenhesaid,“I’mawfullysorryaboutAloysius.”“Cameassomethingofashock.ThemansavedmylifeinChicago.”“YousavedhisinNewOrleans,”VanDornretorted.“AndagaininCuba.”“Hewasacrackerjackdetective.”“Sober. But he was drinking himself to death. And you couldn’t save him
fromthat.Notthatyoudidn’ttry.”“Hewasthebest,”Bellsaid,stubbornly.“Howwashekilled?”“Hisbodywascrushedunder therocks.Clearly,Wishwasright thereat the
precisespotwherethedynamitedetonated.”Van Dorn shook his head, sadly. “That man’s instincts were golden. Even
drunk.Ihatedhavingtolethimgo.”
Bell kept his voice neutral. “His sidearm was several feet from his body,indicatinghehaddrawnitfromhisholsterbeforetheexplosion.”“Couldhavebeenblowntherebytheexplosion.”“Itwasthatoldsingle-actionArmyheloved.Intheflapholster.Itdidn’tfall
out.Hemusthavehaditinhishand.”Van Dorn countered with a cold question to confirm Bell’s conjecture that
AloysiusClarkehadtriedtopreventtheattack.“Wherewashisflask?”“Stilltuckedinhisclothing.”VanDorn nodded and started to change the subject, but IsaacBellwas not
finished.“Ihadtoknowhowhegot there in the tunnel.Hadhediedbeforeor in the
explosion?So I put his bodyon a train andbrought it to adoctor inKlamathFalls.Stoodbywhileheexamined it.Thedoctorshowedme thatbeforeWishwascrushed,hehadtakenaknifeinthethroat.”VanDornwinced.“Theyslashedhisthroat?”“Notslashed.Pierced.Theknifewentinhisthroat,slidbetweentwocervical
vertebrae, severed his spinal cord, and emerged out the back of his neck.Thedoctorsaiditwasdonecleanasasurgeonorabutcher.”“Orjustlucky.”“Ifitwas,thenthekillergotluckytwice.”“Howdoyoumean?”“GettingthedroponWishClarkewouldrequireconsiderableluckinthefirst
place,wouldn’tyousay?”VanDornlookedaway.“Anythingleftintheflask?”Bell gave his boss a thin, sad smile. “Don’tworry, Joe, Iwould have fired
him,too.Itwasdryasabone.”“Attackedfromthefront?”“Itlooksthatway,”saidBell.“ButyousayWishhadalreadydrawnhisgun.”“That’sright.SohowdidtheWreckergethimwithaknife?”“Threwit?”VanDornaskeddubiously.Bell’shandflickeredtowardhisbootandcameupwithhisthrowingknife.He
juggled the sliverof steel inhis fingers,weighing it. “He’dneeda catapult todriveathrowingknifecompletelythroughabigman’sneck.”“Ofcourse ...Watchyourstep,Isaac.Asyousay, thisWreckermustbeone
quick-as-lightninghombretogetthedroponWishClarke.Evendrunk.”“Hewillhavetheopportunity,”vowedIsaacBell,“toshowmehowquick.”
4
THEELECTRICLIGHTSOFSANTAMONICA’SVENICEPIERilluminatedthe rigging of a three-masted ship docked permanently alongside it and therooflines of a large pavilion. A brass band was playing John Philip Sousa’s“GladiatorMarch”inquicktime.The beachcomber turned his back to the bittersweet music and walked the
hard-packedsandtoward thedark.The lightsshimmeredacross thewavesandcastafrothyshadowaheadofhim,asthecoolPacificwindflappedhisraggedclothes.Itwaslowtide,andhewashuntingforananchorhecouldsteal.He skirtedavillageof shacks.The Japanese fishermenwho lived therehad
dragged their boats up on the beach, close to their shacks, to keep an eye onthem. Just past the Japanese he found what he was looking for, one of theseagoingdoriesscatteredalongthebeachbytheUnitedStatesLifeboatSocietyto rescue shipwrecked sailors and drowning tourists. The boats were fullyequipped for launching in an instant by volunteer crews. He pulled open thecanvasandpawedinthedark,feelingoars,floats,tinbailers,andfinallythecoldmetalofananchor.Hecarriedtheanchortowardthepier.Beforehereachedtheedgeofthelight
fall, he plodded up the sloping deep sand and into the town.The streetswerequiet,thehousesdark.Hedodgedanightwatchmanonfootpatrolandmadehisway, unchallenged, to a stable,which likemost stables in the areawas in theprocess of being converted to accommodate motor vehicles. Trucks andautomobiles undergoing repair were parked helter-skelter among the wagons,buggies,andsurreys.Thescentofgasolinemingledwiththatofhayandmanure.Itwasalivelyplacebyday,frequentedbyhostlers,hackmen,wagoners,and
mechanics, smoking and chewing and spinning yarns. But the only one uptonight was the blacksmith, who surprised the beachcomber by giving him awholedollarfortheanchor.Hehadonlypromisedfiftycents,buthehadbeendrinkingandwasoneofthosemenwhowhiskeymadegenerous.Theblacksmithgotbusy,eagertotransformtheanchorbeforeanyonenoticed
it had been stolen. He started by cutting off one of the two cast-iron flukes,
battering it repeatedlywith hammer and cold chisel until it snapped away.Hefiledburrstosmooththeraggedbreak.Whenheheldtheanchoruptothelight,whatwasleftofitlookedlikeahook.Sweating even in the cool of the night, he drank a bottle of beer and
swallowedadeeppullfromhisbottleofKellogg’sOldBourbonbeforestartingtodrilltheholeintheshankthatthecustomerhadaskedfor.Drillingcastironwashardwork.Pausingtocatchhisbreath,hedrankanotherbeer.Hefinishedatlast,vaguelyawarethatonemoreswigofKellogg’sandhewoulddrillaholeinhishandinsteadofthehook.Hewrappedthehookintheblanket thecustomerhadprovidedandput it in
theman’scarpetbag.Headreeling,hepickeduptheflukehehadremovedfromwhereithadfalleninthesandbesidehisanvil.Hewaswonderingwhathecouldmakewithitwhenthecustomerrappedonthedoor.“Bringitouthere.”Themanwas standing in thedark, and theblacksmith saweven less of his
sharpfeaturesthanhehadthenightbefore.Butherecognizedhisstrongvoice,hisprecisebackeastdiction,hissuperiorputting-on-airsmanner,hisheight,andhiscityslicker’sknee-length,single-breastedfrockcoat.“Isaidbringithere!”Theblacksmithcarriedthecarpetbagoutthedoor.“Shutthedoor!”He closed it behind him, blocking the light, and his customer took the bag
withabrusque,“Thankyou,mygoodman.”“Anytime,”mumbled the blacksmith, wondering what in heck a swell in a
frockcoatwasgoingtodowithhalfananchor.Aten-dollargoldpiece,aweek’sworkinthesehardtimes,glitteredthrough
theshadows.Theblacksmithfumbledforit,missed,andhadtokneelinthesandtopickitup.Hesensedthemanloomingcloser.Helookedover,warily,andhesawhimreachintoaruggedbootthatdidn’tmatchhisfancyduds.Justthen,thedoor behind him flew open, and light caught the man’s face. The blacksmiththoughthelookedfamiliar.Threegroomsandanautomobilemechanicstaggeredout the door, drunk as skunks, whooping with laughter when they saw himkneelinginthesand.“Damn!”shoutedthemechanic.“LookslikeJimfinishedhisbottle,too.”The customer whirled away and disappeared down the alley, leaving the
blacksmith completely unaware that he had comewithin one second of beingmurderedbyamanwhokilledjusttobeonthesafeside.
FORMOSTOFTHEforty-sevenyears that the statecapitalofCaliforniahad
been in Sacramento, Anne Pound’s white mansion had provided congenialhospitality for legislators and lobbyists a short threeblocks away. Itwas largeand beautiful, built in the uncluttered early Victorian style. Gleaming whitewoodworkfringedturrets,gables,porches,andrailings.Insidethewaxed-walnutfrontdoor,anoilpaintingoftheladyofthehouseinheryoungeryearsgracedthegrandfoyer.Herred-carpetedstaircasewassorenownedinpoliticalcirclesthatthelevelofaman’sconnectionsinthestatecouldbegaugedbywhetherhesmiledknowinglyuponhearingthephrase“TheStepstoHeaven.”At eight o‘clock this evening, the lady herself, considerably older and
noticeably larger, her great mane of blond hair gone white as the woodwork,heldcourtonaburgundycouchinthebackdrawingroom,whereshesettledinbillowsofgreensilk.Theroomheldmanysuchcouches,capaciousarmchairs,polished-brasscuspidors,gilt-framedpaintingsofnubilewomeninvariousstatesofundress,andafinebarstackedwithcrystal.Tonightitwassecurelyclosedofffromthefrontroombythree-inch-thickmahoganypocketdoors.Standingguardwas an elegantly top-hatted bouncer, a former prizefighter believed to haveknockeddown“GentlemanJim”Corbett inhisheydayandwho’d lived to tellthetale.IsaacBellhadtohideasmileathowmuchJosephVanDornwasthrownoff
balanceby thestill-beautifulproprietress.Ablushwasspreadingfrombeneathhis beard, red as the whiskers. For all his oft-proven courage in the face ofviolent attack,VanDornwas singularly straitlacedwhen it came towomen ingeneral and intimate behavior in particular. It was clear he would rather besitting anywhere but in the back parlor of the highest-class sporting house inCalifornia.“Shallwestart?”askedVanDorn.“MissAnne,”Bellsaid,courteouslyextendinghishandtohelpherrisefrom
thecouch.“Wethankyouforyourhospitality.”AsBellwalkedheroutthedoor,shemurmuredinasoftVirginiadrawlhow
grateful she remained to theVanDornDetectiveAgency for apprehending, inthequietestmanner,aviciouskillerwhohadpreyedonherhardworkinggirls.Themonster,atwistedfiendwhomtheVanDornoperativeshadbacktrackedtoone of Sacramento’s finest families, was locked forever in an asylum for thecriminallyinsane,andnohintofscandalhadeveralarmedherpatrons.JosephVanDornstoodup,andsaidinalowvoicethatcarried,“Let’sgettoit.
IsaacBellisinchargeofthisinvestigation.Whenhespeaks,hespeakswithmyauthority.Isaac,tellthemwhatyouhaveinmind.”Belllookedfromfacetofacebeforehespoke.Hehadworkedwith,orknew
of, all the heads of the western cities’ agencies: Phoenix, Salt Lake, Boise,
Seattle, Spokane, Portland, Sacramento, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Denver,andtheotheragentsVanDornhadroundedup.Amongthestandoutsweretheimmense,powerfullybuiltdirectoroftheSan
Franciscooffice,HoraceBronson,andshort,fatArthurCurtis,withwhomBellhadworkedontheButcherBanditcase,onwhichthey’dlostamutualfriendinCurtis’spartner,GlennIrvine.“Texas”WaltHatfield, a barbed-wire-lean former rangerwho specialized in
stopping railroad express-car robberies, would be of particular value on thiscase.AswouldKansasCity’sEddieEdwards,aprematurelywhite-hairedgentwhowasexpertatroustingcitygangsoutoffreightyards,wheresidelinedtrainswereparticularlyvulnerabletorobberyandsabotage.Theoldest in the roomwere ice-eyedMackFulton fromBoston,whoknew
everysafecrackerinthecountry,andhispartner,explosivesexpertWallyKisley,dressedinhistrademarkthree-piecedrummer’ssuitwithaloudpatternbrightasacheckerboard.MackandWallyhadteamedupsincetheearlydaysinChicago.Quickwith a joke or a prank, theywere known in the agency as “Weber andFields” after the famous vaudeville comedians and producers of burlesquemusicalsonBroadway.Last came Bell’s particular friend, Archie Abbott from New York, a near-
invisibleundercoverman,sidlingthroughMissAnne’skitchendoor,dressedlikeatramplookingforahandout.Bell said, “If someone detonates a bomb in here, every outlaw on the
continentwillbebuyingdrinks.”Theirlaughterwassubdued.TexasWaltHatfieldaskedthequestionthatwas
onmanyminds, “Isaac, you fixing to tell us whywe’re hunkered down in asportin’houselikewewaslonghornscanyon-skulkingonroundupmorning?”“Becausewe’reupagainstasaboteurwhothinksbig,planssmart,anddoesn’t
giveahootwhohekills.”“Well,nowthatyouputitthatway—”“He isavicious, ruthlessmurderer.He’sdonesomuchdamagealreadyand
killedsomany innocentpeople that thehobos tooknoticeandnicknamedhim‘theWrecker.’His targetappears tobe theSouthernPacificRailroadCascadesCutoff. The railroad is our client. The Wrecker is our target. The Van DornDetectiveAgencyhastwojobs:protecttheclientbystoppingtheWreckerfromdoinganymoredamageandcatchhimwithenoughprooftohanghim.”Bellnoddedbriskly.Amalesecretaryinshirtsleevessprangforwardtodrapea
railroad map over a picture of nymphs in their bath. The map depicted thewestern railroads fromSaltLakeCity toSanFrancisco that servedCalifornia,Oregon,Washington,Idaho,Utah,Nevada,andArizona.
“Topinpointtherailroad’smostvulnerablelocations,I’veinvitedJethroWatt,superintendentofrailwaypolice,tofillyouin.”Thedetectivesrespondedwithderisivemutters.IsaacBellquietedthemwithacoldglance.“Weallknowtheshortcomingsof
the railroaddicks.ButVanDornhasn’t themanpower tocovereight thousandmiles of track. Jethro has information we couldn’t learn on our own. So ifanyone in this room says anything to make Superintendent Watt less thanenthusiasticallycooperative,he’llanswertome.”At Bell’s command, the secretary ushered in Superintendent Watt, who in
appearancedidnotcontradictthedetectives’lowexpectationsofrailwaypolice.Fromthegreasyhairpastedtotheforeheadabovehisill-shaven,bad-temperedface tohisgrimycollar,wrinkledcoatand trousers, tohisscuffedboots to thebulges in his clothing that bespoke cannon-caliber sidearms, saps, and billyclubs,JethroWatt,whowasnearlyastallasIsaacBellandtwiceaswide,lookedlike the prototype for every yard bull and cinder dick in the country.Thenheopenedhismouthandsurprisedthemall.“There’sanoldsaying:‘NothingisimpossiblefortheSouthernPacific.’“Whatrailroadmenmeanbythatisthis:Wedoitall.Wegradeourownroad.
Welayourowntrack.Webuildourownlocomotivesandrollingstock.Weerectourownbridges—forty in thenewexpansion, in addition toCascadeCanyon.Weboreourowntunnels—they’llbefiftybeforewe’redone.Wemaintainourownmachinery.WeinventspecialHighSierrasnowplowsforwinter,firetrainsforsummer.Weareamightyenterprise.”Withneitherasoftertonenorthehintofsmile,headded,“OnSanFrancisco
Bay,ourferrypassengerscrossingfromOaklandMoletotheCityclaimthatourmachineshopsevenbakethedoughnutswesellonourboats.Like‘emornot,theystilleat’em.TheSouthernPacificisamightyenterprise.Likeusornot.”JethroWatt’sbloodshoteyefellontheornatebarheapedhighwithapyramid
ofcrystaldecanters,andhewethislips.“Amightyenterprisemakesmanyenemies.Ifafellaclimbsoutofthewrong
sideofbedinthemorning,he’llblametherailroad.Ifhiscropfails,he’llblametherailroad.Ifheloseshisfarm,he’llblametherailroad.Ifhisunioncan’traisehiswages,he’llblametherailroad.IfhegetslaidoffinaPanic,he’llblametherailroad.Ifhisbankclosesandcan’treturnhismoney,he’llblametherailroad.Sometimeshegetsmadenoughtotransactalittlebusinesswiththeexpresscar.Robbingtrains.Butworsethanrobbingtrainsissabotage.Worse,andhardertostopbecauseamightyenterprisemakesamammothtarget.“Sabotagebyangryfellasiswhythecompanymaintainsanarmyofpoliceto
protectitself.Anenormousarmy.Butlikeanyarmy,weneedsomanysoldiers
we can’t pick and choose, and sometimes we must recruit what others moreprivilegedmightcallthedregs...”Hegloweredaroundtheroom,andhalf thedetectives thereexpectedhimto
whipout ablackjack. Instead, he concluded,with a cold, derisive smile, “Theword has come down from on high that our army is to assist you gentlemendetectives.We are placed at your service, andmy boys are instructed to takeordersfromyougentlemen.“Mr.BellandIhavealreadyhadalongtalkwiththecompany’stopengineers
and superintendents.Mr.Bell knowswhatwe know.Namely, if this so-calledWreckerwants todisruptourCascadesCutoff,hecanattackussixwaysfromSunday:“Hecanwreckatrainbytamperingwiththeswitchesthatshunttrainsaround
one another. Or he can manipulate the telegraph by which divisionsuperintendentscontroltrainmovements.“Hecanburnabridge.He’salreadydynamitedatunnel,hecanblowanother.“He can attack our shops and foundries that serve the cutoff. Most likely,
Sacramento. And Red Bluff, where they fabricate truss rods for the CascadeCanyonBridge.“Hecansetfiretoourroundhouseswhenthey’recrowdedfulloflocomotives
undergoingmaintenance.“Hecanminetherails.“Andeverytimehesucceedsandfolksgetkilled,hewillpanicourworkmen.“AtMr.Bell’srequest,wehavedispatchedour‘army’totheplaceswherethe
railroad ismost at risk.Our ’soldiers’ are in place and await you gentlemen’srequests.NowMr.BellwillpinpointthoseplacesforyouwhileIgopourmeasnort.”Watt plunged across the parlor without apology, heading directly to the
crystal-ladenbar.IsaacBellsaid,“Listenclose.Wehaveourworkcutoutforus.”
By MIDNIGHT, YOUNG WOMEN’S laughter had replaced the solemnproceedingsinMissAnne’sbackparlor.TheVanDorndetectiveshaddispersed,slippingawayquietlytotheirhotelsaloneorinpairs,leavingonlyIsaacBellandArchieAbbottinMissAnne’slibrary,awindowlessroomdeepinthemansion,wheretheycontinuedtoporeovertherailroadmaps.Archie Abbott strained the authenticity of his tramp costume by pouring a
twelve-year-oldNapoleonbrandyintoacrystalballoonsnifterandinhalingwithrefinedappreciation.
“WeberandFieldsmadeagoodpointaboutpowder-houseburglaries.Missingexplosivesarearedflag.”“Unlesshebuyssomeatthegeneralstore.”Archieraisedhisglassinatoast.“DestructiontotheWrecker!Maythewind
blowinhisfaceandthehotsunblindhim!”Archie’scarefullystyledaccentsoundedasifhehailedfromNewYorkCity’s
Hell’s Kitchen. But Archie had numerous accents he could fashion to fit hiscostume. He had become a detective only after his family, blue-blooded butimpoverishedsincethePanicof‘93,hadforbiddenhimbecominganactor.Thefirsttimethey’dmet,IsaacBellwasboxingforYalewhentheunenviablechoreofdefendingthehonorofPrincetonhadfallentoArchibaldAngellAbbottIV“Allbasescovered?”“Looksthatway.”“Howcomeyoudon’tlookhappier,Isaac?”“AsWattsaid,it’sabigrailroad.”“Oh yes.”Abbott took a sip of brandy and leaned over themap again.His
highbrowknitted.“Who’swatchingtheReddingYards?”“LewisandMinalgowerenearestby,”saidBell,nothappywithhisanswer.“‘Andtheformerwasalulu,”’saidArchie,quotingthemuch-lovedbaseball
poem“CaseyattheBat,”“‘andthelatterwasacake.”’Bellnoddedagreement,and,thinkingthroughhisroster,said,“I’llmovethem
downtoGlendaleandputHatfieldinchargeofRedding.”“Glendale,hell.I’dmove‘emtoMexico.”“SowouldI,ifIcouldsparethemen.ButGlendale’smightyfaroff.Idon’t
thinkwehavetoworrytoomuchaboutGlendale.It’ssevenhundredmilesfromtheCascadesroute. . .”Hepulledouthisgoldwatch.“We’vedoneallwecantonight. I’ve got an extra room inmy hotel suite. If I can sneak you past thehousedickdressedlikethat.”Abbottshookhishead.“Thanks,butwhenIcamethroughthekitchenearlier,
MissAnne’scookpromisedmeamidnightsupper.”Bellshookhisheadathisoldfriend.“Onlyyou,Archie,couldspendthenight
inawhorehouseandsleepwiththecook.”“Icheckedthetrainschedule,”Abbottsaid.“GivemyregardstoMissMarion.
You’vegottimetocatchthenightflyertoSanFrancisco.”“Iwasplanningto,”saidBell,andstrodequicklyintothenight,headingfor
therailroadstation.
5
ATMIDNIGHT,BENEATHASTARRYSKY,AMANDRESSEDINASUITandaslouchhatlikearailroadofficialworkedhandandfootleverstopropelathree-wheeledKalamazooVelocipedetrack-inspectionvehiclebetweenBurbankandGlendale.The trackwas smoothon this recently completed sectionof theSanFrancisco—to—LosAngelesline.Rowingwithhisarmsandpedalingwithhisfeet,hewasmakingnearlytwentymilesperhourineeriesilencebrokenonlybytherhythmicclickingofthewheelspassingoverthejointsbetweentherails.TheVelocipedewasusedtowatchoverthesectiongangswhoreplacedworn
orrottedcrossties,tampedstoneballastbetweentheties,alignedrails,poundeddown loose spikes, and tightened bolts. Its frame, two main wheels, and theoutriggerthatconnectedthemtoitssidewheelweremadeofstrong,lightash,itstreads of cast iron. The entire vehicle weighed less than one hundred fiftypounds.Onemancouldliftitofftherailsandturnitintheoppositedirectionorgetoutofthewayofatrain.TheWrecker,nocrippleexceptwhenheneededadisguise,wouldhavenotroubletumblingitdownanembankmentwhenhewasdonewithit.Tiedtotheemptyseatbesidehimwereacrowbar,trackwrench,spikepuller,
andadevicethatnosectiongangwoulddareleaveontherails.Itwasahook,nearly two feet long, fashioned from a cast-iron boat anchor fromwhich oneflukehadbeenremoved.HehadstolentheVelocipede.Hehadbrokenintoaclapboardbuildingatthe
edge of Burbank freight depot where the Southern Pacific section inspectorstoreditandmanhandleditontotherails.Intheunlikelyeventthatsomecinderdickorvillageconstablesawhimandaskedwhat thehellhewasdoingridingthe main line at midnight, his suit and hat would buy him two seconds ofhesitation.Ampletimetodeliverasilentanswerwiththebladeinhisboot.Leaving the lights ofBurbankbehind, rollingpast darkened farmhouses, he
quickly adjusted to the starlight. Half an hour later, ten miles north of LosAngeles, he slowed down, recognizing the jagged angles and dense layers oflatticework of an iron trestle crossing a dry riverbed. He trundled across the
trestle.Therailscurvedsharplytotherighttoparalleltheriverbed.Hestoppedafewyardsafterhefeltthewheelsclickacrossajointwheretwo
railsbuttedtogether.Heunloadedhistoolsandkneltdownonthecrushed-stoneballast,cushioninghiskneesonawoodencrosstie.Feelingthejointbetweentherailsinthedarkwithhisfingers,helocatedthefishplate,theflatpieceofmetalfasteningtherailstoeachother.Hepriedupthespikethatanchoredthefishplatetothetiewithhisspikepuller.Thenheusedhistrackwrenchtoloosenthenutson the four bolts that secured the fishplate to the rails and yanked them out.Tossingthreeoftheboltsandnutsandthefishplatedownthesteepembankment,whereeven the sharpest-eyedengineercouldnot see them inhisheadlight,hethreadedthelastboltthroughaholeintheshankofthehook.Hesworeatasuddenstabofsharppain.Hehadcuthis fingeronametalburr.Cursing thedrunkenblacksmithwho
hadn’tbotheredtofilesmooththeedgesoftheholehehaddrilled,hewrappedhisfingerinahandkerchieftostopthebleeding.Clumsily,hefinishedscrewingthenutonthebolt.Withthewrench,hemadeit tightenoughtoholdthehookupright. The open end faced west, the direction from which the Coast LineLimitedwouldcome.TheCoast Linewas a “flyer,” one of the fast through passenger trains that
spedacross longdistancesbetweencities.Routedvianew tunnels through theSantaSusanaMountains,fromSantaBarbaratoOxnard,Burbank,andGlendale,shewasboundforLosAngeles.Suddenly,theWreckerfelttherailvibrate.Hejumpedtohisfeet.TheCoast
LineLimitedwassupposedtoberunninglatetonight.If thatwasshe,shehadmadeupa lotof time. If itwasn‘t, thenhehadgone togreat effort and takendangerousriskstoderailaworthlessmilktrain.Atrainwhistlemoaned.Quickly,hegrabbedthespikepullerandyankedup
spikes thatwereholding the rail to thewooden ties.Hemanaged to pry eightloosebeforehesawaglowofaheadlightuptheline.HethrewthespikepullerdownthesteepembankmentandjumpedontotheVelocipedeandpedaledhard.Now he heard the locomotive. The sound was faint in the distance, but herecognized the distinctive clean, sharp huff of an Atlantic 4-4-2. It was theLimited,allright,andhecouldgaugebytherapidbeatofthesteamexhaustedfromhersmokestackthatshewascomingfast.
THEATLANTIC4-4-2PULLINGtheCoastLineLimitedwasbuiltforspeed.Her engineer, Rufus Patrick, loved her for it. The American Locomotive
CompanyofSchenectady,NewYork,hadfittedherwithenormouseighty-inch
drivewheels.Atsixtymilesperhour,thefour-wheeledenginetruckinfrontheldherontherailsassteadyastheRockofAgeswhileatwo-wheeledtruckinbacksupportedabigfireboxtogenerateplentyofsuperheatedsteam.RufusPatrickwouldadmitthatshewasnotthatstrong.Thenew,heaviersteel
passenger cars coming along soonwould demand themore powerful Pacifies.Shewasnomountain climber, but for blazing speedon a flat, pulling a crackflyerofwoodenpassengercarsacrosslongdistances,shewasnottobebeat.Heridenticalsisterhadbeenclockedthepreviousyearat127.1mph,aspeedrecordunlikely to be bested anytime soon, thought Patrick. At least not by him, noteven tonight running late, notwhen hewas hauling ten passenger cars full offolkshopingtogethomesafe.Sixtywasjustfine,flyingatamileaminute.The locomotive’s cab was crowded. In addition to Rufus Patrick and his
fireman, Zeke Taggert, there were two guests: Bill Wright, an official of theElectricalWorkersUnionwhowasa friendofRufus‘s, andBill’snephew,hisnamesakeBilly,whomhewasaccompanyingtoLosAngeles,wheretheboywasto begin an apprenticeship in a laboratory that developed celluloid film formovingpictures.Whentheyhadlaststoppedforwater,Rufushadwalkedbacktothebaggagecar,wheretheywerestealingafreeride,andinvitedthemuptothecab.Fourteen-year-old Billy couldn’t believe his amazing luck to be riding in a
locomotive.He’dbeenmooningover trains rumblingpasthishousehiswholelifeandbeenupallnightexcitedabout this trip.Buthehadneverdreamedhecouldactuallyrideupfront in thecab.Mr.Patrickworeastripedcap just likeyousawinpicturesandwasthesurest,calmestmanBillyhadeverseen.Hehadexplainedwhat he was doing every step of the way, as he sounded two longblastsonthewhistleandstartedthetrainmovingagain.“We’reoff,Billy!I’mdroppingtheJohnsonbartofullforward.Alltheway
forward to go ahead, all the way back for reverse. We can go just as fastbackwardasforward.”Patrickgrippedalong,horizontalbar.“NowI’mopeningthethrottle,sending
steamtothecylinderstoturnthedrivewheels,andI’mopeningthesandvalvetogetadhesionon the rails.NowI’mpullingbackon the throttle sowedon’tstarttoofast.Youfeelherbiteandnotslipping?”Billyhadnoddedeagerly.ShehadpickedupspeedsmoothassilkasPatrick
begannotchingoutthethrottle.Now rolling toward Glendale on the last few miles before Los Angeles,
blowing thewhistleatgradecrossings,Patrick told theawestruckboy,“You’llneverdriveafinerlocomotive.She’sagoodsteamerandrideseasy.”The fireman, Zeke Taggert, who had been steadily shoveling coal into the
roaringfirebox,bangedthedoorshutandsatdowntocatchhisbreath.Hewasabigman,black andgreasy, and stunkof sweat. “Billy?”heboomed in ahugevoice. “See this here glass?”Taggert tapped a gauge. “It’s themost importantwindowonthetrain.Itshowsthewaterlevelintheboiler.Toolow,thecrownsheetheatsupandmelts,and,BOOM!,blowsusalltokingdomcome!”“Don’tpayhimnomind,Billy,”Patricksaid.“It’sZeke’sjobtobemakesure
we’vegotplentyintheboiler.We’vegotatenderfullofwaterrightbehindus.”“Howcomethethrottle’sinthemiddle?”askedBilly.“Itsitsinthemiddlewhenwe’rerolling.Rightnow,that’sallweneedtobe
steaming at sixtymiles an hour. Shove her forward,we’d be doing a hundredtwenty.”TheengineerwinkedatUncleBill.“Thethrottleleveralsohelpsussteerher
aroundtightbends.Zeke,doyouseeanycurvescomingup?”“Trestlejustahead,Rufus.Tightbendturningoutofit.”“Youtakeher,son.”“What?”“Steerheraroundthecurve.Quick,now!Grabhold.Pokeyourheadouthere
andlook.”Billy took the throttle in his left hand and leaned out thewindow the same
waytheengineerhad.The throttlewashot, pulsing inhishand like itwas alive.Thebeamof the
locomotiveheadlightgleamedalongtherails.Billysawthetrestlecomingup.Itlookedverynarrow.“Just a light touch,”RufusPatrick cautionedwith anotherwink at themen.
“Hardlyneedtomoveitatall.Easy.Easy.Yep,you’regettingthehangofit.Butyougottagetherrightdownthemiddle.It’samightytightfit.”ZekeandUncleBobexchangedgrins.“Lookout,now.Yep,you’redoingfine.Justeaseher—”“What’sthatupahead,Mr.Patrick?”RufusPatricklookedwheretheboywaspointing.Thebeamofthelocomotiveheadlightwasthrowingshadowsandreflections
from the ironwork in the trestle, which made it hard to see. Probably just ashadow.Suddenly,theheadlightglintedonsomethingstrange.“What the—?” In the company of a child, Patrick automatically switched
cusswordsto“blueblazes.”Itwasahookedhunkofmetalreachingupfromtherightraillikeahandfrom
ashallowgrave.“Hittheair!”Patrickyelledtothefireman.Zeke threwhimselfon theair-brake leverandyanked itwithall thismight.
Thetrainslowedsoviolently,itseemedtohitawall.Butonlyforamoment.Aninstant later, theweight of ten fully loaded passenger cars and a tender filledwithtonsofcoalandwaterhurledthelocomotiveforward.Patrick clapped his own experienced hand on the air brake.Heworked the
brakes with the fine touch of a clockmaker and eased the Johnson bar intoreverse. The great drive wheels spun, screeching in a blaze of fiery sparks,shaving slivers of steel from the rails. The brakes and the reversing driversdecelerated the speeding Coast Line Limited. But it was too late. The high-wheeledAtlantic4-4-2wasalreadyscreamingthroughthetrestle,bearingdownonthehook,stillmakingfortymilesperhour.Patrickcouldonlypraythat thewedge-shapedpilot,theso-calledcowcatcherthatsweptalongthetracksinfrontofthelocomotive,wouldsweepitasidebeforeitcaughttheenginetruck’sfrontaxle.Instead,theironhookthattheWreckerhadboltedtotheloosenedraillatched
ontothepilotwithadeathgrip.Ittoreloosetherailaheadofthefrontwheelsonthe right side of the one-hundred-eighty-six-thousand-pound locomotive. Hermassive drive wheels crashed onto the ties, bouncing on wood and ballast atfortymilesanhour.Thespeed,theweight,andtherelentlessmomentumcrushedtheedgeofthe
bedandgroundthetiestosplinters.Thewheelsdroppedintoair,and,stillracingforward,theenginebegantocareenontoitsside,draggingitstenderwithit.Thetender pulled the baggage car over the edge, and the baggage car dragged thefirstpassengercarwithitbeforethecouplingtothesecondpassengercarbrokefree.Then,almostmiraculously,thelocomotiveseemedtorightitself.Butitwasa
briefrespite.Shovedbytheweightofthetenderandcars,ittwistedandturnedand skidded down the embankment, sliding until it smashed itsmangled pilotandheadlightintotherock-hardbottomofthedryriverbed.It stopped at last, tilted at a steep angle,with its nose down and its trailing
truckintheair.Thewaterinthetightlysealedboiler,whichwassuperheatedtothreehundredeightydegrees,spilledforward,offthered-hotcrownplate,whichwasatthebackoftheboiler.“Getout!”roaredtheengineer.“Getoutbeforesheblows!”Bill was sprawled unconscious against the firebox. Little Billy was sitting
dazedonthefootplate,holdinghishead.Bloodwaspouringthroughhisfingers.Zeke,likePatrick,hadbracedfortheimpactandnotbeenhurtbadly.“GrabBill,”PatricktoldZeke,whowasapowerfulman.“I’vegottheboy.”PatrickslungBillyunderhisarmlikeagunnysackandjumpedfortheground.
ZekedrapedBillWrightoverhisshoulder, leapedfromtheengine,andhit the
steepgravelsloperunning.Patrickstumbledwiththeboy.ZekegrabbedPatrickwithhisfreearmandkepthimupright.Thecrashingsoundshadceasedabruptly.In the comparative quiet, they could hear injured passengers screaming in thefirstcar,whichwascrumpledopenlikeChristmaswrappingpaper.“Run!”ThecoalfirethatZekeTaggerthadshoveledsohardtofeedwasstillraging
underthelocomotive’scrownplate.Burningfiercelytomaintainthetwenty-twohundreddegreesnecessarytoboiltwothousandgallonsofwater,itcontinuedtoheatthesteel.Butwithnowateraboveittoabsorbtheheat,thetemperatureofthe steel soared from its normal six hundred degrees to the fire’s twenty-twohundred.At that temperature, thehalf-inch-thickplatesoftened likebutter inaskillet.Two-hundred-pounds-per-square-inch steam pressure inside the boiler was
fourteentimesordinaryairpressureoutside.Ittookonlysecondsforthecaptivesteamtoexploitthesuddenweaknessandburstaholeinthecrownplate.Evenasthesteamescaped,twothousandgallonsofwaterpressure-cookedto
threehundredeightydegreesalsoturnedtosteamtheinstantitcameincontactwith the chill Glendale air. Its volume multiplied by a thousand six hundredtimes. In a flash, two thousand gallons of water vaporized into three milliongallonsofsteam.Trappedinsidethe4-4-2Atlantic’sboiler,itexpandedoutwardwith a concussive roar that exploded the steel locomotive into amillion smallpiecesofshrapnel.Billy and his uncle never knew what hit them. Nor did the Wells Fargo
Expressmessenger in thebaggagecar,nor threefriendswhohadbeenplayingdraw poker in the front of the derailed Pullman.But ZekeTaggert andRufusPatrick,whounderstoodthecauseandnatureofthenightmarishforcesgatheringlikeatornado,actuallyfelttheunspeakablepainofscaldingsteamforatenthofasecond,beforetheexplosionendedalltheyknewforever.
WITHACLANGOFcast irononstoneandthecrackleofsplinteringash, theKalamazooVelocipedetumbleddowntherailroadembankment.“Whatthehellisthat?”Jack Douglas, ninety-two, was so old he’d started out as an Indian fighter
protectingthefirstwesternrailroad’srightofway.ThecompanykepthimonoutofraresentimentandlethimactasasortofnightwatchmanpatrollingthequietGlendalerailyardwithaheavysingle-actionColt.44onhiship.Hereachedforitwithaveinedandbonyhandandbeganslidingitwithpracticedeasefromitsoiledholster.
TheWreckerlungedwithshockingswiftness.Histhrustwassoefficientthatitwouldhavecaughtamanhisownageflat-footed.Thewatchmanneverhadachance. The telescoping sword was in his throat and out again before hecrumpledtotheground.TheWreckerlookeddownatthebodyindisgust.Ofalltheridiculousthings
togowrong.Jumpedbyanoldgeezerwhoshouldhavebeeninbedhoursago.Heshruggedandsaid,halfaloud,withasmile,“Wastenot,wantnot.”Pullingaposterfromhiscoatpocket,hecrushed it intoaball.Thenhekneltbeside thebody, forced open the dead hand, and closed the fingers around the crumpledpaper.Dark and empty streets led to where the Southern Pacific rails crossed the
narrow tracksof theLosAngeles&GlendaleElectricRailway.Thebiggreenstreetcars of the interurban passenger line did not run aftermidnight. Instead,taking advantage of inexpensive electricity purchased in bulk at night, therailway carried freight. Keeping a sharp eye for police, the Wrecker hoppedaboardacarfilledwithmilkcansandfreshcarrotsboundforLosAngeles.Itwasgrowinglightwhenhejumpedoffinthecityandmadehiswayacross
EastSecondStreet.ThedomeoftheAtchison,TopekaandSantaFeRailway’sMoorish-styleLaGrandeStationwas silhouetted against a lurid reddawn.Heretrievedasuitcasefromtheluggageroomandchangedoutofhisdustyclothesinthemen’sroom.ThenheboardedtheSantaFe’sflyertoAlbuquerqueandsatdowntoabreakfastofsteakandeggsandfresh-bakedrolls inadiningcarsetwithsilverandchina.As the flyer’s locomotive gathered way, the imperious conductor of the
expresspassengertraincamethrough,demanding,“Tickets,gents.”Affecting thebrusqueattitudeofamanwho traveled regularly forbusiness,
the Wrecker did not bother to look up from his Los Angeles Times, whichallowed him to keep his face down, concealing his features, as he wiped hisfingersonafinelinennapkinandfishedouthiswallet.“You’vecutyourfinger!”saidtheconductor,staringatabrightredbloodstain
onthenapkin.“Stropping my razor,” said the Wrecker, still not looking up from his
newspaperwhilecursingagainthedrunkenblacksmithhewishedhehadkilled.
6
ITWASSTILLTHREE INTHEMORNINGWHEN ISAACBELLboundedoff the train before it stopped rollingonto thewaterfront terminal onOaklandMole.Thiswastheendofthelineforwestboundpassengers,amile-longarmofrock that theSouthernPacificRailroad had built intoSanFranciscoBay.Thepier reached another mile into the bay to deliver freight trains to seagoingvessels and boxcar floats to the city, but passengers transferred here to theirferry.Bellranfor theferry,scanningthebustlingterminalforLoriMarch, theold
farmwomanfromwhomhealwaysboughtflowers.Nestledinthebottomofhiswatchpocketwasasmall,flatkeytoMarionMorgan’sapartment.Drowsy newsboyswith seeds in their hair from the hay barges where they
sleptwerecryinginshrillvoices“Extra!Extra!”andwavingspecialeditionsofeverynewspaperprintedinSanFrancisco.ThefirstheadlinetorivetIsaacBell’seyestoppedhimdead.
TRAINWRECKERSDITCHCOASTLINELIMITEDATGLENDALE
Bell felt as if he’d takenabowieknife in the stomach.Glendalewas sevenhundredmilesfromtheCascadesCutoff.“Mr.Bell,sir?Mr.Bell?”Rightbehind thenewsboywasanoperative fromVanDorn’sSanFrancisco
office.Hedidn’t lookmucholder than thekidhawking thepapers.Hisbrownhair was pillow-flattened against his head, and he had a sleep wrinkle stillcreasinghischeek.Buthisbrightblueeyeswerewidewithexcitement.“I’mDashwood,Mr.Bell.SanFranciscooffice.Mr.Bronsonleftmeincharge
whenhetookeveryonetoSacramento.Theywon’tbebackuntiltomorrow.”“WhatdoyouknowabouttheLimited?”“IjustspokewiththerailwaypolicesupervisorhereinOakland.Itlookslike
theydynamitedthelocomotive,blewitrightoffthetracks.”“Howmanykilled?”“Six,sofar.Fiftyinjured.Somemissing.”
“When’sthenexttraintoLosAngeles?”“There’saflyerleavingintenminutes.”“I’llbeonit.TelephonetheLosAngelesoffice.TellthemIsaidtogettothe
wreckanddon’tletanyonetouchanything.Includingthepolice.”YoungDashwoodleanedinclose,asiftoimpartinformationnotprivytothe
newsboys,andwhispered,“Thepolicethinkthetrainwreckerwaskilledintheexplosion.”“What?”“AunionagitatornamedWilliamWright.Obviously,aradical.”“Whosays?”“Everybody.”IsaacBellcastacoldeyeonthekaleidoscopeofheadlinesthatthenewsboys
werebrandishing.DEEDOFDASTARDS
DEATHLISTSWELLS.TWENTYLIVESLOST
TRAINWRECKERSDYNAMITELOCOMOTIVE
EXPRESSPLUNGESINTORIVERBEDHesuspectedthattheclosesttoactualfactwasEXPRESSPLUNGESINTO
RIVERBED.Howithappenedwasspeculation.Howcouldtheypossiblyknowthedeathtollofawreckthathappenedjusthoursago,fivehundredmilesaway?HewasnotsurprisedthattheluridheadlineDEATHLISTSWELLS.TWENTYLIVESLOSTwassplashedonanewspaperownedbyyellowjournalistPrestonWhiteway,amanwhoneverletfactsgetinthewayofsales.MarionMorganhadjuststartedtoworkastheassistanttotheeditorofhisSanFranciscoInquirer.“Dashwood!What’syourgivenname?”“Jimmy—James.”“O.K., James.Here’swhat Iwantyou todo.Findout everythingaboutMr.
WilliamWrightthat‘everybody’doesn’tknow.Whatuniondoeshebelongto?Isheanofficialofthatunion?Whathavethepolicearrestedhimfor?Whatarehisgrievances?Whoarehis associates?”Staringdownat the smallerman,hefixedJamesDashwoodinapowerfulgaze.“Canyoudothatforme?”“Yes,sir.”“It’svitalthatweknowwhetherheworkedaloneorwithagang.Youhavemy
authoritytocalloneveryVanDornoperativeyouneedtohelpyou.WireyourreporttomecareoftheSouthernPacific’sBurbankstation.I’llreaditwhenIgetoffthetrain.”
AstheLosAngelesflyersteamedfromthepiers,thefogwasthick,andIsaacBelllookedinvainfortheelectriclightsofSanFranciscotwinklingacrossthebay.Hecheckedhiswatchthatthetrainhaddepartedontime.Whenhereturnedthewatchtoitspocket,hefeltthebrasskeythatsharedthesamespace.HehadplannedtosurpriseMarionwithamiddle-ofthe-nightvisit.Instead,hewastheonesurprised.Badlysurprised.TheWrecker’sreachextendedmuchfurtherthanhehadpresumed.Andmoreinnocentpeoplehaddied.
THE SHARP SOUTHERNCALIFORNIA noonday sun illuminatedwreckageunlike any Isaac Bell had ever seen. The front of the Coast Line Limited’slocomotivestoodpitchedforward,intact,atasteepangleinadryriverbedatthebottom of the railroad embankment. The cowcatcher in the ground and theheadlightandsmokestackwerereadilyidentifiable.Behindthem,wheretherestoflocomotiveshouldbe,allthatremainedwasacrazyspiderwebofboilertubes,scores of pipes twisted at every angle imaginable. Some ninety tons of steelboiler,brickfirebox,cab,pistons,anddrivewheelshaddisappeared.“Close shave for the passengers,” said the director of maintenance and
operationsforSouthernPacific,whowasshowingBellaround.Hewasaportly,potbelliedman in a sober three-piece suit, and he seemed genuinely surprisedthatthedeathtollhadnotbeenmuchhigherthanthenow-confirmedseven.ThepassengershadalreadybeentakentoLosAngelesonarelieftrain.TheSouthernPacific’sspecialhospitalcarstoodunusedonthemainline,itsdoctorandnursewith little to do but bandage the occasional cut suffered by the track crewsrepairingthedamagetoreopentheline.“Nineof the cars held to the rails,” the director explained. “The tender and
baggagecarshieldedthemfromthefullforceoftheexplosion.”Bellcouldseehowtheyhaddeflectedtheshockwaveandtheflyingdebris.
Thetender,withitscargospilledfromitsdemolishedsides,lookedmorelikeacoalpilethanrollingstock.Thebaggagecarwasriddledasifithadbeenshelledby artillery. But he saw none of the singeing associatedwith an explosion ofdynamite.“Dynamiteneverblewalocomotivelikethat.”“Of course not. You’re looking at the effects of a boiler explosion. Water
sloshedforwardwhenshetippedandthecrownsheetfailed.”“Soshederailedfirst?”“Appearsshedid.”Bellfixedhimwithacoldstare.“Apassengerreportedshewasrunningvery
fastandhittingthecurveshard.”
“Nonsense.”“Areyousure?Shewasrunninglate.”“IknewRufusPatrick.Safestengineerontheline.”“Thenwhy’dsheleavethetracks?”“Shehadhelpfromthatsonofabitchunionist.”Bellsaid,“Showmewheresheleftthetracks.”ThedirectorledBelltothepointwherethetrackstoppedononeside.Pastthe
missingrailwasalineofsplinteredtiesandadeeprutthroughtheballastwherethedrivewheelshadscatteredthecrushedstone.“Thesidewinderknewhisbusiness,I’llgivehimthat.”“Whatdoyoumean‘knewhisbusiness’?”The portly official stuck his thumbs in his vest, and explained. “There are
numerous ways to derail a train, and I’ve seen them all. I was a locomotiveengineerbackintheeightiesduringthebigstrikes,whichgotbloody,youmayrecall—no,you’retooyoung.Takeitfromme,therewasplentyofsabotageinthose days.And itwas hard on fellows likeme that sidedwith the company,drivinga trainneverknowingwhenstrikerswereconspiring toknocktherailsoutfromunderyou.”“What are theways to derail a train?”Bell asked. “You canmine the track
withdynamite.Troubleis,youhavetostickaroundtolightthefuse.Youmightmakeatimingdeviceoutofanalarmclock,givingyoutimetogetaway,butifthetrainisdelayedit’llblowat thewrongtime.Oryousetupa triggersotheweight of the engine detonates the powder, but triggers are not reliable, andsome poor track inspector comes along on a handcar and blows himself toeternity.Anotherwayis,youpryupsometiespikesandunscrewtheboltsoutofthefisheyethatholdstworails together,reevealongcablethroughthosebolt-holes,andyankonitwhenthetraincomes.Troubleis,youneedawholebunchof fellows strong enough tomove the rail.Andyou’re standing there in plainsight, holding the cable,when shehits theground.But this sidewinderused ahook,whichisdamned-nearfoolproof.”The director showed Bell marks on the crosstie where a spike puller had
dentedthewood.Thenheshowedhimscratchesonthelastrailmadebyatrackwrench.“Priedupspikesandunboltedthefisheye,likeItoldyou.Wefoundhistools thrown down the embankment. On a curve, it’s possible the loose railmightmove.Buttobesure,heboltedahookontothelooserail.Thelocomotivecaughtthehookandrippedherownrailrightoutfromunderher.Diabolical.”“Whatsortofmanwouldknowhowtodosomethingsoeffective?”“Effective?”Thedirectorbridled.“Youjustsaidheknowshisbusiness.”
“Yes, I get your point.Well, he could havebeen a railroadman.Or even acivil engineer.And fromwhat Iheardof thatcutoff tunnelexplosion,hemusthave known a thing or two about geology to collapse both bores with onecharge.”“Butthedeadunionistyoufoundwasanelectrician.”“Thenhisradicalunionistassociatesshowedhimtheropes.”“Wheredidyoufindtheunionist’sbody?”Thedirectorpointedatatalltreetwohundredfeetaway.Theboilerexplosion
hadblownallitsleavesoff,andbarebranchesclawedattheskylikeaskeletalhand.“Foundhimandthepoorfiremantopofthatsycamore.”Isaac Bell barely glanced at the tree. In his pocketwas JamesDashwood’s
reportonWilliamWright.ItwassoremarkablydetailedthatyoungDashwoodwouldgeta“slapon theshoulder”promotionnext timehesawhim. Insideofeighthours,DashwoodhaddiscoveredthatWilliamWrighthadbeentreasurerofthe Electrical Workers Union. He was credited with averting strikes byemploying negotiating tactics that elicited the admiration of both labor andowners.HehadalsoservedasadeaconoftheTrinityEpiscopalChurchinSantaBarbara.According to his grieving sister,Wright had been accompanying herson to a job inLosAngeleswitha film laboratory.Theofficemanagerof thelaboratoryhadconfirmedtheywereexpectingtheboytoarrivethatmorningandhadreported toDashwoodthat theapprenticeshiphadbeenofferedbecauseheand William Wright belonged to the same Shriners lodge. So much for theWrecker killed in the crash. Themurderous saboteurwas still alive, andGodaloneknewwherehewouldattacknext.“Where’sthehook?”“Yourmenoverthereareguardingit.Now,ifyou’llexcuseme,Mr.Bell,I’ve
gotarailroadtoputbacktogether.”BellwalkedalongthetornroadbedtowhereLarrySandersfromVanDorn’s
LosAngeles office was crouched down inspecting a tie. Two of his heavysetmusclemenwereholdingtherailwaypoliceatbay.Bellintroducedhimself,andSandersstoodup,brushingdustfromhisknees.LarrySanderswasaslimmanwithstylishlyshorthairandamustachesothin
itlookedlikehehadapplieditwithapencil.HewasdressedsimilarlytoBellinawhitelinensuitappropriatetothewarmclimate,buthishatwasacityman’sderbyand,oddly,wasaswhiteashissuit.UnlikeBell’sboots,hisshoeswereshiny dancing pumps, and he looked like he would be happier guarding thelobbyofanexpensivehotelthanstandinginthecoaldustthatcoatedthebusilytrafficked roadbed.Bell,whowas used to sartorial eccentrics inLosAngeles,paid Sander’s odd head and footwear little mind at first, and started on the
assumptionthattheVanDornmanwascompetent.“Heardaboutyou,”Sanderssaid,offeringasoft,manicuredhand.“Myboss
wiredfromSacramento,saidyouwerecomingdown.Ialwayswantedtomeetyou.”“Where’sthehook?”“Thecinderdickshadalreadyfounditbythetimewegothere.”SandersledBell toalengthofrail thathadbeenbentlikeapretzel.Onone
endwasboltedahookthatlookedlikeithadbeenfashionedfromananchor.“Isthatbloodorrust?”“Didn’t notice that.” Sanders opened a pearl-handled pocketknife and
scratched at it. “Blood.Dried blood. Looks like he cut his hand on a burr ofmetal.Keeneyes,Mr.Bell.”Isaacignoredtheflattery.“Findoutwhodrilledthishole.”“What’sthat,Mr.Bell?”“Wecan’thaulineverymaninCaliforniawithacutonhishand,butyoucan
find out who drilled that hole in this peculiar piece of metal. Canvas everymachineshopandblacksmithinthecounty.Immediately.Onthejump!”IsaacBellturnedonhisheelandwenttotalktotherailroaddicks,whowere
watchingsullenly.“Everseenahooklikethatbefore?”“Hunkofboatanchor.”“That’swhatIthought.”Heopenedagoldcigarettecaseandpasseditaround.
WhenthecinderdickshadsmokesgoingandBellhadestablishedtheirnames,TomGriggsandEdBottomley,heasked,“Ifthatfellowinthetreehappenednotto wreck the Limited, how do you think the real wrecker got away after heditchedthetrain?”Therailwaycopsexchangedglances.Edsaid,“Thathookboughthimplentyoftime.”ThenTomsaid,“Wefoundatrack-inspectionvehicletippedoverthesidein
Glendale.GotareportsomeonestoleitfromthefreightdepotatBurbank.”“O.K.ButifhegottoGlendalebyhandcar,itmusthavebeenthreeorfourin
themorning,”Bellmused.“HowdoyousupposehegotawayfromGlendale?Streetcarsdon’trunthatlate.”“Couldhavehadaautomobilewaitingforhim.”“Thinkso?”“Well, you could ask Jack Douglas, except he’s dead. He was watching
Glendale.Someonekilledhimlastnight.Ranhimstraightthroughlikeastuckpig.”“FirstIheard,”saidBell.“Well,maybeyou ain’t been talking to the right people,” replied the cinder
dick,withascornfulglanceatthedandifiedSanderswaitingnearby.Isaac Bell returned a thin smile. “What did you mean by ‘ran through’?
Stabbed?”“Stabbed?” asked Ed. “When’s the last time you saw a stabbing dust both
sidesofafellow’scoat?Themanwhokilledhimwaseitheronestrongsonofabitchorusedasword.”“Asword?”Bellrepeated.“Whydoyousayasword?”“Evenifhewerestrongenoughtostickhiminonesideandouttheotherwith
abowieknife,he’dhaveaheckofatimetryingtopullitout.That’swhyfolksleaveknives inbodies.Damned thingsget stuck.So I’m thinking a long, thinblade,likeasword.”“That is very interesting,” saidBell. “A very interesting idea . . .Anything
elseIshouldknow?”The cinder dicks thought on that for a longmoment. Bell waited patiently,
lookingbothin theeye.SuperintendentJethroWatt’s“ordersfromonhigh”tocooperate did not automatically percolate down to the cops in the field,particularlywhentheyranupagainstasuperciliousVanDornagent likeLarrySanders.Abruptly,TomGriggscametoadecision.“FoundthisinJack’shand.”Hepulledoutacrumpledsheetofpaperandsmootheditwithhisgrimyfingers.Blackletteringstoodstarklyinthesun.
ARISE!FANTHEFLAMESOFDISCONTENT
DESTROYTHEFAVOREDFEWSoWORKINGMENMAYLIVE!
“Idon’tsupposeitwasJack‘s,”saidTom.“Thatoldmanweren’tthesorttoturnradical.”“Lookslike,”explainedEd,“Jackgrabbedholdofitintheirstruggle.”Tomsaid,“Wouldhavedonebettertograbhisgun.”“Soitwouldappear,”saidIsaacBell.“Strangethingiswhyhedidn’t.”“Whatdoyoumean?”askedBell.Tom said, “I mean you could make a mistake thinking that because Jack
Douglaswasninety-twoyearsoldthathewasasleepattheswitch.Justlastyear,acoupleofcityboyscameouttoGlendalelookingforeasypickings.DrewgunsonJack.Hedrilledonethroughtheshoulderwiththatoldhoglegofhisandtheotherinthebackside.”Edchuckled.“Jacktoldmehewasgettingsoft.Intheolddays,hewouldhave
killedthembothandscalpedthem.Isaid,‘Youdidn’tmissbymuch,Jack.You
pluggedoneintheshoulderandtheotherintherear.’ButJacksaid,‘Isaidsoft,notafflicted. I didn’tmiss. I hit ’em right where I aimed. Shows I’m turningkindlyinmyoldage.‘SowhoevergotthedroponJacklastnightknewhowtohandlehimself.”“Particularly,” Tom added, “if all he had on himwas a sword. Jackwould
haveseenthatcomingamileaway.Imean,howdoesamanwithaswordgetthejumponamanwithagun?”“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” said Bell. “Thank you, gentlemen.
Thankyouverymuch.”Hetookouttwoofhiscardsandgaveonetoeach.“IfyoueverneedanythingfromtheVanDornAgency,getintouchwithme.”
“IWASRIGHT,”BELLtoldJosephVanDornwhenVanDornsummonedhimto San Francisco. “But not right enough. He’s thinking even bigger than Iimagined.”“Sounds like he knows his business,” said Van Dorn, grimly echoing the
SouthernPacificmaintenance director. “At least, enough to run circles aroundus.Buthowdoeshegetaround?Freighttrains?”Bellanswered,“I’vesentoperativestoquestionthehobosineveryjunglein
theWest.Andwe’reaskingeverystationmasterandticketclerkineverystationhemighthavebeennearwhoboughtaticketonalong-distanceflyer.”VanDorngroaned.“Theticketclerksareevena longershot thanthehobos.
HowmanypassengersdidHennessysaytheSouthernPacificcarriesperyear?”“Onehundredmillion,”Belladmitted.
7
WHENISAACBELLTELEPHONEDMARIONMORGANTOTELLherhehadonehourfreeinSanFranciscobeforehecaughthistraintoSacramentoandcouldshepossiblygetoffworkearly,Marionreplied,“Meetmeattheclock!”The Great Magneta Clock, the first master clock west of the Mississippi,
which had come around the Horn by steamship, was famous already, eventhough it had been installed in the St. Francis Hotel only the week before.Dominating the Powell Street lobby of the St. Francis, the ornately carvedViennese timepiece resembled a very large grandfather clock and lookedsomewhatold-fashioned in theEuropeanmode.But itwas, in fact,electricallypowered, and it automatically controlled all the clocks in the vast hotel thattoweredoverUnionSquare.The lobby was furnished with suites of chairs and couches arranged on
orientalcarpets.Parchment-andglass-shadedelectric lampscastawarmglow,whichwas reflected andmultiplied in giltmirrors.The air smelled sweetly ofsawnwoodandfreshpaint.EighteenmonthsafterthefiresignitedbytheGreatEarthquake had gutted its interior, San Francisco’s newest and grandest hotelwasopenforbusinesswithfourhundredeightyrooms,andanewwingplannedfor the followingspring. Ithad instantlybecome themostpopularhotel in thecity.Most of the chairs and coucheswere occupied by paying guests readingnewspapers.TheheadlinesblaredthelatestrumorsaboutthelaboragitatorsandforeignradicalswhohadditchedtheCoastLineLimited.Marion swept into the lobby first, so excited to see Isaac that she was
oblivious to theopenstaresofadmirationshedrewfromvariousgentlemenastheywatchedherpacebeforetheclock.Sheworeherstraw-blondhairhighonherhead,afashionablestyle thatdrewattentiontoher long,gracefulneckandthebeautyofher face.Herwaistwasnarrow,herhandsdelicate,and, judginghowshe seemed to flowacross thecarpet, the legsbeneathher full skirtwerelong.Hercoral-seagreeneyesflashedtowardtheclockastheminutehandinched
upright and the Great Magneta struck three mighty gongs that resounded so
muchlikethebellsofacathedralthattheyseemedtoshakethewalls.Oneminutelater,Isaacstrodeintothelobby,tallandruggedlyhandsomeina
cream-coloredwoolensacksuit,crispbluefold-collarshirt,andthegold-stripednecktieshehadgivenhimthatmatchedhisflaxenhairandmustache.Shewassodelightedbythesightofhimthatallshecouldthinktosaywas,“I’veneverseenyoulatebefore.”Isaacsmiledbackasheopenedhisgoldpocketwatch.“TheGreatMagnetais
sixtysecondsfast.”Helethiseyesroamoverher,saying,“AndI’veneverseenyouprettier.”Thenhesweptherintohisarmsandkissedher.Heguidedhertoapairofchairswherehecouldwatchtheentirelobbywith
theaidofseveralmirrors,andtheyorderedteawithlemoncakefromawaiterinatailcoat.“What are you looking at?”Bell asked. Shewas staring at himwith a soft
smileonherbeautifulface.“Youturnedmylifeupsidedown.”“Thatwastheearthquake,”heteasedher.“Beforetheearthquake.Theearthquakewasonlyaninterruption.”LadiesMarionMorgan’sageweresupposedtohavemarriedyearsbefore,but
shewas a levelheadedwomanwho enjoyed her independence.At thirty,withyears of experience supporting herself working as a senior secretary in thebankingbusiness,shehadlivedonherownsincegraduatingwithherlawdegreefromStanfordUniversity.The handsome,wealthy suitorswhohad begged forher hand inmarriage had all been disappointed. Perhaps itwas the air of SanFrancisco,sofilledwithendlesspossibilities, thatgavehercourage.Perhaps itwashereducationbyhandpicked tutorsandher loving fatherafterhermotherdied.Perhapsitwaslivinginmoderntimes,theexcitementofbeingaliveintheboldfirstyearsofthenewcentury.Butsomethinghadfilledherwithconfidenceandarareabilitytotakerealpleasureinthecircumstanceofbeingalone.Thatis,untilIsaacBellwalkedintoherlifeandmadeherheartquickenasif
shewereseventeenyearsoldandonherfirstdate.Iamsolucky,shethought.IsaactookMarion’shand.Foralongmoment,hefounditdifficulttospeak.Herbeauty,herpoise,and
hergraceneverfailedtomovehim.Staringintohergreeneyes,hefinallysaid,“I am the happiestman in San Francisco.And ifwewere inNewYork rightnow,IwouldbethehappiestmaninNewYork.”Shesmiledandlookedaway.Whenshelookedbacktomeethiseyes,shesaw
thathisgazehadshiftedtoanewspaperheadline:DITCHED!Trainwreckswereapartofdailylifein1907,buttohaveaLosAngelesflyer
crashandknowingthatIsaacrodetrainsallthetimewasterrifying.Oddly,sheworriedlessaboutthedangersinhiswork.Theywerereal,andshehadseenhisscars.But toworryabout Isaacencounteringgunmenandknife fighterswouldbeasirrationalasfrettingaboutatiger’ssafetyinthejungle.Hewasstaringat thepaper,his facedarkwithanger.She touchedhishand.
“Isaac,isthattrainwreckaboutyourcase?”“Yes.It’satleastthefifthattack.”“Butthereissomethinginyourface,somethingfierce,thattellsmeitisvery
personal.”“DoyourememberwhenItoldyouaboutWishClarke?”“Of course. He saved your life. I hope to meet him one day to thank him
personally.”“ThemanwhowreckedthattrainkilledWish,”Bellsaidcoldly.“Oh,Isaac.I’msosorry.”Withthat,Bellfilledherin,aswashiscustomwithher,detailingallheknew
of the Wrecker’s attacks on Osgood Hennessy’s Southern Pacific CascadesCutoffandhowhewastryingtostopthem.Marionhadakeen,analyticalmind.Shecould focusonpertinent factsandseepatternsearly in theirdevelopment.Aboveall,sheraisedcriticalquestionsthathonedhisownthinking.“Motive is still an open question,” he concluded. “What ulterior motive is
drivinghimtosuchdestruction?”“DoyoubelievethetheorythattheWreckerisaradical?”Marionasked.“Theevidenceisthere.Hisaccomplices.Theradicalposter.Eventhetarget—
therailroadisaprimevillaintoradicals.”“Yousounddubious,Isaac.”“Iam,”headmitted.“I’vetriedtoputmyselfinhisshoes,triedtothinklike
anangryagitator—butIstillcan’t imaginethewholesaleslaughterof innocentpeople.Intheheatofariotorinastrike,theymightattackthepolice.WhileIwill not condone such violence, I can understand how a man’s thinking getstwisted.Butthisrelentlessattackonordinarypeople...suchviciousnessmakesnosense.”“Couldhebeamadman?Alunatic?”“He could. Except that he is remarkably ambitious and methodical for a
lunatic. These are not impulsive attacks.He plans themmeticulously.And heplanshisescapejustascarefully.Ifit’smadness,it’sunderfinecontrol.”“Hemaybeananarchist.”“Iknow.Butwhykillsomanypeople?Infact,”hemused,“it’salmostasifhe
istryingtosowterror.Butwhatdoeshegainbysowingterror?”Marion answered, “The public humiliation of the Southern PacificRailroad
Company.”“Heiscertainlyachievingthat,”saidBell.“Maybe insteadof thinking likea radicalor ananarchistor amadman,you
shouldthinklikeabanker.”“Whatdoyoumean?”Helookedather,uncomprehending.Marionansweredinaclear,steadyvoice.“ImaginewhatitiscostingOsgood
Hennessy.”Bellnoddedthoughtfully.Theironyof“thinkinglikeabanker”wasnot lost
onamanwhohadturnedhisbackonanobligatorycareer inhisownfamily’spowerfulbank.Hetouchedhercheek.“Thankyou,”hesaid.“You’vegivenmealottoponder.”“I’mrelieved,”saidMarion,andteasinglyadded,“I’dratheryouponderthan
getintogunfights.”“Ilikegunfights,”Bellbanteredback.“Theyfocusthemind.Thoughinthis
casewemaybetalkingaboutswordfights.”“Swordfights?”“It’sverystrange.HekilledWishandanothermanwithwhatappears tobe
somekindofsword.Thequestionis:howdoeshegetthedroponamanwithagun?Youcan’thideasword.”“Whataboutaswordcane?PlentyofmeninSanFranciscocarryswordcanes
forprotection.”“Butjustunsheathingit,drawingthebladeoutofthecane,wouldgiveaman
withagunallthetimeheneededtoshootfirst.”“Well, if he comes after you with a sword, he’ll be sorry. You fenced for
Yale.”Bell shook his head with a smile. “Fenced, not dueled. There’s a big
differencebetweensportandcombat.Irecallmycoach,whohadbeenaduelist,explaining that the fencingmaskhidesyouropponent’seyes.Asheput it, thefirsttimeyoufightaduel,youareshockedtomeetthecoldgazeofamanwhointendstokillyou.”“Wereyou?”“WasIwhat?”“Shocked.”Shesmiled.“Don’tpretendtomeyou’veneverfoughtaduel.”Bell smiled back. “Only once.Wewere both very young.And the sight of
spurting red blood soon convinced us that we didn’t really want to kill eachother.Infact,we’restillfriends.”“Ifyou’re looking foraduelist, therecan’tbe toomanyof them left in this
dayandage.”“Likely,aEuropean,”musedBell.“ItalianorFrench.”
“OrGerman.WithoneofthosehorribleHeidelbergscarsonhischeek.Didn’tMarkTwainwritethattheypulledthesurgeon’sstitchesapartandpouredwineintheirwoundstomakethescarsevenuglier?”“ProbablynotaGerman,”saidBell.“They’reknownfor theplungingblow.
The thrust that killedWish and the other fellowwasmore in the style of anItalianoraFrenchman.”“Orthestudentof?”Marionsuggested.“AnAmericanwhowenttoschoolin
Europe.Thereareplentyofanarchists inFranceandItaly.Maybethat’swherehebecameone.”“I still don’t know how he takes a man with a gun by surprise.” He
demonstratedwithagesture.“Inthetimeittakestodrawasword,youcanstepinandpunchhiminthenose.”Marionreachedacross the teacupsand tookBell’shand.“Totell the truth, I
wouldbedelightedifabloodynoseisthemostIhavetoworryabout.”“Atthispoint,Iwouldloveabloodynose,orevenafleshwoundortwo.”“Whateverfor?”“YourememberWeberandFields?”“Thefunnyoldgents.”WallyKisleyandMackFultonhadtakenhertodinner
whilepassingthroughSanFranciscorecentlyandkeptherlaughingallevening.“WallyandMackalwayssay,‘Bloodynosesareasuresignofprogress.You
knowyou’reclosewhenyourquarrypokesyouinthesnoot.’Rightnow,Icoulduseagoodpokeinthesnoot.”Thecommentbroughtasmiletotheirfaces.Two women, fashionably dressed in the latest hats and gowns, entered the
hotellobbyandcrosseditinaflourishoffeathersandsilk.Theyoungerwassostrikingthatmanyofthelowerednewspapersremainedontheirowners’laps.Marionsaid,“Whatabeautifulgirl!”Bellhadalreadyseenherinamirror.“Thegirlwearingpaleblue,”saidMarion.“SheisOsgoodHennessy’sdaughter,Lillian,”saidBell,wonderingifitwas
coincidence that hadbroughtLillian to theSt.Franciswhile hewashere, andsuspectingitwasnot.“Doyouknowher?”“ImetherlastweekaboardHennessy’sspecial.She’shisprivatesecretary.”“Whatisshelike?”Bellsmiled.“Shehaspretensionstobeingaseductress.Flasheshereyeslike
thatFrenchactress.”“AnnaHeld.”“She is intelligent, though, and savvy about business. She’s very young,
spoiled by her adoring father, and, I suspect, very innocentwhen it comes to
mattersoftheheart.Thedark-hairedwomanwithherusedtobehertutor.Nowshe’sHennessy’smistress.”“Doyouwanttogooverandsayhello?”“NotwhenIhaveonlyminuteslefttospendwithyou.”Marion returned a pleased grin. “I am flattered. She is young, unspeakably
beautiful,andpresumablyveryrich.”“You are unspeakably beautiful, andwhen youmarryme youwill be very
rich,too.”“ButI’mnotanheiress.”“I’veknownmyfillofheiresses,thankyouverymuch,sinceweweretaught
theBostonWaltzindancingschool,”hesaid,grinningback.“It’saslowwaltzwithalongglide.Wecandanceitatourwedding,ifyoulike.”“Oh,Isaac,areyousureyouwanttomarryme?”“Iamsure.”“Mostpeoplewouldcallmeanoldmaid.Andtheywouldsaythatamanyour
ageshouldmarryagirlherage.”“I’veneverdonewhatI‘should’do.WhyshouldIstartnowwhenI’vefinally
metthegirlofmydreams?Andmadeafriendforlife?”“Butwhatwillyourfamilythinkofme?Ihavenomoney.They’llthinkI’ma
golddigger.”“TheywillthinkIamtheluckiestmaninAmerica.”Isaacsmiled.Butthenhe
added,soberly,“Anywhodon’tcangostraighttohell.Shallwesetadate?”“Isaac...Ihavetotalktoyou.”“Whatisit?Issomethingthematter?”“Iamdeeplyinlovewithyou.Ihopeyouknowthat.”“Youshowmeineveryway.”“AndIwanteversomuchtomarryyou.ButIwonderifwecouldwaitalittle
while.”“Why?”“I’vebeenofferedanexcitingjob,anditissomethingIwouldliketotryvery
much.”“Whatsortofjob?”“Well...youknowwhoPrestonWhitewayis,ofcourse?”“Of course. PrestonWhiteway is a yellow journalistwho inherited three of
California’sleadingnewspapers,includingtheSanFranciscoInquirer.”Hegaveheracurioussmile.“Thenewspaperyouhappentoworkfor...He’ssaidtobequite handsome and a celebrated ‘man-about-town,’ and he flaunts hiswealth,whichheearnspublishingsensationalistheadlines.He’salsosunkhishooksintonational politics by using the power of his newspapers to get his friends
appointed to the United States Senate—first among themOsgood Hennessy’slapdoglegislator,SenatorCharlesKincaid.Infact,IbelievethatitwasyourMr.WhitewaywhogaveKincaidthemoniker‘HeroEngineer.”’“He’snotmyMr.Whiteway,but—Oh,Isaac,hehasawonderfulnewidea.He
came upwith itwhile the paperwas reporting on the earthquake—amoving-picturenewsreel.He’scallingitPictureWorld.They’lltakemovingpicturesofactual events and play them in theaters and nickelodeons. And, Isaac!”—shegrippedhisarminherexcitement—“Prestonaskedmetohelpgetitstarted.”“Forhowlong?”“I’mnotsure.Sixmonthsorayear.Isaac,IknowIcandothis.Andthisman
will give me a chance to try. You know that I took my degree in law inStanford’s first graduating class, but awomancan’t get a job in law,which iswhyI’veworkednineyearsinbanking.I’velearnedsomuch.It’snotthatIwanttoworkmywholelife.ButIwanttomakesomething,andthisismychancetomakesomething.”BellwasnotsurprisedbyMarion’sdesiretoworkatanexcitingjob.Nordid
hedoubttheirlove.Theywerebothtoowellawareoftheirgreatgoodfortuneathaving discovered each other to ever let someone come between them. Somesortofacompromisewasinorder.AndhecouldnotdenythathehadhisownhandsfulltryingtostoptheWrecker.“Whatifweweretopromisethatinsixmonthswewouldsetadatetomarry?
Whenthingshavesettleddown?Youcanstillworkandbemarried.”“Oh,Isaac,thatwouldbewonderful.Isomuchwanttobeinatthebeginning
ofPictureWorld.”ThebellsoftheMagnetaClockbegantostrikefouro‘clock.“Iwishwehadmoretime,”shesaidsadly.ItseemedtoBelllikeonlyminutessincetheyhadsatdown.“I’lldriveyouto
youroffice.”HenoticedthatLillianHennessywaslookingpointedlytheotherwayasthey
leftthelobby.ButMrs.Comdenpartedherlipsinadiscreetsmileastheireyesmet.Hereturnedapolitenod,struckagain,forcibly,bythewoman’ssensuality,andgrippedMarion’sarmalittletighter.Afire-engine-red,gasoline-poweredLocomobileracerwasparkeddirectlyin
front of the St. Francis. It was modified for street traffic with fenders andsearchlightheadlamps.Thehoteldoormenwereguardingthecarfromgawkingsmallboys,threateningdirepunishmenttothefirstwhodaredlaydirtyfingerson the gleaming brass eagle atop its radiator, much less breathe near its redleatherseats.“Yougotyourracecarback!It’sbeautiful,”saidMarion,showingherdelight.
Bell’sbelovedLocomobilehadbeenbeatenhalf todeathbyafive-hundred-mile race against a locomotive from San Francisco to San Diego, with thelocomotive steaming on smooth rails and the Locomobile pounding overCalifornia’srock-strewndirtroads.Arace,Bellrememberedwithagrimsmile,that he had won. His trophy had been the arrest of the Butcher Bandit atgunpoint.“Assoonasthefactoryrebuilt it, IhaditshippedoutherefromBridgeport,
Connecticut.Hopin.”Bell leaned past the big steering wheel to turn the ignition switch on the
wooden dashboard. He set the throttle and spark levers. Then he pumped thepressuretank.Thedoormanofferedtocrankthemotor.Stillwarmfromthedrivefrom the freight depotwhereBell had takendelivery, the four-cylinder enginethundered to life on the first heave. Bell advanced the spark and eased thethrottle.Ashereachedtoreleasethebrake,hebeckonedthesmallestoftheboyswhowerewatchingbig-eyed.“Canyougivemeahand?Shecan’trollwithoutblowingherhorn!”Theboysqueezedthebigrubberhornbulbwithbothhands.TheLocomobile
bellowedlikeaRockyMountainbighorn.Boysscattered.Thecarlurchedahead.Marion laughed and leaned across the gas tank to holdBell’s arm. Soon theywere racing toward Market Street, weaving around straining horse carts andstreetcarsandthunderingpastslowerautomobiles.Astheypulledupinfrontofthetwelve-story,steel-framebuildingthathoused
theSanFranciscoInquirer,Bellspottedthelastparkingspaceleftbythecurb.Afair-hairedgentinanopenRolls-Royceveeredtowardit,blowinghishorn.“Oh,there’sPreston!Youcanmeethim.”“Can’t wait,” said Bell, stomping his accelerator and brake in quick
successiontoskidthebigLocomobileintothelastspot,ahalfsecondaheadofPrestonWhiteway’sRolls.“Hey!That’smyspot.”Bell noticed that Whiteway was as handsome as rumored, a bluff, broad-
shouldered,clean-shavenmanwithextravagantwavesofblondhair.As tallasBell, though considerably bulkier in themiddle, he looked like he had playedfootballincollegeandcouldnotrecallthelasttimehehadnothadhisway.“Igotherefirst,”saidBell.“Iownthisbuilding!”“YoucanhaveitbackafterIsaygood-byetomygirl.”Now Preston Whiteway craned his neck to look past Bell, and bawled,
“Marion?Isthatyou?”“Yes!ThisisIsaac.Iwantyoutomeethim.”
“Pleased to meet you!” said Preston Whiteway, looking anything but.“Marion,webettergetupstairs.We’vegotworktodo.”“Yougoahead,”shesaidcoolly.“Iwanttosaygood-byetoIsaac.”Whiteway leaped fromhis car, bellowing for thedoorman topark it.Ashe
chargedpast,heaskedBell,“HowfastisyourLocomobile?”“Fasterthanthat,”saidBell,noddingattheRolls-Royce.Marioncoveredhermouth tokeep from laughing, andwhenWhitewayhad
movedoutofearshotshesaidtoBell,“Youtwosoundedlikeboysinaschoolyard.Howcould you be jealous of Preston?He’s really very nice.You’ll likehimwhenyougettoknowhim.”“I’msure,”saidBell.Hetookherbeautifulfacegentlyinhishandsandkissed
herlips.“Now,youtakecareofyourself.”“Me?Youtakecareofyourself.Please, takecareofyourself.”Sheforceda
smile.“Maybeyoushouldboneuponyourswordfighting.”“Iintendto.”“Oh,Isaac,Iwishwehadmoretime.”“I’llgetbackassoonasIcan.”“Iloveyou,mydarling.”
HIGHABOVETHECASCADESCutoffconstructionyard,asinglegondolacarhadbeen left behindon a siding. It sat a short distance above the switch that,whenclosed,wouldconnect thesidingto thesteepgradeofasupplyspur thatconnected the railroad’s newly built lumber mill in the forest miles up themountain to the construction yard below. The car was heavily laden, heapedhigher than itssideswithacrownof freshlysawnmountainhemlockcrosstiesbound for the cutoff’s creosoting plant to be impregnated with coal tarpreservative.TheWreckersawanopportunitytostrikeagain,soonerthanhehadplanned,
killingtwobirdswithonestone.ThisattackwouldrattlenotonlytheSouthernPacificRailroad.Ifhecouldpullitoff,itwouldannouncehowimmunehewasfromtheprotectiveeffortsoftheVanDornDetectiveAgency.He was a coldly methodical man. He had planned the tunnel attack
meticulously,allotting time toeverystage, fromrecruitinganaccomplicewiththe ideal mix of zeal and naïveté to pinpoint ing the geologically propitiouslocationforthedynamitetoplanninghisescaperoute.TheCoastLineLimitedattackhadtakensimilarefforts,includingusingahooktomakeitobviousthatthedestructionwassabotage,notamereaccident.Hehadsimilar schemes forwreckagelinedup,invariousstagesofreadiness,althoughsomeofthemhadto
bescrappednowthattheVanDorndetectiveswereguardingkeyrailyardsandmaintenanceshops.But not every sabotage job had to be planned. The railroad system that
crisscrossed the nationwas immensely complex.Opportunities for destructionabounded, so long as he employed his superior knowledge to be ever alert tomistakesandnegligence.Solongashemovedquicklyanddidtheunexpected.The gondola would remain only briefly on the siding. With twenty-seven
hundredtiesrequiredpermileoftrack,itcouldnotbemorethanadayortwobeforeahard-pressedmaterialssuperintendentdownintheyardroared“Wherethehellaretherestofmyties?”andterrifiedclerksbegandesperatelycombingthroughinvoicesanddispatchesforthemissingcar.Thenearesthobojunglebigenoughthathewouldnotbenoticed,inthecrush
ofmencookingmeals,huntingaspacetosleep,andcomingandgoingontheirendlessquestforwork,wasoutsidetherailyardsinDunsmuir,California.ButDunsmuirwasahundredfiftymilesdowntheline.Thatleftnotimetorecruitabeliever. He would have to do the gondola job himself. There was risk inattackingaloneandriskinattackingquickly.Butthedestructionhecouldwreakwiththatsinglecarwasalmostincalculable.
8
WITH MARION’S GOOD-BYE KISS STILL SWEET ON HIS LIPS, IsaacBellsettled intohisseaton theflyer toSacramentoandwaitedfor the train topulloutofOaklandTerminal.Sheknewhimwell,betterthanheknewhimself.Ontheotherhand,therewerethingsshemightneverknow.Howcouldyoubejealous of Preston? Let me count the ways, thought Bell. Starting with,WhitewayistherewithyouandI’mnot,becauseI’mfallingbehindinmyracetostoptheWrecker.Heclosedhiseyes.Hehadn’tslept inabedfordays,butsleepeludedhim.
Hismindwas racing. From the state capital, hewould take a series of trainsnorth toward distant Oregon. He needed a fresh look at the Cascades Cutofftunnel collapse, with an eye toward reckoning whether theWrecker intendedanother attackat the front endof the tunnel.On theway,hewouldmeetwithArchieAbbott,who’dwiredhimthathemightbehittingpaydirtwiththehobojungleoutsideDunsmuir.“Mr.Bell?”TheconductorinterruptedIsaac’sthoughts.Themantouchedaknuckletohis
polishedvisorinarespectfulsalute,andsaidwithaslywink,“Mr.Bell,there’saladyaskingifyouwouldbemorecomfortablesittingwithher.”Suspectinghewould find theenterprisingyoungMissHennessy in thenext
Pullman,Bellfollowedtheconductoruptheaisle.Theconductorledhimoffthetrain and directed him across the platform toward a private car coupled to abaggagecarhauledbyasleekAtlantic4-4-2soshinyit lookedlikeithadjustcomefromtheshop.Bell stepped aboard the car and through a door into a plush red parlor that
wouldnothavelookedoutofplaceinAnnePound’sbrothel.LillianHennessy,whohadchangedoutof thepaleblue thatmatchedher eyes into a scarlet teagown that matched the parlor, greeted him with a glass of champagne and atriumphantsmile.“You’renottheonlyonewhocancharteraspecial.”Bellrepliedcoolly,“Itisinappropriateforustobetravelingalone.”“We’renotalone.Unfortunately.”
As Bell was saying “Besides, may I remind you that I am committed toMarionMorgan,” a jazz band struck up in a room at the rear of the car. Bellpeeredthroughthedoor.Sixblackmusiciansplayingclarinet,bassfiddle,guitar,trombone, and cornet were gathered around an upright piano improvising onAdalineShepherd’sbriskhitrag,“PicklesandPeppers.”LillianHennessypressedclose to lookpastBell’s shoulder.Shewas tucked
intoaswan-billunderbustcorset,andBellfeltherbreastssoftagainsthisback.He had to raise his voice to be heard over themusic. “I’ve nevermet a jazzmusicianqualifiedtoactasachaperone.”“Not them.” Shemade a face.“Her: Father caught wind ofmy scheme to
ambushyouinSanFrancisco.Shesenthertokeepaneyeonme.”Thecornetplayerwheeledhishornintheair,asiftospeartheceiling.Inthe
gapheopenedinthecircleofmusicians,Bellsawthatthepianoplayerarchedover thekeys,with fingers flying,eyesbright,and full lipsparted inagleefulsmile,wasnoneotherthanMrs.Comden.Lilliansaid,“Idon’tknowhowhefoundout.ButthankstoFatherandMrs.
Comden, your honor will be safe,Mr. Bell. Please stay. All I ask is that webecome friends.We’ll have a fast ride.We’re cleared straight through to theCascadesCutoff.”Bellwastempted.ThelinenorthofSacramentowascongestedwithmaterials
and work trains heading to and from the cutoff. He had been consideringordering up one of Hennessy’s specials. Lillian’s was ready to roll. Steamingnorthward on cleared tracks, the railroad president’s daughter’s special wouldsavehimadayoftraveltime.Lillian said, “There’s a telegraph in the baggage car, if you need to send
messages.”Thattippedit.“Thankyou,”Bellsaidwithasmile.“Iacceptyour‘ambush,’
thoughImayhavetohopoffatDunsmuir.”“Haveaglassofchampagne,andtellmeallaboutyourMissMorgan.”Thetrainlurchedintomotionasshehandedhimtheglass.Shelickedaspilled
dropfromanexquisitelydelicateknuckleandflashedhereyesinFrench-actressmode.“Shewasverypretty.”“Marionthoughtyouwere,too.”Shemade another face. “‘Pretty’ is rosy cheeks and gingham dresses. I am
usuallycalledmorethanpretty.”“Actually,shesaidyouwereunspeakablybeautiful.”“Isthatwhyyoudidn’tintroduceme?”“Ipreferredtoremindherthatsheisunspeakablybeautiful,too.”Lillian’spaleblueeyesflashed.“Youdon’tpullyourpunches,doyou?”
Bell returned a disarming smile. “Never in love, young lady—a habit Irecommendyoucultivatewhenyougrowup.Now, tellmeaboutyourfather’stroubleswithhisbankers.”“He has no trouble with his bankers,” Lillian shot back. She answered so
quicklyandsovehemently,Bellknewwhattosaynext.“Hesaidhewouldbywinter.”“Onlyifyoudon’tcatchtheWrecker,”shesaidpointedly.“ButwhatofthisPanicbrewinginNewYork?ItstartedlastMarch.Itdoesn’t
appeartobegoingaway.”Lillian answered with sober deliberateness. “The Panic, if it remains one
much longer,willbringboomtimes in therailroadbusiness toacrashinghalt.We’reinthemidstofwonderfulexpansion,butevenFatheradmitsitcan’tgoonforever.”BellwasagainremindedthatLillianHennessywasmorecomplicatedthana
coddledheiress.“DoesthePanicthreatenyourfather’scontrolofhislines?”“No,”shesaidquickly.ThensheexplainedtoBell,“Myfatherlearnedearly
onthatthewaytopayforhissecondrailroadwastomanagehisfirstsowellthatitwassolventandcreditworthyandthenborrowagainst it.Thebankerswoulddancetohistune.Norailroadmaninthecountrywouldfarebetter.Iftheotherscollapsed,he’dsnapupthepiecesandcomeoutofitsmellinglikearose.”Bell touched his glass to hers. “To roses.”He smiled. But hewas not sure
whether the young woman was boasting truthfully or whistling past thegraveyard.AndhewasevenlesssureofwhytheWreckerwassodeterminedtouprootthetangledgardenofrailroads.“Ask any banker in the country,” she said, proudly. “He will tell you that
OsgoodHennessyisimpregnable.”“Letmesendawiretellingpeoplewheretofindme.”Lillian grabbed the champagne bottle and walked him to the baggage car,
wheretheconductor,whodoubledasthetrain’stelegrapher,sentBell’smessagereportinghiswhereaboutstoVanDorn.Astheywerestartingtoheadbacktotheparlorcar,thetelegraphkeystartedclattering.Lillianlistenedforafewseconds,then rolled her eyes and called over her shoulder to the conductor, “Do notanswerthat.”Bellasked,“Whoisthattransmitting,yourfather?”“No.TheSenator.”“WhichSenator?”“Kincaid.CharlesKincaid.He’scourtingme.”“DoIgatherthatyouarenotinterested?”
“SenatorCharlesKincaidistoopoor,tooold,andtooannoying.”“Butveryhandsome,”calledMrs.Comden,withasmileforBell.“Very handsome,” Lillian agreed. “But still too poor, too old, and too
annoying.”“Howold?”Bellasked.“Atleastforty.”“He’s forty-two and extremely vigorous,” said Mrs. Comden. “Most girls
wouldcallhimquiteacatch.”“I’drathercatchmumps.”Lillian refilled her glass and Bell’s. Then she said, “Emma, is there any
chancethatyoumighthopoffthetraininSacramentoanddisappearwhileMr.BellandIsteamourwaynorth?”“Not in this life, dear. You are too young—and far too innocent—to travel
withoutachaperone.AndMr.Bellistoo...”“Toowhat?”EmmaComdensmiled.“Interesting.”
THEWRECKERHURRIEDUPthelumber-millspurafterdark,walkingonthecrosstiessoasnotmakenoisecrunchingtheballast.Hecarriedafour-foot-longcrowbarthatweighedthirtypounds.Onhisback
wasaSpanish-AmericanWarsoldier’sknapsackofeighteen-ouncecottonduckwitharubberizedflap.Itsstrapstuggedhardonhisshoulders.Initwereaheavytwo-gallon tinof coaloil andahorseshoehehad lifted fromoneof themanyblacksmithsbusyshoeingthehundredsofmulesthatpulledthefreightwagons.Thechillmountainairsmelledofpinepitch,andsomethingelsethattookhim
amomenttorecognize.Therewasactuallyahintofsnowonthewind.Althoughit was a clear night, he could feel winter coming early to the mountains. Heincreasedhispace,ashiseyesadjustedtothestarlight.Therailsshoneinfrontofhim,andtreestookshapealongthecut.Atall,long-legged,fitman,heclimbedthesteepslopewithswiftefficiency.
Hewasracingtheclock.Hehadlessthantwohoursuntilmoonrise.Whenthemoonclearedthemountains,lancingthedarknesswithitsfulllight,hewouldbeasittingduckfortherailwaypolicepatrollingonhorseback.Afteramile,hecametoaYjunctionwherethespursplit.Theleft-handspur,
whichhehadbeenclimbing,descendedtotheconstructionyard.Thespurtotherightveeredtojointhenewlycompletedmainlinetothesouth.Hecheckedtheswitchthatcontrolledwhichspurwasconnected.
The switchwas positioned so that a train descending from the lumbermillwouldberoutedtowardtheconstructionyard.Hewastemptedtosendtheheavycar on to the main line. Properly timed, it would collide head-on with anorthbound locomotive. But such a collision would block the tracks so thedispatcherswouldhave to stopall trains,whichwouldblockhisonlywayoutfromthisendoftheline.Thegradecontinued,alittlelighter,andheincreasedhispace.Afteranother
mile,hesawthedarkgondolalooming.Itwasstillthere!Suddenly, he heard something. He stopped walking. He froze in place. He
cuppedhishandstohisears.Hehearditagain,anincongruoussound.Laughter.Drunkenmenlaughing,fartherupthemountain.Wayin thedistance,hecouldseetheorangeglowofacampfire.Lumberjacks,herealized,sharingabottleofSquirrelwhiskey.Theyweretoofarawaytohearhimorseehim,blindedbytheblaze of their fire.Even if they heard the car roll through the switch, by thentherewouldbenostoppingit.Hesteppedfromthespuracrossaditchtothesidingonwhichsat theladen
gondola.He found theswitchhandleand threw it, closing thepointwhere thetwosetsoftracksmet,joiningthesidingtothelumberspur.Thenhewenttothegondola,kickedwoodenchocksfromunderthefronttruck,foundthecoldrimofthebrakeandturnedituntilthebrakeshoesliftedfromthecar’smassiveironwheels.Nowshecouldroll,andhewaitedforhertostartmovingofherownweight
since the sidingwas on an incline. But she sat fast, locked by gravity or thenaturalminuteflatteningofherwheelsasshesatheavilyontherails.Hewouldhavetoimproviseacarmover.Hewenttothebackofthegondola,placedhishorseshoeafewinchesbehind
therearmostwheel,proppedhiscrowbarunderthewheelwhereitmettherail,and lowered the bar to the horseshoe, which would serve as his fulcrum. Hethrewhisweightdownonthebarandrockedonit.Thebarslippedwithaloudscreechofmetalonmetal.Heshoveditunderthe
wheel again and resumed rocking.Thewheelmoved an inch.He jammed thecrowbarindeeper,kickedthehorseshoetomeetit,andagainthrewhisweightonhismakeshiftcarmover.Avoicespoke,directlyoverhead,almostinhisear.“Whatyoudoingthere?”He fell back, astonished. Leaning down from the heap of crossties was a
lumberjack,wakingfromadrunkensleep,breathreekingasheslurred,“Partner,youstartherrolling,shewon’tstop‘tilshehitsbottom.Letmehopdownbeforeshesetsoff.”
TheWreckerswungthecrowbarinalightningblur.Theheavysteelcrunchedagainstthedrunk’sskullandknockedhimbackon
thetieslikearagdoll.TheWreckerwatchedformovement,and,whentherewasnone,calmlyresumedrockingonthecrowbarasifnothinghadhappened.He felt the space between the wheel and fulcrum open. The gondola was
rolling.Hedroppedthecrowbarandjumpedonthecarwiththetinofcoaloil.The car rolled slowly toward the switch and rumbled through it and onto thespur, where it gathered speed. He scrambled past the body of the drunk andturnedthebrake,tighteningituntilhefelttheshoesrubthewheels,slowingthegondolatoabouttenmilesanhour.Thenheopenedthetinandsplashedtheoilontheties.ThegondolarolledonforamiletotheYjunction,wherethegradebeganto
steepen.He lit amatch and, shielding it from thewindof passage, touched it to the
coaloil.Astheflamesspread,hereleasedthebrakes.Thegondolalungedahead.Hehungdownbehindthebackwheels.Themoonchosethatmomenttoclearamountainandcastlightonthetracksbrightlyenoughtoilluminateasafeplaceforhimtojump.TheWreckertookitashisjustdue.Hehadalwaysbeenaluckyman.Thingsalwaysbrokehisway.Justastheywerebreakinghiswaynow.Hejumped, landedeasily.Hecouldhear thegondola turning to the left, rumblingheavilythroughtheYjunctionandtowardtheconstructionyard.He turned to the right,down the spur to themain line,away from theyard.
Thewheelsmadeahummingsoundasthegondolaspeddownthesteepgrade.Thelastthinghesawwasorangeflamesmovingrapidlydownthemountain.Inthreeminutes, every cinder dick on themountain would be running hell-benttowardtheconstructionyardwhilehewasrunningtheotherway.
SWAYING AS IT ACCELERATED to thirty, forty, then fifty miles an hour,trailingflamesbehindit,therunawaygondolabegantoshakeitscargo,causingthemassivecrosstiestocreakagainstoneanotherlikethetimbersofashipinaheavy sea.The lumberjack,whose namewasDonAlbert, rolled oneway andthentheother,armsandlegsflopping.Hishandslippedintoaslotbetweentwoties. When the squared timbers shifted back against each other again andslammedshutonhisfingers,heawokewithahowlofpain.
Albertstuckhisfingers inhismouthandsuckedhard,andbegantowonderwhy everything seemed to be moving. His head, which hurt like hell, wasspinning. The cloying taste of red-eye whiskey in his craw explained bothfamiliarsensations.Butwhydidthestarsoverheadkeepshiftingposition?Andwhydidthesplinterywoodhewassprawledagainstseemtovibrate?Hereachedunderhisthickknitcapwiththehandthatdidn’thurtandfeltasharppaininhisskulland thestickinessofblood.Musthavefallenonhishead.Good thinghehasaskulllikeacannonball.No,hehadn’tfallen.He’dgottenintoafight.Hevaguelyrememberedtalking
toatall,rangyjiggerrightbeforethelightswentout.Thedamnedestthingwas,he felt likehewasona train.Wherehehad founda train ina remote lumbercamp halfway up a mountain in the Cascades was a mystery to him. Stillsprawledonhisback,helookedaround.Therewasafirebehindhim.Thewindwas blowing the flames away from him, but itwas too close for comfort.Hecouldfeeltheheat.Awhistlescreamedsoclosehecouldtouchit.DonAlbertsatupandwasnearlyblindedbyalocomotiveheadlightrightin
hisface.Hewasridingatrainallright,rollingfast,amileaminute,withflamesbehindhimandanothertraininfrontofhimcomingstraightathim.Ahundredlights whirled around him like lights inside a nickelodeon: the flames behindhim, the locomotive’sheadlampflankedbygreensignal lights in frontofhim,the electric lights on poles glaring down at the freight yard, the lights in theyard’sbuildings,thelightsinthetents,thelanternlightsbouncingupanddownasmenranfor their lives, tryingtogetoutof thewayof therunawaytrainonwhichhewasriding.The locomotiveblowing itswhistlewasnot coming straight athimafter all
butwasonatracknexttotheonehewasrollingon.Thatwasahugerelief,untilhesawtheswitchdeadahead.Atsixtymilesanhour,theheavygondolablastedthroughtheclosedswitchas
ifitweremadeofstrawinsteadofsteelandside-swipedthelocomotive,whichwasaswitchengineshuttlingastringofemptyboxcars.Thegondolaslammedpast the locomotive in a thunderstorm of sparks, screeched against thelocomotive’s tender and into the empties,which tumbledoff the tracks as if achildhadsweptacheckerboardwithanangryfist.The impact barely slowed theburninggondola.Upon jumping the tracks, it
crashedintoawoodenroundhousefilledwithmechanicsrepairinglocomotives.BeforeDonAlbertcouldeven thinkof leapingforhis life, the lightswentoutagain.
THREEMILES TO THE south, the right spur joined the main line where itbegan rising ina steepgrade.TheWreckerclimbed the incline forahalfmileandretrievedacanvasgripsackhehadstashedinathickstandoflodgepolepine.Heextractedwirecutters,climbingspurs,andglovesfromthegrip,strappedthespurstohisboots,andwaitedbesideatelegraphpoleforthefirstfreighttrainofempties that regularlyheadedsouth for fresh loads.Thenorthernskybegan toglowred.Hewatchedwithsatisfactionastherednessgrewbrighterandbrighter,blotting out the starlight. As planned, the runaway had started a fire in theconstructioncampandrailyard.No train came. He feared that he had been too successful and wreaked so
muchhavocthatnofreightscouldleavetheyard.Ifso,hewastrappedneartheendofthelinewithnowayout.Butatlasthesawthewhiteglowofaheadlightapproaching.Hedonnedhisgloves,climbedthetelegraphpole,andsnippedallfourwires.Backontheground,havingseveredtheheadofthecutofffromtherestofthe
world,hecouldhearthefreighttrain’s2-8-0Consolidationhuffingupthegrade.Thegradesloweditenoughforhimtojumpaboardanopencar.Hebundledupinacanvascoathe tookfromthegripbagandsleptuntil the
train stopped for water. Carefully watching for the brakemen, he climbed atelegraphpoleandcutthewires.Hesleptagain,scramblingawaketocutmorewires at the nextwater stop.At dawn, he found himself still trundling slowlysouthonthemainlineinwhatwasabrightgreencattlecarthatstankofmules.Itwassocold,hecouldseehisbreath.Hestood,cautiously,foralookaroundwhenthefreightroundedacurveand
ascertained that his green car was in a string of some fifty empties, midwaybetween a slow but powerful locomotive in front and a faded red caboose inback. He ducked down before the brakeman looked out from the caboose’sraisedcupolaforhisperiodic inspectionof the train. In justa fewmorehours,theWreckerwouldjumpoffatDunsmuir.
9
ISAACBELLAWOKEBETWEENFINELINENSHEETSTOFINDTHATLillian’sspecialhadbeensidelinedonasidingtoallowanemptymaterialstrainto trundle through. From his stateroom window, it looked like the middle ofnowhere.Theonlysignofcivilizationwasaruttedbuggypathbesidetherails.Acoldwindwhipped through the clearing in the trees, scattering a graymix ofpowder-drysoilandcoaldust.Hedressedquickly.ThiswasthefourthsideliningsinceSacramento,despite
Lillian’sboastaboutclearedtracks.TheonlytimeBellhadriddenonaspecialthathadbeenstoppedthisoftenhadbeenaftertheGreatEarthquake,toletrelieftrainssteamingtotheaidofthestrickencitypass.Thatpassengertrainsandtheusually sacrosanct specialswouldbow to freightwas a stark reminder of howcriticaltheCascadesCutoffwastothefutureoftheSouthernPacific.He headed for the baggage car, where he had spent half the night, to see
whether the telegrapherhadanynewtransmissionsfromArchieAbbott. Inhislastmessage,Archie had told him not to bother stopping atDunsmuir, as hisundercoverinvestigationsamongthehoboshadnotpannedout.Thespecialhadsteamed through thebusyyardsand thehobocampbeyond, stoppingonly forcoalandwater.James,thespecial’ssteward,whowasdressedinasnowy-whiteuniform,saw
Bellrushpastthegalleyandhurriedafterhimwithacupofcoffeeandasternlecture about the value of breakfast for a man who had been up all nightworking. Breakfast sounded good. But before Bell could accept, Barrett, thespecial’s conductor and telegrapher, stood up fromhis keywith amessage hehadwrittenoutinclearcopperplatescript.Hisexpressionwasgrim.“Justcomein,Mr.Bell.”ItwasnotfromArchiebutfromOsgoodHennessyhimself:
SABOTEURS SET RUNAWAY TRAIN ANDCUTTELEGRAPH.STOP.HEAD-OF-LINEYARDASHAMBLES.STOP.
EXPANSIONYARDINFLAMES.STOP.LABORTERRORIZED.
IsaacBellgrippedBarrett’sshouldersoharditmadehimwince.“Howlongwouldafreighttraintaketogetfromthecutoffrailheadtohere?”“Eighttotenhours.”“Theemptyfreightthatjustcamethrough.Diditleavetherailheadafterthe
runaway?”Barrett lookedathispocketwatch.“No,sir.Hemusthavebeenwelloutof
there.”“Soanytrainthatleftaftertheattackisstillbetweenusandthem.”“Nowhereelseforhimtogo.It’ssingletrackalltheway.”“Thenhe’strapped!”TheWreckerhadmadeafatalmistake.Hehadboxedhimselfinattheendof
asingle-trackedlinethroughruggedcountrywithonlyonelineout.AllBellhadtodowasintercepthim.Buthehadtotakehimbysurprise,ambushhim,beforehecouldjumpoffhistrainandrunoffintothewoods.“Getyourtrainmoving.We’llblockhim.”“Can’t move. We’re sidelined. We could run head-on into a southbound
freight.”Bellpointedatthetelegraphkey.“Findouthowmanytrainsarebetweenus
andtherailhead.”Barrettsatathiskeyandbegansendingslowly.“Myhand’salittlemuddy,”
heapologized.“It’sbeenawhilesinceIdidthisforaliving.”BellpacedtheconfinesofthebaggagecarwhilethekeyclatteredoutMorse
code.Thebulkoftheopenspacewasaroundthetelegraphdesk.Beyondwasanarrow aisle between stacked trunks and boxes of provisions, cut short byLillian’sPackardGrayWolf,whichwastieddownundercanvas.ShehadshownthecartoBellthepreviousnight,proudlyremindinghimofwhatamanlikehimwho loved speed alreadyknew: the splendid racer kept setting new records atDaytonaBeach.Barrettlookedupfromhiskeywarily.ThecoldresolveonBell’sfacewasas
harshastheiceboundlightinhisblueeyes.“Sir,thedispatcheratWeedsaysheknows of one freight highballing down the line. Left the railhead after theaccident.”“Whatdoeshemean‘knowsof’?Aretheremoretrainsontheroad?”“Wires to thenorthweredown inacoupleofplaces through thenight.The
dispatcher can’t know for sure what moved there while the wires were out.We’vegotnoprotection,nowayofknowingwhat’scomingfromthenorth,until
thewiresarefixed.Sowehavenoauthoritytobeonthemainline.”Ofcourse,Bellragedinwardly.Eachtimetheemptyfreighthadstoppedfor
water, theWrecker had climbed the nearest pole and cut the telegraphwires,throwingtheentiresystemintodisarraytosmoothhisescape.“Mr. Bell, I’d like to help you, but I can’t put the lives of men in danger
becauseIdon’tknowwhat’scomingaroundthenextbendintheroad.”Isaac Bell thought quickly. The Wrecker would see the smoke from the
special’s locomotive miles before he would see the train itself. Even if Bellstoppedtheir train toblockthemainline, theWreckerwouldsmellaratwhenhistrainstopped.Plentyoftimetojumpoff.Theterrainwasgentlerheresouthof the Cascade Range, less mountainous than up the line, and a man coulddisappearinthewoodsandhikehiswayout.“Howsoonwillthatfreightcomethrough?”“Lessthananhour.”BellleveledanimperioushandatLillian’sautomobile.“Unloadthat.”“ButMissLillian—”“Now!”Thetraincrewslidopenthebarndoorsinthesideofthebaggagecar,laida
ramp,androlledthePackarddownitandontothebuggyroadbesidethetrack.Itwasa tinymachinecompared toBell’sLocomobile.Standing lightlyonwide-spreadairywirewheels,theopencarscarcelycameuptohiswaist.Asnuggraysheet-metalcowlingoveritsmotorformedapointedsnout.Behindthecowlingwasasteeringwheelandaleather-backedbenchseat,andlittleelse.Thecockpitwasopen.Belowit,oneithersideofthechassis,brightcoppertubes,arrangedinseven horizontal rows, served as a radiator to cool the powerful four-cylindermotor.“Strapacoupleofgasolinecanson theback,”Bellordered,“and that spare
wheel.”They quickly compliedwhile Bell ran to his stateroom.He returned armed
withaknifeinhisbootandhisover-undertwo-shotderringerinthelowcrownofhiswide-brimmedhat.Underhiscoatwasanewpistolhehadtakenashineto,aBelgian-madeBrowningNo.2semiautomatic thatanAmericangunsmithhadmodified to fire a .380caliber cartridge. Itwas light, andquick to reload.Whatitlackedinstoppingpoweritmadeupforwithdeadlyaccuracy.LillianHennessycamerunningfromherprivatecar,tuggingasilkrobeover
hernightdress,andBellthoughtfleetinglythateventheconsequencesofpassingoutfromthreebottlesofchampagnelookedbeautifulonher.“Whatareyoudoing?”
“TheWrecker’suptheline.Iamgoingtointercepthim.”“I’lldriveyou!”Eagerly,shejumpedbehindthesteeringwheelandcalledfor
thetrainmentocrankherengine.Wideawakeinaninstant,eyesalight,shewasreadyforanything.Butasthemotorfired,Bellleashedallthepowerofhisvoicetoshout,“Mrs.Comden!”EmmaComdencamerunninginadressinggown,herdarkhairinalongbraid
andherfacepaleattheurgencyinhisvoice.“Holdthis!”hesaid.BellcircledLillian’sslenderwaistinhislonghandsandliftedheroutofthe
car.“Whatareyoudoing?”sheshouted.“Putmedown!”He thrust Lillian, kicking and shouting, into Mrs. Comden’s arms. Both
womenwentdowninaflashingtangleofbarelegs.“Icanhelpyou!”Lillianshouted.“Aren’twefriends?”“Idon’tbringfriendstogunfights.”Bell leapedbehind the steeringwheel and sent theGrayWolf flyingup the
buggytrackinacloudofdust“That’smycar!You’restealingmyracecar!”“I just bought it!” he fired over his shoulder. “Send the bill toVanDorn.”
Although,strictlyspeaking,hethoughtwithalastgrimsmileashewrestledthelow-slungcarovertherutsgougedbyfreightwagons,onceVanDorn’sexpensesheetswere submittedOsgoodHennessywould end up buying his daughter’sGrayWolftwice.The lookoverhis shoulder revealed thathewas trailingadustcloudas tall
anddark as a locomotive’s smoke.TheWreckerwould seehimcomingmilesaway,asightthatwouldputthemurdereronhighalert.Belltwistedthesteeringwheel.TheWolfsprangoffthebuggytrack,upthe
railroad embankment, and onto the rail bed. Hewrenched thewheel again toforce the tires over the nearest rail. Straddling it, the Wolf pounded on thecrosstiesandballast.Itwasabone-jarringride,thoughthebangingandbouncingwasfarmorepredictablethantherutsintheroad.Andunlesshepuncturedatireonaloosespike,hischancesofkeepingthecarintactatsuchspeedwerebetterthan on rocks and ruts.He glanced back, confirming that the chief benefit ofridingontherailbedwashewasnolongertrailingadustcloudlikeaflag.Heracednorthwardonthelineforaquarterofanhour.Suddenly,hesawacolumnofsmokespurtingupwardintothehard-bluesky.
Thetrainitselfwasinvisible,hiddenaroundabendinthetrackthatappearedtopassthroughawoodedvalleybetweentwohills.Itwasmuchcloserthanhehadexpectedonfirstglimpsingthesmoke.Heinstantlysteeredoffthetrack,down
the embankment, and bounced into a thicket of bare shrubs. Turning the cararoundinthethincover,hewatchedthesmokedrawnearer.Thewethuffingofthelocomotivegrewaudibleovertheinsistentrumbleof
theGrayWolf’s idlingmotor.Soon it became a loud, smacking sound, louderand louder. Then the big black engine rounded the bend, spewing smoke andhaulingalongcoaltenderandastringofemptygondolasandboxcars.Lightlyburdenedandrollingeasilyontheslopeofadowngrade,thetrainwasmovingfastforafreight.Bellcountedfiftycars,scrutinizingeach.Theflatbedslookedempty.Hecould
not tell about a coupleof cattle cars.Mostof theboxcarshadopendoors.Hesawnoonepeeringout.Thelastcarwasafadedredcaboosewithawindowedcupolaontheroof.Thesecondthecaboosepassedby,BellgunnedtheWolf’smotoranddroveit
outofthethicket,upthegravelembankmentandontothetracks.Hefoughthisright-sidetiresoverthenearestrailandopenedthethrottle.TheWolftoreafterthe train, bouncing hard on its ties. At nearly forty miles an hour, it buckedviolently and swayed from side to side. Rubber squealed against steel, as thetires slammed against the rails. Bell halved the distance between him and thetrain.Halved itagain,untilhewasonly tenfeetbehind the train.Nowhesawthathecouldnotjumpontothecaboosewithoutpullingalongsidethetrain.Heslewed the carbackover the rail and steeredon the edgeof the embankment,whichwassteepandnarrowandstuddedwithtelegraphpoles.Hehadtopullalongsidethecaboose,graboneof itssideladders,andjump
before the race car lost speed and fell back. He overtook the train, steeredalongsideit.Acarlengthahead,hesawatelegraphpolethatwassetcloserthantheotherstotherail.Therewasnoroomtosqueezebetweenitandthetrain.
10
BELLGUNNEDTHEENGINE,SEIZEDTHECABOOSE’SLADDERINhisrighthand,andjumped.His fingers slippedon thecoldsteel rung.Heheard thePackardWolfcrash
intothetelegraphpolebehindhim.Swingingwildlyfromonearm,heglimpsedtheWolf tumbling down the embankment and fought with all his strength toavoidthesamefate.Buthisarmfeltasifithadbeenrippedoutofhisshoulder.Thepaintoredownhisarmlikefire.Hardashetriedtoholdon,hecouldnotstophisfingersfromsplayingopen.Hefell.Ashisbootshit theballast,hecaught thebottomrungof theladder
withhis left hand.Hisbootsdraggedon the stones, threateninghisprecariousgrip.Thenhegotbothhandsontheladder,tuckedhislegsupinatightball,andhauledhimselfup,climbinghandoverhand,untilhecouldplantabootontherungandswingontotherearplatformofthecaboose.Hethrewopenthebackdoorandtookintheinteriorofthecabooseinaswift
glance. He saw a brakeman stirring a vile-smelling stewpot on a potbelliedwoodstove. There were tool lockers, trunks on either side with hinged topsdoubling as benches and bunk beds, a toilet, a desk stuffed with waybills. Aladderleduptothecupola,thetrain’scrow’snest,wherethecrewcouldobservethe string of boxcars theywere trailing and communicate by flag and lanternwiththelocomotive.Thebrakemanjumpedasthedoorbangedagainstthewall.Hewhirledaround
fromthestove,wild-eyed.“Wheretheheckdidyoucomefrom?”“Bell.VanDorninvestigator.Where’syourconductor?”“Hewentuptothelocomotivewhenwetookonwater.VanDorn,yousay?
Thedetectives?”Bellwasalreadyclimbingtheladderintothecupolafromwherehecouldsee
thetraincarsstretchingahead.“Bringyourflag!Signaltheengineertostopthetrain.Asaboteurisridinginoneofthefreightcars.”Bellleanedhisarmsontheshelfinfrontofthewindowsandwatchedintently.
Fiftycarsstretchedbetweenhimandthesmoke-belchinglocomotive.Hesawno
one on the roofs of the boxcars, which blocked his view of the low-slunggondolas.ThebrakemanclimbedupbesideBellwithaflag.Thestewsmellwasworse
in the raised cupola. Or the brakeman hadn’t bathed recently. “Did you seeanyonestealingaride?”Bellasked.“Justoneoldhobo.Toocrippledtowalk.Ididn’thavethehearttoroustthe
poordevil.”“Whereishe?”“About themiddle of the train. See that green cattle car?Theoldmanwas
ridingintheboxrightaheadofit.”“Stopthetrain.”Thebrakemanstuckhisflagoutasidewindowandwavedfrantically.After
severalminutes,aheadbobbedupfromthelocomotivecab.“That’stheconductor.Heseesus.”“Waveyourflag.”Thelocomotive’schuggingsloweddown.Bellfeltthebrakeshoesgrind.The
carsbangedintooneanotherastheyfilledtheslackcausedbythetrainslowedtoastop.Hewatchedtheroofsoftheboxcars.“Soonasthetrainstops,Iwantyoutorunaheadandcheckeachcar.Donot
engage.Justgiveashoutifyouseeanyone, thengetoutoftheway.He’llkillyousoonaslookatyou.”“Can’t.”“Whynot?”“We have to send a flagman back when we stop. I’m it. In case a train’s
followingus,Ihavetowaveitdown.Wiresarescrewytoday.”“Notbeforeyoucheckeachcar,” saidBell,drawing theBrowning fromhis
coat.The brakeman climbed down from the cupola. He jumped from the rear
platformtothetracksandjoggedalongsidethetrain,pausingtolookintoeachcar.Theengineerblewhiswhistle,demandinganexplanation.Bellwatchedtherooftopsandmovedtoeithersideofthecupola,toseealongsidethetrain.
THEWRECKERLAYONhisbackinabenchlockerlessthantenfeetfromthecupolaladder,grippingaknifeinonehandandapistolintheother.Allnight,hehadworried that by setting loose the runaway gondola he had put himself indangerbytrappinghimselfsofaruptheline.Fearingthatrailwaypolice,goadedby Van Dorn detectives, would mob the train before it reached Weed orDunsmuirandsearchitthoroughly,hehadtakendecisiveaction.Duringthelast
water stop, he had run back to the caboose and slipped insidewhile the crewwere busy tending the locomotive and checking the journal boxes under therailcars.Hehadchosenalockerthatheldlanterns,reasoningthatnoonewouldopenit
inthedaytime.Ifsomeonedid,hewouldkillhimwithwhicheverweaponsuitedthemoment,thenspringoutandkillanyoneelsehecameacross.Hesmiledgrimlyinthecramped,darkspace.Hehadguessedright.Andwho
hadboardedthetrainbutnoneotherthanVanDorn’schiefinvestigatorhimself,thefamousIsaacBell?Atworst,theWreckerwouldmakeacompletefooloutofBell.Atbest,he’dshoothimbetweentheeyes.
THE BRAKEMAN CHECKED EVERY car, and when he reached thelocomotive Bell saw him confer with the conductor, the engineer, and thefireman,whohadgatheredontheground.Thentheconductorandthebrakemanhurriedback,checkingeachofthefiftyboxcars,cattlecars,andgondolasagain.When they got to the caboose, the conductor, an oldermanwith sharp browneyesandaput-outexpressiononhislinedface,said,“Nosaboteurs.Nohobos.Nobody.Thetrainisempty.We’vewastedenoughtimehere.”Heraisedhisflagtosignaltheengineer.“Wait,”saidBell.Hejumpeddownfromthecabooseandranalongsidethetrain,peeringinside
eachcarandeachchassisunderneath.Midwaytothelocomotive,hepausedatagreencattlecarthatstankofmules.Bellwhirledaroundandranfulltiltbacktowardthecaboose.Heknewthatsmell.Itwasn’tstew.Anditwasn’tanunwashedbrakeman.A
manwhohadriddeninthegreencattlecarthatstankofmuleswasnowhidingsomewhereinthecaboose.Bellboundedupontothecaboose’splatform,shovedthroughthedoor,flung
thenearestmattressoffabench,andpulledupthehingedtop.Thelockerheldbootsandyellowrainslickers.Heflungopen thenext. Itwasfilledwithflagsand light repair tools.Therewere twomore.The conductor and thebrakemanwerewatchingcuriouslyfromthefardoor.“Getback,”Belltoldthem.Andheopenedthethirdbench.Itcontainedtins
oflubricatingoilandkeroseneforlamps.Guninhand,heleanedintoopenthelast.“Nothingintherebutlanterns,”saidthebrakeman.Bellopenedit.Thebrakemanwasright.Thelockercontainedred,green,andyellowlanterns.
Angry,baffled,wondering if themanhad somehowmanaged to run for thetrees from one side while he was watching the other, Bell stalked to thelocomotiveandtoldtheengineer,“Moveyourtrain!”Gradually,hecalmeddown.And finallyhe smiled, remembering something
WishClarkehadtaughthim:“Youcan’tthinkwhenyou’remad.Andthatgoesdoublewhenyou’remadatyourself.”HehadnodoubtthattheWreckerwasacapableman,evenabrilliantone,but
now it seemed he had something else going for him too: luck, the intangibleelement thatcould throwan investigation intochaosandprolongcapture.BellbelieveditwasonlyamatteroftimebeforetheycaughtupwiththeWrecker,buttimewasshort—terriblyshort—becausetheWreckerwassoactive.Thiswasnoordinarybankrobber.Hewasn’tgoingtoholeupinabrothelandspendhisill-gotten gains on wine and women. Even now, he would be planning his nextattack. Bell was painfully aware that he still had no idea what motivated theman.ButhedidknowthattheWreckerwasnotthesortofcriminalwhowastedtimecelebratinghisvictories.Twentyminuteslater,BellorderedthetrainstoppedbesideLillianHennessy’s
special,whichwasstillonthesiding.Thecrewmovedthefreightaheadtothewatertank.
THEWRECKERWAITEDUNTIL the train crewwas busy taking onwater.Then he dropped down from the cupola’s shelf and slipped back into his firsthiding place, the lanterns locker. The next water stop, he slipped out of thecabooseandbackintoaboxcar,asthecrewwouldbereachingforlanternswhenthesunwentdown.Tenhours later, in thedeadof thenight, he jumpedoff at a staging area at
Redding.Seeingmanydetectivesandrailroadpolicesearchingtrainsahead,hehidinaculvertandwatchedtheirlightsbobbinginthedark.While he waited them out, he used the time to think about Isaac Bell’s
investigation.Hewastemptedtomailhimaletter:“Sorrywedidn’tmeetonthefreighttrain.”Butitwasn’tworththejoke.Don’tgloat.LetBellthinkhewasn’tonthattrain.Thathegotawaybysomeothermeans.Hewouldfindsomebetterwaytosowconfusion.An empty freight rumbled out of the yard, heading south, just before first
light.TheWreckerranalongside,grabbedaladderonthebackofaboxcar,andworked his way under the car and wedged himself into the supportingframework.InSacramento,heclimbedoutwhen the trainhalted forpermission toenter
theyards.Hewalkedamilethroughfactoriesandworkers’housingtoacheaproominghouse,eightblocksfromthecapitolbuilding.Hepaidthelandladyfourdollarsforholdinghissuitcaseandcarried it toanotherroominghouse thathechose at random ten blocks away.He rented a room, paying in advance for aweek.Midmorning,thehousewasempty,thelodgersawayatwork.Helockedhimselfinthesharedbathroomattheendofthehall,stuffedhisfilthyclothesinthegripsack,shavedandbathed.Inhisroom,hepulledatop-qualityblondwigoverhishairandappliedasimilarlycoloredgroomedbeardandmustachewithspirit gum. Then he dressed in a clean shirt, a four-in-hand necktie, and anexpensivesacksuit.Hepackedhisbags, transferringhisclimbingspurs to thesuitcase,andpolishedhisboots.Heleft theroominghousebythebackdoorsonoonewouldseehiminhis
new persona and walked a roundabout route to the railroad station, checkingrepeatedlythathewasnotfollowed.Hethrewthegripsackbehindaboardfencebutkeptthesuitcase.Hundreds of travelers were streaming into the Southern Pacific station. He
blendedinashejoinedthem,anotherwell-dressedbusinessmanembarkingforadistantcity.Butsuddenly,beforehecouldstophimself,helaughedoutloud.Helaughedsohardhecoveredhismouthtomakesurethebearddidn’tshift.The latest Harper’s Weekly magazine was displayed on a newsstand. The
covercartoondepictednoneotherthanOsgoodHennessy.Therailroadpresidentwas rendered as a fearsome octopus extending train tracks like tentacles intoNewYorkCity.Smilingbroadly,theWreckerboughtthemagazinefortencents.Thenewsiewasstaringathim,sohewenttoanotherstandoutsidethestation
toask,“Doyouhavepencils?Athickone.Andanenvelopeandstamp,ifyouplease.”Intheprivacyofatoiletinthenearesthotel,hetoreoffthemagazinecover,
wroteon it, and sealed it in theenvelope.Headdressed theenvelope toChiefInvestigatorIsaacBell,VanDornDetectiveAgency,SanFrancisco.Heattachedthestamp,hurriedbacktothestation,anddroppedtheenvelope
inamailbox.ThenheboardedtheflyertoOgden,Utah,sixhundredmilestotheeast,ajunctioncitynearGreatSaltLakewhereninerailroadsconverged.Theconductorcamethrough.“Tickets,gents.”TheWreckerhadboughta ticket.Butashe reached topull it fromhisvest
pocket, he sensed danger. He did not question whatever had sparked thepremonition. It couldhavebeen anything.Hehad seen extra railwaypolice attheSacramentoyards.Theticketclerkhadeyedhimclosely.Ahanger-onhehadnoticedinthepassengerstationcouldhavebeenaVanDornoperative.Trustinghisinstincts,helefthisticketinhispocketandflashedarailwaypassinstead.
11
BELL BATTLED HIS WAY THROUGH FORTY-EIGHT HOURS OFmaddening delays to reach the Cascades construction site at the head of thecutoff line. The Southern Pacific dispatcherswere beset by downed telegraphwires,making train scheduling haphazard. Lillian had given up and taken herspecialbacktoSacramento.Bellhadhitchedridesonmaterialtrainsandfinallyarrivedonatrainloadofcanvasanddynamite.TheSouthernPacificCompanyhadusedthetimebetterthanhehad.Thefire-
ravaged locomotive roundhouse had been demolished and the debris cartedaway,andahundredcarpenterswerehammeringanewstructuretogetherwithgreen wood hauled down from the lumber mill. “Winter,” a burly foremanexplainedthespeedofrepairs.“Youdon’twanttobefixinglocomotivesinthesnow.”Heapsoftwistedrailhadbeenloadedonflatcarsandnewtracklaidwherethe
runawaygondolahadtornuptheswitches.Craneswerehoistingfallenboxcarsonto the fresh rails. Roustaboutswere raising giant circus tents to replace thecookhouse that burning embers from the roundhouse had set on fire. Theworkmeneating lunch standingupwere in a sullenmood, andBell overheardtalk of refusing to return to the job. Itwasn’t the inconvenience of having notablesandbenchesbutfearthatupsetthem.“Iftherailroadcan’tprotectus,whowill?” he heard asked. And the answer came hot and heavy from severalquarters.“Saveourselves.Pullout,comepayday.”BellsawOsgoodHennessy’svermilionredprivatetrainglidingintotheyards
andhehurriedafterit,thoughhewasnotlookingforwardtothemeeting.JosephVan Dorn, who had joined Hennessy in San Francisco, met him at the door,lookinggrave.“TheOldMan’sfittobetied,”hesaid.“YouandIaregoingtohunkerdownandlistentohimroar.”And roar Hennessy did. Although not at first. At first, he sounded like a
beatenman. “Iwas not exaggerating, boys. If I don’t connect to theCascadeCanyonBridge before it snows, the cutoff is dead.And those sons of bitchesbankerswillcartmeoffwithit.”HelookedatBellwithmournfuleyes.“Isaw
your face when I told you I started out driving spikes like my father. Youwondered,howcouldthatscrawny,fossilizedroosterswingasledgehammer?Iwasn’talwaysskinandbones.Icouldhavepoundedcirclesaroundyouinthosedays.ButIgotabumheart,andit’sshrunkmedowntowhatyousee.”“Well,now,”soothedVanDorn.Hennessycuthimoff.“Youaskedaboutadeadline.I’mtheoneonadeadline.
AndnorailroadmanstillalivecanfinishtheCascadesCutoffbutme.Thenewfellows just don’t have it in them.They’ll run the trains on time, but only ontrackIlaid.”“Bookkeepers,”Mrs.Comdensaid,“donotbuildempires.”Somethingabout
herattempttocomforthimmadeHennessyroar.HeyankedtheblueprintoftheCascadeCanyonBridgedownfromtheceiling.“ThefinestbridgeintheWestisalmost complete,” he shouted. “But it goes nowhere until my cutoff lineconnects. But what do I find when I get back here, having left highly paiddetectivesonguard?Anothergod-awfulweeklostrebuildingwhatI’vealreadybuilt. My hands are spooked, afraid to work. Two brakemen and a masterroundhousemechanicdead.Fourrockminersburned.Yardforemanlaidupwithasplitskull.Andalumberjackinacoma.”BellexchangedaquickglancewithVanDorn.“Whatwasalumberjackdoingintherailroad-constructionyard?Yourmillis
highupthemountain.”“Whothehellknows?”Hennessyexploded.“AndIdoubthe’llwakeuptotell
us.”“Whereishe?”“Idon’tknow.AskLillian...No,youcan‘t,dammit.IsenthertoNewYorkto
sweet-talkthoselowdownbankers.”Bellturnedonhisheelandhurriedofftheprivatecartothefieldhospitalthe
companyhadsetupinaPullman.Hefoundtheburnedminersswathedinwhitedressings, andabandagedyard foremanyellinghewascured,dammit tohell,justturnhimloose,hehadarailroadtofix.Butnolumberjack.“Hisfriendscarriedhimoff,”saidthedoctor.“Why?”“Nooneaskedmypermission.Iwaseatingsupper.”“Washeawake?”“Sometimes.”Bellranto theyardsuperintendent’soffice,wherehehadmadefriendswith
thedispatcherandthechiefclerk,whokeptenormousamountsofinformationathisfingertips.Thechiefclerksaid,“Iheardtheymovedhimdowntothetownsomewhere.”
“What’shisname?”“DonAlbert.”Bellborrowedahorsefromtherailwaypolicestableandurgedtheanimalata
quickcliptotheboomtownthathadsprungupbehindtherailhead.Itwasdownin a hollow, a temporary city of tents, shacks, and abandoned freight carsoutfitted to house the saloons, dance halls, and whorehouses that served theconstruction crews. Midweek, midafternoon, the narrow dirt streets weredeserted,as if theoccupantswerecatching theirbreathbefore thenextpaydaySaturdaynight.Bellpokedhisheadintoadingysaloon.Thebarkeep,presidingoverplanks
resting on whiskey barrels, looked upmorosely from a week-old Sacramentonewspaper.“Where,”Bellaskedhim,“dothelumberjackshangout?”“TheDoubleEagle, justdownthestreet.Butyouwon’t findany therenow.
They’re sawing crossties up the mountain. Working double shifts to get ‘emdownbeforeitsnows.”BellthankedhimandheadedfortheDoubleEagle,abatteredboxcaroffthe
trucks.Apainted signon the roofdepicted a red eaglewithwings spread andtheyhadfoundasetofswingingdoorssomewhere.As in theprevioussaloon,theonlyoccupantwasabarkeep,asmoroseasthelast.HebrightenedwhenBelltossedacoinonhisplank.“What’llyouhave,mister?”“I’mlookingforthelumberjackwhogothurtintheaccident.DonAlbert.”“Iheardhe’sinacoma.”“Iheardhewakesupnowandthen,”saidBell.“WherecanIfindhim?”“Areyouacinderdick?”“DoIlooklikeacinderdick?”“I don’t know, mister. They’ve been swarming around here like flies on a
carcass.”HesizedBellupagainandcametoadecision.“There’sanoldladyinashacktendinghimdownbythecreek.Followtherutsdowntothewater,youcan’tmissit.”Leavinghishorsewherehehadtiedit,Belldescendedtothecreek,whichby
thesmellwaftinguptheslopeservedasthetown’ssewer.HepassedanancientCentralPacificboxcarthathadoncebeenpaintedyellow.Fromoneoftheholescutinthesidethatservedaswindows,ayoungwomanwitharunnynosecalled,“Youfoundit,handsome.Thisisthespotyou’relookingfor.”“Thankyou,no,”Bellansweredpolitely.“Honey,you’llfindnothingdowntherebetterthanthis.”“I’mlookingfortheladytakingcareofthelumberjackwhogothurt?”“Mister,she’sretired.”
Bellkeptwalkinguntilhecametoarowofricketyshackshammeredoutofwoodfrompackingcrates.Hereandtherewerestenciledtheiroriginalcontents.SPIKES.COTTONWOOL.PICKHANDLES.OVERALLS.OutsideofonemarkedPIANOROLLS,hesawanoldwomansittingonan
overturned bucket, holding her head in her hands. Her hair was white. Herclothing,acottondresswithashawlaroundhershoulders,wastoothinforthecolddamprisingfromthefetidcreek.Shesawhimcomingandjumpedupwithanexpressionofterror.“He’snothere!”shecried.“Who?Takeiteasy,ma‘am.Iwon’thurtyou.”“Donny!”sheyelled.“Thelaw’scome.”Bellsaid,“I’mnotthelaw.I—”“Donny!Run!”Out of the shack stormed a six-foot-five lumberjack. He had an enormous
walrusmustache thatdroopedbelowhisgrizzledchin, longgreasyhair, andabowieknifeinhisfist.“AreyouDonAlbert?”askedBell.“Donny’smy cousin,” said the lumberjack. “You better runwhile you can,
mister.Thisisfamily.”ConcernedthatDonAlbertwasbeltingoutthebackdoor,Bellreachedforhis
hatandbroughthishanddownfilledwithhis.44derringer.“Ienjoyaknifefightasmuchasthenextman,butrightnowIhaven’tthetime.Dropit!”Thelumberjackdidnotblink.Instead,hebackedupfourfaststepsandpulled
asecond,shorterknife thathadnohandle.“Want tobet Ican throwthismoreaccuratethanyoucanshootthatsnubnose?”heasked.“I’mnotagambler,”saidBell,whippedhisnewBrowningfromhiscoat,and
shotthebowieknifeoutofthelumberjack’shand.Thelumberjackgaveahowlofpainandstared indisbeliefathisshinyknifespinning throughthesunlight.Bellsaid,“Icanalwayshitabowie,but thatshortoneyou’reholdingI’mnotsure.So,justtobeonthesafeside,I’mgoingplugyourhandinstead.”Thelumberjackdroppedhisthrowingknife.“WhereisDonAlbert?”Bellasked.“Don’tbotherhim,mister.He’shurtbad.”“Ifhe’shurtbad,heshouldbeinthehospital.”“Cain’tbeinthehospital.”“Why?”“Thecinderdicks’llblamehimfortherunaway.”“Why?”“Hewasonit.”
“On it?” Bell echoed. “Do you expectme to believe he survived amile-a-minutecrash?”“Yes,sir.‘Causehedid.”“Donny’sgotaheadlikeacannonball,”saidtheoldwoman.Bellpried thestory, step-by-step,outof the lumberjackand theoldwoman,
who turned out to be Don Albert’s mother. Albert had been sleeping off aninnocentdrunkonthegondolawhenheinterruptedthemanwhosetthegondolarolling.Themanhadbashedhimintheheadwithacrowbar.“Skulllikepigiron,”thelumberjackassuredBell,andDon’smotheragreed.
Tearfully,sheexplainedthateverytimeDonhadopenedhiseyesinthehospital,arailroaddickwouldshoutathim.“Donnywasafraidtotellthemaboutthemanwhobashedhim.”“Why?”Bellasked.“He reckoned theywouldn’t believe him, so he pretended to be hurtworse
than hewas. I toldCousin Johnhere.Andhe roundedup his friends to carryDonnyoffwhenthedoctorwaseatinghissupper.”Bellassuredherthathewouldmakesuretherailroadpolicedidn’tbotherher
son.“I’maVanDorninvestigator,ma‘am.They’reundermycommand.I’lltellthemtoleaveyoube.”Atlast,hepersuadedhertotakehimintotheshack.“Donny?There’samantoseeyou.”Bell sat on a crate beside the plank bed where the bandage-swathed Don
Albert was sleeping on a straw mattress. He was a big man, bigger than hiscousin,withalargemoonofaface,amustachelikehiscousin‘s,andenormous,work-splinteredhands.Hismotherrubbedthebackofhishandandhebegantostir.“Donny?There’samantoseeyou.”He regardedBell throughmurky eyes, which cleared up as they came into
focus.Whenhewasfullyawake,theywereanintensestonyblue,whichspokeof fierce intelligence.Bell’s interestquickened.Notonlywas themannot inastateofcoma,heseemedthesortwhomighthavemadeasharpobserver.Andhewas theonlymanBellknewofwhohadbeenwithin justa fewfeetof theWreckerandwasstillalive.“Howareyoufeeling?”Bellasked.“Headhurts.”“I’mnotsurprised.”DonAlbertlaughed,thenwincedatthepainitcausedhim.“Iunderstandafellowbashedyouone.”Albert nodded slowly. “With a crowbar, I believe. Least, that’s what it felt
like.Iron,notwood.Suredidn’tfeellikeanaxhandle.”
Bellnodded.DonAlbertspokeasamanwhohadbeensluggedbyatleastoneaxhandleinhislife,whichwouldnotbethatunusualforalumberjack.“Didyouhappentoseehisface?”Albertglancedathiscousinandthenhismother.Shesaid,“Mr.Bellsayshe’lltellthecinderdickstolayoff.”“He’sastraightshooter,”saidJohn.DonAlbertnodded,wincingagainasmovementresonatedthroughhishead.
“Yeah,Isawhisface.”“Itwasnight,”saidBell.“Starson thehillare likesearchlights. Ihadnocampfiredown thereon the
car,nothingtoblindmyeyes.Yeah,Icouldseehim.Also,Iwaslookingdownathim—Iwasupontopoftheties—andhelookedupintothestarlightwhenIspoke,soIseenhisfaceclear.”“Doyourememberwhathelookedlike?”“Surprisedashell.Plumbreadytojumpoutofhisskin.Hewasn’texpecting
company.”Thiswasalmosttoogoodtobetrue,thoughtBell,excitementrising.“Canyou
describehim?”“Clean-shavenfellow,nobeard,miner’scaponhishead.Hairwasprobably
black.Big ears. Sharp nose.Eyeswide-set.Couldn’t see their color. Itwasn’tthat bright.Narrow cheeks—Imean, a little sunken.Widemouth, sort of likeyours,exceptingthemustache.”Bell was not accustomed to witnesses itemizing specifics so readily.
Ordinarily, it took listening closely and askingmany subtle questions to elicitsuchdetail.Butthelumberjackhadthememoryofanewspaperreporter.Oranartist.WhichgaveBellanidea.“IfIcouldbringyouasketchartist,couldyoutellhimwhatyousawwhilehedrawsitonpaper?”“I’lldrawhimforyou.”“Begpardon?”“Donny’sagooddrawer,”saidhismother.Bell lookeddubiously atAlbert’s roughhands.His fingerswere as thick as
sausages and ribbed with calluses. But being an artist would explain thelumberjack’s recollection for detail. Again Bell thought,What an astonishingbreak.Toogoodtobetrue.“Getmepencilandpaper,”saidDonAlbert.“Iknowhowtodraw.”Bell gave him his pocket notebook and a pencil.With astonishingly quick,
deft strokes, the powerful hands sketched a handsome face with chiseledfeatures.Bellstudieditcarefully,hopessinking.Toogoodtobetrueindeed.Concealing his disappointment, he patted the injured giant lightly on the
shoulder.“Thankyou,partner.That’sabighelp.Nowdooneofme.”“You?”“Couldyoudrawmypicture?”Bellasked.Itwasasimpletestofthegiant’s
powersofobservation“Well,sure.”Againthethickfingersflew.Afewminuteslater,Bellhelditto
thelight.“It’salmostlikelookinginthemirror.Youreallydrawwhatyousee,don’tyou?”“Whythehellelsedoit?”“Thankyouverymuch,Donny.Youresteasy,now.”Hepressedseveralgold
pieces into the oldwoman’s hand, two hundred dollars, enough to carry themthroughthewinter,hurriedbacktowherehehadtiedhishorse,androdeuphilltotheconstructionyard.HefoundJosephVanDornpacingoutsideHennessy’srailcar,smokingacigar.“Well?”“Thelumberjackisanartist,”saidBell.“HesawtheWrecker.Hedrewmea
face.”HeopenedhisnotebookandshowedVanDornthefirstdrawing.“Doyourecognizethisman?”“Ofcourse.”growledVanDorn.“Don’tyou?”“BronchoBillyAnderson.”“Theactor.”“ThatpoordevilmusthaveseenhiminTheGreatTrainRobbery.”TheGreatTrainRobberywasagrippingmotionpictureofseveralyearsback.
Aftershootingupthetrain,theoutlawsmadetheirget-awayonthelocomotive,whichtheyuncoupledandrodetotheirhorseswaitinguptheline,pursuedbyaposse.TherewerefewpeopleinAmericawhohadnotseenitatleastonce.“IwillneverforgetthefirsttimeIsawthatmotionpicture,”saidVanDorn.“I
was in New York City in the Hammerstein’s Vaudeville at Forty-second andBroadway.Itwasthekindoftheaterwheretheyranapicturebetweentheacts.When thepicture started,weall gotup asusual towalkout for a smokeor adrink.Butthenafewturnedbacktolookatit,andthenslowlyeveryonetookhisseatagainasthepicturewenton.Mesmerizing...I’dseentheplaybackinthenineties.Butthepicturewasbetter.”“AsIrecall,”Bellsaid,“BronchoBillyplayedseveraldifferentparts.”“Iheardthathe’stravelingtheWestonhisowntrainnow,makingpictures.”“Yes,”saidBell.“BronchoBillyhasstarteduphisownpicturestudio.”“Don’tsupposethatleaveshimmuchtimetowreckrailroads,”VanDornsaid
drily.“Whichleavesusnowhere.”“Notquitenowhere,”saidBell.VanDornlookedincredulous.“Ourlumberjackrecallsafamousactorwhose
imageinamovingpicturestuckinwhat’sleftofhishead.”“Lookat this.I testedhimtoseehowaccurateheis.”HeshowedVanDorn
thesketchofhimself.“Sonofagun.That’sprettygood.Hedrewthis?”“WhileIwassittingthere.Hecanreallydrawfacesastheyare.”“Notentirely.He’sgotyourearsallwrong.Andhegaveyouacleft inyour
chinjustlikeBronchoBilly’s.Yoursisascar,notacleft.”“He’snotperfect,buthe’sprettyclose.Besides,Marionsays it looks likea
cleft.”“Marion is prejudiced, you lucky devil. The point is, our lumberjack could
haveseenanyoneofBronchoBilly’spictures.Orhemighthaveseenhimonthestagesomewhere.”“But,eitherway,weknowwhattheWreckerlookslike.”“AreyousuggestingthatheactuallylookslikeBronchoBilly’stwin?”“More like a cousin.” Detail by detail, Bell pointed out the features of the
lumberjack’s sketch. “Not his twin. But if the Wrecker’s face jogged thelumberjack’smemoryofBronchoBilly,thenwearelookingforamanwhohasasimilarbroadhighbrow,acleftchin,apenetratinggaze,anintelligentfacewithstrongfeatures,andbigears.NotBronchoBilly’stwin,exactly.ButIwouldsaythattheWreckerlooksmoreingenerallikeamatineeidol.”VanDornpuffedangrilyonhiscigar.“AmItoinstructmydetectivesnotto
arrestuglymugs?”IsaacBellpushedback,demandinghisbossseethepossibilities.Themorehe
thoughtaboutit,themorehefelttheywereontosomething.“Howolddoyousupposethisfellowis?”VanDornscowledatthedrawing.“Anywherefromhislatetwentiestoearly
forties.”“Wearelookingforahandsomemansomewhereinhislatetwenties,thirties,
orearlyforties.We’llprintcopiesofthis.Takeitaround,showittothehobos.Show it to stationmasters and ticket clerkswherever hemight have fled on atrain.Anyonewhomighthaveseenhim.”“So far that’s no one. No one alive anyway. Except for yourMichelangelo
lumberjack.”Bellsaid,“I’mstillbettingonthemachinistortheblacksmithwhodrilledthat
holeintheGlendalehook.”“Sanders’s boys might hit it lucky,” Van Dorn agreed. “It’s been in the
newspapersenough,and,Godknows,I’vemadeitcleartohimthathissoftberthinLosAngelesisatriskofatransfertoMissoula,Montana.Failingthat,maybesomeonewillseetheWreckernexttimeandsurvivetheexperience.Andwedo
knowtherewillbeanexttime.”“Therewillbeanexttime,”Bellagreedgrimly.“Unlesswestophimfirst.”
12
THEHOBOJUNGLEOUTSIDEOGDENFILLEDATHINLYWOODEDspotbetweentherailroadtracksandastreamthatprovidedcleanwaterfordrinkingandwashing. It was one of the largest jungles in the country—nine rail linesconverging in one place offered a steady flowof freight trains steaming nightand day in every direction—and growing larger every day. As the Panic putfactoriesoutofbusiness,moreandmoremenrodetherailstofindwork.Theirhatsmarkedthemasnewcomers.Citymen’sderbiesoutnumberedminers’capsand range riders’ J.B.s thesedays.Therewas even a sprinklingof trilbies andhomburgswornbyformermenofmeanswhohadneverdreamedtheywouldbedown-and-out.Athousandhoboswerehurryingtofinishcleanupbeforedark.Theyscrubbed
laundryandcookpotsincansofboilingwater,hunglaunderedclothesonropesandtreelimbsandsetpotsupsidedownonrockstodry.Whennightfell, theykickeddirtontheirfiresandsatbacktoeatmeagermealsinthedark.Campfireswouldhavebeenwelcomed.NorthernUtahwascoldinNovember,
andsnowflurrieshadblownrepeatedlyoverthecamp.Fivethousandfeetabovesea level, it was exposed to westerly gales off nearby Great Salt Lake andeasterly gusts tumbling down from the Wasatch Mountains. But the railroadbulls from theOgden yards had raided the junglewith pistols and billy clubsthreenightsinarowtoconvincetheburgeoningpopulationtomoveon.Noonewanted thembackfor thefourth,so itwasnonight forcampfires.Theyate insilence,worryingaboutthebullsandfearingwinter.A hobo jungle, like any town or city, had neighborhoodswhose boundaries
were clear in the residents’minds. Some areaswere friendly, some safer thanothers.Downstream,farthestfromthetracks,wherethecreekveeredtojointheWeberRiver,wasa sectionbestvisitedarmed.There, the rulesof liveand letlivegavewaytotakeorbetaken.TheWreckerheadedtherefearlessly.Hewasathomeinoutlawland.Yeteven
heloosenedtheknifeinhisbootandmovedhispistolfromadeeppocketofhiscanvas coat to his waistband, where he could draw it quickly. Despite the
absenceofcampfires,itwasnotentirelydark.Thetrainshuffingconstantlybypierced the night with their headlights, and the thin snow cover reflected thegoldenglow from thewindowsofpassenger cars.A stringofbrightPullmansstarted past, slowing for the nearby town, and by its light theWrecker saw ahunchedshadowshiveringbesideatree,bothhandsinpockets.“Sharpton,”hecalled inaharshvoice,andSharptonanswered,“Righthere,
mister.”“PutyourhandswhereIcanseethem,”commandedtheWrecker.Sharptonobeyed,partlybecause theWreckerwaspayingmoney for service
and partly out of fear. A bank and train robber who had served time in thepenitentiary,PeteSharptonknewadangeroushombrewhenhemetone.Hehadnever seen his face. They had only met once before, when theWrecker hadtracked Sharpton down and braced him in the alley behind the livery stablewhereherentedaroom.Buthehadbeenonthewrongsideofthelawhisentirelifeandknewtheydidnotcomemoredeadlythanthisone.“Didyoufindyourman?”theWreckerasked.“He’lldothejobforathousanddollars,”Sharptonanswered.“Givehimfivehundreddown.Makehimcomebackforthesecondhalfafter
hehasdonethejob.”“What’s to keep him from running off with the first five hundred? Found
money,norisk.”“Whatwillpreventhimwillbehisclearunderstandingthatyouwillhunthim
downandkillhim.Canyoumakethatcleartohim?”Sharptonchuckledinthedark.“Ohyes.Besides,he’snotthattoughanymore.
He’lldoashe’stold.”“Takethis,”saidtheWrecker.Sharptonfeltthepackagewithhisfingers.“Thisisn’tmoney.”“You’llhavethemoneyinaminute.ThisisthefuseIwanthimtouse.”“Youmindmeaskingwhy?”“Not at all,” theWrecker said easily. “This looks exactly like a fast fuse. It
wouldfoolevenanexperiencedsafecracker.DoIassumecorrectlythatyoursisexperienced?”“Blowingsafesandexpresscarshiswholelife.”“AsIaskedfor.Despiteitsappearance,thisisactuallyaslowfuse.Whenhe
lightsit,itwilltakelongertodetonatethedynamitethanhe’scalculated.”“If it takes too long, it will blow up the train instead of just blocking the
tracks.”“Doesthatposedifficultiesforyou,Sharpton?”“I’mjustsayingwhat’llhappen,”Sharptonsaidhastily.“Ifyouwanttoblow
upthetraininsteadofjustrobit,wellIguessthat’snoneofmybusiness.You’repayingthebill.”TheWreckerpresseda secondpackage intoSharpton’shand.“Here is three
thousand dollars. Two thousand for you, a thousand for your man. You can’tcountitinthedark.You’llhavetotrustme.”
13
THELUMBERJACK’SDRAWINGOFTHEWRECKERPAIDOFF IN fivedays.Asharp-eyedSouthernPacific ticketclerk inSacramento recalledsellingan
Ogden, Utah, ticket to a man who looked like the man that Don Albert haddrawn.Eventhoughhiscustomerhadabeard,andhishairwasalmostasblondasIsaacBell‘s,therewassomethingsimilarintheface,theclerkinsisted.Bellinterviewedhimpersonallytoascertainthattheclerkwasnotanotherfan
ofTheGreatTrainRobbery, andwas impressedenough toorderoperatives tocanvassthetraincrewsontheOgdenflyer.TheyhitpaydirtinReno,Nevada.Oneoftheflyer’sconductors,aresidentof
Reno, recalled thepassenger tooandagreed itcouldhavebeen theman in thedrawing,thoughhepointedoutthedifferenceinhaircolor.BellracedtoNevada,ranhimdownathishome,andaskedcasually,asifonly
making conversation, whether the conductor had seen the The Great TrainRobbery.Heplannedto,theconductoranswered,thenexttimeitshowedatthevaudevillehouse.Hismissushadbeenpesteringhimtotakeherforayear.FromReno,BellcaughtanovernightexpresstoOgden,andhaddinnerasthe
trainclimbedthroughtheTrinityMountains.HesenttelegramswhenitstoppedatLovelockandreceivedseveralreplieswhenitstoppedatImlay,andhefinallyfell asleep in a comfortable Pullman as it steamed across Nevada. The wiresawaitinghimatMontello,justbeforetheycrossedtheUtahborder,hadnothingnewtoreport.Nearing Ogden, midday, the train sped across Great Salt Lake on the long
redwoodtrestlesoftheLucinCutoff.OsgoodHennessyhadspenteightmilliondollarsandclear-cutmilesofOregonforesttobuildthenew,levelroutebetweenLucin andOgden. It shortened theSacramento—Ogden trip by twohours anddismayedCommodoreVanderbilt and J. P.Morgan, his rivals on the southernandnorthernroutes.AtthepointwhereBellwassoclosetotherail-junctioncitythathecouldsee thesnowcappedpeaksof theWasatchMountains toOgden’seast,histraingroundtoahalt.
Thetrackswereblockedsixmilesahead,theconductortoldhim.AnexplosionhadderailedthewestboundSacramentoLimited.
BELLJUMPEDTOTHEgroundand ran alongside the train to the front end.The engineer and fireman had dismounted from their locomotive and werestanding on the ballast, rolling cigarettes. Bell showed them his Van Dornidentification,andordered,“Getmeasclosetothewreckasyoucan.”“Sorry,Mr.Detective,Itakemyordersfromthedispatcher.”Bell’sderringerappearedinhishandsuddenly.Twodarkmuzzlesyawnedat
theengineer.“Thisisamatteroflifeanddeath,startingwithyours,”saidBell.Hepointedat thecowcatcheron the frontof the locomotive, and said, “Movethistraintothewreckanddon’tstopuntilyouhitdebris!”“Youwouldn’tshootamanincoldblood,”saidthefireman.“Thehellhewouldn‘t,”saidtheengineer,shiftinghisgazenervouslyfromthe
derringertotheexpressiononIsaacBell’sface.“Getupthereandshovelcoal.”Thelocomotive,abig4-6-2,steamedsixmilesbeforeabrakemanwithared
flagstoppedthemwherethetracksdisappearedinalargeholeintheballast.Justbeyond the hole, sixPullmans, a baggage car, and a tender lay on their sides.Bell dismounted from the locomotive and strode through thewreckage. “Howmany hurt?” he asked the railroad officialwhowas pointed out to him as thewreckmaster.“Thirty-five.Fourseriously.”“Dead?”“None. They were lucky. The bastard blew the rail a minute early. The
engineerhadtimetoreducehisspeed.”“Strange,”saidBell.“Hisattackshavealwaysbeensopreciselytimed.”“Well,this’llbehislast.Wegothim.”“What?Whereishe?”“SheriffcaughthiminOgden.Luckyforhim.Passengerstriedtolynchhim.
Hegotaway,butthenoneofthemspottedhimlater,hidinginastable.”BellfoundalocomotiveontheothersideofthewrecktorunhimintoUnion
Depot.ThejailhousewassituatedinOgden’smansard-roofedCityHallablockfrom
therailroadstation.TwotopVanDornagentswerethereaheadofhim,theolderWeber-and-FieldsduoofMackFultonandWallyKisley.Neitherwascrackingjokes.Infact,bothmenlookedglum.“Whereishe?”Belldemanded.“It’snothim,” saidFultonwearily.He seemedexhausted,Bell thought, and
forthefirsttimehewonderedifMackshouldbeconsideringretirement.Alwayslean,hisfacewasshrunkenasacadaver’s.“Notwhoblewthetrain?”“Oh, he blew the train all right,” said Kisley, whose trademark three-piece
checkerboardsuitwascakedwithdust.WallylookedastiredasMackbutnotill.“Onlyhe’snottheWrecker.Goahead,youtakeacrackathim.”“You’ll have a better chance of getting him to talk. He sure as hell won’t
admitawordtous.”“Whywouldhetalktome?”“Oldfriendofyours,”Fultonexplainedcryptically.HeandKisleywereboth
twentyyearsolderthanBell,celebratedveteransandfriends,whowerefreetosaywhateverpopped in theirheadseven thoughBellwasbossof theWreckerinvestigation.“I’dknockitoutofhim,”saidthesheriff.“Butyourboyssaidtowaitforyou,
andtherailroadcompanytellsmeVanDorncallsthetune.Damnedfoolishness,inmyopinion.Butnoone’saskingmyopinion.”Bell strode into the roomwhere they had the prisonermanacled to a table
affixedsolidly to thestone floor.An“old friend,” tobesure, theprisonerwasJakeDunn,a safecracker.On theendof the tablewasaneat,banded stackofcrisp five-dollar bills, five hundred dollars’ worth, according to the sheriff,clearlypaymentforservicesrendered.Bell’sfirstgrimthoughtwasthatnowtheWrecker was hiring accomplices to do his murderous work for him. Whichmeanshecouldstrikeanywhereandbelonggonebeforethestrikehappened.“Jake,whatinblazeshaveyougottenmixedupinthistime?”“Hello,Mr.Bell.Haven’tseenyousinceyousentmetoSanQuentin.”Bell satquietly and lookedhimover.SanQuentinhadnotbeenkind to the
safecracker.Helookedtwentyyearsolder,ahollowshellofthehardcasehehadbeen.Hishandswereshakingsohard itwasdifficult to imaginehimsettingachargewithoutdetonatingitaccidentally.Relievedatfirsttoseeafamiliarface,DunnshrivelednowunderBell’sgaze.“BlowingWells Fargo safes is robbery, Jake.Wrecking passenger trains is
murder.Themanwho paid you thatmoney has killed innocent people by thedozen.”“Ididn’tknowwewerewreckingthetrain.”“Youdidn’tknowthatblowingtherailsoutfromunderaspeedingtrainwould
causeawreck?”Bellsaidindisbelief,hisfacedarkwithdisgust.“Whatdidyouthinkwouldhappen?”Theprisonerhunghishead.“Jake!Whatdidyouthinkwouldhappen?”
“Yougottabelieveme,Mr.Bell.Hetoldmetoblowtherailsothetrainwouldstopsotheycouldhittheexpresscar.Ididn’tknowhewasgonnaputherontheground.”“Whatdoyoumean?You’retheonewholitthefuse.”“He switched fuses onme. I thought I was lighting a fast fuse that would
detonate the charge in time for the train to stop. Instead, it burned slow. Icouldn’tbelievemyeyes,Mr.Bell.Itwasburningsoslowthetrainwasgoingtorunrightoverthecharge.Itriedtostopit.”Bellstaredathimcoldly.“That’showtheycaughtme,Mr.Bell.Iranafterit,tryingtostompitout.Too
late.Theysawme,andaftershehitthegroundtheylitoutaftermelikeIwastheguywhoshotMcKinley.”“Jake,you’vegotthehangman’sropearoundyourneckandonewaytogetit
loose.Takemetothemanwhopaidyouthismoney.”JakeDunnshookhisheadviolently.Helooked,Bellthought,franticasawolf
withalegcaughtinatrap.Butno,notawolf.Therewasnorawpowerinhim,nonobility.Truthbe told,Dunn looked like amongreldog thathad fallen forbaitleftforbiggergame.“Whereishe,Jake?”“Idon’tknow.”“Whyareyoulyingtome,Jake?”“Ididn’tkillnobody.”“Youwreckedatrain,Jake.You’redamnedluckyyoudidn’tkillanybody.If
theydon’thangyou,they’llputyouinthepenitentiaryfortherestofyourlife.”“Ididn’tkillnobody.”Bellchangedtacticsabruptly.“How’dyouhappentogetoutofprisonsosoon,Jake?Whatdidyouserve,
threeyears?Why’dtheyletyougo?”JakeregardedBellwitheyesthatweresuddenlywideopenandguileless.“I
gotthecancer.”Bellwastakenaback.Hehadnotruckwithlawbreakers,butakillingdisease
reducedacriminaltojustanordinaryman.JakeDunnwasnoinnocent,buthewasquite suddenlyavictimwhowouldsufferpainand fearanddespair. “I’msorry,Jake.Ididn’trealize.”“Iguesstheyfiguredtosetmeloosetodieonmyown.Ineededthemoney.
That’showItookthisjob.”“Jake,youwerealwaysacraftsman,neverakiller.Whyareyoucoveringfor
akiller?”Bellpressed.Jake answered in a hoarse whisper. “He’s in the livery stable on Twenty-
fourth,acrossthetracks.”Bell snappedhis fingers.WallyKisley andMackFulton rushed to his side.
“Twenty-fourthStreet,” saidBell. “Liverystable.Cover it, station the sheriff’sdeputiesontheouterperimeter,andwaitforme.”Jakelookedup.“He’snotgoinganywhere,Mr.Bell.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“WhenIwentbacktogetmysecondhalfofthemoney,Ifoundhimupstairs,
inoneoftheroomstheyrentout.”“Foundhim?Whatdoyoumean,dead?”“Slithisthroat.Iwasafraidtotell—they’dpinthatonme,too.”“Slithisthroat?”Belldemanded.“Orstabbed?”Jakeranahandthroughhisthinninghair.“Stabbed,Iguess.”“Didyouseeaknife?”“No.”“Washerunthrough?Didthewoundexitthebackofhisneck?”“I didn’t stick around to examine him close,Mr. Bell. Like I said, I knew
they’dblameme.”“Get over there,” Bell told Kisley and Fulton. “Sheriff, would you send a
doctor?Seeifhecanreckonwhatkilledhimandhowlonghe’sbeendead.”“Wherewillyoube,Isaac?”Anotherdeadend,thoughtBell.TheWreckerwasn’tjustlucky,hemadehis
own luck. “Railroad station,” he answeredwithout a lot of hope. “See if anyticketclerksrecallsellinghimaticketoutofhere.”He tookcopiesof the lumberjack’sdrawing toUnionDepot, amultigabled,
two-storybuildingwithatallclocktower,andqueriedtheclerks.Then,driveninaFordbyarailwaypoliceofficialthroughtree-linedneighborhoodsofcottageswithjigsawwoodwork,hevisitedthehomesofclerksandsupervisorswhowereoffworkthatday.Bellshowedthedrawingtoeachman,andwhenthemandidnotrecognizetheface,Bellshowedhimanalteredversionwithabeard.Noonerecognizedeitherface.HowdidtheWreckergetoutofOgden?Bellwondered.The answer was easy. The city was served by nine different railroads.
Hundreds,ifnotthousands,ofpassengerspassedthroughiteveryday.Bynow,theWrecker had to know that theVanDornAgencywas huntinghim.Whichmeanthewouldchoosehistargetsmorecarefullywhenitcametopreparinghisescapes.BellenlistedVanDornagentsfromtheOgdenofficetocanvasshotels,onthe
oddchancethattheWreckerhadstayedinthejunctioncity.Nofront-deskclerkrecognizedeitherdrawing.AttheBroom,anexpensive,three-storybrickhotel,
theproprietorof thecigarstore thoughthemighthaveservedacustomerwholooked like the picture with the beard. A waitress in the ice-cream parlorrememberedamanwho looked like theclean-shavenversion.Hehadstuck inhermindbecausehewassohandsome.Butshehadseenhimonlyonce,andthatwasthreedaysago.Kisley and Fulton caught upwithBell in the spartanVanDorn office, one
large room on the wrong side of Twenty-fifth Street, which was a wideboulevarddividedbyelectric-streetcartracks.Thesideofthestreet thatservedthe legitimate needs of railroad passengers using the station was lined withrestaurants, tailors, barbers, soda fountains, ice-cream parlors, and a Chineselaundry, each shaded by a colorful awning. Van Dorn’s side housed saloons,roominghouses,gamblingcasinos,andhotelsfrontingforbrothels.Theofficehadabarefloor,ancientfurniture,andasinglewindow.Decoration
consistedofwantedposters,thenewestbeingthetwofreshlyprintedversionsofthelumberjack’sdrawingoftheWrecker,withandwithoutthebeard,notedbythesharp-eyedSouthernPacificticketclerkinSacramento.Kisley and Fulton had regained their spirits, though Fulton appeared
exhausted.“Clearly,”Wallyremarked,“thebossdoesn’twastemoneyonofficespacein
Ogden.”“Or furnishings,” Mack added. “That desk looks like it arrived by wagon
train.”“Perhapsit’stheneighborhoodthatappeals,locatedwithinspittingdistanceof
UnionDepot.”“Andspittingtheyare,onoursidewalk.”ContinuinginWeber-and-Fieldsmode,theywenttothewindowandpointed
downatthecrowdedsidewalk.“PerceiveMr.VanDorn’sgenius.Theviewfromthiswindowcanbeusedtoinstructapprenticedetectivesinthenatureofcrimeinallitsvarieties.”“Comehere,youngIsaac,gazedownuponourneighboringsaloons,brothels,
and opium dens. Observe potential customers down on their luck earning theprice of a drink or a woman by panhandling. Or, failing to kindle charity,stickingupcitizensinthatalley.”“Note there, a mustachioed fop luring the gullible with shell games on a
foldingtable.”“Andlookatthoseout-of-workhard-rockminersdressedinrags,pretending
to sleep on the pavement outside that saloonwhile actually laying inwait fordrunkstoroll.”“Howlongwasthemandead?”Bellasked.
“Betterpartofaday,Docthinks.Youwererightaboutthestabbing.Anarrowbladestraightthroughhisneck.JustlikeWishandtheGlendaleyardbull.”“SoiftheWreckerkilledhim,hecouldnothaveleftOgdenbeforelastnight.
Butnoonesawhimbuyaticket.”“Plentyoffreightsinandout,”venturedWally.“Heiscoveringmightylongdistancesinashorttimetorelyonstealingrides
onfreights,”saidMack.“Probablyusingboth,dependingonhissituation,”saidWally.Bellasked,“Whowasthemurderedman?”“Localowlhoot,according to thesheriff.Sortofa real-lifeBronchoBilly—
ourchiefsuspect ...Sorry, Isaac,couldn’t resist.”Fultonnoddedat thewantedposter.“KeepitupandIwon’tresistaskingMr.VanDorntopostWeberandFields
toAlaska.”“...SuspectedofknockingoverastagecoachupinthemountainslastAugust.
The cinder dicks caught him robbing a copper-mine payroll off the Utah andNortherntenyearsago.Turnedinhispartnersforalightersentence.LookslikeheknewJakeDunnfromprison.”Bellshookhisheadindisgust.“TheWreckerisnotonlyhiringhandstohelp
buthiringcriminalstohirehelp.Hecanhitanywhereonthecontinent.”There was a tentative knock at the door. The detectives looked up, gazes
narrowingatthesightofanervous-lookingyouthinawrinkledsacksuit.Hehadacheapsuitcaseinonehandandhishatintheother.“Mr.Bell,sir?”IsaacBellrecognizedyoungJamesDashwoodfromtheSanFranciscooffice,
the apprentice detective who had done such a thorough job establishing theinnocenceoftheunionmankilledintheCoastLineLimitedwreck.“Come on in, James. Meet Weber and Fields, the oldest detectives in
America.”“Hello,Mr.Weber.Hello,Mr.Fields.”“I’mWeber,”saidMack.“He’sFields.”“Sorry,sir.”Bellasked,“Whatareyoudoinghere,James?”“Mr.Bronsonsentmewiththis,sir.Hetoldmetorideexpressestobeatthe
mail.”The apprentice handed Bell a brown paper envelope. Inside was a second
envelopeaddressed tohim inpenciledblock letters, careof theSanFranciscooffice.Bronsonhadclippedanote to it: “Opened this rather thanwait.Glad Idid.Lookslikehemadeyou.”Bell opened the envelope addressed to him. From it, hewithdrew the front
coverofarecentHarper’sWeeklymagazine.AcartoonbyWilliamAllenRogersdepicted Osgood Hennessy in a tycoon’s silk top hat astride a locomotivemarked SOUTHERN PACIFIC RAILROAD. Hennessy was pulling a trainlabeledCENTRALRAILROADOFNEW JERSEY intoNewYorkCity. Thetrainwasdrawn to look like awrithingoctopus.Hand-lettered inblackpencilacross the cartoon was the question CAN THE LONG ARM OF THEWRECKERREACHFARTHERTHANOSGOOD’STENTACLE?“Whattheheckisthat?”askedWally.“Agauntlet,”answeredBell.“He’schallengingus.”“Andrubbingournosesinit,”saidMack.“Mack’s right,” said Wally. “I wouldn’t cloud my head taking it personal,
Isaac.”“Themagazineisinthere,too,”saidDashwood.“Mr.Bronsonthoughtyou’d
wanttoreadit,Mr.Bell.”Seething inwardly, Bell quickly scanned the essence of the first page.
Harper‘s, dubbing itself “A Journal of Civilization,”was reporting avidly thedepredationsoftherailroadmonopolies.ThisissuedevotedanarticletoOsgoodHennessy’s ambitions. Hennessy, it seemed, had secretly acquired a “near-dominatinginterest”intheBaltimore&OhioRailroad.TheB&Oalreadyheld,jointly with the Illinois Central—in which Hennessy had a large interest—adominating interest in theReadingRailroadCompany.TheReadingcontrolledtheCentralRailroadofNewJersey,whichgaveHennessyentryintothecovetedNewYorkdistrict.“Whatdoesitmean?”askedJames.“It means,” explained a grim Isaac Bell, “that the Wrecker can attack
Hennessy’sinterestsdirectlyinNewYorkCity.”“Any trainwreck he causes inNewYork,” saidMack Fulton, “will hit the
SouthernPacificevenharderthananattackinCalifornia.”“NewYork,”saidWallyKisley,“beingthebiggestcityinthecountry.”Belllookedathiswatch.“I’vegottimetocatchtheOverlandLimited.Send
mybagsaftermetotheYaleClubofNewYorkCity.”Heheadedforthedoor,firingorders.“WireArchieAbbott!Tellhimtomeet
me in NewYork. And wire Irv Arlen and tell him to cover the rail yards inJerseyCity.AndEddieEdwards, too.Heknows thoseyards.Hebrokeup theLavaBedgangthatwasdoingexpress-carjobsonthepiers.Youtwofinishuphere,makesurehe’snotstillinOgden—whichIdoubt—andfindwhichwayhewent.”“New York is, according to this,” Wally said, holding up the Harp- er’s
Weekly andquoting from thearticle, “ ‘theHolyLand towhichall railroaders
longtomakeapilgrimage.’”“Whichmeans,”saidhispartner,“he’sonhiswayalreadyandwillbewaiting
foryouwhenyougetthere.”Halfway out the door, Bell looked back at Dashwood, who was watching
eagerly.“James,dosomethingforme.”“Yes,sir.”“You’vereadthereportsonthewreckoftheCoastLineLimited?”“Yes,sir.”“TellMr.Bronson I’m sending you toLosAngeles. Iwant you to find the
blacksmithormachinistwhodrilledaholeinthathookthatderailedtheLimited.Canyoudothatforme—what’sthematter?”“ButMr.SandersisinchargeofLosAngeles,andhemight—”“StayoutofSanders’sway.You’reonyourown.Catch thenext flyerwest.
Onthejump!”DashwoodranpastBellandthundereddownthewoodenstairslikeaboylet
outofschool.“What’sakidgoingdoonhisown?”askedWally.“He’sacrackerjack,”saidBell.“Andhecan’tdoworsethanSandershasso
far,O.K.I’monmyway.Mack,getsomerest.Youlookbeat.”“You’d lookbeat too if you’dbeen sleeping sittingupon trains for the last
week.”“Letmeremindyougeezerstowatchyourstep.TheWreckerispoison.”“Thankyouforyourwiseadvice,sonny,”answeredWally.“We’lltryrealhardtorememberit,”saidMack.“But,likeIsaid,evenmoney
he’salreadyonhiswaytoNewYork.”Wally Kisley went to the window and watched Isaac Bell run to catch the
OverlandLimited.“Oh,this’llbefun.Ourhard-rockminersranoutofdrunks.”Hemotioned forMack to joinhimat thewindow.Springing suddenly from
thesidewalk,thehard-rockminersswoopedfrombothsidestoambushthewell-groomed dude running for his train in an expensive suit. Neither stopping orevenslowing,Bellcutthroughthemlikeaone-manflyingwedgeandtheminersreturnedtothesidewalkfacedown.“Didyouseethat?”Kisleyasked.“Nope.Andneitherdidthey.”Theystayedatthewindow,observingcloselythecitizensswarmingaboutthe
sidewalk.“ThatkidDashwood?”Fultonasked.“Remindyouofanybody?”
“Who?Isaac?”“No.Fifteen—whatamIsaying?—twentyyearsago, Isaacwasstillchasing
lacrosseballsatthatfancyprepschoolhisoldmansenthimto.Youandme,wewasinChicago.Youwereinvestigatingcertainpartiesengineeringthecorneringrain.IwasuptomyearsintheHaymarketbombing,whenwefiguredoutthecops didmost of the killing.Remember, this slumkid showedup looking forwork?Mr.VanDorntookashinetohim,hadyouandmeshowhimtheropes.Hewasanatural.Sharp,quick,icewaterinhisveins.”“Sonofagun,”saidMack.“WishClarke.”“Let’shopeDashwoodteetotals.”“Look!”Mackleanedclosetotheglass.“Iseehim!”saidWally.Herippedthelumberjack’sdrawingoffthewall,the
picturewiththebeardadded,andbroughtittothewindow.Atall,beardedworkmandressedinoverallsandderbywhohadbeenstriding
towardtherailroadstationcarryingalargetoolsackoverhisshoulderhadbeenforced onto stop in front of a saloon to allow two bartenders to throw fourdrunks to the sidewalk. Hemmed in by the cheering crowd, the tall manwasglancingaroundimpatiently,raisinghisfaceoutoftheshadowofhisderby.Thedetectiveslookedatthedrawing.“Isthathim?”“Couldbe.Butitlookslikehe’shadthatbeardawhile.”“Unlessit’srented.”“If it is, it’s a good one,” saidMack. “I don’t like the ears either. They’re
nowherenearthisbig.”“Ifit’snothim,”Wallyinsisted,“itcouldbehisbrother.”“Whydon’tweaskhimifhehasabrother?”
14
“I’MFIRST,YOUWATCH.”WallyKisleyranforthestairs.The tallworkmanwith the sack slungoverhis shoulder shoved through the
crowd,steppedoveronedrunkandaroundanother,andresumedhisquickpacetowardUnionDepot.Fromthewindow,MackFulton traced thepathhedroverelentlesslythroughthepedestrianswhowerehurryingtoandfromthestation.Wally bounded down the stairs and out the building. When he got to the
sidewalk,helookedup.Mackpointedhimintherightdirection.Wallysprintedahead.Aquickwavesaidhefoundtheirquarry,andMacktoredownthestairsafterhim,hisheartpounding.He’dbeenfeelinglousyfordays,andnowhewashavingtroublesnatchingabreath.HecaughtupwithWally,whosaid,“You’rewhiteasasheet.YouO.K.?”“Tip-top.Where’dhego?”“Downthatalley.Ithinkhesawme.”“Ifhedidandheran,he’sourman.Comeon!”Mack led the way, sucking air. The alley was muddy underfoot and stank.
InsteadofcuttingthroughtoTwenty-fourthStreet,asthedetectivesassumeditwould,ithookedleftwherethewaywasblockedbyasteel-shutteredwarehouse.Therewerebarrelsinfrontbigenoughtohidebehind.“Wegothimtrapped,”saidWally.Mackgasped.Wallylookedathim.Hisfacewasrigidwithpain.Hedoubled
over, clutching his chest, and fell hard in the mud. Wally knelt beside him.“Jesus,Mack!”Mack’sfacewasdeathlypale,hiseyeswide.Heraisedhishead,staringover
Wally’sshoulder.“Behindyou!”hemuttered.Wallywhirledtowardtherushoffootfalls.Themantheyhadbeenchasing,themanwholookedlikethesketch,theman
whowasdefinitelytheWrecker,wasrunningstraightathimwithaknife.Wallyshieldedhisoldfriend’sbodywithhisown,andsmoothlywhippedagunfromunder his checkerboard coat. He cocked the single-action revolver with a
practicedthumbonthegnarledhammerandbroughtthebarrel tobear.Coolly,heaimedsoastosmashthebonesintheWrecker’sshoulderratherthankillhimsotheycouldquestionthesaboteuraboutfutureattacksalreadysetinmotion.BeforeWallycould fire,heheardametallicclick,andwasstunned toseea
glint of light on steel as the knife blade suddenly jumped at his face. TheWreckerwasstillfivefeetfromhim,butthetipwasalreadyenteringhiseye.He’smadea sword that telescopesoutof a ,rpring-loadedknife,wasWally
Kisley’s last thought as theWrecker’s blade plunged through his brain.And IthoughtIhadseenitall.
THEWRECKERJERKEDHisbladeoutofthedetective’sskullandrammeditthroughtheneckofhisfallenpartner.Themanlookedlikehewasdeadalready,butthiswasnotimetotakechances.Hewithdrewthebladeandglancedaroundcoldly.Whenhesawthatnoonehadfollowed thedetectives into thealley,hewipedthebladeonthecheckerboardcoat,clickedthereleasetoshortenit,andreturnedittothesheathinhisboot.Ithadbeenaclosecall, thesortofneardisasteryoucouldn’tplanfor,other
than tobealwaysprimed tobe fastanddeadly,andhewasexhilaratedbyhisescape.Keepmoving!.hethought.TheOverlandLimitedwouldnotwaitwhilehecelebrated.Hehurriedfromthealley,pushedthroughthemobon thesidewalk,andcut
acrossTwenty-fifthStreet.Dartinginfrontofanelectrictrolley,heturnedrightonWall Street, andwalked for a block parallel to the longUnionDepot trainstation.Whenhewassurehewasnotfollowed,hecrossedWallandenteredthestationbyadooratthenorthend.He found themen’s room and locked himself in a stall. Racing against the
clock,hestrippedofftheoverallsthathadconcealedhiseleganttravelingclothesand took an expensive leatherGladstone bagwith brass fittings from his toolsack.Heremovedpolishedblack laceddressboots fromtheGladstone,agrayHomburg from itsownprotectivehatbox,andaderringerandpacked in it theroughboots that heldhis sword.He lacedup thedress boots anddropped thederringer intohiscoatpocket.Heremovedhisbeard,whichhealsoput in theGladstone, and rubbed traces of spirit gum off his skin. Then he stuffed theoverallsinthesackandshovedthesackbehindthetoilet.Therewasnothingintheoverallsorthesackthatcouldbetracedtohim.Hecheckedthetimeonhisrailroad watch and waited exactly twominutes, rubbing his boots against thebackofhis trouser legs topolish themandrunningan ivorycombthroughhishair.
Hesteppedoutofthestall.Heinspectedhimselfcarefullyinthemirroroverthe sink. He flicked a speck of spirit gum off his chin and placed his grayHomburgonhishead.Smiling, he sauntered from the men’s room and across the bustling lobby,
whichwas suddenly swarmingwith railroad detectives.With only seconds tospare, he brushed past station attendants who were closing the gates to thesmokytrainplatforms.AlocomotiveshriekedthedoubleAheadsignal,andtheOverlandLimited, a luxury flyermadeupofeight first-classPullmans,diningcar,andanobservation-loungecar,begantorolleastforCheyenne,Omaha,andChicago.TheWrecker strodealongside the last car, theobservation-lounge,matching
itspace,hiseyeseverywhere.Farahead,justbehindthebaggagecar,hesawamanleaningfromthestepsof
thefirstPullman,holdingontoahandrailsohecouldswingouttogetaclearlookatwhoeverwascatchingtheLimitedatthelastminute.ItwassixhundredfeetfromtheretowheretheWreckerwasreachingforahandrailtopullhimselfaboard the last car of themoving train, but therewas nomistaking the sharpsilhouetteofahunter.Theheadofthetrainmovedoutoftheshadowcastbythestation,andhesaw
thatthemanleaningouttowatchtheplatformhadafullheadofflaxenhairthatgleamed like gold in the light of the setting sun. Which meant, as he hadsuspected,thatthehunterwasnoneotherthanDetectiveIsaacBell.Without hesitation, the Wrecker gripped the handrail and stepped onto the
train’sendplatform.Fromthisopenvestibule,heenteredtheobservation-loungecar. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the smoke and noise, andluxuriatedinthepeaceandquietofafirst-classtranscontinentalflyerdecoratedwithheavymoldings,polished-woodpanels,mirrors,anda thickcarpeton thefloor.Stewardswere carryingdrinkson silver trays topassengers loungingoncomfortablecouches.Thosewho lookedupfromnewspapersandconversationacknowledged the well-dressed late arrival with the sociable nods of brotherclubmen.Theconductorbrokethemood.Flintyofeye,hardofmouth,andimpeccably
uniformed, from his gleaming visor to his gleaming shoes, hewas imperious,brusque, and suspicious like conductors everywhere. “Tickets, gents! Ogdentickets.”TheWreckerflourishedhisrailwaypass.Theconductor’seyeswidenedatthenameonthepass,andhegreetedhisnew
passengerwithgreatdeference.“Welcomeaboard,sir.”
15
OCTOBER14,1907EASTBOUNDONTHEOVERLANDLIMITED
“TAKEMETOMYSTATEROOMIMMEDIATELY!”IsaacBellwouldberacingtothebackofthetraintoseewhohadboardedlast
minute,andtheWreckerintendedtoconfrontthedetectiveatatimeofhisownchoosing.The conductor, obsequious as a palace courtier serving a prince robed in
ermine,ledtheWreckerdownawindowaisletoalargesuiteinthemiddleofacarwherethetrainwassmoothestriding.“Comein!Shutthedoor!”The private suite, reserved for the railroad’s special guests, was palatially
fittedwithhand-carvedcabinetryandanembossed-leatherceiling.Itincludedasittingroom,asleepingcompartment,anditsownbathroomwithamarble tubandfixturesofpuresilver.HetossedhisGladstonebagonthebed.“Any‘interests’onyour train?”heaskedtheconductor,meaningwere there
other important personages aboard. He made the inquiry with a confidentialsmileandslippedtheconductoragoldpiece.NoguestoftheSouthernPacificRailroadCompanyhadtotiptoensurelavish
treatmentandfawningservice.Buttheconductorofatranscontinentaltrain,likethe purser of anAtlantic liner, could be a useful confederate and a source ofinside information about the powerful passengers traveling across the country.The combination of pretended intimacy and cold cashwas an investment thatwouldpayoffinspades.Andindeeditdid,astheconductoransweredfreely.“Mr.JackThomas,presidentofFirstNationalBank,gotonatOakland,along
withMr.BrucePayne,Esquire.”“Theoilattorney?”“Yes,sir.Mr.PayneandMr.Thomasareveryclose,asyoucanimagine.”“Money and petroleum law make fast bedfellows,” the Wrecker smiled,
encouragingtheconductortokeeptalking.“JudgeCongdonandColonelBloom,thegentlemanincoal,havebeenonthe
trainsinceSacramento.”TheWreckernodded.JudgeJamesCongdonhadjoinedwithJ.P.Morganto
buyAndrewCarnegie’s steel trust.KennethBloomowned coal in partnershipwiththePennsylvaniaRailroad.“AndMr.MoserofProvidence,themillowner,whosesonsitsintheSenate,
sir.”“Capital fellow,”said theWrecker.“His father’s textile interestsare ingood
hands.”Theconductorbeamed,baskingintheproximityofsuchcelebratedplutocrats.
“Iamcertainthattheywouldbehonoredifyouwouldjointhemfordinner.”“I’ll see how I feel,” he answered casually, adding with an almost
imperceptiblewink,“Anytalkofalittlegameofdraw?”“Yes,sir.PokerafterdinnerinJudgeCongdon’sstateroom.”“Andwhoelseisaboard?”The conductor rattled off the names of cattle barons, western mining
magnates,andtheusualcomplementofrailroadattorneys.Thenheloweredhisvoicetoconfide,“There’saVanDorndetectivegotonatOgdenjustbeforeyou,sir.”“Adetective?Soundsexciting.Didyoucatchhisname?”“IsaacBell.”“Bell...Hmm.Idon’tsupposeheissleuthing‘undercover’ifhetoldyouhis
name.”“Irecognizedhim.Hetravelsoften.”“Isheonacase?”“I don’t know about that. But he’s riding on a pass signed by President
Hennessyhimself.AndtheorderscamedownthatwearesupposedtogiveVanDornagentsanythingtheyaskfor.”TheWrecker’s smile hardened as awintery light filled his eyes. “What has
IsaacBellaskedofyou?”“Nothing yet, sir. I presume he is investigating all those Southern Pacific
wrecks.”“PerhapswecanmakethingsexpensiveforMr.Bellinourfriendlygameof
draw.” The conductor looked surprised. “Would a detective have the blood inhimforyourgentlemen’sgame?”“I suspect thatMr. Bell can afford it,” said theWrecker. “If he’s the same
IsaacBellwho I’veheard rumored is awealthyman. I’veneverplayedpokerwithadetective.Itcouldbeinteresting.Whydon’tyouaskhimifhewouldcare
to joinus?” Itwasnotaquestionbutanorder, and theconductorpromised toinvite the detective to join the high-stakes poker game after dinner in JudgeCongdon’sstateroom.The way a man played poker revealed all there was to know of him. The
WreckerwouldusetheopportunitytosizeBellupanddecidehowtokillhim.
ISAACBELL’SSTATEROOMWAS in aPullman car that had a gentleman’swashroom at the front endwith beveledmirrors, nickel fixtures, andmassivemarble sinks.Therewas roomfor twoeasychairs.Apottedpalm in the roomswayed in rhythmwith the train,whichwas speeding along theWeberRiver,drawn by its powerful locomotive, up the one percent grade into theWasatchRange.Bell shaved therebeforedressing fordinner.Whilehecouldafforda lavish
suitewith itsown facilities,hepreferred shared facilitieswhenhe traveled. Insuch lounges, just as in thechanging roomsofgymnasiumsandprivate clubs,somethingaboutthecombinationofmarble,tile,runningwater,andcomfortablechairsintheabsenceofwomenmademenboastful.Boastfulmentalkedopenlyto strangers, and there was always some tidbit of information to glean fromoverheard conversations.And indeed, as he slid hisWootz steel straight razoracrosshis face, a rotund and cheerful slaughterhouseowner fromChicagoputdownhiscigartoremark,“PortertoldmethatSenatorCharlesKincaidboardedthetraininOgden.”“The ‘Hero Engineer’?” replied a well-dressed drummer stretched out
comfortablyintheotherleatherarmchair.“I’dliketoshakehishand.”“Allyougottadoiscorralhiminthediningcar.”“Youcannever tellwith those senators,” said the salesman. “Congressmen
andgovernorswillshakeanyhandthatstillhasbloodflowinginit,butUnitedStatessenatorscanbeastuck-uplot.”“That’swhatcomesfrombeingappointedinsteadofelected.”“Was he the tall fellowwho jumped aboard at the last second?”Bell asked
fromtheshavingmirror.TheChicagomeatpacker said he’d been reading the newspaper as the train
pulledoutandhadn’tnoticed.Thedrummerhad.“Hoppedonquickasahobo.”“A mighty well-dressed hobo,” said Bell, and the meatpacker and the
drummerlaughed.“That’sagoodone,”themeatpackerchortled.“Well-dressedhobo.Whatline
areyouin,son?”
“Insurance,”saidBell.Hecaughtthedrummer’seyeinthemirror.“WasthefellowyousawjumponlastminuteSenatorKincaid?”“Couldhavebeen,”saidthedrummer.“Ididn’tlookclose.Iwastalkingtoa
gent at the front of the car and the conductor was blocking my view. Butwouldn’ttheyholdthetrainforasenator?”“Reckonso,”saidthemeatpacker.Heheavedhisheavybodyoutofthechair,
stubbedouthiscigarandsaid,“Solong,boys.I’mheadingfortheobservationcar.Anyoneuseadrink,I’mbuying.”Bellwentbacktohisstateroom.Whoeverhadjumpedonat thelastminutehaddisappearedbythetimeBell
reached the observation car at the rear of the train, which was not surprisingsince thisOverlandLimitedwas an all-stateroom train, the only public spacesbeing the dining car and the observation car. The dining car had been emptyexcept for the stewards setting tables for the evening meal, and none of thesmokersintheobservationcarresembledthewell-dressedmanBellhadseenata distance. Nor did any of them resemble the lumberjack’s sketch of theWrecker.Bellrangfortheporter.Theblackmanwasinlatemiddleage,oldenoughto
havenotonlybeenbornintoslaverybuttohaveendureditasanadult.“Whatisyour name?” Bell asked. He could not abide the custom of calling Pullmanporters“George”aftertheiremployerGeorgePullman.“Jonathan,sir.”Bellpressedaten-dollargoldpieceintohissoftpalm.“Jonathan,wouldyou
lookatthispicture?Haveyouseethismanonthetrain?”Jonathanstudiedthedrawing.Suddenly, awestboundexpress flashedby thewindowswitha roarofwind
and steam as the two trains passed each other at a combined speed of onehundred twentymiles an hour.OsgoodHennessy had double-trackedmuch ofthe route to Omaha, whichmeant that limit eds wasted little time on sidingswaitingfortrainstopass.“No,sir,”saidtheporter,shakinghishead.“I’venotseennogentlemanwho
lookslikethis.”“Howaboutthisone?”Bellshowedtheporterthesketchwiththebeard,but
theanswerwasthesame.Hewasdisappointedbutnotsurprised.TheeastboundOverland Limited was only one of a hundred fifty trains that had left Ogdensincetheoutlawinthestablehadbeenstabbed.Thoughfewer,ofcourse,wouldconnect to New York City, where the Wrecker’s baiting note had virtuallypromisedhewasgoing.“Thankyou,Jonathan.”Hegavetheporterhiscard.“Pleaseasktheconductor
tocallonmeathisearliestconvenience.”Less than five minutes later, the conductor knocked. Bell let him in,
establishedthathisnamewasBillKux,andshowedhimthetwosketches,onewithbeard,onewithout.“DidanyoneboardyourtrainatOgdenwholookedlikeeitherofthesemen?”Theconductorstudiedthemcarefully,holdingthefirstoneinhishand, then
theother,turningthentothelightcastbythelampsincenighthadblackenedthewindow.BellwatchedKux’ssternfaceforareaction.Chargedwiththesafetyofthe train and responsible formaking every passenger pay his fare, conductorsweresharpobserverswithgoodmemories.“No,sir.Idon’tthinkso...Thoughthisonelooksfamiliar.”“Haveyouseenthisman?”“Well, I don’t know ... But I know this face.” He stroked his chin and
suddenlysnappedhisfingers.“That’showIknowthatface.Ijustsawhimatthepictureshow.”Belltookbackthesketches.“Butnoonewholooksatalllikeeitherofthese
gotonatOgden?”“No, sir.” He chuckled. “You had me on the go there, for a minute, ‘til I
remembered the moving picture. You know who that looks like? Actor fella.BronchoBillAnderson.Doesn’tit?”“Whowasthemanwhoboardedthetrainatthelastminute?”Theconductorsmiled.“Now,there’sacoincidence.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“Iwasalreadyheadingtoyourstateroomwhentheportergavemeyourcard.
Thatgentlemanyou’reinquiringafteraskedmetoinviteyoutoagameofdrawafterdinnerinJudgeCongdon’sstateroom.”“Whoishe?”“Why,that’sSenatorCharlesKincaid!”
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“THATWASKINCAID?”Bellknewithadbeenalongshot.Buttherewassomethingpurposefulabout
thewaythelastmanhadcomeaboard,asifhehadmadeaspecialefforttoleavetheOgdendepotundetected.Averylongshot,hehadtoadmit.AsidefromthenumberoftrainstheWreckercouldhavetaken,menroutinelyrantocatchtrains.Hehimselfdiditoften.Sometimesdeliberately,eithertodupesomeonealreadyonthetrainorgivethesliptosomeonefollowinghiminthestation.“ThelastIheard,”Bellmused,“theSenatorwasinNewYork.”“Oh,hegetsaround,sir.Youknowthoseofficeholders,alwaysonthego.Can
Itellhimyouwillplaydraw?”Bell fixed Bill Kux with a cold stare. “How is it that Senator Kincaid
happenedtoknowmynameandthatIamonthistrain?”Itwasunusualtoseeaconductorofalimitedflusteredbyanythinglessthan
jumpingthetracks.Kuxbegantostammer.“Well,he,I ...Well,youknow,sir,thewayitis.”“Thewayitis,thewisetravelerbefriendshisconductor,”Bellsaid,softening
hisexpressiontotakethemanintohistrust.“Thewiseconductorendeavorstomake everyone on his train happy. But especially those passengers mostdeservingofhappiness.DoIhavetoremindyou,Mr.Kux,thatyouhaveordersstraight from the president of the line that VanDorn detectives are your firstfriends?”“No,sir.”“Isthatclear?”“Yes,sir,Mr.Bell.I’msorryifIcausedyouanytrouble.”“Don’tworryyourself.”Bellsmiled.“It’snotasifyoubetrayedaconfidence
toatrainrobber.”“Verybigofyou,sir,thankyou...MayIinformSenatorKincaidthatyou’ll
joinhisgame?”“Whoelsewillbegaming?”“Well,JudgeCongdon,ofcourse,andColonelBloom.”
“KennethBloom?”“Yes,sir,thecoalmagnate.”“LasttimeIsawKennyBloom,hewasbehindtheelephantswithashovel.”“Ibegyourpardon,sir.Idon’tunderstand.”“Wewere in thecircus togetherbrieflyasboys.Untilour fatherscaughtup
withus.Whoelse?”“Mr. Thomas, the banker, and Mr. Payne, the attorney, and Mr. Moser of
Providence.HissonsitswithMr.KincaidintheSenate.”Twomoreslavishchampionsofthecorporationswouldbehardertoimagine,
thought Bell, but all he said was, “Tell the Senator that I will be honored toplay.”ConductorKuxreachedforthedoor.“Ishouldwarnyou,Mr.Bell...”“Thestakesarehigh?”“That,too.ButifaVanDornagentismyfirstfriend,itismydutytoadvise
youthatoneofthegentlemenplayingtonighthasbeenknowntomakehisownluck.”IsaacBellshowedhisteethinasmile.“Don’ttellmewhichonecheats.Itwill
moreinterestingtofindoutformyself.”
JUDGEJAMESCoNGDON,thehostoftheevening’sgameofdrawpoker,wasaleanandcraggyoldmanwithanaristocraticbearingandamannerashardandunbending as the purifiedmetal onwhich he hadmade his fortune. “The ten-hourworkday,”heproclaimedinavoicelikeacoalchute,“willbetheruinationofthesteelindustry.”The warning elicited solemn nods from the plutocrats gathered around the
green-felt-topped card table, and a hearty “Hear!Hear!” fromSenatorCharlesKincaid.TheSenatorhadopenedthesubjectwithaningratiatingpromisetovotefor stricter laws in Washington to make it easier for the judiciary to issueinjunctionsagainststrikers.If anyone on an Overland Limited steaming through the Wyoming night
doubted the gravity of the conflict between labor unions and factory owners,KenBloom,whohad inheritedhalf of the anthracite coal inPennsylvania, setthemstraight.“TherightsandinterestsofthelaboringmenwillbelookedafterandcaredfornotbyagitatorsbutbyChristianmentowhomGodinHisinfinitewisdomhasgivencontrolofthepropertyinterestsofthecountry.”“Howmanycards, Judge?” said IsaacBell,whose turn itwas todeal.They
wereinthemiddleofahand,anditwasthedealer’sresponsibilitytokeepthegamemoving.Whichwasnotalwayseasy,since,despitetheenormousstakes,it
was a friendly game.Most of themen knew one another and played togetheroften. Table talk ranged from gossip to good-natured ribbing, sometimesintended to smoke out a rival’s intention and the strength or weakness of hishand.Senator Kincaid, Bell had already noticed, seemed intimidated by Judge
Congdon,whooccasionallycalledhimCharlieeventhoughtheSenatorwasthesortwhowoulddemandtobecalledCharlesifnot“Senator,sir.”“Cards?”Bellaskedagain.Suddenly,therailroadcarshookhard.The wheels were pounding over a rough patch of track. The car lurched.
Brandy and whiskey sloshed from glasses onto green felt. Everyone in theluxurious stateroom fell quiet, reminded that they, along with the crystal, thecardtable, thebrasslampsaffixedtothewalls, theplayingcards,andthegoldcoins,werehurtlingthroughthenightatseventymilesanhour.“Areweareontheties?”someoneasked.Thequestionmetnervouslaughter
fromallbutthecoldJudgeCongdon,whosnatcheduphisglassbeforeitcouldspillanymoreandremarked,as thecarshookevenharder,“This remindsme,SenatorKincaid,whatisyouropinionaboutthefloodofaccidentsplaguingtheSouthernPacificRailroad?”Kincaid, who had apparently had too much to drink at dinner, answered
loudly, “Speaking as an engineer, the rumors of Southern Pacificmismanagementarescandalouslies.Railroadingisdangerousbusiness.Alwayshasbeen.Alwayswillbe.”Assuddenlyas theshudderinghadbegun, itstopped,andtheridesmoothed
out.Thetrainspedon,safeonitsrails.Itspassengersexhaledsighsofreliefthatthemorningnewspaperswouldnotbe listing theirnamesamong thedead inatrainwreck.“Howmanycards,Judge?”But Judge Congdon was not done talking. “I made no reference to
mismanagement, Charlie. If you could speak as a close associate of OsgoodHennessyratherthanasanengineer,sir,howarethingsgoingwithHennessy’sCascadesCutoffwheretheseaccidentsseemtobeconcentrated?”Kincaid delivered an impassioned speech more suited to a joint session of
Congressthanahigh-stakesgameofpoker.“Iassureyougentlementhatgossipabout recklessexpansionof theCascadesLine ispoppycock.Ourgreatnationwas built by bold men like Southern Pacific president Hennessy who tookenormousrisksinthefaceofadversityandpressedonevenwhencoolerheadspleadedtogoeasy,evenwhenbravingbankruptcyandfinancialruin.”BellnoticedthatJackThomas,thebanker,lookedlessthanassured.Kincaid
wascertainlydoingHennessy’sreputationnofavorstonight.“Howmanycardswouldyoulike,JudgeCongdon?”heaskedagain.Congdon’s reply was more alarming than the Overland Limited’s sudden
roughride.“Nocards,thankyou.Idon’tneedany.I’llstandpat.”The other players stared. Bruce Payne, the oil attorney, said out loudwhat
they were all thinking. “Standing pat in five-card draw is like galloping intotownattheheadofmaraudingcavalry.”The handwas in its second round. IsaacBell had already dealt each player
five cards facedown. Congdon, “under the gun” to Bell’s immediate left in apositionthatordinarilypasses,hadopenedthefirstroundofbetting.Allofthemen playing in the palatial stateroom except for Payne had called the steelbaron’s first-round bet.CharlesKincaid, seated toBell’s immediate right, hadimpetuouslyraisedthatbet,forcingtheplayerswhohadstayedintothrowmoremoney in the pot.Gold coins had rungmutedly on the felt tabletop as all theplayers, includingBell, hadcalled the raise, largelybecauseKincaidhadbeenplayingwithanoticeablelackofgoodsense.Withthefirstroundofbettingcomplete,theplayerswerepermittedtodiscard
one, two, or three cards anddraw replacements to improve their hands. JudgeCongdon’sannouncementthathealreadyhadallthecardsheneeded,thankyou,and would stand pat, made no one happy. By claiming that he needed noimprovement,hewassuggestingthatheheldawinninghandalready,ahandthatutilizedallfiveofhiscardsandwouldbeathandsasstrongastwopairsorthreeof a kind. That meant he held at least a straight (five cards in numericalsequence)orastraight-beatingflush(fivecardsinthesamesuit)orevenafullhouse (three of a kind plus two of a kind), a potent combination that beat astraightoraflush.“IfMr.Bellwouldpleasedealtheothergentlementhenumberofcardsthey
ask for,” gloated Congdon, who had suddenly lost interest in the subjects oflaborstrifeandtrainwrecks,“Iamanxioustoopenthenextroundofbetting.”Bell asked, “Cards,Kenny?”AndBloom,whowasnowherenear as rich in
coalasCongdonwasinsteel,askedforthreecardswithlittlehope.Jack Thomas took two cards, hinting that hemight already hold three of a
kind.Butitwasmorelikely,Belldecided,thatheheldamoderatepairandhadkeptanacekickerinthedesperatehopeofdrawingtwomoreaces.Ifhereallyhadtrips,hewouldhaveraisedonthefirstround.Thenextman,DouglasMoser,thepatricianNewEnglandtextile-millowner,
said hewould draw one card,whichmight be two pair butwas a probably ahopefulstraightorflush.Bellhadseenenoughofhisplayto judgehimas toowealthy to care enough to play to win. That left Senator Kincaid, to Bell’s
immediateright.Kincaidsaid,“I’llstandpat,too.”JudgeCongdon’seyebrows,whichwereroughasstrandsofwirerope,rosea
fullinch.Andseveralmenexclaimedoutloud.Twopathandsinthesameroundofdrawpokerwasunheardof.Bellwasassurprisedastherestof themen.Hehadestablishedalreadythat
SenatorKincaidcheatedwhenhecouldbyskillfullydealingfromthebottomofthedeck.ButKincaidhadn’tdealtthishand,Bellhad.Asunusualasapathandwas,ifKincaidhadoneitwasduetogenuineluck,notdouble-dealing.“ThelasttimeIsawtwopathands,”saidJackThomas,“itendedingunfire.”“Fortunately,”saidMoser,“nooneatthistableisarmed.”Which was not true, Bell had noticed. The double-dealing Senator had a
derringer tugging the cloth of his side pocket. A sensible precaution, Bellsupposed,formeninpubliclifesinceMcKinleywasshot.Bell said, “Dealer takes two,” discarded two cards, dealt himself two
replacements,andputdownthedeck.“Openerbets,”hesaid.“Ibelievethatwasyou,JudgeCongdon.”Old JamesCongdon, showingmoreyellow teeth thana timberwolf, smiled
pastBellatSenatorKincaid.“Iwillbetthepot.”Theywereplayingpotlimit,whichmeantthattheonlyrestrictiononanyone
betwastheamountonthetableatthatmoment.Congdon’sbetsaidthatwhilehewassurprisedbyKincaid’spathand,hedidnotfearit,suggestinghehadaverypowerfulhand,morelikelyafullhouseratherthanastraightoraflush.BrucePayne,wholookedextremelyhappytobeoutofthehand,helpfullycountedthepot, and announced, in his thin, reedyvoice, “In roundnumbers, your pot betwillbethreethousandsixhundreddollars.”JosephVanDornhad taughtIsaacBell togaugefortunes in termsofwhata
workingman earned in a day. He had taken him to the toughest saloon inChicagoandwatchedapprovinglyashiswell-dressedapprenticewonacoupleoffistfights.ThenhesteeredBell’sattentiontothecustomersliningupforthefreelunch.Clearly,thescionofaBostonbankingfamilyandagraduateofYalehad insights into the thinking apparatus of the privileged, the boss had notedwithasmile.Butadetectivehadtounderstandtheotherninety-eightpercentofthepopulation,too.Howdidamanthinkwhenhehadnomoneyinhispocket?Whatdidamandowhohadnothingtolosebuthisfear?The thirty-sixhundreddollars in thepot for just thishandwasmoremoney
thanJudgeCongdon’ssteelworkersmadeinsixyears.“I bet three thousand six hundred,” said Congdon, shoving all the coins in
frontofhimtothecenterofthetableandtossinginaredbaizesackwithmore
goldcoinsinitthatthunkedheavilyonthefelt.KenBloom,JackThomas,andDouglasMoserfoldedtheircardshurriedly.“Icallyour three thousandsixhundred,”saidSenatorKincaid.“AndI raise
thepot.Tenthousandeighthundreddollars.”Eighteenyears’wages.“Thelinemustbeverygratefultoyou,”saidCongdon,needlingtheSenator
abouttherailroadstockwithwhichlegislatorsnotoriouslywerebribed.“Thelinegetsitsmoney’sworth,”Kincaidrepliedwithasmile.“Oryouwouldhaveusbelievethatyourpathandisverypatindeed.”“Pat enough to raise. What are you going to do, Judge? The bet is ten
thousandeighthundreddollarstoyou.”IsaacBellinterrupted.“Ibelievethebetistome.”
“OH, I AM TERRIBLY sorry, Mr. Bell. We skipped your turn to fold yourcards.”“That’s all right, Senator. I saw you just barely catch the train at Ogden.
You’reprobablystillinarush.”“IthoughtIsawadetectivehangingofftheside.Dangerouswork,Mr.Bell.”“Notuntilacriminalhammersonone’sfingers.”“The bet,” growled Judge Congdon impatiently, “is my three thousand six
hundred dollars plus Senator Kincaid’s ten thousand eight hundred dollars,whichmakesthebettoMr.Bellfourteenthousandfourhundreddollars.”Payneinterruptedtointone,“Thepot,whichincludesSenatorKincaid’scall,
isnowtwenty-onethousandsixhundreddollars.”Payne’s calculations were hardly necessary. Even the richest, most carefree
menat the tablewereaware that twenty-one thousandsixhundreddollarswasenoughmoneytopurchasethelocomotivehaulingtheirtrainandmaybeoneofthePullmans.“Mr.Bell,”saidJudgeCongdon.“Weawaityourresponse.”“I call your bet, Judge, and Senator Kincaid’s ten-thousand-eight-hundred-
dollar raise,” said Bell, “making the pot thirty-six thousand dollars, which Iraise.”“Youraise?”“Thirty-sixthousanddollars.”Bell’s rewardwas thepleasureofseeing the jawsofaUnitedStatessenator
andthericheststeelbaroninAmericadropinunison.“Thepotisnowseventy-twothousanddollars,”calculatedMr.Payne.A deep silence pervaded the stateroom. All that could be heard was the
muffled clatter of the wheels. Judge Congdon’s wrinkled hand crept into his
breastpocketandemergedwithabankcheck.Hetookagoldfountainpenfromanotherpocket,uncappedit,andslowlywroteanumberonhischeck.Thenhesignedhisname,blewonthepapertodrytheink,andsmiled.“I call your thirty-six-thousand-dollar raise,Mr. Bell, and the Senator’s ten
thousand eight hundred, which by now seems a paltry sum, and I raise onehundredeighteenthousandeighthundreddollars...SenatorKincaid,it’stoyou.My raise and Mr. Bell’s raise means it will cost you one hundred fifty-fourthousandeighthundreddollarstostayinthehand.”“GoodGod,”saidPayne.“Whatcha gonna do, Charlie?” asked Congdon. “One hundred fifty-four
thousandeighthundreddollarsifyouwanttoplay.”“Call,” Kincaid said stiffly, scribbling the number on his calling card and
tossingitontheheapofgold.“Noraise?”Congdonmocked.“Youheardme.”CongdonturnedhisdrysmileonBell.“Mr.Bell,myraisewasonehundred
eighteenthousandeighthundreddollars.”Bellsmiledback,concealingthethoughtthatmerelytocallwouldputadeep
dentinhispersonalfortune.Toraisewoulddeepenitdangerously.Judge James Congdon was one of the richest men in America. If Bell did
raise,therewasnothingtostopthemanfromraisinghimbackandwipinghimout.
17
“MR. PAYNE,” ASKED ISAAC BELL. “HOW MUCH MONEY IS IN thepot?”“Well,letmesee...Thepotnowcontainstwohundredthirty-seventhousand
sixhundreddollars.”Bell mentally counted steelworkers. Four hundredmen together could earn
thatpotinagoodyear.Tenmen,iftheywerefortunateenoughtosurvivelongworking lives uninterrupted by injury and lay-off, might together earn thatamountbetweenboyhoodandoldage.Congdonaskedinnocently,“Mr.Payne,whatwillthepotcontainifMr.Bell
continuestobelievethathistwo-carddrawimprovedhimsufficientlytocall?”“Umm, the pot would contain four hundred seventy-five thousand two
hundreddollars.”“Nearly half a million dollars,” said the judge. “This is turning into real
money.”Bell decided that Congdonwas talking toomuch. The hard old steel baron
actually sounded nervous. Like a man holding a straight, which, in pat-handterms,wasatthebottomofthebarrel.“MayIpresume,sir,thatyouwillacceptmycheckontheAmericanStatesBankofBoston?”“Ofcourse,son.We’reallgentlemenhere.”“Icall,andIraisefourhundredseventy-fivethousandtwohundreddollars.”“I’mskunked,”saidCongdon,throwinghiscardsonthetable.Kincaidsmiled,obviouslyrelievedthatCongdonwasoutofthehand.“Howmanycardsdidyoutake,Mr.Bell?”“Two.”KincaidstaredforalongtimeatthecardsBellcuppedinhishand.WhenBell
looked up, he let hismind stray,whichmade it easier to appear unconcernedwhetherKincaidcalledorfolded.ThePullmancarwasswayingduetoanincreaseinspeed.Themufflingeffect
of the rugsand furniture in thepalatial stateroom tended tomask the fact thatthey had accelerated to eightymiles an hour on the flats ofWyoming’sGreat
DivideBasin.Bellknew this arid,windblownhighcountrywell,having spentmonthsonhorsebacktrackingtheWildBunch.Kincaid’s fingers strayed toward the vest pocket where he kept his calling
cards.Themanhadlargehands,Bellnoticed.Andpowerfulwrists.“Thatisalotofmoney,”theSenatorsaid.“A lot for a public servant,” Congdon agreed. Annoyed that he had been
forcedoutof thehand,headdedanotherunpleasant reference to theSenator’srailroadstocks.“Evenonewith‘interests’ontheside.”PaynerepeatedCongdon’sestimate.“Nearlyhalfamilliondollars.”“Seriousmoney in these days of panic,with themarkets falling,”Congdon
added.“Mr.Bell,” askedKincaid, “whatdoes adetectivehangingoff the sideof a
traindowhenacriminalstartshammeringonhisfingers?”“Depends,”saidBell.“Onwhat?”“Onwhetherhe’sbeentrainedtofly.”KennyBloomlaughed.Kincaid’seyesneverleftBell’sface.“Haveyoubeentrainedtofly?”“Notyet.”“Sowhatdoyoudo?”“Ihammerback,”saidBell.“Ibelieveyoudo,”saidKincaid.“Ifold.”Still expressionless, Bell laid his cards facedown on the table and raked in
ninehundredfifty thousandfourhundreddollars ingold,markers,andchecks,includinghisown.KincaidreachedforBell’scards.Bellplacedhishandfirmlyontopofthem.“Curiouswhatyouhadunderthere,”saidKincaid.“So am I,” said Congdon. “Surely you weren’t bluffing against two pat
hands.”“Itcrossedmymindthatthepathandswerebluffing,Judge.”“Both?Idon’tthinkso.”“Isureashellwasn’tbluffing,”saidKincaid.“Ihadaveryprettyheartflush.”Heturnedhiscardsoverandspreadthemfaceupsoallcouldsee.“GodAlmighty,Senator!”saidPayne,“Eight,nine, ten, jack,king. Justone
shortofastraightflush.You’dsureashellhaveraisedbackwiththat.”“Shortbeing thekeyword,”observedBloom.“Anda reminder thatstraight
flushesarescarcerthanhens’teeth.”“Iwouldverymuchliketoseeyourcards,Mr.Bell,”saidKincaid.“Youdidn’tpaytoseethem,”saidBell.
Congdonsaid,“I’llpay.”“Ibegyourpardon,sir?”“It’sworthonehundredthousanddollarstometoprovethatyouhadahigh
threeofakindandthendrewapairtomakeafullhouse.WhichwouldbeattheSenator’sflushandmymiserablestraight.”“Nobet,” saidBell. “Anold friendofmineused tosayabluff shouldkeep
themguessing.”“JustasIthought,”saidCongdon.“Youwon’ttakethebetbecauseI’mright.
Yougotluckyandcaughtanotherpair.”“Ifthatiswhatyouwouldliketobelieve,Judge,we’llbothgohomehappy.”“Dammit!” said the steelmagnate. “I’llmake it twohundred thousand. Just
showmeyourhand.”Bellturnedthemover.“Thatfellowalsosaidtoshowthemnowandthento
makethemwonder.Youwererightaboutthehighthreeofakind.”The steel magnate stared. “I’ll be damned. Three lonely ladies. You were
bluffing.Youonlyhad trips. I’dhavebeatyouwithmystraight.Thoughyourflushwouldhavebeatenme,Charlie.IfMr.Bellhadn’tforcedusbothout.”Charles Kincaid exploded, “You bet half a million dollars on three lousy
queens?”“I’mpartialtotheladies,”saidIsaacBell.“Alwayshavebeen.”
KINCAID REACHED ACROSS AND touched the queens as if not quitebelieving his eyes. “I will have to arrange to transfer funds when I get toWashington,”hesaidstiffly.“Norush,”Bellsaidgraciously.“I’dhavehadtoaskthesame.”“WhereshouldImailmycheck?”“I’llbeattheYaleClubofNewYorkCity.”“Son,” saidCongdon,writing a check forwhich he did nothave to transfer
fundstocover,“yousurepaidforyourtrainticket.”“Trainticket,hell,”saidBloom.“Hecouldbuythetrain.”“Sold!”Bell laughed. “Comeback tomyobservation car anddrinks are on
me,andmaybeabiteoflatesupper.Allthisbluffingmakesmehungry.”AsBell led themto the rearof the train,hewonderedwhySenatorKincaid
hadfolded.Ithadbeenastrictlycorrectmove,hesupposed,butafterCongdonhadfoldeditwasalotmorecautiousthanKincaidhadbeenallnight,whichwaspuzzling.ItwasalmostifKincaidhadbeenactingabitmorethefoolearlierthanhe really was. And what was all that blather about Osgood Hennessy takingenormousrisks?Hecertainlyhadn’timprovedhisbenefactor’sstandingwiththe
bankers.Bellorderedchampagneforallintheobservationcarandaskedthestewards
to serve up a late-night supper.Kincaid said he could stay for only one quickglass. He was tired, he said. But he let Bell pour him a second glass ofchampagne and then ate some steak and eggs and seemed to get over hisdisappointment at the card table. The players mingled with one another andsome other travelers who were passing the night drinking. Groups formedfluidly,brokeup,andformedagain.Thetaleofthethreequeenswastoldoverandover.Asthecrowdthinned,IsaacBellfoundhimselfalonewithKenBloom,JudgeCongdon,andSenatorKincaid,whoremarked,“Iunderstandyou’vebeenshowingthetraincrewawantedposter.”“Asketchofamanwe’reinvestigating,”Bellanswered.“Showus!”saidBloom.“Maybewe’veseenhim.”Belltookonefromhiscoat,pushedplatesaside,andspreaditonthetable.Bloomtookonelook.“That’stheactor!InTheGreatTrainRobbery.”“Isitreallytheactor?”askedKincaid.“No.ButthereisasimilaritytoBronchoBillyAnderson.”Kincaidtrailedhisfingersacrossthesketch.“Ithinkhelookslikeme.”“Arrestthisman!”laughedKenBloom.“Hedoes,”saidCongdon.“Sortof.Thisfellowhaschiseledfeatures.Sodoes
theSenator.Lookatthecleftinthechin.You’vegotoneofthosetoo,Charles.IheardabunchofdamnedfoolwomeninWashingtonsquawkinglikehens thatyoulooklikeamatineeidol.”“Myearsaren’tthatbig,arethey?”“No.”“That’sarelief,”saidKincaid.“Ican’tbeamatineeidolwithbigears.”Belllaughed.“Mybosswarnedus,‘Don’tarrestanyuglymugs.”’Curiously,he looked from the sketch to theSenator andback to the sketch.
Therewasasimilarityinthehighbrow.Theearsweredefinitelydifferent.Boththe suspect in the sketch and the Senator had intelligent faces with strongfeatures.Sodida lotofmen,as JosephVanDornhadpointedout.Where theSenator and the suspect diverged, in addition to ear size, was the penetratinggaze.Themanwhohadstruckthelumberjackwithacrowbarlookedharderandfilledwith purpose. Itwas hardly surprising that he had looked intense to themanhewasattacking.ButKincaiddidnotseemdrivenbypurpose.Evenattheheightof theirbettingduel,Kincaidhadstruckhimasessentiallyself-satisfiedand self-indulgent, more the servant of the powerful than powerful himself.Although, Bell reminded himself, he had wondered earlier whether Kincaidplayingthefoolwasanact.
“Well,”saidKincaid,“ifweseethisfellow,we’llnabhimforyou.“Ifyoudo,stayoutofhiswayandcallforreinforcements,”Bellsaidsoberly.
“Heispoison.”“All right, I’m off to bed. Long day. Good night, Mr. Bell,” Kincaid said
cordially.“Interestingplayingcardswithyou.”“Expensive, too,” said JudgeCongdon. “What are you going to dowith all
thosewinnings,Mr.Bell?”“I’mgoingtobuymyfiancéeamansion.”“Where?”“SanFrancisco.UponNobHill.”“Howmanysurvivedtheearthquake?”“Theone I’m thinkingofwasbuilt to stand for a thousandyears.Theonly
trouble is, it might hold ghosts for my fiancée. It belonged to her formeremployer,whoturnedouttobeadepravedbankrobberandmurderer.”“In my experience,” Congdon chuckled, “the best way to make a woman
comfortableinapreviouswoman’shouseistohandherastickofdynamiteandinstructhertoenjoytheprocessofredecorating.I’vedoneitrepeatedly.Workslikeacharm.Thatmightapplytoformeremployers,too.”CharlesKincaidroseandsaidgoodnightallaround.Thenheasked,casually,
almost mockingly, “Whatever happened to the depraved bank robber andmurderer?”IsaacBell looked theSenator in theeyeuntil theSenatordroppedhisgaze.
Onlythendidthetalldetectivesay,“Iranhimtoground,Senator.Hewon’thurtanyoneeveragain.”Kincaid respondedwith a hearty laugh. “The famousVanDornmotto: ‘We
nevergiveup.”’“Never,”saidBell.SenatorKincaid, Judge Congdon, and the others drifted off to bed, leaving
BellandKennyBloomaloneintheobservationcar.Halfanhourlater,thetrainbegantoslow.Hereandthere,alightshoneintheblacknight.TheoutskirtsofthetownofRawlinstookshape.TheOverlandLimitedtrundledthroughdimlylitstreets.
THEWRECKERGAUGEDTHEtrain’sspeedfromtheplatformattheendofthe Pullman car that housed his stateroom. Bell’s sketch had shaken him farmorethanhisenormouslossesatpoker.Themoneymeantnothingin the longrun, because he would soon be richer than Congdon, Bloom, and Mosercombined. But the sketch represented a rare piece of bad luck. Someone had
seen his face and described him to an artist. Fortunately, they’d got his earswrong.AndthankGodfortheresemblancetothemoviestar.ButhecouldnotcountonthoseluckybreaksconfusingIsaacBellformuchlonger.Hejumpedfromtheslowingtrain,andsetouttoexplorethedarkstreets.He
hadtoworkfast.Thestopwasscheduledforonlythirtyminutes,andhedidn’tknowRawlins.But therewas a pattern to railroad towns, and he believed theflowofluckthathadmovedagainsthimtonightwasshiftinghisway.Foronething,IsaacBell’sguardwasdown.Thedetectivewasexhilaratedbyhisgreatfortuneat thecard table.And itwas likely that among the telegraphmessageswaitingatthedepotwouldbetragicnewsfromOgdenthatwouldthrowhimforaloop.He found what he was looking for within minutes, tracing the sound of a
piano to a saloon, which was still going strong even though it was well pastmidnight.Hedidn’tpushthroughtheswingingdoorsbutinsteadfilledhishandwithafatwadofmoneyandcircledthesaloonbyplungingfearlesslydownsideandbackalleys.Brightlightsfromthesecondstoryrevealedthedancehallandgambling casino, duller lights the cribs of the attached brothel. The sheriff,bribed to ignore the illegal operations, wouldn’t venture near their doors.Bouncerswerehired,therefore, tokeepthepeaceanddiscouragerobbers.Andtheretheywere.Twobroken-nosed,bare-knuckleboxersof the type thatcompetedat rodeos
andElkhallsweresmokingcigarettesontheplankstepsthatledupstairs.Theyeyedhimwithincreasinginterestasheapproachedunsteadily.Twentyfeetfromthesteps,hestumbledandreachedouttothewalltocatchhisbalance.Hishandtouched the rough wood precisely where a shaft of light spilled down fromabove and illuminated the cash hewas holding.The two stoodup, exchangedglances,andflickedouttheircigarettes.TheWrecker reeleddrunkenlyaway, lurching into thedark toward theopen
door of a livery stable. He saw another gleam of exchanged glances, as thebouncers’luckseemedtogetbetterandbetter.Thedrunkwiththerollofdinerowasmakingiteasyforthemtorelievehimofitinprivate.Hegot inside the stableaheadof themandswiftlychosea spotwhere light
fromnextdoorspilledthroughawindow.Theycameafterhim,theleadbouncerpullingasapfromhispocket.TheWreckerkickedhisfeetoutfromunderhim.The surprise was complete, and he fell to the hoof-beaten straw. His partner,comprehendingthattheWreckerwasnotasdrunkastheyhadsupposed,raisedhispowerfulfists.TheWreckerwentdownononeknee,drewhisknifefromhisboot,flickedhis
wrist.Theblade leaped to its full length, the tip touching thebouncer’s throat.
Withhisotherhand,theWreckerpressedhisderringertothetempleofthemanfalleninthestraw.Foramoment,theonlysoundwasthepianointhedistanceandthebouncers’hard,startledbreath.“Relax,gentlemen,”saidtheWrecker.“It’sabusinessproposition.Iwillpay
youtenthousanddollarstokillapassengerontheOverlandLimited.Youhavetwentyminutesbeforeitleavesthestation.”Thebouncershadnoobjectiontokillingamanfortenthousanddollars.The
Wreckercouldhaveboughtthemforfive.Buttheywerepracticalmen.“Howdowegethimoffthetrain?”“He is a protectorof the innocent,” said theWrecker. “Hewill come to the
rescueofsomeoneindanger—adamselindistress,forexample.Wouldsuchbeavailable?”They looked across the alley. A red brakeman’s lantern hung in a window.
“Fortwodollars,she’llbeavailable.”
THEOVERLANDLIMITEDhadcometoastopwithametallicshriekofbrakeshoesandtheclankofcouplingsinthenarrowpoolofelectriclightbesidethelowbrickRawlinsDepot.Mostofherpassengerswereasleepintheirbeds.Thefewwhowerenotsteppedontotheplatformtostretchtheirlegsonlytoretreatfrom the stink of alkali springs mingled with coal smoke. The train crewchangedengineswhileprovisions,newspapers,andtelegramscameaboard.Theporter, the formerslaveJonathan,approachedIsaacBell in thedeserted
observation car, where the detective was contentedly sprawled on a couchreminiscingwithKennethBloomabouttheirdaysinthecircus.“TelegramfromOgden,Mr.Bell.”Belltippedtheoldmanathousanddollars.“That’sallright,Jonathan,”hesaid,laughing.“Igotluckytonight.TheleastI
candoissharethewealth.Excusemeamoment,Ken.”Heturnedawaytoreadthewire.Hisfaceturnedcoldevenashottearsburnedhiseyes.“Youallright,Isaac?”askedKen.“No,”hechokedout,andsteppedontotherearplatformtotrytofillhislungs
withtheacrid-smellingair.Thoughitwasthemiddleofthenight,ashuntenginewasmovingfreightcarsabouttheyards.Bloomfollowedhimout.“Whathappened?”
“WeberandFields...”“Vaudeville?Whatareyoutalkingabout?”AllIsaacBellcouldsaywas,“Myoldfriends.”Hecrumpledthetelegramin
his fist, andwhispered to himself, “Last thing I told themwas towatch theirstep.ItoldthemtheWreckerispoison.”“Who?”askedBloom.Bell turned terrible eyes on him, and Bloom retreated hastily into the
observationcar.Bell smoothed the telegraph flat and read it again. Their bodies had been
found in an alley, two blocks from the office. They must have spotted theWrecker and tailed him. It was hard to believe that a single man could havetakenbothveterandetectivesdown.ButWallyhadnotbeenwell.Maybeithadslowedhim.Aschief investigator, as theman responsible for the safetyofhisoperatives,he shouldhave replacedhim—shouldhave takenavulnerablemanoutofdanger.Bell’sheadfeltlikeitwouldexplode,itwassofilledwithpainandfury.For
whatfeltlikeaverylongtime,hecouldnotthink.Then,gradually,itstruckhimthatWallyandMackhadlefthimadyinglegacy.Themantheyhadtailedmusthave looked enough like the man in the lumberjack’s sketch to raise theirsuspicions.Otherwise,whywouldtheyhavefollowedhimintoanalley?ThathehadturnedonthemandkilledthemprovedthatthesketchoftheWreckerwasaccurate,nomatterhowmuchitremindedpeopleofamatineeidol.Thefreshlocomotivehootedthego-aheadsignal.Bell,grippingtheplatform
handrail,tearsstreamingdownhisface,wassolostinhisheartsickthoughtsthathe barely heard the whistle.When the train startedmoving, he grew vaguelyawarethatthecrosstiesappearedtoslidebehindtheobservationcarasitrolledoutofthestationandpassedunderthelastelectriclightinthestationyard.Awomanscreamed.Bell looked up.He sawher running down the tracks like shewas trying to
catchtheacceleratingtrain.Herwhitedressseemedtoglowinthenight,backlitasitwasbythedistancelight.Amanwaslumberingafterher,ahulkingshape,whocaughtherinhisarmsandcutoffherscreamwithahandclappedoverhermouthandforcedhertotheroadbedundertheweightofhisbody.Bellexplodedintomotion.Heleapedovertherailingandhitthetiesrunning,
pumpinghislegsasfastashecould.Butthetrainwasmovingtoofast,andhelosthisbalance.Hetuckedintoatightball,shieldedhisfacewithhishands,hitthe ties, and rolledbetween the railsas the train racedawayat thirtymilesanhour.Bell rolled over a switch and stopped suddenly against a signal post. He
jumpedtohisfeetandrantohelpthewoman.Themanhadonehandaroundherthroatandwasrammingatherdresswiththeother.“Lethergo!”Bellshouted.Themansprangtohisfeet.“Getlost,”hetoldthewoman.“Payme!”shedemanded,thrustingoutherhand.Heslappedmoneyinit.She
cast Bell a blank look and walked back toward the distant depot. The manpretendingtoattackherturnedonBell,hurlingpuncheslikeaprizefighter.Staring in disbelief at the red light on the back of the Overland Limited
disappearing into the night,Bell automatically ducked theman’s heavy blowsand they passed harmlessly over his shoulder. Then a rock-hard fist slammedintothebackofhishead.
THEWRECKERWATCHEDFROMtherearplatformoftheOverlandLimitedas the train picked up speed.The red light on the back of the observation carshone on the rails. Three stick figures growing smaller by the moment weresilhouettedagainsttheglowoftheRawlinsrailyards.Twoappearedstationary.Thethirdbouncedbackandforthbetweenthem.“Good-bye,Mr.Bell.Don’tforgetto‘hammerback.”’
18
THEREWERETWOOFTHEM.ThepunchfrombehindflungBellreelingatthefirstboxer,whogavehima
shot to the jaw.Theblowspunhim like a top.The secondboxerwaswaitingwithafistthatknockedthedetectivecleanoffhisfeet.Bell hit the ballast with his shoulder and rolled across splintery ties and
banged into one of the rails.The cold steelmade a pillow for his head, as helookedup,tryingtofocusonwhatwashappeningtohim.Secondsago,hehadbeenstandingontherearplatformofafirst-class,all-stateroomtrain.Thenhe’drun to rescue a woman not needing rescuing. Now two bare-knuckleprizefighterswerehurlingpunchesathim.Theycircled,blockinganythoughtofescape.Aquartermile down the tracks, the busy depot switch engine stopped on a
sidingandcast thelongglowofitsheadlampdowntherails, illuminatingBellandhisattackersenoughsothattheycouldseeoneanotherbutnotenough,Bellknew,tobeseenbyanyonewhomightintervene.Inthelightofthedistantheadlamp,hesawthattheywerebigmen,notastall
ashimbuteachoutweighinghimhandily.Hecouldtellbytheirstancethattheywereprofessionals.Lightontheirfeet,theyknewhowtothrowapunch,knewwhere tohit thebodyto inflict themostdamage,kneweverydirty trick in thebook.Hecouldtellbytheircoldexpressionstoexpectnomercy.“Onyourfeet,boyo.Standupandtakeitlikeaman.”Theybackeduptoallowhimroom,soconfidentweretheyoftheirskillsand
thefactthattheyoutnumberedhimtwotoone.Bell shook his head to clear it and gathered his legs under him. Hewas a
trainedboxer.Heknewhowtotakeapunch.Heknewhowtoslipapunch.Heknewhow to throwpunches in lightning combinations.But theyoutnumberedhim,andtheyknewtheirbusiness,too.Thefirstmanpoisedtocharge,eyesgleaming,fistsheldlowinthebrawling
stance of bare-knuckle champion John L. Sullivan. The second man held hishands higher in the style of “Gentleman Jim”Corbett, the onlymanwho had
everknockedSullivanout.Hewouldbetheonetolookoutfor,Corbettbeingascientificboxerasopposedtoafighter.Thisman’slefthandandshoulderwereprotectinghisjaw,justlikeCorbettwould.Hisright,guardinghisstomach,wasasledgehammerheldinreserve.Bellstoodup.Corbettsteppedback.Sullivancharged.Their strategy,Bell saw,was simple andwould be brutally effective.While
Sullivan attacked from the front, Corbett would stand by to slam Bell backwhenever Bell staggered out of range. If Bell lasted long enough to tire outSullivan,Corbettwouldtakehisplaceandstartfresh.Bell’stwo-shotderringerwasinhishat,whichwashanginginhisstateroom.
Hispistolwason the train too, steaming towardCheyenne.Hewasdressed intheeveningattireinwhichhehaddinedandplayedpoker:tuxedojacket,pleateddressshirtwithdiamondstuds,silkbowtie.Onlyhisfootwear,polishedblackboots, largely concealed by his trouser legs, instead of patent leather dancingpumps,mighthavecausedadiscerningmaitred’nottoseathimatthebesttableinarestaurant.Sullivan threw a roundhouse right. Bell ducked. The fist whizzed over his
head,andSullivan, thrownoffbalance, stumbledpast.Ashedid,Bellhithimtwice,onceinhisrock-hardstomach,whichhadabsolutelynoeffect,thenonthesideofhisface,whichmadehimshoutinanger.Corbett laughed, harshly. “A scientific fighter,” he mocked. “Where’d you
learntobox,sonny?Harvard?”“Yale,”saidBell.“Well, here’s one for Boola Boola.” Corbett feinted with his right and
delivered a sharp left to Bell’s ribs. Even though Bell hadmanaged tomoveaway,itwaslikegettinghitbyalocomotive.Hetumbledtothegroundwithasearingpaininhisside.Sullivanranovertokickhiminthehead.Belltwistedfrantically,and thehobnailedbootaimedathis face ripped theshoulderofhisdinnerjacket.Twoononewasno time forMarquessofQueensberry rules.He scooped a
heavypieceofballastfromtherailbedasherolledtohisfeet.“DidImentionIalsostudiedinChicago?”heasked,“OntheWestSide.”HethrewthestonewithallhisstrengthintoCorbett’sface.Corbett criedout inpainandclutchedhis eye.Bellhadexpected to stagger
him, if not take him right out of the fight.ButCorbettwas very fast.He hadduckedquicklyenoughtododgethestone’sfullforce.Heloweredhishandfromhiseye,wipedthebloodonthefrontofhisshirt,andclosedhishandintoafist
again.“That’ll cost you, college.There’s quickways to die and slowways to die,
andyoujustearnedaslowway.”Corbett circled, one fist high, theother low,one eyedark, theother glaring
malevolently.Hethrewseveraljabs—four,five,six—contrivedtocalculate,byBell’sreactions,justhowgoodhewasandwherehisweaknesseslay.Suddenly,hecameatBellwithaquickone-two,aleftandaright,designedtosoftenhimforaheavierblow.Bell slippedbothpunches.ButSullivancharged from the sideand landeda
hardfistacrossBell’smouththatknockedhimdownagain.Belltastedsaltinhismouth.Hesatup,shakinghishead.Bloodrandownhis
face,overhislips.Theswitchenginelightgleamedonhisteeth.“He’ssmiling,”SullivansaidtoCorbett.“Isheloco?”“Punch-drunk.IhithimharderthanIthought.”“Hey,college,what’sthejoke?”“Getinthere,finishhimoff.”“Thenwhat?”“Leavehimonthetrack.It’lllooklikeatrainkilledhim.”Bell’ssmilegrewwider.A bloody nose at last, he thought.Wally andMack, old friends, I must be
closertocatchingtheWreckerthanIknow.TheWreckerhadgottenonatOgdenafterall.Hehadlaidlow,waitingforhis
chance,while Bell ate dinner, played cards, and hosted a victory party in theobservationcar.ThentheWreckerhadjumpedoffatRawlinstohirethesetwotokillhim.“I’llgivehimsomethingtosmileabout,”saidSullivan.“Gotamatch?”Bellaskedhim.Sullivanloweredhishandsandstared.“What?”“Amatch.Alucifer.IneedmorelighttoshowyouthispictureIhaveinmy
pocket.”“Wlhat?”“Youasked,what’sthejoke.I’mhuntingakiller.Thesamekillerwhohired
youhydrophobicskunkstokillme.Here’sthejoke:youhydrophobicskunksaregoingtotellmewhathelookslike.”Sullivan rushed at Bell, throwing a vicious right at his face. Bell moved
quickly.The fistwhizzedoverhishead likeaboulder, andhebroughthis leftdownon theSullivan’sheadashestumbled from the forceofmissingBell. ItdroveSullivantothegroundlikeapiledriver.ThistimewhenCorbettrushedinfrom the side,Bellwas ready, and he backhandedCorbettwith the same left,
smashinghisnosewithasharpcrack.Corbett grunted, wheeling gracefully out of a predicament that would have
seenanordinarymortal fall.Hewhippedhis lefthigh toprotecthischinfromBell’s right cross and kept his right low to block Bell’s left to the stomach.Conversationally,hesaid,“Here’sonetheydidn’tteachyouincollege,”andhitBellwithaone-twothatnearlytorehisheadoff.SullivansluggedBellashehurtledpast.Thefullforceoftheblowstruckjust
abovehis templeandknockedhimflat.Thepainwas sharpasaneedle inhisbrain.Butthefactthathefeltpainatallmeanthewasstillalive,andconsciousthatSullivanandCorbettweremovinginforthekill.Hisheadwasspinning,andhehadtopushwithhishandstoregainhisfeet.“Gentlemen,thisisyourlastchance.Isthisthemanwhopaidyoutokillme?”Sullivan’spowerfuljabknockedthepaperfromBell’shand.Bellstraightenedupasmuchashecould,given thesearingpain inhis ribs,
andmanagedtoeludethecombinationSullivanthrewnext.“I’lltakeyounext,”he taunted Sullivan. “Soon as I teach your partner something I learned incollege.”ThenheturnedhisscornonCorbett.“Ifyouwerehalfasgoodasyouthink you are, you wouldn’t be hiring yourself out to beat people up in agodforsakenrailroadtown.”It worked. As table talk could smoke out intentions in poker, fight talk
provokedrecklessness.CorbettshovedSullivanaside.“Getoutofmyway! I’mgoing tomake this sonof abitchweepbeforehe
dies.”Hechargedinarage,throwingpuncheslikecannonfire.Bellknewhehadtakentoomuchpunishmenttocountonspeed.Hehadone
lastchancetogatherallhisstrengthintoonekillingblow.Tootiredtoslipthepunches,heabsorbed two,steppedinside thenext,andhitCorbetthardon thejaw,whichsnappedCorbett’sheadback.ThenBellunleashedarightwitheveryounceofhisstrengthandplungeditintoCorbett’sbody.Thebreathexplodedoutoftheman,andhecollapsedasifhiskneeshadturnedtowater.Fightingtothelast,helungedforBell’sthroatashewentdownbutfellshort.Bell lurchedatSullivan.Hewasgaspingat theexertion,buthis facewasa
maskofgrimpurpose:Whohiredjoutokillme?Sullivan dropped to his knees beside Corbett, reached inside his fallen
partner’scoat,yankedoutaflickknife.Leapingtohisfeet,hechargedBell.Bellknewthattheheavilybuiltbrawlerwasstrongerthanhewas.Inhisown
half-deadstate,attemptingtotaketheknifeawaywastoorisky.Heslippedhisownbladefromhisbootandpitcheditoverhand,dragginghis indexfingeronthesmoothhandletopreventitfromrotating.Flickeringlikealizard’stongue,it
flewflatandtrueintoSullivan’sthroat.Thebrawlerfell,spewingbloodthroughhandsdesperatelytryingtoclosethewound.HewouldnotbeansweringBell’squestions.Thedetectiveknelt besideCorbett.His eyeswere staringwideopen.Blood
was trickling from hismouth. If hewasn’t dying from internal ruptures fromBell’s blow to his stomach, he was close to it, and would not be answeringquestionstonighteither.Withoutwastinganothermoment,IsaacBellstaggeredalongtherailstotheRawlinsDepotandburstthroughthedispatcher’sdoor.Thedispatcherstaredatthemaninrippedeveningclotheswithbloodpouring
downhisface.“Whatthehellhappenedtoyou,mister?”Bellsaid,“Thepresidentofthelinehasauthorizedmetocharteraspecial.”“Youbet.AndthePopejustgavemeapassforthePearlyGates.”Bell pulled Osgood Hennessy’s letter from his wallet and thrust it in the
dispatcher’sface.“Iwantyourfastestlocomotive.”Thedispatcherreadit twice,stoodup,andsaid,“Yes,sir!ButI’veonlygot
oneengine, and she’s scheduled tohitchonto thewestbound limited,which isdueintwentyminutes.”“Turnheraround,we’regoingeast.”“Whereto?”“AftertheOverlandLimited.”“You’llnevercatchher.”“If I don‘t, you’ll behearing fromMr.Hennessy.Geton that telegraphand
clearthetracks.”TheOverlandLimitedhadafifty-minuteheadstart,butBell’slocomotivehad
theadvantageofhaulingonly theweightofherowncoalandwaterwhile theLimited’s engine was towing eight Pullmans and baggage, dining, andobservationcars.Hundred-dollartipstothefiremanandengineerdidn’thurtherspeed either. They climbed through the night, encountering snow in theMedicine BowMountains, a harbinger of the winter that Osgood Hennessy’srailroad builders were striving to beat even as theWrecker sowed death anddestructiontostopthem.TheyleftthesnowbehindastheydescendedintotheLaramieValley,stormed
throughitandthetown,stoppingonlyforwater,andclimbedagain.Theyfinallycaughtupwith theOverlandLimitedeastofLaramieatBufordStation,wheretherisingsunwasilluminatingthepinkgraniteonthecrestofShermanHill.TheLimitedwas sidetracked on thewater siding, her firemanwrestling the spigotdownfromthe tallwoodentankand jerking thechain thatcaused thewater to
flowintothelocomotive’stender.“DoyouhavesufficientwatertomakeittoCheyennewithoutstopping?”Bell
askedhisfireman.“Ibelieveso,Mr.Bell.”“Passhim!”Belltoldtheengineer.“TakemestraighttotheCheyenneDepot.
Fastasyoucan.”FromBufordStation toCheyenne, the roaddescended two thousand feet in
thirtymiles.WithnothingontheeastboundtrackinfrontofBell’sspecial,theyheadedforCheyenneatninetymilesanhour.
19
THE WRECKER HAD AWAKENED THE INSTANT THE TRAIN HADstopped.HepartedtheshadeacrackandsawthesunshiningonpinkShermangranite,whichtherailroadquarriedfortrackballast.TheywouldbeinCheyenneforbreakfast.Heclosedhiseyes,gladforanotherhourofsleep.AlocomotivethunderedpastthesidetrackedLimited.TheWreckeropenedhiseyes.Herangfortheporter.“George,”hesaidtoJonathan.“Whyhavewestopped?”“Stoppedforwater,suh.”“Whydidatrainovertakeus?”“Don’tknow,suh.”“WearetheLimited.”“Yes,suh.”“Whattrainwouldbefasterthanthisone,damnyou?”Theporterflinched.SenatorKincaid’sfacewassuddenlywrackedwithrage,
his eyes hot, hismouth twistedwithhate. Jonathanwas terrified.TheSenatorcouldorderhimfiredinabreath.They’dthrowhimoffthetrainatthenextstop.Or right here on top of theRockyMountains. “Itweren’t no train passing us,suh.Itwasjustalocomotiveallbyhisself.”“Asinglelocomotive?”“Yes,suh!Justhimandhistender.”“Soitmusthavebeenacharteredspecial.”“Musthavebeen,suh.Justlikeyousay,suh.Goinglickety-split,suh.”TheWrecker lay back on the bed, clasped his hands behind his head, and
thoughthard.“Willtherebeanythingelse,suh?”Jonathanaskedwarily.“Coffee.”
BELL’S CHARTERED LOCOMOTIVE RACED through Cheyenne’s stock-yardsandintoUnionDepotshortlyafternineinthemorning.Herandirectlyto
the Inter-OceanHotel, the best among the three-story establishments he couldseefromthestation.Thehousedetectivetookonelookatthetallmaninrippedandtorneveningclothesandblood-soakedshirtandcrossedthelobbyatadeadruntointercepthim.“Youcan’tcomeinherelookinglikethat.”“Bell.VanDornAgency.Takemetothetailor.Androundupahaberdasher,a
shoe-shineboy,andabarber.”“Rightthisway,sir...ShallIgetyouadoctor,too?”“Notime.”TheOverlandLimitedglidedintoUnionDepotfortyminuteslater.IsaacBellwaswaitingontheplatformatthemiddleofthetrain,lookingfar
betterthanhefelt.Hisentirebodyachedandhisribshurtwitheverybreath.Buthewasgroomed,shaved,anddressedaswellashehadbeenatthepokergamethenightbefore, in crispblackeveningclothes, snow-white shirt, silkbow tieandcummerbund,andbootsshinedlikemirrors.Asmileplayedacrosshisswollenlips.Someoneonthistrainwasinforabig
surprise. The question was would the Wrecker be so shocked that he gavehimselfaway?Beforethetrainstoppedrolling,BellsteppedaboardthePullmanjustaheadof
thediningcar,pulledhimselfpainfullyup the steps, crossed to thediningcar,andsaunteredin.Forcinghimselftostandandwalknormallyforthebenefitofallwatching,heaskedthestewardforatableinthemiddle,whichallowedhimtoseewhoenteredfromeitherend.Lastnight’sthousand-dollartipintheobservationcarhadnotgoneunnoticed
bythetraincrew.Hewasseatedimmediatelyandbroughthotcoffee,steamingbreakfast rolls, and a warm recommendation to order the freshly caughtWyomingcutthroattrout.Bell had watched every man’s face as he had come into the dining car to
gaugereactionstohispresence.Several,notinghiseveningattire,remarkedwitha clubby smile, “Long night?” The Chicago meatpacker gave him a friendlywave,asdidthewell-dresseddrummerhehadspokenwithinthewashroom.JudgeCongdonwandered in, and said, “Forgiveme if Idon’t joinyou,Mr.
Bell.Withtheobviousexceptionofayounglady’scompany,Iprefermyowninthemorning.”KennyBloomstaggeredintothedinerwithahangovercloudinghiseyesand
satbesideBell.“Goodmorning,”saidBell.“Whatthehellisgoodaboutit...Say,whathappenedtoyourface?”“Cutmyselfshaving.”
“George!George!Coffeeoverherebeforeamandies.”Bruce Payne, the oil lawyer, hurried up to their table, talking a blue streak
aboutwhathehadreadintheCheyennenewspapers.KennyBloomcoveredhiseyes.JackThomassatdownatthelastemptychair,andsaid,“That’saheckofashiner.”“Cutmyselfshaving.”“There’s the Senator! Hell, we don’t have room for him. George! George!
RustleupanotherchairforSenatorKincaid.Amanwholosesasmuchmoneyashedidshouldn’thavetoeatalone.”BellwatchedKincaidapproachslowly,noddingtoacquaintancesashepassed
throughthediningcar.Suddenly,herecoiled,hisexpressionstartled.Thewell-dresseddrummerhadleapedupfromhisbreakfast,reachingouttoshakehands.Kincaid gave the salesman a cold stare, brushedpast, and proceeded toBell’stable.“Goodmorning,gentlemen.Feelingsatisfied,Mr.Bell?”“Satisfiedaboutwhat,Senator?”“Aboutwhat?Aboutwinningnearlyamilliondollarslastnight.Afairpiece
ofwhichwasmine.”“That’swhatIwasdoinglastnight,”saidBell,stillwatchingthedoors.“Iwas
tryingtoremember.Iknewitwassomethingthatcaughtmyattention.”“It looks like something caught your attention full in the face. What
happened?Didyoufalloffamovingtrain?”“Close shave,” said Isaac Bell, still watching the doors. But though he
lingeredoverbreakfastuntilthelasttablewascleared,hesawnoonereactasifhis presencewere a shock.Hewas not particularly surprised and onlymildlydisappointed.Ithadbeenalongshot.Butevenifhehadn’tspookedtheWreckerinto revealinghis identity, fromnowon theWreckerwouldbewatching a bitanxiouslyoverhisshoulder.WhosaidaVanDorndetectivecouldn’tfly?
20
WONGLEE,OFJERSEYCITY,NEWJERSEY,WASATINYMANWITHalopsided faceandablindedeye.Twentyyearsago,an Irishhodcarrier, thick-armed from lugging bricks, knocked Wong’s hat to the sidewalk, and whenWongaskedwhyhehadinsultedhim,thehodcarrierandtwocompanionsbeatWong so badly that his friends didn’t recognize him when they came to thehospital.Hehadbeentwenty-eightyearsoldwhenhewasattackedandfullofhope,improvinghisEnglishandworkinginalaundrytosaveenoughmoneytobringhiswifetoAmericafromtheirvillageinKowloon.Nowhewasnearlyfifty.Atonepoint,hehadsavedenoughtobuyhisown
laundry across the Hudson River on Manhattan Island in New York City inhopesofearningherpassagefaster.HisgoodEnglishdrewcustomersuntilthePanicof1893hadputasuddenendtothatdream,andWongLee’sFineHandWashLaunderingjoinedthetensofthousandsofbusinessesthatwerebankruptin the nineties.When prosperity finally returned, the long hard years had leftWong too weary to start a new business. Though ever hopeful, he now wassavingmoneybysleepingonthefloorofthelaundrywhereheworkedinJerseyCity.Muchofthatmoneywenttogetacertificateofresidence,whichwasanewprovisionincludedintheChineseExclusionActwhenitwasrenewedin1902.Itseemsthathehadneglectedtodefendhimselffromassaultcharges,thelawyerexplained,filedall thoseyearsagowhilehewasstill inthehospital.Sobribeswouldhavetobepaid.Orsothelawyerclaimed.Then that past February, with winter still lingering, a stranger approached
Wongwhenhewasaloneinhisemployer’slaundry.HewasawhiteAmerican,somuffledagainsttheriverwindthatonlyhiseyesshowedabovethecollarofhisinvernesscoatandbelowthebrimofhisfedora.“WongLee,”hesaid.“Ourmutualfriend,PeterBoa,sendsgreetings.”WongLeehadn’tseePeterBoaintwenty-fiveyears,notsincethey’dworked
togetherasimmigrantdynamitersblowingcutsinthemountainsfortheCentralPacificRailroad.Younganddaringandhopefulofreturningtotheirvillagesrichmen, they’dscrambleddowncliff facessettingcharges,competing toblast the
mostfoot-holdsforthetrains.WongsaidthathewashappytohearthatBoawasaliveandwell.Whenlast
Wonghadseenhim,intheSierraNevada,Peterhadlostahandtoasooner-than-expectedexplosion.Gangrenewascreepinguphisarm,andhehadbeentoosicktofleeCaliforniafromthemobsattackingChineseimmigrants.“PeterBoatoldmetolookyouupinJerseyCity.Hesaidyoucouldhelpme,
ashewasunable.”“Byyour clothes,”Wongobserved, “I can see thatyouare too rich toneed
helpfromapoorman.”“Rich indeed,” said the stranger, sliding a wad of banknotes across the
wooden counter. “An advance,” he called it, “until I return,” adding, “Richenoughtopayyouwhateveryouneed.”“Whatdoyouneed?”Wongcountered.“PeterBoatoldmethatyouhadaspecialgiftfordemolition.Hesaidthatyou
usedonestickofdynamitewhenmostmenneededfive.TheycalledyouDragonWong. And when you protested that only emperors could be dragons, theyproclaimedyouEmperorofDynamite.”Flattered,WongLeeknewitwastrue.Hehadhadanintuitiveunderstanding
ofdynamitebackwhennooneknewthatmuchaboutthenewexplosive.Hestillhad the gift. He had kept up with all the modern advances in demolition,including how electricity made explosives safer and more powerful, in theunlikelyhopethatonedayquarriesandconstructioncontractorswoulddeigntohiretheChinesetheyusedtohirebutnowshunned.Wong immediately used the money to buy a half interest in his boss’s
business.Butonemonthlater,thatpastMarch,aPanicsweptWallStreetagain.JerseyCityfactoriesclosed,asdidfactoriesallover thenation.The trainshadlessfreighttocarry,sothecarfloatshadfewerboxcarstoferryacrosstheriver.Jobs grew scarce on the piers, and fewer people could afford to have theirclothing laundered. All spring and summer, the Panic deepened. By autumn,Wonghadlittlehopeofeverseeinghiswifeagain.NowitwasNovember,bitterlycoldtoday,withanotherwinterlooming.AndthestrangercamebacktoJerseyCity,muffledagainsttheHudsonwind.HeremindedWongthatacceptinganadvancewasapromisetodeliver.Wongremindedthestrangerthathehadpromisedtopaywhateverheneeded.“Fivethousanddollarswhenthejobisdone.Willthatdoyou?”“Very good, sir.” Then, feeling unusually bold because the stranger truly
neededhim,Wongasked,“Areyouananarchist?”“Whydoyouask?”thestrangeraskedcoldly.“Anarchistslikedynamite,”Wonganswered.
“Sodo labor strikers,” the strangeransweredpatiently,proving thathe trulyneeded Wong Lee and only Wong Lee. “You know the expression ‘theproletariat’sartillery’?”“Butyoudonotwearworkman’sclothes.”TheWrecker studied the Chinaman’s battered face for a longminute, as if
memorizingeveryscar.Even though the laundry counter separated them,Wong suddenly felt they
werestandingtooclose.“Idon’tcare,”hetriedtoexplain.“Justcurious,”headdednervously.“Askmeagain,”saidthestranger,“andIwillremoveyourothereye.”WongLeebackedupastep.Thestrangeraskedaquestion,watchingWong’s
batteredfaceasiftestinghisskills.“What will you need tomake the biggest bang possible out of twenty-five
tons?”“Twenty-fivetonsofdynamite?Twenty-fivetonsisalotofdynamite.”“Afullboxcarload.Whatwillyouneedtomakethebiggestexplosion?”Wong told him precisely what he needed, and the stranger said, “You will
haveit.”OntheferrybacktoManhattanIsland,CharlesKincaidstoodoutontheopen
deck,stillmuffledagainstthecoldwindthatscatteredthecoalsmokenormallyhangingovertheharbor.Hecouldnothelpbutsmile.Strikeroranarchist?In fact, hewas neither, despite the fear-mongering “evidence” he had taken
painstoleavebehind.Radicaltalk,rabble-rousingposters,diabolicalforeigners,the Yellow Peril that Wong Lee’s body would soon furnish, even the nameWrecker,were all smoke in his enemies’ eyes.Hewas no radical.Hewas nodestroyer.Hewasabuilder.Hissmilebroadenedevenashiseyesgrewcolder.Hehadnothingagainstthe“favoredfew.”Beforehewasfinished,hewould
befirstamongthem,themostfavoredofall.
21
ISAACBELLANDARCHIEABBOTTCLIMBEDONTOPOFABOXCARfilledwithdynamitetosurveytheintercontinentalfreightterminalthatcarpetedJersey City’s Communipaw District. This was the end of the line for everyrailroad from theWest and the South. Freight cars that had traveled two andthree thousandmilesacrossAmericastoppedat theNewJerseypiersonemileshort of their destination, their way blocked by a stretch of water known tomarinersastheNorthRiverandcalledbyeveryoneelsetheHudson.The boxcar stood on the powder pier, a single-tracked wharf reserved for
unloadingexplosives.ButtheywerecloseenoughtoseethemainterminalthatthrustintotheHudsonRiveronsix-hundred-footfingerpiers.Fourfreighttrainswerestrungoutoneachpierwaitingtoberolledontosturdywoodenbargesandfloated across the river. They carried every commodity consumed by the city:cement,lumber,steel,sulfur,wheat,corn,coal,kerosene,andrefrigeratedfruits,vegetables,beef,andpork.A mile across the water, Manhattan Island rose out of the smoky harbor,
bristlingwith church steeples and ships’masts. Above the steeples andmastssoared the mighty towers of the Brooklyn Bridge and dozens of skyscrapers,manynewlyfinishedsinceBell’slastvisitonlyayearearlier.Thetwenty-two-storyFlatironBuildinghadbeensurpassedbytheTimesBuilding,andbothweredwarfed by a six-hundred-foot steel frame being built for the Singer SewingMachineCompany’snewheadquarters.“OnlyinNewYork,”boastedArchieAbbott.AbbottwasasproudasaChamberofCommercepromoter,butheknewthe
cityinsideout,whichmadehimBell’sinvaluableguide.“LookatthatboatflyingtheflagoftheSouthernPacificRailroadeventhough
she is three thousand miles from home plate. Everyone has to come to NewYork.Wehavebecomethecenteroftheworld.”“You’vebecomea target,”saidBell.“TheWreckergotyouinhissights the
instantOsgoodHennessy sealedhisdeal to take control of the JerseyCentral,whichgainedhimaccesstothecity.”
Theharborvessel thathad sparkedAbbott’s civicpridewasa long, low-in-the-watersteamlighter,amaterialsandworkvesselconsiderablybiggerthanatugboat. She belonged to the newly formed Eastern Marine Division of theSouthernPacificRailroadandflewhercolorsmoreboldly than the localworkvesselsplyingthePortofNewYork.Abrand-newvermilionflagsnappedinthebreeze, and four red rings, bright as sealing wax, circled her soot-smearedsmokestack.Evenheroldname,Oxford,hadbeenpaintedover.Lillian Inowcircledher
cruiser stern. Hennessy had renamed every lighter and tugboat in the EasternMarine Division fleet, Lillian I through Lillian XII, and had orderedSOUTHERNPACIFICRAILROADpaintedontheirtransomsandwheelhousesinbright-whiteletters.“Justincase,”Archieremarked,“theWreckerdoesn’tknowhe’shere.”“Heknows,”Bellsaidgrimly.Hisrestlesslyprobingblueeyesweredarkwithconcern.NewYorkCitywas
theHolyLand, asHarper’sWeekly had put it, towhich all railroaders longedmake a pilgrimage. Osgood Hennessy had achieved that goal, and Isaac BellknewinhisheartthattheWrecker’stauntingnoteonthemagazine’scartoonoftherailroadpresidentwasnobluff.Themurderoussaboteurwasbentonapublicattack.Thenextbattlewouldbefoughthere.Stone-faced,Bellwatchedoneofthecountlesstugboatsshuntingarailbarge,
orcarfloat,pastthepier.Deckhandscutthebargeloose,anditcontinuedunderitsownmomentum toglide smoothly andaccurately as abilliardball in for agentlelanding.Intheshorttimeittooklongshorementosecurethebarge’slines,the tughadseizedanotherbarge filledwithadozen freightcarsandshoved itinto the strong current, urging it toward Manhattan. Similar maneuvers werebeingrepeatedeverywhereBelllooked,likethemovingpartsinacolossal,well-oiled machine. But despite every precaution he had taken, the rail yards, thepiers,andthecarfloatslookedtohimliketheWrecker’splayground.He had put a score of Van Dorn operatives in charge of the terminal.
Superintendent Jethro Watt had furnished one hundred handpicked SouthernPacificspecialrailwaypolice,andforaweeknothinghadmovedinoroutthattheydidnotapprove.Nocargowentunchecked.Dynamitetrainsespeciallyweresearched car by car, boxbybox.Theyhaddiscovered an astonishingly casualapproachtothehandlingofhighexplosivesinJerseyCity,whichwasthelargestcity in thestateandasdenselypeopledasManhattanandBrooklynacross theharbor.UnderBell’sregime,armedguardsboardedthedynamitetrainsmilesbefore
evenentering theyards.After allowing the trains to enter, theguardsoversaw
every stepof theoff-loading, as boxcarsbearing twenty-five tonsof dynamitedispensedtheirdeadlycargointosteamlightersandbargesandintosmallertwo-tonloadsforwagonsdrawnbydrafthorses.VanDorndetectivesinterceptedallbutthatwhichwouldbeimmediatelyshippedouttocontractors.Still,Bellknewthat theWreckerwouldfindnoshortageofhighexplosives.
Dynamitewasinsuchdemandthattrainloadsarrivedonthepowderpierdayandnight. NewYorkerswere blowing up the city’s bedrock ofmica schist to digsubways and cellars in Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx. NewJerseyites were blasting traprock from hilltops to make concrete. Quarrymenwerecarvingbuildingstoneoutof theHudsonRivercliffs, fromNewJersey’sPalisades all the way up to West Point. Railroad builders were blastingapproachestotheHudsontunnelsbeingboredundertheriver.“WhentherailtunnelsconnectingNewJerseyandNewYorkarefinishednext
year,”Archiebragged,“OsgoodHennessycanparkhisspecialeightblocksfromTimesSquare.”“Thank theLord the tunnels arenot finished,” saidBell. “If theywere, the
WreckerwouldtrytoblowthemwithaSouthernPacificLimitedtrappedundertheriver.”Archie Abbott flaunted the New Yorker’s disdain for districts west of the
Hudsoningeneral,andthestateofNewJerseyinparticular,byremindingIsaacBell thatovertheyearsentiresectionsofJerseyCityandnearbyHobokenhadbeenperiodicallyleveledbydynamiteaccidents,mostrecentlyin1904.Belldidnotneedanyreminding.Thewordaboutthenewpolicepresencehad
gottenaround,andtipshadpouredinfromafearfulpublic.Justyesterday,theyhadtheycaughtsomefoolinawagoncartingahalftonofdynamitefortheNewYorkandNewJerseyTrapRockCompanyupNewarkAvenue.FailuretododgeatrolleywouldhaveresultedinadeadlyexplosiononthebusieststreetinJerseyCity.ThecompanywasprotestingmightilyabouttheexpenseofbeingforcedtotakedynamiteuptheHackensackRiver to theirSecaucusmine.But theJerseyCityfirecommissioner,notatallpleasedbyall thepublicattention,hadstooduntypicallyfirm.“These Jersey harebrains won’t need any help from the Wrecker to blow
themselves sky-high one of these days,” Archie Abbott predicted, “purelythroughnegligence.”“Notonmywatch,”saidIsaacBell.“Infact,”Abbottpersisted.“Iftherewereanexplosion,howwouldweknow
itwastheWreckerandnotaJerseyharebrain?”“We’llknow.Ifhemanagestogetaroundus,itwillbethebiggestexplosion
NewYorkhaseverseen.”
Accordingly, Bell had stationed railway police on every train and boat andfreightwagonownedbytheSouthernPacific.HebackedthemupwithVanDornoperatives and inspectors borrowed from the Bureau of Explosives, newlyfoundedbytherailroadstopromotesafetransportationofdynamite,gunpowder,andTNT.Every man carried the lumberjack’s sketch. Bell’s hopes for it had been
bolstered by a report on theOgden disaster fromNicolasAlexander, the self-importantheadoftheDenveroffice,who,despitehisflaws,happenedtobeanabledetective.SomehadwonderediftheWreckerhadsoughtWallyKisleyandMack Fulton out deliberately to attack Van Dorn agents. But Alexander hadconfirmed Bell’s initial conclusion that Wally and Mack had pursued theWreckerdownanalley.Whichmeanttheyhadrecognizedhimfromthesketch.Andtheby-now-familiarsword-puncturewoundsleftnodoubttheWreckerhadkilledthemwithhisownhand.“My friend,” saidArchie, “you’reworrying toomuch.We have every base
covered.We’vebeenat it aweek.Notapeepoutof theWrecker.Theboss istickledpink.”BellknewthatJosephVanDornwouldnotbetickledentirelypinkuntilthey
arrested theWrecker or shot him dead.But itwas true that the powerfulVanDorn presence had already had the wonderful side effect of apprehendingvarious criminals and fugitives. They had arrested a Jersey City gangstermasqueradingasaJerseyCentralrailroaddetective,atrioofbankrobbers,andacorrupt Fire Commission inspector who had taken bribes to overlook thedangerous practice of storing dynamite on steam radiators to keep it fromfreezinginthewintercold.ThepowderpierworriedBellthemost,eventhoughitswarmedwithrailroad
police. Isolatedas far aspossible from themainpiers, itwas still tooclose inBell’sopinion.Andasmanyassixcarsatatimewereoff-loadingdynamiteontothelightersthatnuzzledaroundit.Takingnochances,Bellhadputincommandof the railwaypolice the seasonedVanDornagentEddieEdwards,whoknewwelltherailyards,thedocks,andthelocalgangs.
WONGLEEWALKEDTOtheCommunipawpiers,histinyframebentnearlyin half under theweight of a huge laundry sack. A railroad detective loomedoverhim,demandingwherethehellchinkboythoughthewasgoing.“Chop-chop,laundryforcaptain,”WongansweredinthepidginEnglishthat
heknewthedetectiveexpectedofhim.“Whatship?”
Deliberatelymispronouncing the /s and rs, he named the Julia Reidhead, asteelthree-mastedbarquecarryingbonesforfertilizer,andthecoplethimpass.ButwhenhegottothebarquewherePolishdaylaborerswereunloadingthe
reeking cargo, he plodded past and climbed the gangplank to a battered two-mastedschoonerinthelumbertrade.“Hey,chink?”shoutedthemate.“Wherethehellareyougoing?”“CaptainYatkowski,chop-chop,clothes.”“Inhiscabin.”Thecaptainwasahard-bittenwatermanfromYonkerswhosmuggledbootleg
whiskey,Chineseopium,andfugitivesseekingfriendlierjurisdictionsacrosstheriver.Criminalswho refused topayup forpassage to safer shoreswere foundfacedownintheLowerBay,andwordhadgottenaroundtheunderworldnevertocheatCaptainPaulYatkowskiandhismate“BigBen”Weitzman.“Whatdoyougot,Chinaman?”WongLeeputdownhissackandgentlytuggedopenthedrawstring.Thenhe
feltcarefullyamongthecleanshirtsandsheetsandremovedaroundcookietin.Hewasdonespeakingpidgin.“I have everything I need,” he replied. Inside the tinwas a rackmade of a
metalplatedrilledwithholesintowhichfitcoppercapsulessothattheycouldbestoredandcarriedwithout touchingoneanother.Therewere thirtyholes, eachfilledwithacoppercapsuleasbigaroundasapencilandhalfaslong.Fromthesulfurpluginthetopofeachextendedtwoinsulated“legwires.”TheywereNo.6high-grademercury-fulminatedetonators,themostpowerful.Thesecretto“DragonWong”Lee’ssuccessinhisearlierlifeblowingrockfor
thewestern railroadshadbeenacombinationof instinctandbravery.Workingsevendaysaweekonthecliffs,andbeingunusuallyobservant,hehadcometounderstandthatanyonestickofdynamitecontainedwithinitsgreasywrappingmorepowerthanwassupposed.Italldependeduponhowquicklyitexploded.He had developed an innate understanding that multiple detonators firedsimultaneouslyspeduptherateofdetonation.The faster a charge exploded, the greater the power, themoreWong could
increaseitsshatteringeffect.Fewcivilengineershadunderstoodthatthirtyyearsagowhen dynamitewas relatively new, still fewer illiterate Chinese peasants.Fewest of all had been brave enough, before electrically fired blasting capsreducedthedanger,totakethechancesthathadtobetakenwhentheonlymeansofdetonationwasanunreliableburningfuse.Sotherealsecrettobigbangswasbravery.“Doyouhavetheelectricalbatteries?”Wongasked.“Igot‘em,”saidtheschooner’scaptain.
“Andthewires?”“Allhere.Nowwhat?”Wongsavoredthemoment.Thecaptain,ahard,brutalmanwhowouldknock
hishatoffinthestreet,wasawedbyWong’sdarkskills.“Nowwhat?”Wongrepeated.“NowIgetbusy.Yousailboat.”
ADOZENRIFLE-TOTINGRAILROADpoliceguardedastringofsixboxcarsonthepowderpier.Threekeptasharpeyeonthegangofdaylaborershiredtoremove fromoneof theboxcars eight hundred fifty sixty-poundboxesof six-inch sticks that had been manufactured by the Du Pont de Nemours PowderWorks inWilmington,Delaware.Fourmorewatched theLillianI’s crew stowthe dynamite in the lighter’s capacious hold.One, a bank auditor by training,harassed the lighter’s captain by poring repeatedly through his invoices anddispatches.LillianI’smaster,CaptainWhitPetrie,was in a foulmood.Hehadalready
misseda rising tide thatwouldhave spedhis runupriver.Anymoredelay,hewouldbebuttingagainstthecurrenttheentiresixtymilestothetraprockquarryat Sutton Point. On top of that, his new Southern Pacific bosses were evencheaperthanhisoldNewJerseyCentralbosses,andevenlessinclinedtospendmoney for necessary repairs on his belovedOxford.Which they had renamedLillian,againstalltradition,whenanyonewithhalfabrainknewitwasbadlucktochangeavessel’sname,temptingthefates,and,evenworse,reducinghertoanumber,LillianI,asifshewerenotafinersteamlighterthanLilliansIIthroughXII.“Say, here’s an idea,” said the exasperated captain. “I’ll go home and have
supperwiththewife.Youboysruntheboat.”Notonecopcrackedasmile.Onlywhentheywereabsolutelysurethathewas
delivering a legitimate cargo of twenty-five tons of dynamite to a legitimatecontractorblastingtraprockoutoftheHudsonValleycliffs—arunuptheriver,he pointed out repeatedly, that he had been doing for eight years—did theyfinallylethimgo.Notsofast!Justastheywerecastingofflines,atall,grim-faced,yellow-haireddudeinan
expensive topcoat came marching up the powder pier, accompanied by asidekickwholookedlikeaFifthAvenueswellexceptforthefinewhitelinesofboxing scars creasing his brow. They jumped aboard, light on their feet asacrobats,andtheyellow-hairedmanflashedaVanDorndetectivebadge.HesaidhewasChiefInvestigatorIsaacBell,andthiswasDetectiveArchibaldAbbott,
andhedemandedtoseePetrie’spapers.TheiceinBell’seyestoldPetrienottojokeaboutgoinghomeforsupper,andhewaitedpatientlywhilehisdispatcheswerereadlinebylineforthetenthtimethatafternoon.Itwas thesidekick,Abbott,whofinallysaid, inavoicestraightoutofNew
York’sHell’sKitchen,“Allright,Cap,shoveoff.Sorrytoholdyouup,butwe’renot taking any chances.” He beckoned a Southern Pacific Railroad bull witharms likeagorilla.“McColleen,you ridewithCaptainPetrie.He’sheaded fortheUpperHudsonPulverizedSlateCompanyatSuttonPoint.He’sgottwenty-five tons of dynamite in his hold. Anyone tries to change course, shoot thebastard!”ThenAbbottthrewanarmaroundIsaacBell’sshouldersandtriedtosteerhim
upthegangplank,andspeakinginanentirelydifferentvoicethatsoundedlikehetrulywasaFifthAvenueswell,said,“That’sit,myfriend.You’vebeenatitfullboreforastraightweek.You’veleftgoodchaps incharge.We’re takinganightoff.”“No,”growledBell,castingananxiouseyeonthefiveremainingboxcarsof
the powder train. Dusk was gathering. Three railroad guards were aiming awater-cooled, tripod-mounted, belt-fed Vickers automatic machine gun at thegatethatblockedtherailsfromthemainfreightyards.“Mr.VanDorn’sorders,” saidAbbott. “He says if youwon’t take thenight
off,you’reoff thecaseandsoamI.He’snot fooling, Isaac.Hesaidhewantsclearheadsallaround.HeevenboughtusticketstotheFollies.”“Ithoughtitclosed.”“Theshow’sreopenedforaspecialrunwhilethey’regettingitreadytotake
on tour.My friend the newspaper critic called it, quote, ‘The bestmelange ofmirth,music,andprettygirlsthathasbeenseenhereinmanyayear.’Everyonein town isbeatingdowndoors toget tickets.We’vegot ‘em!Come.We’llgetdressed,andhaveabiteatmyclubfirst.”“First,”Bellsaidgrimly,“Iwantthreefullyloadedcoaltendersparked,brake
wheels locked,on theother sideof thatgate, in case somebraingets abrightideatoramitwithalocomotive.”
22
ARCHIE ABBOTT, WHOSE BLUE-BLOODED FAMILY HAD FORBADEhimtobecomeanactor,belongedtoaclubinGramercyParkcalledThePlayers.ThePlayershadbeen foundednineteenyears earlier by the stage actorEdwinBooth,thefinestHamletofthepreviouscenturyandthebrotherofthemanwhohad shot President Lincoln. Mark Twain and General William TecumsehSherman,whosefamouslydestructivemarchthroughGeorgiahadhastenedtheend of the Civil War, had joined the effort. Booth had deeded over his ownhome, and celebrated architect Stanford White had transformed it into aclubhousebeforehewasshot todeathinMadisonSquareGardenbysteelheirHarryThaw.Bell andAbbottmet for aquick supperdownstairs in theGrill. Itwas their
firstmealsinceabreakfastgulpedatdawninaJerseyCitysaloon.TheyclimbedagrandstaircaseforcoffeebeforetheyheadeduptowntoForty-fourthStreetandBroadwaytoseetheFolliesof1907.Bell paused in theReadingRoom to admire a full-length portrait of Edwin
Booth.Theartist’sunmistakablestyle,apowerfulmixofclear-eyedrealismandromanticimpressionismraisedatideofemotioninhisheart.“ThatwaspaintedbyabrotherPlayer,”Abbottremarked.“Rathergood,isn’t
it?”“JohnSingerSargent,”saidBell.“Oh, of course you recognize hiswork,” saidAbbott. “Sargent painted that
portraitofyourmotherthathangsinyourfather’sdrawingroominBoston.”“Justbeforeshedied,”saidBell.“Thoughyouwouldneverknowitlookingat
suchabeautifulyoungwoman.”Hesmiledatthememory.“SometimesI’dsitonthestairandtalktoit.ShelookedimpatientandIcouldtellshewassayingtoSargent,‘Finishup,already,I’mgettingboredholdingthisflower.”’“Frankly,”Abbottjoked,“I’dratheranswertoapaintingthanmymother.”“Let’sgetgoing!Ihavetostopattheofficeandtellthemwheretofindme.”
LikeallVanDornofficesinlargecities,theirheadquartersinTimesSquarewasopentwenty-fourhoursaday.
Dressedinwhitetieandtails,operacapesandtophats,theyhurriedtoParkAvenue,whichtheyfoundjammedwithhansomcabs,automobiletaxicabs,andtowncarscreepinguptown.“We’llbeatthismessonthesubway.”The underground station at Twenty-third was ablaze in electric light and
gleamingwhitetile.Passengerscrowdingthetrainplatformranthegamutfrommen and women out for the night to tradesmen, laborers, and housemaidstravelinghome.Aspeedingexpresstrainflickeredthroughthestation,windowspackedwithhumanity,andAbbottboasted,“OursubwayswillmakeitpossibleformillionsofNewYorkerstogotoworkinskyscrapers.”“Yoursubway,”Bellobserveddrily,“willmakeitpossibleforcriminalstorob
abankdowntownandcelebrateuptownbeforethecopsarriveonthescene.”The subway whisked them in moments uptown to Forty-second and
Broadway.Theyclimbedthestepsintoaworldwherenighthadbeenbanished.Times Square was lit bright as noon by “spectaculars,” electric billboards onwhichthousandsofwhitelightsadvertisedtheaters,hotels,andlobsterpalaces.Motorcars, taxicabs,andbuses roared in thestreets.Crowdsrushedeagerlyonwidesidewalks.Bell cut into theKnickerbockerHotel, a first-classhostelrywith amural of
OldKingColepaintedbyMaxfieldParrishdecoratingthelobby.TheVanDornoffice was on the second floor, set back a discreet distance from the grandstairway. A competent-looking youth with slicked-back hair and a sliver of abow tie greeted clients in a tastefully decorated front room. His tailored coatconcealedasidearmheknewhowtouse.Ashort-barreledscattergunwascloseathandinabottomdrawerofhisdesk.Hecontrolledthelocktothebackroombyanelectricswitchbesidehisknee.Thebackroomlookedlikeanadvertisingmanager’soffice,withtypewriters,
green-glasslamps,steelfilingcabinets,acalendaronthewall,atelegraphkey,andarowofcandlesticktelephonesonthedutyofficer’sdesk.Insteadofwomenin white blouses typing at the desks, a half dozen detectives were filling outpaperwork, discussing tactics, or lounging on a break from house-dick lobbyduty in the Times Square hotels. It had separate entrances for visitors whoseappearance might not pass muster in the Knickerbocker’s fine lobby or weremorecomfortableenteringandleavingadetectiveagencybythealley.CatcallsgreetedBell’sandAbbott’scostumes.“Gangway!Operaswellscomin’through!”“Youbumsneverseenagentlemanbefore?”askedAbbott.“Whereyouheadeddressedlikepenguins?”“The JardindeParison the roofof theHammersteinTheater,” saidAbbott,
tippinghissilkhatandflourishinghiscane.“TotheFolliesof1907.”
“What?Youhave tickets to theFollies?” theyblurted inamazement. “Howdidyougetyourmittsonthem?”“Courtesyof theboss,” saidAbbott. “Theproducer,Mr.Ziegfeld,owesMr.
Van Dorn a favor. Something about a wife that wasn’t his. Come on, Isaac.Curtain’sgoingup!”ButIsaacBellstoodstock-still,staringatthetelephones,whichwerelinedup
like soldiers. Somethingwas nagging at him. Something forgotten. Somethingoverlooked.Oramemoryofsomethingwrong.The Jersey City powder pier leaped into his mind’s eye. He had a
photographic memory, and he traced the pier’s reach from the land into thewater,footbyfoot,yardbyyard.HesawtheVickersmachinegunpointedatthegatethatisolateditfromthemainyards.Hesawthecoaltendershehadorderedmovedtoprotectthegate.Hesawthestringofloadedboxcars, thesmoke,thetide-roiled water, the redbrick Communipaw passenger terminal with its ferrydockatthewater’sedgeinthedistance...Whatwasmissing?A telephone rang. The duty officer snapped up the middle one, which
someonehadmarkedas foremostwithanurgentslashofshowgirl’s lip rouge.“Yes,sir,Mr.VanDorn!...Yes,sir!He’shere...Yes,sir!I’lltellhim.Good-bye,Mr.VanDorn.”Thedutyofficer,cradlingtheearpiece,saidtoIsaacBell,“Mr.VanDornsays
ifyoudon’tleavetheofficethisminute,you’refired.”TheyfledtheKnickerbocker.ArchieAbbott, ever the proud tour guide, pointed out the two-story yellow
façadeofRector’sRestaurantas theyheadedupBroadway.He tookparticularnoteofahugestatueoutfront.“Seethatgriffin?”“Hardtomiss.”“It’sguardingthegreatestlobsterpalaceinthewholecity!”
LILLIANHENNESSYLOVEDMAKINGherentranceatRector’s.Sweepingpast the griffin on the sidewalk, ushered into an enormous green-and-yellowwonderlandofcrystalandgoldbrilliantlylitbygiantchandeliers,shefeltwhatitmustbe like tobeagreat andbelovedactress.Thebestpartwas the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that let everyone in the restaurant see who was entering therevolvingdoor.Tonight, people had stared at her beautiful golden gown, gaped at the
diamonds nestled about her breasts, and whispered about her astonishinglyhandsomeescort.Or,touseMarionMorgan’sterm,herunspeakablyhandsome
escort. Too bad it was only Senator Kincaid, still tirelessly courting her, stillhopingtogethishandsonherfortune.HowmuchmoreexcitingitwouldbetowalkinherewithamanlikeIsaacBell,handsomebutnotpretty,strongbutnotbrutish,ruggedbutnotrough.“Apennyforyourthoughts,”saidKincaid.“I think we should finish our lobsters and get to the show... Oh, hear the
band...AnnaHeld’scoming!”Therestaurant’sbandalwaysplayedaBroadwayactress’snewhitwhenshe
entered.Thesongwas“IJustCan’tMakeMyEyesBehave.”Lilliansangalonginasweetvoiceinperfectpitch,
Inthenortheastcornerofmyface,andthenortheastcorneroftheself-sameplace...
Thereshewas, theFrenchactressAnnaHeld,withher tinywaistshownoffbyamagnificentgreengownmuchlongerthansheworeonstage,wreathedinsmilesandflashinghereyes.“Oh,Charles,thisissoexciting.I’mgladwecame.”Charles Kincaid smiled at the astonishingly rich girl leaning across the
tablecloth and suddenly realized how truly young and innocent she was. Hewouldbetmoneythatshe’dlearnedthetrickssheplayedwithherbeautifuleyesbystudyingHeld’severygesture.Veryeffectively too,hehad toadmit,asshegavehimawell-practicedup-from-underblazeofpaleblue.Hesaid,“I’msogladyoutelephoned.”“TheFolliesareback,”sheansweredblithely.“Ihadtocome.Whowantsto
gotoashowalone?”That pretty much summed up her attitude toward him. He hated that she
spurnedhim.Butwhenhegotdonewithherfather,theoldmanwouldn’thavetwobitstoleaveinhiswillwhilehewouldberichenoughtoownLillian,lock,stock,andbarrel.Inthemeantime,pretendingtocourthergavehimtheexcusehe needed to spend more time around her father than he would have beenpermittedinhisroleoftamesenatorcastingvotesonissuesdeartotherailroadcorporations. Let Lillian Hennessy spurn her too old, vaguely comic, gold-diggingsuitor,ahopelessloverasunremarkableandunnoticedasthefurniture.Hewouldownherintheend—notasawifebutanobject,likeabeautifulpieceofsculpture,tobeenjoyedwhenhefelttheurge.“I had to come, too,” Kincaid answered her, silently cursing the Rawlins
prizefighterswho’dfailedtomurderIsaacBell.Thisnightofallnights,hehadtobeseeninpublic.IfBellwasnotgrowing
suspicious, hewould soon. By now, an early sense of somethingwrongmust
havebegunpercolatinginthedetective’smind.HowlongbeforeBell’swantedposterjoggedthememoryofsomeonewhohadseenhimpreparingdestruction?Theoversizeearsinthesketchwouldnotprotecthimforever.WhatbetteralibisthantheFolliesof1907inHammerstein’sJardindeParis?Hundreds of people would remember Senator Charles Kincaid dining at
Rector’swiththemostsought-afterheiressinNewYork.AthousandwouldseetheHeroEngineerarriveatthebiggestshowonBroadwaywithanunforgettablegirlonhisarm—afullmileandhalfawayfroma“show” thatwouldoutshineeventheFollies.“Whatareyousmilingabout,Charles?”Lillianaskedhim.“I’mlookingforwardtotheentertainment.”
23
PIRACYWASRAREONTHEHUDSONRIVERINTHEEARLYYEARSofthetwentiethcentury.WhenCaptainWhitPetriesawarakedbowloomoutoftherain,hisonlyreactionwastoblowLillianI‘swhistletowarntheotherboatnottogettooclose.ThesonorousblastofsteamwokeMcColleen,therailroaddickwhowassnoozingonthebenchinthebackofthewheelhouseasLillianIchurnednorthpastYonkers,fightinganebbtideandapowerfulrivercurrent.“What’sthat?”“Vesselundersail...Damnedfoolmustbedeaf.”Theloomingbowwasstillbearingdownonhim,closeenoughtorevealthat
the sails silhouetted against the dark sky were schooner-rigged. Whit Petrieloweredawheelhousewindowtoseebetterandheardthethumpofherauxiliarygasolineenginedrivinghard.Heyankedhiswhistlepullagainandputthewheelovertoveerawaybeforetheycollided.Theotherboatveeredwithhim.“Whatthehell?”Bynow,McColleenwasonhisfeet,allbusiness,yankingarevolverfromhis
coat.Ashotgunbellowed,blowingoutthewindowsandblindingMcColleenwith
flyingglass.Therailwaydickfellback,cryingoutinpainandclutchinghisfaceand firing blindly.Captain Petrie drew on bred-in-the-bone JerseyCity street-fighterinstincts.Hewhirledhiswheelhardovertoramtheattacker.Itwastherighttactic.Theheavilyladensteamlighterwouldbecertaintocut
thewoodenschoonerinhalf.ButLillianI‘swornrudderlinkage,longneglectedbytheNewJerseyCentralRailroadandnowtheSouthernPacific,failedunderthewrenchingmaneuver.Steeringgearcarriedaway,ruddergone,thedynamiteboatstalledpartwayintothesharpturnandwallowedhelplessly.Theschoonerslammedalongside,andagangofmenstormedaboard,howling likebansheesandfiringgunsatanyonewhomoved.
THEJARDINDEPARISwasamakeshifttheaterontheroofofHammerstein’s
Olympia.This cold, rainynight, canvas curtainswere lowered tokeepout thewindbutdidlittletomufflethenoiseofthegasolinebusesonBroadwaybelow.Butnooneholdingaticketlookedanythingbuthappytobethere.Tablesandchairswerearrangedonaflatfloormorelikeadancehallthanan
auditorium. But the management had added elaborate boxes to attract whatArchieAbbottcalled“abetterclassofaudience.”Theboxeswerenewlybuiltona sweeping horseshoe-shaped platform on top of a pagoda that spanned theelevator entrance. FlorenzZiegfeld, the producer of theFollies, had given theVanDorndetectivesthebestofthoseseats.Theyofferedaclear,closeviewofthestageandasweepingpanoramaoftherestoftheboxes,whichwerefillingwithmenwearingwhitetieandtailsandwomeningownsfitforaball.Scanning the arriving audience, Bell suddenly locked eyes with Lillian
Hennessyasshetookaseatacrosstheway.Shelookedmorebeautifulthaneverinagoldgownandwithherblondhairpiledhighuponherhead.Hesmiledather, and her face lit up with genuine pleasure, forgiving him apparently forwrecking her Packard automobile. In fact, he reflected worriedly, she wassmilingathim likeagirlon thebrinkof total infatuation—whichwas the lastthingeitherofthemneeded.“Lookatthatgirl!”blurtedAbbott.“Archie,ifyouleanoutanyfarther,you’llfallintothecheapseats.”“Worth it if she’ll weep overmy body—you’ll tell her how I died.Wait a
minute,she’ssmilingatyou.”“Her name is Lillian,” said Bell. “That Southern Pacific steam lighter you
weregawkingat thisafternoon isnamedafterher.As is everything that floatsthat’sownedbytherailroad.She’soldHennessy’sdaughter.”“Rich, too? God in heaven. Who’s the stuffed shirt with her? He looks
familiar.”“SenatorCharlesKincaid.”“Ohyes.TheHeroEngineer.”BellreturnedKincaid’snodcoolly.HewasnotsurprisedthatKincaid’scheck
forpokerlosseshadstillnotarrivedattheYaleClub.Menwhodealtfromthebottomofthedecktendednottopaytheirdebtswhentheythoughttheycouldgetawaywithit.“TheSenatorcertainlygotlucky.”“I don’t think so,” saidBell. “She’s too rich and independent to fall for his
line.”“Whatmakesyousaythat?”“Shetoldme.”“Whywouldsheconfideinyou,Isaac?”
“ShewaspolishingoffherthirdbottleofMumm.”“Soyougotlucky.”“IgotluckywithMarion,andI’mgoingtostayluckywithMarion.”“Love,”Archiemockmournedinadolefulvoiceasthehouselightsbeganto
dim,“stalksuslikedeathandtaxes.”Agranddowager,wrappedinyardsofsilk,behattedinfeathers,anddripping
diamonds, leanedfromthenextbox to rapAbbott’sshoulder imperiouslywithherlorgnette.“Quietdown,youngman.Theshowisstarting...Oh,Archie,it’syou.Howis
yourmother?”“Verywell,thankyou,Mrs.Vanderbilt.I’lltellheryouasked.”“Pleasedo.AndArchie? I couldnothelpbutoverhear.Thegentlemanwith
you is correct. The young lady has little regard for that loathsome legislator.And,Imustsay,shecouldhandilyrepairyourfamily’statteredfortunes.”“Motherwouldbedelighted,”Abbottagreed,addinginamutterforonlyBell
tohear, “AsMother regards theVanderbilts as uncultivated ‘newmoney,’ youcan imagine her horror were I to bring home the daughter of a ‘shirtsleeverailroader.”’“Youshouldbesolucky,”saidBell.“Iknow.ButMother’smadeitclear,noonebelowanAstor.”BellshotalookacrosstheboxesatLillian,andabrilliantschemeleapedfull
blownintohismind.AschemetoderailMissLillian’sgrowinginfatuationwithhimandsimultaneouslygetpoorArchie’smotheroffArchie’sback.Butitwouldrequiretherestraintofadiplomatandthelighttouchofajeweler.Soallhesaidwas,“Pipedown!Theshowisstarting.”
INTHEMIDDLEOFtheHudsonRiver,amilewestofBroadway,thepiratedSouthernPacificsteamlighterLillianIdasheddownstream.Theoutflowingtidedoubledthespeedofthecurrent,makingupforthetimetheyhadlostrepairingher steering gear. She steamed in companywith thewooden sailing schoonerthathadcapturedher.Thewindwassoutheast, thickwithrain.Theschooner’ssailswereclose-hauled,hergasolineenginechurningitshardesttokeepupwithLillianI.Theschooner’scaptain,thesmugglerfromYonkers,feltatwingeofsentiment
for the old girl who was about to be blown to smithereens. Aminor twinge,Yatkowskithought,smiling,havingbeenpaidtwicethevalueoftheschoonertodrownthesteamlighter’screwintheriverandstandbytorescuetheChinamanwhen they sent her on her last voyage.The boss paying the bills hadmade it
clear:lookoutfortheChinamanuntilthejobwasdone.Bringhimbackinonepiece.Thebosshadusefortheexplosivesexpert.
THEANNAHELDGIRLS,acclaimedbytheproducertobe“themostbeautifulwomenevergathered inone theater,”weredancingupa storm, in shortwhitedresses,wide hats, and red sashes, as they sang “I JustCan’tMakeMyEyesBehave.”“SomeofthosewomenareimportedstraightfromParis,”Abbottwhispered.“Idon’tseeAnnaHeld,”Bellmutteredback,familiarasanymaninthenation
undertheageofninetywiththeFrenchactress’sexpressiveeyes,eighteen-inchwaist,andresultantlycurvaceouships.Herskin,itwasclaimed,wasconditionedby daily baths in milk. Bell glanced across at Lillian Hennessy, who waswatching with rapt attention, and he suddenly realized that her tutor, Mrs.Comden,wasshapedverymuchlikeAnnaHeld.DidPresidentHennessypourhermilkbaths?Abbottapplauded loudly,and theaudience followedsuit. “For some reason,
knownbesttoMr.Ziegfeld,”hetoldBellovertheroar,“AnnaHeldisnotoneoftheAnnaHeldGirls.Eventhoughshe’shiscommon-lawwife.”“IdoubttheentireVanDornDetectiveAgencycangethimoutofthatfix.”TheFolliesof1907racedon.Burlesquecomediansarguedaboutabarbillin
German accents likeWeber and Fields and a suddenly sobered Bell fixed onMack andWally.WhenAnnabelleWhitford cameon stage in a blackbathingcostume as the Gibson Bathing Girl, Abbott nudged Bell and whispered,“Rememberthenickelodeonwhenwewerekids?Shedidthebutterflydance.”Bellwas listeningwithhalf attention,pondering theWrecker’splan.Where
wouldheattacknowthattheyhadallbasescovered?Andwhat,Bellwondered,had he himself missed? The grim answer was that whatever he missed, theWreckerwouldsee.Theorchestrahadstruckuparaucous“I’veBeenWorkingontheRailroad,”
andAbbottnudgedBellagain.“Look.Theyputourclientintheact.”The burlesque comedians were posing in front of a painted backdrop of a
SouthernPacific locomotive steamingupbehind themas if about to run themover.Evenpayinghalfattention,itwasclearthatthecomedianincolonialdresscavorting on a hobby horse was supposed to be Paul Revere. His costar inengineer’s striped cap and overalls represented Southern Pacific RailroadpresidentOsgoodHennessy.PaulReveregallopedup,wavingatelegram.
“TelegramfromtheUnitedStatesSenate,PresidentHennessy.”“Hand it over, Paul Revere!” Hennessy snatched it from the horseman and
read aloud, “‘Please, sir, telegraph instructions. You forgot to tell us how tovote.”’“Whatareyourinstructionstothesenators,PresidentHennessy?”“Therailroadiscoming.Therailroadiscoming.”“Howshouldtheyvote?”“Oneifbyland.”“Shineonelanterninthesteepleiftherailroadcomesbyland?”“Bribes,dummkopf!Notlanterns.Bribes!”“Howmanybribesbysea?”“Twoifby—”IsaacBellleapedfromhisseat.
24
INTHEDARKHOLDOFTHESTEAMLIGHTERLILLIANI,WONGLeewas finishing his intricatewiring by the light of anEvereadywooden bicyclelanternpoweredby threedrycell “D”batteries.WongLeewasgrateful for it,recalling with no nostalgia the old days of connecting dynamite fuses by thelightof anopen flame.Thank thegods for electricity,whichprovided light toworkbyandpowertoignitedetonatorswithuncannyprecision.
ISAACBELLEXITEDTHE Jardin de Paris through the canvas rain curtainsandpoundeddownasteelstairwayattachedtotheoutsideoftheHammersteinTheater.He landed in an alley and ran toBroadway. Itwas twoblocks to theKnickerbockerHotel.Thesidewalkswere jammedwithpeople.Hedarted intothe street, dodging traffic, raced downtown, tore through the lobby of theKnickerbocker, and bounded up the stairs to the Van Dorn Agency, reachedunderthestartledfrontman’sdeskforthesecretdoor-lockswitch,andburstintothebackroom.“Iwant Eddie Edwards on the powder pier.Which is the telephone line to
JerseyCity?”“Numberone,sir.Likeyouordered.”Bellpickedupthetelephoneandclickedrepeatedly.“GetmeEddieEdwards.”“Thatyou,Isaac?AreyoubringingushomeaFolliesgirl?”“Listen tome,Eddie.Move theVickersmachine gun so you can cover the
wateraswellasthemaingate.”“Can’t.”“Whynot?”“Thosefivepowdercarsblockthefieldoffire.Icancoveroneortheother,
butnotthegateandthewaterboth.”“Thengetanothermachinegun.Incaseheattacksfromthewater.”“I’mtryingtoborrowonefromtheArmy,butitain’tgonnahappentonight.
Sorry,Isaac.WhatifIputacoupleofriflemenontheendofthepier?”“Yousaythepowdercarsblockthefieldoffire?Putyourmachinegunontop
ofthem.”“Ontopofthem?”“You heardme. Position yourmachine gun on top of the dynamite cars so
theycanswivelthegunineitherdirection.Thatway,theycancoverthegateandthewater.Onthejump,Eddie.Doitnow!”Bell cradled the earpiecewith great relief.Thatwaswhat he had forgotten.
Thewater.Anattackbyboat.Hegrinnedattheotherdetectives,whohadbeenlisteningavidly.“Manninganautomaticmachinegunon topofadynamite trainought tobe
plentyincentivetostayawake,”hesaid.Hesaunteredbacktothetheater,feelingmuchlessworried,andslippedinto
hisseatjustasthecurtaincamedownontheFollies’firstact.“Whatwasthatallabout?”Abbottasked.“If theWreckerdecides to attack from thewater,he’sgoing to runhead-on
intoaVickersautomaticmachinegun.”“Good thinking, Isaac. So now you can relax by introducing me to your
friend.”“SenatorKincaid?”Bellasked innocently.“Iwouldn’tcallhimafriend.We
playedalittledraw,but...”“You knowwho Imean, you son of a gun. I am referring to the Southern
PacificHelenofTroywhosegorgeousfacelaunchedtwelvesteamboats.”“ShestrikesmeasmuchtoointelligenttofallforaPrincetonman.”“She’sgettingintotheelevator!Comeon,Isaac!”Crowdsofpeoplewerewaitingfortheelevators.BellledAbbottthroughthe
canvasraincurtains,downtheoutsidestairway,andintothecavernouslobbyonthegroundfloorthatservedallthreetheatersinthebuilding.“Theresheis!”LillianHennessyandSenatorKincaidweresurroundedbyadmirers.Women
werevyingtoshakehishandwhiletheirhusbandselbowedoneanothertryingtomake Lillian’s acquaintance. It was doubtful that their wives noticed or evencared.BellsawtwoofthemsliptheircallingcardssurreptitiouslyintoKincaid’spocket.Tallerthanmost,andexperiencedinbarroombrawlsandriotcontrol,theVan
Dorndetectivespartedthecrushlikeasquadronofbattleships.LilliansmiledatBell.BellfocusedhisgazeonKincaidandKincaidlookedhiswaywithafriendly
wave.
“Isn’ttheshowwonderful?”theSenatorcalledoverheadsasBelldrewnear.“I love the theater. You know, I heard you talking with Kenny Bloom aboutrunningofftothecircus.Forme,itwasthestageinsteadofthecircus.Ialwayswanted to be an actor. I even ran off with a touring company, before sanityprevailed.”“Like my good friend Archie Abbott here. Archie, meet Senator Charles
Kincaid,afellowthwartedthespian.”“Goodevening,Senator,”Abbottsaid,extendinghishandpolitelybutmissing
Kincaid’shandentirelyashegapedatLillian.“Oh, hello, Lillian,” said Bell casually. “May I present my old friend
ArchibaldAngelAbbott?”Lillianstarted tobathereyes in thestyleofAnnaHeld.But it seemedas if
something she saw inAbbott’s facemade her look again.He had compellinggrayeyes,andBellsawthemworkingfullsteamtokeepherattention.HergazetraversedthescarsonAbbott’sbrowandtookinhisredhairandsparklingsmile.Kincaidsaidsomethingtoher,butshedidnotseemtohearasshelookedAbbottsquarelyinthefaceandsaid,“Pleasedtomeetyou,Mr.Abbott.Isaachastoldmeallaboutyou.”“Notall,MissHennessy,oryouwouldhavefledtheroom.”Lillianlaughed,Archiepreened,andtheSenatorlookedverydispleased.Bell used the excuseof thepokerdebt tonudgeKincaid away fromArchie
andLillian.“Ididenjoyourgameofdraw.Anditwasapleasuretoreceiveyourcalling card, but a check for the amount written on it would stir even bettermemories.”“My checkwill be here tomorrow,”Kincaid replied affably. “You’re still at
theYaleClub?”“Untilfurthernotice.Andyou,Senator?WillyoubeinNewYorkawhileor
areyouofftoWashington?”“Actually,I’mleavingforSanFranciscointhemorning.”“Isn’ttheSenateinsession?”“I am chairman of a subcommittee conducting a hearing in San Francisco
about the Chinese problem.” He looked around at the mobs of theatergoerstryingtocatchhisattention,tookBell’selbow,andloweredhisvoice.“Betweenuspokerplayers,Mr.Bell,thehearingwillmaskmytruepurposefortravelingtoSanFrancisco.”“Andwhatisthat?”“I’vebeenpersuadedbyaselectgroupofCaliforniabusinessmentolistento
them implore me to run for president.” He winked con spiratorially. “Theyoffered to takeme on a camping trip in the redwoods.You can imaginewhat
littlepleasureaformerbridgebuildertakesinsleepingoutofdoors.ItoldthemIwouldpreferoneof their fabledwestern resort lodges.Antlers, stuffedgrizzlybears,pinelogs...andindoorplumbing.”“Areyoupersuadable?”askedBell.“Between you and me, I’m playing hard to get. But of course I would be
deeply honored to run for president,” said Kincaid. “Whowouldn’t? It is thedreamofeverypoliticianwhoservesthepublic.”“WouldPrestonWhitewaybeoneofthoseCaliforniabusinessmen?”Kincaidlookedathimsharply.“Shrewdquestion,Mr.Bell.”Foramoment,lockedeyetoeye,thetwomencouldhavebeenstandingalone
onacliff inOregon insteadof inacrowded theater lobbyon theGreatWhiteWay.“Andyouranswer?”askedBell.“I am not at liberty to say. But so much depends upon what President
Rooseveltdecidestodonextyear.Ican’tseeanyroomformeifhewantsathirdterm.Atanyrate,Ipreferifyouwouldkeepthatunderyourhat.”Bellsaidhewould.HewonderedwhyaUnitedStatessenatorwouldconfide
inamanhehadonlymetonce.“HaveyouconfidedinMr.Hennessy?”“IwillconfideinOsgoodHennessyat thepropertime,whichis tosayafter
suchanarrangementisconsummated.”“Whywait?Wouldn’tarailroadpresidentbehelpfultoyourcause?”“IwouldnotwanttoraisehishopesofhavingafriendintheWhiteHouseat
thisearlystageonlytodashthem.”Thelobbylightsflashedonandoff,signalinganendtotheintermission.They
returnedtotheirseatsintherooftoptheater.AbbottsaidtoBell,“Whatawonderfulgirl.”“WhatdoyouthinkoftheSenator?”“Whatsenator?”askedAbbott,wavingacrosstheboxestoLillian.“Doyoustillthinkhe’sastuffedshirt?”AbbottlookedatBell,perceivedthathewasnotaskingidly,andansweredin
allseriousness,“Certainlyactslikeone.Whydoyouask,Isaac?”“BecauseIhaveafeelingthatthereismoretoKincaidthanmeetstheeye.”“Fromthelookhegavemewhenhesawmetalkingtoher,hewouldkill to
gethismittsonMissLillianandherfortune.”“Hewantstobepresident,too.”“Oftherailroad?”askedArchie.“OrtheUnitedStates?”“TheUnitedStates.Hetoldmehe’shavingasecretmeetingwithCalifornia
businessmenwhowanthimtorunifTeddyRooseveltdoesn’tstandagainnext
year.”“Ifit’ssecret,whydidhetellyou?”askedArchie.“That’swhatIwaswondering.Onlyacompletefoolwouldblabthatabout.”“Doyoubelievehim?”“Good question, Archie. Funny thing is, he said nothing about William
HowardTaft.”“That’s like notmentioning the elephant in the drawing room. IfRoosevelt
doesn’t choose to run for a third term, thenSecretary ofWarTaftwill be thegood friend he designates to replace him.NowonderKincaidwants it secret.He’llbechallenginghisownparty.”“Yetanotherreasonnottoconfideinme,”saidIsaacBell.“Whatisheupto?”Acrosstheboxes,LillianHennessyasked,“WhatdidyouthinkofMr.Abbott,
Charles?”“The Abbotts are among the oldest families in New York, except for the
Dutch, and they’vegot plentyofDutch roots under their family tree.ToobadtheylostalltheirmoneyinthePanicof‘93,”Kincaidaddedwithabigsmile.“Hetoldmethatstraightoff,”saidLillian.“Itdoesn’tseemtotroublehim.”“Itwouldcertainly trouble the fatherofanyyoungwomanheproposed to,”
Kincaidneedledher.“AndwhatdoyouthinkofIsaacBell?”Lillianneedledback.“Archietoldme
youandIsaacplayedcards.Inoticedyoutwodeepinconversationinthelobby.”Kincaid kept smiling, deeply pleased by his conversation with Bell. If the
detectivewasgetting suspicious, thenpretending thathewasoneof themanysenatorswhodreamedof becomingpresident of theUnitedStates had tobe aconvincing demonstration that hewas not a trainwrecker. IfBell investigatedfurther, he would discover that there were California businessmen, PrestonWhiteway first among them, who were shopping for their own candidate forpresident.AndSenatorCharlesKincaidtoppedtheirlist,havingencouragedandmanipulatedthemercurialSanFrancisconewspapermagnatetobelievethattheHero Engineer he had helped make a senator would serve him in theWhiteHouse.“Whatwereyoutalkingabout?”Lillianpersisted.Kincaid’ssmileturnedcruel.“Bellisengagedtobemarried.Hetoldmehewasbuyingamansionforhis
intended...theluckygirl.”Was there sadness inher faceorwas itmerely thehouselightsdimming for
ActTwo?
“JERSEY CITY DEAD AHEAD, chink boy!” yelled the mate “Big Ben”Weitzman,whomCaptainYatkowskihadputaboardLillianItosteeraftertheythrewthesteamlighter’screwintheriver.“Shakealegdownthere.”WongLeekeptworkingathisownpace,treatingtwenty-fivetonsofdynamite
with the respect it deserved. Decades of pressing shirts with heavy irons hadthickenedhishands.Hisfingerswerenotsonimbleanymore.He had one detonator left over when he was done and he slipped it in his
pocket, maintaining old habits of frugality. Then he reached for the doubleelectricwirethathehadstrungfromthebowoftheboatintotheholdwheretheboxes of dynamite were stacked. He had already exposed two inches of itscoppercorebystrippingofftheinsulation.Heconnectedonewiretoonelegofthefirstdetonator.Hereachedforthesecondwireandstopped.“Weitzman!Areyouupthere?”“What?”“Checkthattheswitchatthebowisstillopen.”“It’sopen.Ialreadychecked.”“Ifitisnotopen,wewillexplodewhenItouchthesewires.”“Wait!Holdon.I’llcheckagain.”Weitzmanslippedaloopofropearoundthewheelspoketoholdthelighteron
courseandhurriedtothebow,cursingthecoldrain.YatkowskihadgivenhimacylinderflashlightandinitsflickeringbeamhesawthatthejawsoftheswitchtheChinamanhadriggedtothetipofthebowwereopenandwouldstayopenuntil the bow crashed into the powder pier. The impactwould close the jaws,completing theelectricconnectionbetween thebatteryand thedetonators, andblowuptwenty-fivetonsofdynamite.That,inturn,wouldsetoffahundredtonsmoreonthepowderpier,whichwouldmakeitthebiggestexplosionNewYorkhadeverheard.Weitzmanhurriedbacktothewheelandshouteddownthehatch.“It’sopen.
LikeItoldyou.”Wong tookabreathandattached thepositivewire to thedetonator’ssecond
leg.Nothing happened.Of course, he thoughtwryly, if it had gonewrong hewouldn’t know it, being suddenly dead.He scrambled up the ladder, emergedfrom the hatch, and told the man steering to signal the schooner. It camealongside,sailsflappingwetly,andbangedhardagainstthelighter.
“Takeiteasy!”yelledWeitzman.“Youwanttokillus?”“Chinaman!”yelledCaptainYatkowski.“Getuphere.”WongLee launchedhis creakymiddle-aged limbsup a rope ladder.Hehad
climbedmuchworseinthemountains,buthehadbeenthirtyyearsyounger.“Weitzman!”thecaptainyelled.“Doyouseethepier?”“HowcouldImissit?”Electriclightsblazedaquartermileahead.Therailroadcopshaditlituplike
theGreatWhiteWaysonoonecouldsneakupon themfromtheyards,but ithadneveroccurredtothemthatsomebodywouldsneakupfromthewater.“Aimheratitandgetoffquick.”WeitzmanturnedthewheeluntilhehadlinedLillianI’sbowwith the lights
on the powder pier.Theywere coming in from the side, and the pierwas sixhundredfeetlong,soevenifshewentoffcourseabitshewouldstillhitcloseenoughtothefiveboxcarsofdynamite.“Quick,Isay!”roaredthecaptain.Weitzmandidn’tneedanyurging.Hescrambledontothewoodendeckofthe
schooner.“Gofast!”shoutedWong.“Getusaway.”Noonewasbetterqualified thanWong tounderstand theforcesabout tobe
unleashedontherailyards,theharbor,andthecitiesaroundit.WhenWong and the schooner’s crew looked back to check that the steam
lighterwasoncourse,theysawaNewJerseyCentralRailroadferryboatcastofflines to steamoutof theCommunipawPassengerTerminal.A trainmusthavejustpulled in fromsomewhere,and the ferrywas taking thepassengerson thelastleg.“WelcometoNewYork!”thecaptainmuttered.Whentwenty-fivetonsonthe
lighter detonated one hundred tons on the powder pier, that ferryboat wouldvanishinaballoffire.
25
MARION MORGAN STOOD OUTSIDE ON THE OPEN DECK OF THEJerseyCentralFerry.Shepressedagainsttherailing,ignoringtherain.Herheartwaspoundingwithjoyandexcitement.ShehadnotseenNewYorkCitysinceher father had taken her on a trip back East when she was a little girl. Nowdozens of skyscraperswith lightedwindows soared just across the river. AndsomewhereonthatfabledislandwasherbelovedIsaacBell.She had debatedwhether towire ahead or surprise him.She had settled on
surprise. Her trip had been on again and off again and on again as PrestonWhitewayjuggledhisbusyschedule.HehaddecidedatthelastminutetostayinCalifornia and send her tomeetwith his bankers inNewYork to present hisproposal for financing thePictureWorldmoving picture newsreels. The brashyoungnewspaper publishermust havebeen impressed enoughbyher bankingexperience to give her such an important assignment. But the real reason hewouldsendawoman,shesuspected,wasthathehopedtowooherandthoughtthat theway toherheartwas to respecther independence.Shehad inventedaphrasetoemphasizetothepersistentWhitewayhercommitmenttoIsaac.Myheartisspokenfor.Shehadalreadyhadtouseittwice.Butitsaiditall,andshewoulduseitten
timesifshehadto.Therainwasthinningandthecitylightswerebright.Assoonasshegottoher
hotel, shewould telephone Isaac at theYaleClub.Respectable hotels like theAstor frowneduponunmarriedwomen receivinggentlemanvisitors.But therewasn’tahousedickinthecountrywhowouldnotturnablindeyetoaVanDornoperative.Professionalcourtesy,Isaacwouldsmile.Theferrytooteditswhistle.Shefelt thepropellersshudderbeneathherfeet.
As they pulled away from theNew Jersey shore, she saw the sails of an old-fashionedschoonersilhouettedbyabrightlylightedpier.
IT HAD TAKEN FOUR men a full ten minutes to lift the heavy automatic
machinegunatoptheboxcar.AndasIsaacBellhadpredicted,therailroadpolicemanning the water-cooled, tripod-mounted, belt-fed Vickers on top of thedynamite train stayedwide awake.ButEddieEdwards, the forty-year-oldVanDorninvestigatorwithastartlingshockofprematurelywhitehair,keptclimbinguptheboxcar’sladdertocheckonthemanyway.Theirweaponwasequally reliable,adapted fromtheMaximgunwhichhad
proved itself mowing down African armies. One of the rail bulls was atransplantedEnglishmanwhotoldtalesofslaughtering“natives”withaMaximinthepreviousdecade’scolonialwars.Edwardshadinstructedhimtoleavethenativesof JerseyCityalone.Unless they tried something.Theoldgangs thereweren’tastoughastheyhadbeenwhenEdwardshadledtheVanDornfighttocleartherailyards,buttheywerestillornery.Standingon topof the railcar, turning slowlyonhis heel and surveying the
machinegun’sfieldoffire,whichnowencompassedafullcircle,Edwardswasremindedof theolddaysguardingbullion shipments.Ofcourse theLavaBedGang’sweapons in thosedaysweremostly leadpipes,brassknuckles,and theoccasional sawed-off shotgun. He watched a brightly lit ferry leavingCommunipawTerminal.Heturnedbacktowardthegate,blockedbythreecoaltenders andmannedbycinderdickswith rifles, and saw that the freightyardslooked as calm as a freight yard ever looked. Switch engines were scuttlingaboutmakinguptrains.Butineachcabrodeanarmeddetective.Helookedbackat the river. The rain was lifting. He could see the lights of New York Cityclearlynow.“Isthatschoonergoingtorunintothatsteamlighter?”“No.Theywereclose,butthey’removingapart.See?He’ssailingoff,andthe
lighter’sturningthisway.”“Isee,”saidEdwards,hisjawtightening.“Wherethehellishegoing?”“Comingourway.”Edwardswatched,likingthesituationlessandless.“Howfaristhatredbuoy?”heasked.“Theredlight?I’dsayaquartermile.”“Ifhepassesthatbuoy,givehimfourroundsaheadofhisbow.”“Youmeanthat?”therailcopaskeddubiously.“Dammit,yes,Imeanit.Getsettofire.”“He’spassingit,Mr.Edwards.”“Shoot!Now!”The water-cooled Vickers made an oddly muffled pop-pop-pop-pop noise.
Where thebulletshitwas toofaroff in thedark tosee.Thesteamlighterkeptcomingstraightatthepowderpier.
“Givehimtenroundsacrosstheroofofhiswheelhouse.”“That’ll be a wake-up call,” said the Englishman. “Those slugs sound like
thunderoverhead.”“Just make sure you’re clear behind him. I don’t want to rake some poor
tugboat.”“Clear.”“Fire!Now!Don’twait!”Thecanvascartridgebelttwitched.Tenroundsspitfromthebarrel.Awispof
steamrosefromthewatercooler.Theboatkeptcoming.EddieEdwardswethislips.Godknewwhowasonit.Adrunk?Afrightened
boy at the helmwhile his captain slept?A terrified oldmanwhohad no cluewheretheshootingwascomingfrom?“Getupthereinthelight.Wavethemoff...Notyou!Youstayonthegun.”Thebeltfeederandthewaterbearerjumpedupanddownontheroofofthe
boxcar,franticallywavingtheirarms.Theboatkeptcoming.“Get out of the way!” Edwards told them. “Shoot the wheelhouse.” He
grabbedthebeltandbeganfeedingasthegunopenedupinacontinuousroar.Twohundredroundsspewedfromitsbarrel,crossedaquartermileofwater,
andtorethroughthesteamlighter’swheelhouse,scatteringwoodandglass.Tworoundssmashedthetopspokeofthehelm.Anothercuttheropeloopedaroundthehelmanditwassuddenlyfreetoturn.Butwaterpassingovertherudderheldit steady on course to the powder pier. Then the frame of the wheelhousecollapsed.Therooffellonthehelm,pushingthespokesdown,turningthewheelandtheruddertowhichitwasattached.THESECONDACTOFtheFolliesstartedoffbigandgotbigger.The“Ju-JitsuWaltz,”featuringPrinceTokio“straightfromJapan,”wasfollowedbyacomicsong“IThinkIOughtn’tAutoAnyMore”:
...happenedtobesmokingwhenIgotbeneathhercar,gasolinewasleakingandfellonmycigar,blewthatchorusgirlsohighI thoughtshewasastar...
Whenthesongwasover,asolitarysnaredrumbegantorattle.Asinglechorusgirlinablueblouse,ashortwhiteskirt,andredtightsmarchedacrosstheemptystage.Asecondsnaredrumjoinedin.Asecondchorusgirlfellinwiththefirst.Thenanotherdrumandanothergirl.Thensixdrumswererattlingandsixchorusgirlsmarchingtoandfro.Thenanotherandanother.Bassdrumstookupthebeat
with a thumping that shook the seats. Suddenly, all fifty of themost beautifulchorusgirlsonBroadwaybrokeofftheirdanceonstage,snatchedupfiftydrumsfromstacksbesidethewings,randownthestairsoneitherside,andstormedtheaislespoundingtheirdrumsandkickingtheirred-cladlegs.“Aren’tyougladwecame?”shoutedAbbott.Bell lookedup.Aflash throughtheskylightcaughthiseye,as if the theater
weretraininglightsdownfromtheroofinadditiontothosealreadyblazingonthestage.Itlookedasifthenightskywereonfire.Hefeltaharshthumpshakethe building and thought for a moment it was the rolling shock wave of anearthquake.Thenheheardathunderousexplosion.
26
THE FOLLIES ORCHESTRA STOPPED PLAYING ABRUPTLY. AN eeriesilencegrippedthetheater.Thendebrisclatteredonthetinrooflikeathousandsnare drums. Glass flew out of the skylight, and everyone in the theater—audience,stagehands,andchorusgirls—beganscreaming.IsaacBellandArchieAbbottmovedasone,uptheaisle,throughthecanvas
raincurtainsandacrosstherooftotheoutsidestaircase.TheysawaredglowinthesouthwestskyinthedirectionofJerseyCity.“Thepowderpier,”saidBellwithasinkingheart.“Webettergetoverthere.”“Look,” said Archie as they started down the stairs. “Broken windows
everywhere.”Every building on the block had lost a window. Forty-fourth Street was
littered with broken glass. They turned their backs on the crowds surging inpaniconBroadwayandranwestonForty-fourthtowardtheriver.TheycrossedEighthAvenue,thenNinth,andranthroughtheslumsofHell’sKitchen,dodgingthe residents spilling out of saloons and tenements. Everyone was shouting“Whathappened?”The Van Dorn detectives raced across Tenth Avenue, over the New York
Central Railroad tracks, across Eleventh, dodging fire engines and panickedhorses.Theclosertheygottothewater,themorebrokenwindowstheysaw.Acop tried to stop them from runningonto thepiers.They showed their badgesandbrushedpasthim.“Fireboat!”Bellshouted.Bristlingwith firemonitors and belching smoke, aNewYorkCity fireboat
waspullingawayfromPier84.Bellranafterit, jumped.Abbottlandedbesidehim.“VanDorn,”theytoldthestartleddeckhand.“WehavetogettoJerseyCity.”“Wrongboat.We’redispatcheddowntowntospraythepiers.”The reason for the fireboat’s orders was soon apparent. Across the river,
flameswereshootingintotheskyfromtheJerseyCitypiers.Withtheendoftherain,thewindhadshiftedwest,anditwasblowingsparksacrosstheriveronto
Manhattan’spiers.SoinsteadofhelpingfightthefireinJerseyCity,thefireboatwaswettingdownManhattan’spierstokeepthesparksfromignitingtheirroofsandwoodenshipsmooredalongside.“He’samastermind,”saidBell.“I’vegottohandhimthat.”“ANapoleonofcrime,”Archieagreed.“AsifConanDoylesiccedProfessor
MoriartyonusinsteadofSherlockHolmes.”Bell spotted a NewYork Police DepartmentMarineDivision launch at the
Twenty-thirdStreetLackawannaFerryTerminal.“Dropusthere!”TheNewYorkcopsagreedtorunthemacrosstheriver.Theypasseddamaged
boatswithsailsintattersorsmokestackstoppledbytheblast.Somewereadrift.Onothers,crewmenwerejury-riggingrepairssufficienttogetthemtoshore.AJerseyCentralRailroad ferry limped towardManhattan, itswindows shatteredanditssuperstructureblackened.“There’sEddieEdwards!”Edwards’swhitehairhadbeensingedblack,andhiseyesweregleamingina
faceofsoot,buthewasotherwiseunhurt.“ThankGodyoutelephoned,Isaac.Wegottheguninplaceintimetostopthe
bastards.”“Stopthem?Whatareyoutalkingabout?”“They didn’t blow the powder pier.” He pointed through the thick smoke.
“ThedynamitetrainisO.K.”Bellpeeredthroughthesmokeandsawthestringofcars.Thefivethatbeen
sitting therewhen he left JerseyCity last evening to take the night off at theFollieswerestillthere.“Whatdid theyblowup?Wefelt it inManhattan.Itbrokeeverywindowin
thecity.”“Themselves.ThankstotheVickers.”Eddie described how they had driven off theSouthernPacific steam lighter
withmachine-gunfire.“Sheturnedaroundandtookoffafteraschooner.Wesawthemincompany
earlier. Iwouldguess that theschoonerprobably tooktheircrewoff.After themurderingscumlockedthehelmandaimedheratthepier.”“Didyourgunfiredetonatethedynamite?”“Idon’t thinkso.Weshotherwheelhouse topieces,butshedidn’texplode.
Sheboreoff,turnedafullhundredeightydegrees,andsteamedaway.Musthavebeenthree,fourminutesbeforethedynamiteexploded.OneoftheboysontheVickers thought he saw her hit the schooner. Andwe all saw her sails in theflash.”“It’salmost impossible todetonatedynamiteby impact,”Bellmused.“They
musthavedevisedatriggerofsomesort...Howdoyouseeit,Eddie?HowdidtheygettheirhandsontheSouthernPacificsteamlighter?”“Theway I see it,” said Edwards, “they ambushed the lighter upriver, shot
McColleen,andthrewthecrewoverboard.”“We must find their bodies,” Bell ordered in a voice heavy with sorrow.
“Archie, tell the cops on both sides of the river. Jersey City, Hoboken,Weehawken,NewYork,Brooklyn,StatenIsland.TheVanDornAgencywantsevery body thatwashes up. Iwill pay for decent burials for ourman and theinnocentcrewofthelighter.WemustidentifythecriminalswhowereworkingfortheWrecker.”Dawn broke on a scene of devastation that stretched to both sides of the
harbor.WheresixCommunipawpiershadpushedintotherivernowtherewereonly five.Thesixthhadburned to thewater-line.All that remainedof itwereblackened pilings and a heap of ruined boxcars poking out of the tide. Everywindowon theriversideof theJerseyCentralpassenger terminalwasbroken,and half its roof was blown off. A ferry that had been moored there listeddrunkenly, struckbyanout-ofcontrol tugboat thathadholedherhullandwasstill pressed into her like a nursing lamb. Themasts of ships beside the piersweresplintered,tinroofsandthecorrugatedsidesofpiershackswerescattered,the sides of boxcars split open with cargo spilling out. Bandaged railroadworkers,injuredbyflyingglassandfallingdebris,werepokingthroughtheruinsoftherailyards,andthefrightenedresidentsofthenearbyslumscouldbeseentrudgingawaywiththeirpossessionsontheirbacks.ThemostincongruoussightBellsawinthedullmorninglightwasthatofthe
stern of awooden sailing schooner that had been blown out of thewater andlandedonatriple-trackedcarfloat.FromacrosstheHudson,therewerereportsofthousandsofbrokenwindowsinlowerManhattanandthestreetslitteredwithglass.AbbottnudgedBell.“Herecomestheboss.”A trim New York Police launch with a low cabin and a short stack was
approaching. Joseph Van Dorn stood on the foredeck in a topcoat with anewspapertuckedunderhisarm.Bellwalkeddirectlytohim.“Itistimeformetosubmitmyresignation.”
27
“REQUESTDENIED!”VANDORNSHOTBACK.“Itisnotarequest,sir,”IsaacBellsaidcoldly.“Itismyintention.Iwillhunt
theWreckeronmyown,ifittakestherestofmylife.WhileIpromiseyouIwillnotimpedetheVanDorninvestigationledbyabetter-qualifiedinvestigator.”A small smile parted Van Dorn’s red whiskers. “Better-qualified? Perhaps
you’vebeentoobusytoreadthemorningpapers.”HeseizedBell’shandandpracticallycrusheditinhispowerfulgrip.“We’ve
wonaroundatlast,Isaac.Welldone!”“Won a round?What are you talking about, sir? People killed on the ferry.
Half thewindows inManhattanblownout.Thesepiersashambles.Alldue tothesabotageofaSouthernPacificRailroadvesselthatIwashiredtoprotect.”“A partial victory, I’ll admit. But a victory nonetheless. You stopped the
Wrecker fromblowing thepowder train,whichwashis target.Hewouldhavekilled hundreds had you allowed him to. Look here.” Van Dorn opened thenewspaper.Threeheadlinesofimmensetypecoveredthefrontpage.
EXPLOSIONDAMAGEEQUALOFMAY1904PIERFIRE
WORSELossOFLIFEONFERRY,3DEAD,COUNTLESSINJURED
COULDHAVEBEENFARWORSE,SAYSFIRECOMMISSIONER
“Andlookatthisone!Evenbetter...”
THEWRECKERRAGED.Manhattan’sstreetswerestrewnwithbrokenglass.Fromtherailwayferry,he
sawblack smokestillbillowingover the Jersey shore.Theharborwas litteredwithdamagedshipsandbarges.Andthedynamiteexplosionwasallthetalkinsaloons and chophouses on both sides of the river. It even invaded the plushsanctuary of the observation-lounge car as the Chicago-bound Pennsylvania
SpecialsteamedfromitsbatteredJerseyCityTerminal.But,maddeningly, everynewsboy in the citywas shouting theheadlineson
theextraeditionsandeverynewsstandwasplasteredwiththelies:SABOTEURSFOILED
RAILWAYPOLICEANDVANDORNAGENTS
SAVEDDYNAMITETRAINMAYORCREDITSSOUNDSOUTHERN
PACIFICMANAGEMENTIf IsaacBellwere on this train, hewould chokehim to deathwith his bare
hands.Orrunhimthrough.Thatmomentwouldcome,heremindedhimself.Hehadlostonlyabattle,notthewar.Thewarwashistowin,Bell’stolose.Andthatdeservedacelebration!Imperiously,hebeckonedasteward.“George!”“Yes,Senator,suh.”“Champagne!”AstewardrushedhimabottleofRenaudinBollingerinanicebucket.“Not that swill! The company knows goddamned well I will only drink
Mumm.”Thestewardbowedlow.“I’m terribly sorry, Senator. But as Renaudin Bollinger was the favorite
champagne of Queen Victoria, and now of King Edward, we hoped it wouldmakeaworthysubstitute.”“Substitute? What the devil are you talking about? Bring me Mumm
champagneorI’llhaveyourjob!”“But,sir,thePennsylvaniaRailroad’sentirestoreofMummwasdestroyedin
theexplosion.”
“AVICTORYATLAST,”repeatedJosephVanDorn.“Andifyou’rerightthattheWreckeristryingtodiscredittheSouthernPacificRailroad,thenhecannotbe happy with these results. ‘Sound Southern Pacific Management’ indeed.Exactlytheoppositeofwhathehadhopedtoachievewiththisattack.”“Itdoesn’tfeellikeavictorytome,”saidIsaacBell.“Savorit,Isaac.Thengetbusyfindingouthowhesetthisup.”“TheWreckerisn’tdone.”“Thisattack,”VanDornsaidsternly,“wasn’tplannedovernight.There’llbe
cluesinhismethodastowhatheisschemingnext.”Asearchofthesectionoftheschooner’ssternthathadbeenhurledontothe
railroadfloatrevealedthebodyofamantheMarineDivisionpoliceknewwell.“AwaterratnamedWeitzman”washowagrizzledpatrol-launchcaptainputit.“Hungoutwiththatschooner’scaptain,asonofacrocodilenamedYatkowski.Smugglerwhenhewasn’tuptosomethingworse.FromYonkers.”The Yonkers police searched the old river city to no avail. But the next
morning,thecaptain’sremainsdriftedashoreatWeehawken.Bythen,VanDornoperatives had traced ownership of the schooner to a lumber dealer whowasrelated toYatkowskibymarriage.Thedealer admitted tono crimes, however,claimingthathehadsoldtheshiptohisbrother-in-lawthepreviousyear.Askedwhetherthecaptainhadeverusedhertosmugglefugitivesacrosstheriver,thedealerrepliedthatwhenitcametohisbrother-in-law,anythingwaspossible.AsBellhadsurmisedinOgden,theWreckerwaschangingtactics.Insteadof
relying on zealous radicals, he was proving adept at hiring cold-bloodedcriminalstodohisdirtyworkforcash.“Dideitherof thesemeneveruseexplosives in their crimes?”heasked the
launchcaptain.“Lookslikethiswasthefirsttime,”thewatercoprepliedwithagrimchuckle,
“and theyweren’t all that good at it. Seeing as how they blew themselves tosmithereens.”
“BEAUTIFULGIRLTOSEEyou,Mr.Bell.”Bell did not look up from his desk in the Van Dorn offices at the
Knickerbocker Hotel. Three candlestick telephones were ringing constantly.Messengerswereracing inandout.Operativeswerestandingbytomake theirreportsandawaitingneworders.“I’mbusy.PassherontoArchie.”“Archie’satthemorgue.”“Thensendheraway.”It was forty hours since the explosion had shaken the Port of New York.
Experts from the railroad-backed Bureau of Explosives combing through thewreckage had discovered a dry cell battery that led them to conclude that thedynamitehadbeen skillfullydetonatedusingelectricity.ButBell stillhadn’t aclueastowhetherthedeadschoonercrewhadsetoffthedynamiteorhadexperthelp.HewaswonderingiftheWreckerhimselfhadwiredittoexplode.Hadhebeenontheschooner?Washedead?Orwashepreparinghisnextattack?“I’dseethisoneifIwereyou,”thefront-deskmanpersisted.
“I’veseenher.She’sbeautiful.She’srich.Idon’thavetime.”“Butshe’sgotagangoffellowswithamoving-picturecamera.”“What?”Bellglancedthroughthedoor.“Marion!”Bellpushedthroughthedoor,pickedherupinhisarms,andkissedheronthe
mouth.Hisfiancéewaswearingahatanchoredwithascarfthatcoveredthesideofher face, andBellnoticed that shehadcombedher straw-blondhair,whichsheordinarilyworepiledhighuponherhead,sothatitdrapedonecheek.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”“Attemptingtotakepicturesofthehero,ifyou’llputmedown.Comeoutside
inthelight.”“Hero?I’mtheherooftheglassmakers’union.”Hepressedhislipstoherear,
andaddedinawhisper,“AndtheonlyplaceI’mputtingyoudownisonabed.”“NotbeforewetakepicturesofthefamousdetectivewhosavedNewYork.”“Showingmyfaceinnickelodeonswon’thelpmesneakuponcriminals.”“We’ll take your picture from behind, just the back of your head, very
mysterious.Comequicklyorwe’lllosethelight.”They trooped down the Knickerbocker’s grand stair, trailed by Bell’s
assistantsmutteringreportsandwhisperingquestions,andMarion’scameramanand assistants carrying a compact Lumière camera, a wooden tripod, andaccessorycases.Outsideonthesidewalk,workmenwerereplacingwindowsintheKnickerbocker.“Put him there!” said the cameraman pointing to a shaft of sunlight
illuminatingapatchofsidewalk.“Here,”saidMarion.“Soweseethebrokenglassbehindhim.”“Yes,ma‘am.”ShegrippedBell’sshoulders.“Turnthisway.”“Ifeellikeapackagebeingdelivered.”“You are—a wonderful package called ‘The Detective in the White Suit.’
Now,pointatthebrokenwindow...”Bell heard gears and flywheelswhirring behind him, amechanism clicking
likeasewingmachine,andaflappingoffilm.“Whatareyourquestions?”hecalledoverhisshoulder.“Iknowyou’rebusy.I’vealreadywrittenyouranswersforthetitlecards.”“WhatdidIsay?”“TheVanDornDetectiveAgencywillpursuethecriminalwhoattackedNew
YorkCitytotheendsoftheearth.Wewillnevergiveup.Never!”“Couldn’thaveputitbettermyself.”“Now,waitamomentwhileweattachthetelescopiclens...O.K.,pointatthat
craneliftingthewindow...Thankyou.Thatwaswonderful.”As Bell turned to face her smile, a gust of wind lifted her hair, and he
suddenly realized that she had arranged her hair, hat, and scarf to conceal abandage.“Whathappenedtoyourface?”“Flyingglass.Iwasontheferrywhenthebombexploded.”“What?”“It’snothing.”“Haveyouseenadoctor?”“Ofcourse.Therewon’tevenbemuchofascar.And,ifthereis,Icanwear
myhaironthatside.”Bell was stunned and almost paralyzed with rage. TheWrecker had come
withininchesofkillingher.Atthatmomentofalmostlosingcontrol,aVanDornoperativeranfromthehotel,wavingtogetBell’sattention.“Isaac!Archie telephonedfromtheManhattanmorgue.He thinkswe’vegot
something.”
THECORONER’SPHYSICIAN IN theBoroughofManhattan commanded asalary of thirty-six hundred dollars a year, which allowed him to enjoy theluxuriesofmiddle-classlife.Theseincludedsummersabroad.Recently,hehadinstalledamodernphotographic-identificationdevicethathehaddiscoveredinParis.Acamerahungoverheadbeneatha large skylight. Its lenswasaimedat the
floor,wheremarkshadbeenpaintedindicatingheightinfeetandinches.Adeadbodylayonthefloor,brightlyilluminatedbytheskylight.Bellsawitwasaman,though the facehadbeenobliteratedby fire andblunt force.His clotheswerewet.Fromthemarkwheretheyhadplacedhisfeettothemarkatthetopofhishead,hemeasuredfivefeetthreeinches.“It’sonlyaChinaman,”said thecoroner’sphysician.“At least, I think it’sa
Chinaman,judgingbyhishands,feet,skintone.Buttheysaidyouwantedtoseeeverydrownedbody.”“I found this inhispocket,” saidAbbott, holdingupapencil-sizedcylinder
withwiresextendingfromitliketwoshortlegs.“Mercury-fulminatedetonator,”saidBell.“Wherewasthemanfound?”“FloatingpasttheBattery.”“Could he have drifted across the river from Jersey City to the tip of
Manhattan?”“The currents are unpredictable,” said the coroner’s physician. “Between
oceantideandriverflux,bodiesgoeverywhichway,dependinguponebbandflow.Doyouthinkhesetofftheexplosion?”“Helookslikehewasnearit,”Abbottsaidnoncommitallywithaninquiring
glanceatBell.“Thankyouforcallingus,Doctor,”saidBell,andwalkedout.Abbottcaughtupwithhimonthesidewalk.“HowdidtheWreckerrecruitaChinesetohiscause?”Bellsaid,“Wecan’tknowthatuntilwefindoutwhothemanwas.”“That’sgoingtobehardwithoutaface.”“Wemustfindoutwhohewas.Whataretheprincipalsourcesofemployment
forChineseinNewYork?”“TheChineseworkmostlyatcigarmaking,runninggrocerystores,andhand-
washlaundries,ofcourse.”“This man’s fingers and palms were heavily callused,” said Bell, “which
makesitlikelyhewasalaundrymanworkingwithahot,heavyiron.”“That’sa lotof laundries,”saidArchie.“One ineveryblockof theworking
districts.”“Start in JerseyCity.The schoonerwas tied up there.And that’swhere the
SouthernPacificlighterloadedherdynamite.”
SUDDENLY, THINGS MOVED QUICKLY. One of Jethro Watt’s railroaddetectives recalled allowing aChinesewith a huge sack of laundry on a pier.“SaidhewasheadingfortheJuliaReidhead,asteelbarqueunloadingbones.”TheJuliaReidheadwas stillmoored at the pier, hermasts shattered by the
explosion.No,saidhercaptain.Hehadnothadhislaundrydoneashore.Hehadawife on boardwho did it herself. Then the harbormaster’s log revealed thatYatkowski’swoodenschoonerhadbeentiedneartheJuliathatafternoon.The Van Dorn detectives found missionary students who were studying
ChineseataseminaryinChelsea.Theyhiredthestudentstotranslateforthemandthenintensifiedthesearchforthelaundrythathademployedthedeadman.ArchieAbbottreturnedtotheKnickerbockerHoteltriumphant.“HisnamewasWongLee.Peoplewhoknewhimsaidheusedtoworkforthe
railroad.IntheWest.”“Dynamitingcuts in themountains,” saidBell. “Ofcourse.That’swherehe
learnedhistrade.”“Probablycameheretwenty,twenty-fiveyearsago,”saidAbbott.“Alotofthe
ChinesefledCaliforniatoescapemobattacks.”“Didhis employer confirm this just tomakehimsoundgood?Tomake the
whitedetectivegoaway?”“WongLeewasn’t really an employee.At least, not anymore.He bought a
halfinterestfromhisboss.”“SotheWreckerpaidhimwell.”Bellsaid.“Verywell.Upfront,noless,andenoughtobuyhimselfabusiness.Haveto
admire his enterprise. Howmany workingmen would resist the temptation tospenditonwineandwomen?...Isaac,whyareyoustaringatme?”“When?”“Whenwhat?”“WhendidWongLeebuyahalfinterestinhislaundry?”“LastFebruary.”“February?Wheredidhegetthemoney?”“The Wrecker, of course. When he hired him. Where else would a poor
Chineselaundrymangetthatmuchmoney?”“You’resureitwasFebruary?”“Absolutely.ThebosstoldmeitwasrightaftertheChineseNewYear.That
fitstheWrecker’spattern,doesn’tit?Plansfarahead.”IsaacBellcouldbarelycontainhisexcitement.“Wong Lee bought his share of the laundry last February. But Osgood
Hennessyconcludedhissecretdealonly thisNovember.Howdid theWreckerknow back in February that the Southern Pacific Railroad was going to gainentrytoNewYorkinNovember?”
28
“SOMEHOWTHEWRECKERCAUGHTWINDOFTHEDEAL,”ABBOTTanswered.“No!” Bell shot back. “Osgood Hennessy knew he had to acquire a
dominating interest in the Jersey Central in the deepest secrecy or his rivalswouldhave stoppedhim.Noone ‘catcheswind’ of that oldpirate’s intentionsuntilhewantsthemto.”Bellsnatchedupthenearesttelephone.“Book two adjoining staterooms on the Twentieth Century Limited, with
throughconnectionstoSanFrancisco!”“AreyousayingtheWreckerhasinsideknowledgeoftheSouthernPacific?”
askedArchie.“Somehow,hedoes,”saidBell,grabbinghiscoatandhat.“Eithersomefool
spilled the beans. Or a spy deliberately passed on the information aboutHennessy’splans.Eitherway,he’snostrangertoHennessy’scircle.”“Orinit,”saidAbbott,trottingalongsideasBellstrodefromtheoffice.“He’s certainly close to the top,”Bell agreed. “You’re in chargeof shutting
down the Jersey City operation. Move every man you can to the CascadesCutoff.NowthathelostoutinNewYork,I’mbettingtheWreckerwillhittherenext.Catchupwithmeassoonasyoucan.”“Who’sinHennessy’scircle?”askedArchie.“He’sgotbankersonhisboardofdirectors.He’sgotlawyers.Andhisspecial
train tows Pullman sleepers packed with engineers and superintendentsmanagingthecutoff.”“Itwilltakeforevertoinvestigatethemall.”“Wedon’thaveforever,”saidBell.“I’llstartwithHennessyhimself.Tellhim
whatweknowandseewhocomestomind.”“Iwouldnottelegraphsuchaquestion,”saidArchie.“That’swhyI’mheadingwest.Forallweknow,theWrecker’sspycouldbea
telegrapher.IhavetospeakwithHennessyface-to-face.”“Whydon’tyoucharteraspecialtrain?”
“BecausetheWrecker’sspymighttakenoticeandfiguresomething’sup.NotworththedayI’dsave.”Abbott grinned. “That’s why you booked two adjoining staterooms. Very
clever, Isaac. It’ll look likeMr.VanDorn took you off theWrecker case andassignedyoutoanotherjob.”“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”“Personal protection service?” Archie answered innocently. “For a certain
ladyinthemoving-picture-newslinereturninghometoCalifornia?”
THESANFRANCISCOTELEGRAPHERS’ strikehad endeddisastrously fortheir union. The majority had returned to work. But some telegraphers andlinemen made bitter by highhanded company tactics had turned to sabotage,cuttingwiresandburning telegraphoffices.Among these renegades,onebandfoundanewpaymasterintheWrecker,amysteriousfigurewhocommunicatedwithmessagesandmoneyleftinrailroad-stationluggagerooms.Onhisorders,they rehearsed a nationwide disruption of the telegraph system. At a crucialmoment,hewouldisolateOsgoodHennessyfromhisbankers.The Wrecker’s linemen practiced the old Civil War tactic of cutting key
telegraphwiresandreconnectingtheendswithbypasswiressothatthesplicescouldnotbedetectedbyeyefromtheground.Itwouldtakemanydaystorestorecommunication.SincenorthernCaliforniaandOregonwerenotyetconnectedtothe eastern states by telephone, the telegraph was still the only method ofinstantaneousintracontinentalcommunication.WhentheWreckerwasready,hecouldlaunchacoordinatedattackthatwouldhurltheCascadesCutofffiftyyearsbackintimetothedayswhenthefastestmeansofcommunicationwasmailsentbystagecoachandPonyExpress.Inthemeantime,hehadotherusesfordisgruntledtelegraphers.HisattackontheSouthernPacificinNewYorkhadbeenadisaster.IsaacBell
andhisdetectivesandtherailroadpolicehadturnedwhatwouldhavebeenthefinal stake in the heart of the Southern PacificRailroad into near victory.HisefforttodiscredittheSouthernPacifichadfailed.Andafterhisattack,theVanDornAgency hadmoved swiftly, conspiringwith the newspapers to paint therailroadpresidentasahero.Abloodyaccidentwouldturnthingsaround.The railroads maintained their own telegraph systems to keep the trains
movingswiftlyandsafely.Single-trackedlines,whichwerestillinthemajority,were divided into blocks maintained by strict rules of entry. A train givenpermission to be in a block possessed the right-of-way. Only after it passed
throughtheblock,orwassidetrackedontoasiding,wasanothertrainpermittedin theblock.Observations thata trainhad left ablockwerecommunicatedbytelegraph. Orders to pull off onto a siding were sent by telegraph.Acknowledgment of those orders was made by telegraph. That a train wasstoppedsafelyonthesidinghadtobeconfirmedbytelegraph.ButtheWrecker’stelegrapherscouldinterceptorders,stopthem,andchange
them. He had already caused a collision by this method, a rear ender on theCascadesCutoffthathadtelescopedamaterialstrainintoaworktrain’scaboose,killingtwocrewmen.AbloodieraccidentwoulderaseIsaacBell’s“victory.”Andwhatcouldbebloodierthantwolocomotiveshaulingworktrainspacked
with laborers colliding head-on?When his train to San Francisco stopped inSacramento,hecheckedasatchel in the luggageroomcontainingordersandagenerousenvelopeofcashandmailedtheticket toanembitteredformerunionofficialnamedRossParker.
“GOODNIGHT,MISSMORGAN.”“Goodnight,Mr.Bell.Thatwasadeliciousdinner,thankyou.”“Needhelpwithyourdoor?”“Ihaveit.”Five hours after her passengers walked the famous red carpet to board at
Grand Central Terminal, the 20th Century Limited was racing across theflatlandsofwesternNewYorkStateateightymilesanhour.APullmanporter,gaze discreetly averted, shuffled along the narrow corridor outside thestaterooms, gathering shoes that the sleeping passengers had left out to beshined.“Well,goodnight,then.”BellwaitedforMariontostepintoherstateroomandlockthedoor.Thenhe
openedthedoortohisstateroom,changedintoasilkrobe,removedhisthrowingknifefromhisbootsandputthemoutsideinthecorridor.Thespeedofthetraincausedicetotremblemusicallyinasilverbucket.InitwaschillingabottleofMumm.Bellwrappedthedrippingbottleinalinennapkinandhelditbehindhisback.Heheardasoftknockontheinteriordoorandthrewitopen.“Yes,MissMorgan?”Marion was standing there in a dressing gown, her lustrous hair cascading
overhershoulders,hereyesmischievous,hersmileradiant.“CouldIpossiblyborrowacupofchampagne?”
LATER,WHISPERINGSIDEBYSIDEas the20thCentury rocketed throughthenight,Marionasked,“Didyoureallywinamilliondollarsatpoker?”“Almost.Buthalfofitwasmymoney.”“That’sstillahalfmillion.Whatareyougoingtodowithit?”“IwasthinkingofbuyingtheCromwellMansion.”“Whateverfor?”“Foryou.”Marionstaredathim,puzzledandintriguedandwantingtoknowmore.“Iknowwhatyou’rethinking,”saidIsaac.“Andyoumayberight.Itmightbe
filledwithghosts.But anoldcoot Iplayedcardswith toldme thathealwaysgavehisnewwifeastickofdynamitetoredecoratethehouse.”“Dynamite?”Shesmiled.“Somethingtoconsider.Ilovedthehousefromthe
outside.ItwastheinsideIcouldn’tstand.Itwassocold,likehim...Isaac,Ifeltyouflinchbefore.Areyouhurt?”“No.”“What’sthis?”She touched a wide yellow bruise on his torso, and Bell recoiled despite
himself.“Justacoupleofribs.”“Broken?”“No,no,no...Justcracked.”“Whathappened?”“BumpedintoacoupleofprizefightersinWyoming.”“Howdoyouhavetimetopickfightswhenyou’rehuntingtheWrecker?”“Hepaidthem.”“Oh,”shesaidquietly.Thenshesmiled.“Abloodynose?Doesn’tthatmean
you’regettingclose?”“Youremember.Yes,itwasthebestnewsI’dhadinaweek...Mr.VanDorn
thinkswe’vegothimontherun.”“Butyoudon’t?”“We’vegotHennessy’s linesheavilyguarded.We’vegot that sketch.We’ve
got goodmen on the case. Something’s bound to break ourway.Question is,doesitbreakbeforehestrikesagain.”“Haveyoubeenpracticingyourdueling?”sheaskedonlyhalfjesting.“Igot a session in everyday inNewYork,”Bell toldher. “Myold fencing
masterhookedmeupwithanavalofficerwhowasverygood.Brilliantfencer.TrainedinFrance.”
“Didyoubeathim?”Bell smiled andpouredmore champagne intoher glass. “Let’s just say that
LieutenantAshbroughtoutthebestinme.”
JAMESDASHWOOD FILLEDHIS notebook with a list of the blacksmiths,stables,autogarages,andmachineshopshevisitedwiththelumberjacksketch.The list had just topped a hundred. Discouraged, andweary of hearing aboutBronchoBillyAnderson,hetelegraphedMr.Belltoreportthathehadcanvassedevery town, village, and hamlet inLosAngelesCounty, fromGlendale in thenorthtoMontebellointheeasttoHuntingtonParkinthesouth.Noblacksmith,mechanic, or machinist had recognized the picture, much less admitted tofashioningahookoutofananchor.“Go west, young man,” Isaac Bell wired back. “Don’t stop ‘til your hat
floats.”Which brought him late the next afternoon by Red Train trolley to Santa
Monica on the shore of the Pacific Ocean. He wasted a few minutes,uncharacteristically,walkingouton theVenicePier tosmell thesaltwaterandwatchgirlsbathinginthelowsurf.Twoinbrightcostumeshadtheirlegsbaredalmost to theirknees.They ran toablanket theyhadspreadnext toa lifeboatthatwasonthebeachreadytoberolledfromthesandtothewater.Dashwoodnoticedanother lifeboatahalfmiledown thebeachpoised in thedistanthaze.Eachsurelyhadananchorunderitscanvas.HeberatedhimselffornotthinkingofSantaMonicasooner,squaredhisscrawnyshoulders,andhurriedintotown.Thefirstplacehewalked intowas typicalof themanyliverystableshehad
visited. Itwasa sprawlingwoodenstructurebigenough toshelteravarietyofbuggies and wagons for rent, with stalls for numerous horses, and a newmechanic’s section with wrenches, grease guns, and a chain hoist for motorrepairs.A bunch ofmenwere sitting around jawing: stablemen, grooms, automechanics,andabrawnyblacksmith.Bynow,hehadseenenoughtoknowallthesetypesandwasnolongerintimidated.“Horseorcar,kid?”oneofthemyelled.“Horseshoes,”saidJames.“There’stheblacksmith.You’reup,Jim.”“Good afternoon, sir,” said James, thinking that the blacksmith looked
morose.Bigasthemanwas,hischeekswerehollow.Hiseyeswerered,asifhedidn’tsleepwell.“WhatcanIdoforyou,youngfella?”Bynow,Dashwoodhadlearnedtoaskhisquestionsprivately.Later,hewould
showthesketchtothewholegroup.Butifhestartedoffinfrontofallofthem,itwouldturnintoadebatethatresembledasaloonbrawl.“Canwestepoutside?Iwanttoshowyousomething.”Theblacksmithshruggedhisslopingshoulders,gotupfromthemilkcratehe
wassittingon,andfollowedJamesDashwoodoutsidenexttoanewlyinstalledgasolinepump.“Where’syourhorse?”theblacksmithasked.Dashwoodofferedhishand.“I’maJim,too.James.JamesDashwood.”“Ithoughtyouwantedhorseshoes.”“Doyou recognize thisman?”Dashwoodasked,holdingup the sketchwith
themustache.Hewatched theblacksmith’s faceand, tohisastonisheddelight,hesawhimrecoil.Theman’sunhappyfaceflusheddarkly.Dashwood’s heart soared. This was the blacksmith who had fashioned the
hookthathadderailedtheCoastLineLimited.ThismanhadseentheWrecker.“Whoareyou?”askedtheblacksmith.“VanDorninvestigator,”Jamesansweredproudly.Thenextthingheknew,he
wasflatonhisback,andtheblacksmithwasrunningfulltiltdownanalley.“Stop!”Dashwoodyelled,jumpedtohisfeet,andgavechase.Theblacksmith
ranfastforabigmanandwassurprisinglyagile,whippingaroundcornersasifhewereonrails,losingnospeedinhismadturnsandjinks,upanddownalleys,through backyards, tearing through laundry hung from clotheslines, aroundwoodsheds,toolsheds,andgardensandontoastreet.Buthehadn’tthestaminaofamanjustoutofboyhoodwhoneithersmokednordrank.Oncetheywereoutin the open, Dashwood gained on him for several blocks. “Stop!” he keptshouting,butnooneonthesidewalkswasinclinedtogetinthepathofsuchabigman.Norwasthereaconstableorwatchmaninsight.HecaughtupinfrontofaPresbyterianchurchonatree-linedstreet.Grouped
onthesidewalkwerethreemiddle-agedmeninsuits,theministerinadogcollar,the choirmaster gripping a sheaf of music, and the deacon holding thecongregation’saccountbooksunderhisarm.Theblacksmithbarreledpastthem,withJameshotonhistail.“Stop!”Onlyayardbehind, JamesDashwood launchedhimself intoa flying tackle.
Asheflew,hetookaheelonthechin,buthestillmanagedtoclosehisskinnyarmsaroundtheblacksmith’sankles.Theycrashedtothesidewalk,rolledontoalawn, and scrambled to their feet. Jamesclung to theblacksmith’s arm,whichwasasthickastheyoungdetective’sthigh.“Nowthatyoucaughthim,”calledthedeacon,“whatareyougoingtodowith
him?”
The answer came from the blacksmith himself in the form of a wide fistribbedwiththickknuckles.WhenJamesDashwoodcameto,hewaslyingonthegrass,withthethreemeninsuitspeeringdowncuriouslyathim.“Where’dhego?”saidJames.“Heranoff.”“Whereto?”“Anywherehewantedto,I’dreckon.Areyouallright,sonny?”JamesDashwood rose swaying to his feet andwiped the blood off his face
withahandkerchiefhismotherhadgivenhimwhenhemovedtoSanFranciscotoworkfortheVanDornDetectiveAgency.“Didanyofyourecognizethatman?”“Ibelievehe’sablacksmith,”saidthechoirmaster.“Wheredoeshelive?”“Don’t know,” he answered, and the minister said, “Why don’t you let be
whatevergotbetweenyou,son?Beforeyougethurt.”Dashwoodstaggeredbacktotheliverystable.Theblacksmithwasnotthere.“Why’dJimrunoff?”amechanicasked.“Idon’tknow.Youtellme.”“He’sbeenactingstrange,lately,”saidastablehand.“Stoppeddrinking,”saidanother.“That’lldoit,”saidagroom,laughing.“The church ladies claim another victim. Poor Jim.Getting so aman’s not
safe on the streets when the Women’s Christian Temperance Union holds ameeting.”Withthat,grooms,stablehands,andmechanicsbrokeintoasongthatJames
hadneverheardbuttheyallseemedtoknow:Here’stoatemperancesupper,Withwateringlassestall,Andcoffeeandteatoendwith—Andmenotthereatall!
Jamestookoutanothercopyofthesketch.“Doyourecognizethisman?”He received a chorus of nos. He braced for a “Broncho Billy” or two, but
apparentlynoneofthemwenttothepictures.“WheredoesJimlive?”heasked.Noonewouldtellhim.HewenttotheSantaMonicaPoliceDepartment,whereanelderlypatrolman
led him to the chief of the department. The chief was a fifty-year-old, well-groomed gentleman in a dark suit, with his hair cut close on the sides in the
modernway.Dashwood introducedhimself.Thechiefactedcordiallyandsaidhewas happy to help a VanDorn operative. The blacksmith’s last namewasHiggins,hetoldDashwood.JimHigginslivedinarentedroomabovethestable.Wherewouldhegotohideout?Thechiefhadnoidea.Dashwood stopped at theWesternUnion office to telegraph a report to the
SacramentoofficetobeforwardedtowhereverIsaacBellwas.Thenhewalkedthe streets, as darkness fell, hoping to catch a glimpse of theman.At eleven,whenthelaststreetcarleftforLosAngeles,hedecidedtorentaroominatouristhotel instead of riding back to town so he could start hunting early in themorning.
ALONEHORSEMANONaglossybayrodearidgethatoverlookedtheremotesingle-trackedSouthernPacificlinejustsouthoftheOregonborder.Threemen,whoweregroupedarounda telegraphpolesqueezedbetween the trackandanabandoned tin-roofed barn, spotted him silhouetted against the sharp-blue sky.Their leader removed his broad-brimmed Stetson and swept it in a slow fullcircleoverhishead.“Hey,what areyoudoing,Ross?Don’twavehello likeyou’re invitinghim
downhere.”“I’mnotwavinghello,”saidRossParker.“I’mwavinghimoff.”“Howthehellishegoingknowthedifference?”“Heforkshishorselikeacowhand.Acowhandknowsdamnedwellthecattle
rustlerssignalforMindyourowndamnedbusinessandsiftsandawayfromus.”“Weain’trustlingcattle.Weain’tevenseenanycattle.”“The principle is the same. Unless the man is a total fool, he’ll leave us
alone.”“Whatifhedoesn’t?”“We’llblowhisheadoff.”EvenasRossexplainedwavingofftoAndy,whowasacityslickerfromSan
Francisco,thehorsemanturnedhisanimalawayanddroppedfromsightbehindthe ridge.The threewent back towork.Ross orderedLowell, the lineman, toclimbthepolewithtwolongwiresconnectedtoAndy’stelegraphkey.Hadthecowboyontheridgeriddencloser,hewouldhaveseenthattheywere
unusuallyheavilyarmedforatelegraphcrewworkingin1907.DecadesafterthelastIndianattack,RossParkerpackeda.45holsteronhishipandaWinchesterriflebehindhissaddle.Lowellhadacoachgun,asawed-offshotgun,slungoverhisbackwithineasy reach.Even thecityboy, the telegrapherAndy,hada .38revolver tucked in his belt. Their horseswere tied in the shade of a clumpof
trees,astheyhadcomeincross-countryinsteadofalongthetracksonahandcar.“Stayupthere!”RossorderedLowell.“Thiswon’ttakelong.”HeandAndy
settleddownbesidetheoldbarn.In fact, it was nearly an hour before Andy’s key started clattering, having
intercepted a train dispatcher’s orders to the operator atWeed, north of theirposition.Bythen,allthreehadbackedagainstthebarn,dozinginthesunoutofthecoolwind.“What’shesaying?”askedRoss.“ThedispatcherissendingtrainorderstotheWeedoperator.He’stellinghim
tosignalthesouthboundfreighttotakethesidingatAzalea.”Rosscheckedhiscopyoftheschedule.“O.K. The northboundwork train is passingAzalea siding in half an hour.
ChangetheorderstogivethesouthboundfreightauthoritycleartoDunsmuir.”Andydid asdirected, altering the trainorders to tell the southbound freight
thatthetrackwasclearwheninfactaworktrainwasracingnorthwithcarloadsoflaborers.Anexperiencedtelegrapher,hemimickedthe“fist”oftheDunsmuirdispatchersotheWeedoperatorwouldnotrealizeadifferentmanwasoperatingthekey.“Uh-oh. Theywant to knowwhat happened to the scheduled northbound?”
Scheduledtrainshadauthorityoverextras.Rosswaspreparedforthis.Hedidn’tbotheropeninghiseyes.“Tellthemtheschedulednorthboundjustreportedbytelegraphonethatit’son
thesidingatShastaSpringswithaburned-upjournalbox.”This falsemessage suggested that the northbound had broken down and its
crewhadswitcheditoffthemainlineontoasiding.Thentheyhadreacheduptothe telegraph wires with the eighteen-foot sectional “fishpole” carried in thecaboose to hook a portable telegraphone on the wires. The telegraphonepermitted rudimentary voice communication. TheWeed operator accepted theexplanationandpassedonthefalseordersthatwouldplacethetwotrainsonacollisioncourse.“Get up there,Lowell,”Ross ordered, still not openinghis eyes. “Pull your
wiresdown.We’redone.”“Lowell’sbehindthebarn,”saidAndy.“Wenttotakealeak.”“Delicateofhim.”Thingsweregoingexactlyasplanneduntilariflebarrelpokedaroundtheside
ofthebarnandpressedhardagainstthetelegrapher’shead.
29
A MUSICAL VOICE DRAWLED, “UNSEND THAT MESSAGE YOU justsent.”Thetelegrapherlookedupindisbeliefintothegrim,hawklikefeaturesofVan
Dorninvestigator“Texas”WaltHatfield.Behindhimstoodaglossybayhorse,silent as a statue. “And in case you’re wondering, yes, I do know theMorsealphabet.ChangeawordandI’llblowyourheadoffandsenditmyself.Asforyou, mister,” Hatfield told Ross Parker, whose handwas creeping toward hisholster,“don’tmakeanymistakesoryouwon’thavetimetomakeanother.”“Yes, sir,” said Ross, raising his hands high. In addition to theWinchester
pointed at Andy’s head, the tall Texan carried two six-guns in oiled holsterswornlowonhiships.Ifhewasn’tagun-fighter,hesuredressedlikeone.Andydecidedtobelievehim,too.Heclatteredoutacancellationofthefalse
order.“Now,passalongtheoriginalorderyousidewindersintercepted.”Andysentalongtheoriginalorderstotellthesouthboundextratowaitonthe
Azaleasidingasthenorthboundworktrainwascomingthrough.“Muchbetter,”drawledHatfield.“Wecan’thave locomotivesbuttingheads,
canwe?”Hissmilewasaspleasantashismusicaldrawl.Hiseyes,however,weredark
asagrave.“Andnow,gents,youall aregonna tellmewhopaidyou toattempt sucha
dastardlydeed.”“Dropit.”Lowell the lineman had come around the back of the barn with his wide-
barreledcoachgun.Walt Hatfield did not doubt that the gent with the coach gun would have
blasted him to pieces if he weren’t concerned about accidentally killing hispartnerswiththesameswathofbuckshot.Cussinghisownstupidity—therewasnootherword for it because even thoughhehadn’t seenhim, he shouldhavereckonedtherewouldbeathirdmantoclimbthepole—hedidashewastold.
Hedroppedhis rifle.All eyes shiftedmomentarily to the clatter of steel onstone.Hatfielddrovesidewaysanddrewhissix-gunswithblindingspeed.Hesenta
well-aimedslugatLowell thatdrilledthroughthelineman’sheart.ButevenasLowell died, he jerked the triggers of the coachgun.Both barrels roared, andheavy double-aught lead shot tore intoAndy, nearly cutting the telegrapher inhalf.Rosswasalreadyrunningforhishorse.AndyhadfallenonHatfield’srifle,
andinthetimeittooktoretrieveitfromunderhisbodyRosshadmountedandgallopedaway.Hatfieldwhippeduptheweapon,whichwasslipperywithblood,and fired once.He thought hewinged him.Ross reeled in the saddle.But bythen,hewasinthetrees.“Tarnation,”mutteredHatfield.Aglanceattheirbodiestoldhimthatneither
manwouldevertalkabouttheWrecker.Hejumpedonhisbay,roared,“Trail!,”andthebighorsesprangtoagallop.
MARIONMORGANKISSEDISAACBELLgood-byeatSacramento.ShewastravelingontoSanFrancisco.Hewouldchangetrainsnorthtotheheadof theCascadesCutoff.Herpartingwordswere,“Ican’t recalla train ride Ienjoyedmore.”Half a day later, trundling through the Dunsmuir yards, Bell counted
reassuring numbers of railway police guarding key switches, the roundhouse,anddispatchoffices.Atthestation,hespokewithapairofVanDornoperativesindarksuitsandderbieswhotookhimonabrisktourofthevariouscheckpointsthey had established. Satisfied, he asked where he could find Texas WaltHatfield.Dunsmuir’smainstreet,SacramentoAvenue,wasamudthoroughfarerutted
bybuggywheels.Ononesidewereframehousesandshopsseparatedfromthemudbyanarrowplanksidewalk.TheSouthernPacifictracks,rowsoftelegraphandelectricpoles,andscatteredshedsandwarehousesborderedtheotherside.The hotelwas a two-story affairwith porches overhanging the sidewalk. BellfoundHatfield in the lobby, drinkingwhiskey in a teacup.He had a bandageplasteredacrosshisbrowandhisrightarminasling.“I’msorry,Isaac.Iletyoudown.”He told Bell how while riding the rounds of the watch points he had
established along that vulnerable line, he had spotted what looked from adistancetobeanattempttosabotagethetelegraphlines.“Thoughtatfirsttheywerecuttingthelines.ButwhenIgotclose,IsawtheyhadwiredupakeyandIrealizedtheywereinterceptingtrainorders.Withaviewtocausingcollisions.”He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearly sore from head to toe, and
admitted,“Ialsothoughtatfirsttherewereonlytwoofthem.Forgotthey’dhavealinemantogoupthepole,andhegotthedroponme.Imanagedtowriggleoutofthatmess,butunfortunatelytwoofthemdiedintheprocess.Thethirdlitout.Ireckonedhewastheboss,soIlitoutafterhim,thinkinghecouldtellusplentyabouttheWrecker.Iwingedhimwithmyrifle,butnotenoughtospoilhisaim.Thedry-gulchinghellionshotmyhorseoutfromunderme.”“Maybehewasaimingatyouandhityourhorseinstead.”“I’mrealsorry,Isaac.Ifeelplumbstupid.”“Iwould,too,”saidBell.Thenhesmiled.“Butlet’snotforgetyoustoppeda
head-oncollisionoftwotrains,oneofthemfullofworkmen.”“The sidewinder is still fanging,”Hatfield retortedmorosely. “Stopping the
Wreckerain’tcatchinghim.”This was the truth, Bell knew. But the next day, when he caught up with
Osgood Hennessy at the cutoff railhead, the Southern Pacific president waslookingatthebrightsidetoo,partlybecauseconstructionwasroaringaheadofscheduleagain.ThelastlongtunnelontheroutetotheCascadeCanyonBridge—Tunnel13—wasalmostholedthrough.“We’re beating him at every turn,”Hennessy exulted. “NewYorkwas bad,
but, bad as it was, everyone knows it could have been so much worse. TheSouthern Pacific comes out smelling like a rose. Now your boys averted acatastrophic collision. And you say you’re closing in on the blacksmith whomadethathookthatderailedtheCoastLineLimited.”BellhadpassedontheessenceofDashwood’sreport,thattheblacksmithwho
hadfledmustknowsomethingaboutthehookandthereforeabouttheWrecker,too.Bell had orderedLarrySanders to giveDashwood the full support of theLos Angeles office in running down the blacksmith, who had disappearedwithout a trace. With Van Dorn’s entire Los Angeles force hunting him, heshouldturnupsoon.“ThatblacksmithcouldleadyoustraighttotheWrecker,”saidHennessy.“Thatismyhope,”saidBell.“Itstrikesmethatyou’vegotthemurderingradicalontherun.Hewon’thave
timetomaketroubleifhe’srunningtostayaheadofyou.”“I hope you are right, sir. But we mustn’t forget that the Wrecker is
resourceful. And he plans ahead, far ahead. We know now that he hired his
accompliceintheNewYorkattackaslongasayearago.That’swhyIcrossedthecontinenttoaskyouonequestionface-to-face.”“What’sthat?”“Iassureyouwespeakinconfidence.Inreturn,Imustaskyoutobeentirely
candid.”“Thatwasunderstoodfromthebeginning,”Hennessygrowled.“Whatthehell
areyouasking?”“Whomighthaveknownofyourplantoacquireacontrollinginterestinthe
NewJerseyCentralRailroad?”“Noone.”“Noone?Nolawyer?Nobanker?”“Ihadtoplayitclosetothevest.”“Butsurelyacomplexendeavordemandsthehelpofvariousexperts.”“I’dsiconelawyerononeportionofthearrangementandanotheronanother.
Samewith bankers. I put different devils ondifferent aspects. If thewordgotout,J.P.MorganandVanderbiltwouldfallonmelikelandslides.ThelongerIkeptitquiet,thebettermyshotatropingintheJerseyCentral.”“Sonooneattorneyorbankerunderstoodtheentirepicture?”“Correct ...Of course,”Hennessy reflected, “a really sharp devilmight put
twoandtwotogether.”Belltookouthisnotebook.“Pleasenamethosebankersandattorneyswhomighthaveknownenoughto
surmiseyourintention.”Hennessyfiredofffournames,takingcaretopointoutthat,ofthem,onlytwo
were actually likely to have understood the broader picture. Bell wrote themdown.“Wouldyouhavesharedknowledgeoftheimpendingarrangementwithyour
engineersandsuperintendentswhowouldtakechargeofthenewline?”Hennessyhesitated.“Toacertainextent.But,again,Igavethemonlyasmuch
informationaswasnecessarytokeepthemontrack.”“Would you give me the names of those who might have parlayed the
informationtounderstandyourintention?”Hennessymentionedtwoengineers.Bellwrotethemdownandputawayhis
book.“DidLillianknow?”“Lillian?Ofcourse.Butshewasn’tabouttoblabit.”“Mrs.Comden?”“SameasLillian.”“DidyoushareyourplanswithSenatorKincaid?”
“Kincaid?Areyoujoking.Ofcoursenot,whywouldI?”“ToprocurehishelpintheSenate.”“HehelpsmewhenItellhimtohelpme.Idon’thavetoprimehim.”“Whydidyousay‘Ofcoursenot’?”“Theman’s a fool.He thinks I don’t know that he’s hanging aroundme to
courtmydaughter.”BellwiredforaVanDorncourier,andwhenhearrivedhandedhimasealed
letter for the Sacramento office, ordering immediate investigations of theSouthernPacific’sheadengineer,LillianHennessy,Mrs.Comden,twobankers,twoattorneys,andSenatorCharlesKincaid.
30
ASOUTHBOUNDWORKTRAIN,RETURNINGHUNDREDSOFexhaustedmenforthreedays’recuperationafterfourstraightweeksofwork,wassidelinedto let a northbound materials train through. They were waiting to climb theDiamond Canyon Loop, a sweeping switchback curve fifty miles south ofTunnel13.Thesidinghadbeengougedoutofthecanyonwallat thefootofasteepslope,andthesweepoftheswitchbackallowedaclearviewofthetracksrunningparallelhighabovethem.Whatthemensawnextwouldhauntthemfortherestoftheirlives.Thelocomotivehaulingthelongstringofboxcarsandgondolaswasaheavy
2-8-0Consolidation.Shewasamountain-climbingworkhorsewitheightdrivewheels.On this light grade, etched from the side of the canyon, the couplingrodsthatlinkedherdriverswereablurofswiftmotionassheenteredthecurveatnearlyfortymilesanhour.Fewofthewearyslumpedonthehardbenchesofthesidelinedworktrainbelowtookmuchnotice,butthosewhodidlookupsawhersmokeflattenbehindherassheracedhighabovethem.Oneevenremarkedtoadozingfriend,“She’shighballinglikeOldManHennessy’sgothishandonthethrottle.”The 2-8-0’s engine truck, the short, stabilizing front wheels that prevented
swayingatsuchspeed,screechedastheypressedagainstthecurve.Herengineerknewtheruntothecutofflikethebackofhishand,andthisparticularbendonthelipofDiamondCanyonwasonespothedidnotwanttohearthescreechofalooserail.“Don’tlikethatnoiseonebit,”hestartedtosaytohisfireman.Inthenextmillisecond, long before he could finish the sentence, much less throttleback, theone-hundred-twenty-ton locomotives’s leaddrivewheel hit the looserail.Therailpartedfromthetieswithaloudbang.Freeof thewooden ties thatheld themahard-and-fast four feeteightanda
halfinchesapart, thetracksspread.Allfourdrivewheelsontheoutsideofthecurvedroppedoff thesteel,and the locomotivechargedstraightaheadat fortymilesanhour,sprayingcrushedstone,splinteredwood,andbrokenspikes.To the men watching from the work train sidelined at the bottom of the
canyon,itlookedasifthefreighthurtlingoverheadhaddevelopedamindofitsownanddecidedtofly.Yearslater,survivorswouldswearthatitsoaredforanamazingly long way before gravity took charge. Several found religion,convinced thatGodhad intervened tohelp the freight train fly just farenoughthatmostofitovershottheworktrainwhenittumbleddownthemountain.Atthe time,however,whatmost sawwhen they lookedupat the terrible thunderwasa2-8-0Consolidationlocomotivetopplingofftheedgeofacliffandrollingatthemwithfiftyboxcarsandgondolasthatswepttreesandbouldersfromtheslopelikealongblackwhip.Most remembered the noise. It started as thunder, swelled to the roar of an
avalanche,andended,hourslateritseemed,inthesharp,rendingclatterofsteelandwoodrainingdownonthestationaryworktrain.Noneforgotthefear.
ISAACBELLWASONthescenewithinhours.HewiredHennessythatthewreckwasverypossiblyanaccident.Therewas
noevidencethattheWreckerhadtamperedwiththerails.Admittedly,theheavyConsolidationhadsobatteredthepointwhereshejumpedthetrackthat itwasimpossible to distinguish for sure between deliberate removal of spikes or anaccidental loose rail. But meticulously filed Southern Pacific Railway policereportsindicatedthatpatrolsonhorsebackandhandcarhadblanketedthearea.Itwasunlikely,Bellconcluded, that thesaboteurcouldhavegottencloseenoughtostrikeattheDiamondCanyonLoop.Lividbecausethewreckhadunsettledhisworkforce,HennessysentFranklin
Mowery,thecivilengineerhehadhauledoutofretirementtobuildtheCascadeCanyon Bridge, to inspect the wreck. Mowery limped along the ruined bed,leaningheavilyonhisbespectacledassistant’sarm.Hewasatalkativeoldman—born,hetoldBell,in1837,whenAndrewJacksonwasstillpresident.HesaidhehadbeenpresentwhenthefirstcontinentalrailroadlinkedeastandwestlinesatPromontoryPoint,Utah,in1869.“Nearlyfortyyearsago.Timeflies.HardtobelieveIwasevenyoungerthatdaythanthisrascalhelpingmewalk.”Hegavehisassistantanaffectionateslapontheshoulder.EricSoares,whose
wire-rimmedglasses,wavydarkhair,expressiveeyes,broadbrow,narrowchin,andthin,waxedhandlebarmustachemadehimlookmorelikeapoetorapainterthanacivilengineer,returnedaslysmile.“Whatdoyouthink,Mr.Mowery?”askedBell.“Wasitanaccident?”“Hard to say, son. Ties smashed like kindling, no piece large enough to
registertoolmarks.Spikesbentorsnappedintwo.RemindsmeofaderailmentIsawback in ‘83.Stringofpassengercarsdescending theHighSierra, the rear
carstelescopingintooneanotherlikethatcabooseoverthererammedinsidethatboxcar.”Thetalldetectiveandthetwoengineerscastsobereyesonthecaboosestuffed
intotheboxcarlikeahastilypackedsuitcase.“WhatwillyoureporttoMr.Hennessy?”Bellasked.MowerynudgedEricSoares.“Whatshouldwetellhim,Eric?”Soares removed his glasses, glanced aboutmyopically, then dropped to his
kneesandcloselyexaminedacrosstieseveredbyalocomotivedrivewheel.“Asyou say,Mr.Mowery,” he said, “if they did pull spikes, no toolmarks
survived.”“But,”Mowerysaid,“I’dventuretheoldmanisnotgoingtowanttohearthat
slackmaintenancewastheculprit,ishe,Eric?”“No, Mr. Mowery,” Eric answered with another of his sly smiles. Their
friendship, Bell noticed, seemed based on Mowery acting like an uncle andSoaresthefavoritenephew.“Norwillhewelcomespeculationthathastyconstructioncouldhaveresulted
inaweaknessexploitedbythefast-movingheavylocomotive,willhe,Eric?”“No,Mr.Mowery.”“Compromise,Mr.Bell,istheessenceofengineering.Wesurrenderonething
to get another. Build too fast, we get shabby construction. Build tooscrupulously,wenevergetthejobdone.”Eric stood up, hooked his glasses around his ears again, and took up the
older’schant.“Builditsostrongthatitwillneverfail,weriskbuildingtooheavy.Buildit
light,wemightbuildittooweak.”“Eric’s a metallurgist,” Mowery said, chuckling. “Speaking of essence. He
knowsfortytypesofsteelthatdidn’tevenexistinmyday.”Bellwasstillstudyingthetelescopedwreckageofthecaboosestuffedinside
theboxcarwhenanintriguingideastruckhim.Thesemenwereengineers.Theyunderstoodhowthingsweremade.“Couldyoumakeaswordthatstartsshortandgetslonger?”heasked.“Begyourpardon?”“Youweretalkingabouttelescopingandsteel,andIwaswonderingwhether
thebladeofaswordcouldbehiddeninsideitselfthenextendedtomakeitlong.”“Likeacollapsiblestagesword?”askedMowery.“Wheretheactorappearsto
berunthroughbutthebladeactuallyretractsintoitself?”“Onlythisonewouldnotretract.Itwouldrunyouthrough.”“Whatdoyousay,Eric?YoustudiedmetallurgyatCornell.Couldyoumake
suchasword?”
“You canmake anything, if you’ve got themoney,” Eric answered. “But itwouldbedifficulttomakeitstrong.”“Strongenoughtorunamanthrough?”“Easily strong enough to thrust. Strong enough to pierce flesh.But it could
notendurelateralimpact.”“Lateralimpact?”Mowery explained. “Eric means that it would not stand up to whacking it
sidewaysinarealswordfightagainstarealsword.”“Thebeat,”saidBell.“Asharpblowtopushyouropponent’sbladeaside.”“Youcompromisestrengthintheinterestofcompactness.Twoorthreeshort
lengthsofsteeljoinedcannotbeasstrongasone.Whydoyouask,Mr.Bell?”“Iwascuriouswhatitwouldbeliketomakeaknifeturnintoasword,”said
Bell.“Surprising,”Mowerysaiddrily,“tothefellowonthebusinessend.”The bridge builder took a final look around and steadied himself on Eric’s
arm.“Let’sgo,Eric.Noputtingitoffanylonger.I’vegottoreporttotheoldman
exactlywhatMr.Bellreported,whichisexactlywhattheoldmandoesn’twantto hear. Who the heck knows what happened. But we found no evidence ofsabotage.”WhenMowery didmake his report, an angryOsgoodHennessy asked in a
low,dangerousvoice,“Wastheengineerkilled?”“Barelyascratch.Hemustbetheluckiestlocomotivedriveralive.”“Fire him! If it wasn’t radical sabotage, then excessive speed caused that
wreck. That’ll show the hands I don’t tolerate reckless engineers risking theirlives.”Butfiringtheengineerdidnothingtocalmtheterrifiedworkmenemployedto
finishtheCascadesCutoff.Whetherthewreckhadbeenanaccidentortheworkofasaboteur, theydidn’tcare.Although theywere inclined tobelieve that theWreckerhadstruckagain.Policespiesreportedthattherewastalkinthecampofastrike.“Strike!”echoedtheapoplecticHennessy.“I’mpayingthemtopdollar.What
thehellelsedotheywant?”“Theywanttogohome,”IsaacBellexplained.Hewaskeepingclosetrackof
themen’smoodbypollinghiscovertoperativesinthecookhousesandsaloonsand visiting personally to gauge the effect of the Wrecker’s attacks on theSouthernPacificlaborforce.“They’reafraidtoridetheworktrain.”“That’sinsane.I’mabouttoholethroughthelasttunneltothebridge.”“TheysaythatthecutoffhasbecomethemostdangerouslineintheWest.”
Ironically, Bell admitted, the Wrecker had won this round, whether heintendedtoornot.The oldman dropped his head in his hands. “God in Heaven, where am I
going to get a thousand men with winter coming?” He looked up angrily.“Rounduptheirringleaders.Clapabunchinjail.Therest’llcomearound.”“MayIsuggest,”saidBell,“amoreproductivecourse?”“No!Iknowhowtocrushastrike.”HeturnedtoLillian,whowaswatching
himintently.“GetmeJethroWatt.AndwiretheGovernor.Iwanttroopsherebymorning.”“Sir,” saidBell. “I’ve just comeback from thecamp. It’sgrippedwith fear.
Watt’spolicewill, atbest,provokea riotand,atworst, causevastnumbers todriftaway.Troopswillmakeitevenworse.Youcan’tforcedecentworkoutoffrightenedmen.Butyoucanattempttoalleviatetheirfright.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“BringinJethroWatt.Bringfivehundredofficerswithhim.Butputthemto
workpatrollingtheline.Blanketituntilitisapparentthatyou,nottheWrecker,controleveryinchoftrackbetweenhereandTunnel13.”“That’llneverwork,”saidHennessy.“Thoseagitatorswon’tbuyit.Theyjust
wanttostrike.”Lillianspokeupatlast.“Tryit,Father.”Andsotheoldmandid.Within a day, everymile of track was guarded and everymile scoured for
looserailsandburiedexplosives.JustashadhappenedinJerseyCity,whereVanDorn operatives had arrested various criminals swept up in the search for theWrecker’s accomplices, here, in the course of hunting for signs of sabotage,trackcrewsdiscoveredseveralweaknessesinthetrackandrepairedthem.Bell mounted a horse and rode the twenty-mile line. He returned by
locomotive,satisfiedthatthisneweststretchofthecutoffhadbeentransformedfrom the most dangerous in the West to the best maintained. And the bestguarded.
THEWRECKERDROVEAtrader’swagonpulledbytwostrongmules.Ithadapatched and faded canvas top stretchedover sevenhoops.Under the canvaswere pots and pans andwoolen cloth, salt, a barrel of lard, another that heldchinadishespackedinstraw.Hiddenunderthetrader’scargowasaneight-foot-long,ten-by-twelve-inchfreshlymilledmountainhemlockrailroadtie.Thetraderwasdead,strippednakedandtossedoffahillside.Hewasnearlyas
tallastheWrecker,andhisclothesfittheWreckerreasonablywell.Aholeboredthelengthofthesquaredtimberwasstuffedwithdynamite.TheWrecker followedabuggy road that likelyhad startedout as an Indian
traillongbeforetherailroadwasbuiltandamule-deertrackbeforethen.Whilesteepandnarrow,theroadunerringlyfoundthegentlestslopesinalandthatwasharsh.Mostof the remote settlements it toucheduponwereabandoned.Thosethat weren‘t, he avoided. Their hardscrabble residents might recognize thewagonandwonderwhathadhappenedtoitsowner.Hereandthere,theroadcrossedthenewrailroad,offeringanopportunityto
drivethewagonontothetracks.Buteverytimehenearedthecutoffline,hesawpatrols,police ridinghorsebackandpolicepumpinghandcars.Hisplanwas todrivehiswagonalongthetracksatnighttotheedgeofadeepcanyon,wherehewould replace an in-place crosstie with his explosive one. But as afternoonwanedandtheslopesdarkened,hewasforcedtoadmitthathisplanwouldnotsucceed.IsaacBell’shandwasobviousintheprecautions,andtheWreckercursedyet
again thekillershehadhired inRawlinswhohadbotched the job.ButallhiscursingandallhisregrettingwouldnotchangethefactthatBell’spatrolsmeantthat he could not risk driving the wagon on the tracks. The railroad cut wasnarrow.Muchofitconsistedofsheerrockononesideandasteepdropontheother. Ifheranintoapatrol, therewasnoplace tohideawagon,and, inmostplaces,nowaytodriveitoffthetracksatall.The hemlock crosstie weighed two hundred pounds. The spike puller he
neededtoremoveanexistingtieweighedtwenty.Thepullercoulddoubleasacrowbar to dig out the ballast, but he couldn’t drive spikeswith it, so he stillneededahammerandthatweighedanother twelvepounds.Hewasstrong.Hecould lift two hundred thirty pounds. He could lift the hemlock tie with thehammerandpullerlashedtoitandhoistittohisshoulder.Buthowmanymilescouldhecarryit?Unloadingthetiefromthewagon,itfeltevenheavierthanhehadimagined.
ThankGodithadn’tbeencreosotedincoal-tardistillates.Thewoodwouldhaveabsorbedanotherthirtypoundsofthedarkliquid.TheWreckerleanedthetieagainstatelegraphpoleandropedthespikepuller
andhammerto it.Thenhedrovethetrader’swagonbehindsometreesashortdistance from the tracks. He shot both mules with his derringer, pressing themuzzle to their skulls to muffle the reports in case a patrol was nearby. Hehurried back to the tracks, crouched and tilted the massive weight onto hisshoulder.Thenhestraightenedhislegsandstartedwalking.Theroughwooddug throughhiscoat,andheregrettednot takingablanket
from the wagon to cushion his shoulder. The pain started as a dull ache. Itsharpenedquickly,bitingdeep.Itcutintothemuscleofhisshoulderandgroundagainst the bone. After only half a mile, it burned like fire. Should he put itdown, runback to thewagon,andgetablanket?But thenBell’spatrolscouldfinditlyingbytherails.The Wrecker’s legs were tired already. His knees began to shake. But his
shaking knees and the awful pain in his shoulder were soon forgotten as theweightcompressedthebonesinhisspine,squeezingnerves.Thenervesradiateda burning sensation into his legs, shooting sharp pains through his thighs andcalves.Hewonderedifheputthetiedownandstoppedtorestwhetherhecouldliftitagain.Whilehedebatedtherisk,thedecisionwasmadeforhim.Hehadcarried the tie foramilewhenhesawacreamyglow in theskyup
ahead. Itbrightenedquickly.A locomotiveheadlamp,herealized,comingfast.Alreadyhecouldhearitoverthesoundofhislaboredbreathing.Hehadtogetoff the tracks. There were trees close by. Feeling his way in the dark, hedescended theslopeof the roadbedandcareened through them.Theheadlampthrewcrazybeamsandshadows.Hepushedindeeper,thenkneltdowncarefully,tippingthemassivecrosstiedownuntilitsendrestedontheground.Thereliefofhavingtheweightoffhimwasanalmostoverwhelmingpleasure.
Heleanedtheotherendofthetieagainstatree.Thenhesaggedtothegroundandstretchedouton thepineneedles to rest.The locomotivegrew louderandroaredpast,drawingatrainthatrattledwiththepeculiarhigherpitchofemptycars.Itpassedtooquickly.Toosoon,hehadtostandup,tipthecrushingweightontohisshoulder,andstruggleuptheslopetotherails.Theheelofhisbootcaughtontheheadoftherailashetriedtostepbetween
the tracks. He felt himself pitching forward, falling face-first. He fought toregainhisbalance.Butbeforehecouldgethis feetunderhim in theheadlongrush,theweightpushedhimdown.Hetwistedfranticallytogetoutfromunderthetie.Buttheweightwastoomassivetoescapeentirely.Asledgehammerblowcrushedhisarm,andhecriedoutinpain.Facedownontheroadbed,hewrenchedhisarmoutfromunderthetie,knelt
asifinprayer,heaveditontohisachingshoulder,stoodup,andpressedon.Hetriedtocounthisstepsbutkeptlosingtrack.Hehadfivemilestogo.Buthehadnoideahowfarhehadstaggered.Hestartedcountingties.Hisheartsank.Therewere almost three thousand ties for every mile of track. After a hundred, hethought he would die. After five hundred, he was almost destroyed by therealizationthatfivehundredtieswasnomorethanafifthofamile.Hismindbegantoscatter.HeimaginedcarryingthetieallthewaytoTunnel
13.ThroughthestonemountainallthewaytotheCascadeCanyonBridge.
I’mthe“HeroEngineer”!Giddy-headed laughter dissolved into a sobof pain.He felt himself drifting
outofcontrol.Hehadtoshifthisthoughtsawayfromthepainandthefearthathecouldnotcontinue.He drove his mind toward his early rote training in mathematics and
engineering.Structure—thephysicsthatmadeabridgestandorfall.Struts.Ties.Foundationpiers.Cantileverarms.Anchorarms.Liveloads.Deadloads.Thelawsofphysicsruledhowtodistributeweight.Thelawsofphysicssaid
he could not carry the crosstie another foot. He drove thatmadness from hismind and concentrated instead on fencing moves, the light, airy motion of asword. “Attack,” he said aloud. “Beat. Lunge. Parry. Riposte. Feint. Doublefeint.” On he plodded, the weight pounding his bones to jelly. Attack. Beat.Lunge. Parry. German intruded. Suddenly, he was mumbling the engineeringtermsfromhisstudentdays.ThenshoutingthelanguageofHeidelbergwhenhelearned to kill. “Angriff. Battutaangriff. Ausfall, Parade. Doppelfinte.” Heimagined someone humming in his ear. Attack: Angriff. Beat:Battutaangriff.Lunge:Ausfall.Parry:Parade.Doublefeint:Doppelfinte.Someonehecouldnotseewashumminga tunelessditty. Itgrewshrill.Nowheheard it rightbehindhim.Hewhirledaround, theweightof thecrosstienearlyspinninghimoffhisfeet.Harshacetylenelightblazedonthetracks.Itwasapolicepatrolpumpingalongonanalmostsilenthandcar.Asheerrockwallpressedagainsttheright-of-wayonhisleft.Tohisright,the
mountaindroppedsharply.Hesensedmorethansawasteepdrop.Thefeatherytopsofsmalltreespiercingthedarkindicateditcouldbeasmuchastwentyfeetdown.Hehadnochoice.Thehandcarwasalmostontopofhim.Hedroppedthetieovertheedgeandjumpedafterit.Heheardthetiehitatreeandsnapthetrunk.Thenhesmashedintoaspringy
tree,knockingthewindoutofhim.Thehummingdroppedintone.Thehandcarwasslowingdown.Tohishorror,
they stopped.He could hearmen talking fifteen feet above his head and sawbeamsof flashlights and lanterns.Theydismounted.Hecouldhear theirbootscrunchingontheballastas theystrodetherailbed,shiningtheir lights.Amanshouted. Abruptly as they had appeared, they left. The handcar creaked intomotionandhummedaway,leavinghimfifteenfeetdownthesteepembankmentinthedark.Movingcautiously,hunchedoverontheslope,digginghisbootsin,hefeltin
thedarkforthecrosstie.Hesmelledpinepitchandtracedtheodortothebrokentree.Severalfeetdown,hebumpedintothesquareendofthetie.Hefeltforhistools.Stilltiedon.Helookeduptheslope.Therimoftherailbedtoweredabove
him.Howwouldheclimbupitcarryingthetie?Hetippeditononeend,workedhisshoulderunderit,andstruggledtostand.Everymilehehadcomesofar,everyescape,meantnothing.Thiswasthereal
test: toclimbbackup theembankment. Itwasonly twenty feet,but each footcouldhavebeenamile.Thecombinationoftheweighthewascarryingandthedistance he had come and the steepness of the embankment seemedinsurmountable.Ashisstrengthfailed,hesawhisdreamsofwealthandpowerfadingbefore
his eyes. He slipped and fell, then struggled to his feet again. If only he hadkilledIsaacBell.HebegantorealizethathewasbattlingBellmorethanthetie,morethanthecutoff,morethantheSouthernPacific.The nightmare of Bell stopping him gave him the strength to rise. Inch by
inch, footby foot.Attack:Angriff.Beat:Battutaangriff.Lunge:Ausfall. Parry:Parade.Doublefeint:Doppelfinte.Twicehefell.Twicehegotup.Hereachedtothetopandstaggeredon.Ifhelivedtobeninety,hewouldneverforgetthatgut-wrenchingclimb.The pounding of his heart was growing louder and louder, so loud that he
eventually realized it couldn’tbehisheart.A locomotive?He stoppeddead inthemiddle of the tracks, stunned and dismayed.Not another patrol. Thunder?Lightningflickered.Hewashearing therumbleof thunder.Coldrainbegan tofall.Hehadlosthishat.Rainwaterstreameddownhisface.TheWreckerlaughed.The rain would drench the patrols, chase them indoors. He laughed
deliriously.Rain insteadof snow.The riverswere rising, but the trackswouldnot blocked by snow. Osgood Hennessy must be delighted. So much for theexperts predicting an earlywinter. The railroad president had given up on themeteorologists and had actually paid an Indian medicine man to predict theweather, andhe toldHennessy that the snowswouldcome late thisyear.Raininsteadofsnowmeantmoretimetocompletethecutoff.TheWreckersteadiedthetieonhisshoulder,andspokealoud.“Never.”Ahugeboltoflightningliteverythingstarkwhite.Thetrackscurvedsharply,clingingtothenarrowcut.Belowwasadizzying
viewofarampagingriveratthebottomofadeepcanyon.Thiswasthespot.TheWrecker dropped the hemlock tie, loosened the ropes that held his tools, andpriedupthespikesonbothsidesofanexistingtieandsetthemcarefullyaside.Thenhescrabbledatthecrushedrockwiththespikepuller,looseningthesharpstones.Herakedthemoutfromunderthetieandspreadthemcarefullysothey
didn’trolldowntheembankment.Whenhehaddugtheballastaway,heusedthepullerasalevertoworkthetie
outfromundertherails.Thenheshovedhishemlocktiewiththedynamiteinitintothespaceandbeganscoopingbackthestoneballast,packingitunderthetie.Last,hehammeredintheeightspikes.Withthetiesecurelyundertherailsandtheballastcarefullyspread,heattachedthetrigger,anailwedgedundertherailintoaholedrilledinthetie.Thenailrestedinthewoodaninchaboveafulminate-mercurydetonator.He
hadcalculatedcarefully,drivingahundrednailstomeasuretheforce,sothatapatrolwalkingthetiesorahandcarrollingontherailswouldnotpressthenaildeeplyenough todetonate theexplosive.Only the fullweightofa locomotivecouldtriggerthedetonator.Onelastbrutaltaskremained.Hetiedhistoolstothecrosstiehehadremoved,
tippeditontohisshoulder,androseonshakinglegs.Hestaggeredaquartermilefromthetraphehadlaidandheavedtieandtoolsdownthecliffwherenopatrolcouldseeit.Hewasreelingwithexhaustion,buthisheartsetwithicyresolve.Hehadcrippledthecutoffwithdynamite,collision,andfire.He had shaken the mighty Southern Pacific by derailing the Coast Line
Limited.SowhatifBellhadtwistedhisNewYorkattacktoHennessy’sadvantage?TheWreckerraisedhisfacetothestormingskyandlettheraincleansehim.
Thunderpealed.“Itismine!”heroaredback.“TonightIearnedit.”Hewouldwinthisfinalround.NotonemanontheworktrainwouldsurvivetofinishTunnel13.
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A THOUSAND MEN MILLED ABOUT THE CUTOFF CONSTRUCTIONcampatdawn.Twentycarsofwoodenbenchesstoodemptybehindalocomotiveventingexcesssteam.Themenstoodintherain,preferringthecoldandwettoshelterontheworktrain.“Stubborn bastards!”Hennessy raged,watching from his private car. “Wire
theGovernor,Lillian.Thisisinsurrection.”LillianHennessyplacedherfingersonthetelegraphkey.Beforeshetapped,
shesaidtoIsaacBell,“Istherenothingelseyoucando?”InBell’s opinion, themen bunched in the rain did not look stubborn.They
looked afraid.And they looked embarrassed to be afraid,which said a lot fortheircourage.TheWreckerhaderasedinnocentlivesbydynamite,trainwreck,collision, and fire.Death and injury had attended attack after attack.Menhaddied in derailments, the tunnel collapse, the ditched Coast Line Limited, therunawayrailcar,andtheterribleexplosioninNewJersey.“Thepatrolshaveinspectedeveryinchofrail,”heansweredLillian.“Idon’t
know what I can do that they haven’t done already. Short of riding on thecowcatchertocheckitmyself...”Thedetective spunonhisheel, strode fromHennessy’s car, crossed the rail
yardatarapidpace,andshoulderedthroughthecrowd.Heclimbedtheladderon the back of the work train’s tender, nimbly crossed the heaped coal, andjumped on the roof of the locomotive’s cab. From the vantage of the pulsingmachine,hecouldseesullentracklayersandhard-rockminersspreadfromoneend of the yards to the other. They fell silent. A thousand faces were risingtoward the incongruous sight of a man in a white suit standing on thelocomotive.BellhadonceheardWilliamJenningsBryanaddressacrowdat theAtlanta
Exposition.StandinginfrontnearBryan,hehadbeenstruckbyhowslowlythefamous orator spoke. The reason, Bryan told him at a latermeeting,was thatwordsbunchedupastheymovedthroughtheair.Whentheyreachedthebackofthecrowd,theyarrivedatanormalcadence.
Bell now raised his hands. He brought his voice up from deep within. Hespokeslowly,veryslowly.Buteverywordwasachallengethrownintheirfaces.“Iwillstandwatch.”Bellreachedslowlyintothiscoat.“Thislocomotivewillsteamslowlytotherailhead.”Slowly,hedrewhisBrowningpistol.“Iwillstandonthecowcatcheronthefrontofthislocomotive.”Hepointedthepistolatthesky.“IwillfirethispistoltosignaltheengineertostopthetraintheinstantIsee
danger.”Hesqueezedthetrigger.Ashotechoedofftheroundhouseandshops.“Theengineerwillhearthisshot.”Hefiredagain.“Hewillstopthetrain.”Bellheldtheweaponpointedattheskyandcontinuedspeakingslowly.“Iwillnotsaythatanymanunwillingtoridebehindmeisthelowestcoward
intheCascadeMountains.”Anothershotechoed.“ButIwillsaythis...Anymanunwillingtorideshouldgobacktowherehe
camefromandliveinthecareofhismother.”Laughterrumbledfromoneendoftheyardtotheother.Therewasatentative
surgeofmovementtowardthetrain.Forasecond,hethoughthehadconvincedthem. But an angry voice bawled, “You ever work on a track gang?” Andanothervoice:“Howthehellwillyouknowifsomething’swrong?”Thenabigmanwithabeefy red faceandhotblueeyesclamberedup the tender’s ladderandstalkedacrossthecoaltowhereBellstoodatopthelocomotive’scab.“I’mMalone.Trackboss.”“Whatdoyouwant,Malone?”“Soyou’regoingtostandonthecowcatcher,areyou?Youdon’tevenknow
enough to call the engine Pilot by its proper name, and you’re going to spotwhat’swrongontherailsbeforeitblowsyoutokingdomcome?Cowcatcher,fortheloveofGod...ButI’llgiveyouonething:yougotguts.”TheforemanthrustacallusedhandatBell.“Put‘erthere!I’llridewithyou.”Thetwomenshookhandsforalltosee.ThenMaloneraisedhisvoice,which
carriedlikeasteamshiphorn.“AnymanheresaysMikeMalonewon’tknowtroublewhenheseesit?”Nonedid.“Anyofyousewantstolivewithhismother?”
Witha roarof laughteranda thousandcheers, theworkmen jumpedaboardthetrainandcrowdedintothewoodenbenches.BellandMaloneclimbeddownandmounted thewedge-shapedpilot.There
wasroomtostandoneitherside,hangingintoarailjustunderthelocomotive’sheadlamp.Theengineer,conductor,andfire-mancameupfrontfororders.“Howfastyouwanttogo?”theengineerasked.“Asktheexpert,”saidBell.“Keepherundertenmilesahour,”saidMalone.“Ten?”theengineerprotested.“It’lltaketwohourstogettothetunnel.”“Youpreferashortcutoveracliff?”Thetraincrewtroopedbacktothecab.Malonesaid,“Keepthatpistolhandy,mister.”ThenhegrinnedatBell.“Just
remember,ifwehitamineorjumpalooserail,we’llbethefirsttoexperiencetheconsequences.”“Thethoughthadoccurredtome,”Bellsaiddrily.“But,factis,I’vehadevery
footofthislinescouredforthepasttwodays.Handcar,onfoot,horsepatrol.”“We’llsee,”saidMalone,grinfading.“Wouldyoulikethese?”askedBell,offeringhisCarlZeissbinoculars.“No thanks,” saidMalone. “I’ve been inspecting track with these eyes for
twentyyears.Today’snotthedaytolearnsomethingnew.”Bellslungthebinocularsstrapoverhisheadsohecoulddroptheglassesand
drawhispistoltofireawarningshot.“Twentyyears?You’rethemantotellme,Malone.WhatshouldIlookfor?”“Missingspikesthatholdtherailstotheties.Missingfishplatesthatjointhe
rails.Breaksintherails.Signsofdiggingintheballastincasethebastardminedit.Theroadbed’snewlylaid.Itshouldlooksmooth,nodips,nohumps.Lookforloose rockon the ties.Andwheneverwe roundabend in the road, lookextrahard‘causethesaboteurknowsthataroundthebendiswheretheengineerwillneverseeitintimetostop.”Bell raised the binoculars to his eyes. He was acutely aware that he had
persuaded the thousand men behind him to risk their lives. As Malone hadobserved,heandBell,ridinginfront,wouldtakethebruntofanattack.Butonlyatfirst.Aderailmentwouldtumblethemalltotheirdeaths.
32
THETRACKSHUGGEDTHEEDGEOFTHEMOUNTAINONANARROWcut.Totheleftrosesheerrock,scarredbydrillsanddynamite.Totherightwasair.Thedrop-offvariedfrommereyards toaquarterofamile.Wherecanyonfloorswerevisiblefromthetracks,Bellsawtreetops,fallenboulders,andragingriversswollenbytherain.Hescannedthetracksahundredfeetahead.HisbinocularshadmodernPorro
prismsthatintensifiedthelight.Hecouldseetheoffsetspikeheadsclearly,eightdriven into each tie. The chocolate-brown squared timbers flowed under himwithnumbingregularity.“Howmanytiespermile?”heaskedMalone.“Twothousandsevenhundred,”answeredtheforeman.“Giveortake.”Brown tie after brown tie after brown tie. Eight spikes in each. Each spike
securelyembeddedinthewood.Fishplatesholdingeachjoint,halfhiddenbythebulgeof the rail.Theballast, sharp-edgedcrushed stone, glistened in the rain.Bell watched for dips in the smooth surface. Hewatched for loose stone. Hewatchedforloosebolts,missingspikes,breaksinthegleamingrails.“Stop!”shoutedMalone.BelltriggeredhisBrowning.Thesharpcrackofthegunshotresoundedoffthe
rockwallandechoedacrossthecanyons.Buttheenginekeptrolling.“Fire!”Maloneshouted.“Again!”Bellwasalreadysqueezingthetrigger.Thedropwassteepalongthisbendin
the road, the canyon floor below litteredwith boulders.AsBell’s second shotrangout,thebrakeshoesstruckwithabangandahiss,andthelocomotiveslidto a halt on screechingwheels.Bell hit theground running.Malonewas rightbehindhim.“There!”saidMalone.Twenty feet ahead of the train, they stopped and stared at an almost
imperceptible bulge in the ballast. Whereas the freshly laid crushed stonepresentedasmooth,flatinclinefromthetiestotheedgeofthecliff,herewasagentlebumpthatroseafewincheshigher.
“Don’tgettooclose!”Malonewarned.“Lookslikethey’vebeendigginghere.Seehowitdidn’tsettleliketheoriginal?”Bellwalkedstraighttothebulgeandsteppedontoit.“Lookout!”“TheWrecker,” saidBell, “wouldmake absolutely certain that nothing less
thantheweightofalocomotivewoulddetonateamine.”“Youseemmightysureofthat.”“Iam,”saidBell.“He’stoosmarttowastehispowderonahandcar.”He knelt down on a tie and looked closely. He passed his hand over the
crushedstone.“ButwhatIdon’tseeareanysignsofrecentdigging.Thesestoneshavebeen
sittingawhile.Seethecoaldustundisturbed?”Malone stepped closer reluctantly.Then he knelt besideBell, scratching his
head.He ran his fingers over the coal dust crusting in the rain.He picked upsomechunksofballastandexaminedthem.Abruptly,herose.“Shoddywork,notexplosives,”hesaid.“Iknowexactlywhowasinchargeof
laying this section and he is going to hear from me. Sorry, Mr. Bell. Falsealarm.”“Bettersafethansorry.”By then, the train crew had disembarked. Behind them, fifty workmen
gawked,andotherswerepilingoffthecars.“Everyonebackonthetrain!”Maloneroared.Belltooktheengineeraside.“Whydidn’tyoustop?”“Youcaughtmebysurprise.Tookmeamomenttoact.”“Stayalert!”Bellretortedcoldly.“You’vegotmen’slivesinyourhands.”Theygoteveryonebackonthetrainandrollingagain.The ties slid by. Squared timber after squared timber. Eight spikes, four on
eachrail.Fishplatessecuringtherails.Sharp-edgedcrushedballastglistenedinthe wet. Bell watched for more bumps in the flat surface, disturbed stone,missingbolts,absentspikes,cracksintherails.Tieaftertieaftertie.For seventeen miles, the train trundled slowly. Bell began to hope against
hopethathisprecautionshadpaidoff.Thepatrolsandconstantinspectionshadensuredthelinewassafe.Onlythreemilestogoandthenthemencouldreturntowork,boringthevitalTunnel13.Suddenly,as theyroundedasharpcurve that rimmedthedeepestcanyonon
theroute,somethingunusualcaughtBell’seye.Hecouldn’tpinpointwhatitwasatfirst.Foraninstant,itbarelypenetrated.“Malone!”hesaidinawhipcrackvoice,“Look!What’swrong?”
The red-facedmanbesidehim leaned forward, squinted, his face amaskofconcentration.“Idon’tseenothing.”Bellrakedthetrackswithhisbinoculars.Bracinghisfeetonthepilot,heheld
theglasseswithonehandanddrewhispistolwiththeother.Theballastwassmooth.Nospikesweremissing.Theties...Inseventeenmiles,theworktrainhadcrossedfiftythousandties.Eachofthe
fiftythousandwasachocolate-browncolor,thewooddarkenedbypreservativesabsorbedincreosoting.Now,onlyafewyardsaheadofthelocomotive,Bellsawa wooden tie that was colored yellowish white—the shade of freshly milledmountainhemlockthathadnotbeencreosoted.Bellfiredhispistolagainandagainasfastashecouldpullthetrigger.“Stop!”Theengineerslammedonthebrakes.Wheelslocked.Steelscreechedonsteel.
The heavy locomotive slid along on themassive force of itsmomentum. Theweightoftwentycarsshovedbehindit.Bell and Malone leaped off the pilot and ran ahead of the skidding
locomotive.“Whatisit?”thetrackforemanshouted.“Thattie,”Bellpointed.“GodAlmighty!”roaredMalone.The twomen turnedasone and raisedpowerful armsas if to stop the train
withtheirbarehands.
33
THEENGINEERTHREWHISJOHNSONBARINTOREVERSE.Eight ponderous drivewheels spun backward, showering sparks and slivers
from the rails. For a moment, it looked as if two strong men were actuallystopping a Consolidation locomotive. Andwhen it did grind to a stopwith aground-shaking shudder, Isaac Bell looked down and saw his boots plantedfirmlyonthesuspectcrosstie.The tip of the pilot was hanging over it. The leadingwheels of the engine
truckhadcomewithintwoyardsofit.“Backherup,”orderedMalone.“Softly!”
GENTLY SCRAPING AWAY THE ballast from either end, Bell discoveredupon close inspection that the suspect tie had a round wooden plug like awhiskey barrel bung. It was the diameter of a silver dollar and almostindistinguishablefromthetimber’sendgrain.“Move everyone farther back,” he told Malone. “He packed the tie with
dynamite.”Thetriggeringdevicewasanailpositionedtosetoffadetonator.Therewas
enoughdynamitetoblowrailsoutfromunderthelocomotive,whichwouldhavetumbledoffthecutanddraggedthewholetraindownthesideofthemountain.Instead, Bell was able to wire back to Osgood Hennessy that the Van DornDetectiveAgencyhadwonanothervictoryovertheWrecker.Hennessymovedhisspecialtraintotheheadoftheline,wheretheminersand
trackmen who had arrived safely were hard at work boring through the lasthundredfeetofTunnel13.
EARLYNEXTMORNING,OSGOODHENNESSYcalledBellontohisprivatecar.LillianandMrs.Comdenofferedcoffee.Hennessywasgrinningeartoear.“We’re about to hole through.We always do a ceremony on the long tunnels
where I clear the last stone.This time, thehands sent adelegationdemandingthatyoutakethelastpokeforwhatyoudidyesterday.It’sabighonor,I’dacceptitifIwereyou.”BellwalkedintothetunnelwithHennessy,huggingthewallwhentheyhadto
step off the tracks to let a locomotive pass with debris-filled dump cars. Forhundreds of yards, the sides and arched ceiling were already finished withmasonry shoring. Near the end, a temporary web of timbers shored up theceiling. In the final yards, theminers worked under a shield of cast iron andtimberthatprotectedthemfromfallingrock.The chattering drills stopped asBell and the railroad president approached.
Minersclearedthecrumblingstonewithsledgesandshovels,thensteppedbackfromthewallthatremained.A towering hard-rock miner with long apish arms and a gap-toothed grin
handedBellasixteen-poundsledgehammer.“Everswingoneofthesebefore?”“Drivingtentpegsforthecircus.”“You’lldofine.”Theminer leaned inandwhispered,“See thatchalkmark?
Smackherthere.Wealwayssetittocomedownfortheceremony...Gangway,boys!Givethemanroom.”“Areyousureyoudon’twanttodothis?”BellaskedHennessy.Hennessy stepped back. “I’ve dug plenty of tunnels inmy day.You earned
thisone.”Bellwhippedtheheavysledgeoverhisshoulderandswunghardatthechalk
mark.Cracksspread,andagleamoflightshowedinthewall.Heswungagain.Theminerscheeredastherockcollapsedanddaylightpouredin.Bell stepped into the jagged opening and saw the Cascade Canyon Bridge
glitteringinthesunlight.Thelong,layeredlatticeworkofsteelspannedthedeepgorgeoftheCascadeRiverontwotall,slimtowerssetonmassivestonepiers.Floatinghighabovethewaterymistsandfoam,themostimportantbridgeonthecutoff line looked almost complete. Crossties were already laid on it inanticipationofsteelrailsarrivingthroughthetunnel.Bellsawthatitwasheavilyguarded.Railroadpolicestoodeveryfiftyfeet.A
sentryhousestoodateitherendandoneateachpier.AsBellwatched,acloudpassedoverthesun,andtheshadowturnedthesilverygirdersblack.“Whatdoyouthink,son?”Hennessyaskedproudly.“She’sabeauty.”HowwouldtheWreckerstrike?In the shadowof thebridgenestled the townofCascade, establishedwhere
the original lowland railroad from the desert terminated at the foot of the
mountains. He could see the elegant 1870s Cascade Lodge, long a draw forintrepidtouristswillingtobravethelong,slowclimbonendlessswitchbacksupthe foothills. From that railhead, Hennessy had built a temporary freight linewith even more switchbacks to lift materials to the bridge construction site.Almostimpossiblysteep,itwasajaggedseriesofsharpclimbsandhairpinturnsthathadbeennicknamedbytherailroadworkerstheSnakeLine.Thegradewassoheavy that a stringof freight carsBell sawascendingwerepulledby threesmoke-billowing locomotives, with four pusher engines helping from behind.TheSnakeLinelocomotiveshaddonetheirjob.Fromnowon,materialswouldarriveonthecutoffline.TheWreckerwouldn’thit theSnakeLine,itsjobwasdone.Hewouldn’thit
the town. He would hit the bridge itself. Destroying the long truss-and-pierbridgewouldsetbackthecutoffprojectbyyears.“What the deuce is that?” askedHennessy.He pointed at a column of dust
racingupaswitchbackbuggyroadfromthetownbelow.IsaacBell’sfaceopenedinabroadgrinofappreciation.“ThatistheThomas
FlyerautomobileyouandIweretalkingabout.Model35,fourcylinders,sixtyhorsepower.Lookathimgo!”Thebrightyellowmotorcar topped theswitchback,bouncedover therocky
shelf, and skidded to a halt twenty feet away fromwhere Bell andHennessystoodinthemouthofthetunnel.Thecanvastopwasdownandfoldedback,andtheonlyoneinitwasthedriver,atallmancladinboot-lengthduster,hat,andgoggles.Hejumpedfrombehindthewoodensteeringwheelandstrodetowardthem.“Congratulations!” he called, whipping off his goggles with a dramatic
flourish.“What the hell are you doing here?” asked Hennessy. “Isn’t Congress in
session?”“Celebratingyourcutoffholethrough,”saidCharlesKincaid.“Ihappenedto
be meeting with some very important California gentlemen at the CascadeLodge.ItoldmyhoststheywouldhavetowaitwhileIdroveuptoshakeyourhand.”KincaidseizedHennessy’shandandpumpeditheartily.“Congratulations,sir.Magnificentachievement.Nothingcanstopyounow.”
34
NOVEMBER1,1907CASCADECANYON,OREGONi
RED-FACED, FIERY-EYED SOUTHERN PACIFIC TRACK BOSS MIKEMalonestalkedfromthemouthofTunnel13trailedbyhandlersgrippingheavylengthsofrailintheirtongsandalocomotivebehindthembelchingsmokeandsteam.“Somebodymovethatautomobilebeforeitgetssquashed,”hebawled.CharlesKincaidrantorescuehisThomasFlyer.Isaac Bell asked OsgoodHennessy, “Are you surprised to find the Senator
waitinghere?”“I’mneversurprisedbymenhopingformydaughter’sinheritance,”Hennessy
answered over the clatter of Malone’s track gangs spreading roadbed stoneballastinfrontoftheengineandlayingdowncrossties.SenatorKincaidcamerunningback.“Mr. Hennessy, the most important businessmen and bankers of California
wishtothrowabanquetforyouintheCascadeLodge.”“I’vegotnotimeforbanquetsbeforeIlaytrackacrossthatbridgeandbuild
mystagingyardsontheotherside.”“Can’tyoucomedownafterdark?”MikeMalonebarreledup.“Senator, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble would you please move that
goddamnedautomobilebeforeIhavemyboysthrowitoffthecliff?”“Ijustmovedit.”“It’sstillinourway.”“Moveit,”growledHennessy.“We’rebuildingarailroadhere.”BellwatchedKincaidhurryofftomovehiscaragain,andsaidtoHennessy,
“I’dliketoseewhatthey’reuptoatthatbanquet.”“Whatthehellfor?”“ItisastrangecoincidencethatKincaidisheretoday.”
“Itoldyou,he’shangingaroundmydaughter.”“TheWrecker has inside knowledge of the Southern Pacific. How does he
knowaboutyourplans?”“Itoldyouthattoo.Somebusybodyputtwoandtwotogether.Orsomefool
blabbed.”“Eitherway,theWreckerisnostrangertoyourcircle.”“Allright,”saidHennessy.“Icanstandabanquetifyoucan.”Heraisedhis
voice over the din to shout. “Kincaid! Tell your friends if the invitation stillholdsinthreedays,I’lltakeit.”TheSenatorprofessedastonishment.“Surelyyouwon’tbeacrossandsetup
inonlythreedays.”“HeadswillrollifI’mnot.”The shrunken old man snapped his fingers. Engineers rushed to his side,
unfurling blueprints. Surveyors were right behind, propping transits on theirshoulders,trailedbychainmenwithred-and-whiterangingrods.IsaacBellinterceptedKincaidasheclimbedintohiscar.“Funnycoincidencethatyourmeetingishere,ofallplaces.”“Notat all. IwantHennessyonmyside.As theCaliforniagentlemenwere
willing to rentanentire lodge topersuademe to run forpresident, I figured itmightaswellbeonenearhim.”“Still playing hard to get?” asked Bell, recalling their conversation at the
Follies.“Harderthanever.Themomentyousayyestotheirsort,theythinktheyown
you.”“Doyouwantthejob?”Inanswer,CharlesKincaidslippedabighandunderthelapelofhiscoatand
flipped it over. A campaign button that had been hidden by the cloth readKINCAIDFORPRESIDENT.“Mum’stheword.”“Whenwillyouturnyourbuttonout?”“I’mplaningtosurpriseMr.Hennessyathisbanquet.Theywantyoutocome
too,seeingashowyou’rethemanwhosavedthelinefromtheWrecker.”Noneofthisrangtruetothedetective.“I’mlookingforwardtoit,”Bellsaid.The Wrecker pretended not to notice Bell’s probing gaze. He knew his
presidential ruse would not fool the VanDorn detectivemuch longer. But hestoodhisground,allowinghiseyestorovecuriouslyoverthegleamingbridgeasifhehadn’tacareintheworld.“That broad plateau on the far side of the gorge,” he remarked casually,
“seemsthelikelyspotforHennessytobuildhishead-of-the-linestagingyards.”Thereweretimes,hethoughtproudly,hereallyshouldhavebeenanactor.“Doyouregretleavingengineering?”Bellasked.“IwouldifIdidn’tenjoypoliticssomuch.”Kincaidlaughed.Helethissmile
fadeashepretendedtoreflectsoberly.“ImightfeeldifferentlyifIhadbeenasbrilliantanengineerasMr.Mowerywhobuiltthisbridge.Lookatthatstructure!The grace, the strength.Hewas a star. Still is, despite his years. Iwas nevermorethanacapablejourneyman.”Bellwasstaring.Kincaidsmiled.“You’relookingatmestrangely.That’sbecauseyou’restilla
young man, Mr. Bell. Wait until forty overtakes you. You’ll learn yourlimitationsandfindotherlinesatwhichyoumightdobetter.”“Suchasrunningforpresident?”Bellaskedlightly.“Exactly!”Kincaid laughed, slapped thedetective’s rock-hardarm,andvaulted intohis
Thomas Flyer. He engaged themotor, which he had left running, and starteddownthemountainwithoutlookingback.Anyhintthathewasconcernedwouldonlyfuelthedetective’simagination.Infact,hewasexultant.OsgoodHennessywaschargingforwardatfullsteam,obliviouslyputtinghis
head in a noose. The faster the cutoff crossed the bridge, the sooner Osgoodwould hang. For if new staging yards at the front end of the constructionrepresented Hennessy’s head and his torso was the Southern Pacific Railroadempire,thentheCascadeCanyonBridgewashisneck.
35
ISAACBELLPLANTEDMENINEVERYWORKGANGTOWATCHFORsabotage.Hennessy had told him that holing through was just the beginning. He
intendedtobuildasfaracrossthebridgeashecouldbeforethefirstsnow.EventhemostcowardlyWallStreetbanker,therailroaderboasted,wouldbeassuredbytheproofthattheSouthernPacificwasprimedtocontinuecutoffconstructionwhenitmeltedinthespring.Belldirectedhorsepatrolstoguardtheroutethat therailroadwassurveying
deepintothemountains.ThenheaskedJethroWatt totakepersonalcommandof his railroad police. They walked the bridge and agreed to beef up thecontingentsguarding thepiersbelowand the spanabove.Then they inspectedthe surrounding area on horseback, the giant Watt mounted on an enormousanimalnamedThunderboltwhokepttryingtognawthepolicechief’sleg.Wattsubduedtheanimalbyswattingitshead,butanyjudgeofhorse-fleshknewthatThunderboltwasmerelybidinghistime.By nightfall that first day of frenzied activity, carpenters had erected
temporaryshoringinTunnel13andatimberrockshedarounditsfreshlyhewnportal.Masonswere following close behindwith stonework.And track gangshadlaidrailfromthetunneltotheedgeofthegorge.OsgoodHennessy’sredtrainstreamedthroughthetunnel,pushingastringof
heavily ladenmaterials cars ahead of it and up to the closely guarded bridge.Trackgangsunloaded railsandworkcontinuedbyelectric light.Ties suppliedbyatimberoperationupstreaminthemountainswerealreadylaidonthebridge.Spikemauls rang through the night.When the railswere secured,Hennessy’slocomotivepushedtheheavymaterialscarsontothespan.Athousandrailroadersheldtheirbreath.Theonly soundsweremechanical, the chuffof the locomotive, thedynamo
powering the lights, and the grinding of cast iron on steel. As the lead car,heaped with rails, edged forward, all eyes shifted to Franklin Mowery. Theelderlybridgebuilderwaswatchingclosely.
Isaac Bell overheard Eric, Mowery’s bespectacled assistant, boast, “Mr.Mowery was the same cool as a cucumber when he finishedMr. Hennessy’sLucinCutoffacrosstheGreatSaltLake.”“But,”saidagrizzledsurveyor,peeringintothedeepgorge,“thatonewasa
lotnearerthewater.”Moweryleanednonchalantlyonhiswalkingstick.Noemotionshowedonhis
round face, no worry rippled his sweeping jawline, or twitched his Vandykebeard. He had a cold, smokeless pipe firmly clamped in his broad, good-humoredmouth.Bell watched Mowery’s pipe. When the materials car reached the far side
withoutmishapandtheworkmengreeteditwithacheer,Moweryremovedhispipefromhismouthandpickedsplintersofcrushedstemfromhisteeth.“Caught me,” he grinned at Bell. “Bridges are strange critters, highly
unpredictable.”Theydouble-trackedthebridgebynoon.Inalongburstofaction,theylaiddozensofsidings.Soon,theremoteplateau
hadbeentransformedintoacombinationrailroadyardandconstructionstagingarena. Hennessy’s red special steamed across the gorge and parked on anelevated sidetrack from which the president of the Southern Pacific couldoverseetheentireoperation.Asteadystreamofmaterialstrainsbegancrossingthebridge.Telegraphwires followed, transmitting thegoodnewsback toWallStreet.Hennessy’stelegrapherhandedBellawadofencodedmessages.Notelegraphoperatoronthecontinenthadbeenmorecloselyscrutinizedthan
J.J.MeadowshadbeenbytheVanDornAgency.“Honestasthedayislongandbeholden to noman,”was the verdict. Butwith thememory still fresh of theWrecker’srenegade telegraphersshooting itoutwithTexasWaltHatfield,Bellwas taking no chances. All his Van Dorn correspondence was encrypted. Helocked the door to his private stateroom, two cars back on the special, anddecodedthem.These were the first results of the background reports Bell had ordered to
ferretoutthespyintherailroadpresident’sinnercircle.NothingintherecordoftheSouthernPacific’sheadengineersuggestedhewaslessthanrespectable.Hewas loyal to theSouthernPacific, loyal toOsgoodHennessy, and loyal to thehighstandardsofhisprofession.The same was said for FranklinMowery. The bridge builder’s life was an
open book studded with professional accomplishment. His many charitabledeedsincludedservingasadirectorofaMethodistorphanage.LillianHennessyhadbeen arrested a surprisingnumberof times for such a
youngandprivilegedwoman,butonlywhiledemonstratingfortherighttovote.The charges had always been dismissed. Testament, Bell assumed, tooverzealous policing or the power of a doting father who happened to bepresidentofthenation’sbiggestrailroad.OfthetwobankersHennessyhadnamedwhomighthavededucedhisplans,
one had been convicted of fraud, the other named as a correspondent in adivorce.OneoftheattorneyshadbeendisbarredinIllinois,anotherhadamasseda fortune in railroad stock by buying with foreknowledge of the railroads’intentions. On closer examination, the Van Dorn investigators reported, bothbankers had transgressed in their youth, while the disbarred attorney hadsubsequently been readmitted.But the holder of the fortune, ErastusCharney,drew Bell’s interest, as he was clearly a man who traded on the power ofknowingaheadof timewhichway thewindblew.Bellwired todigdeep intoCharney’saffairs.Bellwasnot surprised that the livelyMrs.Comdenhad livedacolorful life
evenbeforeshebecameconsorttotherailroadmagnate.Achildpianoprodigy,she’dmadeherconcertdebutwiththeNewYorkPhilharmonicatagefourteen,performingChopin’sConcerto for Piano andOrchestraNo. 2 in FMinor—“abear to play at any age,” noted the Van Dorn operative. She had toured theUnitedStatesandEurope,whereshestayedtostudyinLeipzig.Shehadmarriedawealthy physician connected at theGerman court, who’d then divorced herwhen she ranoffwithahighbornofficerof theFirstGuardsCavalryBrigade.They had lived together in Berlin until the officer’s scandalized familyintervened. Emma then married a struggling portrait painter named Comden,onlytobewidowedwithintheyear.Penniless,herconcert-playingdaysbehindher, theWidowComdenhad landed inNewYork,drifted toNewOrleansandSan Francisco, and answered a newspaper ad to tutor Lillian Hennessy. Hernomadicwayscontinuedontheluxuriousspecialemployedbytheever-movingHennessy.OntherareoccasionsthattheirascibleOsgoodappearedsocially,thelovelyMrs.Comdenwasathisside.Andwoe,notedtheVanDornoperative,tothefortunesofthepolitician,banker,orindustrialistwhosewifedaredsnubher.Charles Kincaid’s life had been far less colorful than Preston Whiteway’s
newspapers led readers to believe.He had studied engineering briefly atWestPoint, switched to civil engineering at the University of West Virginia, donepostgraduateworkincivilengineeringattheTechnischeHochschuleofMunich,and hired on with a German firm building the Baghdad Railway. The factsbehind his “Hero Engineer” moniker were questionable. That Turkishrevolutionaries had frightened American nurses and missionaries tending toArmenianrefugeeswaslikely.TheWhitewaynewspaperaccountsofKincaid’s
roleintheirrescuewere,theVanDornoperativenotedacerbically,“lessso.”Bellfiredbacktwomorequeries:“WhydidKincaidleaveWestPoint?”and
“WhoisEricSoares?”Franklin Mowery’s assistant was always at his side. Whatever special
knowledgeofHennessy’saffairsthatthebridgebuilderknew,youngEricwouldknow,too.Speaking of young assistants,whatwas taking JamesDashwood so long to
catchupwiththeblacksmithwhohadfashionedthehookthatderailedtheCoastLineSpecial?IsaacBellrereadDashwood’smeticulouslydetailedreports.ThenhewiredtheapprenticecareoftheLosAngelesoffice.
BLACKSMITHSTOPPEDDRINKING.INQUIRETEMPERANCEMEETINGS.
ISAACBELLRECEIVEDAreportfromtheKansasCityofficethatEricSoareswas an orphan whom Franklin Mowery had sponsored through CornellUniversity and had taken on as his assistant. Soares was by some accounts atalentedengineer,byothersanupstartridingthecoattailsofafamouslygenerousman.BellreflecteduponthefactthatMowerydidnothavethephysicalstaminaor
agility to do fieldwork without help. Eric would perform duties that requiredphysical activity, such as inspectingwork done on the bridge.He telegraphedKansasCitytokeepdigging.“Privatewire,Mr.Bell.”“Thankyou,Mr.Meadows.”Bell took the telegram tohis stateroom,hoping itwas fromMarion. Itwas,
andheexclaimedwithpleasurewhenheread:DO NOT—REPEAT NOT—WISH TO JOINPRESTONWHITEWAY CASCADE LODGE FORPICTUREWORLDNEWSREELS.BUTAREYOUSTILLTHERE?IFSO,WHATDOYOUWISH?
Bell called on Lillian Hennessy. His schemes to extricate himself from thegirl’s infatuation and rescue Archie Abbott from his mother seemed to beworking. Since his return fromNewYork,most of their conversations veeredtowardthesubjectofAbbott,andshetendednowtotreatBellasanadoredbigbrotheroroldercousin.Aftertheyspoke,hewiredMarionback.
COME! BE HENNESSY’S GUEST ABOARD
SPECIAL.WhileBellpursuedhisinvestigation,andkepthoninghiseffortstoprotectthe
CascadeCanyonBridge,therailroadforgedahead.Twodaysafterthecutoffhadcrossed the canyon, the staging area on the far plateau had room and track toaccommodate theendlessstringsof freightcarsarrivingwithsteel rail, spikes,ballast,andcoal.Acreosotingplantarrivedinparts.Itwasassembledalongsidethe stockpiled crossties and was soon belching noxious black smoke as rawwoodenteredoneendandfloatedouttheothersteepedinpreservative.Wagons that had delivered the ties down twisted mountain trails from the
remoteEastOregonLumberCompanynowcarriedplanksandbeams.Anentiretrainload of carpenters hammered together tin-roofed roundhouses for thelocomotives,powerhouses toshelterdynamosforelectricity,blacksmithshops,kitchens,bunkhousesforthetrackgangs,stablesforthemulesandhorses.Holed through the last tunnel, connected to the bridge and linked by it to
strategically positioned staging yards, Hennessy could now bring in men andmaterial directly from California. The task of guarding the four-hundred-mileroute as well as the bridge fell to Van Dorn detectives and Southern Pacificrailwaypolice.IsaacBellurgedJosephVanDorntoborrowU.S.Armytroopstoassisttheirthinlyspreadforce.
EIGHT MILES UPSTREAM FROM the Cascade Canyon Bridge, the EastOregon LumberCompany’s forest rang from dawn to darkwith the incessantbite of double-bladed axes. Modern high-lead winches snaked logs from thesteepest slopes. “Steam donkeys,” powerful stationary steam engines, turneddrumsofwireropethathauledlogstothemillonacorduroyskidroad.Tieaftertie was sawn and squared and sent down the terrible roads by wagon.Whenworkstoppedatnight,theexhaustedlumberjackscouldhearthedistantmoanoflocomotivewhistles,areminderevenastheysleptthattherailroadcravedmoretimber.Themilesbetweenthebridgeandthecampfeltmorelikeeightythaneightto
the teamsterswhodelivered lumber to thecutoffstagingyard.Soruggedwerethe mountain roads that Gene Garret, the ambitious, greedy manager of thesawmill,wasgratefulforthePanicthathadbroughthardtimes.Iftheeconomyhadbeenbooming,themillwouldbeshortofhands.Themuleskinnerswouldseek jobselsewhere rather thanclimb themountains foranother load.And thelumberjacks who had shot the rapids down the river in dugout canoes tocelebratepaydaySaturdaynightswouldnotwalkeightmilesback toworkon
Sunday.An enormous artificial lake was filling beside the remote lumber camp.
Muddywatercreptdailyupthesidesofanaturalbowlthatwasformedwherethreemountain slopes converged at theCascadeRiver. The fourth sidewas arough dam built of tumbled stones and logs. It towered fifty feet above theoriginalmasonryconstructedyearsbeforeforamillracetopowerthesaws.Nowpower came from the steam donkeys that the new owners of East OregonLumberhaddelivered inpiecesbyoxcart.Theoriginalmillpondhadvanishedunder the ever-deepening lake.Themulebarns and thebunk- and cookhouseshadbeenmovedtwicetoescapetherisingwater.TheWreckerwasproudofthatdam.Hehaddesigneditontheprincipleofabeaverdam,whichcontrolledwater
flowwithoutstoppingitentirely.Hisdesignemployedgianttreetrunksinsteadofsticks,man-sizebouldersinsteadofmud.Thetrickwastoimpoundenoughoftheriverflowtofillthelakewhilelettingsufficientthroughsothatdownstreamitappearednormal.Iftheriverseemedalittlelowerthanusualforlateautumnas it tumbled through the town of Cascade, few residents took notice. Andbecause the Cascade Canyon Bridge was newly built, there were no ancienthigh-watermarkstocomparetotheriverrushingbythestonepiers.Manager Garret would never question the purpose of the lake nor the
enormousinvestmentinanoperationtooremotetodeliverenoughtimbertoearnit back. The Wrecker’s shell corporation, which had secretly purchased thetimber operation, paid the sawmill manager a fat bonus for every board andcrosstiedeliveredtotherailroad.AllGarretcaredaboutwassqueezingasmuchworkashumanlypossibleoutofhislumberjacksbeforewintersnowsshutthemdown.Thelakekeptrisingasautumnrainsswelledthecountlessstreamsandcreeks
thatfedtheriver.Withbitterhumor,theWreckernameditLakeLillianfortheheadstronggirlwhospurnedhim.Hecalculatedthatmorethanamilliontonsofwater filled the deep gorge already. Lake Lillian was a million-ton insurancepolicy in case the flaws he had built into the Cascade Canyon Bridge didn’tcauseittocollapseonitsown.Heturnedhishorseandrodeupthetrailforamiletoalogcabinnestledina
clearing by a spring. Firewood was stacked nearby beneath a canvas lean-to.Smoke rose from a mud-and-stick chimney. A single window overlooked theroad.Rifleslitsonallfoursidesofthecabincommandeda360-degreefieldoffire.PhilipDowsteppedoutthedoor.Hewasacompact,self-possessedmaninhis
forties, clean-shaven, with a thick head of curly black hair. Originally from
Chicago,hewasdressedincongruouslyforhiscabininadarksuitandderby.Hissharpeyesandimpassivefacecouldbelongtoaveterancop,oranArmy
sniper,oranassassin.Hewasthelatter,withaten-thousand-dollardead-or-aliverewardonhis headpostedby theMineOwners’Association.Through sixteenyears of bitter Coeur d‘Alene strikes, Philip Dow had murdered, in his ownwords,“plutocrats,aristocrats,andalltheotherrats.”Acoolhead,atalentforleadership,andarigidcodeofpersonalhonorthatset
loyaltyaboveallmadeDowa rareexception toCharlesKincaid’s rule thatnoaccomplice survivedwho had seen his facemuch less knew his true identity.KincaidhadofferedshelterwhenthemurderofGovernorSteunenberghadmadethenorthernIdahopanhandletoohotforDowtostickaround.Thedeadlymasterofsap,knife,gun,andexplosivewassafeinhiscabinintheWrecker’slumbercamp,touchinglygratefulandabsolutelyloyal.“IsaacBelliscomingdowntothelodgeforthebanquettonight.I’veworked
upaschemeforanambush.”“VanDorndicksdon’tkilleasy,”Dowreplied.Itwasastatementoffact,nota
complaint.“Areanyofyourboysuptopullingitoff?”Dow’s“boys”wereabunchofhard-bittenlumberjackshehadwhippedintoa
powerful gang.Manywere on the run from the law, hence the appeal ofEastOregonLumber’sremotesite.Mostwouldrathercommitmurderformoneythanbreaktheirbackscuttingtimber.CharlesKincaidneverdealtwiththemdirectly—none knew his connection—but, underDow’s command, they extended theWrecker’sreach,whethertosetupanattackontherailroadorterrorizehispaidbut at times tentative accomplices. He had dispatched a pair to kill the SantaMonicablacksmithwhohadseenhisface.But theblacksmithhaddisappearedandthelumberjacksfled.Thinlytreed,sun-drenchedsouthernCaliforniawasnotsafe for brawny, handlebar-mustachioed, wool-clad woodsmen with prices ontheirheads.“I’lldoitmyself,”Dowsaid.“Hiswomaniscoming,”theWreckertoldhim.“Intheory,he’llbedistracted.
ThatshouldmakeiteasierforthemtocatchBelloffbalance.”“I’llstilldoitmyself,Senator.It’stheleastIcandoyou.”“I appreciate your kindness, Philip,” said Kincaid, aware that Dow’s code
requiredacertainarchaicformalityofexpression.“WhatdoesBelllooklike?I’veheardabouthimbutneverseteyesonhim.”“IsaacBell is aboutmy height ... Actually, a hair taller.A build likemine,
thoughperhapsa little leaner.Stern face, likeyou’ve seenon lawmen.Yellowhair and mustache. And, of course, he’ll be wearing fancy clothes for the
banquet.Here,I’llshowyouthescheme.ThewomanisstayingonHennessy’strain.Thetimetodoitislate,aftertheycomebackfromthebanquet.Hennessyhastroublesleeping.Healwaysinviteshisguestsforanightcap...”Theywent intothecabin,whichDowkeptspotless.Ontheoilcloth-covered
table,theWreckerspreadachartthatdepictedthelayoutofHennessy’sspecial.“Workingbackfromthelocomotiveandtender,N1isHennessy’sowncar,as
isN2.Next is thebaggagecar,with apassage through it.The stateroomcars,Car 3 andCar 4, are behind it, then the diner, Pullman sleepers, lounge. Thebaggagecaristhedivider.Noonegoesforwardofitwithoutaninvitation.Bell’sfianceewillbeinCar4,Stateroom4,therearmost.BellisinCar4,Stateroom1.Shewillgotobedfirst.Hewilllingerforappearances.”“Why?”“They’renotmarriedyet.”PhilipDowlookedbaffled.“AmImissingsomethinghere?”“Same as aweekend in the country except it’s a train,”Kincaid explained.
“Anagreeablehostarrangesbedroomstoservetheguests’liaisonssonoonehasto tiptoe toofardownthehall.Everyoneknows,ofcourse,but it’snot ‘publicknowledge,’ifyouunderstandmymeaning.”Dow shrugged as if to say it was more important to kill aristocrats than
understandthem.“Bell will enter Car 4 from the head end, walking back from Hennessy’s
parlor.Hewillpasstotherearandknockonherdoor.Assheopensittolethimenter,youwillemergefromthisalcove—theporter’sstation.Irecommendyoursapsinceitisquiet,but,ofcourse,Ileavesuchdetailstoyou.”PhilipDowtracedtheroutewithamanicuredfinger, thinkingit through.To
theextentthathecouldfeelaffectionforanyone,helikedtheSenator.Hewouldneverforgetthatthemanhadgonetobatforhimwhenanybodyelsewouldhaveturnedhiminfor thereward.Plus,Kincaidknewhowthingsworked. Itwasapretty good scheme, clean and simple.Although thewoman could be trouble.With thehangmanwaitingforhiminIdaho,hecouldnotafford togetcaught.Hewouldhavetokillhertoobeforeshescreamed.Thesapmadesense.Guns,ofcourse,werenoisy,whiletheslightestmistake
withaknifecouldsetoffloudhowling.Besides,fromwhathecouldrememberofhisbloodylifelongrampage,hehadkilledmoreenemieswithasapthanguns,knives, and explosives combined. The concentrated weight of loosely baggedleadshotshapeditselftoaman’stemplesotightlythatitusuallyshatteredboneandalwaysblewoutbrains.“Letmeaskyousomething,Senator.”
“What?”“You’reouttodestroyOsgoodHennessy,aren’tyou?”Kincaid lookedawayso thatDowcouldnotsee inKincaid’seyes thatDow
was only an instant from having his skull smashed in with the poker on thehearth.“Whydoyouask?”Kincaidasked.“Icouldkillhimforyou.”“Oh.”Kincaidsmiled.Dowwasonlytryingtohelp.“Thankyou,Philip.ButI
prefertokeephimalive.”“Revenge,”Downodded.“Youwanthimtoknowwhatyou’redoingtohim.”“Correct,” the Wrecker lied. Revenge was for fools. Even for a thousand
insults, revengewasnotworth the trouble.OsgoodHennessy’suntimelydeathwouldthrowallhisplansintoacockedhat.Lillian,heirtohisfortune,wasonlytwenty.Hennessy’sbankerswouldbribeaprobatejudgetoappointaguardiantoprotect their interests. J. P. Morgan himself would seize that opportunity tocontroltheSouthernPacificbymakingLillianHennessyhisward.NoneofthiswouldserveCharlesKincaid’sschemetobefirstamongthe“favoredfew.”Philip Dow had turned his attention back to the chart. He foresaw another
problem.“Whatiftheporterisinhisstation?”“He’snot likely tobeat thathour. Ifhe is,howyoudealwithhim isup to
you.”Philip Dow shook his head. “I don’t kill workingmen. Unless I have no
choice.”TheWreckerlookedathim,inquiringly.“He’sonlyaporter.It’snotlikehe’s
white.”Dow stood back, expression darkening, eyes hard as anthracite. “Theworst
job on the train is the best job their people can get. Everyone is the Pullmanporter’sboss.Thatmakeshimworkingmanenoughforme.”TheWrecker had never met a unionist who welcomed blacks to the labor
movement.Hehurriedtoassuagetheangryassassin.“Here,takethis.”HegaveDowasix-pointedsterlingsilverstar.“Ifinyourjudgment,Philip,youwouldbesafemerelyorderingtheporteroff
thetrain,showhimthis.”Dowheftedthebadgeinhishandandreadtheinscription.“CaptainoftheSouthernPacificRailwaypolice?”Hesmiled,clearlyrelieved
thathewouldnothave tokill theporter. “Thepoorporterwon’t stop runninguntilhehitsSacramento.”
36
MARIONMORGANARRIVEDFROMSANFRANCISCOWITHONLYanhourtosparebeforePrestonWhiteway’sbanquetforOsgoodHennessy.LillianHennessywelcomedheraboardthespecialandtookhertoherstateroominCar4.SheofferedtostaytohelpMarionwithhergown,butitwassoonapparenttoIsaacBell’s fiancée that thebeautifulyoungheiress’smainpurposewas toaskquestionsaboutArchieAbbott.IsaacBell had already ridden down to the town to inspect the guardhouses
protectingthepiersoftheCascadeCanyonBridge.Hespokesternlytotheguardcaptain,remindinghimforthethirdtimethatsentriesshouldchangepositionatirregularintervalssothatanattackercouldneverpredictwhathewasgoingtorunupagainst.Satisfiedforthemoment,hehurriedtotheCascadeLodge.Itwas a vast log-and-timber building decoratedwith stuffed game,Navaho
rugs, rustic furniture thatwasmore comfortable than it looked, andgas lampswithLouisComfortTiffanyshades.Abandwaswarmingupwith“There’llBeaHotTimeintheOldTownTonight”asheremovedthelinendusterhehadwornoveramidnight-bluesingle-breasted tuxedo.Moments later,OsgoodHennessyarrivedwithMrs.Comden,Lillian,FranklinMowery,andMarion.Isaac thought Marion looked stunning in her low-cut red gown. If he had
neverseenherbeforeinhislife,hewouldhavewalkedrightuptoherandaskedhertomarryhim.Hergreeneyessparkled.Shehadherblondhairswepthighonherheadandherdecolletageartfullyscreenedbytherubynecklacehehadgivenherforherbirthday.Shehadremovedthebandagethathadcoveredthecutonhercheekfromtheflyingglass.Atouchofrougemadeitinvisibletoanyeyebuthis.“Welcome to Cascade Canyon, Miss Morgan,” he smiled, greeting her
formallysincethereweretoomanypeoplearoundtosweepherintohisarms.“Ihaveneverseenyoumorebeautiful.”“Iamsohappytoseeyou,”shesaid,smilingback.PrestonWhiteway,trailedcloselybywaitersbearingchampagneandlooking
flushedlikehe’dhadafewalready,bustleduptogreetthem.“Hello,Marion.”
Hesmoothedhisblondwaves.“Youlookgreat ...Oh,hellothere,Bell.How’sthatLocomobilerunning?”“Likeatop.”“Ifyoueverwanttosell—”“Idon’t.”“Well, enjoy your dinner.Marion, I’ve seated you betweenme andSenator
Kincaid.We’llhavealotofbusinesstotalkabout.”OsgoodHennessymuttered, “I’ll deal with this,” went directly to the head
table,andcoollyswitchedalltheplacecards.“Father,”Lillianprotested.“Itisuncouthtochangeplacecards.”“Iftheywanttohonorme,theycanstartbyseatingmebetweenthetwobest-
lookingwomen in theroomwhoaren’tmydaughter. I’veputyoubyKincaid,Lillian. It’s darkwork, but someone has to do it. Bell, Imoved you betweenWhiteway andMissMorgan so he’ll stop staring down her dress. O.K., let’seat!”
No SOONER HAD PHILIP Dow set foot in the enormous Cascade Canyonyardsthanarailwaycopstoppedhim.“Whereyougoing,mister?”Dowturnedcoldeyesonthecinderdickandflashedthesterlingsilverstar.Thecinderdickpracticallyfelloverhimselfbackingaway.“Sorry,Captain.IforgotI’dseenyoubefore.”“Better safe thansorry,” saidDow,doublyglad tohave thebadge.Anycop
who’dseenhimbeforehadasharpmemoryforwantedposters.“AnythingIcandotohelp,Captain?”“Yeah.Keepitunderyourhat‘tilmorning.What’syourname,Officer?”“McKinney,sir.DarrenMcKinney.”“You’llbeontherightsideofmyreport,McKinney.Ibarelyputmyfooton
thepropertybeforeyouspottedme.Goodwork.”“Thankyou,Captain.”“Continueyourrounds.”“Yes,sir.”Saunteringbriskly,relyingonhissuitandderbyto looklikeanofficialwho
belonged among the tank engines shuttling strings of gondolas, Dow crossedtrackaftertrack.Attheheadend,OsgoodHennessy’sspecialglowedgoldandred just beyond the harsh glare of the bridge lights. The president of therailroad’sspecialwasparkedonaraisedsidingwithaviewoftheentireyards.
BELLDANCEDWITHMARIONbetweencourses.“WhenareyougoingtoletmeteachyouthatslowBostonWaltz?”“Not when they’re playing ‘There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town
Tonight.”’AsPrestonWhitewaywanderedover tocut in,a sharpglance from theVan
DorndetectivechangedhismindandhereturnedtothefloorwithMrs.Comden.Dessert was Baked Alaska, a cake-and-ice-cream concoction wrapped in
meringue.Guestswhohadneverbeeneastof theMississippiswore itwas theequalofanyservedinNewYorkCity’sfamousDelmonico’sRestaurant.NewYorkCityremindedLillianHennessyofArchieAbbott.“That’squiteasmileyou’rewearing,”CharlesKincaidsaid,interruptingher
thoughts.“Iwasanticipatingyourspeech,”shesnapped.Belloverheardandgaveheraprivategrin.Lillian noticed that Isaac had been unusually quiet and serious despite the
company of his beautiful fiancée. Nearly as quiet as the anxious-lookingFranklinMowery.Somethingwasreallyworryinghim.ShereachedpastKincaidtogivethepooroldmanapatonhishand.Henoddeddistractedly.ThenPrestonWhiteway tapped a spoon on a glass and the double row of plump red facesrimmingthelongtableturnedinanticipation.“Gentlemen.Andladies”—thenewspaperpublisherbowedtoEmmaComden,
Lillian Hennessy, andMarionMorgan, the only women in the lodge—“I amhonoredyoucouldjoinmeinsalutingthegreatbuildersoftheSouthernPacificRailroad.Astheyforgeeveronwardtowardtheirfinalgoal,letthemknowthatourprayersgowith themand letushope thatour ferventadmirationwillspurthemon.BuildersmakeAmericagreat,andwearehonoredtobeinthepresenceoftheboldestbuildersintheWest.”Shoutsof“Hear!Hear!”echoedto therafters.TheCaliforniansroseasone,
clappingloudly.OsgoodHennessynoddedhisthanks.“Justasweapplaudthesemenwhobuildwiththeirhandsandtheirhearts,so
doweentreatanothermaninthissplendidbanquethalltobuildthefutureofourgreat nation with his leadership and wisdom. I refer, of course, to our goodfriend Senator Charles Kincaid, whom I believe just might make anannouncementthatwillgladdentheheartofeverymanandwomaninthisroom.SenatorKincaid.”Kincaidrose,smiling,acknowledgingapplause.Hehookedhisthumbstohis
lapelsastheclappingdieddown.Hegazedattheadmiringfaces.Heturnedandsmiled atLillianHennessy.He lookedOsgoodHennessy in the face.Thenheturnedhisattentiontotheelkandgrizzlybearheadsjuttingfromthelogwalls.
“IhavecomehereattheinvitationofthemostaccomplishedbusinessmeninCalifornia andOregon.Menwho haveworked long and hard to develop thisgreatland.Indeed,thisrusticsettingremindsusthatourmanifestdestinyintheAmericanWest is to tamenature for theprosperityof theentireUnitedStates.Timber,mining, crops, andcattle, all servedby thegreat railroads.Now thesegentlemenhaveaskedmetoleadthemtowardnewaccomplishmentstobenefitour great nation and protect her from her enemies ... They have been verypersuasive.”Helookedoutoverthetables.Bellnoticedthathepossessedthepolitician’sgiftforseemingtolookateach
and every person. Suddenly,Kincaid turned his lapel inside out, revealing thered-and-whiteKINCAIDFORPRESIDENTbuttonhehadshownBell.“Iampersuaded!” he said, his handsome facewreathed in smiles. “You’ve
talkedmeintoit.Iwillservemycountryasyougentlemenseefit.”“President?”OsgoodHennessy askedBell, as the roomerupted in applause
andthebandplayedloudly.“Soundsthatway,sir.”“OftheUnitedStates?”PrestonWhitewaycalledout, “That’s right,Mr.Hennessy.Wegentlemenof
CaliforniapledgeourconsiderablesupporttoSenatorCharlesKincaid,the‘HeroEngineer.”’“Well,I’llbedamned.”“Surprised me, too!” shouted a wealthy redwoods lumberman from Marin
County.“Hefoughtus toothandnail.Practicallyhad tohog-tiehimbeforeheagreed.”Preston Whiteway acknowledged the laughter, then said, “I believe that
SenatorKincaidhasafewmorewordsonthesubject.”“Justafew,”saidKincaid.“I’llbegladtogodowninhistoryasthepresident
who gave the shortest speeches.” He acknowledged their laughter, then grewsober. “As you say, I was honored but hesitant when you first broached thepossibility.ButthehorrificeventstwoweeksagoinNewJerseyandNewYorkCity persuaded me that every public servant must rise to the defend theAmericanpeoplefromtheYellowPeril.ThatdastardlyexplosionwasdetonatedbyaChinaman.Thestreetsofthecitywerelitteredwithbrokenwindows.AsIwenttotheaidofthestricken,Iwillneverforgetthesoundsoftheambulancetirescrunchingtheglass.AsoundIwillneverforget...”Isaac Bell listened closely as Kincaid went on in that vein. Did Kincaid
believewhathewassaying?OrwashiswarningabouttheYellowPerilthekindof political claptrap his supporters expected? Bell glanced at Marion. A
mischievous light was igniting her eyes. She felt his gaze on her and lookeddown,bitingherlip.Lillianleanedbehindherfathertowhispertoher,andBellsaw both women cover their mouths to stifle laughs. He was happy, but notsurprised,thattheyhadtakenalikingtoeachother.“...TheYellowPerilweface,thetidalwavesofimmigratingChinamentaking
American jobs, frighteningAmericanwomen,was suddenly driven home thatterrible night in New York City. That dastardly Chinaman exploded tons ofdynamite in a busy rail yard near a crowded city for his own unfathomablereasonsthatnowhitemancouldeverbegintounderstand...”
INTHESHADOWOFastringoffreightcars,PhilipDowwatchedthelightedwindowsoftherailroadpresident’sspecial.SenatorKincaidhadgivenhimthedining schedule for the employeeswho livedon the train.Hewaiteduntil thediner crew had served the guests. Then, while they were eating their ownsuppers with the porters and the white train crew ate in the baggage car, heclimbedaboardthefrontendofCar3.HecheckedthelayoutinCar3andCar4andtracedescaperoutesthroughthetrainandoffeach.Car 4’s porter station was a small closet with a curtain for a door. It was
crammedwithcleantowelsandnapkins,coldandhangovercures,ashoe-shinekit,andaspiritstovetoheatwater.Dowunscrewedalightbulbtocastshadowontheshort lengthofcorridoralongwhichhewoulddart toMarionMorgan’sStateroom4.Thenherehearsed.He practicedwatching the corridor through the porter’s curtain, tracing the
route IsaacBellwould take from the frontof thecar toward the rear.Thenhepracticedsteppingsilentlyintothecorridorandswinginghissap.Restrictedbytheconfinesof thenarrowspace,he swept itunderhanded.Themomentumofrunning the three steps, combinedwith a long reach that started well behind,wouldacceleratetheheavypouchofleadshotwithdeadlyforceintoIsaacBell’stemple.
ISAACBELLPRESSEDFINGERStohistemple.“Headache?”Marionmurmured.“Justhopingthis‘shortspeech’willbeoversoon,”hewhisperedback.“Anarchy?” shouted Charles Kincaid, building steam. “Emperor worship?
WhoknowshowtheChinamanthinks?Hatredofthewhiteman.Orderangedbysmokingopium,hisfavoritevice...”Hissupportersleapedup,applauding.
PrestonWhiteway,red-nosedongoodwine,bellowedinOsgoodHennessy’sear,“Didn’ttheSenatornailtheYellowPerilthreatsquareonthehead?”“We built the transcontinental railroad with John Chinaman,” Hennessy
retorted.“Thatmakeshimgoodenoughforme.”FranklinMowerystoodupfromthetableandglancedatWhiteway,muttering,
“NexttimeyourtrainglidesthroughtheDonnerSummit,castyoureyeontheirstonework.”Whiteway,deaftodissent,grinnedatMarion.“I’llwagerthatoldIsaachere
applauds SenatorKincaid’s understanding of the threat, since he’s the hotshotdetectivewhostoppedthatopium-maddenedChinamaninhistracks.”BellthoughtthatWhiteway’sgrinsatMarionweregettingdangerouslyclose
toleers.DangerousforWhiteway,thatis.“Themotivationappearstohavebeenmoney,”Bellrepliedsternly.Dodging
Marion’skickunderthetable,headded,“Wehavenoevidencethatthemanwhopaidhimsmokedanythingstrongerthantobacco.”Mowerygathereduphiswalkingstickandlimpedtowardtheporch.Bell hurried to hold the door for him, as his young assistant had not been
invitedtothebanquet.Mowerytotteredacrossthecoveredporchandleanedontherailingthatoverlookedtheriver.Bellwatchedcuriously.Theengineerhadbeenactingstrangelyallday.Now
hewasstaringatthebridgepiers,whichwerelightedbytheelectricarclamps.Theoldmanseemedmesmerized.Belljoinedhimattherailing.“Quiteasightfromdownhere?”“What?Yes,yes,ofcourse.”“Issomethingthematter,sir?Areyounotfeelingwell?”“Water’srising,”saidMowery.“It’sbeenrainingalot.Infact,Ithinkit’sstartingupagainnow.”“Therainonlymakesitworse.”“Begyourpardon,sir?”“Forthousandsofyears,theriverhasdescendedfromthemountainsatasteep
gradient,” Mowery answered as if lecturing from a textbook. “At such agradient,countlesstonsofdebristumbleinthewater.Abrasivematerials—earth,sand,gravel,rocks.Theygrindtheriverbeddeeperandwider.Indoingso,theydredgeupmore debris.Where the river’s gradient decreases, she deposits thismaterial.Crossingflatsliketheonethistown’sbuilton,theriverspreadsoutandmeanders.Herchannels interweave likebraid.Then theybunchuphere in thegorge,layingdowntonsandtonsofsediment.Godaloneknowshowmuchliesbetweenhereandbedrock.”
Suddenly,helookedBellfullintheface.Hisownfeaturesreflectedskull-likeintheharshelectriclight.“TheBibletellsusafoolishmanbuildshishouseonsand.Butitdoesn’ttell
uswhattodowhenwehavenochoicebuttobuildonsand.”“Isupposethat’swhyweneedengineers.”Bellsmiledencouragingly,sensing
thattheengineerwastryingtellhimsomethingthathewasafraidtovoice.Mowerychuckledbutdidnotsmile.“Youhitthatnailonthehead,son.That’s
whywetrustengineers.”Thedooropenedbehindthem.“We’reheadingbackuptothetrain,”Marioncalled.“Mr.Hennessyistired.”Theythankedtheirhostsandsaidtheirgood-byes.CharlesKincaidcamewith
them,givingFranklinMoweryanarmto leanon. Isaac tookMarion’shandastheywalkedthroughtheraintothefootofthesteepfreightline.Shewhispered,“Iamgoingtopleadwearinessfrommylongjourneyandslip
offtobed.”“Nottooweary,Ihope,foraknockonyourdoor?”“Ifyoudon‘t,I’llknockonyours.”TheyboardedtheSnakeLinepassengercarinwhichtheyhadarrived.Three
enginesinfrontandtwoinbackhuffedthemslowlyupthesteepswitchbackstotheplateauwhereHennessy’sspecialwasparkedonitssiding,windowsglowinginwelcome.“Comeonin,gents,”Hennessyordered.“Brandyandcigars.”“Ithoughtyouweretired,”saidLillian.“Tired of businessmen blathering,” Hennessy shot back. “Ladies, there’s
champagneforyouinthedinerwhilethegentshaveasmoke.”“You’renotgettingridofme,”saidLillian.Mrs.Comdenstayedtoo,quietlyneedlepointinginacornerchair.MarionMorgansaidgoodnightandheadedbacktoherstateroom.IsaacBell,waitingadecentintervalforpropriety’ssake,continuedtoobserve
Kincaidclosely.
PHILIP DOW LOOKED OUT the curtain when he heard someone enter thestateroomcarfromthefrontvestibule.Heglimpsedabeautifulwomanwalkingtoward the porter’s station. She wore a red gown and a full necklace of redrubies.Suchdisplaysofwealthusuallyraisedavisceralangerintheunionman.Buthewastakenbyherhappysmile.Womenasbeautifulasshe,withherstraw-blondhair, long,gracefulneck,narrowwaist, andcoral-seagreeneyesalwayssmiled like theywere congratulating themselves on their looks. This onewas
different.Shesmiledwithhappiness.HehopedshewouldnotstopatMarionMorgan’sdoor.Hedreadedhavingto
killsuchalovelycreature.ButshedidstopandenterStateroom4.Hehadneverkilledawoman.Hedidn’twant tostartnow.Particularly thisone.Buthewasnoteagertomeetthehangmaneither.Quickly,herevisedhisplanofattack.Insteadofwaitingforher toopenthe
doorwhen IsaacBell knocked, hewould strike the instant thatBell raisedhishandtoknock.Bellwouldnotbeasdistractedashewouldbeamomentlater,steppingintoherarms.Thedetectivewouldbemorealerttodefendinghimself,butthatwasthepriceDowwaswillingtopayfornotkillingher.HeshovedhisrevolverinhisbeltsohecouldgrabitquicklyifBellmanagedtododgethesap.Agunshotwouldcomplicateescape,buthewouldpaythatpricetoonottokillthewoman.Unlessshegavehimnochoice.
37
ISAACBELLWATCHEDSENATORKINCAID’SMOUTHWRINKLEwithdistaste asLillianHennessydemonstrated that shewas amodernwoman.Notonlydidsherefusetoleavethegentlementotheircigars,shelightedacigaretteherself,tellingherfather,“IfPresidentRoosevelt’sdaughtercansmoke,socanI.”Hennessy was no less annoyed than the Senator. “I will not have that
grandstanding, opportunistic, self-promoting blowhard’s name uttered in myrailcar.”“Youshouldcountyourself luckythatIonlysmoke.AliceRoosevelt isalso
knowntoappearatWhiteHousepartieswrappedinapython.”Mrs.Comdenlookedupfromherneedlepoint.“Osgood,mayIpresumethat
youwillnotpermitsnakesinyourrailcar?”“IfRoosevelt’sforsnakes,I’magin”em.“SenatorKincaidlaughedheartily.Bell had already observed that the Senator assumed his KINCAID FOR
PRESIDENTbuttonhadraisedhisstature inHennessy’seyes.HealsonoticedthatHennessyappearedtoberecalculatingtheSenator’spotential.“Tell me, Kincaid,” the railroad president asked in all seriousness, “what
wouldyoudoifyouwereelectedpresident?”“Learn on the job,” Kincaid answered boldly. “Just like you learned
railroading.”Mrs.Comden spokeup, again. “Mr.Hennessydid not learn railroading.He
teachesit.”“Istandcorrected.”Kincaidsmiledstiffly.“Mr.HennessyisempirizingtherailroadsofAmerica.”Hennessyshushedherwithasmile.“Mrs.Comdenhasawaywithwords.She
studiedinEurope,youknow.”“You’retookind,Osgood.IstudiedinLeipzig,butonlymusic.”Shestuffed
her needlepoint into a satin-lined bag. Then she rose from her corner chair,saying,“Pleasedon’tstand,gentlemen,”andlefttheparlor.
Theysatawhile,puffingcigars,sippingbrandy.“Well,IthinkI’llturnin,”saidIsaacBell.Kincaid said, “Before you go, do tell us how your hunt for the so-called
Wreckerisgoing.”“Damnedwell!”Hennessyanswered forhim.“Bell’s stopped themurdering
radicalateveryturn.”Bellrappedhischairarmwithhisknuckles.“Knockwood,sir.We’vecaught
someluckybreaks.”“Ifyou’vestoppedhim,”saidKincaid,“thenyourjobisdone.”“My job is done when he hangs. He is a murderer. And he threatens the
livelihood of thousands. How many men did you say you employ, Mr.Hennessy?”“Ahundredthousand.”“Mr.Hennessyismodest,”saidKincaid.“Factoringinall thelines inwhich
heholdscontrollinginterests,heemploysoveronemillionhands.”BellglancedatHennessy.Therailroadpresidentdidnotdisputetheenormous
claim.Bellwas struckwith admiration.Evenengrossed in the titanic effort tobuildthecutoff,theoldmancontinuedtoextendhisempire.“Until you do hang him,” Kincaid asked, “what do you think he intends
next?”Bellsmiledasmilethatdidnotwarmhiseyes.Hewasremindedof thelast
timehe’djoustedwithKincaid,tradingtabletalkovertheirgameofdrawpoker.“Yourguessisasgoodasmine,Senator.”Kincaidsmiledbackascoolly.“Iwouldhavethoughtthatadetective’sguess
isbetterthanmine.”“Let’shearit.”“Myguessis,he’lltakeacrackattheCascadeCanyonBridge.”“That’swhyit’sheavilyguarded,”saidHennessy.“He’dneedanarmytoget
nearit.”“Whywouldyouguessthathewouldattackthebridge?”askedBell.“Any fool can see that the saboteur,whoeverhe is—anarchist, foreigner, or
striker—knows how to guarantee the greatest damage.Clearly, he’s a brilliantengineer.”“Thatthoughthascrossedseveralminds,”Bellsaiddrily.“You’remissingabet,Mr.Bell.Lookforacivilengineer.”“Amanlikeyourself?”“Not me. As I told you the other day, I was trained and able but never
brilliant.”“Whatmakesabrilliantengineer,Senator?”
“Goodquestion,Bell.BestputtoMr.Mowery,whoisone.”Mowery,ordinarilytalkative,hadbeenveryquieteversinceBellhadspoken
withhimintheshadowofthebridge.HewavedKincaidoffwithanimpatientgesture.Kincaid turned toHennessy. “Even better put to a railroad president.What
makesabrilliantengineer,Mr.Hennessy?”“Railroad engineering is nothingmore thanmanaging grade andwater.The
flatteryourroadbed,thefasteryourtrain.”“Andwater?”“Waterwilldoitsdamnedesttowashoutyourroadbedifyoudon’tdivertit.”Bell said, “I put the question to you, Senator. What makes a brilliant
engineer?”“Stealth,”Kincaidreplied.“Stealth?”echoedHennessy,shootingabaffledlookatBell.“Whatinblazes
areyoutalkingabout,Kincaid?”“Concealment. Secrecy. Cunning.”Kincaid smiled. “Every project demands
compromise. Strength versus weight. Speed versus cost. What an engineergrasps in one fist, he surrenders with the other. A brilliant engineer hidescompromise.Youwillneversee it inhiswork.TakeMr.Mowery’sbridge.Tomyjourneyman’seye,hiscompromisesareinvisible.Itsimplysoars.”“Nonsense,”rumbledFranklinMowery.“It’sonlymathematics.”Bell said to Mowery, “But you yourself told me about engineering
compromises just theotherdayat theDiamondCanyonLoopwreck.Whatdoyouthink,sir?IstheWreckerabrilliantengineer?”Mowerybrushedthepointofhisbearddistractedly.“TheWreckerhasshown
knowledgeofgeology,explosives,andtheroadbed,nottomentionthehabitsoflocomotives.Ifhe’snotanengineer,he’smissedhiscalling.”EmmaComdenreturned,bundledtoherchininafurcoat.Thecollarframed
her pretty face.Amatching fur capwas perched jauntily on her hair, and herdarkeyessparkled.“Come,Osgood.Let’sstrollalongthesiding.”“Whattheheckfor?”“Tolookatthestars.”“Stars?It’sraining.”“Thestormhaspassed.Theskyisbrilliant.”“It’s toocold,”Hennessycomplained.“Besides,Ihavetelegraphstowireas
soon asLillian stubsout that damned cigarette andgets her notepad.Kincaid,takeMrs.Comdenforawalk,wouldyou?Goodman.”“Of course. Itwill bemy pleasure, as always.”Kincaid found his coat and
offeredMrs.Comdenhisarmastheystarteddownthestepstotheroadbed.Bellstoodup,chafingtogettoMarion.“Well,I’llleaveyoutoyourwork,sir.
I’mgoingtoturnin.”“Sitwithmeamoment...Lillian,wouldyouexcuseus?”She looked puzzled but didn’t argue and retreated toward her stateroom in
NancyNo.2.“Drink?”“I’vehadenough,thankyou,sir.”“Thatisafinewomanyou’vetiedonto.”“Thankyou,sir.IfeelIamverylucky.”Andhoping,hethoughttohimself,to
demonstratehowluckyhefeltverysoon.“Remindsmeofmywife—andshewasagaltoreckonwith...Whatdoyou
knowaboutyourfriendAbbott?”Belllookedathim,surprised.“ArchieandIhavebeenfriendssincecollege.”“What’shelike?”“Imustinquirewhyyouask.He’smyfriend.”“Iunderstandmydaughtershowedaninterestinhim.”“Didshetellyouthat?”“No.Ilearneditfromanothersource.”Bell thought a moment. Mrs. Comden had not been in New York but had
stayedintheWestwithHennessy.“Sinceyouinquireaboutmyfriend,Ihavetoaskyouwhotoldyouthat.”“Kincaid.Whodoyousuppose?HewaswithherinNewYorkwhenshemet
Abbott.Pleaseunderstand,Bell,Iamfullyawarethathewouldsayanythingtoundermineanyrivalforherhand...Whichhewillgetovermydeadbody.”“Lillian’stoo,Iimagine,”saidBell,whichdrewasmile.“Although,”Hennessywenton,“Imustadmitthatthispresidenttalkisanew
wrinkle. I may have underestimated Kincaid ...” He shook his head inamazement.“I’vealwayssaidI’dratherhaveababoonintheWhiteHousethanTheodore Roosevelt. We should be careful what we wish for. But at leastKincaidwouldbemybaboon.”Bellasked,“Ifyouwouldacceptababoonin theWhiteHouse,providedhe
wasyourbaboon,wouldyoutakehimasason-in-law?”Hennessy dodged that question, saying only, “I’m asking about your friend
AbbottbecausewhenIhavetoweighsuitors,Iwanttoknowmyoptions.”“Allright,sir.NowIunderstand.IwilltellyouwhatIknow.ArchieAbbott—
ArchibaldAngellAbbott IV—isanexcellentdetective,amasterofdisguise,ahandyfellowwithhisfists,adefthandwithaknife,deadlywithafirearm,andaloyalfriend.”
“Amantoridetheriverwith?”Hennessyaskedwithasmile.“Withoutreservation.”“Andhiscircumstances?IsheaspoorasKincaidclaims?”“Helivesonhisdetectivesalary,”saidBell.“Hisfamilylosteverythinginthe
Panicof‘93.Hismotherstayswithherbrother-in-law’sfamily.Beforethat,theywerereasonablywell-off,astheoldNewYorkfamilieswereinthosedays,withagoodhouseintherightneighborhood.”HennessylookedatBell,sharply.“Couldhebeagolddigger?”“Twicehewalkedawayfromwealthyyoungladieswhosemotherswouldbe
thrilled tomarry them intoas illustriousa familyas theAbbotts.Onewas theonly child of a man who owned a steamship line, another the daughter of atextilemagnate. He could have had either for the asking. In both cases, theirfathersmadeitcleartheywouldtakehimintothebusinessor,ifhepreferrednottowork,simplyputhimonanallowance.”Theoldmanstaredhardathim.Bellheldhiseyeeasily.Hennessy finally said, “I appreciate your candor, Bell. I won’t be around
forever,andI’mprettymuchtheonlyfamilyshehas.Iwanttoseehersetbeforeanythinghappenstome.”Bellstoodup.“LilliancoulddoalotworsethanArchieAbbott.”“ShecouldalsodoworsethanFirstLadyoftheUnitedStatesofAmerica.”“Sheisaverycapableyoungwoman,”Bellsaidneutrally.“She’lldealwith
anyhanddealther.”“Idon’twanthertohaveto.”“Of course youdon’t.What fatherwould?Now, letme askyou something,
sir.”“Shoot.”Bell sat back down. As much as he wanted to join Marion, there was a
questiontroublinghimthathadtobeanswered.“DoyoureallybelievethatSenatorKincaidhasachanceforthenomination?”
CHARLESKINCAIDANDEMMACOMDENhadwalkedinsilencepast thespecial’sinsistentlysighingsteamengine,pastthetrainyardsandintothenight,beyondtheglareoftheelectriclights.Wheretheballastlaidfornewrailended,theysteppeddowntothenewlyclearedforestfloorthathadbeenbrushedoutfortheright-of-way.Thestarswerevividinthethinmountainair.TheMilkyWayfloodedthedark
likeawhite river.Mrs.ComdenspokeGerman.Hervoicewasmuffledby thefurofhercollar.
“Becarefulyoudon’ttwistthedevil’stailtoohard.”Kincaid responded in English. His German, honed by ten years studying
engineering inGermany andworking for theGerman companies building theBaghdad Railway, was as good as hers, but the last thing he needed wassomeone to report hehadbeenoverheard conversing in a foreign tonguewithOsgoodHennessy’smistress.“Wewillbeatthem,”hesaid,“longbeforetheyfigureoutwhoweareorwhat
wewant.”“Buteverywayyouturn,IsaacBellthwartsyou.”“BellhasnoideaofwhatIhaveplannednext,”Kincaidsaidscornfully.“Iam
so close, Emma. My bankers in Berlin are poised to strike the instant that IbankrupttheSouthernPacificCompany.Mysecretholdingcompanieswillbuyitforpennies,andIwillseizecontrollinginterestsineveryrailroadinAmerica.ThankstoOsgoodHennessy’s‘empirizing.’Noonecanstopme.”“IsaacBellisnofool.NeitherisOsgood.”“Worthyopponents,”Kincaidagreed,“butalwaysseveralstepsbehind.”And,
in thecaseofBell,he thoughtbutdidnot say,unlikely to survive thenight ifPhilipDowwashisusualdeadlyself.“I must warn you that Franklin Mowery is growing suspicious about his
bridge.”“Toolatetodoanythingaboutit.”“Itseemstomethatyouaregrowingreckless.Sorecklessthattheywillcatch
you.”Kincaidgazedupat thestars,andmurmured,“Theycan’t. Ihavemysecret
weapons.”“Whatsecretweaponsarethose?”“Youforone,Emma.Youtotellmeeverythingthey’reupto.”“AndwhatdoIhave?”sheasked.“Anythingmoneycanbuywhenwehavewon.”“WhatifIwantsomething—orsomeone—moneycan’tbuy.”Kincaidlaughedagain.“I’llbeingreatdemand.You’llhavetogetinline.”“Inline...?”EmmaComdenraisedhersensualfacetothestarlight.Hereyes
shonedarkly.“Whatisyourothersecretweapon?”“That’sasecret,”saidKincaid.IntheunlikelyeventBellsomehowsurvivedtheattackandgotluckyenough
tothwarthimagain,hecouldnotrisktellingevenherabout“LakeLillian.”“Youwouldkeepsecretsfromme?”sheasked.“Don’tsoundhurt.YouknowthatyouaretheonlyoneIhaveevergiventhe
powertobetrayme.”
HesawnoprofitinmentioningPhilipDow.JustashewouldnevertellDowabout his affair with Emma, which had started years before she became therailroadpresident’smistress.A bitter smile parted her lips. “I have never known aworseman than you,
Charles.ButIwouldneverbetrayyou.”Kincaid lookedaroundagain tomake sureabsolutely surenoonecould see
them.Thenhesnakedanarminsidehercoatanddrewherclose.Hewasnotatallsurprisedwhenshedidn’tresist.Norwashesurprisedthatshehadremovedeverystitchofherclothingbeforesheputherfuron.“Andwhathavewehere?”heasked,hisvoicethickeningwithdesire.“Thefrontoftheline,”saidMrs.Comden.
38
“WHEN IT COMES TO POLITICS,” OSGOODHENNESSY SNORTED INanswertoIsaacBell’squestion,“I’llbelieveanythingthathappens.”IsaacBell said, “I’m serious, sir.Doyoubelieve thatKincaid ismaking an
earnestrunfortheofficeofpresident?”“Politicianscandeludethemselvesintoanythingthatsuitstheirfancy.Could
hegetelected?Isuppose.Votersdothedamnedest things.ThankGod,womendon’tvote.He’dgetelectedonhispretty-boylooksalone.”“Butcouldhegetnominated?”Bellpressed.“That’stherealissue.”“He’s got Preston Whiteway behind him. Whiteway must think there’s a
chance.”“Thatrabble-rouserwillstopatnothingtosellnewspapers.Don’tforget,win
orlose,KincaidforPresidentstillmakesforastoryrightuptothelastnightoftheconvention.”BellnamedseveraloftheCaliforniabusinessmeninWhiteway’sgroup.“Do
theyreallybelievetheycouldbullKincaidpastthepartyregulars?”OsgoodHennessy chuckled cynically. “Successful businessmenbelieve they
succeed because they’re intelligent. Fact is, most businessmen are birdbrainsexceptforthatonesmallthingeachwascleveratinordertomakemoney.ButIdon’t understandwhy theywouldn’t be perfectly happywithWilliamHowardTaft.Surelytheyknowthatiftheysplittheparty,theywouldhandtheelectiontothe Democrats andWilliam Jennings Bryan, that populist fiend. Hell, maybethey’rejustsoakingupafreeholidayatWhiteway’sexpense.”“Maybe,”saidBell.“Whydoyouask?”saidHennessy,probinghimwithshrewdeyes.Bellprobedback.“Itdoesn’tfeelright.”“You wouldn’t by any chance be undermining your friend’s rival for my
daughter’shand?”Bell stood up. “I’mnot sly.Nor furtive. I’ll tell you here and now, to your
face,thatyourdaughterdeservesbetterthanCharlesKincaid.Goodnight,sir.”
“Wait,” saidHennessy.“Wait . . .Wait... I apologize.Thatwasuncalled forandobviouslynottrue.You’reastraightshooter.Idoapologize.Sitdown.Keepan old man company for a moment. Emma will be back from her walk anyminute.”
CHARLES KINCAID SAW EMMA COMDEN to the door of the doublestateroomshesharedwithOsgoodHennessy.TheyheardBellandHennessystilltalkingintheparloratthefrontofthecar.“Thankyouforwalkingmetoseethestars,Senator.”“Apleasureasalways.Goodnight,Mrs.Comden.”Theyshookhandschastely.ThenKincaidheadedtohisownstateroomseveral
carsbackinthespecial.Hiskneeswereshaking,theusualeffectEmmaComdenhadonhim,his head still reeling, andhehadunlockedhis door and closed itbehindhimbeforeherealizedthatsomeonewassittingintheeasychair.Dow?Escapingpursuit?Never.By thekiller’s strictcode,hewouldshoothimself intheheadbefore hewould riskbetraying a friend.Kincaidpulledhis derringerfromhispocketandturnedupthelight.EricSoaressaid,“Surprise,Senator.”“Howdidyougetinhere?”Kincaidaskedtheengineer.“Jimmiedthelock,”heanswerednonchalantly.“Whatthedickensfor?”Soaresremovedhiswire-rimmedglassesandmadeashowofpolishingthem
with his handkerchief. Finally, he put them back on, smoothed the tips of hishandlebarmustache,andanswered,“Blackmail.”“Blackmail?”Kincaidechoed,thinkingfuriously.As Senator Kincaid, he knew that Eric Soares was engineer Franklin
Mowery’s assistant. Only as the Wrecker did he know that Soares falsifiedinspection reports toMowery about the state of the stone piers supporting theCascadeCanyonBridge.Hepressedthederringertotheyoungengineer’shead.Soaresdidn’tflinch.“Youcan’tshootmeinyourownstateroom.Whichismightyfancycompared
tomymiserablelittleupperPullmanberth.It’sevenposherthanMr.Mowery’s.”“Icanshootyouandwill,”Kincaidsaidcoldly.“Itwasdark.Ididn’trealizeit
was poor Mr. Soares startling me. I thought it was a radical assassin anddefendedmyself.”“That might satisfy the law. But shooting an orphan who is practically the
adoptedsonofthemostfamousbridgebuilderonthecontinentwillnotexactlyboostyourpresidentialhopes.”
Kincaidpocketedhisgun,pouredhimselfabrandyfromthecrystaldecanterprovided by the Southern PacificRailroad, and sipped itwhile leaning on thepaneledwallandstaringdownat theintruder.Hewasgreatlyrelieved.Soares,like everyone else, believed his Kincaid for President sham. That probablymeantSoaresdidnotknowthathewastheWrecker.Butwhatdidheknowthathethoughtwasworthblackmail?“I’dlikeadrink,too.”Kincaidignoredtherequest.Whileitmightbehelpfultogethimintoxicated,
itwouldbemorehelpfultoremindthelittleweaselofhisplace.“You’reabsolutelyrightaboutmypoliticalaspirations,”hesaid.“Solet’sstop
playinggames.You’vebroken inhere forapurpose.What is it?Whatdoyouwant?”“Itoldyou.Money.”“WhywouldIgiveyoumoney?Forwhat?”“Don’tbedense,Senator.Fornotrevealingthatyouholdacontrollinginterest
intheUnionPierandCaissonCompanyofSt.Louis,Missouri.”The Wrecker concealed his astonishment, but only just. He felt the legs
knockedoutfromunderhim,andthistimehecouldn’tblameEmmaComden.“Whatgaveyouthatidea?”heasked.“I got curious about who was paying me to lie about the piers. Reckoned
sabotagingthebiggestbridgeintheWestoughttobeworthafewbucksmoreifI knew who my bribes came from. So I went to my old bunkie from theorphanage.HetookupbankingwhenItookupengineering.Heexploredamazeofholdingcompanies.Themazeturnedintoajungle,butmyoldbunkieisreallygood.Hefinallytracedthembacktoyou.Youboughtenoughsharessecretly,acontrolling interest, in thecompanybuilding thepiers for theCascadeCanyonBridge.”Ithadtohappensometime,Kincaidthoughtbleakly.Butitneveroccurredto
him thatdisasterwouldcomeathim likeabad joke: trippedupbyanorphanwhomakindheartedbridgebuildertookunderhiswing.Kincaidsurveyedhisoptions.KillSoares,ifnottonight,tomorroworthenext
day. Wring the name of his confederate out of him before he died and killbunkie, too. Unfortunately, he needed Eric Soares, to continue concealing thetruthaboutthepiers.Mowerywouldimmediatelyreplacehimifhedisappeared.Upon close inspection, and a thorough review of Eric’s doctored reports, anycompetentengineerwhotookoverhispositionwouldseethatthepierswerenotstrongenoughtosupportthebridgewhentheriverrose.Soaressaid,“You’reworkingfortheWreckerjustlikeme.”“I suppose I should be grateful that you’re not accusing me of being the
Wreckerhimself.”“Don’t make me laugh. You’ve got too big a future as a senator. Even
president,ifIdon’tturnyouin.”Homefree,thoughtKincaid.Intheclear.“Howmuchdoyouwant?”“TriplewhatyourUnionPierandCaissonCompanypaysmetolooktheother
way.”Kincaidreachedforhiswallet.“IthinkIcanarrangethat,”hesaid,notatall
surprisedbyhowsmallSoares’sdreamswere.
ISAAC BELL FINALLY TORE himself loose from Osgood Hennessy andhurriedbacktothestateroomcars.AshepassedthroughHennessy’sNancyNo.2car,LillianHennessylurchedoutofherstateroomandblockedthewaywithabottleofMumm.Shehadchangedoutofhergownintoaclingingrobeandhadremovedherpearl-and-diamondchoker,revealingthesmoothskinofherthroat.Herhairwasdown,drapingher shoulders,andherpaleblueeyeswerewarm.The bottle was dripping from the ice bucket, the foil torn off. But the wiremuzzlestillheldthecorkfirmlyinplace.“Ieavesdropped,”shewhispered.“Thankyouforsayingwhatyoudidabout
Archie.”“Ionlytoldthetruth.”ShethrustthebottleintoBell’shand.“ForMarion.Tellher,Sweetdreams.”Bellleaneddownandkissedhercheek.“Goodnight.”He paused in the baggage car and spoke with the sleepy telegrapher. No
urgent telegrams. He pulled open the rear baggage car door and crossed thevestibule,reachingforthedoortothefirstcarofstaterooms.Asmilelithisface.Hefeltlikeakid.HismouthwasdryjustthinkingofMarion.GoodthingtheyhadLillian’schampagne.Hepushedthroughthedoor into thesidecorridor thatwas linedwithnight-
blackenedwindowsontherightsideandthepolished-walnutstateroomdoorsonthe left. A man was hurrying along the far end of the corridor. There wassomething furtive in hismovement, andBell paused to observe him.Small tomediumbuild,wearingablacksacksuit.Darkhair.Asthemanturnedtheslightjogtoexit intothevestibule,Bellglimpsedhispencil-thinhandlebarmustacheandwire-rimmedglasses.Eric Soares, Mowery’s assistant, apparently just leaving the old man’s
stateroomandheadingbacktohisberth in thePullmancars.Thinkingthat thehourwasawfullylateforameeting,particularlyaftertheoldmanhadbeenuplateatthelongbanquet,BellgaveSoaresplentyoftimetopassthroughthenextcarratherthangetdelayedbyaconversation.Finally,Bellwalked the length ofCar 3, pushed into its rear vestibule, and
crossedthecouplingintothevestibuleofCar4.
PHILIP D ow HEARD SOMEONE coming, pressed deeper into the porter’scloset, andpeered througha crack in the curtain.His ears toldhim itwasnotIsaacBell,butasmallerman,unlessthedetectivewasexceptionallylightonhisfeet.Hedidnot slowashepassed the curtain, but hurried along as if passingthroughthestateroomcaronhiswayfartherbackinthetrain.Dow’searswereaccurate.Aslimman inablacksuitwhiskedpastMarionMorgan’s stateroomandpushedthroughthereardoorthatledtothePullmancars.A minute later, he heard heavier footfalls. He waited until the man passed
beforehepartedthecurtain.Sureenough.Taller thanKincaid,ayellow-hairedmaninfancydudsfromthebanquetwasmakingabeelineforMarionMorgan’sdoor.Hewascarryingabottleofchampagneandhummingatune,“There’llBeaHotTimeintheOldTownTonight.”Dow heard the words of the song’s Chicago version in his head as he ran
silently,swingingthesap:OldMrs.Learyleftthelanternintheshedandwhenthecowkickeditover,shewinkedhereyeandsaidit’llbeahottime,intheoldtown,tonight!FIREFIREFIRE!
39
BEFORE PHILIP DOW REACHED HIS VICTIM, THE STATEROOM flewopen.Thewomanmust havebeen standing there, gripping the knob, listeningforBell.Bellwavedthechampagnebottle.Hereagersmilewentoutlikealightandhereyesflashedangrily.“Preston!Whatareyou—”“Lookout!”avoiceroaredbehindDow.Themanwhose skullDowwasabout tocrushwithhis sapwhirledaround,
andDowsawnoyellowmustacheabovethemouththatdroppedopenindrunkconfusion.Thechampagnebottleheraised instinctivelydeflectedDow’sblow.TheheavysapwhizzedaquarterinchfromMarionMorgan’sfaceandsmashedintothestateroomdoor,dentingthehardwalnut.Noyellowmustache!thoughtDow.Itwasn’tIsaacBell.ThatputBellbehind
him; it was he who had shouted the warning. Dow shoved past the cringingdrunkhehadalmostkilledtousehimforashield.Dowsawthedetectiverunningathimfullsteam.Hejerkedhisrevolverfrom
his waistband. Bell was a third of the way down the eighty-foot corridor,drawing a Browning No. 2 semiautomatic pistol from his tuxedo with liquidease.Dowwhippeduphisheavy .45,willing tobet thataVanDornoperativewhofavoredalightBrowningcouldhitagnatintheeyeattwentypaces.IsaacBell sawamanwhose featureshe remembered fromaMineOwners’
Associationwantedposter.PhilipDow,assassin.PrestonWhitewaylurchedintoBell’sway.Bellheldhisfire.“Down!”heshouted.Dowpulledhis trigger as fast ashecould.Hecouldn’tmiss.Bell filled the
narrowcorridorlikealocomotivespeedingthroughasingle-trackedtunnel.“Marion,don‘t!”Bellcried.Dowfeltthebeautifulwomaninthereddressgrabhisarmwithbothhands.His first shot hit the champagne bottle the detective was carrying, and it
explodedinafoamysprayofgreenglass.Hissecondshothitthedetective.Histhirdshotplowedintothefloor.Hejerkedhisarmfreeandaimedhisrevolverinthewoman’sface.
IsaacBellfeltasledgehammerblowas theassassin’sbullet tore throughhisforearm.HeswitchedtheBrowningtohislefthandandlookedforaclearshot.Marion had the good sense to step back into the stateroom. But PrestonWhitewaywasstillflailingaboutthecorridor,blockinghisshot.AsBellsawthemanwhohadshothimturnhisweaponintoMarion’sstateroom,hesqueezedhistrigger.PhilipDowheardanexplosioninhishead.Forasecond,hethoughthehad
takenabulletandsomehowsurvived.ThenherealizedthatBellhadshothisearoff.He felt a tugonhis armasBell’s second shot scored.His fingers openedinvoluntarily,andtherevolverflewfromhishand.DowshovedthedrunkatBellbeforethedetectivecouldfireagain,andranthefewfeettothevestibuledoorbehindhim,flungitopen,andjumpedoffthetrain.Acinderdickwasrunningtowardthesoundofgunfire.Dowwastednotime
thinking.His sapwas still in his right hand.He smashed the copbetween theeyesandboltedforthedark.Bellgotasfarasthebottomstepfromthevestibulebeforethepaininhisarm
knocked him to his knees.Railroad policewere running toward theHennessyspecial.“There!”Bellpointedwithhispistol.“Oneman.Mediumheight.Darksuitandderby.Hedroppedhisgun.Probablyhasanother.”Thecopsstormedoff,blowingwhistles forassistance.Bell stumbledup the
stepsjustasMarioncamedown.“Areyouallright?”theychorused.“I’mfine,”shesaid,andshoutedtoaconductorrunningup,“Getadoctor!”She helped Bell into the car. Preston Whiteway was leaning on her door,
blockingit.“Say,what’sgoingon?”heasked.“Preston!”saidMarionMorgan.“GetoutofourwaybeforeIpickupthatgun
andshootyou.”The newspaper publisher shambled off, scratching his head.Marion helped
Bellintoherstateroomandontothebed.“Towels,”mutteredBell.“BeforeImakeamessofyoursheets.”“Howbadlyhurtareyou,Isaac?”“IthinkI’mO.K.Heonlygotmyarm,thankstoyou.”By the time the doctor came from the Southern Pacific’s hospital car, the
railroad police had reported to Bell that the man who had shot him haddisappearedinthedark.“Keep looking,”Bell said. “I’m pretty sure Iwinged him. In fact, I think I
shothisearoff.”“Yousuredid!Wefoundachunkofit.Andatrailofbloodrighttotheedgeof
thelights.Butnotenoughtokillhim,unfortunately.”
“Findhim!HisnameisPhilipDow.There’stenthousanddollarsonhishead.IwanttoknowifheisworkingfortheWrecker.”TheSouthernPacificCompanydoctorwasarough-and-readysortusedtothe
punctureandcrushwoundsencountered inrailroadbuilding.BellwasrelievedthathewassingularlyunimpressedbythebloodyfurrowthatDow’s.45caliberslughadplowedthroughhisfleshandmuscle.Thedoctorwasheditthoroughlywithwater.Thenheheldupabottleofcarbolicacid.“Thisisgoingtohurt.”“Bloodpoisoningwillhurtmore,”Bellsaid,grittinghisteeth.Therewascloth
inthewound.“Pouriton.”Afterthedoctordoseditwiththefierydisinfectant,hedressedit.“Youmay
wanttorestitinaslingforacoupleofdays.Butthebone’sallright.Betithurtsliketheblazes.”“Yes,”Bell said,grinningatMarion,who lookedabit pale. “Now thatyou
mentionit.”“Don’tworry,I’lltakecareofthat.”Thedoctortookahypodermicneedlefromhisleatherbagandstartedtodraw
aclearfluidintothebarrel.“What’sthat?”askedBell.“Morphinehydrochloride.Youwon’tfeelathing.”“Nothanks,Doc.Ineedaclearhead.”“Suit yourself,” said the doctor. “I’ll change that dressing tomorrow. Good
night.Goodnight,ma‘am.”Marionshutthedoorbehindhim.“Clearhead?Isaac,you’vebeenshot.You’rewhiteasaghost.Thepainmust
beawful.Can’tyoutaketherestofthenightoff?”“I intend to,” saidBell, reaching for herwith his good arm. “That’swhy I
wantaclearhead.”
40
“Father,dearfather,comehomewithmenow,“
sangtheVenturaCountyTemperanceGleeClub,sixtyvoicesstrong.JamesDashwoodcranedhisneck,hopingtospotslope-shoulderedblacksmith
JimHiggins,whohadrunwhenheshowedhimthesketchoftheWrecker.IsaacBellwasbetting thatHigginshad taken theabstinencepledgeat a temperancemeeting. This meeting, in the beet-farming town of Oxnard, filled a tent bigenoughtoholdacircus.Dashwoodhadattendedsixsuchmeetingsalready,enoughtoknowtheropes.
Nimbly, he dodged the smiling mothers who nudged their daughters in hisdirection.Menwereoutnumberedbywomenwheneverthepledgeofabstinencewas sought. Few were young as he, or as clean and neatly turned out.Moretypicalwastheprospectorsittingnexttohim,inapatchedcoatandfloppyhat,wholookedlikehe’dcometogetoutoftherain.The singers finally finished. Ushers rigged a powerful acetylene-lit magic
lantern.Itslonglensshinedacircleoflightonascreenontheothersideofthetent.Alleyeswatchedthecircle.Somesortofshowwasabouttocommence.ThenextspeakerwasafieryMethodist.“Therankandfileofthered-nosedcorpsscornusasUtopians!”hethundered.
“But to proclaim that there ought to be no place in theworld for intoxicatingdrink does not make us Utopians. We are not conducting a dangerousexperiment.Practicingpersonalabstinence isnonewthing.Thedangercomeswithtryingtolivewithdrink.”Hegesturedtowardthemagiclantern.“With the aid of a powerfulmicroscope and thismagic lantern, Iwill now
demonstrate that to imbibe distilled spirit is to drink poison.When you drinkintoxicatingliquor,youpoisonyourmind.Youpoisonyourfamily.Youpoisonyour own body.Watch the screen, ladies and gentlemen. Under the enlargingpowersof thismicroscope, Iplace thisglassofpurenaturalwaterdrawnfromthewellofthechurchdowntheroadandprojectitonthescreen.”
Greatlymagnified,thewellwaterwasalivewithswimmingmicrobes.Heheld up an eyedropper, inserted it down the neckof a bottle ofSquirrel
whiskey,anddrewbrownliquidintoit.“Inowplaceasingledropofwhiskeyinthewater.Onlyone,singledrop.”The magnified drop of whiskey struck like mud fouling a pond. A brown
cloudspreadthroughthewater.Microbesfled,swimmingfranticallytowardtheedgesoftheglass.Buttherewasnoescape.Writhing,shriveling,theyfellstillanddied.TheprospectorseatedbesideDashwoodshuddered.“Look at all them slimy varmints,” he said. “Last time I’ll drinkwater that
don’thavewhiskeyinit.”Dashwoodspiedabigmaninadarkcoatnearthefrontofthegatheringand
hurriedafterhim.“Whowillcomeforward,” thespeakercalled.“Whowillsign thecertificate
ofabstinenceandpledgenevertodrink?”Whenhegotcloser,DashwoodsawthatthemaninthedarkcoatwasnotJim
Higgins. But by thenDashwoodwaswithin reach of the speaker’s assistants,comelyyoung ladies,whodescendeduponhimflourishingWatermanfountainpensandblankcertificates.
“TwoMOREWIRES,MR.BELL,” said J. J.Meadows. “How’s the arm thismorning?”“Tip-top.”ThefirstwireaddressedBell’squestionaboutSenatorCharlesKincaid’searly
departure from theMilitary Academy atWest Point. VanDorn’sWashington,D.C.,office,whichhadinformalaccesstoUnitedStatesArmyrecords,reportedthatKincaidhadwithdrawnvoluntarilytopursuehisstudiesattheUniversityofWest Virginia. They had unearthed no hint of impropriety and no record ofdismissal. The operative ventured the opinion that the quality of civilengineeringschoolshadrisenabovethatofthemilitary,whichwas,beforetheCivilWar,theonlylearninggroundforengineers.Bell was more intrigued by the second message, which contained new
information about Franklin Mowery’s assistant, Eric Soares. Deeper diggingrevealedthatSoareshadrunawayfromtheKansasCityorphanagethatMowerysupported. Soares had surfaced after a couple of years in a reform school.Moweryhadtakenpersonalresponsibilityforhim,hiredtutorstofillthegapsinhisschooling,and thenputhimthroughengineeringcollegeatCornell.Whichexplained,Bellthought,theuncle-and-favorite-nephewrelationshiptheyshared.Bell called on the oldman in the afternoon,when Soareswas down at the
riverconductinghisdailyinspectionoftheworkonthebridgepiers.Mowery’sofficewasaconvertedstateroomonHennessy’sspecial.HewassurprisedtoseeBell.“Ithoughtyou’dbeinthehospital.You’renotevenwearingasling.”“Theslinghurtmorethannosling.”“Didtheycatchthefellowwhoshotyou?”“Notyet...Mr.Mowery,mayIaskyouafewquestions?”“Goahead.”“I’m sure that you can imagine how wide-ranging our investigation is. So
pleaseforgivemeifIappeartogetpersonal.”“Shoot,Mr.Bell.We’reonthesameside.I’mbuildingit.You’remakingsure
thatcriminaldoesn’tknockitdown.”“Iamconcernedaboutyourassistant’spast,”Bellsaidbluntly.Moweryputhispipeinhismouthandglared.“WhenIchosetohelpEric,theboywasfifteenyearsoldandhadbeenliving
in thestreet.Well-meaning folks toldmehewouldpickmypocketandknockmeonthehead.ItoldthemwhatI’lltellyou:Idon’tbelieveintheexistenceofacriminalclass.”“I agree there is no such thing as a criminal class,” said Bell. “But I am
familiarwithacriminaltype.”“Ericearnedhisdegree,”Mowery retorted.“The times Ipulledwires toget
him a job, he never disappointed. The folks at Union Pier and Caisson arepleasedwithhiswork.Infact,theyhavealreadyaskedhimtostayonwiththeirfirm after this job is finished. Iwould say bynow the youngman is over thehump,wouldn’tyou?”“Isupposeyou’llmisshimifhestayswithUnionPierandCaisson...”“Iwishhimwellinhiscareer.Asforme,I’mgoingbacktomyrockin’chair.
I’mtoooldtokeepHennessy’space.Didhimafavor.GladIdid.Webuiltafinebridge.OsgoodHennessy.Me.AndEricSoares.”“Funnything,though,”saidBell.“IheardJethroWatt,thechiefoftherailway
police, repeat an old saying, recently: ‘Nothing is impossible for theSouthernPacific.”’“Truer words were never spoken, which is why working for the Southern
Pacificisayoungerman’sgame.”“Jethrosaiditmeant that therailroaddoesitall.Buildsitsownenginesand
rollingstockandtunnels.Andbridges.”“Famousforit.”“So why did they hire Union Pier and Caisson to sink the piers for your
bridge?”
“River-pier work is a specialized field. Especially when you have trickyconditionslikewefoundhere.Unionisthebestinthebusiness.CuttheirteethontheMississippi.IfyoucanbuildpiersthatstanduptotheMississippiRiver,youcanbuildthemanywhere.”“Didyourecommendhiringthefirm?”Moweryhesitated.“Nowthatyoumention it,”he finallysaid,“that isnotprecisely true. Iwas
originallyinclinedtoletourcompanydothejob.ButitwassuggestedtomethatUnion might be the wiser course because the geology here proved to becomplicated... as I mentioned to you last night. We encountered challengingconditions on the Cascade River bottom, to say the least. Evenmore shiftingthanyou’dexpectinthesemountains.”“DidEricrecommendUnion?”“Ofcourse.Ihadsenthimaheadtoconductthesurvey.Heknewtheriverbed
andheknewUnion.Whyareyouaskingallthis?”The tall detective looked the elderly engineer in the eye. “You appeared
troubled inMr. Hennessy’s car last night after the banquet. Earlier, when weweredownatthelodge,youwerestaringlongandhardatthebridgepiers.”Mowery looked away. “Youdon’tmissmuch, doyou,Mr.Bell? ... I didn’t
like theway thewater flowed around them. I could not pin downwhy—stillcan‘t—butitjustlookeddifferentthanitshould.”“Youhaveaninstinctthatsomethingiswrong?”“Perhaps,”Moweryadmittedreluctantly.“Maybeyou’relikemethatway.”“Howso?”“When I’m short on facts, I have togoon instinct.For instance, the fellow
who shot me last night could have been a robber who followed PrestonWhitewayontothistrainintendingtoknockhimontheheadandtakehiswallet.IbelieveIrecognizedhimasaknownassassin.ButIhavenohardfactstosayhewasn’t looking tomakeeasymoney.Whitewaywasvisibly intoxicatedandthereforedefense-less,andhewasdressedlikeawealthygentlemanlikelytobecarryingabigroll inhispocket.Sincethe‘robber’escaped,thosearemyonlyfacts.ButmyinstinctsuggeststhathewassenttokillmeandmistookWhitewayforme.Sometimes,instincthelpsputtwoandtwotogether...”Thistime,whenMowerytriedtolookaway,Bellheldhimwiththefullforce
ofhiscompellinggaze.“Itsounds,”Mowerymuttered,“likeyouwanttoblameEricforsomething.”“Yes,itdoes,”saidBell.Hesatdown,stillholdingtheoldman’sgaze.
Mowerystartedtoprotest,“Son...”AwinterylightinBell’sblueeyesmadehimreconsider.Thedetectivewasno
man’ssonbuthisownfather’s.“Mr.Bell...”Bell spoke incool,measured tones.“It iscurious thatwhenI remarked that
weneedengineers,youcountered thatweneed to trustengineers.AndwhenIobservedthatyouseemedtroubledbythepiers,yourepliedthatIsoundedasifIwanttoblameEric.”“I believe I had better have a talkwithOsgoodHennessy. Excuseme,Mr.
Bell.”“I’lljoinyou.”“No,” Mowery said. “An engineering talk. Not a detective talk. Facts, not
instincts.”“I’llwalkyoutohiscar.”“Suityourself.”Mowerygrabbedhiswalking stickandheavedhimselfpainfully tohis feet.
Bellheldthedoorandledthewayupthesidecorridor,helpingMowerythroughthevestibuledoorsbetweenthecars.Hennessywasinhispaneledoffice.Mrs.Comdenwaswithhim,readinginhercornerchair.Bellblockedthedoorforaninstant.“WhereisSoaresnow?”heaskedMowery.
41
ONE HOUR LATER IN ST. LOUIS, A TELEGRAM ARRIVED AT THEbasement hovel of an anarchist who had fled Italy and changed his name toFrancisRizzo.RizzoclosedthedoorontheWesternUnionmessengerboy’sfacebefore he opened the envelope. A single word was typed on the buff-coloredform:“Now.”Rizzothrewonhishatandcoat,caughtastreetcartoaneighborhoodwhere
no one knew him, purchased a quart tin of kerosene, and boarded anotherstreetcar,whichcarriedhimtowardtheMississippiRiver.Hegotoffandwalkedquicklythroughawarehousedistrictuntilhefoundasaloonintheshadowofthelevee.Heorderedabeerandateasausageatthefree-lunchcounter,eyeslockedontheswingingdoors.Theinstantthatwarehouseworkersandcartersbarreledin,markingtheendofthebusinessday,RizzoleftthesaloonandhurriedalongdarkstreetstotheofficesoftheUnionPier&CaissonCompany.Aclerkwaslockingup,thelastmanout.Rizzowatchedfromacrossthestreet
untilhewassuretheofficeswereempty.Then,onarouteplottedmonthsearlier,heenteredanalleythatledtoanarrowpassagebetweenthebackofthebuildingandtheleveestandingbetweenitandtheriver.Hetuggedalooseboard,pulledout a short crowbar he had stashed behind it, and pried open a window. Heclimbed in, found thecentralwoodenstaircase that led to the topof the three-story building, climbed it, and opened several windows. Then he pierced thekerosenetinwithhispocketknifeandstartedbackdownthestairs,splashingthevolatile liquid on the steps. At the bottom, he lit a match, touched it to thekerosene,andwatchedtheflamesleapupthedrywood.Hewaiteduntilhewassurethatthewooditselfhadcaughtfire.Thenheslippedbackoutthewindowandleftitopentofeedthedraft.
ISAACBELLRODETHEslowSnakeLineswitchbacktraindowntothetownofCascade.EricSoareshadtoldFranklinMowerythathemightworklate,ashe
oftendid.Asusual,hewouldtakehissupperinthetown,thenwouldbunkdowninoneoftheguardshacksbesidethepiersandstartworkearlyinthemorningratherthanwastetimeridingthetrainbackuptothetop.When Bell got to the guard shacks, the detective discovered that the
supposedlyhardworkingSoareshadquitearly.Nooneknewwherehehadgone.
DOWN THE RIVER FROM the original town of Cascade, a shanty-and-tentcitycalledHell’sBottomhadsprungup.Itoweditsexistencetotheironworkers,masons, and caisson miners who’d built the Cascade Canyon Bridge, therailroaders who’d laid the steep Snake Line from the town and its lowlandrailheaduptothebridge,andthelumberjacksandteamsterswhohadrevivedtheoldEastOregonLumberCompanybackinthemountains.EricSoaresheadedforHell’sBottom,feelingflush.Infact,hethought,with
the cash in his pocket that the Senator had forked over as the first of manypayments,hewassure tobe therichestmanin theboomtowntonight.Hewasalsoinlove,whichhishard-knocksyouthhaddemonstratedwasaboutashalf-wittedasamancouldget.Particularlyfallinginlovewithawhore.Half-wittedor not, he visited her every night he could get away fromOldManMowery.Now, thanks to the Senator, he could afford to keep her for himself all nightlong.TherewerethreegradesofbrothelsinHell’sBottom.The roughest serviced the lumberjacks and mule skinners. The men risked
their lives to get thereSaturday nights by shooting the rapids down the rockyriver in “Hell’s Bottom Flyers,” dugout canoes made by hollowing logs withaxesandfire.The women of the next-roughest brothels serviced the railroad gangs, who
arrivedviatheSnakeLine.TracklayersdescendedonSaturdaynight.Trainmen,brakemen, conductors, and locomotive engineers working railroad schedulesswaggeredinnightanddayswingingtheirredlanterns.There was only one top-grade establishment. Gabriel’s was comparatively
genteel,particularlybywesternboomtownstandards,andmoreexpensivethanalaboring man could dream of affording. Its customers were the upstandingbusiness owners and professionals of Cascade, wealthy tourists staying at thefamouslodge,andthehigher-paidseniorengineers,lawyers,andmanagerswhoworkedfortherailroad.MadameGabrielgreetedEricSoaresliketheregularhehadbecome.“IwouldlikeJoanna,”hetoldher.
“Engaged,sir.”“I’llwait.”“She’sgonnabeawhile,”shesaid.He felt a foolish stab of jealousy. Foolish, sure, he thought.But the feeling
wasas real as the suddenangrypoundingofhisheart thatmade itdifficult tobreathe.“There’sanewgirlyoumightenjoy.”“I’llwaitforJoanna.”If provoked, Madame Gabriel had the coldest eyes he had ever seen on a
woman.Theygrewicynow,anddespitehisbroadexperienceof theworldforone so young Eric felt something akin to fear. He looked away, afraid ofprovokingherfurther.She surprised himwith a warm smile. “Tell youwhat, sir. The new girl is
yoursonthehouseifyoucanlookmeinthefaceafterandtellmeshewasn’tworthtopdollar.Infact,I’llevengiveyouyourmoneybackifyoucanhonestlytellmesheisn’tbetterthanJoanna.Howcanyoulose?”Howcouldhelose?MadameGabriel’sbouncerwalkedhimtoadoorinthebackofthesprawling
house, knocked for him, and threw it open.Eric stepped into a roomglowingwith pink lantern light. The bouncer closed the door behind him. Two mendressedlikelumberjacksclosedinfrombothsides.Agunbarrelmaterializedoutofablurofmotion.Itwhizzedpastthehandhe
raised too late tostop itandsmackedhisskull.Hefelthis legscollapseunderhimasifhisboneshadturnedtojelly.Hetriedtoyell.Theyyankedaroughsackoverhishead,tiedhiswristsbehindhim.Hetriedtokickthem.Theysmashedhim in the groin. While he was gasping, paralyzed with pain, they tied hisankles,pickedhimup,andcarriedhimoutofthebuilding.Hefelthimselfslungoverasaddle,felthishandsandfeetloopedunderthehorse.Heyelledthroughthesack.Theyhithisheadagain,andhelostconsciousness.Heawokeastheyuntiedhishandsandfeet,jerkedhisarmsbehindhisback,
andtiedhishandsagain.Theyremovedthesackandshinedalightinhiseyes.The two men were hulking shadows behind the light. He smelled water andhearditrunning.Theywereinsomesortofcellarwithwaterinit.Likeamill,hethought, with a stream racing through. The lumberjacks leaned in from theshadows.“Whatisthenameofyouroldbunkiefromtheorphanage?”“Gotohell,”saidEricSoares.Theygrabbedhisfeet, jerkedhiminto theairupsidedown,and loweredhis
headintotheice-coldstream.Hewassostartled,hedidn’thavetimetotakea
deepbreath.He ranoutofair, struggling frantically.Hestruggled sohard,hisglasses unhooked from his ears. He couldn’t stop himself from breathing in.Waterfilledhisnoseandmouth.Theyliftedhimoutofthewaterandheldhim,stillupsidedown,withhisfaceinchesfromthestream.“Thenameofyourbunkiefromtheorphanage.”“Whydoyou...”hestartedtoask,eventhoughheknewexactlywhy.HehadmisreadtheSenator.Kincaidhadturnedouttobenopatsy.Thelumberjacksdroppedhimheadfirstinthewateragain.Hehadhadtimeto
suckinair,andhehelditaslongashecould.Archinghisback,hetriedtoriseoutofthewater.Theypushedhimindeeperandheldhimuntilhehadtobreathein.Waterfilledhisnoseandmouth.Hestruggled,buthisstrengthwasfailing,and his whole body gradually went limp. They pulled him up. Coughing andgasping,hevomitedwaterandfinallysuckedinair.Ashecaughthisbreath,hecouldhearthemspeaking.Hebegantorealizetheyhadpulledhimoutsotheycouldaskagain.“Thenameofyourbunkiefromtheorphanage.”“Paul,”hegasped.“Lastname?”“Whatareyougoing—”“Lastname?”Hehesitated.Afterlights-outintheorphanage,heandPaulhadstoodback-to-
back, fightingoff anyonewho tried toattack them.He felt theirhands tightenaroundhisankles.“No!”hescreamed,buthewasalreadyunderwateragain,rawthroatandnoseburning,visionfadingtopink,thentoblack.Whentheyfinallypulledhimout,heyelled,“PaulSamuels!PaulSamuels!PaulSamuels!”“Wheredoeshelive?”“Denver,”Soaresgasped.“Wheredoeshework?”“Bank.”“Whatbank?”“FirstSilver.Whatareyougoingtodotohim?”“Wealreadydonehim.Justwantedtomakesurewegottherightbunkie.”TheyloweredEricSoares’sfaceintothestreamagainandheknewitwasfor
thelasttime.
THEY SEARCHED THE PULLMANS, but no one could find FranklinMowery’sassistant.IsaacBelldispatchedrailroadpolicetosearchCascadeandtheboomtowndownrivercalledHell’sBottom.Buthedoubtedtheywouldfind
him. A foreman had vanished too, along with several Union Pier & Caissonlaborers.BellwenttoOsgoodHennessy.“Youbetterinspectthebridgepiers,”hesaid,
grimly.“That’swhatheworkedon.”“Franklin Mowery’s already down there,” Hennessy replied. “He’s wired
UnionPierallmorning.Noreplyyet.”“Idoubthe’llgetone.”BellwiredVanDorn’sSt.Louisoffice.Theanswercameback immediately.
The headquarters of the Union Pier & Caisson Company had burned to theground.“Whattime?”Bellwiredback.The return wire was a testament to the Wrecker’s inside information.
Adjusting for the difference between Pacific and Central time zones, the firstalarm for the fire had been turned in less than two hours after Bell hadconfrontedFranklinMowerywithhissuspicionsaboutEricSoares.Bell had seen Emma Comden with Hennessy when Mowery reported his
concernsaboutthepiers.Butwithinminutes,Hennessyhadsummonedadozencutoff engineers to access the potential for disaster that Mowery feared. SoEmma was not the only one aware. Still, Bell had to wonder whether thebeautifulwomanwasplayingtheoldmanforafool.Bell went looking for Mowery and found him in one of the guard shacks
protecting thepiers.Therewere tears in theoldman’seyes.HehadblueprintsspreadoutonthetablewheretherailroadcopsatesupperandafolderofreportsfiledbyEricSoares.“False,”hesaid,thumbingthroughthepages.“False.False.False.False...The
piersareunstable.Afloodofwaterwillcausethemtocollapse.”Bell found it hard to believe. Fromwhere he stood in the guard shack, the
massivestonepierssupportingtheairytowersthatheldthebridgetrusslookedsolidasfortresses.ButMowery nodded bleakly out the window at a barge tied alongside the
nearestpier.Tendersliftedadiveroutof thewaterandunhingedhisfaceplate.Bell recognized thenewMarkVhelmet.That thecompanysparednoexpensewasyetanotherindicationoftheimportanceofthebridge.“Whatdoyoumean?”Bellasked.Mowery fumbled for a pencil anddrewa sketchof thepier standing in the
water.Atthefootofthepier,hescratchedthepencilpointthroughthepaper.“Wecallitscour.Theeffectofscouroccurswhenthewaterscoopsaholein
theriverbedimmediatelyupstreamofthepier.Allofasudden,thefootingisnotsupported. Itwillplunge into thisholeorcrackunder theunequalforces...We
havebuiltourhouseonsand.”
42
ISAACBELLWALKEDACROSSTHECASCADECANYONBRIDGE.Thespanwasdeadsilent.Alltraintraffichadbeenstopped.Theonlysounds
Bellcouldhearwere theclickofhisbootheelsand theechoof the rapids farbelow. No one knew how unstable the bridge was yet, but the engineers allagreed it was only a matter of time and water flow before it fell. When hereachedthemidpointbetweenthelipsofthegorge,hestareddownattherivertumblingagainsttheflawedpiers.HewasstaggeredbytheWrecker’saudacity.Bell had wracked his brain to predict how the Wrecker would attack the
bridge. He had guarded every approach, guarded the piers themselves, andwatchedtheworkgangswithaneagleeye.Ithadneveroccurredtohimthatthecriminalhadalreadyattackedit,twofullyearsago,beforetheystartedbuildingthebridge.BellhadstoppedhiminNewYorkCity.Hehadstoppedhimontherails.He
hadstoppedhimallthewaythroughTunnel13rightuptothebridge.Buthere,under this bridge, theWrecker had provedhismettlewith a devastating long-termcounterthrustincaseallelsefailed.Bell shook his head partly in anger and partly in grim admiration for his
enemy’s skills. The Wrecker was despicable, a merciless killer, but he wasformidable.ThissortofplanningandexecutionwentfarbeyondeventheNewYorkdynamiteattack.All that IsaacBellcouldsay inhisowndefensewas thatwhen theCascade
CanyonBridgefell intothegorge,at least itwouldnotcomeasasurprise.Hehad uncovered the plot before the catastrophe. No train loaded with innocentworkmen would fall with it. But though no people would die, it was still acatastrophe.Thecutoff,thevastprojecthehadvowedtoprotect,wasasgoodasdead.Hesensedsomeonewalkingtowardhimandknewwhoitwasevenbeforehe
smelledherperfume.“Mydarling,”hecalledwithout turninghisbleakgazefromthewater,“I’m
upagainstamastermind.”“A‘Napoleonofcrime’?”MarionMorganasked.“That’swhatArchiecallshim.Andhe’sright.”“Napoleonhadtopayhissoldiers.”“Iknow,”Bellsaidbleakly.“Thinklikeabanker.Thathasn’tgottenmevery
far.”“There is something else to remember,” saidMarion. “Napoleonmay have
beenamastermind,butintheendhelost.”Bellturnedaroundtolookather.Halfexpectingasympatheticsmile,hesaw
insteadabiggrinfilledwithhopeandbelief.Shewasincrediblybeautiful,hereyesalight,herhairshiningasifshehadbathedinsunlight.Hecouldnothelpbutsmilebackather.Suddenly,hissmileexplodedintoagrinasbroadathers.“Whatisit?”sheasked.“ThankyouforremindingmethatNapoleonlost.”She had set his mind churning again. He scooped her exuberantly into his
arms,wincedfromthelingeringpainofPhilipDow’sbullettohisrightarm,andshiftedhersmoothlyintohisunscathedleft.“OnceagainIhavetoleaveyourightafteryouarrive.Butthistimeit’syour
faultbecauseyoureallymademethink.”“Whereareyougoing?”“I’m going back to New York to interrogate every banker in the railroad
business.Ifthere’sananswertotheriddleofwhyheisattackingthisrailroad,itwillcomefromWallStreet.”“Isaac?”Mariontookhishand,“Whydon’tyougotoBoston?”“The biggest banks are inNewYork.Hennessy and JoeVanDorn can pull
strings.I’llstartwithJ.P.Morganandworkmywaydown.”“TheAmericanStatesBankisinBoston.”“No.”“Isaac,whynotaskyourfather?Heisvastlyexperiencedinfinance.WhenI
workedinbanking,hewasalegend.”Bellshookhishead.“I’vetoldyouthatmyfatherwasnothappythatIbecame
adetective.Intruth,hewasheartbroken.Menwhoarelegendshopetheirsonswillcontinuebuildingonthefoundationsthattheylaid.Idonotregretgoingmyownway.ButIhavenorighttoaskhimtoforgiveme.”Bell hurried to Osgood Hennessy’s private car to ask him to make
arrangementsinNewYork.Hefoundhiminagloomystateofworryanddefeat.FranklinMowerywaswithhim.Bothmenappearedshattered.Andtheyseemedtoreinforceeachother’spessimism.“Ninety percent ofmy cutoff is on the far side of the bridge,” the railroad
presidentmourned. “All in place for the final push.Track, coal, ties, creosoteplant, roundhouse, locomotives, machine shops. All on the wrong side of abridgethatwon’tholdawheelbarrow.I’mwhipped.”EventhenormallycheerfulMrs.Comdenseemeddefeated.Still,shetriedto
buckhimup,sayingsympathetically,“Perhaps it is time to letNature takehercourse.Winteriscoming.Youcanstartfreshnextyear.Startoverinthespring.”“I’llbedeadbyspring.”LillianHennessy’seyesflashedangrily.SheexchangedagrimlookwithIsaac
Bell.Thenshesatdownatthetelegraphtableandperchedherfingersonthekey.“Father,”shesaid,“IbetterwiretheSacramentoshop.”“Sacramento?”Hennessyaskeddistractedly.“Whatfor?”“They’ve finished fabricating truss rods for theCascadeCanyonBridge.So
theyhavetimetobuildapairofrockingchairs.”“Rockingchairs?Whatthedevilfor?”“For retirement.For twoof the sorriestgeezers I ever saw inmy life.Let’s
buildaporchontheroundhouseyoucanrockon.”“Now,holdon,Lillian.”“You’regivingup,justliketheWreckerwants.”HennessyturnedtoMoweryandaskedhim,withlittlehopeinhisvoice,“Is
thereanychanceofshoringupthosepiers?”“Winter’s closing in,”Mowerymuttered. “We’vegotPacific stormsbearing
downonus,water’salreadyrising.”“Mr.Mowery?”Lillianpurredthroughclenchedteeth.“Whatcolorwouldyou
likeyourrockingchairpainted?”“Youdon’tunderstand,littlelady!”“Iunderstandthedifferencebetweengivingupandfightingback.”Mowerystaredatthecarpet.“Answermyfather!”Lilliandemanded.“Isthereanychanceofshoringthose
piersbeforetheycollapse?”Mowery blinked. He tugged a sail-sized handkerchief from his pocket and
dabbedhiseyes.“Wecouldtrybuildingflowdeflectors,”hesaid.“How?”“Spurdikesoff thebank.Harden thebankwithriprap.Andriprapupstream
anddownstreamofthepiers.Thesameriprappingthatdouble-crossinglittlebas—was supposed to install properly.Wemight try collarplates, I suppose.”Hepickedupapencilandhalfheartedlydrewasketchofflowdeflectorssteeringtherivercurrentsaroundthepiers.“But that’s only short-term,” Hennessy countered gloomily. “‘Til the first
flood.Whataboutlong-term?”“Long-term,wewould somehowhave to try to extend thedepthof thepier
footings.Straighttobedrock,ifwecanlocateit.Butatleastbelowthedepthofstreambedscour.”“Butthepiersarealreadyinplace,”groanedHennessy.“Iknow.”MowerylookedoveratLillian.“Yousee,MissLillian,we’dhave
to sink all new caissons for the sandhogs to excavate”—he drew a pictureshowingthebaseofthepierssurroundedbywatertightchambersinwhichmencouldworkbeneaththeriver—“butbeforewecouldevenstartsinkingcaissonswe’dhave to erect cofferdams, temporaryprotectionaround thepiers tokeeptheriverout,hereandhere.See?Wehaven’tthetime.”Hedroppedthepencilandreachedforhiswalkingstick.BeforeMowerycouldstand,Bell leanedoverhimandputhisfingerfirmly
onthesketch.“These coffer dams look like those collar plates.Could coffer dams deflect
flow?”“Ofcourse!”Mowerysnapped.“Butthepoint—”The old engineer’s voice trailed off midsentence. He stared. Then his eyes
begantogleam.Hepushedhiswalkingstickasideandsnappedupapencil.IsaacBellshovedafreshsheetofpapertowardhim.Moweryscribbledfrantically.“Look here,Osgood!To the devilwith short-term.We’ll build the caissons
straightoff.Shape their cofferdams to functionas flowdeflectors, too.Betterthancollarplates,whenyouthinkaboutit.”“Howlong?”askedHennessy.“Atleasttwoweeks,round-the-clock,toputthecofferdamsinplace.Maybe
three.”“Weather’sgettingworse.”“I’llneedeveryhandyoucanspare.”“I’vegotathousandintheyardwithnothingtodo.”“We’llripraphereandhere,hardenthebank.”“Justpraywedon’tgetaflood.”“Extendthisspurdeflector...”NeitherthebridgebuildernortherailroadpresidentnoticedwhenIsaacBell
and Lillian Hennessy retreated silently from what had blossomed into a full-fledgedengineeringconference.“Nicework,Lillian,”Bellsaid.“Youstirredthemup.”“IrealizedIhadbetterinsuremyfinancialfutureifI’mgoingtobecourtedby
apennilessdetective.”
“Wouldyoulikethat?”“IthinkIwould,Isaac.”“Morethanacandidateforpresident.”“Somethingtellsmeitwouldbemoreexciting.”“Inthatcase,I’vegotgoodnewsforyou:I’vewiredArchietocometakeover
forme.”“Archie’s coming here?” She seizedBell’s hands in hers. “Oh, Isaac, thank
you.That’swonderful.”Bell’s goldenmustache fanned openwith his first carefree smile since they
discoveredthecatastropheofthesabotagedpiers.“Youmustpromisenottodistracthimtoomuch.Westillhaven’tcaughtthe
Wrecker.”“ButifArchieistakingoverhere,whereareyougoing?”“WallStreet.”
43
ISAACBELLRACEDACROSSTHECONTINENTINFOURANDAHALFdays. He took limited flyers when he could and chartered specials when thetrainsranslow.Hemadethefinaleighteen-hourdashontheBroadwayLimited,proudlynamed for thebroad, four-tracked roadbedbetweenChicagoandNewYork.OntheferrytoManhattan,hesawhowquicklyJerseyCityandtherailroads
wererepairingthedamagefromtheWrecker’sdynamiteexplosion.Thestationroofwasalreadyreplaced,andanewpierwasrisingwherelessthanthreeweeksago he had seen the blackened stumps of pilings submerged by the tide. Thewreckedshipsweregone,andwhilemanywindowswerestillcoveredwithrawboardsmanymoregleamedwithnewglass.The sight filledhimwithhope atfirst, remindinghim that back in theOregonCascadesHennessy andMoweryweredriving round-the-clockworkgangs to save theCascadeCanyonBridge.But,headmitted soberly, their taskwasvastlymoredifficult, ifnotdownrightimpossible.Thebridge’sveryfoundationsweresabotaged.AndtheWreckerwasstillatlarge,determinedtowreakmoredamage.BelldisembarkedatLibertyStreetandwalkedquicklytonearbyWallStreet.
OnthecornerofBroadstoodthewhitemarbleheadquartersofJ.P.Morgan&Company.“IsaacBelltoseeMr.Morgan.”“Doyouhaveanappointment?”Bellopenedhisgoldwatch.“Mr.JosephVanDornarrangedourmeetingfor
tenthismorning.Yourclockisslow.”“Oh yes, of course, Mr. Bell. Sadly, however, Mr. Morgan had an abrupt
changeofplans.HeisontheboattoEngland.”“Whodidheleaveinhisplace?”“Well,noonecantakehisplace,butthereisagentlemanwhomightbeable
tohelpyou.Mr.Brooks.”AmessengerboyledBellintothebowelsofthebuilding.Hesatfornearlyan
hour in Brooks’s waiting room, which offered a view of a nickel-clad, steel-
barredvaultguardedbytwoarmedmen.Hepassedthetimebyworkingoutthedetails of two foolproof robberies, a day job and a night job. Finally, hewasusheredintoBrooks’soffice.Brooks was short, compact, and curt. He greeted Bell irritably, without
apologyforkeepinghimwaiting.“YourmeetingwithMr.Morganwas arrangedwithoutmy knowledge. I’ve
been instructed to answer your queries. I am a very busy man, and I cannotimaginewhatinformationIcanimparttoadetective.”“I have one simple question,” said Bell. “Who would gain if the Southern
PacificRailroadCompanywentbankrupt?”Brooks’seyesgleamedwithpredatoryinterest.“Doyouhaveinformationtosupportthatinference?”“I infer nothing,”Bell retorted sternly before inadvertently injecting a fresh
element into the endless battle to consolidate the railroads, and underminingHennessy’sreputation in themarketplace.“Iamaskingwhowouldgain if thateventweretooccur?”“Let me get this straight, Detective. You have no information that Osgood
Hennessyisinaweakenedposition?”“Absolutelynone.”TheinterestslidoutofBrooks’seyes.“Ofcoursenot,”hesaidsullenly.“Hennessyhasbeenimpregnableforthirty
years.”“Ifhewerenot—”“If! If! If!Banking isnotabusinessof ifs,Mr.”—hepretended toglanceat
Bell’s card as if to jog his memory—“Bell. Banking is a business of facts.Bankers do not speculate. Bankers act upon certainties. Hennessy speculates.Hennessyblundersahead.”“Andyet,”Bellsaidmildly,“yousaythatHennessyisimpregnable.”“Heiscrafty.”Bell saw he was wasting his time. Closemouthed, and angling for profit,
bankerslikethisonewouldgivenothingtoastranger.Brooksstoodupabruptly.HestareddownhisnoseatBell,andsaid,“Frankly,
I don’t understand why Mr. Morgan would waste his time answering adetective’squestions.Isupposeitisanotherexampleofhisoverlykindnature.”“Mr.Morganisnotkind,”Bellsaid,containinghisangerasherosetohisfull
height. “Mr. Morgan is intelligent. He knows that he can learn valuableinformationbylisteningtoanotherman’squestions.WhichiswhyMr.Morganisyourbossandyouarehisflunky.”“Well!Howdare—”
“Goodday!”Bell stalked out of J. P.Morgan’s building and across the street to his next
meeting.Halfanhourlater,hestalkedoutof thatone, too,andifanotherbankerhad
rubbedhimthewrongwayatthatexactmoment,hewouldhavepunchedhiminthemouthorsimplyshothimwithhisderringer.Thethoughtprovokedaruefulgrin, and he stopped in the middle of the crowded sidewalk to consider if itwouldevenbeworthittokeephisnextappointment.“Youlookperplexed.”Standing before him—gazing up with a warm, impish smile—was a
handsome,dark-hairedmaninhisearlyforties.Heworeanexpensivecoatwithafurcollarandonhisheadayarmulka—asmall,rounddiskofavelvethatthatbespoketheHebrewfaith.“Iamperplexed,”saidBell.“Whoareyou,sir?”“IamAndrewRubenoff.”Hethrustouthishand.“AndyouareIsaacBell.”Astonished,Bellasked,“Howdidyouknow?”“Sheer coincidence. Not coincidence that I recognize you. Just coincidence
thatIsawyoustandinghere.Lookingperplexed.”“Howdidyourecognizeme?”“Yourphotograph.”Bellmadeapointofavoidingphotographers.AshehadremindedMarion,a
detectivehadnouseforafamousface.Rubenoff smiled his understanding. “Not to worry. I have only seen your
photographonyourfather’sdesk.”“Ah.You’vedonebusinesswithmyfather.”Rubenoff waggled his hand in a yes-and-no gesture. “On occasion, we
consult.”“You’reabanker?”“So I am told,” he said. “In truth, when I arrived from Russia, I was not
impressedbyNewYork’sLowerEastSide,soItookatrainacrossthecountry.InSanFrancisco,Iopenedasaloon.Eventually,Imetaprettygirlwhosefatherownedabank,andtherestisaverypleasanthistory.”“Wouldyouhavetimetojoinmeatlunch?”saidIsaacBell.“Ineedtotalkto
abanker.”“Iamalreadyspokenforlunch.Butwecanhaveteainmyoffices.”Rubenoff’sofficeswerearoundthecorneronRectorStreet,whichthepolice
hadblockedoffsoagrandpianocouldbehoistedsafelyfromanelectricGMCmovingvanuptothefifthstory,whereawindowhadbeenremoved.TheopenwindowbelongedtoRubenoff,whoignoredthecommotionasheusheredBell
in.ThroughthegapingholeinhiswallpouredfirstacoldHudsonRiverwind,then the swaying black piano accompanied by the shouts of the movers. Amatronlysecretarybroughtteaintallglasses.Bellexplainedhismission.“So,”saidRubenoff.“It’snotatallacoincidence.Youwouldhavefoundme
eventuallyafterothersshowedyou thedoor.That I recognizedyousaves timeandtrouble.”“I’mgrateful foryourhelp,”saidBell.“IgotnowhereatMorgan.Theboss
wasaway.”“Bankersareclannish,”saidRubenoff.“Theybandtogether,eventhoughthey
dislikeanddistrustoneanother.TheelegantbankersofBostondislikethebrashNew Yorkers. The Protestants distrust the German Jews. The German JewsdislikeRussianJewslikeme.Dislikeanddistrustmaketheworldgoround.Butenoughphilosophy.Whatpreciselydoyouwanttoknow?”“EveryoneagreesthatOsgoodHennessyisimpregnable.Ishe?”“Askyourfather.”“Ibegyourpardon,sir.”“Youheardme,”hesaidsternly.“Don’tignorethefinestadviceyoucouldget
inNewYorkCity.Askyourfather.Givehimmyregards.Andthatisallyouwillhear from Andrew Rubenoff on the subject. I don’t know if Hennessy isimpregnable.Upuntil lastyear, Iwouldhaveknown,but Ihavegottenoutofrailroads. I put my money into automobiles and moving pictures. Good day,Isaac.”Hestoodupandwenttothepiano.“Iwillplayyouout.”BelldidnotwanttotraveltoBostontoaskhisfather.Hewantedhisanswers
hereandnowfromRubenoff,whomhesuspectedknewmorethanheadmitted.Hesaid,“Themoversjustleft.Don’tyouneedtotuneitfirst?”In answer, Rubenoff’s hands flew at the keys, and four chords boomed in
perfectharmony.“Mr.Mason andMr. Hamlin build pianos you can ride over Niagara Falls
beforeyouhavetotunethem...Yourfather,youngIsaac.Gotalktoyourfather.”Bell caught the subway toGrandCentralTerminal,wired his father that he
was coming, and boarded theNewEnglandRailroad’s famous “White Train”flyer. He remembered it well from his student days, riding it down to NewHaven.TheyhadcalledthegleamingexpresstheGhostTrain.Six hours later, he disembarked at Boston’s new South Station, a gigantic,
pink-huedstonetempletorailroadpower.Hetookanelevatorfivestoriestothestation’stopfloorandcheckedinwithVanDorn’sBostonoffice.Hisfatherhadwiredback:“Ihopeyoucanstaywithme.”Bythetimehemadehiswaytohis
father’sGreekRevivaltownhouseonLouisburgSquare,itwasafternine.PadraicRiley,theelderlybutlerwhohadmanagedtheBellhomesincebefore
Isaacwasborn,openedthepolishedfrontdoor.Theygreetedeachotherwarmly.“Your father is at table,” said Riley. “He thought you might enjoy a late
supper.”“I’mfamished,”Belladmitted.“Howishe?”“Verymuchhimself,”saidRiley,discreetasever.Bellpausedinthedrawingroom.“Wishme luck,” hemuttered to hismother’s portrait. Then he squared his
shouldersandwentthroughtothediningroom,wherethetall,sparefigureofhisfatherunfoldedstorklikefromhischairattheheadofthetable.Theysearchedeachother’sfaces.Riley,hoveringatthedoor,heldhisbreath.EbenezerBell,hethoughtwitha
twingeofenvy, seemedageless.Hishairhadgonegray,ofcourse,buthehadkeptitall,unlikehim.AndhisCivilWarveteran’sbeardwasnearlywhite.ButhestillpossessedtheleanframeanderectstanceoftheUnionArmyofficerwhohadfoughtthebloodyconflictfourdecadesago.In thebutler’sopinion, themanthathismaster’ssonhadgrownintoshould
make any father proud. Isaac’s steady blue-eyed gaze mirrored his father‘s,tingedwiththevioletbequeathedbyhismother.Somuchalike, thoughtRiley.Maybetoomuchalike.“HowcanIhelpyou,Isaac?”Ebenezeraskedstiffly.“I’m not sure why Andrew Rubenoff sent me here,” Isaac replied just as
stiffly.Rileyshiftedhisattentiontotheolderman.Iftherewastobereconciliation,it
wasuptoEbenezertomakeitstick.Butallhesaidwasaterse,“Rubenoffisafamilyman.”“Idon’tunderstand.”“Hewasdoingmeakindness...It’sinhisnature.”“Thankyouforinvitingmetostaythenight,”Isaacreplied.“You are welcome here,” the father said. And then, to Riley’s great relief,
Ebenezerrosegallantlytotheopportunityhissonhadpresentedhimbyagreeingtostay,whichhehadnotintimespast.Infact,thoughtthebutler,thesternoldProtestant sounded almost effusive. “You look well, son. I believe that yourworkagreeswithyou.”Bothmenextendedtheirhands.“Dinner,”saidRiley,“isserved.”
OVERAWELSHRAREBIT and a cold poached salmon, Isaac Bell’s fatherconfirmedwhatMarionsuggestedandhesuspected.“Railroadmagnatesarenotas all-powerful as they appear. They control their lines by wielding smallminority interests of stock.But if their bankers lose faith, if investorsdemandtheirmoney, they find themselves suddenly on a lee shore.”A smile twitchedEbenezerBell’s lips. “Forgivemymixing shippingmetaphors, but they get introublewhentheymustraisecapitaltopreventrivalsfromtakingthemoverjustas their stock plummets. The New England Railroad you rode here today isabouttobeswallowedwholebytheNewYork,NewHavenandHartford.Andnotamomenttoosoon—littlewondertheNEisknownasthe‘NarrowEscape.’Pointis,theNewEnglandsuddenlyhasnosayinthematter.”“Iknow that,”Bell protested. “ButOsgoodHennessyhasgobbledupevery
railroadthatevercrossedhispath.Heistoointelligentandtoowellestablishedto be overstretched.He admits that hewill run out of credit for theCascadesexpansion if theWrecker stalls it.Thatwouldbea terrible loss,butheclaimsthathehasplentyofcredittooperatetherestofhislines.”“Consider howmany lines Hennessy has combined, howmanymore he is
alliedwith...”“Exactly.Heownsthemightiestcombineinthecountry.”“Orahouseofcards.”“ButeveryoneagreesthatOsgoodHennessyissecure.Morgan’smanusedthe
wordimpregnable.”“Notaccordingtomysources.”EbenezerBellsmiled.In thatmoment, Isaac Bell saw his father in a different light. He knew, of
course,thatasayoungofficerEbenezerhaddistinguishedhimselfinU.S.Armyintelligence.Hehadthemedalstoproveit.ButastrangeideastuckIsaac.Itwasone thathehadnever thoughtofbefore.Hadhis father tooonce longed tobemorethanabanker?“Father.Areyousaying that if theWreckerwere inaposition tobuy, if the
Southern Pacific Company tottered under the weight of its failed Cascadesexpansion,hecouldendupowningit?”“NotonlytheSouthernPacific,Isaac.”
44
“EVERYRAILROADINTHECOUNTRY,”SAIDISAACBELL.Completeunderstandingdawnedatlast.TheWrecker’scrimesweredrivenbyapurposeasboldastheywereevil.“Atlast,”saidIsaac,“Iknowwhathewants.Hismotivemakestwistedsense.
Heistooambitiousforanythingless.Monstrouscrimestoserveamastermind’sdream.Buthowcouldheenjoyhisvictory?Theinstantheseizestherailroads,wewillhunthimmercilesslyfromoneendofthecontinenttotheother.”“On the contrary,” saidEbenezerBell, “hewill enjoy his victory in private
splendor.”“How?”“Hehasshieldedhimselffrombeingidentified,muchlessinvestigated.Who
do you hunt? Inwhat country?A criminal as resourceful as you’ve describedwouldmodelhis‘retirement,’shallwesay,ontheEuropeanmunitionsdealers.Ortheopiumcartels.Iknowofspeculatorsandprofiteersandstockfraudswhohavepliedtheirillegaltradeunmolestedforthirtyyears.”“How?”Isaacdemanded,thoughhewasbeginningtogetthepicture.“If I were theWrecker,” Ebenezer answered, “I would go abroad. I would
establishamazeofforeignholdingcompaniesshieldedbycorruptgovernments.My shell corporations would bribe the authorities to turn a blind eye. A warminister,atreasurysecretary.TheEuropeanchancelloriesareinfamous.”“AndinAmerica,”Isaacsaidquietly,“amemberoftheUnitedStatesSenate.”“The corporationsbribe senators.Whywouldn’t a criminal?Doyouhave a
senatorinmind?”“CharlesKincaid.”“Hennessy’sman.AlthoughImustsaythatI’vealwaysthoughtofKincaidas
evenmoreofabuffoonthanmostwhositinthataugustchamber.”“Soheseems.ButIhavehadaterriblesuspicionabouthimforquiteawhile
now.Whatyousuggestwouldexplainwhy.HecouldbetheWrecker’sagent.”“With unfettered access to government officials anxious to please. And not
onlytheWrecker’sagentintheUnitedStatesbutalsotheWrecker’sspyinside
Hennessy’sinnercircle.Thatwouldbediabolical,wouldn’tit,son?”“Effective!” said Isaac. “If theWrecker has shown himself to be anything
morethancold-bloodedlyruthless,itiseffective...Butthereisoneproblemwiththis theory: Charles Kincaid appears to be angling to be nominated for thepresidency.”“Youdon’tsay!”“PrestonWhiteway is backing a run. It’s hard to imagine a politician who
wantstobepresidentriskinggettingcaughttakingbribesfromamurderer.”EbenezerBell saidquietly, “Hewouldnotbe the first politician sufficiently
arroganttoconvincehimselfnoonecancatchhim.”PadraicRileyinterruptedtosaythathehadlaidoutbrandyandcoffeeinthe
libraryandwouldbegoingtobedifnothingelsewasrequired.Heturnedonhisheelanddisappearedbeforeanythingwas.Hehadalsoleftacoalfireglowinginthegrate.WhileEbenezerBellsplashed
generousdollopsofbrandyintwocoffeecups,IsaacBellstaredintotheflames,thinkinghard.ItcouldhavebeenKincaidwhohiredtheprizefighterstokillhiminRawlins.“IbumpedintoKennyBloomontheOverlandLimited,”hesaid.“Howisthescamp?”“Aboutsixtypoundsplumperthanyouraveragescampandricher thanever.
Father,howwouldtheWreckerraisethecapitaltobuytheSouthernPacific?”Ebenezer answered without hesitation. “From the richest bankers in the
world.”“Morgan?”“No. As I understand it, Morgan is stretched tight. He couldn’t touch
Hennessy’s roads. Nor could Vanderbilt or Harriman or Hill, even if theycombined.DoesVanDornhaveofficesoverseas?”“Wehavereciprocalarrangementswithforeigninvestigators.”“LooktoEurope.TheonlybankersrichenoughareinLondonandBerlin.”“YoukeepreferringtoEurope.”“You’ve described a criminal who needs to raise extraordinary amounts of
capital in strictest secrecy.Where couldhe turn tobutEurope for hismoney?And it’s where he will hide in the end. I recommend you use Van Dorn’sEuropeanconnectionstorundownhisbankers.Inthemeantime,I’lltrytohelpbybeatingwhatbushesIcan.”“Thank you, Father.” Isaac clasped his hand. “You’ve brought this case to
life.”“Whereareyougoing?”Isaacwasstridingtowardthehall.“BacktothecutoffasfastasIcan.He’ll
keepattackinguntilHennessytopples.”“Butthere’llbenofasttrainsthislate.”“I’llcharteraspecialtoAlbanyandjoinaChicagoflyer.”Hisfatherhurriedwithhimtothedoor,helpedhimintohiscoat,andstoodin
thefoyerashissondashedintothenight.“WhenIcanreturn,”Isaaccalledoverhisshoulder,“there’ssomeoneIwant
youtomeet.”“I’mlookingforwardtomakingMissMorgan’sacquaintance.”Bell stopped short.Was that the flickerof thegas lampsora twinkle inhis
father’seye?“Youknow?You’veheard?”“Mysourcesareunanimous:‘Yourson,’theytellme,‘isaluckyman.’”
ANOTHERLATE-AUTUMNPACIFICSTORMwasblowinghardwhileJamesDashwood attended his twelfth temperancemeeting. This one took place in achillySantaBarbarahallrentedfromtheElks.Rainlashedthewindows,windwhipped the trees and spatteredwet leaves on the glass. But the speakerwasinspiredandtheaudienceenthusiastic,expectingsaltypassionfromthegnarly,red-faced “Captain” Willy Abrams, Cape Horn clippermaster, shipwrecksurvivor,andreformeddrunkard.“Thatalcoholisnotnutritious...”CaptainWillythundered.“Thatitawakensa
general and unhealthy physical excitement... That it hardens the tissues of thebrain . . . is proven by every scientific analysis. Ask any ship’s officer whatmakes mutineers. His answer? Alcohol. Ask a police officer what makescriminals.Hisanswer?Alcohol.Ask theprisonwarden.Alcohol.And thinkoftheexpense!Howmanyloavesofbreadcouldgracethekitchentablewith themoney spent upon intoxicating liquors? How many snug homes could thatmoneybuild?Why,thatmoneycouldevenpayofftheentireNationalDebt!”Dashwood paused, momentarily distracted from scanning the men in the
audience. Of the many temperance orators he had heard on his search forblacksmithJimHiggins,CaptainWillyAbramswasthefirsttopromisereliefoftheNationalDebt.When it was over andDashwood saw no one in the dwindling crowdwho
resembledtheblacksmith,heapproachedthedais.“Onemore?” askedCaptainWilly,whowas packinguphis notes. “Always
timeforonemorepledge.”“I’ve already pledged,” said Dashwood, flourishing a Total Abstinence
DeclarationregisteredfourdaysearlierbytheVenturachapterof theWoman’s
Christian TemperanceUnion.He had tenmore in his suitcase, alongwith thetrain-wreckinghook fashioned fromananchoranda stackof the lumberjack’ssketches.“I’mlookingforafriend,whomIhopehastakenthepledgebutmighthave
stumbled. He’s disappeared, and I fear the worst. A tall, strapping fellow, ablacksmithnamedJimHiggins.”“Blacksmith?Bigman.Slopedshoulders.Darkhair?Sadandwearyeyes.”“You’veseenhim?”“Seenhim?YoubetI’veseenhim.Thankstome,thepoordevil’smendedhis
ways.Intheextreme.”“Howdoyoumean?”“Instead of taking the pledge never to drink alcohol again, he’s pledged to
giveupeverythingamancouldeverwant.”“Idon’tfollowyou,CaptainWilly.”Thespeaker lookedaround,confirmedtherewerenowomenwithinearshot,
and dropped a wrinkled lid over a bloodshot eye. “Gave up drink, gave upworldly possessions, even gave up girls. Now, I truly believe, brother, thatdrinkinganddrunkennessareinseparableevils.OurSaviorJesusHimselfcouldnot keepHis customers sober ifHe ran a saloon.But never let it be said thatCaptainWillyadvocatesabandoningallearthlypleasures.”“WhatdidJimHigginsdo?”“LastIheard,hebecameamonk.”“Amonk?”“Joinedamonastery,that’swhathe’sdone.”JamesDashwoodwhippedouthisnotebook.“Whichorder?”“Notsureaboutthat.OrderofSaintSomebodyorother.Ihadneverheardof
thembefore.Notoneoftheregulars,sortofanoffshoot...likeyoufindintheseparts.”“Where?”“Upthecoastaways.Understandtheyhaveaheckofaspread.”“Whattown?”“SomewherenorthofMorroBay,Ibelieve.”“Inthehillsorbythesea?”Dashwoodpressed.“Both,Iheard.Heckofaspread.”
IT HAD BEEN FORTY years since the first transatlantic telegraph cableannihilated time and space. By 1907, more than a dozen stretched under the
oceanbetweenIrelandandNewfoundland.The latestcould transmitahundredtwentywords perminute.As IsaacBell rocketedwest, a notable share of thecable’s capacity was taken up by the Van Dorn Detective Agency gatheringinformationontheWrecker’sEuropeanbankers.Cablegramspouredaboardateverycrewchangeandwaterstop.Bythetime
he reachedBuffalo inhis charteredAtlantic4-4-2—ahigh-wheeled racerbornforthelakeshorewater-levelroute—Bellhadasuitcasefullofpaper.VanDornagentsandresearchcontractorsjoinedhimalongtheway,specialistsinbanking,andFrenchandGermantranslators.Thereweregeneral reports,at first,on theEuropean financing of railroads in China, South America, Africa, and AsiaMinor. Then, as the agency’s contacts dug deeper, the reports grew morespecific,withrepeatedreferencestoSchane&SimonCompany,a little-knownGermaninvestmenthouse.BellpickedupaPullmansleeperinToledoforhisgrowingstaffandreplaced
the4-4-2withamorepowerfulBaldwin4-6-0.HeaddedadiningcarinChicagoso the investigators could spread their work out on the tables as they spedthroughIllinoisandIowa.They crossed Kansas, switching locomotives to the new, highly efficient
Baldwin balanced compoundAtlantics for speeding up the light but relentlessgradeoftheGreatPlains.Theypickedupwiresateverystop.Thediner’stableswereburiedunder theiryellowpaper. IsaacBell’soperatives, accountants, andauditorsnamedtheirspecialtraintheVanDornExpress.TheRockyMountainscameintoview,blueasthesky,thenhardeningoutof
themistintothreedistinctsnowcappedranges.Therailroad’sMountainDivisionsuperintendents,eagertohelp,wheeledouttheirbestPrairie-typeengines,withVauclaincompoundcylinders,tosuitthegrade.Sofaronthecross-countryrun,a total of eighteen locomotives and fifteen crews had driven the Van DornExpressat speeds that surpassed thepreviousyear’s record timeof fiftyhoursfromChicago.Bell saw a pattern swirling around Schane & Simon, which was based in
Berlin.Yearsago,ithadforgedclosetieswiththeGermangovernmentthroughthepowerfulchancellorOttovonBismarck.Thesetieshadgrownstrongerunderthecurrentruler,KaiserWilhelm.VanDorn’ssourcesreportedthatthebankinghouse appeared to have channeled government money to the builders of theBaghdadRailwaysecretlytomaintainthefictionthatGermanywasnotbuildingthe railroad to a Persian Gulf port to challenge British, French, and RussianinterestsintheNearEast.“Senator Charles Kincaid’s employer, I recall,” said one of the translators,
whohadservedwiththeDepartmentofStatebeforeJosephVanDornluredhim
away.“Inhis‘HeroEngineer’days.”BellwiredSacramentotolookfortransactionsbetweenSchane&Simonand
membersofOsgoodHennessy’sinnercircle.CharlesKincaid,ofcourse,hadremainedforemostinIsaacBell’smindever
since his father had explained that foreign holding companies and their secretownerwouldbeshieldedbycorruptgovernmentofficials.Surely,aU.S.senatorcould domuch to promote theWrecker’s interests and guard his secrets. ButwhatmotivewoulddriveKincaid to riskhis already lucrativepolitical career?Money?MuchmorethanhegotfromSouthernPacificRailroadstock.AngeratHennessyfornotencouragingLilliantomarryhim?Orwascourtingheraruse,anexcusetohangaroundHennessy’sever-rollingheadquarters?ButhowdidspyingfortheWreckerjibewithhispresidentialaspirations?Or
washeencouragingPrestonWhitewaytolaunchthecampaignmerelytoprovidea smoke screen? Had Charles Kincaid surrendered political dreams toconcentrateonaccumulatinganimmensefortuneinbribes?Or,asBell’sfathersuggested,washesoarrogantastobelievehecouldgetawaywithboth?EBENEZER BELL’S DEFINITION OF “beating the bushes” was broad andenterprising.ThepresidentoftheAmericanStatesBankhadstartedoutqueryingtrusted friendsandassociates inBoston,NewYork, andWashington,D.C.,bytelephone, telegraph, and private messenger. Learning what he could throughlofty connections, he then delved deep into themiddle of the country, payingparticularattentiontoSt.Louis,homeoftheburned-outUnionPier&CaissonCompany. In theWest, information he gathered canvassing the top bankers ofSanFrancisco,Denver,andPortlandledhimtocallinfavorsfromsmallerbanksinCaliforniaandOregon.A request from the patrician Boston banker prompted a private meeting in
Eureka, a deepwater port serving the redwood timber industry two hundredtwenty-fivemilesnorthofSanFrancisco.StanleyPerrone,therough-and-readypresidentoftheNorthwestCoastBankofEureka,droppedbytheofficeofup-and-coming lumberman A. J. Gottfried. Gottfried had borrowed heavily fromPerrone’s bank tomodernize theHumboldtBayLumberCompany.His officeoverlookedhistimberpier,whichjuttedintotherain-lashedharbor.Gottfriedpulledabottleofgoodbourbonfromhisdesk,andthemensipped
whiskeyforawhile,chattingabouttheweather.Thatitwasturningfromawfulto worse could be predicted by the sight of a red steam launch chuggingpurposefullybetweenthemooredandanchoredlumberschooners.“Sonofagun.Lookslikewe’regettinghitagain.”Thered launchwaspilotedby thespecialmessenger fromtheU.S.Weather
Bureauwhodeliveredforecastsofviolentstormstothecaptainsofvesselsintheharbor.The banker got down to business. “As I recall,A J., you boughtHumboldt
BayLumberwith the proceeds of the sale of your timber operation in easternOregon.”Thelumberman,intendingtomakehayoutofthisunexpectedvisitfromhis
banker, answered, “That’s exactly how it happened. Though I recall that youmadeiteasierbypromisingtohelpmereplacetheoldequipment.”“A.J.,whoboughtyourEastOregonLumberCompany?”“Afellerwithmoremoneythansense,”Gottfriedadmittedcheerfully.“Ihad
despairedof everunloading it ‘til he camealong. Itwas just too expensive tosnake the timber down off those mountains. Not like here, where I can loadlumber schooners right at my ownwharf. Provided, of course, the ship don’tfoundertryingtogetintotheharbor.”Perronenoddedimpatiently.EveryoneknewthattheentranceintoHumboldt
Bay deserved its title “Graveyard of the Pacific.” Pea-soup fog, poundingbreakersthatdissolvedintospindrift,andathickhazeofsmokefromthelumbermillsmadefindingthechannelanexercisethatturnedseacaptains’hairwhite.“I understand,” he said pointedly, “you’re considering adding a sash and doorfactorytoyourbusiness.”“If I can raise the means,” Gottfried answered, hoping he had heard right.
“ThisPanicisn’tmakingitanyeasiertoborrowmoney.”Thebankerlookedthelumbermanintheeye,andsaid,“Isuspectthatfavored
borrowerswillget a sympatheticeardespite thePanic.WhoboughtyourEastOregonbusiness?”“Can’t tellyoueverythingabouthim.Asyoucan imagine, Iwasn’t looking
thatparticulargifthorseinthemouth.Soonasweshookonthedeal,Iwasgonefromthatplacesofastyoucouldhearmewhiz.”Hedrainedhis glass andpoured another, and toppedoff thebanker’s glass,
whichhadn’tgonedownasfar.“What do you know about the purchaser of the East Oregon Lumber
Company?”Perronepressed.“Foronething,hehadplentyofcash.”“Where’dhedrawhischeckfrom?”“Well, thatwasinteresting.IwouldhavethoughtSanFranciscoorPortland.
ButhischeckwasonaNewYorkbank.Iwasalittlesuspicious,butitclearedlickety-split.”“WasthefellowfromNewYork?”“Might’vebeen.Suredidn’tknowmuchaboutthelumberbusiness.Nowthat
youmentionit,itoccurstomehewasbuyingitforsomebodyelse.”Thebankernodded,encouragingthelumbermantocontinuetalking.Ebenezer
Bellhadmadeitclearthathedidn’texpectthewholestoryfromanyonesource.Buteverybithelped.AndthepowerfulAmericanStatespresidenthadalsomadeitclearthathewouldbegratefulforeverynuggetPerronecouldwirehim.
45
THEVANDORN EXPRESS PAUSED INDENVER’SUNIONDEPOT justlong enough for a Van Dorn agent in bowler hat and checkerboard suit toswaggeraboardbearing fresh reports fromLondonandBerlin.“Howdy, Isaac.Longtimenosee.”“Sit there, Roscoe. Go through these Schane and Simon Company records
withafine-toothcomb.Haveyourqueriesreadytowireatthenextstop.”AlawyerwhoconnectedinSaltLakeCitybroughtmoreonSchane&Simon.
The foundation of the German bank’s power was an investment network thatbackedmodernizationprojectsthroughouttheOttomanEmpire.Butasfarbackasthenineties,theyhadbegundoingbusinessinNorthandSouthAmerica.TheVanDornExpresswasracingacrosstheGreatSaltDesertwhenRoscoe,
whohadboardedinDenver,hitpaydirtintheheapsofcablegramsaboutSchane&Simon.“Isaac!Who’sErastusCharney?”“Railroadattorney.GotrichonSouthernPacificstock.Seemedtoknowmore
thanheshouldaboutwhentobuyandwhentosell.”“Well, he sure as heck sold something toSchane andSimon.Look at these
depositswithCharney’sstockbroker.”BellwiredSacramento fromWendover,while the trainquicklywatered and
coaled for the climb into Nevada, instructing them to follow up on Roscoe’sdiscovery.Buthefeareditwastoolittletoolate.IfSimon&ShanedidbankrolltheWrecker, thentheevidencewasclearthatCharneyhadbeenbribedtopassinformationaboutHennessy’splanstothesaboteur.Unfortunately,thefactthatthe crooked railroad attorney was still alive suggested that his link to themurderous Wrecker was circuitous, and Charney would know nothing abouthim.Butat least theywould takeanotherof theWrecker’saccomplicesoutofaction.Two hours later, the train was pulling out of Elko, Nevada, when a plump
accountantsprintedforthelastcar.Thirtypoundsoverweightandadecadepasthissprintingyears,JasonAdlertripped.Onesoftpinkhandwasalreadyclinging
to thevestibule rail, theothergrippinga fat satchel.As the traindraggedhimalongtheplatform,heheldonwithallhismight,coollycalculatingthathewasnow flying too fast to let go without suffering grievous injury. An alertconductor rushed to the vestibule. He sank both hands into the folds of theaccountant’s coat.Too late, he realized that theweight of the fallingmanwasdraggingbothofthemoffthetrain.BurlyVanDorndetectivessprangtotheiraid.The accountant ended up on the vestibule floor, clutching his satchel to his
chest.“IhaveimportantinformationforMr.IsaacBell,”hesaid.Bellhad just fallenasleep for the first time in twenty-fourhourswhen they
tuggedopenthecurtaintohisPullmanberth.Hewaswideawakeinstantly,eyesglitteringwithferociousconcentration.Theoperativeapologizedforwakinghimandintroducedanoverweightmanclutchingabriefcasetoasuitthatlookedlikehe’dbeenturningsomersaultsinacoalyard.“ThisisMr.Adler,Mr.Bell.”“Hello,Mr.Adler,whoareyou?”“IamanaccountantemployedbyAmericanStatesBank.”Bellswunghisfeetoffthebunk.“Youworkformyfather.”“Yes,sir,”Adlersaidproudly.“Mr.Bellspecificallyaskedformetotakeon
thisaudit.”“Whathaveyougot?”“We have uncovered the name of the secret owner of the Union Pier and
CaissonCompanyofSt.Louis.”“Goon!”“Weshouldtalkinprivate,Mr.Bell.”“TheseareVanDornagents.Youcansayyourpiecehere.”Adlerclutchedhisbriefcasecloser.“Iapologizetoyougentlemen,andtoyou
Mr.Bell,butIamunderstrictordersfrommyboss,Mr.EbenezerBell,presidentoftheAmericanStatesBank,tospeaktoyouandonlyyou.”“Excuse us,” said Bell. The detectives left. “Who owns Union Pier?” he
demanded.“AshellcorporationestablishedbyaBerlininvestmenthouse.”“SchaneandSimon.”“Yes,sir.Youarewellinformed.”“We’regettingthere.Butwhoownstheshellcorporation?”Adler lowered his voice to a whisper. “It is wholly controlled by Senator
CharlesKincaid.”“You’resure?”
Adler hesitated only a second. “Not beyond all doubt, but reasonably sureSenatorKincaidistheirclient.SchaneandSimonsuppliedthemoney.Buttherearenumerousindicationsthattheydiditonhisbehalf.”“ThatimpliesthattheWreckeriswellconnectedinGermany.”Adleranswered,“Thatwasyourfather’sconclusion,too.”Bell wasted no time congratulating himself on the discovery that Kincaid
likely served theWrecker just as he had suspected.He ordered an immediateinvestigationofeveryoutsidecontractorhiredbytheSouthernPacificCompanytoworkon theCascadesCutoff.Andhewiredawarning toArchieAbbott tokeepacloseeyeontheSenator.
“TELEGRAPH,MR.ABBOTT.”“Thankyou,Mr.Meadows.”ArchieAbbott broke into a broad grinwhen he decoded themessage from
Isaac Bell. He combed his red hair in the reflection of a railcar window andstraightenedhissnappybowtie.ThenhemarchedstraighttoOsgoodHennessy’sprivateofficewithafineexcusetocallonMissLillian,whowaswearingarubyvelvet blousewith a fittedwaist, an intriguing row of pearl buttons down thefront,andarivetingflowoffabricoverherhips.TheOldManwasnotinafriendlymoodthismorning.“Whatdoyouwant,
Abbott?”Lillian was watching closely, gauging how Archie handled her father. She
wouldnotbedisappointed.Archiehadnotroublewithfathers.Motherswerehisweakness.“Iwantyoutotellmeeverythingyouknowaboutoutsidecontractorsworking
onthecutoff,”Abbottsaid.“WealreadyknowaboutUnionPierandCaisson,”Hennessyrepliedheavily.
“Otherwise,severaldowninCascade.Purveyors,hotels,laundries.Whydoyouask?”“Isaac doesn’t want a repeat of the pier problem and neither do I. We’re
checking into all the outside contractors. Do I understand correctly that acontractorwashiredbytheSouthernPacifictosupplycrosstiesforthecutoff?”“Of course. When we started building the cutoff, I arranged to stockpile
crosstiesonthissideoftheCanyonBridgesowe’dbereadytojumpassoonaswecrossed.”“Whereisthemill?”“Abouteightmilesup themountain.Newownersmodernized theoldwater
mill.”
“Didtheysupplytiesaspromised?”“Prettymuch.It’sslowsnakingtimberdownfromthere,but,byandlarge,it’s
worked out. I gave them a long head start, and the creosoting plant hasmorethanitcanhandle.”“Istheplantanoutsidecontractor,too?”“No.It’sours.Wejustknockitdownandmoveitupthelinewhereweneed
it.”“Whydidn’tyouestablishyourownsawmillasyou’vedoneinthepast?”“Because thebridgewas faraheadof the restof the road.These folkswere
alreadyupandrunning.Itseemedthefastestwaytogetthejobdone.That’sallIcantellyou.”“Bytheway,haveyouseenSenatorKincaidtoday?”“Not since yesterday. If you’re that interested in the timber operation, why
don’tyourideupthereandhavealook?”“That’sexactlywhereI’mheaded.”Lillianjumpedup.“I’llridewithyou!”“No!”chorusedArchieAbbottandOsgoodHennessy.Her father pounded the table for emphasis.Archie offered a heart-grabbing
smileandanapology.“Iwishyoucouldridewithme,Lillian,”hesaid,“butVanDornpolicy...”“Iknow.I’vehearditalready.Youdon’tbringfriendstogunfights.”
46
JAMESDASHWOODLOCATEDST.SWITHUN’SMONASTERYFROMAcluedroppedbytheWomen’sChristianTemperanceUnionoratorCaptainWillyAbrams:“Aheckofaspread.”Its boundaries encompassed thirteen thousand acres that sprawled from the
foothillsoftheSantaLuciaMountainstothebluffsthatrearedoverthePacificOcean.Amuddyroadmilesfromthenearesttownledthroughirongatesontoanundulating plateau planted in orchards of fruit trees, nut trees, and vineyards.Thechapelwasaspare,modernbuildingwithsimpleArtNouveaustained-glasswindows. Low stone buildings of similar design housed the monks. Theyignored Jameswhenhe asked to see a recent arrival, a blacksmithnamed JimHiggins.Manaftermaninswayingrobeswalkedpasthimasifhedidnotexist.Monks
harvesting grapes and picking nuts just keptworking nomatterwhat he said.Finally, one took pity, picked up a stick, and wrote in the mud vow OFSILENCE.DashwoodtookthestickandwroteBLACKSMITH?Themonkpointedataclusterofbarnsandcorralsopposite thedormitories.
Dashwoodheaded there, heard thedistinctive clankof a hammeron iron, andquickened his pace. Rounding a barn, he saw a thin column of smoke risingthroughthebranchesofachestnuttree.Higginswasbentoveraforge,poundingahorseshoeonthehornofhisanvil.Heworeabrownrobeunderhisleatherapron.Hisheadwasbaretothecold
drizzle.The robemadehim look evenbigger thanDashwood remembered. Inonepowerfulhand,hegrippedamassivehammer,and in theother long tongsthatheldred-hotiron.WhenhelookedupandsawDashwoodinhiscityclothescarryingasuitcase,Dashwoodhadtosuppressthestrongimpulsetoflee.HigginsstaredlongandhardatDashwood.Dashwoodsaid,“Ihopeyouhaven’ttakenvowsofsilenceliketheothers.”“I’mjustanovice.Howdidyoufindme?”“WhenIheardyoustoppeddrinking,Iwenttotemperancemeetings.”
Higginsgaveasnortthatwashalflaugh,halfangrygrowl.“FiguredthelastplacetheVanDornswouldfindmewouldbeinamonastery.”“YouwerescaredbythesketchIshowedyou.”Higginsraisedthehothorseshoeinhistongs.“GuessIfiguredwrong...”“Yourecognizedhim,didn’tyou?”Higgins threw the horseshoe into a bucket of water. “Your name is James,
ain’tit?”“Yes.We’rebothJims.”“No,you’reaJames,I’maJim...”Heleanedhistongsagainsttheanviland
stoodhishammerbesideit.“Comeon,James.I’llshowyouaround.”JimHiggins lumberedoff toward thebluff. JamesDashwood followedhim.
He caught up andwalked besideHiggins until they had to stop at the bluff’scrumbling edge. The PacificOcean spread as far as they could see, gray andforbiddingunderaloweringsky.Dashwoodlookeddown,andhisgutsclenched.Hundredsoffeetbelowthem,theoceanthunderedonarockybeach,hurlingupspray.HadHigginsluredhimtothislonelyprecipicetothrowhimtohisdeath?“IhaveknownforsometimethatIwasgoingtoHell,”theblacksmithintoned
gravely. “That’s why I stopped drinking whiskey. But it didn’t help. Stoppedbeer.StillgoingtoHell.”HeturnedtoJamesDashwoodwithburningeyes.“Youturnedmeinsideoutwhenyoucamealong.Scaredmeintorunning.Scaredmeintohiding.”JamesDashwoodwonderedwhat he should say.Whatwould IsaacBell do
underthesecircumstances?Trytoclamphandcuffsaroundhisthickwrists?Orlethimtalk?“Bunchofbigshotsstartedthismonastery,”Higginswassaying.“Lotofthese
monksarerichmenwhogaveupeverything to live thesimple life.Youknowwhatoneofthemtoldme?”“No.”“Toldme that I’mblacksmithingexactly like theydid in theBible,except I
burnmineral coal inmy forge insteadof charcoal.They say thatworking likefolksintheBibleisgoodforoursouls.”Heturnedhisbackonthecliffandfixedhisgazeonthefieldsandmeadows.
Thedrizzlestrengtheningintorainshroudedthevineyardsandthefruittrees.“IfiguredIwassafehere,”hesaid.Hestaredforalongtimebeforehespokeagain.“WhatIdidn’tfigurewaslikingithere.Ilikeworkingoutdoorsunderatree
insteadofcoopedupwithtrucksandautomobilesstinkinguptheair.Ilikebeingwithweather.Ilikewatchingstorms...”HewhirledaroundtofacethePacific,whichwascheckeredwithdarksqualls.To thesouthwest, the skywas turning
blackascoal.“Seethere?”heaskedDashwood,pointingtotheblackness.Dashwoodsawagrim,coldocean,acrumblingprecipiceathisfeet,androcks
farbelow.“Look,James.Don’tyouseeitcoming?”It struck the apprentice detective that the blacksmith had gone crazy long
beforethetrainwreck.“Seewhat,Jim?”“Thestorm.”Theblacksmith’seyeswereburning.“Mostly,theyangleinfrom
thenorthwest,amonktoldme,downfromthenorthernPacificwhereit’scold.Thisone’scomingfromthesouthwhereit’swarm.Fromthesouthbringsmorerain...Youknowwhat?”“What?”Dashwoodasked,hopefading.“There’s amonk herewhose daddy owns aMarconiwireless telegraph.Do
youknowthatrightnow,fourhundredmilesatsea,there’sashiptelegraphingtotheWeatherBureauwhattheweatherisoutthere!”Hefellsilent,contemplatingthatdiscovery.Itwasachance toprime thepump,andJamesseized it. “Theygot the idea
fromBenFranklin.”“Huh?”“Ilearneditinhighschool.BenjaminFranklinnoticedthatstormsaremoving
formations,thatyoucantrackwherethey’regoing.”Theblacksmithlookedintrigued.“Hedid?”“SowhenSamuelMorse invented the telegraph, itmade it possible to send
warningstofolksinthestorm’spath.Likeyousay,Jim,nowMarconi’swirelesstelegraph lets ships send radiotelegraph storm warnings from way out in theocean.”“So theWeather Bureau’s known about that one for quite some time now?
Isn’tthatsomething?”Dashwood reckoned that the weather had taken them about as far as they
couldgo.“HowdidIscareyou?”heasked.“Thatpictureyoushowedme.”“This?”Dashwoodtookthesketchwithoutthemustachefromhissuitcase.Theblacksmith turnedaway.“That’swhowreckedtheCoastLineLimited,”
hesaidsoftly.“Exceptyougothisearstoobig.”Dashwoodrejoiced.Hewasclosingin.Hereachedintohisbag.IsaacBellhad
wired him to get in touchwith a pair of SouthernPacific cinder dicks namedTomGriggsandEdBottomley.GriggsandBottomleyhadtakenDashwoodout,got him drunk and into the arms of a redhead at their favorite brothel. Thenthey’dtakenhimtobreakfastandgivenhimthehookthathadderailedtheCoast
LineLimited.Hepulledtheheavycastironoutofhisbag.“Didyoumakethishook?”Theblacksmitheyeditmorosely.“YouknowIdid.”“Whydidn’tyousayanything?”“Becausethey’dblamemeforkillingthosepoorpeople.”“Whatwashisname?”“Neversaidhisname.”“Ifyoudidn’tknowhisname,whydidyourun?”Theblacksmithhunghishead.Tearswelled inhiseyesandrolleddownhis
redcheeks.Dashwoodhadno ideawhat todonext,buthedid sense that itwouldbea
mistake to speak. He turned his attention to the ocean in an effort to remainsilent, hoping themanwould resume his confession. Theweeping blacksmithtookDashwood’ssilenceascondemnation.“Ididn’tmeannoharm. Ididn’tmean tohurtnobody.Butwhowould they
believe,meorhim?”“Whywouldn’ttheybelieveyou?”“I’mjustablacksmith.He’sabigshot.Whowouldyoubelieve?”“Whatkindofbigshot?”“Whowouldyoubelieve?Adrunkensmithyorasenator?”“Asenator?”Dashwoodechoedinutterdespair.Allhiswork,allhischasing,
allhisrunningdowntheblacksmithhadledhimtoalunatic.“He always hugged the dark,”Higginswhispered, brushing at his tears. “In
thealleybehindthestable.Buttheboysopenedthedoorandthelightfellonhisface.”Dashwoodrememberedthealley.Herememberedthedoor.Hecouldimagine
thelight.Hewantedtobelievetheblacksmith.Andyethecouldn’t.“Wherehadyouseenthatsenatorbefore?”“Newspaper.”“Agoodlikeness?”“Like you standing there beside me,” Higgins answered, and Dashwood
decidedthatthemanbelievedeverywordasstronglyasheblamedhimselfforthewreckof theCoastLineLimited.Butbeliefdidnotnecessarilymakehimsane.“ThemanIsawlookedjustlikethatbig-shotsenator.Itcouldn‘t’vebeenhim.But if itwas—if itwashim—Iknew Iwas ina terrible fix.Big trouble.TroubleIdeserved.Bytheworkofthishand.”Weepingharder,chestheaving,heheldupameatypawwetwithhistears.“Bytheworkofthishand,thosepeopledied.Theengineer.Thefireman.That
unionfeller.Thatlittleboy...”
AgustofwindwhippedHiggins’smonk’s robe, andhe lookeddownat thecrashingwaves as if they offered peace.Dashwood dared not breathe, certainthat onewrongword, a simple “Which senator?”would cause JimHiggins tojumpoffthecliff.
OSGOOD HENNESSY WAS READING the riot act to his lawyers, havingfinishedexcoriatinghisbankersforbadnewsonWallStreet,whenthemeetingwasinterruptedbyashort,amiable-lookingfellowwearingastringtie,avest,acreamy-whiteStetson,andanold-fashionedsingle-action.44onhiship.“Excuseme,gents.Sorrytointerrupt.”The railroad attorneys looked up, their faces blossoming with hope. Any
interruptionthatderailedtheirangrypresidentwasagiftfromHeaven.“How’dyougetpastmyconductor?”Hennessydemanded.“Iinformedyourconductor—andthegentlemandetectivewiththeshotgun—
thatIamUnitedStatesMarshalChrisDanis. IhaveamessagefromMr. IsaacBellforMr.ErastusCharney.IsMr.Charneyherebyanychance?”“That’sme,”saidtheplumpandjowlyCharney.“What’sthemessage?”“You’reunderarrest.”
THE WINCHESTER RIFLE SLUG that had nearly blown the renegadetelegrapherRossParkeroffhishorsehadshreddedhisrightbicepsandriddledthemusclewith bone splinters.Doc said hewas lucky it hadn’t shattered hishumerusinsteadofjustchippingit.Parkerwasn’tfeelinglucky.TwoandahalfweeksaftertheVanDorndetectivewiththeTexasdrawlhadshothimandkilledtwoofhisbestmen,itstillhurtsobadthattheactofliftinghisarmtoturnthekeyinhispostofficeboxmadehisheadswim.IthurtmoretoreachintotheboxtoextracttheWrecker’sletter.Itevenhurtto
slit theenvelopewithhisgravityknife.Cursing theprivatedickwhohadshothim,Parkerhadtosteadyhimselfonacounterasheremovedtheluggagetickethehadbeenhopingtofind.ThedailyWeatherBureaupostcardwiththeforecaststampedonitsatonthe
counterinametalframe.Theruralmailcarrierhaddeliveredoneeverydaytothewidow’sfarmoutsideoftownwherehehadbeenrecuperating.Theforecasttodaywasthesameasyesterdayandsameasthedaybefore:morewind,morerain.YetanotherreasontogetoutofSacramentowhilethegettingwasgood.Parker took the luggage ticket around the corner to the railroad station and
claimed the gripsack theWrecker had left there. He found the usual wads of
twenty-dollarbills inside,alongwithamapofnorthernCaliforniaandOregonshowingwherethewiresshouldbecutandatersenote:“Startnow.”If theWrecker thoughtRossParkerwasgoingtoclimbtelegraphpoleswith
hisarmhalfblownoffandtwoofhisgangshotdead,thesaboteurhadanotherthinkcoming.Parker’splansforthisbagofmoneydidnotincludeworkingforit.Hepracticallygallopedacrossthestationtolineupattheticketwindow.A big man shoved ahead of him. With his vest, knit cap, checked shirt,
dungarees,walrusmustache,andhobnailedboots,helookedlikealumberjack.Smelledlikeonetoo,reekingofdriedsweatandwetwool.Allhewasmissingwasadouble-bladedaxslungoveroneshoulder.Axornoax,hewastoobigtoargue with, Parker conceded, particularly with a bum arm. A bigger fellow,smellingthesame,gotonlinebehindhim.The lumberjackbought three tickets toReddingandpausednearby tocount
hischange.ParkerboughtatickettoChicago.Hecheckedtheclock.Plentyoftime for lunch and a snort.He left the station andwent looking for a saloon.Suddenly,thelumberjackswho’dbeenontheticketlinefellinoneithersideofhim.“Chicago?”“What?”“Mr.Parker,youcan’ttakethetraintoChicago.”“Howdoyouknowmyname?”“Folksarecountingonyourighthere.”Ross Parker thought fast. These twomust have beenwatching the luggage
room.Whichmeant theWrecker,whoever thehell hewas,was several jumpsaheadofhim.“Igothurt,”hesaid.“Shot.Ican’tclimbapole.”“We’llclimbforyou.”“Areyoualineman?”“Howtall’satelegraphpole?”“Sixteenfeet.”“Mister,we’rehighriggers.Wetopspartreestwohundredfeetofftheground
andstayupthereforlunch.”“It’smorethanclimbing.Canyousplicewire?”“You’lllearnushow.”“Well,Idon’tknow.Ittakessomedoing.”“Don’tmatter.We’llbedoingmorecuttingthansplicinganyhow.”“You have to splice, too,” said Parker. “Snippingwires isn’t enough if you
wanttoshutthesystemandkeepitshut.Youhavetohideyourcutssotherepairgangdon’tseewherethelineisbroken.”
“If you can’t learn us how to splice,” the lumberjack said conversationally,“we’llkillyou.”RossParkerresignedhimselftohisfate.“Whendoyouwanttostart?”“Likeitsaysonyourmap.Now.”
47
HOURAFTERHOUR, ISAACBELL’SVANDORNEXPRESS POUNDEDup the steep approach to the Donner Pass. Cresting the summit at last,locomotive,tender,diner,andPullmanthunderedbetweenthestoneworkknownasthe“ChineseWalls”androaredthroughSummitTunnel.ThenitraceddowntheSierraNevada.Gaining speed with every slopingmile, it topped a hundred fivemiles per
hour. Even with another coal and water stop, Bell reckoned that at this ratethey’dmakeSacramentoinanhour.He wired ahead when the special stopped at Soda Springs. To save time
changing locomotives,heasked theSacramentosuperintendent tohavea freshenginestandingbytoracehimnorthtotheCascadeCanyonBridge.Bell kept making the rounds of his auditors, lawyers, detectives, and
researchers,speakingrepeatedlywitheverymanonthetrain.Theywereclosingin on the puzzle of which European bankers were paying for the Wrecker’srampage.ButhowmuchcloserwashetotheWreckerhimself?Eversincehisfather’saccountanthadconfirmedCharlesKincaid’sroleasthe
Wrecker’sagentandspy,Bellhadbeenmentallyreplayingthedrawhandwhenhe’dbluffedKincaidon theOverlandLimited.Herecalled thathehadbluffedthesteelmagnateJamesCongdonoutofthehandfirst.ThatKincaidhadfoldedtoo had beenmore of a surprise. Itwas a smart fold. It had been the act of acalculatingplayer,aplayerbraveenough tocuthis lossesbutamorecautiousplayerthanhehadbeenallnight.Morecunning.A strange phrase started churning in Bell’s mind: I am thinking the
unthinkable.
ASTRIDEACHESTNUTHORSEon a trail that overlooked hisEastOregonLumberCompany,theWreckerwatchedeverythingturnhisway.Therainswerearrivinginearnestnow.Aftermanysetbacks,hisluckhadchanged.Snowstormsweresweepingthemountainstothenorth.PortlandandSpokanewereblizzard
bound.Butherefellrain,floodingthefreshets,streams,andcreeksthatfedtheCascadeRiver.“LakeLillian”wastoppingitsmakeshiftdam.Itwas raining toohard tocut timber.EastOregonLumber’s steamdonkeys
stoodsilent.Thehigh-leadyardinglines,wireropesthatsnakedlogstothemill,swayedidlyinthewind.Thegreedymanagerpacedsullenlyinhisoffice.Mulesdozed in thestables.Oxenhuddledwith theirbacks to therain.Teamstersandlumberjackssprawledintheirbunkhouses,drunkonbootleg.AHell’sBottomFlyerdugoutcanoelayontheriverbankbelowthedamfilled
with rainwater. No work, no pay. Saloons rarely offered credit with wintercomingon.Womenneverdid.TheWrecker turned his horse up the trail and rode the steepmile to Philip
Dow’scabin.Dow did not come out to greet him. TheWrecker tied the horse under the
lean-to, slung a saddlebag over his shoulder, and knocked on the door. Dowopenedthedoorimmediately.Hehadbeenwatchingthrougharifleslit.Hiseyeswerefeverish.Theskinaroundthebandagethatcoveredtheremains
ofhisearwasinflamed.Repeateddousesofcarbolicacidandrawwhiskeywerebarelykeepinginfectionatbay.Butitwasmorethaninfectiontakingitstoll,theWreckersuspected.Dow’sfailuretokillIsaacBellandthesubsequentshootoutwiththedetectivehadlefttheassassindangerouslyunbalanced.“Powder,fuse,anddetonators,”theWreckersaid,puttingthebagdowninthe
cornerfarthestfromthefireplace.“Watertight.Howisyourhearing?”“Icanhearfineonthisside.”“Canyouhearthatlocomotivewhistle?”AConsolidationwasblowingfaintly
ninemilesdowninthecutoffyards.Dowcockedhisgoodear.“Nowthatyoumentionit...”“You ought to have one of your boys up herewith you so he can hearmy
signaltoblowthedam.”“I’llleavethedooropen.I’mnotdeaf.I’llhearit.”TheWrecker did not argue the point. He needed to keep Dow in a loyal,
cooperative frameofmind,and itwasclear that inhiscurrent stateahulking,evil-smelling lumberjack inside his neat-as-a-pin cabinwould provoke him tokilltheman.“Don’tworry about it,” he said. “I’ll tie down twowhistles at once.You’ll
hearthemfine.”The soundof simultaneously doubled locomotivewhistleswould fly up the
mountainlouderthanwingedbansheesshrieking,“BlowLakeLillian’sdam!”“Howareyougoingtomanagethat?”“Do you believe that every trainman in those yards works for Osgood
Hennessy?”theWreckeraskedenigmatically.“I’llhavetwolocomotivesparkedunattendedattheedgeoftheyards.Bythetimeanyoneinvestigateswhythey’reblowingtheirwhistles,you’llhavelityourfuse.”Dowsmiled.Helikedthat.“You’reeverywhere,aren’tyou?”hesaid.“EverywhereIhavetobe,”saidtheWrecker.Dowopenedthesaddlebagandinspectedtheexplosiveswithapracticedeye.“Blastinggelatin,”hesaidapprovingly.“Youknowyourbusiness.”The dam was soaking wet. Water would exude the nitroglycerine out of
commondynamite.TheWreckerhadbroughtgelignite,whichwouldstanduptowater.Thedetonatorsandthefusepassedmustertoo,liberallydippedinwax.TheWrecker said, “I wouldn’t set the charge before noon tomorrow to be
absolutelysuretokeepthedetonatordry.”TheordinarilypoliteDowrevealedhowtightlyhewasstrungbysnapping,“I
knowhowtoblowadam.”The Wrecker rode back down to the lake. Some logs had floated to the
spillway, further impeding the flow. Excellent, he thought. By tomorrowafternoon,LakeLillianwouldbeevenbigger.Suddenly,heleanedforwardinhissaddle,everynervealert.Down in the camp, a horseman was riding up the wagon trail from the
CascadeCanyonBridge.Eightmilesofmuddyrutsdidnotinviteacasualrideeven if it weren’t pouring rain. The man on that horse had come lookingspecificallyfortheEastOregonLumberCompany.AStetsoncoveredhishair,apaleyellowslickerhistorsoandtherifleinits
scabbard.But theWreckerhada fairnotionwho itwas.His first sightofhimhadbeenacrossHammerstein’sJardindeParistheaterseatednexttoIsaacBell.Neither hat, slicker, nor the fact that hewas astride a horse could conceal hisshoulders-back,head-high,NewYorkactor’sbearingthatcriedoutLookatme!AhungrysmiletwistedtheWrecker’sfaceasheponderedhowtomakeuseof
thisunexpectedvisit.“DetectiveArchibaldAngellAbbottIV,”hesaidaloud,“comea-calling...”
ARCHIBALD ANGELL ABBOTT IV liked nothing about the East OregonLumber Company. From the muddy eight-mile climb to the steam donkeysstanding still and mute to the glum lumberjacks watching him from theirbunkhouses,hesawnothingthatmadeanyeconomicsense.Evenifhehadneverseenatimberoperation—andhehad,infact,seenplentyindeep-woodsMaineand theAdirondackswhile visitingAngell andAbbott family summer camps
withhismother—hecouldtellthatthisremoteandruggedsitecouldnotharvestenoughtimbertopayforallthenewmachinerymuchlessmakeaprofit.Herodepasttheofficeandthebunkhouses.Nooneevenbotheredtoopenadoortooffershelterfromtherain.Helikedthelakeevenless.Theramshackledamlookedreadytoburst.Water
was leakingout top tobottomandpouringover thespillway in torrents.Whatwasitdoinghere?Heurgedhishorseupasteeptrailforacloserlook.Thetrailbroughthimtothetopofthedamandaviewofthelake.Itwasenormous,muchbigger than it had tobe.Therewasno race to channel thewater.Besides, themodern circular saw blades he had seen down in the mill were powered bysteam.Abbott sawmovement farther up themuddy trail.A horsemanwas coming
down it at a dangerously fast trot.His flapping rain slickerwas tucked tooneside,exposinghisrifle.Companycoponpatrol,Abbottassumed.Abbott leanedonthepommelofhissaddle,rainwaterdrippingfromhishat,
androlledacigarettewiththedeftfingersofonehand.Itwasanoldcowhandtrick he had learned from Texas Walt Hatfield that suited his saddle-trampdisguise.Hehadjustmanagedtogetitsmoulderingwithadampmatchwhenherealized that the horseman descending on him was none other than SenatorCharlesKincaid.Well,well,well...TheverymanIsaacsaidtowatch.Abbotttossedhissmokeinapuddle.“Kincaid.Whatareyoudoinghere?”“Icouldaskyouthesame.”“I’mdoingmyjob.Whatareyoudoing?”“Igotcuriousaboutthisoperation.”“SowasIsaacBell.Askedmetohavealook.”“Whatdoyouthink?”“You’veseenmoreofitthanmefromupthere.”Abbottnoddedupthetrail.
“Whatdoyouthink?”“Strikesmeasathoroughlymodernizedoperation,”answeredtheWreckeras
heweighedmethodsofkillingAbbott.“Allit’slackingisacable-drawworkstosnaketimberdowntotherailhead.”The heavy report of theWrecker’s riflewould bringmen running from the
bunkhouse.Sowouldthecrackoftherevolverhewascarryinginhisshoulderholster. Pressing the barrels of his pocketed derringer to the detective’s skullwouldmuffle the sound.But togetcloseenough todo that,hewouldhave toexposehimself toaseasonedfighter,andAbbott lookedthoroughlycapableofkillinghim.Sohehad tousehis telescopingsword.But itmight tangle inhis
slicker.Besttogetofftheirhorsesfirst,andfartherawayfromthebunkhouses.Hewasabout to say thathehad seen somethingupon the lake thatAbbott
wouldfindinterestingwhenheheardawomancallout.TheWreckerandAbbottturnedtowardthetrailthatenteredintotheskidroad.“Well, I’ll be darned,”Abbott said, smiling, and he raised his voice to call
back,“Doesyourfatherknowyou’rehere?”“Whatdoyouthink?”LillianHennessywasmountedcomfortablyontheenormousThunderbolt,the
onlyhorseinthecompanystablesbigenoughtocarryJethroWatt.ShetouchedherheelstoThunderbolt’sribs,andthemonstercanteredamiablytowardAbbottandKincaid.Theyoungheiress’scheekswerepinkenedbythecoldrain.Hereyeswerean
evenpaler shadeofblue in thegray light.Analluringwispof flaxenhairhadescapedfromherbrimmedhat.IftherewasamoreagreeablesightinOregonatthatmoment,neithermancouldimagineit.Eachproducedhisbestsmile.“Charles,whatareyoudoinghere?”“WhateverI’mdoinghere,I’mnotdisobeyingmyfather.”ButshehadalreadyturnedtoAbbottwithasmile.“Didyoufindthegunfight
youwerelookingfor?”“Notyet,”heansweredseriously.“I’mgottospeakwiththemanager.Please
waitforme.I’dratheryoudidn’tridebackalone.”“Shewon’tbealone,”saidKincaid.“I’drideherback.”“That’sexactlywhatImeant,”saidAbbott.“I’llbebackshortly,Lillian.”He rode to the frame building that looked like an office, dismounted, and
knocked on the door. A gaunt, hard-eyed man who looked to be in his latethirtiesopenedit.“What?”“ArchieAbbott.VanDornAgency.Haveyouamomentforafewquestions?”“No.”Abbott stopped thedoorwithhisboot. “Myclient is the railroad.Seeingas
howthey’reyouronlycustomer,doyouwantmetocomplain?”“Whydidn’tyousayso?Comein.”Themanager’s namewasGeneGarret, andAbbott found it hard to believe
that hewasnot aware that therewasnoway theoperation couldbe turning aprofit.WhenAbbott pressed, pointing out the expense that had gone into theoperation,Garretsnapped,“Theownerspaymeagoodwage,plusabonusfordelivery.Thatsaystomethey’remakingaprofitandthensome.”Archiepokedhisheadintothemillhouse,lookedoverthemachinery,andthen
joinedLillianandKincaid,whowerestandingsilentlyunderthecanvaslean-to
withtheirhorses.Itwasaslowridedowntheawfulroadtothestagingyards.AbbotttookLillian’shorsetothestablessoshecouldslipbackontohertrain
undetected by her father. Then he went to telegraph a report to Isaac Bell,recommending that Van Dorn auditors delve deeply into the owners of EastOregonLumberandreportingthathehaddiscoveredKincaidontheirpropertyandwouldbekeepingacloseeyeonhim.“I’ll send it the second the line’s repaired,” promised J.J.Meadows. “Wires
justwentdeadasadoornail.Polesmusthavetoppledfromtherain.”
JAMESDASHWOODLEAPEDFROMtheSouthernPacificRailroadferryatOaklandMole.Whiteweather-warningflagswithblackcentersweresnappinginthestiffbreezeblowingoffSanFranciscoBay.Whitewithblackcentersforecastasuddendropintemperature.HeranfullspeedfortheconnectingtraintoSacramentodesperatetointercept
IsaacBellat that junction.His trainwasalreadyrolling fromtheplatform.Heran after it, jumped aboard at the last possible second, and stood on the rearvestibulecatchinghisbreath.Asthetrainclearedtheterminalbuilding,hesawthe white flags being hauled down. Up their staffs shot red flags with blackcenters.Justliketheblacksmithpredicted.Stormwarnings.
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ISAACBELLWASTEDNOTIME IN SACRAMENTO. INRESPONSETOhiswire,therailroadhaditsnewestPacific4-6-2readytohitchon—steamup,watered, and coaled. Minutes after it pulled in from the east, the Van DornExpresswasrollingnorth.Bell directednewarrivals to thediner,where theworkwasbeingdone.He
lingeredontherearplatform,browfurrowed,asthetraincreptoutoftheyards.That strange phrase kept churning in hismind: I am thinking the unthinkable.Overandoverandover.HadCharlesKincaidacted the fool earlier in thepokergame?HadKincaid
allowedhimtowintheenormouspottodistracthim?NodoubtitwasKincaidwhohadjumpedoffthetraininRawlinstohiretheprizefighterstokillhim.AndithadprobablybeenKincaid,actingon theWrecker’sbehalf,whohadalertedPhilipDowtoambushhimonOsgoodHennessy’sspecialwhenhisguardwasdown.HerecalledagainKincaidpretendingtoadmireHennessyfortakingenormous
risks. He had deliberately undermined his benefactor’s standing with thebankers.WhichmadehimaveryefficientagentfortheWrecker.Averydeviousspy.Butwhat if the famousUnitedStatessenatorwasnot theWrecker’s corrupt
agent?Nothisspy?“Iam,”Bellsaidoutloud,“thinkingtheunthinkable.”Thetrainwaspickingupspeed.“Mr.Bell!Mr.Bell!”Helookedbackatthefranticshouting.Afamiliar figure luggingasuitcasewassprinting through themazeof rails,
jumpingswitches,anddodginglocomotives.“Stopthetrain!”Bellordered,yankingopenthedoorsotheconductorcould
hearhim.Locomotive, tender, dining car, and Pullman sleeper ground to a stop. Bell
grasped the outstretched hand which was wet with rain and perspiration and
pulledJamesDashwoodintothevestibule.“Ifoundtheblacksmith.”“Whydidn’tyouwire?”“Icouldn‘t,Mr.Bell.You’dthinkIwasalunatic.Ihadtoreportface-to-face.”AfierceglancefromBellsenttheconductorquicklyretreatinginsidethecar,
leavingthemaloneontheplatform.“Didherecognizethesketch?”“HeadmitshewasdrunkthenighthemadethehookfortheWrecker.Buthe
thinks that the man he sawmight have been a very important personage. Soimportant,Ican’tbelieveit.That’swhyIhavetoreportface-to-face.”IsaacslappedDashwood’sshoulderandshookhishand.“Thankyou,James.
You have made thinkable the unthinkable. Senator Charles Kincaid is theWrecker.”
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“HOWDIDYOUKNOW?”JAMESDASHWOODGASPED.ThemomentIsaacBellsaidit,heknewitwastrue.SenatorCharlesKincaid
wasnottheWrecker’sspy.KincaidwastheWreckerhimself.CharlesKincaidracedfromattacktoattackonasenator’srailwaypass.(“Oh,
he gets around, sir,” said the conductor on theOverland Express. “You knowthoseofficeholders,alwaysonthego.”)Charles Kincaid had penetrated Hennessy’s inner circle. (Hanging around
pretendingtocourtLillianHennessy.Toadyingtoherfather.RecruitingintimatefunctionarieslikeErastusCharney.)Charles Kincaid was a civil engineer who know how to extract the most
damagefromeveryattack.(“Lookforanengineer,”hehadtaunted.)“Howdidyouknow?”Thecrestfallenexpressionontheboy’sfacepromptedBelltoanswerkindly.“James, I could never have said it aloud if you hadn’t told me what you
learned.Welldone.Mr.VanDornwillhearaboutyou ...Conductor!Back thetraintothedispatcher’soffice.Iwanthistelegraph.”Thedispatcher’sofficeoccupiedawoodenbuildinginthemiddleofthebusy
train yard. The floor shook as switch engines shuttled trains past with onlyinches of clearance. Bell dictated a telegram toArchieAbbott at theCascadeCanyonBridge:“ARRESTSENATORCHARLESKINCAID.”Thetelegrapher’seyespoppedwide.“Keepwriting!‘KINCAIDISTHEWRECKER.’“Keep writing! ‘TAKE EVERY PRECAUTION. DO NOT FORGET—
REPEAT—DO NOT FORGET—HE GOT THE DROP ONWISH CLARKEANDWEBERANDFIELDS.’“Sendit!”The telegrapher’s key started clicking faster than a belt-fedVickers.But he
gotnofurtherthanthewordARREST.Hishandfrozeonthedashknob.“Whatareyouwaitingfor?”“Thewire’sgonedead.”
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“WE’VEBEENHAVINGTROUBLEALLDAY.”“Wire Dunsmuir!” said Bell. He had posted Van Dorn operatives at that
railroadcenter.HewouldorderthemtocommandeeralocomotivenorthtotellArchietoarresttheWrecker.Thetelegraphertried,withnosuccess.“DeadtoDunsmuir.”“WireRedding.”TexasWaltHatfieldwaswatchingRedding.“Sorry,Mr.Bell.ItappearsalllinesaredeadfromhereinSacramentonorth.”“Findawayaroundit.”Bell knew thatmultiple telegraph lines connectedSacramento to the rest of
the country. Commercial networks linked large towns and cities. The secondsystemwastherailroad’sprivatenetworkfortransmittingtrainorders.“I’llgetrightonit.”With Bell at his shoulder, the telegrapher polled train-order stations in the
region,tryingtogaugetheextentofthesystem’sfailure.Theanxiousdispatcherhovered,explaining,“NorthofWeed,WesternUnion
lines follow the old Siskiyou route to Portland. The newCascadesCutoff hasonlytherailroadwires.”“They’ve been deluged by rain,” said the telegrapher, still waiting for
responses.“Groundgetssoft,polesfall.”Bellpacedthefloor.Allwiresdown?Notduetoweather,hewascertain.ThiswastheWrecker’swork.KincaidwastakingnochancesthatBellwould
figureoutwhohewas.HehadisolatedtheCascadesCutoffrailheadforafinalassaultonthebridgetobringthecutofftoastandstillandbankrupttheSouthernPacific. He would attack the reinforcement effort while the piers were stillvulnerable.“Avalanches of mud, too,” said the dispatcher. “And there’s more rain
coming.”Desperatetoplacatethegrim-faced,furiouslypacingdetective,thedispatcher
snatchedthemorningpapersoffhisdesk.TheSacramentoUnionreportedriverstwentyfeetabovethelow-watermarkandnumerouswashoutsalready.PrestonWhiteway’s San Francisco Inquirer ballyhooed the “Storms of the Century”withaluridlyembellishedillustrationoftheWeatherBureaumapthatshowedaseriesofPacificstormshotontheheelsofthefirst.“‘The floods couldbe themost serious inOregon’shistory,”’ thedispatcher
readaloud.“‘Railroadtracksinthevalleysareunderwaterandmaybewashedaway.”’Bell kept pacing. A freight trundled by, rattling windows in their wooden
frames.Cloudsenveloped thebuildingasBell’s locomotive,parkedalongside,was forced to letoff steamshehadbuilt to speedhim to theCascadeCanyonBridge.“The wires are open to San Francisco and Los Angeles,” reported the
telegrapher, confirming Bell’s worst fear. The Wrecker—Kincaid—wasconcentratingontheCascadesroute.“LooparoundthroughSanFranciscoorfromLosAngelesuptoPortlandand
thendownfromthere.”But theWrecker’s telegraphsaboteurshad thoughtabout that, too.Notonly
wasalltelegraphdeadfromSacramentotothenorth,linesfromfarthernorth—from Dunsmuir,Weed, and Klamath Falls—were down, too. Charles KincaidhadcompletelyisolatedthecutoffrailheadattheCascadeCanyonBridge.Bell whirled toward a commotion at the door. Jason Adler, the American
StatesBankauditor,burstin.“Mr.Bell.Mr.Bell.I’vejustgonethroughthetelegramswepickedupwhen
we arrived here.We’ve found a company he controls through the Schane andSimonCompany.TheyboughtEastOregonLumber,whichhasacontractwiththeSouthernPacificRailroadtosupplycrosstiesandlumbertothecutoff.”“Where?”Bellaskedwithasinkingheart.Butthenamesaiditall.“AbovetheCanyonBridgeontheCascadeRiver.That’sthesamebridgehis
UnionPierandCaisson—”“Clearthetrack!”BellcommandedtheSacramentodispatcherinavoicethat
ranglikesteel.“Butmaterialsandworktrainshavepriorityonthecutoff,sir.”“MytrainhasauthoritystraightthroughtotheCascadeCanyonBridge,”Bell
shotback.“Butwiththelinesdead,wecan’tclearthetrack.”“Wewillclearthetrackaswego!”“Iprotest,”saidthedispatcher.“Thisisabreachofallsafetyprocedures.”Bellhurriedouttothetrain,shoutingorders.
“Uncouple thePullman.Accountants, lawyers, translators,andauditors:stayhere.KeepdigginguntilweknoweverythingKincaidplanned.Wedon’twantanymoresurprisesblowingupinourfaces.Armedoperatives,getonthetrain!”Brakemenscrambled.Whentheyhaduncoupledtheextracar,BellsawJames
DashwoodstandingforlornlyinthePullman’svestibule.“Whatareyouwaitingfor,James?Getonthetrain.”“Idon’thaveagun.”“What?”“You said ‘armed operatives,’ Mr. Bell. Van Dorn apprentices are only
allowedtocarryhandcuffs.”Guffawingdetectivesexchangedincredulouslooks.Hadn’tanyonetoldthekidthatthatwasthefirstruleyoubroke?Bell raisedhisvoice.“Boys,meetJamesDashwood, formerapprenticewith
theSanFranciscooffice.He’sjustbeenpromotedforuncoveringakeycluethatexposed Senator Charles Kincaid as the Wrecker. Can anyone lend him afirearm?”Fists plunged into coats, hats, waistbands, and boots. An arsenal of
automatics, revolvers, derringers, and pocket pistols flashed in the rainy light.EddieEdwardsgottoDashwoodfirstandthrustanickel-platedsix-gunintohishand.“Here you go, Dash. It’s double-action. Just keep squeezing the trigger.
Reloadwhenitstopsmakingnoise.”“Getonthetrain!”BellclimbedupintothePacific’scab.“We’reclearedthroughtoCascadeCanyon,”hetoldtheengineer.“Howtheygonnaknowwe’recomingwiththetelegraphdead?”“Goodquestion.Stopattheroundhouse.”Bell ran inside the dark and smoky cavern,where twenty locomotiveswere
undergoingnoisy repairson thegiant turntable.TheSouthernPacific rail copsstandingguardledhimtotheblackandgreasyforeman.“Heardallaboutyou,Mr.Bell,”theforemanshoutedoverthedinofsteeland
iron.“WhatcanIdoforyou?”“Howlongwillittakeyoutopulltheheadlampsofftwooftheselocomotives
andattachthemtomine?”“Onehour.”Bellpulledouta stackofdouble-eaglegoldcoins. “Make it fifteenminutes
andtheseareyours.”“Keepyourmoney,Mr.Bell.It’sonthehouse.”Fourteenminutes later, theVanDornExpressacceleratedoutofSacramento
withatriangleofheadlightsblazinglikeacomet.“Nowthey’llseeuscoming!”Belltoldtheengineer.Hetossedthefiremanhisscoop.“Shoveloncoal.”
THE PACIFIC STORM THAT Jim Higgins had shown James DashwoodslammedintothemountainrangethatrimmedthecoastsofnorthernCaliforniaandsouthernOregonanddrenchedtheSiskiyouswitheightinchesofrain.ThenitleapedtheCoastRangeasiflightenedofitswateryburden.Instead,itrainedharder.Thestormlumberedinland,delugingthenarrowvalleysoftheKlamathRiver.ThedetectivesaboardtheVanDornExpresssawlogjamsdammingrivers,steel bridges swept away, and farmers in tall rubber boots trying to rescuestrandedlivestockfromfloodedfields.Movingfromsouthwesttonortheast,thestormbatteredtheeasternCascades.
Theeffectonthelineleadingtothecutoffthreatenedcatastrophe.Streamsandcreeks jumped their banks. Rivers rose.Most ominously, rain-soaked hillsidesbegantomove.Dunsmuir’s Sacramento Street looked from the racing train like another
brownriver.Peoplewerepaddlingdownitincanoes,dodgingfloatingwoodensidewalks that the floodwaters had ripped from the buildings. InWeed,wholehouseswere afloat.On the run toKlamathFalls, farms looked like lakes, andKlamathLakeitselfwasasstorm-tossedasanocean.Alakesteamer,tornloosefrom its mooring, was pressed by the current against a railroad trestle. Bell’strainsqueezedbyandkeptgoing.Alandslidestoppedthemnorthofthelake.A hundred feet of rail was buried under knee-deep mud and stone. Track
gangshadcomeoutfromChiloquintoclearit.Thetelegraph,theyreported,hadbeendeadwhenthey left.Nooneknewhowlong itwould take torepair.Bellsentthebrakemanupapoletotapintothewire.Stilldead.Athiscommand,thedetectives piled down from the train in the driving rain and pitched in withshovels. They were moving again in a hour, the blistered, soaking-wet, mud-splatteredmeninadangerousmood.Asnightfell,theysawrefugeesfromfloodedfarmshuddledaroundbonfires.Bellspottedafleetofhandcarsparkedonasidingwhentheystoppedtowater
the locomotive in theChiloquinyards.Heordereda lightweight three-wheeler,like the hand-pumped and pedaled track-inspection vehicle the Wrecker hadstolen toderail theCoastLineLimited, tiedontohisenginepilot. If theworsthappened,ifhistrainwasstoppedbyanotherslide,theycouldcarryitpastthe
buriedtrackandkeepgoing.Atraindispatcher’sapprenticecamerunningafterthemastheystartedoutof
the yards, piping in a thin voice that the telegraph wire had opened up fromSacramento.Bell learned that SouthernPacific linemen had encountered threeseparate acts of sabotagewhere cutwireswere concealedwith artful splicing.Proof, he told his operatives, that the Wrecker was swinging into action,isolatingtheheadoftheCascadesCutoffforafinalattack.The secondmessage through the repaired linewas awind-velocitywarning
from the U.S. Weather Bureau’s San Francisco forecast district. High windsmeantmorestormsandmorerain.Rightbehindthatwarningcamereportsthatanother storm had careened off the Pacific Ocean at Eureka. Eureka’s streetswere flooded, a steamerhad foundered in the approach toHumboldtBay, andlumberschoonerswereadriftintheharbor.It snowed in the north. Railroad traffic was at a standstill. Portland was
paralyzedandcutofffromSeattle,Tacoma,andSpokane.Butthetemperaturesremainedmilder farther south, where heavy rains prevailed. On inland rivers,loggersdrownedattemptingtobreakuplogjamsthat threatenedtofloodentiretowns.Thefast-movingnewstormwasalreadyrampagingthroughtheKlamathMountains, catching up and combining with rear elements of the storminundatingthecutoff.ThePortlandforecastdistrict’seightp.m.forty-eight-hourforecastpredictedmoresnowinthenorthandmoreraininthesouth.BelltriedagaintotelegraphArchieAbbott.Thewireswerestilldeadnorthof
Chiloquin.TheonlywaytocommunicatewiththeCascadeCanyonBridgewastosteamthereontheVanDornExpress.The special pounded northward, triple headlights blazing.But itwas forced
repeatedlytoslowwhenstartledsouthboundtraincrewssawitcoming,hittheirbrakes,andbackeduponto thenearestsidingmanymilesback.Onlyafter thesouthbound freight was safely sidetracked could the Van Dorn Express surgeaheadagain.Isaac Bell stayed all night in the locomotive cab. He spelled the fireman
scooping coal into the firebox, but he was really there to encourage thefrightenedengineertokeepdrivinghard.Theymadeitthroughthenightwithoutacollision.Whenagrim,graydawnfinallylitthestormymountains,theywerespeedingalonganarrowcut.Aslope rose steeply to the leftof the tracksanddroppedsheertotheright.JamesDashwoodcameslippingandstumblingacrossthetender,balancinga
potofhotcoffee.Bellportioneditouttothetraincrewbeforehetookagratefulsip. When he looked up to thank Dashwood, he saw the newly promoteddetectivehadfixedhisgazeinwide-eyedhorroronthemountainside.
Bellheardadeepgrowl,alow-pitchednoiselouderthanthelocomotive,thatseemed to rumble from the depths of the earth. The rails shook beneath theheavyengine.Acliffdetachedfromthesideofthemountain.“Hityourthrottle!”Anentireforestofwesternhemlockswasslidingtowardthetracks.
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THEFORESTHURTLEDDOWNTHESTEEPMOUNTAINONA landslideof mud and tumbling boulders. Astonishingly, the sliding trees remainedstandinguprightasthemassofgroundtheygrewinboredownontheVanDornExpress.“Hityourthrottle!”Theengineerpanicked.Insteadof throttling thebigPacific tooutrun the juggernautof timber,mud,
androck,hetriedtostopthetrain,haulingbackhisJohnsonbarandslammingon his air brakes.With only one lightweight diner car behind the tender, thelocomotive slowed abruptly. Bell, Dashwood, and the fireman were thrownagainstthefirewall.Bell scrambled to his feet and faced the rumbling mountain. “Ahead!” he
shouted,wrestingthethrottlefromtheengineer.“Fullahead!”TheengineerrecoveredhisnerveandjammedtheJohnsonbarforward.Bell
shovedthethrottle.Thebigengineleapedasifstampedingfor its life.Butthelandslidepickedupspeed,themassoftoweringtreesstillmovingasone.Widerthanthetrainwaslong,ittoredownthemountainlikeanoceanlinerlaunchedsideways.Bell felt a blast of wind so powerful it actually rocked the speeding
locomotive.Theairburstthatthelandslidepushedaheadofitwaswetandcold.It chilled the hot cab as if the coal fire raging under its boiler had beenextinguished.Then the hurtlingmass began to break apart. As it crumbled, it spread out
wider.Thetreesontheedgesofthehurtlingforestpitchedforward,thrustingatthe
trainlikegiganticlances.Stonesshovedaheadofthemainmassbouncedonthetracks andclatteredagainst the locomotive.Aboulder asbig as an anvil burstthroughthecab’ssidewindowandsmashedthefiremanandtheengineertothefloor.Dashwoodjumpedtohelpthebloodiedmen.Bellyankedhimback.Asecond
boulder tore like a cannon ball through the space his head had just occupied.Massive stones rocked the locomotive, thundered against the tender andshatteredwindowsinthepassengercar,showeringdetectiveswithbrokenglass.Thelandslidesplitintwo.Halftoreaheadofthelocomotive.Accelerating,it
angledtowardthetrackslikearunawaytrainracingtheVanDornExpresstoajunctionwhereonlyoneofthemcouldpass.ItwasaracethatBell’straincouldnot win. A boiling torrent of rocks and mud buried the tracks ahead of theengine.Thelargerhalfofthelandslideimpaledthepassengercarwithtreetrunks.A
boulder bigger than a barn crashed into the tender and swept it off the tracks.The heavy tender, which rode between the locomotive and the passenger car,started todragbothwith it. Itscouplerheld tight to the locomotive,pulling itsreartruckofftherails.Therailsspreadundertheenormousforces,dumpingthelocomotive’sdrivewheelsontotheties.Thehundred-tonengineleanedtowardtheravineand,stilllurchingahead,begantotipover.Thenherpilotwheelsranintotherocksheapedupbythelandslide.Sherearedupontothemandstoppedsuddenly. The violent stop broke the coupling to the tender and the tendertumbledintotheravine.Belllookedback,searchingforthecarcarryinghisdetectives.Shattered telegraph poles dangled from their wires. Two hundred yards of
track were buried inmud, rock, and crushed timber. Had the coupling to thepassengercarsnapped,too?Orhadthetenderdraggeditintotheravinewithit?Wherethedetectives’carhadbeenwasajaggedmoundoftrees.Bellrubbedtherainfromhiseyesandstaredharder,hopingagainsthope.Thenhesawit.Itwasstillontheroad,shatteredwreckageheldinplacebyfallentreesthrustthroughitswindowslikeknittingneedlesinahankofyarn.Bellcuppedhishandstoshoutacrossthedebris-strewngougeinthemountain
thathadbeenrailroadtracks.“Eddie!AreyouO.K.?”Bell cocked his ears for an answer.All he could hearwas a river tumbling
throughtheravineandsteamhissingfromthewreckedengine.Hecalledagainand again.Through the rain, he thought he saw a familiar flash ofwhite hair.EddieEdwardswavedonearm.Theotherhunglimpatthisside.“Bustedup,”Eddieshoutedback.“Nonedead!”“I’mgoingahead.I’llsendadoctoronthewrecktrain.James.Quick!”Theboywaswhiteasasheet.Hiseyeswereroundwithshock.“Handcar.Move.Now!”Bell led the way out of the leaning cab to the front of the precariously
balanced engine. The handcar was intact. They untied it from the pilot andcarried it, slippingandstumblingover fifty feetof rock thathad tumbledonto
the rails.Minutes later,Bellwas pumping the handles and pedalswith all hisstrength.Fifteenmilesuptheline,theycameuponafreighttrainwaitingonasiding.
Bellordered the locomotiveunhitched,and theydrove itbackward the last tenmilestoTunnel13.Theythunderedthroughthetunnel.Theengineerslowedherastheyemergedintotheyard,whichwascrowdedwithmaterialtrainsthathadbeen barred from crossing the weakened bridge. Bell was surprised to see aheavy coal train parked on the bridge itself. The black cargo heaped on fiftyhoppercarsglistenedintherain.“Ithoughtthebridgecan’tbearweight.Didtheyfixitalready?”“Lord,no,”repliedtheengineer.“They’vegotathousandhandsdownatthe
piers,workingroundtheclock,butit’stouch-and-go.Aweek’smorework,andtheriver’srising.”“What’sthatcoaltraindoingthere?”“The bridge started shaking. They’re trying to stabilize it with down
pressure.”Bellcouldseethatthemainstagingyardonthefarsideofthebridgewasalso
packed with trains. Empties, with no way back to the California shops anddepots. Having all hands working at the piers explained the eerie sense of adesertedencampment.“Where’sthedispatchoffice?”“Theysetupatemporaryoneonthisside.Inthatyellowcaboose.”Bell jumped down from the locomotive and ran to the caboose, Dashwood
right behind him. The dispatcher was reading a week-old newspaper. Thetelegrapherwasdozingathissilentkey.“WhereisSenatorKincaid?”“Mosteveryone’sdownatthetown,”saidthedispatcher.The telegrapher opened his eyes. “Last I saw, he was heading for the Old
Man’sspecial.But Iwouldn’tgo there, if Iwasyou.Hennessy’shoppin’mad.Somebodysenthimfourtrainsofcoalinsteadofthetraprocktheyneedtoriprapthepiers.”“Roundupadoctorandawrecktrain.There’remenhurtatalandslidefifteen
milesdowntheline.Comeon,Dash!”Theyranacrossthebridge,pasttheparkedcoaltrain.Bellsawripplesinthe
rain puddles. Theweakened structurewas trembling despite theweight of thecoaltrain.AglanceoverthesideshowedthattheCascadeRiverhadrisenmanyfeet in the nine days since he left for New York. He could see hundreds ofworkmengangedonthebanks,guidingbargeswithlongropes,dumpingrockinthewater, trying to divert the flood,while hundredsmore swarmed over new
cofferdamsandcaissonsbeingsunkaroundthepiers.“Haveyouparticipatedinmanyarrests?”BellaskedDashwoodastheyneared
thespecialonitsraisedsiding.Trainandyardcrewswerechangingshifts.Arowofwhite yardmen’s lanterns and signal flagswere lined up besideHennessy’slocomotive,thelanternsglowinginthemurkylight.“Yes, sir. Mr. Bronson let me come along when they captured ‘Samson’
Scudder.”Bell hid a smile. The ironically named Samson Scudder, a prolific second-
storymanwhoweighedninetypoundsdrippingwet,wasknownasthesweetest-naturedcrookinSanFrancisco.“This one’s poison,” hewarned soberly. “Stick close and do exactlywhat I
say.”“ShouldIdrawmyfirearm?”“Notonthetrain.There’llbepeoplearound.Standbywithyourhandcuffs.”BellstrodealongsideHennessy’sspecialandupthestepstoNancyNo.1.The
detective he had assigned to guard the car since Philip Dow’s attack wascoveringthevestibulewithasawed-off.“SenatorKincaidaboard?”OsgoodHennessy stuck his head out the door. “You justmissed him, Bell.
What’sgoingon?”“Whichwaydidhego?”“Idon’tknow.ButheparkedthatThomasFlyeruptheline.”“He’stheWrecker.”“Thedevil,yousay.”Bell turned to theVanDorn detective. “If he comes back, arrest him. If he
givesyouanytrouble,shootfirstorhe’llkillyou.”“Yes,sir!”“SendwordtoArchieAbbott.Railwaycopstoguardthebridgeandthetown
incaseKincaiddoublesback.VanDorns, followme.Dash!Graba flagandacoupleoflanterns.”Dashwoodpickedupasignalflag,whichwasrolledtightlyarounditswooden
staff,andtwoyardman’slanternsandranafterBell.“Givemeone!”Bellsaid,explaining,“Ifwelooklikewe’rerailroadmen,it
willbuyusafewsecondstogetcloser.”Fromthevantageoftheraisedsiding,Bellscannedtheranksofstilltrainsand
thenarrowwalkwaysbetweenthesidings.HehadlessthansixhoursofdaylighttocatchupwithKincaid.Helookedtowardthebridge.Thenhelookedtowardthe end of the linewhere new construction had ceasedwhen they learned thebridge had been sabotaged. The road was brushed out, cleared of trees and
shrubs,wellpastthepointitcrossedthemudroadtoEastOregonLumber.HecouldnotseeKincaid’sThomasFlyerfromwherehestood.HadKincaid
already reached his car and driven away? Then, on the edge of the desertedyards,hesawamanemergefrombetweentwostringsofemptyfreightcars.Hewaswalkingbrisklytowardapairoflocomotivesthatwereparkedsidebysidewherethetracksended.“Thereheis!”
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THE WRECKER WAS HURRYING TOWARD THE LOCOMOTIVES TOsignalPhilipDowtoblowthedamwhenheheardtheirbootspoundingbehindhim.Helookedback.Twobrakemenwererunningfast,signalingwithwhitetrain-
yardlanterns.Askinnyyouthandatall,rangyman,wideofshoulderandnarrowinthewaist.Butwherewasthelocomotivetheywereguidingwiththeirlights?Thepairhewashurryingtowardweresidetracked,withonlyenoughsteamuptokeepthemwarm.The tall onewore a broad-brimmed hat instead of a railroader’s cap. Isaac
Bell Running after himwas a boywho looked like he should still be in highschool.Kincaid had to make a instant decision.Why was Bell prowling the yards
pretendingtobeabrakeman?Assumethebest,thatBellstillhadnottumbledtohisidentity?Orwalktowardthem,wavehello,andpullhisderringerandshootthembothandhopenoonesaw?Thesecondhereachedforhisgun,heknewhehadmadeamistakewastingtimetothinkaboutit.Bell’shandflickeredinablurofmotion,andCharlesKincaidfoundhimself
staringdownthebarrelofaBrowningpistolheldinarock-steadygrip.“Don’t point that pistol at me, Bell. What the devil do you think you’re
doing?”“CharlesKincaid,”Bellansweredinaclear,steadyvoice,“youarewantedby
thelawformurderandsabotage.”“Wantedbythelaw?Areyouserious?”“Removeyourderringerfromyourleftpocketanddropitontheground.”“We’ll see about this,” huffed Kincaid. His every mannerism bespoke the
aggrievedUnitedStatessenatorputuponbyafool.“Remove your derringer from your left pocket and drop it on the ground
beforeIblowaholeinyourarm.”Kincaidshrugged,asifhumoringamadman.“Allright.”Movingveryslowly,
hereachedforhisderringer.
“Careful,”saidBell.“Holdtheweaponbetweenyourthumbandforefinger.”TheonlyeyesCharlesKincaidhadeverseensocoldwereinamirror.Heliftedthederringerfromhispocketbetweenhisthumbandforefingerand
crouchedas if toplace it gentlyon theground. “You realize,of course, that aprivatedetectivecannotarrestamemberoftheUnitedStatesSenate.”“I’ll leavetheformalities toaU.S.marshal ...or thecountycoroner, ifyour
handmovesanyclosertotheknifeinyourboot.”“Whatthedevil—”“Dropyourderringer!”Bellcommanded.“Donotgoforyourknife!”Veryslowly,Kincaidopenedhishand.Thegunfellfromhisfingers.“Turnaround.”Movingasifinatrance,Kincaidslowlyturnedawayfromthegrimdetective.“Claspyourhandsbehindyourback.”Slowly,Kincaidplacedhishandsbehindhisback.Everysinewwaspoised.If
Bellwasgoingtomakeamistake,hewouldmakeitnow.Behindhim,Kincaidheardthewordshewasprayingtohear.“Yourhandcuffs,Dash.”Heheardthesteelclink.Heletthefirstcuffsnaparoundhiswrist.Onlyashe
felt the coldmetal of the secondcuffbrushhis skindidhewhirl intomotion,turningtogetbehindtheyouthandclamphisarmaroundhisthroat.Afistsmashedintothebridgeofhisnose.Kincaidflewbackward.Knockedonhisback,stunnedbythepunch,helookedup.YoungDashwood
wasstill standing tooneside,watchingwithanexcitedgrinonhis faceandashiny revolver in his hand.But itwas IsaacBellwhowas looming over him,triumphantly.Bell,whohadknockedhimdownwithasinglepunch.“DidyoureallythinkIwouldletanewmanwithintenfeetofthemurderer
whokilledWishClarke,WallyKisley,andMackFulton?”“Who?”“Threeof the finestdetectives I’vehad theprivilege toworkwith.Onyour
feet!”Kincaidgotupslowly.“Onlythree?Don’tyoucountArchieAbbott?”The blood drained from Bell’s face, and, in that instant of total shock, the
Wreckerstruck.
53
THEWRECKERMOVEDWITHINHUMANSPEED.INSTEADOFattackingIsaacBell, he rushed JamesDashwood.Heduckedunder theboy’spistol, gotbehindhim,andslidhisarmaroundhisthroat.“IsitallrightnowifIreachformyboot?”theWreckeraskedmockingly.Hehadalreadypulledhisknife.Hepressedtherazor-sharpbladetoDashwood’sthroatandslicedalineinthe
skin.Bloodtrickled.“Table’sturned,Bell.DropyourgunorI’llcuthisheadoff.”IsaacBelldroppedhisBrowningontheground.“Youtoo,sonny.Dropit!”OnlywhenBellsaid,“Dowhathesays,Dash,”didtherevolverclatteronthe
wetballast.“Unlockthishandcuff.”“Dowhathesays,”saidBell.Dashwoodworkedthekeyoutofhispocketand
fumbled it into thecuffon thewrist thatwascrushinghiswindpipe.Thecuffsclatteredontheballast.Therewassilence,butforthehuffingofasingleswitchenginesomewhere,untilBellasked,“WhereisArchieAbbott?”“Thederringerinyourhat,Bell.”Bell removed his two-shot pistol from his hat and dropped it beside his
Browning.“WhereisArchieAbbott?”“Theknifeinyourboot.”“Idon’thaveone.”“TheRawlinscoronerreportsaprizefighterdiedwithathrowingknifeinhis
throat,”saidtheWrecker.“Ipresumeyoupurchasedareplacement.”HecutDashwoodagain,andasecondtrickleofbloodmergedwiththefirst.Bellliftedouthisthrowingknifeandplaceditontheground.“WhereisArchieAbbott?”“ArchieAbbott?Last I saw, hewasmooning overLillianHennessy.That’s
right,Bell.Itrickedyou.Tookadvantageofyourterriblepenchantforcaring.”
Kincaid let go of Dashwood and slammed an elbow into the boy’s jaw,knockinghimsenseless.Hegavehisknifeapeculiarflickofhiswrist.Arapier-thinswordbladeflewatBell’sface.
BELLDODGEDTHETHRUSTthathadkilledhisfriends.Kincaid lunged like lightning and thrust again. Bell dove forward, hit the
crushedstone,tuckedhislonglegsandrolled.Kincaid’sswordwhippedthroughspace he had occupied a second earlier. Bell rolled again, reaching for thedouble-actionrevolverEddieEdwardshadgivenJamesDashwood.AsBellextendedhishand,hesawsteelgleamasKincaidgottoitfirst.The
needle-sharptipofhis telescopingswordhoveredover thegun.“Trytopickitup,”hedaredBell.Bell slid sideways, grabbed the brakeman’s signal flag that James had
dropped,androlledtohisfeet.Thenheadvancedinafluidmotion,holdingtheflagstaffintheengardeposition.Kincaid laughed. “You’rebrought a stick to a swordfight,Mr.Bell.Always
onestepbehind.Willyouneverlearn?”Bellheldthetightlyrolledclothendandthrustthewoodenstaff.Kincaidparried.Bellrespondedwithasharpbeat,strikingthethinmetaljustbelowthetipof
Kincaid’sweapon.Theblowexposedhim toa lightning thrust, anopportunityKincaiddidnotwaste.HisswordpiercedBell’scoatandtoreaburningcreasealonghisribs.Fallingback,Belldeliveredanothersharpbeatwiththeflagstaff.Kincaidthrust.Bellavoideditandbeathardforathirdtime.Kincaidlunged.Bellwhirled,sweepinghimpasthimlikeatoreador.Andas
Kincaid spun around swiftly to attack again, Bell delivered another hard beatthatbentthefronthalfofhissword.“Compromise,Kincaid. Every engineering decision involves a compromise.
Remember?Whatyougraspinonefistyousurrenderwiththeother?Theabilitytoconcealyourtelescopingswordweakenedit.”KincaidthrewtheruinedswordatBellanddrewarevolverfromhiscoat.The
barreltippedupashecockedit.Belllunged,executinganothersharpbeat.Thisone rapped the tenderskinstretched tightlyacross thebackofKincaid’shand.Kincaidcriedoutinpainanddroppedthegun.Instantly,heattacked,swinginghisfists.Bell raised his own fists, and said derisively, “Could it be that the deadly
swordsmanandbrilliantengineerneglectedthemanlyartofdefense?That’stheclumsiestfisticuffsI’veseensinceRawlins.Wereyoutoobusyplottingmurder
tolearnhowtobox?”Hehit theWrecker twice,ahardone-two thatbloodiedhisnoseandrocked
himbackonhisheels.Holdingtheclearadvantage,Bellmovedintofinishhimoffandcuffhishands.Hisroundhouserightlandedsquareontarget.Thepunchwould have knocked most men flat. The Wrecker shrugged it off, and Bellrealized to a degree he never had before that theWreckerwas extraordinarilydifferent,lessamanandmoreanevilmonsterthathadclimbedfullybornoutofavolcano.HeregardedBellwithalookofsheerhatred.“Youwillneverstopme.”Switching tactics with astonishing agility, he snatched up a signal lantern,
swungithigh.Bellsteppednimblyaside.TheWreckerbroughtitlow,smashingitsglassagainstarail.Kerosenespilled,andthelanternignitedinaballofliquidfire,whichtheWreckerhurledonthestillformofJamesDashwood.
54
AWAVEOF FIRE BROKEOVERDASHWOOD. FLAME SPLASHED histrousers,hiscoat,andhishat.Smokespewedthestenchofburninghair.TheWreckerlaughedtriumphantly.“Youchoose,Bell.Savetheboyortrytocatchme.”Herantowardthelocomotivesparkedattheedgeofthesiding.IsaacBellhadnochoice.Hetoreoffhiscoatandwadedintothesmoke.ThefireburnedmostfiercelyonDashwood’schest,butthefirstprioritywas
to save his eyes.Bellwrapped his coat around the boy’s head to smother theflames,thenthrewhisbodyoverthefireontheboy’schestandlegs.Dashwoodwokeupscreaming.WhatBell thoughtwerecriesofpainandfearmuffledbyhiscoatturnedouttobefranticapologizing.“I’msorry,Mr.Bell,I’msorryIlethimgetthedroponme.”“Canyoustandup?”Face blackwith soot, half his hair singed to a greasymat, blood streaming
downhisthroat,Dashwoodjumpedtohisfeet.“I’mO.K.,sir,I’msorry—”“FindArchieAbbott.TellhimtorounduptheVanDornsandfollowmeup
themountain.”Bell scooped his knife, his derringer, and his Browning from the ballast.
Kincaid’sderringerlaynearby,andhepocketedit,too.“Kincaid owns East Oregon Lumber. If there’s a back way out, the killer
knowsit.TellArchieonthejump!”AsuddenshriekofalocomotivewhistlesnappedBell’sheadaround.Kincaidhadclimbed into thecabof thenearest engine.Hewasholding the
whistlecordandattemptingtotiedownthebraidedloop.BellraisedhisBrowning,aimedcarefully,andfired.Thedistancewasgreat,
even for such an accurate weapon. A bullet whanged off steel. TheWreckercoollyfinishedtyingthecordandstartedtojumpthroughtheopendoorofthecab.Bellfiredagainthroughtheopenwindow,intendingtopinhimdownuntilhegotthere.Kincaidjumpedanywayandhitthegroundrunning.Thewhistlestoppedabruptly.Kincaidlookedback,hisfaceamaskofdismay.
Inthesuddensilence,BellrealizedhisshothadmissedKincaidbutbychancehad severed thewhistle cord.Kincaid started to turn back to the locomotives.Bellfiredagain.Thewhistlewasimportant,asignalofsomesort.SoimportantthatKincaidwasrunningbacktothelocomotivesinthefaceofpistolfire.Belltriggeredanothershot.Kincaid’s hat flew in the air, ripped from his head by Bell’s lead slug. He
turned away and ran behind a tender. The square bulk of the coal-and-watercarrierblockedBell’sfieldoffire.Herantowardthetenderasfastashecould.Rounding it, he saw theWrecker, far aheadof him, jump from the endof theballast roadbed.When Bell reached the end of the roadbed, he glimpsed theWreckerrunningdownthemiddleofthebrushed-outline.Hemadeanelusivetarget, weaving and jinking, flickering through the shadows of the trees thatcrowdedthepath,disappearingasthebedcurvedwiththeslopeofthemountain.Belljumpedfromtheballasttotheclearedforestfloorandchargedafterhim.Roundingtheturninthebrushed-outroadbed,hesawinthedistance,downa
longstraightaway,a flashofyellow—Kincaid’sModel35ThomasFlyer—andthenaflickerofKincaidrunninguptoit.Kincaidreachedundertheredleatherdriver’sseat,pulledoutalong-barreled
revolver,andcoollyfiredthreeshotsinrapidsuccession.Belldoveforcover,theslugswhistling around him. Scrambling behind a tree, he snapped off anothershot.Kincaidwas in frontof thecar, trying tostarthismotor,bracinghimselfwithhislefthandononeoftheheadlightsandturningthestartercrankwithhisright.Bell firedagain. It cameclose.Kincaidduckedbutkeptcranking.Thatwas
sixshots.Hehadoneshotleftbeforehehadtoreplacethemagazine.The motor caught. Bell heard a ragged chugging as, one by one, the four
giganticcylindersboomedtolife.Kincaidleapedbehindthesteeringwheel.Bellwascloseenoughnowtoseethefendersflutteringfromthecoldmotorrunningrough.Butthecarwasbuilthighinthebackandthecanvastopwasup,itssmallrearwindowcoveredoverwiththreesparetiresthathungfromthetop.AllhecouldseeofKincaidwashishandwhenhereachedouttogriptheside-mountedgearshifter.Toohardashottowastehislastbulleton.The rattling, chugging noise dropped in pitch.Themotorwas engaging the
drive chain. Bell put on a burst of speed, heedless of the rough ground. TheThomas started moving. Blue smoke trailed it. The rattling chug soundsharpenedtoahollow,authoritativesnapasitaccelerateduptheclearedright-of-way.Fastasaman.Nowfastasahorse.Bellranaftertheyellowcar.HehadoneshotleftintheBrowning’smagazine,
no clear viewofKincaid,whowas hidden by the canvas top and the tires on
back, and no time to reload. Bellwas running like thewind, but the ThomasFlyerwaspullingaway.Ahead of the Thomas, the clearing suddenly widened where the Southern
Pacific right-of-waycrossed theEastOregonLumberCompany’smuddy trail.TheThomasswervedoffthebrushed-outbedontothelumbertrailandslowedasitswheelsspuninsoftmudanddeepwagonruts. Itsenginewashowlingwitheffort,itstiresflingingearthandwater,itsexhaustpipespewingsmoke.BelldrewwithinfeetoftheThomasandjumped.He grabbed for the rearmost spare tire with his free hand and clamped his
powerfulfingersinsideitsrubberrim.WithBell’sweightonbackincreasingthetractionofitsrearwheels,theThomaspickedupspeed.Boots dragging in themud,Bell grabbed holdwith both hands towork his
wayforward.Swinginghisfeetformomentum,hereachedtotherightsideofatrunkmountedontherearleafspringsandcaughtholdofaleatherstrap,whichheused topullhimselfalongsideandonto therearfender.Thewheel’s twelvemud-crusted spokes blurred under him. The fender sagged under his weight,rubbingthetire.ThescreechofmetalonrubberalertedKincaidtohispresence.KincaidinstantlyslammedonthebraketothrowBelloff.Bellwentwiththe
maneuver, lettinghismomentumcarryhim forward and closer toKincaid.Hereachedfortheshiftinglevers,missed,butgrabbedabrasstubethatdeliveredoiltothechaindrive.KincaidswungamonkeywrenchatBell’shand.Bell letgoandfell.Ashedid,hegrippedautilityboxboltedtotherunningboard.Nowhewaspartlyaheadoftherearwheel,whichthreatenedtorolloverhim.
Thechain, just inside thewheel,whizzed inches fromhis face.Heyankedhisautomaticoutofhiscoat,reachedinfrontofthewheel,andjammedthemuzzleundertheupperhalfofthechain.Thechainjammedthegunintotheteethofthesprocket.Theautomobilejerkedhardandskiddedonlockedwheels.Kincaiddisengagedtheclutch.Thechainjumped.Bell’sgunwentflying,and
thecarsurgedahead.Steeringwithhislefthand,Kincaidswungthewrench.ItgrazedBell’shat.Bellclutched theutilityboxwithhis rightarm,kepthis lefthooked over the fender, and pulled his throwing knife from his right boot.Kincaidswungthewrench.ForcedtoletgobeforeKincaidshatteredbone,Belljabbedhisknifeintothe
sidewallofKincaid’stire.TheracingwheelrippedtheknifeoutofBell’shand,andhefelltotheroad.The Thomas Flyer’s exhaust sounded a hollow snap as it picked up speed,
crestedtheslope,anddisappearedaroundahairpinturn.Bellrolledtohisfeet,covered inmud,and ranbacksearching the ruts forhisgun.He foundhishatfirst and then theautomatic, stripped it, blewoff themud, reassembled it, and
exchangedmagazines fora fully loadedone.Henowhadoneslugchamberedand six on call. Then he discarded his coat, whichwas heavywithmud, andstartedrunningupthetimberroadaftertheWrecker.Hoofsrumbledbehindhim.ArchieAbbottroundedthebend,leadingaposseoftenVanDorndetectives
onhorsebackwithWinchesterriflesjuttingfromtheirsaddlescabbards.Archiegavehimthehorsetheybroughtforhim.Bellstartedtomount.Thehorsetriedtobitehisleg.“LillianHennessydidn’thaveanytroubleridinghim,”saidAbbott.BellflexedhispowerfulleftarmtodrawThunderbolt’sheaddownandspoke
sternlyintohispointedear.“Thunderbolt.Wehaveworktodo.”TheanimalletBellonboard,andpouredhimselfover theroughground,pullingaheadof thepack.Aftertwomiles,Bellsawagleamofyellowthroughthetrees.TheThomaswasstoppedinthemiddleoftheroad.Therightreartirewashalf
off thewheel and rim cut.Bell’s knife, still sticking out of it, had done it in.Kincaid’s footprintsheaded straightup the road.Bellorderedoneman to staybehind,replacethetire,andbringthecaralong.Attheendofthreemorehard-sloggingmilesupthemountain,withlessthana
miletogototheEastOregonLumberCompany’scamp,thehorsesweretiring.Even the eighteen-hand monster under Bell was breathing hard. But he andThunderboltwerestillintheleadwhentheyranintotheWrecker’sambush.Flame lanced from the dark trees.Winchester rifles boomed.A rain of lead
explodedthroughtheair.AheavyslugfannedBell’sface.Anotherpluckedhissleeve.Heheardamancryoutandahorsegodownbehindhim.TheVanDornsdoveforcover,draggingtheirownlonggunsfromtheirscabbards.Dodgingtheflailinghoovesoffrightenedanimals,thedetectivesscatteredofftheroad.Bellstayed on his horse, firing repeatedly in the direction of the attack, hisWinchester’s ejection lever ablurofmotion.Whenhismenhad finally foundsafety in the trees, he jumped down and took up a position behind a thickhemlock.“Howmany?”calledAbbott.In answer came a second fusilladeof high-powered slugs crackling through
thebrush.“Soundslikesixorseven,”Bellanswered.Hereloadedhisrifle.TheWrecker
hadchosenwell.Slugswerepouringdownfromhighabove.HisgunmencouldseetheVanDorns,but,toseeback,theVanDornshadtoexposetheirheadstogunfire.Therewasonlyonewaytodealwithit.
“Archie?”Bellcalled.“Ready?”“Ready.”“Boys?”“Ready,Isaac,”camethechorus.Bellwaitedafullminute.“Now!”TheVanDornscharged.
THEWRECKERKEPTA cool head. Nothing about theVanDornDetectiveAgency surprised him anymore. Nor was their bravery in doubt. So he wasalreadyhalfexpectingtheirconcentrated,disciplinedcounterattack.PhilipDowkeptacoolheadtoo,firingonlywhenhecouldseeatargetflittingthroughthetrees, clearlyamanmostalivewhenhewas inbattle.ButDow’s lumberjackswerethugsaccustomedtofightingtwoonone.Quickerwithfistsoraxhandlesthanrifles,theypanickedinthefaceoftengunscomingupthehillspittingfirelikethedevil’sbrigade.TheWreckerfeltthemwaver.Secondslater,theybrokeandran,someactually
dropping their rifles, stampeding through the forest for higher ground as if, intheir panicked state, they thought hidingwould save them.Nearby,Dow keptfiring.Notthattherewasmuchtohitamongthetargetsdodgingtreetotree,butevercloser.“Fall back,” the Wrecker ordered quietly. “Why shoot them when we can
drownthem?”IsaacBellhadruinedhisplantosignalDowbylocomotivewhistles.IfDow
hadevenheardthebarefewsecondsofasinglelocomotivewhistle,whichwasallthenoisehehadproducedbeforeBellstartedshooting,theassassinhadfailedtounderstandthego-aheadtoblowupthedamthatheldLakeLillian.The twomen retreated from theambush site, lopingup the samemuledeer
trail thatDowhadledhismendownfromthelumbercamp.Whentheygot tothecamp,lumberjacksandmuleskinnerswhoweren’tpartofDow’sgangwerepeering down the road at the sound of gunfire. Seeing theWrecker andDowemergefromthetrees,riflesinhand,theywiselyretreatedintotheirbunkhouses,leavingquestionstothosewhowerefoolsenoughtoaskarmedmen.“Philip,”saidtheWrecker.“I’mcountingonyoutoblowthedam.”“Consideritdone.”“Theywon’tgoeasyonyou.”“They’llhavetocatchmefirst,”saidDow.Heofferedhishand.TheWreckertookitgravely,impartingasenseofceremony.Hewasnotone
bitemotionallymovedbuthewasrelieved.Whateverstrangecodestheassassinlivedby,Dowwoulddetonatetheexplosivesifittookthelastbreathinhisbody.“I’llcoveryou,”hetoldDow.“Givemeyourrifle.I’llholdthemoffaslong
asI’vegotammunition.”Hewouldmakehis final escapewhen the flood swept theCascadeCanyon
Bridgeintothegorge.Ifhisluckheld,hewouldbethelastmanacrossit.
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ABBOTT SCRAMBLED ALONGSIDE BELL WHEN THE WRECKER’Sgangstoppedshooting.“Isaac,he’sgotahugelakeupthereimpoundedbehindadam.I’mthinkingif
heweretoblowit,he’dfloodthebridge.”Bellsent fourdetectives to track thefleeinggunmen through thewoods.He
settledthreewoundedmenasbesthecouldbesidetheroadandmadesurethatatleast one could defend them in case the attackers cameback.Therewere twodeadhorses in theroad.Theresthadbolted.Bellstartedrunningup theruttedtrack,withAbbottandDashwoodhotonhisheels.“That’sthecampahead,”calledAbbott.Justastheroadopenedupatthelumbercamp,witheringriflefiresentthem
divingbehindtrees.“It’sadiversion,”saidBell.“Sohecanblowthedam.”They emptied theirWinchesters in the direction of the attack.The shooting
stopped,andtheypressedon,drawingtheirsidearms.
CROUCHEDATTHEBASEofthelogdam,soakedbythesprayofthewatertumbling fifty feet to the riverbesidehim,PhilipDowknewhis lifewasoverwhentheWinchestersstoppedbooming.Kincaidhadheldoff thedetectivesaslongashecould.Thekillerhadnoregrets.He’d stayed loyal to his principles. And he’d relieved the world of a fair
numberofplutocrats,aristocrats,andotherrats.Butheknewwhenitwastimetocallitquits.Allhehadtodotoendwithhonorwastofinishthisonelastjob.Blow the dam before the Van Dorns killed him. Or caught him alive, whichwouldbeworsethandying.Exceptfirst,beforehelitthefuseandtooktheBig
Jump,hewantedtosendafewmoreratsaheadofhim.Threeofthemchargedoutofthewoods,pistolsinhand.Theywouldmobhim
the instant he attacked. This was a bomb job, and, fortunately, he had amplebomb makings already laid in the dam. He pulled a bundle of six sticks ofgelignitefromitsnestbetweentwologs.Thenhesnippedoffashortlengthfromthefuseandcarefullyremovedoneofdetonators.Thedetectivesspottedhim.Heheardtheirshoutsfaintlyovertheroarofthe
water.Theycamerunning,slippingandslidingonthewetlogsoftheskid.Hehadonlyseconds.Withfingersassteadyassculptedstone,heattachedtheshortfuse to thedetonatorand jammedthedetonator inside thegelignitebundle.Heblockedthespraywithhisbody,tookadrymatchandstrikerfromtheircorkedbottle,andtouchedtheflametothefuse.Thenheheldthesixsticksbehindhisbackandwalkedrapidlytowardthedetectives.“Dropyourgun!”theyshouted.Dowraisedhisemptyhandtothesky.“Showyourhand!”They drew beads on him. He kept walking. The range was still long for
pistols.IsaacBellfiredhisBrowningandhitDowintheshoulder.SoconcentratedwasDow’smindongettingclosetothedetectives,hebarely
felt the light-caliber, underpowered slug. He did not stop, but turned thatshoulder toward them and swung the explosives behind him, straightening hisarmtocatapult thebombhighandfar.Oneof thedetectivessprintedaheadofthe others, raising a large, shiny revolver. Itwas big enough to stop him. If arunningmancouldpossiblyhitatargetatthatdistance.“Getback,Dash!”Bellshouted.“He’sgotsomething.”Dowwounduptohurlthegelignite.ThemanBellcalledDashstoppeddead
andthrusthisgunforward.Hetookdeliberateaim.Thenhemadeafistwithhisempty hand and crossed his chest, which shielded his heart and lungs andsteadiedhisweapon.Dowbracedforthebullet.Dashwasamanwhoknewhowtoshoot.The heavy slug hit Dow squarely, staggering him before he could hurl the
bomb.EverythingwithinDow’srangeofvisionstoodstill.Theonlysoundwastheroarofthewatercascadingoverthedam.Herememberedthathehadn’tyetlitthefusetothechargethatwouldblowthedam.Theonlyfusehe’dlitwastheone burning toward the gelignite in his hand.Howcould he call it quits if hedidn’tfinishthejob?Hislegsandarmsfeltlikewood.Buthesummonedallhisstrengthtoturnhis
backtothegunsandshambletowardthedam.
“Dash!Getoutoftheway!”TheysawimmediatelywhatDowwasdoing.Allthreeopenedfire.Hetooka
sluginhisshoulderandanotherinhisback.Oneinthebackofhisleg,andhestartedtogodown.Butthosethathithimpropelledhimforward.Hefellagainstthedam.Hewashunchedoverthegelignite,pressingitwithhischesttothewetlogs, when he saw the flame jump from the fuse to the detonator. With amicrosecondleft to live,heknewhehadfinishedthejobandtakenasquadofVanDornratswithhim.
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ISAACBELLSEIZEDJAMESDASHWOODBYTHESCRUFFOFHISneckand threwhim toArchieAbbott,whocaughthimon the runandwhirledhimfartheruptheriverbanklikealateralpass.HewasreachingforBell’shandwhenthebombexploded.Twentypaces,lessthanahundredfeet,separatedthemfromtheblast.Theshockwavecrossedthatdistanceinaninstant,andthetwofriendssawakaleidoscopeofspinningtreesasitslammedthemofftheirfeetandthrewthem afterDashwood. Ears ringing, they scrambled higher up the slope in anattempt as desperate as it was hopeless to escape the wall of water that theyknewwouldburstthroughtheexplodeddam.
WHENTHEWRECKERHEARD theexplosion,heknew that somethinghadgonewrong. It was not loud enough. Not all the gelignite had detonated. Hepausedinhisflightataspotintheroadwherehecouldseetheriverdownbelowinthecanyonandwatchedanxiouslyforthemovingwallofwaterthefallendamwouldrelease.Theriverwasrising, thewaterwasdefinitelyhigher,but itwasnotwhatheexpected, andhe feared theworst.Thepartial explosionhadonlydamagedthedam,notdestroyedit.Hopingithadatleastkilledmanydetectives,hestartedbackdowntheroad,
confidentthateventuallythedamwouldcollapseandsendafloodsmashingintothebridge,whetherittookminutesorhours.Suddenly,heheardthesoundofamotorcar—hisThomasFlyer—cominguptheroad.Hisfacelitdarklywithapleasedsmile.TheVanDornsmusthaverepairedthe
flattire.Kindofthem.Pistolinonehand,knifeintheother,hequicklychoseaspotwhereparticularlydeeprutswouldforcethecartoslow.
“IT’SAMIRACLE,”saidAbbott.“Abriefmiracle,”Bellanswered.A torrentofwater asbigaroundasanoxwasblasting through thehole the
assassin’s bomb had blown in the log-and-boulder dam. But the bomb PhilipDowhadtriedtokillthemwithhadn’tdetonatedtherestofthecharge,andthedamhadheld.Atleastforthemoment.Bellsurveyedthedamage,tryingtocalculatehowlongthedamwouldlast.A
cataractwaspouringoverthetop,andjetsofwaterwereblastinglikefirehosesthroughcracksintheface.Abbottsaid,“Dash,how’dyoulearntoshootlikethat?”“Mymotherwouldn’tletmejointheVanDornsuntilshetaughtme.”“Yourmother—”“SherodewithBuffaloBill’sWildWestShowwhenshewasyoung.”Bell said, “You can tell yourmother you saved our bacon.Andmaybe the
bridge.Hopefully,thatcoaltrainwillholdit...What’sthematter,Archie?”Abbottlookedsuddenlyalarmed.“ButthatwasKincaid’sidea.”“Whatidea?”“Tostabilizethebridgewithdownpressure.Kincaidsaidtheydiditoncein
Turkey.Seemedtowork.”“Kincaidhasneverdoneathinginhislifewithoutpurpose,”saidBell.“ButMoweryandtheotherengineerswouldn’thavealloweditiftheweight
ofthetrainwouldn’thelp.I’dguessheknewthejigwasupwhenhesawmerideuphere.Soheactedhelpfultothrowoffsuspicion.”“I’vegottogetdownthererightnow.”“Thehorsesscattered,”saidAbbott.“Buttherearemulesinthestables.”Belllookedaroundforabetterway.Mulestrainedtopulllumbercartswould
neverride themto thebridge in timetoundowhatever theWreckerhadset inmotionwiththecoaltrain.Hiseyefellonadugoutcanoeontheriverbank.Thewaterhadalreadyrisen
toitandwastuggingatthefrontend.“We’lltaketheHell’sBottomFlyer!”“What?”“Thedugoutcanoe.We’llrideittothebridge.”They manhandled the heavy, hollowed-out log on its side to spill out the
rainwater.“Onthejump!Grabthosepaddles!”They pushed the canoe into the river and held it alongside the bank. Bell
climbedinfront,aheadof thecrosspiece the lumberjackshadstiffened itwith,andreadiedhispaddle.“Getin!”“Holdyourhorses,Isaac,”Abbottcautioned.“Thisisinsane.We’lldrown.”“Amorouslumberjackshavesurvivedtherunforyears.Getin.”“When thatdam lets loose, it’ll sweepa tidalwavedown the river thatwill
washoverthiscanoelikeamatchstick.”
Belllookedbackatthedam.ThetorrentthatgushedfromtheholethatDowhadblowninthebottomwastearingattheedges.“Thathole’sgettinglarger,”saidAbbott.“Seethelogsaboveitsagging?”“He’sright,”saidDash.“Itcouldcollapseanyminute.”“You’re both right,” Bell said. “I can’t risk your lives. Catch upwhen you
can.”“Isaac!”Bellshovedofffromthebank.Abbott lungedtograbthebackofthecanoe.
Thecurrentjerkeditintothemiddleofthenarrowtorrent.“I’llmeetyoudownthere!”Bellcalled,paddlingfuriouslytokeepthecurrent
fromsmashinghimintoarock.“Enjoythemules.”The speed took him by surprise. The raging current drove the canoe faster
thananyhorseandmostautomobiles.Hurtlingalongat this rate,hewouldbeundertheCascadeCanyonBridgeintwentyminutes.Ifhedidn’tdrown.Thebanksweresteep,therivernarrowandstuddedwithboulders.Fallentrees
jutted into it. He overtook whole cut trunks floating along almost entirelysubmerged.Thelittlecanoerodeupononeofthem,andhestartedtooverturninaflash.Hethrewhisweighttheotherwaytorightit.Thenatreethathadbeenrippedfromthebankby the flood rolledponderouslybesidehim,splaying theairwithgiantrootsthatreachedforthecanoeliketentacles.Hefendedthemoffwiththepaddle,thendugdeepinthewater,tryingtooutruntheflailingmonster.Arootwhippedhiminthefaceandnearlythrewhimoutofthecanoe.Paddling for his life, he pulled ahead of the rolling tree, dodged another
boulder, slidbetween twomore, andbangedover a flat rockhiddenunder thesurface.Thenthecanyonwallsclosedin,anddeepwatertorebetweentheminalong,relativelystraightrunofseveralmiles.Thiswasbetter,andBellbegantothinkhemightmakeittothebridgeintact.Helookedbackrepeatedly.Nosignthatthedamhadburst.Thestraightrunendedinaseriesofsharpbends.Thebendscausedwhirlpools
thatspunthecanoeincirclesthatoneman,inthefrontofthecanoe,couldnotcontrol.Bellconcentratedinsteadonkeepingthecanoeuprightandfendingoffrocksthatweresuddenlyjumpingoutofnowhere.Floatingoutofthethirdbendbackward,helookedoverhisshouldertoseewherehewasgoing.Thecanyonwalls had spreadwider apart, and thewater had climbedonto a shallowbankthat produced rock-strewn rapids. The current thrust him at the rapids. Hepaddledwith all his strength to straighten out the canoe and head toward thedeeperwateroftheoriginalbed.Butassoonashehadrightedhimself,heheardanominousmutterthatgrew
swiftly to a loud rumble. It sounded like awall ofwaterwas rampaging afterhim.He looked behind him, expecting theworst.But the riverwas nowilderthanbefore,whichwaswildenough.Thedam,milesbehind,wasapparentlystillholding. But the rumble grew louder. Suddenly, Bell realized that the soundechoingoffthesteepcanyonwallscamefromaroundthebendaheadofhim.Thecurrentsluicedhimthroughthebendintheriver.Hecaughtaglimpseofropestiedtothetreesonthebank.Thenhiseyeswere
rivetedonwhatappearedtobealineacrosstheriver.Butitwasnotaline.Itwastheclearbreakinthewaterwheretheriverdisappearedoverawaterfall.The lumberjacksmusthave tied theropes toholdwhen theyclimbedoutof
theircanoestocarrythemaroundthefalls.PortagewasnotanoptionforIsaacBell.Thecurrenthadalreadyacceleratedandwasthrowinghiscanoeatthefallsatthirtymilesperhour.Therainssavedhim.Atlowwater,hewouldbedead,smashedtosplinterson
therocks.Thehighwatershortenedthefallandcushionedhislanding.He was still afloat, still flying along high and dry, when suddenly he was
bearingdownonanisland-sizedboulderthatsplittheriverinhalf.Heduginhispaddletosteeraroundit.Thestreamrejoinedontheothersideoftheboulderinaviolentleapofsprayandfoamthatbatteredthecanoeonbothsides.Then,againstthedarkeningsky,hesawtheairyarchandcrispstraightlineof
theCascadeCanyonBridge joining the two sides of the gorge. Itwas strangethattheclearestdescriptionofitssimplebeautywasfromtheWreckerhimself:itsoared.Itwashardtobelievethatanystructuresolargecouldlooksolightorspansuchalongdistance.Thecoaltrainparkedinthemiddleofitwasfiftycarslongandyettherewereemptystretchesoftrackinfrontandinbackofit.But theWreckerwho so artfullydescribed theCascadeCanyonBridgewas
themanwhowoulddestroyit.SurelytheWreckerknewasecretaboutthecoaltrainthatwouldgainhimcontrolofeverymajorrailroadinthecountry.Everyact that Bell had seen him commit, every crime theWrecker had perpetrated,every innocent he had killed, told him that Charles Kincaid had tricked theSouthernPacificCompanyintoparkingthatcoaltrainonthebridgeforareasonthatwouldservehismonstrousambitionandviciousdreams.Momentslater,IsaacBellsawthelightsofthetownclusteredalongthebank
under the bridge.He tried to paddle to shore, but it proved futile. The heavycanoewasfirmlyinthegripoftheriver.Heracedbytheoutskirtsofthetown,andas therivernarrowedandacceleratedhesawelectric lightsblazingon thepiers andon thecofferdamsandcaissonsbuilt around them.A thousandmenandahundredmachineswereteamedtoshoreuptheflowdeflectorswithtonsofrockandraisethesidesofthecofferdamswithmassivetimberstokeepabove
therisingwater.TheriverwassweepingBell’scanoebetweenthepiers.Noonenoticedhim
coming,forthecanoelookedlittledifferentthanthemanydarklogsracinglowinthewater.Justashethoughthewouldbesweptunderthebridgeandintothenight,thecanyonwallsnarrowedtheriver.Currentsleapedcrazily.Thecanoewashurledsidewaystowardthepierfarthestfromtown.Itjumped
overatongueofstonejetty,spunwildly,andcrashedagainstthewoodencofferdam. Fifty exhausted carpenters spiking planks to the timber frame looked upblearily as Bell stepped briskly from the canoe and marched across thegangplankthatconnectedthecofferdamtothestonepieritsurrounded.“Goodevening,gentlemen,”Bellsaid,notpausingtoanswercriesof“Who?”
and“Where?”Hespiedasteelladderaffixedtothestoneandstartedupitrapidly,callingan
urgentwarningdowntothemenbelow.“There’safloodcrestcomingdowntheriveranyminute.Buildhigher,andbereadytorunforit.”Sixty feetabove thewater, thestonestoppedand thesteelbegan.Thepillar
consistedof a square frameworkbolsteredwith trianglesofgirders, and it toohadladders.Forpainting,hepresumed.Fromwherehewasstandingonthetopstones,thepillarlookedtobeastallastheSingerBuildinghehadseeninNewYorkCity,whichAbbottoncehadboastedwassixhundredfeettall.Hopingthatthiswasacaseofaconfusingperspective,Bellreachedforthebottomrung.Hefeltthebridgetremblingtheinstanthetouchedtheladder.Itseemedtobe
shakingharderthanwhenhe’drunacrossithoursearlier.Butnotmuchharder.Was the coal train having the promised effect?Was it stabilizing the bridge?BaffledbytheWrecker’sintentions,Bellclimbedfaster.Hiswounded forearmwhereDowhadshothimwasbeginning to throb.He
was less concerned by the pain, which was growing sharper, than by what itmeant.He had a longway to go to the top of the bridge and needed all fourlimbsinworkingorder.Thehigherheclimbed,theshakierthebridgefelt.Howmuchworsewoulditshakewithouttheaddedweight?Hesmelledsmokeashenearedthe top,whichseemedoddsincetherewere
notrainsrunningonthebridge.Atlast,theladdertoppedoutonacatwalkthattraversedthesteelarchandledtoashorterladdertothedeck.Hehauledhimselfupthelastfewrungsandswunghislegsontothedeck,wherehefoundhimselfin the narrow space between the coal train and the open edge. His head wasreelingwiththeeffort,andheleanedovertorest,bracinghimselfwithhishandonthegondola.Hejerkedhishandbackwithastartledshoutofpain.Thesteelsideofthegondolawashot—sohotitburnedhisskin.
Bell ran to thenextgondolaand touched it tentatively. Itwashot, too.Andnowhesmelledthesmokeagain,andherealizedinaflashthediabolictricktheWrecker had pulled. So-called down pressurewas stabilizing the bridge as hehadpromised.But thevibrations from thewater pounding theweakenedpierswere shaking the bridge. In turn, the bridgewas shaking the train,whichwasshaking thecoal.Deep inside fiftycoalcars, thousandsofpiecesofcoalwererubbing against each other and creating friction. Friction made heat, like afrontiersmanrubbingtwostickstostartafire.Even as Bell realized the perverted genius of Kincaid’s scheme, the coal
ignited.Adozensmallsparksbecameahundredflames.Soon,athousandfireswould mushroom through the coal. The entire train was smouldering on themiddleof thebridge.Any second, thewoodencrosstiesunder the trainwouldcatchfire.Hehadtomovethetrainoffthebridge.Thestagingyardwasjammedwithstrandedtrainsandlocomotives.Butwith
nowork to do, none of the engines had steam up. Bell spotted the big blackBaldwinattachedtoHennessy’sspecial.Italwayshadsteamup,toheatandlightthe Pullmans and the private cars and to be ready to move at the railroadpresident’swhim.Bell ran to it. Every brakeman and yardman he saw he ordered to throw
switches to direct theOldMan’s locomotive to the bridge.Hennessy himself,lookingfrailinshirtsleeves,wasstandingnexttotheBaldwin.Hewasbreathinghardandleaningonafireman’sscoop.“Where’syourtraincrew?”Bellasked.“Iwas keeping up steam before theywere born. Sent every hand below to
workonthecofferdams.Justhadtocatchmybreath.Something’swrong.WhatdoIsmell?Isthatfireonthebridge?”“Thecoalhasignited.Uncoupleyourengine.I’llpullthetrainoff.”With Hennessy directing brake- and yardmen, who ran around throwing
switches,Belldrove theBaldwinoff thespecial, ran it forward, thenbacked itonto thebridge.Partway across, he coupledonto the lead coal gondola,whileeverymanstillintheyardworkedtoswitchapathofrailstoanisolatedsidingwheretheburningtraincouldbesafelymoved.BellshovedtheJohnsonbarforwardandnotchedthethrottleahead,feeding
steamtothepistons.Thiswasthehardpart.Hehadspentenoughtimeinthecabtoknowhowtodrivelocomotives,butdrivingandpullingfiftyheavygondolaswere two different propositions. Thewheels spun, the train did notmove.Heremembered the sand valve, which spread sand under the wheels to improveadhesion,andfounditslever.Smokewasbillowingfromthegondolasnow,and
hesawflamesstarttoshootup.Hereachedforthethrottletotryagain.Suddenly,theWreckerspokethroughthesidewindow.“Withwhatwillyoureplacetheweight?”heaskedmockingly.“Morecoal?”
57
“BALLAST WOULD HOLD THE BRIDGE, BUT SOMEHOW SIGNALSGOT crossed. Hennessy ordered track ballast. He kept getting coal. I wonderhowthathappened.”TheWreckerswungintothecabthroughtheopenbackandwhippedaknife
fromhisboot.Suspectingabackupweaponidenticaltotheswordhehadruined,Bellswiftly
drewhisBrowningandpulledthetrigger.Buttheautomatichadsufferedonetoomanydousesofmudandwater.Itjammed.HeheardtheWrecker’sknifeclick.The telescoping blade flew out and struck him before he could move in theconfinedspace.Itwas no fleshwound, but a terrible thrust belowBell’s shoulder. Stunned,
wonderingiftheswordhadpuncturedhislung,Bellreachedunderhisjacket.Hefelt warm blood on his hand. He couldn’t focus his eyes. The Wrecker wasstandingoverhim,andBellwassurprised todiscover thathehadcollapsed tothefootplate.
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CHARLES KINCAID DREWHIS SWORD BACK TO RUN ISAAC BELLthroughhisheart.“Iwasnotunawareofmyweapon’sweakness,”hesaid.“Itwasn’tmade to
standuptoabeat.SoIalwayscarryanextra.”“So do I,” said Bell. He tugged from an inside pocket Kincaid’s own
derringer,whichhehadpickedupfromthetracksearlier.Itwasslipperywithhisblood,slidinginhishand.Theshockofthewoundwasmakinghimseedouble,fadinginandoutofawareness.Hegatheredhisspirit,focusedlikeaheadlightonKincaid’sbroadchest,andfired.Kincaid steppedbackwith a lookof disbelief.Hedroppedhis sword.Rage
twisted his handsome features as he fell backward off the locomotive to thetracks.Belltriedtostand.Hewashavingdifficultygettinghislegsunderhim.From
far below, beneath the bridge, he heard cries of alarm. A steamwhistle on abargecranesetupadesperatescream.Hedraggedhimselftothebackofthecab.Fromthere,hesawwhatwasterrifyingthemenworkingonthepiers.Upstream,theWrecker’sdamhadbrokenatlast.Thefloodcrestwasonthemarch.An angrywhitewave, tall as a house and studdedwith cut logs andwhole
trees, filled theriver fromshore toshore.Shoutingmenstruggled tomove theelectric dynamos above the flood. A barge overturned. The work lights wentdark.Bellgrabbedonto the Johnsonbarand fought to regainhis feet.Thebridge
wasshakingthelocomotive.Flameswereshootingskywardfromthecoalcars.Ifhemovedtheburningtrain,hewouldsavethebridgefromthefire.Butevendeadonthetracks,theWreckerwouldhavehisway.IfBellmovedthetrain,hewould remove the stabilizingweight, and the bridgewould collapse from thescouringfloodwater.Ifhedidn’tmovethetrain,thebridgewouldburn.Alreadyhesmelledburningcreosoteasthecrosstiesunderthetrainbegantosmoulder.Theonlysolutionwasacompromise.BellreversedtheJohnsonbar,notchedopenthethrottle,andbackedthetrain
totheedgeofthebridge.Holdingtighttohandrails,heclimbeddownpainfully.A yard foreman came running, casting fear-filled eyes on the burning train.“We’reopeningswitches,mister,soyoucanmoveherontoasidingoutoftheway.”“No,Ineedtools.Getmeacrowbarandaspikepuller.”“Wegottashuntherasidebeforeshesetsoffthewholeyard.”“Leavethetrainrighthere,”Bellorderedcalmly.“Iwillneeditinamoment.
Now,pleasegetmethosetools.”Theforemanranoffandreturnedinamoment.Belltookthespikepullerand
theheavycrowbarandshambledacrossthebridgeasfastastheholeinhischestwouldlethim.Ontheway,hepassedtheWrecker’sstillformhuddledbetweentherails.Thetrainhadpassedcleanoverhimbutnotmauledhisbody.Bellkeptgoingalmost to thefarside.Therehecroucheddownandbeganpryingspikesoutofthefishplatesthatheldtherailsontheupstreamsideofthebridge.He could feel the bridge shaking violently now that the trainwas off it. A
glance below showed the Cascade Canyon River raging like an ocean in ahurricane.Mind reeling from a lack of oxygen and lost blood, he felt himselfgettinggiddyashedesperatelypriedupspikeafterspike.Who’stheWreckernow?hethought.Thetableswereturned.IsaacBell,chief
investigatorfortheVanDornDetectiveAgency,wasbattlingwitheveryounceofhisfailingstrengthtoderailatrain.Itwasgettinghardertobreathe,andhecouldseeabubbleofbloodrisingand
fallingfromthewoundinhischest.IfKincaid’sswordhadpuncturedhischestcavityandhedidn’tgethelpsoon,airwouldfillitandcollapsehislung.Buthehadtofreeanentirelengthofrailfirst.
THEWRECKERWASNOTasgrievouslywoundedasBell,buthewasequallydetermined.HehadregainedconsciousnessasBellshambledpastwithaspikepuller.Now,ignoringabulletlodgedbetweentworibs,hewasrunning,doubledover,asfastashecouldtowardthecoaltrain.Thedetective’sspikepullertoldhimallhehad toknow.Bellmeant toderail theburning train into theriver todivertfloodwaterfromtheweakenedpiers.He reached the locomotive, dragged himself up to the cab, and shoveled
severalscoopsofcoalintothefirebox.“Hey,what are you doing?” shouted a trainman, climbing the ladder to the
cab.“Mr.Bellsaidtoleavethetrainhere.”Kincaiddrewthelong-barreledrevolverhehadtakenfromhisThomasFlyer
andshottheman.Thenhesetthelocomotivesteamingaheadwithasurehand
on the throttle and sand valve. The drive wheels bit smoothly, the couplersunslacked,andthelocomotivedrewthecoalcarsontothebridge.TheWreckersaw the probing white beam of the headlight fall on Isaac Bell, who wasstrugglingtoloosentherail.
THE HEAVY COAL TRAIN dampened the vibrations shaking the bridge.Feeling the difference,Bell lookedup into the blinding beamof a locomotiveheadlamp and knew instantly that his derringer shot had not killed CharlesKincaid.The locomotive was bearing down on him. He felt its wheels grinding the
rails.NowhesawKincaidthrusthisheadfromthecabwindow,hisfaceamaskof hatred. His mouth spread in a ghastly grin of triumph, and Bell heard thesteamhuffharderastheWreckeropenedthethrottle.Bell ripped the final spike out of its crosstie. Then he hurled his weight
againstthecrowbar,battlingwithfadingstrengthtoshifttheloosenedrailbeforeKincaidranhimover.Bellfeltthefronttruckwheelsrollontohisrail.Theweightoftheenginewas
holding itdown.Summoninghis last strength,hemoved it thevital“one inchbetweenhereandeternity.”Thelocomotiveslippedofftherailsandslammedontotheties.Bellsawthe
Wrecker with his hand on the throttle, saw his triumph turn to despair as herealizedthathewasabouttodragtheburningtrainoffthebridgeanddowntotheriver.As Bell turned and ran, the V-shaped engine pilot on the front of the
locomotivestruckhim.Likea flyswattedbyagiant,he tumbledaheadof thelocomotiveandover theedgeof thedeckbeforecatchinghimselfonagirder.Wedgedinthesteelwork,IsaacBellwatchedthelocomotivecrashovertheside.It was a long, long way down, and for a moment the entire train seemedsuspendedintheair.The locomotiveand thestringofcars thundered into the riverwitha splash
that deluged thebanks.Streamand smokebillowed.Even submerged, the firecontinuedtoglowcherryredinthegondolas.Butthecarswereheapedinatightstringacrosstheriverbedlikethecloselybunchedislandsofabarrierbeachthatprotected themainland fromthepowerof theocean.Floodwater tumbledoverandaroundthem,itsforcedissipated,itsimpactdiminished.
TheCascadeCanyonBridge stopped shaking. The fallen train had divertedthe flood. And as Isaac Bell passed in and out of consciousness, he saw theelectricwork lightsblaze to life again asbargeloadsof railroadmen swarmedbackintothecaissonstobuttressthepiers.
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BRAVINGABLIZZARD,CROWDSGATHEREDBEFOREAGRAYSTONEmansionatThirty-seventhStreetandParkAvenuetowatchtheguestsarriveattheweddingof1908’swinterseason:theunionofasonofOldNewYorkandthedaughterofashirtsleeverailroadtitan.Thoseobservingahandsomecouplecrossingthesnowysidewalktomountthestepsofthemansionassumedthatthetall, impeccablydressedgentlemanwith thegoldenmustachewasgripping thearm of the beautifulwoman at his side so shewould not slip on the ice. Theoppositewas true, but no one heard Isaac Bell say toMarionMorgan, “Whoneedsawalkingstickwhenhehasastrongwomantoleanon?”“Adetectiverecoveringfromapuncturedlung...”“Onlyslightly.Neverwouldhavemadeit,otherwise.”“...nearlybleedingtodeath,infection,andpneumonia,iswho.”“Ifthatcameramantakesmypicture,I’llshoothim.”“Don’t worry. I told him thatPictureWorld would fire him and throw his
familyinthestreetifhepointsitanywherenearyou.Doyouhavethering?”“Inmyvestpocket.”“Holdtight,darling,herecomethesteps.”Theymadeit,Bellpalewitheffort.Butlersandfootmenusheredtheminside.
Marion gasped at the flowers arrayed through the foyer and up the grandstaircase.“Sweetpeas,roses,andcherryblossoms!Wheredidtheygetthem?”“Anywhereit’sspringbesidethefatherofthebride’srailroadtracks.”The father of the bride hurried up to greet them. Osgood Hennessy was
dressed in a pearl-graymorning coatwith a roseboutonniere.Bell thought helookeda little lostwithoutMrs.Comdenathissideandgrateful fora friendlyface.“Marion,I’msogladyoucameallthewayfromSanFrancisco.Andyou,Isaac,upalreadyandfullofgo.”“Aweddingwithoutthebestmanwouldbelikeahangingwithouttherope.”Marionaskedifthebride-to-bewasnervous.“Lillian nervous? She’s got seventeen bridesmaids from all those fancy
schools she got kicked out of and ice water in her veins.” Hennessy beamed
proudly. “Besides, there has never been amore beautiful bride in NewYork.Wait‘tilyouseeher.”HeturnedhisheadtofavorJ.P.Morganwithachillynod.BellwhisperedtoMarion,“ThatrecordwillfallifwedecidetomarryinNew
York.”“Whatwasthat?”saidHennessy,sendingMorganoffwithaperfunctoryslap
ontheshoulder.“Iwasjustsaying,Ishouldcheckinwiththegroom.MayIleaveMarionin
yourcare,Mr.Hennessy?”“Apleasure,”saidHennessy.“Comealong,mydear.Thebutlertoldmewe’re
supposedtowait tillafter thevowstodrinkchampagne,butIknowwhere it’skept.”“CouldIseeLillianfirst?”Hennessypointedthewayupstairs.Aknockatherdoorelicitedsquealsand
giggles inside.Threegirls escortedher toLillian’sdressing table,wheremoregirlshovered.Marionhadtosmileathowherextrayearsseemedtoawethem.Lillianjumpedupandhuggedher.“Isthistoomuchrouge?”“Yes.”“Areyousure?”“You’reheadingtowardabridalsuite,notabordello.”Lillian’s school friends convulsed with laughter, and she told them, “Go
away.”Theysataloneamoment.Marionsaid,“Youlooksohappy.”“Iam.ButI’malittlenervousabout...youknow,tonight...after.”Marion took her hand. “Archie is one of those rare men who truly love
women.Hewillbeeverythingyoucoulddesire.”“Areyousure?”“Iknowthetype.”
BELLFOUNDARCHIEABBOTTinagildedreceptionroomwithhismother,ahandsomewomanwithanerectcarriageandanoblebearingwhomBellhadknownsincecollege.Shekissedhis cheekand inquiredafterhis father.Whensheglidedoff,statelyasanoceanliner,togreetarelative,Bellremarkedthatsheseemedpleasedwithhischoiceofbride.“IthanktheOldManforthat.Hennessycharmedthedickensoutofher.She
thinksthismansionisextravagant,ofcourse,butshesaidtome,‘Mr.Hennessyissomarvelouslyrough-hewn.Likeanoldchestnutbeam.’Andthatwasbeforehe announced he’s building us a house on Sixty-fourth Street with a privateapartmentforMother.”
“Inthatcase,mayIofferdoublecongratulations.”“Triple,whileyou’reatit.EverybankerinNewYorksentaweddinggift ...
GoodLord,lookwhocameinfromthegreatoutdoors.”Texas Walt Hatfield, longhorn lean and windburned as cactus, swaggered
acrosstheroom,flickingcitymenfromhispathlikecigaretteash.Hetookinthegildedceiling, theoilpaintingson thewalls, and thecarpetbeneathhisboots.“Congratulations,Archie.Youstruckpaydirt.Howdy,Isaac.You’restilllookingmightypeaked.”“Best-mannerves.”HatfieldglancedaroundattheeliteofNewYorksociety.“Iswear,Hennessy’s
butlerlookedatmelikearattlesnakeatapicnic.”“Whatdidyoudotohim?”“SaidI’dscalphimifhedidn’theadmetowardyou.Wegottatalk,Isaac.”Bellsteppedcloseandloweredhisvoice.“Didyoufindthebody?”TexasWaltshookhishead.“Searchedhighandlow.Foundashoulderholster
thatwasprobablyhis.Andabootwithaknife sheath.Butnobody.Theboysthinkcoyotesetit.”“Idon’tbelievethat,”saidBell.“NeitherdoI.Crittersalwaysleavesomething,ifonlyanarmorafoot.But
ourhounddogsturnedupnothing...It’sbeenthreemonths...”Bell did not reply.When a smile warmed his face, it was because he saw
Marionacrosstheroom.“Everything’sdeepinsnow...”TexasWaltcontinued.Bellremainedsilent.“...IpromisedtheboysI’dask.Whendowestophunting?”Bell laid one big hand onTexasWalt’s shoulder and the other onArchie‘s,
lookedeachmanintheeye,andsaidwhattheyexpectedtohear.“Never.”
DECEMBER12,1934GARMISCH-PARTENKIRCHEN
ISAACBELLFASTENEDHISCLIMBINGSKINSTOHISSKISONELASTtimeanddraggedhissledupasteepslopethatwasrakedbywindblownsnowand slickwith ice.At the top stoodKincaid’s castle.Before he reached it, hestoppedtopeeratahaloofelectriclightseveralhundredyardsawaythatmarkedthecheckpointofarmoredvehicleswhereGermansoldiersguardedtheroadthatledtothemaingate.He sawno sign that theyweren’t huddling from the stormand resumedhis
climb, veering toward the back of the castle. The looming structure was atestament to Kincaid’s resourcefulness. Even in defeat, he had managed tosalvageenoughtoliveincomfort.Towersflankedtheendsofagreathall.Lightswhere the guards and servants lived shone at the bottom of the far tower. AsinglewindowlitintheneartowermarkedKincaid’sprivatequarters.Bellstoppedinthedriftsbesidetheancientwallsandcaughthisbreath.Hetookagrapplinghookfromthesled,twirledoutalengthofknottedrope,
andthrewithigh.Theirongrapnelwaswrappedinrubberandbitquietlyontothestone.Usingtheknotsforhandholds,hepulledhimselfuptotheedge.Itwaslitteredwithbrokenglass.Heclearedanareawithhissleeve,pullingtheglasstowardhimso it fellsilentlyoutside thewall.Thenhepulledhimselfover thetop,retrievedtheknottedrope,lowereditinsidethewall,andclimbeddownintothe courtyard. The lighted window was on the second floor of the five-storytower.Heworkedhisway to the thickouterdoorandunbolted it, leavingonebolt
engagedsothedoorwouldn’tswinginthewind.Thenhecrossedthecourtyardtoasmalldoorinthebottomofthetower.Itslockwasmodern,butVanDorn’sspies had ascertained the maker, allowing Bell to practice picking it until hecoulddoitblindfolded.He had no illusions about an easy arrest. They had almost caught Charles
Kincaideighteenyearsago,buthehadslippedlooseinthechaosthatwrackedEurope at the end of theWorldWar. They had come close, again, during theRussiancivilwar,butnotcloseenough.Kincaidhadmadefriendsonbothsides.Asrecentlyas1929,BellthoughthehadKincaidcorneredinShanghai,until
heescapedbycomingascloseasanycriminalhadyettokillingTexasWalt.He
had no reason to believe that theWreckerwas any less resourceful five yearslater,oranylessdeadly,despitethefactthathewasnowinhislatesixties.Evilmen,JoeVanDornhadwarnedwiththegrimmestofsmiles,don’tagebecausetheyneverworryaboutothers.The lock tumbled open. Bell pushed the door on oiled hinges. Silent as a
tomb.He slipped inside, closed it.A dim paraffin lamp illuminated a curvingstairwaythat ledtocellarsandadungeonbelowandtheWrecker’sapartmentsabove.Athickropehungdownthecenterasahandholdtoclimbthesteepandnarrowsteps.Belldidnottouchit.Stretchingfromtherooftothedungeon,anymovementwouldmakeitslapthestonenoisily.Hedrewhispistolandstartedup.LightshoneunderthedoorthatledtotheWrecker’sapartment.Suddenly,he
smelled soap, and he whirled toward motion that he sensed behind him. Aheavysetman in servant’s garb and a pistol in a flap holster at his waist hadmaterialized from the dark. Bell struck with lightning swiftness, burying thebarrel of his pistol in theGerman’s throat, stifling his cry, and knocking himsenselesswith a fist to the head.Quickly, he dragged theman down the hall,triedadoor, found itopen,draggedhiminside.Heslasheddraperycordswithhisknife,tiedthemanhandandfoot,andusedaknottedcordasagag.Hehadtohurry.Theguardwouldbemissed.HecheckedthehalloutsideKincaid’sdoorandfounditemptyandsilent.The
doorwasheavy, theknob large.Bell had learned thatKincaiddidnot lock it,trusting to thewalls, the outer door, his guards, and theGerman solderswhoblockedtheroad.Bellpressedhiseartothedoor.Heheardmusic,faintly.ABeethovensonata.
Likely on the phonograph, as it was doubtful the radio penetrated thesemountains.Allthebettertomufflethesoundofopeningthedoor.Heturnedtheknob.Itwasnotlocked.Hepushedthedooropenandsteppedinsidearoomthatwaswarmandsoftlylit.Afireflickeredandcandlesandoillampscastlightonbookcases,carpets,and
a handsome coffered ceiling. Awing chair faced the firewith its back to thedoor. Bell eased the door shut to avoid alerting theWreckerwith a draft. Hestood in silence while his eyes adjusted to the light. The music was playingelsewhere,behindadoor.IsaacBellspokeinavoicethatfilledtheroom.“CharlesKincaid,Iarrestyouformurder.”TheWreckersprangfromthewingchair.He was still powerfully built but looked his full sixty-nine years. Standing
slightly stooped andwearing a velvet smoking jacket and eyeglasses,Kincaid
mighthavepassedforaretiredbankerorevenauniversityprofessorwereitnotforthescarsfromhismiraculousescapefromtheCascadeCanyon.Ashatteredcheekboneflattenedtheleftsideofhisonce-handsomeface.Hisleftarmendedabruptlyjustbelowhiselbow.Hisexpressionmirroredhisscars.Hiseyeswerebitter,hismouthtwistedwithdisappointment.ButthesightofIsaacBellseemedtoinvigoratehim,andhismannerturnedmockingandscornful.“Youcan’tarrestme.ThisisGermany.”“You’llstandtrialintheUnitedStates.”“Areyourearsfailingwithage?”Kincaidmocked.“Listenclosely.Asaloyal
friendofthenewgovernment,Ienjoythefullprotectionofthestate.”Bellpulledhandcuffs fromhis ski jacket. “Itwouldbe easier forme tokill
you thanbringyou inalive.Sokeep inmindwhathappened toyournose lasttimeyoutriedtopullafastonewhileIputthecuffsonyou.Turnaround.”CoveringKincaidwithhispistol,heclampedonecuffaroundhiswholewrist
and the other tightly above the elbow of hismaimed arm.He confirmed thatKincaidcouldnotslipitovertheprotrudingjoint.The sound of the cuff locking seemed to paralyze Charles Kincaid. Voice
anguished, gaze dull, he asked Isaac Bell, “How did you do this tome? TheGerman Geheime Staatspolizei intercept everyone that comes within twentymilesofmycastle.”“That’swhyIcamealone.Thebackway.”Kincaidgroanedasheabandonedallhope.Belllookedhisprisonerintheeye.“Youwillpayforyourcrimes.”The music stopped abruptly, and Bell realized that it had not been a
phonographbutanactualpiano.Heheardadooropenandarustleofsilk,andEmma Comden glided into the apartment in a stylish, bias-cut dress thatappearedsculpted tohercurves.LikeKincaid,her facerevealed theyears,butminus the scars and the bitter rage that ravished his. Her lines of age, herwrinklesandhercrow‘s-feet,traveledtherouteofsmilesandlaughter.Thoughtonightherdarkeyesweresomber.“Hello,Isaac.Ialwaysknewwe’dseeyouoneday.”Bellwastakenaback.Hehadalwayslikedher,beforeheknewshehadbeen
Kincaid’saccomplice.ItwasimpossibletoseparatethespyingshehaddonefortheWreckerfromthemenhehadmurdered.Hesaidcoldly,“Emma,fortunatelyforyouIhaveroomforonlyoneoryou’dbecomingwithme,too.”Shesaid,“Resteasy,Isaac.Youwillpunishmebytakinghimfromme.AndI
willsufferformycrimeinawaythatonlyyoucouldunderstand.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“AsyouloveyourMarion,Ilovehim...MayIsaygood-bye?”
Bellsteppedback.She stoodon tiptoe tokissKincaid’s flattenedcheek.As shedid, she slida
smallpocketpistoltowardKincaid’scuffedhand.Bellsaid,“Emma,Iwillshootyoubothifyoupasshimthatgun.Dropit!”Shefroze.Butinsteadofdroppingthegunorpointingitathim,shejerkedthe
trigger.TheshotwasmuffledbyKincaid’sbody.Hewentdownhard,landingonhisback.“Emma!”hegasped.“Damnyou,what’sgoingon?”“I cannot bear to think of you dying in prison or executed in the electric
chair.”“Howcouldyoubetrayme?”Emma Comden tried to say more, and when she could not she turned
beseechinglytoIsaacBell.“Shehasn’tbetrayedyou,”Bellansweredbleakly.“She’sgivenyouagiftyou
don’tdeserve.”Kincaid’seyesclosed.Hediedwithawhisperonhislips.“Whatdidhesay?”askedBell.“He said, ‘I deserve everything I want.’ That was his worst belief and his
greateststrength.”“He’sstillcomingwithme.”“TheVanDornsnevergiveupuntil theyget theirman?”sheaskedbitterly.
“Aliveordead?”“Never.”Emmasanktoherknees,sobbingoverKincaid’sbody.Despitehimself,Bell
wasmoved.Heasked,“Willyoubeallrighthere?”“Iwillsurvive,”shesaid.“Ialwaysdo.”EmmaComdenretreated toherpianoandbegan toplayasad,slowrag.As
BellknelttohoistKincaid’sbodyontohisshoulder,herecognizedamelancholyimprovisation on a song she had played long agoon a special in theOaklandTerminal,AdalineShepherd’s“PicklesandPeppers.”Bellcarried theWrecker’sbodydown thestairsandout the towerdoorand
into the snow. Across the courtyard, he opened the single bolt he had left inplace,pushedthroughthemassivegateandalongthewalltowherehehadleftthesled.Hestrappedit intothecanvaslitter,putonhisskis,andstarteddownthemountain.Itwasasomewhateasierrunthanthelong,brutalslogacrossthevalley,three
miles of steep but regular slopes.And though the snow fell thicker than ever,navigationwasasimplematterofgoingdownhill.But,asHanshadwarnedhim,the slope tilted suddenlymuchmore sharply for the last thousandyards to the
village.Tiring,startingtolosecontrolofhislegs,hefell.Hegotup,rightedthesled,andgotcloseenoughtoseetherailroadstationlightsbeforehefellagain.Back on his skis, the sled upright, he descended the last two hundred yardswithoutincidentandstoppedbehindashedashortwayfromthestation.“Halt!”Amanwaswatchingfromthedoorway.Bell recognized the trenchcoatand
highofficer’svisorcapoftheGeheimeStaatspolizei.“Youlookstraightoutofvaudeville.”“I’lltakethatasacompliment,”saidArchieAbbott.“AndI’lltakeourfriend
tothebaggagecar.”Hewheeledawoodcoffinfromtheshed.“Dowehavetoworryabouthimhavingenoughairtobreathe?”“No.”They heavedKincaid, stillwrapped in the litter, into it and screwed the lid
shut.“Trainontime?”“IttakesmorethanablizzardtodelayaGermanrailroad.Gotyourticket?I’ll
seeyouattheborder.”Ahaloofsnowwhirledbyarotaryplowinfrontofthetrainsparkledinthe
locomotive’sheadlightas it steamed into thestation.Bellboarded, showedhisticket. Only when he sank gratefully into a plush seat in a warm first-classcompartmentdidherealizehowcoldandwearyhewasandhowmuchheached.Yethereveledinapowerfulsenseofjoyandaccomplishment.TheWrecker
wasfinished,runtogroundforhiscrimes.CharlesKincaidwouldkillnomore.Bell asked himself whether Emma Comden was sufficiently punished forhelpinghimbyspyingonOsgoodHennessy.Hadhe lethergo scot-free?Theanswer was no. She would never be free until she escaped the prison of herheart.Andthat,IsaacBellknewbetterthanmostmen,wouldneverhappen.Anhour later, the trainslowedatMittenwald.Theconductorscamethrough
loudlywarningpassengerstohavetheirpapersreadyforinspection.“Icamefortheskiing,”saidBell,whenaskedbytheborderguard.“Whatisthis‘luggage’inthebaggagecar?”“Anoldfriendcrashedintoatree.Iwasaskedtoaccompanyhisbodyhome.”“Showme!”SoldiersarmedwithKarabiner98briflessnappedtoattentioninthecorridor
andtrailedcloselyasBellfollowedtheborderguardtothebaggagecar.ArchieAbbottwassittingonthecoffin.HewassmokingaSturmcigarette,anicetouchBelladmired,astheSturmbrandwasownedbytheNaziParty.Abbott did not bother to stand for the border guard.Gray eyes cold, face a
maskofdisdain,hebarkedinflawless,curtGerman,“Thevictimwasafriendof
theReich.”Theguardclickedheels,saluted,returnedBell’spapers,andshooedawaythe
riflemen. Bell stayed in the baggage car. Half an hour later, they got off atInnsbruck.Austrianporters loadedthecoffin intoahearse thatwaswaitingonthestationplatform,accompaniedbyanembassylimousine.BothvehiclesflewAmericanflags.An assistant charge d‘affaires shook hands with Bell. “His excellency, the
Ambassador,sendshisregretsthathecouldn’tgreetyoupersonally.Hardtogetaroundthesedays.Oldfootballinjuries,youknow.”“And half a ton of blubber,” muttered Abbott. President Franklin Delano
Roosevelt, grapplingwith theGreatDepression, had defanged the obstacle ofPreston Whiteway’s reactionary newspapers by appointing Marion’s old bossAmbassadortoAustria.Bell laid his hand on the coffin. “Tell AmbassadorWhiteway that the Van
DornDetectiveAgencyappreciateshishelpandgivehimmypersonalthanks...Waitonemoment!”Bell took a delivery label from deep inside his jacket, licked the back, and
glueditonthecoffin.Itread:VANDORNDETECTIVEAGENCY
CHICAGOATTENTION:ALOYSIUSCLARKE,WALLY
SISLEY,MACKFULTON
ITWASARAW,coldmorninginPariswhenIsaacBelldisembarkedfromhistrainattheGaredel‘Est.Ashewavedforataxi,hepausedtoadmireanelegantblue-and-blackBugattiType41Royale.Touted as theworld’smost expensivecar,itwasbeyondanydoubtasgracefulasitwasmajestic.The Bugatti swept silently to the curb in front of Bell. The uniformed
chauffeurjumpedfromhisopencockpit.“Bonjour,MonsieurBell.”“Bonjour,” saidBell,wondering,Nowwhat? and regretting he had left the
Germanautomaticinhisbag.Thechauffeuropenedthedoortotheluxuriouspassengercompartment.MarionMorganBellpattedtheseatbesideher.“Ithoughtyou’dlikearide.”
Bellgotinandkissedherwarmly.“Howdiditgo?”sheasked.“It’sdone,”hesaid.“Bynow,JoeVanDornhashisbodyonacruiserinthe
Mediterranean.Intwoweeks,it’llbeintheStates.“Congratulations,”Marionsaid.Sheknewthathewouldtellherallwhenhe
wasready.“Iamsohappytoseeyou.”Bellsaid,“I’msohappytoseeyou,too.Butyoushouldn’thavegottenupso
early.”“Well,I’mnotentirelyup.”Sheopenedthetopofhercoattorevealaredsilk
nightgown.“Ithoughtyou’dwantbreakfast.”Thecarpulled swiftly into the traffic.Bell tookMarion’shand. “May I ask
yousomething?”“Anything.”Shepressedhishandtohercheek.“WheredidyougetthisBugattiRoyale?”“Oh,this.Iwashavinganightcapinthehotelbarlastnightandthesweetest
Frenchmantriedtopickmeup.Onethingledtoanother,andheinsistedweusehiscarwhilewe’reinParis.”Isaac Bell looked at the woman he had loved for nearly thirty years.
“‘SweetestFrenchman’isnotaphrasetoassureahusband.Whydoyousupposethisoldgentlemanwassogenerouswithhisautomobile?”“He’snotold.Quiteabityoungerthanyouare.Thoughhardlyinsuchgood
condition,Imightadd.”“Gladtohearit.Istillwanttoknowhowyoucharmedhimintogivingyouhis
car.”“Hewasahopelessromantic.Thedearboyactuallygottearsinhiseyeswhen
ItoldhimwhyIcouldn’tgowithhim.”IsaacBellnodded.Hewaiteduntilhecouldtrusthisvoice.“Ofcourse.You
toldhim,‘Myheartisspokenfor.’”Marionkissedhimonthelips.“Isthatatearinyoureye?”
TableofContentsTitlePageCopyrightPageUNFINISHEDBUSINESSTHEPROLETARIAT’SARTILLERYChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14THEFAVOREDFEWChapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20Chapter21Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28Chapter29Chapter30
Chapter31Chapter32Chapter33THEBRIDGEChapter34Chapter35Chapter36Chapter37Chapter38Chapter39Chapter40Chapter41Chapter42Chapter43Chapter44Chapter45Chapter46Chapter47Chapter48Chapter49Chapter50Chapter51Chapter52Chapter53Chapter54Chapter55Chapter56Chapter57Chapter58Chapter59UNFINISHEDBUSINESS
