The Chase Clive Cussler (read more books TXT) 📖

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

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

“What’s your train number?”

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

“What kind of engine?”

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

45

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bell stared at Lofgren questioningly. “Car ferry?”

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

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

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

“How do you know all this?”

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

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

“That’s about the size of it.”

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

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

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

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

“It is.”

“Names of who?”

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

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

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

THREE HOURS LATER,