The Paul Bedford Collection

  The Paul Bedford Collection

  Black Horse Westerns Collection No. 3

  The Iron Horse

  Pistolero

  The Lawmen

  Taggart’s Crossing

  Paul Bedford

  ROBERT HALE

  The Iron Horse © Paul Bedford 2014

  Pistolero © Paul Bedford 2014

  The Lawmen © Paul Bedford 2015

  Taggart’s Crossing © Paul Bedford2017

  This four-title e-book collection first published in 2018

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2745-7

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Paul Bedford to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  The Iron Horse

  Paul Bedford

  ROBERT HALE

  Chapter One

  Spewing a great plume of black discharge from its towering smokestack, the monstrous contraption hove into view. It creaked and groaned and rattled as though possessing a tortured life of its own. Steam appeared to hiss and spit from every joint. Its frontage was adorned with a thrusting, lattice-worked iron prow. From the side this resembled a ram on a slaver’s galley and was picturesquely known as a ‘cow catcher’. The overall effect was sufficient to instil fear in any unsuspecting man or beast alike.

  The huge ‘Iron Horse’ was new to Nebraska Territory in June 1866. In fact nothing like it had ever been seen on the Great Plains before, but its progress westward was relentless and unstoppable. A Cheyenne Indian had once tried to rope one with the intention of pulling it from the track, but it had jerked him from his pony and dragged him unmercifully. Unfortunately for Will Torrance, it was not merely bewildered tribesmen or a wandering herd of buffalo that was to cross paths with him. He had a far more dangerous foe awaiting him in the Platte River region that fine summer morning: his own countrymen.

  About three miles beyond the settlement of Columbus, the gradient increased slightly. His fireman, Thaddeus Spencer, heaved fresh wood into the voracious firebox. The heat and exertion caused fresh beads of sweat to form on that man’s grimy forehead. They were hauling a lot of weight and couldn’t afford to let the pressure drop. Behind them were flatbed carriages piled high with thirty-foot-long iron rails weighing six hundred pounds apiece, along with specially treated wooden crossties and vast containers of metal spikes.

  Will’s first intimation of trouble came when he happened to glance forward beyond the confines of the wooden cab and then off to his right. The land that stretched away before him was mostly flat and apparently limitless, but it was no longer empty. Six men sat upon motionless horses, their eyes intently fixed on the steam train’s progress. The engine driver was a gregarious man and would normally have offered them a friendly wave. Yet these were not normal times. To his certain knowledge at least two supply trains had been derailed recently and there was something about the posture of the watching men that made him uneasy. They had not drawn their weapons, yet they did not have the look of casual spectators. The faces of the six were not concealed as one might expect from ‘road agents’, but that did not mean that their intentions were necessarily benign. Anxiety unexpectedly nibbled at his guts.

  The track ahead curved away to the right, so that the heavily laden train would parallel the menacing horsemen. Dragging his eyes away from them, Will began to urgently scrutinize the rails that were to support the freight train’s immense weight. Sure enough he was rewarded with a heart-stopping moment.

  ‘Sweet Jesus, Thad,’ he bellowed. ‘They’ve lifted the rails!’

  His fireman favoured him with a bewildered look. That man, enveloped by noise and smoke, had absolutely no idea who they were. Seizing hold of the huge brake lever, Will desperately heaved back on it. Despite the sound of tortured metal, he knew instinctively that he was too late. The vast locomotive was going to leave the track and would inevitably be followed by all the laden carriages. His eyes flitted briefly over to the waiting riders. They had not moved, no doubt wisely keeping well clear of the planned and expected destruction.

  With the brakes locked on, sparks flew everywhere but it was all to no avail. The massive locomotive had noticeably slowed, but was a victim of its own weight and momentum. Will’s eyes briefly locked with his companion’s. In spite of the heat, the fireman’s pallor had turned ashen. They both knew that survival was unlikely. Even as the front wheels left the rails, Thaddeus came to a desperate decision. Affectionately patting his companion on the shoulder, he abruptly turned and leapt from the left side of the highly polished cab.

  The stricken machine ploughed into earth and grass at an unsupportable angle. Frantically clinging on to the brake lever, Will could only watch in helpless horror as the locomotive lurched to the right. His grasp broke free of the lever and he slammed bodily into the roof of the cab. Something snapped and he felt an agonizing pain in his left arm. With a truly stupendous din, the engine toppled on to its side and came to an abrupt halt. Will crashed down on to the side of the cab and lay there, temporarily winded and helpless. Chunks of wood from the tender were flying everywhere. A large piece struck his head a glancing blow and he suddenly tasted blood in his mouth. The flat bed carriages followed on as night follows day. With a tremendous rending sound the vast consignment of rails, crossties and spikes broke free and tumbled over the prairie, just as had been intended.

  Despite the intolerable pain in his arm, Will had worse things to contemplate. The firebox was open and some of its blazing contents had spilled out into the wooden cab. If he didn’t clamber out, he could quite possibly burn to death. Gritting his teeth, he rolled over and somehow got to his feet. Unsteadily, he staggered into the gap between the cab and the now almost empty tender. Stumbling away from the wreckage, he had to veer off to avoid the top of the severed smokestack. There was a strange ringing in his head and he just could not possibly comprehend how the stack had arrived in that position.

  The hissing of high-pressure steam and the noise from the settling cargo prevented him from hearing the approaching riders. It was only as he gazed round at the devastation that he noticed them. One of them took off at speed around the far side of the wrecked train. The others moved towards him at an unhurried pace. They surveyed the sight before them with apparent satisfaction.

  The torment in Will’s left arm prompted a wave of nausea to flow over him. Swaying from the effort, the Union Pacific employee attempted to gain a measure of relief by cradling it with his right hand. He just couldn’t believe that anything could hurt so much.

  ‘Looks like you’re banged up some, mister.’

  The strange voice possessed a harsh tone, utterly devoid of human compassion. Struggling to focus, Will peered over at him. He made no attempt to ask for help. Instead he merely stood his ground, swaying slightly, and waited on events. The single rider returned and offered a terse report. ‘Neck’s broke. He’s buzzard bait.’

  ‘That’s too
bad,’ responded the earlier speaker flatly. ‘Looks like you’re all on your lonesome, railroad man.’

  With that, he pulled out a Colt Army Revolver and drew back the hammer. Behind Will the cab had burst into flames, but he was completely oblivious to it. All he could see was the gaping muzzle aimed unwaveringly at his face. The gunman favoured him with an ominous grin and then, unbelievably, squeezed the trigger. The .44-calibre ball took him just above the bridge of his nose, flattened out some and then exited through the rear of his skull in a welter of blood and brain tissue. The momentum threw the engineer’s now lifeless body back towards the locomotive that he had so lovingly maintained. His killer shrugged as he regarded the broken carcass before him, as though somehow disappointed at the ease of it all. Turning in his saddle, he addressed a skinny runt of a man.

  ‘Rufus, pass me some of that bug juice you’ve got hidden away.’

  ‘I ain’t got any left, Jake,’ whined that individual softly. His right eye twitched repeatedly as he parted with the lie.

  As Jake’s baleful glance settled on Rufus, he toyed with a skinning knife in his belt. ‘You know I always need a drink after a kill. Hand it over or I’ll open you up good.’

  The other man swallowed nervously and reached into a saddle-bag. Jake got the drink that he so craved, but in doing so forgot one very important thing. As he and his gang of gun thugs rode off into Nebraska’s trackless wastes, they left the telegraph line uncut. Such a mistake could cost a man dear!

  Chapter Two

  The two riders approached the train wreck from the west. A blind man on a galloping horse could have found it. The remains of the burnt-out cab and tender were still smouldering, sending wisps of smoke up into the cloudless sky. The locomotive itself was still venting steam, like some great beast undergoing its death throes. It appeared strangely vulnerable, its condition emphasized by the fact that the bulbous smoke stack lay at an unnatural angle. The sickly sweet smell of burning flesh pervaded the site, but that hadn’t deterred the local citizenry, who were busy looting the wreckage for anything useful. Some of them glanced nervously over at the new arrivals, trying to gauge their intentions. Those with a keen eye could not fail to see the array of weapons that they possessed.

  Joe Wakefield ignored the scavengers; what happened to the cargo was not his problem.

  ‘See if anyone survived that,’ he remarked to his companion, before moving out to circle the scene.

  It didn’t take either of them long. Joe had just cut the trail as Dan rejoined him. The young man had lost some of his natural ebullience. His eyes were troubled as he made his report. ‘Dead as a wagon tyre, engineer and fireman both. One with a broke neck, t’other with a ball in the head. They’re both charred real bad from the fire. Those sons of bitches play rough.’

  ‘From the look of these tracks there’s six of them,’ Joe replied. ‘All on shod horses, so they sure ain’t savages.’

  ‘What are you aiming to do?’

  ‘Pursue!’

  ‘You right sure you really want to catch those fellers, Josiah?’ Dan asked doubtfully. He came from a devout Christian family and never shortened his leader’s name.

  Easing his Sharps rifle out of its scabbard, Joe checked the seating of the percussion cap before turning to directly face Dan. ‘This is the third attack on a Union Pacific train. Robbery’s obviously not the motive. Colonel Cartwright gave me the job of finding out just what is, so how’s it going to look if I turn tail first time out?’

  His companion stared at him long and hard before finally emitting a resigned sigh. ‘Just don’t get us both kilt, Josiah. My mamma didn’t raise me only to get shot dead.’

  The plains stretched endlessly before them, but they weren’t as flat and featureless as those back East thought. Undulations in the landscape were sufficient to hide those who chose to be hidden. There were also various rivers draining into the Platte. It was Joe Wakefield’s belief that the wreckers would be overly confident and not expect pursuit, so they would probably make camp beside one and bide their time. Unlike Dan, he was not new to the role of manhunter. Having served in Hiram Berdan’s Second Regiment of United States Sharpshooters during the recent Rebellion, he had an instinctive feel for tracking down and destroying the opposition. It was for that reason that he had been employed in his present role by the man charged with laying the Union Pacific Railroad’s entire length of track. Shooting buffalo for the meat required to feed a huge workforce had enabled him to keep his eye in since the end of the conflict, but hunting ‘big shaggies’ didn’t pay as well as hunting men.

  The two men rode side by side in companionable silence for some while. They had known each other and been firm friends since early sixty-four. At twenty, Dan was the younger by four years and had only served in the Union Cavalry for the final year of the conflict. Youth and enthusiasm were there in abundance, but had been tempered by the harsh realities of warfare. So it was that he was able to hold his tongue and allow Joe to relentlessly survey the landscape, alert for the slightest disturbance. That man, matured far beyond his years by his experiences, would have been loath to admit it, but he felt a great affection for his good-natured companion. He looked upon him as the younger brother he had never had. However, none of this would have prevented him from putting them both in harm’s way if the job required it. Josiah Wakefield possessed a certain icy cold-bloodedness, which was a necessary quality for a killer of men.

  Time passed and so did the miles. Dan was assailed by hunger pangs and he belatedly realized that he had not eaten since he had breakfasted at the railhead. When Colonel Cartwright had been informed of the latest incident, he would tolerate no delay. Although no longer a serving officer, he still expected everything to be done at the double. Characteristically, he had demanded immediate and, if necessary, violent action. The colonel had assured Joe that all measures taken would be held to be within the law but Dan was not completely convinced. No longer sheltered by the military, he was concerned that he might one day have to face a man with a badge and a warrant in his hand. Sighing, Dan reached into a saddle-bag and extracted some strips of beef jerky. The dried meat was strongly smoked and tasted delicious. Leaning sideways in his McClellan saddle, he offered some to his companion.

  ‘There’ll be time for eating later,’ Joe responded brusquely. ‘We’ve done found them.’

  Sure enough, some three hundred yards away, smoke was curling lazily up into the air from a camp-fire. Reining in, they rapidly dismounted. Whilst Dan ground-tethered the animals, Joe scrutinized the terrain before him through his drawtube spyglass. It was almost exactly as he had predicted. A river. A camp. Six men grouped around a fire. With hunger gnawing at him, Dan could almost smell the beans. Hell, they hadn’t even mounted a guard.

  Knowing that he had Dan to watch his back, Joe took the time to view each man in turn. The weapons that they carried would determine the course of action. He expected them to be well armed and they were, up to a point. All had revolvers. The four Spencers did not surprise him, but the two Henry Repeating Rifles gave them enviable firepower, so long as the copper rimfire cartridges did not expand with the heat of rapid discharge and cause a blockage. Yet none could match the long-range capability of his ‘truthful’ Sharps. The powerful breechloader boasted double-set triggers and a thirty-inch rifle barrel.

  Dan hissed in his ear. ‘What if it’s not them, Josiah? What if they’re just out hunting?’

  ‘Then they’re going to get one hell of a shock,’ was the uncompromising reply. Relenting slightly, Joe turned to face him. ‘Have you crossed any other tracks between here and the train wreck?’

  ‘No,’ Dan responded dubiously. ‘But that don’t mean there aren’t any. It’s a hell of a thing to kill a man, Josiah. I just want to be sure.’

  ‘I am sure. Are you with me?’

  The former cavalry trooper’s features were twisted with indecision. He was painfully aware of his leader’s eyes boring into him as he waited. Dan was beginning to
realize that it was not always a good thing to work for a friend. Finally, silently, he nodded. That would have to do.

  ‘All right, then. Chamber up that Spencer,’ Joe commanded, returning his gaze to their prey. ‘Ease off to the right and belly up to them. I’ll let you get close in before I open fire. And remember, we need screamers. Don’t kill them all!’

  He did not see his young companion’s reaction to that, but Joe knew that he sounded a lot more confident than he felt. What if it wasn’t them?

  Pushing the thought from his mind, he raised and adjusted the ladder sight on his Sharps rifle. Windage and elevation had to be taken into account. Three hundred yards was quite a long shot, but easily achieved when the target was a human torso. He had struck many an unsuspecting Confederate soldier at such range. Dan was crawling into position, so the sharpshooter had time to prepare. Placing a spare percussion cap in his mouth, he breathed slow and steady. Ideally, he would have preferred to lie down, but the ground before him was too uneven and would not have afforded him a shot. ‘Dan had better not scare,’ he reflected. ‘They’ll likely have us both if he does!’

  Finally, it was time. Down on one knee, he thumbed back the hammer. Breathing steadily, Joe calmly sighted down the long barrel. The group of six were obviously eating, because there was little movement. Lining up on a broad back, he squeezed the first trigger. ‘God save me from misfires,’ he muttered.

  Just as his finger caressed the second trigger, a bearded face chanced to look up from the fire directly at him. What the gun thug saw or thought he saw mattered little. With a roar, the Sharps discharged. Ignoring the outcome, Joe half-cocked the hammer, depressed the under-lever and then blew into the breech. As someone bellowed out, ‘Assassins!’ he coolly loaded a linen cartridge, raised the falling block and then slipped on the copper cap from his mouth. Fully cocking the hammer, he again levelled the long gun. Only then did he finally observe the fall of shot.