For miles around there was nothing really to catch the eye. Nothing but the rails and the tank.
A water tank on stilts for filling the trains, a windmill to fill the tank and a small shack for the use of the maintenance crews. As the engine sat idling beneath the spout the brakeman worked to top it off with water. The three passengers had stepped from the train to stretch their legs and stood in the small shade of a scruby excuse of a tree nearby. They watched as the conductor scaled the ladder to check the level of the tank. The Engineer Bill Andrews, was sweating heavily from the heat radiating from the monster as he oiled the bronze journals on the huge drive wheels and thought of a dinner tonight, at home with his grandchildren.
Cautiously at first, Seth Baxter emerged from the shack. His clothes were badly worn, his belly was empty and so were his pockets. He was down and out. He was chased and desperate. And he’d been hiding in the shack since his horse had collapsed nearby, about this time yesterday.
A little while ago his belly had been rumbling with hunger. His nose had burned from the odor of oily rags piled in the corner of the shed. And cramped muscles had screamed when he stood.
But now he smiled to himself as he made his way toward the engine. His ship had just come in, he was sure. A fire breathing, steam belching ship on wheels. He drew his weapon as he neared the Engineer.
Baxter wasn’t even really thinking. Driven by desperation, he wanted food and money, and he wanted them now.
The young brakeman, Joe Turner, was happily thinking about Summerville a town down the line. And a certain pretty girl he knew there.
One of the passengers, a drummer by trade and new to points west of the Mississippi, happened to spot Baxter as he stalked the trainman. He saw the gun in the stranger’s hand and recognized an ambush about to happen. He pulled forth a puny derringer and in a panic fired a useless shot in the the direction of the gunman.
Seth Baxter heard the shot and felt a rush of fear. And he saw the young man atop the train swing to face him.
As he wrestled with the canvas pipe to fill the boiler, Joe had caught the movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and the scene before him barely registered before the huge revolver bucked and belched smoke in Seth’s hand. Joe felt the heavy slug burn deeply through his chest and push him backward and off the top of the engine. Had the bullet not killed him, the rock that he landed on would have done the job.
Turning at the sound of the shot, the engineer hesitated hardly at all and then broke for the cab of the train. With practiced step he mounted the ladder and instinctively pushed forward the throttle lever. The huge engine lurched just as the gunman, excited beyond reason, fired again. What should have been an easy shot hit the driver low in the side. A second round fired would prove sufficient but had distracted the gunman for a single devastating instant.
At the sound of the first shot the conductor had turned. By the time the gunman fired again. Paul Knowles had his own pistol out. From the water tank ladder the conductor’s barrage of shots rang out and knocked thief, and now murderer, Seth Baxter to the ground beside the rails.
Confusion reigned as Seth lay bleeding and wondering what had gone so wrong. The few passengers watched in confusion as their train left them behind. And Knowles, the conductor, was wondering what the hell had just happened as he descended from the tank.
With his last effort the engineer, not knowing the danger was past, locked open the throttle and collapsed. Slowly he slipped from the door and tumbled roughly to the ground as the wheels of the tender rumbled slowly past….
Gabriel Jonas Parker walked toward the train station where he’d been the agent for almost two years now. He was but twenty seven years old and he saw nothing ahead. No hope or happiness nor anything to celebrate. The train was due any time but Gabe didn’t really care. He did his job, put in his time and drew his pay. And spent his off hours in the saloon. That was the problem. He had way too many off hours he thought glumly. Out here in this poor excuse for a town, he thought, there was nothing in abundance but time. It had gotten so that only the whiskey helped it pass.
These were his depressing thoughts as he entered the station and pulled a bottle from his desk.
The door on the firebox hung open and swayed evenly to and fro with the gentle rocking of the rumbling, chuffing engine. The glow of the flames dimly lit the interior of the cab, showing the dial on the pressure gage slowly drifting down, but there was no one to see. The iron wheels rolled, eating up the miles, but slowing gradually as the glow of the flames faded away. The pressure continued to fall as the train approached the little whistle stop town. The heart of the beast cooled and the pistons slowed until the power was gone and with a final hiss of steam the behemoth came to a halt.
Was it luck or simple circumstance, or maybe the cold silent spirit of the now dead engineer, that controlled the beast? That had halted it squarely in front of the little station’s platform?
It had glided in so gently the agent didn’t realize the engine was empty. But when moments later the conductor had failed to emerge, Gabe stepped onto the platform, hesitated and then walked to the single passenger car.
As he stepped inside he saw, on on the first seat a lady’s sweater and scarf, but no lady. Just down the aisle a man’s hat hung on a corner of a seatback. And across the car was a table on which was a deck of cards with two hands dealt and a bottle and two glasses untended. But not a soul occupied the coach.
As the prairie wind blew through the open firebox door a lingering spark was fanned to life. A thick wall of unburned coal along the side of the firebox collapsed and more sparks flew. And a flame took hold.
The agent nervously stepped from the coach into the express car. It was hitched with the express room to the rear and though cargo was stacked and lashed into place, no person was present. When he knocked and then pounded on the locked express room door no answer was heard.
In the engine the flames grew and devoured the fallen coal. The heat built and the water warmed, and the pressure gage began to rise. Slowly the pistons filled with steam.
As the agent stepped from the train a groan issued from the engine and with a jolt the iron monster inched forward. Confused and disturbed, Gabe ran to the end of the platform just as the empty engine lumbered past. He clearly saw the throttle lever thrust forward and the open flaming firebox. As confusion turned to alarm he watched the empty train chuff and then lurch and then slowly gain speed as it now left the station behind.
As the train rolled slowly yet steadily away, Gabe hesitated then turned and made his way back inside the station.
By force of habit he took from the drawer his bottle of whiskey. Then he hesitated and held it up, thoughtfully examining the contents. He pulled the cork, but then as he watched the receding train out of the station house window, his hand slowly turned and let the whiskey flow into a spreading puddle on the station room floor.
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