Inherent chaos, p.6
Inherent Chaos, page 6
“Sounded prone enough to me. Hard to tell. Last one was drawn out, couldn’t tell with the other two.”
“So?”
“Three long means danger.”
“Stalled for sure, I’d wager. Hold down the fort then. I’ll need you to telegraph ahead once I have Bradshaw in custo…” the marshal paused, regarding the telegrapher with a cocked brow, “Now where do you think you’re go…”
In the time it took the lawman to back from the window to trek toward the shack exit, Dalton tossed on his own cover, to include wool headgear, matching gloves and a pair of fur-lined mukluks.
“Those folks are as much my responsibility as the conductors once they clear the pass. I’ll be asking you make room on your steed, Marshal.”
The lawman’s lips parted in apparent disapproval but clamped shut abruptly upon watching the smaller man snap on a gun belt and snatch up the lantern, a resounding sigh in its place.
“Your decision but know this; I can’t be protecting you if Bradshaw takes aim, which he is apt to do if cornered.”
“Don’t expect you to,” Dalton replied dourly, standing up and executing a short jog in place to test the mukluks fit, “Tell ya what,” he grinned while joining the taller man at the exit, “I’ll do my best to duck whatever slug flies my way.”
Marshal Dan Bain laughed despite himself and the pair then stepped out into the frigid, ivory void.
~ * ~
Following alongside the tracks, or at least where the tracks were supposedly located, Daisy moved forward at a cautiously measured pace, at times buried up to the flank and never less than cannon deep.
Propped precariously atop the filly’s sloped croup, Dalton’s grip across the marshal’s midsection constricted with increased tautness with each unsteady motion. The gusting winds disallowed any attempt at communication between the two men, although the marshal would occasionally squirm and flex his torso in an attempt to loosen his passengers near death-grip. They heard but one additional whistle since departing the shack and none since putting notable distance from the same.
Squinting around the marshal’s left shoulder, Dalton was far too short in comparison to peek over it, and roughly a half-hour into the trek, he spotted a dim light through the blinding deluge. Having apparently spotted it also, the marshal lifted a gloved hand and pointed in the glow’s general direction, yelling something unintelligible before steering Daisy forward with a gentle spurring.
As they grew steadily closer, all illumination vanished into the swirling gloom, as if literally swallowed into its ravenous, all-enveloping maw.
The fall, when it came, did not include a severe lean, slow-motion tumble nor a gradual rollover. Instead, a teeth-rattling, bone-jarring descent so instantaneous it was as if the filly stepped directly into an open well.
All traces of oxygen bludgeoned from his lungs upon landing on his left shoulder, side and leg, Dalton was briefly immobilized until an immense weight, no doubt Daisy’s writhing form, lifted, allowing him to roll over onto his back. Mouth agape while struggling to inhale the frigid air, he could taste the snow landing on his exposed tongue while also caking his flaring nostrils. It wasn’t until he’d rolled back over onto his right side, reaching down for a quick inventory of both legs, that the power of hearing partially returned to the strangely distant sound of Marshal Bain’s impassioned screams. Hauled roughly up to his feet by the armpits and subsequently dragged, a portion of the marshal’s dialogue broke through the combination of ringing and squall filling both ears:
“…to the cab…freeze to…ground…see Daisy in all the…this…darted away like…gunshot…”
Soon after Dalton blacked out, he came to splayed on his stomach, with the marshal crouched just to his left, his prone form outlined by a building stream of melting snow as, comparatively, the train cab’s interior was a tropical rainforest, the incessant burning at his ears, cheeks and the tips of his fingers symptomatic with the effects of early frostbite.
“Mis…Dalton, you still with me?”
Dalton heard the marshal inquire from what sounded like a great distance, his ears seemingly stuffed with cotton. Upon speaking, there was no gauging the volume of his own words. Whether he’d whispered or screamed was a complete mystery.
“Y-yeah, in w-what ca-capacity I c-can’t say.”
The Marshal stood, tilting his head slightly downward to avoid rubbing the Stetson on the angled roof, to peer out one side of the cab for several moments before stepping over to the other side and doing the same.
“Seems we’re both no worse for wear, nothing short of a miracle considering. Of poor Daisy’s fate, I haven’t a clue.”
“W-what ha-happened?”
“I can only surmise the old girl stepped into a rather deep ravine hidden by the drift that so cleverly disguised it. We were fortunate not to shatter limbs or be rendered unconscious by the sudden jolt. Luckier still that the train was only a few hundred feet from where we were so unceremoniously dumped.”
Pulling himself up on all fours, Dalton felt a plethora of aches and pains shoot up his left side before recalling the less than graceful landing he’d previously executed. Removing the glove from his left hand, he attempted to rub the bleariness from his eyes. The cab interior was a dimly lit alien landscape of fogged-over dials, protruding handles and coiled hoses, a sporadic but very welcome wave of steam spewing forth from parts unknown.
“So, we have our health but little else at this juncture,” the marshal continued, leaning down to study the boiler, “Lanterns would sure come in handy about now.”
Scanning the cramped confines to seek out the cab’s source of illumination, the lawman spotted a brass lantern mounted just above a series of circular dials.
“Bizarre. Appears to be the conductor’s lantern. Can’t imagine leaving the cab without it. Then again, they must’ve had more than one aboard.”
“But…wh-where’s th-the conductor, the e-engineer or b-brakeman?” Dalton croaked, his throat growing rawer by the word.
He also took grim note via reaching up to run splayed fingers through a partially frozen coif, that his wool cap had been misplaced in the fall.
“Yet another mystery wrapped within an enigma, it appears. Cab was suitably warm and cozy upon our unannounced arrival, but also completely deserted. I can only figure they’re away checking out the rather dire situation they’ve steered this metal beast into. On the way inside, I noted the snowplow was conspicuously hidden from a thigh-high drift and otherwise buried to its cylinders.”
“Wh-what about the whistle an-and light we s-saw?”
“The train’s headlamp, I surmise, in the process of being swallowed by that monstrous drift. We saw what little was left of it but enough to announce its location before it was completely snuffed out. As for the whistle, well, fairly safe to assume it don’t blow itself. Floor is one big puddle from melted snow.”
Locating the pull-down cord, the marshal casually reached up but quickly pulled his hand away as if fearing a sudden burn. Standing eye-level with the bottom-half of the cord, he leaned in until it sat mere inches from the tip of his nose.
“Well now, what do we have here?”
Dalton shifted cautiously until he sat balanced atop both knees, swallowing hard before coughing into a curled palm.
“Wh-what’s that?”
“Appears to be blood, recently applied at that.”
Scanning the cab floor, he briefly dipped onto one knee to better examine a series of pea-sized, dark maroon spatters that led back to the cab entrance/exit.
“Someone sprung a leak. Perhaps the stall had little to do with that danger signal after all.”
“W-wounded?”
“Apparently. Question is, why would they signal then leave the warmth of the cab?”
Removing the glove from the same groping hand, the marshal stood and turned, reaching out with an extended forefinger to poke the upper edge of a nearby coal shovel.
“Still mighty warm to the touch. They must’ve been loading the firebox when she stalled.”
“So, do we w-wait on ‘em or search ‘em out?” Dalton asked, standing unsteadily and instantly leaning against the cab door.
“Strange, but it was dark as a mine out there,” the lawman whispered, barely audible and with his head turned as if unintentionally speaking aloud.
“Marshal?”
“While I was dragging you inside, that is. Why wasn’t there a lamp light visible, that is, if an inspection of the track was underway?”
“Damn murk is thick as mulligan stew,” Dalton offered weakly, the follow-up infinitely more logical though hardly more comforting, “or maybe they were on the other side when we rode up.”
The marshal sighed, slapping the holster at his right hip and again dropping to one knee, no doubt to allow his strained neck a rest from the constant tilt.
“Perhaps on both counts. I’m of the belief they’ve walked down to the passenger cars to brief the paying customers on the predicament.”
Following a full minute of silence, Dalton pushed away from the door. Confident he regained a semblance of balance, he regarded the fidgeting lawman with a slight tilt of the head and a mild shrug.
“Soooo, we going or staying? Your call, of course. I’m just a volunteer deputy.”
“We’ll go. But we stay together, no separation and no heroics. Best tuck that collar to your ears or you’re liable to have one of ‘em freeze up and crack off along the way. Oh, and before I forget,” he paused, reaching into the duster to remove and unfold a yellow-tinted paper and holding it up to display.
Though it was similar to a standard wanted poster, the difference was there was no civilian reward listed but instead a federal government header, the individual featured a rather plain, partially balding, bespeckled man perhaps in his mid-forties, not nearly the handsome rogue one would naturally associate with such crimes of passion.
“That Bradshaw?”
“Indeed. Once we climb into those passenger cars, you may identify but otherwise steer clear, understand?”
Dalton snickered.
“Appears about as dangerous as the postmaster back home.”
“Looks can be deceiving. It’s well known he stashes Derringers up both sleeves and isn’t shy in using them.”
Dalton nodded without reply before reaching to free the Colt from its worn holster, giving it a brief onceover, and holstering it with a satisfied grunt, his slightly shaking hand not lost on the lawman.
“Not to fret,” the marshal said with as much faux cheer as he could muster, “You won’t be needing it.”
“Well, pray that we don’t marshal, as my aim is just rusty enough to be a danger to anyone but the intended target.”
Standing, the marshal chuckled, albeit nervously, while applying a playful slap to the smaller man’s left shoulder.
“If the need arises, just showcase that hog-leg and hold her as steady as Wild Bill Hickok. Bradshaw won’t know the difference.”
Pulling the conductor’s lantern free from its base, he stepped to the door and led them back into the storm.
~ * ~
Wading through calf-to-knee-high buildups, careful not to tumble into a sudden drop-off, the marshal’s cautiously shuffling pace led them past a pair of supply cars separating the cab and passenger cars, the lantern levitating as far ahead as his ample reach would allow.
“There,” he bellowed against the thrashing gusts, pointing with his free hand toward the first of what appeared to be a trio of passenger cars, each lightened somewhat by the faintest of glows, “When we get to that first one, wait until I’ve given you the okay to enter! Clear?”
In lieu of a verbal response, he’d latched onto the marshal’s shoulder upon exiting the cab and utilized the lawman’s towering frame for cover, ducking his head to avoid the never-ending onslaught, Dalton delivered a firm double-tap to the taller man’s left shoulder.
Upon his boot-tip striking the car’s lower entrance step, the marshal unholstered the Remington from his right hip, leaning up with the lantern poised as his talisman. Twisting around, his cheeks inflamed in certain areas and chapped to pasty-white in others, he nodded as to remind the other man of his previous command.
Peering through a constantly shifting ashen wall with only the occasional open space with which to visualize one’s surroundings, Dalton maintained a guarded pose at the base of the steps, the Colt held out at his left side and shaking uncontrollably with each savage gust.
Time stood still as he watched the lawman vanish into the gloom, the otherwise impressive combination of long-johns, thick wool shirt, substantially padded winter coat, fur-lined gloves and mukluks hardly a match for a squall threatening to add his shivering frame to the surrounding tundra.
By the time the marshal, or at least the conductor’s lantern, swinging like a pendulum blade, reappeared from the interior, Dalton momentarily thought himself paralyzed until what little energy he’d held in reserve allowed a free moment.
He practically collapsed inside. The sudden lack of battering winds was like the release of a great weight as he nearly tripped over a rolling tray that centered the car’s middle aisle, from which assorted drinking glasses and ceramic bowls toppled and shattered.
“Wh-what th…” Dalton babbled through chapped-raw, quivering lips not yet ready for normal speech while reaching for a stabilizing force with his non-gun hand and finding nothing more solid than a cloth curtain. The lone lamplight, positioned at the rear of the car, was no more powerful than a lit match.
“Sleeping car,” he heard the marshal whisper from the far end of the car. Brushing a fresh coating from his hair and beard, Dalton shook and shimmied his upper torso while blinking rapidly to clear away the rogue flakes glued to each eyelid and attached lash.
“I see only one lamp left out of four possible slots,” Bain continued, squinting the length of the car and into the next, where illumination was similarly limited, “Same murkiness rules the day, it appears.”
The marshal turned briefly to Dalton, who’d righted the tray, clumsily kicking away several remnants of broken glass, before removing it from the aisle.
“Odd happenstance piled upon odd happenstance,” the marshal continued, speech so muffled as to be nearly inaudible, “Hmm, sleeping car indeed. Six curtained off beds for those able to pay for such comforts. Empty on this side. Can you check those three? I’m going to move on up to the ne…”
Equally surprised and angered at the marshal’s woeful lack of common sense, the man was just about to question, or should that be, scold, the lawman on just how he was supposed to check anything without the aid of the conductor’s lantern when something leapt out from behind curtain one.
~ * ~
“Oh g-god, oh-oh god, thank g-god,” the mysterious stranger babbled, spittle flying onto Dalton’s face as he struggled to wrestle the squirming figure from his chest.
Twisting hard to the left, he managed to roll them off amid an almost overwhelming stench usually associated with assorted body leakage.
“Y-you…I t-thought y-you were…th-them,” the stranger continued to babble, desperately gasping for breath while down on all fours and posed like a baying wolf, “Th-thank god y-you heard…th-the whistle. We t-thought they’d…tr-tracked us back here to the car. W-we t-thought…considered…making a run f-from the cab until Miss…Miss Ruth spotted your lamplight and f-figured those cra-crazy som’ bitches…h-had…tr-trialed us. No place to…hide in these damn tin cans!”
Decked out in a four-piece ensemble, dark blue or possibly black, specifics impossible to pin down in limited light, that included an absurdly baggy, double-breasted jacket opened to reveal a satin vest within and gold-banded hat, the stranger’s identity was easily deduced upon standing erect.
“Say, you g-got an extra shooting iron I could borrow?”
“You the conductor?” Dalton asked, having tumbled back through the curtain to fall onto the cot beyond it.
Chest pumped out and head thrown back, the stranger snapped to as if called to attention in a calvary formation, the oversized jacket flapping like a windblown tent-flap. Stocky of build and short of stature, he wore a bushy gray mustache that was comically warped at the edges.
“Y-yes, sir, Gorman’s the name. Y-you boy’s lawmen?”
“Um, my partner there is. Marshal, think I found the conduc...” Dalton began, the remainder of his intended dialogue stuck in his throat like dry toast upon taking note of an additional figure being questioned by the marshal at the rear of the car.
Statuesque with a flowing red mane that rested between trim shoulder blades, she wore a light-colored, perhaps beige, ankle-length bowknot lace dress of the formal variety and had apparently ducked behind the curtain closest to the car’s exit. As if studying her shapely frame for wounds, the marshal moved the lantern in close, gradually raising it toward her face. The man thought it strange that in the aftermath, though bathed in shadow, the marshal’s expression briefly defined repulsion.
While the conductor appeared weirdly uninterested in their very existence, Dalton stood from the cot and sidestepped down the aisle, hoping to overhear their whispered conversation.
“…yes, ma’am, just calm down and tell me again what hap…”
Much like the conductor, her tone, despite a surprisingly controlled volume, and gestures tittered on the edge of shock. Also similarly, the formal dress that had looked so elegant from a distance held a slack, rumbled appearance, its lace edges brushing the carpet and thus cloaking her feet.
“Th-they just barged in brandishing that cutlery and, well, I declare no one knew how to…react or what to do. It was like…a bad dream. A walking nightmare. Mister Gorman tried to…save a few of the first wounded but in the end he just…grabbed ahold of me and we…we ran. G-got to the cab and h-he proceeded to sound the alarm. Knew we…weren’t safe to stay so we just ambled on b-back here. We were about to try for the train cab again when we saw ya’ll comin’.”
