“Stop the train!” Bell ordered, yanking open the door so the conductor could hear him.
Locomotive, tender, dining car, and Pullman sleeper ground to a stop. Bell grasped the outstretched hand which was wet with rain and perspiration and pulled James Dashwood into the vestibule.
“I found the blacksmith.”
“Why didn’t you wire?”
“I couldn‘t, Mr. Bell. You’d think I was a lunatic. I had to report face-to-face.”
A fierce glance from Bell sent the conductor quickly retreating inside the car, leaving them alone on the platform.
“Did he recognize the sketch?”
“He admits he was drunk the night he made the hook for the Wrecker. But he thinks that the man he saw might have been a very important personage. So important, I can’t believe it. That’s why I have to report face-to- face.”
Isaac slapped Dashwood’s shoulder and shook his hand. “Thank you, James. You have made thinkable the unthinkable. Senator Charles Kincaid is the Wrecker.”
49
The moment Isaac Bell said it, he knew it was true. Senator Charles Kincaid was not the Wrecker’s spy. Kincaid was the Wrecker himself.
Charles Kincaid raced from attack to attack on a senator’s railway pass. (“Oh, he gets around, sir,” said the conductor on the Overland Express. “You know those officeholders, always on the go.”)
Charles Kincaid had penetrated Hennessy’s inner circle. (Hanging around pretending to court Lillian Hennessy. Toadying to her father. Recruiting intimate functionaries like Erastus Charney.)
Charles Kincaid was a civil engineer who know how to extract the most damage from every attack. (“Look for an engineer,” he had taunted.)
“How did you know?”
The crestfallen expression on the boy’s face prompted Bell to answer kindly.
“James, I could never have said it aloud if you hadn’t told me what you learned. Well done. Mr. Van Dorn will hear about you … Conductor! Back the train to the dispatcher’s office. I want his telegraph.”
The dispatcher’s office occupied a wooden building in the middle of the busy train yard. The floor shook as switch engines shuttled trains past with only inches of clearance. Bell dictated a telegram to Archie Abbott at the Cascade Canyon Bridge: “ARREST SENATOR CHARLES KINCAID.”
The telegrapher’s eyes popped wide.
“Keep writing! ‘KINCAID IS THE WRECKER.’
“Send it!”
The telegrapher’s key started clicking faster than a belt-fed Vickers. But he got no further than the word ARREST. His hand froze on the dash knob.
“What are you waiting for?”
“The wire’s gone dead.”
50
“WE’VE BEEN HAVING TROUBLE ALL DAY.”
“Wire Dunsmuir!” said Bell. He had posted Van Dorn operatives at that railroad center. He would order them to commandeer a locomotive north to tell Archie to arrest the Wrecker.
The telegrapher tried, with no success. “Dead to Dunsmuir.”
“Wire Redding.” Texas Walt Hatfield was watching Redding.
“Sorry, Mr. Bell. It appears all lines are dead from here in Sacramento north.”
“Find a way around it.”
Bell knew that multiple telegraph lines connected Sacramento to the rest of the country. Commercial networks linked large towns and cities. The second system was the railroad’s private network for transmitting train orders.
“I’ll get right on it.”
With Bell at his shoulder, the telegrapher polled train-order stations in the region, trying to gauge the extent of the system’s failure.
The anxious dispatcher hovered, explaining, “North of Weed, Western Union lines follow the old Siskiyou route to Portland. The new Cascades Cutoff has only the railroad wires.”
“They’ve been deluged by rain,” said the telegrapher, still waiting for responses. “Ground gets soft, poles fall.”
Bell paced the floor.
Not due to weather, he was certain.
This was the Wrecker’s work. Kincaid was taking no chances that Bell would figure out who he was. He had isolated the Cascades Cutoff railhead for a final assault on the bridge to bring the cutoff to a standstill and bankrupt the Southern Pacific. He would attack the reinforcement effort while the piers were still vulnerable.
“Avalanches of mud, too,” said the dispatcher. “And there’s more rain coming.”
Desperate to placate the grim-faced, furiously pacing detective, the dispatcher snatched the morning papers off his desk. The
“‘The floods could be the most serious in Oregon’s history,”’ the dispatcher read aloud. “‘Railroad tracks in the valleys are underwater and may be washed away.”’
Bell kept pacing. A freight trundled by, rattling windows in their wooden frames. Clouds enveloped the building as Bell’s locomotive, parked alongside, was forced to let off steam she had built to speed him to the Cascade Canyon Bridge.
“The wires are open to San Francisco and Los Angeles,” reported the telegrapher, confirming Bell’s worst fear. The Wrecker-Kincaid-was concentrating on the Cascades route.
“Loop around through San Francisco or from Los Angeles up to Portland and then down from there.”
But the Wrecker’s telegraph saboteurs had thought about that, too. Not only was all telegraph dead from Sacramento to the north, lines from farther north-from Dunsmuir, Weed, and Klamath Falls-were down, too. Charles Kincaid had completely isolated the cutoff railhead at the Cascade Canyon Bridge.
Bell whirled toward a commotion at the door. Jason Adler, the American States Bank auditor, burst in.
“Mr. Bell. Mr. Bell. I’ve just gone through the telegrams we picked up when we arrived here. We’ve found a company he controls through the Schane and Simon Company. They bought East Oregon Lumber, which has a contract with the Southern Pacific Railroad to supply crossties and lumber to the cutoff.”
“Where?” Bell asked with a sinking heart. But the name said it all.
“Above the Canyon Bridge on the Cascade River. That’s the same bridge his Union Pier and Caisson-”
“But materials and work trains have priority on the cutoff, sir.”
“My train has authority straight through to the Cascade Canyon Bridge,” Bell shot back.
