The three remaining gang members, spurring their horses hard, charged up and down the track bed. Their pistols were cocked and pointed at the passengers, who stared open-mouthed through the coach windows. No shots were fired, but their menacing attitude and tough appearance made the message all too clear. Anyone who resisted or attempted to flee the train would be killed.
The threat made eminent good sense to the passengers. Like most railroads, the Santa Fe was not revered by the public. For thirty years, Eastern Robber Barons had plundered the West on land grants and freight rates. A holdup, according to common wisdom, was a matter between the railroad and the bandits. Only a fool would risk his life to thwart a robbery. And there were no fools aboard today.
From the coaches, the passengers had a ringside seat. They watched as the four men outside the express car demonstrated their no-nonsense approach to train robbery. One of the riders produced a stick of dynamite and held the fuse only inches away from the tip of a lighted cigar. Another rider, whose commanding presence pegged him as the gangleader, gigged his horse onto the road bed. His voice raised in a shout, he informed the express guards that they had a choice.
“Open the door or get blown to kingdom come!”
The guards, much like the passengers, were unwilling to die for the Santa Fe. The door quickly slid open and they tossed their pistols onto the ground. Three of the robbers dismounted and clambered inside the express car. The leader, positioned outside the car, directed the operation from aboard his horse. His tone had the ring of authority, brusque and demanding. His attitude was that of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
From start to finish, the holdup took less than five minutes. The robbers inside the express car emerged with mail sacks stuffed full of cash and mounted their horses. On signal from their leader, the gang raked the length of the train with a barrage of gunfire. The shots were purposely placed high, but windows shattered and wall panels splintered. As bullets ripped through the coaches, everyone dove for the floor and prudently stayed there. A moment later the thud of hoofbeats drummed the earth.
Bill Doolin led his gang down the embankment at the edge of the bridge. They disappeared into the trees and rode single file along the river. To their rear, they heard the train get under way and commence backing toward the town of Cimarron. Within the hour word of the holdup would spread across Kansas by telegraph. But for now, there was no pursuit and they’d looted the train without taking casualty. Their excitement erupted as they turned south toward the state line.
“Gawddamn!” Dynamite Dick Clifton whooped. “We pulled it off slicker ’n greased owlshit!”
“Bet your sweet ass!” Tulsa Jack Blake howled. “How much you think we got, Bill?”
“Enough,” Doolin said shortly. “Quit yellin’ and keep your mind on business. We’re not out of the woods yet.”
“Aw hell, Bill,” Blake protested. “Don’t be a spoilsport. We done good.”
“There’s time to celebrate when we cross the line. You boys keep a sharp lookout.”
Doolin set a faster pace. He understood their need to let off steam, but his mind was fixed on eluding pursuit. He found it impossible to unwind until they crossed the border, split the loot, and scattered. His tireless vigilance, mixed with a healthy respect for lawmen, was the reason he’d never been caught. Unlike most outlaws, who viewed their profession with a degree of fatalism, he had no intention of dying with his boots on. That was for suckers and superstitious dimdots.
Apart from brutish courage, the men he rode with had contributed little to the gang’s unblemished record. They were vengeful and reckless, superb haters, but not a mental wizard in the bunch. To a man, they gloried in their nicknames—Bitter Creek, Tulsa Jack, Dynamite Dick—devoting considerable thought to the selection of a nom de guerre. That was their mark in life, the prize sought by emotionally stunted men. A badge of distinction in a world that had branded them outcasts.
It took a strong man, someone with brains and nerve, to hold them in line. Doolin imposed his will by force when necessary, but more often through cunning and a steel-trap mind. There was nothing striking about his appearance, for he was lean and of average height, his skin seared by years of wind and sun. Yet he was hard and ruthless, deadly when provoked, with a certain genius for channeling the hate of others to his own ends. His manner was like that of a crafty savage.
When he’d organized the Wild Bunch, he had started with a band of congenital misfits. With leadership and discipline, he had converted them into a fierce, tightly-knit gang, and never for a moment had he let them forget that it was his savvy which kept them alive. Every job was planned in detail, and the holdups were staged with a military sense of precision. Anyone who got in the way was dispatched with businesslike efficiency, and the raids were characterized by the gang seemingly vanishing in a cloud of dust. His men looked upon him with the awe of stupefied boys watching a magician.
Today, as on other raids, Doolin’s attention centered on the next step in the plan. Telegraph wires were singing and pursuit by Kansas lawmen was certain. The immediate goal was to cross the line into Oklahoma Territory, where Kansas jurisdiction ended. Even then, sheriffs and federal marshals throughout the territory would have been alerted by telegraph. But once the loot was split, and the gang scattered, the odds improved greatly. There would be eight trails to follow instead of one, and the law hadn’t yet proved equal to the task. Still, he relied on caution
