Isaac Bell saw a man whose features he remembered from a Mine Owners’ Association wanted poster. Philip Dow, assassin. Preston Whiteway lurched into Bell’s way. Bell held his fire. “Down!” he shouted.
Dow pulled his trigger as fast as he could. He couldn’t miss. Bell filled the narrow corridor like a locomotive speeding through a single-tracked tunnel.
“Marion, don‘t!” Bell cried.
Dow felt the beautiful woman in the red dress grab his arm with both hands.
His first shot hit the champagne bottle the detective was carrying, and it exploded in a foamy spray of green glass. His second shot hit the detective. His third shot plowed into the floor. He jerked his arm free and aimed his revolver in the woman’s face.
Isaac Bell felt a sledgehammer blow as the assassin’s bullet tore through his forearm. He switched the Browning to his left hand and looked for a clear shot. Marion had the good sense to step back into the stateroom. But Preston Whiteway was still flailing about the corridor, blocking his shot. As Bell saw the man who had shot him turn his weapon into Marion’s stateroom, he squeezed his trigger.
Philip Dow heard an explosion in his head. For a second, he thought he had taken a bullet and somehow survived. Then he realized that Bell had shot his ear off. He felt a tug on his arm as Bell’s second shot scored. His fingers opened involuntarily, and the revolver flew from his hand. Dow shoved the drunk at Bell before the detective could fire again, and ran the few feet to the vestibule door behind him, flung it open, and jumped off the train.
A cinder dick was running toward the sound of gunfire. Dow wasted no time thinking. His sap was still in his right hand. He smashed the cop between the eyes and bolted for the dark.
Bell got as far as the bottom step from the vestibule before the pain in his arm knocked him to his knees. Railroad police were running toward the Hennessy special. “There!” Bell pointed with his pistol. “One man. Medium height. Dark suit and derby. He dropped his gun. Probably has another.”
The cops stormed off, blowing whistles for assistance. Bell stumbled up the steps just as Marion came down. “Are you all right?” they chorused.
“I’m fine,” she said, and shouted to a conductor running up, “Get a doctor!”
She helped Bell into the car. Preston Whiteway was leaning on her door, blocking it.
“Say, what’s going on?” he asked.
“Preston!” said Marion Morgan. “Get out of our way before I pick up that gun and shoot you.”
The newspaper publisher shambled off, scratching his head. Marion helped Bell into her stateroom and onto the bed.
“Towels,” muttered Bell. “Before I make a mess of your sheets.”
“How badly hurt are you, Isaac?”
“I think I’m O.K. He only got my arm, thanks to you.”
By the time the doctor came from the Southern Pacific’s hospital car, the railroad police had reported to Bell that the man who had shot him had disappeared in the dark.
“Keep looking,” Bell said. “I’m pretty sure I winged him. In fact, I think I shot his ear off.”
“You sure did! We found a chunk of it. And a trail of blood right to the edge of the lights. But not enough to kill him, unfortunately.”
“Find him! His name is Philip Dow. There’s ten thousand dollars on his head. I want to know if he is working for the Wrecker.”
The Southern Pacific Company doctor was a rough-and-ready sort used to the puncture and crush wounds encountered in railroad building. Bell was relieved that he was singularly unimpressed by the bloody furrow that Dow’s .45 caliber slug had plowed through his flesh and muscle. The doctor washed it thoroughly with water. Then he held up a bottle of carbolic acid. “This is going to hurt.”
“Blood poisoning will hurt more,” Bell said, gritting his teeth. There was cloth in the wound. “Pour it on.”
After the doctor dosed it with the fiery disinfectant, he dressed it. “You may want to rest it in a sling for a couple of days. But the bone’s all right. Bet it hurts like the blazes.”
“Yes,” Bell said, grinning at Marion, who looked a bit pale. “Now that you mention it.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of that.”
The doctor took a hypodermic needle from his leather bag and started to draw a clear fluid into the barrel.
“What’s that?” asked Bell.
“Morphine hydrochloride. You won’t feel a thing.”
“No thanks, Doc. I need a clear head.”
“Suit yourself,” said the doctor. “I’ll change that dressing tomorrow. Good night. Good night, ma‘am.”
Marion shut the door behind him.
“Clear head? Isaac, you’ve been shot. You’re white as a ghost. The pain must be awful. Can’t you take the rest of the night off?”
“I intend to,” said Bell, reaching for her with his good arm. “That’s why I want a clear head.”
40
“Father, dear father,
come home with me now,“
sang the Ventura County Temperance Glee Club, sixty voices strong.
James Dashwood craned his neck, hoping to spot slope-shouldered blacksmith Jim Higgins, who had run when he showed him the sketch of the Wrecker. Isaac Bell was betting that Higgins had taken the abstinence pledge at a temperance meeting. This meeting, in the beet-farming town of Oxnard, filled a tent big enough to hold a circus.
Dashwood had attended six such meetings already, enough to know the ropes. Nimbly, he dodged the smiling mothers who nudged their daughters in his direction. Men were outnumbered by women whenever the pledge of abstinence was sought. Few were young as he, or as clean and neatly turned out. More typical was the prospector sitting next to him, in a patched coat and floppy hat, who looked like he’d come to get out of the rain.
The singers finally finished. Ushers rigged a powerful acetylene-lit magic lantern. Its long lens shined a
