Bell realized that the race over the mountains had taken its toll on Lofgren and Long. He could see that the strain on body and mind had drained the staunch engineer, and the physical effort of maintaining steam on the steep grades had sapped the strength of the indefatigable fireman. It seemed evident to Bell that Cromwell’s train crew must be worn out as well. He checked his watch and could only wonder if they had narrowed the gap.
“How long will it take to assemble another crew?” Bell asked.
“As long as it takes to coal and water the tender,” replied Lofgren. Then he smiled wearily, revealing a set of crooked teeth, and added, “Providing we’re lucky and one happens to be standing by.”
“I’m grateful to you both,” Bell said sincerely. “You did a heroic job getting over the Sierras. You must have set a record.”
Lofgren pulled out his big Waltham railroad watch with its locomotive engraved on the back of the case. “Indeed,” he laughed. “We shaved eight minutes off the old record set by Marvin, me, and Adeline six months ago.”
“You love this engine, don’t you?” said Bell.
Lofgren laughed. “Take all the Atlantic locomotives ever put on rails: they’re the finest in the world, all built exactly the same, with identical dimensions and construction. Yet, every one is different—like people, they all have diverse personalities. Some can run faster than the others, with the same steam pressure. Some are finicky while others are jinxed, always having bad luck with repair problems. But Adeline, she’s a sweetheart. No whims; never cranky, eccentric, or ill-tempered. Treat her like a lady and she’s like a thoroughbred mare that wins races.”
“You make her sound almost human.”
“Adeline may be a hundred seven tons of iron and steel, but she’s got a heart.”
They were nearing Reno, and Lofgren pulled the whistle cord to announce his intention of switching to the siding for coal and water. He eased back on the throttle to slow the locomotive. The switchman threw the switch lever to link the tapering rails, as he had done for Cromwell’s train earlier. Then he waved a green flag to alert Lofgren that the siding was open.
Even before Adeline rolled to a stop, Bell had jumped from the cab and took off running across the railyard to the depot, which looked like a thousand other small-town depots across the nation. It was characterized by wooden slat walls, arched windows, and a peaked roof. The loading platform was empty, giving Bell the impression that no passenger trains were due to stop there anytime soon.
He stepped inside, past the freight-and-ticket office, and stopped at the telegrapher’s small room. Two men were in the middle of a deep conversation when he walked in. It struck him that their faces looked serious and grim.
“I beg your pardon,” said Bell, “I’m looking for the stationmaster.”
The taller of the two men stared at Bell for a moment before nodding. “I’m the stationmaster, Burke Pulver. What can I do for you?”
“Has a train come through with only one freight car in the last ten hours heading east?”
Pulver nodded. “They were stopped on the siding for two hours while two express trains carrying relief supplies for the San Francisco earthquake victims rolled through.”
“They were delayed two hours?” said Bell, suddenly feeling optimistic. “How long ago did they leave?”
Pulver glanced up at the Seth Thomas clock on the wall. “About four and a half hours ago. Why do you ask?”
Bell identified himself and briefly explained his chase of Cromwell.
Pulver stared Bell in the eye. “You say that freight car was carrying the notorious Butcher Bandit?”
“He was on it, yes.”
“If only I had known, I’d have told the sheriff.”
The time gap was less than Bell had dared hope. “Do you have a relay crew available? Mine is worn out, after their record run over the Sierras.”
“Who’s your crew?”
“Lofgren and Long.”
Pulver laughed. “I might have known those two would try to beat their own record.” He studied a blackboard on one wall. “I have a crew on hand.” He paused. “I thought there was something funny about that train. Reno is a relay stop for just about every train going either east or west. Highly unusual, not taking on a relay crew. Your bandit won’t get far with an engineer and fireman who are used up.”
Bell looked down at the telegrapher, a bald-headed man with a green visor perched on his forehead and garters on his shirtsleeves. “I’d like to alert lawmen in the towns ahead to stop the train and seize the bandit, whose name is Jacob Cromwell.”
The telegrapher shook his head. “No can do. The lines are down. I can’t get a message through to the east.”
Bell said, “I’ll lay money Cromwell is cutting the lines.”
Pulver studied a large blackboard on another wall that showed the trains scheduled to pass through Reno. “I’ll have a crew for you in twenty minutes. You should have a clear run until you reach Elko. After that, I hope you’ll find the telegraph in operation or you’ll run the risk of colliding with a train traveling west.”
“In that case,” Bell said cynically, “I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing Cromwell collided with it first.”
44
ADELINE WAS HITTING HER STRIDE ON THE FLAT, open stretch of track. She was touching ninety miles an hour, roaring across trestles over dry gulches, flying through small towns, and hurtling past signals indicating open track ahead. The telegraph poles running alongside the track swept by in a confused blur. Gray smoke tinged with sparks and cinders spewed from the stack, streaming back in a horizontal cloud over the cab and flattened by the head-on rush of wind.
A doleful, flaxen-haired descendant of the Vikings, Russ Jongewaard, sat in the engineer’s seat, one hand on the throttle, while Bill Shea, a tall, humorous Irishman, shoveled coal into the firebox. After
