Lofgren and Long stayed aboard, too. “We’re volunteering for the duration,” said Lofgren. “With the four of us spelling each other, we won’t have to stop for another relay crew.”
Bell pitched in with the coal-shoveling duties. His thigh wound from Cromwell’s bullet in Telluride had not completely healed, but as long as he didn’t put too much weight on it there was little pain. His scoop held half as much coal as those that Long or Shea pitched in the firebox, but he made up for it with two shovels to their one.
The two Southern Pacific firemen took turns keeping an eye on the water gauge and watching the steam gauge, making sure it showed their fire was burning well and the engine was operating at just under two hundred pounds of steam pressure, within a hair of the redline mark. They studied the smoke coming from the stack. When it started to go from gray to clear, they added more coal. When it turned black, it meant the fire was too thick and they had to ease off.
A competition, unchallenged and unspoken, developed between Lofgren and Jongewaard, but it did not go unnoticed. Adeline may have shown the immense power of her machinery and the lightning speed of her churning drive wheels, but it was the strength and endurance of the men who drove her to her limits that set records across Nevada that day. The engineers had the bit in their teeth and worked hard to catch the train of the killer of so many innocent people.
Seeing the semaphore that signaled the track was clear beyond Elko, Lofgren kept the throttle against its stop as he swept past the depot at ninety-five miles an hour. People waiting on the platform for a passenger train stared aghast as Adeline shot by like an immense cannonball.
Fortunately, junctions were few and far between—a few spur lines running off the main track—so they kept up their rapid speed without slowing. Then agonizing slowdowns began to occur at the town of Wells, and again farther up the track at Promontory, to allow westbound relief trains through. The delays were utilized by taking on coal and water, but a total of eighty minutes was lost.
At each stop, Bell questioned the stationmasters about Cromwell’s train. At Wells, the stationmaster told him that the engineer and fireman who had driven Cromwell’s train from Oakland had been found by a section hand checking the ties and rails. He’d had them brought into town, barely able to stand because they were so fatigued and dehydrated. They had confirmed what Bell had feared: Cromwell had frequently ordered the train to stop so his hired gun could climb the poles and cut the wires.
“How are we doing?” asked Lofgren when Bell climbed back in the cab.
“The stationmaster said they passed through three hours ago.”
“Then we’ve picked up an hour and a half since Reno,” Long said with a wide grin, knowing their untiring efforts were paying off.
“From here to Ogden, you’ll have to keep out a sharp eye. Cromwell is cutting the telegraph wires. We’ll be running blind, should we come upon a westbound train.”
“Not a great threat,” said Jongewaard. “The company won’t risk sending trains down the main line if they can’t contact stationmasters to set schedules. Still, we’ll have to be on the alert, especially around turns where we can’t see more than a mile ahead.”
“How far to Ogden?” asked Bell.
“About fifty miles,” replied Jongewaard. “We should make the station in about an hour.”
WITH LOFGREN at the throttle, Adeline pulled into Ogden’s Union Station forty-two minutes later. He was switched to the coal-and water-loading siding and brought the locomotive to a halt. Their routine was now well established. While Long and Shea loaded the coal and water, Lofgren and Jongewaard checked the engine and oiled the drive connectors and wheel bearings. Bell hurried into the big station and found the dispatcher’s office.
A pudgy man sat at a desk, staring out the window at an arriving passenger train. His interest was particularly taken by the young pretty women who showed ankles when stepping down the Pullman car steps. Bell read the name on a small sign sitting on the front of the desk.
“Mr. Johnston?”
Johnston looked Bell’s way and smiled a friendly smile. “Yes, I’m Johnston. What can I do for you?”
Bell ran through his story of chasing Cromwell for perhaps the sixth time since leaving San Francisco. “Can you tell me when the train came through?”
“Never came through,” answered Johnston.
“Never came through your station?” Bell’s thick eyebrows lifted toward his mane of blond hair.
“Yep,” Johnston said, leaning back in his swivel chair and setting a booted foot on a pulled-out drawer. “They were switched onto the line heading north.”
“How?” snapped Bell. “It was not a scheduled train.”
“Some rich woman showed papers to the dispatcher at the junction up the track that said she had chartered a train with right-of-way clearance to Missoula, Montana.”
“The bandit’s sister,” said Bell. “They’re trying to reach the border and cross into Canada.”
Johnston nodded in understanding. “The dispatcher checked with me on southbound trains. None was scheduled until tomorrow morning, so I told him to go ahead and allow the lady’s train to travel north.”
“When did this take place”
“A little less than two hours ago.”
“I’ve got to catch that train,” Bell said firmly. “I’d appreciate clearance to Missoula.”
“Why not telegraph the sheriff in Butte to stop the train and take the bandit and his sister into custody?”
“I’ve tried to do that since leaving Reno, but Cromwell has cut every telegraph line between here and there. No reason for him to stop now.”
Johnston looked stunned. “My God, he could have caused a head-on collision.”
“Until he and his sister reach the Canadian border, they have nothing to lose, even if it means killing anyone who gets in their way.”
Shocked understanding had come to
