Showdown on Car 50

The town of Willow Point was one of those small towns that were perpetually on the brink of collapse. It was established near the border of Utah and Colorado in 1852 and stood there until 1904. It was never the biggest town, nor the wealthiest. The people were there to live simple lives, away from both the gold rush and industry, while still keeping the idea of community alive. Population was small; only about 500 people lived in there at its peak in the 1860’s. As the years went on and the people refused to adapt it became increasingly obvious that all it would take was one unfortunate event to cement the town’s inevitable demise. I’ve always said that event happened on August 5th, 1883, with the disappearance of Sheriff James Greene.

Sheriff Greene lived in Willow Point for the better part of ten years. He came in as a bounty hunter looking for a fugitive and ended up staying. He was a tall man who had slicked back brown hair and dark green eyes with a scar running across his right cheek. He never spoke much about where he came from beyond that he was from St. Louis and he rarely interacted with the rest of the townspeople. On top of that he was a teetotaler and hardly religious, at least not openly. All this made him suspicious in the eyes of the townsfolk and kept him consistently in the rumor mill; but he kept the peace and disturbances dropped tenfold since he took over, so they left him to his job.

According to the townsfolk Sheriff Greene was famously gunned down chasing off some bandits who threatened his life and the town’s wellbeing the week prior. A funeral was held in absentia and the town was renamed Greene’s Point. I think people are better off thinking that than knowing the truth; a simple story but a true one that’s been eating my conscience for years. If anyone ever reads this, here’s the full and honest truth of what happened on August 5th, 1883.

Now to fully start this story we’d need to go back too far and it would be of no interest to anyone so we’re going to skip ahead to that July 12th. I was riding with a group called the Iron Cardinals led by an old man named Clinton “Dutch” Voss. On July 11th there were fourteen of us; on the 12th there were four. We were tracking down some government official or something of that nature. Was never really sure what we were doing and that was the problem with our group. By all names and rights Dutch was our leader, and he told us everything that we were going to do by the second. Problem was that one of ours, Billy Greene, was quickly taking control from Dutch and leading us on impulsive and messy raids in pursuit of glory. On this particular day we found this official and his bodyguards held up in an old building in the middle of nowhere. They opened fire on us as soon they could and we returned in kind. Billy pulled out a Winchester and started firing while still on horseback. Poor beast flew around in a panic for a while; miracle the fool wasn’t thrown off. Duke Pilgrim moved out of the way for Billy and got a bullet in the throat for his troubles. Billy threw his rifle on the ground and grabbed hold of Harrison Smith to steady himself, getting the poor kid shot down in the process. Dutch took me and my oldest friend in the world, Glenn Winters, around to look for another entrance while the full force was being placed on the outside. We heard the gunfire continue and screaming from voices we recognized as our own. We circled around and found a storm cellar entrance hidden behind some old dead bushes and managed to pry those doors open. The gunfire masked our entrance as we snuck down into the cobwebbed depths. Seeing the shadows of our targets we opened fire from below. Screaming and chaos disrupted the organized positions they had taken and we rushed our way up to finish the job. Billy came in, Winchester in hand from the front with Daniel Jones, the last survivor. One of the bleeding out guards fired towards Billy, but he used Daniel as a shield for himself and reciprocated. The others were shot down. Satisfied by the bloodbath around him Billy moseyed over to the body of the official and rummaged through his pockets. Eventually he pulled out a small black leather notebook and flipped through it.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” he shouted, while unloading his revolver into the official. “We got ourselves a train manifest!”

Billy wasted no time leading us towards the rails. He started rambling and spewing out all everything onboard this train, scheduled to pass by on August 5th. He talked about gold, medicines, clothing, his reputation, and ammunition; Billy said it was heading to Tombstone. Lucky for us Dutch got his hands on the book. He told Billy that after his little blunder of a shootout we were down at least one man to pull this off properly. That’s when Billy brought us to Willow Point.

We arrived in town after one on the 25th. Billy led us through the small town to the sheriff’s office, where his brother James had been working. We came to the office, checked for exits, and made our way inside.

James looked up from his desk towards his brother. He looked at him with a calm demeanor. Billy returned a crazed glare. He tensed himself and readied his hand on his pistol. James responded by relaxing into his chair, never breaking eye contact. James let the silence liner for three minutes before speaking.

“What do you want Billy?” James demanded.

“Now that ain’t a way to talk to family is it? I am offended to highest decorum!”

“There are illiterates smarter than you. What do you want?”

“Now look here brother, I got myself this little black book. It’s got a whole mess of information in it about gold and supplies and plenty of nice things for you and your little town to get. All I need are those safecrackers on your arms.”

“I’ll pass. Now get out of here before I lock you all up.”

“That ain’t your choice,” said Billy as he pulled his gun. “I need your help and I don’t care if I have to drag you out to help.”

“Put that down fool. You can’t shoot to save your life.”

At this point Dutch finally spoke. “Guess it’s too late for us to slip out of here,” he sighed drawing his own gun. “Look James, you help us with this job, your town gets a cut, you let us go, and we leave you be for the rest of time. If you object, I shoot you down right here and take your town for my own. Think I’ll make it a haven for people like us.”

James looked behind me; I noticed his holster and removed its contents, pointing his own gun at him.

“Fine,” he said, gritting his teeth. “But no shots fired understand?”

“Now that’s what Billy’s talkin’ about!” shouted Billy. “We meet out of town on August 5th! Be there or I blow yer face off!”

When the day finally came we had our plan in order. Glenn was going to force the train to stop using some livestock we found while we boarded car 38, there was supposedly medicine and clothes there. Then we’d move to car 50, the last in line, knocking out any security and getting the gold. It was supposed to take ten to twenty minutes. Once we disembarked Glenn would ride over and retrieve us with four horses.

Boarding the train went off without a hitch, as did making our way over to car 50. Train started moving again as soon as we left 38, fortunately crossing cars was easy for the lot of us. Lucky for us the gold in 50 was bagged in an easy to crack safe, and James had it open in moments. Billy looked through the bag and smiled. But then we heard something. Someone, I don’t know if he was patrol or just a worker, on board followed us and was now standing in the entrance to the car. Reflexively, Billy pulled out his revolver and opened fire on the man. Three rounds missed and struck what I thought was the wall with a loud clink but the fourth shot landed right between the eyes.

As soon as he fell James and Dutch’s pistols were out and aimed at Billy. I stood there a little shaken and at a loss for what to do.

“What in hell’s name was that!” cried Dutch.

“Hey! I’m covering our tracks! He woulda done somethin’,” said Billy.

“We agreed on no shooting! I don’t even think he had a gun!” I ain’t hanging for this!”

“Who says you’s hanging?”

“I did,” said James. “I looked past this until you shot that man. Now I gotta do my job. Dutch, you upheld your end; I ain’t coming for you so long as this fool pays.”

“You ain’t gonna kill your own brother,” cried Billy.

“What choice do I have?”

Just then Billy grabbed me and held me in front of him. “Take him!” he shouted. “You ain’t got no connection to him! You made no promises! Pin it on him! Take him instead!”

James stood there, gun still aimed at Billy. I could see a weakness in his eyes; obviously there was still some form of bond that James wanted to believe he had with his brother. I could feel everything in that moment. Each crease on Billy’s fingers, his breath, the rocking of the cart, which felt like it, was getting more intense. I didn’t know if it’d be James or Billy, but one was gonna kill me.

“No,” said James. “Come quietly, or you’ll be left for the buzzards.”

Without saying anything, Billy threw me out of his way; he opened fire on Dutch and James, who returned in kind. Billy got his two shots out before the others could fire. First one missed, second struck Dutch in the chest. Both Dutch and James let off their rounds simultaneously as Dutch fell. Both shots hit Billy in his chest, killing him. As me and James stood there a loud clank came from the front. James looked over and cried in panic.

“Idiot shot off the link! We’re gonna derail!”

James attempted jump off but it was too late; the cart rolled at an intense speed and threw us around in it. It rolled maybe two or three times before coming to a halt on its side. I was nauseous, bruised and dizzy but alive. When my vision straightened I saw the poor Sheriff’s head crushed under the safe. I think Billy was ejected but there was no sign of him anywhere. Dutch was a mangled corpse.

I grabbed the incredibly heavy bags and pulled myself out. I didn’t know what was in it but I wasn’t gonna let it go to waste. After lying there for a while Glenn showed up. We rode to the nearest station and made it to St. Louis by train. Turned out the bags I took had $40,000 worth of gold. We split it, leaving me with $20,000. More than I ever could’ve dreamed of having. With the gang gone neither of us saw reason to stay out West. Without those medical supplies or a lawman Willow Peak started its inevitable decline into violence and abandonment. As for me, I took that money and made a good living up in Boston. Changed my name, own a good business, and have a nice family to go with it. Not too bad for the fall man of a lunatic.