Bella

He woke up with a pounding headache lying on the floor of a train, loose newspapers scattered around him. Exactly three things incited profound worry—his head was bloody; screams pierced the air from the other side of the door; and he had no memory of who he was or how he got there.

He clambered to his feet, clutching at loose trunks and valises. A huge stack of buffalo hides towered to the ceiling, and the scent of the old fur gagged him. He fought a wave of dizziness as the train rocked fiercely. Staggering to the window was difficult, for the ground beneath his feet was inclined. He stared into the bright, piercing sunlight to get his bearings. Brushes and shrubs whisked by at an alarming rate; he had never been on a train this fast.

Opening the window, he stuck his head out. Mountains kissed the sky with their snow-capped peaks in the distance. He craned his neck and to his left the steam from the proud head of the locomotive billowed. This would not normally have been a problem, except that the train plummeted down the mountain with the caboose leading the charge.

The sharp incline made the train gain speed with every passing second. The man glanced to his right. Although the tiny town was far away—too far to read the signs for the telegraph office or livery stable he knew must be there—the train rushed toward it much too swiftly.

Something must be wrong with the brakes.

He whipped back around, surveying the interior of the car. A row of simple windows, cases, trunks, valises, and more were tossed haphazardly. Old ticket stubs littered the floor. The door at the front of the car was shut. The man shifted his booted foot, and a newspaper headline caught his attention.

Zachariah Turner Robs Another Train! Bounty of Former Sheriff Raised to $10,000.

The man snatched the newspaper from the ground, nearly stumbling. The train bucked like an unbroken Palomino. The date in the corner read August 2, 1869. His eyes swept over the text.

“Zachariah Turner, once the Sheriff of Silverton, Colorado, has robbed another train. He frequently targets government-issued gold and silver bullion. This is his fifth heist, and authorities have raised his bounty accordingly. Turner works by slashing the air hose that connects the brakes—”

The man immediately dropped the paper and ran to the door.

Screaming from the other passengers… air brakes slashed…Turner must be aboard the train.

Finding out whoever he was, whatever his name was, could wait. If he didn’t stop the train, he and the passengers would die, and if the train jumped its tracks near the town, the folks there would likely perish, in the actual crash or slow starvation, cut off from supplies from the ruined track. He had seen a train crash before, a little girl fell down–

He gripped the bronze door handle and yanked down hard. Locked. He swore heavily. Pounding on the door, he yelled, “Help! Somebody, help!”

A shriek answered him.

He shook the door handle once more, adrenaline flooding his body. He kicked the door, but it did not budge. He had to get out, get to the locomotive, and see if there were any way to stop the train. A little girl in a blue dress–

Running to the back, he hefted up a valise and threw it down with all his strength at the lever door handle. It broke, and the door swung open.

He had no time to admire the posh interior of the car, the crimson velvet carpet beneath his feet, the sparkling sequence of chandeliers above his head, or the rococo embellishments on the ceiling. No time to gaze at the red-and-gold damask curtains that framed the arched windows stretching the length of the car.

Clusters of passengers huddled together in plump, high-backed leather seats that could sit three or four passengers in a row; the bonnets of the women were knocked askew, and the men’s suits were rumpled. Their faces were as pale as the lace adorning their necks and wrists and appeared just as fragile. One elderly man to his immediate right with silver hair and a bronzed face had white, bell-shaped flowers in his lapel that had been crushed in the chaos. Several jerked their heads up at the man’s entrance. Fear was written on every visage, and several women screamed when he entered the car.

“We need to get to the engine room!” he shouted. “Who here can help me?”

Only the screech of metal against metal answered him. For one awful moment, no one moved. Then, as if in slow motion, a passenger rose to his feet. He lifted his arm. The ivory of the handle was as white and smooth as cemetery bone. The golden rays of sunlight illuminated the silver filigree on the barrel. The click of the Colt made the man’s blood turn to ice.

He’s holding everyone hostage!

He ducked behind a seat the moment Turner shot at him, the explosion ripping through the air, making his heart stutter. Women and men alike screamed in terror. He crashed into the old man with the bronze face. His suit jacket fell open, and the gleam of a gun winked at him. The old man punched him, and the man recoiled in shock. He didn’t have time to wonder why the passenger would attack him; he simply returned the punch two-fold, ripped his gun from its leather holster, and checked the chamber. Only three copper-plated chances to put down a violent criminal like the dog he was.

He peeked his head over the edge of the seat.

Turner fired his gun. Another bullet whizzed by him, shattered the window above his head. He snapped his eyes shut against falling crystal. With skills that he didn’t know he possessed, the man raised his head and took aim. Pulled. Missed. The acrid smell of gunpowder was as sharp as Turner’s aim. The pungent odor cocked the trigger to his memory, and his neurons fired. A gunfight from another life. Odor of horseflesh and burning wood. Pounding drums.

He ducked again.

One of Turner’s bullets buried itself in the seat his back was pressed against, and the man flinched. He took a deep breath. And another. His blood pounded in his ears, but a strange calmness fell over him. By his count, Turner had only two bullets left, if he even started with six. He just needed one clean shot. He raised himself to crouch on his knees, closed one eye, stared down the center of the barrel, and fired.

Turner was knocked backward by the impact of the blast, and crimson bloomed on his chest. The man lowered his gun; his chest still heaved. He looked around wildly at the other passengers, who were still paralyzed by fear. Turner was dead, but he still needed to stop the train. Heart pounding, he slowly stood up.

“Who is the brakeman?” he demanded. He swiveled around. He suddenly lost his footing when the train rounded a particularly sharp curve. The incline was not as sharp, though the train gobbled the track, closing the distance between them and the town. When he righted himself, he repeated, “Who here knows the brakes?”

Eyes wide as silver dollars stared unblinking at him. Why would no one respond? Didn’t they just see that he had killed their captor?

One man in rugged, stained overalls raised a hand. His face was filthy from sweat, coal dust, and God knew what else. “I do, but—”

The man strode toward Overalls. Passengers flinched as he passed them. “Come on, then!” He pulled the Brakeman to his feet. “Where do we go?”

The Brakeman glanced at the gun still in the man’s hand. “We—it’s—at the front. The locomotive”

“Take me there.”

The Brakeman’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

They clutched the seats in front of them. The train roared down the mountain, and every time there was a bump, the other passengers screamed or gasped. On shaky feet, they strode to the locomotive. Between each car was a gangway connection, but the wind nearly knocked them off the tiny platform, and the man had to clutch onto iron bars for support. They passed through the post office car, then the tender, where all the coal was stored, then they finally reached the head.

When they entered, a blast of heat from the furnace greeted the man, and he instantly broke a sweat. It was so hot that the tiny hairs on his arms shriveled. Ashes from the coal coated his throat, and he coughed violently. Some of the ashes flew into his eyes, and he squinted at the sight before him.

Never in all his life had he seen a more complicated tableau. Pipes and levers crisscrossed each other, while half a dozen wheels framed the yawning maw of the furnace. Gauges told him information he had no idea what to do with.

He turned his focus to the Brakeman. “How do we engage the brakes?”

The Brakeman looked at him with an inscrutable expression, a mixture of horror and fear. “We can’t.”

“What do you mean can’t—”

“Why are you doing this? Why are you helping?” The Brakeman pleaded.

“I don’t wanna die, goddammit. We need to stop the train as soon as—”

“I know your daughter was killed, but you don’t need to hurt innocent people.” Once again, the Brakeman glanced at the gun. “Please, Mr. Turner, just say what you want, so I can go to my grave in peace.”

Even though they barreled toward the sleepy, dusty down, and the metal screeched beneath them, and the wind howled in the open windows, and the passengers screamed with every unexpected lurch, everything quieted inside Zachariah Turner’s mind. Silence. Nothing but the beat of blood in his ears.

For one infinitesimal second, he didn’t believe. It was absurd. He didn’t know who he was, but he certainly wasn’t Turner. He needed to show the man proof; it mattered to him more than anything in that second, even though they sped toward the town with each passing second. His train ticket would have been stamped with his name.

“Look, we’re wasting time, but if you think—” The man yanked his wallet from his pocket. Opened it. The glint of gold caught his eye.

With trembling fingers, Zachariah Turner pulled out the Sheriff’s star that had once adorned his chest. The metal was cold.

“I read the papers,” said the Brakeman. “I know your daughter fell from the platform onto the tracks. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was an accident.”

Turner dragged his gaze to the man’s eyes, searched his face for answers that he would never find. He lifted a hand to his head. “I don’t—can’t—remember…”

“You don’t need to hurt anyone else. Blame fate or God or the Devil, but don’t blame these people,” continued the Brakeman.

Was it possible that he had done all that? Robbed trains, killed innocent people? Was he more than just his memories?

In the advanced stages of her life, his grandmother had forgotten everything, even the fact that she was his grandmother. She smiled on the good days, writhed in pain on the bad, but every day her memory faded like a newspaper left too long in the sun. But she was still Shirley, still the person who had raised him, forged his character in a crucible of church and whuppings and natural consequences. Even though she had forgotten everything in the end, she was still her, even if she didn’t remember.

All that was left was actions. But if he had committed evil, then what did that make him?

Turner slowly pinned the star to his chest once again. He didn’t know.

“Why can’t I remember anything?” he said. “It just comes in bits and pieces.”

“We hit you over the head pretty hard after you cut the brakeline. We managed to lock you in the luggage car, thinking you’d be out cold for a couple of hours.”

Turner wished he didn’t know who he was. If this was true, and the pit in his stomach told him that it was, then all his life, he had been a man of the law. He had sworn to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, keep the peace, and fight lawbreakers until the end.

Did all of that mean nothing now that he knew who he was and what he had done?

In some ways, it didn’t matter; all he could do was atone for some of the evil that he had done. That was all he wanted.

“Look, I don’t know why I can’t remember, but I promise you, I want to help. Now, how do we stop this train without the—the—”

“The brake line? We can’t. The air pressure line normally stops the wheels automatically. It runs through the entire train, but with that gone…”

Turner’s lungs deflated as if he had been kicked.

“What else can we do?”

The Brakeman glanced around quickly. “This is an older model. Maybe it’s still outfitted with the brake-wheels. Those would be on top of each individual cars.”

“How do we apply them?”

“Climb up to the roof of the cars. Turn the wheel to engage the brakes.”

Turner nodded grimly. “I’ll do it.”

The Brakeman stared at him for a moment. “Mr. Turner, I don’t know if you have a death wish, but it’s extremely dangerous. My boys have come home with lost fingers, feet, or worse. One fall, and your light’s snuffed out quicker’n a candle.”

“I said, I’ll do it!”

No time to argue; no time to think about his life, what he had done, or not done, and whether he was truly a good man or not. He didn’t know whether his life as a train robber outweighed his work as a Sheriff; all he knew was what he could do now.

The Brakeman ran to a corner and picked up a large club. “This will give you leverage. Climb up here.” He pointed to a small ladder on the side of the train that led to a trapdoor. “And godspeed.”

His belly full of hail, Turner climbed the wall-ladder that led to the trapdoor. When he opened it, air rushed in. When he poked his head out, the wind moaned in his ears with a banshee’s sorrow.

The rusty wheel that the Brakeman described was smack in the center of the car. Hauling himself up, Turner couldn’t stand up. The train shook too much; the wind would grab his lapels with greedy fingers and toss him over the side the first chance it got. He lay there, legs and arms outspread like some unfortunate lizard.

Shimmying toward the wheel, he grabbed it. When he was steady, he hung onto it and managed to sit on his knees. He turned the wheel, and when his strength gave out, he lodged the bar into a notch in the wheel and cranked it more.

Iron grating against iron shrieked in protest, and the train car vibrated horribly under him. He fixed his attention to the next car, as obstinate and single-minded as his old mule, Mary Lou. Why could he remember that damn nag when he couldn’t see the face of his daughter? Why did memory betray him, betray all of us, in the end?

He crawled on his forearms, his belly dragging against the metal beneath him. But he would have to stand now. A space of three feet gaped in front of him, and this time, no platform. Slowly, he stood and raised his eyes to the other side. The train shook so much that his teeth vibrated. For a brief moment, the majesty of the land caught his eye. If he were to die, it would be a beautiful last sight: the mauve mountains, dotted with dark emerald pine trees; the blue-gray clouds scuttling over a turquoise sky.

Three feet.

He didn’t have enough courage to take a running jump; too risky to back up and run. He couldn’t make himself move. His muscles were locked in place, but needed to relax enough to jump.

He didn’t look at the gap beneath him; he kept his eyes fixed on those mountains in the distance, the mountains that held such promise. He inhaled slowly, filling his lungs as though he had never taken a true breath in his life. Maybe he hadn’t.

He leaped.

His knees crashed against the top of the train, and he cried out more in shock that he made it than pain. Now the adrenaline pushed him forward. He had to do this six more times. Shimmy. Crank. Jump. Shimmy. Crank. Jump. Each time keeping his eyes on the mountains. Five…four…three…two…

It was working. The train was slowing, and the town did not approach quite so fast. All he had to do was engage the last car. He clutched the wheel and cranked it, but it did not budge. It was stuck, stubborn as a preacher at the pulpit when the baskets were half-empty. Perhaps the last one didn’t matter. The train was slowing; perhaps it would be sufficient to crawl back down the ladder. He just needed to get to the front.

He rose to his feet.

Turner would have made it back down, if not for the stuck brake wheel coming loose. The old gears were knocked free, and the car jerked beneath his feet. Turner slipped, clutched wildly at the empty air, the slick metal of the car, at hope, but found no purchase. His body tumbled down between the chasm of the cars.

The second before his body hit the tracks, he remembered everything. He remembered his beautiful wife, Lillian, and his daughter, Anna-bella. How she had a sprinkling of freckles on her nose and how she liked to eat strawberries in the summer. How the blue of her dress turned purple with her blood when she fell and how devastated he had been. He remembered cutting the brake lines to several trains and carrying suitcases full of gold or silver. He remembered the smell of crushed flowers.

*

The train gently rolled to a stop. The passengers were too surprised for a moment to do anything, then ran toward the exits, tumbling out, seeds scattered to the wind. A miracle, they said. They would never know that Turner saved them.

Some carried suitcases, like the elderly man with silver hair and bronzed face. He walked slowly, not with age, but because the suitcase was heavy with government-issued gold bullion. He plucked it up in the post office car when everyone was distracted with the solid ground beneath their feet, the warmth of sunlight on their faces, and the exhilaration of being alive.

His name was not important. The U.S. government had given him a name, but he kept his true name guarded in his heart. They had stolen enough from him; they did not need to take his name.

This was to be his last train. He finally had enough gold and silver to travel far away, far from the land of slaughter and bloodshed. The train company had plowed through his people’s land, ripped up the earth, carved deep iron scars; the government had spat on their treaty and given their permission for the train company to build their horrid, shrieking monsters, belching white smoke which transported the remnants of buffalo.

Buffalo. The sacred animal. No longer would he use the fur for clothing and blankets, the blood for paint, the horns for arrowheads, teeth for jewelry, bones for needles and fishhooks, the meat for sustenance, for life. The buffalo meant more than tools and food–it taught them how to live, how to act; the buffalo carried the memory of his people. The beautiful animal that once pounded across the prairie, millions strong, now lay stacked to the ceiling of train cars to appease the greed of the squatters. Now that it was gone, who would remember?

Normally, Turner would bring him the suitcase, but he had woken up unexpectedly. Turner was easy enough to find, after he had killed his father, wife, and children in a skirmish, the skirmish that had sent him far from his home. He had cut his hair, adorned uncomfortable clothes, and pretended to adopt the ways of the men who had taken everything from him, from his people. Now, he would go south, where he had first found the white flower that had given him so much power.

The man fingered that flower in his lapel. In English, it was called Atropa Belladonna. A powder could be made to make a man do anything he suggested, forget who he was, or what he did.

He hefted the suitcase and walked into town to find a horse.