The Runaway

A hand roughly shook me awake. “Tickets,” his voice growled.

My vision still blurred with sleep, I mumbled, “Fer wat?”

“No free riders. Show me your ticket or get off at the next station.”

As I lifted my head it pounded like someone had hit me with a hammer. Screwing my eyes open, I tried to focus on the man with a ticket punch in his hand, but he weren’t no more than a gray blur. “This aint Alameda?”

He snorted, “Alameda? You’re on the number 19 train to Los Angeles, but I’m putting you off at the Tehachapi station if you don’t show me a ticket.”

Rubbing the back of my head, I narrowed my eyes, the ticket man’s features slowly coming into view, his mouth pinched in exasperation. As I forlornly pulled my pockets out, I said with a groan “Ask the sidewinder who busted my head if’n he bought me a ticket.” I gave him a lopsided grin, but he marched off cussin' me under his breath.

I tried to stand, but the pain was so bad I damn near passed out. Plopping back onto my seat, the whistle shrieked, the train shaking roughly before jerking forward. The engine chugging, we began to move for the first time since the ticket man awakened me.

I was a railroad man for almost ten years and could tell by the echoing whine from the rods turning the drive wheels that the train was fitted with both a work and helper engine. The only time that’s done for a passenger train is for a long, steep grade. As the train started to struggle uphill a man walked down the aisle toward me and fixed me with a stern gaze.

“Get up, you hear? You aint gonna rest your penniless ass in coach.”

“It’s like I tole that ticket fellar …”

But he grabbed my left wrist with his right and pulled me to my feet, my right fist making its angry acquaintance with his jaw, the blow knocking him backwards onto the man seated across the aisle. The two of them hollered at one another ‘fore he got back up with a face like thunder.

That time I knocked him to the floor. “No one lays a hand on Zach McMurtry.”

After he got up and dusted his self off, he looked at me warily. “Listen mister, I’m just trying to do my job. If you aint got a ticket I can’t let you stay in coach.”

I was fixin’ to try explaining a second time but the ruckus roused the attention of a railroad Bull. “Is there a problem, Wilson?”

“This man refuses to leave coach and hit me, twice.”

“You shouldn’t a grabbed me. I’m a deputy US Marshall, not some lazy bum.

“That so.” The newcomer wore a Colt 45 in a holster at his side and a black bowler on his head. “Where’s your star, deputy?”

I looked at my chest, the dark spot on my buckskin where I kept it pinned looking vacant and forlorn. “Ahh, shit.”

He held out a pair of manacles and said “Give me your wrists like a good little deputy and you and I will get along swell.”

“It’s like I tole the ticket fellar …”

“Other wrist please.”

“If you jes let me explain …”

“You can talk all you want in the diner, deputy.”

“But you don’t understand …”

“No buts.”

As we walked through the smoker car to the diner, the grade grew so steep that it became difficult to continue even leaning forward. “We better take a seat before we topple over,” the detective grunted.

As I awkwardly pulled out a chair, I noticed a pretty redhead looking my way who covered her mouth to stifle a grin. I smiled back and tipped my hat, but something about her seemed awful familiar.

“Now that’s sumpin you don’t see every day,” a deep voice boomed, “Deputy Marshall McMurtry clapped in irons.” Lean and haughty, Bill Doolin stood behind a table at the Diner’s far end while Little Dick West and Charlie Pierce looked at me over their shoulders and guffawed. “Yer a long way from the Oklahoma territories, Zach.“

“And yer a long way from the Dodge City jail, Bill.”

The Bull cast a casual glance over his shoulder at Bill. “One of your friends?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“More an acquaintance, really.”

“He looks mean.”

“They don’t come no meaner than Bill Doolin.”

“Bill Doolin? Leader of the Wild Bunch?”

“Uh huh. It’s like I tole that ticket fellar …” But a waiter arrived at that moment to take our dinner orders. The Bull ordered steak and potatoes while I sat there feelin’ sorry for myself, my hands restin’ on my empty pockets. When the waiter turned to me, I told him I didn’t have no money, could I please jes have a glass of water? When the Bull said he would cover my order I mumbled “Much obliged,” even though it stung my pride. I didn’t even look at the menu, ordering the steak and potatoes as well.

The meat was thick and juicy and was as tender and fatty as it looked. After I wolfed down the steak, I sopped up the grease with the taters and then licked my fingers. It was all so good that neither of us spoke while we ate, Bill Doolin be damned. But as we finished up and I sighed with pleasure; Bill, Little Dick and Charlie got up, almost on cue, and headed toward the smoker. As a parting shot, Charlie said over his shoulder “Bet you wish you never left Alameda.”

“Who said I was in Alameda?”

Little Dick gave Charlie an angry shove before they passed through the Diner’s door.

“I hope your not thinkin’ of doin’ anything stupid, deputy.”

I fixed him with a curious stare before replying, “Bill’s wanted in Kansas and the Oklahoma territories for bank robbery and the murders of three deputy marshals. After his last bank robbery, he fled to the Oklahoma territories. When he finally came out of hidin’, I followed him all the way to Alameda.”

“You know, deputy, California is not the territories. You got no authority to hunt wanted men here.”

“Nope. But the sheriff of Alameda does. He was very accommodating.”

“Was he, now.”

“It’s like I tole that ticket fellar …”

But the redhead picked that moment to stand and daintily brush off the front of her dress. Then she sashayed down the aisle just sassy as you please and we both stood and tipped our hats as she walked by without so much as a nod in greeting. After she passed through the door to the smoker, I mopped my brow. She was the same gal that landed me ticketless and in irons.

It hurt my pride to tell the Bull what happened in Alameda, even more than eating the steak on his dollar. “I've seen that little redhead afore," I said sorrowfully, "she gave me a come hither smile in an Alameda saloon and the next thing I knew I woke up on the number 19 train with nary a ticket or a dollar to my name.” He only grunted in answer, and I stared down at my plate, ashamed to look him in the eye. “She’s probably one of Bill’s angels. He uses pretty women for lookouts and diversions and such.”

He snorted. “So she gave you a grin and wink and you followed her willy, nilly into an ambush? Damn, your green for a lawman,” he said unkindly. “I hope you got sumpin you can fall back on ‘fore you get yer dumb ass shot.”

Neither of us said anything for several minutes after that. But I kept thinkin' about that little redhead, hopin’ she had nothing to do with Bill at all.

I’m aint gonna lie, seeing her in the Saloon and then again on the number 19 lit a fire in my belly no gal had ever lit before. But the bull got it wrong, I had been a good lawman before that gal lodged herself in my heart with that smile. I wasn’t born yesterday, I know what fools love makes of men. But even as clear eyed as I was in that moment, I knew I would gladly throw it all away if she smiled at me like that again.

The Bull finally broke the silence, “I don’t see what you can do about it now anyhow. It aint a crime to be a pretty woman.”

“Yer thinkin' that cause you don’t know Bill Doolin."

“The Wild Bunch haven’t committed any crimes in the great state of California that I ever heard.”

“Not yet they aint, but they rob trains. And here he is on the number 19 to Los Angeles with Little Dick and Charlie and maybe that pretty little redhead too. If’n I was you, I’d keep a watchful eye on all of them. It’s like I tole that ticket fellar …”

But the whistle sounded and the train began to slow. After toiling up that steep grade for God knows how long we were finally approachin’ the Tehachapi station.

“Well then,” the Bull said with eyebrows raised and his hands palms pressed against the table, “this is where we say goodbye, deputy.” But as the train came to a halt, my heart sank, the angry hiss of steam as the engines stopped sounding like the Almighty’s judgment crashing down from on high. Bill was still on that train and the Bull hadn't done nuthin'.

Realizing the train had not crested the hill I asked “Why are we still on the incline? That wasn’t done when I was a railroad man.”

“The train is fitted with the latest invention. Air brakes if’n you can believe it. It's perfectly safe. The number 19 does it all the time.”

“Huh. Never heard of ‘em.”

Walking through the diner to the door leading to the platform, we stepped outside into the cold night air. “Fancy a smoke?” He pulled a pair of El Mundo’s from his pocket.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

As he lit my cigar, the two engines were towed to a sidetrack and then disconnected. The helper engine was taken to the turntable to wait for the return trip down the grade while the road engine went to take on coal and water. But the train cars sittin’ on that steep incline made me almost as uneasy as seeing Bill Doolin and the pretty redhead on the same train where I was dumped like a penniless duffer.

About halfway through my cigar Bill, Little Dick and Charlie stepped onto the platform. Bill tipped his hat in mock courtesy and Little Dick and Charlie guffawed as they passed. A few minutes later I heard Bill’s voice yell “Giddy-up,” and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. “Bill robbed the goddamn train,” I growled as I dropped my cigar to the ground and crushed it with the toe of my boot. The Bull took another drag on his as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “Are you deaf? Bill robbed the train. Does the number 19 carry payroll?”

“Not today,” he answered casually.

“Are there any wealthy travelers on board?

“The former Governor and his wife, and a couple Los Angeles business owners and their wives.”

“The former Governor? You better check their car to see if they are alright. I wouldn’t trust Bill Doolin any further than I can spit.”

“What the hell,” he said with irritation, and tossed his cigar on the track as he hopped up the steps to the diner. Remembering I was still manacled, I yelled, “can you take these off first?” but he had already disappeared into the car. I had hoped he would return shortly, and finally be ready to do something about that scoundrel Bill. But as the minutes slowly passed and wind on the top of the grade began to gust, I trembled in the cold, a wishin' I had not put out my cigar.

When I heard a loud squeak, I turned toward the diner door expecting the Bull to rejoin me. But instead, the diner car lurched and began to back down the incline as I stared in open-mouthed disbelief. Where was the conductor? Where were the brakemen? Once I found my voice I squawked “Runaway train!” and ran after the retreating smoker car before swingin’ myself up onto its platform and fallin’ flat on my face when my manacled hands lost their grip on the slippery guard rail.

Standing woozily, I felt thick blood running like snot out of my nose before grabbing the hand brake. But it was so stiff from lack of use that I couldn’t budge it. I ran through the smoker yelling “Runaway train! Runaway train!” like a mad man, and nearly fell when I tripped on a Chinaman sitting cross legged in the aisle. He jumped up and waived his arms angrily, cussing my back in Chinese as I sprinted through the door at the other end of the car.

I grabbed the hand brake on the diner’s rear platform but it was stuck as well, the rails chattering faster and faster beneath the cars as they gathered speed while I frantically yanked on the brake. With time running out, I ran through the smoker a second time and nearly ran into the Chinaman a second time. We yelled at one another for a few more wasted seconds before I pushed him aside and exited the door that I had entered when I first jumped on the train.

I entered coach next and yelled for help. Thank God another railroad man joined me, but by the time we sprinted to the back of coach the cars were moving so fast that when we finally set the hand brake the car bucked and my face rammed the door. If my nose wasn’t already broken, it surely was after that. A moment later we hit a curve still goin’ too fast, the car lurching as we watched the cars ahead of the Smoker sail off the track before sliding down the steep ravine. But even with the Coach car’s hand brake set, the coach and smoker continued to rattle down the track as the cars in the ravine burst into flame.

Staring at one another in horror, we sprinted back through the car to the back of the smoker and yanked on the hand brake for all we were worth till we set it as well. When the two cars finally rolled to a stop, I leapt off the back of the car and skidded down the stones in the cut and then careened down the steep ravine in the darkness toward the burning cars.

Every few steps I would kick a heavy rock in the darkness or stumble in a depression, but I ran on as if nothin’ could stop or hurt me, unconscious of the pain or injuries I experienced running that long mile and a half to the cars, terrified that little redhead was trapped by the flames. Save for my desperate need to save her, I could not have covered that distance in the darkness with such utter disregard for my own safety.

Unfortunately, the first man that I pulled from the burning Mail car was already dead. The other postal clerks and the baggage man in the next car were beat up but came out in fair condition. Once I got to the first sleeper car the other railroad man caught up with me and we pulled the railroad Bull out of a broken window along with three other passengers. At the next sleeper we saw a man’s legs sticking out of the bottom of the car, but when we pulled him out, we heard women screaming from inside the car. I started to squeeze into the hole but someone grabbed my feet and pulled me back out. I hit him hard enough to knock him to the ground and pulled myself a second time through the opening, but multiple hands grabbed my legs this time and pulled me out again.

By that point the flames inside the car were hot enough that my hair had caught fire. One of the men covered my head with a coat to smother the flames, but they had to wrestle me to the ground because I tried to enter the car a third time. But the next time I stood my head swam and I crashed to my knees, pukin’ the half-digested meat and potatoes before sitting heavily on the ground. I cried like a baby as I helplessly watched the fires in those cars burn until only their metal frames remained.

After the fire finally burned itself out and the embers glowed dully in the darkness, a rescue train with five flat cars stopped on the tracks above the ravine to pick up the survivors. But my feet hurt so badly that I could not stand, and they had to carry me back up the ravine and laid me on one of the flat cars with the other injured passengers. Once we arrived at the Tehachapi station, the railroad Bull finally removed the manacles.

When a doctor finally examined me early the next afternoon, my feet were so swollen he had to cut off my boots. In addition to a broken nose and third degree burns on my scalp, I had broken four of my toes and dislocated my left shoulder. Since the blood in my boots had dried during the night, the doctor had to peel the leather off my feet startin' the bleedin’ all over again.

A relief train sent to the Tehachapi station arrived later that afternoon, and they loaded the dead and the living to finish the run to Los Angeles. The Bull kindly visited me in my room and told me that none of the three women who had died on the train were the little redhead. She must have snuck off the train at the Tehachapi station and rode off with Bill and the others. If Bill had robbed the train or any of its passengers, the fire destroyed the evidence.

Altogether fifteen people died in the fire. The only ones unaccounted for were the redhead, Bill, Little Dick and Charlie. They had all used aliases.

Two weeks later when I was up and about again. I returned to Alameda to look for the little redhead, but she was long gone. I wasn’t even able to learn her name. When I reluctantly returned to the Oklahoma territories and went to see Deputy Marshall Tilghman I decided it was long past time to turn in my resignation.

But he refused to accept it till I tole him the story starting with the ambush in Alameda and all the way to me running into that ravine after that pretty girl. He didn’t say a word till I finished, just a starin' hard at me under his heavy brows.

“You can’t be serious, Zach," he said with a sad shake of his head. "Your too good a lawman to waste your life chasing after one of Bill’s runaway’s. What’s got into you?”

“I don’t rightly know, Marshall. All I can say is even if I didn’t go after her, I can’t do this no more. Bill didn’t just steal my badge and all my money. He stole my pride too. I can’t go on as a lawman pretending he didn’t get the better of me and made a fool of me in the bargain.

“When that gal smiled at me the way she did, a quiet voice inside whispered ‘Zach, this is the one for you.’ It don’t matter none if she strayed from the paths of the righteous. It’s like the railroad Bull said to me, ‘It aint a crime to be a pretty woman.’

“Maybe I’ll find her and maybe I won’t. Maybe she won’t give me the time of day even if’n I do. But I’ve got to try just the same, Marshall.”

He shook his head sadly and replied “There aint no gold at the end of that rainbow, Zach McMurty. Even if you find her, in the end she leave you, cause that’s what gals like her do. They always runaway in the end.”

I thanked him just the same and said my goodbyes. I figured I’d look up that railroad Bull and try to get a job on the number 19. They say that criminals always return to the scene of their crime. Well, if’n she does, I’ll be there to greet her.

Post Script:

Although Zach McMurtry never saw the little redhead again, some years after hiring on the number 19 train between San Fransisco and Los Angeles, he did meet another redhead by the name of Sallie Callahan who caught his eye. After courting her for six months they married, five years to the day after the train derailment on the Tehachapi grade.

He told the story of his encounter with Bill Doolin on that train often , the story growin' more detailed and fantastic over the years. Those who knew him well only half believed him, since he was known for tellin' whoppers. As he grew older, he often entertained his grandchildren with stories of the old west, and they loved him for it.

Bill Doolin was captured in 1896 by Marshall Bill Tilghman, but it was Marshall Heck Thomas who killed him with a shotgun blast later that same year. He was 38 years old. By 1898, every last member of the Wild Bunch was dead.