A Train To Catch

I sat in an odd little tavern, The Whiskey Barrel. Shaped like a barrel turned on side and sunken into the ground, built of wood from the town’s lumber yard. Fourteen circular tables dotted the room. The floors were impeccably clean, in spite of last night’s shindig. The faint scent of daylilies wafted through the air. I sat at the bar, sipping some soda water and looking over my new Marshal’s badge. Glass clanked as Robin, the bartender and owner, stocked the bar for the evening rush.

Robin, much like her bar, keeps herself very well-kempt. She keeps her dark hair tied in a bun. She’s usually got an apron on over a simple, olive green dress, but I’ve never seen a stain on either. Come to think of it, I hadn't seen a single blemish on her whatsoever. That doesn’t mean she’s soft, though. I haven’t seen her get any help moving the barrels of whiskey that her tavern is known for, either. Robin is much tougher than she’d seem at a glance.
“You’ve heard those rumors about the ghost train, haven’t you?” I said. Robin nodded.
“I hear everything, Marshal,” she said, placing some glasses on the counter. “Those loggers don’t know how to keep quiet ‘bout a thing.”
“Go on. I want to get out of here before the whistle blows,” I said. The whistle would mark the end of the workday for the loggers. The tavern would be too crowded to hear myself think within minutes.
“I’ve overheard that it rushes through here towards Copperpeak every other night, ‘bout a quarter after three,” she said. “It’s got all those logger boys spooked. They think it’s the spirit of that express train that wrecked last year. How a pile of scrap can have a spirit, I don’t know.”
“No one’s supposed to be on the line then,” I said, furrowing my brow and running my hand through my shaggy, sandy-brown hair. “Has anyone actually seen the steamin’ thing, or are they just spewing?”
“Tayler saw it last week, but I’d seen how much he’d had to drink. I’m surprised he made it home at all.”
“Hm. It’d do him some good to stay out of the drunk tank,” I said. “Do you think any of this has to do with those missing freight cars up north?”
“Maybe. But what would a ghost need with freight?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I sighed. “Thanks, Robin. Will you tell me if you hear anything else?”
“I always do,” she said, smirking. “Whistle blows in three minutes. Better get on your way, Joel.”
I picked up my hat and nodded to the bartender, grinning. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I think I’ve got my lead.” I walked out of the Whiskey Barrel and started on my way, just before the whistle blew from the south.
...
Questioning Taylor didn’t get me very far. I caught up to him before he could make his way to the tavern, but he was too spooked to tell me anything more than what Robin had already relayed. This ghost train had all of the loggers terrified. If something wasn’t done about it soon, we might have a drunken crowd ready to riot at any passing train. The people of Strompton were mine to protect. I swore to keep the town in check when I took up the badge of the last Marshal.
I decided to stake out the railroad line myself. I walked over to the signal box at the center of town, a building that the railroad uses to route which way the trains will go. Roger the signalman would have a place for me to keep an eye out all night. I’d never spoken to the man myself, though I’d heard he can be a stickler for company policy. I usually let the railroad handle themselves, but this ghost train issue had gotten too far out of hand.
Roger was hesitant when I first told him my plan, but when he saw my badge and the Alablaster, the enchanted, ivory-handled revolver that I’d won as a soldier, he quickly became compliant. Even a company shill’s got to follow the law. He had a little locomotive push an old caboose into a siding just out of town, the perfect headquarters for my little stakeout. I headed to the Strompton Jailhouse to leave instructions for my officers to follow while I was gone and the signalman set blasting caps, small, harmless firecrackers that would be set off by any oncoming train, on the rails.
The Jailhouse is the only real headquarters for me and my officers, though it was just an office, a cozy breakroom, and five jail cells. Set close to the center of town, near the train station, it is well-placed for us to rest between patrols. I’d first caught wind of the ghost train from an officer who had been staying overnight. Any message here would be seen by every active officer before nightfall. I sat at my desk, writing up the instructions, details on where I would be and what they should do. I had just finished when I heard a knock at the office door.
“Marshal Joel, permission to enter?” asked a young man’s voice.
“Always, Jesse. You don’t need to ask every time,” I said. Jesse was my deputy-in-training. He had the big brown eyes of a calf sandy brown hair. He ran a perimeter around town each morning, and you could tell by looking at him. He’d been barely an adult when I recruited him, but he was one of the best shots I'd met.
Jesse peeked his head in the door before stepping in and standing at attention in front of my desk. “Sir, I heard you were investigating that ghost train,” he said. “Do you think it’s real?”
“At ease, Jesse,” I said. The kid took a more relaxed parade rest. “You can’t ever be too sure about these things. Mab knows I saw some strange things in the Sidhe wars. I’m just keeping my word.”
“Well, um, sir, do you need any help?” the young man asked.
“I’ll need someone to watch over the other men,” I said. I couldn’t leave them completely alone, and Jesse needed some practice in leading. I handed him the note. “Read this. Spread the word, kid. You’ll be in charge tonight.” “Yes Sir!” Jesse read over the note and began to smirk with determination. “Won’t let you down, Marshal!” I grinned at Jesse and stood to leave. “Good luck, kid.”
I thought about how I’d gotten here as I walked back to my stakeout. When I came to town for an assignment two years ago, I’d intended to stay only for a few days, grab a few drinks, and head back to Copperpeak. Unfortunately, the Statesguards had chosen the wrong time to send a lone officer to check up on a little logging town. The nearby bandits had been gearing up for war, planning to run the Jackson Lumber Company out of town. Marshal Tanner and I had gathered some volunteers, arming them to fight back against the sieging bandits. Tanner died in the scuffle. The townsfolk were left without a Marshal, without a leader. I had been growing tired of city life. Too many people, too many noises, and too many vices. I resigned from the Statesguards and took over as the new Strompton Marshal. The volunteers we’d gathered became my officers.
I arrived back at the little caboose as the sun began to set. The old, wooden railcar had a fairly solid desk and a little stove. It smelled like dried ink, lamp oil, and old coffee. The circular windows supplied a decent view of the main rail line and let the last rays of sunlight in as I took final note of my gear and looked over the wanted list once more. If my suspicions were right, I'd see a familiar face or two soon enough. I set a signal flag and my holster with the Alablaster on top of the desk. I set a cot under the desk for myself and laid down, still wearing my leather coat and denim trousers, hoping to get a little shut-eye before 3am.
...
Pounding pistons.
A blaze of fire.
Hissing Steam.
A wailing whistle.
Tearing metal.
Shattering wood.
...
I woke with a start, hitting my head on the bottom of the desk. Had those sounds been real? I looked through the caboose's windows, checking down the line with my spyglass. Nothing yet. Must've been a dream.
Snap!
A small blast of gunpowder sounded, and I could hear a distant oncoming train from the north. The blasting caps I'd had Roger place on the rails would signal any experienced engineer to slow down for fog, and, sure enough, the chuff chuff of the engine began to lose tempo. I could see this train. The odor of coal smoke began to overtake the fresh scent of pine. A large express locomotive of at least eight driving wheels, its funnel billowing smoke and steam, pulled a few flatbeds with logs strapped onto them and a boxcar painted in deep bronze Crudeia military livery, headed south towards Copperpeak. Those were the missing freight, definitely not some ghost.
I grabbed the signal flag, my holster, and my hat from the desk and ran onto the rails, waving the frantically with one hand while I strapped my holster on with the other. The engine showed no sign of stopping, forcing me to jump from the tracks. As the train began to pass me by, I dropped the flag and sprinted after it. Two masked men armed with rifles fired at me from atop the boxcar. I could hear the bullets whiz past and slam into the ground around me in explosions of dust and dirt. I leapt onto one of the flatbeds as the rails curved the train toward me, grabbing onto the rough bark of the logs for dear life. I unholstered the Alablaster and fired at one of the bandits with a glowing blue puff of smoke. The first shot hit true, plowing into his chest and knocking him several feet back and off the boxcar.
The remaining bandit shouted after his fallen friend before he started to line up a shot on me. I tried to duck behind the logs. Bullets rained down against the wood, sending splinters flying. I returned fire with the Alablaster, but my luck had run out. A blast of blue light struck the back of the boxcar. I just couldn’t aim while the flatbed railcar rocked on the tracks. The train lurched forward, gaining speed as the rails straightened out just as the bandit pulled the trigger again. The shot went wide as the shock jostled the bandit. The flatbed I crouched on began drifting away from the rest of the train. The wild shot must have shattered the chain holding the flatbed to the train. I took my chance, pulling myself forward and jumping onto the next flatbed while the bandit reloaded. The back of the train was left behind, losing momentum as it was no longer pulled by the locomotive.

A Train to Catch

I crept as close as I could to the boxcar. I wouldn’t give the bandit an easy shot. He leaned over the edge of the boxcar and tried to shoot me from above. I’m a fair bit taller than most folks around here, giving me much more range than anyone is really used to dealing with. I reached up and latched onto the barrel of his rifle before the bandit could take aim. I yanked suddenly, but his grip was too strong. We struggled with the barrel, him trying to aim a shot and me keeping the rifle aimed at the ground. I gave one final hard tug on the gun, and it abruptly released from his hands as he let go.
I was sent tumbling backwards. The rifle flew from my grip. I barely held onto the strap that held the logs on the car, gripping it with my off hand before I could fall off the train. The bandit pulled out his pistol and took aim at me once more and, hit me directly in the shoulder.
Pain seared through my right shoulder, flooding down my arm. The Alablaster tumbled off the side of the flatbed as I lost my grip on it. I grabbed the rifle and used it as a cane to push myself to my feet. I shuffled to the end of the flatbed, the wind cutting at my eyes, and swung the rifle like a club at the bandit's arm before he could get off another shot. I heard a wet, sickening snap as the bandits arm broke, flinging his pistol off the train. He cried out in pain as I climbed up onto the boxcar. He whimpered feebly as I removed the bandana from his face. He was on my list. John Plowson, a farmhand turned crook. I stepped over him, walking towards the front of the train.
A man sat in the cab of the engine, his heat-cracked face lit by the open firebox as he shoveled coal into it from the tender, the rail car that held extra coal and water to power the locomotive. The man wore an old, torn engineer's uniform, battered overalls over a red, long-sleeved shirt and a denim cap. A tarnished pistol stuck out of his pocket. The red light of the fire shown brightly off of a long scar across his nose. I'd seen him once before. He was Robert Bower, the engineer let go when he wrecked the express train last year. Dozens of workers died from his recklessness that day. Must have been excuse enough to turn to a life of crime. He wouldn't be destroying anymore lives but his own if I had anything to do about it.
I took a few steps back, lifting Plowson onto my good shoulder before dashing towards the engine. My footsteps rang out against the roof of the boxcar in time to the pumps of the engine's pistons. I dove into the tender, burying myself and the incapacitated crook in the coal. The rifle tumbled from my fingers as I landed. I waded through the black stones and dust, pulling Plowson to the surface and feeling around for the lost gun. When I stood back up, my search fruitless, I came eye-to-barrel with the twisted engineer's pistol. A wide grin spread across his face. There was nothing human behind his green eyes. I lifted my hands in surrender. It would be better to wait for an opportunity than to strike now, with every disadvantage.
"Very brave of you, jumpin' onto my train," Bower shouted over the sound of pistons. His voice was a rusted razor. His breath smelled like a musty crypt. "Is that a Marshal's badge I see?" I scowled at the aged man. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. Scum like him don’t deserve it.
"One of those silent hero types, are ya?" said Bower. He jabbed his thumb in my wounded shoulder. Tears blurred my vision as my nerves exploded with pain. I couldn’t bite down on a scream of agony.
"Not so silent now, sonny." he said. I grit my teeth, building my resolve. My left hand flew up, snatching his wrist as his other hand pressed harder into the bullet wound. I groaned and squeezed his wrist until he lost his grip on his pistol. He lunged for it and missed as it landed in the coal. I kicked him in the chest as he scrambled for his weapon, sending him sprawling backwards into the cab. Past him, out the cab window, I could see a tight curve in the rails. The engine had never stopped gaining speed, the pistons reaching a nearly impossible tempo. If we went over that curve, it would add another deadly wreck to Bower's record. I reached for the handbrake, but Bower flung a kick into my knee before I could reach it. I fumbled on top of him. He twisted around, wrapping his calloused hands around my neck and pinning me down. "You'll kill us both!" I croaked. He pressed down harder, my vision going red as blood pumped in my skull. The maniacal engineer's grin hadn't left his face. He shouted, "I’ve crawled out of the smoldering ruins of one wreck already! Do you think I couldn’t get out of another?"
I flailed about, trying to get some leverage. I kicked, punched, and pulled at Bower desperately. My vision began to fade. I couldn’t give up, the townspeople needed me. I reached out, looking for something to grasp. The shovel! I gripped the handle of the shovel, just under its head, and jabbed the blade at Bower with the last of my strength. He bellowed as the dull blade sank into his side. I wrenched him off of me, sending him stumbling into the pile of coal in the tender. I reached up to grab the handbrake once more when I heard a shout. Bower had found the rifle and was bringing it up to aim at me. Just as he did, a whistle shrieked behind him. The twisted engineer turned to see what it was. Green, glowing smoke rose in a pillar from behind the boxcar.
"No! Not again! I didn't mean to crash. I survived you once," shouted Bower, "You can't take me!"
He shuddered in his boots, his shouts turning to incoherent wails. The ghastly smoke grew closer by the second. Green light surrounded the cab. I couldn't see anything, but I could still feel the brake in my grasp. I blindly pulled the handbrake with all my might, squeezing my eyes shut. Metal screeched as the locomotive's wheels stopped, the machine groaning in agony. A chilling wind cut into me, and I heard the screeching, mournful whistle once again. I was sent tumbling as the engine lurched. I felt the engine slow just enough to pass over the curve safely.
Snap!
Another blasting cap went off. A stampede of hoof beats resounded. I opened my eyes and looked around the cab. The sickly green light was gone, and Bower was nowhere to be found. My officers circled the engine on their horses as it came to a stop. I stepped out of the cab, holding my injured arm as blood oozed from the wound.
"Settle down, everyone," I said, wiping some coal dust off my pants, "I think I’ve handled it."
...
Plowson and I were taken back to town and checked over by the doctor. On the way back, Jesse found the Alablaster beside the tracks. I ended up with my arm in a sling for three months. I got out easier than the other guys. The stolen freight train was apparently carrying some recovered weapons from the Sidhe wars, headed for Copperpeak's black market. Plowson was held in the Strompton Jail for a few days, receiving regular check-ups until the Statesguards could pick him up. Unfortunately, his other accomplice, a known crook known as Batty Billy, didn't survive his tumble off the train. No one was able to find any trace of Bower, but he never did cause any trouble again.
The Strompton Marshal's Office was given a hefty reward for the defeat of the bandits and the repossession of the lost freight. Me and my boys were glad to receive such a bonus, though, much of it ended up in Robin's pocket. I was even able to use the extra funds to acquisition the old caboose and turn it into a Marshal's office on wheels, well suited for any other crimes on the rails. I never did find out what the ghost train was but, every year, on the anniversary of that night, I hear a distant, melancholy whistle late in the night.