Frost felt rage burn within him, hot as the flames filling the sky. Those Rebel bastards had caused him, Schmidt and Greer a lot of trouble, maybe even good jobs with the railroad, and, like Greer, he was all for hanging the raiders alongside the tracks.
If they could catch them. Frost's rage gave way to glee when he saw their chance to leave the burning boxcar behind. The men in the locomotive's cab, he knew, couldn't see anything but flames. Frost crawled forward.
"Greer!" he shouted, keeping his head beneath the billowing sheet of flame and smoke. "There's a siding about two hundred yards ahead. Slow it down and we can lose the boxcar."
Schmidt, too, had heard the fireman. He had already begun easing back on the throttle, and at a nod from Greer, he used all his strength to pull back the Johnson bar and reverse the engine. Frantically, Frost grabbed the brake wheel and screwed it down. The train ground to a halt, spewing steam, smoke and flames. Frost jumped down from the tender and ran to the siding. While they waited for Frost to throw the switch, Schmidt backed the engine away from the fireball.
The siding had an abandoned air about it. Most likely, it was used only a few times each year to load timber or hogs or corn. The switch was stiff with rust, and Frost heaved with all his might at the lever. Greer jumped down and ran over to help. Grunting and cussing, the two men finally got the switch to move.
Schmidt eased the locomotive forward until he once again came in contact with the burning car. He pushed it onto the siding, then reversed the engine. Once the locomotive was back on the main track, Frost and Greer moved the switch again so the train could bypass the siding. The boxcar was left alone, filling the sky with smoke and flames. Some of the soldiers whooped and hollered as the car burned.
The delay was maddening. By the time Greer and Frost were done and back aboard the train, the raiders had disappeared from sight. Nearby, the boxcar hissed and popped as flames poured from it.
Greer swung aboard. Frost took his place on the tender. "After them!" Greer barked. "The next time we stop, we're going to have ourselves a hanging party."
"We lost them," Johnny Benjamin reported as he peered into the distance.
"You did it, Flynn. I reckon your crazy plan worked, after all," Pettibone said with a grin. "For a while there, I thought you was goin' to roast us."
"They'll be after us again," Flynn said. "All we did was get a little extra time. The closer we get to the rendezvous, the better our chances."
Far off, they could see the smoke from the burning car. Because the smoke was now rising straight up, it appeared the boxcar had brought the Yankees to a halt. They noticed, too, that the eastern horizon was getting dark as night came on, although the sky to the west was still bright blue above the mountain peaks. The river that the tracks followed was deep in shadow, cold and misty.
Around them, the country had changed considerably. The flat, Maryland farm country they had crossed that morning was long-gone, as were West Virginia's gently rolling hills. They were now in the Allegheny mountains — the name for that portion of the Appalachian range that ran like a bony spine through Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland and up into Pennsylvania.
The Alleghenies were from two-thousand to nearly five thousand feet high, not tall compared to the huge mountain ranges in the west, but rugged country nonetheless, with steep slopes studded with rocky outcroppings that angled sharply toward the river.
The tracks followed the flat river bed as it wound through the Alleghenies, twisting and winding on itself like a copperhead snake. Gone, too, was the languid Potomac they knew so well. Here in the mountains, it had become a wild thing, foaming over boulders and fallen timber. The water was swift and shallow, clear and cold, and the river had narrowed to the point where a man could easily pitch a stone across.
It was a cruel country, especially with night coming on. The kind of place that would be glad to see a man die. There was nowhere to run except the river and mountains. The raiders had their backs to the wall.
"Here they come," Flynn said.
Behind them, the smoke trail of the pursuing engine looked like a banner in the sky. Then the train itself appeared, thundering up the tracks as if the locomotive itself were angry and bent on revenge. The tracks began to climb slightly. The Chesapeake had slowed to the point where a man could run alongside and keep up. The wet, green wood in the tender could keep the train going, but it was impossible to build any speed without a full head of steam. There was no longer a boxcar to set ablaze or railroad ties to heave off.
"Looks like this is it, boys," Pettibone said.
Benjamin nervously licked his lips. "You reckon they'll hang us if they catch us?"
Flynn checked the Le Mat to make sure it was properly loaded. "That's a possibility, lad. But there's no surer way to end up dead than being afraid of dying. Fear freezes a man up worse than any winter cold."
Pettibone shook his head and grinned. "Why is it you Irish have something to say about everything?"
" 'Tis a gift," Flynn said.
Benjamin checked his guns as well. He had taken Cook's revolver, so that he was now armed with two Colts. "Well, I reckon if I'm goin' to die, I'm goin' to take a few Yankees with me."
Flynn clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, lad. Everything's going to be all right. Just make each shot count."
The Yankee train thundered up the tracks, gaining on the raiders every minute.
All at once, they became aware of someone running beside their car. Benjamin swung both pistols at the runner.
"Don't shoot, lad!" Flynn shouted, and leaned down to help Colonel Percy onto the car. The Chesapeake, which had once hurtled down the tracks awesome speed, had slowed to the point where a man could jump on or off if he was quick. One misstep meant being ground to bits beneath the wheels.
"What's happening, Mr. Arthur?" Hudson asked, dropping Percy's military title to call him by the name he had known long before the war, back home in Virginia. "Why are we going so slow?"
"Wet wood," Percy said. "Goddamn wet wood, Hud. It's green and it's damp and it won't burn worth a damn. We can't keep up a decent head of steam."
"Looks like we've got another fight on our hands," Flynn said.
Percy shook his head. "We're not fighting this time, Flynn. We wouldn't stand a chance, out here in the open. No, we're running." He gestured at the door to the president's car. "Get Lincoln out. We're taking him with us."
"Sir?"
"Do as I say, goddamn it!"
Hudson was the first to move. He threw one of his massive shoulders against the door. Most doors would have flown off their hinges. The door to the president's car barely moved.
"Stand back, Hudson," Pettibone warned. He stepped forward and fired two quick shots into the lock. Iron and wood flew. Before the smoke from the shots even cleared, Hudson had his shoulder to the door again.
There were more shots, this time from the opposite side of the door. The bullets punched two holes in the door, the new wood suddenly showing bright where only dark planks had been before. Hudson stared down, dumbfounded, at the bright red stains spreading across his chest.
"I'm killed, Mr. Arthur," he said, locking startled eyes with Percy. "I done tried to open the door."
Hudson started to fall, and Percy lept forward to catch him. Hudson was a big man, but the colonel held him as if Hudson was a mere child, and he gently eased him to the floor of the platform.