Chapter 21: Troubleshooter

John W. Harcourt was a worried man. He had good cause. As president of the Western General Railroad, he bore ultimate responsibility for the success of the company’s latest venture, a ninety-mile branch line, planned to transport an ever-increasing volume of supplies from Stonedale, Colorado, to the gold-mining town of Sand Creek.

Harcourt’s concern arose from his position with the railroad and his involvement in the mining operation. He was a man of many interests and having satisfied himself that the gold deposits were likely to be substantial, had invested heavily. As a major shareholder in both enterprises, he was massively committed to the two operations.

After rapid early progress, things were going wrong on the Western General’s new line. Forty miles had been laid before the first incident, when two explosions which wrecked a length of track. No sooner had repairs been carried out than a further attack had destroyed another stretch. That too had been righted. Then, a week later, an even stranger incident had occurred. Six miles behind the railhead, several metals had been lifted from their ties and carried off, while on the same day – somewhere further down the line – a train had vanished. Drastic action was needed.

Harcourt bellowed a summons to his assistant, who appeared from the adjoining office, wearing the worried look he always showed when dealing with his autocratic boss, who was pacing around like a caged tiger, his florid face and hefty, five-foot-nine body radiating fury. “Find Scott,” he snapped. “I want him here, quick.”

“Yes, sir. I believe he’s over in –”

“I didn’t ask where he is,” Harcourt interrupted. “Just get him.”

“Right.”

Alec Scott, six-foot-two, lanky, clean-shaven and sandy-haired, was Harcourt’s troubleshooter. In his two years with the railroad, he had distinguished himself by averting or settling a dozen major difficulties. He moved around, finding out where the shoe pinched and trying to nip potential problems in the bud. When he was too late to do that, he had to adopt firmer methods. He never flinched from them.

John Harcourt employed many people. Most of them he considered interchangeable units. If one dropped out, another stepped in. None was indispensable, few even important. Minions generally deferred to his high-handed attitude. Scott was an exception. He didn’t seem to care whether he was employed or not, but he did know how valuable he was to the great man. There was no forelock-touching from Alec Scott. He was located on the day of Harcourt’s demand, only twenty miles from headquarters, where he arrived the following morning.

Breezing into the assistant’s office, Scott grinned at the harried man. “Morning, Charlie. What’s eating the old buzzard?” he boomed, affecting not to notice that the inner door was open. Charles Tate’s attempted reply was overridden by Harcourt’s roar: “In here, young man, and I’ll thank you for less of the insolence.”

Scott entered the sanctum, closing the door behind him. “Morning, J. W. Something gnawing at your vitals?”

“Yes, and it’s about to gnaw at yours, too.”

“At your service, Milord. What’s afoot?”

“Plenty. Somebody’s stolen one of our trains.”

Scott chuckled. “Damned careless of us to let that happen. Gives a new twist to the idea of train robbing. Where, when and how big?”

“On the new line going north from Stonedale. Just over forty-eight hours ago. Locomotive, tender and a flatcar.”

“Only one car? Why?”

“We’re having delivery problems. Sometimes we have to run either metals or ties up to the railhead that way.”

“So, it was just a load of stuff for the laying boys?”

“Of course. What else?”

“Okay, keep your shirt on. I just wanted the facts.”

“If there’s much more of this banditry, I’ll not have a shirt to my name,” said the disgruntled tycoon. He went over the attacks on the new line, then the mystery of the lost train. “It set out from Stonedale for a forty-two-mile trip to the railhead, but never arrived.”

“What about the crew?”

“Two men, as usual. They both disappeared.”

“Have you had lookouts posted along the line?”

“I pay people for putting down track, not gaping at scenery.”

“Hmn,” said Scott, massaging his chin. “Why didn’t you send for me earlier?”

“Strange as it may seem to you, I have other things to think about. This is one headache among many. Anyway, you’re here now, so get going, pronto.”

“Yes, sir, Mr Harcourt, sir,” replied Scott with mock obsequiousness. “Okay if I stop to pick up my hat?”

Harcourt reddened. “Why are you still here?” he yelled.

Two days later, Alec Scott was twenty-eight miles north of Stonedale, heading northwards on a hired horse. His initial inquiries had elicited nothing beyond general mystification about the missing train and bafflement as to why the lengths of metal had vanished. That had left him no choice but to ride along the track, and so far he had seen nothing of consequence. He was just rounding a curve. To his right was broken terrain, mostly rock outcrops and open, sparsely vegetated land. On the left was the valley from which the track diverged on its way to Sand Creek

Scott’s task was complicated by the fact that snow had fallen since the incident he was investigating had occurred. A white carpet three inches deep wasn’t conducive to picking up clues. Also, not being a regular horseman was a drawback. Scott was saddle-sore, and he didn’t have the right footwear – riding boots might have helped. He was ready for a break, but it was a piece of paper fluttering in the breeze that finally caused his decision to halt. Dismounting stiffly, he noted that he had no way of tethering his horse, but the animal was hardly likely to wander far, as the only thing that might interest it was a clump of bushes among the scattered rocks off to the east.

Lighting a cheroot, Scott walked over to the object that had drawn his attention. It was a partly unrolled label, attached tenuously to a can that had contained peaches. Further investigation turned up two more empties, both having held sardines. So, someone had spent enough time here to justify taking a meal. Scott knew that John Harcourt had firm views on various matters, one of which concerned the depositing of trash by his workers as they moved along. Once he had fired a foreman and bawled out a crew for failing to tidy up a site before leaving it. Here, either the chief’s instructions had been disobeyed, or some other party had been around.

Scott wandered back over the track to look at the valley. Down there, about three miles to the north, was a huddle of buildings. From where he stood, the land, dotted with tenacious bushes and clumps of grass, fell away at an angle of about seventy degrees – except for a wide stretch immediately beneath him, where a massive fall halfway down had produced what seemed like an almost sheer cliff, with a huge mass of tumbled rocks and earth at the bottom. Landslides were not unknown here, but this was a big and odd-looking one.

Ambling back to retrieve his horse, Scott found that it had gone off to inspect the isolated group of bushes. He was about to lead it away when his eye took in a glint of sunlight from some object a further hundred yards to the east. He strolled over to take a closer look. What he’d seen was the end of a bent railroad metal, which wasn’t alone. There was another in the same state and two more, buckled and dented.

Scott walked the horse back to the west side of the track and stood pondering. It was not until he had finished his smoke and was about to mount and move on that his jumbled thoughts assembled themselves in the right order. The missing rails up ahead, the empty food cans, the deformed metals and that heap of rocks in the valley. Now he had it!

Though convinced that he was right, the railroad troubleshooter was bent on settling the matter before the day was over. Starting at the south end of the ground above the landfall, he dragged a boot along northwards, clearing snow and soon finding what he had expected to find – two wide heavy indentations in the rocky edge, near enough five feet apart. Scott had to decide whether to return to his starting point or ride on to the railhead. He needed one item of equipment and that was available at both ends. He would be hard pressed to make it back to Stonedale, then out here again before nightfall. Knowing that the laying gangs usually kept two or three horses for emergencies, he decided to continue northwards.

At two in the afternoon, Scott reached the railhead. He paused only briefly for a meal, then rummaged in the supply tent, swapped his tired horse for a sturdy gelding and filled his water bottle. Less than an hour after his arrival, he was riding back south, regretting only that he couldn’t change his backside as easily as he’d picked up a fresh mount.

To get down to the valley, Scott was obliged to ride well south of the spot that interested him, then go back to it. Taking the sack he’d lugged from the construction gang’s store, he examined the mass of fallen rocks and earth he had viewed earlier from above. He was well-versed in the use of explosives, so knew how to set his charges. Two blasts did it, the second exposing one end of a flatcar. That was enough.

Scott wondered why, if his mental reconstruction was correct, the culprits had done so elaborate a job. They must have timed their effort so that snow, either actually falling or imminent would cover any blemishes in the scheme. They’d been aware of the train movements, had taken up the rails to the north and carted them back here. Then they’d derailed the train, probably by diverting the metals those few yards – that would work for a single passage of the engine over such a short distance.

After getting the result they wanted, the miscreants had taken the damaged rails away from the scene, then reinstated the track with the ones they’d stolen earlier. The idea might well have worked even without the snow. With it, the mystery would have been even deeper – but for Scott noticing that scrap of coloured paper, and his horse having wandered.

Though flushed with success, Harcourt’s sleuth realised that he couldn’t make it to Stonedale or to the railhead before dark. He was weary and decided to head for the settlement he’d noted from above. Forty minutes later, he reached the cluster of one-storey wooden buildings. At the northern end was a corral and livery barn. There was nobody in attendance, so Scott saw to his horse then went back to what looked like the community’s focal point, a ramshackle structure bearing the word ‘Saloon’, painted crudely on the door. He entered a room around twenty-five feet square, with a bar of planks on barrels along the rear wall.

The establishment was as depressing inside as outside, dim lights compounding an atmosphere that would have been glum enough whatever the illumination. Eight men – a trio, two pairs and a solo drinker occupied four tables, the remaining three being vacant. The short rotund near-bald saloonkeeper was alone behind the bar, eyes half-closed. If there had been any conversation before the newcomer arrived, it stopped on his entry.

Scott ordered a beer, which the barman produced without a word of greeting, his demeanour accentuating the palpable hostility toward the stranger. Finishing his drink, Scott ordered another. Still no one spoke. Well, if this was a chicken game, he would play it. Someone, probably the bartender, would break the silence before he did. He toyed with the second beer for five minutes before the host’s inquisitiveness overcame his passive animosity. “You just ridin’ through?” he grunted.

“Yes, but my horse needs a rest. You seem to have a big livery stable.”

“Yeah, well, we’re a relay station for the stagecoach line.”

“I didn’t know there was one hereabouts.”

“Fulton & Strong is the biggest stage an’ freight outfit in these parts.”

“That a fact?”

“Yes, sir. An’ likely to be bigger. Word is Jack Fulton’s buyin’ a whole new fleet of stagecoaches. Latest model from Abbott-Downin’.”

The subject seemed to touch the man’s conversation nerve. Scott raised his eyebrows. “Abbott-Downing eh?” he said. He was familiar with the name and reputation of the New Hampshire coachbuilders. “Well, that’ll cost him plenty.”

“Sure will. A good few thousand dollars.” As he listened, Scott was looking at the backbar mirror. One of the men in the threesome of drinkers wave a hand, palm downwards in a clear warning to the barman, whose flow of chatter ceased abruptly. Scott drank the rest of his beer, ordered a third, admitted that he’d stabled his horse on his own initiative and asked whether there was any chance of accommodation for himself.

“No rooms here, mister,” said the barman. “You could see Tom Robbins at the stable when he gets back. Maybe he’ll let you sleep in his hayloft, ‘less you’re a railroad man, that is.”

“Not guilty,” Scott replied. “Is that a sensitive issue here?”

“It is. Those boys just ain’t welcome in –”

“Hey, Tom.” The interruption came from another of the trio of drinkers. “You goin’ to gab there all night, or can we get a drink here?”

“Be right with you.”

Using the mirror again, Scott saw that each of the three men had a near-full glass. Obviously they were intent on silencing the barman. Still taking in the scene behind him, Scott noted that the lone drinker, a short thin fellow, slunk off without a word to anyone. Maybe that meant nothing, but in such a small parochial place, it seemed more likely that the move had some significance.

It was now fully dark outside. Not knowing where he would spend the night, Scott had set out with a bedroll and supplies. Now he would need both, as he had no intention of staying overnight in this disagreeable spot. On his way to it, he’d passed a stand of pine trees, so he collected his horse, topped up his water bottle and returned there. Finding the spot suitable, he opted for cold food and bedded down.

Shortly after first light, Scott was up and about. While making breakfast, he thought about the remarks the barman had passed the night before. Who would benefit from disruption of the railroad’s activity? Scott didn’t like jumping to conclusions, but a stagecoach and freighting company, intent on expansion, seemed a likely candidate. Still pondering, he was preparing to leave, with no definite idea about his next move, when a voice snapped: “Hands up an’ face around.”

Scott obeyed, turning slowly to see a man advancing through the trees. It was the small fellow who had left the saloon so quietly the previous night. He had a six-gun, held level. “I been watchin’ you quite a spell, mister,” he said. “Now you’re ready, we can go. Drop the shooter, slow an’ careful, an’ get on your horse.”

Scott did as he was told and the small man picked up the weapon, mounted and waved his gun at a cleft in the low hills to the west. “Head for that openin’ yonder. Keep it to a walk.”

Scott moved off, his captor six feet behind him and the same distance to his left. For a few minutes, he rode in silence, then turned his head. “I suppose you wouldn’t like to tell me what this is all about?”

“No, I wouldn’t. Now keep quiet.”

The two men entered the gap and rode on for a quarter-hour until Scott was directed off through a narrow defile to the south. Five minutes later, having emerged into a small patch of open country, they arrived at a large log cabin. “Get down,” said the little man.