On Secret Service Read Free

screamed.
    Sledge was a hair faster than the gunman, shoving the clerk forward and dropping to the floor. The gunman’s round killed the clerk instantly. He fell on his side near the open door. The train curved into another bend, losing speed. The ceiling lanterns swayed, flinging shadows across the walls. Lon turned right to present a narrow target. He shot the older gunman a second before the gunman could fire.
    Lon’s round went low, catching the gunman in his middle. He fell face forward. His revolver spun away out of his hand. It landed a foot and a half from his spread fingers.
    The cries and shouts from the day coach were louder. The drive wheels shrieked on the rails. Even if the man in the cab had the engineer and fireman at bay, he wouldn’t know what the shots meant. The gunman on the floor made whimpering sounds. His hat had fallen off, revealing long, stringy, gray hair and a sizable bald spot. To Lon, recently turned twenty-three, he looked old and somehow pitiable.
    Lon moved to pick up the man’s revolver but turned around when Sledge snarled, “Goddam. Bet there’s just two of them—two, and this slug.” He shoved the clerk with his scuffed boot; the body dropped out the door. “You need four or five to pull a train robbery. I told you holdup men are stupid.” Sledge peered past Lon. “For Christ’s sake, shoot that one.”
    â€œWhy? He’s down.” Sledge reached out with his revolver and fired past Lon, planting his bullet in the middle of the robber’s forehead, a third eye. The dead man had grasped the butt of his gun before Sledge got him.
    In his two years with the agency Lon had only been in one other shooting scrape, and he shook as much now as he had then. Sledge hung from the door of the car and shouted, “Hey, you, jackass! You up there in the cab. Both your pals are dead. They’re dead , get that?”
    The baggage car moved over a level crossing with a lamplit farmhouse nearby. The shouted reply was faint but clear because the locomotive had slowed down. “Who is that?”
    â€œOperative Greenglass of the Pinkerton agency. You know, the Eye. There’s two of us and one of you. The clerk and the old man are goners. You better get off and save yourself.”
    â€œWe should take him into custody,” Lon said.
    â€œHow? Time I climb up there, he’s liable to kill the driver or the fireman. And I’ll be a fine target in the moonlight.”
    â€œI’m willing to try it.”
    Sledge gave him a sharp look. “I think you would. You’re a damn polite fellow, but you’ve got sand.” He leaned out the door again. “Jackass? Listen here!”
    The locomotive and train had stopped. Sledge’s shout was followed by a heavy, slamming sound. A moment later they heard the engineer:
    â€œFeeny brained him with his shovel. He’s out.”
    Sledge stepped back in the car and laughed. “All accounted for, then.” He picked up the canvas payroll bag. “The C-and-G boys around Dubuque will get their pay. I’d say it’s a fine night’s work.”
    â€œTwo men are dead.” Lon couldn’t feel any of Sledge’s pleasure.
    Sledge shrugged. “Remember what the boss says. The end justifies the means if the end is justice.”
    â€œMr. Pinkerton says a lot of things I admire, but that isn’t one of them.”
    â€œSomeday maybe you’ll figure out that we’re in a dirty line of work.” Sledge walked over and clapped Lon on the shoulder. “In the meantime, we make a pretty good team.”

1
January 1861
    â€œWe must be near Galena already,” Lon said with a look at the closed door of the baggage car. “Nothing’s happened.”
    â€œWait,” his partner said. Sledge sat on a crated shipment, legs stuck out, the payroll bag between his heels. His boots were dirty and scarred. Lon’s were spotless except