Chapter 8 - HOW TO STEAL A TRAIN
The locomotive did not derail.
It considered it.
For approximately six horrifying seconds, every wheel on the Sovereign screamed against iron.
Passengers became luggage.
Champagne became weather.
A senator flew through a lavatory door.
Clara considered this a modest improvement to government.
Then the train stopped.
Jeb came through the dining car like judgment wearing elkhide.
He found Clara beneath a table.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“You stopped the train?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It seemed useful.”
“You nearly killed everyone.”
“I am adjusting to partnership.”
He stared.
She smiled.
Then gunfire erupted.
“Children,” Clara said.
“What?”
“Engine.”
Jeb moved.
Clara grabbed him.
“Wait.”
He looked down.
“You cannot solve everything by charging toward it with a rifle.”
“It works surprisingly often.”
“Today we try intelligence.”
“Whose?”
She glared.
“Right.”
The train had stopped beside a narrow gorge.
Below it ran a logging river.
Clara remembered something from Silas’s farm.
Steam engines needed water.
Lots of it.
She crawled beneath the tender and opened the drain.
Jeb watched.
“What are you doing?”
“Stealing their ability to leave.”
“That’s my cook.”
Clara looked up.
“Your what?”
Jeb immediately realized his mistake.
“The cook.”
“Better.”
They reached the children.
Thirty-two.
The youngest perhaps five.
Terrified.
Clara climbed into the tender.
“Listen to me.”
Nobody moved.
“My name is Clara.”
A little boy whispered, “Are you taking us to the mine?”
“No.”
“Men said we owe money.”
“You don’t.”
“They said—”
“Men say many stupid things.”
Jeb appeared behind her.
Every child recoiled.
Clara looked at him.
“Perhaps smile.”
He attempted it.
Three children began crying.
“Stop smiling.”
“Gladly.”
She led them out.
Bell and Margaret covered the rear.
Then Black Vein reinforcements appeared on the ridge.
Dozens.
Jeb counted.
“We can’t fight them.”
Clara looked toward the train.
“No.”
Then toward the children.
Then the tracks.
“We don’t.”
“What?”
“We give them what they want.”
Augustus Vale regained consciousness tied to a dining chair.
Clara sat opposite him.
“You have my eyes,” he said.
“I’ll endeavor to recover.”
“You think Silas loved you?”
“Yes.”
“He lied your entire life.”
“So did you, apparently.”
“I’m your father.”
“That is biology.”
“It matters.”
“To you.”
He studied her.
“What do you want?”
“Your signature.”
She placed a document before him.
Vale laughed.
“What is this?”
“A transfer of ownership.”
“Of?”
“The Sovereign.”
His laughter stopped.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Extremely.”
“You think stealing a train makes you an owner?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Paperwork does.”
Outside, gunmen surrounded the train.
Inside, Clara had discovered something powerful men had forgotten.
Their empire depended upon signatures.
Titles.
Contracts.
Documents.
The same instruments used to enslave workers could be turned against them.
Vale refused.
Clara shrugged.
“Then your men shoot the train.”
“They won’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m aboard.”
“Exactly.”
She opened the stove.
Began feeding documents into the fire.
Vale’s face changed.
“What are those?”
“Share certificates.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Another page burned.
“Railway bonds.”
“Stop.”
Another.
“Senator Harlan’s private accounts.”
“Stop!”
Clara smiled.
“Sign.”
He signed.
Of course it would not hold in court.
That wasn’t the point.
She now possessed the company seal.
And that was enough for Bell.
He climbed onto the roof holding Vale’s stamped orders.
“Federal seizure!” he shouted.
Several hired guns hesitated.
Not because they respected law.
Because nobody wanted to be the first man to shoot when the person paying him might no longer own the thing he was defending.
Doubt did what bullets could not.
It broke formation.
Margaret drove the locomotive.
Clara laughed when she discovered this.
“What have you been doing for seventeen years?”
“Developing hobbies.”
They reversed toward Bitter Creek.
The gunmen did not follow.
They arrived after dark.
The entire town gathered.
Wyatt staggered from the train with burned trousers and fury.
“She stole it!”
Clara descended.
Thirty-two children followed.
The town went silent.
People understood.
Not all at once.
But enough.
A miner removed his hat.
Then another.
A woman from the boarding house began crying.
Clara stood where Wyatt had rejected her days earlier.
Same street.
Different woman.
Vale was dragged out in chains.
He looked toward the townspeople.
“These are thieves!”
Nobody moved.
Then Clara heard something.
A skillet striking wood.
Mrs. Daley, who ran the boarding house, stood on her porch banging a frying pan.
Another woman joined.
Then another.
Soon the street rang with iron.
Not applause.
Something stranger.
A frontier alarm.
A declaration.
Men had guns.
Women had kitchens.
Tonight the kitchens were louder.
Clara looked at Jeb.
He smiled.
Properly.
Then a shot rang out.
Jeb jerked.
Blood spread across his chest.
Clara screamed.
Wyatt stood behind him holding a smoking revolver.
“You should’ve married me.”
Jeb collapsed.
Clara caught him.
His blood covered her hands.
Again she was kneeling in Bitter Creek mud.
Again men were watching.
Again a man thought he had decided her future.
Clara looked at Wyatt.
Then at the skillet lying beside her.
She picked it up.
Wyatt’s smile vanished.
May you like
“Oh,” Clara said.
“You have made a very serious mistake.”
