The whistle near the smokestack bellowed as the locomotive pulled into the station, its pistons pumping weakly, slowing the drive wheels. The train stopped at the platform. A conductor in a crisp, clean uniform, topped with a stiff-brimmed cap, called out as blasts of steam erupted from the engine. The passengers exited the cars onto the platform, just as the screams of joy from a nearby roller coaster reverberated behind them.
The engineer hopped off the cab and pulled a siphon from the station’s water tower to refill the boiler. A manager for the theme park approached him as he opened the engine’s water gate. ‘Hey, Billy, have you seen Lance anywhere?’ the manager asked.
‘Nope. Haven’t seen him around. Why?’
‘He wasn’t in the last show. People were complaining that it was three white hats against one black hat.’
‘Huh. Doesn’t make for a good show, I guess.’
‘Why did you take off when all personnel weren’t on board?’
‘Jeff said we were running behind schedule. He didn’t want conflict with the timetable. It was his call.’
The manager made his way to the caboose of the train and found the conductor standing on its endrail. ‘Hey, Jeff, Billy said you made the call to roll when all performers weren’t on board?’
‘Yup.’
‘Why didn’t you look for Lance when he wasn’t in the staging area?’
The conductor dramatically removed his pocketwatch from his waistcoat, held it in the palm of his hand, and tapped its crystal with the other hand. ‘I didn’t have time. Y’all ream my ass every time this train is one minute behind schedule.’
‘But the guests expect the great train robbery. They want a spectacle! It can’t be a spectacle if it’s a three-on-one fight. It looks like punching a baby in its crib.’
‘I don’t know what to tell you. When Lance gets around to showing his dog face, maybe you can ream him instead of me. I’m trying to run a tight ship here.’
The manager looked at the clock hanging from the station’s awning. ‘Okay, we’ve got fifteen minutes before the next show. I’m going to look for Lance. He’s probably taking a smoke break or something. But if I’m not back in time, cancel the show, just ride around the park.’
‘Will do, boss.’
The gray-hatted marshal and his deputies lounged on a sofa in the employee breakroom. Like his deputies, the marshal was scrolling on his phone. The rustler sat back in his chair at the dining table near the refrigerator, legs crossed, his black Stetson hat pushed back on his head. The marshal sniffed.
‘It wasn’t a bad show overall,’ one of the deputies said to no one. He was young and thin, wearing clothes that draped loosely over his frame.
‘It wasn’t a fair fight,’ the marshal said.
‘Justice won.’
‘Not fairly. There’s the difference.’
The rustler turned to the men on the sofa. He was a stout, thick man with black curly hair and a large bushy mustache. ‘You guys turned me into hamburger meat the way y’all shot me up.’
‘What’s the matter, Randy?’ the deputy said, smiling. ‘You’re feelings hurt?’
‘It was overkill, and you know it.’
‘And I agree with you,’ said the marshal. He cocked his head in thought. ‘No one’s heard from Lance yet? Where’s the son of a bitch?’
The deputies and the rustler shook their heads.
‘Huh. We need to keep a better eye on him. He keeps vanishing on us. If this keeps up, he might get shit-canned. Then, we’ll have no show on the train.’
‘That’s on him, Joe,’ said the rustler. ‘I ain’t his keeper.’
The marshal sniffed again, then tucked a wad of chewing tobacco into his cheek. ‘We ought to strategize for the next show if Lance is another no-show.’
‘You have a plan?’
The breakroom’s door flew open. The Indian chief stormed in, muttering words under his breath. He opened the refrigerator and reached in, taking out a tall bottle of electrolyte water. He screwed off its cap and drank vigorously.
‘Bad time out there, Kev?’ the marshal asked.
The chief lowered his bottle and glared at him. ‘Those damn kids have no respect.’
The marshal scoffed. ‘No, they don’t. They’re a bunch of punks.’
The rustler sat up in his chair. ‘I have an idea. Why not Kev partner with me for the next show? That way, we’ll have the numbers.’
The chief drank more water, lowered the bottle, and tapped it with his finger. ‘You guys need a hand on the train?’
‘Yeah. Lance has gone AWOL,’ the marshal said.
The chief clicked his tongue. ‘That doesn’t make for a great show.’
‘Not unless you’re a fan of RoboCop,’ the rustler said.
‘No one knows where Lance is?’
‘Nope.’ The marshal looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘Five minutes to show time.’
The rustler turned to the chief. ‘What do you think, Kev? Wanna join me?’
‘It would give me a break from the kids.
‘You have your firearm safety card, yeah?’
‘Sure do. But I don’t have a costume.’
‘Just go in your outfit.’
‘I don’t think anyone’s going to buy an Indian chief robbing a train.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘Indians commit crimes.’
The chief looked disgusted. ‘Oh, come on!’
The marshal stood up, hooking his thumbs into his gun belt. ‘Look, Randy, I appreciate your looking out. But Kev’s got his show. And we have our own.’
The actors completed their break and left the breakroom. They were heading toward the train station when they saw a tall figure dressed in black standing by the caboose. His black Stetson was large, and a Winchester rifle rested on his shoulder. ‘Oh, my god. Is that Bad Bob?’ the marshal exclaimed.
The deputy turned to him. ‘Who’s that?’
‘You don’t know him. But Bob Mackin was one of the oldest black hats in the show. He was a legend when I started.’ The marshal stopped and thought for a moment. ‘He retired last year, though. What’s he doing here?’
The marshal and the crew approached Bad Bob, who turned to them. His eyes were icy blue and hard. His steel-like grimace cracked into an obscene smile. ‘How’re you, Bob?’ the marshal asked.
‘Nothing much, Joe,’ Bad Bob answered, his voice deep. ‘So, they made you marshal, eh? You’ve always been a good white hat.’
They shook hands. Bad Bob studied the deputies. ‘Who’re the new sprats?’
‘This is Nick and Trevor. They just started this season.’
‘Saving up for college,’ one of the deputies said. His colleague nodded his head.
‘Good for you, boys,’ Bad Bob said. ‘You don’t want to waste your life away in this dump.’
‘Huh. So, what brings you around, Bob?’ the marshal said, his eyes narrowing. ‘I thought you were retired.’
‘One last ride,’ Bad Bob muttered.
‘Did you talk to management?’
The train’s whistle blew as the last of the passengers boarded. ‘Well, we don’t have time. Bob, if you’re okay to go, we’ll welcome ya.’
‘Oh, I’m ready.’
The actors climbed on the caboose as the train slowly pulled away from the station. The caboose was empty when they entered. ‘Where’s Jeff?’ the rustler asked. ‘It’s not like him leaving this car empty.’
‘No clue. Maybe he’s out greeting the guests,’ the marshal said.
The old wild west town flew past the caboose’s windows. A deputy looked out. ‘When should we start the show?’
‘Maybe when we get to the parachute jump?’ the rustler said.
‘We did that last time. It’s a bit early, isn’t it? We’ll be done way before we reach the station again.’
‘We’re going when we reach the log flume,’ Bad Bob said with finality.
The actors looked at him. The marshal cleared his throat. ‘That’s at the center of the park, Bob. We won’t have enough time to get through the train.’
‘Believe me, Joe. There’ll be plenty of time. I’ve done this circuit thousands of times.’
The marshal still wanted to object, but Bad Bob’s frightening glance stopped him. ‘Okay, Bob. If that’s how you wanna do things.’
The train rolled past the parachute jump ride, making its way to the log flume. The rustler kept watch. ‘Okay, time!’ he called. ‘We have a minute.’
‘Masks on!’ Bad Bob commanded. He and the rustler slipped their handkerchiefs over their noses. The rustler opened the door leading to the rear passenger car. Bad Bob led the way, followed by the rustler. ‘Alright, ladies and gentlemen,’ he commanded with a booming voice, ‘stay where you are! This is a stick-up!’
Guests stared at him with open mouths. Children shrank into the comfort of their mothers. The rustler made his way past Bad Bob to the center of the car. ‘We don’t wanna hurt no one. So, no heroics!’ he said.
‘Hold it right there, you two.’ The marshal said, the deputies standing behind him, their white hats gleaming in the rays of the afternoon sun. A couple of guests giggled. ‘You two are outnumbered. Put your weapons down. This is my only warning.’
Bad Bob turned to the lawmen. ‘It ain’t over ‘til one of us is in the ground,’ he growled, raising his Winchester. He fired. The shot was louder than a blank. The window pane near the marshal exploded, raining glass everywhere. The marshal looked at Bad Bob, his face fallen. ‘That’s a live round!’
Screams reverberated in the car. The guests crouched in their seats or fell to the floor. Bad Bob pulled down his mask. ‘Everyone, stay calm!’ When this order failed, he fired another round into the ceiling of the car. There was silence.
Bad Bob reached over a frightened guest and pulled the emergency brake cord. The train came to a screeching halt in the middle of the park. He turned back to the marshal as he cowered on the floor with his hands up. A deputy pulled away and ran out of the car. He turned to the rustler, who whimpered on his feet. Bad Bob caught the eye of a guest, a woman with two children, who was grasping her. He draped his rifle over his left arm. ‘Ma’am? Would you do me a favor and call the police?’
Buena Park police evacuated the theme park as the Orange County sheriff’s department swooped in. Tactical teams found vantage points surrounding the stalled train. Captain Sandy Martinez, the commander of the response, met with the park’s executive director. Martinez sized up the short, stocky company man and knew the thin line that would need to be balanced on.
‘How’s the situation?’ Martinez asked a deputy.
‘So far, we’ve tried to contact the gunman. But he won’t answer back.’
‘This is bad.’
‘Don’t have to tell me that, sir.’
‘This is a tragedy, Captain!’ the executive director interrupted. ‘We’re a family establishment. Good, clean fun, that’s what we offer. This could ruin our reputation!’
‘I understand,’ Martinez said.
‘There won’t be a shoot-out, will there?’
Martinez ignored the executive director. He approached the police perimeter and stared out at the train. The window drapes of the third passenger car were drawn. Martinez’s second-in-command, a well-muscled man named Evans, came up to him. ‘Smart of him,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’
‘Covering the windows. No way our snipers can get a bead on him.’
‘Yeah. What you have on the gunman? Anything?’
Evans pulled out a notepad from his shirt pocket. ‘Robert Mackin, age sixty-four, from Santa Ana. He worked for the park until recently.’
‘Recently?’
‘He was forced to retire. He was missing a lot of days for colon cancer treatments, according to the park’s director.’
‘So, we have a disgruntled former employee. Fantastic. How did he gain access to the train?’
‘He knocked out one of the actors, Lance Kellerman, and the train’s conductor, Jeff Milligram. We found them tied up in a supply closet.’
‘Jesus. Well, at least he didn’t kill them.’
‘For sure.’
Shadows stirred through the drapes. Martinez and Evans stared uneasily at the passenger car. ‘Does that look like a struggle to you?’ Martinez asked.
‘I can’t even describe what I’m seeing. Do you think we should storm?’
Martinez shook his head vehemently. ‘No. Too close quarters. I don’t want a single civilian casualty.’
A roar of chopping air came from above the perimeter. News helicopters arrived, their searchlights illuminated the train. ‘I was wondering what was taking them so long,’ Evans said disgustedly.
Martinez ignored the helicopters, keeping his sight on the passenger car. Its back door flew open, slamming against the side. Police aimed their guns. A woman in a white Snoopy tee shirt and jean shorts stepped out, her hands up, holding a white handkerchief. Her eyes were wide with terror. Behind her was Bad Bob, his black Stetson firmly on his head, and his black duster whipping around his legs. On his shoulder was a black duffel bag. His Winchester rifle was pointed at the woman.
‘Jesus Christ, Evans, get a sniper on Mackin now!’ Martinez ordered. Evans called it in on his radio.
Bad Bob marched the woman to a space between the passenger car and the police perimeter. The news helicopters’ searchlights were focused on the two. The woman blinked painfully, then squinted ahead of her. Bad Bob set the duffel bag down and opened it.
‘What’s he doing?’ Evans asked. Martinez shook his head.
Bad Bob pulled out a large white sheet with noticeable writing on it. It flapped in the gusts from the helicopters. He spread the sheet on the ground, weighing it down on each corner. He shouted something to the woman. She ran to the police perimeter. ‘Drop your weapons!’ Martinez ordered, removing a barrier to allow her to join them. She ran directly to him.
‘Are you hurt, ma’am?’ he asked.
‘No, no!’ she stammered
‘What did he say to you?’
‘He told me to run to you, that I’m safe!’
Martinez was trying to comprehend why Mackin allowed a hostage to go free when Evans shouted, ‘He’s moving!’
Bad Bob leveled his Winchester, pumping its lever to chamber a round. The police aimed at him. In an instant, Bad Bob Mackin brought the rifle up, placing its muzzle into his mouth, and pulled the trigger. He crumbled to the ground.
When the police secured the scene, the hostages were escorted from the passenger car and away from where the body of Bad Bob Mackin lay. Martinez approached the corpse, shaking his head. He walked around, noticing that the sheet he had lain down on was a banner. Its writing was spray-painted on. After reading it, Martinez looked up at the news helicopter that still hovered over the scene. He reread the message: HMOs - They’re only in it for the money!
