“How do you read it?” Lofgren asked Bell after his place at the throttle was taken by Jongewaard.
“Cromwell must have found another crew after driving the engineer and fireman from Winnemucca half to death,” said Bell.
Lofgren nodded. “Without telegraph messages coming through and informing us otherwise, I have to believe he dumped them in the middle of nowhere, too, and forced a relay crew to come aboard for the final dash across the border.”
“Then he’ll have to do it by driving over a road in an automobile.”
Lofgren looked at him. “Why do you say that?”
Bell shrugged. “The stationmaster at Spencer told me Southern Pacific’s tracks end at Woods Bay on the east shore of Flathead Lake. I assume the only way Cromwell can continue north into Canada is by road.”
“I disagree. My guess is, he’s going to take his train onto the car ferry that runs across the lake.”
Bell stared at Lofgren questioningly. “Car ferry?”
Lofgren nodded. “Logs from timber operations in Canada are hauled on flatcars across the border to a small port on the west side of the lake called Rollins. From there, they are rolled onto a ferry that carries them across the lake. When they reach Woods Bay, they are coupled to trains that transport them to lumberyards around the Southwest.”
“Why doesn’t Southern Pacific simply run their tracks north to Canada?”
“The Great Northern Railroad received land rights from the government to cross the upper United States. They laid tracks that run from a landing on the west shore of Flathead Lake north to the border, where their locomotives are coupled to flatcars carrying logs hauled by the Canadian Pacific Railroad from the logging camps. Officials from both Great Northern and Southern Pacific refused to work together and never laid tracks that merged around the ends of the lake.”
“How do you know all this?”
“My uncle lives in Kalispell, above the lake. He’s retired now, but he was an engineer for the Great Northern Railroad. He drove an engine between Spokane and Helena.”
The interest in Bell’s voice gave way to trepidation. “So what you’re telling me is that Cromwell can ferry his train across the lake to the Northern Pacific tracks and go north into Canada without stepping off his freight car.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“If he gets across on the car ferry before we can stop him…” His voice trailed off.
Lofgren saw the apprehension in Bell’s eyes. “Don’t worry, Isaac,” he said confidently. “Cromwell can’t be more than ten miles up the track ahead of us. We’ll catch him.”
For a long moment, Bell said nothing. Then he slowly reached in a breast pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Slowly, he unfolded it and handed it to Lofgren.
The engineer studied and then spoke without looking up. “It looks like a list of names.”
“It is.”
“Names of who?”
Bell dropped his voice until it was barely audible above the clangor of the charging locomotive. “The men, women, and children Cromwell murdered. I’ve been carrying it since I was put in charge of chasing him down.”
Lofgren’s eyes lifted and gazed through the front window of the track ahead. “The others should see this.”
Bell nodded. “I think now is an appropriate time.”
THREE HOURS LATER, with Lofgren back on the throttle, Adeline began to slow as she came into Missoula. He brought the locomotive to a halt fifty feet before a switch stand. Shea jumped from the cab, ran up the track, and switched the rails to those of the spur leading to Flathead Lake. He ignored the switchman, who came running out of a shack.
“Here, what are you doing?” demanded the switchman, who was bundled up against a cold wind.
“No time to explain,” said Shea as he waved to Lofgren, signaling that it was safe to roll onto the spur from the main track. He looked at the switchman as Adeline slowly rolled past and said, “Did another train pass onto the spur in the last hour?”
The switchman nodded. “They switched onto the spur without permission either.”
“How long ago?” Shea demanded.
“About twenty minutes.”