The Chase (Isaac Bell 1)

Cromwell thought he saw an opportunity and did not immediately consider the disaster-in-the-making. Without a word, he launched himself off the couch and drew his automatic as he leaped. A foolish mistake. Instead of instantly squeezing the trigger and killing Bell, he hesitated to say, “Farewell, Isaac.”

Suddenly, the hand clutching the gun was knocked off to the side and the bullet smashed into the doorframe beside Bell’s head.

Margaret stood in front of Cromwell, her dark eyes on fire and her lips pressed tightly together until she spoke. There was no fear, no fright; she stood with her legs firmly planted on the freight car’s floor. “Enough, Jacob,” she said.

She had no time to say more. Bell grabbed her by the arm. “Jump!” he urged her. “Quickly!”

Only Bell grasped the inevitable. He glanced out the door again and saw the engine had almost disappeared beneath the waves and the tender and the freight car were moving faster as they were rapidly dragged by the immense weight into the water. The deck was tilted at a sharp angle, and the Kalispell was in dire danger of going down with the train. There were only seconds left before the freight car was pulled over the bow.

His face contorted with hate, Cromwell swung the Colt’s muzzle toward Bell again, but Margaret stepped between the two men. Cromwell was finally aware of the danger now, his eyes sick in the realization that defeat and death were only moments away. He tried to push Margaret aside so he could leap out the door, but she wrapped her arms around her brother’s waist, pulling him back inside the car. He swung the barrel of the gun and struck her across the cheek. Blood seeped, but she clutched him in a death grip he could not shake off.

The freight car’s front wheels were irresistibly following the tender off the front of the ferry. Bell tried to yank Margaret out the door, but she was clutching her brother too tightly. The sleeve on her blue sweater tore away and he lost his grip on her arm.

She looked at Bell and her eyes turned soft. “I’m sorry, Isaac.”

He reached out for her but it was too late. Bell was falling through the door.

He twisted violently in midair and crashed to the wooden deck, striking the shoulder opposite his cracked ribs. The impact was still enough to make him gasp in agony. He lay there, watching in horror as Cromwell’s freight car was drawn below the surface. A hope flashed through his mind that Margaret might still leap through the door and into the water and be saved. But it was not to be. A seething white wall of water washed over the boxcar and penetrated the interior through the open freight door with a surge that made it impossible for anyone inside to escape. Still hoping against hope, Bell lay on the deck, water swirling around him, staring at the bubbles rising from the depths as the ferry steamed over them. He was still staring at the place where the train sank when it fel

l far astern, but neither Margaret nor her brother came to the surface.

The bow of the ferry swung up and the hull rose nearly a foot out of the water without the hundreds of tons of deadweight from the train. Almost immediately, to the immense relief of Captain Boss in the wheelhouse, the Kalispell ’s stability increased dramatically and she began to burrow through the waves, her paddle wheels driving her toward the western shore of the lake.

It took Bell nearly ten minutes to struggle across the deck to the door leading to the stairs up to the wheelhouse. When he got to the wheelhouse, looking like the proverbial drowned rat, Boss stared at him in astonishment.

“Well, now, where did you come from?”

“I jumped on deck as you pulled away from the dock in Woods Bay. My name is Bell. I’m an agent with Van Dorn.”

“You were lucky you didn’t go down with the others.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “I was lucky.”

“Who were those people?”

“Two were innocent members of the train crew who were held hostage. The other three were wanted for murder and robbery. I was going to arrest them when we reached port.”

“Poor devils. Drownin’ isn’t a good way to go.”

Bell was deeply marked by guilt and grief. His face was expressionless as he turned his gaze to the waters of the lake. The waves no longer looked deadly and were settling down to a mild chop. The chinook was moving east and the terrible winds had subsided to a stiff breeze.

“No,” he murmured. “Not a good way to go at all.”

UP FROM THE DEPTHS

APRIL 16, 1950 FLATHEAD LAKE, MONTANA

AFTER THE COAL TENDER WAS BROUGHT UP AND SET on the barge behind the big Pacific locomotive, the divers concentrated on running the steel lift cables under the bottom of the freight car and attaching them to a cradle so it could also be raised. Despite the muck and slime, the name SOUTHERN PACIFIC was still readable across the sides of the tender.

Late in the afternoon, the director of the salvage operation, Bob Kaufman, paced the deck impatiently, as the divers were lifted from the bottom on a platform that was swung onto the barge. He looked up at the clouds, which were dark but not threatening, and lit a cigar while he waited for the brass helmet to be lifted off the dive master’s head.

As soon as it was lifted from the diver’s head, Kaufman asked, “How’s it look?”

The diver, a balding man in his early forties, nodded. “The cables are secured. You can tell the crane operator he can begin the lift.”

Kaufman waved to the man who operated the big crane that rose skyward from the deck of the salvage barge. “All cables secure!” he shouted. “Lift away!” Then Kaufman turned and spoke to the tall, older, silver-haired man standing next to him on the deck of the barge. “We’re ready to raise the freight car, Mr. Bell.”

Isaac Bell nodded. His face was calm, but there was an expression of expectancy. “All right, Mr. Kaufman. Let’s see what it looks like after all these years on the bottom of the lake.”