Chapter 2

Monday, December 4, 1882

DeWitt:

As we approached Six Mile Hill, we flipped a coin. Bill ended up hiding in the tender’s coal bin, behind the locomotive cab. Meanwhile, I went up to lie flat on the roof of the express car. The engine would be working hard as we went up the long grade, and I was counting on the heavy smoke and its moving shadows to help keep me obscured as I snugged up close to the raised center section of the express car’s roof, on the side opposite where we expected the gang members to be waiting.

We figured two of the robbers would waylay the train at mile one-ninety-one and that they would approach the train from the east side, because that side of the track was bordered by a gentle rising slope, lined with patchy forest. On the other hand, the west side of the tracks saw the ground drop steeply away, as the tracks climbed the hill on a diagonal course, and that precipitous, lower ground would have put the robbers at a disadvantage.

Bill was to hide in the coal tender and wait for those two robbers to accost the locomotive crew, at which point he would take them unaware. He ended up by having himself partially buried in the coal and with his exposed parts, including his face and head, thoroughly coated with gear oil and coal dust, to remain unnoticed by the gang.

At the same time, I’d be on the roof of the express car. We expected that the other two gang members would approach the express car, with hostages, from the passenger coach platform, as they had in the Santa Fe train robbery. But I’d be above them, hopefully unnoticed, giving me a clear shot, even if they had hostages in front of them. As a diversion, the express guards were to keep the door locked and talk to the bandits through the door, while I maneuvered above them. The train crew were to stay out of it.

That was my plan, anyway. As it turned out, things did not go that way, and took a tragic turn.

To stop the train, the bandits had smeared grease on the rails, just past mile marker one-ninety-one. The locomotive was pulling hard up hill and, when it hit the grease, it immediately lost traction. The drive wheels spun frantically but uselessly, even with the engineer sanding the rails. The train slowed to a stop, slid backwards a few feet, then stopped again. At that point, two robbers -- Matt McKinney and Dutch Bergheim, as it turned out -- each aimed a shotgun into the engine cab. Then, McKinney climbed aboard while Bergheim covered the locomotive crew, after which McKinney covered the crew, allowing Bergheim to climb up after him. They had the engineer release the steam from the boiler, temporarily disabling the locomotive.

Meanwhile, the two men who had aroused our suspicion, later identified as Joe McKinney and Pete Fairburn, came forward, as expected, to the express car door, pushing two hostages in front of them. Except that the hostage Fairburn had a hold on was the conductor, Gus County. McKinney, on the other hand, -- was twisting the arm of comely, black-haired girl. I learned later her name was Melissa Dundridge and she was only fifteen.

It was at that point that my plan began to fall apart, with unanticipated results.

What I hadn’t counted on was that Fairburn, the one who’d been giving me the eye back in the coach, was the brash and short-tempered fellow that he was. When he found the express car door locked, he said, “To hell with this,” and began firing his revolver heedlessly through the door.

In reaction, County, the conductor, went to grab Fairburn’s gun and they began to struggle right there between the coach platform and the express car platform. McKinney quickly backed away a step, pushing the girl hard against the front bulkhead of the passenger coach, breaking her nose. Then he turned and fired at County’s back. He hit the conductor point blank, the bullet likely piercing his heart, killing him, but the projectile still had sufficient momentum to continue through County’s body and into Pete Fairburn’s left shoulder. Fairburn fell down, County’s body helping to topple him. However, when he landed on his back on the coach platform, Fairburn was looking right up at me as I was gawping at the scene from the roof, and trying to bring my pistol to bear on the rapidly moving targets.

The wounded Fairburn, upon seeing me, shouted, “You sonuvabitch!” and he began struggling to free his pistol from under County’s body.

McKinney must have figured Fairburn was cursing at him and intent on shooting him in revenge for putting the slug in his shoulder. As Fairburn finally freed his pistol, McKinney leaned forward and fired his revolver once into Fairburn’s face, ending his partner’s life. Then he turned his gun toward the girl.

However, it was young Miss Dundridge who actually was bent on avenging an undeserved attack. As soon as McKinney turned toward her, she walloped him in the nose with a straight punch with the heel of her hand. While McKinney stumbled backwards, I took the opportunity to reach down and aim my revolver at the top of his head. I pulled the trigger and the forty-four slug went through his brain, out through his chin, and into his left foot. He collapsed in a graceless heap. The Dundridge girl stood, silently watching, holding her nose, which was dripping blood.

Bill, on the other hand, managed to capture Matt McKinney and Dutch Bergheim without firing a shot.

(Monday, December 4, 1882)

Tuesday, December 5, 1882

The next day, Bill bought me a beer at a saloon in Seligman. We sat at a table in a corner of the barroom.

I said, “I’m sorry about Mister County. He moved before I could get my gun on them.”

“Not your fault. He was just trying to protect his crew and the guards. He was a good man.”

We were quiet for a minute, sipping our beers, and then he said, “What would you think about a job with the K&ASR railroad police? Or are you one of those enthralled by the romance of being an Arizona Ranger?”

I gave a wan smile and shook my head. “No, not so much,” I said. “Oh, when I was younger, maybe it was that way. But my Pa has been involved in law enforcement for a lot of years, first with the Mexican army, and then as a deputy town marshal down in Tucson. He’s always told me that, while there is more trust to it than other jobs, in the end, it’s just a job you can do either well or poorly. Beyond that, I’ve realized that the Rangers are like any other group of men. Most are good, a few are exceptional, and a few aren’t worth spit.” Then I shook my head and grimaced, saying, “And the politicians keep messing with us. I was hoping that would be different from being a sheriff’s deputy.”

“I know what you mean about the politics,” Bill said, nodding. “I worked as a deputy town marshal in Dodge City. The businessmen, cattlemen, and the goody-two-shoes factions were always at odds and carping about one thing or another. And then the politicians were always changing their minds about how they wanted things done, depending on which group was yelling the loudest.”

He shook his head and took a deep swallow of his beer. “I’ll tell you one thing: it’s not like that with the Kansas and Arizona Southern. Wichita -- that’s where headquarters is -- they have a really steady hand on the throttle. They’ve made the basic rules all about safety: safety for the workers, safety for the passengers, for the cargo, and for the equipment, and especially safety for us coppers. Every situation we face is to be evaluated for maximum safety measured against likely potential harm. -- Nobody’s ever been fired for choosing the safer course, even if it costs the road some money.

“On the other hand, they don’t abide fools, either. Oh, they don’t mind a mistake, now and then, as long as it’s not the same mistake over and over again. That’s what’ll get you fired.”

He shook his head again and smiled. “But I’ve never worked with a more able and willing group, and I don’t mean just the police. Gus County was the perfect example. The men -- and the women -- who work for the K and ASR are top notch, no matter if they’re a ticket agent, a brakeman, a steam-fitter, or some high-hat from Wichita. Hell, the president of the road is a Chinaman who can speak a half dozen languages, if you can believe it. And the man’s called me by name when our paths have crossed. He seems to remember everyone’s name that works for the road.”

“A Celestial’s in charge? Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Him and his partners -- three white men -- struck it rich in California fifteen or twenty years ago, and they started buying up short lines. This one, the Arizona Southern, and another in Kansas, the Kansas Southern, were the first two. I’ll tell you: they’re the nicest bunch of bosses you’ll ever run across. You ask them, they’ll not just give you the time of day, they’ll lend you their watch. Salt of the earth, is what I say.” Bill was nodding vigorously, a pleased smile on his lips.

I chuckled. “Sounds to me like you’re the one enthralled with his job.”

He shrugged and gave me a sheepish grin. “Yeah, I guess maybe I am.”

I smiled back and asked, “What’s it pay?”

“For a private, sixty-five a month to start, then seventy after six months, seventy-five after a year, plus a uniform allowance and, when you’re away from your home base, you get reimbursed for board and found.”

“A uniform?” I remarked. In the Rangers, we wore regular clothes, suited to whatever work we were doing, and I usually wore a bowler when I was riding or working outside.

Bill said, “You’ve probably seen ‘em. The uniforms our guards in the express car were wearing: black trousers, tan shirt and black jacket, and the black kepi for summer. Then there’s a black sheepskin coat and hat for winter, and black, lace-up work boots year ‘round.”

“Where’s yours?”

“In my bag. I’m off duty, else I wouldn’t be drinking beer.”

“What sort of enforcement powers do your officers have?” I asked.

“Wichita has agreements in place that give us full pursuit, investigation, and arrest authority in each state or territory where we have a branch line. Well,” he shrugged, “except Texas. In Texas, our authority is limited to railroad property; otherwise, we’re considered private citizens, there.”

“Doesn’t surprise me about Texas, but how did they get such generous terms from the others?”

“Because each of our officers is trained in Wichita for a month, and then tested before going to work. And each state or territory was invited to submit ten questions for the written examination. You’ll only see the questions from Arizona on your examination, unless you transfer to another state or territory. Then you have to be familiar with that jurisdiction’s criminal laws. And there is a week of required refresher training every three years.”

“So you start with four weeks training?”

He shrugged, nodding. “Yeah, but you’ll be paid for being there.”

“Paid? Really? But is it, what, like in school?”

“Some of it’s in a classroom. You’ll even have homework, which will be when you’ll have to read up on Arizona Territory laws, though I expect you’re already familiar with most of them that matter. But there’s also field work. You’ll learn how to work safely around trains, what the various hand signals and whistle patterns mean, understand bills of lading and such documents, learn Morse code and how to tap into a telegraph line out in the field, and they even have training in safe gun handling and shooting.”

After a minute of quiet, he asked, “So, what do you think?”

I realized I’d been staring at the bottom of my empty beer glass while weighing what the job might mean to me. Fact was, I was tired of chasing Apaches, but I was even more weary of the politics. And the pay was better, too. I looked up at him and said. “It sounds good. But I think I’d like to talk it over with my Pa. Could I let you know in a few days?”

“Sure. I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Or just come on over to Yuma. That’s where the division office is.”

(Tuesday, December 5, 1882)

1883-1891

Less than a month later, in January of eighteen eighty-three, I was in Wichita, Kansas, attending the K&ASR railroad police orientation program.

I found the training both interesting and, at times, challenging. We studied many concepts and techniques that I had not previously encountered. My experience, both with the Rangers and as a deputy sheriff, was, more or less, a seat-of-the-pants approach, common sense on top of knowledge of a few relevant laws. But the K&ASR’s course included principles of crime scene investigation, evidence gathering, witness interviews, suspect interrogation, even how to testify in court. The instructor, a former chief constable from Hong Kong, said that the lessons were drawn from the advanced practices of the London, England, Metropolitan Police Service and were recommended for use in New Zealand, Hong Kong, India, Australia, and by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

When I completed the training, I was assigned to the K&ASR’s Arizona Southern Division police platoon and, at his request, to Bill’s squad, which was more than fine with me. Thus, at the age of twenty-three, I entered service in a third type of law enforcement organization.

As railroad policeman, we dealt with a unique set of problems.

It’s the nature of railroading to hold property that includes many miles of narrow ribbons of real estate often traversing sparsely settled areas. That real estate hosts a variety of valuable commodities, comprised not only of shipped cargo, but also railroad rolling stock, tools and equipment, materiel and supplies, and all types of structures, from storage sheds to bridge trestles. Even switch yards in populated areas contain extensive trackage somewhat hidden from view by their necessary length and all the rolling stock that occupies those yards.

Railroad police were tasked with protecting those goods and assets. This was largely accomplished by reminding people that the railroad right-of-way was private property, except for designated crossings and depots, or for specifically sanctioned purposes. Otherwise, it was trespassing to be on railroad property without permission. Beyond that, due to the nature of trains, themselves, it was often dangerous to be on railroad property, as witnessed by the job-related deaths of so many experienced railroad workers.