“Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear, or a fool from any direction.”
Yup that’s what Pa used to say; back in the days when horses traveled cross-country and tin-cans served us humans’ supper. But this ain’t a tale about those times. And with the faces of these Chinamen, you couldn’t tell a man from his wife, let alone who was the fool for marrying the other. This here is a tale about change. And change does change men of all statures, only to leave the true hero standing tall.
The railroads were an important factor of change in the Old West. I had been drifting through Kansas when they were setting up the supply base for development of Dodge City. With plenty of protection, flow of chuck wagons, cash, guns and troops, the wild prairie would soon be civilized. It was also here that I realised that change can mean a lot worse than riding a tin-can to Colorado. For as I followed the tracks the workers laid, I met a man who changed my life (and of a few others). This was no ordinary Injun. Chief Long Walker had seen more than any mortal eyes could see.
It was two hours past sundown and I was smoking my only cigarette before crashing into the hay for my snooze. Chief Long Walker, or ‘Walker’ as he asked me to call him, requested me for a bag of water.
“Here you go old foe! I thought you Injuns never get lost.”
“When the road isn’t laid, any path will take you there”, Walker replied as he drank like a mule that had dragged coal for a hundred miles.
“So, where‘re ya heading?”
“More fascinating for a man of your age would be where I come from. I see in your eyes a weariness that beckons freedom – not from this hard life, but from living this particular life.” Walker handed me back my bag and stared at the moon rising higher into the lonely night.
“You got me there pardner! 30 years ago I would have loved to set sail, cross all oceans and find me a land that could only be described as the Lord’s last bastion on Earth.” I took a swig of whiskey from my flask and offered it to Walker.
“Then it is time,” he gulped a small swallow of the whiskey, “when you follow this railroad, an hour before dawn, and reach Demon Mountain, Colorado, you will find your world.” And with that mysterious proclamation he stood up and walked in the direction opposite of the one he had showed me.
I couldn’t sleep thinking about his last words. I saddled up and rode till Demon Mountain, trailing the tracks as I was told. The hollow Demon Mountain formed a tunnel through which the steam machine would roar through. In this dark pre-dawn morning, the grim silence pierced your ears like the threat of a thousand hungry diamondbacks out of water. And I heard a man gasping for breath.
At the edge of this ominous tunnel lay a dying railroad engineer, stabbed seven times in front and back. As I lifted him on my right knee, offering water, he spate,
“You must tell them……. about the tectonic anomaly…….the earthquake will kill all on……. this railroad through the tunnel…….not stable, need to warn them……..”
“Who did this to you Son?” I asked as I saw the horror in his wide startled eyes.
“The investors…….they won’t listen…….they want the track…….fast…….This tunnel, it is different…….it…….it…….it……..” and he died with his eyes wide as ever, staring into the black heart of this nefarious tunnel.
This was the most beautiful grassland I had ever seen. Just as I had dreamed, colorful flowers blossoming all around, mustangs playing in the distance, buffaloes grazing among innocent children with the kites soaring, quaint huts, dogs wandering. This was the land I wanted to live in. I felt my skin, firm and young, I ran across the valley, breathing in the most precious air I ever breathed. And under an oak tree I recognized Chief Walker smoking his pipe.
“Whatever it is your heart, deep down,” he poked his chest, “craves, desires truly with fiery passion, you will find it here, as you pass the portal of Demon Mountain.” And he laid his head back on the tree-trunk and puffed his pipe.
A loud siren blew miles away, Walker lay there unawares, and the siren grew louder and closer. The 6 o’clock train roared through the tunnel, and I was back on the wretched scorched Earth standing next to the dead engineer’s ravaged, pale white body.
This was not the work of a road agent. No robber would commit this mess. No Sir, this was a deliberate assassination by some damned rustler protecting his investment in the railroad.
This was a dramatic change in my life; but wasn’t much I could change in Kansas reality. I was still an old man. I grew weary of the fluctuation between my dream world and the harsh truth of Old West. Although fate had more in store for this railroad; because back in Dodge City a stranger by the name of DuJang would inherit this curse of Demon Mountain and the portal would change more things on this side, the cruel side of its subsistence.
DuJang; now if there ever was a gunslinger who could fight, love and get drunk at the same time, it was him. He strode in on his high horse, holed up in the shabbiest, sleaziest hotel, and smelled fortune where others could only sense drudgery. My barman buddy at the saloon had the following anecdote to tell.
Frank Rogers, the rancher who was running most of the successful establishments here, invited the cream of the curd to a shindig, celebrating God knows what vile scheme he had thought up this time. Outside the saloon, when Rogers rode in, Chief Walker sat in silence, minding his own business. Rogers hailed him and asked the Injun to tend to his fine horse. Walker is a free man and refused as was his wont. Rogers abused him verbally, nobody paid any mind, but Rogers’ goon Dusty Doug minded plenty.
Now Dusty Doug is a strong and resourceful man to employ. But he talks like a donkey, farts like a horse and acts like a damn pig. As Dusty victimized the Chief; who strode in but tall blonde DuJang, in his best whites and polished shoes to boot. He knocked the breath out of Dusty without getting off his horse. Rogers now, he may be a shady hustler, but is a gentleman who knows his time and place. Rogers extended a hearty welcome to DuJang, to join the party at the saloon. Walker whispered humble words to DuJang and the gunslinger walked in the saloon (for a night that would change his course in life forever).
Booze flowed, music played, people feasted and money was thrown at all tables. Rogers moseyed up to banker Charles Nation’s side as soon as latter pushed the door in. Charles’s young wife on the other hand had her eye on the tall blonde gunslinger alone at the bar. Rogers filled Charles puny brain with dreams as fascinating as a puppet show at a house of deception.
(I learnt later that Charles was an investor in the railroad just as Rogers and the latter planned a heist of American Government gold traveling on the noon train tomorrow. The Demon Mountain would be the pivotal point, an explosion to rob and then blame tectonic activity as cause of an “accident.” Rogers had the dead engineer’s survey to prove it and outlaws would be hunted for the missing gold; while Rogers and banker Charles managing the money would be richer than the richest in free America.)
Meanwhile Lady Nation finally approached DuJang and said,“I noticed you were admiring my necklace from over at the bar, it is a Tschetter's, gold and diamonds.”
“I was admiring your cleavage but the necklace ain’t any less attractive!” DuJang informed and didn’t blink an eyelid.
Lady Nation, taken aback, smiled a coy smile, DuJang encouraged her, “So tell me about this Tschetter's, is it the fashionable place to buy gifts for beautiful girls?”
That village doll didn’t know what hit her, as DuJang squeezed every bit of dirt on Charles and a kiss.
Finally, seeing Frank Rogers alone, DuJang made his pitch – either he is in on the heist or there is no gold robbing on any high noon.
“I have many men as help; I wouldn’t trust them with my life; let alone with this much gold. I would like you on this team; there is just the three of us.” Rogers grinned his evil grin and continued, “A stranger is a better bet on a strange land.”
And with a nod, DuJang shook hands with the hustler, sealing his deal with the devil.
Well those were the cards they were dealing that fortuitous night. The gamble was fixed but jinxed with powers that go beyond the ordinary realm, into supernatural or even cosmic dimensions.
The Frontier was changing fast. The reckless cowboys no longer could go gun down and get away from lawmen in this city. The railroad had brought in good support and the Sheriff was never left wanting for men, weapons, food, horses, or money to pay off a snitch for the ‘Wanted: Dead or Alive’ notices. The cowboys were a restless lot. They knew their limits but also wanted to test those of the Sheriff’s department. On the steam engine highway, once outside city limits, the cowboys knew no one could stop them from relieving the good passengers of their valuables. DuJang had their discontent in mind. In his hotel, he approached Tex Carson, a maverick who had the grit to challenge an army and the gunmanship to take them out.
“You dress all dandy and say you got prospects for me? Well, shoot cowboy!” Tex Carson lit his cigar and put up his boots on the table, aimed at DuJang.
“The noon train tomorrow carries enough gold to make millionaires of each of us in this room”, DuJang tipped up his hat making eye contact with Tex and his henchmen, Black Boone and Tanner Smith, and you need not trouble yourself with stopping the train or fighting the soldiers of the Union.”
“Gold! Speak up cowboy. Where and when?” Tex signaled the whore to leave as she was naked and cursing.
“After the explosion at Demon Mountain, Colorado, before the stop at the water-station, when two riders emerge with the gold,” DuJang lit up and smiled, “holdup the duo and leave town.”
Tex Carson’s eyes glowed and his men beamed twinkling teeth among guffaws. Tanner offered bourbon and DuJang had a posse of his own to contend with the sidewinder named Frank Rogers. DuJang knew that the socially well-placed Rogers and Nation would never let him have a piece of their self-baked pie. This wasn’t just insurance but a guarantee to cashing his cheque at the rolling bank towards Demon Mountain.
An hour before noon, on the day of the planned heist, Rogers wired the explosives as Charles Nation squirmed like a nervous schoolboy playing truant for the first time. DuJang surveyed the area, parked the horse-cart and prepared for a showdown. Exactly 12 o’clock, the train thundered down the tracks towards a hostile fate. With their horses tied away, the three gunmen took positions, awaiting the signal from the first – Rogers – lying on his stomach with the fuse ready to blow the tin-can’s carriage that carried the troops guarding precious Union gold.
“God darn it!” Rogers screamed at the men, signaling to charge the slowing train.
The blast blew the luggage carrier and the train was still moving; the railway tracks intact. DuJang, then Rogers and an unwitting, unwilling Nation grabbed on board by his collar; the trio held fast as the tin-can roared into the mouth of Demon Mountain.
Gunshots fired all around. The prairie was exploding with bombs at every corner and screams of savaged men discharging their savagery. The trio passed through the portal into their dream dimension. Their hearts wild, hungry, ruthless and violent had reached a world where every white man was battling tribes from all corners of the Earth.
“What the hell! What in Lord’s name is this?” Rogers yelled even as he shot down three Injuns racing on horseback.
“Get down and busy old man!” DuJang yanked down Charles by the collar behind a boulder and counted his own bullets.
“You think you can keep them out at North and East?” DuJang asked Rogers, who by the way, was enjoying this blood-fest.
“Son, just watch the South and get that Charles a gun will ya?” Rogers replied without losing his aim or nerve.
What ensued was a two-hour-long battle with neither side running out of ammunition or resolution. Holed up at a small peak, the trio shot down every colored thing that moved.
“Come up here a minute Son, I need a cigarette.” Rogers sat down behind a rock and lit up.
“Strange affairs,” DuJang noticed as he took up Rogers’ position, “I can’t recognize this prairie and I could have sworn I ran out of bullets an hour ago.”
“This is outrageous,” Rogers puffed smoke, “And where are those damned Union troopers?”
“No, No, NO!” Charles Nation wet his fine pants as a young Injun warrior aimed the spear at the out of place banker.
“Sonofabitch!!!” Rogers leapt from his seat and wrestled the Injun, who was by all accounts a kid; Rogers wouldn’t risk his scaled skin for a goose like Charles.
“Get back!” signaled DuJang to Charles; there was no way to aim the gun at the Injun rolling in the dirt with Rogers.
DuJang grabbed the boy’s long hair and plucked him away from Rogers. The boy stared at the tall blonde gunslinger and picked the feather at the side of DuJang’s hat. DuJang remembered Chief Walker’s advice outside the saloon, to use the feather when in trouble. Now, who is to help him but a little Injun kid. Floating Moon was his name and he told the blonde fighter to follow West towards, where he said, laid Demon Mountain.
“Keep them alive!” And with that mysterious message, the boy leapt off the peak and disappeared.
“That little runt”, Rogers got to his feet drawing his revolver, “where did he go?”
“We need to get out of here”, DuJang pulled Rogers down towards cover as arrows and slugs passed over their heads.
Slowly and stealthily, the trio moved West; DuJang all the while concerned now with the burden of keeping the two scums alive and gunning. For if either of them died, DuJang would be trapped in this alternative reality, as the dead ones can’t wake up from a dream dreamt together. In 40 bloodied minutes they reached and gratefully recognized Demon Mountain, hollow, bare and rumbling with impending explosion.
“The 3 O’clock train will pass through any minute.” DuJang surveyed the more peaceful surrounding, “We need to be on that iron-wagon out of here.”
“There’s our horses!” Rogers ran across the tracks and fetched the steeds.
“We will ride into the tunnel.” DuJang mounted his high horse, “That’s what the Injun kid suggested.”
“Sure is better weather than out here” Rogers steadied Charles’ reins and they rode in again through the mouth of Demon Mountain.
DuJang stayed put. Dismounting his horse, he crouched at the edge of the tunnel, waiting for an even better prospect. Did he regret cutting a deal with Tex Carson? Right now, he was salvaging his own investment – that of his life.
Frank Rogers and Charles Nation heard the train’s siren and even as they attempted to take positions found themselves past the tunnel of Demon Mountain. Before Rogers could repose he found thrust in his face the ‘dead-end’ of Tex Carson’s double-barreled shotgun. Rogers dismounted nervously.
“Strip him!” ordered Tex to Tanner who proceeded to drag down Charles Nation to check the saddlebags.
“We have nothing”, pleaded the yellow-bellied Charles, “the Injuns were everywhere.”
“Shut-up you damn fool.” Boone spat tobacco on the whimpering banker, “There are no Injuns for another 50 miles.”
Tanner checked Rogers’ saddlebags and found ticks in place of heist gold.
“What game you playing?” Tex was furious at Rogers’ insolvency. The cowboys had heard the explosion, seen the trio charge the train and waited exactly 30 minutes for inheriting their fortune.
It was 12:35 PM and the frustrated cowboys had no more use of the incompetent train-robbers.
“Tex, my boy, I have seen stranger shit than what you just believe you saw.” Rogers was gaining his composure.
“Kill ‘em!” whispered Tex and rode off towards Dodge City.
Rogers drew fast and shot three rounds before Boone gutted his liver with his shotgun. Charles never stood a chance, point-blank slug into his thick head. Boone and Tanner rode off leaving the bodies to be picked by vultures or wolves. Rogers was still alive, the bullet grazing the side of his stomach; just a flesh wound. Taking his time, he saddled up and took a long winding road to the City.
Meanwhile DuJang awaited the 6 o’clock train to Dodge City. He was ready for anything. Under the tunnel’s shadow, he stayed hidden and safe for the moment.
The siren grew louder and clearer. It was time. DuJang on his horse, waited for the train to be as close to the tunnel as possible. And he thundered in. The tunnel vibrated and shivered and shook at the conflict of worlds. DuJang was now chasing the steam machine towards Kansas. He saw the carriage marked with “State Bank of Indiana.” He lunged on to the passing carriage and climbed to the roof. Alerted guards came out to be shot off the train like ducks in a pond. Inside the carriage and out in 3 minutes; DuJang managed to rob the train off of 5000 dollars cash.
No one in Dodge City heard of the tall blonde gunslinger for a long time. No one suspected him of robbing the 6 o’clock train either. Tex Carson and his men left town when the Bank of Indiana’s money was reported stolen. To add insult to their unjust injury, Rogers was revealed to be alive. The railroad was not to be blamed. It was prized for weathering the blast and Rogers humbly satisfied at being alive (and with a successful railroad investment to cushion the blow to his ego). Chief Walker and I still smoke the peace pipe in our shared vision of serenity.
That there is a story of change for better or worse. You play the card you are dealt and only when a gambler like DuJang comes along, you see a roll with highest stakes – that of your life.
Copyright Ujjwal Dey 2008
