First chapter of an exciting new book!

Chapter One

A warm breeze rustled through the arid canyons, stirring up dust devils that scampered across the tops of the plateaus and dove off the edges to drift down to the dry riverbed below. The steep canyon walls cast barely any shadow in the peak of the day, and the sun, directly overhead, beat down from a cloudless sky, relentlessly scorching the occasional cactus or thistle that composed this region’s hardy, yet scant, flora. In the distance, the air shimmered above the horizon as the barren ground tried to radiate some of the surplus heat back up into the pale blue sky. As the next gust of hot wind gently brushed the sand and dust from the surface of the mesas, one of the more dessicated thistles broke free from its dry, dead roots and bounced gently as it rolled away, until it tumbled over the cliff’s edge.

A faint sound of flapping wings could be heard from beyond that edge. A buzzard, disturbed by the falling dirt and tumbleweeds, poked its head out of the nest it had built in a curiously stubborn tree that had somehow taken root in the side of the cliff. When the startled bird was satisfied that no improbable predators had scaled the tall cliffs to threaten its impregnable habitat, the buzzard’s attention became fixated on a column of smoke rising in the distance, just around one of the many curves of this canyon. The source of that smoke gradually grew closer, until it rounded the bend and was revealed to be an approaching steam engine. The train further identified itself with a trademark whistle.

These particular train tracks had been painstakingly installed halfway up the far side of the canyon from the buzzard’s nest, where the sidewalls were sharply sloped rather than sheerly vertical. Years of backbreaking labor had gone into carving out a level path, shoring up the gravelly edges to prevent erosion and landslides, and then pounding wooden ties and steel rails into the ground. The result was well worth it, however, now that trains could easily carry supplies from civilization to the smaller mining towns, and then cart their precious metals and ores back out. The train could accomplish this trip in just over six hours, and usually made the trips every Thursday, returning on Friday (not that the buzzard had a calendar or clock in its nest, or any real concept of time). The treacherous footing, combined with the lack of springs and surface water in this canyon, made travel by horseback or horse-powered vehicles prohibitively difficult, since the full route usually took about four days for a horse to complete.

These critical details had apparently been forgotten, or simply ignored, by a handful of horseback riders, who were chasing the train at full gallop. Or rather, the first rider was chasing the train, while the other riders were chasing the first.

Without knowing the identities of these riders, a casual observer might have thought that a group of bandits was attempting to chase down and kidnap a small child, for that first rider was much smaller than an average man. He wore a leather duster that was flapping behind him and his cowboy hat was dangling on his back from a drawstring about his neck, having been blown from his head at the start of this chase. This small fugitive also wore a gun belt slung low around his waist, and carried a cane in his left hand while holding the reins of his horse in his right. For their part, the outlaws behind him were dressed in a similar manner, but had their revolvers in their hands and were firing wantonly and clumsily at the man up ahead.

The buzzard watched these events unfold with a certain primal curiosity; although the train was a regular intruder through the canyon, it was extremely rare for men and horses to pass through these days. It would be easy to personify the buzzard’s interest in a human fashion, but truthfully, it was simply hoping that one of the horses would stumble and break a leg, or that one of the riders would be thrown from his horse and plunge down into the canyon and left for dead. There was no overt malice in the buzzard’s hopes; after all, it was a scavenger bird, and a hungry one.

The locomotive once again sounded its whistle, this time with two sharp blasts, probably indicating that the engineer had noticed his pursuers and was hoping to communicate a message to them. He probably meant those low-pitched warning tones to say, “Stay away!” or “Go back!” but truly it was impossible to translate those sounds into precise words. Since the lead horseback rider pressed his horse even faster, it was likely that he had interpreted the sounds saying, “All aboard!”

Among the other nearly infinite combinations of two-word messages was one that neither the lead rider or his pursuers considered: Tunnel ahead.

The Johnson Tunnel would one day gain infamous notoriety for being haunted by ghosts, after a series of accidents, fires, train wrecks, and even a suspected murder would leave a variety of victims at the site. But at this time, the tunnel was relatively unknown. Its twists and turns underneath the rock effectively prevented light from the exit at the end of the tunnel to reach an observer at the entrance, so most of the 326 feet of track inside the tunnel were cloaked in pitch darkness, even at the brightest times of the day. In fact, the abrupt transition from the bright noonday sun to such sudden darkness would easily disorient any man or beast. The train, guided by its tracks, could confidently race through the tunnel at top speed despite the lack of visibility.

A horse and rider, on the other hand, would be forced to slow to a slow trot while inside the tunnel, or else risk stumbling in the dark or running into the walls as they curved without warning. No experienced rider would dare gallop through such a tunnel; in fact, no horse could be persuaded to run through such dangerous darkness.

Of course, the buzzard was conscious of none of these finer points. It only knew that something unusual was afoot, and perhaps had some supernatural anticipation of an impending disaster. Regardless, it watched with its head slightly turned and one beady eye fixed now on the lead horse and its rider.

The six-car train rounded the last bend before the Johnson Tunnel, and this rider galloped closely behind the caboose, tailing the train at a distance of only ten yards. As the train completed the turn, the rider immediately became aware of the tunnel up ahead. The prudent course of action would have been to slow down, but the rider was still cognizant of a hostile pack of riders behind him, desperate to catch up to him with malicious intentions. So he spurred his horse even faster, leaning forward in the saddle with his small frame and shouting encouragement in the horse’s ear.

The buzzard had never attended public school math classes, but if he had, he would have recognized this scenario. A train was travelling at a certain speed toward a tunnel just one hundred yards up ahead. The train was being followed at a distance of ten yards by a horseback rider who is sprinting at a certain speed just slightly faster than the train. And twenty yards behind this rider is a posse of outlaws, possibly travelling even faster than him.

Since the invention of the steam engine, no student has ever enjoyed such a scenario. Certainly, the buzzard lacked the capacity to calculate the chances of a grisly collision of horse, rider, train and tunnel, but still it watched, waiting and hoping.

Soon the pursuing posse also realized that their quarry was trapped, and that he would be unable to escape through the tunnel at any significant speed. Not wishing to endanger their own lives or horses, they slowed their pace and lengthened the gap between themselves and the lead rider.

But it seemed that this pack of outlaws had underestimated this loner’s resolve. His horse was snorting violently and sweating profusely, and its eyes grew wider and more terrified as it neared the train, and as the dark tunnel grew closer. The gap shrank to five yards, then three, then the horse was just a single yard behind the caboose.

The small rider stood up in the stirrups and extended his cane forward as far as he could reach, but it was still short of the caboose by about a foot and a half. His horse whinnied in fear and panic, and in a desperate attempt, the rider leapt from the saddle and managed to hook his cane on the back handrail. With great effort and dexterity, he swung himself to the safety of the caboose platform; and not a moment too soon, as his horse, now riderless and lacking motivation, skidded to an abrupt halt at the mouth of the tunnel.

The train plunged into darkness and the escapee stared back at his abandoned horse and the frustrated outlaws, and sighed with a measure of relief, mixed with regret.

That was me, Sparrow, escaping pursuit on that caboose. And I was quite fond of that horse that I was leaving behind. His name was Champ, and we had been through a lot together recently.