Locomotive…..….…………………….………….………………………………………………………….………Austin Curtis, VI

Locomotive Austin Curtis ‘22

His horse sighed deeply, then exhaled. Its head dipped and shook violently only for a moment before Darvy whipped the reins; summoning the beast’s attention. In the distance, a bellowing noise itched his ears. The small rocks under the horse's hoofs began to shake, rattling against each other as a steady chugging approached. "Alright, it's time, boy, this is it." his father said. Darvy swung his rifle from his shoulder to his hands, holding it up towards the sky with one hand, silhouetting the full moon behind him from atop his steed. They stood side to side, creating a line parallel to the tracks. On the rails, about 100 feet ahead, was 5 pounds of TNT, wired to a primer which ran back to Darvy, who stood dismounted next to his horse. He watched the black metal locomotive round the corner of the trees in the distance, spewing opaque white smoke from its chimney as it barreled down the tracks. The engine pumped out vibrating energy, shaking everything while approaching. He grabbed the fuse handle and pushed down, sparking the wick which fed into the explosives. Moments passed, and the two held their breath in anticipation, but nothing. The TNT remained stagnant, sitting in the center of the rails, ready to take out the train that was now dangerously close to passing by. Without hesitation, Darvy's father mounted his horse in one fell swoop like a gymnast, swinging his legs around as he propelled himself up by his arms. "Lets go, get on your damn horse we ain't letting this train get away, oh no!" his father belted out. His face was now red with rage, and his veins protruded from his neck like the railroad tracks beside him. Darvy slung his rifle behind his back and mounted, then caught up to his father, who was now matching the train's speed. In the passenger cabs stood armed guards stationed to protect the bonds, which remained locked in steel safes. They raised their rifles from the platform on the back of the cabs and shot unrelentingly at the outlaws. The bandits cut back behind the last cargo cab, now on the other side of the train.

"Hey!" Darvy screamed, calling out to his father. "You gonna tell me what the hell we're gonna do?". "I think we have to stop the train," his father screamed over the sound of the thunderous engine. "No!" "We got no chance to stop this thing; we gotta jump on!" Darvy ordered. "You wanna jump on this f***ing train boy?, go ahead, I'll follow your damn lead, I'd rather die than let this money get away."

Darvy pulled alongside the passenger cabin, his horse rode at equal speed, and Darvy could see the platform where he needed to jump. He swung his leg around the horse, so both his feet stood on one stirrup, then leaped across the gravel tracks. He landed with a thud as he rolled into the passenger cab. The first thing he felt was the butt of a rifle slamming his back, then darkness.

The twang of the bullet rang out when it ricocheted off the metal sheet. A six-gun shooter flipped around the man's fat finger; then fell gracefully with the guidance of his hand into the leather holster. Dirt rose from the ground as he walked downrange to set up bottles to shoot again. The horizon was infinitely far, and the cactus pierced the purple orange sky and silhouetted the sunset. Burgundy rocks rose in the distance from the ground, like a boundary to his world. He arranged the empty beer bottles on the fence post, near the edge of his property and on the trail that led back to his cabin. He took 15 steps back, counting as he measured his strides to perfection, then stopped with a stamp of the foot as he squared up downrange. He leaned back slightly, knees bending and shoulders high and ready to engage. His right hand drifted down to his side, a few inches above his belt, and his fingers pointed down the silver hammer of the pistol. Then, he removed the gun from its holster, perfectly grabbing the handle of the weapon and yanking it up towards him, moving his elbow back and pulling the trigger all in one swift move. As a boy, Darvy McCoy would hike the narrow dirt trail behind his cabin, ascending up the nearby hill, which seems mountainous to youth; and collect sticks to then be used as pretend rifles. Hours alone at his makeshift range eventually shaped Darvy into a marksman. His cabin sat at Mt. Redsokket, and the dried grass and dirt, paired with the leafless trees, exposed the shanty from all sides and could be seen from in the valley below. Running down the trail, Darvy carried his stick like it was his own rifle. He gripped the sanded-down wood of the stick and brought the butt up to his head, looking down the branch, using the protruding splints of wood as iron sights. "Bang!" he yelled out. "Darvy, get over here boy!" A burly man stepped out of the cabin. His thin hair dangled down to his shoulders, and you could see his scalp through the sparsely planted follicles. His eyes were sunken in, and wrinkles accumulated at the corners and continued down to his cheeks, making his face seem saggy and tired. He had a small head, though, and the gray beard he grew out extended from his unkempt sideburns, failing to hide his shallow jawline and chin. "Darvy!" "Yes, father?"

He dropped his stick quickly, and his feet moved soon over the dusty trail once more, kicking up dirt that caught the golden sunlight. The man extended his large hand down to his shoulder of Darvy as he walked by, grabbing it firmly and throwing the boy off his balance. "We told you about that trail, didn't we?" the man asked. His grip tightened, and his other hand came down from above and struck Darvy in the face, spinning him around and sending him down on his bottom. The familiar feeling of the burning sting on his face became a reminder of his father, his strikes were almost recognizable by now, and only his tears soothed the flames on his soft cheek. The childhood nights spent either outside among the trees or inside his one-room shack shaped him into an independent boy, yet each time the door to the cabin flew open and his father stepped through, there always came fear. A coonskin cap hid his face, so only his raggedy gray hair and beard came out from under the shadows of his hat. "Darvy, where are you boy, come here!" he slurred. Growing louder, his father's footsteps shook the windows. His blue eyes locked onto his sons. He saw the boy in the corner, crying, holding his knees with his head down. Approaching closer, he slowed his stride and taunted the boy by nonchalantly humming as he reached down and grabbed Darvy by the hair, bringing him to his feet. His scream rang out as his toes dragged along the wood plank floor, scraping the material off Darvy's small homemade shoes. Powerful yanks stretched his neck as he dangled above the ground, becoming a canvas for his father's red paint. Strikes berated down upon his brow, cheek, and chin, leaving him sore and unable to speak. Once again, the rusty hinges violently pivoted. The door closed itself after it slammed behind Darvy, and he found himself bleeding, slumped down at the foot of his cabin, with the sound of his father breaking bottles inside. The summer night's heat swaddled Darvy as he slowly walked down to the creek, where he rinsed himself for a moment, then leaned up against the big log he'd use as a lounge chair. Stars twinkled in the sky and reflected off the still water which lay just next to him. Crickets chirped, and an occasional subtle fluster of wind shook the leaves and cast dancing shadows along with the white fabric of his shirt. Sleep fell upon him as he stared into the universe, still feeling the hot pain all over.

As he lay face down on the vibrating floor, he felt the blunt force of leather shoes on his ribs. His sight was blurred, and his breaths were short. He tried to roll over, but the barricading wouldn't allow it. He

counted 8 shoes as his face scratched against the floor. Then, their kicks suddenly stopped and were replaced with yells. "There's another one!" one of the figures exclaimed. Two bangs exploded then a thud hit the floor. Next to him fell a guard, his eyes staring into Darvy's. Darvy thought it was ironic that an outlaw and this man of morals lay next to each other, but only one remained alive. The footsteps continued to shuffle as the sounds of flesh colliding emanated from above. Darvy felt the firm grip of a man's hand pull his jacket, and his feet soon hung above the ground before finding himself standing, looking back into his father's face. While pulling Darvy off the ground, his father managed to hold off three other fully grown men. His pistol remained quiet for the moments after I stood up, then rang out in quick succession. The four shots left in the revolver quickly emptied and found their final resting place wedged between the eyes of each man. "Aright! Hurry up and grab those f***ing bonds Darvy before those other guards get here!" Still flustered, Darvy followed and broke open the metal safes once by one with the help of his pistol. Together they counted the stacks that lay in long rows within the safe. A field of whitish-yellow paper, stretching far, would provide a new life for himself. A few cabs down, the yells of more men grew louder. Darvy saw them running down the corridor from behind his cover. Instinctively he pulled up his freshly loaded gun and took aim, blasting the guards in the chest as they ran towards him. He hit the first one square in the ribs, sending him crumpling to the ground behind him, a fellow dove behind a passenger seat. "More of 'em up here!" Darcy called out to his father, still bagging the bonds. "Hold em off! Ain't that many more left!" A guard peeked his head over the top of his cover, his eyes staring blankly into the sights of Darcy's revolver. Blood splattered the window, and he dipped down below the seat without any noise after Darcy pulled the trigger. Another ran to his aid, swapping between cover, but Darcy's quick reaction caught him mid-jump, planting the fat bullet into the neck of the guard. He too fell, and his neck poured out hot red liquid, staining him and his friend. "How many more of those bonds do we have left?" Darcy called out frantically. "Almost there!" he replied. His father stopped his frantic emptying of the safes. He stared for a moment at his son, who stood in the middle of the train cab. The landscape behind him moved as a blur of green and blue, yet he remained stationary. Sweat dripped from his black hair, and his hat cast a dark shadow over his brown;

the light reflected off his silver pistol, which he held at the waist. His son had grown, becoming something else. His father thought he saw himself for a moment.

This was Darvy's first big score, and he was only 17. The proposition came to him on a summer night, when his father burst into the room drunk. He rambled on about this so-called perfect crime, his highest goal, and to his father, the measure of his character. Darvy had no choice, really, when his father forced him to tag along with the gang, and couldn't deny the demand for his participation, which to him seemed like an insignificant contribution of skill on his behalf. Nevertheless, his opinion had no weight against his dad's, and Darvy knew it, and it slowly ignited a rage inside him. Had he known his fate of train robbing, Darvy would have made an effort to lessen his time around his father, around that trail, and maybe spend more at school.

"Nevermind those uptown fools," his father used to say, and Darvy would smile and nod his head in agreement. Unannounced to him was the weight that his father's actions carried, the same actions that left him crying in the dirt behind the house or in the river, washing away the dried blood which left stains on his body. It was impossible to predict this situation, and how an innocent child could be shaped through violence to eventually carry out a robbery which he would never have agreed with. Nevertheless, the true feelings Darvy felt never left innards of his mind. In the days leading up to the hit, nights spent in the cabin with his father were used to prepare. The scraggly-haired man was not a perfectionist by any means, he let many variables run their own course, throwing caution to factors that could undermine their heist. However, his attention to specific details had served him well over the years, as his gun was never short of bullets, and each man that his bullets hit was always accounted for days earlier. The fear of getting caught in a pinch by Pinkertons lessened the reason to spread the word of this robbery, and his father made it clear during his drunken rambles that the implications of squeaking would be fatal to their plan. Even during the cold nights, they stayed up, studying train routes, what they carry, and who protects them. These factors were essential to them. Darcy understood that without proper planning, things would go wrong; the stories he's heard of fallen crooks killed during their endeavors ingrained an underlying feeling of uncertainty in all that Darcy thought was right. The light shone through the small windows of the cabin the night before they left, with full stomachs, rested and prepared. When the sun finally dipped below the horizon behind the pines and the orange sky turned to black, Darcy and his father mounted

their horses and headed down the dirt trail that led off to the distance. Somewhere they couldn't yet see, the metal rails which carried the promise of a new life chugged on steadily.

The glimmer of the moon through his father's sweat beads filtered the light, which was once bright and pure, into a dirty, contaminated beam. The antique train's invisible eyes watched as the bandits stood in the corridor.

"Here, this is all we got," his father screamed over the noise, holding out the bags stuffed with paper bonds. "Hey look!" Darvy yelled back, In the distance, a fleet of men on horseback cut in and out through the woods, before popping out and bolting to the side of the cab. "Get down!" Darvy warned. Darvy's hand fell down hard against his father's bony back; he could feel the ridges of his spine, his loose skin over his skeletal frame. Darvy covered their heads with his forearms while simultaneously diving back onto the bloody floor. He tasted a sour flavor of iron on his tongue, spit, then saw the mist of red dissipate into the air. The collision of bullets missing their mark along the side of the metal passenger car sent sparks overhead, which fell on the ground and were quickly extinguished by the stale blood. Amidst the chaotic frenzy of bullets being shot from outside, Darvy noticed something which made his heart drop. The bag of bonds, the holy grail, the one thing which he and his father went to these lengths to acquire, hung loosely, somehow stuck on the metal between the cars. The fitting which connected the cars together snagged the extra fabric of the bag, and now it is held by a thread over the gravel below. As it blew in the wind, flailing frantically and appearing as if it could fly away at any moment. Darvy imagined the pieces of paper flying through the air, leaving the sack and catching the wind left behind the locomotive. Picturing the faces on the paper fluttering, their beautiful white color contrasted the greenery of nature surrounding them, a nightmarish moment in which everything was lost. He snapped out of his trance when his father returned shots back at the lawmen, who had now closed in and was within jumping range to the train. "The bag! Get the bag!" his father screamed, finally noticing the danger. "I can't! Too many bullets dad!" he replied "I'll cover you son!" his father said, taking a moment to look over and show a slight grin. Darcy looked away; he blushed and smiled to himself. Down on all fours, he crawled on the ground as the pistols shot through the windows, trying to avoid any stray shots. He heard the revolver in

his father's hand unload, retaliating with hot breath upon his foes. Head pounding, Darvy dragged himself across the floor, finally just out of reach of that bag. He extended his arm out over the end of the platform, trying to catch the bag which hung on the rail only a few inches away. His fingers waved, but the fabric wouldn't blow his way, and he couldn't find any edge to clamp on to. Worry set in while Darvy tried to inch his way further off the platform, his chest and head now hung over. He looked down and saw the blur of dark gray whizzing past and felt the wind whipping at his eyes. He blinked hard and stretched even further; he pushed more and more off the platform until his fingertips were occasionally brushing the flailing cloth. More shooting continued behind him over the consistent echo of men's voices yelling and calling out inaudible commands. "Almost-there!" Darvy grunted loudly One last attempt. Darvy took a breath and stretched out as far as his body could, moving off the platform to a dangerous extent. The sweaty hand which secured him to the floor had slipped. His upper half flopped off the edge of the train, and the bag ripped off the railing; his hands were ripped apart immediately as they bounced on the moving rocks below. Somehow, Darvy found himself back on the train's platform; he tried to wipe his eyes off the dirt but only felt two wet fleshy stubs smear across his cheek. He saw what was left of his hands, only mangled stubs with tendons hanging like the tassels on his boots. He screamed.

"Oh my god!" his father screamed, noticing the blood from his shooting position. "Help me, it hurts so bad please!" Darvy bellowed The mess of flesh pulsed blood. His father stood to run. As he did, his face changed from a red scrunch to a soft frown. His eyes relaxed, and he stared into Darvy's. His hands moved to his stomach, and he looked down to see a red hole in his stomach.

"No," Darvy whispered. His father fell onto his knees, still looking at his son, who stood in shock. His father closed his eyes, gave a toothless smile, then fell facedown. Darvy moved to the body. His handless arms hung below his sides as he stared in disbelief at the man at his feet. He didn't even mind the bullets passing by his head each second. Darvy turned his head, so he could see the men who shot his father. They rode along, still pointing and shooting with neither mercy nor remorse. Darvy now stood at the edge of the platform. "It was all I had!" Darvy cried out to the men. He didn't hear the last shot before his vision went black.