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“Enough to initiate a new enterprise,” Cromwell answered cordially.
“You followed us?” Margaret said, baffled and incredulous. It was more a question than a statement.
“Not exactly followed,” Bell said curtly. “More like chased.”
Predictably, Cromwell recovered his composure. “How did you arrive so quickly?”
“Fortunately, I had a faster engine and dedicated crewmen.”
“You knew Margaret and I left San Francisco?”
“I tracked down this freight car and figured you had it repainted with a new serial number. My agents had it under surveillance, waiting for the moment when you would use it again. Unfortunately, the earthquake came and my agents had more-pressing duties elsewhere.”
“And you discovered that it had left the railyard,” Cromwell assumed.
Bell nodded. “Only after I went to your bank and saw that you had cleaned out the vault of all large-currency bills.”
“But how could you have known we were heading for Canada?”
“The dispatcher at the Southern Pacific office,” Bell said, lying so as not to involve Marion. “I put a gun to his head and persuaded him to tell me what tracks your chartered train was traveling. Then it was only a matter of filling in the cracks.”
“Very ingenious, Mr. Bell.” Cromwell, champagne glass in hand, stared at Bell appraisingly. “It seems I have a penchant for underestimating you.”
“I’ve misjudged you a time or two.”
Margaret spoke in a tone barely above a whisper. “What do you intend to do?” Her shock had turned to desperation.
“Hold your brother for the local sheriff after we reach shore. Then assemble the necessary papers to escort the two of you to Chicago, where he’ll have a speedy trial without a fixed jury of your old pals and hang for his crimes.” Bell’s smile turned cold and his voice ominous. “And you, dear Margaret, will probably spend the best years of your life in a federal jail.”
Bell caught the exchange of knowing looks between Cromwell and Margaret. He could only wonder what they were thinking, but he was pretty sure it didn’t bode well. He watched as Cromwell sank into one end of an ornate couch.
“Our voyage may take a while in this weather.” As if to accent his statement, the bottle of champagne slid off its table and onto the floor. “A pity. I was going to offer you a drink.”
Bell could only guess where Cromwell kept his Colt .38. “I never drink while on duty,” Bell said facetiously.
The car took another sudden lurch as the ferry tipped over to one side, the entire hull vibrating as one of the paddle wheels thrashed out of the water. Margaret gasped in fear and stared at the water that was seeping in widening puddles along the bottom of the freight door.
OUTSIDE, the wind shrieked, and the Kalispell creaked and groaned against the onslaught of the mounting waves that rolled down the length of Flathead Lake. The tired old vessel burrowed her bow into the gale-driven crests before dropping sickeningly into the troughs. A towering wave broke out the forward windows, sending sheets of water into the wheelhouse.
Captain Boss pulled up his coat collar and grasped the helm desperately as the gale lashed him with spray that stung the skin of his face and hands.
A whistle shrilled through the speaking tube from the engine room. Boss picked it up, said, “Wheelhouse.”
Ragan’s voice came with a hollow tone through the tube. “I’m taking water down here, Captain.”
“Can the pumps handle it?”
“So far. But the hull is creaking something awful. I fear the bulkheads might give way.”
“Get ready to clear out if it gets bad. Make your way to the roof over the galley and unlash the raft.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Ragan. “What about you, Captain?”
“Call me when you leave the engine room. I’ll follow if I can.”
“What about the people on the train? We can’t just abandon them.”
Boss was a man with moral depth, a God-fearing man of great inner strength from the old school whose word was his bond. He was well respected by all who lived around the lake. He gazed through the broken wheelhouse window at the far shore and the mad water thrashing over the bow and felt certain the Kalispell was not going to make it.
