Shea and Long helped the farmer to his feet. And led him to the horses that had seemingly forgotten their narrow brush with death and were eating the grass beside the road. He was glad to see his horses in sound shape but angered that his wagon was scattered over the landscape in a hundred pieces.

Bell read his mind and gave him a Van Dorn card. “Contact my detective agency,” he instructed. “They will compensate you for the loss of your wagon.”

“Not the railroad?” the farmer asked, confused.

“It wasn’t the railroad’s fault. A long story you’ll read about in the newspapers.”

Bell turned and gazed in frustration down the tracks at the fading smoke from Cromwell’s locomotive. He refused to believe he had failed so close to his goal. But all was not lost. Already, Jongewaard had backed up Adeline to pick up Bell and the crew.

Seeing the farmer able to fend for himself, Jongewaard yelled to Bell. “Hop aboard. We’ve got time to make up.”

Bell, Lofgren, and the fireman had barely climbed back into the cabin when Jongewaard had Adeline barreling down the rails once again in hot pursuit of the bandit’s train. The chinook was upon them now. The wind blew the dust and loose foliage like foam flying from surf plunging onto a beach. Visibility had been cut to no more than two hundred yards.

Jongewaard could no longer peer out the side of the cab or his squinting eyes would have filled with the dust. Instead, he stared though the cab’s forward window, having no choice but to cut Adeline’s speed from seventy-five miles an hour down to forty-five.

He saw a semaphore beside the track with its flag in the horizontal position, signaling the locomotive to stop, but he ignored it. Next came a sign proclaiming the outer town limits of Woods Bay. Not knowing the exact distance to the ferry landing, he slowed down even more until Adeline was creeping along at twenty-five miles an hour.

Jongewaard turned to Bell. “Sorry about the slowdown, but I can’t see if the town docks are five hundred yards or five miles away. I’ve got to lower the speed in case we come upon the bandit’s freight car, or flatcars with logs, sitting on the main track.”

“How much time do you figure we lost?” asked Bell.

“Twelve minutes, by my watch.”

“We’ll catch them,” said Bell with measured confidence. “Not likely the ferry crew will risk crossing the lake in this weather.”

Bell was right about the ferry not normally running across the lake in rough water, but he missed the boat by underestimating Cromwell. The Butcher Bandit and his sister had not come this far to surrender meekly.

Cromwell and Margaret were not to be stopped. Already, their train was rolling across the dock onto the ferry.

48