Meanwhile Newcomb and I took positions on the east side of the tracks, Broadwell and Pierce on the west. There we lifted blue bandanas over our noses and backed our horses up as the bell clanged and the whistle went off again and I got the scares like you do when you’re next to monster machines. The locomotive was black and hot and big as a shoe store. The cowcatcher had tumbleweed in it and the front lamp was grimy and spattered with insects. Smoke rolled brown out of the tall stack and tore apart gray in the trees and white steam climbed out of pipes and jets and nozzles everywhere. My horse jerked its head from the steam as from a bad smell. I held my ears at the noise and watched the steel rails squash down on the ties and then lift up spikes and squash down under the wheels again. The tender and express car and baggage car creaked by and the train jolted to a stop with me facing the single Pullman. There wasn’t a dining car or smoking parlor, just three more coach cars and a caboose. I saw a woman standing next to a Pullman window lifting a blue-veined breast with the back of her hand. Her baby lost the long maroon nipple and jerked around until he found it again.

Doolin had crouched down next to the blackened switch with his pistol between his legs. Then he ran gawkily some forty feet until he could snag a boot on the cab ladder and bang on up the steps. Bob just stood on the platform like a passenger, his pistol hanging from his left hand, and stepped out onto a fender, lifting up his mask. The stoker had been about to carry coal to the boiler. He banged his shovel down when he saw Bob’s gun.