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bellyached long and loud, demanding extra guards to prevent loss of
the money. Starbuck remained adamant, arguing that the gang must be lured into a holdup and thereby afford him the advantage of a fresh trail. In the end, common sense prevailed and he’d got his way. His last request, more so than the money, had brought on a fit of near apoplexy. Using some plausible cover story, one of Crocker’s racehorses was to be shipped south on the same train. A hot shouting match ensued, but in that, too, he had prevailed. He left Crocker to work out the necessary subterfuge.
    Now, scrunched down in his seat, he concluded he’d left nothing undone. All was in readiness, and it remained only for the gang to take the bait. Some inner voice told him he wouldn’t be disappointed. He closed his eyes and almost instantly, like an animal, he was asleep.
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    The train passed through Los Altos an hour or so later. Awake and watchful, Starbuck began to wonder if he’d bet a loser. The next stop was San Jose, some twenty miles down the line. The gang, according to the information provided by Crocker, had never robbed a train south of San Jose. Which meant it had to happen soon or not at all.
    Long ago, Starbuck had determined that outlaws were essentially lazy. For all their cunning, those who rode the owlhoot were unimaginative and generally possessed more balls than brains. Unlike highclass crooks, such as con men and grifters, the average desperado was a creature of habit. Unwittingly, because he was shiftless and indolent, he took
the path of least resistance. Once he stumbled upon a method that worked, he seemed to fall into a rut, seldom attempting anything new or novel. A pattern invariably emerged, and his actions thereafter became somewhat predictable. All of which gave Starbuck reason for concern.
    Unless the gang struck soon, his plan would very likely prove a washout. There was always tomorrow, and another plan, but he much preferred today. He prided himself on outguessing crooks—the first time around.
    Starbuck’s judgment was vindicated some five miles south of Los Altos. On a dogleg curve, a tree had been felled across the tracks. The engineer set the brakes and the train jarred to a screeching halt. The sudden jolt caught the passengers unawares, and there was a moment of pandemonium in the coaches. Women screamed and men cursed, and luggage from the overhead racks went flying down the aisle. Untangling themselves, the passengers were dazed and not a little fearful. Their voices verged on panic.
    Then, suddenly, a collective hush fell over the coaches. A gang of masked riders burst out of the woods bordering the tracks. Four men rode directly to the express car, pouring a volley of shots through the door. The three remaining men, spurring their horses hard, charged up and down the track bed. Their pistols were cocked and pointed at the passengers, who stared open-mouthed through the coach windows. No shots were fired, but the message was clear: Stay on the train or get killed . Which made
eminent good sense to the passengers. The Central Pacific, like most railroads, was not revered by the public. A holdup, according to common wisdom, was a matter between the railroad and the bandits. Only a fool would risk his life for the likes of the Big Four. And there were no fools aboard today.
    Starbuck had a ringside seat. From his position in the front of the coach, the four men outside the express car were plainly visible. Watching them, he had to admire their no-nonsense approach to train robbery. One of the riders produced a stick of dynamite and held the fuse only inches away from the tip of a lighted cigar. Another rider, his voice raised in a commanding shout, then informed the express guards that they had a choice: Open the door or get blown to Kingdom Come!
    The guards, much like the passengers, were unwilling to die for the Central Pacific. The door slid open and the guards dutifully tossed their