A few minutes later, one of the gentlemen returned on horseback. The tracks 600 feet ahead had been torn up for a stretch of fifty feet. The train's engineering crew could fix it, but it would take three or four hours.
After a brief discussion with the train's guards, two of them rode off toward the station in Marshalltown, six miles ahead. They would report the robbery and alert the railroad to prevent a rear-end collision. The other six guards returned to the passenger cars to calm the other travelers.
Tom and Conrad rushed to the baggage car, retrieved their cameras, and began frantically photographing the carnage.
The passengers were overcome with a wave of grateful euphoria. They looked at the field of dead outlaws and realized that, in the midst of a horrific battle, not a single one of them had died. The worst injuries were a few bruises from being pistol-whipped and a single gunshot wound to the hand.
Two doctors, who had been traveling in another of the Pullman cars, were already tending to the wounded.
Henry walked over to the lawyer, Carlson. "Mr. Carlson," he said, "I would like to commission you to handle the local authorities when they arrive. I cannot afford for this incident to delay my journey. Would that be possible?"
"Of course," the lawyer replied, his voice firm. "I would be honored to assist you, free of charge."
"Thank you," Henry said sincerely.
"It is my privilege, Sheriff Henry."
Henry then walked toward the group of young women, who were huddled together. He was a striking figure. His rifle was slung over his back, twin revolvers at his hips, and a sheath of throwing knives at his belt. The rising sun caught his tall, powerful frame, bathing him in a golden halo. With his handsome face and calm, steady gaze, he looked like Ares, the god of war, descended to the mortal world.
Edith, Chris, Amanda, Kaylee, and Consuelo were all mesmerized, their hearts fluttering.
"Edith," Henry said, stopping a few feet away, "are you and your friends alright?"
"We're fine, Henry," she replied, her voice sweet and her smile radiant. "You were magnificent! You've left me speechless once again. Please, let me introduce you."
She turned to her friends. "This is Henry Bruce, the Sheriff of Frisco, in Denver."
Then, turning back to Henry, she began. "This is Miss Consuelo Vanderbilt…"
Consuelo extended a gloved hand. Henry took it gently. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Vanderbilt."
"The pleasure is all mine, Sheriff Henry," she said with a slight curtsy. "I am eternally grateful to you for saving us. No words can express my sincere thanks."
He released her hand. "You're welcome. I'm glad you weren't harmed."
He was then introduced to Kaylee, Amanda, and Chris. Chris, in particular, was so overcome with emotion she could barely speak. He had not only saved her life, but had also recovered her family's precious sapphire necklace.
The young men, including Mark, also came forward to pay their respects.
Just then, the reporter, Tom, rushed over, his face flushed with excitement. "Sheriff Henry! Sixty-eight outlaws! You took down sixty-eight men in just a few minutes! It's unbelievable!"
Henry just shrugged. "There were too many of them. I couldn't afford to hold back. You saw how brutal they were. They slaughtered an entire car of forty guards with a machine gun."
"Yes," Tom said, "I noticed some of them appeared to be from the James-Younger Gang. I believe the four Younger brothers are among the dead."
"Two of them escaped," Henry corrected him. "They claimed to be the James brothers."
"Sheriff, may I take a photograph of you for the New York Sun?"
"You may," Henry replied, his expression turning serious. "But the article you write will not distort the facts. I would be very… displeased."
"Absolutely not, Sheriff, you have my word," the editor, Conrad, interjected. "In fact, we're planning a whole series of articles on you."
Henry stepped aside and posed for two photographs: one with the dead outlaws and the train in the background, and another, a simple portrait, smiling into the sun.
"Sheriff," Conrad asked, "do you have any comment on this attack, or on the state of crime in the West?"
"This was a premeditated, targeted attack," Henry said, his voice ringing with authority. "I have a message for the criminals of the West: do not appear in my vicinity. It is my duty to eliminate this evil, and I am very good at my job. Law and order will come to this frontier."
The crowd erupted in applause.
"Sheriff Henry," another man called out, stepping forward. "My name is Davis, editor of the Chicago Tribune. Might I also have a photograph and an interview?"
"The photograph is fine, but you will adhere to the same condition," Henry said. "As for the interview, you may have it after we have finished handling the situation here."
"Of course, Sheriff. Andy!" he called to a young photographer. "Two shots of the Sheriff!"
After the photos were taken, Henry spoke again. "You can speak with my deputy, Pete—he's the one holding the little girl. And that gentleman over there, Mr. Richard Mellon, was one of my comrades-in-arms. They can give you their perspectives."
"Thank you, Sheriff. We'll see you later," Davis said, and he and his photographer made a beeline for Pete.
"Storyteller Pete" was once again in his element, surrounded by a captivated audience of aristocrats, all eager to hear the full, unvarnished legend of Sheriff Henry.
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