Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 442 Red Dead Redemption ON LINE!

The sudden stop of the train caused immense inertia, violently throwing the people in the carriages forward.

Lionel braced himself against the back of the front seat.

Maupassant wasn't so lucky; he almost rolled off his seat, hitting his knee on the edge of the hardwood, which made him wince in pain.

He couldn't help but curse, "Damn it!"

The carriage was immediately filled with complaints, and the other first-class passengers also swayed and groaned, their cries and exclamations filling the air.

Amidst the chaos, James McParlan and three other Pinkerton detectives reacted swiftly.

They unbuttoned their dark coats almost simultaneously and drew their revolvers from their armpit holsters with clean, swift movements.

One of them quickly bent down and pulled a suitcase from under the seat, which was full of various guns and ammunition boxes.

He pulled out two shotguns with their barrels sawed off and tossed one to his companion.

Zola straightened his glasses, which had been knocked askew, his face pale: "What happened?"

At that moment, the chief flight attendant of first class stumbled in, his hat askew, and tried to remain calm: "Ladies and gentlemen, please calm down!"

There were some fallen rocks on the tracks, so we need to make a temporary stop to clear them. We'll be back soon..."

He hadn't finished speaking—

"boom--!!"

A loud explosion came from the back of the train, shaking the entire carriage and rattling the windows.

Immediately afterwards, a barrage of gunfire erupted, so dense it was terrifying.

A male passenger by the window screamed, "Robbers! Robbers are here!"

He pressed his face against the glass, staring out in terror, and the other passengers couldn't help but look out as well.

Zola, Daudet, Goncourt, and the others turned deathly pale instantly.

Maupassant forgot the pain in his knees, suddenly stood up, and looked out the car window at the billowing smoke.

We actually ran into the Western bandits we were talking about just a few days ago!
James McParlan spat, then growled, "Don't panic! Most idiots only grab the mail truck!"
There are safes inside, filled with cash, gold, and drafts! Stealing company money is a minor offense!

Stealing passengers? That's a federal felony, punishable by gallows or a lifetime in prison! They're not that stupid..."

His attempt to comfort him was once again abruptly interrupted.

The sound of hurried footsteps and rough shouts came from outside the carriage; a group of people had obviously rushed to the vicinity of the first-class cabin.

A hoarse voice shouted in English: "This is it! Those Frenchmen are in here!"

This sentence is so simple that even Huysmann and Goncourt, who have the worst English, understood the key word – “French”.

These robbers are after them!

James McParlan cursed, "Damn it!"

Veins bulged on his forehead, and he quickly ordered the other detectives, "Guard the door! Protect them!"

The three Pinkerton detectives immediately spread out in a fan shape, two with long guns aimed at the closed carriage doors, and one with a pistol providing support from the side.

James quickly pushed Zola, Lionel, and others to the relatively sturdier seats at the back of the carriage.

James yelled, "Get down! Get cover!"

But before they could fully hide—

"Boom——!"

Another loud bang, and the door of the first-class carriage was blown off by the explosives, billowing thick smoke.

Several masked men, armed with revolvers and rifles, rushed in, stepping over splinters of wood.

They were dressed in dirty denim outfits, with printed headscarves covering their faces, revealing only their fierce eyes.

The leader was a lean guy who moved as nimbly as a leopard.

He was brandishing a Colt revolver in one hand and holding a crumpled newspaper in the other.

"I'm 'Billy the Kid,' don't move! We only want those French writers! Behave yourselves, hand over the money, and we'll spare your lives!"

He unfolded the newspaper, which prominently displayed a woodcut of a group photo of Zola, Lionel, and others in front of New York City Hall. The print was exquisite and lifelike.

The other passengers in the carriage were stunned at first, and then a greater panic broke out.

"Let us go!"

"Don't kill us!"

"Give them the money!"

The gentlemen and ladies who had been complaining incessantly before now had their survival instincts take over.

They screamed in terror, shoved aside anyone blocking their way, and scrambled out of the blown-open car doors, scattering like birds in an instant.

In the blink of an eye, the spacious first-class carriage was left with only the French writers sitting back to back in a small circle, and the Pinkerton detectives guarding them with guns.

The lean "Billy Kid" seemed quite satisfied with the effect; he brandished the gun in his hand, pointing it at Lionel and the others.

His tone was sarcastic: "Listen, you intellectuals, all we want are those pretty checks you have on you."

"Leave the money behind, and you can get lost. We're only after money, not lives."

Zola, Lionel, Maupassant, Huysmann, Alexis, Céar, Ennique, and the older Daudet and Goncourt exchanged glances.

Checks! Checks they just earned in New York and Boston, checks that filled the Panama Canal deficit and carried hopes for the future!
These seemingly insignificant scraps of paper now felt as heavy as a thousand pounds in their hearts. Maupassant was the first to roar, his mustache bristling with rage: "Don't even think about it! You robbers!"

Yusman's face was ashen, and he clutched his chest tightly. In the pocket there were those thin pieces of paper worth four thousand dollars: "This is our hard-earned money!"

Zola took a deep breath, his chest heaving, and looked at James McParlan, nodding heavily, his meaning crystal clear.

We'd rather die than give it to them!

James McParlan cursed these Frenchmen for being greedy and reckless, but his employer's attitude was an order.

Without further hesitation, he roared, "Fire!"

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

The Pinkerton detective's weapon was the first to spit fire; the roar of the sawed-off shotgun was deafening, and shotgun pellets rained down on the doorway like iron rain.

The bandits did not expect that these scholars would dare to resist, and hastily opened fire in return.

"Clap! Clap! Clap!"

Interspersed throughout were angry curses:

"Damn it, why are there bodyguards?"

"Could it be those bastards from Pinkerton?"

Bullets whizzed through the carriage, shattering the ornate wall lamps and embedding themselves in the velvet-covered walls, sending wood chips flying everywhere.

Lionel ducked low as bullets whizzed overhead. This wasn't a drama; it was a real gunfight!
A Pinkerton detective groaned as he was shot in the shoulder, blood instantly staining his coat.

But he gritted his teeth, changed his position, and continued firing.

As James McParlan reloaded, he shouted to Lionel and the others, "Out the windows! The back! To the woods! We can't stay stuck in the carriage any longer!"

Maupassant, who was closest to the window, reacted the fastest. After all, he was a veteran of the Franco-Prussian War and showed courage at the critical moment.

He pulled a rifle from the detective's suitcase, smashed the glass with the butt, and yelled back, "Quick! Get out of here!"

Zola and Daudet, being older and slower, were pushed and dragged to the window by Lionel and Huysmann.

Alexi and Céar also helped, first sending Goncourt and the injured detective out, before climbing out the window themselves.

The gunfire outside intensified, clearly indicating that there was more than one group of bandits.

Lionel was the last to jump out of the carriage.

He landed with a tumble, clutching tightly the Colt revolver that the Pinkerton detective had just given him.

The sky had darkened, and the afterglow of the setting sun stained the desolate western landscape with a blood-red hue.

They were on the edge of a sparse grove of trees, the train lying on the tracks like a wounded giant snake, with gunshots and shouts coming from both the front and rear carriages.

James McParlan and the remaining two detectives jumped down, firing back as they urged, "Into the woods! Quickly!"

The group stumbled and staggered into the depths of the woods.

James McParlan cursed as he ran, "Damn it! Where did 'Billy Kid' get so many men!"

I even saw Jesse James's men! And the 'Sundance Kids' gang's markings!
"What the hell! Have all the bastards in the West got their hands on this train?"

His words sent chills down everyone's spines. This was no accident; it was a premeditated attack!
The bandits were clearly unwilling to give up and shouted as they gave chase.

Bullets whizzed past the tree trunks, scattering pieces of bark, and then an explosive was thrown over, exploding with a bang.

Lionel, Maupassant, and James McParlan, who were standing in the front row exchanging fire with the bandits, were thrown to the ground by the shockwave.
James McParlan got up, covered in dust, and made a quick decision: "They have explosives. We're too big of a target. We have to split up!"
They'll meet up in the next town, or come back to the train station. Other trains will pass by in half an hour at most, and they'll definitely have to retreat!

He pointed in the general direction.

In this critical moment, there was no time to worry about anything else. The group immediately split into several groups and disappeared into the increasingly dense forest.

Lionel helped up Edmond de Goncourt, the oldest and weakest among them, and said, "Come with me!"

Goncourt was panting, his gray hair was disheveled, and his dress was torn by tree branches, but he followed closely behind Lionel without uttering a sound.

The gunshots and shouts of killing behind me gradually faded and became distant.

Lionel didn't dare stop, pulling Goncourt along as they ran forward, stumbling along with Pinkerton detective beside them.

It seems that a more intense firefight has broken out on Maupassant and Huysmann's side.

But these French intellectuals, at this moment, used the skills they had honed during their service or hunting days to actually drive back the pursuers.

I don't know how long I ran, but the sky was almost completely dark, with only moonlight filtering through the sparse canopy of trees and casting dappled light.

Lionel finally stopped, clutching his knees and panting heavily, while Goncourt collapsed to the ground, his face ashen, almost fainting.

They seemed to have shaken off their pursuers, with only the rustling of leaves in the wind and the chirping of insects all around them.

A small stream flows nearby, its murmur clear in the quiet night.

Lionel listened intently, but apart from the sounds of nature, there were no human footsteps.

He breathed a sigh of relief, feeling his tense nerves relax a little.

He walked to the stream, intending to cup some water in his hands to drink and let Goncourt catch his breath. After half an hour, he would take Goncourt back to the train to check on the situation.

Just as he bent over, a muffled thud was heard, and the Pinkerton detective who had followed him all the way collapsed to the ground.

A cold, hard object silently pressed against the back of Lionel's head.

It's a gun barrel!
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(End of this chapter)