Robbing a train in1912

From an early postwar Railroad Magazine

Sunset Express

by Stanley W. Todd

    NOBODY, of course, really expected to see a train robbery in the year 1912.  That
was three decades after a lead slug had sent Jesse James to the place "where the woodbine
twineth"; and the outlaw's brother Frank, although still alive, had grown old and quite
respectable.  The era of railroad banditry seemed to be past history.  Nevertheless in
February, 1912, a Wells Fargo superintendent put a hypothetical query to David A.
Trousdale, a messenger whom he was transferring to the Sunset Express, the San
Antonio-El Paso run on the Espee.
    "Suppose your car is held up by desperadoes," the brass hat asked shrewdly, "what
would you do?"
    "Do?" Trousdale echoed.  "Why, I'd try a coupla good shots before they could grab
anything."
    Both men grinned.  That Wild West stuff didn't go anymore.  But barely a month later
— just after midnight on March 13th—the test came like a thunderclap.
    Train Number 8, the Sunset Express, westbound on its usual run through the Lone
Star State with Trousdale aboard, made a scheduled water stop at Dryden.  Overhead, the
stars had dwindled to mere pinpoints in a black sky.
    Trousdale, alert like others of his breed, realized his responsibility in shepherding a
rich consignment of money and valuables through a sparsely peopled area and was
suspicious of even the slightest variation from normal routine.  He noted with surprise that
his train, after coming to a halt, abruptly moved ahead several hundred feet and stopped
again.  "That's queer," he muttered to himself.
    The engineer and fireman were in a tough spot and could not give any warning.  Two
brigands carrying six-shooters and Winchesters had climbed aboard and brusquely
ordered them to pull the train on to the next bridge.  The conductor, puzzled as to why
they had moved, sent a porter ahead to investigate.  The man did not return.  Losing
patience, the conductor decided to look into the matter himself.  In a few seconds he knew
what it was, for he, too, was facing the muzzle of a Winchester.
    "Get up with that bunch," the robber yelled, "and help to cut off them cars!"  He
motioned with his rifle to the mail and express.  Then, to the porter: "Rap on that damn
car and tell the messenger he's wanted!"
    The moment Dave opened his door he sensed the situation but remained cool as a
reefer.  Obviously, if he tried to resist, the gunman would put a bullet through his brain.
    "I'm coming in there, you of the express," the bandit said, "and I don't want any
funny business!"
    "Come ahead!" the messenger replied as casually as he could, meanwhile trying to
evolve a way to trap the man.
    The robber appeared to be an old hand at the game.  He spotted the sealed
packages, grabbed them and moved backward, rifle in hand, into the adjoining mail car. 
There he quickly split open a sack of registered mail and jammed the express packages
into it.  The messenger's helper and the mail clerk, both unarmed, stood by helplessly.
    Then something caught Trousdale's eye, but he said not a word.  A wooden ice
mallet lay on top of a barrel of oysters.  The messenger had crushed many a ton of ice
with that tool and knew how to use it.  How could he reach the mallet without arousing the
bandit's suspicions, and what avail would it be against a Winchester?  If only he could trick
the man into coming nearby and bending over!  But the intruder was in the mail car and
might escape that way, even though the messenger stood right beside him—in front of his
rifle.
    "If you're looking for something good," Trousdale remarked so the robber could
hear, "you've just missed it in my car."
    "Izzat so?" the man sneered.  "Okay, let's go back!"
    The messenger led the way, with the gun poking his back.  He didn't like that but
remained silent and bided his time.  Edging toward the oyster barrel, he pointed with his
foot to a package on the ground.  "There you are—most valuable package in the car!"
    Dave was tense.  Would the bandit lower his gun and bend over?  The mild, compliant
messenger evidently seemed harmless, so the outlaw picked up the package.  That was his
last move.  The messenger quickly grabbed the mallet and brought it down with crushing
force on the man's head.  The bandit dropped—and was dead.
    IN THE STILL of the night, Dave's attack had been almost noiseless.  But he knew
there was another armed desperado.  Searching the fallen man, he found two six-
shooters, in addition to the rifle.  Then, grabbing the Winchester, he called the helper and
the mail clerk, whom he quickly armed with the two revolvers.  All three men hid in the
car.  There they waited what seemed to be a eternity.
    Could the second robber also be tricked into the car?  Dave felt certain that very few
criminals were really intelligent.  If they had much mental capacity they wouldn't pick such
a business in the first place.  An hour passed and nothing happened.  Dave had a bright
idea: maybe the other bandit was wondering what had happened to his partner.  A rifle
shot might bring him within range.
    This proved to be rather clever psychology.  Very soon after the shot was fired a
shadowy figure approached the express car.  Then, apparently suspecting nothing, the
man looked into the door.  Dave pulled the trigger at close range.  The bandit was killed
instantly, slain by the very rifle his own companion had carried!
    With both villains out of the way, the shaky train crew regained their self possession. 
They tossed the inert bodies into the express car, recoupled it and the mail car, and the
train was again on its way.  At Sanderson, further up the line, the corpses were taken out
and placed on an express truck for all to see, although few cared to look.  The outlaws,
identified as Ed Welch and Gil Fitzpatrick, were later buried with scant ceremony.
    Meanwhile. when the passengers learned what happened, they gratefully passed a
hat, collected about $51, and presented the money to David Trousdale.  Next morning the
messenger went to the coroner's office, told his tale, and was cleared of all possible
charges in the case.
    Newspapers and magazines carried the story, and in no time at all the Wells Fargo
employee was a national hero.  The company (which was to withdraw from domestic
express business six years later) gave him a 23-jewel gold watch bearing this inscription:
"In recognition of courage and fidelity displayed in an attempted train robbery near
Dryden, Tex., March 13, 1912.  Wells Fargo & Company."  To this a passengers' committee
added a gold watch fob with a diamond set in a Texas star and a laurel wreath.
    From all over the country Dave was flooded with telegrams and letters of praise,
employment opportunities, bids from theatrical and movie producers, mash notes from
lovelorn females, and even anonymous threats presumably sent by pals of the bandits he
had killed.  But to all this correspondence Dave was deaf, dumb, and blind.  He loved his
old job and had no intention of quitting it as long as he was agile enough to get around.
    PAGES fluttered of calenders, months passed into years, and Trousdale's exploit was
all but forgotten.  The messenger was still running between San Antonio, where he
resided, and El Paso.
    One day in August, 1935, Congress passed a bill and President Roosevelt signed it,
directing the Secretary of the Treasury to pay him a thousand dollars for having prevented
a mail robbery that night at Dryden.  This reward was well earned.  Aside from the matter
of prestige, Uncle Sam was more than justified in handing out a "grand" to the man who
had safeguarded registered mail valued at $60,000.
    The bill was passed largely as a result of persistent efforts by Rev. A. N. Eshman,
pastor of a church six miles from Dave's old home at Columbia, Tenn.  The minister was
overjoyed to receive a telegram from the White House indicating that his years of agitation
on behalf of the express messenger had finally been fruitful.
    Last July first, having completed 43 years of continuous service with Wells Fargo and
their successors, Railway Express Agency, Dave Trousdale turned in his keys and said
goodbye to his associates.  It was not easy to retire, but Dave had reached his sixty-eighth
year and felt his work was over.  There was still time to enjoy leisure on the old farm at
Columbia, where he had been born and raised; and there he is today, dreaming of the past
and doubtless living over again the exciting moments when bandits held up the Sunset
Express.