Dalton hefted the steel pry bar and rammed it down into the one-inch air vent on the top of the converted boxcar. His arms ached. Sweat ran down the side of his face and dripped from his forehead into his eyes, the salt stinging even as he blinked it away. Wedging a block of wood under his tool, he leaned over with all his strength, leveraging the roof up a tiny bit more. The collision had fractured the iron that ran the length of the roof, but at this rate, it would take the whole day to extricate Evan and the payload below. “I’m ready to give it a go,” Gabe Garrison said. Dalton and the young cowhand had been changing out at five-minute intervals. Still the access area had barely grown. Accomplishing their task would be no easy feat. “One more minute, Gabe,” he said, feeling the responsibility on his shoulders. It was demanding, backbreaking work. He lifted until his hands were over his head, then slammed down the steel bar, aiming for the hole. If you weren’t careful, you’d miss the target entirely, which Gabe had once, sending the treacherous widow maker flying to the ground when it slipped from his hands.
