It might not have worked. It could have backfired spectacularly, but he had no other realistic options that didn't involve confrontation. He took the possibility the ponies would see through his supposed ruse and think he'd go to get an airship when Handy wanted anything but. When he was sure the last of them had left, he had bolted. His hands were on his packs, his hammer looped at his side. The snow was driving, the steam billowing off of the train in great white clouds. He really was only going to get one shot. He managed to make the distance from the dead end street, up across the road towards the tracks. The station still had too many ponies in it, so Handy bolted for the caboose, now emptied of the soldiers who had commandeered it. He climbed up the steps, hurriedly fumbled at the rear door, and tossed his belongings inside.