Mr. McAdam’s friend, Sheriff Longtree, got up and moved to the other end of the car. He took the seat behind the elderly couple, facing Jo’s direction. He nodded to her. Jo blinked, blushed, and looked away.
Mr. Muttonchops, no, he had a name, Mr. Buttrum got up, winked at her, stepped back two seats, and settled himself across the aisle from her. The smoke from his cigar, sweet and coiling, wafted in her direction. She squeezed her burning eyes shut to calm her nerves. With no idea of what to expect or look for, she prayed she wouldn’t have need of a firearm.
A twinkly-eyed, apple-cheeked matron entered the car and stopped to talk to the family with the six children. She held up her hamper and pulled back the checkered cloth to reveal the contents. From her seat, Jo smelled fried chicken and warm bread and suffered a momentary bout of homesickness. The matron waved her arm out in obvious invitation. The parents nodded, all smiles, and gathered up their charges to follow the matron bearing treats out of the car.
Outside, a dust cloud rose up in the distance. Three riders, all wearing long black dusters and black hats, raced toward the mountains. Squinting against the glare of the window glass, Jo wondered if their haste to leave town had anything to do with Mr. McAdam and his train robbers. She shook her head at the fanciful notion. Really, he had her imagination working overtime.
Clicking and snapping noises brought her attention back to the occupants of the car. The salesman in the pea-green suit coat shifted in his seat, his sample case open. His rifling around in the contents produced more clicking and snapping, leaving her to suppose the case held tools—hardware of some kind.
The porter ushered in two ladies. Jo sized them up as sporting ladies, dressed as they were in feathers and lace and with a liberal quantity of powder and rouge on their faces. Their heavy perfume mingled with the cigar smoke, the combination making her a little queasy. Fortunately, the porter had left the door open at the far end of the car. Jo welcomed the fresh air.
The whistle blew, and the train began to chug out of the station. The two ladies of the evening quickly struck up a flirtation with the salesmen and sat down beside them. The old man and old woman, apparently not dead, snuggled down, opening and then closing their eyes.
The elusive Mr. McAdam, however, remained absent. The crowd outside on the platform floated past and then disappeared from view. Straight ahead lay open prairie and the rolling foothills of the Wallowas in the distance.
Mr. Sandy-Hair, no, he had a name too, Mr. O’Bannon slid closer to the aisle and struck up a conversation with the closest sporting lady, a blowsy blonde decked out in a royal purple satin gown with a frothy white lace collar that drew the eye to her full bosoms. And why was he Mr. O’Bannon if he was Mr. McAdam’s father? This entire trip was giving her a headache. Too many questions and not enough answers. If Mr. McAdam ever showed up again, she’d pull his ear until she got the truth out of him.
With Mr. Longtree sitting forward and Mr. Buttram at the back, the exits and entrances were now guarded. Jo and her fellow travelers had become captives in the confined space of the train car. Be it for good or ill, Jo couldn’t say. Her nerves stretched taut; she was unaware when Mr. McAdam re-entered the car. She jumped and grabbed the pistol when he sat down beside her. Her startled mew caused Mr. McAdam to shake his head, a warning to be quiet. Patting the hand gripping the pistol, he said, “Not yet. With any luck, you won’t need it.”
Jo opened her mouth to demand he outline particulars, such as in what circumstance would she need a pistol and why? He put a finger to her lips. “I’m going to explain. We have to speak quietly, understand?”
Jo nodded her head, even though she didn’t understand, not at all.
∙•∙
He had’em. He had the Payasos gang right here on this train.
Three Pinkerton agents met him the moment he’d jumped off the back of the train and handed him a telegram they’d received from an eyewitness’s account at the failed robbery in Vale. The eyewitness gave descriptions and names. Seems the robbers had taken jobs at the rock quarry in Vale. They’d slipped up and used their actual names, names Pinkerton could trace. They were getting overconfident and desperate. Ryder sent the three Pinkerton men on their way up the line. He doubted they’d catch up with the train before it got hit, but at least they’d be there to manage the prisoners. And Ryder was determined there would be prisoners.
He hesitated to tell her, but he thought he should let Miss Buxton know the gravity of the situation he’d put her in. He settled in beside her and pretended to study a loose button on his coat sleeve. “The old man, Jacob Jaynes. The old woman, Tick Spinney. Wanted for robbery in Kansas, Oklahoma, Michigan, and Ohio. Old man has a hog leg in his boot and a shoulder holster. Old woman isn’t a woman. She’s also armed. I’m not certain if the salesmen are gang members. I’m going to assume so. They were seen with the old man and the old woman last night sharing a cozy meal together.”
Jo put her hand on his arm and shook her head. “The salesman in green rifled his case. Didn’t see, but metallic sounds, clicks, and snaps. What about ladies?”
He smiled at her and winked. “Also members. Should assume they’re armed. I’ve sent Pinkerton men ahead. I can’t say if they’ll be on hand when the train is stopped.”
“Why rob this train? I didn’t see any armed guards get in the cargo car.”
“Two shipments, Wells Fargo and OR&N payroll, are supposed to be on this train. I didn’t ask for any guards. I’ve got my father, the sheriff, and Buttrum. I trust them. I can rely on them. And I wanted to make it easy for the thieves to rob this train. They were getting way too cocky. And I was right, they slipped up. But not to worry, I sidetracked the payroll and gold to your travel trunk. Not on the train. My objective is to round up robbers.”
Uh, oh, he might have to kiss her again. She opened her mouth, eyes flashing silver daggers at him. He leaned in.
Throwing up a barrier, her arms across her bosom, she huffed and turned her face away to defray his assault on her lips. “You will not do that again sir,” she hissed, her lips clamped tightly together.
A shiver of regret ran through him. He sighed and surrendered to her icy disdain. Just as well she wouldn’t speak to him, he needed to concentrate on his quarry.
Fingers wrapped around the neck of a whiskey bottle, Royce tossed back his head and laughed. He went through the motions, giving the illusion of taking a long pull. Ryder knew for a fact his father rarely drank hard liquor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and surreptitiously glanced in Ryder’s direction. Ryder gave his adopted father a warning side glance but didn’t dare do more. There was no point in threatening to report Royce’s outrageous behavior to his wife, Cleantha. Royce would more than likely take great pleasure in the retelling of his consummate play acting. Soon, Cleantha and all of Laura Creek would hear about it. Royce passed the bottle to the nearest salesman, who took a long pull and passed the bottle on.
Ryder disapproved of his father’s methodology, but all in all, getting the suspects drunk could work in their favor. The empty booze bottle rolled under the seat, and one of the ladies pulled out a fresh bottle from the salesmen’s sample case like she knew where to look. A mistake. They were working together all right, Ryder knew for sure now—and so did Royce.
“Miss Buxton,” he said, placing his hand on her arm. She jerked her hand away. “It’s loaded, remember,” he said, tapping the pistol in her lap with his index finger. “Pick your target, preferably one of those women and, if you must shoot, aim for a leg or a foot.”
Shoulders squared and chin up, she faced him. “You had no right to use my traveling trunk and involve me in this, this dangerous game you’re playing.”
She’d hit a nerve. Yeah, he’d commandeered her traveling trunk. Not good, he knew that, but damn it, he meant to get these crooks. Today he would take down the Payasos gang. Guilty, on the defensive, he struck back, saying, “My job is to protect the interest of the railroad. I’ll do it by fair
means or foul.”
“I’m going to file a complaint,” she said. “Whoever you are—whatever you are. I’ll see you fired.”
“That is your prerogative, Miss Buxton. In the meantime, I believe you will do your part, and you will do it well. Whether or not you enjoy it, we’ll have to wait and see. But I’m betting you’re going to be very good at this game.”
»»•««
Rowdy and drunk, Mr. O’Bannon and the salesmen fondled and mauled their willing companions. Jo did her best to ignore the bawdy spectacle. As for Mr. McAdam, he sat with his arms folded across his chest, his hat down over his closed eyes, lips twitching, obviously struggling to control his mirth.
Over the past hour, the salesmen’s party had become a near orgy, the women lopping themselves all over the men, including Mr. O’Bannon. Disgusted, Jo doubted he’d be much use against an armed train robber. One of the women invited Jo to join them, assuring her there was plenty of pecker to go around. In reply to their invitation, she scowled and shook her head.
Not really counting, but she thought, between the five of them, they’d killed at least three bottles of whiskey. She did wonder about the old couple. They dozed peacefully, now and then snoring or emitting a faint wheezing sound. They weren’t dead, but they had to be deaf as posts.
The train started to climb into the foothills of the Wallowas, the engine working hard and slowing. Mr. McAdam quietly spoke. “We’re getting close to the tunnel. It’s going to get very dark in here, and a lot is going to happen. I want you to get down as close to the floor as you can. But keep your pistol handy, and if you see purple or pink, aim low.”
“Purple or pink, what? What do you mean?” Jo asked, really confused and scared now.
“The ladies, Miss Buxton. The one in purple and the one in pink. I believe they too are members of a gang of train robbers.”
Jo pursed her lips and shook her head at him. “That is ridiculous. Those women are…are…?”
“I know what they are,” he said and tapped her nose. “But they are also members of a gang who rob trains.”
She sat frozen stiff, looking neither left into the car or right out the window, but focused on a rivet on the back of the seat in front of her. It was very difficult to downright impossible to remain oblivious to the shenanigans taking place right in front of her eyes.
The drunken redhead in pink smashed Mr. O’Bannon’s head into her bosom. He rolled her onto the seat across the aisle from the salesmen and got between her legs. Petticoats foaming, they covered the seat and surrounded Mr. O’Bannon’s torso. The woman’s squeals and giggles of delight bounced around the car. She raised her leg and pointed her toe, her shoe falling to the floor. Mr. O’Bannon’s hands stroked her stocking-encased thighs and ankles. Rolling her from side to side, he produced a little pistol from inside her garter. It clunked to the floor. Then a stiletto from her sleeve, a switchblade from the waist of her costume, and another pistol from her bosom. All clattered to the floor without the woman giving any notice.
The train whistle sounded. Mr. McAdam, keeping low, scrambled to retrieve the weapons. He stowed them on the floor near Jo’s valise. The train whistle screamed another long blast. He turned to her and winked, and then the car went dark as it entered the tunnel.
Absolute blackness enveloped the car. Jo went down on the floor and doubled up over her valise, afraid to breathe.
Grunts, groans, squeals, curses, thunks, bangs and thuds ricocheted off the ceiling and floor. A pistol shot illuminated the car for a brief second. Another shot followed, as did the sharp tinkle of glass splintering.
Jo concentrated on the little pistol in her hand. She didn’t want to squeeze it too hard, or it might discharge. Hell, she could very well accidentally shoot herself, if she didn’t keep her head about her.
The lines on the wooden floor became more visible. The scuffle quieted, but the curses and wails of protest continued loud and clear.
“Hold still.”
“Oh, no you don’t.”
“You want another knock on the head?”
“Gag’em,” Mr. McAdam’s voice ordered.
Mustering her courage, Jo struggled to her feet.
Chapter Seven
The train cleared the tunnel, chugging at a crawl up a curving, steep grade. On her feet and fighting to keep her balance, Jo gripped the seat in front of her and peered cautiously over it. The old man, out cold, had lost his hat, and blood now matted the thinning black hair over his right ear. A wad of gray hair dangled from the unconscious old lady’s ear exposing a bald head—the bald head of a man. Blood dripped from her—his—nose and lips, grotesquely smearing his makeup and false nose.
The salesmen sat facing one another, their suit coats in tatters, sleeves torn, white shirts and celluloid collars askew. Manacles held their arms to the iron bar above the window.
As for the ladies, they sat back to back, gagged and bound by their petticoats, on the floor between the seats formally occupied by Mr. O’Bannon and Mr. Buttram.
Mr. McAdam came toward Jo with his hand held out to her. “Are you all right?”
She shook her head at the question and sputtered ineffectually. He put his hand on her cheek. “You’re as pale as a glass of milk. You better sit down and take some deep breaths.”
“She shouldn’t be here at all,” Mr. O’Bannon said.
The train, hardly moving now, struggled to make the grade up the steep gorge in the mountain where the tracks had been laid.
“We don’t have time for this. We’re about to be robbed,” said Mr. Longtree, pointing out the window.
Three riders, bandanas covering their faces from their noses down, galloped the length of the train, heading for the engine and cargo car.
“You boys better move and fast,” shouted Mr. Buttram.
“Don’t worry, the payroll and Wells Fargo gold isn’t on the train,” said Mr. McAdam.
No one said a word for all of five tense seconds, and then all three men shouted in chorus, “What?”
∙•∙
Ryder loved his job. He stifled the reflex to laugh in their faces. No one would understand. This was the kind of excitement he lived for, it fed his very soul. “Come on, let’s go get the rest of this gang. The OR&N payroll is on its way to Cherry Grove with Jewel and Percy. And so is the Wells Fargo gold. I put all of it in Miss Buxton’s traveling trunk.”
Gunshots rang out. Instinctively, he drew Jo close to his side. “Buttrum, you stay here with Miss Buxton.”
“Jo,” he said, turning to face her, “you stay down. Way down. Keep your pistol ready. If our friends move a muscle, you take off an ear or a toe.”
Before the train came to a complete halt on the side of the hill, Ryder, Telt, and Royce jumped off the back of the train, staying close to the side of the train and out of view of the robbers. They set off running uphill toward the engine.
One of the robbers, on horseback, held the engineer and the fireman at gunpoint. Ryder waved Telt to go forward to the front of the engine.
Ryder and Royce jumped the coupling between the cargo car and tender. Staying out of the line of sight to the robbers, they approached the open cargo door. They determined there were two robbers inside. Their horses stood idle in the ditch beside the tracks. Ryder crouched down and scrambled to the other side of the door. In perfect unison, he and Royce slid the door shut, trapping the two robbers inside. Quickly, they ducked beneath the car.
With the distraction of the door slamming shut, Telt chucked a rock at the hind end of the horse carrying the robber who had a gun trained on the engineer and fireman. The horse reared and bucked. The fireman tossed a chunk of wood at the robber, hitting him squarely on the back of the head. The robber, knocked out cold, slid off his horse and fell to the ground.
Telt waved to Ryder, motioning and giving the thumbs up he had his man in cuffs. Then he caught the horse’s reins, mounted, and quickly pulled his bandanna over his nose. He took the same position as the robber had h
eld a moment before.
The cargo door slowly rumbled open. One man peered out and around the opening. “Where the hell are Jake and Tick?”
The other man waved to their partner holding the engineer. “How the hell should I know? They might’a had trouble inside the car. We gotta get out’a here.” Telt waved back, keeping his head down into the collar of his shirt.
Crouched beneath the cargo car, Ryder and Royce waited. First, the Wells Fargo trunk thunked to the ground and rocked onto its side. Next came the OR&N mailbag. “We’re gonna get slowed down with the women,” one of them grumbled before he leaped out of the car.
“Couldn’t leave them behind,” said the other one who scrambled to be the first to get to the trunk full of gold.
Ryder and Royce made their move and jumped them from behind. Telt galloped down the hill toward them, rope at the ready.
A pistol shot rang out, coming from the passenger car at the other end of the train. Telt shouted to Ryder, “Go, we’ve got these two. The engineer’s got the other one.”
Fearing he’d miscalculated the position and the number of villains involved, Ryder approached the passenger car. Cautiously, staying low, he pressed his body close to the sun-baked surface of the car. The wail of a woman in despair sent him through the door with his gun drawn.
Miss Buxton kneeled before one of the women, a bloody piece of white cloth in hand, staunching the flow of blood from a wound to the pink lady’s foot. She looked up at Ryder, wide-eyed and pale. Tears trickling down her cheeks, Miss Buxton said to the woman, “I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t have moved. I warned you. I did. I warned you I would shoot.”
Buttrum held up a little derringer for Ryder to see. “The lady had it stuffed in the top of her shoe. She made the mistake of reaching down to scratch her leg, and Miss Buxton let her have it. Only a scratch, nicked her big toe. Ruined her shoe though.”
Coming down the aisle, Ryder returned his gun to his shoulder holster and asked, “Did you check her over for more weapons?”
Jo and the Pinkerton Man Page 5
