A window abruptly shattered in the observation car and one of the bastards there leaned out, waving a bottle of whiskey and shouting a ribald invitation to join him. And one more lay motionless on top of a boulder, a crimson stream falling from his chest onto the green grass below.
Morgan and Lowell jerked their heads back behind the tender. All they had to do now was boot the six living sons of bitches into hell.
Morgan silently asked Lowell how many knives he was carrying. Lowell displayed them—Bowie and dirk, one in his boot and one up his sleeve. Morgan grinned mirthlessly and tapped his in response, announcing similar blades carried in the same places.
Another silent discussion planned their attack. They’d be the prongs of a pincer, going around the engine to trap the bastards between it and the hillside. They needed to be silent lest they spook the two sons of bitches in the observation car, who could harm the womenfolk. But Morgan also wanted to gut these brutes like the beasts they were. Behind them, the freight train’s passing still shook the ground like Satan’s chariot.
He flicked his fingers, indicating Lowell’s direction of attack. The younger man simply nodded and slung his rifle over his shoulder; given his speed on the draw, his Colts would still be very much available to him, as Morgan’s were to him.
The bastards’ leader shouted a string of obscenities, ordering the fellows in the observation car to stop drinking and search the private car. They grudgingly began to do so—and immediately faced a locked door, which triggered a hail of curses and kicks.
Morgan snickered silently. Just another poor fool tripped up by Jessamyn’s quick thinking.
He and Lowell went around the engine on opposite sides, Morgan creeping in front and dodging the cowcatcher while Lowell snuck between the tender and the observation car. Morgan slipped onto the mountain’s edge and wove through the boulders quickly, begrudging every second not spent rescuing Jessamyn.
They attacked in a silent rush. Morgan stabbed the bastard who’d shot the crew and silently dropped him. Then he jumped on the leader, who was lifting his rifle to shoot Lowell. Lowell had just killed one henchman and was moving on the other.
Morgan put his Bowie knife to the fellow’s throat, pulling him back against him, and the man lowered his rifle. “Don’t kill me. Jones paid me to do it,” he cried, eyes shifting rapidly from side to side.
“Figures,” Morgan grunted. He pressed his knife a little deeper, pricking the man’s throat. “What else?”
“What’ll you pay me?” Ratlike cunning, at odds with his stylish dress, scuttled into his voice.
Lowell dropped the second henchman and faced them, ready to fight again. No sound came from within the engine compartment, dammit. The engineer was probably explaining steam engines to Saint Peter.
“Nothing,” Morgan answered honestly, keeping a wary eye past Lowell for goings-on in the rear cars. Bribing a murderer wouldn’t tell him anything he hadn’t already guessed.
The man’s free arm twitched. His fingers closed, ready to hold a derringer. When he swung his arm up, Morgan killed him, sending blood spewing.
Without waiting to see where the bastard’s corpse landed, he and Lowell ran for the private car.
The closet was hot and stifling, with no air moving. Jessamyn tried hard to calm her breathing and think about something, anything other than whether or not Morgan was still alive. She hadn’t heard any more shots—but that was small comfort to someone who’d lived in frontier Army posts for six years. She could recite a litany of violent ways to die other than by bullets, and all of them were passing in front of her eyes, exemplified on Morgan’s lifeless body.
She’d fought Indians before and killed her attackers, but always at a distance. This was the first time she might stare someone in the eye before meting out death.
Her hands clenched involuntarily and her right hand closed around her pocket Navy Colt. Her father had given it to her before the War but Cyrus had made her practice with it until it was like an extension of her own limb. It was a comforting, familiar weight, something she’d carried for years, including into situations where it might liberate her from a fate worse than death.
Her pulse slowed immediately and calmness crept over her. A minute later, she was able to take stock of the situation as she’d been trained to do, as both an aristocrat and an officer’s wife.
The other women should be doing fairly well—or at least as well as could be expected under these circumstances. She’d taken the closet on the downhill side, closest to the freight train and its noise, while Mrs. Jennings was in the closet on the uphill side, closer to the mountain. Sally had disappeared under the bed, where luggage was normally kept, clutching the sturdy brass tube against her thin chest like a guardian angel.
They’d locked the doors and shoved chairs in front of them. All the other pieces of furniture were either built in or too heavy to move. Now two bandits were trying to break down the heavy door by pounding the dining table against it. Their previous effort to open it by shooting had failed, since the bullets wouldn’t move heavy furniture.
She didn’t dare think about what had happened to Morgan. The old saying that the devil always looks after his own was somehow no comfort; she’d have given anything to be wrapped in his sated limbs and listening to his heavy heartbeat once again.
The freight train’s vibration began to diminish. Was it finally almost past them?
With a crash of splintering wood, the door gave way. Roaring like beasts, two men wrenched the door open and tossed the chairs aside, as the wooden walls trembled and fragile wood shattered.
“Wimmen mus’ be in here somewhere,” said one man on the other side of the thin wall from Jessamyn’s head.
“No money fer them but there’s a thousand fer the map, Davey.”
A thousand dollars for the map? If Charlie was willing to pay that much, could he afford to leave any witnesses alive? Dear God, where was Morgan?
“But I ain’t had me a wuman in months, Billy,” whined Davey.
“You kin have all the wimmen ya want with yer share of the money, Davey. Jes fin’ the map.”
Wood splintered and crashed; they must have been breaking apart the furniture. A door slammed open and Mrs. Jennings screamed.
“Got me a wuman at las’!” Davey shouted triumphantly.
Jessamyn eased her door open a crack. Davey was a small man, with a big gun at his hip, who was having great difficulty controlling the wiry Mrs. Jennings. Billy was a larger man, also armed, who’d been pulling down drawers from the top of the stateroom. The stink of whiskey coming off both men was astounding.
Billy looked Mrs. Jennings over and smiled, displaying four crooked, yellow teeth. “Mebbe yer right, Davey.” He dropped the drawer he’d been holding on the floor and headed toward his cohort.
Mrs. Jennings shrieked again and Sally peeked out from underneath the bed, clutching the tube. If they found the map…
Jessamyn cocked her pocket Navy. Could she kill two men fast enough to save Mrs. Jennings? If she didn’t, she’d be dead together with Mrs. Jennings—and probably Sally, too.
Oh, Morgan, Morgan…
Davey slapped Mrs. Jennings. She punched him in return, square on the nose, triggering a nosebleed. He howled, released her, drew his gun, and pointed it at her.
Billy’s eyes met Jessamyn’s, and he pulled his gun.
Time slowed to a crawl.
Jessamyn shot Davey through the crack in the door, dropping him in his tracks. She desperately cocked her gun, fighting to get off another shot.
Jessamyn fired, shooting Billy in the chest.
A bullet thudded through the door just above her hat; Billy’s shot had gone wild. It had been that close.
“Jessamyn!” Morgan’s strong arms grabbed her and pulled her out of the closet, then out of the stateroom. Lowell jumped past them and into the small compartment.
“They’re both dead,” Lowell announced a moment later. “Drilled one between the eyes and t
’other in the heart, neat as you please.”
Jessamyn buried her face against Morgan’s shoulder and shook, while her stomach knotted and heaved. Even more overwhelming, she was back in Morgan’s arms again. He was alive and so was she, thank God.
His arms tightened around her and he crooned wordless, soothing reassurance into her ears. For the first time since the War, there were no underlying notes of anger in his voice. She allowed herself to rest against him.
The freight train’s last car went by. After a minute, the ground was steady and she could dimly hear Lowell awkwardly coaxing Mrs. Jennings and Sally out of the stateroom.
Then another steam whistle blew—once, twice, thrice. Four cars roared triumphantly past with a final flip of the whistle. Charlie and Maggie’s train had been following the freight train the entire time. They’d reach the Sangre de Cristo Pass first and cross it tonight.
Jessamyn clenched Morgan’s lapels and closed her eyes, wishing to God she could cry.
Four hours later, they finally arrived at the Donovan & Sons depot at Plaza de los Leones, the base for the Sangre de Cristo Pass. In the west, the tops of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains were as blood-red in the late afternoon sunshine as their name. Or as red as the blood that victims of yellow jack vomited just before they died. Dear God, would Aristotle and Socrates suffer that fate back in Memphis? Or Cassiopeia?
Jessamyn squared her shoulders. For their sake, she had to carry on.
Only one of the crew, the engineer, had been killed during the attack. The fireman and brakeman had been so badly wounded that the bandits thought them dead. By a lucky chance, the next train was an Army troop train, with a surgeon on board. He’d immediately taken over responsibility for the crew’s care and gave them a good chance to live, if they had good nursing. Mrs. Jennings and Sally had promptly agreed to provide it at an excellent wage to be paid by Morgan. He’d also pledged a generous sum to the engineer’s widow and family.
The amounts mentioned made Jessamyn’s eyes widen but she kept her mouth shut. She’d have expected a man who’d made his money by gambling on fringe businesses to watch every penny.
However, after that, it had taken time to make arrangements for them, and finally—finally!—proceed to the pass with their luggage.
And all the while, Charlie and Maggie Jones were riding ahead, over the Sangre de Cristo Pass, gaining time on them.
Jessamyn’s unhappy stomach had emptied itself twice during the intervening hours but had begun to regard tea and crackers as friends. She hoped it would find coffee and beans, those staples of long travel, acceptable again before morning. Not that it mattered; she’d mount up if she had to be tied into the saddle.
Morgan stepped away from the engine and handed her down carefully, treating her as if she were precious. He’d been very careful of her ever since the attack, almost chivalrous, which was the first time she’d ever seen him that way. Dear heavens, the startling flush of relief when his arms had wrapped around her and she’d realized he was alive. And how they’d both held each other after the attack, while Charlie’s train roared past, almost comforting each other.
She thanked him courteously for his assistance, the proper response, and found herself wondering what he would be like if he were a gentleman. Impossible.
She said her farewells to the train crew and thanked them for their hospitality, including the ride in the cab. After many protestations of friendship on both sides, leave was finally taken and the train moved out, heading south to the Army forts there.
She glanced up at the mountainside, wondering if she could see any signs of Charlie’s party. But the trail was too deeply carved into the mountains for that—or he was too far ahead.
A handful of men had originally waited for them on the small platform but only one remained. He came forward now, holding out his hand. He was a tall man, with a clean-shaven face like most of the others, and brilliant blue-green eyes. “Welcome to Colorado, Mrs. Evans.”
Automatically, Jessamyn sorted rapidly through her memories. The eye color was very distinctive but she couldn’t quite put a name to that face.
His eyes danced but his expression remained sober. “We hope your recent experiences didn’t give you a dislike of our fair territory,” he added.
Hearing more of the man’s voice allowed her to make a guess. “Lieutenant Grainger?” she questioned.
He bowed courteously. “Lucas Grainger at your service, Mrs. Evans.”
Her stomach churned at yet another trial, which she’d hoped to avoid. Dear Lord, the young lieutenant Cyrus had considered so promising, whose only known interests as a cavalry officer had been extremely hard work, fast horses, and scarlet women. What would he think of her now, traveling with a man she wasn’t married to? Well, at least he was being polite in public. She offered him her hand in response. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Grainger.”
He kissed it briefly, courteously, before turning to a narrow-eyed Morgan. “Everything’s in readiness as you ordered, Evans.”
“Good. When did Jones pass through?” They started walking across the small plaza toward the depot, where Lowell and his friends were rapidly transferring the luggage to the depot.
“About three hours ago,” Grainger answered. “So they’ll make it over the pass tonight but just barely.”
“Which gives them a day’s head start on us,” Morgan growled.
Jessamyn winced, her eyes just catching a dust cloud on the pass.
“We’ll have to start at first light,” Morgan ground out, drumming his fingers on his belt.
“I’ve already given the orders.”
A brief silence fell and Jessamyn eyed the mountains, wondering where Charlie was now. She snapped her attention back when Grainger spoke. “Mrs. Evans, before we hit the trail, I’d appreciate a woman’s opinion.”
Jessamyn glanced at him. “Yes?”
“You’ve met my mother. Do you believe she’d approve of my clean-shaven look?”
Jessamyn nearly stumbled. Mrs. Grainger, that most notoriously fashion-conscious of all society grande dames, approve of her son going against every fashion dictate? How could she politely tell Grainger that his mother would be appalled? For the first time since the attack on the train and the wounded men’s departure for the Army hospital, she had to concentrate on something other than Charlie’s increasing lead. “I, ah…”
She glanced at him and caught the edge of a pleased glance he’d exchanged over her head with Morgan. Silly fellows, they were trying to distract her. She hid a smile and decided to play their game.
“I’m sure your mother will enjoy seeing more of your face. Perhaps if she understood why it was so important to you to lose your imperial, which you’d cultivated so assiduously, she’d tout your new fashion to her friends.”
Morgan chuckled. “It’s a sign of being employed by William Donovan. You grow your whiskers when you’re on the trail but you shave them off when you’re in town.”
What an amazing custom. “Why?”
Grainger shrugged, his eyes twinkling. “It’s how William Donovan has always behaved. More and more of his unmarried employees do likewise.”
She stared at them, completely turning away from the mountains. “No whiskers?” In this day and age when every man considered it his social duty to cover his face with hair? “Don’t you receive a certain amount of, ah, teasing, from unkind personages in town?”
Grainger snorted. “If we do, ma’am, it’s our privilege to teach them a lesson in manners. A few Donovan & Sons fellows gathered together are usually more than sufficient to provide examples of proper etiquette.”
“And pay any fines afterward,” Morgan added.
Jessamyn chuckled and patted his arm, feeling in complete harmony with him over the small joke.
She was still smiling—and deliberately not looking at the Sangre de Cristos—when he took her into the Donovan & Sons depot. It was smaller than the great ones she’d seen in St. Louis or Kansas Ci
ty but the basic form held true. The stout central building was surrounded by paddocks for horses and mules. A small courtyard and a smithy lay inside, with some horse stalls and a garden. At the moment, it was a combination warehouse, stables, and home. But in the event of an Indian attack, the entire complex could become a fortress.
After introducing Jessamyn to the manager, Morgan took her into a tiny bedroom barely large enough for the bed and a single chair. It also had a few hooks on the wall and a tiny mirror, plus a jug of water on a small table. “This is our room, and you can wash up there before eating. There’ll be a hot meal tonight, probably roast chicken, so eat up. You need to build your strength for the trail.”
Jessamyn nodded and reached up to unpin her hat. She hadn’t ridden as much in the past year as she had while Cyrus was alive. The first few days would likely be very uncomfortable, until her body remembered its old strengths.
“Charlie may have as much as a twelve-hour head start on us.” Morgan skimmed his planter’s hat onto a hook. “With luck, we can make up four, maybe six, hours of that before we reach the Rio Grande’s headwaters. Do you want to use the water closet first?”
“No, you can. I want to visit Starshine.” And reassure myself at least one of Somerset Hall’s horses will survive.
She started to unbutton her jacket. The water closet was a nice touch of privacy for the manager’s bedroom, which they were using tonight. “Are you starting to believe in Ortiz’s treasure?”
Morgan shook his head, ruffling his hair with one hand. “No, Jessamyn, I don’t. Never have and I doubt I ever will.” He straightened up and looked straight at her, his gray eyes very steady.
“But if you’d asked me to spike Charlie’s guns by chasing across Colorado with a damn fool map—then I’d have said hell yes and jumped for joy at the prospect.”
She stared at him, shocked, all her assumptions tumbling around her head. “Why?” she breathed.
“Charlie sold Union secrets for exorbitant prices during the War. If you asked him about it, he’d just laugh and call them just ‘sharp’ business practices.” Morgan stopped, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Murder dwelled, hot and bright, in his eyes. “We could have used all that gold for something useful,” he snarled.
The Southern Devil Page 20
