Retribution Rails

by Erin Bowman

  “You got anything I can use—​wire or rope?”

  “Check the stable,” she says. “Jesse thought of everything, so I reckon there’s something useful there.”

  “When’s he supposed to be back, anyway?” Vaughn asks.

  “Always hard to say. Jesse don’t know how to turn down Benny, and Benny’s real good at roping him for another job. But last Jesse wrote, he said end of January.”

  “He keen enough to know if he’s being followed?” I ask.

  Vaughn shoots a look that suggests I’m being insensitive, but it’s more than fair to assume one of Boss’s boys’ll be watching the Prescott house.

  “Jesse’s smart,” Kate says.

  ’Cept for when he gave me that blasted coin.

  As though she can hear my thoughts, Kate adds, “Most of the time.”

  I’ve barely made it off the porch when Vaughn comes nipping at my heels.

  “Hold up! I’d like to talk to you about yesterday.”

  “I told you I’m still considering it.”

  “Not the offer,” she says. “When I challenged your principles the last few years, you said ask me. Well, I’m asking now.”

  I pause beside the first of the stable’s stalls. The sorrel flicks her tail.

  “I done bad things, Vaughn. I ain’t participated in the worst of it, but I don’t exactly think standing by doing nothing excuses a man of his crimes. So the truth of it is, I ain’t had a ton of principles, but this ain’t what I ever wanted, neither. I did try to run once, just weeks after Boss branded my arm and dragged me into the gang. I weren’t about to try again.”

  “What happened?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “If I end up writing that piece on you for the paper, I can’t very well do it without knowing the facts.”

  She’s wearing a beige dress she musta borrowed from Kate, ’cus it’s clean and a bit too big in length. A blanket’s draped over her shoulders to shield from the morning’s bite, and with her head cocked to the side and her hair spilling everywhere, she plays sincere mighty well. But I get the feeling she’s also playing me. Like she’s cutting me open just to watch me bleed, not so she can stitch me back up. Hell, I could see her writing the story for her career’s benefit and still turning me in to the Law.

  ’Gainst my better judgment, I fold. For once I got someone standing ’round long enough to hear my side of things, and maybe just talking will do me wonders. It sure seems to help sinners at confession.

  “Boss asked ’bout my family a lot in the first days I rode with him,” I begin. “He wanted to know my history. No detail were too small. I told him everything ’cus I were scared of what might happen if I didn’t, and when I tried to run that first and only time, I realized I shoulda lied. At least a little.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were down near Yuma.” She bristles at the mention of her home. “Most of the guys were seeing ladies, and Boss had bought me one. I snuck out the gal’s window, certain that were the best time to flee ’cus the boys’d all be preoccupied. I didn’t count on one of the whores snitching to Boss. I didn’t make it more than three miles north before he caught up with me. He beat me real good. I still got this lump on my nose where it ain’t healed right.” I go to point it out, only to remember that my nose is still swollen from where Kate cracked me with her rifle.

  “So you took a beating,” Vaughn says, shrugging, as if she’s taken one herself and knows how it feels to have Luther Rose towering over you, kicking relentlessly, driving his fists into every bit of soft flesh he can find. “You didn’t try again?”

  “I planned to, but Diaz disappeared that day and rejoined us a week or two later. When I asked him where he’d been, he told me Boss sent him to visit my mother. She’s a painted dove in La Paz.”

  Vaughn’s gone pale at this point. “He killed her?”

  “Nah. You can’t kill someone yer using to keep another person in line. You should know that, what with the way yer uncle’s playing you and yer ma ’gainst each other.”

  I walk to the far end of stable, where the only empty stall is filled with farming gear. Kneeling, I dig ’round in a crate, looking for something I can use to set a snare or trap. Vaughn’s dress swooshes behind me. She’s followed.

  “What happened?” Her tone’s demanding, but a little concerned, too.

  “Diaz saw my ma, then cut off her little finger.”

  “Maybe he lied.”

  “He gave it to me, wrapped in a handkerchief. Said if I tried to run again, Boss planned to send someone else and they’d take two fingers. The next time, it would be three. And so on.”

  I glance at Vaughn. Her hand’s pressed to her mouth.

  “I guess there was no way of knowing if that finger were truly hers, but it weren’t a gamble I were willing to make. So I stayed put till Wickenburg. It wasn’t worth running till I knew—​without a doubt—​that I’d be able to get away. Now, so long as I keep hidden, my ma should be safe. I know Boss. He ain’t gonna harm her if’n I’m gone. It’s if he catches me that things’ll get ugly.”

  “Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “I’m sorry.”

  “Look, I ain’t sharing this for yer pity. I told you ’cus you asked, and ’cus you need to stay away from me. Find someone else to take care of yer uncle. Trust me, I ain’t worth it. Every life mine touches ends up cursed. I’m gonna lie low a few weeks and then get outta the Territory, go somewhere they won’t find me.”

  “So that’s it. You’re turning down my offer? You’re going to leave me to deal with my uncle myself?”

  “Yer uncle, yer problem. I got enough of my own.”

  “Unbelievable,” she says.

  I grab a length of rope and leap to my feet. “And what, yer some kind of saint? Yer the one trying to hire the Rose Kid to threaten yer own family! Even murder on yer behalf if it comes to that. Maybe it’s time you dirty yer own hands. Go kill him yerself, Vaughn. But don’t you dare try to make me feel guilty ’bout not helping. I struggle to wake up every goddamn day. I hate who I am. Hate it. So I sure as hell ain’t gonna let some spoiled, judging, pretentious, holier-than-thou city gal make me feel worse than I already do.”

  I storm off before she throws more insults in my face. I knew I shouldn’t’ve told Vaughn ’bout my ma. Just like I shouldn’t’ve told Boss ’bout her, neither.

  Secrets are like bullets. Ditto the dark, personal stuff. Folks say they’ll take ’em off yer hands, share the burden, but really they just load ’em into their own weapons so they can use ’em against you later.

  I set one trap where it makes sense—’long the trickling stream that feeds the tank of water. Then I turn my back on the hideout and take to climbing the craggy mound of rock at its rear.

  Only shrubs seem to have found purchase here, but a few are sturdy enough to use as leverage while climbing. By the time I work my way to what can be called the summit, a good chunk of time’s passed and the sun is high in the sky. To the north and west there ain’t nothing but more forest—​ponderosas and other greenery dusted with snow. But to the east the land becomes a low swatch of dusty yellow—​Chino Valley, perhaps—​and to the south I finally spot something I recognize. Thumb Butte. I reckon it’s five miles off as the crow flies, but it could be twice that trying to navigate on foot or by horseback. Least I know where Prescott is now, and if I wanna try disappearing into Utah, I’m best heading east till I stumble into Chino Valley, then heading north with the P&AC line. Maybe I can even scrape together enough coin to ride the rail right outta the Territory. I can see the irony: escaping Boss by relying on the thing he always robs.

  I don’t know where I’ll get the money, ’less I steal it from Kate, and truth be told, I don’t feel right about that. Maybe I can work for her a few weeks and she’ll pay me for my labor. It’s a long shot—​she’s already risked her neck hiding me from the boys back at her place and letting me tag ’long to this hideout when anyone else woulda shot me de
ad. Sure, she don’t trust me fully. But I can’t rightly blame her. I don’t trust me fully neither.

  There’s the slightest breeze at this height, and it whisks away the sweat I worked up during the climb. I glance to the southwest, as if merely staring in the direction of La Paz could somehow reveal Ma to me. I wonder what she’s doing right now, if she begrudges me as much as she does my father.

  I sit at the summit a minute longer, letting the afternoon sun warm my face as I memorize my surroundings.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  * * *

  Charlotte

  I cannot sleep.

  The Rose Kid left his pistol and knife on the table again. Kate calls it considerate. I find it confusing.

  Say everything he claims is true: he is a young man in a poor situation, forced into his current station, held hostage by men who threaten his own life and that of his mother. Wouldn’t anybody in such a position want to remain armed? Should his demons come calling, not having a weapon at his side may spell his demise.

  Earlier in the evening, when Kate and I retired to bed, she mentioned that when she first stood face to face with the Kid, he’d all but begged her to shoot him. “Part of him wants to die,” she said, “but a bigger part wants to live. Folks always underestimate how far they’ll go—​what they’re willing to do—​just to keep breathing.”

  Kate is sleeping deeply for once. Her breathing is low and silent, almost peaceful. Mutt, too, is curled up at the foot of the bed, and it is a shame I am not taking advantage of the quiet. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, overwhelmed by the enormity of what awaits me in Prescott. I cannot stall another day. If the Rose Kid refuses to help me, I will have to do as Kate says and make my own help. Mother does not have days to waste, and I know all too well that someone like Nellie Bly would not sit still, worrying. She was just sixteen, same as I am now, when her first printed piece appeared in the Dispatch, and yet here I lie, staring at a ceiling while the story of a lifetime unfolds around me and I do nothing to document it.

  Reece Murphy: the infamous Rose Kid who may not be as vile as the Territory has portrayed him, but is instead merely a boy forced to ride with the most wicked men in Arizona—​a boy surrounded by demons, who finally raised his pistol to strike down two of his own while chasing freedom.

  It’s the type of story a journalist dreams of.

  I should write it. I will write it, as soon as I’m home. Home.

  Just like that, the fluster and itch to move a pen over paper vanishes. How can I be thinking of something so self-serving when Uncle Gerald sits in that home right now, holding my mother prisoner? The guilt becomes nearly unbearable, drowning out my thoughts, Kate’s low exhales, everything, until the world falls completely silent. So silent that the snap of a twig in the distance renders me a statue.

  I clench the blanket beneath my chin, certain I imagined it. But now I hear nothing, and the quiet itself is unsettling. There’s too much of it. It’s as if even the night creatures have been spooked.

  I sit up.

  “Kate?” I whisper, touching her shoulder. She exhales low. “Kate?” She’s had such trouble sleeping that I can’t bear to wake her for what is likely just my nerves getting the best of me.

  I slip from the bed. The wooden floorboards are cold beneath my feet, and I move slowly, taking care so they do not creak under my weight.

  Kate’s Winchester rests against the wall. I grab it and step into the kitchen. The soft glow of embers still pulses in the fireplace. It will have to be enough to see by, because I don’t dare light a lantern.

  I pause near the window that overlooks the tank and peer through a cross porthole cut in the shutter, but nothing seems odd. Moonlight winks off the water. The evening is calm.

  And then . . . movement.

  Beyond the tank, at the start of the path that leads into the woods, is a lone rider. Saddled. Moving ever so slowly toward the house. My heart beats wildly.

  His steed is dark, nearly as inky black as the night. Something glints in the man’s hand. A pistol.

  I swallow, wiping my sweaty palms on the nightdress I borrowed from Kate. Trying to ignore the frantic hammering of my heart, I slide the window open as quietly as possible, then bring the rifle up and aim through the shutter. Ever so carefully, I crank the lever.

  The noise it produces is like cannon fire in the still night. The man’s horse flinches, and his gun comes up.

  I don’t let him get off a shot.

  I shoot first.

  I’ve never fired a rifle before, but I’ve heard they are far easier to aim than six-shooters, that the long barrel allows for accuracy and precision. So when my target goes flying off his horse, I think I’ve hit him. It’s when he scrambles to his feet that I realize his horse has bucked him in a panic; as he tugs the reins to steady the steed, I realize he is not hurt in the slightest.

  The door bangs open behind me, and Kate stumbles from the bedroom, Mutt on her heels. The Rose Kid’s door blows open next.

  “They’re here?” he gasps, snatching his effects from the table. “They found us?”

  Kate grabs her rifle from me and cranks the lever. She takes aim as if it is her nature, as though the Winchester is an extension of her limbs. Her eyes narrow with focus, her finger quivers as it reaches for the trigger. But then her gaze jerks up, and she pulls the barrel from the window port.

  “Don’t shoot!” she shouts, lunging at Reece. He’s at the second window, pistol also aimed. She knocks his weapon aside, then throws open the door.

  “Kate!” he shouts after her.

  But she’s already running, her feet moving faster than I ever imagined she could with that giant belly. She stumbles once but remains upright, her hands clutching the skirt of her nightgown as she flies.

  “Jesse!”

  The man’s running now, too, the horse forgotten.

  “Kate? Kate!”

  They collide beside the reservoir, and for a moment I cannot tell where she ends and he begins. In the darkness, they are a single unit, their hands tangled in each other’s hair, their fronts pressed together, their voices a jumble of relieved gasps. When they finally break apart, they stand there staring at each other and I’m struck through with a feeling of awe. At how the world can be falling apart and yet, somehow, there are moments like this. Moments that are nothing but good and whole and warm, where all the darkness in the world seems distant, as if it cannot touch us, or at least as if it cannot touch the likes of them.

  “Thank God you missed,” Kate says to me.

  “Had it been trouble, missing ain’t an option.” The Rose Kid glances my way. “I’ll teach you the rifle come first light. You should know how to shoot it.”

  We’re all sitting around the table, the lanterns lit now that we’ve established there is no threat. Jesse Colton clenches a cup of hot tea, but his eyes never leave Kate. They’re golden in color, a contrast to the rest of him. Dark hair is visible now that he’s removed his hat, frost from the cold clings to his equally dark beard, and his skin is still tanned from the summer months.

  “You weren’t supposed to be back for weeks,” Kate says.

  “Benny postponed the last job on account of the northern territories getting slammed. They ain’t seen a break in snow since November, and he told the buyer it was either get the beef to Colorado come spring or get the whole herd killed on the plains now.” Jesse takes a quick sip of the tea and looks back at Kate, serious. “I know I agreed to this plan ages ago, but when I cleared the rise and saw that noose swinging, I damn near fell from the saddle. I ain’t never been so scared in my whole life. The house was completely ransacked. Hoofprints everywhere out front, blood on the kitchen floor. I’m sorry I came creeping up in the night, but I thought maybe you were brought here ’gainst yer will. Or worse, you were already gone and they hung the noose to lead me into a trap. There was just so much blood, Kate. What the hell happened?”

  “They found us,” she says, plain as day.

 
; “How many?”

  “Three. One got away. That’s why I had to leave. You weren’t followed?”

  “Nah. I watched the house a bit before I went for a closer look. How the devil did they find us? We ain’t had a slip. We been doing the same thing for ten years.”

  “’Parently Luther Rose’s been looking for his brother’s killer for ages, and Reece followed a rumor to me.”

  “Reece?” He follows Kate’s gaze across the table. She’d forgone formal introductions in the panic, and Jesse now acknowledges our presence for the first time. He squints as he takes in the Rose Kid, and the moment he puts it all together, his eyes somehow manage to go even narrower.

  Jesse lurches to his feet, drawing a Remington from his belt. The Rose Kid jumps up too, his chair toppling back as he draws his pistol.

  “I know who you are,” Jesse Colton says, his eyes burning with hatred. “Yer the Rose Kid.”

  “Jesse, can we talk for a minute?” Kate urges.

  “Christ, Kate. Tell me you didn’t know this when you spared him.”

  “In private,” she snarls.

  “Tell me you didn’t—”

  “Now!”

  She steps around the table and moves between the guns. Jesse lowers his weapon immediately. The Rose Kid pulls his back too.

  Kate pushes the door to the bedroom open, and Jesse, grumbling, stalks inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  * * *

  Reece

  “We been through this a million times,” Jesse hollers from the bedroom, so loud it ain’t hard to hear him through the thin door. “Our shadows come riding back into our lives, and we shoot ’em in the skull. We shoot ’em and don’t hesitate!”