Retribution Rails

by Erin Bowman

  Uncle Gerald heaves me onto his horse. I could scream and writhe for the show, but I go willingly. The more cooperative my entrance, the less adamantly townsfolk will cling to stories that I am unwell, and the less they will miss me when I disappear again. For I have no intention of staying longer than necessary.

  Uncle’s knees hold me in place, his arms imprisoning me as he grabs the reins of his mare, plus those of the sorrel. He rides his horse harder than necessary, and because I’ve a bad seat in the saddle, I jolt and bump against him. It is the worst bit of contact yet—​crueler, somehow, than his grabbing my arm or wrestling me onto the horse. I need him, the support he provides, or I’ll fall from the saddle.

  I do not want to need him.

  When we arrive at the house, a curtain at the bay window is drawn aside and, like an eye blinking, quickly drops into place. Then the front door flies open and Mother stumbles into view.

  “Charlotte, how could you?” she screeches. “Why would you come back? Why!”

  She has deteriorated in my absence. Her skin has gone ashy and her hair lost its shine. Wrinkles around her eyes seem to have spread. She looks like the unhinged woman my uncle paints her to be.

  I’ve been gone too long. I never should have left.

  “Lillian, get in the house,” Uncle Gerald orders.

  Ignoring him, she races forward, gathers me in her arms. She hugs me to her chest and I breathe in the scent of her. She is softer than a pillow, more familiar than any bed. Her hands grip my cheeks, and she moves my face back so she can look at me properly. Tears cling to the corners of her eyes.

  “You foolish girl. You’ve only made things worse.”

  She pulls me nearer once more.

  “I have a plan,” I whisper into her hair.

  “Lillian,” Uncle barks.

  She slinks to his side, takes his hand. And that’s when I see it—​the ring on her finger.

  It is not the one she wore to honor her vows to my father, but a thinner, duller band. It is the shackle my uncle has used to bind her.

  They have already wed.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  * * *

  Reece

  When I wake in the morning, Vaughn’s missing.

  “We gotta find her,” I say, palms pressed to the kitchen table. Kate’s clutching a mug of hot tea like her life depends on it while Jesse checks the simmering porridge. “She don’t know what she’s doing, and she ain’t fit for it.”

  “She’s fit for just ’bout anything,” Kate says. She sets her mug down and starts unfurling fingers. “She tried to shoot you on the train. She turned Rose’s men over in Wickenburg. She weathered yer ill-treatment in the coach till she could make a run for it. Then she came to me looking for a gunslinger. And nearly shot you again in my kitchen.” Kate moves on to her second hand. “She caught Jesse entering the clearing while we slept.” Another finger. “She wiggled outta a bind with a bounty hunter. Should I keep going?”

  “Nah, I get yer point.”

  “I reckon that girl might not be able to shoot like you, but she sure as hell’s cunning enough to do damn near anything she sets her mind to. Besides, you don’t even know where she went.”

  “I’m just worried, all right? What if she went to find a gunslinger again, only it pans out worse than last time? Besides, ain’t you guys bothered by her up and vanishing, that she might get spotted or give us away somehow?”

  Jesse stops stirring the porridge. “Why’d she be spotted? You said you weren’t followed, and it ain’t like there’s folk in these mountains to spot her tracks.”

  I take a long slug of coffee. Kate’s right ’bout Vaughn being resourceful. She’s proved it several times over, and I don’t know why I feel this urge to run after her. But if she’s gone to confront her uncle without any backup, I pray she’s got a solid plan. If she don’t, there’s a good chance I won’t never see her again. I mighta said some harsh words last night, but that don’t mean I wanted her gone permanently. Hell, I woke desperate to talk to her, to tell her I meant what I said, but I wish I’d gone about it differently. Kept my tone even. Made my point without insulting her so boldly. I get right furious when folks assume things ’bout me—​presume to know my entire life story—​and that’s exactly what I did to her.

  “You positive you don’t want payment for tomorrow’s train job?” Jesse asks.

  “Right positive,” I say. “But speaking of gold . . . It ain’t squirreled away here at the hideout, is it?”

  “Not knowing something can be a blessing,” Kate says pointedly.

  “I reckon it’s here. Gold ain’t an easy thing to transport, and you’d wanna keep it in a safe place, not the claim you call home in Prescott. Maybe it’s buried out back or folded into the floorboards or hiding between horse stalls.”

  Jesse slops some porridge into my bowl. “You got a mind made for thievery and stealing. It’s like yer supposed to be an outlaw or something.”

  “Here, read this,” Kate says, tossing a clothbound book on the table. “You oughta keep yer mind busy, and Charlotte seemed to be enjoying that the other night.”

  I glance at the cover. Around the World in Eighty Days.

  There ain’t no time for reading, but to appease the both of ’em, I tuck the book into the large interior pocket of my jacket.

  Later that afternoon, Kate finds me while I’m seeing to the horses. Jesse and I ride for the P&AC early tomorrow, and we can’t risk a loose shoe or lamed horse.

  “Why you so curious ’bout the gold, Reece?”

  I lower the horse’s leg and brush my palm ’long her flanks. “No reason.”

  “You seem to care where we keep it.”

  “I don’t,” I insist.

  Kate rolls her eyes and settles awkwardly onto the saddle stand. Her belly’s somehow grown even larger in the past week, and I ain’t sure she’s gonna be able to get back up without help.

  “You remind me of Jesse a bit, when he were younger,” she says. “You got this giant black cloud of regret and guilt hovering over you, and if you don’t let it rain here and there, it’s gonna part one day and you’ll drown in the downpour.”

  “What the devil does that mean?”

  “Just that no matter what you do, that cloud’s prolly still gonna be there, hovering. You gotta learn to exist with it.” She brushes a section of dark hair over her shoulder, and for a moment it’s like she’s swatting her own cloud, ordering it to keep its distance.

  “You got one too?” I ask. “A cloud?”

  “Don’t we all?” She smiles, and it’s the same conflicted kinda smile I seen when she admitted to killing Waylan Rose.

  The pigs grunt and squeal out by the tank, and I take a few rushed steps forward so I can see ’round the stable. It’s only Jesse, come out to fill a bucket.

  “She’ll be back,” Kate says.

  “You don’t know that.”

  Suddenly the thought of not being able to properly part ways with Vaughn feels like a knife pressed to my skin. After the train job’s done, I ain’t dawdling. I’m riding for the sunset before the Law can show up and make my life hell all over again.

  “I do know it,” Kate says, “’cus I reckon this is her story, too.”

  I cringe, embarrassed. “You heard all that last night?”

  “You were shouting something fierce. I think I coulda heard from much farther away than the kitchen.”

  I lift my hat and wipe at my brow with my forearm.

  Kate goes on. “This story started as mine and became Jesse’s and then yers, and now I think in a way it’s Charlotte’s, too. She got involved ’cus she needed a gunslinger and desired a feature for the paper, but it’s bigger than just that now. If’n she wants to stay, it’ll be up to you to allow it.”

  “Is this some kinda religious sermon I ain’t fully getting?”

  “I’m more spiritual than religious,” she says, “and no. It’s just . . . we ain’t nothing but human, Reece. Most folks are
good, but even the good can be greedy and selfish and scheming. Our motives ain’t always virtuous, ’specially at first, but they can become so, if’n you give ’em time to change and grow.”

  I exhale through my nose, shaking my head. “Vaughn and I don’t got nothing in common. We been at each other’s throats since the day we met, and that ain’t gonna grow into something more civil.”

  “Sounds like me and Jesse ’bout ten years back, and look at us now.” She braces a hand ’gainst the saddle bench and pushes awkwardly to her feet. “Plus, you might try calling Vaughn by her name. There’s a lot of power in that. I know from being an ass on this subject myself.”

  “I ain’t a poet, and all this cryptic, symbolic talk is confusing my simple ears.”

  She laughs. “You know, I used to hate poetry, too. So much fluff and pomp. But it’s kinda been growing on me over the years. Ain’t that amazing—​how a person can change?”

  She shuffles for the house, her hands pressed to her lower back. I finish with the horses, grumbling to myself as Kate’s words echo in my head.

  How a person can change.

  And just like that, I know why I started looking at Vaughn—​Charlotte—​differently. She’d stopped calling me the Rose Kid and instead addressed me as Reece. We started talking—​having real conversations ’bout the past and the future and the road we’re both walking now. She challenged me, and I challenged her right in return, and maybe we’ve both grown from that.

  How a person can change.

  Me. Her. Jesse. Kate.

  I reckon she could be onto something. That this is all of our story.

  Suddenly I want Charlotte to return more than ever. ’Cus it’s only gonna be her story if’n she’s here to play a part.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  * * *

  Charlotte

  They wed just yesterday afternoon, a quick ceremony while the snow fell outside. Mother tells me this as we’re ushered into the house. The only reason she is not dead is because the marriage is so recent. For her to die on their first evening as man and wife would have looked suspicious. Still, I can barely hold her gaze. I know what she endured last night in Uncle’s bed, and the guilt slams into me like a hammer spiking a rail tie.

  I could have spared her this. If I’d returned sooner, if I’d never gone to Banghart’s for a gunslinger and instead come straight to Prescott. But now Uncle has the inheritance, and he will surely dispose of Mother at the earliest convenience. Perhaps both of us, if he can manage it.

  My plan no longer seems so foolproof.

  I clench the armrests of the chair Uncle has shoved me into. Outside his office, Mother is banging on the door, desperate to gain entrance, but Uncle locked it. Now he sets his pistol on the mahogany desk and angles the barrel my way. My heart pounds wildly. Uncle presses his palms to the desk, leaning forward, towering before me. He is trying to intimidate me.

  I hate that it is working.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Away.”

  “That’s no answer.”

  I keep my gaze focused straight ahead, as though I am staring through him. If I look him in the eye, I fear I may lose all my nerve.

  His arm sweeps out violently, knocking papers and books from the desk. A bottle of ink crashes. Black weeps onto the carpet.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he screams.

  “What should concern you,” I say slowly, “is where you will be tomorrow.”

  He is around his desk so quickly, it is as if he walked through it. Fingers pinch my chin and jerk up hard, so that I’m forced to look at him.

  “You don’t get to threaten me, Charlotte. I always told your father that he didn’t keep a tight enough rein on you. Let a woman dream too openly and she gets all types of wild notions, becomes unruly—​as useless as an unbroken horse.” He shoves my chin to the side and folds his arms over his chest. “You ran only to come back. Why?”

  “I’m sure you noticed your ledger has been compromised.”

  He stills. Fear dances in his eyes. He hasn’t noticed.

  “I took a few pages with me.”

  He sifts through the mess of paper he pushed to the floor, finds the ledgers, flips them open. He rifles through them, pausing when his fingers find the rough, short edges of the year-old pages I tore out.

  “Where are these sheets?”

  “I gave them to Mr. Marion.”

  Uncle Gerald shoots up. “What?”

  “I reckon it will make an intriguing story, no? Local business owner commits fraud; lies about profits and pockets difference. Your miners will be up in arms. Anyone you’ve done business with will question if you’ve shortchanged them. Surely your word will not be held in the same esteem throughout all of Prescott.”

  He grabs his pistol from the desk and races off, not even bothering to retrieve his jacket from where it is slung over his desk chair. Mother tumbles into the office as he yanks open the door. He drags her into the hall and slams the door aggressively. I hear a key turn, locking me inside.

  Footsteps, another door slamming, then silence.

  “Charlotte?” my mother ventures a moment later. “Charlotte, talk to me!”

  I want to—​Lord, do I want to—​but I worry if I let my guard drop, the tears will break free and I will never regain composure.

  I can hear her shuffling about in the hallway, and a moment later, a scrap of paper is shoved beneath the office door. I retrieve it and find a newspaper clipping from the Morning Courier in which I am reported as missing, a victim of the Rose Kid whose sanity is to be questioned. Still, there is a reward for my return. My dear uncle wants nothing more than to see me safely home.

  I love you, Mother has scrawled across the top of the paper.

  It is an incredible feat to blink back the tears. I feel thirteen again, when I first declared my aspirations of being a journalist. Father had been supportive, but Mother had told me to pursue midwifing or a good marriage. Those were my options.

  “Your father encourages you because the world turns in his favor,” she told me. “Men do not understand what it is like to be a woman attempting a ‘man’s’ job. I love you too much to watch your dreams crushed beneath the unfair nature of the world.”

  I hadn’t believed her, and she’d known it. She started sliding newspaper clippings of stories she believed might interest me under my bedroom door. They always read I love you at the top. Just like this one now.

  “I love you, too,” I whisper through the door. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I could have prevented all of this. I could have spared you from—”

  “Do not take blame for what’s happened for one second, Charlotte Vaughn,” she says. “There is only one guilty party here, and it is your uncle.”

  “Did he change his will yet?”

  “No. He plans to do it later today. Mr. Douglas is to visit.”

  “So the Gulch Mine and all of Father’s businesses are strictly yours—​ours?”

  “For a few more hours, yes.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Where have you been?” Mother asks.

  I tell her how I went to see Kate Colton the night I ran, how every moment since leaving I have been trying to find an impartial gunslinger to help us break free of Uncle. How it was slow and difficult because the Coltons were forced to go into hiding after the boy the Territory knows as the Rose Kid left them exposed to the wrath of the Rose Riders, and I found myself caught in the middle of it. I even mention the incident with Parker, carrying on quickly as Mother tries to interject.

  “But we don’t need a gunslinger, and we don’t need the Law,” I insist. “All we need is the truth about Uncle Gerald, and the threat it imposes if printed. When he comes back, he will see that I’ve finished him. He will flee the Territory immediately.”

  “Charlotte, I do not think you comprehend how thoroughly your uncle has purchased people in town. There is no winning with—”

  The so
und of the front door flying open and cracking against the wall sends me jumping to my feet.

  “You lying, deceitful brat!” Uncle screams as he flings the office door open. I get the briefest glimpse of Mother in the hall—​her face white with concern—​before he slams the door shut and locks it once more. The back of his hand connects with my cheek, and I stumble away, grabbing the chair to keep from falling.

  “Was this your plan—​to trick me into confessing to an editor?” he roars. “To tie my own noose? John Marion is an old friend and an honest reporter. He won’t print a story when there is no proof.”

  “But you did confess?” One look at Uncle’s face—​the sweat beading along his brow, the flighty state of his eyes—​and I know it is true. He barged into Mr. Marion’s office asking to explain himself.

  About the ledgers, I can imagine him saying. They’re falsified. Please don’t print anything. Charlotte isn’t well. I run a fair business.

  No matter the argument, it is enough to plant seeds of doubt.

  “He may not print anything, but will he keep your story in confidence?” I ask. “Can you guarantee he won’t mention your strange plea to a friend, who might tell another, perhaps someone you haven’t bought or bribed? Imagine the rage at the mine if your workers hear of this. Imagine what might happen if the story reaches the Weekly Miner and they choose to print something in the Courier’s silence!”

  “They won’t!” Uncle Gerald roars, spit flying from his mouth. “I own this town!”

  “Then it’s good that I sent the ledgers to the offices of the Yuma Inquirer.”

  He draws his pistol and presses the barrel to the underside of my chin. “I could silence you right now,” he snarls.

  “That won’t stop the story from printing. And killing your niece surely won’t make you look more innocent in the eyes of readers.”