Retribution Rails

by Erin Bowman

  “Well, don’t go saying no goodbyes,” he says with a smile. “I’ll be back by dusk.” He tips his hat at me like a gentleman.

  “You return, and I’ll buy you a new hat,” I say. “That one is hideous.”

  “If this goes well, I’ll buy my own hat. Hell, I’ll buy you a hat. What do you want? A fancy bonnet?”

  “You don’t know me at all, do you? We might have to change that.”

  “If you say so, Charlotte Vaughn.”

  I watch him jog for the stable and wave him and Jesse off from the stoop. Reece looks back only once, and his eyes are nowhere near hollow or lifeless. I’m not sure if he’s changed or if the way I view him has.

  The men disappear into the trees, and I return to Kate.

  Chapter Forty-One

  * * *

  Reece

  The train chugs into Banghart’s round high noon, and I’m shaking like a goddamn sinner at confession. Jesse said it were only visible in my hands, but I swear it’s gotten worse since we split on the way into town.

  I scour the depot. Like we planned, Jesse’s boarding the third car. Could be a Rose Rider is in there too, but Jesse’s safe so long as I ain’t with him. Once the train departs, he’ll make his way back a car, where he’ll hide among some cargo, and then it’ll be my job to lead Rose to him. I’ll say I got Jesse handcuffed and bound, when really, Jesse’ll just be waiting for Rose’s head to come into view.

  It ain’t a fair way to die—​shot in the back and betrayed by yer own man—​but no one ever said life were fair, certainly not ’mongst outlaws, and besides, it ain’t like Luther Rose has lived a life that demands fair treatment.

  “All aboard!” someone shouts.

  I tense in the saddle. The thought of having to chase this train and ditch my horse to pull myself aboard ain’t comforting. I’ve only stormed stationary locomotives, but Jesse and me agreed this was the safest approach. If’n Rose and his boys think I missed the departure, I can approach ’em on my own terms. And that’s what this is all about, staying in charge, keeping a firm hand on the reins. Soon as we lose control, everything’ll run away from us.

  A whistle scream pierces the afternoon.

  The train starts chugging.

  “Don’t let me down, son,” Jesse had said when we split. “I ain’t in the habit of shooting kids, but I’ll do it if’n I got to.”

  Even after all this, a part of him still doubts me, and that hurts worse than I care to admit. ’Cus I don’t much mind Jesse calling me son. Rose used that word to make me feel small and powerless, to remind me that I was indebted to him. But with Jesse, it feels like a declaration of respect.

  I ain’t gonna let him down, and it’s time to prove it.

  I kick the sorrel I been riding—​the same mare Charlotte stole from her uncle—​to action. Jesse loaned me a spare pistol belt so I could holster my piece properly, and for that I’m glad. I’m riding the sorrel fast as possible, and last thing I need to worry ’bout is a weapon slipping from my waistband.

  Somewhere between Banghart’s and the tracks, my hands quit shaking. I bring the horse alongside the steadily quickening train. Cars drift by, rattling and rocking on the rough rail, which startles the mare some. I struggle to keep her steady, and as the handle of a door slips into view, I lean out and grab hold. My legs slip from the stirrups, and my shoulders ache in protest. I’m pulled away from the sorrel. Swinging and grunting, I wrestle myself onto the lip of the car. The mare immediately slows and veers away from the tracks. Perhaps she’ll go back to Banghart’s, where we left the bay Jesse rode into town, or maybe she’ll find her way back to the mountain trail, where Jesse left Rebel tethered. We’ll share her saddle back to the house if’n we make it outta this whole thing alive.

  The sorrel grows smaller as the train speeds on, and I go to meet the devil.

  The P&AC rails prove as rough as a washboard. I’m jostled and jolted as I make my way up the aisle, the bruises from my run-in with Diaz flaring with each step. This passenger car ain’t nothing like the refined ones we often rob on the Southern Pacific, but the local folk seem impressed nonetheless. I keep an eye peeled for any of the boys, but don’t see no one till I reach the dining car. I slide the door open, and there he is—​Luther Rose, seated at a small table set for two.

  He looks up when he sees me enter, and he smiles—​the widest, brightest smile I’ve ever seen from him. He even plucks the cigar from his mouth to do so, making sure he shows me every last tooth. Then he motions at the place setting opposite him. There ain’t any food in sight, but whiskey has been poured to the brim of stout glasses, some of it sloshing free when the train rocks over a particularly harsh section of rail.

  “Murphy,” Rose says, setting his glass down. “I were beginning to think you might not show.”

  “It weren’t an easy con to pull off,” I say as I sit.

  The few folk eating nearby are busy with their own meals and conversations and ain’t concerned ’bout us in the slightest. The only two men that appear to be listening, their heads tilted just so, sit directly behind Boss—​Crawford and Barrera.

  “Where’s Diaz?” I ask.

  “Where’s Colton?”

  “I asked first.”

  It’s a bold statement, ’specially with Rose, but he shakes me off with a smile, his brows rising almost lazily. “What’s it matter where he’s at, son? Here, have a cigar.”

  He passes me one, plus a book of matches.

  “I said to bring everyone. Where is he?”

  Rose takes a long pull from his glass and sets it down. And then, finally, ever so slowly, he says, “With DeSoto.”

  I freeze, a burning match held just inches from the cigar I were aiming to light.

  DeSoto. He weren’t with the lot of ’em when I searched ’em out on the plains. At least not nowhere where I could see him. But he were around. He were hiding. He had to be. And when I were too beat to notice, when just holding my head up to see the trail ahead were a struggle, he followed.

  He followed, and he saw everything. The way to the Coltons’ hideout and how the path don’t bottleneck and how the house’s just sitting there for the taking. He brought that info back to the gang. DeSoto, who never says a word ’less addressed directly. DeSoto, who always fades into the background, brings up the rear, hangs in the shadows. DeSoto, always quiet and always forgotten.

  I forgot ’bout him, too. I got greedy and tried to con the devil, forgetting that the devil can’t be conned ’cus he plays by his own rules and those rules’re always changing. The devil is patient and sly and willing to bide his time till we lay our weakness bare before him.

  Rose coulda had them attack that very night I returned with half my blood on my front. He coulda attacked any day since. But he told the boys to pull back and keep their distance. He’s been waiting for this moment right now, when the Coltons are separated and the prize will be easy to take. Luther Rose aims to win two pots in the same hand: one made of revenge, the other of gold.

  Flames bite at my fingers, and I shake out the match.

  “We’re gonna be very rich men when this is over, Murphy.” Rose thumbs the lip of his whiskey glass, smiling. “I’ll take that cowboy’s life while Diaz and DeSoto take his gold. Everything Jesse Colton took from my brother, I’m winning back.”

  I think of Charlotte in the doorway and how I told her I’d return by dusk. I think of Kate and the baby that may or may not be in the world yet. I think of both their guards down and attention elsewhere and how they ain’t gonna see it coming, ain’t gonna stand a chance. I think till the images of the result surface in my mind and I start feeling sick.

  “That sounds like something worth celebrating,” I say, numb.

  “Don’t it? So let’s get on with it. Where’s the cowboy?”

  “Not here.”

  “Yer lying.”

  The car rattles hard. More whiskey slops over the edge of my untouched glass.

  “He were too spooke
d when I returned beat half to death that day. I couldn’t convince him to get on the train. But he’ll be in Prescott. He had errands to see to, and I’ll walk you to each and every place he planned to visit.”

  “Murphy . . .” Rose says, slow.

  I fumble for another light.

  “Murphy.” This one said sharp, like a warning.

  I strike the match.

  Rose inches a finger toward his pistol belt. “Son, you better straighten yer story before—”

  I flick the match onto the whiskey-drenched table before he can pull, and the surface springs to life with flames.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  * * *

  Charlotte

  By midmorning I am tired. I don’t dare complain because Kate works harder.

  She seems unaware of the hours that have passed, whereas I am quite aware of my growling belly and bleary eyes. I have a newfound respect for my mother, who has been called to a house and sometimes not returned for nearly forty-eight hours.

  Kate’s close at least.

  I can feel the baby’s head.

  I tell her she’s doing wonderfully, that every wave is bringing the baby closer, that soon she’ll get to meet the little one and it will all have been worthwhile.

  I repeat everything I’ve heard my mother say and try not to think on the heartbreaking outcomes that can also occur: babies who arrive in the world stillborn, mothers who bleed inwardly and never finish the birthing.

  Kate seems too stubborn for anything like that to happen.

  But then again, life is rarely fair.

  After an hour of pushing, the babe has still not come.

  Kate’s forehead is slick with sweat, her hair sticking to her shoulders.

  “You’re close.”

  “You been saying that for hours,” she grunts.

  “This time I mean it. Just a little more.”

  She breathes and waits, and at the next wave she pushes and pushes and pushes. And I’m there waiting at the foot of bed. I’ve got my hands out and ready, and still the baby nearly shoots between my fingers, slick with blood and fluids. I turn the small soul over.

  “It’s a boy.”

  But he’s not crying.

  He’s purple, too.

  I think they all look purple at first. I can’t remember. It’s been so long since I assisted my mother.

  I give the baby a little tap on the back, and he coughs. Mucus shoots from his nose and mouth, landing on my arms, and I don’t care in the slightest because he’s started crying—​a raw, screeching, beautiful sound.

  I pass him to Kate, and the instant that baby touches her skin, he quiets. It’s now Kate who’s crying, silent tears streaming down her cheeks as she smiles. “Oh my God,” she mutters. “Oh my God.” Then she kisses the baby’s forehead and whispers, “Hello, William.”

  “William?” It’s a good name. A strong name.

  “After Jesse’s brother. Jesse were so certain it were gonna to be a boy, too. He’s gotta be right ’bout everything.” Her eyes dart around the room. “Where is he? Send him in.”

  “He’s gone, Kate. He went with Reece.”

  “To the train,” she says, remembering.

  “Yeah, but he’ll be back. They both will.”

  I take a fresh towel and wipe the baby clean as best I can while he rests on Kate’s chest. After I’ve seen to the cord, I tell Kate she should try feeding him. She nods, stroking the little bit of dark hair on the baby’s crown, almost oblivious to my presence. I excuse myself to fetch some water. The afterbirth will come soon, and then I’ll help Kate move to the second bed so I can go about stripping the first and washing the bloody sheets.

  “Hey, Charlotte,” Kate says when I reach the doorway. “Thanks for being here.”

  “You could have done it alone.”

  “That ain’t the point.”

  She looks beat, yet she’s still glowing. I smile back, finally understanding why my mother never gave up her job. Even once Father had secured a comfortable life for us, she didn’t want to miss this. Some days, she’d come home heartbroken. But there were many days like this one with Kate. It’s a miracle, really. A common yet always dazzling miracle.

  I grab the bucket from the dry sink and head outside. Mutt follows, nipping at my heels, but in a friendly manner. I think he’s finally starting to approve of me.

  The sun is high overhead. Little William’s been born on a beautiful January day. The same day, perhaps, that his parents will finally win their freedom from the Rose Riders. My pulse kicks a little, thinking of Reece and Jesse, and I strain my hearing, as if it were possible to catch a locomotive’s whistle from where I stand.

  I submerge the bucket in the tank, heave it out. Halfway to the house, Mutt’s tail goes ramrod straight. He turns for the trail, growling.

  I freeze. This time I can make something out after all. But it is not a train whistle.

  Hooves.

  My pulse kicks harder.

  It’s a half-day ride to Banghart’s, where they planned to board the train. They can’t be back so quickly. And if they were, Mutt wouldn’t be growling.

  I feel the wrongness down in my bones.

  I don’t wait to see the horse or the rider atop it. I drop the bucket, water splashing, and sprint for the house.

  The first gunshot screams when I’m almost to the stoop. It sends dirt flying near my ankles. The next bullet takes a bite from the wooden step.

  Mutt bolts inside, and then I’m scrambling through the entrance too, slamming the door behind me. Lunging for Kate’s Winchester, which Jesse had moved to its holding place above the entrance before leaving. It’s kept loaded, so I crank the rifle’s lever, and then shove the barrel out the window.

  Lord, do I wish Kate had let me shoot at targets, not just practice form and aim.

  I sweep the clearing and find the shooter.

  He’s dismounted near the tank and is standing behind his horse for shelter. As he leads the steed closer, step by step, a beam of early-afternoon light catches his pistol. It’s aimed at the house.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  * * *

  Reece

  I bolt from the flaming table. No sooner have I set foot on the landing beyond the dining car than a bullet nicks the door frame I just squeezed through.

  “Don’t shoot him!” Rose shouts. “Just—”

  The door slams shut, cutting off his words.

  Just catch him . . . follow him?

  Prolly both. He needs me alive to find Jesse, and that’s all that’s keeping me breathing.

  There’s a ladder running ’longside the door to the next car. I take hold of a rung and start climbing. As I’m heaving myself onto the top of the car, Barrera grabs my ankle.

  “Come on, Murphy,” he croons from below. “We only wanna talk.”

  I kick with my free leg, and my boot connects with his chin. He goes stumbling outta sight. I don’t waste time seeing if he fell from the train or merely clattered to the landing. I run.

  Or rather, I try to.

  Soon as I stand, the wind becomes a roar, a gale force pushing at my back, making my feet wanna move too quickly. My hat nearly lifts off my head. I clamp a hand down on it and crouch low, shuffling toward the rear of the train.

  Chino Valley races by in the corners of my vision—​pale yellows and browns. I keep my sights on the next few feet of railcar ahead, otherwise my stomach twists in knots.

  “Murphy!” Barrera yells behind me.

  He didn’t fall then. Shame.

  I run, and when I reach the end of the passenger car, I leap to the next. The whole of the P&AC line seems to be an oldfangled, barely pieced together mess, so I prolly shouldn’t be shocked to find the roof of the second passenger car more sloped than the first. But I am. My boots connect with the pitched plane, and my right ankle buckles with surprise. At the same moment, there’s a slight bend in the rail, and I’m thrown from my feet. I hit the roof on my side, but can’t find purch
ase. The momentum of the turning train’s got a hold on me, and I roll toward the edge of the roof, arms flailing, fingers grasping.

  I find nothing but slick wood. My legs go over the edge. I hear the scream of air curving ’round the train cars, feel the tug of gravity . . .

  And my hand closes down on the lip of the car’s roof.

  I cling there, swaying. One boot knocks ’gainst the passenger car window below. I use it to my advantage, pushing and kicking off the glass. I get an elbow onto the roof, then another. But now my feet ain’t able to kick off the window no more and I’m stuck hanging, the fight draining from me. Heat laces through my arms. Something digs into my ribs—​the book Kate gave me, still tucked inside my jacket. My palms are sweaty, and the surface beneath them slick. I can’t hold on much longer. Just as my elbow begins to slide out—​right as I’m bracing for what’s sure to be a deadly fall—​hands clamp down on my wrists.

  Barrera.

  He drags me to safety and slams me down onto the roof in one violent motion. My head hits with an ugly crack. My vision wobbles, and then my breath cuts off as he grabs my throat.

  He shoulda let me fall. God, I wish he let me fall.

  With a spare hand, he draws his pistol and presses the barrel to the underside of my chin.

  “Rose said not to shoot,” I choke out.

  “Maybe I didn’t have a choice.” Barrera cocks the weapon. “Maybe you shot first.”

  The wind screams in my ears. The air smells like smoke and coal. Barrera drops the pistol to see to strangling me with both hands.

  “I can’t . . . breathe. Barrera, I can’t—”

  “Diaz said you strangled Hobbs. How could you do that?”

  I kick and flail beneath him, scrape at his fingers, try reaching for my holstered gun. I don’t got the energy, and he won’t let up.

  “How could you do that to yer own crew?”