by Tony Masero
Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
Missouri 1874
It all kicks off with a train robbery that goes horribly wrong. The James-Younger gang is on the rampage and Belle and Kirby are in the midst of it. One thing leads to another and a vengeful Allen Pinkerton, boss of the Pinkerton Agency, is not about to let things slide. He demands an all out offensive on the outlaw and Belle and Kirby call on their old friend Lomas Bell to help out.
Lomas has long-held secrets to tell, but it’s difficult to part with them in the midst of a raging gun battle that involves Pinkerton agents and outlaws intent on capturing a big payload.
A prize more worthy than gold is the outcome for Belle. She learns chilling news that buys a ticket on a steamer for her and Kirby. Turns out it’s a ticket to hell as they face a deadly battle in wild country where danger lurks everywhere and death comes calling in shiny little packets of lead.
CUT TO THE QUICK
BELLE SLAUGHTER 4
By Tony Masero
Copyright © 2013 by Tony Masero
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: September 2013
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.
Cover image © 2013 by Tony Masero
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Chapter One
The heavy wooden door of the express car jumped from its hinges and exploded inwards with a reverberating poom of pressure.
There was a roaring cloud of debris and the air was filled with the sharp acrid stench of cordite. As the door imploded amongst a flying shower of splinters, burst timbers and metal gate furniture, the shockwave spread outwards in an instantaneous flash and slammed both conductor and armed guard across the car. It rocked the entire interior of the carriage, throwing papers and wreckage in a whirling tornado amongst the dense billows of white smoke.
Surprisingly, the first to recover was the bank’s representative on the train. A young accountant, by the name of Lewis J. Ringweather. Normally a retiring and meek sort of fellow, on this occasion, Lewis protected from the worst of the blast by a postal divider stacked with mailbags, leapt to his feet and grabbed the guard’s fallen shotgun.
He was a slightly built young man unused to firearms and only nominally in charge of this cash shipment out of St. Louis and bound south on the Atlantic Pacific railroad heading for Pierce City. Lewis was acting as representative for the Beevis County Savings Bank and it was his duty to accompany the load and receive receipt for its safe delivery. Lewis was smartly dressed, as befitted his newly won position, in a stiff high-collared shirt, ribbon tie and gray vest, his jacket having been left hanging over a chair in the stuffy interior of the locked car. With difficulty he levered back the hammers on the hefty double-barreled gun. He was not sure if this was how it was done but he had seen others do the same and guessed this was the way of it. He just prayed that the heavy weapon was loaded.
If he had thought about it he might have been more circumspect. But Lewis was fearful of losing his new job and only too aware of the responsibility placed on him by his superiors. It was a spontaneous decision taken without much forethought. Reckless and quite out of character for one normally used to dealing with account sheets and columns of debit and credit. In this case there was about to be very little credit but a whole lot of debit.
At that moment, the vague shapes of the train robbers hauled themselves up through the smashed doorway and began shouting loudly and trying to see their way in the haze of smoke that still occupied the carriage.
‘Stand back! Raise your hands and don’t make a move,’ they hollered. ‘It’s the James gang and we’re here for the money.’
Through the veils of smoke Lewis came forward from the rear of the carriage, a look of grim determination on his face and the shotgun held leveled before him. The three ghostly shapes at the shattered doorway turned to see the lone figure advancing on them out of the clouds.
And this was where Lewis’s nerve failed him.
He was at heart a peaceable; churchgoing sort of fellow not given to violence and that was to be his downfall. A man of some conscience, he took a brief moment to consider the wreckage his shotgun would wreak on the human bodies before him, of their widowed wives and possibly orphaned children, he himself having a newborn of his own back home. He hesitated for a split second and in doing so he signed his own death sentence.
As his finger hovered over the trigger of a gun loaded with enough buck and ball to have swept the closely grouped outlaws away in a single blast within the enclosed space, the men he confronted did not hesitate. They were hard old boys who had not long ago come out of a grueling war and for all too long since had experienced life at the sharp end. Their pistols were ready and their temperaments wired.
They fired in unison.
Lewis was struck by a small fusillade as the outlaws fanned hammers and kept pouring it in.
He jittered and spun as the bullets struck, slapping his body into a jagged dance as every ounce of deadly lead slammed home. The shotgun dropped from his fingers, its hair-trigger firing the load harmlessly into the floor. The noise inside the carriage was deafening and as the smoke dissipated the shredded remains of the young accountant could be seen lying in a ragged heap of bullet ripped clothing and splattered blood.
Jesse James hiked himself up into the carriage and stood a moment looking across at the giant safe before him. It stood over five feet high, a hefty and huge metal thing unharmed by the blast. Jesse’s eye roved from the great box to Lewis’ body. He turned slowly on his men who were busily shelling out their empties and reloading.
Jesse spoke with an acid calm, ‘Any of you dummies got some idea of how we’re going to open this now?’
The men looked at each other for a long moment, their faces wrinkling in confusion. Wood boxes full of gold bars they’d expected, maybe even sacks of greenbacks but a whole damned sealed iron box the size of a bedroom tallboy!
‘See if he’s got anything on him,’ Jesse ordered. ‘Keys or something. Look around this whole sorry carriage. Check out those other two. If they’re still living, see if they know something.’
The dazed guard and conductor lay sprawled and stunned on the floor of the carriage, their eyes were glazed and blood dribbled from their ears. They could hear little above a distant boom of sound through their punctured eardrums and it was only by making sign that they understood what was wanted.
Both men pointed dumbly at the fallen young accountant, he was the only one that knew how it was done.
‘There ain’t nothing with this fellow, save a handkerchief and a gold watch and chain,’ said one of the men kneeling over Lewis and going through his pockets. ‘Why he ain’t got no more than six bucks and a few cents in his wallet. They sure don’t pay these boys much, seeing as how they got to keep watch over fifty thousand dollars in that cast iron critter over there.’
‘The keys must be waiting in Pierce City at the bank on delivery,’ mused Jesse.
‘We could blow it, boss, we still got enough sticks left,’ one of the other gunmen suggested. Jesse’s eye roved over the double-doors of the safe taking in every part of its black enameled solid iron walls, he looked it up and down from its flat top to the four, nicely molded, decorative cast-iron lion-claw feet sitting on the wagon bed. It stared back at him solemnly. Mocking his impotence.
&n
bsp; ‘That thing is a Hall and Co. safe out of Cincinnati, they don’t make those beasts nothing but impenetrable and meant to last. She’s standing a man high and three men deep, made of wrought iron and case hardened steel, we ain’t got enough dynamite to dent it.’
‘What about pushing it outside onto the grade, maybe the drop will bust the hinges.’
Jesse was cynical, ‘You could drop that from the moon and by the time it got down here it would bounce like a rubber ball. Those hinges are built on battleship proportions. No, fellows, you really did a bright thing when you shot that feller.’
‘He was coming at us with the shotgun, boss. There was nothing else we could do.’
‘Pity he didn’t shoot the blessed thing,’ muttered Jesse. ‘Put all your asses where your brains should be.’
They all went silent, their suggestions spent. Some of the men fidgeted in despair at the enormity of a cash mother load being so near and yet so far out of reach.
‘We could take it with us,’ suggested a quiet voice.
It was the tall, scholarly figure of Frank James who dragged himself up over the lip of the door and stood beside his brother.
‘Take it with us! For heaven’s sake, Frank. The thing must weigh more than the loco that’s pulling this train.’
‘We take the whole train in. They got to have a locksmith or blacksmith in the next stop, we’ll get him to open it up for us.’
Jesse paused, thoughtfully considering the notion, ‘That ain’t a bad idea at all, Frank. With twenty men alongside us no one in that burg is going to argue. What is the next stop?’
‘Some no-account place. Timber Wheel Junction, I believe it’s called. Ain’t got nothing but a mule and a tin shack to its name.’
Chapter Two
In truth Timber Wheel Junction had more than that going for it.
It was small town true enough but they had most of the facilities available in a Missouri town in this year of 1874. Outside of the train station there was a water tower and wood stock for the locomotive, and along Main Street a saloon, post and telegraph office, a hotel, general store and a blacksmith.
The hotel wasn’t much to write home about; a simple place with the barest of amenities but it did for Belle Slaughter and Kirby Langstrom whilst they waited for the train to arrive. They both sat in the lobby stonily avoiding each other and not saying a word.
There had been a falling out.
They were headed up to Kansas City and Kirby was all for hiring a carriage and heading across country on the shorter route from Brush Creek further up the line but Belle hadn’t fancied the idea. She was wearing her good clothes and the notion of a dusty trail drive had not appealed. So they were taking the train to make their connection at Pierce City and then heading up through Fort Scott to their destination. It was a damned roundabout route as far as Kirby was concerned and he had grouched excessively about the delay. Belle had responded with indifference, preferring to keep her fine silk dress in good shape and look her best when they arrived, and therein the problem had lain.
Now they sat apart, Kirby with his nose firmly stuck in a three-month old farming newspaper and Belle sitting haughtily amongst her hatboxes and valises and ignoring him completely.
Belle was thirty-four years old next birthday and wore her age well, still managing to look ten years younger than the calendar allowed. She turned heads wherever she went with her full figure, striking golden hair and magnetic blue eyes. It was a thing that had somewhat worn down Kirby’s appreciation of her over the years since their first meeting sixteen years before in Variable Breaks. He still held her dear in his heart and wouldn’t change her for the world but he figured she could be an ornery cuss when the fancy took her, that and the constant adulation by other men played on his mind. And when the sparks flew, like now, it was a hard act to swallow.
They had married two years before and it had been their boss Allen Pinkerton himself who had given the bride away. Their old friend Marshal Lomas Bell had acted as best man for Kirby and despite being a small affair it had been a joyful occasion. Pinkerton, in his usual manner, had been all business and had prepped them for a job even whilst the cake was being cut.
So, here they were, two years down the road and still acting as operatives for the Pinkerton Agency with a meeting planned in Kansas City to discover their next assignment.
At the first warning toot of the incoming train, Belle flicked a sour sidelong glance at Kirby, who rattled his paper and turned a page.
‘We going to get on this train or are you aiming to read the obituaries all over again?’ Belle asked.
Kirby came out of hiding over the top of the newssheet and despite his grumpy mood her vixen looks won him over as they always did. She really was a beauty, with a smile that could melt any man’s heart.
‘If we don’t, we’ll never get to Kansas City,’ he acknowledged thinly. ‘Even though we got to travel half the country to get there.’
‘Come on, darlin’,’ she said in her winning way. ‘It’s more comfortable and we’ll get there fresh and relaxed. There’s nothing like the train to take away the strain, ain’t that a fact?’
Kirby shook his head, tossed aside the newspaper and got up from his chair. ‘You always beat me down, Belle. Lord knows why I can’t resist you.’
She smiled at him coquettishly, ‘You know a good thing when you see one. That’s what makes you one smart man.’
Kirby didn’t feel particularly smart, he felt most uncomfortable in the suit she had encouraged him to wear other than the riding gear he normally chose. Truth of it was that Kirby was happier in the saddle wearing his run-down chaps and toting a six-gun by his side than stuffed into a long tailed city suit with his gun hid away in a shoulder holster.
‘Best move it up, folks,’ the desk clerk called across to them. ‘Train won’t be staying longer than to fill up on water.’
That’s when they heard the shots.
Belle and Kirby’s eyes met. ‘Oh, oh,’ he said. ‘Maybe this ride ain’t going to be so comfortable after all.’
The street outside was suddenly filled with a rush of galloping horseman. People fled the streets and cried in dismay as a posse of riders bounded through and headed for the blacksmith’s shop at the end of Main Street. One rider raised dust, whirling in the road with his pistol held high, loosing off wild shots into the air.
‘Get to your homes!’ he shouted. ‘You people keep behind closed doors you want to stay alive.’
‘A bank raid, you think?’ asked Belle, as they watched through the lace curtains at the hotel window.
‘We ain’t got a bank,’ confessed the clerk who had come over to join them.
‘Then it’ll be the train,’ Kirby reckoned.
‘Could be,’ agreed the clerk. ‘They carry cash sometimes. Down to the First National in Pierce City.’
‘They have any law in this town?’
The clerk shook his head, ‘No, usually we don’t have much trouble here. Not enough to warrant a full time police officer.’
Kirby glanced across smugly at Belle, ‘So, smartass, you reckon this will be a relaxed ride, isn’t that what you said?’
Belle arched a disapproving eyebrow, ‘You going to do your job or just act like you are?’
Kirby nodded and slid out his shoulder revolver, ‘Best get down to the depot and see how many there are of them.’
‘Wouldn’t recommend it,’ said the clerk nervously. ‘I reckon that’s the James Gang, they been raising hell along the line lately.’
‘Jesse James, huh?’ mused Kirby. ‘Now that would be a head that old man Pinkerton would love to hang on his wall.’
‘He sure doesn’t have a liking for that body,’ Belle agreed.
‘You both agents for the Pinks?’ gaped the clerk in awe.
‘There a back way out of here?’ asked Kirby, checking the load on his Colt.
‘Sure is,’ said the clerk, pointing direction.
‘Let’s go,’ Kirby said.
Belle wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and pulled her own pistol out of her reticule.
‘Aw, hell! Just when I get all dollied up some ass has to go play at villainy, it happens every time,’ she muttered. ‘You take good care of my things,’ she warned the clerk. ‘We’ll be back directly.’
They opened the hotel back door into a small, bare and scruffy dirt yard that allowed passage through to a rough-wood picket fence and onto a field of dust and scrub. Not being a particularly big town they skirted the perimeter quite easily and with pistols held out of sight down by their sides approached the rail yard where they could hear the locomotive puffing smoke and hissing steam. The train stood under the water tower whilst the driver and his fireman under the eye of a watchful gun filled the boiler through a long hose.
Belle and Kirby stood in the shade of the shuttered station ticket office and peeked out down the line of the siding where the train snaked off the main track and under the water tower.
‘See there,’ Kirby whispered. ‘The express car’s taken a beating, I reckon that clerk is right, it’s a train heist right enough.’
Belle counted the riders, who lounged alongside the train. ‘That’s quite a parcel of men they got there.’
‘More than we can handle.’
‘Just what are they doing, do you reckon? Usually it’s a hit and run with a train raid, why stop over here.’
As if in answer the five riders who had entered the town returned dragging along a burly figure in a leather apron carrying a box of tools.
‘The strong box,’ said Kirby. ‘They need to bust it open.’
‘Hmm,’ murmured Belle. ‘The only way I see around this it is to take the train back from them.’
‘You aim to get up on the cab and haul ass out of here.’
‘That would be my thinking.’
‘It relies on taking out that guard sitting on the driver and then getting him to make up steam real quick.’
‘It wouldn’t happen fast enough,’ Belle agreed.
