by Max McCoy
“Now, there’s a waste of postage.”
Holding the shotgun at the ready, Gamble slowly approached the express car. The car was sagging a bit, the roof was peeled back, and there was a smoking hole where the door had been.
There was no sign of Dynamite Dick or Dray.
“Horse thief?” Gamble called.
There was a pistol shot from inside the car, then another.
“Damn it,” Gamble said.
As he drew near the car, he threw the shotgun to his shoulder.
“Horse thief?”
There was no answer.
“Messenger, are you in there?”
Still, no answer.
He came to the door and peered inside. The floor of the car and the side of the tracks were covered with piles of letters from the ruptured mail bags. The express safe door was standing open, and the messenger was facedown in a puddle of blood beside it, a double-barreled shotgun in his hand.
Dynamite Dick was also crumpled on the floor, a bloody blotch staining the side of the hood. Mickey Dray was kneeling beside him, a ring of keys in his hand, removing the padlock from the leather cinched top of the canvas payroll bag.
Gamble climbed up into the blackened car.
“What happened?”
“The messenger shot Dick,” Dray said. “I killed the messenger.”
“Damn it all,” Gamble said. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Yeah, everybody knows about not killing the messenger.”
Dray opened the bag, thrust a hand inside, and pulled out a bundle of paper money.
“There’s a fortune here,” he said.
Gamble knelt beside Dick.
“He’s dead,” Dray said. “Don’t waste your time.”
Gamble pulled off Dick’s hood. He had been in his thirties, his hair was wild and black, and a craggy, misshapen face—one of the ugliest Gamble had ever seen. There was a bullet hole in the back of his head.
“The messenger shot him?”
“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?” Dray was cinching up the payroll bag.
Then Gamble went to the messenger, careful not to turn his back on Dray. He grasped a shoulder and turned the body over. There was a neat bullet wound in the messenger’s temple, a mottled powder burn around it. He had been shot point-blank.
Gamble glanced over at Dray. He had pulled off the hood. The payroll bag was in his left hand, but his right hand was holding the .44 Russian beside his leg.
Gamble was holding the Model 97 at his waist.
“Let’s go,” Dray said.
“As soon as I move, you’re going to lift that gun and try to kill me,” Gamble said slowly. “But you’re not sure how quick I can bring the shotgun to bear, so you’re a a little scared, ain’t you?”
“Fiddler, why would I do that?”
“Because I know you killed the messenger after he opened the safe, and then you put a round into Dynamite Dick’s melon so that you could have an extra share and you wouldn’t have to worry about anybody giving up your identity to the Pinkertons. You never were afraid of Dynamite Dick, were you? He was afraid of you.”
“Yeah, I had to kill the ugly sonuvabitch,” Dray said.
“Using that logic, you have to kill me, too.”
“No, fiddler. We’re pards.”
“Then holster that piece.”
Dray took a deep breath and rolled his head on his shoulders.
“Can’t do that,” he said.
“Well, we have to do something,” Gamble said. “We can’t stay here much longer, or we’ll both hang for the killing of the messenger. You go first.”
“Think I’ll wait for—”
Before Dray could get the word you out, Gamble had flung himself backward. He rolled once, then came up with the shotgun at his shoulder and pulled the trigger. The buckshot hit Dray in the leg and he went down on one knee, the Russian in his outstretched hand firing. The slug went wild, punching a hole in the roof of the car.
Gamble slamfired the shotgun.
This shot struck Dray across the chest and abdomen. He was knocked back, the Russian falling from his grip, a pink mist spraying over the piles of letters behind him. He fell on the floor, an arm across his stomach, his eyes wide.
Gamble walked over, kicked the Russian away, and knelt down to pick up the payroll bag. Dray reached up with his right hand and grasped the front of Gamble’s uniform.
“Fiddler,” the boy said through blood-stained teeth. “Don’t leave me.”
“Where are the horses?”
“The soddie on the south ridge,” Dray said.
Gamble put his boot on Dray’s chest and pushed. Dray kept his grip on the fabric, ripping open the breast pocket as Gamble pushed him away. Spilling out, the letter fluttered to the floor.
Gamble cycled the pump, chambering a fresh shell, and aimed at Dray’s chest. But he did not fire. Dray’s eyes had become fixed and he was no longer breathing.
Gamble kicked the body in the side, hard enough that he heard the snap of ribs.
“You should have stuck to horses.”
The car was strangely silent now.
Gamble could hear the breeze whispering over the ruined coach and his own heartbeat pounding in his temple. The Model 97 seemed strangely solid in his hands, as if he had just roused from sleep and found himself holding a dream object made real.
Then his attention narrowed on the payroll bag.
All that was left was to pick up the bag, jump to the ground, and make for the horses on the ridge. Once out of sight, he would discard the smoke-colored glasses and the khaki uniform with the yellow trim and the weirdly commanding persona of Dunbar, and stay in Oklahoma Territory only long enough to pluck Agnes from the prairie on the way to Mexico.
Gamble knelt. He cinched up the payroll bag, tossed it out the door. Then he walked over to the door and was about to jump down after it when he remembered the letter. He looked back at the paper that blanketed the floor like snow, all white, all about the same size and shape. It might take him a few minutes to sort through the pile to find the letter, and he might not have a few minutes to spare. In any event, he had the payroll—it didn’t matter what became of the letter.
“To hell with you, Lieutenant Dunbar.”
He jumped to the ground. He switched the shotgun to his right hand and was reaching for the bag when someone called from the vestibule of the passenger coach.
“Boy, howdy. There’s the payroll.”
It was the conductor, easing himself down the steps, a snub-nosed revolver held loosely in his hand. He was sixty years old, wearing a uniform with big brass buttons over his paunch, and his white mustache drooped at the ends.
Gamble cursed. To the south, he could see the soddie on the ridge less than a quarter of a mile away. The Model 97 was still in one hand, the hammer was cocked, and he knew it would be a simple matter to shoulder the piece and blow the conductor and his little gun into the next county.
Yet, Gamble hesitated.
“The messenger?” the conductor asked.
“Dead,” Gamble said with resignation. He lowered the hammer on the shotgun and carefully leaned it across the payroll bag. “So are the other two.”
Gamble sat down on the ground and rested his forearms on his knees. He lowered his head, thinking about how close he had come to getting away with a lifetime of security. How would he and Agnes have spent the years he had left? Sitting on the veranda of their hacienda, drinking Mexican beer, talking about nothing more important than what to have for supper. But it was all gone now because he could not bring himself to kill an old man in a blue suit—and not only was it gone, but Gamble would find himself back in jail on his way to the gallows.
Gamble laughed darkly.
The conductor crept past him and peered into the express car.
“Damn, son, you’re a one-man wrecking crew.”
“Is it all over?” Lord Weathers called from the door of the coach.
“It’s all over,” Gamble said.
Weathers came down the steps.
“The lieutenant here has saved the payroll,” the conductor said. “He killed the bandits, but not before they had killed the messenger, poor devil.”
Gamble’s head came up.
“No, that’s not right,” he said carefully.
“What do you mean, son?”
“I killed the bandit there with my shotgun, but not the one with the dynamite,” Gamble said. “One bandit had already killed the other, to take all of the loot.”
“No honor among thieves, huh?”
“It seems not. You’d best be careful with the carcass of the older fellow, because in the pockets of that white apron there’s enough of old peace-loving Alfred Nobel’s favorite toy to blow us all into the afterlife.”
“You’ve done it,” the Englishman said, slapping Gamble on the back. “I told the conductor that you sprang into action at the first sign of trouble. And you gave them a little of what you gave the Spanish in Cuba. What dash! You are indeed a Rough Rider. Splendid!”
“Not so splendid,” Gamble said. “Three men are dead.”
The conductor shook his head.
“Them old boys on the locomotive are going to have some answering to do,” the conductor said. “I can’t believe they skeedaddled like that. Say, I watched as you walked forward before they took off. What were you doing?”
Gamble coughed in his hand.
“Trying to corral them, but didn’t get the chance.”
Anise came slowly down the steps. She now had a veil over her face, a veil that matched her deep blue dress. She walked over, glanced at the payroll bag, then at Gamble.
“You’re bleeding.”
She grasped his left hand and lifted it to get a better look. His thumb knuckle had been gouged by the action on the shotgun. She lowered the scarf and brought his hand to her lips.
FIFTEEN
The tall blond man stepped down from the train and surveyed the depot at Sanford Switch with a critical eye. He was wearing a pinstriped suit and a bowler hat and strapped to his hip was an odd-looking revolver. He walked across the platform and through the open door to find the station agent hunched at his desk, working on paperwork with a pencil that was little more than a nub, a cup of whiskey at his elbow.
“You must be the Pinkerton man,” the agent said, looking up.
“You’re just as quick as you look,” the man said, brushing the blond hair from his forehead, revealing a scar on his temple. “My name is Max Jaeger, but everybody calls me Dutch. I’m on my way to inspect the wreckage of the express car, but I’m told the bodies of the thieves were brought here. I’d like to see them, please.”
“Out back,” the agent said. “They’re laid out on a bed of ice in the back of a wagon, so they aren’t stinking too badly yet. Waiting for the train to take ’em to the furniture store in Liberal to be laid out proper.”
“Tell me about yesterday before the robbery.”
“Nothing to tell,” the agent said. “Normal day.”
“Was anybody loitering around the depot that day?” Jaeger asked. “Passengers? Any tickets sold?”
“Just one,” the agent said. “Bought a special delivery stamp and put it on a letter he had with him, then decided to hang onto the letter without posting it. Bought a ticket to the end of the line. Said he wanted to see Texas.”
“Seems odd.”
“He was a normal enough fellow.”
“What did he look like?”
Jaeger brought a pencil and notepad from his pocket.
“Normal.”
“Was he short, tall—”
“Tall.”
“Tall as me?”
“A little less, I think.”
“Fat or thin or medium?”
“Thin.”
“Hair color?”
“Dark, maybe. Gray at the temples.”
“So he was older.”
“Not old, exactly. Forty-five or fifty.”
“Eye color?”
“Don’t know. He was wearing these dark glasses.”
“What kind of glasses?”
“Smoke-colored, to protect them from the sun—there was something wrong with his eyes and he couldn’t stand the light. Granulated eyelids, whatever that is.”
“Clothing?”
“Uniform.”
“He was a soldier?”
“Rough Rider,” the agent said. “A lieutenant. At least, he was wearing the uniform jacket and a slouch hat that was all beat to hell. He had on blue jeans and cowboy boots.”
“So this is the man that foiled the robbery,” Jaeger said. “I have a telegram about it. Ah, here it is. It describes a Lieutenant Dunbar armed with a Winchester shotgun who killed a bandit and recovered the payroll.”
“He didn’t tell me his name,” the agent said. “But yeah, that sounds like him.”
“Were there other passengers?”
“An Englishman and his niece. He was an old gent with white hair. Harmless. The girl had all of her parts in the right place, if you know what I mean, but she was wearing this thing over her face.”
“A veil?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Perhaps she was a muslima?”
“Don’t know what that is.”
“A follower of Allah.”
“No, I don’t think so. Seemed like there was something wrong with her face she was trying to hide.”
Jaeger nodded and made a note.
“This letter. Did the soldier say what it was about?”
“Nope, but I remember that it was addressed to the governor of New York.”
“You’re sure?”
“We don’t get many of those here.”
Jaeger nodded and made a few notes.
“Tell me”—Jaeger said as he closed the notebook and returned it to his suit pocket—“were you drinking yesterday as well?”
“What, this?” the clerk said, tapping the cup. “It’s just—”
“Yes, I know what it is.” Jaeger walked over, picked up the cup, and sniffed. He replaced the cup with the same disgust as if it contained offal. “Please refrain from drinking on duty. I’m sure you will, if you want to avoid a report being sent to your superiors at the Rock Island.”
Jaeger walked to the back of the depot and went to the flatbed wagon. He flipped back the tarp to reveal the blue-tinged faces of Mickey Dray and Dynamite Dick. Their blood was like black tar on the ice below them.
“Ah, if only I could bring you back to ask just one question,” Jaeger said, picking up one of the hoods and looking at the bloodstain. “Were you two alone?”
Jaeger sighed and tossed the hood back.
Then he pulled a pack of postcard-sized photographs from his pocket and began shuffling through them, comparing the face on each to those of the dead men. He paused when he came to the mug shot of Mickey Dray. He flipped the photograph over. In addition to a concise physical description of Dray, there was this notation: Arrested for horse theft January 1889, jailed Guthrie, O. T.
Jaeger rubbed the scar on his forehead.
There was no Pinkerton photo in his stack for the other corpse.
He took a Kodak 1A folding pocket camera from his jacket, opened the bellows, checked the exposure settings, and focused on the face of the dead outlaw. He steadied the camera, held his breath, and tripped the shutter with the same care that he would have used to squeeze the trigger of a rifle. He wound the 116 film forward to the next frame, changed his angle, and took another photo.
Satisfied, he closed the camera and returned it to his coat pocket.
He threw the tarp over the corpses and walked back into the depot. The agent sat bolt upright in his chair. The cup of whiskey was gone from the desk.
“Where are the passengers now?”
“Bound for Amarillo,” the agent said. “Took a coach over the section and picked up the tracks on the Texas side, if they stuck to their plan.”
“Your telegraph is connected to Amarillo?”
“The tracks don’t go all the way, but the wire does.”
“Wire instructions that these three—the soldier, the Englishman and the girl—are to be held over until I have a chance to interrogate them.”
“You want them arrested?”
“No, not yet, nothing to arouse suspicion,” Jaegers said. “Put them up at railway expense at one of the better hotels. Tell them—tell them a representative of the Pinkerton Detective Agency would like to personally express his thanks.”
SIXTEEN
“Lieutenant, what are your plans?”
“Simple,” Gamble said, holding up his whiskey glass to catch the candlelight. “I’m going to finish this glass of bourbon, then ask for another.”
Anise laughed.
“You know what my uncle meant,” she said, smoothing her napkin. Their table was in the shadows in a far corner of the dining room, and she had removed her veil. “We want to know what kind of professional plans you might have for the next few weeks, if we may be so bold.”
“I am between assignments at the moment.”
The table was littered with the remains of their meal—plates with oyster shells, steak bones, slivers of asparagus, and half-eaten rolls. The restaurant was on the ground floor of the Texas House, the best hotel in Amarillo, where the Rock Island had insisted on putting up the trio. Gamble planned on being long gone by sunup.
“Then your services are for hire?” Weathers asked.
Gamble took another sip of whiskey. He was still wearing the smoke-colored glasses and, since the sun had set while they were eating and no daylight was now coming in from the window, Weathers was just a shadow on the other side of the table.
“Your skill with firearms and your calm in an anxious situation recommend you for a rather unusual assignment,” Weathers said.
“I’ll pass,” Gamble said.
“Just like that?” Anise asked. “Without a hearing?”
“No disrespect,” Gamble said. “But whenever somebody talks me into something, I end up regretting it. Usually, I end up losing a little skin in the process.”
“Every time?” she asked.
Gamble finished the whiskey and signaled for the waiter to bring him another. Anise, however, held up her hand and called for the man to hold the order.
