Rose clenched her hands and pressed her forehead against the uneven planks of the wall. She wanted to drive the memories from her mind and knew that she wouldn’t be able to, knew that sleep wouldn’t come and help her and that— She slept.
Suddenly her body slept while her brain tilted at dreams. A hand on the back of her neck woke her and when she turned with a start another hand clamped over her mouth. In the darkness she could see Weston’s patch, his one good eye gleaming. He had woken up and his need for her had woken with him. Now his hands and body were uncaring, blind, almost, in their urgency. Rose resisted but little. She knew that to do so was useless. Blood stirred inside her that was nothing to do with lust. Again she smelt the blood of others on the body of the man on top of her. Smelt whiskey and sweat and all the smells she had lived the last God knew how many years of her life surrounded by.
She moved her head too quickly and he pulled her round with his fingers tight at her jaw. The single eye showed its excitement as Weston’s hands moved over her again and he forced himself down upon her. Rose cried out inside for him to finish, crawl away again back to the stench of his blanket and sleep. She should have got out while she had the chance. Again a bird sounded above the shack. She was right to have stayed: even for this. Fears of what you might encounter, unknown, in the dark were far too great for Rose to consider. Where she was, the life she had, she already knew the worst she would encounter. That was enough. Come on, she called to Weston under her breath, come on! He collapsed on to her with a grunt and half a minute later he rolled off and shifted back across the floor to his blanket. Rose pulled down her stained green dress and shut her eyes. Once more, she had no expectations of sleep and once more it came swiftly.
She awoke when Waite kicked lightly into her side, enough to turn her and wake her.
‘Get up! Make coffee. Breakfast.’
She rubbed the sleep from the corners of her eyes and yawned. She wanted to go outside and relieve herself. She grabbed at her little coat and went past Waite and the others, leaving the door to the shack open, only caring about getting far enough away so that their eyes could not humiliate her further.
When she returned, she did as Waite had ordered. They were finishing the food when a rider came into sight, his outline hazy in the lingering mist.
All of the men reached for their guns and waited.
Weston’s one eye recognized him first, lowering the Winchester as he did so. ‘B. J,’ he announced.
‘How the hell can you see that?’ asked Walker with a grin.
‘How d’you think?’
‘I got two eyes an’ there ain’t no way of my knowin’ who that is on that horse.’
Weston nodded once: ‘That’s right. That’s why I never miss anything with this Winchester and you have trouble hittin’ a barn door with yours.’
Walker slapped his thigh and laughed. He knew that Weston was right - more or less. It was B.J., right enough.
Where Colley had been lean and angular, a thin cigar always poking from the edge of his thin lips, and Little Ben, as his name suggested, had been five inches above six foot and God knew how many pounds over two hundred, B.J. was probably the best looking man Rose had seen since she could recall. Maybe as fine looking as the miner she’d run off with, perhaps as splendid as O’Hara with his saddle bags brimming with promises and dreams.
B.J. was an inch under six foot and he had black hair worn long to his shoulders, a narrow black moustache and cold blue eyes that would have made Rose shiver ten years before. He wore a creased white shirt without a collar, tight-fitting black pants with tan patches sewn inside the thighs and over the seat. His gun belt was in black leather that shone and the butt of his pistol was light wood that looked to have been recently oiled.
‘Where the hell you been? ‘
‘Comin’, Waite, comin’ is all. How goes it?’
B.J. dismounted, shook hands with Waite and Mace, nodded to Walker and Weston, Little Ben and Colley.
‘Where’s Rafe?’
‘He ain’t showed.’
‘Jesmond?’
‘No.’
B.J. set his head to one side. ‘Jesmond don’t matter much. His right hand shakes so much from liquor it’s a wonder he can still pull a gun. But Rafe … we could use him bad.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Mace. ‘Rafe’s different.’
‘Rafe’s got the explosive,’ said Waite finally.
The others nodded, knew he had to show or it might never happen.
‘Who’s she?’
B.J. walked over to near where Rose was standing and took hold of her arm. His fingers squeezed into the flesh but they didn’t hurt her. He smiled at her with his eyes only.
‘Just some whore Waite an’ the rest picked up at the stage station.’
‘Uh-huh.’
B.J. let her go. ‘She in on this?’
‘Don’t be a fool.’
He shrugged. ‘Thought maybe we were usin’ her on the inside.’
‘And I told you,’ Waite said, ‘she was just a whore.’
‘So?’
‘So she’s only good for one thing.’
B.J. suddenly touched the side of her face, so softly that Rose jumped back harder than if she’d been struck. Then he turned away from her and went to see to his horse.
Rose saw to the tin plates and the enamel pans, avoiding men’s eyes as she worked. An hour or so later Rafe rode in on a tired-looking roan with a mule tagging along at the end of a rope and two bags tied to its back.
‘You got it?’ called Walker, before Rafe could dismount.
“Course I got it.’
He was part-Mexican, dark eyes and swarthy, unshaven skin; two cartridge belts worn crisscross over his chest like a bandit. When he took off his sombrero, he was almost entirely bald. His scalp glowed with sweat.
That’s everyone except Jesmond,’ said Mace, rubbing his belly.
‘Jesmond won’t be here,’ said Rafe, loosening his horse’s girth.
‘Why the hell not?’
‘He got on the wrong end of a deputy’s bullet. Three days back, some place north of here, I can’t even remember the name.’
‘How d’you know? ‘
‘They stuck him in a rough wood box and propped it up on the sidewalk. Stinkin’ so much even the flies kept clear. It was Jesmond, right enough. Three bullet holes in his chest an’ another high in his leg. Some deputy thought he knew Jesmond from a flier and called him out. Jesmond went for his gun, cleared leather and then dropped the damn thing through his fingers. That’s the way I heard it told.’
‘Hell!’ Mace spat at the ground. ‘Jesmond weren’t never on no flier in his life.’
Walker nodded. ‘Ain’t that a fact.’
‘He don’t matter a shit,’ said Waite, ‘we’ll manage without him better’n if he was here.’
They stayed at the shack one more night, got drunk on some rotgut wine Rafe had brought in on the mule and then three or four of them had Rose up against the wall, but BJ. wasn’t one of them. She wished he had been.
They made her fix food in the morning early and then mounted up.
‘What about her?’ asked Walker, pointing.
‘What about her?’ replied Waite.
‘We just leavin’ her here?’
‘What the hell you ’spect us to do?’
The Negro shrugged.
‘Let her have the mule,’ said B.J.
‘What you talkin’ about?’ demanded Rafe angrily. ‘That’s my mule! Besides, the explosive’s all loaded up.’
‘We can carry that ourselves. That mule’ll only slow us up anyhow. I say we give it to the woman.’
‘I don’t care what we do,’ said Waite. ‘As long as we move.’
‘You ain’t givin’ away no mule of mine to no whore,’ said Rafe.
B.J. reached into his pocket. ‘I’ll buy it off you.’
Rafe shrugged. ‘Okay.’
B.J. paid him for the mule and led it by its rope ov
er to where Rose was watching. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Least you can get out of this goddam wilderness.’
He touched her gently on the cheek and this time she didn’t jump, but he still turned and rode away with the others. Rose watched them until they were no more than a few specks against the horizon but he never once looked back. None of them did.
She collected what food was left behind and took hold of the mule, ready to mount up and ride off.
‘Come on, Rose,’ she said to herself. ‘Let’s get out of here. Come on.’
Chapter Six
The halt was midway between Cottonwood Falls and the Neosho River. Near half-way between Wichita and Topeka. After pulling up a long, slow incline, the train was due to stop there to take on water and fuel. The water tank stood close by the track, a shack alongside it made from railroad sleepers and planks. Logs that had been carted there and sawn and left were piled up to one side and at back of the shack.
Inside the shack Waite drew his silver watch from the pocket of his long coat and snapped it open. Near to half an hour late. He closed the watch with a scowl and let it fall back into his pocket. The curse on his lips was only stopped by a fresh sound breaking low through the distance.
Walker turned his head towards Waite and grinned.
Weston lifted his Winchester from where it was leaning against the wall and went outside.
Inside the passenger car it was hot and airless. Hart had spent quite a time standing out on the platform between the carriages, but the insistent talk of a farming-tool salesman from Kansas City had eventually driven him back inside. People dozed or stared aimlessly at an apparently unvarying landscape, the tall grass turning its tops in swathes with the wind. Emily was sitting by the window nursing Henry, his small fingers closed round her thumb, the rag doll over his heart.
Teresa moved from the window seat to make room for Hart and when he sat down she leaned her body against his arm, wrapping her own arms around his and cuddling her face against the rough warmth of his shirt.
Hart’s instinctive reaction was to move the child away, to tell her that it was too hot for such stuff. But he didn’t and gradually something pleasing about the trusting way she clung to him made him glance down at the curly top of her head and smile.
Emily saw and smiled too.
The Winchester poked out from the side of the water tank, the single eye staring along the barrel at the approaching, slowing train. The slanting ribs of the cow-catcher caught the sun and reflected it back in a succession of lances of bright light. Gray smoke issued from the cone-shaped chimney and drifted back over the tender, the two passenger cars and the freight car at the rear.
Weston’s right leg was beginning to ache at the back of the knee. A fly buzzed incessantly about his head, sometimes landing for seconds at a time on the sweat that was collecting on Weston’s neck, or on the shiny black leather of his eye patch.
He wanted to swat the fly, kill it; he wanted to stamp his leg and walk around a few paces.
He didn’t.
His shot was the first and he had to make it at the right time and make it count. As soon as it rang out the others would move: Colley and B.J. to the first car; Mace and Little Ben to the second; Waite, Walker and Rafe to the freight car. That was the way Waite had planned it - the way he had drilled them.
‘Don’t miss,’ he’d growled to Weston.
Weston wouldn’t miss. Why should he? He never had before.
Teresa’s head slumped forward on to Hart’s chest, her arm falling on to his leg, resting on the edge of his holster. She was still and then she stirred against him. Hart moved so that his arm was round her.
‘She’s sleeping,’ said Emily.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘She used to do that with Frank.’
Hart looked back at Emily and said nothing, the girl’s breathing merging with his own.
The train slowed almost to a halt. Weston could see the driver’s head poking out from the side of the cab, a quick glimpse of red hair from beneath his hat.
Weston had the man’s head in his sights; his trigger finger eased itself against the metal. His breath held. The fly buzzed close to his ear and then settled on the hair that was wet with sweat just above it.
The brakes bit home and the cars rattled against one another as the links racked up. The squeaking was high and edged. Weston licked his lips and they tasted salt with sweat, too. He swallowed, the salt taste sharp against the roof of his mouth.
The redheaded driver leaned from the cab and turned his head away, saying something to the fireman that Weston couldn’t hear. Teresa opened her eyes for a moment, disturbed by the clanking and jolting of the carriages. She glanced at her mother, at Hart, then let her eyelids close.
Along the car, people were beginning to stretch and stand up.
Weston squeezed the trigger back through the remaining fraction of an inch. The driver was driven back from sight, the Winchester slug hammering into his ribs close enough to the heart to kill him outright.
The fireman swung at the sound of the rifle and as the bullet punched out through a fist-sized tear between the driver’s shoulder blades, blood and tissue splashed down the front of his overalls.
Hart jerked away from Teresa, his right hand instinctively moving towards his gun. The little girl’s hands tightened about the arm they’d been holding and he pulled against her child’s grip. Down the carriage a woman had already started to scream. Bullets crashed through two of the windows on the opposite side from where Hart was sitting and glass showered everywhere. Emily bent her body over the boy and shielded him.
‘Teresa!’ Hart struggled with her and the more he did the tighter she clung to him.
‘Teresa!’
More glass shattered. Hart set his left hand on the girl’s shoulder and forced her back. Emily was shouting, crying, spread across the seat. From back down the train came the sound of shooting.
Hart threw Teresa against the back of the seat and jumped into the center of the aisle, his thumb edging the safety thong from the hammer of his Colt.
The door at the end of the carriage was sent crashing open. Hart swiveled the top half of his body towards it, glimpsed a white shirt, black pants, gun.
A woman fell into the aisle, moving across his view.
Hart’s hand tightened round the grip of his Colt and began to draw it up.
‘Don’t!’
Beyond the woman he saw the man’s mouth open in command, the narrow line of black moustache.
He saw the gun in the man’s hand move and ducked instinctively, still drawing, seconds only separating each movement. A window close to his right was broken wide as one of the passengers smashed a case through it and stood on the seat, prepared to follow it through. Someone cannoned into Hart’s left and drove him off balance. The man in the white shirt fired once and from near Hart’s head there was a shout of pain and a hand reached towards his face.
‘Stay still! Still!’
It was a new voice, a different direction. The other door was open and this man carried a shotgun, sawn-down, American Arms; Hart recognized it instantly.
‘Still!’
A cigar bobbed at the corner of the man’s mouth; his lean body was resting nonchalantly against the frame of the door. He was grinning.
More shots from the other end of the train.
‘Let that fall or you’re dead!’
Hart knew who they meant; knew they were right; right for him and maybe others too - whoever got in the path of the spray shot from the American Arms ten-gauge.
Hart saw Teresa pushing her way towards him, her tearful face terror-struck.
He dropped the Colt down into the aisle.
‘That’s nice,’ said the man with the shotgun admiringly. ‘That’s real nice.’
In the second carriage things were less nice. A man had been struck in the eye by a piece of flying glass and was on his knees between two seats, hands to his blood-splattered face, whimpering. A kid of no more
than twelve had run towards Little Ben, not thinking, not trying to be brave, just taking off in a headless panic, knowing only that the man was standing between the door and himself.
Ben had swayed back in the doorway and lifted his right leg back and then forward. The toe of his boot had caught the running boy under his chin, snapping the jawbone with a crack that was clear and loud down the entire car. The heel had sunk into the boy’s neck, winding him.
His uncle had shouted in protest, tried to pull clear the pistol that he kept in a shoulder holster under his wool jacket, lying folded over the back of the seat.
His fingers had still been groping between the layers of material when Mace drove two slugs through him. One high in the left arm, splintering a slice of bone through shirt and skin, the other through his side, breaking two ribs and deflecting down through the stomach wall.
Now he lay across the seat, legs stretched out into the aisle, half-conscious, bleeding profusely, the sharp end of broken bone sticking up towards the roof.
Hart looked from one outlaw to another, not recognizing either of them, sure that they were confident, knew what they were doing. Not men to trifle with, either of them.
Once Emily raised her head from where she was covering Henry and caught Hart’s eye. He knew that she was already blaming him for what had happened, what was happening still. She had no reason, but that was what she was doing.
‘Get moved back to the sides. Come on now, do it. Do it!’
The sawn-off shotgun moved up one side of the car, slowly, back down the other.
‘Any of you carryin’ guns, you let us know. That’s it. That’s nice. Now one at a time - I said one at a time! -you finger ’em out and throw ’em down in the middle where we can see ’em.’
‘Yeah,’ said B.J., ‘when you done that you can get to your wallets an’ foldin’ money.’
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