by Lisa Bingham
But what? And what did all of this have to do with Mr. Gibby?
Donovan had gone to the druggist’s shop, just as he’d promised Essie, but he’d seen nothing suspicious about the charred wood and twisted beams. Nothing to make him think the fire was anything more than an accident. Nothing except the eerie feeling of disquiet he’d experienced the minute he’d dismounted from his horse and surveyed the wreckage.
Since Mr. Gibby had begun to rouse, Donovan had tried to talk to him. But the man had mumbled on about Daniel and Pinkertons and poison, without making a bit of sense.
Shrugging off his odd mood, Donovan was about to return to his milking when he became aware of someone stumbling down the hill, a bundle clutched tightly in his arms. The identity of the giant man-child who had attended Susan’s wedding could not be mistaken.
“Max?”
At the sound of his name, Max rushed toward him. “Please, you’ve got to go get her!” He clutched at Donovan’s arms, his bundle spilling to the ground. Bits of bottle green glass, rocks, and other items tumbled free.
“Who, Max?”
“Susan. He’s taken her away. She wouldn’t have left that way; she would have stopped.”
“Who, Max? Who took her?”
“He took her away from me. She would have stopped.”
Donovan tried to calm the huge man, but he wouldn’t be pacified. Something about his manner began to needle Donovan’s own suspicions. Perhaps Donovan was chasing ideas that had no basis, but the bruises on Mr. Gibby’s face and ribs looked more like the results of a beating than of a fire. And the way the man kept crying out about Daniel and poison? Donovan’s instincts kept telling him there was something more—some important detail he already knew but hadn’t seen the significance of. He kept thinking that at any minute all the information would fit together neatly like the pieces of a puzzle. In the meantime he didn’t like having Susan mixed up in all of this.
“All right, Max. I’ll go find her.” Donovan bent to help the man pick up the items littering the ground. When he caught his first good look at Max’s treasures, he froze. “Where did you get these?” he asked, collecting several narrow red cylinders.
“His men left them.”
“Whose?”
“The devil’s. They live next to the railroad tracks. By the creek near the old waterwheel.”
Dynamite. Sweet bloody hell, the men Max had been spying on were hiding a load of dynamite. Donovan would have bet money that they were up to no good and that somehow the Pinkertons were involved.
Donovan cursed and ran for the barn. He had to find Daniel or one of his men and report what he’d found. Then he had to find Susan.
Susan gasped as the horse beneath her came to a stop in the middle of a stand of trees. She and her companion had followed the main road for a few miles. Then he’d reined the animal toward the mountain range, leading them into a small clearing in the midst of a copse of scrub oak and pine.
“Where’s Daniel? I don’t see him anywhere.”
“We have to meet up with my partners first.” He turned his horse to one side, put his fingers to his lips, and uttered three short whistles.
The air was brittle and cold, so thin and fragile that the slightest sound should have shattered the tense expectancy.
“Where are they?” Susan whispered.
“Soon, Mrs. Crocker. Soon.”
The man’s hand, which had rested on the pommel in front of her, shifted. Susan started when the redheaded boy touched her hand. Her jolt of stunned surprise intensified when the comforting pat became something far less innocent. His palm rubbed up her arm, cupped her shoulder. When Susan shifted away, he tangled his fingers in her hair and jerked her hard against his chest.
“You’re a fool to love him,” the boy whispered in her ear. The words dripped with hate. “He’s a killer. A murderer. Do you know what he did to my brother?” When she didn’t answer, he took a fistful of hair and yanked her head back. “Do you?”
Susan felt a jolt of alarm and then a surge of pure unadulterated fear. This man had not come to take her to Daniel. He had come to hurt her. To hurt Daniel. She could see it in the buried fanaticism deep in his eyes. She could hear it in the sharp edges of his voice.
Susan stared at the redheaded boy who’d come to fetch her. “Who are you?” An icy certainty began to settle in her limbs. She’d made a mistake. A horrible mistake. “You’re not one of the Pinkertons, are you?” As soon as she uttered the words, the arms that supported her on the saddle wound around her body, preventing her escape.
“Timmy Beeb at your service, ma’am.”
The name Beeb sent an icy wave of terror through her. Anyone who had lived in the territories knew of the Beeb brothers. Until last summer they had terrorized most of the Mountain West with their raping and pillaging.
Timmy’s fingers clamped over her jaw and dug into her skin. “That’s right. You know me now, don’t you? Take a good hard look and remember my face. Your husband killed my brother. And for that I intend to drag you both into hell.”
“He got her!”
The sound of another man’s voice burst from the quiet. Timmy released her, and the trees around them were suddenly alive with an army of men, all of them unkempt and smelling of sweat and contempt. Susan heard the snapping grate of a half dozen triggers being locked into place. Very slowly she turned. A frisson of fear raced down her spine when she found herself pinned in the sights of several shiny black revolvers.
One man separated himself from the group, and Susan immediately recognized the man who had attacked her days before. Grant Dooley. “So nice of you to join us, Mrs. Crocker,” he offered with a grin. The sun gleamed off his pockmarked flesh. “I knew you could get her out from under the Pinkertons’ noses, Timmy.”
“No thanks to you,” Timmy sneered. “You almost bungled the whole plan when you broke into the orphanage and tried to rape her. What a stupid, stupid stunt, Grant. I’d already met with you and your brothers and planned our strategy for the ambush. I even arranged for the dynamite to be stolen by a friend of mine and delivered to you. All you had to do was follow my orders. But no … you had to prove you were a man.”
A flush tinged Grant’s cheeks, but his mouth remained hard and implacable.
“Mount up!” Timmy yelled.
“What about the guards who were riding with you?” Grant asked. “Shouldn’t we see to them first?”
Timmy gazed at him in disgust. “Unlike you, I don’t make stupid mistakes, Grant. I slit their throats and left them by the creek to rot.”
Fear curdled in Susan’s breast at the calm, matter-of-fact manner in which Timmy related what he had done to the men. Her panic made it difficult to breathe, but Susan forced herself to keep her head as clear as possible. She had to think! Somehow she had to think!
“Get your gear and let’s ride, Grant.” Beeb’s grip grew harsh. “And remember, we made a deal. You got the dynamite and all the information you needed about your brother’s transfer. I get Daniel Crocker. He’s mine.”
As if to underscore Timmy’s reminder, the low, throbbing roar of a locomotive could be heard in the distance.
Grant Dooley tipped his hat to the other man in silent acquiescence and swung into the saddle, knowing that he would find a way to double-cross Timmy Beeb. It galled him the way Timmy kept appearing at their camp and issuing orders on the best way to trap Daniel Crocker and free Floyd. Beeb had begun to think he owned the Dooleys—and to Grant’s disgust, his brothers jumped to obey his commands.
But Grant didn’t plan on following Timmy like a lamb to the slaughter. Beeb was trouble—perhaps even a little bit crazed. Grant would give him his lead until Floyd had been freed. Then Crocker would belong to the Dooleys.
Long before Floyd Dooley’s train arrived, the ground rumbled. Daniel and his men melted into the shadows, waiting, watching.
But nothing happened.
The train, respondi
ng to a flagged signal from one of the Pinkertons, began to slow, groaning in protest. The air was filled with the heavy coal-tainted scent of steam. A tense expectation shimmered in the brittle air, threatening to explode into an inferno of nerves and raw tension.
And still nothing happened.
Daniel looked at Kutter, issuing a silent message. The man nodded. One of Kutter’s men had leaked the information that Floyd would be transferred here. If the Dooleys were anywhere nearby—and the petty thievery occurring in Ashton over the last few days gave Kutter ample evidence they were—now would be the most advantageous time for them to appear. Daniel and his men were isolated in the narrow pass. It would be the perfect setting for an ambush.
Something had gone wrong.
Daniel’s fingers grew taut around his rifle. The Dooleys should have come here. This was the most vulnerable spot in the line.
Straightening, he settled his hat over his brow and then, thinking swiftly and decisively, said, “We can’t afford to wait any longer.”
Kutter said, “I’ll gather the fellows we’ve scattered in the rocks. We’ll ride ahead through the pass along the road and signal you if we see anything up ahead. If they don’t ambush us here, it means they’ve found a better spot.”
“I’ll take the rest of the men on the train with me. And, Kutter—”
The older man turned back, lifting one brow.
“You keep your eyes peeled, you hear? I don’t want you walking blindly into one of their traps.”
Kutter grinned. “And if I hear that little popgun of yours, I’ll come running.”
As Kutter strode away, Daniel gestured for the other Pinkertons to draw near. His gaze darted from man to man as he judged their strength. “We’re going to have to do this job from the train. I’ll need a dozen people scattered through the boxcars as well as six more to ride on top as guards. We can’t let anything prevent Floyd from going to trial, even if it means letting his brothers go for now.”
Around him, the guards began to jam their hands deeper into leather gloves and check their weapons. More than one slid a revolver beneath his coat or a knife into a sheath in his boot. Although they did not watch him as he spoke, Daniel knew they listened to each word with an intense concentration.
“Grover and Rueban, take your people and position them along the outside of the cars. At least one of you will need to ride up front.”
“Rogers, Dicksen, you’ll come with me. Hesse, take the other four and gather our mounts. I want them loaded onto the last boxcar in case something happens and we have to take Dooley through the canyon on horseback.” His voice rose above the screeching rumble of the second train as it arrived and pulled to a stop.
“Let’s go!”
The Pinkertons dispersed to their positions. Daniel lifted his rifle in a silent signal, and then he and his men emerged from the trees. The fine hair at the back of his neck rose. Until Floyd had been moved into the second train, Daniel would be out in the open, an easy target for anyone who might be watching.
The door to the boxcar slid open.
“Any trouble?” Daniel asked the whiskered Pinkerton who stepped into the aperture of the boxcar and surveyed the area, his gun at the ready.
After he was sure that no unaccountable shadows lurked in the trees, the man straightened and spit into the snow. “Not a peep,” he answered tersely. “But then, my ears froze clear off halfway through Utah territory. Any sign of the Dooleys?”
“No. We’re going ahead.”
Backing into the shadowed interior of the car, the man shouted something and emerged a few minutes later with the prisoner surrounded by three other guards.
After the dimness of the boxcar, Floyd blinked at the bright winter light, raising his shackled arms to block the glare.
“Git down there, and no fussin’, y’hear?” The Pinkerton prodded Floyd with the muzzle of his revolver.
Baby Floyd lowered his hands, revealing strands of milk white hair flopping over a narrow forehead. Round spectacles magnified his water blue eyes. He stared in bewilderment at the men who waited below him. His wrists inched down even more to reveal his bulb-tipped nose, thin lips, and round chin. His jaw was covered with peachlike fuzz the same downy color as his hair.
On either side of him, Daniel’s men cocked and aimed their weapons. The whiskered Pinkerton jumped from the boxcar, and he and Daniel helped the other three men lift the shackled Dooley to the ground. Floyd stumbled over his chains and fell into the snow. With a frustrated sigh, Daniel pulled him upright.
For a split second, when Daniel met the prisoner’s glance, there was a blazing light of hate and intelligence behind those watery blue eyes. Then Floyd blinked, and the blank-faced stare returned.
Digging the barrel of his rifle between the man’s shoulders, Daniel prodded him toward the front of the train. “Move,” Daniel ordered. It had always troubled him the way the Dooleys had been so over-protective of Floyd. In the past, Grant and Marvin had done most of the stealing and most of the killing, while Floyd had been kept isolated and well guarded.
Daniel’s footsteps crunched in the snow. All the pieces were beginning to fit together. By allowing him that one unguarded glance, Floyd Dooley had revealed his secret: he was the leader of the Dooley gang. He was the brains.
So who was directing them now?
Floyd Dooley was quickly taken from the Wasatch Territorial to the boxcar of the second train. The Humboldt and Western would carry the prisoner and his guards twelve miles through the winding pass and then continue east to Cheyenne.
Since the Dooleys had made no effort to release their brother here, the Pinkertons moved into position with a quiet haste. Their mounts had been loaded, and drawn away from the last car.
The Humboldt and Western’s locomotive strained and shimmied, building up enough steam to roll its great iron wheels. Leaving the sliding door ajar, Daniel took his position by the opening. He steadied himself, gazing out at the stretch of dirty snow beside the tracks.
A flash of color appeared up ahead. Daniel stiffened and snapped his rifle into place as a horse and rider galloped onto the gravel shoulder and rushed past the locomotive and down the line of boxcars.
Automatically, Daniel cocked his weapon. One of his men went toward the opposite door and opened it just a crack, the others took their positions by Daniel.
The train was still moving slowly, barely inching along. The horseman came to a halt short of reaching the appropriate car and waved his arms.
“Hold your fire!” Daniel shouted, recognizing the man. “Hell and damnation, Donovan! Get out of here! Go home!”
Donovan didn’t heed his warning. He dug his heels into his mount, stopping just short of the rails. At the last minute, he reached for the iron support at the side of the door. The momentum of the train caused him to swing free of his horse. Daniel grabbed his shirt and hauled him inside.
The train heaved, gaining speed. Swearing, Daniel considered dumping Donovan back onto the ground, but they were moving too fast now, and the snowy banks were littered with rocks as they neared the creek.
Furious, Daniel took Donovan’s collar, hauling him upright. “Damn it! What do you think you’re doing here?”
Donovan noted the other figures in the boxcar, and his eyes stopped on Baby Floyd. “The Dooleys. That’s what this is all about.” Donovan had seen their pictures posted in the sheriffs office, and he’d read the reports of their raids in the newspapers. He took another gulp of air and returned his attention to Daniel. “Luckily, Max saw you riding out of Ashton in the direction of the tracks early this morning.”
“Max? What’s wrong?” Daniel demanded roughly, already sensing, already growing chilled from the unspoken message in Donovan’s features.
“Someone came to the house and took Susan. I tried to follow him and found three Pinkertons lying on the creek bank. Their throats had been cut. The man who took Susan must have been one of the Dooleys.”
In the corner of the boxcar Floyd Dooley began to laugh.
Susan cried out when Timmy Beeb jerked his horse to a stop beneath the wooden bridge, throwing her forward. From above, on the curving mountain road, came the sound of galloping horses. Timmy drew a knife from his boot and pressed the blade to Susan’s throat.
“Not a sound,” he said next to her ear.
Susan’s heart began to pound in her chest, ricocheting off the tight band of her ribs. Familiar black memories rose to the fore, but she refused to allow them to take hold. Somehow, with Daniel’s help, she had purged herself of those images, and they no longer had the power to haunt her. She alone controlled her destiny and her fears. And by heaven she would find a way to free herself and warn Daniel.
The hooves echoed overhead, reverberating hollowly on the wooden planks. Then they continued on. Beeb waited long, endless seconds, then nodded in satisfaction. “They’ll be halfway to Nebraska before they notice they’ve passed the very person they’re looking for.”
Cautiously Timmy led the rest of the men from beneath the bridge and along the creek bank until he encountered the railroad trestle spanning the gulch. “We haven’t got much time.” He seemed to sniff the air for the approach of the train, then turned to spear one of the Dooleys with an iron-willed stare. “You! Set the dynamite under the trestle there. Do it just like I told you or you’ll blow us all to kingdom come.” He pointed to another man. “You put the charges on the hillside about a mile back. As soon as you light the fuses, join us in the center. Grant, you take the girl up into the trees next to the tracks.” Timmy smiled slowly. A crooked, feral smile. “That way she won’t miss the fireworks.” He stroked her hair, and she shrank away in revulsion.
“You see, we’re going to trap your husband,” he explained in much the same tone he might have used to explain a difficult procedure to a youngster. “We’ll wait until the train rounds the bend, and then we’ll blow the rocks free in front of them, and the timber in back, trapping them in between.” His easy grin suddenly died. “Take her, damn it!”
