Bad Men Die (8 page)

The first thing Luke had done when he boarded the train with McCluskey was to seek out the conductor. That hombre's eyes had widened at the sight of the outlaw shuffling along in handcuffs and leg irons. Others who had seen the prisoner seemed upset, looking askance at Luke and McCluskey and giving them a lot of room.

“You can't bring that man on my train like that,” the conductor said.

“I don't have any choice in the matter,” Luke declared. “I'm sure not taking these irons off him. This is Frank McCluskey. He's wanted all over this part of the country, and I'm taking him to Cheyenne to turn him over to the authorities there.”

The conductor's forehead wrinkled in a frown. “I don't see a badge on you, mister, so I suppose that means you intend to collect the reward on this fellow when you turn him in.”

“That's right,” Luke said evenly. He heard the contempt in the conductor's voice plainly enough but knew from experience it was best for him to keep a tight rein on his temper in such situations.

“Well, you can't have him in the regular cars. It'll frighten the other passengers too much. You'll have to put him in the caboose, and I won't stand for any argument about it.”

Since that was exactly what Luke wanted, he didn't intend to argue. He wasn't going to admit that to the conductor, though. The man might change his mind just to spite him.

Luke nodded curtly. “All right. If that's the way it has to be, I guess that's what we'll do.”

The conductor sniffed as if to say
Damn right you will
. Luke looked down to hide the grin that flashed across his face for a second.

“Let's take him on back there now,” the conductor said.

By that time, the caboose was hooked up again to the train, which rolled slowly along the rails, building up speed as it left Rattlesnake Wells. The three men walked through the passenger cars, which were behind the baggage cars, and into the car bringing up the rear that served as the conductor's office and a place for the brakemen to take it easy when they weren't working.

The brakies weren't in there at the moment.

The conductor told Luke, “You might as well put your prisoner on that chair over there in the corner. He can't get loose, can he?”

“Not likely.” Luke steered McCluskey over to the ladderback chair and sat him down in it. He took out another pair of handcuffs and looped one end around one of the rungs in the back of the chair and the chain between McCluskey's cuffs. By snapping it shut, he ensured that McCluskey couldn't get up and go anywhere without taking the chair with him. As awkward as it already was having his ankles fastened together like they were, getting around while fastened to the chair would be almost impossible.

“There's coffee on the stove,” the conductor said with grudging hospitality.

“Much obliged.” Luke poured himself a cup but didn't offer to do the same for McCluskey. He was through showing the outlaw any consideration. “How long does it take to get to Cheyenne?”

“We'll arrive about seven o'clock this evening, if there aren't any delays.”

“What's the country like between here and the junction?”

“Mostly flat, which means we make good time.” The conductor's attitude was warming up a little. Talking about the train that was his responsibility probably helped with that. “There's one range of pretty rugged mountains to get through.”

Luke nodded. Normally he would have worried about the train slowing down to take the grades in the mountains. That would make it easier for someone who wasn't supposed to be there to get aboard.

But McCluskey didn't have a gang that would set out to rescue him, Luke reminded himself. The only person who seemed determined to set the outlaw free was Delia, and she was locked up safely back in Rattlesnake Wells.

Luke frowned slightly as he sipped the coffee. She had been behind bars when he left the marshal's office and jail earlier that morning, but he had no way of knowing if she was still there, he realized. She was shifty as a sidewinder. The likelihood of her causing any more trouble was small, but he couldn't rule it out one hundred percent.

He would be glad when Frank McCluskey was off his hands and the reward money was in his pocket.

The door of the caboose opened, and a man in a gray suit and darker gray derby hat stepped in. He had a successful, well-fed look about him, with a beefy face, thick dark mustache, and bushy side-whiskers. A short black cigar was clamped between his teeth. He stopped short as he saw Luke and McCluskey, and an angry flush began turning his face an even darker red.

“Damn it, Hitch!” he exploded. “What are these two doing in here?”

 

 

Delia sat beside the window and tried to collect her thoughts as she watched the flat terrain covered with scrub brush rolling past outside. She was still a little out of breath from rushing to the train station and from the strain of worrying that the stupid deputy's body would be discovered before she could get aboard and leave Rattlesnake Wells behind.

Killing the lawman had been a calculated risk. When she'd taken the knife from the sheath strapped to the inside of her left thigh and put it in the man's belly, she hadn't known whether he had the key to the cell on him or not. It was the only chance she had to free herself and help Frank, so she'd taken it.

She had never murdered anybody before. She'd killed two men in the past, customers of hers who'd gotten too rough with her and then lost their temper when she fought back. Those killings had been self-defense, and she'd never lost a bit of sleep over them.

She didn't think the deputy's death would bother her for very long. After all, Frank's life was at stake and she loved him. Whatever she had to do to save him was justified as far as she was concerned. She would have killed the damn bounty hunter, too, and the marshal, and the marshal's Mexican slut, and anybody else who got in her way and threatened her man.

If anyone had asked her why she'd fallen so hard for Frank McCluskey, Delia couldn't have said. All she knew was that from the moment he had put his arms around her and kissed her, she was his forever and would do anything for him.

Someone slid onto the empty half of the seat beside her, next to the aisle, and interrupted her musing about McCluskey. She turned, saw a man in a cheap suit. He had weaselly eyes over a long, whiskey-veined nose. A drummer of some sort, Delia thought, trying not to shudder as he boldly ran his eyes over her. She was used to being looked at like that by men, as if they could see right through her clothes to the ripe body beneath.

“Hello. Traveling by yourself, miss?”

“No,” Delia said primly. “My husband is with me.”

That statement had some truth to it. Someday she and Frank would be married. She was sure of it. And while he wasn't exactly with her at the moment, he was somewhere on the train, and that was close enough for her.

Being told that she was married seemed to take some of the starch out of the drummer, but he didn't deflate too much. “Oh? Where is he, then?”

Maybe he was used to women lying to avoid his unwanted attentions.

“He's gone to talk to the conductor,” Delia said without missing a beat. “He's an important man. Everyone on the railroad knows him.”

“Is that so? I ride this line pretty often. Maybe I know him, too.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Delia's haughty tone made it clear that the traveling salesman would be beneath her mythical husband's notice.

“Well, I'm sure you won't mind if I keep you company until he gets back.” And with that he slid a little closer so his hip was touching hers.

Delia felt her self-control slipping away. She slid her hand into the pocket where she had put the knife so it would be handier and turned slightly toward the drummer. He wore a look of slightly surprised anticipation on his fox-like face.

He was about to be even more surprised, she thought, leaning toward him and putting a little weight on the knife. The tip of its razor-keen blade penetrated the man's coat and shirt and pricked into his side. “I think it would be best if you went and found somewhere else to sit, instead of annoying me.”

His eyes widened and his rather prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed hard.

He stammered, “I-is that—”

“Yes, it is,” Delia said. “And I'm perfectly capable of carving out your liver with it if you don't do exactly what I told you.”

He had gone pale, which made the veins in his nose stand out even more. “For God's sake, lady, be careful with that! You're sticking me.”

“I'm about to do worse than that,” Delia told him.

He scooted away from her on the bench. She made the knife disappear back into her pocket.

“Take it easy,” he muttered. “I'm going, I'm going. You don't have to be so damn touchy. All I wanted was a little pleasant conversation to pass the time.”

“All I want is for you to go away. And don't even think about going to the conductor and complaining about the crazy woman with the knife. If you do, I warn you I'll find you. Some night when you least expect it, I'll be there.” She smiled at him. “And then I'll cut out your eyes and your tongue, but not before I've done some cutting elsewhere. I won't leave you with any of the things that are so important to you, mister.”

He practically leaped up from the seat and hurried away.

Satisfied, Delia settled back in the seat and looked out the window again, thinking.

She had been through both passenger cars after she came aboard. Since Frank and the bounty hunter hadn't been in either one, they were in one of the freight cars or in the caboose. She considered the caboose the more likely possibility and had settled into a seat in the second passenger car closest to it.

What she would do after getting into the caboose would have to wait until she was actually in the caboose, and then she could figure it out. The goal was pretty simple, though.

Set Frank McCluskey free . . . and kill Luke Jensen.

 

 

Luke looked at the man in the derby and said in a deceptively mild tone, “Most men wouldn't take kindly to being talked about like that, mister—and I'm one of them.”

The newcomer ignored him and continued glaring at the conductor. “You know there's not supposed to be anyone in this caboose except railroad employees and my guards. Who are these men?”

The conductor had a look of dismay on his face. “I'm sorry, Mr. Bertram. I completely forgot about the shipment.”

“Forgot?” Bertram repeated. “My God, man, how could you forget about that much—” He stopped short, glanced at Luke and then at McCluskey as if thinking that he'd been about to say too much. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“My name's Luke Jensen. This is my prisoner, Frank McCluskey.”

Bertram's piggish eyes widened. He had heard of McCluskey, even if the conductor hadn't. “Frank McCluskey the outlaw?” His voice had a little squeak of alarm in it. “Here?”

“Better calm down, mister,” Luke advised. “If your face gets any redder, you're liable to pop a blood vessel.”

Before Bertram could respond to that, the door of the caboose opened again and a hard-faced man carrying a rifle came in. “We're ready to stop and make the switch, boss.”

Bertram gestured curtly at him to stop him from saying anything else.

It didn't matter. Luke was no fool and had already figured out what was going on. “Exactly how much gold are you shipping out in secret on this train, Bertram?”

The man stared at him for a second, then said, “What? Gold? I don't know what you're—”

“Don't waste your breath denying it,” Luke said. “You're working for the mine owners who have pooled their gold to ship it to Cheyenne. It must have been refined down to ingots. I thought I saw a smelter back in the hills above Rattlesnake Wells. Raw ore would weigh too much, but you could pack a fortune in gold bars into a couple fairly small strongboxes. Let me guess. They're up in the cab of the locomotive right now. That would explain why it was in the roundhouse longer than usual. The engineer is going to stop the train and your hired guards will carry the boxes back here to the caboose and lock them up. That's how the plan goes, isn't it?”

Bertram looked more and more astonished, not to mention angry, as Luke spoke. He roared, “Who the hell
are
you? Chadwick, cover this man! If he reaches for a gun, kill him!”

The conductor quickly answered, “He's a bounty hunter, Mr. Bertram. Like he told you, that other man is a prisoner he's taking to Cheyenne.”

“I don't believe it! He's got to be an outlaw himself! These two are working together! They're after the gold—”

“Not hardly,” Luke interrupted in a flat, cold tone. “I told you the truth, Bertram. I didn't know anything about your precious gold until you came in here, lost your temper, and started flapping your gums. Figuring it out from there wasn't difficult.” He paused. “Maybe the mine owners should have hired someone a bit more . . . discreet, shall we say? . . . to get their gold to Cheyenne.” He smiled and drank some more of the coffee.

Chadwick, evidently one of the hired guards, took a step forward. “He knows too much, Mr. Bertram. Want me to take his guns and tie him up?”

Before Bertram could answer, Luke added to the tension by saying softly, “I don't think you want to try that, friend.” He didn't like having guns pointed at him.

That could have led to trouble, but Bertram was canny enough to realize that he was creating problems where they didn't have to exist. He held out a hand toward Chadwick and motioned him back, making a visible effort to be the voice of reason, rather than the blustery hardnose he had been mere moments earlier. “Let's all settle down. Jensen, do you swear you didn't know about that gold and aren't on this train to make a try for it?”