Read On the Wrong Track Online

Authors: Steve Hockensmith

On the Wrong Track (25 page)

BOOK: On the Wrong Track
11.2Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
Gustav nodded yet again, clearly pleased that I’d followed it all through myself, even if I did find the final step hard to take.
“They’d need balls to try
what
?” Kip asked, growing impatient with my start-stop storytelling.
“Well, the crate—it had airholes,” I explained. “We figured that meant somebody got himself snuck on back in Ogden. But that wasn’t the plan at all. Someone was aimin’ to hitch a ride
after
the robbery. Barson and Welsh were gonna put their own guard in with the gold!”
“Only Pezullo spotted them airholes and opened the crate—which is why he had to die,” Gustav finally jumped in. “Then
we
found it, and the box was still pried open when the Give-’em-Hell Boys stopped the train. So they knew they couldn’t sneak anyone on the Express, and they needed a new place to stash their gold.”
“Right here,” I said, patting my coffin bench.
“They dumped Foreman in the desert,” Old Red continued.
“His wig fallin’ off when they moved the body,” I snuck in.
“And they threw out some of Chan’s ‘treasure.’”
“Though somebody dropped a cup.”
“Course, they couldn’t have nobody seein’ what they were up to. Which is why they had someone talkin’ to Milford Morrison on the
left
side of the train while they got to unloadin’ and loadin’ on the
right
side.”
“But poor El Numero Uno was stuck out here, wasn’t he?” I said. “He must’ve seen it all.”
“So he ended up a notch on someone’s shootin’ iron,” Gustav finished for me.
Kip had been watching our back-and-forth with a pop-eyed look of wonder upon his face, and now he shook his head and chuckled. “You know, you two are really something when you stop your bickerin’.”
Old Red and I traded sheepish glances.
“But you slicked right over a mighty big question,” the kid went on, his tone turning serious. “Who killed Joe?”
“Well, you tell me,” Gustav said. “Who’s the first person Pezullo would’ve told about that crate? Who had a key that let him get in and out of the baggage car as he pleased? Who knew Chan was tryin’ to snoop around near the booty? And whose berth is next to both the gents’ washroom and the passageway to the baggage car—givin’ him the chance to sneak out that snake and set it on us?”
Kip blinked at my brother a moment, his face slack, before the name came to him. When it did, he didn’t seem to know whether to scoff or cheer.
“Why, sure … it all fits, don’t it?” the news butch marveled. “
Wiltrout
. It … all … fits.”
“Just about—though there’s something you’ll have to explain to
me,
” I said, turning to my brother. “Who stole Kip’s passkey? Wiltrout had his own already, and extras to spare. Why take Kip’s? And how’d he do it?”
“I ain’t got that part figured yet,” Old Red admitted. “It might’ve been to throw us off the scent, get us lookin’ at passengers ’stead of em-plo-yees . Or maybe someone’s helpin’ him. Or it might’ve just been a coincidence.”
Gustav spat out that last word like a bite of rotten meat, and the foul taste of it lingered on his tongue afterward to judge by the scowl on his face.
“You know, we ain’t got much in the way of actual proof, either,” I pointed out. “And there’s a lot we still don’t know about what the Give-’em-Hell Boys had planned. Why take the gold west? How are they gonna collect it if they ain’t got men travelin’ with it?” I shrugged. “Seems to me we ain’t out of the woods yet.”
My brother shambled over and slumped next to me, the excitement that had been buoying him sinking out of sight.
“You’re right … but at least we got a trail to follow.” He tapped the casket beneath us with the back of his left heel. “The gold. Wiltrout’s gotta hand it over sooner or later—he’d get his throat slit if he don’t. So we confront him with it. He ain’t as tough as he acts. Could be he’d sell out the gang to save his neck.”
“Or maybe we wire S.P. H.Q.,” I suggested. “They could have someone keep an eye on the coffins after we get to Oakland. When the Give-’em-Hell Boys show up to collect—
bang
. We bag ’em.” I rubbed the tips of my fingers gently over my now not-quite-so-swollen nose. “We might even get another crack at Barson and Welsh themselves.”
“I’d like that,” Old Red said with a slow, brooding nod. “I’d like that a lot.”
While my brother and I blathered, Kip walked around us and squatted down next to the Chinaman’s coffin.
“Claimin’ some of the gold for yourself?” I asked him. “Or is it that tea set you’re partial to?”
“Actually, there’s something you two overlooked,” Kip replied. “Something that would explain
everything
.”
The kid stretched a skinny arm across the casket lid—and yanked my brother’s .45 from its holster.
“Sorry, fellers,” he said cheerfully, hopping back a few steps. “I can’t have you messin’ with that gold. I was hopin’ I wouldn’t have to do this, but … well …”
He pointed the hogleg at Gustav and thumbed back the hammer.
THE KID
Or, Kip Has the Time of His Life—While Fixing to End Ours
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
“That ain’t funny, kid,”
I said, trying to sound like a stern father stepping in when some childish prank’s gone awry. “Put the gun down before you hurt somebody.”
“I think hurtin’ somebody’s the general idea,” Gustav said. He pounded the coffin we were sitting on with both fists. “Shit! I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner!”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Old Red,” Kip told him, as genial as ever. “You’ve been sick as dog and you still got closer than anybody else. Hell, Burl Lockhart himself didn’t figure it out.”
“Mr. Holmes would’ve,” my brother muttered.
“Could be,” Kip conceded. “You know, I like them Sherlock Holmes yarns myself. That sure was one clever bastard. Woo! Imagine
him
goin’ up against the Give-’em-Hell gang!”
The kid’s eyes took on the evil gleam boys get when they’re dropping two tomcats into a barrel just to see what’ll happen.
“So that’s who
we’re
still up against?” Gustav asked.
“Well, at the moment you’re just up against
me,
” Kip told him. “And I’d like
you
up against that door.”
He waved the gun at the baggage car’s side door.
Old Red didn’t move. So I didn’t move.
Kip shook his head.
“I’ve already killed two men the last day. Don’t make me take it to four.” The kid pursed his lips and cocked his head. “Though you know what? I might actually like that. I mean, what’s the most you think Jesse James killed in a day? Or Billy the Kid? Not four, I betcha. I’d probably top ’em both!”
“Stop playin’ games,” Old Red said. “You ain’t about to shoot off a gun in here.”
“And why not?” Kip asked. “We’re in the noisiest car on the train with two doors and a vestibule between us and the nearest passenger. What’s a little
pop-pop
mixed in with all the racket a train kicks up? And anyway—so what if someone
does
hear? You had me jam the door shut, remember? Ain’t nobody gettin’ in here till I want ’em to. So don’t make the mistake of thinkin’ I’m afraid of this.” His finger caressed the trigger with light, almost lewd strokes. “Cuz I ain’t.”
I wasn’t sure if I believed the kid or not, but I knew one thing for sure: We didn’t stand a chance sitting on our asses with a couple coffins between us and him. At least standing we could try to rush him when the time came … assuming a time
would
come.
I nudged my brother and got to my feet. After staring up at me sourly a moment, Gustav slowly pushed himself upright. The Colt in Kip’s hand followed us as we moved across the car.
“Thank you, gents,” the kid said once we had our backs against the side door. He eased himself down where we’d been squatting—on top of Foreman’s casket. “Now, Otto, if you wouldn’t mind … open it.”
“You know, I rather think I
do
mind.”
“Well, then let me put it another way.” Kip shifted his wrist ever so slightly, giving the .45 a tilt up and to the right. “Open that door or I’ll decorate it with your brother’s big ol’ brain.”
I turned and reached for the latch. “My God, kid,” I said as I jerked the bolt, “how’d you turn out so rotten?”
“Oh, I ain’t rotten. I’m ‘daring.’”
I slid the door open maybe three feet—enough to fill the room with a roar as loud as any tornado. What little light came in with the howling of wind was broken into yellow-white lines that flashed and blinked in spurts. Otherwise, all outside was black.
We’d been so busy playing bandit-and-lawmen, we hadn’t noticed the baggage car’s small windows going dark. The Pacific Express was passing through another snowshed.
“Close it!” Kip hollered.
I was happy to oblige. If the kid had forced us to jump out into the wooden tunnel, my brother and I would’ve bounced off the walls and ricocheted straight back into (and under) the train, and it would’ve been sheer guesswork which mangled pool of goo belonged in which grave.
Kip had the same concern, I was guessing. Not about reducing Gustav and me to
menudo
—he’d enjoy that. But he wouldn’t want anyone in the Pullmans noticing the splash of blood on a window or the thumping of our bodies disintegrating beneath the train. Better to be rid of us when the Express was out in the open.
And surely, making us jump wouldn’t be enough. “Men with broken legs tell no tales” is
not
how the old saying goes. Before we went through that door, Kip would see to it that we’d already passed through the pearly gates.
All this streaked through my mind in the two seconds it took to slide the door shut. While that wasn’t nearly enough time to think up a plan, it did let me plant the seed of a chance: When I worked the bolt again, I merely fiddled it around in the latch. The door remained unlocked.
I turned to find Kip gnawing on his thoughts every bit as furiously as I just had. His head was tilted to one side, his eyes narrowed—and his finger was stroking the trigger again.
Why wait?
I could see him thinking.
Two little twitches of the finger, and I’ll top Jesse James himself.
“So all along it was you who killed your buddy Pezullo,” my brother said.
The kid’s lips curled into a little smile that slowly slid sidewise into a smirk.
“He found the airholes and the bricks,” Gustav continued, “and before he went to fetch Wiltrout, he showed ’em to his little pal—who brained him with the first thing he could grab.”
Kip gave Gustav’s Peacemaker a little roll in the air. “Go on. Tell me what else I did, Mr. ‘Holmes.’”
“Alright. Let’s see …”
My brother furrowed his brow and rubbed a hand over his mustache, looking less like a prisoner facing a firing squad than a man in a general store who can’t remember what brand of talcum the little woman told him to buy. Even with the Grim Reaper set to take a swipe at us, he couldn’t resist an opportunity to deducify.
“That business with your passkey bein’ stolen,” he said. “That was bullshit. A distraction. Something to get us settin’ our sights on the passengers instead of the crew.”
Kip nodded and gave the Colt another twirl.
“Later, when the Give-’em-Hell Boys took you ‘hostage,’ that was your chance to tell ’em where Lockhart and me and my brother was,” Gustav went on. “And you told ’em about Pezullo and the crate, too. So that’s when the plan got switched around.”
The kid nodded again, his gaze locked on my brother. I searched for the nerve to make a run at him—and found I didn’t have it. It would have taken five or six strides to reach him, while his finger needed to move less than an inch to put a bullet in my belly.
Old Red went on theorizing.
“Chan you had to get rid of cuz he was so fixed on checkin’ his old Chinese thingamabobs. If he saw someone had monkeyed with the coffins, it’d cause trouble. So you … lured him back here somehow?”
My brother sent a hand smacking into his own forehead. “Oh, hell! I would’ve seen it if this damn train hadn’t been rattlin’ my brain. Your berth’s right above Wiltrout’s! When Chan came back and said, ‘Please,’ he was talkin’ to
you
!”
Kip’s smirk broadened into a sneering grin. He was actually enjoying
himself, entranced by the chance to hear his own crimes repeated back to him, spun out like a tale from a detective magazine.
“He asked me to come up to the vestibule for a private chat,” he explained. “Offered me ten bucks to let him into the baggage car. I can’t believe he offered Wiltrout twenty! Guess he figured he could get a news butch for half price. If I’d said no, he probably would’ve offered Samuel five.”
He waggled his eyebrows and chuckled at his own joke like we were customers he could still jolly into buying a bag of lemon drops.
“You were right about what happened once we were in here—I pasted him with the whiskey bottle. It didn’t outright kill him, but then again it didn’t have to. I was able to roll him out over a trestle in the middle of nowhere. He’s food for river fish now.”
The kid laughed. “It’s funny, ain’t it? The Chink brings along a coffin with no body, and now he’s a body with no coffin!”
He was so tickled by his own cleverness—not just with joke-telling, but killing—I think he actually believed we’d laugh, too. And I almost couldn’t blame him, the way my brother had been chitchatting with him, the two of them nattering away like old women comparing recipes for rhubarb pie.
For Gustav, it had been a matter of nailing down the how of it all. But it was an entirely different question that was eating at me.
“Christ, Kip,” I said, “why? All this death … for what? Do you hate the railroad that much? Or are you just in it for the money?”
“
You’re
askin’ me why?” Instead of wilting, the grin on Kip’s narrow face grew even wider. “I would’ve thought you two would understand more than anybody. I’m livin’ what I used to just read about. I mean, I come from a little town so boring it’s big news if the damn sun comes up in the morning! And now here I am, part of something big, something wild. And I am havin’ the time of my life!”
The train jostled and took on a markedly steeper pitch—so much so that I feared the door would slide open on its own. My brother and I stumbled into each other, and even when I managed to get my feet planted, Gustav kept leaning into me, his knees wobbling.
“When the Give-’em-Hell Boys robbed the Express back in May, I wasn’t scared. I was thrilled!” the kid went on, too wrapped up in his tale—A Kip Hickey Adventure—to let our stumblings slow him down. His skinny arm must have been growing as tired as Old Red’s legs, for he propped his elbows on his knees and took to gripping the gun in both hands. “I slipped outside when they were leavin’—nearly got myself shot! And I got down on my knees and I
begged
Augie and Mike to take me with ’em. But they were smart. They came up with a plan. And now, I’m a bona fide Give-’em-Hell Boy!”
“And killer,” I said.
“Hey, I don’t give two shits about the Chinaman, but I wasn’t happy about doin’ in Joe. And when I set that snake on you two, I actually felt pretty guilty … for a couple minutes. Then I was just pissed it didn’t work.” His shoulders twitched ever so slightly—a wee little shrug from arms that were growing weary under the weight of four pounds of shooting iron. “Oh, well. Better late than never.”
The Colt’s barrel had begun to sag, but now the kid brought it up again and pointed it at me.
“You can’t get rid of us that easy, Kip,” Old Red said, straightening up and taking a step to his left—putting himself between me and the gun. “We’re bein’ watched. You come outta here without us, it’s gonna be seen.”
Kip snorted. “Oh, I already know about her. Saw her whisperin’ with Jefferson Powless when you two got sent off to pick daisies or whatever.”
“‘Her’?” I asked.
“Miss Caveo,” Gustav said.
“Cutest damn spotter
I
ever spotted!” Kip crowed. “Makes sense, I guess. A sweetie like that … men drop their guard, go all tenderhearted.” He leered at me. “And softheaded. Yeah, I reckon she’ll come in right handy when the time comes.”
I almost made a run at the little rat right then and there.
“What are you talkin’ about?”
Kip sighed and rolled his eyes. “Shit—what do you expect me to
do? Talk you through the whole damn thing? Maybe playact all the different parts for you?”
“Why not?” Old Red asked, sounding like this was a perfectly reasonable request to make of a fellow who should’ve shot you five minutes before.
Light flickered behind Kip, off to his right, and I glanced at it just as the news butch was distracted by something to our left.
There was light in the car’s little windows again. We were out of the snowshed.
“I’m sorry, boys,” Kip said, and I heard a genuine regret in his voice that told me with a cold certainty that our extra five minutes were over. “I ain’t got time for more talk. And neither do—”
I twisted to my left and threw the side door open, creating a wall of blinding-bright light behind us. Kip squeezed his eyes shut and looked away just long enough for me to grab Gustav’s coat and drag him with me as I leapt from the train.
I heard the sharp crack of a gunshot, but I was too discombobulated to fret about whether Old Red or I might be hit. A blur of brown and gray and green—otherwise known as
the ground
—was rushing at me at God knows what speed.
Who had time to worry about bullets? The fall would probably kill us.
BOOK: On the Wrong Track
11.2Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

The Red Rose Box by Woods, Brenda
Gone Tomorrow by Lee Child
The Painted Girls by Cathy Marie Buchanan
The Black Stone by Nick Brown