Only My Love (5 page)

The
Chronicle's
poker game proved to be a bonanza. Dave Crookshank thought he was going to be the big winner of the night. He and his fellow staffers took little notice of the train's halting. After three months riding the rails, they considered themselves rather jaded travelers. On the prairies they had witnessed a swarm of locusts that brought the illusion of night to the afternoon sky and stopped their train cold. In the Sierras an avalanche blanketed their cars and kept them stationary for two days. Bridge washouts, Indian tampering, and the occasional herd of buffalo had meant abrupt halts and unplanned delays.

When Paul Dodd suggested off-handedly that one of them investigate the current reason for stopping he was largely ignored. Bill Crookshank reminded him that Drew had gone in search of Mike and between the two of them they would come back with the story. "If it's worth anything," Bill added, watching his brother rake in another pot. "Damn, Dave, but you need your nose tweaked tonight. Too proud of yourself by half, taking our money the way you have."

At that moment the door at the rear of the car opened and Happy McCallister announced he'd be pleased as a preacher to pass his hat and collect their offerings. The fact that he was cradling a shotgun in his arms encouraged the stunned newspapermen to follow instructions.

"Reckon you fellows will have quite a story to tell your paper," Happy said, watching from the doorway as his partner gathered the winnings. "'Course that wouldn't be wise. Me and my friends ain't in this fer the glory like them James boys. None of us would want this in that big city paper of yours."

Dave Crookshank, irritated at being cheated of his hard won money, laughed a little bitterly. "And how do you propose to keep us silent?" Although his brother kicked him under the table, Dave continued to stare defiantly at Happy.

"Well," Happy drawled, his eyes thoughtful below the brim of his weathered hat and above the line of his kerchief, "it seems to me I could kill you now."

"We're not going to write anything," Bill said.

"Or I could kill you later," Happy went on, ignoring the hastily given promise. "Generally, though, that involves trackin' you down, and I don't cotton much to trackin'. Some boys is good at it, but I've never been one of 'em." Happy's sharp eyes scanned the circle of men at the table. He waved the barrel of his shotgun in the general direction of the empty chair. "Where's the other one of you?"

No one answered.

"Doesn't really matter if you tell me or not," said Happy. "My partner here can spot a newspaperman like a vulture spots carrion. Not much difference in his mind. Nor my mind, come to think on it. Neither one of us needed your paper's name painted on the side of the car to realize what you are. Unfortunate all the way around." Happy motioned to Obie to finish quickly and head for the forward door. "See ya, fellas. 'Course it'd be better for everyone if I didn't."

For a full ten seconds after the robbers moved out of the car and disappeared into the next one, none of the
Chronicle
staffers said a word. Jim Peters pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his wide brow.

"God, for a moment there I thought they meant to kill us."

Dave pushed away from the table, his chair scraping the floor. He did not look particularly relieved by Jim's words. "I think I better go have a look in the caboose. There's no telling what they did before they got here."

His brother waved him off. "What about Drew and Mike?" Bill asked the others. "Do you think they'll be safe?"

Jim finished mopping his brow. "They were bluffing about being able to spot a reporter." He looked around the table for reassurance. "They had to be. Anyway, Drew can take care of himself, and who in their right mind would suspect Mike?"

"Who in their right mind holds up a train?" Bill asked dryly.

Paul Dodd reached for his sketchbook lying on the table behind him. Taking out a pencil, he began to draw. "Would you say the one with the shotgun was taller than the other or just about the same height?"

Bill grabbed Paul's pad. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Illustrating the story you're going to write."

"Not me," Bill said. "And not anyone else at this table, including you. You heard what he said. He'll track us down."

Paul laughed a little uneasily under his breath. "Yeah, but he said he wasn't very good at it."

Happy and Obie didn't stop moving forward until they had gone through the last private
Chronicle
car and assured themselves there were no reporters in hiding. "Nice accommodations they got for themselves," Happy observed as he and Obie stepped onto the small balcony outside the equipment and printing car. "Seems almost a shame to wreck it all."

"Sure we should?" Obie asked, pushing back the brim of his hat. "Houston might not like it. It was never part of the plan."

"That's because Houston didn't know about the
Chronicle.
These cars must have joined the train back in Cheyenne. If he had known..." Happy let his voice trail off and allowed Obie to draw his own conclusions. When he was certain they were of the same mind he pointed to the link-and-pin coupling and said, "Let's take care of this, shall we?"

Obie jumped off the balcony and onto the roadbed, moving between the cars carefully. The link-and-pin coupling which held the cars together proved to be a stubborn affair and Happy leaped down to assist. Working together they managed to pull the pin free.

"Nothing's happening," Obie observed.

"The grade's not real steep here," Happy said. "Give it a few minutes. These cars'll start rollin' back. You'll see. Right down the mountainside. First curve comes and—" He didn't have to finish. He made a diving motion with his hand to indicate what would happen to the accelerating cars when they reached the curve.

"Maybe gravity needs a boost," Obie said, grinning. He pulled himself back up on the balcony of the car and made certain the handbrake wheel was fully loosened. "Let's give it a push. C'mon. Throw your back into it."

In the dining car Bill Crookshank's legs shifted under him momentarily. He looked at the others. "Did you feel that?"

"What?" Jim asked.

There was another lurch and this time Bill stumbled a little. "That. What the hell's going on?"

"Seems like we're on the move again," Paul said. "Robbers must have left and they're firing up ol' No. 349."

Jim Peters turned his attention from his sketchbook to the windows. It was too dark to see clearly outside but it only took him a few moments to get the sense of car's movement. "We're rolling again all right," he said without emotion. "It's a hell of a thing though, we're rolling the wrong way."

After Happy and Obie watched the cars drift away, gathering momentum with each passing second, they hopped back on board the stationary train and entered the emigrant car. The stunned foreigners stared silently at the men as they moved quickly through the car.

"Smells worse'n cattle," Happy said when they left the second car. "Can't take nothin' from 'em cause they ain't got nothin'. And if they did have something worth takin', the smell of it would bring a posse down on us faster than you can say 'Miss Hearts eats tarts.'"

"Pay attention," Obie warned his partner as they opened the door to the second class car. "These fellows won't be so obligin'."

Obie's assumption was not entirely on the money. The cowboys, farmers, and miners were a subdued lot thanks to the sawed off shotgun Nathaniel Houston was holding on them. A single blast of buckshot from his weapon could cut a man in half. The passengers knew it and the pile of weapons at Houston's feet bore testimony to that fact.

Houston had his lean frame propped negligently in the forward doorway of the car, as if he were bored with the proceedings rather than impatient. Only his darting black eyes indicated his watchfulness. He pinned Happy and Obie with his hard glance when they entered the car. It was enough to let them know they had taken too long.

"Complications," Happy said, gathering up the collected weapons. He threw them out an open window on the cliffside of the car. When he was done he tipped his hat in a mocking salute to the passengers and bid them good evening.

Covering Happy and Obie's back, Houston didn't lower his weapon until they were out of the car. "What complications?" he asked in a low, sibilant voice. He handed Obie the shotgun and took up the younger man's carbine.

"Reporters. The
Chronicle's
had four cars attached to this train."

"Had?"

Happy nodded. "Obie and me took care of 'em."

Houston didn't say anything for a moment. He pulled his hat lower on his forehead, hiding the shock of blond hair that had fallen across his brow. "All right."

"All but one," Obie amended. "There's still one of 'em somewhere on the train. There was an empty chair at the poker table."

Just like every member of his gang, the lower half of Houston's face was covered with a kerchief. Still, the movement of his chin was evident as he jerked his head in the direction of the second-class car. "One of them?" he asked.

"Not likely," Obie said.

"First class, then," Houston said. "Let's go."

* * *

Drew Beaumont was amused. He hadn't meant to be. He thought that what he really wanted was to be back at the poker table with his fellow staffers. As things turned out, first class was proving to be vastly entertaining. Michael Dennehy was making a spectacle of herself and Drew always found that good for a laugh. In this case he thought he may be able to get thirty dollars out of it as well.

The fact that the train had stopped was a minor annoyance. Drew didn't give it another thought after he realized it meant a longer card game and therefore a better chance of recouping his losses. He had finally met up with Michael as she was leaving the emigrant car on her way to find the doctor in first class. When she mentioned her mission to Drew he saw his chance and bet her thirty dollars she couldn't get the good doctor to move from first class comfort to the malodorous emigrant car. It was not the sort of challenge Michael was likely to refuse.

Drew covered his mouth with his hand to hide his self-satisfied grin. Michael was finding the doctor to be unsympathetic. She had already plucked both pencils from her hair and had broken the tip of one while twisting it in her hand. Embarrassed by her badly concealed impatience, Michael had thrust the other pencil in the pocket of her duster. Drew could see her hand working spasmodically around it while she tried to reason with the doctor.

"It won't take more than a few minutes of your time," Michael said, trying a different approach. "I can't think that I've made myself clear as to how much Hannah Gruber needs your attention."

Thomas Gaines avoided looking Michael in the eye. He remained sitting with his newspaper opened in front of him. He shook the pages again, hoping to remind her that she was interrupting.

Michael was unfazed by the paper rattling. "Would a little Western hospitality go so against your grain?"

"I'm from Boston, young lady, and I won't be lectured by some snippety do-gooder half my age."

"One-third your age," Michael retorted. You old billy goat, she thought. Indeed, with his white Vandyke beard, shaggy haircut, and long, thin face, he looked like a billy goat. "I wouldn't presume to lecture you, Dr. Gaines, but does the name Hippocrates mean anything to you?" Out of the corner of her eye Michael saw Drew Beaumont nearly convulse with laughter at her sheer effrontery. She shot him a quelling glance.

"You are an impertinent young woman, quite rude actually, and I imagine a constant thorn in your husband's side."

Michael was about to reply sharply to the doctor's observation when the door at the rear of the car opened. Momentarily distracted by the interruption, all the passengers turned.

Houston's carbine preceded him into the car. He was followed by Happy and Obie carrying drawn weapons.

Behind his kerchief Houston smiled at the play of emotion on Michael's face. "Ma'am," he said softly, nodding in her direction. He touched his Stetson with his forefinger as a greeting to all the passengers. Before he could say anything though, Michael found her voice.

"This is unacceptable," she said, squaring off in the aisle. She stared hard at the intruder over the rims of her spectacles.

"How's that, Ma'am?" Houston asked. For the first time since stopping the train he allowed himself to enjoy the moment. There was always the unexpected to contend with when taking on a job like this. First it had been the
Chronicle
cars, now it was an outraged, priggish schoolmarm who didn't have the good sense to be quiet. He had been watching her through the rear door's window almost a full minute before he entered the car. She was obviously distressed by her conversation with the seated gentleman and it amused Houston to think that he had it in his power to put things right for her. "You were saying, Ma'am," he prompted.

Michael found herself held still by a pair of dark eyes shaded by thick lashes and the brim of a black Stetson. Lines radiated from the corner of each eye and grew slightly deeper as Michael returned the stare. She suspected the robber was laughing at her. Visibly straightening, pulling herself away from the black eyes locked on her, Michael managed to speak in clear tones. "I said this is unacceptable. You
are
intending to rob us, aren't you?"