Outlaw Train (7 page)

Oliver declared, “I don’t care what people say about me in this town—”

“You make that obvious by the way you behave,” Luke cut in.

“Half the stories people tell about me looking in windows and such aren’t true, Luke. Bloody lies.”

“Which means the other half
are
true,” replied Luke.

“Jiminy Christmas, Luke, window-peeping isn’t something I set out to do! I like to climb, that’s all. And sometimes when I climb I find myself able to see in windows, and some of the things I see grab me attention.”

“So you look.”

“Yes. Wouldn’t you? Tell me true, Luke. If you were up on the porch rail of Joe Keller’s house, and you looked over and realized you could see right between the curtains of his daughter Rachel’s room, and she was in there getting ready for her Saturday bath, wouldn’t
you
look?”

“That would catch the eye, no doubt. Anyone’s eye! But it would also remind me that I was where I wasn’t supposed to be, and that I’d be in a mess of trouble if I got caught. And then I hope I’d have the good sense to get down from that porch rail and back home where I belonged. And maybe find something better to do with my time than climb all over houses and fences and porches and such where I could get myself in trouble. Maybe even shot. Have you ever thought about something like that happening, Oliver?”

“No. People here know me. Nobody here would shoot me.”

“Listen to me, Oliver: not everybody may have the forgiving attitude toward you that you think they do. And there’s new people coming into Wiles all the time. People who don’t know you and who
might not take well to a local boy who talks like a foreigner peeping through their windows whenever he gets the notion.”

The boy frowned, blustered a little, then said, “All right, I admit it. I like to see women. I was looking through the transom just now because from up there I could see her chest right clear while she argued with Mr. Montague. She wears that dress cut bloody low in front.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

The boy nodded.

“Hey, could you tell what she and Mr. Montague were arguing about while you were spying on them?”

“Couldn’t hear well enough. But he had one of her flyers in his hand, looking at it and frowning, and then he shook his head and that’s when she raised her voice to him. Something about him being wrong about who she is, and how dare he say such a terrible thing? That’s when you started shaking the ladder and she got up and stormed out.”

The door opened. A weary-looking Campbell Montague, at last cough free, emerged. He glared briefly at Oliver, then forced a smile at Luke.

“You need to see me, Marshal Cable?”

“May I sit down with you in your office and us talk a minute or two?”

“I’m available to our local law enforcers anytime, Mr. Cable. Do come in.”

When Montague pulled a wooden box from a drawer and from it produced an expensive cigar that he trimmed and handed toward Luke, the lawman didn’t decline. Montague came around the desk with matches in hand and held out fire from which Luke lit up. Rich, tasty smoke filled his mouth deliciously. Montague lit up a cigar for himself.

“A beautiful thing, a good cigar,” said Montague, blowing a perfect smoke ring that floated up toward the transom window through which Oliver Wicks had been spying minutes before.

“Yes, sir,” replied Luke. “Speaking of beauty—” “Oh, yes,” Montague cut in. “I thought you might be coming to ask me about the young woman who visited here earlier.”

“In a way, yes. Though initially, sir, I didn’t come in specifically to talk to you. I was merely following the woman, and this is where she happened to go.”

“An eye for feminine beauty, you possess?” Montague asked with a grin. But beneath the grin was something different. He seemed preoccupied, maybe worried.

“It’s not beauty I’m following, though she’s got aplenty of it,” replied Luke. “It’s a little different
than that. Ever since Katrina Haus showed up in this town, I’ve had suspicion regarding her.”

“What might that suspicion be, Marshal?”

Luke opened his mouth to answer, but a scuffling noise from high outside the door caused him to look back toward the transom window, still tilted open. Through it he saw Oliver Wicks, back up on his perch again, spying as before. Luke would not answer Montague’s question with the boy within earshot, not unless he wanted Oliver spreading what he said all over town. He glared up through the glass at young Wicks and held silent.

Montague, noticing, assessed the situation, rose, and with a long rod made for the purpose, pushed the transom window closed. He grinned through the glass at Oliver as he did so.

“There, Marshal,” Montague said. “If we speak softly we should be immune to eavesdropping.” Montague sat again, and sighed. “I must confess I like that boy, nosey and troublesome as he may be. I’m delighted by that British way of speaking that he inherited from his father. And his mode of moving about this town intrigues me. I’ve seen him go from roof to roof with the agility of a leaping deer. The heights belong to young Oliver.”

“Yes, sir. And in his own mind, so does the notion that he can look through any window he might happen to reach and intrude himself into any private situation he wishes simply because he is able to do so. I know he’s peeped at women sometimes. I’m weary of giving the boy warnings. Before long I’ll have to take more drastic actions. But I don’t wish to, because I like the boy, as you do.”

“I see your predicament, Marshal. Now to the matter at hand. You were following the beautiful Prophetess Haus because you hold some suspicion regarding her.”

“I am confident that the woman is a soiled dove, sir, a fallen frail.” Luke glanced again toward the transom window; Oliver had vanished now that he could not hear their conversation any longer.

“I am not surprised to hear that, Marshal, given the woman’s way of, well, displaying herself. A merchant knows that what is conspicuously displayed is usually for sale. But she has other tricks up her sleeve, too. She came to me asking permission to hang a flyer on my public board up front, advertising what can only be a sham: a spiritualist exercise in which she claims to be able to speak to the dead loved ones of those who will pay to attend.”

“You don’t believe in such things, I take it.”

“Highly skeptical, to say the least, highly skeptical.” He paused and looked serious, then cleared his throat and set off another coughing spell, though not as severe as before. Luke watched him with concern as he struggled to recover.

“Your cough worries me, sir. Have you had it investigated by a physician?”

“Too many cigars, that’s all.” He pushed one of the Haus flyers toward Luke. “Have you seen these?” Montague asked.

“I have.”

“She has been hanging these about town. Though she asked permission, I did not allow her to place this within this establishment. And not merely because I disbelieve in spiritualism.”

“I might know what you are thinking, Mr. Montague. Perhaps some suspicions beyond what we’ve already discussed?”

There was a long pause. Then Montague said, “Labette. The past trouble over in Labette County?”

Luke nodded. “Do you think it really could be?”

“Several similarities are there. A pretty woman, accented voice, claims of being able to talk to spirits. Marshal Cable, can I trust you?”

“Of course you can.”

“I will tell you something, then, that I would prefer to keep secret from the town at large.”

“Now you’ve got me bewildered. But I try to keep secrets when asked, unless keeping the secret goes against my duty to enforce the law.”

Montague weighed that a moment. “Good enough, then.” He sat down on his desk chair again and leaned forward on his elbows. “Marshal, are you aware that I have a brother?”

“I know Macky is your nephew, and shares your surname, so I presume his father is, or was, your brother. But I have been told somewhere along the way that Macky’s parents are dead. Perhaps I was misinformed. Is Macky’s father the brother you are talking about?”

“No, no. Macky’s father was my brother Theo, dead now since Macky was too young for him to remember him. And Macky’s mother died giving him birth. No, the brother I am talking about is still living. His name is Simon, and he is my senior by three years. We have not advertised his existence in the last several years, at his own instruction. He stays to himself and does not seek the
company of others. Though sometimes I think he gets lonely.”

Luke made a leap. “Mr. Montague, is Simon living in the attic area above the emporium?”

Montague gaped. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. But it’s been mentioned in town that a face has been seen looking out the window onto Emporium Street. I heard it said that the face resembles your own, but bearded. And when I questioned Macky about it a few minutes ago, he got worried about me asking. I take it he’s had it hammered into him that he isn’t to talk about the attic of the emporium. And he didn’t talk about it. Just storage space up there, he told me.”

Montague nodded. “Macky is saying what he’s been told to say. There is a reason for secrecy.”

“So I would assume.” Luke waited for more explanation.

Montague puffed his cigar and coughed again. “Simon will never be a part of regular society again. He is…damaged, you see. Not like Macky is damaged, from birth, but from a terrible injury that was done to him a few years ago…some of that very ‘trouble over in Labette County’ you mentioned.”

Luke pondered it and put it all together. “Wait…are you saying he was one of those injured in that inn?”

“He was. He was lucky to survive, even luckier to escape afterward. His head was crushed, you see, his brain damaged. Another traveler in the place got him out of there and found a physician. Simon survived, but at a cost. Since that time he has been unable to bear anything but the most limited human
company. Strangers or difficult situations can cause him to fall into a deep and ruinous panic.”

“That’s a sad story, sir. I regret his misfortune.”

“You would regret all the more if had you known him prior to his injury. He was a remarkable, intelligent, articulate man. It was Simon, far more than me, who brought the Montague family into the railroad industry. Simon, whose wisdom and skill led us to our success. I was simply privileged to follow the trail he blazed and to reap the benefit of his work, and to try to fill his shoes when he became unable to continue. You must know, Marshal, that as far as the world is concerned, Simon Montague is dead. Dead of massive apoplexy for these many years now. We managed to get the story into the newspapers. There is even an empty grave in Missouri with his name on the stone.”

“But he is not actually dead, just hidden away in the attic of this building.”

Montague nodded. “Precisely. And he is determined to remain so.”

“He bears a resemblance to you, Simon does? But wears whiskers?”

“Indeed. Obviously it was Simon’s face that has been seen at the window. I must urge him to be more cautious, and perhaps install a darker glass to better hide him when he looks out onto the world he can no longer be a part of.” Montague frowned. “How much can he be asked to bear? After all that’s been taken from him, is he to be expected not even to freely enjoy his one link with the world outside: his small window?”

“Oliver Wicks said his father, Philip, has done
some recent carpentry work for you upstairs. Does Philip know about Simon?”

“No. I hired Mr. Wicks to make improvements to Simon’s quarters. But he never knew of Simon. I told Wicks I had a guest coming to stay temporarily in the part of the building he was working on, and that I wanted a livable space upstairs to accommodate him, and also in case I should ever hire a resident manager for the store. In the meantime I had already sneaked Simon out and lodged him in a hotel in Hutchinson, and hidden evidence of his prior occupation of the space upstairs. I joined Simon by the end of his first day in Hutchinson, leaving Mr. Wicks to complete the work I’d asked him to do. He did not fail my trust. He did a fine job of improving the living space. When Simon returned he was delighted with it. But Simon’s stay in Hutchinson had stirred some restlessness in him. I suspect it was after that that he began looking out his window with less caution than would have been prudent.”

“Why are you telling me this? I’ve not known before that anyone was living upstairs. Is there a particular reason I need to know now?”

“I’m rather embarrassed to tell you.”

“Embarrassed?”

“Marshal, Macky had a dream. He saw the town devastated, buildings destroyed, the emporium in ruins. And apparently, in this dream, he found Simon’s corpse in the rubble.”

“So you believe this dream was some kind of prophecy?”

Montague shook his head and relit his cigar,
which had gone out from inattention. “No. I’m not a superstitious man. But Macky’s dream made me realize that for the sake of Simon’s safety, in case this place should catch fire or be damaged in a storm, it is important that someone besides me and Macky should know about him. Someone trustworthy and with a degree of authority and credibility. When you showed up today, I knew the time was right for me to share the secret in a limited way.”

“Why limited? Perhaps that secret should be revealed at large. It would save a lot of confusion caused by people seeing a face peering out of a window in what is supposed to be an empty attic.”

“Simon would never give his consent for a general revelation of his existence. And it would rouse some concern on my part, too: the people who hurt Simon in that inn in Labette County are still alive and on the loose.” Montague’s face went hard and he held silence for five seconds. “One of those people, I believe, may even now be in this very…never mind. I should not make speculative accusations.”

“If it makes any difference to you, sir, if you’re implying what I think you are, I’ve had the same suspicion. But I’m reluctant to broach the matter openly for fear of generating hostility and even violence that may be misplaced. That kind of thing has already happened in other places, travelers and strangers being wrongly suspected of being part of that family of fugitive murderers.”

Montague nodded and puffed out another smoke ring. With the closed transom window reducing the air circulation in the room, the ring merely hung in
the air over Montague’s desk, slowly dissolving into empty atmosphere.

“Ah well,” Montague said, rolling his shoulders. “Ah well.”

A man with a large scar down the right side of his stubbled face sat astride his big black horse with the ease of one accustomed to long riding. His shoulders had an easy slump and his belly the slight bulge of middle age, but nothing about him suggested softness. His shoulders were sufficiently broad to appropriately platform the boulder of a head that filled his wide-brimmed hat. His shoulders looked like smokehouse hams inflating the sleeves of a very faded blue shirt.

The man shifted in his saddle and was glad to know that he was now within two miles of the town of Wiles. He knew nothing about the town except its location and reputation as a generally mild kind of place. No wild cow town, this one. He would have preferred it otherwise, but when a man was trying to find someone, he had to go where that someone could be found.

If Wiles didn’t offer much by way of excitement, at the very least it would have a hotel and a bed. And surely a saloon or two where a man could have a drink and enjoy some solitude.

It didn’t much matter, anyway. He didn’t anticipate being in this town for long.

As he grew nearer the town, he began to notice the occasional house, some far away, others nearer the road. He passed one house whose yard fronted directly against the roadside, marked off by a picket
fence painted milky white. As he rode by, an aging woman stepped out of the front door onto the porch. He smiled and tipped his hat in her direction and she smiled back in motherly fashion. “Beautiful evening, sir,” she called.

“Indeed, ma’am.” On impulse, he pulled his horse to a stop. “Ma’am, if I might ask, am I on the right road to reach Wiles?” He asked merely to generate conversation. He already knew the answer.

“Yes, sir,” she told him, and he had a strong impression she was staring at his scar. “You’ll be there in a very short time.”

He touched his hat again and nudged his horse back into motion. He’d hoped for a supper invitation—he could smell chicken frying from inside the house, and the woman had on a kitchen apron—but no such invitation came.

He was in view of the eastern side of Wiles when he saw a flyer on the side of a telegraph pole. He rode over and scanned it, then tore it from the pole, read it more closely in the last dusky light of the day, and muttered, “I’ll be damned! This may prove easier than I thought!”

He folded the flyer and put it into the inside pocket of his vest, then rode on.