I fan dirt from my eyes.
The dark outline of the train engine sits a few yards ahead, air rippling ’round it. It’s a giant of a locomotive, a towering black behemoth that came to a stop just yards from our busted bit of rail.
A figure leans out from between cars, flapping a pale kerchief so he can see if the herd’s cleared out.
Boss draws his pistol.
The poor bastard don’t even have a chance to yell out a warning. The moment his eyes find us, going wide and fearful, Boss pulls his trigger. The man’s head snaps back, and he topples from the train, landing beside the track.
“Let’s move!” Boss orders.
We draw our pistols, tip our hats low so all you can see easy between the brims and bandannas is our eyes. And then we’re storming the train.
Chapter Two
* * *
Charlotte
It is not my first ride in the elegant passenger car of a Southern Pacific locomotive, but when the engine comes to an unexpected stop and a pistol is discharged outside, I’m certain it will be my last. Lord knows trains do not make unannounced stops between depots for any good reason.
“Sir,” I say, nudging the sleeping lawman beside me.
He does not budge.
Since leaving Yuma, the engine’s been pulling us northeast, following the Gila River as she chugs toward Tucson. It’s provided a beautiful view of the southern plains, and had I known that the lawman intended to sleep the entire trip, I’d have requested the seat by the window. There’s little view now that the glass is caked with dust, but if I peer with determination, I can see a barren hillside and a wisp of the river in the distance.
This is what I get for chasing a story.
“Your father sank a small fortune into the Prescott rail project, Charlotte,” Mother said to me before she left for the capital yesterday. “He’d want me to see the final spike driven, maybe even say a few words on his behalf. Sit tight, and I’ll be home in but a few days’ time.”
Uncle Gerald’s been running the family mine since we moved to Yuma a decade ago. Always in the habit of stealing the accomplishments of others, he’ll surely “say words” on Father’s behalf. But it won’t end there. Father has been in the ground only a single week, and Mother has already confided in me her fears that Uncle Gerald might try to demand her hand in marriage in order to gain ownership of the mine. He’ll argue that this is his way of supporting us, that the business will need a respected man at its helm, but we both know he just wants the money.
Mother’s gone to Prescott to have a firm discussion with him about the will and what to expect—a lovely way to spend the holiday season.
And I’ve gone after a story, for while Mother doesn’t think Uncle Gerald would stoop so low as to hold me over her head, I worry otherwise. Don’t you want to be able to provide for Charlotte? he’ll croon. Wouldn’t it be a pity if something happened to her? But if I get my big break—a story with my name attached to it, a career reporting for a paper—I’ll be able to take care of myself. I refuse to be a burden or a bargaining chip.
But now, sitting near the back of the train’s first-class car, I fear I’m about to pay for my stubborn determination.
To my rear is a locked car carrying valuables, and farther back are the rest of the passengers, where I can hear muffled demands shouted.
Way up front, our car door bangs open, and I lurch for the suitcase at my feet, feeling blindly until my fingers graze the barrel of Father’s most prized pistol. I’d taken it with me for protection, never thinking I’d truly need it. I snatch it up and press it to my ribs, hiding the weapon beneath my jacket.
“Hands where we can see ’em!” a man shouts as he climbs into view. A sweat-stained bandanna is drawn over his nose, and his hat is angled low across his brow. “Hands up, and no one gets shot.”
Throughout the car, passengers slowly reach for the ceiling, but I can’t bear to let go of Father’s pistol. I hunker down in the seat, breathing heavily, considering that if I appear small and frightened, the robber might not think twice about my hands being deep inside my jacket.
Another man steps into view—slighter than the first, but just as tall, and just as hidden behind his attire. He ducks past the first man and moves up the aisle.
“Murphy!” his companion calls, and tosses him a burlap sack.
The man named Murphy catches it. “Valuables,” he says, angling toward the nearest seat.
“Watches and purses!” the other adds from up front. “And yer jewelry.”
I nudge the lawman with my leg. Nothing. He’s still slumped against the window, a dark handkerchief clutched in his lap. He’d been coughing quite a bit when we boarded the locomotive in Yuma. Could be he’s like Father, fighting a losing battle with tuberculosis.
“That band on yer finger,” the stockier robber says from up front.
“But it’s my wedding ring,” comes a retort.
“Do you wanna die today?”
The woman breaks down, gasping and sobbing, but the man refrains from loosening bullets. How the lawman can sleep through this, even with his condition, is beyond comprehension.
The man called Murphy moves on to my row. I blink at the burlap sack dangling in my peripheral vision, squeeze the grip of the pistol beneath my jacket.
“Yer valuables,” he grunts at me. He’s wearing filthy trousers and a pale blue work shirt stained with a ring of sweat around the collar. The bandanna over his mouth matches his shirt, but it’s his hat that compels me to pause. A deep, rich felt material, broad-brimmed but high, with an intricately braided strip of leather encircling the crown. It’s too showy for a man of crime, too proud. Surely stolen. But I make note of it all, committing the details to memory. A description of these men is the first thing we’ll be asked for when we chug into town, robbed dry.
“I don’t have anything worth giving, mister,” I say, avoiding eye contact. I can feel him staring, though, and when I venture a look, his eyes are working a line over my entire person. The small suitcase at my feet, the visible portion of my black mourning dress, the fine winter jacket draped across my shoulders, my chin, nose . . .
“Yer earrings,” he says.
The small pearl studs were a gift from Father when I turned sixteen last month, and I refuse to give a piece of him to some no-good train robber who makes a living taking what others have rightly earned.
“The earrings,” he says again. “Put ’em in the bag, and no harm done.”
Like hell.
Suddenly I’m mad at the world. Father, for leaving me and Mama. The Law, for not being able to rein in these bands of robbers that continually plague the good folk riding the rails. The devil, for creating men as desperate and dark as the one standing before me.