Sleuths

The Desert Limited

Across the aisle and five seats ahead of where Quincannon and Sabina were sitting, Evan Gaunt sat looking out through the day coach’s dusty window. There was little enough to see outside the fast-moving Desert Limited except sun-blasted wasteland, but Gaunt seemed to find the emptiness absorbing. He also seemed perfectly comfortable, his expression one of tolerable boredom: a prosperous businessman, for all outward appearances, without a care or worry, much less a past history that included grand larceny, murder, and fugitive warrants in three western states.

“Hell and damn,” Quincannon muttered. “He’s been lounging there nice as you please for nearly forty minutes. What the devil is he planning?”

Sabina said, “He may not be planning anything, John.”

“Faugh. He’s trapped on this iron horse and he knows it.”

“He does if he recognized you, too. You’re positive he did?”

“I am, and no mistake. He caught me by surprise while I was talking to the conductor; I couldn’t turn away in time.”

“Still, you said it was eight years ago that you had your only run-in with him. And at that, you saw each other for less than two hours.”

“He’s changed little enough and so have I. A hard case like Gaunt never forgets a lawman’s face, any more than I do a felon’s. It’s one of the reasons he’s managed to evade capture as long as he has.”

“Well, what can he be planning?” Sabina said. She was leaning close, her mouth only a few inches from Quincannon’s ear, so their voices wouldn’t carry to nearby passengers. Ordinarily the nearness of her fine body and the warmth of her breath on his skin would have been a powerful distraction; such intimacy was all too seldom permitted. But the combination of desert heat, the noisy coach, and Evan Gaunt made him only peripherally aware of her charms. “There are no stops between Needles and Barstow; Gaunt must know that. And if he tries to jump for it while we’re traveling at this speed, his chances of survival are slim to none. The only sensible thing he can do is to wait until we slow for Barstow and then jump and run.”

“Is it? He can’t hope to escape that way. Barstow is too small and the surroundings too open. He saw me talking to Mr. Bridges; it’s likely he also saw the Needles station agent running for his office. If so, it’s plain to him that a wire has been sent to Barstow and the sheriff and a complement of deputies will be waiting. I was afraid he’d hopped back off then and there, those few minutes I lost track of him shortly afterward, but it would’ve been a foolish move and he isn’t the sort to panic. Even if he’d gotten clear of the train and the Needles yards, there are too many soldiers and Indian trackers at Fort Mojave.”

“I don’t see that Barstow is a much better choice for him. Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“Is he the kind to take a hostage?”

Quincannon shifted position on his seat. Even though this was October, usually one of the cooler months in the Mojave Desert, it was near-stifling in the coach; sweat oiled his skin, trickled through the brush of his freebooter’s beard. It was crowded, too, with nearly every seat occupied in this car and the other coaches. He noted again, as he had earlier, that at least a third of the passengers here were women and children.

He said slowly, “I wouldn’t put anything past Evan Gaunt. He might take a hostage, if he believed it was his only hope of freedom. But it’s more likely that he’ll try some sort of trick first. Tricks are the man’s stock-in-trade.”

“Does Mr. Bridges know how potentially dangerous he is?”

“There wasn’t time to discuss Gaunt or his past in detail. If I’d had my way, the train would’ve been held in Needles and Gaunt arrested there. Bridges might’ve agreed to that if the Needles sheriff hadn’t been away in Yuma and only a part-time deputy left in charge. When the station agent told him the deputy is an unreliable drunkard, and that it would take more than an hour to summon soldiers from the fort, Bridges balked. He’s more concerned about railroad timetables than he is about the capture of a fugitive.”

Sabina said, “Here he comes again. Mr. Bridges. From the look of him, I’d say he’s very much concerned about Gaunt.”

“It’s his own blasted fault.”

The conductor was a spare, sallow-faced man in his forties who wore his uniform and cap as if they were badges of honor. The brass buttons shone, as did the heavy gold watch chain and its polished elk’s-tooth fob; his tie was tightly knotted and his vest buttoned in spite of the heat. He glanced nervously at Evan Gaunt as he passed, and then mournfully and a little accusingly at Quincannon, as if he and not Gaunt was to blame for this dilemma. Bridges was not a man who dealt well with either a crisis or a disruption of his precise routine.

When he’d left the car again, Sabina said, “You and I could arrest Gaunt ourselves, John. Catch him by surprise, get the drop on him...”

“He won’t be caught by surprise — not now that he knows we’re onto him. You can be sure he has a weapon close to hand and won’t hesitate to use it. Bracing him in these surroundings would be risking harm to an innocent bystander.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?”

“Nothing, for the present, except to keep a sharp eye on him. And be ready to act when he does.”

Quincannon dried his forehead and beard with his handkerchief, wishing this was one of Southern Pacific’s luxury trains — the Golden State Limited, for instance, on the San Francisco-Chicago run. The Golden State was ventilated by a new process that renewed the air inside several times every hour, instead of having it circulated only slightly and cooled not at all by sluggish fans. It was also brightly lighted by electricity generated from the axles of moving cars, instead of murkily lit by oil lamps; and its seats and berths were more comfortable, its food better by half than the fare served on this southwestern desert run.

He said rhetorically, “Where did Gaunt disappear to after he spied me with Bridges? He gave me the slip on purpose, I’m sure of it. Whatever he’s scheming, that’s part of the game.”

“It was no more than fifteen minutes before he showed up here and took his seat.”

“Fifteen minutes is plenty of time for mischief. He has more gall than a roomful of senators.” Quincannon consulted his turnip watch; it was nearly two o’clock. “Four, is it, that we’re due in Barstow?”

“Four oh five.”

“More than two hours. Damnation!”

“Try not to fret, John. Remember your blood pressure.”

Another ten minutes crept away. Sabina sat quietly, repairing one of the grosgrain ribbons that had come undone on her traveling hat. Quincannon fidgeted, not remembering his blood pressure, barely noticing the way light caught Sabina’s dark auburn hair and made it shine like burnished copper. And still Evan Gaunt peered out at the unchanging panorama of sagebrush, greasewood, and barren, tawny hills.

No sweat or sign of worry on his face, Quincannon thought with rising irritation. A bland and unmemorable countenance it was, too, to the point where Gaunt would all but become invisible in a crowd of more noteworthy men. He was thirty-five, of average height, lean and wiry; and although he had grown a thin mustache and sideburns since their previous encounter, the facial hair did little to individualize him. His lightweight sack suit and derby hat were likewise undistinguished. A human chameleon, by God that was another reason Gaunt had avoided the law for so long.

There was no telling what had brought him to Needles, a settlement on the Colorado River, or where he was headed from there. Evan Gaunt seldom remained in one place for any length of time — he was a predator constantly on the prowl for any illegal enterprise that required his particular brand of guile. Extortion, confidence swindles, counterfeiting, bank robbery — Gaunt had done them all and more, and served not a day in prison for his transgressions. The closest he’d come was that day eight years ago when Quincannon, still affiliated with the U.S. Secret Service, had led a raid on the headquarters of a Los Angeles-based counterfeiting ring. Gaunt was one of the koniakers taken prisoner after a brief skirmish and personally questioned by Quincannon. Later, while being taken to jail by local authorities, Gaunt had wounded a deputy and made a daring escape in a stolen milk wagon — an act that had fixed the man firmly in Quincannon’s memory.

When he’d spied Gaunt on the station platform in Needles, it had been a much-needed uplift to his spirits: he’d been feeling less than pleased with his current lot. He and Sabina had spent a week in Tombstone investigating a bogus mining operation, and the case hadn’t turned out as well as they’d hoped. And after more than twenty-four hours on the Desert Limited, they were still two long days from San Francisco. Even in the company of a beautiful woman, train travel was monotonous — unless, of course, you were sequestered with her in the privacy of a drawing room. But there were no drawing rooms to be had on the Desert Limited, and even if there were, he couldn’t have had Sabina in one Not on a train, not in their Tombstone hotel, not in San Francisco — not anywhere, it seemed, past, present, or future. Unrequited desire was a maddening thing, especially when you were in such close proximity to the object of your desire. His passion for his partner was exceeded only by his passion for profitable detective work; Carpenter and Quincannon, Lovers, as an adjunct to Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, would have made him a truly happy man.

Evan Gaunt had taken his mind off that subject by offering a prize almost as inviting. Not only were there fugitive warrants on Gaunt, but two rewards totaling five thousand dollars. See to it that he was taken into custody and the reward money would belong to Carpenter and Quincannon. Simple enough task, on the surface; most of the proper things had been done in Needles and it seemed that Gaunt was indeed trapped on this clattering, swaying iron horse. And yet the man’s audacity, combined with those blasted fifteen minutes—

Quincannon tensed. Gaunt had turned away from the window, was getting slowly to his feet. He yawned, stretched, and then stepped into the aisle; in his right hand was the carpetbag he’d carried on board in Needles. Without hurry, and without so much as an eye flick in their direction, he sauntered past where Quincannon and Sabina were sitting and opened the rear door.

Close to Sabina’s ear Quincannon murmured, “I’ll shadow him. You wait here.” He adjusted the Navy Colt he wore holstered under his coat before he slipped out into the aisle.

The next car back was the second-class Pullman. Gaunt went through it, through the first-class Pullman, through the dining car and the observation lounge, into the smoker. Quincannon paused outside the smoker door; through the glass he watched Gaunt sit down, produce a cigar from his coat pocket, and snip off the end with a pair of gold cutters. Settling in here, evidently as he’d settled into the day coach. Damn the man’s coolness! He entered as Gaunt was applying a Lucifer’s flame to the cigar end. Both pretended the other didn’t exist.

In a seat halfway back Quincannon fiddled with pipe and shag-cut tobacco, listening to the steady, throbbing rhythm of steel on steel, while Gaunt smoked his cigar with obvious pleasure. The process took more than ten minutes, at the end of which time the fugitive got leisurely to this feet and started forward again. A return to his seat in the coach? No, not yet. Instead he entered the gentlemen’s lavatory and closed himself inside.

Quincannon stayed where he was, waiting, his eye on the lavatory door. His pipe went out; he relighted it. Two more men — a rough-garbed miner and a gaudily outfitted drummer — came into the smoker. Couplings banged and the car lurched slightly as its wheels passed over a rough section of track. Outside the windows a lake shimmered into view on the southern desert flats, then abruptly vanished: heat mirage.

The door to the lavatory remained closed.

A prickly sensation that had nothing to do with the heat formed between Quincannon’s shoulder blades. How long had Gaunt been in there? Close to ten minutes. He tamped the dottle from his pipe, stowed the briar in the pocket of his cheviot. The flashily dressed drummer left the car; a fat man with muttonchop whiskers like miniature tumbleweeds came in. The fat man paused, glancing around, then turned to the lavatory door and tried the latch. When he found it locked he rapped on the panel. There was no response.

Quincannon was on his feet by then, with the prickly sensation as hot as a fire-rash. He prodded the fat man aside, ignoring the indignant oath this brought him, and laid an ear against the panel. All he could hear were train sounds: the pound of beating trucks on the fishplates, the creak and groan of axle play, and the whisper of the wheels. He banged on the panel with his fist, much harder than the fat man had. Once, twice, three times. This likewise produced no response.

“Hell and damn!” he growled aloud, startling the fat man, who turned quick for the door and almost collided with another just stepping through. The newcomer, fortuitously enough, was Mr. Bridges.

When the conductor saw Quincannon’s scowl, his back stiffened and alarm pinched his sallow features. “What is it?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”

“Even Gaunt went in here some minutes ago and he hasn’t come out.”

“You don’t think he—?”

“Use your master key and we’ll soon find out.”

Bridges unlocked the door. Quincannon pushed in first, his hand on the butt of his Navy Colt — and immediately blistered the air with a five-jointed oath.

The cubicle was empty.

“Gone, by all the saints!” Bridges said behind him. “The damned fool went through the window and jumped.”

The lone window was small, designed for ventilation, but not too small for a man Gaunt’s size to wiggle through. It was shut but not latched; Quincannon hoisted the sash, poked his head out. Hot, dust-laden wind made him pull it back in after a few seconds.

“Gone, yes,” he said, “but I’ll eat my hat if he jumped at the rate of speed we’ve been traveling.”

“But... but he must have. The only other place he could’ve gone—”

“Up atop the car. That’s where he did go.”

Bridges didn’t want to believe it. His thinking was plain: If Gaunt had jumped, he was rid of the threat to his and his passengers’ security. He said, “A climb like that is just as dangerous as jumping.”

“Not for a nimble and desperate man.”

“He couldn’t hide up there. Nor on top of any of the other cars. Do you think he crawled along the roofs and then climbed back down between cars?”

“It’s the likeliest explanation.”

“Why would he do such a thing? There’s nowhere for him to hide inside, either. The only possible places are too easily searched. He must know that, if he’s ridden a train before.”

“We’ll search them anyway,” Quincannon said darkly. “Every nook and cranny from locomotive to caboose, if necessary. Evan Gaunt is still on the Desert Limited, Mr. Bridges, and we’re damned well going to find him.”

The first place they went was out onto the platform between the lounge car and the smoker, where Quincannon climbed the iron ladder attached to the smoker’s rear wall. From its top he could look along the roofs of the cars, protecting his eyes with an upraised arm: the coal-flavored smoke that rolled back from the locomotive’s stack was peppered with hot cinders. As expected, he saw no sign of Gaunt. Except, that was, for marks in the thin layers of grit that coated the tops of both lounge car and smoker.

“There’s no doubt now that he climbed up,” he said when he rejoined Bridges. “The marks on the grit are fresh.”

The conductor’s answering nod was reluctant and pained.

Quincannon used his handkerchief on his sweating face. It came away stained from the dirt and coal smoke, and when he saw the streaks, his mouth stretched in a thin smile. “Another fact: No matter how long Gaunt was above or how far he crawled, he had to be filthy when he came down. Someone may have seen him. And he won’t have wandered far in that condition. Either he’s hiding where he lighted, or he took the time to wash up and change clothes for some reason.”

“I still say it makes no sense. Not a lick of sense.”

“It does to him. And it will to us when we find him.”

They went to the rear of the train and began to work their way forward, Bridges alerting members of the crew and Quincannon asking questions of selected passengers. No one had seen Gaunt. By the time they reached the first-class Pullman, the urgency and frustration both men felt were taking a toll: preoccupied, Quincannon nearly bowled over a pudgy, bonneted matron outside the women’s lavatory and Bridges snapped at a white-maned, senatorial gent who objected to having his drawing room searched. It took them ten minutes to comb the compartments there and the berths in the second-class Pullman: another exercise in futility.

In the first of the day coaches, Quincannon beckoned Sabina to join them and quickly explained what had happened. She took the news stoically; unlike him, she met any crisis with a shield of calm. She said only, “He may be full of tricks, but he can’t make himself invisible. Hiding is one thing; getting off this train is another. We’ll find him.”

“He won’t be in the other two coaches. That leaves the baggage car, the tender, and the locomotive; he has to be in one of them.”

“Shall I go with you and Mr. Bridges?”

“I’ve another idea. Do you have your derringer with you or packed away in your grip?”

“In here.” She patted her reticule.

“Backtrack on us, then; we may have somehow overlooked him. But don’t take a moment’s chance if he turns up.”

“I won’t,” she said. “And I’ll warn you the same.”

The baggage master’s office was empty. Beyond, the door to the baggage car stood open a few inches.

Scowling, Bridges stepped up to the door. “Dan?” he called. “You in there?”

No answer.

Quincannon drew his revolver, shouldered Bridges aside, and widened the opening. The oil lamps were lighted; most of the interior was visible. Boxes, crates, stacks of luggage, and express parcels — but no sign of human habitation.

“What do you see, Mr. Quincannon?”

“Nothing. No one.”

“Oh, Lordy, I don’t like this, none of this. Where’s Dan? He’s almost always here, and he never leaves the door open or unlocked when he isn’t. Gaunt? Is he responsible for this? Oh, Lordy, I should’ve listened to you and held the train in Needles.”

Quincannon shut his ears to the conductor’s babbling. He eased his body through the doorway, into an immediate crouch behind a packing crate. Peering out, he saw no evidence of disturbance. Three large crates and a pair of trunks were belted into place along the near wall. Against the far wall stood a wheeled luggage cart piled with carpetbags, grips, and war bags. More luggage rested in neat rows nearby; he recognized one of the larger grips, pale blue and floral-patterned, as Sabina’s. None of it appeared to have been moved except by the natural motion of the train.

Toward the front was a shadowed area into which he couldn’t see clearly. He straightened, eased around and alongside the crate with his Navy at the ready. No sounds, no movement.. until a brief lurch and shudder as the locomotive nosed into an uphill curve and the engineer used his air. Then something slid into view in the shadowy corner.

A leg. A man’s leg, bent and twisted.

Quincannon muttered an oath and closed the gap by another half dozen paces. He could see the rest of the man’s body then — a sixtyish gent in a trainman’s uniform, lying crumpled, his cap off and a dark blotch staining his gray hair. Quincannon went to one knee beside him, found a thin wrist, and pressed it for a pulse. The beat was there, faint and irregular.

“Mr. Bridges! Be quick!”

The conductor came running inside. When he saw the unconscious crewman he jerked to a halt; a moaning sound vibrated in his throat. “My God, Old Dan! Is he—?”

“No. Wounded but still alive.”

“Shot?”

“Struck with something heavy. A gun butt, like as not.”

“Gaunt, damn his eyes.”

“He was after something in here. Take a quick look around, Mr. Bridges. Tell me if you notice anything missing or out of place.” -

“What about Dan? One of the drawing-room passengers is a doctor.”

“Fetch him. But look here first.”

Bridges took a quick turn through the car. “Nothing missing or misplaced, as far as I can tell. Dan’s the only one who’ll know for sure.”

“Are you carrying weapons of any kind? Boxed rifles, handguns? Or dynamite or black powder?”

“No, no, nothing like that”

When Bridges had gone for the doctor Quincannon pillowed the baggage master’s head on one of the smaller bags. He touched a ribbon of blood on the man’s cheek, found it nearly dry. The assault hadn’t taken place within the past hour, after Gaunt’s disappearance from the lavatory. It had happened earlier, during his fifteen-minute absence outside Needles — the very first thing he’d done, evidently, after recognizing Quincannon.

That made the breaching of the baggage car a major part of his escape plan. But what could the purpose be, if nothing here was missing or disturbed?

The doctor was young, brusque, and efficient. Quincannon and Bridges left Old Dan in his care and hurried forward. Gaunt wasn’t hiding in the tender; and neither the taciturn engineer nor the sweat-soaked fireman had been bothered by anyone or seen anyone since Needles.

That took care of the entire train, front to back. And where the bloody hell was Evan Gaunt?

Quincannon was beside himself as he led the way back down-train. As he and Bridges passed through the forward day coach, the locomotive’s whistle sounded a series of short toots.

“Oh, Lordy,” the conductor said. “That’s the first signal for Barstow.”

“How long before we slow for the yards?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Hell and damn!”

They found Sabina waiting at the rear of the second coach. She shook her head as they approached: her backtracking had also proven fruitless.

The three of them held a huddled conference. Quincannon’s latest piece of bad news put ridges in the smoothness of Sabina’s forehead, her only outward reaction. “You’re certain nothing was taken from the baggage car, Mr. Bridges?”

“Not absolutely, no. Every item in the car would have to be examined and then checked against the baggage manifest.”

“If Gaunt did steal something,” Quincannon said, “he was some careful not to call attention to the fact, in case the baggage master regained consciousness or was found before he could make good his escape.”

“Which could mean,” Sabina said, “that whatever it was would’ve been apparent to us at a cursory search.”

“Either that, or where it was taken from would’ve been apparent.”

Something seemed to be nibbling at her mind; her expression had turned speculative. “I wonder...”

“What do you wonder?”

The locomotive’s whistle sounded again. There was a rocking and the loud thump of couplings as the engineer began the first slackening of their speed. Bridges said, “Five minutes to Barstow. If Gaunt is still on board—”

“He is.”

“— do you think he’ll try to get off here?”

“No doubt of it. Wherever he’s hiding, he can’t hope to avoid being found in a concentrated search. And he knows we’ll mount one in Barstow, with the entire train crew and the authorities.”

“What do you advise we do?”

“First, tell your porters not to allow anyone off at the station until you give the signal. And when passengers do disembark, they’re to do so single file at one exit only. That will prevent Gaunt from slipping off in a crowd.”

“The exit between this car and the next behind?”

“Good. Meet me there when you’re done.”

Bridges hurried away.

Quincannon asked Sabina, “Will you wait with me or take another pass through the cars?”

“Neither,” she said. “I noticed something earlier that I thought must be a coincidence. Now I’m not so sure it is.”

“Explain that.”

“There’s no time now. You’ll be the first to know if I’m right.”

“Sabina...” But she had already turned her back and was purposefully heading forward.

He took himself out onto the platform between the coaches. The Limited had slowed to half speed; once more its whistle cut shrilly through the hot desert stillness. He stood holding onto the handbar on the station side, leaning out to where he could look both ways along the cars — a precaution in the event Gaunt tried to jump and run in the yards. But he was thinking that this was another exercise in futility. Gaunt’s scheme was surely too clever for such a predictable ending.

Bridges reappeared and stood watch on the offside as the Limited entered the railyards. On Quincannon’s side the dun-colored buildings of Barstow swam into view ahead. Thirty years ago, at the close of the Civil War, the town — one of the last stops on the old Mormon Trail between Salt Lake City and San Bernardino — had been a teeming, brawling shipping point for supplies to and high-grade silver ore from the mines in Calico and other camps in the nearby hills. Now, with Calico a near-ghost town and most of the mines shut down, Barstow was a far tamer and less populated settlement. In its lawless days, Evan Gaunt could have found immediate aid and comfort for a price, and for another price, safe passage out of town and state; in the new Barstow he stood little enough chance — and none at all unless he was somehow able to get clear of the Desert Limited and into a hidey-hole.

A diversion of some sort? That was one possible gambit. Quincannon warned himself to remain alert for anything — anything at all out of the ordinary.

Sabina was on his mind, too. Where the devil had she gone in such a hurry. What sort of coincidence—

Brake shoes squealed on the sun-heated rails as the Limited neared the station platform. Less than a score of men and women waited in the shade of a roof overhang; the knot of four solemn-faced gents standing apart at the near end was bound to be Sheriff Hoover and his deputies.

Quincannon swiveled his head again. Steam and smoke hazed the air, but he could see clearly enough: No one was making an effort to leave the train on this side. Nor on the offside, else Bridges would have cut loose with a shout.

The engineer slid the cars to a rattling stop alongside the platform Quincannon jumped down with Bridges close behind him, as the four lawmen ran over through a cloud of steam to meet them Sheriff Hoover was burly and sported a tobacco-stained mustache; on the lapel of his dusty frock coat was a five-pointed star, and in the holster at his belt was a heavy Colt Dragoon. His three deputies were also well-armed.

“Well, Mr. Bridges,” the sheriff said. “Where’s this man, Evan Gaunt? Point him out and we’ll have him in irons before he can blink twice.”

Bridges said dolefully, “We don’t have any idea where he is.”

“You don’t— What’s this? You mean to say he jumped somewhere along the line?”

“I don’t know what to think. Mr. Quincannon believes he’s still on board, hiding.”

“Does he now?” Hoover turned to Quincannon, gave him a quick appraisal. “So you’re the fly cop, eh? Well, sir? Explain.”

Quincannon explained, tersely, with one eye on the sheriff and the other on the rolling stock. Through the grit-streaked windows he could see passengers lining up for departure; Sabina, he was relieved to note, was one of them. A porter stood between the second and third day coaches, waiting for the signal from Bridges to put down the steps.

“Damn strange,” Hoover said at the end of Quincannon’s recital. “You say you searched everywhere, every possible hiding place. If that’s so, how could Gaunt still be on board?”

“I can’t say yet. But he is — I’ll stake my reputation on it.”

“Well, then, we’ll find him. Mr. Bridges, disembark your passengers. All of ’em, not just those for Barstow.”

“Just as you say, Sheriff.”

Bridges signaled the porter, who swung the steps down and permitted the exodus to begin. One of the first passengers to alight was Sabina. She came straight to where Quincannon stood, took hold of his arm, and drew him a few paces aside. Her manner was urgent, her eyes bright with triumph.

“John,” she said, “I found him.”

He had long ago ceased to be surprised at anything Sabina said or did; she was his equal as a detective in every way. He asked, “Where? How?”

She shook her head. “He’ll be getting off any second.”

“Getting off? How could he—?”

“There he is!”

Quincannon squinted at the passengers who were just then disembarking: two women, one of whom had a small boy in tow. “Where? I don’t see him—”

Sabina was moving again. Quincannon trailed after her, his hand on the Navy Colt inside his coat. The two women and the child were making their way past Sheriff Hoover and his deputies, none of whom was paying any attention to them. The woman towing the little boy was young and pretty, with tightly curled blond hair; the other woman, older and pudgy, powdered and rouged, wore a gray serge traveling dress and a close-fitting Langtry bonnet that covered most of her head and shadowed her face. She was the one, Quincannon realized, that he’d nearly bowled over out- side the women’s lavatory in the first-class Pullman.

She was also Evan Gaunt.

He found that out five seconds later, when Sabina boldly walked up and tore the bonnet off, revealing the short-haired male head and clean-shaven face hidden beneath.

Her actions so surprised Gaunt that he had no time to do anything but swipe at her with one arm, a blow that she nimbly dodged. Then he fumbled inside the reticule he carried and drew out a small-caliber pistol; at the same time, he commenced to run.

Sabina shouted, Quincannon shouted, someone else let out a thin scream; there was a small scrambling panic on the platform. But it lasted no more than a few seconds, and without a shot being fired. Gaunt was poorly schooled on the mechanics of running while garbed in women’s clothing: the traveling dress’s long skirt tripped him before he reached the station office. He went down in a tangle of arms, legs, petticoats, and assorted other garments that he had padded up and tied around his torso to create the illusion of pudginess. He still clutched the pistol when Quincannon reached him, but one well-placed kick and it went flying. Quincannon then dropped down on Gaunt’s chest with both knees, driving the wind out of him in a grunting hiss. Another well-placed blow, this one to the jaw with Quincannon’s meaty fist, put an end to the skirmish.

Sheriff Hoover, his deputies, Mr. Bridges, and the Limited’s passengers stood gawping down at the now half-disguised and unconscious fugitive. Hoover was the first to speak. He said in tones of utter amazement, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Which were Quincannon’s sentiments exactly.

“So that’s why he assaulted Old Dan in the baggage car,” Bridges said a short while later. Evan Gaunt had been carted off in steel bracelets to the Barstow jail, and Sabina, Quincannon, Hoover, and the conductor were grouped together in the station office for final words before the Desert Limited continued on its way. “He was after a change of women’s clothing.”

Sabina nodded. “He devised his plan as soon as he recognized John and realized his predicament. A quick thinker, our Mr. Gaunt.”

“The stolen clothing was hidden inside the carpetbag he carried into the lavatory?”

“It was. He climbed out the window and over the tops of the smoker and the lounge car to the first-class Pullman, waited until the women’s lavatory was empty, climbed down through that window, locked the door, washed and shaved off his mustache and sideburns, dressed in the stolen clothing, put on rouge and powder that he’d also pilfered, and then disposed of his own clothes and carpetbag through the lavatory window.”

“And when he came out to take a seat in the forward day coach,” Quincannon said ruefully, “I nearly knocked him down. If only I had. It would’ve saved us all considerable difficulty.”

Hoover said, “Don’t chastise yourself, Mr. Quincannon. You had no way of suspecting Gaunt had disguised himself as a woman.”

“That’s not quite true,” Sabina said. “Actually, John did have a way of knowing — the same way I discovered the masquerade, though at first notice I considered it a coincidence. Through simple familiarity.”

“Familiarity with what?” Quincannon asked.

“John, you’re one of the best detectives I’ve known, but honestly, there are times when you’re also one of the least observant. Tell me, what did I wear on the trip out to Arizona? What color and style of outfit? What type of hat?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with—” Then, as the light dawned, he said in a small voice, “Oh.”

“That’s right,” Sabina said, smiling. “Mr. Gaunt plundered the wrong woman’s grip in the baggage car. The gray serge traveling dress and Langtry bonnet he was wearing are mine.”