Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007

Pandora’s Journey by Gilbert M. Stack

“Anyone interested in a friendly game of cards?”

Corey sighed. He’d heard that offer far too many times to have any doubts as to its disastrous implications for his finances. As he’d feared, Patrick’s head perked right up beside him from its light snoring and looked around the railcar. “I could always sit for a friendly game,” he announced, before digging his elbow lightly into Corey’s ribs. “How much money do I have left, Corey, me lad?”

Corey winced. His chest, face, and arms were covered with bruises where he’d been beaten by a lynch mob four nights before, and the flesh covering those ribs was ugly and tender. But that didn’t stop him from reaching for his wallet and their diminishing cache of prize money. “You ran out of cash a week ago,” he reminded Patrick. “How much will you need?”

“That’s the spirit,” the original voice repeated. “Now who else wants to play?”

Looking around, Corey spotted the speaker sitting about midway down the length of the railcar. They were both passengers on the train leaving Cheyenne for points farther west. There were fifteen or twenty other passengers sharing the car, all of them looking at either Patrick or the speaker.

A military officer half stood from his seat to get the gentleman’s attention. “Just how friendly a game do you have in mind, sir?”

In the seat beside Corey on the other side from Patrick, Miss Pandora Parson shifted her attention to examine the officer. She was a well-dressed young woman with brilliant red hair and a sprinkle of freckles on her nose. She’d been traveling with the boxer and Patrick, his trainer, since they had left Denver together a few weeks before.

The original gambler, a tall broad mountain of a man with a string tie, responded to the officer. “A very friendly game, Captain. Just a few hands of cards to help while away the miles and enough money at stake to keep the game interesting.”

“Lieutenant,” the officer corrected him. “I haven’t been a captain since the War Between the States. Lieutenant Thomas Ridgewood is my name.”

“Gambling is the scourge of the God-fearing man,” an elderly woman observed in a loud voice. “Mark my words, gentlemen. It’s Satan’s work you’re contemplating.”

“That’s three,” the initial speaker announced, ignoring the old woman’s warning. “Is anyone else interested?”

Corey looked to Miss Parson to see if she wanted to join the game. Unlike Patrick, she was a skilled enough player to have a realistic chance of leaving richer than she started. Noticing his attention, Miss Parson gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. Corey accepted her refusal without further comment. He had no interest in card games himself. If Miss Parson wanted to give this one a pass, then that was fine with him.

“Satan’s work!” the old woman repeated. She stood at her seat, clutching her Bible tightly in her right hand. A young man sitting next to her tried to get her to sit down again, but she would not listen to him. The force of her righteous anger smothered any small levity that had hitherto survived the Wyoming August heat, and it appeared that Patrick’s card game would suffer a stillborn death. Corey began to breathe easier. Perhaps his old friend would not have the opportunity to lose the rest of their small savings until after they left the train. The old man never saw the cards as anything but an opportunity to add to their meager wealth, but in Corey’s recollection, the final result usually increased the urgency of scheduling Corey’s next fight. After the beating Corey had taken in Cheyenne protecting Patrick from a misdirected hanging, the bare-knuckle fighter knew it could be weeks before he was fit to fight again. So anything that delayed the card game would ultimately help Corey and Patrick keep eating.

Satisfied that she had made her point, the old woman nodded once and sat down. Private conversations began to resume only to be interrupted again. “I suppose I could be your fourth man, lads, but the Lord alone knows where we’ll find our fifth.”

The old woman shot back up in her seat. “Who said that?” she demanded.

In response, a grayhaired figure in black cassock and white collar rose to his feet.

The woman gasped in horror. “A minister?”

“Priest, madam,” the old man corrected her. “I really don’t feel like playing,” he continued, “but I hate to see a Protestant squelching the only bit of fun there is likely to be on this train today.”

“You heathen!” the woman screamed. Her jaw kept working after the words stopped, as if she were struggling to find stronger things to say.

“Catholic, madam,” the priest said apologetically. “It’s you poor Protestants who are the heathens.” He turned to the rest of the railcar and rubbed his hands with glee. “So what are we waiting for, I ask you? Let’s get the conductors to set up a table for us. While you,” he indicated the man with the string tie, “dash into the next car and see if you can find us another player.”

“No need to do that!” Patrick announced. “Miss Parson here is a right fine player.”

Miss Parson turned to stare at Patrick, a less than friendly expression on her face. “Mr. o’sullivan, I quite think I can make up my own mind as to whether or not—”

“Jezebel!” the old woman shrieked. “Harlot! Dragging these fine men into sin!”

Miss Parson whirled away from Patrick to glare at the old woman. Her body trembled with anger, and she twisted her mother’s silver wedding band around on her finger. She had known this was likely to happen, Corey realized. In fact, she had probably encountered this reaction many times before. It was probably why she played principally in saloons and avoided mixed company.

“Why thank you, Mr. o’sullivan,” Miss Parson said. “I believe a game of cards would be quite refreshing.”

“If she can play, may I?” a small, feminine, honeysuckle voice asked. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to play cards.”

“Well if this don’t beat all,” the man with the string tie said. “I don’t think I’ve ever played cards with a priest and two ladies.”

The conductors required a small cash incentive before agreeing to set up a table near the heating stove at the front end of the passenger car. The man with the string tie paid them happily enough, then took a seat at the table next to the cold stove, clearly eager to begin play.

Corey moved himself to the first row of seats behind the table where he could easily keep an eye on Patrick and Miss Parson. In doing so, he somewhat rudely beat out the Bible-thumping old woman and her family. Why she would want to be close to the action he did not know, but Corey felt certain that the players would be more comfortable if she sat back a few rows.

The old woman stood before Corey clearly waiting for him to volunteer to move. Corey squirmed but held his ground. Rudeness to a white woman was unnatural in the West, but his common sense told him that this was an acceptable exception. The old woman looked Corey up and down, taking in the fading purple bruises on his face and the still evident swelling on his hands. Then she sniffed with disdain and led her family several rows farther back.

“Now that that unpleasantness is finished,” the priest said. “Why don’t we all get better acquainted. I am Father Murphy.” He reached into the carpetbag at his feet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “And this is my good friend, Jack. Any of you players who would like to become better acquainted with Jack, just let me know and I’ll pass him around the table.”

“Alcohol!” the old woman moaned. “Is there no end to this deviltry?”

Father Murphy took a long swig from the bottle and smacked his lips with satisfaction, seeming to delight in the woman’s distress. “Now then, we all know who I am, but as to the rest of you?” He turned toward Patrick, who was sitting on his left.

“Patrick o’sullivan,” the old man answered. “I train boxers. That there,” he indicated Corey with a nod, “is my pride and joy, Rock Quarry Callaghan.”

All eyes turned to study Corey’s bruised face. “Forgive my asking,” the young woman next to Patrick said, “but are you a good fighter, Mr. Callaghan?”

Corey smiled. The young woman was a pretty little thing with long blond hair and thick eyelashes. “I didn’t get these bruises in the ring, miss. I got them pulling him,” he indicated Patrick, “out of trouble.”

“I see,” she answered, then giggled slightly when she realized all eyes at the table were upon her. All the men smiled patiently. Miss Parson frowned.

“Oh, my name is Jenny Lynn Davis, and I’m frightfully glad to have this opportunity to join your little game. I used to watch the menfolk play back at our home in Georgia. It’s so wonderfully interesting.”

“I’m sure we are all quite glad to have you with us,” Lieutenant Ridgewood assured her. He twisted in his seat to look at Miss Parson. “I hope that the presence of you two ladies will help to keep this game friendly.”

“Indeed, Lieutenant,” Miss Parson agreed. She turned away from his smile to face the final man at the table. He had rare height and a breadth of shoulders that actually exceeded Corey’s. “Mr. o’sullivan has already given you my name, and the lieutenant has introduced himself, but I don’t believe you’ve offered your own name yet.”

The man with the string tie smiled, showing teeth stained brown with tobacco juice. “Well now, little lady, my name is Theodore Perkins, but all of you gamblers can simply call me Ted.”

“We’re pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Perkins,” Miss Parson told him. “Did you bring a deck of cards for the game?”

Perkins smile broadened. “Indeed I did, little lady.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a deck. His massive hand dwarfed the cards within it as he placed the deck in front of Miss Parson.

The lady gambler opened the deck and expertly rifled through the cards. They apparently satisfied her, and she returned the cards to Perkins with a slight smile.

Perkins took the deck. “Why don’t we start with a simple game of five-card draw?”

Luck is a strange and fickle lady. It was impossible to guess who she would favor with her charms. For as long as Corey had known Patrick, Luck had turned her back on the old man whenever he sat down to play cards. That afternoon on the train out of Cheyenne, Lady Luck not only smiled on Patrick, she sat down on his lap and kissed him on the cheek.

Patrick, it seemed, could do no wrong. Whether he held his hand pat or traded his cards, he always seemed to draw a winning hand. If he did lose, it was because he folded, or the pot would prove so trifling that the loss scarcely mattered. And with each successive win, the old man’s enthusiasm would grow while the pleasure of his companions diminished. By the time the train approached Laramie, Patrick had accumulated four times his starting stake, with the losses coming most heavily from Perkins and Miss Parson.

“If General Grant had folded during the war like I have today,” Lieutenant Ridgewood observed, “the South would still own its slaves.”

Miss Davis bristled at the lieutenant’s words, which caused Miss Parson to smile and address him. “You are so clever, Lieutenant,” she told him. “I’m glad that someone at this table can keep his spirits up while Mr. o’sullivan corners all the luck. Not that you are doing as poorly as I am.”

It was true. The lieutenant, thanks to a couple of decent hands, was mostly breaking even.

“I can keep my spirits up too,” Father Murphy observed. He hefted his bottle of whiskey and took a swig.

Patrick laughed in delight. “Look at all this, Corey me lad. If I had any sense, I’d quit now and we’d live off my winnings while you heal.”

“That would hardly be sporting,” Perkins protested. “You have to give us a chance to win back our money.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Perkins,” Corey assured him. “Patrick never has had any sense.”

“Twelve minutes,” called the conductor. “The train departs in twelve minutes whether or not all of you passengers are back on board.”

Steel wheels locked and screeched against the rails as the conductor spoke, grinding to a halt in Laramie Station.

Lieutenant Ridgewood got to his feet. “If we could take a short break, ladies, gentlemen, despite our conductor’s warning I feel I should check on my men.”

“So you’re not traveling alone then, Lieutenant?” Father Murphy asked.

“No, sir,” the lieutenant answered. “I’m taking six men to join the garrison at Fort Bridger. Now I don’t mean to be rude, but I want to be back before the train starts rolling. While I could step between the moving cars, I much prefer to walk beside them when the ground is still.”

The lieutenant collected his stake and left the table, moving toward the front of the car. Father Murphy stood as he departed. “I think the lieutenant has the right of it. We should all take advantage of this stop to stretch our legs. Shall we adjourn until the train is moving again?”

The priest scooped his stake and whiskey into his carpetbag. The other players pushed their chairs back from the table. Corey stood with them, carefully stretching the bruised muscles of his ribs, shoulders, and neck.

“Can’t say as I’d mind a chance to walk about,” Perkins admitted. He followed Father Murphy toward the exit in the front of the car.

Corey took a step toward Miss Parson.

“Oh, Mr. Callaghan,” Miss Davis asked. “Would you help me with this bag? I just don’t know what to do with it if I’m to get off this train and get some air.” She came around the table past Miss Parson and touched Corey’s arm.

“Well I...” Corey wasn’t sure how to respond to this request but quickly realized that whatever he should have done, he had chosen wrong when Miss Parson whirled about and stalked from the car.

Patrick chuckled with delight. “That’s the way, Corey me lad. Just keep up the smooth patter, and I’ll have you ready to train again in no time.”

Miss Davis looked from Corey to Patrick and back again as if she couldn’t quite understand what the old man was saying.

“Don’t let him worry you,” Corey reassured her. “The old fool’s just down and determined to make certain I regret my efforts to pull him out of trouble in Cheyenne.”

Patrick continued to laugh.

When Corey got back on the train, following Miss Davis with her bag, he found most of the players had preceded them. Patrick, Miss Parson, Lieutenant Ridgewood, and Father Murphy were already in their seats. Miss Parson would not meet Corey’s eyes as he dutifully helped Miss Davis into her chair. Annoyed, he ignored her in return and began to round the table to recover his seat.

He stopped.

The noisy old woman with the Bible had relocated herself during the station stop and now occupied Corey’s place. Her mousy-looking son and daughter filled the rest of the bench beside her.

Corey took a moment to consider the situation. It was awkward, to say the least. He had no doubt that nothing shy of physical force would move the woman now that she was sitting where she wanted to be. The smug expression on her hard face was proof of that. And whatever the perceived provocation, Corey could never lay hands on her to claim his place. Her mousy son, however, was another matter entirely. He was a few years older than Corey but seemed to shrink in on himself as he suffered the boxer’s gaze. He could be moved without a problem.

“Aye,” Father Murphy observed. The three intruders were sitting directly behind him, which couldn’t be making him happy. “I’m sure that you could force him up if you wanted to, lad. You could probably throw him off the train and no one would care a whit. But before you do, you might ask yourself if you really want to earn a place sitting beside the Devil’s handmaid.”

It took a moment for the insult to penetrate the woman’s aura of smug victory, but when it did, her expression of triumph froze unnaturally upon her face. Then the grin cracked and transformed into an angry, disbelieving scowl. “Devil’s handmaid?” Her voice at first lacked force, as if she couldn’t quite believe what the priest had called her. But then she recovered herself, and her growing fury added volume to her words. “Devil’s handmaid? You despicable, drunken heathen—”

Father Murphy appeared not to recognize that he had crossed a line of propriety with his comment. Undeterred by the woman’s anger, he offered another observation. “Sure enough, how else do you explain your crushing need to sit closer to me? And me being a man of the cloth?”

The woman stood and pointed a shaking finger at the priest and the table behind him. “A pox on all of you sinners!” she cursed. Then, white faced with fury, she gathered up her skirts and stormed off down the aisle to sit farther back in the railcar. The train gave a lurch as she found her seat, and began to roll forward. The woman’s son and daughter looked at each other as if silently asking what they should do. Then they rose in unison and, heads bowed, hurried to rejoin their mother.

Father Murphy sighed. “Now then, Mr. Callaghan, why don’t you take your seat so I won’t have that harpy breathing down my neck again.” He appeared to notice for the first time the shocked expressions of the other players. “I’m sorry gentlemen, ladies, that was unpardonably rude of me, but I can only think of two reasons a woman like that would want to sit behind me in a poker game, and that is either to mess with my spirits,” he lifted Jack to his lips and drank, “or to spoil my game. I just couldn’t play with her sitting behind me.”

“I think that you can add a third reason in the future,” Perkins said. He had evidently arrived to stand behind Corey during the altercation between the priest and the lady. Now he took his seat at the table.

“And that would be?” Father Murphy asked.

“To push a knife into your back,” Perkins laughed.

The twinkle returned to Father Murphy’s eyes. “And deserving it I would be,” he agreed.

A sergeant in blue cavalry uniform approached Lieutenant Ridgewood a few minutes later and bent to whisper in his ear. Corey could not make out the man’s words, but the lieutenant’s face immediately grew grave with concern. When the sergeant finished speaking, the lieutenant got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I have to attend to this.” Without waiting for their response, he departed the table toward the front of the train.

A brief silence followed his departure, which was only broken when Perkins began shuffling the deck. “I guess we can play a few hands without the military,” he suggested.

“Just where did he run off to?” Patrick asked. “I couldn’t hear what the soldier boy had to say. Could you hear, Miss Parson?”

Miss Parson frowned at Patrick’s suggestion. Clearly if she had eavesdropped she was not about to admit to it in public.

Miss Davis had no such inhibitions. “Why, he said that two of the lieutenant’s men didn’t get back on the train at the stop in Laramie. Don’t they call that desertion?”

“I would be doubting it’s desertion, lass,” Father Murphy corrected her. “It’s far more likely that for some reason they just couldn’t get back on the train. They’re probably back in Laramie right now worrying about how they will explain this to the lieutenant when they catch up to him.”

“Father Murphy is right,” Perkins agreed. “When we arrive in Rawlings there will be a telegram waiting for the lieutenant telling him his men will be on the next train.”

“Wonder why the soldiers aren’t in this car with the lieutenant,” Patrick asked.

“I expect that they are guarding something,” Father Murphy answered. “If the lieutenant had gone toward the back of the train, I’d say they were with the horses. But he went toward the front so it’s my guess they’re in the baggage car.”

“I didn’t know people could ride in the baggage car,” Miss Davis said.

“They can when they’re soldiers with something to guard,” Father Murphy replied.

Patrick rubbed his hands together with glee. “Must be something valuable. Maybe an army payroll. There could be a fortune in that car up ahead of us.”

“It can’t be much more than you’ve already won, Mr. o’sullivan,” Miss Parson exaggerated. “Mr. Perkins, why don’t you deal the cards and give us a chance to win some of our money back?”

When Lieutenant Ridgewood returned, Miss Parson had just won her first hand of the day. It was a modest change in a weeklong run of abysmal luck, so she was pleased but not excited by her play.

Patrick, who had not won a hand since the lieutenant left, brightened noticeably when the soldier reappeared in front of the table. “Good to see you, Lieutenant. Hope you got that payroll locked up again. I didn’t like you leaving. You took all my luck with you.”

Lieutenant Ridgewood stood frozen halfway down to his seat. “What did you say?”

His voice was sharp, commanding, almost angry, and Patrick stopped smiling. A look halfway between surprise and concern covered his face. “I said I’m luckier when you’re sitting here playing.”

“No, I mean before that! What did you say?”

“I think,” Father Murphy suggested, “that o’sullivan here is guilty of listening to table gossip. We’ve been speculating that your men are guarding an army payroll. I guess from your reaction we are right?”

The lieutenant let himself sink the rest of the way into his seat. “I see.” He fumbled with the coins that compiled his stake, arranging them in neat orderly piles, which would not long survive the train’s vibrations as it raced along the rails. “I would thank you gentlemen, ladies, not to interest yourselves in military matters.”

Miss Davis leaned close to the lieutenant and placed her hand upon his arm. “Surely it cannot hurt for us to know what you are escorting.”

The lieutenant visibly controlled his anger at this contradiction of his wishes. He forced himself to smile and laid his hand atop Miss Davis’s. “Of course it wouldn’t. Anyone who saw my men carrying the pay chest on board knows what we are escorting. I simply prefer not to discuss the matter in public.”

“Quite sensible,” Perkins agreed as he gathered the cards together and began to shuffle. “I’m just glad you’re still able to play with us. How many men got left behind in Rawlings?”

The pretense of calm good humor fled the lieutenant’s face as his eyes snapped away from Miss Davis to lock upon Perkins. The anger evident in that stare did not disconcert Perkins at all. He began to deal the cards, and Corey, with a fighter’s instincts and peripheral vision, found his attention suddenly pulled away from the lieutenant and Perkins to the rest of the table.

Father Murphy’s back was mostly to him, but from the positioning of his head Corey believed he was looking directly at the lieutenant. Patrick was mostly doing the same, shifting his attention between the lieutenant and Perkins. Miss Davis was also staring at the lieutenant, and with an expression much harder than her fawning words would seem to indicate. But Miss Parson was looking at neither man. Her gaze was directed back into the train behind Corey, and she had a most thoughtful expression etched upon her face.

It was over in an instant. Miss Parson masked her features and pushed her attention down to the cards she was gathering automatically in her hands. It was over in an instant, but Corey could not shake the feeling of urgency her expression invoked in him. Thoughtful described it, but not fully. Her face had also expressed a significant twinge of concern.

Twisting in his seat so that he could lean back against the wall of the railcar, Corey looked back over his shoulder toward the back of the car. He could feel the wall vibrating rhythmically against his shoulder blades. The lieutenant was reluctantly answering Perkins as Corey examined the faces behind him.

“I lost two men. Somehow they didn’t make it back on the train at the stop in Laramie.”

There was the old woman and her family, of course, and a handful of men in suits, each evidently traveling alone. There was also a younger family with three small children and more than a half dozen rugged-looking trailhands scattered across the length of the car. No single passenger attracted his attention. No single passenger seemed to justify Miss Parson’s concern. Perhaps Corey had misread her expression and she was merely annoyed with Perkins for aggravating the lieutenant. She seemed to like the officer, but somehow that didn’t seem explanation enough for the boxer.

“I suspect you’ll find a telegram waiting for you in Rawlings or Green River,” Perkins was saying. “They’ll be on the next train desperate to catch up with you before you reach your new posting. Where did you say you were headed again?”

“Fort Bridger,” the lieutenant answered, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

Perkins continued talking as if he was unaware of the lieutenant’s growing anger, but Corey’s instincts told him he was baiting the man. “Bridger? Isn’t that in Utah among the Saints?”

“Near enough,” the lieutenant answered. He took a deep breath, put the palms of both hands flat upon the table, and began to push himself to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Now look what you’ve done, Mr. Perkins,” Miss Davis complained. “The lieutenant made a simple request of us, and yet you insist on continuing to stick your nose into his business. Lieutenant Ridgewood, please stay and keep playing. We will all promise not to ask you anything else about forts or payrolls or missing soldiers for the rest of the journey. Please stay.”

The plea was the most sincere appeal Corey had heard in a long time, and it wasn’t hurt by the way Miss Davis was staring up into the lieutenant’s face and batting her eyes. He didn’t see how the man could refuse her request. The lieutenant clearly agreed with Corey’s silent assessment. He sat down again and faced the men at the table. “I would greatly appreciate it, gentlemen, if we could find another topic for our conversation.”

“Fair enough,” Perkins agreed.

“Anything to keep you here,” Patrick announced. “You see, you’re lucky for me. And that’s a quality I quite admire in a card player.”

Corey rolled his eyes. The worst part was that Patrick probably thought he was pleasantly changing the topic of conversation.

“So tell me, Lieutenant Ridgewood,” Father Murphy lifted his voice to be sure it carried beyond the table to the rest of the car where many of the passengers had been listening to the exchange. “I wouldn’t be wanting to pry further into your business, but I must confess that I’m bursting with curiosity about something. And unless I miss my guess, I’m not the only one to wonder.” He indulged in a dramatic pause as his fellow players wondered if he was about to drive the lieutenant away from the game after all. “So tell me, Lieutenant Ridgewood, on your honor as an officer and a gentleman speaking to a man of the cloth—” The priest gave a meaningful nod toward Miss Davis. “—are you married?”

Even Miss Parson smiled.

Conversation naturally dwindled as the poker game heated up again. Lady Luck had definitely deserted Patrick, but she hadn’t settled fully on a new favorite. Lieutenant Ridgewood won the first hand, followed by Miss Parson, who beat Perkins out of a hard fought, high stakes pot with three jacks to his three nines. Then it was Father Murphy’s turn, followed by the lieutenant again. And so it went with every player sharing in the winnings, and only the lieutenant clearly stretching ahead.

At Rawlings, as he had in Laramie, the lieutenant excused himself to check on his men and presumably to inquire about a telegram. As he left the table, Miss Davis caught at the lieutenant’s hand. “Would it be possible, Lieutenant Ridgewood, for me to accompany you while you review your men?”

The lieutenant frowned while he considered the request. Corey thought he would refuse the young woman, but clearly Miss Davis’s charms overpowered the officer’s initial instincts. Lieutenant Ridgewood bowed formally. “It would be my pleasure.” Offering Miss Davis his arm, he escorted her from the car.

Corey stood as well. “Hungry, Miss Parson? Patrick?”

“Oh, so you notice me again, do you, Mr. Callaghan?”

Corey eyed Miss Parson cautiously, recognizing a dangerous mood but not actually feeling responsible for her temper. “Always,” he offered tentatively before trying to change the subject. “It should be possible to get some food here if you’d like me to.”

“I, for one, would be grateful of it, lad,” Father Murphy announced. “I know you didn’t offer, but I’d appreciate it if you’d help me out.”

“Of course, Father,” Corey agreed.

The priest stood up. “It’s not that I don’t plan to get off the train,” he explained. “It’s just that Jack here,” he indicated his bottle of whiskey, “is starting to look thirsty, and I need to see about filling him back up.”

The priest stepped past Perkins and stopped next to Miss Parson. “Now don’t be too hard on him, lass. That little Miss Davis is after playing games just like that old harpy.”

Miss Parson started to reply, but her eye caught sight of something in the back of the car and she noticeably hesitated. Recovering herself, she forced a smile as she turned toward the priest. “Perhaps you’re right, Father,” she agreed. “But let’s get off the train while we talk about it.” She intertwined her arm with Father Murphy’s and escorted him toward the front of the car.

Looking over her shoulder, Miss Parson called back to Patrick. “Would you remain here with our things, Mr. o’sullivan?” Without waiting for an answer she called out to Corey. “Coming, Mr. Callaghan?” Then she and the priest were through the door.

“If that don’t beat all,” Patrick said. “You invite a woman to travel with you, and the next thing you know she’s giving you orders.”

Corey caught up with Miss Parson and Father Murphy on the platform of Rawlings Station just as they were pushing through the small crowd toward the main building.

“I surely hope I can find a refill for my friend Jack,” Father Murphy was saying.

“You will,” Miss Parson answered. “Just about everything can be found near the railroad.”

“I surely hope you’re right, lass,” the priest replied, as he led the three into the large main room of the station house. A ticket window dominated the wall closest to the rails. One window looked out of the building onto the station platform, while a second looked into the station house. Between the windows was a narrow room that doubled as ticket office and telegraph station. Lieutenant Ridgewood and Miss Davis were already at the front of that window, with the lieutenant shouting angrily at the clerk.

“What do you mean the line east is down?”

Miss Davis clutched at the lieutenant’s sleeve trying to calm the officer. He took no notice of her. Reaching through the window with his right hand he caught the clerk by his collar. “I lost two men in Laramie. What do you mean the line is down?”

“It’s down,” the clerk insisted.

“Well when will it be back up again?” the lieutenant shouted.

“There’s no way to tell, sir,” the clerk explained. “It all depends on where the break is. A repair team will ride toward the break in both directions and fix it when they find it. Service could be restored in as little as an hour or as much as two or more days.”

“An hour?” the lieutenant shouted. “Two days? Oh, this is useless!” He released the clerk and whirled about in disgust. He froze when he saw Corey, Miss Parson, and Father Murphy staring at him, then stormed past them toward the train, trailing Miss Davis behind him.

“That man is having an uncommonly bad run of luck,” Father Murphy observed as they watched the two figures depart. They did not return to the car in which they had been playing poker but went instead to check on the lieutenant’s detachment. There were ten cars on the track behind the engine: a coal car, a freight car, two passenger cars, a baggage car, a third passenger car, three stock cars, and a caboose. Corey and the poker players were riding in the third passenger car. The lieutenant and Miss Davis entered the baggage car ahead of them.

“Well, I’d best be off to find more Jack,” Father Murphy announced. “It doesn’t do for a man to travel without his friend.”

Corey clapped the priest on the shoulder. “We’ll find you a meal, Father.”

As the priest walked away Corey noticed that Miss Parson was still staring through the open doorway at the train. People walked in and out past her, but she ignored them. Corey tried to see what she was looking at. Perkins had gotten off the train and was crossing the platform toward them. Two of the more rugged hands were descending to the platform as they watched. People milled everywhere, but he could see nothing special about anyone.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asked Miss Parson.

“I’ve seen that man before,” she answered. Her voice was very low, so that Corey had to strain to hear over the noise of the other people in the station. “I think it was in Tucson. We—”

She broke off talking as Perkins’s large frame filled the doorway. “Evening, Miss Parson, Callaghan,” he greeted them. “If you don’t stop daydreaming you’ll miss your chance to get a meal before the train leaves.”

Miss Parson shook her head back and forth as if suddenly startled from her sleep. “Why hello, Mr. Perkins,” she responded, her voice suddenly warm and cheery. “I guess we were woolgathering. It’s just that Lieutenant Ridgewood seemed so angry when he learned the telegraph lines were down. I think we may lose him from our game.”

“Is that so?” Perkins asked, his expression jovial, except in his tight, narrow eyes. “That would be a shame. It might cost us Miss Davis, too, the way she’s been batting those pretty eyes at him. What do you say, Callaghan? If we lose both players can we count on you to sit in so we can keep playing?” As he spoke he clasped Corey hard on the left shoulder, squeezing the bruises there with his strong right hand. To all outward appearances, it was a gesture of good comradeship, but Corey knew that he was being tested. It was a common enough event in the world of bare-knuckle boxers, and he did not permit himself to wince. Neither would he allow himself to be bullied or intimidated.

“I’m not much for cards,” Corey told Perkins, “but I’ll think on it.”

“Good!” Perkins released Corey’s shoulder and moved deeper into the station.

Corey waited for Perkins to get a few steps away before continuing his conversation with Miss Parson. “You knew Perkins in Tucson?”

“Not Mr. Perkins, Mr. Callaghan.” A hint of exasperation could be heard in Miss Parson’s voice. “Sully, Jim Sully, the rugged-looking man with the crooked nose, sitting toward the rear of our car.”

Corey didn’t point out that there were a number of rugged-looking men on the train. Instead he searched his memory until he believed he had identified the one Miss Parson was mentioning. Sully, if Corey was correct in his identification, was a hard-looking man who had clearly been in a lot of fights. His broken nose and battered cheeks told the story. He might even have spent some time in the ring.

“So what is Sully’s story,” Corey asked.

“The usual,” Miss Parson answered, the hint of a smile on her face. “Cardsharp, liar, thief, bank robber...”

“Oh,” Corey answered, recognizing for the first time in weeks just how much he did not know about Miss Parson.

“Why are you worried about him now? You know I’ll protect you if he tries to bother you.”

Pandora Parson’s face softened for the first time in hours. She entwined her arm in Corey’s and began to guide him deeper into the station. “Mr. Callaghan, you are such a gentleman. I’m not worried about myself — at least not directly. It’s just that when a known gambler doesn’t join a card game on a long, boring train ride, I can’t help but wonder why.”

“Perhaps he was worried you know he’s a cheat.”

Miss Parson laughed — not a cruel chuckle, but an honestly delighted peal of merriness. “Why Mr. Callaghan, for a boxer you are remarkably naïve. Mr. Sully doesn’t care if I notice him cheating. The worst I would do is leave the game.”

“You wouldn’t accuse him?”

“Of course not, a woman plays cards on men’s sufferance. If one man accuses another of cheating, there are a whole range of options available to the accused, including drawing a gun and shooting his accuser. Women complicate matters. If I accuse a man of cheating, I would expect to be dismissed from the game. You see, men have no acceptable method to challenge my accusation other than to get rid of me. No, Mr. Sully is not worried about me.”

“I see,” Corey said. “Or maybe I don’t see. Why do you think Sully isn’t playing?”

“I don’t know,” Miss Parson admitted, “but when I add this to Lieutenant Ridgewood’s problems, it makes me wonder about Mr. Sully’s other professions.”

“I see,” Corey said again, this time really understanding her concern. “Should we warn the lieutenant?”

“Warn him of what?” Miss Parson said. “A man I think might be a thief, might be responsible for his men missing the train at Laramie, and might be planning to steal the payroll under his protection. Why would Lieutenant Ridgewood believe us?”

“It still seems like we should try,” Corey answered.

Miss Parson sighed. “I know it does, Mr. Callaghan. I keep reminding myself that it’s really none of my business, but I’m not wholly comfortable with the decision.”

She looked about and spotted a matronly woman selling cold dinners. “Now shall we attend to our immediate concerns before we find ourselves left behind like the lieutenant’s soldiers?”

Corey and Miss Parson reboarded the train with two minutes to spare, their arms full of Rawlings Station’s notion of an evening meal. There were hunks of bread, cold potatoes, and a few pieces of chicken to be shared with Patrick and the priest.

“Cold again,” Patrick noted with a grimace. “You would think that since the station has the train’s schedule, it could try to cook food to be hot when the train arrives.”

His complaints did not appear to diminish his appetite.

A soldier appeared carrying food for Lieutenant Ridgewood and Miss Davis. The lieutenant appeared calmer than he had in the station, suggesting that nothing new had been amiss in the baggage car.

Thinking of the lieutenant’s problems reminded Corey of Jim Sully, and he twisted in his seat to look about the car but saw no sign of the man. He turned back toward Miss Parson, lifting his eyebrow in query when he caught her eye. She shook her head but said nothing.

With the hissing release of steam, the train began to roll forward. Perkins appeared in the door behind Miss Parson, almost having missed the train. Sully did not appear behind him. Perhaps Miss Parson’s suspicions had been wrong.

Perkins found his seat. He held a half-eaten leg of chicken in his right hand, and his mouth was full of unchewed meat. “Give me a moment,” he suggested, forcing the words out through the food in his mouth. “I’ll be ready to play again in a minute.”

“No hurry on our account,” Miss Parson assured him, then took a far more delicate bite from a chicken breast.

Perkins ignored her, stuffing more meat into his mouth before tossing the stripped leg onto the floor beside him. He wiped his hands on his vest and then reached for the cards.

“I’ve only got a couple more stops to win my money back,” he told them. “Let’s play some cards.”

Perkins, it appeared, should not have been in such a hurry, for when play resumed all luck seemed to flow the lieutenant’s way. It began with the first hand Perkins dealt, dropping a natural full house in front of the lieutenant. Two middling hands followed that didn’t amount to much as Father Murphy and Patrick took their turns dealing the cards, then Miss Davis carefully shuffled the deck and dealt out another hand. The lieutenant bid high for him — two full dollars. Miss Parson folded almost without considering her cards. Perkins stayed in the game, but Father Murphy quickly followed Miss Parson. Patrick licked his lips and matched the bet, while Miss Davis reluctantly folded.

The lieutenant claimed two cards. Perkins tossed in his hand, and Patrick, confident in his coming victory, took two as well.

The lieutenant looked suddenly very seriously at his hand, eyes growing wide with surprise. He looked down at his cards and bid three more dollars. Patrick foolishly matched the bet and called.

Lieutenant Ridgewood placed four sixes on the table. Patrick threw his three eights onto the deck in a gesture of disgust.

And that was the way it went for the next thirty minutes, with the lieutenant handily winning a third of the hands and Patrick’s once large pot slowly deserting him. He was just starting to get angry when a sharp lurch shook the car and the whole motion of the train altered.

“Did you feel that, Corey me lad?” Patrick asked.

Corey was looking about him, the same as most of the other passengers. Something was amiss with the way they were moving forward, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was wrong.

Perkins began to scoop up his money, stuffing the coins into his pocket. Everyone else was listening to the sound the train made as it raced along the tracks. “Are we slowing down?” Lieutenant Ridgewood asked, rising from his chair.

Shots rang out from somewhere up ahead of them — four or five bullets fired all in a rush.

The lieutenant turned toward the front of the train in astonishment, clearly realizing at least part of what was happening. “My men!” he shouted and began to step toward them.

Perkins, sitting across from the lieutenant, shoved the table hard into his retreating form. It wouldn’t have been possible in a luxury car where the tables were bolted to the floor, but in this makeshift arrangement the edge of the table struck hard against the lieutenant’s hip and knocked over Miss Parson as well, for good measure.

Corey sprang to his feet, but somehow Perkins had gotten a small pistol into his hands, and he spun and whipped it against Corey’s face. The boxer went down hard, momentarily blinded by the blow.

A final shot sounded ahead of them, followed by an ominous silence.

“We are slowing down,” Father Murphy announced. His voice sounded small and overwhelmed by the events exploding around him. “The sound of the engine is growing fainter and we’re slowing down.”

On his hands and knees, struggling to clear his head, Corey could not tell if the priest was right or wrong. He blinked his eyes ferociously until the spots in them faded sufficiently to let him look for Perkins’s boots.

“Why did you hit my Corey?” Patrick was shouting.

Perkins evidently ignored him, flipping the poker table over onto Miss Parson and moving toward the lieutenant.

As Corey’s vision finally cleared, the large man was striking the lieutenant again and again to make certain he stayed on the floor.

The door at the front of the car opened, admitting Jim Sully. “We’ve got it!” he told Perkins.

“Good!” Perkins answered him. “Now take a man and go to the horses. I want them out of the stock car and back up here as soon as these cars stop rolling. I’ll hold these sheep here.”

Sully grunted and disappeared back out the door.

Miss Parson and Patrick appeared to be unharmed. She pulled herself out from under the table into a sitting position. Patrick stood next to Father Murphy, gaping at Perkins and the chaos he was causing. The lieutenant was not so lucky. He lay on the floor where he had fallen, blood welling from injuries on the back of his scalp. “My men,” he groaned.

“They’re dead, Lieutenant.” Perkins said it flatly, just a simple bit of information. Then his voice turned cruel. “While you were enjoying yourself playing cards and flirting with the lady, my men were planning to murder yours. Should I send you to join them? Would you like to lead them in hell?”

He pointed his pistol at the lieutenant’s head but laughed and did not pull the trigger.

He’s probably only got six shots, Corey realized, and he has to be worried that some of the men in this car are armed. This wasn’t the East, after all. A lot of men in the West carried guns.

Corey slid his feet beneath him and prepared to stand up.

“I wouldn’t do that, Callaghan.” Perkins waved the gun toward him. “I prefer you on the ground.”

The door opened behind him, and Sully and a second man pushed past Perkins. “We’re coasting uphill,” Sully announced, as if it was news.

Perkins cursed.

“Can’t be helped,” Sully said. “It’s all hills out here. We’ll roll back downhill aways, but I don’t think it’s steep enough to make us jump the tracks.”

Perkins cursed again and Sully grinned. He started down the length of the car but stopped almost immediately and tipped his hat toward Miss Parson. She glowered at him, making his grin grow broader.

Sully and his man crossed the length of the car and disappeared through the back entrance.

Silence filled the car as its passengers listened to the engineless train grind to a halt as it coasted up the hill.

The silence was broken by Father Murphy’s female adversary. In the wake of Sully and his man passing to the rear of the car, the old woman had made her way up to the front until she stood, quivering with anger, in front of Ted Perkins. She pointed a finger at the large man. “You scoundrel!” she spat at him. “I warned you that you were about the devil’s work!”

Perkins mockingly doffed his hat. “And you were correct, madam. Now why don’t you return to your seat before I add another case of assault to my sins.”

The old woman stood her ground, and Corey finished getting to his feet. Perkins immediately pointed the gun directly at him. “I told you, Callaghan, I prefer you on the floor. Now take a dive!”

Patrick lurched forward, sudden fury written plainly across his face. “My lad never takes a dive!”

Perkins started bringing the gun to bear on Patrick, but the old woman shoved hard at his gun arm. The result almost got Corey killed, but the prematurely fired bullet passed somewhere between him and Father Murphy and through a window of the car.

Corey surged forward before Perkins could fire again, but in the small, confined space Patrick’s lead was sufficient to let the old man get there ahead of him. In his prime Patrick o’sullivan must have been a force to be reckoned with. He was shorter than Perkins, smaller of build and easily twenty years older, but the man who had taught Corey how to fight proved that he could still handle himself in a brawl. He slipped in next to the old woman, and his right fist shot out twice into Perkins’s chin. The gambler’s head was flung up, and he took a heavy step backward.

Patrick turned his attention to Perkins’s stomach, hammering blows against it with impressive speed and form. Corey arrived beside him, scrambling to grab hold of Perkins’s gun hand and shove the muzzle of the weapon up toward the ceiling while also striving not to knock the old woman down.

Perkins roared with anger. His meaty left hand swung around and knocked Patrick into Corey’s bruised ribs. In the narrow confines of the bouncing railcar, Corey lost his balance, and while he did not fall, he lost his grip on Perkins’s weapon. The gambler started to bring the weapon to bear on the two boxers, but Lieutenant Ridgewood surged to his feet beside Perkins, forcing him to reassess the odds against him. Evidently, three angry men in close quarters were more than he wanted to face, even with the pistol to balance the odds. Perkins took a quick step back, fumbled with the latch on the railcar door, and was out of the interior and crossing to the baggage car before his opponents could react to his retreat.

Patrick was still quivering with rage. “Imagine that! Thinking you would take a dive!”

“He was pointing a gun at me, Patrick! And we’re not in the ring! It’s hardly the same thing.”

Corey shot out a hand and grabbed hold of the lieutenant’s arm as the officer started to follow Perkins into the space between the cars. The lieutenant rounded furiously on Corey, and the boxer held his hands up in surrender. “I guess I don’t really care what you do, Lieutenant,” he said, “but do you really want to charge after him? He’s still armed.”

The train ground to a halt on the slope and then slowly began to roll back downhill.

Miss Parson stepped over to join them. “It’s quite the mess we find ourselves in, gentlemen.”

“Aye, that it is,” Father Murphy agreed. “It appears our poker game was nothing more than a distraction for the good lieutenant.”

“I told you no good would come of it,” the old woman reminded them.

“Aye, that you did,” the priest agreed. “And might I add that I am quite embarrassed by my earlier utterances. You have proved yourself a woman of remarkable courage, but with your permission we need to turn our attention away from past sins and toward the solution to the lieutenant’s problems.”

“I have to secure that payroll and rescue my men,” the lieutenant said. He had ceased to try and exit the car but had not taken his attention from the door. His service revolver was out of its holster and in his hand.

“To accomplish that,” Miss Parson suggested, “you are going to need help and a plan.”

Corey didn’t think there was much chance that the lieutenant’s men were still alive after all of that gunfire and was about to volunteer that information, when he realized that Miss Parson would have thought of that as well and obviously had decided not to mention it.

Patrick was not so discreet. “It don’t look good for your soldiers, Lieutenant. All of those gunshots.”

The lieutenant gritted his teeth as if firming his resolve, then began to open the door toward the baggage car.

Corey hauled him back again. “Now that’s not going to do no good. You heard Miss Parson. We need a plan.”

“I’m sure,” Miss Davis observed, “that a trained military officer like Lieutenant Ridgewood does not need the help or the advice of a down-on-his-luck boxer and a professional lady gambler.”

Patrick bristled at the comment, but Miss Parson responded before either of the two men could speak. “If you are correct, Miss Davis, then the lieutenant should not listen to you either. Really, pretending this was your first time playing while all the while you and Mr. Perkins were dealing off the bottom of the deck to set up Lieutenant Ridgewood. What else is your role in this? You’ve already helped to distract the lieutenant from his duties. Are you also supposed to encourage him to get himself killed?”

Silence blanketed the railcar while every passenger strained their ears to hear Miss Davis’s response. Her face grown flushed and stern, she waited an unnatural moment too long while she struggled to formulate a reply. “Why, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Miss Parson. I’ve never even heard of — what did you call it? Dealing under the deck?”

“You’ve heard of it,” Father Murphy corrected her. His face was drawn and sad. “I didn’t notice Perkins doing it, but I surely saw you feed cards to the lieutenant half a dozen times.” He shrugged and smiled wanly at Miss Parson. “I didn’t see anything sinister in it. I just thought she was trying to keep her sweet in the game.”

Miss Davis turned to Lieutenant Ridgewood. “This just isn’t true, Thomas. I have no idea what these people are talking about.” She turned on Miss Parson, anger flashing in her eyes. “You’ve made all of this up! If you really thought I was cheating, why didn’t you expose me during the game?”

“Lots of reasons,” Miss Parson answered, “but primarily because to call attention to your slight of hand would have besmirched the honor of Lieutenant Ridgewood. Even though you were feeding him cards, I didn’t think he was aware you were cheating for him.”

“I wasn’t.” The lieutenant’s voice was quiet. His face had lost its flush of red fury and replaced it with a milder expression of sadness and confusion.

“Why, Thomas,” Miss Davis faced him, batting her eyelashes with concern, “surely you don’t believe this preposterous story.”

He did not answer her directly. “You said you had lots of reasons, Miss Parson.”

Miss Parson picked up her story as if there had been no interruption. “Then there was the problem of Mr. Perkins. I knew he was feeding you cards as well, so I assumed he was working together with Miss Davis. But even after your men disappeared I couldn’t be sure of what they were after until I caught sight of Mr. Sully.”

“Sully?”

“One of the men helping Mr. Perkins rob your payroll. He has a bad reputation down south of here.”

“And you couldn’t warn me?”

“When, Lieutenant Ridgewood? When was I supposed to warn you? Miss Davis has been at your side since she finished her little game with Mr. Callaghan. Even that was probably designed to make her appear an empty-headed, flirtatious girl. No, Lieutenant, there was no time to warn you of my suspicions, but now there is plenty of time to warn you that simply charging into the baggage car with your pistol in hand will accomplish nothing other than to make you dead.”

The lieutenant looked again toward the baggage car, then down to the pistol in his hand. He holstered the weapon, then turned back to Miss Parson. “What do you suggest?”

“I cannot believe you are going to listen to this woman!” Miss Davis protested.

“Father Murphy,” Lieutenant Ridgewood asked, “Missus, er, pardon me, madam,” he addressed the old woman, “but I fear I do not know your name.”

“Mrs. Black,” she responded, holding her chin high and looking the lieutenant straight in the eye.

“Father Murphy, Mrs. Black, could I trouble you to take this young woman over to the seats, hold her there, and keep her quiet?”

Father Murphy looked at Mrs. Black and sighed. “Of course you can, Lieutenant, anything we can do to help.”

Mrs. Black sniffed at the priest. “Anything to help our brave boys in the military.”

Miss Davis protested. “You can’t—”

She stopped talking when Mrs. Black’s hand clutched her arm. “And you will be quiet, missy! I guarantee it!”

Miss Davis looked into Mrs. Black’s eyes and shrank back against the priest.

The lieutenant turned back to Miss Parson. “Your plan, miss, and please hurry. We don’t know how much time we have.”

Miss Parson was ready, obviously aware that while the train was racing down the track now, it wouldn’t be too long before it slowed down again. “First we have to act to buy more time and take advantage of the fact that Mr. Perkins and Mr. Sully have divided their forces.”

Lieutenant Ridgewood nodded. “Any thoughts on how we can do that?”

“To begin, we can decouple this car from the stock cars behind it.”

“They’re all rolling downhill,” Patrick noted. “That won’t do much.”

“Not at first,” Miss Parson agreed, allowing her attention to be diverted to Patrick. “But with luck the cars will separate enough to keep Mr. Sully and his companion from returning here. Then Lieutenant Ridgewood can cross this car to the baggage car where he can apply the hand brake. If Mr. Perkins tries to interfere, the lieutenant can shoot him.”

“Better yet,” Patrick suggested, “if Corey here goes with him, he can turn the hand brake while the lieutenant lies in ambush to shoot Perkins if he comes out to stop him.”

“Dangerous, Mr. o’sullivan,” Miss Parson objected.

“But it might be our best chance to stop Perkins without having to rush the car,” the lieutenant said. “May I count on your help, Mr. Callaghan?”

“Of course you can,” Patrick answered for Corey. “My lad here is dying for the chance to get back at Perkins. Imagine him suggesting that Rock Quarry Callaghan would take a dive.”

Corey met Miss Parson’s eyes, saw the concern there, and shrugged. They both knew he wouldn’t let Patrick look like a liar. He’d help the lieutenant.

“What about the rest of you, men?” the lieutenant asked, raising his voice to address the other passengers. “Can I count on any help from the rest of you?”

A murmur followed his request while the other passengers talked it over among themselves. One of the gentlemen rose, apparently speaking for all of them. “If they try to come back in here, we’ll fight them, but we ain’t rushing any railcars.”

The lieutenant looked unhappy with this response so Corey spoke up before the officer could try again. “It’s just as well, sir. What we’re going to try doesn’t take a lot of men, and we do want someone here to protect the women and children.”

The lieutenant nodded. “You’re quite correct, Callaghan. Let’s get on with it.”

He secured the flap on his holster, locking the weapon in place, then started down the aisle toward the rear exit from the car.

Corey followed him.

The railcars were rolling quickly down the hill when the two men stepped through the doorway and onto the narrow ledge at the rear of the car. A slender iron rail offered some protection against falling, but nothing else.

The lieutenant swayed unsteadily as he looked at the passing ground.

Corey reached out and steadied him.

“Sorry, Callaghan,” the lieutenant apologized. “Don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m dizzy all of the sudden, looking down at the moving ground. Hell, I’ve ridden faster than this on horseback.”

“It might be those blows to the head,” Corey suggested. “Why don’t you stand back here while I see about separating these two cars?”

“Do you know how to unhitch them?”

“Not really, but how hard can it be?”

Corey crouched down at the edge of the small platform and grabbed hold of the railing with his right hand. Then he leaned forward to examine the spot where the two cars were joined. Some sort of lever seemed to lock the two cars together. He grabbed hold of the steel piece with his right hand and pulled it toward him. Despite being obviously well lubricated, the metal did not budge.

Corey tried again, flexing truly powerful muscles, which he had honed through years in the ring, but pulling was not the same as punching, and he could not free the cars.

“This isn’t working,” he told the lieutenant, then stood up and reached across the gap between the cars to grab the rail on the other side. He stepped across the gap so that he was standing on the baggage car looking back at Ridgewood. Grabbing hold of the new railing, he kicked at the lever.

“Be careful,” the lieutenant warned. “You don’t want to get stuck over there.”

Corey ignored the officer and kicked the lever again, striking it hard with the heel of his shoe. The lever snapped clear and the two cars immediately came free of each other, a small gap quickly widening between them.

Corey responded instantly. Pulling his foot back up beneath him he leapt back toward the lieutenant and the passenger car. The distance was only a couple of feet and he made it without mishap, latching tightly onto the railing while the lieutenant grabbed him by the shirt and hauled Corey up beside him.

“Careful now, don’t go getting killed before we rescue my men.”

Corey thought he detected a faint smile on the lieutenant’s lips, but he couldn’t be sure. Instead of answering, he grasped a rung on the ladder mounted on the end of the car and quickly clambered up to the roof. There was a stiff wind, and the car bounced on the tracks sufficiently to make Corey careful of his footing. Crouching low, Corey quickly made his way to the front of the car, where he waited for the lieutenant to catch up with him.

When the lieutenant arrived, Corey leaned close to him, shouting to make his voice heard above the noise of the wind and train. “We’re going to have to do this quickly. If we take too long and Perkins is waiting by this door, he may hear us and one of us will get shot. Same thing could happen if we take too long crossing the top of the baggage car. We don’t want him to act until we’re ready for him.”

The lieutenant was eyeing the gap between the cars. It was less than four feet, but he didn’t seem to be able to take his eyes off it. His body swayed noticeably.

“Lieutenant? Are you alright?”

The lieutenant shook his head but answered in the affirmative. “Of course, of course, let’s do this.”

Without hesitation, Corey leaped across the gap and landed on the roof of the baggage car. It was harder than he had expected, for there was nothing to grab hold of to keep him from sliding around. Fortunately he had a good sense of balance and recovered himself without trouble. The lieutenant, however, in his current condition, might find the jump more difficult.

The officer was not ready to follow Corey. He was staring at the gap again and swaying slightly from side to side.

“Lieutenant!” Corey called to him, but the man did not look up.

“Ridgewood!” Corey called again without success. He had to find a way to get the man’s attention. “Don’t make me jump back over there to get you!”

The lieutenant looked up then, meeting Corey’s eyes for just a moment, before planting his feet more firmly beneath him. Still he didn’t make the jump.

Corey tried another tactic. “It’s now or never, Lieutenant, and it’s your decision. This is your whole career in front of you. The army will forgive you losing your men, but they’ll never forgive cowardice!”

“Cowardice!” Ridgewood’s face snapped back up toward Corey again, and he leapt at the boxer without warning. In an instant he was across the gap and looking to get his hands around Corey’s neck.

Corey slithered nimbly backward, keeping out of the lieutenant’s reach. “Easy there, Lieutenant! Good job! I knew you could do it!”

Lieutenant Ridgewood caught sight of Corey’s laughing face and stopped scrambling after him. His own face colored with embarrassment. “Sorry about that, Callaghan. I don’t know what came over me back there. I was just so damned dizzy.”

Corey turned his back on the lieutenant and hurried toward the end of the car. He had to assume that Perkins had heard them land on the roof, and he didn’t know how much time he had. A glance back over his shoulder told him the lieutenant was following him, albeit more cautiously.

Corey reached the ladder at the end of the car. No other cars stretched out on the track ahead of him. Sully must have separated the cars right here. The sense of urgency boiling hot within him, Corey decided not to wait. He swung down onto the tiny platform at the end of the car, grabbed the steel ring that controlled the hand brake in both hands, and gave the mechanism a mighty twist, throwing his whole weight into the effort. The railcar lurched as the steel brake pressed against the steel wheels of the car. Sparks fanned out behind the train in a broad and brilliant arc.

Corey twisted again. The screech of steel on steel was deafening, but the brake was biting hard into the wheel now, and Corey knew they had to be slowing down.

Shouting profanities, Perkins shoved the car door open and thrust his pistol in Corey’s direction. Without conscious thought, Corey’s hand flashed forward, grabbed the pistol, and yanked it hard toward him. It fired once before it pulled free of Perkins’s hand, but the bullet flew off somewhere into the wilderness without hitting flesh. Corey sent the pistol careening after it, then braced himself to put down Perkins.

He was not in very good shape for a fight. The beating he took from rifle butts and kicking boots in Cheyenne had been severe. But Rock Quarry Callaghan was not a man who backed away from a fight, and his pride would not let him admit that any man alive might beat him with his fists.

Perkins, for his part, was broad in the shoulders and heavily built. While not a boxer, he had the look of a man who got into his share of fights and expected to win them when he did. He edged out of the doorway, a large grin splitting his face. “Callaghan, somehow I just knew I was going to get to beat on you before this day was through.”

Corey attacked. His right fist shot out twice in quick jabs directed against Perkins’s nose. He didn’t break it, although a trickle of blood squirted over Perkins’s lips.

The big man just smiled to show Corey he could take it.

Corey struck again with a left to Perkins’s broad stomach. The gambler responded with a sweeping blow to Corey’s head, which the boxer easily avoided.

Corey drove two fists into Perkins’s rib cage with the same apparent lack of success. Perkins rocked a blow to Corey’s shoulder that almost turned him on the little platform. The blow hurt far more than it should have, and Corey had difficulty bouncing back as if he were unaffected.

The fight was reminiscent of a very old style of boxing, before the footwork and maneuvering that marked the current sport. In those days, boxing was about brawn and grit. The man who had them stood his ground, endured punishment, and won matches. Fighting in close quarters was similar to that, except that this wasn’t a ring and there weren’t rules, and Corey, who had first learned how to fight on the docks of Boston, knew how to take advantage of this situation. He brought his right knee up hard into the fork of Perkins’s legs.

The big man grunted and hesitated.

That was all the opportunity Corey needed. His hands shot out to grab Perkins by the collar of his shirt. Then he yanked the man forward, pivoted on his left foot, and heaved the massive gambler off the car and onto the tracks below.

Perkins cried out as he tumbled through the air, but it was too late. One giant hand almost grasped hold of the thin steel railing but couldn’t quite find a grip. Then the small mountain of human flesh impacted the much larger mountain of rock and earth and he was tumbling along the track well behind Corey and getting farther by the moment.

“Very nicely done, Callaghan,” Lieutenant Ridgewood complimented the boxer. “But am I mistaken or were you supposed to wait for me to get set and get my gun out before you set the brake?”

The lieutenant’s gun was out now, and he was leaning over the edge of the roof of the railcar peering down at Corey. He still looked pale enough to cause Corey to worry about him.

The boxer shrugged. “I got anxious.”

“Can’t argue with success.” Maneuvering carefully, the lieutenant took hold of the ladder with his free hand and descended to the platform beside Corey, who stepped back to the other end to make room for the officer.

“Do you think Perkins was alone in there?” the lieutenant asked, indicating the door with his gun.

Three shots rang out in response, puncturing the door to the baggage car and nearly perforating the two men as well. They leapt as far to their respective sides as the narrow confines of the ledge would permit them, and braced themselves for more shots.

“I guess that answers that question,” the lieutenant observed. He looked the door over up and down. “I guess we have to do this the hard way after all.”

Reaching out with one foot, the lieutenant tapped the door. Two more shots punctured the panel. The lieutenant stepped out behind them and fired five shots through the door into the baggage car.

Corey knew what he had to do. Reaching out with his left hand as the lieutenant stopped firing, he yanked open the door and leapt inside. If Perkins’s partner was hiding behind something, or the lieutenant had simply missed, then Corey was likely to be killed or wounded. Speed was his best hope for safety. He had to cover the ground between them while his opponent was still ducking for cover from the lieutenant’s shots.

Darting into the baggage car, Corey almost tripped over Perkins’s accomplice. The payroll robber was lying on his back with two holes in his chest. He wasn’t dead yet, Corey noted as he kicked the man’s pistol farther away from his hand, but he probably would be before too much longer.

The lieutenant entered the baggage car behind Corey and wasted only a moment looking at the dying man before going to check on his own soldiers. Three were dead. The sergeant was unconscious, breathing raggedly. The lieutenant’s face had gone white, losing all of the bravado with which he’d faced storming the baggage car a few moments earlier.

“Mr. Callaghan, would you please return to the passenger car and ask if there is a doctor on board, or failing that, if one of the womenfolk knows anything about caring for a wounded man?”

Corey started at once toward the passenger car.

The lieutenant stopped him. “And, Mr. Callaghan, please ask Father Murphy to come back with you. Some of these men were Irish. I think there are certain prayers that Catholics say over the sick and the dead.”

Corey went out, stepping nimbly over the gap between the cars to reach his destination. All sense of adventure had left him at the sight of the dead men. He had placed his hand on the door to open it when he suffered a vivid recollection of shots piercing a similar door on the other car. “Miss Parson!” he called out. “It’s Corey Callaghan! I’m coming in!”

The door was pushed open from the inside and Miss Parson looked out at him. “Are you quite all right, Mr. Callaghan? We heard shots. Were you or the lieutenant injured?”

Corey stepped into the railcar. “We weren’t hurt, but the same can’t be said for the lieutenant’s men.” He raised his voice. “Is there a doctor here? We have wounded men in the next car.” He lowered his voice to normal tones. “Father Murphy, I’m afraid we’re going to need your services as well.”

Father Murphy got to his feet, but no doctor volunteered himself. The priest staggered a bit as he began to walk, but whether from too much whiskey or the motion of the rolling train, Corey couldn’t tell.

“I know something about tending wounds as well,” the priest announced, then stepped past Corey and out of the car.

Miss Parson leaned close to Corey. “We’re going to have to figure out what to do about Mr. Sully and the other man as well. They’ll be back with horses just as soon as the train stops rolling — maybe before.”

“Patrick!” Corey ordered. “Help Mrs. Black keep watch on Miss Davis. The authorities will want to speak with her. We’ll be talking it over with the lieutenant in the next car.”

Sully did not prove to be the problem Miss Parson had feared.

The lieutenant browbeat four of the men in the passenger car to join him, Corey, and Patrick on the roof of the train to deter the robbers from returning. He armed the men with the carbines formerly wielded by his own soldiers. It was hot, dry waiting, even after they put down blankets to protect their bodies from the searing heat of the metal roof.

The lieutenant tried to coach the men in military discipline, but Patrick fired his weapon almost as soon as the two riders and their five horses came into view. Most of the other men, Corey included, fired right after him. Between them, Corey and Patrick knew most of what there was to know about boxing, but neither was worth a damn when it came to other weapons.

Jim Sully rode closer to the engineless railcars after the shots, just to make certain of things. He spied the lieutenant and his new troop of men and thought better of the whole payroll venture. He waved his hat in mock salute and led his partner and their horses away.

When the authorities arrived, the lieutenant was the center of most of the attention. It was unclear yet if he was the hero of the piece, but he certainly was not treated as the villain. A military inquiry at Fort Bridger would eventually settle that question.

Miss Davis was taken into custody, although Corey doubted that anything too serious would happen to her. Her connection to events was all too vague, and Corey suspected she would gaze on the jury with her pretty blue eyes and mournful frown and the twelve honest men would acquit her.

As for the rest of them, it appeared that they were off to Fort Bridger — Corey, Patrick, Miss Parson, Father Murphy, and even Mrs. Black and her children. The lieutenant had asked them to come and serve as witnesses to what had happened before a board of inquiry. No one appeared thrilled at the prospect, although Mrs. Black assured them it was “the proper thing to do.”

“Do you really want to go to Fort Bridger, Mr. Callaghan?” Miss Parson asked him.

Corey honestly did not want to go. He felt he’d done enough for the lieutenant. Now he would like to find some nice town with decent prospects where he could restart his training — not a fort in the middle of nowhere on the edge of Mormon and Indian territory. Still, he was pretty certain that the lieutenant had flattered Patrick into agreeing to go, so he put a brave face on the situation. “One place is as good as another, I guess. And with all of those soldier boys about, I’m sure Patrick will have no trouble fixing me up a fight or two.”

“Soldiers also gamble,” Miss Parson observed, as if she too was trying to convince herself that helping the lieutenant was the right thing to do. “If they can be convinced to let a lady join the game.”

“You’ll convince them,” Corey smiled. “It’s what you do best — convincing men to listen to you.”

“Why, Mr. Callaghan, I’m not sure whether or not I’ve been complimented.”

“You have,” he assured her.

“Do you really want to go to Fort Bridger?” she asked again.

“I don’t mind,” Corey admitted, “so long as you are going too.”