Counterfeit Lawman

CHAPTER NINE

The rocking motion of the train and the rhythmic clacking of wheels against the rails persuaded Ike to slip off to sleep. The past day had been filled to overflowing with gunfights and death and nearly being lynched. He stirred and smiled dreamily at the notion anyone mistook him for a notorious lawman. He ran his fingers under his collar.

“Hanging Judge Parker,” he whispered as he moved around to wedge himself between the seat and the passenger car wall. He rested his head against the cool glass window. His intention of enjoying the countryside slipping past kept him from falling completely asleep. The few times he had ridden a train, he had been in a freight car or hanging on to the connecting rods underneath. Being an actual passenger was a new experience.

“Ticket, sir.”

A hand nudged him. Ike came fully awake, hand going for his six-shooter. Only his cramped position kept the pistol in its holster. He looked up at the conductor who repeated his request.

“Sorry,” Ike said. “I drifted off for a minute.” He fished out the ticket and handed it to the conductor, who studied it, punched out a portion and handed it back.

“You’re paid up all the way to El Paso. If you want to go on to Yuma or beyond that to California, you can buy another ticket at the depot. You’ll have to switch trains, though. This one’s scheduled to turn around and head right on back to San Antonio.”

Ike mumbled thanks and tried to get back to his nap. There was no way he rode this train back to San Antonio. Where he went once he got off at El Paso was something to think on later. Much later.

The sun poked up over the eastern plains and set the sky on fire with a new day. He stretched and lounged back. In spite of yawning, too much conspired against him to get back to sleep right away. He fished around in the same pocket where he kept the railroad ticket and drew out the battered envelope with his letter of introduction from Judge Parker.

He hastily tucked the paper identifying him as Deputy Yarrow behind and took the time to study the other sheets, some stuck together from spilled beer. His eyes narrowed as he read. The undercover lawman’s assignment had been to go after Schofield. While not named, one of Schofield’s own men had written to Parker about some illicit scheme. Ike decided the man who had betrayed Schofield, possibly for some undisclosed reward, was the engineer working in the roundhouse. He thought on it for a spell before he uttered the name, “Gregorio.”

That had to be the reason Schofield had killed his own man, but when Yarrow showed up, he had to find out who else knew what Gregorio had passed along to the law. He continued reading and pieced together other parts of the puzzle. Granger had suggested that Schofield owned the Grand Palace. Yarrow had proof—or rather, Gregorio had the proof. The saloon was tied in with whatever had prompted Judge Parker to send his prize investigator all the way into Texas, out of his judicial district.

The harder Ike tried to figure out what that connection might be, the more his head hurt. Watering down booze at the Grand Palace or having the manager, Zachary, cheating performers like Lily Sinclair and her mother hardly sparked outrage or enough of a crime for Augustus Yarrow to be dispatched.

He closed his eyes. The headache faded a mite. Ike had mined the letter for all the information possible. He needed to know more—or Yarrow would have needed more. Isaac Scott was a simple man running from a soul-crushing debt in Houston. And a railroad baron in San Antonio. He was riding in style, away from all his troubles.

Ike wondered why he didn’t feel better about it.

Again he settled down in the seat and drifted to sleep, lulled by the sounds and motions of train travel. And again he was awakened when a hand shook him. He pushed the hand from his shoulder, only for the next poke to be more insistent. One eye worked open. He sighed. An old woman clung to the back of the seat across from him. Her other hand was the source of his torment.

She poked him again.

“Sir, sir! Are you awake? I want to sit here. Is that all right with you?”

“Sit. Go on,” he said sleepily. The gray-haired woman flopped down next to him. Her knees banged into his, countering the roll of the train. She added insult to injury by elbowing him in the ribs.

“You don’t mind? At all? Are you certain? Some people on a train don’t want to share a seat with an old lady. Not that I’m all that old. I’m quite spry for my age. How old would you say I am?” She prodded him again with her sharp elbow. “Go on. Take a guess. You won’t offend me, sir. Not at all.”

“Old enough to have better manners,” Ike said, irritated. He rubbed his eyes and took a gander at her. “Fifty. You’re fifty.”

“Aren’t you the gentleman! Not fifty, not at all. I’m older. Guess how much older.”

“Sixty.” Her washed-out dress sported a paisley pattern, with a white lace collar faded to gray that had seen better days—better decades—and she kept her spectacles balanced precariously on the very tip of her nose so she peered over the rims.

Ike blinked. Something bothered him about the old woman’s appearance, but he was too groggy to pinpoint it. Her hair was tucked under a hat outfitted with a lace veil, but the veil had been pushed up away from her face so she could see better.

See better. The glasses. Eyes. Piercing green eyes.

Ike sat up straight and gaped. The old lady giggled like a schoolgirl.

“It took you long enough, Mr. Yarrow.” Lily Sinclair reached out and grabbed his hand with hers. The grip was far too strong for an old woman, but not for a young lady in her twenties.

“The eyes. Your eyes,” he said.

“Oh, my. Didn’t I draw in enough crow’s-feet around them?” She touched the makeup around her brilliant emerald eyes. “I thought I had.”

“I can’t forget your eyes,” Ike said. He stopped himself from telling her how captivating he found them, their sharpness and intelligence shining forth. “They’re not an old woman’s eyes.”

“I should have left the veil down. Yes, I should have. I’ll try to remember that, though when I make myself up as an old crone for our stage plays, I don’t wear a veil. But then, no one in the audience is close enough to see details.”

He reared back and got a better look at her. The dress hid her lush figure, but onstage Lily’d have to wear a potato sack to properly disguise herself.

“I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Yarrow. I’ve practiced shuffling along like an old lady. I am quite convincing.” She sat back and folded her hands primly in her lap. A smile cracked some of the makeup over her dimples.

“Why did you go to the trouble of the makeup and costume?” He studied her more carefully and saw how her clever makeup had fooled him. If he had observed more closely, he would have known this wasn’t an elderly woman. Whether he’d have recognized her as Lily Sinclair was another matter, at least until he locked eyes with her. Those emerald pools were a distinctive part of her personality.

“I thought it would be a lark. It’s been ages since I had to play a part other than songstress or dancer. That’s all Zachary wanted, and we traveled for more than a month getting to San Antonio.”

He nodded knowingly, although more questions popped up than she answered. He finally said softly, “I have a request. A very important one.”

“Why, yes, Mr. Yarrow. Anything.” She pressed closer and again took his hand in hers, squeezing it intimately.

“Don’t call me Yarrow. I am supposed to be undercover.”

“Incognito,” she said breathlessly. “How wonderful! Of course I will keep your secret.” She bent closer and whispered, “What should I call you?”

“I’ve been using the name Isaac Scott. Call me Ike.”

“Ike. Yes, of course, but it’s ever so much more powerful calling you Deputy Yarrow. Or Mr. Yarrow. Or—”

“Ike,” he insisted. “I don’t want them to know I’m on their trail.”

“Oh, of course. But it’s so exciting to think of you as really being a notorious, even famous, lawman.” She sat back, staring straight ahead as she considered everything he’d told her. Ike thought she would obey. He had included her in a secret mission. That appealed to her sense of drama. For his part, the shoot-outs back in the rail yard satisfied his need for adventure for the rest of his life.

From the corner of his eye he watched her and appreciated the fine lines of her face that not even expert makeup hid. For the first time since getting aboard the train, he realized he had no idea what the future held for him. Escaping Schofield’s killers had been his only goal. Now? What did he do now?

“You are looking at me strangely, Mr. Ya—Ike.”

“I was evaluating you.”

“What?” She twisted around and looked outraged. “What ever do you mean?”

“Your skill at disguising yourself could prove invaluable to a Federal agent. Not only Allan Pinkerton needs to hide in plain sight as someone else.” As he expected, this appeased her and even pleased her by appealing to her vanity.

“I would be delighted to help you, but I cannot possibly abandon the stage. Mama and I have worked so hard to hone an act worthy of the highest admission prices. We can do Shakespeare and . . .”

She cut off her sentence and stared wide-eyed toward the front of the car. She let out a tiny gasp, then put both hands on either side of his face and pulled him to her for a big kiss. Ike started to push her away, then surrendered to her fully. He reached around and drew her in close. She looked old, but her body was supple and molded perfectly with his.

He had no idea why she kissed him like that, nor did he understand when she pushed him away and looked over his shoulder.

“Did you recognize them?”

“Them? The kiss? I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“The three men who came from the passenger car in front of this one. They’re going toward the rear of the train now.”

Ike craned around in time to see the back of the third man disappear through the door between cars.

“Those are Mr. Schofield’s henchmen. You must have recognized them.”

Ike ran the tip of his tongue over his lips and caught the taste of her lip rouge.

“I was occupied,” he said.

“Oh, you! Joking at a time like this. Why are they on this train? What if others are riding along, too? I am certain they can identify me since they held Mama and me captive. One of them took special glee in taunting us. He hinted he wanted to do more than keep us chained. He wanted to, well, you know.” Lily looked away and shyly glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “This is quite exciting. I am glad I chose to follow you.”

“What about your ma?”

Lily heaved a deep sigh and said, “It might well be time for me to move on. We are quite good together, but to grow as an artist, I need to explore more of the world. Experience it, see it through your eyes.”

“You’d give up being onstage?”

“No, silly. I meant perhaps I should leave Mama on her own for a while as I accompany you. I can be a help. Truly, I can.” She snuggled closer and clutched his arm tightly. “You’re able to make me feel in ways I never have before.”

“Feel?” He saw how she looked uncomfortable at this, as if he had touched a raw nerve.

“I need to develop a wider range of emotions for my performances. I . . . I feel you can help me develop that way.” She sounded sincere and, moreover, attached to him.

Ike forced himself to look away from her and glanced toward the rear of the passenger car. He hastily faced forward and slid down a few inches in the seat.

“What’s wrong, Ike?” Lily tried to turn, but he held her in a vise grip to prevent it.

“Schofield,” he said in a low voice. He cursed his bad luck. He thought he’d escaped San Antonio without being seen—and he probably had. Countering this small touch on his shoulder by Lady Luck, he had somehow chosen to be on the same train as Martin Schofield and his small army of railroad detectives. If ever anyone had jumped from the frying pan into the fire, his name was Isaac Scott.

Lily snuggled closer. In other circumstances, he would have enjoyed it, but the steady click of boot heels on the railcar’s floor warned that Schofield was approaching. Ike sank even lower in the seat and peered at Schofield through the tangle of Lily’s gray hair. Distracted, he almost told her the wig was slipping to one side. A strand of her red hair poked out. Moving slowly, he silently tucked it back under the wig.

“Can you see him? What’s he doing?”

“He went into the first car,” Ike said. He was aware that the bulls with the railroad owner remained at the rear of the car.

Ike jumped as if he’d been stuck with a pin when Schofield returned. The man glanced in their direction but never broke stride. If anything, he had avoided looking at them too closely, possibly because of the odd sight of a young man and an old woman pressed together so intimately.

He counted to one hundred and then chanced another look. Schofield and his men had left the car, going toward the rear of the train.

“There was a fancy Pullman hitched on just before the string of freight cars,” Lily said. “That must be Schofield’s personal car.”

“It must be,” Ike said slowly. “Only this isn’t part of the South Texas Central system. The Southern Pacific built the line, so it runs to the coast now.”

“Why shouldn’t one railroad allow the president of another to use their tracks?”

“Where’s he going?” Ike disengaged himself and got to his feet. The door at the rear of this car mocked him. Behind it lay answers to questions he had no right to ask.

“We’ll be in Eagle Pass in a few hours. Sit and enjoy the ride. He won’t be back.”

Ike wasn’t so sure. And it didn’t matter if Schofield decided not to stir from the palatial luxury of his own Pullman car. Ike had questions that needed to be answered.

“Stay here. I’ll be back soon.” Ike took Lily’s hand in his, squeezed it then slipped past her to stand in the aisle. Steps sure in spite of the train’s rolling motion, he got to the door at the rear, peered through a filthy window, then yanked it open—only to collide with a man on the platform between cars.