Counterfeit Lawman

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ike judged how far the train had traveled between him falling off and the outlaw jumping. As he trudged back along the tracks, he wiped his bloody hand on his pant leg. From the amount of blood on the iron railing, the robber was well and truly wounded. That ought to make it easy enough to find him.

The sunbaked ground proved harder and less susceptible to tracks than he’d hoped. Bent almost double, he made his way along the rail to better study the ground, then he turned suddenly and reversed his path so he walked into the rising sun. This caused the light to reflect off the ground and give a better chance of finding a trace than letting his shadow lead the way. All he had to do was keep his hat pulled down far enough to shield his eyes against the sun already rising a good distance above the horizon.

And in less than five minutes he found the tracks he wanted. One of his rounds had blasted off the robber’s boot heel. He found scraps of leather and a boot nail showing where the man had hit the ground and tumbled away from the train.

“You’re mine now,” Ike said aloud with some satisfaction. The fresh spoor showed him the trail. There was no call for the train robber to hide his tracks or do anything sneaky like cut off at an angle to decoy Ike into an ambush. He wanted the fastest path away from the railroad tracks as he could get.

When Ike saw a small dried spot being swarmed over by ants, he knew he was close. This puddle of blood was hardly dry. He picked up the pace, careful now so he wouldn’t fall into a trap if the man spotted him coming on like a persistent desert wind. Ike hiked to the top of a hill, then caught his breath when he saw his quarry painfully making his way down the far side, slipping and sliding in the shifting sand.

Ike cursed when he saw the man’s destination. Nervously tugging at its reins, a horse was staked out on a creosote bush. If the robber reached the horse, he escaped, and there wasn’t any way Ike could run him to ground.

A quick estimate of distances and times to cross the desert flashed through his mind. He had to combine the two. At this range, his chance of missing the fleeing robber with another shot was too great. To narrow the distance, he stepped back then jumped, hitting the sandy slope ten feet down. It took all Ike’s skill to maintain balance and keep from tumbling head over heels.

He had expected his rushed attack to draw attention, and it did. The robber reached the base of the sand dune and looked up, eyes wide in surprise. Then he snarled and went for his gun.

Ike had shot him in his right shoulder aboard the train. This forced the outlaw to clumsily shift his six-gun to his left hand and fire. The bullet went wide.

“Give it up. You don’t want to die out in the godforsaken land.”

“Won’t be me doin’ the dyin’,” the man grated out. He kept firing. Unfortunately for Ike, the man’s aim improved with practice.

To make himself harder to target, Ike took another huge leap, hit the sand and tumbled the rest of the way to the bottom. The impact left him shaken, but he had enough sense to not lie there waiting to recover. He jerked in one direction, then rolled fast in the other. This kept him alive as three more slugs birthed small dust devils to either side. Then the telltale click of a hammer falling on an empty chamber gave him renewed hope he could end this without dying.

He came to his knees, drew his pistol and hunted for the outlaw. The man limped toward his tethered horse. Shooting off the boot heel proved useful once again because it forced the man to limp along rather than run flat out.

Ike took careful aim and fired. His target kept running—for a couple more paces. Then the outlaw showed signs of Ike’s accuracy. He took a dive onto his belly and scraped along the rough desert.

“You done hit me in the leg now, damn you!”

“Give up. This doesn’t have to be where you die.” Ike got to his feet but saw he was in for a prolonged fight. The outlaw clawed his way forward, grabbed the lower branch of a mesquite and pulled himself around behind it, depriving Ike of a clean shot.

“You said you were a lawman. What are you? A Texas Ranger?”

“You think I’m a Ranger?” That filled Ike with a touch of pride. Nobody had ever confused him with one of the toughest lawmen in the state. If anything, he was more likely to be the one hunted down by a Ranger for all his petty thieving back in Houston.

He should have kept quiet but found himself wanting respect.

“Deputy Federal marshal,” he called out.

“What were you doing on that there train? I never saw a Federal marshal or any other lawman ridin’ it before, and I scoped it out good. There was always a few rich folks and never a deputy.”

“It’s your bad luck. I happen to be on another case.” Ike licked his lips. The words were too far from the truth to be believed, yet the outlaw swallowed the excuse whole.

He reloaded and saw he had only four rounds left after the six in his gun. Crawling into a depression, he tried not to groan as sharp rocks and cactus nettles tore at his chest and belly. Peering up over the lip of the tiny arroyo gave him a good look at the outlaw’s horse, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

Realizing he had a straight shot if the man tried to mount sent Ike scampering back. If he knew it, so did the robber. The man had been careful enough planning the theft to have a horse waiting for him out in the desert. He had intended to rob the passengers, jump off the train and ride away. That’s why he’d been studying his watch and looking out the window so much before the robbery. He had timed how long it’d take to strip the passengers of their belongings and then leave the train at a carefully selected location.

“What was the landmark?” Ike called. “The one to let you know it was time to get off the train?”

“You’re a smart one, ain’t you? There’s a rock needle a couple miles back.”

The voice shifted from behind the creosote bush. The outlaw was on the move, trying to get Ike in his sights. Ike almost panicked. He wasn’t used to such hare-and-hound fighting. He wasn’t used to any gunplay at all. Before picking up Yarrow’s six-shooter, the last pistol he’d stolen was a year or more in the past. He had sold it for three dollars and hadn’t missed it until Penrose came after him.

“I don’t want to shoot you. Give me the loot, and I’ll let you go.”

“What kind of lawman are you? How about we split the money? I want to keep the necklace. I got a gal in Eagle Pass that’ll love it.”

“The ruby necklace?” Ike asked. He began moving over rocks so hot from the sun that he blistered his hand pressing down on one. It was only a half hour into a new day, and already the desert had turned deadly. “The lady you stole that from said it was her granny’s. You don’t want to take a family heirloom.”

“Don’t matter to me. It ain’t my family.”

The outlaw had struck out from behind the creosote bush to take refuge behind a patch of prickly pear cactus ten feet away. Ike saw movement out of the corner of his eye and reacted instinctively. He winced as hot lead passed between his left arm and his ribs. With a curiously steady hand, he aimed and fired. The outlaw stood a mite straighter. Ike fired again, even though he felt deep in his gut that the first bullet had been good enough.

The robber fell forward into the huge mound of prickly pear pads. Ike winced. That would hurt. Only the outlaw felt nothing. Moving slowly, he got to his feet and pressed his arm in tight to his body. This stanched the blood oozing from both his arm and ribs. Carefully moving, he lifted his arm to examine his wounds. Neither amounted to more than a deep scratch.

By the time he approached the outlaw, steps slow and cautious, both wounds had clotted over. They burned like hellfire, but neither would kill him. He stared at the fallen man. The train robber sprawled facedown in the cactus, arms flung out on either side of his body. Ike carefully stepped into the prickly pears and plucked the man’s pistol from his grip, then retreated. Not once had the outlaw stirred after Ike approached.

“Dead,” Ike said softly. “How did I get myself into this mess?”

The horse neighed loudly, protesting the gunfire. Ike grabbed the robber’s collar and heaved him out of his thorny grave. Prickly spines dotted the man’s face. If he’d lived, people seeing the scars would have remarked in awe on how he’d survived the smallpox. Ike dragged the man completely from the cactus patch, thinking on burying him.

The hard ground needed dynamite to dig into. And shoveling sand from the dunes over a body wasn’t a proper burial. The coyotes would dig out a body before sundown and have a feast.

Ike slid his pistol into its holster and tucked the outlaw’s gun into his belt. He had to use both hands to drag the body to where the horse jerked and tried to free itself.

“There, there,” Ike soothed. He wasn’t used to being around horses any more than he was adept at handling a gun, but this was his only path to survival now. He patted the horse’s neck and spoke soothingly until the horse settled down. Ike wondered how the outlaw had left the horse out here, then boarded the train back in San Antonio.

“He has a partner,” Ike decided. “Why didn’t he stick around so the two could ride off together?”

The answer made him a little antsy. He had heard that the Warm Springs Apaches from Arizona had come into Texas, dodging the cavalry the whole way. He looked around, expecting a war party to pop up. Their presence certainly explained why the robber’s partner had hightailed it—or been killed.

Only West Texas dust kicked up by building wind showed anywhere around him. It was lonely out here. He felt good that it was. He wasn’t up to fighting off Apaches—or a crooked partner wanting the whole bag of loot from the robbery for himself.

Sweat drenching him and stinging the wounds in his arm and side, he prowled about and quickly found the cloth bag with the stolen property. A look inside showed perhaps a hundred dollars in greenbacks, a string of pearls, two diamond stickpins and the ruby necklace. He fastened the drawstring and tucked the bag into his pocket.

“If I can’t bury you, and I’m not inclined to leave you for the buzzards, there’s only one way to profit off your dead body.” Ike grunted as he got the outlaw upright, then heaved him over the horse’s hindquarters.

It took a little soothing, but he gentled the horse, then mounted himself. The horse protested the double weight, but showed appreciation at being untethered by briskly trotting along. Ike shielded his eyes from the sun, considered following the tracks into Eagle Pass, then cut across the desert.

If his sense of direction proved accurate, he’d cut a couple dozen miles off the trip to Eagle Pass compared to using the train tracks as a guide.

Less than a half hour riding made him reconsider his plan.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he decided. If there hadn’t been a full canteen dangling from the saddle horn, he would have changed plans—and maybe died. The desert stretched endlessly, but he headed for the shimmer to the west that had to mark where the Rio Grande flowed. There weren’t mountains to speak of, just low hills. He wondered why the railroad came southwest from San Antonio to Eagle Pass before heading northwest to El Paso. There had to be something worth the detour from a more direct route.

But if he didn’t get to the town soon with his cargo, he vowed to dump the body. In the hot sun it had begun to stink, and buzzing flies annoyed the horse as much as they did him. Worse than the smell, worry about Lily Sinclair gnawed away at him. She had no idea what had become of him.

“Will she even care?” he wondered aloud. He put his head down to use his hat brim to shade his face from the burning sun. It became harder as he rode because the sun sank fast. “But she must care. She followed me onto the train.”

He pondered that as he rode. Had Lily trailed him from San Antonio or was it only coincidence that they were on the same train? It was the next one leaving town after she got free of Kinchloe and his henchmen. It made sense that she and Ike chose the same train. She had used her theatrical skills to put on makeup that disguised her from him—and it as easily hid her identity from Martin Schofield’s detectives. That made more sense than Lily wanting to play a trick on him.

“What do you think?” He patted the horse’s neck, then looked up. A crooked smile came to his lips. “So that’s why they call this Eagle Pass.” The low hill directly ahead spread across the desert like the wings of a flying eagle.

He urged the horse to a faster gait when he saw railroad tracks curving around and going directly over low hills. He rode to the top of a rise. Stretched out before him was a sleepy-looking town. Smoke curled up from dozens of chimneys, and beyond flowed the Rio Grande, lined with bright green–leafed trees. Crossing the river a railroad spur vanished into Mexico toward the larger town of Piedras Negras. That explained why the tracks had been laid this way. Whatever commerce flowed from the interior of Mexico shipped directly to San Antonio along this steel-railed route.

And who knew what merchandise was shipped into the country on the far side of the Rio Grande?

“Come on, you get oats when we reach town.”

The horse understood and trotted along, tiredness gone. Ike felt a surge of energy of his own. He hoped the train was delayed in town so he could find Lily and boast to her of his exploits. Somehow, bragging about the shoot-out and his bravery seemed important. But a woman with her worldly experience was sure to have seen and heard it all. Impressing her wasn’t going to be easy, although she had seemed to find his being a deputy Federal marshal rousing.

From the top of the ridge, he cut directly for the tracks and followed them to the depot. His heart sank when he saw that no locomotive stood there, huffing and puffing steam, pulling passenger cars, one of which held Lily Sinclair.

Dejected, he rode past the depot to find the marshal’s office. The anticipation of seeing the redheaded woman again now dashed, he wanted nothing more than to get rid of the body weighing down the horse and stinking to high Heaven.