Counterfeit Lawman

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ike moaned and shook his head. Nothing fell out of his ears, but somebody kicked the backs of his eyes, then dragged vicious Spanish rowels across them so hard that he moaned. He closed his eyes, pressed his hands against his face and slowly regained his senses. His first impression had been all too accurate. The train was long gone, and he stood alone in the cold night shrouding the West Texas desert.

“Chihuahua,” he muttered. Thoughts came tumbling out. He was in the Chihuahuan Desert. As if the name mattered. Sonoran or Chihuahuan, dead was dead. He shivered as a touch of wind stole away some of the heat surrounding him like a blanket. Two tentative steps took him back to the tracks. Dropping to his knees, he pressed his hand against a rail. Distant vibrations from the train faded. It had to be miles off by now.

He looked around. Starlight caused the landscape to take on a spooky aspect. Strange, eerie silvery light and moving shadows caused by the wind stirring the poisonous creosote bushes and mesquite trees made him jump more than once. Then he wished for the starlight to return when clouds began forming high overhead. The little light he had enjoyed before was sucked up by wispy clouds that looked like ghostly skeletons skulking across the sky.

Ahead? Back? How far was it to Eagle Pass? On foot the trek would take hours. Days. The distance to Marfa was as much a mystery, but overtaking the train held more of an attraction.

“Lily,” he said, shaking his head. He didn’t owe the woman anything, but he was getting into the habit of disappearing and not letting her know where he went, as if she really cared.

The thought came to him that she did seem to care. Their reunions were always something special. She was probably a good actress, but he doubted she was putting on a show just for him with her kisses and the way she hugged him when there was no reason. A nervous grin curled his lips.

“I don’t know where I’m going, except off the train again and again. One of these times, you’re going to come with me and leave Schofield behind.”

Then a different reason to keep going after the train came to him. Three freight cars laden with rifles and ammunition. Schofield had it in for him, and was responsible for killing Gregorio and Deputy Marshal Yarrow. Ike certainly had a grudge against the man. The fear in his gut staring down from the jail cell at the crowd shouting for his neck to be stretched wasn’t a memory to ever be erased.

Proof was lacking about the two deaths—murders—but evidence rolled along in the freight cars. All Ike had to do was find a lawman willing to open up a car and look. Then Schofield had a powerful lot of explaining to do, and all the railroad dicks with him wouldn’t keep him from a cell. He knew it. At least that’s what he hoped was true.

“All. That’s all I have to do.”

He exhaled hard and blew sand out of his nose. He wiped his lips on his sleeve, then began walking. However far he had to hike, it was going to be a long way. As he trooped along, he sang about every song he’d ever heard to pass the time. Somewhere close to two hours later, he ran out of tunes and began wondering what Lily or her ma performed in their act. They had to sing. With her fine voice, she had to sing to entertain a saloon filled with drunken cowboys. The moving scenery must be the majority of their act. As the cyclorama unrolled on one side and wrapped up on another roller, they performed, acting dramatic parts and . . . singing. There had to be singing to lift the spirit and lighten the heart.

Consumed with his own thoughts, Ike almost missed it. A dark shape beside the tracks, down an embankment, lifted an arm as if hailing him. He took two more steps, then drew his six-shooter and spun, ready to fight.

“Who’s there?” He called again when he got no answer.

And the dark shape didn’t move. It was as if one hand was raised in surrender. Only nobody stayed that still for so long.

Ike slid down the slope and came to a halt amid a heap of gravel. From this angle he saw that he didn’t have to accept some poor galoot’s surrender. He went to the handcar and leaned against it. The pump handle stuck up in the air and was what he’d mistaken for a man raising his hands in surrender. He settled on the edge of the platform for a quick rest.

The sky darkened even more. Clouds poured in from down in Mexico. In Houston, clouds like that always preceded a downpour. Out here in the middle of hundreds of square miles of desert, he wasn’t sure. The arid land was robbed of much rain. The clumps of cactus, the ocotillo and the low, thorny bushes were silent testament to continued drought.

Ike got to his feet and stood on the tilted handcar platform. A few tentative pushes against the handle convinced him everything was in good working condition. How it had been pushed downhill wasn’t anything he wanted to speculate on. In spite of that, he turned slowly, hunting for a body. His wild imagination brought forth a railroad employee pumping furiously, being derailed, plunging down the embankment and then dying on this very spot.

Or had he been shot and killed? The Apaches roved throughout the region. Or had there been a second railroad employee and they’d had a falling-out? Too many possibilities rose to haunt him.

“No body.” He looked up the hill and scratched his head. “No way to return the handcar to the tracks, either.”

Trying to lift the corner of the vehicle showed how difficult moving the heavy car uphill was for one man. Ike circled about like a buzzard eyeing his next meal, hunting for some idea. He stumbled over a box and fell to one knee.

Swearing a blue streak, he rubbed his leg and flopped back to get a better look. A toolbox had popped free of the handcar as it careened down the slope. He opened it and knew Lady Luck was at his shoulder again. A coil of rope inside was weighted down by hammers, railroad spikes and a couple heavy pulleys. Whatever the mission of the railroad worker had been, it suited Ike’s needs to a T now.

He lugged the toolbox up to the tracks and began building his simple machine. The spikes held the pulleys to the railroad ties, and by the time he looped the rope through, he was covered in sweat. Cold night wind gave him the shivers. Or maybe anticipation of accomplishing his little project thrilled him. Chances were both rang true.

He left one end of the hemp rope by the tracks and slid back down the incline to the handcar. It took a few tries to secure the rope so tugging on it moved the car up and didn’t cause it to dig into the soft sand.

Ike returned to the tracks, took the free end of the rope and began pulling. The pulleys made the difference. The effort taxed him to the breaking point, but within a half hour he had the handcar dragged up and sitting by the tracks.

“Where’s the pry bar? There. Just what I need to finish.”

Grunting with effort, he levered the heavy handcar up so could get the wheels onto the tracks. This was almost as hard as moving it from the bottom of the hill, but he finally succeeded. From the slow arc of the stars, the effort had cost him more than an hour.

He gathered the tools, rope and box and put it all on the side of the car. Ike spit on his hands, put them on the handle and pushed down. A groan escaped his lips. He felt muscles in his shoulders and back popping from the effort. The second time he used his weight along with his arm strength to push down.

A cry of triumph escaped his lips when the car moved a few inches. The handle made its way back up on its own. He shoved down as hard as he could. Bit by bit, inch by inch, he overcame the car’s inertia and began moving faster along the tracks. Rhythm proved easier to maintain once the handcar began rolling.

Wind gusted past his face, pulled his bandanna back and sent cooling fingers all around his body. Sweat evaporated instantly, invigorating him. Once more he began singing, starting over with his limited repertoire. “Green Grow the Rushes, O” proved as good a song to pump the handle as it was for soldiers to march.

As he fell into the cadence of pumping, his mind wandered. He imagined Lily on the other handle, working with him, rising and falling and singing. Definitely singing. Ike pumped a little faster. A massive lightning bolt cut halfway across the sky, startling him. He almost broke the up-and-down cycling. A new slash of brilliance fractured the sky, revealing the heavy dark underbelly of fierce storm clouds.

He pumped faster. Being caught in the promised downpour would turn him into a drowned rat. The lightning grew in intensity, turning the once-eerie landscape into bright day before fading rapidly. A few heavy, cold raindrops spattered tentatively against his face. He put his head down and kept working.

Thunder began rolling along the tracks, warning him that he traveled into the teeth of the storm. Being in a nice, warm, dry passenger car became his goal. That and having Lily beside him, even in her old-lady makeup.

Ike jerked upright and again almost lost his grip on the handle when movement out of the corner of his eye alerted him to danger. He blinked away a raindrop and wiped his eyebrows dry to keep more water from blinding him. His hand flashed to his six-gun when he got a clear view of desert a hundred yards away.

His mouth turned dry as he counted the Indian braves riding parallel to the tracks. Ten. Maybe a dozen. Lightning bolts showed they wore paint on their faces and bodies. Colorful handprints had been pressed into their horses’ flanks. Feathers and lances, bows and arrows in quivers—and rifles. Several carried rifles in their hands as they rode.

He had heard of the Apaches from Arizona who had fled their reservation and come to Texas to bedevil settler and soldier alike. He wasn’t able to recognize the markings, but if he had to bet, these were Warm Springs Apaches out looking for trouble. He was undecided what to do.

Keep pumping? He sped along faster than the band rode, but if they broke into a gallop, how hard would it be for them to overtake him? He was dog-tired now. Even fear lent only a small added boost to his strength. More to the point, they were armed to the teeth. An arrow or bullet sailed through the air faster than anyone could pump.

But they hadn’t seen him. Ike wondered what occupied their attention, but they never glanced toward the railroad tracks. If he stopped pumping, slowed and finally came to a halt, both his movement along the tracks and the clanging noise would go away. But he knew how hard it was to get the handcar rolling if he stopped. An attack would overwhelm him before he could pump his way to full speed again.

The decision was taken from him. The Indians veered away from the tracks, heading out into the desert. What they hunted or who sought them hardly mattered. They were soon out of sight. Gasping in relief, Ike picked up the pace once more. The handcar had slowed but not enough to require huge exertion to start it rolling faster again.

Grunting with effort, he pumped until his heart threatened to explode. But something seemed wrong. The wheels hummed. No metal-on-metal grinding warned of unoiled bearings. Then Ike realized what it was.

Pounding hooves sounded from behind. Frantic, he looked over his shoulder to see an Indian lift a lance. Ike ducked. The lance ripped past him onto the tracks ahead. The handcar crunched and bumped over the spear and kept rolling.

The Indian also kept riding. Ike had wondered if he could outpace a galloping horse. He discovered the answer quickly.

No.

With a savage cry, the Indian leaped from his horse and wrapped his arms around Ike’s shoulders. The momentum carried them both off the handcar and crashing to the ground. After being thrown off a train twice, Ike had learned how to twist and land after leaving a moving platform.

His shoulder drove down into the brave’s chest as they hit the ground. He kept rolling and popped up onto his knees. He went for his six-gun, drew and fired. And missed. His enemy recovered faster than any human should have and launched himself forward, knife slashing viciously.

Ike’s bullet missed. The Apache’s knife attack failed. They crashed over together again. This time the warrior had the upper hand. He pinned Ike’s shoulders to the ground with his knees. Straining, Ike grabbed the man’s brawny wrist and forced the knife away.

It was a losing battle. Ike’s muscles burned from exertion. The Indian straddled him and had his body weight aiding him to press the knife tip down slowly, closer and closer to his victim’s face.

A lightning flash glinted off the knife. The roll of thunder came seconds later and seemed to surprise the brave. Ike rolled left then put all his remaining strength into twisting to the right. He unseated his attacker.

Fumbling around for his fallen pistol was a fool’s errand that would only get him killed. Ike grabbed again, one hand around the Apache’s knife hand and another on his throat. He felt the sinew and muscle as the brave tensed his neck.

“Die, damn you, die!” Ike got to his feet and used this leverage to press his foe back.

He towered over the kneeling man, but if he had stood even a few inches taller, the leverage would have been enough. The Apache looped one arm around his legs and hammered with his fist behind his knees. Ike lost his balance and again ended up flat on his back. It took all his strength to hold the knife just inches from his chest. And then his muscles turned to water from exhaustion. Try as he might to avoid it, the steel blade cut into his flesh. First the tip pricked his skin. Then it entered and worked down to bounce off a rib.

Ike cried out. He shouted again, this time in victory. Somehow he had knocked out the brave and saved his own life. He pressed his hand to the spot where the knife had cut through his coat, vest, shirt and a half inch of his body.

He swallowed hard when a nearby bolt of lightning illuminated the ground. The Apache lay stretched out on the ground. A bullet had blown off half his head. Panicked, Ike swiveled and looked around.

A dark figure sat astride a horse a dozen yards off, a rifle still pulled up to a steady shoulder. Ike raised his hands and stood, barely able to keep his balance.

“Don’t shoot. You saved my hide.”

A more distant flash lit the figure.

“You’re a soldier. You came in the nick of time.” Ike sagged in relief. The cavalry had arrived.

“Who’re you?”

Ike stammered out his story. He doubted any of it made a lick of sense. He got no response from the cavalry trooper. The rifle stayed fixed on him. Ike had the feeling that a single word was all it’d take to be dispatched like the Apache brave. He had no idea what that word was.

Just as he started to blurt out he was a lawman and show Deputy Yarrow’s badge, four more riders joined the soldier. Then came an entire column. Trotting at the front rode a lieutenant. His gold braid turned to fire in every flash across the sky.

“What do we have here, Sergeant?”

Ike edged away from the dead Apache. Running was foolish, but the urge proved almost too much for him to overcome. Something was wrong, and he was sure to be the one blamed. For whatever it was.

The soldiers were all black and the officer white. Buffalo soldiers. He had heard there were several posts so composed of the Ninth and Tenth Cavalry. He’d also heard they rode camels and a dozen other unlikely stories. Again, he started to declare himself a Federal marshal.

“The dead one’s a lookout for ’em. He trailed behind the main band. I’d hoped to keep him in sight so we could find the rest, but that ain’t gonna happen now.”

The officer rode closer and peered down at Ike. “Looks like you made our job considerably harder because we rescued you from losing your hair. You held us up, and there’s no way to track them in the rain.”

As if God heard those words and laughed, rain began splatting all around. Slow, heavy, cold drops fell at first, then blasted down with more vigor.

“You intended tracking this one because he was behind the main band? The dozen or so warriors that went in that direction?” Ike pointed.

“You blowing smoke or do you know they rode that way?”

“I saw them. From the tracks, when I was on the handcar. I definitely saw them.”

The lieutenant motioned to his sergeant, who dispatched a half-dozen soldiers to scout in the direction where Ike had last seen the Apaches.

“How’d you happen to be out here in the desert all alone, with a storm boiling up out of Mexico like that?” Three quick peals of thunder punctuated the officer’s words. The heart of the storm rolled closer by the minute.

“That’s a long story. I need to get back on the train heading north up to Marfa. It’ll stop there to—”

“Take on water and coal, yeah, I know,” the lieutenant said. He held up his hand to quiet Ike when the sergeant returned. The two exchanged terse words. The sergeant wheeled about and galloped away.

“Corporal, did you find the Indian’s horse?”

“Here, sir.” A soldier came out of the murk, leading a pony painted with mystic symbols.

“I hope you can ride bareback.”

“I’ll try,” Ike said. “Thanks. I’ll just ride on down the tracks and—”

“You’re coming with us.” The officer rattled off commands about forming the column and finished with orders to the corporal to keep an eye on their unwilling civilian recruit.

Ike leaped onto horseback, expecting to be bucked off. To his surprise, the pony paid no attention to having a new rider astride its back. He just wished the soldier following closely didn’t give him the uneasy feeling of being ordered to shoot him in the back if he tried to leave the cavalry patrol.