Counterfeit Lawman

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ike backed away, then slipped along the lobby wall to an exit at the side. He stepped out onto the platform and looked around. Schofield and his small army of railroad bulls still argued inside the depot. A few people loitered on the platform. He recognized some of the passengers and guessed none wanted to stray far from the train in case it pulled out. Ike knew the feeling of being left behind. If they found hotel rooms in Marfa or otherwise left the station, nobody would go fetch them if the situation to the north changed.

He stepped up to the locomotive’s cab and looked around. The engineer still tended his train, oiling wheels and checking switches in the rail yard. A youngster of ten or eleven slumped by the tender, taking a nap. It was his duty to keep the boiler stoked and the fire burning. If it went cold, the engine might be destroyed. If it wasn’t, reigniting the firebox required considerably more effort and time than the engineer—or, more likely, Schofield—desired.

Grabbing the rung beside the iron platform, Ike pulled himself up into the cab. For a moment, he leaned out the side and imagined himself driving the train. Then he remembered what he sought. He reached up and yanked the handle on the steam whistle. Even knowing the shrill sound was coming, he jumped in surprise.

Behind him, the stoker came awake, thrashing about. He knocked over his coal shovel, tried to stand, slipped on a piece of coal and landed hard.

“What ya doin’? You can’t blow that there whistle. Only the engineer can do that! He’ll skin me alive fer lettin’ you do that.”

“I’ll square it with him,” Ike said, having no intention of doing that. He swung down from the cab and hurried back to the door leading into the station lobby.

As expected, Schofield and his henchmen all rushed out to find what had caused the ruckus. Ike knew the fireman would claim a passenger had pulled the cord, and an argument would break out. The longer it lasted, the more the youngster protested he had nothing to do with it, the better it was. He slipped through the side door to where Lily stood looking out.

He slipped his hands around her trim waist and spun her around.

“How dare you!” She started to deliver a resounding slap to his cheek for such effrontery, then recognized him. Her mouth dropped open. “You’re back! Where’d you get off to? You look a mess. I thought I’d never see—”

He cut off her indignation with a kiss. She practically melted and clung to him. Lily put her cheek against his shoulder and sobbed. That burst of emotion surprised Ike.

“You’re back.”

“And your makeup is about gone. Come on.” He steered her out the back way and down the steps to where the pony worked to drink from a trough. Ike took a few seconds to move the horse to keep it from guzzling the entire trough. It had been a faithful companion, and letting it bloat was a disservice.

“That’s yours? An Indian pony all decked out in war paint. There must be quite the story behind that, Deputy Yarrow.” She eyed him as if she were a coconspirator, sharing a secret only the two of them knew. He realized the deception appealed to her sense of drama and playing a role onstage. It even forged a stronger bond between them by her way of thinking. Deceiving her caused him a pang of guilt, but this wasn’t the time or place to explain.

“Ike,” he corrected hastily. “I’m Isaac Scott now. You’d better not forget it, either, especially when any of the townspeople might overhear.” He knew the cat was out of the bag when it came to Schofield. Or was the cat in the bag when it came to his identity? The railroad owner and his henchmen all believed he was Judge Parker’s trusty enforcer. But having yet another entire town thinking he was Yarrow made him uneasy. The deception could unwind if anyone actually knew Augustus Yarrow.

“Sorry. We all have our roles to play. Yours carries a much worse penalty for failing to convince your audience.” She kissed him and whispered in his ear, “Ike.”

“The train’s not leaving anytime soon.” He took her arm and led her away from the depot.

“But it might. The conductor said they’d blow the whistle twice and call all aboard and—”

Ike had to laugh. He must have sent a thrill of anticipation through the anxiously awaiting passengers with his diversion. It had been worth it to be with Lily again.

“There’s a restaurant. I need food. And something to drink.”

“Liquor?” She sounded skeptical.

“Coffee. Water. Anything. It’s brutal out in the desert.”

“You fought the Apaches?”

He nodded. “It’s a long story, but I rode with a cavalry patrol from Fort Davis and rescued their lieutenant from . . .” Ike realized he was bragging. What he said was true, but the only reason he passed it along to the lovely young lady was to impress her. He had decided he wasn’t going to play the fearless Federal marshal with her. Sooner or later, she would find out, and anything she felt for him would turn sour for lying.

“That’s not important,” he said. “Tell me what’s happened aboard the train. I need to know every last detail.”

They found a table in the eatery and sat so they could glance out into the street but weren’t likely to be spotted if Kinchloe or any of the others from the railroad passed by.

Ike ate voraciously, trying not to gobble his food. That wouldn’t have been polite, but his empty belly and parched throat refused to cooperate. Lily watched him devour his meal and a good part of hers with some amusement. When he had stuffed himself and felt ready to explode, he leaned back.

“Dessert? The menu says they have peach cobbler.” Her broad smile told him she was joking. The smile turned to a look of amazement when he ordered a double helping.

He scraped the last of the cobbler from the plate and leaned back again, finished with food for the moment. What he needed now more than anything else was a long sleep. Trying to nap while riding astride the Indian pony only gave him a sore back, not the rest he needed. But other concerns kept him from finding a place to stretch out.

“The freight cars,” he said.

“What? Oh, yes,” Lily said. “I was thinking of something else.” She flashed him a wicked grin. He ignored it, as much as he wished to pursue what had been on her mind.

“I told the lieutenant about them, but the Apache war chief had used him as a pincushion, and his thoughts kinda derailed. He’ll live, I hope, but by the time he recovers enough to mention it, the rifles will be long gone.”

“You’re going to tell the local marshal? Is that a smart thing to do?”

“Why not? He’d want to stop Schofield from selling the rifles as much as the lieutenant or anyone at Fort Davis. If the rifles fall into Apache hands, the raiding so far will look puny. All of West Texas will become a bloody battlefield.”

“That’s not what I meant, Ike. If you let the marshal know and Schofield has a legitimate buyer for the guns, what’s that do to you?”

“Nothing,” he said. “But if Schofield weasels out of any charges I bring, that makes it easier for him to deny he ever kidnapped you and your mother.”

Lily sighed.

“Mama’s back in San Antonio. Even if she sent a telegram with all those charges listed, it hardly seems evidence enough against him. She ought to be here to accuse him in person.”

Ike’s mind raced. The same objection cropped up if Lily presented her evidence—her word—against Schofield and the local marshal didn’t buy it. The evidence carried in the three freight cars would be disputed far too easily. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and spoke softly to the woman.

“We need more evidence.”

“More than Kinchloe tossing you off the train to die?”

“It’s his word against mine.”

“Your clothes,” she said. She rubbed her nose. “Being so very dirty and smelly is hardly the picture of a man with truths to tell.”

Ike tried to brush some of the dust and dirt from his coat and stopped when he saw the way it piled up around his chair. Adding to the café owner’s chores in cleaning up wasn’t a polite thing to do.

“I’m at a loss as to what evidence will be enough. Perhaps we should let the train go on and—”

“No!” Lily pushed back her chair and stood. She tapped her foot angrily. “There is no way I will give up. He deserves to be brought to justice for what he did to Mama and me. Him and all his railroad detectives! And Zachary!”

Ike tried to calm her. Others in the restaurant stared at her. If he was filthy from his misadventures in the desert, Lily presented an even more disreputable picture. The makeup turning her into an old woman was almost all gone. Curious patches of wrinkled skin contrasted with her smooth cheeks and unlined forehead.

She heeded his warning to sit again and stop being the center of attention. With a quick scoot of the chair, she moved forward until their faces were only a foot apart. She spoke rapidly.

“I will trap him. I’ll apply more makeup so he won’t recognize me and engage him in conversation. He is sure to tell me everything we need to know.”

“That’s too dangerous,” Ike said.

“Why do you say that?” She moved an inch closer.

“If he got so much as a hint you weren’t who you claimed to be, your life would be in danger.”

“You care?”

“Of course I do,” Ike exploded. He calmed down when he realized she was baiting him. “It’s my duty to care.”

“So protecting me is only a job?”

Words failed him. He struggled to find a way to regain some semblance of dignity to go with what he’d thought would be seen as honorable. An unexpected break came his way.

“There. Outside. Schofield and Kinchloe are going into the saloon. And someone’s with them. If I find who their partner is, I might be able to take a whole package of crimes to the marshal.”

“They do seem to be quite friendly,” Lily said.

He heaved a silent sigh of relief. She veered away from accusing him of looking out for her only because it was his duty. Ike wished he’d never picked up Yarrow’s badge—and assumed his identity.

“I’ll see if I can eavesdrop.” He stood, but Lily reached out and caught his arm.

“We can go together.”

A flare of amazement robbed him of speech again. Then he said, “But you can’t go into a saloon. You’re a lady!”

“Why, thank you, sir, only Mama and I have performed in more bars than you have even ordered a beer at.”

“A woman as attractive as you would draw attention. And you need to refresh your makeup. Otherwise spying on them will be quite dangerous for you.” He saw she was determined. Ike rattled on, “Every man in the saloon will gawk at you. This is the one time you don’t want to be the center of attention.”

“Little old-lady me?” Lily touched her face. Her fingers came away smudged with the days-old makeup. She stared at the runny cosmetics and made a face. “You are right. I’ll find my case and reapply and—”

“And nothing,” Ike said. “You’ll draw even more attention as an old woman entering a bar than if you proclaim yourself an entertainer and hop up onto a stage to sing.”

“Oh,” she said, scowling. “I see why you are a marshal. You are a clever fellow, aren’t you? You’re used to being undercover and no one knowing. It’s my job to always be seen.”

“It comes with the badge.” Ike hated himself for saying that, but if it chased Lily away to a safer place, the lie served its purpose.

“So how will you find what they’re talking about?” She smiled innocently.

“What’s your idea for how I can do that?”

Lily grinned broadly and said, “I was completely right. You are a very clever man.” She took him by the arm and guided him into an alley beside the saloon. “A few smudges, a bit of change here and there and you don’t—quite—look the same.”

He protested when she tried to shove tiny pieces of wood up his nose.

“This causes your nostrils to flare. It gives you an entirely new appearance.”

“And I can’t breathe. What if I sneeze one of them out?”

“Don’t. That’s the first thing you learn when you perform. The show must go on.” She took his hat and popped up the crown, giving it more the look of a top hat. “You’re so dusty, you look very little like you did before being thrown from the train. There’s nothing I can do to change the style but the color.” She shook her head. “It’s a uniform brown. It’ll have to do.”

When Ike tried to scratch his nose with the nostril expanders, she slapped his hand and shook her head like a stern schoolmarm. Then she gave him a quick kiss.

“Go and spy or whatever you intend. You look different enough that Schofield won’t recognize you.”

Ike silently finished her thought. The railroad owner might not recognize him, but Kinchloe had a better chance, having seen him up close more than once. The best Ike could do was keep away from the railroad bull.

He hitched up his gun belt and tightened it higher around his waist. Walking slightly bowlegged changed his appearance as much as anything Lily had done for him—to him. It took real willpower not to blow out the wood braces in his nose, but when he stepped into the saloon and caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar, he knew Lily’s skill would serve him well. He hardly recognized himself.

Ordering a beer proved a chore since his upper lip quivered as he held back a sneeze. The barkeep looked at him curiously, then hurried down the bar to another customer after serving him. Ike took the beer, turned and put his elbows on the bar so he could look around the room.

Schofield, Kinchloe and the sheriff sat at a table toward the rear of the long, narrow room. Ike screwed up his courage, hoped his fake bowlegged walk wasn’t too obvious and swung around to sit at a nearby table, his back to the trio.

He sipped the beer and almost choked when some of the foam came out his nose. A quick move covered his face and repositioned the wood spacers in his nostrils. With his disguise once more settled into place, he leaned back to get a tad closer to the trio. Even then he caught only snatches of their conversation.

One thing became apparent right away. The sheriff and Schofield were friends. Good friends. They joshed each other in a way that’d cause mere casual acquaintances to grab angrily for their six-guns.

“Good that you’ve got a layover, Martin,” the sheriff said. “It gives you a chance to buy me another beer.”

Ike missed the response, then caught “. . . a shame your brother’s not here. I could turn over the . . . merchandise without going all the way to El Paso.”

“He’s been riding with the boys. You know. All the way from the Cap Rock.”

Ike caught Kinchloe’s comment and almost sat up straight.

“If he’d been here, he coulda sold direct to the Apaches.”

“That’s not likely, not with the troopers out of Fort Davis in the field all the time,” the sheriff said. “They make life for a Comanchero a living hell.”

Ike moved his beer stein around to catch a reflection on one faceted side. The distortion was too much to get a clear reflection, but from the tone, he didn’t need to see the lawman’s face. The sheriff wasn’t kidding about his brother being a Comanchero. There might have been a trace of longing there that he wasn’t riding with his brother and was, instead, stuck being a sheriff.

Everything fell into place for Ike then. If Schofield sold three carloads of rifles and ammunition to Comancheros around El Paso, it wasn’t that much of a stretch for the weapons to be taken by wagon into Indian Territory and sold to the tribes there. And Indian Territory was under Judge Parker’s jurisdiction. Augustus Yarrow had been sent to San Antonio to find the source of rifles flooding Oklahoma. That seemed a long way to ride, but Yarrow’s reputation merited such a mission. The Five Civilized Tribes weren’t likely to kick up much of a fuss, but the rest of the territory stewed and steamed and often boiled over.

The sheriff’s brother and his Comanchero band were stirring that pot. There was no telling how much death and destruction they had been responsible for already. And three freight cars creaking under the weight of rifles and ammunition could keep the fires of war burning for a year or longer.

Ike tried to take too big a swig of beer and choked. He coughed, and one bit of wood shot from his nose. Rather than risk being discovered by Schofield and his cronies, Ike rocked to his feet and walked away unsteadily, trying to remember how he had entered. He doubted anyone would notice and compare, but he wanted this performance to equal anything Lily might give onstage.

He owed it to her for the work she’d put in disguising him. At the door, he paused, fought down the impulse to keep up the charade and do a bit more spying then left. As much as he wanted to look back at the three men conspiring at the rear of the saloon, he forced himself to keep his eyes from drifting. All it’d take was to lock eyes and that mysterious sense of identification could flow.

If Kinchloe or Schofield saw him, he’d be a goner.

He turned toward the railroad depot. Lily immediately stepped close and locked her arm through his.

“Well, what happened? Was the makeup good enough? Oh, you’ve lost the prosthetic in your nose.”

“Pros—?” He shook his head. “Never mind. They never got a look at my face. The bartender did. If he mentions the crazy desert rat with wood stuffed up his nose to the sheriff, I might be in trouble.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Nobody says anything like that. You’re just fretting too much. I am sure your performance was stellar.” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “A stellar performance by a man who wears a star!”

Ike swiped at the cosmetics on his face. His fingers came away even filthier than before. He gave up trying to clean himself. Before he got on the train again, he’d be sure to wash his face and change his appearance yet again.

“I found out what Schofield intends to do with so many guns. And from things he’s said before, he’s going to take the money and go on the run.”

“He’d never walk away from his railroad.” Lily laughed as she shook her head, the gray wig slipping to one side. She hastily pushed it back into place, hiding her bright red hair. “He’d not walk, of course. He’d ride in his fancy railcar.” She quieted down and said in a low voice, “Like he’s doing now.”

“I should send a telegram to Marshal Granger. It’s not out of the question for Schofield to loot every penny he can from the railroad and then leave there for good. That kind of graft with what he’ll make selling the rifles to the Comancheros—”

“Comancheros! Why, that’s despicable! They do nothing but entice Indians off the reservation and keep bloody wars flaring!”

“I can’t send a telegram,” Ike said, dejected. “The telegrapher would warn the sheriff. Any traffic like that’s bound to arouse his suspicions.”

“Let me send a ’gram to my mama.”

He looked at her. “That’s a good idea, but you won’t be able to mention anything that’d pique the telegrapher’s curiosity. He’d be as likely to tell the sheriff about you sending a telegram mentioning rifles and Comancheros as if I did in one to Granger.”

“Let me take care of that. Mama and I have performed enough different plays that I can leave hints she will surely understand and no telegrapher ever would.”

“Well,” Ike said uncertainly.

“You go clean up while I compose the telegram. Hmm, ‘loose the dogs of war’ has a ring to it. I need to remember other lines she will immediately understand.”

“She has to tell Granger. And I doubt Shakespeare mentioned anything about railroads.”

“So you recognize the Immortal Bard, eh? There’s hope for you yet, Deputy.” She put a dainty hand over her mouth. “I meant Ike. Don’t fret. I am sure I will find just the right words. I’ve wanted to try my hand at writing a stage play for some time. This will be a good audition for such an exciting new role.”

Ike listened to her ramble on with half an ear. Even if Granger found evidence of fraud that indicted Schofield, that did nothing to prevent the weapons from falling into the hands of the Comancheros.

While Lily went to send her telegram, he doused himself in a watering trough and washed off as much desert caked to his skin as he could. A bath would have been better, but the feel of a clean face refreshed him.

And let him think up a desperate scheme for stopping Schofield.