Counterfeit Lawman

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ike stared for a moment, frozen by shock of what had happened, then brushed off Kinchloe’s blood from his coat the best he could. He completed his small cleaning by constantly wiping his hands on his pants until most of the grease was transferred, along with dollops of blood and gore. He looked as if he had been hanging on to the underside of a freight car as it sped through a charnel house. He smiled grimly at that.

Kinchloe had suffered the fate he had intended for Augustus Yarrow—for Isaac Scott.

With a shaking hand and head still spinning from the sudden death, he opened the door into the third passenger car. Mostly everyone slept or stared numbly out the window as dawn heated the desert once more. Ike reached up and yanked hard on the cord above the seats. The entire train shuddered as the engineer got the signal and threw on the brakes. Ike caught himself against a seat, then sank into it until the train completed its emergency stop.

The conductor pushed his way down the aisle, coming from the front cars.

“Who pulled that stop cord? Who did it? You’ll be thrown off if it isn’t a real emergency. Who did it?” He stopped demanding that the other passengers fess up when Ike signaled him by raising a still-bloody hand.

The conductor stormed back and towered over him.

“What’re you up to now?”

“He fell off the train and got run over,” Ike said. “I saw it through there.” He pointed to the window in the door leading out onto the platform between this car and the Pullman.

“What’s that? Who you talking about?”

Ike shrugged. “One of them from the next car.” He pointed again. A slow drip of blood puddled on the floor, sneaked between the boards and fell to the ties under the passenger car.

“Show me.” The conductor held his nose as Ike obeyed.

He gagged when he saw what remained of Kinchloe spattered over the cars. The conductor spat, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and said in a choked voice, “He fell between the cars?”

“The train lurched. I turned in time to see him throw his hands up and disappear from sight. I didn’t know he was run over. I thought he just fell off and was out there in the desert somewhere. I got all bloody when I reached down to give him a hand.” The excuse was jumbled, but Ike got away with it. The conductor was too shaken to poke holes in the description of the “accident.”

The conductor almost gagged again when he hopped down and looked under the Pullman car.

“I heard tell that Indians are roving around this part of Texas and do terrible things to prisoners. This has got to be worse than anything they’d do,” Ike said.

“No way he suffered.” With distaste, the conductor pulled a piece of Kinchloe loose and dropped it onto the ground. As he did so, Schofield shouted from a lowered window in his car.

“What’s going on? Why’d we stop?”

“Mr. Schofield, sir, you better see this. It is—it was—one of your detectives. I think.”

Ike slipped back into the passenger car as Schofield boiled from the Pullman. Smitty and the other railroad bull were a step behind. He watched through the window in the connecting door as the three men crowded around the conductor. From the hand gestures and the conductor gagging again, Ike pieced together the story being told. Not once did the conductor point back to the passenger car. He tried his damnedest to not look at the mess plastered under the Pullman and still satisfy his boss with a decent explanation.

He tried and he failed. He vomited beside the tracks.

Schofield was beside himself. When he started yelling at his men, Ike heard through the closed door and over the distant sound of the steam engine puffing and groaning.

Through the side window, Ike saw the stoker running back. The youngster’s frightened expression told the story. He knew what he was going to find, and he knew who had to scrape the gore off the car. He carried his coal shovel for the distasteful chore. Ike took the opportunity to move forward and leave the men behind.

He ignored everyone shouting questions and tugging at his sleeve. Only one woman jerked away when she realized that her hand stroked through a patch of gore. Ike got into the second car and settled down by Lily. She sniffed and made a face, then involuntarily moved away from him as she saw his condition.

“You’re quite a sight. What happened? The cars are all attached.”

“Shush,” Ike cautioned. He bent over and whispered in her ear, “Kinchloe fell under the wheels. Parts of him are strung out between here and the siding.”

She looked at him sharply.

“What did you do?”

“I defended myself,” Ike said sharply. “He tried to throw me off again. Things went different this time.” He rubbed his hands along his filthy trousers. He wanted nothing more than to take a good, long, hot bath. And to burn his clothing.

“Are they going to back up the train and find the body?”

He shook his head. There wasn’t going to be much to find by now. The desert sand already sucked up Kinchloe’s blood. Coyotes, insects and vermin had themselves a fine meal. By the time the train could be reversed and run back along the route, only a crushed skeleton would remain. And maybe there wasn’t much in the way of bones. Train wheels were efficient grinders.

“Knowing Martin Schofield for the monster he is, he wouldn’t go back for his own mother, much less a hired hand,” Lily said primly. The words had hardly left her lips when the train lurched.

She was right. The engineer had been ordered to continue on to El Paso. The passengers muttered among themselves. From what Ike overheard, they had no idea a man had been dismembered by the train. One look at the conductor should have told them something serious had happened. The usually friendly man went forward, looking neither left nor right, and ignored any questions put to him.

Ike didn’t blame him much. He had seen how the conductor reacted to the sight of Kinchloe smeared all over the bottom of the Pullman car. What puzzled Ike more, though, was why he hadn’t responded in the same way. His life had been hard, and he had seen men die, but nothing like that.

Kinchloe trying to kill him and ending up dead himself seemed like poetic justice. But Ike felt nothing about the man’s death. If anything, he worried more about the untold hundreds who would die if Schofield successfully sold the rifles to Comancheros to peddle throughout the state and across the Llano Estacado into Indian Territory.

Lily retreated into herself. That suited Ike just fine. He had a powerful lot of thinking and planning to do, but somehow his thoughts jumbled up and all he could do was stare at the desert rolling by. Smitty and the remaining railroad bull went forward, probably to talk to the engineer, but they hurried so they never even glanced in his direction.

Otherwise the rest of the trip into the El Paso depot was uneventful.

The train slowed. Ike had to shake Lily awake. She looked up at him, her emerald eyes slowly focusing and becoming the sharp gems that had first captivated him.

“Have you ever been in El Paso before?” he asked. “Finding a lawman quick as a fox to search the freight cars is the best we can do.”

“Mama and I talked about coming here, but we never have. Mostly, she wanted to bypass all this horrible desert and go straight to California. There’re men who have found gold out there, you know. Rich men.”

“We’ve arrived,” he said. “Let me find the marshal. You can . . .” His voice trailed off. He had no idea what to say to her.

“I can come with you,” Lily said firmly. “I don’t want you to get lost in a strange border town.”

“If you’ve never been here before, we’d be lost together.”

She smiled winningly and said, “You figured that out all by yourself. Congratulations, Marshal.” She covered her mouth with her hand and said, “Sorry, Ike.”

He headed off her obvious question. If he was a deputy Federal marshal, why didn’t he arrest Schofield himself?

“I need a couple more deputies to back me up. That’s why I want to find the town marshal.”

“It might be a good idea to find one of your colleagues.”

He stared at her blankly, not understanding.

“Another Federal officer,” she said, exasperated. “You’re out of your jurisdiction, so don’t you need to tell whoever’s district this is of your intentions?”

“Come on,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her after him. They stepped out on the platform and looked around. For all he could tell, this was Marfa or even the San Antonio depot. The layout was identical, as were colors and personnel. The ticket agent had to be the brother of the one in Marfa. That made Ike a tad uneasy.

If they were all related, they all shared in the illegal gunrunning. Only a stroke of luck had kept him from spilling everything he knew to the Marfa sheriff. If he had, he doubted his body would ever have been found. Memory of the lawman bragging how his brother rode with the Comancheros reinforced Ike’s determination not to trust anyone until he verified their allegiance.

There had to be a reason this was where Schofield had run when he left San Antonio.

Ike waved to the conductor who, stone-faced, failed to acknowledge him. Directly behind the conductor came Smitty, followed by his boss and the other detective. Spinning fast, Ike hid his face and stepped between the railroad owner and Lily to hide her.

“Down the steps,” he said, herding her. She tried to slip away to one side or the other, but he kept her moving in the direction he intended. At the base of the steps leading to a dusty street filled with wagons and buckboards, he looked around.

“I almost expected to see the horse I took from the Apache brave waiting for me. That’d be loco.”

“Loco,” Lily repeated. “That’s a good word.” She glared at him. Again he wanted her to go on her own way. It had been dangerous before, but arresting Schofield was going to be the closest thing to an all-out war El Paso had seen in many a day.

Then he shook himself. He was thinking and planning as if he were Augustus Yarrow and would be the one to get the drop on Schofield. He had no authority. The best he could do was tell the marshal everything that had happened and have a real lawman backed up with deputies perform their sworn duty.

He called out to a passerby, “Where can I find the marshal?”

“In Hell,” came the snarled reply. “If we’re lucky. If not, he might be at the Golden.” With that, the man spat and turned pointedly away.

“The town marshal does not seem to be held in high esteem,” Lily said.

This almost caused Ike to back out. What did he care if the entire territory was set ablaze by Comanchero-sold rifles? The feud with Schofield had started because of Lily and her mother. He had no personal gripe with him. Except for the man trying to get him lynched. And repeatedly attempting to murder him. And . . .

A loud cheer went up a street over. Ike stopped, closed his eyes and remembered being in the San Antonio jailhouse, looking down on a lynch mob Schofield had sent to see him swing. The railroad magnate had no idea who he was, other than finding the dead man in the roundhouse.

“Come on,” Ike said, taking Lily by the elbow and moving her along quickly. She tried to pull free, but he kept his grip. She had involved him in this mess. She’d be there to see it play out with Schofield in custody.

“There’s the saloon,” she said, finally jerking free. “The Golden. That’s where that ever so informative gentleman said we’d find the marshal.”

Ike growled like a stepped on mongrel. The sooner they brought Schofield to justice, the sooner they could move on.

They?

He glanced at Lily and doubted that would happen. Their trails parted here once the cell door clanked shut on Schofield and his men.

He stepped in and looked around the dimly lit room. The familiar odors hit him and brought back the need for old vices. Stale beer. Tobacco smoke. The closeness and feel of men sharing and drinking and—

“Where is he? Do you think that might be him?” Lily pushed past him and boldly entered.

“You can’t be here,” he started.

“Nonsense. This is my kind of place, I’d wager.” She clucked as she looked around. “No faro table. There are only two poker tables. Not even a chuck-a-luck to be seen. However do they make a profit here?”

“Keep quiet while I ask the barkeep.” Ike wasn’t able to keep Lily behind him. She leaned her elbows on the bar and waved the bartender over.

“You in the right place, missy?” the man asked. He twirled his well-waxed mustaches as he eyed her.

“I was told the marshal was here.”

“Dallas?”

“He went to Dallas?” Ike’s ire mounted.

“That’s his name. Dallas Stoudenmire. He’s not here at the moment, but he comes in real regular like.”

“We’ll wait outside,” Ike said.

“You need something to liven this place up,” Lily cut in. “Do you mind?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She strutted over to a piano, opened the lid and lightly brushed across the keys, then began to sing. Ike wanted to crawl away and hope no one saw him.

“Real purty voice she has, yes, sir. You her agent? I can use someone to entertain on weekends.”

“Why’s the marshal not so well liked?”

The barkeep blinked at the question. He picked up a rag and took a few swipes at a perfectly clean glass.

“Well now, that’s hard to explain to somebody that just blowed into town. Dallas is a good man, but he likes the taste of whiskey a mite too much. That with about lightning speed on the draw and never missing his target’s ruffled feathers. But he has cut down on lawlessness in town. Nobody crosses him. Nobody, even when he’s sober.”

Stoudenmire sounded like the man he needed to bring Schofield to justice. Ike pointed to a whiskey bottle and gestured that he wanted a couple fingers poured. It had been too long since he’d appreciated a shot of firewater. The barkeep silently poured and took his money.

“She want a drink?” the man asked, looking at Lily. “From the look of it, she’s been through hell. What’s wrong with her face? It’s real purty but there’s, I don’t know, patches on it like the skin’s peeling off.”

“Makeup,” Ike explained. “She’s an actress and was auditioning for a role. There hasn’t been time to clean it all off.”

“An actress, eh? I got a small stage in the back. If she puts on a show I can offer her more ’n I could if she just sings.”

“Anything to bring in customers,” Ike said sardonically. He picked up on Lily’s quick assessment of the saloon. Although it was late afternoon and the real crowd wouldn’t pour in for a few more hours, the place had an especially empty look and feel to it.

“That’s the truth. I’ve been hobbling along, you might say. There’s a powerful lot of competition in town. And across the river in El Paso del Norte, too.”

“Does your lack of customers have anything to do with the marshal making this his watering hole?” Ike saw he’d hit the nail on the head.

“Speak of the devil, there he is now.” The barkeep gave Ike a sour look and turned to listen as Lily hammered away at the piano and launched into a rousing rendition of “Camptown Races.”

Ike half turned as a glowering man pushed up to the bar next to him. He gestured and the barkeep dropped a glass of whiskey in front of the marshal. His star gleamed on his chest, but he didn’t wear a holster or six-gun.

The marshal knocked back the tarantula juice, belched and said without turning to Ike, “I carry it in my coat pocket.” He opened the pocket slightly and showed that it was lined with leather to keep the six-gun’s hammer from catching on cloth when he drew.

“I want to report a varmint dealing rifles to the Comancheros.”

“You’re not big on small talk, are you, Mister?”

“Not when three freight cars loaded with weapons and ammunition are going to be dealt purty darn quick.”

“This sounds more like a job for Hal.” He accepted a second large glass of whiskey and downed it as quick as he had the first.

“Who’s that?”

“Harrington Lee Gosling. Hal. He’s the district US Marshal.”

Ike seized up at that. Impersonating a deputy US marshal while dealing with a full-blown marshal was a sure way to end up in jail.

But those rifles. Comancheros and the Apaches and . . . Schofield.

“Since you’re not able to deal with this matter, tell me where I can find him. Gosling.”

“Never said I wasn’t able, and Hal’s off in New Mexico somewhere running down some Mimbreños.”

“I rode with a patrol from Fort Davis that tangled with some of Victorio’s band.”

“You do get around, don’t you?” Stoudenmire licked his lips, as if deciding on whether a third glass of whiskey was appropriate. Ike had seen men pass out from drinking in an hour what the marshal had downed in the span of a few minutes.

“I do. If I can’t get Gosling to make the arrest, who else is there?”

“Don’t rile me, old son. I never said I wouldn’t look into it, but why should I believe a word that comes out of your pie hole?”

The marshal’s attitude got Ike’s dander up. If he thought he’d have a chance he would have gone after Schofield on his own. He reached into his inner coat pocket and drew out the letter from Judge Parker and the wallet with the brass badge. He dropped them on the bar.

Stoudenmire pulled the letter toward him as if it was poison. He scanned the contents, then flipped open the wallet to reveal the badge.

“This changes things considerably, Deputy Yarrow. I’m surprised you hunted me up before trying to find Gosling, though. You feds stick together. An arrest like this makes any lawman shine in the public’s eye.”

“From what I hear, your reputation needs some polishing with the citizens.”

Stoudenmire laughed harshly. “Ain’t enough spit and polish in the whole wide world for that to happen. I’ll always be an outsider to the local peasants.” He patted his leather-lined pocket holding his six-shooter and tilted his head toward the door. “Let’s go take a look at these rifles. If they’re good enough, I might claim one for my own use. The city’s not too generous when it comes to supplying me with guns.”

They started for the door. Stoudenmire glanced over his shoulder when Lily stopped playing and ran to join them.

“You travel in mighty nice company,” the marshal said when he saw Lily was accompanying them. “Is she a deputy, too?”

“Nothing like that, Marshal,” she said. “I just want to see Schofield brought to justice.”

“Nothing like carrying a grudge to turn over the right rocks. Let’s see what crawls out from under.”

They hurried down Oregon Street, then cut across to the railroad terminal. With every step Ike’s anticipation grew. Many times before he had quaked inside, but his hand was steady. He slid the leather thong off the hammer of his gun and ran his hand up and down the holster, mimicking the movement necessary to begin a gunfight.

“There it is,” Ike said. “The train from San Antonio.”

He stopped dead in his tracks and stared. Lily put into words what dawned on him.

“The freight cars are gone,” she said in a weak voice.