Counterfeit Lawman

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

You surely do know how to stir up a hornet’s nest,” Ranger Thorne gritted out. He emptied his six-gun, rolled out of the direct line of sight of the outlaws and worked furiously to reload.

Ike recovered his wits and fired steadily. His aim was nowhere as good as the Ranger’s, but he scattered the Comancheros outside and gave the lawman time to clamber to his feet. Thorne put his shoulder to the open car door and slid it shut until only a foot of open space remained. Ike shot through this and sowed more confusion among Schofield and his henchmen, who tried to rush the car.

“I got to hand it to him, he’s got more sand in his gizzard than I’d have thought,” Thorne said. “Most men in Schofield’s spot would have turned tail and run at the first shot.”

“And what about our last shot?” Ike held up his empty six-gun. “I’m out of ammo.”

The Ranger gestured at the crates in the car.

“Help yourself. Load me one or two rifles while you’re at it.”

Ike got to his feet as more bullets blasted through the open space. The freight car walls now protected him, though one bullet drilled completely through dried wood. He stared at it and the shaft of light coming from outside. If he had been standing upright, the slug would have torn a path through his skull.

Shuddering at the closeness of death, he went to the nearest crate and used the butt of his pistol to knock off the lid. Inside, cradled in wood chips and paper strips, lay a half-dozen brand-new rifles. Taking two, he moved to boxes of ammunition and opened them. He fumbled as he slid the rounds from this cache into the rifle’s magazine, but quickly got the hang of loading.

He started to toss the rifle to the Ranger when he saw shadows moving outside the car where the two of them had entered. Ike levered in a round and waited. When an ugly face popped into view, he fired point-blank. A look of surprise widened the man’s eyes. His mouth opened and his lips pulled back. Then he toppled over, dead.

Ike scrambled to the door and chanced a quick look around. This was the only Comanchero clever enough to check the far side of the freight car. He turned, got Thorne’s attention and tossed him the rifle.

“Fully loaded, with one round used.”

“To good effect, it appears,” the Ranger said. He slid his Colt into its holster and checked the balance of the rifle. Then he became a firestorm of death, firing as quickly as he could lever in a new round and pull the trigger. To Ike’s untrained ear, it sounded more like an entire company of soldiers shooting instead of a single Texas Ranger.

Wasting no time, Ike loaded another three rifles. He leaned one near Thorne’s hand in time for the Ranger to come up empty. Ike saw that he could keep loading rifles for the lawman, but deep in his gut he wanted to be part of the action. The dead outlaw had sparked a need in him to bring them all to justice. Examining his own motives was something to do later, after they got out of the trap they had entered.

Ike felt a bit chagrined and decided his desire to get into the heat of battle centered on him and the Ranger revealing themselves and starting the fight. If he had kept his mouth shut, they could have bided their time and possibly gotten the drop on all the outlaws.

But . . . but he had to admit his blood rose, and he felt more alive than ever before at the nearness of death. A quick look at the rifle in his hands made him silently vow he wasn’t the one going to die. Schofield was out there and responsible for the gunrunning . . .

. . . and all that had been done to Lily and her mother.

Ike cocked the rifle and pulled it into his shoulder. He let out his breath slowly and drew back his finger. The rifle bucked just as a Comanchero popped up. Unlike the Ranger’s deadly accuracy, Ike only winged his target. But that was good enough to cause a new flurry outside.

“They’re hightailing it. The Comancheros are making tracks,” grated out Thorne. “I’m not letting them get away this time!” He looped his fingers around the door and put his weight into opening it all the way.

The protection Ike had enjoyed from outside gunfire vanished. Thorne spun around the door and jumped. He hit the ground, rolled and came to a sitting position, firing the rifle as fast as he could. Seeing the lawman come up empty, Ike threw him his rifle.

“Only got a few rounds left,” he called. Then he cursed himself for saying that. He’d put Thorne in danger. Schofield knew now the Ranger would run dry in a few rounds.

He grabbed another rifle and followed the lawman. Firing as fast as he could cock and fire, he sprayed his lead around and only stopped when he realized there wasn’t anyone left to shoot. Panting from excitement, he swung around, hunting for a target.

“Schofield. Where’d he get off to?”

“The dust to the north’s from the cowards that wanted to buy the rifles. They’ll be in New Mexico before noon.” Thorne got to his feet and looked toward the front of the small train. The engine still puffed away.

A timorous engineer poked his head out. His tall black-and-white striped cloth hat fell to the ground when he jerked back as he spotted Ike and Thorne at the rear of his train.

“Did he ride off with them? Schofield?” Ike wasn’t sure what he felt. Missing a showdown with the railroad owner made all this seem worthless. Yet he wasn’t a hero. It wasn’t his job to bring criminals like Schofield to justice. He had come through the gunfight in one piece. That ought to be good enough for him.

Only it wasn’t.

“I can’t rightly say,” Thorne said. “But if I read the man aright, that’s not what he’d do.” Thorne bent low and looked under the car to be sure no one had circled behind them again.

Ike looked skyward. A darkness passing in front of the sun might have been a cloud, but the Texas sky was a clear, brilliant blue and without a hint of even wispy clouds. He swung his rifle upward. Elbow pressing the stock into his hip, he fired. The bullet went wide, but whoever had climbed to the top of the car retreated.

“Is that him up on top?” Thorne brought his rifle to his shoulder, ready to take an accurate shot.

The head didn’t reappear. Ike looked at Thorne, wondering what to do. Then the decision was made for them. The engine creaked and groaned and metal screeched as the train began pulling out.

“It’s on its way to Franklin,” Thorne said. “I’ll stop the engineer. You take whoever’s on top of the freight car!” The Ranger ran pell-mell for the front of the train before it gained too much speed.

Ike hesitated, then realized he’d be left behind if he didn’t act. Putting his head down, he sprinted and reached the open door. He tossed his rifle inside, grabbed hold and vaulted up. He landed hard on the floor, but at least he wasn’t going to be left on foot staring at the receding train.

He took time to fully load the rifle magazine, then considered shooting a few times through the roof to see what reaction he got. Common sense told him this was a waste of ammunition. He needed a solid target, and the roof was too big for such a tactic ever to work. He’d just frustrate himself and give Schofield the idea his opponent had no idea what he was doing.

Ike realized that was all too true. He was out of his depth trying to arrest a man like Schofield. Thorne was the lawman, not him. Worse, the man whose identity he had stolen was dead by Schofield’s hand, if not directly then by one of his cinder dicks.

“No need to arrest him if I can shoot him,” he decided.

He had reached the roof of a freight car before by climbing a mountain of crates. That same staircase still existed. He worked his way to the roof, moving more slowly now. The trip from San Antonio had taken its toll on him. Then a surge of determination erased all pain, all aches, all doubt.

He crouched and braced himself, bent over with his back pressing into the roof. Using the rifle muzzle, he poked and prodded until he unlatched the cover. A quick breath, then he surged upward. Ike twisted around and sat on the edge of the hatch, his rifle swinging around as he sought a target.

A bullet smashed into him and knocked him backward. He lay flat on the freight car roof, staring into the blue Texas sky and wondering if this was what it felt like to be dead. Ike realized it wasn’t. He had been here before.

Mocking laughter drifted from the next car.

His reserve of strength, powered by anger at being so easily duped, drove him to sit up. He pulled the rifle into his shoulder and fired. The slug missed his target but caused Smitty to take an involuntary step back. The motion of the train coupled with the nearness of the bullet sent Schofield’s henchman to land hard on his rear.

Ike fought to keep his own balance as he tried to make a second, killing shot. Smitty disappeared by the time he sighted down the rifle barrel again. A curse escaped his lips. He climbed up, got his feet under him and judged the distance to the next freight car. It took a few running steps, but he vaulted across and worked his way forward. He smiled grimly when he saw a smear of fresh blood on the roof. His shot had been better than he’d thought. Smitty carried his bullet in him.

Edging carefully toward the spot where Smitty had gone over, Ike looked at the land rushing past below. The railroad bull was nowhere to be seen, left behind as the engine pulled the short train faster and faster.

Something warned Ike he was being careless. He glanced backward to see Schofield appearing from between the last car and the one where Ike fought to keep his balance. In his haste to catch Smitty, Ike had failed to look between the cars. Schofield had been riding along there. And now he rested his six-shooter on the roof to steady his aim.

“You’ve lost,” Ike called out. “Give up, Schofield. The Comancheros aren’t buying your stolen rifles. There’s nowhere to run.”

“There’s always somebody willing to pay good money for a crate of rifles,” Schofield shouted. He caught himself as the cars rocked on an uneven section of track.

“That’s a Texas Ranger with me. You can’t run.”

“I won’t have to.”

The bullet Ike expected sailed through the air at him. He threw himself forward and triggered a round from his rifle. Schofield’s aim was as bad as Ike’s. The gunrunner was able to fire faster with a handgun, but the shorter barrel made his accuracy less. Ike levered in a new round and fired parallel with the railcar roof—almost parallel.

The bullet plowed a wooden furrow all the way into Schofield’s face. The railroad owner jerked back and vanished. For a dozen frenzied heartbeats, Ike waited for return fire. It didn’t come. He scooted forward on his belly. As he went, he levered in a new round. The closer he got to the space between the cars, the more he expected Schofield to pop up and blaze away.

Not sure what to do, Ike finally took the bit between his teeth. He poked his head over the edge, fearing an ounce of lead would blast into his face. It didn’t.

Schofield had fallen. His coat was caught on the coupling, and that was all that kept him from tumbling to his death. Arms flailing, sulfurous curses rising to match the steam engine’s toxic exhaust, Schofield tried to grab on to an iron rung for support.

Ike pointed his rifle down and called, “Give up! I got you dead to rights!”

Schofield cursed even more vehemently and thrust his right hand upward. He still held his six-shooter. Ike should have retreated, but the sight held him mesmerized. Schofield fired once. Not braced or able to take the recoil properly, he lost the pistol. It rattled down to the tracks. Ike thought it discharged as it hit a rail, but the noise of passage was too loud for him to be sure.

What he was certain of was this feeble effort on Schofield’s part doomed him. He stretched back from the recoil. His coat ripped and he fell to the tracks. Ike expected the same bloody sight as when Kinchloe had fallen under the rolling steel wheels. He wasn’t sure if he felt a tinge of disappointment when it never happened.

Schofield’s descent took him outward rather than straight down. Ike thought he hit the desert and was left behind in a flash. By the time he wiggled to the edge of the roof and searched the desert for some trace of the gunrunner, the train had rolled on. Schofield might be dead, or he might have survived. If he still lived, he had a ways to hike back to a town where he might find a horse. Finding him wasn’t going to be hard, not for a badge-carrying Texas Ranger like Zeke Thorne.

Ike pushed back from the edge and once more stood. Wobbling as he walked forward, he kept a sharp eye out for anyone wishing him ill. One of the Comancheros might have stuck around. Smitty’s fate was unknown. He thought the railroad bull had taken a tumble onto the desert sands, too, but he wasn’t positive. Schofield and his men had the habit of turning up over and over like a bad penny.

He launched himself forward and landed on the lead freight car. From here it was only a quick jump into the coal tender after dashing the length of the Pullman. He thrashed about and got himself filthy from the coal until he came to the front of the pile.

His eyes watered from coal dust. It took a few seconds for him to take in the tableau in front of him. The Ranger lay facedown on the floor of the engine cab. He wasn’t stirring. The young fireman held a sawed-off shotgun in shaking hands, aimed at Thorne. The engineer leaned out the cab window, watching the tracks ahead. From the way the pressure gauge trembled and hissed, the engineer was highballing along, running full pressure in the boiler. The small engine wasn’t built for such speed. It was intended for moving a few cars around a rail yard and not long hauls.

“Drop the shotgun,” Ike called. The roar of the furnace drowned out his order. He fired the rifle and immediately regretted it. The bullet ricocheted and finally whined off into the distance once it no longer found metal plates in the cab.

The stoker jumped a foot and swung his weapon around. Ike froze. He had no reason to kill the youngster, yet fear etched onto the sooty face foretold what was going to happen next. Kill or be killed. But Ike’s finger refused to draw back on the trigger. Paralyzed, he looked down the two twelve-gauge barrels at his death.

The shotgun roared. It discharged its leaden load harmlessly into the air as the Ranger half rose and dived forward, tackling the fireman around the knees and lifting.

The report from both barrels rang loud in Ike’s ears, but the boy’s scream as he sailed through the air to land in the desert sounded louder.

The sudden departure of the stoker broke Ike free from his shock. He trained the rifle on the engineer and shouted, “Slow down. Slow down!”

“Like hell! You thieves’ll never rob my train! Mr. Schofield ordered me to highball it!”

The engineer twisted the valve even wider. The shunting engine lurched with an added burst of speed, but all Ike saw was the steam pressure gauge needle bending as it slammed hard into a limit pin.

It wasn’t his imagination when he heard loud reports from in front of the cab. Rivets in the boiler were blowing out from the excessive pressure. The engine was seconds away from exploding.