Counterfeit Lawman

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Ike drew a bead on the back of the engineer’s head. The man was going to kill them all if he didn’t shoot, but plugging anyone from behind tore at his very soul. He shifted aim a few inches and fired. The bullet missed the engineer and smashed the steam valve. For an instant nothing happened. Then the control throttle erupted and drove past Ike to bury itself in the stack of coal where he sat. An instant later came a gout of boiling steam the thickness of his arm.

Flinching away, he flopped down onto the cab floor. He looked up and saw the column of steam quickly die. In a few seconds, hot water dripped down to sizzle in a big puddle at the engineer’s feet. The loss of pressure caused the engine to slow and eventually come to a dead stop.

“You ain’t robbin’ my train. I won’t let you!” The engineer reared back, grabbed a wrench and started to swing.

Ranger Thorne braced himself, judged his distance accurately and loosed a haymaker that lifted the engineer off his feet. The man crashed against the cab wall and slid down into the puddle of heated water.

“Better move him or he’ll blister to death,” Ike said, grabbing the man under the arms and heaving him to one side.

“Why d’you care? He done tried to kill us.”

“He was doing his job. It wasn’t his fault he had no idea about what a skunk Schofield is.”

“Is?” The Ranger pushed his hat back, wiped his forehead, then cocked his head to one side. “Is? Not was?”

“I don’t know how he ended up after taking a tumble from between cars,” Ike admitted. He shuddered, remembering the gory mess Kinchloe had made outside of Marfa. “He was still alive and kicking the last I saw of him.”

“That’s good, if he’s not among the newly departed. I want him to stand trial and pay for all the misery he’s caused selling guns to the Comancheros. There wouldn’t have been an outlaw gang or renegade band between here and Indian Territory not sporting brand-spankin’-new rifles if he’d sold what’s in them freight cars.” Thorne shook his head and wiped more sweat from his forehead. He left sooty streaks but never took notice. “Truth is, he’s been doin’ this for quite a spell.”

“You were after him? The Rangers, I mean?”

“I came over on special assignment from Fort Worth because of him. Heard tell he moved all kinds of contraband in South Texas, but the Comancheros ridin’ through New Mexico and onto the Llano Estacado were fixin’ to upset the apple cart.”

Ike leaned out the cab window. The rivets blown from the boiler had caused leaks in a dozen places. This engine had become as immobile as a huge boulder. Fixing it to run again would cost more than buying a new Baldwin locomotive from back in Philadelphia. He closed his eyes and imagined how it felt being in control of such a powerful machine, the wind whipping past his face at twenty miles an hour, the clack of steel against steel, the countryside sliding past—and all under his control.

“There they are,” Thorne said.

The words shook Ike from his daydream. The engine wasn’t moving, and he’d just fought a battle where men had died. The dream was better.

“Who’s that?”

“A detachment from my Ranger district,” Thorne said. “Your little lady got through and sent the telegram to Captain Nathan.”

“Why’d you tell her to put the word ‘scabbard’ into it? That didn’t make any sense.” Ike turned and studied the Ranger for a moment, then grinned crookedly. “It was a code word.”

“You’re sharp as a tack,” Thorne said. “The detachment is heading straight for a Comanchero encampment we scouted a week ago. They thought they were safe, and back then, they were. Now we got evidence of gunrunning on them.” Thorne leaned against the far side of the cab. “Those owlhoots have been robbin’ every bank, train and stagecoach they can find, gettin’ the gold together to buy the rifles in those freight cars.” He jerked his thumb toward the rear of the short train. “If we find Schofield alive, he’ll tell us everything about them to save his own poxy hide.”

“He’s likely dead.”

“That’ll save the taxpayers a pile of money,” Thorne said. He fixed his hard stare on Ike until he squirmed.

It wasn’t much of a surprise when Thorne asked, “Who the hell are you?”

Ike touched his coat pocket where the wallet with the badge rested. He pulled it out and stared at it. The brass badge had saved his life, and he hadn’t even known it. A bullet had flattened against the metal that otherwise would have drilled him through the heart. Fumbling a bit, he pulled out the envelope with the letter from Judge Parker explaining the reason for being undercover. He ran dirty fingers over the envelope. Coal soot and sweat left tracks on the paper.

“You figured it out,” Ike said. He handed the wallet with the badge and envelope to the Ranger. Thorne took both and held them. Ike knew evidence of a crime when he saw it now. So did the Ranger.

“Of course I did. I’ve known Gus Yarrow for nigh on ten years. You’re nowhere near as tall to be impersonating him.”

“Not boots I can fill. Ever.”

Silence descended until a weather-beaten man rode up on the ugliest horse Ike had ever seen. As the rider turned, his Ranger’s badge gleamed in the sun.

“That’s my superior, Captain Nathan,” Thorne said softly. Louder, “You about got them all rounded up, Cap?”

“Sergeant Gonzalez cut them off from their camp. He says there’re crates of firewater there, and he sniffed out the hiding place for everything they’ve been stealing this past month,” the Ranger captain said. He swung from horseback into the engine to crowd close. There was hardly enough room for all of them.

“Hooked onto the engine are three cars loaded with rifles and ammunition,” Thorne reported. “If you send someone back along the tracks, they might find Schofield.”

“And his new second in command, name of Smitty,” Ike tossed in.

Captain Nathan edged closer and peered past Thorne.

“You must be Ike Scott. That’s one fine lady you’ve got. She alerted us. That puts her and you in line to collect a sizable reward.”

“Too bad lawmen can’t collect a reward,” Thorne said.

“We’re just doing our duty,” Nathan agreed. He glared at Thorne. “You’re not fixing to ask for some of the money, are you, Zeke?”

“I was just pointin’ out that deputies and the like can’t collect rewards, but civilians can.” He ran his fingers around the sweat-stained, dirty envelope. He opened the wallet. Ike blinked as it reflected sunlight. The Ranger tucked the envelope into the wallet alongside the badge, then tossed them into the still-roaring furnace at the front of the cab.

“Yes, sir, you stand to have plenty of a nest egg, Mr. Scott,” the captain said.

“I wouldn’t have been able to do what I did if it hadn’t been for Lily—Miss Sinclair.”

The Ranger captain was already tugging on his swayback horse’s reins to keep it from wandering off. He jumped astride just as to the east four riders kicked up quite a cloud of dust.

“That’ll be Gonzalez coming to report,” said Thorne. He gave Ike a once-over, then thrust out his hand.

For a moment, Ike wasn’t sure what to do. Then he grasped the Ranger’s hand and shook. The man had a grip like a vise.

“Don’t go playin’ lawman again. You’re sure to get yourself killed.” With that, the Ranger released his death’s grip, grabbed an iron handhold and swung down. He headed toward the tight knot of Rangers around his captain.

Ike looked into the furnace. A melted blob of brass began evaporating. The paper signed by Hanging Judge Parker had long since turned to ash. He kicked shut the door and dropped to the ground on the far side of the train. It took a few seconds to orient himself by following the tracks ahead. A dancing heat shimmer hid what had to be the town of Franklin. After a few seconds of staring into the silvery mirage and not seeing Lily driving up in the buggy, he turned and walked slowly back along the train.

Three freight cars laden with death. And he had prevented Schofield from selling them. In the back of his mind he wondered how much the railroad magnate expected to make off the illicit sales. From what Thorne had said, the Comancheros had been holy terrors throughout the region to get the money to buy the weapons and ammunition. Victorio and his Warm Springs Mimbreños, as well as a dozen other renegade bands, would have made the gunrunners a fortune selling the illicit guns.

Ike puffed up with pride knowing he had prevented untold deaths. Best of all, he had stopped Schofield. He ran his fingers around under his collar, reminding himself how close he had come to a necktie party, compliments of the railroad owner. And none of that would have happened if Schofield hadn’t taken Lily and her ma prisoner.

“A good day. Yes, sir, a very good day,” he said.

“Your luck’s changing mighty fast,” came a cracked voice. “Move and I’ll blow a hole through your worthless head.”

Ike looked around, panicked. Nobody. The first freight car’s door was still closed—sealed. He chanced a look underneath. Nothing. Then he slowly looked toward the sky. Outlined against the blue was a silhouette of a man with a rifle trained on him.

“Schofield. You’re not dead!”

“No thanks to you. At least you didn’t toss me under the wheels like you did Kinch. It was you responsible for shoving him onto the tracks, wasn’t it?”

“He killed Gregorio,” Ike said, struggling to draw out Schofield. With his enemy already on the high ground, he was at a disadvantage that would mean his death unless he figured out how to escape—fast.

“Gregorio found out about the gunrunning. He ratted me out but knew better than to do it with any local law.”

“Granger?”

“He’s a fool, but Gregorio wasn’t sure about him being in my hip pocket. I found out he’d sent a telegram to Judge Parker since the guns were going to end up in Indian Territory.”

“The sheriff in Marfa and one of the Comancheros . . .” Ike steeled himself for a dive under the car. The distance was more than he could hope to cross before Schofield opened fire, but there wasn’t anything else he could do.

“Brothers. An easy connection to make. Now I want you to start running.”

“What?”

“Across the desert. Run, rabbit, run.” Schofield squared his stance and settled the rifle butt against his shoulder. He intended to make Ike sweat before he shot him. In the back. As he fled like a craven.

Ike saw no way around it. He turned, then felt his heart leap into his throat. Coming fast along the tracks, horse protesting, was Lily in the buggy. She shouted to him and waved.

Ike stopped trying to find a way out of his pickle. He acted on instinct. Schofield’s attention wavered for an instant. His aim swayed from Ike, toward the approaching woman. Ike slapped leather, drew and fired into the sky. His first round was off by a fraction. It tore through the edge of the freight car’s roof and sent splinters flying. This further ruined Schofield’s aim.

Ike’s second shot was aimed better. Far better. Schofield grunted, bent double and then toppled from the top of the freight car to land with a thud a few feet away. Ike refrained from firing again. Schofield was dead, very dead, this time.

“Ike, Ike! What’s going on?” Lily drew back hard on the reins and whipped them around the brake. She spilled out of the buggy and stumbled toward him.

He caught her around the waist and turned her from the body a few feet away.

“We’ve got a decision to make,” he said.

She tried to turn and look at Schofield. He walked her away.

“What decision is that?”

“How to spend the reward money.”

“Reward money? Oh, really. Tell me more!” She locked her arm through his and let him take her away.