Ike cursed when he saw the man’s destination. Nervously tugging at its reins, a horse was staked out on a creosote bush. If the robber reached the horse, he escaped, and there wasn’t any way Ike could run him to ground.
A quick estimate of distances and times to cross the desert flashed through his mind. He had to combine the two. At this range, his chance of missing the fleeing robber with another shot was too great. To narrow the distance, he stepped back then jumped, hitting the sandy slope ten feet down. It took all Ike’s skill to maintain balance and keep from tumbling head over heels.
He had expected his rushed attack to draw attention, and it did. The robber reached the base of the sand dune and looked up, eyes wide in surprise. Then he snarled and went for his gun.
Ike had shot him in his right shoulder aboard the train. This forced the outlaw to clumsily shift his six-gun to his left hand and fire. The bullet went wide.
“Give it up. You don’t want to die out in the godforsaken land.”
“Won’t be me doin’ the dyin’,” the man grated out. He kept firing. Unfortunately for Ike, the man’s aim improved with practice.
To make himself harder to target, Ike took another huge leap, hit the sand and tumbled the rest of the way to the bottom. The impact left him shaken, but he had enough sense to not lie there waiting to recover. He jerked in one direction, then rolled fast in the other. This kept him alive as three more slugs birthed small dust devils to either side. Then the telltale click of a hammer falling on an empty chamber gave him renewed hope he could end this without dying.
He came to his knees, drew his pistol and hunted for the outlaw. The man limped toward his tethered horse. Shooting off the boot heel proved useful once again because it forced the man to limp along rather than run flat out.
Ike took careful aim and fired. His target kept running—for a couple more paces. Then the outlaw showed signs of Ike’s accuracy. He took a dive onto his belly and scraped along the rough desert.
“You done hit me in the leg now, damn you!”
“Give up. This doesn’t have to be where you die.” Ike got to his feet but saw he was in for a prolonged fight. The outlaw clawed his way forward, grabbed the lower branch of a mesquite and pulled himself around behind it, depriving Ike of a clean shot.
“You said you were a lawman. What are you? A Texas Ranger?”
“You think I’m a Ranger?” That filled Ike with a touch of pride. Nobody had ever confused him with one of the toughest lawmen in the state. If anything, he was more likely to be the one hunted down by a Ranger for all his petty thieving back in Houston.
He should have kept quiet but found himself wanting respect.
“Deputy Federal marshal,” he called out.
“What were you doing on that there train? I never saw a Federal marshal or any other lawman ridin’ it before, and I scoped it out good. There was always a few rich folks and never a deputy.”
“It’s your bad luck. I happen to be on another case.” Ike licked his lips. The words were too far from the truth to be believed, yet the outlaw swallowed the excuse whole.
He reloaded and saw he had only four rounds left after the six in his gun. Crawling into a depression, he tried not to groan as sharp rocks and cactus nettles tore at his chest and belly. Peering up over the lip of the tiny arroyo gave him a good look at the outlaw’s horse, but the man was nowhere to be seen.
Realizing he had a straight shot if the man tried to mount sent Ike scampering back. If he knew it, so did the robber. The man had been careful enough planning the theft to have a horse waiting for him out in the desert. He had intended to rob the passengers, jump off the train and ride away. That’s why he’d been studying his watch and looking out the window so much before the robbery. He had timed how long it’d take to strip the passengers of their belongings and then leave the train at a carefully selected location.
“What was the landmark?” Ike called. “The one to let you know it was time to get off the train?”
“You’re a smart one, ain’t you? There’s a rock needle a couple miles back.”
The voice shifted from behind the creosote bush. The outlaw was on the move, trying to get Ike in his sights. Ike almost panicked. He wasn’t used to such hare-and-hound fighting. He wasn’t used to any gunplay at all. Before picking up Yarrow’s six-shooter, the last pistol he’d stolen was a year or more in the past. He had sold it for three dollars and hadn’t missed it until Penrose came after him.
“I don’t want to shoot you. Give me the loot, and I’ll let you go.”
“What kind of lawman are you? How about we split the money? I want to keep the necklace. I got a gal in Eagle Pass that’ll love it.”
“The ruby necklace?” Ike asked. He began moving over rocks so hot from the sun that he blistered his hand pressing down on one. It was only a half hour into a new day, and already the desert had turned deadly. “The lady you stole that from said it was her granny’s. You don’t want to take a family heirloom.”
“Don’t matter to me. It ain’t my family.”
The outlaw had struck out from behind the creosote bush to take refuge behind a patch of prickly pear cactus ten feet away. Ike saw movement out of the corner of his eye and reacted instinctively. He winced as hot lead passed between his left arm and his ribs. With a curiously steady hand, he aimed and fired. The outlaw stood a mite straighter. Ike fired again, even though he felt deep in his gut that the first bullet had been good enough.
The robber fell forward into the huge mound of prickly pear pads. Ike winced. That would hurt. Only the outlaw felt nothing. Moving slowly, he got to his feet and pressed his arm in tight to his body. This stanched the blood oozing from both his arm and ribs. Carefully moving, he lifted his arm to examine his wounds. Neither amounted to more than a deep scratch.
By the time he approached the outlaw, steps slow and cautious, both wounds had clotted over. They burned like hellfire, but neither would kill him. He stared at the fallen man. The train robber sprawled facedown in the cactus, arms flung out on either side of his body. Ike carefully stepped into the prickly pears and plucked the man’s pistol from his grip, then retreated. Not once had the outlaw stirred after Ike approached.
“Dead,” Ike said softly. “How did I get myself into this mess?”
The horse neighed loudly, protesting the gunfire. Ike grabbed the robber’s collar and heaved him out of his thorny grave. Prickly spines dotted the man’s face. If he’d lived, people seeing the scars would have remarked in awe on how he’d survived the smallpox. Ike dragged the man completely from the cactus patch, thinking on burying him.
The hard ground needed dynamite to dig into. And shoveling sand from the dunes over a body wasn’t a proper burial. The coyotes would dig out a body before sundown and have a feast.
Ike slid his pistol into its holster and tucked the outlaw’s gun into his belt. He had to use both hands to drag the body to where the horse jerked and tried to free itself.
“There, there,” Ike soothed. He wasn’t used to being around horses any more than he was adept at handling a gun, but this was his only path to survival now. He patted the horse’s neck and spoke soothingly until the horse settled down. Ike wondered how the outlaw had left the horse out here, then boarded the train back in San Antonio.
“He has a partner,” Ike decided. “Why didn’t he stick around so the two could ride off together?”
The answer made him a little antsy. He had heard that the Warm Springs Apaches from Arizona had come into Texas, dodging the cavalry the whole way. He looked around, expecting a war party to pop up. Their presence certainly explained why the robber’s partner had hightailed it—or been killed.