“I see. That must be the man who—”
“That accounts for the robber. Nobody else.” The conductor started to press him, but Ike feigned a leg cramp. “If we got another outlaw on the train, he’s biding his time.” The conductor shook his head vigorously, denying any of the remaining passengers fit the description of another robber. “You’re wasting your time prowling around.”
“Better go set myself down again. The leg’s getting worse.” Ike needed to scout out everything the railroad owner did to better make plans for bringing him to justice.
“You need help?” The conductor started to support him.
“No thanks. It doesn’t hurt as much if I put some weight on it.” Ike hobbled away, left the car, then paused. Going back to the Pullman car gained him nothing. Even spinning the tallest tale ever, he wouldn’t get past Schofield and his detectives to see what was in the freight car just beyond.
All that awaited him once he was out of sight of the other passengers was a bullet through the heart.
He swung around and climbed the iron rung ladder to the roof. The sudden gust of wind as he poked his head over the roof overhang almost knocked him from the train. Ike pulled his hat down more firmly and tried again. Ready for the blast of air this time, he wasn’t bowled over. He climbed the rest of the way and lay flat on the roof of the third passenger car for a moment, then got to his feet. Walking along the roof took some skill. He wished he had learned to break broncos instead of dealing seconds off a deck of cards. Such a job required balance and anticipation of odd, unexpected jerking movement this way and that. Not for the first time he recognized how much he had missed. This was a part of his life totally lacking, having spent most of his life in Houston doing citified things.
Mostly he had done things sure to get him arrested by the likes of Augustus Yarrow.
Arms outstretched like a tightwire walker, he eased along the roof until he came to the next car. This was Schofield’s Pullman. Even if he hadn’t counted back to it, he would have known. The roof was made from fine wood and had ankle-high brass rails along the sides for decoration. A quick step took him onto its roof. He balanced, bent to use one rail for support, then walked slowly toward the rear. He paused when he came to a skylight.
A quick look down showed the poker table had been placed directly under it. Four men sat around the table. From his bird’s-eye vantage point, he read all their cards. He fought the urge to watch since Kinchloe bet heavily on three kings. Smitty, across the table from him, held four deuces.
He almost fell when the train lurched. He rocked away and realized his arms had passed over the skylight. Ike held his breath, fearing he had given himself away. As if from a thousand miles away he heard Smitty say, “Damned birds flying overhead. Makes the light flicker.”
Kinchloe said something, then play resumed. Ike edged around the skylight and stopped at the next space between the Pullman and the first freight car. He couldn’t read the numbers on the freight car but would have bet against Smitty that this was one of the three railcars being loaded in the warehouse.
“Guns, ammunition,” he said softly. Ike bent his knees and took the big step. He landed on the freight car and fell face forward. He caught himself, then wiggled to the side and peered down. Reading upside down, he saw he was right. The numbers he remembered painted on the side of the car back in the San Antonio warehouse matched these.
Schofield was moving three cars loaded with rifles and ammo—enough to start a new War Between the States. If he’d had his wits about him, he could have told the marshal in Eagle Pass. If it hadn’t been an illegal shipment, Schofield wouldn’t be accompanying the guns along a rail line owned by Southern Pacific. But Ike hadn’t thought of it, or even known the cars were connected to the passenger cars then.
I was busy, he thought, smiling ruefully. He spun about on his belly and wiggled back, then stopped. The train stopped in Marfa to take on water and probably coal. That wasn’t done quickly. He’d have time to find the town marshal and see Schofield and his men arrested.
If there were rifles and ammunition in the cars.
He thought that was true. If it wasn’t, and his impersonation of a real deputy came out, he’d spend the rest of his natural life in the Detroit Federal Prison. He ran his fingers under his collar. Prison might be the lesser of punishments to expect. Schofield had tried to hang him before. If he came across him alone, Ike was a goner.
“Gregorio,” Ike mumbled. He had no idea what the man had known, but it had gotten him killed. And it had been powerful enough evidence for Augustus Yarrow to come all the way from Arkansas to investigate. That was the real question burning in Ike’s head. What crime was vile enough that Judge Parker’s lawman had traveled the length of Texas?
He had to be certain of the contents of at least one of the freight cars. Pulling himself to the edge of the roof, he hunted for the iron rungs leading down. Finding them was easy enough, but they didn’t bring him to a convenient door, unlike on the passenger cars. He pushed back and looked around. A smile came to his face, a big, broad one.
Riding the rails as he had done from Houston paid off. He had been in an empty freight car and remembered seeing an open ventilation hatch in the roof. Ike scooted over to the one in this car. It was locked. Tugging and twisting got him nowhere. In frustration, he drew his six-shooter and shot off the lock. The noise momentarily deafened him. He hadn’t expected the report to be so loud.
With a quick jerk, he threw open the hatch and peered into the car. Crates only a few feet below gave him a staircase down. Under his feet, around the crates through the broad cracks in the floor, he saw momentary flashes as ties raced past. The sparks from the wheels lit up the night. He reached into his pocket and touched a tin of lucifers, then he pushed them back into his pocket.
Wandering around a carload of ammunition with a lighted match was a sure way to get a one-way ticket to Heaven.
Ike fumbled about in the dark like a blind man. He ran his fingers over a splintery crate, found the lid and worried his fingers under it. Heaving, he broke away part of the lid when he failed to extract the nails. Forcing his hand into the hole, he fumbled around and pushed away wood chips. When he touched cold, sleek metal, he traced its outline.
“A rifle,” he said in satisfaction as he tugged gently on the trigger. He had to believe the other crates held rifles, too. The ones that didn’t were laden with ammunition. That only made sense. “A waste of time checking more of them. All a marshal’d need is one crate.”
Or he hoped that was so. Schofield had to explain why he was shipping three freight cars filled with arms. Ike doubted a bill of sale accompanied the shipment.
He climbed back up the mountain of crates and popped out of the hatch. He sat on the edge for a moment, legs inside the car as a new thought hit him. What if Schofield transported the rifles under a government contract? What if all the weapons were bought and paid for by the US Army? There were dozens of posts along the tracks if the more distant outposts deep in West Texas were willing to send a wagon to pick up their new rifles.
The conversation he had overheard between Schofield and Kinchloe made that unlikely. The way they talked, Schofield intended to do something illegal and never return to San Antonio. To abandon an entire rail system, even a small one, meant the crimes were immense.
And growing.
Blundering about, he pulled himself up and let the whistling wind evaporate the sweat drenching him. It had been close in the car. The dry desert air combined with the speed of the train cooled him until he felt presentable once more. He could hardly wait to tell Lily what he had found and that she was right about the cars.