“He’s been riding with the boys. You know. All the way from the Cap Rock.”
Ike caught Kinchloe’s comment and almost sat up straight.
“If he’d been here, he coulda sold direct to the Apaches.”
“That’s not likely, not with the troopers out of Fort Davis in the field all the time,” the sheriff said. “They make life for a Comanchero a living hell.”
Ike moved his beer stein around to catch a reflection on one faceted side. The distortion was too much to get a clear reflection, but from the tone, he didn’t need to see the lawman’s face. The sheriff wasn’t kidding about his brother being a Comanchero. There might have been a trace of longing there that he wasn’t riding with his brother and was, instead, stuck being a sheriff.
Everything fell into place for Ike then. If Schofield sold three carloads of rifles and ammunition to Comancheros around El Paso, it wasn’t that much of a stretch for the weapons to be taken by wagon into Indian Territory and sold to the tribes there. And Indian Territory was under Judge Parker’s jurisdiction. Augustus Yarrow had been sent to San Antonio to find the source of rifles flooding Oklahoma. That seemed a long way to ride, but Yarrow’s reputation merited such a mission. The Five Civilized Tribes weren’t likely to kick up much of a fuss, but the rest of the territory stewed and steamed and often boiled over.
The sheriff’s brother and his Comanchero band were stirring that pot. There was no telling how much death and destruction they had been responsible for already. And three freight cars creaking under the weight of rifles and ammunition could keep the fires of war burning for a year or longer.
Ike tried to take too big a swig of beer and choked. He coughed, and one bit of wood shot from his nose. Rather than risk being discovered by Schofield and his cronies, Ike rocked to his feet and walked away unsteadily, trying to remember how he had entered. He doubted anyone would notice and compare, but he wanted this performance to equal anything Lily might give onstage.
He owed it to her for the work she’d put in disguising him. At the door, he paused, fought down the impulse to keep up the charade and do a bit more spying then left. As much as he wanted to look back at the three men conspiring at the rear of the saloon, he forced himself to keep his eyes from drifting. All it’d take was to lock eyes and that mysterious sense of identification could flow.
If Kinchloe or Schofield saw him, he’d be a goner.
He turned toward the railroad depot. Lily immediately stepped close and locked her arm through his.
“Well, what happened? Was the makeup good enough? Oh, you’ve lost the prosthetic in your nose.”
“Pros—?” He shook his head. “Never mind. They never got a look at my face. The bartender did. If he mentions the crazy desert rat with wood stuffed up his nose to the sheriff, I might be in trouble.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Nobody says anything like that. You’re just fretting too much. I am sure your performance was stellar.” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “A stellar performance by a man who wears a star!”
Ike swiped at the cosmetics on his face. His fingers came away even filthier than before. He gave up trying to clean himself. Before he got on the train again, he’d be sure to wash his face and change his appearance yet again.
“I found out what Schofield intends to do with so many guns. And from things he’s said before, he’s going to take the money and go on the run.”
“He’d never walk away from his railroad.” Lily laughed as she shook her head, the gray wig slipping to one side. She hastily pushed it back into place, hiding her bright red hair. “He’d not walk, of course. He’d ride in his fancy railcar.” She quieted down and said in a low voice, “Like he’s doing now.”
“I should send a telegram to Marshal Granger. It’s not out of the question for Schofield to loot every penny he can from the railroad and then leave there for good. That kind of graft with what he’ll make selling the rifles to the Comancheros—”
“Comancheros! Why, that’s despicable! They do nothing but entice Indians off the reservation and keep bloody wars flaring!”
“I can’t send a telegram,” Ike said, dejected. “The telegrapher would warn the sheriff. Any traffic like that’s bound to arouse his suspicions.”
“Let me send a ’gram to my mama.”
He looked at her. “That’s a good idea, but you won’t be able to mention anything that’d pique the telegrapher’s curiosity. He’d be as likely to tell the sheriff about you sending a telegram mentioning rifles and Comancheros as if I did in one to Granger.”
“Let me take care of that. Mama and I have performed enough different plays that I can leave hints she will surely understand and no telegrapher ever would.”
“Well,” Ike said uncertainly.
“You go clean up while I compose the telegram. Hmm, ‘loose the dogs of war’ has a ring to it. I need to remember other lines she will immediately understand.”
“She has to tell Granger. And I doubt Shakespeare mentioned anything about railroads.”
“So you recognize the Immortal Bard, eh? There’s hope for you yet, Deputy.” She put a dainty hand over her mouth. “I meant Ike. Don’t fret. I am sure I will find just the right words. I’ve wanted to try my hand at writing a stage play for some time. This will be a good audition for such an exciting new role.”
Ike listened to her ramble on with half an ear. Even if Granger found evidence of fraud that indicted Schofield, that did nothing to prevent the weapons from falling into the hands of the Comancheros.
While Lily went to send her telegram, he doused himself in a watering trough and washed off as much desert caked to his skin as he could. A bath would have been better, but the feel of a clean face refreshed him.
And let him think up a desperate scheme for stopping Schofield.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
He keeps staring at me. He knows!” Lily Sinclair swung about and peered out the window as the train began gathering speed. Marfa looked as if it moved backward and they stood still. If she pressed any harder against the window, she’d flop out of the passenger car and onto the station depot platform.
Ike took her arm and squeezed reassuringly. He sounded more confident than he felt when he told her, “Kinchloe’s done this a lot. He studies each passenger, looking for trouble.”
“He missed the robber, the one you killed.” Lily snuggled closer to him.
Ike wished she wouldn’t do that. It looked odd. The last thing he wanted was for other passengers to be whispering about how the old lady clung so fiercely—so passionately—to him. Lily had used the last of her makeup in a vain attempt to repair her disguise. Drawing attention by acting strangely forced the other passengers to see the flaws in her artistry. Ike wondered if the time for such deception was past.
Schofield and his henchmen knew their identities. Ike depended on Kinchloe or Smitty or any of the others not trying to kill them in front of the passengers. Somehow, he doubted any of the men would hesitate to murder an entire train filled with innocent people, especially if they intended to take their ill-gotten gains and disappear over the horizon. Still, as terrible a plan as it was, this was all Ike could think of. Stick with the train, Schofield and the weapons until they came upon a lawman able to arrest the gunrunners.