“Anything to bring in customers,” Ike said sardonically. He picked up on Lily’s quick assessment of the saloon. Although it was late afternoon and the real crowd wouldn’t pour in for a few more hours, the place had an especially empty look and feel to it.
“That’s the truth. I’ve been hobbling along, you might say. There’s a powerful lot of competition in town. And across the river in El Paso del Norte, too.”
“Does your lack of customers have anything to do with the marshal making this his watering hole?” Ike saw he’d hit the nail on the head.
“Speak of the devil, there he is now.” The barkeep gave Ike a sour look and turned to listen as Lily hammered away at the piano and launched into a rousing rendition of “Camptown Races.”
Ike half turned as a glowering man pushed up to the bar next to him. He gestured and the barkeep dropped a glass of whiskey in front of the marshal. His star gleamed on his chest, but he didn’t wear a holster or six-gun.
The marshal knocked back the tarantula juice, belched and said without turning to Ike, “I carry it in my coat pocket.” He opened the pocket slightly and showed that it was lined with leather to keep the six-gun’s hammer from catching on cloth when he drew.
“I want to report a varmint dealing rifles to the Comancheros.”
“You’re not big on small talk, are you, Mister?”
“Not when three freight cars loaded with weapons and ammunition are going to be dealt purty darn quick.”
“This sounds more like a job for Hal.” He accepted a second large glass of whiskey and downed it as quick as he had the first.
“Who’s that?”
“Harrington Lee Gosling. Hal. He’s the district US Marshal.”
Ike seized up at that. Impersonating a deputy US marshal while dealing with a full-blown marshal was a sure way to end up in jail.
But those rifles. Comancheros and the Apaches and . . . Schofield.
“Since you’re not able to deal with this matter, tell me where I can find him. Gosling.”
“Never said I wasn’t able, and Hal’s off in New Mexico somewhere running down some Mimbreños.”
“I rode with a patrol from Fort Davis that tangled with some of Victorio’s band.”
“You do get around, don’t you?” Stoudenmire licked his lips, as if deciding on whether a third glass of whiskey was appropriate. Ike had seen men pass out from drinking in an hour what the marshal had downed in the span of a few minutes.
“I do. If I can’t get Gosling to make the arrest, who else is there?”
“Don’t rile me, old son. I never said I wouldn’t look into it, but why should I believe a word that comes out of your pie hole?”
The marshal’s attitude got Ike’s dander up. If he thought he’d have a chance he would have gone after Schofield on his own. He reached into his inner coat pocket and drew out the letter from Judge Parker and the wallet with the brass badge. He dropped them on the bar.
Stoudenmire pulled the letter toward him as if it was poison. He scanned the contents, then flipped open the wallet to reveal the badge.
“This changes things considerably, Deputy Yarrow. I’m surprised you hunted me up before trying to find Gosling, though. You feds stick together. An arrest like this makes any lawman shine in the public’s eye.”
“From what I hear, your reputation needs some polishing with the citizens.”
Stoudenmire laughed harshly. “Ain’t enough spit and polish in the whole wide world for that to happen. I’ll always be an outsider to the local peasants.” He patted his leather-lined pocket holding his six-shooter and tilted his head toward the door. “Let’s go take a look at these rifles. If they’re good enough, I might claim one for my own use. The city’s not too generous when it comes to supplying me with guns.”
They started for the door. Stoudenmire glanced over his shoulder when Lily stopped playing and ran to join them.
“You travel in mighty nice company,” the marshal said when he saw Lily was accompanying them. “Is she a deputy, too?”
“Nothing like that, Marshal,” she said. “I just want to see Schofield brought to justice.”
“Nothing like carrying a grudge to turn over the right rocks. Let’s see what crawls out from under.”
They hurried down Oregon Street, then cut across to the railroad terminal. With every step Ike’s anticipation grew. Many times before he had quaked inside, but his hand was steady. He slid the leather thong off the hammer of his gun and ran his hand up and down the holster, mimicking the movement necessary to begin a gunfight.
“There it is,” Ike said. “The train from San Antonio.”
He stopped dead in his tracks and stared. Lily put into words what dawned on him.
“The freight cars are gone,” she said in a weak voice.
CHAPTER TWENTY
They were here. I swear it. They’re gone.” Ike climbed onto a water barrel and balanced precariously as he looked frantically down the tracks. The engine with the passenger cars still stood in the station, but the freight cars along with the Pullman were gone. “The caboose! Where’s the caboose?!”
“It’s loose, just like your brains,” Dallas Stoudenmire said. “You folks have been out in the desert too long. This part of the country’s famous for sunstroke. I recommend you find yourself a saloon and set yourselves down until the hallucinations pass. Just steer clear of the Golden. That’s my place.”
“Wait, Marshal!” Lily grabbed his arm. He yanked free. For once Lily fell silent when she saw his dark look. She stepped out of his way and let him stalk off.
“Schofield’s already moved the cars. Where’d he go?”
“There’s a simple way to find out,” she said. She lifted her skirts and climbed the steps to the platform. Ike was slow following. By the time he got to her side, she was interrogating the ticket agent.
“Lady, I don’t know these things. Go ask the yard manager. He’s responsible for routing.” The man kept running his fingers along the bottom of the raised window, wanting to slam it shut and get rid of Lily’s persistent questioning.
“You were up here where you could see the train when it pulled in. When did the freight cars get moved?” She leaned forward so that the ticket agent would have had to slam the window down on her. Sliding her hands forward suggested she wasn’t above reaching through the window and grabbing him by the lapels to shake the answers from him.
“I just came on duty. If you want a ticket somewhere, I’ll sell it to you. San Antonio? That train’s not going that way. According to the schedule, it’s departing for Yuma in about an hour.”
“You haven’t answered,” she cried. “I want—”
Ike pulled a furious Lily back and said, “If Schofield intends to head for the coast and escape, he has to go through Yuma. That means he intends to sell the rifles to the Comancheros within the hour.”
“Oh, oh,” she cried, incoherent. She controlled herself, took a deep, calming breath and rested her hand over her heart as if checking its rapid beating. “That worthless marshal! He’ll be responsible for hundreds of people getting shot up. What are we going to do, Deputy?” She caught herself, lowered her voice and said, “Ike? You still want me to call you that, even though you told the marshal your real name?”
“Ike,” he affirmed. “And we aren’t going anywhere. I can find out where the cars were shipped.” He turned to the ticket agent.