“You followed us?”
“How else would I know you headed to Franklin?”
“You’re not a Comanchero, are you?” Ike saw the man’s face about crack as he laughed quietly.
“Can’t abide by them.” He pulled back his coat and glanced at his vest. “Dang it. I’ve been on the trail from Fort Worth and not had a chance to clean up.” He brushed off his vest. A small silver badge caught the light and blinded Ike.
“You’re a Texas Ranger,” Lily said. “I’ve heard tell you pound out your own badge from a Mexican silver dollar.”
“They don’t call ’em that, but you got the right idea, miss. My name’s Ezekiel Thorne, and I’ve just been transferred to the local Ranger district and haven’t been given an assignment yet. When I heard about your run-in with the marshal, I poked around, watched you convince the depot agent to loan you this here buggy and, well, curiosity got the better of me. I trailed you.”
“Get more help. Lily, go to town and rustle up a posse.” Ike was beside himself. Schofield and the Comancheros were obviously nearing the end of their negotiations.
“Don’t you trouble yourself none going back to El Paso. Head to Franklin. It’s about a mile off. Send a telegram to the district Ranger headquarters, let Captain Nathan know what’s going on and be sure to put in the word ‘scabbard.’ ”
“What’s that mean?” Lily looked increasingly frightened as the Comancheros began whooping and hollering.
“That’s something me and him know about. Just put it in and my captain’ll know what to do.”
“It’s still two of us against all of them until they arrive,” Ike said.
“Well, now,” said Thorne, rubbing his stubbled chin, “you got a point. The odds don’t seem the least bit fair.”
Ike saw that the small locomotive was building a head of steam, ready to pull out. Wherever the weapons-laded railcars headed, it’d be too far to chase them down.
“When I said I don’t like the odds, I meant for them. Why, a deputy US marshal and a Ranger pitted against them? We got ’em outnumbered, outgunned and out-thunk.” The Ranger checked his Walker to be sure he had a full load. He let his Colt slide back into its holster, squared his hat and fixed his eyes on the outlaws.
“Be careful, Ike.” Lily gave him a quick kiss. He wondered what her reaction would be if he confessed that he wasn’t a Federal marshal. Ike started to find out when she pulled away, snapped the reins and got the horse trotting off.
Thorne shoved Ike hard and sent him staggering. The Ranger was quick to follow.
“The buggy drew their attention.” Thorne pointed, and Ike saw that they were now hidden by the bulk of the freight car, but Lily had been noticed as she drove off.
He dropped to his knees and looked under the railcar. He saw the boots of at least six men pacing back and forth. When Schofield’s fancy shoes appeared, he pointed them out to the Ranger.
“That’s the varmint, all right,” Thorne said, pressing close to him. “Nobody on the trail’s going to wear anything that expensive. It’s time we did our duty. Are you up for it, Deputy?”
Ike nodded, not trusting himself to speak. If his voice cracked with strain, the Ranger would doubt him. He’d doubt himself.
They advanced until Thorne jangled the wire sealed with a lead slug intended to show if anyone had opened the freight car door. With a smooth movement, he whipped a Bowie knife from a sheath at the small of his back and cut through the wire like it was fresh-baked bread. Ike strained to slide open the heavy door a few inches.
Both of them peered inside. The door on the far side stood wide open, but no one had entered the car. Thorne heaved hard to roll their door open a few more inches, then slithered like a snake belly down across the floor. A quick hand motion urged Ike to join him.
Ike quaked inside but obeyed. He flopped down prone next to the Ranger. The Comancheros milled around a dozen feet away, nervously pacing and looking about as if they expected immediate attack. Ike almost laughed. They looked everywhere but at the real menace.
He glanced at Thorne. They both pulled their guns, but before either called out the order to surrender, Smitty shouted a warning.
Ike had seen hot water poured down an anthill cause less commotion. Irons cleared holsters, and lead flew wildly. The Comancheros had no idea where the threat to them came from, but Schofield’s henchman had given the warning. That was all it took for the air to turn deadly with bullets hammering into the freight car and sailing off into the desert.
Thorne began firing methodically, taking careful aim and loosing death with every shot. Two of the Comancheros closest to the freight car snapped around. One fell flat onto his back. When he landed on the hot sand, he never stirred a muscle. The Ranger’s aim was deadly, and he never hesitated as he sought targets, aimed and fired at the outlaws.
“You got him,” Ike congratulated. The words slipped unbidden from his lips. The Ranger’s second shot had also brought down one of the gunrunners. He twisted about like a corkscrew and sank into a heap as another slug ripped into his chest.
But Ike’s words drew attention to them. As if a puppet master controlled all of the Comancheros, they turned as one and fired into the freight car.
The tide of the slaughter shifted from the outlaws being killed to Ike and Thorne having no chance to escape.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
You surely do know how to stir up a hornet’s nest,” Ranger Thorne gritted out. He emptied his six-gun, rolled out of the direct line of sight of the outlaws and worked furiously to reload.
Ike recovered his wits and fired steadily. His aim was nowhere as good as the Ranger’s, but he scattered the Comancheros outside and gave the lawman time to clamber to his feet. Thorne put his shoulder to the open car door and slid it shut until only a foot of open space remained. Ike shot through this and sowed more confusion among Schofield and his henchmen, who tried to rush the car.
“I got to hand it to him, he’s got more sand in his gizzard than I’d have thought,” Thorne said. “Most men in Schofield’s spot would have turned tail and run at the first shot.”
“And what about our last shot?” Ike held up his empty six-gun. “I’m out of ammo.”
The Ranger gestured at the crates in the car.
“Help yourself. Load me one or two rifles while you’re at it.”
Ike got to his feet as more bullets blasted through the open space. The freight car walls now protected him, though one bullet drilled completely through dried wood. He stared at it and the shaft of light coming from outside. If he had been standing upright, the slug would have torn a path through his skull.
Shuddering at the closeness of death, he went to the nearest crate and used the butt of his pistol to knock off the lid. Inside, cradled in wood chips and paper strips, lay a half-dozen brand-new rifles. Taking two, he moved to boxes of ammunition and opened them. He fumbled as he slid the rounds from this cache into the rifle’s magazine, but quickly got the hang of loading.
He started to toss the rifle to the Ranger when he saw shadows moving outside the car where the two of them had entered. Ike levered in a round and waited. When an ugly face popped into view, he fired point-blank. A look of surprise widened the man’s eyes. His mouth opened and his lips pulled back. Then he toppled over, dead.