“You were after him? The Rangers, I mean?”
“I came over on special assignment from Fort Worth because of him. Heard tell he moved all kinds of contraband in South Texas, but the Comancheros ridin’ through New Mexico and onto the Llano Estacado were fixin’ to upset the apple cart.”
Ike leaned out the cab window. The rivets blown from the boiler had caused leaks in a dozen places. This engine had become as immobile as a huge boulder. Fixing it to run again would cost more than buying a new Baldwin locomotive from back in Philadelphia. He closed his eyes and imagined how it felt being in control of such a powerful machine, the wind whipping past his face at twenty miles an hour, the clack of steel against steel, the countryside sliding past—and all under his control.
“There they are,” Thorne said.
The words shook Ike from his daydream. The engine wasn’t moving, and he’d just fought a battle where men had died. The dream was better.
“Who’s that?”
“A detachment from my Ranger district,” Thorne said. “Your little lady got through and sent the telegram to Captain Nathan.”
“Why’d you tell her to put the word ‘scabbard’ into it? That didn’t make any sense.” Ike turned and studied the Ranger for a moment, then grinned crookedly. “It was a code word.”
“You’re sharp as a tack,” Thorne said. “The detachment is heading straight for a Comanchero encampment we scouted a week ago. They thought they were safe, and back then, they were. Now we got evidence of gunrunning on them.” Thorne leaned against the far side of the cab. “Those owlhoots have been robbin’ every bank, train and stagecoach they can find, gettin’ the gold together to buy the rifles in those freight cars.” He jerked his thumb toward the rear of the short train. “If we find Schofield alive, he’ll tell us everything about them to save his own poxy hide.”
“He’s likely dead.”
“That’ll save the taxpayers a pile of money,” Thorne said. He fixed his hard stare on Ike until he squirmed.
It wasn’t much of a surprise when Thorne asked, “Who the hell are you?”
Ike touched his coat pocket where the wallet with the badge rested. He pulled it out and stared at it. The brass badge had saved his life, and he hadn’t even known it. A bullet had flattened against the metal that otherwise would have drilled him through the heart. Fumbling a bit, he pulled out the envelope with the letter from Judge Parker explaining the reason for being undercover. He ran dirty fingers over the envelope. Coal soot and sweat left tracks on the paper.
“You figured it out,” Ike said. He handed the wallet with the badge and envelope to the Ranger. Thorne took both and held them. Ike knew evidence of a crime when he saw it now. So did the Ranger.
“Of course I did. I’ve known Gus Yarrow for nigh on ten years. You’re nowhere near as tall to be impersonating him.”
“Not boots I can fill. Ever.”
Silence descended until a weather-beaten man rode up on the ugliest horse Ike had ever seen. As the rider turned, his Ranger’s badge gleamed in the sun.
“That’s my superior, Captain Nathan,” Thorne said softly. Louder, “You about got them all rounded up, Cap?”
“Sergeant Gonzalez cut them off from their camp. He says there’re crates of firewater there, and he sniffed out the hiding place for everything they’ve been stealing this past month,” the Ranger captain said. He swung from horseback into the engine to crowd close. There was hardly enough room for all of them.
“Hooked onto the engine are three cars loaded with rifles and ammunition,” Thorne reported. “If you send someone back along the tracks, they might find Schofield.”
“And his new second in command, name of Smitty,” Ike tossed in.
Captain Nathan edged closer and peered past Thorne.
“You must be Ike Scott. That’s one fine lady you’ve got. She alerted us. That puts her and you in line to collect a sizable reward.”
“Too bad lawmen can’t collect a reward,” Thorne said.
“We’re just doing our duty,” Nathan agreed. He glared at Thorne. “You’re not fixing to ask for some of the money, are you, Zeke?”
“I was just pointin’ out that deputies and the like can’t collect rewards, but civilians can.” He ran his fingers around the sweat-stained, dirty envelope. He opened the wallet. Ike blinked as it reflected sunlight. The Ranger tucked the envelope into the wallet alongside the badge, then tossed them into the still-roaring furnace at the front of the cab.
“Yes, sir, you stand to have plenty of a nest egg, Mr. Scott,” the captain said.
“I wouldn’t have been able to do what I did if it hadn’t been for Lily—Miss Sinclair.”
The Ranger captain was already tugging on his swayback horse’s reins to keep it from wandering off. He jumped astride just as to the east four riders kicked up quite a cloud of dust.
“That’ll be Gonzalez coming to report,” said Thorne. He gave Ike a once-over, then thrust out his hand.
For a moment, Ike wasn’t sure what to do. Then he grasped the Ranger’s hand and shook. The man had a grip like a vise.
“Don’t go playin’ lawman again. You’re sure to get yourself killed.” With that, the Ranger released his death’s grip, grabbed an iron handhold and swung down. He headed toward the tight knot of Rangers around his captain.
Ike looked into the furnace. A melted blob of brass began evaporating. The paper signed by Hanging Judge Parker had long since turned to ash. He kicked shut the door and dropped to the ground on the far side of the train. It took a few seconds to orient himself by following the tracks ahead. A dancing heat shimmer hid what had to be the town of Franklin. After a few seconds of staring into the silvery mirage and not seeing Lily driving up in the buggy, he turned and walked slowly back along the train.
Three freight cars laden with death. And he had prevented Schofield from selling them. In the back of his mind he wondered how much the railroad magnate expected to make off the illicit sales. From what Thorne had said, the Comancheros had been holy terrors throughout the region to get the money to buy the weapons and ammunition. Victorio and his Warm Springs Mimbreños, as well as a dozen other renegade bands, would have made the gunrunners a fortune selling the illicit guns.
Ike puffed up with pride knowing he had prevented untold deaths. Best of all, he had stopped Schofield. He ran his fingers around under his collar, reminding himself how close he had come to a necktie party, compliments of the railroad owner. And none of that would have happened if Schofield hadn’t taken Lily and her ma prisoner.
“A good day. Yes, sir, a very good day,” he said.
“Your luck’s changing mighty fast,” came a cracked voice. “Move and I’ll blow a hole through your worthless head.”
Ike looked around, panicked. Nobody. The first freight car’s door was still closed—sealed. He chanced a look underneath. Nothing. Then he slowly looked toward the sky. Outlined against the blue was a silhouette of a man with a rifle trained on him.
“Schofield. You’re not dead!”
“No thanks to you. At least you didn’t toss me under the wheels like you did Kinch. It was you responsible for shoving him onto the tracks, wasn’t it?”
“He killed Gregorio,” Ike said, struggling to draw out Schofield. With his enemy already on the high ground, he was at a disadvantage that would mean his death unless he figured out how to escape—fast.
“Gregorio found out about the gunrunning. He ratted me out but knew better than to do it with any local law.”
“Granger?”
“He’s a fool, but Gregorio wasn’t sure about him being in my hip pocket. I found out he’d sent a telegram to Judge Parker since the guns were going to end up in Indian Territory.”
“The sheriff in Marfa and one of the Comancheros . . .” Ike steeled himself for a dive under the car. The distance was more than he could hope to cross before Schofield opened fire, but there wasn’t anything else he could do.