The engineer looked frightened, and there was a rifle in both his and the fireman's fist when the big locomotive ground to a shuddering halt.
"What the hell is going on down there?" the engineer called out.
"I'm a federal officer of the law. I got a prisoner and a big need to get to Reno."
"This ain't no damned way to board a train!"
Longarm ignored the outburst. "Here's my badge!" he said, digging it out of his pocket to display to the two nervous railroad men. "Can we load our horses?"
"Hell, no!"
Longarm shook his head. He looked to the young fireman and said, "If my prisoner moves, you have my permission to shoot him again."
The fireman was barely out of his teens, a tall, powerful young man covered with the wet muck and grime of coal dust. Only his teeth and eyes showed white when he said, "You mean he's already been shot?"
"That's exactly what I mean. And I'll shoot you if you let him run away in this storm!"
The fireman raised his rifle, took aim on Fergus's chest, and said: "You're coyote bait if you move, mister."
Longarm hurried over to the horses and quickly removed their saddles, blankets, and bridles. He carried his own saddle, Winchester, bedroll, and canvas bag with provisions to the train, where a conductor helped him and his wounded prisoner climb on board.
"United States Marshal Deputy Long," Longarm announced to the handful of startled passengers, most of whom had been sound asleep when the train had jarred them awake during its sudden and unscheduled stop. "And this here is my prisoner, and don't go feeling sorry for the bastard because he's part of the same bunch that wrecked the train at Laramie Summit."
The passengers appeared to be shocked by this announcement. Or maybe it was Fergus's deathly pallor that shocked them as well, because the wounded outlaw was trembling with cold and fear.
"Is he going to die?" an old lady asked.
"I doubt it," Longarm said.
"If he does, it would serve him right for his role in killing so many innocent people up there on the summit."
"I couldn't agree with you more."
It was only after the train was rolling along slowly again that a tall, lean cowboy with missing front teeth whistled, "What about them horses that you turned loose?"
"What about them?"
"Well, you comin' back for 'em?"
"Not likely."
A moment's silence, then he said, "Three good saddle horses and two saddles is worth at least two, maybe three months' cowboyin' wages."
"You might not even catch them," Longarm said, reading the cowboy's intent. "And this train has already gone at least a mile-"
"I don't mind the walk, sir. I'd walk back to Laramie for the value of them horses and saddles."
For some reason, Longarm felt compelled to make one final argument. "My friend, it's freezing out there and not only might you get stranded, but you also might catch your death of pneumonia."
But the cowboy was already up and moving down the aisle. "I'd like to take my own chances, if you don't mind. That sorrel horse was a damned fine-looking animal."
"He was as good as his looks," Longarm replied. "And if you can find him in this storm, then he's yours with the American taxpayers' blessings."
"Well, thank you, America!"
And with that, the cowboy dashed out of the coach and disappeared into the driving sleet.
CHAPTER 12
Longarm put Fergus up against the window and took the aisle seat. He was bitterly cold and wet. At the rear of the coach, a middle-aged and very undistinguished-looking couple held a quick whispered conversation. Moments later, the couple came forward to stand beside Longarm.
"We want to trade seats with you," the man announced. "You're cold and wet and our seats are close beside the stove."
Longarm looked up at the man. He thought that he should decline the generous offer, but his teeth were chattaring and he knew that would be foolish.
"We're much obliged," he said. "But I must warn you that our seats are going to be damp and..."
"Never mind that," the woman said with a warm smile. "We've some blankets we can spread over them."
"You're very kind."
"We are the Friedlanders." The couple were like a pair of sweet-faced marionettes. They bowed slightly in unison as the woman said, "My name is Ida and this is my husband, Luke. We are originally from Kentucky."
Longarm removed his hat. He knew that he must look a fright. He smiled. "Kentucky is the flower of the South. And you are fine people to be so charitable."
"We respect the law and have no wish to see anyone suffer needlessly," Ida said. She smiled, and her blue eyes flicked to Fergus and then returned to Longarm. "Which brings us to another matter."
"And that would be?"
"My father was a surgeon in the Confederate Army. I traveled with him and... well, it was a terrible thing for a child to see, but I learned a great deal about bullet, shrapnel, and saber wounds. In the years we have been together, my husband and I have patched up many a brave man."
"There is nothing particularly brave about either myself or this prisoner," Longarm said, "but seeing as how I doubt we'll find a surgeon until we reach Rock Springs, if then, you're welcome to have a look at his bullet wound."
But Fergus recoiled. "You're mighty kind, ma'am, but I don't want no woman diggin' around in my shoulder. I'd just as soon wait for a real doctor."
"That would be a mistake," Ida said. "I can tell by your color that you are about to go into shock. Probably the cold has something to do with it, but so does blood loss. Furthermore, a bullet should never remain buried in flesh. It quickly causes corruption and blood poisoning."
"My wife knows what she is talking about," Luke said quietly. "Ida has more experience than most any surgeon that you'd be lucky enough to find this side of Reno. And she always carries her father's surgical instruments--just in case we have the opportunity to help save a life."
"I damn sure do want to live long enough to see Deputy Long get shot," Fergus snarled.
"Then you'd better let Ida dig out that bullet," Longarm said. "It doesn't matter one way or the other to me. You already gave me the names of the members of the gang when you thought I was going to let the train run you over. I was bluffing, of course, but it worked just like I'd expected."
"You bastard!"
Longarm balled his fist, but Ida Friedlander objected. "This man may be a murderer, but he is still a human being made in the image of God."
"If so," Longarm said, "the Father's image is tarnished beyond recognition."
"Please let us take him into a car where we can examine him and remove the bullet if that is possible."
"All right," Longarm agreed, "but I'm coming along and I won't take my eyes off him for even a minute. Fergus may look like a whipped dog, but he's as cunning as a fox and as ruthless as a wolverine."
"He is a human being," Luke said. "We may hate the sin but not the sinner."
Longarm wasn't sure that he agreed. Furthermore, this new development was annoying. A few minutes before he thought that he'd be spending time beside the stove to thaw out his bones. Now, he was going to have to search out some cold baggage or mail car and stand guard while these two Good Samaritans tried to save the wounded outlaw's worthless life.
"Let's get this over with," Longarm said after a long, uneasy silence. "But Ida, if my prisoner does not survive the operation, I want you to know that you will not greatly disappoint me or any of the passengers fortunate enough to survive the Laramie Summit train wreck."
Ida gave him a look that said she felt pity for a man so unforgiving as Longarm. With her husband in the lead, she walked down the aisle, and then was followed by Fergus, while Longarm marched along behind.
They had to go all the way back to the mail car before they could find a place to examine Fergus.