The actions of a desperate man, but also a cunning one. Morgan had some sort of escape plan in mind, or else he would not have taken the risk he had.
Bridges asked anxiously, “Who is he? What crimes did he commit?”
“His name is Morgan, Bartholomew Morgan. A thief, among other criminal offenses.”
“You said he’s dangerous. Do you think he’s armed?”
“No question of it.”
“Oh, Lordy. What does he look like?”
Quincannon provided a cogent description. “The birthmark should make him easy enough to spot. If he tries to conceal it under a stolen garment, that will give him away too.”
“So you think he’ll attempt to blend in with the other passengers?”
“Unless he has another trick up his sleeve. How long to the Vacaville stop?”
Bridges checked his railroad watch. “Forty minutes.”
“That should give us plenty of time for a search. Every nook and cranny from locomotive to caboose, if necessary.”
“If we don’t find him, what then?”
“We’ll find him,” Quincannon said darkly. “He is still on this train, Mr. Bridges. He can’t have gotten off.”
While Bridges stood watch, Quincannon stepped through the vestibule doorway and carefully climbed to the top of the iron ladder outside. He peered over the roofs of the cars, protecting his eyes with an upraised arm, for the coal-flavored smoke that rolled back from the locomotive’s stack was peppered with hot cinders. As expected, he saw no sign of his quarry. But he did find evidence of the man’s passage: marks in the thin grit that coated the tops of the lounge car as well as the smoking car, indicating that Morgan had gone forward.
Back in the vestibule, he used his handkerchief to cleanse his hands and face. The grimy streaks on the cloth confirmed another fact: no matter how long Morgan had been above or how far he’d crawled, his clothing had to be soiled when he came down. Someone may have seen him. And he couldn’t have wandered far in that condition. Either he was hiding where he lighted — one of the Pullman compartments, mayhap — or he would take the time to wash up and brush his clothes.
Quincannon said as much to the conductor, who responded, “I still say it makes no sense. Not a lick of sense.”
“It does to him. And it will to us when we find him.”
They worked their way forward, making sure Morgan wasn’t closeted in any of the lavatories, Bridges quietly alerting members of the crew. Their inspection of the lounge and dining cars was cursory. Morgan, shrewd as he was, could not have hoped to pass undetected in either one and so had avoided them.
When they reached the first-class Pullman, Bridges began knocking on compartment doors. No one in those occupied had seen Morgan. Nor was he in either of two temporarily empty compartments; Bridges’ passkey allowed searches of both. By the time they finished, the urgency and frustration both men felt were taking a tolclass="underline" Quincannon nearly bowled over a pudgy matron outside the first-class women’s lavatory, and Bridges snapped at a pompous gent who demanded to know what the devil was going on.
It took them five minutes to scan through the passengers in the third day coach — another exercise in futility. When they entered the middle coach, Sabina rose as soon as she saw them. Quincannon beckoned her out onto the vestibule, where he introduced her to Bridges — “My partner, Mrs. Sabina Carpenter” — and gave her a terse account of the situation. She received the news stoically; unlike him, she met most crises with a shield of calm.
She said, “He’s not in the second coach. I would have noticed any newcomers, especially one with the side of his face covered.”
“Almost certainly not in the first then, either. He wouldn’t have crawled that far over the tops of the cars.”
No, Morgan was not in the first coach. A swift search proved that.
In the vestibule again, Sabina said, “The man may be full of tricks, but he can’t make himself invisible. He has to be somewhere.”
“Not the tender or the locomotive,” Bridges said. “There’s no way he could get into either one without being seen and thwarted.”
“Which leaves the baggage car and the caboose.”
“He couldn’t get into those, either.”
Quincannon said, “Are you sure about the baggage car?”
“The baggage master secures all the doors as soon as we depart.”
He bit back a self-deprecating expletive in deference to Sabina. “Blast it, we should have checked there before we came forward. But it’s not too late if we hurry, Mr. Bridges.”
Sabina said, “I’ll go with you—”
“No need. Take a slow stroll through the cars on the off chance we somehow overlooked him among the passengers.”
She didn’t argue.
The baggage master’s office was empty. Beyond, the door to the baggage car stood open a few inches.
Frowning, Bridges stepped up to the office door, tried the latch. Unlocked. “Oh, Lordy,” he said in a choked whisper, then opened the door and called out, “Dan? You in the car?”
No answer.
The hot prickly sensation was back between Quincannon’s shoulder blades. He drew the Webley, shouldered the conductor aside, and crossed the office to widen the doorway to the baggage car. The oil lamps inside were lighted; most of the interior was visible. Boxes, crates, stacks of luggage and express parcels, but no sign of human habitation.
“What do you see, Mr. Quincannon?”
“Nothing. No one.”
“I don’t like this, none of this,” Bridges said. “Where’s Dan? He’s always here, and he never leaves doors unlocked...”
Quincannon eased his body through the doorway and into a crouch behind a packing crate. Peering out, he saw no one and no evidence of disturbance anywhere. Several large crates and trunks were belted in place along the inner wall. Against the far wall stood a pair of carts piled with luggage. More of the same rested in neat rows nearby, among them Sabina’s carpetbag and his war bag. None of the baggage appeared to have been tampered with, or moved except by the natural motion of the train.
Toward the front was a shadowed area into which he could not see clearly. A possible hiding place? He straightened, edged around and alongside the crate with the revolver cocked and ready. No sounds other than the thrum of steel on steel. And no movement until a brief lurch and shudder as the locomotive nosed into a curve and the engineer used his air. Then something slid into view in the dusky corner.
A leg. A man’s leg, twisted and bent.
Quincannon muttered the expletive he had suppressed earlier, closed the gap by another half dozen paces. He could see the rest of the man’s body then — a sixtyish fellow in a trainman’s uniform, lying crumpled, his cap off and a dark blotch staining his wispy gray hair. Quincannon went to one knee beside him, found a thin wrist, and pressed it for a pulse. The beat was there, faint and irregular.
“Mr. Bridges! Be quick!”
The conductor came running inside. When he saw the unconscious crewman he jerked to a halt; a moaning sound vibrated in his throat. “My God, old Dan! Is he—?”
“No. Wounded but still alive.”