Frozen stiff by a cutting wind, his face black with soot from the locomotive’s belching chimney, Shawn O’Brien was relieved when the train clanked to a halt at a water tower a mile south of the Texas border. A couple of minutes later the Pullman’s door opened and Zeb Moss stepped onto the platform with Silas Creeds.
Moss smiled. “Good morning, gentlemen, and how was your trip?”
Shawn’s jaw felt as though it was frozen in place, but he managed to say, “What do you think, Moss?”
“Uncomfortable, were we? Well, we will be at our destination soon.” Moss nodded to where the track made a V with another. “The rails that swing to the left head due south along the Magdalena River, and that’s the route we’ll take.”
Shawn worked his jaw a few moments, then asked, “What’s your game, Moss?”
“Game? Mr. O’Brien, it’s no game. There’s money at stake. Oh, and your life, too. But then you already know that.”
“Why Sonora? What’s in Sonora that you want so badly?
“You’ll learn the answer to that question soon. If you live that long, of course.”
“Zeb, cut me loose,” Uriah Tweedy suggested. “I’m no part of this.”
Moss shook his head. “Tweedy, Mr. Creeds informs me that you’re a nasty old man and as mean as a teased rattler. I’m sorry, but I believe you’re in cahoots with O’Brien, no matter how much you deny it.”
“I’m a prisoner of circumstances, Mr. Moss,” Tweedy complained. “Yup, that’s what I am, a prisoner of circumstances.”
“And a hostage to fortune, no doubt,” Moss said.
“Whatever that means, Mr. Moss, no truer words have ever been spoke. At least in this part of the country.”
Moss laughed. “You amuse me, Tweedy, so maybe I’ll let you live.” He slapped his hands together. “Now for some good news. I’ve ordered coffee for all three of you and one of my ladies will be here directly to serve it. Your hands will be unbound for a while. How is that for a magnanimous gesture?”
“Mag . . . magin . . . just what you said, Mr. Moss,” Tweedy said. “It’s true blue as ever was. Can I call you Zeb?”
“No.”
“Magnanimous means generous, Mr. Tweedy,” Uriah Lowth explained.
“Yeah, it was that, too,” Tweedy added.
Moss laughed again and stepped back into his private car.
An older man who seemed affable enough untied Shawn’s hands. “They say there are still some renegade Apaches down this way, but I don’t put any store in that talk. I fit Apaches one time, but I didn’t make a go of it and they stole my mule right out from under my nose. Those savages are right partial to mule meat and they must’ve dined well that night.”
Shawn had the Irishman’s love of a good story and fine-sounding words and under normal circumstances he would’ve wanted to hear the gray-haired man’s tale, but he contented himself with saying, “You’re lucky you still have your hair.”
The man nodded. “Well, what’s left of it, anyway.”
His companion was of a different breed. Barely out of his teens, he was trying to grow a man’s mustache, but only a downy shadow covered his top lip. His green eyes were older and carried the scars of ancient wounds, and he wore a two-gun rig, seldom seen at that time in the West. Shawn guessed he’d be a Kid of some kind—plenty of those around—and he’d be mighty sudden with the iron . . . and merciless.
As though confirming Shawn’s thoughts, the affable man introduced him. “This here is the Topock Kid and he’ll be your chaperone.” He smiled. “Don’t let that baby face fool you, he’s pure pizen. Killed his own pa with a wood ax when he was barely out of knee britches. Didn’t you, Kid?”
“Keep it up old man, and you’ll join him,” the Topock Kid growled.
“See what I mean.” The affable man stepped into the Pullman car. He seemed glad to leave.
“You drink your coffee and Masters will come back to tie you up again,” the Kid said. “I see any fancy moves and I’ll shoot you in the belly.”
“Hey Kid,” Tweedy said, “did you really take an ax to your pa?”
“No. It was a mattock. I bashed his skull in with the flat end.”
“I guess you didn’t like him much, huh?” Shawn assumed.
“No, I didn’t, and I don’t like you, either, O’Brien, so shut your damned trap.”
“Ah, Mr. Topock, I think you meant to say the adze end,” Lowth put in. “A mattock is a farm tool, right?”
“Hangman, are you trying to be funny?” the Kid said, his eyes ugly.
Lowth was spared having to answer. The car door opened and Julia Davenport stepped onto the platform, a tray in her hands. Deep shadows appeared under her eyes and she looked thinner. The dress she wore was stained and torn and the cups on the cheap tin tray rattled as her hands shook.
Shawn tried to rise, but the Kid snarled at him to stay the hell where he was.
“How are you, Julia?” Shawn asked carefully.
The woman angled a short, fearful look at the Moss gunman before replying, “I’m just fine, Shawn.”
“No you’re not,” Shawn said. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” Julia said again.
Tweedy smiled. “I’m right happy to see you again, Trixie.”
Julia managed a slight smile in return. “How are you, Uriah?”
“Never better.”
Julia handed Tweedy a cup and poured coffee for him. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“That’s enough talk,” the Kid ordered. “Pour the coffee, woman, then light a shuck.”
“Trixie, have they done something bad to you?” Tweedy said, ignoring the youngster. “Have you been abused by Zeb Moss?”
“No, Uriah, nothing bad has happened to me, nothing at all.”
“If they did—”
“If they did, what would you do abut it, pops?” the Kid said, sneering.
“Something real mean, sonny,” Tweedy snarled. “Something I done a few times afore when I felt that way.”
“Uriah,” Julia said, “I’m fine, honestly. Look out for yourself.”
“Listen to the little lady, old man.” The Kid grinned and slammed a boot into Tweedy’s thigh.
It was a bad mistake.
Moving faster than an old man with the rheumatisms should, Tweedy grabbed the Kid’s leg and sank his teeth into the gunman’s shin.
Like the others, the Topock Kid conformed to Moss’s dress code and affected the elegant broadcloth and elastic-sided boots of a prosperous city businessman. There was no leather between the Kid’s shin and Tweedy’s strong teeth, and the old man bit deep. The Kid tried to kick him off as he would a cur dog, but Tweedy held on tight and gnawed . . . and gnawed....
Screaming, the Kid’s hand flashed for one of his holstered guns.
Shawn anticipated the move and sprang at the man. He grabbed the youngster’s lapels and smashed his forehead down on the bridge of the Kid’s nose. It was a move Luther Ironside called a “Johnny Reb Kiss,” and it dropped the man real quick.
Splattered with the Kid’s blood, bone, and snot, Shawn felt the gunman go limp as his eyes rolled back in his head. “Uriah, let go of his leg!”
Tweedy released the Kid’s shin like a rabid hound, his mouth and mustache crimson with blood.
“Move an inch, and by God I’ll scatter your brains.”
The Colt muzzle pressed against his temple and the tone of the affable man’s voice convinced Shawn that it was not a good time to make a play. He opened his fingers and let the Topock Kid drop to the platform floor.
The affable man stared into Shawn’s eyes. “I’m not a threatening man by nature,”—his gun didn’t waver—“but right now, O’Brien, you’re just a holler and a half from death.”
“What happened here?” Zeb Moss said, stepping onto the platform. He looked down at the moaning Kid and back up. “Mr. Masters, who did this?”
“Your man O’Brien did the nose breaking. The old-timer was the leg chewer.”
Moss glared at Julia. “Did you have any part in this, Trixie?”
Shawn spoke before she could. “She had no part in it, Moss. We were trying to escape.”
Moss’s face was black with anger. “I regret keeping you alive, O’Brien. I regret it deeply.” He looked down at the Kid again. His head rolled on his shoulders and both his eyes were black and swollen shut. “Get him to his feet, Mr. Masters. When the hell can he handle a gun again?”
“Two, three days,” Masters said. “Maybe longer. He’s pretty bust up, Mr. Moss.”
“Damn it. We meet up with the Arabs tomorrow morning. I can’t afford to lose men now.”
“We’re getting thin on the ground, right enough,” Masters agreed. “The Kid is one of the best there is.”
“Then see that he’s well enough to gun fight by tomorrow, damn it. I don’t give a damn how you do it, but get it done.”
Silas Creeds had stepped outside, crowding the platform. He’d heard the last of the conversation. “What about him?” He nodded in Shawn’s direction.
Moss scowled, a man torn by indecision. Finally he said, “We need his gun.”
“He won’t fight for us, boss,” Creeds pointed out.
“No, he won’t. But he’ll fight to save his own skin.” Moss took Julia by the arm and pushed her toward the door. “Get inside, you.” To Creeds he said, “Tell the engineer to get this damned train moving. We’ve tarried here long enough.”
“What about O’Brien and them?” Masters asked.
“Tie them up again. We’ll release them when we get to the end of the line.”
Creeds stood at the top of car’s iron steps, then turned his head and for the first time expressed doubt about what they were facing. “Boss, can we do the job with what we have?”
“We’ll need to, Mr. Creeds. If we can’t, by this time tomorrow we’ll all be dead.”