Make Me No Grave

by Hayley Stone

  Weren’t no man at all, as it turned out.

  “Almena?” I could barely speak around the knot of disbelief in my throat. “What in—”

  Almena dragged me into an empty passenger compartment, closed it shut behind us, and turned the tiny lock with a click. She looked tired, like she hadn’t slept the night before, or any night previously. She was dressed in a manly fashion, wearing baggy trousers and a striped vest. With her hair stuffed into her hat, I couldn’t help thinking how much she looked like the soldier in those pictures I’d seen on her dresser. Kind of made me wonder if she was planning on putting the “Killin’” back in Killin’ Al Guillory.

  Her movements felt rote as she went to the window, drawing the small privacy curtain, before checking the lock on the door again. Not that it’d be very effective in keeping someone out if they were determined to bust through. The wood was more decorative than functional.

  “Almena.” As she made for the window again, I intercepted her. Her gaze swooped up to meet mine, and all the toughness seemed to fall off her like chiseled stone. Her expression, rigid with tension, finally softened. “What are you doing here?” I wanted to hear her say it.

  “I saw you get on the train with Kingery.”

  “And?”

  “And,” she said, stalling. “And… I couldn’t sleep last night.”

  I blinked, scattered by the unexpected answer. “All right…”

  “You don’t understand. I’ve murdered men over money and pride and slept just fine. I watched boys go to their death in a war they had no business being in, and when I crawled into bed those nights, listening to the dying ones crying, I rolled over and found I could still disappear into sleep.” She sucked in a shaky breath. “You don’t know what it means when sleep’s the only true escape you have from the things you’ve done. To have that last refuge taken away from you. It’s hell.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following,” I admitted.

  “Apart from times when I feared for my life, I only recall being unable to sleep the night Lincoln was shot. Did I tell you Stanton sent a telegram to me?” I shook my head. I think she’d left that part out, the few times we’d broached the subject. “It demanded I come, fulfill the office I’d sworn myself to. I’d made a promise to Lincoln that should anything happen, I would use my power to save him, that I would trade my life for his, if it came down to it. It wasn’t something he wanted or asked for, but neither was the war. When I made that oath, I truly believed I could keep it, too.” She paused, collecting herself. “It should’ve been me who died that night, Apostle. How different this country would be if I had honored my pledge.”

  “Almena—”

  She raised a hand, the whorls of her fingers close to my lips. “Lincoln was more than my president, he was my greatest friend. He was wise and kind, and so very sad at times, I feared it would swallow him. He seemed to know my hurts before I understood them myself, and always knew just what to say in a moment of sorrow. I loved that man. Yet when he needed my help, I ran. And I didn’t stop until the West was as much behind me as in front of me.”

  “Why tell me all of this now?”

  “To help you understand. When I tell you I couldn’t sleep, I don’t just mean I had a bad night or an uncomfortable bed.” Her eyes were full of an emotion I was afraid to name. “You’d like to know what I’m doing here? I’m here trying not to repeat a past mistake.”

  I couldn’t help a small, disbelieving smile. “Almena Guillory, were you worried about me?”

  Almena rolled her eyes, but her lips were smile-touched. She gave a shrug.

  That’s a yes.

  “What about Bratt?” Seemed like a thing I should ask about.

  “Bratt can wait,” she said.

  “Yeah, but what’s that mean?”

  “It means this is more important.” I knew this couldn’t have been an easy decision for her to come by, so I didn’t press her further.

  The compartment lurched suddenly as the coupling rods engaged the car’s wheels, and the locomotive pulled out of the station. Both Almena and I reached out to steady each other. Beyond the curtain and glass, the train whistle sounded twice, dignifying the train’s departure with a cloud of steam.

  “Guess this means it’s too late trying to persuade you to get off,” I remarked.

  “Between the two of us, who do you really think is in more danger?”

  I conceded the point to her. “Don’t suppose you have a plan that don’t consist of killing Kingery outright?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

  “I was going to try talking to her.”

  “Talking to her.”

  I gave Almena a weak smile, swallowing the need to pull her even closer. It was difficult ignoring the warmth of her beneath my hands, even knowing there were other, more important things to deal with right now. “Worked with you, didn’t it?”

  “It helped that you also took a bullet for me. And keep trying to take more.”

  I cleared my throat, finally forcing myself to release her. “I appreciate you coming, I do. But nothing’s changed…”

  She wrapped her arms around my neck, drawing me toward her. As she pressed in close, I shut my eyes, releasing a harsh breath, straining against every sinful urge to do more than just stand there, taking in the feel of her body.

  “If you think that, Apostle Richardson,”—her breath tickled my earlobe—“then you haven’t been paying attention.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Someone banged on the door, and Almena jerked away from me. She bent her head, so her hat covered her face once more, and collapsed into a seat, spreading her legs apart like a man relaxing after a long, hard day.

  “Ticket!” came the call from outside.

  I opened the door and showed the conductor my badge. “Marshal’s business,” I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt.

  Wasn’t the conductor standing in front of me, however, but a bull of a man holding a blade dripping with gore. By the time my brain caught up to this fact, he’d already plunged the knife in and out of my stomach.

  The pain didn’t rush me immediately. I used that time to throw myself into my attacker, knocking us both backwards into the wall. The knife rammed me again, this time lower on my side, and the shock of it woke my body to the first stabbing. Woke it screaming. A curse burst from my lips, but I didn’t let go of the man’s arm, trying to prevent him from goring me a third time, or from turning on Almena.

  The world teetered for a short, terrifying moment.

  I tried to anchor myself to consciousness by focusing on the details around me. My shirt felt slick. The floor beneath my feet quaked like the bed of a wagon traveling over gravel road. A sharp bump bounced me against another compartment door, while the wheels of the train as they clattered across old, metal tracks grew louder in my ears.

  A gunshot interrupted all of it, the sound, the sensations, like a firecracker going off. The acrid smell of gunsmoke clogged my nostrils, and I glanced down to find my Colt in hand, though I couldn’t remember drawing it.

  The big man was still on his feet. Suppose I missed.

  I staggered backward like a drunkard, my vision catching on the hard edge of the blade as it dove for my chest—and bit into my shoulder instead. The knife passed through the thin fabric of my shirt like it was water, chewing into skin. Seemed wrong to call something so painful luck, but it was. Because just when the knife would’ve ensured a gravedigger’s next commission, the car visited some more bad track, probably warped from the sun, toppling me sideways again.

  Almena was there. One of her hands seized my shoulder, steadying me, while the other wrapped around my naked wrist, skin to skin. I felt the pain jump from me to her—fast, faster than I’d thought possible, even for her. The fog before my eyes lifted. Almena’s gaze darkened, and her face struggled to hold back an expression of pain. She hissed through her teeth, stepped forward, and slammed her palm flat against the outlaw’s face.
r />   The knife fell from his hand. He patted himself with an absent, uncomprehending look, fingers coming away slimy as pudding. Red spots bloomed on his shoulder and side, while he clutched his stomach hopelessly.

  “W-witch,” he sputtered, a second before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he dropped. His skull thudded against the floor like a judge’s gavel rendering the final verdict.

  “Get him by the legs,” Almena commanded, slipping her hands beneath the dead man’s arms.

  I was already moving by the time I thought to ask why.

  “Someone will have heard that shot,” she said, grunting as we shifted him toward the empty compartment. I tried to ignore the stench coming up as dark spread around the dead man’s crotch. “Marshal or no, if word gets back to the passengers that you’ve just killed an outlaw, what do you think happens then?”

  Lot of dead passengers, I imagined.

  We tried long-ways first without stopping to consider the logistics of a big man through a small doorway, traded one another an exasperated look, then rotated. Even still, the man’s giant shoulders clashed with the door frame, and in my haste, I nearly jammed his knees into his face. Instead, his head slumped backward, dipping into Almena’s lap obscenely. She shifted out from under him, and we finally managed to deposit him inside. Try as we might, though, he kept slipping off the bench. Refused to stay upright. His legs blocked the door from closing.

  “What in God’s name is going on here?”

  The voice came from over my shoulder. I turned so fast, nearly gave myself a crick in the neck.

  The conductor stood, mouth hanging almost to the floor. His eyes darted between the body, myself, and Almena with the speed of a ricocheting bullet. I knew that look. Seen it in men and horses alike. In a moment, he was going to bolt.

  For the second time that day, I showed my badge. The star rooted him in place, buying me a minute to explain.

  “This man attacked myself and my friend here.” I gestured with a nod toward Almena, who kept her face angled down. “You’ve got a bit of an outlaw problem on this train. They’re holed up in the passenger cars with everyone else at the moment. Now, don’t panic. I’ve already spoken with the engineer. He knows all about it. He’s doing his job by keeping the train moving. And now I’m going to need you to do your part.”

  “My part?” His eyes cut again to Almena who was still trying to fit the corpse all the way inside.

  I stepped between him and Almena, blocking his view of the grisly scene. He looked up at me. Fella was short. “It’s likely some passengers heard that shot. If that’s the case and one of them asks about it, you need to assure them it was a minor mishap. Someone’s revolver going off. All right?”

  “Are you—” He pointed at the red mouths on my shirt, each knife-slit and gaping as if in surprise.

  I grabbed him by the shoulder. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

  “You’re hurt,” he mumbled again, all the color rapidly leaving his face.

  “It’s not my blood.” Of course, it was, but try explaining that one to a man already close to dribbling on himself. I leaned over, meeting his eyes directly. “I need you to calm down and pull yourself together. Hear me? Stop and take a breath.”

  He did so, shakily.

  “Good. Now, when you’re feeling up to it, why don’t you go in there and check on the passengers. Answer any questions they might have. Simple as that.”

  “But the outlaws…” His shoulder continued to vibrate beneath my hand.

  “They won’t do anything unless you give ’em cause to.”

  Almena kicked the corpse’s leg inside and finally snapped the door shut. The conductor jumped at the sound, and I caught a smirk peeking out from underneath the rim of Almena’s hat. All heart, my girl.

  “What are you going to do?”

  I clenched my jaw. Why did people keep asking me that?

  “My job,” I answered drily. “Now go do yours.” Blood still leapt inside my veins from a moment ago, making it difficult to keep my voice gentle. Between Almena standing near enough to touch, and the criminals waiting just a car away, I felt halfway to crawling out of my skin.

  “You might want to consider taking a breath yourself,” Almena said as soon as the conductor was gone. Her voice sounded miles away, my own breath loud as an engine in my ears. Feeling unsteady at the trundling movement of the train, I anchored myself between the compartment door and the wall, spreading my arms. My stomach dropped through me, and my eyes followed its trajectory to the floor.

  I shook my head. “I don’t have a plan here,” I admitted quietly.

  “What happened to talking it out?”

  I gave her a look.

  “What was your plan when you got on the train?” she asked.

  “Didn’t have one then either. I was hoping I’d come up with something. But no such luck. I just—” I stared at the door at the end of the hall, at the patch of afternoon light on the carpet. Lines of shadow flitted across it where the sun was slipping between the cars. Almost looked like prison bars. “I don’t know what the hell to do. Seems whatever I try, people end up hurt or killed.”

  “Oh, stop it,” Almena ordered.

  Her response surprised me. “What?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. This whole feeling sorry for yourself business.” She gestured angrily at me as if I was wearing something offensive. “It doesn’t matter what’s come before. All that matters is where we go from here.” Her intense gaze required an answer, at the same time daring me to disagree. “Isn’t that right, Apostle?”

  Using my own philosophies against me. Dastardly.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You’re right. But now I think we’ve got another problem on our hands.”

  Almena glanced around. “Oh?”

  I checked my pistol and glanced again at that patch of light, the bars of shadow falling less quickly. “Train’s slowing down.”

  There was no time to find out what had happened, though I had my suspicions. Damn conductor probably panicked and persuaded the lead engineer to stop and telegraph ahead to warn the next station of our outlaw infestation. But the stopping also gave me an idea, the kind Wade would’ve laughed and called me a fool for. In this case, he’d have been right to do so.

  I ripped the dead man’s neckerchief off and tied it around the lower half of my face, tugging it up over my nose so only my eyes showed.

  “You’re kidding,” Almena said, watching me. “This is your plan?”

  The material smelled like stale vomit and mothballs. I had to open the kerchief to the air once for a breath, clenching my eyes against the stench. “Train’s stopped.”

  A normal person might’ve needed a minute to grapple with the implications, but not Almena. “You’re going to pretend to rob the train.”

  “We’re going to pretend to rob the train.” Grabbing the dead man’s shirt, I tore a nice, ragged slice, balled it up, and tossed it to her. She caught it without trying.

  As she put it on, she asked, “You think they’ll stop us?”

  “Everyone wants to feel like a hero, one time or another.”

  She struggled to get the bandana tied at the back, the strip short and soaked through with blood. I leaned over to help her, and heard her murmur, “Not everyone.” I knew she was thinking of Bratt, but I was willing to bet the boys with pious Ruth Kingery were cut from different cloth. They’d stuck with Kingery this far. Some bond of chivalry leashed them.

  I placed my hands on Almena’s shoulders. “I know I’m asking a lot, but—”

  “Wanting me to attend a debutante ball is asking a lot.” There was a smile in her voice. “This is just finishing what’s been started.”

  A knot of tension unwound in my chest. “When we go in there, I need you to promise me you’ll look after the passengers, first and foremost. Them living’s what’s important here.”

  “It’s cute when you act like I haven’t been through something like this before.�
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  “Just want to make sure we’re clear.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  I glanced up from my waist, where I was checking how much ammunition I had left. Almena’s steel-grey eyes watched me above her mask.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I trust you.”

  The skin around her eyes wrinkled. She nodded.

  “You ready?” I asked her.

  She rolled up her sleeves—more room to ply her trick with all that exposed flesh, I guessed—and I caught sight of that arm-length scar of hers, whose origins I’d never learned. I flashed back to Asher, and Dorothy’s hotel room, the quiet murmur of the evening coming up through the window, and two strangers tossed together by God or fate. Truth be told, that night seemed far away now. The woman standing before me was not the same proud outlaw chained to the phantoms of her past, ready to kill to cover the pain; nor was I the same lawman who would trust her fate to the cold, timid hearts of the court. Our lives had tangled at the same crossroad, and for better or worse, I felt myself changed. I believed the same was also true for Almena, but only time would tell.

  “Make sure that’s on tight,” I gestured to the poor man’s mask around Almena’s face, and then we headed for the passenger car.

  Thought about making a swaggering entrance, the way outlaws often do. Maybe I’d holler, waving my gun in the air, and even make a few threats by firing into the ceiling.

  Upon entering the car, two things made me reconsider that option. One, I already owed Dorothy for the hole in her ceiling. Heaven only knew how much the Union Pacific would put me out of pocket for damaging their passenger car. At this rate, even if I managed to bring Kingery and her entire gang in, the whole business could end up a financial wash.

  As for the second, firing in such a small, enclosed space was like to make me deaf. Well, more deaf than the shot in the compartment car had left me, anyway. My ears still sang, the blood pulsing in them, as if someone had smashed a plate near my head. If I made it to forty with my hearing intact, I’d call it a miracle.