Parker shook his head. "The hell I'm not! I'll kill her unless I'm allowed to leave Abilene unharmed with the money."
"I can't let you do that, Parker! You know that."
"I know I'll kill her, that's what I know! And I'll kill Houser, too!"
The ringmaster was unable to contain his outrage. "Kill me? Why, Parker? Why would you want to kill me?"
"Because you killed her!" Parker called down.
Flint, Cully, and Houser exchanged puzzled glances, unsure of what Parker was talking about.
"You should have made her use a net, you bastard!" Parker went on. "She's dead because of you, and now she'll never know much I loved her! All those performances, night after night, working with her . . . and she never knew! Now she never will!"
"Good Lord!" Houser breathed, aging years before their eyes. "He's talking about my wife. He's talking about Moriah!"
"Parker's crazy, Marshal," Cully said quietly. "Lord knows how long he's been covering it up."
Flint glanced at Houser. "Was there anything between Parker and your wife?" he asked bluntly.
"If there was, it was only in the man's demented mind," Houser responded emphatically. "I'm sure Moriah never knew about his feelings."
Flint looked up again. "I understand now, Parker," he called. "You were getting back at Houser when you kept sabotaging his show, weren't you?"
"That's right," Parker said, looking down past Jemma's shoulder with a fierce grin. "I was making him pay. I would have taken the circus away from him sooner or later, because it was all that mattered to him. And he took away all that mattered to me—" The man's voice broke.
"If I could just get a shot," Cully muttered.
Flint was frowning as he thought furiously. He called, "That business with the horse being killed and Thornbury getting the blame, you did that, didn't you, Parker?"
Parker laughed. "It was so damned easy! That schoolteacher prig deserved it, and it was something else to cause trouble for the circus! Just like releasing those animals and getting that fool Cooper to rob the receipts. I wanted your life to be a living hell, Houser, like mine was."
"But I gave you a job after your—" Houser began, but Flint cut him off with a hard grip on the arm.
"That's the wrong thing to remind him of," Flint said. "He probably thinks of that as pity on your part, and that's not what he wants."
The faint torchlight shone on the tears running down Jemma's face. In other circumstances she never would have been afraid of a man like Parker, but this was different. He was insane, and she was in his power. She was shaking so much that the onlookers below could see her trembling.
Flint took a deep breath. "You're not getting out of here, Parker," he repeated. "You'll be better off if you let Miss Richardson go and turn yourself in."
"Never!" Parker screamed. Suddenly, he jerked the gun away from Jemma and pointed it down. "I'll take Houser to hell with me!"
Cully threw himself at the ringmaster as Parker's gun cracked. The deputy slammed into Houser, knocking him aside, and both men sprawled on the ground as the slug kicked up dust where Houser had stood an instant before.
With the gun gone from her head, Jemma acted. She drove an elbow back into Parker's middle, staggering him, and tore herself out of his grasp. She stumbled as she pulled away from him, and suddenly her feet slipped off the edge of the little platform. She shrieked as she started to fall, her arms flailing about.
Parker jerked his gun to the side, trying for another shot at Houser. Below, Flint raised his Colt, his arm blurring with the speed of the motion. The heavy pistol blasted against his palm.
At the same instant, Jemma's fingers slapped the side of the platform, clutching desperately, hanging on to the slight purchase for dear life. Her legs dangled high above the ground.
Parker staggered again as Flint's bullet caught him in the middle of the body. The metal box, which had been tucked behind his belt during the climb, slipped out, bounced once on the platform, then plummeted to the ground, bursting open when it hit. Money and coins scattered everywhere.
The gun slid from Parker's fingers as he clutched himself, his hands bloody now. He swayed on the little platform, and then he reached out, reached for something familiar. He clutched the trapeze bar, hooked in position on the railing at one side of the platform. Perhaps the sound of applause and cheers filled his ears as he steadied himself. He might have wanted only to relive past glories.
He launched himself into space, hanging on to the bar, arching high over the stunned onlookers. As he let go of the bar, he kicked into a perfect somersault, then came out of it with hands outstretched toward a catcher who wasn’t there.
His fall seemed to take forever. And there was no net there to catch him.
Cully ignored the bloody form that had been Asa Parker. He threw himself at the ladder, hauling himself up several rungs at a time. Jemma was still up there, her grip loosening by the second. He could hear her sobs as he approached, and that spurred him to reckless speed.
He reached the top of the ladder and flung himself across the platform, reaching down to grasp her wrists in a grip of iron. Using his feet to brace himself, he slowly pulled her back up.
When she was on the platform, he grasped her to his chest and held her there, both of them shivering in reaction to what had almost happened. Then, finally, Cully smiled down at her and said softly, "There's one thing you ought to know about me, darlin’."
"What's that?" Jemma whispered, her face still wet with tears.
"Well, I kind of forgot about it for a minute, but I am positively terrified of heights."
He started to laugh, and a moment later, she did, too.
14
Cully was sitting in a chair in front of the marshal's office, his feet propped on the boardwalk railing, when Flint rode back into Abilene early the next morning.
"They get started down the trail all right?" Cully asked as Flint dismounted and tied his horse at the hitchrack.
"No problems," Flint replied. He stepped up onto the boardwalk. "The professor said to say goodbye to you."
Cully smiled slightly. "They put on a hell of a show, didn't they?"
Flint grunted and went into the office. It had been a strange and bloody week, and he hoped things would stay calm for a while now that the circus was gone.
Cully came into the office a moment later, followed by Sister Lorraine. "Good morning, Marshal," the nun said. "Reverend Markham asked me to stop by and let you know that he's willing to conduct the funeral service for Mr. Parker, as you requested."
"Good." Flint nodded. He leaned back in the chair behind the desk. "Parker may have raised a lot of hell—pardon me, Sister—but I figure he deserves a decent burial. He wasn't all bad."
Cully hung his hat on the hook by the door. "How do you figure that, Marshal, after everything he did?"
Flint met his deputy's questioning gaze. "He also saved that boy's life when the warehouse was on fire. Maybe even saved mine, too, by getting us out through that window. And he risked his own life to do it, without hesitation. No, Parker had his good points, Cully, and I even liked the man for a while. But something just went wrong in his brain. Something pushed him right to the edge—and then on over."
The door opened as Flint's voice trailed off, and Emery Thornbury marched into the office. Right behind him was a young man in a suit and tie. Flint remembered seeing Thornbury's companion around town, but he could not put a name with the face.
Without a greeting Thornbury said stiffly, "I hear that you got my hundred dollars back from those circus scoundrels, Marshal."
Flint nodded. "That's right," he said dryly. "It turns out that gun belonged to Asa Parker. He put your name on it to throw suspicion on you and create hard feelings between the town and the circus. You've been cleared completely."
Thornbury gave one of his rare smiles, and the expression was annoyingly smug. "That's why I brought this reporter along—so that he can tell the whole world that I am an i
nnocent man who was wrongfully accused."
"That's right, Marshal," the young man said as he stepped forward. "I'm Emmett Valentine. I just went to work for the Abilene Clarion."
"Glad to meet you, son," Flint said. "I guess you've got your story."
A grin tugged at Cully's mouth as he moved over beside Flint's desk. "Not all the story, Mr. Valentine," he said as he picked up an envelope from the desktop. "Here's the money, Mr. Thornbury."
Thornbury reached eagerly for the envelope, but Cully kept it just out of his reach.
"I'm glad you brought along this reporter, because now everyone will know just how generous you really are."
"I don't know what you mean," Thornbury snapped, his hand still outstretched for the money. He eyed Cully suspiciously.
Cully smiled at the reporter. "Mr. Thornbury is just being modest. He told me earlier this morning that he's donating this one hundred dollars to the orphans under Sister Lorraine's care so that they can all buy new clothes."
He turned and handed the envelope to the surprised nun as Flint tried hard not to break into laughter. Sister Lorraine recovered her composure and said sweetly, "Why, thank you, Mr. Thornbury, for your generosity."
Thornbury's mouth hung open for a moment. He began to sputter incoherently as Emmett Valentine took out a notepad and began to scribble in it. "This will make a dandy human interest story," the reporter said enthusiastically. "You'll be the talk of the town."
"W-why, y-yes, that's so," Thornbury stammered as he realized how he would look if he objected. He swallowed. "Children must have proper clothing, I always say."
"You're so kind, Mr. Thornbury," Sister Lorraine declared.
Abilene's two lawmen leaned back in their chairs and chuckled with delight.
The Train Robber’s
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Prologue
A day’s ride west of Abilene, a train pulled by a big Baldwin locomotive steamed along the tracks of the Kansas Pacific Railroad. The morning was bright and sunny, the sky high above the Kansas flatland a deep blue. Inside the cab of the locomotive, Bob Monroe rested his hand lightly on the throttle and looked out at the passing landscape.
To the north, far across the prairie, he could see the Smoky Hills, just anthills, really, compared to the spectacular Rockies. To the south a line of scrubby green trees and brush marked the gentle valley of the Smoky Hill River. Ahead the tracks cut through grassy plains that varied little except for an occasional shallow arroyo.
Though the flat, unchanging terrain was monotonous, Monroe didn’t mind it. He was a railroad man, had been for years, and was happy wherever the tracks ran. He had been driving this route across Kansas for six months, and it had been a pleasant job.
His fireman, old Sam Hayes, opened the firebox and shoveled more coal into it. Hayes's wiry body had surprising strength for a frame that was so small and slender. Like Bob Monroe, he had been working on railroads for most of his adult life, starting back in Pennsylvania in the Forties.
Hayes shut the door on the flames. He leaned against the other side of the cab and let the wind that blew in the train's open window ruffle his thin gray hair. He grinned over at Monroe as he took his cold pipe from a pocket and clamped it between his stubby teeth.
"Makin' good time," Hayes called over the roar of the engine. Both men were used to shouting.
"You bet," Monroe called back, returning the smile, and pulling out his watch. He flipped open the big turnip-shaped instrument and studied the face. "We're going to make Denver ahead of schedule. Looks like we've already made up for that delay back in Abilene."
Monroe closed the watch and returned it to its pocket. Then he leaned out the big window in his side of the cab to look down the tracks. His eyes were permanently squinted from doing the same thing in countless locomotives over the years. He peered at the rails unrolling ahead of them, not expecting to see anything except the endless double line of steel.
For a moment, the spurt of flame and dust and debris that flung high in the air didn’t fully register on his brain. Then, over the roar of the train, he heard the blast of the explosion.
With an alarmed shout, Monroe lunged toward the brake lever. He threw his weight against it, bracing his feet and holding the metal bar tight. The earsplitting whine of the brakes shrieked across the plains. Sparks flew along the tracks as the wheels of the locomotive ground the rails in an effort to stop.
With a cold, sick feeling in his stomach, Bob Monroe knew that the train wasn’t going to stop in time. The explosion had broken and twisted the rails and shattered the ties beneath into kindling. There was no way he could keep the train from derailing.
Frantically, Monroe glanced over at Hayes and yelled, "Get out of here, Sam!"
Still braced against the other side of the cab, the fireman shook his head and shouted back, "I ain't jumpin' if you ain't!"
"Can't leave the train," Monroe screamed. He didn’t know if Hayes heard him or not. His whole head seemed to be filled with the futile shrieking of the brakes.
The locomotive hit the damaged section of track. Monroe had slowed its speed considerably, but its momentum drove it forward.
The wreck was horrible and awe-inspiring at the same time. As hundreds of tons of metal hurtled off the tracks, the locomotive tilted crazily, the cowcatcher digging its sharp nose into the dirt and ripping a monstrous furrow in the rich Kansas soil. The coal tender and first few cars followed the engine off the tracks, until at last the locomotive stopped, its massive weight embedded in the earth. Everything behind it came to a buckling, shuddering halt. The last cars of the train, still on the tracks, began to crash together, twisting and crumpling under the impact.
The hiss of steam escaping from the boiler, the rending crash of metal, the screams of the injured all blended together in one hideous cacophony of sound.
The engine had fallen completely over on its side. In the ruins of the cab, Bob Monroe swam through a fog of pain and shock. He could feel some sort of weight on him, holding him down. Forcing his hands to work, he reached up and tried to shove the thing aside. He cried out involuntarily when he realized that the burden on him was Sam Hayes's body.
Hayes's head hung at a funny angle, and Monroe knew that the little fireman's neck was broken. His eyes were open and staring sightlessly from his coal-smudged face. For such a slender man, he was incredibly heavy.
Or maybe I’m just weak, Monroe thought. He couldn’t seem to make his left arm work correctly, and his legs felt strange. His pants were wet; part of his mind knew it was blood, but he refused to acknowledge it. All he wanted now was out.
Shuddering, Monroe worked himself out from under Hayes's body. He felt earth under his hands and began dragging himself forward. As he crawled into the sunlight, he realized that he was making his escape through a jagged hole in the roof of the cab.
The thunder of hooves made him look up in time to see riders approaching the train. At least a dozen men on horseback boiled out of a nearby wash. They rode toward the wrecked train, shouting like banshees and firing their guns into the air. In the lead was a burly man whose unruly thatch of bright red hair stuck out around the hat that was jammed on his head. The bandanna he wore over his face barely concealed a bushy red beard beneath it.
Monroe saw the redheaded giant in the forefront of the attack, and through bloody lips he whispered, "Roscoe Wolfe..."
Every railroad man in Missouri, Kansas, and Nebraska knew about Roscoe Wolfe. He had held up trains repeatedly in al
l three states in some of the most daring robberies since Frank and Jesse James had taken up the gun. Wolfe's description had been circulated to railroad officials and lawmen all over this part of the country. Along with the description had gone a warning: Roscoe Wolfe was a killer.
Monroe scrabbled inside his jacket with his good arm, trying to find the pistol he carried there. He couldn’t seem to locate it. And as he suddenly saw, it was far too late.
Roscoe Wolfe spotted the injured engineer lying on the ground next to the destroyed locomotive. Wolfe reined in, his big chestnut horse rearing slightly. Then the gun in his hand cracked twice, both bullets finding their target. Bob Monroe grunted, hunched his shoulders, and slumped, lifeless.
Wolfe wheeled his horse, leveled his pistol at one of the passenger cars that was tilting crazily, and triggered several more times. He yelled at one of his men, "Get to that express car!"
There was a sporadic crackle of gunfire all along the train now. Passengers who had survived the wreck had realized that the train was under attack by bandits, and they were trying to fight back. Several of Wolfe's men were pouring rifle fire into the cars.
Wolfe spurred his horse toward the express car. Although heavily damaged at both ends, it was still upright. Some of the outlaws were already storming it, riding back and forth in front of the buckled door and firing through it. A few shots came from the car.
Inside, the express messenger fought desperately, but Elijah Hanson was a young man who had never fired a shot in anger in his life. He was stretched out on the floor of the express car, his leg throbbing from the injury he had received when the crash threw him off his feet. He didn’t believe his leg was broken, just badly sprained. There was a bullet gash on his forearm, but that was nothing, just a stinging annoyance.
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