From the blush that colored Rose's cheeks, Flint guessed that Leander's improvised lyrics had been pretty coarse. He said to his deputy, "Just keep an eye on him."
"I will," Cully promised.
"An' I'll help out any way I can," Angus added. "Dinna worry ye head about Abilene while ye be gone, Lucas. Th' town will still be here when ye get back."
"I know." Flint chuckled. "A man gets used to
taking care of a place, though." The keening
whistle of an approaching train floated through the warm air of the summer afternoon. Flint glanced down the track. "That'll be the westbound train."
The train chugged into the station a few minutes later. Flint stowed his bag in the baggage car, then shook hands with Cully and Angus. "Don't worry, Marshal," Cully told him solemnly. "We'll take good care of things. And if you need any help, just send a wire and I'll be there."
"Thanks." Flint nodded. "So long, Cully, Angus."
Rose came up on her toes to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. "Take care of yourself, Lucas," she said softly.
Flint smiled at her for a moment, then turned and climbed up the steps into one of the passenger cars. Pausing on the platform, he lifted a hand to wave to his friends. Then he went into the crowded car and searched for a seat.
The train was scheduled to stop in Abilene for only a few minutes. Flint had just sat down when the whistle shrieked again, and the train lurched forward. Taking off his broad-brimmed hat, he placed it on the vacant seat next to him. He peered through the window to watch the depot glide out of sight. The train clattered slowly through the downtown area, then reached the trestle that crossed Mud Creek. Abilene's first settlers had built their homes and businesses along the banks of the creek, and some of the old huts were still standing.
The town had come a long way since then. It had grown from a collection of shanties linked by a series of muddy, rutted trails to a wild, brawling cow town to the growing city it was today. It was a good town, and Flint felt a twinge of regret as he left it. But he didn’t doubt that he was doing the right thing. He couldn’t ignore the trouble in which Rachel had somehow found herself.
As the last buildings of the town slid by and the train moved into the open prairie, Flint reached up, removed the badge from his vest, and slipped it into his pocket. He was leaving his jurisdiction now, heading into a territory where he would be only a common citizen like everyone else. He might run into trouble once he got there, and for the first time in quite a while, he wouldn’t have the power and authority of the law behind him. That knowledge made him feel vaguely uncomfortable.
What would he do if he reached Wyoming Territory and found himself on the wrong side of the law? Flint was going to have to think long and hard about how he would handle it.
The marshal noticed that there were only a few empty seats on the crowded train. Prosperous businessmen in suits sat beside immigrant families in threadbare clothes. A few cowboys were sprinkled among the passengers, as well as a solitary Indian who was squatting on the floor just inside the forward door of the car. Smoke, ashes, and soot from the engine blew in through the open windows and blended with the smoke from countless pipes, cigars, and cigarettes to create a blue haze that hung in the air. The acrid smoke and the stuffiness, along with the constant clatter of the wheels on the rails, gave Flint a slight headache. He was accustomed to being in the fresh air, but he knew he would have to tolerate these conditions for the length of this journey. He had no choice.
The train stopped in Salina, and even that short pause grated on Flint's nerves. Ever since he had read Rachel's telegram, he had become more acutely aware of the passage of time. When the engine finally lurched on its way again, he was relieved.
The next stop was the town of Ellsworth. By the time the train pulled into the depot Flint found that his headache had made him drowsy. He leaned his head against the hard back of the seat and closed his eyes. He had seen Ellsworth before; there was nothing here to interest him.
A few moments later, he heard the seat beside him squeak and felt a heavy thump as someone sat down. Flint opened his eyes and lifted his head to see who had joined him. He was glad he had thought to move his hat onto his lap before he closed his eyes.
The heavyset man had wide shoulders and brawny arms, and it was clear that his bulk was mostly muscle and not fat. He was wearing a brown tweed suit that fitted him snugly. Despite the heat, his collar was stiff and his tie in place. He took off a black derby to reveal dark, thinning hair, then turned to Flint. A wide grin split his broad, florid face.
"Good afternoon, sir," he said heartily. He thrust out a hand with blunt, thick fingers. "The name's K. W. Newcomb."
"Lucas Flint," the marshal grunted as he shook the man's hand. Newcomb had a good grip, but not a crushing one.
"Where are you bound, friend?" Newcomb was still grinning broadly.
"Cheyenne," Flint answered. From the looks of the man's clothes and his jovial manner, he guessed that Newcomb was a salesman of some sort.
"How about that?" Newcomb said. "Cheyenne is where I'm headed, too. Going on business, are you?"
"That's right." Flint groaned inwardly. He was a bit dismayed at the prospect of spending any time sitting beside Newcomb. He was in no mood for a drummer's long-winded gab.
"Me, too." Newcomb's bushy black eyebrows rose and fell as he spoke. "Say, have you heard the story about the farmer and the donkey and the widow lady?"
Flint sighed as Newcomb launched into the story without waiting for a reply. At least he had not asked what Flint's business was. But he had not offered any explanation of what his own line was, which surprised Flint. He had expected that Newcomb would be trying to sell him something by now.
As the train pulled out of Ellsworth, Newcomb was well into his second story, which was as bawdy as the first. He didn’t seem bothered that Flint didn’t laugh at his jokes, because he furnished plenty of booming laughter of his own. Flint almost wished he were back in Abilene, confronting a drunken, homicidal Leander Bullfinch.
Night fell shortly, and Flint was able to get a brief respite from Newcomb's never-ending stream of chatter while the man consumed several sandwiches that he purchased from the vendor who came through the car. Flint ate a sandwich himself, not really tasting it. His mind was still on Rachel's dilemma.
The marshal watched the night sliding by outside the window and paid little attention to K. W. Newcomb's incessant prattle. Finally, he became aware that Newcomb had fallen silent. He glanced over at him.
Newcomb was peering back with a sheepish expression on his face. He seemed to be waiting for an answer to some question. Flint told himself to be polite. "I'm sorry, Mr. Newcomb," he said. "My attention seems to have wandered. I've got a lot on my mind right now."
"Of course, of course. An important man like you would certainly have a lot to think about."
Flint frowned slightly. Did Newcomb know he was a lawman? "What do you mean, important?" he asked, more sharply than he intended.
"No offense, friend," Newcomb replied, holding up his big hands palm out. "I can tell by looking you're an important man, that's all, and important men usually have a lot on their minds."
Flint smiled wryly. "I'm not that important," he said.
Newcomb waved a hand to dismiss that thought. "What I was saying is that this will be my first trip to Cheyenne. I was just wondering what it's like. Have you ever been there, Mr. Flint?"
"No." The marshal shook his head. "But I've heard a great deal about it. It's supposed to be a pretty wild place at times, although I've heard that Jeff Carr and Wild Bill tamed it quite a bit."
Flint grimaced as soon as the words were out of his mouth. The casual way he had spoken of the two well-known lawmen, Thomas Jefferson Carr and James Butler Hickok, hinted at a personal acquaintance with them. In fact, he had met both men, but Newcomb didn’t need to know that.
The implications of the reference had been lost on Newcomb, however. He started spinning a yarn
about a Wyoming rancher and a sheepherder.
Finally, out of self-defense as much as anything, Flint began to respond to Newcomb's jokes with stories of his own. At least it kept the man quiet for a few minutes. By the time the conductor came through the car to turn down the lamps so that people could sleep, Flint found himself chuckling at some of the things Newcomb had to say.
All during the evening, Flint had expected the man to pull out a whiskey flask. He had encountered very few drummers who were not heavy drinkers. Apparently, Newcomb wasn’t a tippler, however, because no flask was produced.
Flint slept fitfully. He had never been able to sleep well on trains, and Newcomb's stertorous breathing didn’t make it any easier. By the time the dawn began lighting the sky, Flint was wide awake and peering out the window again. The train had not yet left Kansas, but up ahead, still far in the distance, the rising sun was glinting on the summits of the Colorado mountains. According to the rail schedule Flint had checked before he left Abilene, the train would reach Denver in the early evening. He would change trains there and ride all night, to arrive in Cheyenne just after sunup the next day. Then he could try to find out why anyone would be crazy enough to want to hang Rachel Coleman for murder.
The train stopped at a small station, where, according to the conductor, breakfast could be purchased inside the depot. Flint stood up and tried to stretch his kinked muscles as Newcomb roused fitfully from his sleep with a series of snorts and coughs.
"Want some breakfast?" Flint asked. "We're scheduled to stop here for a little while."
Newcomb straightened in his seat and looked out the window past Flint. "Where the devil are we?"
"I didn't catch the name of the place."
"The back side of nowhere, I'd wager," Newcomb grumbled. Evidently, he wasn’t his cheerful self first thing in the morning. "I hope they've cooked up plenty of hotcakes," he went on. "I could eat a dozen."
Looking at the man's bulk, Flint didn’t doubt it. He followed Newcomb out of the car. About half of the passengers had gotten off, a few to leave the train here, most to eat breakfast. The ones who stayed on board either couldn’t afford to buy food, having spent most of their money on their fares, or else didn’t choose to sample the food for sale at the depot. Flint knew that the second group of travelers might be smart; the meals at these stations usually weren’t very good.
Inside the depot's waiting room, there were no tables, only the usual hard wooden benches. The passengers ate sitting on them, holding their plates in their hands. Flint and Newcomb joined the line of people leading past a wheeled cart that had been brought in to serve the meal. Each of them received a cup of weak coffee and a plate filled with a pale gelatinous mass. A pair of greasy sausages sat on top of the mound.
Newcomb looked up from the plate that was thrust into his hand by the man who was serving from the cart. "What the devil is this mess?" he asked harshly.
"Grits an' sausage," the man answered in a slow Southern drawl. "What else y'all expect t' eat f’ breakfast?"
"What about a stack of hotcakes and some hash-brown potatoes and maybe a steak?"
"Sounds good, don’t it? But I ain't got it. What I got is grits an' sausage, take it or leave it. Best plate o' grits you'll find heah in Winona."
Flint tried not to grin too broadly at the expression on Newcomb's face. The stuff on his plate didn’t look very appetizing, but he was hungry after the long night's ride. He handed a coin to the man and went to one of the benches, leaving Newcomb to fume. Sitting down, he watched as Newcomb sighed, paid for his breakfast, and strode over to join him.
"And to think I believed civilization had come to this frontier with the arrival of the majestic iron horse," he said dramatically. He shook his head and stared down at the grits and sausage, then sighed again and began eating.
The food was better than it looked—which wasn’t saying a great deal—and Flint was able to eat all his. Newcomb also emptied his plate. The two men finished their coffee, then strolled onto the station platform. The other passengers were drifting toward the train. From the way the conductor stood beside one of the cars, occasionally glancing at his watch, Flint knew that they would be pulling out soon. As far as he was concerned, it wouldn’t be soon enough. He was ready to get started again on the long journey to Cheyenne.
"All abooooarddd!" the conductor bawled a few moments later. Flint and Newcomb took their seats. Despite his complaints, the meal seemed to have lifted Newcomb's spirits. He began telling Flint about a meal he had once had in San Antonio that was interrupted by a gun battle between a group of Texas Rangers and a band of Mexican bandits. Flint chuckled at the man's lurid account of diving for cover behind a giant pot of refried beans.
Newcomb was quite a talker, but Flint realized that he was beginning to like the man. If nothing else, Newcomb's yarns kept his mind off the problem he was facing, at least part of the time.
Once he was wound up, Newcomb didn’t slow down. He kept talking all day long as the train left Kansas and crossed into Colorado, climbing into the foothills of the Rockies. The terrain became much more rugged, and as the tracks climbed steep grades and spanned deep gorges, Flint felt a growing admiration for the people who had built this railroad. It had been quite an accomplishment for all of them, from the surveyors and engineers down to the Irish laborers who had laid the tracks and blasted holes through the mountains. Even if the Kansas Pacific had lost the race to connect with the Central Pacific and be the first to span the continent, the line had nothing to be ashamed of.
Despite Newcomb's amiable yarn-spinning, Flint became tenser as the day went on. By late afternoon, when the train finally approached Denver, it was all the lawman could do to stay in his seat. He wanted to get up and move, even if it meant pacing up and down the aisle of the car. With all his experience as a lawman, he should be calmer, he told himself sternly.
The telegram from Rachel had brought back so many memories of Mary, though...
Flint remembered now the way she had laughed, the shining sparkle in her eyes, how her lithe body felt in his arms as he embraced her, the taste of her sweet lips. And he remembered the way her health deserted her, how the injury sapped her strength until she simply had no reserves with which to fight for her life. But all during the ordeal, she never blamed him, never once suggested that if he had been a farmer or a rancher or a storekeeper—instead of a marshal—then that horrible fate wouldn’t have befallen her.
She loved him, from start to finish. It was that simple. And he loved her in return.
She would want him to help her sister if it was humanly possible.
The train pulled into Denver on schedule. Flint didn’t want to risk missing that northbound train to Cheyenne. He hurried from the car as soon as the wheels stopped turning, leaving a puzzled-looking K. W. Newcomb behind him. He hurried to retrieve his bag, then raced to the ticket window.
But when Flint presented his ticket to the clerk, the man glanced at it and shook his head. "Sorry," he said, "that train's been delayed. It won't be here for three hours."
Flint caught his breath, and his hand tightened on the handle of his bag. "Three hours?" he repeated grimly.
"That's right. Your ticket is all in order. You can wait in the station if you like or go out to get something to eat. Just be back when the train gets in. It won't be here long; the crew will be trying to make up some of the lost time."
Flint swallowed the angry words that began to rise in his throat. It wouldn’t help to argue with the clerk. The man had no control over the trains. If one of them was late, no one could do anything about it.
A hand came down on Flint's shoulder as he started to turn away from the window. Newcomb pushed back his derby and said, "I heard what that fellow said, Lucas. You look a little upset."
"I was anxious to get to Cheyenne. Still am," Flint replied tersely.
"Must be important business taking you there. But I've traveled a lot, and I've learned that you can't get too upset at delays
like this. They're going to happen, no matter what you do. The best thing is to take advantage of them." Newcomb started steering Flint toward the street door of the depot. "Now, I happen to know this place where a man can get the best steak west of Kansas City..."
Flint was relieved to learn that their destination was only two blocks from the depot. He would have no trouble hearing the whistle of the northbound train when it arrived. He also promised himself he would keep an eye on his watch.
Newcomb led the way down the sidewalk toward the cafe. Denver's streets were paved, and its large, impressive stone and brick buildings gave the city a cosmopolitan look. But Flint knew that just beneath the polished surface lurked the brawling frontier town that had been only partially tamed by Marshal Dave Cook.
Located on the edge of the red-light district that was concentrated on Holladay and Larimer streets, Ray’s was in a two-story brick building. Flint and Newcomb pushed through the double front doors and stepped into a smoky, low-ceilinged room with a bar that stretched the length of one side.
"Don't let the looks of the place fool you," Newcomb said. "It may be a saloon, but the food's just fine."
Even at this early hour the saloon was crowded, and men stood two deep at the bar. Judging from the way they were dressed, Flint gathered that most of them were railroad workers and miners. He spotted a few cowboys among them.
The tables scattered around the room were also full. Painted women in gaudy, low-cut dresses served drinks and sat at some of the tables, laughing and flirting with the patrons. Occasionally one would lead a customer through a door at the rear of the room. Flint figured that an outside staircase led up to the rooms on the second floor where the establishment's other main enterprise took place.
Three miners got up from one of the tables near the bar and staggered toward the front door. They were obviously drunk, and one of them bumped against Flint as he left with his companions.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 98