Dead Man Walking

by William W. Johnstone

  He couldn’t afford anything like that on the money he made as a deputy U.S. marshal. Like everybody else who worked for wages, he rode sitting up on hard wooden bench seats.

  But he recognized the advantages of having rail lines connecting as many places in the country as possible. If you needed to get from where you were to somewhere far off in a hurry, you couldn’t beat a train.

  He was going to miss Iron Heart, though, he thought as he swayed gently to the train’s rocking motion. On other cases in the past when he’d had to travel by train, he had taken the big gray horse with him, shipping him in a stable car and unloading him when they reached their destination.

  That wasn’t really feasible this time since he had to go halfway across the country and didn’t know where the trail would lead him after that. If he needed a saddle mount he would have to rent one and hope that he found a good, dependable animal.

  With nothing else to fill up the long hours, he began reading the reports that Judge Parker had given him.

  One was a lengthy description and history of Ignatius O’Reilly. As a young man, some thirty years earlier, O’Reilly had been a member of one of the Irish gangs in New York, and he had gained a reputation there as a vicious, ruthless criminal. That quality had allowed him to rise rapidly in the gang.

  O’Reilly had graduated from breaking legs and cutting throats to planning some of the schemes carried out by the gang. He had set up an operation to sell black market beef, much of which was rotten or contaminated.

  Some people had died from the bad meat, and even though law enforcement in the city was particularly feeble, the deaths drew too much attention to O’Reilly and he moved on to smuggling.

  He ran prostitutes as a sideline and even after he had become one of the gang’s bosses, he wasn’t above bashing in a man’s head and robbing him from time to time. Just to keep his hand in, was the way he put it.

  Somewhere along the way, O’Reilly had made the acquaintance of a man named Alfred Dean, who owned a printing shop and had a sideline of his own. By day Dean printed flyers and broadsides, and by night he printed money.

  By this time the Civil War was being fought, and Confederate agents came to New York and engaged Dean to print bogus Union currency in an attempt to undermine the Northern economy and perhaps give the South a slight advantage.

  That hadn’t worked out, but Dean had discovered that he had a talent for engraving the plates used to print bills, and after the war, when he became friends with O’Reilly, he passed that on to the other man.

  O’Reilly was even more skilled at counterfeiting, something he might never have discovered on his own. He soon surpassed Dean and moved to take over the operation. Dean had protested. . . and he was never seen again, at least not whole and alive. Some body parts turned up that might have belonged to him, but without a head, who could say for sure?

  With his mentor out of the picture, O’Reilly began to expand . . . and he finally pushed his luck too far. The law caught up to him and he had gone away to prison, sentenced to twenty-five years in a federal penitentiary.

  He had been behind bars less than a year, though, when he escaped, and he hadn’t been caught since. He had continued to carry out his counterfeiting activities, surfacing long enough to pass some of the bogus bills here and there, then disappearing again. His current operation, which found the fake money being spread out across the Southwest, was his largest one to date.

  The report also included a physical description of O’Reilly. He was in his late forties, of medium height, stockily built, and had curly red hair with a considerable amount of gray in it. His nose had been broken on a couple of occasions and had healed a little crookedly. He had a scar over his left eye from a fight, and a longer, thinner scar on the right side of his jaw where someone had cut him with a knife.

  Ignatius O’Reilly was a vicious, cunning individual who had to be considered armed and extremely dangerous, the report concluded. When John Henry caught up to O’Reilly—and he had no doubt that he would—he would have to be careful and not take any unnecessary chances.

  He was mulling over everything he had just read when a woman’s voice asked quietly, “Excuse me, sir, do you mind if I sit here?”

  John Henry looked up from the papers in his hands to see lovely green eyes, a tumbled mass of auburn hair, and full red lips curved in a smile. The young woman who stood in the aisle next to the bench seat was intriguingly curved in a bottle-green traveling gown. A stylish hat of the same shade, adorned by a feather, perched on that stunning red hair.

  John Henry was sitting next to the window so that he could get some fresh air, hopefully without too many cinders from the locomotive’s diamond-shaped smokestack mixed in with it. He stood up, stuffed the papers back in his coat, and took off his hat. Smiling at the woman, he said, “Ma’am, any man would have to be a puredee fool to turn down such a request.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way. Now please move back a little,” the woman said with a touch of impatience in her voice.

  As John Henry did so, she squeezed past him so that she was next to the window. He thought maybe she needed the fresh air, so he didn’t complain.

  The fact that she had to press against him to reach that side of the bench didn’t hurt anything, either.

  “Sit down,” she said, and as he sank onto the bench beside her, she slid her hip against his with surprising intimacy and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “Here he comes,” she whispered. “Please don’t give me away.”

  Chapter Five

  John Henry almost said, “Ah!” as understanding dawned on him, but he reined in the impulse. He heard heavy footsteps advancing up the aisle toward the front of the car, so he glanced over his shoulder to have a look at their source.

  The man was tall and thick and looked a little like a slab of beef in a brown tweed suit. A dark brown bowler hat was crammed down on what appeared to be a bald head. Black mustaches curled above a wide mouth. The man’s jaw reminded John Henry of boulders he had seen.

  Small, angry, piggish eyes darted back and forth as the man studied all the passengers he passed. Clearly, he was looking for someone, and when he found them, his intentions weren’t very friendly.

  John Henry lifted his left arm and put it around the redheaded woman’s shoulders, urging her even closer to him. His embrace caused her to jump a little at first, but then she seemed to realize what he was doing and why. She snuggled against his side in the circle of his arm.

  He leaned his head toward hers and tipped it slightly to the side. That caused his hat to block the woman’s face from the view of anyone in the aisle. Probably not much of her head was visible past the hat’s broad brim.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for being forward, ma’am,” he said in a half whisper.

  “I’m the one who should be asking forgiveness,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

  As he heard the searching man’s footsteps close behind his right shoulder, he said in a normal voice, “That’s right, darling, we’ll be in St. Louis before you know it. I’m sure you’ll be glad to see your mother again.”

  He turned his head even more toward her as the man moved past the seat. With her face right in front of his like that, and only inches away, what he did next seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

  He kissed her.

  Not a lingering, passionate, scandalous kiss of the sort that not even married couples exchanged in public, but rather just a quick but sweet peck on the lips, a gesture of affection. It served to shield her even more from view, however, and the charade seemed believable enough, John Henry thought.

  It appeared to work, because the big man stomped on past the seat. The vestibule at the front of the car was only about ten feet away, and in a matter of seconds he had disappeared into it, obviously intending to carry on his search in the next car.

  The redhead leaned back against the circle of John Henry’s arm and heaved a sigh of relief.

  “
I can’t thank you enough, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Sixkiller,” he told her. “John Henry Sixkiller.”

  She didn’t act like she recognized the name, and there was no reason she should unless she’d had some dealings with the Cherokee Lighthorse or Judge Parker’s court. She didn’t exactly look like a criminal, he told himself, but you couldn’t always tell about such things. He had run up against female outlaws who were just as bad as, if not worse than, their male counterparts.

  “I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Sixkiller.” She held out a gloved hand. “My name is Emmaline Dolan.”

  He didn’t elaborate and tell her that he was a deputy United States marshal. As he took her hand he said, “The pleasure is mine, Miss Dolan. It is Miss Dolan, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the, ah, gentleman . . . ?”

  “Was no gentleman,” she said firmly. “That was Walter Golliher.”

  She said the name like he ought to be familiar with it, but he had to shake his head and lift his eyebrows quizzically.

  “Walter Golliher, the prizefighter,” she said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow the sport,” John Henry told her. He had wrestled with his friends when he was a boy, and as a lawman he’d been in plenty of fistfights, but those ruckuses were serious business, often life-and-death, not some sort of competition or exhibition.

  If he was going to get hit, he wanted it to be for a good reason, not so somebody could win a bet or get a thrill from the sight of two men pounding on each other.

  “Walter is on his way from New Orleans to Kansas City to fight a bout with Otto Mueller,” Emmaline Dolan said.

  “Ah, the Prussian.”

  “I thought you said you don’t follow prizefighting,” Emmaline said with a slight frown.

  “I don’t, but I know a Prussian name when I hear one.”

  “It’s true, that’s where Mueller’s family is from, but he was born and raised in Chicago.”

  “For an attractive young woman, you seem to know a lot about this prizefighting business,” John Henry commented.

  “My father is Henry Dolan. He’s been training and managing pugilists since before I was born. I grew up around a prize ring.”

  “Well, that makes sense, I suppose.” John Henry paused. “Why were you hiding from Golliher?” A possibility occurred to him. “Is he your fiancé? I sort of make it a habit to not get involved in romantic disputes.”

  Especially when he was on his way to track down a notorious counterfeiter, he added silently.

  Emmaline said, “Wait . . . you think Walter and I . . . you’re asking if we’re engaged?”

  “It seemed like a reasonable enough question,” John Henry said mildly.

  Emmaline leaned back against the hard bench seat and laughed.

  “I guess somebody might think so,” she said, “but I promise you, Mr. Sixkiller, that’s not the case. Walter would like that, but I have no interest in him other than the fact that my father is his trainer and manager.”

  “So this is a romantic dispute,” John Henry said. “An unrequited one.”

  “No, I told you . . . well, I guess you could say . . .” Emmaline sighed. “All right, I suppose it is. Let’s just say that I’m grateful to you for helping me just now. Walter was being particularly stubborn today. He wanted me to take a walk with him to the observation platform at the rear of our car. I know perfectly well what he intended to do. He meant to steal a kiss.”

  “Sort of like I did,” John Henry reminded her.

  Emmaline’s face glowed warmly. She said, “That was very forward of you.”

  Despite what she said, she didn’t sound like she disapproved.

  “I suppose I get that way when strange ladies ask to sit with me on trains.”

  “But it was quite nice . . .” Emmaline sighed again. “Anyway, I told Walter to go ahead to the observation platform and that I would meet him back there—”

  “And then you went the other way as fast as you could,” John Henry guessed.

  “I panicked a little. He’s so persistent.”

  “You said that your father is his manager. Can’t he put a stop to this?”

  Emmaline rolled those beautiful green eyes.

  “With this bout coming up against Otto Mueller, Father just wants Walter kept happy. I mean, he wouldn’t allow anything improper to happen, of course, but he’s not going to try to discourage Walter and get him upset, either.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “We’ll be in Kansas City tonight,” Emmaline said. “We have family there, and I’m going to stay with my cousins while Father is training Walter for the fight. Walter won’t be able to bother me there. I just have to dodge him for the rest of the trip, until we reach Kansas City.”

  “Then I have an idea,” John Henry said. “Let’s go back to the caboose. I’ll explain the situation to the conductor and ask him if you can ride back there until the train gets to Kansas City.”

  Emmaline frowned again and asked, “Do you really think he’ll do that?”

  “I think I can talk him into it,” John Henry said.

  He didn’t add that he could always pull out his deputy marshal’s badge if the conductor needed a little extra persuading. If he had to, he would stretch the truth and claim that Emmaline was a witness he needed to protect. Judge Parker didn’t like it when his deputies bent the law, especially when it wasn’t in the cause of bringing in some outlaw who needed hanging, but John Henry didn’t see any reason why the judge ever had to know about this.

  “All right,” Emmaline said. “That would be wonderful. Thank you, Mr. Sixkiller.”

  “Glad to be of help,” he said. He stood up and politely extended a hand to Emmaline Dolan.

  She smiled and took it and let him help her to her feet. They moved down the aisle toward the rear of the car, John Henry keeping one hand lightly on her arm to steady her against the rocking of the train as it clattered over the rails.

  They went through the rear vestibule and had just stepped out onto the platform when John Henry heard a bellow like a wounded bull behind them. He looked around, and through the glass in the vestibule door, he saw Walter Golliher standing at the other end of the car. The prizefighter had spotted him and Emmaline.

  Then, still reminding John Henry of an angry bull, Golliher lowered his bowler-hatted head and charged.

  Chapter Six

  Emmaline had heard Golliher’s shout, too, and she gasped in horror as she looked back at him.

  “Oh, no!” she cried. “He’s found us!”

  John Henry pushed her toward the door of the next car.

  “Go on back to the caboose,” he told her. “I’ll try to slow him down.”

  “Please be careful, Mr. Sixkiller. Walter is violently jealous.”

  Before John Henry could ask her what she meant by that, Emmaline Dolan was gone, vanishing through the vestibule of the next car.

  He turned back and braced himself to meet the prizefighter’s rush. Maybe he could talk some sense into Golliher’s head, he thought.

  To give himself some room, John Henry backed up onto the front platform of the next car. If he’d had time, he would have taken out the leather folder that contained his badge and bona fides and had them ready to display to Golliher. The sight of a federal lawman’s badge usually made people slow down and think twice about what they were doing.

  John Henry didn’t have a chance to do that. Golliher slowed down just enough to jerk the door open and then started to build up steam again as he rushed out onto the platform.

  “Hold it!” John Henry ordered. “Mr. Golliher, don’t—”

  The prizefighter ignored the firm command and lunged across both platforms at John Henry. Instead of throwing a punch, as John Henry expected him to, Golliher reached for him with open hands, as if he intended to grab him and tear him limb from limb.

  John Henry tried to twist out of the way, but one of Golliher’s hamlike hands s
nagged his coat and used it to slam him against the front wall of the railroad car. The impact was enough to knock the breath from John Henry’s lungs and leave him momentarily stunned. Golliher’s other hand caught him by the throat.

  That wasn’t good. Long, thick fingers like sausages closed around John Henry’s windpipe. He was already gasping for air from being rammed against the wall, and now he couldn’t get any breath into his lungs. The world seemed to spin crazily around him, and it took on a reddish tint around the edges that told him he was about to pass out.

  He could have drawn his Colt and shot Golliher, of course, and it would be justified as self-defense. At this moment, it certainly appeared that Golliher intended to choke him to death.

  John Henry didn’t think somebody ought to die just because of a jealous rage, however, so he cast around desperately for some nonlethal means of breaking Golliher’s grip. He tried a tactic he had used before, cupping both hands and slamming them against Golliher’s ears.

  That made Golliher roar in pain, but his grip on John Henry’s throat didn’t loosen. He had the lawman pinned against the wall and leaned in closer to him.

  That brought him close enough for John Henry to raise a knee up sharply into his groin. It was a dirty move, of course, but this was no time for worrying about the niceties. It was a matter of survival.

  The blow landed solidly and would have devastated most men. Walter Golliher just groaned, his face darkened even more with rage, and he squeezed harder on John Henry’s neck.

  Shooting the big ox was starting to sound more appealing, John Henry thought wildly.

  But when he drew his gun he didn’t pull the trigger. Instead he reversed the weapon and slammed the butt against Golliher’s head. Clearly, the prizefighter had a thick skull and was used to getting hit, but even so, his eyes went a little glassy.

  John Henry didn’t want to do any permanent damage to the man, but he couldn’t worry about that too much. If he passed out, there was no telling what Golliher might do. So John Henry hit him again.