Throw the Devil Off the Train

by Stephen Bly

  “That’s what I was afraid of.” Angelita folded her arms. “It is really quite dangerous to live that way. You are headed west, no?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Everything gets very wild as you go west. Laramie is much worse . . . and Ogden. Reno Station is a violent place. And Rawlins . . . well, respectable women are advised not even to depart the train. It is very dangerous indeed. Your sensitive ears should not even hear what goes on there.”

  Catherine studied the smudged face, the alert, dark brown eyes.

  Where does she get these lines? Even Mark Twain could not write a script this good.

  “Thank you, Angelita, for being so considerate.”

  “You are welcome.” She reached over and put her hand on Catherine’s shoulder. “But there is a solution to this threat of violence.”

  Catherine rested her hand on Angelita’s. “I should start carrying a revolver? You don’t happen to have one to sell me, do you?”

  The little girl’s eyes widened in delight. “Oh, yes . . . I have a very fine Colt 73, peacemaker .45 caliber revolver with 5 ½ inch barrel and shiny bore.” She pulled the revolver out of the burlap sack. “It fires a standard 255 grain, blunt nose bullet with 40 grains of black powder. It is very powerful, yet sleek, don’t you think?”

  Is this girl eight or twenty-eight? How does she know all of this? Why does she know all of this? She might be the most interesting character in Wyoming.

  “Thank you, honey, but I’m really not looking to buy a firearm.” Catherine turned toward the telegraph office. “It was so nice to visit with you.”

  “But, wait,” Angelita jumped off the bench and grabbed her arm. “I haven’t told you the exciting part.”

  “Oh?”

  “This very revolver was once owned by none other than the legendary Stuart Brannon himself. You have heard of Brannon, no? Of course, everyone has heard of him.”

  “A Stuart Brannon gun? How rare. How did you come by it?”

  “Well, you see, I often come to the train station. There are such interesting people here. Some real characters, if you know what I mean. Sometimes they need a quick meal. So, I bring some sandwiches or cheese to sell. I make my own cheese, you know. It is slightly sharp and zesty.”

  “Zesty?”

  “I put just a few hot peppers in it. Some say it is the best cheese in Wyoming, but I do not know that for sure. Anyway, an old man came up on the train from Ft. Collins. He looked like a prospector who is down on his luck. He wanted to buy my whole bag of sandwiches and cheese.”

  “He must have been very hungry.”

  “He was very thin. Like a coyote in August. But it was early on a Saturday and the east and west trains had not arrived. I had a very large sack of sandwiches and . . . .”

  “Hot, spicy cheese?”

  “Yes. I had a lot of food in the bag. I was looking forward to selling them one by one. Then he tells me he has no money, but he will trade me this gun he received from Stuart Brannon down in Arizona Territory. He wanted to trade this very gun for the food.”

  “But you already had a revolver, didn’t you? A beautiful lady like yourself needs protection.”

  “That is very true. I do carry a sneak gun at all times. But I felt sorry for the old man. I believe it is my duty as a Christian to assist the hungry.”

  You carry a sneak gun? Honey, that seems incredulous, yet somehow, I believe you.

  “So you traded for the gun and now want to sell it to me?”

  “Yes! And since we have so much in common, I will sell this historic gun for only six dollars.” Angelita licked her full, pink lips. “Gold or silver coins, please.”

  “You don’t like greenbacks?”

  “There are some shops that devalue them.”

  Am I really listening to a little girl?

  Catherine looked down at her purse that she clutched in front of her. “I’m afraid I can’t afford . . . .”

  “Did I say six dollars? Tsk. Tsk. What am I thinking? Us beautiful women must help each other whenever we can. Only four dollars for you, but don’t let anyone else know I sold it so cheap.”

  “Honey, I know a little about guns. My father sold them in his store. I have read several times that Stuart Brannon only carries a Colt .44 to match cartridges in his Winchester 1873.” Catherine waved her gloved finger like a schoolteacher giving a mathematical lecture. “How can a .45 caliber gun be his?”

  “Oh . . . oh . . . well,” Angelita pursed her lips. “I can see you are very well read. That is excellent. Yes, that is very true. Mr. Brannon only carries a .44.” Angelita regained her wide, dimpled grin. “That is why he sold this revolver to the old man. It was the wrong caliber. That makes it very rare, indeed. Imagine a .45 caliber gun belonging to Stuart Brannon. And I did not even add to its value for rareness.”

  “How considerate of you. Angelita, even though it is very exceptional and unique, I can’t afford to . . . .”

  “Did I mention it comes with five bullets, no extra charge?”

  “Five? I thought a Colt held six.”

  “Of course it does, but you do not want the hammer sitting on a live cartridge. There is a danger of an accidental discharge. Five bullets will be sufficient to slow down any attacker.”

  “I suppose you are right. But I still . . . .”

  “Imagine, five bullets that the legendary Stuart Brannon slipped into this very gun. It just sends goose bumps up your spine, doesn’t it?”

  “Honey, I just don’t have the money.”

  Angelita puffed out her cheeks, then let the air out slowly. “I must not go home empty-handed tonight. I will sell you this fine, historic pistol for only two dollars, but that will include merely one bullet.”

  “You are a very good saleslady. But you picked a very poor customer. I spent my money on a train ticket to California. The man I will marry is waiting for me there, and I only have enough funds on me right now to send a telegram.”

  “How much do you have?”

  “Only fifty cents, and I need it . . . .”

  “You are sending a telegram to your fiancé in California? That is only thirty cents, which means . . . .”

  “I am sending a telegram to my sister in New York City.”

  “Oh, New York. I think I will go there one day and become a famous actress. Do you think I could be an actress?”

  “You already are quite good.”

  “And beautiful.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “But a telegram to New York is only forty cents, if you keep it to twenty-five words or less. That means you will have change left. Now, mind you, I wouldn’t do this for just anyone.” She flipped open the cylinder and pushed out one bullet. “For my good friend, Catherine Draper, about to be wed in California, I will sell one genuine Stuart Brannon bullet for only ten cents.”

  Catherine smiled. “Angelita, I have never met anyone quite like you.”

  The little girl rubbed her nose with the palm of her hand. “My father says I am quite special. Then you will buy the bullet?”

  “Check with me after I send the telegram.”

  “Yes, yes.” Angelita studied the lobby doorway. “But you must act quick. Pappy will be making his rounds soon and I’ll need to go home.”

  “Your father is coming by here?”

  “No, my father watches the jail. Pappy is the sheriff. I must leave before he, eh . . . .”

  Catherine laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Runs you off?”

  “It is better to say, before he escorts me home.”

  She read the message over again:

  Catelynn, forgive my impertinence at our last meeting. I want the best for you. Love blurs my wisdom. Telegraph me at Reno Station, Nevada. Catherine.”

  “Did you say this would be .40 cents?

  The chubby clerk with weak mustache sat on a stool behind a solitaire card layout. “Yes, ma’am. Twenty-five words or less, forty cents.”

  She plucked up two
nickels change. “And you’ll send it right away?

  He pushed his green isinglass visor to the top of his forehead. “Yes, ma’am. As soon as I’m finished with this . . .”

  “The eight of diamonds does not belong on the nine of hearts.”

  “What?”

  “You’re cheating at solitaire. Send the telegram now, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He turned toward the idle telegraph key.

  Catherine sauntered half-way across the lobby before she heard the familiar voice behind her.

  “I wonder if they have one my size?”

  She turned around to see Angelita and the gunny sack following her. “Your dress is beautiful. I would like to have one just like it. As I mentioned before, just one dime for a genuine Stuart Brannon cartridge.”

  The evening air whipped Catherine’s face like a fan. Her eyes had barely adjusted to the darkness when another familiar voice struck her ears like an unwanted slap.

  “Catherine, it is you. I can’t believe this. Chet said you were with the judge tonight, but I thought there must be some mistake.”

  She could make out his tall shadow and natty, tilted hat, but not the slicked down mustache nor the narrow, piercing eyes. “Mr. Zane, I think I adequately expressed my opinion of you at our last meeting. I do not want to see you or talk to you now. Please excuse me. I must get to the train.”

  He yanked her arm. “Catherine, I need to talk to you.”

  She shoved him away. “Don’t touch me. We have nothing to talk about.” Now I wish I did have Angelita’s gun.

  “It’s about Catelynn,” he began. “Have you had contact with her lately?”

  Catherine spun around. “You were there on the day of our last meeting.”

  “Then you don’t know?” He sounded puzzled more than startled.

  “Don’t know what?”

  The man in the shadow rubbed his chin. “Eh . . . it’s rather private.”

  Defused light filtered out of the station windows. “There is no one on the platform.”

  “It could take me some time to explain everything. Perhaps we could step back on the train and you could come to my compartment.”

  “I do not trust you.”

  “I don’t blame you for that. But once you hear what I have to say, you’ll understand my discretion. Please. For Catelynn’s sake.”

  Catherine stormed toward the train, with Zane following her. “If you want to tell me about my sister you can do it now . . . or in the presence of my friends, but not in your compartment.”

  He remained on the platform when she pulled herself up on the step of her car.

  “If you won’t come talk to me for Catelyn’s sake.” His voice tightened. “Then come talk to me because of her daughter’s sake.”

  It felt like a blow to the side of her head. She spun around and grabbed the iron railing to keep her balance. “Daughter? Catelynn doesn’t have . . . .”

  “Little Marie DuClare . . . .”

  “Our mother was named Marie DuClare.”

  “Yes, indeed. I’m in compartment 3C. Try to be there within fifteen minutes.”

  He strutted towards the front of the train as Catherine blinked her eyes in the pale darkness.

  A baby girl? My sister doesn’t . . . she would have told me . . . she isn’t even married . . . she wouldn’t . . . but . . . she might. I called her fat. Oh, no, no. Was she pregnant and I was to pompous and pious to tell?

  Francine and little Nancy drew a picture on a brown paper when Catherine returned to her seat.

  Race sat up and pushed his hat back. “Me and Mr. Walker were gettin’ worried about you. I should have escorted you to the telegraph office.”

  Catherine rubbed her forehead and tried to quiet the chaos in her mind. She glanced across at Race’s saddle. “Mr. Walker, I trust you, at least, had a peaceful evening.”

  “I’m guessing you had a less than pleasant experience at the telegraph office,” Francine suggested.

  “I just had a most disturbing conversation with the most despicable man on earth. Race, do you still have that extra pistol?”

  “So you ran across Matthew Zane?” Francine asked.

  “He came looking for me. His pal Pinehurst is the judge’s new security guard. Which, in itself, is a suspicious arrangement.”

  Hillyard dug into his saddlebag. “You plannin’ on shootin’ someone?”

  “Do you have the gun?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “May I borrow it? And five bullets.”

  “Five?” Francine questioned.

  “One must leave the hammer set on an empty chamber, isn’t that right Mr. Hillyard?”

  “Eh, yeah, that’s best. Do you really want this gun?”

  She clutched the revolver. “Yes, I do. I need to go talk to Mr. Zane. He has some private news about my sister. I must find out how she is doing.”

  Francine handed Preston and Nancy small round crackers, then leaned forward. “I thought you hated him.”

  “I do. Thus, the gun.”

  Hillyard rubbed the back of his neck. “You promise not to shoot him?”

  “I make no such promise. But whatever happens, he will only get what he deserves.”

  “Maybe I should go with you,” he offered.

  “I think I need to hear this news alone. But if I’m not back in thirty minutes or so, come and look for me in 3C.”

  “Guns drawn?” Hillyard asked.

  “By all means.”

  Catherine stood and stuffed the revolver into her purse.

  “I’ll expect a full report when you get back,” Francine insisted. “Traveling with you just might be the most exciting event in my life. Other than meeting that snake dancer in Memphis.”

  The aisle crammed as the passengers re-entered the car. The conductor’s familiar “all aboard” bellowed through the open windows.

  The train jerked forward as she made her way through the passenger car ahead of them. Like her own, it teamed with an assortment of people, a cornucopia of aromas. She felt very conscious of the revolver concealed in her handbag. She nodded at the conductor as they squeezed by in the aisle.

  “I’ve not forgotten your request, Miss Draper,” he said. “Still no private open compartments. Perhaps, when we get to Ogden.”

  She made a quick remark and kept marching through the car. A blonde cowboy tipped his hat. Her glare caused him to shove it back over unruly hair.

  Lord, I don’t want to talk to Zane. He always makes me angry. Why would he say Catelynn has a child? Why would he say that? Yes, things are not good between us, but that is something she would not keep secret. He has manipulated my sister for years with lies and innuendoes . I will not allow him to do that to me. This will be a very short discussion.

  A well endowed woman with thick black hair and a low neckline on her burgundy silk blouse led two laughing men into compartment 3F. Catherine paused in front of 3C .

  Yeah, though I walk through the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . . ”

  Her loud knock on the door seemed to clear her head. When she heard, “Come in, Catherine,” she sucked in a deep breath.

  She shoved the door open, surprised at the smallness of the compartment. Two leather padded bench seats faced each other, with a fold-down bed fastened above the right seat. A narrow water-closet door on the left. Matthew Zane and Chester Pinehurst faced each other.

  Zane patted the seat next to him. “Come in. Close the door and sit down.”

  Out the window, the tiny, scattered lights from houses along the tracks through Cheyenne hurried by like lemmings leaping off a cliff in single file. She scrutinized the smirks on both mustached faces.

  “Pinehurst, you leave. I like you even less than I like Zane. So go out on the platform and smoke. Or better yet, just hurl yourself from the train.” She glowered at Zane. “I will sit in the seat facing you and you will leave the door open.”

  Pinehurst scooted by her and she slid in next to the window.<
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  “I thought you might think it more prudent to have a third party with us.”

  Catherine pulled out the revolver. Matthew Zane flinched when she cocked the hammer and laid it in her lap. “This is the only third party I need.”

  “Good grief, Catherine.” He wiped his forehead. “Put the gun away.”

  Though the air in the compartment was stuffy, it didn’t account for the sudden sweat on his brow.

  “Understand something, Mr. Zane. I will decide when, and if, I put the gun away.” She aimed the muzzle at Pinehurst. “I believe you need to go check on the judge. Little does he know he hired the wolf to watch the chicken.”

  When Pinehurst was out of sight, she turned to Zane. “Now what is all this nonsense about Catelynn having a baby?”

  The car lurched to the side. She feared for a moment he would grab for the gun. She regained her posture and aimed it at him.

  “It’s not nonsense. Now, if you’ll lay that revolver in your lap, I’ll explain. This is way too rough a ride to feel chatty with a muzzle pointed at me.”

  Catherine brushed the front of her dress, placed her handbag on her lap, and the revolver on top the handbag.

  “Last March, Catelynn birthed a baby daughter. It was a difficult delivery, as I understand.”

  “You weren’t there?”

  He avoided her eyes. “I was in San Francisco at the time.”

  “You had a business trip and couldn’t be there for your own daughter’s birth?”

  “Well, there is some question of parentage.”

  The revolver trembled as she pointed it at Zane. “Are you accusing my sister of . . . .”

  “Catherine, put the gun down.” His voice was tight. Almost a whine. “I’m only telling you what you would find out on your own. I do assume the baby is mine. One time, in an angry moment, your sister seemed to challenge that idea, but I assume she was just trying to get at me.”

  Catherine lowered the revolver, took a deep breath and raised her shoulders. “Since very few things you have ever told me are true, how could I believe you this time?”

  “Would photographs help?”

  A plump man, with light gray linen suit and no tie appeared at the door. “Hey, are you the furr . . . the purr . . . Persian belly-dancer?” he slurred.

  Catherine glanced at the man’s lopsided grin. The train slowed and the man staggered back down the aisle out of sight.