The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  “Is our private train ready?” Morgan asked, gripping a strap with his free hand.

  “Of course. Both yours and Jones’s private trains are stripped down for the race to the pass. Your supplies have gone on ahead.”

  “Starshine is with them,” Spencer added. “Since you asked to have your supplies combined with Evans’s.”

  Joy bubbled through Jessamyn like champagne. Her longtime mount and bred at Somerset Hall, the gentle mare was also close to a pet. “Starshine? You’re loaning her to me for the trip?”

  “Of course. How else could we be sure you’d return safely?”

  Tears welled up and Jessamyn covered her mouth, fighting for control. If worse came to worse, Starshine could be one of the few Somerset Hall horses to survive. “I thought when I gave her to you after Cyrus died, that I’d never see her again.”

  “Of course you’re riding her. You could ride to China on that dappled bay.”

  Jessamyn managed a smile at the old joke and sniffled. Morgan’s arm tightened around her, bracing her against yet another bounce through a pothole.

  “You’re well equipped now, with a ladies’ mount like the legendary Starshine,” Anderson commented. “But I couldn’t find a guide so Grainger’s bringing one from Trinidad.”

  Grainger? If he meant Lucas Grainger, she might know him from the cavalry.

  “Grainger found one?” Morgan sounded rather perturbed.

  “Donovan told him to, remember?”

  “Well, Grainger is damn good but still—”

  “And Jones borrowed Palmer’s personal train,” Anderson added, evidently deciding to deliver all the bad news at once.

  “The owner of the Denver & Rio Grande?” Jessamyn groaned. Every Colorado railroad man would recognize and give precedence to that train between Denver and the Sangre de Cristo Pass.

  “Correct. But your train should arrive in Plaza de los Leones first, if we can beat Jones to the depot.” He looked back at Morgan. “I’ve bribed the Pueblo stationmaster to make sure you go through those switches first.”

  “Excellent work, Anderson,” Morgan approved.

  Jessamyn choked at the open acceptance of corruption, which wasn’t behavior Cyrus would have ever tolerated. On the other hand, she had thrown in her lot with Morgan because he knew how to turn shady practices to his own advantage.

  “We’ve sent messages ahead to all the posts in Colorado and other points south and west,” Spencer added. “You have many friends who’ll help you in any way they can.”

  A particularly hard series of jolts as they bounced over ruts and potholes silenced all conversation. Shouting at the horses, the driver drove recklessly enough to scatter pedestrians like pigeons and trigger curses faster than dust clouds in their wake.

  Morgan pulled her against him, the possessiveness surprising her into silence. She readily absorbed his warmth, familiar from the train trip. But more intimate yet was the feel of his woolen jacket, the silk of his cravat, the stiffness of his starched collar—all sensations that only a wife had the right to enjoy publicly. She’d had all too few opportunities for those pleasures in her seven years with Cyrus, since he’d been absent on campaign so often against either the Rebels or the Indians. But in this careening brougham, she allowed her body to settle against Morgan’s in a very wifely fashion, all the while wondering at her own desire to do so.

  All too soon, the brougham whipped into the depot and pulled up alongside the office. The men piled out of and jumped off the carriage, rocking it violently. Morgan swept Jessamyn onto the paving, while the blond giants retrieved their luggage. They hastened around the corner and onto the platform.

  Before her lay the Denver & Rio Grande’s Denver station. It was a fairly modest station, basically a single building with a platform circling it. Beyond that lay two lines of track, each one occupied by a single small train, puffing smoke like a racehorse begging to be set free. A series of switches allowed either train to be brought up to the platform for passengers’ convenience.

  The nearest train was guarded by a single armed sentry atop it and a handful of armed guards pacing watchfully around it. The other train was encircled by a cordon of armed thugs, standing almost shoulder to shoulder.

  Every window in the station and surrounding buildings was full of spectators, as were the muddy roadsides and hills beyond. An even more surprising sight was the military band playing lively jigs. It struck up a rollicking march as soon as Jessamyn and Morgan arrived, one that she’d heard many times on the parade ground.

  The closest train blew its whistle sharply and moved forward to the platform. The tall young man atop it sprang up out of a crouch and waved his broad-brimmed hat at Morgan, who tossed a two-fingered salute back. Then he slung his rifle over his shoulder and swung himself down, hand over hand like a monkey, so he could grip the handrails and ride up to the platform by the station.

  “Lowell,” Anderson muttered, sounding resigned.

  “Have any trouble finding him?” Morgan asked.

  Anderson snorted. “Didn’t until late last night, which is why he’s up here and not down south with everyone else. Seems he was celebrating some faro winnings and needed to sleep off the effects.”

  Morgan laughed. “But he’s the best sentry you could hope to find.”

  “Agreed.”

  The train swept up in a cloud of steam. Lowell jumped down onto the platform and took his hat off. Seen close up, he was a rawboned young man, with the promise of a very handsome man to come once he filled out the potential of his big frame. A shock of black hair fell over his broad forehead, partially concealing intelligent blue-gray eyes. “No trouble, sir.”

  “Not since you showed up,” Anderson corrected.

  Lowell flushed, looking as if praise was an appalling thing to be saddled with. “Not since t’other Donovan & Sons boys come up,” he corrected.

  Spencer turned to Jessamyn. “Good-bye, Jessamyn, and good luck.”

  “Good-bye, Michael. Please convey my best to Elizabeth Anne and the girls.”

  “Thank you for all your help,” Morgan said stiffly from beside her. She wondered briefly if he was still irritated by the sight of a blue uniform.

  Spencer grinned, a bit wickedly. “My pleasure.” The blond giants finished loading the luggage aboard and he stepped back.

  Morgan swung Jessamyn onto the train and she hastened to find an open window. Lowell followed her a moment later, while Morgan stayed on the steps.

  A woman shrieked a curse. Maggie’s vocabulary hadn’t improved since the other depot.

  “Good luck!” shouted Anderson and Spencer. The military band roared into “Garryowen” and the crowd shouted encouragement, caught up in the moment’s madness.

  With a snort of steam and a rumble of machinery, their special train moved off down the track, heading for the Sangre de Cristo Pass and the road to Ortiz’s gold.

  Chapter Twelve

  South of Pueblo, Colorado

  The private train sped south, black smoke and cinders flying overhead, as if it, too, wanted to reach Ortiz’s gold first. To the east stretched the Great Plains, flat as a table, covered with grasses and etched with deep ravines leading to the civilizations of Mississippi and the Eastern Seaboard. On the west, the Rockies rose sharp and angular to the skies, laden with gold, silver, and dangerous men. The dividing line between Eastern law and order and Western recklessness had never seemed quite so clear to Jessamyn before as she stared out the lounge’s window.

  Behind her, little Sally, the dressmaker’s assistant, mumbled softly as she finished fluffing out the train on Jessamyn’s new sage green promenade dress. On the table beside Jessamyn rested her purse, containing her pocket Navy Colt and Aunt Serafina’s last diary.

  The private car they were riding in was a hunting car, designed to be hired out to foreign aristocrats for long hunting parties in isolated locations. Jessamyn had seen some spectacular displays of opulence before the War, when cotton millionaires had been
proud to call her father their friend. This car’s lavish decorations of marquetry, crystal, and velvets would have been warmly welcomed by those connoisseurs of overindulgence. Why, there were even two closets in the stateroom large enough for a person to stand up in, which was an unbelievable luxury.

  The bandboxes holding her startling new wardrobe had overflowed the tables and chairs in the private car’s lounge, an assemblage of frills and furbelows immense enough to make Morgan and Lowell beat a hasty retreat to the simpler observation car, located before the hunting car. The observation car also carried the luggage and followed the coal tender, located just behind the steam engine, in their very small private train.

  “Magnificent!” approved Mrs. Jennings, the dressmaker. “A perfect fit, as were all the others. Mrs. Donovan has an excellent eye for color and fabric,” she cooed, tweaking the shoulders into place. “A wonderful gift for their friend’s cousin.”

  “Indeed she does,” Jessamyn agreed, although she personally gave Mr. Donovan credit for estimating her figure so very precisely. She strongly suspected that the new clothes were an attempt to foster a match between herself and Morgan, which was the most ridiculous concept she’d ever heard of. If Viola Donovan had been there, Jessamyn would have politely returned the garments immediately. But there was no one present to complain to except Mrs. Jennings, the dressmaker. Jessamyn was having difficulty imagining how to do so, without explaining the true state of affairs between herself and Morgan, a prospect that made her shudder.

  She decided to bite her tongue and repay the Donovans after she found Ortiz’s gold.

  She twisted from her hips, catching sight of her reflection in the window, and bemusedly admired the tiers caught up with bows on the very fashionable train sweeping behind her. This was the seventh outfit that hadn’t needed any alterations and the first one unlikely to go into the mountains.

  Before the Donovans’ appalling proclivity for matchmaking, she’d had only one riding habit—the bare minimum needed for such a difficult trip but all she’d been able to afford. Her two new riding habits were truly beautiful and both very practical. The undergarments for riding, such as the spare shirts, trousers, and chemises, were exactly what she’d wanted for extra comfort. And the dresses, nightgowns, and other garments were both feminine and remarkably sturdy, offering prospects for attracting masculine attention and surviving camp life. She flushed at the memory of Morgan’s attentions last night and turned back to the window, sending the ribbons on her frivolous little hat dancing against her cheek.

  Just then the train’s whistle blew, signaling an abrupt halt.

  “What on earth?” Mrs. Jennings exclaimed and all three women looked out the windows.

  The train came to rest in a siding, beside the main line, leaving the only through line of track open. On its other side was a steep, boulder-strewn slope with a scrub forest above, part of the mountains’ foothills.

  “We must be waiting for the freight train to go through. There’s a regular supply train for all those Army forts south of here,” Mrs. Jennings opined. “As soon as it’s gone past, we’ll start again. You’ll still beat Mr. and Mrs. Jones to the pass.”

  Sure enough, a few minutes later the ground beneath the train began to shake. A whistle blew, loud, long, and deep, heralding the advent of the larger train.

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Jessamyn smiled politely at Mrs. Jennings and started folding her new chemises. If that freight train had command of the only track, then Charlie’s train couldn’t pass them, a comforting thought.

  The whistle blew again, much closer, and teacups rattled loudly in their saucers.

  Morgan gave another long look at the uphill slope on the other side from the freight train. He could have hidden Forrest’s entire escort amid these boulders and scattered pines. Cochise would have whooped for joy at the chance to set an ambush here.

  Then he moved to the downhill side for a quick check of the passing freight train. They were halfway between Pueblo, where the stationmaster had let them through first, and Plaza de los Leones, the jump-off for the Sangre de Cristo Pass. There were very few places for trains to pass each other on this brand-new railway so it wasn’t surprising that his train had pulled off here.

  Lowell joined him. If there was to be a fight, this young man would be one of his first choices as a gun partner. “Any particular reason why the hair on my neck should be standing up?”

  Morgan shot him a look then loosened his two guns in their holsters, already certain his Henry rifle was fully loaded. They’d both strapped their Colts on when they’d entered the observation car. Lowell loosened his gun and shook out the Bowie knife in his boot as well, keeping his rifle handy.

  The whistle blew again, long and loud. The first freight car went past, shaking the ground and the floor under their feet.

  “How many cars?”

  “Didn’t see.” Morgan shrugged, turning back to look at the mountain.

  A shot rang out from ahead, the unmistakable solid boom of a double-barreled shotgun. Their train’s engineer carried a shotgun, in case of trouble, as he’d carefully mentioned when they’d visited him without the ladies’ presence. The country from here south to Trinidad was particularly rough, one where no man knew who his friend was.

  Colts and a rifle barked sharply in response, from the mountainside. Dammit, which of those boulders hid the rifleman?

  Jessamyn’s head came up at the sound of gunshots and her eyes met Mrs. Jennings’s. Little Sally turned absolutely green above her pink muslin dress and clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “Robbers,” said Mrs. Jennings flatly.

  “Or worse,” quavered Sally.

  Through the window, Jessamyn could glimpse two—no, at least three, dammit—men dodging between boulders and working their way down from the Sangre de Cristo Mountains toward the train. Worse, Morgan and Lowell wouldn’t have a good shot at them from the observation car.

  “Into the stateroom. We can hide there and barricade the doors,” ordered Jessamyn. “Our menfolk will come for us.”

  “But there’re only two of them.” Sally gulped.

  “As long as they’re alive, they’ll come. And Mr. Evans is very hard to kill. Shoo!” Jessamyn grabbed up her purse and shoved the precious brass tube with the treasure map into Sally’s hand. If there was to be fighting, she was the best one to use the gun. Hopefully, no one would think the tube meant anything in Sally’s hands. “Hold on to this, no matter what happens. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Given something concrete to do, the girl’s expression steadied and she rushed into the stateroom.

  Morgan and Lowell fired one last round then flattened themselves on the observation car’s floor as bullets smashed through the walls above them. They were firing for effect, rather than at genuine targets, since the bandits were careful to keep down. Most of the shots had come from the forward side, toward the engine with the train’s crew. But the women were in the private car behind them, with heaven knows how many devils coming after them.

  Jesus, if anything happened to Jessamyn, he’d about kill himself. He’d always remember her white face on the morning she learned her mother had abandoned her for that flashy Californian.

  In either event, he and Lowell would have to go out the downhill side, away from their attackers—and toward the freight train. And Palmer was a cheap bastard who hadn’t flattened much land for the siding. There’d be damned little room to walk on, let alone air to breathe, between this train and the freight.

  Morgan jerked his head at Lowell, indicating the downhill side. Together they crawled toward it on their bellies. They’d barely opened the rear door a crack when suddenly a volley of shotgun blasts ripped into the observation car. The wooden sides shattered almost completely, letting daylight and the freight train’s roar in. A series of heavy coal cars began to go past, shaking the ground like an earthquake.

  Thank God there were no screams from the private car. Jessamyn must be saf
e, at least for now.

  Morgan slipped through the door as quickly and silently as he could, with Lowell behind him. The freight train’s howling winds battered them, while the ground heaved under their feet. They pressed against the observation car, staying as low as possible.

  Two heavy-footed bastards with shotguns were climbing into the observation car. One of them shouted to his buddies, “I’ve flushed these two. How’re you doing up there with the crew?”

  Morgan and Lowell looked at each other, murder in both pairs of gray eyes. So far at least, the bandits were focused on the crew, not the womenfolk. Morgan made a shooing motion with his hand, urging Lowell forward. They’d purge the train of the biggest poison first, hoping the smaller lump in the observation car wouldn’t harm Jessamyn and the other ladies in the meantime.

  Maybe she could help them keep their heads. She was a well-known sharpshooter and had fought Indians beside Cyrus, although he’d never heard of her using a handgun other than on a practice range. Ice flickered through his veins and settled in his stomach. If these bastards harmed her, he’d show them what kinds of vengeance a white man learned among the Apaches…

  Lowell nodded cold-blooded agreement. They ran forward, occasionally touching the railcars for balance when the wind and noise grew too strong. They reached the engine and hid behind the tender, which was piled high with wood.

  Satisfied they hadn’t been heard, Morgan glanced at Lowell, who nodded his readiness. As ever in a fight, he’d taken on the look of a man ten years older, who’d seen blood shed far too many times. If William knew the exact number of times, he wasn’t telling.

  Morgan and Lowell peered around the tender to tally up their remaining enemies.

  One was coming down from the hillside, with a rifle in his hand; probably the ringleader since he was definitely the best dressed. Two stood in front of the coal tender, as if about to leave for the private car. One was stepping down from the cab, reloading his gun; likely only God could help the crew now.