by Delynn Royer
Less than one minute had passed since Gwin had stepped out of the ladies' washroom. She slumped, her head rolling to one side, her eyelids fluttering closed. Just before she passed out of this world, she thought vaguely that it was a shame ... a sad, sad shame that she would never get the chance to really know him. Lancelot.
Chapter Nine
She was taking too long.
Cole poked his head out from between the sleeping curtains. The aisle was deserted. He muttered to himself, "She wouldn't dare."
But, of course, he knew very well that she would.
He reached for his shirt, berating himself for even stripping it off in the first place. How stupid of him to think that she would actually make this easy, how stupid to think that maybe she was as exhausted as he was and would cooperate for a change.
"What’s the matter, Cole?"
Cole was so angry, he couldn't look Arthur in the face.
"What are you doing?" the boy persisted.
"Your sister is up to her old tricks again."
Arthur, who was undressing for sleep, stopped, his thumb hooked in the shoulder strap of his overalls. "She wouldn't. I just know she wouldn't. She's probably just back there fooling with her hair. You know how girls are."
Cole ignored Arthur as he pulled on his boots. He reached for his gun belt, thought better of it, and instead extracted his Colt .45 from its holster.
Arthur's voice rose in alarm. "What are you going to do with that?"
Cole slipped the Colt into the pocket of his jacket and pointed a stern finger at Arthur. "Don't you move. Understand?"
Arthur's eyes were big. He gulped and nodded, looking, at that moment, very small and very young. Cole felt a jab of compassion and softened his tone. "Look, just stay where you are. I'll see about getting your sister back here. By her hair, if necessary."
Arthur offered a tremulous smile, apparently relieved to know that Cole didn’t intend to shoot Gwin. Not tonight, anyway.
Cole had to turn sideways to avoid disturbing the solid row of sleeping curtains that lined either side of the aisle, but it didn't hamper his progress. He was exasperated with Gwin and meant to find her quickly.
He reached the ladies' washroom and was about to rap on the door when something crackled beneath his heel. He looked down to see Gwin's towel, but it was the shattered perfume bottle that caught his attention. He stooped to examine the discarded items. The soap was wet, the towel damp. She must have come back here, washed up, dropped everything, and made a run for it.
Cole frowned. Even for Gwin, the idea seemed farfetched. He stared at the towel and the fragrant shards in his hand and started to get a bad feeling. As impossible as it seemed, it appeared as if Gwin had vanished into thin air.
*
Arthur sat cross-legged in the berth, his shoulders slumped and his head bent. Cole's parting words—"Don't you move."—still rang in his ears, and it wasn't only because Arthur was still much more child than adult that he was loath to disobey. He liked Cole. In fact, he liked Cole a lot, and there was a part of him that yearned for Cole to like him back.
"Don't you move."
Arthur didn't move. He missed Silas. Sometimes he missed Silas so bad he had to bite his knuckles at night to keep from crying. He missed Clell, too. Clell had been the one who had found Excalibur among the odds and ends in the wagon of a street peddler in Salina, Kansas. Clell had even shown Arthur how to shoot it so that the rocks he used for ammunition didn't go all kerflooey.
Arthur was plenty smart enough to realize that Cole was nothing like Silas. He wasn't like Clell, either, but Arthur liked him anyway. Yesterday, when Arthur had worked up the nerve to ask Cole a man-question, Cole had answered him straight. He hadn't treated him like a kid.
Arthur was going to miss Cole. During their dinner stop, Gwinnie had signaled him, a subtle, unobtrusive gesture, imperceptible to anyone who didn't know what to look for. With the knuckles of her forefinger and middle finger, she had brushed beneath her chin before picking up her fork to eat. Arthur had seen it immediately, of course. He had been trained since birth to recognize that signal, a disguised gesture of acknowledgment from one sharper to another.
A few minutes later, when Cole had been distracted by the waiter, Arthur had known to look at Gwinnie for more. She had made a shadow-bird with her hands and had mouthed one word: Tomorrow. And Arthur knew what that meant. Sometime tomorrow they would fly the coop. Arthur was to keep sharp and watch for her lead. And this time, Arthur knew she would pull it off.
So now Arthur was torn. Something didn't seem right, but Cole had told him to stay put. Even though Arthur was learning to respect Cole, the fact remained that Cole didn't know Gwinnie like Arthur knew Gwinnie. What was more, he didn't have any way of knowing that she planned to escape sometime tomorrow, not tonight. She had no reason to be giving him the slip now, and that's what troubled Arthur.
Something had happened to Gwinnie.
The more he thought about it, the more anxious he became. Arthur tried to block out the inner voice that urged him to move despite Cole's warning, but he couldn't stand it. He pushed the sleeping curtain aside and stepped out into the aisle.
*
Cole had a bad feeling, all right. A bad feeling, but a familiar one. A creeping, indefinable warning signal he privately referred to as the spider on his neck. Once, as a new patrolman on the dark streets of New York City, Cole had strolled into an alley, unwittingly interrupting a robbery in progress in an adjoining jewelry store. That spider-on-the-neck feeling had caused him to whirl around just in time to avoid having his skull shattered by a baseball bat.
Pushing his way through the third sleeping coach with no luck, Cole thought about the two most important lessons he'd learned during his brief career in law enforcement: Never let your guard down, and never ignore the spider on your neck.
He thought about the man in the saloon car with Gwin the other night. What was his name? Monroe. He was a slick gambler who was used to getting his way with women. No doubt he had been disappointed when Cole had thwarted his amorous plans. So disappointed that he would kidnap her? So disappointed that he would try to force himself on her?
Cole tried to shut out the thought of Monroe tearing at Gwin's clothes.
"Damn it, Gwin," he swore as he picked up his pace. He was headed for the day coach where the train's few night owls might still be socializing. He actually hoped to find her there. He actually hoped to catch her in the act of hustling up a card game, but the spider on the back of his neck already hinted at something very different.
A woman in a puffy night cap thrust her face from between a set of sleeping curtains, stopping him in his tracks. "Good heavens! Is there a fire? All this hullabaloo in the middle of the night!"
Cole tried to be patient as she settled a pair of spectacles onto her nose. "I'm sorry, but I'm looking for someone. A pretty redhead?"
"Oh, her! Yes, I've seen her, all right. Drunk as a lord and dead to the world."
"What?"
"Disgraceful! That's what it is. Demon rum. Public debauchery. The whole world's going to hell in a hand basket."
"I don't understand, ma'am."
She pointed a sharp finger. "They went that way. That Chinese gentleman was helping her back to her seat."
Cole was confused. Chinese gentleman? Gwin passed out and smelling of liquor? It didn't make sense. "Thank you, ma'am. You've been a tremendous help."
The woman called out, causing more heads to pop out from their curtains, as he moved away. "To hell in a hand basket, I say!"
Cole crossed into the narrow vestibule that connected the last sleeping coach to the day coach behind it. Gwin had not been drinking. There was no reason for her to be passed out. And the Chinese gentleman the lady had referred to was obviously not helping her back to her seat.
When Cole stepped into the next coach, any last vestige of hope dissolved. It was deserted. Gwin wasn't here. Neither was Monroe. And neither was the Chinese man.
Cole kept movi
ng, his gaze fixed with growing trepidation on the rear door of the day coach. Behind it were two baggage cars and a caboose. No matter how hard he racked his brain, Cole couldn't think of one honorable reason why a male passenger would take an unconscious young woman into a baggage car at this hour. Not one. And that's why, as he left the day coach behind and moved into the vestibule connecting it to baggage, he pulled the Colt from his coat pocket.
Chapter Ten
Cole paused at the door to the baggage car, his fingers tightening on the doorknob. Through the door window, he saw them, and what he saw confirmed all the fears that had nagged at the back of his mind since discovering Gwin's shattered perfume bottle. It was not Monroe, but the Chinese man.
He was on his knees, leaning over Gwin's sprawled, unconscious form. Cole's stomach lurched at the sight of her lying so deathly still. Keep your wits about you, Shepherd.
He twisted the knob only to discover that the door had been locked on the other side. The man's head jerked up at the first rattle, and Cole knew he had to move fast. He stepped back and kicked. The heel of his boot landed squarely against the wood just above the doorknob. Luckily, the flimsy connecting door had not been made to withstand such punishment. It splintered and flew back on its hinges, cracking into the wall behind it.
All of this took less than five seconds, but it was plenty of time for the other man to react. Still on his haunches, he pulled Gwin's limp body up and around to front him like a shield. The lamplight caught and glittered on a sliver of steel at her throat—a stiletto poised at her jugular. Her eyes were closed and she didn't move. Cole couldn't tell if she was breathing.
His eyes flicked back to the Chinese man's face. They recognized each other in that instant, the way one professional recognizes another. This was no coolie imported from the Orient as cheap labor for the railroads. This man had been imported for a very different reason.
When he spoke, Cole was jarred by a British accent. "I'm impressed by your timeliness, Mr. Shepherd, but then, they say if you want a job done right, call the Pinkertons."
The man's familiarity with Cole and his employer confirmed Cole's impression that this man's presence was no matter of chance. Cole's grip on the Colt didn't falter even though his palms were beginning to sweat. The floor of the baggage car rocked gently beneath his feet as he eyed down sights trained on the other man's forehead.
The man spoke again, seeming to read Cole's thoughts. "I wouldn't consider it if I were you, Mr. Shepherd. On a moving train such as this, there's a chance that you will hit your mark, but there's also a chance you will hit Miss Pierce."
Cole took one step forward.
"Do not come any closer. I will kill her if you do."
Cole tried to read the man's face, but his features remained implacable. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"I want you to drop your weapon to the floor and kick it to me."
What the man had said earlier was true. The cars rocked only slightly at this moment. Cole might be able to adjust his aim to compensate for it, but what if they took a turn or hit a rough piece of track? He didn't think he could live with himself if he hurt Gwin. Cole believed this man when he said he would cut her throat. He had no choice but to believe him. Cole knew he had to give up his gun. He also had to close the distance between them.
The other man was losing patience. "Now, Mr. Shepherd."
Cole dropped the Colt and kicked it as instructed—but he kicked it back with his heel rather than forward where his adversary could reach it. He took another step forward in the process.
The man scowled. "That was a mistake." His grip on the stiletto tightened, pricking the white skin of Gwin's throat, drawing blood.
Cole's stomach muscles tightened as he watched a shiny scarlet thread slide down her neck to disappear behind the curve of one shoulder. She didn't even flinch. What had he done to her? Why didn't she wake up?
Cole heard a sound from behind.
"Gwinnie!"
Sweet mercy, it was Arthur.
Cole almost lost his composure out of sheer frustration. Now he had two of them to worry about. But the other man's concentration was also broken by Arthur's interruption. Those dark eyes flicked behind Cole for a fraction of a second. Then the train lurched into a curve and Cole saw the man's grip on the stiletto slacken.
Cole sprang forward, crashing into Gwin and her captor. All three of them went sprawling onto the floor. Cole heard Gwin moan before she curled up and rolled out of harm's way. He didn't have time to notice much else.
Cole blocked his adversary's arm just in time to avoid being blinded by the stiletto. Grasping the man's wrist, he slammed it back down to the floor, and the stiletto clattered free.
The next instant was a blur. Cole didn't know whether it was instinct or premonition that told him to move. While he had been dealing with the threat of the knife, the other man had pulled a derringer with his free hand. Cole lunged to the right but not fast enough. He felt the burn and sting of a bullet as it passed into the flesh of his left shoulder.
No other pain registered. What registered was the humbling thought that if he hadn't moved, that bullet would have drilled through his frantically pumping heart.
Arthur knelt by his sister, crying out and slapping at her wrists. Good. If they were going to get out of here, they would have to do it under their own steam.
The man rolled out from under Cole and sprang to his feet, the double-barreled derringer rising to aim at Cole's face.
Cole scrambled to his own feet at the same time, throwing a desperate, clumsy punch that knocked his opponent off balance. The derringer's second bullet plugged a new hole somewhere in the paneled ceiling before the gun flew free from the man's hand.
Cole's wiry opponent recovered quickly, dropping into a crouch. Then he moved, lightning quick, catching Cole by surprise. Before Cole could duck, he was assaulted by a sharp, shockingly forceful blow to the neck.
Cole stumbled back into a stack of luggage, toppling some pieces over his head. One oblong parcel bounced off his shoulder and fell to the floor with a clang! followed by an angry rustling of wings. "Demon rum! Demon rum! Squawk!"
Cole regained his footing, clenched his fists, and looked for an opening to strike back at his circling opponent. When he saw it, he angled in for a blind right cross that connected squarely with the bridge of the smaller man's nose.
"Cole!"
He turned and saw Arthur waving his Colt. Arthur tossed it. Cole followed its graceful arc with his eyes, reaching to snatch it in midair.
He missed.
The revolver clattered to the floor and slid, spinning out of reach.
Cole had been distracted for only an instant, but it was enough. The kick came out of nowhere. It made solid, jarring contact with Cole's jaw. He reeled back into the wall of the baggage car, his senses gone awry. He did that with his ... foot? This dazed thought, the only one he seemed capable of putting in order, bounced off the inside walls of his head like a rubber ball. He was down.
*
Arthur was terrified. If it had only been himself in danger, he would have run long ago, but Cole was in trouble, and Gwinnie ... something was terribly wrong with Gwinnie.
Stupid! I should have shot at that man myself, Arthur thought as he watched the revolver sail through the air and miss its mark. Unlike the rest of his sharpshooting family, however, Arthur had never taken an interest in learning how to use firearms. Except for his trusty slingshot, he doubted he could aim well enough to hit the broad side of a barn, much less a moving human target.
He dropped to his knees by his sister. She was starting to come around. Her eyelids fluttered open. She groaned as she tried to sit up.
"Gwinnie!" Arthur grabbed her forearms, trying to pull her to her feet. "We've got to get out of here!"
Arthur heard a crash and he turned, still on his knees. His eyes widened. Cole was down, and he looked down to stay. The Chinese man was scrambling to reload his gun.
Arthur tur
ned back to tug at his sister's arms frantically. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks. "Gwinnie! Gwinnneeeee!"
Arthur heard a small sound behind him, a soft click, then, "She'll come around, young man, but not in time to save you or herself."
Arthur swallowed hard and stood, his arms falling limp to his sides as he faced the man. He felt suddenly unreal, like he was in a very bad dream.
Gwinnie moaned, but the sound faded away in Arthur's ears. He realized dimly that he wasn't crying anymore, which was good. He was no baby. If he was about to get shot, he would take it like a man. He thought about Silas and Clell, about Emmaline, and thought that if he had to die right now, at least he wouldn't be alone up in heaven.
He stared down the twin muzzles aimed at his chest. It's a little gun, he thought, a little gun like that probably doesn't hurt much...
*
Cole had no idea whether two seconds or ten had passed when reality started to creep, on all slogging fours, back to him. His skull ached, his vision was blurred, and the floor beneath him seemed to slant forward at a dizzy rate as he raised his head. He saw his gun lying behind a trunk, only a few feet out of reach, and he inched forward on his belly.
Miraculously, on his first try, his fingers closed tight and perfect around its ivory grip. Rolling onto his side, he focused on the gunman, whose back loomed above him not five feet away.
The man was speaking, but the words were lost on Cole. He raised the barrel of his Colt at the same moment his adversary raised the derringer. Cole cocked the hammer and called out hoarsely, "Hey!"
Startled, the man whirled, his nose bloodied, his black eyes wide. Cole squeezed the trigger. The man's mouth contorted in surprise, and it wasn't any wonder. It looked like a cigar had burned a hole straight through the center of his pin-striped vest. A dark wetness bloomed. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Cole didn’t' move for a full ten seconds after he fired. He was a little surprised too. He had never killed anyone before.