"I think I can manage," Logan said.
"I hope you're right. The two of you will be staying in my usual suite in a hotel down there." Baldwin frowned. "I expect that you'll comport yourself as a gentleman the entire time. I thought about sending one of the maids from the house here along with you as a chaperone, but Gillian wouldn't hear of it."
"My only interest in your daughter is in keeping her safe, sir."
Baldwin grunted. "And in earning that three hundred dollars, eh?"
"I hope to begin treatments soon with Dr. August Strittmatter," Logan said. He hadn't mentioned that specifically to Baldwin before.
"Strittmatter! He's supposed to be a good man. Although he is a damned foreigner, of course. But a lot of people say that he and his mineral baths have worked wonders for him."
"I could use having a few wonders worked," Logan said.
"Yes, no doubt." Baldwin became businesslike again as he went on, "You're clear on everything?"
"I think so."
"You'll return to Hot Springs whenever Gillian is ready. Arrangements are already made with the railroad. My car will remain on the siding down there until you have need of it again." Baldwin held out his hand and said the same thing Rusty had a few minutes earlier. "Good luck."
"I don't intend to need it," Logan said with a smile as he gripped Baldwin's hand.
* * *
A porter carried Logan's bag and the shotgun case and showed him to the private car belonging to Marcus Baldwin. Logan wasn't a bit surprised that Baldwin had his own train car. A man so rich couldn't be expected to ride with the common people in the regular coaches.
The car had a carpeted sitting room furnished with comfortable, heavy furniture. The windows had actual curtains hanging in front of them instead of plain shades. There was even a bar with a number of bottles of whiskey, brandy, and port in a cabinet behind it.
A door at the far end of the sitting room led to a pair of bedrooms. The accommodations wouldn't be needed for this trip, since Little Rock was only about fifty miles away and the train would be there by early afternoon.
"Where would you like these, sir?" the porter asked, hefting the carpetbag and the wooden case.
"You can set the bag down there in the corner, out of the way." Logan thought for a second. "Put the case on the bar."
He wanted to have the scattergun handy.
Logan gave the man a half-dollar, then went over to one of the windows to watch the people coming and going on the station platform. It never hurt to keep an eye on such activity. A fellow never knew when he might see something important.
The crowd on the platform this morning seemed utterly harmless, though: mostly men in tweed suits and bowler hats or derbies traveling on business and women with children probably going to visit relatives.
His eyes suddenly narrowed as he caught sight of a man walking through the depot's waiting room. It was only a glimpse, and the man's back was to Logan, but there was something familiar about him . . .
Logan shook his head. The odds of him knowing anyone here in Hot Springs other than the folks he had met since coming to town were so small as to be insignificant. Just because the briefly seen man reminded him of someone didn't mean anything.
He heard the door open behind him and turned away from the window. Gillian emerged from the rooms at the other end of the car. She had taken off her hat but was still dressed for traveling otherwise.
"I hope the train leaves soon," she said. "I hate waiting."
"I've had to learn to be patient."
"Yes, I suppose you would, in your line of work. You've probably had to lie in wait for men so you could ambush them."
He stiffened. She had spoken carelessly, as if she gave no thought to what she was saying and meant no offense, but he didn't like it anyway.
"I've run into plenty of backshooters," he said, "but I've never been one myself."
"Oh." She looked a little surprised. "I've said something I shouldn't have. I didn't mean to insult you, Logan. I just assumed that such things were part of your work. You were hired to kill men, weren't you?"
"I was." He didn't see any point in denying it or trying to make it something less than it was. "But that didn't keep me from killing them face to face, with them having the same chance as me."
That wasn't strictly true. Some of the men he'd squared off against hadn't been in the same class as him when it came to handling a gun, and he had known it at the time and faced them anyway. But at least every man he'd killed had taken his lead from the front, and they had died with guns in their own hands, too.
"Well, I'm sorry," Gillian said. "I don't really know much about that sort of thing. You and I, we've spent our lives almost in different worlds, wouldn't you say?"
That brought a faint smile to Logan's face. "I think I've spent more time in your world than you have in mine."
"And thank goodness for that!" she said with a laugh. "I don't think I'd make a very good gunfighter, do you?"
"Oh, I don't know," he said, still smiling. "I think you're icy-nerved enough that you might could get by."
"And ruthless," she said. "Don't forget ruthless. I get what I want."
"Sounds like the makings of a pistoleer," Logan said.
The train's whistle blew, a shrill shriek that reached from cowcatcher to caboose, and a second later with a hiss of steam, a cloud of smoke from the diamond-shaped stack, and the clatter of the drivers on the steel rails, the locomotive lurched into motion and rolled out of Hot Springs.
17.
Logan and Gillian spent the first part of the trip lounging in overstuffed chairs in the private car, chatting idly as the thickly wooded hills rolled past outside the windows. It was a beautiful sunny day, on the cool side but not unpleasant.
Gillian made a few veiled comments about having some wine, but Logan pretended not to hear them. It was too early in the day for drinking, for one thing, and for another he was well aware of the squat, massive safe sitting in one corner of the room. With the double responsibility he had today, he knew it would be better if he kept a clear head. He might well maintain that resolve for the entire journey, he thought. Even with everything he had suffered, he wasn't the sort to retreat into a bottle.
He wasn't really paying that much attention to what Gillian was saying, but he sat up straighter when he heard Vickie Eastland's name. He said, "I'm sorry, what was that?"
"I just asked if you said anything to Mrs. Eastland about what I told you last night."
Logan shook his head. "No, I didn't. Why would I?"
"I thought you might have asked her if it was true. I could tell when we were talking about it that you didn't believe me. Or that you didn't want to believe me, anyway."
"I didn't mention it." As a matter of fact, Logan had barely seen Vickie since the previous evening. She had already gone to bed by the time the Baldwin carriage brought him back from the party, or at least she hadn't been downstairs. And this morning she had been busy and had seemed in no mood to talk. Logan respected that.
He didn't tell Gillian that her father had also mentioned the reason Carleton Eastland had divorced Vickie. Her affair with Jonas Hulsey, whoever he was, seemed to be common knowledge in Hot Springs, so Logan didn't see any point in stubbornly disbelieving the story.
"It's good that you didn't say anything. That might have been awkward, what with you living under her roof and all."
"Do you know her?" Logan asked.
"We've met. And I know plenty about her, of course. But I can't say that I know her well at all. She's older than me. She's twenty-nine. Almost thirty! She didn't grow up around here, either. I believe she's from somewhere up north. Ohio, maybe, or Pennsylvania. She came here when her husband went to work for Aaron Nash. They saved up and bought the boarding house, but then . . . well, you know what happened then. Carleton Eastland is still working for Aaron Nash, but the situation is hardly the same, is it?"
"Hardly," Logan agreed.
For someone w
ho claimed to be barely acquainted with Vickie, Gillian seemed to know a lot about her. But Hot Springs was a relatively small town, Logan reminded himself. Most people around here probably knew quite a bit about their neighbors. It was difficult to blend in and not be noticed unless a person lived in a big city.
Nobody other than his doctors had really known him in Denver and Kansas City. He had been just one more face in the crowd, albeit a little more pathetic than some.
"I'm tired of talking about the Eastlands," Gillian said. "Tell me more about yourself."
Logan smiled and said, "It's not a particularly interesting story. What do you want to know?"
She leaned forward slightly in her chair and asked, "How many men have you killed?"
The question took Logan by surprise. The smile dropped off his face. He said, "I don't think that's a proper subject for me to discuss with a young lady – "
"I'm not a proper young lady." She laughed. "Well, I can be when I want to, but right now I'm not. You're the first real gunfighter I've ever met, Logan Handley. You may well be the only real gunfighter I ever meet. I want to know what it's like."
How could he explain something like that? The isolation, the fear he saw on the faces of nearly everyone he met, the fear he himself experienced because he had known that sooner or later he would meet a man who was faster on the draw and a better shot than he was. That combination was deadly.
Of course, now there were a lot of men who were faster than he was, and better shots, to boot. He could handle a gun right-handed better than an average man, but against a professional shootist it wouldn't even be close.
How could he explain to Gillian that in all likelihood his days were numbered no matter what he did? How could she understand that he was just trying to live out however much time he had left with his head held up, with some dignity instead of defeat?
He didn't have to explain anything. The brakes suddenly screamed, and both Logan and Gillian were almost pitched out of their chairs as the train began to shudder to a halt.
Logan caught himself with his good arm. His cane had fallen to the floor. He bent over and picked it up, pushed himself to his feet. He knew this wasn't a scheduled stop, because there weren't any between Hot Springs and Little Rock. Nor had they reached the state capital; there hadn't been time for that since the train left Hot Springs. And it wasn't a flag stop because the engineer would have seen the signal earlier and wouldn't have had to apply the brakes so hard.
That left only one possibility.
Somebody was forcing the train to stop, and that meant a holdup.
"What is it?" Gillian asked anxiously. "Is something wrong, Logan?"
He didn't answer her. Instead he turned and limped to the bar. He wasn't after a drink, though. The wooden case still lay on the bar, although it had slid a little on the hardwood when the train began slowing down so abruptly.
Logan unfastened the two latches and raised the case's lid. He reached inside with his right hand and grasped the shotgun's stock. He lifted it from the velvet bed around it and used his thumb to push aside the lever that allowed the barrels to break open. He took hold of the barrels with his left hand and pushed them down, causing the breech to swing open. The effort required to do that was enough to make a couple of beads of sweat pop out on his forehead, too.
Shotgun shells nestled in a row of holes along the bottom of the case. Still using his left hand, Logan picked up two of them and slid them into the empty barrels. When they were seated properly, he rested the underside of the barrels against the bar and used it to lever them back into position.
The shotgun snapped closed just as someone kicked open the door into the private car and Gillian screamed.
Logan turned and thrust out the shotgun at the end of his arm. His elbow was bent slightly so that it could give a little and not wind up sprained by the recoil if he had to fire the sawed-off shotgun. He held the gun out far enough, though, that it wouldn't come back into his face when it kicked, either. It was a professional's stance, instinctive now after years of practice and experience.
Two men in long dusters had rushed into the private car, but they stopped short as they found themselves looking down the twin black bores of those barrels. Logan kept his attention focused on them, but he was aware that several more men crowded onto the platform at the rear of the car.
The dusters, the bandannas, the pulled-down hats . . . Logan had seen it all before in recent weeks. These men weren't inexperienced, would-be desperadoes like the ones who had tried to rob the bank in Hot Springs, though. Logan looked into their eyes over the scattergun's barrels and knew that he had met these two men before.
"Hello, Jesse," he said.
The man in the lead frowned under the lowered brim of his hat.
"Do I know you, friend?" he asked. "Have we met?"
"A while back on another train," Logan said. "Brother Frank there collected a toll from me, along with all the other passengers."
Jesse James laughed. "You can't expect me to remember everybody we rob, amigo," he said. "Now why don't you put down that ol' sawed-off and nobody has to get hurt?"
Gillian stood to one side. Her eyes were wide with terror, and her breasts heaved as she breathed hard. Logan didn't know if that reaction was from fear or excitement or some of both.
His brain worked quickly. The outlaws probably weren't after Marcus Baldwin's payroll; it was doubtful that they even knew it was being shipped to Little Rock today, unless they had a spy in Baldwin's company who had tipped them off. Logan couldn't disregard that possibility, but he considered it unlikely. It was more probable that this was just another train robbery to the James brothers. They were out for whatever they could get.
"Look, there's nothing here for you but trouble," Logan said. "Just back out of here and go on about your business, and the buckshot in this scattergun can stay where it is."
Frank nudged his brother and said, "Safe back yonder in the corner. Some blasting powder might blow it open, if we can't convince this fancy-dressed peckerwood to use the combination."
"That'd be a good trick," said Logan, "considering that I don't know it."
"He's lying," Frank said.
Gillian spoke up. "No, he's not. This is my father's private car, and I don't have any idea what the combination to the safe is. But it doesn't matter. The thing's empty. I'm just going on an excursion to Little Rock, that's all."
One of the men on the platform, young by the sound of his voice, said, "She's a rich man's daughter, Jesse. Man's got to be rich to have his own personal railroad car, all fancy like this. We should take her with us, make the ol' buzzard pay to get her back safe and sound."
"Shut up," Jesse snapped. "We rob banks and trains, and even that wasn't our idea in the first place. We were driven to it, like Cole always says. We're not kidnappers." He turned his attention back to Logan and wiggled the revolver he held. "You got two barrels in that thing, mister. There are too many of us for you to put us all down, even with something like that."
"Maybe," Logan said. "But I can make sure that you don't live to see what happens."
For a long moment, the two cold stares met. Then Jesse James laughed and said, "You've got plenty of nerve, I'll give you that. Frank, back out of here. We're gonna leave these fine folks alone."
Even from the narrow strip of Frank James' face that Logan could see, he could tell that the outlaw wanted to argue with his brother. But Jesse gave the orders here, and after a couple of seconds Frank grunted and began to back toward the door. Jesse followed him. Neither outlaw holstered his gun.
"So this is the second time we've met," Jesse said to Logan. "I came out on top the first time, and this time you did. What do you think's gonna happen the third time our trails cross?"
"I don't know," Logan said. "But I expect it'll be a sight to see."
That brought a laugh from Jesse. He said, "I expect you're right," then turned to order his men, "Let's go. The other boys ought to be done cleaning out the
express car by now."
Several men jumped down from the platform at the rear of the car. Jesse paused in the open doorway, raised his free hand to the brim of his hat, and said to Gillian, "Good day, ma'am." He disappeared from view as well.
Logan didn't start to lower the shotgun until the platform was clear. Even then he was still wary.
It was a good thing, because he had just started to turn away when one of the duster-clad men suddenly leaped onto the platform again, yelled, "I'll get the bastard for you, Jesse!" and lunged into the car with his gun pointed at Logan, ready to fire.
18.
In that frozen instant of time, Logan's instincts took over completely. He twisted toward the outlaw, and the shotgun came up fast. Flame blossomed from its right-hand barrel, accompanied by a boom that in the tight confines of the railroad car slammed against the ears like a giant fist.
The load of buckshot spread out just enough that it filled the duster-clad man's chest from one side to the other as it shredded flesh and pulped bone. The impact jolted the outlaw back as he pulled the trigger. The bullet from his six-gun thudded harmlessly into the car's ceiling. He caught his balance and stood there staring with bulging eyes, but only for a second. Then he fell over backward and landed in a limp sprawl that signified death.
Logan barked, "Get down!" at Gillian as several other members of the gang leaped back onto the platform and started to rush into the car, bristling with guns. He didn't know if she could hear him or not after the shotgun's thunderous blast. Logan was about to touch off the second barrel into the gang when through the ringing in his own ears he heard Jesse James yelling, "Hold it! Hold your fire, damn it!"
The outlaws hesitated, and so did Logan. He still had the shotgun leveled at them and only the slightest pressure would be needed on the trigger to fire the second blast.
Jesse bulled his way past the men and motioned for them to back off. His gun was holstered, and he told Logan, "Take it easy, friend. No need for any more shooting."
Dancing With Dead Men Page 11