Outlaw Train

by Cameron Judd

  Initially Raintree himself sought to be that pupil, but soon it became obvious he lacked the rudimentary embalming knowledge needed to understand adequately what Zuka had to teach. So Raintree had begun a search for an appropriate pupil, and found him in the person of David Akers. Akers was a Southerner who had learned the basics of embalming in the most rigorous classroom possible: Civil War battlefields. After the war, Akers had moved north to Illinois, seeking better opportunities. He was working as an embalmer’s assistant in Chicago at the time Raintree located him.

  Raintree followed Akers for days before a good opportunity to actually meet him arose. After making the man’s acquaintance in an alley behind a Chicago saloon, he recruited Akers. It proved a good move. Akers was an apt pupil of Zuka’s ancient arts, and by the time the old Egyptian finally passed away, the former undertaker’s assistant had taken on his “Anubis” persona, was identifying himself as of Egyptian rather than Cherokee descent, and was thoroughly devoted to the life of a traveling showman.

  The biggest challenge facing the “Outlaw Train,” apart from maintaining an adequate supply of certain rare salts and drying agents used in the body preservation process, was, naturally, obtaining bodily relics of the criminal dead. Raintree proved himself capable in this regard, managing to purchase, from the family, the corpse of a lynched small-time criminal from Missouri named Fred Parks. “You want to pay for him, you got him,” Parks’s father had said. “The boy has brought naught but sorrow to his mother and me all his living years; maybe he can recompense for it a bit now that he’s dead.”

  Under the hands of “Gypsy Nick Anubis,” the rapidly declining corpse of Fred Parks was turned into a leathery, but decay-proof, display laid out on a slab that folded down from the interior back wall of the museum car like a prisoner’s bunk in some dungeon. The imagination of Percival Raintree concocted for the insignificant criminal a fictional biography to rival that of the James brothers, and soon Fred Parks was being gaped at by hordes of small-towners and rural rubberneckers across the West.

  The late Zuka himself, who had indirectly made the entire thing possible, soon went on display as well, fictionalized into an “Indian Mummy” of an ancient Choctaw chief who had died half a century before after a life of bloodthirsty carnage against the white race. Thus the skilled mummy-maker who had asked only that his remains be honored instead had them become a kind of insider’s joke between Raintree and Anubis. He lay there in quiet indignity, across from Fred Parks, to be examined by those willing to part with a few cents for an afternoon or evening of unsophisticated and morbid entertainment.

  Leaning back against the second railroad car that was part of his little kingdom—Anubis’s rolling mummy factory, an embalmer’s laboratory on wheels—Raintree watched the clouds build and wondered if Anubis would find a shelter somewhere in town under which to keep the Tennessee Kid from getting soaked by rain. Raintree didn’t really know whether a cursory dampening would hurt a corpse that was as dried up as a tin of saltpeter, but it just made good common sense, in his mind, to keep such a thing dry.

  Raindrops began to splatter the ground. Raintree headed for the freestanding little flight of stairs between the two sidetracked railroad cars. At the platform, he cut left into the museum car, the only one of the two cars open to the public. The other car, a converted boxcar, though labeled Traveling Cabinet of Infamous Preservations, was a work location, not a show car for public touring. It also doubled as sleeping quarters for Raintree and Anubis, though Raintree often opted to sleep under the stars, or under the wagon, to avoid the smells of the salts and other chemicals Anubis used in embalming. Anubis, unlike Raintree, didn’t seem to mind them.

  Restless and unhappy, Raintree looked around the cluttered railroad car. Over months of effort, he and Anubis had filled the mobile museum with a visually impressive array of displays, quite varied but all having the common factor of connection with criminality. Weapons dominated: pistols, rifles, shotguns, knives, even a couple of sabers. Mounted on a plaque were three flattened, misshapen bullets that had been dug from the body of a bank clerk shot down during a robbery.

  There were, of course, photographs and journalistic sketches, newspaper accounts preserved behind glass, and several images of slain outlaws propped up in slanted coffins, surrounded by lawmen and townsfolk who looked every bit as stiff as the dead. There was a Bible with a bullet hole penetrating half its depth, the questionable story being that it had saved the life of a camp meeting preacher from Texas whose exhortations had roused the ire of an outlaw in the crowd named Stanley Horton. Horton supposedly had stood and fired his pistol from the crowd. The preacher, seeing him rise and draw, had held up his Bible as a shield, and the bullet had struck at an angle, lodging somewhere in the book of Nahum. Raintree had examined the Bible, naturally, and read the verse that the bullet had nudged up against. That part had worked out well, from the perspective of a showman; the verse read “The Lord is good, a strong hold in the day of trouble; and he knoweth them that trust in him.”

  On the signboard that went with the displayed “bullet Bible,” Raintree had written out the story, embellishing it slightly by declaring that the miraculously rescued-from-death preacher had gone on to preach an entire sermon from that verse while lawmen at the camp meeting wrestled away the shootist and “restored peace amidst the congregation of the righteous.”

  Raintree moved slowly through his exhibit, looking at each item closely despite his familiarity with them. He was looking at one particularly gruesome item, a raggedly severed hand, minus two fingers, still attached to a portion of a forearm, when a noise behind him, back at the door, made him turn.

  A thirtyish man, a little rumpled and dirty at the moment, clothes drooping as if he’d been in the rain a good deal that day, opened the door and stepped inside. Raintree turned and faced him, and noted the badge on his vest.

  “Hello, sir,” Raintree said, smiling fulsomely. “Welcome to the Outlaw Train. But I’m sorry to tell you the exhibits are closed tonight.”

  “Closed? How can you make money if you don’t open your exhibit?”

  “Bad weather today, sir,” Raintree replied. “I’ve been at this long enough to know that people simply won’t come out for entertainment when the weather is unstable. And I’ve traveled this part of the country enough to know that this weather, this time of year, can turn to something far worse. My name is Raintree, by the way. Percival Raintree.”

  The other came forward, hand extended. “Luke Cable. Marshal of the town of Wiles, which lies over that direction.” He pointed vaguely.

  “Marshal.”

  “Well…acting marshal, technically speaking. The appointed full marshal left the area sometime back and hasn’t returned.” He paused, remembering the figure seen earlier on the ridge. “Or if he has, he hasn’t showed himself.”

  “Interesting,” Raintree replied. There was much more he could have said about the missing marshal of Wiles, Kansas, but certainly he would not. “I am familiar with Wiles,” he went on, deflecting the line of the conversation a little. “In fact, my business associate is there this evening, carrying one of our display items on a wagon. A form of advertising to draw out crowds to see the rest of the show.”

  “Interesting concept you’ve got here,” Luke said. “But I have to tell you, I’ve heard little talk of it in town. Have you been seeing good turnout?”

  Raintree sighed and his smile went sad. “Not here, no, just to be fully truthful. I can’t account for it. Normally we get a better response.” It wasn’t entirely true; public interest had been declining well before the Outlaw Train came to Wiles.

  Luke said, “There’s been some competition in Wiles from a woman claiming to be able to communicate with the dead. Maybe she’s cut into your business.”

  “Maybe so, sir.”

  Luke looked around, then said, “I know you are not open for business, but since I’m here, might I receive a tour? I’ll gladly pay your admission price.”

&
nbsp; “No need for admission, sir. In that you are a peace officer, I am glad to provide you a tour free of charge.”

  “Very obliging of you, sir. And this gives me a chance to give you a word of warning I believe you are due.”

  “Beg your pardon? What have I done to create any need for warning?”

  Luke took a slow breath. “Do you have here any relics related to a family named Nolan? I’m speaking of the outlaw Nolan brothers who have become rather infamous.”

  Raintree lifted his brows high. “The famous Nolan Brothers Gang, eh?” He paused, weighing something. “Yes, yes. We do indeed have something here related to the Nolans. A part of one of them, in fact.”

  “Part of?”

  “You know how Billy Nolan died, Marshal?”

  “An accident involving blowing up a safe, I think.”

  “That’s right. He lost part of his arm, and what remained of the hand on that arm was lacking some fingers.”

  “Sounds gruesome.”

  “Would you like to see for yourself?” Raintree smiled and waved toward the display he’d been examining when Luke entered.

  Luke looked it over and whistled softly. “How did you get that?”

  “I have a talent for finding and for acquiring,” Raintree replied. “At the outset of my work, I had the support of a wealthy benefactor in St. Louis, a man obsessed with the collection of criminal relics. He provided me a rich supply of funds with which to obtain the curiosities he wanted. So initially I was a collector for a purely private museum collection, kept in his home and never open to the public. When at length he died, I was operating my traveling cabinet of curiosities on a small scale, out of a wagon. When I learned of my benefactor’s passing, I contacted his son with my condolences, and was surprised with the gift of many of the best relics I had collected for him. The son had no interest in his late father’s ‘morbidities,’ as he termed them. With an additional inheritance of cash from my late friend, I was able to outfit this railroad car and present my exhibitions on a far grander scale. When I added my partner Mr. Anubis, I obtained a second railcar and outfitted it for his own special work, which makes much of what you see here possible. Meanwhile, I continually procure relics. When I learn of one, I track it down and find a way to obtain it.”

  “Legal ways?”

  Raintree gaped a moment, then grinned. “I suppose I cannot take offense at that question. You are, after all, a lawman. To answer you, yes, my means are legal. I display criminals, Marshal, but I am not one myself. Consider me a seller, not a buyer. Unless what I’m buying is something that can become part of my Outlaw Train.”

  Luke was still staring at the ugly piece of severed meat that once had been the right arm of one of Scar Nolan’s younger brothers. “What are you thinking about, Marshal?” Raintree asked.

  “I’m thinking about a couple of things. One is the warning I need to give you.”

  “Please. I’m listening.”

  Luke looked the tattooed showman in the eye. “I spent today leading a posse, looking for an escapee from my own jail. We looked all day with no luck. Know who that prisoner was?”

  “I’ll take a guess: Kate Bender.”

  It was Luke’s turn to gape. “Kate Bender? Why would you guess that name?”

  “My associate, Mr. Anubis, stumbled across some story regarding the woman in your town communicating with spirits. There are those who believe she is actually the infamous Miss Bender, it would seem.”

  “I’ve heard the same speculation, which to my knowledge is all it is. Speculation. The escapee we chased today was not her. It was Scar Nolan.”

  “You are sure?”

  “I can’t prove it. He claims the name of Wesson. But I’m confident he is Scar Nolan. And I doubt I need to say what my concern is regarding what his attitude might be toward your Outlaw Train here.”

  “He might be resentful regarding the display of his brother’s lost arm and hand,” Raintree said.

  “Yes. And believe me, you don’t want such a one as Scar Nolan angry with you. I saw what he did to my jailer. Killed him bare-handed through the bars of his cell.”

  “I’ll be quite cautious, Marshal, and thank you for the warning.”

  Luke squinted at the ruin of an arm. “How do you keep it from decaying?” he asked.

  “Therein lies the contribution of Mr. Anubis. He possesses certain ancient skills he applies to keep flesh from decaying beyond the most superficial degradation.”

  Interesting, Luke thought, suddenly pondering the mysterious mummified leg Charlie Bays’s son had found beside the railroad tracks. It might be worthwhile to have a conversation with this Anubis fellow.

  Luke noted a vacant spot in the crowded display. “What’s supposed to be there?” he asked.

  “That’s where the preserved corpse of the late Tennessee Kid usually is seated,” Raintree replied. “He is one of our best displays, a favorite of the public. One of our more recent additions, too.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He is in your town, on a wagon seat, being paraded about by Mr. Anubis in hope of drawing visitors to our train,” Raintree replied. “Tennessee’s head, of course, is covered, given that the poor fellow died from a shotgun blast to the face. That’s not something we’re willing to show the public. Our goal is to entertain, not to sicken.”

  “That blown-off arm there comes close enough to sickening, as far as I’m concerned,” Luke said, nodding at the ugly display. “There’s another thing you’ve got I’m interested in: the thing on the sign outside. The jar with the crumbled-up skull of Micajah Harpe.”

  Raintree’s mind worked fast. He knew what was probably prompting the marshal’s interest in that particular item, and it was important to handle the situation carefully.

  “I know why you ask. You ask because the jar was formerly in possession of a Kentucky family named Keely,” Raintree ventured. “Am I right? And that same Keely family is the family of your own missing town marshal.”

  “Exactly. So naturally I have to wonder how you came into possession of that item, and if it has anything to do with the fact that Ben Keely has not returned to Kansas.”

  “Marshal, I obtained that jar…you can see it over there…directly from Ben Keely himself. I had tracked the lore of the Harpes for some time and had learned the name of the family into whose hands the jar had passed, and where they could be found. I paid a visit to Kentucky and was fortunate enough to locate Marshal Keely in a backwoods restaurant. We talked and he agreed to sell me the jar of bone.”

  “Did he say anything about returning to Kansas? Because he has not done that.”

  “Our discussion didn’t run in that direction. We shook hands, passed the jar, parted, and that was the end of the story. I am surprised to learn he has not come back here.”

  “Well, maybe he has. I think I saw him today.”

  Raintree seemed to freeze. “Saw Marshal Keely?”

  “Yes. From a distance, admittedly, but it appeared to be him. And I’m not the only one who saw him today, or for that matter, earlier. My own jailer, for one, saw a rider he swears was Ben, near the jailhouse.”

  “I…I don’t think…I…”

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Raintree? Why do you seem so surprised? If you parted from Ben Keely in Kentucky, maybe he just decided it was time to return.”

  “Uh…yes. Yes. You are right, of course.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me, Mr. Raintree? You seem shocked at the notion of Ben Keely being back in Kansas.”

  “No, no, sir. I’ve told you all I know.”

  “Truth is, Mr. Raintree, I’m surprised Ben would sell that Harpe jar to you. When he was leaving Wiles he talked about how much he wanted to bring that back with him, to remember his father by. It was an important item to his father, it seems.”

  “All I can tell you is that he did sell it to me, Marshal. Every man has his price. Beyond that, I know nothing of what he did or whether he has come back here, or s
prouted wings and flown off to the moon.”

  “Why are you angry, sir?”

  “I’m…I’m not. I apologize. Tense days, these, with business being slack.”

  Luke looked around a few moments more, pausing longest at the Harpe jar, though there was little there to look at. “Thank you for showing me around, Mr. Raintree. And good luck with your train here, and in the future. And do keep a lookout for anybody coming around who could be Scar Nolan. I don’t know he’d cause you a problem, but I got a feeling he might.”

  “Thank you, Marshal. Good evening to you.”

  “Maybe I’ll see your partner when I get back to town.”

  “Maybe so. He’ll be easy to spot. He’ll be the one on a wagon with a dead outlaw beside him.”

  Luke began to leave, but turned suddenly. “One more thing, Mr. Raintree. There was a leg found very recently beside the railroad tracks on the far side of Wiles. A cut-off leg.”

  “Interesting. Terrible reality of railroads, how sometimes people are struck and mangled.”

  “This leg had been surgically removed. And it was preserved. And I mean well preserved. Like that severed arm you got displayed there. And the leg was found right about the same time your Outlaw Train here would have been rolling through these parts on its way to this particular sidetrack.”

  “Marshal, I know nothing about any such thing.” Raintree paused and grinned. “It’s good that our friend the Tennessee Kid isn’t here to listen to us. He might want to borrow that leg to replace his own.”

  Luke gave an obligatory chuckle and again started to leave. But again he paused and turned.

  “Mr. Raintree, just what kind of trousers are on the corpse of the Tennessee Kid?”

  “I…I don’t recall. I’ve never thought to pay attention. Why?”

  Luke shrugged. “No reason. Just asking.”

  He left.

  Luke had moved only twenty feet away from the train when it hit him. He couldn’t have said what “it” was, though, because it came so fast and without warning. A sense of being physically jolted from head to toe, a flashing pain and a brilliant flash of light, and suddenly he was on the ground, blacking out before he even had time to finish the thought: I’ve just been struck by lightning.