‘That is pleasant to hear.’ Corinne produced a blunderbuss pistol, holstering the bag back onto her shoulder, the pack teeming with ammo. Franco assessed the situation. They were fugitives, and the lives of the showgirls would be unliveable as soon as the alarms sounded. They had risked their futures, their lives, all for him. If they were caught, they faced jail time at best, the noose at worst.
‘I’m sorry,’ Franco apologized, far meeker than any had seen him before. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did. You’re right, we are a family of sorts and –’
Kitty interrupted. She felt the weight of a revolver far too unsightly and unbalanced in her small hands, instead resorting to a crossbow pistol that she had used to kill predators back on the farm.
‘Can we save your sappy speech until after we’ve escaped? I can’t help feeling it would be for the best.’
‘And you accused me of hiring you just because of your prettiness. Perish the thought,’ Franco agreed, but before they moved, Corinne spied past the debris to the figure emerging from the dust plumes.
‘What about him?’
* * *
Indeed, what about Ketan? He staggered to the makeshift exit, eyeing up the girls in turn, who clearly watched with caution. With a limp he stepped over the first line of shattered bricks, securing his footing, looking at what Franco had made for himself. These individuals were willing to risk so much to rescue him, a family who would rather suffer together than let one of their own rot away to bones. Who would do that for him? Wilheim’s men would give him up in seconds if it would line their pockets. Only his father would do something so selfless, the doting fool. A doting fool his father may be, but very much his doting fool despite their regular disagreements.
‘Come with us,’ Franco said in unfathomable generosity. He owed this man nothing, but for all his faults, redemption seemed to be a possibility. Besides, promises were made. ‘Consider this to be your out. I can find you a job on the Den until you want to go your own way. No strings attached. It’ll keep you out of trouble, in a sense. Honest work, decent pay. I can set you up for a spell and when you’ve had enough of the legitimate life, you can go on your merry way. What do you say?’
‘I say –’ Ketan clambered over the debris ‘– that the noise your girls here have made will have the sheriff’s men on us very soon, so we should be running right about now.’
The group had broken into a sprint, sliding around each building side and peering around every corner for any sign of further trouble. Open spaces were passed quickly, small collections of morning traders used as camouflage. All seemed to be going so well, weaving through every street in a direct route back to Windberg central.
And then came the alarm.
* * *
The shrill call of a hand-powered klaxon blared across the city, soon joined by others as soon as its presence was acknowledged. The constabulary scrambled through street and alley, frantically hunting the escapees and their cohorts, whose movements were unpredictable and only detectable by hearing their shouts or catching sight of them.
Sheriff Juniper sprung from his desk at the first sound of klaxons. The paperwork would have to wait.
‘Sir!’ A captain burst inside, flushed and in a panic. ‘There’s a jailbreak happening!’
Juniper looked out over the city from his window and focused on a dreaded sight. Arches of grey steam were pouring from the split roof sheltering Platform 4 at Central Station. Its origin was obvious.
‘Damn you, Franco,’ he cursed, pulling on his holster and loading himself with a tin of bullets. His orders were short and precise. ‘Get as many men as you can to the station at once! I want him back in chains or there will be hell to pay! And get me my horse!’
* * *
Franco gestured everyone to lower themselves as he glanced quickly into the one of the main streets. The public buzzed with concern, watching Bluecoats scramble with speed, some uncomfortably close.
At the end of the line of people, Ketan lay flat against the brickwork, waiting for the gesture to move again, but before it was given a penetrating burst of a whistle from behind forced him to turn.
One of the constables had found them, blowing repeatedly into his whistle, a tone acknowledged by others all around them that began to converge. Before the silver instrument slipped from his lips, and the instruction to stop was given, Ketan was already upon him. He punched, pulled the constable by the hip, and forced him into the wall. When done, he reached for the constable’s weapon and put two shots into his back.
From the sound of gunfire, the adjacent people rippled away in alarm, calling for help from those listening. Ketan retained the weapon as the body slumped before them, each from the Gambler’s Den staring in astonishment. It wasn’t the first time he had put bullets into someone on the side of the law, and he treated the impact of his action like any other: with little concern.
‘Go!’ he called.
They did. Running now into full view, the constabulary began their chase, following them down every alley, every crevice, yard, and open space, cracks of gunpowder ejecting into the sky. Brickwork chipped and splintered as Franco attempted to maintain covering fire while they progressed, though Ketan kept back just enough to maintain space, yelling curses as he did so. As the law attempted to progress, his caplock revolver hammer fell back with a dead click, its chambers now bare. Another yank of the trigger. Another click of nothing.
‘I’m empty!’ Ketan called back. Franco skidded to his side, slapping a spare firearm into his palm. The call had encouraged the Bluecoats to advance on them, snaps of gunfire now filling the air. Franco ducked from an all too close sting across his ear.
They were just two streets from Windberg Central Station, some two hundred yards to their escape.
‘Get your girls to the station; you ain’t got far now. I’ll hold them off. Keep your head down, stay low, and I’ll do the rest. Pass me the noisemaker there.’
Franco called for Corinne to toss over her blunderbuss, which she did. He cocked back the hammer and signalled them to run and run they did.
The next two minutes were taken up with a frantic race through open streets to the wide-open courtyard where time seemed to fragment, slowing itself with every shot that buzzed between them. Ketan had emerged firing, every shot precise and hitting its mark. The cries fell silent. Bluecoats dotted the street either dead or dying. The group looked for cover, with Ketan struggling to keep pace with his leg injury.
‘I’m out!’ he called once more, prompting a small pouch of cartridges to be tossed his way. No sooner had he pulled them open, than a lucky shot skimmed his cheek, marking its trail with a dash of red.
A hundred yards remained.
Ketan loaded with speed, pocketing the pouch and retaliating in kind.
The last street was almost bare. Clearly word had not reached them that the Den was the target with Windberg Central Station so clearly unguarded.
‘Did I ever tell you this was a bad idea? I’m sure I pointed it out,’ Kitty gasped.
Franco may have agreed but it was the only resolution for a desperate situation.
‘I think you mentioned it once or twice over the sound of gunfire, but let’s talk about it when we’re far away from here, all right?’
He glanced down both sides of the street. They were clear and with Ketan now bringing up the rear they made the final push.
The moment Franco’s boot hit cobblestone, his name was called, loudly, along with the accompanying sound of hooves.
‘Put your weapons down, Mister Monaire!’
Sheriff Juniper, accompanied by a dozen other officers on horseback, made his way up the street. ‘You are all very much under arrest.’
Juniper’s accomplices rode ahead, spurring their horses to a trot. Weapons were drawn and the shots began.
Franco, leading the girls in line, was caught in the middle of the road itself, with no cover.
His arm was rai
sed and the weapon in his hand bucked with every trigger pull.
Three out of his eight shots struck the horses, sprawling them forward in a tumble, tossing their riders away. Four met the chests and stomach of Bluecoats, a decision of self-defence not lightly taken given the target.
The shot intended for Alex Juniper went astray.
The sheriff’s had no such bad fortune.
Franco fell backward, arm now burning with its new wound. The revolver danced away and out of reach. He lay supine, staring the crystal-blue sky until a sharp inhalation brought about his attention, ordering him to move.
He rolled to his side, focusing on the horse hooves that pounded the stone towards him, its rider keeping aim on his quarry. For a moment Franco heard the girls call to him. They had made it to the station steps, only now turning back to check on the hold-up.
He watched their faces reduced to horror, girls who trusted him and his company and protection, facets that were clearly overestimated. He choked an apology and faced his judgement, with a hand on his wound and weight in his heart.
Alex Juniper failed to get his prize. His horse moved too quick, reacting to its owner’s impatience. Ketan emerged from the alley, his arm raised instinctively, and the blunderbuss roared with a volley of shot.
The sheriff had fired himself. A shot hit dead centre, punching into Ketan’s breast just before the sheriff had dismounted.
The blunderbuss spray sent both horse and rider down, slamming into the road unceremoniously.
And Ketan spun, crashing to the ground.
Constabulary whistles blew once again, some by those who lay exhausting their last breaths from wounds, others who moved through the winding streets.
From his place in the dirt, Franco called to his old friend, focusing through teary eyes. It prompted movement, though not much. Ketan grunted in struggle, ejecting blood with a cough. Every motion was sluggish, though to him that was no surprise. He knew a kill shot when he saw one, even on himself.
Ketan managed a broken smile. ‘What did I say?’ he gasped. ‘Just far … too quickly. Dad was right about that.’
The final words slipped out as the last breaths of life left in an exhalation. ‘Run, you buffoon.’
And with that, Ketan lay lifeless in the gutter.
Corinne had since pulled Franco from the street, dragged him with haste up the station stairs. Inside, Jacques heaved the sliding doors shut, locking them, with the ring of keys obtained from the stationmaster. Franco found strength in his feet again, steadying himself and looking at the iron behemoth that sat prepared at Platform 4. Steam plumed from the Gambler’s Den, which groaned in preparation like a horse at a gate. The closer he ventured, taking in every sharp corner and gilded surface, the more beautiful the vehicle became.
The moment he boarded, Katerina had wrenched his jacket away and began unbuttoning his stained shirt to assess the wound. The wound wasn’t threatening though ached like a hungry fire. The slug had taken some meat from his forearm though, and gauze and tight bandages were applied quickly. There was no time for stitches, not at this moment, as orders for the escape became paramount.
‘Welcome back,’ she said courteously, wiping his sweat away.
‘Thanks. Anyone left behind?’ Franco hissed, pulling his shirt back on and jacket over it. The old familiar sting of gunshot was one he had never forgotten and could have spent his life not being subjected to ever again.
‘No, we’re all here. Yourself?’
‘Lost one.’ He swallowed hard. ‘But not one of ours.’
Rosso had walked the length of the platform as soon as he witnessed Franco return. Plans had already been made for their escape, with the locomotive’s boiler fully stoked and the vehicle prepared for departure. All he needed was the word, which was what he came to obtain. He stepped inside the carriage, patting his leather gloves together before taking stock of the scene.
‘What in the name of hell happened to you?’ Rosso grunted, eyeing up Franco being tended to.
‘I thought I would play catch the bullet with someone dead set on ending my life.’
‘Did you win?’
‘Not as much as I would have liked. More of a draw if anything.’
‘Let’s get that added to the scorecard then. In the meantime, if I may be so bold, I would like to suggest that we get the hell out of this damn rats’ nest and never look back.’
There was not one word of disagreement.
‘A fine suggestion. Jacques, oversee our defences from the observation car, the cannon and the next carriage. I’ll be two up, looking after the next one down. If anyone makes it past us, they’ll be my responsibility so if things go south, you can blame my folly. I’m counting on you to put off anyone on our tail. Get the doors watched as well. If anyone boards I want them expelled immediately, understand?’
Jacques tossed him a dual holster, loaded with a string of bullets and a pair of stubby revolvers. Franco caught it and yanked to fasten it around his waist before he rose.
‘You’ve got it, boss.’
‘What about me?’ Wyld asked, brandishing a full-length bolt-action rifle she had stumbled upon in storage. Its frame felt comfortable in her hands, a sense of security that was hard to relinquish.
‘Got any problems pulling a trigger?’ Franco asked, clenching his fist over and over to assess the limiting of his wound.
‘Not any more I suppose. Wouldn’t even matter if I did as you would just tell me to get to it anyway.’
‘It’s like you’re living in my head. You get that shooter of yours and make yourself handy as you see fit. If you’re starved for ideas, I suggest putting a gun in the end car would be a good place to start.’
Wyld nodded, though before she left to take position, everyone watched Franco notice the meek figure in the corner, shielding away to avoid any attention.
‘The rest of you! Anyone who’s not averse to pulling a trigger can go take a rifle from storage, some ammunition, and go crazy with my blessing. Anyone queasy at the idea of taking a life, well, just use harsh language and help where you see fit. We have an escape to make and there’ll be plenty of people trying to stop us from doing so. Make no mistake, if this falls through then we’re all in for a world of unpleasantness, so you hold that raggedy line as if your lives depend on it – because they do. Some of you take to the cannon; some move to the next two carriages up and take to the windows. Do not let anyone get past you. Do not let anyone board. Have a made myself quite clear?’
A chorus of acknowledgement was made in unison.
Misu’s face was tilted forward, hair brushed aside by Franco who took stock of the swelling and bruise that tarnished her visage. He analysed it without acknowledging it, and observed her trembling at his touch.
‘Mister Rosso, we make for the Sand Sea,’ Franco ordered, his fingers slipping away from Misu’s face. ‘We’ll lose them in the heat. Burn the boiler as hot as you can. I don’t want a second of hesitation, else this is all for naught.’
* * *
Misu watched intently, quite afraid of the man’s fingers upon her flesh. He wasn’t Wilheim, she knew that of course, but the scars he left caused her to remain anxious. Franco remained stoic in his expression, bottom lip upturned. One of the holsters at his side was unclipped and the weapon slapped into her open palm.
‘You’re with me,’ he stated.
Chapter Fifteen
The Escape
To Franco, the genius of the escape was that its success was entwined with that of speed. In his mind, all they needed to do was to ride the rails with haste and said escape would promote itself to a getaway. Simple speed, nothing more. It was an exceedingly modest concept and one that had done him well in the past. Complications only occurred when speed faltered, an error that was always caused by a machine or an individual.
Or, he added to his assumption, by the mass of riders following the Gambler’s Den in a hurricane of dust.
&
nbsp; * * *
The cannon atop the boxcar began its work, thunder breaking with each shot, their impacts catapulting reams of sand and dirt skyward. This scattered the ones not caught in the blast, though only momentarily in the attempt to avoid the oncoming fire. The cars were peppered with small-arms fire, wild shots from handguns with as many far from the mark as those on target. From inside the repeated pat-pat-pat of metal on wood caused a number to sharply duck in alarm, though its heavy fortified frame ensured that this was not needed.
‘Again!’ Jacques ordered, and the cannon tore the sky once more.
Though quite the deterrent this was far from enough to send the Bluecoats and Wilheim’s men packing.
* * *
In the observation car Wyld took aim at each approaching shape and squeezed off every round with the hope that it was true. The occasional buzzing close call soon turned into a torrent of bullets. She jumped up and replied with her weapon and deadly accuracy.
Glass burst through the air, forcing Wyld down onto the floor. She rolled onto her back, feeding each new cartridge into the lever action mechanism until full, then sprung to her knees from cover and took aim. Every shot hit a target, sending both bandit and lawman to the ground with varying degrees of fatality.
There was no time to obsess about the morality of what she was doing. The girl from the streets had to remember that they would have no mercy should they board, making the situation as black and white as it could get. Cartridges chimed upon ejection, every trigger squeeze coupled with an exhalation. Another shell from the cart cratered the ground. No matter how many fell, more rode out of the dust clouds chasing them. She ran empty once more, taking stock of those who pursued. There were too many to count.
The carriage door swung open, a rush of air whipping inside as someone who managed to board emptied their revolver with stabs.
In a handful of seconds, Wyld asked herself a million questions. Mostly they were how this man had boarded without her knowing. She was convinced nobody had made it past. She’d held the line, hadn’t she? Clearly, that was not the case.
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