Wyld fell backward, a spray of red lingering in the air and her eyes glazed with shock. The burning sting of the bullet was a blinding flash of pain, cruelly repeated when it exited her shoulder.
She landed, hard, and with a groan, watching boots cross the carriage carpet towards her.
The ensuing seconds were filled with cracks of gunfire, and then silence.
* * *
The pursuers were now upon them, firearms cracking in excitement. Most shots were now biting the carriages, pitting them with holes. Their horses pounded over the desert, with Wilheim’s men hooting wildly, and on the opposite side, Juniper’s own. Both factions thrashed their rides as fast as they could, occasionally firing across the gulf of the track to one another.
The next carriage had its windows lined with the train’s occupants, windows drawn open, each brandishing a rifle bar a couple who assigned themselves to pass out ammunition when needed. As soon as riders and their mounts came into view alongside, the showgirls let fly volley after volley, attempting to enforce an impassable wall. Like any wall, all it took was a single hammer blow in the right place to bring it all down.
Kitty knelt to reload, narrowly missing a shot that had every intention of striking her but was left wanting. Instead it made do with the woman opposite, who jerked violently with a spray of red and collapsed face first with a wail. Kitty scurried over and rolled her kin onto her back, looking down at the dash of crimson that was seeping into her bodice. It was enough of a momentary distraction to create another opening for the pursuers.
The lawmen saw a distraction. The bandits smelt blood. Another bevy of cracks. Another one of them fell and the score sank to cover. Kitty pressed down on the wound to stem the bleeding, tossing her gun aside to gain the capacity of both hands. All the while splinters of wood erupted from the carriage’s wooden panelling, shaving chairs and shattering lamps. The ones who sheltered looked at one another with shock and widened eyes, rattled by this development. The barrage outside settled momentarily, forcing Kitty to call to them all and regain some sort of composure.
‘Well? What are you all waiting for?’ she roared aloud above the noise, hands slipping on the sodden material covering the woman beneath her. ‘Give them hell why don’t you!’
The rally cry sprung those who had the capacity to do so onto their feet and they unleashed their fury in kind.
* * *
Franco, with weapon in hand, unloaded chamber after chamber, leaning out of a wide framed window in the dining car, five back from the Den’s tail end. A shot buzzed past, thudding into the panelling, encouraging him to return inside.
It was unnecessary to give instructions. The rear cannon was erupting with power. The showgirls knew their role, defending the transport with every shudder and bang, but it wasn’t enough. His luck wasn’t so good to ensure that this would be a clean getaway. The law, the lawless, and the whore of a desert were all out to claim him and one was bound to make good on that endeavour. If they could make it to the canyon pass then there was a good chance of escape. Its sheer sides and narrow gulley would force their pursuers into single file. The sheer amount of rocky debris would all but halt the pursuit.
That’s if they could reach it.
The woman he had led by the hand through each carriage voiced indistinct objections. Misu demanded that he stopped buzzing around the carriage for a second and listen to her piece but there were much more pressing matters to contend with, like staying alive for example. Little things.
Again she protested.
‘I’m not interested.’
‘It’s important!’ Misu insisted.
‘I bet it is, but it changes the fact none.’
‘Listen to me,’ Misu snapped, planting herself on the spot and refusing to budge any further. ‘Stop, damn it. I’m trying to talk to you!’
Franco’s response was immediate, a quick spin on his heel and clear picture of how things were about to play out. Chitchat could wait. Everything could wait until those hounding the Gambler’s Den were convinced that their presence was unwanted.
‘Right now there’s two things you need to concentrate on: anyone turning up at those windows on your left and anyone who ventures through that there door who we don’t recognize. Any yapping can be held until we’re done and I promise you on my shiny word that we’ll do so at considerable length. Until that comes to pass, I’ll be taking the right side of the carriage. You worry about them faces appearing through that there glass like some duck shoot and we’ll all be fine.’
He looked around the lounge car to assess their stand, taking stock of anything that could be used as shelter should things become too trying.
‘I’ve never shot ducks before!’ Misu stated like it actually made any sort of difference.
‘Then imagine it’s Wilheim’s dirty face! Anything that’s needed to help you pull the trigger!’
Misu fidgeted with the weapon in her hands, checking and rechecking her grip around the handle. It felt horrid, cold, and unseemly. Misu never had the stomach for shooting. Wilheim’s penchant for violence had put paid to that and whilst it was an agreed necessity in a region where the law couldn’t be relied upon, it made her no less comfortable.
Glass was punched from its housing onto the carpet, some of the smaller slivers decorating her hair. She press flushed against the carriage wall, buried her concerns, and retaliated loudly. The gun bucked in Misu’s grip, punching a hole through the glass pane and striking the target, who slipped from his horse and tumbled out of view.
‘That was new!’ Misu cried out, the adrenalin now drowning the previous anxiety that had plagued her.
Franco squeezed off a few rounds himself, easing flush against a bookcase for cover. ‘Don’t feel guilty about that; he’s a wrong ’un,’ he called to her. ‘Hell, you’re practically doing a service. There’s places out west where they’ll toss you a coin for every one of these scoundrels you bag.’
‘Is that the same with the lawmen?’
‘Hah! No!’ Franco cheered. Misu shrieked as a pair of shots penetrated the panelling close by, creating whistling holes. ‘Those we would have to do for free. Not a matter. They’re plenty grating.’
Franco fired across from himself, taking one out with a shot as sharp as any. He spun from his cover and boldly dropped another with the last of his ammunition. From there he sheltered to reload. Misu fired blindly from over the shattered window frame to provide a semblance of cover.
‘You keep yourself down if you’re unsure; you got me? I don’t want you developing a needless headache.’
More glass exploded inwards as a slow line of shots littered the air with a thousand glittering chunks. Their flight was accompanied with a hurricane of air that burst through. A handful of lawmen had made it alongside, firing wildly in the hope of incapacitating their quarry. With his back pressed hard into the mahogany panelling, his trembling fingers eased a bullet into each housing and he held a breath. He sprang to his feet, squeezed the trigger twice in succession, and hit two passing the window ahead. With a spin on his heels, the last three volleys, with terrific accuracy, each found their mark. Three riders slipped from their saddles, each absorbed into dust.
The carriage door closest to Franco crashed open, revealing a sour-faced troublemaker who brandished his revolver with the intent of getting some killing done. First he spied Franco and sent him scrambling for cover behind the lines of seating. Next he targeted Misu, who slid around the bar. When opportunity arose she took to her feet and fired.
The hammer struck each empty chamber in turn.
‘I’m out!’ Misu panicked and fell back down for protection.
As if misfortune had been conjured from those very words, the opposite carriage door swung ajar, with a brutish-looking man storming inside. The moment he spied Misu he took to shooting, sending her vaulting over the bar and crashing onto the floor whilst the bottles exploded overhead, spilling their contents in a spray.
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‘Show yourself, little missy! There’s no use in hiding!’ he taunted, until the gun ran empty. It was holstered with a bowie knife keenly withdrawn to finish the job.
* * *
Franco had heard this but was helplessly pinned down. Whenever he tried to steal an opportunity he was supressed again, each shot blasting a chunk of the seating, launching its leather cushioning in clumps around him. He attempted to simply peek out from where he had been trapped but snapped his head back quickly to avoid his brains being dashed. Instead he fell onto his side, spying the intruders’ feet advancing through the furniture. A quick flash and they fell onto their backs. Another and they stopped moving altogether.
In a panic, Misu darted her eyes around for anything that could be of use. Booze still drained from the shelves, causing the odd slip whilst she pulled out anything under the counter that might be used for defence. No knives. No guns. No nothing! If only she wasn’t so insistent on all weapons being stowed in the storage car before setting off. She made a mental note that should she make it through this, it would be the first of many things changed.
In her frenzy she had pulled down a bowl of complimentary matchbooks, each embossed with the fancy black and gold styling of the Gambler’s Den itself. There sparked an idea. It was a crude idea of course, one born of desperation, but being that there was a lack of an alternative, Misu hurriedly took to her task. First she pulled away the bottles behind her until finding the first of the clear spirits. She spun off its cap and took in the biggest mouthful possible with no intent to swallow. Next, she fumbled with one of the matchbooks, pulled a number from their stalks into a clenched fist, and dragged them on the book’s rear strip of grit paper.
Nothing happened.
She tried once more, firmer this time, faster, which did no favours. Still nothing.
Finally the matches struck true on the third attempt, much to her relief, sparking into fizzles of life.
From over the bar, heavy feet sped themselves up as Wilheim’s man slid belly first over the countertop, weapon brandished with the intention of doing all means of cruelty. His foul smirk at seeing Misu crumbled soon as she looked up to him sheepishly, reached her arm out, and spat the contents of her mouth upward.
* * *
All Franco witnessed was a great bevy of flame ejecting outward, a fireball that enveloped the poor soul and consumed him in its light. Immediately the recipient rolled from the bar wailing, feverishly attempting to pat down his clothing that was agreeably flammable.
Misu was heard spluttering away, casting the last of the alcohol out with coughs. It wasn’t something Franco had expected to witness at all but today was anything but ordinary. He finally took to his boots and fired a single shot into the crackling mess to give respite to such suffering. It was a mercy, not that one was deserved of course, but it was wrong for a man to be left like that. It was a damned shame, Franco thought to himself, spying the figure covered in licking flames, he actually really liked this carpet …
Franco finally exhaled, long and rasping. The revolver chamber swung out with a flick of a wrist with the empty shells clattering on the floor, rolling around from the carriage’s momentum. A horse without a rider, slowing itself to a canter, fell back in retreat. Glass crunched underfoot as Franco attempted to take stock of those advancing, querying as to if anyone had made it past.
The end door to the carriage behind him slid open. The answer to the question came forward with spurs jangling, an answer that Franco swore he could have done without. Misu froze behind the bar at the new voice, keeping herself hidden.
‘Mister Monaire! What a ruckus you have caused. It was a brave attempt, braver than most in fact, but foolish at best. Did you really think you would just … escape?’
Alex Juniper brushed his jacket aside, showing the spotless sheen of his sheriff’s badge. The symbol of his authority was intended to intimidate, but Franco saw past the shield, and its title used as an excuse. Juniper respected the law of course, but his unique interpretation of what constituted as excessive force ensured that his actions demeaned his cause. To Franco, the law was upheld by those who did not resort to thuggery – something Alex Juniper failed, consistently, to do.
The gunshot wound to Franco’s shoulder still burnt, but it had to be ignored for the moment. It could ache all it wanted to later, when the wound could be treated and stitched properly. ‘Figure it would be too much to deduce that you were looking to give us a warm send-off. I’m guessing you’re not the sort for a hearty handshake and a fond farewell.’ He rubbed his bandage to chase the ache away.
Wind blasted through the carriage, the train’s momentum causing a thunderous noise.
‘I don’t recall giving you permission to leave, Franco. One would think you were jackrabbiting from my custody.’
Franco wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, watching Juniper steady himself against a seat. The pops of gunfire seemingly faded into the persistent clatter of track, the air rushing throughout the carriage as if the desert heaved its hot breath on them deliberately, rattling the chandelier bolted onto the carriage ceiling.
Juniper drew on Franco with his sidearm. ‘Now toss the weapon.’
Franco complied. Both it and Franco’s pride hit the carriage floor with a hollow thump.
Juniper grinned with madness in his eyes, a madness reserved for deprived people or those who were truly lost.
‘I didn’t do it, you know,’ Franco called above the howling wind. ‘You accused me of all this stealing. Nothing was done on my part. It was all in your head.’
Juniper kept his gaze, shaking his head. He understood. Of course he understood, but that was a moot point now. He carefully placed his revolver on a table and discarded his belt holster. Their weight would have been a distraction for what was to come.
‘I don’t care!’ the sheriff called.
Within moments they were upon one another, wrestling, brutish and determined. They swapped grips, forcing jabs against one another when space permitted. Elbows drove into muscle. Flesh reddened on impact. Punches split cheeks. Noses were bloodied. Their snarling, grunting tussle was forged with grit.
A glass cantina, gripped by the neck, exploded in chunks as Franco forced it against the sheriff’s temple. He staggered backward, momentarily dazed but long enough for Franco to capitalize on the opening. Forcing every muscle to obey, Franco lunged ahead, slamming into Juniper and striking against one of the shattered, broken windows.
In the melee Misu grasped her chance. She scurried out from her hiding place and through the door into the connecting carriage.
Juniper spluttered through reddened teeth, proud that Franco had finally showed his true nature.
‘See,’ the sheriff croaked. ‘Assaulting a man of the law. You’re just another mindless thug getting his kicks.’
‘This?’ Franco dug in his footing into the carriage carpeting, gaining leverage with his arms as he lifted. ‘No, sir, this isn’t a pleasure. This is all business.’ From there, and heaving with a stuttered roar, Franco expelled the intruder from the carriage through the window and into the desert wastes.
The sight of Juniper, rolling over and over in a cloud of dust would have only been sweeter if he was struck by one of the horses that pursued the Den. Instead he would have to be content with the fall, hoping that an arm or leg would be broken on impact.
‘Well, maybe a little pleasure,’ Franco confessed to himself.
He wiped the smears of blood from his face, spat out the fire from this throat, and looked for any sign of Misu. Deducing that she must have retreated he moved back through the carriages in a hurry. Glass burst and wood splintered from occasional shots, to which Franco retaliated, reloaded, and retaliated once more, ducking behind seating, sheltering under window frames when needed. This wasn’t over yet.
Chapter Sixteen
Improvisation
Franco crashed through the doors into the end boxcar, situated jus
t before the end observation car where the roof cannon blasted once more. Corinne edged around the periscope, calling for another shell to be loaded into the cannon’s breech. Again the carriage thundered.
Katerina flattened herself against a wall. She had always complained that the power that these new cannons had would jump the train from the tracks one day, so every time it was fired she had to subdue panic. Spat shells that rolled across the carriage floor were hurriedly swept out of a side door as quickly as they came.
‘I seem to recall saying words about the shooting of my train,’ Franco stated, glancing at those in front of him. Jacques pulled a level crank, sending up another shell onto the belt loader that sat flush against a wall.
‘That you did, boss,’ he grunted, locking it into place with a snap before strolling over, shaking the burning from his leather-clad hands.
‘That I did,’ Franco repeated. ‘And still people fail to listen. No matter, we’re stopping this. Jacques, they all want me and nobody else. I need your help.’ He beckoned him over from the end carriage for secrecy, not that anyone else could hear from the constant crescendo of spent shells.
‘Ask away.’
‘We’ll disconnect all the carriages from the third. You and the girls can get away, leaving me with enough speed to outrun everyone else. The Bluecoats will be able to repel Wilheim’s men, of that I have no doubt.’
‘And what about after? There’s going to be an awful lot of questions when we’re brought in.’
‘They won’t bother you if you do exactly what I say. Exactly.’
‘Which would be?’
‘I need you to take the fall,’ Franco explained, seemingly already content with the gravity of the request. ‘Nobody else can handle this. Let the lawmen put you in cuffs. They’ll give you all protection and that’s the important thing right now. You and only you talk.’
‘What makes you think that they won’t just lock us away for good?’
‘Because of what you tell them. Because you’ll tell them that I forced each and every one on this train, under duress, to go on the run with me. I threatened violence in a terribly convincing manner. Paint me out to be some crazed villain. Make me cruel; I don’t care. Tell them what you need to make whoever’s listening believe that nobody else had a say. It’s not too far from the truth anyways.’
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