Over Your Dead Body

by Tony Masero

  He backed off away down the far side of the hill and then laid in his spurs and lashed the pony into a fast ride back into town.

  Whilst Kirby rode with all haste, Belle was fighting off the advances of Monette.

  They had drawn up to rest from their country ride at the edge of a wooded clearing and whilst their horses grazed had taken a seat on the grass under a large oak. It had not been long before Monette had progressed from kissing her fingers tenderly to her feeling his hot breath on her neck.

  She was wearing a small top hat with a scarf tied around, a short tight-waisted jacket and a long black riding skirt that thankfully, up until this moment had kept Monette’s roving hands at bay.

  The man was quite feverish with desire for Belle by now, her continual teasing and suggestive promises had led him down a path that promised some concern for her. In an almost rampant state of lust he pressed himself upon her whilst she tried desperately to elicit information from him.

  ‘Tell me, Courtney, just how many men does my bold warrior hold to command?’ she asked, as he nibbled at her ear.

  ‘You are driving me to despair,’ he mumbled, ignoring her query whilst his hands strayed to her breast.

  She smacked playfully at his fingers, ‘Now, Courtney, desist. What if someone should come by?’

  ‘But I am bursting, my dear. Can you at least not allow me some relief?’

  ‘No, I cannot. Now stop it. You are an man full of ardor, I see that and don’t think I do not appreciate it but it is unseemly given our state.’

  ‘Our state!’ he gasped in despair. ‘We have no state. Here I am panting for you and you turn away at every attempt. I fear you have no feelings for me,’ he said, flouncing back and pouting. ‘I am bereft without your affection.’

  ‘Come now,’ she said, attempting to cheer him. ‘You occupy so fond a place in my heart, how can you say such a thing? Tell me again, of your brigade. I would hear how you parade; I bet it is a sight to see. The band playing and flags waving, why, I believe it would take my breath away.’

  ‘It is you, only you,’ he moaned, ignoring her attempts at evasion. ‘Why is it you always speak of military things when I try to make love to you? A body would think you are more interested in our strident armies than you are of cupid’s soft call.’

  Belle detected the shift in tone in his voice and although the words were bland they implied a new unconscious understanding of her role. It was disconcerting and she realized she had overplayed her part and her questioning had now become an intrusion.

  Quickly she took his face in her gloved hands and kissed him passionately on the lips.

  He answered with a groan and leapt upon her. Before she knew it he had pressed her to the ground and lifted her skirts. He continued to kiss her, covering her lips and eyelids with his mouth as he fumbled below.

  Belle soon realized there was no resisting, she had driven him too far and he would result to violence if she did not surrender. With an internal shrug, she allowed Monette to have his way and with the necessary supplied gasps and cries that she supplied he was soon past all recognition of anything but his desires. It was a brief and disappointing act of conjunction.

  So desperate was Monette that the business lasted no more than a few minutes before he cried out and the matter was done.

  Internally, Belle detached herself and treated it as a necessary part of her function as agent and thought of the moment with little concern. Monette on the other hand was effusive, his outpourings of love once they had straightened themselves bordered on the ridiculous.

  It bored Belle who had known the sexual mastery of Aloysius and this rapid act had all the significance for her that an over eager schoolboy losing his virginity for the first time might have. She knew now that Monette was a hopeless lover and feared that as she had now succumbed to him this once he would doubtless continue in the same vein.

  ‘Did you…. Did I….’ he asked, his face plaintive with a desire to gain approval.

  ‘It was wonderful,’ she lied, reinforcing the lie with a whispered husky tone. ‘You are so masterful, Courtney.’

  As she said it she smiled to herself at the easy foolish deception and how quickly he was led to where she wanted to take him.

  ‘I’m so glad, my dear. It felt…. It felt as if Heaven had descended. I swear I almost heard choirs singing.’

  ‘You will not think badly of me then?’ she asked coyly.

  ‘How could I?’ he blurted. ‘We shall marry, of course. You will be mine forever; I shall love you until the day I die.

  - Heaven forbid - she thought, beginning to wonder now what she had gotten herself into. ‘Not yet, my beloved,’ she crooned. ‘Not with this terrible war coming. I could not bear to think of you lost on some battlefield and me alone without you.’

  ‘Oh, I shall not go the war. I shall serve at home, it is promised me. Have no fear, Belle; I will be stationed in the rear. An important post, probably overseeing some quartermaster position. The arrangements are made, I am assured of it.’

  A quartermaster! It would be a prime position in which to know many things. The transport of supplies, shipment of weaponry, horse and troop movements and reference to their location, all knowledge that would be of major importance. Belle weakened at the thought. It would place her in a prime position for extremely good intelligence. Could she resist such an opportunity?

  She took the plunge.

  ‘Oh, Courtney, it does my heart good to hear such a thing.’

  ‘Then you will be mine?’ he said, feverishly clutching both her hands in his. ‘Say you will.’

  In some part of her, Belle thought it a whorish act to sell herself in a loveless match for mere information and statistics but the overwhelming promise of success outdid her sense of these shortcomings and she forced herself to look at him wistfully with her deep blue eyes.

  ‘I want for nothing more, Courtney,’ she promised.

  The telegraph lines were down.

  Kirby realized that Pinkerton had made sure all communication was closed to the Rebels and he must have had the wires severed between Baltimore and along the line. Time was wasting and with little opportunity to let Pinkerton know of the assassin’s plans there was only one option left to him.

  He hired a fresh horse and set off in a race to catch up to the train when it reached Harpers Ferry station. He rode as he had never ridden before, urging the maximum effort from the pony as he ran through the night. Kirby had no idea of the train’s arrival time at Harpers Ferry, only that he must get there before Hill and his gang.

  They had something of a lead on him as he had been detained in the city trying to send the telegraph message and then hiring the pony and riding through the darkness of night on unlit roads. Harpers Ferry station was some seventy miles outside of Baltimore and Kirby had some hard riding to get there. He licked the best from the pony and the lathered beast responded well but it was a disappointed rider that arrived just in time to see the night train quitting the station on its final run into the city.

  It took him not a moment to note the five horses tied off outside the station and from that he gathered the departing train was the one he wanted.

  Urging a last effort from the horse, Kirby followed the train down the track. He could see there was no express car and it was only the lights in the end carriage that faced him and, as yet, the train had not picked up full speed. Drawing level with the rear platform, Kirby kicked free of the stirrups and allowing the exhausted pony to run free he reached across and grabbed for the vibrating rail of the platform.

  For a moment he hung in space, the rattle and crash of the wheels spinning not far from his boots as they dragged on the track grade below. With a desperate heave he hauled himself up and lurched onto the platform. Breathing heavily, Kirby stood on the swaying platform and checked the load on his Colt.

  He opened the connecting door and stepped into the carriage.

  The hardwood passenger seats stretched away before him, mo
stly they were paired and facing each other and Kirby quickly scanned the curious faces that turned at his entrance. Men, women and sleepy children looked back but Kirby could not see a face he recognized from the earlier glimpses he had of the gang as they departed the shack.

  He reckoned that the President’s carriage must be somewhere ahead and determined to press on through each connecting door until he got there.

  The train conductor came through the door at the opposite end of the carriage and bustled towards him with a frown on his face. Over the man’s shoulder Kirby caught a glimpse of a white suit in the next carriage.

  ‘You cut that fine, fella. Must be in an awful rush,’ said the conductor, pushing his peaked cap back on his head as he stood before Kirby blocking his way. ‘You got a ticket?’

  ‘Stand aside,’ Kirby ordered. ‘There’s killer’s on this train.’

  The conductor looked down to see the Colt in Kirby’s hand.

  ‘What is this, a holdup?’ he asked, nervously raising his hands, one of them tentatively reaching for the bell cord.

  ‘You touch that and I’ll bean you,’ warned Kirby. ‘There’s trouble up ahead, now hold off a while until I see to it.’

  Kirby brushed past him and hurried through the length of the carriage. There were cries of surprise and fear from the passengers as he ran but Kirby ignored them and kicked open the partition door, his gun at the ready.

  The next carriage along was also full of passengers and as Kirby entered he saw the white jacket of Ward Hill ushering his men through at the far end.

  ‘Hill!’ Kirby shouted, raising his pistol and taking aim.

  The assassin turned and his eyes widened as he recognized Kirby, he ducked to one side, shouting and drawing a shoulder pistol from inside his jacket.

  Kirby fired and the shot raised shrieks of alarm from the passengers as the bullet shattered the glass in the partition door. Still firing, Kirby advanced along the corridor. He was half way along before he ran out of bullets and sunk down between two rows of seating.

  ‘Excuse me, won’t be but a moment,’ he said to the terrified passengers huddled there as he reloaded.

  Hill was returning fire now and shot was whistling along the aisle beside Kirby.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked a passenger, crouched down beside Kirby. The passenger had the grizzled look of a hardy outdoor man and watched Kirby with apparent calm, appearing not to be disturbed in the slightest by all the gunplay.

  ‘They’re aiming to kill the President.’

  ‘Lincoln’s on this train?’ asked the man in disbelief and with that Kirby realized that Pinkerton had been successful in keeping the President’s journey a secret from most people.

  ‘He sure is,’ said Kirby, popping his head up and loosing off another bullet in Hill’s direction.

  He could hear Hill shouting orders and guessed he was urging his other men to carry on with their killing mission whilst he held Kirby back.

  ‘Here,’ said the passenger beside Kirby, handing him a cut-down shotgun from inside a rolled blanket. ‘I voted for that man. Don’t want to see him out of office just yet.’

  ‘Obliged,’ Kirby said as he took the offered weapon.

  ‘She’s good to go,’ said the man, shoving spare cartridges in his hand. ‘Double-ought load.’

  Kirby nodded his thanks and the man winked back at him, ‘It ain’t my fight but here’s luck to you,’ he said.

  Holding the weapon in one hand, his pistol in the other, Kirby stepped out into the walkway risking Hill’s wild shooting. He strode along the carriage and fired off both barrels of the shotgun. The thin woodwork of the separating doorjamb exploded as the shotgun roared and as a chunk of paneling disappeared Hill screamed in agony. He fell out into view, his face slashed to bloody ribbons by the shot and splinters. Kirby stepped over the rolling body, placing two .45 slug into the fallen figure without a second glance.

  Twisting up he saw another wounded man behind Hill with a gun in his hand, Kirby fired twice without hesitation and the man spun back, slamming against the carriage wall before slumping down.

  Re-loading the shotgun, Kirby walked on through the next carriage. He could hear shouting and shots coming from up ahead and realized that the gunplay must have warned Pinkerton and the President’s bodyguards and a gun battle was going on.

  The carriage swayed and lurched on the tracks as Kirby hurried on. Passengers screamed and cried out in dismay and Kirby had to push curious men aside as they got up from their seats to see what was going on.

  ‘Pinkerton agent!’ he called. ‘Keep your seats if you don’t want a bullet in your head.’

  Two figures were ahead, both occupied with shooting down into the next carriage. They were crouched in the space between carriages and one of them was busily reloading his pistol. Kirby fired a shot from his Colt, the swaying train threw his aim off and the reloader looked up at the close miss and shouted a cry of warning. Kirby propped himself against a seat back and holding himself steady he put a bullet in the man’s forehead. A spray of blood shot up over the wall behind and the man sat back limply.

  The other turned and before he could make any move, Kirby loosed off both barrels of the shotgun. The man’s head vanished in an explosive eruption of blood and brains as the full load took the fragile vessel completely off the man’s shoulders.

  Kirby stood for a moment in the sudden silence. Gun smoke wreathed along the corridor and there was only the sound of whimpering passengers and the rattle of the links beneath the train as it sped on.

  Beyond the fallen men, Kirby could see Pinkerton and his guards tentatively leaving cover and Kirby stepped forward to meet them.

  As he stepped over the bodies, a hidden flying fist packing a revolver flashed out from behind the partition wall and caught him a blow on the face. Kirby stumbled backwards as Bellows stepped out and fired at him. The bullet slapped into Kirby’s flapping coat tails and ripped a tearing hole before winging off harmlessly behind him. Kirby fired his Colt but the hammer clicked on empty and he tossed the gun aside, reverting to the empty shotgun.

  Spinning the weapon over and grasping it by the barrels he swung it bat-like before Bellows could line up another shot and smacked the pistol away from the man’s hand. With a roar of rage, Bellows hurled his bulk at Kirby driving him back into the passageway between the seats.

  There was a scream from the wheels as the conductor finally got up the courage to alert the driver and the complaining wheels backpedaled raising a stream of sparks that reached window height and seared the night sky outside. The train lunged and kicked. The couplings crashing as it skidded along the tracks with earsplitting metallic screams coming from beneath the cars as it attempted to slow.

  The two grappled together, rolling in the aisle as Kirby was temporarily overwhelmed by his opponent’s weight. The stink of lavender and sweat was strong in his nostrils as Bellows enclosed him in a bear-like hug around the waist. Kirby gasped as the wind was crushed from his lungs, he lowered his hands and slapped Bellows on both ears with open palms and the saloonkeeper cried out in pain.

  Bellows backed off a step and Kirby jabbed a bunched right fist that hit the man full on the forehead. Bellows blinked, his eyes crossing as he shook his dazed head. His lips parted in stunned surprise but before he could utter a sound Kirby hit him again, this time with a looping left hand blow that swung Bellows’ head to one side as it connected with his jaw. Bellows spat a puff of blood from between his lips but stood his ground and lowering his head aggressively attempted to lunge forward again and encircle Kirby in his arms.

  Kirby swung his boot and kicked him hard between the legs and Bellows wailed loudly. He stood bent over in the alleyway, semi-conscious and swaying as he groaned in pain. Stepping back with his right foot, Kirby took his time, his face frozen into a bitter show of stony grimness. His right fist circled up from below the waist in a long curving swing that connected with Bellows jaw in a smack the sound of a whip cracking. The blo
w rocked Bellows head back and he was lifted from his feet and tumbled over backwards to fall unconscious to the carriage deck.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When he was back with them again, Bellows told all. He knew he faced a hangman’s noose and hoped by spilling his story it might go better for him.

  Ward Hill had indeed been an agent working for the Confederacy, his Southern allegiance encouraging him to skim the gold finds at Variable Breaks and nearby Pike’s Peak, milking the claims with as much alacrity as he could before it left for the Reserve. All of it was to fill the war coffers of the Confederacy as they prepared for war. As soon as he had been uncovered, his controllers had ordered him to the east to mastermind the presidential assassination.

  Bellows, as had been thought, was in it for the money alone. He favored no other side but himself and Hill had duly utilized this shallow indifference to his own advantage.

  With Kirby’s warning arriving in good time, Pinkerton ordered the President from the train before it arrived at Baltimore and the backup plan of the Confederate agents was thus avoided. Federal troops were ordered in and those that could be found were imprisoned, along with Carter Waynes the town marshal, who was then imprisoned in his own jail.

  With the President hurried off under cover of darkness, Kirby saw no more of him and it was Pinkerton who came alone to offer Lincoln’s gratitude.

  ‘You’ve done well, bonny boy,’ Pinkerton praised, patting Kirby on the shoulder.

  ‘Just in time though, I think,’ Kirby allowed.

  ‘Will you be wanting to return to Baltimore and see that lass of yours?’ asked Pinkerton.

  ‘Unless there’s more for me to do here.’

  ‘No, we’re taken care of here, but I must attend the President so I’ll not tarry long,’ he paused a moment in thoughtful consideration. ‘There is one thing, if you’ve a mind for it.’