Cut to the Quick

by Tony Masero

  Kirby thought about it a moment, ‘Unless we had a diversion.’

  ‘And that might be?’

  ‘That’s my problem. Can you handle the driver side of things?’

  Belle glanced over at the elderly train driver, a chunky looking man dressed in dungarees and a peaked denim cap standing atop the locomotive and mopping his brow with a colored neckerchief. Belle reckoned that despite his age he looked sharp and bold enough to make a go of it.

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘Okay, I’m going to start taking out these fellows one at a time. Then lead them off into the town, that should give you the opportunity to make it over to the driver.’

  Belle’s brow furrowed in concern, ‘You’ll take care now, won’t you?’

  Kirby grinned, leaned over and kissed her. ‘This is where I live, baby girl. You should know that by now.’

  Then he was gone.

  Belle allowed herself a small smile. He was still a reckless and bold fellow, her husband. Belle was a little reticent about admitting it but she had lost her heart to the cowboy, eventually giving in to the inevitability of his insistence and marrying him. And, much to her surprise, it had worked. They fitted together real well, he with his irresponsible wild ways and she with her more considered and forthright attitude. Each played of the other neatly and as a husband and wife team under Pinkerton’s firm hand they were a resounding success as investigators.

  And when it came to personal matters despite her many lovers across the years, Kirby still took the biscuit. Not only was he wild on the prairie but also he equaled his passion in the bedroom, a thing that endeared him even more to Belle’s more sensuous side. Although they bitched and fought often, at heart their relationship was as sound as a brand new silver dollar.

  The noise of boots clumping on the sidewalk came to her and she backed away deeper into the shadows alongside the office building.

  ‘Frank,’ she heard a voice say. ‘You get along and give us a perimeter ring; we don’t know how long we’ll be here. Make sure they cut the telegraph wires in both directions. I’m going down to see what that blacksmith’s doing. When I find out how long it’s going to take I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Sure thing, Dingus.’

  ‘I don’t want any of them boys wandering off and raising Cain in the town, you hear? We don’t want them getting drunk and busting up the place. We have to keep a good name amongst the local folk, it’s our best protection against the law.’

  ‘No, I got it. I’ll keep ‘em sober or I’ll want to know why,’ Frank promised.

  Their footsteps moved off and Belle peeked around the corner to watch their departing backs.

  ‘So it is the James boys’ – she thought. Frank and Jesse James, two of the most wanted outlaws on the Frontier. For them the Civil War never really ended and they’d travelled from being irregulars under Quantrill to bank and train robbers without hardly pausing to take breath. Since then they had been a constant thorn in the side of Allen Pinkerton whose expansion of business after the war had taken in much of railroad security as the tracks forged further west. Privately, Pinkerton had never forgiven the outlaw the murder of the young train guard, Bemjamin Aimes eight years before. It had been a callous murder carried out by Jesse’s men without his knowledge and despite his strict instructions otherwise. But without knowing this, it had resulted in him being the primary marker in Pinkerton’s hatred of the twenty-seven year old outlaw and he had sworn to bring him down.

  Belle had different objectives concerning Jesse.

  She knew he had been a member of the Knights of the Golden Circle, a clandestine group of Southern sympathizers that had made trouble not only during the war but also in the years afterwards as well. Their boss, the one-time politician, Xavier Bond had vanished from view after Belle and Kirby’s sinking of his escaping vessel some years earlier and it was one of Belle’s greatest disappointments that she had never been able to bring the leader to book. She knew he was still out there somewhere and was forever asking Pinkerton to bring to her notice any sightings of the miscreant but as yet no word had either reached the agency or herself.

  As she stood hidden in the shadows, Belle wondered if it were at all possible that Jesse James still had some contact with his old compatriot and knew of his whereabouts.

  Kirby wrenched off the damnably restrictive long-tailed jacket and with relief he tossed it aside. Next followed the shoulder holster and ribbon tie and Kirby loosened his shirt collar gratefully. He stood with his back to a wood plank wall in a gloomy alleyway off Main Street. His objective was a lone guard lounging around the corner; the man was standing on the boardwalk in the shade under a porch canopy. Right now the fellow had his Winchester rifle resting against his leg whilst he leaned back against a porch post and rolled himself a cigarette. Kirby had his eye on the rifle, reckoning the long gun would be useful in his intentions to draw off the outlaws.

  Kirby considered how to approach things. Then the idea struck him. He retrieved his jacket, brushed it off and hiding the pistol underneath slung it over his shoulder.

  He stepped around the corner and up onto the boardwalk.

  ‘Hey there,’ he said brightly, causing the outlaw to jump and crumple his half-rolled spill.

  ‘Damn it!’ the man cursed, looking up sharply at Kirby. ‘Where the hell you’d come from?’

  ‘Oh, just out taking the air,’ said Kirby innocently. ‘What’s going on here? I thought I heard shooting, some kind of celebration, is it?’

  The man caught up his Winchester as Kirby neared. ‘You’d best find your home and stay there, mister. This town’s been taken over temporary.’

  Kirby feigned surprise, ‘That a fact?’

  He stepped a pace nearer.

  The man cocked the Winchester, he could see that Kirby was apparently unarmed but was taking no chances, ‘Get along, you fool, or I’ll put one in you.’

  ‘Why, I’m all of a dither,’ pleaded Kirby, making it another step closer. ‘The town’s been taken over, you say. Whatever for?’

  The guard raised the rifle threateningly, ‘You’re asking for it,’ he growled.

  ‘Look here,’ said Kirby, coming nearer and raising the coat from his shoulder but still keeping the Colt hidden underneath. ‘I’ll be damned if a bird didn’t shit on my new jacket, now I has to find me a cleaner.’

  The guard’s eye naturally roved to the expected bird dropping but as Kirby let the jacket slide away all he saw was the black hole of a six-shooter’s barrel pointing at him. In a moment it came closer and found its way up under his unshaven chin.

  ‘Now you were saying,’ Kirby said coldly. ‘I’m asking for it, you said. You’re right; I’ll take that Winchester you have there. In my hand, that’s right. Now, what say we take a stroll around the corner here?’

  The outlaw swallowed hard, which was no easy task with the pipe of a Colt .45 pressed into his throat.

  ‘You ain’t going to kill me, are you, mister?’

  ‘I’m a Pinkerton agent,’ advised Kirby, ushering him off the boardwalk. ‘Right now you’re in what we might call protective custody.’

  ‘Protection against what?’ asked the fellow.

  ‘Me, mainly.’

  They made the shadows of the alley and Kirby brought the butt of the pistol down hard on the back of the man’s head. He went down on both knees with a groan and Kirby hit him again to make certain he’d put the light out for certain. Stepping over the downed man, Kirby stuffed the pistol into his waistband and levered a shell into the Winchester as he loped off along the alley.

  Two other men on horseback were patrolling the back yards at the alley’s end and as they passed under a threadbare tree with a line of bed sheets hanging from it across to one of the houses, Kirby aimed the rifle and fired. The first body took the hit and tumbled off his saddle and into the washing, tangling it and bringing the whole row down. At the shot his partner swept his horse around and ducking low in the saddle urged the pony off at th
e gallop.

  Kirby stepped out into the open to get clear view around the tree and sighted along the Winchester. The rifle cracked and the man’s pony jerked suddenly sideways taking the slug in the shoulder. The outlaw swayed and slipped in the saddle, clutching at the neck to save himself from falling. He presented a clear shot of his broad back and Kirby let him have one. The man flung his arms out cruciform style and slumped to the ground in a flurry of dust.

  Kirby was already moving before the fellow hit the ground.

  Down at the depot, all heads turned at sound of the first rifle shot and looked towards the town.

  Jesse James jumped down from the express car and began ordering men to find out what was happening.

  ‘Get in there,’ he bellowed. ‘See what the hell’s going on. Two of you stay with the passengers. You, on the train,’ he shouted up at the man guarding the driver and his fireman. ‘Can you see anything?’

  The man shook his head negatively, finding that the water tower and its uprights cut off a clear view of the town streets.

  ‘How long, driver?’ Jesse called.

  The train driver peered into the boiler reservoir. ‘She’s about done, a few minutes more.’

  ‘Well, wrap it up now,’ ordered Jesse. ‘There’s no time for more. Looks like we’re heading out of here right quick.’

  With that he climbed up into the express car to hustle the blacksmith along.

  Inside, the sweating man was on his knees hammering at a large welded keyhole hoping to make an access big enough to reach the restraining bars inside.

  ‘You getting anywhere?’ Jesse asked him.

  The blacksmith drew a forearm against his sweating brow. ‘I reckon this thing is built to stand up to fire and brimstone on the Last Day,’ he panted.

  ‘Are you going to get it open?’

  ‘Hell, mister. I don’t know. It’ll take a while.’

  ‘Then you get to take a train ride, fella. We want that box open, so we’re going to head on down the line a ways and find a peaceful spot so you can do your business.’

  Jesse nodded at his men guarding the blacksmith, ‘Stay with him, see he gets it done. You got fifty thousand mint dollars in there and if you want to see any of it make sure this boy here does his work.’

  ‘You got it, boss.’

  As the remaining gang members mounted up and rode hastily into town, Belle began to make her move. She strolled out holding her pistol hidden in the folds of her long skirt. She reckoned a solo woman walking alone stood a better chance of passing unnoticed across the open ground between her and the train.

  As she walked she glanced sideways at the passenger carriages and saw that they weren’t busy, just a few people brought together in a single carriage and watched over by two of the gang. She walked on unhindered until she was at the loaded wood tender to the rear of the locomotive when a voice called out.

  ‘Where you think you’re going, pretty lady?’

  She turned with a wide-eyed expression of surprise on her face, ‘Why, good day to you, sir. May I help?’

  Mentally, Belle was gauging distances and angles. The man was stepping down from the first carriage’s platform, a rifle held casually under his arm. Above her, further along, the train driver’s outlaw guard stood aloft on the driving cab’s roof, his attention straying from the working men to the sounds of shooting in the town.

  ‘You step over here, will you?’

  The outlaw was a swarthy looking fellow with a burn scar down one side of his face. He was tall, stoop shouldered and lean with a wolf-like predatory look about him.

  ‘What can you mean?’ asked Belle, flashing the gunman a smile. ‘I must make my way home, my child awaits me.’

  ‘Do as I say,’ he ordered harshly. ‘Get over here now!’

  Belle knew she would have to move very fast now, the rest of the outlaws behind her standing nearer the rear end where the express car was situated were alert and watchful. There were three passenger cars between her and them and the distance gave her some leeway.

  ‘You are extremely rude, sir,’ Belle frowned reprovingly at the outlaw. ‘I’m a married woman and have no intention of coming anywhere near you.’

  The man raised his rifle threateningly, ‘You get your sweet ass to me and back inside this train or it’ll be the worse for you.’

  Belle drew a deep breath.

  ‘I think not,’ she said.

  Raising the pistol at arm’s length she watched the outlaw’s eyes go round in sudden fear as he saw the gun, then she pulled the trigger. The bullet caught the man in the right hand side of his forehead and scattered his brains over the wall of the car behind him. His empty head tilted up, rolling back on his neck as he dropped prayer-like to his knees. Before the man had tumbled forward, Belle had swung around and with both hands steadying her aim; she blasted away at the guard on the driving cab roof.

  He was in mid-turn at sound of the shot, his rifle swinging around as two of Belle’s bullets hit him. Spinning, with both legs flying out as if pulled on wire, the man tumbled out of sight on the far side of the locomotive.

  With the sound of shouting coming from behind, Belle hoisted her skirts and ran towards the driver.

  ‘Back in the cab!’ she screamed. ‘Right now! Get this train moving.’

  The driver was swinging the water hose away and stared in surprise at the figure of the beautiful gun-toting woman racing towards him.

  ‘What’s up?’ he called.

  ‘We’re making a break for it,’ Belle called back. ‘I’m a Pinkerton agent, come on get back inside and get this train going.’

  Both the driver and fireman ran back and scampered over the now vacant roof and dropped down into the cab as Belle made the steps alongside. The fireman, a small, soot covered figure helped her climb aboard.

  ‘That was some shooting, ma’am,’ he said admiringly.

  ‘No time for that,’ Belle panted. ‘Get up steam and head out, I’ll try to hold them off.’

  So saying, she ducked around the edge of the cab and lining up beyond the tender at the advancing men from the rear she picked her shot and fired. The men back there scattered and answered with fire of their own immediately. Bullets whanged off the metal casing and Belle drew back to see the fireman hurriedly stoking the boiler firebox with chunks of timber from the tender.

  The driver turned to look at her from the regulator lever, a grin cracking his grizzled face, ‘Do worry, ma’am. We’ll make a go of it. A few minutes and we’re away. You just keep them busy for now.’

  Trouble was, Belle had only two more shells in the cylinder, and the rest of her ammunition was back in the hotel with her baggage.

  Luckily for Kirby the streets had stayed empty of fearful pedestrians, who were all sticking to safety in their homes. He was pounding along the backstreets of the town hoping to find more ways of distracting the outlaws when he heard the cacophony of firing from the depot and knew Belle was playing her part.

  The sounds of shooting were followed by shouts of alarm coming from Main Street and Kirby guessed the remaining outlaws in town would head back to the train and reckoned he should be doing the same.

  He turned a corner to find a group of riders milling in the middle of the street as they decided what best to do. Without hesitation, Kirby aimed and firing fast he emptied the rifle into the crowd and saw one of the riders rear up and fall from his pony. The rest scattered and began blasting away at Kirby’s position. They were surprised and unsure of the situation and their frightened horses made shooting difficult, so the firing was wild and ineffective.

  Even so, the woodwork of the corner where Kirby crouched exploded in a patter of splinters as some shots came close. He turned to run back down the alley, aiming to come at the group from another angle. His way was blocked. A lone horseman was entering the far end of the narrow alley and forging his way towards the Pinkerton man, blasting with his six-gun as he came.

  Kirby dived sideways to take cover behind an
empty rainwater barrel that occupied one side of the alleyway. Now he was taking fire from both directions as the crew in the street kept at him and the rider drew close, bent low and riding fast.

  Kirby tilted the four-foot high barrel and pushed it over onto its side, with a heave he rolled it towards the coming rider. It bounced and began a rumbling roll, each end barely missing the alley walls. A hail of bullets were spattering around Kirby and he thrust himself across the alley and flattened himself against the opposite wall as the oncoming outlaw was forced to forego his pistol and take hold the reins as the horse leapt up over the advancing barrel. Pressed back against the wall, the rider reared up and loomed over Kirby as the pony jumped across the barrel. He came so close that Kirby’s eyes were level with the man’s spurs as the pony passed by. There was nothing the outlaw could do but ride on; it was impossible to turn in the narrow space.

  Kirby shot him in the back with his pistol as the rider exited the alley and headed out into Main Street.

  Once he had dropped the outlaw, Kirby peered cautiously around the corner of the building. The street was unoccupied except for a hovering mist of dust. The rest of the outlaws had headed back to the train. Dropping the empty rifle, Kirby raced across to the riderless horse still standing near its dead owner in the middle of the street. Vaulting over its hindquarters, Kirby grabbed the reins and dug in his heels. He spun the pony around and ran the wild-eyed creature towards the tracks at a full gallop.

  Chapter Three

  The driver kept his eye on the pressure gauge as it built and finally he got the train moving, it chugged and hissed, the wheels spun then grabbed traction and began to move. Links rattled down the length and slowly the train started to move. Belle was down to her final bullet; having kept the outlaws at bay mainly thanks more to their fear than her shooting. She breathed a sigh of relief as they clunked over the points and headed out of the siding and onto the main line again, one look back told her that the outlaws were running to catch up. Some sticking to their ponies the others grabbing handrails and leaping aboard.