Rough Justice

by Lyle Brandt

  “Ladies and gents,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt your journey, but my friends and me have got some business with the Eastern Texas line today, and you’re all part of it.”

  Friends, Ryder thought. How many, and where are they?

  “What we’re after, mostly, is the mail car,” said the gunman. “Cash and such, you know. But we’d be stupid not to take whatever we can get, I’m sure you all agree. I’ll come amongst you now, collecting. Just pretend you’re sitting in your church on Sunday morning, giving to the Lord.”

  “That’s blasphemous!” one of the men seated across from Ryder, forward, on the right side of the aisle, protested.

  It meant trouble when the gunman’s smile grew wider, as he faced the man who’d spoken, moving toward him. “Blasphemous,” he echoed. “You some kind of parson, mister?”

  “Just a Christian,” said the other, still defiant.

  “That makes one of us,” the gunman said, standing beside the man who’d raised the challenge, looming over him. “O’ course, you are entitled to your own opinion, but a smart man knows when he should keep it to himself.”

  And saying that, he whipped the muzzle of his six-gun in a short, swift arc across the seated fellow’s face, slashing from right to left. Ryder saw blood speckle the nearby window, and a couple of the ladies yelped, surprised and frightened, as the injured man slumped over in his seat.

  “Now, then.” The gunmen beamed. “If no one else has anything to say … ? Nothing? All right. Get out your money, watches, any gold or silver jewelry you might be wearing.” Reaching underneath his jacket, he produced a folded gunnysack and shook it open with his left hand. “Be generous and don’t try holding out. As you can see from Mr. Big Mouth here, it’s dangerous.”

  Ryder wished he knew how many other men were in the holdup gang, and where they were positioned. Were they in the other cars? Up in the locomotive’s cab? Was someone waiting in the trees nearby, with horses for their getaway? He couldn’t see the bandits riding on to Lufkin with their loot, where anyone could raise a shout and summon the authorities.

  If there was anyone alive, that is, to do the shouting.

  Ryder didn’t know how many passengers were on the train, but suddenly, he had a sickly feeling. Wondered why the bandit hadn’t bothered putting on a mask. Was he an idiot? Or did he plan on making sure there were no witnesses?

  One pistol showing, which would leave him four rounds short for clearing Ryder’s car, but he could have another one concealed. There was a chance, too, that the other members of his gang could help with mopping up. Why not, if they’d decided it was easier to stage a massacre than have to worry about being caught and caged.

  He didn’t know that was the plan, of course, but it was worrisome.

  On top of which, he didn’t feel like giving up his cash.

  He reached under his jacket, as if going for his wallet, but he drew the Colt Army instead, holding it down and out of sight from where the gunman stood. He eased its hammer back, winced at the sharp click of the mechanism, but the bandit didn’t seem to notice. He was talking to the woman named Marie, telling her to be quick about surrendering her wedding ring.

  Ryder sat still and waited for his chance.

  *

  Mr. Mustache was within two rows of Ryder now, and one of those was empty. Ryder had considered how he ought to handle it: bracing the man and risking that he’d open fire, or simply shooting him and hoping that his first slug did the job. On balance, he’d decided it was safer, easier, to drop him where he stood.

  But how?

  A straight shot to the torso might not kill him outright, and there was a chance that Ryder’s slug could exit from the target’s back, fly on, and injure someone else inside the railroad car. The bandit’s head offered a smaller target, but a miss would strike the wall or ceiling, rather than another passenger.

  And if he made a clean head shot, the guy should fold without a fight.

  Big if.

  He’d have to place the shot precisely, minimizing any chance of a reflexive twitch between the bandit’s index finger and his pistol’s trigger. Even falling backward, Ryder knew the mustached man could still do lethal damage, hitting Ryder or another of the passengers who shared his car. Decisive moves had consequences, and he didn’t want to make the situation worse than it already was.

  Ten seconds, maybe less, before the gunman got to Ryder with his burlap bag, expecting cash. He was already turning from Marie and her companion when a shot rang out from the direction of the locomotive. The bandit grinned from ear to ear and said, “Sounds like the party’s starting early.”

  Ryder shot him in the face, not taking time to aim as he would do in practice, on a firing range, but trusting muscle memory to place the .44 slug where he wanted it. Between the eyes was good, but when the dark hole suddenly appeared it was off-center, just above the target’s right eyebrow. He was already toppling over backward when a spout of blood erupted from the wound and drew a crimson track across his startled face.

  Now there was chaos in the car, and Ryder had to raise his voice, moving to stand over the dead man and relieve him of his pistol. “Everyone be quiet!” he commanded, glaring at the frightened faces that surrounded him. “Stay in your seats and duck down if you see somebody coming. I’ll be back to tell you when it’s clear to move around.”

  Adding I hope, to keep from tempting fate.

  He moved along the aisle, a six-gun in each hand, and hesitated at the car’s exit. There was a little window in the door that let him see into the next car, separated by the coupling, each car with a small platform for boarding, metal steps descending on both sides. Inside the middle car, he saw a shooter standing in the aisle, holding a scattergun and staring back at Ryder, wondering what had become of his associate.

  He didn’t think about it long before he raised the double-barreled weapon and let go. Ryder just had time to duck before the buckshot smashed through first one window, then the other, raining shattered glass on top of him, while women screamed and men cursed in the background.

  Call it six or seven seconds to reload the shotgun, minimum, unless the shooter switched off to a pistol. Ryder used the time he had, shoved through the door, and leaped across the narrow gap between the cars, bursting through the second door to face his enemy.

  The man was fumbling with a brass cartridge when he looked up and saw death coming for him. He dropped the shotgun then, too late, and started reaching for a holster on his right hip, tied down low for speed.

  Too late.

  Raising the captured pistol in his left hand, Ryder shot him in the chest and watched him fall.

  *

  He stepped in blood, moving to fetch the fallen bandit’s shotgun and the cartridges he’d dropped as he was dying. Ryder glanced around the car, saw several of the passengers regarding him with fearful eyes as he reloaded, while the others made a point of staring out their windows, carefully avoiding Ryder’s gaze.

  “Who’s armed?” he asked, of no one in particular.

  Reluctantly, not knowing what they should expect, two of the men put up their hands.

  “All right,” he said. “Each of you take one door. No one gets in the car unless I’m with them to approve it.”

  He got nods from both men as they rose and drew their pistols, one moving to watch the door Ryder had entered through, the other trailing him to reach the north end of the second car, where Ryder stopped, repeating his surveillance of the last car through the doubled door windows.

  This time, he didn’t see a shooter in the next car, only passengers milling around and peering through their windows, trying to determine what was happening. Ryder left them to it, easing through the door, onto the narrow platform, moving toward its left side, where he craned to look around the car, up toward the locomotive and the water tower standing tall beside it.

  Two men were standing on the ground, both aiming rifles up toward the engineer’s cab. Behind the locomotive, Ryder saw the broa
d sliding door to the mail car was open. He ducked back, crossed the narrow platform, and leaned out to check the train’s right-hand side. One bandit there, sitting astride a roan, holding the reins to six or seven other horses.

  He had begun to wonder how they’d missed the gunfire, but he understood it now.

  They weren’t expecting any survivors.

  Ryder had heard of train robberies during the war, a favorite trick of Missouri guerrillas led by William Quantrill and Bloody Bill Anderson. It stood to reason that the practice would continue into peacetime, and the quickest way to rule out testimony from eyewitnesses was to eliminate them.

  Ryder wished he’d brought his Henry with him, but he hadn’t thought about it in his rush to keep the gunmen from annihilating unarmed passengers. There was no time to go back for it now. He’d have to make do with the weapons he was carrying—and the advantage of surprise.

  He left the solitary bandit with his horses, doubled back along the platform between cars, and checked the left side of the train again. One of the riflemen had disappeared, either inside the cab or in the mail car, which reduced the odds of Ryder being shot when he revealed himself. One man to face immediately, not as close as he’d have liked, but if he rushed the bandit …

  Ryder dropped into the open, wasn’t seen at first, his target either missing him or making the assumption that his friends would be the only people up and moving while the robbery was going on. He’d nearly reached the mail car when he raised the shotgun, sighted down its short barrels, and squeezed one of its double triggers.

  Ryder didn’t know what size of shot the cartridges contained, but he assumed that most would miss his target at the given range. Some found the mark, though, and the bandit staggered, dropped his rifle, clutching at his right arm where a splash of blood along his duster’s sleeve revealed a wound. He turned to face the stranger who had shot him, reaching for a pistol underneath his coat, but was hampered by his damaged arm.

  Ryder had reached the mail car now, was running past its open door, and saw movement inside. He fired the shotgun’s second barrel through the doorway, aiming high, hoping to miss any railroad employees still alive in there. With any luck, the twelve-gauge blast would buy him time to finish off the outlaw he could see, then he could think about the rest.

  Or else, die trying.

  The bandit with the useless arm was cursing, reaching for his holstered pistol with his left hand, having trouble with the hammer thong that held it fast. Instead of waiting for him, Ryder drew his Colt Army and fired one shot from twenty feet, putting the gunman down.

  He wasn’t dead when Ryder reached him, but the wet sound of a sucking chest wound said that he was on his way. Ryder relieved him of the pistol, tossing it aside, then snatched the dying bandit’s rifle—a Henry, like his own—and checked to verify it had a live round in the chamber as he turned back toward the train.

  Emerging from the driver’s cab, he saw the second rifleman he’d spotted earlier, a tall man with a bristling beard, descending with his own repeater pointed Ryder’s way. There was no time to place a shot precisely, so he triggered three in rapid fire, pumping the Henry’s lever action, hoping for a lucky hit to slow the bandit down.

  His first shot missed, struck sparks, and ricocheted into infinity. The second tore into his target’s hip, stunning the rifleman and throwing him off balance, while the third drilled through his shoulder, made him drop his Henry as he tumbled off the metal steps descending from the cab. The bandit landed on his face, the wind knocked out of him, and Ryder hurried over to him and slammed his rifle’s butt into the outlaw’s skull with every ounce of force that he could manage.

  Dead or just unconscious? Ryder frankly didn’t give a damn.

  He saw the engineer above him, peering down, and tossed the bandit’s rifle to him. “Check the other side,” he ordered. “There’s a lookout holding horses.”

  “Yessir!”

  Ryder turned back toward the mail car, wishing that he’d taken time to count the waiting horses more precisely. Would he find one gunman in the open car, or two? In either case, how would he root them out?

  Ryder eased closer to the mail car, ready with the captured Henry if the bandits tried to make a break for it. They’d likely come out shooting, in that case, and he would have to take his chances. On the other hand, if they stayed put …

  A gunshot sounded from the driver’s cab and echoed from the forest on the far side of the train. He hoped the engineer had plugged the gang’s outrider, or at least had driven him away, then Ryder put it out of mind and focused on the task at hand.

  The open door yawned at him, Ryder’s angle wrong for spotting anyone inside the car. He stopped ten feet away and called up to the shadowed opening, “You’re running short of friends out here, in case you hadn’t noticed. Toss your weapons out, and you can live to see another day.”

  “And hang, you mean?” a mocking voice came back at him.

  “I doubt it,” Ryder said. “So far, your side’s killed nobody.”

  “And we’re supposed to swallow that?” the same voice challenged. “Who in hell are you?”

  “Just on my way to Houston,” Ryder said.

  “That ain’t no answer!”

  “All right, then,” said Ryder. “I’m the one who’s got you covered. In another minute, I’ll be locking up that door, and you can wait until the next town’s sheriff smokes you out.”

  “Big talk!” a second voice replied. “We’d like to see you try it!”

  Crunching footsteps at his back made Ryder look around. The engineer was coming toward him, looking rueful.

  “Sorry, mister, but I missed the other one. He’s gone, at least.”

  “That’s good enough,” Ryder replied. And to the bandits in the mail car, “Seems your lookout ran away and took your horses with him. Don’t be counting on his help.”

  Silence, for half a minute, then the first voice said, “I guess that’s it, then. Hold your fire. We’re comin’ out.”

  *

  They came out shooting, one man leaping down behind the other, with a six-gun in each hand. The second bandit stumbled as he landed, jostled his companion, and the impact spoiled his aim. A bullet hummed past Ryder’s face, and then all three of them were firing, laying down a screen of gun smoke.

  Ryder guessed that he had five seconds, give or take, before one of the pistoleers got lucky with a wild shot, gutting him. He focused on the taller of them, hoping that the Henry he had captured had a full load in its magazine. If not …

  His first round missed, in the excitement, but his second took the forward shooter underneath his chin, snapping his head back, floppy hat airborne with something wet and red inside it. Ryder didn’t watch him fall, swung toward the second man, and saw that he was younger, likely in his teens.

  So what?

  The smoking pistols in his hands made him as old and dangerous as any other felon Ryder had confronted since he first pinned on a badge. A bullet neither knew nor cared who’d sent it on its way, or whose flesh it was mutilating when it found a target. Pistols didn’t make men equal, necessarily. The act of killing did.

  His third shot struck the young man just below his breastbone, in the spot Ryder had heard a surgeon call the solar plexus. Land a punch there, and you’d take the fight out of a man. A bullet did the same, but worse, drilling the liver, stomach, maybe angling down into a kidney, through the bowels, or burrowing straight through to the aorta. It was death, regardless, and he saw that on the final shooter’s face as he stood over him, kicking his guns aside.

  “You kilt me,” wheezed the dying youth.

  “A chance you took,” Ryder replied.

  “I never thought … You haven’t seen my mama anywhere around here, have you?”

  “No.”

  “I hope she gets here soon.” The boy was crying now, whether from pain or grief it was impossible to say. “I need to tell her somethin’.”

  Ryder knelt beside him. “You ca
n tell me.”

  “Shoulda listened to her. All the times she tried to tell me. Do you think he’ll let me in?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The Lord. Oh, Christ, that hurts!”

  “It won’t, much longer,” Ryder told him, seeing black blood from a liver wound. He gave the youngster ten or fifteen minutes, tops.

  “Where’s Amos?”

  “Never met him,” Ryder said.

  “You didn’t? He was with me in the car, just now.”

  Ryder glanced toward the mail car’s open door and saw a grizzled old conductor, twice his own age, staring down at them. He figured Amos had to be the first man he had shot, out of the car.

  “He’s gone ahead of you,” he told the dying man-child.

  “Never shoulda let him get me into this.”

  “What’s done is done.”

  “Like me. You see my mama … tell her …”

  With a final wheeze, the kid slumped back and died, his message lost. Ryder shoved to his feet and found the engineer beside him, eyes bright with excitement, now that he’d decided he would probably survive.

  “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but—”

  “Just a passenger,” said Ryder. “How long till we’re under way?”

  “Huh? Oh. I guess … what should we do about the bodies?”

  “Your call. There’s two aboard the train, and four out here.”

  “Less trouble taking off the two, I guess,” the engineer decided. “Anyhow, who wants to ride with stiffs?”

  “There’s still the mail car.”

  “Nope. Our contract with the gubment says nobody rides in there but Eastern Texas personnel.”

  “Well, there you go, then,” Ryder said.

  “You wouldn’t want to help me get the others off?”

  “I shot them for you,” Ryder said. “That’s where I draw the line.”

  “No problem. Nossir! You just go on back and settle in. We should be under way in five, ten minutes.”