Slocum and the High-Rails Heiress Read online

  Sharp daggers of icy air stabbed him through the lungs and chest, over and over again, every time he drew a breath. It felt better when he pulled in half-breaths, and found a breathing rhythm after a few minutes of walking. He also noted there was little he could do about it should he find something far more wrong with his physical state. Slocum rebuttoned his ragged coat, squared his shoulders—with a few audible clicks and pops—and headed west along the tracks, hoping for a miracle and bent on revenge.

  18

  He wasn’t sure of exactly how many hours had passed since he’d begun walking, let alone since he’d been tossed off the train, but he knew it had been enough that he might never catch it. Unless something stopped it for a time. He hoped it happened well before it was scheduled to stop at the next water tank, well down the other side of the peaks, into California.

  He trudged along the tracks, not quite getting used to the stop-start gait he’d been forced to adopt because of the irregular appearance of railroad ties through the snow.

  But that last thought had paused him for a moment. What if the train got slowed up? Too much to hope for, but it sparked a bit of excitement in his breast nonetheless. He vaguely wondered about snowslides and if there would be more of them in store for the train. He prayed for a snowslide. Just until he could reach the train.

  “Lord, you know I’m not much for praying. Leastwise not like most folks do. But hell, if you could see fit to throw a little snow down the mountain—just enough to slow up that train a bit—I’d be obliged.” He smiled, couldn’t help looking around him at the bare snow-and-rock-cliff landscape, half sure someone had heard him yammering out loud to himself.

  Then, in a quieter voice, he added, “And while you’re at it, maybe throw in a big bowl of venison stew topped with dumplings, and a bottle of bourbon, too.”

  He let those thoughts linger for a few moments, then said, “You better cut off that line of thinking quick, John Slocum, or you’ll get depressed and never get anywhere…”

  Then his thoughts turned, unbidden, to the Barr girl being tortured for her damned chest of gemstones, maybe even killed for the key around her neck, a key he was sure she would not give up without the direst of consequences. And Ling, that little firebrand, he was sure to fight on her behalf, even though he himself was far from well.

  There had been at least one more man, plus the veiled woman. And he was sure she stole the key from his coat while she worked him over down below.

  For the rest of the daylight hours, Slocum trudged on, following the tracks, never pausing for rest, only slowing to scoop up a handful of snow to sustain him and to rub against his sore head as he walked. He kept a constant scout out for anything that might burn, but the only wood visible belonged to stunty trees up- or downslope of him. So he just kept walking. The day had proven a fine one, with no snowfall and a steady sun that felt good, though it never offered enough heat.

  It was well after sundown, perhaps hours after—he didn’t know or care—when he heard it well before he got to it. A steady shush-shush-shush sound, like the deep breaths a drunk or an exhausted man emits while he sleeps. But what was it? And up here in the mountain passes? He knew he was weak, had taken a few hard knocks to the pate, but he wasn’t so addle-headed that he’d come to hear things that weren’t there, would he?

  Slocum walked on, sensing the looming presence of a sheer rock wall to his immediate right. The track had been curving for some time now and he felt more than saw that he had nearly made it around the middle of the curve and would soon round a headland of sort. The other side, he assumed, was a mountain’s bold leg, quite wide enough to warrant a tunnel, located in a place that prevented going around.

  And as he walked on, keeping close to the rock wall to his right, one swinging boot always clunking the rail so as not to wander too far to the treacherous drop to his left, Slocum saw the train, easily the most welcome sight he’d seen in a long, long time. There, stretched before him along the gentle curve of the track, the sleeping train lay, the intermittent dull glow of oil lamps dotting its length and indicating its presence, moonlight glinting off various polished pieces of the train in the otherwise dark night.

  So that explained the increasingly loud shush-shush-shush sound he’d been hearing, which meant that someone was keeping the boiler alive all night. The train seemed poised, as if to make an early start in the morning. But why?

  Had they stopped to wait for him? The thought warmed him. Yes, that must have been it, for they couldn’t have backed up to find him. Such a train would have too much trouble and would lack the significant braking power required to control itself in reverse.

  Slocum shook his head as if to work loose a bout of double vision. Who was he kidding? This train wasn’t about to turn around for him. Hell, for all he knew, no one on board, save for that giant, Big Red, even knew he was no longer on board. He knew damn well that Miss Barr and Ling had intended to keep to themselves in that car for the duration of the trip.

  And then he saw the real reason for the train’s pause for the night. A snowslide from high above had slumped down over the tracks. From where he stood, it looked as though they had already made significant progress through it, had only another fifty-yard stretch to go. For some reason, they’d stopped for the night. Maybe a repair. Hammering snow like that looked like it could take a toll, even on two engines.

  Perhaps in the morning, with enough manpower and more of that familiar forward-backward-forward ramming, they might make it through. Whatever the reason, Slocum didn’t really care. He was thankful that he had made it to the train before they had a chance in the morning to ram the rest of the way through the raft of snow.

  He staggered past the dark caboose. Just before he reached for the iron handrail to haul himself up to the Barr car’s end platform, Slocum looked up to the night sky, now studded with flecks of bold starlight, and offered a frozen hand off his forehead in salute. “Thanks, pard. I owe you.” Then he swung himself up.

  19

  Much as he wanted to get in that fancy train car and warm himself, get a bit of food into him, he thought to peek into a window of the Barr car before rapping on a window. The last time he’d talked with Augusta Barr, he’d been shouting through the door when he’d realized his key was missing. It had sounded as if she’d been speaking with caution, as if someone were there, telling her what to say. But she had called him “Slocum,” not the usual “Mr. Slocum” she’d been using. Something had been off, though he hoped it had just been fear. Or she’d just been pissed off at him. If she let him in now, he could live with that.

  He tried several windows, most of them too narrow to be of use, and all were curtained. The only sign of life inside the car were muffled sounds of a woman’s voice, worried, high-pitched, and fast-talking. Miss Barr? Could be. Shadows filtered through the light, as though someone were stalking back and forth before the lamp.

  “Aw, hell,” he mumbled. “This is foolish.” He was tired, frozen through, hungry as three bears, and damn near busted in half. Something told him the woman’s voice he’d been hearing belonged to Miss Barr, and the slightly lower brief words of response had to be Ling.

  He raised a frozen hand to rap against the glass. Then again, he thought, the voices could just as easily belong to the veiled woman and the red-haired brute. He leaned outward from the platform at the end of the car, holding a steel post with another hand, and leaning out, hoping to gain a peek. But he was weaker than he suspected, and his grip faltered. He scrambled to regain his footing on the steel steps of the platform and managed to clunk hard into the side of the car.

  “Dammit!” he yelled, too loud.

  A woman’s muffled cry of alarm came to him through the wood, brass, and painted steel of the car’s siding, followed by a short oath. He heard Augusta Barr’s voice, just inside the rear door. “I know who is there, and you should know we are armed to the teeth in here. If you try to break in again, we are prepared to kill you.”

  It w
as unmistakably Miss Barr’s voice, nearly calm, though a slight waver betrayed her show of bravado. Slocum hauled himself up on the platform again, and crouched low, under the windows. “Miss Barr, it’s me, John Slocum. Open the door.”

  “Mr. Slocum! The nerve of you to come back here after slinking off to lie with that she-devil and her minions.”

  He sat back against the steel railing and sighed. So it was as he’d feared—she thought he had thrown in with the veiled woman and Red. “It’s not like that at all, Miss Barr. I can prove it.”

  He had no idea how he might do that, but he figured he’d think of something, anything to keep her talking. He hoped he might wear her down somehow. That’s when he saw the dents and scratches in the door, running up and down the latching edge. It looked as though someone had tried to get in.

  He heard hurried talk with another, lower voice. He hoped it was Ling. If he was mistaken and those devils were in there with her…

  “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, you…you rascal!”

  Slocum shook his head. He’d been called that a time or two before, but somehow it seemed comical just now. No matter, it sounded like she was about to let him in. With a few creaks and pops, he stood again.

  “Now,” came her voice, still muffled and still firmly behind the locked door. “What’s your proof? And you had better make it plain or you can stay right where you are.”

  He sighed again. She was a hard woman who wasn’t going to make this any easier on him. “Miss Barr. I have just come back from the dead, climbed a mountainside with my bare hands, spent two nights freezin’ in the snow, walked God knows how many damn miles in the cold with no food nor heat, and I’m all busted up, besides. I just want to come inside and warm up.”

  There was no response for a few moments, then she said, “How do I know you’re alone? You’ve been with them all along…haven’t you?”

  What a confusing woman—but he sensed a weakening in her resolve. “Look,” he tried again. “There’s some crazy woman in a veil and she’s working with this army of huge, redheaded men who look more like escaped trained circus bears than they do men.”

  He blew into his hands, then continued, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “I’ve killed three of the bastards, but the last one nearly did me in. He threw me off the train two nights ago, and if it weren’t for the snowslide that stopped you all, I doubt I’d have lasted the night. And if you don’t let me in”—he raised his voice right by the doorjamb—“I won’t last this night.”

  Another pause, then he heard two voices scurrying back and forth, lots of clunking, dragging, and scraping, then another pause that seemed one of the longest he’d ever experienced. Slocum had just about decided that they weren’t buying his story. He turned to climb down and head toward the front of the train to take his chances with Big Red and the veiled lady, anything to get warm and get on the good side of a plate of hot food.

  Then he heard the two voices again, lots more scraping and dragging sounds, and finally, keys clacking and clinking against the lock. The door swung open just a finger’s width, and the snout of that girl’s damned purse pistol poked out.

  20

  The faint outline of Augusta Barr’s curves revealed she was wearing several layers of bulky clothes, but soft lamp glow on her cheek made the sight of the gun pointed at him slightly less menacing-looking than it might have been. But it still annoyed him that she might think him in league with the very people he was hired to protect her from.

  “Hell,” said Slocum. “I nearly died. I’m the one who should be angry here. As it happens, I am angry, yes, but I’m also mostly just cold and hungry.” He stepped forward toward the door.

  She cocked the pistol with gloved fingers. “Mr. Slocum, you will advance no further. At least not until you can convince me—”

  “I thought we went all through this already.”

  “You will put your hands on your head, sir.”

  He sighed and raised his hands, tried to raise them fully to his head, but could only manage to get them somewhat close to his ears. “That’s all they can do.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “I thought we went through that, too. Look, either let me in or to hell with it. I’ll take my chances up with the riffraff and the man who did this to me.”

  Just below the pistol, Slocum noticed a forehead appear, and one eye stared at him. “Ling, you’re shorter than I remember.” He almost thought he saw the girl smile.

  The head pulled back, then he heard Ling say something.

  “Oh, all right.” Augusta Barr pushed the door wider with the pistol. “Come in, Mr. Slocum. But keep your hands high, away from your gun.”

  He didn’t waste any time and nudged the door with his left knee as he entered. As soon as he was in, she slammed the door shut and he heard the locks slide into place, seating with metallic clicks. Then she and Ling set to work dragging all manner of heavy items of furniture in front of the door, wedging them in such a way that it looked to Slocum as if the door could not be breached from the outside.

  As he passed her, he said, “I’m not wearing a gun.”

  “What? Where did—”

  “Let me warm up, eat, and I’ll answer all of your questions.”

  She looked him up and down and he saw what he hoped was a softening of the concern knitting her brow. He also saw their breath, and that both she and Ling were dressed in what looked like every stitch of clothing they owned. They also appeared to look almost as bad as he did. Almost.

  “What the hell happened to you two?” he said as he walked, hands still raised, through the bedroom to the parlor and the stove. But the stove was out. “Someone want to tell me what’s going on here?”

  “You tell us, since you’re the one who sold us out.”

  Slocum shook his head. “Why are you two wearing all those clothes? And why is the stove out? Or did one just answer the other? And will you please put down that damn gun?”

  She sighed and lowered the tiny pistol, though he noted she kept it gripped tightly in her gloved hand. As Ling shuffled by him headed toward the kitchen, he saw that the little man looked healthy enough, though he walked slightly bent and favored his left side, where he’d been stabbed.

  Slocum lowered his hands and looked at the young woman. “Well?”

  “Yesterday. It was yesterday that we were attacked.”

  “Attacked?” Slocum looked around the room, half expecting to see Big Red pop out of the shadows. “I guess I don’t need to ask who it was.”

  Augusta shook her head. “They tried the doors first.” She nodded with her head toward the kitchen and toward the other end they’d just come from, the rear of the car. “We held them off as best we could. But then they tried to pry them both open with a steel bar.”

  “So that’s what those dents and scratches were. I guessed it must have been something like that.”

  She kept her eyes narrowed at him, as if she were weighing each word he said, testing them for lies. “Then we heard someone on the roof. We hadn’t thought much of it in the past because the brakeman uses the little catwalk running down the center of the car’s roof to get back to the caboose. But since they’d just tried the doors, when we heard them on the roof, we knew it had to be someone other than the brakeman. And it was. They covered the chimney tops—the one for the kitchen stove and this one—and tried to drive us out, but we didn’t leave. We put the fires out and cracked the windows. That was two days ago. Since then, we’ve had to dress warmly and eat cold food. We haven’t dared to kindle a fire.”

  As bad as Slocum felt, the sight of the dark circles and unkempt look of the girl and of Ling made him feel even worse. He knew he wasn’t really to blame, but he felt guilty anyway. Then a thought occurred to him. “Didn’t they use the key?”

  She nodded. “They did try. And they nearly got in. Luckily, Ling was in the kitchen at the time. He managed to kick the door shut on the man’s wrist. He hopes he broke it, but
he’s not sure.”

  Slocum opened the parlor stove’s door and set to work building a fire from the basket of prepared kindling and tinder beside it.

  “What are you doing? Didn’t you hear a thing I just said?”

  “I did, and I’m cold. Bone-cold. If they want to smoke me out, fine. But I aim to get warmed up first.”

  “But they covered the chimneys, remember?”

  He sighed. “I don’t care. I’ll open a window if I have to. When my hands get warmed up enough, I’ll climb up there and uncover the chimney.” He looked at her. “I’m cold, dammit. Now, fetch me a match, will you, princess?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Then don’t look at me as if I was one of them. And speaking of them, we need to have a damn long talk, lay all the cards on the table. I need to know just who ‘them’ is.”

  She started to speak, but Slocum held up a hand. “Let me warm up first, and get a bit of food in me, then we can hash it all out, figure out our next move.”

  She didn’t move, just continued to stare at him. “They broke in, Mr. Slocum. When you were…gone…they broke in and stole the key.”

  “The key? I thought they had my key.” He stood and faced her. “And you said you kept them out.”

  “I lied. I was testing you. And I am not wholly convinced you have passed said test. But the key I mean is…” She touched a hand to her neck.

  His eyes settled on the gloved hand patting her throat. “The chest key. Okay, then. Did they hurt you?”