Slocum and the High-Rails Heiress Read online

  Her shoulders relaxed, and she folded her arms across her chest, resulting in the same attention-grabbing sight he’d been treated to earlier. “I’m pleased to hear that.”

  That was a surprise to Slocum, but then again, he reasoned, everything about this girl so far had been a surprise, one whiplash moment after another. “Good, ’cause if I left this train anytime soon, you’ll pardon my French, ma’am, my sorry ass will likely be dragged back to Pearlton and thrown in the hoosegow until the sheriff decides it’d be easier to hand me over to the annual gathering of neck stretchers than wait for the federal marshal.”

  “Let me put your mind at rest, Mr. Slocum. As far as the sheriff of that little town is concerned, the incident has been smoothed over.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Power of money, eh?”

  “I resent that, Mr. Slocum.”

  “I’m sure you do, Miss Barr, but as someone smarter than me once said, ‘The truth stings.’”

  “I can certainly arrange for the situation to reverse itself. I’m sure the sheriff will gladly accommodate you.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “Miss Barr, we already ran circles around this tree. There are only two things I need from you right now.” He opened his eyes and stared straight at hers. “First, I need to know who these damned redheaded people are running all over the place.”

  She moved to the window, as if someone could be looking in. “Are there more of them?”

  “Might be, but not out there. Not yet, anyway.” He smiled as she saw what she had done and backed away from the window, though with the slowness of long-bred caution. “I’m about to head back out onto the train, inspect the rest of it. See what I can turn up in the way of carrottops.”

  He saw the mentions of these strangers bothered her, so he tried to keep it light. But dammit, he needed some answers, and it was obvious to him that she knew a whole lot more than she was letting on about. “Before I inspect the rest of the train, is there anything you care to tell me? Anything at all that might be of use to me?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” she said, pulling her shawl close about her throat and glancing at the window. “It’s all so very alarming.”

  He gave her another hard stare, but she didn’t crack. “All right, Miss Barr. While I’m gone, keep a sharp eye on that box of yours, and keep the door locked. And if someone claims to be me, don’t trust them. Wait to hear me knock. I’ll give the door two hard raps, pause, then give it two more. Then I’ll key in. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “One more thing. I doubt you’ll believe me, but I had nothing to do with the killing of your Mr. Mulford. And I’ll prove it to you somehow.”

  But she offered only a faint nod as she looked out the window at the bright morning landscape rushing by.

  In the small kitchen, Slocum told Mr. Ling of the special knock. But he reckoned he didn’t need to tell the Chinaman about protecting Miss Barr or her chest of valuables. In fact, after seeing Ling’s hidden abilities, he felt more than ever like the fifth wheel on a donkey cart. He edged his way cautiously by Mr. Ling, then stopped. “Triple Tiger?”

  The little man nodded, offered a tight bow. “Triple Tiger.”

  “Well, I’ll stick to single-action Colts myself. But you may have something there.” He snugged his hat down low on his forehead. “I’ll be back.” As he closed the door, he thought he detected a smile on the Chinaman’s face.

  7

  Slocum pushed open the door of the first car he came to. He closed the door behind himself, standing just inside the doorway, taking in the contents of the car. It was a sleeper coach, and from the looks of things, it was mostly unoccupied, no surprise considering the fact that it was morning and they’d just begun their journey. The layout consisted of a central aisle with upper and lower berths flanking it the full length, save for the lavatories at the far end.

  He strode through, glancing in what berths he could as he passed. When he reached the next car, the passenger coach, he again stopped and regarded each face that turned toward him. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he figured he’d know it when he saw it. And if he didn’t, so much the better. Those passengers who faced his way glanced up at him.

  It looked to him to be nicer than a standard passenger coach, well appointed with seats on either side of the center aisle. He also knew that, despite the roof vents, the sooty reek from the oil lamps, smoke from the warming stoves, tobacco smoke, and too many people sitting in too small a space without enough ventilation would soon become unpleasant. For now, as it was so early in the journey, the passengers were still civil, the air not too thick.

  Still, Pullman seemed to have cornered the market on making each car, no matter the ticket purchase price, a fairly comfortable conveyance. As decent as this train appeared to be—cushioned seats, curtained windows, plenty of elbow room, toilet facilities, a dining car, and sleeping compartments, he knew, even without seeing the rest of the cars, that all would pale mightily in comparison with the elegance and plushness of Mr. Barr’s private car.

  Why, thought Slocum, a man could travel the entire country, from east to west, north to south, in pure style, and without ever having to leave the train. See all the sights that were worth seeing…Not hardly. He shook his head at the thought of that trap. He’d been places on horseback that he guessed that no other man might ever see, been alone with his thoughts, lost in the vast, quiet, open lands of Texas. He’d dallied away the heat of the day in a Mexican arroyo. He’d made camp in the high country along the mighty rippling spine of the Rockies, and been pleased as punch to call it a day, fishing off a cutbank on a snaking river in Wyoming Territory.

  And as fine as some folks considered train travel, in his estimation, not a stitch of it could match up with any of his experiences in the great wide openness of the West. But as an old, broke-down cowhand he’d once known used to say, “To each his own, said the man as he kissed the cow.”

  As Slocum strode up the center aisle of the car, he was thankful he’d had the foresight to take a bath, shave, and get dolled up in his best denims and shirt. This crowd was a cut above the folks he usually passed time with, at least regarding frequency of bathing. Everyone seemed to have on their Sunday best, hair piled high or oiled, and men’s cheeks ruddy from fresh shaves, mustache ends waxed and curled. A dandy crowd, to be sure.

  He maintained that assessment as he walked through each car, touching his hat brim to the several ladies who looked his way. A handful offered bold glances, and one even did so while her husband had tried to converse with her. From that man, Slocum earned a scowl that could have curdled cream. He suppressed a grin—tangling with a grumpy townie anytime but while he was on a job could prove fun.

  But he’d forgo that pleasure for now—though he took care to keep his sheepskin coat unbuttoned, his hand held loosely to his gut, inches from the ebony grips of his Colt. In his long experience roving the West, he never knew who might be a hothead or when he might throw down. It never hurt to be ready.

  From what Slocum could tell when he’d inspected the train from the ground, it consisted of an engine and tender car, two flatbeds loaded with tarpaulin-covered materials—probably building supplies, lumber, timbers, bricks, tin sheeting. Those cars were followed by the stable car, then two boxcars loaded with all manner of freight, then a dining car, a club car, a passenger car, and a sleeper.

  Those were followed by Barr’s plush car, and finally, a caboose that, as far as Slocum could gather, would remain unmanned until absolutely vital. It seemed an odd arrangement, with little thought given to order, but then again, he didn’t know a whole lot about trains. He assumed over the years that a caboose served some sort of function, primarily for braking or maneuvering in train yards, but he wasn’t banking on his knowledge of trains. Truth be told, he didn’t really care so long as the entire contraption got him from where he was to where he was headed without too much fuss or headache.

  Having freight cars between Miss
Barr’s car and the rest of the passengers would have been ideal, though he guessed it was arranged according to someone’s plan, and he’d just have to live with it. And make damn sure that none of the passengers and very few of the train’s employees traipsed through the Barrs’ car without his close scrutiny.

  He made it through the passenger car, noted the rough number of empty seats, and assuming it was a packed trip, he figured the rest of the passengers would be spread throughout the sleeper, the dining car, and the club car.

  This was not a trip for the faint of heart or thin of coin purse. So that was partly why he was so surprised when he made it to the club car and saw the broad back of a bulky form cloaked in what looked to be a buffalo hide coat, hunched at the bar.

  Poking from the top of the coat, as if perched there, sat the rounded top of a black derby hat. Beyond the man, a black man wearing a crisp white shirt, a black bow tie, and a short white jacket busied himself behind the bar, polishing gleaming glasses to an even brighter shine.

  Slocum stopped and, without thinking, pulled his coat wide and nested it behind the cross-draw holster. While the man’s back was to him, he regarded him a moment and thought on the situation. Could be a coincidence.

  It was winter, after all, and they were headed into colder, high elevations. And buffalo coats were not uncommon in the least. Hell, he’d had one himself for a time, though he preferred the sheepskin coat. Buff coats were bulky and had a way of making anyone move more slowly than they ought to.

  Oddly enough, the man did not turn when Slocum had entered the car. Slocum leaned to one side, hoping to see more of the man’s face, and that was when he saw the woman.

  She was seated at a small table by herself, just beyond where the man stood at the bar. Her face was veiled, but she was apparently watching the scenery as they rolled their way through it, and was dressed in what looked to be mourning clothes—widow’s weeds, he’d heard them called.

  However, from the curves and lean planes barely concealed by the tightness of her dress, which fit her like skin, Slocum guessed she was still on the green side of thirty, perhaps even twenty-five. The starkness of the black dress, of a somewhat shiny material decorated in lace and brocade, did nothing to hide the exquisite body beneath it.

  Her breasts seemed to him to be straining the integrity of the tiny buttons holding the entire affair together in the back. For a brief moment, he had a mental picture of the small black pearl buttons pinging off in different directions, freeing her to gawkers such as himself. Childish, Slocum, he told himself, grinning.

  Her hands rested in her lap, though she had a cup of something steaming before her. They were the hands of a young woman, with thin, long fingers, and healthy pink skin that showed little sign of hard work, at least of what he could see. The only thing he couldn’t see was her face, though there was just the trace of it beneath the long black veil that hung down all around from the black silk hat atop her head. He guessed at what she might look like and he hoped he was right. Surely, thought Slocum, someone with a body of such promise as this must also have a stunning face.

  As if his staring eyes somehow alerted her to his presence, the veiled face turned toward him. He offered a nod and touched his hat brim in her direction. She regarded him a moment more, then turned back to the window. He had no idea if he’d offended her or charmed her. More than likely, he didn’t matter either way to her.

  Slocum snapped himself out of his reverie and decided he’d keep an eye on the man in the buffalo coat. He worked up a fake, husky cough, cleared his throat, but nothing seemed to get the man to turn around and face him. The man’s presence was more than a coincidence, though just what it did mean, Slocum didn’t quite know yet.

  He did know that soon enough he’d have to give up this game and get back to the Barr car. He’d just about inspected all he needed to and now the boring part of the trip would begin—staying in a locked car guarding a locked chest filled with something he wasn’t allowed to know about. But with this brute on board, at least he had a real reason to guard the chest.

  Slocum walked the few steps back to the door, reached for the handle, and the veiled woman in black materialized beside him, as if he’d snapped a finger and she’d appeared somehow.

  “Ma’am.” He nodded and smiled. “Allow me.” Slocum pulled the door wide and stepped back, giving her another slight nod. This time, she returned the nod.

  Even up close, the veil did its job too well, and the curious boy in him cursed it again. The most he could make out was the slope of her jawline and chin, maybe the glint of her eyes. But beyond that, he had no idea what she looked like. He would love to lift that veil and see what she kept hidden. But that was not a possibility, and her reasons were her own. He only hoped that whoever had died, if a husband, had appreciated her for what she obviously could offer a man.

  And with that, he was prepared to forget about her—at least until he saw her again on the train—when he watched her make her way into the next car. He stepped through, following, and let the door behind him swing closed. But when he didn’t hear it click shut, he turned, reaching for it, and came face-to-face with the buffalo coat–wearing man.

  He was a tall, wide brute, fat, to be sure, but muscled, too. And as Slocum’s gaze traveled upward to the man’s face, even in the dimmer light of the passage between cars, he couldn’t believe what he saw. Slocum felt his jaw drop open. If it were summer, he thought, I’d be catching flies.

  A thick mop of red hair curled out from beneath the brim of the silly derby hat. So he had seen the man looking at him earlier, just before he’d boarded. It was a relief, at least, to know that his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. Although he would have preferred some other surprise. The man was probably on the train to kill him and steal Miss Barr’s treasure chest. Had to be…

  The man glared down at him, seemed to be looking at everything about Slocum’s face that he could see, taking it all in. Slocum was taller than the average man, and he took decent care of himself—enough anyway that he was assured of coming out of an evenly matched fight as the winner. But with a brute like this? He doubted he’d stand a chance. The man was easily a head and a half taller than Slocum, just as the other two men had been. But back on the trail, he’d had the advantage of distance and firearms. Here, on a train, he was limited where both were concerned.

  “Out of my way.” The man grunted, pushed Slocum with the back of an arm, and barreled past him. Slocum took it, still somewhat in shock at seeing a man who was, if not a dead ringer for the two men he killed, at least related closely enough that he was probably their brother.

  He didn’t bother giving the man a return shove, he was too busy watching him as he lumbered into the next car. Slocum wanted to know who he was, to be sure, but he wanted to know also why he left just behind that woman, and when the big man planned on killing him.

  8

  As Slocum made his way through all the cars back to Miss Barr’s car, he kept a sharp eye for the big man and the woman, too. He felt sure that the man meant her harm. What sort, he could only imagine, and he didn’t like where his mind went. He picked up his pace and finally saw the veiled woman. She sat alone in much the same manner as she had been in the club car. But the big man was nowhere to be seen.

  Slocum considered talking with her, asking her if the man had bothered her. He felt somewhat responsible for anyone the redheaded man might injure, since it had been Slocum the men who were obviously his brothers had wanted to kill. He’d done to them what they had intended for him, thankfully.

  But seeing this new one confirmed that not only was he in dire trouble, but so was Miss Barr, for it must be her treasure they were after. He felt sure she knew more about the redheads, but so far, she wasn’t budging. Now he had proof that one was aboard, and he’d lost sight of him. Great job, Slocum, he told himself. But he took comfort in the fact that a man, any man, and especially such a giant, could only go so many places on board.

  He’d a
lmost exited the car when he saw the man, sitting by himself, diagonally across the aisle from the veiled woman. The big man stared out the window of the opposite side of the car and paid no attention to Slocum when he stopped and stared at him a moment.

  A couple of other people nearby looked at Slocum with concern, as if he were about to pick a fight and they didn’t want to be anywhere near such barbarism. He imagined they were none too pleased with having to share their fine rail journey with such a glowering oddity as the buffalo coat man. Slocum fancied he could detect a reek rising off the man, too. Get him too close to a stove, and Slocum bet the man would smell ripe, indeed.

  Slocum left the car and headed back down to the east end of the train again. As he walked, he noted that he was leaning backward. They were beginning to climb into the foothills, and at the same time, the train was slowing. This train had to be a heavy load and the double engines were surely struggling. And considering the Sierra, there would be plenty more cold peaks to go. He hoped they didn’t get lost lodged in deep snows and have to figure out how to survive. He’d heard far too many grim stories of people lost in the Sierra range in midwinter, people who were rarely heard from again.

  As Slocum walked through the sleeper car, he poked at and parted the curtains of the bed alcoves. He saw a few sprawled figures already snoring away. He knew it was a rude precaution he was taking, but he felt better knowing he’d checked most of the available places on the train in which someone might hide.

  The closer he drew to Miss Barr’s car, though, the quicker he walked. His warning bells chimed in the back of his head, telling him to be careful, but quick. He looked back, over his shoulder, but no one followed him. The only times he ever heard the bells, felt their insistent pealing, was just before a shooting melee or a dry-gulching. The last time he’d heard them was back on that cold mountain trail in Utah, when he’d been ambushed by the twins.