Isaac Scott jerked around at the unexpected noise. He might have been imagining it. Hearing anything over the clackety-clack of the railroad wheels as they raced along the open stretch of track between Houston and San Antonio was unlikely. Rolling over onto his side, he braced his feet against a crate, gripped the edge of the door and pulled with all his might. The heavy boxcar door slid open a few inches.

The gust of hot, humid summer Texas air made him flinch and look away. It had been crazy thinking a horse matched the speed of the train, though that was what the sound reminded him of more than anything else. Ike rubbed his ears in a vain attempt to erase the constant ringing. Riding the rails was dangerous, but he had no other choice if he wanted to stay alive to see another sunrise. Too often down on his luck and a nasty galoot named Penrose itching to collect money that wasn�t there made running like a scared rabbit his best option.

There had been choices. The steamer heading around Cape Horn for San Francisco had beckoned to him, in spite of his never having stepped onto a boat larger than a dugout before. Being a sailor was hard and dangerous, but he�d chosen that rather than face the furious Clement Penrose.

But, as if the man read his mind, Penrose had gotten between him and the harbor. Two bullet-riddled bodies proved that. Seeing the dead sailors tossed into the harbor caused Ike shakes that only now died down, almost a dozen hours later. Both men had looked enough like him to be mistaken in the dark. Penrose hadn�t cared. He wanted blood�Ike�s blood. If he made a mistake or two along the way trying to collect the money he�d loaned out, it didn�t matter.

Ike had hightailed it in the only other way sure to get him out of Houston fast. The rail yard overflowed with engines and empty cars waiting for cargo from the docks.

Less than ten minutes after sneaking into the yard, he found the South Texas Central train building steam as it prepared to roll out. With more luck than skill, he had opened the freight car door far enough to slide into the dank, smelly interior just as the whistle blew and the locomotive spewed a huge column of black smoke. The train jerked and started moving, ponderously at first, then gathering speed faster than Ike could run. He had shimmied up and inside and lay there panting.

Penrose would never find him, not unless he was dumb enough to ever return to Houston. A lot of things could be said about Isaac Scott, but being that stupid wasn�t among them. Texas was big and wide, and any other town was better than Houston.

Safer, if not better.

He�d heard good things about San Antonio, which seemed to be the straining locomotive�s destination, if the crates in the freight car were properly marked.

But the sound that teased the fringes of his hearing returned. A horse? He looked outside once more. The empty land extended as far south as he could see. He even imagined he saw the beaches at Corpus Christi, but that was unlikely. More likely it was a mirage or some other trick of vision. The Gulf of Mexico lay behind him, not southerly. Still�.�.�.

�Maybe it�s the surf I�m hearing?� he wondered out loud.

He pulled himself to his feet and braced against the rolling motion of the boxcar. He swiveled about, listening attentively. He finally homed in on the direction. The sounds came from the roof. Ike started to poke his head outside the freight car to see who�or what�was foolish enough to conduct a square dance on the roof of a rapidly moving train.

He let out a yelp when strong hands grabbed his arm and yanked him back into the car. He spun around, crashed into a wood box and flopped into the narrow space between it and the door. Shaken, he rubbed his eyes to clear them.

�He�ll see you for certain,� came a gravelly voice more like an animal�s growl than a human�s warning.

The light snaking past the open sliding door in a pale wedge showed a man as down on his luck as Ike himself. Maybe his luck was a mite worse, because his clothing hung in filthy tatters, revealing bruised and cut skin. The boots were scuffed and nicked, his jeans must have been caught in a stampede attended by every single steer on the King Ranch and two holes in his hat let through the sun�s rays in a peculiar way. Ike blinked. It looked as if the light passed clean through the man�s head, but it was only a trick of perspective. The hat was pushed back a ways on his head far enough for Ike to figure out his companion�s hair was as scarce as coins jingling in his pocket. The only thing that Ike envied, just a little, was the full mustache that billowed out thick and proud like long horns on a bull. He touched his own mustache and realized how far he had to go to cultivate it before matching the stranger�s. His was hardly more than a knobby, finger-thick hairy patch at its widest.

�Who�s that?� Ike levered himself up and perched on the edge of the crate. He and the man between him and the door were about the same height, though Ike fancied himself taller, if only to find yet another reason to feel superior. One thing he didn�t have that the other man did was a six-shooter hanging at his hip. Like the rest of his clothing, the gun belt had seen better days. The holster had once been a fancy tooled cradle for the six-gun, probably done down in Mexico from the look of the elaborate designs, but its stitching was fraying. If the man moved too fast, his gun likely would tumble out of his holster as the leather fell apart.

But he had a six-shooter, and Ike didn�t. A man had to respect that difference. Ike also lacked the steely glint in his eye that defied argument. What he said was Gospel�if the six-shooter didn�t proclaim that, the intimidating stare did.

�The railroad bulls, you idiot. They musta seen you sneak aboard. Otherwise, they�d have stayed back in Houston.� The man looked up suddenly, hand going to his six-shooter in a quick, smooth move, as distinct footsteps crossed from the rear of the freight car roof to the front.

Both Ike and the man stared up, their heads turning slowly to follow the clop-clop-clop. When the steps halted, the two men exchanged looks. Ike knew what thoughts ran through his traveling companion�s head. He thought the same thing. He still had to ask.

�Somebody�s riding up there?� Ike hardly believed that. The way the train was hurtling along, the wind would sweep any fool off as slick as spitting out a watermelon seed.

The man only nodded. He kept his hand on the pistol butt but made no move to draw.

Ike considered his situation. He was a greenhorn when it came to stealing rides on a train. His unwitting fellow nonpaying passenger had the look of a man used to such illegal travel. Never one to ignore someone with more experience, Ike asked, �What do we do if he checks the car and finds us?�

�Circle back on what you said. If he searches this car, we don�t let him find us. There�s no way he�s alone. They travel in packs, like wolves. Only, I�d prefer facing down an actual wolf pack. They�re not as vicious, even when they�re famished.�

�You have considerable dealings with railroad, uh, bulls?�

The man studied him now, then laughed curtly. Ike bristled at the sound. He was being dismissed out of hand. His ire rose when the man pushed him aside and hopped onto a crate so he stared past Ike at the landscape rolling by quickly. Whether he did this to keep himself occupied or to watch for the railroad detective wasn�t a question Ike felt easy asking. In fact, there wasn�t much of anything he felt easy about with this gent. Everything about him screamed, KILLER.

Ike vowed to keep his own counsel. He had no quarrel with the gunman. They just happened to be illicitly occupying the same boxcar and nothing more. If anything, their interests rode the same horse in wanting to avoid the railroad detectives. That was likely all they shared.

�Of all the rail-yard dicks, the ones working for this particular line are the worst. They�d as soon cut your throat as give you the time of day. More so, I reckon,� the man said playing with his bushy mustache as he talked. �They�re hired because they enjoy killing anyone getting in their way�or their boss�.�

�That�s a mighty bold statement,� Ike said skeptically. �You know this for a fact or are you just blowing smoke?�

�You insinuating that I was the one that brought them down on our necks?� The man�s choler grew. He faced Ike, and again his hand went to rest on the butt of his six-shooter.

�No, no, sir, nothing like that. I had to leave town in a hurry, and this iron horse was the first out of the gate, so to speak. I wasn�t even sure where the train headed, and it didn�t matter as long as it was�.�.�. away.�

�Same with me,� the man said, but Ike heard the deception in his words. For whatever reason, this train and maybe even this freight car had been chosen for the journey to San Antonio from a rail yard filled with other trains. Ike had no desire to find out the other man�s reasons. He had troubles of his own.

His head snapped around to look overhead once more. There had been one set of footsteps before. Now it sounded like a stampede.

�How many do you think there are?� Ike asked. He pointed above. His companion didn�t follow the motion. The hard stare fixing Ike to the spot further convinced him the man dodged the railroad detectives, too, but for a different motive than his.

Penrose bragged about the police he�d bought off in Houston. The railroad bulls were nothing more than police officers who were too crooked to be tolerated on the police force. Thinking of that possibility scared Ike more than he had been.

�More �n we can win against if we tangle with �em.� The man gave Ike a quick once-over, came to the conclusion he was harmless then turned his back to take another quick look out the open door. �We�re almost at the rail yard.�

�San Antonio? Already?� This surprised Ike. It felt as if he had just hopped onto the train, yet the fear he�d experienced for every mile during the past half hour stretched into forever.

�Don�t think on jumpin� out, not here. You�d be seen for sure,� the man said.

�You�ve done this before? Stealing a ride in a boxcar?�

�Stealin�?� The man laughed. It sounded ugly. �You sound like them. What�re we stealin�?�

�The price of a ticket,� Ike said, not sure how to respond. �The railroad makes money off passengers. We caught a ride, and they�re not collecting a dime from us.�

�They�ve got money to burn. What�s it worth ridin� in this here car? They should pay us. We�re not takin� up space in their fancy passenger cars.� The man grumbled some, muttered under his breath, and then said, �The bulls aren�t goin� anywhere. They must have figgered out we�re in here.�

Ike surged forward, intent on jumping. He didn�t care what his unwanted associate said. Getting off the train reduced the chance of being caught, especially if the railroad detectives stayed with this boxcar all the way into the San Antonio depot. They�d have to be damned fools to jump down from the top of the freight car to chase after him.

A strong hand grabbed his upper arm. As he struggled to pull free, those fingers turned into iron bands. There wasn�t any way to escape without the man releasing him of his own accord.

�Do as you�re told.� The words carried the snap of an order. The man was used to being obeyed. Ike had never been in the army, but this man�s cutting words sounded for the world like the steel of an officer mustering his troops before a suicidal attack.

�What do you intend to do?� Ike watched as the scenery outside passed by slower and slower.

�I need to find a man in the roundhouse,� he said. �He�s got�.�.�. something I want.� The man�s hand pressed into his coat, as if assuring himself something still rode in an inner pocket. �The rest of what I need,� the man grated out. �That�ll give me all of it.�

Ike wondered at the hesitation in naming what he expected to get from a railroad employee. This gent wasn�t the kind to show reluctance about anything, much less something that seemed unimportant. That made Ike realize the man he shared the car with was on some kind of a mission�and it wasn�t a mission he wanted any part of.

The train shuddered as wheels screeched and locked to bring the powerful locomotive to a halt. Ike got his feet under him and exploded outward. He shoved past the armed tramp and sailed through the air. He hit hard in a pile of cinders. One burned its way into his elbow. Another cut his chin. Rather than take the time to brush off the clinkers pressed into his clothing, he dug his toes into the ground and launched himself again.

Shouts from the top of the freight car added speed to his retreat. Those cries for him to halt were drowned out by gunfire. Bullets kicked up tiny dust devils all around as the railroad detectives opened fire on him.

He slipped and fell again. This saved his life. If he�d remained upright, one slug would have caught him smack-dab in the middle of his back. Ike rolled over and saw three bulls atop the boxcar. One shot at him; the other two inexplicably tried to stop their partner from taking an accurate shot.

Strong hands jerked him to his feet and half dragged him along. The other refugee from the freight car pulled him erect.

�Run like your life depends on it, �cuz it does!�

Ike didn�t need to be told.

�Thanks,� he said and tried to vault over the couplings between two cars on another train parked on a siding.

Again his unwanted partner grabbed him and shoved him in a different direction.

�More bulls on the other side,� came the curt answer to Ike�s unspoken question.

He had no idea how the man knew, but a quick look under the flatcar showed two men running along. If he had run where he�d intended, he would have been caught.

Killed.

He glanced over his shoulder. The three detectives on the boxcar scampered down rungs at the end of the car, still arguing among themselves. The one who had tried to kill him was in the lead. Ike knew better than to stop, lift his hands in surrender and expect anything but a bullet in the gut.

�In. Get in!�

The man grabbed the seat of his britches and heaved, sending Ike skidding along the floor of an empty freight car coupled to another train. He slammed into the far side and lay dazed and moaning.

�Open it. Look out. Hurry it up!�

Ike shook off the impact and did as he was ordered. As he heaved open the sliding door, his partner closed the door where they�d entered. Gunshots sounded, but no bullets penetrated the heavy wood. Muscles protesting, Ike slid back the door and chanced a quick glance. He ducked back.

Ike yelped as he was pushed out. He hit the ground hard.

�Keep up or I�ll leave you behind,� the man growled. He grabbed the back of Ike�s coat and heaved.

�Why would they kill us? Sneaking a ride�s not that bad, not enough for an army of them to come after us.� Ike saw the sour look on the man�s face. That was more of an answer than anything he said would be. They might not like it that Ike caught a free ride, but the man they wanted to kill for whatever reason was the one hauling him along.

�There�s the roundhouse,� the man said. �He�ll hide us. Me.�

The man�s sudden change from them being a team to saving himself convinced Ike it was time to part ways. He feinted left and started right, heading away from the roundhouse, where engines were spun around on a turntable. Through open doors, Ike saw a small locomotive being swung about, a man driving a team of mules to accomplish the task.

The mule skinner looked up when the man who had been with Ike waved frantically. Ike cringed as gunfire rang out. The man stiffened and reached out for the mule skinner, silently imploring him to help. Then, that haven was stolen from him as the railroad bulls continued firing until their own employee flopped to the ground. The roundhouse worker kicked once when a mule stepped on him, but that was his last twitch. He had been murdered by the cinder dicks.

Seeing this, Ike�s temporary partner flopped around and wiggled like a snake to find refuge behind stacks of steel rails waiting to be shipped out.

�Help me,� the man moaned, reaching out to Ike the way he had tried with the mule skinner. From a spot behind a mountain of coal, Ike saw that the man had been hit at least three times in the back. His shabby coat changed color, from dull brown to bright red, as he bled out. �I need you to�.�.�.� His words faded, but life still burned in the man�s intense eyes.

Ike felt the man impose his will by force of character alone.

Ike hesitated. The bulls would kill him, too, if he tried to rescue a man who had willingly discarded him as an ally seconds before. A deep shudder shook him as he exhaled forcefully, trying to come to a decision. The stench of burning metal and soot made him gasp when he sucked in a new breath. Somehow, this biting acid burning in his lungs dictated what he should do. As the railroad dicks searched the mule skinner they�d just shot down, Ike bent low and made his way cautiously toward his injured acquaintance.

He cursed himself for getting involved. He didn�t owe this fellow train hopper anything. If anything, it was just the reverse. There wouldn�t be gunfire and a man lying dead if he weren�t here.

Ike skidded to a halt, circled a limp body with his arms and heaved. Finding that the man weighed too much to pick up, he began dragging the dead weight along behind the pile of rails until he reached a spot where a twist rolled the body under a car and between the tracks. Ike wasted no time flopping down to hide himself.

�You ought to��

Ike clamped his hand over the man�s mouth to silence him. He pointed. Not ten feet away, the railroad bulls paced back and forth, arguing where their quarry had run.

�We plugged one of �em, Kinch,� declared a detective pacing closer to where Ike peered out fearfully.

�The son of a bitch that got away�s who we have to stop. You sure he ran this way?�

�I saw him, Kinch. Really, I did. I�m sure I hit him, so he can�t get too far.�

�It�s on your head if you�re wrong. The boss doesn�t take failure easy.�

�I can�t forget what he did to Thomas. I never seen a man beheaded like that before.� He said in a smaller voice, �I never seen a man beheaded at all.�

The one named Kinch laughed. �The poor fool kept up for almost a hundred yards before the wire sliced off his head.�

�Imagine pacing a train like that for so long.�

�He would have caught up with the caboose if the boss hadn�t signaled the engineer to highball it,� said Kinch. �Good thing Thomas was far enough back that he didn�t splatter blood all over us.�

A loud cry off from across the rail yard caught the two bulls� attention. They lit out at a dead run, leaving Ike trembling. He chanced a peek to see if the coast was clear.

�Come on, get to your feet. This�ll be our only chance when they find we�re not halfway across the yard.� When he got no reply, he shook the man�s shoulder. His hand came away sticky with blood. He wiped it on the man�s tattered coat. He swallowed hard when he didn�t get the protest he expected.

The man was dead.

Ike rubbed his hand a little harder to remove the last traces of gore. A rustling sound made him peel back the coat. Two packets of paper were stuffed into a pocket held shut with a safety pin. He ripped away the cloth, hands too shaky to unfasten the pin. The first envelope was crammed with letters. Before he had a chance to look into the second, he heard Kinch cry out, �Wild-goose chase. They�re still somewhere near the roundhouse. They might be trying to get back to Gregorio if they don�t know he�s dead. You, Smitty, look on the far side of the dinky.�

Boots ran past as Smitty hunted for the fugitives beyond a small engine used to shuttle larger ones needing repair into the roundhouse. Ike held his breath as Kinch�s feet again stopped only inches from his nose. He cringed and half rolled onto the dead body.

A lump warned him he pressed down on the holstered gun. He yanked free the gun belt, with its three-pound iron burden. As he did, he tore away more of the dead man�s coat. Shiny leather drew his hand like a magnet draws a compass needle. He snared the wallet and crammed it into his own pocket. Greenbacks fell onto the ties, along with a few silver coins. Ike added those to his stash. For a man who looked down on his luck, he carried more money than a tinhorn gambler.

�You find him, Smitty?�

�Only the yard crew�s in sight,� came the answer. �This ain�t gettin� us anywhere, Kinchloe. We need to��

�We need to find them. You want to cross the boss? Disobey his orders?�

�Aw, Kinch, that�s not what I meant. I�.�.�.�

The men stalked away, arguing.

Ike inched across the corpse to the far side of the freight car. He looked out. All he saw were workers, faces blackened from soot and clothing filthy from their work on the engines. One carried a wrench and another an oilcan with a long, thin spout designed to squirt into hard-to-reach friction spots on the mighty engines. A half-dozen others serviced a nearby engine, doing repairs Ike only guessed at.

Sure he was as dirty as any of the yard workers and hoping he would blend in, Ike tumbled over the rail and got to his feet, using the freight car for support. Legs shaky from fear almost betrayed him. He edged along the boxcar, then more boldly cut across tracks to meld in with the workers.

�Take another step and you�re a dead man.�

Ike clung to the six-shooter he had taken. Even with it in his hand, lifting and firing before the cinder dick fired was impossible. The detective�s gun was trained squarely on him. It looked like a train tunnel, dark and deadly and not anything he could avoid.

�Smitty!� Ike shouted the man�s name in an attempt to gain an instant�s respite.

�How�d you know my name, you varmint?�

The last thing Ike remembered was the bull firing. The pain that followed instantly vanished by the time he collapsed to the ground.

He heard voices, distant voices, all yammering at the same time. He opened his eyes, but only darkness greeted him. He settled back, aware of pain in his skull. That preacher man, Reverend Lawrence, the one his ma always dragged him to church to hear on Sunday, never said Heaven was anything like this. If he had to endure such pain for an eternity, maybe catching a ride on the train counted as a bigger sin than he�d thought.

There wasn�t any way possible that he had crossed through the Pearly Gates, not feeling like this.

Cheating Penrose out of his money by not paying seemed picayune now, but welshing on a debt must pile up worse than cheating the train company out of a ticket. What other sins had he committed in his life? There were so many, but he�d thought they were all minor�or even needful.

Ike stirred a little, feeling cinders under his hands. He lay on a bed of the clinkers. They cut into his elbows, too. The sun was warm on his face, but opening his eyes again gave the same view. Nothing. Darkness.

�Blind,� he moaned out. �I�m going to spend the rest of eternity blind as a bat.�

He yelped when water crashed into his face. He sputtered and turned away before another tidal wave threatened to drown him. If he had entertained the slightest thought this was Heaven, the deluge dispelled it. Ike wanted to protest, to argue about the Covenant of the Rainbow and demand to know why it was being disregarded. The water had to be part of a second great flood.

For another frightening instant, he thought he was cursed to see only clinkers and dirt. His numbed brain finally alerted him to how water had washed away blinding blood from his eyes. On his side he got a worm�s-eye view of the world.

Ike cried out, almost in relief at realizing he was still alive, when grasping hands yanked him to his feet. For a moment his knees buckled. Someone cursing up a storm held him upright until he recovered some strength in his legs. A few quick swipes across his eyes showed his problem. A bullet had run the width of his forehead and caused a veritable spring runoff of blood past his eyebrows and into his eyes, effectively blinding him. Ike pressed his forearm against the wound until the skin puckered and the wound began to clot over.

It took a few more seconds to realize he stood in the middle of a circle. All the men around him had their six-shooters drawn and pointed with deadly intent. He raised his hands to surrender, then saw only a couple had their weapons trained on him. Mostly they threatened each other. It made no sense.

�There�s a dead man in the roundhouse,� came a gruff voice behind him. �Somebody upped and shot him.�

�His name�s Gregorio. This here outlaw gunned him down, pure and simple.�

�You saw the crime?�

Ike turned slowly. The man behind him wore a shining silver badge pinned on his vest. Two men, obviously his deputies, flanked him. Not a one of the lawmen had their six-guns trained on him.

�I did. With my own eyes.�

�That�s right, Marshal. Mr. Kinchloe, he was chasin� this skunk down and seen the whole thing.�

�Shut up, Smitty. I can tell my own story.� Kinchloe growled like a bear poked during hibernation. It wasn�t a good sound and boded ill for anyone daring to torment him further.

Ike got a better look at the men and put faces to the boots he had seen stalking back and forth as they hunted for him. He wished he hadn�t. Kinchloe obviously led the gang of railroad bulls through sheer meanness. He had a small gold shield pinned to his lapel. Smitty and two others showed off their badges by thrusting out their chests, as if this impressed the marshal one little bit.

Ike turned back to the marshal. The lawman had control, no matter what Kinchloe said. The only way he was giving up his power was if a new gunfight started. He might go down as the railroad dicks opened up with the weapons they held at the ready, but he showed no fear of that. His deputies were hopping around like fleas on a griddle, but they stood their ground beside their boss.

Ike considered the lack of lead flying to be a chance to live a bit longer and wonder what Heaven was really like, only from here on Earth and not floating around on some cloud.

�I never cut down nobody,� Ike started.

�Shut up.� The marshal held up the six-shooter Ike had taken from the dead man under the freight car. Ike instinctively looked in that direction. A hand draped over the rail warned that the corpse hadn�t been found. If the marshal spotted it, Ike was likely to be charged with another murder. �Is this your piece?� The lawman shook it in the air, making Ike increasingly uneasy. The weapon had ridden in a woebegone holster that had fallen apart. Whatever condition the pistol was in, such waving about now might cause an accidental discharge.

Ike�s mouth turned to cotton. The only answer he managed was a small nod.

�Mr. Kinchloe, is this the gun you saw him kill Gregorio with?�

�I told you it was, Marshal. You turn him over to me. In my capacity as chief detective for the South Texas Central Rail Company, I�ll take him into custody and��

�This here gun�s not been fired in a month of Sundays.�

The marshal�s declaration stopped Kinchloe in mid-tirade.

�I saw it with my own eyes.� The railroad bull�s voice crackled and sparked with menace now. �He�s ours, Marshal Granger.�

�Not been fired, so he�s not the one who killed Gregorio. A pity about him.� Granger looked past the circle of detectives to the roundhouse. �Gregorio was a fine, upstanding man. Could never see what kept him in Schofield�s employ.� Granger cleared his throat, spat and said in a tone dripping with sarcasm, �That�s Mr. Schofield, I mean.�

�Mr. Schofield,� Kinchloe echoed, as if speaking the name of royalty.

�You go tell your boss that I�m holding on to this varmint until I can clear up details about how Gregorio died.� Granger stepped back a pace. His deputies moved forward. One held a scattergun; the other lifted his six-shooter and aimed it somewhere between Kinchloe and Smitty. Granger jerked his head to one side, silently ordering Ike to move.

The tension in the air reminded him of the way the world felt before a fierce summer lightning storm. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and his flesh tingled as if fuzzy-legged spiders crawled up and down his spine. If he didn�t obey the marshal immediately, the STC railroad cops would make the decision to keep him from the clutches of the law.

Running behind a moving train, a wire noose around his neck, didn�t appeal to him. Whatever the marshal had in store was better than losing his head and flopping around on the prairie like�.�.�. like a chicken with its head cut off.

�Right away, sir,� he said, stepping past Marshal Granger.

The instant he came shoulder to shoulder with the deputies, all hell broke loose. Ike instinctively dived forward. His imagination soared even higher than his fear at that instant. He had never been in the army, but this had to be what full-scale battle was like. Lead zinged overhead and kept him pressed to the ground. He turned his head sideways, his cheek picking up cinders and soot.

He stared directly at the dead man under the freight car. Neither the railroad bulls nor the legitimate lawmen had found that body yet. They had argued over the dead man in the roundhouse. The best Ike could figure, Kinchloe or one of his henchmen had taken that man�s life. Smitty had claimed the murder, but it didn�t take a genius to see that the man was a liar out to curry favor with their boss.

Schofield? That was the name the marshal mentioned.

Ike knew he would follow Gregorio into a grave if he didn�t clear out fast.

As distasteful as it was, he rolled toward the tracks, got under the boxcar and crushed down on the corpse. He kept rolling until he came out on the far side of the freight car. Gunfire died down back where he had started, replaced now by angry shouts and louder curses. Whatever had happened, someone triggered a shot that set off a tiny skirmish. It died down all too fast for Ike�s liking.

He put his head down and ran for his life. Trains rolled along the sidings, and he jumped over switches in his vain attempt to get out of the rail yard. If anything, he got so turned around he might as well have been running inside the roundhouse.

A yell behind him warned he was about to be captured again. He had no idea what mayhem he caused, but he grabbed a switch, kicked off the safety clamp and heaved. The switch ground metallically, moving tracks to shunt an incoming engine with a long line of cars behind it onto a new siding. He jumped over the tracks just as the engine chugged past, cutting off any attempt of the men after him to get a decent shot.

Ike veered again when good sense warned him about jumping onto the train and trying to ride away on it. The locomotive vented a long, loud whistle and spilled the steam in its boiler. Clouds of white vapor soared upward. If he had tried to hide on that train, he�d have been found in a few minutes as it stood motionless on the tracks.

He kept his head down and sprinted for an open warehouse door. He whirled around and slammed the door shut behind him, then pressed his back against a cool wall as he gasped to regain his breath. Sweat poured down his body. Worse, the graze on his forehead took to oozing blood again. Tiny rivulets trickled down into his eyes and burned like fire. He pressed his bloodied hand against the wound to stanch the flow.

Outside the massive building�a major warehouse from the look of row after row of crates stacked to the rafters�more gunshots sounded. As before, new orders shouted by both Kinchloe and Granger collided and conflicted until the shooting stopped.

They�d settle their differences too soon for him to escape back the way he came. Ike stumbled forward into the depths of the warehouse, weaving between the mountains of freight stored here.

Loud voices came from ahead. He spun and started to retrace his steps. The echo of men�s boots against the floor in that direction warned him he was caught between a rock and a hard place. He might bluff his way past the men ahead. There wasn�t any way they knew a thing about the dustup he had caused outside. But if they slowed him down, just a bit, the men coming on his trail would have an easy time capturing him.

Worst of all, whoever followed him didn�t matter. It might be the law or the cinder dicks. Either way he was going to end up in a world of trouble.

He looked around frantically, wishing he had the six-shooter the marshal had taken from him. Shooting his way out of the pickle he found himself in wasn�t too bright if he faced a dozen men, but a few shots in their direction might scatter them.

His hands were empty, and the stolen gun had been taken from him. Ike felt as if his head was going to split apart. If only some clever plan to escape rather than blinding pain rattled around inside his skull.

�I should never have stolen his papers and money and gun,� he bemoaned. �This trouble is my due for all the crimes I�ve committed.� But it wasn�t all his fault. His brief traveling companion had been the reason men had died. Gregorio had been the one he sought out, and Kinchloe or one of his henchmen had gunned him down rather than let the two palaver.

There wasn�t anything he could change about the men�s unfortunate deaths. A quick look around finally gave him a glimmer of hope. He flexed his fingers, then jumped high.

His fingers curled around the splintery edge of the crate. With a mighty pull, he hoisted himself up in time to flop forward as a trio of warehouse workers stalked along the route where he had just walked. Peering over the edge gave Ike a clear view as the freight handlers stopped and spoke with the ones that had blocked his way forward.

�Got �em chained down so�s they won�t run off. Ain�t that what the foreman ast for?�

Ike heard laughter and a few crude remarks that made no sense.

�Let�s go tell him all about it. Do you think he might share a nip from that bottle he keeps in his desk drawer?�

�We�re not talkin� �bout the same lout. Herk�d never share a drop with the likes of us, no matter how good a job we did.�

�I saw Herkimer spill a drop on his desk. I swear he fell face forward and lapped up the whiskey like a cat lickin� up cream.�

�That�s nuthin�,� piped up another worker. �I saw him try to stuff his tongue all the way into an empty bottle when he thought there was a drop of rye he�d missed.�

Ike watched as five men followed the winding path between piles of crates back in the direction he�d come. Just lying about and listening, he was discovering more about the men working for the STC Rail Company than he ever wanted to know. The sooner he cleared out, the better. There wasn�t a one of them who would give him a break.

It was bad enough running afoul of Kinchloe and Smitty. Herkimer and the man who sounded like the big boss, Schofield, weren�t sounding likable enough to meet. He touched his throat as if feeling a wire noose cutting into his flesh. Herkimer might be a drunk, but Schofield sent ripples of fear through the vicious railroad bulls. That was definitely a man to avoid.

He came to his knees, then stood, testing his balance atop the pile of crates. He wobbled as he jumped from one stack to the next, but that came from his head threatening to split apart at any instant. The gunshot to his forehead had left him woozy and more than a little giddy. The crates were stable enough, if only he chose the biggest of them to use as his aerial highway.

Making his way toward streaming daylight at the far end of the warehouse, Ike began jumping faster and faster from one precarious perch to the next. Fresh air, or as fresh as air in a rail yard could be, laden with coal dust and noxious sulfur fumes, blew into his face. As he approached the far end of the building, he saw the huge barnlike doors swung wide open to let in the breeze. Outside along the tracks, a man pumped hard to make a handcar almost sail along a spur line. If Ike reached that set of tracks and another handcar, he�d pump like there was no tomorrow and get away before Kinchloe or the marshal or anyone meaning to ventilate his hide knew he was gone.

It didn�t even matter where he headed. North would be good, or south. Retracing his route to Houston wasn�t a good idea, but maybe Penrose had moved on to tormenting other people. There wasn�t any reason to keep hunting for Isaac Scott more than a day or two. For the piddling amount owed him, that�d divert up too much of his small army of cutthroats and thieves to be profitable. Ike had heard Penrose say more than once that time was the only commodity�and that it had to be used wisely to collect even more money.

Ike made a final jump to the top of a crate but landed crooked. He twisted his leg under him and sank down. Rubbing the strained leg helped, but it also gave him a chance to see what lay below. The crates had been moved around to form a small alcove. Two women secured in the makeshift prison rattled their chains and bickered.

He wondered if everyone in San Antonio argued incessantly or if he had blundered onto a pocket of humanity that delighted in it.

�You should never have trusted him,� the older one declared. She made a dramatic motion with her arm, as if ready to launch into a soliloquy. �His eyes were teensy. Hidden in pits like a pig. Never trust anyone who squints all the time when they aren�t in the bright sun, though the Texas sun is especially bright and might cause permanent squinting.�

�Mama, be quiet. What�s done is done. He offered a big enough reward and here we are.� She held up a slender wrist to show off the chain binding her.

Even if she hadn�t called the older woman �mama,� Ike would have guessed they were related. Both had auburn hair. The sunlight sneaking past the crates caught the daughter�s tresses and turned it into spun copper. They wore similar clothing, as if they belonged to some group. Light green dresses with pert white linen aprons shifted as they moved, making whispering sounds that reminded him of wind in the pines.

The daughter pushed her hair back with both hands in frustration and looked up. Eyes as green as a new spring locked with his. Ike felt inferior. He knew his muddy brown eyes carried no sparkle, no shimmer of merriment or even intelligence. Worse, his clothing was as decrepit as the meanest vagrant. He had to smile just a little at that. He was that vagrant. He had ridden the rails to get here and was filthy from the knocking about.

The younger woman had a pale oval face that tugged at his heartstrings. She reminded him of a love lost too long ago to another man, but this wasn�t Philomena. If anything, she was prettier. Her bow-shaped lips parted slightly, then she waved frantically to him and called, �Mister, Mister! Please help us! They�re holding us against our will.�

�Who?� Ike felt silly. He sounded like a barn owl, but taking in the two women while listening with half an ear for Kinchloe and his thugs to show up divided his attention.

�That terrible man at the Grand Palace over on Alamo Street, that�s who. He��

�Oh, be quiet, daughter.� The older woman shushed her and stood. She held out her arms. Both wrists were secured with the chains. �We only wanted our money.�

�We took what was ours!�

�I told you to hush, girl,� the mother said harshly. �Let me talk to him.�

�Keep your voices down. There are railroad bulls everywhere.� Ike grew increasingly uneasy at this exchange. Neither woman seemed to care if their captors overheard.

The two exchanged a quick glance, then the young one said cagily, �Looking for you, are they?�

�At least I�m not chained up.� Ike grinned now. �It might be interesting being chained with the two of you.�

�No!� they both blurted. Then the daughter recovered. �You�re joshing us, aren�t you? Get us free.�

�It sounds as if you stole money from the owner of the Grand Palace.�

�Mr. Zachary refused to pay us what he had promised. We packed the house night after night. He owed us what we took from the till.� The young girl saw nothing wrong with this bit of frontier justice. Truth to tell, Ike agreed. The law seldom saw things in terms of what was right as often as it did according to who paid the biggest bribes.

Ike moved around, hung over the edge of the crate and balanced for a moment. He tried to find a secure place to wedge his toes between the lower crates and failed. He thrashed about and then dropped hard. He landed in a crouch, looking up at the two women.

From this angle, their hair turned fiery red. Both sets of emerald eyes fixed imploringly on him. There wasn�t any way he could deny them their freedom.

He duckwalked to the post where they were secured. The railroad tie had been driven into the floor and metal bolts screwed into the wood to hold the ends of the chains.

�Did the saloon owner chain you up?�

�We were stopped from loading our stage equipment on a train bound out of town. He had warned the ticket agent we�d try to get away and had offered a hefty reward. Two of the most obnoxious railroad employees aboard the train��

�One was the conductor,� cut in the older woman.

�They bodily threw us off the train, unloaded our scenery and costumes and brought us here.� The daughter crossed her arms across her chest and tapped her foot as she remembered with increasing anger how they had been mistreated.

�The conductor went on and on about how a huge reward had been offered. I doubt that. He said it only as a salve for his conscience that he turned two fine, upstanding ladies over to the likes of that swine! Mr. Zachary is far too stingy a man to offer much of a reward.�

�He wants to sell us to Mexican slavers,� declared the daughter. �They�ll steal us away into Mexico, and we�ll never be seen again.� She made a face. �And I don�t even like tequila.�

Ike had to laugh at that. If what the redhead said was true, being forced to drink tequila instead of Kentucky bourbon was the least of their worries.

He put both hands atop the railroad tie and leaned on it, thinking what to do.

�So? Are you going to save us?� The mother�s tone told where her daughter had gotten her crazy notions. But then they said they were actresses with scenery and costumes and a show to entertain a rowdy saloon crowd. That explained their every quirk.

Ike gripped the creosote-soaked tie and pulled hard. When it gave just an inch, he reversed direction. Wood creaked as it began to splinter. A final pull toward him broke off the railroad tie about a third of the way up from the ground. It crashed to the warehouse floor.

�That�s a start.� The daughter held up her still-manacled wrists. Sturdy locks fastened the chains.

Ike tugged on the chain. The woman resisted at first, then let him reel her in closer. He positioned the lock on the splintery top of the tie, still sunk into the floor. With a quick lift and a powerful downward smash, he used the broken-off wood as a mallet. The lock shattered into a half-dozen pieces. She placed her other chained wrist on the crude anvil. Ike had to pound a bit more to break this lock, but he didn�t mind. The woman rubbed up against him like an affectionate feline to position the chains and lock.

He started to tell her how good she smelled. A trace of lilac lingered in her hair. Then he bit back the compliment. Her only likely response would be to remind him how awful he smelled.

�Next.� He reared back and let her mother sashay over into position. Both women knew how to keep his attention, but then they made their living playing out roles in front of crowded rooms filled with cowboys off the ranch.

Two quick blows broke the locks on her chains. She rubbed her wrists, then saw him watching. She held out her hands and wiggled her fingers just a little.

�Would you like to get the circulation flowing in my hands again? You can massage my wrists.�

�Mama, please,� her daughter snapped. �We�re still in a serious situation.�

�You�re right, Lily.� She graced Ike with a wink and then slipped out of the alcove.

He followed. Both women tried to move a ten-foot-tall roll of canvas.

�Don�t just stand there, help us,� Lily said. She wrapped her slender arms around the thick column and tried to lift it. Ike had no idea what it weighed, but it was far more than the women could handle. It was bulky enough that he had no chance of moving it by himself, either.

�What is that thing?� He rested his hand on the rough canvas.

�It is our cyclorama,� the mother said. �It�s a vital part of our act. Leaving behind our costumes will be a great loss, but the scenery behind us as we act is what sets us apart from all the other performers.�

�I�d disagree with that,� Ike said softly, not expecting them to overhear.

�What do you mean by that?� Lily snapped at him, her balled hands on her hips and green eyes flashing angrily.

�Oh, Lily, he meant our beauty is second to none, and we hardly need such scenery. Isn�t that right, sir?�

�Yeah, that,� Ike said.

�You�re wrong, of course. We need the set. The cyclorama allows us to change costumes as the scenery unfurls behind us. It is quite spectacular.�

�Like you,� Ike got out.

�Are you smitten or besotted? No, don�t tell me. Just help me!� Lily tried once more to move the cyclorama.

He started to help, then froze. Loud voices came from the direction where he had entered the warehouse. Before he had a chance to tell the women to run, four men slithered around the stacked freight and spotted them.

For an instant, they all stood stock-still, staring at one another. Then the four freight handlers let out a shout and rushed forward.

Who�re you?� The man closest to Ike roared when he divined the answer for himself. �Get �em, boys!�

The four men lumbered forward. In a footrace, Ike was sure he could outleg all of them. They were bulky men, muscled from moving freight around. There wasn�t any call for them to be quick. That didn�t save Ike and the women, though. They were boxed in by crates and the semicircle of railroad men coming for them.

�Push,� Ike grated out. He stepped behind the ten-foot-tall roll of canvas scenery. Braced against the crates, he put his back into shoving as hard as he could. The cyclorama wobbled about. When Lily joined the effort, the column teetered about, then came crashing down.

The cyclorama knocked two of their attackers to the ground. A third tried to catch the upper end and regretted it. The falling weight proved too much for him. The roll slid through his hands and smashed down on his foot. The fourth man paused to take in the woes befalling his partners. Ike stepped up, judged distances and unloaded a roundhouse punch to the gut that lifted the man off his feet. Gasping and clutching his belly, the warehouse worker doubled over. He sounded like a set of wheezing fireplace bellows as he fought for wind.

�Run,� Ike said.

�Our property!� Lily�s mother tried to pick up a carpetbag. Ike knocked it from her hands, grabbed her elbow and half dragged her away. �But our costumes,� she protested. �The scenery!�

�Run, Mama, run! They�ll kill us if you don�t.�

�Or sell you to Mexican slavers,� Ike added. What worried Lily had no effect on her mother. She moaned about their lost luggage but trailed behind as her daughter matched Ike�s long stride out of the warehouse.

He closed his eyes for a moment and let the Texas sun burn his face. It was a humid day, but the air blew hot from a half-dozen moving engines in the yard and evaporated the sweat. Shouts from behind brought him out of his momentary enjoyment of freedom.

Ike patted his waistband where he had tucked the six-shooter taken off the dead man in the freight car. He sagged in despair. Marshal Granger had it now, but having it to wave around might have bought them passage away from the trains even if Ike had no intention of actually firing. The bustle of the rail yard passed them by�or most of it did.

�They�re getting out from under the cyclorama, Mama,� Lily warned. �Don�t go back. Don�t!�

�We can�t possibly keep running from them and expect to escape. There�s too many of them.� Lily�s mother kept looking over her shoulder. Every time she did, she slowed just a little more.

�I�m afraid you�re right,� Ike said. �How are you at jumping onto a freight train?� Two nearby engines built speed, both hooked to long lines of boxcars. The farther one already had built too much speed to jump aboard, but the closer one held promise.

�We can�t leave our belongings,� Lily protested.

�Good luck,� Ike said. He touched the brim of his hat politely, then dashed for the train. One freight car rattled along with its door half-open.

�You can�t abandon us! Come back here!�

Ike heard Lily�s aggrieved voice. He felt bad about leaving them, but staying to help put his own life in jeopardy. From what they�d said, their lives weren�t in danger like his. The owner of the Grand Palace�Zachary, they�d said�held a grudge about them stealing from him. From what Ike had seen of the two women, they�d charm him into letting them work off whatever amount they�d stolen. It wasn�t right, it wasn�t fair, but they were worth more alive than dead.

He stole a final look at Lily. She was worth more alive to about everyone.

He had no idea what he had gotten mixed up in. One of the railroad detectives had shot Gregorio. The only reason Ike saw for that was the roundhouse engineer wanting to tell the other dead man something important. From the viciousness shown by Kinchloe and the other cinder bulls, it would put a noose around their necks. Or maybe it had some importance to their boss. Ike tried to remember his name, but it eluded him.

Escape mattered most to him now. Of everyone in the rail yard, he was most likely to be arrested for all the dead bodies. He pounded alongside the train, then launched himself toward the open freight car door. Fingers wrapped around the frame. With a decent kick, he swung up into the empty car.

Ike stared up at a scarecrow of a man. He stood with arms outstretched, as if to drive away birds. His mouth gaped and showed diseased gums interrupted only by one black tooth. Ike thought his clothes had seen better days after the ride from Houston, but this man�s were worse. Dirty, hanging in strips, and when he flapped his arms it looked as if he were nothing more than a garrison flag in a brisk wind.

A defeated garrison.

�Help me in,� Ike said, balancing precariously in the door. He held out his hand for the man to take.

�Bull,� the scarecrow screamed. He batted Ike�s hand away, then planted a surprisingly strong kick in the middle of his would-be traveling companion�s chest.

Ike yelped and fell backward out of the car.

He hit the ground hard, the protest dying on his lips that he wasn�t a railroad detective. By the time he got his breath back, the train had picked up speed and rattled out of the rail yard.

�That didn�t work out for you, did it?�

He looked up at Lily�s mother. She wagged her finger at him as if he were nothing more than a misbehaving student and she was a disapproving schoolmarm.

�Here,� Lily said, reaching down to give him a hand up. Ike�s legs turned rubbery under him. She supported his weight with surprising strength.

�He thought I was a detective,� Ike tried to explain.

�You look like one,� Lily said, �except you�re a month past needing a bath.�

�I look like one?� Ike shook his head in dismay. That was the craziest thing anyone had ever said to him.

�You�ve got the right idea about getting away. The whole depot�s swarming with cops.� Lily released him. He stayed upright. She looked around. �There aren�t any more trains pulling out. What are we going to do?�

�Go to ground,� he said. Ike pointed toward a platform raised for passengers to board their trains. It stretched empty and silent now that all the trains had rolled out. �Hide under the depot until a train pulls in, then sneak aboard with the passengers.�

�The conductor will want to see a ticket. Without one, he�ll throw us off the train,� Lily�s mother protested.

�We�ll be away from San Antonio. That�ll give us new problems, but they�re not likely to be waving six-guns around with the intent of killing us.�

The words barely slid from his lips when a sharp report made him duck. Where the bullet had gone mattered less than being found again. Ike pointed to a tight knot of men. Sunlight flashed off the leading man�s brass badge.

�That�s Kinchloe,� he said. �I think he�s the boss of all the bulls.�

Stepping between them, he circled the women�s waists and herded them toward the depot. The scheme he had conjured up out of thin air disappeared like a mirage now that Kinchloe had them in his sights, but something else might turn up. All he had to do was stay out of custody by Marshal Granger�and not get ventilated by Kinchloe and his henchmen.

The former looked likely as they ran ahead of the detectives, the legitimate lawman nowhere to be seen. The latter seemed unlikely as bullets kicked up cinders and dirt all around them.

�Go, go, go,� Lily�s mother cried, jerking free of Ike�s embrace.

He tried to stop her from dashing up the depot steps. She twisted about agilely, and he missed grabbing her by inches. Then he lost his balance when Lily yanked on his arm.

�Let her go. She can take care of herself.�

�They�ll gun her down.�

�They want to turn her over to Zachary for the reward.�

He wasn�t in any position to argue. Kinchloe kept shooting. As the detective ran closer, his aim improved. Ike found himself worried more about Lily being hit by a stray bullet than catching an ounce of lead himself. Spinning around, he swung her off her feet. This let him regain his own equilibrium. He caught a last glimpse of the woman�s mother ducking inside the depot.

That took care of part of his problem. She was on her own now and likely to fare better than he was if he kept trying to protect her daughter.

Above the building billowed clouds of white steam from an engine parked on the far side. If she was lucky, she might get aboard and pull out of the station before the cinder bulls found her.

�In there,� he said, pushing Lily through the open door to a baggage storeroom. He followed her, then kicked the door shut with his heel. �Go on. Find the door leading up to the platform. Join your mother and hightail it.� Ike fell back heavily against the door, his shoulders heaving with strain.

�You can�t hold the door against them. There are too many.� Lily stood with feet wide and her fists on her hips. She had the same disapproving schoolmarm look her mother had been using with him.

Ike hunted frantically for a locking bar. There wasn�t one. Worse, a bullet tore a thumb-sized hole to the left of his head. The detectives fired through the wood door. He dragged a steamer trunk over and tipped it against the door. It barely had leaned into place when someone crashed into the door and splintered a panel. A hand clutching a six-gun poked through the hole. The pistol fired once before Ike grabbed the man�s wrist. He fought for possession of the gun. Luck went his way when he yanked down hard. The gunman let out a howl of pain as his wrist broke. The gun fell to the floor from numbed fingers.

�Find the other door. Hurry!� He scooped up the pistol and thrust it through the broken panel. His targets were hidden, but he wasn�t interested in actually hitting anyone. All he wanted was to sow panic. He began firing. Ike grunted when someone brought a steel gun barrel down on his wrist. His grip broken on the gun, he let loose and pulled back. Turnabout was fair play.

From the confused cries on the other side, he had achieved all he could have hoped, even if they had turned the tables on him.

He backed away, rubbed his wrist then turned and wove this way and that through the stacked bags and trunks. Lily waved for him to join her at the foot of stairs leading up into the depot.

He started to berate her for not preceding him. Then he saw the door at the top of the steps was securely fastened. Lowering his head like a charging bull, he ran full tilt up the steps and smashed his shoulder into the door. Wood splintered as it exploded off its hinges. He landed on top of the door, momentarily dazed. Lily stepped over him.

�Oh, don�t stare like that. Haven�t you ever seen a man too drunk to stand?� She made shooing sounds and helped him up. Her breath came hot in his ear as she whispered, �Those old biddies think you�re drunk. Act drunk.�

Ike�s vision cleared. They had burst into a waiting room. Four old ladies perched primly on a bench, lips pressed together and looking reproachful.

�Top of the morning, ladies,� he said, slurring his words just a little. �Any of you have a flask? I seem to have misplaced mine and can use a wee nip.� He worked his way down the row, each woman pointedly turning away. Not a one of them would be able to identify him because they showed their outrage by refusing to look at him, but there wasn�t going to be any need for them ever to point him out. If the marshal came to investigate a disturbance, he was caught. And if Kinchloe followed, he was dead.

Who else would cause such chaos but the man they all chased?

�This way, dear,� Lily said. She called back over her shoulder, �I�m sure we can find a saloon open somewhere.�

Ike lowered his chin and pulled his hat down further to hide his face. They still refused to look at him, but he wanted to be sure the passengers had no chance at all of positively describing him.

They left the waiting room and stumbled onto the platform. While they had been avoiding Kinchloe, a train had pulled up, loaded passengers and now was pulling out, gathering speed.

�Get on. Run. Your mother�s already aboard.� Ike had no idea if that was true, but it gave Lily reason to jump onto the train and ride off safely. He hung back when he heard a commotion from the waiting room. The railroad detectives had raced through the baggage storage room and were hot on his trail.

�The caboose,� Lily cried. �It�s almost beyond reach.� She lifted her skirts and ran. At the very edge of the platform she made a grab, caught an iron rung and was yanked out into space. She hung suspended for an instant, then found her footing on an iron step. She pulled herself up and looked back.

She reached out to him, as if her arm might telescope all the way to the platform and save him from the detectives.

His last sight of her was more shadow than light as she stood under the overhanging caboose roof. The motion of the train caused her bright red hair to flutter like a banner of shining copper. Ike bent over and let a bull stumble when he grabbed for him and missed. Not content, he thrust out his leg and the cinder dick tripped and tumbled off the platform onto the tracks. Ike recovered his balance and shoved hard, catching another man squarely in the chest. The push sent him back into Kinchloe.

Frantic, Ike looked around. The ticket agent was unlimbering a huge Remington black powder pistol from a hiding place under the counter. Two baggage handlers exited from inside the depot. It didn�t take a second for him to know whose side they were on. Thrusting out his boot again, he tripped the man trying to stand. This sent the detective and Kinchloe crashing back to the floor.

Vaulting over them, he retreated through the waiting room, much to the displeasure of the four women there. They huddled together against his new intrusion. He touched the brim of his hat politely and said, �Excuse me for the interruption, ladies.�

He heard one say something very unladylike, then he leaped down the baggage room stairs and ran for the door he had blocked previously, then shot through. Kinchloe hadn�t respected STC railroad property and had ripped the door off its hinges. Ike burst out into the rail yard and sought any possible sanctuary.

Lily was safely away on the departing train. Where her mother had gone was a mystery, but he suspected she could talk her way out of any predicament. He put his head down and ran for all he was worth, jumping over tracks and veering this way and that to take advantage of trains on sidings and others slowly moving around, preparing to take on freight or unload boxcars creaking with produce.

Without realizing it he found himself back in the warehouse where the two women had been kept chained. He slowed, then stopped, bent over and hands on knees. He sweat like a pig after running around in the fierce Texas sun. Catching his breath proved harder than he expected. After evading everyone chasing him, from Penrose back in Houston to Kinchloe and Granger here in San Antonio, he should have been in better shape.

He straightened and looked at the mountains of crates. Hiding on top of them again until nightfall was the only idea that popped into his head. The cyclorama lay on the floor.

The scrape of boots against the dirt floor caused him to look up. Someone approached, running hard. Ike flopped alongside the canvas roll and pressed snugly against it. If whomever came up wasn�t paying attention, Ike hoped they�d not see him or maybe think he was part of the cyclorama.

He wasn�t that lucky, and they weren�t that careless.

�Shoot him, Smitty. Go on. If you won�t do it, let me.�

Ike peered over the edge of the roll of scenery and stared down the barrel of Smitty�s six-shooter. Another of the bulls stood beside him, his pistol cocked and aimed, too, but held clumsily in his left hand.

�Kinch said he wanted him alive.� Smitty didn�t sound too convinced. He itched to fill his victim full of lead for the chase he had given them.

�Shoot him. We can tell Kinchloe he got the drop on us.�

Ike started to protest that he wasn�t armed, then he saw the man urging Smitty to commit murder had a right arm all cut up. Like he had shoved it through a broken door and waved a gun around before having it taken away from him and used to scatter a gang of railroad bulls. Ike remembered the satisfying feel as the man�s wrist had broken.

�Yeah, why not?� Smitty sighted along the barrel of his Colt. It had been a dangerous, deadly day, but Ike had never before seen death coming for him so vividly.

The bullet ripped past Isaac Scott�s head. He flinched and tried to hunker down even more behind the cyclorama. As large as it was, he wanted a full-sized mountain and not a roll of canvas to protect him. At the sound of a scuffle, he forced open his eyes and saw Smitty wrestling with another man. He sat up and stared, wondering what happened.

�Don�t you even think about running, you varmint.� Marshal Granger stepped out from behind the two wrestling men. He had his six-shooter trained on Ike.

�You got me, Marshal,� Ike declared. Joints aching from all the running around and fighting he�d already done, he stood awkwardly and lifted his hands high. He tried not to shake too much, but his nerves betrayed him. Getting shot at wasn�t something that happened often to him, not if he had a chance to hightail it before a killer drew a bead on him. His mind churned about as he took in the havoc all around. It finally became apparent that he was better off in the marshal�s custody than letting Smitty and his trigger-happy partner deal with him.

�You don�t have to wave your hands around like that. I already took your gun,� the marshal said. �You didn�t pick up another one, now did you?�

Ike shook his head.

�You can�t believe a word he says. When we was chasin� him all over creation, he took a shot at us through the door from the baggage room,� Smitty cried. He tried to move to get a clean shot at Ike, but Marshal Granger stepped to block his aim. Seeing that his protests had no effect, Smitty let the deputy twist the six-shooter from his hand and stopped fighting the inevitable. �Ask him. Go on.� He thrust out his chest and bumped into the marshal. For an instant, Granger started to respond to such belligerence, then considered how this would turn quickly into a brawl and satisfied himself by just pushing Smitty away.

�Well?� Marshal Granger squinted hard at Ike, as if this forced him to tell the truth.

�You�ve got my gun, Marshal. I don�t have another one.� That much was true. Trying to explain how he had taken the gun away from Smitty�s partner and turned it on the railroad dicks was too complicated and would only confuse matters more.

�Him and the women�� Smitty�s partner was cut off in the middle of his protest.

�Shut up,� snapped Smitty. He grabbed his friend by the front of his shirt and lifted. �You keep that tater trap of yours sealed. You�re only makin� matters worse.�

�That�s a real good idea for the both of you,� Granger said. �I don�t want to hear a peep, not until I ask you a direct question.� He slid his pistol back into a low-slung holster and stepped closer to examine his prisoner like a bug on a leaf. Ike started to raise his hands again. �You stop doing that. You�re not any threat.� Granger squinted a bit harder. �Are you?�

�No, sir, I am not.�

�Who�re these women he mentioned?� Granger kept his gaze fixed on Ike, but the question was clearly meant for Smitty.

�Duncan didn�t mean nuthin� by it, Marshal. You know how he gets all confused when his dander�s up. Some women got all riled up over at the depot waitin� for their train to pull out. That�s all. You turn this snake over to us. He kilt Gregorio. We take care of enforcin� the law on STC property.�

�You got that wrong. That�s my jurisdiction,� Granger said. �Most minor crimes committed on STC property are yours to ferret out and punish, but not murder. The good folks of San Antonio insist that I earn my pay by investigating.�

A grating voice interrupted the marshal telling where his jurisdiction lay.

�He killed another man, Marshal, not just Gregorio. He�s on a regular killing spree. I found that body under a train along a siding.� Kinchloe rushed up, herding another of Granger�s deputies ahead of him. He hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and squared off with the lawman. He presented a more imposing challenge than Smitty, but Granger refused to back down. �You�re not doing much of a job if you let him kill two men.�

�Was he an employee of the railroad, too? This is the first I�ve heard of somebody else getting killed.�

�I don�t know who he was, Granger.� Kinchloe shoved the marshal out of the way and stood a foot from Ike. The cyclorama on the floor formed a line in the sand between them. Ike waited for the railroad detective to cross it.

�A case can be made how Gregorio might be considered your business since he worked for the South Texas Central, but if you aren�t sure who this new gent is, then he definitely falls under my jurisdiction. You�re making my argument for keeping this one in custody, Kinchloe. My custody.�

�The boss won�t like that.� The detective looked over his shoulder at the marshal. His hand drifted around to the iron hanging at his hip. Ike caught his breath. If ever he had seen a man ready to throw down and start flinging lead, it was Kinchloe. The marshal didn�t look perturbed in the least.

That meant he knew who Kinchloe�s first victim would be�and it was not anyone wearing a badge. A spot over Ike�s heart began to throb, as if a bullet had already blasted into his chest.

�Don�t matter to me what your boss likes or doesn�t like,� Granger said. �I�ll lock up my prisoner, but first let me take a gander at this new dead man you found.�

�Smitty. Siding A3.� Kinchloe dropped his hand from his side and stalked off.

�Where�s he going, Marshal?� A deputy behind Smitty and his partner stood on tiptoe watching Kinchloe�s back.

�I�m likely to find out �fore the day�s done,� Granger said with a sigh. He pointed at Ike. �You. Come with me.�

Ike did as he was told, aware that the deputy walking behind watched him like a hawk. He was glad he had kept his hide intact so far. If the San Antonio lawmen hadn�t shown up when they did, Smitty would have cut him down like summer alfalfa. Rather than heading right away in the direction of the rail rider Kinchloe�or one of his men�had killed, Ike let the bulls lead the way. Showing too much knowledge only hammered home that he knew more than he cared to admit.

�Under there, Marshal,� Smitty said, kicking at a freight car wheel. Flies buzzed around in the late-afternoon sun, disturbed from their dining on the dead man.

Granger knelt and poked about and finally stood, saying, �Yup, he�s dead. Got a couple bullets in his back. Maybe three, but it�s hard to tell, there�s so much blood. One through his heart probably done him in instantly.�

Ike almost blurted out that death hadn�t been immediate. He caught himself in time, though the deputy closest to him noticed the momentary lapse.

�You boys drag his body out from under the car. Take it and Gregorio�s over to Doc Svenson. Don�t let anybody give you any guff about it. These are my orders.�

�A sawbones ain�t gonna do nuthin� for either of them. They�re dead,� Smitty said.

�While he�s a God-fearing man and a fine sawbones, I don�t expect the doc to resurrect them, if that�s what you�re saying, Mr. Smith. I want him to tell me what he can about the bullets that done these gents in.� Granger rested his hand on the gun thrust into his waistband, the one he had taken from Ike. Satisfied that the pistol was still in his possession and likely to be evidence, he motioned. The deputy behind Ike pushed him hard.

Ike was more than glad to get away from the rail yard. Nothing but trouble had crashed down on him since he had rolled into San Antonio.

Granger walked a pace to Ike�s side, not seeming to have a care in the world.

�This here�s a peaceable enough town. I�ve worked closer to the border and seen my share of killing, but after I took up the law-keeping reins in San Antonio, it�s been peaceable. Right peaceable. Until you showed up. Two killings in a single day�s hardly a record, but it�s unusual now. I don�t want this to put a big ole stain on my escutcheon. You like that word? I came across it in a dime novel. Escutcheon.� He let the word roll off his tongue like a fine, aged drop of whiskey.

�I didn�t have anything to do with either of the deaths, Marshal.� Ike�s mouth was drier than the Chihuahuan Desert, but he got the words out so they didn�t sound like too big a lie. At least, he hoped they didn�t.

�Kinchloe and his band of ruffians are certainly capable of such chicanery,� the marshal said. �You like that word, too? I read it in another of them penny dreadfuls. My sister sends me copies from Philadelphia. That�s back East.�

�I know,� Ike said. From the marshal�s reaction, he should have kept his mouth shut. There were men who rambled on and on about insignificant things to give them time to mull over more important matters. Like who killed two victims at the rail yard. Breaking into the marshal�s parade of �what abouts� only drew unwanted attention to himself. Ike clamped his mouth shut and stared ahead.

�As I was saying, I run a quiet town. The citizens like it. I like it. The fewer prisoners I lock up, the more money�s left in the general fund for special things at the end of the month.� Granger spat and wiped his lips without breaking stride. �Now, the mayor doesn�t much like it that I keep that money. Well, I don�t keep it for myself. I divvy it up betwixt my deputies. They like it a lot. When they like it, they make sure our good citizens see how content they are, and what the mayor says doesn�t matter so much.�

Granger put his hand on Ike�s shoulder and steered him down a side street. At the end of the cul de sac rose a two-story brick building. Ike trembled at the sight. There wasn�t any sign he saw proclaiming this to be the San Antonio City Jail, but he knew it was. He had heard tell of the Alamo and how the Texans turned the church into a fortress back in 1836. The brick building wasn�t converted from anything else. It had been built as a jailhouse and looked able to hold a small army of prisoners.

�A beauty, ain�t she?� Granger said. �I took over from the prior marshal. He kept it full to the rafters with drunks and other lowlifes. My policy�s a bit different.�

�Whack �em on the head and run �em out of town,� his deputy piped up. �No reason to give them room and board at taxpayers� expense. They only cause trouble the next chance they get. That�s usually within a day or two of being released �cuz they like the free food and board too much.�

�My boy�s learned the lesson,� Granger said proudly.

Ike wondered if that was only a turn of phrase or if the deputy was Granger�s son. The sides of a political�and legal�battle in San Antonio were becoming clear. Granger wasn�t the type to let the mayor dictate to him. Having a politically powerful company like the South Texas Central railroad in the mix vying for control made winning the political struggle all the more lucrative. To fight all that opposition, Granger had an army of his own, or maybe a family all wearing lawmen�s badges.

�Upstairs,� Granger said, herding him like he would a stray heifer. �Empty your pockets on the table so I can paw through them.�

Ike did as he was ordered, feeling uneasy when he dropped the two packs of papers, the leather wallet and the wad of greenbacks onto the table. As ordinary as it all looked, he saw every item there as a confession of his own wrongdoing. Killing the man in the roundhouse hadn�t been his doing, but a clever prosecutor examining the evidence would have no trouble building a case that he had been responsible for the other death.

The other death and robbery after the killing.

Granger poked through the pile using his grimy index finger, as if a snake hissed and rattled, ready to strike at him from hiding.

�You�re no vagrant. Not with this bankroll. It�s big enough to choke a cow.� Granger counted the coins and even found a ten-dollar gold piece in that stack. He raised his eyebrows in surprise but said nothing.

�What charges are you holding me on, Marshal?�

�That remains to be seen. Mopery with intent to lurk will do until I make a decision. Into the cell. The first one�s got the best view.�

Ike entered. He cringed when the cell door slammed behind him, and the metallic click told him he was now officially a prisoner in the San Antonio lockup.

�See what I mean? That�s a real good view of the sunset.�

He thought Granger goaded him like a mean child pulling the wings off a fly and delighting in how it tried to fly away. A look out the barred window changed his mind.

�A real pretty view of the sunset.�

�In the morning you can see the gallows erected at the end of the street running along the rear of the jailhouse. We haven�t used it in a spell.�

This brought Ike back to reality. The marshal wasn�t being friendly or polite. He wanted a confession.

�Let�s hope termites are all that mount the steps,� Ike said. This brought a hearty laugh from the marshal.

�I like you, boy. You�ve got a sense of humor. But you really need to work on gettin� that there mustache all bushy. It looks like a starvin� wooly worm.�

Ike caught his breath, remembering how full the dead man�s mustache had been.

�Don�t go takin� my tonsorial opinions to heart. That�s another fine word I learnt. Tonsorial.� He smiled in self-congratulation.

With that Granger walked back to the table. A quick draw from his belt added the gun he�d taken from Ike to the pile, then he pulled out the sheaf of paper inside one envelope and scanned the page. Ike wished he were a lip-reader. The marshal�s lips moved as he read. The only reaction came as the lawman raised eyebrows when he reached the end of the document. The lawman tucked the paper back in and started to examine the contents of the leather wallet when heavy footsteps on the stairs stopped him.

A tall, handsome man with a thick black mustache, high cheekbones bookended by muttonchops and the most piercing dark eyes Ike ever had seen stood on the far side of the table where all of his ill-gotten gains lay spread out. The man took off a shiny black silk stovepipe hat and dropped it onto the table, then carefully removed linen gloves and dropped them into the hat. From the cut of his coat and the sharp crease in his trousers, he had spared no expense buying the outfit.

Ike hung on the bars. The newcomer�s shoes were shined to a mirror finish. As he moved, his coat opened to reveal a flashy vest shot through with silver threads. More than this, Ike caught a glimpse of a small gun resting under the man�s left arm in a shoulder rig. Everything about the man�s arrogant bearing warned that he wouldn�t hesitate to use the weapon�and not necessarily in self-defense.

�Marshal Granger,� the man said. His baritone voice rumbled and filled the upstairs cell block. Ike saw the man as a politician on a stump, delivering a fiery speech and holding a crowd mesmerized.

�Mr. Schofield,� the lawman said, drawing out the name. �What can I do for you?�

�Him. He killed Gregorio. Gregorio was my most skilled engine mechanic. No one tended the roundhouse better or kept my trains on schedule like Gregorio.�

�My prisoner�s guilt remains to be seen, unless there�s been a trial and I plumb missed it.�

�Judge Higgenbottom will hear the case tomorrow at noon.�

�You�ve already got your bought and paid for jurist in harness? This isn�t a train schedule you have to keep, and there�s no reason to hurry justice while I�m still doin� my due diligence. You like that word?�

�Release him into my custody, Marshal. Now. Judicature awaits him.�

�That�s a mighty fine word, Mr. Schofield. Judicature. I�ll add it to my vocabulary. Thank you for educating me on it.� Granger�s tone was light, but his face was set like a stone statue.

�Granger. Don�t cross me on this.� Schofield�s eyes locked with the marshal�s in a battle of wills.

�What�s the all-fired rush to get his dirty neck into a noose?� Granger jerked his thumb over his shoulder in Ike�s direction. He never looked away from the railroad owner as he gestured.

�He did more than kill a valued employee. He killed one of my passengers. Such behavior is bad for the reputation of the South Texas Central line.�

�How�d a passenger end up under a freight car? And without a ticket stub on him?�

Granger glanced down at the table and its load of miscellaneous belongings. Ike held his breath and then released it slowly when the gist of the marshal�s words sunk in. For the first time, he was happy he and the dead man had been stowed away in a boxcar. If there had been a used ticket stub, that proved Schofield�s claim that a passenger had been killed. Without the ticket, the dead man might have strayed into the rail yard from town.

�Since you have become such a stickler for due process, I will expect you to have all the evidence against him ready to present to the judge tomorrow.�

�Him? The gent gracin� my first cell?� Granger mocked the railroad tycoon with his tone.

�Him. Whatever his name is.� Schofield pointed directly at Ike. �One way or the other, someone�s going to pay for giving my depot a bad reputation. Murder. Murders!�

�I haven�t had time to do a decent investigation. Come on downstairs, Mr. Schofield, and let me round up a couple deputies to go back to the depot with you. They�ll look under every cinder and gather as much evidence as they can. How�s that sound?�

The men descended the stairs to the big lobby on the first floor. The last thing Ike saw was the mirrorlike top of Schofield�s tall silk hat. He sagged, supporting himself against the bars. Trusting the law to find only evidence to clear him was like believing in leprechauns and a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

The pair hadn�t been gone five minutes when a ruckus from outside drew Ike back to the window in the cell. The sun had set, and a humid breeze blew against his face. Then he shivered as if he stood in an arctic blast. A crowd of a dozen men milled about in the street below, a few carrying torches. He caught their chant and turned downright frozen with fear.

�Hang the killer! Hang the killer!�

Isaac Scott was the only one in the city jail, so there wasn�t any doubt as to who they meant.

That crowd�s getting mighty rowdy,� Ike called out, hoping the marshal took notice. He wrapped his arms around the bars to pull himself up to peer over the window ledge. The number of men with torches had grown. He tried to count them and stopped at fifteen. For every torch-waving member of the crowd, a couple more milled around, mumbling and occasionally shouting that they wanted him strung up.

Leaving Houston had been a good idea. Penrose�s reputation for how he collected debts assured Ike of that, but he had flopped from the frying pan into the fire. Penrose might have killed him. A lynch mob was sure to hang him.

�Are they heating pots of tar and plucking chickens yet?� Marshal Granger looked up from the table where he pored over the papers from the second envelope he�d taken when he arrested Ike.

�I don�t see anything like that. So far, nobody�s waving around a noose, either. Just burning torches and making ugly sounds.�

�If they start plucking chickens, I can run �em in. There�s an ordinance against doing that in public. We respect our poultry here in San Antonio.�

Ike dropped down and stared at the lawman, trying to decide if he was joshing or if he meant it. Chicken plucking was actionable but lynching wasn�t? He watched as Granger folded the letters into the envelope and pushed it aside. The marshal opened the leather wallet hesitantly. With an exaggerated motion, he held the leather wallet at arm�s length then snapped it shut and tossed it onto the table.

�Is this the only gun you�re toting?�

Ike blinked at the question.

�You searched me. You know it is.�

�A fellow never can tell.� Granger held it up and spun the cylinder. �It needs cleaning.�

�I�ve been busy.� Ike wondered how busy the marshal would be when the crowd broke into the jailhouse, coming to lynch his sole prisoner. He ran his fingers around his neck, imagining what the rope would feel like. Rough hemp, rope burns. Public executions used trained hangmen. A crowd was as likely to drape the rope over a tree limb and hoist him up. Ike didn�t want to choke to death real slow-like. Better to die fast.

Attacking the nearest pistol-toting man in the crowd gave him a chance to be shot to death. Or maybe they�d beat him to death. If he passed out quick, that was better than dangling by his neck and strangling bit by bit as the crowd jeered. He�d heard a man�s tongue lolled out and then got all swole up before turning black. And other parts of a strangled man�s anatomy puffed up really big before the brain was completely starved of blood and the victim died.

A dozen schemes ran through his head. Shouting wasn�t going to be heard over the roar of potential lynchers. Besides, one lone voice calling for mercy was unlikely to be heeded. Saving his breath to grab for one man�s six-shooter gave him the best chance of dying fast. That had to be his only goal. Die quick so he wouldn�t prolong the suffering.

Ike sucked in his breath when he realized what he was planning.

�I sent all my deputies over to the rail yard to investigate that second body, the one that�s got Schofield all fired up.� Granger ran his fingers over the envelopes. �You get a chance to talk to Gregorio? No, I reckon not.� He picked up one envelope and turned toward the cell. The marshal peered over the top of the grimy envelope. �How�d he think to send this to you?�

Ike had no idea what the marshal meant. Given enough time, he�d have read everything taken off his dead traveling companion. He hadn�t even kept the man�s gun long enough to put it to good use.

�That�s all right. No need to answer. I can figure it out myself. He�s a powerful man with tentacles going all the way back East. I�ve heard tell he even has coffee with the president himself whenever he can find the time. Yes, sir, a righteously powerful man who buys and sells senators like they was cords of wood.�

Ike frowned, trying to make sense out of the lawman�s words.

�You don�t need this anymore. What do you say about me keeping it? I know some folks who�d be real interested.�

�Help yourself,� Ike said. �I don�t expect you�d agree to swap it for the six-shooter? You keep the paper and give me the iron?�

Granger tucked the envelope into his coat pocket, just above the spot where he had his badge pinned to his vest.

�You want another six-shooter? I got a few I�ve taken off drunks in the past month. They never bothered asking fer �em back. Naw, that�s not what you want. Don�t go anywhere.� Granger pushed himself to his feet and disappeared.

Ike heard the marshal�s boots clicking on the steps as he went downstairs to his first-floor office. When the echoes of those footsteps died, all that remained was the increasingly loud demand from the crowd outside for justice. He hoped the marshal hadn�t gone to let in the lynch mob, but steps returning caused him to stiffen.

�This one�s a good fit,� the marshal said. He held up a gun belt with the loops filled with spare ammunition. With remarkable dexterity, he picked up the six-shooter from the table and flipped it in the air. He thrust out the holster so that the pistol slid in snugly. Granger swung the gun belt around and around.

�The only way to know is if I try it on.� Ike hated his gallows humor, but the words leaked out.

�Yes, sir, you got that right.� Marshal Granger came over, unlocked the cell and kicked the door open. �Try it on. I�ve got another spare downstairs, but I remember taking that one off Ozzie Oswald. I swear, that man weighs three hundred pounds if he weighs an ounce. I never saw him after locking him up for drunk and disorderly a month back. He might have returned to the Panhandle. Heard tell his people are cotton farmers up there.�

Granger held out the gun belt. Ike hesitated taking it, sure it was a trap. If he touched the holster with the six-gun stuffed in it, Granger had reason to throw down on him and fill him with lead for trying to escape.

�Take it, won�t you?� He tossed the gun belt and pistol to Ike. He turned away and gathered everything taken earlier into a pile. With an almost reverent touch, he stroked over the leather wallet. �If the gun�s not good enough, I can give you mine. I keep it in tiptop condition, and it�s sighted in for ten yards.�

�You�d give me your six-shooter?� Ike held the gun taken off the body in the rail yard as if it had teeth ready to snap at his hand.

�I don�t have any attachment to it, not like a set of spurs my pa gave me for my tenth birthday. One rowel came off somewhere since then, but I�ve kept the set. But my gun? It might be time to get a new one, if you are looking to take this one.� Granger drew his gun, rolled it around the trigger guard and thrust it toward Ike, butt first.

�Th-that�s all right, Marshal,� Ike stammered. This had to be a trick.

�My deputies are likely to return any time now. You�d better hightail it down the back stairs.�

�The crowd�.�.�.�

�Them? Don�t worry none about that. Schofield�s hired the whole lot of them to cause a fuss. He thinks he can make me do what he wants if enough people outside shout curses and call me ugly names.� Granger�s tone hardened. He and Schofield weren�t on good terms.

�Are you sure?� Ike strapped on the gun belt and settled the three pounds of smoke wagon on his right hip. He kept an eagle eye on the marshal to see if this sparked a gunfight. This had to be a setup so the marshal could justify cutting him down during an escape attempt.

Ike thought on all the plans he�d made just minutes earlier about getting shot so he wouldn�t be hanged. He doubted Marshal Granger had read his mind, but deciphering his intent from the expression on his face couldn�t be that hard. But why would the marshal go to such trouble? Better to let the lynch mob have his prisoner than explain how a loaded six-gun had come into his possession.

�Do I know for sure? Nope, can�t say that I do, but it�s what he does to get his way. His motto�s �if it can�t be bought, stomp on it.� Leastways it strikes me that way.� Granger pressed his hand over the spot where he had tucked away the envelope.

�He always gets his way?� Ike edged from the cell and scooped up everything off the table. The marshal hadn�t even taken a share of the greenbacks and specie. All the money went into his side coat pockets. With a move like a striking snake, he snatched the wallet and stuffed it into an inner coat pocket. The lone envelope remaining on the table bulged with papers. Hesitantly now, Ike tucked that away into his inner coat pocket. He had back everything he had taken off the dead man, other than the one envelope Granger had kept.

�You�re the one to make certain that�s not true,� Granger said.

Ike had no idea what the marshal meant. A chant outside the jailhouse grew louder, demanding revenge for killing Gregorio. All that meant was a necktie party getting anxious and working itself up into a frenzy. Ike touched the butt of the six-gun hanging at his hip. Six rounds meant nothing when dozens from a hysterical mob attacked him.

�Should we find a place to stand them off?� Ike considered locking himself inside the cell. But the iron bars kept prisoners from getting out, not rioters from breaking in. There had to be some hidey-hole in the large jailhouse that the crowd would overlook. There had to be or he was a goner.

�No reason for that. All it�d accomplish is spilling blood all over my polished wood floors. I had to get that Ferguson boy to do the polishing. Keeping him workin� was harder than if I did the work myself.� Granger put his hands on Ike�s shoulders and turned him around. �Go on down the hall outside to the back stairs. The crowd�s gathered out front and under the cell window. None of them�ll think to watch for you leaving that way.�

�You�re staying?�

�Why not? I can�t talk sense to them, if they�re a real mob. I sure as hell can�t talk sense to them if Schofield is paying them to bang on the door and raise the dead.� Granger chuckled. �That�s funny. Raise the dead. They�d raise you by your neck �til you�re dead, but you�ve seen your share of hangings, I suspect.�

�One more is too many,� Ike said. Again he rubbed his grimy neck and imagined what hemp cutting into it would feel like.

�You do have a sense of humor, but then you�d need it to survive as long as you have workin� for a man like him. I have to admit not being anywhere near as brave as you.� Granger poked his head out of the cell block and looked around. He motioned for Ike to leave the cell.

Reluctantly, the former prisoner crowded past the marshal. As Granger had said, a hallway led to sidestairs. Ike feared what lay ahead. This had to be a trick. Nothing else made a lick of sense.

�Go on. The sooner you leave, the quicker you can get back to your job.�

�My job,� Ike said dubiously. �Why are you doing this?�

Surprise lit the marshal�s face. He opened his mouth to answer, then clamped it shut and frowned.

�That�s a peculiar question. I�� Granger grinned ear to ear, as if the answer came to him. �Sorry. You don�t want me to know who you are. I can keep my yap shut about your true identity.� In a gruff voice, the marshal said, �You get on out of here, you jail-breaking scoundrel! As quick as my deputies get back, we�ll be on your trail.� He lowered his voice. �That�s the best I can do for you.� Granger gave a big wink and slapped Ike on the shoulder as if they were partners in some secret scheme.

Ike instinctively shook hands. The look of pleasure on the marshal�s face befuddled him, but there wasn�t any way he passed on the chance to get out of the jailhouse. He released the lawman�s callused hand and tried to keep from running to the door at the head of the stairs.

The hair on the back of his neck rose. He chanced a quick look behind, still thinking the lawman intended to shoot him in the back and claim he had stopped a jail break. Granger waved, then ducked into the cell block. Ike wasn�t sure but thought the marshal was singing a cheerful tune. It made no sense. Nothing that had happened made a lick of sense.

Hand trembling, Ike opened the door and looked down the steep flight of stairs. None of the crowd milled around. Slowly at first, then taking the steps two at a time, he reached the ground. Looking toward the rear of the jailhouse, he saw a few latecomers at the fringe of the crowd shaking their fists and waving a torch around. They ignored him. He headed in the opposite direction, then cut down a street with the intent of losing himself in San Antonio. The crowd didn�t know what he looked like. Nobody in town really did, either, except Kinchloe, Smitty and their boss.

Nobody that hadn�t helped him escape, that is.

His racing heart slowed after a half hour of freedom. Passersby out on the street hardly gave him a second look. He eyed a saloon and considered going in to wet his whistle, then hesitated. This was the Grand Palace, the gin mill that had tried to cheat Lily and her mother. It seemed a betrayal to put money in the greedy fist of the owner.

�Zachary,� he said softly. That was the owner�s name. He remembered how Lily had spat it out as if the mere mention was venom on her tongue.

He squared his shoulders, then marched through the double doors and stopped just inside. The customers gathered near a stage at the rear, waiting for a show to begin. A half-dozen men pressed their bellies against the bar, swilling beer and joshing each other. A mousy woman wearing a red satin dress with a deep scoop neckline made her way back and forth behind the bar. Her expression said more than words ever could. If she had been working straight through for twenty-four hours, she couldn�t have looked more beaten down. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes matched the sad down-curve of her lips. At some time in the past she had tried to apply makeup. Now the mascara was smeared, and rouged cheeks only accentuated her gray, pale skin.

Ike had seen corpses that looked more alive.

To his right, a twin of the barkeep worked dealing faro. Her eyes were bloodshot, too, and her mouth slack. Gnarled fingers worked mechanically, moving cards around the table as she called out winners and losers in an emotionless, muted tone. From what he saw, working at the Grand Palace sapped all energy from the employees.

�How�d you ever decide this was a decent theater?� He spoke to himself, but the words called to mind the energetic Lily and her annoyingly pushy mother. They must have been really down on their luck to think the Grand Palace was a worthwhile venue to find fame and fortune.

Or even enough money to move on to a better stage.

He wedged himself in to the bar and ordered. It felt good having enough coin in his pocket to buy a beer, even if the bitter brew made his lips pucker. With a deft twist, he left the press of unbathed bodies at the bar and headed for a table at the far rear of the large room, away from the stage. Ike settled down and leaned back, suddenly tired to the bone.

He winced as a trumpet player began torturing an almost-familiar song. Before Ike worked through the possibilities of what the random notes were intended to be, the curtains parted and a chorus line of four dancers began swirling their skirts and revealing ankles and bare calves to the hoots and hollers of the men crushed against the stage.

Ike couldn�t see the dancers when onlookers between him and the stage jumped onto chairs and tables to get a better view. Watching the show at one time would have interested him. Now he felt lost and adrift, not sure how to clear out of San Antonio. The only sure thing he did know was that the lynch mob would eventually have their way with him if he failed to escape.

�Why�s Schofield so anxious to get rid of me?� He closed his eyes for a moment, toying with the idea that the railroad president actually thought he had killed the roundhouse engineer. The screeching trumpet made him turn away from the stage in an attempt to block some of the off-key noise pretending to be music.

He worked to drain the mug, but he swallowed crooked, choked on the beer and puked some of it onto the table. In better times, such a spew would have embarrassed him. Finding where he�d spit the brew challenged him. Too many other stains and fresh wet spots covered the table.

A few more swallows of beer remained. As bad as the beer was, he wasn�t inclined to leave it behind. Giving his palate a rest, he fished around in his pocket and pulled out the leather wallet. Before he opened it, the envelope slipped out. He rescued it from a puddle of beer before it soaked through and through. Ike shook off the damp and opened the letter. Granger had kept one but left him this.

He blinked when he saw the letterhead. Ike caught his breath as he read the letter. His lungs about burst by the time he finished. Hands shaking, he replaced the folded paper in the envelope and opened the wallet.

Dizziness hit him. If he hadn�t been seated he would have toppled over. He recovered and snapped the wallet shut. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed what lay inside. Panting like a hound dog in the summer sun, he shoved the wallet and envelope with its letter back into his coat pocket.

Isaac Scott had no idea what to do.

Ike drifted in a bubble, all alone, sound cut off, seeing only blurs moving in front of him. When a drunk collided with him and almost knocked him out of his chair, the bubble popped and he returned to the gritty reality of the Grand Palace Saloon. The music hadn�t improved, and the off-tempo clickety-click sounds from the direction of the stage warned him that the dancers weren�t even close to matching one another�s steps. They were as terrible dancers as the trumpet player was a musician.

His only thought was that it could be worse. A piano player with no skill at all belting out a tune would have added to the general noise.

He looked at the floor, where the drunk fought his own inebriation to stand. He flopped about like a fish pulled out of a stream and heaved up on the bank.

�Let me give you a hand, partner.�

Ike caught the man�s arm and yanked him up. At the same instant the drunk started to tumble back to the floor, Ike kicked a chair under him. The man threw up his hands and thrust out both legs and yelled, �Yippee!�

�Settle down, old-timer,� Ike ordered. He looked around. Nothing the man said or did was going to draw attention away from the stage show. �You can finish it for me.� He shoved his mug across the table. Only a rime of foam around the lip remained.

�You�re a good man, no matter what anybody says.� The drunk snatched up the mug and licked away the foam, smacked his lips and wiped his lips with his sleeve. �That wasn�t enough to sate my thirst. No, sir, it weren�t, but it�s a start.� He tried to focus his eyes on Ike and failed. �You buy a poor, down-on-his-luck cowboy a drink?�

�Why not?� Ike said. �But you�ve got to tell me something. Is there a bookstore anywhere near?�

�Books? Them things with words in �em? I reckon so.� He waved his arms about and finally pointed. �Not five doors down the street. Goin� west. East! Nope, I was right the first time. West.�

Ike slapped him on the shoulder and said, �Don�t go anywhere, you hear?�

�No, sir, nowhere a�tall.�

Ike moved from the table heading for the swinging doors. He stopped when he saw a lanky, handsome man go to the center of the stage. The man was dressed to the nines and had an arrogance about him that made Ike want to punch him before he uttered a word.

�Gents,� the man onstage called, �if you�ll pass a hat and everybody generously contributes as much as they can, the Grand Palace Dancers will come back.� He stepped toward the crowd and said, as if confiding a secret, �The quicker you fill that hat, the sooner the ladies will return. They might not have time to get dressed all the way if you�re fast enough.�

A cheer went up, and a hat bobbed from one side of the crowd to the other. The man�he had to be the owner, Zachary�scooped out the money and stuffed it into his coat pockets.

Ike saw how so much coin and specie ruined the line, but he knew Zachary wasn�t concerned.

�Back, you prancing fillies, get on back out here, naked or not!�

Zachary rushed from the stage, the curtain went up, and the dancers, in various degrees of dishabille, pretended to be shocked and embarrassed. Ike doubted the dancers got a penny of the money the owner just collected. Disgusted, he left the Grand Palace. A small smile came to his lips as he wondered how long the drunk would wait for that beer.

�Not long enough to sober up,� he said to himself. Ike stepped into the street, got his bearings and hurried to the bookstore. The drunk had been accurate about his directions.

The bookstore owner was closing for the day. He looked up from wrestling a bookcase of dime novels that had been on the boardwalk into the store.

�You in the market for some fine literature, Mister?�

�I am,� Ike said. �You have any magazines telling about the exploits of a Federal marshal?�

�Got a few. Even a new one. This here�s a popular series.�

Isaac Scott wobbled and closed his eyes, hoping the dime novel would be gone when he again looked. It wasn�t.

�All about one of Judge Parker�s top lawmen.�

�Deputy Federal Marshal Augustus Yarrow,� Ike said. �He�s real? Not made up?�

�I can�t swear that every word in here�s the Gospel truth, but Deputy Yarrow is as real as a toothache.� He held up the dime novel, looked from the lurid cover to Ike and back. The bookseller shook his head. �You look a tad like him, but your mustache�s not thick enough. The drawing on the cover, at least makes the two of you look like brothers. That�s supposed to be a good likeness, but you never can tell.�

�No, no, I don�t look a thing like him,� Ike denied. �It�s the bad light.� The sun had long since set and gaslights hissed along the street, casting dancing shadows and turning details into murky swamps of gray.

�I don�t have any notion what the real Augustus Yarrow looks like. I don�t think the artist that drew this does, either, but it�s as good a likeness as a wanted poster. Yours for a dime.� The clerk held out the book.

Ike stood frozen, staring at the cover and the title, A Noose for the Banker.

�Heard tell Deputy Yarrow actually works like the character in the book. He doesn�t go after stagecoach robbers or Indian raiders. No, sir, he goes after a different breed of crook. This one tells how he brought a thieving bank president to justice. Last month was a tale about catching a stagecoach agent who�d rob passengers while they were eating at his way station.�

�The kind of lawman who goes after crooked railroad presidents, too?�

�Like that, sure,� the bookseller said. He thrust the book out impatiently. �I got to get home to the missus. You buying this or not?�

Ike fished around in his pocket and found a dime. He passed it over and almost dropped the book when the clerk tossed it to him.

�Much obliged. Enjoy that fine tale. Check back next month. There�s sure to be another story that�ll snap your suspenders.� The man pushed the bookcase inside and closed the door. The lock snapped shut with a grim finality that reminded Ike of the sound made when the jail cell door clicked shut behind him.

Ike swung around and sat on the bookstore step and studied the cover.

�It doesn�t look a thing like me.� Ike swallowed hard. �Or him. It doesn�t look anything like him.� He pulled out the wallet and opened it. The gaslight caught the brass badge and turned it into a small sun in the darkness.

Ike ran his fingers over the ridges and valleys in the metal. He traced out the words deputy united states federal marshal. A guilty glance around assured him no one saw him with the badge. He shut the wallet and took out the envelope again.

The flickering streetlight wasn�t as good as the dozen lamps in the Grand Palace, but he knew what the letter said. It was on District Judge Isaac Charles Parker�s letterhead for the United States District Court for the Western District of Arkansas. It certified that Augustus Yarrow was empowered to perform any legal arrest for crimes committed in Indian Territory and to chase down miscreants committing such crimes anywhere they fled.

Ike touched the signature at the bottom of the warrant. It might have been a forgery. The man dead in the rail yard might have signed it himself as a hoax. The weight of the wallet and the Federal badge inside warned Ike not to put much faith in such a supposition.

Hanging Judge Parker�s chief enforcer was dead, and the San Antonio city marshal thought Isaac Scott was him, working undercover to arrest the head of the South Texas Central railroad.

�Why?� Ike felt a headache building that made his head feel like a keg of Giant Powder had been exploded inside his skull. Nothing made a lick of sense. �Why�s Parker sending his lawman to southern Texas? That�s way out of his jurisdiction.�

He glanced up. A man and a woman strolling along the boardwalk stared at him. They backed away, thinking he was a crazy man. Talking to himself qualified. Trying to figure out why Yarrow, a lawman noted for his undercover detective work, had been riding the rails and why he was even in Texas only made him crazier.

�I�m all right,� he said to the couple. This caused them to backpedal faster, go into the street and find their path on the far side. They whispered furiously, and the woman pointed at Ike.

A cold lump formed in his gut. He was less afraid that they�d report him to the marshal than he was that the lynch mob would discover he was no longer in the city jail. If Marshal Granger was right and the railroad president had hired the mob, that hinted that he knew Judge Parker�s enforcement officer was on his trail.

�In Texas? This is a long way from Arkansas. And from Indian Territory.�

He tucked the paper back into the envelope and slipped it into his coat pocket. The best thing he could do was clear out of town. Fast. Ike got to his feet and walked along the boardwalk, eyeing the horses tethered beside saloons and in front of stores just now closing up for the night. Stealing one guaranteed him a speedy exit from San Antonio. It also set a posse on his trail. Horse thieving was about the worst crime a man could commit.

Any horse he saw would be missed right away. That reduced the time he had to escape by hours. Chances were good whichever horse he stole wouldn�t be the fastest or the most likely to tolerate a new rider.

He patted his pocket and the wad of greenbacks there. He had coin; he had scrip. Buying a horse put him astride a way to dodge all the woe building around him.

�Only whoever I buy the horse from can identify me. Schofield was willing to spend a lot of money to lynch me.� The deputies who had dragged him to jail and Marshal Granger could identify him. �And Lily and her mother,� he added with some regret.

Staying anonymous aided him more than not buying a horse hindered him. There were other ways out of town. He wandered around until he found the Wells Fargo depot. A light burned inside, and a clerk pored over a ledger. Ike started in, then backed away. The stage schedule was posted on the outer wall. A quick look at it confirmed his suspicion. The next stage out of San Antonio wasn�t leaving until early morning. Not only did this increase his worries about staying in town overnight, but the stationmaster might have been given orders to be on the lookout for someone like him.

Ike stepped into shadows when a pair of men came strutting down the boardwalk. They were well-dressed. As their coats flapped about, he saw both wore pistols in shoulder rigs. Worse, light reflected off small brass badges pinned on their chests. He held his breath as they stepped into the stage depot.

�Hey, Ulrich, anybody askin� to buy a ticket?�

�Tell Mr. Schofield,� the clerk replied, �that I�m not working for him. If he wants to know how many tickets I sell, he can come over and count the passengers himself.�

�I know why you got fired,� one of the railroad detectives said. �There�s a dollar in it for you if you see anybody like we described.�

�Lowlife traveling by himself, yeah, right, Murdoch. That describes most all my customers.�

�A silver dollar for your trouble,� the railroad bull said. �And that�s Mr. Murdoch to you.�

The clerk snorted in derision. Ike tried to press himself through the wall as Schofield�s detectives passed within a couple feet.

�Let�s ask over at the livery, then get a drink or two,� Murdoch said.

�Might be a bartender�s seen him,� said the other detective.

�I wish the boss�d given us a better description. I don�t see nuthin� wrong with beatin� it outta the marshal. He let him go, after all.�

�And he got a real good up-close look,� Murdoch said. �But you know what the boss said about gettin� crossways of the marshal.�

The pair turned a corner at the next cross street, and their heated debate about dealing with Marshal Granger faded away. Only then did Ike let out his breath in a hard gasp. He bent over and put his hands on his knees to recover. Schofield set his hounds on the trail of the man Granger had let go. From the way Murdoch and his partner talked, the marshal wasn�t inclined to give any information to the railroad president. Whatever caused the bad blood between them had been to Ike�s benefit so far. So far.

He hesitated outside the Wells Fargo office. The clerk still worried over his columns of numbers and didn�t notice a chance to earn a silver dollar for reporting the suspicious �lowlife traveling by himself.� Ike spun and almost ran to get away. Horse thieving and the stagecoach were out of the question. With Murdoch and his cohort checking livery stables, buying a horse became more complicated, even if he wanted to risk being identified.

Riding shanks� mare only got him sore feet. Ike considered being bold and buying a railroad ticket. Schofield might order his small army out across San Antonio and never think of such a thing. Ike wasn�t inclined to take the risk that the railroad agents hadn�t been alerted. They had more to lose than a silver-dollar reward if he slipped past them and their boss found out.

That didn�t mean riding from town wasn�t the way for him to get away. He had come to San Antonio hiding in a freight car. With Schofield�s men scattered around the city hunting for him, sneaking a ride ought to be easier. How many railroad bulls did Schofield pay?

Boldness favored his escape.

The closer he got to the rail yards, the less sure Ike became that this was a smart move. Gutsy, sure, but also desperate. Men like Schofield smelled desperation and capitalized on it in others.

Ike reeked of fear. He touched the six-shooter at his hip, then looked across the rail yards where Deputy Marshal Yarrow had been killed. The grinding of gears and the hiss of steam caused him to look at the roundhouse. Someone named Gregorio had been killed there. Death waited in every shadow, under every freight car, in the buildings�everywhere.

If death hid everywhere, and he knew it did, he had nothing to lose by dodging the railroad dicks and hiding until he came up with a plan to get away.

�I can only die once,� he said, but that prospect did nothing to reassure him. Ike dashed into the tangle of tracks, jumping over them and going deeper into the yard, where thrown switches turned entire trains away and set them on tracks leading to who knows where.

He dropped to his knees and tried to hide behind a switch as a man in a striped hat and the overalls of an engineer hurried along to jump into a locomotive cab. Ike heard the engineer barking orders to the stoker. An orange glow danced from the cab as the furnace door opened and coal began being shoveled into the fire to build a head of steam.

He had found his way out of town. This train was pulling out immediately. Ike left his worthless sanctuary behind the switch and hunted for a freight car door that hadn�t been sealed shut. Defeat met his every attempt. Finally, he came to a flatcar loaded with steel rails. Somewhere along the route this cargo was being sent to extend the rail system. Ike pulled himself onto the flatcar and pressed against the lengths of cold metal track.

A soft sigh escaped his lips. He was headed away from all his woes.

�I see you,� came a loud voice. �Get down. Now. You climb down right away. No one believes you�re a section of track.�

Ike jumped a foot when a hand clutched at his arm.

Caught!

Flat along the pile of steel rails, Isaac Scott found himself unable to grab for the six-shooter pinned under his body. He rolled onto his back, expecting to feel a dozen bullets slam through him.

�Don�t shoot,� he croaked out.

�Please, I need your help.�

Ike blinked and sat up. His hand rested on his pistol butt. Craning about, he saw Lily standing forlornly beside the flatcar, wringing her hands.

�What�s wrong? Didn�t you get away from the railroad bulls?�

�They caught Mama. Please. You helped us before. We�I�need you.� The redhead looked up, her bright green eyes welling with tears. She reached out imploringly, then drew her hands back and crossed them over her breast. �You�re the first man who�s ever helped us without wanting anything from us.�

Ike�s heart went out to her, but something about the way she gestured made it seem as if she had practiced the moves, rehearsed the words, had expert direction to wring the most emotion possible from him. He remembered she and her mother were actresses.

�Climb up here and�� Ike lost his balance when the train surged. The engineer finally got up enough steam to pull out of the yard. He held out his hand to her. �Jump on. The train�s leaving.�

�Mama! She�s been caught again, and they�ll hurt her. That terrible man named Kinchloe trapped her trying to move our belongings.� Lily ran alongside the accelerating train. Ike tried to pull her aboard, but she yanked free and stepped away.

He stared at her as the train gathered speed. Without thinking, he rolled off the flatcar. With a thud, he landed hard. Only Lily tugging on him kept him from rolling the wrong way and being chopped to mincemeat under the grinding steel wheels. She helped him to his feet. When his eyes focused, he found himself impaled on her bright green stare. Lily clutched his arm and pulled him closer. Their bodies pressed together. Ike wasn�t sure if the pounding heart he felt was his or hers.

�You�ve got to help. You�re the only one in this terrible town that�s shown us the smallest bit of charity.�

�I saw the Grand Palace,� Ike said, still shaken from his fall. �And I think I saw Zachary. He was onstage and collected money and��

�Please!� Lily shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth. �Mama needs our help.�

Ike regained his senses and looked around, hunting for any sign that the railroad bulls had spotted them. Other than a few men obviously from train crews, no one stirred in the shadow-cloaked yard.

�Let�s go,� he said, not sure where. Lily steered him toward a large warehouse on the far side of the tangle of tracks and switches. He let her pull him along until even the dull ache behind his eyes faded away.

He might not be thinking as fast as needed, but he wasn�t in a daze any longer.

They slipped past a large, partially opened door. Tracks branched away from the main line. Three boxcars were pushed to the rear of the huge warehouse, sliding doors open and crates piled all around waiting to be loaded.

�How�d she get nabbed again?� he asked.

�Oh, pish and twaddle,� Lily said. �Excuse my language. She makes me so mad sometimes. We should have run like frightened rabbits, the way you did, but she hid and tried to rescue our scenery and luggage. That cyclorama is so important to her. It�s becoming too much of a nuisance, and we should leave it behind.�

�The thick roll of canvas? It has a background on it?�

�When it is properly installed, a spring mechanism unwinds from one side, pulls the scenery across the rear of the stage and rewinds on the other side. We perform according to the scenery. There�s a woodlands where I do a ballet dance. Madragora, it�s called. I dance like an insect sampling nectar from a flower. Mama choreographed it herself. Then��

�Never mind,� Ike said. He steered her to a safer spot out of sight. The warehouse was strangely deserted. Freight trains left the rail yards at all hours, and he doubted Schofield was a man to allow slackers to work for him.

�You�re right. We must save Mama.� She smiled almost shyly as she looked up at him. �I�d like to show you the dance sometime. It�s quite�.�.�. stimulating.�

�I�m sure it is,� he said, pulling her deeper into shadows as the tramping sounds of boots crunching against cinders outside alerted him to a half-dozen men entering the warehouse.

�What are we going to do?�

Ike shushed her and pulled her around stacks of boxes. The work crew passed by without noticing them, intent on their job of loading the crates into the three freight cars across the warehouse. Stepping lightly, he pulled Lily along behind. She tried to jerk free, but he refused to let her go.

�Are you sure she�s in here somewhere?� Ike held the woman close, feeling the heat of her body and the soft gusting of her breath against his cheek.

�I�m positive,� Lily said. �I saw her disappear through the far door. That one over yonder! Kinchloe and his sidekick followed her. There was no way they missed seeing her.�

�Smitty,� Ike said, distracted. The workers suddenly stopped loading the crates into the nearest boxcar when a freight handler cried out.

Ike forced Lily to sit on a box and silently admonished her to stay put. He made his way between the stacks to peer out at the boxcars. The man�it had to be their foreman�chewed out a worker who had dropped a large box.

�You�re drunk!� the foreman roared. �I oughta fire you right now. You coulda kilt the lot of us. Get that loaded into the car right now, and be more careful.�

�I ain�t drunk. I had one or two �fore I showed up, but I ain�t drunk.�

Ike wondered at the rest of the men�s reactions. They all shied away from the foreman and the clumsy freight handler as if the two men had the pox. Huddled together, they whispered. A short man, visibly trembling, edged away farther, then ran. Ike had seen angry foremen before, but this one didn�t lash out with his fists. The fear caused by the man chewing out his probably drunk worker was out of proportion.

�Gimme a hand, if it�s that important,� the worker said. He bent and lifted, grunting as the heavy crate came off the floor.

�Be careful with it,� the foreman called. Ike saw another man inside the freight car. He was as nervous as those on the warehouse floor, but he came over and pointed. The crate was lifted up and then slid across the boxcar�s floor with a noisy, grating sound. Only when the careless worker backed off did the man inside heft the box. He disappeared. Ike heard the crate being set into place.

�Keep going. We got three cars to load in the next couple hours. The train leaves at dawn, and the freight�s gotta be on it. If it�s not, you�ll all regret the day you were born.� The foreman berated the others and got them working, moving long, slender crates from the pile.

Ike started to return to where he�d left Lily, then reconsidered. Nothing made a whit of sense to him. He slipped around to the rear of the mountain of crates being loaded. Peering at them, he saw illegible markings where a description of the contents should have been stenciled. Ike pressed his hand against one of the long, narrow crates, then pushed hard. He failed to budge it. Whatever was inside weighed more than a casual shove moved easily.

A pry bar laying on the floor gave him a chance to find out what was going on. Using the notched end, he lifted the wooden lid on the nearest box. When he had opened a space large enough to reach through, he moved closer. This was crazy. He ought to pull off the top, but the creaking nails as he opened the crate this far clawed at his senses. If the foreman heard the ruckus, he�d come to investigate.

Screwing up his courage, Ike reached inside the box. He recoiled, then settled down. His nerves were getting the better of him. He had touched something warm and stringy. He pulled out a handful of wood shavings, then pushed it back in. It took a little digging around blindly before he touched cold metal. With a heave, he pulled up whatever was being shipped to get a good look at it.

�Rifles,� he whispered. Hastily returning the weapon to its place, he closed the crate the best he could without making undue noise. Before he returned to Lily, he sought out the other crates like the one dropped by the careless workman.

The lid popped free when he used the pry bar. The smell making his nostrils flare confirmed his suspicion. Gunpowder. Ammunition. Lots of ammo, enough rounds to fight an entire war. Ike stepped away and did a quick count. If the crates between him and the railcars were all rifles, more than a thousand rifles were being shipped. The large amount of ammo would keep those rifles firing for a good, long time.

He hunkered down, thinking hard. Not knowing where the weapons and munitions were being shipped robbed him of any definite proof of what was going on. The only thing that came to mind was a supply for all the army posts along the rail line. This many rifles would arm a half-dozen cavalry posts, maybe more.

He had heard the Warm Springs Apaches had fled into Texas from an Arizona reservation. Soldiers could fight off those Apaches until they were captured and returned to distant homes. Or maybe the shipment was intended to cross the border into Mexico. They not only fought the Indians but sniped at each other across the Rio Grande, one army unit pitted against another, in the beginning of a new civil war. The official Mexican government had the means to buy enough guns to fill three freight cars.

And the rebels? Whoever backed them might have enough money, too.

Ike made sure the lid was secured on the ammo box before working his way back through the stacks of merchandise to where he had told Lily to wait. He sagged in despair when she wasn�t sitting quietly on the box where he had left her. Helping her was nothing less than a sure way of getting killed. His luck had been running high, with Marshal Granger finding the badge and the documents Augustus Yarrow carried. Confusing him for the deputy got Ike away from a lynch mob.

And what had he done but come right back onto the property of the man who had whipped up the frenzied mob? Ike scowled at that. If Granger was right and the railroad owner was responsible for hiring the mob, why? Why had Schofield taken such an interest in a man he thought was nothing more than a freeloader sneaking a ride on one of his freight cars?

Schofield had to suspect he was Yarrow and that the Arkansas deputy was hot on his trail. Ike remembered what the bookseller had said about the dime novels. That lawman hero went after crooks responsible for crimes not usually noticed by most folks.

Like smuggling guns? Lots of them?

The soft hiss of cloth caused Ike to whirl around. His hand flashed to his six-shooter. It was halfway out of the holster when he froze. Lily had taken refuge amidst taller stacks of boxes.

�You scared me,� he said, dropping the six-gun back into the holster and coming out of the gunfighter�s crouch. Ike was more surprised at the way he instinctively spun to throw down on the woman. Every move had been smooth, easy and quick. He was no gunfighter, but the motion had been natural, as if he had practiced for long hours.

It was a good thing he hadn�t fired. He had used a pistol often enough to know he wasn�t that good a shot. Spraying lead all over the warehouse might have endangered Lily, but he was more likely to have missed. The loud reports would have drawn the workmen like ants to a picnic. He didn�t have to be a genius to know how impossible fighting them all off would have been.

They didn�t even have to carry guns. All the foreman needed to do was crack open a crate and every last one of them would have a rifle along with enough ammo to ventilate him.

�You scared me,� she said, her hand going to her breast. �I don�t like being alone. Not in here, not with Mama out there somewhere.�

Ike looked over his shoulder, as if the crew by the freight cars were sneaking up on him. He heaved a deep breath and took Lily by the hand.

�It�s dangerous even being in this warehouse.�

�Then let�s find my mother and get out!� Lily jerked free. �You don�t have to help us. You�.�.�. you can go on your way. You were hiding on that flatcar to get away.�

Ike wasn�t going to deny it. He wasn�t quite sure why he had let her pull him off. Staring at her, he tried to remember a more beautiful woman and failed. Her eyes flashed, and her cheeks burned with emotion. Her auburn hair was in wild disarray. If an angel came to earth, he thought this was the way she would look.

�I don�t even know your name. I heard your ma call you Lily.�

�Lily Sinclair, sir. And my mother�s name is Catherine Sinclair. Well, not exactly. That�s not really her name.�

�What?�

�Her given name�s Daisy.� She smiled winningly. �She�s Daisy, and she named me Lily. But Catherine is her stage name. She�d considered something French. Sandrine, perhaps. That�s quite exotic, but��

�Miss Sinclair, I don�t care about any of that. All I want to do is rescue your ma and get out of here before we get mixed up in a mess beyond solution.�

�You ought to be on the stage yourself, sir. You are overly dramatic, if I may say so.� She studied him closely. �Dramatic and quite romantic, actually. Your heroism is not pretend or playacting, is it? You are quite brave.�

�Where did you see her enter the warehouse? Back there?� He pointed deeper into the towers of crates.

�Yes, back there. I think. She ducked through a door, and the railroad detectives trailed behind. I am sure they caught her. There wasn�t any way they missed seeing her, they were so close on her heels.�

Ike herded her in front of him. They wove in and out of the stacks until they reached the far back wall, where a door stood partially open. A cool night breeze worked past the door frame, causing the door to sway to and fro fitfully.

�Yes, here, definitely. She�.�.�.�

Ike ignored Lily rambling on about seeing her mother come this very way. A familiar sight poked out. He pointed.

�Our cyclorama!� Lily started to run to it, but he held her back. He pressed his finger against his lips to silence her, then drew his six-gun and advanced.

She pressed close behind. He knew nothing he said or threatened would keep her out of danger�s way. Better that he knew where she was than have her running around making things worse.

With a quick whirl around the corner, he leveled his gun. Again he lowered the weapon and returned it to his holster. Lily pushed past him.

�Mama, you frightened me so!� The two women embraced.

Ike kicked at the cyclorama and saw their luggage and other gear tossed about haphazardly.

�Why�d you leave me behind like that?� Catherine Sinclair demanded. �I thought you�d run off with�.�.�. him.� She eyed Ike. A mocking smile came to her ruby lips. He saw what Lily would look like in another twenty years. �Not that I�d blame you. Give him a bath, a haircut and a shave and he�d clean up nicely, I think. But the mustache must go. Definitely, it must be shaved off.�

�We have to get out of here right now,� Ike said. He turned to retrace the path to the door, but Catherine caught his arm and spun him around.

�Not without our props, sir, not without our costumes! The Sinclair sisters will not be denied their performance.�

�Sisters?� He looked to Lily. She smiled weakly and shrugged her shoulders.

�The cyclorama is the pi�ce de r�sistance of our act. That means��

�I know what it means, and there�s no way we�re lugging that canvas roll out of here. It must weigh a hundred pounds. More.�

�Well, then at the very least we must retrieve our costumes. There are only three steamer trunks of them. We also need our personal belongings. Two carpetbags are filled with those. And our makeup kits, of course.� As she spoke, Catherine pointed.

�We�re leaving it all. If we try to drag any of it out of the warehouse, we�ll be caught. Do you remember how I found you the first time?�

�Why, yes, you found us delightful, I am sure,� Catherine said.

�I found you and Lily chained up like animals,� he said harshly. �If the railroad bulls catch you again, it�ll be worse, much worse.�

�Well, that may be,� Catherine said, �but we simply cannot do without our props.�

�And costumes,� Lily added. �What ever would we do without them? We don�t have a penny to our names to replace what�s taken years to accumulate. Leaving behind the very things that make us our daily bread isn�t possible. Not at all.�

�My�Lily�is right. Everything that is for our livelihood is locked up in this warehouse.� She batted her eyelashes at him and smiled winningly.

Ike looked from the older woman to her daughter. Lily tried to look innocent but was close to laughing out loud. She had seen her mother use this ploy on men before.

�How did you avoid the railroad detectives that trailed you here? Your daughter said Kinchloe and his henchmen must have nabbed you.�

�I knew they followed me, so I took refuge in an empty crate. I pulled down the lid and peered out until I was certain they had left. It�s a good thing I haven�t performed my ablutions of late or applied perfume. They would have sniffed me out like bloodhounds.� She made a face. �They are nothing more than mongrels. Yes, mutts, worthless dogs who��

�Sir,� cut in Lily, �Mama is right about our belongings. They are valuable. We can�t leave anything behind. If we don�t take what we can now, we stand to lose it all.�

�This storage room�s not locked up,� Ike pointed out. He swept his arm around to show how wide open the warehouse was. �They can�t use any of your costumes themselves. No one�s going to buy your clothing. We clear out, and when they find you�re gone, they will dump it.�

�Dump it! No!� protested Catherine. �They can�t! Everything we own is valuable.�

�I think he means we hang around and wait to see what they do with our props and other belongings. If they throw it out, we wait for the right time and reclaim it. That�s a safer way, isn�t it?� Lily batted her eyes in his direction and dimpled enough to set his heart racing.

�That�s it exactly. Now let�s get out of here and find somewhere safe to wait them out.� Ike felt increasingly uneasy. The hairs on the back of his neck popped up and a chill passed down his spine. He spun around, going for his six-gun. He had it out and searching for a target when a bullet ripped past his arm.

The shooter was atop a stack of boxes.

�A railroad bull!�

Ike wasn�t sure if he yelled the warning or if Lily did. He was too busy trying to get a good shot at the detective. A second round came his way before he felt secure enough to squeeze his own six-shooter�s trigger. Both the cinder dick�s and his rounds missed their targets, but his caused the bull to duck back. From the raucous sound that followed, the man had fallen off his perch and crashed into something wooden on the far side.

A stream of blue cussing filled the warehouse. The man screamed about getting splinters in his back.

�What�ll we do?� Catherine clung to his arm. He shook her off.

�That way. Run. Get out of here and hide.� He grabbed Lily and pulled her along behind him as he tried to reach the door. Catherine blundering about would distract the men who had to be swarming in their direction, drawn by the gunfire.

�Mama, not that way. You can�t��

�Outside. Get out of here. I�ll decoy them away from you and your ma.�

Ike hesitated as he looked at her. He pulled her close, planted a big kiss on her lips, then pushed her away. She looked startled, recovered her composure, smiled and then ran out the door.

If Ike was going to die, the taste of her lips against his was a way to check out a bit better than he ever had expected. Two detectives rounded the stack of crates. Ike fired point-blank at them. Then he and the ladies lit out in opposite directions, twisting this way and that through the freight waiting to be shipped.

Ike ducked an instant too late. The bullet cutting through the crown of his hat knocked it flying. A wild grab for the airborne hat saved his life. The spot where his head had been an instant before filled with the deadly hornet�s buzz of slugs meant for him. He hit the floor and rolled, fetching up against a crate so hard it jolted him.

Blinking his vision back into focus, he lifted his six-gun and fired as a detective rounded the stack of crates. His aim was better than the railroad dick�s. The man grunted, then bent double holding his belly. He pivoted and fell back out of sight. Ike clambered upright and rounded more crates to hide. A quick peek showed two more bulls following the one he had wounded. They were cautious after their partner being gut shot. This gave him a chance to reload.

Ike looked around to be sure the coast was clear, then scaled the mountain behind him. He exposed his back as he reached the top, but there wasn�t anything he could do other than move faster. He flopped belly down and swung around, pistol ready. A half-dozen more armed men followed the pair. Shooting it out with so many of them was suicidal.

He wanted to call out and find what happened to Catherine. He had to believe Lily had the good sense to escape from the warehouse and hightail it to somewhere safe. But her mother? She was too determined to retrieve her clothing and stage props.

The tight knot of bulls filtered through the narrow corridors between the crates. They spread out. If he had remained on the warehouse floor, he�d be trapped by now. Or worse. The way they held their weapons warned they intended to take no prisoners. He couldn�t blame them. They were used to being the sole power in the rail yards. Now he challenged their supremacy and made them look incompetent in their boss� eyes.

The tower of crates under him wobbled a mite, but he took the chance of standing and jumping across to another. Then another and another. He gained confidence and ran faster on this aerial highway. He risked being seen, but letting Catherine get caught again was a deadlier outcome. At the very edge of the mountain range of boxes, he caught himself and kept from tumbling down to where the freight handlers milled around. They had loaded all three cars and looked around anxiously.

All the gunplay had spooked them. This made Ike feel more confident. He faced only Schofield�s hired thugs and not the small army of laborers, too.

�Get out of here. All of you. Leave!� Kinchloe waved a six-shooter around and drove the men from the warehouse.

Only they refused to budge.

�We want to get paid! You�re not cheatin� us outta our due for a night�s hard work!�

Kinchloe buffaloed the man, laying him flat when his pistol barrel connected with an exposed temple. He cocked his six-gun and pointed it at the dazed man.

�If any of the rest of you want to save his worthless life, get him out of my sight. You got to the count of three. One�.�.�.�

A man scrambled to half drag his friend along. Blood trickled down the dazed man�s head, but he fought to get his feet moving, one in front of the other.

Ike took careful aim. A single shot removed Kinchloe once and for all. He took his finger off the trigger when Smitty and two others burst into view. They held a struggling Catherine Sinclair. She kicked and futilely tried to yank away from the much stronger men.

There wasn�t any way he shot it out now. Catherine would be in the middle of the gunfight. Worse, Smitty was the kind of owlhoot who�d use a woman as a shield.

Ike had lost the upper hand due to numbers and Catherine being held captive, but he saw a way to get out of the warehouse. He jumped down from the top of the crates. A second leap sent him staggering into the middle of the workmen being chased from the warehouse.

�Don�t shove,� he called loudly, then did that very thing to the man in front of him. The scuffle promised to turn into an all-out donnybrook.

�If you�re all not outta here by the time I reload,� claimed one of the railroad dicks, �I�m going to start cutting you down one by one.� He opened the gate on his Colt and fumbled for fresh bullets in his coat pocket.

This caused a stampede. The men surrounding Ike carried him along. He went with the tide of humanity and burst outside into the humid night air. Clouds moved in, promising a storm by dawn. This suited Ike perfectly, since it blocked starlight that might have shown Schofield�s henchmen his face. He moved along at a quick clip but didn�t outpace any of them. Standing out from the crowd now spelled more gunplay and his eventual death.

�All you men, show up at eight o�clock to get paid.� Kinchloe popped out of the warehouse and looked around.

Ike knew who he sought. He kept his head down but saw out of the corner of his eye how Smitty manhandled Catherine Sinclair. She tried halfheartedly to get away. Giving up was the smartest thing she could do right now, Ike thought�if she expected him to rescue her.

He turned away to hide his holster with his six-gun resting in it. None of the others carried a gun, even tucked into their waistbands. And why should they? All of them were freight handlers, not gunmen.

A few grumbles along the way kept the men from noticing he didn�t belong with them. They exited the rail yard and went their own way, each loudly vowing to be first in line when Kinchloe paid out their wages. Ike walked more slowly and then collapsed in a chair propped against a storefront, nerves shot. He had no idea what to do about rescuing Catherine. There might be no reason for Schofield to hold her captive, but Kinchloe was another matter. In him Ike saw the makings of a madman, totally devoid of humanity, and a merciless killer�and, for Catherine, something worse.

He leaned back in the wooden chair and closed his eyes. His head threatened to explode, but one idea percolated upward and burst on him. If he wasn�t able to get Catherine out of her captivity at the rail yard, there was a man in town who could. Ike rocked onto the balls of his feet and stood straighter. It felt as if he stuck his head in a noose, but Marshal Granger was the law in San Antonio. He was duty-bound to free the actress.

�All I have to do is convince him to do it,� Ike muttered to himself.

He wandered around lost for a few minutes, then spotted the two-story jailhouse at the end of a street. The lynch mob had gone home for the night. Ike wished he could make a similar claim. The steps leading into the main lobby mocked him. Getting the image of steps leading to a gallows from his mind didn�t happen. Rather than enter the way most citizens would, he went around to the side stairs.

Climbing the steep steps was more like the thirteen steps up to a gallows than the front steps ever could seem, but he had escaped this way. Somehow that made this different. Tentatively tugging on the doorknob, he felt a pang of guilt when the door opened. If it had been locked, he knew he would have turned tail and left San Antonio, Catherine Sinclair be damned.

The long corridor down to the cell block echoed with his footsteps. He glanced into the cells before hunting for the marshal. There wasn�t a call to go farther. Granger lay on the nearest bed in an open cell. The marshal sat upright, hand clutching his Colt. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and then dropped his feet to the floor with a loud thump. Ike saw how the lawman kept his pistol aimed, more or less, in the direction of the intruder.

�I need your help, Marshal,� Ike said without preamble.

�You got the goods on that varmint already? You�re one fast worker, Deputy.�

�Please don�t call me that,� Ike said hastily.

�Sorry. I plumb forgot you�re undercover. What name are you going by?� Granger padded from the cell in stocking feet, went to the table where he had examined Ike�s stolen credentials and fumbled about underneath until he found his boots. He laid his Colt on the table as he pulled on his boots.

�The less you know, the better,� Ike said. He almost asked the marshal what that undercover mission was supposed to be. Finding a way to ask what was in the letter the marshal had taken without giving himself away as an impostor seemed too hard a trail to navigate. �I need your help getting a woman away from Kinchloe. He and other railroad detectives have taken her prisoner.�

�The Sinclair woman?�

Ike tried not to look too surprised. Granger was astute and kept his ear to the ground.

�She�s the one.�

�I heard about her and her daughter being booted out of the Grand Palace. There�s some connection between that den of iniquity and Martin Schofield. I�ve never figured out what, but he might be a silent partner. That jackass Zachary who runs it doesn�t have the sense God gave a goose, but the Palace prospers.�

�There was a bit of gunplay at the big warehouse smack in the middle of the rail yard. That�s where Mrs. Sinclair was held.�

�You ran into a brick wall trying to get her out of there? Schofield has an army of road agents working for him. I�ve identified one or two of them by wanted posters.� He slammed his hand down on a stack of posters on the table. �It�s not worth my time to arrest them. The rewards are picayune. Ten dollars, twenty-five dollars, for crimes that�d hardly get a stiff fine, much less any jail time in these parts.�

�Your local judges would toss out the charges?�

�They�d more likely hold me in contempt for wasting their time.� Granger snorted in contempt. �Truth is, most of �em are in Schofield�s hip pocket.�

�Owning a railroad is lucrative,� Ike said.

�Not that lucrative, I�d say, but he�s always got a wad of greenbacks to flash around.� Granger settled his gun belt and thrust his Colt into it. �I�ll rouse a few of my men and go see what we can do.�

�Wait, Marshal. Isn�t Schofield�s railroad profitable?�

Granger shrugged. �Hard to say. He doesn�t have that much track, and it�s all in South Texas. A single line from Galveston is the busiest, and it�s all freight, only nobody can figure out what he�s bringing in.�

�Good luck, Marshal,� Ike said. �I hope you won�t need me.�

�Nope, Deputy, there�s no call for you to come along and reveal yourself. From the sound of it, Schofield can weasel out of any kidnapping charges by laying this mortal sin on Kinchloe�s doorstep. You keep after the snake with the most rattles. We�ll take care of all the itsty-bitsy rattlers.�

Granger went downstairs, bellowing for his deputies to get a move on. Ike peered out from the cell block door and saw four men stumbling along after the marshal. He wished them well. If they weren�t fully awake by the time they reached the rail yard, they stood to get themselves filled full of holes. Kinchloe�s small army of railroad bulls was all het up and raring to fight.

He started to call out to Granger about the crates filled with rifles and ammunition, but the lawman was already out of earshot. Ike chewed his lower lip and considered what he ought to do. The marshal and his deputies wouldn�t have much trouble dealing with Kinchloe and releasing Catherine. But he didn�t know what had become of Lily Sinclair. She had escaped from the warehouse, but he hadn�t seen hide nor hair of her when he left.

Ike knew better than to tag along, but he still followed Granger back to the rail yard. While the marshal dealt with Kinchloe, Ike intended to be certain Lily was safe and sound. It was crazy and dangerous, he knew. But his fingers brushed lightly over his lips as he remembered his impudence.

He owed her nothing, but he still felt an obligation to get her and her ma out of the jam they found themselves in with Schofield.

The ruckus inside the warehouse told of a few bulls refusing to give in to the law, but there wasn�t the fusillade Ike expected. He looked around for Lily. The woman was nowhere to be seen. He settled down and thought hard on the matter.

�If I was her, what would I do?� He cursed when the answer came to him. �Like mother, like daughter.� Ike poked his head through the door into the warehouse and looked around. Both women had insisted on saving their property, as if the cyclorama and their costumes were the most precious things in the whole wide world.

The noise from the loading area near the spur line into the warehouse had died down. A few occasional voices rose to echo, but the law had prevailed. Ike ducked into a narrow corridor formed by the piles of crates when Granger came into view.

�Is this here pile all yours, Mrs. Sinclair?� Granger asked.

�Oh, Marshal, please call me Catherine. And yes, all this belongs to me. Especially this.� She put a dainty foot on the cyclorama. �It is very expensive, and I don�t want it damaged.�

�Let�s see if we can�t get some strong backs to carry it out for you.� Granger grabbed a man by the collar and pulled him forward.

Ike recognized Kinchloe�s sidekick Smitty. If Smitty was with the marshal, that meant his boss and their big boss weren�t anywhere to be found. Schofield and Kinchloe could alibi out of any crime by claiming it was all Smitty�s doing.

�You and a couple of your bully boys can carry it for the lady.� Granger gave Smitty a kick in the britches to move him along faster when he hesitated. The railroad bull snarled and moved as if going for a pistol, then stopped when Granger rested his hand on a six-gun tucked into his belt.

Smitty and the others had been defanged.

�Where are we supposed to put it?� Smitty asked with ill grace.

�Well, now, let�s ask the lady,� Granger said. He and Catherine went off to have a confab.

Ike wasn�t too interested in where Catherine wanted her belongings stored now, but he caught a snippet of their conversation. He started to protest, then fell silent. If he said anything now, he only dug himself deeper into a hole.

�You�re so good to me, Marshal Granger,� Catherine said, hanging on to the lawman�s arm. She sidled closer. �However can I thank you?�

�No need since I�m doin� the job the fine citizens of San Antonio pay me to do. I just brought some of my boys along. It�s the other gent you should thank.� Granger stared at the lovely woman, who positively glowed at his attention.

�I never caught his name. He seemed quite taken with me,� Catherine said, �but he�s not really my type. Not like you. I would like to know who he was, though. You can share that with me, can�t you?�

Ike cringed as Granger said, �He�s a deputy Federal marshal on a real special assignment for Judge Parker, up in Arkansas.�

�That�s quite a ways from home for him, isn�t it?�

�I never thought about that, but it is. His name�s Augustus Yarrow, and he�s famous. I�ve read some penny dreadfuls about his exploits over the past couple years.�

�I have heard of him, too. Imagine little ole me coming so close to such a famous lawman,� Catherine said. �But I�m sure his exploits are all puffed up by writers with overactive imaginations. He�s not brave like you.�

Granger ate up the admiration with a spoon and beamed, his grin showing his tobacco-stained teeth. He puffed up his chest to better display the badge pinned on his coat lapel.

�There�s no telling what all he�s up to, but I know what I have to do.� Granger bellowed at Smitty and three men with him to lug the cyclorama away from the warehouse.

Ike slipped off. With the marshal telling Catherine Sinclair about Deputy Marshal Yarrow, everyone in town would know in a day. The woman wasn�t the sort to keep a secret if it enhanced her prestige in the eyes of others.

A quick circuit of the rail yard failed to give Ike even a tiny hint where Lily had gone. Her mother showed no anxiety, so he assumed that meant Lily had gotten away as he�d told her. That was something of a surprise. She was as headstrong as she was pretty. He vented a deep sigh. If things had been different, he wouldn�t have minded getting to know her better.

But the safest trail to follow now was to clear out of San Antonio. Both Schofield and Kinchloe would have blood in their eyes. If they overheard Catherine telling someone else about the Federal lawman working for Hanging Judge Parker, he might as well wear a bull�s-eye on his back�more than he already did. What the real Augustus Yarrow would do after he had been exposed proved a poser for Ike. He had no idea how the lawman handled such vulnerability. Ike hoped Yarrow would have done as he intended.

Get the hell out of town.

It was still a half hour before dawn. The same dilemma faced him about buying a horse. He had plenty of money, but time worked against him. Waiting a half hour for a livery stable to open might not be all that dangerous, but Schofield�s intelligence network would hum. Smitty and his partners had been chased off by the marshal, who seemed eager to steer Catherine Sinclair somewhere more private to hear her life story.

Ike climbed the depot steps as a train screeched to a halt along the platform. He bent close and shouted at the clerk over the locomotive�s hiss and clang, �How long before this one�s out of here?�

�A few minutes.�

�One first-class ticket,� he said, peeling off bills from his wad of scrip.

The clerk looked at him strangely.

�You don�t want to know where it�s heading?�

�You said it was going out of town.� The clerk nodded slowly. �That�s where I want to go.�

�How far? First stop�ll be Eagle Pass, then all the way up to El Paso. You can keep riding over to the coast, if that�s your fancy.�

�El Paso�s good,� Ike said. �I�ve never been there.� His mind raced. El Paso del Norte was right across the Rio Grande if he chose to lose himself in Mexico. If he didn�t, the Butterfield Stage ran through nearby Franklin. From there he had a choice of any destination in New Mexico Territory.

Until then, he could relax and watch the Edwards Plateau roll by. There�d be plenty of time to decide once he was far away from San Antonio and Martin Schofield.

Ike took his ticket and stepped onto the metal platform between the first two passenger cars just as the engineer vented a shrill whistle once, twice, a third time to warn that they were pulling out of the station. He clung to an iron handle and watched the rail yard slip past. Then he entered the second car and found a comfortable seat by a window that�d give him a good view toward Mexico all the way to El Paso.

He sank down, closed his eyes and smiled. He had handled things in San Antonio as good as the famous Augustus Yarrow. Now he no longer had to pretend to be someone else, a dangerous someone else. For the first time in a very long time, being Isaac Scott was good enough for him.

The rocking motion of the train and the rhythmic clacking of wheels against the rails persuaded Ike to slip off to sleep. The past day had been filled to overflowing with gunfights and death and nearly being lynched. He stirred and smiled dreamily at the notion anyone mistook him for a notorious lawman. He ran his fingers under his collar.

�Hanging Judge Parker,� he whispered as he moved around to wedge himself between the seat and the passenger car wall. He rested his head against the cool glass window. His intention of enjoying the countryside slipping past kept him from falling completely asleep. The few times he had ridden a train, he had been in a freight car or hanging on to the connecting rods underneath. Being an actual passenger was a new experience.

�Ticket, sir.�

A hand nudged him. Ike came fully awake, hand going for his six-shooter. Only his cramped position kept the pistol in its holster. He looked up at the conductor who repeated his request.

�Sorry,� Ike said. �I drifted off for a minute.� He fished out the ticket and handed it to the conductor, who studied it, punched out a portion and handed it back.

�You�re paid up all the way to El Paso. If you want to go on to Yuma or beyond that to California, you can buy another ticket at the depot. You�ll have to switch trains, though. This one�s scheduled to turn around and head right on back to San Antonio.�

Ike mumbled thanks and tried to get back to his nap. There was no way he rode this train back to San Antonio. Where he went once he got off at El Paso was something to think on later. Much later.

The sun poked up over the eastern plains and set the sky on fire with a new day. He stretched and lounged back. In spite of yawning, too much conspired against him to get back to sleep right away. He fished around in the same pocket where he kept the railroad ticket and drew out the battered envelope with his letter of introduction from Judge Parker.

He hastily tucked the paper identifying him as Deputy Yarrow behind and took the time to study the other sheets, some stuck together from spilled beer. His eyes narrowed as he read. The undercover lawman�s assignment had been to go after Schofield. While not named, one of Schofield�s own men had written to Parker about some illicit scheme. Ike decided the man who had betrayed Schofield, possibly for some undisclosed reward, was the engineer working in the roundhouse. He thought on it for a spell before he uttered the name, �Gregorio.�

That had to be the reason Schofield had killed his own man, but when Yarrow showed up, he had to find out who else knew what Gregorio had passed along to the law. He continued reading and pieced together other parts of the puzzle. Granger had suggested that Schofield owned the Grand Palace. Yarrow had proof�or rather, Gregorio had the proof. The saloon was tied in with whatever had prompted Judge Parker to send his prize investigator all the way into Texas, out of his judicial district.

The harder Ike tried to figure out what that connection might be, the more his head hurt. Watering down booze at the Grand Palace or having the manager, Zachary, cheating performers like Lily Sinclair and her mother hardly sparked outrage or enough of a crime for Augustus Yarrow to be dispatched.

He closed his eyes. The headache faded a mite. Ike had mined the letter for all the information possible. He needed to know more�or Yarrow would have needed more. Isaac Scott was a simple man running from a soul-crushing debt in Houston. And a railroad baron in San Antonio. He was riding in style, away from all his troubles.

Ike wondered why he didn�t feel better about it.

Again he settled down in the seat and drifted to sleep, lulled by the sounds and motions of train travel. And again he was awakened when a hand shook him. He pushed the hand from his shoulder, only for the next poke to be more insistent. One eye worked open. He sighed. An old woman clung to the back of the seat across from him. Her other hand was the source of his torment.

She poked him again.

�Sir, sir! Are you awake? I want to sit here. Is that all right with you?�

�Sit. Go on,� he said sleepily. The gray-haired woman flopped down next to him. Her knees banged into his, countering the roll of the train. She added insult to injury by elbowing him in the ribs.

�You don�t mind? At all? Are you certain? Some people on a train don�t want to share a seat with an old lady. Not that I�m all that old. I�m quite spry for my age. How old would you say I am?� She prodded him again with her sharp elbow. �Go on. Take a guess. You won�t offend me, sir. Not at all.�

�Old enough to have better manners,� Ike said, irritated. He rubbed his eyes and took a gander at her. �Fifty. You�re fifty.�

�Aren�t you the gentleman! Not fifty, not at all. I�m older. Guess how much older.�

�Sixty.� Her washed-out dress sported a paisley pattern, with a white lace collar faded to gray that had seen better days�better decades�and she kept her spectacles balanced precariously on the very tip of her nose so she peered over the rims.

Ike blinked. Something bothered him about the old woman�s appearance, but he was too groggy to pinpoint it. Her hair was tucked under a hat outfitted with a lace veil, but the veil had been pushed up away from her face so she could see better.

See better. The glasses. Eyes. Piercing green eyes.

Ike sat up straight and gaped. The old lady giggled like a schoolgirl.

�It took you long enough, Mr. Yarrow.� Lily Sinclair reached out and grabbed his hand with hers. The grip was far too strong for an old woman, but not for a young lady in her twenties.

�The eyes. Your eyes,� he said.

�Oh, my. Didn�t I draw in enough crow�s-feet around them?� She touched the makeup around her brilliant emerald eyes. �I thought I had.�

�I can�t forget your eyes,� Ike said. He stopped himself from telling her how captivating he found them, their sharpness and intelligence shining forth. �They�re not an old woman�s eyes.�

�I should have left the veil down. Yes, I should have. I�ll try to remember that, though when I make myself up as an old crone for our stage plays, I don�t wear a veil. But then, no one in the audience is close enough to see details.�

He reared back and got a better look at her. The dress hid her lush figure, but onstage Lily�d have to wear a potato sack to properly disguise herself.

�I know what you�re thinking, Mr. Yarrow. I�ve practiced shuffling along like an old lady. I am quite convincing.� She sat back and folded her hands primly in her lap. A smile cracked some of the makeup over her dimples.

�Why did you go to the trouble of the makeup and costume?� He studied her more carefully and saw how her clever makeup had fooled him. If he had observed more closely, he would have known this wasn�t an elderly woman. Whether he�d have recognized her as Lily Sinclair was another matter, at least until he locked eyes with her. Those emerald pools were a distinctive part of her personality.

�I thought it would be a lark. It�s been ages since I had to play a part other than songstress or dancer. That�s all Zachary wanted, and we traveled for more than a month getting to San Antonio.�

He nodded knowingly, although more questions popped up than she answered. He finally said softly, �I have a request. A very important one.�

�Why, yes, Mr. Yarrow. Anything.� She pressed closer and again took his hand in hers, squeezing it intimately.

�Don�t call me Yarrow. I am supposed to be undercover.�

�Incognito,� she said breathlessly. �How wonderful! Of course I will keep your secret.� She bent closer and whispered, �What should I call you?�

�I�ve been using the name Isaac Scott. Call me Ike.�

�Ike. Yes, of course, but it�s ever so much more powerful calling you Deputy Yarrow. Or Mr. Yarrow. Or��

�Ike,� he insisted. �I don�t want them to know I�m on their trail.�

�Oh, of course. But it�s so exciting to think of you as really being a notorious, even famous, lawman.� She sat back, staring straight ahead as she considered everything he�d told her. Ike thought she would obey. He had included her in a secret mission. That appealed to her sense of drama. For his part, the shoot-outs back in the rail yard satisfied his need for adventure for the rest of his life.

From the corner of his eye he watched her and appreciated the fine lines of her face that not even expert makeup hid. For the first time since getting aboard the train, he realized he had no idea what the future held for him. Escaping Schofield�s killers had been his only goal. Now? What did he do now?

�You are looking at me strangely, Mr. Ya�Ike.�

�I was evaluating you.�

�What?� She twisted around and looked outraged. �What ever do you mean?�

�Your skill at disguising yourself could prove invaluable to a Federal agent. Not only Allan Pinkerton needs to hide in plain sight as someone else.� As he expected, this appeased her and even pleased her by appealing to her vanity.

�I would be delighted to help you, but I cannot possibly abandon the stage. Mama and I have worked so hard to hone an act worthy of the highest admission prices. We can do Shakespeare and�.�.�.�

She cut off her sentence and stared wide-eyed toward the front of the car. She let out a tiny gasp, then put both hands on either side of his face and pulled him to her for a big kiss. Ike started to push her away, then surrendered to her fully. He reached around and drew her in close. She looked old, but her body was supple and molded perfectly with his.

He had no idea why she kissed him like that, nor did he understand when she pushed him away and looked over his shoulder.

�Did you recognize them?�

�Them? The kiss? I don�t know what you�re saying.�

�The three men who came from the passenger car in front of this one. They�re going toward the rear of the train now.�

Ike craned around in time to see the back of the third man disappear through the door between cars.

�Those are Mr. Schofield�s henchmen. You must have recognized them.�

Ike ran the tip of his tongue over his lips and caught the taste of her lip rouge.

�I was occupied,� he said.

�Oh, you! Joking at a time like this. Why are they on this train? What if others are riding along, too? I am certain they can identify me since they held Mama and me captive. One of them took special glee in taunting us. He hinted he wanted to do more than keep us chained. He wanted to, well, you know.� Lily looked away and shyly glanced at him from the corner of her eye. �This is quite exciting. I am glad I chose to follow you.�

�What about your ma?�

Lily heaved a deep sigh and said, �It might well be time for me to move on. We are quite good together, but to grow as an artist, I need to explore more of the world. Experience it, see it through your eyes.�

�You�d give up being onstage?�

�No, silly. I meant perhaps I should leave Mama on her own for a while as I accompany you. I can be a help. Truly, I can.� She snuggled closer and clutched his arm tightly. �You�re able to make me feel in ways I never have before.�

�Feel?� He saw how she looked uncomfortable at this, as if he had touched a raw nerve.

�I need to develop a wider range of emotions for my performances. I�.�.�. I feel you can help me develop that way.� She sounded sincere and, moreover, attached to him.

Ike forced himself to look away from her and glanced toward the rear of the passenger car. He hastily faced forward and slid down a few inches in the seat.

�What�s wrong, Ike?� Lily tried to turn, but he held her in a vise grip to prevent it.

�Schofield,� he said in a low voice. He cursed his bad luck. He thought he�d escaped San Antonio without being seen�and he probably had. Countering this small touch on his shoulder by Lady Luck, he had somehow chosen to be on the same train as Martin Schofield and his small army of railroad detectives. If ever anyone had jumped from the frying pan into the fire, his name was Isaac Scott.

Lily snuggled closer. In other circumstances, he would have enjoyed it, but the steady click of boot heels on the railcar�s floor warned that Schofield was approaching. Ike sank even lower in the seat and peered at Schofield through the tangle of Lily�s gray hair. Distracted, he almost told her the wig was slipping to one side. A strand of her red hair poked out. Moving slowly, he silently tucked it back under the wig.

�Can you see him? What�s he doing?�

�He went into the first car,� Ike said. He was aware that the bulls with the railroad owner remained at the rear of the car.

Ike jumped as if he�d been stuck with a pin when Schofield returned. The man glanced in their direction but never broke stride. If anything, he had avoided looking at them too closely, possibly because of the odd sight of a young man and an old woman pressed together so intimately.

He counted to one hundred and then chanced another look. Schofield and his men had left the car, going toward the rear of the train.

�There was a fancy Pullman hitched on just before the string of freight cars,� Lily said. �That must be Schofield�s personal car.�

�It must be,� Ike said slowly. �Only this isn�t part of the South Texas Central system. The Southern Pacific built the line, so it runs to the coast now.�

�Why shouldn�t one railroad allow the president of another to use their tracks?�

�Where�s he going?� Ike disengaged himself and got to his feet. The door at the rear of this car mocked him. Behind it lay answers to questions he had no right to ask.

�We�ll be in Eagle Pass in a few hours. Sit and enjoy the ride. He won�t be back.�

Ike wasn�t so sure. And it didn�t matter if Schofield decided not to stir from the palatial luxury of his own Pullman car. Ike had questions that needed to be answered.

�Stay here. I�ll be back soon.� Ike took Lily�s hand in his, squeezed it then slipped past her to stand in the aisle. Steps sure in spite of the train�s rolling motion, he got to the door at the rear, peered through a filthy window, then yanked it open�only to collide with a man on the platform between cars.

Watch it, Mister, unless you want trouble.� The seedy man looked rode hard and put away wet. He had a week�s growth of beard, or at least long enough to let lice move in. The white mites did a square dance and disappeared when he turned his face outward so the wind whistling past the fast-moving train threatened to unseat them from their hairy lodgings.

�What are you doing between cars?�

�I could ask you the same, but I don�t go sticking my nose where it don�t belong.� The man thrust out his chin, as if begging Ike to take a swing.

Getting his fist dirty wasn�t in the cards for him. More than that, the man had a hard edge to him. The six-gun slung low on his right hip had a well-used look. The leather holster was about all that showed any sign of upkeep. It had been polished until it gleamed, unlike the man�s scuffed boots and cloudy-looking silver conchas around his hat band.

Ike resisted the urge to pull out Deputy Yarrow�s badge and flash it to see how the man reacted, but he kept looking down at the six-shooter and the way the man carried it. All of Schofield�s men looked like fashion plates in comparison, so Ike doubted this man was anything more than a querulous passenger. But starting trouble got him nowhere.

�Sorry,� Ike said, not even trying to sound contrite. He stepped across from one platform to the next, opened the door leading into the third passenger car and let it close slowly behind him.

His eyes danced along the rows of seats, checking the passengers to see if any were railroad bulls. They looked like a prosperous lot from their clothing. A couple of the men might be well-off gamblers from the headlight diamond stickpins and gold cuffs they flashed. One woman wore a string of pearls. Another sported a necklace with a small red stone. Ike wasn�t a jeweler, but he suspected it was a real ruby, matching the expensive cut of the woman�s clothing. She wasn�t one to take in washing or do cooking, from the look of her bone-china-white hands.

Ike tipped his hat as he made his way toward the rear of the car. Lily had said there were three regular passenger cars and then Schofield�s Pullman. He kept his eyes fixed on the door ahead. If it opened, he would be in trouble. That signaled Schofield or his men were coming forward again to conduct whatever business they had with the engine crew.

He reached the back of the car and put his hand on the handle, not sure what to do. A sudden rush of air at his back caused him to look over his shoulder. The man between cars he had pushed past entered now. Ike caught his breath. The man looked like a hungry rat, squinty eyes darting about as he made his way the length of the car as Ike had done. There wasn�t any mistaking how the man eyed the women, especially the one with the ruby necklace.

The man stopped just past the woman, then swung around and dropped into a seat behind her.

Ike relaxed a little and wondered why he had expected trouble. The man scooted across the seat and peered out the window, then pulled a watch from his vest pocket and studied the face as if reading all the secrets of life there. He snapped the case shut and returned the watch to his vest pocket.

Not seeing trouble behind him, Ike pushed down the handle and stepped onto the metal platform between the ordinary passenger car and Schofield�s far more luxurious one. He hopped across to press against the Pullman�s front wall. He chanced a quick look into the car through a much cleaner window in this door. Schofield and Kinchloe sat facing each other, their knees almost touching just inside. They bent forward and both seemed to be talking at the same time. Three others sat around a green felt�topped table at the rear of the car, playing cards. They had a bottle on the table, each helping himself to a generous swig before passing it along.

The rattle of the wheels kept Ike from overhearing what the railroad president and his henchman talked about so earnestly. He pressed his ear against the wall and recoiled. He hastily leaned harder into the wall. It sounded as if he were in the room, a fly on the wall. Some of what the two men said was drowned out by the clatter and clang of wheels rolling on the steel track, but he was able to get the drift of what they said.

�.�.�.�can�t be serious, boss,� Kinchloe said. �You can�t give up such a sweet deal!�

�Getting greedy�s the surest way to get killed.�

Ike missed some of what was said, but caught the end of Schofield�s words: �.�.�.�Gregorio found out. Who else knows?�

�Cut �em in if they find out. Or let me and the boys take care of them.�

�You never had a better-paying job, did you, Kinch?�

The railroad bull laughed harshly and said, �You know I never did, boss. I don�t see you getting cold feet because of Gregorio. I took care of him.�

�It got that nosy Federal marshal poking around. Gregorio had a stack of papers with details I could never deny. He must have sent them to the marshal for him to poke around like he did.�

�None of that came from me, boss. Not me or the others.�

�There was no way for Gregorio to know it, either. Somebody else was responsible.�

�The owlhoot in Granger�s jail? Is that why you hired a lynch mob?�

Ike strained to hear the answer, but the train rolled around a curve in the tracks. The screeching drowned out Schofield�s answer, but Ike was sure he knew the answer. Of course the railroad man had bought and paid for the lynch mob.

�.�.�.�stand to make a fortune with the cargo,� Schofield said. �We�ll sell it and keep on going out to California. I�m getting tired of Texas.�

�But, boss, you can keep doing the deal a few more times.� Kinchloe almost whined as he made his plea. �You never leave good money on the table. And they�ve got stacks of greenbacks just waitin� for us to claim them.�

Ike lost part of the response to rising train noise but heard, �I don�t trust the Comancheros.�

�Me and the boys can deal with them,� Kinchloe said. �Don�t you worry none about that. We�re not goin� to let them double-cross you.�

�There�ll be plenty to go around for all of us after this deal.�

Ike heard what sounded like chairs being pushed back. Schofield and Kinchloe joined the others in their card game at the rear of the car. More likely, they wanted to take a pull from the bottle. He dared a quick peek through the window on the door and jerked back. Kinchloe had been looking straight at him.

He caught his breath and rested his hand on the butt of his six-shooter. The wind ripped past him and whistled in his ears, making it impossible to hear if the railroad detective walked toward him. Ike half drew when he thought the door onto the platform was opening. His heart hammered wildly, then settled down when the door remained closed. Against all common sense, he sneaked another quick look around into the car.

Kinchloe had come forward to take a chair back to the card table. Ike wasn�t sure if anyone inside the car could even see him peering in, but he wasn�t taking any more chances. He dropped the gun into his holster, stepped over to the forward platform and opened the door in time to hear a woman scream.

He pulled the door back shut until he had a couple inches to look past. For a moment he failed to see what caused the alarm. Then he heard a woman crying.

�You can�t take it! It�s a family heirloom. It belonged to my grandmother in Germany!�

�Gimme.�

Ike heard a dull thud as if a fist hit flesh. He pushed the door open and snaked past to stand with his back against the wall. The man he had tangled with earlier ripped the ruby necklace from the woman�s throat and then punched her. She huddled on the seat, face in her hands, sobbing.

�The rest of you. Put your jewelry, watches, money, anything worth a bucket of spit in the bag. Hold back and I swear I�ll fill you full of lead. Man or woman!� He tossed a cloth bag to one of the men Ike pegged as a gambler.

The robber stood with his back to Ike. Carefully drawing his six-shooter, he leveled it at the thief.

�Shoot him! Shoot the son of a bitch!� The gambler touched the headlight diamond in his cravat. His shouted command caused a reaction he hadn�t expected.

The robber pulled the trigger at point-blank range. The gambler cried out and grabbed his chest as he fell back. The headlight diamond vanished from a quick grab by the train robber. Ike saw the gambler�s vest sparking and smoldering from the burning gunpowder spat out by the close-range shot. He also saw that the wounded man wasn�t stirring.

�More, all of it. Gimme everything or you�ll end up like him!� The outlaw paid no attention to Ike. It took a split second for Ike to realize the robber thought the gambler had tried to distract him rather than ordering someone to shoot.

�Drop the gun,� Ike called out. Ike flushed when he realized his voice came out as hardly more than a croak. �Drop it!� This time he shouted and the robber heard.

The outlaw jerked around and blazed away wildly. He hit another passenger. Ike was more careful aiming. He jerked the trigger and missed a clean shot, but he hit the robber in the arm, spinning him around. For a brief instant, Ike thought the fight was over and done.

Then the outlaw dropped to his knees, twisted about and fired straight down the aisle. The bullet ricocheted off a seat and tore a hole in the wall between Ike�s legs. Ike took better aim. This time his slug blew the heel off the outlaw�s boot. This sent the man scuttling along like a crab between the seats.

They both fired at the same instant, the outlaw spraying lead everywhere and Ike trying to aim more judiciously. The hail of slugs caused the passengers to panic and flail about, making it harder for Ike to shoot without injuring an innocent bystander.

The outlaw scrambled to the front door and opened it. Ike had to push his way past passengers getting out of their seats. Where they thought they were going, he had no idea. He stopped beside the woman who had worn the ruby necklace.

�I�ll get it back, ma�am. I promise.�

She looked up through teary eyes and asked, �Are you a lawman?�

Ike answered, �Yes,� before he could stop himself. He dodged another woman filling the aisle and reached the connecting door to the forward car.

The only thought he had was to keep the outlaw from rampaging through the car where Lily waited for him. He had saved the actress a couple times. This time he might not be so lucky. The bandit was injured and frightened and as dangerous as a cornered rat.

Ike tried to open the door, but the outlaw clung to the handle and prevented it. Ike showed him his six-shooter. The man�s eyes went wide with fear, but he refused to release his grip on the door handle. Knowing it was dangerous and foolish, Ike pressed the muzzle against the dirty glass and pulled the trigger.

The hammer fell on a spent chamber.

Not even thinking about it, he slammed the butt into the glass. It shattered, forcing the outlaw away. Ike shoved through.

�Give up. You�re under arrest!�

The outlaw shot him a contemptuous look, then jumped. Ike saw the man hit the ground and roll. The train rattled on, not slowing. Not thinking about what he was doing, Ike grabbed the railing and leaned out from the train to catch sight of the outlaw. Even if his pistol had been loaded, he didn�t have a good shot. As he pulled himself back, his hand slipped. The outlaw had bled all over the iron rail.

Ike made a wild grab, but the blood turned the metal too slippery. His fingers lost grip, and he tumbled off the train. He hit the ground hard enough to jar him. The only thought in his head was to not pass out. He�d be at the mercy of the train robber.

Rather than stand, Ike rolled over and over. He winced as he wrapped himself around a cactus, then forced himself to sit up. He held his gun as if to shoot, even though he knew it was empty. All he had to do was bluff the robber for an instant.

He swiveled about, taking in the desert terrain. The train robber was nowhere to be seen. Before he stood, Ike reloaded his gun, saw that he ran short of ammunition, then carefully returned the six-shooter to his holster. Cactus nettles worried at him until he plucked the last of them from his clothing and made sure the leather gun belt was clean. Being distracted by a thorn if he had to throw down meant the difference between life and death, even if he wasn�t the fastest gunman in the West.

�Or the fastest anywhere,� he said glumly. Ike got to his feet and hunted for the robber. The man had evaporated like water spilled on a desert rock. Worse, the train had continued racing along the tracks and was out of sight now. He was stranded.

He hitched up his gun belt and searched for the robber�s tracks. If he was marooned here, he might as well accomplish something. Bringing the outlaw to heel was the best Ike could think to do.

Ike judged how far the train had traveled between him falling off and the outlaw jumping. As he trudged back along the tracks, he wiped his bloody hand on his pant leg. From the amount of blood on the iron railing, the robber was well and truly wounded. That ought to make it easy enough to find him.

The sunbaked ground proved harder and less susceptible to tracks than he�d hoped. Bent almost double, he made his way along the rail to better study the ground, then he turned suddenly and reversed his path so he walked into the rising sun. This caused the light to reflect off the ground and give a better chance of finding a trace than letting his shadow lead the way. All he had to do was keep his hat pulled down far enough to shield his eyes against the sun already rising a good distance above the horizon.

And in less than five minutes he found the tracks he wanted. One of his rounds had blasted off the robber�s boot heel. He found scraps of leather and a boot nail showing where the man had hit the ground and tumbled away from the train.

�You�re mine now,� Ike said aloud with some satisfaction. The fresh spoor showed him the trail. There was no call for the train robber to hide his tracks or do anything sneaky like cut off at an angle to decoy Ike into an ambush. He wanted the fastest path away from the railroad tracks as he could get.

When Ike saw a small dried spot being swarmed over by ants, he knew he was close. This puddle of blood was hardly dry. He picked up the pace, careful now so he wouldn�t fall into a trap if the man spotted him coming on like a persistent desert wind. Ike hiked to the top of a hill, then caught his breath when he saw his quarry painfully making his way down the far side, slipping and sliding in the shifting sand.

Ike cursed when he saw the man�s destination. Nervously tugging at its reins, a horse was staked out on a creosote bush. If the robber reached the horse, he escaped, and there wasn�t any way Ike could run him to ground.

A quick estimate of distances and times to cross the desert flashed through his mind. He had to combine the two. At this range, his chance of missing the fleeing robber with another shot was too great. To narrow the distance, he stepped back then jumped, hitting the sandy slope ten feet down. It took all Ike�s skill to maintain balance and keep from tumbling head over heels.

He had expected his rushed attack to draw attention, and it did. The robber reached the base of the sand dune and looked up, eyes wide in surprise. Then he snarled and went for his gun.

Ike had shot him in his right shoulder aboard the train. This forced the outlaw to clumsily shift his six-gun to his left hand and fire. The bullet went wide.

�Give it up. You don�t want to die out in the godforsaken land.�

�Won�t be me doin� the dyin�,� the man grated out. He kept firing. Unfortunately for Ike, the man�s aim improved with practice.

To make himself harder to target, Ike took another huge leap, hit the sand and tumbled the rest of the way to the bottom. The impact left him shaken, but he had enough sense to not lie there waiting to recover. He jerked in one direction, then rolled fast in the other. This kept him alive as three more slugs birthed small dust devils to either side. Then the telltale click of a hammer falling on an empty chamber gave him renewed hope he could end this without dying.

He came to his knees, drew his pistol and hunted for the outlaw. The man limped toward his tethered horse. Shooting off the boot heel proved useful once again because it forced the man to limp along rather than run flat out.

Ike took careful aim and fired. His target kept running�for a couple more paces. Then the outlaw showed signs of Ike�s accuracy. He took a dive onto his belly and scraped along the rough desert.

�You done hit me in the leg now, damn you!�

�Give up. This doesn�t have to be where you die.� Ike got to his feet but saw he was in for a prolonged fight. The outlaw clawed his way forward, grabbed the lower branch of a mesquite and pulled himself around behind it, depriving Ike of a clean shot.

�You said you were a lawman. What are you? A Texas Ranger?�

�You think I�m a Ranger?� That filled Ike with a touch of pride. Nobody had ever confused him with one of the toughest lawmen in the state. If anything, he was more likely to be the one hunted down by a Ranger for all his petty thieving back in Houston.

He should have kept quiet but found himself wanting respect.

�Deputy Federal marshal,� he called out.

�What were you doing on that there train? I never saw a Federal marshal or any other lawman ridin� it before, and I scoped it out good. There was always a few rich folks and never a deputy.�

�It�s your bad luck. I happen to be on another case.� Ike licked his lips. The words were too far from the truth to be believed, yet the outlaw swallowed the excuse whole.

He reloaded and saw he had only four rounds left after the six in his gun. Crawling into a depression, he tried not to groan as sharp rocks and cactus nettles tore at his chest and belly. Peering up over the lip of the tiny arroyo gave him a good look at the outlaw�s horse, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

Realizing he had a straight shot if the man tried to mount sent Ike scampering back. If he knew it, so did the robber. The man had been careful enough planning the theft to have a horse waiting for him out in the desert. He had intended to rob the passengers, jump off the train and ride away. That�s why he�d been studying his watch and looking out the window so much before the robbery. He had timed how long it�d take to strip the passengers of their belongings and then leave the train at a carefully selected location.

�What was the landmark?� Ike called. �The one to let you know it was time to get off the train?�

�You�re a smart one, ain�t you? There�s a rock needle a couple miles back.�

The voice shifted from behind the creosote bush. The outlaw was on the move, trying to get Ike in his sights. Ike almost panicked. He wasn�t used to such hare-and-hound fighting. He wasn�t used to any gunplay at all. Before picking up Yarrow�s six-shooter, the last pistol he�d stolen was a year or more in the past. He had sold it for three dollars and hadn�t missed it until Penrose came after him.

�I don�t want to shoot you. Give me the loot, and I�ll let you go.�

�What kind of lawman are you? How about we split the money? I want to keep the necklace. I got a gal in Eagle Pass that�ll love it.�

�The ruby necklace?� Ike asked. He began moving over rocks so hot from the sun that he blistered his hand pressing down on one. It was only a half hour into a new day, and already the desert had turned deadly. �The lady you stole that from said it was her granny�s. You don�t want to take a family heirloom.�

�Don�t matter to me. It ain�t my family.�

The outlaw had struck out from behind the creosote bush to take refuge behind a patch of prickly pear cactus ten feet away. Ike saw movement out of the corner of his eye and reacted instinctively. He winced as hot lead passed between his left arm and his ribs. With a curiously steady hand, he aimed and fired. The outlaw stood a mite straighter. Ike fired again, even though he felt deep in his gut that the first bullet had been good enough.

The robber fell forward into the huge mound of prickly pear pads. Ike winced. That would hurt. Only the outlaw felt nothing. Moving slowly, he got to his feet and pressed his arm in tight to his body. This stanched the blood oozing from both his arm and ribs. Carefully moving, he lifted his arm to examine his wounds. Neither amounted to more than a deep scratch.

By the time he approached the outlaw, steps slow and cautious, both wounds had clotted over. They burned like hellfire, but neither would kill him. He stared at the fallen man. The train robber sprawled facedown in the cactus, arms flung out on either side of his body. Ike carefully stepped into the prickly pears and plucked the man�s pistol from his grip, then retreated. Not once had the outlaw stirred after Ike approached.

�Dead,� Ike said softly. �How did I get myself into this mess?�

The horse neighed loudly, protesting the gunfire. Ike grabbed the robber�s collar and heaved him out of his thorny grave. Prickly spines dotted the man�s face. If he�d lived, people seeing the scars would have remarked in awe on how he�d survived the smallpox. Ike dragged the man completely from the cactus patch, thinking on burying him.

The hard ground needed dynamite to dig into. And shoveling sand from the dunes over a body wasn�t a proper burial. The coyotes would dig out a body before sundown and have a feast.

Ike slid his pistol into its holster and tucked the outlaw�s gun into his belt. He had to use both hands to drag the body to where the horse jerked and tried to free itself.

�There, there,� Ike soothed. He wasn�t used to being around horses any more than he was adept at handling a gun, but this was his only path to survival now. He patted the horse�s neck and spoke soothingly until the horse settled down. Ike wondered how the outlaw had left the horse out here, then boarded the train back in San Antonio.

�He has a partner,� Ike decided. �Why didn�t he stick around so the two could ride off together?�

The answer made him a little antsy. He had heard that the Warm Springs Apaches from Arizona had come into Texas, dodging the cavalry the whole way. He looked around, expecting a war party to pop up. Their presence certainly explained why the robber�s partner had hightailed it�or been killed.

Only West Texas dust kicked up by building wind showed anywhere around him. It was lonely out here. He felt good that it was. He wasn�t up to fighting off Apaches�or a crooked partner wanting the whole bag of loot from the robbery for himself.

Sweat drenching him and stinging the wounds in his arm and side, he prowled about and quickly found the cloth bag with the stolen property. A look inside showed perhaps a hundred dollars in greenbacks, a string of pearls, two diamond stickpins and the ruby necklace. He fastened the drawstring and tucked the bag into his pocket.

�If I can�t bury you, and I�m not inclined to leave you for the buzzards, there�s only one way to profit off your dead body.� Ike grunted as he got the outlaw upright, then heaved him over the horse�s hindquarters.

It took a little soothing, but he gentled the horse, then mounted himself. The horse protested the double weight, but showed appreciation at being untethered by briskly trotting along. Ike shielded his eyes from the sun, considered following the tracks into Eagle Pass, then cut across the desert.

If his sense of direction proved accurate, he�d cut a couple dozen miles off the trip to Eagle Pass compared to using the train tracks as a guide.

Less than a half hour riding made him reconsider his plan.

�In for a penny, in for a pound,� he decided. If there hadn�t been a full canteen dangling from the saddle horn, he would have changed plans�and maybe died. The desert stretched endlessly, but he headed for the shimmer to the west that had to mark where the Rio Grande flowed. There weren�t mountains to speak of, just low hills. He wondered why the railroad came southwest from San Antonio to Eagle Pass before heading northwest to El Paso. There had to be something worth the detour from a more direct route.

But if he didn�t get to the town soon with his cargo, he vowed to dump the body. In the hot sun it had begun to stink, and buzzing flies annoyed the horse as much as they did him. Worse than the smell, worry about Lily Sinclair gnawed away at him. She had no idea what had become of him.

�Will she even care?� he wondered aloud. He put his head down to use his hat brim to shade his face from the burning sun. It became harder as he rode because the sun sank fast. �But she must care. She followed me onto the train.�

He pondered that as he rode. Had Lily trailed him from San Antonio or was it only coincidence that they were on the same train? It was the next one leaving town after she got free of Kinchloe and his henchmen. It made sense that she and Ike chose the same train. She had used her theatrical skills to put on makeup that disguised her from him�and it as easily hid her identity from Martin Schofield�s detectives. That made more sense than Lily wanting to play a trick on him.

�What do you think?� He patted the horse�s neck, then looked up. A crooked smile came to his lips. �So that�s why they call this Eagle Pass.� The low hill directly ahead spread across the desert like the wings of a flying eagle.

He urged the horse to a faster gait when he saw railroad tracks curving around and going directly over low hills. He rode to the top of a rise. Stretched out before him was a sleepy-looking town. Smoke curled up from dozens of chimneys, and beyond flowed the Rio Grande, lined with bright green�leafed trees. Crossing the river a railroad spur vanished into Mexico toward the larger town of Piedras Negras. That explained why the tracks had been laid this way. Whatever commerce flowed from the interior of Mexico shipped directly to San Antonio along this steel-railed route.

And who knew what merchandise was shipped into the country on the far side of the Rio Grande?

�Come on, you get oats when we reach town.�

The horse understood and trotted along, tiredness gone. Ike felt a surge of energy of his own. He hoped the train was delayed in town so he could find Lily and boast to her of his exploits. Somehow, bragging about the shoot-out and his bravery seemed important. But a woman with her worldly experience was sure to have seen and heard it all. Impressing her wasn�t going to be easy, although she had seemed to find his being a deputy Federal marshal rousing.

From the top of the ridge, he cut directly for the tracks and followed them to the depot. His heart sank when he saw that no locomotive stood there, huffing and puffing steam, pulling passenger cars, one of which held Lily Sinclair.

Dejected, he rode past the depot to find the marshal�s office. The anticipation of seeing the redheaded woman again now dashed, he wanted nothing more than to get rid of the body weighing down the horse and stinking to high Heaven.

Ike ignored the stares from the townspeople as he rode down the main street. More than one of the men touched a pistol stuck into his waistband or dangling in a holster, but no one drew. He took that as a good sign. Several women clutched at their companions� arms and whispered in concern, but none pointed or called out for �something to be done.� He counted that as a success. Seeing a stranger riding through town with a dead body slung over the back of a horse wasn�t usual, even here on the border. If the town marshal kept a tight rein on folks, this might be the first time many of them had seen such a sight.

He rode slowly past a saloon. Although it was getting toward nightfall, the place was subdued. He heard someone playing a banjo inside, but no one sang along. The expected cloud of smoke boiling outward was thin, and if two lanterns were lit inside, it�d be a surprise. Dark, grim, not the common saloon.

�Eagle Pass isn�t a place for wild partying,� he decided. He had money in his pocket. Since the depot was empty and he�d missed the train Lily rode, he was stuck here for a spell. Or maybe not. He had a horse now. There wasn�t any real reason to keep heading northward after the woman. By now she might be halfway to El Paso.

He drew rein and looked down at a man that could only be described as a short drink of water. Standing barely five-two, the man tried to look taller with a big-crowned hat. He wore a gaudy vest, with red and white stripes running vertically to give an added illusion of height. If his legs hadn�t been so bowed, he might have stood an extra couple inches tall, but Ike saw there wasn�t any reason for the man to puff himself up.

All the authority he needed was there for everyone to see.

He wore a huge shiny silver badge on his coat. Just in case he encountered someone not paying attention, the lawman ran his fingers under his lapels and thrust out the badge far enough that a blind man couldn�t miss it.

�You got yourself a curious set of saddlebags, Mister,� the marshal observed with a wry grin. �Any reason you�re bringing in a body all covered with flies and creating such a public health hazard?�

Ike dismounted and stretched. He wasn�t the tallest man in the world, but he towered over the Eagle Pass marshal.

�He robbed the train from San Antonio,� he said without exchanging any of the usual pleasantries since the lawman had launched right into criticism. �The robbery had the air of being done by an owlhoot who�d done such a thing before. I stopped him and thought there might be a reward on his head.�

�Did you, now?� The marshal walked around, grabbed a handful of greasy hair and lifted. He made a face. �Can�t abide with corpses getting all mushy like this.� He dropped the head.

�Think you might leaf through wanted posters and see if he�s worth anything?�

�This one�s worth more dead than alive. I know him,� the marshal said with distaste. �Name�s Lester Buchanan.�

�You think he has a partner?�

�Why�s that?�

Ike explained how the robbery had happened and why Buchanan had been so anxious to jump from the train at a precise point along the tracks. �Somebody left a horse for him. Can�t rightly say why his partner didn�t stick around and ride off with him.� Ike considered the matter. �If they had, I�d be the one drawing flies. Two against one�s not good odds when you�re on foot out in that desert.�

�A real man killer, that heat,� the marshal allowed. �If you don�t know where the watering holes are, it�s close to a death sentence.� He shook his head. �That�s why the soldiers have such a hard time tracking down them Apaches. The Indians know where every spring is. They�re never going dry too long, and if the boys in those blue wool uniforms try drinking from the springs, more �n likely they fall into an ambush.�

�You know who his partner is, don�t you? Does he have a price on his head, too?�

�You looking to be ambitious and claim a second reward, Mister? That�s mighty greedy.�

Ike waited. The marshal sighed and shook his head.

�Truth is, Mary Ellen probably staked out the horse for him. Her and Buchanan were one hellacious pair, believe me. Which of �em is more dangerous, well, now, that�s something to argue over around a campfire.�

�She�s in town?�

�She works over at the Rancher�s Rest Saloon. Can you prove she had any part in the robbery?�

�That�s something for you to decide, isn�t it, Marshal? You�re the law in town.� Ike grabbed a handful of coat and pulled. Lester Buchanan fell to the ground with a squishy sound.

�She�s popular here in town, and suspicion�s not good enough. I chased him out of town. Oh, don�t go getting all het up now. The reward�s only twenty-five dollars. Buchanan wasn�t good at much of anything, and that included breaking the law.�

The marshal turned his back on the body and went into the jailhouse. Ike couldn�t help comparing it with Granger�s, back in San Antonio. This was a simple adobe building. The best thing about it was how cool it was inside. Two cages made from iron straps riveted together secured the cells. The marshal had a desk under a rack of two rifles and a shotgun, held in place by a lock and chain. Ike resisted the temptation of yanking on the chain just to see if the entire rack would come tumbling down. Mounting anything on a crumbling adobe wall spelled trouble somewhere down the line when it pulled loose and fell. From this simple arsenal, he decided not much illegal went on in Eagle Pass, or at least not much that the marshal concerned himself with.

�Here he is. That the varmint?� The marshal shoved a poster across his desk.

Ike shrugged. The smeary drawing looked nothing like Lester Buchanan. Depending on that picture to identify the train robber was a fool�s errand.

�It�s him,� the lawman said. �I had the poster made up right here in town. Charlie over at the Eagle Pass Dispatch isn�t much of a printer. Fact is,� he said, looking askance at the poster, �he�s not much of an artist, either. You shoulda seen how he illustrated the story about Macomber�s two-headed calf.�

He fished around in the center drawer of his desk and took out a sheet of paper. With quick, sure scratches, occasionally dipping his pen in an ink bottle, the marshal produced a document proclaiming that the bearer was entitled to the reward.

�Take this on over to the bank when it opens in the morning.� He shoved it across the desk. �Banker Jarvis has enough money in the town account to pay you, unless he�s gone on a bender again. He can drink up twenty-five dollars in whiskey so fast it�d make your head spin.� The marshal chuckled. �It surely does make his spin like a top.�

Ike stared at the simple IOU. A week or two back he would have killed for so much money. It didn�t come close to paying off his debt in Houston, but it was more than enough to keep him alive for a month.

�What�s wrong? You don�t read?�

�I can read.� Ike felt an ornery streak. �I don�t think my boss�d like it if I claimed a reward.�

�Now, why�s that?� The marshal squinted at him, wondering if he had been out in the sun too long. Money was money.

Ike silently took out the wallet with the brass badge. He opened it so the marshal got a good look.

�You�re a ways out of your jurisdiction. You coming this way to confer with Judge Bean?�

�I have another job to do. For Judge Parker.�

�Do tell. All the way here? West Texas is a far piece from Arkansas. And Indian Territory.�

Ike fished around in his pocket and pulled out the cloth bag. He dropped it on the desk.

�This is the loot Buchanan stole. There�s a ruby necklace in there the lady will want to get back. She said it was a family heirloom.�

The lawman took out the necklace and held it up, letting the ruby pendant spin slowly. He tucked it back into the bag and poked through the rest of the contents.

�You can telegraph up the line and see if any of the passengers can be told their belongings are back here.� Ike felt a pang. Having Lily see him return the booty would have been nice, but the idea of losing himself across the border was a more sensible road to travel.

�Back here? What do you mean, Deputy? The train�s not come in yet.�

Ike stood straighter and stared in disbelief.

�But I was out in the desert most of the day. How�s that possible?�

�Can�t rightly say, but there hasn�t been a train from San Antonio through in two days. Maybe the engine broke down or they had to deal with a section of faulty rails. The line�s newly laid, you know. Or maybe you don�t, being from Indian Territory and all.�

Before Ike could say a word, an earsplitting whistle cut through the quiet twilight. On the heels of the whistle came the screech of steel wheels grinding against railroad tracks.

�That�ll be the train,� the lawman said. �I�m in luck.� He scooped up the cloth bag and started for the door. He paused and looked back at Ike. �You rooted to the ground? Come along.�

�The horse,� Ike said, befuddled. �Buchanan�s horse. If that�s the train I can get back on and won�t need it.�

�I�ll sell it to give the mangy cayuse a decent burial. The potter�s field is purty near full, so you�d be doing Eagle Pass a favor with your charity. Are you coming?� He pointed out the door.

Ike hurried to keep up with the man�s bandy legs. They might be short and bowed, but they moved fast. Before he got to the depot, he saw the plume of smoke boiling upward into the night sky. The smell of hot metal and soot had never been sweeter for him.

He took the steps up to the platform two at a time. The marshal was already talking to the station agent. When the conductor jumped off and ran to the pair, the lawman held up his hand to stop the torrent of explanation. The marshal waved Ike to join them.

�This here�s the reason I have this,� the lawman said, holding up the cloth bag. �You have a lady aboard who lost this bauble to the robber?� He let the ruby pendant swing to and fro.

Ike cringed at the shrill squeal of joy coming from the direction of the train. The woman saw her jewelry and pushed others out of the way to get to the marshal. She took it, examined it and then planted a big wet juicy kiss on his stubbled cheek.

�Now, little lady, that�s plenty reward, but I didn�t do anything to retrieve your stolen jewelry. This gent here�s a deputy Federal marshal. Come on over. Maybe she�ll plant one on you, too.�

�You!� The woman shrieked again and rushed to him. �I knew you�d track that scoundrel down and bring him to justice.� She kissed Ike, too, to his embarrassment since the passengers were leaning out the train windows and watching, wondering what was going on.

The marshal cleared his throat. For such a short man he had a tall voice. He began telling the story that Ike had given him. Ike had to disengage from the grateful woman and stop the marshal before he rambled on too much farther. He regretted his moment�s weakness in boasting of being Augustus Yarrow, though he�d never given that name. Lying about being a deputy was bad enough, especially since he had invoked Hanging Judge Parker�s name.

�Please, take all the credit yourself,� he whispered to the lawman. �I�m not supposed to let anyone know who I am, what I�m doing, that is��

Ike felt as if he had stepped off a tall cliff. Martin Schofield and his henchmen stepped off the Pullman onto the platform. They exchanged a few words, then Schofield walked over fast, looking all official.

�What�s this, Marshal? You�ve recovered my passengers� money already? You are a miracle worker, sir. A true milagro.�

The marshal looked quizzically at Ike, then said, �I had a passel of help, Mr. Schofield. I told you when you came here a month back to cut the ribbon opening up the Piedras Negras spur that your trains were safe.�

�You can return my passengers� money,� Schofield said, as if bestowing a great favor on the man. �But you were here in Eagle Pass. How�d you come by it?�

�I was right here in town, sir, I was. The varmint that robbed the train�s dead, and I have a good idea who his accomplice was. But it�s this gent here you need to congratulate.�

He pushed Ike forward.

�A minute, will you?� Ike took out the document declaring him to be owed the money and pressed it into the marshal�s hand. �Here. See that someone deserving gets the reward.�

�Who might that be?�

�A church, an orphanage, anybody,� Ike said frantically. �Tell me who and I�ll take it to them right now.� All he wanted was to put as much distance between him and the railroad president as possible. It was dark on the platform, but Schofield would recognize him in an instant if he ever caught a clear view.

If Schofield didn�t recognize him, Ike worried that Kinchloe or Smitty might. They stared hard at him from some distance away, then put their heads together as if trying to decide where they�d seen him before. Shadows and turning away hid his identity from them only so long.

Ike moved around to keep his face in darkness as much as possible, but several bright lights hung along the platform lit up the area, almost matching daylight.

�Don�t worry your head none,� the marshal said. �I�ll see that it�s taken care of. And the horse and tack, too.�

�You were a passenger on the train, sir?� Schofield came over and looked hard at Ike. �A passenger said you�d called out that you were a lawman. Is that true?� Schofield recognized him. Ike knew it from the hardness in the man�s jaw and steely gaze.

�No, not at all. I tried to make him give up. Lester Buchanan�s the robber�s name. I didn�t want to risk hitting any of the passengers with a bullet or two.� Ike knew he babbled, to no avail. His bogus identity had been accepted by too many�including Martin Schofield.

�It didn�t work,� the woman with the ruby necklace said. She pressed close to Ike and took his arm, squeezing it so hard she cut off the circulation. �He was so brave. He saved my life. I am sure of it. You should give him a reward.� She looked Schofield over from head to toe. �You are obviously an important man.�

�He�s the owner of the railroad,� Kinchloe said.

�Then you can give him a substantial reward. A lifetime pass on your line, perhaps.�

�Yes, a lifetime pass,� Schofield said ominously. The woman missed the implication that it would be a short life. Ike didn�t.

�I don�t need anything,� Ike murmured. He tried to disengage from the woman�s iron grip but couldn�t.

�That�s mighty generous of you, risking your life, tracking down the robber, then returning the loot. The least you can do is ride to your destination in my personal car.� Schofield flashed Ike a feral grin. Go into the Pullman and vanish forever. Ike knew that was the plan. Get him out of sight of the passengers, and within seconds, he�d be in a grave alongside Lester Buchanan.

Or tossed into the desert from the Pullman, never to be seen again by anyone but lizards and snakes. His fate was sealed if he ever let Schofield cut him from the herd.

Ike started to say he had reached his destination. Being on foot in Eagle Pass was better than riding with a man who had tried to get him lynched. How long would it be until Schofield draped a wire loop around his neck and told him to keep up with the train? Or Kinchloe simply gunned him down?

�My son, the hero!�

The high-pitched cry caught everyone�s attention. Ike started to wave Lily away, but it was too late. The actress knew how to make an entrance and how to draw the audience�s notice. She bustled off the car and rushed to him. He wasn�t sure how she did it, but she wormed her way between him and the appreciative passenger with the ruby necklace. Lily clung to him and then stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek.

She moved about, as if losing her balance to keep her head between his face and Schofield�s steely gaze. It was a worthy effort, but the cat was out of the bag.

�My boy. Isn�t he about the finest, bravest boy in the whole wide world? Why, when he was a wee one, hardly more than six, he saved the neighbor�s dog from a well. Let me tell you all about it.� She turned toward Schofield and squinted hard. �Are we riding in another car? I can tell you every single thing my boy�s done. This isn�t the first time he��

�I understand why he thought it was better to face down a robber with a gun and then chase him across the desert,� Schofield said. �I have to see about the repairs to the engine.� He edged away.

Lily called after him about the time �her boy� had found a cow that had knocked down a fence and wandered off.

�Well, he did!� she called after Schofield and his men as they hurried toward the engine.

�You saved me,� Ike said softly. Driving off Schofield only postponed their showdown. For now, that was good enough. �You�re quite an actress.� He reached up and pressed a bit of putty back onto her cheek. �But you look like you�re melting.�

�It was hot in the car all afternoon,� she said, �and I haven�t had a chance to repair the makeup.�

Ike considered not getting back on the train, but then he saw the crowd of people gathering on the platform. The marshal talked loudly enough with a man to signal that this was the town newspaper editor. If he stayed in Eagle Pass, Ike had more notoriety to deal with than he wanted. Thanks to Lily, riding on the train gave some safety when it came to Schofield and his men.

He swallowed hard when he saw Schofield talking with a pair of men standing beside the engine. They kept glancing in his direction. If he stayed in Eagle Pass, Schofield�s hired killers would take care of him. As unhealthy as it was, getting back aboard the train gave him some small reprieve if he stayed among the other passengers.

Safety in numbers? That was his only hope now. And it wasn�t much of one.

It was mighty risky, but Ike had tasted what it meant to be a deputy. There wasn�t any way he could tangle with the railroad owner and his gunmen to arrest them, but flashing the brass badge had worked a miracle here. If he found out what Schofield was up to, he might be able to convince another lawman of a serious crime, a real one, and get some satisfaction seeing the railroad baron and his henchmen arrested. He owed the man something for whipping up a lynch mob back in San Antonio.

�Let�s get good seats while the others are out stretching their legs,� he told Lily. She locked her arm with his, and they boarded the train. In twenty minutes, the engine began creaking and groaning and pulling the weapons-laden cars along to an unknown destiny. But Ike intended to find out.

You�re a hero.� Lily Sinclair snuggled closer, her grip on Ike�s arm leaving red finger marks. She rested her cheek on his shoulder, then pulled back. �Sorry. I don�t want to get cosmetics on your coat.�

Ike laughed. He was so dirty after the gunfight with Lester Buchanan and traipsing through the desert that it might take two baths to get all the grime off. Then he glanced down and saw another problem, one that Lily knew all too well being an actress. She�d rubbed the makeup from her face and slowly turned from an old lady into a young one. Her bare cheek glowed with vitality unexpected in any septuagenarian.

He saw that her wig was askew from her saving him from too much notice back at the Eagle Pass depot. With a tentative touch, he pushed it back into place to hide a strand of her red hair poking out from under.

�We have to be careful. Schofield will kill me if he gets the chance.� Ike hesitated to add that Lily was also in danger. Even if Schofield hadn�t recognized her, she had come to Ike�s defense.

�It�s not him who worries me,� Lily said. �His right-hand man, Kinchloe, saw me up close when he chained us in the warehouse. He never got a really good look at me on the platform because I tried to keep my face turned away, but he knows. I know he knows.�

Ike touched his lips and remembered the kiss Lily had given him.

�Good tactics the way you distracted�.�.�. him,� he said.

�I know how to play to the audience, and I also know when to focus attention on other actors. I am well-known as a generous actress when it comes to sharing the marquee billing.� She looked smug and self-satisfied as she spoke. �That was a difficult performance because we were center stage and neither of us should have been in the spotlight.�

�Getting back on the train was a mistake,� he said after a long consideration. But events flowed along like a river over flood level. Fighting the flow was possible only if a course had been laid out in advance. Ike was only too aware that he was a leaf swept on the river, going wherever the current took him. That had to change.

�What else could we have done? It was apparent from what the Eagle Pass marshal said that you weren�t at the end of your trip. And for the audience to buy me as your mama, getting back on board was all we could do.�

Ike chuckled, remembering how Lily had outmaneuvered Schofield into revoking his invitation to travel in his Pullman car. An old woman chattering about her toddler son�s every picayune incident as if it were a major milestone in the history of the world convinced any railroad executive used to being the center of attention that he�d made a mistake with his offer. She drew too much attention for both of them to simply disappear.

The situation became perilous, in spite of this minor victory. It�d have to change. He was tiring of looking over his shoulder, waiting to be caught�or worse. Ike stared at Lily and realized she was in more danger because of everything she�d gone through.

�Where�s your mother?�

She looked up, bright green eyes flashing. Her lips thinned, and she shook her head as if denying something he hadn�t even said.

�Mama is still in San Antonio. She refused to leave the cyclorama and our costumes and�.�.�. our lives.�

�Did you intend to leave her behind?� Ike saw the answer in the way she crossed her arms and silently folded into herself. Lily had wanted to leave and had done so. Her mother was too tightly bound emotionally and professionally to their possessions. For the first time, Ike wished Lily were more like her mother. If she had stayed in San Antonio, she�d be safe. Aboard the train, death lurked with every click of the wheels and whine of the steam whistle.

He turned at the sound of someone tromping forward from the back of the car. Ike touched the butt of his six-shooter when he recognized Smitty. Schofield�s henchman looked down at them and sneered, but he never slowed. He disappeared through the door leading forward to the first passenger car.

�They check on the engineer,� Lily said. �It�s as if threatening him can make the engine pull faster.�

Ike wondered if that was the real reason.

�Did you get a look at the other cars? Behind Schofield�s Pullman? I think I saw a few freight cars, but I haven�t had much chance to be sure.�

�There are three freight cars, then the caboose. That�s not so unusual. One might be a mail car, or Schofield can be shipping important cargo north.�

�This isn�t his track,� Ike said. �And I overheard him saying�.�.�.� He dropped his face down again as Smitty swung along the aisle, returning to the distant Pullman car. Ike waited until the railroad bull was gone, then looked over his shoulder to be sure. He had the feeling that locking eyes with the gunman would spark an immediate showdown.

�What did you hear, Deputy?�

�Ike,� he said. �Only call me Ike.�

�Very well,� Lily said, grinning. �I love playing out a secret plot in real life rather than doing it on stage. This way I don�t know how it�s going to end. With a script, unless I improvise, of course, there�s always a conclusion penned by some loco writer.� She pursed her lips as she thought. �It hardly seems like much of a script now that Schofield and the others, all the passengers on the train, really, know your true identity.�

Ike let her ramble on. If anything, it bothered him that he didn�t know how this was going to end. Dealing with men like Schofield too often ended in disaster. Ike had known Augustus Yarrow for only a short while. Dead. And he had never even met Gregorio. Dead. Adding himself to that list wasn�t something to relish.

A quick look at Lily made him all the more eager to settle matters right away. She blundered into trouble, considering it all a lark. Life wasn�t a stage play, but she played out her role thinking there�d always be a happy ending.

�Stay here,� he said, standing and spinning around her. He looked down into her bright eyes. For a change, they looked up at him without guile. She reached up and pressed her hand against his chest.

�Be careful, Ike.� Her lips hardly moved.

He stepped into the aisle, trying to decide which way to go. Since Smitty and the others were at the back of the train, he went forward. He pushed through the doors into the lead passenger car. Most of the men here slept, heads propped against the wall and snoring. One man in particular made more noise than the clacking of train wheels along the rails. Ike opened the front door, only to run into the conductor. The man pushed him back into the car.

�No call for you to go up and bother the engineer. Not unless you want to take a turn shoveling coal into the boiler.�

�My leg cramped up. All I wanted was to get some exercise.�

The conductor looked at him and cocked his head to one side. �You looking for another robber to run to ground?�

�Nothing of the sort,� Ike said. He had no quarrel with the conductor, but he wanted the man to look the other way while he poked around.

�There�s no one left aboard who looks suspicious.� The conductor eyed him significantly, obviously putting Ike into that very category. �I never got a good look at the robber you shot down,� the conductor said. �But I don�t remember anybody getting off the train there. Every trip up to Marfa, I count heads. One less is all there was after we pulled out of Eagle Pass.�

�I see. That must be the man who��

�That accounts for the robber. Nobody else.� The conductor started to press him, but Ike feigned a leg cramp. �If we got another outlaw on the train, he�s biding his time.� The conductor shook his head vigorously, denying any of the remaining passengers fit the description of another robber. �You�re wasting your time prowling around.�

�Better go set myself down again. The leg�s getting worse.� Ike needed to scout out everything the railroad owner did to better make plans for bringing him to justice.

�You need help?� The conductor started to support him.

�No thanks. It doesn�t hurt as much if I put some weight on it.� Ike hobbled away, left the car, then paused. Going back to the Pullman car gained him nothing. Even spinning the tallest tale ever, he wouldn�t get past Schofield and his detectives to see what was in the freight car just beyond.

All that awaited him once he was out of sight of the other passengers was a bullet through the heart.

He swung around and climbed the iron rung ladder to the roof. The sudden gust of wind as he poked his head over the roof overhang almost knocked him from the train. Ike pulled his hat down more firmly and tried again. Ready for the blast of air this time, he wasn�t bowled over. He climbed the rest of the way and lay flat on the roof of the third passenger car for a moment, then got to his feet. Walking along the roof took some skill. He wished he had learned to break broncos instead of dealing seconds off a deck of cards. Such a job required balance and anticipation of odd, unexpected jerking movement this way and that. Not for the first time he recognized how much he had missed. This was a part of his life totally lacking, having spent most of his life in Houston doing citified things.

Mostly he had done things sure to get him arrested by the likes of Augustus Yarrow.

Arms outstretched like a tightwire walker, he eased along the roof until he came to the next car. This was Schofield�s Pullman. Even if he hadn�t counted back to it, he would have known. The roof was made from fine wood and had ankle-high brass rails along the sides for decoration. A quick step took him onto its roof. He balanced, bent to use one rail for support, then walked slowly toward the rear. He paused when he came to a skylight.

A quick look down showed the poker table had been placed directly under it. Four men sat around the table. From his bird�s-eye vantage point, he read all their cards. He fought the urge to watch since Kinchloe bet heavily on three kings. Smitty, across the table from him, held four deuces.

He almost fell when the train lurched. He rocked away and realized his arms had passed over the skylight. Ike held his breath, fearing he had given himself away. As if from a thousand miles away he heard Smitty say, �Damned birds flying overhead. Makes the light flicker.�

Kinchloe said something, then play resumed. Ike edged around the skylight and stopped at the next space between the Pullman and the first freight car. He couldn�t read the numbers on the freight car but would have bet against Smitty that this was one of the three railcars being loaded in the warehouse.

�Guns, ammunition,� he said softly. Ike bent his knees and took the big step. He landed on the freight car and fell face forward. He caught himself, then wiggled to the side and peered down. Reading upside down, he saw he was right. The numbers he remembered painted on the side of the car back in the San Antonio warehouse matched these.

Schofield was moving three cars loaded with rifles and ammo�enough to start a new War Between the States. If he�d had his wits about him, he could have told the marshal in Eagle Pass. If it hadn�t been an illegal shipment, Schofield wouldn�t be accompanying the guns along a rail line owned by Southern Pacific. But Ike hadn�t thought of it, or even known the cars were connected to the passenger cars then.

I was busy, he thought, smiling ruefully. He spun about on his belly and wiggled back, then stopped. The train stopped in Marfa to take on water and probably coal. That wasn�t done quickly. He�d have time to find the town marshal and see Schofield and his men arrested.

If there were rifles and ammunition in the cars.

He thought that was true. If it wasn�t, and his impersonation of a real deputy came out, he�d spend the rest of his natural life in the Detroit Federal Prison. He ran his fingers under his collar. Prison might be the lesser of punishments to expect. Schofield had tried to hang him before. If he came across him alone, Ike was a goner.

�Gregorio,� Ike mumbled. He had no idea what the man had known, but it had gotten him killed. And it had been powerful enough evidence for Augustus Yarrow to come all the way from Arkansas to investigate. That was the real question burning in Ike�s head. What crime was vile enough that Judge Parker�s lawman had traveled the length of Texas?

He had to be certain of the contents of at least one of the freight cars. Pulling himself to the edge of the roof, he hunted for the iron rungs leading down. Finding them was easy enough, but they didn�t bring him to a convenient door, unlike on the passenger cars. He pushed back and looked around. A smile came to his face, a big, broad one.

Riding the rails as he had done from Houston paid off. He had been in an empty freight car and remembered seeing an open ventilation hatch in the roof. Ike scooted over to the one in this car. It was locked. Tugging and twisting got him nowhere. In frustration, he drew his six-shooter and shot off the lock. The noise momentarily deafened him. He hadn�t expected the report to be so loud.

With a quick jerk, he threw open the hatch and peered into the car. Crates only a few feet below gave him a staircase down. Under his feet, around the crates through the broad cracks in the floor, he saw momentary flashes as ties raced past. The sparks from the wheels lit up the night. He reached into his pocket and touched a tin of lucifers, then he pushed them back into his pocket.

Wandering around a carload of ammunition with a lighted match was a sure way to get a one-way ticket to Heaven.

Ike fumbled about in the dark like a blind man. He ran his fingers over a splintery crate, found the lid and worried his fingers under it. Heaving, he broke away part of the lid when he failed to extract the nails. Forcing his hand into the hole, he fumbled around and pushed away wood chips. When he touched cold, sleek metal, he traced its outline.

�A rifle,� he said in satisfaction as he tugged gently on the trigger. He had to believe the other crates held rifles, too. The ones that didn�t were laden with ammunition. That only made sense. �A waste of time checking more of them. All a marshal�d need is one crate.�

Or he hoped that was so. Schofield had to explain why he was shipping three freight cars filled with arms. Ike doubted a bill of sale accompanied the shipment.

He climbed back up the mountain of crates and popped out of the hatch. He sat on the edge for a moment, legs inside the car as a new thought hit him. What if Schofield transported the rifles under a government contract? What if all the weapons were bought and paid for by the US Army? There were dozens of posts along the tracks if the more distant outposts deep in West Texas were willing to send a wagon to pick up their new rifles.

The conversation he had overheard between Schofield and Kinchloe made that unlikely. The way they talked, Schofield intended to do something illegal and never return to San Antonio. To abandon an entire rail system, even a small one, meant the crimes were immense.

And growing.

Blundering about, he pulled himself up and let the whistling wind evaporate the sweat drenching him. It had been close in the car. The dry desert air combined with the speed of the train cooled him until he felt presentable once more. He could hardly wait to tell Lily what he had found and that she was right about the cars.

With a heave he balanced precariously. Jumping forward to the Pullman car roof was easy. He was gaining expertise in running around on top of a swiftly moving train, just as he had learned how to pull himself up on tie rods under a freight car and ride along. This felt safer, in spite of the risk of falling off. Resting on the tie rods meant his back was only inches away from cinders and railroad ties as the train rolled along at top speed. A single slip then meant being torn apart.

Here, he felt like he walked on top of the world.

Moving carefully, he traversed the Pullman car roof and hopped to the third of the regular passenger cars. Ike enjoyed the freedom outside and decided to go one more car before dropping down to the platform between. Moreover, he avoided being detained by the woman whose ruby necklace he had recovered. Her gratitude embarrassed him.

He reached the front of the passenger car and swung around, feet kicking out to find the iron rungs mounted on the side. For some reason his foot kept slipping. With a grunt, he pulled back to the roof and looked down.

His heart skipped a beat. He stared into Kinchloe�s six-shooter. Even in the darkness the barrel looked big enough to drive a train down.

�You think you�re some kind of ape cavorting all around up there? You got no call being up there.� Kinchloe wiped his free hand on his coat. Ike realized why he hadn�t found purchase on the metal ladder. The railroad dick had been pushing his foot off whenever he tried to lower his weight.

�I was getting some air,� Ike said. His mind raced. He needed a better excuse than that. What he needed most was to figure out a scheme so that Kinchloe wouldn�t kill him. Avoiding the cinder dick and his partners had been his only idea. Now he was sorry he hadn�t gone into the third car and endured the woman with the ruby necklace�s admiration.

His best defense was being surrounded by passengers, and now he had played straight into Kinchloe�s hand.

�Why don�t you let me give you plenty more?�

Strong hands grabbed his leg and yanked. For an instant he clung on. Then he lost his grip on the edge of the roof and went flying out into space. As he fell, he saw the train race past. Lighted windows and painted letters and blurred faces rushed by.

Ike hit the ground so hard it knocked the wind from his lungs. By the time he painfully gasped in air again, the red lantern dangling from the caboose was a tiny dot. Then it was devoured by the absolute darkness of the desert night.

Ike moaned and shook his head. Nothing fell out of his ears, but somebody kicked the backs of his eyes, then dragged vicious Spanish rowels across them so hard that he moaned. He closed his eyes, pressed his hands against his face and slowly regained his senses. His first impression had been all too accurate. The train was long gone, and he stood alone in the cold night shrouding the West Texas desert.

�Chihuahua,� he muttered. Thoughts came tumbling out. He was in the Chihuahuan Desert. As if the name mattered. Sonoran or Chihuahuan, dead was dead. He shivered as a touch of wind stole away some of the heat surrounding him like a blanket. Two tentative steps took him back to the tracks. Dropping to his knees, he pressed his hand against a rail. Distant vibrations from the train faded. It had to be miles off by now.

He looked around. Starlight caused the landscape to take on a spooky aspect. Strange, eerie silvery light and moving shadows caused by the wind stirring the poisonous creosote bushes and mesquite trees made him jump more than once. Then he wished for the starlight to return when clouds began forming high overhead. The little light he had enjoyed before was sucked up by wispy clouds that looked like ghostly skeletons skulking across the sky.

Ahead? Back? How far was it to Eagle Pass? On foot the trek would take hours. Days. The distance to Marfa was as much a mystery, but overtaking the train held more of an attraction.

�Lily,� he said, shaking his head. He didn�t owe the woman anything, but he was getting into the habit of disappearing and not letting her know where he went, as if she really cared.

The thought came to him that she did seem to care. Their reunions were always something special. She was probably a good actress, but he doubted she was putting on a show just for him with her kisses and the way she hugged him when there was no reason. A nervous grin curled his lips.

�I don�t know where I�m going, except off the train again and again. One of these times, you�re going to come with me and leave Schofield behind.�

Then a different reason to keep going after the train came to him. Three freight cars laden with rifles and ammunition. Schofield had it in for him, and was responsible for killing Gregorio and Deputy Marshal Yarrow. Ike certainly had a grudge against the man. The fear in his gut staring down from the jail cell at the crowd shouting for his neck to be stretched wasn�t a memory to ever be erased.

Proof was lacking about the two deaths�murders�but evidence rolled along in the freight cars. All Ike had to do was find a lawman willing to open up a car and look. Then Schofield had a powerful lot of explaining to do, and all the railroad dicks with him wouldn�t keep him from a cell. He knew it. At least that�s what he hoped was true.

�All. That�s all I have to do.�

He exhaled hard and blew sand out of his nose. He wiped his lips on his sleeve, then began walking. However far he had to hike, it was going to be a long way. As he trooped along, he sang about every song he�d ever heard to pass the time. Somewhere close to two hours later, he ran out of tunes and began wondering what Lily or her ma performed in their act. They had to sing. With her fine voice, she had to sing to entertain a saloon filled with drunken cowboys. The moving scenery must be the majority of their act. As the cyclorama unrolled on one side and wrapped up on another roller, they performed, acting dramatic parts and�.�.�. singing. There had to be singing to lift the spirit and lighten the heart.

Consumed with his own thoughts, Ike almost missed it. A dark shape beside the tracks, down an embankment, lifted an arm as if hailing him. He took two more steps, then drew his six-shooter and spun, ready to fight.

�Who�s there?� He called again when he got no answer.

And the dark shape didn�t move. It was as if one hand was raised in surrender. Only nobody stayed that still for so long.

Ike slid down the slope and came to a halt amid a heap of gravel. From this angle he saw that he didn�t have to accept some poor galoot�s surrender. He went to the handcar and leaned against it. The pump handle stuck up in the air and was what he�d mistaken for a man raising his hands in surrender. He settled on the edge of the platform for a quick rest.

The sky darkened even more. Clouds poured in from down in Mexico. In Houston, clouds like that always preceded a downpour. Out here in the middle of hundreds of square miles of desert, he wasn�t sure. The arid land was robbed of much rain. The clumps of cactus, the ocotillo and the low, thorny bushes were silent testament to continued drought.

Ike got to his feet and stood on the tilted handcar platform. A few tentative pushes against the handle convinced him everything was in good working condition. How it had been pushed downhill wasn�t anything he wanted to speculate on. In spite of that, he turned slowly, hunting for a body. His wild imagination brought forth a railroad employee pumping furiously, being derailed, plunging down the embankment and then dying on this very spot.

Or had he been shot and killed? The Apaches roved throughout the region. Or had there been a second railroad employee and they�d had a falling-out? Too many possibilities rose to haunt him.

�No body.� He looked up the hill and scratched his head. �No way to return the handcar to the tracks, either.�

Trying to lift the corner of the vehicle showed how difficult moving the heavy car uphill was for one man. Ike circled about like a buzzard eyeing his next meal, hunting for some idea. He stumbled over a box and fell to one knee.

Swearing a blue streak, he rubbed his leg and flopped back to get a better look. A toolbox had popped free of the handcar as it careened down the slope. He opened it and knew Lady Luck was at his shoulder again. A coil of rope inside was weighted down by hammers, railroad spikes and a couple heavy pulleys. Whatever the mission of the railroad worker had been, it suited Ike�s needs to a T now.

He lugged the toolbox up to the tracks and began building his simple machine. The spikes held the pulleys to the railroad ties, and by the time he looped the rope through, he was covered in sweat. Cold night wind gave him the shivers. Or maybe anticipation of accomplishing his little project thrilled him. Chances were both rang true.

He left one end of the hemp rope by the tracks and slid back down the incline to the handcar. It took a few tries to secure the rope so tugging on it moved the car up and didn�t cause it to dig into the soft sand.

Ike returned to the tracks, took the free end of the rope and began pulling. The pulleys made the difference. The effort taxed him to the breaking point, but within a half hour he had the handcar dragged up and sitting by the tracks.

�Where�s the pry bar? There. Just what I need to finish.�

Grunting with effort, he levered the heavy handcar up so could get the wheels onto the tracks. This was almost as hard as moving it from the bottom of the hill, but he finally succeeded. From the slow arc of the stars, the effort had cost him more than an hour.

He gathered the tools, rope and box and put it all on the side of the car. Ike spit on his hands, put them on the handle and pushed down. A groan escaped his lips. He felt muscles in his shoulders and back popping from the effort. The second time he used his weight along with his arm strength to push down.

A cry of triumph escaped his lips when the car moved a few inches. The handle made its way back up on its own. He shoved down as hard as he could. Bit by bit, inch by inch, he overcame the car�s inertia and began moving faster along the tracks. Rhythm proved easier to maintain once the handcar began rolling.

Wind gusted past his face, pulled his bandanna back and sent cooling fingers all around his body. Sweat evaporated instantly, invigorating him. Once more he began singing, starting over with his limited repertoire. �Green Grow the Rushes, O� proved as good a song to pump the handle as it was for soldiers to march.

As he fell into the cadence of pumping, his mind wandered. He imagined Lily on the other handle, working with him, rising and falling and singing. Definitely singing. Ike pumped a little faster. A massive lightning bolt cut halfway across the sky, startling him. He almost broke the up-and-down cycling. A new slash of brilliance fractured the sky, revealing the heavy dark underbelly of fierce storm clouds.

He pumped faster. Being caught in the promised downpour would turn him into a drowned rat. The lightning grew in intensity, turning the once-eerie landscape into bright day before fading rapidly. A few heavy, cold raindrops spattered tentatively against his face. He put his head down and kept working.

Thunder began rolling along the tracks, warning him that he traveled into the teeth of the storm. Being in a nice, warm, dry passenger car became his goal. That and having Lily beside him, even in her old-lady makeup.

Ike jerked upright and again almost lost his grip on the handle when movement out of the corner of his eye alerted him to danger. He blinked away a raindrop and wiped his eyebrows dry to keep more water from blinding him. His hand flashed to his six-gun when he got a clear view of desert a hundred yards away.

His mouth turned dry as he counted the Indian braves riding parallel to the tracks. Ten. Maybe a dozen. Lightning bolts showed they wore paint on their faces and bodies. Colorful handprints had been pressed into their horses� flanks. Feathers and lances, bows and arrows in quivers�and rifles. Several carried rifles in their hands as they rode.

He had heard of the Apaches from Arizona who had fled their reservation and come to Texas to bedevil settler and soldier alike. He wasn�t able to recognize the markings, but if he had to bet, these were Warm Springs Apaches out looking for trouble. He was undecided what to do.

Keep pumping? He sped along faster than the band rode, but if they broke into a gallop, how hard would it be for them to overtake him? He was dog-tired now. Even fear lent only a small added boost to his strength. More to the point, they were armed to the teeth. An arrow or bullet sailed through the air faster than anyone could pump.

But they hadn�t seen him. Ike wondered what occupied their attention, but they never glanced toward the railroad tracks. If he stopped pumping, slowed and finally came to a halt, both his movement along the tracks and the clanging noise would go away. But he knew how hard it was to get the handcar rolling if he stopped. An attack would overwhelm him before he could pump his way to full speed again.

The decision was taken from him. The Indians veered away from the tracks, heading out into the desert. What they hunted or who sought them hardly mattered. They were soon out of sight. Gasping in relief, Ike picked up the pace once more. The handcar had slowed but not enough to require huge exertion to start it rolling faster again.

Grunting with effort, he pumped until his heart threatened to explode. But something seemed wrong. The wheels hummed. No metal-on-metal grinding warned of unoiled bearings. Then Ike realized what it was.

Pounding hooves sounded from behind. Frantic, he looked over his shoulder to see an Indian lift a lance. Ike ducked. The lance ripped past him onto the tracks ahead. The handcar crunched and bumped over the spear and kept rolling.

The Indian also kept riding. Ike had wondered if he could outpace a galloping horse. He discovered the answer quickly.

No.

With a savage cry, the Indian leaped from his horse and wrapped his arms around Ike�s shoulders. The momentum carried them both off the handcar and crashing to the ground. After being thrown off a train twice, Ike had learned how to twist and land after leaving a moving platform.

His shoulder drove down into the brave�s chest as they hit the ground. He kept rolling and popped up onto his knees. He went for his six-gun, drew and fired. And missed. His enemy recovered faster than any human should have and launched himself forward, knife slashing viciously.

Ike�s bullet missed. The Apache�s knife attack failed. They crashed over together again. This time the warrior had the upper hand. He pinned Ike�s shoulders to the ground with his knees. Straining, Ike grabbed the man�s brawny wrist and forced the knife away.

It was a losing battle. Ike�s muscles burned from exertion. The Indian straddled him and had his body weight aiding him to press the knife tip down slowly, closer and closer to his victim�s face.

A lightning flash glinted off the knife. The roll of thunder came seconds later and seemed to surprise the brave. Ike rolled left then put all his remaining strength into twisting to the right. He unseated his attacker.

Fumbling around for his fallen pistol was a fool�s errand that would only get him killed. Ike grabbed again, one hand around the Apache�s knife hand and another on his throat. He felt the sinew and muscle as the brave tensed his neck.

�Die, damn you, die!� Ike got to his feet and used this leverage to press his foe back.

He towered over the kneeling man, but if he had stood even a few inches taller, the leverage would have been enough. The Apache looped one arm around his legs and hammered with his fist behind his knees. Ike lost his balance and again ended up flat on his back. It took all his strength to hold the knife just inches from his chest. And then his muscles turned to water from exhaustion. Try as he might to avoid it, the steel blade cut into his flesh. First the tip pricked his skin. Then it entered and worked down to bounce off a rib.

Ike cried out. He shouted again, this time in victory. Somehow he had knocked out the brave and saved his own life. He pressed his hand to the spot where the knife had cut through his coat, vest, shirt and a half inch of his body.

He swallowed hard when a nearby bolt of lightning illuminated the ground. The Apache lay stretched out on the ground. A bullet had blown off half his head. Panicked, Ike swiveled and looked around.

A dark figure sat astride a horse a dozen yards off, a rifle still pulled up to a steady shoulder. Ike raised his hands and stood, barely able to keep his balance.

�Don�t shoot. You saved my hide.�

A more distant flash lit the figure.

�You�re a soldier. You came in the nick of time.� Ike sagged in relief. The cavalry had arrived.

�Who�re you?�

Ike stammered out his story. He doubted any of it made a lick of sense. He got no response from the cavalry trooper. The rifle stayed fixed on him. Ike had the feeling that a single word was all it�d take to be dispatched like the Apache brave. He had no idea what that word was.

Just as he started to blurt out he was a lawman and show Deputy Yarrow�s badge, four more riders joined the soldier. Then came an entire column. Trotting at the front rode a lieutenant. His gold braid turned to fire in every flash across the sky.

�What do we have here, Sergeant?�

Ike edged away from the dead Apache. Running was foolish, but the urge proved almost too much for him to overcome. Something was wrong, and he was sure to be the one blamed. For whatever it was.

The soldiers were all black and the officer white. Buffalo soldiers. He had heard there were several posts so composed of the Ninth and Tenth Cavalry. He�d also heard they rode camels and a dozen other unlikely stories. Again, he started to declare himself a Federal marshal.

�The dead one�s a lookout for �em. He trailed behind the main band. I�d hoped to keep him in sight so we could find the rest, but that ain�t gonna happen now.�

The officer rode closer and peered down at Ike. �Looks like you made our job considerably harder because we rescued you from losing your hair. You held us up, and there�s no way to track them in the rain.�

As if God heard those words and laughed, rain began splatting all around. Slow, heavy, cold drops fell at first, then blasted down with more vigor.

�You intended tracking this one because he was behind the main band? The dozen or so warriors that went in that direction?� Ike pointed.

�You blowing smoke or do you know they rode that way?�

�I saw them. From the tracks, when I was on the handcar. I definitely saw them.�

The lieutenant motioned to his sergeant, who dispatched a half-dozen soldiers to scout in the direction where Ike had last seen the Apaches.

�How�d you happen to be out here in the desert all alone, with a storm boiling up out of Mexico like that?� Three quick peals of thunder punctuated the officer�s words. The heart of the storm rolled closer by the minute.

�That�s a long story. I need to get back on the train heading north up to Marfa. It�ll stop there to��

�Take on water and coal, yeah, I know,� the lieutenant said. He held up his hand to quiet Ike when the sergeant returned. The two exchanged terse words. The sergeant wheeled about and galloped away.

�Corporal, did you find the Indian�s horse?�

�Here, sir.� A soldier came out of the murk, leading a pony painted with mystic symbols.

�I hope you can ride bareback.�

�I�ll try,� Ike said. �Thanks. I�ll just ride on down the tracks and��

�You�re coming with us.� The officer rattled off commands about forming the column and finished with orders to the corporal to keep an eye on their unwilling civilian recruit.

Ike leaped onto horseback, expecting to be bucked off. To his surprise, the pony paid no attention to having a new rider astride its back. He just wished the soldier following closely didn�t give him the uneasy feeling of being ordered to shoot him in the back if he tried to leave the cavalry patrol.

Ike pulled his hat down low on his forehead and patted the pony�s neck. The horse also lowered its head to keep the driving rain from blinding it. Ike wondered if he had ever felt wetter without taking a bath and doubted it. The rain plastered his clothing to his body, and the cutting wind swung icy knives against exposed flesh with every gust. Worse yet, the knife wound in his chest, minor though it was, not only reminded him of how close he had come to dying but also sent ripples of real pain into his heart.

�I wonder if this is the way it feels,� he muttered.

�What�s that?� The corporal riding knee to knee with him glanced over.

�I got stabbed in the chest. The Apache almost drove the knife into my heart�with just a tad more pressure, he�d have skewered me like a pig. I was wondering if this is what it�d have felt like if he had killed me.�

�I been shot, I been stabbed. Once I almost bled to death. You go all cold and shiver.�

�Like now?� As if to demonstrate, Ike shuddered uncontrollably from the soaking wet and frigid wind. Raindrops flew off him like he was a half-drowned mongrel.

�Naw, nothing like this. You was lucky it was Sergeant Benjamin that saw you fightin� with the Indian. He�s �bout the only one of us who coulda made the shot in the dark and wind and rain and all. He�s a caution, that man. Fine shot. The best.�

Ike heard the unstated, Or cared enough to take the shot.

�What fort are you stationed at?�

�Fort Davis. Ain�t much of a fort. We got a knee-high mud fence around the parade grounds to keep in the chickens. Otherwise, we have sentries posted up in Limpio Canyon to warn us if the Indians sneak up on us in our sleep with the intent of slittin� our throats.�

�No palisades?�

�I was stationed at one with high walls. Up in the Panhandle.� The corporal shook his head. Drops of water spun from his cap. �That was quite a challenge. Blue Northers blow across the plains something fierce, then there�re tornadoes. After that I was up north at Fort Wingate. The Navajos made rope out of horse tails, tied a rock on the end, throwed it over the ten-foot adobe wall and sawed through. Took �em the better part of an hour to saw out a section, or so somebody said later. Half the garrison got slaughtered in their bunks that night. The guards at the main gate never knowed we were under attack.�

Ike had to ask, �Were you one of them? One of the guards?�

�Used to be a top sergeant. It�s taken me five years to get back to corporal after havin� my stripes ripped off. But I don�t mind. What else would I do if I warn�t in the army?�

The easy byplay between them almost loosened Ike�s tongue. He held back the lie of being a US Marshal. That would have lifted his standing in the corporal�s eyes, but why did he care? The soldier had orders to shoot him out of the saddle if he so much as looked like he was hightailing it.

He laughed ruefully. There wasn�t any way he could be shot out of the saddle. He rode bareback. Already his thighs knotted and ached from gripping the pony�s flanks. If he kept going through nights like this, there wouldn�t be a muscle in his body that wasn�t aching or painful or tied up like a hangman�s knot.

Ike sat bolt upright when gunfire echoed back from ahead. A quick look at the soldier confirmed his guess. Those were army rifles firing. Whatever weapons the Indians carried might have been stolen from army posts or soldiers slain in battle, but the volley came again. The reports were distinctive.

�What do we do?� Ike wanted to turn tail and run. This wasn�t his fight. The storm would hide his tracks.

�I was told to watch you.� The corporal licked his lips. �My mama always told me not to stick my nose where it wasn�t wanted. We go chargin� into that fight, and we might get shot by a bluecoat as easy as an Apache.�

�Sound thinking,� Ike said, but in spite of wanting to retreat, he felt guilty not going to the soldiers� aid. One more pistol hardly mattered, but they had let him keep his six-shooter. Or had they let him keep the six-shooter rather than being distracted and simply forgetting to pluck it from his holster? There was no way around him being more prisoner than guest.

The gunfire died down and then picked up again. Ike looked anxiously at the corporal.

�From the sound, the fight�s coming our way. What do we do?�

The soldier looked over his shoulder in the direction they had ridden. The railroad tracks were a goodly two miles that way, but salvation wasn�t riding the rails. Ike had no idea when the next train would steam past. In the dark, with the rain and storm all around, an engineer could miss them signaling. And if the train stopped, what could they do? Some of the passengers would be armed, but enough to scare off the Apaches? Ike doubted a few Colts aimed in the direction of a war party would deter them much.

�I got to get up there. It�s my duty,� the soldier said. �You stay here.�

�Not on your life,� Ike blurted. He spoke to the man�s broad back. The corporal hunkered down over his horse�s neck and rocked his weight forward. The horse responded with a gallop across land that was treacherous in the daylight.

Ike followed more slowly. His pony stepped lightly, as if unsure that it wouldn�t sink into the sand. He didn�t rush it. The fight grew louder. The distinctive snap of the soldiers� rifles became louder�and the reports fewer. He reached for his six-shooter when shapes loomed ahead in the night. Only a distant lightning fork kept him from drawing. The soldiers retreated in disarray, the corporal leading them.

The patrol galloped past. Ike looked for the sergeant but didn�t see him. And the officer? The lieutenant was absent, too. Ike wanted to join the confused retreat, but something warned him to stand his ground.

Seconds after he made the decision, three Indians swept past between him and the fleeing soldiers. Another pair of Apaches galloped in from the other direction in a pincer movement that would have trapped him. As it was, five Indians cut him off from the patrol. They paid him no attention. He looked down at the pony and wondered if the paint on its flanks acted as a recognition symbol. If so, the darkness hid him only so long. If any of the warriors caught sight of him, they�d know instantly he didn�t belong with their band. Worse, they�d know there was only one way for a white man to be astride an Indian pony.

Whooping and hollering their war cries, the Indians quickly vanished into the darkness, hot on the soldiers� heels.

A new danger loomed in the night. A man on foot stumbled forward. Ike drew and took aim. Then he released the pressure on the trigger. The bogeyman charging through the night wasn�t a danger to him�it was the army lieutenant. On foot, lurching about, the man had obviously pushed open the gates of Hell. His uniform hung in tatters, and blood oozed like black syrup from a dozen cuts.

Ike jerked up when he saw the reason. A brave rode down on the officer, a lance probing to find yet another patch of skin to slice open. The warrior wasn�t as inclined to kill his victim as to torment.

The lieutenant had lost his pistol. He waved his sword wildly, or what was left of it. The blade had broken a few inches from the hilt. Unless the Indian dismounted and engaged in hand-to-hand battle, the remnant of the lieutenant�s saber was useless as a weapon.

The officer gasped, threw his hands in the air and fell to his knees as the brave drove his lance into his back.

Fear clogged Ike�s nose and mouth. His body existed off in a world away from the stark terror that paralyzed him. But his body moved independently of his panic. Disembodied, Ike watched himself draw his gun, cock, aim and fire. The Indian bedeviling the officer let out a shriek and tumbled from horseback.

Ike rode closer, ready to fire a second time. His hand shook now as the fear gripping his brain seeped into his body. With a quick kick, he got his leg over the pony�s hindquarters and hit the ground. His knees skinned a mite from the rough desert when he dropped beside the lieutenant. The man shivered and shuddered and recoiled when Ike tried to touch him.

�Don�t kill me. Don�t!� The officer tried to get to his feet. Something went wrong. Like a tree chopped down by an expert lumberjack, he stood at attention and fell that way. The thud as he hit made Ike jerk away. The lieutenant was alive but in terrible shape. His back leaked blood from a dozen shallow cuts. One gash in his side proved more dangerous. It didn�t ooze; it gushed.

Ike did his best to tear away the man�s shirt. He tied it tightly over the serious cut. The blood clotted as the crude bandage stanched the wound. Ike crouched and wondered what he was going to do. The sky now spat fitful drops of rain at him, and the distant thunder faded. Desert storms moved fast.

As the lightning retreated with the clouds, the desert smelled sweet and pungent and turned darker than the inside of a grave. The stars remained hidden, and without the lightning bolts, no light filtered down.

�How am I supposed to get you to safety?� Ike stared at the fallen officer. His patrol had turned tail and run. The way they had galloped past told of a rout and not a retreat. The sergeant hadn�t been with them, and the corporal might be the highest rank remaining. If so, chances were good he�d never order the men back to hunt for their commanders.

From what Ike saw, chances were even better that the Apaches had massacred the lot of them.

He stretched his cramped legs and stood. No matter where they went, it was a long way on foot. He jumped when something cold and wet pushed him from the back. Ike spun. The pony stood patiently.

�Aren�t you a sight for sore eyes?� Ike reached out and gently took the halter to keep the pony from changing its mind and racing off.

He had his way back to the railroad. All he had to do was get the lieutenant slung over the horse and lead it. A loud neighing caused him to whirl around, sure that the war party had returned. He broke out laughing in relief. The horse the Apache had ridden in his pursuit of the lieutenant pawed the ground a few yards away.

Ike led his pony to convince the other horse he was on the side of the angels. In a few minutes he led both horses around, speaking softly to them and gaining their confidence. It didn�t seem to matter he spoke English and not Apache.

�You musta been a horse wrangler.�

Ike almost dropped the reins to reach for his gun at the words. He relaxed and guided the horses to where the lieutenant sat up, clutching his side. The man�s face was ghostlike in the dark. Whether shock or blood loss caused it was a moot point if he could ride.

Ike held out the reins to the warrior�s horse and said, �You deserve the spoils.�

�I saw him dead on the ground. The brave bedeviling me. You shot him?�

�Before he had a chance to skewer you with his lance.�

�You deserve to take his scalp. If you want to, go ahead,� the officer said.

Ike shook his head and said, �I don�t cotton to such barbarity.� He reflected on the past week. Before fleeing from Houston, he had never so much as pointed a gun at another man with the intent to shoot. Now he left behind a trail of corpses and hardly thought about it. He touched the wallet with the brass badge in his inner pocket. Did that symbol make him that way or did the circumstance? The letter of authorization written by Judge Parker gave him a free hand to shoot anyone in his way, as long as he claimed to be Augustus Yarrow. Whatever the reason, he wasn�t even sick to his stomach now.

Did being a lawman shrivel any feelings of taking another�s life? Or was it part of the job? Everyone he had shot would have killed him first. A new worry came to him. How far would he go to keep Lily from harm? He hardly knew her or her mother, yet he felt responsibility for their safety�just as he had the unknown woman whose ruby necklace had been stolen during the train robbery.

If Kinchloe ever walked in front of his sights, Ike would pull the trigger. And Martin Schofield? Him, too.

�I�m not inclined to take a scalp, either,� the lieutenant said between clenched teeth. �My men have a standing order to leave bodies unmolested, but not all of them obey. Too many have lost brothers or even wives and children.�

Ike refrained from making any comment about the soldiers fleeing and leaving their commander to his own devices. The officer hadn�t made a good impression, and Ike knew the man would care not a whit if the Apaches had killed him. The lieutenant wasn�t even much liked by his own patrol, from the way their tone carried disdain anytime they mentioned him. But whatever opinion he held personally about the officer, he wasn�t going to leave him to die.

He bent and picked up the fallen lance. He handed it to the officer.

�This is about all the weapon I see.� Ike hadn�t any stomach to search the fallen Apache, but the dead man had held only the lance. No pistol or rifle lay on the ground nearby.

�He�s got a knife.� The lieutenant plucked the blade from a sheath, held it up and then thrust it into the scabbard intended for his useless saber. Then he used the lance more as a crutch than a weapon. With obvious pain, he mounted and settled down. Only when he was secure did he lift the lance and lay it in front of him across the horse.

Ike decided the spear was better than nothing if they had to fight again. That and the knife in the officer�s sword scabbard. He hopped onto what he now considered his pony and looked around.

�That way,� he said, starting toward the tracks. To his surprise, the officer didn�t argue and silently trailed him.

When they reached a flat area away from the dunes, the lieutenant rode alongside.

�I haven�t thanked you for pulling my fat out of the fire back there. That was the war party chief who came after me. Got the better of me, too.�

�That was Victorio?� Ike�s eyebrows shot up. �I killed Victorio?�

The officer laughed and shook his head. �That�s not the way they fight. Whoever�s dead back there was chosen to lead this raiding party. The main band is somewhere else, maybe down in Mexico by now. There�ve been rumors Victorio has a stronghold in Tres Castillos, but I doubt that. He�s able to keep moving, him and his war chief, Nana, and his sister.� The officer spat. �Lozen might be the worst of the lot.�

�His sister? This is a family affair?�

�Strong tribal bonds, and Lozen�s looked up to as a warrior by every last one of the two hundred riding with Victorio. They think she�s a shaman, that she�s got�.�.�. the power.�

Ike wasn�t sure how to reply. The officer rambled on.

�They claim she can predict where we�ll patrol. That makes her one of her brother�s most important tacticians. And Nana? His hands burn hot when he holds them out in the direction of rifles.�

�A compass for weapons to steal?�

�Something like that.�

Ike considered the three freight cars weighed down with rifles and ammunition. Nana�s hands must be ablaze from Schofield�s rifles. If Victorio got those rifles and ammunition, all of West Texas would become an even worse bloody battlefield.

�Sir, I was thrown off a train moving hundreds of rifles.�

�Thrown off? What? You didn�t pay your fare?�

�It wasn�t like that.� Not for the first time, Ike wrestled with lying about being Augustus Yarrow to give himself some credibility. �I saw the rifles loaded onto three freight cars back in San Antonio. The train with them�s heading north.�

�North?� The lieutenant wobbled a bit and started to slip from horseback. Ike reached over and shook his shoulder. The man snapped upright. �Prepare for battle, Sergeant.�

�I�m not your sergeant,� Ike said.

�The war party is nearby. I feel it in my bones. Ambush. Watch for an ambush.�

�What do we do when we reach the tracks?� Ike knew they had only one choice. Follow the route until they reached Marfa and hope the Apaches had ridden on. He wanted to engage the officer and keep him from passing out. Appealing to his role of being in charge and making decisions seemed the easiest way of doing that.

The only problem Ike saw was that the officer had made so many bad decisions. Whether a more experienced officer would have led his patrol into an ambush hardly mattered now. It had happened.

�Tracks? Can�t read �em in the dark. Damned rain washed out the tracks.� The officer leaned over as if trying to see hoofprints in the sand. Again, Ike had to shake him, otherwise he would have toppled to the ground.

Ike considered stopping and lashing the lieutenant belly down over the horse, but as long he remained upright, riding was better for the man. His wounds no longer leaked blood, but that might change if he were tied to the horse. Ike wished he had encountered a situation like this before so he�d know what to do.

Then he laughed bitterly. If he knew what to do, that�d mean lots of others already would have been cut down. Surviving was the only thing to occupy him now. He�d always gotten by, sometimes by the skin of his teeth, but it had never been so obvious what he had to do. Ike touched the gun riding in his holster. Not only did he have to fight the Apaches, he had to keep the lieutenant alive, too.

He turned into the cold wind, relishing the way it caressed his face and brought him fully alert. A quick glance at the lieutenant showed that stimulation wasn�t working for him. The officer slumped, and only at the last instant grabbed his horse�s neck to keep from falling off.

�You want to take a rest?� When the lieutenant failed to give a coherent reply, Ike rode closer and grabbed the man�s arm. �Let�s see to your wounds. Some of them look to have popped open again.�

Ike froze when he heard horses whinnying off to his left. He grabbed the reins of the lieutenant�s horse and yanked it to a halt. Ears straining, Ike heard low voices, indistinct but urgent. He and the officer had been spotted.

�Get down, come on, help me.� Ike hit the ground and tugged at the lieutenant�s arm. The man resisted, then collapsed and fell onto Ike. Staggering under the unexpected weight, Ike felt as if he were dancing with a partner at a barn dance, one who didn�t keep time to the music.

He clung to the officer and swung him around to keep his balance. The dead weight forced him to his knees. With a heave, he wrestled his burden to the ground and rolled him into a shallow gully. Ike looked up to see dark riders approaching from the direction of the muffled voices.

Four. At least four.

Ike drew his six-shooter and vowed to take as many of the Apaches with him as he could.

The first bullet sang past Ike�s head, high and to the right. The slug kicked up a tiny mountain of dirt halfway up a rain-caked dune. Ike leveled his pistol, again aware of how he shook inside, but his hand was rock steady. His finger drew back, then relaxed when he got a good sight picture of his target. He let out a long breath he hadn�t realized he held in his lungs.

�Corporal! Hey, it�s me. I�ve got your lieutenant with me. He�s hurt pretty bad.� He waved to draw the man�s attention to his words.

�It�s a trick. Don�t listen!�

Ike wasn�t able to identify which of the bluecoats riding alongside the corporal shouted that fearful warning, but he hoped it made no sense to the others. Even if the Apaches spoke English with a decided Texas drawl straight out of Houston, this wasn�t the kind of trap they sprang.

�Hold your fire. Don�t you dare fire, Private Watson. The rest of you, hang back and let me parley.� The corporal stopped a dozen yards away.

Ike took the risk of being filled full of holes by the anxious soldiers. Hands in the air, he stood and stepped forward.

�See? It�s me.�

�Where�s the lieutenant?�

�Behind me a ways. He�s cut up pretty bad. He passed out before we got back to the railroad tracks. He needs a doctor right now.�

The corporal edged forward a few more feet. He lifted his carbine and pointed it into the night sky. Ike breathed easier now.

�Where�d you get the horses?�

�Two Indians weren�t using them anymore,� Ike answered. �Look real close. This is the same one I rode before the ambush. You recognize it, don�t you?�

The corporal squinted and nodded slowly. �And I recognize you.�

�Did you take care of the war party that chased you off?� Ike intended to keep the corporal talking until he was completely sure he didn�t face any danger. Ike didn�t blame him for being so skittish after all the patrol had been through the past few hours.

�We turned the tables and set an ambush for them,� the corporal said. �Where�s the sergeant?�

�I don�t think he made it,� Ike said. �And the lieutenant�s not going to, either, unless you get him some help. Is there a corpsman with you?�

�We can get him back to Fort Davis. The captain�s not exactly a doctor, but he�s purty near as good. He worked as an assistant all through the war.�

The corporal barked orders. Two privates reluctantly obeyed. They dismounted and went to their commander, fearful of both the lieutenant and Ike. Finally, one dropped down and rolled the officer over.

�It�s him, Samuel.�

�Who�d you think it�d be?� snapped the corporal. �He�s wearing an officer�s uniform. How many others out here are wearing an officer�s uniform?� The corporal cursed long and loud. The private shot to his feet and belligerently shoved out his chin.

�You watch your tongue,� the private called. �You ain�t got but two stripes. Orderin� us around don�t mean a thing.�

�Gentlemen, please,� Ike said, stepping between them. �How do you intend returning to Fort Davis as fast as possible? A life depends on it.�

�He never done us any favors.� For an instant, Ike thought the private was going to spit on his prone officer.

�I�m a deputy Federal marshal,� he said loud enough for them all to hear. �I may be a civilian, but I outrank the lot of you.� Ike felt his heart hammering harder at such a bald-faced lie. �See? Here�s my badge.� He thrust Yarrow�s badge up for the corporal to see. �The Indians have shot your patrol up something fierce. It�s time to get back to your post and recover. An orderly retreat means you have to see that your commanding officer stays alive. Do you understand me?�

�Is it true, Samuel?� A rider drew even with the corporal. �He�s a US Marshal?�

�I�m a deputy Federal marshal,� Ike barked before the corporal had a chance to answer. �You will address me by my proper title. Now get him lashed down over a horse. There is no time to waste.�

The corporal snapped out orders and let Ike step away. He felt a glow of success. Ordering around the soldiers felt natural.

Natural if he pretended he was Deputy Yarrow.

The lieutenant moaned as his men hoisted him over the captured Apache horse. Ike justified his lie, knowing the officer had a chance at survival now. A slim one from the look of his wounds, but it was better than if a fugitive from a Houston shylock had tried to help. Ike swung up and took the reins in hand. The tremors he had felt inside now transferred to his demeanor. If he had quaked like this when he ordered around the soldiers, they might have left him for dead in the middle of the West Texas desert.

He followed the patrol, letting them scout ahead. Somewhere in the cold desert night the Apache war party roamed. A half hour into the ride, Ike�s hands stopped trembling, and he felt more confident.

The corporal came back and rode beside him.

�We�re less than a mile from the railroad, sir.�

Ike perked up. The soldier had called him sir, as if he were in command. A simple denial would clear things up, but Ike wasn�t about to do that. He enjoyed the notion of being in charge. Finally, for once in his life, he had respect, and the soldiers obeyed his commands. That was a new feeling. He liked it.

�I�d heard that Apaches didn�t go out at night,� he said.

�They�re all scared of snakes. Ever�body knows that, but these? These are Mimbre�os and ain�t feared of nothing.�

�Especially cavalry patrols,� Ike said under his breath.

�From the way they�re prowlin� about, they�re lookin� for something. I got my own ideas, but nobody agrees.�

�What are they after, Corporal?�

�Like the rest of us. Freedom. They don�t want to be penned up on a reservation and have to beg to be let off it.�

Ike considered that and found no fault with the logic. He hadn�t expected the corporal to hold such an opinion. And then, on reflection, what other could he give?

� �Til they get ever�thing straightened out, though, we got to cut them down whenever we see them.� The corporal muttered under his breath and added, �Just like they got to shoot us whenever they spy us.�

�Tracks!� came the call from ahead. �We�re at the railroad again.�

The corporal issued new orders. Ike was aware of how the soldiers took in what the man said, then looked at him for approval. Since it fit with his intentions, all he had to do was nod knowingly. This was good enough for the soldiers to begin riding alongside the railroad tracks.

The going was easier here than cutting across the desert. Cinders and gravel provided a better path than rain-hardened sand where horses� hooves broke through the crust and then sank into shifting sand.

�Sir,� the corporal said after a few miles. �If we cut off that way across the desert, we�ll get to the post before sundown.�

Ike squinted since the clouds had blown away. From his guess, it was less than an hour until sunrise. They had made good time in the dark, thanks to easier going along the railroad easement.

�The tracks go to Marfa. That�s where I�m headed.� Ike knew the train with Schofield and his rifles was long gone. He felt a small pang as he mentally added, and Lily. Still, he felt an obligation to let the law know what danger lay ahead if�when�the railroad owner peddled the guns to the Comancheros. These soldiers were too shot up to worry over gunrunners.

�It�s out of our way. I can send along a private to keep you company, if you like, sir.� The corporal�s tone told Ike all he needed to know. He wanted to keep what remained of his patrol together and not split it further. Sending a private along on such a mission proved risky�the soldier might keep on riding and never report for duty again.

�I can ride faster on my own,� Ike hastily explained. �You have to go slow or risk injuring the lieutenant more.�

�I�m glad you understand, sir. But if you like, stay with us �til we get to the post. From there, Colonel Grierson�ll be glad to send an entire patrol to escort you to Marfa. It�s not that far from the post. A day�s ride.�

�Get on the trail, Corporal. Give my regards to your commanding officer. Colonel Grierson, is it?�

�Benjamin Grierson, sir.� The corporal paused, then said, �You might have saved more of us than just the lieutenant, sir. Thank you.� The non-com saluted Ike, then put his heels to his horse�s flanks and rocketed away, bellowing orders as he went.

The remnant of the patrol veered away from the tracks and were swallowed by the night in a few minutes. Ike watched until he sat alone in the early morning. Fingers of false dawn sought to infect the eastern sky, but enough of the storm remained to keep the light at bay for a while longer. He picked up the pace. His pony trotted along, content to maintain the quicker gait. The Apaches had trained the horse well.

Ike drifted as he followed the tracks, snapping awake only when the sun warmed the side of his face. He wiped away the beginning of a river of sweat. For the first time he wished the rain clouds would sweep across the land again. This way the heat built, and the sun baked the side of his face. More than once during the day he let the horse have its head and seek out water. The pony�s unerring sense of where to find small pools of sweet water impressed him, but drink as he might, he wasn�t able to stop his belly from grumbling. It had been a long time since he�d eaten, and the pitiful small amount of water hardly slaked his thirst. Better to let the horse drink its fill since his life depended on reliable transport.

During the heat of the afternoon, he found a thick-leafed bush and slept fitfully while the horse nibbled at weeds and sage and anything else it could find. By twilight, he rode on, wondering if the soldiers had returned to their post and if the lieutenant had survived the trip. From the amount of blood the officer had lost, Ike doubted it.

And he doubted he�d ever catch up with Lily again. He thought a great deal about her. He had been smitten by women before, but they had never returned his affection. He snorted, thinking the only reason Lily seemed interested was the badge he carried in his coat pocket.

The badge belonging to a real Federal marshal.

�Maybe she sensed I was acting and was attracted to the performance. She�s got to be quite an actress herself,� he said as he rode along. The pony turned its head at his words and fixed him with a big brown eye that seemed to mock him.

He rode through the night and into the day, beginning to despair of ever reaching Marfa. He had long since given up hope that he would see Lily again. The train would be all the way to El Paso by now. Or even farther if it went on across Arizona to the coast.

At noon, the sun hammered down directly on the top of his head. He pulled the hat brim down as far as he could over his ears to protect his neck and face from the savage rays. Even so, he felt the heat cooking his brain. Ike had never experienced sunstroke before but realized the visions on the horizon were either mirages or hallucinations. He was in such a condition that it didn�t bother him that, if it was sunstroke, he was dying by inches.

He rode along the tracks, marveling at the detailed hallucinations. So many of the hallucinations waved to him. Others stared. A few pointed. When a young boy drew back with a slingshot and sent a rock sailing past his head, Ike snapped out of his trance. These weren�t imaginings of an overheated mind. They were reality. He shook his head and heard distant sounds.

�.�.�.�Indian horse, but he ain�t no Injun.�

It finally came to him that he had reached Marfa. In spite of the heat and lack of water and food, he had arrived in the town. And then his heart sank. The mirage ahead proved he was still dreaming. The caboose looked solid and real. He sucked in a deep breath. The smells causing his nostrils to flare were what he expected of a town, of a rail yard. The sulfur and soot and burnt metal made his head spin.

He turned and called to a man wearing a tall striped hat who trudged alongside the tracks, �What is this place?�

�Marfa,� came the reply. The worker pushed his hat back. �I know you. You�re the fellow who shot the train robber we had back outside Eagle Pass.�

�You�re the same engineer?� Ike�s heart raced. �Why are you still here?�

The engineer shook his head sadly.

�The Apaches done tore up the track north of here. We decided to lay over �til the cavalry gave us the all clear.� He shook his head a little faster. �I�m all for steamin� out when the tracks are replaced. I�ve got a schedule to keep, and I�m already days late. Days! What�ll the home office think of me and how I run my train?�

Ike looked up at the train. Ahead of the caboose were the three freight cars, and ahead of them Schofield�s Pullman and three passenger cars before the coal tender and engine.

�You unload any freight?�

�No reason. It�s all goin� to Franklin. None of the passengers have left, neither. If you want to go to El Paso or Yuma or the coast, you got no reason to leave here.� The engineer wiped his mouth with a swipe of his oily sleeve. All he did was smear soot. �Not got nuthin� �gainst Marfa, but the only reason it exists is for me to take on water and coal.�

�I made a little detour, but you�ve got all your passengers back.�

�Minus the train robber you smoked. I hope Mr. Schofield gave you plenty of a reward for that.�

�This isn�t his train,� Ike said, hoping the engineer would give a bit more information.

�A private train running on Southern Pacific tracks. That�s not too unusual. Just ain�t my druthers, but it is Mr. Schofield�s private train.�

�You work for Mr. Schofield, then?�

�That I do,� the engineer said. �Ain�t quite sure why we�re headin� north. I prefer the San Antonio�Houston run.� He winked broadly. �I got me a sweetheart in Houston. You ever been there?�

Ike wanted nothing less than to revisit his time in Houston.

�You know anywhere I can sell this horse?�

�All marked up with war paint, ain�t it? Not my bailiwick, as they say. You might ask the depot manager. He�s a local. Lived here most of his life. Heard tell that he deals in all kinds of products that come through the station, if you follow my meaning. The Southern Pacific doesn�t care about him runnin� side businesses, even if they�re on the shady side.�

�He�s in the depot?�

�Last I saw, and that wasn�t more �n ten minutes back.� The engineer worked a switch back and forth, making sure that it worked smoothly. �All oiled. Time for me to squirt some oil into the wheel bearings. Good seein� you back aboard. What with them Apaches prowlin� along the tracks, another gun will ease the passengers� worries.�

Ike suspected the engineer cottoned to the idea of someone else among the passengers to defend the train, too.

The engineer went off singing �Somebody in the House with Dinah.� Ike appreciated the man carrying the tune well. This made him long to hear Lily�s sweet voice again. He trotted alongside the train, noting as he passed that the freight cars were still sealed. The engineer had been right about the contents not being unloaded.

Ike dismounted outside the station and climbed the platform steps. His body protested every step, but when he saw Lily in the depot ticket office, the aches and pains disappeared. He rushed forward, only to come to an abrupt halt.

Schofield and his henchmen huddled together in furious discussion at the far side of the room. The way Kinchloe pointedly looked in Lily�s direction revealed the subject of their argument as surely as if Ike were close enough to spy on every word.

Ike backed away, then slipped along the lobby wall to an exit at the side. He stepped out onto the platform and looked around. Schofield and his small army of railroad bulls still argued inside the depot. A few people loitered on the platform. He recognized some of the passengers and guessed none wanted to stray far from the train in case it pulled out. Ike knew the feeling of being left behind. If they found hotel rooms in Marfa or otherwise left the station, nobody would go fetch them if the situation to the north changed.

He stepped up to the locomotive�s cab and looked around. The engineer still tended his train, oiling wheels and checking switches in the rail yard. A youngster of ten or eleven slumped by the tender, taking a nap. It was his duty to keep the boiler stoked and the fire burning. If it went cold, the engine might be destroyed. If it wasn�t, reigniting the firebox required considerably more effort and time than the engineer�or, more likely, Schofield�desired.

Grabbing the rung beside the iron platform, Ike pulled himself up into the cab. For a moment, he leaned out the side and imagined himself driving the train. Then he remembered what he sought. He reached up and yanked the handle on the steam whistle. Even knowing the shrill sound was coming, he jumped in surprise.

Behind him, the stoker came awake, thrashing about. He knocked over his coal shovel, tried to stand, slipped on a piece of coal and landed hard.

�What ya doin�? You can�t blow that there whistle. Only the engineer can do that! He�ll skin me alive fer lettin� you do that.�

�I�ll square it with him,� Ike said, having no intention of doing that. He swung down from the cab and hurried back to the door leading into the station lobby.

As expected, Schofield and his henchmen all rushed out to find what had caused the ruckus. Ike knew the fireman would claim a passenger had pulled the cord, and an argument would break out. The longer it lasted, the more the youngster protested he had nothing to do with it, the better it was. He slipped through the side door to where Lily stood looking out.

He slipped his hands around her trim waist and spun her around.

�How dare you!� She started to deliver a resounding slap to his cheek for such effrontery, then recognized him. Her mouth dropped open. �You�re back! Where�d you get off to? You look a mess. I thought I�d never see��

He cut off her indignation with a kiss. She practically melted and clung to him. Lily put her cheek against his shoulder and sobbed. That burst of emotion surprised Ike.

�You�re back.�

�And your makeup is about gone. Come on.� He steered her out the back way and down the steps to where the pony worked to drink from a trough. Ike took a few seconds to move the horse to keep it from guzzling the entire trough. It had been a faithful companion, and letting it bloat was a disservice.

�That�s yours? An Indian pony all decked out in war paint. There must be quite the story behind that, Deputy Yarrow.� She eyed him as if she were a coconspirator, sharing a secret only the two of them knew. He realized the deception appealed to her sense of drama and playing a role onstage. It even forged a stronger bond between them by her way of thinking. Deceiving her caused him a pang of guilt, but this wasn�t the time or place to explain.

�Ike,� he corrected hastily. �I�m Isaac Scott now. You�d better not forget it, either, especially when any of the townspeople might overhear.� He knew the cat was out of the bag when it came to Schofield. Or was the cat in the bag when it came to his identity? The railroad owner and his henchmen all believed he was Judge Parker�s trusty enforcer. But having yet another entire town thinking he was Yarrow made him uneasy. The deception could unwind if anyone actually knew Augustus Yarrow.

�Sorry. We all have our roles to play. Yours carries a much worse penalty for failing to convince your audience.� She kissed him and whispered in his ear, �Ike.�

�The train�s not leaving anytime soon.� He took her arm and led her away from the depot.

�But it might. The conductor said they�d blow the whistle twice and call all aboard and��

Ike had to laugh. He must have sent a thrill of anticipation through the anxiously awaiting passengers with his diversion. It had been worth it to be with Lily again.

�There�s a restaurant. I need food. And something to drink.�

�Liquor?� She sounded skeptical.

�Coffee. Water. Anything. It�s brutal out in the desert.�

�You fought the Apaches?�

He nodded. �It�s a long story, but I rode with a cavalry patrol from Fort Davis and rescued their lieutenant from�.�.�.� Ike realized he was bragging. What he said was true, but the only reason he passed it along to the lovely young lady was to impress her. He had decided he wasn�t going to play the fearless Federal marshal with her. Sooner or later, she would find out, and anything she felt for him would turn sour for lying.

�That�s not important,� he said. �Tell me what�s happened aboard the train. I need to know every last detail.�

They found a table in the eatery and sat so they could glance out into the street but weren�t likely to be spotted if Kinchloe or any of the others from the railroad passed by.

Ike ate voraciously, trying not to gobble his food. That wouldn�t have been polite, but his empty belly and parched throat refused to cooperate. Lily watched him devour his meal and a good part of hers with some amusement. When he had stuffed himself and felt ready to explode, he leaned back.

�Dessert? The menu says they have peach cobbler.� Her broad smile told him she was joking. The smile turned to a look of amazement when he ordered a double helping.

He scraped the last of the cobbler from the plate and leaned back again, finished with food for the moment. What he needed now more than anything else was a long sleep. Trying to nap while riding astride the Indian pony only gave him a sore back, not the rest he needed. But other concerns kept him from finding a place to stretch out.

�The freight cars,� he said.

�What? Oh, yes,� Lily said. �I was thinking of something else.� She flashed him a wicked grin. He ignored it, as much as he wished to pursue what had been on her mind.

�I told the lieutenant about them, but the Apache war chief had used him as a pincushion, and his thoughts kinda derailed. He�ll live, I hope, but by the time he recovers enough to mention it, the rifles will be long gone.�

�You�re going to tell the local marshal? Is that a smart thing to do?�

�Why not? He�d want to stop Schofield from selling the rifles as much as the lieutenant or anyone at Fort Davis. If the rifles fall into Apache hands, the raiding so far will look puny. All of West Texas will become a bloody battlefield.�

�That�s not what I meant, Ike. If you let the marshal know and Schofield has a legitimate buyer for the guns, what�s that do to you?�

�Nothing,� he said. �But if Schofield weasels out of any charges I bring, that makes it easier for him to deny he ever kidnapped you and your mother.�

Lily sighed.

�Mama�s back in San Antonio. Even if she sent a telegram with all those charges listed, it hardly seems evidence enough against him. She ought to be here to accuse him in person.�

Ike�s mind raced. The same objection cropped up if Lily presented her evidence�her word�against Schofield and the local marshal didn�t buy it. The evidence carried in the three freight cars would be disputed far too easily. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and spoke softly to the woman.

�We need more evidence.�

�More than Kinchloe tossing you off the train to die?�

�It�s his word against mine.�

�Your clothes,� she said. She rubbed her nose. �Being so very dirty and smelly is hardly the picture of a man with truths to tell.�

Ike tried to brush some of the dust and dirt from his coat and stopped when he saw the way it piled up around his chair. Adding to the caf� owner�s chores in cleaning up wasn�t a polite thing to do.

�I�m at a loss as to what evidence will be enough. Perhaps we should let the train go on and��

�No!� Lily pushed back her chair and stood. She tapped her foot angrily. �There is no way I will give up. He deserves to be brought to justice for what he did to Mama and me. Him and all his railroad detectives! And Zachary!�

Ike tried to calm her. Others in the restaurant stared at her. If he was filthy from his misadventures in the desert, Lily presented an even more disreputable picture. The makeup turning her into an old woman was almost all gone. Curious patches of wrinkled skin contrasted with her smooth cheeks and unlined forehead.

She heeded his warning to sit again and stop being the center of attention. With a quick scoot of the chair, she moved forward until their faces were only a foot apart. She spoke rapidly.

�I will trap him. I�ll apply more makeup so he won�t recognize me and engage him in conversation. He is sure to tell me everything we need to know.�

�That�s too dangerous,� Ike said.

�Why do you say that?� She moved an inch closer.

�If he got so much as a hint you weren�t who you claimed to be, your life would be in danger.�

�You care?�

�Of course I do,� Ike exploded. He calmed down when he realized she was baiting him. �It�s my duty to care.�

�So protecting me is only a job?�

Words failed him. He struggled to find a way to regain some semblance of dignity to go with what he�d thought would be seen as honorable. An unexpected break came his way.

�There. Outside. Schofield and Kinchloe are going into the saloon. And someone�s with them. If I find who their partner is, I might be able to take a whole package of crimes to the marshal.�

�They do seem to be quite friendly,� Lily said.

He heaved a silent sigh of relief. She veered away from accusing him of looking out for her only because it was his duty. Ike wished he�d never picked up Yarrow�s badge�and assumed his identity.

�I�ll see if I can eavesdrop.� He stood, but Lily reached out and caught his arm.

�We can go together.�

A flare of amazement robbed him of speech again. Then he said, �But you can�t go into a saloon. You�re a lady!�

�Why, thank you, sir, only Mama and I have performed in more bars than you have even ordered a beer at.�

�A woman as attractive as you would draw attention. And you need to refresh your makeup. Otherwise spying on them will be quite dangerous for you.� He saw she was determined. Ike rattled on, �Every man in the saloon will gawk at you. This is the one time you don�t want to be the center of attention.�

�Little old-lady me?� Lily touched her face. Her fingers came away smudged with the days-old makeup. She stared at the runny cosmetics and made a face. �You are right. I�ll find my case and reapply and��

�And nothing,� Ike said. �You�ll draw even more attention as an old woman entering a bar than if you proclaim yourself an entertainer and hop up onto a stage to sing.�

�Oh,� she said, scowling. �I see why you are a marshal. You are a clever fellow, aren�t you? You�re used to being undercover and no one knowing. It�s my job to always be seen.�

�It comes with the badge.� Ike hated himself for saying that, but if it chased Lily away to a safer place, the lie served its purpose.

�So how will you find what they�re talking about?� She smiled innocently.

�What�s your idea for how I can do that?�

Lily grinned broadly and said, �I was completely right. You are a very clever man.� She took him by the arm and guided him into an alley beside the saloon. �A few smudges, a bit of change here and there and you don�t�quite�look the same.�

He protested when she tried to shove tiny pieces of wood up his nose.

�This causes your nostrils to flare. It gives you an entirely new appearance.�

�And I can�t breathe. What if I sneeze one of them out?�

�Don�t. That�s the first thing you learn when you perform. The show must go on.� She took his hat and popped up the crown, giving it more the look of a top hat. �You�re so dusty, you look very little like you did before being thrown from the train. There�s nothing I can do to change the style but the color.� She shook her head. �It�s a uniform brown. It�ll have to do.�

When Ike tried to scratch his nose with the nostril expanders, she slapped his hand and shook her head like a stern schoolmarm. Then she gave him a quick kiss.

�Go and spy or whatever you intend. You look different enough that Schofield won�t recognize you.�

Ike silently finished her thought. The railroad owner might not recognize him, but Kinchloe had a better chance, having seen him up close more than once. The best Ike could do was keep away from the railroad bull.

He hitched up his gun belt and tightened it higher around his waist. Walking slightly bowlegged changed his appearance as much as anything Lily had done for him�to him. It took real willpower not to blow out the wood braces in his nose, but when he stepped into the saloon and caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar, he knew Lily�s skill would serve him well. He hardly recognized himself.

Ordering a beer proved a chore since his upper lip quivered as he held back a sneeze. The barkeep looked at him curiously, then hurried down the bar to another customer after serving him. Ike took the beer, turned and put his elbows on the bar so he could look around the room.

Schofield, Kinchloe and the sheriff sat at a table toward the rear of the long, narrow room. Ike screwed up his courage, hoped his fake bowlegged walk wasn�t too obvious and swung around to sit at a nearby table, his back to the trio.

He sipped the beer and almost choked when some of the foam came out his nose. A quick move covered his face and repositioned the wood spacers in his nostrils. With his disguise once more settled into place, he leaned back to get a tad closer to the trio. Even then he caught only snatches of their conversation.

One thing became apparent right away. The sheriff and Schofield were friends. Good friends. They joshed each other in a way that�d cause mere casual acquaintances to grab angrily for their six-guns.

�Good that you�ve got a layover, Martin,� the sheriff said. �It gives you a chance to buy me another beer.�

Ike missed the response, then caught �.�.�.�a shame your brother�s not here. I could turn over the�.�.�. merchandise without going all the way to El Paso.�

�He�s been riding with the boys. You know. All the way from the Cap Rock.�

Ike caught Kinchloe�s comment and almost sat up straight.

�If he�d been here, he coulda sold direct to the Apaches.�

�That�s not likely, not with the troopers out of Fort Davis in the field all the time,� the sheriff said. �They make life for a Comanchero a living hell.�

Ike moved his beer stein around to catch a reflection on one faceted side. The distortion was too much to get a clear reflection, but from the tone, he didn�t need to see the lawman�s face. The sheriff wasn�t kidding about his brother being a Comanchero. There might have been a trace of longing there that he wasn�t riding with his brother and was, instead, stuck being a sheriff.

Everything fell into place for Ike then. If Schofield sold three carloads of rifles and ammunition to Comancheros around El Paso, it wasn�t that much of a stretch for the weapons to be taken by wagon into Indian Territory and sold to the tribes there. And Indian Territory was under Judge Parker�s jurisdiction. Augustus Yarrow had been sent to San Antonio to find the source of rifles flooding Oklahoma. That seemed a long way to ride, but Yarrow�s reputation merited such a mission. The Five Civilized Tribes weren�t likely to kick up much of a fuss, but the rest of the territory stewed and steamed and often boiled over.

The sheriff�s brother and his Comanchero band were stirring that pot. There was no telling how much death and destruction they had been responsible for already. And three freight cars creaking under the weight of rifles and ammunition could keep the fires of war burning for a year or longer.

Ike tried to take too big a swig of beer and choked. He coughed, and one bit of wood shot from his nose. Rather than risk being discovered by Schofield and his cronies, Ike rocked to his feet and walked away unsteadily, trying to remember how he had entered. He doubted anyone would notice and compare, but he wanted this performance to equal anything Lily might give onstage.

He owed it to her for the work she�d put in disguising him. At the door, he paused, fought down the impulse to keep up the charade and do a bit more spying then left. As much as he wanted to look back at the three men conspiring at the rear of the saloon, he forced himself to keep his eyes from drifting. All it�d take was to lock eyes and that mysterious sense of identification could flow.

If Kinchloe or Schofield saw him, he�d be a goner.

He turned toward the railroad depot. Lily immediately stepped close and locked her arm through his.

�Well, what happened? Was the makeup good enough? Oh, you�ve lost the prosthetic in your nose.�

�Pros�?� He shook his head. �Never mind. They never got a look at my face. The bartender did. If he mentions the crazy desert rat with wood stuffed up his nose to the sheriff, I might be in trouble.�

�Oh, don�t worry. Nobody says anything like that. You�re just fretting too much. I am sure your performance was stellar.� She giggled like a schoolgirl. �A stellar performance by a man who wears a star!�

Ike swiped at the cosmetics on his face. His fingers came away even filthier than before. He gave up trying to clean himself. Before he got on the train again, he�d be sure to wash his face and change his appearance yet again.

�I found out what Schofield intends to do with so many guns. And from things he�s said before, he�s going to take the money and go on the run.�

�He�d never walk away from his railroad.� Lily laughed as she shook her head, the gray wig slipping to one side. She hastily pushed it back into place, hiding her bright red hair. �He�d not walk, of course. He�d ride in his fancy railcar.� She quieted down and said in a low voice, �Like he�s doing now.�

�I should send a telegram to Marshal Granger. It�s not out of the question for Schofield to loot every penny he can from the railroad and then leave there for good. That kind of graft with what he�ll make selling the rifles to the Comancheros��

�Comancheros! Why, that�s despicable! They do nothing but entice Indians off the reservation and keep bloody wars flaring!�

�I can�t send a telegram,� Ike said, dejected. �The telegrapher would warn the sheriff. Any traffic like that�s bound to arouse his suspicions.�

�Let me send a �gram to my mama.�

He looked at her. �That�s a good idea, but you won�t be able to mention anything that�d pique the telegrapher�s curiosity. He�d be as likely to tell the sheriff about you sending a telegram mentioning rifles and Comancheros as if I did in one to Granger.�

�Let me take care of that. Mama and I have performed enough different plays that I can leave hints she will surely understand and no telegrapher ever would.�

�Well,� Ike said uncertainly.

�You go clean up while I compose the telegram. Hmm, �loose the dogs of war� has a ring to it. I need to remember other lines she will immediately understand.�

�She has to tell Granger. And I doubt Shakespeare mentioned anything about railroads.�

�So you recognize the Immortal Bard, eh? There�s hope for you yet, Deputy.� She put a dainty hand over her mouth. �I meant Ike. Don�t fret. I am sure I will find just the right words. I�ve wanted to try my hand at writing a stage play for some time. This will be a good audition for such an exciting new role.�

Ike listened to her ramble on with half an ear. Even if Granger found evidence of fraud that indicted Schofield, that did nothing to prevent the weapons from falling into the hands of the Comancheros.

While Lily went to send her telegram, he doused himself in a watering trough and washed off as much desert caked to his skin as he could. A bath would have been better, but the feel of a clean face refreshed him.

And let him think up a desperate scheme for stopping Schofield.

He keeps staring at me. He knows!� Lily Sinclair swung about and peered out the window as the train began gathering speed. Marfa looked as if it moved backward and they stood still. If she pressed any harder against the window, she�d flop out of the passenger car and onto the station depot platform.

Ike took her arm and squeezed reassuringly. He sounded more confident than he felt when he told her, �Kinchloe�s done this a lot. He studies each passenger, looking for trouble.�

�He missed the robber, the one you killed.� Lily snuggled closer to him.

Ike wished she wouldn�t do that. It looked odd. The last thing he wanted was for other passengers to be whispering about how the old lady clung so fiercely�so passionately�to him. Lily had used the last of her makeup in a vain attempt to repair her disguise. Drawing attention by acting strangely forced the other passengers to see the flaws in her artistry. Ike wondered if the time for such deception was past.

Schofield and his henchmen knew their identities. Ike depended on Kinchloe or Smitty or any of the others not trying to kill them in front of the passengers. Somehow, he doubted any of the men would hesitate to murder an entire train filled with innocent people, especially if they intended to take their ill-gotten gains and disappear over the horizon. Still, as terrible a plan as it was, this was all Ike could think of. Stick with the train, Schofield and the weapons until they came upon a lawman able to arrest the gunrunners.

He wished they were away from the train and Schofield and his carloads of rifles meant to create death and destruction throughout the state. Ike had a hard time telling himself he wasn�t a real lawman. But showing the badge, carrying it over his heart, made him special in ways he never had felt before. People respected him. The cavalry patrol had even obeyed his orders, as if he were in command.

And Lily. He rested his cheek against her wooly wig. She expected him to arrest Schofield and the railroad detectives when they got enough evidence. If she hadn�t been on the train, Ike wasn�t sure he ever would have come this far. It was easier to run, to fade into the desert, to let terrible crimes be committed.

Mostly he wanted to be alone with Lily. Putting her in danger gnawed at his gut, but there wasn�t any way around it that he saw. If she�d stayed back in Marfa, there was a distant chance the crooked sheriff would harm her. Ike had no idea what Schofield had told his lawman partner about the goings-on in San Antonio.

A quick glance at the window showed Kinchloe�s reflection as he stalked up and down the aisle. Ike kept his face turned away, as if he watched the most intriguing show ever slipping by outside the train. The gaslights inside the car blanked out any chance of seeing the nighttime landscape, even if there had been something other than arid, empty desert to watch.

Kinchloe stopped a few paces down the aisle and fixed a hard stare on them. Ike squirmed. The back of his head was going to explode from that unwanted attention. Just when he knew he had to stand, whip out his six-shooter and have it out then and there with the railroad bull, Kinchloe moved on, going from the car into the third one.

Ike still considered throwing down and shooting Schofield�s henchman in the back. That eliminated one source of danger even as it opened up a new can of worms. Schofield had Smitty and a couple more of his detectives with him in the Pullman. For all Ike knew, there were others aboard. Unlike him with his assumed identity, they were used to blending in with passengers.

And what of the crew? Ike had no idea if men riding in the caboose were armed and ready to defend the safety of the three freight cars.

�They�re the only ones,� Lily said unexpectedly.

He looked at her reflection in the window. She chewed her lower lip as she did when she was nervous.

�What do you mean?�

�I�ve studied all the other passengers. None of them are undercover agents working for the railroad.�

�You can�t be certain.� He saw that she was.

�I can look out across an audience and know which of them will give the catcalls and which will applaud. It�s not an innate talent. It�s�.�.�. it�s a skill I developed over the years.�

�You didn�t read that dance hall owner aright,� he said. �Zachary. He tried to con you out of your payment and steal your belongings.�

�That was Mama�s doing. I never talked to him before she agreed to perform. By the time I saw him, it was too late. He had beady eyes. That should have warned her, but it didn�t.� Lily crossed her arms and folded in on herself. �What�re you going to do? About the guns?�

�The only thing I can do is get off the train at Fort Davis. The lieutenant I rescued will be better.� Ike silently amended, �If he survived.� Too much depended on chance, and letting others do the dangerous work. But why not? They were entrusted with keeping the peace. He wasn�t. He was a fake. Ike went on in a small, choked voice, �He�ll hear what I say and believe it. If he doesn�t, the men who rode in his patrol will back up my story.�

�The train doesn�t stop at the fort. It bypasses the town, too.�

�It�s a water stop. It must be.� Ike felt gut-clenching fear again. He had assumed that the army post was a stop along the route. Ike went cold inside, worrying that she was right. If he assumed too much they�d both end up dead�and the mischief Schofield intended for the rifles would burn across the state all the way into Indian Territory.

Yarrow would have failed. Isaac Scott would have betrayed his memory.

�It�s not,� Lily said with enough assurance to force Ike to believe her. �If you jump off the train while it�s chugging along at full speed and don�t kill yourself, you�d still need to convince the army, form a patrol and chase the train down. Then��

�I�d do it,� he said impulsively. �You�d be aboard. I�d never leave you behind.� His words rang hollow. He had a great deal to learn about planning ahead if he intended to keep up the imposture. If he left the train, he�d have to hike across the deadly West Texas desert. Food was important. Water was vital. He wouldn�t last two days in the burning sun without water. And he didn�t even have a canteen.

�If you jump off in the middle of nowhere, I�d have to go with you. Kinchloe would swoop down on me like a vulture if you weren�t here to protect me. He�d be curious where we�d vanished, and that�d give them all time to prepare.� Lily made a clucking sound, like a mother chastising her toddler. �He can get mighty persuasive asking questions. Someone among the passengers will have figured out why we�re no longer aboard.� She raised her wrists to show that Kinchloe had chained her up.

Ike knew it would be more than that. Kinchloe had yanked him off the train after he�d found the cases of rifles. The fight had been brief, but Kinchloe had failed to kill him. The next time would be more carefully planned.

He was sorrier than ever that he hadn�t shot the railroad bull in the back when he had the chance and dealt with the resulting chaos. At least Schofield would be without his right-hand man.

�Think of something, Ike. If you can�t arrest them all, why not uncouple the freight cars?�

He looked at her. That had never occurred to him. Rob Schofield of his deadly cargo. Leave it along the route. Separating the seller from his product might infuriate the Comancheros to the extent they settled Schofield�s hash once and for all.

Ike could get them to do all the dirty work! Then he shook his head sadly. Too much depended on luck and Schofield being a fool, which he wasn�t.

�He�d know right away. Backing up a locomotive might take a while, but it�s not impossible. All that does is slow him down.�

�He must be chewing nails and spitting tacks by now,� Lily said. �Think of the delays from the Apaches and the robber. How long will his gun buyers wait for him?�

�Instead of uncoupling the freight cars, derailing them would be more effective.� He sat straighter as he warmed to the idea. �There�s only one set of tracks. That means they have sidings for trains bound in the other direction to pass. How can I switch to one of those sidings and get the cars off the track?� His mind raced, but he had little knowledge of how railroads operated.

�Wait a minute,� Lily said. She leaned over him and waved to attract the conductor�s attention.

�Sir, pardon me. How often do we take on water? For the boiler?�

�Won�t be until close to dawn, ma�am.�

�Is there a side track? A spur line? I don�t know what you call it for the train to leave the main tracks.�

�You should be the one designing the route, ma�am. There is.� He touched the short brim of his cap and moved on.

Lily settled back and crossed her arms as if everything had been decided.

�Uncouple the freight cars on the siding when we take on water?� Ike said the words but nothing came together for him.

�The train fills its tank, pulls out from the siding and onto the main tracks. If the freight cars are left behind, how hard would it be for the engineer to back onto the siding?�

�No harder than getting the locomotive in reverse,� Ike said. �But it will complicate everything for Schofield if another train is on the tracks. The best they could do would be to hook onto the cars and carry them along.�

�That removes the rifles from Schofield�s possession,� she said.

Ike settled back, his mind racing. Whatever they did only delayed delivery of the rifles. He had to alert the authorities. Somewhere. If Fort Davis was out of the question, other forts along the route were possible oases for him. He had heard of a Fort Quitman, but dredging through his memory warned him it had been abandoned years ago. More than a decade?

Crossing the desert on foot without supplies to an abandoned fort was a sure way to die.

�El Paso,� he said in resignation. �That�s our best hope. Our only hope.�

�We can�t ride all the way and trust we won�t be killed,� she said. Lily rested her cheek on his shoulder. �But you�ll think of something. You�re clever. That�s your reputation, isn�t it, Mr. Lawman?�

�My reputation,� Ike said, more to himself. He should never have kept the badge or dared to assume the identity of a lawman, much less one as notorious as Augustus Yarrow.

He drifted off to a troubled sleep filled with flashing six-shooters and Indians stabbing him with lances, only to turn into a laughing Kinchloe. As one thrust straight for his heart threatened his life, he was shaken awake.

�We�re there. It�s dawn and we�re there, Ike.�

�El Paso?� He�d jump off and find the nearest lawman. Fists working to rub sleep from his eyes, he realized they hadn�t yet arrived. This was the pull off to take on more water for the boiler.

�Are you going to decouple the cars? It occurred to me that you can disconnect the Pullman car, too, and strand Schofield and his men. That can give us time to reach El Paso and��

�And get the army to send a patrol,� Ike finished for her. �I�ll have to get the drop on the engineer to keep him steaming along, though.�

�Do it, Ike. That�s the best plan you�ve come up with yet.� She gave him a kiss. He hoped none of the other passengers noticed. It wouldn�t do Lily�s reputation any good, especially since she still wore, more or less, the old-lady makeup.

The sleep cleared rapidly from his brain as his excitement mounted, and he knew her words inspired confidence the plan could succeed. That it was more her idea than his didn�t matter, not if he carried it out perfectly.

He made his way forward and leaned out from between the passenger cars. The engineer edged forward and screeched to a halt in just the right spot for the water spout to be pulled down. His young fireman had already climbed the ladder and grasped the rope.

They called back and forth to each other to be certain everything was aligned properly, then the fireman yanked hard and swung the spout around over the opened boiler. With an agility that�d put a snake to shame, he worked his way up to the valve and began turning it.

�Ain�t got much left in the tower,� the fireman called. �You think them Injuns been drinkin� our water?�

�I think the lazy no-account who�s supposed to keep it filled has been lying down on the job. Is there enough in there to get us to El Paso?� The engineer took off his striped hat and waved it around to evaporate the sweat on the inner band.

�Reckon so. Here it comes.� The boy gave the valve a final turn. The spout bucked as water gushed forth.

Ike slipped to the ground and pressed close to the cars as he made his way toward the caboose. Lily�s idea about decoupling everything behind the third passenger car solved most of their problems. If Ike stranded him, Schofield wasn�t going to abandon the freight cars with the rifles. He�d still be here when the cavalry arrived. Without horses, he and his henchmen had no way to escape.

Ike snorted. Staying here, the gunrunners had water enough to survive. If Schofield decided to tramp across the desert his life would be in danger. And he had plenty of food aboard his fancy Pullman car. It hardly seemed fair. He lived it up until he was arrested.

Ike hurried to the coupling behind the third passenger car. Staring at the mechanism told him running a railroad was more complicated than he expected. The levers and hoses somehow controlled the coupling. He tugged and pushed and tried to unlock the cars to no avail. Frustrated, he began kicking and pulling at the mechanism. Whatever sequence was required to uncouple the cars, he failed to find it.

At the front of the train, the fireman yelled to the engineer that the last of the water had been drained from the water tower. Ike became frantic. One rod stuck up and gave fleeting hope he could unhook the cars. Lever in hand, he applied as much pressure as he could. Nothing budged. He dropped to his knees and looked under the coupling, hoping to see a pin or something simple defeating his effort.

Nothing.

He traced the hoses around and decided these worked a braking system and had nothing to do with the coupling itself. That left the lever. It should have yielded when he tugged on it. Even applying his full strength, it refused to budge.

But the train was moving. The whistle let out its shrill warning that they again pulled onto the main tracks on their way to El Paso.

He made one last effort, then had to hop onto the platform behind the Pullman car or be left behind. Ike sat panting from the exertion. His hands were covered with grease, and the coupling remained fully locked. The train lurched and finally left the siding. Staring down at the tracks he saw the difference. These rails were shinier from being run over at full speed and, somehow, were sturdier in appearance.

�They use defective tracks on the sidings,� he muttered aloud. �Or not.� He was past caring. The plan with the best chance of succeeding was now out of the question. If he couldn�t uncouple the Pullman, freight cars and caboose standing still, there wasn�t any way he�d ever succeed with the train gathering speed.

Ike tried to open the door into the third passenger car. His hands were too slippery with grease. Grumbling, he wiped his right hand off on his pants and turned the handle.

The door slammed shut, and the handle slid from his grip.

�What�re you doing? You were tinkering with the coupling. What�d you do?�

A heavy fist slammed into the back of his head. The rabbit punch drove him to his knees. Through blurred eyes, he saw boots step onto the platform.

�You. You don�t have sense enough to let us be!�

Kinchloe grabbed Ike by the collar and lifted. The railroad dick was inches taller and caused Ike to scuffle back and forth, trying to gain his feet. His toes dragged along the metal platform.

�You and the woman. You�re up to something, but I don�t want to hear it from you. I�ll beat it out of her�after you�re gone!�

Kinchloe lifted Ike entirely off the metal platform and swung him around. Dangling over the rapidly passing land brought everything into focus. Without traction, he had no chance to punch the railroad detective. Ike�s hand flashed for his six-gun.

Again the grease on his hand betrayed him. His fingers slipped off the butt. For his effort, he got a loud burst of laughter from his assailant.

�Mr. Schofield might want to ask you some questions, but I�ll make sure that doesn�t happen.�

Kinchloe pulled Ike in to his chest with the intent of heaving him outward by a sudden straightening of his arms. This gave Ike the opportunity he�d missed before. Ike grabbed Kinchloe�s lapel with his left hand and pulled with all his strength. The bull shoved, but Ike curled around and slammed into the rear wall of the passenger car instead of sailing out into the desert.

Still unable to get traction, Ike brought one leg up and forced his knee between their bodies. Kinchloe growled like a bear and regained his grip. Before he swung Ike out to be thrown from the train, Ike wiped his hand off on the man�s coat.

This time when his hand flashed to his six-gun, he didn�t slip. Ike drew and discharged the Colt point-blank into Kinchloe�s chest. There was hardly any report from the pistol. With the muzzle jammed hard into the man�s body, the shot was muffled. Flames from the wadding spread across Kinchloe�s coat and vest like a tiny forest fire.

The railroad dick reached down and, insensibly, tried to beat out the flame. Ike grabbed for an iron rung as Kinchloe stumbled past him. His hands caught Ike�s coat sleeve and tore it. For an instant, the two stared at each other, inches apart.

Then Kinchloe seemed to melt. He sagged down. His grip weakened. And he finally tumbled over the low railing between the cars. As he flailed about, one arm bounced off the steel track. The rest of his body followed.

Ike recoiled as a spray of blood blasted upward. Kinchloe was no longer a threat. To anyone ever again.

Ike stared for a moment, frozen by shock of what had happened, then brushed off Kinchloe�s blood from his coat the best he could. He completed his small cleaning by constantly wiping his hands on his pants until most of the grease was transferred, along with dollops of blood and gore. He looked as if he had been hanging on to the underside of a freight car as it sped through a charnel house. He smiled grimly at that.

Kinchloe had suffered the fate he had intended for Augustus Yarrow�for Isaac Scott.

With a shaking hand and head still spinning from the sudden death, he opened the door into the third passenger car. Mostly everyone slept or stared numbly out the window as dawn heated the desert once more. Ike reached up and yanked hard on the cord above the seats. The entire train shuddered as the engineer got the signal and threw on the brakes. Ike caught himself against a seat, then sank into it until the train completed its emergency stop.

The conductor pushed his way down the aisle, coming from the front cars.

�Who pulled that stop cord? Who did it? You�ll be thrown off if it isn�t a real emergency. Who did it?� He stopped demanding that the other passengers fess up when Ike signaled him by raising a still-bloody hand.

The conductor stormed back and towered over him.

�What�re you up to now?�

�He fell off the train and got run over,� Ike said. �I saw it through there.� He pointed to the window in the door leading out onto the platform between this car and the Pullman.

�What�s that? Who you talking about?�

Ike shrugged. �One of them from the next car.� He pointed again. A slow drip of blood puddled on the floor, sneaked between the boards and fell to the ties under the passenger car.

�Show me.� The conductor held his nose as Ike obeyed.

He gagged when he saw what remained of Kinchloe spattered over the cars. The conductor spat, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and said in a choked voice, �He fell between the cars?�

�The train lurched. I turned in time to see him throw his hands up and disappear from sight. I didn�t know he was run over. I thought he just fell off and was out there in the desert somewhere. I got all bloody when I reached down to give him a hand.� The excuse was jumbled, but Ike got away with it. The conductor was too shaken to poke holes in the description of the �accident.�

The conductor almost gagged again when he hopped down and looked under the Pullman car.

�I heard tell that Indians are roving around this part of Texas and do terrible things to prisoners. This has got to be worse than anything they�d do,� Ike said.

�No way he suffered.� With distaste, the conductor pulled a piece of Kinchloe loose and dropped it onto the ground. As he did so, Schofield shouted from a lowered window in his car.

�What�s going on? Why�d we stop?�

�Mr. Schofield, sir, you better see this. It is�it was�one of your detectives. I think.�

Ike slipped back into the passenger car as Schofield boiled from the Pullman. Smitty and the other railroad bull were a step behind. He watched through the window in the connecting door as the three men crowded around the conductor. From the hand gestures and the conductor gagging again, Ike pieced together the story being told. Not once did the conductor point back to the passenger car. He tried his damnedest to not look at the mess plastered under the Pullman and still satisfy his boss with a decent explanation.

He tried and he failed. He vomited beside the tracks.

Schofield was beside himself. When he started yelling at his men, Ike heard through the closed door and over the distant sound of the steam engine puffing and groaning.

Through the side window, Ike saw the stoker running back. The youngster�s frightened expression told the story. He knew what he was going to find, and he knew who had to scrape the gore off the car. He carried his coal shovel for the distasteful chore. Ike took the opportunity to move forward and leave the men behind.

He ignored everyone shouting questions and tugging at his sleeve. Only one woman jerked away when she realized that her hand stroked through a patch of gore. Ike got into the second car and settled down by Lily. She sniffed and made a face, then involuntarily moved away from him as she saw his condition.

�You�re quite a sight. What happened? The cars are all attached.�

�Shush,� Ike cautioned. He bent over and whispered in her ear, �Kinchloe fell under the wheels. Parts of him are strung out between here and the siding.�

She looked at him sharply.

�What did you do?�

�I defended myself,� Ike said sharply. �He tried to throw me off again. Things went different this time.� He rubbed his hands along his filthy trousers. He wanted nothing more than to take a good, long, hot bath. And to burn his clothing.

�Are they going to back up the train and find the body?�

He shook his head. There wasn�t going to be much to find by now. The desert sand already sucked up Kinchloe�s blood. Coyotes, insects and vermin had themselves a fine meal. By the time the train could be reversed and run back along the route, only a crushed skeleton would remain. And maybe there wasn�t much in the way of bones. Train wheels were efficient grinders.

�Knowing Martin Schofield for the monster he is, he wouldn�t go back for his own mother, much less a hired hand,� Lily said primly. The words had hardly left her lips when the train lurched.

She was right. The engineer had been ordered to continue on to El Paso. The passengers muttered among themselves. From what Ike overheard, they had no idea a man had been dismembered by the train. One look at the conductor should have told them something serious had happened. The usually friendly man went forward, looking neither left nor right, and ignored any questions put to him.

Ike didn�t blame him much. He had seen how the conductor reacted to the sight of Kinchloe smeared all over the bottom of the Pullman car. What puzzled Ike more, though, was why he hadn�t responded in the same way. His life had been hard, and he had seen men die, but nothing like that.

Kinchloe trying to kill him and ending up dead himself seemed like poetic justice. But Ike felt nothing about the man�s death. If anything, he worried more about the untold hundreds who would die if Schofield successfully sold the rifles to Comancheros to peddle throughout the state and across the Llano Estacado into Indian Territory.

Lily retreated into herself. That suited Ike just fine. He had a powerful lot of thinking and planning to do, but somehow his thoughts jumbled up and all he could do was stare at the desert rolling by. Smitty and the remaining railroad bull went forward, probably to talk to the engineer, but they hurried so they never even glanced in his direction.

Otherwise the rest of the trip into the El Paso depot was uneventful.

The train slowed. Ike had to shake Lily awake. She looked up at him, her emerald eyes slowly focusing and becoming the sharp gems that had first captivated him.

�Have you ever been in El Paso before?� he asked. �Finding a lawman quick as a fox to search the freight cars is the best we can do.�

�Mama and I talked about coming here, but we never have. Mostly, she wanted to bypass all this horrible desert and go straight to California. There�re men who have found gold out there, you know. Rich men.�

�We�ve arrived,� he said. �Let me find the marshal. You can�.�.�.� His voice trailed off. He had no idea what to say to her.

�I can come with you,� Lily said firmly. �I don�t want you to get lost in a strange border town.�

�If you�ve never been here before, we�d be lost together.�

She smiled winningly and said, �You figured that out all by yourself. Congratulations, Marshal.� She covered her mouth with her hand and said, �Sorry, Ike.�

He headed off her obvious question. If he was a deputy Federal marshal, why didn�t he arrest Schofield himself?

�I need a couple more deputies to back me up. That�s why I want to find the town marshal.�

�It might be a good idea to find one of your colleagues.�

He stared at her blankly, not understanding.

�Another Federal officer,� she said, exasperated. �You�re out of your jurisdiction, so don�t you need to tell whoever�s district this is of your intentions?�

�Come on,� he said, taking her hand and pulling her after him. They stepped out on the platform and looked around. For all he could tell, this was Marfa or even the San Antonio depot. The layout was identical, as were colors and personnel. The ticket agent had to be the brother of the one in Marfa. That made Ike a tad uneasy.

If they were all related, they all shared in the illegal gunrunning. Only a stroke of luck had kept him from spilling everything he knew to the Marfa sheriff. If he had, he doubted his body would ever have been found. Memory of the lawman bragging how his brother rode with the Comancheros reinforced Ike�s determination not to trust anyone until he verified their allegiance.

There had to be a reason this was where Schofield had run when he left San Antonio.

Ike waved to the conductor who, stone-faced, failed to acknowledge him. Directly behind the conductor came Smitty, followed by his boss and the other detective. Spinning fast, Ike hid his face and stepped between the railroad owner and Lily to hide her.

�Down the steps,� he said, herding her. She tried to slip away to one side or the other, but he kept her moving in the direction he intended. At the base of the steps leading to a dusty street filled with wagons and buckboards, he looked around.

�I almost expected to see the horse I took from the Apache brave waiting for me. That�d be loco.�

�Loco,� Lily repeated. �That�s a good word.� She glared at him. Again he wanted her to go on her own way. It had been dangerous before, but arresting Schofield was going to be the closest thing to an all-out war El Paso had seen in many a day.

Then he shook himself. He was thinking and planning as if he were Augustus Yarrow and would be the one to get the drop on Schofield. He had no authority. The best he could do was tell the marshal everything that had happened and have a real lawman backed up with deputies perform their sworn duty.

He called out to a passerby, �Where can I find the marshal?�

�In Hell,� came the snarled reply. �If we�re lucky. If not, he might be at the Golden.� With that, the man spat and turned pointedly away.

�The town marshal does not seem to be held in high esteem,� Lily said.

This almost caused Ike to back out. What did he care if the entire territory was set ablaze by Comanchero-sold rifles? The feud with Schofield had started because of Lily and her mother. He had no personal gripe with him. Except for the man trying to get him lynched. And repeatedly attempting to murder him. And�.�.�.

A loud cheer went up a street over. Ike stopped, closed his eyes and remembered being in the San Antonio jailhouse, looking down on a lynch mob Schofield had sent to see him swing. The railroad magnate had no idea who he was, other than finding the dead man in the roundhouse.

�Come on,� Ike said, taking Lily by the elbow and moving her along quickly. She tried to pull free, but he kept his grip. She had involved him in this mess. She�d be there to see it play out with Schofield in custody.

�There�s the saloon,� she said, finally jerking free. �The Golden. That�s where that ever so informative gentleman said we�d find the marshal.�

Ike growled like a stepped on mongrel. The sooner they brought Schofield to justice, the sooner they could move on.

They?

He glanced at Lily and doubted that would happen. Their trails parted here once the cell door clanked shut on Schofield and his men.

He stepped in and looked around the dimly lit room. The familiar odors hit him and brought back the need for old vices. Stale beer. Tobacco smoke. The closeness and feel of men sharing and drinking and�

�Where is he? Do you think that might be him?� Lily pushed past him and boldly entered.

�You can�t be here,� he started.

�Nonsense. This is my kind of place, I�d wager.� She clucked as she looked around. �No faro table. There are only two poker tables. Not even a chuck-a-luck to be seen. However do they make a profit here?�

�Keep quiet while I ask the barkeep.� Ike wasn�t able to keep Lily behind him. She leaned her elbows on the bar and waved the bartender over.

�You in the right place, missy?� the man asked. He twirled his well-waxed mustaches as he eyed her.

�I was told the marshal was here.�

�Dallas?�

�He went to Dallas?� Ike�s ire mounted.

�That�s his name. Dallas Stoudenmire. He�s not here at the moment, but he comes in real regular like.�

�We�ll wait outside,� Ike said.

�You need something to liven this place up,� Lily cut in. �Do you mind?�

She didn�t wait for an answer. She strutted over to a piano, opened the lid and lightly brushed across the keys, then began to sing. Ike wanted to crawl away and hope no one saw him.

�Real purty voice she has, yes, sir. You her agent? I can use someone to entertain on weekends.�

�Why�s the marshal not so well liked?�

The barkeep blinked at the question. He picked up a rag and took a few swipes at a perfectly clean glass.

�Well now, that�s hard to explain to somebody that just blowed into town. Dallas is a good man, but he likes the taste of whiskey a mite too much. That with about lightning speed on the draw and never missing his target�s ruffled feathers. But he has cut down on lawlessness in town. Nobody crosses him. Nobody, even when he�s sober.�

Stoudenmire sounded like the man he needed to bring Schofield to justice. Ike pointed to a whiskey bottle and gestured that he wanted a couple fingers poured. It had been too long since he�d appreciated a shot of firewater. The barkeep silently poured and took his money.

�She want a drink?� the man asked, looking at Lily. �From the look of it, she�s been through hell. What�s wrong with her face? It�s real purty but there�s, I don�t know, patches on it like the skin�s peeling off.�

�Makeup,� Ike explained. �She�s an actress and was auditioning for a role. There hasn�t been time to clean it all off.�

�An actress, eh? I got a small stage in the back. If she puts on a show I can offer her more �n I could if she just sings.�

�Anything to bring in customers,� Ike said sardonically. He picked up on Lily�s quick assessment of the saloon. Although it was late afternoon and the real crowd wouldn�t pour in for a few more hours, the place had an especially empty look and feel to it.

�That�s the truth. I�ve been hobbling along, you might say. There�s a powerful lot of competition in town. And across the river in El Paso del Norte, too.�

�Does your lack of customers have anything to do with the marshal making this his watering hole?� Ike saw he�d hit the nail on the head.

�Speak of the devil, there he is now.� The barkeep gave Ike a sour look and turned to listen as Lily hammered away at the piano and launched into a rousing rendition of �Camptown Races.�

Ike half turned as a glowering man pushed up to the bar next to him. He gestured and the barkeep dropped a glass of whiskey in front of the marshal. His star gleamed on his chest, but he didn�t wear a holster or six-gun.

The marshal knocked back the tarantula juice, belched and said without turning to Ike, �I carry it in my coat pocket.� He opened the pocket slightly and showed that it was lined with leather to keep the six-gun�s hammer from catching on cloth when he drew.

�I want to report a varmint dealing rifles to the Comancheros.�

�You�re not big on small talk, are you, Mister?�

�Not when three freight cars loaded with weapons and ammunition are going to be dealt purty darn quick.�

�This sounds more like a job for Hal.� He accepted a second large glass of whiskey and downed it as quick as he had the first.

�Who�s that?�

�Harrington Lee Gosling. Hal. He�s the district US Marshal.�

Ike seized up at that. Impersonating a deputy US marshal while dealing with a full-blown marshal was a sure way to end up in jail.

But those rifles. Comancheros and the Apaches and�.�.�. Schofield.

�Since you�re not able to deal with this matter, tell me where I can find him. Gosling.�

�Never said I wasn�t able, and Hal�s off in New Mexico somewhere running down some Mimbre�os.�

�I rode with a patrol from Fort Davis that tangled with some of Victorio�s band.�

�You do get around, don�t you?� Stoudenmire licked his lips, as if deciding on whether a third glass of whiskey was appropriate. Ike had seen men pass out from drinking in an hour what the marshal had downed in the span of a few minutes.

�I do. If I can�t get Gosling to make the arrest, who else is there?�

�Don�t rile me, old son. I never said I wouldn�t look into it, but why should I believe a word that comes out of your pie hole?�

The marshal�s attitude got Ike�s dander up. If he thought he�d have a chance he would have gone after Schofield on his own. He reached into his inner coat pocket and drew out the letter from Judge Parker and the wallet with the brass badge. He dropped them on the bar.

Stoudenmire pulled the letter toward him as if it was poison. He scanned the contents, then flipped open the wallet to reveal the badge.

�This changes things considerably, Deputy Yarrow. I�m surprised you hunted me up before trying to find Gosling, though. You feds stick together. An arrest like this makes any lawman shine in the public�s eye.�

�From what I hear, your reputation needs some polishing with the citizens.�

Stoudenmire laughed harshly. �Ain�t enough spit and polish in the whole wide world for that to happen. I�ll always be an outsider to the local peasants.� He patted his leather-lined pocket holding his six-shooter and tilted his head toward the door. �Let�s go take a look at these rifles. If they�re good enough, I might claim one for my own use. The city�s not too generous when it comes to supplying me with guns.�

They started for the door. Stoudenmire glanced over his shoulder when Lily stopped playing and ran to join them.

�You travel in mighty nice company,� the marshal said when he saw Lily was accompanying them. �Is she a deputy, too?�

�Nothing like that, Marshal,� she said. �I just want to see Schofield brought to justice.�

�Nothing like carrying a grudge to turn over the right rocks. Let�s see what crawls out from under.�

They hurried down Oregon Street, then cut across to the railroad terminal. With every step Ike�s anticipation grew. Many times before he had quaked inside, but his hand was steady. He slid the leather thong off the hammer of his gun and ran his hand up and down the holster, mimicking the movement necessary to begin a gunfight.

�There it is,� Ike said. �The train from San Antonio.�

He stopped dead in his tracks and stared. Lily put into words what dawned on him.

�The freight cars are gone,� she said in a weak voice.

They were here. I swear it. They�re gone.� Ike climbed onto a water barrel and balanced precariously as he looked frantically down the tracks. The engine with the passenger cars still stood in the station, but the freight cars along with the Pullman were gone. �The caboose! Where�s the caboose?!�

�It�s loose, just like your brains,� Dallas Stoudenmire said. �You folks have been out in the desert too long. This part of the country�s famous for sunstroke. I recommend you find yourself a saloon and set yourselves down until the hallucinations pass. Just steer clear of the Golden. That�s my place.�

�Wait, Marshal!� Lily grabbed his arm. He yanked free. For once Lily fell silent when she saw his dark look. She stepped out of his way and let him stalk off.

�Schofield�s already moved the cars. Where�d he go?�

�There�s a simple way to find out,� she said. She lifted her skirts and climbed the steps to the platform. Ike was slow following. By the time he got to her side, she was interrogating the ticket agent.

�Lady, I don�t know these things. Go ask the yard manager. He�s responsible for routing.� The man kept running his fingers along the bottom of the raised window, wanting to slam it shut and get rid of Lily�s persistent questioning.

�You were up here where you could see the train when it pulled in. When did the freight cars get moved?� She leaned forward so that the ticket agent would have had to slam the window down on her. Sliding her hands forward suggested she wasn�t above reaching through the window and grabbing him by the lapels to shake the answers from him.

�I just came on duty. If you want a ticket somewhere, I�ll sell it to you. San Antonio? That train�s not going that way. According to the schedule, it�s departing for Yuma in about an hour.�

�You haven�t answered,� she cried. �I want��

Ike pulled a furious Lily back and said, �If Schofield intends to head for the coast and escape, he has to go through Yuma. That means he intends to sell the rifles to the Comancheros within the hour.�

�Oh, oh,� she cried, incoherent. She controlled herself, took a deep, calming breath and rested her hand over her heart as if checking its rapid beating. �That worthless marshal! He�ll be responsible for hundreds of people getting shot up. What are we going to do, Deputy?� She caught herself, lowered her voice and said, �Ike? You still want me to call you that, even though you told the marshal your real name?�

�Ike,� he affirmed. �And we aren�t going anywhere. I can find out where the cars were shipped.� He turned to the ticket agent.

The man pushed his cap back and stuck out his chin belligerently.

�What do you want now?�

Ike drew his six-gun and laid it on the counter. The ticket agent stepped back and raised his palms in front of his chest as if to push away any bullet sent his way.

�The cars weren�t moved back to San Antonio,� Ike said in a soft voice more menacing than if he�d shouted. �If they�d been scheduled to go west, there�d be no call to detach them.�

�I�.�.�. I just came on duty. Honest, Mister. I didn�t see them being moved.�

�Where else might they be? Not south, not west. Where?� He gripped his six-gun, slipped his finger through the guard so it rested on the trigger. �There can�t be too many spur lines coming into this depot.�

�Franklin. There�s a spur out to Franklin. It�s not far. With a little engine hooked on, it�s not more �n fifteen minutes away.�

�Do you believe him?� Ike asked Lily. She crowded close behind, looking around his shoulder at the agent.

�He seems like an honest fellow,� she said, as if trying out that notion when she knew it was not true. �And a generous one, too.�

�You can�t rob me! I don�t have any money. I just came on duty and haven�t sold any tickets yet!� He pulled open the cash drawer to show how empty it was.

�We�re not robbers. Quite the contrary. You saw us with Marshal Stoudenmire, out in the street?�

The man�s head bobbed up and down.

�He�s gone off to assemble a posse. I�d like to be mounted and on the trail of some dangerous criminals when he returns,� Ike said.

�The only problem is that we don�t have any horses,� Lily chimed in, picking up Ike�s cue perfectly.

�All I got here�s a buggy. It�.�.�. it belongs to the Southern Pacific, and I�m not supposed to use it for anything but business.�

�This is business,� Ike said. He dropped the wallet with the badge where the clerk saw it. The man�s eyes went wider as he stepped back. If the badge had been a rattler, he wanted out of striking distance.

�Go on and tell your boss,� Lily said. She elbowed Ike before he protested. �Tell him you denied a Federal marshal the means to prevent a terrible crime.�

�A deputy marshal,� Ike said. �And one with a temper matching Marshal Stoudenmire�s.� He snatched up the badge and shoved it into his coat pocket. With a smooth motion, he lifted his six-shooter and carelessly waved it about. While he didn�t aim directly at the clerk, he made sure the muzzle swung about in his direction enough times for the man to get the idea.

The man threw up his hands high over his head, as if he were being robbed.

�Go on, take it. I can square it with Mr. Thornton.�

Ike figured this was the man�s employer. He dropped his six-gun back into its holster and nodded curtly. �Thank him for us.�

�He�who should I tell him took the company horse and buggy?�

�Gosling,� Lily called as she hurried to the edge of the platform. �He�s the district US marshal.�

Ike saw that the name made an impression on the clerk. Like the town marshal, Gosling was someone he�d heard of. For all Ike knew, Marshal Gosling rode the train regularly and was known to the clerk. He touched the brim of his hat and dashed after Lily. She descended a ladder at the end of the platform with more agility than he could muster. By the time he stood on solid ground, she sat in the buggy, reins in hand.

�Well, come on, slowpoke!�

She handed him the reins as he sank down beside her. Their combined weight caused the buggy to sag. He hoped the horse was rested.

�There�re tracks running north. Those are the only ones going in the right direction,� she said.

Ike coaxed the horse into a quick trot. He held his tongue because he wanted to tell Lily the horse tired fast pulling both of them and that she ought to stay behind. There was as much chance of her obeying as there was of them bringing Schofield and his men to justice. But he had to try the latter. The former took more courage on his part. Crossing the determined woman wasn�t likely to ever be successful.

�There,� she cried after ten minutes of trotting along. �There�re the freight cars. All three of them. We caught up with that low-down skunk!�

Ike saw something more than she had. A half-dozen horses were tied to a nearby hitching post. From their look, they had been ridden hard. Their riders were nowhere to be seen.

He slowed and finally halted some distance from the freight cars. The small engine that had pulled them from the El Paso depot was still attached. Black plumes roiled upward only to be caught high overhead by an air current that failed to reach the ground. The fluttering black banner seemed appropriate for a pirate like Martin Schofield.

�The Franklin depot�s still a mile farther on,� he said. �Schofield is meeting with the Comancheros where nobody�ll see him.�

�What are you going to do? Look! There�s Smitty! I�d recognize him anywhere.�

Smitty prowled about, a shiny brass rifle in his hands. The weapon flashed as he pivoted around and returned to a spot out of sight near the freight car doors.

�I can sneak inside,� Ike said, his mind tumbling with ideas. �The doors on this side will let me through the freight car so I get the drop on them.� He touched his six-shooter. Six shots. There were that many Comancheros. With Schofield and his two henchmen also in and around the railcars, he�d have to make every shot count, then reload and keep shooting.

�You can�t hope to capture them!�

Ike�s notion was more like an ambush. Shoot as many of them as he could, scatter the rest and trust to Lady Luck that he was still alive to arrest Schofield.

�Arrest,� he scoffed. He touched the wallet in his coat pocket. Carrying the badge made him think he was a lawman. Reminding himself he had never even shot at a man, much less killed one, before reaching San Antonio was important if he wanted to keep on breathing. He had learned. Whether the lessons were good ones remained to be seen.

�Faint hearts never won the day,� Lily said. She looked at him, then planted a big kiss squarely on his lips.

When she pulled away, Ike smiled, just a little.

�That�s not the quote, is it?�

�You�ve already won the fair maiden,� Lily said. Her emerald eyes sparkled. �And you had better not do anything foolish to get yourself all shot up. I�ll never forgive you, if you do.�

He started to tell her to drive over to the Franklin depot and see what help she could muster to come save him. Ike jumped down and put his hand on the butt of his six-gun. A cold shiver passed through him. He froze when he saw a long shadow engulfing his own. Someone stood behind him. From the shadow, he knew he had a six-gun pointed squarely at his spine.

�Don�t shoot,� he said. Ike raised his hands. �You got me. Let the lady go and you won�t have to bother yourself anymore.�

�You�re giving up? That easy? You surprise me, Deputy.�

Ike turned slowly. The man who had crept up on them while they tried to figure out the best way of stopping Schofield towered above him. The Walker Colt in his steady hand pointed directly at his heart.

�Do I know you?�

�Might be you arrested me once. Then again maybe not, Deputy Yarrow.� The man moved around so Ike got a better look.

Tall, rangy, he had been on the trail long enough to accumulate a layer of brown dust all over. His nose hooked like a hawk�s beak, his skin had turned to cured leather, and his deep-set dark eyes drilled into Ike. Shoulder-length brown hair bobbed as he turned his head to get a better look at Lily, but he took in her beauty with a quick glance and saw no threat. There was nothing weak or indecisive about this man.

�How do you know me?�

�I was in town and heard about your, shall we say, meeting? Yes, your meeting with the town marshal. When I heard it was none other than Augustus Yarrow locking horns with Stoudenmire, I had to see for myself.�

�You followed us?�

�How else would I know you headed to Franklin?�

�You�re not a Comanchero, are you?� Ike saw the man�s face about crack as he laughed quietly.

�Can�t abide by them.� He pulled back his coat and glanced at his vest. �Dang it. I�ve been on the trail from Fort Worth and not had a chance to clean up.� He brushed off his vest. A small silver badge caught the light and blinded Ike.

�You�re a Texas Ranger,� Lily said. �I�ve heard tell you pound out your own badge from a Mexican silver dollar.�

�They don�t call �em that, but you got the right idea, miss. My name�s Ezekiel Thorne, and I�ve just been transferred to the local Ranger district and haven�t been given an assignment yet. When I heard about your run-in with the marshal, I poked around, watched you convince the depot agent to loan you this here buggy and, well, curiosity got the better of me. I trailed you.�

�Get more help. Lily, go to town and rustle up a posse.� Ike was beside himself. Schofield and the Comancheros were obviously nearing the end of their negotiations.

�Don�t you trouble yourself none going back to El Paso. Head to Franklin. It�s about a mile off. Send a telegram to the district Ranger headquarters, let Captain Nathan know what�s going on and be sure to put in the word �scabbard.� �

�What�s that mean?� Lily looked increasingly frightened as the Comancheros began whooping and hollering.

�That�s something me and him know about. Just put it in and my captain�ll know what to do.�

�It�s still two of us against all of them until they arrive,� Ike said.

�Well, now,� said Thorne, rubbing his stubbled chin, �you got a point. The odds don�t seem the least bit fair.�

Ike saw that the small locomotive was building a head of steam, ready to pull out. Wherever the weapons-laded railcars headed, it�d be too far to chase them down.

�When I said I don�t like the odds, I meant for them. Why, a deputy US marshal and a Ranger pitted against them? We got �em outnumbered, outgunned and out-thunk.� The Ranger checked his Walker to be sure he had a full load. He let his Colt slide back into its holster, squared his hat and fixed his eyes on the outlaws.

�Be careful, Ike.� Lily gave him a quick kiss. He wondered what her reaction would be if he confessed that he wasn�t a Federal marshal. Ike started to find out when she pulled away, snapped the reins and got the horse trotting off.

Thorne shoved Ike hard and sent him staggering. The Ranger was quick to follow.

�The buggy drew their attention.� Thorne pointed, and Ike saw that they were now hidden by the bulk of the freight car, but Lily had been noticed as she drove off.

He dropped to his knees and looked under the railcar. He saw the boots of at least six men pacing back and forth. When Schofield�s fancy shoes appeared, he pointed them out to the Ranger.

�That�s the varmint, all right,� Thorne said, pressing close to him. �Nobody on the trail�s going to wear anything that expensive. It�s time we did our duty. Are you up for it, Deputy?�

Ike nodded, not trusting himself to speak. If his voice cracked with strain, the Ranger would doubt him. He�d doubt himself.

They advanced until Thorne jangled the wire sealed with a lead slug intended to show if anyone had opened the freight car door. With a smooth movement, he whipped a Bowie knife from a sheath at the small of his back and cut through the wire like it was fresh-baked bread. Ike strained to slide open the heavy door a few inches.

Both of them peered inside. The door on the far side stood wide open, but no one had entered the car. Thorne heaved hard to roll their door open a few more inches, then slithered like a snake belly down across the floor. A quick hand motion urged Ike to join him.

Ike quaked inside but obeyed. He flopped down prone next to the Ranger. The Comancheros milled around a dozen feet away, nervously pacing and looking about as if they expected immediate attack. Ike almost laughed. They looked everywhere but at the real menace.

He glanced at Thorne. They both pulled their guns, but before either called out the order to surrender, Smitty shouted a warning.

Ike had seen hot water poured down an anthill cause less commotion. Irons cleared holsters, and lead flew wildly. The Comancheros had no idea where the threat to them came from, but Schofield�s henchman had given the warning. That was all it took for the air to turn deadly with bullets hammering into the freight car and sailing off into the desert.

Thorne began firing methodically, taking careful aim and loosing death with every shot. Two of the Comancheros closest to the freight car snapped around. One fell flat onto his back. When he landed on the hot sand, he never stirred a muscle. The Ranger�s aim was deadly, and he never hesitated as he sought targets, aimed and fired at the outlaws.

�You got him,� Ike congratulated. The words slipped unbidden from his lips. The Ranger�s second shot had also brought down one of the gunrunners. He twisted about like a corkscrew and sank into a heap as another slug ripped into his chest.

But Ike�s words drew attention to them. As if a puppet master controlled all of the Comancheros, they turned as one and fired into the freight car.

The tide of the slaughter shifted from the outlaws being killed to Ike and Thorne having no chance to escape.

You surely do know how to stir up a hornet�s nest,� Ranger Thorne gritted out. He emptied his six-gun, rolled out of the direct line of sight of the outlaws and worked furiously to reload.

Ike recovered his wits and fired steadily. His aim was nowhere as good as the Ranger�s, but he scattered the Comancheros outside and gave the lawman time to clamber to his feet. Thorne put his shoulder to the open car door and slid it shut until only a foot of open space remained. Ike shot through this and sowed more confusion among Schofield and his henchmen, who tried to rush the car.

�I got to hand it to him, he�s got more sand in his gizzard than I�d have thought,� Thorne said. �Most men in Schofield�s spot would have turned tail and run at the first shot.�

�And what about our last shot?� Ike held up his empty six-gun. �I�m out of ammo.�

The Ranger gestured at the crates in the car.

�Help yourself. Load me one or two rifles while you�re at it.�

Ike got to his feet as more bullets blasted through the open space. The freight car walls now protected him, though one bullet drilled completely through dried wood. He stared at it and the shaft of light coming from outside. If he had been standing upright, the slug would have torn a path through his skull.

Shuddering at the closeness of death, he went to the nearest crate and used the butt of his pistol to knock off the lid. Inside, cradled in wood chips and paper strips, lay a half-dozen brand-new rifles. Taking two, he moved to boxes of ammunition and opened them. He fumbled as he slid the rounds from this cache into the rifle�s magazine, but quickly got the hang of loading.

He started to toss the rifle to the Ranger when he saw shadows moving outside the car where the two of them had entered. Ike levered in a round and waited. When an ugly face popped into view, he fired point-blank. A look of surprise widened the man�s eyes. His mouth opened and his lips pulled back. Then he toppled over, dead.

Ike scrambled to the door and chanced a quick look around. This was the only Comanchero clever enough to check the far side of the freight car. He turned, got Thorne�s attention and tossed him the rifle.

�Fully loaded, with one round used.�

�To good effect, it appears,� the Ranger said. He slid his Colt into its holster and checked the balance of the rifle. Then he became a firestorm of death, firing as quickly as he could lever in a new round and pull the trigger. To Ike�s untrained ear, it sounded more like an entire company of soldiers shooting instead of a single Texas Ranger.

Wasting no time, Ike loaded another three rifles. He leaned one near Thorne�s hand in time for the Ranger to come up empty. Ike saw that he could keep loading rifles for the lawman, but deep in his gut he wanted to be part of the action. The dead outlaw had sparked a need in him to bring them all to justice. Examining his own motives was something to do later, after they got out of the trap they had entered.

Ike felt a bit chagrined and decided his desire to get into the heat of battle centered on him and the Ranger revealing themselves and starting the fight. If he had kept his mouth shut, they could have bided their time and possibly gotten the drop on all the outlaws.

But�.�.�. but he had to admit his blood rose, and he felt more alive than ever before at the nearness of death. A quick look at the rifle in his hands made him silently vow he wasn�t the one going to die. Schofield was out there and responsible for the gunrunning�.�.�.

�.�.�. and all that had been done to Lily and her mother.

Ike cocked the rifle and pulled it into his shoulder. He let out his breath slowly and drew back his finger. The rifle bucked just as a Comanchero popped up. Unlike the Ranger�s deadly accuracy, Ike only winged his target. But that was good enough to cause a new flurry outside.

�They�re hightailing it. The Comancheros are making tracks,� grated out Thorne. �I�m not letting them get away this time!� He looped his fingers around the door and put his weight into opening it all the way.

The protection Ike had enjoyed from outside gunfire vanished. Thorne spun around the door and jumped. He hit the ground, rolled and came to a sitting position, firing the rifle as fast as he could. Seeing the lawman come up empty, Ike threw him his rifle.

�Only got a few rounds left,� he called. Then he cursed himself for saying that. He�d put Thorne in danger. Schofield knew now the Ranger would run dry in a few rounds.

He grabbed another rifle and followed the lawman. Firing as fast as he could cock and fire, he sprayed his lead around and only stopped when he realized there wasn�t anyone left to shoot. Panting from excitement, he swung around, hunting for a target.

�Schofield. Where�d he get off to?�

�The dust to the north�s from the cowards that wanted to buy the rifles. They�ll be in New Mexico before noon.� Thorne got to his feet and looked toward the front of the small train. The engine still puffed away.

A timorous engineer poked his head out. His tall black-and-white striped cloth hat fell to the ground when he jerked back as he spotted Ike and Thorne at the rear of his train.

�Did he ride off with them? Schofield?� Ike wasn�t sure what he felt. Missing a showdown with the railroad owner made all this seem worthless. Yet he wasn�t a hero. It wasn�t his job to bring criminals like Schofield to justice. He had come through the gunfight in one piece. That ought to be good enough for him.

Only it wasn�t.

�I can�t rightly say,� Thorne said. �But if I read the man aright, that�s not what he�d do.� Thorne bent low and looked under the car to be sure no one had circled behind them again.

Ike looked skyward. A darkness passing in front of the sun might have been a cloud, but the Texas sky was a clear, brilliant blue and without a hint of even wispy clouds. He swung his rifle upward. Elbow pressing the stock into his hip, he fired. The bullet went wide, but whoever had climbed to the top of the car retreated.

�Is that him up on top?� Thorne brought his rifle to his shoulder, ready to take an accurate shot.

The head didn�t reappear. Ike looked at Thorne, wondering what to do. Then the decision was made for them. The engine creaked and groaned and metal screeched as the train began pulling out.

�It�s on its way to Franklin,� Thorne said. �I�ll stop the engineer. You take whoever�s on top of the freight car!� The Ranger ran pell-mell for the front of the train before it gained too much speed.

Ike hesitated, then realized he�d be left behind if he didn�t act. Putting his head down, he sprinted and reached the open door. He tossed his rifle inside, grabbed hold and vaulted up. He landed hard on the floor, but at least he wasn�t going to be left on foot staring at the receding train.

He took time to fully load the rifle magazine, then considered shooting a few times through the roof to see what reaction he got. Common sense told him this was a waste of ammunition. He needed a solid target, and the roof was too big for such a tactic ever to work. He�d just frustrate himself and give Schofield the idea his opponent had no idea what he was doing.

Ike realized that was all too true. He was out of his depth trying to arrest a man like Schofield. Thorne was the lawman, not him. Worse, the man whose identity he had stolen was dead by Schofield�s hand, if not directly then by one of his cinder dicks.

�No need to arrest him if I can shoot him,� he decided.

He had reached the roof of a freight car before by climbing a mountain of crates. That same staircase still existed. He worked his way to the roof, moving more slowly now. The trip from San Antonio had taken its toll on him. Then a surge of determination erased all pain, all aches, all doubt.

He crouched and braced himself, bent over with his back pressing into the roof. Using the rifle muzzle, he poked and prodded until he unlatched the cover. A quick breath, then he surged upward. Ike twisted around and sat on the edge of the hatch, his rifle swinging around as he sought a target.

A bullet smashed into him and knocked him backward. He lay flat on the freight car roof, staring into the blue Texas sky and wondering if this was what it felt like to be dead. Ike realized it wasn�t. He had been here before.

Mocking laughter drifted from the next car.

His reserve of strength, powered by anger at being so easily duped, drove him to sit up. He pulled the rifle into his shoulder and fired. The slug missed his target but caused Smitty to take an involuntary step back. The motion of the train coupled with the nearness of the bullet sent Schofield�s henchman to land hard on his rear.

Ike fought to keep his own balance as he tried to make a second, killing shot. Smitty disappeared by the time he sighted down the rifle barrel again. A curse escaped his lips. He climbed up, got his feet under him and judged the distance to the next freight car. It took a few running steps, but he vaulted across and worked his way forward. He smiled grimly when he saw a smear of fresh blood on the roof. His shot had been better than he�d thought. Smitty carried his bullet in him.

Edging carefully toward the spot where Smitty had gone over, Ike looked at the land rushing past below. The railroad bull was nowhere to be seen, left behind as the engine pulled the short train faster and faster.

Something warned Ike he was being careless. He glanced backward to see Schofield appearing from between the last car and the one where Ike fought to keep his balance. In his haste to catch Smitty, Ike had failed to look between the cars. Schofield had been riding along there. And now he rested his six-shooter on the roof to steady his aim.

�You�ve lost,� Ike called out. �Give up, Schofield. The Comancheros aren�t buying your stolen rifles. There�s nowhere to run.�

�There�s always somebody willing to pay good money for a crate of rifles,� Schofield shouted. He caught himself as the cars rocked on an uneven section of track.

�That�s a Texas Ranger with me. You can�t run.�

�I won�t have to.�

The bullet Ike expected sailed through the air at him. He threw himself forward and triggered a round from his rifle. Schofield�s aim was as bad as Ike�s. The gunrunner was able to fire faster with a handgun, but the shorter barrel made his accuracy less. Ike levered in a new round and fired parallel with the railcar roof�almost parallel.

The bullet plowed a wooden furrow all the way into Schofield�s face. The railroad owner jerked back and vanished. For a dozen frenzied heartbeats, Ike waited for return fire. It didn�t come. He scooted forward on his belly. As he went, he levered in a new round. The closer he got to the space between the cars, the more he expected Schofield to pop up and blaze away.

Not sure what to do, Ike finally took the bit between his teeth. He poked his head over the edge, fearing an ounce of lead would blast into his face. It didn�t.

Schofield had fallen. His coat was caught on the coupling, and that was all that kept him from tumbling to his death. Arms flailing, sulfurous curses rising to match the steam engine�s toxic exhaust, Schofield tried to grab on to an iron rung for support.

Ike pointed his rifle down and called, �Give up! I got you dead to rights!�

Schofield cursed even more vehemently and thrust his right hand upward. He still held his six-shooter. Ike should have retreated, but the sight held him mesmerized. Schofield fired once. Not braced or able to take the recoil properly, he lost the pistol. It rattled down to the tracks. Ike thought it discharged as it hit a rail, but the noise of passage was too loud for him to be sure.

What he was certain of was this feeble effort on Schofield�s part doomed him. He stretched back from the recoil. His coat ripped and he fell to the tracks. Ike expected the same bloody sight as when Kinchloe had fallen under the rolling steel wheels. He wasn�t sure if he felt a tinge of disappointment when it never happened.

Schofield�s descent took him outward rather than straight down. Ike thought he hit the desert and was left behind in a flash. By the time he wiggled to the edge of the roof and searched the desert for some trace of the gunrunner, the train had rolled on. Schofield might be dead, or he might have survived. If he still lived, he had a ways to hike back to a town where he might find a horse. Finding him wasn�t going to be hard, not for a badge-carrying Texas Ranger like Zeke Thorne.

Ike pushed back from the edge and once more stood. Wobbling as he walked forward, he kept a sharp eye out for anyone wishing him ill. One of the Comancheros might have stuck around. Smitty�s fate was unknown. He thought the railroad bull had taken a tumble onto the desert sands, too, but he wasn�t positive. Schofield and his men had the habit of turning up over and over like a bad penny.

He launched himself forward and landed on the lead freight car. From here it was only a quick jump into the coal tender after dashing the length of the Pullman. He thrashed about and got himself filthy from the coal until he came to the front of the pile.

His eyes watered from coal dust. It took a few seconds for him to take in the tableau in front of him. The Ranger lay facedown on the floor of the engine cab. He wasn�t stirring. The young fireman held a sawed-off shotgun in shaking hands, aimed at Thorne. The engineer leaned out the cab window, watching the tracks ahead. From the way the pressure gauge trembled and hissed, the engineer was highballing along, running full pressure in the boiler. The small engine wasn�t built for such speed. It was intended for moving a few cars around a rail yard and not long hauls.

�Drop the shotgun,� Ike called. The roar of the furnace drowned out his order. He fired the rifle and immediately regretted it. The bullet ricocheted and finally whined off into the distance once it no longer found metal plates in the cab.

The stoker jumped a foot and swung his weapon around. Ike froze. He had no reason to kill the youngster, yet fear etched onto the sooty face foretold what was going to happen next. Kill or be killed. But Ike�s finger refused to draw back on the trigger. Paralyzed, he looked down the two twelve-gauge barrels at his death.

The shotgun roared. It discharged its leaden load harmlessly into the air as the Ranger half rose and dived forward, tackling the fireman around the knees and lifting.

The report from both barrels rang loud in Ike�s ears, but the boy�s scream as he sailed through the air to land in the desert sounded louder.

The sudden departure of the stoker broke Ike free from his shock. He trained the rifle on the engineer and shouted, �Slow down. Slow down!�

�Like hell! You thieves�ll never rob my train! Mr. Schofield ordered me to highball it!�

The engineer twisted the valve even wider. The shunting engine lurched with an added burst of speed, but all Ike saw was the steam pressure gauge needle bending as it slammed hard into a limit pin.

It wasn�t his imagination when he heard loud reports from in front of the cab. Rivets in the boiler were blowing out from the excessive pressure. The engine was seconds away from exploding.

Ike drew a bead on the back of the engineer�s head. The man was going to kill them all if he didn�t shoot, but plugging anyone from behind tore at his very soul. He shifted aim a few inches and fired. The bullet missed the engineer and smashed the steam valve. For an instant nothing happened. Then the control throttle erupted and drove past Ike to bury itself in the stack of coal where he sat. An instant later came a gout of boiling steam the thickness of his arm.

Flinching away, he flopped down onto the cab floor. He looked up and saw the column of steam quickly die. In a few seconds, hot water dripped down to sizzle in a big puddle at the engineer�s feet. The loss of pressure caused the engine to slow and eventually come to a dead stop.

�You ain�t robbin� my train. I won�t let you!� The engineer reared back, grabbed a wrench and started to swing.

Ranger Thorne braced himself, judged his distance accurately and loosed a haymaker that lifted the engineer off his feet. The man crashed against the cab wall and slid down into the puddle of heated water.

�Better move him or he�ll blister to death,� Ike said, grabbing the man under the arms and heaving him to one side.

�Why d�you care? He done tried to kill us.�

�He was doing his job. It wasn�t his fault he had no idea about what a skunk Schofield is.�

�Is?� The Ranger pushed his hat back, wiped his forehead, then cocked his head to one side. �Is? Not was?�

�I don�t know how he ended up after taking a tumble from between cars,� Ike admitted. He shuddered, remembering the gory mess Kinchloe had made outside of Marfa. �He was still alive and kicking the last I saw of him.�

�That�s good, if he�s not among the newly departed. I want him to stand trial and pay for all the misery he�s caused selling guns to the Comancheros. There wouldn�t have been an outlaw gang or renegade band between here and Indian Territory not sporting brand-spankin�-new rifles if he�d sold what�s in them freight cars.� Thorne shook his head and wiped more sweat from his forehead. He left sooty streaks but never took notice. �Truth is, he�s been doin� this for quite a spell.�

�You were after him? The Rangers, I mean?�

�I came over on special assignment from Fort Worth because of him. Heard tell he moved all kinds of contraband in South Texas, but the Comancheros ridin� through New Mexico and onto the Llano Estacado were fixin� to upset the apple cart.�

Ike leaned out the cab window. The rivets blown from the boiler had caused leaks in a dozen places. This engine had become as immobile as a huge boulder. Fixing it to run again would cost more than buying a new Baldwin locomotive from back in Philadelphia. He closed his eyes and imagined how it felt being in control of such a powerful machine, the wind whipping past his face at twenty miles an hour, the clack of steel against steel, the countryside sliding past�and all under his control.

�There they are,� Thorne said.

The words shook Ike from his daydream. The engine wasn�t moving, and he�d just fought a battle where men had died. The dream was better.

�Who�s that?�

�A detachment from my Ranger district,� Thorne said. �Your little lady got through and sent the telegram to Captain Nathan.�

�Why�d you tell her to put the word �scabbard� into it? That didn�t make any sense.� Ike turned and studied the Ranger for a moment, then grinned crookedly. �It was a code word.�

�You�re sharp as a tack,� Thorne said. �The detachment is heading straight for a Comanchero encampment we scouted a week ago. They thought they were safe, and back then, they were. Now we got evidence of gunrunning on them.� Thorne leaned against the far side of the cab. �Those owlhoots have been robbin� every bank, train and stagecoach they can find, gettin� the gold together to buy the rifles in those freight cars.� He jerked his thumb toward the rear of the short train. �If we find Schofield alive, he�ll tell us everything about them to save his own poxy hide.�

�He�s likely dead.�

�That�ll save the taxpayers a pile of money,� Thorne said. He fixed his hard stare on Ike until he squirmed.

It wasn�t much of a surprise when Thorne asked, �Who the hell are you?�

Ike touched his coat pocket where the wallet with the badge rested. He pulled it out and stared at it. The brass badge had saved his life, and he hadn�t even known it. A bullet had flattened against the metal that otherwise would have drilled him through the heart. Fumbling a bit, he pulled out the envelope with the letter from Judge Parker explaining the reason for being undercover. He ran dirty fingers over the envelope. Coal soot and sweat left tracks on the paper.

�You figured it out,� Ike said. He handed the wallet with the badge and envelope to the Ranger. Thorne took both and held them. Ike knew evidence of a crime when he saw it now. So did the Ranger.

�Of course I did. I�ve known Gus Yarrow for nigh on ten years. You�re nowhere near as tall to be impersonating him.�

�Not boots I can fill. Ever.�

Silence descended until a weather-beaten man rode up on the ugliest horse Ike had ever seen. As the rider turned, his Ranger�s badge gleamed in the sun.

�That�s my superior, Captain Nathan,� Thorne said softly. Louder, �You about got them all rounded up, Cap?�

�Sergeant Gonzalez cut them off from their camp. He says there�re crates of firewater there, and he sniffed out the hiding place for everything they�ve been stealing this past month,� the Ranger captain said. He swung from horseback into the engine to crowd close. There was hardly enough room for all of them.

�Hooked onto the engine are three cars loaded with rifles and ammunition,� Thorne reported. �If you send someone back along the tracks, they might find Schofield.�

�And his new second in command, name of Smitty,� Ike tossed in.

Captain Nathan edged closer and peered past Thorne.

�You must be Ike Scott. That�s one fine lady you�ve got. She alerted us. That puts her and you in line to collect a sizable reward.�

�Too bad lawmen can�t collect a reward,� Thorne said.

�We�re just doing our duty,� Nathan agreed. He glared at Thorne. �You�re not fixing to ask for some of the money, are you, Zeke?�

�I was just pointin� out that deputies and the like can�t collect rewards, but civilians can.� He ran his fingers around the sweat-stained, dirty envelope. He opened the wallet. Ike blinked as it reflected sunlight. The Ranger tucked the envelope into the wallet alongside the badge, then tossed them into the still-roaring furnace at the front of the cab.

�Yes, sir, you stand to have plenty of a nest egg, Mr. Scott,� the captain said.

�I wouldn�t have been able to do what I did if it hadn�t been for Lily�Miss Sinclair.�

The Ranger captain was already tugging on his swayback horse�s reins to keep it from wandering off. He jumped astride just as to the east four riders kicked up quite a cloud of dust.

�That�ll be Gonzalez coming to report,� said Thorne. He gave Ike a once-over, then thrust out his hand.

For a moment, Ike wasn�t sure what to do. Then he grasped the Ranger�s hand and shook. The man had a grip like a vise.

�Don�t go playin� lawman again. You�re sure to get yourself killed.� With that, the Ranger released his death�s grip, grabbed an iron handhold and swung down. He headed toward the tight knot of Rangers around his captain.

Ike looked into the furnace. A melted blob of brass began evaporating. The paper signed by Hanging Judge Parker had long since turned to ash. He kicked shut the door and dropped to the ground on the far side of the train. It took a few seconds to orient himself by following the tracks ahead. A dancing heat shimmer hid what had to be the town of Franklin. After a few seconds of staring into the silvery mirage and not seeing Lily driving up in the buggy, he turned and walked slowly back along the train.

Three freight cars laden with death. And he had prevented Schofield from selling them. In the back of his mind he wondered how much the railroad magnate expected to make off the illicit sales. From what Thorne had said, the Comancheros had been holy terrors throughout the region to get the money to buy the weapons and ammunition. Victorio and his Warm Springs Mimbre�os, as well as a dozen other renegade bands, would have made the gunrunners a fortune selling the illicit guns.

Ike puffed up with pride knowing he had prevented untold deaths. Best of all, he had stopped Schofield. He ran his fingers around under his collar, reminding himself how close he had come to a necktie party, compliments of the railroad owner. And none of that would have happened if Schofield hadn�t taken Lily and her ma prisoner.

�A good day. Yes, sir, a very good day,� he said.

�Your luck�s changing mighty fast,� came a cracked voice. �Move and I�ll blow a hole through your worthless head.�

Ike looked around, panicked. Nobody. The first freight car�s door was still closed�sealed. He chanced a look underneath. Nothing. Then he slowly looked toward the sky. Outlined against the blue was a silhouette of a man with a rifle trained on him.

�Schofield. You�re not dead!�

�No thanks to you. At least you didn�t toss me under the wheels like you did Kinch. It was you responsible for shoving him onto the tracks, wasn�t it?�

�He killed Gregorio,� Ike said, struggling to draw out Schofield. With his enemy already on the high ground, he was at a disadvantage that would mean his death unless he figured out how to escape�fast.

�Gregorio found out about the gunrunning. He ratted me out but knew better than to do it with any local law.�

�Granger?�

�He�s a fool, but Gregorio wasn�t sure about him being in my hip pocket. I found out he�d sent a telegram to Judge Parker since the guns were going to end up in Indian Territory.�

�The sheriff in Marfa and one of the Comancheros�.�.�.� Ike steeled himself for a dive under the car. The distance was more than he could hope to cross before Schofield opened fire, but there wasn�t anything else he could do.

�Brothers. An easy connection to make. Now I want you to start running.�

�What?�

�Across the desert. Run, rabbit, run.� Schofield squared his stance and settled the rifle butt against his shoulder. He intended to make Ike sweat before he shot him. In the back. As he fled like a craven.

Ike saw no way around it. He turned, then felt his heart leap into his throat. Coming fast along the tracks, horse protesting, was Lily in the buggy. She shouted to him and waved.

Ike stopped trying to find a way out of his pickle. He acted on instinct. Schofield�s attention wavered for an instant. His aim swayed from Ike, toward the approaching woman. Ike slapped leather, drew and fired into the sky. His first round was off by a fraction. It tore through the edge of the freight car�s roof and sent splinters flying. This further ruined Schofield�s aim.

Ike�s second shot was aimed better. Far better. Schofield grunted, bent double and then toppled from the top of the freight car to land with a thud a few feet away. Ike refrained from firing again. Schofield was dead, very dead, this time.

�Ike, Ike! What�s going on?� Lily drew back hard on the reins and whipped them around the brake. She spilled out of the buggy and stumbled toward him.

He caught her around the waist and turned her from the body a few feet away.

�We�ve got a decision to make,� he said.

She tried to turn and look at Schofield. He walked her away.

�What decision is that?�

�How to spend the reward money.�

�Reward money? Oh, really. Tell me more!� She locked her arm through his and let him take her away.

The saloon was crowded. Ike looked around and nodded slowly. It was Saturday night, but before he had used the reward money to buy the Golden, one night had been like another�an almost-empty room. He leaned back against the bar and rested on his elbows to support himself. His legs wobbled a mite from standing all day. Never in a hundred years would he have believed running a saloon was such hard work.

He had taken a turn as barkeep all afternoon long since the man he�d hired never showed up. For a few wretched minutes he thought the evening bartender had taken off for the tall grass, too, but he had come dragging in, looking as if he�d been run over by a stagecoach. Ike glanced at a mirror across the room to catch the barkeep�s reflection. The man was a marvel. The longer he worked, the more relaxed and able he looked.

But it wasn�t the barkeep or the drinks that brought the crowd into the Golden. Ike smiled and turned toward the small stage where Lily sang. She wore a high-necked dress tonight, not showing any cleavage. But as she strutted about warbling �Froggie Went A� Courtin� � she kicked up her heels enough to show some ankle. A quick spin and the ogling patrons caught sight of a calf. She knew how to get and hold an audience�s attention. Lily not only had talent, she had stage presence. Ike grinned broadly. Lily Sinclair showed what it was to be a star, and she performed in his saloon.

In their saloon.

Ike had received the reward money, but Lily was listed as a half owner of the Golden. Without her talents, he might as well have lost all his money in a game of chuck-a-luck. After all the woe he�d gone through in Houston, Ike had learned his lesson. He had learned a lot of lessons since, and it felt good.

He and Lily had been through so much together on the trip from San Antonio�and from the instant he had rescued her and her ma from the shackles Schofield had clamped on them�she deserved whatever he could give her.

Teaming up with her had been pure good fortune and, for once, Lady Luck had bestowed a grand reward on him.

That got him thinking. The areas on either side of the double doors were hardly populated with drinking customers. It wasn�t possible to see the stage from there, so no one gathered. And anyone entering went directly to the bar to order. During the busiest of times, no one congregated there. Those were perfect places for a faro table and maybe a roulette wheel. Lily said she knew someone she�d met years earlier in Denver willing to run a table. A decent split from an honest game benefited the customers and Ike. He had a few ideas how to make the games even more appealing.

After all, losing at roulette was how he had gotten so far into debt with Clement Penrose back in Houston. The more he bet and the more he lost, the more he borrowed until he�d had to hightail it from town�.�.�. finally ending up in El Paso.

�Boss. Boss! We got trouble.� The barkeep shook him by the shoulder. �You want me to fetch the room sweeper?�

�Keep the shotgun under the bar. I�ll handle this.� Ike heaved himself onto the balls of his feet, balanced for a moment, then pivoted to face the El Paso marshal. Dallas Stoudenmire wore his usual dour expression like a shroud.

�Good evening, Marshal,� Ike greeted. �You look like somebody shot your dog.�

�If anyone kills that mongrel, it�ll be me,� the marshal said. He turned slightly. The coat with the leather-lined pockets flared, betraying pistols in both pockets. Ike wasn�t wearing his holster and gun�the holster and six-shooter he�d taken off Augustus Yarrow. That only invited trouble when a cowboy got drunk enough and heard about how the bar owner was responsible for bringing an entire gang of Comancheros to justice.

�You know you wouldn�t do that, �less he was rabid.� Ike sized up the marshal and added, �But then, the dog�s more likely to get rabies from you if he did take a nip out of your hide.�

Stoudenmire stared at him with expressionless eyes. Then the corners of his mouth turned upward. Not much. Enough. He slapped Ike on the back.

�I like you. You got a sense of humor, unlike the rest of the folks in this town. I don�t make offers like this often. You got stones to go with your humor. What do you say to comin� to work for me as my chief deputy?�

�I say a drink for the marshal,� Ike called out. �Set yourself down and listen to Lily belt out a tune or two.�

The marshal muttered something, took his drink and bulled his way to emptying a table. To keep the peace, Ike saw that the displaced patrons got free beers. Then he made his way into the back room he used as an office. He sank into a chair, closed his eyes and listened to Lily. He wasn�t sure what it was, but she was singing in Italian. Nothing like introducing a little culture to the border town.

And to him. This might be that opera thing she was talking about at breakfast.

His eyes shot wide-open. The office door creaked on unoiled hinges. He grinned from ear to ear as Lily came in, fanning herself.

�It�s so hot onstage. I had to take a break.�

�You�re what makes it hot,� he said. She came across the desk and sat on his lap.

�It�s nowhere near as hot since you hung up your badge, Deputy.�

�Are you going to keep poking at me about that?�

�I knew all the time you weren�t any lawman.�

�Liar,� he said, but Ike felt relieved when he had confessed to her that he wasn�t any kind of Federal lawman. To his surprise she had taken it well, making him think she had seen more in him all along than he had in himself. Bringing Schofield to justice had brought out the man inside.

�I got a letter today.� She tried to look guileless. Lily was a good actress but not that good.

�Now, who do you know that can write?� he joked. He knew the answer. He wasn�t sure he wanted to know what the letter said.

�Mama has decided to stay in San Antonio,� she said. �But she�s willing to come up here so we can star in a play or two together. She feels so left out of all our grand adventures.�

�The cyclorama won�t fit behind our stage. The area�s too small. And��

�She�s thinking of changing her stage name again. Something French, perhaps. She decided Sandrine wasn�t for her. Colette? Marie Antoinette?�

�Catherine is nice,� Ike said. Lily still wasn�t listening.

�She had quite good news about Marshal Granger. He used the papers you gave him, well, the evidence that Gregorio sent to Marshal Yarrow, and tracked down all the illegal things Schofield was doing. Even if you hadn�t killed him in that exciting gun battle, he would have been convicted of fraud as well as gunrunning. She hinted the marshal was looking into other disreputable things, too, mostly dealing with Zachary and the Grand Palace. Schofield was the silent partner there, you remember.�

�I do.�

She twisted about on his lap. �It�s funny you chose those words. The marshal and Mama are getting hitched. Imagine that.�

�I reckon I have to, if she said so.�

�She�s asked me to sing at their wedding.�

�I know the owners of the Golden. They�re good people and will let you take the time off. If they don�t, I�ll talk real stern-like to them.�

�She�s willing to do the same for me.�

�Do the same? What do you mean?�

�Sing at my wedding. Our wedding.�

�We�re already business partners,� Ike said.

�We can be more. Think of a double wedding. It�d be the talk of San Antonio. Of Texas! There�d be��

He silenced her by pulling her face down to his and kissing her. Things had worked out well for a deadbeat ne�er-do-well from Houston. He might even send Penrose the money he owed, but other expenses came first. Running the Golden. Traveling to San Antonio.

Getting married.