Early Dawn (6 page)

In the beginning, Matthew had kept a journal, but after a time, he’d given up on that. His Gaelic-speaking mother, born in the old country, had studied relentlessly to attain a good command of English and insisted that her children do the same. Though Matthew had only five years of formal schooling, he’d developed a good vocabulary and spelling skills, but he still wasn’t a great hand at writing. He penned his thoughts pretty much like he talked, simple and to the point. When he wrote home to let his folks know he was still alive, he kept it short.
Hello. I’m fine. Hope you are, too.
He had no way of knowing if his letters reached their destination because he never stayed in one place long enough to get return mail. Hell, so far as he knew, both his parents could be dead by now.

The thought saddened Matthew, but not in the sharp, painful way it once would have. He had trouble remembering his loved ones’ faces when he thought of them now, and homesickness had lost its hold on him long ago. The ranch had become a distant memory, the squat little cabin he’d shared with Olivia a blur. Sometimes he almost forgot why he’d undertaken this task. Then a nightmare about Livvy’s death would jerk him awake from a sound sleep, and he’d remember with harsh clarity. Bottom line was, he’d set himself a goal, and he couldn’t give up until every last one of the Sebastians was dead. He’d failed to protect his wife, and punishing her killers was the only way he knew to make up for that.

Once he avenged Livvy’s death, he had no idea what the future might hold for him. Oregon no longer called his name. Too many bad memories waited for him there. Maybe he’d hire on somewhere as a cowhand or broncobuster, saving his wages until he had a stake and could start his own ranch. Montana still had a lot of wide-open country. A man could make a fresh start there and put the past behind him. It’d be lonely, but Matthew had come to accept that as his lot in life. He didn’t have what it took to be a decent husband—or father, for that matter. A man worth his salt protected his family.

Guiding his horse through a dense thicket of skunk-brush and mountain mahogany, Matthew followed the Sebastians’ tracks to a promontory where thickets of silver buffaloberry clumped around huge boulders. After picking his way through the dense foliage and rocks, he reined in sharply and stood in the stirrups to see over the edge of the cliff, wondering what the gang members had been thinking to take their horses down such steep, treacherous terrain. In the draw below, he saw only brush at first, but then his gaze caught on a glint of steel.
Railroad tracks.
Following their course, he saw a train in the distance. The locomotive appeared to have jumped the tracks. Matthew couldn’t determine what might have caused that, but he had a bad feeling it hadn’t been an accident. Squinting to see, he counted five cars between the locomotive and caboose, and they didn’t look to be the kind that carried freight. Too fancy. A passenger train, maybe?

His chest went tight with dread. Now he understood why the Sebastians had put their horses at risk to go down the steep slope. They’d waited up here to ambush the train. Lips pressed into a tight line, Matthew turned east, hoping to find a safer way down into the draw. To his surprise, he discovered that the Sebastians had ridden this way as well. Their tracks soon led to a gentler slope that looked less dangerous for Matthew’s animals. As he began the descent, he realized why the gang had chosen not to launch its attack from this angle. The people on the train would have seen them coming, just as they could see Matthew now. Two men emerged from the locomotive onto its rear platform. They seemed to be looking at Matthew through binoculars. One of them held a rifle at the ready in the crook of his arm.

As Matthew drew closer, he saw piles of broken rock scattered across the tracks in front of the derailed locomotive. Mystery solved. To stop the train, the Sebastians had rolled some boulders into its path. Then they’d ridden back to the promontory to await the inevitable collision.
Bastards.

Matthew hoped the man with the gun didn’t get nervous and shoot. If the train had recently been robbed, as Matthew suspected, tension would be high, and the approach of a stranger might make the rifleman edgy. He wore a brown plaid frock suit and a jaunty bowler hat, pegging him as a passenger and possibly a city fellow. Wasn’t that just perfect? Matthew had never met a dandy yet who knew squat about firearms.

The other man, a bullnecked, portly gent, wore a black suit and matching billed cap. Though Matthew had never traveled on a passenger train, he figured the fellow to be the conductor or some other kind of railway employee. He lifted a hand and waved, hoping to let them know he was friendly. Being mistaken for a bandit wouldn’t make for a pleasant encounter.

“Howdy!” he called out as he drew closer.

The man in black placed his hands on the platform railing and leaned forward at the waist. “What brings you here, mister?”

Some twenty feet from them, Matthew reined in his horse. The pack mule let loose with a nervous bray-whinny. “I’m after the Sebastian Gang. Their tracks led me here.”

“You a bounty hunter?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you sure don’t have the look of a lawman.”

Matthew fingered the thick growth of whiskers on his jaw. “Stopping to wash and shave isn’t easy when you’re trying to run polecats to ground. Name’s Matthew Coulter. Hail from Oregon.”

“You’re a long way from home, partner.”

Matthew nudged up the brim of his hat to meet the men’s gazes. “That I am.” He cast a glance at the rock-strewn tracks. “Looks to me like you’re in a fine fix.”

“Yes, we are.” The dandy in the frock coat lowered the rifle to his side, a gesture that indicated he no longer felt threatened. Problem was that the barrel of the weapon was now pointed straight at Matthew. “We’ve got three dead, and they took a young woman hostage.”

A chill moved down Matthew’s spine. If the Sebastians had taken a woman, she’d most likely be dead by sundown. If not, she’d be wishing she were. “I’m sorry to hear that. The Sebastians aren’t exactly what you’d call gentle with the ladies.” He inclined his head at the rifle. “If it’s all the same to you, my friend, I’d feel easier if you pointed that gun at something besides me.”

The fellow quickly shifted the rifle so the shooting end was aimed at the sky.

“Were any passengers hurt in the wreck?” Matthew asked.

“Mostly cuts and bruises, but one man went flying and busted some ribs. He’s been spitting blood and should see a doctor.”

“Help is probably on the way,” Matthew replied. “The telegrapher at the next station would have sounded an alarm the moment he realized the train was overdue.”

“Not in Holden Creek,” the conductor countered. “The telegrapher there up and died a few weeks back.”

Matthew shifted in the saddle. “So who took his place?”

“Nobody, yet.” The conductor fingered open his watch pocket. “After Holden Creek, it’s almost five hours to the next stop.” He checked the time. “By my calculations, no alarm will be raised for another three hours.”

Matthew absorbed that bit of news. “One of you needs to go for help, then. They’ve surely got a sawbones in Holden Creek. That man spitting blood could have a punctured lung.”

The city fellow gestured at the broken boulders. “The train is dead in its tracks, and we have no horse.”

Matthew almost asked if they’d ever heard of walking. The injured man could die without medical treatment.
Damn.
Wasn’t this just his luck? He knew, without their even asking, that they expected him to head toward Holden Creek. If he allowed himself to get side-tracked that way, the Sebastians would get miles ahead of him, and he’d play hell catching up with them again. He rubbed his jaw, wishing he had it in him to just ride away.

“How far is it to Holden Creek?” he finally asked.

“Ten, maybe eleven miles. That’s a long way for a man to walk when he’s not dressed for this cold weather and the freezing rain.” The conductor eyed Matthew’s buck-skin jacket, which had turned supple and shiny from repeated applications of bear grease to make it shed water. “You reckon you could get word to the marshal there that we need assistance and a doctor?”

The way Matthew saw it, the rain had let up and the sun was out. Ten miles wasn’t that far for a man to walk. He had hoofed it that far a number of times. Maybe they were afraid to leave the relative safety of the train. The Sebastian boys had a talent for putting the fear of God into folks.

With an inward sigh, Matthew went over his options, hating to waste precious time on an unnecessary side trip. But in the end, he couldn’t see that he had a choice. There was the injured man to think about.

“How much blood is that man spitting up?” Matthew asked.

“Not much, just a little pink now and again.” The conductor arched an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

“I hate to press my animals unless it’s a matter of life and death. They’ve come a far piece.”

“We won’t quarrel with how fast you ride, Coulter, just so long as you go. I think the injured man will be okay until help arrives.”

“My horse and mule can go about four miles an hour at a steady walk. At that rate, it’ll take me two and a half hours to reach Holden Creek, plus a few minutes to talk with the marshal. With fresh horses, he and his men should be able to make it back here in a little over an hour if they ride fairly hard. That puts help about four hours out. Do you think the injured fellow can hold on that long?”

“We have him bedded down. If he doesn’t move and do more damage, he should make it.”

Just then a petite older woman came tearing down the platform steps of a passenger car. The most outlandish hat Matthew had ever seen was perched at an angle atop her head, silk flowers, gewgaws, and feathers poking every which way. Hands clamped to her waist, she ran toward them, the leg-o’-mutton sleeves of her blue velvet traveling costume flapping like the wings of a frantic bird.

As she drew up near Smoky’s flank, she pushed a strand of graying blond hair from her eyes. “Please, sir, you
must
ride for help at a fast pace! Those horrible men took my daughter! If someone doesn’t catch up with them quickly, they might do her serious harm!”

Apparently the lady had heard Matthew say he didn’t want to exhaust his animals by pushing them too hard. His mouth went as dry as dirt. He knew the Sebastians would kill this woman’s daughter before a posse ever caught up with them. The Sebastian boys wasted no time with their raping and murdering.

“I’m about to leave now, ma’am,” Matthew said, his voice thick and hoarse. “I’ll tell the marshal to get a group of men together as fast as he can.”

She pressed quivering fingertips to her pale cheeks, her blue eyes swimming with tears as she nodded. “Thank you, thank you,” she murmured. “She’s a good, sweet girl who’s never harmed a soul. If something happens to her, it’ll break my heart.”

Resigned, Matthew nudged his horse into a trot, a pace he set only for the woman’s benefit. Once out of sight, he’d slow Smoky to a walk. There was little point in killing his horse and mule in an attempt to save a girl who probably couldn’t be saved.

Why was it that every time he almost caught up with those rotten bastards, something went wrong?

Holden Creek turned out to be a one-horse town with a train station only a bit larger than a water closet. As predicted by the conductor, the place stood empty. The main street was little more than a rutted dirt path lined with uneven boardwalks, wobbly hitching posts, and straggly clumps of soapweed yucca. The saloon appeared to be the largest establishment, even larger than the church at the far end of town. What a fine testimony that was to humankind. Not that Matthew begrudged anybody a snort. He imbibed a bit himself. But with the church barely bigger than a sitting room and a school not in evidence, he couldn’t help but wonder about this community’s priorities.

The marshal’s office was no more impressive than the train station, situated amongst a string of businesses with battered doors and CLOSED signs that hung crooked in every dusty window.
Strange
. According to Matthew’s calculations, it was Thursday. In most towns, the shops closed only on Sundays, and often not even then. Maybe he had his days mixed up. No big surprise if he did. There had been times over the last three years when he’d forgotten what month it was, let alone the day of the week.

Matthew pulled up in front of the unimpressive law office, dismounted, and tethered his horse to the hitching rail before stepping up onto the weathered wooden walkway. The door proved to be unlocked, creaking open with a light push of Matthew’s thumb on the lever. Though a fire crackled in the rust-streaked potbellied stove and a dented blue pot on one of the burner plates emitted the scorched smell of overboiled coffee, the room and single cell at the back were empty.
Shit
. The last thing Matthew wanted was to waste more time trying to find the lawman. Where the hell was he?