The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (21 page)

Quillan turned discreetly to his side, thankful Carina was not atop where the man at footside would glimpse her. Something to remember if he ever traveled the Pullman Palace car again.

The air was brisk, the wind gusty as the party opened the side doors of the parlor car and assembled along the narrow balcony for the shoot. Carina counted four men armed for the sport, but many others had collected to watch. Quillan was in his buckskin, with another day’s growth on his face. Rogue pirate, indeed.

Miss Preston pushed in close to her. “Isn’t this fun? I hope they find enough game to make a good contest. Will your husband win, do you think?”

Carina shrugged. “I don’t know the rules.”

“First to spot, first to shoot claims the prize. If they hit it, of course. That man in the brown chesterfield and gaiters is keeping the score.”

Carina eyed the sandy-haired man with a pad of paper ready, wearing white pantaloons covered to the knee in leather gaiters. He seemed a bit of a popinjay.

“He’s a newspaperman.” Miss Preston said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you see your husband’s name in print. Supposing he wins, of course.” She licked her finger and held it up. “Wind is from the west.”

Carina didn’t point out that the train’s own motion caused that eastward breeze, and the gusts buffeted the side of the cars from the north. Not quite the genius she thought herself, that Miss Preston. Quillan stood ready with the others, armed with his Colt .45, his Winchester rifle leaning on the wall beside him. The side arm hung holstered at his hip as she’d seen it first. He hadn’t worn it since the demise of the roughs made his passage in and out of Crystal less dangerous. But she knew he carried it with him.

The crowd chattered until a yell of fowl and a shot rang out. It was William Scott Bennet who took aim and fired at a plover that took to the sky at the train’s passing. He must have failed to account for the train’s motion, for his shot missed. A moment later Quillan took down a second plover that plummeted from its startled ascent. Bennet frowned, but the crowd cheered.

“Waste of good meat,” Quillan said.

Miss Preston tittered. “Did you see him draw? He drew from his holster faster than I could see.”

Carina nodded. “He once shot the head from a striking rattlesnake.” Perhaps it wasn’t striking, but it might have been.

Miss Preston’s eyes did their spread and bulge. She turned swiftly and fixated on Quillan once again. In a short while someone hollered again and fired at a dusty brown blob not far from the train.

Quillan turned with a scowl. “There’s no sport in prairie dogs.”

But the scorekeeper counted it, so there were four more shots before the rest ducked underground. Quillan refused to shoot. A kestrel darted up from a ravine and Quillan hollered, “Falcon,” and shot. Both it and the mouse in its talons crashed to the ground.

“That should count for two,” someone hollered. “Brought down two with one shot.”

The scorekeeper agreed. Now Quillan was tied with the youth who’d shot three of the prairie dogs. The train was approaching a trellis over the same ravine, and everyone stopped for a moment to watch. It seemed such a rickety contrivance could never support the mighty, chugging steel monster, but it did. Directly beyond the ravine a herd of antelope bounded, their delicate white and tawny forms leaping.

Quillan shouted, “Antelope,” and brought one down with his Winchester rifle.

The others started shooting randomly, decimating the herd trapped between the tracks and the ravine.

The scorekeeper raised his hands. “No credit without acknowledging the target.”

Quillan jerked the rifle from one young man’s hands. “Enough!”

“I say.” Bennet got between them. “What’s the harm?”

“People depend on those animals for food.”

“People?” Bennet raised his brows.

One woman laughed. “Didn’t you see it on the menu last night?”

“That’s not what he means.” The speaker was the short, round-headed fourth man of the shooting party. “He means Mr. Lo, the noble savage.”

“He’s concerned about Indians?”

Carina saw the warning signs in Quillan’s face. Whether he spoke for the Indian tribes or not, the sport had gone too far. He would not participate in slaughter. He reached for his rifle and started toward her when more shots came.

The scorekeeper looked bewildered. “Who fired?”

But at that moment Carina realized the shots had not come from the train. A half dozen horsemen galloped toward them. Two split off toward the engine, and the others came alongside the caboose. The first rider caught hold and jumped aboard. Quillan pushed his way inside, but it was not haven he sought.

Carina rushed toward him. “Don’t go, Quillan. There are too many.”

He didn’t answer, just pressed her hand, then turned to the others. “If you want to put your shooting to better use, come now.”

“That’s crazy!” The young man who’d shot the prairie dogs balked. “They’ll take the Express and leave us in peace.”

“No guarantees of that.” A hefty bearded man reached into his coat for a Sharps four-barrel pepperbox similar to the one Quillan had bought Carina. She recognized the shape and grip. “The last time this happened they went through each one of us, women included. Took everything valuable we had.”

That sobered the whole group.

Miss Preston’s gaze intensified. “Would they?”

Even as she spoke the train began grinding to a halt. Grabbing hold of the posts as they were swept forward against one another, everyone started talking at once. This gang apparently would not be satisfied with the Express car. Otherwise why stop the train?

Quillan nodded to the man with the Sharps. “Anyone else with me?”

Bennet and his three friends looked at each other, then stepped forward. Quillan reloaded his Colt as he spoke. “We’ll split up. There’s a Wells Fargo agent in the Express car. He’ll be armed and ready, but he’s only one man. We’ll need someone to go forward and cover the ones holding the engineer and fireman. If they’re complying, they probably won’t be hurt, but we can’t take that chance.”

Bennet said, “I’ll go,” raised his rifle, and pressed through the crowd.

A gunshot sounded from the back of the train, and Quillan’s face hardened. “Let’s go!” He holstered the Colt and snatched up his Winchester.

“But what are we doing?” The balking youth caught his arm.

“We’ll contain them to the Express car or take them out from there.”

“Take them out?”

But Quillan was already moving into the small space between cars. Carina watched him go, her heart turning to lead. This couldn’t be happening. Quillan would take on armed outlaws? His sense of justice had already been piqued. Now it sought release. But at what cost?

The newspaperman in the chesterfield coat was unarmed but hurried after those who were. Carina felt paralyzed, one hand to her heart.
Oh,
Signore
. But before she could finish her prayer, Miss Preston clutched her arm.

“Will he stop them? Will he keep them from coming in?”

At last she was showing a healthy fear. “I don’t know.”

Miss Preston’s eyelids pulled wide. “Did you get a look at them? At any of them?”

“Not closely.” And now Carina realized it wasn’t fear but excitement on Miss Preston’s face.

“Come on.” The woman pulled her forward.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to see for myself.”

Carina tugged free. “This is not a show.” She wanted to slap the woman. “People could die. My husband could die.”

But whatever macabre curiosity held Priscilla Preston compelled her forward. Carina shivered. Her desire for excitement could endanger them all. Carina hurried after her.

Quillan led his companions through the first passenger car where people sat, white-faced, having heard the gunshots. At the end of the second car, he pressed close to the wall beside the door, gun at the ready, listening to the quiet that followed the shots. The other men divided up on both sides.

Quillan chafed. He had good horses and a wagon that held far more than Carina’s trinkets. His life’s work in the form of cash and bank notes was in a strongbox nailed to the underside. He wasn’t about to lose any of it. More than that, lives were at stake. “That Wells Fargo man can’t stand alone.”

The men shared glances. Quillan read their fear. “Keep guard here at the door. I’m going through.”

“I’m with you.” It was the man with the Sharps.

Quillan looked at him. “What’s your name?”

“Sam Tillory.”

“Someone give Sam a rifle.”

The contestant with sandy lamb chop whiskers handed his over, and he took the Sharps. Quillan raised his own Winchester. His Colt was loaded at his hip, but nothing spoke as loudly as a rifle aimed at the chest.

“There are four of them.” The young man who’d shot the prairie dogs raised his own Remington rifle. “I’ll come, too.”

“Are you sure?” Quillan searched the man’s eyes. Though he saw fear and insecurity, he also saw determination. “All right.” Quillan started through the door. One of the outlaws rode alongside the train, probably communicating between those holding the engineer and the others robbing the freight. At the moment he was passing forward away from them.

Quillan crept from one car to the other with Sam Tillory and the other, whose name he’d neglected to learn, right behind. Two of the gunmen had worked the side doors of the freight car open. Probably the gunshot they’d heard. A third was in there also. Quillan cracked the end door just enough to see what was happening inside.

“There’s no way I’m turning over this box.” The Wells Fargo man stood with a rifle poised.

“Don’t be stupid. We’ve four guns to your one.”

Quillan jolted at the voice. He couldn’t see the speaker, who must be the one mounted outside the car. But he knew him. He left the door and eased over to the edge of the car. Removing his hat, he peeked around the side. The black kerchief over mouth and nose only enhanced his recognition—Shane Dennison, looking exactly as he’d seen him last, half a lifetime ago.

Quillan’s heart pounded. What were the odds of meeting up with his “friend” who’d staged the bank robbery and left him, a fourteen-year-old fool, to take the fall? But then, was it such a long way from robbing banks in Laramie to robbing trains on the Wyoming plains? His hands tightened on the rifle. His Winchester ’73 was a .44–40 with a center-fire cartridge. Powerful and accurate. Swallowing the tightness in his throat, he moved back toward the door, then pushed it open with the barrel of his rifle.

One of the outlaws saw the motion and jerked his gun from the Wells Fargo agent toward Quillan. “Stop right there!” he hollered.

Quillan stopped but pushed the door fully open with his foot to let his partners be seen, guns at the ready. “What we have here is a Mexican standoff.” Quillan said it loudly enough to be heard by the man outside the train car. And now he had full view of Shane Dennison.

The man stared up in disbelief. “Quillan?”

Quillan didn’t answer, mostly because his fury and disgust were choking him.

Dennison’s eyes smiled above the kerchief. “Well, I’ll be hogswallowed. Here I thought we were in trouble.”

“No trouble if you take your men and go. Or do you still leave them behind?”

Dennison cocked his head. “Now, that was not my fault. If you’d have followed orders—”

“I’m giving them now.” Quillan saw Dennison’s eyes spark, and he slid his finger to the trigger. “Clear out before people get hurt.”

“Are you threatening me?” Dennison’s own finger twitched. He’d been a terrible shot, but that was fourteen years ago, when Quillan had been impressed by his august age of eighteen and every honeyed word that proceeded from his mouth. Fourteen years was time enough to develop skill with a weapon, especially when it appeared he used it for his livelihood.

The other men were looking tense and uncertain. Quillan knew the longer they waited the tighter the nerves would get. He glanced quickly at the agent, who seemed relieved to have backup but not sure where to go from there.

“This is not your day, Shane. Call off your men and go.” Quillan wasn’t sure why he assumed Dennison was in control, except that his was the bully personality always taking the fore.

“Why don’t you step over and disarm that agent? We could use another hand. Give me a chance to make up for the last time.” Dennison made his voice reasonable, but Quillan almost laughed. Two parts gall, one part stupidity—that was Shane Dennison.

“There’s payroll in that box, Quillan.” Again the eyes smiled.

“Pay that other men have earned.”

One of Dennison’s party laughed, but Shane didn’t. “So you’re a bleeding heart now. Sure a long way from the reverend’s personal devil.”

Quillan heard hooves. In a moment there’d be another gun to face. He stepped inside the car and aimed his rifle at Dennison’s chest. “Time to move on.”

“To move you on—to the next life.” Dennison raised his gun and fired.

Carina’s heart seized like a fist clenched as gunfire exploded in the next car.
Per favore, Signore, per piacere, keep my husband safe, keep them
all safe
.

Miss Preston rushed between the seats to the window. The outlaws’ horses stood empty-saddled, except the one man galloping from the front. “Yoo-hoo.” Miss Preston tapped the window, waving at the outlaw on horseback. “Hey, look over here. I want to see your face.”

The man spun and fired, splintering the wood beside the window. Carina flung herself at Miss Preston, slamming her into the wall, then dragging her down. “Are you crazy?
Pazzesca?
You want to get someone killed?”

Priscilla Preston’s skin flushed fiery red. Her eyes bulged farther than ever. “Get off me this instant. I want to see his face.”

Carina looked at her aghast. “Come to your senses!”

But Miss Preston struggled free and ran for the door and through it. Carina stared in disbelief. As the outlaws scrambled to their horses and galloped away, one last gunman emerged from the freight car and leaped to his horse, firing wildly. He took a bullet in the chest and fell, but not before Miss Preston crumpled on the tiny balcony. Two men reached out and dragged her inside. Her shoulder was bloody, and she shrieked, then flipped her head side to side, moaning.