Rough Justice (7 page)

“Not much to go on,” said Lloyd Graves, his second in command, who'd read the telegram as Coker did.

“Not near enough,” Coker agreed. “We need a couple pairs of eyes in Corpus Christi. Put them on the first train headed south.”

“Will do.”

“The sheriff is a friend of ours. Have them find out if he's got anyone in custody, or any suspects. Wire the details back to us, and make sure they're in code.”

Graves nodded. “Satterfield and Kimes can handle it.”

“I trust your choices. If this was something federal, we need to stay ahead of it. We've barely gotten started, and I don't want anything derailing us.”

“Don't worry.”

“Worry doesn't enter into it. I'm talking preparation. Strategy.”

“I hear you.”

“If the bluebellies are after us, we need to know it.”

“If they aren't,” said Graves, “they soon will be.”

“Agreed. But we could use some warning, all the same.”

“I'll have the boys look sharp for strangers asking questions. See if Travis can get anything from Corpus Christi, in the meantime.”

Harlan Travis was the sheriff of Marion County and, incidentally, a loyal Knight of the Rising Sun. He took his duties seriously and would spare no effort when it came to sniffing out the order's enemies.

Between the sheriff's office and his own men, Coker thought that he could deal with most threats from outside the county—but he wasn't ready, yet, to fight another all-out war against the Yankees with the troops he had available.
Before that day came,
if
it did, the people of Texas and the other Rebel states at large would have to bind the wounds they'd suffered during four long years of war, forget their losses, and rededicate themselves to the crusade that had been stalled but never truly failed.

But first, he had to take care of the problem that confronted him.

Beginning now.

*   *   *

T
he run from Houston, northward, had more interesting scenery than Ryder's route from Corpus Christi had delivered. Lots of trees, to start with, on a landscape that rose and fell, so the train passed through tunnels of shadow, then burst into blinding sunshine without warning. There were no mountains here to match the Appalachians or the Smokies, but it made a welcome change from flat land bordering the Gulf of Mexico.

And there was more to watch for here, he realized. Not only wildlife on the tracks, which would be crushed and mutilated if it didn't move aside in time, but people watching from the forest shadows. Ryder knew that outlaws prowled the district. White, black, Mexican, it made no difference if they shot first or came upon you in the night and laid the sharp edge of a blade against your throat. And there were native tribes, of course: some Cherokees who hadn't made the trip to Indian Territory, Anadarkos who'd jumped the reservation, maybe even some Comanches driven from their normal range in West and Central Texas.

Sharp eyes watching as the train rolled past, leaving its trail of smoke.

Or was it only his imagination?

Ryder didn't like to borrow trouble, but his job had taught
him that the quickest way to die was to ignore the range of possibilities in any given situation. He had stayed alive this long by thinking first and acting second—well, most of the time—and he intended to survive this mission, too.

The railroad car he occupied was roughly half full, ample room for Ryder to avoid his fellow passengers. None of them appeared to pay him any mind, which suited him down to the ground. He kept his weapons handy without putting them on show, conforming to the rule for other travelers he'd seen so far. If there'd been any firearms confiscation in the Lone Star State, Ryder had yet to see the proof of it.

As far as he could tell, there were no guards aboard the train, unless the company had stashed them in the mail car. He had looked for soldiers, too, as they were boarding, without turning up a single Yankee uniform. Bandits could readily procure that kind of information, if they put their minds to it, which made the whole line vulnerable to attack.

Relax,
he thought,
before you start to jump out of your skin.

As if on cue, two horsemen materialized at the tree line outside Ryder's window, watching the train pass. They made no move to intercept it, simply sat astride their animals and stared until the locomotive and its trailing cars left them behind.

Nothing surprising there, he thought. This country must be full of cowboys, hunters, ranch hands—though, in truth, he hadn't spotted anything resembling a cultivated spread since leaving Houston. There had been no livestock grazing near the right-of-way, and nothing that suggested railroad crews performing maintenance. Until the riders showed themselves, he might have thought the territory was deserted, going back to nature in the wake of having track laid on its face.

Where had they come from? To the east, Louisiana sweltered, with its swamps and Spanish moss. Or maybe they
had ridden down from Arkansas, its landscape mixing bayou country with the sort of forest Ryder saw flanking the tracks. They could be outlaws, what the locals called long riders, meaning that they constantly kept moving to avoid the law. They'd had a certain look about them, he supposed, though it could have been simple weariness or boredom. Maybe they were envious of people riding on a train, not getting saddle sores.

He tried sleeping again but couldn't get the hang of it, supposed it was impossible to store up sleep against a time when it could be in short supply. The rock and rattle of the train lulled Ryder, but it didn't put him out, only dulled his mind to a near-dozing level that felt like being drunk, without the benefits. He checked his fellow passengers from time to time, not staring, thankful that they all were seated farther forward in the car, with none behind him. That could change at any given stop, but Ryder thought he might shift toward the rear next time they pulled into a town, thus making sure that any other riders sat in front of him.

He didn't think the KRS could track him, much less put a shooter on the train who'd recognize him from the other men on board—but why take chances?

He had hours yet to think about what he should do in Jefferson, how he'd approach the main part of his task. It shouldn't be that hard to find Roy Coker, prominent as he was said to be, but Ryder didn't want to make it obvious, putting his quarry on alert after the bloody mess in Corpus Christi. Let him think it had been something local, coming back to snap at Truscott, with no reason to be up in arms.

From what he'd seen, though, it appeared the KRS was
always
up in arms. Any excuse to fight would do.

And maybe he could turn that to his own advantage, after all.

R
yder was dozing when the train shuddered and started slowing down. He cracked an eye, peered through the window to his left, and spotted nothing to explain it. As he shifted in his seat, shrugging the stiffness from his shoulder where he'd slumped against the window frame, he heard the whistle blow.

Three seats in front of him, one of the passengers who'd boarded back in Livingston turned to the lady he was riding with and said, “It's just a water stop, Marie.”

From where he sat, the locomotive was invisible, but Ryder knew the drill. Railroads had stops for fuel and water placed along their lines at intervals of thirty miles or so, in case a train encountered problems and was running low. There'd be no settlement around the stop, out here, only a water tower with a chute the engineer or fireman could release and lower to refill the boiler, while the engine huffed and grumbled like a dragon caught up in a restless dream.
A roving crew would check the tower's water level every week or so, and drop more wood to feed the firebox.

How long would it take? He didn't know, but there was nothing to be done about it. Ryder cracked his achy shoulder, was about to settle back and close his eyes again, when one of the four women riding in his car gave out a little squeal.

Up front, the man who'd boarded last in Houston was on his feet now, turning to face his fellow passengers. He was smiling through his thick mustache and had a pistol in his hand, aimed vaguely down the center aisle.

“Ladies and gents,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt your journey, but my friends and me have got some business with the Eastern Texas line today, and you're all part of it.”

Friends,
Ryder thought.
How many, and where are they?

“What we're after, mostly, is the mail car,” said the gunman. “Cash and such, you know. But we'd be stupid not to take whatever we can get, I'm sure you all agree. I'll come amongst you now, collecting. Just pretend you're sitting in your church on Sunday morning, giving to the Lord.”

“That's blasphemous!” one of the men seated across from Ryder, forward, on the right side of the aisle, protested.

It meant trouble when the gunman's smile grew wider, as he faced the man who'd spoken, moving toward him. “Blasphemous,” he echoed. “You some kind of parson, mister?”

“Just a Christian,” said the other, still defiant.

“That makes one of us,” the gunman said, standing beside the man who'd raised the challenge, looming over him. “O' course, you are entitled to your own opinion, but a smart man knows when he should keep it to himself.”

And saying that, he whipped the muzzle of his six-gun in a short, swift arc across the seated fellow's face, slashing from right to left. Ryder saw blood speckle the nearby
window, and a couple of the ladies yelped, surprised and frightened, as the injured man slumped over in his seat.

“Now, then.” The gunmen beamed. “If no one else has anything to say . . . ? Nothing? All right. Get out your money, watches, any gold or silver jewelry you might be wearing.” Reaching underneath his jacket, he produced a folded gunnysack and shook it open with his left hand. “Be generous and don't try holding out. As you can see from Mr. Big Mouth here, it's dangerous.”

Ryder wished he knew how many other men were in the holdup gang, and where they were positioned. Were they in the other cars? Up in the locomotive's cab? Was someone waiting in the trees nearby, with horses for their getaway? He couldn't see the bandits riding on to Lufkin with their loot, where anyone could raise a shout and summon the authorities.

If there was anyone alive, that is, to do the shouting.

Ryder didn't know how many passengers were on the train, but suddenly, he had a sickly feeling. Wondered why the bandit hadn't bothered putting on a mask. Was he an idiot? Or did he plan on making sure there were no witnesses?

One pistol showing, which would leave him four rounds short for clearing Ryder's car, but he could have another one concealed. There was a chance, too, that the other members of his gang could help with mopping up. Why not, if they'd decided it was easier to stage a massacre than have to worry about being caught and caged.

He didn't
know
that was the plan, of course, but it was worrisome.

On top of which, he didn't feel like giving up his cash.

He reached under his jacket, as if going for his wallet, but he drew the Colt Army instead, holding it down and out
of sight from where the gunman stood. He eased its hammer back, winced at the sharp click of the mechanism, but the bandit didn't seem to notice. He was talking to the woman named Marie, telling her to be quick about surrendering her wedding ring.

Ryder sat still and waited for his chance.

*   *   *

M
r. Mustache was within two rows of Ryder now, and one of those was empty. Ryder had considered how he ought to handle it: bracing the man and risking that he'd open fire, or simply shooting him and hoping that his first slug did the job. On balance, he'd decided it was safer, easier, to drop him where he stood.

But how?

A straight shot to the torso might not kill him outright, and there was a chance that Ryder's slug could exit from the target's back, fly on, and injure someone else inside the railroad car. The bandit's head offered a smaller target, but a miss would strike the wall or ceiling, rather than another passenger.

And if he made a clean head shot, the guy should fold without a fight.

Big
if
.

He'd have to place the shot precisely, minimizing any chance of a reflexive twitch between the bandit's index finger and his pistol's trigger. Even falling backward, Ryder knew the mustached man could still do lethal damage, hitting Ryder or another of the passengers who shared his car. Decisive moves had consequences, and he didn't want to make the situation worse than it already was.

Ten seconds, maybe less, before the gunman got to Ryder with his burlap bag, expecting cash. He was already turning
from Marie and her companion when a shot rang out from the direction of the locomotive. The bandit grinned from ear to ear and said, “Sounds like the party's starting early.”

Ryder shot him in the face, not taking time to aim as he would do in practice, on a firing range, but trusting muscle memory to place the .44 slug where he wanted it. Between the eyes was good, but when the dark hole suddenly appeared it was off-center, just above the target's right eyebrow. He was already toppling over backward when a spout of blood erupted from the wound and drew a crimson track across his startled face.

Now there was chaos in the car, and Ryder had to raise his voice, moving to stand over the dead man and relieve him of his pistol. “Everyone be quiet!” he commanded, glaring at the frightened faces that surrounded him. “Stay in your seats and duck down if you see somebody coming. I'll be back to tell you when it's clear to move around.”

Adding
I hope,
to keep from tempting fate.

He moved along the aisle, a six-gun in each hand, and hesitated at the car's exit. There was a little window in the door that let him see into the next car, separated by the coupling, each car with a small platform for boarding, metal steps descending on both sides. Inside the middle car, he saw a shooter standing in the aisle, holding a scattergun and staring back at Ryder, wondering what had become of his associate.

He didn't think about it long before he raised the double-barreled weapon and let go. Ryder just had time to duck before the buckshot smashed through first one window, then the other, raining shattered glass on top of him, while women screamed and men cursed in the background.

Call it six or seven seconds to reload the shotgun, minimum, unless the shooter switched off to a pistol. Ryder used
the time he had, shoved through the door, and leaped across the narrow gap between the cars, bursting through the second door to face his enemy.

The man was fumbling with a brass cartridge when he looked up and saw death coming for him. He dropped the shotgun then, too late, and started reaching for a holster on his right hip, tied down low for speed.

Too late.

Raising the captured pistol in his left hand, Ryder shot him in the chest and watched him fall.

*   *   *

H
e stepped in blood, moving to fetch the fallen bandit's shotgun and the cartridges he'd dropped as he was dying. Ryder glanced around the car, saw several of the passengers regarding him with fearful eyes as he reloaded, while the others made a point of staring out their windows, carefully avoiding Ryder's gaze.

“Who's armed?” he asked, of no one in particular.

Reluctantly, not knowing what they should expect, two of the men put up their hands.

“All right,” he said. “Each of you take one door. No one gets in the car unless I'm with them to approve it.”

He got nods from both men as they rose and drew their pistols, one moving to watch the door Ryder had entered through, the other trailing him to reach the north end of the second car, where Ryder stopped, repeating his surveillance of the last car through the doubled door windows.

This time, he didn't see a shooter in the next car, only passengers milling around and peering through their windows, trying to determine what was happening. Ryder left them to it, easing through the door, onto the narrow platform, moving toward its left side, where he craned to look
around the car, up toward the locomotive and the water tower standing tall beside it.

Two men were standing on the ground, both aiming rifles up toward the engineer's cab. Behind the locomotive, Ryder saw the broad sliding door to the mail car was open. He ducked back, crossed the narrow platform, and leaned out to check the train's right-hand side. One bandit there, sitting astride a roan, holding the reins to six or seven other horses.

He had begun to wonder how they'd missed the gunfire, but he understood it now.

They weren't expecting any survivors.

Ryder had heard of train robberies during the war, a favorite trick of Missouri guerrillas led by William Quantrill and Bloody Bill Anderson. It stood to reason that the practice would continue into peacetime, and the quickest way to rule out testimony from eyewitnesses was to eliminate them.

Ryder wished he'd brought his Henry with him, but he hadn't thought about it in his rush to keep the gunmen from annihilating unarmed passengers. There was no time to go back for it now. He'd have to make do with the weapons he was carrying—and the advantage of surprise.

He left the solitary bandit with his horses, doubled back along the platform between cars, and checked the left side of the train again. One of the riflemen had disappeared, either inside the cab or in the mail car, which reduced the odds of Ryder being shot when he revealed himself. One man to face immediately, not as close as he'd have liked, but if he rushed the bandit . . .

Ryder dropped into the open, wasn't seen at first, his target either missing him or making the assumption that his friends would be the only people up and moving while the robbery was going on. He'd nearly reached the mail car
when he raised the shotgun, sighted down its short barrels, and squeezed one of its double triggers.

Ryder didn't know what size of shot the cartridges contained, but he assumed that most would miss his target at the given range. Some found the mark, though, and the bandit staggered, dropped his rifle, clutching at his right arm where a splash of blood along his duster's sleeve revealed a wound. He turned to face the stranger who had shot him, reaching for a pistol underneath his coat, but was hampered by his damaged arm.

Ryder had reached the mail car now, was running past its open door, and saw movement inside. He fired the shotgun's second barrel through the doorway, aiming high, hoping to miss any railroad employees still alive in there. With any luck, the twelve-gauge blast would buy him time to finish off the outlaw he could see, then he could think about the rest.

Or else, die trying.

The bandit with the useless arm was cursing, reaching for his holstered pistol with his left hand, having trouble with the hammer thong that held it fast. Instead of waiting for him, Ryder drew his Colt Army and fired one shot from twenty feet, putting the gunman down.

He wasn't dead when Ryder reached him, but the wet sound of a sucking chest wound said that he was on his way. Ryder relieved him of the pistol, tossing it aside, then snatched the dying bandit's rifle—a Henry, like his own—and checked to verify it had a live round in the chamber as he turned back toward the train.

Emerging from the driver's cab, he saw the second rifleman he'd spotted earlier, a tall man with a bristling beard, descending with his own repeater pointed Ryder's way. There was no time to place a shot precisely, so he triggered
three in rapid fire, pumping the Henry's lever action, hoping for a lucky hit to slow the bandit down.