Retribution Rails Read online

We head north at dawn, following the dry riverbed of the Hassayampa.

  I’m riding in Jones’s shadow ’cus the bruises I got on my side and jaw sting enough to keep me away from Boss. Not that he ain’t looking my way constantly. He prolly figures I can bring trouble upon us just by breathing wrong after that mess on the train. His constant watching makes me anxious, but I know better than to complain.

  Jones senses my mood, though, and does his best to keep me smiling. “What’cha gonna do with yer cut of this purse?” he asks.

  Everyone gets a percentage, but not me. Not till I find that cowboy. Boss keeps a tally of what I’ve earned on the inside cover of his Bible, and in the meantime I just get scraps—​enough to buy myself a drink or a shave in town, but nothing nobody could live on. It’s just one of the many ways he keeps me tethered.

  “I don’t get a cut, remember?” I remind Jones.

  “After, then,” he says.

  “I barely got time to think ’bout today, much less after. What about you?”

  “Gonna buy a nice plot of land someday.”

  “When’s that gonna be?”

  He shrugs, but it’s somewhat normal talk, and it warms a part of me that often feels hollow and dead.

  Since fleeing the Southern Pacific, we been riding hard enough to make good time, but not so hard that we run the horses ragged. Boss leads and DeSoto, like the quiet shadow of a man he is, brings up the rear. The day of the robbery we stayed well west of Phoenix, and we ain’t stopped riding with the Hassayampa since we came upon the river. Today our target is Wickenburg, a mining town on the decline, with no rail and a decent ride from any of the existing tracks, even by coach. A good place to see if there’s a new bounty out on us.

  Diaz pulls up ’longside me and Jones. “Boss wants you riding up with him, Murphy.” He leans closer and adds, “Happy birthday, by the way.”

  “A day late,” I shoot back.

  “Well, we were kinda busy robbing a train.”

  “Ain’t that how everybody celebrates turning eighteen?”

  Diaz grunts. “There’s usually whiskey involved. And women. You shoulda had some fun on that train, treated yerself to that pretty blond thing.”

  Jones chuckles, but I frown.

  “You don’t like gals that can pull a pistol on you,” Diaz says. “I get it.”

  “That she drew on me says an awful lot about how far she wanted me from her.”

  I don’t add that there ain’t time for that sorta disgrace during a train job, which Diaz knows as well as any. Still, his lip curls.

  “Do us all a favor and buy yerself a poke when we get to town. All that righteous talk is making me sick.” He heels his horse and trots ahead.

  I spit a few times, though there ain’t nothing in my mouth.

  Come midafternoon we get our first sight of Wickenburg. It rises outta the desert, several blocks wide and rarely over a story tall, most of the buildings as barren and plain as the dry stretch of earth they sit on.

  Boss gives orders for a staggered arrival, which we do often in situations like this, entering town in small groups or even pairs. It distracts from prying eyes, and if word of our train job’s done traveled cross the Territory ’long with our description, we wanna look nothing like a band of eight on horseback.

  Boss barks out orders from the saddle, voice gruff. “Crawford, Barrera, and DeSoto—​y’all ride in together, but find a farrier. Replace a shoe or two if needed. Whatever makes you look like folk just passing through and needing some care for yer horses. Jones, you can ride in, but come dusk.” He turns to Diaz and Hobbs. “You two follow me, but hang back a half hour or so. Don’t be too on my tail. And Murphy?” Boss raises a hand. “You ready?”

  I ain’t surprised to hear I’m riding with him. After yesterday, he ain’t gonna let me outta his sight, and if any of our gang’s to look unsuspicious, it’s the two of us together. Me, eighteen. Him, fortysomething. We could be father and son, stopping for a rest. We don’t got too much in common by way of features, but what do I know? I ain’t looked into a proper mirror in months. Could be the spattering of freckles that cover my nose have up and fled, that my hair’s gone suddenly streaked with gray and now I look like the bossman’s twin. My hands’ve done things I didn’t think ’em capable of these last three years. Maybe I won’t recognize the person who wields ’em no more.

  I give Girl a nudge in the ribs. She’s a good horse, quiet and obedient. A day after I got dragged into the gang, Barrera stole her for me in the thick of the night. She came from a homestead not far outside La Paz and was prolly someone’s livelihood.

  “What’s her name?” I asked Barrera.

  “Hell if I know. She responded to Chica all right as I led her from the barn, though.”

  It’s a sorry name for a horse, but most folk in the gang were only calling me “kid” back then, so I figured a label were better than nothing. I started calling the mare Girl, and while we rode, I mulled over better names and how I might try to make a run for it.

  Three years later, she’s still Girl and I’m still riding with these bastards.

  I tried running once. The results weren’t pretty.

  The only way out is through the cowboy.

  As we ride, I try to be like Boss: at ease in the saddle, confident, relaxed. We peel off the Hassayampa and cut west to enter the town. Both sides of Wickenburg’s main street boast adobe and frame buildings, homes and businesses full of people that got no notion of the kind of men riding into their world.

  Boss tips his hat at a lady beating rugs outside a boarding house, smiles at a pair of kids waiting in a wagon hitched to a horse outside a general store. ETTER’S, it says on the front of the double-peaked roof. We’ll be stopping there before we leave, no doubt. Boss could use some new bandages for his bad arm, and our eating’s been meager the last two days. Barrera’s one hell of a cook, but he can’t make a feast outta nothing.

  We trot a bit farther down the street, finally stopping outside a saloon. The dressing on Boss’s arm’s hidden from view beneath his long gray coat, and most folk would never guess he were shot yesterday, but I can see the signs. He flinches a touch as his leg swings over the saddle, grimaces as he ties his mare to the hitching post.

  I secure Girl, too, aware of Boss’s intentions without asking after ’em. We’ll chat up the locals, ask ’round for news. If’n it appears folk are aware of the train job or too keen-eyed ’bout newcomers, we’ll stock up on what we need and leave quick as can do. But if the robbery news ain’t reached here, if the locals’re warm and welcoming . . . Well, a bed at that hotel we passed and a night with the working girls ain’t something Boss is gonna deny the crew.

  I follow him outta the weak December sun. Inside, the saloon’s empty ’cept for a bartender cleaning glasses and a couple drunks playing cards. Light from the street seeps in, doing little to brighten the dingy space.

  The bartender looks up from his work as the doors swing shut behind us.

  “Whiskey for me and my boy,” Boss prompts.

  He leans into the bar, easy, and as the man sets two glasses on the counter, I catch my reflection in the mirror behind him. I look tired and beat. My freckles are barely any darker than my tan skin these days, but I ain’t lucky enough to have lost most of my father’s Irish features. My Mexican mama—​whose folks called this land home long before wars and shifting borders decided it were Arizona Territory—​looks his opposite, but it’s so clear I’m his son. I got the same square jaw and hair just a few shades darker than his straw blond. The only bit of me that don’t look like him is my eyes. They’re darker, like my ma’s, but have gone all pinched these last few years. From squinting in the sun, likely, or from all I’ve seen and keep trying to blink away.

  The bartender pours, then puts the stopper on the decanter. “You folk ain’t from around here,” he says as he slides the drinks over. It’s a fact, not a question.

  Boss throws back the whiskey and nudges the glass forward fo
r more. “Just passing through.”

  “Hear ’bout that train robbery outside Gila Bend?”

  “Can’t say we did. Been in the saddle this past week. Who done it?”

  “No word on that yet. Not much word, in general. I only know some fellas on horseback made off with a hell of a fortune. And that a lawman’s dead on their account.”

  I spin my glass a few times, finally take a sip. I ain’t never been able to down whiskey the way the boys do. It burns too much, and that ain’t a sting I wanna get used to. Not ever. I seen what it can do. The best men can go mad, and the wicked ones only fall farther. I ain’t got a memory of my father where he weren’t drunk, but I do remember a time when he at least apologized for lashing out at me, when he still saw a fault in his ways. By the time I ran, even that shadow of humanity had long since flown, leaving me with a demon who knew just three things: how to drink, how to insult, and how to beat.

  “Shame,” Boss says. “First the coach lines, now the rails. Ain’t no way to travel safe no more.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” The bartender pours himself a glass and clinks with Boss. They both gulp down the poison.

  The doors creak behind us.

  I peer over my shoulder and spot Diaz and Hobbs entering the saloon. They nod at the bartender by way of a welcome but then move to a nearby table.

  I stay focused on my whiskey. Boss goes on making small talk with the bartender.

  I’ve managed to empty half my glass when a couple more gents trickle into the saloon. One of ’em tips his hat at the bartender. “Martin,” he says. That he knows the bartender by name means he’s gotta be a local, someone familiar, but the bartender’s expression’s gone suspicious and cold. His eyes dart between the newcomers and us. The air feels tight suddenly, tense. Like a coiled trap ready to spring.

  Boss senses it too.

  “I reckon we’ll be on our way.” He pushes a handful of coins ’cross the bar. It covers what we drank and then some.

  But the bartender goes for something behind the counter.

  Me and Boss reach for our pistols.

  “Keep those fingers where I can see ’em,” a voice behind us says, “and turn around nice and slow.”

  We pause, carefully move our hands away from our holsters. I turn like I been told, though Boss spins something quick. Flirting with death is his favorite game.

  In the mouth of the saloon stands a skinny man with an equally skinny mustache. His jacket falls to his knees, and he has a pistol drawn, aimed right at us. There’s a second man near the poker table, a third not far to my right. Two more hovering by Diaz and Hobbs. They all got their guns out.

  “I ain’t following,” Boss says, slow. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  The skinny fella pulls his jacket back to reveal a silver badge on his vest. A deputy sheriff. “You boys are under arrest for the robbery of a Southern Pacific train outside Gila Bend on Wednesday.”

  “You got the wrong men, partner,” Boss says. “I suggest you move on.”

  “And I suggest you skin those pistols and come quietly. Else we’ll be taking dead men from this saloon.”

  Boss is as fast as a rattler when he draws, but this is an awful lot of guns, the whole of ’em already pulled and spread through the room. Plus, there’s the bartender behind us, who I’m certain’s drawn a shotgun from below the bar by now and is likely aiming it at our backs. That puts our rivals at six strong. Even on a good day, without a bullet wound to the shoulder of his shooting hand, Boss can’t beat these kinda odds.

  “You arrest all innocent men passing through yer town?” he asks.

  “You’re innocent like I’m a U.S. Marshal. Besides,” the deputy adds, “we got a witness.”

  The doors shove in, and a silhouette enters, falls in line beside the deputy. Then the doors quit swinging and her features come into focus. The front of her dress is stained with blood, her pale hair a disheveled mess, but there’s no mistaking her.

  It’s the girl from the train.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  Charlotte

  “It’s them,” I say firmly. “No question.”

  I recognized the Rose Kid’s hat the second it glided past the window of Etter’s. The ride to Wickenburg had been rough and backbreaking, so when the coach lurched to a stop and the driver announced we’d have fifteen minutes while the horses were changed, I gladly opted to stretch my legs. I roamed aimlessly, truly feeling the absence of Father for the first time since his passing. It had been a horrid few days leading up to Christmas, the house a flurry of unpleasant conversations regarding funeral arrangements and business propositions, but even since Mother left for Prescott, I’ve yet to be truly alone. The train had been a distraction, same with the coach. But as I stood before a row of tobacco in Etter’s, the scents conjuring up memories of Father sitting in his rocking chair and smoking a pipe while reading the paper, a familiar hat drifted by the window.

  Brown felt.

  High crown.

  Braided leather rope.

  I pressed a hand to the glass and peered closer. Familiar jacket, too: plain and tan, hanging to his knees. And that pale blue shirt still stained with sweat. The Rose Kid was riding into town alongside Luther Rose. I bolted from the general store and fetched the deputy in a hurry.

  “That one tried to take my earrings,” I say, pointing to the Rose Kid. With his hat and bandanna no longer hiding his features, I can see him clearly. There is a slight resemblance to the wanted posters, but the drawing gives him too many freckles. It doesn’t render him as young as he truly is, nor does it accurately capture the emptiness in his eyes. They are vacant and unfeeling. It’s a kind of hollowness I imagine only a killer can have.

  Luther Rose leans nonchalantly against the bar, something akin to a smile on his lips, his jacket hanging open to reveal a pair of twin pistols. Two other men sit at a nearby table, smoking cigarettes. I recognize them from the train as well. They’d been with Rose when he tumbled from the cash car.

  Present in this Wickenburg saloon is one half of the Rose Riders. My skin prickles again. Had I known their identities during the train robbery, I don’t think I’d have had the nerve to try to fire on anyone.

  “I meant to shoot him,” I say, pointing to the Rose Kid, “but I hit the boss instead. And one of them is the coward who killed the lawman.” I flick a hand toward the table where the other two sit. I don’t even know if it’s true. The lawman had been blocking most of my view, but I only care about watching these men hang.

  Mother always says I am her firecracker, that I’m nothing but sugar and sweetness until I’m crossed. It’s admirable, in some regards, she says, but it will make you a foul reporter. I never quite understood what she meant, but I think I do now. Because as I stare at the men before me, I feel something harden in the pit of my stomach. I want them punished for their crimes. I do not care if I’m giving a false statement, and that’s the crux of the problem, really. Nothing is more important than the truth when it comes to journalism. If I cannot confirm something, it should not be printed or lauded as fact, yet here I stand, naming the lawman’s murderer when I cannot back it up.

  I press the thought aside. There is something I do know as truthful, and it is that if this man didn’t kill the lawman, he’s still killed others. All the Rose Riders have. These are not men who have made their first offense. They are guilty countless times over, and they are undeserving of mercy.

  I do not understand how they can stand here so calmly. Luther Rose is sporting a crooked smile, the men at the table lounge lazily in their chairs, and the Rose Kid—​he’s perhaps the most terrifying of them all because he’s completely emotionless. His face is a blank canvas, his eyes empty. A palm rests casually on the butt of his still-holstered pistol.

  “Where’re the others?” the deputy asks.

  “What others?” Luther Rose answers.

  “Don’t play dumb with me.”

  “There ain’t any othe
rs. Now you gonna bring us in or you gonna keep wasting our time?”

  His lie is blatant. It’s a known fact the Rose Riders are eight strong, and the Rose Kid’s accomplice—​the one who tossed him that burlap sack—​is not here. But there is not much that can be done about this at the moment. The deputy, who introduced himself as Clarence Montgomery, rounded up a posse of townsfolk on our way to the saloon. It was frantic, a desperate plea made to any man we passed, and they need to contain the threat before them before they go searching for the rest of the gang.

  The lawman’s posse outnumbers the four Rose Riders, but they also look mighty skittish. The fellow standing near the Rose Kid can’t even hold his pistol without the barrel visibly quivering.

  Luther Rose sizes up the number of guns spread through the room. The Rose Kid appears to be counting exits. The other two sit tall and springy.

  If these men are half as fast as tales make them out to be, it might be a close fight, even with the posse’s guns already drawn. It will come down to a gambling matter: Is Luther Rose willing to sacrifice some of his men’s lives in the hopes of walking out with his?

  His gaze flicks to the men at the table, then to the Rose Kid. “Stand down, boys,” he says.

  “But, Boss—”

  “I said stand down!”

  I’m nearly as shocked as Rose’s men, but the surprise fades quickly, replaced by a wave of smug satisfaction. I watch a Wickenburg local yank the Rose Kid’s hands behind his back. They’ll die for what they did—​what they’ve done—​and though it doesn’t erase the damage they’ve leveled, it’s a small victory.

  Too often bad men walk free.

  Cuffed and stripped of their weapons, the gang is led onto the street and down to an enormous mesquite the locals refer to as the Jail Tree, where they are secured to iron holds that have been driven into the trunk. It is a preposterous method for detaining prisoners, but I remind myself that it is only temporary. The men are sure to hang, just as soon as Deputy Montgomery gets word from the capital.