Untamed Journey (7 page)

“The message was from Marshal Abel Wyman.
He’s been working for the railroad ever since that robbery last
month where those folks got killed. Railroad doesn’t like dead
passengers – bad for business.”

“Did they catch the men who did it?”
Masterson was furious that he’d have to interrupt his plans to go
fetch his new wife. Either she had gotten on the wrong damn train
or the fools he hired had bungled everything.

Milo gasped for air as the huge man tightened
his grip and cut off the clerk’s air even more. “Please, please
mister. I’ll tell you everything. Here. See for yourself. The
telegram is in my pocket. I was just taking it over to the sheriff
when you walked in.” The clerk choked out the broken sentences
despite the crushing grip around his neck.

Masterson pulled the scrap of paper out of
the man’s pocket and offhandedly dropped the man to the floor, as
he needed both hands to unfold the telegram. Masterson quickly read
the little info it provided:

Train to Denver robbed near Ft Lyon. Seven dead.
Three robbers, two passengers, Engineer, one Marshal. Eight
wounded. Tracks damaged. Six robbers escaped. Marshals in
pursuit.

Masterson crumpled up the paper and tossed it
aside before storming off to the stable to fetch his horse.

He was furious he had to interrupt his plans
to go look for Ruth. But it wouldn’t do for his future place in
society to be seen abandoning his new wife just when she needed him
the most. He’d best put on a civilized show and ride to her rescue,
he thought. Make her feel safe.

Then he’d drop her off at his ranch and see
what could be done about tracking down the fools he’d hired.
Assuming, of course, they survived the lawmen.

His men had numbers on their side, but they’d
had that same advantage during the robbery. Masterson didn’t count
the tenderfoots from back East that always swelled the passenger
lists. They were next to useless in a fight, so he couldn’t figure
out how his men had lost the upper hand. But he was damned sure
gonna find out and get his fair share of the loot, too.

The telegram didn’t mention what had been
stolen. Masterson just assumed they’d gotten away with something.
And God help them if they didn’t, he swore. Even though they’d
managed to hurt a few passengers, like he’d ordered, he had costs
to cover and more land to buy.

R
uth huddled closer
to Caboose, not minding the scent of trail-weary horse nearly as
much as the lack of heat the minute she stepped away from the
Paint. Her newly acquired mount was a bit more particular,
apparently, as he head butted her away for the second time in as
many minutes.

“Hey, watch it mister!” Ruth whispered at the
ornery animal. “I might not be as mean as Jasper Smith, but I’m
still standing between you and every kernel of grain in those
saddlebags.” Ruth yanked the saddlebags down and shoved the horse’s
head away with as much force as she could manage, though the effort
exhausted her.

Her father always taught her to keep the
upper hand with horses. Ruth grinned, recalling that her mother
would say the same about men – with a wink, and always within
hearing of Papa. He’d laugh every time, and claim to be in full
agreement, at least where his daughter was concerned.

Ruth rationed out a handful of grain, feeding
Caboose a few morsels at a time. Forcing an animal to hand feed was
another thing she learned from her father. Remembering him on this
cold, lonely night almost brought her to tears.

Caboose licked her palm clear of every last
grain and nickered for more. The sound brought Ruth out of her
nostalgia. She had no time for it now, and certainly no energy to
waste on tears, Ruth admonished. She’d had more years on her own
than she cared to remember and she’d get through this one just the
same, she promised herself.

Ruth brushed away her tears and started
gathering leaves for a bed. She wasn’t sure they’d provide enough
insulation from the near freezing ground to allow her to sleep, but
she had to try. She needed sleep desperately, having gotten little
the night before – especially after Jasper Smith’s midnight
visit.

Ruth spread out the canvas tarp she’d found
strapped to Caboose’s saddle, thanking her Maker that at least
she’d stay dry. She sat down cross-legged, with her back to a large
spruce, and opened up Smith’s saddlebags. She’d had no time to
rummage through his belongings when she saddled Caboose and headed
out after Jackson. She counted herself lucky that Smith had left a
few items tied to the saddle. In her rush to find Jackson’s trail,
she’d grabbed the saddle and some grain in the livestock car and
headed out.

Sadly, Ruth noted as she emptied out the last
of the contents, her luck didn’t hold out to include food for her.
She wondered how long she’d have to do without.

Now that she had a moment to sit and think,
she’d be lucky not to lose Jackson’s trail entirely. Or even worse,
be discovered close enough to the site of the train robbery that
they could force her to turn back. Ruth didn’t kid herself to think
she had the skill to follow a man like Jackson if he didn’t want to
be followed. She knew she had only managed to remain undetected so
far because the men were consumed with tracking those ahead of
them, rather than someone unexpected behind them.

Ruth huddled closer into her makeshift bed
and did her best to picture the loving faces of her parents, long
dead, as she drifted into a fitful sleep.

J
ackson watched in
silence as his dwindling hopes of capturing the outlaws kicked him
straight in the gut. That was a distinctly female figure huddled
against the cold and wind. He had seen a lot of foolishness in his
years – men throwing lives away over shiny gold rocks. Men losing
their women and dying broken hearted over a dried up piece of land
not fit for burial, much less supporting a farm. But never in all
his days had he so much as heard of a woman setting off after near
strangers into a land so vast a native son could get lost in a
decent downpour.

And all for some no good sailor she’d never
even met!

Jackson had heard things were bad in the
South after four long years of war, followed quickly by famine and
carpet baggers. But for a woman to travel alone across the entire
length of the country was the most foolish thing he’d ever heard
of. He shook his head as he watched over her sleeping figure
through his spyglass, still torn between frustration and
admiration.

The corner of his mouth turned up in the
slightest of smiles at her gumption. He also couldn’t recall
knowing or even hearing of any woman with the guts to take such a
chance, no matter the reason. And although he hadn’t known her
long, after seeing her face down two armed outlaws and keep her
head about her, Jackson knew this woman was no foolish miss who
didn’t realize what danger she was in. No, this was a woman who
took that first step after him, knowing full well the odds she’d be
facing.

If he’d been ten years younger, he might envy
Miss Ruth’s unknown sailor. She was no quitter, that was for
sure.

But being well past his twenties, and still
alive to prove his hard-earned wisdom, Jackson’s good sense shook
that foolish thought aside. He had more important things to worry
about – like how he and Mike were going to keep on the trail of the
train robbers with an unplanned straggler in tow.

Jackson didn’t have any immediate answers,
and he figured a night in the cold on her own would teach his
uninvited guest a much-needed lesson. While gumption might impress
a lonely lawman, Mother Nature wouldn’t spare a glance for Miss
Ruth. He’d circle back around to his camp once more to see what
Mike had in mind before coming to her rescue.

Now that Jackson had two camps to keep watch
over, he didn’t figure on getting much sleep, but he’d trained
himself not to need a lot. Seeing Ruth settle in for the night,
Jackson slid backwards from his vantage point above her, being
careful to stay upwind of her horse.

F
rank Masterson
jerked the reins of his weary horse to an abrupt stop, cursing the
fools he’d hired. The scene before him was an uncanny mixture of
frazzled Easterners, wandering aimlessly through the dusty
landscape, and practical Westerners, preparing to walk or ride the
remaining distance to the next train stop.

As Masterson approached a group of men
congregated near the engine, he could overhear the endless
screeching of a redheaded female, demanding to know when the train
would be leaving. The frazzled junior conductor tried to calm and
reassure the woman, “Ma’am, we’re doing our best, but the tracks
are damaged and the engineer is dead. As soon as these fine lawmen
finish their investigation, I’m sure they’ll ride to the nearest
town and send help.”

The woman nearly lost her footing at the
news. “What? You mean no one’s been sent for help yet? But it’ll be
dark soon. I can’t stay here alone with no protection.”

Masterson watched as a graying lawman to
their immediate right stepped in to take over. The deputy led the
frightened woman over to the shady side of the nearest boxcar,
doing his best to assure her that her protection was the Marshal
Service’s one and only concern.

With the lawman distracted, Masterson moved
in. He rode up behind the young conductor, who nearly jumped out of
his too-pale skin at the sound of Masterson’s horse whinnying in
his ear. “What? Oh, gosh, mister, watch that there horse. He nearly
ran me down.”

Masterson ignored the comment and dismounted.
“I’m looking for my wife, but can’t seem to locate her. She was
traveling with my man, Jasper Smith. They rode the train together
from Kansas City. Can’t find Smith, either. Are they dead?”

The junior conductor was too exhausted to
notice the coldness with which Masterson asked the question.
“Mister, the dead are at the back of the train.” He pointed his
rangy finger back the way Masterson had just come. “No women, last
I looked. If your wife got on the train, she has to be amongst the
passengers. Did you look through the dining car? A lot of the women
are sitting in there, ‘cause of the dust and all.”

Masterson slapped the brim of his hat against
his chaps and stared the kid dead in the eye. “I already looked in
the train. She’s not there. Are you sure no one got off the train
earlier?”

Junior swallowed hard, nervously looking
away. “I’m sure, Mister. The train didn’t make but one stop to take
on more coal between here and Fort Wallace. We – the conductor and
I – always count the passengers after each stop. Two times each, to
make sure no greenhorns wander off or are stuck in the outhouse. We
had a full count when we pulled out. I swear.”

Masterson cursed his luck as he walked his
horse back toward the laid out corpses.

She had to be here, he thought.

According to the passenger manifest, Ruth and
Smith had boarded this very train in Kansas City. And he needed her
corpse, or at least his proxy marriage papers in hand, to claim the
land he’d already begun to place in his bride’s name.

He knew he shouldn’t have jumped the gun on
that, but some of the local bankers were becoming suspicious of the
land he was accumulating, but not working. He was getting too many
questions about when he was going to start buying more cattle or
farming on his new parcels.

So Masterson had started putting new
acquisitions in Ruth’s name, figuring he’d have no trouble
whatsoever forcing her to sign things over to him when the time
came.

Masterson came to the first of the
hastily-covered bodies and tossed the reins of his horse over a
nearby tree branch. He looked about quickly, making sure no one was
watching, and started searching for a familiar face. He found one
on the fourth corpse, when Jasper Smith’s scarred face was
uncovered.

“Well, goddamn my luck! Where the hell is my
wife, you useless bastard?” He tossed the bloody tarp to the hot
earth and stood abruptly.

He paced back and forth, never taking his
eyes off the lawman nearby. Masterson jerked his hat off his sweaty
head and mopped uselessly at the dust and grime of the trail.

“Well, God damn!” With one last curse, he
planted his boot into the side of Smith’s body in pure
frustration.

Masterson turned to gather his horse and head
back to town, when a quiet groan caught his attention. He turned
around and rushed back to Smith’s body, kicking a second time – no
gentler than the first. This elicited another moan, and a satisfied
smirk from Masterson.

“Finally, some good luck for a change,” he
muttered. Masterson set his hat back on his thinning hair and let
out a few groans himself as he hefted Jasper Smith’s near-dead
weight up onto his skittish horse. He swore viciously as he
struggled to calm the horse.

“You stupid, useless, half-dead bastard,” he
muttered, in the steadiest tone he could manage. “I’ve got dead
bodies everywhere on account of this train robbery, but my fiancée
is nowhere to be found. At least if you’d taken care of my wife, I
could find another one. But no, she’s vanished into thin air.
Could’ve run off with another man or fallen off the damn train for
all I know.”

He finished tying Smith to the saddle, not
caring that the injured man’s head nearly dragged the ground. As
Masterson noticed blood dripping down the leather, he hastily
plugged the oozing source with his sweat-soaked kerchief and
figured he’d better give fate a hand and find Smith a doctor
fast.

After failing to locate Smith’s horse in the
livestock car, Masterson started off on foot toward the nearest
town. He didn’t want to risk stealing a horse with a Federal
Marshal not one hundred feet away.