Time Plains Drifter

  TIME PLAINS DRIFTER

  Cheryl Pierson

  Time Plains Drifter by Cheryl Pierson

  Copyright © 2009 Cheryl Pierson

  Cover Credit: Livia Reasoner

  Prairie Rose Publications

  www.prairierosepublications.com

  CHAPTER 1

  October 25th, 1879

  Outside Maxwell, Nebraska

  The steel wheels screamed as the train slowed. The change in the rocking rhythm, followed by a loud crash, brought Marshal Rafe d’Angelico abruptly awake, pulling him out of the depths of one of the most realistic dreams he’d had for awhile.

  It was rare he slept soundly enough—or long enough—to have a worthwhile fantasy. This one had been odd. Intense. The kiss he’d shared with the beautiful young woman still burned, his fingers tingling with the soft-as-silk texture of her copper-burnished hair. Her eyes, just before she’d closed them, were the color of the deepest secret shadows of the forest. When his lips slanted across hers, it felt like...like coming home. He grinned, remembering the look in those eyes at the last possible instant, just as her lips touched his, just as the sound of the closing door awakened him.

  He still tasted the sweetness of the kiss in the lonesome darkness of the sleeping car. Pushing himself up on his elbow in the cramped berth, he ran rough fingers through his sleep-tousled hair, shaking his head to wake up. He listened for a moment.

  The sound of squealing brakes shouldn’t be happening—but it was real enough. The train was slowing—not part of the dream. “What the hell?” He sat up, remembering to duck in the nick of time, just as the top of his head grazed the sagging berth above him.

  The sound of grinding wheels drowned out all else with its discordant insistence. He swung his long legs out of the too-small bed, fully awake now. This train wasn’t supposed to stop for anything. “Cris!” Rafe muttered urgently in the darkness. His older brother didn't answer. He reached for his gunbelt and shirt at the end of the berth, and started for the door.

  The third marshal, Josiah Kemp, slept soundly in the berth above Rafe, still wearing his clothes, badge and all. Rafe didn’t wake him. There was no time. Something was wrong. He pulled on his shirt. A quick look through the corner of the window shade verified that darkness still enveloped them. The train was slowing at an alarming rate, and it shouldn’t be—not with what they were carrying. Rafe turned the handle of the door and opened it, stepping into the locomotive behind his brother, Cris.

  Wiley Franklin, the engineer, pulled the whistle cord, blasting the pre-arranged signal of warning as he chewed on the end of the ever-present unlit cigar, cursing around the smooth sides of the sweet tobacco.

  “Damn it.” Kelly Jones, the fireman, looked up from the coal box, laying his shovel aside. “Wiley? What’s goin’ on? Not s’posed to be stoppin’—”

  Cris walked toward the engineer, anger evident in every taut line of his body. “What the hell’s going on, Wiley?”

  Franklin glanced back at Cris. “Got a fire up here ahead on the tracks, Marshal.” The wheels sparked and squalled as Franklin continued to brake.

  “What’re you doing? Run through it!” Cris shrugged into his shirt, closing the final few steps between him and the engineer.

  The door banged shut behind Rafe as he let go of it, taking a step further into the dim engine room.

  Franklin shook his grizzled head. “Can’t do it, Marshal. It’s against—”

  “Fuck regulations, old man!” Cris yelled. “I’m telling you to run through that barricade!”

  “Might de-rail the train,” Franklin looked unperturbed. He didn’t let go of the brake.

  “Wiley, let’s take our chances.” Jones nervously flicked his tongue over chapped lips. “I’m with the marshal on this—”

  “Yeah, but both of you forget—I’m driving this train.”

  “Driving it, but not obeying the orders you were given.” Anger surged through Rafe's veins at the engineer’s arrogant comment. Stopping might well get them all killed.

  The orange glow of the fire was growing steadily closer, the wheels clamoring in protest as sparks flew up, blowing through the open window and door.

  “That’s my decision!” Franklin pulled hard on the brake.

  “Bastard!” Cris lunged forward to pry the engineer’s fingers from the brake.

  Rafe rushed to give Cris a hand, both shouting at the same instant. “Goddammit, Wiley, are you crazy?” He strapped on his gun belt quickly. “Joe!” he yelled over his shoulder, wishing he’d taken time to awaken Joe Kemp before he followed Cris into the engine. The struggle intensified between the engineer and his brother. Rafe turned back to lay a hand on Franklin’s massive shoulder. “Dammit, run through it! Let go of that brake!”

  The door behind them flew open. Cris spared a quick glance over his shoulder. “Goddammit, Joe, get in here and—”

  Rafe saw the relief fade from Cris’s expression, only to be replaced by the recognition of betrayal in his brother’s face. Joe? Couldn’t be. He was one of them, and a friend. His mind wouldn’t accept what he saw in Cris’s eyes for a moment, but he trusted his brother beyond any doubt. Without turning, Rafe reached for his gun, his reputation for being fast well-deserved. But ‘fast’ was useless, now. Marshal Josiah Kemp already had his .45 drawn and holding—on his partners. The warning click of Kemp’s pistol next to Rafe’s ear told him he’d read his brother correctly. He wished to God he’d seen that look on Cris’s face a few seconds sooner. He closed his eyes briefly, checking the motion of his hand.

  Kemp gave a soft chuckle from behind him. The train finally ground to a halt several feet in front of the huge pyre laid across the tracks. “I’ll take that gun off your hands.” He lifted the .45 from Rafe’s fingers, and shoved it into his waistband.

  Cris fixed a murderous glare on the engineer, who suddenly seemed unable to meet his eyes.

  “Wiley?” Kelly Jones questioned, peering disbelievingly at the engineer. “You knew?”

  Franklin nodded.

  “What did they pay you, Judas?” Cris gritted out harshly. He grasped Franklin’s beefy wrists. The older man lifted his head. “Thirty pieces of silver?” A faint smile touched Cris’s mouth. “I hope you can use it in hell, you bastard.”

  “March on out the door, boys,” Kemp ordered pompously. “Somebody out there wants to meet you—before you die. Gotta take care of that before we help ourselves to that shipment of gold.”

  Cris stood, unmoving, until Kemp jammed his gun to Rafe’s temple. Rafe didn’t flinch. He fought the urge to overpower Kemp. It would be next to impossible in the position they were in, the way Kemp held him—and the gun. His muscles tensed, and Kemp’s grip tightened in silent warning.

  “Now, Cris, I want you to do as I’ve asked,” Kemp said silkily. “Don’t want to bloody up the inside of this here engine, but you know I’ll sure as hell do it, don’t you?”

  Cris turned, reluctantly moving for the door.

  “Go on, Wiley.” Kemp had a wolfish grin. “You and Kelly. Don’t keep my friends waiting.” He motioned toward the door with the revolver.

  “But—that wasn’t the deal, Josiah! You said—” Franklin sputtered.

  “Yeah, I know what I said. But all that’s changed. Why should I waste a cut of that gold on you?” His grin widened for an instant, then his look sobered. “You’re a dead man, Wiley. But, thanks for doin’ your part.”

  “No, please! I—I did what you asked—”

  “You ain’t doin’ what I’m askin’ now, old man—” Kemp toyed with him, his voice smooth and taunting.

  “I will! I promise. I’ll—I’ll get off! Just don’t—don’t kill me.” Wiley swiped at the rivulets of sweat that ran down his face
and neck. “You’ll need me! To drive the train!”

  Kemp smiled again. “Naw. We’ve made—other plans.”

  “Stop begging,” Rafe said sharply.

  Kemp laughed. “Listen to the marshal, Wiley. Take some advice. You’ll never see either one of the d’Angelico brothers begging for anything. Not like you.”

  Rafe didn’t look at Kemp. The fact was—they were all going to die. Damn Josiah Kemp for a double-crossing son of a bitch. I never saw it coming—and neither did Cris.

  Rafe, Cris, and Josiah Kemp had been given the job of preventing train robberies along this dangerous stretch of railway that carried monthly gold shipments cross-country on the first leg of the Overland Route from Sacramento, California, to Omaha, Nebraska. The three of them had been assigned to their stint of protecting this section of railroad for the past month. Their time was almost up, and Rafe had been glad of it, anxious for their relief. Evidently, it wouldn’t come soon enough.

  They ducked out of the engine into the cool October night air, one by one, like lambs to the slaughter; and he and Cris without so much as a bullet or blade between them. A flash of indignant heat swept through him as he remembered Kemp’s offer to stand first watch tonight, and how easily he and Cris had been taken in. “I’ll wake you when we get to Maxwell,” Kemp had told him with a slap on the shoulder. “We’ll play a couple of rounds before I hit the sack.”

  Rafe stepped down onto solid ground beside the tracks. One quick glance around the waiting circle of men, Kemp’s so-called ‘friends,' told him this situation could only have one outcome. There were twelve of them. No way out of this. He took a deep breath. The night air was cool and crisp. When he met Cris’s black eyes in the firelight, he read apology, and self-blame. Cris held himself responsible for this fiasco. Rafe gave a slight shake of his head, and Cris’s expression lightened a little. There was no way either of them could have figured this, Rafe thought bitterly. Joe Kemp had been very believable, very trustworthy—up until now. A friend, they’d both thought.

  “Meet my compadres, here,” Kemp extended a hand toward the gang of cutthroats who stood around the crackling blaze.

  Rafe’s gaze swept the ragged group quickly once more. He recognized a few familiar faces. Charlie MacIntosh, Barry Newton, Lee Johnston—petty thieves and criminals with big plans.

  “Where’s that gold, Joe?” Charlie asked, all business.

  “It’s here. Car four.”

  Several of the men started toward the train.

  “Wait a minute!” Kemp shouted. “We ain’t done here yet.” The men stopped and turned to face him. A slow smile spread across his face. “We got us some killin’ to do.”

  “Well, Marshal,” said one of the men, “let’s get on with it. When Number Twelve’s late pullin’ into Maxwell, you can bet them telegraph wires’ll be hot...and so will the posse they send out.”

  “Now, not so fast, Don. Ever’ one of these men oughtta get a chance to say their last words, don’t’cha think? Gotta do it up proper-like.” Kemp turned to Franklin. “You go first, Wiley.”

  “Kemp, you sorry bastard—” The first bullet severed the engineer’s vocal chords, the second pierced his forehead.

  “That’s enough outta you, old man,” Kemp muttered darkly. He turned the pistol on Kelly Jones, who stood watching with bleak eyes. “Sure hate to have to do this, Kel, but I hope you’ll understand. Can’t have no witnesses, and business is business, after all.” Two more shots rang out, and Jones, too, lay dead on the autumn leaves gathered at their feet.

  Kemp raised gray eyes to Cris, who stood tensely watching, his dark gaze burning. “Your turn, Marshal d’Angelico.” Again, the smirk came. “Got any last words? Want to tell your brother goodbye?”

  Cris spat in the dirt at Kemp’s feet, not looking at Rafe. Rafe knew his brother would feel he had to keep strong.

  Only one year apart, Rafe and Cris had been together since either of them could remember. Rafe should’ve known—somehow; should have figured Josiah Kemp for the traitor he was. He wanted to say he was sorry, to look into Cris’s face one last time and tell him what a fool he’d been. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t give Kemp the satisfaction.

  “My brother already knows everything I’d want to say to him.” Cris’s voice was hard as glass. Unwavering. Unafraid.

  Kemp raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Everything, Cris?”

  Cris’s black gaze seized Kemp’s and held. “We’ll find you, Kemp.”

  “You’ll be dead, Cris.” Kemp seemed to squelch a shiver.

  “But you won’t be, will you, Joe?” Cris murmured. “You’ll have to live with what you’ve done, until the time is right.”

  The circle of men fell silent. The only sound was the crackling of the flames eating up the dry wood laid across the tracks.

  “Take that back,” Kemp muttered. A haunted look threaded through his eyes for a moment, and Cris smiled once more at Kemp’s obvious fear.

  There was a look of knowing acceptance in Cris’s eyes that Rafe understood. He knew that being older, Cris was sorry he hadn’t seen this coming, and felt responsible and pissed off that there was nothing he could do about it.

  Cris looked into Josiah Kemp’s face, ignoring the gun aimed at his heart. He grinned, silently mocking Kemp’s fear by showing no outward sign of his own. “Fuck you.”

  Kemp bared his teeth with an angry growl and pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession. The two bullets slammed into Cris's chest, pushing him back. He spun, then stumbled and fell face up in the leaves beside the bodies of the other two men. His eyes stared sightlessly into the starlight as dark liquid ran from the gaping holes in his chest, puddling at his side into the folds of his unbuttoned shirt.

  An anguished cry tore from Rafe’s chest as he wildly lunged toward Cris. He’d never be able to change the events that had been set in motion. No matter what happened to him now, he had lost his brother forever.

  Kemp holstered his own empty revolver, pulling the one he’d taken from Rafe earlier and pointing it at him, sure and steady. Rafe knew he should have convinced himself of the inevitable outcome of this little soiree by now, but seeing his brother’s body lying lifeless on the ground was something he could never, never prepare for.

  Fury rose up inside him, along with desperation. He fell to his knees beside Cris, knowing he was beyond hearing him now, and finding there were so many things he wanted to say to him. Too late. He felt warmth at his knees, and looked down to see he was kneeling in a widening pool of his brother’s blood as it soaked the chambray shirt and ran into the bracken-strewn ground.

  “And this is where the d’Angelico brothers come to the end of the line.” A smug smile tugged at Kemp's thin lips.

  Rafe was torn between a murderous rage and the absurd need to protect his brother. But Cris doesn’t need my protection now. Kemp’s infernal love for the gold in car four would prove to be the death of four men.

  “My brother already knows everything I’d want to say to him.” Cris’s words echoed in his mind. Y usted, hermano. And you, brother.

  Rafe rose slowly.

  “If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man,” Kemp murmured. “Funny, that’s just how Cris looked, too.” He chuckled. “Got anything you want to say, Rafael?”

  Rafe swallowed his anger, letting pure contempt fill his voice. “No. My brother said it all. For both of us.”

  The snickering laughter of some of the desperadoes drifted to him. A whippoorwill called in the distance. Rafe would be the last to die, and somehow, that made it worse. Being without Cris was unthinkable. The grim knowledge he’d be the recipient of the next bullet didn’t bother Rafe at all. He only wished he could take Kemp with him when he went.

  Kemp’s flat gray eyes sparked in spiteful anger as he squeezed back on the trigger. The roar of the gun filled the night, blocking out everything else. The first bullet lodged in Rafe’s left shoulder, sending a streak of fire to his fingertips and through his side. It drove him back a
step, but he didn’t fall. He swore, and instinctively clutched the bloody hole left by the slug.

  His lungs and nose filled with the coppery odor of blood...his brother’s, mingling now with his own. Raising his eyes to Kemp’s, he found himself looking down the business end of the Bass .44 that had been his until earlier this evening. “Goddamn you, Joe. Goddamn you to hell!”

  Kemp pulled the trigger again.

  A sudden flash and the accompanying click as the bullet flew from the chamber seemed deafening. Rafe was shoved backward, as if a mighty hand had dealt him an invisible push. Agony ripped through his chest, so harsh, so crushing, it drove all other thoughts from his mind—except one. I'm dying, sure as shit.

  He closed his eyes, and the noise around him faded, until, from somewhere he heard Cris’s voice.

  Rafe. Rafe.

  I’m here.

  Not yet. Let go. It’s no use trying to hold on. It’s done, brother.

  Rafe sighed, and his breathing slowed. His fingers relaxed against forest floor, but he was beyond feeling the rough textures beneath him. Even the excruciating pain of the bullets was fading.

  I’m sorry.

  The thought came to Rafe on a fragile breeze, and he felt Cris slip further away, but Rafe had no strength to answer his brother. He was fading, and he felt himself suspended for a moment between the two worlds of the living and the dead.

  Oddly, the thought of the woman crowded into his mind at the end—the beautiful green-eyed, auburn-haired woman he’d shared his last kiss with, in his dream. His lips tingled with the memory, but the burning agony of the bullets, rather than the pleasure of the kiss, stole his breath. It left him in the rush of a sigh of regret. Then, there was no pain, no sorrow at leaving the clear October night behind, no thought of dreams unfinished. There was only darkness, and infinite separation.

  CHAPTER 2

  Wentworth Academy

  April 2015

  The spitwad landed, thankfully, just short of its target. It arced gracefully through the air, over the heads of several unsuspecting students seated on the front rows, and dropped with an audible, wet “plop” on the neatly stacked papers at the edge of Jennifer Dalton’s desk.