Ralph Compton - The Ghost of Apache Creek

Battles smiled. “Then my thanks to the governor.”

“Roberts is a good man, but a loyal Democrat,” Arthur said. He waved a hand. “It is his one big failing, I’m afraid. Such a pity.”

The marshal, wary of politics and politicians, nodded, but said nothing.

“Did Roberts tell you why you’re here?” Arthur said, after another pause.

“All he told me was that it has something to do with the letter and map I found on Green River Tom Riley.”

Sinclair looked alarmed. “Where is this Riley person now?”

“Nowhere. He’s dead.”

“You killed him?”

“He was notified,” Battles said.

“We want no loose ends, Marshal,” Sinclair said.

Arthur flashed irritation. “Yes, yes, Colonel. I’ll make that clear to Marshal Battles later.”

The president leaned forward on his desk.

“We remember President Garfield, Marshal, do we not?” Arthur said.

“Your predecessor, yes, sir.”

“Shot by a damned anarchist.” Arthur shook his head. “Garfield, that poor, doomed bastard, it took him almost three months to die and him in agony most of the time.”

Arthur turned to the clerk and, his voice slightly unsteady, said, “James, brandy. And refill the marshal’s glass.

“There were sinister forces at work in this country the day Garfield was assassinated,” Arthur said, “and I fear they are still in operation today.”

The president downed his brandy and immediately demanded another.

“Look around you, Marshal,” Arthur said. “What do you see? An ordinary Pullman railroad car? Let me assure you it is not.”

He turned to Sinclair. “Tell him, Colonel.”

“The Pullman has two emergency escape hatches,” the officer said, “one in the ceiling of the observation lounge, the other in the presidential bedroom at the center of the car.”

The colonel tapped on the window beside Arthur’s desk. “Three inches of bullet-resistant glass, made by laminating twelve sheets of quarter-inch glass into one piece.” He pointed to the walls and ceiling.

“Nickel-steel armor plate, its method of manufacture still a secret, is riveted to the sides, floor, roof, and ends of the car, and the armor is undetectable from any distance.”

Sinclair smiled, as though he relished imparting a final secret.

“The weight of a normal Pullman car is eighty tons. This car weighs almost twice that much and can withstand a cannonade.”

“And the reason for all this security is that I believe there is a conspiracy afoot to assassinate me and overthrow the legally elected government of this great nation,” Arthur said.

Thunder crashed overhead, muted by the thick windows and armor plate of the Pullman. Lightning glimmered, staining parts of the car with sudden flashes of stark white light.

Suddenly Matt Battles figured it out, the reason for him being there. Now he said as much to the president.

“You want me assigned as your bodyguard,” he said.

Arthur shook his head. “No such thing, Marshal. You saw the guards outside, and there’s a company of the Tenth Cavalry bivouacked within train whistle distance. No, I need greater things from you.”

Rather than ask the obvious question, Battles waited.

The car was hot, warmed by a potbellied stove, and the air had grown thick and hard to breathe.

Even the beautiful soldier had tiny beads of sweat on his forehead and nose, but Arthur seemed oblivious.

He turned to the clerk. “My list, James, if you please.”

The man dropped a paper in front of Arthur, and the president picked it up with both hands.

“I’m going to read you a list of names, Marshal,” he said. “I want your comment on each.”

“Who are they?” Battles said.

“Gunmen,” Colonel Sinclair said, answering for his boss. “Killers, outlaws, men of reputation. They hold that in common, but there is one trait more.”

The soldier waited until he saw a question form on Battles’s face, then said, “There’s a score of names on the president’s list and every man jack of them has disappeared off the face of the earth over the past month.”

Battles smiled. “They’re in a dangerous profession, Colonel.”

“I agree. But for them all to vanish at the same time is just too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Arthur spoke again. “I fear these men could have been hired by person or persons unknown to take part in a desperate venture—perhaps even start a second Civil War.”

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RIDERS OF JUDGMENT

A Ralph Compton Novel by Ralph Cotton

Coming from Signet in December 2011.

Newton, Kansas, September 7, 1871

For the past two weeks Danielle Strange had been recovering in bed in the upstairs back room of Dr. Lannahan’s office. Her gunshot wounds had been healing quickly, but not quickly enough to suit her. Now that she was up and able to dress herself, she was restless and wanted to get on her way. She had spent over two years of her life hunting down her father’s murderers, a gang of desperados who had left his body hanging from a tree. There had been ten outlaws in the gang that had killed Daniel Strange. Posing as a young gunman named Danny Duggin, she had used the gun-handling skills her father, the gunsmith, had taught her early in life. Danielle had tracked the killers down, one and two at a time, and had taken her vengeance upon them. Only one of those outlaws remained alive. His name was Saul Delmano, and she eagerly wanted to get back on his trail before it grew too cold to follow.

“The longer we stay here, the more time Delmano will have to prepare himself for a fight against us,” Danielle said to her brothers, Tim and Jed Strange. On a chair beside her bed lay the cloth binder that Danielle was accustomed to wearing. The binder kept her breasts flattened enough that, when worn beneath her loose-fitting shirt, no one could tell she was a woman. The only reason she wasn’t wearing it now was because the binder constricted her painful wounds.

Her twin brothers looked at each other, then turned back to Danielle. Tim said, “Danielle, you’re still too weak to ride and fight. You’ve done more than most any man could have done. But you’re only human. We can’t traipse out of here and take a chance on that hole in your side breaking open again, or that fever settling back upon you.”

“Tim’s right,” Jed joined in. “The way the doctor explained it to us while you were unconscious that first week here is that you’ll be walking on new legs for a while. He said it could take half the coming winter getting all your strength back.”

“I can’t spend half the winter here, if that’s what you’re getting at,” said Danielle. She nodded toward the supper her brothers had brought her on a wooden tray. The plate and bowl on the tray sat empty on the nightstand beside the small feather bed. “I’ve got an appetite again, and I’m starting to get around pretty good, all things considered.” She patted the mended bullet hole in the side of her clean boiled shirt. “By morning I ought to be able to ride.”

“By morning?” Tim Strange shook his head. “That’s pushing things too hard, Danielle.”

Danielle turned a firm gaze toward him. “Quit calling me Danielle. I’m Danny Duggin until this thing is over.”

“Sorry,” said Tim, “I just wasn’t thinking there for a second.”

“All right, but be more careful,” she replied. She offered him a slight smile to show she wasn’t angry, and said, still patting a hand on her side, “I’m still pretty sore in my ribs, but it’ll go away soon.”

“Yes, it will,” Tim Strange said, “and when it does, we’ll talk about leaving here and getting on Saul Delmano’s trail. But not a minute before. Besides, the doctor still needs to give me and Jed a clean bill of health.”