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  “Ain’t that a beautiful sight, O’Halloran?” the conductor said.

  Whoever O’Halloran was muttered a reply that was unintelligible.

  Here was Fallon’s chance—his only chance. Silently, he slid along the platform and pushed himself up. Gunfire erupted up and down the tracks, and Fallon leaped down onto the embankment.

  The conductor turned, dropping his lantern and his pocket watch, and reached for a small pocket pistol tucked in his waistband. Fallon slammed the barrel of his revolver against the fat man’s skull, and the conductor dropped into a heap.

  Ten feet away, a man in what appeared to be blue-and white-striped trousers and a railroader’s cap, let out a shriek of terror.

  “Be dead,” Fallon told him, and the .44 barked and spit out flame and smoke.

  The man crumpled into a heap, and Fallon could see him shivering. He was not an actor, Fallon realized, when it came to playing a corpse. But by this time, the train had started backing down the tracks as the other engine had reached the far side of the gorge.

  Fallon rushed to the unconscious conductor, grabbed the pocket pistol, then he was hurrying back, shoving his Colt into his holster and the conductor’s pistol into his pocket, racing, lunging, and grabbing the railing to the coach with his left hand. The battered, bleeding hand refused to cooperate, slipped off. Fallon swore, picked up his speed, and made his right hand reach up. His fingers bounced off, and Fallon slipped, almost fell, but somehow grabbed the rail again.

  Let the train go, Fallon told himself. Stay here. Tell Maxwell, MacGregor, Christina what was happening.

  The fingers wrapped around the iron. Fallon’s feet dragged.

  No. That doesn’t cut off the snake’s head.

  He knew he had to make it to Justice’s camp. The toes of his boots were dragging along the gravel of the embankment when Fallon reached up with his left hand. This time, despite swelling and injuries, the muscles cooperated. With both hands now secured, Fallon pulled himself up. He reached the platform just as a ball of orange erupted on the other side of the gorge.

  They had used nitroglycerine to blow the trellis to hell, and the explosion seemed deafening.

  Fallon came up, tried to catch his breath.

  The door opened, and Fallon drew the .44.

  “What the hell . . .” said the man as he stepped out of the car. Fallon slammed the barrel of the revolver against the man’s head, and he crumpled onto the platform. Then Fallon stepped inside.

  He had been trained to blow open the door to the express car, then blow up the safe. But the unconscious man on the floor made things a little easier. Fallon was inside the car.

  Two men started reaching for Winchester repeaters in a case. Fallon fired. The trim of the gun case splintered. One man stopped, turned, wet the front of his britches, and raised his hands high above his head. The second man grabbed a repeating rifle, and Fallon put a bullet through his right hand.

  The man yelled, grabbed his mangled hand, and dropped to his knees as someone kicked open the other door.

  “Down,” Fallon said. “Both of you. Facedown on the floor. Don’t lift your head. Do as I say or you’re dead.”

  He caught his breath. The men did as they were told.

  Now he watched the other man hurry from the door, gun in his right hand, and a black silk neckerchief pulled up over his mouth and nose. The mask could not hide his features, though, and Harry Fallon muttered a silent curse.

  The masked man stopped, looked at the two shaking men lying facedown on the wooden floor. He laughed and aimed his cocked revolver at the wounded man.

  “Never let a wounded bird suffer,” the man said. “Or any other hurt critter.”

  “Let them be,” Fallon said.

  The masked man looked up, and his eyes burned with hatred.

  “No witnesses,” the outlaw said.

  “And no posse coming after us,” Fallon said.

  “The hell are you talking about? Once we cross the border, no lawdogs can go into Mexico.”

  Fallon said, “Don’t be a fool.”

  Now the man whirled away from the two prisoners and started to raise the pistol at Fallon.

  “We’re robbing this train. Add too many murders, and that’ll intensify their pursuit.”

  The man looked skeptical.

  Fallon said, “You’ve already given away too much. You told them where we’re going.”

  “So they ought to die.”

  Fallon shook his head. “Leave them alone. This’ll buy us some time.”

  “What?”

  “They’ll question all the survivors,” Fallon said. “If there’s no one alive to talk, they’ll just keep on riding after us.”

  The man pulled down his bandanna.

  “Come on,” Fallon said. “Let’s get that safe opened.” He moved quickly to the side of the car and knelt at the side of the big safe.

  The man knelt beside him and pulled out his pocket watch.

  “How much time do we have?” Fallon asked.

  “Seventeen minutes.”

  Fallon nodded.

  “You got the dynamite?” the man asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, use it, damn you!”

  “Not yet.” He came up and moved to the two prisoners. “Another reason not to kill these two dudes.” Fallon kicked the ribs of the one with the mangled hand. “Roll over.”

  When the man hesitated, Fallon drew the revolver, eared back the hammer, and said, “I won’t ask you again.”

  The frightened, pale man groaned as he lifted his head, but did not completely roll onto his back.

  “My pard wants to blow the safe with dynamite,” Fallon told him. “I’d rather open it another way. Like the combination.”

  “I . . . I . . . I . . . don . . . don’t know.”

  Fallon waved the revolver. “I think you do.”

  The man’s head shook.

  “Then here’s what is going to happen.” Fallon lowered the hammer and slipped the pistol into the holster. “We’ll blow up the safe. Open it the hard way. But if we do that, you’re going to be sitting in front of the safe. With the dynamite right behind you. That’ll keep my pard and me from possibly getting a chunk of wood or metal drilled into our innards. Leave us choking on blood and dying an ugly death. But . . .” Fallon shook his head. “It won’t do a whole lot for your good looks. Or your buddy here.” Fallon kicked the other guard’s calf. “Because he’ll be sitting right beside you. And we’ll drag the fool who opened the door over, too. Make things safer for me and my pard.”

  “You . . . wouldn’t . . .” cried the wounded man.

  Fallon bent, jerked him up, and rammed his back against the safe.

  “Wouldn’t I?” Fallon said.

  It was the other guard who spoke.

  “Three passes left to seven. Right nineteen. Left twenty-one. Right seven. Left eleven.”

  Fallon nodded at his partner, who knelt at the dial and followed the guard’s instructions. There was a loud click, and when Fallon pulled the lever, the door opened.

  “Isn’t that safer than using dynamite?” Fallon said as he knelt and looked inside the safe. “Nowhere near as noisy, either.”

  The other bandit was checking his watch again.

  “Time?” Fallon asked.

  “Thirteen minutes.”

  “I’ll empty the mail sacks. We can use those to carry the loot.” He stopped by the guard who had given away the combination.

  “When we leave, we’ll blow the safe,” he said. “That way your commander will think we got the money the hard way. You’ll be wise to remember that when they ask you about descriptions, what all we said, where we might be going, things like that. Because if we have to testify on our own behalf in a criminal trial . . . well . . .” Laughing, he made his way to the mail pouches and began emptying letters and packages from the first one.

  I’m still Harry Alexander, he told himself, and wondered what Christina Whitney would say.
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  But that’s when his partner in the express car, Barney Drexel, said, “I know who you are!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Drexel had his gun out, cocked, and aimed at Fallon’s chest. Fallon flung the mail sack he had just emptied and dived to his left while reaching for his own revolver. The roar of the cannon the prison guard held left Fallon’s ears ringing as he hit the floor and the bullet thudded into the wall.

  Rolling over, Fallon got his pistol out and cocked, but the mail sack had missed its mark. Drexel already had eared back the hammer of the big revolver and started aiming. That’s when the train must have rounded a curve. The men running the locomotive at full throttle in reverse almost derailed the whole damned train. The turn sent Drexel tumbling. Fallon’s revolver barked but the bullet splintered the wall, and then Fallon was trying to get to his feet as the train straightened.

  One of the guards tried to get to his feet, slipped, dropped hard onto his knees. Drexel put a bullet through his chest, and the man slammed against the safe, shuddered, and slumped forward.

  “Mother of God!” the other guard yelled, and began crawling on hands and knees to the door. Drexel’s gun roared again and the guard screamed, fell, rolled onto his back, and tried to sit up. Drexel shot him again, this time in his forehead, and the bullet tore out the back of his skull and sprayed the floor with the dead man’s brains.

  Fallon fired. Drexel fired. Then Drexel hurled his empty pistol at Fallon.

  “I’ll kill you with my bare hands!” the enraged prison sergeant bellowed, and he charged at Fallon.

  Fallon fired, but missed because Drexel slipped on the blood-slickened floor. The brute came up. Fallon squeezed the trigger and cursed when the gun jammed. Now it was Fallon’s turn to throw the useless revolver at the guard, but Drexel ducked, and the pistol disappeared in the mail, packages, and dead bodies.

  Drexel rose, laughing. Fallon sprang forward, kicked out, but the big man caught Fallon’s foot, twisted, and spun him to the floor.

  “You double-crossing little worm,” Drexel said.

  Fallon came up, stumbled into the wall, turned around. Drexel wiped his bloody hands on his trousers. “I’m going to kill you.”

  He could have tried the lie he had been working on, could have reminded Drexel that he had been a lawman a lifetime ago, but Drexel had to know about Fallon’s stint in Joliet. He was after revenge. Revenge, Drexel’s hatred, was all that mattered right now. He had forgotten Colonel Justice’s promise of glory, riches, and a new, stronger, invincible Confederate States of America.

  So Fallon slipped his hand into his coat pocket.

  “What the hell are you two doing?”

  Fallon and Drexel both turned toward the voice from the door. “Traitors!” Cole Hansen said. “Wanting to steal the Colonel’s money for yourself.”

  Cole Hansen stepped forward when Fallon shot him in the belly. The derringer he had taken from the conductor fired both barrels, instead of just one, and Hansen was driven back, tripping over the legs of the guard who had foolishly opened the door, slamming against the wall, then twisting, staggering onto the outside platform and falling off the side.

  The door bounced open and shut, open and shut, open and shut.

  Drexel spun around, threw a mail sack at Fallon. Beating out the flames on his coat pocket, Fallon hurled the empty derringer at Drexel.

  Fallon tried to find another weapon he could use, but nothing looked promising that was within reach, but Drexel was ready now, moving like a snake, his eyes savage. Fallon could try for a crowbar in the corner, but Drexel would have reached him before he could have gotten a good grip on the weapon.

  Drexel made a feint. Fallon bit, and the guard laughed.

  “You are yellow,” Drexel said, snorted, and spat.

  Fallon brought his arms up, weaving, making a few jabs that Drexel easily ducked. Then it was the guard’s turn. He shot out a quick right that glanced off Fallon’s ear just as he turned and brought up his left arm to block another blow from the big sergeant. Fallon tried an uppercut, but Drexel’s head tilted back and to the right. Then the sergeant hammered a left into Fallon’s ribs. A little harder, and Fallon figured that punch might have cracked if not broken two or three ribs. The man punched like a steel-driving hammer.

  Drexel worked three quick jabs. Fallon ducked, buried his fist into Drexel’s stomach. The man gasped, and Fallon tried a haymaker punch, putting all his strength into the blow, but the fist failed to connect and the momentum carried Fallon past the guard. Drexel whirled, delivered a wicked punch into Fallon’s kidneys, and as Fallon groaned and spun around, another fist caught Fallon just above his right eye. Drexel charged, seeing his chance to finish this fight—and Harry Fallon—quickly, but his big feet tripped over one of the murdered guards’ legs.

  He fell to his knees. Fallon tried to kick him, but for a big man, Drexel moved fast and his reflexes had kept him alive for many years. The toe of Fallon’s shoe clipped Drexel’s ear, and Drexel dropped to the floor, rolled over the corpse, and he popped to his feet as Fallon regained his balance, turned, and waited.

  The door at the front of the coach kept bouncing as the train rattled down the tracks.

  Both men heaved. Fallon’s hair was already matted with sweat. Drexel wiped his brow with his left sleeve while keeping his right arm up, the hand balled into a huge, powerful fist.

  The train rounded another curve, but this time both men leaned with the movement of the speeding train. When they straightened, Drexel resumed his attack. He feinted with the left, then swung hard with the right, a roundabout throw, that Fallon ducked under and came up with a left that glanced off Drexel’s arm. The men spun around. Drexel tried to kick, but Fallon twisted, and jabbed with his left. One. Two. Three. He hit nothing but air.

  They turned again, and Drexel cursed and came at Fallon hard, spreading out his arms, and Fallon made the mistake of trying to flatten the palm of his hand against the Adam’s apple in Drexel’s throat. Smash it. Crush the larynx and leave Drexel sucking in air that would not come. Instead, his hand caught the side of Drexel’s neck, and Fallon felt the huge hands wrap around Fallon’s back. The man started to squeeze, but before he could get that bear hug, that death grip, Fallon managed to bring his left knee up and catch Drexel in the groin.

  The big sergeant groaned, and the train twisted around another bend, sending both men stumbling against the cabinet on the wall filled with letters. Drexel’s back slammed hard into the wooden corner, and he let out a sharp cry. The blow caused him to lessen his hold, and Fallon rammed his knee harder into the man’s privates.

  Drexel’s breath stank and he sent spittle into Fallon’s face, nose, eyes. But Drexel also completely lost his grip. The arms fell back to the sergeant’s sides, and Fallon fell away, landed on empty sacks, rolled over, and threw another mail package at Drexel that missed, hit the wall, and clattered on the floor.

  By now the express car looked like it had gone through a derailment.

  Fallon pushed himself to his feet and leaped aside as Drexel kicked at him again, having recovered from blows that would have left most men writhing in agony on the floor.

  Standing, heaving, trying to find some way to stop Barney Drexel, Fallon saw the man as he ran again, lowering his shoulder. Again, Fallon had no place to go. Drexel’s shoulder caught him in the chest, and the man’s legs kept churning like a powerful draft horse, pushing Fallon back, back, back and into the door at the end of the car. The door splintered open, but this time ripped off its hinges, and both men fell onto the platform.

  Fallon’s head struck the iron railing, stunning him, blurring his vision, but Drexel hit the bars harder, and the man fell backward, clasping his broken nose that poured blood. As Fallon came up to a seated position, shaking his head to clear his vision, the door to the next car opened.

  “What the hell is goin’ on? Cole, where are . . . ?” a voice thundered, followed by the blast of a revolver.

  “Ugghh.”


  Drexel doubled over in the doorway, straightened, and began staggering toward the opposite end of the platform.

  “My God! My God! Barney!” a voice cried. A figure leaped onto the platform. Fallon just saw a shadow, and the smoking gun in the right hand of the newcomer. The gun clattered on the platform as the man reached with both hands to grab the waistband of Drexel’s britches, to keep him from toppling over the railing.

  “I didn’t know it was you, Barney!” the man cried as he pulled Drexel up. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Get . . . him . . .” Drexel gasped, and started to point.

  The figure turned around. Drexel crumpled to the floor. Fallon reached for the gun, grabbed the butt, pulled it forward as the man stepped into the light.

  Josh Ryker.

  Then Josh Ryker saw Fallon. He let out a savage curse, dived, and drove Fallon against the hard platform floor. Fallon’s knuckles almost felt as if they had been crushed into particles like sand. But his left hand was free, and despite the pain he pounded a fist into Ryker’s temple.

  The Colt slid off the platform, disappearing in the night.

  The convict, who was supposed to be serving time at the Rusk unit since his brawl on Fallon’s first day at The Walls, groaned and rolled off. Fallon started to rise, but Ryker jumped back on top of him. Ryker punched Fallon’s forehead with his right. Fallon grunted, watched Ryker draw back his fist to bring it down again, but as he did, Fallon twisted his head, and Ryker’s fist slammed into the flooring. The sound of breaking fingers was drowned out by Ryker’s cry of agony. As the man straightened, Fallon lashed out with his free hand, and the blow drove Ryker toward the open doorway of the express car.

  Fallon scrambled to a seated position. Ryker shook off the pain, reached inside the open doorway, and found a piece of timber. He brought it out, raised it over his head . . .

  Ducking low, Fallon rushed forward. The small two-by-four piece of pine rattled against the banister of the platform. Fallon spun around, and swung out with his right. It caught Ryker’s mouth, busting the lips wide open and breaking several teeth, as the outlaw turned around. The two-by-four dropped onto the platform. Ryker spit out blood and gore and made a weak swing that missed Fallon and twisted Ryker. The momentum carried Ryker to the other side of the platform. He landed hard. Then he was gone, toppling over . . . underneath the wheels of the other cars and engines.