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was under the direction and employment of Felipe Hernandez. Nobody would be getting aboard that train without some inspection.
    â€œI am Sean McMurtry,” I heard Fenn telling somebody, “bound for San Diego with the body of my dear brother, Gus. Murdered in Texas a week back.” At least he had dropped the bit about Comancheros.
    â€œI see, señor.”
    That voice caused me grave concern. It was Felipe Hernandez.
    â€œI know what it is like to lose a loved one. To have a loved one murdered.”
    â€œYes, indeed,” Fenn said. “I heard about that. Your brother-in-law, correct?
    â€œEs verdad.”
    â€œShot down in cold blood by that cowardly murderer Micah Bishop.”
    â€œHave you seen a nun during your time here, señor?”
    â€œNo. I have spent much of my time in my hotel room, awaiting the train. Spent this evening telling my brother all the things I should have told him while he lived.”
    That was another thing I disliked about Sean Fenn. He fancied himself an actor, but, for my money, he wasn’t no Lawrence Barnett. John Wilkes Booth, maybe.
    â€œAnd you have seen no strangers?”
    â€œSeñor Hernandez. I am a stranger in this town.”
    â€œ Sí. Forgive me.”
    â€œÂ¡Patrón! ¡Patrón!”
    Merciful God, somebody was calling Felipe Hernandez. He must have left while the locomotive coughed and belched, because the next voice I heard was not that of Hernandez. It had a German accent.
    â€œYou ship your dead relation home?”
    â€œThat’s right, Conductor.” Fenn was talking. “To California. Here is my bill of lading.”
    â€œIt is in order. Load”—he got a whiff of the rats—“it in the last boxcar.”
    We got hoisted again, began tilting one way, then the other. I just prayed those dead rats wouldn’t fall out of the flour sack.
    â€œI will ride with my brother.”
    â€œ Nein. Against the railroad’s policy.”
    â€œI was very close to Gus.”
    I couldn’t hear, but am certain Fenn slipped the conductor a greenback or two because I heard the door open to the boxcar, felt us being slid in among sawdust or straw or hay or something. Another sound came from inside the car. It sounded like . . . but I couldn’t make that one out. Then came a man’s grunt, followed by Fenn thanking the boys who had loaded the coffin into the car.
    The train jerked back, then I heard the conductor yelling, “All aboard!”
    Sean Fenn said, “Leave the door open, if you please, gentlemen.” He laughed. “So I can breathe fresh air.”
    Moments later, two long blasts of the horn, then hissing, squeaking, and we were moving.
    Heading south. Away from Felipe Hernandez and this bloodthirsty town.
    Almost.
    â€œSeñor!”
    â€œYes, Señor Hernandez?” Fenn didn’t sound too friendly. That wasn’t acting.
    â€œPerhaps you could answer this question for me. . . .”
    I didn’t hear the question—too much noise from the train, bells ringing, the locomotive grunting, and a pounding within the boxcar.
    Couldn’t make out Fenn’s reply, either.
    The train was moving mighty slow.
    â€œI didn’t quite catch that, Hernandez.” Heard that plain. Fenn had dropped the señor .
    Some other shouts were lost in all the commotion, then I heard something I did recognize.
    The report of a pistol.

C HAPTER T HREE
    Pretty soon, it sounded like Gettysburg out there. I tried to push open the lid to the coffin, but didn’t have much room, especially with the nun lying on top of me.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Geneviève Tremblay raised her head off my shoulder, bumped it against the lid. Groaned. A bullet tore a hunk through the coffin, buzzed my ear, thudded into the lid.
    â€œMother of God!” The nun dropped back onto me, heavy, almost knocking the breath out of me. Or would have, if I hadn’t expelled all