Valley of Fire Read Online Free PDF Page B

cigar, blow smoke, and say, “Thanks.”
    I stared out the rolling darkness, breathing deeply, letting the cool air wash me clean.
    Finally, facing Fenn again, I asked, “What happened back there?”
    â€œYes, Mister Fenn. Explain that gunfight, if you please.” The nun had taken my lead, and stepped to the open door. The wind whipped off her hood, and I got an even better look at her face, though it was dark despite the lantern. Her dark hair blew. Her chest heaved in breath after breath.
    Fenn stared at her.
    â€œThe depot?” I had to remind him.
    â€œOh.” He shifted the rifle under his armpit, puffed on the cigar a mite, then withdrew the smoke, and wet his lips. “I bought that coffin in Vegas. Had it brought up to the room.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œTurns out, Felipe Hernandez owns the funeral parlor.”
    That figured. The man owned everything else.
    â€œGuess one of his kin told him,” Fenn said. “Made him wonder why, if my brother had been killed in Texas, I waited till Vegas to put him in a coffin.” He grinned. “Then one of his men mentioned that I’d said poor Gus was killed by Comancheros.”
    â€œI knowed it!” I couldn’t help myself. “I knowed that lie would trip you up, get us all in a heap of trouble.”
    â€œWell, we got away.” Fenn flicked his cigar into the night, backed up a few steps, and drew his revolver. He punched out the empties and began reloading the chambers from the shell belt the nun had tossed him. Facing the Sister, he added, “And the dead rats helped us get away.” He stared at me.
    â€œNot yet.” It was Geneviève who spoke.
    â€œHow’s that?” Fenn didn’t look back at her. Didn’t even look at the Colt he was reloading. He kept his eyes on me, the untrusting cad.
    â€œWe haven’t gotten away.” She was kneeling—not in prayer—by the horses, which did smell a lot better than what we’d been smelling.
    â€œOh, Hernandez will come after us,” Fenn said. “But he can’t outrun a train.” Fenn pulled back the hammer, lowered it gently, and dropped it into the holster he wore. He had filled every chamber with a .44-40 shell. Most folks kept the one under the hammer empty so they wouldn’t blow off a toe or entire foot, accidentally.
    â€œHe can send a telegraph.” That came from me.
    Geneviève and Fenn looked my way, their expression seeming to say, He’s not the idiot we thought he was.
    Fenn stepped toward the door, holding his hat on his head as he peered into the night.
    â€œEven you can’t shoot a telegraph wire,” I said. “From a moving train. In the middle of the night. Without a moon.”
    â€œBesides,” Geneviève added, “they might have already sent that wire.”
    I will admit that I felt pleasure in that distraught look on Fenn’s face, despite the fact that if I got caught, I’d be dead real soon.
    Fenn started with, “There’s a chance—” but quit before he made a complete fool out of himself. There was no chance. No chance at all.
    Sister Geneviève stood and moved closer to the two horses. She spoke to them softly, reached one, and began rubbing her hand over its neck. The second horse tilted its head and gave her a nuzzle. She hadn’t put her hood back up. The nun, I mean.
    She peered over the nearest animal’s back. “I don’t see any saddles.”
    I got her meaning. “Likely in a baggage car, or with the folks who own these mounts.” But I was looking, too, causing the hens to cluck, the rooster to scratch, and the goats to start peeing.
    The laugh from Sean Fenn sounded full of contempt. “You can’t jump horses out of a moving train.”
    He was right, of course.
    Heading south out of Vegas, we was moving at a right fast clip. But before long, the train would turn west, bound for Santa Fe.