Ronald Carlisle stared at the frozen blood pooling on the floorboards, his hand hovering over his revolver.
The heel of Ronald Carlisle’s boot broke through the frozen mud. Ice snapped like a dry bone. Cold shot up his shin and settled in the ruined cartilage of his left knee. He paused. He leaned his weight against the hitching post outside the relay station. The wood vibrated under his gloved hand. Wind tore across the plains, dragging a sheet of frost over the dead grass.
He pushed the heavy oak door. The hinges screamed.
Silas stepped inside. The wind followed him, rattling the tin cups stacked on a shelf near the entrance. He pushed the door shut with his shoulder and threw the iron latch. The silence in the room was immediate, heavy, and wrong.
Four oil lamps burned low, casting jagged shadows across the log walls. Three people sat in the main room. None of them looked at him.
A woman in a heavy wool travel dress sat near the iron stove. A drifter with an oversized coat slept at a corner table, his head resting on his folded arms. A man in a dark tailored suit sat opposite the drifter, staring at a deck of cards spread across the scarred wood.
Silas looked behind the main counter.
Miller, the station owner, lay on his back. His eyes were wide open. A ragged, gaping split ran across his throat. The blood had already stopped flowing. It pooled on the uneven floorboards, freezing into a thick, black crust. A bone-handled skinning knife stood straight up, driven deep into the wood of the counter directly above Miller’s head.
Silas did not draw his gun. He unbuttoned his coat. He let his hand rest naturally near the grip of the Colt on his hip.
"Nobody move," Silas said.
The woman by the stove turned her head. Her eyes locked onto the corpse behind the counter. She did not scream. Her jaw tightened.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Pinkerton," Silas said.
The man in the tailored suit slowly picked up the ace of spades. He turned it over in his fingers. He looked up.
Silas felt a sharp, violent pull in his chest. His heart hammered against his ribs. The arthritis in his knuckles flared as he gripped the edge of his coat.
Devon Connors.
They called him Preacher. Ten years ago, Preacher had a canvas bag full of stolen Union Pacific bank notes. Ten years ago, Silas took half of it and let Preacher ride south into the dark.
Preacher smiled. The gold tooth in the corner of his mouth caught the lamplight.
"Well," Preacher said. "Look what the storm dragged in. A lawman."
"Stand up," Silas said.
"I am entirely comfortable right here, officer," Preacher said.
"Stand up and put your hands on the table. Both of you. Wake him up."
Silas pointed at the sleeping drifter. The woman stood slowly, her heavy skirts rustling against the rough floor. She walked over to the drifter and shook his shoulder. The man jerked awake, knocking a tin mug off the table. It clattered loudly against the floorboards.
"What in the hell," the drifter mumbled. He rubbed his eyes. He looked at Silas, then at the gun on Silas’s hip. "We being robbed?"
"Walk over to the wall," Silas said. "All three of you. Face the timber. Keep your hands high."
"There is a dead man behind the counter," the woman said.
"I see him," Silas said.
"Are you implying one of us did this?" she asked.
"I am implying nothing. I am telling you to face the wall."
Preacher pushed his chair back. The wood scraped against the floor. He stood up. He was taller than Silas remembered. His suit was expensive. The fabric was unwrinkled, cut perfectly to his broad shoulders. He raised his hands, his fingers long and perfectly still.
"Whatever you say, boss," Preacher said.
They lined up against the back wall. Silas walked behind the counter. He looked down at Miller. The cut was precise. Deep. Severed the carotid completely. Miller’s hands were clean. He had not fought back. He had not seen it coming.
Silas reached up and gripped the handle of the skinning knife. He pulled. It was buried deep in the oak. He yanked hard, freeing the blade.
"Who came in first?" Silas asked.
"I did," the drifter said. "Name's Hale. Been here since noon. Miller poured me a coffee, and I fell asleep. I didn't hear a damn thing."
"I arrived an hour ago," the woman said. "Mabel Allison. The owner was already dead when I walked in. I assumed he was simply absent from the front room. I sat by the fire to warm myself."
"You sat by the fire for an hour and didn't notice the blood seeping under the counter?" Silas asked.
"My boots were frozen," Mabel said. "I was looking at the fire. Not the floor."
Silas turned to Preacher. "And you?"
"Just got here," Preacher said. "Ten minutes before you kicked the door in. Saw the dead man. Figured it wasn't my business. Sat down to deal a hand of solitaire while I waited for the storm to pass."
"You saw a man with his throat cut and you decided to play cards?" Silas asked.
"I am not a doctor," Preacher said. "What did you want me to do? Sew him up?"
Silas stared at the back of Preacher’s head. The urge to draw his revolver and shoot the man right there was a physical pressure in the back of his neck. Ten years. He had spent ten years drinking away the memory of the bribe. He had lost his wife, his house, and his nerve over the guilt. And now, the ghost was standing in front of him, cracking jokes in a frozen relay station.
"Turn around," Silas said.
The three of them turned.
"Empty your pockets onto the tables," Silas said. "We are going to wait out this storm. And while we wait, I am going to find out who brought that knife into this room."
The wind escalated from a howl to a sustained, violent shriek. The timber of the relay station groaned under the pressure. Frost began to spiderweb across the inside of the windowpanes.
Silas sat at the center table. The skinning knife lay flat on the wood in front of him.
Mabel Allison sat across from him. She had emptied her pockets. A handkerchief. A silver pocket watch. A small leather coin purse.
Preacher sat by the stove, leaning back in his chair, watching the flames behind the iron grate. Hale the drifter was pacing near the door, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest.
"Sit down, Hale," Silas said.
"I'm freezing," Hale said.
"Sit down or I will tie you to the chair," Silas said.
Hale stopped pacing. He glared at Silas, then dragged a chair out and collapsed into it.
Silas looked at Mabel. Her posture was rigidly perfect. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap.
"You said you were heading west, Mrs. Allison," Silas said.
"That is correct," Mabel said.
"Where exactly?"
"Denver. My sister is ill."
Silas picked up the silver pocket watch from the table. He turned it over. The engraving on the back was worn, but legible.
"Trains don't run through Denver on Tuesdays," Silas said. "Not since the rail strike. The lines are frozen shut anyway."
Mabel did not blink. "I am taking a stagecoach."
"The stagecoach lines stopped running three days ago because of the freeze warning. You would know that if you booked a ticket."
"I have a private carriage," she said.
"Where is it?" Silas asked.
"It broke an axle five miles back. The driver took the horse to find help. I walked the rest of the way here."
Silas leaned forward. "You walked five miles in a blizzard wearing a wool travel dress and you don't have frostbite on your cheeks? Your hem isn't even wet, Mrs. Allison. It's perfectly dry."
Mabel looked down at her dress. She smoothed a crease in the fabric.
"I am a resilient woman, Mr. Carlisle."
"I didn't give you my name," Silas said.
The silence in the room sharpened. The crackle of the wood in the iron stove sounded like gunfire.
Mabel looked up. Her eyes were hard, flat discs of blue. "You are wearing a Pinkerton badge on your vest. I read the morning papers. Ronald Carlisle is the senior agent in this territory. I simply deduced."
Silas stared at her. He felt a dull ache behind his eyes. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a flat silver flask. He unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. The whiskey burned a path down his throat, hitting his stomach like a lit match. He needed it. His hands were starting to shake.
"Deduce all you want," Silas said. "You're lying about how you got here."
"Perhaps I am," Mabel said. "Does lying make me a murderer?"
"Usually," Silas said.
Preacher laughed. The sound was rough, scraping against the walls. He stood up from the stove and walked over to the table.
"You are working too hard, officer," Preacher said. "Why don't you let the lady be? Come out to the back hall with me. Let's check the woodpile. We're going to need more fuel if we want to survive the night."
"I'm not going anywhere with you," Silas said.
Preacher leaned down, resting his knuckles on the table. He lowered his voice. "Ten years is a long time to carry a secret, Silas. You come to the back hall with me right now, or I tell the lady and the drifter exactly how you afforded that nice little brick house in Omaha."
Silas felt the blood drain from his face. His fingers tightened around the flask.
He stood up.
"Hale, stay put," Silas said. "Mrs. Allison, don't touch the knife."
Silas walked past Preacher. He opened the door to the back hall. The hallway was dark, unheated, and lined with stacked cords of chopped firewood. Silas stepped into the shadows. Preacher followed him, closing the door behind them.
It was freezing in the hall. Silas’s breath plumed in the dark.
Before Preacher could speak, Silas unholstered his Colt and pressed the barrel hard against the underside of Preacher’s jaw.
Preacher didn't flinch. He just smiled.
"Go ahead," Preacher whispered. "Pull it. Add another body to the room. See how you explain that to the Pinkertons."
"I will blow your head off and say you pulled a weapon on me," Silas said. His voice was a low rasp.
"No, you won't," Preacher said. "You're too tired, Silas. You look like hell. Your eyes are bloodshot. Your hands are shaking. You're a drunk. You lost the house, didn't you? The wife left. Margaret, right?"
Silas jammed the gun harder into the bone of Preacher’s jaw. The memory of Margaret packing her suitcase flashed behind his eyes. The sound of the front door slamming. The empty, quiet house.
"Shut your mouth," Silas said.
"You took the money, Silas," Preacher said. "You let me walk. And now I'm back. And the money is back."
Silas frowned. He lowered the gun an inch. "What do you mean the money is back?"
Preacher’s smile widened. "Why do you think Miller is dead? Why do you think we are all sitting in this exact relay station? It's under the floorboards, Silas. The Union Pacific stash. I hid it here ten years ago before I rode south. I came back to dig it up. But it seems someone else found out about it. Someone cut Miller's throat trying to get him to talk."
"You killed him," Silas said.
"I didn't have to," Preacher said. "He was dead when I walked in. Just like the lady said. But the money is still here. I checked the loose board by the counter. The box is still there."
"I am arresting you," Silas said.
"You do that, and I tell the Pinkertons about the bribe. We both hang, Silas. Or, we split it again. We walk out of here rich. Just like old times."
Silas stared at the man in the dark. The cold bit into his face. He stepped back and holstered his weapon.
"We're going back inside," Silas said.
"Think about it," Preacher said.
They walked back into the main room. Hale was sitting at the table, clutching a tin mug of coffee. Mabel was exactly where they had left her.
"Find enough wood?" Mabel asked.
"Plenty," Preacher said. He sat back down by the stove.
Silas walked to the center table. He looked at Hale. The drifter was shivering violently. He lifted the tin mug to his mouth with both hands and took a massive gulp of the black coffee.
"Tastes like ash," Hale muttered.
He set the mug down.
Ten seconds passed.
Hale gasped. It was a sharp, unnatural sound. His hands flew to his throat. His eyes bulged.
"Hey," Preacher said, sitting forward.
Hale stood up. His chair tipped backward and crashed onto the floor. He staggered sideways, grabbing the edge of the table. His knuckles turned white. His face was contorting, the muscles in his neck cording tightly.
Silas lunged forward. He grabbed Hale by the shoulders. The man's body was completely rigid.
"What's wrong with him?" Mabel yelled.
"He can't breathe," Silas said.
Hale collapsed. Silas went down with him, guiding his head to the floorboards. The drifter began to convulse. His heels drummed frantically against the wood. White foam bubbled at the corners of his mouth.
Silas pinned Hale's shoulders down. He looked at the man's face. Hale's lips were turning a dark, bruising blue. The skin around his eyes was purpling rapidly. Blood vessels popped in the whites of his eyes, turning them bright red.
"Cyanide," Silas said.
Hale’s spine arched violently. He let out one final, ragged hiss of air. His body slammed flat against the floor. He did not move again.
The room went dead quiet. The wind hammered against the walls outside.
Silas slowly stood up. His knees popped. He looked at the tin mug on the table. The dark liquid sloshed gently inside.
"Who poured that coffee?" Silas asked.
"He did," Mabel said. Her voice was perfectly calm.
Silas looked at her. He looked at Preacher. Preacher had his hand hovering near his jacket pocket.
"Neither of you moved?" Silas asked.
"He poured it himself from the pot on the stove," Preacher said. "I watched him."
Silas walked over to Hale’s body. He crouched down and began digging through the dead man’s oversized coat pockets. He pulled out a dirty handkerchief, a half-empty tin of chewing tobacco, and a folded piece of thick, yellowed paper.
Silas unfolded the paper. He held it up to the lamplight.
It was a train manifest. Union Pacific. Dated November 14, 1878.
The exact train Preacher had robbed. The exact day Silas had taken the bribe.
Silas felt the room tilt. The floorboards seemed to shift under his boots. He looked at Hale’s dead face. Hale wasn't a drifter. He was looking for the money.
"He brought the knife," Silas said. "Hale. He killed Miller. Tried to get him to talk about the lockbox. When Miller wouldn't talk, he cut his throat. Then he waited."
"If he killed Miller, who killed him?" Preacher asked.
Silas turned around.
Mabel Allison was standing up. She had a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun leveled directly at Silas’s chest. She had pulled it from beneath the heavy folds of her wool skirt.
"Put your hands on your head, Ronald," Mabel said.
Silas didn't move. "You poisoned the pot."
"I poisoned the mug," Mabel said. "While you two were in the hallway having your little reunion. I slipped it in before Hale poured."
"You're not heading to Denver," Silas said.
"No," Mabel said. She reached into her bodice with her free hand and pulled out a small silver badge. She tossed it onto the table next to the skinning knife.
It was a Pinkerton badge. The engraving was different. Internal Affairs.
"Agent Mabel Allison," she said. "I’ve been tracking Devon Connors for six months. I knew he was coming back for the money. And I knew he wouldn't come alone. I just didn't expect you to be the rat, Ronald. Ten years. You've been on our payroll for ten years, collecting a pension, while you let a train robber walk free."
"I didn't know he was coming," Silas said.
"It doesn't matter," Mabel said. "You're both under arrest. Drop your gun belt, Ronald. Use two fingers."
Preacher started laughing again. He shook his head. "A setup. A damn sting operation. You shot the wrong dog, lady. Hale was just a hired gun. He worked for me. I sent him ahead to secure the room."
Mabel’s eyes shifted to Preacher. "You poisoned your own man?"
"No," Preacher said. "You did. You killed him because you thought he was me. You didn't know what I looked like."
Mabel’s jaw clenched. Her finger tightened on the trigger of the shotgun.
Preacher kicked the table.
The heavy oak table flipped upward, crashing into Mabel. The shotgun fired. A deafening boom shook the room. Buckshot shredded the ceiling, sending splinters of wood raining down on them.
Silas dove behind the counter, landing hard next to Miller’s dead body.
Preacher dropped to his knees near the stove. He slammed his hands against the floorboards. He grabbed a loose plank and ripped it backward. He reached into the dark space beneath the floor and hauled out a heavy iron lockbox.
Mabel shoved the broken table off her legs. She racked the shotgun.
Preacher drew a revolver from his shoulder holster and fired blindly across the room. The bullet shattered the oil lamp near Mabel’s head. The glass exploded. Burning oil splashed across the wall, igniting the dry timber instantly.
"I'm taking my money, Silas!" Preacher screamed over the fire. "You can burn with the bitch!"
Preacher bolted for the front door. He kicked the iron latch open and sprinted out into the blinding white storm.
The wind ripped the door off its top hinge. The storm invaded the room. Snow blew in like white static, coating the floor in seconds. The fire on the wall hissed and fought against the freezing air, filling the room with thick, choking smoke.
Silas scrambled to his feet. His knees ground together painfully. He drew his Colt.
"Stay down!" Silas yelled at Mabel.
He pushed past the burning debris and stepped out the broken doorway.
The cold hit him like a physical blow. It punched the air out of his lungs. He could not see past ten feet. The snow was driving horizontally, a blinding wall of glass dust that cut his cheeks.
He stepped off the porch. He sank past his ankles in the snow.
"Preacher!" Silas roared.
The wind swallowed the sound entirely.
Silas forced himself forward. He held his arm up to shield his eyes. He saw a dark shape moving near the stables. Preacher was struggling, hauling the heavy iron box through the drifts.
Silas raised his revolver. His hand was shaking violently from the cold.
Preacher turned. He saw Silas. He dropped the box in the snow and raised his own gun.
A flash of orange cut through the whiteout. A bullet tore through the fabric of Silas’s coat, missing his ribs by an inch.
Silas planted his feet. He gripped his wrist with his left hand to steady the barrel. He did not aim for the center mass. The wind would drag the bullet. He aimed slightly to the right, adjusting for the gale.
He squeezed the trigger.
The recoil snapped his wrist back.
Preacher staggered backward. He dropped his gun. He clutched his chest with both hands. He stood there for a moment, swaying in the violent wind. Then, his knees buckled. He fell face-first into the snow bank.
Silas did not lower his gun. He walked forward, dragging his boots through the heavy snow. He reached the body.
Preacher was on his back. Blood was bubbling rapidly from a hole in his upper chest, freezing almost instantly as it hit the air. His eyes were wide, staring up into the swirling white void.
Silas kicked Preacher’s gun away. He looked down at the iron lockbox half-buried in the snow. Ten years of guilt, locked in a rusted metal square.
Silas felt nothing. No relief. No triumph. Just an overwhelming, crushing exhaustion. His liver ached. His knee throbbed. He was old, and he was tired of running from his own shadow.
He picked up the lockbox by its iron handle. It was heavy.
Silas turned and walked back toward the relay station. The fire inside had been beaten back by the storm, reduced to smoldering orange embers on the wet timber.
He stepped through the broken doorway.
Mabel was sitting on an overturned chair, wrapping a strip of cloth around a deep cut on her forehead. The shotgun rested across her lap.
Silas walked over to the ruined table. He dropped the iron box onto the wood. It hit with a heavy, final thud.
Then, Silas unbuckled his gun belt. He let it fall to the floor. He placed his Colt onto the table, sliding it across the wood until it rested directly in front of Mabel.
She looked up at him. Her face was pale, lined with soot and blood.
"He's dead," Silas said.
"And the money?" Mabel asked.
"It's all there," Silas said. He pulled his silver flask from his pocket. He unscrewed the cap and drank the last drops of the whiskey. He tossed the empty flask onto the floorboards.
"You know I have to take you in," Mabel said.
"I know," Silas said. He pulled a chair out and sat down heavily. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked at the frozen blood pooling around Miller's body.
"Ten years," Silas whispered. "I'm tired of waiting for the hammer to fall. Let's just sit here until the storm breaks. Then, you can put the cuffs on me."
Mabel did not reach for her cuffs. She simply laid her hand over the barrel of her shotgun and stared out the broken door into the endless white.
“Mabel did not reach for her cuffs, she simply laid her hand over the barrel of her shotgun and stared out the broken door into the endless white.”
