***
“What’s that?” Martin asked, shocked, as the marshals moved him into the refrigerated car. The marshals had left the body out to ferment like wine, because there was no other choice. And Martin had never seen a corpse before – he had never even been to a funeral. Martin froze in place in the doorway, and Haley roughly pushed his shoulder to get him moving. Martin almost toppled over, saved only by Ansel’s arm, which shot out like a bullet.
“Are you okay, sir?” Ansel asked their suspect, concern painted on his face. He turned to his comrade and said, “Nigel, that’s no way to treat a guest.”
Ansel motioned to the corner, where the floor was as cold as the dark side of the executioner’s ax. No other words needed to be said. Martin awkwardly sat down on the floor, wincing as he did so. He had been sitting on cushions for so long that he forgot what reality felt like. He looked up to see the four marshals looming over him. He suddenly felt like a child again, and his parents were standing just a switch away. He glanced through the forest of legs and saw the outstretched corpse. He asked again timidly, “What’s that?”
“The Devil’s marionette,” Layton said heavily. “I’m afraid you missed the puppet show.”
“What’s the real reason you’ve arrested me?” Martin demanded.
The marshals shared a blank look before Ansel asked, “What do you think you were arrested for?”
“I thought…I thought my father had put out a warrant for my arrest. I stole money from his billfold before I left home,” Martin said, suddenly feeling foolish.
The silence that followed was punctured by Bowman’s heavy laugh. “You thought your father sicced marshals on you like we’re dogs? Who’s your father? Not that we care.”
“Ernest Coburn, editor of The News back in Baltimore.”
Bowman snorted. “He probably has more money than he knows what to do with. It’ll be years before he finds out that he’s been robbed, I bet.”
Haley gestured for Bowman to be silent. He turned to Martin and said, “We heard that you vanished from your sleeping compartment a bit earlier this evening.”
“I wasn’t aware it was a crime to walk around the train,” Martin said defensively.
“Calm down,” Haley said in a soothing voice. “No one’s talking about you breaking the law. All we’re asking is if you saw anyone acting suspiciously while you were wandering the train.”
“Did someone murder that gentleman then?” Martin asked, pointing at the body.
“Just answer the…” Haley repeated.
“Why would someone want to murder him?” Martin wondered.
Ansel knelt down until he and Martin were looking each other in the eye. The marshal said, “Surely you must know who that monster is. He made a loud enough racket when we loaded him on the train.”
But still Martin stared at him blankly. Ansel said, with a rising note of exasperation, “It’s Sheldon McKenna, a man responsible for countless gruesome deaths in Wyoming. Odds are likely there’s someone on this train who’s related to one of his victims. I can just barely imagine the things they would do to his corpse now, let alone when he was alive and kicking just hours ago.”
“Hey, Russell,” Layton called out, “What was the bounty a group of ranchers from Wyoming placed on his head, decapitated?”
Ansel laughed. “It was enough to turn a marshal criminal, that’s all I remember.” He turned back to Martin and looked at him thoughtfully. “I’m sure a man like you, desperate enough to steal from his own father, would be very interested in taking an offer like that.”
Martin’s eyes narrowed for a few moments before abruptly widening. “Hold on – you aren’t suggesting that I’m responsible for this, are you?”
Martin’s answer was Layton grabbing a tuft of his hair and smacking Martin’s head against the wall. “You’re not allowed to ask questions!” Layton snapped, his free hand on the holstered gun at his side. “Only we can! Now, stop wasting our time and admit it.”
“Irving…” Ansel said, placing a calming hand on his comrade’s shoulder.
“What?” Layton growled, his eyes never letting go of Martin.
“Look at the poor bastard – he can barely breathe, let alone make a confession,” Ansel replied, looking sadly at Layton. His old friend wasn’t always like this.
The noose of a hand loosened from around Martin’s throat. Martin gagged and slipped down to the floor, massaging his neck which felt like it was on fire. The marshals looked on, silently, as Martin recovered enough to say, “I didn’t do it.”
“We want to believe you, sir, we really do,” Ansel said gently. “We want to believe that you’re just passing through, and that you could care less about these people. We want to believe that your hands don’t have any blood on them. But unless you give us a good reason not to, we’ll lock you away in a cell, where the only guarantees you’ll have will be a leaky roof over your head and two runny meals a day. So please, go ahead and convince us.”
Martin tried to say something, but all he could do was burst out sobbing. And as Martin cried, the marshals smiled over him – they found their suspect.
“Irving,” Ansel ordered, “get me some shackles for our new friend. We want him to feel right at home while we figure out what to do…” – just then, there was a knock at the door – “…with him. Who is it?”
“It’s the conductor,” the voice said from beyond the locked door. “I heard a commotion. I just wanted to make sure that things are okay.”
“Things are just fine in here, sir,” Ansel called out. “Now, why don’t you go and tend to your passengers? I’m sure they need you.”
“Well, the problem is I know you have one of my passengers in there, and that he needs me more than ever right now.”
Ansel had never looked so curiously at a door before. He hesitated before motioning for Haley to open the door. When Haley opened the door, they were taken aback by what they saw. Instead of the conductor – whom they had spoken with earlier in the day – they were looking a stranger in the eye. While the conductor was pudgy with a clean-shaven face and slick hair, this man was thin with a ragged head of hair and a beard as thick as oak.
Chapter 8