***
Ian was still rubbing his raw cheek as they were leaving the dining car and heading towards the rescue train. As they walked, Ian – who had received the charity of old leather gloves – was massaging his cheek with one hand and holding the hot potato in the other. Even through the thick cowhide, he could still feel the pulse of the heat. His heart, which had lost its rhythm in the night, was finding its beat using the glow as its guide.
Nellie, who was marching just ahead, looked back and said, “We have to get you back inside quickly.”
“Why’s that?”
“Your hands already have frostbite. If you allow them to get cold again before they can heal, the pain will be even worse. Trust me – I saw it happen to a drunk lumberjack who decided to go outside and relieve himself one night. A tip: try to hold your bladder during the winter months in the Yukon.”
Nellie and Ian were among the dozens that were streaming out of their wounded train and into their new ride. As they shuffled through the snow and into the shadow of the new train, Ian could only imagine what the first class must have been thinking. While the train they were abandoning had a luxurious sleeping car and stately dining room, the new train was a series of cattle cars buckled to a scratched locomotive. But while the train was a splinter in the eye, it was built solely to get anywhere. The train itself was used to shuttle miners through the Rockies at any time of the year. If they lit a large enough fire under the steel horse, the train could blast through any avalanche with its grinning snowplow.
And as they filed quietly into one of the cattle cars, what they saw was barely enough to make even a miner comfortable. The car had bare, hardwood floors that squeaked with every step, and stiff benches that straightened your back and burned away your sins. As grateful as they were to be rescued, a few grunts could be heard as the people tried to get comfortable on the rough benches.
Nellie led Ian to a seat and set him down hard on the bench. Ian looked at her with an idle curiosity as she gingerly took the potato from his hand and put it into her pocket. Ian was trying to think of something smart to say when Nellie took his hands and clasped her own around them. As Nellie sat down and nestled against his ribs, she said, “As the cold blood starts flowing from your limbs, it’s going to lower the temperature for the rest of your body. It’ll make your heart seize up. We have to keep all of you warm.”
Ian’s blood was flowing now, but only in his brain. As he thought, Nellie continued, “I wonder where the Coburns are on the train…”
“We’re going to be moving again soon,” Ian said quietly.
“How could I ever doubt your brilliance?” Nellie said dryly. “Yes, we’re going to be moving again soon, and thank God for that.”
“This is bad. This is very bad.”
“And now I’m doubting your brilliance again. How is this bad?”
“The hunt is back on. The hitman sent to kill the woman – he’s on this train with us. She was safe as long as we were stuck. But the moment this train pulls into the station, she’s as good as dead.”
As Ian spoke, Nellie suddenly realized that she had no idea who this “woman” was in his life. All Nellie knew was that this lady meant something to Ian. Fighting off a flare of jealousy, Nellie tried her best to be helpful. “Well, by this time, we’ve gotten ourselves a pretty good census of everyone onboard the train.”
“I’d say.”
“And no one fits the description you gathered from that letter?” Nellie asked.
Ian rolled his eyes. “Well, obviously not. Otherwise, I would have already caught him.”
Patiently, Nellie continued, “Maybe you have the right evidence, but you’re just drawing the wrong conclusions.”
“That’s like walking down the right path and still getting lost.”
Nellie shook her head. “No, it’s like if we looked at a vagrant, and you could only think of how rotten he smells, while I can only see him as a human being.”
“Are you telling me that I don’t need a bath?” Ian said with a watered-down smile. He realized how dirty he looked just then.
“Be serious for once – you mentioned that the hitman must be wearing a soldier’s uniform, right?”
“That’s right, and given the language in the letter, I was operating under the assumption that the hitman hailed from Louisiana, and thus he must have been a Confederate soldier during the war. You know how they wear their uniforms with pride when they should hide them out of shame. But I haven’t seen a single rebel uniform since I stepped onboard the train.” Ian paused. “And that’s where I made my mistake.”
“How?”
“He said he would be wearing his uniform, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he would be. The Confederate uniform was made of cotton, which would be an awful choice for winter weather. The odds are good that a man from Louisiana has never seen a blizzard in his whole life. He would have realized what a mistake he had made before the train even got to Iowa. So no, he wouldn’t be wearing a uniform, not now anyway. You’re right that I drew the wrong conclusion.”
“So what does that leave?” Nellie wondered.
Ian was quiet for a few moments. He hesitated, then answered, “I always found something odd about the language, but I wasn’t sure why.”
“You said so yourself,” Nellie pointed out. “You said that he was Cajun judging by the language.”
“Perhaps I should clarify. It wasn’t so much the quality of the words but the quantity. There was only one Cajun word in the entire letter: the Bonjou used in the greeting. A native would have been more comfortable with the language. So who would know an obscure Cajun greeting but no other words?
“You know, after I discovered the letter, I read a book on the history of Louisiana, trying to gain a deeper context for who our writer is. I read how New Orleans was occupied by the Union Army after the Civil War had ended. So it’s just as equally likely that our hitman was a Union soldier instead of a Confederate one. It would explain the hitman being somewhat familiar with the New Orleans dialect. So now the trick would be to find a veteran onboard who had served with the 6th Cavalry Regiment.”
“My cousin served with that regiment,” Nellie said.
“Is your cousin onboard the train?”
“No. He’s living in Philadelphia now.”
“Well, he’s not much help to us, is he?” Ian said sarcastically.
“Don’t you get it? My family is from Pennsylvania, and that’s where that regiment was formed…”
Nellie’s words trailed away until she was just mouthing the syllables. Then, she gasped. This caught Ian’s interest. “What? What are you thinking?” Ian asked, suddenly energetic.
“I was just thinking…well, whenever I was in Kansas City, trying to get a ticket to Cheyenne, there was a man in line behind me. He heard my name and knew right away who I was. He said that he read my work from time to time. He mentioned being proud of me as a fellow Pittsburgher…”
“What did he look like?” Ian demanded.
“He was tall and thin, with wavy blond hair.” Nellie ransacked the rest of her brain. “Oh, he was also wearing a long, brown overcoat…where are you going, Ian?”
Ian had freed himself from Nellie’s embrace and wincing up to his feet. He hissed down to Nellie, “What do you think I’m doing?”
And with that said, he limped through the cattle car, leaving behind Nellie who was frozen with surprise. As he walked, he didn’t look away from the crowd of eyes staring him from the benches. If anything, he met their gaze, trying to find the blond man. But nobody in that car matched the description.
Abruptly, the train began to move, catching Ian off-guard and almost off-balance. Since there was no way to turn the train around, the crew was resorting to making the train go in reverse back to Cheyenne. But even at such a slow speed, the momentum was unexpected. To catch himself, Ian had to reach out and grab the shoulder of a ma
n sitting down on the bench. Ignoring the man’s growl, Ian steadied his feet and his mind. The portrait that Nellie had just painted for him was an unexpected development, but he had to think through this logically. He only had one chance to do this right. Memory was clay, and it was possible that Nellie could have misremembered her meeting with the gentleman. Ian couldn’t risk apprehending the wrong suspect and scaring away the right one. He had to be better than the marshals.
Ian swung open the door that led to the next car. Unlike their earlier train, this one was not built for comfort and so there were no vestibules between the cars. A hand of cold air rumpled Ian’s hair as a spray of snow stung his eyes. Holding up a gloved hand to shield his face, jumped the gap between the cars and opened the next door. This cattle car was the same as the last, brimming with weary passengers who couldn’t find the strength to be excited about their rescue. And none of these passengers came close to matching the description that Nellie had given.
Before Ian had boarded the train, he counted the cars because he counted everything. There were a total of six cattle cars, as well as a baggage car and a tender, all being hauled by the ugly locomotive. Ian and Nellie had settled for the rear car, and so he had four more cars to inspect. As he passed through the next car, he spotted the Coburns huddled together, talking so intensely that they didn’t see him. It’s for the best, Ian thought. He didn’t have time to follow social conventions that he didn’t like in the first place. He pushed on to the next car, seeing the marshals sitting on either side of the shackled Charlotte Johnston and Carson Price. Ian hastily put a hand to his face, pretending to scratch himself. All he needed was for one of the marshals to recognize him. Although they had caught the conspirators responsible for the murders, Ian was confident that he was still in trouble with them.
“I have to get off this train,” Ian muttered as he walked away. The train was crowded enough without adding marshals, a hitman, and annoying people to the mix.
A few minutes later, Ian had reached the lead cattle car, disappointed that he didn’t find his man. He was about to turn around and walk back to a waiting Nellie when he stopped. He looked curiously at the door just ahead. He remembered there was still the baggage car to inspect. There were no other places for the hitman to hide, but Ian wished there were. He could only imagine what that car was like, with mountains of luggage and a hitman camouflaged in the clutter. And it would just be Ian and the villain – no one would hear a cry for help over the clatter of the train. Ian took a deep breath, the liquor of air calming his nerves. He opened the door before him and he walked into the baggage car.
His first impression was that the car was even worse than he had imagined. All of the rescued passengers had haphazardly tossed their luggage into the car, not caring about organization. The towers of luggage swayed uncomfortably, threatening to topple at any moment. To make matters somehow even worse, the mess blocked most of the light coming from the already-cramped windows. As a result, the inside of the car was cast in twilight, reminding Ian of stumbling lost in the snow. And just like the blizzard, he felt for sure that the car would swallow him up too.
And just like the night in the blizzard, there was a monster waiting in the shadows for him. Ian had no sooner closed the door behind him when a silhouette stepped out from behind one of the mounds. By the light that was strained through the window, Ian saw a willowy man with blond hair. He was wearing a thick jacket, kind worn by cavalry officers while fighting Indians in the frontier. The hitman was lazily aiming a revolver at Ian, the man’s gnarled fingers a mismatch to the gun’s sleek geometry.
Ian smiled. “I see neither of us is surprised to see the other, Mr.…?”
“Mr. Olivier,” the hitman said.
“I supposed I’m obligated to say it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ian said. “I’m…”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
Chapter 16