Beyond the Pale -Part 127
Jan. 4th, 2009 04:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
secret_historyHola again, faithful readers!
Two episodes today, to make up for the fact that I didn't write one yesterday. Hoo-ah! As they say. :)
I'm pretty pleased with myself. This is going well so far, but it's only been four days, so there will be no premature poultry counting. Not just yet.
*****
“Damn it!”
Victoria sprang from her seat and took off down the aisle between the sleeping passengers, ignoring their muffled protests as they awoke. She heard a small commotion behind her, and guessed that Monroe must be close on her heels. She pulled open the door to their car and jumped to the ground, landing with a soft “thump” on the sandy surface, then pressed up against the cattle car, craning her neck to see through the darkness ahead.
“Can you see anything?” Monroe asked from where he’d jumped down behind her. She shook her head.
“I think there’s something on the roof of the caboose, on the other side of the cupola, but I can’t make it out.”
They edged closer, past the two cars in which the cattle were stamping and bellowing their displeasure at having gunfire in their close proximity. In spite of herself, Victoria felt herself shudder as she went past. It had only been a bad dream, but it had been disturbingly real, and having the cattle on the other side of what was an awfully thin and brittle partition was doing nothing to bolster her confidence. A glance behind her showed her that, uncharacteristically, Monroe also appeared to be discomfited by the beasts inside. Maybe cows just weren’t meant to travel by train.
There was a sudden flash of light from inside the caboose, followed almost instantly by the report of a rifle being fired and the tinkle of shattering glass as a bullet broke one of the windows in the cupola. The mystery of what was on the roof of the caboose was solved, as with an indignant yelp Elijah Blanton came tumbling down and landed in a heap at their feet.
“Blanton! What the hell?” Vicky hissed at him in exasperation.
“Are you okay?” Monroe bent over the boy, then hauled him unceremoniously to his feet.
“They shot at me!” Blanton squeaked, trying to whisper in spite of his indignation, with mixed results. He brushed angrily at the sand on his clothing, then shook his head, a bit like a dog that’s gotten wet, Vicky thought, spraying sand in all directions. “They shot right through the roof at me! They could have killed me!”
“Serves you right,” Vicky peered around again, but thus far there was no stream of armed men pouring out of the back of the caboose. “What the hell were you doing up there?”
Stone and Courvoisier came up behind them, moving quietly, their guns at the ready. Stone had drawn his gatling piston, and it gleamed evilly in the moonlight. Courvoisier leaned forward to catch Blanton’s answer.
“I thought maybe I could get up there and listen to what they were saying. Maybe bring back something important, or find out what they were planning, or something. I dunno. Besides, I kind of got bored waiting around for something to happen.” The boy had the grace to look sheepish, at least.
“Well, I believe I can safely say our cover is blown,” Courvoisier said, looking grim. “We’ll have to move now. Victoria, Mr. Monroe, I’d be obliged if you would take up the flanking positions we discussed earlier. Mr. Stone, you are with me. We’ve lost the element of surprise, somewhat, but we may still catch them off-guard if they were on the lookout for eavesdroppers rather than a posse. Blanton, you will stay put until I tell you otherwise.”
He looked around at each of them, quelling Blanton’s protest with a hard look. “Ready?” When they assented, he gave a quick nod. “Let’s go.”
With Monroe backing her up, it was like old times. For a moment it felt as though they were back in Silver Springs, with nothing more to worry about than an overly-rowdy crowd in the Red Eye Saloon. She found herself grinning at him as they went, and he returned the grin: clearly he was enjoying this return to what they did best as much as she was. On an unspoken signal she ducked under the caboose and crawled to the other side, taking care not to make any noise, although she was fairly certain that with all the commotion that was coming from inside that none of the occupants would have heard her if she’d been wearing tap shoes and bells attached to her belt.
Above her she heard men’s voices rising in anger and confusion. She couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but she was able to pick out Abelard’s voice, calmer than the rest, obviously trying to keep the lid on a rapidly-deteriorating situation. Then a woman’s voice cut through the others –the widow O’Brien’s, most likely– raised in protest. There was the sound of a brief scuffle, punctuated by the slap of skin against skin and a cry of pain, and the sounds of struggle died away, to be replaced by the sound of a woman crying. Vicky gritted her teeth, then rolled clear of the caboose and got to her feet. A few moments more, and they’d have her out of there, she promised herself.
She hugged the side of the caboose, edged forward until she was only a few inches from the small platform at the back. She could see the glint of the red-painted stairs in the moonlight, but the rear markers weren’t lit, as the train had been stationary for several hours already. A flicker of shadow told her Monroe was already waiting on the other side, poised and ready to spring the moment the signal was given. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, excitement thrumming through her veins, and part of her couldn’t help revelling in the feeling that, for the first time, she was truly in possession of all her faculties. There was no need to worry that her body would fail her, that she would cough at the wrong moment, have a moment of weakness at precisely the wrong time. There was no need to worry, either, that she might lose control of her own will, and put everyone in jeopardy. This time, she was fully in control. The thought gave her a glorious, heady feeling, and she bit the inside of her lip hard to keep herself grounded.
From the other end of the caboose she heard a resounding, authoritative knock as Courvoisier hammered on the door with his powerful fist.
“This is the law!” he boomed, and his voice resonated into the night. “Open up!”
The men inside took him at his word. In the time it took Vicky to blink she heard the unmistakeable boom of someone unloading both barrels of a shotgun, and the inside of the caboose exploded into chaos. The doors at the back of the caboose burst open, and she had no time to think about what was going on elsewhere as three men came out, guns drawn. Without hesitation she and Monroe stepped forward.
“You are under arrest!” Monroe shouted. “Put your guns down and step forward with your hands up!”
The men made the fatal mistake of assuming that just because they outnumbered their foes, that they could actually beat them. It was an understandable mistake, Vicky conceded as she put a bullet cleanly through one man’s shoulder before he’d had the time to do much more than bring his gun up toward her head, spinning him around. He collapsed over the caboose’s railing and flipped onto the ground with a cry of pain. Monroe was making quick work of another, and the third, a kid who looked not much younger than Elijah Blanton, very wisely put up his hands and surrendered his weapon, trying not to let his knees knock together.
“Please, don’t shoot me! I didn’t know what they were up to, I swear!”
“Can it, kid,” Victoria was more worried by the sounds of bullets ricocheting inside the caboose, the steady triple-bursts from Stone’s gatling pistol, and the louder reports of what must have been rifles. “How many more of your buddies are in there?” She seemed to remember there being seven in total, but she didn’t trust her memory at this moment: all her nerves were jangling worse than Christmas bells.
“Three. Four if you count Rufus. Please, please don’t kill me!”
“I’m not going to kill you. Here, you stick with my partner, here, and I promise not to put a bullet through your stupid skull.” She motioned with one of her pistols.
“Oh, God!” the kid snivelled and scurried over to Monroe, who put him on his knees on the ground with his hands behind his head.
She grabbed the caboose railing and pulled herself up, scrambling a bit as she did so (health or lack of life notwithstanding, agility had never been her strong suit), then pressed her back up to the wall of the caboose to one side of the door, trying to get a good look inside. The first thing she could make out in the haze of gun smoke was a hand, blood pooling in the palm, lying flung outward as though reaching for her. She couldn’t see the rest of the body, hidden in shadow. The sounds of gunfire had all but died away. Then Rufus Abelard’s voice rose in the sudden hush.
“Back away! Stay back, or I put a bullet in her brain!”
Vicky heard a woman whimper, and caught a glimpse of a flash of blond hair in the haze.
Rufus Abelard, it seemed, had found himself a hostage.
*****
Two episodes today, to make up for the fact that I didn't write one yesterday. Hoo-ah! As they say. :)
I'm pretty pleased with myself. This is going well so far, but it's only been four days, so there will be no premature poultry counting. Not just yet.
“Damn it!”
Victoria sprang from her seat and took off down the aisle between the sleeping passengers, ignoring their muffled protests as they awoke. She heard a small commotion behind her, and guessed that Monroe must be close on her heels. She pulled open the door to their car and jumped to the ground, landing with a soft “thump” on the sandy surface, then pressed up against the cattle car, craning her neck to see through the darkness ahead.
“Can you see anything?” Monroe asked from where he’d jumped down behind her. She shook her head.
“I think there’s something on the roof of the caboose, on the other side of the cupola, but I can’t make it out.”
They edged closer, past the two cars in which the cattle were stamping and bellowing their displeasure at having gunfire in their close proximity. In spite of herself, Victoria felt herself shudder as she went past. It had only been a bad dream, but it had been disturbingly real, and having the cattle on the other side of what was an awfully thin and brittle partition was doing nothing to bolster her confidence. A glance behind her showed her that, uncharacteristically, Monroe also appeared to be discomfited by the beasts inside. Maybe cows just weren’t meant to travel by train.
There was a sudden flash of light from inside the caboose, followed almost instantly by the report of a rifle being fired and the tinkle of shattering glass as a bullet broke one of the windows in the cupola. The mystery of what was on the roof of the caboose was solved, as with an indignant yelp Elijah Blanton came tumbling down and landed in a heap at their feet.
“Blanton! What the hell?” Vicky hissed at him in exasperation.
“Are you okay?” Monroe bent over the boy, then hauled him unceremoniously to his feet.
“They shot at me!” Blanton squeaked, trying to whisper in spite of his indignation, with mixed results. He brushed angrily at the sand on his clothing, then shook his head, a bit like a dog that’s gotten wet, Vicky thought, spraying sand in all directions. “They shot right through the roof at me! They could have killed me!”
“Serves you right,” Vicky peered around again, but thus far there was no stream of armed men pouring out of the back of the caboose. “What the hell were you doing up there?”
Stone and Courvoisier came up behind them, moving quietly, their guns at the ready. Stone had drawn his gatling piston, and it gleamed evilly in the moonlight. Courvoisier leaned forward to catch Blanton’s answer.
“I thought maybe I could get up there and listen to what they were saying. Maybe bring back something important, or find out what they were planning, or something. I dunno. Besides, I kind of got bored waiting around for something to happen.” The boy had the grace to look sheepish, at least.
“Well, I believe I can safely say our cover is blown,” Courvoisier said, looking grim. “We’ll have to move now. Victoria, Mr. Monroe, I’d be obliged if you would take up the flanking positions we discussed earlier. Mr. Stone, you are with me. We’ve lost the element of surprise, somewhat, but we may still catch them off-guard if they were on the lookout for eavesdroppers rather than a posse. Blanton, you will stay put until I tell you otherwise.”
He looked around at each of them, quelling Blanton’s protest with a hard look. “Ready?” When they assented, he gave a quick nod. “Let’s go.”
With Monroe backing her up, it was like old times. For a moment it felt as though they were back in Silver Springs, with nothing more to worry about than an overly-rowdy crowd in the Red Eye Saloon. She found herself grinning at him as they went, and he returned the grin: clearly he was enjoying this return to what they did best as much as she was. On an unspoken signal she ducked under the caboose and crawled to the other side, taking care not to make any noise, although she was fairly certain that with all the commotion that was coming from inside that none of the occupants would have heard her if she’d been wearing tap shoes and bells attached to her belt.
Above her she heard men’s voices rising in anger and confusion. She couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but she was able to pick out Abelard’s voice, calmer than the rest, obviously trying to keep the lid on a rapidly-deteriorating situation. Then a woman’s voice cut through the others –the widow O’Brien’s, most likely– raised in protest. There was the sound of a brief scuffle, punctuated by the slap of skin against skin and a cry of pain, and the sounds of struggle died away, to be replaced by the sound of a woman crying. Vicky gritted her teeth, then rolled clear of the caboose and got to her feet. A few moments more, and they’d have her out of there, she promised herself.
She hugged the side of the caboose, edged forward until she was only a few inches from the small platform at the back. She could see the glint of the red-painted stairs in the moonlight, but the rear markers weren’t lit, as the train had been stationary for several hours already. A flicker of shadow told her Monroe was already waiting on the other side, poised and ready to spring the moment the signal was given. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, excitement thrumming through her veins, and part of her couldn’t help revelling in the feeling that, for the first time, she was truly in possession of all her faculties. There was no need to worry that her body would fail her, that she would cough at the wrong moment, have a moment of weakness at precisely the wrong time. There was no need to worry, either, that she might lose control of her own will, and put everyone in jeopardy. This time, she was fully in control. The thought gave her a glorious, heady feeling, and she bit the inside of her lip hard to keep herself grounded.
From the other end of the caboose she heard a resounding, authoritative knock as Courvoisier hammered on the door with his powerful fist.
“This is the law!” he boomed, and his voice resonated into the night. “Open up!”
The men inside took him at his word. In the time it took Vicky to blink she heard the unmistakeable boom of someone unloading both barrels of a shotgun, and the inside of the caboose exploded into chaos. The doors at the back of the caboose burst open, and she had no time to think about what was going on elsewhere as three men came out, guns drawn. Without hesitation she and Monroe stepped forward.
“You are under arrest!” Monroe shouted. “Put your guns down and step forward with your hands up!”
The men made the fatal mistake of assuming that just because they outnumbered their foes, that they could actually beat them. It was an understandable mistake, Vicky conceded as she put a bullet cleanly through one man’s shoulder before he’d had the time to do much more than bring his gun up toward her head, spinning him around. He collapsed over the caboose’s railing and flipped onto the ground with a cry of pain. Monroe was making quick work of another, and the third, a kid who looked not much younger than Elijah Blanton, very wisely put up his hands and surrendered his weapon, trying not to let his knees knock together.
“Please, don’t shoot me! I didn’t know what they were up to, I swear!”
“Can it, kid,” Victoria was more worried by the sounds of bullets ricocheting inside the caboose, the steady triple-bursts from Stone’s gatling pistol, and the louder reports of what must have been rifles. “How many more of your buddies are in there?” She seemed to remember there being seven in total, but she didn’t trust her memory at this moment: all her nerves were jangling worse than Christmas bells.
“Three. Four if you count Rufus. Please, please don’t kill me!”
“I’m not going to kill you. Here, you stick with my partner, here, and I promise not to put a bullet through your stupid skull.” She motioned with one of her pistols.
“Oh, God!” the kid snivelled and scurried over to Monroe, who put him on his knees on the ground with his hands behind his head.
She grabbed the caboose railing and pulled herself up, scrambling a bit as she did so (health or lack of life notwithstanding, agility had never been her strong suit), then pressed her back up to the wall of the caboose to one side of the door, trying to get a good look inside. The first thing she could make out in the haze of gun smoke was a hand, blood pooling in the palm, lying flung outward as though reaching for her. She couldn’t see the rest of the body, hidden in shadow. The sounds of gunfire had all but died away. Then Rufus Abelard’s voice rose in the sudden hush.
“Back away! Stay back, or I put a bullet in her brain!”
Vicky heard a woman whimper, and caught a glimpse of a flash of blond hair in the haze.
Rufus Abelard, it seemed, had found himself a hostage.
