train see him at this distance? A witness would be helpful. It could seal his reputation with the others. There were those who still did not entirely trust him.
"That's far enough," he said. "Don't even think of making a break for it or I'll have to shoot you down."
It was an odd thing for him to say, Drew thought, when it was clear the fellow intended to kill him anyway. Drew turned. He could see the last car of the train, the emigrant car, beyond the robber's shoulder. There were faces pressed to the glass in the door, peering out into the night to get a glimpse of the execution.
"What is it you fellows have against some newspaper coverage?" Drew asked. "Some gangs would be grateful for it."
"The James boys perhaps. Not us." Ethan cocked his Colt. The clicking of the hammer sounded unnaturally loud in the still night air. "No one here tonight has any desire to become a folk hero."
"That's too bad. If you'd tell me something about your gang I could write a sympathetic piece."
"Either you're a liar or a man without a single principle. Have you already forgotten your colleagues? How many were in the cars when the coupling was released?"
Drew was shaking with equal parts cold and fear.
He thrust his hands into his pockets. "Four from the Chronicle. I don't know how many were in the caboose. Their deaths were senseless." Drew's eyes darted nervously. He wondered if he could make a break for it after all. There was sparse covering on the mountainside to his right and a steep, rocky descent on his left. "My friends weren't armed, for God's sake. They were no threat to any of you."
"Not everyone sees it that way," Ethan said. "How many cars did the Chronicle have?"
"Four."
Ethan swore softly. "Did you come on at Cheyenne?"
"Yes."
It did little to ease Ethan's conscience that he couldn't have known about the presence of the reporters. It was a variable that couldn't have been predicted with years of preparation. They had had no such luxury of time in their planning. Ethan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, lowering his Colt slightly. He pulled at his kerchief, letting it fall around his neck and reveal his face.
Drew Beaumont braced himself for the gunshot. When it didn't come immediately, fear made him angry. "Get it the hell over with, you son of a bitch."
"Listen to me carefully," Ethan said calmly. "When I fire I want you to clutch your chest, fall, and roll toward the drop. I'll kick you over the side. You're on your own from there."
"The fall will kill me."
"Perhaps. There's lots of rocky outcroppings where you can gain purchase. I'm not going to push you hard. You probably won't roll more than twenty, thirty feet." Ethan sensed another complaint coming from his hostage. "Look, when you consider the alternative is a bullet through your heart, I think I'm offering you a good deal."
Drew swallowed hard. "Why are you doing this?"
"I have my reasons," he said quietly. "Before you write one word of this for your paper, contact your publisher." Ethan's eyes narrowed. "Are you getting this, mister? Not one word before you contact Marshall. Tell him what happened and let him make the decision of what's to be printed. Don't take it upon yourself."
Drew was about to ask why it was so important when he saw the rear door of the emigrant car open and Michael Dennehy step out. His eyes widened. "Oh God, it's her."
Ethan glanced over his shoulder quickly. She wasn't alone. That he could have dealt with. Obie was following her with his shotgun, chasing after her in his loping stride while she charged ahead like No. 349 herself. "Damn. This changes things."
Drew's eyes widened in alarm. "You don't mean—"
Ethan nodded. "More kick than a mule." He raised his gun again and fired. He watched Drew waver on his feet for a few seconds. Behind him Obie and the woman were approaching fast. "Fall, you stupid bastard! Now!"
Drew's knees buckled under him. It wasn't until he hit the gravel roadbed that he realized he
"That's far enough," he said. "Don't even think of making a break for it or I'll have to shoot you down."
It was an odd thing for him to say, Drew thought, when it was clear the fellow intended to kill him anyway. Drew turned. He could see the last car of the train, the emigrant car, beyond the robber's shoulder. There were faces pressed to the glass in the door, peering out into the night to get a glimpse of the execution.
"What is it you fellows have against some newspaper coverage?" Drew asked. "Some gangs would be grateful for it."
"The James boys perhaps. Not us." Ethan cocked his Colt. The clicking of the hammer sounded unnaturally loud in the still night air. "No one here tonight has any desire to become a folk hero."
"That's too bad. If you'd tell me something about your gang I could write a sympathetic piece."
"Either you're a liar or a man without a single principle. Have you already forgotten your colleagues? How many were in the cars when the coupling was released?"
Drew was shaking with equal parts cold and fear.
He thrust his hands into his pockets. "Four from the Chronicle. I don't know how many were in the caboose. Their deaths were senseless." Drew's eyes darted nervously. He wondered if he could make a break for it after all. There was sparse covering on the mountainside to his right and a steep, rocky descent on his left. "My friends weren't armed, for God's sake. They were no threat to any of you."
"Not everyone sees it that way," Ethan said. "How many cars did the Chronicle have?"
"Four."
Ethan swore softly. "Did you come on at Cheyenne?"
"Yes."
It did little to ease Ethan's conscience that he couldn't have known about the presence of the reporters. It was a variable that couldn't have been predicted with years of preparation. They had had no such luxury of time in their planning. Ethan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, lowering his Colt slightly. He pulled at his kerchief, letting it fall around his neck and reveal his face.
Drew Beaumont braced himself for the gunshot. When it didn't come immediately, fear made him angry. "Get it the hell over with, you son of a bitch."
"Listen to me carefully," Ethan said calmly. "When I fire I want you to clutch your chest, fall, and roll toward the drop. I'll kick you over the side. You're on your own from there."
"The fall will kill me."
"Perhaps. There's lots of rocky outcroppings where you can gain purchase. I'm not going to push you hard. You probably won't roll more than twenty, thirty feet." Ethan sensed another complaint coming from his hostage. "Look, when you consider the alternative is a bullet through your heart, I think I'm offering you a good deal."
Drew swallowed hard. "Why are you doing this?"
"I have my reasons," he said quietly. "Before you write one word of this for your paper, contact your publisher." Ethan's eyes narrowed. "Are you getting this, mister? Not one word before you contact Marshall. Tell him what happened and let him make the decision of what's to be printed. Don't take it upon yourself."
Drew was about to ask why it was so important when he saw the rear door of the emigrant car open and Michael Dennehy step out. His eyes widened. "Oh God, it's her."
Ethan glanced over his shoulder quickly. She wasn't alone. That he could have dealt with. Obie was following her with his shotgun, chasing after her in his loping stride while she charged ahead like No. 349 herself. "Damn. This changes things."
Drew's eyes widened in alarm. "You don't mean—"
Ethan nodded. "More kick than a mule." He raised his gun again and fired. He watched Drew waver on his feet for a few seconds. Behind him Obie and the woman were approaching fast. "Fall, you stupid bastard! Now!"
Drew's knees buckled under him. It wasn't until he hit the gravel roadbed that he realized he
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