What happens when a young journalist and an outlaw join forces?
Thats exactly what Erin Bowman seeks to answer inRetribution Rails.
Retribution Railswill be published Nov. 7.
Read an exclusive excerpt below.
Hobbs is yapping advice in a tone thats earning him rude gestures from Diaz.
Besides their banter and the clank of tools hitting metal, the mornings silence is damn near deafening.
No cactus wrens singing.
Not even the far-off whistle of the train we knows coming.
Boss checks his pocket watch and tucks it away without comment.
Means were still on schedule.
Nothing yet, Boss.
I been standing on the track with him all morning, checking the horizon with his binoculars.
We heard its carrying a mountain of money to a bank in Tucson.
Payroll, plus general funds being transferred.
Has something to do with the approaching new year.
Exact details dont matter to us.
I turn my attention east.
The rest of our boysCrawford, Barrera, DeSoto, and Jonesare out there among the beef.
Ifn things go smooth, the rail Hobbs and Diaz are wrestling with wont matter.
Conductorll see the herd and shout for the brake.
Then well step onto the cars as the dust settles, taking em by surprise.
We done it before.
Hes still getting in place, I say.
Its got a red lining.
Lemme have a look, Boss says, reaching.
I surrender the binoculars and watch as he observes the herd.
His browsre pulled down tight, his expression stern and focused.
It aint a rare look.
I think I only caught him laughing twice in the three years I been forced to ride with him.
I ask after he hands the binoculars back.
Didnt think you would be, but a bosss gotta check or he aint much of a boss.
My chest puffs up a little, then deflates from the shame.
None of the Rose Riders seem to.
And yet, this is my life now.
This is how I gotta live.
Surviving is easier if I pretend Im one of em.
And if I make Boss happy in the process.
It were a secret within the gang.
It was only after his passing that Luther made his true relation to the late Boss known.
It helped strike fear.
Most days, Im still on edge.
The trick is, I try not to show it.
You display yer weaknesses round these throw in of men and theyll eat you alive.
The shriek of an engine whistle shatters the afternoon quiet.
Soon now, Murphy, Boss says to me.
A plume of dark smoke puffs long the horizon.
I check for Crawford and find a swatch of red, hear the gunshots popping next.
The herd starts lumbering.
Soon as its free, they circle back on their horses, pulling up behind me and Boss.
The stampede comes on, our boys riding long the outskirts to keep the cattle confined and on target.
My mare, Girl, is already getting spooked.
She aint never liked trains, and she twitches beneath me.
It aint slowing, but neither are the cattle.
Crawford and his men draw rein on the north side of the rails, letting the herd lumber on.
Dust billows round the beef.
Beyond the dirt cloud, the train keeps blowing its whistle.
Diaz warns at a shout.
But Boss just holds up a hand.
Right when Im certainthisis the time a trainll steamroll us flat, the brakeman applies the brakes.
The clamped-down wheels screech and scream, running over the rail.
The shrill cry is like a pickaxe to my skull, the worst kind of headache.
For a good half minute our world is nothing but dust and heat and screaming brakes.
With one final exhale from the engine, the train goes still.
The herd continues south, taking the dust with em.
I fan dirt from my eyes.
The dark outline of the train engine sits a few yards ahead, air rippling round it.
Boss draws his pistol.
The poor bastard dont even have a chance to yell out a warning.
The moment his eyes find us, going wide and fearful, Boss pulls his trigger.
The mans head snaps back, and he topples from the train, landing beside the track.
And then were storming the train.
Lord knows trains do not make unannounced stops between depots for any good reason.
Sir, I say, nudging the sleeping lawman beside me.
He does not budge.
This is what I get for chasing a story.
Hed want me to see the final spike driven, maybe even say a few words on his behalf.
Sit tight, and Ill be home in but a few days time.
Uncle Geralds been running the family mine since we moved to Yuma a decade ago.
Always in the habit of stealing the accomplishments of others, hell surely say words on Fathers behalf.
But it wont end there.
I refuse to be a burden or a bargaining chip.
Id taken it with me for protection, never thinking Id truly need it.
I snatch it up and press it to my ribs, hiding the weapon beneath my jacket.
Hands where we can see em!
a man shouts as he climbs into view.
A sweat-stained bandanna is drawn over his nose, and his hat is angled low across his brow.
Hands up, and no one gets shot.
He ducks past the first man and moves up the aisle.
his companion calls, and tosses him a burlap sack.
The man named Murphy catches it.
Valuables, he says, angling toward the nearest seat.
the other adds from up front.
I nudge the lawman with my leg.
Hes still slumped against the window, a dark handkerchief clutched in his lap.
Hed been coughing quite a bit when we boarded the locomotive in Yuma.
Could be hes like Father, fighting a losing battle with tuberculosis.
That band on yer finger, the stockier robber says from up front.
But its my wedding ring, comes a retort.
Do you wanna die today?
The woman breaks down, gasping and sobbing, but the man refrains from loosening bullets.
How the lawman can sleep through this, even with his condition, is beyond comprehension.
The man called Murphy moves on to my row.
Yer valuables, he grunts at me.
Hes wearing filthy trousers and a pale blue work shirt stained with a ring of sweat around the collar.
The bandanna over his mouth matches his shirt, but its his hat that compels me to pause.
Its too showy for a man of crime, too proud.
But I make note of it all, committing the details to memory.
I dont have anything worth giving, mister, I say, avoiding eye contact.
Yer earrings, he says.
The earrings, he says again, Put em in the bag, and no harm done.
Suddenly Im mad at the world.
Father, for leaving me and Mama.
The devil, for creating men as desperate and dark as the one standing before me.
My fear betrays me, and my lip trembles.
I bite down on it, snuffing out the quiver.
That they fear and shake and cry.
But perhaps that can be used to my advantage.
Certainly the lawman will wake from a gunshot fired in such an enclosed space.
A bullet goes off in the payload car, startling me so thoroughly I nearly drop Fathers pistol.
Hurry up, dammit, the robber snaps.
My shot goes into the mans shoulder.
And thats when the lawman finally wakes.
I flinch at each shot, grabbing my ears as the car explodes with thunderous noise.
The lawman lets out anoofand slumps into me.
Theres shouting and more gunshots, then silence.
My ears still ring, barely able to hear the pound of fleeing hooves.
I say, turning back to the lawman.
He shifts his weight off me awkwardly and lets out a low wheeze.
Sir, are you all right?
The pistol slides from his hand, landing on the floor of the car with a clatter.
See it through for me, miss, he says.
I grab at his front.
He is slick, wet.
The breast pocket of his vest is glistening with blood.
But his only response is a ragged, uneven breath as his blood seeps through my fingers.
