Between the Marshal & the Vampire(5)
After listening to the commotion in the hallway and deeming it safe, she quickly slipped out of her compartment just as shots were fired outside the train. Travelers screamed and ducked back into their compartments. No help there.
Mariel looked to the door to her right. Hers was the last passenger car, which meant the next one in line was for carrying cargo. Mind made up, she slung open the connecting doors and dashed into the next car.
Crates filled the car. Most had seen travel, their corners battered or splintered, boot marks and scorch marks marring the wood. Some were marked with destination addresses or were stamped with their place of origin. Others showed no indication of where they were from or who they were meant for, or else were impossible to see in the dim lighting coming through cracks in the slatting; boxes of mystery. She ran her eyes frantically over the variously sized crates as the sound of more gunfire snapped through the air. As terrified as she was, she was angry, too, knowing the Marshals were out there fighting for their lives only so they could keep her alive. That obligation weighed heavily on her shoulders. She was determined not to sit around like a helpless ninny.
After some searching, she was relieved to come across a crowbar leaning in the dark corner nearest the door she had come through. She hefted it and wove her way between the boxes. She paused at one box, suitably shaped, and wedged the crowbar beneath the crate's lid. Grunting from the effort, she managed to pry the lid off after much jerking and pushing, only to curse in frustration at finding Chinese vases packed in straw. A rat jumped out at her from within, startling a yelp out of her, but she angrily persevered, moving deeper through the stacks.
When she came upon a long crate, resting on its side, she paused. It definitely looked the sort of container to carry rifles, if a bit too tall. It had no marks on it, save for an origin stamp from Shadow Valley Territory, which meant nothing to her in regards to whether it might contain weapons. She jammed the end of the crowbar beneath the lid and applied her weight to the bar. The lid was stubborn. It creaked as the first nail slowly, reluctantly, began to squeeze from the wood.
More shots from outside. More screaming from the passenger car ahead. Would Beaufort's gang set fire to the train? Darrell had said they'd blown the tracks. Did they have enough dynamite to begin blowing up the passenger cars as well, hoping to blast her to pieces?
Heart in her throat, she shimmied the crowbar farther along the lid and threw her upper body over the bar, trying to leverage the stubborn lid open. It began to rise, groaning with dismay. A fresh, earthy smell puffed from within the crate, along with the smell of tar. When she repositioned the crowbar, she saw that its metal end was clogged with the black goo. Had the crate's interior been painted with the stuff? To what end? To make it waterproof? Maybe that meant guns were inside!
Excited, Mariel found a burst of strength and heaved on the crowbar. The nails squealed as they gave up their hold on the wood. The lid exploded open and with the loss of resistance, Mariel tumbled hard to the floor of the car, the crowbar clattering loudly ahead into the dark.
She lay there, afraid to breathe, afraid the bandits outside might have heard the commotion and would come investigate. Please let there be a gun in here, she prayed as she quickly rose to her knees and peered into the crate.
A pale hand shot from the darkness and seized her by the throat.
2
Killing a man wasn't his favorite thing to do. But funny how Clay found himself having to do it quite often.
Wasn't funny nor such a surprise, really, considering his line of work, but once upon a time, when he'd been green and hopeful, he'd thought that wearing the star of the Empire Marshals meant he'd be pointing his gun a lot but not necessarily firing it. In his foolish head he'd arrogantly assumed that him being a Marshal would mean the bad men would surrender without a fight.
He'd been wrong ten years ago and he was wrong again tonight. He watched as one of his bullets found the throat of a horseback rider who tipped off his mount with a death gurgle. Clay took no pleasure in his good aim. Satisfaction, yes, because one less enemy meant Mariel Johnston took another step closer to appearing at the trial at Everton Fort, but no pleasure.
Thought of the mahogany-haired young woman in the train made Clay's chest seize up with an uncomfortable tension. He liked her. Oh, he'd said that often enough when coming across a pretty lady, but Mariel was something else. Her manner and her speech told him she was an innkeeper only by default. She was a woman meant for more, but life and circumstance had pushed her into the role she now held. Nothing wrong with being an innkeeper. Clay and his fellow Marshals counted on the hospitality of such places. But the world also needed another type of woman, and Mariel was it. It was a shame she wasn't living up to the potential of what she could be.
He liked her for another reason, of course. She was a stunner. Even through the simple blue calico dress he could tell she was built ample everywhere that he preferred. And she had the prettiest brown eyes ringed with thick lashes. Everything about her inspired thoughts of lying on a blanket in the grasses and watching the clouds move slowly across a never-ending sky.
Romantic fool. You're going to find yourself with a bullet between your eyes soon enough.
With the reins of his horse in one hand, Clay fired with the other, just missing a bandana-clad man who rounded the head of the train engine. Ahead, the rails were a twisted mess bent back from the crater where the dynamite had blown. Clay had feared something like this, but there hadn't been a way to check the entire rail line from Willowtown to Everton. He hated the feeling that he'd let Mariel down nonetheless.