"Robert Prescott?"

Prescott tied the reins of his painted horse around the hitching post and cocked his head. In his peripheral vision, a man stood not ten feet away. The late afternoon sun cast the shadow onto the porch of the hotel. Casually, out of sight of the man, he moved his suit jacket away from his gun. He turned and removed his riding gloves.

"Who wants to know?" Prescott noticed something shiny dangling from the man's right hand. The sunlight sparkled off the metal chain.

"Robert Irving Prescott?" The stranger shuffled a pace or two forward, limping, the dust curling around his feet. Carved in the dirt street behind the man, in a sort of Morse code repeating the same feeble refrain, Prescott saw footprints—one longer, ragged rut where the man dragged his left foot for each clean boot print of his right—trailing back across the street.

A muscle in Prescott's face twitched. He narrowed his eyes and took full notice of the newcomer. Trapped under some invisible weight, the man's shoulders sagged and his right shoulder was lower than his left. In a town with enough dust to make dressing up for Sunday services an exercise in futility, the man's collar was dirty around the neck and wrinkled. His black ribbon tie drooped over his brown suit. The brim was pulled low but Prescott noticed the glint of spectacles. The man carried no pistol.

Prescott hung his thumbs inside the pockets of his vest and stifled a laugh. This wasn't a bounty hunter after the price on his head. This man was small, meek, and lame. Prescott knew he could kill him, just for the hell of it. No one would care. All around them, the locals milled, their rapid Spanish too fast for Prescott even though he had lived in Mexico three months. They took no notice of the two gringos staring at each other.

With an air of near boredom, Prescott dismissed the lame man. Surely this wasn't another agent sent by the railroad after the bounty hunters came up empty. He suppressed a grin of pride. The getaway was too good, too clean and precise. No one could have followed his trail. Well, no one except that railroad detective. And Jacob. Neither made it out of Texas alive. Not for the first time did Prescott wonder if either body had been found.

Too bad about Jacob, though.

He allowed a smile. He felt no fear. "Yeah, I'm Prescott. Who the hell are you?"

"The name's Calvin."

Prescott squinted up at the sun. "Okay, Mr. Calvin, what the hell do you want?"

"Calvin's my first name. Carter is my family name."

Exasperated, Prescott gave the man his back, waving a hand over his shoulder. "Adios, cripple. I'm hungry."

"I believe this is yours."

Prescott frowned. Turning around, he stared at Carter who held out his right hand. The dangling thing appeared to be a pocket watch chain, the kind gentlemen wore in their vest pockets. A fob swayed in the light breeze, twirling back and forth. It took a moment before Prescott made out its shape. His blood ran cold.

The little fob was shaped like a tombstone, the letters "R.I.P." engraved on the front. Instinctively, Prescott's hand went to his own vest. He felt the replacement chain and fob he commissioned after he lost his original chain during the train robbery. Through the fabric of his vest, his finger traced the outline of another tombstone-shaped fob.

Prescott heard shuffling. The stranger had moved a few steps closer.

"Need a closer look, Irving?" Carter said. Something about the man's voice, his tone, unhinged Prescott and he caught his breath.

Someone had found him.

Energy surged through him. Prescott's hand flashed to his Colt .45. He prided himself on his speed. It saved his life countless times, especially when Jacob got wise. He almost lost to Jacob. But he wouldn't lose here, today, to this cripple.

Carter's left hand blurred into his suit. Prescott watched as if underwater as Carter pulled out a short-barreled revolver and aimed it at Prescott's middle. Prescott had barely cleared his Colt when the bullet ripped into his side, knocking him backward onto the hitching post. He half fell into the water trough. His Colt thudded onto the dirt at his feet.

Hot pain seized his right side. Prescott pulled his arm out of the water. He blocked the sun and stared at Carter, still slouched, but with the gun clutched in his left hand. The smell of gunpowder bit Prescott's nostrils. It was usually a smell he associated with exhilaration. That was before he was the victim.

Prescott squinted up at Carter. Not breaking eye contact, Prescott felt his torso. Warm and wet. He held up his hand in front of his face and watched as light, tan dust, floating in the breeze, embedded itself in the bright crimson of his own blood.

The townspeople stopped and stared at him and Carter. The boy who worked at the livery stable stood, mouth agape, awesome wonder in his eyes.

Anger swelled in Prescott. "Who sent you?"

"You didn't answer my question," Carter said. He tossed the fob toward Prescott who flinched in spite of himself.

Prescott picked up the chain and examined it. Yes, it was his, the one he'd lost during the train heist. He remembered exactly when, too. The railroad detective, traveling to investigate an unrelated case, had surprised Prescott and Jacob. In the brief struggle, the detective had grabbed for Prescott. But he only got the watch chain and fob. Prescott had fired then, but only grazed the detective. The son of a bitch had followed Prescott and Jacob for half a day, bleeding slowly to death. The same night, in order to make sure he wasn't followed anymore, Prescott had doubled back and slit the detective's throat. Then, he'd dispatched Jacob.

Poor Jacob. He was a good brother.

Prescott held up his hand in deference and began to make his way up to a standing position. So someone had found him. It was inevitable, really. But he still had a trump card.

"You the best man the railroad could find? You're a damn cripple."

"Found you, didn't I?"

Prescott's pride got the better of him. "How?"

Carter took a step to his left, dragging his foot in the dirt. "It wasn't easy. I'll give you that. Your first mistake was the railroad detective. You shouldn't have killed him. Once you did that, the railroad put a price on your head so high that any school boy with dreams of an easy life would've rode to find you."

Prescott smiled. "They didn't."

Carter shook his head once. "They didn't have the proper motivation." He paused. "But two did. What happened to them?"

Prescott smirked as he remembered the ambush against the two bounty hunters a month ago. "Not telling all my secrets, cripple."

Carter shrugged. Prescott was momentarily taken aback. He wanted to brag, to have Carter plead it out of him. The man's refusal unnerved him.

Prescott pushed up from the water trough, trying to stand his full height. The livery stable boy backed up a step. A few women hurried their children away. Blood seeped downed his leg. Prescott knew he needed to get a doctor soon or he'd bleed out.

Carter continued. "I was looking for you when I got news of the bounty hunters. They helped me narrow down the town you might be in." He took another step to his left and lowered the gun to his side.

"The fob did it. Unique. Signed by the maker. With the right amount of persuasion, the maker told me your name." He chuckled and pointed with his chin toward the blood on Prescott's vest. "A tombstone. Not the best of charms."

"My little pun on life." Prescott tasted coppery blood in his mouth. The bullet must've struck something vital. He needed a doctor. He didn't need to be wasting time with this cripple.

He let go of the hitching post and stood on wobbly legs. Carter backed up a step. Prescott smiled.

"Killing your brother was another mistake."

Prescott arched an eyebrow. He didn't see how. He had searched the body and taken away the map to Mexico. He'd even taken the Army discharge papers.

"The gun, Prescott," Carter said, "the gun. You gave your brother the dignity of dying with his gun. Honorable for a Cain like yourself. But you forgot the holster belonged to your father. Once I figured out who he was, I spoke with your mother..."

"What did you do to her?" Prescott boomed. A small spray of blood shot out of his mouth.

Carter pursed his lips. "Not a damn thing. After I informed her that you killed her baby, she told me everything I wanted to know, how you and Jacob dreamed about living in Mexico, which towns y'all selected, depending on how much money y'all had, that kind of thing." He shook his head. His teeth showed through a full grin. "Don't think she takes kindly to fratricide."

Prescott's vision grew red. The sound that escaped his throat was louder than any since he pealed the Rebel yell. He raised his right arm at Carter. With a practiced movement of his forearm, the small Derringer slipped out of its arm holster and into his grip. He heard the sound of a gunshot and, seconds later, realized it didn't come from his own gun.

The second bullet struck him low, in his right thigh. He doubled over, then fell backwards, his ass banging on the front step of the hotel in a teeth-clattering thud. He still clutched the Derringer.

Prescott looked up at Carter. He knew he must have been imagining things because Carter appeared to grow taller. Like an uncoiling cobra rising to attack, Carter rose to his full height, shoulders squared, a man fit as could be. He pulled off his spectacles with one hand, folded them, and placed them inside his jacket.

Carter tut-tutted and wagged a finger at Prescott. "That was your other mistake, Prescott. You took the railroad detective's arm holster. Once I saw it was missing, I knew his killer had taken it. It was an easy deduction to learn your location once I heard about the two bounty hunters being killed by a man with a gun up his sleeve." He put his pistol back into his shoulder holster and spread his hands.

Then Carter walked. Not with a gimp leg but with a gait that was strong and able.

Prescott's mouth hung open, not to gasp air but in astonishment. He realized he'd been fooled. No one ever made a fool out of him and lived. He brought the Derringer to bear on Carter. The once-lame man kicked the gun from Prescott's grip. It skittered across the hotel porch, coming to rest just below the front door.

Prescott watched as Carter loomed over him. With his foot, the one Prescott took for lame, Carter stepped on Prescott's right hand. He winced.

Carter grinned. Prescott caught a sneering, wild quality to the grin and he shivered despite himself. As Carter knelt, he reached across Prescott's body and picked up the watch chain and fob from the dirt. He held it for Prescott to see, then put it in his own pocket.

"A souvenir," he said. "Something I can take back to my new bosses." He shrugged. "My uncle, one of board members of the railroad, didn't think I had it in me to locate you. I'm an actor, you see. What the hell did I know about tracking a fugitive from justice?"

Prescott laughed, a dry, rustling sound. "An actor? I got found by a damn actor?" He felt irritation, not that the railroad had sent out an actor to find him but more that he didn't rank high enough for a marshal or a sheriff's deputy.

Carter's face looked as if he took offense. "Don't laugh. We each have abilities we're born with. My father loved railroad engines, the smell, the feel of them. The inside of a locomotive was the only place he truly felt at home. My uncle has a way with numbers. He's now an accountant with the same railroad company my father worked for. My mother sings opera. Me? I learned as a boy I could make people laugh. Also, I had an aptitude for being someone else." Carter cocked his head and stared off in the distance. "I wasn't getting much work as an actor in Houston so the president of the railroad offered me a job if I found you and brought back the money." He looked down at Prescott. "I guess you could consider this sort of a job interview." His smile was thin and humorless. "How'd I do?"

Prescott spit in Carter's face.

Carter's lip curled in disgust. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped the spittle from his face and returned the cloth to his jacket. When his hand re-emerged, it held a long knife. Despite all his pain, something in Prescott's stomach loosened.

Carter twisted the knife, letting the sunlight reflect from the smooth blade into Prescott's eyes. He placed the point on Prescott's throat and moved his face closer. "I understand the robbery part, the desire for money. I do, really."

Through eyes growing dim, Prescott watched a bead of sweat flow down Carter's nose and hang, suspended. The bead caught the sun and glistened like a prism. Finally, gravity won and the bead fell. It landed on his lips. He tasted the other man's salt.

"I understand why you had to kill the railroad detective. And, as abhorrent as it is, I understand why your greed forced you to kill your brother." He dented Prescott's neck with the tip of the knife. Blood pooled around the tip and ran down his neck. "Why the train engineer? He did exactly what you asked of him. And you killed him anyway."

The movement of Prescott's shoulders approximated a shrug. "Part of the game." His voice sounded wet to his own ears.

"I hate the goddamned game," Carter hissed and dug the knife a bit deeper into Prescott's neck.

Prescott gurgled. He felt the blood flow from his neck around to the back of his head. He heard the wet drops land on the hotel steps.

"Sorry," Carter said, "you'll have to repeat that."

With effort, Prescott said, "You still don't know where the money is. Help me and I'll take you to it. You can have it all."

Carter's countenance changed. It grew hard. "It's company money. Besides, I wouldn't take it even if it was yours to offer."

Prescott frowned in disbelief. "Why?"

"I just want my father back."

-END-

Copyright © 2009 by Scott D. Parker