PROLOGUE - THE HOOK

‘$300 – that’ll do nicely!’ said Bert Granger as he finished thumbing through the billfold Corbin Molina had been encouraged to hand over. As added persuasion, Bert held a revolver in his other hand.

Perched on the edge of his aisle seat on the right-hand side of the swaying railway carriage, Corbin was coiled like a spring, biding his time, ready to jump the robbers. The money didn’t concern him too much; it was the opened envelope Granger had taken with the cash: if the train-robber read the letter inside, he’d more than likely shoot Corbin where he sat. A thin-lipped smile was the only expression on his reddish-brown features as he held his arms aloft, the left terminating in a stump encased by a metal band and a hook. Further up the carriage was a forest of upheld arms. Corbin’s hooded deep brown eyes glared past his hat brim at the train-robber he’d recognised.

‘Hey, don’t look at me like that, Mister.’ As Bert spoke he revealed two broken teeth; his voice was high-pitched, as if his unmentionables had been trapped in a vice. ‘This may be a lot of greenbacks, but it sure as hell ain’t worth dying for!’

‘I don’t think this is the time or place to discuss the economics of a life,’ Corbin said ruefully, his voice husky, ‘though I have my own firm opinion on the subject.’

‘You talk mighty fine for someone who’s just been robbed,’ squeaked Bert and glanced down to read the envelope: ‘Molina – what kind of name is that, anyway? Mex, is it?’ He screwed up his eyes and rasped a hand over his stubble. ‘Yeah, you look half-breed, I reckon.’

Corbin shrugged his broad square shoulders. He had been called worse; name-calling wasn’t worth losing your life over, either.

Bert leaned across and removed Corbin’s Frontier Colt revolver riding butt forward on his left hip and shoved it in his own belt. He eyed Molina’s hook but said nothing.

‘Can I lower my arms now?’

‘Sure, since you’re only half a man.’ No threat, the rebuke implied.

‘Thank you,’ said Corbin, shaking his limbs to restore some circulation. He rested his forearms on his thighs, biding his time. Behind him in the aisle was the second bandit, Bert’s older brother, Elijah, his dark curly-haired reflection clearly defined in the glass window opposite. Their likenesses had been captured well on the wanted dodgers, along with a third brother, Arnie. Maybe Arnie was working another carriage. Elijah, stout and muscular, held a shotgun, randomly threatening one passenger then another with the weapon.

Bert thrust Corbin’s money and envelope into a slightly bulging gunny sack hanging from his belt and moved forward. He turned to the middle-aged woman in the seat in front of Corbin, on the left-hand side of the aisle. ‘Now, ma’am, what have you got, besides your obvious charms, eh?’ He chuckled but she wasn’t smiling, her face pale and her eyes close to tears.

She was modestly dressed in green gingham and wore a white lace bonnet over her mousy hair. ‘Please, sir, I have very little,’ she pleaded, holding a hand to her chest.

‘That ring will do nicely!’ Bert growled, grabbing her hand.

‘No, please, my late husband gave me–!’

‘Hey, you cur, leave her be!’ An elderly fat man rose to his feet two rows ahead, his Dundreary whiskers bristling, his hands now touching the carriage ceiling. He wore a frock coat and vest with a gold watch chain stretching tautly across his belly.

Wielding his shotgun, Elijah moved forward, next to Corbin, legs braced against the movement of the carriage, and warningly levelled the barrel at the fat man. ‘Just wait your turn, mister. I’ll have your watch, when my brother gets to you!’

Bert laughed and tugged off the woman’s wedding band. She whimpered but said nothing.

Elijah chuckled. ‘Get another husband, widow. He’ll buy a new ring for you!’

These distractions were enough. Half rising, Corbin swung his left arm up, the hook sinking into Elijah’s neck. Blood spurted, splashing Corbin’s dark blue flannel shirt and buckskin jacket. Damn, must have hit an artery. Jerking his bloody hook out of the wound, he used it to snag the shotgun out of Elijah’s hands.

Bert swerved round, levelling his six-gun, his face draining white at sight of his sibling crumpling to the carriage floor.

Corbin’s right hand grabbed the shotgun. Resting the barrel on the back of the seat, he blasted Bert full in the chest before the bandit could fire off a single bullet.

The widow shrieked in alarm as Bert fell back onto the floor, ineffectually gripping his revolver. Others cheered.

Lowering the shotgun to the floor, Corbin knelt down beside Bert and wiped his bloody hook on the man’s vest.

‘Jeezus,’ Bert wheezed, clutching his chest, ‘you move fast –’

‘... for half a man?’

‘Aye.’ Bert coughed, his gun-hand trembling.

Corbin took the revolver off him; there was no strength in the man’s hand. ‘You won’t be needing this where you’re going.’

‘I guess not. My brother, is he–?’

Corbin nodded. ‘Gone to his Maker.’ He retrieved his Frontier Colt and shoved it in the holster over his left hip. ‘Where’s Arnie?’

‘You recognised us, eh?’

‘Yeah, Bert, you’re famous.’

Grinning, Bert coughed up bright red blood. ‘We got to be famous, eh?’

‘So you did – dead famous. Now where’s Arnie?’

Bert grimaced. ‘I ain’t saying.’ He trembled and the fear of death animated his eyes. ‘He ain’t going to be best pleased, Elijah and me dying, an’ all.’

‘You should’ve taken up an honest profession, then,’ Corbin said unsympathetically, rummaging in the gunny sack. He withdrew his envelope and the wad of bank notes. ‘You were right,’ he added, ‘this money ain’t worth dying for.’

Bert nodded, unable to speak, and his broken-toothed grin froze as the light went out of his eyes.

Pocketing his money and envelope in his buckskin jacket, Corbin ignored the shouts and cheers of the relieved passengers. He stood up and passed the sack to the rear of the carriage so the contents could be restored to the rightful owners.

Corbin bowed to the distraught woman and handed her the wedding band. ‘Yours, ma’am.’

Her hazel eyes widened as she noticed his blood-stained shirt and jacket. She swallowed, nodded and snatched the ring and put it on a trembling finger. He’d seen similar reactions before. People of a delicate sensibility tended to feel uncomfortable near him when violence erupted.

He was his own worst enemy, he opined. He wanted anonymity, but this sure wasn’t the way to go about it.

‘You’re a hero, sir!’ exclaimed the fat man, tapping him on the shoulder. As Corbin turned, the man added, ‘If you’re ever looking for work, don’t hesitate to look me up – here’s my card!’

Corbin scanned it: Oliver Magruder, Oil and Tar Specialist. He smiled and fingered the brim of his black slouch hat. ‘Thanks, Mr Magruder. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but that was foolhardy of you to voice your objections, though you sure gave me the chance to take them on.’

Blood drained from Magruder’s face. ‘You think they’d have shot me?’

‘Some might have.’

‘I never gave it a thought. I was just so incensed, the way they treated this poor lady.’

‘Gallant of you, sir, but I’d advise you to be careful in future. Some bandits shoot first and argue afterwards.’

Magruder sighed and shook his head. ‘Knowing all this, you still – as you say – took them on?’

‘I’ve a little experience in dishing out violence, sir. It comes in handy,’ he said, smiling lopsidedly as he gestured with his hook.

‘Well, you’re still a hero in my book, Mr Molina.’

‘Really, I don’t want any fuss.’ He turned away from Magruder. Pointing to two heavy-set men further up the aisle, he said, ‘You can help me move these corpses to the rear of the carriage, where they’ll cause the least distress till we get to Retribution.’

Both men were only too willing to help.

The widow fanned herself and tried to concentrate on the passing barren country. Her eyes widened for a second as their carriage passed a man mounted on a piebald at the edge of the permanent way’s embankment. He was holding the reins of two other horses and there was a look of puzzlement on his face, as if he’d been expecting the train to stop for him.

CHAPTER 1- HEAVEN'S GATEWAY

Banners strung across the main street announced that in a week’s time Retribution would be celebrating its twentieth year since its founding day way back on July 19, 1853. Corbin wasn’t in any mood for rejoicing: he’d killed two men.

The train’s stop hadn’t been scheduled for much longer than forty minutes, enough time for passengers to get on or off and for water to be transferred to the engine. But the two bodies had to be removed and accounted for, and that took time, especially with Sheriff Ralph Deshler going by the book. If he hadn’t intended staying overnight in town, Corbin would have sneaked away without bothering with the lawman. The reward money was of no consequence. As it was, the sheriff had asked him to fill in a statement.

Corbin promised to join the sheriff, but first needed to change his blood-stained clothes. He held up a fresh shirt and jacket which he’d taken out of his bag, folded them and put them in his valise. ‘Is there a laundry I could use?’

‘Sure, Ma Chong’s – behind my office, as a matter of fact.’

‘Fine. Let’s go, then, sheriff,’ he said, and stepped alongside the lawman.

Deshler was in his forties. Businesslike, tall and lean, he wore a narrow moustache and denim jacket and jeans. Gesturing with his battered wide-brimmed Stetson, he sent his two deputies off to organize the removal of the bodies. Corbin liked the man; he was affable and seemed quite relieved. As he said, cleaning up after a death was preferable to having to face death itself.

‘How long you staying in Retribution, Mr Molina?’ Deshler asked as they strolled down the street. Corbin declined the offer of a Bull Durham rollup.

‘Just tonight.’ He hefted a small valise with his hook. ‘This is just an overnight bag. I sent my luggage on to the depot – I’ll be catching the stage for Walkerville in the morning.’

Deshler scratched a sulphur match and lit up. ‘Good – it leaves nine sharp. Be on it.’

Corbin eyed the sheriff and raised an eyebrow. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Once their brother gets to hear about this, Arnie Granger will be gunning for you, I warrant. I’d rather he found you somewhere else, not in Retribution. Besides, our undertaker has enough to do, thanks.’

‘Granger will only come looking for me if someone tells him.’

The sheriff blew smoke and thumbed his chest. ‘I won’t be saying a word. But someone’s bound to gab, you can be sure of that.’

True enough, Corbin mused. Information was worth a few dollars to the right ear.

They stepped up onto the boardwalk and the sheriff unlocked his office door. ‘Come in, let’s settle accounts.’

‘I didn’t do it for the money, sheriff. I’m no bounty hunter.’

‘Hell, I know that. But you risked your life so you might as well get paid for it. Let’s be honest, it ain’t my money.’

Corbin nodded, conceiving that he might be able to put the reward money, whatever it amounted to, to good use.

Sheriff Deshler unlocked the big cast-iron safe behind his desk and counted out $400. ‘That’s two for each villain. Another two, if you get Arnie.’

Folding the money in his jacket, Corbin shook his head. ‘It seems like blood money, sheriff.’

‘No, it doesn’t, son. It’s what it says on the dodgers, a reward, that’s all. And I reckon it’s worth every penny if it means folk can sleep better at night knowing those varmints ain’t going to trouble no-one.’ He slid a thin ledger across. ‘Sign here, please.’

Picking up a pen, Corbin dabbed the nib in the inkpot on the desk and scrawled his name with a flourish. Straightening up, he flipped his hat back off his brow. ‘Now can you tell me where Mae Begley’s establishment is, please?’

Deshler chuckled. ‘You must be wanting Heaven’s Gateway, as she calls it. So, you intend spending the reward money there, eh?’

‘Possibly.’

‘It’s three blocks short of the other end of town. Used to be on the outskirts, since so-called decent folk didn’t want anything to do with her place, but now it’s sort of in the middle since the town’s grown over the years.’

‘Thanks, sheriff.’ Shaking Deshler’s hand, Corbin said, ‘See you around.’

‘Aye, maybe you will. Steer clear of squint-eyed Susan; she’s a mite too fiery for anyone’s taste, if you ask me.’

‘Oh, the woman I’ve come to see isn’t called Susan,’ Corbin said and strode out the door.

Heaven’s Gateway was an imposing edifice, its three storeys dwarfing the neighbouring shops and offices. Its entrance portico boasted granite pillars and steps, while the boardwalk that ran round the building was varnished teak. Drapes of a variety of red hues adorned the windows; balustraded balconies on the two upper floors were colourfully festooned with women wearing long silk dresses and low necklines.

Having changed his clothes in the back of Ma Chong’s, Corbin felt slightly better as he approached the bordello. A ginger-haired soiled dove leaned over the rail, a black cigarita in her hand. She called out, ‘Hey, Mister, ask for Ginger – I can give you a good time – all night for $30.’

He paused and removed his black slouch hat. ‘Thanks kindly, ma’am, but I’ve a prior booking.’ He climbed the steps and, standing in the shade of the balcony, he pulled the bell.

He heard Ginger swear. ‘Since when did Ma Begley take bookings?’

The door was opened by a woman in a striking bright red dress. He was no expert, but she appeared to be in her forties. Her cheeks harboured too much rouge. Her red hair clashed with the colour of her dress; it was pulled back in a chignon decorated with a thin green bandana; large silver earrings dangled. Her blue-green eyes appraised him in the flick of two black-painted eyelids. Doubtless gauging his profitability, he opined. She lingered a second or two on his hook then smiled.

‘So, you’ll be wanting a girl, I take it?’ she declared in a thick Irish brogue.

Stating the obvious, he felt like responding. Instead, he said, ‘Yes.’ It would be easier this way, he reckoned.

‘Well, come in.’ She stood aside, swept the slight train of her dress behind her and gestured for him to enter the hallway. She shut the door and said, ‘You’ve come to the right place, to be sure. Hang your hat, Mister.’

He hung the slouch on a mahogany hook by the door.

Turning on her heel with a swishing sound of satin, she said, ‘Follow me, sir.’

He did so, trailing behind her swaying red bustle as it swept over the narrow strip of hall carpet. Even though it was still day, wall sconces were lit, projecting a warm ruddy glow everywhere Corbin looked. There was a sickly-sweet smell of cheap perfume, which he surmised probably served to keep at bay the pungent aroma of body odour and tobacco smoke. He heard murmuring up ahead.

Once he had passed through an arched doorway, a heavy brocade curtain fell behind him and all sound ceased. They were in a large room, each wall lined with two or three chaise longues, the walls papered in a crimson flock design. Seats were either occupied by young women with painted faces or anxious-looking men of all ages. The women wore white dimity wide skirts and soft ringlets of hair cascaded over bare shoulders; some fluttered lace fans in front of dark coquettish eyes. Most of the men only gave him a cursory look then returned to studying their boots or chatting to each other; the women too resumed their conversation, ignoring him. It was as if they were all congregated in a railway station waiting room. Only here the tickets were to Paradise, even if it was ephemeral.

At the far end of the room was a wide staircase which was carpeted in red and curved up to the second floor with its balconies and doors; doubtless a similar staircase climbed to the third floor.

‘We’re a mite busy at the moment,’ explained Madam Begley, gently nudging his arm. ‘Always the same when a train comes in.’ She glanced up at him, her hands clasped demurely in front. ‘Do you have any preferences?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Blonde, brunette, black – hair, that is. We have all kinds of skin shades as well. Do you like your women lissom or generous?’

‘I’d like to pay for time with just one of your girls, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Jean – Jean Pegram.’

‘Jeannie?’ Her features clouded and she shrugged. ‘You’d better come back tomorrow, then. She’s got an all-nighter–’

The low murmurs of the room were suddenly disturbed by a high-pitched scream. Madam Begley’s face suffused purple and her eyes narrowed. ‘That’s her, poor bitch!’ She lifted her skirts to ascend the stairs. ‘That swine, he promised!’

Swiftly brushing past the madam, Corbin loped up the stairs two at a time. At the top, he hesitated, but the scream came again, chilling his blood – from his right. He pounded along the carpeted floor and entered a passageway and on each side were doors bearing name-plates. He was sure that the sound had come from further down and he passed Angelique, Maud, Pauline, Rebecca, and Susan – squint-eyed Susan? As he paused at the door marked Jeannie, he felt his heart hammering with old emotions.

He reached for the door handle but a heavy grating voice came from inside the room and he froze, listening. ‘I paid for all night. That means I can do what the hell I like with you!’

‘No, Mr Turner, you’ve been told – not the knife!’

Corbin’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. He now tried the handle. It wasn’t locked and he swung the door wide; it bashed noisily against some furniture and porcelain rattled. He drew his Colt.

Jeannie’s bare back was to him as she knelt at the foot of the bed, her long copper-coloured hair hanging loose. The rumpled sheets were splattered with droplets of blood. Brandishing a knife, its blade dripping, a grey-bearded man in red long-johns leaned on the brass bedpost. Jeannie was so intent on the knife, she didn’t respond to Corbin’s intrusion. The man, Turner, snarled and swore, seeing Corbin in the doorway.

Cocking his Colt, Corbin said, ‘Don’t make another move, Turner, or it’ll be your last!’

‘Who in tarnation are you? You’ve got no right to interfere!’

‘I have every right, since I have the gun. Now, drop that blade. Slowly.’

The knife clattered to the bare boards. Jeannie glanced briefly over her shoulder, her hazel eyes streaked with tears, and hugged a sheet to her; small patches of blood soaked into the linen.

Corbin’s heart did a small flip of recognition. Ignoring the sight of Jeannie’s blood and her sobbing, he said, ‘Sensible man.’ He gestured with his six-gun. ‘Now, come with me. You have an appointment with Sheriff Deshler.’

Turner hesitated, glancing back at the chair in the corner. ‘My trousers, I need–’

‘You need to be quiet.’ Corbin noted the pleading in the man’s eyes but shook his head. ‘You go as you are – or you go feet first. Your choice.’

Scowling, Turner walked past the trembling form of Jeannie, edged by Corbin and stepped out into the passage.

Madam Begley was standing there, her arms akimbo. Behind her clustered four girls and two men. ‘Bejesus, Mr Turner, you’ve been warned about that dad-blamed knife before!’ Mrs Begley wagged a ring-laden finger at the man. ‘This will not do! You’re barred from stepping foot in my house ever again!’

‘You mean he’s done this before?’ Corbin asked, jabbing the barrel of his revolver into the small of Turner’s back.

‘Unfortunately, yes. But he’s an important man in the town. We have to make allowances.’

Brusquely brushing past her, Corbin shoved Turner ahead of him. He growled over his shoulder, ‘Make sure Jeannie is doctored and cleaned up when I return, Madam!’

He rapped on the door with his hook.

‘Who is it?’ Jeannie’s voice was throaty and tremulous; perhaps a little rougher round the edges than he remembered.

‘It’s the man who saved you from Turner’s knife.’

‘Yes, of course, Mrs Begley said you’d be back.’

The key in the lock turned.

He thought it odd that she should lock the door now though not while she was being intimate with her customers.

He heard her move away from the door and some wooden furniture creaked. ‘Come in,’ she said.

Opening the door, he tried to smother the memory from an hour earlier, when Jeannie had been threatened and bleeding. He entered the room, taking off his hat, and closed the door after him.

She sat in a rocking chair. Looking at him from hollowed eye-sockets, she seemed malnourished. The jutting cones of her breasts were more pronounced than he recalled, pressing against some white gauzy material while her legs were covered by a white frilly petticoat. Her feet were bare. She hadn’t managed to clean away all the blood, he noticed; there were traces on the bridge of her left foot.

‘Thank you for stopping Mr Turner, sir,’ she said, and offered a lop-sided smile.

Her smile hadn’t been that way before, he realised. Something had altered her face – her nose still turned up at the tip, but it had been broken and was now slightly askew. The freckles were barely noticeable under the powder. Her thin lips usually offered the promise of a winsome smile but now they were dark red and unnatural. At one time her hazel eyes sent his heart soaring when she looked at him, but now she was hardly focussing on him or her world. Her mind was in some dark and distant place. Life once brimmed from her, now it was little more than a flickering candle in a gale.

‘Have your cuts been doctored?’

She blinked, returning from her reverie, and nodded. ‘Mrs Begley brought in Doc Bassett. He sewed up two cuts and the rest weren’t too deep. The iodine stings, but he says I’ll be OK.’

‘Just keep the wounds clean,’ he said. He refrained from commenting on how many young lives he’d witnessed being snuffed out on account of dirty wounds.

‘Thank you for caring, Mister.’ Her smile was thin, fragile, as if she was afraid that it may be misconstrued, his kindness sullied.

Hands gripping the brim of his hat, he said, ‘You don’t recognise me, Jean, do you?’

‘No, I can’t say as I do.’ She gave him another travesty of a smile. ‘You appreciate, I entertain many gentlemen. Unfortunately, my memory isn’t as good as it was, you know?’ She lowered her feet to the floorboards and thrust herself out of the chair, which creaked in protest at being abandoned.

‘Let me take a good look at you,’ she said, gliding up to him. She still walked with an enchanting serene movement; once, he’d thought of her as poetry in motion.

He looked down at her and he could see the stirrings of memory reasserting something in her, in the glinting of her eyes.

Brow wrinkled, she glanced at his hook and then his skewed nose. ‘We make a good pair, don’t we?’ she said.

‘Yes, I guess we do.’

She eyed the small scar on his forehead. Reaching up, she brushed a hand gently through his black hair, lingering on the clump of white hair on the left, just above the scar. At one time her touch would have sent his heart pounding; now he just felt sad. Finally, her gaze lingered on his. There was no mistake. Recognition widened her eyes and moisture formed at the rims. She stepped back a pace, a hand rising to her chest, over her heart. What little colour she had seemed to drain from her face. ‘Corbin? Is it really you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered, turning away. She crossed over to the bed and sat down, studying her feet and let tears fall to the floor where they darkened the dust and wood. ‘Oh, my God.’ A small fist beat at her right breast, plaintively.

He moved to sit beside her on the bed but refrained from touching her. ‘It’s been a long time, Jean.’

She nodded. ‘A lifetime.’

Having observed the change wrought in her, he could understand how she must feel. He’d last seen her in ’62 – twelve years ago.

‘You’ve changed,’ she said, her hands resting in her lap. Turning her head, she studied him, eyes ranging over his broad shoulders and muscular arms and thighs. ‘You’re taller, bigger – quite a man now, Corbin.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t know about the hand – well, anything really.’

He could feel the trembling of her body transmitted through the bed’s mattress. At any other time he might have appreciated the irony, of sitting here on a bed with her; in those far-off days he had coveted her young nubile form, though he hadn’t rightly understood all the emotions that had threshed through his adolescent frame. Now, he understood all too well.

Gently, he placed his hand on hers. ‘Life changes us, Jean. I’ve been through a war – and a lot besides.’

She gave a wan smile. ‘You don’t want to know what I’ve endured, Corbin. You really don’t.’ She looked away again, the back of her hand wiping the tears from mottled cheeks. ‘Best you just go and leave me be.’

Corbin shook his head. ‘No, Jean, I came to see you. I’m not leaving.’

She faced him again, her eyes wide with a cynical edge to them, which he found surprisingly distasteful. Her upper lip curled. ‘You want me, is that it?’

‘No, Jean. I didn’t turn up here as a customer.’

‘Client,’ she corrected.

‘Whatever. As it happens, you’re the fourth Jean I’ve tracked down. The others were false trails.’

‘Tracked down?’

‘Oh, I haven’t made it my business. Sometimes, though, in my travels, I get to hear about a woman called Jean and the description seems to fit yours.’ He eyed her copper-coloured hair and felt impelled to stroke it, as if that motion would brush away the past so they could return to those times of innocence. He raised a hand and gestured vaguely. ‘So I take a detour, just to put my mind at rest. Today, my detour found the real Jean.’

‘But why are you looking for me?’ Her eyes shone with a forlorn hope.

‘I wanted to be sure that you’re all right. And there are a few things I need to know – things only you can tell me.’

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