Page 12 of Follow the Lonesome Trail
A Peculiar Kidnapping
A. Hartley
Wyoming, 1899
There was a fly on her carpetbag.
From outside came all sorts of clanging and shouting, but the fly held Constance’s attention until a particularly loud bang made it buzz away, presumably attempting to prolong its already short lifespan.
She wondered if her own life was about to be much shorter than anticipated. The pamphlet had said the West was won. Or something to that effect: she couldn’t quite remember what it had promised just now. Only that the position it offered was one for a schoolteacher. Absentmindedly, she dabbed the sweat trickling down her neck.
More shouting sent a shiver down her spine, followed by a bang, making everyone in the train car jolt. It broke the strange hold on her concentration and the reality of the situation came roaring back to the surface. Her palms grew damp.
A loud crash, different this time, then a voice shouted, “Sit right where you are.”
Constance glanced ever so slightly over her shoulder. A lanky man made his way down the aisle of the train car; a pistol gripped in his hand. As he passed her, she felt the incomprehensible urge to stick her foot out to see if he would trip. She did not, however, act upon this.
“Alright, who here is C. J. Morrow?” the man said.
Constance closed her eyes. It wasn’t fair. She should have known.
“I won’t ask again,” the man repeated, his voice low as he lifted his pistol higher. He turned in the general direction of a gentleman across the aisle, the only one in the car near her age. He had attempted to sweet talk her earlier. She had ‘accidentally’ stabbed his leg with her knitting needles.
The gentleman’s hands and eyebrows went up at the same time. “My name’s Bentley! I can prove it!” He gingerly pulled out a piece of paper from his vest. Constance couldn’t see what it was, but it seemed to satisfy the train robber. He turned towards a small family clustered together near the front of the car and hesitated. He looked around the car again.
“C. J. Morrow is on this train. We’ve checked the other cars. If you don’t ‘fess up now, you’ll live to regret it.”
Constance already regretted getting on the train in the first place.
The man grabbed the father of the young family and pulled him away from his wife.
“What would your name be?” he growled.
“Douglas,” the father said, quickly.
The robber shook his head. “I think you’re a liar.” He moved his pistol and Constance spoke before she thought.
“I’m C. J. Morrow.” She swallowed. The father looked guilty and relieved all at once.
“You are not,” the robber huffed, then ignored her and turned back around.
Well, of all the…
“I am and I can prove it!” Constance said, becoming a bit irritated. If a person attempted to play the hero, the least the villain could do was go along with it.
The robber turned around again, as if stunned. Constance pulled out a letter she’d written earlier in the day as an escape from boredom.
“I sign all my letters with my initials. I wrote this one and sealed it this morning.” She waved it, emphatically.
Keeping his pistol up and his eyes on the gentlemen in the car, he motioned for Constance to open it. Or at least that’s what she supposed he meant for her to do. She ripped it open and showed him her signature.
The robber muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “just my luck,” but she couldn’t be sure.
“Fine then, Miss Morrow, you’re gonna walk right out that door down there.” He gestured toward the open car door.
Constance shook her head. Getting off this train was the last thing she’d…
He swung his pistol in her direction. She nodded quickly and stood up.
