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“Believe it or not, it’s a good thing you got stuck ‘ere another month, Sheriff.”
If he didn’t have a long past with the bartender, Thompson would’ve taken the cheerful tone as an excuse to pop him in the eye.
Thompson instead took a sharp drink from his foaming glass, hardly lifting his chin from his hand.
At the end of the bar, the only other conscious fellows in the canteen and the very reasons Thompson was even still here, Edward was trying to coax the prestigious prince into trying that Co-la. The prince was trying to decline, but was laughing, and Edward was talking cheerfully. Due to their boat leaving without them (the prince’s fault; he just had to nearly get kidnapped by those lady bandits right before they left for London), the three of them were stuck in America and were forced to occupy their time until the next shipping boat. However, the only one that seemed bothered by it at all was Thompson.
The prince (Mathew, as they taken to call him so as to draw less attention) seemed practically giddy to be dressed down in some loaned clothes, enjoying slacks and boots and heat softened leather rather than his silks and gold. He complained a bit about his hair and the dirt, but seemed utterly charmed with the simple town life. Detective Edward was content with just about anything and everything, from shooting practice to the odd locals. Then again, it could just be all that Co-la the bartender was glad to give him.
Thompson was just annoyed due to the fact that he had lived here his entire life, and he had been excited to get a chance of change only for that to get pushed off. Also he was a bit off put that both the detective and the prince were staying at his small house behind the station, eating his food and putting things on his tab. The only thing he could find good in was the fact that the two proved to be pretty amusing, and they both offered the company that he hadn’t known he kind of needed. It was nice to come home to other people for once, but Thompson would honestly rather not come home at all.
God, he was tired of this town.
“How’d ya figure,” Thompson snorted, “’fraid to lose yer best customer? Or are ya just sweet on me?”
The bartender’s mouth quirked at the corner under his mustache, amused.
“Wouldn’t you like that? Naw, I ain’t eyeing you or nothin, as much as a drunk like you might be fun. Just thought you might like to enjoy one last bit of Western fun is all.”
“Western fun, huh? What is it this time? The kid steal another herd?”
The bartender gestured over his shoulder at a wanted poster showing a goat in a black mask, marked over with a red stamp that read ‘CAUGHT’.
“Nope, he got caught a little while ago. The town to the south tricked ‘em right into a pen with a tin can.”
Thompson nodded, probably just to himself. “Told you that would work. But, ‘no, sheriff! It’s a smart goat’. Still a goat no matter how smart.”
“I ain’t gonna give you a prize for bein’ a wise ass. Knowin’ how to stop someone is different than doing it.” The bartender finished shinning his glass and placed it on a shelf.
“I ain’t some cross country lawman, Todd! Spit Bucket is my cross to bear, everything else is not my problem.”
“And still, you’re tryin’ to skip town on us. Headin off to fancy ole England.”
“I saved the queen’s son, damn right I’m gonna cash in and get out of this one horse town.”
The bartender squinted at him. “Our town has two horses.”
“And one sheriff.” Thompson drawled, quirking his brow as if asking the bartender to argue.
When he didn’t, Thompson chugged the rest of his glass. He then wiped off his mouth and clacked the glass down in a way that asked for a refill.
“I don’t envy you. You’ve been protectin’ this place since you could hold a gun, and, hell, you’ve saved us locals more th’n once- I know my business wouldn’t have made it this far without you,” the bartender met his eye, a mischievous glint in the gray. Thompson blinked slow, unimpressed. He knew the man wasn’t talking about the bar.
“I just listen to your gossip, and let you stay outta jail in exchange fer a free tab, is all. Don’t think I want anything else to do with your ‘business’.”
The bartender placed a full glass in front of the sheriff, then leaned against the bar casually.
“Ah, shoot, Sheriff, don’t sell yourself short. You go on my supply runs, and do plenty of headhunting. If not for you, I probably would’ve been shot or locked up long ago… By leavin, you’re also forcing me to pack up shop too.”
“You buttering me up fer a reason, Todd? This about that ‘fun’ you mentioned?”
“Know me like the back ‘o your hand, Sheriff,” the bartender grinned, leaning in close and drumming his fingers excitedly against the bar, “All I’s want is you to go outta your comfort range a little… There’s a train headin’ east bound, charging nearby today in a few hours. Word has it that a couple of British folk have taken up the train bandit life here in the states, going so far as to even derail a few. I’m gonna need you to guarantee that they aren’t gonna be a railroad problem anymore. Ya can kill ‘em, though I’d prefer if ya’d just lock ‘em up in our lil jail here.”
Thompson listened without interrupting, taking a long drink from his glass.
“What do you get outta this?”
“Like I said, Sheriff, with you getting outta town, I’m gonna need to hightail it too. You tolerate and even do a lil’ cleaning for me, but I ain’t got any other friends for miles-”
“We ain’t friends.”
“Neither of us got real friends. We’re as close as we’re gonna get.” The bartender paused, glancing off towards the detective and the prince, still laughing in their corner, before adding, “Well, as close as I’m gonna get… Anyway, friends or no, you still played hired-hand for me for these last couple ‘a years, and, now that you’re leavin, I’m at risk. And I ain’t sticking around here to see if my deals will be kept with you gone. Point is, I’m getting outta here, and train is the only way to get where I wanna go. As many connections I got, I don’t have any trust with these English bandits, and I really, really don’t want to get shot in the ass, Sheriff.”
Thompson pointedly ignored the obvious way the bartender glanced, looking at the man carefully.
“What makes you think they’re even going to show up again? Or that they’ll rob the car you’ll be in?”
The bartender flashed a lopsided smirk, reminding Thompson that this man wasn’t exactly a straight shooter. Not that Thompson ever forgot.
“I’ve got really bad luck, Sheriff. If there’s a chance it can happen, it will.”
Thompson looked thoughtful for a moment, a suspicious look in his eye. “’For I dig myself a grave, answer me honestly. You with these boys, Todd? Some ex-buddies o’ yours?”
The bartender instantly shook his head, resting further on his arms. “Shoot, I wish I was with ‘em. They’re clever as hell. Haven’t been caught once in the past year. People are calling ‘em the Two British Rubies, Rubies for short.”
Thompson stared at him a moment longer, but it was obvious by the slight twitch in his eye that he was interested. He threw back the rest of his drink and slammed the cup down onto the bar with a loud clang. Both Edward and Matthew looked up, the only ones startled by the noise.
“Ed, Matthew, come ‘ere,” Thompson called, gesturing for them without turning around. The two exchanged looks, before standing and making their way over. Before they got too close, Thompson spoke to the bartender, “I’ll do this for ya, but I want enough whiskey to make it cross the ocean and into the Queen’s gate. Also, I want you to get the three in my jail, the ones that caught Princely, and I want you to take ‘em with ya outta Spit Bucket. I know you got connections, and I know ya could handle a few tag-alongs on yer way out. I don’t care what you do with ‘em, I just don’t want ‘em free. Got it?”
The bartender looked curious, but finally smiled. He stuck out his hand, and Thompson eyed the burn marks on the man’s palm before he shook it.
“Alright, Sheriff. It’s a deal.”
*
It didn’t take much more than the bartender’s light gossip to inspire Edward to take the job. He had looked nervous when he learned that these men had actually derailed trains before, but his determination and eagerness won out over his caution. He had especially seemed interested when he learned that the bandits were English, insisting that this was the perfect opportunity to show Thompson how to investigate law the British way. Thompson had protested, stating he liked the American way of shooting first much better. However, when Edward insisted that he would take charge, and Thompson could still shoot someone, Thompson had reluctantly agreed. It would be nice not to have the whole thing be his to take charge of.
Or so he thought.
They decided to hop on the train as it passed along a certain ridge a few miles out of Spit Bucket. The Two English Rubies had been rumored to board trains at the stations, and they all agreed it would be risky if Thompson or Edward got recognized at the stop. Matthew complained that hopping aboard was more dramatic, or, maybe, he was complaining because he was going to be playing a minor part rather than the hero.
The three took off on two different horses, Thompson riding with Edward while Matthew rode alone. The plan was to ride up along side the back of the train, where Thompson and Edward would hop aboard, leaving Matthew to collect their horse and meet them at the next station.
There was the threat of Matthew getting attention from bandits or some other low life, but they all agreed that his disguise would work well enough. To really sell it, they convinced him to wear a hat and a borrowed dark maroon bandanna from the bartender, which the bartender promised would keep the prince safe (he stated such with a wink, and enough confidence that the two British men didn’t question him, though the sheriff just rolled his eye).
“But my face! My hair! I’m already dressed in rags, why do I have to cover everything from sight,” the prince had whined as they rode, his voice coming from behind the bandanna tied around his mouth and nose. Long curls of ginger brushed against his forehead as he rode, and honestly the only thing that set him apart from others would be his posh accent and his gold earrings, which he refused to take off.
“You want to get kidnapped again?” Thompson shouted back over the pounding hooves.
“Well, no,” Matthew huffed, ushering the horse a bit faster and riding with the ease of many years of practice. He had proudly explained that he had been trained on a horse since he was a child, and he competed with his siblings casually, “But I just don’t see why that bartender fellow couldn’t have done this instead. Or, better yet, with me!”
“’Cause he can’t ride to save his life! We already gotta deal with the detective being useless on a horse, it would only get harder if you had to keep that mustached jerk from breakin’ his damn neck. ‘Sides, you said you wanted to be treated like a normal person and not a prince! This is what normal people do!”
Perhaps in argument, or just discomfort, Edward let out a loud noise that probably started as a yell, but ended up cutting to a whimper when Thompson snapped his reins. Thompson could feel the detective’s arms tight around his waist, and where Edward’s chin tucked into Thompson’s neck. He would laugh, but he was mostly wondering if they would be able to make it onto the train with the detective being as scared as he was.
They rode quickly, and carefully, the sheriff confidently leading the way through the stretch of land. After a while of jarring travel, they finally spotted their target. Long clouds of smoke gave away the train before they actually saw it heading up the ridge. Thompson shouted a heads up, and they pushed forward. As they neared the tracks and the rushing machine of travel, Thompson threw a look over his shoulder.
“Alright, this is where we get off!” Thompson announced, shrugging his shoulders so as to get Edward to start moving. He called to Matthew, who was behind them by a stride or two, “You know where you’re going from here, princely?”
Matthew scoffed loud enough to be heard over the horses, but only just barely over the sound of the rushing train, “I know which way is east, Sheriff, thank you very much! You two know what you’re doing?”
Thompson snorted at the prince’s sharp tone, but focused more on his partner. He pushed the horse as close as he was able and finally addressed Edward, who was slightly shaking.
“Come on, city boy! Show me that British spunk yer so proud of!”
“THE BRITISH DO NOT JUMP ON MOVING TRAINS!”
“Neither do most Americans! Lucky fer you, you’re partnered with the only sheriff willin to do it this way!”
“OH, YEAH, LUCKY ME!”
Despite the near scream, Thompson could feel the detective lightly pulling back from him. Thompson focused on keeping the horse steady and close to the railing of the train. Edward’s hands went from Thompson’s waist to his shoulders, and, before Thompson could try to coax him further, the detective lunged. His hand caught the ladder, and, though he almost slipped, Edward was able to climb onto the small platform impressively fast. Fear could do that. A few moments as Thompson readied his horse in position again, and the sheriff joined Edward onto the platform. He stumbled a bit over the railing and almost lost his hat, but Edward caught it for him.
Behind the train, Matthew was pulling back to follow their abandoned horse. He waved in a very princely manner.
“Good luck!” He yelled, it barely managing over the loud noise.
“Thank you, your highness! Be careful!” Edward shouted back, but it was unclear if the prince heard him. Moments later, and the prince was nothing but a spot behind them.
Thompson busied himself by peering into the back window of the train car. Once he was satisfied to find only one passenger, he wasted no time prying open the door. Edward joined him inside and the door closed out the majority of the noise, but the rattling of the train rumbled fondly and somewhat more securely than the horse’s movement from before. The only person in the car was an elderly man who looked like he was about to have a heart attack. He was screaming. Thompson snatched his hat back from Edward, and showed the gold star on the brim to the man.
“Calm down,” Thompson tried to order over the man’s panicked yells, “I’m Sheriff Thompson, and this is Detective Gold. We’re here under the suspicion that a pair of outlaws is going to-”
“You’ll never catch me alive, coppers!” The old man stood up, a black mask suddenly appearing around his eyes. He then bolted towards the door they just entered through. He yanked it open and then promptly threw himself off the train into the dust.
Edward and Thompson stared after him.
“… Was that one of the British Rubies?” Edward asked slowly. Thompson casually fixed his hat upon his head.
“Nope. ‘Just another random bandit. Told ya this side of the country was lousy with them.”
Edward nodded, and Thompson started forward, towards the next door. His hand was already pulling his gun out of his holster.
“Sheriff, just what are you doing?”
“I’m investigatin’, what’s it look like,” Thompson responded, tone clipped. Edward stepped up to him and lightly pulled his hand holding the gun down.
“Well, yeah, but you said that we would do this the British way. And stalking forward with a gun is not very British.”
Thompson frowned, looking very bitterly at the hand on his. After a second of scowling, Thompson tucked his gun away and huffed. “Alright, then, what is the ‘British way’? You goin’ to pour ‘em some tea and ask them to stop?”
Edward lightly bristled, flushing pink, but he brushed his own indignation off. He squared his shoulders, and sized Thompson up with a determined stare.
“I’ll show you the proper way, just like you showed me how to shoot a gun. Are you willing to listen or are you just going to start shooting like the American you are?” His tone was slightly scolding.
Thompson thought for a moment.
“I’ll likely start shooting,” Thompson answered honestly, not even a bit apologetic. Before Edward could get discouraged or upset, the sheriff added in evenly, “But I’ll hear ya out. Lead the way, tell me what to do. I might not listen, but I’ll give what you say a shot.”
Edward hesitated, but both he and Thompson jumped when a sharp sudden sound echoed among the rattling of the tracks. Something different. Something like a crash. A gunshot. The outlaws were here, just as they were told they would be, and the Rubies seemed to be making their move.
Thompson hardly hesitated before prying open the next door and walking through. He glanced in, saw no one up front, and opened the door. The passengers, only five, all screamed, and Thompson had to yell over them.
“I’m a blasted Sheriff! There’s outlaws up ahead. Shut yer mouths and move to the car behind us!”
As they did, Edward slipped passed the crowd, stopping beside Thompson.
“Everything you just did right now,” Edward started, voice not sharp, but instead very calm, “That was wrong.”
“What?”
“Don’t just charge into a car, or any room for that matter, that has too much stress! People that are on edge are dangerous because they will give you away, and they can turn on you thinking you’re going to hurt them. If you can, always proceed slowly.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do? Knock?” Thompson scoffed, and Edward nodded.
“In this case? Yes.”
Thompson thought of offering several situations where knocking would be a terrible idea, but heard another echoing crack somewhere closer up ahead, and decided to save it.
That got Edward moving, stepping forward and gesturing to Thompson to follow. Thompson didn’t complain. They had to move single file because of how narrow the aisle was, so Edward was leading without much chance of Thompson taking over. As they walked, Edward leaned to glance among the back of the seats. He even tilted back so as to see under the very edge of the next row. Upon reaching the door, Edward glanced back and caught sight of Thompson’s raised brow.
“You should always look back. Usually train bandits leave luggage or weapons in the final or second car when robbing a train. Make sure to check for odd boxes set away from everything else,” Edward explained. Thompson nodded.
“We get those sometimes too, ‘cept it tends to be TNT from the miners and those are always near the middle or front of the train.”
Edward’s eyes widened fearfully. “What is wrong with you Americans?”
Thompson shrugged.
Edward shook his head in dismissal, and he turned his attention back to the door. The rushing wind and grinding tracks rumbled around them. Edward almost tripped when walking along the locks, but was focused on glancing inside. People were huddled down, in a large group near the back of the car. No one stood up front. Good sign.
Instead of barging in, Edward knocked on the door. Thompson was about to complain about the wind and the wait, when the door opened from the other side. Edward and Thompson ushered in, barking out short introductions before moving forward.
“Everybody head towards the back car, and wait until either myself or the detective here comes and gets ya,” Thompson ordered, and the passengers started moving.
“Do not let anyone inside until the train has come to a complete stop! Neither of us are going to come to the car until we reach the next station and the outlaws are apprehended. If someone attempts to enter the car before, duck under the backs of the seats,” Edward shouted after them.
Thompson moved ahead of Edward, attempting to do the same sort of checking that Edward had done before. Edward scanned after him, making sure they missed nothing. He noted that Thompson had his hand on his belt the entire time, ready to go for his gun.
Edward tripped over one of the gaps, stumbling to the point that Thompson had to help him up better. Thompson flashed a sort of teasing smirk, before he led the way through the first door, but paused at the second one.
When he looked in, several people were in their seats, hands raised high in the air above their heads. Near the middle of the car, a young man was holding out a sack. He was tall, slender, and was dressed in loose black pants, black waist coat, white button up shirt and a red vest. His hair under his hat was smooth and long and dark, pulled into a ponytail. Bright eyes, calm smile. He looked like he would fit in better in a bank or some party, but the shiny gun in his hand couldn’t be ignored. Obviously one of the Rubies.
Thompson reached for his gun, and he made sure that Edward took the hint. Edward hesitated, probably about to come up with some plan, but Thompson was faster. He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb, back to the last car.
“Leave the back door open, and get ready fer fire. If things get hairy at least we’ll have some cover!” Thompson started to reach for the door, but Edward grabbed hold of his coat and yanked him back a step. Which made the sheriff stumble over the grated and uneven coupling, and he nearly dropped his gun. A bit annoyed, Thompson threw a very sour look at the detective, shouting over the rattling tracks, “What in the Sam Hill do you think yer doin?! We got people being held at gun point!”
Usually people directly under the sheriff’s stare and snarl would crumble. The only kind of people that didn’t were always the more dangerous sort. Like the bartender. And, apparently, this detective.
Edward kept a good hold on Thompson’s coat. The Brit’s expression was stern, desperate. Stubborn. “You can’t just barge in! Use your brain, man! This is a narrow way, we have no cover, and to top it off, we have civilians to worry about! This is exactly why you American’s get shot dead so often- you all act without thinking!”
“We ain’t got time fer thinking! They got guns, we got guns. Neither o’ us got any ground! The only thing we can do is use the element of surprise while we got it! We ain’t got time for the British way of askin’ em to talk with em over biscuits,” Thompson tried to shrug Edward off, only to realize it was just Edward’s hold that kept him from tripping over another bolt. He almost lost his hat again before slapping it hard back on his head.
Edward scowled, cheeks a rosy red of indignation.
“The British way is about negotiation! It doesn’t have the spit shine that a bullet wound has, but it’s quite smarter! Do you even realize that we’ve only seen one of them? There’s meant to be two bandits and we don’t have a clue where the other is! For all we know, the other one could be on the other side of that door, crouched just out of sight!”
Before Thompson could even humor thinking about Edward’s words, the door in front of them opened, as if on cue.
Both parties on either side of the door seemed stunned silent at the others, leaving the sheriff and detective blinking stupidly at another man they hadn’t seen before. This other man was shorter than the first bandit, but seemed sturdier. Short, messy brown hair under a bowler hat, paired with large brows and browned eyes behind small, banker glasses. Dressed nicely like the first, with brown slacks and a tan waist coat, his tall white collar at the top held with a red bow tie. In one of his hands was a revolver, and in the other, he was holding a walking cane. He looked young, healthy. Like a young business man.
The other Ruby.
He scanned the lawmen in front of him owlishly, before he undoubtedly saw Thompson’s Sheriff star. The innocent startled expression instantly vanished, replaced with a sneer of rage. He brought the revolver up in a second.
“Retreat!” Thompson heard Edward squeak before he found himself yanked backwards by his coat yet again. This time it was hard enough that Thompson was tripping over his own feet back into the last train car they had emptied. A gun shot went off.
Thompson fell back, knocking into seats and bruising his hip as Edward scrambled past him to grab the train door. A piece of the chair just next to Thompson’s head exploded with cotton. The sudden movement made Thompson trip and fall over the detective, knocking out Edward’s legs and landing on them, Edward cursing but still scrapping for the door. A second gunshot and a small rain of cotton came from the seat that Edward had been standing in front of. Edward managed to slide the door closed, just barely with mainly his shoulder and sore hands.
There was shouting outside the door, but it was muffled with the noises of the tracks and whistle of the train.
Still laying on his back, a bit stunned and littered in cotton, Thompson admitted softly, “Y’know, maybe you have a point about waitin…”
“The point is not getting shot, Sheriff,” Edward huffed, throwing a pained look over his shoulder, “Now, kindly get off me!”
It took a bit of squirming and scrambling to do so, both of them wedged in the narrow walkway with Thompson mostly laying on top of a half twisted Edward. Thompson was able to tuck and roll a bit off Edward’s legs, though he was careful to brace himself between the seats. Edward crawled his way into sitting, keeping his hands and weight on the door at all times. And yet, the door wasn’t shoved or bothered by anything more than the shift of the train.
The two bandits must’ve retreated as well-
The glass of the window on the door suddenly shattered. Edward and Thompson clumsily braced themselves just against the door, both wedging it shut and trying to stay out of range. They held their breath, protected their eyes from the glass with the wide brim of Thompson’s hat, and waited.
“-This isn’t the bloody docks, Patton! I know what I’m doing!” The voice was just on the other side of the door, now easier to hear without the window, his accent thick but also sort of light.
A different voice, very faint and much deeper than the first shouted back, “Get on it, then!”
The first spoke up again a moment later.
“Sheriffs, you two behave now! You’re cornered and, I’m sure, outsmarted. This is going to go just smoothly as long as you do as I say, yeah?”
“Yer family tree is a shrub, boy!” Thompson barked, causing the bandit on the other side to sputter a bit in surprise.
“Insult me all you like, but understand that we have hostages, Sheriff! Another wise crack and you’ll have to get a carpenter!”
There was a pause.
“What?”
“Why would we need a carpenter?” Edward added in, confused.
The bandit fumbled. “Y- you! A carpenter! A carpenter- a wood worker! You’ll have to get a carpenter to take care of all the bodies!”
Thompson said, “Why? Ya got people made of wood in there?”
“No! What- I just mean- A carpenter builds coffins! You’ll need a carpenter to build coffins for all the people we’ll kill if you keep talking wise!”
Edward let out an enlightened, “Oh! You mean a coffin-maker! The Americans just like to call them coffin-makers.”
“… That’s stupid…”
There was a faint slapping noise and the other bandit, the one named Patton, spoke up. “Pol, shut up! You’re making us sound disconnected from this culture! We sound unintelligent!”
“We are! This isn’t our culture- why the bloody hell should I care what these Yanks call carpenters!?”
“Coffin makers are a specific kind of carpenter!”
“Why do we care?!”
“We went over this-!”
Over the wind and the rattle of the train, the two bandits delved into a bit of arguing.
Quickly, Thompson took advantage of the distraction, nudging Edward with his elbow and leaning in close.
“Alright, detective, what now?” Thompson asked quietly, not sounding nearly as cynical as before. When Edward let out a drawn out groaning noise, Thompson huffed, “You ain’t got a clue, huh? No British tricks for dealing with a situation like this?”
“I’m afraid not! This sort of thing is more your style.” Edward whispered back furiously, obviously stressed and mildly panicked. Overall, still pretty well for a Brit in a shoot out, Thompson thought.
Thompson glanced up and let out a quiet chuckle, an idea hitting him. He removed his hat, taking a hidden flask from inside (a secret kept there just in case due to the recent bandit thievery). Thompson placed his sheriff’s hat on Edward’s head roughly. “Looks like the British way ain’t good fer everything. Time to do this the American way.”
“Before you continue, can you promise me the American way isn’t going to get us killed? Also, why did you give me your hat-?”
“Course I can’t!” Thompson laughed lowly, taking a drink from his flask before screwing it shut and stowing it away in his coat pocket, “An’ I want ya to hold onto it fer me. Might convince those blokes yer actually a sheriff.” Edward actually rolled his eyes at that, but Thompson was suddenly whispering his plan. He ignored the way Edward looked at him as if he had gone crazy, and only finished off with, “Once I’m outta yer sight, give the ruby boy a nice British knock fer me.”
Edward had a very uncomfortable expression, similar to how he looked when Thompson had tossed him that Co-la back at the fight for the prince. Something about the absolute bewildered look was surely growing on him. “The American way is going to kill us both, Thompson.”
“Just trust me, would’ya? I haven’t been sheriff all my life fer nothing.” Thompson placed a sloppy, bourbon smelling kiss to Edward’s cheek as a farewell, startling the British man who didn’t really know the meaning behind it. It was just a last action of a man likely to die, and Thompson had done similar more than once in his life.
Thompson didn’t really explain this though, time for that later (possibly), instead sticking low as he took off down the aisle between the seats. Thankfully not getting any notice of either of the bickering bandits. At the other end of the train car, Thompson pried open the door quickly before slipping out onto the coupling he and the detective had left behind not more than ten minutes ago.
Thompson instantly grabbed hold of one of the rails welded to the train to the side of the door. He hoisted himself over the chain railing and settled on the small, iron ladder leading to the top of the car. The wind flicked his coat and hair, and he knew he had made the right decision in leaving his hat with Edward.
Moving from ladder to top of the train was an adjustment, one that Thompson took with gritted teeth.
Thompson had a bit of skill with balance though, so even rushing wind didn’t deter him as his boots found the small divots of the train’s roof. Baking sun making the metal blister hot, sand filled wind blowing by and filled with the rattle and blare of the tracks. If Thompson were to miss anything once he left, he was sure it would be just the thrill and feeling that came with the open country air and the gun in his hand. He near on sprinted as he neared the end of the roof, just enough that he was able to leap over the space between the cars. Landed with a thud and moved quickly. He reached the end of this other car, grabbing hold of the bolted handle and using just that to drop back on the couple between the hostage car and the next passenger car. It was a bit of a swing, and Thompson admittedly had jelly legs for doing something so risky.
Thompson barely regained his balance as he caught himself on the chain railing when the door leading back to Edward and the hostage car opened right in front of him. Patton, the taller bandit, frowned at him.
“You’re quite a loony, aren’t you? Running on the train like a mad man. Americans,” Patton drew out the last word with a groan, looking very displeased. His gun was up and pointed right at the Sheriff. This would usually be the moment that Thompson just tried tackling the man, and he probably would’ve if he was solo on this, but he wasn’t alone this time.
“You’re mighty unfair for a British man. Aren’t ya supposed to let me get my gun and do ten paces and all that?” Thompson joked, and Patton quirked an unimpressed brow.
“If I recall, America isn’t exactly kind to odds either. Now, Sheriff-”
In the middle of Patton’s words, something happened behind the bandit, something that Thompson didn’t see or hear. Perhaps a shout. Whatever it was, it had Patton glancing over, just a second. And that was all Thompson needed to fix the odds in his favor.
Gun in his hand, Thompson rushed the bandit and delivered a harsh knock with the butt of the metal to Patton’s head. A stumble, a dumbstruck groan, and the bandit crumpled to the ground with a light clatter. In the space behind him, Thompson saw the second bandit standing right there.
A heavy suitcase, likely filled with stolen goods, connected with Thompson’s chest, knocking him down harshly. He was just lucky to be inside the train car enough that his head hit carpet instead of metal. When Thompson looked up, he saw the barrel of a gun. Pol’s gun was up, his expression rather cold, pointed at the sheriff’s eye. Thompson fancied the idea of a quick draw, but he doubted that he could aim before the bandit pulled the trigger.
A flash of silver was all Thompson saw, paired with a solid sound, and suddenly Pol was looking rather dazed. He faltered a moment before he dropped his gun and fell into a heap right beside his knocked out partner.
Edward was huffing in the aisle between train seats, looking between Thompson and the bandits. In his hands was Pol’s cane from before.
“How do you like it? Your cane isn’t too soft, is it?” Edward spat tiredly, Thompson’s hat askew on his head and hanging a bit in his face. A nice bruise was already forming around one of Edward’s eyes.
Thompson blinked in surprise at him for a moment, before allowing a smirk to pull his mouth. The detective carefully stepped around the downed bandits, to the sheriff who was still on the floor.
“Y’know, with that shiner and my hat, you could almost pass for American. Hell, ya could be my replacement and nobody would notice a thing,” Thompson said instead of ‘thank you’ but meaning the same. It was clear in his smile.
Edward glanced up at the hat, as if he forgot about it, before tilting it back from his eyes. With a teasing grin, Edward reached out a hand. “I doubt that. You’re quite respected there and I don’t think I could fill your cowboy boots, Sheriff. Besides, there’s no bloody way I’m staying here.”