bulging beneath the faded khaki shirt, and the Indian blood showed in the high cheekbones and broad nose.
The girl went forward without a word, placed her bundle on the table and untied it. The three men immediately reached inside and took out revolvers. Dillinger nudged Fallon with his elbow.
'Hey, this is terrific. We've got company.'
Fallon sat up and cursed softly. 'Well, I'll be damned. Juan Villa.'
'You know him?'
'Used to be one of Rivera's peons. Stuck his knife into a foreman a couple of years back. A real firebrand. You ever hear of Pancho Villa?'
'Sure.'
'Juan claims to be his nephew. Bullshit, but it goes down big with the peasants.'
On seeing Fallon, Villa's face was illuminated by a smile of great natural charm. He raised a hand warningly as his two companions went towards opposite ends of the coach.
'You would be wise to place your guns on the table, old friend,' he said in halting English. 'It would desolate me to have to kill you.'
'We aren't armed,' Fallon told him.
'Then stay where you are and don't try to interfere.'
He raised his revolver and fired once through the roof. The effect was astonishing, a sudden eruption of sleeping passengers, a stifled scream, then frightened silence.
'We will now pass around the hat,' Juan Villa said. 'You would do well to contribute generously.'
Dillinger thought banks were a helluva lot better than trains. Less risk, more loot. Maybe Mexico didn't have enough banks.
The door beside Dillinger opened and the conductor stepped in. He hesitated for no more than a second before turning to run - too late. The bandit who had been standing at that end of the coach shot him in the back.
Now that's not sporting, Dillinger thought.
A child screamed and its mother placed a hand over its mouth. In the passage between the coach and the baggage car the conductor was moaning. Dillinger started to his feet.
These guys are doing it all wrong.
Immediately the barrel of Villa's revolver swung towards him and Fallon cried out frantically, 'No, Juan, no!'
Villa hesitated and then shrugged. 'I owe you a favour. This cancels it.' He turned to the bandit who had shot the conductor. 'Lock them in the baggage car and come back.'
Fallon gave Dillinger a shove. 'Get moving!'
The conductor had stopped groaning. They stepped over his body. The bandit bent down to pick up the bunch of keys the man still clutched in his right hand, then followed them into the baggage car.
'Stinking gringos, ' the bandit said. 'A bullet in the head is better, I think.' He threw down the keys and thumbed back the hammer of his pistol.
'Villa won't like that,' Fallon cried in a panic.
'So I tell him you tried to jump me.'
The bandit pushed the barrel of his revolver into Dillinger's back. Dillinger had practised the manoeuvre a hundred times. He had anticipated a policeman's gun in his back, marching him somewhere he didn't want to go. Dillinger raised his hands, pivoting on his left foot, his left arm coming down on the man's gun arm as Dillinger's right hand, now formed into a fist, continued the movement by smashing into the side of the man's face. With his left arm tight around the bandit's gun hand, Dillinger raised his left arm up sharply, hearing the crack of bone. The man dropped the revolver and collapsed with a groan.
Instantly, Fallon grabbed the gun up from the floor.
'You stay here,' Dillinger said. 'I'll work my way back to the Pullman car. See if we can catch them between two fires.'
Dillinger opened the door and the cold air sucked the door outwards, sending it crashing back against the side of the coach. The train was moving at no more than twenty miles an hour and he stepped out on the footboard, reached for the edge of the roof and pulled himself up.
There was a catwalk running along the centre and he worked his way to the end of the baggage car and sprang across to the roof of the second-class coach. The stars were pale and in the east the dark peaks were already tipped with
The girl went forward without a word, placed her bundle on the table and untied it. The three men immediately reached inside and took out revolvers. Dillinger nudged Fallon with his elbow.
'Hey, this is terrific. We've got company.'
Fallon sat up and cursed softly. 'Well, I'll be damned. Juan Villa.'
'You know him?'
'Used to be one of Rivera's peons. Stuck his knife into a foreman a couple of years back. A real firebrand. You ever hear of Pancho Villa?'
'Sure.'
'Juan claims to be his nephew. Bullshit, but it goes down big with the peasants.'
On seeing Fallon, Villa's face was illuminated by a smile of great natural charm. He raised a hand warningly as his two companions went towards opposite ends of the coach.
'You would be wise to place your guns on the table, old friend,' he said in halting English. 'It would desolate me to have to kill you.'
'We aren't armed,' Fallon told him.
'Then stay where you are and don't try to interfere.'
He raised his revolver and fired once through the roof. The effect was astonishing, a sudden eruption of sleeping passengers, a stifled scream, then frightened silence.
'We will now pass around the hat,' Juan Villa said. 'You would do well to contribute generously.'
Dillinger thought banks were a helluva lot better than trains. Less risk, more loot. Maybe Mexico didn't have enough banks.
The door beside Dillinger opened and the conductor stepped in. He hesitated for no more than a second before turning to run - too late. The bandit who had been standing at that end of the coach shot him in the back.
Now that's not sporting, Dillinger thought.
A child screamed and its mother placed a hand over its mouth. In the passage between the coach and the baggage car the conductor was moaning. Dillinger started to his feet.
These guys are doing it all wrong.
Immediately the barrel of Villa's revolver swung towards him and Fallon cried out frantically, 'No, Juan, no!'
Villa hesitated and then shrugged. 'I owe you a favour. This cancels it.' He turned to the bandit who had shot the conductor. 'Lock them in the baggage car and come back.'
Fallon gave Dillinger a shove. 'Get moving!'
The conductor had stopped groaning. They stepped over his body. The bandit bent down to pick up the bunch of keys the man still clutched in his right hand, then followed them into the baggage car.
'Stinking gringos, ' the bandit said. 'A bullet in the head is better, I think.' He threw down the keys and thumbed back the hammer of his pistol.
'Villa won't like that,' Fallon cried in a panic.
'So I tell him you tried to jump me.'
The bandit pushed the barrel of his revolver into Dillinger's back. Dillinger had practised the manoeuvre a hundred times. He had anticipated a policeman's gun in his back, marching him somewhere he didn't want to go. Dillinger raised his hands, pivoting on his left foot, his left arm coming down on the man's gun arm as Dillinger's right hand, now formed into a fist, continued the movement by smashing into the side of the man's face. With his left arm tight around the bandit's gun hand, Dillinger raised his left arm up sharply, hearing the crack of bone. The man dropped the revolver and collapsed with a groan.
Instantly, Fallon grabbed the gun up from the floor.
'You stay here,' Dillinger said. 'I'll work my way back to the Pullman car. See if we can catch them between two fires.'
Dillinger opened the door and the cold air sucked the door outwards, sending it crashing back against the side of the coach. The train was moving at no more than twenty miles an hour and he stepped out on the footboard, reached for the edge of the roof and pulled himself up.
There was a catwalk running along the centre and he worked his way to the end of the baggage car and sprang across to the roof of the second-class coach. The stars were pale and in the east the dark peaks were already tipped with
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