A lone lantern hung from the rear train car above the door. Its sickly yellow light trickled down onto the railed platform below. The back of the train was unguarded. No one had yet to burst forth from the safety of the caboose, either. For the moment, Misty’s antics may have gone unnoticed. That, or something else was afoot.

  Worry churned within Dobson’s empty gut. Perhaps it was a stroke of luck that Misty had failed to get the loader up and running. Dobson didn’t subscribe to the notion of fate, of course, but if there was such a thing as signs, this one might have as well been neon and flashing.

  And then, as if it were a giant middle finger from the universe itself, a second sputtering rumble lit the air, louder than before. Dobson’s head swiveled back towards the loader and watched in disbelief as the dark dashboard powered to life with a familiar green glow. The front wheels creaked forward. The worn tread of the tires spun until they caught traction. With a horrendous grinding screech, the giant machine lurched into action, freeing its back wheels from the sand. It chugged slowly across the red dirt, spewing puffs of yellow smoke from its exhaust pipe.

  Dobson strained to catch a glimpse of her partner. The woman moved like a bloody shadow. Sprinting at top speed across the sand, Misty kept her distance from the slow-moving loader. It was like watching the tortoise and the hare play out in real life, except instead of stopping for a nap, the hare was on her way to commit some light murder. The part where the tortoise’s shell had been shoved full of homemade explosives was probably new to the story as well, Dobson conceded.

  Moments later, Misty’s shadow sprinted up over the top of the sandy knoll and dropped down beside Dobson. Face as red as a tomato, she folded in half, desperately sucking in big gulps of warm air. Misty gestured for the hard-shell canteen hanging from Dobson’s neck, rasping, “Water.”

  Dobson unscrewed the cap for her and was immediately assaulted by the noxious stench of fermented ocean brine. She glared at the inside of the canteen before her ire shifted to Misty. “This isn’t water.”

  A playful smile cracked across Misty’s thin lips.

  It was all the answer Dobson needed. Disgusted, she shoved the canteen into Misty’s hand. “You said you brought water.”

  Instead of throwing her head back and draining the canteen in a single glug, Misty took her sweet time, savoring each dainty sip as if it were fine wine. “Technically,” she said, smacking her lips appreciatively, “water’s the main ingredient. Therefore, it counts.”

  “The same could be said about sewage,” Dobson countered.

  Misty argued the best way she knew how, with a smile.

  Dobson was still too angry to give in to her partner’s charms. Shaking her head, she muttered, “Glorified ocean swill. It’s no better than drinking from a toilet.”

  “And how would you know? Drink from toilets often, Dobsy?” Misty’s stupid smile widened as she lifted the canteen in Dobson’s direction. “Be a dear and seal this for me, would ya?”

  Dobson obliged her by screwing the cap on tighter than necessary. And not because she was feeling generous, but because it prevented her from having to actively breathe in the fermented fumes of briny ocean death. Finished ensuring no one would be able to open it without the generous use of a circular saw, Dobson jutted the canteen back in Misty’s direction. “Don’t expect me to lug your toxic clam water on my back. If you want it so bad, then you can be the one to carry it.”

  Misty did so, offering a big, bright smile in return, as she was physically incapable of making any other expression. Her glassy eyes flickered from Dobson’s unamused face to the company train that rested just beyond the knoll. Her smile remained plastered in place. “We’ve got movement.”

  A pair of gunslingers emerged from the rear train car and stood along the railed shoving platform. Their large, augmented bodies stood out against the surrounding dark, lit by the sickly glow of the lantern hanging above their heads.

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  Reaching deep into her pocket, Dobson rooted through the assortment of pilfered parts until she found what she sought. She ignored Misty’s curious stare as she fitted the scope to her rifle.

  Misty’s voice emitted from between her clenched teeth as a growl. “Stick with the plan, pumpkin.”

  Dropping to all fours, Dobson crawled to the top of the knoll on her belly. She could feel the heat from Misty’s glare from behind as she peered through the scope at their intended targets. “Settle, petal.” She’d overheard Misty use the phrase back in the saloon and savored employing it against its original owner. “I’m just having a look.”

  “Good. I may not be a notorious sharpshooter like you, but even I know you don’t have the right equipment for it. All shooting is going to do is give away our position.”

  It was Dobson’s turn to feel annoyed. She knew that, obviously. With the proper rifle, she could have finished the job easily. Alas, none of the overcharged weapons seized along the way counted as proper rifles. They were all too big, too clunky, all bang with little precision—much like the Company Men themselves. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, however, and Dobson had no choice but to make do with what she’d stolen.

  Lifting the corner of her lip in a sneer, she repositioned the rifle, tracking the scope with her eye, until the loader came into view. Its headlights blazed like beacons in the dark. Faint green light from the dashboard spilled forth from the dusty windows, shrouding the cab in a ghoulish glow as the machine steadily chugged along, headed straight for the train.

  Misty still had eyes on the company train. “We’ve got a third fella,” she announced. “They seem to be heatedly discussing something and, oh! Here we go. They’re bringing out the big guns now.”

  Dobson swiveled the scope in time to see a third man emerge from the back of the train, shouldering a portable rocket launcher. He positioned himself along the iron railing and took aim.

  Misty dropped to her belly and wriggled up the knoll faster than a streak of greased lightning. She reached for Dobson’s shoulder and squeezed, suppressing a squeal of excitement. “Come on, baby, fire! Momma wants to see a big boom.”

  The loader steadily drew closer. Four hundred yards. Then three hundred and fifty. Three hundred. And then, just as the loader’s creaky wheels looked as if they were going to make it, the roar of the engine sputtered out. The giant mechanical beast rolled to a stop. Above, the faint green glow of the cab faded to black.

  Misty’s clenched fist struck the sand with a muffled thud. “No!” she hissed, eyes darting back to the train. “Come on, it’s not that far. Take the shot. Shoot it!”

  “It’s out of range,” Dobson said.

  “They’ve got legs, don’t they? Where’s their initiative?” Defeated, Misty rested her face in the sand. “I swear, they don’t make henchmen like they used to, Dobsy. No one wants to work these days.”

  The man wielding the rocket launcher unslung it from his shoulder as the other two argued beside him, gesturing frantically at the broken loader. They went back and forth for some time before a decision was reached. Reluctantly, moving like wary prey, the trio slid down the ladder and onto the tracks below. But once their feet struck the sand, they didn’t venture any further, content to keep fighting amongst themselves.

  A screeching whistle pierced the air, causing all three gunslingers to jerk their heads skyward. Dobson and Misty followed suit. A flare arced overhead like a shooting star with a trail of sparks and smoke billowing in its wake. Dobson followed the tail of smoke to its source, noting it had come from the nearby cliffs. Squinting, she saw two tiny figures standing over the top of the town, watching them from above.

  Misty saw Owen and Florence as well. “Alright, I admit it. Sparing those two might have been a good idea after all.”

  That depended entirely on their ability to aim, of course. Dobson redirected her attention back to the flare. The blazing streak of red rose higher, higher, higher, peaking just below the domed dirt and stone ceiling, before it dropped. The glowing ball of fire plummeted straight for the loader.

  “Look away!” Dobson cried, shielding her eyes.

  The area lit around them, as clear as day, a split second before the loader erupted in a blazing inferno of fire and shrapnel. The blast surged across the undulating hills of desert sand, stirring violent plumes of dust into the air. Dobson counted the pulses with her fingers, waiting for Misty’s industrial-sized flash grenade to complete its cycle.

  “I think that’s it.” Despite her words, Dobson hesitated, waiting a few seconds more before peeking out around the protection of her arm. The loader was nothing more than a scorched spot on the ground, surrounded by burning pieces of shrapnel.

  Misty was already on her feet, pistol drawn. Her legs quivered with excitement as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “What are you waiting for, huh? Up and at ‘em, Dobsy, let’s go!”

  Dobson took the lead and struck out across the sand with Misty nipping at her heels like an overexcited dog. The train was not far. They approached it from the front, keeping well out of the light provided by the explosion as the pair raced alongside the tracks. Dobson swung the rifle from her shoulder as she ran, utilizing the train’s iron hide as cover as she and Misty worked their way to the rear car. She rounded the corner and dropped the nearest gunslinger, who blindly groped for the ladder.