Riding in a stagecoach is quite possibly the most uncomfortable mode of transportation available, Pinkerton detective Molly Huddleston mused internally as the coach hit yet another bump in the road causing her and her fellow passengers to jump from their seats.

The War Between the States had been over for months now and she had decided to take the opportunity to renew her friendship with Sweet Water’s town Deputy Marshal, Barnett Hamilton.  They had lost touch with each other nearly two years ago after that business with rebel spy Addison Blair.  She had been swamped with work with all the intrigues going on in the capitol.

Barnett was unlike most men she knew: he was simple but dedicated; gruff but sweet; romantic but not naïve.  Not to mention that special night in the abandoned pony express station, that night had never been far from her mind.

Unable to read her book, she decided to focus on her fellow passengers.  Across from her was a newly married middle-aged couple.  She learned from them that they had been living common law for nineteen years, then up and decided it was probably time for them to make it legal.  Next to them was a traveling salesman with a stock of Kentucky bourbon.  She believed the western term for someone like him would be whiskey drummer. 

The man sitting next to her was more of a mystery to her.  He was well dressed but not a dandy.  He remained apart from the others, politely smoking a cigar and blowing smoke out the window.  Molly had tried to draw him into a conversation, but he had remained guarded by answering her enquiries with polite, but short, answers.  All she learned was his name was Bart Russell and he was going west on business.

The roar of gunfire and an odd pinging sound interrupted Molly’s subtle questioning.  The coach slowed to a halt with the driver, Nick Wesley, announcing, “It’s a hold up folks.  Best just do what they say.  Make sure nobody gets hurt.”

Molly and the other passengers exited the stage to be met with a sight that made their mouths drop, with the exception of Mr. Russell who cocked an amused eyebrow.  Sitting atop a hammerhead roan toting a shotgun was a man in armor!  It wasn’t the type you see in storybooks, gleaming in the sun, smooth and shiny melding comfortably with its wear and topped off with a feather plume.  It was more the homemade variety.  A battered mesh of metal forged together; made from shovels, tin pans, a metal bucket and quite possibly a potbelly stove.  Despite its comical and ungainly appearance it was still shocking to say the least.

“Throw down that strongbox,” the anachronistic outlaw ordered.  The booming voiced echoed from under his helmet and Molly noticed that he spoke with an exaggerated western drawl.

She also noticed that the stage shotgun, Tector, was nursing a bloody shoulder.  So it was Nick who climbed on top of the coach and threw the metal box down.  As the driver was fetching the money trunk, Molly saw the whiskey drummer nervously reaching into his coat pocket.  What is he doing?  Molly thought furiously.  He’ll get us all killed!  Apparently the metal outlaw had also seen this move.  He quickly drew a Remington .44 and shot the drummer down.  Wesley jumped down to his side but it was too late, he was already dead.

“That was uncalled for,” Nick snapped.

“He should’ve known better,” the outlaw replied flatly.

Nick reached into the drummer’s pocket and angrily pulled out a flask.

“Happy,” Nick snarled.  “You killed a man over a drop of whiskey.”

The iron killer simply ordered everyone back into the coach.  Mr. Russell and the other man carried the drummer inside.  As soon as Molly and the other woman were inside, they closed the door and continued toward town.  Molly took out her handkerchief and placed it over the dead man’s face.  It was the longest five minutes in her life.

When the stage roared into Sweet Water, Deputy Marshal Barnett Hamilton who had been nervously awaiting the arrival of Molly Huddleston met it.  He still had unresolved feelings for her, but all thoughts about her faded when he saw the wounded Tector.

“Get Doc Barnes!” He shouted at urgently to a passer-by.  Then turned his attention to Nick Wesley.  “What happened?”

“The Iron Rider,” Nick said simply.  “He shot Tector then demanded the bank cash box.  He also killed one of my passengers.”

“What,” Barnett said, his skin going cold.  Who had been shot?  Had Molly been hurt?

The Deputy closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.  The Iron Rider had been robbing stages for weeks, but he’d never killed anyone.

Barnett dashed to the side of the stage to see the newlyweds and Molly exit the coach, followed by a well-dressed man smoking a cigar.  Barnett visibly relaxed upon seeing that Molly was okay. Doc Barnes arrived followed by Sweetwater’s new marshal, Wade Harker, and the Wells Fargo officer manager, Oliver Crawford.  Marshal Harker was a grizzled veteran of the law business. He’d been a country sheriff in Montana and California, and had taken the job of marshal in the spring of 1865.  Crawford had been the stage agent in Sweet Water since before Barnett had taken the job of Marshal Sam Cain’s deputy, eight years ago.  It was said Crawford had been in Sweet Water when it was just another station along the overland line.  A stout fussy looking man, he was always dressed immaculately, if somewhat dusty.

“This is horrible,” Crawford said in a panicky voice.  “The Iron Rider never resorted to murder before.”

“Probly thought the drummer was going for a gun,” Nick said matter-of-factly.  “Poor bastard was just trying to settle his nerves.”

“Where’d this happen,” Marshal Harker asked.

“Up by Devils’ Rock.”

Harker rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully then said, “Well you folks come on over to the marshal’s office with me and I’ll take yer statements.  Then you can go with Mr. Crawford over to the Wells Fargo office where you’ll be compensated for yer losses.  Follow me please.”

As they made their way to the marshal’s office, Molly and Barnett took the time to catch up. “I thought you’d be Sweet Water’s full marshal by now,” Molly said.

Barnett shrugged, “Guess the county thought different.  Harker showed up a coupla months ago.  Been here ever since.”

He was trying to sound indifferent, but Molly could hear his bitterness.  He had been a deputy marshal for the Sweet Water area for nearly seven years, but its citizens weren’t going to give him the chance of being their marshal.  A few innocent mistakes in the past had branded him a buffoon and a dupe, and now he was forced to live with that.

After everybody had left the marshal’s office, Barnett asked, “Should I round up a few men for a posse or just a scout?”

Harker looked at him blankly.  “What for?”

“To go after the Iron Rider.”

“Let the Wells Fargo people take care of it.  They’re good at getting their money back.”

Barnett was shocked at Harker’s attitude.  “It’s gone beyond robbery.  He killed someone!  That makes it our business.  We are the law around here, aren’t we?”

“Only within the town limits.  The murder happened outside our jurisdiction.  This is officially a county matter.  Let the county sheriff handle it.”

“Juris – You know damn well Sheriff Dooley doesn’t have the time or manpower to do something about this.  Not since before the war.  Besides, he wouldn’t mind if we -”

“Enough, deputy!” Harker thundered, slamming his hand on his desk.  “I’m turning this over to Sheriff Dooley and that’s final.  Understand?”

Barnett debated trying to argue his point but decided against it.  Any further argument would be pointless.  Harker had been a marshal for years so he must know what he was doing.

“Yes sir,” he answered.

“Good,” Harker nodded, an extremely faint smile of triumph tugging at his lips.  Barnett left the office as the marshal began to shuffle some papers.  “Now, have you found out whose been sawing down the hitching posts all over town?”

Molly, meanwhile, had been waiting outside the marshal’s office for Barnett when she noticed Crawford and Russell across the street speaking conspiratorially to each other.  She’d give almost anything to know what they were talking about.  Her musings were interrupted when Barnett came out of the office.

Tearing herself away from the scene across the street, she asked, “So what are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” he replied.  “The crime happened outside our jurisdiction.  It’s officially out of our hands.” 

“What,” Molly cried in disbelief.

It was unlike Barnett to let something like a border to get in the way of his sworn duty.  She remembered when they’d been on a train between St. Joseph and Springfield and he had taken it upon himself to try and apprehend the outlaws robbing it. 

“He’s handing it over to Sheriff Dooley.  Marshal’s got me looking into sawed off hitching posts.  Probly just a buncha kids - ”

“Wait a minute,” Molly cut him off.  “There’s been a murder and the marshal’s got you chasing vandals!”

“Now hold on a minute,” Barnett said holding up his hand.  “I said there’s nothing I can do officially.  Of course there’s nothing saying that I can’t take a leisurely ride with a pretty lady.  And we might stumble across ourselves a murder scene and turn over anything we find to the county sheriff.”

Molly smiled and took Barnett’s arm.

“Why deputy,” she said coyly.  “I believe you’ve turned downright devious in your old age.”

After changing into some riding clothes and renting a horse from the livery, she and Barnett rode to Devils’ Rock.  The deputy dismounted and began to inspect the terrain.

“Find anything,” Molly asked, dismounting.

Barnett shook his head.  The rock territory made following any tracks impossible.  That’s probably why he chose it, Barnett thought.  An Indian couldn’t pick up anything here.

Molly saw a flash of the sun catching on something from a nearby cliff.

“Barnett,” she said.  “I think we’re being watched.”

“I was wondering if you’d noticed him,” Barnett said with a grin.  “I think he’s been followin’ us since we left town.”

Barnett gently took her arm and lead her towards the rocks.  Before she could ask what he was doing, the air echoed with the crack of a rifle blast.  The bullet kicked up some of the moss on the rocks they took cover behind.

“You still carryin’ the nickle revolver,” Barnett asked as another bullet ricocheted off their hiding place.

Molly nodded.  “What did you have in mind?”

“D’you think you could keep’ im occupied while I sneak up behind him?”

“Of course I can.”

While Molly and their unknown attacker traded shots, Barnett carefully worked his way around back of their faceless assailant.  He debated whether or not to shoot him, but decided against it.  He might want to question him later.  Instead, he cracked him across the back of his skull with his pistol butt.  The sharpshooter slumped over without a sound.  Barnett noticed that the shooter’s rifle was the latest model.  Well oiled and shiny, the rifle belonged to someone who took a great deal of care in his weapon.

After checking him out, he called Molly over.  Upon looking at the face of their attacker, Molly gasped.  It was Bart Russell!

It turned out the Russell was a Wells Fargo agent sent to investigate the Iron Rider robberies. After Harker chewed Barnett out for interfering in something that was none of his business, the deputy tried to defend himself.

“All I did was try and take a young lady for a horse back ride.”

“And you just happened to end up near Devils’ rock,” Harker sneered.

“That still doesn’t give him a reason to take a shot at us.”

“He was trying to scare you off.”

“As a duly authorized deputy marshal, I have the right to arrest someone who was threatening the ladies life.”

“Anymore than six miles outside of Sweet Water you don’t have the authority to do shit!”

“If Marshal Hunter was here-”

That was the last straw.

“Well he ain’t here,” Harker roared.  “He went and got himself killed down in Texas during the war.  In a battle that happened after it ended.  I’m the law in Sweet Water now, whether you like it or not.  And if you don’t like it, turn in your badge!”

Without a word, Barnett ripped off his badge, tossed it into Harker’s face and stormed out the door. Molly found him a couple of hours later after the sun went down, hopelessly drunk.  Sighing irritably, she put her hands on her hips.

“Well aren’t you a sight,” she scolded.  Barnett mumbled something incoherently.  “Are you just going to lie there feeling sorry for yourself?”

“Pretty much,” he slurred.  “Unless you can make me a better offer.”

Molly fumed.  “Well for starters, you can catch the Iron Rider.”

Barnett snorted.  “In case it escaped your attention, I ain’t a deputy marshal anymore so it ain’t my problem.”

Before Molly could argue further, a gunshot rang in the night.  Calculating that it came from the direction of the marshal’s office, Molly went to investigate.  Sobering up quickly, Barnett staggered to his feet and followed her.

When they arrived at the office, they found a light on and the door hanging open.  Inside they found Marshal Harker lying on the floor with two slugs in his chest, quite dead.  Before they could catch their breath, they heard more shots, this time coming from the Wells Fargo office.  As Molly dashed towards the station, Barnett yelled for someone to get Doc Barnes and followed.

At the Wells Fargo office they found the office a mess with papers everywhere and an upturned desk.  Bart Russell was lying face down in a pool of old blood and Crawford was lying next to him with a nasty gash on his forehead.  When Barnett went to check on Crawford, Molly examined Russell to discover he was still alive.  Molly strained to hear what he was saying.  It sounded like “for ... rider” then he died.

The next morning Doc Barnes announced that Marshal Harker and Barton Russell had been killed by a shot to the chest, and Crawford would be laid up for a few days with a concussion.

Crawford said he’d caught Russell going through his files.  When he confronted him, Russell pulled a gun.  There was a struggle and the gun went off.  Molly talked to Barnett about what he was going to do now.

Barnett shrugged.  “Probly go back to punching cows I guess.  God, I hate cows.”

“I mean about the deaths and the Iron Rider.”

“What do you expect me to do?  I’m not a lawman anymore.”

“You’re all Sweet Water’s got right now,” she took him aside and continued in a low voice.  “Your resignation isn’t common knowledge yet.  As far as these people are concerned, you’re the law in this town now.”

She held out the marshal’s badge in her hand.  Barnett swallowed as he looked at the little tin star.  Finally he took the badge and reluctantly pinned it to his shirt.  It felt strange, wearing the full marshal’s badge.  He’d been a deputy marshal for so long, the added responsibility was almost overwhelming.  When the thought of being Marshal Barnett Hamilton sunk in, he turned to Molly and said, “Well.  What now?”

Molly was relieved at Barnett’s seemingly renewed vigor.  “First I want to examine the stage office a little more closely.”

Back in the Wells Fargo office, Molly was studying the door’s lock intently.  Barnett was hovering over her shoulder.  It was very hard for Molly to concentrate with the lawman breathing her ear. She didn’t now if the hairs standing up on the back of her neck were due to excitement or annoyance.

“What are you doing?” Barnett asked.

Molly ignored the question.  Instead, she stated, “There are no scratches on the door.”

Barnett stared at her blankly.

“It means that the lock wasn’t picked.”

“So?  What’s that got to do with anything?”

"Maybe nothing.”

Molly stood up quickly and lost her balance.  Barnett put his hands on her hips to steady her.  The deputy’s hands on her waist brought back flashes of a passionate encounter.  Molly felt her cheeks flush and pulled away uncomfortably.  Giving a terse thank you, she entered the office followed closely by Deputy Barnett.  The two agents of the law began to search the room.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Barnett asked, lifting a lamp.

“I don’t know,” she said testily.

They continued to look over the murder scene for a few more minutes, but it became clear they weren’t going to find anything helpful.  Nick Wesley, who had been standing in the doorway, asked if they were finished so he could begin cleaning up.  They both did so, and headed back to the marshal’s office.  On their way back, Molly noticed the hitching post outside the livery was missing.  In the office, Barnett sat down in the chair.  Leaning back in the chair, Barnett put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.  “Well,” Barnett said letting out a breath of air.  “What now?”

 Molly then related her plan for catching the Iron Rider.

They both arrived at the stage depot to find Nick Wesley fussing around they office.  Being the only other stage employee, he was in charge of the line until Crawford was well enough to resume his duties or until a replacement could be sent.

“Enjoying your new promotion, Nick,” Barnett said, trying to suppress a smile.

“Don’t start with me, Hamilton,” said a frazzled Wesley as he looked up from his paperwork.  “My Polly doesn’t like me working for the stage line as it is because I’m gone so much.  Now I’m home, she still doesn’t see me.”

“What would you say if I told you we have a plan to put a stop to these robberies.”

That got Wesley’s undivided attention.

For the next two hours Molly and Barnett outlined their plan: the stage line was scheduled to deliver an army payroll on its next run.  Molly would disguise herself as the shotgun while Barnett hid inside.  Neither of the men was keen at having a woman riding with them, particularly Barnett, but they didn’t have time to find anyone else.

“Why can’t Barnett ride shotgun,” Wesley asked.

“Because Barnett’s well known in the area, that’s why,” Molly said irritably.  “The Iron Rider isn’t going to risk killing a lawman."

They arrived at Fort Laramie to pick up the money, where Molly changed into a loose fitting pair of pants, shirt and a rawhide duster.  She stuffed her tangled ash blond curls up in a wide brimmed hat.  To add effect, Molly smeared mud over her face, neck and hands to give her a rough look.  When 
she was finished, you’d never guess that just a few minutes ago this dirty little cowboy was in fact the refined young lady.

It wasn’t until she spoke that you could tell she wasn’t a boy.

“Well gentlemen,” she said.  “Shall we get going?”

Shaking off the shock, Barnett began to have second thoughts.  This was dangerous work for a woman.  Molly could get seriously hurt, or even killed.  But it was too late too late to change their plans now.  Besides, Molly had been in worse situations.  The fire fight with those Confederate spies when they first met; when she helped him thwart the Rattler and his train bandits; and that stand off with Addison Blair and his thugs.  So Marshal Barnett Hamilton climbed into the coach and crouched down on the floor.

An hour later on the trail to Fort Bridger, the thundering blast of a Remington signaled the arrival of the Iron Rider.  When the coach ground to a halt, Barnett burst from the coach, keeping the door in front of him and leveled his rifle at the rider.

“Throw down your guns and grab some sky,” Barnett ordered.

The marshal wasn’t really sure what happened next, but all of a sudden everybody was shooting.  Buckshot and bullets bounced off the rider with loud pings.  The rider tried to steady his horse and shoot back at the same time.  He managed to hit Wesley in the side. The driver cried out and fell back against Molly, knocking her to the ground.  The metal clad road agent paused as he raised his pistol when Molly’s hat flew off revealing her long, feminine curls.  Barnett saw his opportunity.  Taking aim, he shot the iron outlaw in an exposed area just below his armpit.

The road agent turned and fired wildly in Barnett’s direction.  The bullet splintered the wooden doorframe, sending a sliver of wood into Barnett’s hand.  Howling in pain, Barnett dropped his rifle and fell back, sitting into the coach.  With Barnett down, the Iron Rider saw his chance.  Turning his horse, he rode away as fast as his horse could carry him.

“Barnett,” Molly called as she struggled to her feet, dusting off her pants.  “Are you okay?”

Pulling the sliver out with his teeth, Barnett said, “Yeah, fine,” then called. “How ‘bout you Wes?”

They found Wesley slumped in the drivers seat clutching his side.  “I’ll be alright,” he said with a grimace.  “Go.  Get that son of a bitch.”

Molly and Barnett unhitched a couple of horses from the team and took after the metal plated outlaw.  They followed the horse’s tracks until they reached Devils’ Rock.  From there they followed a blood trail.

“Guess I got him after all,” Barnett said proudly.

They tracked the drops of blood to a well-concealed cave.  Molly and Barnett drew their pistols and entered cautiously.  Deep inside they found a forge lit by a combination of candles and torches.  In a corner near the furnace there was a pile of lumber.

“Hey, it’s the missing hitching posts.” Barnett said. “So that’s what happened to it.  The Iron Rider has been using to keep his smithy going.  How long do you think all this has been here?”

“A great deal longer than either of you know,” an echoing voice said from behind them.  “Drop your guns and turn around slowly please.”

Molly and Barnett complied, and came face to mask with the Iron Rider.

“I must admit, I am surprised to see you here.  How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t hard,” Molly paused.  “Crawford.”

“Crawford!?!” Barnett said incredulously.

The outlaw stiffened.  “How did you know?”

“It wasn’t that difficult to figure out,” Molly explained.  “There was only a hold up when large sums of money was being shipped.  So I knew whoever was making the robberies had to have advance knowledge of the cargo and its routes.  That, and Russell told me before he died.”

Enlightenment finally dawned on Barnett.  “Of course.  You killed Harker and Russell when they got to close to figure out it was you.”

Crawford laughed derisively.  “I admit I killed Russell because he got to close.  But I killed Harker because he got too greedy.”  At Barnett’s blank look, Crawford elaborated.  “Harker was in on it.  For a percentage of the loot he would look the other way.  But then you started kicking up a fuss about doing something about the robberies, he demanded more money for keeping you under control or he’d spill everything.  So I took care of that little problem.  But that still doesn’t explain how you knew where to find me.”

“You left a trail this time,” the deputy said, indicating the fresh bandage underneath Crawford’s arm.

“Ah, yes,” Crawford conceded.  “You took me completely by surprise.  I didn’t think a woman or a buffoon like you could come up with a plan like that.  But it doesn’t matter know as neither of you will be leaving here.”

“In that case,” Molly said quickly.  “Mind if I ask one more question?  Why go to all the trouble of making a suit of armor?  I mean, you might as well wear a sign.”

“That’s probably the point,” Barnett put in.  “There are two reasons most people do what he does.  Easy money and to make a name for himself.”

“Not quite,” Crawford snarled.  “You know people have a very romanticized view of the west, but in truth it’s incredibly empty and boring.  Particularly when you spend it sitting behind a desk.  Do you know how long I’ve worked for the Overland Line?  Ten years.  Ten years of mind numbing boredom.  So I decided to try and spice up my existence.”

“And that included killing a man,” Barnett said.

“That was unfortunate,” Crawford said without a hint of regret.  “But I think it’s time for me to move on and try something else.  And now I think I’ve wasted enough time with the two of you.”

As Crawford raised his shotgun, Barnett and Molly sprang into action.  Barnett knocked the barrel aside with one arm and swung wildly with the other.  And had the owlhoot not been wearing a metal helmet, the marshal probably would’ve floored him.  As it turned out, Barnett howled in pain as his flesh and bone connected with forged steel.  Molly had tried to subdue Crawford’s other arm only to be knocked viciously to the ground with a gauntleted backhand.  Barnett and the Iron Rider continued to struggle.  The Rider was impervious to Barnett’s blows, but the heavy armor made his movements slow and clumsy.

“Barnett, look out!” Molly shouted.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the furnace belch fire.  Barnett dove to one side as the ironclad road agent was enveloped in the fireball.  The hapless Crawford flailed about, screaming, as he was slowly cooked inside his own armor.  Grabbing a sledgehammer, Barnett knocked the metal outlaw into a water trough.  Steam erupted from the trough as Crawford was completely submerged. Indicating the furnace, Barnett asked, “How’d you do that?”

Molly held up a phial.  “I sprinkled a few drops of this in the flames.”

“What is it?” Barnett said taking the phial and holding up to the light.

“Nitro glycerin.”

Barnett gave a yelp of surprise and let the phial slip through his fingers.  Moving swiftly, Molly managed to catch the phial in mid air before it hit the floor.  Looking up at the marshal, Molly gave him a withering glance.  Barnett shrugged helplessly.  Gently cradling the harmless looking phial, Molly put it back in the box she found it in.

Splashing caught their attention and they turned to see the Iron Rider thrashing about in the trough. The metal suit was holding him down. He was drowning!  The armor was still too hot to touch so Barnett used some tongs to lift him up just enough so he could breath.  The helmet slipped off to reveal the burned blistered face of Wells Fargo station manager, Oliver Crawford.

Everything was cleared up in the next couple of days.  The stolen property was returned and Crawford was sent to Fort Laramie to stand trial for murder.  It was decided the Barnett would remain marshal, as the town officials didn’t want to have to go to the trouble of looking for another one.

Barnett was celebrating his new position by dozing in his chair with his feet on the desk.

“Working hard marshal,” Molly said with a smile as she entered the office.

Barnett stood up to greet her.  “What brings you by?”

“I just came to say good-bye.”

“Oh,” Barnett said, his face falling.

There was an uncomfortable silence that followed, which was interrupted when the lady detective cleared her throat and said.  “Well, I’d best get going.  I don’t want to miss the stage.”

“Molly wait,” Barnett said.  Grabbing her arm, he turned her to face him.  “Molly I … what I mean is..." he continued to stumble for what to say.  “Ah the hell with it.”

Throwing caution to the wind, he pressed his lips to hers.  Stiffening at first, Molly relaxed and returned the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck.  Deepening the kiss, Barnett wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer.  After an indeterminate amount of time, Molly broke off the kiss to come up for air.

“Let’s go upstairs,” the newly appointed marshal breathed.

“The stage,” she argued half-heartedly, but offered no resistance when he took her hand and led her to the stairs.

“You can always catch Fridays stage.”

“Today’s Tuesday.”

“I know.”