That had been her half-formed dream, anyway, traveling and seeing the rest of the Empire. As a girl she'd harbored reckless fantasies of leaving her small hometown and joining the crew of an airship. In some fantasies she was the captain of that airship. It was an environment where she hoped a woman could prove her mettle. That was what she wanted: a fair chance to stretch her wings and challenge herself and be bold. The inn felt too small and constricting. Surely she was meant for more? She could shoot as well as most men she knew, could outrace many of them, and was certainly more educated than many, having developed a fondness for reading at her father's knee.
And yet she spent her days beating out mattresses and stirring stews and making conversation with drunkards. Now that she was away from Willowton for the first time in her life, she acknowledged that she didn't want to return to the tiny town.
But what would I do instead?
The depressing question, for which she had no answer, followed her into sleep.
She was awoken by a jolt that sent her tumbling out of the bed. The moment she sat up from her sprawl across the floor, she was grabbed by her shoulder. She opened her mouth to scream but another hand pressed over her lips.
"It's me, Miss Johnston." She recognized Darrell, the Marshal, bending over her. "Be quiet, now. Beaufort's men are trying to take the train."
Mariel's heart stopped. This was her nightmare coming true. "We've stopped."
"There was an explosion," Darrell said grimly. Mariel could see him slightly now in the faint light slanting through a crack between the curtains. He'd drawn his gun. "They've probably blown the rails. I need you to stay here and don't move. I'm going out to help Marshal Carson."
"Clay." Mariel's heart began to beat again, only now it thundered painfully in her chest. "He's out there alone!"
"Not for long." Darrell let himself outside into the hallway. "Keep the curtains drawn and don't open these doors unless it's me or Marshal Carson," he ordered. "Get dressed and be ready to move."
She was up and dressing before his running footsteps had faded from earshot. She strained to hear what was happening outside the train, but the other travelers were making too much of a ruckus for her to make out anything, their confused shouts and cries drowning out everything. Mariel took a chance and moved the curtain aside ever so slightly so she was granted a sliver of the outside view.
She gasped at the sight of men on horseback, bandanas covering the lower halves of their faces, guns glinting in the moonlight. She counted at least a dozen, but what if there were more? Even a dozen were too many for Clay and Darrell to defend against on their own. Would the other guests attempt to hold off the gang members?
Unlikely. The only person who had a stake in doing so was her.
"And yet I'm unarmed," she murmured.
She scowled. An airship captain wouldn't sit about in her room, waiting for the villains to come kill her. She cast about the compartment, looking for a weapon, a gun left behind. But of course that was absurd. The Marshals wore their weapons at all times. Which meant she needed to find her own defense.
After listening to the commotion in the hallway and deeming it safe, she quickly slipped out of her compartment just as shots were fired outside the train. Travelers screamed and ducked back into their compartments. No help there.
Mariel looked to the door to her right. Hers was the last passenger car, which meant the next one in line was for carrying cargo. Mind made up, she slung open the connecting doors and dashed into the next car.
Crates filled the car. Most had seen travel, their corners battered or splintered, boot marks and scorch marks marring the wood. Some were marked with destination addresses or were stamped with their place of origin. Others showed no indication of where they were from or who they were meant for, or else were impossible to see in the dim lighting coming through cracks in the slatting; boxes of mystery. She ran her eyes frantically over the variously sized crates as the sound of more gunfire snapped through the air. As terrified as she was, she was angry, too, knowing the Marshals were out there fighting for their lives only so they could keep her alive. That obligation weighed heavily on her shoulders. She was determined not to sit around like a helpless ninny.
After some searching, she was relieved to come across a crowbar leaning in the dark corner nearest the door she had come through. She hefted it and wove her way between the boxes. She paused at one box, suitably shaped, and wedged the crowbar beneath the crate's lid. Grunting from the effort, she managed to pry the lid off after much jerking and pushing, only to curse in frustration at finding Chinese vases packed in straw. A rat jumped out at her from within, startling a yelp out of her, but she angrily persevered, moving deeper through the stacks.
When she came upon a long crate, resting on its side, she paused. It definitely looked the sort of container to carry rifles, if a bit too tall. It had no marks on it, save for an origin stamp from Shadow Valley Territory, which meant nothing to her in regards to whether it might contain weapons. She jammed the end of the crowbar beneath the lid and applied her weight to the bar. The lid was stubborn. It creaked as the first nail slowly, reluctantly, began to squeeze from the wood.