The young woman in magenta did not raise her hands. She folded them in her lap, one white glove over the other, and turned her face from the window to the man in the duster as if he had come to the wrong address.
"You're blocking the aisle," she said.
The bandit took two steps toward her. His free hand came out, reaching for her wrist, or her reticule, or simply to make her obey.
Gabriel did not move anything but his mouth. "I wouldn't do that."
The revolver swung off the girl and found him. The blue eyes above the bandana narrowed. "Who asked you?"
"Nobody."
For a moment there was only the noise of the wheels. Gabriel kept his hands on his knees, in plain sight, open. He was watching the eyes and listening to the voice, and something in him that had been tight since Colorado Springs drew tighter. He knew that voice. He had heard it in January, in snow, reading a notice aloud in front of his sister's door.
The young woman was not looking at the bandit's face. She was looking at his revolver. The grip was walnut, worn dark by a hand, and into the backstrap above it someone had stamped a small device: a wheel with a pair of wings, and a K at its hub.
"I know that mark," she said.
The bandit's eyes flicked to her. "From where?"
"My father's company."
"Keep quiet."
"You work for him."
"I said quiet!" He reached and caught her by the upper arm and pulled her half out of her seat, and the feather on her hat shivered. She did not cry out. She looked at the hand on her sleeve the way one looks at a stain.
Gabriel stood up.