Ironhorse

by Robert B. Parker

  “Well, ’bout two months,” I said. “Give or take some days.”

  Virgil turned his attention out the window again.

  A swell of blackbirds appeared, traveling parallel with the train for a while. They dipped down out of sight behind a section of quartz cliffs. After some distance the birds drifted back up again, lifting above us and out of sight.

  “Just because we have been away for a long while doesn’t mean Allie’s with Teagarden,” I said.

  “Proof is in the pudding,” Virgil said.

  “That’d be a matter of your sampling.”

  “Normal circumstance, I’d be interested in that proposition,” Virgil said. “But at this very moment, I ain’t.”

  “I can understand that.”

  Virgil gave a sharp nod.

  I didn’t say anything else. I understood Virgil well enough to know when a conversation had paused, lingered, or ended, and this one had ended.

  Virgil looked back out the window. The lowering sun flickered behind a ridge of evergreens.

  “I’m gonna tend to the horses,” Virgil said.

  He took a long draw from his cigar and placed it in the silver-plated ashtray on the seat back in front of us.

  “I’ll be right here.”

  Virgil stepped out the back door as the train chugged slowly up a narrow pass of juniper, quartz, and sandstone. I looked out the window, thinking about how much weight the engine was pulling, thinking of my days of service in the area we were currently passing through. This was the edge of the Fourth Military District. I worked under General Adelbert Ames and had been stationed throughout the Indian Territories during the Reconstruction, following the war. Not real good memories to be conjuring up on such a beautiful sunny summer afternoon, but the territories were different now. Even though there were Kiowa, Comanche, and Apache living in the assigned Indian Territories, there was no longer any real threat of hostiles. Trains, or “little houses on wheels,” as the Indians called them, were as common in the Indian Territories as they were in most states.

  The locomotive was chugging unusually slow now. I tipped my hat, shading my eyes from the flashing patches of sun, and started to feel slightly dozy. For some reason, the hot sun on my cheeks made my thoughts drift to Katie from Appaloosa—her sheets, her liquor, her long legs, her dark hair, her womanliness. I yawned, and when I did, I heard the front coach door open, followed by the back door, followed by, “Hands in the air! This is a robbery!”

  4

  THE ROBBER’S ACCENT was thick, Scottish, maybe Irish, Welsh maybe. I lifted my hat to see a large man wearing a billowing white shirt and a flat-pressed felt hat with a flip-front brim. Behind him stood a very large man with a long red beard. They both carried late-model Hopkins & Allen revolvers and had bandanas covering their faces. Standing next to me was a tall man who’d come through the rear door. He was wearing a duster and carrying a Schofield revolver in each hand.

  By now the passengers were screaming, which prompted the Scot, possibly Irish or Welsh, robber with the flip-front brim to bark, “Everybody, hands in the air! Reach! Hands in the air and shut your mouths! Anybody who doesn’t do as we say will be killed! Hands where I can see ’em!”

  Everybody did as he demanded. For the moment, I figured there was no reason not to comply with his demands and have a bullet sent in my direction. I raised my hands up where they could be seen.

  I was trying to place the foreigner. There was something very familiar about him. Maybe we had been stationed together. Maybe . . .

  “Everyone keep your hands where I can see them,” he shouted. “Everyone!”

  I’d been stationed near here, in Fort Smith. I was familiar with this rugged country and most of the outlaws that were part of it. I was certain this foreigner was from my diary of disregards.

  “The only time I see your hands drop is when you put your money, watches, and rings in these hats!”

  When the robber and the big bearded man took off their hats to be used for collection plates, I recognized him and the bearded man both. I knew if Virgil did not somehow do as he was accustomed to, show up and change these thieves’ course of direction, or if I didn’t make a move soon, I’d be shot when they recognized me.

  The man with the Schofield revolvers standing next to me did not say a word or remove his hat. He was the watchman, and I did not oblige him by looking up and exposing my face.

  I wondered how he got past Virgil. Nothing gets past Virgil, ever. He must have come from the top of the train, or maybe he was hiding in the freight car, and Virgil walked past him. Maybe he got the jump on Virgil, and Virgil was thrown from the train, or was dead.

  “Put all your valuables in these hats!” Vince yelled.

  That was his name, Vince. Vince was Randall Bragg’s right-hand man in Appaloosa. He was as bad as they came. Given that I was the one who killed Bragg on the porch of the Boston House Hotel in Appaloosa, I was certain when he got to me, he’d be none too happy to see my face. Vince and Redbeard moved down the aisle, collecting passengers’ belongings.

  “Don’t anybody do anythin’ stupid!” Vince shouted. “When we get to the top of this rise, we’ll be gone and you’ll be safe!”

  I assessed my options as Vince and Redbeard walked the aisle, prodding each passenger to give up their valuables. My eight-gauge leaned against the window frame but was certainly too cumbersome for swift movement. I could not reach for my Colt or dingus because the man with the Schofields was standing just to my right, towering above me. He was no more than a step behind me, and he’d be sure to see my actions.

  Vince and Redbeard were halfway down the aisle, getting closer and closer to me as they gathered money and jewelry from the passengers. Redbeard was collecting faster and was ahead of Vince by a step when he looked directly at me. He stood tall, and I knew he recognized me. He turned his head slightly, looking back to Vince.

  “It’s Everett Hitch,” Redbeard said.

  When Redbeard turned back to me, I could tell by the wrinkling around his eyes that he had an evil smile under his bandana. But the wrinkles smoothed out quickly when he heard Virgil speak up: “And Virgil Cole!”

  5

  VIRGIL WAS BEHIND the man with the Schofield revolvers. His bone-handled Colt nudged into the man’s back.

  Redbeard jerked quick and inadvertently fired off a shot. It hit the man with the Schofield revolvers square in the chest.

  The name Virgil Cole sort of did that to people. It made people flinch and do things they otherwise might not do. Redbeard might have been trying to pick off Virgil where he was standing behind the man with the Schofields, but the man with the Schofields went down.

  The next shot came from Virgil and located itself in the forehead of Redbeard, sending him backward into Vince. Redbeard’s big body made for good cover, and Vince was quickly out the front coach door. Virgil moved fast up the aisle, chasing after him.

  I grabbed my eight-gauge and followed Virgil in pursuit of Vince. By the time I made it to the door, the door had swung back closed and Virgil was on the platform of the forward coach. He turned quick.

  “Down, Everett!”

  A fast succession of shots rang out from the forward coach. Virgil moved quick to the side, out of the line of fire, as bullets came flying down the aisle, busting through the glass of the front car door and through the glass of the rear coach door. I shifted to the right and promptly dropped in a seat next to a heavyset woman. The passengers were screaming and crying as the bullets whizzed down the aisle, catching pieces of glass and wood. After a moment the shooting stopped. We waited. I was on the opposite side of the coach from Virgil. I could see him clearly through the busted glass. The passengers were distressed. Some of them were crying, and others started chattering nervously.

  “Everybody quiet! We’re marshals,” I said. “Just remain quiet!”

  Most of the folks stopped clamoring, but some kept talking.

  “Quiet!”

  Virgil looked at me
as he reloaded his Colt.

  “Who we dealing with, Everett?” Virgil said. “That hoss called you by name.”

  “Not sure about the lot of ’em or how many they are, but that fellow shooting back at us is Vince.”

  Virgil snapped the loading gate of his Colt closed with the palm of his hand.

  “Vince! The Irishman from Bragg’s gang?”

  “None other.”

  “You sure?”

  “It’s him.”

  “He’s no good,” Virgil said.

  “No, he’s not.”

  Virgil shook his head some.

  “What the hell is he doing down here?”

  “Until you showed up,” I said, “trying to rob this train.”

  “Vince!” Virgil called out loudly.

  Vince did not reply.

  “Vince!” Virgil shouted. “You hear me?”

  Again, there was no reply.

  “You already got two of your hands killed, Vince! You’d do best to give yourself up so we don’t have to kill any more of you! Including you!”

  Nothing. Either Vince was waiting for us to make a tactical error and expose ourselves or he was going forward through the train.

  “Might be on the move,” I said.

  “Could be.”

  “Don’t think it’d be a good idea to go through that door and find out, though,” I said.

  Virgil shook his head.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Virgil said.

  “No telling how many they are.”

  “Big train,” Virgil said. “Three in this coach might be a hint the whole slew of that bunch are on board.”

  “If they’ve not already got control of the engine,” I said, “they’re gonna try.”

  Virgil looked to the ladder by his shoulder, then back at me. He pointed up the ladder.

  I nodded and pointed to myself, then pointed to the rear door of our coach.

  Virgil nodded. Then he climbed the ladder to the roof of the train.

  6

  I DROPPED TO the aisle floor, then stayed low and moved toward the rear door. I passed over the top of Redbeard and the dead man with the Schofields and made my way out the door.

  By the time I climbed the ladder to the roof of the car, Virgil was ahead of me by two cars. He was heading to the front of the train, to the engine. The locomotive was belching heavy smoke as I walked forward on the roof of the coach, following Virgil.

  The train was still on an uphill grade, chugging through a deep gorge of red sandstone and quartz. Through a cloud of thick smoke ahead, Virgil stopped and crouched down. He was all the way to the front end of the first coach, just behind the tall tender car that carried the rock coal. I kept on the move and made my way over the top of the next car, and the next, and the next.

  As I jumped to the forward car, the train cleared the gorge and started slowing down. To my left, there were three riders with a number of saddled horses keeping pace with the train.

  No sooner did I see them than they saw me. The rider in the front pulled a Winchester from his scabbard, swing-cocked it, and rounded it in my direction, but before he could pull the trigger, Virgil shot him.

  The rider tipped over in the saddle and fell under the herd, which prompted the other two riders to pull up.

  I kept walking steadily forward and moved up next to Virgil, who crouched behind the tall tender. I looked back behind us; the riders faded away in the distance as the train continued moving north.

  Besides being a steady and confident gunman, Virgil was one hell of a shot, best I’d ever seen, and that was one hell of a shot.

  Virgil looked at me, rose up a bit, and pointed over the top of the tender toward the engine cabin. We could barely see the engineer and his fireman, but we could see enough to know they were being held at gunpoint by two of the bandits. The engine was loud, but the bandits had heard Virgil’s shot. They were looking out from one side of the cabin to the other. Virgil pointed, motioning for us to move up over the top of the tender to the engine cabin, and in an instant, we did just that. We moved fast and rushed the cabin.

  Virgil shouted, “Drop ’em!”

  The bandits did not drop their guns. They raised them instead, but they were too late. Virgil shot the one on the left. I shot the one on the right. They never fired a shot. By the time the thieves hit the cabin floor, Virgil and I were to the front end of the tender, looking down into the engine cabin at the shocked faces of the engineer and his fireman.

  We kept our pistols on the bandits as we climbed down into the engine cabin. One bandit lay sideways on the floor—he’d been shot in the head—and the other was on his back, shot in the chest. They were both dead.

  Virgil showed his badge.

  “I’m Marshal Virgil Cole. This is my deputy, Everett Hitch.”

  The engineer and the fireman were both huge men, with strong arms and overalls covered in soot.

  The engineer slid up his goggles, revealing white circles around his eyes.

  “Thank God you showed,” the engineer said.

  7

  THE TRAIN WAS chugging slowly as it moved up through the heavily wooded river valley. The wall of mountains to our left blocked what remained of the setting sun, and we were closing in on dark. Virgil opened the loading gate on his Colt. He replaced the spent rounds with lead-filled casings and undented primers as he looked out of the cabin, watching the woods passing by.

  I reloaded my Colt as I looked closer at the dead gunmen on the cabin floor. Neither of them wore bandanas hiding their faces. I put the heel of my boot to the shoulder of the man lying on his side and turned him over.

  Virgil looked back to me.

  “Bragg’s hands?” he said.

  “Don’t recognize either one of ’em,” I said.

  “The others back there?” Virgil said.

  “Not sure ’bout the hand you came up behind with the Schofields,” I said. “But the big red-bearded fellow you shot rode with Bragg. The other shooting at us was damn sure Vince.”

  “Vince is a bad hombre,” Virgil said.

  “Not afraid to pull the trigger,” I said.

  “No, he’s not.”

  Virgil shook his head and leaned out of the cabin a bit and looked back behind us.

  Before I killed Randall Bragg on the porch of the Boston House Hotel, Bragg had his way with Virgil’s woman, Allison French. Virgil had a profound dislike for Bragg and his gang. The name Bragg or anyone associated with Bragg was not a welcome recollection to Virgil’s memory, especially the big Irishman. Vince challenged Virgil outside the jailhouse in Appaloosa, and Virgil backed him down in front of the whole gang. Vince threatened he’d kill Virgil one day, and Virgil didn’t much care for that notion. Virgil Cole did not take threats lightly.

  “Looks like Vince finally got the opportunity he’s been waiting for,” Virgil said.

  “Opportunity to kill you?”

  “Yep,” Virgil said.

  “Been a bunch that have had such opportunities before.”

  “There have.”

  “They didn’t fare so well,” I said.

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “Wasted opportunities.”

  “Don’t see a reason to disappoint Vince of not having his opportunity,” Virgil said.

  Virgil looked out of the cabin again to the solid stand of trees passing by, and then turned to the engineer.

  “How long this land stay like this?” Virgil said.

  “Rugged like this, you mean?” the engineer said.

  Virgil nodded.

  “Well, right back there, where those horses were, was the last of the open terrain. Nothing but woods going north now. Rail snakes through thick woods all the way up to Tall Water Falls, and it’s uphill to boot. After that, the woods open some. By the time we get to Division City you’re in fairly open country.”

  “Can you make it to open country without stopping?”

  The engineer looked at the fireman.

  The fireman
shook his head.

  “No,” the fireman said. “Got the biggest tender of any train running, four thousand gallons. But uphill like it is, I doubt we’d even make Tall Water Falls.”

  “When’s your next water drop?” Virgil said.

  “Standley Station,” the engineer said. “Two hours.”

  “There a town there?” Virgil said.

  “Small one,” the engineer said.

  “Right now,” Virgil said, “keep moving; don’t slow down any more than you have to. Don’t want these robbers getting off this train, busting free into the woods, understand?”

  “I do,” the engineer said. “There’s something you should know, though.”

  “What’s that?” Virgil said.

  “We got the governor of Texas and his family on board,” the engineer said. “Wife, two daughters.”

  “That’s why you took so long boarding in Paris,” I said.

  “I reckon so,” the engineer said.

  “What car they in?” Virgil asked.

  “First-class Pullman sleeper,” said the engineer. “Fourth coach back.”

  “Daughters?” Virgil said. “How old?”

  “Grown women, that’s for sure, in their twenties.”

  “Texas Rangers with them?” I said.

  “No,” the engineer said. “Pinkertons.”

  “Pinkertons?” Virgil asked. “How many?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “Well, all right, then,” Virgil said. “You boys take care of what’s in front of us, and Everett and me will take care of what’s behind us.”

  8

  THE FIREMAN AND engineer didn’t waste any more time with talk as they took to task doing what Virgil instructed. Virgil grabbed one of the bandits we’d shot and slid him off the side of the train. Virgil’s move was not to remove the dead from the living as much as it was a warning sign to the other bandits. It would give them something to think about, seeing their fallen friend crumpled next to the rail. It was doubtful, though, they could see much of anything. By now, daylight had slipped away, and except for the eerie reddish light that filled the cabin when the fireman opened the firebox, it was near dark. Virgil dragged the second bandit and slid him off the opposite side of the engine cabin like he was throwing out saloon trash.