Ironhorse

by Robert B. Parker

  “I’ll get some rope,” I said.

  In short order we snugged his hands behind his back, pigged them with a half-hitch strain to his feet, and left him curled up in the shed.

  We made sure he was breathing good. Then Virgil and I moved up quick on the white house before Vince and the other bandit could grow curious. They were still singing and playing music as we commenced with our plan.

  “I’ll come in the front door,” Virgil said. “Same time you come in from the back room into the parlor.”

  We heard loud laughter followed by another tune being kicked up and sawed on a fiddle.

  “Watch me,” Virgil said. “Once I’m up front, we count ten.”

  “Okay.”

  I stood next to the back porch and watched Virgil walk through the narrow opening between the white house and the building next door. When Virgil got to the front he looked back to me. He raised his arm and dropped it, signaling me.

  I started counting to myself as I stepped over the railing and entered the back-room door. Thousand one . . . thousand two . . . thousand three . . . thousand four . . .

  I stayed out of view of the half-open door leading into the front parlor . . . thousand five . . . thousand six . . . thousand seven . . . thousand eight . . . thousand nine . . . I pushed open the door and entered the parlor at the exact time Virgil came through the front.

  “Nobody move!” Virgil shouted.

  A big bald fellow sitting next to a whore at the piano got to his pistol kind of fast, and I shot him. The women screamed. He fumbled with his pistol like he was still trying to get a shot off, and I shot him two more times. He fell back onto the piano keys, making a dull thumping tune, and dropped to the floor between the bench and the piano pedals.

  Vince was caught with his left arm around one whore and his right around the other. He jerked his right arm free and froze with his hand on the grip of his Colt.

  “Don’t do it, Vince!” Virgil said.

  Vince looked back and forth between Virgil and me.

  “Quiet!” Virgil yelped to the ladies.

  The women stopped whimpering.

  “Far as I know, Vince, you’ve not killed anybody,” Virgil said.

  Vince kept his hand on the handle of his pistol, looking back and forth between Virgil and me.

  “Serve some time, live to an old age. Talk about the time you lost part of your ear on the rail north of Half Moon Junction, or you can end it right here, getting killed by me, or Everett, or both of us.”

  Vince kept looking back and forth between Virgil and me.

  “Rex is dead,” Virgil said. “The other hand is bundled up like a bale of alfalfa in the water shed.”

  The bandage wrapped around Vince’s head was showing a spot of red.

  “Be good to get you to the jailhouse,” Virgil said. “Lock you up. ’Course, it’s your call.”

  Vince knew he was done up, and he did not like it. Not one bit. If there was betting going on, I would put money on him doing something stupid, but his cowardliness got the best of him. He removed his hand from his pistol and hung his arm back over the shoulder of the woman on his right. He let his bandaged head go back and rest on the top of the sofa. I moved to him and removed the Colt from his belt. I handed the pistol to Virgil and gathered Vince by the buttons of his long johns and jerked him to his feet.

  55

  WE WOKE UP Constable Berkeley. He came to the jailhouse with one of his deputies, J. B. Larson, a young fellow with a big wad of tobacco in his mouth, and they got the place opened up for us. The jailhouse was a two-room structure with an office on one side and two cells on the other. Thick double doors that remained wide open divided the office and cells. We got Vince and the smaller bandit locked up, each in his own cell.

  I walked back in the front door from taking care of the horses, and Virgil was still sitting in a cane-back chair in front of Vince’s cell with the Henry rifle resting in his lap. He was doing the same thing he was doing when I had stepped out, questioning Vince. Deputy Larson was asleep in a corner chair, and Berkeley was yawning wide as he stirred a pot of boiling coffee.

  I walked over behind the main desk and took a seat in what looked like a comfortable chair, but when I sat on the cushion I felt Bob’s parfleche pouch under my butt. I freed the long strap from my shoulder, put the pouch on the desk, and let my butt settle into the cushioned seat. I put my leg over the edge of the desk and seriously thought about sleep. Vince and Virgil were both visible from where I was sitting.

  Vince was sitting on the bunk with his elbows resting on his knees, looking at the floor. I could tell he was tired of Virgil’s questioning. Before I had stepped out, Vince had told Virgil everything he knew about the Yankee, and what he said pretty much matched what Dean had told us.

  “So why did the Yankee target you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were in Wichita Falls, playing Seven-Up at the Bluebell Pool Palace and the Yankee asked you to be a part of this robbery?”

  “It came up I was a train hand. I told him I worked as a brakeman. I worked for a couple of different railways, Union Pacific being the main line, but got laid off after the air brakes took over.”

  Virgil looked at me and back to Vince.

  “George Westinghouse.”

  “That’s right,” Vince said disgustingly with his Irish brogue. “The Yankee said he had a job and he needed somebody that was familiar with trains.”

  “Why was it you set the Pullman on fire?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Who did?”

  “The other fellow.”

  “Who?”

  “I never met him before.”

  “But you met him tonight?”

  Vince nodded.

  “He was?”

  “Bob Brandice. He got on, boarded with the Yankee. Bob’s a mean son of a bitch.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Vince said. “He’s a mean son of a bitch. That is why.”

  “Why’d he set the Pullman on fire?”

  “He threw a damn lantern. The fire kicked off quick.”

  “Why?”

  Vince shook his head.

  “He was mad I would not stop the coaches from rolling backward.”

  “Why was he mad?”

  “When I knew we had you and Everett to deal with, I was not about to go back looking for the Yankee who double-crossed us. But when it came out, when I said your name, when I said Virgil Cole, Bob got angry. He insisted we stop.”

  “And you wouldn’t.”

  “Hell, no, I wouldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “So I would not have to see you or Everett Hitch. Hell, it would be all right with me if I never saw the two of you ever again, including right now.”

  Virgil looked at me and smiled.

  56

  BERKELEY PULLED THE coffeepot from the stove. He poured cups and handed them around. The first cups he passed through the bars to Vince and the other prisoner. They both looked at the coffee like it might be poisoned.

  “Just coffee, boys,” Berkeley said.

  Berkeley poured more cups. He gave one to Virgil, then me. He kicked the chair where Larson was sleeping. Larson looked about, wondering what happened, and Berkeley handed him a cup.

  “Nap’s over,” Berkeley said.

  Virgil sipped on his coffee for a moment, then continued questioning Vince.

  “So, Brandice wanted to stop, why?”

  “He wanted to come after you.”

  “He told you that?” Virgil said.

  “Oh, yeah, he did,” Vince said. “He damn sure did. He said he had bloody plans for you. Not Hitch.”

  Vince looked over to me and back to Virgil.

  “Just you. He said he was going to cut you into pieces. He went into detail how he would go about it, too. He’s an animal, and judging from what I saw, he was not just whistling a waltz.”

  Virgil looked at me and smiled a bit and looked back to Vince.<
br />
  Vince continued, “He told me to brake the cars from rolling backward or else. I said, or else what? And he came at me like a bit dog. He cocked his rifle, but big Woodfin was fast. He grabbed the rifle and hit him so hard he went down in a clump.”

  I was looking at Virgil. He looked to me, then back to Vince.

  Vince was looking at the floor.

  “And Woodfin?”

  Vince stayed looking at the floor for a moment before lifting his eyes back to Virgil.

  “I told Woodfin to keep an eye on him. I had Rex, big Butch, and Eddie here”—Vince pointed to the smaller fellow in the cell next to him—“working the brakes in the other cars. We was rolling for a good long while, and after some time I came back to the Pullman. Woodfin had Bob at gunpoint, by the uphill door. When I came back in through the door, Woodfin looked to me, and when he did, Bob, real fast-like, spun around on Woodfin and in a second had a knife to Woodfin’s throat. I went for my Colt, but Bob said he’d cut Woodfin if I touched the Colt. Woodfin still had Bob’s Henry rifle in his hands. Bob told Woodfin to let go of the rifle. But instead of letting go of the rifle, Woodfin just slung the rifle out the door, and when he did Bob cut Woodfin’s throat,” Vince paused looking at Virgil. “He just cut Woodfin’s throat. I never seen anything like that, just cut his goddamn throat and flipped him off the rail. I went for my Colt, and when I did Bob slung the conductor’s lantern at me. I shot, but I don’t think I hit him. Next thing I knew, he was off and the Pullman was on fire. He’s a mean son of a bitch.”

  “Then what?”

  “I told the governor to get his wife and get into the back car. That is exactly what happened, and within a short time the cars started to go real slow. I disconnected the Pullman, and after a few moments we were stopped, just stopped.”

  “Then what?”

  “I told the governor, all the people, to stay put in the cars. Give us time to get going, and then they could do what they needed to do.”

  Virgil looked at Vince, who was now looking at Virgil, nodding.

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  Virgil stood up to close the heavy doors between the cell and the office.

  “Ask the governor, he’ll tell you.”

  I figured Vince was telling the truth, and so did Virgil, but for whatever reason Vince felt his routine was deserving of some sympathy or acknowledgment, but Virgil was not about to oblige Vince in any way. Virgil just closed the doors.

  “That’s the truth!” Vince said as the doors closed with a thud.

  57

  VIRGIL SET THE stock of the Henry rifle on the floor and leaned the barrel on the edge of the desk.

  “That sounds right,” Berkeley said. “What he was saying is pretty much what the governor said. At least in respect to how the fire started, anyway.”

  “Might well be,” Virgil said. “Hard to say what is what with boys like Vince. With a lifetime of lying, they don’t know when they’re even doing it.”

  Virgil walked to the stove and poured some more coffee into his cup.

  “There is a cigar there for you, Marshal,” Berkeley said.

  “Box on the desk.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Virgil set his coffee down and got a cigar from the box. He got a match from a narrow porcelain cup and dragged the tip across the underside of the desk. He got the fire going good, picked up his coffee and walked to the open door, and looked out into the street. He leaned on the doorjamb and took a sip of coffee.

  There were two wingback chairs opposite the desk where I was sitting. Berkeley poured himself some more coffee and sat in one of the chairs. He blew on his coffee before he took a sip.

  “Your Indian pouch?” Berkeley asked motioning to Bob’s pouch on the desk.

  I picked it up and looked at it some.

  “Naw.”

  I dropped it back to the desk.

  “Belonged to the mean son of a bitch Vince was talking about.”

  Berkeley blew on his coffee some more and took a sip.

  I picked up the pouch again and looked at its handiwork. It was sure enough Indian-made—it had fringe, a few bear claws and rattlesnake tails dangling from the sides. The long waist strap was made of tightly woven deer sinew. I opened the pouch and dumped the contents on the desk.

  “Whetstone, coin sack, comb, jerky,” I said.

  I tossed the comb and jerky in the trash and picked up the small leather coin sack with a brass snap. I opened it. Inside, there was a single silver dollar, two Indian heads, and a folded-up piece of paper. I opened the paper. It was a newspaper article. I leaned over and turned up the desk lantern. I read the caption out loud:

  Dateline Huntsville. Convicts Escape.

  Virgil turned, looked at me. I waved the article in the air.

  “A keepsake, no doubt . . . from Bob’s pouch here.”

  “Must be exploits accounted.”

  Virgil took a sip of coffee.

  “Read me the clipping.”

  I leaned into the light and read.

  58

  PRISON GUARDS KILLED as Two Convicts Escape Huntsville. Murderer and Criminal Mastermind Break Out of Jail in Huntsville, TEX, March 1.

  Years ago on the Sweetwater Ranch, now part of the infamous XIT Ranch, ranch foreman Jay Christopher Wood and his wife, Sharon, were brutally stabbed to death by Robert Brandice. Brandice was tracked down by Sweetwater’s law counsel, Virgil Cole.

  “Law counsel?” Virgil said as he moved from the door and sat in the chair next to Berkeley, “That’s a new one. We were hired guns.”

  “Least you got your name in the paper,” I said, and continued reading.

  Brandice was eventually apprehended by Cole after a shoot-out that left Brandice on his deathbed. Brandice was subsequently found guilty and sentenced to hang, but his sentence was reduced to life, considering Brandice’s fragile condition.

  “Fragile?” Virgil scoffed. “Fragile like a Chicago mill saw.”

  Eleven years later, Brandice and his cell mate, John Wellington, walked out the front door of Huntsville Prison at seven o’clock this evening dressed as prison guards. The uniforms they were wearing belong to Huntsville guards Cameron Thomson and Gary Dempsey. Both Thomson and Dempsey had worked at the prison for twenty-plus years and were revered and respected senior employees of Huntsville. Thomson and Dempsey were found under the bunk in Brandice’s cell. Both had been tied up and stabbed to death. A homemade knife was later found at the scene. Brandice’s cellmate, Wellington, was serving a sentence of sixty-five years for second-degree murder and masterminding an embezzlement scheme that nearly brought down the Texas banking industry, leaving one person dead. Wellington had been incarcerated for two years prior to this escape. Wellington lost an arm while operating a steam lathe during his incarceration in Huntsville. Both men are considered extremely dangerous. Sheriff Daniel McGinley called for a posse just after midnight. He divided the men into four groups to scour the territories within a radius of the penitentiary. Sheriff McGinley offered a $1,000 reward for each of the men. Men at Large: Robert Boulder Brandice, forty-six. Brandice is described as a lean man, medium height, with long hair and beard. He has a history of violence and has been in and out of jail many times. John Bishop Wellington, fifty-five. Wellington is European; however, his nationality unknown. He’s tall, well mannered, speaks several languages fluently, and was reported to be an experienced Shakespearean performer.

  I looked at Virgil. He put his cigar between his teeth, set his coffee on the desk, and picked up the Henry rifle.

  “Thespian, huh,” Virgil said.

  Virgil slid the Henry rifle under the light on the desk and pointed to three small letters engraved on top of the receiver near the rear sight.

  Berkeley and I leaned in for a closer look.

  “JBW,” Virgil said. “Not that it does us any good knowing who he is, but at least we got us a handle on the mysterious Yankee. John Bishop Wellington.”

  I continued rea
ding the remainder of the article to myself but stopped and looked up at Virgil.

  “There’s more here, Virgil. This part provides us some good.”

  Virgil looked at me; I continued.

  Wellington’s crime gained the state’s attention when three prominent Texas attorneys—Stephen Humphrey, William Mills, and James Lassiter—were also indicted after the ill-fated embezzlement scheme went awry. Charges were eventually dropped on the three due to the lack of state’s evidence. Many believe Wellington was the scapegoat for the others, who were heavy with counsel.

  I looked at Virgil, Virgil looked at Berkeley, and Berkeley looked at me.

  “Attorney James Lassiter,” I said. “Huh, wonder if that is the same Lassiter who’s dreaming about aforementioneds and abrogate absentions in the Hotel Ark about right now?”

  59

  AFTER THE HARD rain, a low mist was rolling in across the dark streets of Half Moon Junction. The air was dense and damp. We left the horses hitched in front of the jailhouse and walked the short distance up the street toward the Hotel Ark. For some reason it wasn’t until we were on the move that I realized how big Berkeley was. He was almost a foot taller than me, and moving at a quick pace like we were, his long strides were hard to keep up with.

  “So this escaped convict, John Bishop Wellington,” Berkeley said. “You think this is his plan?”

  “Don’t know,” Virgil said.

  “What about Mr. Hobbs?” Berkeley said. “Do you believe there is a cooperation between the men, that they were in on this together, Hobbs, Lassiter, and this Wellington?”

  “Don’t know for sure, either,” Virgil said. “Figure we’ll find out soon enough.”

  “I have to say, Marshal, I was not remotely leery of Lassiter and Hobbs,” Berkeley said. “Frankly never crossed my mind they could be behind something like this, never. I considered them to be caring and intelligent.”