Robert Parker - Ironhorse

“The air line runs from the engine all the way back,” I said. “If that line loses pressure, the brakes close automatically on any coach that is disconnected, and that coach—”

“—stops by itself,” Virgil said.

“Yep, that’s right,” I said.

“Next thing you know they’ll be putting wings on these damn things and we’ll be flying around like birds.”

“Well, there’s one thing for certain those robbers will be thinking, Virgil.”

“The farther away from us, the better for them,” Virgil said.

“Yep, they are going to roll back as far as they can go,” I said.

“You think they planned this somehow?” Virgil said.

“Hard to figure,” I said. “Must have. Might have been a backup plan. Seems likely, more than likely, one or some of them are train hands, know what they’re doing.”

Virgil shook his head.

“What do you figure we do?” I said.

“We get up to the engineer. Get this train that’s rolling forward to get going backward,” Virgil said. “ En este momento .”

Virgil wasted no more time with words or thought. He started moving forward up the aisle at a quick pace, and I followed. He spoke to the undertaker as we stepped over the dead man: “Take care of this fallen fellow. And be diligent about it.”

We continued walking forward. When we crossed through the rain from one platform to the next, there was a hard jolt in the movement of the train.

When we reentered through the rear door of the uphill coach the passengers turned in their seats and looked back at us. They were wide-eyed watching us as we hurried up the aisle.

Virgil opened the front coach door, and when he did we quickly understood why the train had previously jolted.

We had been disconnected and were drifting away from the first passenger car and engine. Rain was swirling and it was dark, but we could vaguely see the silhouette of someone on the back platform. He was watching us as we faded away from the front section of the train.

“Hellfire,” I said.

Whoever it was, whoever had disconnected us, whoever had outmaneuvered us, was now traveling on into the distant darkness.

Virgil said nothing.

The train was now in three separate sections: the engine and first coach with Emma and Abigail on board, the second and third coach with us, and the fourth coach back to the caboose with Vince, the remainder of the bandits, Bloody Bob, and, if they were still alive, the governor and his wife.

I got down on my knees to check the air-line valve and quickly determined it had already been closed.

We were still moving forward from the momentum, but in no time we would soon be rolling backward.

“Looks like we’re now gonna be bumping into Vince and Bloody Bob sooner than we expected,” I said. “That’s a fact.”

I got back to my feet.

“And a hell of a lot sooner than they expected,” I said.

Virgil just shook his head slightly.

“They will roll slower than us,” I said. “With us in just these two coaches, we’ll be rolling downhill faster.”

Virgil didn’t say anything. He just remained looking forward.

“And when we do,” I said, “we’ll need to ride these handbrakes, controlling our speed.”

Virgil continued looking up the track as if he didn’t believe what was happening.

“They got a head start, but we’ll catch up to them,” I said. “Hopefully before they bottom out. They got more friction, more cars.”

I felt as though I was just talking so Virgil wouldn’t think what he was thinking.

“Vince and the others on those cars back there have to control their speed; otherwise, there will be a train wreck if they don’t,” I said. “Us too, we have to control our downhill speed or we will get to rolling too fast and lose control. We should turn off the lamps so we are dark. Don’t want them to see us coming up on ’em.”

“The fox got in the henhouse,” Virgil said as he continued looking up the track.

“The Yankee?”

“Might well be the Yankee,” Virgil said.

“You’re not thinking that sodbuster we left with my eight-gauge,” I said, “or the dandy had a hand in this, do you?”

Virgil stayed looking up the track.

“You didn’t see that preacher fellow back there, did you?” Virgil said.

“Preacher fellow?” I said.

“In this car. The preacher fellow that had been sitting row five, west side, aisle,” Virgil said.

I turned and looked back into the coach, row five, west side aisle. The seat was empty.

“No,” I said.

Virgil moved his head up and down very slowly.

“He’s not there,” I said. “There is no preacher sitting there.”

“That’s what I figured,” Virgil said.

Virgil did not turn around; he just remained looking forward up the dark track in front of us. We were still rolling north from the train’s forward momentum.

“I remember him, too,” I said, “but he’s not there now. There’s a freckle-faced redhead by the window.”

“Yep, she was holding on to him and was crying when we came by.”

Virgil had already identified the culprit. The fact that Virgil knew the man who had held up the Bible was not sitting where he was previously did not surprise me. Virgil saw way more than most. Even when things were on tenterhooks, Virgil had the ability to remain perceptive and steady.

Virgil turned and looked back through the open door into the coach. Except for the preacher who was previously sitting in row five, the west side aisle, everyone was looking at Virgil as if they needed some sort of answer. Virgil gave it as he crossed the threshold and walked a few steps down the aisle.

“Everybody get your this and thats in order,” Virgil said. “We will need you to turn off these lamps in a bit, and it will get dark.”

We dragged the dead gunmen out to the platform and slid them off the side. Virgil moved back down the aisle to row five. The redheaded freckle-faced woman who had previously been crying and holding on to the preacher was sitting by the window, looking up at Virgil. Sitting in the west side aisle seat was the preacher’s discarded Bible. Virgil picked it up. He opened the Bible and leafed through it as if he were looking for a passage or verse, then closed it. He looked at the back side of the Bible. Then he dropped it into the seat.

The freckle-faced woman offered Virgil a crooked smile.

“The preacher fellow who was sitting here holding this Bible,” Virgil said. “Was he somebody you knew?”

She shook her head.

“No, sir.”

“How long had he been sitting here?” Virgil asked.

“Not long,” she said.

She looked around at a few passengers sitting near her.

“He just plopped down here, short time before y’all two come through the front door shooting them robbers.”

“He came through the rear door here?” Virgil said.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “The robbers pointed their guns at him. I thought they was gonna shoot him, but he held up his Bible, talking about Jesus, and they didn’t.”

The other passengers sitting nearby nodded in agreement.

“Just preaching he was,” she said, “talking about going to hell. Spewing like it was just shy of noon on Sunday. The robbers told him to sit down and shut up.”

“And the preacher fellow just sat here?”

“He did... but I’m not real sure he was a preacher,” she said. “Well, if he was a preacher he was rather unpreacherly.”

“What was unpreacherly about him?” Virgil asked.

“When the shooting started, I grabbed on to him and I could feel he was carryin’ guns.”

“Guns?” Virgil said. “More than one?”