Robert Parker - Ironhorse

“You live,” Virgil said. “You die.”

“Indians seem a bit different, for some reason.”

“Indians got a foot in and one foot out of life from the get-go,” Virgil said.

I thought about that. That seemed right. We rode for a bit and Virgil was quiet.

“What do you figure happened with the men that were traveling with the governor,” I said.

“Lassiter,” Virgil said, “and Hobbs?”

“What do you think?” I said. “Slow as the train was going, unless they landed in a deep gully, I don’t think the jump would have hurt them.”

“Hard to know,” Virgil said.

“Maybe they took a road, made it to a farm or ranch or one of the other places the yard hand Whip was talking about.”

“Might have,” Virgil said.

The rain started to let up some. There was an opening in the thunderclouds, and we could see moonlight on the tracks. Far away to the east there was lightning. We rode in silence as the coach made a wide switchback loop following the bend in the river. We were rolling very slowly, with no applied pressure to the brakes.

I was about to offer a few words of encouragement about Allie and the pinochle situation when I heard the window in the back of the coach shatter, followed by a loud report in front of us, an obvious sound delay, rifle shot.

“Down!” Virgil said.

The bullet had traveled between where Virgil and I were standing, through the open door behind us, down the aisle, blowing out the glass in the front door. The fact it was a bullet was confirmed when a second bullet exploded the window just behind where I had been standing. I was already down and low to the platform floor.

“Inside!” Virgil said.

I hurried behind Virgil through the door to the interior of the coach. Virgil was off to one side of the aisle, and I was on the other.

“Who the hell is shooting,” I asked.

Another shot pinged loudly on a piece of iron.

“Somebody,” Virgil said. “That’s a fact.”

“Why?” I said. “A single coach rolling quiet could not be expected by Vince and his gang or anybody, for that matter.”

“Those shots sounded the same,” Virgil said. “Sounded like the same rifle.”

“Hell, and it’s dark,” I said.

“It is.”

“Doesn’t make good sense,” I said. “To just shoot in the dark when they got no idea what or who they’re shooting at. It’s not like we are expected.”

“That’s a fact,” Virgil said.

“No good sense at all.”

Another shot rang out. The bullet ricocheted through the car and busted out another window.

“Good sense or not,” Virgil said, “got a feeling sense don’t have nothing to do with this situation.”

“Maybe it’s just some Indians don’t like train coaches,” I said. “Shooting at the little houses on wheels.”

“Might be.”

“Some superstitious Comanche, thinking this coach is some kind of bad sign,” I said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said. “Seems like maybe we’re dealing with a lone shooter, though, Comanche or otherwise.”

“Yeah, there’d be more bullets coming, that’s for sure.”

“There would.”

Another shot rang out, followed by another.

“Same rifle, all right,” Virgil said.

Another shot hit the platform rail.

“Whoever it is,” I said, “they’re peppering the hell out of us.”

We coasted for a bit longer, and there were no more shots being fired.

“Maybe they’re done,” I said.

We were traveling slow, so slow I thought the coach was going to stop.

“Maybe we passed them by, maybe—”

Virgil gave me a sharp nudge to my shoulder; he heard something.

“Uphill platform,” Virgil said quietly.

I turned around and trained my attention to the door between the platform and us. I did not say another word. I listened. Except for the sound of the wheels on the track, it was quiet. I heard nothing, but Virgil had heard something, and it appeared there were some others, or somebody, now on board with us.

The door on the uphill end of the coach was closed shut, and if there were now others aboard, we could not see them. We could not see much of anything. Even though the clouds had for the moment parted and some moon was out, the coach was dark. I could make out only vague outlines: the seats, the windows, and the dark movement of the land passing by the windows. I stayed down low to the floor with one eye peeking around the coach seats, focused toward the darkness up the aisle. The coach was starting to roll faster. We would need to work the brake or we could, and most surely would, get rolling too fast downhill, too fast out of control.

I whispered, “Need to get on that brake, Virgil.”

Just as I finished speaking, the door opened. Virgil did not react by taking a shot, and neither did I. Virgil would never shoot into the dark. He would shoot only when he knew whom, or at least what, he was shooting. Regardless, whoever opened the door did not step into the door frame; the open door was just that, an open door, and whoever opened it remained — at least for the moment — off to the side. We continued to pick up speed. A breeze was now moving through the open doors as the coach leaned slightly on an eastward turn downhill.

“Who goes there?” a deep, raspy voice called out.

We knew that voice. The voice was that of Bloody Bob Brandice. Bob caught a piece of lead in his throat prior to going to prison in Huntsville.

“Virgil Cole.”

There was a long pause before Bob replied. His voice was low and quiet.

“Virgil Cole?” Bob grumbled.

“That’s right.”

There was another long pause.

“Bullshit.”

“No bullshit, Bob.”

Bob paused again, even longer than the time before. He had heard Virgil say his name out loud, and this gave him pause.

“Virgil Cole,” Bob said slowly. “I heard it was you. When I heard it was the great and mighty Virgil Cole, that you were the lawman aboard, I thought, well, if it ain’t my lucky day.”

“I wouldn’t be too reliant on luck, Bob,” Virgil said.

“Looked around for you for a spell, Cole, when I got out. Never laid eyes on ya,” Bob said, “and now this.”

“Now this,” Virgil replied.

“Now this,” Bob said again.

“Last I heard you was west in mining country, suckled up with some lilac whore.”

Virgil did not reply.

Bob laughed, a raspy, snarly laugh.

“I’ll be go to hell,” Bob said.

“I don’t believe you have a choice, Bob,” Virgil said.

Virgil stood center aisle with his shoulders facing squarely toward the door.

There was a long silence, and Bob said slowly, “Fuckin’ Virgil goddamn Cole.”

“That’s right,” Virgil said, “and Everett Hitch.”

Bob laughed again, this time a loud, booming, raspy laugh.

“What the fuck you two tamers doing?” Bob said. “I heard there was some law on this night train, but I’d’a never figured it’d be a couple a right-minded saddle tramps the likes of you two. But it goes to figure, lilac bubble-bath do-gooders would be sitting on velvet seats, ’specially you, Cole.”

Virgil whispered to me, “Any second now.”

Bob laughed loudly again. He was enjoying himself. I suppose this encounter had been a long time coming for Bob, considering Virgil was the one responsible for the lead in Bob’s throat and his however many years spent in Huntsville.

“Yeah, you got soft,” Bob said. “Probably eating cakes and candies, too.”

Just like Virgil said he would, Bob stepped out quick. He managed to get a shot off, but Virgil shot him, twice. Bob dropped his rifle in the aisle and staggered back to the platform rail. He leaned on the rail like he was bellying up to the bar.