Robert Parker - Ironhorse

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.

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:

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.

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.