Robert Parker - Ironhorse

“Where are we?”

Uncle Ted turned and looked at me.

“I’ll be damn,” Berkeley said. “You’re awake. Marshal said you was the only person he knew that could fall asleep in a fistfight.”

I looked at Virgil. His chin was on his chest, and he was asleep.

“Said the blackbird to the crow,” I said.

I got up slowly to my feet and stretched.

“This is the stop before Standley Station,” Berkeley said as he shoveled another scoop from the tender and into the firebox.

“We got a ways to go,” Uncle Ted said, “but we are ahead of schedule.”

Berkeley took out a canteen from his carpetbag and handed it to me.

“Gracias,” I said.

“Got some hardtack, jerky, cat-heads, cans of beans, peaches, if you’re hungry,” Berkeley said.

I stretched some of the stiffness from my shoulders and back and drank some water from the canteen. I leaned out the cab and saw a small cabin pass by as the Ironhorse slowly built up speed. There was an aqueduct behind the cabin that trailed off into the woods toward the Kiamichi, but in a moment we were past it and there was nothing but trees.

“We been moving fast,” Uncle Ted said.

“We have,” Berkeley said.

“The old Ironhorse has got good goddamn giddy-up,” Uncle Ted said as he patted the throttle lever like a house cat.

“I believe we will be to Crystal Creek way before what Sam figured,” Berkeley said.

“Little woman ain’t so smart as she thinks she is,” Uncle Ted said affectionately, with a raspy chuckle in his voice.

“Like to hear you say that to her face,” Berkeley said.

“Not on your life,” Uncle Ted said. “Not on your goddamn life.”

“Give this old blackbird a drink, Everett,” Virgil said.

The three of us looked at Virgil as he lifted his chin from his chest and yawned real wide.

“You say we’re ahead of schedule?” Virgil said.

I handed Virgil the canteen.

“That’s what they say,” I said.

“We are,” Uncle Ted said.

“It’s because there has never been a fireman quite as capable as me,” Berkeley said.

He posed like a boxer.

“Never been one that smelled as good as you,” Uncle Ted said, “or who was a pimp with a fancy whorehouse, I’ll give you that.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m no pimp,” Berkeley said. “I’m simply the entertainment supplier for mining executives.”

“Pink paint on a pigsty,” Uncle Ted said.

Virgil grinned a bit and took a drink from the canteen. He swirled the water around in his mouth, spit it off the side, and got to his feet.

“So how long do you think it will be before we get up to Crystal Creek?” Virgil asked.

“Way I have it figured is we should be there before Sam said for sure,” Uncle Ted said. “We have been running good and we didn’t have to wait for the Southbound at the pass too long, so I’d say before five in the morning for sure.”

“Good,” Virgil said.

“That is, providing we don’t have no problems along the way.”

“And the next drop is Standley Station, you say?”

“It is,” Berkeley said.

“And how long will it be before we get to there?” Virgil said. “Standley Station?”

“Two hours, maybe less,” Uncle Ted said.

Virgil took a big drink from the canteen and looked out at the trees slowly passing by.

“Figure this is about the place where we looked for Brandice,” I said, “or not far from it.”

Virgil leaned out and looked back behind us. He turned and looked ahead of us.

“Ted,” Virgil said.

“Sir?”

“Let’s us stop at Standley Station, get off, move around a bit, check on the horses and such.”

“You got it,” Uncle Ted said.

The Standley station water tower was like most of the towers on the St. Louis and Frisco line; an aqueduct fed the water from the Kiamichi River. The tower stood about one hundred yards south of the small depot ahead. The depot was situated behind thickets of evergreens, making the building difficult to see clearly, but there were lamps burning, lighting up the depot steps and the train track in front. Two men stepped off the depot porch and looked down the rail in our direction. They started walking toward us as Berkeley finished filling the tender and raised the spigot back to its upright position on the water tank. Uncle Ted eased the Ironhorse forward as the men walked toward us, shielding their eyes from the bright headlamp on the front of the engine. One man was tall and heavyset, and the other was older and hunched over slightly. Uncle Ted poked his head out the window as we closed in on the two men.

“Evenin’, gents!” Uncle Ted called out.

He spoke loudly over the noise of the Ironhorse as he continued to ease us on up toward the depot.

The older man spoke up with a shout: “Who are you?”

“Theodore A. Thibodaux is the name!” Uncle Ted hollered, “I’m the hog head of this Yard Goat. We are outta Half Moon Junction.”

“Half Moon Junction?” the old man said.

“That’s right,” Uncle Ted shouted back.

“What are you doing up here?” said the heavyset man.

“We don’t have any Goat on the schedule out of Half Moon!” the older man shouted.

The two men turned back the direction we were rolling and walked beside the Ironhorse as it crept north toward the depot.

“We ain’t on no schedule!” Uncle Ted said.

“So what are you doing here, then?” the heavyset man asked.

“We’re just passin’ through,” said Uncle Ted.

“Passin’ through to where?”

“Got some unfinished business to take care of up ahead,” Uncle Ted said.

“What kind of business?” the old man said.

Uncle Ted looked to Virgil.

“These boys are nosier than my ex-wife, God rest her soul,” Uncle Ted said.

Virgil stepped to the edge of the tender behind Uncle Ted and showed the men his badge.

“Marshaling business.”

“Marshaling business?” the big man said loudly.

“What sort of marshaling business?” the old man said.

“This about last night?” the heavyset man said.

“I’ll be asking the questions,” Virgil said. “Once we get on up to the depot, you can answer what I might need to know.”

The heavyset man said something to the older man, who nodded his head. He spoke back to Virgil as if what Virgil said was a question that needed an answer.

“All right,” the heavyset man said.

Uncle Ted grinned, tucked his head back inside the cab, and moved the Ironhorse up to the front of the depot as the two men walked along beside us.

The depot at Standley Station was small but sturdy. A rustically constructed building made of stacked stones and debarked post oaks with thick wooden shingles. Behind the depot was a small house, and behind the house was a narrow street with what looked to be about ten structures. There was some lamps burning inside a few of the buildings, but there wasn’t anybody moving about. Sitting on a dead-end track was the single coach Virgil and I had disconnected from the night previous and left on the rail five miles south of Standley Station.

Uncle Ted stopped the Ironhorse directly in front of the depot and set the brake.

I followed Virgil as he climbed down the steps of the engine and onto the porch of the depot, where the two men waited.

“Fellows,” Virgil said politely. “Who’s the railroad man in charge of this depot?”

“I am,” the older man said. “I’m Stationmaster Wesley Crowsdale. I’m also the minister here in Standley Station. This is my son, Wesley Junior. He’s the section gang foreman and part-time stationmaster.”

“This is Deputy Marshal Everett Hitch, and I’m Marshal Virgil Cole,” Virgil said.