Robert Parker - Ironhorse

There was no reply from inside.

“Gobble!”

After a long silence, he answered.

“What?” Gobble said from inside.

“It’s Wesley Junior. Got some folks here who need to visit with you!”

The door opened, and Gobble stood barefoot in his undergarments, holding a side-by-side.

“Who, about what?” Gobble said in a deep voice.

For some reason I pictured Gobble Greene would be a crusty old man, but Gobble was young. We could not see his face clearly, but overall Gobble looked like a Roman sculpture of a warrior. He had muscles on top of muscles and a head of curly thick hair.

“These men are lawmen, investigating the train mishap.”

“What do you want with me?” Gobble said.

“When did this horse thieving take place?” Virgil asked.

Gobble took a few steps toward us and into the light of our lantern. His face was as rugged as his shape, with a heavy brow, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes.

“Midday sometime,” Gobble said. “Not sure the time, was not here, got back here near dark, my horse was gone and this horse here was here.”

Gobble moved toward the corral.

“This black breed horse,” Gobble said.

When we got closer to the corral with the lantern we could see the Thoroughbred was in bad shape. His body was covered in dried salt sweat; his head hung low and his eyes were closed. There was dried blood in the corners of his mouth, and there were cuts on his face and neck. Open blisters behind his withers were still bleeding where the saddle rubbed him raw, and he was holding his left rear hoof off the ground.

“Need to just leave him to be for now,” Gobble said. “Through hell he’s been, breathing rough, run out, maybe. If he makes it through the night I’ll clean him up, see what’s left... right now he can drink if he feels like it, eat if he feels like it, but he needs to be just left alone.”

“The son of a bitch,” Berkeley said quietly. “The son of a bitch.”

We left Berkeley’s black breed with Gobble Greene in Standley Station and set off again in the Ironhorse steaming north up the winding rail. Gobble told us his horse was a big dun gelding with a dark mane and tail. And if we happened to find him, he’d like to have him back.

“I’m a bad judge of character,” Berkeley said.

Berkeley shoveled a load of coal into the firebox.

“Like I told you, I never saw Lassiter’s color,” Berkeley said. “You damn sure did, Virgil. You saw it.”

“Goes with the territory of being a lawman,” Virgil said.

“Well, hell, I’m a lawman, too,” Berkeley said. “Don’t forget I’m the constable-elect of Half Moon Junction.”

“You’re a pimp,” Virgil said, “who happens to be a constable.”

Uncle Ted laughed and slapped his knee.

Berkeley stopped shoveling and looked at Virgil.

“Course,” Virgil said, “with all that shoveling, you don’t smell like a pimp no more.”

Virgil took a final pull on his stubby cigar and flicked it out of the cab. He looked at Berkeley without an inkling of a smile, but Berkeley knew he was being ribbed.

Berkeley looked at me and Virgil and smiled.

“Well, hell,” Berkeley said. “Anyway, I did not see it coming, Virgil.”

Virgil didn’t much care for having friends like most men do. I suppose I was Virgil’s friend. Friendship, however, was not something Virgil was much concerned with. Virgil tolerated some men but avoided most. I could tell, however, Virgil genuinely liked Berkeley. He knew how much Berkeley cared for his horse, too. The relationship between a man and his horse Virgil understood well. Virgil knew that what had happened to the black Thoroughbred had deeply offended Berkeley. And it prompted Virgil to provide something he was not accustomed to providing: friendship.

“Double-dealing’s one thing,” Virgil said. “Stealing money is another. Stealing a man’s horse is altogether another. But riding a horse into the ground...”

Virgil shook his head.

“That’s ’bout as low as a man can go.”

Berkeley stood tall, looking at Virgil.

“It is,” Berkeley said. “It damn sure is.”

Berkeley shoveled a few more scoops of coal, closed the door on the firebox, and we traveled for a while in silence. The air was cooling off some as the Ironhorse continued to climb in elevation. After a while, Berkeley set his carpetbag in the center of the cab and opened it, showing us what was inside.

“Help yourself there, gentlemen.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Uncle Ted said.

Uncle Ted fished himself out a piece of jerky and a wedge of hardtack.

I got out some jerky from the bag and handed a piece to Virgil, a piece to Berkeley, and got some for myself.

“Got nothing other than water in there for the whistle?” Virgil said.

“A good pimp always provides,” Berkeley said.

He pulled out a full bottle of whiskey from the bottom of the bag and handed it to Virgil. Virgil twisted out the cork and took a drink. He handed the bottle to me. I took a drink and handed the bottle to Uncle Ted.

“No, thanks,” Uncle Ted said. “I only partake when I know I can get took.”

I handed the bottle to Berkeley, and he took a swig.

“So, this mining business?” Berkeley said. “What do you figure, Virgil? Do you think Lassiter and Wellington had a place near here? A meeting place of some sort?”

Virgil nodded slowly.

“Hard to know what to speculate,” Virgil said. “What do you allow, Everett?”

“Well, what we do know for certain,” I said. “Like Hobbs said, Lassiter has a history with the mines. Lassiter also believes the money is with Wellington.”

Virgil nodded.

“And he knows the Northbound Express did not make Tall Water Falls,” Virgil said. “Now he is in route, destination or no destination, but I believe as we are hunching on, that there is a destination.”

“Lassiter don’t know about the ransom demands, though,” Berkeley said as he passed the bottle again. “At least I don’t think there is any way for him to know.”

“That’s right,” Virgil said. “Be hard for him to know that.”

“I’d say there is some place,” I said. “Some backup place for a rendezvous.”

“Rendezvous!” Uncle Ted said, “I like that. Rendezvous... That’s French.”

It was starting to get light out as we pulled into Crystal Creek. The water tower at Crystal Creek was situated like the one at Standley Station, about one hundred yards south of the depot. After Berkeley filled the tender with water, Uncle Ted eased the Ironhorse up to the depot and stopped. There were no lamps burning, and the depot appeared to be empty.

The Crystal Creek depot was built more like the Greek Revival structure of the depot in Half Moon Junction, a long brick building with a mansard roof that extended over a wraparound porch. A lathed balustrade between columns supported the porch ceiling made of pressed metal that was picking up hints of metallic light from the glistening waters of the Kiamichi.

“You want me to pull up to the wye Sam was talking about, Marshal Cole?” Uncle Ted asked.

“I figure so,” Virgil said.

Uncle Ted moved the Johnson bar forward and the Ironhorse chugged slowly toward the wye north of town. We traveled a ways and crossed over a trestle north of town, passing over a creek that married with the Kiamichi River running by the depot.

“I’ll get the switch,” Berkeley said.

He climbed down from the engine hustling his big frame forward toward the switch.

Berkeley threw the switch and Uncle Ted eased the Ironhorse off the main rail and onto the wye section of track that curved off to the west behind a large wall of pine trees separating us from the main line.