Robert Parker - Ironhorse

“Would have killed most men,” I said.

Virgil nodded and blew a stream of smoke that drifted across the bar and swirled around in the glow of the lamp.

“Next shot will be to the head,” Virgil said.

Virgil put his middle finger to his forehead just above his eyebrow.

“One-way ticket,” Virgil said.

Virgil picked up his whiskey and moved to the door, looking out at the pouring rain. He leaned against the jamb and smoked.

“We gave this place a good go-through,” Berkeley said.

Berkeley stepped out from behind the bar and moved to the door by Virgil.

“Hard to look in every commode and confessional,” Berkeley said. “We’ve burrowed ’n rooted best we could in the dark. We can start looking when it’s light. Maybe this rain will lift and we’ll find him in the light of day. We can look outside of the town proper, too. There are abandoned dwellings and homesteads, farms, and of course the mining camps. Hell, this is not New York or Frisco or Chicago, or even godforsaken Dallas, he can’t be that hard to find.”

“That little fellow there,” Virgil said. “He ain’t hard to find.”

Berkeley followed Virgil’s point.

“No he’s not,” Berkeley said. “That’s Miner. He just mines his way from kitchen to kitchen.”

I looked out, they were talking about that mangy cur Virgil and I had seen coming and going all over Half Moon Junction. He was walking slowly down the middle of the street in the pouring rain. He stopped and looked over at us. He walked toward us, just shy of the boardwalk and looked up at us as if we might have something to eat.

“I don’t have anything to eat, Miner,” Berkeley said. “Not at the moment I don’t.”

Miner stayed looking up at us but soon got bored and pawed casually at what looked to be a cluster of flowers on the ground. He put his nose to the ground, sniffed the cluster a little, and walked off on down the street.

“He doesn’t go hungry,” Berkeley said, “I’ll guarantee you that.”

“What’s that he was pawing at?” Virgil said. “Those flowers?”

I got the lantern off the bar and stepped out and got a look.

“Is flowers,” I said. “Petunias.”

“Ah, hell, same flower in our window boxes,” Berkeley said. “Planter must have filled up with water and broke off.”

Virgil looked at me, I followed him, and we stepped out off the boardwalk, past the eaves, turned and looked back up at the second story of the hotel.

“Good goddamn,” Virgil said as he pulled his Colt.

Berkeley and I followed Virgil moving quickly out of the bar and into the main room of the hotel.

Virgil spoke quiet to Berkeley’s men, Gabriel and Jesse, who were still playing cards with Burns. “You two! Get around the back of this building. Keep your eyes open, you see the buckskin fellow we described to you, kill him, don’t let him get close to you and don’t you shoot nobody else.”

Gabriel and Jesse looked at Berkeley.

“You heard him,” Berkeley said quiet-like, “go...”

Gabriel and Jesse hurried out the front.

“That window with the broken planter,” Virgil said. “Who’s in that room?”

“I don’t know,” Berkeley said, looking at the desk clerk, Burns. “Don’t think anybody. Room eight?”

Burns shook his head. “There’s nobody in room eight.”

“Which door would that be in the hall up there?” Virgil asked Berkeley.

“Turn right at the top of the stairs,” Berkeley said. “Eight is the second-to-the-last room on the right.”

“What about the girls,” Virgil said. “What room are they in?”

Berkeley looked to Burns.

“They are in the same room with their mother and father. Stateroom on the third floor,” Burns said. “They did not want to be separated.”

“Where are the stairs up to that room?”

“When you get to the second floor, you go all the way past room eight; the stairs to the third floor are there, at the end of the hall on the left.”

“Hobbs,” Virgil said. “He in the same room he was?”

“No,” Burns said. “We haven’t got the doors fixed yet after you and your deputy knocked ’em in. He’s in the room right across from where he was. Room two.”

“Don’t think we’ll need him,” Virgil said, “but get the keys.”

Burns turned and got the master ring from a drawer and set them on the counter in front of Virgil. Virgil handed them to me and pulled his second Colt.

“I know I don’t need to tell you boys,” Virgil said looking at Berkeley and me, “but watch yourself.”

With that, Virgil cocked the second Colt and we started up the stairs. We moved slowly and quietly. Virgil led the way with his dual Colts, followed by me with the eight-gauge and Berkeley with his .38 Smith & Wesson Lemon Squeezer. We moved one step at a time.

The sconces were burning, but the light was very dim on the stairs and on the second-floor hall. Virgil stopped shy of the hall and lay down on the steps. He removed his hat and peeked out into the hall, looking first to his left, then to his right. He moved back, looked at us, and shook his head. He put on his hat, stood up, and stepped out into the hall. He held his hand up with his palm pointing toward us, for us to hold up and not move. He pointed to his eyes, to himself, and moved slowly down the hall to the right. I moved up to the top step. I could see the hall in the opposite direction Virgil had started walking. The direction I was looking was the short side, with only two rooms across from each other. The room I could see was the room with the broken door where I barged in on Hobbs. I inched out and looked in the other direction, watching Virgil as he walked the long hall. He was moving slowly with a Colt in each hand. He stopped when he got to room eight. He looked down to the floor and continued walking until he got to the stairs leading to the third-floor room at the end of the hall. Virgil looked up the stairs. He looked back toward me and motioned for us to come. I stepped into the hall and walked slowly, quietly toward Virgil, and Berkeley followed. When we got to room eight, Virgil was by the door and pointing at the floor. There was a path of blood at the bottom of the door that led down the hall and up the stairs. Virgil stepped to one side of the door, motioned for us to get to the other side of the door, and pointed to the door handle with his Colt.

I nodded and turned the handle gently. The handle moved. The door was not locked. I looked at Virgil. He nodded. I turned the handle fully, and the door swung open freely.

We did not move. We stayed to each side of the door out of sight of the room and just listened. All I could hear was the sound of the rain outside of the open window in the room. We stood there for a long moment, waiting, but there was nothing. Not yet.

I kept my eye on Virgil, and when he moved, I moved, and in a second we were in the room.

We saw no one in the room.

I looked quick under the bed and there was nothing. The curtains were blowing and outside the rain was pouring, but the room was empty. There was broken glass, dirt, and pansies on the floor from where the window had been broken open and the flower box’s soil had been dragged into the room. And there was blood, blood across the window seal, the floor, and on the inside doorknob.

I whispered, “Looks like he got cut by the window glass.”

Berkeley nodded.

Virgil pointed at the blood on the floor leading out the door and into the hall. He pointed up.

“Rattlesnake got to the nest,” Virgil said, quietly shaking his head.

I moved first out the door. Berkeley and Virgil followed. When I got to the steps leading to the third floor, we heard laughter coming from behind us. We stopped.