Ironhorse

by Robert B. Parker

  “Thing is,” said the yard hand, “gotta keep the pressure steady yet firm. If the chain snaps or the bar bends, well . . .”

  “We jump,” Virgil said.

  “Yes, sir,” the yard hand said. “Believe that’d be best.”

  The bar was being used as a lever pulling on the chain that connected to the coach brakes and the upper edge of the platform, but we were rolling faster. The yard hand and I pulled harder on the bar, causing more flying sparks and louder grinding.

  “Don’t want to break it!” the yard hand said as he was straining, red-faced. “Don’t want to break it!”

  “Come on! Come on!” I cried out as I put my weight firm but steady on the bar.

  It was a matter of odds now: the downhill grade, the strength of the chain, the makeshift brake handle, the coaches’ weight, and Newton’s law, but thankfully, miraculously, we started to slow, and eventually, very slowly, the coaches came to a creeping stop.

  The young fellow and I kept holding the pressure on the bar.

  “Marshal,” the young fellow said. “There’s a set of chalk blocks there under the first seats.”

  Virgil grabbed the two wooden wedges made of oak that were bound together with thick rope. He jumped from the platform to the ground, knocked one block under one wheel and, after a moment, wedged the other under another wheel.

  “Okay,” Virgil called out.

  The yard hand looked to me, and we let off on the leverage of the bar. The coach moved a bit, but no more. We were stopped.

  “There you go,” Virgil called out.

  The yard hand and me leaned back against the coach platform wall and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  Lightning flashed again, and it was shockingly bright as Virgil climbed the steps. He growled like a coyote as he set foot back on the platform.

  “George—by God—Westinghouse.”

  28

  “WHAT’S YOUR NAME, son?” Virgil asked the young yard hand.

  He took off his spectacles and wiped the sweat from the lenses with a pocket handkerchief.

  “Lee, as in Robert E.,” he said. “Folks, though, call me Whip, on account I’m good with one.”

  “You work on trains?” Virgil said.

  “I do.”

  “I got a question, Whip,” Virgil said.

  “Sir?”

  “As you know, we got a hell of a situation with this train. Part of it is headed north, part of it headed south, and of course this part, these two cars, are sitting stopped right here in the middle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you think there’s a way for you to repair the handbrake on the downhill coach?” Virgil said.

  “I can have a look underneath,” Whip said, “see if I can figure out what the situation is.”

  “Good,” Virgil said. “What we need to do is leave this uphill car right where it is with the women and the law-abiding others and get the downhill coach disconnected, rolling freely and headed south on this downgrade.”

  Whip gave Virgil a sharp nod.

  “I’ll have a look,” Whip said.

  Whip gathered up the lantern and the pinch bar and stepped off the platform.

  “Need a hand?” I said.

  “I’ll holler at ya if I do,” Whip said, and he was off.

  I stepped into the coach, took out the matches the undertaker had stuffed in my coat pocket, and got one of the lamps burning. The passengers were, for the most part, wide-eyed and uneasy. Some of them were asking questions about what was going to happen, some were just talking to be talking, and some remained silent, but they were all unsettled and afraid.

  Virgil moved past me, and I followed him as he walked slowly down the aisle.

  “Everybody,” Virgil said. “Let me vow to you, right here where you are is the safest place you could be. So do me the good deed of remaining pleasant and unparticular.”

  The chubby man offered us a cigar as we walked by.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Virgil said.

  Virgil lit the cigar and, after he got it going good, thanked the fellow, and we walked out the back door. Virgil shared the same safety information with the passengers in the rear coach, and then we stepped out the door and onto the downhill platform.

  Light was shining from underneath the downhill coach, where young Whip was already fussing with something. It sounded like he was trying to break some piece of metal away from another piece of metal.

  Virgil and I stood on the platform under the coach overhang, watching the rain continue to fall.

  “Hell of a ruckus we got ourselves in,” I said.

  “Is,” Virgil said.

  “Bad bunch we are dealing with.”

  “Don’t get much worse,” Virgil said.

  “Somebody,” I said. “The governor or his cronies had something somebody wanted.”

  “That being money. Money somebody knew about, too,” Virgil said.

  “We’ve killed a number of those somebodies,” I said.

  “We have,” Virgil said.

  “We’ve been up against a good number through the years, but nothing like this,” I said. “Lot of hombres all in one place.”

  Virgil smoked his cigar for a bit. He held up three fingers.

  “The two in the car we started out in and the getaway rider,” Virgil said.

  “The two in the engine compartment,” I said.

  Virgil added his thumb and little finger.

  “Then the four that were holding the girls when we jumped to the platform of the first coach from the tender,” I said.

  Virgil included four fingers from his other hand.

  “The four in the next coach, including Dean,” I said.

  Virgil added his tenth finger to his nine. I brought up three fingers.

  “Thirteen.”

  “We’re not done,” Virgil said.

  “No, I know it,” I said. “We’re not.”

  “Worst are yet to come, too,” Virgil said.

  “They are,” I said. “We know for sure we got Vince and most likely Bloody Bob to contend with, or someone capable of his deeds.”

  “I believe it is most assuredly him,” Virgil said.

  “Counting those two,” I said, “I’d say there are at least five, could be six, maybe seven, more, depending on whether Dean was counting the other two getaway riders.”

  Virgil nodded slowly as he puffed on his cigar.

  29

  WHIP CRAWLED UP from under the front of the downhill coach. He looked up at Virgil and me standing on the platform. His face and hands were smudged with grease. He was holding the lamp in one hand and the brake chain in the other.

  “I think I might be able to get this fixed,” Whip said.

  “Might?” Virgil said.

  “More than might,” Whip said. “I got the chain from the other car. And with this one here, I think I can piece the two together with this bolt.”

  “What can we do to help?” I said.

  “Hold this lamp for me, I reckon.”

  I stepped off the platform and got the light from Whip. I held it up for him so he could see what he was doing as he ducked back under the platform.

  Virgil was looking down from the platform over the rail. He blew out some cigar smoke. The smoke drifted into the light, showing the direction of the slanting rain.

  I moved the lantern closer for Whip as he scooted back under the coach. Whip pulled and tugged on the chain connecting to the brakes and then called out, “Turn that wheel, take up the slack!”

  I looked up at Virgil on the platform. He turned the wheel about a half-revolution.

  “That’s good,” Whip said.

  I watched as Whip pieced the two chains together with the bolt. After he nutted the bolt he looked over to me.

  “Have him turn the wheel some more,” Whip said.

  “Turn her some more there, Virgil,” I said.

  Virgil turned the handbrake wheel, and the c
hain went taut.

  “That’s it,” Whip called out. “There ya go!”

  Whip crawled out from under the coach.

  “So that’s it?” Virgil said. “This wheel brake will work?”

  “It will,” Whip said. “The thing is, this track is good and downhill. You just don’t want to get going too fast.”

  “You know this line pretty well, Whip?” Virgil said.

  “I do,” Whip said. “Before I went to work in the terminal yard I worked section gangs on this rail, spikin’, keepin’ tracks straight, trees cut back, rocks cleared off, that sort of thing.”

  “There towns nearby?” Virgil said.

  “Got two way station depots near,” Whip said.

  Whip lifted the cap off his head and scratched his scalp under his shaggy hair.

  “That way there, up the Kiamichi a piece,” Whip said, pointing north with his cap, “is a place called Standley Station, ain’t much of a town. Post office, dry goods, switchyard, a bar hotel.”

  Whip raised his hat up higher, pointing north.

  “Yonder, farther that way, is a bigger town called Crystal Creek,” Whip said. “Another switchyard, bigger hotel, more people, more outfits. Next town after is Tall Water Falls; it’s bigger yet. Then there’s Division City, and that’s the division line on the track. Turntable and telegraph loop is there, and it’s like five, six blocks big.”

  “You said this track is good and downhill,” Virgil said, “but it’s got to flatten out someplace between here and Texas.”

  “Does,” Whip said. “Where we are right now, though, is the most downhill stretch of this whole track. You could roll like, oh, twenty, twenty-five miles or so, probably stop just before Half Moon Junction.”

  “Junction?” Virgil said.

  “Yes, sir. This line meets with the Denison and Washita Valley Railroad in Half Moon Junction. That’d be for sure the biggest stop on this run.”

  “I remember seeing the half-moon painted on the water tower,” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” Whip said, “that’s it.”

  “Looked like a busy town,” I said.

  “It’s busy, and it’s a pretty big place. It gets bigger all the time, with all of the mining goin’ on. Don’t know I’d necessarily call it a town, though. Oh, there are a number of hotels and plenty of businesses there, but overall it’s more of like a place written about in the Bible where God got mad. Mostly whorehouses and saloons with all the mining traffic from the D and WV and all . . . gets worse all the time.”

  “And that’d be twenty miles?” I said.

  “Yep,” Whip said. “There’s a dynamited cut in a tall rock butte just past a big westward sweep. Right after that, the grade flattens out before you get to Half Moon.”

  “All right, then,” Virgil said. “Let’s get these folks that are in this rear car moved to the front car. And get on with this.”

  30

  BY THE TIME we got the passengers from the rear coach settled into the forward coach, it was not a comfortable sight. The aisles were full, and the passengers were practically sitting atop one another. Virgil stood at the back door, looking at everyone.

  “Ladies, gents,” Virgil said. “Me and my deputy have business to take care of south of here. It’s better than a good idea you all remain here, stay dry.”

  Virgil looked back to Whip.

  “This young fellow here, Whip, knows these parts well and can get you to safety, but for now it’s best to wait out this rain and wait for daylight.”

  There were a few passengers with questions and a few others who hemmed and hawed, but Virgil provided no more comfort than he’d already allowed.

  The rain continued to fall as we readied ourselves to disembark from the uphill coach. I stood on the back platform of the downhill coach next to the wheel of the newly reconnected handbrake. Whip was on the back platform of the uphill coach, and Virgil was on the platform of the downhill coach across from Whip. Whip uncoupled the uphill coach from the downhill coach, and Virgil called out, “Release the brake, Everett.”

  I released the wheel brake. Whip used the pinch bar and wedged it between the coupler. He pulled back on the bar and we broke free of the uphill coach and started moving away from it.

  “Good luck, Marshal,” I heard Whip say as we drifted away from the coach full of passengers.

  I heard Virgil say what I heard him say many times before.

  “Luck most often is accompanied with knowing what you are doing, son,” Virgil said.

  And just like that, we were off and moving down the track and into the night. Virgil walked down the aisle of the now-empty coach toward me on the back platform. I looked back down the side of the coach.

  Whip picked up the lantern and moved it in a circular motion, the conductors’ signal for reverse, and that was exactly what we were doing. We were reversing into the dark.

  “Don’t this beat hell?”

  “Does,” Virgil said.

  “Train’s cut up like a worm.”

  We thought about that for a moment.

  “Yep,” Virgil said. “Four living sections.”

  The front section with Emma and Abigail had been commandeered by someone, maybe the mysterious Yankee. I thought about Emma, about looking into her eyes, and I wondered if I’d ever look into them again.

  The next section was full of passengers not knowing what would happen to them. The grieving widow, the old toothless man, the chubby man, the Apache woman, the undertaker, the freckle-faced woman, and Whip, all hunkered down in a coach, sitting stock-still on the tracks in the pouring rain. The next section, the single coach carrying Virgil and me, was now rolling freely downgrade. The last section held the governor, his wife, Bloody Bob, Vince, the remainder of the bandits, and the stock trailer with my bony dark-headed roan and Virgil’s chestnut stud. Even though it was raining and it was dark, Virgil and I could see each other. There was a full moon above the rain clouds providing us with an eerie hint of silver light. The whites of Virgil’s eyes had a subtle glow. We stood side by side, looking down the track into the darkness. I turned the wheel, adjusting the brake, keeping our speed steady as the blowing rain swirled around us.

  “Like sailors,” I said.

  “It’s wet enough,” Virgil said. “I’ll give you that.”

  “Fact remains, though, we’re on a hard damn rail that ain’t leading to the open seas.”

  “That’s a fact.”

  “We go at it alone,” I said.

  “We do.”

  “Like we’ve done many times before.”

  “We have.”

  “Can’t think of anybody I’d rather be going at it with.”

  “Me neither,” Virgil said.

  I thought of Virgil’s words. Luck most often is accompanied with knowing what you are doing.

  We rode in silence for a while before I asked, “You want to tell me about what was in that telegram?”

  31

  “NO,” VIRGIL SAID.

  “But you will.”

  Virgil nodded.

  “Yes, I will.”

  “It was about Allie,” I said.

  “It was.”

  “Not from Allie, though.”

  “Pony Flores,” Virgil said. “It was from Pony Flores.”

  “About Allie,” I said.

  “I already said it was about Allie.”

  “What about Allie?”

  “I ain’t said yet, Everett. You let me tell ya, I’ll tell ya.”

  “Okay, go right ahead, but you already told me you think she’s fucking Chauncey Teagarden.”

  Virgil just looked at me.

  “My apologies, go right ahead.”

  “The telegram was, as I previously said, from Pony. Pony wrote, Allie started working at the Boston House Saloon again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Pony’s telegram said Widow Callico took up working at the Boston House first,” Virgil said, “and encouraged Allie to join her.”

&nbs
p; “Sheriff Callico’s grave is still warm,” I said.

  “Allie obliged Widow Callico, and they started up a duo.”

  “A duo? What kind of duo?”

  “Allie sings and plays the piano, and Widow Callico dances some and plays the fiddle,” Virgil said.

  “I’ll be damn. A duo.”

  “That’s what the telegram said.”

  “That’s not that bad,” I said. “Not necessarily good for those listening, but there’s no reason for jumping to conclusions.”

  “Pony’s telegram said they draw a lively crowd.”

  “Maybe Widow Callico is a bit more musically inclined than Allie.”

  “It’s a nightly mus-A-cal,” Virgil said.

  “Well, how about that,” I said. “Maybe she’s found her calling; maybe this attention will do her some good.”

  “Let’s have a nudge of your spirits, Everett.”

  I pulled my flask from the inside breast pocket of my jacket and handed it to Virgil.

  “Maybe she’s making some money,” I said. “That’s not a bad thing.”

  Virgil uncapped the flask and took a nip.

  “Seems after this nightly mus-A-cal, Widow Callico and Allie have both been spending time upstairs in Teagarden’s room,” Virgil said. “Allie told Pony’s wife they play cards, pinochle.”

  32

  VIRGIL PASSED THE flask back to me. I took a drink and thought about what he was telling me. I kind of figured by Virgil’s demeanor since we left Texas and him not really wanting to talk about the telegram that this story might not turn out to have a very good ending, but I provided the best understanding and encouragement I could muster.

  “Pinochle?” I said. “Pony’s wife said that, they play pinochle?”

  “That’s right,” Virgil said.

  “Well, there ya go, Virgil. No reason that’s not the fact of the matter.”

  “According to Pony, rumors ’round town are they ain’t playing pinochle up there.”

  I handed Virgil the flask.

  “Rumors are called rumors because they are rumors,” I said.