Ironhorse

by Robert B. Parker

  “Good question. I don’t know for sure; the wire didn’t say. I would hope, and I would figure, they got it to the yard and did not leave it sitting on the wye. If the engine and car are left on the wye, Uncle Ted will just have to maneuver them off the track until he gets the Ironhorse around.”

  “I reckon we will cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  “That’s right, best you can do is do what you have to do,” Sam said. “Worst case is you can’t get the engine and car off the wye for some reason, and in that case, you’d have to back out of there.”

  “There are worst cases,” Virgil said. “There always are, just got to be prepared.”

  “Sure, anyways, I tol’ Uncle Ted what to do.”

  “She tells me everything to do,” Uncle Ted said. “Stop, go, pass, sit, you name it. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I even did something on my own.”

  “Main damn thing is, you make the pass like I say, Uncle Ted, or you’ll blow ol’ Ironhorse here and all y’all to smithereens.”

  “Goddamn, child, I got schedules running in my blood. I was runnin’ comin’s ’n goin’s for Robert E. Lee before you was off the teat!”

  “Yeah, and look where you ended up, lost the war and puttering around on a Yard Goat in Half Moon Junction,” Sam said. “Just get off the track by five, then, once you get up to the Crystal Creek depot to the wye, you’ll be good to go.”

  “See what I told ya?” Uncle Ted said.

  Virgil looked north and nodded as if he could actually see Crystal Creek.

  “All right, then,” Virgil said. “Let’s get going.”

  “Good luck, Marshal,” Sam said.

  I thought for sure Virgil would tell Sam the same thing he told the yard hand Whip and many others through the years, about how luck involved skill, but he just tipped his hat to Sam.

  “Much obliged, Sam.”

  I guess for once Virgil was thinking perhaps a little luck might not be such a bad thing.

  80

  UNCLE TED LET off the brake, moved the Johnson bar forward, pulled back on the throttle. The Ironhorse shuddered as it built up combustion in the boiler.

  “Here we go, boys,” Uncle Ted said. “Here we go.”

  Billowy white clouds of steam escaped from the drain cocks on the cylinders wafting across the depot steps. Uncle Ted pulled the whistle cord twice, letting out two long blasts, and the big engine started to chug. After a moment we were rumbling slowly away from the depot. I looked in the window of the office and saw the faces of Hobbs, Jenny, and the governor watching as we moved off up the track.

  Sam tipped her bowler and put her arm around Charlie’s shoulder. Charlie waved enthusiastically.

  As we got going faster, Uncle Ted’s odor drifted away with the wind, and for the moment all I could smell was the burning of the coal.

  Virgil settled in on the off side of the cab. He lit a cigar he got from Berkeley and watched the scenery pass by. I settled on the engineer’s side and found myself a place to sit on the front of the tender. I took off my coat, rolled it up, and made myself a seat. I got as comfortable as I could possibly be under the circumstances and even found a place to rest my head.

  Uncle Ted was inching up the throttle as Berkeley was feeding the boiler with coal, and we were starting to move pretty fast.

  I looked back to Half Moon Junction as we moved up the incline, and it wasn’t long before the town was no longer in sight.

  We made our way through the dynamited cut where Virgil and I left the coach and around the wide bend as the Ironhorse thundered strongly up through the quartz hills covered with oaks, pinions, and junipers.

  Again, like the day before, we traveled the winding rail heading up the Kiamichi. When it got close to five in the afternoon we slowed on a long, flat stretch and stopped just past a red-painted switch target. Berkeley got out, made the switch and Uncle Ted throttled the Ironhorse off the main track and stopped on the pass where a stand of elm shrubs divided the pass lane from the main line. We waited for about thirty minutes before we saw it coming. The Southbound Express came upon us fast, and within a moment it passed with a short blast of its whistle and was gone.

  Berkeley again switched the track, and within a few moments we were back on the main rail and heading north. Uncle Ted gave the Ironhorse some throttle, we picked up steam, and in no time we were on our way, running strong.

  The late-afternoon sun pushed through faraway copper clouds, prompting rich shades of deep purple, red, and orange. I saw some doves heading south, and I wondered about the day, the month, the time of year, and I wondered when the weather was going to turn and start getting cold.

  81

  WHEN I WOKE up it was dark out. The Ironhorse was pulling away from a water drop. Berkeley returned from across the top of the slope-back tender and into the cab. There was a lantern burning in the cab, and up ahead there was light shining on the trees passing by from the engine’s mantled oil headlight that brightly illuminated the track ahead. Uncle Ted increased the throttle, and the Ironhorse built up speed. The cab glowed a bright golden yellow color as Berkeley opened the firebox and shoveled a scoop of coal into the boiler.

  “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 giddyup,” 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 Crysta
l 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.

  82

  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.

  83

  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.

  Virgil made little eye contact with the men as he moved past them and peered into the windows of the depot. Virgil turned back and looked to Berkeley, who was climbing down from the Ironhorse.

  “This is Burton Berkeley,” Virgil said. “Constable of Half Moon Junction.”

  I moved past Wesley Senior as he looked to his son. The name Burton Berkeley added a slight narrow-eyed reaction and a frown from the old minister.

  “We have heard of you, Mr. Berkeley,” said Wesley Senior.

  “If what you heard was unfavorable, minister sir,” Berkeley said, “I assure you it no more true than our mother’s continence.”

  I smiled to myself as I looked into the window of the depot. I glanced back to Wesley Junior and Wesley Senior, who was unsure as to what Berkeley meant, or even how to react.

  “Mr. Berkeley, would you see to our horses?” Virgil said.

  “Sure thing,” Berkeley said.

  I moved to the south edge of the depot, where there was a desk placed in front of a corner window. Sitting on the desk was the key, relay, and sounder.

  “What can we do to help you, Deputy, Marshal?” Wesley Junior said.

  “Who’s the operator here?” I said.

  “The both of us,” Wesley Senior said.

  “Were one of you on the key last night?”

  “I was,” Wesley Junior said.

  “Does the telegraph line have any other connection into the town here?” I asked.

  “No,” Wesley Junior said, shaking his head, “this is the only terminal we got here in Standley Station.”

  “Were you here when the Northbound Express came through?” Virgil asked.

  “I was,” Wesley Junior said. “What was left of it. It was just the hog and one wagon, that was it. Didn’t so much as even slow down, just come barreling through. A man was on the ladder just behind the tender and another man was on the back platform of the wagon. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “You contact north to Tall Water Falls?” I asked.

  “I did,” Wesley Junior said, “I got on the key right away and notified Tall Water Falls as to what I saw.”

  “They contact you back,” I asked.

  “They did, and then later they wired the hog and wagon did not show up.”

  “You had any contact with them since?” Virgil asked.

  “No. Just from Crystal Creek, that’s the next station up before Tall Water Falls. Crystal Creek wired this morning, they found the hog and wagon just north of them. It barreled through there, too, but seems the steamer went dry. The Crystal Creek section gang found the hog and coach this morning.”

  Virgil lit a cigar and walked to the north end of the porch and pointed to the coach sitting on the team rail next
to the depot.

  “The folks that was in that car, did they get on the Southbound Express that came through here out of Division City a while back?”

  “Matter a fact, they did,” Wesley Junior said.

  “All of them?” Virgil said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Virgil looked back inside the window of the depot as he walked to the edge of the building and looked down the street toward the town.

  “And where are the dead?” Virgil said.

  “You know about that?” Wesley Junior said.

  Virgil just looked at Wesley Junior, with his cigar secured in the corner of his mouth.

  Wesley Junior looked back and forth between Virgil and me and pointed.

  “In that buckboard over there across the tracks by the river,” he said. “Good and down wind.”

  Virgil removed one of the lanterns hanging from the porch pole.

  “Let’s us go have a look-see.”

  84

  THE RAPIDS OF the Kiamichi grew louder as we walked across the tracks toward where the buckboard was sitting near the river.

  “Me and my section boys had the duty of cleanup this morning,” Wesley Junior said.

  As we got close to the buckboard, I caught the slight odor of dead.

  “We’re all ex-Army,” Wesley Junior said. “Seen a lot of dead, used to it, but still it was a hell of a thing to have happen, here on the Kiamichi.”

  Wesley Junior threw back a tarp covering the dead gunmen stacked between the rails of the buckboard.

  “I tried to get the conductor of the Southbound Express to load them, take them and the car down to South Division in Paris, but they was too far behind. Paris dispatch said other arrangements would be made,” Wesley Junior said. “They best hurry, otherwise I’m gonna need to bury them.”

  Virgil held up the lantern, and we looked at the bodies. They weren’t exactly stacked real neat, and it was kind of hard to tell where one man started and another man ended, but I looked at them all closely.

  “Don’t see no buckskin,” I said.

  “Nope, don’t,” Virgil said.