Ironhorse

by Robert B. Parker

  “Buckskin?”

  “One of them was shot up near here,” I said. “Not sure if he made it or not.”

  Wesley Junior looked out into the dark and said, “You think he might be out there?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Was he mounted?” Wesley Junior said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Why do you ask?” Virgil said.

  “A horse was stolen from here. Nothing like that happens here—hell, a horse apple falling out a tree is the normal news around here, not a horse getting stolen,” Wesley Junior said. “But still might be your buckskin fellow who done it. Thing is, though, another horse was left in its place. It was rode hard, real nice horse, well, it was a nice horse, but it was left in bad shape, damn near dead I think.”

  “Lassiter,” I said.

  Virgil nodded.

  “Where did this happen, Wesley?” Virgil asked.

  “Horse taken belonged to a logger named Gobble Greene. A mean SOB who lives on the end of town there. Whoever stole his horse is lucky Gobble was not around, ’cause Gobble Greene ain’t nobody to mess with.”

  Virgil held the lantern up and looked at Wesley Junior.

  “Take us there,” Virgil said.

  “Sure thing,” Wesley Junior said.

  He threw the tarp back over the top of the dead men and started back toward the tracks, and Virgil and I followed.

  “Everett,” Virgil said, “might be a good idea to get Berkeley.”

  When we crossed back over the tracks, we walked behind the stock car. The ramp was down, and Berkeley was inside with the horses. I moved to the opening of the car.

  “Berkeley,” I said.

  “Yo,” Berkeley said.

  He came to the opening with a pitchfork in his hand.

  “Come on,” I said. “Got a set of circumstances that more than likely concerns you.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Didn’t when it was spelled out, either.”

  Berkeley came down the ramp and we caught up with Virgil and Wesley Junior walking in the street that entered the town of Standley Station.

  85

  THE LITTLE TOWN was quiet. Even the beer saloon that looked like the type of joint to never close its doors was shut tight and locked up. We continued walking in silence. Virgil puffed on his cigar, leaving a trail of smoke in the damp evening air as we made our way to the end of the street.

  “Where we going?” Berkeley said.

  “We’re going to see a fellow named Gobble Greene who got his horse stolen and had another horse left in its place,” Virgil said.

  When we got to the end of the street where a crooked shack was built next to a corral, Berkeley stopped walking.

  “Goddamn,” Berkeley said.

  Standing backed into the corner of Gobble Greene’s corral was a big black horse with his head hanging low. Berkeley knew right away this was his horse.

  “Let me get Gobble out,” Wesley Junior said. “Last thing I’m sure you want is for him to go unloading buckshot.”

  Wesley Junior knocked on Gobble Greene’s door.

  “Gobble? It’s Wesley Junior.”

  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.”

  86

  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.”

  87

  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.

  “One thing you got going for you,” Uncle Ted said.

  “That being?” Virgil said.

  Uncle Ted pointed to the engine and first coach sitting off in the dark at the far end of the westward swing of the wye.

  “There’s the down pony over there. We got plenty of room to back up and get back on the track heading forwardly south.”

  “That’s good,” Virgil said.

  “It is,” said Uncle Ted. “Might as well get us going that direction now, don’t you think?”

  “I do,” Virgil said.

  Uncle Ted moved the engine along the half-moon curve of the wye and throttled down to a stop short of the west switch. He looked back to Berkeley and pointed to the switch in front of us. Berkeley waved, nodding, and moved ahead of us and made the switch. Uncle Ted urged the engine forward and stopped. He looked back, watching Berkeley. Berkeley threw the switch again, and we backed up with our stock car now pointing to the north. Uncle Ted backed up shy of the main line, stopped the Ironhorse, and set the brake.

  “This is it,” Uncle Ted said.

  “Good,” Virgil said. “I reckon we shut this thing down until it’s time to return.”

  “You got it,” Uncle Ted said. “Just so you know, if we go completely cold it will take three hours to fire back up, maybe longer.”

  “How long will it take to get going again if you keep the fire stoked?” Virgil asked.

  “Hour, tops.”

  “You got enough coal to keep us warm?”

  “Do if you don’t leave me here till winter.”

  “Then let’s keep the fire burning.”

  “Will do.”

  Uncle Ted set about putting the Ironhorse into the biding pattern. He turned off the air jammer, shut down the hydrostatic lubricator, the whining dynamo, and finally closed the turret valve, cutting the supply to the injectors. He opened the door on the firebox, shoveled in more scoops of coal, and began moving the coals around, banking the fire.

  “I’ll keep us warm,” Uncle Ted said. “Be as cozy as a concubine’s kitty when you return.”

  The Ironhorse coughed a few final pounding chugs. The boiler shot out puffs of steam, and the big engine went silent. My ears felt like they were full of water from listening to the noisy locomotive. The only remaining noise was the cooling iron popping and the crackling from the fire inside the firebox. Virgil and I stepped out of the cab and climbed down from the Ironhorse.

  “Virgil,” I said.

  Virgil looked at me and followed my look to a dark stand of trees about thirty yards away, next to the river.

  Virgil saw what I saw.

  “Rider,” Virgil said.

  “Is.”

  Virgil slowly pulled back the lever and cocked the Henry rifle.

  There was no movement from inside the trees, but there was without doubt someone there, sitting on a horse, watching us.

  88

  THOUGH THERE WERE dense, dark patches of shade along the river where the rider was, sunshine made an appearance on the spikelet tops of the tall bluestem grass that stood between the river and us.

  Berkeley walked up from the west switch.

  “In the trees, just behind you,” I said. “Caballero.”

  “Not Lassiter,” Berkeley said without looking behind him in some obvious move. Berkeley turned slowly. “Surely not Lassiter.”

  The rider edged his mount out of the trees and started walking slowly toward us.

  “Here he comes,” I said.

  We watched.

  He was on a tall muscled bay horse with a bosal-style hackamore. The rider worked the bay around a patch of low boulders and walked toward us. He was a dark man wearing a denim coat and a sombrero that sat low, just above his eyes. He continued coming closer.

  He stopped about twenty feet from us.

  “Virgil Cole?” the rider said.

  Virgil took a short step forward.

  “You?”

  “LeFlore,” he said.

  Then he swung his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground with athletic poise.

  “Jimmy John LeFlore.”

  He walked toward us, and his bay followed. Jimmy John was a handsome Choctaw. He had a thin mustache and chin whiskers. He was tall, lean, and tough-looking. He wore his trousers tucked into tall rugged boots, and he carried no gun, at least no gun that could be seen. He stopped about ten feet from us.

  “My deputy, Everett Hitch, Constable Burton Berkeley.”

  Jimmy John looked at me, Berkeley, and back to Virgil.

  “You need some help of some kind?” Jimmy John said.

  He spoke clearly with an educated quality to his voice and no hint of Choctaw tongue.

  “We do,” Virgil said.

  “What do you need?”

  “Need you to help us find some people.”

  Jimmy John’s horse turned and pulled at some grass.

  Th
e saddle was a well-worn, heavy-duty working rig with large saddlebags. A slim scabbarded short bow with arrows hung between the front cinch and fender. A long length of wire was coiled like a rope that draped from the pommel. A pair of pole climbing spikes and a ratchet lever come-a-long hung from behind the cantle. Leather straps tied off all types of telegraph line odds and ends, but they were all secured so as not to make noise.

  “Who?”

  “Two women, they are being held for ransom.”

  Jimmy John took a single step closer.

  “Who has them for ransom, and why?”

  “Jenny in Half Moon Junction said you would be the only one who could help us,” I said.

  The name Jenny seemed to change Jimmy John’s demeanor. He tipped his hat back on his forehead and came a step closer.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I understand the Division City mines used to have wire service, is that correct?” Virgil said.

  “That is correct.”

  “Is the line still there?”

  “It is.”

  “Is it operational?”

  “The line still exists, it’s in the loop,” Jimmy John said, “but the mines, the businesses are gone.”

  “So, if the line is still there,” Virgil said, “there is a possibility for one of them to wire?”

  Jimmy John looked at Berkeley. Then at me. Then at Virgil.

  “There is,” Jimmy John said. “Why?”

  89

  JIMMY JOHN WAS by all means knowing and understanding of white man’s culture and craft but remained stoic and reserved as if he were not part of its fabric. His countenance seemed that of the patient eagle.

  “We got reason to believe the ransom wire came from the Division City mining camps,” Virgil said.

  “What makes you think that?” Jimmy John said.

  “The father of the women being held hostage received a wire, a ransom demand, back in Half Moon Junction. According to Jenny, the signal was weak,” I said. “Weak, but was for sure pounded by the Tall Water Falls operator. Jenny feels the operator is not in Tall Water. Says the telegram came from someplace else altogether.”