Brimstone

8

WE SAT IN THE BACK of the train, on the left side, Virgil on the aisle. Virgil always sat on the left on the aisle so that his gun hand was unencumbered. Allie sat next to him. I sat across from them, facing the rear. Since people could board from either end, it was nice to watch both doors. The train bumped along. Virgil had his feet up and his hat tipped down. Allie sat erect beside him with her hands folded in her lap, looking out the window at the west Texas countryside. Occasionally, we passed cattle. Otherwise, there was nothing much to see but grassland.

“You ever pray, Everett?” Allie said.

“Not much,” I said.

“Ever think about it?”

“Praying?”

“God,” Allie said.

“Not much,” I said.

“You know, after I run off,” Allie said, “got taken up by a Mexican man, I think. He took me a ways and sold me to couple men who were half Comanche. They kept me awhile and sold me to Pig.”

I nodded. Virgil appeared to be asleep, though I doubted that he was.

“When I was in that place,” Allie said, “I started praying. I prayed that Virgil would come and find me. And you too, Everett.”

Allie didn’t want to hurt my feelings.

“Heard you praying back in the street,” I said.

“I was,” Allie said. “I believe it helped.”

“Didn’t hurt,” I said.

She nodded and went back to looking out the window. Virgil never stirred. The conductor came into our car, and the loud rattle of the train came in with him as he opened the door and passed from the next car to ours. When he came to us I handed him three tickets. He punched them and looked at the eight-gauge leaning against the corner of the seat by the window.

“What the hell’s that thing?” he said.

“Eight-gauge shotgun,” I said.

“You planning on hunting locomotives?” the conductor said.

“Only if one attacks me,” I said.

“Be a fool if it did,” he said, looking at the eight-gauge. “Where you folks headed.”

“Next town, I guess,” I said.

“That’d be Greavy,” he said. “You got business in Greavy.”

“Looking for work,” I said.

The conductor looked at Virgil and at me and at the eight-gauge. From the corner of his eye, he took a quick look at Allie in her pathetic dress and ratty Mexican sandals. But he didn’t look long.

“I guess you’re not cowboys,” he said.

“No,” I said. “We ain’t.”

“Well, good luck with it,” the conductor said.

“How long to Greavy?” I said.

“Maybe another hour or so,” the conductor said.

“Got a place there to buy ladies’ clothes?” I said.

“Sure, up-and-coming little town, Greavy. Got a good general store. Sells most everything.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He gave his cap bill a little tug and headed back down the train.

Nobody said anything for a while. Virgil remained motionless.

Then Allie turned from the window and said, “Thank you for asking about the clothes, Everett.”

I was pretty sure that was for Virgil. I was pretty sure all of her conversation had been for Virgil. She knew he wasn’t sleeping.

“Pleasure,” I said.