Ironhorse

107

Lightning flashed as we entered Hotel Ark, and for a brief moment the animals on the walls looked eerily alive.

Berkeley’s two hands, Gabriel and Jesse, were leaning on the counter, playing blackjack with the front desk clerk, Burns, when we entered.

“No commotion?” Berkeley said to his men.

“Nothing,” Burns said.

Gabriel and Jesse shook their heads.

Berkeley nodded, turned to Virgil, and unbuttoned his slicker.

“Maybe the son of a bitch moved on,” Berkeley said.

Berkeley removed his hat and slicker and hung them on an antler coat rack next to the doors.

“Might be,” Virgil said.

“Murder and move,” I said. “Not unlike him.”

“Is,” Virgil said. “Gives him a sense of purpose.”

“Nobody has reported they’ve had a horse stolen,” Berkeley said.

I leaned my eight-gauge next to the door and took off my slicker.

“He might have had a horse already,” I said.

I shook rain from my slicker and hung it up on the antler rack next to Berkeley’s.

“Bloody Bob don’t really need a horse, though,” I said.

“Don’t,” Virgil said.

“Be more inclined to kill a horse before stealing one,” I said.

Virgil nodded. “Kill anything, anybody,” he said, kind of sad-like as he took off his slicker.

Virgil shook his head and hung his slicker on the rack. His hand remained on the slicker for a bit of time as he looked at the floor.

“Whiskey?” Berkeley said.

Virgil nodded slowly and looked to Berkeley.

“That sounds right,” Virgil said.

“Does,” Berkeley said.

I could tell Virgil was downhearted about the death of Betty Jean. What Bob really wanted was to kill Virgil. Killing Betty Jean was just Bob’s way of satisfying his bloodthirsty nature. If he couldn’t kill Virgil, he’d kill someone else, and Virgil was feeling the unpleasantness of that notion.

Berkeley opened up his bar. It was musky and stuffy when we walked in. Berkeley lit up a lamp and opened a set of French-style doors that looked onto the street, letting in some fresh air. The rain was coming down steady and a solid waterfall fell from the hotel eaves.

“We’ve been through this town pretty thorough,” Berkeley said.

“Have,” I said.

Berkeley went behind the bar. He got some glasses and a bottle of whiskey and set them on the bar in front of Virgil and me and poured.

“I’m good to get back out,” Berkeley said, “keep looking; just say the word, Virgil.”

Virgil did not say anything. He just looked at the glass of whiskey in front of him and threw it back. Berkeley poured another.

“He could have made it out to one of the mining camps,” Berkeley said.

“Hard to say where the son of a bitch is,” Virgil said.

Virgil sipped on his second shot. Berkeley poured me a second, and then he poured one for himself.

“You want to go back out?” Berkeley said. “Keep looking?”

“Not at the moment I don’t,” Virgil said. “Right now I’m gonna drink a bit of whiskey and smoke one of them Romeo and Julieta cigars.”

Virgil pointed to a box of cigars behind Berkeley.

“That is,” Virgil said, “if you don’t mind.”

“By all means,” Berkeley said.