Ironhorse

108

Berkeley rapped his knuckles on the bar like an amenable barkeep and got a cigar from the box and clipped the tip. He handed the cigar to Virgil, dragged a match under the bar, and cupped the flame. When Virgil got the cigar flaming, Berkeley waved away the match fire. Virgil worked on the cigar, securing its ride, before he spoke.

“I’ve shot Bob four times.”

Virgil took a pull of the cigar and blew out a roll of smoke.

“Not all at once,” Virgil said. “Four times altogether.”

“Tough bastard,” Berkeley said.

“Is,” I said.

“All high body shots,” Virgil said. “Including the one in the neck.”

Virgil pulled on the cigar again.

“Would have killed most men,” I said.

Virgil nodded and blew a stream of smoke that drifted across the bar and swirled around in the glow of the lamp.

“Next shot will be to the head,” Virgil said.

Virgil put his middle finger to his forehead just above his eyebrow.

“One-way ticket,” Virgil said.

Virgil picked up his whiskey and moved to the door, looking out at the pouring rain. He leaned against the jamb and smoked.

“We gave this place a good go-through,” Berkeley said.

Berkeley stepped out from behind the bar and moved to the door by Virgil.

“Hard to look in every commode and confessional,” Berkeley said. “We’ve burrowed ’n rooted best we could in the dark. We can start looking when it’s light. Maybe this rain will lift and we’ll find him in the light of day. We can look outside of the town proper, too. There are abandoned dwellings and homesteads, farms, and of course the mining camps. Hell, this is not New York or Frisco or Chicago, or even godforsaken Dallas, he can’t be that hard to find.”

“That little fellow there,” Virgil said. “He ain’t hard to find.”

Berkeley followed Virgil’s point.

“No he’s not,” Berkeley said. “That’s Miner. He just mines his way from kitchen to kitchen.”

I looked out, they were talking about that mangy cur Virgil and I had seen coming and going all over Half Moon Junction. He was walking slowly down the middle of the street in the pouring rain. He stopped and looked over at us. He walked toward us, just shy of the boardwalk and looked up at us as if we might have something to eat.

“I don’t have anything to eat, Miner,” Berkeley said. “Not at the moment I don’t.”

Miner stayed looking up at us but soon got bored and pawed casually at what looked to be a cluster of flowers on the ground. He put his nose to the ground, sniffed the cluster a little, and walked off on down the street.

“He doesn’t go hungry,” Berkeley said, “I’ll guarantee you that.”

“What’s that he was pawing at?” Virgil said. “Those flowers?”

I got the lantern off the bar and stepped out and got a look.

“Is flowers,” I said. “Petunias.”

“Ah, hell, same flower in our window boxes,” Berkeley said. “Planter must have filled up with water and broke off.”

Virgil looked at me, I followed him, and we stepped out off the boardwalk, past the eaves, turned and looked back up at the second story of the hotel.

“Good goddamn,” Virgil said as he pulled his Colt.