Ironhorse

18

The sprinkling had now turned to light rain as I stepped out of the coach and joined Virgil on the platform. He wasn’t pacing, but he wasn’t still.

“That’s Bloody Bob Brandice they’re talking about,” I said. “With the pouch and knife.”

“None other.”

“That’s not good news.”

“No,” Virgil said. “It’s not.”

“Can’t think of worse news, really,” I said.

“’Specially for those within an arm’s length of him intent on living,” Virgil said.

Virgil was a man of solid resolve, a man who did not hold a grudge. There was no reason for such nonsense. He took one moment at a time, one situation at a time, and had no reason to haze his focus by allowing feelings to be part of a task at hand. Feelings get you killed, Virgil always said, but the thought of Bloody Bob Brandice primed the hell out of Virgil’s intentions and sharpened the bead of his aim. If there was any one association more disturbing, more unfortunate, more nagging, to conjure up than Randall Bragg’s gang it would be Bloody Bob Brandice, and now it appeared we had them both to deal with.

“Thought the son of a bitch was in prison,” I said.

“Evidently, he ain’t.”

“He got life.”

“He got out,” Virgil said.

“He’s not part of Bragg’s outfit,” I said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Don’t seem likely.”

“Don’t think he’d be part of anybody’s outfit,” I said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Don’t either,” he said.

“He’s not capable of taking orders, riding with an outfit.”

“Even if it was his own outfit,” Virgil said.

“He’s nothing but a hard case. A murderous loner.”

“He is,” Virgil said. “Even murderous loners got a price.”

“Hired assassin, you think?”

“Might be,” Virgil said.

“He’s no Yankee.”

“Far from it.”

“Don’t make much sense,” I said.

“No, it don’t.”

“Got Bragg’s outfit to sort out,” I said. “And now Bloody Bob.”

We thought about that for a moment.

“Don’t get much worse,” I said.

“It don’t,” Virgil said.

Virgil shook his head some. Then he looked back through the door to Abigail and Emma.

“It by God don’t.”

“What do you figure we do?”

Virgil leaned out over the platform rail and looked back behind us.

“Go after him,” I said.

Virgil looked back to me.

“We do,” Virgil said. “Sooner we get to him. More lives will be spared.”

I looked back through the coach to the rear door.

“We open that back door we’ll have a gun or two pointed at us, hammers back,” I said.

Virgil looked to the ladder. He got close to it and looked to the door window, gauging if he could be seen through the window.

“We go back over the top,” Virgil said, “come down on the platform between the first and second cars, staying tight to the ladder, they won’t see us. Least not through the door window they won’t.”

I looked at Virgil, looked at the ladder, and thought about what he was saying.

“We won’t be expected from the top,” Virgil said.

“I suspect you are right, and if they’re on the platform we’ll see them before they see us.”

Virgil nodded.

“All right, then,” Virgil said. “We go.”