Ironhorse

21

I did not see what Virgil saw until he stood up and opened the door wider. Vince was nowhere in sight, and the door of the next coach was wide open. Even though the hard falling rain blurred our vision, there wasn’t anyone moving about. Virgil moved out, and I followed onto the platform. We took post on each side of the door of the next coach, and again we were under a deluge from the pouring rain. I peeked around the door and saw no gunmen. Toward the rear of the coach a woman was kneeling over a man lying in the aisle. I stepped in the car, followed by Virgil. We trained our pistols on everybody and nothing.

An older man sitting at the second-row aisle started shouting, “We’ve given you all our money, just leave us!”

Another passenger, a chubby man sitting across the aisle, held his hands in the air.

“Don’t hurt us,” he said. “Please!”

“We are not here to harm you,” Virgil said. “We’re here to protect you!”

Again, Virgil told the passengers who we were. A young fellow wearing spectacles pointed toward the rear door.

“One of them came running back through here! Bleedin’ like a stuck pig!”

“Where was he shot?” I asked.

“Side of his head! He had his hand over his ear! He yelled at the others to go back, and they ran out the back door!”

“How many others,” I asked.

“Two other men.”

The young fellow pointed back down the aisle to the woman kneeling over the man and spoke quietly: “They shot that lady’s husband ’bout a half-hour ago. He tried to put up a fight when they wanted his wife’s ring, and they shot him. She’s been sittin’ over him, talkin’ to him, but he ain’t alive.”

We moved down the aisle with our pistols pointed toward the rear door.

“Everybody just try and remain calm,” Virgil said.

When I got to the woman kneeling over her husband, she turned and looked at me. Her face was streaked with tears. I showed her the badge on my vest but kept my gun pointed toward the rear door.

“We are here to help,” I said.

The man she was leaning over was sure enough dead. His eyes were open. He had a bullet hole in his cheek, and behind his head, a puddle of blood pooled in the aisle floor. She looked to her husband.

“It’s going to be okay now, darling,” she said. “Law officers are here now to help us.”

I moved on toward the door. Lightning flashed again, and the coach’s interior brightened for a brief moment. I glanced back to Virgil. He reached out his hand to the woman kneeling over her husband.

“Be better if you took a seat, ma’am,” Virgil said.

The woman looked at Virgil as if he were something curious, unrecognizable. Then, in almost a moment of haste, she took his hand.

“There you go,” Virgil said. “Just stay seated, that’d be best.”

Virgil moved on.

“Everybody!” Virgil said. “Just stay in your seats!”

A tall gent wearing expensive but tattered clothes leaned out into the aisle. He pointed to the dead man and spoke to Virgil.

“This is my trade. Name’s G. W. Tisdale, mortician. I tried to console her, tried to let her know her husband was with God, but she has her own agenda,” he said. “Women often do.”

“Might need your services in a bit,” Virgil said. “Right now, stay seated, don’t do nothing.”

Virgil’s focus remained in the same direction his Colt was pointing, the rear door, as he moved next to me.

“Next car is the Pullman,” I said. “The governor’s car.”

“Yep,” Virgil said. “Providing him and his wife are still among us. No guarantee. No telling what to expect with Bloody Bob on board.”

“What do you want to do going in there,” I said. “How do we go about it?”

“Just gonna have to be quick,” Virgil said. “And shoot straight.”

“Won’t be our first time.”

“No,” Virgil said. “It won’t.”

Virgil positioned himself on the right of the door. I was on the left. I nudged behind the doorjamb, lowered myself to one knee, cracked opened the door, and what was in front of me was on one hand predictable but on the other unfortunate.