Ironhorse

25

I followed Virgil to the rear of the coach, and the passengers did as they were instructed and started turning off the lamps. With the exception of Virgil being downright hornswoggled by Allie French, he was a man who did not get the wool pulled over his eyes, ever. The mere fact that we were now coasting and eventually would be rolling backward in disconnected coaches down the track in a rainstorm because of an oversight wasn’t setting well with Virgil.

“If there is a Yankee,” I said, “that must be him masquerading as a conductor, masquerading as a God-fearing preacher?”

“Hard to say,” Virgil said.

“He must have double-crossed the others,” I said.

“Might have.”

“Looks like he made off with the loot,” I said.

Virgil stopped at the rear door and looked back to the passengers turning out the last few lamps.

“That’s not all he’s made off with,” Virgil said without looking at me.

“I know,” I said.

The notion we left the governor’s daughters in harm’s way prompted Virgil’s eyes to narrow and grow cold. I’d seen that look on Virgil’s face many times before, but it was always right before he killed somebody.

“Emma’s got fight,” I said. “She’s got six rounds in a short-barrel Colt; she’s got a steely resolve and she’s got fight.”

“One thing for certain,” Virgil said. “They’re heading north, we’re heading south, and there ain’t nothing we can do about the inevitability of that fact. Least not at this very moment there ain’t.”

Virgil opened the door. We stepped into the falling rain and crossed to the next coach. I followed Virgil down the aisle. The undertaker had done what Virgil had asked him to do. The dead man had been laid to rest on a seat and was covered by a blanket. An old Apache woman wearing a stove-collared black dress was now sitting with the grieving widow.

“Everyone,” I said. “We need you to turn out the lamps. So take care of what you need to take care of, then do just that, turn ’em out.”

By the time we stepped out the rear door the rain had subsided some, but it was still coming down solid as if it had settled in for the night. The two coaches we were riding were now rolling very slowly backward down the slightest grade. Virgil was looking down the track, but there was really nothing to see other than darkness and rain.

“This is it,” I said.

“It is,” Virgil said.

“Now we just ride the brake,” I said. “Ease up on Bloody Bob, Vince, and the others.”

Virgil nodded.

“First sign of that rear section,” I said, “we stay back, watching ’em. Stop when they stop.”

“Sounds right.”

“Mix things up a bit,” I said.

“We will,” Virgil said.

For the moment we didn’t need to brake; we were traveling very slowly, but I released the foot latch on the handbrake wheel and gave the wheel a slight test turn to the right. The wheel turned, but there was no friction, no braking.

“No good,” I said.

“No good?” Virgil said.

I turned the wheel again, this time a few revolutions, thinking maybe the chain to the brakes might have just slacked off, but there was nothing, the wheel just turned.

“Don’t work?” Virgil asked.

“No,” I said. “It don’t.”

“You think with the George Westinghouse brakes,” Virgil said, “they’re no longer hooked up?”

“Don’t know. We’ll need to stop, though, figure out what is what,” I said. “I’ll open the air-line valve on the other end, get us stopped, have a look.”