Ironhorse

35

The rain started to let up some. There was an opening in the thunderclouds, and we could see moonlight on the tracks. Far away to the east there was lightning. We rode in silence as the coach made a wide switchback loop following the bend in the river. We were rolling very slowly, with no applied pressure to the brakes.

I was about to offer a few words of encouragement about Allie and the pinochle situation when I heard the window in the back of the coach shatter, followed by a loud report in front of us, an obvious sound delay, rifle shot.

“Down!” Virgil said.

The bullet had traveled between where Virgil and I were standing, through the open door behind us, down the aisle, blowing out the glass in the front door. The fact it was a bullet was confirmed when a second bullet exploded the window just behind where I had been standing. I was already down and low to the platform floor.

“Inside!” Virgil said.

I hurried behind Virgil through the door to the interior of the coach. Virgil was off to one side of the aisle, and I was on the other.

“Who the hell is shooting,” I asked.

Another shot pinged loudly on a piece of iron.

“Somebody,” Virgil said. “That’s a fact.”

“Why?” I said. “A single coach rolling quiet could not be expected by Vince and his gang or anybody, for that matter.”

“Those shots sounded the same,” Virgil said. “Sounded like the same rifle.”

“Hell, and it’s dark,” I said.

“It is.”

“Doesn’t make good sense,” I said. “To just shoot in the dark when they got no idea what or who they’re shooting at. It’s not like we are expected.”

“That’s a fact,” Virgil said.

“No good sense at all.”

Another shot rang out. The bullet ricocheted through the car and busted out another window.

“Good sense or not,” Virgil said, “got a feeling sense don’t have nothing to do with this situation.”

“Maybe it’s just some Indians don’t like train coaches,” I said. “Shooting at the little houses on wheels.”

“Might be.”

“Some superstitious Comanche, thinking this coach is some kind of bad sign,” I said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said. “Seems like maybe we’re dealing with a lone shooter, though, Comanche or otherwise.”

“Yeah, there’d be more bullets coming, that’s for sure.”

“There would.”

Another shot rang out, followed by another.

“Same rifle, all right,” Virgil said.

Another shot hit the platform rail.

“Whoever it is,” I said, “they’re peppering the hell out of us.”

We coasted for a bit longer, and there were no more shots being fired.

“Maybe they’re done,” I said.

We were traveling slow, so slow I thought the coach was going to stop.

“Maybe we passed them by, maybe—”

Virgil gave me a sharp nudge to my shoulder; he heard something.

“Uphill platform,” Virgil said quietly.

I turned around and trained my attention to the door between the platform and us. I did not say another word. I listened. Except for the sound of the wheels on the track, it was quiet. I heard nothing, but Virgil had heard something, and it appeared there were some others, or somebody, now on board with us.