Ironhorse

36

The door on the uphill end of the coach was closed shut, and if there were now others aboard, we could not see them. We could not see much of anything. Even though the clouds had for the moment parted and some moon was out, the coach was dark. I could make out only vague outlines: the seats, the windows, and the dark movement of the land passing by the windows. I stayed down low to the floor with one eye peeking around the coach seats, focused toward the darkness up the aisle. The coach was starting to roll faster. We would need to work the brake or we could, and most surely would, get rolling too fast downhill, too fast out of control.

I whispered, “Need to get on that brake, Virgil.”

Just as I finished speaking, the door opened. Virgil did not react by taking a shot, and neither did I. Virgil would never shoot into the dark. He would shoot only when he knew whom, or at least what, he was shooting. Regardless, whoever opened the door did not step into the door frame; the open door was just that, an open door, and whoever opened it remained — at least for the moment — off to the side. We continued to pick up speed. A breeze was now moving through the open doors as the coach leaned slightly on an eastward turn downhill.

“Who goes there?” a deep, raspy voice called out.

We knew that voice. The voice was that of Bloody Bob Brandice. Bob caught a piece of lead in his throat prior to going to prison in Huntsville.

“Virgil Cole.”

There was a long pause before Bob replied. His voice was low and quiet.

“Virgil Cole?” Bob grumbled.

“That’s right.”

There was another long pause.

“Bullshit.”

“No bullshit, Bob.”

Bob paused again, even longer than the time before. He had heard Virgil say his name out loud, and this gave him pause.

“Virgil Cole,” Bob said slowly. “I heard it was you. When I heard it was the great and mighty Virgil Cole, that you were the lawman aboard, I thought, well, if it ain’t my lucky day.”

“I wouldn’t be too reliant on luck, Bob,” Virgil said.

“Looked around for you for a spell, Cole, when I got out. Never laid eyes on ya,” Bob said, “and now this.”

“Now this,” Virgil replied.

“Now this,” Bob said again.

“Last I heard you was west in mining country, suckled up with some lilac whore.”

Virgil did not reply.

Bob laughed, a raspy, snarly laugh.

“I’ll be go to hell,” Bob said.

“I don’t believe you have a choice, Bob,” Virgil said.

Virgil stood center aisle with his shoulders facing squarely toward the door.

There was a long silence, and Bob said slowly, “Fuckin’ Virgil goddamn Cole.”

“That’s right,” Virgil said, “and Everett Hitch.”

Bob laughed again, this time a loud, booming, raspy laugh.

“What the fuck you two tamers doing?” Bob said. “I heard there was some law on this night train, but I’d’a never figured it’d be a couple a right-minded saddle tramps the likes of you two. But it goes to figure, lilac bubble-bath do-gooders would be sitting on velvet seats, ’specially you, Cole.”

Virgil whispered to me, “Any second now.”