Ironhorse

38

Virgil wanted Bob done. It seemed with the two high holes in his upper body Bob would not survive, but Virgil knew Bob was a tough man. Bob had survived more than a few deadly skirmishes, including a previous one with Virgil. Eleven years earlier outside of Amarillo, Virgil shot Bob in the neck.

“You think he was just coming after you, and that’s that?”

Virgil shook his head.

“Bob’s bloodthirsty,” Virgil said. “Like a mountain lion. He knew what was south was of no interest to him. North proposed promise, proposed possibilities.”

“Killing you being one of those posed possibilities.”

“The other, getting to the kingpin, staying on the trail of the one-armed preacher, the conductor culprit who most likely left him. But Bob’s a killer of the first order. He didn’t know it was me in this coach, too dark to determine that for sure, but he didn’t care.”

Virgil picked up the rifle Bob had dropped on the floor.

“He didn’t have a pistol. He’d have come at me with it if he did,” Virgil said. “He just had this Henry rifle he dropped. This Henry and a big-size bone-handled knife. He’s got his knife for sure.”

It started raining again, not hard rain, but it was coming down. By the time I got the coach stopped, we were at least a quarter of a mile away from where Bob had dropped over the rail. I secured the brake wheel with the foot latch, and we stepped off the platform and into the falling rain.

“You go up that side of the track, I’ll go up this side,” Virgil said. “And Everett? I don’t have to tell you, but I will anyway. With or without the Henry rifle, Bloody Bob Brandice is a slippery snake.”

The rain started to pick up some as Virgil and I took off, walking up the track. It was sure enough dark out, but Virgil and I had plenty of experience in the dark, and we both had good night vision. The peripheral vision being the key, looking at everything as opposed to looking at something, was the best method for getting around in the dark.

Virgil moved up on the west, and I was on the east. We stayed to the woods as we worked our way up the easement.

After about a hundred or so furlongs I could hear the Kiamichi to my right. It was a swift section of the river, and the moving water got louder as I kept walking. After a couple of hundred feet farther, a piece of the rapid river became visible and the water was crashing loud. I walked a bit farther and felt I was about to the place where Bob dropped off the coach platform.

I did not see any sign of Bob on or near the track. I kept walking, and the land I was walking on leveled out with the tracks. Still there was no sign of Bob. I figured by now I would see faint movement, ever so slight movement, and find Bob sprawled out on the track, dying.

I was sure I’d see that kind of movement I’d seen many times in the dark; movement with a little life left but waning, dying, like a wounded deer or Indian, or street gunman. On one hand, here in this life, but on the other, his life was slipping away, almost gone.

But Bob was nowhere to be seen. It started to rain hard again. The sound of the rushing river mixing with the rain made it hard for me to hear my footsteps. I stopped and turned around and turned around again, thinking I might see Bob, but saw nothing other than dark rain. I walked up and stepped over the east side rail and kept walking north. The railroad ties were slippery with the fresh rain on the oily timbers. I continued walking up the track. I looked over to see if I would see Virgil but saw nothing.

I kept walking, thinking I had to be past the spot where I would find Bob, when I stepped on something.

I stepped back quickly, not sure what I had stepped on. I looked down and could not see clearly, but I could tell it was Bob’s beaded buckskin satchel, the parfleche pouch Emma had mentioned, but there was no sign of Bob.

I picked up the pouch, and when I did I saw movement out of the corner of my right eye, toward the river. I stepped over the rail and moved toward the woods, toward the direction of the movement. I looked back to the west side, looking for Virgil, but I did not see him. I walked toward the tree line next to the river, and the sound of the white water got louder as I got closer. The trees were thick. I thought I saw movement again but was not sure. Knowing Bob still had his knife, it most assuredly would not be a smart move on my part to walk into the trees. I backed up toward the track, and within a moment I heard.

“Everett.”

I turned. It was Virgil coming down the track from the north. I walked toward him in the steady rain. He had his coat collar up and his hat snugged down low. Water was pouring off the brim.

“You see anything?” he said.

“I think he’s in those woods there by the creek, but I don’t know for sure. I found this.”

I handed Virgil the parfleche pouch.

“Not much inside. I felt some cartridges, a whetstone, I think some jerky.”

“As much as that goulash we ate in the Hungarian café at Dallas depot has worn off, I wouldn’t eat that jerky,” Virgil said. “Could be backstrap off his kinfolk.”

I was not able to make out the expression on Virgil’s face, but it was clear by his body language that he was not satisfied with the situation.

“We’re not going in those woods,” Virgil said.

Virgil stood and looked east toward the woods. He called out into the dark, rainy night.

“Bob Brandice! If you do not die in those woods, rest assured I will kill you!”