Ironhorse

41

Virgil took a few deliberate puffs on his cigar and we moved on. Like the sixth coach, the fifth was empty, too. We walked back up the track a ways and looked closely at the remainder of the burning Pullman. The heat was intense and the light was bright. Virgil stayed back as I walked closer, looking into the fire of the fancy coach. I walked slowly around the coach, looking into the dancing flames.

“Don’t see nobody in there, do you, Everett?” Virgil said. “No burnt-up people, no bones?”

I continued walking around the coach, looking into the fire.

“Nothing yet,” I said as I walked back up the other side of the coach, looking closely into the smoky fire.

“Do not,” I said. “Don’t see any bones.”

I looked back to Virgil holding the Henry rifle. The rifle’s brass receiver was reflecting the flames and glowing a brilliant golden orange against the darkness.

“I reckon the governor and his wife got out, and away,” I said.

“Seems so,” Virgil said.

“Yep,” I said. “Somehow, some way.”

I walked back to where Virgil was standing, smoking his cigar. He was looking off toward Half Moon Junction.

“Hard to figure all this,” I said. “The governor and his wife, horses gone, the Pullman burning, the passengers, cars separated.”

“Is,” Virgil said.

“I figure the bandits took off and left the passengers to fend for themselves.”

Virgil nodded, slowly smoking the cigar.

“You think they took the governor and his wife hostage?” I said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Don’t think so,” Virgil said. “Now they are back here away from us, don’t think they’d have a need for ’em.”

“No,” I said. “Don’t guess they would.”

“Whether they are alive or not,” Virgil said, “is another matter altogether.”

“So what are you thinking?” I said.

“I’m thinking we do ourselves the necessity of getting over to this Half Moon Junction,” Virgil said, pointing the Henry rifle in the direction of the town, “and figure out just what befell.”

I nodded, and we started walking toward the town. We walked back past the other cars and past the caboose. A lamp was hanging on the back of the caboose, and as we passed it I noticed the engraving on the receiver of the Henry rifle Virgil was carrying.

“That yellow belly looks fancy,” I said.

Virgil held up the Henry a bit.

“It is,” Virgil said. “Got detailed engraving on it. Bunch of new scratches on the stock, and the front sight is busted off.”

We continued walking and left the light from the caboose behind.

“Not Bloody Bob’s rifle, that’s a fact,” Virgil said. “He stole it, I imagine. It’s got a deck of cards and a riverboat engraved on it.”

“Maybe he got it off some professional boat gambler,” I said.

“The other side of the receiver has happy and sad masks,” Virgil said. “Like you’d see displayed on tent shows.”

“Maybe it belonged to a gambler,” I said. “Who is a performer, a thespian or something.”

“Might,” Virgil said. “Just might.”

I opened Bob’s pouch and pulled out the extra cartridges I’d previously felt were inside and handed them to Virgil as we walked.

“Here,” I said. “What’s left of the cartridges.”

Virgil took the bullets and put them into his coat pocket as we continued making our way toward Half Moon Junction.