Ironhorse

5

Virgil was behind the man with the Schofield revolvers. His bone-handled Colt nudged into the man’s back.

Redbeard jerked quick and inadvertently fired off a shot. It hit the man with the Schofield revolvers square in the chest.

The name Virgil Cole sort of did that to people. It made people flinch and do things they otherwise might not do. Redbeard might have been trying to pick off Virgil where he was standing behind the man with the Schofields, but the man with the Schofields went down.

The next shot came from Virgil and located itself in the forehead of Redbeard, sending him backward into Vince. Redbeard’s big body made for good cover, and Vince was quickly out the front coach door. Virgil moved fast up the aisle, chasing after him.

I grabbed my eight-gauge and followed Virgil in pursuit of Vince. By the time I made it to the door, the door had swung back closed and Virgil was on the platform of the forward coach. He turned quick.

“Down, Everett!”

A fast succession of shots rang out from the forward coach. Virgil moved quick to the side, out of the line of fire, as bullets came flying down the aisle, busting through the glass of the front car door and through the glass of the rear coach door. I shifted to the right and promptly dropped in a seat next to a heavyset woman. The passengers were screaming and crying as the bullets whizzed down the aisle, catching pieces of glass and wood. After a moment the shooting stopped. We waited. I was on the opposite side of the coach from Virgil. I could see him clearly through the busted glass. The passengers were distressed. Some of them were crying, and others started chattering nervously.

“Everybody quiet! We’re marshals,” I said. “Just remain quiet!”

Most of the folks stopped clamoring, but some kept talking.

“Quiet!”

Virgil looked at me as he reloaded his Colt.

“Who we dealing with, Everett?” Virgil said. “That hoss called you by name.”

“Not sure about the lot of ’em or how many they are, but that fellow shooting back at us is Vince.”

Virgil snapped the loading gate of his Colt closed with the palm of his hand.

“Vince! The Irishman from Bragg’s gang?”

“None other.”

“You sure?”

“It’s him.”

“He’s no good,” Virgil said.

“No, he’s not.”

Virgil shook his head some.

“What the hell is he doing down here?”

“Until you showed up,” I said, “trying to rob this train.”

“Vince!” Virgil called out loudly.

Vince did not reply.

“Vince!” Virgil shouted. “You hear me?”

Again, there was no reply.

“You already got two of your hands killed, Vince! You’d do best to give yourself up so we don’t have to kill any more of you! Including you!”

Nothing. Either Vince was waiting for us to make a tactical error and expose ourselves or he was going forward through the train.

“Might be on the move,” I said.

“Could be.”

“Don’t think it’d be a good idea to go through that door and find out, though,” I said.

Virgil shook his head.

“No, it wouldn’t,” Virgil said.

“No telling how many they are.”

“Big train,” Virgil said. “Three in this coach might be a hint the whole slew of that bunch are on board.”

“If they’ve not already got control of the engine,” I said, “they’re gonna try.”

Virgil looked to the ladder by his shoulder, then back at me. He pointed up the ladder.

I nodded and pointed to myself, then pointed to the rear door of our coach.

Virgil nodded. Then he climbed the ladder to the roof of the train.