Ironhorse

57

Virgil set the stock of the Henry rifle on the floor and leaned the barrel on the edge of the desk.

“That sounds right,” Berkeley said. “What he was saying is pretty much what the governor said. At least in respect to how the fire started, anyway.”

“Might well be,” Virgil said. “Hard to say what is what with boys like Vince. With a lifetime of lying, they don’t know when they’re even doing it.”

Virgil walked to the stove and poured some more coffee into his cup.

“There is a cigar there for you, Marshal,” Berkeley said.

“Box on the desk.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Virgil set his coffee down and got a cigar from the box. He got a match from a narrow porcelain cup and dragged the tip across the underside of the desk. He got the fire going good, picked up his coffee and walked to the open door, and looked out into the street. He leaned on the doorjamb and took a sip of coffee.

There were two wingback chairs opposite the desk where I was sitting. Berkeley poured himself some more coffee and sat in one of the chairs. He blew on his coffee before he took a sip.

“Your Indian pouch?” Berkeley asked motioning to Bob’s pouch on the desk.

I picked it up and looked at it some.

“Naw.”

I dropped it back to the desk.

“Belonged to the mean son of a bitch Vince was talking about.”

Berkeley blew on his coffee some more and took a sip.

I picked up the pouch again and looked at its handiwork. It was sure enough Indian-made — it had fringe, a few bear claws and rattlesnake tails dangling from the sides. The long waist strap was made of tightly woven deer sinew. I opened the pouch and dumped the contents on the desk.

“Whetstone, coin sack, comb, jerky,” I said.

I tossed the comb and jerky in the trash and picked up the small leather coin sack with a brass snap. I opened it. Inside, there was a single silver dollar, two Indian heads, and a folded-up piece of paper. I opened the paper. It was a newspaper article. I leaned over and turned up the desk lantern. I read the caption out loud:

Virgil turned, looked at me. I waved the article in the air.

“A keepsake, no doubt... from Bob’s pouch here.”

“Must be exploits accounted.”

Virgil took a sip of coffee.

“Read me the clipping.”

I leaned into the light and read.