Ironhorse

8

The fireman and engineer didn’t waste any more time with talk as they took to task doing what Virgil instructed. Virgil grabbed one of the bandits we’d shot and slid him off the side of the train. Virgil’s move was not to remove the dead from the living as much as it was a warning sign to the other bandits. It would give them something to think about, seeing their fallen friend crumpled next to the rail. It was doubtful, though, they could see much of anything. By now, daylight had slipped away, and except for the eerie reddish light that filled the cabin when the fireman opened the firebox, it was near dark. Virgil dragged the second bandit and slid him off the opposite side of the engine cabin like he was throwing out saloon trash.

“Whether Vince and the gang see their dead lying on the side of the rail or not,” I said, “they know we got control of the engine.”

“Not stopping for their horses,” Virgil said. “They most assuredly do.”

“What do you figure we do?”

“Gonna have to go at ’em.”

“Judging by the number of horses those riders had,” I said, “we got us a handful back there to deal with.”

“We do.”

“Not just Vince we have to be concerned about,” I said. “The whole of that Bragg bunch are no good.”

“They’re mean,” Virgil said. “Bad as they come, and we can’t just wait to get bushwhacked by ’em, either. We’re gonna have to go right at them. Have to be the spider on the fly.”

When the fireman opened the firebox, I looked back behind us, down the side of the tender. The light from the boiler made it possible for me to see a narrow ledge just wide enough to get a foothold running down the length of the tender. The fireman closed the firebox, and again it was dark.

“Open that door again,” I said to the fireman.

The fireman opened the door. I pointed out the narrow ledge to Virgil.

“I’ll make my way back,” I said. “Take a look.”

Virgil leaned out and looked at the ledge.

“Reconnaissance,” I said.

Virgil looked back to me.

“See what I can see,” I said.

Virgil stepped back and tipped his head toward the ledge, giving me the go-ahead.

“Take her easy,” he said.

I leaned my eight-gauge against the cabin wall next to the engineer, stepped off the platform and onto the narrow ledge. I crawled sideways down the side of the tender toward the front coach. When I got to the back of the tender, I could see light coming from inside the first coach. I edged my eye around the corner to see what I could see and almost fell as I jerked back, seeing what I saw. I quickly took a step back toward the engine, but my foot slipped, and this time, I fell.

After all the Indians I’d been up against and the years of taking on gun hands, a damn night train was gonna get me?

I was headed for the fast-moving earth below, but I caught a grab iron, a goddamn short piece of bar that attached to the side of the tender, and pulled hard, pulling myself back up to the ledge. I caught my breath, settled, and worked my way back to the front of the tender. By the time I made it to the back landing of the engine cabin, I was breathing hard. I pulled my Colt and motioned toward the coach.

“Four men in the breach of the door,” I said. “Got two women, both wearing white dresses.”

“The daughters,” Virgil said.

“They dragged them from the Pullman,” I said. “Brought ’em to the forward for a reason.”

“By God they did.”

“Using them as barter.”

“Or shields,” Virgil said.

“Force them to come over the tender in front of them,” I said. “We drop iron or they toss the women. We shoot, we risk the women getting shot or falling.”

“Not if we go at ’em first, quick like,” Virgil said. “Like you did, down the side. They won’t figure us coming at them from the flank.”

“Don’t expect they will.”

“That’s it, then,” Virgil said. “Let’s get after ’em.”

Virgil looked to the engineer and pointed north.

The engineer offered a sharp nod, and answered by giving the engine a bit more throttle.