Ironhorse

85

The little town was quiet. Even the beer saloon that looked like the type of joint to never close its doors was shut tight and locked up. We continued walking in silence. Virgil puffed on his cigar, leaving a trail of smoke in the damp evening air as we made our way to the end of the street.

“Where we going?” Berkeley said.

“We’re going to see a fellow named Gobble Greene who got his horse stolen and had another horse left in its place,” Virgil said.

When we got to the end of the street where a crooked shack was built next to a corral, Berkeley stopped walking.

“Goddamn,” Berkeley said.

Standing backed into the corner of Gobble Greene’s corral was a big black horse with his head hanging low. Berkeley knew right away this was his horse.

“Let me get Gobble out,” Wesley Junior said. “Last thing I’m sure you want is for him to go unloading buckshot.”

Wesley Junior knocked on Gobble Greene’s door.

“Gobble? It’s Wesley Junior.”

There was no reply from inside.

“Gobble!”

After a long silence, he answered.

“What?” Gobble said from inside.

“It’s Wesley Junior. Got some folks here who need to visit with you!”

The door opened, and Gobble stood barefoot in his undergarments, holding a side-by-side.

“Who, about what?” Gobble said in a deep voice.

For some reason I pictured Gobble Greene would be a crusty old man, but Gobble was young. We could not see his face clearly, but overall Gobble looked like a Roman sculpture of a warrior. He had muscles on top of muscles and a head of curly thick hair.

“These men are lawmen, investigating the train mishap.”

“What do you want with me?” Gobble said.

“When did this horse thieving take place?” Virgil asked.

Gobble took a few steps toward us and into the light of our lantern. His face was as rugged as his shape, with a heavy brow, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes.

“Midday sometime,” Gobble said. “Not sure the time, was not here, got back here near dark, my horse was gone and this horse here was here.”

Gobble moved toward the corral.

“This black breed horse,” Gobble said.

When we got closer to the corral with the lantern we could see the Thoroughbred was in bad shape. His body was covered in dried salt sweat; his head hung low and his eyes were closed. There was dried blood in the corners of his mouth, and there were cuts on his face and neck. Open blisters behind his withers were still bleeding where the saddle rubbed him raw, and he was holding his left rear hoof off the ground.

“Need to just leave him to be for now,” Gobble said. “Through hell he’s been, breathing rough, run out, maybe. If he makes it through the night I’ll clean him up, see what’s left... right now he can drink if he feels like it, eat if he feels like it, but he needs to be just left alone.”

“The son of a bitch,” Berkeley said quietly. “The son of a bitch.”