Ironhorse

88

Though there were dense, dark patches of shade along the river where the rider was, sunshine made an appearance on the spikelet tops of the tall bluestem grass that stood between the river and us.

Berkeley walked up from the west switch.

“In the trees, just behind you,” I said. “Caballero.”

“Not Lassiter,” Berkeley said without looking behind him in some obvious move. Berkeley turned slowly. “Surely not Lassiter.”

The rider edged his mount out of the trees and started walking slowly toward us.

“Here he comes,” I said.

We watched.

He was on a tall muscled bay horse with a bosal-style hackamore. The rider worked the bay around a patch of low boulders and walked toward us. He was a dark man wearing a denim coat and a sombrero that sat low, just above his eyes. He continued coming closer.

He stopped about twenty feet from us.

“Virgil Cole?” the rider said.

Virgil took a short step forward.

“You?”

“LeFlore,” he said.

Then he swung his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground with athletic poise.

“Jimmy John LeFlore.”

He walked toward us, and his bay followed. Jimmy John was a handsome Choctaw. He had a thin mustache and chin whiskers. He was tall, lean, and tough-looking. He wore his trousers tucked into tall rugged boots, and he carried no gun, at least no gun that could be seen. He stopped about ten feet from us.

“My deputy, Everett Hitch, Constable Burton Berkeley.”

Jimmy John looked at me, Berkeley, and back to Virgil.

“You need some help of some kind?” Jimmy John said.

He spoke clearly with an educated quality to his voice and no hint of Choctaw tongue.

“We do,” Virgil said.

“What do you need?”

“Need you to help us find some people.”

Jimmy John’s horse turned and pulled at some grass.

The saddle was a well-worn, heavy-duty working rig with large saddlebags. A slim scabbarded short bow with arrows hung between the front cinch and fender. A long length of wire was coiled like a rope that draped from the pommel. A pair of pole climbing spikes and a ratchet lever come-a-long hung from behind the cantle. Leather straps tied off all types of telegraph line odds and ends, but they were all secured so as not to make noise.

“Who?”

“Two women, they are being held for ransom.”

Jimmy John took a single step closer.

“Who has them for ransom, and why?”

“Jenny in Half Moon Junction said you would be the only one who could help us,” I said.

The name Jenny seemed to change Jimmy John’s demeanor. He tipped his hat back on his forehead and came a step closer.

“How can I help you?”

“I understand the Division City mines used to have wire service, is that correct?” Virgil said.

“That is correct.”

“Is the line still there?”

“It is.”

“Is it operational?”

“The line still exists, it’s in the loop,” Jimmy John said, “but the mines, the businesses are gone.”

“So, if the line is still there,” Virgil said, “there is a possibility for one of them to wire?”

Jimmy John looked at Berkeley. Then at me. Then at Virgil.

“There is,” Jimmy John said. “Why?”