Ironhorse

9

We started off. Virgil stepped from the cabin, walking the narrow ledge on the right side of the tender, and I moved back down the ledge on the left. It was hard to know exactly how this would go down. Virgil and I had been in many distressing situations, but crawling down the side of a fast-moving train in the middle of a dark night posed tall complexities. I thought about Virgil’s bum knee, and how long he would take before he’d get to the back of the tender. One thing I always knew about Virgil was that when his sights were set, time slowed down. I thought of Virgil’s words, spider on the fly, as I worked my way along the narrow ledge of the tender. When I got to the end, the first element I slid around the corner of the tender was my Colt with its hammer back; the next was my eye looking down its barrel.

I let lead fly as I locked target and jumped to the platform. My shot made its way to the chest of a large man wearing an open shirt and holding one of the women. He fell back and she dropped to the floor. I saw someone duck out the back coach door.

Virgil was on the platform from the other side, and his first shot caught the side of a robber’s head, splattering blood onto the daughters’ white dresses.

A fat man got off a shot. The bullet hit the doorjamb, splintering pieces of wood onto the platform.

My second shot caught the fat man in the throat. I did not see Virgil’s second shot, but a tall robber fell backward and dropped in the aisle.

Swiftly, in a matter of fleeting moments, there were four dead gunmen and we were in the open doorway of the coach. Both of the young women were safe and on the floor in front of the first passenger seat.

“One hand made it out the back, Virgil,” I said.

Virgil and I stood side by side with our Colts trained to the back of the coach, looking for other robbers. The car was thick with smoke and there was not another bandit left standing. Many of the passengers were covering their ears, eyes, or mouths and, for the most part, were silenced by the instant carnage.

We reloaded. Then I gathered the weapons off the men we’d shot. Virgil looked to the passengers.

“I’m Marshal Virgil Cole; this is my deputy, Everett Hitch. Everybody stay seated and remain quiet. We’ll do our best to rid this train of these thieves.”

Virgil looked down at one of the young women and offered his hand. She looked up and grasped his hand. Virgil helped her to her feet. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped blood from her face. She was pretty. Her face was similar to that of an angel you might see in an old biblical painting. She had rosy cheeks and large eyes. I helped up the other woman, who was also pretty, but more womanly, more slender and tall.

“You two the governor’s daughters?” Virgil said.

The girl with the rosy cheeks and big eyes clutched Virgil’s arm. She was shaking hard and could not say anything. The taller woman spoke.

“We are. I’m Emma; this is my little sister, Abigail.”

Abigail burst into tears. Emma was also shaking but breathing easier than her sister.

“Our... our mother and father are back there somewhere,” Emma said and pointed.

“How many guards are with your family?” Virgil asked.

“I don’t know for sure,” Emma said. “Two that I know of. Pinkerton men, maybe there were others elsewhere on the train, I don’t know.”

“The two Pinkertons are in your car?” Virgil said.

“They were,” Emma said. “One was stationed at the front of the coach and the other at the rear.”

She looked at me and back to Virgil. Water filled her eyes.

“I’m not for certain,” Emma said, “but I’m pretty sure they are both dead.”