Ironhorse

98

I thought about Emma and Abigail and what they had been through as I moved slowly toward the building. It seemed like a very long time since I had last laid eyes on them. I thought about Emma looking into my eyes, and me looking into her eyes. I thought about holding her hand and her holding mine. My heart pumped harder as I got closer to the building, wondering if she had been hurt, or raped, or if she was even alive. Sure, like Virgil said, we go at this every step of the way with the contention they most assuredly are alive. But what if they were not, what then? When I saw her on the train I felt like I had known her from before. Even though I never met her or seen her previous, I felt as though we had a history together, maybe from another life. Or maybe in this life, the mysterious powers of the universe had us a predestined union designed beyond our imagination or understanding.

Jimmy John slipped off into the trees toward the privy on my right, and I continued on, moving slowly up to the building.

As far as I could tell, I made it to the structure without being seen. I placed my back to the west-end wall next to the door and crouched down low. I edged my eye around the corner, and just as I did, I saw blood. Berkeley was right, he had no problem killing. Just like he slit the throat of the big dun horse, he just slit the throat of one of the getaway riders. Berkeley had his huge hand around the man’s mouth, and his knife had opened a straight line across the man’s throat, and his blood was gushing. I stepped around the corner and saw Virgil. He was just behind Berkeley. He pointed me to the door on my end of the building and pointed to himself and Berkeley and to the other door. Virgil held up his hand and showed five fingers, twice. A ten-second count.

I nodded and started counting. I sheathed my knife, pulled my Colt, and moved back around next to the west-end door.

One thousand one... one thousand two... one thousand three — I pulled my second Colt — one thousand four... one thousand five — I stepped back to kick the door — one thousand six, one thousand seven, one thousand eight, one thousand nine.

This was it. This was the moment.

I kicked the door hard just as two shots rang out from inside. The door busted from its hinges, crashing flat into the room and landing at the feet of a tall man.

“Don’t shoot!” he cried out, and instantly raised his arms above his head.

With his one good arm, and his wood arm high above his head, I knew right away this fellow was the masquerading conductor, John Bishop Wellington, and the man who had escaped from prison with Bloody Bob. Wellington was healed with a backward side rig. The butt of a Smith & Wesson was sticking out facing me, but his arms were up and I had both my Colts pointing at him.

“Don’t shoot!” Wellington pleaded again as he backed away from me. “Please!”

Behind him, the door separating the office from the bunkroom was open. I saw Virgil with his Colt standing in the smoke-filled office. To my left there was a low bunk, but no women.

“Take that S ’n W out, slow,” I said, “and pitch it over to the bunk.”

Wellington did what I told him and kept both arms up.

“Don’t see the women,” I called out. “You?”

“No!” Virgil replied. “Two dead hands. No Lassiter. No women.”

“Where are they?” I said to Wellington.

“Please, don’t hurt me.”

I raised one Colt with an eye-level bead between Wellington’s eyes. “Where are they?”

Before Wellington could open his mouth I heard two distinct clicks behind me, and metal pressing into my back.