“So,” Virgil said. “We keep one eye open on the certain things and the other open on the uncertain.”
I thought to myself about the certainness of what to expect from Allie French as we coasted in the dark. There wasn’t much uncertain about Allie. Fact being, Allie French was as predictable as sundown.
“But,” Virgil said, “‘what lies before us and what lies behind us are small matters compared to what lies within us.’”
“Emerson?”
“Yep,” Virgil said. “Ralph Waldo.”
After that, Virgil stopped talking. We rode in silence for the next few miles.
I understood the nature of Virgil’s dismay. When Virgil’s mind was set, it was granite. He believed in Allie. His mind was set on that simple fact, and he cared for her deeply, whether she was whoring or not. It was never actions that shackled Virgil’s interest, but more to it, the nature behind the actions.
Virgil was more capable than anyone I ever saw in a struggle, but Virgil always valued strategy over struggle. I always thought if Virgil had fought with the Army he would have made a hell of a general. There would be no other place for him besides the top. In a way, Virgil maneuvered as a general in everything he did. Not all generals, but the ones who were fearless and thoughtful. Virgil was selfless, matter-of-fact, always knowing there was nothing more to the future than the present, and that fact made him stand taller than most.
“Dead hand,” Virgil said, almost quiet-like.
Virgil was signifying the fact we were rolling past a dead gunman tossed off the train.
“Not much of a burial,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” Virgil said.
“Not much of a life, either.”
“Not,” Virgil said. “There’s another.”
“Seen a lot of dead men, especially in the Army,” I said. “Never comfortable with the fact, really.”
“Killing a man is one thing,” Virgil said. “Getting comfortable with it is another thing. Living among the dead is altogether something else.”
“Never was much for religion. Or really considered such a thing as living forever, but seeing crumpled dead men always makes me think there’s got to be something more to it. Especially if the poor bastard was just that, a poor bastard, which most of the time are the dead people we come in contact with.”
“You live,” Virgil said. “You die.”
“Indians seem a bit different, for some reason.”
“Indians got a foot in and one foot out of life from the get-go,” Virgil said.
I thought about that. That seemed right. We rode for a bit and Virgil was quiet.
“What do you figure happened with the men that were traveling with the governor,” I said.
“Lassiter,” Virgil said, “and Hobbs?”
“What do you think?” I said. “Slow as the train was going, unless they landed in a deep gully, I don’t think the jump would have hurt them.”
“Hard to know,” Virgil said.
“Maybe they took a road, made it to a farm or ranch or one of the other places the yard hand Whip was talking about.”
“Might have,” Virgil said.
35
The rain started to let up some. There was an opening in the thunderclouds, and we could see moonlight on the tracks. Far away to the east there was lightning. We rode in silence as the coach made a wide switchback loop following the bend in the river. We were rolling very slowly, with no applied pressure to the brakes.
I was about to offer a few words of encouragement about Allie and the pinochle situation when I heard the window in the back of the coach shatter, followed by a loud report in front of us, an obvious sound delay, rifle shot.
“Down!” Virgil said.
The bullet had traveled between where Virgil and I were standing, through the open door behind us, down the aisle, blowing out the glass in the front door. The fact it was a bullet was confirmed when a second bullet exploded the window just behind where I had been standing. I was already down and low to the platform floor.
“Inside!” Virgil said.
I hurried behind Virgil through the door to the interior of the coach. Virgil was off to one side of the aisle, and I was on the other.
“Who the hell is shooting,” I asked.
Another shot pinged loudly on a piece of iron.
“Somebody,” Virgil said. “That’s a fact.”
“Why?” I said. “A single coach rolling quiet could not be expected by Vince and his gang or anybody, for that matter.”
“Those shots sounded the same,” Virgil said. “Sounded like the same rifle.”
“Hell, and it’s dark,” I said.
“It is.”
“Doesn’t make good sense,” I said. “To just shoot in the dark when they got no idea what or who they’re shooting at. It’s not like we are expected.”
“That’s a fact,” Virgil said.
“No good sense at all.”
Another shot rang out. The bullet ricocheted through the car and busted out another window.
“Good sense or not,” Virgil said, “got a feeling sense don’t have nothing to do with this situation.”
“Maybe it’s just some Indians don’t like train coaches,” I said. “Shooting at the little houses on wheels.”
“Might be.”
“Some superstitious Comanche, thinking this coach is some kind of bad sign,” I said.
“Don’t know,” Virgil said. “Seems like maybe we’re dealing with a lone shooter, though, Comanche or otherwise.”
“Yeah, there’d be more bullets coming, that’s for sure.”
“There would.”
Another shot rang out, followed by another.
“Same rifle, all right,” Virgil said.
Another shot hit the platform rail.
“Whoever it is,” I said, “they’re peppering the hell out of us.”
We coasted for a bit longer, and there were no more shots being fired.
“Maybe they’re done,” I said.
We were traveling slow, so slow I thought the coach was going to stop.
“Maybe we passed them by, maybe—”
Virgil gave me a sharp nudge to my shoulder; he heard something.
“Uphill platform,” Virgil said quietly.
I turned around and trained my attention to the door between the platform and us. I did not say another word. I listened. Except for the sound of the wheels on the track, it was quiet. I heard nothing, but Virgil had heard something, and it appeared there were some others, or somebody, now on board with us.
36
The door on the uphill end of the coach was closed shut, and if there were now others aboard, we could not see them. We could not see much of anything. Even though the clouds had for the moment parted and some moon was out, the coach was dark. I could make out only vague outlines: the seats, the windows, and the dark movement of the land passing by the windows. I stayed down low to the floor with one eye peeking around the coach seats, focused toward the darkness up the aisle. The coach was starting to roll faster. We would need to work the brake or we could, and most surely would, get rolling too fast downhill, too fast out of control.
I whispered, “Need to get on that brake, Virgil.”
Just as I finished speaking, the door opened. Virgil did not react by taking a shot, and neither did I. Virgil would never shoot into the dark. He would shoot only when he knew whom, or at least what, he was shooting. Regardless, whoever opened the door did not step into the door frame; the open door was just that, an open door, and whoever opened it remained — at least for the moment — off to the side. We continued to pick up speed. A breeze was now moving through the open doors as the coach leaned slightly on an eastward turn downhill.
“Who goes there?” a deep, raspy voice called out.
We knew that voice. The voice was that of Bloody Bob Brandice. Bob caught a piece of lead in his throat prior to going to prison in Huntsville.