“Can’t say there might not be more.”
“No, we can’t.”
Virgil got quiet. After a moment or two of silence I leaned forward a bit, looking at him.
“That what this is about?”
Virgil looked at me.
“You thinking she’s fucking Chauncey Teagarden?” I said.
3
Virgil didn’t answer my question. He focused on the cigar in his hand and rolled it back and forth between his fingers and thumb. Then he looked out the window at the rocky terrain passing by.
Besides the rail we were riding — the St. Louis & San Fran — the Atchison/Topeka, Santa Fe/Burlington, Rock Island & Pacific, and the MK&T railways connected all the Five Civilized Tribes that made up the majority of the territories: Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Seminole. The sixty-mile detour east had us crossing the river and entering the Indian Territories into the Choctaw Nation, as opposed to the Chickasaw Nation. Other than the additional sixty miles of travel, the only real notable difference for us taking the St. Louis instead of the MK&T and entering the Choctaw Nation was the wooded and rough terrain ahead. The rail leaving Texas and heading north was a treacherous winding rise up, up, and up, following the swift waters of the Kiamichi River.
“We’ve been gone a good while,” Virgil said.
“We have.”
“Just how long have we been gone?”
“Well, ’bout two months,” I said. “Give or take some days.”
Virgil turned his attention out the window again.
A swell of blackbirds appeared, traveling parallel with the train for a while. They dipped down out of sight behind a section of quartz cliffs. After some distance the birds drifted back up again, lifting above us and out of sight.
“Just because we have been away for a long while doesn’t mean Allie’s with Teagarden,” I said.
“Proof is in the pudding,” Virgil said.
“That’d be a matter of your sampling.”
“Normal circumstance, I’d be interested in that proposition,” Virgil said. “But at this very moment, I ain’t.”
“I can understand that.”
Virgil gave a sharp nod.
I didn’t say anything else. I understood Virgil well enough to know when a conversation had paused, lingered, or ended, and this one had ended.
Virgil looked back out the window. The lowering sun flickered behind a ridge of evergreens.
“I’m gonna tend to the horses,” Virgil said.
He took a long draw from his cigar and placed it in the silver-plated ashtray on the seat back in front of us.
“I’ll be right here.”
Virgil stepped out the back door as the train chugged slowly up a narrow pass of juniper, quartz, and sandstone. I looked out the window, thinking about how much weight the engine was pulling, thinking of my days of service in the area we were currently passing through. This was the edge of the Fourth Military District. I worked under General Adelbert Ames and had been stationed throughout the Indian Territories during the Reconstruction, following the war. Not real good memories to be conjuring up on such a beautiful sunny summer afternoon, but the territories were different now. Even though there were Kiowa, Comanche, and Apache living in the assigned Indian Territories, there was no longer any real threat of hostiles. Trains, or “little houses on wheels,” as the Indians called them, were as common in the Indian Territories as they were in most states.
The locomotive was chugging unusually slow now. I tipped my hat, shading my eyes from the flashing patches of sun, and started to feel slightly dozy. For some reason, the hot sun on my cheeks made my thoughts drift to Katie from Appaloosa — her sheets, her liquor, her long legs, her dark hair, her womanliness. I yawned, and when I did, I heard the front coach door open, followed by the back door, followed by, “Hands in the air! This is a robbery!”
4
The Robber’s accent was thick, Scottish, maybe Irish, Welsh maybe. I lifted my hat to see a large man wearing a billowing white shirt and a flat-pressed felt hat with a flip-front brim. Behind him stood a very large man with a long red beard. They both carried late-model Hopkins & Allen revolvers and had bandanas covering their faces. Standing next to me was a tall man who’d come through the rear door. He was wearing a duster and carrying a Schofield revolver in each hand.
By now the passengers were screaming, which prompted the Scot, possibly Irish or Welsh, robber with the flip-front brim to bark, “Everybody, hands in the air! Reach! Hands in the air and shut your mouths! Anybody who doesn’t do as we say will be killed! Hands where I can see ’em!”
Everybody did as he demanded. For the moment, I figured there was no reason not to comply with his demands and have a bullet sent in my direction. I raised my hands up where they could be seen.
I was trying to place the foreigner. There was something very familiar about him. Maybe we had been stationed together. Maybe...
“Everyone keep your hands where I can see them,” he shouted. “Everyone!”
I’d been stationed near here, in Fort Smith. I was familiar with this rugged country and most of the outlaws that were part of it. I was certain this foreigner was from my diary of disregards.
“The only time I see your hands drop is when you put your money, watches, and rings in these hats!”
When the robber and the big bearded man took off their hats to be used for collection plates, I recognized him and the bearded man both. I knew if Virgil did not somehow do as he was accustomed to, show up and change these thieves’ course of direction, or if I didn’t make a move soon, I’d be shot when they recognized me.
The man with the Schofield revolvers standing next to me did not say a word or remove his hat. He was the watchman, and I did not oblige him by looking up and exposing my face.
I wondered how he got past Virgil. Nothing gets past Virgil, ever. He must have come from the top of the train, or maybe he was hiding in the freight car, and Virgil walked past him. Maybe he got the jump on Virgil, and Virgil was thrown from the train, or was dead.
“Put all your valuables in these hats!” Vince yelled.
That was his name, Vince. Vince was Randall Bragg’s right-hand man in Appaloosa. He was as bad as they came. Given that I was the one who killed Bragg on the porch of the Boston House Hotel in Appaloosa, I was certain when he got to me, he’d be none too happy to see my face. Vince and Redbeard moved down the aisle, collecting passengers’ belongings.
“Don’t anybody do anythin’ stupid!” Vince shouted. “When we get to the top of this rise, we’ll be gone and you’ll be safe!”
I assessed my options as Vince and Redbeard walked the aisle, prodding each passenger to give up their valuables. My eight-gauge leaned against the window frame but was certainly too cumbersome for swift movement. I could not reach for my Colt or dingus because the man with the Schofields was standing just to my right, towering above me. He was no more than a step behind me, and he’d be sure to see my actions.
Vince and Redbeard were halfway down the aisle, getting closer and closer to me as they gathered money and jewelry from the passengers. Redbeard was collecting faster and was ahead of Vince by a step when he looked directly at me. He stood tall, and I knew he recognized me. He turned his head slightly, looking back to Vince.
“It’s Everett Hitch,” Redbeard said.
When Redbeard turned back to me, I could tell by the wrinkling around his eyes that he had an evil smile under his bandana. But the wrinkles smoothed out quickly when he heard Virgil speak up: “And Virgil Cole!”
5
Virgil was behind the man with the Schofield revolvers. His bone-handled Colt nudged into the man’s back.