“You contact north to Tall Water Falls?” I asked.
“I did,” Wesley Junior said, “I got on the key right away and notified Tall Water Falls as to what I saw.”
“They contact you back,” I asked.
“They did, and then later they wired the hog and wagon did not show up.”
“You had any contact with them since?” Virgil asked.
“No. Just from Crystal Creek, that’s the next station up before Tall Water Falls. Crystal Creek wired this morning, they found the hog and wagon just north of them. It barreled through there, too, but seems the steamer went dry. The Crystal Creek section gang found the hog and coach this morning.”
Virgil lit a cigar and walked to the north end of the porch and pointed to the coach sitting on the team rail next to the depot.
“The folks that was in that car, did they get on the Southbound Express that came through here out of Division City a while back?”
“Matter a fact, they did,” Wesley Junior said.
“All of them?” Virgil said.
“Yes, sir.”
Virgil looked back inside the window of the depot as he walked to the edge of the building and looked down the street toward the town.
“And where are the dead?” Virgil said.
“You know about that?” Wesley Junior said.
Virgil just looked at Wesley Junior, with his cigar secured in the corner of his mouth.
Wesley Junior looked back and forth between Virgil and me and pointed.
“In that buckboard over there across the tracks by the river,” he said. “Good and down wind.”
Virgil removed one of the lanterns hanging from the porch pole.
“Let’s us go have a look-see.”
84
The rapids of the Kiamichi grew louder as we walked across the tracks toward where the buckboard was sitting near the river.
“Me and my section boys had the duty of cleanup this morning,” Wesley Junior said.
As we got close to the buckboard, I caught the slight odor of dead.
“We’re all ex-Army,” Wesley Junior said. “Seen a lot of dead, used to it, but still it was a hell of a thing to have happen, here on the Kiamichi.”
Wesley Junior threw back a tarp covering the dead gunmen stacked between the rails of the buckboard.
“I tried to get the conductor of the Southbound Express to load them, take them and the car down to South Division in Paris, but they was too far behind. Paris dispatch said other arrangements would be made,” Wesley Junior said. “They best hurry, otherwise I’m gonna need to bury them.”
Virgil held up the lantern, and we looked at the bodies. They weren’t exactly stacked real neat, and it was kind of hard to tell where one man started and another man ended, but I looked at them all closely.
“Don’t see no buckskin,” I said.
“Nope, don’t,” Virgil said.
“Buckskin?”
“One of them was shot up near here,” I said. “Not sure if he made it or not.”
Wesley Junior looked out into the dark and said, “You think he might be out there?”
“Hard to say.”
“Was he mounted?” Wesley Junior said.
“No,” I said.
“Why do you ask?” Virgil said.
“A horse was stolen from here. Nothing like that happens here — hell, a horse apple falling out a tree is the normal news around here, not a horse getting stolen,” Wesley Junior said. “But still might be your buckskin fellow who done it. Thing is, though, another horse was left in its place. It was rode hard, real nice horse, well, it was a nice horse, but it was left in bad shape, damn near dead I think.”
“Lassiter,” I said.
Virgil nodded.
“Where did this happen, Wesley?” Virgil asked.
“Horse taken belonged to a logger named Gobble Greene. A mean SOB who lives on the end of town there. Whoever stole his horse is lucky Gobble was not around, ’cause Gobble Greene ain’t nobody to mess with.”
Virgil held the lantern up and looked at Wesley Junior.
“Take us there,” Virgil said.
“Sure thing,” Wesley Junior said.
He threw the tarp back over the top of the dead men and started back toward the tracks, and Virgil and I followed.
“Everett,” Virgil said, “might be a good idea to get Berkeley.”
When we crossed back over the tracks, we walked behind the stock car. The ramp was down, and Berkeley was inside with the horses. I moved to the opening of the car.
“Berkeley,” I said.
“Yo,” Berkeley said.
He came to the opening with a pitchfork in his hand.
“Come on,” I said. “Got a set of circumstances that more than likely concerns you.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Didn’t when it was spelled out, either.”
Berkeley came down the ramp and we caught up with Virgil and Wesley Junior walking in the street that entered the town of Standley Station.
85
The little town was quiet. Even the beer saloon that looked like the type of joint to never close its doors was shut tight and locked up. We continued walking in silence. Virgil puffed on his cigar, leaving a trail of smoke in the damp evening air as we made our way to the end of the street.
“Where we going?” Berkeley said.
“We’re going to see a fellow named Gobble Greene who got his horse stolen and had another horse left in its place,” Virgil said.
When we got to the end of the street where a crooked shack was built next to a corral, Berkeley stopped walking.
“Goddamn,” Berkeley said.
Standing backed into the corner of Gobble Greene’s corral was a big black horse with his head hanging low. Berkeley knew right away this was his horse.
“Let me get Gobble out,” Wesley Junior said. “Last thing I’m sure you want is for him to go unloading buckshot.”
Wesley Junior knocked on Gobble Greene’s door.
“Gobble? It’s Wesley Junior.”
There was no reply from inside.
“Gobble!”
After a long silence, he answered.
“What?” Gobble said from inside.
“It’s Wesley Junior. Got some folks here who need to visit with you!”
The door opened, and Gobble stood barefoot in his undergarments, holding a side-by-side.
“Who, about what?” Gobble said in a deep voice.
For some reason I pictured Gobble Greene would be a crusty old man, but Gobble was young. We could not see his face clearly, but overall Gobble looked like a Roman sculpture of a warrior. He had muscles on top of muscles and a head of curly thick hair.
“These men are lawmen, investigating the train mishap.”
“What do you want with me?” Gobble said.
“When did this horse thieving take place?” Virgil asked.
Gobble took a few steps toward us and into the light of our lantern. His face was as rugged as his shape, with a heavy brow, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes.
“Midday sometime,” Gobble said. “Not sure the time, was not here, got back here near dark, my horse was gone and this horse here was here.”
Gobble moved toward the corral.
“This black breed horse,” Gobble said.
When we got closer to the corral with the lantern we could see the Thoroughbred was in bad shape. His body was covered in dried salt sweat; his head hung low and his eyes were closed. There was dried blood in the corners of his mouth, and there were cuts on his face and neck. Open blisters behind his withers were still bleeding where the saddle rubbed him raw, and he was holding his left rear hoof off the ground.
“Need to just leave him to be for now,” Gobble said. “Through hell he’s been, breathing rough, run out, maybe. If he makes it through the night I’ll clean him up, see what’s left... right now he can drink if he feels like it, eat if he feels like it, but he needs to be just left alone.”