05 Ironhorse (26 page)

“This hobby horse has a hickory dick,” he said.

92

THE AIR WAS
thick, and our sound was contained. The volume of our voices and movement didn’t carry too much. Being up on the wooded ridge in the dense wet haze was like being inside a big tent with a low ceiling. The drizzle thinned out the fog some, but our visibility was still limited to not more than about forty feet.

“What are you thinking, Virgil?” Berkeley said.

Virgil turned and spoke to Jimmy John: “You have any idea what the lay of the land is with the mining camp?”

“Been a while since I was in any of these camps, but the layout’s pretty much the same.”

“Being?” Virgil said.

“The mining takes place across the road.”

“At the bottom of this rise here?” I asked.

Jimmy John nodded. “Don’t remember this particular camp exactly, but I think the miners had bunk quarters that were along the road.”

“This side or the other?” Virgil asked.

“On this side,” Jimmy John said. “Mess hut, too.”

“Tents?” I asked.

“Yes, wood walls, canvas roof,” Jimmy John said, “makeshift as they were, I’d say more than likely they’re not there anymore, but don’t know.”

“What about the offices?” Virgil asked.

“Across the road were the mining offices. Shacks really, and tool sheds. Best I can remember.”

“Good and downhill here?” Virgil asked.

“Steep, you mean?” Jimmy John asked.

Virgil nodded.

“Is,” Jimmy John said.

“Don’t want to ride in there,” Virgil said.

“Don’t want to leave our horses uphill, either,” I said.

“No, we don’t,” Virgil said.

“That road down there. The way out is that way, west, toward Division City, right?” Virgil asked Jimmy John.

“It is.”

“What does the road do in this direction,” Virgil said, pointing east.

“It dead-ends,” Jimmy John said.

“And this ridge we are on here,” Virgil said, pointing east. “Where these telegraph posts are?”

“If we stayed on this ridge we are on here,” Jimmy John said, “following the poles, it gradually drops to the road. There are two more mines before the road. The telegraph line crosses the road there, and there are three small mines on the other side of the road, but the road itself just dead-ends there.”

“So if we stayed riding in this easterly direction on the ridge it levels with the road?” I said.

Jimmy John nodded. “It does, about half-mile or so.”

“But here”—I pointed north downhill to the camp where we located the telegraph connection—“it’s steep.”

“It is,” Jimmy John said. “Real steep, all the way east right before the road and there it levels off.”

Virgil thought for a minute.

“In the event we need to gaff ’n get gaited, the last thing we want to do is have to climb up a steep goddamn hill to get to our horses,” Virgil said. “Figure we get the animals close toward the bottom, go that way toward the dead end of the road.”

“That’d be closest to the tracks, too,” Berkeley said.

“That’s right,” Virgil said, “that way, if we get into this mining camp situation, find out we need to configure things differently, we will be closest to the mule proposition. ’Course, we stay shy of the road, get the animals sequestered. Work our way up back to the mine, staying to the trees. Everett?”

“Sounds right.”

“Gents?” Virgil asked.

Berkeley nodded. Jimmy John nodded.

“All right, then.”

We moved off and rode our horses atop the ridge through the drizzling haze, heading east.

93

WE RODE PAST
the next line dropping into a camp and continued on for about another quarter-mile before Jimmy John stopped and turned his bay slightly around to face us.

“The road is not too far ahead,” Jimmy John said. “We could ride for about four more poles, but not any farther.”

“Good. When we get there to the fourth pole, we’ll drop off the ridge to the right and find us a good place to leave the animals.”

Jimmy John nodded and led us on.

My lazy roan was doing pretty well for a flatland horse of poor conditioning. I moved him up a bit and sidled up next to Virgil and Berkeley as we rode on following Jimmy John.

“You given any detailed thought to what you was saying just now?” I said.

“About if we have to configure things differently?” Virgil said.

“Yep, like if this don’t pan out like what we are hedging on?” I said.

“Like if the girls are not here?” Virgil said.

“That, or worse.”

“Or nobody is here?” he said.

“That and all the other various possibilities,” I said.

“Various possibilities that might not provide us fortuitous circumstances?”

“Yes,” I said.

“No,” Virgil said. “I ain’t.”

Jimmy John’s bay shied, took a step to the side, and the other horses reacted a bit. Jimmy John looked back to us. He turned the bay quick and moved to us, stopping us.

“Horse,” he said with a hushed voice as he pointed ahead of us into the fog.

“You sure?” Virgil said quietly.

Jimmy John patted the side of his bay’s head and looked around back over his shoulder. “There, that way.” Jimmy John pointed again. “I heard it blow, even. It’s a ways ahead. Not sure. Could be one, could be many.”

Virgil looked around, and just behind us, to our right was a wash sloping south off from the ridge. He pointed to it, turned Cortez toward it, and we followed. The eroded section of the hillside dropped us below the ridge to a flat piece of ground, where Virgil dismounted. Berkeley, Jimmy John, and I did the same, pulled up to a halt and dismounted. Virgil tied off Cortez. We followed suit and tied off our mounts.

“Jimmy John,” Virgil said quietly. “Ready that stick ’n string.”

Jimmy John nodded and pulled his short bow from the side of his bay.

Virgil took out the Henry rifle from his scabbard and looked to Berkeley and me.

“Avoid gunfire on a have-to basis. ’Course, we find ourselves in a have-to situation,” Virgil said. “We do what we have to.”

Virgil cocked the Henry.

Jimmy John put one end of the bow to the side of the sole of his boot. He put a strain on the other end of the bow, contracting the hardwood, and strung it tight with its string. He lifted his sombrero, slid the quiver over his head, and positioned it on his back. He replaced his hat, pulled an arrow from the quiver, and nocked it ready to fly.

We moved back up the wash to the ridge and started walking east toward the direction where Jimmy John heard the horse. We stayed just below the crown of the ridge as we moved through the post oaks and pine. The fog made it hard for us to see.

Whoever we were expecting to encounter would most assuredly not see us any better than we could see them.

We moved slowly, quietly, with our weaponry at ready. We walked for forty, fifty yards or so, moving silently between the trees, and we heard something. We stopped, waited, and listened. After a minute or two, we continued forward very slowly. I saw some movement in the fog ahead and stopped. Virgil saw it, too, as did Berkeley and Jimmy John. We crouched low behind two boulders that looked like tombstones and focused our attention into the fog ahead. There was motion again, faint as it was in the dense forest mist, but it was there, we saw something, a shadow moving in the mist. We heard a branch break on the forest floor, followed by another. Whoever it was, they were coming our direction.

Virgil touched Jimmy John’s shoulder and pointed for him to get ready.

Jimmy John brought the bow up, pulled back the taut string to his cheek, and looked down the arrow, ready to let it fly.

I thought I could hear a horse breathing, and slowly, looming out of the fog, came a horse walking toward us.

94

THE FOG MADE
it so we saw only the horse’s legs at first. The big animal was taking one troubled step at a time coming our direction. It looked to be stepping awkwardly, as if it were crippled or something.

After a moment it became clear to us what we were seeing. The horse came into full view. There was no rider, just a saddled, riderless horse with troubled breathing and most certainly a crippled hind leg.

“No good son of a bitch,” Berkeley whispered quietly. “That’s that dun, Virgil, that belong to that big lumberjack in Standley Station.”

Jimmy John released the tension he had on the bow.

No doubt this was Gobble Greene’s dun, the second horse abused by Lassiter in less than twenty-four hours. We stayed put, squatted down, watching the dun as it slowly walked toward us. Nobody said a word. We just watched, and as he got closer we could tell the horse was done for. His back leg was broke and showing bone. Blood dripped from his nose, too, and his flanks were moving in and out rapidly. The dun stopped and just looked at us.

“Rode him out,” Berkeley said. “Rode him until he couldn’t go anymore.”

“We know about this dun horse,” Virgil said to Jimmy John.

“Fellow named Lassiter,” I said. “One of the men we are after, rode another horse into the ground before he stole this horse.”

“He damn sure did,” Berkeley interrupted with a hiss. “My horse.”

“Then he stole this horse from Standley Station,” Virgil said.

Virgil stood up slowly. Berkeley, Jimmy John, and I stood up, too.

“He rode up the tracks, then cut off up to here, to this road from the pass switch,” Berkeley said.

Jimmy John shook his head.

“Hard ride,” Jimmy John said. “Rough ride. The back way I brought us up here to the west end of this line is longer but shorter in the long run. Riding up from the tracks to this road is tough going.”

“He don’t give a shit,” Berkeley said. “He pushed this horse, broke it, just like he pushed mine, and now he’s on foot. The son of a bitch. That what you think, Virgil?”

“I do,” Virgil said. “Everett?”

“That sounds right,” I said. “Unless he fell from the dun, was hurt, lamed himself or some such, but I doubt it. Figure he continued walking up the road to the camp.”

“What now?” Berkeley said to Virgil.

“Now,” Virgil said. “We get right with it.”

“What about the dun?” Berkeley said.

We could not risk the sound of gunfire, but the dun had to be put down. A swift cut under the horse’s jaw was necessary. Berkeley stepped up. He was not particularly eager to perform the task, but it had to be done. He figured since he was in some way connected to this animal’s senseless demise, he would perform the unfortunate deed.

Afterward, nobody said a word as we walked through the thick fog back to our horses.

I thought about Gobble Greene and the muscular dun and how the two were a suited match. Gobble seemed like a loner. I’m sure Gobble’s strong dun with the bull neck and Roman nose was a big part of his solitary world. No doubt Gobble would sorely miss his mistreated steed.

We mounted up and rode east on the ridge under the telegraph wire toward where the road dead-ended. Virgil was seemingly now more focused on our objective; at least his countenance and pace indicated more charge.

95

WE MOVED OVER
the crest of the ridge at a steady trot all the way to the last mining camp this side of the road. I was not certain if it was the dun having to be put down, or the passing of valuable time, or a combination of both that was causing Virgil’s deliberateness, but whatever it was, he was in no mood for dally or delay. We dismounted, walked our horses for a ways through some tall brush and tied them behind a shed where the telegraph wire crossed over the road.

“What we know for sure is we’re dealing with four of them,” Virgil said.

Virgil pulled a second Colt from his saddlebag and secured it firmly under his belt.

“Wellington,” Virgil said, “Lassiter, and two pickup riders.”

“Could be more,” I said.

“Could,” Virgil said.

Virgil pointed with the Henry rifle in the direction we were getting ready to walk.

“Know soon enough,” Virgil said.

“Figure the pickup hands will likely be on watch,” I said. “Don’t think they’ll be expecting anyone, but they’ll most likely be on the lookout.”

Virgil nodded.

“That’s most likely right.”

“And we got a muleteer or some such to contend with, but late as it is now, he more than likely would be nearing the pass with the mule, don’t you think?”

“That’d be my surmise,” Virgil said.

“So you’re thinking more than likely there is more than four we are dealing with?” Berkeley said.

“You just figure more,” Virgil said, “always figure more.”

Virgil nodded to Berkeley and Jimmy John, making sure they understood. They nodded back.

“Also, to reckon with in the unfolding,” Virgil said. “We have the women hostages to deal with.”

“Providing they are alive,” Berkeley said.

“We go at this, every step of the way,” Virgil said, “with the contention they most assuredly are alive.”

“And Ernest, the telegraph operator, too,” I said. “We got to take him into account as well.”

“Ernest is no him,” Jimmy John said.

I looked at Virgil and back to Jimmy John.

“Like a lot of the operators, Ernest C. is woman, about the same age as Jenny—pretty, too, like Jenny.”

I had thought when Jimmy John previously asked which operator had pounded the note and I told him Ernest C. he found the news disparaging. I suspected there was a connection between Jimmy John and Ernest C., but I did not inquire and Jimmy John did not elaborate.

“Berkeley? Jimmy John?” Virgil said. “Either one of you need to forgo killing, now’s the time to say so. I do not want to get into the fray and have one or both of you get weak-kneed on me.”

“Unthinkable to abuse a horse, Virgil, but it’s unconscionable to hold someone against their will,” Berkeley said. “I’m all for a person being able to do what they want, free to choose, whoring or preaching. Don’t want to make choices for nobody, and nobody should make choices for me or anybody else. The way I look at this is, those girls are being held against their will and that is just not right. Hell of a lot harder to lay down that dun horse than it will be to sort out these kidnappers.”