05 Ironhorse (23 page)

“Way I have it figured is we should be there before Sam said for sure,” Uncle Ted said. “We have been running good and we didn’t have to wait for the Southbound at the pass too long, so I’d say before five in the morning for sure.”

“Good,” Virgil said.

“That is, providing we don’t have no problems along the way.”

“And the next drop is Standley Station, you say?”

“It is,” Berkeley said.

“And how long will it be before we get to there?” Virgil said. “Standley Station?”

“Two hours, maybe less,” Uncle Ted said.

Virgil took a big drink from the canteen and looked out at the trees slowly passing by.

“Figure this is about the place where we looked for Brandice,” I said, “or not far from it.”

Virgil leaned out and looked back behind us. He turned and looked ahead of us.

“Ted,” Virgil said.

“Sir?”

“Let’s us stop at Standley Station, get off, move around a bit, check on the horses and such.”

“You got it,” Uncle Ted said.

82

THE STANDLEY STATION
water tower was like most of the towers on the St. Louis and Frisco line; an aqueduct fed the water from the Kiamichi River. The tower stood about one hundred yards south of the small depot ahead. The depot was situated behind thickets of evergreens, making the building difficult to see clearly, but there were lamps burning, lighting up the depot steps and the train track in front. Two men stepped off the depot porch and looked down the rail in our direction. They started walking toward us as Berkeley finished filling the tender and raised the spigot back to its upright position on the water tank. Uncle Ted eased the Ironhorse forward as the men walked toward us, shielding their eyes from the bright headlamp on the front of the engine. One man was tall and heavyset, and the other was older and hunched over slightly. Uncle Ted poked his head out the window as we closed in on the two men.

“Evenin’, gents!” Uncle Ted called out.

He spoke loudly over the noise of the Ironhorse as he continued to ease us on up toward the depot.

The older man spoke up with a shout: “Who are you?”

“Theodore A. Thibodaux is the name!” Uncle Ted hollered, “I’m the hog head of this Yard Goat. We are outta Half Moon Junction.”

“Half Moon Junction?” the old man said.

“That’s right,” Uncle Ted shouted back.

“What are you doing up here?” said the heavyset man.

“We don’t have any Goat on the schedule out of Half Moon!” the older man shouted.

The two men turned back the direction we were rolling and walked beside the Ironhorse as it crept north toward the depot.

“We ain’t on no schedule!” Uncle Ted said.

“So what are you doing here, then?” the heavyset man asked.

“We’re just passin’ through,” said Uncle Ted.

“Passin’ through to where?”

“Got some unfinished business to take care of up ahead,” Uncle Ted said.

“What kind of business?” the old man said.

Uncle Ted looked to Virgil.

“These boys are nosier than my ex-wife, God rest her soul,” Uncle Ted said.

Virgil stepped to the edge of the tender behind Uncle Ted and showed the men his badge.

“Marshaling business.”

“Marshaling business?” the big man said loudly.

“What sort of marshaling business?” the old man said.

“This about last night?” the heavyset man said.

“I’ll be asking the questions,” Virgil said. “Once we get on up to the depot, you can answer what I might need to know.”

The heavyset man said something to the older man, who nodded his head. He spoke back to Virgil as if what Virgil said was a question that needed an answer.

“All right,” the heavyset man said.

Uncle Ted grinned, tucked his head back inside the cab, and moved the Ironhorse up to the front of the depot as the two men walked along beside us.

83

THE DEPOT AT
Standley Station was small but sturdy. A rustically constructed building made of stacked stones and debarked post oaks with thick wooden shingles. Behind the depot was a small house, and behind the house was a narrow street with what looked to be about ten structures. There was some lamps burning inside a few of the buildings, but there wasn’t anybody moving about. Sitting on a dead-end track was the single coach Virgil and I had disconnected from the night previous and left on the rail five miles south of Standley Station.

Uncle Ted stopped the Ironhorse directly in front of the depot and set the brake.

I followed Virgil as he climbed down the steps of the engine and onto the porch of the depot, where the two men waited.

“Fellows,” Virgil said politely. “Who’s the railroad man in charge of this depot?”

“I am,” the older man said. “I’m Stationmaster Wesley Crowsdale. I’m also the minister here in Standley Station. This is my son, Wesley Junior. He’s the section gang foreman and part-time stationmaster.”

“This is Deputy Marshal Everett Hitch, and I’m Marshal Virgil Cole,” Virgil said.

Virgil made little eye contact with the men as he moved past them and peered into the windows of the depot. Virgil turned back and looked to Berkeley, who was climbing down from the Ironhorse.

“This is Burton Berkeley,” Virgil said. “Constable of Half Moon Junction.”

I moved past Wesley Senior as he looked to his son. The name Burton Berkeley added a slight narrow-eyed reaction and a frown from the old minister.

“We have heard of you, Mr. Berkeley,” said Wesley Senior.

“If what you heard was unfavorable, minister sir,” Berkeley said, “I assure you it no more true than our mother’s continence.”

I smiled to myself as I looked into the window of the depot. I glanced back to Wesley Junior and Wesley Senior, who was unsure as to what Berkeley meant, or even how to react.

“Mr. Berkeley, would you see to our horses?” Virgil said.

“Sure thing,” Berkeley said.

I moved to the south edge of the depot, where there was a desk placed in front of a corner window. Sitting on the desk was the key, relay, and sounder.

“What can we do to help you, Deputy, Marshal?” Wesley Junior said.

“Who’s the operator here?” I said.

“The both of us,” Wesley Senior said.

“Were one of you on the key last night?”

“I was,” Wesley Junior said.

“Does the telegraph line have any other connection into the town here?” I asked.

“No,” Wesley Junior said, shaking his head, “this is the only terminal we got here in Standley Station.”

“Were you here when the Northbound Express came through?” Virgil asked.

“I was,” Wesley Junior said. “What was left of it. It was just the hog and one wagon, that was it. Didn’t so much as even slow down, just come barreling through. A man was on the ladder just behind the tender and another man was on the back platform of the wagon. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“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.