by Robert Knott
“I have not seen him in town, didn’t know he was around till this,” Skinny Jack said. “But Truitt has always run with a bunch of no-goods. Hell, I knew him as a kid. His old man was the same way. Both them apples got worms. Don’t do much but connive folks and gamble.”
Book said, “Didn’t you tell me that Truitt and his bunch held up some westerners on the trail?”
Skinny Jack nodded.
“That’s what I heard,” he said.
“Whatever he is,” Chastain said, “he’s up till this moment not to be found, and now he’s a wanted man himself, for killing this Denver policeman.”
“He’s not dead yet,” Doc Burris said as he walked out the door, wiping his hands on a white cloth, then slapped the cloth to rest over his shoulder. He struck a match on the porch post and lit the pipe he had wedged in the corner of his mouth.
“Doubtful he’ll pull through,” he said, puffing on his pipe. “But he’s still breathing.”
“Is he alert, Doc?” I said.
“No,” he said. “He’s not.”
Chastain looked to Virgil.
“You want me to round up a posse,” he said.
Virgil shook his head.
“Right now,” he said, “let’s get out there and find someone that has laid eyes on Boston Bill, go from there. Truitt, too . . .”
“Witnesses said Messenger had a Colt in a belt holster when Truitt shot him,” Book said. “But Messenger never went for it. They said he put his hand in his knapsack and that is when he got shot.”
“What witnesses?” I said. “Who have you talked to, who was there when it happened?”
“Construction workers, mostly,” Chastain said. “There was also Mr. Pritchard.”
“Hollis Pritchard?” I said. “He was there?”
“He was.”
Virgil looked at me.
“The owner of the gambling hall?”
“He is,” I said.
“You talk to him?” Virgil said.
“A little bit,” Chastain said. “He seemed upset and confused by what happened.”
“So what the hell did happen?” I said.
“Workers I talked with said the Denver fella walked out from the boardwalk across the street,” Book said. “He had a few words with Boston Bill and then come out of his knapsack holding that warrant you got in your hand.”
I held up my hand with the rolled-up warrant Skinny Jack had handed to us on Virgil’s back porch.
“Did Boston Bill see this,” I said. “Know about this?”
“Don’t know,” Chastain said. “We don’t have any idea about that.”
Chastain looked to Virgil. Virgil was looking off as if he were thinking about something else.
“What now, Virgil?”
Virgil waited a moment as he thought, then looked back to Chastain.
“Contact Denver,” he said. “See what you can find out about Roger Messenger, about the warrant, about who was murdered.”
Chastain nodded.
“Book, you and Skinny Jack and the rest of your hands keep looking around, see if anyone knows anything,” Virgil said. “Don’t approach, just find out. Got one lawman shot, I damn sure don’t want another.”
Book and Skinny Jack nodded.
“Everett, let’s you and me go have us a visit with Pritchard.”
“Murdered?” Doc Burris said.
Doc Burris looked back and forth between Virgil and me.
“What, may I ask,” he said, pointing to the warrant with his pipe, “is the nature of all this dismay, what’s this drama?”
I held up the note. Doc leaned in and read it, then leaned back.
“So rolls the tumble of the dice,” he said.
6.
Virgil and I walked up the steps of the gambling parlor, and when we left the bright light of outdoors, crossed the lobby, and stepped into the dark main room of the parlor we heard the distinct sound of a Winchester being cocked. The clicks of the lever action were followed by a deep voice. “That’s far enough.”
We quickly stepped back into the lobby. Virgil readied his Colt and I slid back the hammers of my eight-gauge.
“Who’s there?” the deep voice said.
We said nothing for a moment and listened. Then Virgil answered.
“Marshals Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch,” he said.
We heard some muffled talking from above.
“Whoever you are,” Virgil said. “Put down what you picked up.” Virgil looked to me.
“I’m Charles Lemley,” the voice said. “I’m up here with Hollis Pritchard.”
“Know who Pritchard is,” I said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Mr. Pritchard’s building foreman here. I manage the construction of this place.”
“Who else is up there with you?” I said.
“No one.”
“Just the two of you up there?” Virgil said.
“It is.”
“Bill Black?”
“Not up here,” Charles said.
“Truitt Shirley?”
“Just us two up here,” Charles said. “Fact.”
“Mr. Pritchard?” Virgil said as he looked up.
“Yes,” the voice responded.
The voice was noticeably older and raspy.
“Is that you, Mr. Pritchard?” Virgil said.
“It most certainly is,” he said.
“And it’s just the two of you?” Virgil said.
“Yes,” Pritchard said.
“Where are your workers?” I said.
Silence. Then.
“After what happened here today, I sent them home,” Charles said. “Told them to take the rest of the day off.”
“Unload that rifle you got in your hand,” Virgil said, “and drop it down here, over the edge.”
He did as he was told. We listened as the bullets were ejected, then the Winchester was tossed from above. It landed flat on a table we could see clearly at the bottom of the stairs that was covered with drawings and construction plans.
“Come down,” Virgil said. “Hands up and away.”
After a moment we heard the floorboards creak upstairs. We moved into the main room and saw coming down the wide sweeping staircase Hollis Pritchard followed by a slender older man with leathery dark skin and short-cropped white hair.
“You need not be concerned with us,” Pritchard said. “We have no intention of malice whatsoever.”
When they got to the bottom of the staircase Pritchard wasted no time taking a seat where the Winchester lay atop the table.
We’d seen Hollis Pritchard before, when he visited months earlier to speak with the city elders about bringing business to Appaloosa.
“I would not have had the rifle at the ready, Marshal, I assure you, not my protocol,” Charles said. “But we were unsure what the hell was happening here with this shooting, so I thought it best to err on the side of caution.”
Pritchard nodded a little. His eyes had a leering, judgelike quality as they shifted back and forth between us. He remained seated, slumped forward in his chair with one hand resting on his knee and the other hand on the top of his cane.
“Like to ask you a few questions,” Virgil said.
“Let me ask you first,” Pritchard said.
He pointed to the street.
“The man that was shot out there a while ago, is he dead or alive?”
“At the moment,” I said, “alive.”
He shook his head.
“My word,” he said.
Charles Lemley extended his hand and introduced himself.
I shook his hand; Virgil did not.
“You know the man that was shot?” Virgil said.
“No,” Charles said.
“You,
Mr. Pritchard?”
“I do not.”
“Who was he?” Charles said.
“He was wearing a badge,” Pritchard said. “But he seemed odd, acted rather unstable, inebriated, I think, perhaps.”
“Either of you ever see him around here before?” Virgil said.
Charles shook his head.
“I never saw him at all,” he said.
“No,” Pritchard said. “I just arrived, been to town less than a few hours. I checked into my hotel, then came straight here, and before I could even set foot into this place, this man steps out from across the street there, and in a matter of moments, shots are fired.”
“Me neither,” Charles said. “I’ve just been in town with this job and I’m not too acquainted.”
“As Charles said . . . he works for me, in all my construction business. Wherever and whenever.”
Charles nodded.
“Going on fifteen years now,” Pritchard said.
“Any idea where to find Bill Black?” Virgil said.
Mr. Pritchard sat back with a concerned look on his face.
“I’ve not seen him since the shooting,” Pritchard said.
Virgil looked to Charles.
“Me neither,” Charles said.
“Know where he is?” Virgil said.
They both said no.
“He just walked away?” I said.
Pritchard nodded.
“Apparently,” he said. “After the man was shot I was ushered into the building here by Bill, then he said he was going to see about the man across the street, and I’ve not seen him since.”
“What about Truitt Shirley?”
Mr. Pritchard looked to Charles.
“He’s the one who shot the officer?” Pritchard said.
“I was not a witness, but that is what I understand,” Charles said.
“I know nothing about this man,” Pritchard said. “First time I ever laid eyes on him or the other man he was with.”
“What about you?” I said.
Charles’s eyes narrowed as he shook his head slightly.
“Mr. Black hired them,” Charles said.
“Hired them to do what?” Virgil said.
“Good question,” he said. “And I asked Mr. Black that very question. What they did and about their pay and all, and Mr. Black told me to mind my own goddamn business. I don’t know the other man’s name even, the one with the dark hair and beard, but I can tell you this, he is as mean as a rattlesnake.”
“What’d he do for you to think that?” I said.
“Damn near shot me.”
“What happened?”
“I walked out the back door here, he had his back to me. He was relieving himself there in the alley. He turned on me with his pistol. But when he saw it was me, he still kept it pointing at me and said don’t ever walk up behind him again. He said next time I won’t be so lucky.”
Virgil looked at Charles a long bit. Then cut his eyes to Pritchard.
“Did you know Black was wanted for murder?” Virgil said.
7.
What?” Pritchard said.
Virgil did not say anything.
“My God,” Charles said.
“Murder of who?” Pritchard said.
“What do you know about that, Mr. Pritchard?” Virgil said.
“Well, I am shocked,” he said.
I looked to Charles.
“That it, Mr. Pritchard?” Virgil said.
“Well, yes,” Pritchard said. “This comes as a complete shock.”
“And you?” Virgil said to Charles.
“Had no idea,” he said.
“How long have Truitt and the other man been around here with Black?” I said.
“They showed up here about a week ago,” Charles said.
“And what do you speculate is the nature of their relationship?” I said.
“I can’t really say,” Charles said.
“Hands?” Virgil said. “Or friends?”
“Well, what I saw of them, they were not overly friendly or really communicative with Bill . . . they were, I don’t know, subordinate, it seemed. But I don’t know. I was not around them that much, and, well, Bill was not around a great deal, either.”
“Where was he?” Virgil said.
“Not sure, really.”
“Leave town?” Virgil said.
“Could have,” Charles said. “I have no idea.”
“How long gone?” I said.
“I can’t say, really. I mean, he would be here and then he’d be gone. I have my job to do here and he had his. Mine is the construction side and his is to oversee, and with me doing the work there is not much to oversee, frankly.”
“He your boss?”
Charles looked to Pritchard, then back to me.
“To some degree he is,” Charles said. “Though there was not much for him to do.”
“Charles has been working with the same workers for a long time and they know what they are doing,” Pritchard said.
“Bill basically stayed out of my way,” Charles said. “And I stayed out of his.”
“So I guess you’d say you guys aren’t friends?” I said.
“We’re not enemies.”
“You build the hall in Denver?” Virgil said.
Charles glanced at Pritchard again.
“He did,” Pritchard said.
“One thing I can say about Bill of late,” Charles said, “is he’s been, I don’t know, on edge might be the right words. Not pleasant, I don’t know. Normally he was always kind of pretty even-tempered, but there were a few occasions where he was angry.”
“Like when you asked him what Truitt and the other man with him were doing?” I said.
“Yes,” Charles said.
“What about them, Truitt and the other fella, you know where they reside?” I said.
“I don’t know,” Charles said.
“No idea?”
“Not at all.”
“You did not see the shooting?” I said.
Charles shook his head.
“No, I was inside, upstairs in the back above us here, and didn’t see what happened. By the time I was out, the owners, the man and wife of the upholstery shop there across the street, were tending to him, there was a crowd of people around, but there was no sign of Mr. Black or Truitt or the other sonofabitch that pulled a gun on me.”
“And you never learned that other fella’s name?” I said.
Charles shook his head.
“Was not introduced.”
Virgil turned, surveying the big open room a moment, then leveled a look at Mr. Pritchard.
“Tell me about Bill Black, Mr. Pritchard,” Virgil said.
“What do you want to know?”
“He works for you?”
“He does.”
“What does he do?”
“Well, he handles my gambling operations.”
“Doing what, exactly?” Virgil said.
Pritchard’s eyes narrowed a little.
“Everything,” he said.
“You want to tell me what you know about the murder?” Virgil said.
8.
What?” Pritchard said with a perturbed expression on his face.
“The murder,” Virgil said.
“I goddamn do not know anything about anyone being murdered,” he said. “Listen, this is a shock to me. Bill works for me, same as Charles. I have many employees, many enterprises, Marshal. All sorts: cotton, coal, a hotel here and there, Western Union offices, banks, and I hire individuals, experts in their particular fields, to help me run my enterprises. I have over a hundred people working for me. Bill Black is just one of them. He’s an expert in the business of gambling. He knows gambli
ng inside and out and he has worked for me for nearly three years. Ever since I got into the business of the gambling trade, but I goddamn know nothing of this business of murder and who was murdered.”
“How does Black knowing gambling inside and out help you, exactly?” Virgil said.
“Just like you knowing law work, Marshal,” he said. “You’ve clearly had many occasions to hone your craft. Same as Charles, same as me, same as Bill.”
“How did you meet him?” Virgil said.
Pritchard focused his look to the floor as he twirled the lion head of his cane around and around.
“He operated a fine gambling parlor in San Francisco, that’s where I met him, there. I bought out the owner of that operation, and with that purchase I got Mr. Black. Much to my liking, I might add.”
“You own him?” Virgil said.
“Own?” he said. “No, of course not. He has helped me build two other halls besides this one, one in Saint Louis and one in Denver.”
“Denver?”
“Yes, Denver,” Pritchard said. “He’s been a loyal and trusted employee and I do not own him.”
“You said you just got here this morning,” I said. “You just come in from Denver, on the morning train?”
“Why, yes,” he said.
“And you didn’t know about this?” I said.
“What do you mean?” he said. “Know about what?”
“The man that was shot arrived on the same train with you this morning.”
“With me?”
Mr. Pritchard leaned back in his chair, looking up at us.
“What are you saying?”
“Just that,” Virgil said.
“Marshal, you would think as old and beat-up as I am that I’d be familiar with all kinds of subterfuge, including when someone doesn’t hear or chooses not to believe what I say.”
“Tell us what you know,” Virgil said.
“I told you,” he said.
Pritchard’s face flushed red.
“I did not know the man,” he said. “But by the nature of this inquiry, I can only assume you are suggesting that I am in some way connected to this altercation and that I must be propagating deceitfulness.”
“We are not suggesting anything,” I said.
