by Robert Knott
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Bernice said as we watched them walk away. “I am just so thankful.”
“Would you like us to take you home as well?” I said.
“No,” she said, as she pulled her shoulders back and looked up to a firework as it whistled, then burst into a bright white light. “I’m going to stay here and enjoy the rest of this party that Allie has done such a marvelous job putting together.”
With that, she walked off toward the stage. She stopped and turned to us. She looked off in the direction Irene walked with Book, then said, “I know she thought I was sleeping with her husband. I, too, had heard the rumor. But it was nothing more than a rumor. I loved my husband. Was our marriage perfect? No. But I loved him and he loved me, and I will forever miss him . . . In due time I will make it right with her. After all, we are partners in a gold mine.”
She turned and walked off, and just as she disappeared into the crowd, we heard a loud boom.
“That did not sound like any firework,” I said.
“Gunshot,” Virgil said.
Then we heard another shot, followed by another, then another.
Then we saw a stampede of people running past us, trying to get out of the line of fire.
Virgil and I waited as the mass of scared people passed. Then we could see a handful of horsemen at the end of the Avenue getting fired upon and returning fire. We stayed tight to the buildings and made our way toward the firefight.
A horse took a bullet and dropped its rider. The rider fired as he ran for cover, but went down in a hail of bullets.
We kept on the move and then we could see clearly that it was Hodge and his men having it out with Victor’s bunch. It had finally come to blows. A few riders took off, but Hodge was riding his horse back and forth, yelling like a madman, like he was invincible. The gunfire subsided but Hodge rode in circles with his pistol up in the air as he ranted on.
“You sonsabitches,” Hodge shouted. “Running off, like a bunch of cowards. Cowards! The all of you! Cowards!”
Then, as if he’d summoned his fate, a single shot rang out. Hodge took a bullet. He stared down at his big body.
“Goddamn it,” he said.
Hodge slumped in his saddle. Then he toppled over. His foot stayed hung up in the stirrup, and then his horse took off at a gallop. It passed us, bouncing Hodge on the cobblestone street. Then the horse turned the corner and was gone from sight.
Virgil and I continued walking in the direction of where the bullets were fired. The fight had taken place in front of Baptiste’s office. Then we heard a woman’s voice call from an alley just behind us.
“Marshal Cole,” she said.
We stopped and turned.
“You remember me?”
Then the woman stepped out for us to see her.
“Of course you do not,” she said.
“Who are you?” Virgil said.
“I was just a baby when you killed my father.”
“Who was your father?”
It was the big striking woman who I had seen looking at us. I could see that she carried a small derringer in her hand.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Virgil said.
“Stupid?” she said.
“Just take things easy.”
“Nothing is easy.”
“Who?” Virgil said.
“He was all I had.”
Then we heard another voice, of a young man coming up from behind us.
“Right here,” he said.
I glanced quickly and saw it was the young fella in the dark suit that I had seen with the woman. He was holding a shiny revolver.
“This is it,” he said.
“Look out, Virgil.”
Virgil turned so fast and shot, that the young man did not know what hit him. His pistol fell from his hand and he dropped flat on his back. Then the woman screamed and raised her derringer. Virgil turned quickly on her, but before he fired again I let loose with one shot from my eight-gauge. The blast hit her so hard she slammed back, crashing into a window of the Appaloosa Theater just below a huge poster of Martha Kathryn.
75
When we turned around, the smoke had cleared. But the young man was now—somehow—nowhere in sight.
“Son of a bitch,” I said.
“He was hit square,” Virgil said.
“Damn sure was,” I said. “Had to go through there.”
I pointed to a narrow alley opening between the Appaloosa Theater and a mercantile store. The opening was dark and no more than five feet wide. We moved quickly to the side, careful not to expose ourselves in the passageway. We stood with our backs to the theater building.
“Went down hard,” I said.
“Did,” Virgil said.
I nodded to the street.
“Managed to get his gun, too,” I said.
“Goddamn quick,” Virgil said.
“Not a good idea to go waltzing in there,” I said.
“No,” Virgil said. “Not.”
“Might be more than these two, too,” I said.
Virgil nodded as he opened the loading gate on his Colt, dropped the spent casing on the boardwalk, and put in a new round.
“Recognize him?” I said.
“No, you?”
“No, saw him and the woman, earlier,” I said. “They were looking our direction but I didn’t think anything of it.”
“Never laid eyes on her before,” Virgil said. “Or the little fella. And I have no idea who her daddy was that she was talking about.”
Another shot rang out down near Baptiste’s office. Then a second shot was fired, followed by a horseman riding off the opposite direction. The mounted man fired again toward Baptiste’s office as he was galloping away. Virgil took a quick peek into the dark opening where the young fella had to have darted off, then looked toward Baptiste’s office. Virgil tipped his head that direction for us to move out and I nodded. We walked away from the opening, to the opposite side of the street, all the time keeping our eye out for trouble. As we moved toward Baptiste’s office, we did not see any sign of the young fella Vigil shot or anyone else near the theater.
We stayed tight to the buildings and made our way, moving closer and closer toward Baptiste’s office. We stopped when we saw a man sitting on a bench in front of the office. As we neared, we could see who it was.
“Victor,” I said quietly.
Virgil nodded.
“Damn sure is,” he said.
“Like he don’t have a care in the world,” I said.
He was sitting on a bench, looking out into the street.
Step by step, we continued toward him. When we were within forty feet of him, we could see he was sitting with his revolver in his hand.
“Put it down, Victor,” Virgil said.
Victor did not move.
“Do like I tell you.”
We took a few more steps, when Eugene Pritchard stepped out of the office. He turned in our direction, then, without a word, fell face-first on the boardwalk. Victor did not budge.
We took a few more steps, then it became clear that Victor, though sitting stoically upright, was either wounded or dead.
We walked on, guns up, cautious as to what shooters remained active and ready. The glass was shot out of the office windows and scattered across the boardwalk. There were two men down on the far side of where Victor was sitting. We stayed ready as we approached. One of the downed men was Wayne. He was not moving and there was a puddle of blood near his head. We walked closer, the second body was the big man, Noah, and it was clear by the way he was splayed half off the boardwalk, with his head on the cobblestone street, that he, too, was dead.
We stopped, with our backs to the wall of the building next to the office, and waited for a few minutes to see if there was a
nyone still fight ready. Then Virgil spoke up.
“Anyone else in there?”
There was no answer.
“Marshals Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch, out here. Come out without your guns and your hands high.”
Then we heard a muffled voice from inside the office.
“Marshal Cole!”
“Baptiste,” I said.
Virgil nodded
“Thank God,” he said. “I’m afraid to move.”
“You alone in there?” Virgil said.
“Yes, I . . . I . . . I think so.”
“Stay put,” Virgil said.
Virgil and I moved closer. There were two more men down. One fellow was crumpled beside the dead horse in the street and another was on the boardwalk across the street from the office. They both appeared to be dead.
We proceeded cautiously.
Then very slowly Victor turned his head toward us. His eyes were open but blood seeped from a bullet hole in his cheek. He stared blankly as we moved closer. By the time we made it to the office door, his head tipped back, staring at nothing, with, now, very dead eyes.
We stood just this side of the office door and waited, listening. Then we heard a horse walking up, its hooves clicking rhythmically on the cobblestone. It was Hodge’s horse, coming back to find the other horses he was used to being with. Hodge was still hung up in the stirrup. His clothes were torn and his body was a bloody mess from being dragged around the block. The big bay horse stopped in front of the office, lowered his head, and snorted. We waited for some time before we moved. After it was clear that the firefight was over, we eased to the entrance of the office.
“Baptiste,” Virgil said.
We could not see him but we heard him. “Yes,” he said.
“Is there anyone with you?” Virgil said.
“No.”
“You can come out now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
A chair on rollers was pushed to the side, then Baptist crawled out from under a desk. He remained on all fours, looking toward us in the doorway. I kneeled next to Eugene and felt for a pulse.
“Is it over?” Baptiste said.
Virgil nodded.
“It is,” he said.
Baptiste crawled a bit toward us. He stopped when he saw Pritchard through the open door.
“Is . . . is Eugene . . .”
I stood up and nodded.
“He’s dead,” I said.
Baptiste shook his head, then leaned to his side and slowly got to his feet. He walked toward Virgil and me. He stopped at the threshold and looked out at the dead.
“My Lord,” he said as he surveyed the carnage.
“What happened here?” I said.
Baptiste took a step out.
“They rode up and started shooting, these McCormick men just ambushed Victor and his men, and us, out of nowhere, they just rode up and started shooting.”
He turned to Victor, dead, with a bullet hole in his face, then stared at Eugene, facedown on the boardwalk.
“Eugene and I were just locking up here when it started.”
He took a few more steps out and shook his head.
“What made these men so . . . so crazed?” he said.
“Gold,” Virgil said without looking at Baptiste.
Baptiste looked to him. Virgil met his eye.
“Makes men do things they otherwise would not do,” Virgil said.
76
The kid hid while they searched for him. He found a nice place that was comfortable. He was good at hiding. It was up high and he knew they would not find him, and he could keep an eye on things, too. He could see the marshals and the aftermath of everything. He watched the undertaker’s ambulance pick up bodies from the gunfight. A flatbed rolled in and a group of men picked up the dead horse. And he watched as her body was loaded up, too. He did not think things would have gone like this. But then again, he was never really lucky. He thought about her and all that they did together. He thought he would miss her. He never really had anyone who cared a penny for him, not the way she did.
He watched the marshals walk into a shop. He moved so he could clearly see through the window. Three women were inside, the same three women who were on the stage earlier.
He scoffed to himself. Maybe I am lucky. Maybe this is my lucky day after all. He climbed down from his perch and came out into an alley.
He moved to where he had an even a better view of the shop. Mrs. French’s Fine Dresses. He liked the sound of that. He took a step and fell. He looked down where he’d been shot. Gut shot, he thought. That is not good, that is not good at all. He stayed in the shadows, watching everything and nothing.
After a while the two marshals left Mrs. French’s Fine Dresses and walked off up the street. The kid waited until they were out of sight, then he took a step. But he fell again. Blood flowed all the way down his leg and onto his boots, his shiny brand-new boots.
But the kid was determined to make his way across the street. With all the strength he could muster, he walked. When he got to the steps of the shop, though, he had to crawl. One step at a time, he crawled. Through the window he could see the three beautiful ladies sitting at the rear of the shop. It seemed they were just talking, shaking their heads and talking. He wondered what it was they were talking about.
He crawled to the door and pulled himself to his feet by the handle and opened the door.
When he did, the three ladies all turned and looked in his direction. He staggered toward them and they all recoiled at the sight of him.
He smiled.
“Please don’t be frightened of me,” he said. “It is me, your boy, your son. I have come to you. I have found you. I have finally found you.”
The women exchanged looks with each other.
He took a step closer, then fell to his knees.
The three women stood.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the tintype, and held it up for them to see.
“This is a picture of you.”
He looked at the tintype and shook his head. The shot he had received from the lawman had gone through the tintype directly on his mother’s face. He shook his head and began to weep. Then he smiled.
“Don’t that beat all?” he said. “That is a photograph of you. Or it was.”
He sat up like a baby with his hands resting in his lap.
“It is me. You are Helen. And it is me. I am your boy. Don’t you remember? Remember what you called me as a boy? ’Cause of my color. Remember what my nickname was. Remember . . . Buckskin. Your little boy. Your boy. Your . . . Buckskin.”
He smiled, then slumped forward as his life lifted from his body.
Acknowledgments
I am forever grateful to Robert B. Parker and the wonderful characters of Virgil Cole, Everett Hitch, and Allison French that he created. And I’m equally grateful to the Parker Estate and their continued support of me throughout the years of carrying on with their Father’s legacy and his love for the Western genre. A heritage that allows me to take these colorful characters on adventure after adventure. And a big thanks to Putnam president Ivan Held for his continued wrangling along the way. In the process of the work, I have to first and foremost recognize my wife, Julie. She is the true chanteuse, singing out all the right notes as the curtain opens and the show begins. Like to thank Jamie “Whatknot” Whitcomb for his love of creation, his knowledge of books, and for sharing his words of wisdom. Rob Wood of Rancho Roberto has been over my shoulder and in my head throughout the wordsmithing of these books. Thanks, Pard! Jayne Amelia Larson for shouting enthusiastically, “Just put him on the horse, Robert!” Thanks To Trad Willmann for gun handling with me throughout. And, as always, my good friend Ed Harris who brought the iconic Virgil Cole to life. I will always be forever beholden
to Ed for including me in this illustrious Parker journey. For without his endorsement, none of this would be possible. And also Viggo Mortensen, and Renée Zellweger. Their voices are and will always be in my head and defining the truths of Allie and Everett. Like to offer acknowledgment to my business team, Allison Binder, Josh Kesselman, and the APA boys—thank you guys for helping me with all the necessary gun work, I know it’s tiresome. And a HUGE THANKS to my editor, Sara Minnich! Thank you, Sara, for your guidance and craft! I’m very appreciative of you and all that you do! And lastly, I’d like to thank my mysterious sisters, Karen and Sandra—the Clogging Castanets—who do nothing but laugh, which, as always, is beyond helpful.
About the Authors
Robert B. Parker was the author of seventy books, including the legendary Spenser detective series, the novels featuring Police Chief Jesse Stone, and the acclaimed Virgil Cole-Everett Hitch westerns, as well as the Sunny Randall novels. Winner of the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award and long considered the undisputed dean of American crime fiction, he died in January 2010.
Robert Knott is an actor, writer, and producer, as well as the author of Robert B. Parker's Revelation, Robert B. Parker's Blackjack, Robert B. Parker's The Bridge,and more. His extensive list of stage, television, and film credits include the feature film Appaloosa, based on the Robert B. Parker novel, which he adapted and produced with actor and producer Ed Harris.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
