by Robert Knott
“We are not suggesting anything,” I said.
“Goddamn sure sounds like it,” he said.
“Just trying to put together the comings and goings of all this, Mr. Pritchard,” I said.
“You might not know,” Virgil said, “but at this point in time you know more than we do, and until we know more than you do we will keep asking questions of you or anybody else until we get to the bottom of this.”
“It’s what we do,” I said.
“I was not in Denver,” Pritchard said.
His face flushed even more and his eyes were now bulging.
“I was through Denver on my way to here. I subsequently changed trains there, passing through there is all, but did not stay over. I was planning on actually stopping by, spend a few days there at my gambling establishment on my return.”
“To?” Virgil said.
“Saint Louis,” he said. “Where I live.”
“When were you last in Denver?”
“A few months ago, Marshal Cole.”
“What about Bill Black?” Virgil said. “When was he last in Denver?”
“He was there with me,” he said. “Same time.”
Pritchard pulled his watch from his vest pocket, checked the time. Then, with the support of his glossy brass-topped lion-head cane he slowly lifted himself from his chair.
“Now,” he said, “if you will excuse me, I have someone coming to collect me about now. If you need anything else from me you can find me at the Colcord Hotel, room twelve. But right now, I’m tired and unwilling to chew any more of this cud.”
“We’ll knock on your door,” Virgil said.
9.
What was left of the day, Virgil and I spent searching Appaloosa and its outskirts for Truitt Shirley and Boston Bill, but there was no sign of either one of them. After dark, Virgil and I made our way back to the sheriff’s office, and when we arrived Chastain was sitting on the porch.
A sconce on the wall above him was engulfed with a swarm of moths and early-summer bugs. When we neared, Chastain got to his feet. He was chewing a huge plug of tobacco. He moved to the edge of the porch and spit.
“Find anything?” Virgil said.
Chastain shook his head.
“Hard to say,” he said.
He pointed south.
“Skinny Jack said he talked to a ranch hand near the river yonder that was putting out salt for his cattle. Hand said he saw some riders in the early afternoon, caught a quick glimpse of them riding off down toward the hard rock ford, said they was far off, riding close together, and couldn’t tell how many exactly, that’s all we know . . .”
“Nothing else?” Virgil said.
“Nope, not a goddamn thing,” he said. “Y’all?”
“No,” I said.
“You’d think they’d not have been able to just up and get gone like they done,” Chastain said.
“You would,” I said.
“Might well be them the ranch hand saw,” he said.
Chastain spit.
“Other than that, none of us found any other sign . . .” he said. “Did, though, get word back from Denver.”
Chastain fished the telegram from his vest pocket, unfolded it, and held it out.
“Not sure what to make of it,” he said, shaking his head. “Hell of a deal. Take a look.”
He waved the telegram a little, holding it a bit outright some more.
I stepped out of the saddle, took the note from Chastain, then moved under the sconce, where I could read it.
“I told everybody to keep at it, keep looking,” Chastain said. “Until I talked to you, Virgil. See what you wanted to do. Also I told them if they so much as even get a whiff of Boston Bill or Truitt Shirley to just let me know, so nothing else happens. I told them if they had nothing by nine, to come back here.”
Virgil remained mounted as I sat on the bench under the light and read the telegram.
“What about Messenger,” Virgil said. “You check on him?”
“I did. I just talked to the doc and he said his condition was the same. Was surprised he was still holding on, figured he’d have died by now, but evidently he ain’t.”
“Well, I’ll be damn,” I said, looking up from the note. “Is a hell of a deal.”
“What?” Virgil said.
“Boston Bill Black is damn sure wanted for murder,” I said. “He’s wanted for the murder of a woman named Ruth Ann Messenger.”
Chastain nodded.
“How about that shit?” Chastain said. “Figure that has to be Roger Messenger’s sister or maybe his wife.”
“Yep,” I said. “No coincidence.”
“There’s more there, too, about the goddamn money,” Chastain said. “Says there is a hefty bounty on his head, too.”
“How much?” Virgil said.
Chastain spit.
“Three thousand,” I said.
“How about that shit?” Chastain said. “Hefty.”
“Who’s that wire from?” Virgil said.
“Police Captain G. W. McPherson,” I said. “The Department of Law Enforcement, Denver, Colorado.”
“That it?” Virgil said.
Chastain shook his head.
“Not quite,” I said. “Says here the department is appreciative of the information and the communication, and that they will be subsequently dispatching a unit to follow up.”
“Unit to follow up?” Virgil said.
“That’s the shit I don’t understand,” Chastain said. “Follow up with what, exactly?”
“I would imagine they want to make certain Boston Bill Black is either arrested or killed.”
“Or collect their own money,” Virgil said.
Chastain pulled his watch and looked at it.
“It’s almost nine now,” he said. “You want me to get a posse together?”
Virgil thought for a moment and shook his head.
“No, lot of places they could be, and for all we know they could still be right here. What do you think, Everett?”
“I doubt it, but it’s not out of the question.”
Chastain agreed.
“Unless we find them tonight,” I said, “or get some other sign as to their direction, I’d say we will go with the notion the riders that the ranch hand saw heading toward the ford have to be Truitt and Boston Bill and the other fella.”
Virgil looked to Chastain.
“Let’s stay after it tonight, keep looking, and come morning if we’ve found no sign, Everett and me will go with Skinny Jack, ride to the rancher’s place, get a direction on where the riders were headed.”
“All we can do,” I said.
“Is,” Virgil said.
10.
After an extensive search and finding no sign of Boston Bill or Truitt Shirley or the third man, Virgil and I sat on the front porch of his house and drank some whiskey before turning in. It was after two o’clock in the morning, and with the exception of the saloons on the north end of town that stayed open twenty-four hours a day, the whole of Appaloosa, including Allie, was fast asleep.
“Lot of money on Boston Bill’s head,” I said.
“Damn sure is,” Virgil said.
“Not good,” I said.
“Not,” Virgil said.
“Been our experience,” I said. “Comes the money, comes the trouble.”
“Yep,” Virgil said.
“I guess killing a lawman’s family member had to raise the ante,” I said.
“They obviously got some kind of strong proof,” Virgil said. “Some evidence on Boston Bill.”
“Why now?” I said.
“I was wondering the same thing,” Virgil said.
“Boston Bill has been here in Appaloosa for, hell, a good damn while,” I said. “I
mean, we’ve not been keeping a tab on him or anything, even though you had your suspicions about him, he’s given no cause, no reason, but the thought of him catching a train back to Denver, killing a woman named Ruth Ann Messenger, and then returning to Appaloosa to get back to work at building a goddamn gambling parlor sounds suspect at best.”
“Does,” Virgil said.
“Maybe someone just came forward of recent with evidence,” I said.
“Maybe,” Virgil said.
“This shit with Roger Messenger don’t make good sense, either,” I said.
“No,” Virgil said. “It don’t.”
“One thing we do know with Messenger is it was personal.”
“Drunk and personal,” Virgil said.
“If he doesn’t live,” I said. “I don’t imagine we’ll figure out the answer to all of what Roger Messenger is about.”
Virgil and I sat for a while in silence. After I polished off my whiskey I bid Virgil good night and left him on the porch to finish his cigar. I walked back in the cool of the summer evening to my room above the survey office, and within a half-hour was fast asleep.
• • •
At daybreak, Skinny Jack was waiting for Virgil and me at the office with a fresh pot of coffee and hot-out-of-the-oven biscuits he’d picked up from Hal’s Café.
Skinny Jack had quickly advanced as Chastain’s top deputy in Appaloosa, and Virgil and I had a fond appreciation for him, mainly because he was friendly, well liked by the townspeople, and a good role model for the younger deputies.
He had a way of going about his job as a peace officer without the gruff or self-styled importance that was most always evident with young law enforcement officers. He had a reputation as a young man with an easy disposition who was not an adversary quick to point out what was wrong or hobble the folks of Appaloosa, but rather an ally, ready and willing to assist those in need.
After we drank some coffee and ate a few biscuits, we rode out to meet with the ranch hand that had told Skinny Jack he’d seen the riders headed toward the river.
By seven o’clock we’d met the ranch hand and followed his point in the direction he’d previously seen the riders the day before, and with little effort we found on the river’s edge fresh tracks of three horses disappearing into the water.
“Got to be them,” Virgil said.
Virgil rode into the water, heading for the opposite side, and Skinny Jack and I followed.
We easily found the tracks coming out of the water’s eastern edge fifty yards downriver. The soft ground rising up from the bottomland made for favorable tracking conditions, and for the moment we were able to follow them without trouble.
When we got to the top of the rise the land stretched out for miles in front of us. I took the lead, following the tracks, and we were able to keep a steady pace.
“As long as the wind don’t pick up any more than it is,” I said. “Long as it stays like this, we got a good chance to be knocking at their back door.”
We moved across the dry shrubland with rolling vast swards of yellow short-grass prairie. In between the swards there were long stretches of sandy loam that was laced with clusters of summer coat mesquite and purple sage.
Around noon we came to a spot where the riders had made camp within a spread of dry thickets surrounded by a stand of weeping acacias that lined an empty creek bed.
Left were remains of a fire, some dead ends of cigarettes, and an empty half-pint bottle lying in the ashes. When I got off my horse to check the expired fire I noticed the wind had changed direction and was getting a little stronger.
I leaned down and felt through the ashes.
“They rode to here from midday when they left yesterday, I’d say. Stopped likely when they got dark bit.”
Virgil nodded.
I looked in the direction the breeze was coming, and in the far distance there was darkness.
I nodded to it, and Virgil and Skinny Jack followed my look.
“Wind,” I said.
“Headed this way,” Skinny Jack said.
“Sure enough,” Virgil said.
“Goddamn,” Skinny Jack said. “Wouldn’t you know it?”
I mounted up.
“Ashes are cold,” I said. “Hard to say when they took off.”
“You’d think daylight, wouldn’t you, Everett?” Skinny Jack said.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Men on the run,” Virgil said, “run.”
We kept on the move, and within an hour’s time the wind had picked up, and not far behind there was a wall of dust that was headed our way.
Skinny Jack looked back.
“This don’t look so good,” he said.
“Road,” I said.
Ahead, less than a half-mile on the downslope before us, was a north-south road.
“Be better than a good idea,” Virgil said, “to get over there. Don’t want this wind coming in and cover things up, and we lose the direction they chose.”
11.
The three of us galloped over to the road, stopping twenty yards shy so not to put our own tracks in the mix. We dismounted and walked up. It was a well-traveled road with fairly fresh wagon ruts.
“Here they are,” Skinny Jack said, pointing to the ground in front of him. “Tracks here.”
Virgil and I moved to Skinny Jack’s trail. The grass was bent and broken over from where the three horses made it up to the road. We followed the single-file path, and when we got on the road it was clear which way they were traveling.
“There they go,” Skinny Jack said. “South.”
“Pretty sure this is the stage route between Benson City and Lamar,” I said.
“I think that is right,” Skinny Jack said. “That way; would be Benson City. Not sure how far.”
“We’ll know when we get there,” I said.
“Four-way stage route,” Virgil said.
“Is,” I said.
“We been through there,” Virgil said. “Benson City?”
“We have,” I said. “More than once, but not from this road.”
“No,” Virgil said. “The other road through there. Goes to Clemmings west and Yaqui the other way.”
“That’s right,” I said.
Since Virgil and I had been living and working out of Appaloosa, we’d at one point or another visited every city within two days’ ride that was connected to Appaloosa by road and rail.
The dust was rolling in, so the three of us untied our slickers from our saddles and put them on. After Virgil got his buttoned he stepped up in the saddle, turned his horse, and moved off the road. He galloped north a ways, then turned and looked closely at the road as he walked his horse back in our direction.
“What now?” Skinny Jack said.
“Just making sure it is Benson City and they didn’t make some effort to double back on us,” I said.
“Think they know of us?” Skinny Jack said. “Know we are after them?”
“Got a suspicion, I’d say,” I said. “They damn sure got out of town and on the move.”
“Where do men run to, Everett?” Skinny Jack said.
I looked at Skinny Jack. He was looking at me with an expectant gaze, and his question had the same quality to it as if he were a little boy asking what’s above the sky or where do we go when we die and what’s Heaven like.
“Good question,” I said.
“I suppose to a better place,” Skinny Jack said. “A better place than where they would be if they were caught.”
“I suppose that’s right, Skinny Jack.”
Virgil walked his horse slowly, looking at the ground, and when he got back to us, he shook his head and pointed south.
“Benson City it is,” I said.
The wind and dust kept coming as we rode. It was not as heavy
as I’d expected, but it was steady and it remained with us throughout the afternoon. We stopped a few times to rest our horses and have some hard tack, and by the time we got to Benson City the wind had lightened up as the sun was going down.
“Let’s move off,” Virgil said. “Come in from the back and see what we can see.”
Skinny Jack and I followed Virgil off the road. We circled around, came up on the back of the town, and dismounted behind some outlaying barns. We tied off behind one of the structures. Virgil and Skinny Jack got their Winchesters and I removed my eight-gauge from its scabbard.
We moved off on foot toward the main street. For the moment we saw no one moving about, and with the fading light we could walk about ourselves with a sense of ease that we were not being too obvious.
Benson City was not much of a city. It had a small population and a handful of businesses that catered to the four-way stage route. There were some barns and corrals scattered around the outskirts and a few houses sitting back from the road, but that was the sum of the place.
We came up behind a general store with a loading dock and crouched down behind a row of chicken coops. From where we were we could see a two-story hotel next to the store, with an open back door on the first floor. Next to that, about fifty yards away, was a stage stop building with a connecting corral. A group of mules and horses stood munching on hay that was being pitched to them from someone we could not see in the shadows under a lean-to.
Across from the stage stop was a small travelers’ café, and next to that was a tall windmill that was providing a squeaking cadence.
“Think this hotel here has the only saloon,” I said.
“Could be more, or another by now,” Virgil said.
“Let me walk over there to the other side of that store and have a look, see what I can see on the street, horsewise and whatnot.”
Virgil nodded.
I leaned my eight-gauge up against the coops and walked off through the opening between the store and saloon.
I came to the road between the buildings and eased out, looking up and down the short street. There were two horses in front of the hotel saloon, but there was nobody moving about. Down the road on the opposite side I could see two women wearing white sitting on the porch under the overhang of a small shack.
