by Robert Knott
22.
Virgil was gathering our horses near Mrs. Opelka when I got back to the wash.
“That it?” Virgil said.
“Is.”
Virgil nodded a little.
“You believe him?” I said. “’Bout Socorro?”
“No real reason not to,” Virgil said.
“He didn’t seem none too happy with Truitt or Boston Bill,” I said.
“Don’t seem like a story he’d make up while he’s sitting there with his nose shot off,” Virgil said.
“No,” I said. “It does not.”
Mrs. Opelka got to her feet and brushed the dirt from her dress.
“That’s what I heard,” she said. “That skinny blond fella was going on about going to Socorro, about turning thirty, about his friends and his gals. The sniveling piece of shit; I only wish my boys would have been here to give him the proper goddamn whipping he deserves.”
“What about the big fella?” I said. “He’s the main one we are after. You hear anything? You pick up anything that might help us find him?”
“No, he did not talk much,” she said. “He wanted food and quiet. He wanted to rest his horse and that was it. He was mad that we had no fresh horses, but that was all the anger he showed other than when he told the blond fella to shut up . . .”
She stared to the ground, then looked off in the direction of the way station.
“I’d like to get my husband out of the field and prepare him proper before my boys get back. I want their daddy to look as good as he can look.”
Virgil nodded, then handed me the reins of my horse.
“Everett, why don’t you find Skinny Jack’s horse and gather Skinny. And I will help Mrs. Opelka here.”
I took the reins and swung up.
“Best I can remember, Socorro is a near full day’s ride past where you turn back west to go on to La Verne,” I said.
“Sounds about right,” Virgil said.
“We’re going to need to stay after it if we are going to get in there by Saturday,” I said.
“We will,” Virgil said.
Then I moved on up the wash and rode off back toward where Skinny Jack lay dead.
By late into the afternoon, Mrs. Opelka’s boys arrived, and after a display of shock, tears, and anger upon hearing the news of what had happened to their father, the sturdy young men helped bury the dead. We buried Skinny Jack in a shallow grave with some plank boards covering him so as to exhume him at a future time and bury him next to his mother.
That night, Virgil and I rested up a little in Opelka’s barn, but we were on our way to Socorro hours before sunrise.
We figured we had a full two days’ ride to get to Socorro by Saturday night, so we maintained a steady pace. The next night we rested near an old mission, and again we were up and riding long before seeing the rising sun.
Socorro was fifty miles past La Verne, this side of the border. We had planned on arriving Saturday afternoon, but it took us longer to get there than we anticipated and it was good and dark by the time we arrived.
As we approached Socorro there was a cemetery on the left side of the road. Crosses towering crookedly above the graves within the low rock wall bordering the graveyard showed dark against the evening sky. Beyond the many and different-sized crosses, a hint of a golden light from within and the silver quarter-moon from above gave us a clear outline of the city.
“Here we go,” I said.
“Yep,” Virgil said.
“Don’t suspect it’s a good idea to ride in with our shoulders back and badges showing.”
“No.”
“Ricky said the cantina was on the north side,” I said.
“Did,” Virgil said. “East end.”
“Don’t think we been in it.”
“No,” Virgil said. “Don’t think we have.”
It’d been some time since Virgil and I were in Plaza Socorro, but we knew the town. We’d passed through there time and again in the last few years and we knew how it was laid out.
Virgil slowed a little and looked back to me.
“What do you figure it is?” Virgil said.
“Sun has been down for two hours, and from our last stop it seems we’ve been on the road for at least five hours, right? I’d say it’s about eight, maybe nine o’clock.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Good timing,” I said.
“We’ll know soon enough.”
We rode on a bit more. We were riding into the city with a slight breeze in our faces, and there was a faint smell of smoke and livestock.
“Let’s go this side, on the south, and get a look at this cantina from across the plaza.”
It was dark, but Virgil and I did not risk riding through Plaza Socorro. That would not be smart. The quarter moon provided us with enough light to show our way. We turned off the road and moved around a fenced hilltop cemetery. We rode downhill and passed a large stockyard, cut between a few houses, crossed a dry brook, and entered Socorro from the back side of town.
We rode behind a row of two-story buildings that faced the south side of the plaza. To our left was a number of adobes, but it was late enough in the evening that there was only a scant light or two burning. We rode on past the big church and a few alleys among the buildings. I slowed when we got close to the end of the row of buildings and the last alley leading to the plaza.
“I’ll be goddamn,” I said. “Hear ’em?”
Virgil didn’t say anything, but I could see the whites of his eyes when he turned in his saddle and looked at me.
“Sounds like a party to me,” I said.
23.
Does,” Virgil said.
I pulled my eight-gauge from the scabbard as we entered the back side of the dark alley.
Singing, laughter, and piano and fiddle music mixed together and cut through the otherwise peaceful evening like noisy unwanted guests.
“Sounds like they’re having a lively time,” I said.
“For the moment,” Virgil said.
I nudged my bay and followed Virgil on his muscled stud. We moved slowly through the narrow passage between two single-story buildings toward the street. Loud laughter roared and echoed from the cantina across the open town square, as if someone had told a joke.
“Sounds like more than a few, too,” I said.
“Damn sure does,” Virgil said.
“Got some liquor flowing,” I said.
“They do at that.”
The laughter, hooting, and hollering made it sound like the rabble-rousers were right there with us in the alley.
We set our horses in the shadows and watched the cantina across the way. The windows and open door offered about the only substantial light in the small triangle-shaped plaza.
“If it is him, looks like Truitt has a few more than a handful of friends here,” I said.
“By God,” Virgil said.
“Could be Ricky wasn’t lying.”
“Could be,” Virgil said.
“What do you think about Boston Bill?” I said.
Virgil shook his head.
“We’ll know directly.”
We watched and listened some.
“Best I can tell, there’s what? Twelve horses?”
Virgil nodded.
“What do you want to do?” I said.
Virgil didn’t reply as he watched the cantina across the way, thinking about our options.
“Could let them carry on,” I said. “Then see if we see Truitt or Black leave the place.”
Virgil nodded a bit.
“Could,” he said.
“Then again,” I said. “We risk them going separate ways. Might lose Truitt and Black in the dark.”
“If there is a party,” Virgil said. “And even tho
ugh we’re not invited, I believe we best pay our respects.”
He stepped down from his saddle and tied off on a post of a side overhang.
I moved my horse to the opposite side of the alley and dismounted.
“We know Truitt’s not afraid to pull,” I said.
“We do.”
“Ricky said there’s the two others that most likely aren’t afraid of a fight.”
“He did,” Virgil said. “Walt and . . .”
“Douglas . . . Douglas,” I said.
Virgil nodded.
Another fiddle and piano tune started up. It was a lively, knee-slapping tune. I recognized it, “Carve Dat Possum.” A female with a squeaky voice was singing the song and the crowd was chiming in out of key on the chorus.
“Once we know,” I said, “that it is for sure Truitt and Black, I suspect we’ll ask them polite-like if they want to go peaceful with us back to Appaloosa. Go from there.”
My tall bay worked the hell out of the bit in his mouth, then lowered his head, shook it hard and let out a loud snort.
“Hush,” I said, and pushed his butt up to the wall.
Virgil took a few steps out of the alley. He looked to the left, then right. I moved up next to him.
“Be best to not walk directly across, don’t you think?”
“I do,” Virgil said.
We stepped up on the porch of a feed store, stayed under the plaza’s awnings, and worked our way around the town square toward the cantina.
I slid back the hammers of the eight-gauge as we neared and Virgil pulled his bone-handled Colt.
It was late enough that nobody was out on the plaza moving about. We came up on the twelve dozy horses hitched in front of a cantina with no name, no sign. Virgil edged up and peeked in the window.
Another spirited song started up, and with it some foot stomping and vigorous yelps.
Virgil looked to me and nodded.
I nodded back.
He tilted his head and I followed him into the saloon.
The barroom was small and full of happy-faced drunk men and a few unsightly equally drunk women having a festive time. A fat rosy-faced fella with a red scruffy beard was pounding on the piano. He was accompanied by a skinny kid sawing on the fiddle and a short, round woman dancing around and laughing as she showed the partiers the underside of her frilly dress.
Boston Bill was nowhere to be seen, but Truitt saw Virgil and me right away. He got to his feet, not real fast but not real slow, and took a step backward.
“Happy Birthday, Truitt,” Virgil said.
24.
The piano player, fiddler, and dancer stopped their performance and turned their attention to Virgil and me standing in the doorway, holding weapons pointed in their direction. Looking down the bores of a double-barrel eight-gauge always altered the atmosphere in a room. For the moment, Truitt was like everyone else in the room, completely unsure what to do, so Virgil spelled it out for him.
“You’re under arrest, Truitt.”
Truitt stood slack-jawed, looking at Virgil. He was lankier and his blond hair was longer than it had been when we last laid eyes on him. He turned his head slightly to the side, eyeing Virgil with a testing look.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
“That’d be your choice.”
Truitt smiled a little.
“But there are better choices to make,” Virgil said.
Truitt shook his head slowly.
“Virgil Cole.”
“It is . . . And Everett Hitch. You remember Everett, don’t you, Truitt?”
Truitt glared at me but didn’t say anything. Then he looked back to Virgil.
“Under arrest for what?” he said.
“Right now it is attempted murder,” Virgil said. “There is a good chance, though, the man you shot will die, and if that happens you will be charged with murder.”
Truitt didn’t say anything.
“Fella you shot was a policeman,” Virgil said.
“He pulled and I shot him in self-defense.”
“Plenty of witnesses that will testify otherwise,” Virgil said, “so that will be for the judge to decide.”
“That’s bullshit,” Truitt said.
“It’s not,” Virgil said. “You also been helping a wanted man.”
Virgil glanced about the room a little.
“Where is he?” Virgil said.
“Who?”
“No reason to start acting like you are more of a dumbass than you are, Truitt,” Virgil said.
Truitt’s eyes narrowed.
“Who’s the dumbass?” Truitt said.
“What do you think, Everett?” Virgil said.
“I think the more you help us out, Truitt, the better your chances will be.”
“You been with him since you left Appaloosa, Truitt. You show some cooperation here, and I will be sure and let the judge know how helpful you were when we take you in.”
Truitt shook his head and looked around the room at his friends.
“Just two of you,” Truitt said.
“Oh, we have help,” Virgil said. “Wouldn’t undervalue your lack of sense or judgment.”
Truitt looked to the window and leaned a little, looking out the front door. He smiled, then looked around the room at his friends. His teeth were white and straight, and he had a charming, boyish smile. He looked back to Virgil and stopped smiling.
“This is my town, my people,” he said. “You really think the two of you can arrest me?”
“I don’t think.”
Truitt looked around the room at his friends again.
“I guess not,” Truitt said. “Guess you don’t think . . . Not a good idea coming in here, throwing claims around in front of my friends.”
“Speaking of friends, what’s the young fella’s name, Everett, that swore on his granny’s Bible we’d find Truitt here, at this cantina, Ricky what?”
“Ravenfield.”
“That’s right,” Virgil said. “Ricky Ravenfield.”
“He also said you got jumpy and shot the policeman,” I said.
Truitt stared at me.
“Ricky was not too happy you left him.”
“Fuck him,” Truitt said.
“No need,” Virgil said. “Ricky’s dead.”
Truitt stared at Virgil.
“Shot himself,” Virgil said.
“Bullshit.”
“Not,” Virgil said. “Before he did, though, he swore on his granny’s Bible you’d be here, and, well, sure enough, he was right.”
Truitt looked around the room at everyone looking at him, then looked to Virgil.
“You planning on taking on everybody in this room?”
“Not planning on taking on anybody, Truitt,” Virgil said. “But like I said, whether you go to hell or not is your call. You should just let the judge handle this, go from there.”
Sweat was beading up on Truitt’s face.
“So let’s get on with it, Truitt,” Virgil said.
A big, angular-looking man that was sitting next to Truitt got slowly out of his chair.
“You ain’t taking nobody nowhere,” the man said.
“You must be one of the two Ricky said he didn’t care for so much,” Virgil said.
“Fuck you and fuck Ricky,” the man said.
“You Walt or Douglas?” I said.
The man glanced at me, then looked back to Virgil.
“Truitt,” Virgil said. “Let’s not waste any more of my and Everett’s time.”
“Get on,” the big man said. “We got you outnumbered so you two better get the fuck on down the road or you’ll not live to talk about what will happen here if you don’t.”
Virgil took one step toward the big man.
&nbs
p; “There is only one thing for certain, one very sure thing that will happen here tonight if you choose to pull on me,” Virgil said. “And that is you will be dead, no matter.”
A heavyset man to my right had been slowly inching his way more to my side the whole time we’d been in the room. I was watching him, just like Virgil had been watching him out of the corner of his eye. Virgil saw everything.
“Far enough,” Virgil said, without looking directly at the heavyset man.
The heavyset man scoffed a little, and because he was to our side he thought he had the speed, the snap. He reached, but Virgil shot him in the chest before he could get his revolver out.
The big man next to Truitt thought this was his chance, too. He moved fast, flipping the table in front of him, and pulled his revolver. But just as he went down behind the wooden tabletop, Virgil’s second shot hit him in the forehead and blood splattered across Truitt’s face.
“Goddamn,” Truitt said.
Truitt stood with his hands up a bit and away from his sides, making sure we didn’t suspect he was going to go for his sidearm.
Virgil stood steady, and for the moment the only thing in the room that moved was the lingering gun smoke.
Virgil nodded slightly.
“Anybody else?”
25.
Nobody else dared to move.
“Where is he?” Virgil said.
“Hotel,” Truitt said, nodded in that direction. “Just across the square here.”
“Had to hear the shots,” I said.
We quickly disarmed Truitt, hustled him with us across the plaza to the hotel.
The hotel was a small two-story place with a narrow room on the first floor with a desk, a few dining tables, and a door to a back room.
A heavyset Mexican man was standing at the front window watching us, then looked over to us when we entered. He stared at us with a startled expression, then raised his arms a bit at the sight of my eight-gauge. He knew right away what we were doing there, even before Virgil showed his badge. He pointed out the rear door.
“He’s gone,” he said. “I come out when I heard the gunshots, and in a second he was down the steps here and gone.”
We moved quickly out the back side of the hotel and found nothing but a small empty corral with a feed shed and an open gate.
