by Robert Knott
The young detective reacted liked he’d been shot and said with volume and precise, sharp, emphatic words, “Bill Black is the murderer of Ruth Ann Messenger . . . and he is a wanted man. He is on the run. And his warrant is supported by evidence and not hearsay. And not you or anyone else outside of the court of law can hypothetically go putting money on it.”
“I can hypothetically do what the sam-hell I want to do,” Banes said, looking sternly at his partner, but then he nodded a little. “But I can also say . . . you might be right.”
“There is no doubt,” King said.
“Oh, there is always doubt in this line of work,” Banes said. “Always . . . even when it involves friends, family, and loved ones. Always. It’s just how it is.”
“But if Roger did do it,” I said, “why would he come here and see to it that Bill be arrested?”
“Retribution, maybe, get back at him for the humiliation, hell, I don’t know.”
Banes shook his head.
“Roger was a good policeman. Honest, fair, and he believed in the law and that every man deserved his day in court, including Boston Bill, I guess . . . He did everything by the book . . . but a man can be pushed only so far.”
Chastain had been working on a plug the whole conversation, and now spit it into a spittoon by his desk and said, “Then you got to ask yourself, Why would Bill take off like he did if he didn’t do it?”
“Don’t know,” Banes said.
Chastain worked the plug a bit.
“Men do get jumpy,” he said, “when they are wanted.”
Banes nodded.
“Also,” he said, “I think at some point Bill realized, maybe not until Roger come upon him, maybe before, that he stepped into a big pile of shit when he started up with Ruth Ann. She was really something to look at, but, well, Ruth Ann brought with her a damn rat’s nest full of trouble.”
“What about the warrant?” Virgil said.
“Not sure of all the particulars, but it was standard. Once information came in, all of it pointing to Black, the chief issued the warrant.”
“Chief suspect Roger, too?”
Banes was quiet for a moment, then . . .
“I can’t say . . . but the warrant was drawn up for Bill Black.”
Banes looked to King, then back to Virgil.
“There you have it,” Banes said.
“What about the reward money?” Virgil said.
Banes glanced to King again, then back to me.
“That was offered by the chief, too.”
Virgil looked at me and squinted a little.
“Why all the fuss about confidential,” I said.
“Roger Messenger,” Banes said. “Is the son . . . of our beloved chief of police.”
29.
Within a few days Roger Messenger died of the gunshot wound he received from Truitt Shirley, and Truitt was subsequently charged with his murder.
The day after Messenger died, Detectives Banes and King returned to Denver with his body. The fact that it was anyone’s guess as to the whereabouts of Boston Bill at this point in time left the two officers no real choice other than to move along and wait and see if a law official or bounty hunter was lucky enough to apprehend him.
Skinny Jack, too, had a proper funeral. He was buried alongside his mother, who he had taken care of during a long, drawn-out illness and had passed away one year to the day Skinny Jack was killed.
After the funeral, Allie, Virgil, and I sat at a table near the bar, where Virgil and I were drinking mugs of cool beer and Allie was sipping on a glass of Irish whiskey.
“Just awful,” Allie said.
“Nice funeral, though,” Virgil said.
“Was,” I said.
“I am just so sick about it, though,” Allie said.
“Me, too, Allie,” I said. “Me, too.”
“And to think he was killed exactly a year after his poor, sick ol’ momma’s passing away is just, well, it’s just as sad as can be. He was so young and sweet. He had no business being a deputy lawperson, none whatsoever.”
“It was his job, Allie.”
“I don’t care, it is sad and wrong.”
“He was a good man, Allie, and I share your deepest sympathy, but he liked the job he did and he was good at it.”
“Well, it is just terrible, and to think that skinny young boy took such care of his poor, sick ol’ momma like he did for as long as he did and now this. Just is not fair.”
Virgil nodded.
“Not much is fair, Allie.”
“That could have been you,” Allie said.
“It wasn’t,” Virgil said.
“And then what on earth would have become of me, can you tell me that?”
“Well, we don’t have to think about that, Allie.”
“We do have to think about it, Virgil.”
We’d been through this before with Allie. Many times. It was like a burr under her saddle. She would be doing fine until there was an incident that got her imagination churned up and she imagined things she had no control over.
“You don’t have to dwell on it,” Virgil said.
“Not dwelling, Virgil. It could happen.”
“Well, hell, Allie, everybody has to face such things, whether they are lawmen or law-abiding citizens or criminals or whoever, everybody has to think about it.”
“I just don’t like what you do.”
“Without men like me, you, the people, are not protected.”
“Don’t mean it has to be you being the one that is the protector.”
“Can we just enjoy this beer?” Virgil said.
“Absolutely,” she said as she took a sip of her whiskey. “Everett, you will look after me, won’t you?”
“Well . . . sure, Allie.”
“I’m right here, Allie,” Virgil said.
“For now,” she said. “And thank God for Everett.”
“What about Everett?” Virgil said.
“What about him?” she said.
“What gives Everett this good fortune that you ain’t pointing in my direction?”
“Don’t be silly, Virgil. I’m not saying that, not pointing good fortune in Everett’s direction at all. Though I do wish you all the good fortune God has available to grant you, Everett, I do. I’m just concerned about having a contingency plan is all, Virgil. You have to understand that. Everett understands that, don’t you, Everett?”
“A contingency plan?” Virgil said.
“Yes,” she said. “A contingency plan. You want me to be taken care of, don’t you?”
Virgil looked at me for a second, then looked at Allie.
“Well, of course I do, Allie.”
“Well, good, then, I’m glad to know that you agree with me and Everett.”
Allie turned in her chair and held up her empty glass for Wallis to see.
“Wallis,” she said as she wiggled her glass a little. “Would you be so kind?”
“Right away, Mrs. French,” Wallis said.
30.
Two weeks after burying Skinny Jack, there was still no sign of Boston Bill. Old Man Pritchard stayed in town and continued with the duties required for his gambling parlor’s July Fourth grand opening, which was less then a month away.
With the expansion of the silver mining north of town, the parlor was already being rumored as a popular destination, mainly because Pritchard was quite the salesman. He let it be known the opening of the casino would be the grandest, most spectacular event to happen west of the Mississippi. Nothing the likes of Appaloosa had ever seen, complete with fireworks, a lively orchestra, spinning roulette wheels, and dancing girls.
It was cloudy when the sun first came up, but the day turned out to be a warm one. I’d spent the morning cleaning out the stable and working w
ith a new horse I’d recently purchased. He was a big ornery black geld named Ajax, and I saddled him up and rode to S. Q. Johnson’s Grocery near the depot to buy Ajax and me some refreshment.
S. Q. Johnson was almost eighty and was one of the original men that started Appaloosa when the first mine opened up thirty-five years back. He was spry for his age, but slow, and with each passing day was becoming more forgetful.
After I placed my order with S.Q. and he moved off to the back room, a bright flash of light caught my eye. It shot through the dimly lit store, ricocheting off a mirror behind the counter for a brief instant, then was gone. I looked back.
It was glaring sunlight reflecting off a silky white parasol carried by a slender woman. She was passing by on the boardwalk, and I moved a bit toward the window for a closer look.
I couldn’t see her face under the dome of fabric as she walked on, but she was a graceful creature, and there was something damn sure arresting about the way she carried herself.
“Here you go, Everett,” S.Q. said.
I watched her for a moment. She stopped and walked back and looked in the window. For a brief second I thought she was looking at me, but she looked down at the display of fruit S.Q. had laid out. I could not see her face clearly, but well enough to see she was pretty. She twirled her parasol a little, turned, and then walked on.
“She was in here the other day,” S.Q. said.
I moved back to the counter where S.Q. had my goods laid out.
“Who is she?”
“Don’t know, but she’s a flower. Smelled like one, too . . . Every now and again a little nice comes to town, an element that brings value and beauty. But that is only now and again. Damn place is getting bigger every day, Everett. I don’t have to tell you most of what is populating Appaloosa these days is nothing but riffraff.”
“No, S.Q. You don’t have to tell me.”
“I don’t, but I am telling you anyway . . . riffraff, like that gambler you and Virgil were after.”
“Well, it’s a growing place, I’ll give you that.”
“You ever catch that murderer?”
“No, sir.”
“Shame,” S.Q. said. “I remember that fella that got shot ’cause of him. He came in here and bought a can of beans . . . Oh . . . I forgot your ice.”
S.Q. turned and walked slowly to the back room.
“Yeah,” S.Q. said, “that fella came in here just before it happened. I visited with him for quite a while, nice man.”
“That so?”
S.Q. said nothing else, but I could hear him chopping some ice. After a moment he walked back slowly from the rear of the store.
“What did you visit with him about?” I said.
“Who?” S.Q. said.
“The man that got shot in front of the gambling place.”
“He came in here.”
“Yeah. You said. He bought a can of beans.”
“He did.”
“You talked to him?”
S.Q. nodded.
“He came in here just before he got shot, poor fella.”
“What’d you talk about?”
“He sat there on the porch and ate his beans,” S.Q. said. “Nice morning. I sat there with him and we visited.”
“What did you visit about?”
“Oh . . . a little bit of everything.”
“Like what?”
“Think he was feeling the effects of a bit too much of the good stuff, Everett.”
“Do you remember what you talked about?”
“Oh, let’s see . . . He told me he was a policeman.”
“Anything else you remember?”
S.Q. leaned in closer.
“Said that he had come to town to arrest the man responsible for murdering his wife. Was gonna take him in single-handed.”
“He said that to you?”
“He did,” S.Q. said. “Said he had nightmares ’bout it, it was haunting him. Poor fella. Guess it didn’t turn out like he had planned.”
“You remember anything else?”
“About what?”
“Anything else he said?”
“Who?” S.Q. said.
31.
When I walked out of S. Q. Johnson’s Grocery it was even hotter than it had been when I entered not fifteen minutes earlier, and there was not so much as a hint of moving air.
I gave Ajax a chunk of apple. He gobbled it up, then I gave him the rest and untied him from the hitch. He was clearly not too happy about standing saddled in the blazing sun.
“I know, it’s hot . . . We’re moving, we’re moving . . .”
I draped the gunnysack with the beer and ice on the horn and mounted up. The saddle was so damn hot I had to stand in my stirrups. I moved off without sitting and let my seat cool as I rode down 2nd Street.
When I turned onto Main Street, I saw the woman with the parasol again.
She was ahead of me a ways on the busy boardwalk. I slowed, sat back in the saddle, and followed her as she walked.
The silk wheel was casually spinning above her head as she strolled leisurely. She paused, looking in the window of a barbershop. As I got closer I could see she was watching a small boy getting a haircut.
I angled a little toward the boardwalk to have a better look at her, and when I slowed, she turned, looked right at me.
This time she was looking at me.
She had dark, almost black hair, rosy cheeks, and big brown eyes. I tipped my hat and she smiled as I rode past. I looked back to her, she gave her parasol an extra spin, smiled a slight more, then slid effortlessly through the open door of a fabric shop.
“She smiled at me, Ajax, not at you . . .”
I rode on up the busy street and there were a lot of people moving about for such a hot day.
Like S.Q. was saying, the place just gets bigger every day. It was hard to keep up with all the comings and goings, but there was most certainly more coming than going.
There was always something new happening, some new business opening, but mostly the growth—no doubt—brought a mischievous lot.
There were not any new churches, but there were plenty new saloons and whoring establishments.
Pritchard’s gambling hall was opening soon, and it had already caused a good deal of trouble with its own brand of mischief, like Boston Bill Black, Truitt Shirley, and Ricky Ravenfield.
When I rode past the place, prominently located on the corner of Main and 3rd Street, there were a slew of onlookers watching workers on tall ladders hoisting a huge colorfully painted canvas banner above the entrance.
I slowed to a stop next to Juniper Jones. Juniper was an amusing little man with a round body and red face. He sported a tall dark green flattop hat, was always sharply dressed, and was without exception the best attorney in Appaloosa. He was Harvard educated and wealthy, but he was also most assuredly gaining a reputation as the town drunk.
Juniper was perched on the edge of a water trough with a newspaper tucked under his arm, looking up at the sign being strung up across the street. He glanced up, squinting at me.
“Everett,” he said.
“Juniper.”
He looked back to the sign being hoisted.
“What’s this place coming to?” Juniper said.
“Good question.”
“I’m not talking about this godforsaken place, not Appaloosa. I’m talking about this country. What is it coming to?”
“Another good question.”
“Gambling has this motherland by the short hairs, Everett.”
“’Spose it does, Juniper.”
“Oh, it does . . . It’s an insidious kaleidoscope, offering the illusion of chance as a contender, a competitor to hard work and discipline. Not to mention it is a catastrophe for meaningful relationships.”
“Everything is a gamble,” I said. “This motherland was a gamble coupled with hard work.”
Juniper looked at me.
“Yes, but it has become an addiction for many, you see. Even when the gambler knows the odds are against him, when he can’t afford to lose, he still rolls the dice.”
Juniper got to his feet and brushed the back side of his trousers as he looked at the sign.
“Believe that’s French, Everett?” Juniper said. “Maison de Daphne?”
“Believe it might be,” I said.
Juniper laughed.
“Might?” Juniper said. “Besides me, you are the smartest person in this goddamn godforsaken town. You know French when you see it.”
“I do.”
“Of course you do.”
The workmen got the banner where they wanted it and tied it in place. Then I saw her again: the smooth-walking woman with the parasol. She came through the gathered crowd, waited as a buggy passed, then crossed the dry street and stopped, looking up at the sign. She watched the workers for a moment, then turned and looked at the onlookers. After a few seconds she walked between the ladders, up the steps, and entered Maison de Daphne.
32.
Allie was working in the garden when I rode up. She was draping bed linens over the top of her plants so they didn’t fry in the hot sun. She looked up, seeing me as I tied off Ajax under one of the two oak trees that had grown tall enough in the past year to provide a little shade.
“Hey, Everett,” Allie said.
She stood from being bent over and pushed her hips forward, arching her lower back. Her hands were dirty and her blousy shirt was sweated through, but she looked pretty with strands of hair falling across her flushed cheeks.
“Hot enough for you?” I said.
“Nice day for a lizard,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“Where’s your bonnet?”
“I know. I hadn’t planned on being out here, but you know how it goes, one thing leads to another.”
“I do.”
“How are you?” she said.
“I’m not working in the garden in the hot sun.”
“I had to do this before the whole thing burnt up.”
