by Robert Knott
“He did,” Virgil said.
The road we were traveling came to a long line of spruce trees that followed a creek. The Rangfield brothers splashed on through the low crossing, but our horses took the opportunity for a good drink from the clear brook water.
“Figure Strode got himself in a cross-thread of some kind,” I said.
Virgil nodded.
“Somebody was more than likely in on this with him,” Virgil said.
“Good chance it’s the same somebody left him for dead,” I said.
“That’d be my thinking,” Virgil said.
“Maybe this Slingshot knows something,” I said.
We watched our horses drink for a moment.
“More to this,” Virgil said. “That’s for certain.”
I nodded and thought about that. I looked as the buggy driven by Brisbane approached the water.
“Wonder what keeps more bankers from stealing?”
“He’s damn sure not the first,” Virgil said.
Virgil and I moved our horses on through the low water crossing and continued up the road following Davy and Danny.
“Big damn town,” I said. “San Cristóbal.”
“Is,” Virgil said. “Six thousand plus.”
“Hard to believe the police didn’t find anybody that saw Strode and the buckboard?”
“Is,” Virgil said.
“This sheriff, Webster Hawkins?” I said. “He a good hand?”
“Don’t know what kind of lawman he is. He was a friendly fella, I remember,” Virgil said. “Last time I saw him he was young—behind bars, though.”
“What for?”
“Stealing?”
“What’d he steal?”
“Cattle.”
“You arrest him?”
“I did.”
“And now he’s a lawman.”
“So it appears.”
“He a gun hand?”
“Was.”
“Any good?”
Virgil shook his head some.
“I only saw him go at it one time.”
“He pull on you?”
“Matter of fact, he did.”
“What happened?”
“I shot him.”
“He shoot back?”
“Nope.”
“He clear leather?”
“Nope,” Virgil said.
“Obviously, he lived.”
“He did.”
“Where’d you shoot him?”
“Panhandle.”
“No. Where?”
“Shoulder.”
“Don’t imagine he much cares for you.”
“He should,” Virgil said. “I was kind to him.”
“Kind?”
Virgil nodded.
“I could have put the bullet in a more vital spot, but I did not. Him being a likable fella and all,” Virgil said. “I was being kind.”
11
When we arrived at the Cottonwood Springs, Sheriff Hawkins, a third deputy named Brooks, and a small, attractive redhead wearing a black dress with red trim were waiting for us. They were sitting on folding chairs under the shade of a sprawling cottonwood tree. Behind the tree sat the whoring establishment. It was a well-built two-story house with a wide front porch. In front of the house was a buckboard hitched to an old dark bay.
The men got to their feet when we arrived, but the woman remained seated.
A big man stepped out a ways as we rode up. He had a star on his chest.
“That’s Hawkins there,” Virgil said as we got closer.
Hawkins shook his head back and forth as we came to a stop.
“Virgil Cole,” Hawkins said.
“Webb,” Virgil said.
“It’s been a very long time,” Hawkins said.
“Has.”
“What has it been? Like twenty years?”
“Seems about right.”
“I’ll be damned,” Hawkins said. “Holly said he was contacting you and . . . well, I suppose we appreciate the help.”
“Suppose?” Virgil said.
“We do, Cole,” Hawkins said. “You got here damn quick.”
“Just so happened we come to San Cristóbal on other business,” Virgil said.
“Such as?” Hawkins said.
“Alejandro Vasquez,” Virgil said.
“What about him?”
“He’s locked up in your jail,” Virgil said.
“No shit?”
“No shit,” Virgil said.
“I’ll be damned,” Hawkins said. “Bet he’s none too happy ’bout that.”
“Nope,” Virgil said. “He ain’t . . . So what’s the situation here? This Strode fella alive?”
“He is,” Hawkins said. “His lights are out, but he’s breathing. Doc’s in with him now.”
Virgil looked to the house, then nodded to me.
“This is my deputy, Everett Hitch.”
I moved my horse up some, then dismounted and shook hands with the men. Virgil was right about Webster Hawkins. He was a friendly fella. He didn’t much look like an ex-thief or a gunman. He was a big easy-moving bear of a man with a friendly face. He seemed more akin to a Baptist minister than a lawman. Deputy Brooks was short, with a thick, drooping mustache.
I turned, looking to the woman, who was still seated. She was sitting sideways in the chair with her slim legs crossed and one arm resting on the chair back. She smiled.
“This is Slingshot Clark,” Hawkins said. “She owns the place.”
“Ma’am,” I said.
“Deputy,” Slingshot said with a deep, sultry voice, then looked to Virgil. “Marshal.”
Virgil nodded toward her a bit, then rode his horse to the far side of the tree. He stepped out of the saddle, looped his reins on a thick, low-hanging branch, then came back to where the rest of us gathered.
“How long you been wearing that badge, Webb?” Virgil said.
“Twelve years, Cole.”
Virgil nodded some, smiled a bit.
“Good,” Virgil said.
Hawkins looked to Brisbane coming to a stop in the buggy with the bankers.
“You got the whole of it spelled out to you, Cole?” Hawkins said. “About this situation with Henry Strode robbing Comstock’s bank?”
“We did,” Virgil said.
“Speak of the devil,” Slingshot said, looking at Comstock.
He was working with great effort to get his huge body out of the buggy.
Virgil looked to Slingshot.
She hadn’t changed her position on the chair. She sat straight-backed as though she were an aristocrat posing for a portrait.
She smiled at Virgil.
“You found Strode?” Virgil said.
Slingshot nodded smoothly.
“I did.”
“Where.”
“He was on the porch this morning.”
Virgil just looked at her for a moment.
“The damnedest thing,” Slingshot said. “I opened the door and there he was.”
12
Brisbane helped Comstock and Ellsworth out of the two-seater. Comstock was talking loudly before he got both feet on the ground.
“Sheriff Hawkins! Where is he? Has he talked? What does he know?” Comstock said without hesitation or concern for Strode’s well-being.
Hawkins looked to Virgil and shook his head a little.
“He’s not talked,” Hawkins said. “Doc Mayfair said if he came to, he’d holler at us.”
“Well, goddamn,” Comstock said. “Just how long can a man be unconscious?”
“Doc said from a nick a time,” Hawkins said, “to forever . . . Depends.”
“Oh, good Lord,” Comstock said.
/> Comstock was sweating and gasping for air from the talking, climbing out of the buggy, and the five steps he’d walked. He rested his hand on the neck of the buggy horse and caught a few breaths.
“I heard about your bank, Walt,” Slingshot said flatly. “That’s a crying shame.”
Comstock shook his head like he was trying to keep flies off. It was obvious the head shake was not just the thought of the robbery but also the sappy inclusion of his given name so easily uttered by a woman of ill repute.
“The boys here,” Ellsworth said, gesturing to Davy and Danny, “said there was no sign of the money.”
“Of course not!” Comstock said with a sarcastic gasp.
Hawkins shook his head.
“No, sir,” Hawkins said as he looked to Slingshot. “Don’t have any idea. More than likely, whoever did this to Strode made off with the money.”
Slingshot nodded.
“Believe me, Walt, I don’t have it,” Slingshot said with a smoldering look. “I’ve been scratching a poor woman’s ass my whole life and I wouldn’t even know what to do with a bunch of money like that.”
“Oh, I’m sure you would,” Comstock said.
“Well, you are probably right there,” Slingshot said. “But I have to say I don’t know this Strode from Adam. Fact, he’s the only banker in all of San Cristóbal I don’t know.”
Comstock shook his head again and turned his attention to Hawkins.
“Well, who did this to him?” Comstock said angrily. “Who took the money?”
“Good question,” Hawkins said. “If we knew that, we’d not be under this cottonwood tree.”
Comstock wiped sweat from his face with a handkerchief as he looked to the old house.
“We’ve scoured all around this area,” Hawkins said with a sweep of his hand, “and we don’t really have any idea about much of anything.”
“The sonofabitch,” Comstock said.
“If you’re lucky, Mr. Comstock,” Hawkins said, “the sonofabitch you’re talking about will survive and come to. He don’t, well, then we’re back to the start of the trail.”
“Webb,” Virgil said. “Let’s have a look-see.”
“Good idea,” Comstock said.
Virgil stopped and looked to Comstock.
“Just rest yourself, Mr. Comstock,” Virgil said.
“But?” Comstock said.
“Let us do our business,” Virgil said. “No reason to get yourself any more worked up than you already are.”
“I suppose you’re right, Marshal,” Comstock said. “I suppose you are right.”
“Good,” Virgil said.
Comstock put two of the folding chairs side by side and took a seat.
“You want to lead us the way there, Miz Clark?” Virgil said.
“Certainly, Marshal,” she said, “and, please, call me Slingshot.”
13
Little green grasshoppers sprang up out of the weeded scrub grass and skittered about in the slanting rays of afternoon light as Webb, Holly, Virgil, and I followed Slingshot to the Cottonwood Springs. When we climbed the steps, Doc Mayfair stepped out the door, smoking a cigarette. He was a frail man, balding, with wispy gray hair and an instant no-nonsense disposition. He wedged the cigarette between his teeth, removed his spectacles, and wiped them with his shirttail.
“Doc,” Webb said, “this is Territorial Marshal Virgil Cole and his deputy, Everett Hitch.”
Mayfair looked back and forth between Virgil and me as he continued to clean his spectacles.
“He still with us?” Webb said.
Mayfair nodded some, then removed the cigarette from between his teeth.
“He’s breathing, stable,” Mayfair said with a raspy and weak voice. “Stable, but he’s still unconscious.”
Mayfair replaced his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, then turned and tilted his head toward the door.
“Come in,” Mayfair said.
He stepped back inside the house, and we followed after him.
The Cottonwood Springs was a nice establishment for a whorehouse. It was clean, with lace curtains on the windows and nice furniture—sofas, tables, and lamps—and it smelled of lavender perfume. There was a stairway just inside the front door that led up to the working rooms and a hall next to it that led to a rear kitchen. Two ladies sitting on the back porch looked at us when we entered.
Strode was in the parlor to our left. He was on a carpet with a blanket underneath him. He was laid out flat on his back with a pillow under his head. His shirt was open and his trousers were unbuttoned. His face was badly beaten, bloody, bruised, and swollen. There was dried blood all over his suit. Virgil moved closer to him.
“You undo him like this, shirt, trousers?” Virgil said to Mayfair.
“I did,” Mayfair said.
“He’s not been shot?” Virgil said.
“No,” Mayfair said.
“Stabbed?”
“I’ve not found punctures, bullet or knife.”
“Poor dear,” Slingshot said.
“It seems he’s just been beaten, beaten bad,” Doc said. “He has broken ribs, and his groin’s swollen badly. He’s been kicked. He has some internal bleeding. Someone worked him over good.”
Even though Strode was battered, he appeared to be a handsome man. He was strong-looking and tall, with thick, dark hair.
Virgil got down on one knee and looked at Strode more closely. He lifted a lapel on Strode’s jacket a little and searched his pocket, then looked back to Hawkins.
“You search his pockets, Webb?” Virgil said.
“I did,” Webb said. “He had nothing.”
“No keys,” Virgil said.
“Nope,” Webb said. “No keys, no nothing.”
Virgil looked at Strode’s hands, first his left, then his right. He stayed on one knee, looking at Strode for a moment, then stood and looked around the room at nothing in particular.
“Could have shot him,” I said.
Virgil nodded.
“Didn’t want to, though,” I said.
“Nope,” Virgil said. “Did not.”
“They were enjoying this,” I said.
Virgil nodded.
“Seems so,” Virgil said.
Virgil looked to Slingshot.
“How’d you get him in here?” Virgil said.
“The girls and me. We picked him up and brought him in,” Slingshot said. “Took four of us.”
“Who found him on the porch?” Virgil said.
“I did,” Slingshot said. “I told you I did!”
“What time?”
“Not early, really,” she said. “I was piddling around, cleaning this morning. I’d been in and out of the back door a few times but not the front. I opened the front door about, oh, nine, nine-thirty, and there he was. Scared the hell outta me.”
Virgil looked at Slingshot for a moment, then looked to Doc Mayfair.
“Be dark in a bit,” Virgil said. “Want and try moving him?”
“Yes,” Mayfair said. “I’ve done all I can here, Marshall. We should get him to the office so I can get him cleaned up proper.”
14
We searched around outside of the Cottonwood Springs, looking for any sign, evidence that might provide us with some details as to Strode mysteriously showing up on the whorehouse porch, but found nothing.
Before sundown we loaded up Strode and helped Doc Mayfair get him back to town and into the doctor’s office.
After we got Strode settled, Hawkins left Davy and Danny to watch guard.
“Make damn sure no one comes in here,” Hawkins said to his deputies, “and if Strode comes to, make damn sure he don’t get out of here, either. Remember, this man is a prisoner.”
Brisbane was at the reins of the two-seater, Holly was by
his side, and Comstock and Ellsworth were still seated in the back when Webb, Virgil, and I exited Mayfair’s office.
“Let me buy you boys supper,” Comstock said. “Got a fancy little place that feeds a Sunday-night favorite to the do-wellers of San Cristóbal. Might be the last supper I’ll be buying for a while.”
Virgil looked at me.
“Sure,” I said.
We mounted up and followed Brisbane in the buggy as it made its way through town. The road curved and traveled up a steep incline a few blocks. We stopped in front of a showy-looking eatery called the Claremont. Brisbane unloaded Comstock and Ellsworth, bid us good night, and moved on in the buggy. When we got inside the place, André, a short French fella wearing a bow tie, walked us to a table in the back of the busy restaurant, and Virgil, Webb, Holly, Ellsworth, Comstock, and I settled around a big oval table covered with a white tablecloth.
“Bring us some snails, André, and some of that good wine, steaks, and those crispy potatoes,” Comstock said.
“Oui,” André said with a smile as he snapped his heels together.
André pushed through a swinging door and disappeared into the kitchen, spouting orders in French that sounded as if he were calling readying details to a firing squad.
“Well,” Comstock said as he removed his Panama hat and laid it on the table. “What now?”
Virgil leaned back in his chair. He smoothed the tablecloth in front of him that didn’t need smoothing and leveled a look at the bankers.
“You said Strode was an exceptional banker,” Virgil said.
“Yes,” Ellsworth said. “He was.”
“Highly intelligent,” Virgil said. “Made customers feel good, was more suited for the job than you were?”
Ellsworth nodded.
“You ever know him to get sideways with anyone,” Virgil said. “Have a fight with anyone, that sort of thing?”
“No,” Comstock said, looking at Ellsworth.
“My gosh, no, he was not a fighter,” Ellsworth said. “Strode, by all accounts, was a gentleman.”
“Tell me about him,” Virgil said.
“What would you like to know?” Comstock said.
“He was,” Ellsworth said, “in every sense of the word a banker, and a damn fine one, with exceptional acumen.”
