“Whatever gave you that notion?” Virgil said.
Virgil threw the stirrup over the saddle of Cortez and tightened the cinch.
“I’m a hell of a gardener,” Virgil said.
Berkeley smiled.
“Plant something, watch it grow,” Virgil said.
With that, Virgil climbed into the saddle.
I moved my roan around in a small circle. Made him back up a bit. I swung up in the saddle and nudged him up next to Virgil.
“Well, goes without saying,” Berkeley said, looking at both Virgil and me. “But I’ll say it anyway. You’re welcome around this camp anytime. So if you find yourself in these whereabouts, don’t hesitate to get your asses over here and drink some whiskey with me.”
“Will do,” Virgil said.
I nodded.
“Of course, I came to this part of the country,” Berkeley said, “to get away from the so-called civilized ways spreading west of the Mississippi, but they’re closing in now. There is a whole spindrift of bullshit sprawling east to west that’ll be cutting me out, so there is no telling how long I’ll be here.”
Virgil had both of his hands draping over the horn of his saddle, looking at Berkeley, who was now looking off down the street.
“Oh,” Berkeley said. “Hold on a minute.”
Berkeley went into the hotel bar and after a second came out with the box of Romeo and Julieta cigars. He opened the box and held it up for Virgil.
“By God,” Virgil said. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Virgil took out a cigar, and Berkeley handed him a match. Virgil moved Cortez up by the porch post. He dragged the match on the post and cupped it around the tip of the Romeo and Julieta cigar. Once he got it going good, he flicked the match in the street and circled Cortez about. He looked at me, ready to go.
Berkeley walked out to Virgil and held up the box of cigars. He opened Virgil’s saddlebag and placed them inside.
“For the road,” Berkeley said.
Berkeley refastened the straps on the bag.
Virgil nodded and backed up Cortez a bit.
“Much obliged, Constable,” Virgil said. “Much obliged.”
Berkeley nodded and took a step back.
I turned my roan around facing the same direction as Virgil.
Virgil took off. I tipped my hat to Berkeley. Berkeley nodded, offered a smile, and I took off following Virgil.
We rode out of Half Moon Junction, making our way up the long sloping grade north out of town, and when we got to the top of the rise Virgil stopped. He turned Cortez so as to have a look back at Half Moon Junction. When I caught up to Virgil I circled my horse around behind Cortez and stopped alongside Virgil and looked down on to the town. From where we were, the town was almost out of sight. We sat there for a moment as Virgil puffed on his Romeo and Julieta cigar.
“Look at it this way,” Virgil said.
“Look at what this way?”
“Least you don’t have to talk about it.”
“Talk about what?”
“Your problems,” Virgil said.
“Problems?” I said. “What problems?”
Virgil just looked at me. I looked at him back. He nodded at me a bit, turned Cortez, and rode on. I looked back to Half Moon Junction and the iron road tapering off in the distance. Then I turned the lazy roan and followed Virgil.
Virgil was ahead a ways, working Cortez through patches of flowering brush when a covey of quail kicked up around him. I watched the birds rise up into the northern breeze. They turned back, catching the current, and glided off south behind me, fanning out, and slowly, one by one, they rested gently back to the earth.
—
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Much obliged to G. P. Putnam’s Sons’ president, Ivan Held, for getting this night train out of the depot, and to all my rough and ready compadres for stepping aboard in the storm: Reeder Railroad’s head honcho, Richard Grigsby (without him we’d surely have run out of steam); telegraph operator Roger Reinke; tracker Jamie “Whatnot” Whitcomb; gunsmith Keith Walters; wrangler Rex Peterson; the Oklahoma Historical Society’s Larry O’Dell and Jeff Moore; my ex-oil field pard’, Lowell Reed; mountain guide Rob Wood of Rancho Roberto; mechanical chieftain Jim Timplin; and Ed Harris, the extraordinary man who so expertly brought Robert B. Parker’s Virgil Cole to life on the silver screen: “Feelings get you killed.”
My deepest sympathy to all the beguiled and besieged who stoked this engine as it struggled upgrade into the mountains: Alison Binder, Josh Kesselman, Jayne Amelia Larson, Kathy Toppino, Alice DiGregorio, Chet Burns, Carol Beggy, Ginger Sledge, Lt. Col. Charles Austin, Minda Gowen, Lisa Todd, Mike Watson, my sisters—the Clogging Castanets—Sandra Hakman and Karen Austin, Grant Hubley, Rex Linn, Kevin Meyer, Corby Griesenbeck, them damned kids Gabriel and Vanessa, Julie Rose (the brightest light on the track), and to Michael Marantz, who is up there somewhere chewing the fat with a rustler’s moon.
Muchas gracias to Michael Brandman and Ace Atkins, for jumping off the trestle and into swift Parker waters before me, and to Helen Brann, for shoving me off to follow and shouting, “Cannonball!” After I touched mud and came to the surface, a gasping holler went out to my editor extraordinaire, Chris Pepe, and her faithful fireman, Meaghan Wagner, for keeping me from drowning with my boots on.
And a GRAND BLAST OF THE WHISTLE to the notorious Parker clan, Joan, David and Daniel, for issuing a warrant for me to saddle up and ride where no other hombre has ever rode . . . and last, to Robert B. Parker, for allowing all of us, with the tap of a spinning spur, the opportunity to continue our gallop over the rails and across the open plains.
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