Appaloosa / Resolution / Brimstone / Blue-Eyed Devil

by Robert B. Parker

  I held the horse by the bridle straps. Virgil carefully picked up her foreleg and held it between his legs, his back to the horse.

  “Hang on,” Virgil said.

  I put my weight on the head straps.

  “Easy, darlin’,” Virgil said to the horse. Virgil poured about half the whiskey into a gash on her foreleg. The horse lunged back. I held her head. Virgil rode her foreleg comfortably, murmuring to the horse all the time, and in a moment she stopped lunging. He studied the gash.

  “Again,” he said.

  I clamped on the harness, and he clamped the foreleg tight between his legs and poured the rest of the whiskey over her wound. She struggled long this time, but we rode it out and she calmed down again. Virgil tore the cloth into strips and bandaged the wound. He continued to murmur to the horse as he had since he started. The horse stayed docile. Virgil stood.

  “Whiskey ought to kill the infection,” he said. “Change the bandage every day. Week or so she’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t want no damaged horse,” Blue Shirt said.

  “Well, you bought her,” Pink Shirt said.

  Virgil was standing next to the horse, patting her absently on the shoulder.

  “Either she had the gash when you bought her,” Virgil said, “and you were too stupid to see it, or you caused the gash after you bought her and were too stupid to treat it.”

  “You’re saying it’s my fault.”

  “I’m saying you take care of the horse, and in a couple weeks she’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not taking care of this damn horse,” Blue Shirt said.

  “You are,” Virgil said.

  Blue Shirt stared at him. Virgil looked at him steadily.

  “What if I don’t?” Blue Shirt said.

  “I’ll kill you,” Virgil said.

  “Kill me?”

  “Yep.”

  “Over this fleabag of a fucking horse?” Blue Shirt said.

  “Yep.”

  “So,” Pink Shirt said. “It’s settled then.”

  Virgil turned his head slowly and looked at Pink Shirt.

  “Put her in the livery stable,” Virgil said. “You pay.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “It’s how it is,” Virgil said. “Me and Everett will be checking. Anything happens to the horse, you answer to us.”

  Blue Shirt took the lead from the hitching post and began to walk the horse slowly down the main street toward the livery stable.

  “How ’bout we split the cost of the livery?” Pink Shirt said.

  “Fuck you,” Blue Shirt said.

  They kept walking and they didn’t look back. Virgil and I went back into the Blackfoot.

  “Sheriff, judge, and jury,” I said.

  Virgil grinned at me and said, “Got nothing else to do.”

  42.

  We rented Mrs. Redmond a buggy at the livery stable and rode out with her to her husband’s ranch. A hundred yards or so upslope from the ranch we stopped.

  “You go on down,” Virgil said.

  She didn’t say anything, but her face was tight and there was no color in it.

  “Go ahead,” Virgil said. “We’ll be right here.”

  She chucked to the horse and slapped the reins and the buggy went on down the easy slope to the ranch. As she got there the kids came out of the house and stood on the front porch. When the buggy stopped, the kids stared at their mother without moving. She said something to them, and after a moment they climbed into the buggy. The four of us sat our horses in a row on the hillside and watched. Rose on the left, Cato next to him, me, and Virgil on the right. Redmond never showed himself.

  Mrs. Redmond sat in the buggy with her children for maybe an hour. The four of us sat our horses on the slope and watched. Then the kids climbed down and went to stand on the porch. The buggy turned slowly and started back up the slope. The kids watched as it went. When it reached us, she was crying.

  “They want to know when I’m coming home,” she said. “They want to know when I’m going to stop being bad. They want to know if I’m mad at them. They want to know if Daddy is mad at me.”

  Nobody said anything. We wheeled our horses in behind the buggy and rode in silence back to town.

  “How’s that mare doing,” Virgil said to the stableman while he helped Mrs. Redmond down from the carriage.

  “Good, Mr. Cole. Swelling’s way down.”

  “Keep an eye on her,” Virgil said.

  “You bet, Mr. Cole.”

  We delivered Mrs. Redmond to her hotel room and then went into the saloon. Wolfson was waiting for us.

  “Well, here it is,” Wolfson said. “The fucking pistolero benevolent society. I hire you to take care of beat-up women and old nags, for crissake?”

  “You hire us to keep the peace for you,” Rose said.

  He spread his hands to encompass the saloon and the street in front of it.

  “Look how peaceful,” he said.

  Wolfson nodded.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I know. But sometimes I’m not so sure whether you work for me or I work for you.”

  “We’re in this together, Amos,” Virgil said. “We all got collaborative goals.”

  “’Less I don’t pay you,” Wolfson said.

  “That might change things,” Rose said. “Right, Cato?”

  “Sure,” Cato said.

  “Well if you ain’t too busy with your fucking charity work,” Wolfson said, “maybe you’ll be good enough to ride out with me in the morning and foreclose on a bean wrangler.”

  “Can’t pay his bill?” Virgil said.

  “That’s right, so I’m taking his ranch in lieu.”

  “Anybody we know?” I said.

  “It ain’t Redmond, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That’s what I was asking,” I said.

  43.

  We rode out the next morning, past Redmond’s ranch, farther out along the creek, with the warm morning sun on our backs. Wolfson was with us, and his chief clerk, Hensdale. Hensdale didn’t seem too happy being out where Wolfson actually did a lot of his business.

  “There’s any trouble, Hen,” Wolfson said to him, “these boys will take care of it.”

  “So why do I even have to come along?” Hensdale said.

  “Because I fucking want you along,” Wolfson said. “You understand that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hensdale said.

  “Good,” Wolfson said. “What’s this fella’s name again?”

  “Ward,” Hensdale said. “Stanton Ward.”

  The creek curved a little west and straightened out again, flowing south, and in the bend was the Ward ranch. It wasn’t much, less than Redmond’s. But the land was good, right by the creek. In front of the house there were twelve farmers, many of them with Winchesters or shotguns.

  “Jesus,” Hensdale murmured.

  We rode in and stopped in front of the farmers. One of them was Redmond. He had his Winchester.

  “Don’t shoot Redmond,” Virgil said.

  Cato and Rose both nodded. I nodded.

  Wolfson said, “What the hell?”

  Virgil paid him no mind. Cato and Rose fanned out to the right.

  “There’s any shooting,” I said to Hensdale, “lie flat over your horse’s neck and get the hell out of here.”

  Hensdale nodded. Virgil and I fanned left. We left Wolfson in the center, in front of Redmond, with Hensdale unhappily beside him. I could see Virgil studying the ranchers on our side of the action, deciding who to shoot first. On the other side of Wolfson, I could see Cato Tillson doing the same thing.

  “Fella with the straw hat first,” Virgil said. “Then the one with the blue striped shirt.”

  I nodded. I didn’t know how Virgil decided these things, but he had a way, and I trusted it. I rested the eight-gauge across my saddle.

  “Ward?” Wolfson said.

  A short, round man with a sandy beard was standing beside Redmond.

  “I
’m Ward,” he said.

  “You owe me money,” Wolfson said.

  Ward didn’t answer.

  “How much?” Wolfson said to Hensdale.

  Hensdale gave the figure in a soft voice, meant to suggest that it wasn’t his fault, he was only the bean counter.

  “You got it?” Wolfson said.

  “How’s he gonna have it,” Redmond said.

  He was talking to Wolfson, but I knew he was aware of Virgil.

  “Not my problem, you owe me, you can’t pay. I collect my collateral.”

  “For God’s sake, Wolfson,” Redmond said. “Man’s got four children.”

  “Didn’t come here to argue,” Wolfson said. “If I had, I wouldn’ta brought my friends.”

  He nodded in a way to include the four of us.

  “We ain’t gonna let you take his house,” Redmond said.

  “That the way you see it, Ward?” Wolfson said.

  Ward’s eyes shifted from Virgil to Cato Tillson to Rose and to me. Then he looked back at Wolfson.

  “I . . . I can’t pay you,” he said. “Maybe if you gimme time.”

  Wolfson shook his head.

  “Time’s up,” he said. “We’ll wait here while you pack up the family and go.”

  “He ain’t going,” Redmond said.

  Virgil nudged his horse forward at a slow pace and rode him gently between Redmond and Ward. Then he moved the horse sidestep and eased Redmond slowly away from Ward. On the other side of Ward, Cato did the same thing to the farmer on that side. Rose and I followed and eased the next couple of clodhoppers away from Ward, and from each other.

  “Don’t let them move us,” Redmond shouted, and tried to step around Virgil. Virgil herded him with his horse, like he was cutting out a steer.

  “Hold it,” Redmond shouted. “Hold it or we’ll start shooting.”

  “No,” Ward screamed. “No. I don’t want the fucking property.”

  Virgil stopped his horse and sat still. The rest of us did the same.

  “I can’t live like this,” Ward said. “I can’t live here waiting for the next shootout. I’m a rancher. I don’t want this.”

  No one moved.

  Then Redmond said, “Stan, if we don’t stop him here, where will we stop him?”

  “Don’t care,” Ward said. “Stop him without me. Ranch is yours, Wolfson. I’ll take the horses, the wagon, and whatever we can load on it. Rest is yours.”

  “Wise choice,” Wolfson said. “We’ll wait.”

  Slowly, watching Redmond as he did, Virgil backed his horse up. The rest of us did the same. Redmond half-raised his Winchester. Virgil had no reaction. The hammer was down on the Winchester. Meant that Redmond would either have to work the lever or cock it, and that, for Virgil, was an ocean of time.

  “Disagreement’s been revolved,” Virgil said. “Time to go home.”

  The man in the straw hat said to Ward, “Need a hand with the wagon?”

  Ward nodded.

  “’Preciate it, Saul,” he said.

  They turned and went toward the house. Some of the others went with them; the rest began to drift toward their horses.

  “It’ll happen to one of us next, and then another one,” Redmond said in a high voice, “and another one, until he’s got it all.”

  The rancher in the blue striped shirt paused near his horse. He was carrying his Winchester with the barrel pointing toward the ground.

  He said to Redmond, “We ain’t gunmen, Bob.”

  Then he swung up into the saddle and rode away.

  44.

  Virgil and I were leaning on the bar, watching the smoke swirl and the whiskey pour and the cards slap down on tabletops.

  “Spent a lot of my life in saloons like this,” Virgil said.

  “I know,” I said.

  “Funny thing is, neither one of us drinks much.”

  “Probably a good thing,” I said.

  “Probably,” Virgil said.

  He looked comfortably around, appearing to pay no attention, in fact seeing everything.

  “I been reading a book by this guy Russo,” Virgil said.

  “Who?”

  “French guy, Russo. Wrote something called The Social Contract, lot of stuff about nature.”

  “Rousseau,” I said.

  “Yeah, him,” Virgil said.

  Virgil never admitted to a mistake. But if he was corrected, he never made it again.

  “He says that men are good, and what makes them bad is government and law and stuff.”

  “Don’t know much about Rousseau,” I said.

  “Didn’t teach you ’bout him?” Virgil said. “At the Point?”

  “Nope. Spent a lot of time on Roman cavalry tactics,” I said. “Not so much on French philosophers.”

  “That what he was?” Virgil said. “A philosopher?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Well, he says if people was just left to grow up natural, they’d be good,” Virgil said. “You think that’s so?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “And I ain’t so sure it matters.”

  Virgil nodded.

  “’Cause nobody ever grew up that way,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “And probably ain’t going to,” Virgil said.

  I nodded again.

  “So what difference does it make?” I said.

  “I dunno,” Virgil said. “I like reading about it. I like to learn stuff.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “And if this Rousseau is right, then the law ain’t a good thing, that protects people; it’s a bad thing that, like, makes them bad.”

  “Ain’t much law here,” I said.

  “’Cept us,” Virgil said.

  I laughed.

  “’Cept us,” I said.

  Virgil grinned.

  “And Cato and Rose,” he said.

  We both laughed.

  “There’s some law for you,” I said.

  “And it don’t much come from no government,” Virgil said, “or any, you know, contract or nothing.”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Comes ’cause we can shoot better than other people.”

  “And ain’t afraid to,” I said.

  Wolfson came across the room and stopped in front of us.

  “Virgil,” he said. “I got something to say.”

  Virgil nodded.

  “I mean alone,” Wolfson said.

  “Go ahead and talk in front of Everett,” Virgil said. “Save me the trouble of telling him what you said.”

  Wolfson didn’t like it, but Virgil showed no sign that he cared.

  “I didn’t appreciate you telling people not to shoot Redmond, ” Wolfson said.

  “You wanted him shot?” Virgil said.

  “I want to decide those things, not you.”

  “Don’t blame you,” Virgil said. “But you ain’t doing the shooting.”

  Wolfson frowned.

  “I don’t get you, Cole,” he said. “I’d expect that you’d want him dead.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well,” Wolfson said, “I mean, you’re fucking his wife.”

  Virgil stared at Wolfson and said nothing.

  “Well, I mean, no offense,” Wolfson said.

  Virgil stared silently.

  “Damn it, Cole, you work for me, don’t you?” Wolfson said. “You act like you’re in charge of everything. Like you don’t work for anybody.”

  Virgil shrugged. Wolfson looked at me.

  “You too, Everett,” he said. “You act like a couple fucking English kings, you know? Like you can do what you want.”

  “And Cato and Rose ain’t much better,” I said.

  “No, goddamn it, they ain’t,” Wolfson said.

  “You ever read Rousseau?” Virgil said.

  “I don’t read shit,” Wolfson said. “Including Roo whatever his fucking name is.”

  “Nope,” Virgil said. “’Spect you haven’t.”

&nbs
p; He turned and spoke to Patrick.

  “I’d like just a finger of whiskey,” he said.

  Patrick poured some, and a shot for me as well. He held the bottle up toward Wolfson, and Wolfson shook his head.

  “Things gonna have to change around here,” he said, and turned and walked away.

  “Things gonna change,” he muttered as he walked. “Things gonna fucking change.”

  “Why doesn’t he fire us?” I said.

  “He’s scared of us,” Virgil said.

  “And Cato and Rose,” I said.

  “Same thing,” he said.

  “So what do you think he’ll do?”

  “Hire himself enough people to back him,” Virgil said. “Then he’ll feel safe. Then he’ll fire us.”

  “You and me.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Cato and Rose?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  We sipped our whiskey.

  After a while I said to Virgil, “Is it true?”

  “What?”

  “What he said. You poking Mrs. Redmond?”

  “Ain’t gentlemanly to tell,” Virgil said.

  I nodded.

  “Hell, it ain’t even too gentlemanly to ask,” Virgil said.

  “You are,” I said.

  Virgil shrugged.

  “Well,” I said, “ain’t you some kind of dandy.”

  “Always have been,” Virgil said.

  45.

  The next time we took Mrs. Redmond out to the ranch, Redmond came out of the house with the children and Mrs. Redmond climbed down from the buggy and went and sat on the porch with them while we sat our horses up the slope a ways.

  “You pay any of Wolfson’s whores, Everett?” Frank Rose said.

  I nodded.

  “They’re all Wolfson’s whores,” I said.

  “He says we can use anyone we want, no charge,” Rose said. “And a whore wants to give it to me for nothing, I’ll take it, and so will Cato. But me and Cato, we figure it ain’t Wolfson’s to say, you know? I mean, he don’t quite own ’em. Unless we pay them when they fuck us, they’re getting nothing.”

  Rose grinned.

  “’Cept a’course the ride of a lifetime. How ’bout you, Virgil? You agree with that.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Cole don’t need no whores,” Cato said.

  All three of us looked at him. Cato was still looking downhill at the Redmond ranch. Rose looked at Virgil, then suddenly down the hill at Beth Redmond. Then back at Virgil.