Appaloosa / Resolution / Brimstone / Blue-Eyed Devil

by Robert B. Parker

  “Nope, sorry, boys,” he said. “Got six deputies already. More than the town needs except when they bring cattle in. You boys been marshaling before?”

  “We have,” Virgil said.

  “Whereabouts?” Sheehan said.

  “All over,” Virgil said. “Most recent, I guess, we was in Appaloosa.”

  “Appaloosa?” Sheehan said. “How recent?”

  “Couple years now, ain’t it, Everett?”

  “ ’Bout,” I said.

  “You ain’t Virgil Cole?” Sheehan said.

  “I am,” Virgil said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Sheehan said.

  “Wasn’t you up in Resolution last year?”

  “I was, but I weren’t marshaling,” Virgil said. “This here’s Everett Hitch.”

  “Sure thing,” Sheehan said. “I know who you are. You boys are famous.”

  “Know any gun work around here?” I said.

  “Maybe,” Sheehan said. “I don’t think he’s pressed, but the railroad just expanded service to Brimstone, up north a ways. They’re building new stock pens, more cattle coming in. And Dave Morrissey was saying last time I saw him he might need to add a couple gun hands.”

  “Who’s Morrissey?” Virgil said.

  “Val Verde County sheriff,” Sheehan said. “Up there filling in right now, ’cause he had a deputy quit on him.”

  “Why’d the deputy quit?” Virgil said.

  “Got married; wife insisted it was too dangerous.”

  “How far up north,” Virgil said.

  “ ’Bout two days’ ride,” Sheehan said. “Virgil Cole! By God! What I’m gonna do is I’m gonna wire Dave, tell him you’re coming. Tell him not to hire no one else.”

  “ ’Preciate it,” Virgil said.

  Allie came into the office almost tiptoeing.

  “ ’Scuse me, Marshal,” she said. “I’m Allie French. I’m with these gentlemen, and I just bought some clothes. Do you suppose I could go into one of your cells and change?”

  “Cells?”

  “Long as you promise not to peek,” she said.

  Sheehan looked at Virgil. Virgil nodded faintly.

  “Sure thing, ma’am,” Sheehan said. He opened the door to the cell row.

  “We got no guests at the moment,” he said. “Use any cell.”

  Sheehan looked at us for a moment and decided not to ask anything.

  “Whyn’t you boys wait here for the lady,” Sheehan said. “And I’ll go over and send Dave a telegram. Time you get there, he’ll be waiting for you.”

  10

  WE BOUGHT A BUCKBOARD and a mule for about what we’d sold one of the horses for. And with me driving, and Allie between us on the seat, we set out the next morning for Brimstone. Allie’s new clothes were an improvement. She had a ribbon in her hair. And she was wearing a little makeup. She was still kind of skinny. But she was looking better.

  We were quiet. The buckboard was easy enough through the low grasslands, for a buckboard. There’s a reason it’s called a buckboard, and an easy ride ain’t it. The mule plodded along a sort of wagon rut west toward the Paiute River. It was sunny and hot. We could hear the soft coo of doves, and occasionally we kicked up a flutter of them as we rode by. We passed cattle. Mostly shorthorns, but still now and then a longhorn bull.

  Virgil was looking at the landscape.

  “Wolves,” he said.

  The mule must have caught scent of them. He tossed his head and shied and made a short snorting sound. I didn’t see them yet. Then I did, three gray shapes trotting in line, heading east, appearing and disappearing in the high grass.

  “Following that cattle herd,” I said.

  “Likely,” Virgil said.

  “Are you going to shoot them?” Allie said.

  “No reason,” Virgil said.

  “But the cattle . . .” Allie said.

  “Not my cattle,” Virgil said.

  “But the poor cows,” Allie said.

  “What you think them cows are for, Allie? Wolves eat ’em. People eat ’em. Don’t seem to me make much difference to the cow.”

  Allie watched them until they were gone, and the mule settled back into his walk.

  “How’d you see them so quick, Virgil,” Allie said.

  “Eyesight’s good,” he said.

  “But it’s more than that, isn’t it?” Allie said. “You always see everything.”

  Virgil didn’t answer. We rode in silence for a while.

  Then Allie said, “You know what I’d like to do again?”

  Virgil didn’t say anything.

  So I said, “What’s that, Allie.”

  “I’d like to be Allie again.”

  “Be nice,” I said.

  “It would,” Allie said.

  Virgil was looking at the landscape again.

  “Virgil isn’t very talkative,” Allie said. “Is he, Everett.”

  “Don’t seem so,” I said.

  “Used to be a talker,” Allie said.

  I nodded.

  “How come you don’t talk to us, Virgil?” Allie said.

  “Got nothing to say,” Virgil answered.

  “When we were together in Appaloosa,” Allie said, “you used to talk a lot about nothing.”

  “Lotta things happened since Appaloosa,” Virgil said.

  “You thinking about all those things, Virgil?” Allie said.

  “Yep.”

  “Wasn’t easy on me, you know?” Allie said.

  “I know.”

  “You gonna stop thinking about all that, one of these days?” Allie said.

  “Might,” Virgil said.

  Nobody said anything else. I looked over at Allie once and saw that her lips were moving. Appeared she was praying again. Other than that, we bumped along in silence until we reached the Paiute River, where we made camp and slept under the buckboard.

  11

  WE HEADED NORTH ALONG the Paiute at sunrise, and by the middle of the afternoon we were in a hotel in Brimstone, Allie and Virgil in one room, me next door.

  “Heard you was out of the law business,” Dave Morrissey said when we went to see him.

  “Was,” Virgil said.

  “What changed your mind?” Morrissey said.

  Virgil was silent for a moment.

  “Well, some things bothered me,” Virgil said. “But Everett and I talked some, and now they don’t bother me so much.”

  I was startled. First time he’d ever admitted that I had any influence on him.

  “Anything else?” Morrissey said.

  Virgil grinned.

  “Need the money,” he said.

  Morrissey nodded.

  “Ain’t quite commensurate with the risk,” he said. “But only a fool would do it for free.”

  “How ’bout you, Hitch?” Morrissey said.

  He looked like he might have been a cowboy once, sort of bowlegged and smallish. He had a big drooping mustache, and wore a long duster.

  “Well,” I said, “I done law and not law for a long time. Don’t make a lot of difference to me. I’m not too scared, and I’m decent with the eight-gauge.”

  “That’s what that thing is,” Morrissey said. “Thought it might be a cannon.”

  “Two barrels,” I said.

  Morrissey grinned.

  “God’s truth,” he said. “I heard about you boys, and when Sheehan telegrammed me I was interested. I’m told you’ll stand, and your word is good.”

  “It is,” Virgil said.

  “And I hire you, you won’t sell me out for a higher offer.”

  “We don’t promise to work for you forever,” Virgil said. “But we won’t work against you, ’less you force it.”

  “Fair enough,” Morrissey said. “What I told Sheehan was true, we’re booming. Cattle mostly. Railroad’s expanding, bigger herds coming in. I come down from Del Rio every once in a while, and a Ranger comes by every month or so. But right now there ain’t no permanent law here, and the place is growi
ng like a damn weed.”

  “Town grows too fast,” Virgil said, “leaves an empty space; people fight to fill it.”

  “You’ve worked a lot of towns,” Morrissey said.

  “We have,” Virgil said.

  “The situation in this one is a little peculiar,” Morrissey said. “We have a fella named Pike. I don’t even know his first name. Everyone calls him Pike. . . . Hell, maybe Pike is his first name.”

  Virgil shrugged.

  “Anyway,” Morrissey said, “he showed up here a few years ago with the remains of a gang that the Pinkertons chased into exhaustion.”

  “They’ll do that,” I said.

  “Sometimes,” Morrissey said. “He had a few of his boys with him and some money they probably stole from a railroad, and they bought a saloon at the north end of town. Never broke no law here. And they run a first-class operation. Booze is good, games are honest, girls are clean. They police themselves. No trouble. We’ve never even had to go up there since they been in town.”

  “Model citizens,” I said.

  “And then, ’bout a year ago, here come Brother Percival.”

  “Percival,” Virgil murmured.

  “What he calls himself,” Morrissey said. “Brother Percival.”

  “Preacher?” I said.

  “Yep,” Morrissey said. “Come to town with a tent show, preaching against sin like he was the first man to discover it. Nobody paid him much attention for a time. But he kept collecting people to his whatever it is, and then he built himself a church, brought in a damned organ from Kansas City. And him and some of the people come with him when he arrived, they decide to make a target of the biggest and best saloon in town.”

  “Pike’s,” Virgil said.

  “What’s Brother Percival want?” I said.

  “Damned if I know. Maybe he is acting on behalf of the Kingdom of Heaven. Maybe he wants to take over Texas.”

  “And Pike?” I said.

  Morrissey smiled a little.

  “He wants to take over Texas,” Morrissey said.

  “Potential there for conflict,” Virgil said.

  Morrissey nodded.

  “You want the job?” he said.

  “Sure,” Virgil said.

  12

  “COMMENSURATE?” Virgil said outside Morrissey’s office.

  “Sort of like equal to,” I said.

  “Might as well go right at ’em,” Virgil said. “See what we got.”

  “Which one first?” I said.

  “Start with Pike,” Virgil said.

  “More our type,” I said.

  “Ain’t so sure we got a type,” Virgil said.

  Brimstone was about seven blocks wide and ten blocks long in a green bend of the Paiute River, which made it cooler than this part of Texas usually was. Pike’s Palace was halfway down Arrow Street, on the west corner of Fifth Street, putting it about in the center of the town. All around it, the town was busting out of its skin. Freight and lumber were being hauled through town. Buildings were going up, saloons and eating places were crowded, and there were two general stores, a bowling alley, two millinery shops, and two hotels already and a third one being built. The air was full of sounds: wagons creaking, men swearing, mules, oxen, carpentry, and black- smithing. At the north end of Arrow Street was a big town hall, almost finished. At the south end was a church with an imposing spire. There were boardwalks lining every street, and most of the buildings had roofed out over the boardwalk in front of them, so you could shelter from the sun in good weather and the rain in bad.

  The saloon had a corner entrance and heavy oak doors, which were opened back in good weather and let you into a vestibule with swinging doors ornamented by stained-glass windows. Through the swinging doors was the saloon.

  Wearing our new deputy stars, we stopped inside the doorway and looked around.

  “Pike done himself proud,” Virgil said.

  “Did,” I said.

  Along the length of one wall, which seemed from inside to run nearly the whole block along Fifth Street, was an elaborate mahogany bar with a black mirrored wall behind it and bottles stacked in decorative pyramids. Along the other wall was a row of gaming tables, and in the open space between were tables and matching chairs. There was an ornate chandelier shedding light on the windowless room, and at the back a set of stairs that led to a second floor. The wide plank floors were polished. The bar top gleamed. The saloon whores were neat. And the glassware appeared clean. Four bartenders worked the bar, which was busy in the late afternoon, and a thin, dark, sharp-faced guy with a shotgun sat in the lookout chair near the far end of it. Virgil walked down the length of the bar to him.

  “J.D.,” he said.

  The lookout examined Virgil.

  Then he said, “Wickenburg.”

  “Yep.”

  “Virgil Cole,” J.D. said.

  “Yep.”

  “You posted us out of town,” J.D. said.

  “You was with Basgall,” Virgil said.

  “Moved on,” J.D. said.

  “And Basgall?”

  “Got shot by two Texas Rangers in El Paso.”

  “You with Pike now?” Virgil said.

  “I work here,” J.D. said. “You?”

  “Me and Hitch here signed on with the sheriff,” Virgil said.

  “Seen the badges,” J.D. said.

  “Like to talk with Pike,” Virgil said.

  J.D. nodded.

  “Spec,” he said to one of the bartenders, “go tell Pike new deputy wants to see him.”

  “Name’s Virgil Cole,” Virgil said.

  Spec nodded and walked to a door under the back stairs. In a moment he returned, and behind him was a big man with very little hair and a short beard.

  “Virgil Cole,” he said, and put his hand out.

  Virgil didn’t take it.

  “This here’s Everett Hitch,” Virgil said.

  Pike didn’t seem to mind not shaking hands.

  “Good to meet you, Everett,” he said. “You fellas care for a drink?”

  “Beer’d be good,” Virgil said.

  Pike nodded at the bartender and led us to an empty table.

  “Bartender says you and J.D. know each other,” Pike said.

  “Wickenburg,” Virgil said.

  The bartender arrived with three mugs of beer and placed them carefully before us.

  “Thank you, Spec,” Pike said.

  He raised his mug toward us. We drank.

  “J.D. is a pretty good gun hand,” Pike said.

  “Was,” Virgil said.

  “Still is,” Pike said.

  “Likely so,” Virgil said. “I just ain’t seen him lately.”

  Pike was deceptive. When you first saw him you thought he was fat. But when he moved he seemed light on his feet, and quick. And when you sat with him, up close, and could look at him you realized that he was big and barrel-shaped, but not much of it was fat. I looked around the saloon.

  “Done yourself proud here, Mr. Pike,” I said.

  “Aw, just Pike. Nobody calls me Mister.”

  “Well, you got a nice place here,” I said.

  “Yeah, lotta work, but it makes me sorta proud to see how it’s come along,” Pike said.

  Virgil was quiet. I knew he was studying Pike.

  “Understand you used to run a gang,” I said.

  “Yep, gotta say I did,” Pike said. “Done some pretty illegal things for a while until the damn Pinkertons wore me out. Had all that railroad money behind them . . .” He shook his head.

  “So you came here,” I said.

  “Yep, ain’t broke a law in Texas,” he said. “Had some money saved, brought a few of my boys, bought a damned shack of a place with no name, and we went to work.”

  “J.D. one of the boys you brought?” Virgil said.

  “Yep, J.D. is a good man, and I believe in loyalty.”

  Virgil nodded.

  “Other lookout, Kirby Harris, was with me, too.”
r />   Pike nodded toward the bartender who’d brought us the beer.

  “Spec,” he said. “Few other boys.”

  “Whadda they do?” Virgil said.

  “They help me with some of my other interests,” Pike said. “I’m expanding.”

  “What else you do?” Virgil said.

  “Oh, this and that,” Pike said. “Lemme get you boys another beer.”

  He gestured at Spec. I noticed he’d drunk only a little of his.

  Virgil didn’t push his question.

  “Any trouble in town?” Virgil said.

  “Why do you ask?” Pike said.

  “Just trying to get the lay of the land,” Virgil said. “Who’s that German guy you studied at West Point?”

  “Clausewitz,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Virgil said, “him.”

  He looked at Pike.

  “Fella says you need to be prepared for what can happen, you know, not for what might.”

  Pike nodded.

  “You went to West Point, Mr. Hitch?”

  “Everett,” I said. “And Virgil won’t mind if you call him Virgil.”

  Pike smiled and nodded.

  “You go to the Academy, Everett?”

  “I did.”

  “When?”

  I told him.

  “Why we didn’t meet,” Pike said. “I was there a little earlier.”

  “You in the Army?” I said.

  “Yep. Soldiered for ten years. Out here mostly,” Pike said.

  “Indian wars?” I said.

  Pike nodded.

  “Southern Cheyenne. Apache, Kiowa, Comanche. Comanches were a bitch.”

  “Still are,” I said.

  “Got to be a captain,” Pike said. “But . . .”

  He shook his head.

  “Rules got to be too much,” he said.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “You too?” Pike said.

  I nodded.

  “Yep.”

  “How you get along with Brother Percival?” Virgil said.