Appaloosa / Resolution / Brimstone / Blue-Eyed Devil

by Robert B. Parker

  “Fast,” I said.

  “And eager,” Virgil said.

  Then he raised his voice.

  “Everything stops,” he said.

  We were close enough now. The men stood poised and motionless, as if posing for a photograph.

  Then Pike smiled and said, “Virgil.”

  I veered off across the street with the eight-gauge and stood behind the cowboys. Virgil stepped up onto the boardwalk.

  “Seen you coming up the street,” Pike said. “Glad you’re here.”

  “You can put it away now,” Virgil said.

  Pike smiled some more.

  “Glad to,” he said.

  He opened the cylinder of his Colt, ejected the three spent shells, added three fresh ones from his coat pocket, closed the cylinder, and slid the Colt softly into its holster.

  “You saw him pull on me,” Pike said.

  “I did,” Virgil said.

  “And those other boys,” Pike said.

  “Yep.”

  “They pulled on me, too,” Pike said cheerfully.

  “And you shot three drunks,” Virgil said.

  “That made it easier,” Pike said.

  The cowboys had gathered silently around the three dead men. None of them knew what to do.

  “They’re dead,” Virgil said to the cowboys. “There’s an undertaker down past the livery corral on Second Street. One of you go roust him out. Tell him I want him up here.”

  The cowboys stared at Virgil and looked at the dead men in the street and at one another. Then they began, as a group, as if for mutual support, to drift on down toward the livery.

  “Fella with the broken arm,” Virgil said. “There’s a doctor right next to the undertaker.”

  Pike grinned.

  “Convenient,” Pike said.

  Virgil turned back to the men on the boardwalk.

  “You all seen it the same way,” he said.

  “We did,” J.D. said.

  Kirby nodded. Virgil looked at Choctaw. Choctaw met his gaze silently.

  “ ’ Course you did,” Virgil said.

  The three men went back inside the Palace, leaving Virgil and Pike on the boardwalk. I came across the street and joined them.

  “Good to see you, Everett,” Pike said.

  I nodded. Everything was quiet. And except for us and the three dead men bleeding in the street, the town seemed empty.

  “Pretty quiet night,” Pike said. “All things considered.”

  “Pretty quick with that Colt,” I said.

  “I am,” Pike said. “Good you come along when you done.”

  “Yeah, you mighta shot ’em all,” I said.

  “Mighta had to,” Pike said.

  “Four gun hands against a bunch of drunks,” I said.

  “Drunks with guns,” Pike said. “A lucky shot will kill you just as dead.”

  I nodded.

  “I got no problem killing people. No more than you fellas. Done it before. Probably do it again. But these boys pulled on me.”

  “They did,” Virgil said. “You ain’t broke no law.”

  “Good,” Pike said with a wide smile. “Musta been a long night for you boys. Have a drink on me?”

  “No thanks,” Virgil said.

  “Offer stands,” Pike said. “Good talking with you boys.” He turned and went back into the Palace.

  “Don’t seem too upset,” I said to Virgil as we walked up toward the sheriff’s office.

  “Nope,” Virgil said.

  “Too bad we didn’t get here a little sooner,” I said.

  “Too bad,” Virgil said.

  We unlocked the sheriff’s office and went in. The two drunks were still asleep in their cells. I leaned the eight-gauge in the corner. Virgil sat and put his feet up on the desk.

  “Choctaw,” Virgil said. “Wonder what Choctaw was doing there.”

  22

  THE SUN WAS SHINING. The streets were quiet. The town was back in rhythm. Brother Percival and his followers were holding forth outside of a saloon called The Silver Bullet. Virgil and I stood across the street watching. There were eight or ten of the faithful outside the saloon, and anytime someone wanted to go in or out, they had to push through the crowd of Percivalians and listen to warnings of eternal hellfire and lifelong shame. Leaning against the wall of the saloon, just behind the group, was Choctaw Brown.

  “This is hell’s mouth,” Percival bellowed. “Inside this door, women give up their womanhood for money. Inside this door, men trade their manhood for whiskey. Inside this door begins the slippery, desperate slide to hell.”

  The church members with him chanted, “Amen, brother.” And no one chanted it as loudly as Allie. Most of the men pushing in and out paid very little attention, looking at the ground as they eased through among the prayers of the vigilant. One man was jostled as he went through them, and, annoyed, shoved Brother Percival as he went past. Percival took hold of his shirt front and picked him up and threw him into the street.

  “Do not put your hands on a man of God!” Brother Percival said.

  It wasn’t a bellow. It was like the soft growl of a mountain lion. The man in the street gathered himself for a moment and then stood up and took a knife from his boot.

  “You sonovabitch,” he said.

  Virgil and I started across the street. Choctaw stepped away from the door and in front of Brother Percival. He didn’t draw his gun, but his hand hovered over it. He said nothing. The man with the knife looked at Choctaw, and past him at Percival.

  “Choctaw,” Virgil said.

  Choctaw nodded faintly.

  “Hold the knife,” Virgil said.

  The man with the knife stopped and looked back at Virgil.

  “Aw,” the man with the knife said. “Fuck it.”

  He turned and walked away down the street, with the knife still in his hand, dangling by his side as he went. Virgil was still looking at Choctaw. Choctaw had no expression as he looked back at Virgil.

  “Virgil,” Allie said. “Everything’s fine now.”

  She stepped away from the group and put her hands on Virgil’s chest and looked up at him.

  “Everything’s fine,” she said. “Please.”

  Virgil was looking past her at Choctaw. Then he nodded.

  “Sure,” he said.

  He turned away from her and walked down the street in the same direction that the man with the knife had gone.

  “Keep your hands off the civilians,” I said to Brother Percival.

  “I answer to God,” Percival said. “Not to you.”

  “Long as you are in this town,” I said, “you answer to me and Virgil.”

  Choctaw Brown grunted.

  “Don’t blaspheme,” Brother Percival said.

  “Please, Everett,” Allie said. “We’re only trying to help people save their souls. I’m trying to save my soul.”

  I looked down at her. She had her hands flat on my chest now, looking up at me, just as she had looked up at Virgil.

  “Perhaps you should consider your own soul,” Brother Percival said.

  I grinned at him.

  “Too late,” I said. “Right, Choctaw?”

  Choctaw made a small derisive sound. No one else said anything. I patted Allie on the cheek and left. As I walked down Arrow Street I heard Allie leading her colleagues in singing a hymn I didn’t recognize. I didn’t know whether I failed to recognize it because it was not a hymn I knew or because they sang it so badly it was unrecognizable.

  I walked a little faster.

  23

  THE DROVERS WERE GONE. The cattle had been shipped. There wasn’t all that much for me and Virgil to do except sit in a couple of chairs, tilted back against the wall, outside the office, and watch what passed before us. It was a hot morning, with a high sky and an occasional white cloud. Freight wagons moved slowly up Arrow Street. The railroad surrey shuttled between the hotel and the railroad station. Women and children went in and out of shops. A few men, startin
g early, went in and out of the saloons.

  “What do you think ’bout Allie,” Virgil said.

  “She’s looking good again,” I said. “Filled out nice.”

  Virgil nodded, looking at the street.

  “You see her at the house,” Virgil said. “Cooks our supper, serves it, won’t sit down herself.”

  “Yep.”

  “Cleans up afterwards,” Virgil said. “Don’t say nothing.”

  “True,” I said.

  “Does the wash, irons, cleans . . .”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Like last night, she’s serving supper, and I say to her, ‘Why don’t you sit down and join us, Allie?’ And she don’t.”

  “I know,” I said. “I was there, too.”

  “When she ain’t cleaning and sewing and fucking up my shirts, and cooking bad,” Virgil said, “she’s reading the Bible, or she’s in church, or she’s sashaying down to the saloons to save souls with Brother Percival.”

  “I know.”

  “She was outside the Paiute Club yesterday evening, telling everybody she had defilled herself for money.”

  “Defiled,” I said.

  “Defiled.”

  “Virgil,” I said. “Why you telling me all this. I know all this.”

  “I ain’t telling you nothing,” Virgil said. “I’m discussing it with you.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Why don’t she settle down,” Virgil said. “Be like she used to be.”

  “Maybe she don’t want to be like she used to be,” I said.

  “Well, no,” Virgil said. “Maybe not the bad parts. But . . .” He shook his head. “You know, she used to be a lotta fun.”

  “Sometimes,” I said. “You and she doing anything in bed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to,” Virgil said.

  “Ever?”

  “Don’t know ’bout ever,” Virgil said. “Don’t want to right now.”

  “She mind that?” I said.

  “Don’t know,” Virgil said. “She don’t say nothing ’bout it.”

  “The Allie I know would mind,” I said.

  Virgil shook his head slightly.

  “So, what’s she trying to be now,” he said, “if she don’t want to be what she was?”

  “Maybe she’s trying to be a good woman.”

  “She thinks this is what a good woman’s like?” Virgil said.

  “Don’t know what she thinks,” I said. “She ain’t had much experience with good women, maybe.”

  “And you have?”

  “Hell, no,” I said. “I don’t know no good women.”

  “Me either,” Virgil said.

  “How about the lady in Resolution?” I said.

  “Beth Redmond,” he said. “She was really a good woman, she wouldn’t have cheated on her husband.”

  “With you,” I said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Maybe the husband was a bad man,” I said.

  “He weren’t much,” Virgil said.

  “She was a pretty nice woman,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Virgil said. “She was.”

  “Went back to her husband,” I said.

  “She did.”

  “Stood by him.”

  Virgil nodded, still looking at the movement of life on Arrow Street.

  “Don’t explain Allie,” he said.

  “Nope.”

  Virgil grinned at me.

  “Don’t explain me, neither,” he said.

  “Not sure what would,” I said.

  24

  A TEAMSTER WITH HIS COLLAR up came into the sheriff’s office just as it started to rain. He told us there was a dead man two miles south of town, on the river road, and he thought it was Indians.

  “We’ll take a look,” Virgil said.

  “Ain’t you gonna get a posse?” he said.

  “Me and Everett’ll go,” Virgil said, and got up and got a Winchester, put on his slicker, and put a box of bullets in the pocket.

  I took the eight-gauge.

  The horses were very lively from standing around too long at the livery. But after the first mile they settled down in the cool rain, which was now coming pretty steady. The river had cut deep into the land along here, with banks maybe twenty feet high. As we topped a rise we saw the wagon, and on the wagon seat was a man with an arrow in his stomach. We stopped the horses. Virgil scanned the area. It was flat at the bottom of the rise and went flat for a long distance along this side of the river. There was no one in sight. We rode on down.

  There were no horses with the wagon, and no cargo. Just the dead man on the wagon seat with the arrow sticking out.

  “Musta stole the horses,” Virgil said.

  “Maybe why they killed him,” I said. “For the horses.”

  We dismounted and took a look.

  “Didn’t bleed much,” I said.

  “Did in the back,” Virgil said.

  I reached up and pulled the arrow out. It hadn’t gone in very deeply.

  “No arrowhead,” I said.

  “Think it pulled loose?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s just a sharpened stick with some feathers on the shaft.”

  Virgil jumped into the bed of the wagon and examined the man’s back.

  “Didn’t need no arrowhead,” Virgil said. “Man’s been shot at least twice.”

  “So, what’s the arrow for?” I said.

  “Maybe somebody just stuck it in him after he was dead,” Virgil said.

  “Like that steer that Lester found?” I said.

  “You done a lot of Indian fighting,” Virgil said. “You tell what kind of arrow that is?”

  “They make ’em out of what they can find,” I said. “So they ain’t all the same. Nothing to say it ain’t Comanche.”

  “Most of ’em got rifles now, don’t they?” Virgil said.

  “Yep. Bows and arrows are mostly sentimental,” I said. “Like a tradition.”

  “Why no arrowhead?” Virgil said.

  “They’re hard to make; nobody want to waste them,” I said.

  “And he didn’t need to,” Virgil said. “ ’Cause he already shot the guy dead, ’fore the arrow went in.”

  “I’d say it’s a kid’s arrow, I had to guess. They give them blunt arrows and small bows to play with. Can practice with them and don’t hurt themselves. I’d say this fella took a kid’s arrow and sharpened it up and stuck it in.”

  Virgil nodded.

  “So it may be a sign, like Abe Lester’s steer,” he said.

  “Don’t know why else you’d do it,” I said.

  He got down from the wagon and looked at the ground.

  “You read sign better than I do,” Virgil said. “You make anything outta this?”

  I looked at the muddy muddle around the wagon.

  “All I can make out is that it’s raining hard,” I said.

  “Hell,” Virgil said. “I figured that out.”

  I straightened up. Virgil was standing stock-still, looking through the rain across the river, which was maybe two hundred yards wide here. I looked, too.

  There was a big Indian sitting on a smallish paint horse, watching us. He appeared to be wearing buckskin leggings and moccasins, and a long black cloak and a big wide-brimmed black hat like the Quakers wear. The hat was pulled down low on his head. He had a rifle in a fringed rifle scabbard balanced across the horse’s shoulders in front of him. He didn’t move.

  “Can’t get across,” I said. “ ’Less he’s willin’ to wait while we find a place to ford.”

  Virgil didn’t say anything. He kept looking at the Indian.

  “And a’course if he’s willing to wait for us,” I said, “who else is waiting behind the swale over there.”

  Virgil and the Indian kept looking at each other. I wondered if the Indian knew that Virgil would know him twenty years from now if he saw him again. On the other hand, maybe the Indian wo
uld know Virgil, too.

  “You could probably shoot him from here,” I said. “Bein’ as how you’re Virgil Cole and all.”

  “He ain’t done nothing,” Virgil said.

  “Might have,” I said.

  “Can’t shoot a man for sitting on his horse.”

  “Hell, Virgil, he’s an Indian,” I said. “Mighta killed this poor fella and stole his horses.”

  “Can’t shoot a man for sitting on his horse,” Virgil said again.

  “What are we gonna do about the dead gentleman,” I said.

  “Wagon’s too heavy for our two horses,” Virgil said. “And he’s starting to smell. We’ll go get the undertaker.”

  “And leave him here?” I said.

  “He ain’t in no hurry,” Virgil said.

  “I suppose he ain’t,” I said.

  We mounted up and turned the horses back toward town with the river on our left. The Indian turned his horse and rode along with us.

  “He stays with us to the edge of town, there’s a ford,” I said.

  “He’ll be gone by the time we reach the ford,” Virgil said.

  And he was.

  25

  THE UNDERTAKER REPAIRED the dead man enough for us to display him outside the undertaker’s shop. People came to look at him and before noon we knew who he’d been. His name was Peter Lussier. Worked on a spread ten miles down the Paiute. No wife. No kids. He’d been on his way into town to buy supplies for the cook shack.

  “Wonder why that Indian spent so much time showing himself to us?” Virgil said.

  “Don’t know,” I said.

  “Them red beasties can be strange,” Virgil said.

  “They ain’t as strange as we like to think they are,” I said. “They got reasons for what they do, just like us. Except sometimes they don’t.”

  “Just like us,” Virgil said.

  “Yep.”

  Virgil drank some coffee.

  “Every morning,” he said, “Allie comes down here and makes us coffee and leaves, and we throw it away and make some new coffee.”