Appaloosa / Resolution / Brimstone / Blue-Eyed Devil

by Robert B. Parker

  “Be worth a try,” Virgil said.

  We sat without talking. There was nothing uncomfortable in the silence. We could sit quiet for a long time. And we’d shared a lot of silences in the years we’d been together.

  The land north of Appaloosa rose gradually through the mesquite. A wagon road ran up the rise to the edge of town, where it became Main Street. From town, unless you were at the very northern edge, you couldn’t see the road. It was as if Appaloosa stood long at the edge of a cliff, and when anything entered town from that direction it seemed simply to appear. There wasn’t a lot of traffic yet on Main Street. Two freight wagons appeared, each hauled by four big draft horses, their wide hooves kicking up little scatters of dust as they came. The early stage to Blue Rock went past us, heading north with two passengers and the driver up top next to the shotgun messenger.

  “Town don’t bustle much,” Virgil said, “this early.”

  “Later,” I said. “It’ll bustle later.”

  Virgil nodded toward the north end of Main Street.

  “Couple riders,” he said.

  I looked.

  “So?” I said.

  “Recognize anybody?” Virgil said.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “One on the left’ll be Pony Flores,” Virgil said.

  I studied the riders.

  Then I said, “I believe it will.”

  9

  THE RIDERS pulled up and sat their horses in front of the Boston House.

  “Pony,” Virgil said.

  Pony nodded at him. His Stetson was tipped forward, shading his face.

  “Thought you was going to live Chiricahua for a spell,” I said.

  Pony shrugged and tipped his head toward the rider beside him.

  “My brother,” he said, “Kha-to-nay.”

  We said, “Hello.”

  Kha-to-nay had no reaction.

  “He speak English?” Virgil said.

  “Can,” Pony said. “Won’t.”

  “Don’t like English?” Virgil said.

  “He raised Chiricahua,” Pony said. “Don’t like white men.”

  “He understand what we say?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Pony said. “But only listen Chiricahua. Only talk Chiricahua.”

  “Should introduce him to Laurel,” I said. “She only talks Virgil.”

  “Chiquita,” Pony said. “She is well?”

  “Doin’ fine,” Virgil said. “Kinda quiet, is all.” Kha-to-nay was motionless on his horse. As far as I could tell, watching him sit a horse, he was a little shorter than Pony, and a little wider. Pony had on buckskin leggings and high moccasins. The handle of a knife showed at the top of the right moccasin. He had on a dark blue shirt that might have once belonged to a soldier, and a big horn-handled Colt on a concho-studded belt. There was a Winchester in his saddle scabbard. Kha-to-nay wore a dark suit and a black-and-white striped shirt buttoned up tight to his neck. His black hair came to his shoulders. He, too, had a Winchester, and he wore a bowie knife on his belt.

  “You lawmen again?” Pony said.

  “Not at present,” Virgil said.

  Pony nodded.

  “Need help,” he said.

  “Okay,” Virgil said.

  “How the law in this town?” Pony said.

  “Got a police chief,” I said. “Name of Amos Callico. Seems pretty set in his ways.”

  Pony looked at Virgil.

  “Don’t like him,” Virgil said.

  “You live someplace?” Pony said.

  “Got a house,” Virgil said.

  “We go there and talk,” Pony said.

  “Sure,” Virgil said. “Allie be glad to see you.”

  We stood, and with Pony and Kha-to-nay walking their horses beside us, we went down Main Street toward Virgil’s house.

  “What’s Kha-to-nay mean, in English?” I said to Pony. Pony thought a minute.

  “Sees a Snake,” he said. “I think.”

  “You think?” I said.

  Pony pointed to his head.

  “Change into Spanish,” he said. “Then Spanish to English.”

  We could have been speaking Egyptian for all the attention Kha-to-nay paid. He rode silently, his eyes shifting left and right as he rode. We went down to First Street and turned right and walked a block to Front Street, where Virgil’s house was.

  Allie was on the front porch in a rocker, reading to Laurel. I knew what she was reading. It was a book called Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, Fashion, and Manual of Politeness. She’d been reading a chapter a day to Laurel since we left Brimstone. I didn’t know if it was doing Laurel any good, but Allie appeared to be soaking it up.

  They both looked up as we came into the small yard. Neither of them said anything for a moment. Then Laurel stood up abruptly and stepped off the porch. She walked to Pony, being careful not to look at Kha-to-nay, and took the derringer out of her apron pocket, and held it out so Pony could see it. Pony smiled, threw a leg over the pommel of his saddle, and slid fluidly off his horse.

  “Chiquita,” he said.

  She jumped into his arms, and he held her, rocking gently side to side. Kha-to-nay sat silent as a stone.

  “Pony Flores,” Allie said. “How perfectly lovely. Come sit on the porch, you and your friend.”

  Pony said something to Kha-to-nay in Apache. Kha-to-nay shook his head. Pony spoke again. Kha-to-nay did not answer, nor did he look at any of us.

  “My brother is a donkey,” Pony said. “But he is my brother.”

  10

  WE SAT on the porch and passed around a jug of corn whiskey. Allie put a marker in her etiquette book, went to get small glasses for herself and Laurel.

  “Ladies don’t drink from jugs,” Allie said.

  Virgil poured a little for each lady, and took a pull from the jug before he handed it to Pony Flores. Laurel sat close beside Virgil and did not look at Kha-to-nay.

  Kha-to-nay would not touch the jug or even acknowledge that it existed. But he did finally get off his horse and lean on the porch railing, with his Winchester, looking toward town, standing as far away from the rest of us as possible.

  “For true Chiricahua, Blue-Eyed Devil not exist,” Pony said. “What Kha-to-nay believe.”

  “You’re a half Mex,” Virgil said. “Ain’t he?”

  “All Chiricahua,” Pony said. “Same mother. Different father.”

  “He hate us all?” I said.

  “Like only Chiricahua,” Pony said.

  “We take away his land?” I said.

  “Take away everything,” Pony said.

  “How you feel about that?”

  “You come, take away what Chiricahua have,” Pony said.

  “While ago Chiricahua come and take away from other people. Other people come long time ago, take away.” Pony shrugged. “Somebody probably come one day, take away from Blue-Eyed Devil,” Pony said. “Happen always.”

  “S’pose it does,” I said. “Kha-to-nay know you feel like that?”

  “Sí,” Pony said.

  “You talk about it?” I said.

  “Sí,” Pony said. “I think man live now, do what need to be done, keep word, don’t think how things be before.”

  “And Kha-to-nay?” I said.

  Pony smiled.

  “Say I am only half Chiricahua.”

  I nodded. Kha-to-nay stared into the middle distance. Pony took a pull on the whiskey jug.

  “What kinda help you need?” Virgil said.

  “I know you come back to Appaloosa. I think you be the lawman here,” Pony said.

  Virgil nodded.

  “Kha-to-nay kill an Indian agent and rob train,” Pony said.

  Without looking at us, Kha-to-nay said something in Apache. Pony answered. Kha-to-nay said something else. Pony nodded.

  “Kha-to-nay say he not rob train. He destroy train. He say Chiricahua people at war with white-eyes. Say destroy train is act of war.”

  “How ’bout the Indian agent?” Virg
il said.

  “Kill white-eye . . . tirano?” Pony said, and looked at me.

  “Tyrant,” I said.

  “Kill white-eye tyrant,” Pony said. “Free Chiricahua people.”

  “So, the government is after him for the Indian agent,” Virgil said. “And the Pinkertons are after him for the railroad.”

  “U.S. Marshals arrest Kha-to-nay,” Pony said. “Put him in jail. I get him out. We come here.”

  “How’d you get him out of Yaqui?” Virgil said.

  Pony smiled and patted his Colt. Virgil nodded.

  “There a bounty on him?” Virgil said.

  “Sí,” Pony said.

  Virgil rocked back a little in his chair and took the jug from me and took a pull.

  “Well,” Virgil said. “We can’t let ’em take you.”

  11

  YOU WANT to move in here?” Virgil said. Pony shook his head.

  “Kha-to-nay not stay with white devil,” Pony said.

  “Don’t blame him,” Virgil said. “Wasn’t one myself I wouldn’t stay with him, either.”

  “Not understand,” Pony said.

  “Virgil’s making a joke,” I said.

  “Got any money?” Virgil said.

  Pony smiled and nodded.

  “When Kha-to-nay destroy train in war with white tyrant, he take money, too.”

  “Kha-to-nay’s not so dumb,” I said.

  From his place at the far end of the porch Kha-to-nay said nothing.

  “Anybody on your trail?” Virgil said.

  Pony shook his head.

  “Only man can track Pony Flores,” he said, “is me.”

  “Good,” Virgil said. “Police ain’t on our side here.”

  “You on other side of law now?” Pony said.

  “Neither side,” Virgil said. “Just keeping order in the Boston House saloon.”

  “You not the law,” Pony said. “Maybe we bring you trouble. Maybe should move on.”

  “Where?” Virgil said. “Here, you got two friends in town.”

  “Four,” Allie said.

  We all looked at her. Virgil nodded slowly.

  “Four friends in town,” he said.

  Pony nodded.

  “All good with gun,” he said, and smiled at Laurel.

  She almost smiled back.

  “We stay,” Pony said, “for while.”

  “Then what?” Allie said.

  “We see,” Pony said.

  “See what?” Allie said.

  Pony looked at Virgil.

  “See what develops, Allie,” Virgil said.

  “That’s your plan?” Allie said.

  “Plan gonna depend on what develops,” Virgil said.

  “So, how do you know you can handle what develops?” Allie said.

  Ladies, don’t drink from the jug, I thought, but they sometimes have several from the glass.

  “Don’t,” Virgil said.

  “What about all of that stuff Everett talks about from Who’s-he-which on War?” Allie said.

  “Clausewitz,” I said. “Prepare for what your enemy can do, not what you think he will do.”

  “How about that?” Allie said to Virgil.

  “Hell, Allie,” Virgil said. “Don’t know who the enemy is yet.”

  “So, you just wander into it,” Allie said. “The great Virgil Cole, full of yourself, assuming, as you always do, that you can handle everything.”

  Virgil said, “Don’t know how else to go, Allie.”

  “Everett’s no better,” Allie said. “You go, he goes, too.”

  She poured an unladylike slug of whiskey into her glass and drank some.

  “Well, what about me? What happens to Laurel?” she said.

  “Wouldn’t have found Laurel without Pony,” Virgil said.

  Allie didn’t say anything for a moment.

  Then she said, “Men!” and shook her head.

  Laurel looked as solemn as always.

  12

  A SHORT, fat man with a goatee, wearing a flat-crowned black hat, came into the Boston House in the late afternoon with Lamar Speck. He and Speck located Virgil leaning on the bar.

  “Virgil,” Speck said. “This is Buford Posner.”

  Virgil nodded.

  “I own the Golden Palace,” Posner said, “down the street, and there’s trouble there right now.”

  “I suggested you and Everett,” Speck said.

  He was speaking very fast.

  “Whaddya need?” Virgil said to Posner.

  “A group of cowboys are causing trouble in my place,” Posner said. “They’ve run off my lookout, and Lamar tells me you’ve been successful with this sort of thing in the past.”

  “Why not the police?” Virgil said.

  “Like Lamar, I am not on good terms with the police,” Posner said. “I will pay you, of course.”

  “Be a favor to me, Virgil,” Speck said.

  Virgil looked at me.

  “Everett?”

  “Why not,” I said.

  “They say they are going to destroy my saloon,” Posner said.

  “Then we better hurry,” Virgil said. “Everett, bring your eight-gauge.”

  The Golden Palace wasn’t much on the outside, but inside it was a fancy, fussy little place with murals painted on the walls and ornate plaster moldings. There were eight cowboys in there, drinking whiskey from the bottle. A couple were sitting on the bar, the rest at a pair of tables. The spittoons had been tipped over. There was broken glass on the floor, and someone had shot holes, kind of strategically, in the mural of a wood nymph.

  Behind us, Posner said, “My God,” and backed out the door. Virgil and I went in without him.

  One of the cowboys looked at us as we pushed into the saloon and said, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Name’s Virgil Cole,” Virgil said. “Big fella with the siege gun is Everett Hitch.”

  “Want a drink?” the cowboy said.

  He was young, probably no more than twenty-five, and he wore a big Colt with a black handle in a low-cut holster tied down on his right thigh.

  “No,” Virgil said. “We’d like you boys to leave.”

  “Leave?” the young cowboy said.

  I moved away from Virgil, so that I was close to the saloon wall on Virgil’s right. He moved left, against the bar.

  “Correct,” Virgil said.

  The young cowboy jumped down from the bar and faced Virgil.

  “What happens if we don’t leave?” he said.

  “We shoot some of you,” Virgil said.

  I thumbed the hammers back on the eight-gauge. It was a touch of theater, the sound of the hammers snicking back. We’d done it a hundred times before. But I also knew that Virgil was ready to shoot. He didn’t seem to have changed position, but I knew that he was balanced, knees bent a little, shoulders relaxed. He looked steadily at the young cowboy. It was a hard look to meet. But the young cowboy had the wild eyes you see sometimes in bucking horses, and he held the look. I knew Virgil didn’t care if the kid held his look or not. Virgil was in the place he goes to when it might be time to shoot. Everything registered and nothing mattered.

  “You gonna shoot all of us?” the kid said.

  “Depends,” Virgil said.

  “On what?” the kid said.

  The other cowboys had gathered behind him. All of them were heeled.

  “On what you all do,” Virgil said. “You pull on me and I’ll kill you.”

  “All of us,” the kid said.

  “You first,” Virgil said. “Everett will get some with the scatter gun. Then we’ll see.”

  The kid looked around for a moment at the other cowboys.

  “Wanna go at ’em?” he said.

  Somebody behind him said, “Lazy L don’t back down from nobody.”

  The kid nodded. He looked back at Virgil.

  He was going to try it.

  You do this enough you can sense it. I knew he was going to try. Virgil knew. We maybe
both knew before the kid really did.

  The kid’s shoulders twitched, and Virgil drew his gun and had the hammer back before the kid reached his holster. I had the eight-gauge at my shoulder. We were far enough apart so that they’d have to decide which of us to shoot at.

  The kid froze with his fingertips on the black butt of his Colt.

  “Jesus Christ,” the kid said.

  “Might want to back down from this one,” Virgil said.

  “How’d you do that?” the kid said.

  “Done it before,” Virgil said.

  “For crissake, you didn’t even move fast,” the kid said.

  “Fast enough,” Virgil said.

  The kid slowly moved his hand away from his gun.

  “I’m really fast,” the kid said.

  The tension had gone out of the room.

  “Sure,” Virgil said.

  “You coulda killed me easy,” the kid said.

  “Sure,” Virgil said.

  The kid started slowly toward the door. The other cowboys followed.

  Virgil turned slowly as they moved. I did, too, with the shotgun still at my shoulder.

  When they were gone, Virgil holstered his Colt. I lowered the eight-gauge.

  “Lazy L,” I said. “Could be General Laird’s place.”

  “Could be,” Virgil said.

  “If it is,” I said, “they might be getting tired of us.”

  “Might,” Virgil said.

  “If they are,” I said, “I s’pose they’ll let us know.”

  “Probably,” Virgil said.

  He found a couple of unbroken glasses on the bar and poured us each a drink. We were sipping it when the saloon doors opened a crack and Posner looked in.

  “Everybody’s gone?” he said.

  “They are,” Virgil said. “Care for a drink?”

  13

  IT WAS RAINING, a nice, straight-down summer rain. We sat on the covered front porch after supper and drank coffee and watched it. Allie and Laurel were still cleaning up inside.

  “What was that we ate for supper?” Virgil said.

  “Dinner,” I said. “Allie told me it’s properly called dinner.”

  “Whatever we call it, it was heavy going,” Virgil said.

  “I think what we ate might once have been a tough old chicken,” I said.