by Robert Knott
“Got a burr,” Virgil said.
“Happens.”
“Does.”
“Don’t think she has that cornered,” I said.
“No.”
“Goes with the territory of being a woman.”
“Not hard to see it coming.”
“No,” I said. “It is not.”
“Jug don’t help.”
“No, it don’t.”
“Nothing you can do about that.”
“No, don’t suppose there is.”
“Shop helps,” I said.
“It does,” Virgil said.
“Keeps her from fueling the flame.”
Virgil nodded.
“Yeah, it does,” he said. “Keeps her occupied.”
“Yeah, this is a good thing . . . when business is up and going, it will be even a better thing.”
“Out of the goddamn house,” Virgil said.
“I can see how those walls get to closing in.”
“Do,” Virgil said. “Things for the most go good, pleasant even, then all the sudden she will come on like a Comanche.”
“I’ve seen it, plenty.”
“I have come to the place where I just take a trip to the shed or to the barn to curry and such, just to sidestep the tomahawk.”
“Least the two of you are not sitting around listening to the clock tick.”
“Not doing that.”
“Keeps a fella from getting too settled on his heels.”
“Damn sure does,” Virgil said.
“Sometimes I wonder where she gets all that piss and vinegar,” I said.
“Unrest,” Virgil said.
“No, hell, that we know.”
“It ain’t dull,” he said.
“No, far from it.”
“Never met a woman like her.”
“No, she’s been anteing up since the day she was born.”
“She has,” he said.
I thought about that as we walked. What all Allie had been through.
“This weather can’t make up its mind,” Virgil said.
The recent cold snap had passed and the night air was pleasant, but it sure enough felt like rain. There was also the feeling in the air like that when hail and tornadoes came. The evening air had a static and expectant feeling that went with it, as if something heavy was approaching.
When we crossed Main and turned up Fourth Street we saw a group of people walking from the depot, carrying luggage. Behind them the train hissed, releasing steam into the night air as it sat being replenished with water and coal.
“Here they come,” Virgil said. “Every damn day another crop, Everett.”
We crossed the street and waited for a handful of the newcomers that were headed for the steps of the Boston House Hotel, where some older men stood by the entrance smoking cigars, engaged in a spirited conversation as if there were no other people on earth.
As the people from the train passed, I noticed a distinguished couple bringing up the rear. The man was tall and angular and wore a polished hat and long coat, but my focus was instantly trained on the lean, elegant, and tastefully dressed woman who held on to his arm. She was wearing a high-collared dark brown gabardine dress with matching gloves and a fashionable coat and hat. She was strikingly beautiful and had a graceful air of elegance about her. She carried herself as if she was a princess, and as they reached the steps I caught the briefest look from her. Then her tall partner looked down to her and said something that made her laugh, and when he looked back up he, too, made eye contact with me just before they started up the steps.
It seemed that maybe he recognized me, and I also thought I recognized him but wasn’t exactly sure.
I slowed and looked at the couple as they climbed the steps up to the Boston House.
The men standing around the entrance were still carrying on about whatever it was that made each of them do their best to talk over one another.
“Know ’em?” Virgil said, looking back to me.
I didn’t reply, but as we continued walking and just before we moved on around the corner it hit me. I took a step back and looked to the couple just as they were entering the Boston House.
“Driggs?” I said.
10
The couple was already inside the Boston House, with the door now closed behind them.
Virgil looked up at the door, then at me.
I shook my head and continued walking with Virgil.
“Most likely was not him,” I said.
We walked on toward the lighted office of the Western Union a half-block ahead of us.
“Don’t think he heard you,” Virgil said.
“Don’t think it was him, either . . .”
“Pretty woman,” Virgil said.
“I’ll say.”
I didn’t say anything else as we walked, which prompted Virgil to slow some and glance back.
“Hell, go on back.”
I shook my head.
“Naw,” I said. “Couldn’t be him.”
“Sure?”
“Thought it might be this fella I knew from West Point, fought Indians with . . . but that was another lifetime ago, when I was just nineteen, twenty.”
We crossed to the boardwalk on the other side of the street.
“Well . . . you know where he is.”
“Do,” I said.
“Whoever he is, looks like he’s done pretty well for himself.”
“Fella he kind of looked like, that I was thinking of, Augustus Driggs, is maybe not even still alive. Fact is, if I had money on it I’d bet he was long gone. Besides that, even if it were Driggs, not sure I’d need to catch up with him about anything from that time. Not many good memories.”
It began to sprinkle as we continued on to the Western Union office.
“Looks like you might have to be the gentleman that you are, Everett, and hitch up that buggy so’s to pick up Allie like she was pleasantly saying.”
When we arrived, Willoughby and Book were waiting for us.
“Sheriff Stringer is present in the office now,” Book said. “This telegram there is what came in from him so far.”
Book pointed to a note in front of Willoughby.
“You want me to read this?” Willoughby said.
“Do,” Virgil said.
Willoughby nodded and read: “Start transmission: Here is what we know—We have two men dead, another wounded—The wounded man, currently here in Yaqui Hospital, is one of the escapees from Cibola—The two men shot and killed in the shootout at the mill were both mill workers—There were four escapees involved—It appears they arrived here in Yaqui in buckboard pulled by a single mule—Three of the four escaped here with saddled horses they took from the mill—We know for a fact that the men involved were some if not all of the escaped convicts—Abandoned prison clothes of four men found in buckboard—Currently we are experiencing damnable bad weather so it’s not possible to posse up just now—Plus we wanted to communicate with you first. Quit transmission.”
“Let him know we are here,” Virgil said. “Ask him about the condition of the wounded prisoner. If he was able to obtain any information from him.”
Willoughby turned to his key and tapped out the message, and within a few minutes the sounder started to click and Willoughby was detailing the content of Stringer’s message. After a moment Willoughby sat back and read.
“Start transmission: We have not yet had a chance to talk with the wounded escapee—Currently the man is in surgery—He was in pretty bad shape and unconscious when we found him so there is a chance we might not get any details out of him at all—Will let you know what we know when we know. End transmission.”
We signed off with Stringer and left the wire office. The rain was coming down steady. Virgil and I walked back under the awnings of the boardwalk toward the barn to get the covered buggy, which we rigged up and drove over to collect Allie.
When we walked in she was sitting with none other than Vernon Vandervoort an
d his wife, Constance, and to my delight, Margie.
“Well, there they are,” Vandervoort said as he stood up and removed his top hat and bowed a little. “Good to see you both.”
“Hello,” Virgil said.
“Hi,” I said.
“Constance, you remember Marshal Cole and Deputy Marshal Hitch,” said Vandervoort.
“Of course. How could I forget such handsome men,” she said. “Good evening to you both.”
Vandervoort’s new bride, Constance, was half the age of her husband but was in every way Vandervoort’s perfect counterpart. She was a curvy, full-figured woman who was always pleasant, smiling, and very attractive. She, too, had an unruly, almost violent crop of sandy blond hair that she wore piled atop her head like twisting vines, held in place with ornately jeweled hair clips. Being from New York City, she was different from most of the women in Appaloosa. She was refined and worldly in a way that suggested she’d probably traveled extensively, and she wore expensive dresses cut in the latest fashions. But she was a kind woman, and the few times we’d been in her company with Allie, it seemed she was doing her best to mentor Allie and her endeavors as a new dress shop owner.
“Nice to see you, Mrs. Vandervoort, and of course good evening to you, Margie,” I said.
“Everett,” she said with a giggle. “Nice to see you, too.”
“We were out for a stroll,” Vandervoort said. “And when the rain came we stepped in out of it to visit with our favorite tenant.”
“And don’t forget me,” Margie said.
“Never,” Vandervoort said.
Constance swiveled her head, looking all around her.
“The shop is going to be simply marvelous,” she said. “And I have told Vernon I will see to it that Allison is well taken care of here.”
“We most certainly will,” he said. “She likes to tell me what to do.”
Constance put her hand on Vandervoort’s arm.
“I tell you what to do because, as has been demonstrated, you are nothing without me.”
Vandervoort laughed heartily, but Constance just smiled.
“Have you told Allie the latest?”
He blinked as if he’d tasted something sour, then smiled and shook his head.
“I’ve not. Go right ahead, my dear.”
“Vernon will be supplying all of Appaloosa with the best of the best. And that will include you and your new business, Allie.”
“What do you mean?”
Constance smiled broadly.
“Vernon will be helping you by supplying you, dear, with the newest fineries from Europe,” Constance said.
Constance turned to Vandervoort.
“Vernon has started an import-and-export business. He even bought his own ship.”
“Well, I don’t own the ship, dear, I charter the ship.”
“Own, charter, what’s the difference?” Constance said.
“Vernon will be importing the best Europe has to offer. From France, England, Germany, and Asia even.”
I glanced at Virgil, but he remained focused on the Vandervoorts.
“Furniture, food, drink, and fineries from all over the world, and make them readily available right here in Appaloosa,” Constance said.
Vernon nodded and smiled.
“He departs tomorrow for New Orleans to collect the first shipment.”
“The important point is that I will be returning to Appaloosa very soon with a trainload of goods.”
“My gosh,” Allie said, then turned to Virgil. “Isn’t that exciting?”
Virgil nodded a bit.
“What will you be exporting?” he said.
“Well, there is that,” Vandervoort said with a hearty chuckle.
Vandervoort looked to Constance.
“The import-and-export moniker is a bit misleading for now,” he said. “At least the export, for the time being.”
“They could use some saddles,” Virgil said.
Vandervoort laughed and slapped his thigh, “Quite right, Marshal Cole, quite right.”
Vandervoort laughed again, then looked to his wife.
“Shall we, dear? I don’t want to be inconsiderate, I’m sure they have better things to do than listen to us rattle on.”
“Speak for yourself,” Constance said with a smile as she got to her feet.
“Plus, I have a train to catch for New Orleans in the early morning,” Vandervoort said.
“I must be going, too,” Margie said.
“We will walk you, dear,” Constance said.
“We have the buggy,” I said. “We can drop you off if you’d like.”
“We have our umbrellas,” Vandervoort said.
“Me, too,” Margie said.
“You sure?” I said.
“I am,” Margie said. “But thank you, Everett. You are very kind and I just might have to take you up on that buggy ride one of these days.”
“Most certainly,” I said.
“Yes,” Vandervoort said. “And we appreciate the offer, but . . .”
“Yes, we love a stroll in the rain,” Constance said. “Under an umbrella, of course.”
We said our good-byes and showed Mr. and Mrs. Vandervoort and Margie out the door. Allie watched them walk away, then turned to us with tears in her eyes.
“I cannot tell you just how blessed I feel,” she said. “It’s just overwhelming to me to know I have such supportive and helpful people in my life.”
We locked the shop, got Allie loaded up, and drove to Virgil and Allie’s place. When we arrived we saw a small, dark figure sitting on the porch.
“Got company,” I said.
Virgil pulled his Colt but put it away when we saw who was moving out off the porch and into the rain.
11
A bolt of lightning briefly lit the interior of Hal’s Café, and within a moment the thundering sound of the bolt cracked so loudly it rattled the café’s front windows.
“Lord have mercy,” Hal said. “Damn.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking out the window. “This is a good one.”
Hal nodded and rubbed his hands together a bit as if he was thinking about the best way to say to us what he had to say. For some time all he had to allow was how hard the rain was coming down.
“What is it?” Virgil said.
“Yeah, I know you is wondering why I think it so important for me to come get y’all at this time of night, on a night like this,” Hal said. “Why two busy and famous marshals like y’all need to be summoned by the likes of me. I know it ain’t what you was planning for y’all’s evening.”
“Get on with it,” Virgil said.
It was late in the evening and Virgil and I had just shaken the rain off our slickers and sat down to drink some freshly brewed coffee with Hal.
“Y’all want some food?”
“No,” Virgil said.
“We’ve had supper,” I said.
Hal’s Café was a place where Virgil and I would go to have some good basic grub. It was a fixture in Appaloosa mainly because Hal was always a friendly fella with a good disposition, but, most important, because Hal could cook better than most.
He was a large ex-slave who had worked in plantation kitchens for his owner for many years and in the process developed skills that were second nature, and in our opinion he was one of the best cooks in town. There were plenty of fancier places with expensive good food to be found in Appaloosa these days, but Hal’s was a comfortable stopover for us. At this particular moment in time, however, Hal was not cooking and serving up food. It was well past suppertime now, and Hal was agitated and nervous about something. He’d sent his young nephew, Felix, to fetch us. Once we were seated with coffee, Hal looked to Felix.
“Go on back and wash some dishes, Felix,” he said.
“Done washed all the dishes.”
“Wash ’em again then.”
“But I did what you asked following them fellas, then fetching Marshal Cole and . . .” Felix stopped talking fo
r a moment when he registered the steaming look Hal was giving him. “Do I got to?”
“You don’t got to, but you don’t I will tan your dark hide, hear? . . . Get on, like I say.”
“Here I go,” he said.
Felix dropped his head a bit and sauntered off through the door to the rear of the café. Hal watched the door work back and forth on the hinges before he looked to us.
“I got a problem,” he said.
“Go,” Virgil said.
Hal looked out the window nervously.
“Someone is trying to take over my business.”
“What do you mean?” Virgil said.
“I can see the writing on the shit house wall,” he said. “I was not born yesterday.”
Virgil looked to me.
“What are you saying, Hal,” I said.
“Some boys a’been coming by here,” he said.
“Boys?” Virgil said.
“Men is what they are, one young, one old . . . They is goddamn mean, though, both big overgrown fuckers, too. Offering me protection.”
Virgil sipped his coffee, glanced to me, then looked back to Hal.
“Protection from what?” he said.
“They said someone was here to do me harm.”
“Who?”
Hal looked back and forth between Virgil and me.
“From them?” I said, before Hal spoke. “They were the ‘someones’ that meant to do you harm?”
“Seems so,” Hal said.
“They wanting money?” Virgil said.
“They is.”
Virgil looked to me.
“They told me to give them money or they’d make sure they’d close me down.”
Virgil looked to me, then looked to Hal.
“They say how they was planning to close you down?”
“They threatened to burn me down.”
“You talk to Sheriff Chastain about this?”
Hal shook his head some.
“They told me if I said anything, if I go to Sheriff Chastain or any of his deputies they’d say that I lied. They said to me, who Sheriff Chastain gonna believe, white man or a nigger man . . . They said they’d burn my place down.”
