by Robert Knott
“Don’t know,” Stringer said. “Don’t think so, but they split up, that’s for damn sure. The three that went into the river could have doubled back in the water for all we know. So we come back on this side and picked up the trail of the single rider.”
“You sure?” I said.
“More than sure.”
Virgil looked to me, then to Stringer.
“Why don’t you get your men in here, give this a rest right now,” Virgil said.
Stringer nodded and slid his Winchester back in the scabbard and handed the reins of his horse to one of his deputies.
“Round up everybody and bring them in,” Stringer said. “Get a line up for the horses.”
“Yes, sir.” Then the two deputies disappeared into the darkness.
“How’d all this come about?” Virgil said. “How do you know?”
“Place called the Crosscut Depot. An outfitters’ place above the Gila forty miles south of here was robbed—guns, horses, clothes, food, you name it.”
“And you know for a fact it was them?” I said.
“I do.”
“What about the workers at the depot,” Virgil said. “Anybody hurt?”
Stringer shook his head.
“Roughed up some of them,” he said. “But left nobody dead. They showed up in the early hours of the morning, got the jump on everybody. They got to the guns before anybody knew what was happening and shit went south from there real quick, leaving spent horses and taking fresh ones from the depot. We tracked them, got on their trail quick. I got an Indian with me, Kiowa, a hell of a tracker. We were gaining on them until the three broke off.”
“Good chance they could have all split and gone separate,” I said.
Stringer shook his head a bit.
“Chance I took staying after the one tonight, but we been moving slow, taking it steady, and even found some sign in the dark. He’s not been riding the railroad tracks but been keeping them close, been staying on this side of it. Using it for direction.”
I looked to Virgil.
“Appaloosa.”
Virgil nodded.
“I’m fucking tired and I was fixing to stop for the night, but my Kiowa caught a whiff of your fire and I thought for sure we had struck pay dirt.”
Virgil glanced to me, then looked around as Stringer’s men came straggling into camp.
“You fellas settle in here now,” Stringer said.
The posse and their horses were moving slow and the lot of them looked tired and weary.
“We’ll camp here with Marshals Hitch and Cole. Spread out over there.”
The posse did as Stringer ordered and went about settling in for the night.
The Kiowa remained standing, looking off to the north, in the direction of the tracks. He was a slim, dark-skinned Indian with long braids, wearing knee-high moccasins and a buckskin shirt with a Colt holstered around it. He stood holding the reins of his pinto pony with his feet together, a picture of relaxation as he looked off, holding his Winchester by his side with the barrel pointing toward the ground.
“We give it up for tonight, Locky,” Stringer said.
Locky remained looking off into the darkness for a moment, then, without saying a word or looking to Stringer, he turned and walked his horse to the edge of camp, but was careful not to be too close to the others.
“He was a runner before he became a scout for General Crook from Camp Verde. He’s better than a goddamn bloodhound,” Stringer said. “He could track a fucking snake across a flooded lake.”
Stringer moved a bit closer. He sat his big body on a low rock by the fire, then looked over to Skillman, who was lying down now with his back to us.
“I take it the other two weren’t that interested in going back to Cibola?”
“I asked them politely-like,” I said.
Stringer tipped his thumb toward Skillman.
“He say how they got out?”
“No,” I said. “Won’t talk, really.”
“How about the one in Yaqui?” Virgil said.
Stringer shook his head a little.
“Not really. He did say he did not plan the escape or even partake in the plan. Of course, right? He said there was an opening and he took it. Said he wished he’d stayed, said he was on good behavior and had plans to work hard for an early release.”
“That didn’t work out too well,” Virgil said.
“No,” Stringer said. “He fucked that up.”
“What about the prison?” Virgil said. “And the support town?”
Virgil looked to me.
“Wingate,” I said.
Virgil nodded and looked to Stringer.
“Wingate? They know anything new?”
Stringer shook his head.
“No, I don’t know. We just got out and after it, looking for the other four, when we last communicated over the wire. So I got no details from Wingate or Cibola. Don’t know if the line is back up or not, nothing.”
Virgil nodded a little.
“Got any coffee, Everett?” Stringer said as he removed his hat.
“Do,” I said.
27
Driggs enjoyed his newfound freedom. It was just a few days now since he’d been in civilization, and he was savoring it. Besides the ardent and vigorous plowing, seeding, and toiling within the confines of the upstairs chambers, Driggs enjoyed sitting in the parlor of the Boston House reading the newspaper, smoking Cuban cigars, and drinking good coffee.
“That’s fine coffee,” Driggs said to the waitress.
“We’re pleased you appreciate it,” she said. “It comes all the way from South America.”
“South America,” he said. “Imagine that.”
“I’m Tilda,” she said. “If you need anything else at all, just let me know.”
“I will, thank you, Tilda.”
Driggs smiled and watched her backside as she walked away a bit before he returned to reading the paper.
He liked to read the Appaloosa Star Statesman about the local happenings as well as current national events that involved politics, politicians, and the world. National and global news fascinated Driggs. When he was in Cibola he’d read every newspaper he could get his hands on. Most of the time it was the Tucson Citizen or The Santa Fe New Mexican or the San Francisco Chronicle, but he preferred The Guardian and The New York Times when he could get them. But here now in Appaloosa he was mostly interested in reading the Appaloosa Star Statesman and what was happening locally. At least currently, because in a short matter of time he had some particular business to attend to in Appaloosa and he felt it important to have a good lay of the land. The first article concerning the territory and the vicinity of Appaloosa was about the prison break, and this was, of course, most interesting to him. The article was a preliminary one: an unconfirmed account of the prison break, stating simply that the escape had happened but the details concerning just what happened would be forthcoming. Good, he thought. He read about the cattle, horses, and pigs that had been sold at the livestock auction. He read about the yearly rattlesnake roundup and how the record number of snakes caught this year would be on display through May. He read about Walter Jamison selling his ranch to a cow calf operation from Atlanta for a record price. He read about Vernon Vandervoort’s trip to New Orleans and his scheduled return to Appaloosa bearing goods from abroad. He read about the newest members appointed to the Appaloosa Alderman Association and the upcoming celebration at Vernon Vandervoort’s newly constructed Town Hall to be sponsored by investor Thane Rutledge. And he read about the shootout that occurred at Meserole’s, and when he came across Everett’s name he paused and reread the words: United States Deputy Marshal Everett Hitch, and it made him whistle.
“Everett fucking Hitch,” he said quietly to himself. “I’ll be goddamned. And here he is a U.S. Marshal living in Appaloosa.” Driggs lowered the paper and gazed out the window, thinking about Everett Hitch and those days so long ago. “Everett fucking Hitch.”
&n
bsp; Later, Driggs sat in the Boston House Saloon and took a seat at the bar across from the longtime barkeep, the large but effortlessly elegant Fat Wallis.
“Whiskey, the best you got,” Driggs said.
Driggs set the newspaper on the bar in front of him and had the page turned to the article about the shootout at Meserole’s. He kept his head down, reading as Wallis poured the whiskey. Then he looked up.
“Heck of a deal,” Driggs said friendly-like as he tapped his finger on the article about the shootout.
Wallis leaned in, seeing the article.
“Oh, yes,” Wallis said. “Please know this sort of shooting is not common here in Appaloosa.”
“No, I wouldn’t think so,” Driggs said. “Says here U.S. Marshals were at the scene.”
“Yep, they live right here, well, when they are here,” Wallis said. “We do have a good police department as well with Sheriff Chastain and his deputies, but having marshals here is comforting.”
“Understandable,” Driggs said.
“The prison break is troubling,” Driggs said, flipping the page, “I read about that as well. So much discord. Your marshals I’m sure will be dealing with that.”
“Oh, they already are,” Wallis said. “Our good marshals are dealing with that as we speak, rest assured.”
Wallis rapped his knuckles on the bar and moved on to serve another customer.
Driggs watched Wallis walk off as he took a sip of the good whiskey and lit another expensive cigar. He was fortunate to have money. It was her money, but she made it very clear that what was hers was also rightfully his. He didn’t need to be told this, but he was happy to allow her the satisfaction of feeling generous.
He had yet to venture out too far from the Boston House, but he did move about through the streets surrounding the hotel, and with Hitch gone he enjoyed the unlimited free feeling of it all.
He was completely unconcerned with being found out or caught. He knew how not to draw suspicion, how to integrate. He felt more alive knowing he was a stranger among the others, but that was how it had always been with Driggs. He fondly remembered Isaiah 11:6: “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb.”
But he was a handsome wolf. He wore tailored clothes that she had procured for him. He had a thick gabardine tapered frock coat, pin-striped shirts, silk ties, and fine twill trousers that tucked into high-topped polished black riding boots, and he had a beautiful woman, a princess, on his arm everywhere he went. They even walked across the street to the church and listened to the preacher.
Driggs appreciated hearing the scriptures being read as well as the preacher’s oratory regarding salvation, damnation, and the Holy Spirit. He was absorbed about the propagating notion that there is no life after death without Jesus, and if you do not ask Jesus into your heart to be your personal Savior you will go to Hell. Driggs felt like a kid in school. He wanted to raise his hand in protest but did not. He would not draw any more attention to himself than he’d already brought. But he thought about all the poor Indians he’d chased down and killed for the government who never even saw a Bible or heard the word Jesus, God, or Holy Spirit before a bullet ripped into their heads. Or the goddamn ignorant pigmies who chopped off the heads of their enemies and put them on poles around their camp to ward off evil spirits. They wouldn’t know Jesus from a fucking jungle snake.
The lofty talk of God Almighty gave Driggs a strong feeling of superiority. He got the message, he understood the alchemy of it all, it resonated with him in a way he knew others had no concept of; at least that is what existed in the reverie for him.
The sermon was transforming, it set Driggs even further apart from all those around him. It riled him, too, in a way that nothing else could. He somehow felt that he was actually there in the beginning, that he saw it all play out before him, that he’d seen it all before.
As the sermon ended the preacher asked the flock if there were sinners who needed to come forward and ask for forgiveness. The preacher’s invitation prompted Driggs to give up a low, involuntarily growl, which in turn initiated the princess to squeeze Driggs’s thigh. He looked at her. She was gazing up at him with a misty, wanton look in her eyes. He peered into her soul for a brief instant, but it was long enough.
His eyes moved above the preacher and focused on the cross hanging on the wall behind the preacher’s head, and he thought about Everett Hitch. He wondered if his ol’ pal Hitch was going to be a problem for him. Driggs was not begrudging by nature. Hanging on to grievances for transgressions made against him was unimportant and for the weak. But the art of vendetta intrigued him. Dismantling was a precise and systematic process he appreciated. Like taking apart a deadly weapon.
28
The wind died down through the night, and when we awoke, a strange low cloud cover had crept in and the early morning was dark. We made coffee and had some hardtack.
Stringer looked to Skillman and shook his head a little.
“What will happen to him and the Dobbin fella in Yaqui, Virgil?” Stringer said.
Virgil looked to Skillman, then back to Stringer.
“Have to let the prison deal with them,” Virgil said. “They are wards of congress.”
“We report what we know,” Stringer said. “What happened with them, what bullshit they did on the outside.”
Virgil nodded.
“Yep, and the warden can deal with them whatever which way on the inside.”
Stringer shook his head a little.
“Poor bastards will likely hang,” he said.
We found ourselves with three directions of detail to deal with: continue dogging after the one escapee who Stringer and his posse had been after with Locky the tracker; going back in the direction where the three crossed the river and see if we were fortunate enough to pick up their trail; and getting Skillman and Dobbin—the other escapee who was wounded and recuperating in Yaqui—returned to Cibola prison.
“What about this Dobbin fella,” Virgil said. “How bad is he?”
“He’ll be all right,” Stringer said. “Sore more than anything. Took a bullet in the arm, buckshot in the back and on his neck. That’s what shocked the hell outta him and knocked him down, but he’s strong and will be good to ride. Might not be his druthers, but so be it. Should have thought about that before breaking out of prison with a passel full of no-goods.”
After some discussion with Stringer, Virgil decided that Stringer and a partial of his posse should continue after the one man they were on the trail of, and Virgil and I would take a few deputies on the southward mission.
After a little more hardtack and coffee we broke camp. Stringer and four men, including Locky, headed north, and Virgil and I headed south with two deputies and Skillman in tow.
The two young deputies with us were Warren Flower, a strong, good-sized young man with a thick blond mustache and piercing blue eyes, and Bill Hart, a slight man with handsome boyish good looks.
The day did not light up much. If anything, it got darker. We stayed in heavy cloud cover as we rode. The first chance we had we crossed the river and started looking for sign.
After a few hours’ ride, Bill Hart stopped and looked around a bit.
“Warren,” he said. “This looks like where we lost them, don’t it?”
Flower looked around and nodded.
“It is,” he said, looking down and pointing to the horse tracks. “We rode back that way looking for them, these tracks here are us.”
“You can see we rode this way, south,” Hart said, “then cut back into the river before going back north.”
“Take ’er goddamn easy,” Skillman said in a low rasp.
We all turned and looked to Skillman, who was staring at us from under the brim of his dark hat. This utterance from him was the only few words he’d spoken that had any substance to them since we’d captured him. As Skillman glared at us the rain began to fall.
“The men you are after, Timothy Eckford, Willard Calyer, and Charlie Ravenscroft, are a
deadly lot. The one north that the others are after is for certain Ed Degraw. Degraw is the worst of any of the men that were on Murderers Row, no question, but these three you are looking for are front-page bad news . . . so just take ’er goddamn easy.”
Virgil looked to me, then back to Skillman.
“Eckford and Calyer would gut their family just for the hell of it, to watch them bleed out and die slow. That you can be goddamn very certain of.”
Virgil moved his horse a bit closer to Skillman.
“And fucking Ravenscroft,” Skillman said. “He would make stew out of them.”
“Where they headed?” I said.
He shrugged.
“My guess is they’re headed to Mexico.”
“What makes you think it is this three that is headed down here and the other, Degraw, headed north?”
Skillman did not speak right away. It was like the simple mentioning of Ed Degraw bothered him.
“Let me tell you about Ed Degraw. Degraw is not fit for market. On the inside, behind bars, he was feared. Assholes and murderers alike stayed clear of him. He is as mean as any man I have ever come across, and I come across a lot of mean men. Going an opposite direction from the others like this says for sure it is Degraw. Them others is hell-bent, but Degraw is plumb hell on earth.”
29
Skillman stopped talking after that. It was as if he needed to clear out his head. Like there was a reason to be heard for a moment, get something off his chest, to offer up something that gave him some sort of comfort in his compromised situation.
We broke out our slickers as we continued on in a southward direction, looking for any sign of the men as we traveled. With the weather like it was, it was slow going. At about midday we crossed the river back toward the railroad tracks. It rained off and on for the better part of the day, and just before dark we arrived at Yaqui.
Not unlike Appaloosa, and many other towns along the tracks, Yaqui had grown to be too big for its own good. The place was overcrowded, and even though it was raining there were a good number of people out and about when we arrived.
