The Bridge

by Robert Knott

“No reason not to,” Virgil said.

  Virgil removed his boots from the porch railing and lowered the front legs of the chair he’d been tilting back in. He got to his feet just as three men on horseback wearing oilcloth slickers rounded Second Street, riding directly toward us at a steady pace. It was Sheriff Sledge Driskill with two of his deputies, Chip Childers and Karl Worley.

  “Got some intention,” I said.

  “They do,” Virgil said.

  —2—

  Might be the end of those temperate times we were talking about.”

  “Might,” Virgil said.

  Sledge and his deputies slowed as they neared and came to a stop just in front of the porch.

  “Virgil,” Sledge said. “Everett.”

  “Afternoon,” I said.

  Virgil eased up to the porch steps.

  “Sledge,” Virgil said with a nod. “Boys.”

  Sledge was a big man with thick black eyebrows and a full dark beard streaked with silver. Karl was a skinny Canadian fella, an ex-cowhand who was never without sheep chaps. Chip was a chubby overgrown kid with a large wad of tobacco crammed in his cheek.

  “What brings you here?” Virgil said.

  “Wanted to let y’all know,” Sledge said, “got some business away. And the town will be scarce of us for a bit. Only deputies left on duty will be Skinny Jack and Book. Chastain is sick in bed with a stomach bug.”

  “Where you headed,” Virgil said.

  “We’re headed up to the bridge camp.”

  “Now?” I said.

  “Yep,” Sledge said, tipping his head to the dark clouds on the northern horizon. “Storm’s a comin’.”

  “That it is,” I said.

  “Need to beat it best we can,” Sledge said.

  “Why the bridge camp?” Virgil said.

  “Know Lonnie Carman?”

  Virgil shook his head, then looked at me.

  “Know who he is,” I said. “Little fella with the tattoos, did some time, works at the Boston House?”

  “That’s him,” Sledge said. “He don’t work there anymore. He’s been working on the bridge crew.”

  “What about him?” Virgil said.

  “Well,” Sledge said. “His new wife, Winifred, believes something has happened to him.”

  “What?” Virgil said.

  “He didn’t return from his bridge shift when he was supposed to,” Sledge said.

  Bridge camp was a construction site a day’s ride south of Appaloosa. The bridge had been a major undertaking for the territory. It spanned a wide chasm across the Rio Blanco, where rotating crews of workers had been constructing the massive timber-and-steel truss crossing for the better part of two years.

  “Why does she think something has happened to him?” I said.

  Sledge shrugged a bit.

  “Says it’s unlike him. Says he’s punctual. She came to see me yesterday. Said Lonnie was supposed to be back home by now. Said she sent two wires to the way station near the bridge where they correspond bridge business, materials and what have you, but got no response back. I told her, give it a little time, maybe he was just busy bridge building.”

  “She’s been back three times since,” Karl said.

  Sledge nodded.

  “Each time she’s been more riled. She put her nose in my face,” Sledge said, shaking his head a little, “said if I didn’t go and find her husband she was gonna come roust the two marshals in town to do the lookin’ and, well, I don’t want that. Having her coming over here pestering y’all.”

  “She hollered in his face last time,” Chip said, then spit a stream of tobacco juice in the dirt. “Eyes damn near popped out of her skull.”

  “Hollered, hell,” Karl said. “She screamed like a cut calf.”

  “I didn’t have the heart to tell her maybe he run off,” Sledge said.

  “I know I damn sure would,” Chip said. “Can’t imagine marrying a lady like that.”

  “Hell, no,” Karl said with a nod in agreement. “Me for sure, neither.”

  “No matter,” Sledge said. “Wanted to spare you two of the misery of her coming over here. We’re gonna ride up, see if we can find the poor sonofabitch.”

  Virgil nodded some.

  “We’ll be here,” he said.

  Sledge gave a sharp nod, then backed up his big bay a bit.

  The lawmen turned their horses and rode off south. We watched them as they galloped off and disappeared behind the mercantile at the end of the street.

  “Winifred?” Virgil said. “That the fearsome lady churns butter at the grocer?”

  “It is,” I said.

  Virgil nodded a bit, then walked into the house to get the Kentucky whiskey.

  —3—

  Virgil and I had been working our job as territorial marshals for close to a year before we returned to Appaloosa. We spent the last part of the summer and near the whole of the fall helping the two German carpenters Virgil hired to rebuild Virgil and Allie’s house.

  It was a bigger house than the one Allie had burned to the ground during a cooking mishap while Virgil and I were over in the Indian territories. The new house was a two-story with a three-sided porch. I told Virgil, and Allie, I was happy to help build it but had no interest in painting it. So, with the exception of the place being unpainted, the house was complete.

  “She’s barefoot, covered in flour from head to toe,” Virgil said when he came back out with the Kentucky and two glasses.

  Virgil poured us a nudge, put the bottle between us, and sat back in the chair.

  “To the house,” I said, raising my glass.

  “By God,” Virgil said, raising his.

  “And to not being bossed around by those goddamn German boys no more,” I said.

  Virgil offered a sharp nod.

  “They’re particular,” Virgil said.

  “You could call ’em that.”

  We started to tip the whiskey back when Virgil stopped and looked toward the darkness in the far distance.

  “You hear that?” Virgil said.

  “Thunder?”

  Virgil shook his head.

  “No,” he said.

  I listened.

  “Hell,” I said. “Music.”

  Virgil nodded and then we saw coming over the rise in front of the darkness to the north a tall colorfully painted wagon with musicians sitting on top, playing a lively tune.

  Virgil shook his head a little.

  “Don’t that beat hell?” I said.

  “Does,” Virgil said.

  Leading the wagon was a single rider on a tall horse. Behind the wagon with the musicians playing music on top were other wagons trailing behind, six wagons in all.

  “That’s that troupe was up in Yaqui, no doubt.”

  “What troupe?” Virgil said.

  “Beauchamp Brothers Theatrical Extravaganza, they call it. A traveling group from New Orleans,” I said. “They go town to town doing dramatic shows, dancing, magic, got ’em a sharpshooter and clairvoyant fortune-teller, that sort of thing. Allie’s been talking about it for weeks. Said it’s been all the talk at the ladies’ social.”

  “She never said nothing to me,” Virgil said. “First I heard of it.”

  “She talks to me, Virgil.”

  “Talks to me, too.”

  “I listen to her.”

  “Well, hell, Everett, I listen to her.”

  “Not when she’s just going on you don’t.”

  “Well, sometimes she talks just to listen to herself speak, Everett,” Virgil said. “More than sometimes. You know that.”

  “I do.”

  I got out of my chair and called into the house, “Allie.”

  “What?”

  “That Beauchamp Brothers bunch is coming into Appaloosa.”

  “What!” Allie exclaimed. “Really? My goodness.”

  She came running out of the front door, taking off her apron. She rolled it up and threw it in Virgil’s lap. A puff of flour dust ex
ploded up in Virgil’s face as Allie leaned over on the porch rail and looked in the direction of the music.

  “They weren’t supposed to be here until next week,” Allie said. “Oh my goodness, my goodness, my goodness. Isn’t this exciting, Everett?”

  “Is, Allie.”

  “Help me up, Everett?”

  I held on to Allie’s hand so she could step up on the rail for a better view. Even though Allie was no longer a spring chicken, she still had a youthful beauty about her. Her agile body was firm, her eyes sparkled, and her skin glowed like that of someone half her age.

  “Careful there, Allie, you don’t slip and hurt yourself,” Virgil said, as he bullwhipped the apron, freeing it of flour.

  “Oh, Virgil.”

  Folks started to gather in the street, looking in the direction of the Beauchamp Brothers Theatrical Extravaganza as they entered town. Now that they were closer, we could clearly see musicians playing banjo, trumpet, trombone, and tuba as a set of cymbals clanged together.

  The single horseman leading the way held up his hand like he was a chief quartermaster halting his cavalry.

  The musicians climbed down from the painted wagon and formed a line behind the horseman, never missing a beat.

  “That must be him,” Allie said. “That must be Beauregard Beauchamp leading the way.”

  “Everett said this extravaganza is the Beauchamp Brothers,” Virgil said. “Might well be the other brother.”

  “Oh, no,” Allie said. “Boudreaux was killed a few years ago by a tiger.”

  —4—

  Boudreaux?” Virgil said, looking at me.

  “A tiger?” I said.

  “Yes,” Allie said. “Isn’t that the awfulest thing? He was the tamer, and the tiger got mad or hungry or something and attacked him, chewed him up.”

  Allie focused on the lead horseman and smiled.

  “That must be Beauregard,” Allie said, as she worked pieces of her hair back into place.

  At that moment somebody scurried from one of the wagons and handed the rider a long megaphone.

  He moved his horse on into town. The band followed, playing as they marched behind him. He called out into the megaphone.

  “Hello, Appaloosa. My name is Beauregard Beauchamp.”

  “You were right, Allie,” Virgil said.

  “We are the Beauchamp Brothers Theatrical Extravaganza and we will be in your fair city of Appaloosa for a full week. Offering you nightly entertainment. A new and exciting show every night. The whole family is invited, young and old alike will find something that will make them laugh, warm their hearts, and tickle their innards.”

  Beauregard’s mount was a spirited white horse with black socks, mane, and tail. Beauregard himself was handsome. He sat upright in his shiny black saddle, wearing a sharp blue striped suit, gray shirt, red tie, and a wide-brim white hat that turned skyward at its edges. He sported a full black mustache and long, shiny hair.

  More people came out to see the theatrical parade as it made its way into town.

  “Oh, my,” Allie said. “Oh, my, oh, my.”

  A few young children scurried out to walk along with the members of the troupe as Beauregard carried on with his ballyhoo.

  “Aaaappaloosa,” he shouted, as the group continued into town. “We are pleased to announce we will be bringing you the finest entertainment this side of the Mississippi to your splendid township. We have a large tent we will pitch, and starting tomorrow evening, there will be a seat inside that tent for everyone to enjoy the Beauchamp Brothers Theatrical Extravaganza. So come one, come all. We have special prices for our opening night tomorrow night, so don’t miss out.”

  He rode directly by our front porch and smiled at us, tipping his hat. Allie turned, looking to Virgil and me, and beamed like a little girl.

  “Isn’t he just the most glorious?” Allie said, as she looked back to Beauregard riding by. “Just glorious.”

  Virgil looked at me and nodded a little.

  “He sure is, Allie,” Virgil said.

  “Glorious,” I said.

  The band members followed Beauregard as they moved through town. We watched as each of the brightly colored wood-topped wagon trailers passed by. Painted across the side of each trailer, colorful lettering boasted the variety of acts: Exciting Dramatic Plays!—The Darndest Dancing!—Heavenly Singing!—Sharpshooting!—Majestic Music!—Dr. Longfellow’s Magic Show! (The doctor will gladly cut you in half!)

  A few of the show’s players waved from the wagon windows as they passed by.

  “Only thing missing in this outfit is one of those Indian flute-blowing snake charmers,” Virgil said.

  Last in line came a red-painted trailer with fancy gold lettering: Peek-a-Boo Madame Leroux ~ Fortune-Teller. (Futures Told & Your Legendary Afterlife Adventures Revealed!)

  I noticed a very attractive lady with ivory skin and black hair looking out from a window. Her gaze was off in the distance, but suddenly her focus shifted directly toward me. She didn’t smile or wave, but I was certain she was looking at me.

  There was something mysterious and haunting about her gaze.

  Must be Madame Leroux, I thought. She remained looking at me and I looked at her until her trailer passed.

  “Beauregard ought to put his brother to rest,” Virgil said. “Change the troupe’s name.”

  “Change the troupe’s name?” Allie said.

  Virgil nodded.

  “Beauchamp’s Theatrical Extravaganza,” Virgil said. “Less of a mouthful.”

  “Oh, Virgil, don’t be silly,” Allie said. “Clearly you don’t know the first thing about showmanship and advertising. You don’t go and spoil a name brand just because a brother got gobbled up by a tiger, for land’s sake. There’s a business to advertising. Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, for instance . . . Ol’ Mrs. Winslow’s been dead and gone forever and a day, and it’s a good thing they haven’t changed the name to . . . to deceased and six-feet-under Mrs. Winslow’s Syrup. They wouldn’t sell nothing.”

  Allie uncocked her scorn as quickly as she’d cocked it, then turned her attention back on the passing troupe as if Virgil had said nothing.

  Virgil looked at me and smiled a little, then glanced up to the dark clouds in the far distance that were slowly rolling in behind the Beauchamp Brothers Theatrical Extravaganza, headed for Appaloosa.

  “Regardless of what it’s called,” Virgil said, “I don’t suspect the weather’s gonna be too favorable for opening night.”

  —5—

  Allie said the dinner we ate was just like the food they make overseas in Europe. Virgil told her it tasted more like the food they make south of the border in Mexico. That incited a minor disagreement between the two of them that was working its way toward an argument when I interrupted.

  “Something burning?” I said.

  “Oh,” Allie said. “My pie.”

  Allie got up from the dinner table and hurried into the kitchen. She opened the oven and waved at the escaping heat with a towel.

  “Thank goodness, it’s fine,” Allie said. “Perfectly fine. The filling under the pecans just oozed out is all. It’ll be delicious.”

  “Oh, hell, Allie,” Virgil said. “I don’t think I could eat another bite.”

  “Me, neither,” I said.

  “Oh, nonsense,” Allie said, as she placed the pie on the trivet between Virgil and me. “Doesn’t that look good and crispy?”

  Allie fanned it a little with her towel.

  “It does, Allie,” I said.

  “You got a good scald on it,” Virgil said. “I’ll give you that.”

  “Oh,” Allie said, returning to the kitchen. “I churned up some cream to go with it.”

  She returned with the bowl of cream. She whipped the substance with a wooden spoon before putting the bowl on the table.

  “I’m sorry, it was fluffier before,” Allie said. “It’ll be good, though, just spoon a little across the top.”

  “Smells good,” I
said.

  Allie left the dining room and walked off down the hall.

  I cut a piece of pie, put some cream on top, and slid the bowl over to Virgil.

  Virgil cut a piece and put it on his plate when Allie returned to the dining room, putting on a silk bonnet.

  “Would you be so kind as to clean up for me, Virgil?” Allie said, as she tied the bonnet under her chin.

  “Where you going?” Virgil said.

  “Well, I’m off to gather the ladies of our social and pay Mr. Beauchamp and company a proper welcoming visit.”

  Virgil looked to me, then to Allie.

  “You think that’s necessary?”

  “I do,” Allie said. “It’s not every day Appaloosa has someone as renowned as Beauregard Beauchamp visit us. And, as the new spokesperson of the ladies’ social, I thought it would be kind to make certain we do not let this occasion of ceremony slip by like it’s just any ol’ day like yesterday or the day before. Everett can help you with the dishes. Can’t you, Everett?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Wonderful, thank you,” Allie said, and then leaned down, kissing Virgil on top of his head. “Maybe we can play some cards when I get back.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Might want to take your umbrella,” Virgil said.

  After Allie left, Virgil pulled a cigar from his pocket and I took a bite of the pecan pie.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “That’s good.”

  Virgil looked me, then looked to the pie.

  “Is,” I said.

  Virgil slid the cigar back in his pocket and took a bite. He nodded and took another bite.

  “Damn sure is.”

  After we finished a second piece of pie, Virgil and I cleaned up the kitchen and went back out on the front porch with the bottle of Kentucky.

  It was almost dark out now when we settled in with the whiskey. The storm clouds we had been watching previously were close to being upon us and a light cool breeze preceded the looming darkness. It was quiet out and not many people were about. We could hear the evening train on the other side of town. It let out one long blast of its whistle as it neared the station.

  “Beauregard Beauchamp,” Virgil said, as he pulled the cigar from his pocket.