by Robert Knott
“Didn’t,” Virgil said.
“Think they pulled out,” I said.
Chastain looked to Book.
“Book said something about settlers being attacked and the soldiers were on the hunt.”
“That’s the word they shared with a few people around town,” Virgil said.
Chastain looked back and forth between Virgil and me.
“You mean you two weren’t notified?” Chastain said. “No telegraph?”
“Weren’t,” I said.
“That don’t make sense,” Chastain said.
“That’s how we see it, too,” I said.
Chastain nodded a little and sat back in his chair. He looked over to Bolger on the bunk in his cell.
“Know all about the scuffle,” Chastain said, tilting his head to Bolger. “Good you got him.”
I nodded.
“Glad to know this sonofabitch is locked up,” Chastain said.
“Fuck you,” Bolger said, turning from facing the wall to look at Chastain.
“I don’t care you been wounded,” Chastain said slowly and calmly. “I’ll come in there and bust your ass up so bad you’d wish you been shot dead by Hitch. Keep yer ass quiet and don’t test me.”
“Wait till my brother gets wind of this,” Bolger said.
Chastain rose out of his chair with ease and walked slowly to the door between the cell and office.
“Where is this brother of yours you keep going on about?” Chastain said kindly.
“Ha,” Bolger said. “Fixin’ to come down on all of you like a Gila monster on sun frogs.”
Chastain hooked his thumbs just on both sides of his belt buckle.
“Shut yer ass up,” Chastain said smoothly. “Not one more word.”
Bolger snarled a little and rolled back over on his side facing the wall and Chastain closed the thick wooden door between them. The wall separating the cells from the main office was thick stucco and the door was three inches of oak. When it was closed the prisoners couldn’t hear any office business and the officers didn’t have to listen to the prisoners snore or bellyache.
Virgil looked to Book.
“Any news from Driskill, from the bridge?”
Book shook his head.
“Nope,” Book said. “Nothing, Marshal.”
“Peculiar. Awful peculiar,” I said.
—23—
The dark clouds Virgil and I had watched coming in behind the Beauchamp Brothers Theatrical Extravaganza had settled in over Appaloosa to stay.
It had been rainy and dark for three solid days and each day grew darker, colder, and wetter than the previous. The streets were muddy from boardwalk to boardwalk and in some places they were completely covered up with water.
I stood under the awning of a drilling office near the park where the troupe was camped. I mulled over the idea of moseying over and knocking on the trailer door of Madame Séraphine Leroux’s trailer, but I talked myself out of the notion.
The troupe hadn’t had a chance to set up their tent, and if they had it was doubtful there’d be much of an audience for the show with the weather like it was. It was cold out now, and with the temperature continuing to drop, it seemed certain the rain would be turning to snow soon.
I walked back to a billiard place I like to visit now and again called The Racket on Fifth Street.
I played a few games of straight with some Irish fella that had stopped over in Appaloosa hoping the weather would clear before he continued his travels south. After I took him of a few dollars he left and I started up a series of yellow ball, red ball with the skinny old talkative court clerk named Curtis Whittlesey. The Racket was normally a quiet establishment, but because Curtis liked to talk and then talk some more, it wasn’t as pleasantly peaceful as I liked.
It was hard for Curtis to let silence linger too long, but he was a fair player, so I put up with him.
“Millicent is from Milwaukee,” Curtis said. “You ever met anyone from Milwaukee, Everett?”
Curtis didn’t give me time to answer. In fact, I don’t think he gave a shit whether I’d ever met anyone from Milwaukee or not.
“Folks from Milwaukee are different,” Curtis said. “Take Millicent, for example. You know what she does every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday?”
Curtis answered for me.
“Daybreak, she walks around this town three times. All the way around Appaloosa, three times, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Says it helps her connection joints and constitution. Ha. Constitution, hell. Helps me that she’s out of the damn house and I have some morning peace and quiet. I’ll tell you something, Everett, peace and quiet is damn sure a hard commodity to come by these days. ’Course, Millicent hasn’t been out of the house since this weather set in, so it just been . . . well, it’s been downright suffocating.”
“Your shot,” I said.
“Oh,” Curtis said.
Curtis chalked his stick, leaned over the table, and lined up a shot.
“You’re yellow.”
“Oh,” Curtis said. “Yes.”
Curtis surveyed his options and lined up his shot on a yellow ball. He planted his tongue firmly between his teeth, stroked his pool cue a few strokes, took his shot and missed.
“Shit,” Curtis said. “Weather’s fault, Everett. Bad goddamn weather.”
“No doubt,” I said, as I walked around the table.
“I tell you, it is just plain goddamn bad,” Curtis said. “Millicent hasn’t been to the coops because of the damn puddle behind the house in two days. I told her when we built we should have put the foundation on higher ground but she wouldn’t listen to me. I told her all them chickens would most likely drown before this was all over.”
Curtis kept talking as I lined up a shot in the corner pocket, and made it. I put good inside low English on it and brought the cue ball back just exactly where I wanted it and lined up my next red ball.
My time at West Point was not entirely wasted on learning soldiering. I spent many of my off days shooting call shot and carom, and made myself into a pretty fair hand around the felt.
“Good shot,” Curtis said, and then went directly back into his ramble about the rain, his house, and his wife.
The door opened and deputy Skinny Jack entered, wearing his wet oilskin slicker. He removed his rain-soaked derby.
“Excuse me, Mr. Whittlesey . . . um, Deputy Marshal Hitch?” Skinny Jack said, looking to me as he pulled water from his scruffy goatee. “Western Union operator Charlie Hill brought over a wire just now for Marshal Cole.”
“’Spect he’s at the house, Skinny Jack.”
“I figured I’d find you first.”
“What is it?”
“From the way station, near the bridge camp,” Skinny Jack said, as he turned his hat nervously.
“Sheriff Driskill find Lonnie?”
Skinny Jack shook his head.
“Something bad has happened,” Skinny Jack said.
“What?” I said.
“Some people have been killed.”
Skinny Jack looked to Curtis, then back to me.
“Go on,” I said.
“There was an attack at the Rio Blanco Bridge.”
“What kind of attack?”
“The bridge . . . has been . . . blown up.”
“Good God,” Curtis said.
“What?”
Skinny Jack nodded.
“Why on earth?” Curtis said.
Skinny Jack shook his head.
“Don’t know. That’s what the telegram said. Somebody blew up the bridge. I left the wire in the office on account I didn’t want to get it all wet and smudge out what was on it, but the bridge was blown up and some people were killed.”
“When?”
“Two days back,” Skinny Jack said.
“And this telegram was just received?” I said.
Skinny Jack nodded.
“Note said the wire had been cut,” Skinny Jack said. “I suspect it took that
long to find the break, fix it. I don’t know. All I know is what was on the wire.”
“Good God,” Curtis said again.
“Wire from Sheriff Driskill?” I said.
“No,” Skinny Jack said. “It was from the way station operator.”
“Where are Sheriff Driskill and the other deputies, Karl and Chip?” I said.
“No word,” Skinny Jack said with a gulp.
—24—
This news of the bridge disaster temporarily shut Curtis up. Silence swelled in the billiard room for a moment as the thought of what Skinny Jack said lingered.
“My God,” Curtis said. “That bridge was a massive construction. Tons of wood and iron well over two hundred feet long . . . my God.”
Skinny Jack nodded.
“Who was killed?” I said.
Skinny Jack just shook his head.
“Goodness,” Curtis said. “Was G. W. Cox one of them?”
Skinny Jack shook his head.
“I don’t know, the telegram didn’t say.”
“What do you know about G. W. Cox?” I said.
“He’s the Rio Blanco contractor, wealthiest man in Appaloosa these days. Was an attorney from Philadelphia, a damn fine one, but he’s in the contracting business now,” Curtis said. “His company was the one that won the territory bid to build the bridge.”
“Any back and forth with telegrams?” I said to Skinny Jack.
“No,” Skinny Jack said. “Just the one, then I came to find you. It’s just plumb awful. Two of my good friends was working there.”
“Curtis?”
Curtis looked at me, raising his nose up a bit.
“This G. W. Cox,” I said. “He live here, in Appaloosa?”
“He does,” Curtis said. “Unless he’s on the road. He travels a lot, back east.”
“He spend time at the bridge?”
“He’s the contractor, like I said, so he’s there some,” Curtis said. “At least I would imagine so.”
“You know where he is now?”
“I think he’s here,” Curtis said, “in Appaloosa, but I don’t know for certain.”
“You know where he lives?”
“Why, yes,” Curtis said. “He lives in the big house at the top of Fourth Street.”
I nodded and set my cue down flat on the table.
“I know you have a gift of gab, Curtis,” I said. “And under most circumstances it don’t bother me none too much, but under this particular circumstance I need you to keep your mouth shut about this.”
Curtis looked at me like I’d hurt his feelings as I put on my slicker.
“Understand?” I said.
“Oh, why, yes,” Curtis said. “Goddamn, sure, Everett, sure. Not to be shared. That I understand. Completely. I won’t say a thing to anybody, Everett, I promise.”
“Good,” I said.
“This is just awful, though, just awful,” Curtis said. “Millicent and I were by there on our way back from visiting her sister. We watched them work on the bridge for a while . . . it’s massive . . . my God . . . was massive . . .”
Curtis kept talking as I snugged on my hat. He followed Skinny Jack and me to the door. I opened the door and stepped out into the worsening weather. Skinny Jack followed, closing the door behind us, silencing Curtis.
We crossed the muddy street in the sleeting rain to the opposite boardwalk and walked south toward the sheriff’s office.
When we got in the office the door to the cells was open and Bolger was on his bunk, snoring away with his mouth open. I closed the door separating us from Bolger, and Book got up from the desk and handed me the telegram. Book and Skinny Jack looked over my shoulder as I read.
“This is heinous, is it not, Deputy Marshal Hitch?” Book said.
“What’s that mean?” Skinny Jack said.
“Um . . . wicked,” Book said.
“It most certainly is, Book,” I said, then folded the telegram and put it in the dryness of my shirt pocket. “It most certainly is.”
I retrieved my eight-gauge from the gun rack. I’d been keeping the double barrel in the office for safekeeping since our return to Appaloosa.
“Where’s Chastain?”
“Walking the town,” Book said.
“He know about this?” I said.
Skinny Jack shook his head.
“Not yet,” Skinny Jack said. “I came looking for you right away, didn’t see him ’fore I found you.”
Book moved his big body to the window with his hands shoved in the front pockets of his baggy trousers.
“Who could have done this?” Book said.
“Hard to say,” I said.
“You think the attackers might come here to Appaloosa,” Book said.
Book remained looking out the window.
“Come here and try and do something heinous?” Book said.
“Naw,” Skinny Jack said. “That ain’t gonna happen, be foolish to try that. We got too many people.”
“They could actually be here,” Book said, wide-eyed. “A lot of people come and go in and out of Appaloosa, Skinny Jack. They could be here now, right amongst us, and we’d never know it.”
Skinny Jack looked at Book for a moment and his Adam’s apple moved up then down in his throat as he considered Book’s assessment.
“Maybe Sheriff Driskill, Karl, and Chip caught whoever did this?” Skinny Jack said hopefully.
I grabbed my shell belt and strapped it on.
“Maybe,” I said.
Book and Skinny Jack followed me as I moved to the door.
“What will you do?” Book said.
“Get Virgil. Figure, sort things out,” I said, as I opened the door, meeting the cold air.
“What should we do?” Book said.
“Find Chastain, let him know,” I said. “Get my horse and Virgil’s horse saddled and ready. Get panniers on one of the mules, too. Pack some feed, kindling, coffee, grub, medicines, hand tools, and get us some blankets, cold-weather coats and gloves from the locker.”
Book nodded and looked out the door past me.
“Snowing,” Book said.
“Is,” I said.
—25—
I walked the wet streets in the falling snow to Virgil and Allie’s place. I could see embers rising from the chimney and could smell the wood burning in their fireplace as I neared. I walked up the steps and knocked on the door. After a moment Allie looked out the window. I waved to her and she opened the door, holding a glass of whiskey.
“Everett, how about this? Snow.”
“Yes, it is.”
“What a pleasant surprise,” she said with a little slur. “Come on in.”
She leaned close and kissed me on the cheek next to my lips. I could smell the whiskey on her breath.
“Where’s Virgil?”
“He’s out back getting some wood for the fire.”
She held up her glass.
“Having a nightcap, would you care for one?”
I shut the door and leaned my eight-gauge on the wall next to the jamb.
“Sure.”
“Make yourself comfortable,” Allie said.
I took off my slicker and hat and hung them on the coat rack. Allie retrieved a glass from the breakfront in the dining room and poured me some whiskey.
“What brings you to see us?” she said.
Thankfully, Virgil entered from the back door carrying a bundle of scrap lumber in his arms and diverted the necessity of me needing to answer Allie’s question.
“Everett,” Virgil said.
“Virgil. Got it going, I see?”
“Did.”
“Drawing okay?”
“It is,” Virgil said.
“Guess those German boys knew what they were doing,” I said.
Virgil crossed the room and set the wood down near the hearth.
“Gotcha a nudge?” he said.
“Do,” I said, holding up the glass.
Virgil looked over, noticing my eig
ht-gauge near the door. He stood up straight with his shoulders back, looking at me.
“Something up?” he said.
“Bad doings, Virgil,” I said.
I removed the telegram from my shirt pocket and handed it to Virgil.
“From the way station near the bridge,” I said.
“Driskill find that Lonnie fella?”
“Read,” I said.
Virgil unfolded the telegram and leaned close to the fireplace for better light.
“What is it, Everett?” Allie said.
Virgil read the telegram, then looked to me, shaking his head.
“Goddamn,” Virgil said.
“What is it, Virgil?” Allie said.
“Two days ago,” Virgil said.
I nodded.
“What is it, Virgil?” Allie said again.
“It appears there’s been some people killed, Allie,” Virgil said.
“Oh,” Allie said. “My goodness.”
Allie looked back and forth between Virgil and me.
“Who? What people?”
“At the bridge,” Virgil said. “On the Rio Blanco.”
“Who, at the bridge?”
“Don’t say,” Virgil said. “Says the bridge has been destroyed.”
“What?”
“What is says,” Virgil said.
“May I,” Allie said, holding out her hand for the telegram. “No reason to keep me in the dark.”
Virgil looked at me, then handed the telegram to Allie.
Allie read the note.
“Lord,” Allie said. “The bridge has been blown up, payroll robbed, and some folks have been killed. Oh my God, Virgil.”
She walked quickly to the front door and looked outside, craning her neck. Then she turned back, looking at us. She reread the telegram and shook her head.
“This is awful.”
Virgil got the telegram from Allie. He walked back near the fireplace and read it again.
“Had to be Indians,” Allie said. “Savages. My God. Those poor, poor people.”
“Not, Allie,” Virgil said.
“Well,” Allie said. “Surely you don’t think white men did this, do you?”
“I do,” Virgil said.
“Indians are not too inclined to go about blowing things up, Allie,” I said.
Virgil looked at the telegram, then looked up to me. He walked back and forth in front of the fireplace for a moment.
