The Bridge

by Robert Knott

  “Any idea where Wallis could be,” Virgil asked.

  “Don’t,” I said. “Not if he ain’t at the saloon.”

  “Know where Tilda stays,” I said.

  “How do you know that?” Virgil said.

  “She showed me.”

  Virgil looked at me, but I didn’t look at him back as I walked on.

  “She’s just up the street here at Fletcher’s old boardinghouse,” I said.

  When we got to Fletcher’s we entered the small dark lobby and climbed the steps to the second floor. The boardinghouse halls were lined with a few dimmed sconces. We walked down the cold hall, stopped at the last door and I knocked.

  “Tilda,” I said. “It’s Everett and Virgil, sorry for the hour, but we need to ask you something.”

  We heard some bedsprings squeak and the sound of hushed voices. I knocked lightly again.

  “Tilda?”

  After a moment, Tilda cracked open the door.

  “Hi,” Tilda said shyly.

  “Sorry to bother you this time of night, but we’re looking for Wallis,” I said. “Need to find out something from him. Know where we can find him?”

  “Hold on a minute,” Tilda said, and shut the door.

  Virgil looked at me and frowned a bit.

  After a moment, the door opened and Wallis stepped out with his breeches on over his unders. His hair was sticking out in every direction. He closed the door behind him.

  “Bernice threw me out,” Wallis said, like a kid with his hand in the cookies. “Tilda’s just letting me stay with her for a while, till Bernice lets me back in or I have to relocate.”

  “It’s okay, Wallis,” Virgil said. “We ain’t here to arrest you.”

  Wallis looked relieved.

  “What ya need this time of night?” Wallis said.

  “Swickey,” Virgil said.

  “What about him?”

  “Know him?” I said.

  “Walton Wayne,” Wallis said. “Sure do.”

  “Where is he?” I said.

  “Don’t know that he’s here,” Wallis said. “He don’t live here. He stays here some, though, always at the Boston House, but I’ve not seen him, not lately, anyway.”

  “Where’s he live?”

  “Across the Blanco,” Wallis said. “He has a big spread over there, I hear. He owns damn near all the land on the other side.”

  Virgil looked at me and shook his head a little.

  “What do you know about the Rio Blanco contract that was awarded to Cox and not Swickey?” Virgil said.

  “Not much,” Wallis said. “Cox and him I know were on opposite sides. Swickey is rich as hell and could buy damn near anything or anybody, but he didn’t win the contract. Cox, I hear, had the construction experience. That’s all I know.”

  Virgil nodded a little as he thought.

  “Appreciate it, Wallis,” Virgil said. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “Oh,” Wallis said, “no problem, you didn’t interrupt nothin’.”

  “Don’t think I’d call Tilda nothing,” Virgil said.

  —30—

  Virgil and I collected G. W. Cox. We started for the Rio Blanco Bridge just past three in the morning. The snow was falling steady as we rode and it was beginning to stick.

  Cox was dressed for the weather. He had on a fur-lined cap that covered his ears, thick mittens, and a buffalo-hide coat that draped down to the fenders of his saddle. He rode a big black sturdy-looking horse that had an oilcloth drape covering his neck and ass end.

  We rode by the depot, crossed over the tracks, past the last few homesteads on the road, past the icehouse, the old stockyards, and the abandoned slaughterhouse, past the trash heap. Soon we were out of Appaloosa proper.

  We kept our heads down and our collars up and didn’t talk much on the journey. The ride was slow going, and by the time daybreak came upon us, the snow was near a half-foot deep.

  “Could we stop for a moment’s time,” Cox said. “I’m not used to being in the saddle this long.”

  We stopped under a large cluster of oak trees to give our horses some rest. I got some kindling from the mule’s panniers, gathered what dry branches I could, and got a fire going next to a large felled tree. Once the fire was burning steady I put on some coffee to boil.

  Virgil removed the snow from the big tree and sat over the fire, warming his hands. Cox removed a rolled slicker from his cantle. He placed it on the ground on the opposite side of the fire and sat on it with his boots close to the flame.

  When the coffee was brewed I poured Virgil and Cox a cup and handed it to them with a piece of hardtack.

  I pulled my watch from my vest pocket and checked the time.

  “Should be to the bridge camp by a little after noon, I figure.”

  Virgil nodded, holding his hands around the warm tin cup as he sipped his coffee. Cox just stared at the fire.

  “Unless it’s a damn sight clearer when we get there,” I said, “it’ll be hard to see much with this weather.”

  Virgil looked up.

  “It will,” Virgil said. “Weather’s made itself more than comfortable.”

  “Damn sure has,” I said. “Imagine it’s just as bad at the bridge.”

  “There is no bridge,” Cox said solemnly.

  I looked to Cox. He was still staring at the fire.

  “No,” I said.

  Virgil nodded and sipped his coffee. Cox remained staring at the fire.

  “River’s deep and wide,” Virgil said.

  “That it is,” Cox said.

  “Deep gorge,” Virgil said.

  “That, too,” Cox said. “This was to be a major accomplishment. The bridge was over two hundred feet long.”

  Virgil nodded a little and sipped on his coffee.

  “This Swickey fella,” Virgil said. “You know anything about his spread? His operation on the other side of the river?”

  Cox met Virgil’s eye.

  “I don’t,” Cox said.

  “It was shared with us,” Virgil said, “he owns damn near everything on the other side of the bridge.”

  “I heard he was a cattleman,” Cox said. “At least I heard that is how he attained his wealth, but as I said, I know nothing of his life and how he leads it or where he leads it.”

  Virgil just looked at Cox and didn’t say anything else.

  It was real quiet out with the snow falling gently.

  Our horses and the mule stood stock still with their heads down. Nothing was moving, no birds, no breeze.

  The only sound was the quiet crackle of the fire burning under the grate the coffee pot was sitting on.

  “How was it, Mr. Cox, you won the contract to build the bridge?” Virgil said.

  “It’s what I do,” Cox said. “This is my business. I have the experience, the expertise.”

  “And Swickey?” I said. “He didn’t?”

  “That’s right,” Cox said. “Since I started in the contracting business I’ve built many projects, mostly bridges. I had the résumé and Swickey did not.”

  “How did you hear about this one?” Virgil said. “On the Rio Blanco?”

  “I have connections in Washington, with Congress, I know where the appropriations are,” Cox said. “I know when there are projects. I know where to go, and most importantly, I know how to bid. Most I don’t have to bid because there are no other contractors bidding against me.”

  “Not a bad business,” Virgil said.

  “It’s not,” Cox said. “It is also a rewarding business. Build something and there it is. There it will be to help shape the future of this great country.”

  “And that’s what got you to Appaloosa?” Virgil said. “The Rio Blanco Bridge?”

  “It is,” Cox said.

  “You moved to Appaloosa?” Virgil said.

  Cox nodded.

  “Yes,” Cox said. “I live where the projects are and then move on. The jobs I contract take a lot of time, so I’ve done my share of relocating, I ca
n tell you.”

  “How long have you been in Appaloosa?” Virgil said.

  “On and off for nearly two years,” Cox said. “The bridge was in its final stages.”

  “How much?” Virgil said.

  “How much what?” Cox said.

  “How much was this contract for?”

  “Roughly two hundred thousand dollars,” Cox said.

  “Lot of money,” Virgil said.

  “It is,” Cox said.

  We sat quiet for a bit, thinking about that.

  “It was a big bridge,” Cox said.

  —31—

  The snow kept falling and it was slow going for the rest of the journey to the bridge camp. When we arrived, it was two in the afternoon. The camp was a settlement of twenty-plus tents, small wooden shacks, and a few large beamed structures. Smoke and steam rose from the encampment and blended seamlessly with the falling snow.

  When we entered the camp a large black dog ran out to meet us. He barked and spun and barked some more as we rode through the tents and sheds.

  A large man emerged from one of the wooden structures. A sign above the door let us know the building was the bridge office. The man had long blond hair and a long beard. He was without a coat or hat and had only the top of his long johns covering his muscled torso.

  “Come here, Gip,” he hollered to the dog. “Now.”

  He put his arm around Gip’s neck as we neared. He held on to the dog as he looked to us riding in.

  “That you, Mr. Cox?” he said.

  Virgil, Cox, and I were covered white with sticky snow.

  “It is, Gains, it’s me,” Cox said.

  “Get, Gip,” Gains told the dog. “Go on, get.”

  Gip lowered his head like he wanted to play.

  “Get,” Gains said with a point. “Go.”

  Gip looked at us. He turned a few excited turns, then obeyed Gains and moved on as he was asked.

  We angled our horses to a hitch in front of the office and stopped.

  Gains helped Cox off his horse.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here, sir,” Gains said.

  “No,” Cox said. “Neither did I, Gains.”

  Gains looked to Virgil and me.

  “You must be the marshals?” Gains said.

  “They are, Gains,” Cox said. “This is Marshal Cole and Deputy Marshal Hitch. Gains’s my foreman on the site.”

  Gains nodded.

  “Come on in,” Gains said. “Warm up. I’ll get your animals looked after.”

  Gains whistled to a young fella walking through the encampment.

  “Daniel,” Gains said, “take these horses to the stock shed. Take care of them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Daniel said.

  Gip ran over to Daniel and lowered his head to play as we ridded ourselves of as much snow as we could, then stepped into the office.

  The office had a hard-packed dirt floor and a stove in the corner made from a huge round steel cylinder. Next to it was a stack of dried wood. The room was cluttered with books and papers. Scattered on the tables and tacked on the walls were construction drawings, like those on the walls of Cox’s office in Appaloosa.

  “Where is the wire office?” Virgil said.

  “Just past us a piece,” Gains said. “Up the road here a half-mile on the way to Fletcher Flats. It’s a long loop off the Santa Fe.”

  “We contacted them last night,” Virgil said. “Asked about Sheriff Driskill and his deputies. Wire back said as of last report, there was no sign of them.”

  Gains shook his head.

  “No, sir, we haven’t seen them,” he said. “They’ve not been here.”

  Virgil said, “They came up here looking for a fella named Lonnie . . .”

  Virgil looked to me.

  “Carman.”

  “Lonnie Carman?” Gains said.

  “Yep,” I said. “His wife expected him home days ago and was afraid for him, demanded the sheriff find him.”

  “He did his shift and left,” Gains said.

  Virgil looked at me.

  “Any idea where he might be?”

  “No,” Gains said.

  “Maybe Driskill found Lonnie and they’re back in Appaloosa by now?” I said.

  “Not sure how we’d miss them,” Virgil said, then looked to Gains.

  “Only one road between here and Appaloosa, ain’t there?”

  Gains nodded.

  “Only one road,” Gains said, “but if you know it, there is a shortcut, an alternate road that runs parallel. If you go that route, you’re on that road for a good four hours but it takes off about forty minutes to an hour’s travel time. That shortcut’s a little rougher going.”

  “Where is that?” I said.

  “Twenty-mile section toward the middle of the route,” Gains said.

  “How do you locate it?” Virgil said.

  “It’s not real clear, and kind of hard to find unless you have traveled the road a lot,” Gains said. “And for sure it might, and most likely would be, hard to find it in this weather.”

  “Not impossible, though,” Virgil said.

  “No,” Gains said. “Not impossible.”

  Virgil and I just kept looking at Gains.

  “You want to know?” Gains said.

  “Do,” Virgil said.

  “You think maybe Driskill and his deputies might have . . .”

  “Don’t know,” Virgil said.

  “Well, coming from this way, there’s an incline off to the right just after you get to a wide-open meadow,” Gains said. “If you don’t take the road through the middle of the meadow but instead go up that incline you’ll pick up the shortcut. It comes out just past the creek, the only real creek you cross on the whole trail.”

  Virgil nodded, removed his hat, popped water from it with a slap on his knee, then set it on the back of a chair.

  “Who found the broke wire?” Virgil said.

  “Pedrick, the operator?” Gains said. “It was hard to find.”

  “The wire broke?” Virgil said. “Or was it cut?”

  “It was cut,” Gains said.

  “Why was it hard to find?” I said.

  “Where it was cut,” Gains said, “was at the top of one of the poles on the insulator. It was cut but made to look like it was still tension-wrapped on the insulator.”

  Virgil nodded a bit.

  “Who would do this?” Gains said. “Why?”

  “Don’t know,” Virgil said. “But we aim to find out.”

  “Goddamn crazy,” Gains said. “I never in my life heard or felt anything like that. The whole earth shook.”

  “Who died here, Gains?” Cox said, as he took his coat off.

  “Two new men,” Gains said. “Brothers from Fletcher Flats, southern boys, and . . . the old man, Percy O’Malley.”

  “Their bodies found?” Virgil said.

  “No, sir,” Gains said. “We have looked, but there wasn’t much left of anything found in one piece.”

  “Percy?” Cox said, shaking his head.

  Gains nodded.

  “How do you know they are dead?” Virgil said.

  “Well,” Gains said. “After the explosion we had roll call and they were missing.”

  “What time did this happen?” Virgil said.

  “Just as the sun was coming up,” Gains said. “Ten minutes later there’d have been at least thirty men killed. Everyone was getting ready to go out.”

  “These brothers, from Fletcher Flats, they have horses?” Virgil said.

  “No, sir,” Gains said.

  “How’d they get here?”

  “We provide transportation for a lot of the workers. We have a ten-seater,” Gains said. “We transport workers to and from both Appaloosa and Fletcher Flats. That’s where our crews are from and that’s how the Cotter brothers got here.”

  “Cotter?” I said.

  “That’s right,” Gains said.

  I looked to Virgil and he looked at me.

&nbs
p; “Hocus-goddamn-pocus,” I said.

  —32—

  Cotter?” I said. “You’re certain that is their last name?”

  “That’s right,” Gains said. “That’s their names on the payroll, anyway. Dee and Dirk Cotter.”

  “So, Deputy Marshal,” Cox said. “You suspect these two men were not killed but rather had a hand in this?”

  “Don’t know,” I said.

  “What do you know?” Cox said.

  “Not enough,” Virgil said.

  “But you know this name?” Cox said. “Cotter?”

  Virgil looked at Cox for an extended moment but said nothing. Then he looked to Gains.

  “How long had they been on the job?” Virgil said, disregarding the question. “The Cotter boys?”

  “Not long,” Gains said. “A few weeks.”

  “You talk to them,” Virgil said, “get to know them?”

  “Some,” Gains said. “I hired them.”

  “Thinking back,” Virgil said. “Was there anything about them that was not right?”

  “Not really,” Gains said. “I suppose, if anything, they kept to themselves most the time. They seemed like good boys, though, quiet, hardworking.”

  “What’d they look like?” I said. “Describe them.”

  “They were young, twenty-five, twenty-six, maybe older,” Gains said. “Big boys, strong and tough. Southern fellas, like I said. Pale complexion, both had beards, sort of reddish color, I’d say.”

  I looked to Virgil.

  He met my eye.

  Cox looked back and forth between us.

  “What is it, Marshal?” he said. “What is this? What are you thinking?”

  “Just thinking,” Virgil said.

  “What kind of ‘just thinking’?” Cox said.

  Virgil ignored Cox’s question and looked to Gains.

  “How far to the bridge site?” Virgil said.

  “Just right here,” Gains said. “Short walk.”

  “Like to have a look,” Virgil said.

  Gains nodded.

  “First,” Cox said. “What kind of thinking, Marshal? What is this about? What do you know?”

  “We don’t know, Mr. Cox,” Virgil said, “but as soon as we can put something together that we feel we need to share, we’ll let you know. Right now I’d like to have Gains show us the site and get to the business of figuring out the whereabouts of Sheriff Driskill and his deputies.”