by Robert Knott
Cox was upset, but Virgil didn’t feel the need to make him feel any less upset. Virgil always did well with questioning but never did well when it was the other way around and he was being asked questions.
Gains got himself ready with his coat and hat, and Virgil, Cox, and I followed him.
We walked through the encampment, down a snow-covered path, and up a short rise to the bridge site.
A one-hundred-foot hydraulic water crane, with its mast lying horizontal and parallel to the river’s edge, sat idle on a high bluff. Its crown, beams, and crossbeams were covered in snow. We walked up the bluff to the base of the huge crane and looked out over the Rio Blanco River gorge.
Gains pointed.
“Across there,” he said. “You can see what remains. Those posts, you see just there.”
Then he pointed to the bottom of the river, some one hundred feet below.
“The explosion was in the span’s middle,” Gains said. “Over there, on the other side, you can see the collapse of the span lying in the water.”
Everything was covered with snow, but we could make out where the bridge previously made landfall. Disconnected from the top section, the buckled bridge truss dropped and followed the hillside of the chasm down into the river.
“You can see what remains of the scaffolding below here, too,” Gains said with a point. “And right there, those beams there, are this side’s entrance.”
“Good God Almighty,” Cox said. “Good God.”
“Took a lot of dynamite to blow this,” Virgil said.
“Somebody damn sure knew what they were doing,” I said.
“Did,” Virgil said.
“You have dynamite on the location here?” Virgil said.
“No,” Gains said. “We did when we first got started. We had some excavation that was needed but haven’t had any dynamite here for a long time.”
—33—
Gains got us some hot food; it was a venison chili the camp cook made up, and we ate at a long table in the office.
In the following hour Cox drifted off to sleep on a cot near the heater stove and Virgil and I sat on the opposite side of the room with Gains. We were drinking coffee with a tip of whiskey. Gip lay curled up at Gains’s feet.
“Know anything about the man that bid against Cox for this project?” Virgil said.
“Swickey?”
Virgil nodded.
“Not really,” Gains said. “I know he’s a honcho cattleman.”
“He been here?” Virgil said. “To the bridge?”
“Not that I know of,” Gains said. “No.”
“You know where his place is?” I said.
Gains shook his head.
“I don’t.”
Virgil nodded to Cox sleeping on the cot.
“You ever hear there was bad blood between Cox and Swickey?”
“Had to be some,” Gains said quietly. “Mr. Cox getting the bid and all but I don’t know . . . You think Swickey did this?”
“Somebody did it,” Virgil said.
“They damn sure did,” Gains said.
“Any ideas?” Virgil said.
Gains shook his head.
“All I know is I damn sure didn’t do it,” Gains said.
Gip growled.
“Quiet, Gip,” Gains said.
Gip rolled over and Gains rubbed his belly with the heel of his boot.
“Not saying you did,” Virgil said.
“No, I know,” Gains said. “Just making it clear, I’m a bridge builder, proud to be one, that’s all. I hope to hell whoever the hell did do this gets their due.”
Virgil nodded to Cox.
“He make a good boss?” he said.
Gains tilted his head a little, followed by a slight nod.
“Late on paying bills and payroll these last two months,” Gains said, “but I don’t think it was any fault of his. I think it was just the territory with bureaucrats acting as bankers.”
Virgil looked over to Cox sleeping on the cot.
“What will happen now?” Gains said.
“After I finish this coffee, Everett and me are gonna ride to the way station,” Virgil said. “Maybe send us a wire or two.”
We sat for a while longer, discussing the cleanup operations with Gains, then Virgil and I left him and Cox. We got our horses from the stable, mounted up, and rode off to the telegraph way station on the road to Fletcher Flats.
The snow was still falling and there was a good eight inches that had built up. We rode awhile without talking, then Virgil asked me the question I was expecting.
“Tell me about this fortune-teller woman?” Virgil said.
“What do you want to know?”
“Where she come from?”
“Not sure just where, but like I told you, she’s part of the traveling show.”
We rounded a mess of hillside spindly fir saplings that were sagging over the road from the weight of the snow.
“She come up with the name Cotter,” Virgil said.
“She did,” I said.
“Think she’s got something to do with this?” Virgil said.
“Don’t,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Sure as I can be, Virgil.”
“How then did she know?”
We rode for a bit before I answered.
“Well, Virgil, I don’t know.”
Virgil nodded a little.
“So you believe this,” Virgil said. “She knows shit that she sees in her head?”
“I don’t know what to believe right now. Damnedest thing. Before I didn’t think much of her talk at all. Hell, I just enjoyed her female company and thought she was just full of her own musings and now this.”
We rode for a bit.
“What do you think?” I said.
Virgil shook his head a little.
“What all she tell you again?” Virgil said.
“Said she saw men running. Someone or something called Codder or Cotter. And that my life was in danger.”
“Goddamn,” Virgil said. “Win. Place. Show.”
I didn’t say anything and we rode on for a while more before Virgil said anything else.
“That all the fortune-tellin’ business she offered?”
“No.”
“What else?”
“She said that my life being in danger was not the shoot-out with Bolger that she saw.”
“What was it?”
“Said the life-in-danger business wasn’t in Appaloosa.”
Virgil turned in his saddle a little, looking at me.
“Not in Appaloosa?”
“Yep.”
“Where?” Virgil said.
“Didn’t say.”
“So it’s just a show-and-place ticket,” Virgil said.
—34—
Virgil and I came upon the way station just as it was getting dark. It was a large low log cabin with a corral, a horse shed, and a number of small outbuildings behind it. Smoke drifted up lazily from the cabin’s chimney and hung heavy around the old log structure like a dense, dark, ominous cloud.
A chubby man was relieving himself just outside the front door. He looked over, seeing us as we neared. He finished his business and stepped out, watching us as we got closer. He walked out to greet us and we moved our horses toward a covered lean-to hitch on the opposite side of the road.
“How do,” he said.
“Evening,” I said.
“You the operator?” I said.
“One of them,” he said.
“I’m Deputy Marshal Hitch, this is Marshal Virgil Cole.”
“Oh, I’m Pedrick,” he said. “I take it you’re here because of the bridge? Thank goodness.”
“Need to send a wire,” Virgil said.
“By all means,” Pedrick said. “Please, come in. That we can most certainly do.”
Virgil and I dismounted. We tied our horses to the hitch and followed Pedrick back across the road to the cabin.
Pe
drick looked like a drunk. Probably was a drunk. He had a large red nose situated on a pink puffy face framed with thinning light-reddish-colored hair.
The way station was a small store, telegraph office, and saloon, all combined. We could smell the aroma of flavorful cooking happening somewhere.
Pedrick’s wife walked out of the back room when we entered. She was wearing an apron and wiping fixings from her hands with a rag. She looked enough like Pedrick they could be brother and sister.
“These men are marshals from the bridge camp,” Pedrick said. “This is my wife, Patty. She’s the main operator. Patty, this is Marshal Cole and . . .”
“Deputy Marshal Hitch,” I said.
“Yes,” Pedrick said. “Hitch . . .”
Virgil removed his hat.
“Ma’am.”
“Nice to meet you both and so glad you are here,” she said. “This has been just so awful. Do you know who did this?”
“Not as of yet,” I said.
“Well,” Patty said, “I hope to God you find whoever is responsible.”
“We do, too,” I said.
“It is the saddest thing,” Patty said angrily. “Just downright sad.”
I nodded.
“They need to send a wire,” Pedrick said.
“Absolutely,” Patty said.
Patty continued to wipe her hands with the rag as she walked over to the telegraph desk situated in front of a west window.
“Honey,” she said to Pedrick, “keep an eye on my stew, don’t let it burn.”
Pedrick nodded obediently.
“Will do,” he said, as he scurried out of the room.
Patty sat in the chair in front of the telegraph desk and looked back to us.
Virgil looked to me some, then walked over to Patty.
“Were you here last night?” Virgil said.
“I was,” she said.
“You received a number of wires from Appaloosa law,” Virgil said.
She nodded.
“That was us,” Virgil said.
“You got here quick,” she said, wide-eyed.
Virgil nodded.
“Want to send a wire back to Appaloosa now,” Virgil said. “Want to know if Sheriff Driskill and his deputies have returned or if they have been heard from.”
“Want this sent from you, Marshal Cole?” Patty said.
Virgil nodded.
“Sure.”
Patty nodded and tapped out the note on the key.
A quick response came back from the Western Union operator. Charlie Hill in Appaloosa said he’d check and for us to stand by.
Patty looked to Virgil and me.
“You fellas want a drink?”
“Sure,” Virgil said.
Patty got up from the desk. She walked to the opposite side of the large room to a makeshift bar in the corner.
“Well, come on,” she said, as she walked behind the counter.
Virgil and I moved over and sat on two stools opposite Patty.
She got a bottle and poured the three of us a drink.
Patty offered us a cigar from a box with Florida’s Finest written across the top.
“Good ones,” she said.
I shook my head.
Virgil nodded.
“Sure.”
Patty clipped the cigar for Virgil and handed it to him. She struck a match and cupped it for him.
When Virgil got the cigar going good the sounder on the telegraph desk clicked. Patty tilted her head a little as she listened, then shook her head.
“Nope,” Patty said. “No sign of Sheriff Driskill.”
—35—
Virgil and I rode back to the bridge camp, and when we arrived we found Cox sitting at the end of a long table in the office and Gains sitting just next to him. Gip jumped up, excited to have more company, and started with his nonstop barking.
“Gip, stop,” Gains said. “Stop it, boy.”
Gip swayed his head a few times low to the ground. He wagged his tail rapidly like he didn’t hear the command.
“Gip.”
Gip looked to Gains.
“No.”
Gip wasn’t happy, but he complied. He circled a few times and laid down where Gains was pointing.
“Any new news?” Cox said.
“No,” Virgil said.
“I have a feeling if there were any news, you wouldn’t let me know, so I’m not sure why I even ask.”
“That’s okay,” Virgil said.
Cox just shook his head slightly.
“Keep in mind that this was my bridge and I’m accountable for all that transpires here, Marshal Cole.”
“I will,” Virgil said.
Cox just looked at Virgil for an extended moment.
“What now?” Cox said wearily.
“Everett and me are riding outta here before daylight,” Virgil said. “You are most welcome to ride with us back to Appaloosa if you’d like.”
“Well, I appreciate that, but I think it best I stay here for a while,” Cox said, pouring on his long southern drawl, “for the morale of the men. This has been quite a trauma for them, Marshal Cole. Many of the men have been working here for two years. This place has served as home away from home for them. It’s simply where I need to be.”
“You won’t stray away from here?” Virgil said.
“Stray?” Cox said with a frown.
“In case we need you,” Virgil said.
“I’ll be here, Marshal,” Cox said. “And will return shortly, rest assured.”
Virgil looked at Cox for an extended moment, then looked around the room. He walked over and looked at the bridge diagrams on the wall.
“One hell of a bridge,” Virgil said.
“Yes,” Cox said. “It was.”
I poured myself some coffee and took a seat in a rocking chair next to a center lodge pole, which for some reason gave Gip the inclination to play.
Gip picked up a knotted cluster of old socks and dropped them in front of me.
“You feeling neglected?”
Gip whined a little and I threw the knotted socks. Gip fetched them and caught them almost before they hit the ground.
I kept throwing the socks as Virgil perused the plans on the wall. After a bit Virgil moved away from the wall and pulled out a chair at the opposite end of the long table from Cox.
“The Rio Blanco is a tough goddamn river through these parts,” Virgil said.
“It damn sure is,” Gains said.
“Deep gorge that the water runs through,” Virgil said. “Rugged as hell for over fifty miles through here.”
“Indeed it is, Marshal,” Cox said.
Virgil looked back at the wall with the drawings on it for a moment, then looked to Cox.
“Let me ask you a question, Mr. Cox,” Virgil said.
“What is it, Marshal?”
Virgil removed his hat and tossed it to the center of the long table.
“Let’s say my hat there is the bridge and you are the land on one side of the bridge and I’m the land on the other.”
“Yes?” Cox said.
“Let’s say I’m the far side and you are this side.”
“Your point?”
“I’m just trying to determine who benefits the most,” Virgil said, “and who don’t. So if I’m the far side, the side cattleman Swickey has land on, or your side, the Appaloosa and vicinity’s side—”
“I certainly see where you are going with this,” Cox said, interrupting Virgil. “I’m not unaware of the most obvious here. It is why the bridge was to be constructed in the first place, Marshal. The bridge would allow goods and services, including the transportation of cattle. There is no argument for one side benefitting more from having the bridge than the other.”
“I’m not talking about benefitting from having the bridge,” Virgil said. “I’m talking about who’d benefit the most from not having the bridge.”
—36—
Virgil and I mounted up in the silvery cold
morning and left the bridge camp slightly before daylight. The snow had let up, but there was a good foot packed on the ground and it was slow going as we rode.
There was not the slightest breeze. We traveled for eight solid hours in the silence of the snow-covered country. The woods were soundless and everything was still as we moved. We came to a wide-open section without trees and Virgil stopped.
“This must be the meadow Gains was talking about,” Virgil said.
I looked around.
“And that there must be the incline he was talking about,” I said.
Virgil nodded and we moved off the main road and started up the incline. It wasn’t a steep rise, and when we topped the ridge it was clear we were on another road. We continued on riding for about two hours when Virgil stopped again. He turned in his saddle and waited until I was close before he spoke.
“Smell that?” he said quietly.
I looked around.
“Do,” I said.
From somewhere in the woods in front of us we smelled smoke. We rode on for a bit more, then we caught a glimpse of smoke drifting through the trees off to our left. Virgil stopped and I sidled up next to him.
He pointed to the opposite side of the road to the right and we moved off the road and distanced ourselves from the origin of the fire. We stopped under some tall oaks, dismounted, and snugged our horses and the mule to a twisted old oak tree.
Virgil pulled his Winchester from his scabbard and I got my eight-gauge. We circled off the road so as to come upon the fire at a distance from the path.
We made it a step at a time, moving through the deep snow. It took us some time of slow moving before we were close enough to see the source of the smoke.
There was a small fire burning behind an outcropping of rocks next to a steamy creek.
We moved up ever so slowly, and when we were close Virgil signaled me to come in from one direction while he moved off to the other side so he’d come in from the opposite angle.
We kept each other in sight as we approached the camp.
I saw Virgil squat down and I did the same. After a moment Virgil brought the Winchester to his shoulder and pointed it in the direction of the fire.
“Don’t move,” Virgil called out. “I got you in my sights.”
