The Bridge
Page 15
“Then what?” Virgil said.
Bolger shook his head. “Ballard told me he wasn’t paying me shit. Said he’s taking the team and trailer, no matter.”
“What happened?” Virgil said.
Bolger shook his head, thinking.
“We goddamn got into it, mixed it up right there in front of them boys’ office,” Bolger said with a crack in his voice. “But Ballard . . . Ballard and me, we been into it enough in the past I knew when to back down. Once he gets going he don’t got no throttle.”
“He took the team and buckboard?” I said.
“He did,” Bolger said.
“What’d you do?” I said.
Bolger looked at me. His lip quivered a little.
“I stole some whiskey and got drunk,” he said.
“What else he tell you about the deal?” Virgil said.
“Nothing,” Bolger said, looking at the floor. “Nothing.”
Bolger shook his head a little. He looked up to Virgil, then me, then looked back to the floor and started crying.
Virgil looked at me.
“You’re doing good, Bolger,” I said.
“Sure,” Bolger said.
—47—
Book walked in the door just as we got Bolger back behind bars and closed the door between the office and the cells.
“Think he’s telling the truth?” Chastain said.
“Do,” Virgil said quietly. “He don’t got the necessary resources to conjure up something like this.”
“Poor bastard,” Chastain said.
Virgil nodded a little.
“What now?” Chastain said.
“Me and Everett need to make a trip to the Back Door, pay this Belle a visit. Figure out what we can about Ballard, the whore, and who the fella was that hired him.”
“You still think this Swickey is the man behind all this?” Chastain said.
“Could damn well be,” I said.
“I haven’t had any luck locating him yet,” Chastain said.
“Keep looking,” Virgil said.
“Maybe this Belle knows where he is,” I said.
“Maybe,” Virgil said. “If he does run cattle and has a big spread, he can’t be that hard to find.”
“We’ve contacted every census and court and scoured records but have come up empty, but we ain’t done. We’ll keep after it,” Chastain said.
“Good,” Virgil said.
Virgil and I left the office and walked up the street, headed for the north side of town.
The Back Door brothel was a newly reconstructed Victorian two-story house atop a tall foundation at the end of Reed Street.
Virgil and I climbed the long steps and knocked on the door. After a moment a distinguished-looking black man with a feather duster in his hand opened the door.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Won’t be open for business until later this afternoon, gentlemen.”
I showed him my badge.
“Not here for no business,” I said. “Need to see Belle.”
He leaned forward, looking at my badge, and nodded.
“I’ll let her know you are here,” he said, as he stepped back and let us in. “And you are?”
“Marshal Virgil Cole and Deputy Marshal Everett Hitch,” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “Please have a seat.”
Virgil and I sat in the parlor as he walked off down the hall.
We sat there and waited, and after a moment longer than we needed to wait, Belle entered.
We stood.
She was short and round, with a wide smile. It looked like in her day she was a pretty lady, but like most women of her trade, the years had caught up with her.
“You need to see me?” she said in a husky voice seasoned from years of smoke and whiskey.
“We do,” I said.
We introduced ourselves.
“I know you two,” she said with a smile. “Well, at least I know who you are. Sit.”
We sat.
“I’m sorry I’m not more put together,” Belle said, “but you caught me before I went about the three-hour process of making myself up, so it goes without saying you must come back so you can experience the amazing transformation.”
“Sure,” I said, in an effort to be polite.
“Just need to ask you a few questions,” Virgil said.
“I’ll answer what I can,” Belle said.
Virgil nodded.
“Swickey?” Virgil said.
“What about him?” Belle said.
“So you know him?” I said.
“I do,” she said. “Not real well, however.”
“When was he here last?”
“Oh, well, it’s been a few months, I think,” she said.
“He got a certain gal?” Virgil said.
“He did,” Belle said. “Kim.”
“Where can we find Kim?” I said.
“You can’t,” she said. “Not here, anyway. She moved on.”
“Know where she moved on to?”
“Yep,” Belle said. “She married one of her regulars and they moved back to Wichita Falls.”
“Swickey been back since?” Virgil said.
“No,” she said.
“What can you tell us about him?” I said.
“Well,” she said. “He’s a single man, he enjoys himself when he is here, and he spends a lot of money, but he’s been here only a few times. Like I said, he liked Kim, but she’s long gone.”
“You know where Swickey lives?” Virgil said.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” she said.
“You hired a man here named Ballard?” Virgil said.
We could tell she didn’t like the sound of the question.
“He’s no longer working here,” she said.
Virgil nodded.
“We know that,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not surprised he’s someone you are looking for.”
“Why?” I said.
“He’s a . . . how should I put this,” Belle said. “Ballard’s rough company.”
“Why’d you hire him?” I said.
“He had the credentials I was looking for,” Belle said.
“Which are?” I said.
“He’s intimidating,” Belle said. “He was what I was looking for. He collected for me.”
“You have any idea where he might be?” I said.
She shook her head.
“Not at all,” she said.
“Fair enough,” Virgil said.
“More importantly,” I said, “we are looking for one of your girls who introduced Ballard to one of your clients, maybe Swickey.”
Belle shook her head.
“I don’t know anything about that,” she said.
“This Kim,” I said. “Was she friendly with Ballard?”
“No,” Belle said. “Kim was intelligent and cautious, and she was not close to him that I know. Reason being she was close to me.”
“Was Ballard friendly with one woman in particular here?” I said.
“Don’t think so,” she said. “The girls liked him. Well, they liked to look at him.”
“What do you mean,” I said.
“Good-looking, got that thing about him women want. Silent, strong, but he’s a buck in the rut,” Belle said. “Full on, with the horns and all.”
“Describe him,” Virgil said.
“Well,” Belle said. “Like I say, he’s strong. He’s handsome as hell, a little over six foot, dark hair, full twist longhorn mustache. He sports a bowler with a white feather. He’s kind of flashy, has a pretty flashy smile. But like I tell ya, don’t be fooled, he’s rough company.”
“He just up and left here?” Virgil said.
“No, I told him to leave,” she said.
“Why?” Virgil said.
“He went too far,” she said.
“In what way?” Virgil said.
“He’s one mean sadistic son-of-a-crazy-bitch,” Belle said, noddi
ng.
“What’d he do?” Virgil said.
“The last fella I had him collect for,” Belle said, “he beat him up bad, tied him up, naked, and ransacked his place.”
Virgil thought about that. He looked around the room at nothing and everything.
“How can we find out,” I said, “who this woman is?”
“Be hard?” she said.
“But not impossible,” Virgil said.
“Not impossible, no,” she said. “But you fellas know whores, and getting something outta them won’t be like twisting water out of a wet rag. They like the men they fuck because they pay them well, and they like to keep it that way. Whores are whores because they are whores.”
Virgil looked to me.
“So, like I say, not impossible,” Belle said. “But my girls don’t live here. But you can of course talk to each and every one of them . . .”
I slid my hand into the pocket of my coat as she was talking and I felt the envelope Séraphine had left for me at the hotel desk. I pulled it out and looked at it.
“Plus,” Belle continued, “since Ballard, I’ve had turnover, too. Whoring ain’t like it used to be. There is no loyalty . . .”
As Belle went on jabbering, I opened the envelope and read what Séraphine had written.
I looked up to Virgil and he was looking at me.
I looked back to the note. It had but one word written on it. Slaughterhouse.
—48—
I shared Séraphine’s note with Virgil when we left Belle and the Back Door whoring establishment.
“By God,” is all Virgil said.
“Yep,” I said.
Virgil just shook his head a little as we walked.
I didn’t say anything as we trudged through the snow-covered street, back down into town.
Virgil didn’t say anything else, either, not for a while, anyway, as he thought about the single word Séraphine left me with.
Then he said, “Slaughterhouse.”
I nodded.
“Beats hell,” he said.
“Does,” I said.
We walked for a bit more without saying anything.
“What do you figure?” I said.
We walked for a bit more.
“Well, given the fact this hocus-pocus fortune-teller lady friend of yours has provided us some pertinent information in regard to the goddamn bridge business we’re dealing with,” Virgil said. “Pertinent information that has come to light, regardless of how she got it, it might be a good idea we pay heed to this, Everett.”
“That’d be my thinking, too,” I said.
“As much as I don’t like it,” Virgil said.
“I know.”
“Don’t got much more,” Virgil said.
“We don’t,” I said.
Virgil and I made our way back to the livery where we stabled our horses.
Salt was feeding the animals when we entered. He looked up at us when we walked in but said nothing as he went about his business.
By the time Virgil and I got our horses saddled Salt came over to us.
He watched us but said nothing.
“How much more of this shit are we going to see, Salt?” I said. “Got to give up sometime soon.”
Salt looked out the open door of the barn and shook his head a little, then looked back to us.
“Pigs are still gathering sticks,” Salt said.
Virgil looked at Salt.
Salt nodded a little, then turned and walked into the livery office.
Virgil and I mounted up and rode out of the livery and headed south.
It was cold. The temperature had dropped even more and it was foggy out.
It wasn’t snowing, but the powder was deep as we moved slowly through the fog.
The road south of Appaloosa cut through solid forest of aspen, spruce, and fir.
In the spring the sides of the road were nothing but riparian, chaparrals, and prickly poppy, but now everything was a powerful and foreboding sea of white.
Just as we did when we made the journey to the bridge with Cox, we rode the same path by the depot, crossed over the covered tracks, past the last few Appaloosa homesteads on the road, past the icehouse and the stockyards.
The landscape seemed like it was from another place in time. The fog hung heavy some twenty feet above the ground, making the woods feel like there was something in the forest waiting, something lurking and unsatisfied.
The only sound was that of our horses, the chomp-clink of bit metal, the leather creak of our saddles, and the breathing of our animals under us, as they moved us forward into what felt like a prehistoric place, void of civilization.
From someplace secluded in the woods a phantom great gray owl hooted his ominous call.
We came to a stop on the road next to the old abandoned slaughterhouse.
The slaughterhouse was a long, low-built post-and-lintel building that was no longer in use since the bigger, newer version had been built to handle the growing cattle business.
The snow-covered slaughterhouse had loading docks on one end and dilapidated corrals and chutes on the other.
We dismounted and tied our horses to a pair of fir saplings near the road and walked through the deep snow toward the building.
The snow was piled high around the structure, and there had been no sign of tracks other than those of deer and rabbits.
When we got to the door of the slaughterhouse we cleared the snow back so we could open the door.
Virgil pulled his Colt and I did the same. Virgil stepped back to one side of the door and I got to the other. Virgil nodded and I opened the door. Instantly we were hit with the smell of death. We waited for a moment, then Virgil peeked inside. He leaned back and looked to me, shaking his head.
“Goddamn, Everett,” he said.
—49—
Dim shafts of light shined sideways through missing pieces of siding on the backside of the slaughterhouse.
The light revealed three hanging bodies.
They were clearly the bodies of Sheriff Sledge Driskill and his deputies Chip Childers and Karl Worley.
They were hanging side by side on meat hooks that had been gouged into the men, high on their backsides. Their shoulders and heads slumped forward and their hands were tied behind their backs.
“Oh, hell,” I said slowly. “. . . Oh, hell, Virgil.”
Virgil shook his head slowly.
Lying dead on the floor of the slaughterhouse were two mules and the lawman’s three horses. The buckboard sat behind the hanging men and the dead animals at the opposite end of the structure.
The horses and mules had been killed, their throats slashed.
The whole scene was as gruesome as any aftermath of attacks I had witnessed in my days fighting in the Indian Wars.
I went to the opposite end of the building and tried to open the barn doors so to clear the air from the stench, but they wouldn’t budge because of the snow.
I kicked out enough slats on the side so I could crawl through the opening. When I got out I used one of the slats as a shovel and went about clearing the snow from in front of the door. I worked at it awhile and eventually Virgil came out through the opening. He picked up a slat and we both worked at clearing the snow.
“Sonsabitches,” I said.
Virgil didn’t say anything for a moment as he moved snow with the board, then he said under his breath and almost to himself, “Bad hombres, Everett.”
“One thing to blow up a goddamn bridge and get paid for it,” I said. “But this is, this is, I don’t know, it’s . . .”
Virgil didn’t say anything, he just dug and scraped snow.
We kept at it until we got the snow cleared and the doors could open freely.
When we opened the barn doors we could see clothing lying inside the bed of the buckboard.
“Their discarded stuff,” I said.
Virgil nodded.
“Left when they donned the goddamn blues,” Virgil said.
We wasted no time getting the men down from the meat hooks and into the bed of the buckboard.
I thought about the face of the man with the beard I saw riding through town. I remembered his eyes. I thought about the fact he looked at me sitting by the window of Hal’s Café and gave me a slight wave as the men behind followed him, riding through the street.
I remembered talking with Hal about the look they had, and now, after seeing this brutal and evil dirty work, I knew why they looked the way they did. They had just done this deed. I added up the timing in my mind. When Driskill and his men left, and the timing when I witnessed the men ride by in front of Hal’s.
“When I saw the bastards riding through, it was about noon,” I said.
Virgil thought about that as we laid the body of young Chip in the bed of the buckboard.
“They stayed here through the night,” Virgil said, “looking about the slaughterhouse.”
“And took their damn time.”
“They did,” Virgil said.
Virgil and I covered the men with our slickers. We got our horses and hitched them to the buckboard. Then we drove the buckboard slowly back on the foggy road to Appaloosa.
When we arrived back in Appaloosa, we drove around the outside of town so not to draw attention. We cut through the alleys and stopped in behind the office of the undertaker.
I went through the back door and got the old undertaker, Joshua Ramos, and brought him out to the alley.
Ramos was a large, jovial man, always dressed in a tattered black suit and never without an unlit cigar wedged into the corner of his mouth.
“Hey, Virgil,” Joshua said.
“Joshua,” Virgil said.
When Joshua and I were close to the buckboard, Virgil pulled the slickers covering the dead men.
Joshua opened his mouth and his cigar dropped in the snow.
“Holy hell,” Joshua said. “That’s Sheriff Driskill?”
“It is,” Virgil said.
“And his deputies,” I said.
“Holy hell,” Joshua said.
“Don’t let no one know about this,” Virgil said.
“I won’t,” Joshua said, shaking his head. “I most certainly won’t.”
“Want to notify the next of kin,” Virgil said. “Post a town hall notice and let the mayor of Appaloosa make the proper announcement to the community.”