Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's The Bridge"

Автор книги: Robert Knott

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

— 54 —

The night was dark and never without all the images of what Virgil and I had experienced this day and the last few that had preceded it.

The evening went on for certain without a roll with Nell or another strange encounter with Séraphine. Not sure I could have handled either. In fact, I knew I couldn’t.

My room was cold. I got the Pettit and Smith heater going and the chill lessened. I kicked my boots off and got myself ready to sleep.

I laid down, but my mind was active and unsettled.

I thought back about Virgil and me sitting on his front porch, talking about the incoming weather, and Sheriff Driskill and his deputies Chip Childers and Karl Worley stopping by on their way to the bridge in search of Lonnie Carman. An innocent enough mission, I thought.

I looked to the ceiling, and thought about Virgil and me hearing the music and then seeing Beauregard and the troupe parade into town and how excited Allie had been.

I sat straight and picked up the bottle I had set on the floor. It had a little left in it and I drank it. I felt tired and in need of sleep, but my mind was restless.

I wondered what had happened that day, when Driskill and his deputies encountered those goddamn dressers. How did they get them, get the jump on them? They were not even a quarter-mile from town. I kept playing out how it could have happened. It was hard for me to shake the image of the brutal torture the men had most surely endured.

Sledge Driskill, Chip Childers, and Karl Worley’s smiling faces stayed in my head as I thought about them sitting on their horses in front of Virgil and Allie’s porch.

Then I thought about today, about them lying lifeless in the back of the buckboard under our slickers as we rode back to town. I thought about us putting them in the cold shed behind Joshua’s place and about the mayor making an announcement to the community of Appaloosa.

I tried to drift off to sleep in my shitty room above the survey office but continued to have a hard time.

I thought about Séraphine, and when she left me the note. I thought about her saying she would remember me.

I thought about Nell, too, and the rabbit dinner Allie made tonight. I thought about Nell’s life with Beauregard, the older man, the actor with the black dyed hair, the jealous husband.

I thought about the Barbary Coast and what I remembered there. The rough men and women there and the rough life they led. I thought about Nell being there, and the life she had lived.

I thought about Virgil sleeping on his sofa and Allie and Nell sleeping in the same bed.

My mind would not quiet and I rolled and turned, trying to find some comfort, some peace, some slumber.

I thought about seeing the bridge blown up and the tons of wood and iron beams, draped down into the Rio Blanco River like a lifeless dead tree.

I thought of Bolger shooting at me, and of his brother, Ballard, and the buckboard and the clothes in the back.

Everything was revolving in my mind, including the cattleman Swickey. What could be his reason for blowing up the bridge? Or did he need one? Maybe it was sheer hatred for Cox and for not getting the contract?

I thought about us riding to Loblolly tomorrow and about finding him. I thought about who he was and what he looked like. I thought about confronting him and I wondered what to expect, if we would run into the men pretending to be soldiers there, too. Would this be it; would it go down?

I could not stop thinking about them, the pretend soldiers, the goddamn no-good murderers. The face of the bearded man who rode by Hal’s Café and lifted his hand, giving me a slight wave as he passed. Was that one of the Cotter brothers? I kept seeing his face . . . and his eyes, his disturbing, killer eyes. I kept seeing those eyes looking right at me.

But the men hanging in the slaughterhouse was the vision that kept me awake, kept returning in my mind, and I could not shake it. I knew those boys, Chip and Karl and Driskill. I knew them real well, they were good men, good lawmen; they were friends to one another and they were my friends. Goddamn . . . Goddamn . . . Goddamn . . .

–

In the morning I sat on my bed with a blanket wrapped around me and stared at the floor for a long time before I even considered getting out of bed and getting dressed. My Pettit and Smith heater had died out through the night and the room was cold. The wind was whistling a haunting melody through the cracks around the door.

Where is the damn light? I looked out the window; there was still no sign of sun, the weather remained cloudy and dark, and snow swirled in the bitter morning wind.

I dressed and stopped by Café Paris and drank some coffee. The Café Paris was the first place Virgil and I ever ate and drank coffee when we came to Appaloosa. The same place where we met Allie for the first time. Allison French, she’d said her name was, and Virgil asked her, that very first time he laid eyes on her, if she was a whore.

— 55 —

As planned, I met Virgil at the livery. We got our horses saddled and ready to ride. Salt watched us as we mounted up and rode out of the barn. I looked back. Salt closed the barn doors when we left and did not look at us as we rode away.

Before we took off for Loblolly Mills in search of Swickey, we stopped in at the mayor’s office to pay Ashley Epps a visit.

When we entered, Ashley was sitting behind his desk and a pretty young woman was sitting across from him as he dictated a note to her. He held up one finger for us to give him a moment.

We did.

When he finished with God Bless, Yours Truly, Ashley Epps, he thanked the young woman.

She nodded.

“Will that be all?” she said.

“Yes, Silvia,” Ashley said.

She curtsied a little to Ashley and offered us a smile on her way out.

Ashley stood up to greet us.

“Marshal Cole, Deputy Marshal Hitch, good to see you both. Please have a seat,” he said.

We sat opposite his desk.

“How are you?” he said.

Virgil said nothing.

“Been better,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“I hope you are here to tell me you’ve apprehended the men responsible for the bridge?” Ashley said.

Virgil looked to me.

“What about the bridge?” I said.

Ashley looked back and forth between Virgil and me.

“Well,” Ashley said. “Curtis Whittlesey told me.”

“What’d he tell you?” I said.

“He told me about the bridge,” Ashley said. “That it had been destroyed.”

Virgil nodded a little.

“I wish you would have let me know,” Ashley said.

“Sounds like we didn’t need to let you know,” Virgil said.

“Yes, well, I am the mayor,” Ashley said, “as well as the minister, and it’s my duty to serve and console those in need.”

“Just had to keep this news from spreading the best we could,” I said.

“That’s hard to do with Curtis Whittlesey having knowledge,” Ashley said.

“Seems to be,” I said.

“Nevertheless,” Ashley said. “I’ve prayed for all those involved for God’s Peace to be with them.”

“Be with them?” Virgil said.

“Yes?” Ashley said.

“Peace be with who?” Virgil said.

“Well,” Ashley said. “Those involved, of course.”

“Don’t think God’s got much to do with this one,” Virgil said.

Ashley looked to me.

I didn’t say anything.

After Ashley continued with his concerns about his authority, we gave him the news of our Appaloosa lawmen. We didn’t provide any details, other than they had been killed in the line of duty and that a formal announcement needed to be made.

“Those fellas,” Virgil said, “you can talk with God about.”

We didn’t waste any more time and bid Ashley good day, leaving him shaken and with tears in his eyes.

Virgil and I walked out of the Rains Civic Building and mounted up. We turned our horses and started to ride when we heard Skinny Jack.

“Hold up,” he shouted.

We pulled up and looked back. Skinny Jack was coming up the boardwalk at a quick pace and Book was trying to keep up behind him.

“What is it?” I said.

“Goddamn glad we caught you,” Skinny Jack said, out of breath.

“What is it?”

“Don’t think you need to go looking for Swickey,” Skinny Jack said.

“Why?” I said.

“The sonofabitch is here,” Skinny Jack said.

“In Appaloosa?” I said.

“He is,” Skinny Jack said, trying to catch his breath.

“Where?” Virgil said.

“Scared the shit outta us,” Skinny Jack said. “Him and three men walked into the office just a while ago.”

“And?” Virgil said.

Book caught up with Skinny Jack.

“Said he was looking for you,” Skinny Jack said.

“Where you say we were?” I said.

“We didn’t,” Skinny Jack said. “We told them we didn’t know.”

Book nodded.

“We thought you’d be most likely gone already,” Book said, as he worked to catch his breath.

“We thought you’d most likely already left to go find him,” Skinny Jack said. “But we didn’t say so.”

“Glad to know you’re here,” Book said. “They’re heeled, too.”

“Where are they now?” Virgil said.

“Boston House,” Skinny Jack said.

— 56 —

Boston House?More of the goddamnBoston House, I thought.

“He said for us to find you,” Book said.

“What else he say?” Virgil said.

Skinny Jack looked to Book.

“That’s it,” Skinny Jack said. “Find you and let you know he’d be waiting on you.”

Virgil looked at me.

“What do you make of that?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

“Saves us from riding to Loblolly Mills to hunt the sonofabitch down.”

“Damn sure does,” Virgil said.

“What the hell is he doing here?” I said.

“’Spect we’ll find out,” Virgil said.

“Not friendly,” Book said.

Skinny Jack nodded.

“No,” Skinny Jack said. “Not overly.”

“Chastain at the jail?” Virgil said.

“No,” Book said. “Just the two of us in this morning.”

“He should be in directly,” Skinny Jack said.

“Book,” Virgil said. “Go back and keep house. Skinny Jack, you come with us.”

“What should I do?” Book said.

“Just be there,” Virgil said. “Let Chastain know when he comes in.”

“Okay,” Book said.

Virgil and I rode up the street in the swirling snow to the Boston House and Skinny Jack followed alongside.

When we got to the Boston House we saw the transportation belonging to Swickey and the three others. Two horses and an enclosed buggy, hitched to two sturdy horses, with their heads in muzzle feeders.

We stopped shy of the hotel and tied our horses to a hitch in front of the lumberyard.

“Skinny Jack,” Virgil said, as he pulled his Winchester from its scabbard. “Don’t really know what to expect. I don’t think they got any intentions, but just in case, you just stay out on the porch over here. Everett and me will go inside and see what is what. If for some reason they do have intentions and things get lit up in there, and we don’t come out for some reason, maybe one of them does, you hang back here with this Winchester and kill him.”

Skinny Jack took the Winchester from Virgil. His Adam’s apple went up, then down, as he nodded.

Virgil and I walked up the boardwalk to the hotel.

“You take the side entrance, Everett,” Virgil said. “I’ll come in from the lobby. Give me ten.”

I nodded, and started counting ten seconds so to give Virgil time to come in through the front entrance. When I got to ten I pushed open the side door just as Virgil came through the pocket doors leading into the lobby.

Wallis wasn’t in. His second barkeep, a young Irishman named O’Malley, was behind the bar and the saloon was empty except for the four men sitting near the bar at the big round eight-player table, drinking coffee.

They looked first to me standing with my eight-gauge and then to Virgil with his frock pulled behind his bone-handle.

A big man leaned back in his chair, looking back and forth between Virgil and me.

“Which one of you is Virgil Cole?” he said in a huge, commanding voice.

“Who’s asking?” Virgil said.

The man took his hat off and stood.

“I’m guessing that’d be you,” he said to Virgil.

Virgil didn’t say anything.

“I’m Walton Wayne Swickey,” he said.

Swickey was well over six feet tall. He was clean-shaven and powerful-looking. His hair was cut tight to the sides of his head but the top was a thick crop of dark gray. His face was weathered but strong. He had high cheekbones and deep-set pale blue eyes. He wore a dark pin-striped wool suit with a vest and a string tie. Like Book said, he was heeled. He had a butt-forward pearl-handled Colt in a black leather holster.

The three men with him scooted back from the table a bit. The three were younger than Swickey, but all were tough-looking, and they, too, were heeled. One of them looked familiar. I was thinking back, curious if maybe this was one of the dressers I saw ride by Hal’s Café.

“You Cole?” Swickey said to Virgil.

“I am,” Virgil said.

“I understand you’ve been looking for me,” Swickey said.

“Deputies said it’s you who has come here to Appaloosa, looking for me,” Virgil said.

“I damn sure did,” Swickey said. “Fifty miles in the cold.”

“’Bout?” Virgil said.

“’Bout the bridge,” Swickey said.

— 57 —

Virgil took a few steps toward Swickey.

“What about it?” Virgil said.

“You think I had a hand in it,” Swickey said.

Virgil didn’t say anything.

Swickey moved a little closer to Virgil with his shoulders squared and relaxed.

“Don’t you?” Swickey said.

Virgil remained quiet, letting Swickey show as many cards as he was willing to turn over.

“You think I did it,” Swickey said. “You think I blew the sonofabitch up?”

“Who said it was blown up?” Virgil said.

Swickey looked at Virgil for a moment, then nodded slowly.

“I know it was, for certain,” Swickey said.

“You do it?” Virgil said.

“No,” Swickey said.

“Then what makes you certain?” Virgil said.

Swickey looked to one of the men at the table.

“Me,” the man said.

“Who are you?” Virgil said.

“David Daniels,” he said.

David slid back in his chair a bit more. He was a slender, strong-looking man. He wore a flat-crown wide-brim hat with rawhide straps hanging from its sides that funneled through a .45 casing just below his chin.

“Go on?”

“I saw it,” David said.

“You were there?”

He shook his head.

“Rode up on it,” David said. “We was gathering cattle and come up on it, I seen it.”

Virgil didn’t say anything.

“I heard you were looking for me,” Swickey said. “Inquiring about me, so I figured I’d save you the looking and pay you a visit.”

“You didn’t come all the way over here,” Virgil said. “’Cause you wanted to pay me a visit.”

“Not really,” Swickey said.

“Then why?” Virgil said.

“For a few reasons,” Swickey said.

“Which are?” Virgil said.

“You think I had a hand in this?” Swickey said. “Because of Cox?”

“What about him?” Virgil said.

“I don’t like the sonofabitch,” Swickey said. “Everybody knows that.”

Virgil didn’t say anything.

“But I damn sure didn’t blow up his bridge because I don’t like him,” Swickey said.

“Who did?” Virgil said.

“Hell,” Swickey said. “I don’t know.”

“What do you know?” Virgil said.

“That bridge was going to bring me prosperity,” Swickey said.

“What kind of prosperity?” Virgil said.

“I’m no goddamn bridge builder,” Swickey said. “But I wanted that bridge, that’s why I even put in a bid on it in the first place. I wanted to see it built.”

“That the prosperity you’re talking about?” Virgil said.

Swickey shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I damn sure could have made money on the contract. Good goddamn money. But that bridge was a goddamn gateway for me.”

“How so?” Virgil said.

“The money I would save on moving my cattle alone is one hell of a reason I wanted more than anyone to see that bridge built. The bridge would have connected the Southern Pacific to my back door, allowing me to move my cattle by rail. It would double my operation.”

“You said a few reasons,” Virgil said. “What’s the other reason?”

“Got my suspicions about who did this,” Swickey said.

“Who?” Virgil said.

Swickey looked to his chair behind him.

“Mind if we sit?” Swickey said, extending his hand to the open chairs at the table. “Goddamn trip, riding in that damn buggy wore my ass out.”

Virgil glanced to me, then the chair, then nodded slightly to Swickey.

Swickey nodded and smiled some. “Knees and back aren’t as friendly as they used to be. Hell, nothing is,” he said, as he sat slowly back in the chair.

Virgil and I moved to the table. Virgil pulled a chair back away from the table a few feet and sat with an empty chair on each side of him. I sat in a chair at a table just next to them.

Swickey looked back to O’Malley behind the bar. He’d been standing the whole time, watching Virgil and Swickey talk as he wiped down a rack of beer mugs.

“Young fella,” Swickey said, as he picked up the coffeepot off the table. “Could we get some more coffee here, please?”

“Certainly,” O’Malley said.

O’Malley came around the corner of the bar. Swickey handed off the pot to him, then turned and faced Virgil with one elbow on the table and one on the back of his chair.

“There’s a good number of cow-calf operations over here on this side of the bridge that goddamn sure didn’t want to see that bridge built.”

“There one in particular?” Virgil said.

“There are a few, I’d suspect. But considering another aspect of all this, Eddie Winslow here,” Swickey said, looking to the man sitting just to the right of him, “has other information I feel is something you will want to hear.”

“What’s that?” Virgil said.

“Eddie had some bad dealings with someone he thinks had a hand in this,” Swickey said.

“Who?” Virgil said.

“Cotters,” Eddie said. “Two fellas, name Cotter.”

Virgil looked and me and shook his head a little.

— 58 —

What sort of bad dealings?” Virgil said.

Eddie Winslow wasn’t a big fella, but he looked to be as tough as they come. He was an angular, rawboned cowboy with a dark complexion and steely eyes.

“Tell him, Eddie,” Swickey said.

Eddie swiveled in his chair a little, facing Virgil, and placed his strong hands on the table in front of him.

“Me and my partner, Jim Lee, we was working for an outfit up on the north fork of the Red,” Eddie said. “Things petered out for us, and we come down this way. Jim was from this part of the country. We hired on with an outfit between Yaqui and here, pretty good-size outfit.”

“What outfit?” Virgil said.

“Rancher’s name is Westmorland,” Eddie said.

Swickey shook his head.

“Don’t think Westmorland is any part of this,” Swickey said. “I don’t know him, but I know of him. He’s a second-generation rancher and he’s a family man, always had a good reputation. I’d be surprised if he had any part in this, but of course you never know.”

Eddie nodded.

“He was fair; seemed so, anyway,” Eddie said. “He was good to us, fed us good, paid us regular and treated us good. He had some good hands, too, but then these two fellas hired on, them Cotters. They seemed nice enough to me, but I’m a dumbass. Jim was the one that said they was up to no good, and sure enough he was right.”

Eddie stopped talking for a moment. He looked down at his hands clasped on the table in front of him, then looked back up to Virgil and continued.

“Jim come back one night and told me them two asked him if he’d consider throwing in with them, doing a job with them.”

“What kind of job?” Virgil said.

Eddie glanced to Swickey, then looked back to Virgil.

“Jim didn’t spell it all out, exactly,” Eddie said. “Had to do with shutting down the bridge that was being built over the Rio Blanco, though. Said there’d be good money involved.”

Eddie stopped talking when O’Malley came to the table with a pot of coffee and two extra cups.

“Here ya go,” O’Malley said.

Eddie watched O’Malley walk away, then started talking again.

“See, my friend Jim was a rough sonofabitch and all the hands knew he spent time in Brigham’s Hole in Salt Lake for holding up a bank and killing a teller. These two Cotter hands figured Jim was a good pick for doing something dirty. But Jim had given up his wicked ways. He told them to fuck off, that he didn’t want no part of nothing that would put him back behind bars.”

“Where is Jim?”

Eddie looked to his hands again, then looked back up to Virgil, shaking his head.

“Dead,” Eddie said. “That following day was Jim’s last day on God’s green Earth.”

Virgil looked to me.

“What happened?” I said.

Eddie took his time before saying anything.

“Them two killed him is what happened,” Eddie said, looking intently at Virgil. “He didn’t go along with their shit and they for sure killed him. They did their lying best to pin it on Mexican rustlers. Mexican rustlers, shit . . . They had Jim’s horse when they come back, too. I knew damn good what happened.”

“What’d you do?”

“While they were spinning their bullshit yarn,” Eddie said, “telling the day boss what went down, I got on my horse and got the hell outta there.”

“You never saw them again?” Virgil said.

“No,” Eddie said. “I got out of there and didn’t look back. I was owed money, too, but I just got out of there while the getting was good. They knew Jim and me was good friends and I figured it’d be just a matter of time ’fore they did the same thing to me they done to Jim. I just run off.”

Eddie looked to me, then back to Virgil.

“I knew where they’d been working that day,” Eddie said. “I rode out and found Jim’s body.”

“Where?” Virgil said.

“He was hanging from a goddamn scrub oak,” Eddie said. “They strung him up.”

Eddie stopped talking for a moment. He looked away, then back at Virgil with a fierce expression on his face.

“They tortured Jim,” Eddie said, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “It was like they enjoyed it or something. His face was all swollen and . . . his trousers was down . . . it was . . .”