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

Автор книги: Robert Knott

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

— 19 —

We stopped under the large barn’s overhang before we stepped back out into the weather.

“Save some walking around in the rain,” I said. “Best place to figure out who’s doing what would be the Boston House.”

“Wallis?” Virgil said.

“Not much gets by him,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

We left the barn and crossed over some long boards lying in the mud to the opposite side of Main Street and we walked up to the boardwalk to the Boston House Hotel.

The Boston House had experienced many changes through the years, but it was still the finest hotel in town. With business flourishing in Appaloosa, the hotel was more often than not sold out.

When we arrived at the hotel the streetside saloon doors were closed, so we entered through the main entrance.

Tilda, the long-standing waitress of the establishment, was busy serving breakfast to a dining room full of hotel guests.

“Look who’s here,” I said.

I didn’t need to say it. Virgil saw everything, always.

“Yep,” Virgil said, without looking directly at Beauregard, sitting at a corner table with young Nell.

“Your old friend,” I said.

Virgil smiled a little.

“And his tender kindle,” I said.

Virgil nodded without looking at them.

Beauregard followed Nell’s look in our direction just as Tilda greeted us.

I tipped my hat toward them, but Virgil’s attention was elsewhere.

Nell smiled. Beauregard looked to her.

“Hello, Marshal Cole,” Tilda said. “Deputy Marshal Hitch.”

“How do, Tilda,” Virgil said.

“Tilda,” I said, as I removed my hat.

“Breakfast?” she said.

“Not at the moment,” Virgil said.

He looked toward the saloon doors.

“Wallis in?” Virgil said.

“I believe he just got here.”

Tilda set her tray down and pulled open the tall sliding pocket doors that separated the dining area from the saloon.

“Wallis?” she called.

“What?” Wallis said from the back room.

“Marshal Cole and Deputy Marshal Hitch are here.”

“Thank you, Tilda,” Virgil said.

“You want some coffee?” Tilda said, as Virgil and I entered into the saloon.

“No,” Virgil said. “Thank you, Tilda.”

Wallis walked out of the back room.

“Well, hellfire,” Wallis said. “If it’s not the both of you.”

“Morning, Wallis,” Virgil said.

“Seen Hitch here the other night, but you’ve neglected to so much as stop by here and say hello.”

“Gone sensitive, Wallis?” Virgil said.

“I have indeed,” Wallis said. “Nightly I’ve been crying myself to sleep like a baby.”

Wallis smiled big.

“Early for the two of you,” he said, as he glided his big body around the copper-topped mahogany counter. “What can I get ya?”

Virgil shook his head.

“Just want to ask you,” Virgil said. “Know anything about a soldiering outfit in town?”

“Some,” Wallis said. “Just heard some about that last night.”

“What some?” Virgil said.

“My understanding,” Wallis said. “Some settlers were killed on the rut and they’re looking for who did it.”

“Know where the soldiers are?” Virgil said.

“Dag’s Hotel, I think. Were, anyway.”

Virgil nodded. He looked around the barroom a little before he looked to me.

I nodded.

“Thank you, Wallis,” I said.

“You came back in,” Wallis said. “Let’s do some reminiscing.”

“’Bout what?” Virgil said.

“’Bout the price of rice in China, Virgil,” Wallis said. “What else?”

Virgil smiled.

We turned and walked back to the exit. When we got to the doors separating the bar from the dining area, Beauregard and Nell were on their way out. Beauregard halted, looking at us, and smiled.

— 20 —

Hello, gentlemen,” Beauregard said. “I would attempt to shake your hand again, Marshal Cole, but I understand your reasons for not putting yourself at risk of something sudden and unwarranted.”

“No reason,” Virgil said.

“Not that I’m a risk,” he said with a big grin.

“Good to know,” Virgil said.

Beauregard looked to Nell.

“I’m a lamb, aren’t I, dear?”

She smiled. It was a nervous smile.

Beauregard placed his fists on both sides of his hips, pulling back his frock coat, then nodded to Nell.

“Nell, here, noticed the two of you right away when you walked in. Fact, you got her attention real good at the town hall, too. She told me after we met you that you both seemed to be men of substance. Instantly, didn’t you, dear?”

Virgil didn’t say anything.

I nodded to her and smiled.

She smiled, then glanced to Beauregard with ill-disguised irritation.

“Isn’t that right, dear?” he said.

She smiled weakly.

“Isn’t it?” he said.

“Yes,” she said, as she lifted her chin and pulled her shoulders back.

“My wife has an eye for men of substance,” he said. “Don’t you, dear?”

She didn’t say anything.

“Don’t you?”

She looked down, then to the door and back to Beauregard.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes,” Beauregard said, as if he were a slave trader talking to his stock. “She has an eye.”

Nell just looked away.

“Marshal Cole,” Beauregard said. “I must say your lady friend, your significant other, is just lovely beyond lovely. Don’t you think, dear?”

“She is,” Nell said. “. . . Allison.”

Virgil nodded a little.

“Yes, Allison,” Beauregard said. “Just beautiful.”

Virgil nodded. He didn’t want to nod but he did and he also didn’t want to say anything but he did that, too.

“She is.”

“Lovely lady,” Beauregard said. “Right, dear?”

“Yes,” Nell said.

“She was so welcoming,” he said. “The whole ladies’ social, too. Allison told me if we needed anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Virgil didn’t say anything.

“Appaloosa’s a friendly place,” I said.

“Not completely,” Beauregard said, leaning in like he had a secret to tell. “I understand there was a skirmish on the street. An altercation that left a man shot.”

“We don’t tolerate no-goods,” Virgil said.

“Indeed, Marshal, indeed,” he said, then looked to Nell. “Men of substance and quick resolve, my dear. You do have a good eye.”

Beauregard was a first-class shit, and I could tell Virgil had had his fill.

“You folks have a good day,” I said.

“We will,” he said, “and rest assured just as soon as this darn weather clears we’ll be bringing your fine friendly city some delightful friendly entertainment.”

“No doubt,” I said.

Virgil tipped his hat.

“Ma’am.”

I followed him out the door. We turned to the west and walked up the boardwalk toward Dag’s Hotel.

“Early to be hitting the bottle,” I said.

“Not for the by-God glorious Beauregard Beauchamp,” Virgil said.

— 21 —

Dag’s Hotel was on the west side of Appaloosa, across the tracks. It was a dingy place where mining crews stayed. Two big miner boys walked out as Virgil and I entered.

The lobby smelled of tobacco and whiskey. The room was cluttered with café tables and twenty-gallon barrels for chairs. Spittoons were scattered about under the tables, and the walls were devoid of any kind of hanging decoration with the exception of a stuffed buffalo sporting a lady’s pink bonnet.

A counter lined the back of the lobby, with a set of stairs behind it leading up to the rooms. A potbellied stove sat in the corner with pots of coffee sitting on top.

Sitting at a table by the window was a bearded old-timer, wearing overalls and a train engineer’s cap. He was sipping coffee from a tin cup and scribbling intently in a notebook.

Virgil and I made our way through the tables to the counter, where a tough-looking heavyset woman was perched on a stool. She looked a little more like a man than a woman, and when she spoke her voice was raspy.

“How do,” she said. “You fellas looking for a room?”

She was missing a few teeth, both top and bottom, and it gave her raspy voice a slight whistle when she spoke.

“No,” I said.

I pulled back my slicker and coat lapel and showed her my badge.

“We’re marshals,” I said.

She looked back and forth between Virgil and me.

“Oh,” she said. “I’ve heard about you two. Name’s Sandy. How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for some soldiers,” I said.

Sandy shook her head.

“Had some soldiers here, but they done left.”

“When did they leave?” I said.

“This morning.”

“Time?” Virgil said.

“Early, just after daylight.”

“Say where they were headed?” Virgil said.

“No,” she said.

“Say anything?” I said.

“They didn’t say much of anything. They got here, ’bout, oh, noon yesterday, were wet as rats. They dried out, came and went a little bit in the afternoon and evening for food and whiskey and such, but they’re gone now.”

“You saw them this morning?” Virgil said.

“I did,” she said. “They sat in here, had some coffee but stayed to themselves. Weren’t the friendliest soldiers I ever met.”

“Don’t think they’re soldiers,” the old man in the engineer’s cap said.

We turned, looking at the old-timer.

“What’s that?” I said.

“Before I took on with the Santa Fe,” he said. “I spent most my born days with the blue.”

“That’s Jasper,” Sandy said. “Don’t listen to him. He don’t got both oars in the water.”

“Said the barn hog to the wild piglet,” Jasper said.

“Don’t you go on with your storytelling and name-calling, you old fool, or I’ll throw you out on your ass,” Sandy said, and then leaned across the desk on her elbow. “He don’t work for the railroad no more, they cut him loose ’cause he’s nuttier than a pecan pie.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Jasper said. “I got my suspicions about those soldiers, or one of them, anyway. Which makes me think the lot of them was nothing but gray-back rebel blue dressers.”

“Jasper,” Sandy said. “Hush.”

Virgil moved toward the old man a step.

“What makes you say that?” Virgil said. “They were dressers.”

“’Cause I know soldiers.”

“Go on,” Virgil said, taking another step toward the old man.

“I was sitting right here. One of ’em walked in last night. I talked to him,” Jasper said.

“What’d he say?” Virgil said.

“He was full of shit,” Jasper said.

“He say anything about them being after a raiding party?” Virgil said.

“He did,” Jasper said.

“What’d he say?”

“They’d been dispatched to look for a party that robbed and murdered some settlers on the trail.”

I moved away from the counter and Virgil and I walked a little closer to Jasper.

“He offer up any details about that?” I said.

Jasper shook his head.

“No.”

“Why do you think he’s full of shit?” I said.

“I asked him a few questions about his outfit, where all he’d been stationed. He was plum full of shit.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Said he was from Colorado,” Jasper said. “From Fort Lewis. I told him, well, hell, I knew Big Bill of Fort Lewis.”

“Bill?” Virgil said.

“Lieutenant Colonel William Lewis was a friend of mine,” Jasper said. “Fort Lewis was named after him.”

Virgil looked to me.

“So what gave you suspicion?” I said.

“He told me he didn’t know Bill, but that he’d met him at the fort in the past. Ha.”

“And you didn’t believe him?” Virgil said.

“Nope.”

Virgil looked at me.

“Why?” I asked.

“Bill never set foot in Fort Lewis. He was dead. He got killed before the goddamn fort was even built,” Jasper said. “They just constructed the fort and put his damn name on top the gate.”

“This soldier fella,” Virgil said. “He the only one you talked to?”

“Yep,” Jasper said. “And like I tell ya. He was no soldier, he was a dumb shit. Dressers, I figure, the lot of ’em.”

— 22 —

Virgil and I left Dag’s Hotel and walked in the rain toward the tracks.

“By God,” Virgil said.

“What do you allow?” I said.

“Think the old man might not be nuttier than a pecan pie,” Virgil said.

“Me, too.”

“There was something about them boys,” I said. “Something about them didn’t seem right when I saw them riding into town.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t really think about it then. They were rough-looking. Didn’t give it much thought, but in hindsight and with Old Man Jasper’s summation I suspect they are no-goods that are up to no good.”

“’Spect you’re right,” Virgil said.

“What kind of no-good is the question,” I said.

“Is,” Virgil said.

“So these boys come into town, haggard like they were, and tell people they’re on a searching party?”

Virgil nodded.

“What do they gain by that?” I said.

“Validatin’ their existence,” Virgil said.

Virgil and I made our way to the sheriff’s office. When we arrived, Book was sitting behind the desk and Clay Chastain, Sheriff Driskill’s senior deputy that had been laid up with a stomach bug, was sitting across from him.

We could see Bolger through the door separating the office from the cells. He was lying on the bunk, facing the wall.

“Howdy, Virgil, Everett,” Chastain said with his extra-long drawl. “Sorry as all hell I been under the damn weather, but I’m back. Back in the damn weather now.”

Chastain was a tough, rawboned man from Dallas, Texas. He had a scar across his face that traveled from above his eyebrow to the top of his jawbone. Chastain had an edge of intimidation to his demeanor that worked in his favor as an officer.

“Is some weather,” Virgil said. “Ain’t it?”

Chastain nodded.

“Damn sure is,” Chastain said.

“Good you’re back,” Virgil said.

“Book said you were looking for some soldiers?” Chastain said.

“We were,” Virgil said.

“Find ’em?”

“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.