Robert Parker - Brimstone

“ ’Cause Percival’s got something going on with Pike.”

“Pike ought to love him,” I said. “Percival’s closing down all Pike’s competition.”

“Maybe that’s what they got going on,” Virgil said.

“Nice for Pike,” I said. “What’s Percival get?”

“Maybe money,” Virgil said. “Maybe the joy of doing God’s work. Maybe both.”

“Thing wrong with folks like the holy Brother Percival,” I said, “is that they think they got a right to do anything. Because they doing God’s work.”

Virgil let his chair tip forward a little and then bumped it back against the wall. He was so balanced, so exact in all his movements, that I figured he could probably balance in that chair if there wasn’t any wall.

“Kinda like to know what he’s telling those ladies in them pastoral sessions,” Virgil said.

“Probably telling ’em they’re going to hell,” Virgil said.

“For getting raped?” I said.

“Maybe Percival don’t see it that way,” Virgil said.

“No, maybe he don’t,” I said.

“Bet God would let that go,” Virgil said.

“Yeah, but you don’t know,” I said. “Percival knows.”

“Sure,” Virgil said. “Sure he does.”

I WAS UPSTAIRS IN PIKE’S PALACE, lying on a bed with a whore named Frisco. I never knew the rest of her name. But she was a nice girl, except for being a whore. She was clean, and sort of smart, and sort of pretty, and fun to talk to. When I could I’d been keeping company with her since I got to Brimstone.

“Chasing that Indian around didn’t wear you down none,” Frisco said.

“I’m a lively fella,” I said.

“Yes, you are,” she said. “I hear those women ain’t doing so well.”

“They had a rough time,” I said.

Frisco grinned.

“Fucking a bunch of men?” she said. “Hell, I do that pretty much every day.”

“One of them is fifteen,” I said.

“How old you think I was when I started?” Frisco said.

“Soon as you could,” I said.

“I wasn’t so willing the first few times, either,” she said.

“Hard to imagine,” I said.

“Well, it’s true, and I got over it. Didn’t turn into a drunk. Didn’t stop talking.”

“How you know so much about these women?” I said.

“Whores know a lot,” she said.

“You surely do,” I said.

“I mean we know a lot about what’s going on, lotta men visit with us. Lot of ’em get kind of drunk and kind of excited and they talk about things.”

“Why do they get excited?”

“You know damn well why,” Frisco said. “Some of the holy church deacons stop by.”

“No,” I said.

“They ain’t as holy as you might think,” Frisco said.

“Ain’t it a shame,” I said.

“Anyway, they tell me that Virgil Cole’s woman friend is taking a special interest in them.”

“Allie,” I said.

“Yep, and that even His Holiness the Reverend Brother Bullshit is talking to them.”

“So I hear,” I said.

“You like her?” Frisco said.

“Allie?”

“Yes.”

“Allie ain’t someone you just like or don’t like,” I said. “You kinda do both.”

“Virgil feel that way?”

“He probably likes her more than he don’t like her,” I said.

“I hear she’s had a little something with Brother Bullshit,” Frisco said.

“Percival?” I said.

“While you and Virgil was off after that Indian.”

“How do you know?”

Frisco smiled.

“I told you, whores know stuff.”

“You know if it’s true?” I said.

“No,” Frisco said. “Not really. Just heard it said.”

“Let us agree on something right now,” I said.

“I won’t say nothing to Virgil,” she said.

“Or anybody else,” I said.

“Promise.”

“I like you, Frisco,” I said. “I think you got a good heart. But you spread this story and I will hurt you.”

“I promised, Everett. What else you want?”

“I want you to know I’m serious,” I said.

“I know that, Everett. I know you’re serious.”

We lay on the bed for a bit, staring up at the ceiling of the narrow room. The window was open and the curtains stirred. Frisco sat half up and looked at me.

“Probably ain’t so, anyway,” she said.

“Probably not,” I said.

“Probably just a rumor,” Frisco said.

“Long as Virgil don’t hear it,” I said.

She was silent for another minute, looking at me.

“It always amazes me,” she said. “You got all them scars and you ain’t dead.”

“Sort of amazes me, too,” I said.

“Oh, look,” she said. “I see a sure sign of life right now.”

“Let’s not waste it,” I said.

WE WERE SITTING IN OUR CHAIRS in front of the sheriff’s office. The day was bright and not hot. The wind moved a little dust around on Arrow Street. We were drinking coffee.

“Big Bend Saloon closed,” I said.

“I know,” Virgil said.

“Last one,” I said.

“ ’Cept for Pike’s Palace,” Virgil said.

“Nice for Pike,” I said.

“ ’ Less Percival closes him down,” Virgil said.

“Think that’ll happen?” I said.

“Percival’s getting to be a pretty grand fella in town,” Virgil said.

“I hear people want him to run for councilman,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“On the other hand, there’s something going on between Pike and Percival,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

Virgil was looking down Arrow Street. A man in a gray vest and striped pants was walking toward us.

“He shot my horse,” he said, when he got close enough.

“Who shot your horse?” Virgil said.

“The Indian.”

“Which Indian,” Virgil said.

“Big one, black coat and hat,” the man said. “Shot my horse right out from under me.”

“How come he didn’t shoot you?”

“Don’t know,” the man said. “Sat on his horse ten feet away and looked at me, then he took an arrow out of his boot and tossed it on the ground and rode off.”

“You armed?” Virgil said.

“No.”

“Where’d it happen?”

“Right outside town, just past the ford.”

“What’s your name?” Virgil said.

“Stroud.”

“Okay, Mr. Stroud,” Virgil said. “We’ll take a look.”

“I liked that horse,” Stroud said.

“See what we can do,” Virgil said. “Everett, try to find Pony.”

I took the eight-gauge and headed for Pike’s Palace.

An hour later the three of us were sitting on our horses, looking at Stroud’s dead horse. Pony climbed down and picked up the arrow that lay on the ground near the horse. He looked at it for a moment and handed it to Virgil.

“Same thing,” Virgil said, and handed it to me.

“No arrowhead,” I said.

Pony circled the dead horse in steadily widening circles. Twenty feet from the horse, he stopped and sat on his heels and studied the ground.

Then he pointed south, along the river.

“Gone this way,” Pony said. “Come this way same.”

“Okay,” Virgil said.

We rode south along the river. The hoofprints were plain enough. I could have followed them, too.

“Going fast,” Pony said after a while.

I could see that the prints were deeper and farther apart, with a little rim of dirt pushed up in back of each print.

“Why you suppose he didn’t kill that fella?” Virgil said.

“Stroud?” I said. “I’m guessing he wanted us to hear about it quick.”

“So we’d come out looking for him quick,” Virgil said.

“Maybe,” I said. “Why would he be in a hurry?”

“Mighta been a day, maybe longer, ’fore someone found the dead man and told us,” Virgil said.