ROBERT PARKER - Appaloosa

Cole smoked his cigar quietly for a time.

“So when I’m around she loves me,” Cole said.

“I think so,” I said.

“But I ain’t around and you are, she loves you.”

“Probably ain’t love,” I said.

“And when neither one of us is around, she loves Ring.”

“Again, I ain’t sure I’d say love.”

“She love me?” Cole said.

“I can’t say that she don’t,” I said. “You?”

Cole’s voice sounded a little hoarse to me. Maybe he was embarrassed. I wasn’t sure. I’d never seen him embarrassed.

“I think she does,” he said.

“You’re the one should know,” I said.

He smoked some more of his cigar, holding the tip up and exhaling past it so he could see the smoke.

“That thing with Ring,” Cole said. “It sticks in my throat, Everett. I can’t seem to swallow it.”

“Sticks in mine, too,” I said.

He puffed his cigar.

“You know she takes a bath every evenin’?” he said. “ ’Fore she goes to bed.”

It was very dark, and I could only see Cole’s face a little in the coal-oil light that came out of the hotel.

“I like bein’ with her,” he said.

“Nothin’ against it,” I said.

“No. I just got to get past the Ring business.”

“Might not be the last time,” I said.

“Be the last time with Ring,” Cole said.

A single horse and rider walked down the street in front of us, the horse’s hooves making a kind of slurred sound in the dirt, the saddle creaking gently, a quiet sound of harness metal.

“Gonna talk with the town marshal tomorrow?” I said.

“Yep. Got no objection to help.”

“And if he’s no help?”

“We done it by ourselves before,” Cole said.

“We’re going up against Ring because of Bragg,” I said.

“Can’t be a lawman and let somebody come take your prisoner,” Cole said.

“Nothin’ personal.”

“Nope. Business.”

“We done pretty good over time, Virgil, ’cause it’s never been personal. Always just a job.”

“It’s always been the law, Everett. It’s got to be the law. People like us got to have the law and got to do it by the law. You understand that, Everett. Otherwise you’re just a damn shooter. Nothin’ to prevent you from killin’ anybody.”

“And that’s how it is this time, too,” I said.

“That’s how it is every time,” Cole said.

In the morning, Cole and I walked down to the marshal’s office and found Russell Shelton sitting at a desk in front of the single jail cell, wearing a marshal’s badge.

“Russ,” Cole said.

“Virgil,” Russell said, “Everett.”

“Didn’t know you worked here,” I said.

“It’s family,” Russell said. “Ring ’n me ’n Mackie sorta take turns at it.”

“We’re here looking for our prisoner,” Cole said.

“Got no prisoners here, Virgil.”

Cole nodded.

“I’m guessing you ain’t gonna aid us in apprehending him,” he said, “neither.”

“You really ain’t a marshal here,” Russell said. “You’re only a marshal in Appaloosa.”

“You know where I can find Bragg?”

“He’s with Ring,” Russell said, “and Mackie.”

“And where would they be?” Cole said.

“I got to tell you boys,” Russell said. “I got nothin’ against either one of you. And I got a good feelin’ about how you helped us out with them Kiowas.”

“Where’s Bragg?” Cole said.

“I’m gonna be with Ring and Mackie,” Russell said. “We’re family. We grew up like brothers.”

“Yep. Where are they?”

“Ring says he don’t want this thing to drag on. Him and Mackie and Bragg’ll be at the stockyards at two forty-one today by the depot clock. I’ll be there, too.”

“See you there,” Cole said, and turned and walked out of the office.

I stayed a minute.

“You got them boots for Allie,” I said.

Russell nodded. I reached over the desk and we shook hands.

“Be better you boys went on back to Appaloosa,” Russell said.

“I know,” I said, and followed Cole out of the office.

He was leaning his backside against a hitching rail, looking at the street. The sky was dark with clouds.

“Might as well walk down there, get the lay of the land,” he said.

“Might as well.”

We walked the dirt street toward the stockyards. It was a shabby town, shacks mostly, some tents. Only real buildings were the hotel and the railroad station. Even the bank looked kind of flimsy.

“They could put some people behind some of these shacks,” I said. “Try to pick us off while we’re walking to the yards.”

Cole shook his head.

“Sheltons’ll come straight at us,” he said.

“Bragg?” I said.

“We’ll need to keep an eye out for Bragg,” Cole said.

The stock pens were mostly empty. A couple dozen white-faced steers jostled each other in the pen nearest the station. There were two stockmen leaning on a rail, chewing tobacco and watching them. A windmill turned at the far end of the yards, pumping water into the drinking troughs. Beside it was a weathered, gap-sided feed shed, raw boards nailed up and bleached by sun.

“We’ll be coming from here,” Cole said. “Sheltons’ll be there, by the shed.”

“How do you know,” I said.

“Where I’d be. If they don’t knock us down with the first volley, they can get behind it,” Cole said.

He looked at the sky.

“Sun ain’t gonna be an issue,” he said.

“Probably gonna rain,” I said.

Cole paid no attention.

“They’ll all have Colts,” he said, “and long guns. There’ll be a shotgun, probably Mackie.”

We walked past the stock pens. There was some wind to go with the dark sky. It spun the windmill hard and stirred little dust whirls in front of us as we walked. We stopped at the stock pens. The two stockmen paid us no attention. They kept on talking, staring at the cattle, spitting tobacco juice carefully downwind.

“We come at ’em this way,” Cole said, “we can keep the cattle between us and them until we’re close.”

The wind had picked up. It was whirling the dust now up past eye level, and pushing the tumbleweed along pretty briskly.

“Today be a good day to die?” I said.

“We ain’t gonna die,” Cole said.

“Good to know,” I said.

Cole didn’t say anything. He was looking at everything, walking through the fight as if he had already seen the rehearsal. He stopped.

“We’ll be here when it starts,” he said. “They’ll be there. They’ll be spread out. When it happens, I’ll look for Ring. You look for Mackie. I don’t know how good Russell is, but I do know how good the other two are.”

“Bragg?” I said.

“We shoot him last,” Cole said. “Bragg’s probably a good shooter. Probably killed some people. But I don’t know if he can stand his ground.”

“You ’n me are gonna kill four men,” I said.

“If Bragg stands. Otherwise, three.”

“Well, I guess if we don’t,” I said, “we’ll never know it.”

“Probably not,” Cole said.

“So I guess it don’t matter too much,” I said.

“Probably doesn’t,” Cole said.

The wind pushed a tumbleweed past us toward the shed. It bounced a little as it moved across the wagon ruts. I could taste rain on the wind, though none had fallen.

“We’ll get to here,” Cole said, “without nobody’s fired, ’cause the cows are in the way. So from here, just past this corner post, we go right at ’em and we go fast. I’ll take Ring first, you look for Mackie. And we’ll see what develops.”

I looked at the clock on the train station steeple. It read 12:23.