Роберт Паркер - The Bridge

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.

“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.

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.