Роберт Паркер - The Bridge

I nodded and set my cue down flat on the table.

“I know you have a gift of gab, Curtis,” I said. “And under most circumstances it don’t bother me none too much, but under this particular circumstance I need you to keep your mouth shut about this.”

Curtis looked at me like I’d hurt his feelings as I put on my slicker.

“Understand?” I said.

“Oh, why, yes,” Curtis said. “Goddamn, sure, Everett, sure. Not to be shared. That I understand. Completely. I won’t say a thing to anybody, Everett, I promise.”

“Good,” I said.

“This is just awful, though, just awful,” Curtis said. “Millicent and I were by there on our way back from visiting her sister. We watched them work on the bridge for a while... it’s massive... my God... was massive...”

Curtis kept talking as I snugged on my hat. He followed Skinny Jack and me to the door. I opened the door and stepped out into the worsening weather. Skinny Jack followed, closing the door behind us, silencing Curtis.

We crossed the muddy street in the sleeting rain to the opposite boardwalk and walked south toward the sheriff’s office.

When we got in the office the door to the cells was open and Bolger was on his bunk, snoring away with his mouth open. I closed the door separating us from Bolger, and Book got up from the desk and handed me the telegram. Book and Skinny Jack looked over my shoulder as I read.

“This is heinous, is it not, Deputy Marshal Hitch?” Book said.

“What’s that mean?” Skinny Jack said.

“Um... wicked,” Book said.

“It most certainly is, Book,” I said, then folded the telegram and put it in the dryness of my shirt pocket. “It most certainly is.”

I retrieved my eight-gauge from the gun rack. I’d been keeping the double barrel in the office for safekeeping since our return to Appaloosa.

“Where’s Chastain?”

“Walking the town,” Book said.

“He know about this?” I said.

Skinny Jack shook his head.

“Not yet,” Skinny Jack said. “I came looking for you right away, didn’t see him ’fore I found you.”

Book moved his big body to the window with his hands shoved in the front pockets of his baggy trousers.

“Who could have done this?” Book said.

“Hard to say,” I said.

“You think the attackers might come here to Appaloosa,” Book said.

Book remained looking out the window.

“Come here and try and do something heinous?” Book said.

“Naw,” Skinny Jack said. “That ain’t gonna happen, be foolish to try that. We got too many people.”

“They could actually be here,” Book said, wide-eyed. “A lot of people come and go in and out of Appaloosa, Skinny Jack. They could be here now, right amongst us, and we’d never know it.”

Skinny Jack looked at Book for a moment and his Adam’s apple moved up then down in his throat as he considered Book’s assessment.

“Maybe Sheriff Driskill, Karl, and Chip caught whoever did this?” Skinny Jack said hopefully.

I grabbed my shell belt and strapped it on.

“Maybe,” I said.

Book and Skinny Jack followed me as I moved to the door.

“What will you do?” Book said.

“Get Virgil. Figure, sort things out,” I said, as I opened the door, meeting the cold air.

“What should we do?” Book said.

“Find Chastain, let him know,” I said. “Get my horse and Virgil’s horse saddled and ready. Get panniers on one of the mules, too. Pack some feed, kindling, coffee, grub, medicines, hand tools, and get us some blankets, cold-weather coats and gloves from the locker.”

Book nodded and looked out the door past me.

“Snowing,” Book said.

“Is,” I said.

I walked the wet streets in the falling snow to Virgil and Allie’s place. I could see embers rising from the chimney and could smell the wood burning in their fireplace as I neared. I walked up the steps and knocked on the door. After a moment Allie looked out the window. I waved to her and she opened the door, holding a glass of whiskey.

“Everett, how about this? Snow.”

“Yes, it is.”

“What a pleasant surprise,” she said with a little slur. “Come on in.”

She leaned close and kissed me on the cheek next to my lips. I could smell the whiskey on her breath.

“Where’s Virgil?”

“He’s out back getting some wood for the fire.”

She held up her glass.

“Having a nightcap, would you care for one?”

I shut the door and leaned my eight-gauge on the wall next to the jamb.

“Sure.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” Allie said.

I took off my slicker and hat and hung them on the coat rack. Allie retrieved a glass from the breakfront in the dining room and poured me some whiskey.

“What brings you to see us?” she said.

Thankfully, Virgil entered from the back door carrying a bundle of scrap lumber in his arms and diverted the necessity of me needing to answer Allie’s question.

“Everett,” Virgil said.

“Virgil. Got it going, I see?”

“Did.”

“Drawing okay?”

“It is,” Virgil said.

“Guess those German boys knew what they were doing,” I said.

Virgil crossed the room and set the wood down near the hearth.

“Gotcha a nudge?” he said.

“Do,” I said, holding up the glass.

Virgil looked over, noticing my eight-gauge near the door. He stood up straight with his shoulders back, looking at me.

“Something up?” he said.

“Bad doings, Virgil,” I said.

I removed the telegram from my shirt pocket and handed it to Virgil.

“From the way station near the bridge,” I said.

“Driskill find that Lonnie fella?”

“Read,” I said.

Virgil unfolded the telegram and leaned close to the fireplace for better light.

“What is it, Everett?” Allie said.

Virgil read the telegram, then looked to me, shaking his head.

“Goddamn,” Virgil said.

“What is it, Virgil?” Allie said.

“Two days ago,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“What is it, Virgil?” Allie said again.

“It appears there’s been some people killed, Allie,” Virgil said.

“Oh,” Allie said. “My goodness.”

Allie looked back and forth between Virgil and me.

“Who? What people?”

“At the bridge,” Virgil said. “On the Rio Blanco.”

“Who, at the bridge?”

“Don’t say,” Virgil said. “Says the bridge has been destroyed.”

“What?”

“What is says,” Virgil said.

“May I,” Allie said, holding out her hand for the telegram. “No reason to keep me in the dark.”

Virgil looked at me, then handed the telegram to Allie.

Allie read the note.

“Lord,” Allie said. “The bridge has been blown up, payroll robbed, and some folks have been killed. Oh my God, Virgil.”

She walked quickly to the front door and looked outside, craning her neck. Then she turned back, looking at us. She reread the telegram and shook her head.

“This is awful.”

Virgil got the telegram from Allie. He walked back near the fireplace and read it again.

“Had to be Indians,” Allie said. “Savages. My God. Those poor, poor people.”

“Not, Allie,” Virgil said.

“Well,” Allie said. “Surely you don’t think white men did this, do you?”

“I do,” Virgil said.

“Indians are not too inclined to go about blowing things up, Allie,” I said.

Virgil looked at the telegram, then looked up to me. He walked back and forth in front of the fireplace for a moment.

“When was this?” Virgil said, holding up the telegram.

“Tonight.”

Virgil looked at the telegram and shook his head a little.