Роберт Паркер - Robert B. Parker’s Blackjack

“Don’t you think, Everett?”

“I do, especially since they took off last night and not this morning. I don’t think it a good idea to rest up too long and give them the whole of the evening.”

Louis walked out with the kettle of stew and without saying a word he ladled each of us another scoop.

Virgil nodded.

“Thank you, Louis,” Virgil said.

Louis nodded and started back inside.

“Louis,” Virgil said.

He turned back.

“Yes, sir.”

“Like to find a lamp or two,” he said. “We got to get us some light before we get on the road.”

Louis pointed us to a small house behind the general store and told us to wake up the old man that runs the store. He let us know that he didn’t much care for the old sonofabitch and was happy for lawmen to make him have to open up after hours.

After we ate and got our horses ready to ride, we rousted the store’s owner. There was most certainly something about him that made us feel comfortable with the opinion Louis had of the old fellow. He was grumpy and unfriendly, but he did have what we needed.

He didn’t have any lamps to spare, but we made ourselves some good stave torches of Hessian and paraffin he had available. Then we rode out to the crossroads, lit the torches, and searched the ground for fresh tracks. In no time we located the trio’s hoofprints.

“South it is,” Virgil said.

We walked slowly on the road at first, keeping the tracks visible, making sure they had not veered off in a different direction, and once we were convinced they stayed to the road, we put out the light and kept traveling.

The night was clear and full of stars. We had a bit of light from the low-slung moon as we rode. Every few miles we fired the torches, making sure we still had track.

“I been thinking,” Skinny Jack said. “There’s a good chance they might ride for La Verne.”

“What makes you think that?” I said.

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but down there Truitt knows his way around those parts,” Skinny Jack said. “I mean, it’s a long damn ways to La Verne, but, um, that is where Truitt’s from.”

“Got to be a good hundred and fifty miles,” I said.

“We know it,” Virgil said. “La Verne.”

“We do,” I said.

“You think they’d go there?” Skinny Jack said.

“Hard to say about Black and the other fella, but for Truitt it wouldn’t be unlikely,” Virgil said.

“When things are uncertain,” I said, “a place that is known gives a fella some security and comfort to uncertainty. Like you were saying, Skinny Jack. A better place than where they were.”

“That’s right,” Virgil said.

“Then again, Yaqui is the train,” I said.

“Is,” Virgil said.

“Well, La Verne’s damn sure Truitt’s home place,” Skinny Jack said. “I was raised just east of there at the fort. I got a lot of family down that way myself. That’s how I know about Truitt and his family. My dad knew his pa from the fort. Truitt’s got kin all through there that could and would lie for him, hide him and protect him.”

We rode solid through the night and into the morning hours. We continued to follow the tracks and just before noon we came upon a sign: Ray Opelka’s — Way Station & Supply Depot — 3 miles ahead .

The road between the sign and the way station worked its way back and forth through rocky terrain and was uphill. After we topped the long rise we came to the depot on the other side of the crest.

The way station was built on the west side of the road in front of a bluff that protected the place from the late afternoon sun. The main building had a wide porch that fronted the road. Behind that was a living quarters structure surrounded by smaller outbuildings, a small barn, and empty corrals, and behind that there was a pen with a big hog standing stock-still.

There was nobody moving about. Other than the hog, the only sign of life was a trickle of smoke rising from a single chimney in the storefront.

As we rode closer there was a flash from a north-facing window followed by a rifle report. A bullet ricocheted off the road just behind us. A quick second shot was fired and it hit Skinny Jack, knocking him to the ground and sending his horse running off back the way we came.

More gunshots followed, one after another, after another. The shots appeared to all come from one rifle, from the north-facing window.

Virgil moved off the road quick to the right. I turned in the opposite direction. The shooter was focused, aiming on me as I moved quickly. The shots were coming in close, but I managed to get behind an outcropping of low rock near the side of the road.

I slid from my horse and tied off on a thick juniper and pulled my Winchester from the scabbard.

From where I was positioned, I could see Virgil; he was still riding off at a fast pace behind a rise that separated him from direct sight of the way station. When he dropped to the other side he pulled up and dismounted.

I stayed low to the ground, where I had protection from low boulders and brush, as I inched back out toward the road and Skinny Jack. I could see the way station’s window through the brush, and for a moment the shooting subsided.

Skinny Jack lay facedown, motionless in the middle of the rutted thoroughfare, with both of his arms under his body.

“Skinny Jack,” I said.

Skinny Jack moaned.

“Where are you hit?”

“Everett?”

“I’m here.”

He moaned again but did not move.

“Everett?”

“Just stay put, I’m coming to get you.”

He moaned again.

“Where are you hit?”

There was no reply.

“Skinny Jack?” I said.

Again, there was no reply.

I turned my focus back to the way station’s window and saw movement and a hint of light reflect from the barrel of the rifle in the window. Then it was gone.

I looked over and could see Virgil. He was crouched low to the ground and moving up the rise in front of him with his rifle.

“Virgil,” I called out.

He looked in my direction.

I pointed to Skinny Jack down in the road, then pointed to myself and back to Skinny Jack.

Virgil nodded.

“Coming to get you, Skinny Jack,” I said.

Virgil positioned himself with his rifle ready.

“Just hang on, Skinny Jack. Hang on.”

Virgil held up his hand, and when he dropped it he began firing on the way station’s window.

I crawled out quickly and pulled Skinny Jack off to the side of the road and behind the rocks. Once Virgil saw we were off the road he quit firing, sat back, and reloaded.

I turned Skinny Jack over. He was staring up at me. He grabbed my arm and squeezed. He looked down to his chest, where there was blood.

I took out my knife and split open the front of his shirt and found the bullet had entered just to the side of his heart.

“Everett?”

“I’m here.”

“Everett?”

“Yes, Skinny Jack.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Just hold on, Skinny Jack, hold on...”

He looked down at the blood, then laid his head back, looking up at me. He lifted his head off the ground.

“Everett?” he said.

“Yeah, Skinny Jack?”

He spit blood and then squeezed my arm.

“Do me a favor.”

“Sure.”

“Kill the sonofabitch that killed me.”

His head dropped back in the dirt, and he breathed in his last breath and died staring up at me.

I looked up at Virgil across the road and he was looking at me. I shook my head.

Virgil lowered his chin to his chest.

I closed Skinny Jack’s eyes and sat back on my boots and looked at his young face for a long moment.

“Goddamn it...” I said. “Goddamn it.”