Роберт Паркер - Robert B. Parker’s Blackjack

“Boston goddamn Bill,” she said, shaking her head as she turned back to me. “I don’t think that is where he is from, either, Boston. I think he is from the West, someplace.”

Pearl smiled at Wallis as he strolled up behind the bar, cleaning a glass with a cotton towel.

“Wallis, my dear,” Pearl said, “may I have some of that fine brandy?”

“You know it,” Wallis said as he picked up a fancy bottle that was displayed in front of the silver-backed mirror behind the bar.

“I’m telling Everett about the molehill that comes in the form of a mountain.”

Wallis smiled and set the clean glass in front of Pearl and poured her a shot of brandy, then rested both his hands out wide on the bar, facing Pearl and me.

“I told Boston Bill,” she said, “that he reminded me of an Oregon man and it made him mad... I kind of knew it would make him mad, but I don’t really care.”

She laughed and spoke as if she were imitating him. “I am not from softwood country, you should know that, be able to tell that about me, darlin’. I’m from eastern, hardwood country, east of the mighty Mississippi, where hickories, gums, maples, oaks, and walnuts grow, and not from the western softwood country of cedars, hemlocks, pines, spruces, and firs.”

She shook her head.

“Pat Cromwell said he’s known him for a long time,” Wallis said. “Pat said he put eight notches on the handle of his Colt while he worked the big boats up and down the Missouri, Ohio, Arkansas, and Mississippi.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve not had the pleasure.”

An older gentlemanly-looking man in a natty gray suit came in from the hotel and peered into the bar. Wallis nodded to Pearl; she turned, seeing him at the same time he saw her. She turned back to Wallis and me, then slipped off the stool.

“Time for a bedtime story,” she said, and moved away to greet him.

I looked back to Boston Bill, whose chips appeared to be growing.

“Dyes the gray out of that mustache,” Wallis said, eyeing Boston Bill.

“No doubt,” I said.

Virgil had seen Boston Bill up close when he purchased a big buckskin geld from Salt at the livery. He introduced himself to Virgil, and it was then that Virgil grew suspicious and cautious of him. Virgil said Black proudly opened his long jacket to show he was not heeled. Said he was no longer a man that carried a gun. Said he’d been on both sides of the law and shot a good number of men in his time, but that those days were behind him now.

Regardless of who Boston Bill Black was or was not or where he was from or where he currently was located, he was now in our jurisdiction and was most assuredly wanted for murder.

When Virgil and I walked to the hospital with Skinny Jack, the streets were busy with activity. Fact was, Appaloosa was always bustling these days, and every day it seemed the population was continuing to grow.

With the growth, the police force had tripled; Senior Deputy Clay Chastain was now Sheriff and deputies Skinny Jack Newton and Lloyd “Book” Daniels were no longer the inexperienced greenhorns they once were. Skinny Jack had grown from scrawny and skinny to lanky and lean, and Book, once just a hefty bookworm kid with rosy cheeks and spectacles, was now a grown man with a good head on his shoulders. Skinny Jack and Book taught, managed, and wrangled the group of deputies Sheriff Chastain hired to keep the peace, and every month it seemed a new deputy was in training.

Appaloosa was not hell-bent and rowdy like Muskogee, Deadwood, or Abilene, but Chastain’s force was always busy handling one kind of situation or another.

When we got to the end of 5th Street we walked up the hill to the recently reconstructed, bigger, cleaner hospital and saw Sheriff Chastain and Deputy Book sitting in the shade under the porch overhang.

“What’s the situation?” Virgil said.

“Well,” Chastain said with his Texas drawl as he got to his feet, “last we heard from Doc Burris, he’s still alive. Doc’s in there with him now.”

Chastain was a tough, rawboned man from Dallas with a scar from eyebrow to jawbone that supported his no-bullshit manner.

“Were you able to talk with him?” I said.

“No.”

“What about Boston Bill Black and Truitt Shirley?”

Chastain shook his head.

“Not to be found.”

“Big Boston Bill Black is hard to miss,” I said.

“I know,” Chastain said, “but we looked all over, so far nothing. I got pretty much everybody looking for him. So far all we got is the sonofabitch is gone.”

“Anyone, seen him?” I said.

Deputy Book pointed up the street.

“Mrs. Bowen, over at the front desk of the Colcord, where he stays, said she saw him. Said he came in, went up to his room, was there a few minutes, then left.”

“What about Truitt Shirley?” I said.

“Him, too,” Chastain said.

“Gone?” Virgil said.

“Yep,” Chastain said. “No sign of him and that other fella that was with him.”

“Somebody has had to seen them,” I said.

Chastain nodded.

“They could be around someplace,” he said. “Most likely we’ll find someone that can point us in the right direction or at least tell us the direction they left, but we have yet to do so.”

“What was Truitt doing there,” Virgil said, “with Bill Black?”

“Not real sure, but we think he was working for Boston Bill,” Book said.

“Doing what?” I said.

“Truitt has not done an honest day’s work in his life,” Skinny Jack said.

“I don’t know,” Book said. “What one of the workers told me is all, and he was the one standing next to Boston Bill that shot the Denver policeman.”

“I have not seen him in town, didn’t know he was around till this,” Skinny Jack said. “But Truitt has always run with a bunch of no-goods. Hell, I knew him as a kid. His old man was the same way. Both them apples got worms. Don’t do much but connive folks and gamble.”

Book said, “Didn’t you tell me that Truitt and his bunch held up some westerners on the trail?”

Skinny Jack nodded.

“That’s what I heard,” he said.

“Whatever he is,” Chastain said, “he’s up till this moment not to be found, and now he’s a wanted man himself, for killing this Denver policeman.”

“He’s not dead yet,” Doc Burris said as he walked out the door, wiping his hands on a white cloth, then slapped the cloth to rest over his shoulder. He struck a match on the porch post and lit the pipe he had wedged in the corner of his mouth.

“Doubtful he’ll pull through,” he said, puffing on his pipe. “But he’s still breathing.”

“Is he alert, Doc?” I said.

“No,” he said. “He’s not.”

Chastain looked to Virgil.

“You want me to round up a posse,” he said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Right now,” he said, “let’s get out there and find someone that has laid eyes on Boston Bill, go from there. Truitt, too...”

“Witnesses said Messenger had a Colt in a belt holster when Truitt shot him,” Book said. “But Messenger never went for it. They said he put his hand in his knapsack and that is when he got shot.”

“What witnesses?” I said. “Who have you talked to, who was there when it happened?”

“Construction workers, mostly,” Chastain said. “There was also Mr. Pritchard.”

“Hollis Pritchard?” I said. “He was there?”

“He was.”

Virgil looked at me.

“The owner of the gambling hall?”

“He is,” I said.

“You talk to him?” Virgil said.

“A little bit,” Chastain said. “He seemed upset and confused by what happened.”

“So what the hell did happen?” I said.