Роберт Паркер - Robert B. Parker’s Blackjack

“Workers I talked with said the Denver fella walked out from the boardwalk across the street,” Book said. “He had a few words with Boston Bill and then come out of his knapsack holding that warrant you got in your hand.”

I held up my hand with the rolled-up warrant Skinny Jack had handed to us on Virgil’s back porch.

“Did Boston Bill see this,” I said. “Know about this?”

“Don’t know,” Chastain said. “We don’t have any idea about that.”

Chastain looked to Virgil. Virgil was looking off as if he were thinking about something else.

“What now, Virgil?”

Virgil waited a moment as he thought, then looked back to Chastain.

“Contact Denver,” he said. “See what you can find out about Roger Messenger, about the warrant, about who was murdered.”

Chastain nodded.

“Book, you and Skinny Jack and the rest of your hands keep looking around, see if anyone knows anything,” Virgil said. “Don’t approach, just find out. Got one lawman shot, I damn sure don’t want another.”

Book and Skinny Jack nodded.

“Everett, let’s you and me go have us a visit with Pritchard.”

“Murdered?” Doc Burris said.

Doc Burris looked back and forth between Virgil and me.

“What, may I ask,” he said, pointing to the warrant with his pipe, “is the nature of all this dismay, what’s this drama?”

I held up the note. Doc leaned in and read it, then leaned back.

“So rolls the tumble of the dice,” he said.

Virgil and I walked up the steps of the gambling parlor, and when we left the bright light of outdoors, crossed the lobby, and stepped into the dark main room of the parlor we heard the distinct sound of a Winchester being cocked. The clicks of the lever action were followed by a deep voice. “That’s far enough.”

We quickly stepped back into the lobby. Virgil readied his Colt and I slid back the hammers of my eight-gauge.

“Who’s there?” the deep voice said.

We said nothing for a moment and listened. Then Virgil answered.

“Marshals Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch,” he said.

We heard some muffled talking from above.

“Whoever you are,” Virgil said. “Put down what you picked up.” Virgil looked to me.

“I’m Charles Lemley,” the voice said. “I’m up here with Hollis Pritchard.”

“Know who Pritchard is,” I said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Mr. Pritchard’s building foreman here. I manage the construction of this place.”

“Who else is up there with you?” I said.

“No one.”

“Just the two of you up there?” Virgil said.

“It is.”

“Bill Black?”

“Not up here,” Charles said.

“Truitt Shirley?”

“Just us two up here,” Charles said. “Fact.”

“Mr. Pritchard?” Virgil said as he looked up.

“Yes,” the voice responded.

The voice was noticeably older and raspy.

“Is that you, Mr. Pritchard?” Virgil said.

“It most certainly is,” he said.

“And it’s just the two of you?” Virgil said.

“Yes,” Pritchard said.

“Where are your workers?” I said.

Silence. Then.

“After what happened here today, I sent them home,” Charles said. “Told them to take the rest of the day off.”

“Unload that rifle you got in your hand,” Virgil said, “and drop it down here, over the edge.”

He did as he was told. We listened as the bullets were ejected, then the Winchester was tossed from above. It landed flat on a table we could see clearly at the bottom of the stairs that was covered with drawings and construction plans.

“Come down,” Virgil said. “Hands up and away.”

After a moment we heard the floorboards creak upstairs. We moved into the main room and saw coming down the wide sweeping staircase Hollis Pritchard followed by a slender older man with leathery dark skin and short-cropped white hair.

“You need not be concerned with us,” Pritchard said. “We have no intention of malice whatsoever.”

When they got to the bottom of the staircase Pritchard wasted no time taking a seat where the Winchester lay atop the table.

We’d seen Hollis Pritchard before, when he visited months earlier to speak with the city elders about bringing business to Appaloosa.

“I would not have had the rifle at the ready, Marshal, I assure you, not my protocol,” Charles said. “But we were unsure what the hell was happening here with this shooting, so I thought it best to err on the side of caution.”

Pritchard nodded a little. His eyes had a leering, judgelike quality as they shifted back and forth between us. He remained seated, slumped forward in his chair with one hand resting on his knee and the other hand on the top of his cane.

“Like to ask you a few questions,” Virgil said.

“Let me ask you first,” Pritchard said.

He pointed to the street.

“The man that was shot out there a while ago, is he dead or alive?”

“At the moment,” I said, “alive.”

He shook his head.

“My word,” he said.

Charles Lemley extended his hand and introduced himself.

I shook his hand; Virgil did not.

“You know the man that was shot?” Virgil said.

“No,” Charles said.

“You, Mr. Pritchard?”

“I do not.”

“Who was he?” Charles said.

“He was wearing a badge,” Pritchard said. “But he seemed odd, acted rather unstable, inebriated, I think, perhaps.”

“Either of you ever see him around here before?” Virgil said.

Charles shook his head.

“I never saw him at all,” he said.

“No,” Pritchard said. “I just arrived, been to town less than a few hours. I checked into my hotel, then came straight here, and before I could even set foot into this place, this man steps out from across the street there, and in a matter of moments, shots are fired.”

“Me neither,” Charles said. “I’ve just been in town with this job and I’m not too acquainted.”

“As Charles said... he works for me, in all my construction business. Wherever and whenever.”

Charles nodded.

“Going on fifteen years now,” Pritchard said.

“Any idea where to find Bill Black?” Virgil said.

Mr. Pritchard sat back with a concerned look on his face.

“I’ve not seen him since the shooting,” Pritchard said.

Virgil looked to Charles.

“Me neither,” Charles said.

“Know where he is?” Virgil said.

They both said no.

“He just walked away?” I said.

Pritchard nodded.

“Apparently,” he said. “After the man was shot I was ushered into the building here by Bill, then he said he was going to see about the man across the street, and I’ve not seen him since.”

“What about Truitt Shirley?”

Mr. Pritchard looked to Charles.

“He’s the one who shot the officer?” Pritchard said.

“I was not a witness, but that is what I understand,” Charles said.

“I know nothing about this man,” Pritchard said. “First time I ever laid eyes on him or the other man he was with.”

“What about you?” I said.

Charles’s eyes narrowed as he shook his head slightly.

“Mr. Black hired them,” Charles said.

“Hired them to do what?” Virgil said.

“Good question,” he said. “And I asked Mr. Black that very question. What they did and about their pay and all, and Mr. Black told me to mind my own goddamn business. I don’t know the other man’s name even, the one with the dark hair and beard, but I can tell you this, he is as mean as a rattlesnake.”

“What’d he do for you to think that?” I said.

“Damn near shot me.”

“What happened?”

“I walked out the back door here, he had his back to me. He was relieving himself there in the alley. He turned on me with his pistol. But when he saw it was me, he still kept it pointing at me and said don’t ever walk up behind him again. He said next time I won’t be so lucky.”