Роберт Паркер - Robert B. Parker's Revelation

“Man needs to be free and die for his deeds gone wrong, not fed and kept like a goddamn animal in a goddamn cage.”

I thought about that, remembering back on my soldiering days, killing helpless Indians in the Indian Wars, and I thought about the man I’d shot many years ago in Tres Padres... a situation that just got out of hand.

Virgil looked up and met my eye.

“But,” he said, “things don’t go that way.”

“No,” I said. “They don’t.”

“That ain’t the way of justice,” Virgil said.

He looked back to the fire.

“We got the law,” Virgil said. “Too many of them. Too many laws, I think.”

Virgil smiled and looked back to me.

“Too many rules to live by,” he said. “But... without law, without rules, evil takes root.”

“Got hold of Ravenscroft,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“Damn sure did,” he said.

Virgil held out his cup and I replenished his whiskey.

“Killed those two lawmen,” Virgil said. “Trying to serve him with papers that he did not agree with.”

“I remember his fancy-talking lawyer made it out it was self-defense,” I said. “Even though it was Ravenscroft that rode into town and walked into the office and shot them.”

“How long ago was it?” Virgil said.

“Ravenscroft went to Cibola?” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“Hell, he’s been in there four, maybe five years now, I’d say.”

We sipped on our whiskey for a while, just remembering.

“Of all the men we have brought in through these marshaling years,” I said, “it’s hard to believe that that son of a bitch Ravenscroft is the only name on that list of eight who we know.”

“Is,” Virgil said.

“Too bad he’s in the other group and not one of the three that was with Dobbin.”

I pulled the list of names and the descriptions we received from Sheriff Stringer. I leaned over to the light from the fire and read them again. “Ben Wythe, fifty-some, small, white hair, walks with a limp. Richard Skillman, thirty, average, dark hair... and Boyd Dekalb, forty, big, tall, Negro... others here, Ed Degraw, Timothy Eckford, Willard Calyer, and Charlie...”

“Fucking Ravenscroft,” Virgil said.

“’Spect Ravenscroft is the leader?” I said.

Virgil shook his head.

“If he is, I don’t think he’d be any good at it.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t, either.”

“Don’t have much smarts,” Virgil said.

“Mean son of a bitch, though,” I said.

“Damn sure is.”

“He won’t want to go back.”

“Don’t think any of them will want that,” Virgil said.

When we awoke in the morning the weather had turned. The mercurial weather we’d been experiencing had doubled back on us again and the day’s ride to Vadito was wet and dark. It had rained earlier during the ride, but now there was only dark cloud cover. They were low clouds shaded with brown from the loose dirt the storm picked up before the rain. Now there was no wind, none at all, and the brown clouds hanging motionless over the small town of Vadito made the view seem like some old oil painting.

When we got closer to Vadito, we tied our animals in a stand of trees and walked into town. We came up on the back of Vadito near some holding pens that were full of cattle.

We walked through a few shacks, then edged our way up to the road that separated one half of the businesses from the other half.

Vadito was a little one-lane town that consisted of buildings and tents that were mostly drinking, whoring, gambling, and bunking establishments. They lined both sides of the road for about three hundred feet.

Vadito was one of those places that existed with limited law enforcement. The township of Lancaster, a two-hour ride north, was the governing law for Vadito. The proprietors of the establishments in places like Vadito were normally capable types, and as a group, the capable banded together when trouble came about. But for the most part, cowboys in cattle heavens such as Vadito proved to be a temperate lot.

Besides having good descriptions of the men we were looking for, we also had solid descriptions of the horses they stole from the sawmill in Yaqui. We had detail regarding color, size, brands, saddles, and even bridles.

As we thought what might be the situation in Vadito, the place was busy with cowboys, and though the day was dark and dreary the businesses all looked to be lively. There were not a lot of horses, but there was a good amount lining both sides of the road from one end of Vadito to the other.

Virgil and I split up and walked down opposite sides of the road, looking for the horses stolen by the escapees. We took our time, being casual but making sure we got a good look at each and every animal, and when we got to the end I said, “Didn’t see ’em...”

Virgil shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Not this side, either.”

“Could be we beat ’em here,” I said.

“Maybe,” Virgil said.

“Then again, maybe they went elsewhere.”

“That, too,” Virgil said.

“Could be they might be here and have different horses,” I said.

“Crossed my mind, but I don’t think they’d do that,” he said. “Could, but doubtful.”

“No, I don’t think so, either.”

Virgil looked around the building we were standing in front of, then looked back across the road.

“Let’s walk the backside, too,” he said.

I nodded, crossed the street, and walked the back of the buildings. Within a short amount of time I arrived at the opposite end. Virgil came to the end about the same time I did. He shook his head as I crossed the street toward him.

“Nothing,” I said.

We met in the street in front of a lively place. I turned and looked up to the single sign above the door with one word: BEER.

“Might as well?”

“Why not,” Virgil said.

The saloon was a narrow building with a crude bowling lane on one side and a pinewood bar on the other. When we entered, a bunch of cowhands were having a fun time gambling on a bowling game with two chubby saloon girls who were having equal fun, flaunting their goods as they reset the pins.

Virgil and I got a mug of beer and sat at a table up front, where we had a good view out the window.

“Now comes the question,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“Where do we go from here?”

“Yep.”

“There’s not really anything between here and Yaqui, is there?” Virgil said.

“No, not really. Some big spreads and a few crossroad stores, but that’s about it. Least that is all there was last time we were through that way.”

“They could have just rode to Mexico,” I said. “And I suppose they could have brought some hell to others along the way.”

Virgil nodded and sipped his beer as he thought.

“I figure we stay here at least through the night,” he said. “Come daybreak and they’re not here we move toward the east, toward Yaqui through the spreads and stations, check on those, then get in the direction of Stringer’s posse.”

We sat and drank our beer and waited some, watching the street, but we did not see the men. Before sunset, we walked out to the stand of trees where we’d tied our horses and brought them back into town with us. We rented a bunking quarter on the south end of Vadito from a German fella.

The quarters were empty of other customers, so we had the place to ourselves. The bunkhouse was a simple dirt-floor room with wood sidewalls and a pitch canvas roof that was in need of repair. As we unloaded and took care of the necessities of settling in, I looked out the opening and asked Virgil to take a gander at what I was looking at. Virgil turned to see the three escapees riding slowly into town.