Роберт Паркер - Robert B. Parker's Revelation

“Not sure what he’s talking about the ‘you and me’ business. Basically it’s him telling me what to do while he piddles,” Book said.

“Watch me piddle-kicking your ass all the way back to the office.”

Chastain halfheartedly kicked at Book, who was already steps in front of him, moving away fast.

Chastain looked back to us as he followed Book.

“You will let us know?” Chastain said.

“Will,” Virgil said.

We watched as Chastain and Book walked off. Then Virgil pulled a cigar from his pocket, fished for a match, and struck it on the post. After he got the cigar going good we didn’t talk as we watched the riders, buggies, workers, and women pushing their babies up and down the boardwalks. I could tell, though, that there was something Virgil was thinking about other than the escapees, and after the extended silence Virgil looked at me and squinted a bit.

“What do you think she meant by if I don’t know the answer, she can’t help me?”

I smiled at Virgil.

“You don’t know?”

“By God, if I knew I wouldn’t waste time asking you.”

I smiled again.

“Just because French is a pretty name that borrows some sophistication from the fact it represents a world far from here doesn’t mean she needs to keep it.”

Virgil looked at the burnt tip of the match he was holding between his thumb and finger as if it held the answer to the meaning of the universe.

“I think she wants you to help make an honest woman of her.”

Virgil flipped the match to the street, then looked at me.

“You think?” he said.

“I do.”

Virgil nodded a little, considering that notion as he puffed slowly on his cigar.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Seems reasonable.”

“She say something to you?”

“No.”

Virgil worked on his cigar for a moment, then said, “Half the time I don’t think she even likes me.”

“Oh, she likes you.”

“She likes the idea of me.”

“Naw.”

“Seems likely sometimes.”

“She’s just uncertain, and that makes her disposition kind of wound up at times.”

“Wound up like an eight-day clock,” Virgil said.

“You are everything to her.”

Willoughby poked his head out the door.

“Marshal Cole,” he said.

Virgil looked back to him.

“Sheriff Stringer,” he said.

After Willoughby let Sheriff Stringer know we were present, the sounder begun clicking and Willoughby copied the incoming message. It was a fairly long message, but Willoughby was fast and efficient at his job and began reading almost before the sounder’s final click.

“Start transmission: We now have a problem here in Yaqui. Uncertain of the details at this time — A shootout occurred — Uncertain if related to the prison break — Details of the escape will be relayed directly — Currently and without question, there was gunplay at Yaqui river mill — At this time we don’t know who was involved or the outcome — Have yet to ride out to mill but will do so after this telegram — The following is what we know regarding Cibola — The message we received came from Western Union office in Wingate — The message Wingate received was delivered from Cibola — Wingate is the support city of the prison — That message alerting Wingate authorities was not received by wire, but was delivered by pigeon post. ”

Virgil looked to me.

“Pigeon?” Virgil said.

“Yes, sir, Marshal Cole,” Willoughby said. “That’s what was tapped.”

“Go on,” Virgil said.

Willoughby nodded.

“There is a side note here,” Willoughby said. “About the post that just states: ‘According to Wingate authorities, the pigeon-post messaging has been utilized since the prison was first in operation twelve years previous and has remained in operation as backup communication...’”

Willoughby looked up to us and said, “And the following is the post message received this a.m. from Cibola: Post — From Kenneth Tillary, first assistant to Warden Scholes Flushing of Cibola Penal Institution — Alert — An undetermined number of inmates have escaped Cibola — Transmission lines have been disrupted — Entire prison currently under lockdown — Situation within the walls contained — Unrest, however, prevails — Evaluation is under way — Will update when more details are available — For now, be advised a number of dangerous inmates are unaccounted for and at large — Sincerely, Kenneth Tillary — End post. ”

Willoughby looked to us.

“And this is the rest from Stringer in Yaqui,” Willoughby said. “Start transmission: Wingate wire service has been dispatched for repairs — At this point in time there still is no communication with Cibola — That is all — An undetermined number of prisoners escaped four days ago — Friday, April seventeenth. Quit transmission.”

After a series of a few more questions and replies with Stringer that did not enlighten us with any more crucial details, Virgil told Stringer to go on and take care of business at the sawmill and to report back as soon as possible.

Virgil and I remained in the office and sent a telegram to Wingate letting them know we had been notified, and after a short exchange with them we learned there was no more information to be obtained.

I tapped the square marked April 21 on the calendar hanging on the wall next to Willoughby’s desk.

“If those that escaped are on foot, they could have made it to a number of towns by now if they wanted, including Yaqui.”

Virgil nodded.

“Could,” he said.

“They got horses? Hell, no telling how far they’ve ranged.”

Virgil puffed on his cigar as he thought for a moment, then looked to Willoughby.

“Any other wires come in, let us know, Willoughby,” Virgil said.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“I’ll send a deputy here to sit with you. Word from Stringer or Wingate or any place else with information, send the deputy to us with the news of what you receive.”

“Yes, sir, Marshal Cole.”

With that, Virgil and I left the Western Union and walked back toward the office.

“What do you figure we do?” I said.

“Not much we can do.”

“No reason to head for Wingate yet.”

Virgil shook his head.

“If this situation in Yaqui is connected to an escaped inmate, then...”

“Wingate would be in the opposite direction,” I said, finishing Virgil’s sentence.

Virgil nodded.

“No reason to ride to Cibola, either,” I said.

“No,” Virgil said.

“What’s gone is gone,” I said.

“Is.”

We walked for a little bit, thinking about the situation and our options.

“Wonder why the post did not come from the warden himself?” I said.

Virgil shook his head a little.

“Wondered that myself.”

A wind picked up and swiveled a tornado of dirt across the street in front of us. Virgil stopped, looked at the spinning devil for a moment, then turned and looked back up the street.

“What?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said as he took a long pull on his cigar. “Don’t know.”

Allie, Virgil, and I were sitting in the dining room of the Windsor Hotel, and just after we ordered dinner Thane K. Rutledge, one of Appaloosa’s newest investors, swayed by our table with two of his worker bees, on his way out.

Rutledge was a hefty older man residing at the Windsor who had an apparent fondness for wealth, power, and liquor. At the moment he was prominently sporting all three, including a diamond-studded watch fob and his bookend associates. They were two overgrown younger fellas with derbies and thick mustaches. They looked kind of like twins, and the few times we’d met Rutledge they were with him, always standing behind him like they were there to pick up crumbs or tie their boss’s shoes.