Роберт Паркер - Robert B. Parker's Revelation

“No.”

“Goes with the territory of being a woman.”

“Not hard to see it coming.”

“No,” I said. “It is not.”

“Jug don’t help.”

“No, it don’t.”

“Nothing you can do about that.”

“No, don’t suppose there is.”

“Shop helps,” I said.

“It does,” Virgil said.

“Keeps her from fueling the flame.”

Virgil nodded.

“Yeah, it does,” he said. “Keeps her occupied.”

“Yeah, this is a good thing... when business is up and going, it will be even a better thing.”

“Out of the goddamn house,” Virgil said.

“I can see how those walls get to closing in.”

“Do,” Virgil said. “Things for the most go good, pleasant even, then all the sudden she will come on like a Comanche.”

“I’ve seen it, plenty.”

“I have come to the place where I just take a trip to the shed or to the barn to curry and such, just to sidestep the tomahawk.”

“Least the two of you are not sitting around listening to the clock tick.”

“Not doing that.”

“Keeps a fella from getting too settled on his heels.”

“Damn sure does,” Virgil said.

“Sometimes I wonder where she gets all that piss and vinegar,” I said.

“Unrest,” Virgil said.

“No, hell, that we know.”

“It ain’t dull,” he said.

“No, far from it.”

“Never met a woman like her.”

“No, she’s been anteing up since the day she was born.”

“She has,” he said.

I thought about that as we walked. What all Allie had been through.

“This weather can’t make up its mind,” Virgil said.

The recent cold snap had passed and the night air was pleasant, but it sure enough felt like rain. There was also the feeling in the air like that when hail and tornadoes came. The evening air had a static and expectant feeling that went with it, as if something heavy was approaching.

When we crossed Main and turned up Fourth Street we saw a group of people walking from the depot, carrying luggage. Behind them the train hissed, releasing steam into the night air as it sat being replenished with water and coal.

“Here they come,” Virgil said. “Every damn day another crop, Everett.”

We crossed the street and waited for a handful of the newcomers that were headed for the steps of the Boston House Hotel, where some older men stood by the entrance smoking cigars, engaged in a spirited conversation as if there were no other people on earth.

As the people from the train passed, I noticed a distinguished couple bringing up the rear. The man was tall and angular and wore a polished hat and long coat, but my focus was instantly trained on the lean, elegant, and tastefully dressed woman who held on to his arm. She was wearing a high-collared dark brown gabardine dress with matching gloves and a fashionable coat and hat. She was strikingly beautiful and had a graceful air of elegance about her. She carried herself as if she was a princess, and as they reached the steps I caught the briefest look from her. Then her tall partner looked down to her and said something that made her laugh, and when he looked back up he, too, made eye contact with me just before they started up the steps.

It seemed that maybe he recognized me, and I also thought I recognized him but wasn’t exactly sure.

I slowed and looked at the couple as they climbed the steps up to the Boston House.

The men standing around the entrance were still carrying on about whatever it was that made each of them do their best to talk over one another.

“Know ’em?” Virgil said, looking back to me.

I didn’t reply, but as we continued walking and just before we moved on around the corner it hit me. I took a step back and looked to the couple just as they were entering the Boston House.

“Driggs?” I said.

The couple was already inside the Boston House, with the door now closed behind them.

Virgil looked up at the door, then at me.

I shook my head and continued walking with Virgil.

“Most likely was not him,” I said.

We walked on toward the lighted office of the Western Union a half-block ahead of us.

“Don’t think he heard you,” Virgil said.

“Don’t think it was him, either...”

“Pretty woman,” Virgil said.

“I’ll say.”

I didn’t say anything else as we walked, which prompted Virgil to slow some and glance back.

“Hell, go on back.”

I shook my head.

“Naw,” I said. “Couldn’t be him.”

“Sure?”

“Thought it might be this fella I knew from West Point, fought Indians with... but that was another lifetime ago, when I was just nineteen, twenty.”

We crossed to the boardwalk on the other side of the street.

“Well... you know where he is.”

“Do,” I said.

“Whoever he is, looks like he’s done pretty well for himself.”

“Fella he kind of looked like, that I was thinking of, Augustus Driggs, is maybe not even still alive. Fact is, if I had money on it I’d bet he was long gone. Besides that, even if it were Driggs, not sure I’d need to catch up with him about anything from that time. Not many good memories.”

It began to sprinkle as we continued on to the Western Union office.

“Looks like you might have to be the gentleman that you are, Everett, and hitch up that buggy so’s to pick up Allie like she was pleasantly saying.”

When we arrived, Willoughby and Book were waiting for us.

“Sheriff Stringer is present in the office now,” Book said. “This telegram there is what came in from him so far.”

Book pointed to a note in front of Willoughby.

“You want me to read this?” Willoughby said.

“Do,” Virgil said.

Willoughby nodded and read: “Start transmission: Here is what we know — We have two men dead, another wounded — The wounded man, currently here in Yaqui Hospital, is one of the escapees from Cibola — The two men shot and killed in the shootout at the mill were both mill workers — There were four escapees involved — It appears they arrived here in Yaqui in buckboard pulled by a single mule — Three of the four escaped here with saddled horses they took from the mill — We know for a fact that the men involved were some if not all of the escaped convicts — Abandoned prison clothes of four men found in buckboard — Currently we are experiencing damnable bad weather so it’s not possible to posse up just now — Plus we wanted to communicate with you first. Quit transmission.”

“Let him know we are here,” Virgil said. “Ask him about the condition of the wounded prisoner. If he was able to obtain any information from him.”

Willoughby turned to his key and tapped out the message, and within a few minutes the sounder started to click and Willoughby was detailing the content of Stringer’s message. After a moment Willoughby sat back and read.

“Start transmission: We have not yet had a chance to talk with the wounded escapee — Currently the man is in surgery — He was in pretty bad shape and unconscious when we found him so there is a chance we might not get any details out of him at all — Will let you know what we know when we know. End transmission.”

We signed off with Stringer and left the wire office. The rain was coming down steady. Virgil and I walked back under the awnings of the boardwalk toward the barn to get the covered buggy, which we rigged up and drove over to collect Allie.

When we walked in she was sitting with none other than Vernon Vandervoort and his wife, Constance, and to my delight, Margie.

“Well, there they are,” Vandervoort said as he stood up and removed his top hat and bowed a little. “Good to see you both.”