Appaloosa

12

The teamster had a room at a place on Front Street, behind the livery. He was in his drawers when I went in, lying on an unmade bed against the wall. The room was hot. There was some air coming through the open window, but the air was hot, too. His face was badly swollen. One eye was shut up tight. The bruising had begun to darken all over him. When I came in, he sat up stiffly on the bed. His torso was bruised. I put a bottle of whiskey on the table in front of the window.

“Somethin’ to sip on,” I said. “Kill the pain.”

“Whatcha want?” he said.

His voice was strained through his swollen mouth. It was hard for him to speak. The one eye he could see out of looked frightened. It’s easy to be frightened when you’re hurt.

“Just want to see how you’re holdin’ up,” I said. “Bring you the bottle.”

The teamster opened the bottle and drank from the neck. He flinched when the whiskey went in. His mouth was probably cut up inside. And he shuddered when he swallowed. But as soon as he got the swallow down, he took another drink.

“How come he done that?” he said.

“Virgil was mad,” I said. “You was there.”

“I wasn’t doing nothin’.”

“Doctor seen you?” I said.

“Says my nose is broke.”

“Pack it with lint?”

“Ya. How come the marshal done that?”

“No accountin’ for things, sometimes,” I said. “Virgil says to tell you he’s very sorry ’bout it. Asked me to give you some money, pay the doctor, maybe buy some more whiskey.”

I put some money on the table next to the bottle. The teamster squinted at it.

“He shouldn’t a done that,” the teamster mumbled. “He gimme no warning.”

“Coulda been worse. Coulda shot you.”

“He shouldn’t a.”

“He knows that,” I said. “Why he sent me over.”

“Why didn’ he come?”

“Virgil don’t do things like that,” I said.

“He don’?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He’s Virgil Cole,” I said.

The teamster nodded, and it hurt, and he stopped and took another pull on the bottle.

“Whiskey might help,” he said. “Can you get me ’nother bottle?”

“I will,” I said. “You need any food?”

“Jesus, no,” the teamster said.

“Anything else?”

“No. Yes. Whiskey.”

He drank some more.

“Help?” I said.

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe help.”

“I’ll go get you another bottle,” I said. “And I’ll stop now and then, see how you are.”

“Thanks.”

“You rest up. When you can eat, I’ll bring you something.”

“Thanks.”

“Marshal and me are both real sorry,” I said, “that this happened.”

“Me, too,” the teamster said.