Appaloosa

20

We kept Whitfield in one cell and Bragg in the other, the only difference being that Bragg’s cell was locked. Bragg spent much of his time looking at Whitfield like a hangman looking at a felon. It made Whitfield nervous, but there was nothing to be done. He spent a lot of time sitting outside the office with me, watching whatever was happening on Main Street. When I sat out there, I left the office door open and held the eight-gauge across my lap.

“When’s that judge coming through here, now?” Whitfield said.

“Ten more days.”

“You think they’ll put Bragg in jail?”

“Ain’t my department,” I said.

“What happens to me after the trial.”

“You ride on back to wherever you rode on to the first time,” I said.

“You think they’ll try to get me?”

“You ain’t sleeping in the jail for comfort,” I said.

“Even after the trial?”

“Straight on,” I said. “We’ll ride you out away, give you a head start, and you can disappear. You done it before.”

“Why the hell am I doing this?” Whitfield said.

“The right thing to do?”

“Get my ass shot,” Whitfield said. “That’s what I’ll do.”

From where I sat, I could glance back through the open door and see Bragg’s cell. He was lying on his bunk, staring at the ceiling.

“Me ’n Virgil will prevent that,” I said.

“I run off once,” Whitfield said.

Across the street, two women in bonnets and long dresses walked past. One of them walked with a beguiling wiggle. We both watched until she turned into McKenzie’s Store. And then we both watched the store, waiting for her to come out.

“I run off before,” Whitfield said. “I couldn’t stop myself. I seen Jack go down and the other deputy-hell, I don’t even remember his name-and I was running ’fore I even knew it.”

“It can happen,” I said.

“Ever happen to you?”

An eight-horse team pulled a lumber wagon past us, kicking up the dust in the street. I watched them go past.

“Did it?”

“Did it what?” I said.

“Ever happen to you?”

“You mean did I ever run off in the heat of battle?” I said.

“Yeah.”

I shook my head.

“Nope, can’t say I ever did.”

“I done it.”

“I know,” I said. “And I ain’t saying I won’t. Men break when they break, mostly.”

The two women came out of McKenzie’s carrying parcels. They headed back the way they had come. The one with the wiggle was walking closest to the street. Her dress was tight.

“Good-looking ass,” Whitfield said.

“I noticed that, too,” I said.

We watched her move away from us. At the corner of Second Street, she glanced back over her shoulder at us and then turned the corner and disappeared.

“I’m bettin’ Virgil Cole never run.”

“Be a good bet,” I said. “I honestly don’t think Virgil’s ever even been afraid.”

“What kind of man ain’t afraid,” Whitfield said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I been with Virgil Cole a long time, and I don’t know much of anything about him.”

“You ever afraid?”

“I am.”

“But you don’t run.”

“Not yet,” I said.

“I was all right with the drunks and the sodbusters,” Whitfield said. “But first time it got tough, I run.”

“And you’re afraid you’ll do it again,” I said.

A lone rider came around the corner from First Street at the far end of town and began to ride down Main Street. Tilda scuttled past us on her way to work, furtive as a small desert animal.

“I guess maybe I am,” Whitfield said. “I hope I don’t. I don’t want to live like that all the rest of my life.”

The lone rider came closer. He was smallish, with big hands and a thick, unsightly blond moustache. He was chewing tobacco. Now and then he would lean out in the saddle so as to spit and not get it on the horse. I recognized him. It was Bragg’s foreman. He stopped when he came opposite the marshal’s office and sat his horse and looked at us.

I nodded.

He didn’t respond.

I said, “Howdy, Vince.”

He didn’t say anything. He looked at me briefly, and at Whitfield for a long time. Then he surveyed the office and the street and the buildings on each side of the office.

I could hear Whitfield’s breathing.

Vince leaned out away from the horse and spit his chew into the street. Then he straightened, took a large plug out of his shirt pocket and a jackknife out of his pants pocket, and cut off a chunk and fed it off the knife blade into his mouth. He folded the plug back up in its paper, closed the jackknife, and put it back in his pants. He sat straight now in his saddle, both hands resting on the saddle horn, and chewed the fresh cut of tobacco until it felt right to him. Then, without a word, he turned the horse slowly and rode on down Main Street and turned out of sight onto First.

Beside me, I heard Whitfield exhale.

“Know him?” I said.

“No, but he’s a gun hand,” Whitfield said. “I ain’t seen ’em like you have. But I seen enough to know.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s a gun hand.”

“He with Bragg?” Whitfield said.

“Un-huh.”

Whitfield didn’t say anything else. We both sat quiet. But I could hear the breath go in and out of him, and I could hear him swallow.