Blackjack

10

After an extensive search and finding no sign of Boston Bill or Truitt Shirley or the third man, Virgil and I sat on the front porch of his house and drank some whiskey before turning in. It was after two o’clock in the morning, and with the exception of the saloons on the north end of town that stayed open twenty-four hours a day, the whole of Appaloosa, including Allie, was fast asleep.

“Lot of money on Boston Bill’s head,” I said.

“Damn sure is,” Virgil said.

“Not good,” I said.

“Not,” Virgil said.

“Been our experience,” I said. “Comes the money, comes the trouble.”

“Yep,” Virgil said.

“I guess killing a lawman’s family member had to raise the ante,” I said.

“They obviously got some kind of strong proof,” Virgil said. “Some evidence on Boston Bill.”

“Why now?” I said.

“I was wondering the same thing,” Virgil said.

“Boston Bill has been here in Appaloosa for, hell, a good damn while,” I said. “I mean, we’ve not been keeping a tab on him or anything, even though you had your suspicions about him, he’s given no cause, no reason, but the thought of him catching a train back to Denver, killing a woman named Ruth Ann Messenger, and then returning to Appaloosa to get back to work at building a goddamn gambling parlor sounds suspect at best.”

“Does,” Virgil said.

“Maybe someone just came forward of recent with evidence,” I said.

“Maybe,” Virgil said.

“This shit with Roger Messenger don’t make good sense, either,” I said.

“No,” Virgil said. “It don’t.”

“One thing we do know with Messenger is it was personal.”

“Drunk and personal,” Virgil said.

“If he doesn’t live,” I said. “I don’t imagine we’ll figure out the answer to all of what Roger Messenger is about.”

Virgil and I sat for a while in silence. After I polished off my whiskey I bid Virgil good night and left him on the porch to finish his cigar. I walked back in the cool of the summer evening to my room above the survey office, and within a half-hour was fast asleep.

At daybreak, Skinny Jack was waiting for Virgil and me at the office with a fresh pot of coffee and hot-out-of-the-oven biscuits he’d picked up from Hal’s Café.

Skinny Jack had quickly advanced as Chastain’s top deputy in Appaloosa, and Virgil and I had a fond appreciation for him, mainly because he was friendly, well liked by the townspeople, and a good role model for the younger deputies.

He had a way of going about his job as a peace officer without the gruff or self-styled importance that was most always evident with young law enforcement officers. He had a reputation as a young man with an easy disposition who was not an adversary quick to point out what was wrong or hobble the folks of Appaloosa, but rather an ally, ready and willing to assist those in need.

After we drank some coffee and ate a few biscuits, we rode out to meet with the ranch hand that had told Skinny Jack he’d seen the riders headed toward the river.

By seven o’clock we’d met the ranch hand and followed his point in the direction he’d previously seen the riders the day before, and with little effort we found on the river’s edge fresh tracks of three horses disappearing into the water.

“Got to be them,” Virgil said.

Virgil rode into the water, heading for the opposite side, and Skinny Jack and I followed.

We easily found the tracks coming out of the water’s eastern edge fifty yards downriver. The soft ground rising up from the bottomland made for favorable tracking conditions, and for the moment we were able to follow them without trouble.

When we got to the top of the rise the land stretched out for miles in front of us. I took the lead, following the tracks, and we were able to keep a steady pace.

“As long as the wind don’t pick up any more than it is,” I said. “Long as it stays like this, we got a good chance to be knocking at their back door.”

We moved across the dry shrubland with rolling vast swards of yellow short-grass prairie. In between the swards there were long stretches of sandy loam that was laced with clusters of summer coat mesquite and purple sage.

Around noon we came to a spot where the riders had made camp within a spread of dry thickets surrounded by a stand of weeping acacias that lined an empty creek bed.

Left were remains of a fire, some dead ends of cigarettes, and an empty half-pint bottle lying in the ashes. When I got off my horse to check the expired fire I noticed the wind had changed direction and was getting a little stronger.

I leaned down and felt through the ashes.

“They rode to here from midday when they left yesterday, I’d say. Stopped likely when they got dark bit.”

Virgil nodded.

I looked in the direction the breeze was coming, and in the far distance there was darkness.

I nodded to it, and Virgil and Skinny Jack followed my look.

“Wind,” I said.

“Headed this way,” Skinny Jack said.

“Sure enough,” Virgil said.

“Goddamn,” Skinny Jack said. “Wouldn’t you know it?”

I mounted up.

“Ashes are cold,” I said. “Hard to say when they took off.”

“You’d think daylight, wouldn’t you, Everett?” Skinny Jack said.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Men on the run,” Virgil said, “run.”

We kept on the move, and within an hour’s time the wind had picked up, and not far behind there was a wall of dust that was headed our way.

Skinny Jack looked back.

“This don’t look so good,” he said.

“Road,” I said.

Ahead, less than a half-mile on the downslope before us, was a north-south road.

“Be better than a good idea,” Virgil said, “to get over there. Don’t want this wind coming in and cover things up, and we lose the direction they chose.”