Blackjack

16

We rode to the corral behind the stage stop, where an elderly black fellow we’d seen pitching hay earlier gladly gave us some feed for our animals.

His name was Louis. He was a tall, lanky man hunched over from years of hard work, friendly but not at all talkative. He said he’d seen Black and the other two ride in but never talked with them or saw them after they rode by.

Louis shared with us some food he cooked. It was a good-tasting red broth stew made of pork, corn, rice, and beans. We sat under the lean-to behind the stop and ate with the animals.

“They damn sure keeping on the move,” I said.

“They are,” Virgil said.

“Sounds like the one fella is in some pain,” Skinny Jack said.

“Does,” I said.

“We getting on the road tonight?” Skinny Jack said. “Stay after them?”

Virgil nodded.

“Don’t you think, Everett?”

“I do, especially since they took off last night and not this morning. I don’t think it a good idea to rest up too long and give them the whole of the evening.”

Louis walked out with the kettle of stew and without saying a word he ladled each of us another scoop.

Virgil nodded.

“Thank you, Louis,” Virgil said.

Louis nodded and started back inside.

“Louis,” Virgil said.

He turned back.

“Yes, sir.”

“Like to find a lamp or two,” he said. “We got to get us some light before we get on the road.”

Louis pointed us to a small house behind the general store and told us to wake up the old man that runs the store. He let us know that he didn’t much care for the old sonofabitch and was happy for lawmen to make him have to open up after hours.

After we ate and got our horses ready to ride, we rousted the store’s owner. There was most certainly something about him that made us feel comfortable with the opinion Louis had of the old fellow. He was grumpy and unfriendly, but he did have what we needed.

He didn’t have any lamps to spare, but we made ourselves some good stave torches of Hessian and paraffin he had available. Then we rode out to the crossroads, lit the torches, and searched the ground for fresh tracks. In no time we located the trio’s hoofprints.

“South it is,” Virgil said.

We walked slowly on the road at first, keeping the tracks visible, making sure they had not veered off in a different direction, and once we were convinced they stayed to the road, we put out the light and kept traveling.

The night was clear and full of stars. We had a bit of light from the low-slung moon as we rode. Every few miles we fired the torches, making sure we still had track.

“I been thinking,” Skinny Jack said. “There’s a good chance they might ride for La Verne.”

“What makes you think that?” I said.

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but down there Truitt knows his way around those parts,” Skinny Jack said. “I mean, it’s a long damn ways to La Verne, but, um, that is where Truitt’s from.”

“Got to be a good hundred and fifty miles,” I said.

“We know it,” Virgil said. “La Verne.”

“We do,” I said.

“You think they’d go there?” Skinny Jack said.

“Hard to say about Black and the other fella, but for Truitt it wouldn’t be unlikely,” Virgil said.

“When things are uncertain,” I said, “a place that is known gives a fella some security and comfort to uncertainty. Like you were saying, Skinny Jack. A better place than where they were.”

“That’s right,” Virgil said.

“Then again, Yaqui is the train,” I said.

“Is,” Virgil said.

“Well, La Verne’s damn sure Truitt’s home place,” Skinny Jack said. “I was raised just east of there at the fort. I got a lot of family down that way myself. That’s how I know about Truitt and his family. My dad knew his pa from the fort. Truitt’s got kin all through there that could and would lie for him, hide him and protect him.”

We rode solid through the night and into the morning hours. We continued to follow the tracks and just before noon we came upon a sign: Ray Opelka’s — Way Station & Supply Depot — 3 miles ahead.

The road between the sign and the way station worked its way back and forth through rocky terrain and was uphill. After we topped the long rise we came to the depot on the other side of the crest.

The way station was built on the west side of the road in front of a bluff that protected the place from the late afternoon sun. The main building had a wide porch that fronted the road. Behind that was a living quarters structure surrounded by smaller outbuildings, a small barn, and empty corrals, and behind that there was a pen with a big hog standing stock-still.

There was nobody moving about. Other than the hog, the only sign of life was a trickle of smoke rising from a single chimney in the storefront.

As we rode closer there was a flash from a north-facing window followed by a rifle report. A bullet ricocheted off the road just behind us. A quick second shot was fired and it hit Skinny Jack, knocking him to the ground and sending his horse running off back the way we came.